#Her dream is to open a tavern!

[star-scroll]

An old-ish D&D character of mine, longest campaign I ever played!

[noirscript]

in the lion's keep

WARNING/S: DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT. Yandere. Noncon. Dubcon. Power Imbalance. Forced Pregnancy. Captivity. Manipulation. Psychological and Physical Control. Violence. Emotional Distress. Character/s: King Callixto x Servant!Reader Note/s: A commission for @violetvase. I hope you enjoy this one!

From this series: Silent Servitude [pt. 1] | The Lion's Shadow [pt. 3]

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Your mother has always been your biggest supporter.

She never once stifled your dreams, no matter how small or ambitious they were. When you insisted on selling flowers in the town square on behalf of the old florist to earn your own keep, she worried, but she did not stop you. Your parents feared for your safety, but your older siblings watched over you, making sure no harm would come your way.

It lasted for months—until children your age began disappearing, vanishing one after another without a trace.

Your siblings stopped letting you leave the house after that. The warm sun, the scent of fresh bread in the marketplace, the laughter of the townsfolk—it all became distant, mere memories behind locked doors. You were forced to watch the world from behind wooden shutters, longing for the life you had barely begun to taste.

Years passed before they finally deemed it safe enough for you to step outside again. And when you did, you threw yourself into rebuilding.

With what little savings you had, you opened a food stall in the marketplace, selling treats that made both children and adults smile. Your business thrived. Customers returned with praises, telling you how much they enjoyed your cooking. It gave you a sense of purpose, a taste of the independence you had long craved.

Then, one night, your stall was stolen

Not just stolen—destroyed. Burned to ashes near the town's tavern.

No one saw anything. No one heard anything. No one even smelled the smoke.

The loss devastated you, snuffing out the fragile hope you had so desperately clung to. When you fell deeper into despair, your mother was the one who lifted you back up. She taught you the skills she had learned from years of working in the palace—how to clean, how to serve, how to navigate the world of nobility without drawing attention to yourself. You listened. You learned. And when she deemed you ready, you followed in her footsteps.

You had thought you were stepping toward a new beginning.

Instead, you walked straight into a gilded cage.

A warm calloused hand rubs slow circles over your bare stomach. Your body is sore, ruined, yet the touch is deceptively gentle—reverent even.

Callixto.

The King.

The man who had stolen you, body and soul, and refused to let go.

His breath is hot against your neck as he presses his lips there, inhaling you like a man intoxicated. He traces his fingers up your stomach, over your ribs, cupping your breast with possessive ease. You squeeze your eyes shut, bile rising in your throat as last night's memories resurface—the way he held you down, the way he filled you over and over until you were too weak to fight him.

“You're perfect,” he murmurs, rolling his hips against your back. “You'll be a wonderful mother to our children. The mother of my heirs… My queen.”

No.

Your breath shudders as you push weakly at his arm, but you might as well be trying to move stone. Your body betrays you—limp exhausted, drained of all strength.

How long has it been?

Days? Weeks?

You can't tell. The chamber windows are tinted, making it impossible to see the sun or the moon. And Callixto… Callixto never leaves your side for long. He lingers, watching you, touching you, whispering sweet, poisonous words into your ear.

The chambermaid is no help, either.

She either glares at you with thinly veiled disdain or ignores you completely, doing only what is required of her. You don't know why she hates you, but it doesn't matter. She's your warden all the same.

There's no one here for you. No mother, no siblings. No bustling marketplace or warm, flickering hearth waiting for you at home.

There's only this prison.

And him.

“Your Majesty,” the chambermaid's voice cuts through the heavy silence. “Lord Soleil awaits you at the gates.”

Callixto tenses, as if irritated by the reminder that the outside world still exists beyond these walls. His fingers dig into your hip as he thrusts forward once more, a sharp, punishing movement that sends a fresh wave of nausea rolling through you.

He finishes deep inside you, groaning against your skin. For a moment, he stays there, reveling in the feeling. Then, with agonizing care, he pulls out—only to press his fingers back inside, pushing his seed deeper.

A shiver wracks your body.

“I suppose I've stolen enough time for myself,” he murmurs, brushing damp hair away from your face.

You force yourself not to flinch.

Callixto cups your chin, tilting your face towards his. His golden eyes burn with something twisted, something sickeningly sweet. Then, he kisses you. A deep, lingering kiss that suffocates you more than any chain ever could.

“Stay here and be good,” he orders, his lips still brushing yours. “Let the chambermaid take care of you until I return.”

As if you have a choice.

As if you ever had a choice.

And when the doors finally close behind him, your body sags into the mattress, silent tears slipping down your cheeks. 

Not just for yourself.

But for the family you may never see again.

For the freedom that may never return.

And for the life that is no longer your own.

The towering walls of the chateau couldn't keep the rumors from reaching you. They were the only thing that kept you sane while you waited for him to return.

You heard whispers about a grand ball the Prime Minister held a few nights ago. It should've been a night of celebration, but instead, it ended in scandal. His wife, a noble woman and the daughter of a count, was caught in bed with a mere footman—nothing more than a commoner.

Lord Soleil, the Prime Minister, himself had walked in on them. The punishment was swift.

The footman was cast out with nothing, and the Prime Minister cut all ties with his wife and her family, erasing them from his life as if they had never existed.

A cruel fate. 

And yet you wondered…

Was it any crueler than yours?

“Perhaps this is why Lord Soleil was so determined to keep His Majesty away from the chateau—away from me. Not just to protect the royal bloodline, but to stop him from making the same mistake his wife did.” You sighed, your breath barely disturbing the still air.

“I can't even blame him. If I were in his position, I wouldn't want a common-born woman anywhere near the throne either. And yet, here I am—trapped in these gilded walls, reduced to nothing more than a vessel, waiting for the day my body finally serves its purpose.”

You leaned against the cool stone wall near the tinted windows, listening to the little birds outside as they carried rumors flitting between the flower beds. Their chatter was a fleeting distraction, a fragile moment of stolen peace—until it was shattered by the sound of heavy boots echoing through the halls.

The doors flew open, and there he stood. The King. Furious.

He called out your name—sharp, urgent, unrelenting—his voice slicing through the chateau hollow corridors like a blade. You didn't move. You barely even breathed. Instead, you pressed yourself against the cold stone wall, your fingers curling into your dress as his footsteps thundered across the marble floors.

He ran upstairs, frantic, taking the steps two at a time. He hadn't even noticed you standing near the windows, so close yet unseen. But you knew it wouldn't last. He always found you in the end.

Outside, the world had fallen eerily silent. The chattering birds had already fled the vicinity, as if sensing the storm brewing within these walls—taking their half-spun whispers with them. The rumor of the king's impending nuptials to a high-ranking noble still lingered in the air, unspoken yet suffocating.

And soon, he would come back down. And this time, he would see you.

Your name tore from his lips again—a furious, desperate plea. Before you could react, his hands found you, his grip ironclad around your arms.

“Where have you been?” His voice was raw, unsteady. His fingers dug in. “Didn't you hear me calling for you?”

“Y-Your Majesty…”

He shook his head. “No—my name.”

Bloodshot, unfocused eyes bore into you. Something was wrong. His gaze sent a slow, creeping dread up your spine.

“Say it.”

“C-Callixto…”

A slow nod. Then, his arms crushed you against him. “You're mine,” he murmured against your hair, his breath searing against your skin. “Forever mine. And I will be forever yours.”

The walls seemed to shrink around you.

“Callixto… Your Majesty… I can't breathe—” you rasped, struggling against his suffocating embrace. 

He didn't let go.

“Please…”

A beat of silence. Then, at last, he loosened his grip—but only slightly.

“Apologies, my queen,” he murmured, lifting your trembling hand to his lips.

Your pulse pounded in your ears. You had to calm him. You had to survive this.

You recalled your mother's old ways—how she soothed your father's anger, how she tamed your brothers’ tempers. Slowly, carefully, you reached for his cheek, brushing your fingers against his skin.

“Tell me your worries…”

“The royal court has been trying to push this woman onto me for as long as I can remember—something about securing the heir to the throne’s bloodline. The nerve of those fools,” he muttered, absently running his fingers through your hair as you lay atop him.

“If I wanted to, I could trace your family's lineage—alter it if necessary— and keep them out of our way.”

Listening to his monologue as you drift in and out of consciousness feels more exhausting than it should. You know you should try to persuade him to accept the will of his people, to yield to their demands—but deep down, you wonder if it would be easier if someone else had his full attention instead. If only he'd let you go.

“Perhaps we should secure an heir to the throne first… then we can look into your lineage…” he whispered, thrusting into you once more. His seed spilled from you as his movements grew more intense with every passing second.

Since then, it had become his ritual to fill you to the brim, keeping you in place—stuffed, trembling, and utterly his— until he was satisfied. Only then would he leave to rule his kingdom, but never without ensuring you remained exactly as he left you, his claim unmistakable. He controlled everything—the meals you ate, the tonics you drank—all carefully chosen to prepare your body for the sole purpose of carrying his heir.

You were his, and soon, you would bear proof of it.

It didn't take long for the signs to show.

The nausea. The exhaustion. The unbearable weight in your lower belly that told you something had taken root inside you.

And yet, luck has not abandoned you entirely.

Your chambermaid—a woman whose disdain for you was only rivaled by her loyalty to the royal court—had noticed. She must have. But instead of betraying your condition, she pressed a cold cloth to your forehead and muttered, “A commoner’s flu. Nothing more.”

A lie. A calculated one.

The King believed her.

But belief was fragile in a mind like his. It splintered easily.

His golden eyes flicked between the chambermaid and the royal physician, narrowed and gleaming, hungry for an answer that neither of them dared to give.

“Her color is pale,” Callixto murmured, pacing your chambers. His fingers twitched—fidgeting, trembling, curling into claws before stretching straight again. “She barely eats, barely moves. And yet you say it is nothing?”

The physician bowed his head. “It is a seasonal illness, Your Majesty. A touch of fever, some exhaustion—nothing that cannot be cured with rest.”

Callixto laughed—a dry, humorless sound. His nails dug into his palms, leaving little crescent moons of pain.

“Rest,” he echoed. His voice was a whisper of rage, of something darker crawling beneath his skin. “You think I have not noticed? She wilts before my very eyes, and you tell me to wait?”

The chambermaid stepped forward then, expression schooled into reluctant sympathy. “Your Majesty, she is weak. He kind does not fare well in the colder months. It is not surprising.”

Callixto stilled. His breathing slowed, deliberate, controlled—but his eyes never left her face.

“Weak?” The word came soft, almost thoughtful. “Is that what you believed?”

The chambermaid hesitated.

Something in the air shifted.

A warning.

Callixto's lips twitched—not in a smile, no. In something sharper. Something that showed his teeth.

“Fine,” he murmured. “If she must rest, then she will do so under your watchful eye. I want no one else near her.”

“As you wish, Your Majesty.”

But as the King turned away, the chambermaid gaze flicked down—her fingers twitching at the pouch hidden beneath her apron. The weight of the promised coin.

The chateau felt emptier than ever one evening. The halls echoed with the distant clatter of preparations from the palace—the banquet, the foreign dignitaries, the noble guests.

A distraction.

And when the chambermaid entered your chambers, her usual sneer was absent. Instead, she carried a bundle of clothing.

“You need to leave tonight.”

Your stomach twisted. “Why?”

“Because I tire of wiping your sweat.” She threw the bundle onto your bed. “Because I want you gone.”

You swallowed hard. “And that's all?”

The chambermaid exhaled sharply. Something in her posture—something tired and worn—hinted at an answer she would never give.

“The palace gates will be open for the banquet. No one will be watching the chateau. Take the back corridors, follow the outer gardens. You are not important enough to be noticed.”

“What do you gain from this?”

A smirk tugged at her lips. “What I was promised.”

You should've asked by whom. But you didn't.

The scream shattered the night.

“WHERE IS SHE?”

The chambermaid barely had time to compose herself before the doors to your chambers slammed open, cracking wood against stone.

Callixto stood in the doorway, his chest rising and falling with each uneven breath. His pupils had swallowed the gold of his irises, leaving only thin rings of amber around black pits. His fingers curled at his sides, nails digging into his own skin, but he did not seem to notice the blood welling beneath them.

His gaze snapped to the bed. Empty.

Something inside him snapped with it.

“Where is she?” he repeated, stepping forward, his voice no longer a demand but a plea.

The chambermaid bowed, but her voice was steady. “Resting, Your Majesty. The fever worsened—”

“Liar.”

The word cut through the room like a blade. The chambermaid flinched.

Callixto's hands trembled. “She would not leave her bed unless someone forced her to,” he whispered. His tongue darted out, wetting his dry lips. “Unless someone… took her from me.”

He turned, suddenly—too suddenly—and grabbed the chambermaid’s wrist.

“You would not betray me, would you?”

The chambermaid swallowed.

“Of course not, Your Majesty.”

His grip tightened. Bones creaked.

“No, of course not,” he echoed, smiling now—serpentine, sharp. His head tilted. “Because if you had…” he leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear. “I would tear this palace apart. Brick by brick. And when I found her—oh, when I found her—”

He released her.

“Find her,” he murmured. “Or I will find you instead.”

The chambermaid bowed, stepping backward toward the door. “As you command.”

But she didn't turn fast enough to see his lips curl into something… inhuman.

He turned back to the empty bed, trailing a hand over the sheets as if he could still feel you there. His fingers ghosted over where your head had once rested, then curled into the pillow, dragging it close. He inhaled—deeply, desperately—like a starving man before a feast.

His eyes fluttered shut.

“Oh, my love,” he whispered to no one. “You can run, but you cannot hide.”

The night air was crip—freezing against your cheeks, but blissfully free.

You ran. Through the outer gardens, past the dim lanterns, past the drunken guards too enamored with wine and revelry to notice a shadow slipping past them.

You ran until the scent of the palace faded into the trees. 

Home. You had to go home.

But when you reached the village outskirts, you stopped.

Guards. Stationed outside your family's home.

You shrank into the shadows, heart hammering against your ribs. From where you hid, you could see the single candle in the window—dim, unmoving.

Not flickering.

Not alive.

A silent warning: Do not return.

Tears burned your eyes, but you forced yourself to turn away.

Not toward another village. Not toward a stranger's mercy.

But deeper into the forest.

Through the twisting paths only you knew, past the moss-covered stones and the brook where you once dipped your toes in summer. Past the memories. Past the ghosts.

And there, hidden beneath the tangle of overgrown branches, the shack still stood.

You and your siblings built it once—when you were small, when the world was gentler. A childish hideaway, pieced together from stolen nails and planks too weathered to be missed. A place of whispered secrets and stolen sweets, of giggling beneath a roof that bare kept the rain out.

It was nothing.

But it was enough.

You pushed the warped door open and stepped inside, the scent of damp wood wrapping around you like an old embrace. The cold bit at your skin, but you knew how to survive here. You always had.

With shaking hands, you pressed your back against the wall and slid to the floor.

Outside, the trees whispered.

Somewhere beyond them, the King was hunting.

But you would not be an easy prey.

Not here. Not yet.

—

tbc.

noirscript © 2025

All rights reserved.

—

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[surielstea]

First Impressions

Pairing: Rhysand x Fem!Reader

Summary: Rhys is a bumbling buffoon when it comes to meeting his mate for the first time.

Warnings: awkward tension, reader lives in the hewn city

A.Note: not totally proud of this one since it’s hard for me to write first meeting stories with a concluding ending, but I hope you guys enjoy :)

Word count: 4.8k words

The scratching at my door had me sitting up in an instant, my back pressing against the cold stone wall as my hand slid beneath my pillow, fingers curling around the worn hilt of my dagger. My breath came shallow, controlled, as I listened—waiting for another sound, another shift in the air that might give away whoever had decided to test their luck tonight.

Life in the Hewn City never allowed for restful sleep. Not when shadows slithered in every alley when cruelty pulsed like a second heartbeat through its streets. And especially not now that Morrigan was gone.

Her father's estate had been far from a sanctuary, but at least the sheer power Keir wielded had kept the worst of the monsters at bay. Here, in my apartment on the outskirts of town, I had no such protection. Only thin walls, shattered locks, and neighbors who wouldn't need a reason to break into a young female's bedroom—who wouldn't care that I was High Fae, not when my magic was little more than a flickering candle in the wind.

A shiver danced down my spine as I gripped my dagger tighter, pulling it free just as the handle of my door twisted. My breath stilled.

Wards should have held. I'd watched Mor herself etch them into the worn wood, her golden power laced with every careful stroke. And yet the door creaked open, the darkness beyond bleeding into my already shadowed room.

I made myself as small as possible, the blanket of night cloaking me enough to fool a drunk—most in this wretched place were—but if they stepped inside if they came closer...

A head popped through the gap.

Gold hair caught the dim light.

My breath punched from my lungs. "Morrigan."

I tumbled out of bed, my dagger forgotten as I all but threw myself at her. She caught me effortlessly, her arms wrapping tight around my waist, solid and real, her familiar scent washing over me.

"Oh, I've missed you," she murmured, holding me as if she'd been gone for years rather than two unbearable weeks.

I pulled back just enough to take her in, my hands framing her face, my eyes darting over her features, searching for any sign of injury. My stomach knotted at the gauze wrapped around her waist, but otherwise, she seemed unharmed.

"I thought you got out safe?" I whispered.

She smirked. "Forgot some things."

There was something reckless in her eyes, something sharp and unyielding.

My stomach tightened further. "Mor—"

"I'm getting you out of here."

Her grin was edged with mischief, with certainty.

—

I had heard the rumors—the hushed whispers exchanged between patrons in dimly lit taverns, drunken murmurs of a secret city our High Lord kept hidden from the rest of us. A place untouched by the cruelty of the Hewn City, a myth spun to keep fools hopeful.

I never believed a word of it.

But Velaris was real.

"The City of Starlight," Morrigan had said, her voice breathless with something I hadn't seen in her since we were reckless, ignorant children. She'd smiled then—wild, unguarded. And I had known, in that moment, that every whispered legend had been true.

The city thrived even in the late hour. Laughter and music curled through the streets, golden lights casting soft glows against dark stone. I had never dreamed a place like this could exist, not outside of bedtime stories and half-formed wishes. And yet, Mor guided me through its winding paths as if it were the most natural thing in the world, showing me pieces of the Night Court I had never dared to imagine.

Until, finally, she led me to a small cabin at the edge of a quiet clearing.

Warm light spilled from its windows, shadows dancing against the wood as the hum of conversation and bursts of laughter leaked into the night. It was a thrilling sound—carefree, safe.

Mor stepped onto the porch, her fingers curling around my wrist as she turned back to me with a smirk. "I've been living here for the past few weeks," she hummed, as if it were no great thing. "And I decided I missed my roommate."

Her words barely registered over the clatter of voices inside. I could hear the easy teasing, the playful shouts.

I hesitated.

"It's Rhysand's cabin, but—"

"The High Lord's?" I whirled on her, my stomach clenching.

Mor blinked, as if I'd said something absurd. "He's my cousin, you know?"

I did know that. Of course I did. But the knowledge didn't stop the shiver that traced my spine.

I had seen Rhysand twice in my life—twice was enough.

Both times, I had been convinced I would die right there on the spot, crushed beneath the weight of his power. It exuded from him like a second set of wings, dark and monstrous. The ground itself seemed to quake beneath his steps. To say he was powerful was an insult to the very meaning of the word. He was terror incarnate, the nightmare that lived in the dark corners of every court.

I had heard the stories—of him reaching into minds and shattering them from the inside out, twisting their own fears into weapons sharper than any blade. He did not need to lift a hand to kill.

My throat went dry. "He's not in there, is he?"

The words were barely a whisper, but Mor only shrugged, far too casual. "Sure he is."

I nearly choked. What?

"Mor—"

She didn't give me a chance to protest.

Her fingers curled around mine, firm and unwavering, and before I could think to dig in my heels, she had pulled me forward—up the steps, through the doorway, past the foyer—until I was standing in the heart of the house.

The moment we entered, the conversation stopped.

Four sets of eyes locked onto me.

Hazel. Silver.

And then—

A violet gaze, piercing and unrelenting, dilated with something unreadable.

My heart slammed against my ribs.

Rhysand.

The High Lord of Night. The male who could level entire armies with a flick of his wrist, who could peel apart minds like flower petals and leave nothing behind. The nightmare whispered about in every corner of the Hewn City.

And he was staring at me.

His lips parted slightly, as if words had caught in his throat.

Mor, of course, was entirely unaffected. "Gentlemen," she said, grinning as she strode deeper into the sitting room. "And Amren."

The silver-eyed female merely flicked a gaze over Mor before cutting straight to me, a sharp, assessing glance that made my stomach twist.

I was still trying to school my expression into something other than imminent death panic when Mor gave my wrist a final squeeze and released me.

"I'd like you all to meet—"

"She's my mate."

Silence.

Utter, perfect silence.

Then—

A choked sound came from the male lounging in an armchair, wings draped lazily over its sides. He had dark hair, hazel eyes gleaming with delight, and an unmistakable aura of shit-eating amusement. That one must be Cassian.

Next to him, another male, shadows curled at his feet like living things, merely blinked—slowly, deliberately—before glancing at Rhys and murmuring, "That was subtle." And there's Azriel.

Rhys, for all his legendary cunning, looked like he wanted to launch himself into the Sidra.

"Mate?" I rasped, my stomach flipping over itself.

No. No, surely not. That was—impossible. I would've felt something.

Or have I all along?

"You must forgive our dear High Lord," Amren drawled, sipping from a glass of something dark. "He usually has more tact when announcing these things."

Rhys finally seemed to snap back into his body, straightening his spine with something like composed horror.

"What I meant to say," he amended, his voice dropping into something far smoother, far silkier—too smooth as if he were compensating, "is that it's a pleasure to meet you."

Cassian snorted. "You just said she was your mate."

"Yes, thank you, Cassian."

Azriel's lips twitched. "I think she got the message."

My head was spinning, my throat tight. But my body had stilled—not from fear, exactly, but from something else. Something coiling in my chest, something aware.

Rhys's gaze flicked to mine, and his expression softened instantly, all humor melting into something devastatingly gentle.

"It's late. You must be exhausted." His voice had dipped, his usual charm tempered with something achingly sincere. "Let me get you something to eat. Or drink. Or—are you warm enough? I can get you a blanket—"

Cassian was shaking with silent laughter. Azriel merely watched, like he was filing this away for later use.

Amren, however, had no such patience. "Oh, for Cauldron's sake," she muttered, rolling her eyes. "She's not a wounded animal, Rhysand, stop circling her like a mother hen."

"I just want her to be comfortable," he argued, flashing her a glare before turning back to me with something so devastatingly earnest that I nearly forgot who he was. What he was.

He liked me.

No—he wanted me to like him.

Rhysand, the most powerful High Lord in history, was tripping over himself to win my favor.

And somehow, that was more terrifying than any of the rumors I'd ever heard.

—

I wasn't entirely sure how I ended up sitting on a plush couch in the middle of the High Lord's cabin, wrapped in a ridiculously soft blanket that I didn't remember agreeing to. A cup of tea—also not requested—was placed carefully in my hands, steam curling in the dim candlelight.

Rhysand hovered nearby.

And I meant hovered.

He was standing at an awkward, not-quite-close, not-quite-far distance, shifting slightly as if debating whether he should sit or stand or vanish into the floor. His normally easy, fluid grace had been utterly abandoned, leaving him looking... well. Uncertain.

Cassian, sprawled in the armchair across from me, was barely keeping it together. His wings twitched every few seconds, his lips pressed tightly as if physically holding in his laughter.

Azriel, seated beside him, was far more composed—but the slight upward tilt of his mouth betrayed his amusement.

I took a sip of my tea, trying to make sense of all this.

The High Lord of the Night Court—the terror of the Hewn City, the most powerful male in existence—had declared me his mate. And then proceeded to fall apart before my very eyes.

I was still trying to process it when Rhys spoke.

"Would you like more pillows?"

I blinked. "What?"

His violet eyes were very, very wide. "You look like you could use more pillows."

Cassian made a strangled noise.

Azriel coughed into his fist.

"I—I'm fine," I said slowly, watching as Rhys's shoulders sagged in relief.

Too fast. All of this was happening too fast, I couldn't keep up.

"Are you sure? Because I can get more."

Cassian let out a wheezing breath, eyes shining with unrestrained delight. "Yes, Rhys. More pillows. That's definitely what she needs."

Rhys shot him a withering glare before turning back to me, smoothing his expression into something intended to be charming, but coming across as deeply, deeply desperate.

"Or food!" he blurted. "Have you eaten? I can make you something. Or, well, I can't make you something, but I can get someone to—"

"She has tea, Rhys," Amren cut in dryly. "You shoved it into her hands two minutes ago."

"I did not shove—"

"You definitely shoved," Cassian confirmed, barely containing his cackle. "I thought you were going to spill boiling tea all over your mate."

I flinch slightly at the term as Rhys shoots back with, "I was being thoughtful."

Azriel hummed, taking a slow sip of his own drink, the amber color telling me it was something much stronger than tea. "Is that what we're calling it?"

I had absolutely no idea what to do with any of this.

Rhysand—the charmer, the schemer, the legend—was unraveling at the seams in front of me.

Because of me.

"I can make my own food," I finally said, mostly just to say something.

Rhys visibly straightened. "Of course! Yes, I knew that. I just—" He ran a hand through his hair, his usual ease nowhere to be found. "I want you to feel at home."

Cassian grinned. "I think she'd feel more at home if you stopped looming over her like a lovesick bat."

Rhys's glare could have melted stone.

Azriel just leaned back in his chair, shadows curling lazily around his shoulders. "I don't think I've ever seen you like this," he mused.

Rhys turned his attention back to me, clearly trying to regain some dignity. He attempted one of his infamous smirks. "You must forgive them. They're not used to seeing me flustered."

Cassian clapped a hand to his chest, eyes sparkling. "Oh, it's a gift, truly."

Azriel nodded solemnly. "We should savor this moment."

Rhys looked seconds away from throttling them both.

I just stared at him, still gripping the cup of tea like it was the only solid thing in the world. "Are you okay?" I asked before I could stop myself.

His breath caught.

And for a moment, the amusement, the chaos—it all faded. His eyes softened, something raw flickering behind them.

"I'm fine," he said, voice lower now, steadier. "I just... I wasn't expecting this."

Neither was I. But still, something shifted in my chest at the way he looked at me—like I was something precious.

I wasn't ready to name that feeling.

But for the first time since I'd arrived, I didn't feel like running.

Slowly—mercifully—Rhys seemed to remember how to function again.

He settled into the chair across from me, still watching me with those impossibly violet eyes, but at least he wasn't hovering like I might vanish if he so much as blinked.

Not that he'd relaxed entirely.

No, because the moment I so much as shifted—adjusting the blanket, setting my tea down—he twitched as if preparing to leap to his feet and fix something.

If I asked for anything, I had no doubt he'd be up and fetching it before I could even finish the sentence.

But at least he was sitting.

Amren, on the other hand, was done with the entire situation.

With a long-suffering sigh, she stood and stretched. "Alright. That's enough of this."

Cassian perked up. "Of what?"

She shot him a withering look. "The two of you sitting here, watching this disaster unfold like it's a theatrical event."

Cassian grinned, utterly unrepentant. "Oh, but it is."

Azriel just sipped his whiskey, but the small smirk on his lips said everything.

Amren turned her glare to them both, then pointed at the door. "Out."

Cassian gaped. "But—"

"Out," she repeated, already making her way toward him.

Cassian barely had time to dodge before she grabbed his arm, yanking him up with surprising strength for someone so small. "Azriel, move," she barked.

Azriel, for all his shadows and lethal grace, barely managed to stifle a chuckle before obeying.

Rhys, looking very much like a male clinging to the last shred of his dignity, just sighed. "Amren, I hardly think—"

"Oh, please." She shot him a knowing look. "You want them gone."

Rhys opened his mouth. Closed it. Then glanced—too quickly—at me.

Cassian cackled. "Oh, this is so good."

"I hate all of you," Rhys muttered.

Cassian just grinned, throwing an arm over Azriel's shoulder as Amren shoved them both toward the door. "Love you too, brother!"

The door shut behind them then silence settled.

I exhaled slowly, my mind still spinning from all of this—this place, these people, Rhysand, sitting before me and looking as though he didn't quite know what to do with himself.

Mor, still seated beside me, gave a soft, reassuring smile. "Ignore them," she said. "They're menaces, but they mean well."

I nodded, unsure what to say.

She nudged me gently. "You doing okay?"

I hesitated.

Then, quietly, "I think so."

Mor's smile warmed. "Good." She stood, stretching. "I'm just down the hall if you need anything, okay?"

I nodded again. "Thanks, Mor."

She winked. "Get some rest."

And then, just like that, I was alone. With Rhysand.

Who, despite his best attempts to seem relaxed, looked about two seconds away from combusting.

The silence stretched for a beat too long before Rhys cleared his throat, shifting in his seat. "So," he started, voice smoother now, steadier, "what do you think of Velaris?"

I exhaled, my grip loosening on the blanket around my shoulders as I glanced toward the window. The city lights still twinkled beyond the glass, mirroring the stars above.

"It's..." I searched for the right word. Magnificent."

His lips curved. "It is." He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "Not what you expected?"

A soft huff of breath left me. "In all honesty, I didn't even expect it to be real."

Rhys chuckled, low and warm. "Most don't."

I looked back at him. "How long has it been hidden?"

His expression turned thoughtful. "Since the war." His gaze flickered to the window, a distant look in his eyes. "My family—my court—has fought to protect it for centuries. It's the one place in all of Prythian untouched by war, by cruelty." He met my gaze again, and this time, there was something softer there. "Now it's yours, too."

Something shifted in my chest at that. The way he said it like I belonged here. I swallowed. "And the court?"

His smile returned, easy and knowing. "You've already met the worst of them."

I let out a small laugh, shaking my head. "I don't believe that."

"Oh, you should." He smirked. "Cassian and Azriel? Winged buffoons. Mor? Chaos incarnate." He placed a hand on his chest, feigning solemnity. "And me? Well, the stories you've heard don't paint me in the best light, do they?"

A teasing edge now, that sharp, clever humor creeping into his voice.

I tilted my head. "No, they don't."

He grinned, but it softened as he glanced back outside. "You'll see for yourself, though." He hesitated, then added, "You'll be here for Starfall."

"Starfall?"

His eyes lit up, and suddenly, it was as if the shadows in the room no longer existed.

"You've never heard of it?"

I shook my head.

Rhys leaned closer, his voice dropping to something conspiratorial, enticing. "Once a year, the sky does something extraordinary."

I raised a brow, peering out the large arched window to look at the galaxy of stars just outside. "More extraordinary than usual?"

A chuckle. "Much more." He sat back again, watching me with a quiet sort of delight, as if he already knew I'd love it. "The stars don't just shine that night. They fall."

I blinked. "They fall?"

"Mmm." He traced a circle on the arm of his chair. "Not like shooting stars—though it looks similar. The souls of long-lost beings drift across the sky, shimmering trails left in their wake. It's..." He trailed off, searching for the word.

"Magnificent?" I supplied, unable to help the small smile tugging at my lips.

Rhys gave a slow, approving nod. "Very."

Something warm settled in my chest. For a moment, neither of us spoke.

And then, finally, I allowed myself to really look at him.

Not the High Lord. Not the nightmare. Just Rhysand.

And gods, he was handsome.

The kind of handsome that made the room feel smaller, the air feel warmer. Sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw, those impossibly violet eyes that seemed to catch every flicker of candlelight. And the way he looked at me—like I was something precious. Like he already knew me, in some deep, unspoken way.

I cleared my throat, shoving away the thought. "It sounds magical."

He grinned, and for the first time, it wasn't the grin of a High Lord, or a male who held the power of nightmares in his hands.

It was just a smile. For me.

A slight yawn slipped from me, Rhys was instantly moving.

"Mother above, I've kept you up too late—" He was already leading me toward the hall, his steps brisk, his hands half-lifted as if he wanted to guide me but thought better of it.

I barely had time to keep up as he strode toward a door across from Mor's, gesturing to it like it was some grand reveal. "This is yours—of course, if you don't like it, we can find you another room, or a different house entirely, or—"

"Rhys—"

"I really should have let you rest earlier, I can be insufferable when I ramble, and—"

"Rhys."

"I hope you find everything comfortable, but if you need anything—extra pillows, a softer mattress, a different view—"

I pressed my palm to his chest. He froze.

His breath hitched, just barely—but I felt it beneath my hand, the sharp inhale, the slight stutter of his heartbeat.

His eyes locked onto mine, the violet darkening, blazing.

I had only meant to stop his spiraling apologies, but now... Now the air between us was thick with tension.

Something unseen curled and tightened, coiling like a living thing beneath my skin.

Rhys exhaled sharply through his nose. Slowly—reverently—his hand lifted, covering mine where it lay over his chest. His fingers curled just enough to hold me there, as if... as if he couldn't bear to let go.

Something between us shifted and I didn't have time to decide if it was for the better or not.

A pull, deep in my ribs. An ache that hadn't been there before.

Rhys went completely still.

Like he was waging some great internal war, fighting against a force that neither of us had yet spoken aloud. But I felt it.

The way his fingers tightened just slightly over mine. The way his lips parted like he was about to say something, only to think better of it.

The way his eyes—those star-flecked, devastatingly beautiful eyes—searched mine like they held the answer to something he'd been waiting for.

I should have stepped back.

I should have moved.

Instead, I stood there, heart pounding, fingers twitching against the soft fabric of his tunic.

Rhys swallowed, his throat working around the motion, but he said nothing. Did nothing. Just stood there, his chest rising and falling beneath my palm, his fingers flexing ever so slightly over mine like he was grounding himself—like he needed to hold on. I knew I should step back.

We had only just met.

Yet that fact seemed irrelevant, insignificant compared to the weight of the moment curling between us, thick as smoke.

Because I could feel it—something pulling me toward him, that bond deeper than attraction, sharper than longing. It was in the way his breath came uneven, in the way his gaze dropped, just briefly, to my lips before snapping back up to my eyes, a flicker of something raw, something wanting, breaking through his carefully placed walls.

His lips parted, like he might say something. Like he might stop this before it went too far.

I didn't let him. Didn't give myself the chance to second-guess, to think, to reason.

I surged forward.

Rhys barely had time to exhale before my lips met his. Soft. That was my first thought—how soft his lips were, warm and parting against mine as if in stunned surrender.

And then he was kissing me back.

A sharp inhale, his hand sliding up my wrist, curling around it like he couldn't quite believe this was happening—but wouldn't dare let go, either.

His other hand found my waist, light, hesitant, his fingers pressing in just enough to ground me, to anchor us both in the storm of whatever this was.

It wasn't desperate. It wasn't hurried. It was slow, tentative, a gentle exploration.

His nose brushed mine as he tilted his head, his lips parting wider, and I felt the way he breathed me in—like I was something to be savored, something he hadn't known he was starving for until now.

A small sound left me—something between a sigh and a whimper—and Rhys shuddered, his grip tightening ever so slightly, his fingertips pressing into my skin like he needed to remind himself this was real.

We lingered there, caught in something we didn't have a name for, something neither of us had expected but couldn't seem to pull away from.

His thumb brushed along my wrist, slow, reverent, as our lips moved together in a rhythm that felt achingly natural.

Like we had done this a thousand times before. Like we would do it a thousand times more.

When we finally parted, it was only enough to breathe, our foreheads pressing together, breaths mingling.

Rhys's fingers flexed at my waist.

"I—" His voice was hoarse, rough with something unspoken. He swallowed. "We should stop."

I exhaled shakily, my hands still fisting the fabric of his tunic.

"We should," I admitted.

His thumb traced slow, lazy circles along my wrist, like he was memorizing the shape of me, the feel of me.

And then, softer—softer than I'd ever heard anyone speak my name—

"But I don't want to."

I barely had time to whisper, "Neither do I," before he kissed me again.

His lips were still on mine, still moving, still taking, even as he rasped against my mouth, "We can't."

But he didn't stop. Didn't pull away.

If anything, his hands tightened at my waist, fingers pressing into my skin like he was anchoring himself—like he was fighting a losing battle against whatever force was unraveling between us.

I gasped as his tongue slid against mine, slow and thorough, like he was trying to memorize me, like he was desperate to learn every piece of me with nothing more than his lips, his hands, his breath.

"Rhys," I whispered, not knowing if it was meant to be a plea or a warning.

He groaned, his forehead pressing against mine, his breath coming out in short, uneven pants.

"I want to know you," he said, his voice so raw, so gutted that it sent a shiver down my spine.

Then his lips were on mine again, harder, deeper, like he was proving it, like he needed me to believe him.

"I want to know everything," he murmured against my mouth, between kisses that left me gasping, left me trembling, my fingers still tangled in his hair. Another kiss, this one rougher, hungrier. "Everything."

I whimpered against his lips, barely able to think, barely able to breathe with the way he was consuming me, the way his words were carving themselves into my ribs.

He groaned, like the sound was being ripped from him. "I—" He shuddered. "Tell me to stop."

I froze beneath him, blinking up at him, my head spinning, my lips swollen from his kisses.

He swallowed hard, his breathing uneven, his hands flexing at my sides.

"Tell me to stop," he repeated, voice ragged, "because I don't think I can on my own."

His words hung between us, raw and trembling, his breath fanning against my lips. I could still taste him, still feel the imprint of his hands at my sides, as if he had branded himself into my very skin. My heart pounded against my ribs, my body warring between the pull of the bond and the sliver of hesitation curling in my chest.

I slipped my hands from his hair, brushing my fingers along his jaw, feeling the tension coiled beneath his skin. "Rhys," I whispered, my voice barely a breath.

His eyes, dark and blazing with emotion, searched mine. I saw the restraint there, the war he was fighting within himself, the way his hands trembled against my sides.

I swallowed, forcing myself to find the words through the haze of want clouding my mind. "I'll accept the bond," I murmured. His breath hitched, his entire body going utterly still. "I just need some time."

A heartbeat passed. Then another. And then—he exhaled, his forehead pressing against mine, his entire frame shuddering. His hands skimmed up my sides, gentle now, reverent, like he was memorizing every inch of me before letting go.

"You could take centuries," he murmured, his lips brushing against my temple, featherlight. "Beyond that, if you wanted. I'd wait for you, always."

Something in my chest ached, something too big to name. I closed my eyes, breathing him in, the warmth of him, the endless patience laced in every word.

I tilted my head up, pressing the softest of kisses against his lips—nothing like the desperate, fevered ones from before. Just a promise. Just a thank you.

His hands lingered on my waist, like he wasn't quite ready to let go, but he didn't stop me as I pulled away. A small smile tugged at my lips. "Goodnight, Rhys."

His eyes softened, something almost wistful in them. "Goodnight, my love."

With a final glance, I turned and slipped into my room, closing the door behind me. And even then, I could still feel him—like a shadow, like a promise—waiting.

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[orangeblossomsintheair]

GRIEF ASIDE (1/4) | MV33

summary : You fancied your fiancé, you realized with horror. Oh, God. You fancied your fiancé.

wc : 13k

an : this took.. a while ☹️ anyway

For as long as you could remember, you had been engaged to Max Emilian, scion of House Verstappen.

On paper, it was a triumphant match, a union to secure your house's fortunes for generations. To be betrothed to the son of a duke was a dream most could only aspire to.

Yet, no one envied House Button’s lovely heiress.

Instead, the court pitied you.

Jos Verstappen, your future father-in-law and Duke of the North, was a name steeped in infamy. Known as the Butcher of the North, his reputation was as frigid and cruel as the land he ruled. Whispers of his war crimes haunted corridors, and songs of lament cursed his name in taverns.

To marry into such a legacy meant tying yourself to shadows you could never escape.

But duty had bound you to this path as tightly as the chill of the northern wind now clung to your skin.

Raised to bridge alliances and strengthen bonds, you had no illusions about the weight of your role.

Now, you stood before the towering iron gates of the Verstappen estate, carriage behind you, your wool cloak and one of your knight’s heavy coats offered little respite from the North’s unforgiving cold.

“Keep your chin up, my lady,” Lily murmured beside you, adjusting the trunk she carried, her voice nearly drowned by the howling wind. Her cheeks were flushed from the frost, and her attempts at reassurance felt as thin as your cloak.

You nodded mutely, clenching your chattering teeth. Complaining about her poor preparation, or your shared underestimation of the northern winter, would achieve little.

The gates groaned open, revealing the sprawling estate beyond.

The fortress-like walls loomed high, their grey stone stark against the snow-laden landscape. Narrow windows glinted like ice shards under the weak winter sun.

Smoke curled lazily from the distant stables, a muted sign of life in an otherwise bleak expanse.

“Cheerful place,” Lando muttered behind you, his voice dry. He pulled his hood lower, trying to shield his face from the biting wind.

“More like a tomb,” Oscar replied, tone low. His eyes scanned the walls warily, hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

Crossing the threshold of the estate, you were greeted by a cavernous main hall that carried little more warmth than the outdoors. Though a fire crackled at one end, its heat barely touched the far corners of the room.

The scent of pine mingled with the cold tang of iron, likely from the spiked chandelier that loomed overhead, casting jagged shadows across the floor.

“Presenting Lady (Y/N) of House Button,” the steward announced, his voice echoing up the vaulted ceilings.

The words washed over you, irrelevant compared to your struggle to stop trembling. The knight closest to you, Oscar, shifted closer, his presence a silent bulwark, but you scarcely noticed.

A figure descended the grand staircase, drawing your attention despite the icy haze clouding your mind.

Max Emilian Verstappen.

He moved with a grace that could only be borne from years of court presence, strides measured and deliberate yet still managing to not look stiff.

Pale hair neatly combed, save for a few strands that fell across his forehead, softening the otherwise hard edges of his face. His broad shoulders were draped in a heavy black coat lined with fur, swallowing what little light the room offered.

You had heard tales of him: a skilled warrior, an even better horseman, and a temper so fierce people began claiming the Verstappen rage was a hereditary trait.

His eyes fell on you then, surprise flickering across his face before being quickly replaced by a furrowed brow and the unmistakable air of annoyance.

“Gods,” he muttered under his breath, his tone cold enough to make you flinch.

You stiffened, unsure whether to speak or remain silent.

Was that usually how the Northern Lords greeted their betrothed?

Max’s eyes roved over you, taking in your trembling form, pale cheeks, and the inadequate cloak clutched around your shoulders.

His frown deepened, and he turned sharply toward your knights, his expression hardening.

“Why in the seven hells is she dressed like this?” he demanded.

Sir Lando bristled but maintained his composure. “My lady insisted, Lord Verstappen, that we keep ourselves alive. We offered additional layers-”

“She’s half-frozen. Who cares if you're alive if your Lady is dead?” Max cut him off, already shrugging out of his own coat.

You opened your mouth to protest, to insist you were fine, but before you could utter a word, he was draping the fur-lined garment over your shoulders.

The residual warmth from his body enveloped you, burying you under the scent of pine and leather.

“Your stubbornness will kill you,” he muttered, crouching slightly to adjust the coat. His tone was still sharp, but his hands were steady and careful as they brushed over you.

You glanced at Lily, who hovered nearby, her eyes darting between you and Max. “Fetch tea,” Max ordered, voice brooking no argument.

She hesitated, clearly unsure whether to take orders from a person who was decidedly not her Lady, but a sharp look from him sent her scurrying away.

Max turned back to you, his expression unreadable as his hand brushed over your elbow, guiding you forward. “Sit,” he gestured to the high-backed chair closest to the hearth.

You sank into the seat gratefully, abandoning the appearance of grace in lieu of the warmth of the fire and the heavy coat easing the worst of your shivers.

Max crouched before you, his face illuminated by the flickering light. “You were standing in the cold far too long,” he said, softer now as though talking to an injured bird.

“I didn’t realize…” you started, but your voice faltered.

Max’s lips quirked in a faint, reluctant smile. “Not even when you were shivering like a leaf?”

He leaned back, regarding you for a moment before adding, “The North will swallow you whole.”

His words should have stung, but you found it hard to be insulted for there was no malice in them, only a hint of amusement.

The tea arrived swiftly, Lily handing it to you with a pinched expression, steam curling from the delicate porcelain as if reluctant to break the stillness of the hall.

You wrapped your frozen fingers around the cup, savoring the way the heat kissed your skin, thawing the numbness in your fingers.

Max walked to stand a few paces away, matching your knight and maid's distance, watching you with a detached sort of interest, his arms still crossed over his chest.

The flickering firelight carved sharp angles along his face, illuminating the high cut of his cheekbones and the stern set of his jaw.

“You look better now.” His voice was quieter this time. “At least you have some color in you.”

You weren’t sure if that was meant to be a kindness or merely an observation, but you offered a polite nod regardless.

“Thank you, my Lord.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “Max will do.”

The correction startled you. Men of his station, sons of dukes especially, rarely made such allowances. Betrothed or not.

“As you wish… Max.”

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, but it vanished just as quickly.

“I imagine you have questions.”

Of course, you did.

Too many, and yet none seemed appropriate to ask.

You had spent years preparing for this union in theory, but now that you were standing on the threshold of it, the rehearsed words died in your throat.

“Only a few,” you said carefully.

He hummed, a noncommittal sound. “Then ask.”

You hesitated. “Your father… the Duke… is he here?”

Max’s expression cooled.

“No. My father is at the border fortresses, inspecting the garrisons. He will return before the winter feast to welcome you.”

Relief and dread tangled in your chest. It was a reprieve not to face Duke Jos immediately, but you knew it was temporary at best.

“And your father will be joining us soon enough as well, won’t he?” Max’s tone was unreadable, though something sharp glinted beneath it.

You nodded. “Yes. My father will come north after his duties are finished. To meet with the Duke and… formalize the engagement.”

The words felt heavy on your tongue. This visit wasn’t just a quiet retreat to adjust to your future home. It was a public commitment. Before long, the entire North would know you belonged to him.

You dreaded what that would do to your public image.

Max’s jaw tightened although his expression remained carefully distant. “Of course.”

He turned slightly, gaze sweeping the cold stone hall.

“You’ll find the North is not like the South. Comfort is scarce, and the people scarcer. They will not warm to you easily.”

His words felt more like a warning than a courtesy.

“I don’t expect them to.”

That seemed to surprise him. Perhaps he had been expecting you to be one of those Southern ladies that demanded everyone to bend over backwards for their comfort.

His eyes flicked back to you, studying you in a way that made you want to shrink under his coat.

“Good.”

The fire cracked loudly, sending a shower of sparks upward. Max tilted his head toward it, the flicker of light catching in his pale hair.

“You’ll need to adjust quickly. My father won’t tolerate weakness in his house.”

“And you?” The question slipped out before you could stop it.

Max’s expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes hardened.

“I won’t coddle you, if that’s what you’re asking.”

It wasn’t. But the way he said it made your stomach twist.

Still, you straightened your spine. “I wouldn’t ask for that.”

A tense silence settled again, though this time, it felt more contemplative than cold.

Max’s gaze drifted from you to the door behind you.

“You must be tired from the journey. I’ll have your rooms prepared.”

“I thought we would stay in the west wing,” you said, recalling the arrangements made in the letters exchanged between your families.

Max’s lips pressed into a thin line.

“The west wing is being repaired. Storm damage. You’ll stay closer to the main hall until it’s finished.”

It was a small thing, perhaps, yet it unsettled you.

The west wing was meant to be yours. A space to adjust quietly, away from the imposing grandeur of the estate.

Now, you were being denied that distance.

But what could you do? Refuse? Argue?

“Very well,” you said softly.

Max nodded once then turned to the waiting steward.

“Have the rooms near the library prepared. And make sure the fires are lit.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Oscar and Lando approached then, boots scuffing against the stone floor as they stopped just shy of your side.

Their eyes darted toward you, assessing your posture, searching for some silent confirmation that you were unharmed.

You gave them a small nod, and the tension in Oscar’s broad shoulders seemed to ease, though Lando’s hand remained near the hilt of his sword, his body coiled like a spring.

Max’s sharp gaze swept over the two knights, his expression unreadable but undoubtedly calculating.

“Your people will stay nearby,” he said, his voice firm but unhurried. “Your maid is not to wander without escort. Your men may walk around but not too far from the fortress. I'd rather not deal with the politics of a Southern knight dying in my land.”

Lily bristled at the casual remark, her cheeks coloring with indignation. “We Southerners aren't as fragile as you seem to think,” she said sharply, her words cutting the silence like a knife.

“Lily,” Oscar said quietly, catching her arm before she could step forward. His grip was gentle but firm, head shaking in a silent plea for restraint.

Max didn’t even flinch at her outburst, his cool demeanor unwavering as his gaze flicked back to you.

“Your people are bold.” His tone was tinged with something akin to amusement. “Let’s hope they’re wise enough to temper it.”

“They’re loyal,” you replied evenly, meeting his eyes without faltering. “I wouldn’t have brought them otherwise.”

“Loyalty is admirable but it doesn’t mean much if it gets you killed.”

Lando shifted beside you, jaw tight. “With all due respect, my lord,” he began without much respect at all. “We’re more than capable of keeping her safe.”

“I’m sure you believe that.” Max’s gaze settled on Lando. “But I’ve seen capable men bleed out on these stones for lesser causes. My rules are for your protection as much as mine.”

Lando’s grip on his sword tightened, but Oscar’s hand on his shoulder stilled him.

“We’ll abide by your rules,” Oscar confirmed, voice calm.

“Good.” Max turned back to you. “Come. I’ll show you the library. You should know where it is if you’re to live here.”

The offer caught you off guard. The scion of House Verstappen switched conversations so casually he seemed to slap you with his casualness.

“The library?”

“You can’t spend all your time staring at the snow,” Max replied evenly, though there was a faint lilt to his words.

Was that… humor? It was hard to tell with him.

“Well..” You tugged your coat tighter. “It is very captivating snow.”

Max’s brow arched. “And yet, I think you’ll survive without it for an hour.”

You blinked, taken aback by the dry remark.

Was he… teasing you?

Shaking off the ridiculous thought, you rose from your chair, trailing behind as he turned and strode toward the door.

You glanced at your companions, giving them a small and, hopefully, reassuring smile before stepping forward to follow Max.

Max’s pace was long, purposeful, and you found yourself scrambling to keep up without looking breathless.

(You decidedly ignored Sir Lando's small snort of laughter.)

The manor was a labyrinth of cold stone and dim corridors, the walls lined with tapestries dulled by age.

Shadows flickered where sparse torches burned, giving the place a haunted sort of stillness.

You found it hard to ever imagine yourself calling this place home.

Max moved through the halls like someone who had been shaped by this place, his presence carved into the very bones of the estate.

His stride was confident, measured, purposeful.

You, on the other hand, felt like an outsider, a stranger, each step heavy on the cold stone floor.

Finally, Max stopped before a pair of massive oak doors, their wood darkened with age. He didn’t look back at you as he spoke, his voice low, but managing to carry through the quiet hall.

“Your men stay outside. Your maid may enter,” he said, the command clear.

Your knights exchanged a brief look.

Lando’s lips curled into a smirk, clearly less than thrilled with the command. He let out a sigh, posture straightening with a resigned huff.

With a dramatic roll of his eyes, he moved to one side of the door, giving a theatrical bow as though he were playing a part in some grand performance.

Oscar shook his head but followed suit, taking his place at the other side, hands clasped with a more restrained expression.

Lando’s voice broke the silence, dripping with mock sweetness. “Enjoy the library, my Lady. Try not to get too lost in there.”

You laughed, unable to contain yourself and bid them a silent goodbye.

Without another word, he pushed the doors open, the hinges groaning in protest, and led you and Lily inside.

The library was vast and dim, lined wall-to-wall with shelves that stretched high into the shadows above.

Dust motes floated lazily in the beams of light filtering through the narrow, arched windows, painting the room in shades of gold and gray.

You inhaled deeply, the scent of aged paper and polished wood filling your senses.

“It’s beautiful…” you breathed, the words slipping out unbidden.

“It is,” Max replied, stepping farther into the room. “And it’s yours to use as I allow while you’re here.”

You followed him in, your fingers brushing the spines of the books closest to you. They were thick and heavy, their titles embossed in faded gold.

“Are these… first editions?” you asked, your voice hushed, as if speaking too loudly might awaken some slumbering beast.

“Many of them, yes,” Max said, his gaze sweeping the shelves as if cataloging them in his mind. “You’ll find original prints of histories, poetry, philosophy. Most of it quite rare. Some of the works were commissioned specifically for this collection.”

“Commissioned?” you echoed, eyebrows lifting in surprise.

He nodded. “Yes. House Verstappen has always valued knowledge. There are some volumes here you won’t find anywhere else.”

You let your hand fall from the books and turned to face him. “You must spend a lot of time here then.”

“Not as much as I should,” he admitted, his tone crisp. “But I’m familiar with the layout. If you’re planning to lose yourself, I can point you in the right direction.”

The corner of your mouth quirked up at his phrasing. “Lose myself?”

“It happens.” He shrugged, glancing away.

You laughed softly. “Is that your way of warning me?”

“A mere suggestion,” he corrected, his lips twitching in what might have been the hint of a smile. “Start with the poetry under the windows. It’s a good place for… wandering minds.”

“Poetry under the windows,” you repeated the words under your breath, glancing toward the far end of the room where a faint glow spilled across the shelves. “Any other recommendations?”

“The histories on the east wall are worth your time.” He gestured briefly. “And if you’re feeling adventurous, there’s a collection of letters on the upper mezzanine. They’re in French, though.”

“I can manage French,” you said with a small smile.

His eyebrow arched faintly. “Good. Then you’ll also find some rather colorful accounts of court scandals tucked in the back corner. A few are probably embellished, but they’re entertaining nonetheless.”

Your laughter came easier this time. “Court scandals? I didn’t expect you to recommend something so… frivolous.”

“Frivolity has its place,” he said dryly. “Just don’t let the staff catch you reading them. They might talk.”

“Noted.” You attempted to suppress your grin.

For a moment, the two of you stood in companionable silence, the quiet weight of the library wrapping around you like a cloak. You turned back to the shelves, running your fingertips lightly over the spines once more.

“This is incredible,” you murmured.

You glanced over your shoulder at his lack of a response, catching a faint glimmer of something softer in his eyes, though it vanished almost as quickly as it appeared.

Max seemed to compose himself, clearing his throat. “You will be fetched come dinner time.”

The heavy doors of the library groaned shut behind him, leaving you and Lily in the cavernous stillness.

As soon as the sound of his footsteps faded, Lily let out a sharp exhale, breaking the silence. “I thought he’d never leave,” she muttered, her voice pitched low but urgent.

You turned to her, startled by her tone. “Lily-”

“He’s impossible to read!” she interrupted, her hands gesturing animatedly as she paced a small circle near the door.

“One moment, he’s scowling like the world owes him something, and the next, he’s… he’s practically pointing you toward the best books for a cozy evening! What am I supposed to make of that?”

You blinked, caught between amusement and exasperation. “I don’t think it’s meant to be deciphered, Lily.”

“But it should be!” she shot back, stopping abruptly to face you. “You’re supposed to marry him. How are you supposed to live with someone who switches moods faster than the weather?”

“I don’t think he’s as unpredictable as you think,” you said cautiously, though you weren’t entirely convinced of your own words. “He’s… reserved.”

“Reserved?” Lily snorted. “He looks like he’s trying not to bite anyone’s head off half the time.” She softened slightly, adding, “Although, I’ll admit, it was nice of him to show you this place.”

Her eyes wandered around the library, her earlier frustration melting into a quieter awe. “It really is something, isn’t it?”

You nodded, letting your gaze sweep the towering shelves. “It is. I could lose hours in here.”

“Maybe you’ll have to,” Lily said, her tone lighter now. “If he’s not going to be forthcoming about himself, you might have to dig through the history books to figure him out. Perhaps you'll even find a diary of his.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “I think even the books might not have the answers to that mystery.”

Lily gave you a sly grin. “Well, if anyone can figure him out, my lady, it’s you.”

With a roll of your eyes, you turned back to the shelves. “My betrothed's dour personality aside.. help me find that poetry section he mentioned.”

Lily smiled, stepping closer to follow you deeper into the quiet sanctuary of the library.

“Of course, my lady.”

—

Hours later, as the manor stirred for the evening meal, a servant was dispatched to your quarters. The boy found it strange that the two knights he'd heard his Lord's betrothed had come with weren't stationed by the door.

A sharp knock echoed once. Then again, louder, more insistent.

“My lady?”

Silence.

The servant hesitated, damp palms against the polished wood.

“My lady?” He said again, voice cracking. “My lady, may I come in?”

“...My lady, I'm coming in.”

Then, cautiously, he pushed the door open.

The room was untouched. The bed still perfectly made, the hearth’s fire reduced to flickering embers. Shadows stretched long across the walls, and a chill crept in where warmth should have lingered.

Panic tightened his throat.

He checked the adjoining rooms. The empty sitting area, the silent halls. Nowhere.

Not even your guards and maid were present.

Sweat gathered at his brow as he hurried through the winding corridors, heart hammering as he sought out Lord Verstappen.

He found Max standing near the great hall’s window, dusk spilling through the glass in muted gold.

“My lord,” the servant panted, voice tight. “She’s- she’s gone.”

Max turned slowly. “Gone?”

“I searched her chambers, the halls, the west wing-”

“And the library?” Max’s voice was sharp, cutting through the servant’s stammering explanation.

The servant faltered. “The… the library, my lord?”

“Yes,” Max said evenly, already striding toward the east corridor. “She’s there.”

The servant froze, his jaw slackening. “You… you allowed her inside?”

“Are you questioning me?” Max didn’t even glance back as he continued down the hall, his boots echoing sharply on the stone floor.

“N-no, my lord!” the servant stammered, bowing reflexively. “But should I-”

“Stay where you are,” Max ordered. “I’ll handle this myself.”

Your two knights stood sentinel by the library doors when he approached, arms crossed, their expressions a mixture of boredom and indifference.

They barely acknowledged him, their attention elsewhere as the echo of his boots rang down the corridor.

Max didn’t slow his pace. “Is she still in there?”

Lando flicked a glance toward Oscar, then shrugged. “Yep. She's buried in a book or something,” he said with a nonchalant flick of his wrist, as if it were of little concern.

Max’s eyes narrowed. “You didn’t think to remind her of the time?”

Oscar raised a brow, voice dry. “A certain scion has, unfortunately, forbidden our entry, my lord.”

Max sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose, but Lando was quick to interject with a smirk. “And it’s a lost cause trying to pry our Lady away from a good book. Trust me, we’ve tried.”

Max’s frustration bubbled over into a short, exasperated laugh as he pushed the heavy doors open.

And there you were.

Curled into a high-backed chair, utterly absorbed in the thick, ancient book resting open in your lap.

A few other volumes lay scattered around your feet, their spines cracked open, as if you’d moved through them in a frenzy of curiosity.

Max’s gaze lingered on the sight before him. On the way your head tilted slightly as you read, your brow furrowed in concentration.

His grip on the doorframe loosened, but his jaw remained tight.

“My lady.”

You glanced up, startled but then smiled when you saw him. “Oh, my- Max, What are you doing here again?”

Max’s brow arched slightly at your casual tone. His irritation wavered.

He knew you were about to say ‘my Lord’ again, knew it was a mere slip of the tongue, court etiquette taking over before personal sense.

But.. my Max. Yes, he supposed he was indeed yours.

He couldn't say that though so when he spoke, it was only a disinterested, “It’s dinner time.”

You blinked, glancing toward the tall windows where the light had shifted to deep amber.

“Already? I hadn’t even realized-” You glanced down at the book in your lap, reluctant to put it aside. “I haven’t even finished this chapter.”

His gaze dropped to the title in your hands. “Faust,” he noted, tucking the information away. “You read German?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “I… only at an elementary level.”

Max's eyebrow arched slightly. You were either a liar or terribly humble.

“Faust,” he repeated dryly. “Hardly a book for someone with only elementary German. Your skills are passable, at least.”

“Just enough to get by,” you admitted, more honest now, brushing invisible dust from your skirt as you stood.

Max offered his arm, and you took it without hesitation this time.

He noticed, though he said nothing about the change, afraid that if he voiced it out you'd withdraw again.

“You might find Faust more rewarding if you read it in context,” he remarked as you walked down the hall, your knights and maid following behind.

You glanced up at him, curious. “And what context would that be?”

“Understanding Goethe’s philosophical explorations, for one. Or at least recognizing the poetic structure in its original form.”

You tilted your head. “So now you’re saying my German isn’t good enough?”

“I’m saying it’s a pity to read something monumental in fragments,” he replied. “Not a criticism.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” The corners of your lips quirked upward.

“Take it as you like.” He offered you a small shrug, though there was the faintest trace of amusement in his eyes.

A beat of silence passed before he spoke again. “Which German do you struggle with?”

“Official documents,” you admitted. “The kind that's full of overly formal phrasing and unnecessary flourish.”

Max hummed, thoughtful. Most official documents were indeed like that. “I could assist with that, should the need arise.”

You blinked at him, caught off guard by the offer. “You would?”

“If I find myself having time.”

“Thank you.”

He shook his head, brushing off your words. “And don't sit too close to the mezzanine shelves,” he added. “They’re unstable.”

Your brows rose. “Unstable?”

“I don’t need you buried beneath three hundred years of German history,” he said, his tone casual but his meaning clear.

A laugh bubbled up before you could stop it. “You’d miss me, then?”

“More likely, the servants would revolt,” he said, gesturing to the doors to the dining hall. “Dinner then, shall we?”

—

The dining hall was an expansive, imposing space, its vaulted ceilings casting long shadows over the vast table.

Candles decorated much of the available surfaces in a surprisingly tasteful way.

Their flames flickered weakly, struggling to combat the cold that clung to the stone walls like it was a living, breathing thing.

The table stretched far ahead, but only two places were set.

Max took his seat at the head without so much as a glance in your direction, and you slid into the chair opposite him.

Lily quietly withdrew to prepare for your night routine while Lando and Oscar remained a fair distance away, leaving the two of you some privacy to discuss.

Servants moved efficiently, placing the first course on the table: roast venison, honeyed carrots, and freshly baked bread that had already begun to cool in the chill air.

The earlier conversation about books had petered out, leaving a quiet in its wake.

Max ate as though entirely alone, his focus on the meal before him.

You shifted in your seat, the faint scrape of your fork against the plate feeling almost intrusive.

"You know," you began tentatively, "for someone who seems to enjoy books, you’re surprisingly difficult to talk to about them."

Max’s knife paused mid-slice, his eyes flicking up to meet yours.

There was no hostility in his gaze, but his expression was unreadable all the same. “Talking about books is rarely as rewarding as reading them.”

“That sounds suspiciously like an excuse,” you said, trying to inject a bit of lightness into the moment. “Or maybe you just don’t know how to have a proper discussion about them.”

His lips twitched slightly, as if the idea amused him, though he didn’t smile. “Do you often accuse your dining companions of conversational ineptitude, or am I a special case?”

“That depends.” You tore off a piece of bread. “Are you going to prove me wrong?”

Max tilted his head, studying you with quiet curiosity, like someone turning over a puzzle piece in their mind.

“Very well.” He set his knife down carefully. “What would you like to discuss? Goethe? Schiller?”

“Bold of you to assume I am especially fond of German authors. Perhaps I just picked up Faust in the library on a whim.” You smiled. “But if you must know, I’ve been working through Balzac recently.”

He raised an eyebrow, his expression shifting slightly, though still difficult to read. “Balzac? Ambitious. And how are you finding him?”

“Dense,” you admitted with a laugh. “Brilliant, but dense. Definitely not light reading.”

“Few worthwhile things are,” he replied, returning to his meal. “Though I’ve always found Balzac’s fascination with ambition rather… tiresome.”

“Really?” you asked, curious. “Why?”

He took a measured sip of wine before answering. “Because I’ve seen enough ambition in reality to find little appeal in it as fiction.”

You smiled faintly, tilting your head. “And yet, here you are. A product of generations of ambition.”

His gaze darkened slightly, though not in anger.

There was a flicker of something, maybe hesitation, before he spoke. “Careful,” he said, his voice low and quiet. “You’re treading close to dangerous ground.”

“Am I?” you asked, though your tone was gentler now, almost teasing. “I thought we were just talking about books.”

Before he could respond, the servants re-entered, clearing the first course and placing the next before you.

The interruption softened the tension, and you let the moment breathe.

When the room was quiet again, you spoke, this time more cautiously. “Alright, then. Enough about me. What about you? What are you reading?”

Max’s fork paused mid-motion, and he set it down with deliberate care. “Does it matter?”

“Of course, it matters,” you replied, leaning forward slightly. “How else am I supposed to judge your taste?”

For a moment, you thought you saw the faintest glimmer of a smile. “If you must know, The Sorrows of Young Werther.”

You blinked, surprised. “Goethe’s most sentimental work? I wouldn’t have guessed.”

“Sentimentality has its uses,” he said dryly, though there was no real bite to his words. “Even you might agree.”

“Are you suggesting I’m sentimental?” you arched a brow.

“I’m suggesting you’re curious,” he replied, his tone even. “Perhaps overly so.”

“Fair.” You conceded with a small laugh. “But I’m curious.. what draws you to it? The tragedy? The unrequited love?”

He hesitated for just a moment, his gaze dropping briefly before he answered.

“The futility,” he said quietly, lifting his wine glass. “Of longing for something you cannot have.”

For a moment, you didn’t know how to respond, the honesty in his tone catching you off guard. When he didn’t elaborate, you picked up your own glass, letting the silence linger without pressing further.

“You have a rather bleak outlook, don’t you?” you asked finally, your voice softer now.

“Realistic,” he corrected, not unkindly, his gaze flicking back to yours. “Not everyone has the luxury of optimism.”

You frowned slightly, not entirely sure how to reply. “It’s not about luxury,” you said after a pause. “It’s about perspective.”

“Perspective is shaped by reality.” His eyes met yours, boring. “And reality is rarely kind.”

The conversation lulled again, but this time it felt less uneasy and more thoughtful.

As dinner wrapped up, Max glanced at your knights before settling on you, his tone lightening as he spoke. “I trust you can find your rooms?”

You nodded, standing from your chair. “Yes, I think so.”

“No late-night wandering, then?” he asked, his voice carrying the faintest trace of amusement.

Max’s lips twitched again, softer this time, as if he might actually be considering a smile. “Good. I’d hate to have to rescue you from some misstep in the dark.”

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “What makes you think I’d need rescuing?”

“Experience,” he said simply, the faintest flicker of amusement in his eyes.

The air between you shifted slightly, the earlier sharpness fading into something more subdued.

You allowed yourself a small laugh, breaking the lingering tension. “I’ll have you know I’m quite capable of finding my way around.”

“Is that so?” he replied, leaning back in his chair. His tone had softened, the sharp edges dulling to a quiet curiosity. “Well, then. I suppose I’ll trust you.”

“Trust,” you repeated, letting the word hang between you. “A bold move, considering we’ve only just met.”

Max regarded you for a moment, his expression unreadable. “Bold, perhaps. But necessary.”

You hesitated, unsure how to respond. There was something in his voice, quiet, measured, and entirely unexpected, that made you pause. The weight of the moment settled around you like the faint flicker of the candlelight, warm yet fragile.

“Well,” you said finally. “I suppose I should be flattered.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

He rose from his seat with practiced ease, the flicker of warmth in his eyes quickly hidden behind his composed demeanor. “Goodnight, then.”

You watched him as he left the dining hall, his steps measured and deliberate, the echo of his footsteps fading into the vast, empty space.

For a moment, you sat in the quiet, your gaze lingering on the door where he had disappeared.

Finally, you stood, the faintest smile playing at your lips. “Goodnight, Max,” you murmured to the empty room.

—-

The first light of dawn crept through the heavy drapes of your room, painting the walls in soft hues of gold and silver. The air carried a sharp chill, the promise of frost lingering just outside the thick panes of glass.

Everything was still, save for the faint crackle of the fire in the hearth and the soft rustling of fabric as Lily moved about with quiet precision.

She bent over a polished wooden chair, her deft hands smoothing out the folds of the attire she’d chosen for you.

A cloak of deep crimson lay draped across her arm, its rich, heavy fabric catching the faint light. You stirred in your bed, watching her through half-lidded eyes as she worked.

“Good morning, Lily,” you murmured, sitting up and drawing the blankets closer against the morning chill.

Lily turned with a warm smile, setting the cloak on the bed beside you. “Good morning, my Lady. Did you sleep well?”

“Well enough,” you replied, your fingers brushing the thick velvet of the cloak. You tilted your head, examining it with curiosity. “I don’t recall seeing this in my wardrobe before.”

“It was delivered just this morning,” Lily explained, her tone light but tinged with amusement. “A gift, I believe, from Lord Verstappen.”

Your brows lifted as you traced the intricate embroidery along the hem, tiny silver threads woven into delicate patterns. “From Lord Verstappen?”

She nodded, folding her hands in front of her. “He must have assumed the worst given your attire yesterday.”

“It’s rather heavy,” you remarked, holding it up to feel its weight.

Lily gave you a knowing smile, her tone dry but affectionate. “I think I speak for all of us when I say that I’d rather you walk with less grace than freeze, my Lady.”

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head as you draped the cloak over your shoulders.

It was impossibly warm, the kind of warmth that seeped through your skin and settled in your bones. “You’re not wrong. I suppose there’s no room for vanity when winter comes knocking.”

“None at all,” Lily agreed, moving to adjust the cloak, fastening the silver clasp at your throat. “Besides, the color suits you. Lord Verstappen has surprisingly good taste. I'd have assumed he’d just grab any old thing and force you into it.”

You raised a brow at the tone that laced her words, giving her a sidelong glance. “Flattery for him, Lily? Are you trying to curry favor? And here I thought you were quite ready to sock him just yesterday.”

She feigned innocence, stepping back with a twinkle in her eye. “Not at all, my Lady. But if he keeps sending gifts like this, I might just start.”

Your laughter filled the room, chasing away the last remnants of sleep. You were somewhat glad Lily saw him as redeemable after yesterday.

After all, she was usually a good judge of character.

As you stood, the cloak fell around you like a royal mantle, its weight grounding but comforting.

By the time you entered the dining hall, Max was already seated at the long table, a vision of composed efficiency.

His pale hair was still perfectly swept back, not a strand out of place, and a small stack of documents sat before him.

His pen moved steadily across the paper, his focus unbroken even as the golden morning light softened the sharpness of his features.

“Good morning, Max,” you said, sliding into the chair across from him, your tone deliberately chipper.

Max glanced up briefly, eyes meeting yours with the barest flicker of warmth.

“Good morning,” he replied, setting his pen down with the precision of a man who never did anything carelessly. “You’re up early.”

“It’s rather difficult to stay in bed when the frost feels like it's climbing up to sleep with you,” you said, grabbing a warm roll from the plate near you. “Do you have a deal with the weather to ensure I never sleep in?”

A faint smile tugged at his lips. “I’ll admit to nothing. But if the frost succeeds, perhaps I should reward it.”

“Ha! I’d like to see you try,” you said, tearing a piece of bread and slathering it with butter. “I’ve made my peace with it, though. I realized there was a charm to the winter once I got over the whole ‘freezing to death’ aspect.”

Max arched a brow, his eyes sparkling faintly with what you hoped was amusement. “A charm, you say? I wasn’t aware you were so poetic in the mornings.”

“Oh, I’m a veritable bard before breakfast,” you said. “In fact, I was just composing a sonnet about how frostbite builds character.”

He snorted softly as he reached for his tea, the sound barely audible, but it felt like a victory. “I’ll be sure to commission a copy of it for the library.”

You leaned back in your chair, feeling emboldened by his rare moment of humor

“Speaking of things worth writing about, I was thinking of spending some time in the garden today. It looks magical with the frost.”

Max paused, his teacup halfway to his lips, and gave you a look that bordered on incredulous. “The garden? In winter?”

“Yes, the garden,” you said, undeterred. “You do realize it’s still a garden, even when it’s cold?”

He set his cup down slowly, as if trying to process your words. “You are aware that nothing grows in the garden during winter, yes? Unless you count the weeds, which I doubt have much aesthetic appeal.”

“There are flowers that survive in winter,” you said with a pointed look.

He tilted his head, his expression blank. “Like what? Frozen dandelions?”

“Snowdrops, holly, winter jasmine,” you listed off, ticking them off on your fingers. “I saw some while passing by yesterday. Honestly, do you even know what’s in your own garden?”

Max leaned back slightly. “I delegate. Why bother when there are people who are willing to brave the frost to catalog it all for me?”

You rolled your eyes, unable to hide your grin. “How magnanimous of you.”

He inclined his head slightly, as though you’d paid him a genuine compliment. “It’s a skill.”

“You should come with me,” you said suddenly. “A little walk in the fresh air couldn’t hurt. Who knows? You might even enjoy it.”

He hesitated, his fingers tapping lightly against the rim of his teacup. “I appreciate the invitation,” he said finally, his tone carefully polite. “But my duties don’t often allow for such… luxuries.”

“Luxuries?” you raised a brow. “Surely even a Lord like yourself deserves a moment to himself.”

He chuckled softly, the sound low and rare, but it faded quickly. “Perhaps another time.”

You nodded, masking your disappointment with a practiced smile. “Of course. I wouldn’t want to distract you from your responsibilities.”

“Distraction,” he repeated, his gaze lingering on you longer than necessary.

Something unspoken flickered in his eyes, and though his expression remained composed, there was the faintest hint of something warmer beneath the surface.

“Perhaps,” he said again, this time softer, almost to himself.

You glanced down, heat creeping up your cheeks, and busied yourself with your breakfast.

—-

The steady scratch of a quill against parchment filled the room, broken only by the occasional shuffle of papers.

Max leaned over his desk, eyes scanning the dense columns of reports.

The study was dim, the late afternoon light barely filtering through the heavy curtains. The fire in the hearth had burned low, casting long, flickering shadows across the walls.

Yet, for all his focus, his pen paused mid-sentence.

His thoughts drifted. Again.

To you.

He could see it vividly in his mind: the garden cloaked in frost, each branch thin and brittle beneath the weight of winter.

You would be there, wouldn’t you? Bundled in that wool cloak you favored, breath curling in the cold air as you traced the icy edges of dormant rose bushes.

You had mentioned it offhandedly this morning, your plan to spend the afternoon outside despite the chill.

Max let out a slow breath, frowning at the parchment before him.

The words blurred, meaningless.

It was ridiculous.

You were likely gone by now, the cold too sharp to endure for long.

Rationality urged him to stay, to finish the reports that demanded his attention.

Yet the thought persisted.

Why did it matter if you were still there?

It shouldn’t.

And yet.

The chair scraped quietly against the floor as he stood.

He didn’t bother with his coat. The cold would be a brief inconvenience.

His steps were measured as he left the study, though there was a certain tension in his stride, as if he was trying to convince himself this was a simple walk and nothing more.

The manor’s halls gave way to the biting air of winter, and Max inhaled sharply, the cold seeping through the thin fabric of his sleeves.

The gravel path crunched beneath his boots as he crossed into the garden.

The world was quiet here. Still.

The pale sun sagged low in the sky, casting a silver sheen over frost-laced branches and brittle hedges. Even the air felt suspended, holding its breath.

He scanned the expanse, expecting, no, hoping, to see a flicker of movement among the barren trees.

Nothing.

Max’s jaw tightened.

Of course. You wouldn’t have waited. Hours had passed. Why would you linger in the cold for him? The thought was absurd.

He moved forward anyway, slow and deliberate, his hands clasped behind his back as if that could restrain the growing restlessness in his chest.

Each turn of the path yielded only more empty frost-covered stone.

Once.

Twice.

A third time around, and still nothing.

Perhaps this was a mistake.

He turned to leave.

Then, faintly, the sound of movement, a soft rustle of fabric.

His head snapped up.

And there you were.

Tucked into the curve of a stone bench, half-hidden by the skeletal branches of the hedgerow.

A book lay open in your lap, your gloved fingers idly turning the page.

Max stared.

You hadn’t left.

A strange feeling settled in his chest, something between relief and unease.

He didn’t speak, not immediately. For a moment, he simply watched you, the way your breath misted in the cold, how your hair caught the pale light.

He wasn’t sure why he’d come out here.

But now that he had, he found he didn’t want to leave.

Max exhaled quietly, letting the breath curl away into the cold.

He stood perfectly still, half-concealed by the bare limbs of the hedgerow, his figure blending into the stark winter landscape. The cold gnawed at him, a sharp wind threading through the thin fabric of his sleeves, but he didn’t move.

His breath escaped in thin, controlled streams of vapor, dissipating into the frigid air.

And still, his eyes remained fixed on you.

You sat quietly on the stone bench, bundled in the cloak he'd ordered a servant to bring to you last night come morning, its edges stiff with frost.

A book rested in your lap, your gloved fingers lazily tracing the brittle page edges as you turned them.

Every now and then, you paused, eyes lifting to watch the pale sun as it sagged toward the horizon, before returning to your reading.

Max’s hands tightened behind his back.

He shouldn’t be here.

There was no reason to be.

And yet, he didn’t leave.

He told himself it was coincidence, that his steps had simply led him here after hours of restless pacing in his study.

But even that excuse felt thin, crumbling under the weight of his own unease.

He exhaled slowly, the breath catching in the cold.

Why didn’t you go inside? The air was sharp and biting.

Anyone with sense would’ve retreated to the warmth of the manor by now. Yet you sat there still, as if waiting for something.

Or someone.

A ridiculous thought.

Max’s jaw tightened.

"You know," a dry voice cut through the stillness, "standing there staring is a bit creepy, my Lord.”

Max turned sharply, his cold glare snapping to the armored figure leaning casually against the frosted stone archway.

Oscar.

The knight stood with an infuriating air of nonchalance, one hand resting on the pommel of his sword, the other shoved lazily into the crook of his elbow. His breath misted lazily in the cold air, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You’re out of line.” Max’s voice was flat, the warning unmistakable.

Oscar only raised an eyebrow, entirely unbothered. “Probably. But you’ve been standing long enough that I figured someone should say something.”

Max’s glare deepened.

Oscar tilted his head slightly toward the garden. “You could just speak to her, you know. I’m half certain she wouldn’t mind.”

“I have no intention of interrupting her,” Max said coolly, though the words rang hollow even to his own ears.

Oscar made a thoughtful noise, tapping a gloved finger against his chin. “No, of course not. That’s why you’re skulking in the hedges instead of being a normal person and saying hello.”

Max’s mouth tightened into a thin line. “You have duties. Attend to them.”

Oscar chuckled under his breath. “Oh, I am attending to them. Protecting the lady, making sure her suitors aren’t lurking about. You know, the usual.”

Max’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

Oscar didn’t flinch.

“Did she not mention this morning she hoped you’d join her out here?” the knight asked offhandedly, brushing frost off his shoulder. “But maybe I heard wrong. Could’ve been the wind.”

Max didn’t respond.

Oscar let the silence stretch for a moment before shrugging. “Well. Suit yourself.”

With that, he pushed off the archway and strode casually toward you, boots crunching against the frost-laden gravel.

Max didn’t move. His gaze followed Oscar with a cold, sharp focus, but his feet remained planted, weighed down by something heavier than pride.

Oscar’s figure grew smaller as he neared you.

And then, you looked up.

Your face softened in recognition, lips curving into a faint smile as your knight approached. Max’s chest tightened inexplicably.

“You’ve been out here a while, my lady,” Oscar remarked lightly, stopping beside the stone bench.

You laughed softly, the sound carrying faintly through the still air. “Longer than I meant to. Has it gotten that late already?”

“Late enough,” Oscar said, leaning slightly against the stone edge. “Cold enough too, I imagine.”

You exhaled, watching the breath curl away. “The cold’s not so bad.”

Oscar smirked. “If you say so. Though I passed Lord Max earlier. He was out here too.”

Your eyes lifted, blinking in quiet surprise. “Was he?”

Oscar hummed. “Looked like he was thinking about joining you. Or maybe just staring at you. Hard to tell with him.”

Your gaze flicked toward the distant paths, searching the empty garden.

Oscar watched you carefully. “Still might be lurking somewhere. Shadows seem to agree with him.”

You smiled faintly, but your eyes lingered on the hedgerows, thoughtful.

Oscar nudged a frost-coated pebble with his boot. “You know… if you wanted him here, you could just call him out. Maybe the shame will make his feet move.”

You glanced at him, arching a brow.

He smirked. “Just a thought, my Lady.”

Oscar pushed off the bench. “Come on. You’ll catch cold if you stay out much longer.”

As they turned to head back toward the manor, Max stood still, hidden beyond the hedges.

His hands clenched slowly at his sides.

And then, finally, he turned and walked away.

The frost crunched beneath his boots, louder than before.

—

The rest of the month at the Verstappen estate unfolded in slow, deliberate strokes, like the steady brush of winter wind against frosted glass.

The walls of cold formality between you and Max didn’t crumble overnight, but there were cracks now. Thin, hairline fractures where something softer threatened to seep through.

Max remained composed, distant, his every word and gesture measured. Yet every so often, something flickered.

A hesitation before he spoke. A glance that lingered longer than necessary.

Small, fleeting moments that barely seemed to matter, but they did. They built something fragile and new, fragile as frost on stone.

It started with the garden.

You had grown fond of the winter gardens. Quiet, stark, and untouched. The biting air sharpened your senses, and the stillness gave you space to breathe, something you often struggled to find within the Verstappen estate's cold, towering walls.

You were seated at the breakfast table one morning, fingers curled around your tea for warmth.

Your eyes traced the frost-laced hedgerows beyond the tall windows, lost in thought.

“I’ll accompany you today.”

The voice was quiet but certain, breaking through your reverie.

Your head snapped up.

Max stood across the room, a stack of documents in hand, his expression unreadable.

“…Pardon?”

His gaze didn’t waver. “To the gardens. I’ll walk with you.”

You stared at him, caught off guard. “You want to… walk. Outside. In the cold.”

A slight tilt of his head. “Yes.”

“You?”

His jaw tensed, a muscle ticking. “Is that so difficult to believe?”

“Frankly? Yes.” You set your teacup down carefully, studying him. “Don’t you have something far more important to do than trail after me like some-”

“I hardly think safeguarding my betrothed is beneath me,” he cut in smoothly, though something in his tone lacked its usual sharpness.

You raised a brow. “Safeguard me? Max, it’s a garden, not a battlefield.”

He didn’t answer, only held your gaze steadily.

A smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. “Well, far be it from me to refuse the protection of a lord.”

Max inclined his head, as if the matter was settled.

—

The cold met you both immediately as you stepped into the garden.

You drew your coat tighter. Max, of course, didn’t seem to notice the cold at all.

His steps were measured, boots crunching against the frost-dusted path. He kept half a step ahead of you, his hands clasped neatly behind his back.

The silence stretched. And stretched.

Then, abruptly-

“Those are evergreens.”

You blinked.

“…Yes. They are.”

Max gave a small nod, as if confirming a fact. “They endure the winter well.”

"That is typically how evergreens work."

Silence.

You bit your lip, fighting the smile threatening to surface.

Max cleared his throat, his eyes flicking forward again. "I thought it was worth mentioning."

"It was very insightful," you teased lightly.

His jaw tightened, though you noticed the faintest flush at the tips of his ears.

The silence stretched again, but it didn’t feel so suffocating now.

"I don’t…" he started, then stopped. His hands flexed behind his back. "I’m not particularly… good at this."

You tilted your head. "At walking?”

A sharp exhale, half a laugh, half frustration. "At this. Talking. Being-" he paused, as if the word itself burned. "-approachable."

You considered him for a moment. "You’re not as terrible as you think."

His eyes flicked to yours, uncertain.

"You just talk about trees a lot."

That earned a genuine huff of breath. Not quite a laugh, but close.

"I’ll… keep that in mind.”

—

Days slipped by like soft falling snow, quiet and unhurried. And so did the walks.

The first few outings had been brittle, every step and word sharp with awkwardness. But little by little, the stiffness began to melt.

It wasn’t anything grand, no sweeping gestures or sudden confessions, but something quieter. Subtle.

Max no longer fumbled for conversation, and you no longer waited for him to.

Sometimes you spoke. Sometimes you didn’t. And somehow, the silences became easier.

There was comfort in it, like the steady crunch of frost beneath your boots or the way your breath curled in the cold air.

It started with small things.

One morning, as you walked past a thicket of frost-covered hedges, Max slowed his pace, watching you with a flicker of curiosity.

“You always stop here.”

You glanced at him, surprised he noticed. “It’s peaceful.”

His eyes followed yours to the bare branches dusted in white.

“Hm.” He made a low sound of acknowledgment, then fell quiet.

The next day, you noticed he lingered near that spot, as if waiting for you to pause first.

He didn’t say anything, but it was enough.

Another morning, you stumbled slightly on the uneven path, your boot catching on a patch of ice.

Before you could right yourself, a steady hand caught your elbow.

You blinked, looking up.

Max’s hand hovered there, his grip careful but sure.

His expression was unreadable, but his touch was steady.

“You should watch your step,” he murmured.

You stared at him for a beat too long.

“I was,” you said finally, a little breathless.

His hand dropped back to his side, and he turned away before you could see the faint pink creeping up his neck.

The next day, the path had been salted.

You never mentioned it. Neither did he.

But the air between you felt lighter.

Then, there was the matter of the scarf.

It was colder than usual that morning. Bitter wind snuck through the layers of your coat and scarf, nipping at your skin.

Max noticed.

“You’re cold,” he said flatly.

You glanced at him, defensive. “It’s winter. Everyone’s cold.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then, without a word, he unwound the dark wool scarf from his neck and held it out to you.

You blinked.

“…What are you doing?”

“You need it more than I do.”

You stared at the scarf, then at him. “Max, I’m not going to take your scarf. That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s practical,” he replied, tone perfectly serious.

You huffed a laugh. “Oh, is it? And what about you?”

“I’ll manage.”

His expression didn’t waver.

After a long pause, you sighed and took the scarf from his hands.

It was warm. Warmer than yours, and it smelled faintly of cedar and something crisp, like winter air.

You looped it around your neck, hiding a small smile.

“Happy now?”

Max gave a short nod. “Good.”

The next day, he wore a thicker coat.

You said nothing.

Neither did he.

But his gaze lingered on the scarf around your neck.

And that was enough.

The silences softened after that.

Some days, Max would walk slightly ahead, hands behind his back, eyes on the path.

Other days, he matched your stride, quiet but near.

Once, as you passed a row of brittle rose bushes, you paused, brushing your glove over the thorns.

Max stopped beside you.

“They won’t bloom again until spring.”

“I know.”

He was quiet for a moment.

“They’re still... nice to look at,” he admitted.

You glanced at him.

“That’s surprisingly sentimental of you.”

A slight shrug. “They’re resilient. Even now.”

You smiled, soft and secret.

Another day, you caught him watching you when you laughed at something small. A small squirrel darting through the snow, slipping and scrambling back up a tree.

Max didn’t laugh, but something flickered in his eyes.

Not amusement.

Something warmer.

He looked away when you caught him, but you didn’t tease him for it.

The walks stretched longer. The conversations grew softer.

There were no grand declarations, no sweeping changes.

Just the slow, steady thaw of winter.

And for now, that was enough.

—-

It happened on an ordinary day, so ordinary that you couldn’t have guessed it would stand out for any reason at all.

You were sitting in the common room, absentmindedly flipping through a file, your thoughts half on the task and half on the cup of tea cooling beside you.

You were aware of Max nearby, as you always seemed to be. The two of you had taken to spending your quiet moments together for some reason.

He was seated at the far corner, half-hidden behind a stack of papers, his focus presumably locked on his work.

Or so you thought.

It wasn’t until you reached for your tea, your eyes lifting momentarily, that you noticed it. His gaze.

Max was staring at you.

It wasn’t a casual glance or a quick flicker of attention. His eyes were fixed, steady, like he was studying you without even realizing it.

There was something almost unreadable in his expression, his usual guarded demeanor softened by a hint of… curiosity? Thoughtfulness? You couldn’t quite place it.

For a moment, you froze, unsure what to do. Should you look away? Pretend you hadn’t noticed? Confront him?

The options raced through your mind in a tangle, but before you could decide, Max blinked, as though snapping out of a trance.

His gaze shifted back to the papers in front of him, his movements abrupt and uncharacteristically awkward.

He cleared his throat quietly, shuffling the documents with more focus than necessary.

You felt your cheeks warm, a faint heat creeping up your neck. It wasn’t like Max to lose his composure, even slightly.

You wondered what he’d been thinking. Or if he’d even realized what he was doing.

“Everything alright?” you asked, breaking the silence before it could stretch uncomfortably long. Your voice was casual, light, as though the moment hadn’t happened.

Max didn’t look up immediately, his jaw tightening for a fraction of a second. “Fine,” he said, his tone clipped, but there was a faint edge to it, something almost defensive.

You tilted your head, studying him for a beat longer. “You sure? You looked… distracted.”

He finally met your gaze, his expression unreadable again, but this time you thought you caught the faintest flicker of something.

Embarrassment, maybe, or irritation at being caught.

“I’m sure,” he said, his tone more even now.

“Alright,” you said lightly, turning back to your file with a small shrug. But your heart was still racing, and you couldn’t stop yourself from wondering what had just passed between you.

As the moments ticked by, you resisted the urge to glance at him again, but you couldn’t shake the feeling of his earlier stare.

—

The two of you found yourselves in the library again, a rare moment of calm amidst the usual chaos.

Max sat across from you, his attention drifting between the book in his hands and the room around him.

For once, he wasn’t buried in paperwork or fielding endless questions from others, and the quiet was almost comforting.

The soft rustle of turning pages and the muted hum of your own reading filled the air.

It was a stillness that wrapped around you both, unspoken but shared, a silence that felt like an unacknowledged truce.

Until the peace fractured.

A faint groan of wood sliced through the quiet, subtle at first but growing louder, sharper. You frowned, your eyes flicking upward from your book.

Max noticed the sound too, his head tilting slightly as his attention shifted.

“What was that?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Max didn’t answer right away, his eyes narrowing as the groaning intensified. “Stay here,” he muttered, already rising from his chair.

But before either of you could move further, the source of the noise revealed itself.

The tall shelf in the corner swayed unnaturally, its weight shifting in a way that made your stomach twist.

“Max-” you started, panic creeping into your voice.

And then it happened. The shelf gave way.

Books tumbled from its upper shelves like a cascade of water, filling the air with dull thuds and sharp cracks.

The massive structure pitched toward you, and you froze, your feet rooted in place.

“Move!” a voice yelled.

You barely registered the shout before a strong hand grabbed your arm, yanking you back with such force that your book flew from your grasp.

Your back slammed into something solid. Someone’s chest.

A deafening crash filled the room as the shelf slammed into the ground, its impact sending vibrations through the floor.

Books scattered in every direction, some sliding to a stop at your feet.

“Are you okay?” Max’s voice was sharp, edged with panic. His hand still gripped your arm, his knuckles white from the effort.

You turned toward him, your breath coming in short, uneven gasps. “I… I think so.”

His eyes darted over you, scanning for any sign of injury. “Did it hit you?” he asked, his voice quieter but no less urgent.

“No,” you managed. “I’m fine. Just… shaken.”

Max exhaled sharply, his shoulders sagging as some of the tension left him.

He dropped his hand from your arm, stepping back to give you space, but his gaze stayed locked on you.

“I should’ve seen it coming,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “I knew it was old..” He trailed off, his jaw tightening.

You shook your head, still trying to steady your breathing. “You couldn’t have known it would fall like that.”

His brow furrowed, frustration flickering across his face. “I should’ve checked it. What if-” He cut himself off, his jaw working as he looked away.

“It didn’t,” you said firmly. “You pulled me out of the way. That’s what matters.”

Max’s expression didn’t soften. If anything, his frown deepened. “This shouldn’t have happened in the first place. I should’ve-”

“Stop,” you interrupted, your voice firmer than you expected. “Max, you can’t blame yourself. You didn’t push the shelf. You didn’t make it fall.”

He met your gaze then, his eyes dark and filled with a storm of emotions. “But I could’ve stopped it,” he said quietly, almost to himself.

You hesitated, unsure how to respond. The raw guilt in his voice surprised you. It was rare to see Max shaken. You didn't even think it possible.

“You did stop it. At least for me,” you said softly.

He stared at you for a moment, his expression unreadable.

Finally, he sighed and stepped toward the wreckage. “This is a mess,” he muttered, his tone shifting to something more clipped, controlled. “I’ll get someone to clean it up. You should go sit down. Get some air.”

You followed his gaze to the pile of broken wood and scattered books. The sight made your stomach twist, but you forced yourself to speak. “I’ll help. I was here too.”

“No,” Max said quickly, holding up a hand. “You’ve had enough of a scare for one day. Just… take a break, alright?”

You hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. “Fine. But only because you asked.”

Max gave a short, almost reluctant nod in return. “Good. I’ll make sure this doesn’t happen again.”

As you turned to leave, you glanced back at him. He was already moving toward the debris, his focus shifting entirely to the mess. But the tension in his shoulders hadn’t eased, and you knew he’d be carrying the weight of what could have happened for a while.

And so would you.

—-

The realization that you fancied Max struck with all the subtlety of a thunderclap.

You fancied your fiancé. Oh, God. You fancied your fiancé.

The thought struck you like a bolt of lightning, the weight of it settling heavily in your chest as you paced back and forth across your room.

With each step, the walls of the room seemed to shrink around you, the air thick with the suffocating pressure of your own spiraling thoughts.

How had this happened? Why him? Of all people, why Max?

Stoic, distant Max, the man you barely even knew.

“It’s a trick of the mind. A reaction to circumstance,” you whispered, the words directed at your own reflection in the mirror.

Your face was pinched, your brow furrowed, and your eyes wide with a mixture of dread and something… else.

You rubbed at your temples, as though the act might banish the errant thoughts swirling in your mind.

“It’s admiration,” you said aloud, as if hearing the words would make them true. “Respect for his… demeanor. His resolve.”

You faltered, the image of Max flickering to life in your mind.

His measured gaze, the faint crease at the corner of his mouth when he was deep in thought.

The way his presence seemed to command the air around him.

Stop it.

“Lily!” you called out suddenly, your voice higher than you intended, panic rising sharply in your throat. “Lily, please, come here!”

The door creaked open, and Lily entered with her usual composed air, her eyes softening as soon as she took in the sight of your distress.

“My Lady, what’s wrong? You look...” she trailed off, hesitation in her tone as she glanced at you, clearly noting the unease written across your face.

“Don’t even say it,” you interrupted quickly, pressing your palms to your temples in an effort to stave off the rising panic. “I’m losing my mind, Lily. I think... I think I have feelings for Max.”

Lily regarded you for a long moment, her expression unreadable, but there was a subtle shift in her eyebrow.

A hint of intrigue that you couldn’t quite place. She did not seem surprised.

“Max?” she asked, her voice calm, though the faintest hint of something stirred in her eyes. “As in, your betrothed, Lord Max Verstappen?”

“Yes! That Max!” you exclaimed, turning toward her with wide, frantic eyes, feeling the chaos inside you deepen with every word you spoke. “What other Max would I be talking about?!”

Lily paused for a moment, her eyes assessing you, the soft lines of her face betraying no judgment, only careful understanding.

Finally, she spoke, her tone even, but with an edge of something like amusement.

“Well,” she said thoughtfully, “I’m glad it’s not hatred you’re feeling.”

You blinked, surprised at her response. “What?”

She gave you a small, wry smile, her hands folding gently in front of her. “I’m glad you don’t detest the man you’re engaged to. That’s a start, isn’t it? At least you’re not loathing him.”

You gaped at her, your mind still reeling from the gravity of your own emotions. “But this isn’t nothing, Lily! This isn’t just some passing fancy. I can’t stop thinking about him. Every time he’s near, I feel like I’m going to lose my mind. I don’t know how to act around him. It’s like- like he’s too close and I’m too far from myself.”

Lily’s gaze softened, but she did not rush to soothe you with easy words.

She tilted her head slightly, her voice measured but firm. “Feelings like these don’t appear overnight, My Lady. They don’t disappear either. But you’re right. You don’t know him very well yet. You’ve got time to work this out, slowly. You don’t have to have it all figured out now.”

You nodded, but the knot in your stomach only tightened as a new wave of uncertainty washed over you.

“I don’t know what to do with all of this, Lily. What if I say something wrong? What if I act like a fool in front of him? What if... what if he doesn’t care at all?”

Lily stepped closer to you, her presence steady, constant.

“Then he doesn’t,” she said simply. “If he doesn’t care, then... then you’ll be no worse off than you are now, My Lady. But know this: no other woman is taking him from you. He’s already yours. That’s settled.”

Her words settled over you like a weight.

He was already yours.

There was no escaping the finality of it, the truth in her calm tone.

The idea that you didn’t need to chase after him, that he was already tied to you in ways you couldn’t control, both unsettled and reassured you.

“I’m not even sure I want him, though,” you murmured, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “I don’t even know what this is. What if I’m just... confused? What if it’s just... attachment? I mean, he’s always there, he’s my betrothed, but- he’s not-”

“Stop,” Lily’s voice sliced through your spiraling thoughts. “You don’t need to understand it all right now. You don’t need to be sure of your feelings just because you’ve realized them.”

You took a slow breath, your chest tight as you tried to keep your composure.

Her words were soothing in their simplicity, but they didn’t change your feelings. “I just... I don’t know what to do with all this. It’s too much. Too fast. I can’t keep up.”

You let the words hang in the air, unsure if you were speaking to her or to yourself.

Lily gave you a small, understanding smile, though it was tinged with a trace of amusement.

She didn’t speak for a moment, as though carefully weighing her response. “Then take it slow, my Lady. You’re allowed to feel all of this, in your own time. You don’t have to rush to make sense of it. No one’s going to force you to figure it out on anyone else’s schedule.”

A tiny sense of relief swept over you, but the knot in your stomach still refused to loosen.

You glanced at the door, as though the mere idea of being near Max would send everything crashing down again.

“So... you’re saying I can avoid him... for a while?”

Lily raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed with the suggestion. “Avoid him?” she repeated, the edge of disbelief creeping into her voice. “My Lady, if I may-"

“But I can?” you pressed, cutting her off, eyes wide with urgency. “You said I could take my time, right? Well, avoiding him sounds like taking my time to me.”

Lily sighed, the sound long and heavy, as though you were testing her patience. “Yes, My Lady, your free will does indeed allow you to avoid him, if that’s truly what you wish.”

A spark of triumph flickered inside you.

“Perfect.” You stood straighter, a plan forming in your mind. “Call for Sir Lando and Sir Oscar.”

Lily’s eyebrows furrowed as she eyed you suspiciously. “What for, My Lady?”

You gave her an almost manic grin, feeling the tension in your shoulders ease slightly as your plan took shape. “They’re going to help me.”

“Help you... with avoiding your betrothed?” Lily asked slowly, a hint of disbelief creeping into her voice. She crossed her arms, studying you with a bemused expression.

“Yes,” you replied firmly, not an ounce of hesitation in your voice. “They’ll help me stay away from him. They’ll distract him, tell him I’m busy with... other things.”

Lily opened her mouth to respond but stopped herself, narrowing her eyes at you as if you had just suggested something ludicrous.

“My Lady,” she said, her voice dipping into a tone of mild reproach, “I must say, I don’t think that’s the most productive course of action.”

“Oh, please.” You threw your hands up dramatically. “I’m just trying to buy myself some time here. I can’t face him, not with these... feelings…whatever they are…bubbling up every time I even think about him. If I can just avoid him for a little while, I can breathe again.”

Lily shook her head, a small, resigned smile playing on her lips. “I don’t think this is the solution you’re looking for, My Lady. But if you insist on this... strategy, I can’t stop you.”

You raised an eyebrow, suddenly intrigued by the shift in her tone. “You can stop me, can’t you? You’re my lady’s maid. You’re supposed to stop me from making poor decisions.”

Lily raised an eyebrow right back at you. “I’m also supposed to help you navigate poor decisions, not prevent them entirely. And right now, this is just one of many decisions I’m going to let you make on your own.”

She paused, eyeing you carefully. “But just know, avoiding him isn’t going to give you the answers you need. It’ll only prolong the inevitable.”

You smiled sweetly, still not convinced. “Sometimes, a little delay is exactly what I need. Besides, it’s not like he’s going anywhere. We’re betrothed, after all.”

“That you are,” Lily replied, her tone becoming slightly sharper. “Which is exactly why you shouldn’t be avoiding him. You’ve got time, but you also have a responsibility to work through your feelings. Even if it’s uncomfortable.”

You glanced toward the door, already plotting the next phase of your plan. “I’ll figure it out. But in the meantime, I’m going to need some assistance.”

Lily sighed again, louder this time.

She didn’t speak for a long moment, her gaze flicking to the door as though she were silently debating whether or not to humor you.

Finally, she gave a small nod. “Very well. I’ll fetch Sir Lando and Sir Oscar. But I’m warning you, My Lady, this avoidance strategy won’t last long.”

You grinned triumphantly as she turned to leave. “Thank you, Lily. You’re the best.”

As she stepped out of the room, you sank back into your chair, letting your mind wander to the next step of your plan.

You weren’t entirely sure what you were doing, but it felt better than facing Max and trying to make sense of the chaos swirling inside you.

For now, avoiding him was the only option that seemed remotely manageable.

When Lily returned with your knights, they each looked at you with varying degrees of confusion and amusement, but you gave them a firm, confident look.

This plan was going to work.

You could make it work.

“Alright,” you said, standing tall, as though the sheer gravity of your decision had transformed you into a seasoned military strategist. “Here’s the plan. We’re going to make sure Max never sees me again.”

A pause hung in the air, heavy and expectant.

“Or at least… not for a while.”

Lando and Oscar exchanged a glance. Lando’s lips twitched upward, the beginnings of a grin playing at the corners of his mouth, while Oscar’s furrowed brow and pursed lips betrayed his confusion.

“Right,” Lando said finally, leaning back and crossing his arms. His tone was equal parts incredulous and amused. “This ought to be good. What, exactly, do you want us to do, my Lady? This sounds like it’s going to be excellent for my boredom.”

Oscar’s expression tightened further. “You can’t be serious,” he muttered, half to himself, his arms now folded.

You straightened your back, summoning all the confidence you could muster. “I am entirely serious. From this moment forward, I have suddenly become… extremely busy.”

Oscar blinked. “Busy,” he repeated flatly.

“Yes, busy,” you replied, the words tumbling out with an exaggerated air of importance. “So busy, in fact, that I won’t have a single moment to spare. And I need you two to help make sure that’s… believable.”

Lando arched an eyebrow, a grin now fully blossoming on his face. “Wait, let me get this straight. You want us to..what? Fabricate your life for a bit?”

“Exactly,” you said with a flourish of your hand, as though the absurdity of your request was irrelevant. “A little misdirection here, a well-timed excuse there. Between the two of you, I’m sure you can come up with something convincing.”

Lando let out a low whistle, shaking his head in mock disbelief. “So, you’re asking us to keep Max, the man who has been running this house like a clock, distracted? To throw him off the scent entirely?”

“Precisely,” you said, lifting your chin.

Oscar looked less amused and more concerned, his practical nature coming to the forefront. “And what exactly is this plan supposed to achieve? You think if we keep him occupied for long enough, he’ll just… forget about you? You do realize who we’re talking about, right?”

“I don’t need him to forget,” you replied quickly, your voice rising slightly in pitch. “I just need him to be… preoccupied. Thoroughly distracted. He can’t be allowed to think about me, let alone come looking for me.”

Lando, who had been quietly observing, suddenly burst out laughing. “This is incredible. You’re trying to dodge the one man who could probably find you in his sleep.”

Oscar sighed again after a moment , clearly reluctant. “Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Excellent,” you said, clapping your hands together. “Now, let’s get to work.”

As Lando leaned back in his chair, still grinning, and Oscar reluctantly nodded his agreement, you couldn’t help but feel a surge of triumph. Surely, this would work. How hard could it be to outmaneuver Max Emilian Verstappen?

You tried to ignore the nagging voice in the back of your mind whispering that you might have just made a very, very big mistake.

—-

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@papichulomacy

[emmg]

He wrestles with a feverish appetite, this crude and uninvited urge that intrudes at its own whim—though, really, when would such thoughts be welcome? It is not refined, not proper, to sit opposite her and let his mind wander to the gloss of her lips, to wonder how she might taste, to wish that the mascarpone she savors so languidly were his own flesh, heavy and impatient. 

He despises himself for it—wants to be better, finer, something more than hunger in its basest form. And yet, he wants. Sweetness, yes; kindness, yes; love in all its quiet splendor—but also salt and sweat, the lush, slippery heat between her legs, his or hers or both, some mingled thing he might catch on his fingers, press back inside her, trace along her trembling thighs as he coaxes her to completion. 

But it is not only this. No, his disease is greater, more humiliating still. He thinks of grand, maudlin absurdities. Of flowers left on windowsills, of rings slipped onto fingers, of days spent making memories out of nothing. And it is this, not lust, that he fears might truly appall her. Because hunger, after all, is easy to satisfy. It is love, foolish and relentless, that tends to send people running. 

You mustn’t be so sentimental, someone had murmured that to him once. He can no longer summon the speaker’s face, nor their voice, nor even their gender, only the ghostly trace of the words themselves, breathed or sighed, said once or, more likely, many times.

It became, in those gauzy, amber-lit years of his youth, something of a running jest. An affectionate, exasperated refrain, volleyed at him with the regularity of a well-worn melody. 

"Don’t fucking propose to the waitress, Volkarin. She’s bringing you a beer, not subtly signaling that she wants to die in your arms," Johanna would mutter, leaning back against the sticky wood of some dimly lit tavern, where they debated spirits over spirits.

"They’re funding your research, Emmrich, not secretly applying to be the mother of your children."

"Your new assistant is very handsome. Try not to hyperventilate when he hands you a quill."

He laughed along. It was funny, after all. Until, inevitably, it wasn’t. Until the joke, fossilized through sheer, relentless overuse, lost its shape and became a dull thing, something to stub his patience against. Until his forced little chuckles gave way to eye-rolls, to abrupt departures, to a growing sense that he was, in fact, trapped in some long-running farce penned by a particularly untalented playwright.

They were all married now, every last one of them—the tireless jesters, the committee of mirth who, years later, still found delight in flogging the same long-dead horse. And he wasn’t. Not that he was alone, of course. He had his affairs, his amusements, his charming little entanglements. But still, from time to time, a most delicate and specific malice stirred in him. 

He wanted to dig up some particularly malicious little corpse, whisper something truly awful to it, and dispatch it to haunt them. Not in any grand, dramatic fashion. No moaning, no rattling of chains. Just a gentle, relentless nuisance. A ghost of mild inconvenience. A door that won’t quite shut. A draft they can’t find. A whisper when they’re shaving. A misplaced document on the morning of a big presentation. 

The sort of thing a petty man might dream up. And he has, after all, always been petty.

He tried, though. He tries still. To smooth the edges of his affections, to hush the operatic swell of his heart, to trade grand declarations for something gentler, something more palatable. Not entirely, of course—self-betrayal is a vulgar thing. But enough. Just enough to keep from frightening them, from scattering them like startled birds. 

For Rook, mostly. Because Rook is not like him. Rook does not do sentiment. Rook has the supreme, indifferent ease of someone born beautiful, the kind of beauty that turns heads and opens doors without so much as a sidelong glance of acknowledgment. Rook has never had to earn affection—it accumulates around her the way cigarette smoke clings to velvet. Rook rolls her eyes at poetry. Rook, with her lazy smirk and her miraculous ability to construct entire, fully functional sentences composed exclusively of obscenities.

He loves Rook very, very much. He suspects Rook loves him too, in her own peculiar way. She smiles, she laughs, she allows him his embarrassing little effusions, even kisses him for his trouble—then, with perfect timing, calls him a dweeb and steals the last sip of his drink. 

It’s fine. He’s learned to translate. In Rook’s private dialect, dweeb means yes, fine, I suppose you amuse me, a kiss means I would be inconvenienced by your untimely death, and drinking the last of his whiskey? That, of course, is a vow of eternal devotion. Or something like that.

It all collapses into a feverish, tangled catastrophe one evening. A breathless, ill-advised implosion of longing and lust and something dangerously adjacent to reverence. She is so, so beautiful, and he wants to touch her, of course, but also—he wants to read to her. Not the dull, airless sonnets, no, but the real poetry, the ones thick with scandal, with sin, the ones that might cajole that sharp little smirk from her lips. Maybe while his fingers are inside her. Maybe precisely then.

He wants to coax pleasure from her, whispering thick, illicit syllables against her skin, punctuating each lewd phrase with the curl of his knuckles, just to see how the two mingle, just to see which makes her gasp first. To see if she’ll arch into it, if she’ll moan, if she’ll laugh. Because of course she’ll laugh. She always does. Even when he licks his fingers clean, even when he settles between her thighs, even when he finds his own satisfaction in the aftermath of hers, she will be laughing. 

It happens like that, and yet, not like that at all. Because as he collapses against her, boneless and spent, something dreadful and unmistakable unfurls in his chest—too late, of course, always too late. His sentimentality, that incurable affliction, has caught up with him at last, threading itself through his ribs, pressing its damp, foolish hands against his throat. 

He bows his head to her chest, breathing her in, willing himself to contain it, to gather the wet, trembling edges of his absurd little heart and tuck them out of sight. Perhaps she will not notice. Perhaps she will feel only the smile he presses into her skin, as if that might smother the rest. 

A silence—brief, terrible, perceptive. 

"Oh no," she says, and he feels her fingers weave into his hair, loose and lazy and terribly knowing. "What the fuck did I do?" 

He shakes his head—not much, nothing at all, everything. Just a little.

"Nothing, my darling," he says, only slightly unsteady. "Nothing at all. I am—" a soft exhale, an almost-laugh, "—very happy." He swallows. Feels the first pangs of self-reproach begin to bloom, acid-sweet. "Only… allow me a moment to gather myself. It will pass." 

A brief caress at the base of his neck. Then, just as he begins to sink into it, she shifts, shoves, displaces him. He rolls onto his back, compliant, expectant, and she follows, settling astride him, her thighs bracketing his ribs, her cool hands framing his face. 

"Happy?" she confirms. 

"Yes, happy." 

"Hm." A small, satisfied noise. "Good. Happy and pretty. You’re so very pretty." 

She does not elaborate—she never does—but she kisses him. Thoroughly. His cheeks first, then his chin, the arch of his brow, the slow, methodical placement of lips upon skin, like affixing wax seals to letters never meant to be sent. His eyes, last. She drags a fingertip down, drawing his lids closed as if dimming a lamp. Then, the press of her mouth, warm, dry, familiar. And then—oh.

The flick of her tongue, feline and quick, slips between his lashes, parting what she has only just sealed, grazing the raw, unguarded wet beneath. He flinches; she giggles, breath skimming his cheek, unreasonably pleased with herself. 

She does it again, slower this time, the tip of her tongue tracing the curve of his eyelid. Then once more, lower now, across the ridge of his cheekbone, the corner of his mouth. A methodical, absentminded mapping—kisses pressed to skin with no particular urgency, a grazing of teeth when the impulse strikes her. He lies still beneath her, utterly at her mercy, though she is hardly in a hurry to exploit it. She seems content merely to taste him, her breath leaving damp traces that cool, then tighten, then disappear. 

Chocolate, yes, still lingering from earlier, something dark and rich that settles at the back of his throat just from breathing her in. Salt, too, a faint sting where sweat beads along the curve of her upper lip. 

Finally, an exhale. A minute adjustment of her weight as she lifts her head, pleased, apparently, with whatever inscrutable calculation she has been making. A kiss, light as a comma, stamped onto the very center of his mouth. 

“There you go,” she announces, stretching her arms overhead, yawning into her wrist, smiling that slow, pleased smile of hers. “All cleaned up. Not a tear in sight, since you seem to find your own emotions so mortifying.” 

"Thank you," he says, and, disastrously, feels like he might start crying again. 

"Mm-hm." A pause. Her fingers tapping absently against his cheek. "There’s a joke in here somewhere." 

"Is there?"

A frown, thoughtful, exaggerated, her brows knitting together in careful concentration before giving way to a terrible smile. "Yes." A beat. Then, the telltale flicker of something truly indecent behind her eyes. "Something about staying hydrated. Or maybe—" a pause, as if she is weighing her options "—eating out your third eye." 

He laughs then immediately chokes as she presses her hand to his throat for balance, the casual weight of it cutting off just enough air to send his body into brief, ungraceful revolt. 

"Never short on dreadful puns, I see." His voice, when it returns, is slightly hoarse. 

"Never," she agrees. Then, with a flourish of indulgence, she leans down again, kissing his eyelids one by one. “So you continue doing this—” kiss, kiss, kiss “—and I'll continue doing that.” 

Disgracefully, absurdly, he cries again, even as she laughs, even as her laughter spreads like ink in water, pulling him under, until the whole thing disintegrates into some ungovernable mixture of mirth and misery. He is laughing too—helplessly, wet-faced, ridiculous—and she, entirely unbothered by his descent into sentimentality, licks at the salt on his cheeks like a cat, or perhaps some particularly devoted dog, calling him pretty, pretty, pretty in that lazy, drawling way of hers, as if the word itself were a charm, a refrain, a verdict.

He wants to ask her why—why this word, why now, why, of all possible things, she has settled on this ludicrous, ill-fitting descriptor as he lies before her, blotchy and unsightly and utterly, embarrassingly undone. But she only snorts into his collarbone, her breath warm, unbothered, and the chant continues, pretty, pretty, pretty, until he is left with no choice but to accept it.

In the morning, his eyes are red. Lucanis notices. Davrin notices. The two, incapable of letting a thing be, set about turning his misfortune into sport, taking turns to see who can unearth the most appallingly indecent explanation.

He feels a migraine approaching. 

And then Rook arrives, deposits a cup of coffee into his hands, and, without so much as a glance at him, declares, “He snorted too much powder last night. Leave him alone.” 

Ah. 

Oh.

He sits there, staring at her, vaguely appalled, impossibly infatuated, hopelessly starry-eyed. Very well, then. She has let sentiment in—however unwittingly, however carelessly—and now she will drown in it. And then, once she is thoroughly waterlogged, he will buy her all the gold in Nevarra. 

[pineconepie]

Yan king???👀

I had a little fun with the worldbuilding because it gave me an excuse to use one of my old ideas.

I'll explain it briefly because I didn't do much explaining in the writing: there are five major kingdoms in the nation of Lepidoptra - Rosy Maple, Atlas, Luna, Death's Head, and the one where reader is from: Comet Kingdom. Everyone has wings that resemble a moth, along with antennae. (yes moths are a huge hyperfixation of mine)

Just thought I'd get that out of the way lol. Anyway, this is probably one of the most yandere characters I've written mwehehe.

TW: Attempted murder (kind of but not really), parental yandere, manipulation, implied gaslighting, infantilization

...

Ever since you could recall, your father had been very protective over you. He homeschooled you, didn't let you leave the house much, only allowed a few select friends, but those friends were also friends with your dad, and just getting paid to talk to you.

Your father would hold you as often as he could, making sure he was the first and last thing you'd see daily.

He had told you, ever since you were just a young mothling, your wings had been cut off by a robber who attempted to kidnap you, and thus, your father had to be extremely cautious in regards to keeping you safe at home.

You never left the house alone, and even if you did, you were monitored.

Sometimes, you'd get strange flashbacks. Almost like deja-vu, but these felt more vivid in your mind.

Once when you saw Castor, your father's, sword, you had a vision of yourself getting stabbed in the chest. Or when he'd look angry at you, you'd recall seeing that exact expression on his face before. But those thoughts went away as soon as they appeared.

Sometimes you'd get horrible nightmares of him. You dreamed he hurt you somehow. And yet, you'd always wake up feeling fine. Nothing hurt physically.

But mentally? Something just wasn't clicking right.

Recently you began sneaking out of the castle, not wanting to alert your father, and you began going to this little tavern at the edge of town to spend time with your village friends, ones you know for a fact your father would never dream of approving.

"Calliope, Osmond, hey," you greet warmly, walking over to their usual table in the corner, sitting down beside them.

"Hey," Calliope says, leaning her head against her hand. "How was escaping the palace? Almost got caught again?" Her bright golden wings flutter slightly as she grins.

"Nah, Dad doesn't suspect anything at all," you proudly state.

"Good, because he would have our heads," Osmond sighs. He shares an uneasy glance with Calliope, then glances back at you. "We wanted to speak to you about something unsettling we found. About your father."

You hesitate. "If this is about him and the Atlas Kingdom again, I told you already—"

"It's not about that," Calliope mutters. She pulls out a huge book from a satchel, one that barely even fits in it. "Okay, I'm about to warn you, this is weird as hell. Even Oz was weirded out."

"Well if he was unsettled by it, then I'm scared to see what it even is," you say with a breathless chuckle.

"We found it in the royal library," Osmond tells you quietly. "And well, this should explain it." He opens up the book and starts flipping through pages and pages until he lands on one in particular, pointing down at it for you to read.

It has your name and picture on it. Your full name, everything.

At first, you find it slightly strange, but think there may be some kind of explanation. Most of the pictures on the book show you when you were younger, being held on Castor's hip while he made speeches at ceremonies. He looks the same as he does now, except maybe with a bit longer hair.

Then you start seeing yourself getting older...

There's one of a memory you don't even recall, of a headline saying the "(Y/n), Child of King Castor of the Comet Kingdom, joins Arkema Mittrei, Academy" in which you're being handed over to the kingdom's most prestigious academy.

You were homeschooled, that never even happened!

Another one shows you using magic abilities, and you look older than you currently even are. And you have... wings?!

"That was our expression when we read it too," Calliope anxiously says. "We weren't supposed to be in the Royal Library since its always locked and guarded, but we managed to get in with Oz's magic. We were looking for more evidence to prove to you that your father is terrible, but instead we just stumbled upon this."

You don't know what to say. "This doesn't make any sense. I never went to any academy, and my wings..."

"And you look older in these photos," Osmond observes. "I don't know what is going on, but this is just further proof you can't trust him. I know he raised you and you love him, but he's controlling your life and clearly keeping things from you. I knew he caused a lot of meaningless wars and was incredibly paranoid about you, but this?"

"I'm at a loss for words, here," you murmur, shaking your head as you feel tears stinging in your eyes. "What the hell am I supposed to do?! Just confront my dad and hope for the best?"

Calliope puts a hand on your shoulder. "Run away with us," she proposes. "Oz's mom is in the Atlas Kingdom, we can find sanctuary there."

"No way am I just abandoning my dad with no warning," you argue. "Besides, he'd try burning down all of Atlas if he knew I was there! I'll just ask him for an explanation. I'm sure there is one."

"And risk letting him know you've been sneaking out of the kingdom?" Osmond scoffs. "Your death wish, not mine."

"Just give us at least a month or two," Calliope says. "Please. That way we can come up with a game plan."

You exhale quietly, your antennae twitching. "Okay. But no longer."

...

"Uhm, hey, Dad? I wanted to talk to you about something."

"Hm?" He peers his eyes away from the newspaper he's reading and smiles at you. "Of course! Come sit." You hesitate as he pats the seat next to him on the couch, and you reluctantly plop beside him. He hugs you closer to his chest. "So," he hums, kissing the side of your head, "what is it?"

"...have I ever went to Arkema Mittrei Academy?" You watch as his smile drops.

He glances off, contemplating a response before returning his gaze to you. "Oh, sweetheart, where did you hear that? Of course not! I think you'd remember something like that." His laugh sounds nervous. "Have you been having those scary dreams again?"

You bite your tongue. "No. I came across a book in the royal library. I know you don't like me going in there unsupervised, but I did. And I saw pictures of myself at the school, and another one where I'm older, and have my wings. Why do I have no recollection of those moments happening?"

His smile drops even more so, and now, his expression is unreadable. "Where did you get the book, baby?"

"I... uh, I got it in the royal library. I told you that," you stutter.

"How did you get in there unsupervised? There's always guards patrolling the library," Castor explains, narrowing his eyes. "Did someone help you sneak in?"

"What? No!" you lie. You start trying to wriggle out of his grip, but he holds you still.

"Baby," he soothes, almost condescendingly, "just tell Dad what he wants to know. I'm not mad."

He's lying. He's angry. You can't see the expression on his face because he's holding you so closely, but you can feel his rage boiling beneath his skin.

"No, I'm not lying. It was just left unlocked! But that's not my question, I wanna know what I saw in those! Why is there evidence of me doing and experiencing things I have zero memory of?!"

"I knew I should've burnt that damn book," he grumbles under his breath. "I thought you were doing so well this time."

"What do you mean 'this time'?!" you nearly cry, flailing so hard out of his grasp you fall to the floor.

"Oops!" Castor chuckles, standing over you with a cold grin. "Gosh, it feels like yesterday when you could hardly walk without tripping over your feet. Always so wobbly and unstable." He stands up and contemplates on something. "Alrighty, kiddo, since I'm so nice, you have two options. Bedtime and we'll forget about this, or you keep pushing me and we'll see where this takes us."

"What does that mean?" you rasp. "What will you do?"

Castor's bright wings spread out widely, as a show to intimidate you and make you feel smaller. "I really would rather we both just go to bed."

He's never hurt you in the past... "I just want to know what's going on."

"Well, for starters, all that information you think you know is irrelevant, it's been rewritten now," Castor replies nonchalantly, looking down at you. "All those things you saw happened, but you didn't experience them because that wasn't you. Not this you. The original you was too disobedient, so I had to reset and start all over again."

"Reset?!" you repeat incredulously. "What are you talking about?!"

Castor runs a hand through his hair. "Fine. Since you think an explanation is worth it. You can't die. You're immortal, just not in the same way I am. This is like..." He pauses. "...your nineteenth life or so, I believe? Once you die, you turn back into a baby. No injuries, no sickness, no memories. A clean slate. I try to avoid it, but whenever you start rebelling or growing too independent, it has to be done all over again."

"Nothing has to be done! You're killing me, just so you can what?! Watch me grow up again, exactly the same way?! What kind of twisted logic is that?!"

"Don't raise your voice at me," Castor scolds. "I'm not killing you, at least not technically. Besides, I love watching you grow, trying to find the perfect way to raise you. But it seems like no matter how I do so—whether I give you your freedom or make sure I'm the only face you see, you always end up leaving."

You shudder at his cryptic words. "Were you the one who cut off my wings?"

Castor waves a hand dismissively. "Only because you kept trying to run away with them. But they always regrow back once you're reborn." He pulls out a dagger, one you now understand why he always carries it with him.

"Dad, please..." you quietly plead, scrambling back in an attempt to stand up. "I'm sorry. We can let this go."

His eyes darken. "Not an option anymore, sweetie. You asked for answers, and you got them. Hey, maybe the twentieth time is the charm." He lunges for you, holding you down so he can lift his blade. "I'm so sorry, kiddo. I promise it'll just feel like a pinch, and then you'll wake up good as new!" His expression is sweet and adoring, but also crazed.

Just as he brings the blade down and you squeeze your eyes shut, all your hear is Castor's groan of pain.

"(Y/n)!" Calliope yells, grabbing onto your hand and yanking you up.

Castor wipes the blood running down his nose, glaring at the two of your friends. "(Y/n), you made some friends, huh? Must've been sneaking out behind my back for a while if they're jumping in their own graves for you." He gets back to his feet and starts approaching. "Step away from my child before you really regret it."

"Let's go!" Osmond demands, opening up a portal in front of Calliope after she pulled you to your feet.

The three of you tumble in, right before Castor tries attacking you as well.

Then suddenly, you're back outside, standing in the forest where your kingdom stood tall. You can hear him scream in frustration from all the way out here, likely calling for guards and barking out orders.

"He knows magic too," you whisper. "He won't be too far behind."

"I can only make portals so far," Osmond murmurs. "We need to run. Now."

[w3haw3ll]

Five Summers Gone- Oscar Piastri OP81

Enemies to Lovers × Second Chance × Small Town 5.6K Words (Masterlist) Five years ago, Y/N L/N left Melbourne without saying goodbye—no calls, no letters, nothing. To the town, she disappeared. To Oscar Piastri, her best friend and childhood crush, she shattered everything they’d built.

Now she’s back. Temporarily. And Oscar? He isn’t exactly welcoming her with open arms. Not when he’s spent years pretending he doesn’t care.

TW: Smut but its not essential to the story and can be skipped. 18+

The door to 'The Melbourne Tavern' creaked open, a gust of warm, dry air pushing in with the sound of cicadas buzzing outside. It smelled like dust and sunshine, a hint of salt from the nearby coast mingling with the earthy aroma of wood and old leather. The tavern wasn’t much to look at from the outside—a simple building of peeling white paint and rusty corrugated iron that blended with the small-town landscape. But inside, it had a kind of rustic charm that only decades of local history could create. 

The walls were a patchwork of weathered timber and exposed brick, with old beer advertisements and faded photographs hanging crookedly. Some of the frames were cracked, but no one had bothered to replace them; they were part of the place’s charm. The soft golden glow of hanging lamps cast long shadows across the wooden floors, which were scuffed from years of boots and bare feet dancing to the sound of country tunes. 

At the far end of the room polished oak with brass handles glowed under the light. Behind the bar, shelves lined with bottles of gin, rum, whiskey, and every kind of beer imaginable caught the light, the labels faded from the sun’s harsh glare that filtered in through the half-open windows. The taps hissed and gurgled, sending chilled streams of amber liquid into glasses that clinked softly against each other. 

Near the window, the jukebox sputtered, blasting out the familiar hum of country music, though the volume was low enough to let the conversations around the bar flow freely. The sound of laughter and murmured gossip drifted over the buzz of cicadas from the porch outside, where a couple of men leaned against the rails, pints in hand, talking about everything and nothing. 

The air inside felt thick with the heat of late afternoon, the sun casting a deep golden glow across everything—spilling in through the long windows, illuminating the wooden tables with their mismatched chairs. The long, worn bar counter had a few stools scattered in front of it, some occupied, some empty. A couple of regulars lounged by the dartboard, a few more tucked away in the booths by the back corner, whispering quietly, the flicker of dim candles lighting the space between them. 

There was a smell in the air, a blend of fried fish and roasted meats from the small kitchen in the back. The place was both familiar and a little overwhelming, like stepping back into a dream she hadn’t quite realized she was in. Every detail—from the scratches in the tables to the old ceiling fan that lazily stirred the air above—felt like it had been here for a hundred years, holding memories of the people who’d come and gone. 

 The low hum of chatter from the handful of locals drinking in the dimly lit room died down as soon as she stepped through the door. And now, standing here in the doorway, she felt the weight of time—five long years of distance of lost memories, and of unfinished business. 

Y/N froze at the threshold, her heart doing an awkward, painful little skip. It had been five years since she last stood in this place—five summers spent in the faraway noise of the city, with the distant hum of life and everything that wasn’t here. But now, the familiar smell of spilled beer, fried food, and wood smoke hit her like a wave, dragging her back to a time she hadn’t wanted to revisit. 

Her fingers tightened around the strap of her bag, her gaze scanning the bar. The worn wooden floors creaked beneath her boots as she took a step further in, half-hoping someone would jump out and shout a cheerful welcome, but everyone was strangely quiet. Eyes flicked toward her, some curious, others with that mix of recognition and judgment that could only come from small-town gossip. 

On a stool infront of the bar, Oscar Piastri sat with his back to her. His broad shoulders were tense, the back of his black T-shirt clinging to his frame. The man who had once been a small-town kid chasing dreams now stood in the glow of Formula 1 stardom. He was no longer just the boy she’d left behind—he was a racing icon, the kind of person whose name was known across the globe. 

But in this pub, to the people who knew him as a child, he was still Oscar—still the young man who had once dreamed of getting out of this town. The same man who had watched her walk away without a word five summers ago. 

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat as she stepped further into the tavern, her boots echoing softly on the worn wooden floors. The sound seemed to cut through the room, catching the attention of the few locals scattered around. She felt their eyes on her, a mix of curiosity, judgment, and old gossip filling the space. But her gaze remained fixed on Oscar. 

His back was still to her, but the moment he sensed her presence, he paused. The glass in his hand was set down slowly, as if he had suddenly forgotten the motion. 

The years hadn’t softened him. If anything, they had made him harder—his shoulders broader, the scruff of his jaw more pronounced, his eyes darker, like he'd been worn down by something deep inside. 

Her heart thudded in her chest. The space between them felt like a chasm, but the pull was the same. That magnetic tug she had always felt, the one that was impossible to ignore. 

His expression was unreadable at first—until it softened just the tiniest bit, just enough to show that the years hadn’t erased everything. His lips tightened into a hard line. 

But what struck her the most was the distance in his eyes. The same eyes that had once held nothing but warmth and admiration for her now seemed cold, distant, almost like she was a stranger. 

“Y/N,” he said, his voice low and distant, as though her name was a question he didn’t want to ask. “Didn’t expect you to come back.” 

Y/N swallowed, the weight of his words sinking into her chest. She had imagined this moment in her mind for so long, rehearsing her apologies, wondering how she would explain everything. But standing here, now, with the entire tavern waiting for something—anything—from her—it felt too real, too raw. 

His words hung in the air, thick with the tension of everything unsaid. Five years. She’d thought about this moment more times than she cared to admit, playing it out in her mind over and over again. She had imagined the words, the apology, the explanation. But now that she was standing here, with the dusty warmth of the tavern wrapping around them, everything she had planned to say felt inadequate. 

“I didn’t plan on it either,” Y/N replied, her voice quieter than she meant it to be. She glanced around the bar, a few familiar faces still scattered around. “My aunt... she left me the house.” 

Oscar didn’t respond to that, his brow furrowing. He didn’t need to. They both knew what that meant. She wasn’t here just to visit. She was here to close a chapter. The kind of chapter that had ended in a storm, the kind of chapter that had never really been finished. 

She shifted uncomfortably, noticing his intense gaze on her, like he was weighing every word. Her fingers fidgeted at her sides. She hadn’t realized how much she had missed this place—the familiarity, the feel of being home. But it also hit her like a ton of bricks, the reality of what she’d left behind. 

Oscar set the glass down, his hand brushing the countertop with a soft scrape. His gaze never left hers, studying her like a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. 

“You just show up, after five years, and that’s it?” he asked, his voice sharp, his eyes cold. “No explanation? No... nothing?” The anger in his voice made her flinch. 

She swallowed, guilt creeping into her chest. “I—I didn’t know how to explain, Oscar. I didn’t think you’d understand.” 

His chuckle was low, bitter. “And you thought running away was easier?” 

Y/N's stomach twisted. She hadn’t expected to hear that in his voice—the years of hurt, the bitterness. It stung more than she’d anticipated. 

She took a small step forward, but the distance between them felt monumental. “I didn’t want to leave. But I had to.” Her voice faltered, but she pushed on. “It was personal... Too personal that I couldn't even tell you about it.” 

Oscar’s jaw clenched, and his gaze flickered briefly to the floor. “You could’ve told me, Y/N. You didn’t even give me a chance to understand.” The words were raw, exposed, the kind of words that could break a person if they weren’t careful. 

Oscar’s expression shifted then—anger flaring briefly in his eyes before it was quickly masked by something colder, more distant. "You think I wouldn’t have understood?" he asked, his voice tight. "You think I wouldn’t have been there for you?" 

She quickly shook her head, feeling the weight of his accusation in her chest. “I thought I was protecting you,” she whispered. “But I was wrong.” 

"I didn’t want to drag you into it," she whispered. "I didn’t want you to feel responsible." 

Oscar’s lips twisted into something that could have been a smirk, but it was empty. "I’m not a little kid anymore, Y/N. I’m Oscar Piastri now. You think I don’t have my own burdens to carry?" 

She could hear the echo of his Formula 1 fame in his words—the pressure, the expectations, the weight of a career that had taken him far from this dusty town. But beneath it, beneath the success, there was still a man who had loved her and still carried the scars of her leaving. 

The bartender's voice broke the silence, offering them both drinks, but neither moved to take one. The tension in the air was thick, heavier than the summer heat outside, and all Y/N could do was stand there, staring at the man she had once loved, wondering if there was any way to undo the damage.  

The silence between them was heavy, thick with everything they hadn’t said in years. Then, without warning, Oscar turned his back to her, grabbing his empty glass and beginning to inspect it. 

“Do you want a drink?” he asked, his tone colder now, guarded. 

Y/N hesitated, unsure of what she wanted. Everything felt wrong, like stepping into a dream she couldn’t wake up from. The man she thought she’d never see again. The town she thought she’d forgotten. And yet, standing here now, she realized she hadn’t been able to move on, not fully. 

She nodded, her voice soft. “A gin and tonic.” 

Oscar didn’t reply as he requested the drink from the bartender, his back still turned to her. But the tension in the room had shifted. She could feel it in the air. The unsaid things were heavier now, waiting for the moment when they would finally have to confront everything. 

He handed her the glass without a word, their fingers brushing just for a second. The warmth of the gin mingled with the warmth of the evening as the first crack in the wall between them began to show. 

---

The tavern was nearly empty now. Outside, nighttime had fully settled over the countryside, a velvet sky scattered with stars, cool wind sweeping in through the open windows. Crickets chirped steadily in the distance, and the scent of dry grass and old smoke hung in the air. 

Inside, only a soft, flickering pendant light remained above the bar, casting a honeyed glow across the polished wood. Y/N sat alone on a stool, her fingers tracing circles in the condensation of her untouched drink. The glass had gone warm. 

Oscar sat by the bar, pretending to count the bottles on the back shelf. He hadn’t said a word in ten minutes. Neither had she. 

Finally, she broke the silence. “You’re quieter than I remember.” 

He didn’t turn around. “You’re not.” 

She let out a small, humorless laugh. “Right. I’m still the mouthy girl who left.” 

Oscar turned then, slowly, a bitter smile ghosting across his lips. “You don’t get to make jokes about it.” 

Y/N’s chest tightened. “I’m not trying to.” 

“Could’ve fooled me.” He leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “One minute we’re planning a future, the next you vanish. Gone. No note, no message. Just—nothing. Like I never existed.” 

She stared at him, jaw clenched. “You think I wanted to leave like that?” 

“You didn’t stop yourself.” 

“Because you made it impossible to stay, Oscar.” Her voice cracked. “You made everything about racing. Everything was about the next circuit, the next win, the next interview. There was never room for me.” 

He scoffed. “That’s not fair.” 

“Isn’t it?” she said, her voice rising. “I came second to your career every day for two years, and I was supposed to be okay with that.” 

“I was doing it for us,” he snapped. “To give us a better life.” 

“No,” she said. “You were doing it for you. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe I was stupid to think I’d ever matter as much as the next podium.” 

Oscar stared at her, and for a moment, she thought he might yell. Instead, his voice dropped low, tight with something darker. “I used to imagine you in the crowd. Every time I got behind the wheel. I used to look for your face.” 

Y/N’s breath caught. 

“I used to tell myself that if I just won enough, if I just kept going, maybe you’d see me on TV and… I don’t know. Remember you loved me once.” 

“I never forgot,” she whispered. 

“Then why didn’t you come back?” 

“Because I was scared,” she snapped. “Because every time I thought about you, I felt like I was being tortured from the inside out. Because I couldn’t remind myself that I was just someone who once mattered to you.” 

Oscar’s face shifted, something soft cracking through his carefully held anger. “You never stopped mattering.” 

There it was again — that unbearable ache. The one that settled into her bones the moment she saw him next to the bar. 

She looked down at her hands. “I thought if I left, it would hurt less than staying and watching you drift further away.” 

“You should’ve stayed.” 

“You should’ve asked me to.” 

That silenced him. 

The air between them buzzed with the weight of everything they hadn’t said in five long years. It was too much. Not enough. Something in between. 

He stood and walked slowly, each footstep with purpose until he stood in front of her. 

“You think I didn’t feel abandoned?” he said, quieter now. “You think I didn’t sit in that empty apartment and wonder what I did wrong?” 

Y/N’s voice was trembling. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I just couldn’t stand it anymore. I was being suffocated by how overwhelmed it made me” 

“I would’ve made space for you.” 

“You didn’t see me, Oscar,” she said, eyes glassy. “You saw a girl who was supposed to wait. Who was supposed to clap from the sidelines and smile while you chased everything we dreamed about together — but you did it on your own.” 

He looked stricken. And more than anything else, he looked like a boy who had lost something he hadn’t realized was irreplaceable until it was already gone. 

“I hated you for leaving,” he whispered. “And I hated myself for not stopping you.” 

Tears welled in her eyes. “I hated that I had to leave to save myself.” 

Oscar exhaled like he’d been punched. He stepped back slightly, pacing a few steps away, running a hand through his hair. The silence returned, but now it was shaking, fragile, raw. 

Then, the faint hum of a song they both knew too well began playing over the radio. He began to tap his fingers on the bar along with the melody. 

Y/N froze. 

Their song. 

He still remembered every note. 

She walked over slowly, standing beside him. “I haven’t listened to this since…” 

“After you left,” he finished. “Yeah. I couldn’t. Felt like it hurt too much.” 

“It still does.” 

“Yeah,” he said, glancing at her. “But maybe some things are meant to hurt. If they didn’t, it’d mean they never mattered.” 

She didn’t answer. She just watched him tap his fingers, the pain in his movements, the years stitched into each tap on the wooden bar top. 

When he finished, she stepped forward, close enough to see the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes. “You’ve changed, Oscar.” 

“So have you.” 

“But I think part of me still knows you.” 

His voice dropped, almost a whisper. “Then don’t go again.” 

She swallowed. “I can’t promise I won’t. But I can promise I’ll try.” 

He stood, close now—so close the tension between them was electric. 

“I hate that I still want to kiss you,” he said, breath warm. 

“I hate that I want you to.” 

They didn’t kiss—not yet. The moment lingered like a breath not yet taken. 

A door creaked in the distance. A chair scraped. Someone was still here. 

The moment passed. 

Oscar stepped back, eyes burning. “You should go.”  

Y/N hesitated, heart pounding. “Yeah. I should.” 

But neither of them moved. 

---

The sun bore down mercilessly on Albert Park, casting a shimmer over the track and painting the race paddock in hues of black and red. The smell of gasoline and scorched rubber clung to the air, thick and sharp. Crowds pressed at the fences, their excitement electric, a kind of collective heartbeat that pulsed louder than the engines in the distance. 

Y/N stood on the edge of it all, fingers curled tightly around the lanyard that bore Oscar Piastri’s name. 

She hadn't planned on coming. She’d told herself over and over she wouldn’t. That she couldn’t. 

But when she’d found the VIP pass slipped under her door, attached to a single note — “If you come, I’ll know” — something in her cracked. 

Now she was here, at the very place she’d sworn never to return to. The world she’d tried to leave behind. The life she'd tried to untangle from her heart. But it never really left her. And neither did he. 

Oscar stood by his car in the garage, helmet under one arm, race suit hugging his form like a second skin. He wasn’t looking at her. But he didn’t need to. He knew. 

She didn’t know what they were now. But she knew she couldn’t walk away this time. 

Not again. 

Now she stood in the shade of the garage awning, watching the man she’d once loved — maybe still loved — suit up, visor down, the sun glinting off his helmet as he prepared for the race. 

Oscar didn’t look at her, but she knew he knew she was there. 

He always knew. 

The race began with the scream of engines and a blur of motion. 

Oscar took the first few corners clean, locking into P2 by Lap 3, breathing down the neck of the Ferrari in front. His movements were precise, razor-sharp. But there was something underneath — something Y/N could feel more than see. 

He wasn’t just racing. He was pushing. 

Too hard. Too fast. Too much. 

And she recognized it. That desperate, reckless edge. He was driving like he had something to prove — or something to lose. 

The commentary praised him. "He's on fire today—like a man possessed." 

Y/N’s stomach twisted. 

The commentators said it was brilliant. Ruthless. But Y/N’s chest tightened with every lap. 

By Lap 20, Oscar was still in second but gaining, corners carved with fury, tyres crying against the asphalt. The engineers were calm, but Y/N could hear the tension in their voices as they radioed him. 

“Oscar, box in five.” 

No response. 

“Oscar, do you copy?” 

Still nothing. 

Her heart climbed into her throat. 

She knew this Oscar — the one who didn’t hear anything but the roar in his own head. The one who couldn’t stop until the fire inside him burned out everything around him. 

Then, Lap 41. 

He went wide into Turn 10, trying to force a move where there wasn’t one. The Ferrari twitched. Oscar overcorrected. 

The car clipped the curb. 

Sparks exploded from under the chassis. The rear end snapped. 

And then it happened. 

A sickening spin, tyres lifting momentarily before the car slammed sideways into the barrier with a thunderous crack that silenced the crowd. The halo held strong. But the front wing had completely disintegrated. Smoke poured into the sky. 

The screen froze on the impact.  

The screen showed the wreck: smoke pouring out, marshals racing toward the scene. The safety car was deployed instantly. Mechanics scrambled. 

Gasps rippled through the paddock. 

Y/N couldn’t move.  

She didn’t breathe. 

Her mouth was dry. Her body ice-cold. She felt everything and nothing all at once. Around her, the team was in motion, alarms blaring, radios crackling. 

But all she could hear was the silence in her chest. 

Then—movement. Oscar’s head, helmet still on, shifting. 

He was alive. 

But she was already running. 

She didn’t wait. 

She ran. 

The medical center was a blur. She pushed through crowds, security, yelling voices — she didn’t care. Not when she could still see the image of his car mangled against the wall. Not when every second that passed without seeing his face felt like a countdown to collapse. 

"Miss, you can't be here—" 

“I have to be,” she snapped. “He left me a pass. He wants me here.” 

The nurse gave her a cautious look, then sighed, stepping aside. 

“Y/N?” 

And there he was. 

Sitting on the edge of the hospital bed, shirtless, bruised, a long scrape down his ribs, and his arm cradled in a sling. He looked up at the sound of the door. 

And everything in her broke. 

“You complete idiot,” she whispered. 

His lips curled into the faintest smile, worn and pained. “Hi.” 

She crossed the room in two steps and shoved him. 

“You reckless, stupid, arrogant—” her voice broke as she hit him again, this time open-palmed to his chest, and he winced. “You could’ve died, Oscar! What the hell were you thinking?!” 

“Y/N—” 

“You could’ve died!” repeating as she sobbed. “I saw it. I saw your car hit that wall and I thought—god, I thought that was it. I thought I’d lost you again.” 

He grabbed her wrists, gently, holding them between them. “I’m here.” 

“Why were you pushing so hard?” she asked, shaking. “You were leading! You had it.” 

He flinched. “I just thought that maybe if I won, you’d see I’m not the same guy you left.” 

“I never needed you to win anything!” she shouted. “I needed you to fight for me. For us. Not throw yourself into a wall just to prove some twisted point!” 

Tears spilled freely down her cheeks now. “You were always enough. It was never about the trophies.” 

“I missed you,” he said, voice raw. “Every single day. Even when I hated you. Especially then.” 

She shook her head, tears in her eyes. “You don’t get to say that.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because you didn’t come after me. Because you let me go.” 

“I thought I was giving you what you wanted,” he said, looking at her like the truth might kill him. “You left without a word.” 

“Because I was falling apart!” she cried. “Because I didn’t know who I was outside of you, and I was terrified you wouldn’t love the version of me that didn’t orbit your world.” 

Oscar swallowed hard. “I loved all of you. Even the parts you tried to hide from me.” 

Y/N moved closer. Her voice was barely above a whisper. “Then why did it feel like I was always chasing you?” 

“Because I didn’t know how to slow down.” He met her gaze, broken and honest. “Until now.” 

The silence between them was thick — loaded with pain, regret, and everything they'd never said. 

He looked at her then — really looked — like he was seeing every version of her he’d ever loved, ever hated, ever mourned. 

“You came back.” 

“I couldn’t stay away this time,” she said, voice shaking. 

There was a pause, the kind that holds all the weight of things finally understood. 

And then he kissed her. 

It wasn’t soft. 

It was desperate. 

A collision of grief, guilt, love and longing, five years in the making. Her fingers threaded into his curls as his hands slid to her waist, pulling her between his knees. The kiss deepened, their breath mingling, hungry and terrified and real. 

His hands pulled her in, even with the pain in his arm. Her fingers gripped the back of his neck, their mouths crashing, devouring, pleading. 

She pulled back first, breathing heavily. Her forehead rested against his. “Don’t do that again.” 

“I won’t,” he whispered. “Unless you leave again.” 

“I’m not going anywhere.” 

Oscar’s fingers brushed down her cheek. “Promise?” 

“I promise,” she said. “But you need to promise something, too.” 

“What?” 

“That next time you want to prove something to me… just tell me. Don’t nearly die over it.” 

A breathy laugh escaped him. “Deal.” 

Y/N smiled through her tears and gently, slowly, leaned into him again. This time the kiss was softer. Tender. Like the feeling of forgiveness. 

And outside the walls of the medical center, the race raged on. 

But here, time finally slowed. 

--- 

Outside, the city pulsed with celebration. A dull roar of nightlife drifted through the floor-to-ceiling windows, but up here, the world had narrowed into something quiet. Almost sacred. 

The suite smelled faintly of rain on pavement and clean cotton sheets. The lamps cast a warm, amber glow, softening the sleek modern lines of the room. A forgotten bottle of sparkling water sat half-finished on the nightstand. The television playing the news on mute, replaying the crash over and over — the same brutal spin, the same moment Oscar’s car hit the barrier. 

Y/N had turned her back to it. She couldn’t watch it again. 

Instead, she watched him.  

Oscar stood by the window, one arm braced on the glass, the other resting in a black sling across his torso. The light haloed around him, outlining the sharp lines of his shoulders and jaw, the mess of his dark curls slightly damp from a rushed post-hospital shower. His T-shirt was wrinkled from the day but still clung in the right places. Bruising peeked from beneath the collar, dark and angry against his otherwise golden skin. 

She hadn’t been able to stop touching him since they returned. Just little things — her hand on his arm, her fingers brushing his ribs to make sure he was real. 

Oscar hadn’t stopped looking at her either. 

“You don’t have to hover,” he said quietly, not turning around. “I’m not going to spontaneously combust.” 

She sat on the edge of the bed, heart a clenched fist in her chest. “You kind of already did.” 

He finally turned. 

There was something showing in his eyes emotionally stripped raw. His defenses were down, fractured open by the impact and her lips hours ago in the medical centre. The heat in his gaze wasn’t just desire. It was regret. Longing. Need. 

“I’m sorry,” he said simply. 

“For crashing?” she asked. 

“For everything.” 

Y/N stood and crossed the room slowly, until she was inches from him. The city lights outside cast fractured reflections across his face — half in shadow, half in gold. 

She raised a hand to his chest, letting her fingers splay over his heartbeat. “Don’t be sorry right now” she whispered. “None of that is important now.” 

A beat passed. 

Then she added, softer, “I missed you. I hated how much, but I still did.” 

He exhaled slowly. “Every time I thought I was over you… it would blindside me again. In the shower. In the car. Walking past someone who smelled like your perfume.” His hand lifted to brush a strand of hair from her cheek. “Tonight, when I saw you in the garage, I thought I was hallucinating.” 

“You weren’t,” she murmured. “You pulled me back.” 

Oscar leaned in, breath ghosting her cheek. “I’m tired of pretending it didn’t miss you.” 

“So, stop pretending.” 

He kissed her gently; he put so much emotion into such a simple and delicate kiss. The kiss was telling Y/N all the words she needed to hear from Oscar. She gently lifted his shirt taking a glance at his bruises and cuts. 

“I should be the one taking care of you,” she whispered. 

“You are.” 

She kissed the line of his jaw, breath stuttering. “You feel like home.” 

He smiled against her mouth. “Then stay.” 

And when they collapsed into the sheets the world outside faded. No engines. No lights. No press. Just the aftershock of something deeply real. 

Oscar pulled her into his chest, his voice barely a rumble against her hair. 

“This time,” he said, “I’m not letting you go.” 

And Y/N, wrapped in his heat, whispered back, “Good. Because I’m done running.” 

--- 18+ (CAN BE SKIPPED)

The city below them had long been quiet, but inside the hotel room, the air still burned. 

Y/N lay stretched across the sheets, chest rising and falling in quiet waves, her fingers tracing idle patterns over Oscar’s bruised skin. He watched her from where he sat, propped against the headboard, eyes heavy-lidded and unreadable. His sling was off now, set aside like every other barrier between them. 

Her fingers moved lower. Across the sharp dip of his hipbone. The waistband of his boxers. 

She felt the shift in him immediately — the way his stomach tightened beneath her touch, the soft hitch of breath. 

But he didn’t stop her. 

Instead, he caught her wrist. “Don’t tease me.” 

The heat in his voice made her clench around nothing. 

“I’m not,” she whispered, crawling over his lap, straddling him slowly. “Unless you want me to.” 

His hands gripped her hips. Firm. Possessive. 

“I’ve wanted you,” he murmured, voice wrecked, “since the second I saw you again. And it’s fucking killing me how good you still feel in my arms.” 

Y/N leaned in, brushing her lips over his ear. “Then take me like you’ve been needing to.” 

Something in him broke. 

He surged up, flipping her onto her back with a sharp exhale, mouth crashing onto hers. It wasn’t soft. It was messy, all tongue and teeth and barely contained hunger. Her thighs fell open around his hips as he pressed against her, hard and aching through his boxers, grinding into her like he couldn’t help it. 

“Tell me this is mine,” he growled, dragging her panties down her legs, his fingers slipping through the wetness between her thighs. 

“It’s yours,” she gasped, legs trembling. “It’s always been yours.” 

He pushed two fingers into her without warning, his thumb circling her clit with practiced precision. She cried out, nails digging into his shoulders as her body bowed up against him. 

“Look at you,” Oscar muttered, watching her writhe beneath him. “Dripping for me. I’ve barely touched you.” 

She bit her lip hard. “Stop talking and fuck me.” 

He smirked. “Say please.” 

Her eyes flashed. “Oscar—” 

“Say it.” 

She reached down and wrapped her hand around him through the fabric of his boxers, squeezing just enough to make his breath stutter. 

“Please.” 

He shoved his boxers down, not even bothering to kick them off fully before lining himself up and slamming into her in one desperate, blinding thrust. 

She cried out, the stretch brutal and perfect. 

His hand tangled in her hair, dragging her mouth back to his as he thrust again, hard and deep. “You feel so fucking good.” 

Her legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him in deeper. He moved like a man unhinged — hips snapping, breath ragged, forehead pressed to hers. 

Each thrust was laced with everything they hadn’t said. Every heartbreak. Every unanswered call. Every regret that clung to them like a second skin. 

“I thought I lost you,” he panted, voice breaking. “Every day I told myself it didn’t matter — but it did. You did. You fucking destroyed me.” 

Y/N cupped his face with shaking hands, dragging his mouth back to hers. “Then ruin me right back.” 

And he did. 

He fucked her like it was the only way he knew how to continue living. Like claiming her again might put the broken parts of him back together. 

She moaned his name over and over, clawing at his back, thighs trembling around his hips as he pounded into her relentlessly. Every thrust sent stars behind her eyes. Her orgasm hit hard and sudden, clenching around him with a cry. 

Oscar’s rhythm faltered. His jaw clenched. “Fuck, I’m gonna—” 

“Inside,” she begged. “Please.” 

That broke him completely. 

With a guttural groan, he buried himself deep and spilled inside her, hips jerking, body shaking with the force of it. 

They collapsed together, skin slick with sweat, limbs tangled. 

Silence settled around them like ash after fire. 

Oscar didn’t speak. He just pulled her close, pressing kisses to her hair, her shoulder, her temple. Everywhere he could reach. 

Y/N clung to him, heart still racing, the weight of what just happened heavy and terrifying in her chest. 

But when he whispered, “I’m not letting you leave again,” she believed him. 

For now, that was enough. 

[desublimitate]

Allure of darkness

❛ Let's make a deal: if you beg me to fuck you again, you will be mine from now on ❜

Author's note: MDNI. This is the first chapter of a fic you can find on Ao3 here. OC (y/n) is afab and uses she/her, no body type or any characteristics specified so you all can identify with her 🖤 Timeline is canon compliant i guess (?)

Content: yami sukehiro x reader, smut, rough sex, vaginal sex, dom/sub, oral sex, size kink, dirty talk, praise kink

As surprising it was that you became a Magic Knight, it didn't shock anyone when you joined the Black Bull. Such a wasted talent you were, if only you were born in a noble family, everyone knew you would have been a shiny jewel for the Clover Kingdom, but you, born a peasant didn't have much hopes for your future. If it wasn't for that man.

The priest of your village begged you to visit the church and confess your sin of envy, seeing you getting greener and meaner day by day.

You deserved more than everyone else, that's what your face read.

Born a gifted kid, your talent succeeded any expectations, therefore, when at 14 your grimoire picked you, the world was ready to see you shine.

Speaking in tongues magic.

 What a rare and unique grimoire.

You were just a sprout when that spellbook appeared before your eyes.

Thin as a spring daisy, latched to your childhood dreams, your inner wisdom was always a sign that something bigger was coming your way.

That day, surrounded by all your friends, you played imagining what type of magic would have chosen you.

Water magic would have been so beautiful to wield, spatial magic would have helped you travel around the world, god you were so excited to see your natural talent.

Your mother had food magic, she would replenish mana thanks to her meals while your father's stone magic was celebrated in the whole Clover Kingdom, even nobles would rely on him to build their palaces. It was all coming up to you, wasn't it?

Your mother cried tears of pride, your father clapped his strong hands when you, small and bubbly, got picked by that majestic grimoire.

 Speaking in tongues magic, the wise men of the village were enthusiast for the recognition you would bring. With your talent you were going to be able to decode the most ancient tomes, discovering parts of history still kept secret. Your future seemed set in stone: after years of deep studies, you would have reached the Capital, and joined the Wizard King and served him, opening doors to unknown worlds with your magic.

But then it all went wrong.

Your father fell ill and couldn't continue with his work as before.

The less money he brought home, the less provisions you could afford.

Food at the village market seemed always more expensive, affecting both your parents magic. If your mother couldn't cook, your father's mana couldn't really catch up.

Nor you could pay for healers.

There was only one painful but inevitable solutions.

With a tight heart you gave up your studies at the academy to find a job in town that could provide for your family.

With the weight of your home on your shoulders, you served ale and stews at the village tavern, always with a smile, but crying inside.

You watched them all leave for the Capital, your childhood friends and their not-so-special magic.

You grew colder and crueler, blaming fate or whoever weaved the strings of life for what they did to you.

They were out there, with their common powers, mingling with other commoners, while you were a sparkling diamond forced to stay under the dirt.

Someone like you, able to decode and translate ancient inscriptions had to spend your nights among drunkhards who never knew when to keep their hands at bay.

You deserved more than that, you were born for more than that.

All that talent couldn't have gone to waste.

Always more isolated, your family started to grow worried.

Lost in your thoughts, in private studies you started doing on your own, sneaking books from the local library in your bag, they believed you were going down a dark path.

Who knew what kind of books you were studying, what kind of obscure magic you were uncovering.

Darkness called to you, like a siren with her hypnotic song.

You were going to take your destiny in your hands.

If life wasn't going to give you what you deserved, you were going to take it yourself.

No matter what.

There was a certain allure to darkness you couldn't deny.

The books you were learning to read on your own were so full of wonders and secrets. It didn't matter how exhausted you were, if you came home from at the tavern at the break of dawn, you looked forward to be hiding under your blankets with even a small light to read your stolen tomes.

Of course you would return them, at some point.

Your parents never noticed them, or if they did, they never asked.

There was so much out there, demons caged in the depths of hell, monsters of ancient times. All with magic so undefeatable you couldn't begin to imagine them.

Stories of the first Wizard King, of the Demon he slayed.

There was so much in that world and you deserved to be a part of it.

You deserved to have a piece of power.

That night was particularly ectic at the tavern. You hated those kind of nights, when dozens of failed Magic Knights reunited to drink to forget their missed opportunities. Soldiers retired after injuries, former knights that served their time in prison after the Wizard King found them guilty of taking advantage of their role.

They were just the worst, they started the night already quite high and at the end of your shift even your clothes stenched of beer and sweat.

-Born to be a scholar, forced to clean after drunkhards's vomit- You brushed the floor hard, covering your nose from the disgusting smell.

-What was it, y/n?!- Your boss's voice came loud booming from the kitchen.

-Nothing, nothing!- You groaned with annoyance.

-Get your ass back here, The Table asked for more ale-

''Of course they did'' You made sure to keep that thought for yourself, but not for long -Look, boss, are we sure we want to keep doing this? We are losing customers everytime someone sits at The Table, is it really worth it?!-

Your boss was an old greasy man, short in height but full of rage.

-Since when I asked your opinion on business matters?! When I will need the opinion of a vomit-cleaning maid I will come to you! Now, off you go and you make sure I don't hear your voice for the rest of the evening!-

The unspeakable curses you swallowed burned your throat, but you knew better than crying, at least in that man's presence.

You waited for when you were under your blankets, surrounded by your books, to cry your misfortune.

-Are you still here?!-

-I'm going, I'm going- Your hand slightly shook when lifting the overfilled tray.

If you didn't burned down that place yet it was all because of the little money that kept your family going.

The smell of alcohol filled your nostrils and made you dizzy as soon as you stepped into The Table room.

The Table room was the aisle reserved for bets: the worst kind of men, usually addicted to gambling spent their nights and their fortunes at The Table.

Whether it was cards, chips, dice, at The Table, those men would even bet on their life.

Many times they were left with nothing to offer and tried to sneak you in their games, someone even tried to put your body on the table, as if you were a good they could exchange.

As if you would have given yourself to a loser like them.

 

-Here is the beauty of the house! Are you included in the meal deal, precious!- Someone chanted as soon as you stepped in.

-Ah ah ah, I never heard that- You rolled your eyes and landed the cups on the table.

-Bold of you to even ask for a meal deal, when you are not even paying a shitty dime, sir-

The room boomed with a roar for your comeback.

Insulted in his pride, the man tugged at your apron, forcing you to bend down.

God, he reeked.

-Listen here, precious, shoot another of your smart comebacks at me and I will make you pay for the meal deal, one way or another-

As if he could intimidate you.

You snatched back your apron in place -Sure thing, sir, as if you can afford me-

Now a new sound surprised you.

A laugh you never heard before caught your attention among the others.

Your eyes quickly scanned the table of the loyal vile customers, and immediately your heart skipped a beat.

Wow.

There was a man there, he had never been here before you were certain of it. You knew all those fools by name, and the stranger was definitely a new entrance.

God, what was a man like that doing there?

-She surely has a silver tongue!- The man then pointed a pocket knife to your harasser, with a dark snarl he threatened -I think you will want to think about it twice before speaking like that to the lady, asshole!-

You stood still like a salt statue. No one ever stood up for you, especially not like that, holding the drunks at knifepoint.

That stranger had awakened something dormient in you.

A thirst for life that made your blood boil.

His voice was baritonal, almost coming from the pits of hell, with a charm to it that made it impossible to forget.

Almost magnetic.

His eyes were like those of a hawk.

Foreigner, you were sure, no one had eyes like that in the kingdom of Clover.

Sharp, gleaming.

Wild.

Everything about that foreigner called to parts of you you believed dead for good.

His six pack and pecs were almost tearing the fabric of his white tank top apart.

His biceps as big as your head.

God, he was immense and the more you stared at his rough fingers playing with a cigarette, the more your mind went blank.

The foreigner took a drag on the thin cigarette and your throat ran dry.

The way his lips sucked on the end and breathed out the smoke made your legs quiver.

-Are you going to stand there and stare much longer, my love?-

He didn't even acknowledged you, yet he knew somehow.

Fuck.

With a jump you left -I'm not your love, asshole-

That laugh dug inside you -We will see about that-

Needless to say you couldn't just focus on anything that night.

Your boss noticed it, how you dropped plates, forgot orders, misplaced tables.

-What is it with you tonight?! God you are so useless-

What was with you? You wished you knew.

There was a man at The Table, among the worst ones you knew, that got under your skin with just his voice.

How dared he calling you ''my love'', how dared he made fun of you for staring at him?

There had to be something you could do about your blushing cheeks.

-Hey boss- You tried to not want to go back to The Table room, but you started looking forward for them to order more drinks, so that you could catch a glimpse of him -Do you know who is tha guy? I have never seen him here-

The short man peaked through the door and chuckled -Tsk, is he back for real?-

So he knew him.

Your boss made a happy face, brushing his palms.

That wasn't a good sign.

-That...- He pointed with his thumb -...is one of the biggest losers I've ever seen-

You curled your lips, well, that was disappointing.

So handsome and yet a loser.

He wouldn't sit at The Table after all.

Now, you noticed something that those bunch of drunk pigs would never be able to.

He noted down his points and strategies for game in a language from so far away.

A language you knew well and studied in your books.

But god, was he a loser for real.

Your boss was right, that handsome, muscular foreigner, had already lost his shoes and jacket, after having no more money to bet on.

Everytime you had to serve his table you had to hold your breath, to not get lost in his smell, of cigarettes and oils.

His grey eyes always locked with yours, as if he perceived you coming before you even stepped in.

And you couldn't resist them.

The way he looked at you was...no, you didn't want to think about it.

He was a drunk and a loser.

How could he even lose with such easy cards?

All night long you wanted to try and do something, a test, and finally when everyone was a bit too drunk to notice, you took your chance.

-Midori- The moment you said that word, he lifted his head quickly.

Bingo, you were right.

He must have thought to be completely wasted, he even started hearing his own native language now.

But as surprised as he was, never taking his eyes off you, he picked the green card from his hand and threw it on the table.

To the other players's discontent.

He won.

And for the rest of the night, you played with him, cheating for him under everyone's nose.

He clearly loved gambling but had no idea how to play, so it was you everytime you brought cups of beers to suggest him, in his own language, the colors, the numbers, the cards to pick.

Slowly, the foreigner won back his shoes, his jacket and started gaining the others players's money.

It never happened before, which made The Table room want to witness that unique event.

Why did you want that man to win? Maybe because his satisfied laugh freed all the butterflies in your stomach, maybe because for once you met someone more interesting.

Or mostly, it was because you loved to have his eyes on you.

Always scanning your ass whenever you turned your back, or your breasts whenever you bent on the table.

For the first time since you started working at the tavern you wished your shift never ended.

 But it did, as always.

Your boss gave you your pay for the day, less than the half of what you deserved, but better than nothing.

It was dark and chill outside, you loved to feel the cold wind on your face after a night in the tavern.

The dark of the night shielded you from your troubles and the cold washed you from the dirt.

With your coat under your arm, you slammed the door open to leave for good.

God, you hated that bell on the doorframe.

At first you didn't notice him, hidden in the shadows, but the moment the tail of your eye catched the frame in the corner, you gasped and jumped.

-FUCK!- You almost dropped your belongings from the scare -God, you scared me!-

Yet, he didn't seem impressed.

Leaning on the wall, foot against the stone to enhance the size of his thick thighs through the marroon leather pants, lighting a cigarette.

The man stretched his arm, offering you the packet.

-Want a smoke?-

At loss of words you didn't know how to react.

If it was anyone else you would have ran away, or attacked them, but him you felt you could trust.

You shouldn't have, your conscence was trying to talk to you, you don't talk to strangers who drink and gamble and spend the night staring at your ass.

-No, I don't smoke-

He shrugged -Better for your health, I guess-

-Wha...what are you doing here?-

In the dark he looked intimidating, as if he belonged to the night,

as if he was born from the shadows.

His tanned skin, his dark brown hair, the rougly shaven beard.

Everything about him screamed wilderness.

And it called you.

-What, a man can't enjoy a smoke at night without being harassed now?-

He loved to play.

You rolled your eyes -As if you haven't stared at my tits all night-

The man laughed -God, you do have a silver tongue, don't you? Does that pretty mouth of yours ever get you in trouble?-

-More than you can imagine-

He lifted an eyebrow, intrigued -And do you have a name to accompany your brains?-

You swallowed.

Never give your name to a stranger in a dark alley.

But when you thought, your mouth already gave it off.

-And you, do you have a name to accompany all those muscles?-

The foreigner put down his foot -You don't know who I am?-

Were you supposed to?

-I mean, your reputation preceeds you. You really are bad at cards-

He offered you his hand to shake -Yami Sukehiro-

Sukehiro.

You shook his hand and the size difference made you weak at your knees. His hand seemed to devour yours.

-Yami. It means darkness-

Yami squeezed your hand, and perhaps taking advantage of the grasp, he reduced the distance between the two of you.

Forcing you to lift your head to look at him.

-What does a girl that knows the language of the Land of The Sun does in a tavern, serving beers to gamblers?-

That confirmation almost made you wanna jump around like a kid -So I was right, you really come from the Land of The Sun!-

Yami looked genuinely surprised, but was trying his best to not show it.

Clearly failing.

-It's the first time I meet someone that actually knows my country, leave alone speaks its language. How?-

And it was the first time for you that someone acknowledged your talent. For you it was just natural, but it wasn't.

It was your uniqueness.

-My magic. Speaking in tongues-

Yami took a deep drag, the smoke that came out of his mouth dissolved close in your face, giving you an hint of what his lips might have tasted like.

-Never heard that one-

No one ever asked you, and now you were afraid you would have annoyed him by talking about it.

-Oh, it's...uh, well...the name says it all I mean-

Yami shook his head, leaning on your face, slowly.

So slow you could feel your cheeks starting to burn like bonfires.

-I want you to tell me about it...or did the cat eat your silver tongue?-

The effect he had on you was the closest thing you knew to being drunk.

You felt light, floating from the floor in his presence.

Your mind blank, all your ability to speak gone to hell.

You started muttering.

-Oh, well...uh- You scratched your head. Did you look good? Were you a mess? -My magic allows me to...know languages. All of them, actually! From all countries, even those far from here. And ancient ones, lost ones too! I can speak demon language, or angelic language if that matters. Yours is pretty easy compared to those, you know, and...-

Yami stopped you, pressing a finger on your lips.

You halted and stopped breathing all of a sudden.

-This brings me back to my first question. What does a girl like you do in a tavern like this?- His eyes, darting you, digging into your skin -Why are you not a Magic Knight?-

Ouch, did he have to ask that?

-Did I strike a nerve?- Yami tilted his head in way that reads...concern?

You lowered your gaze, ashamed.

-No, no it's okay. I just..I just can't afford it-

Yami smoked, and let you continue speaking.

-My family is not doing well. My father used to work in the Capital, but then he fell ill and my mother is a healer so we really are not swimming in good waters right now. I wanted to try and become one, I did, I studied in an academy for a while but yeah, my family needs food and money, not books-

Yami hinted a smile, the muscles at the corner of his mouth slightly twitched but he didn't speak for a few seconds.

-Next week the Capital is hosting the yearly exam to recruit Magic Knights. Come-

For a moment, you believed he was truly stupid. Didn't he listen what you just said?

-I can't, Yami, my family won't survive without me! And it would be a stupid waste of time, I have no combat skills or anything like that, I would never be chosen, so...-

-If you got chosen though, your family will be provided everything they need, they pay good money you know-

At this point, you just wanted to leave.

You turned away, but Yami grabbed your arm, pulling you towards him.

Too close.

Too dangerous.

-What the fuck are you doing! Are you deaf or what?!- You kicked him on the knees and that made him laugh loud.

So loud he could have woken the neighbourhood.

-And you say you don't have combat skills?! Listen to me very well, y/n- He had your wrist tight against his chest.

His pectorals were so swollen, you just couldn't help yourself.

-You will be chosen- Yami sounded so confident in himself.

-What?!-

-You have a power that Jul..the Wizard King would never, for anything in the world, want to miss out. The things you could do, knowing the ancient languages and the dark tongues...come with me to the Capital-

You were lost in his eyes, in the inflections of his voice, how it made his chest vibrate.

-Why, do you also want to become a Magic Knight? Will you attend at the exam?-

He smiled, and tucked a strand of your hair back behind your ears with a gentleness that had nothing to do with his brute attire.

-Yeah, I will attend-

What were you? A stupid teenager, thinking of running away in the night with the first handsome man that you met?

Yet, his darkness was so compelling, and his body so inviting.

You noticed how his eyes had dropped on your lips, the movement of his tongue, licking his.

Hungry.

Feral.

-Suddenly so quiet?- Yami pressed you against his chest. You could feel his heart racing -Where did your silver tongue go, uh?-

Where did your self control go, you had no idea.

The proximity to Yami Sukehiro, a stranger from a foreign land, that sparked in you again the wish to pursue your talent, made you feel like an animal.

All about him called to you, even his name.

You loved how it rolled on your tongue.

Sukehiro.

You wanted to whisper it over and over.

And how immense he was compared to you, that really stole all reason in your mind.

Your body was reacting to him, since the first moment you caught a glimpse of him, he woke your instincts.

You were thirsty, and hungry for him, for a man like that you could have really lost control.

-You are still staring, y/n- Yami lifted your chin -My eyes are up here-

Your lips were dry -I could say the same about you, you have been staring all night, Sukehiro-

-Mhm- He hummed -Calling me by my first name, now? Who gave you the permission, my love?-

Your cheeks set ablaze and your legs trembled.

Between your thighs you could feel a wet pond forming, your clit pulsing everytime he spoke.

-I don't need anyone's permission to do anything-

Yami was taking deep breaths, all of his muscles were tense.

But after your last reply, he sighed with a groan and grabbed your face.

-Show me what else that cursed mouth can do-

Yami devoured your lips, invading your mouth with his tongue and moaning when he found yours was ready to return the kiss.

You licked him per instinct, followed the movement of his lips.

God, he tasted like heaven, you almost fell on your knees.

His kiss was wild, needy, brutal.

-You are so good at it...-He panted in between kisses, before penetrating your mouth again with his tongue.

He knew what you liked, how you couldn't tell.

-Bite me- You sighed -My lips, bite me-

Yami still had your face in his hands, as if you could have escaped him.

He bit you and when he did, he opened his eyes, making sure he wasn't hurting you.

You wanted it, nothing could have hurt.

Yami drowned his head on your neck, where your skin was thin and that sent a shiver down your spine, making your toes curl.

-Fuck, Sukehiro-

-Do you like that?- He bit your skin, it stung and burned, and he sucked.

And sealed his mark with a lap of his tongue -Do you like being marked?-

You nodded, in trance.

Having his mark, the mere thought made your pussy wetter than it already was. Just by kissing him, your womb was on fire, now that he was marking you, thin trails of wetness started flowing down your thighs.

Not anyone, but him.

The mark of this stranger appeared out of nowhere, sent by the darkness.

He was in your destiny, that was the only reason you could find for letting go so casually with a stranger.

This stranger though, you wanted him.

-I want you- Your moan made Yami clench his fist.

-Say that again, y/n- His low voice echoed on your neck and you wrapped your arms around his shoulder, grabbing a fistful of his dark hair.

-I want you, Sukehiro-

That must have been the signal.

Because Yami bent down and grabbed your ass in his full hands, gave it a rough squeeze and lifted you.

After locking your thighs around his waist he looked at you straight in the eyes.

A hunter with his prey.

-Good, because I have been wanting to fuck you all night-

Yami Sukehiro was a man of instinct, he knew how to trust his guts and that night for some reason, he sensed that it was his lucky night.

Ever since he stepped into the tavern, ready to lose all his belongings as always, he knew that he wouldn't have left with empty hands.

When he saw you, his primeval awareness locked in. He was an apex predator and you were the perfect mate.

Your snarl, your smart replies, everything about your rudeness was appealing to him. And god knew how he struggled all night to hide the boner in his pants everytime you showed up.

How you milk-smooth skin shone under the candle light, the softness of your breasts made him starve.

The perfect shape of your ass filling your clothes was mesmerizing, how many hands of cards did he lose while lost staring at you walking away, just to catch a glimpse of it.

But there were too many layers of skirts for his liking, thank goodness he found a remedy for that.

When he groped your ass to lift you, his fingers dug into your cheeks, spreading them apart.

Yami kneaded your ass and sneered when you mewled in his mouth.

-Oh yeah? You wanna fuck me?- Repeating his words made you come to terms with the truth: he was gonna fuck you, and the anticipation was almost feverish. You just couldn't wait any longer, each step Yami took on the staircase that led to the rooms upstairs of the tavern made your heart flutter.

Confidently, Yami didn't miss a single step, while still licking and biting your jaw.

-Mhm mhm- He confirmed -I wouldn't have left this village without making you mine first-

Yami noticed how his words affected you: your panties were soaked under a couple underskirts, so soaked that your wetness had reached his white shirt and spread -So wet for me already, and I haven't even touched you yet? You don't seem so bossy now, do you-

It wasn't your fault, but his.

You never met someone like him, someone that made you fall for lust so quickly. For all you knew, he could have been a criminal of the worst grade, but it didn't matter.

Your brain was fogged by desire, all your body ached for him.

Your breasts were squished against his pecs, your nipples hardened and got so sensitive just by friction that electricity jolted through your nerves; your thighs were numb and your core, well, you were trying to mantain a certain decency to not beg him to fill you right away.

Yami kicked the door of the room he rented, the wooden plank slammed against the wall and he didn't really cared about making sure he closed it behind his back, than he threw you on the mattress.

-Sukehiro...-You gasped, stretching your arms for him, needing those muscles back on you, that scent overtaking you.

Yami stood at the end of the bed, kicking his boots in a corner and brought his hands on his white top.

A translucent stain of your wetness made his skin visible through the fabric.

-Look what you have done to my favourite shirt, naughty-

Hungrily, you reached for his pants, with your fingers you tried to undo the strings and bottons that separated you from pleasure.

While you untied the knots, Yami stripped off his shirt, leaving your mouth dry and your eyes glazed.

-You are so hot- The words left your lips like you were hypnotized.

His six pack was so defined, hard at touch and over his bulky pectorals a thin layer of dark hair.

-Take your fucking clothes off- Yami commanded with a sigh, his chest rising with deep breaths.

He wanted it as much as you did.

You didn't let him repeat himself, as soon as your corset came undone and your tits were revealed to him, Yami let out a soft groan.

-Fuck-

His pants disappeared from sight, making you aware of the biggest cock you ever seen.

You had good partners in your history, you never complained but this...there was no way that could fit inside you.

And your pulsing cunt was aching for the challenge.

-Fuck, you are so big- You licked your lips, looking at Yami grabbing his cock in his hands and stroking it.

Shivers spread across your cunt, his full hand could barely circle the girth of that rock-hard cock.

In the moonlight, droplets of precum glistened on the head and leaked all acroos the veiny lenght.

Yami stood proud of his size and his build, he was born to be a dominant, that was clear as day.

It was clear for his presence turned you into a mute goldfish.

Speechless, a mess of pants and purrs, you welcomed Yami Sukehiro, the stranger that entranced you with his darkness, between your legs, where he tore apart your skirts with his bare hands.

-Lemme see you, lemme see how...-Yami lifted your legs, pushing your knees onto your chest, exposing your naked, gleaming, pussy.

He exhaled, a deep deep sigh sent a cool breeze over your soaked sex.

Like a soft rain over a fire.

Yami took his time to admire your naked body, after trying to imagine it all night through your clothes, his fantasy could have never made justice to the perfection you were.

The firm shape of your tits, how they mellowed in his fingers, your perky nipples and the way you squirmed as soon as he tickled them.

Your hips and waist, perfect for his hands to grab, he made sure to give them a good squeeze when he pulled you under him to assert his dominance.

And then, your pussy.

-This is all mine- He growled as he towered over you, bringing your legs on his strong broad shoulders.

Drunk in his gaze, you nodded.

-Yeah? Is your pussy all mine, my love?- He cucked his brows, faking a desperate expression. Probably making an impression of your face, pathetically needing him, all of him.

-Say it, I want your smart mouth to say your pussy belongs to me now-

There was something in the way he commanded you that turned your brain into mush.

Sterness, the magnetic tone of his voice, his dominating size.

-It's yours, Yami. Just please...- You bit your lips.

You begged? You were really begging now? What did this man do to you to reduce you to a cock begging submissive?

A wicked grin appeared on his lips, and Yami pushed himself slowly on you, his weight taking over all your resistance.

-Please...what? What were you trying to say?- The head of his cock nudged at your entrance with a wet sound.

You tilted your head back, fighting with the last ounce of self control you stored, but your clit said otherwise when Yami stroked it with his middle finger.

His cock ready to penetrate you and his hand playing with your bud, if your legs weren't kept tight on his shoulders, you would have kicked them in the air.

Yami made slow circles around your wet and swollen clit, and the stimulation was a trap for your pussy.

Through the growing louder moans, you felt his cock having an easier access inside you.

Your hole loosening.

God, Yami knew what to do with a woman's body.

And the idea of other having fucked that cock before, having his lustful eyes, made you burn with jealousy.

And desire to satisfy him.

Now he didn't stop fiddling with your clith when he bit your collabone and whispered again -Please...what? Say it, show me how dirty can that wicked mouth really be- Yami reached your mouth and chocked your moan with a kiss. His beard was tickling you, everywhere he left bites your skin was on fire -Are you only good at giving smart comebacks? You keep bragging about your tongue, until now I've only tasted desperation in it. Will you really beg me to fuck you, uh? Is that what you were trying to say?-

You were on the verge of tears, thirsty and hungry for Yami like your life depended on him taking your body.

You needed his touch, as rough as he could be.

You needed to disappear under him, to be conquered.

You never wanted anyone as much as you wanted that stranger.

-Sukehiro...please- With a hand you cupped his face and he followed your movement, curling his lips.

-What a good little girl you are, I will offer you a deal-

A deal?

If there was trouble you were way too late to escape now.

-What do you want?- Your voice a sob.

-You. I want you-

-I don't understand-

-If you beg me to fuck you, you will be mine. You will belong to me, your precious little cunt will belong to me-

Whatever it meant, it was what your body was screaming for.

Did he want to buy you? Were you going to be his concubine?

You should have reflected on it, on the consequences, on the conditions, but how could you reflect on anything when a man like Yami Sukehiro was feasting on your tits, filling his mouth with your soft flesh, nibbling and sucking your nipples.

-Fuck me- It finally escaped you -I am yours, Yami-

A hard, deep thrust filled you to the point of choking you.

Yami pounded his way inside you, with a fast thrust that made your pubic bones clash against his, and his balls smack against your ass.

His cock reached so deep inside you that you gasped for air, while he roared.

Your pussy stretched all at once to welcome his size but not enough.

Your muscles wrapped and squeezed his throbbing cock.

Yami didn't take his grey eyes off you, with a smile upon seeing you finally getting what you have asked for.

He didn't move, for as rough as his penetration was, he still realized how big he was for you and waited for your body to adjust to his size.

You grabbed a fistful of his hair.

-You are mine now- He said, low, like a promise from hell.

Yami was inside you, his cock throbbed against your walls, his head already nudging a spot that no one ever found before.

You moaned his name again and he grabbed your wrist, bringing it behind your head.

Then kissed you deeply while entwining his fingers with yours.

That kiss was different, less brutal, less carnal.

He kissed you like he...

No, you couldn't be that stupid. You didn't even know him, you knew nothing about him.

No strings attached whatsoever.

It was just casual sex, the best sex, but just casual.

Nothing else, right?

His kiss, slow, passionate seemed to say otherwise.

But when he moved his cock, you forgot about everything else.

In and out of your pussy, Yami started slowly to pount in you, so slow he made you die in anticipation for the next thrust, but deep and rough enough to make you scream.

-Now that's a sound I like coming from your mouth-

His teeth were once again on your neck, right under your jaw, your chin.

Yami was leaving you a necklace of lovebites.

The contrast between the pleasure of his cock in your cunt and the bites on your skin sent you in a spiral.

Your fingers reached for his shoulders.

-Faster- You moaned into his ear.

And faster he went.

Yami panted and moaned, he wasn't the kind of man that kept his pleasure all for himself, on the contrary he had no restraint when it came to growling for what your pussy did to him.

Each thrust faster than the previous, the smacking sound your pussy was making and the slippery movement of his cock were a sign of how both of your juices were mixing.

His precum mixed with your pleasure and leaked over your butthole and dripped on the sheets, already drenched by sweat.

-You like it like this, sweetheart? Is it fast enough for your needy pussy?- Yami smiled even through his growls and didn't even reacted when your nails scratched his back.

-You are a fucking asshole- You managed to say, his weight and his cock choked air out of you.

-You have no idea- Yami squeezed your tit and kept drilling you.

If he kept pounding that deep, you were sure he was going to break you in half, but your pussy was made for his cock, he was molding it in his shape and you just couldn't have enough of the sound of his voice.

Of knowing that that was you driving him crazy as much as he was doing with you.

-Where the fuck have you been until now?-

He finally arched his back when your nails scratched deeper, that question caught completely unprepared.

You wanted him, you wanted to please him.

-Tell me I'm yours, Yami-

Every word coming out of you almost incomprehensible.

-You are mine, you are fucking mine-

Every word coming out of him accompanied by a thrust.

That's all you needed to know.

You were his to please.

-I wanna ride your cock, Sukehiro-

He barely let you finish the sentence, that his hands were already on your hips, squeezing you and rolling over the bed.

Yami held you firm in place and now that you were sitting on his thick thighs, that you were observing his skin, coated by a shiny layer of sweat, you realized how truly big he was compared to you.

Your whole body would fit on one of his thigh only, his abdomen spread across the mattress, barely enough to contain him.

Yami crossed his swollen biceps under his head and rocked his hips, making you bounce.

-You said you wanted to ride me, are you just words?-

Fuck, what a piece of shit he was.

You wanted him to destroy you.

That arrogant sneer on his face made you grab his cock, wet of both your wetness and his precum, and bring it to your entrance.

It was heavy in your hand that couldn't circle it, and it smelled of heat.

A part of you, the most irrational and drunk of him, almost gave up on the desire to have him inside to taste him instead.

You wanted that massive shaft in your mouth, discover how much of it you would fit before you choked on it.

Discover the taste of that man, see him crumble for your lips.

But Yami had other plans for you: with another sudden and unexpected hump, he filled your cunt.

The meowing gasp you let out made him chuckle.

-Now that's more like that- He watched you lose that last crumb of sanity as you fall on his chest.

His cock drilled up to your stomach, a visible bulge rising on your womb, touching muscles and nerves no one ever touched before.

Looking for stability, grabbing his pecs, you stuck your tongue out in pure bliss.

Yami didn't miss the chance of sucking on your tongue and to make fun of your addiction -You really look cock drunk, sweetheart. Do you like being fucked like this?-

With his cruel fingers, he reached for your clit and as if his cock wasn't enough, he stroked it.

-Uh, you like being fucked like this? Naughty girl, look at your face-

The wetness of your pleasure was being stroked by Yami, spurting all over his hairy pube, his pounding reaching for your womb.

Like a predator breeding his mate.

-Ngh...Suke...hiro-

A new energy was growing inside you, an electricity that spread across your legs and down your spine.

-Yeah? Are you close to cumming?-

Your head nodded, eyes seeing stars.

With each deep pound he smacked in your pussy, his thighs slapped against your ass, a soft wet friction of sweat merged your skins together.

If he kept drilling at that depth and pace, you would pass out.

Your thighs grinded on him, with the intention of grasping every single inch of pleasure.

That take of charge made Yami moan.

Your pussy twitched when his voice reached your ear with a loud growl.

And you grinded again, locking your eyes on his.

-That's a good girl, keep doing that...fuck-

Inside you, that weight throbbed, readjusting your insides

Yami's cock was growing harder.

He tilted his head back, closing his eyes, lost in pure lust of your cunt clenching him.

Your walls sucked him in and out, the air suction with the lewd wet noises was a sign of how both your sexes were addicted to each other.

-Ya..Yami...I'm...-

Yami didn't open his eyes, but still found your hips, grabbing them tight, making it impossible for you to escape his next action.

-Cum on my cock, fuck- He roared, before rocking as fast as he could, fucking the air out of you -Cum on me, ugh-

Your climax blossomed in you like a flaming flower.

The spark ignited in your womb, a liquid light exploded as for a moment, you lost consciousness.

You came like you never came before.

Your legs outstretched and seizured, so did your back, like struck by a thunder.

Your cunt exploded on Yami's cock, tigthening, twitching.

Immediately, he was there to grab you.

As he rose to seize you in his arm, the movement pushed his cock even deeper in you.

-SUKEHIRO- You screamed, your nose invaded by the smell of sex and sweat that emanated from Yami.

His hot breath collided on your neck, while you disappeared into his embrace.

And he kept pumping his cock inside you, making sure of stealing every piece of orgasm out of you.

When his pace slowed and his breath became unsteady, your head spinned.

-Where do you want me to cum, answer quickly before I breed you-

His.

You wanted to be his.

-In my mouth- You hiccupped.

Yami remained in silence for a hot second, he wasn't sure he heard correctly, in the heat of the moment.

Did you say you wanted his load in your mouth? Didn't his ears deceive him?

-Say it again-

-Cum in my mouth, Yami. I want to taste you-

With manly arrogance, he lifted you from his cock, glazed by your juices.

Your pussy leaked your creamy orgasm on his thigh and with a sigh of relief your womb was freed by Yami's cock.

You felt empty now that he wasn't inside you anymore, already addicted to his presence and shape.

You laid on the edge of the mattress, legs spread and sore while he sat on his knees stroking his erection at full speed.

The wet pumping made Yami look aching to cum.

Head down and focused, his brow furrowed, chest going up and down in unsteady breaths.

You could tell he needed to cum just by how swollen his balls were.

-Will you be mine?- He growled under his breath, giving a hard stroke to his glistening head.

-I will be yours- You nodded, ready to take all of him.

Whatever that meant, you wanted it.

You wanted to be his.

You wanted to be ruined by this stranger you couldn't get enough of.

There was a before and a after Yami Sukehiro. You knew, the moment he first kissed you that no one else would have ever compared.

How could anyone compare to that strength, that stamina, that size.

-No one fucks like you do- Your body spoke for you, your brain was long shut down.

That confession erupted from you made Yami shudder.

Without ceasing to jerk off, he grabbed a fistful of your hair and pulled you towards him.

-Take it, open your mouth- He commanded, when your lips met with his hairy pube and the salty smell of his cock -Take it-

You obeyed, the reddened and swollen head of Yami's cock caressed your lips and your tongue, and the contact made him explode.

Yami bent on you, keeping your head firm as he released his load.

With your eyes up on him, you saw him hissing and roaring.

-Fuu..unf...Fuckk- He let go loud, beastly.

Suddenly your mouth was filled with a warm and thick liquid, the amount of Yami's seed was impressive.

How much did he need it, how long was he keeping all that.

And you did it, that was all for you.

Your effect on him and your doing.

His cock throbbed against your lips, shooting strings of sperm to decorate your tongue.

He tasted like salt, like heat, like lust.

Yami kept your head down until you drank him to the last drop.

And sighed, deeply, releasing you and abandoning himself back on the mattress.

Not before grabbing your arm and pulling you on his chest.

He swallowed, slicking his sweaty hair back.

He regained lucidity and caressed your back with the tip of his fingers -You alright?-

You lifted your head and nodded.

-Did you swallow my cum?!- Yami seemed surprised at the idea, as if he wasn't expecting that.

-Well, of course, that's why I wanted you to cum in my mouth-

Now Yami made a sound, resting his arm over his eyes.

Exhausted, relieved and utterly lost in you.

That wicked mouth of yours was going to be his ruin, he knew it.

Squeezing your cheeks he kissed you, savouring his own taste still lingering in your mouth.

A sloppy kiss, that's what you both needed after losing your minds in each other.

-You are a naughty, naughty, girl. Where did you learn how to fuck like that, uh?- He smacked your ass as he made himself cozy, lying on his side -Do your books say how to ride a man?-

You hid a laugh, tracing his hard muscles lines with your fingers -I had my experiences you know.

Yami's eyes darkened suddenly, the playful grin disappeared before he crashed onto your mouth again, forcing you to lay down with his imposing weight.

Slow, with soft petal kisses in between, never taking his eyes off you as he fought the urge to own you again.

-You are mine now-

Would have it ruined the mood if you asked what he meant? You really didn't care, for a part of you knew he was right.

That you would have looked for him in all the men you slept with.

Yami made you his.

-Only mine to kiss...- Yami licked under your jaw -...to touch...- Then he went low on your tits -...to fuck...- On your abdomen -...to ruin- And he stopped right above your clit, on your soft bushy pube.

Biting your lips you were already savouring the experience of Yami licking you, his mouth was so close.

-Jerk- You spat out when he cruelly crawled back to your face, with a playful smile.

He chuckled -Ready to go again, uh? You loved my cock that much?-

You nodded, scratching his light beard -I've never been fucked like this-

Yami gave you a squeeze on your hips and nudged his big nose against yours -You can say it outloud-

Yami Sukehiro snored, not that it surprised you that a brute like him would keep his rudeness even in his sleep, what surprised you was that his snoring woke you.

You forgot to have even fallen asleep.

He was sleeping like a babe, a soldier proud of his won battle, bicep under his head and one hand resting on his abdomen, one knee up to make a tent of the messed up sheets.

When you woke up you were still naked, covered in shivers after the sweat had cooled on your skin.

You must have fallen asleep together, after all you were both sore.

So sore that even rising from the bed pained you.

God, that man really fucked you like no one did, your legs were twitching from cramps.

You looked at him quickly, he was handsome when he slept. His chest rose in deep breaths and on his face was a dreamless serenity.

But you couldn't stay the night, what would have your boss said if he saw you coming down for breakfast with one of his customers, especially in the conditions you were?

What would have your parents said if they didn't see you at home by daylight?

It was all just sex, you reminded yourself.

You didn't know this guy, you didn't know his businesses.

No strings attached, just good, amazing, breath-taking, unforgettable sex.

When you gathered your clothes back they were a mess, completely torn apart, and then your eyes fell on something glittering in the dark.

You looked back, making sure Yami didn't wake from you stepping on the wooden tiles, and peeked inside his pouch.

There was a black shawl, or cape with a sygil embroidered on it.

A black bull.

That must have been the insigna of his gang or whatever. Under it, far more interesting, the leather sachet with the gold he won at The Table.

So much gold, what did he need it for?

He said he was going to the Clover Kingdom Capital, to attend the exam for the Magic Knights.

And asked you to join him.

It was then that a thought came to your mind.

You helped him win that gold, actually, if it wasn't for you he wouldn't have seen a dime, that meant that a big part of that win was also yours, right?

When Yami woke up the next morning he was alone and for a moment he believed that last night was a dream.

The most beautiful dream he ever had.

But your smell was still all over him, your sweet scent filled the room and yet, you were nowhere to be seen.

Not that he expected his breakfast in bed, but it was the first time that someone ran away in the middle of the night after fucking.

Usually it was him.

You were a surprise after the other.

Arrogant and clever, the best fuck he had and also a runaway.

Weren't you just a catch?

His insight was never wrong and led him to his pouch.

With a loud -AH!- Yami laughed seeing all of his gold vanished, and replaced by a small parchment in the leather sachet.

The ink was not completely dry yet, and it read

I'm sorry, I just took my part. I guess I will see you at the Magic Knight exams, don't forget it. You really have the best cock I ever fucked.

See you at the Capital, Yami Sukehiro

You clearly had no idea in what trouble you just put yourself.

Yami crumpled up your letter and put it in his pockets, somehow a way to feel you close and went about his day laughing.

-Oh, you will see my love, I will be there-

[litnerdwrites]

Here's a short, pro Nesta fic idea; Nesta meets a sailor in one of the taverns she frequents, and after some small talk, makes the decision to pursue her dream of travelling. She leaves after saying goodbye to Elain and Feyre, but largely ignoring the rest of the IC, which Feyre doesn't like. At first, shares letters with her sisters, mostly small talk, and minor updates. However, after a while, Feyre decide Nesta's 'well enough' and healed so she can 'come home'.

She refuses.

She tries for a while, only for her and Elain to become increasingly distressed at Nesta's refusal to return, until eventually, there's radio silent between them. Then, about a decade or two later, the IC are desperate to find the Trove, and knowing Nesta won't come willingly, send Azriel/Morrigan to get her. They find out where she is, winnow there, grab her, and winnow back to the river hous, where Cassian is in shambles after not seeing her, Elain and Feyre run to hug her as if they didn't have her essentially kidnapped, only for Nesta to shove them away, pissed.

An argument starts, where the IC yell at Nesta, Nesta yells at them, and eventually, the door opens as another woman barges in, wearing a glowing friendship bracelets and matching robe to Nesta, and yelling at Feyre and Elain for ruining her (Nesta's) wedding day.

What do you think? Should I write this? Any theories as to where this is going?

[ixiot-ghostrebel]

I don't know if your request is open can you write Creator reader who favorites Zhongli, Venti, Nahida?

They need love ok 🙄

Yep yep, got it! Lemme see what I can pull off :)

Favoritism! With The Archons (Discluding Ei and Furina—)!

(Warning: Might Be OOC!)

Nahida

She honestly loves the attention you give her! She's really happy to get to spend time with you, and really get to know you and who you really are despite your title as the Almighty Creator.

Loves it if you play with her—and especially loves to learn the kind of games that you played before you re-descended down to Teyvat. There's UNO...and that's pretty much all that I can remember but you get the idea—

Loves visiting you in your dreams to see what you dream of. The Almighty Creator would surely have dreams of all forms filled with creative and inspiring ideas!

Nahida would 100% try to ask you to hang out with her through the streets of Sumeru. She has no shame :D And, if anything, her people would see this as a blessing.

"Come on, Your Grace! I want to show you somewhere I found!" Nahida would also take you to the Aranaras, where you would eat fresh fruit, make flower crowns, and even play some hide-and-seek.

She loves making and meeting new friends, the Almighty Creator is no exception! Spend some time with her as much as you can, Nahida will cherish it!

Venti

Hohoho, you're down to hang out with this carefree bard? Well, the first hangout will definitely be inside the most extravagant tavern of all time!

Yes, he means Angel's Share. Or the Cat's Tail. Man has his standards and he ain't afraid to take you there. Prepare for the best wine you'll ever taste, because Venti sure as hell is proud of the wine of Mondstadt.

Loves to share ballads and songs with you. Some of them are even based off on you! Loves when you give him your feedback as well.

Give him apples. He'll be happy—that's not saying a lot. Any apple dish, he will eat. Even if the apple is very little.

"Yahoo, Your Grace!~ Wanna hear a ballad this amazing bard has made for you?" Would absolutely perform these ballads during Windblume Festival, so please praise him :D

Zhongli

OSMANTHUS WINE TASTES THE SAME AS I— *Aggressive Truck Noises Driving Pass*

Take him out for food, buy him any gifts, ANYTHING. This man loves anything you'll give as well (trust me)

Just take some time to spend with him. Strolling through the area, the market, it doesn't matter—he cherishes all moments with you, as you are a friend (and more cough cough)

Osmanthus wine. Yes.

"Ah, Your Grace. I am blessed to know that you have the time to spend it with me. Please, allow me to pour you a fine cup of tea." If you're a tea lover, you both are gonna have a really good time.

Zhongli loves to share stories, so if you like to know more about Liyue's history, you came to the right guy :)

He's also a good listener, so you can also share stories and he will be rapt with attention. He loves every single story you tell.

Ghost Rebel Side Notes: My procrastination is impeccable. I'm on a living streak, clearly. Welp, I hope this satisfies you—hopefully, the next request doesn't take too long (watch me eat those words).

✦ Check out The Ghost Rebel’s Blog Description & Info Page to See if Their Mailbox is Open! ✦

[peachessndreamss]

A Rose by Any Other Name.

Summery : Princes Aegon and Aemond visit Highgarden to broker a marriage contract for the younger brother, while there Aemond finds himself in need of relief and doesn't care who with.

Characters : Aemond Targaryen x f!Tyrell reader

Warnings : Dub Con, abuse of title/rank, oral sex (male receiving), female masturbation, derogatory terms for women, alcohol consumption, cannon divergent, Aegon slander

Word count : 4.5 k

A/N : Sometimes my dreams are the unlimited pasta caste and sometimes they're this, sorry. While English is my first language I'm also profoundly dyslexic, I've done my best to minimise spelling and grammar issues but I'm there still are plenty.

The ground of a Highgarden stable yard was a mess of mud and straw as the eldest Tyrell daughter rode her horse sedately out of the stables and toward the open door of the outer keep. There had been days of fresh spring rains which had soaked the earth, swollen the rivers and brought the Reach alive in a riot of colour, from the azure blue of the sky to the lush green of the grasses in the animal fields and every colour of the rainbow in the food and flowers that grew and ripened under the warming sun. 

“Outriders say the Princes are only a few hours away if the good weather holds so don’t go far,” the horse master reminded her. 

“I’ll not go far,” she replied with an airy wave of her hand, the route she’d already set on in her mind was several hours over the roughest terrain the estate of Highgarden had to offer and would have her coming home a good while after the Targaryen visitors had arrived. She had no desire to stand in the muddy yard with her siblings to greet the princes when their wheelhouse rolled in. 

Her father had started brokering the marriage contract over 9 months before, ravens flew back and forth between Highgarden and Kings Landing as her father bartered, first, with the Hand of the King and then with Queen Alicent. She’d looked through the letters herself, working out just how much she was worth to her father and the Targaryens. Finally the Queen suggested Aegon and Aemond visit the Reach themselves to complete negotiations and hold a formal betrothal. 

If she was going to be sold off to Aemond Targaryen like a cow at a market she would at least spend her final day as an unbetrothed woman in the way she enjoyed the most. As she passed under the gate the horse beneath her gave a shiver of anticipation, as they turned toward the East and the low spring sun that dazzled her eyes the horse gave a snort of impatience. 

Despite the lack of visibility Lady Tyrell angled the horse toward a small cluster of woods she knew were on the horizon, she clicked her tongue and gave the horse a short squeeze with her thighs. At this the horse broke into a trot and soon they were hidden by the sun and quickly disappearing over the horizon. 

In the West, still 10 or so miles from Highgarden, the royal wheelhouse shuddered and bounced over the pitted road, shaking the two occupants and further fraying delicate nerves. 

Aegon groaned and gripped at the set beneath him, his head hanging low and his eyes closed tightly as he tried to stop feeling like his head and body were moving in different directions. 

“I can’t see why we couldn’t come on dragonback,” Aegon groaned as he fought the urge to vomit again. 

Aemond remained in stoney silence, seething at his older brother and the despicable mess he was. The night before they had slept in a tavern on the edge of the Reach. Aegon has drunk his way through an entire barrel of rose wine and was found in the morning asleep in the stable between two sheep. The smell of him, a mix of spilt wine and sheep shit made Aemond's stomach roll. 

“Isn't there some high born hole you can marry in Kings Landing?” Aegon complained as the wheelhouse gave a lurch and bumped over the poorly maintained track. 

“Cease your incessant whining,” Aemond finally snapped, kicking his brother in the leg. 

“Why did I have to come?” Aegon muttered, rubbing at his calf and glaring at Aemond through the lank locks of hair that had fallen over his face. 

“I would have paid good money to leave you behind,” Aemond replied coldly. 

“Why didn't you?!”. 

“Mother insisted,” Aemond shrugged and turned away from his brother, pulling the window cover back with a long finger and watching disinterestedly at the countryside rolling by. If he ended up marrying into the Lords of this land, the first thing he'd insist on was better roads. 

The wheelhouse turned sharply and Aegon groaned again, stuffing his cloak into his mouth to fight the nausea. Once it had passed he spit the fabric out, it tasted like sheep and possibly his piss. 

“I fucking hope she's worth it,” he hissed. 

The lady returned to Highgarden even later than she'd intended and in a far worse state. Her usually sure mount had startled while riding through a wooded area and thrown her off his back into a sticky quagmire, she’d landed mostly on her back and left side, the clothes had become soaked in mud that had been almost impossible to get off when it was wet. She had washed the worst of it off her face and hands  in a small stream but her riding clothes remained caked in the muck. 

“My Lady, what happened?” The horse master exclaimed as she trotted the beast into the stables. 

“He threw me is all, no lasting damage done,” she replied as she dismounted and patted the horse's neck lovingly. 

“Are they here?” She asked after a moment of heavy silence. 

“Your father's taken them to his solar, he's not happy you weren't here to greet them,”. 

She nodded sharply and handed the reins of the horse over to a stableboy.

“Plenty of hay, water and a few of those early golden apples,” she instructed before turning and heading into the yard.

She entered the building through a servants door, knowing she could make a path between there and her own rooms that wouldn't put her anywhere near her father's solar. She could be washed and changed and ready to entertain Princes long before dinner was served. 

She stepped into a small anteroom off the kitchens where she knew she could take off her ruined riding gear, stripping down to her small clothes and riding boots, she left everything in a pile, making a note to tell her maidservant about it as soon as she saw the woman. She couldn't well wander the halls of Highgarden in her shift so she took a clean servants dress from the stack in the corner and pulled the shapeless linen over her head, tying it around the middle with a belt of braided cord. She splashed icy water on her face and did her best to tuck any loose hairs back into their braid before setting off for her rooms. 

She'd almost made it back to her own chambers when a voice from behind spoke. 

“Girl, come here,” it commanded and she stopped in her tracks. 

No one in her father's household would speak to her like that, even if she was dressed as a servant. She turned slowly, the blood racing to her face when she looked at Aemond Targaryen for the first time. 

He was still dressed for travel, with black leather trousers and a similarly hardy jacket with a high collar. The patch over his eye hid most of the damage but the deep red scar extended up his forehead and down his cheek, the only mark she could see on his otherwise glass clear skin. There was no flicker of recognition on his face, he obviously had no idea who he was speaking to. 

“Come here,” he ordered again when she'd not moved toward him. 

She opened her mouth to protest, to ask him who he thought he was speaking to but she stopped, closing her mouth and moving toward him. If she was going to marry this man she wanted to know what type of man he was and how better to learn than to see how he treated servants. 

As she moved toward him she kept her eyes downcast, despite being desperate to look at his face in greater detail.

“What can I do for you, my Prince?” She asked meekly. 

“Come with me,” he replied bluntly and turned, striding down the wide and brightly lit corridor toward the rooms that had been prepared for the two visiting royals. 

At the door to his room he pushed it open and stepped back to allow her inside first before following and closing the door tightly behind the two of them. The sound of the latch clicking into place made her heart pound, she'd never been alone with a man before, she'd always been accompanied by her ladies or sisters but now she was alone in the guest wing behind a closed door. 

She stood in the centre of the main room, a fire burned merrily in the grate and the Prince’s trunk stood open at the foot of the bed. She looked up at him from under her lashes and caught sight of his deep indigo eye watching her. 

“Wh-what can I do for you?” She asked again, he'd catch on pretty quickly she wasn't part of the serving staff if he asked her to do much more than pour a glass of wine. 

“I'm in need of some relief,” he said softly, his left hand moving instinctively toward the laced fount of his trousers and his fingers twitched.

Her brows furrowed in confusion, her eyes following the movement of his hand before snapping back to his face. 

“I don't understand your meaning, my Prince,” she said softly, although she was fairly certain she did. 

She had been raised her entire life in the safety and beauty of Highgarden, her innocence protected at all costs and her exposure to men limited as far as possible, but she still knew what men and women did together in the privacy of their bed chambers. 

“The journey here was long and difficult and my brother is a terrible travelling companion, so before I meet with your sweet lady this evening and make dull small talk for hours I need you to get on your knees, open your mouth and suck my cock,”. 

A shiver crawled across her body, she'd never been spoken to like that before and after the initial shock of his crass words she found herself excited by them. But while his words were exciting the reality of what he wanted was frightening, she could tell him who she really was and face the consequences of running around dressed as a servant and tricking a prince or she could do what he asked and face any additional consequences of sucking his cock and having to make dull small talk with him later. 

“Did you hear me?” He demanded, his voice harsher now, “get on your knees, I've got no time for your wide-eyed innocent act,”. 

“But, my Prince, I've never-,”. 

He cut her off mid-sentence, anger flashing across his face. 

“Get on your knees,” he hissed through clenched teeth. 

The anger on his face and in his voice sent a thrill up and down her spine, making the tips of her toes and fingers tingle with anticipation. 

Slowly she lowered herself to her knees, the thin and rough fabric of the dress rubbed uncomfortably on her knees and the cold of the stone floor seemed to soak into her skin like water. 

“So you do understand, stupid little slut,” he muttered, moving toward her while unfastening the laces of his breeches. 

She watched with wide eyes as he pulled his cock free from the fabric of his trousers and pumped his hand up and down the thick muscle. By instinct her mouth filled with saliva and she felt a rush of wetness and heat between her thighs. 

“Open your mouth,” he commanded. 

She ran her tongue over her bottom lip before doing as she'd been told, parting her lips and teeth as he came to stand directly in front of her, the head of his cock now bobbing directly in her eye line. There was a bead of clear fluid slipping from the thin slit at the head, she fought the urge to lean toward and lick it up. 

The head of his cock was a dark red colour, completely in opposition to the alabaster white skin of his hands, he wrapped his fingers around the base and squeezed. 

“Keep it open,” he said as he angled the shaft toward her lips. 

This was her last opportunity, the very last second she could back out, tell him who she was, run screaming from the room but instead she relaxed her jaw a little and allowed him to push the head of his cock into her waiting mouth. 

His own mouth dropped open in a soft moan as the wet heat of her mouth enveloped his aching cock. He pushed his hips forward, forcing as much of himself between her lips as she could take, the soft, slick slide of her tongue on the underside of his shaft made his toes curl up in his boots. 

Her hands went to the front of his thighs and she braced her open palms against the leather, her fingers moulding to the shape of his lithe legs. He could feel the heat from her hands and the gentle curl of her fingertips through the fabric of his breeches. 

He drew back a little, feeling the warm suck of her soft mouth, he pushed one hand into the soft tangle of her hair and gripped. 

“That's it,” he breathed as he pushed forward again, “take it,”. 

Holding her head steady he pumped his cock between her lips, very quickly he was soaked from root to tip with her saliva and he watched transfixed as it slipped down her chin and wetted the rough fabric of her dress. 

Tears were forming in her eyes and slipping down her cheeks as he fucked her mouth. The musky and masculine smell of him filled her nose as the salty taste of his bare skin on her tongue made her head spin. 

Part of her was disgusted, she was a lady and possibly a future princess but she was on her knees getting her mouth fucked bya man who thought she was a servant. A much larger part of her thought this was the most erotic thing that could ever happen, her cunt was pulsing with the rapid beat of her heart,  she wanted nothing more than to shove her fingers between her legs and bring herself to completion, or even better, take Aemond’s fingers and use them. 

“You cock hungry little slut,” he hissed as he forced his cock deeper than any thrust before. 

She choked, feeling her body suddenly gag at the intrusion so deep into her mouth. She tore herself away from him, gasping for breath. There was pain where he was clinging onto her hair, pulling it hard between his lean fingers. 

“Too much for the little whore?” He sneered, cold laughter on his beautiful face. 

She nodded as he brought the hand that wasn't still tangled in her hair to her cheek and brushed away her tears. 

“Finish me off and you'll be free to go,” he said, pulling her back to him and pressing the head of his cock against her lips. 

She opened her mouth willingly and allowed him to continue, pumping faster but not as deeply as before, he began to pant and groan at every pass of her wet lips. 

“Fucking take it,” he panted, “take it, take it,”.

With a final shuddering, stuttering thrust she felt his cock kick in her mouth before her tongue was flooded with salty, bitter fluid. She kept her mouth closed around his shaft as his seed escaped between her lips and dripped onto her chest. 

“Swallow it,” he whispered, unable to take his gaze from her dripping mouth. 

He watched as her throat bobbed and she swallowed his remaining seed before leaning back and gazing up at him. Her cheeks were marked with the tracks of her tears and her mouth and chin were wet with his spend and her own spit. The tip of her tongue appeared between her lips and gathered a drop of him before disappearing again between her used lips. 

Aemond's cock was now rapidly softening and she watched with fascination as the long, thick muscle seemed to retreat back toward his body, the hot, round head disappearing under a hood of skin. 

He tucked his cock back into his breeches before reaching down and brushing his thumb across her lips, his touch surprisingly tender. 

“You can go,” he said bluntly before stepping away from her and turning his back. 

She sprang to her feet and dashed to the bedroom door, yanking it open and not bothering to close it behind herself as she raced toward the sanctuary of her own rooms. The soles of her riding boots seemed to boom on the hard stone floor and she believed as if everyone in the castle would hear her desperate escape. 

Although she kept her head down and didn't acknowledge anyone she passed she felt as if she'd been branded across the face with the awful names he'd called her. Surely everyone she passed knew what she'd just been doing. 

Her heart was thundering and her cunt pounding, the sensations she'd never felt before were making her head spin. Once she was in the safety of her own room she threw herself onto the bed and drove her fingers between the slick lips of her cunt with an urgency she'd never known. She bit into the feather pillow as she brought herself to orgasm within moments of touching the throbbing and engorged pearl between her legs. 

She lay panting on the bed, the smell of him still clinging to her like perfume, now mixing with the smell of her own arousal. 

Her ears still burned with the names he'd called her, she should feel humiliated and insulted but instead she longed to hear those names again. She longed to taste his cock again and then to explore his body, to take time to undress him, observe him and touch him. She wanted him to do the same with her, call her names, strip her naked and explore her virgin body without restraint.

When her maidservant arrived to get her dressed for dinner she could barely lift her head from the bed. She wanted nothing more than to hide under the sheets and touch herself again and again while images of the prince flashed through her mind. 

She was scrubbed clean in the bath, her hair washed and treated with sweet smelling oils. Her maidservant noted the bruises where she'd been thrown by her horse, but the marks on her knees were harder to explain away. 

She was dressed in a gold and green gown embroidered with roses, the usual soft cotton and silk felt like sand abrading her skin. She insisted her hair be styled in the same way it had been when she went riding, in case the Prince didn't recognise the lady he was forced to make small talk with. 

She waited by the door to the great hall, the princes had been announced and seated, then her father and his wife, her siblings next and finally it was her turn. Her name was called and she stepped into the hall. The room was full of the great and good of the Reach sitting on the tables that filled the room, at the top table, positioned above the others on a dais sat her family and Prince Aegon and Aemond. 

She looked directly at Prince Aemond as she walked toward the top table. There was a flicker of recognition followed by a moment of complete horror before he took back control of his face, a mask of neutral passiveness dropping over his features. She took her seat between the prince and her young sister. 

“My Lady,” he greeted softly. 

“Prince Aemond,” she replied.

“Prince Aegon,” she added, leaning around Aemond to address his brother who only nodded in acknowledgement, he was swaying gently in his seat and his eyes were glazed over. 

Aemond could have throttled his older brother for being drunk before the meal had been served. 

“It's a pleasure to meet you my Lady,” Aemond said softly, drawing her attention back to him. 

“The pleasure is all mine,” she replied politely, “but I do hope my small talk doesn't bore you,” she added, dropping her voice so only he could hear. She enjoyed the look of mild panic that crossed his face before she turned to speak with her sister. 

As the food was served the noise levels in the hall increased and she felt able to return to speaking with Aemond without being overheard. 

“How have you found Highgarden so far?” She asked. 

“Most accommodating,” he replied, taking a sip of rose wine. 

“Please forgive me if this question is indelicate,” she started, running the tips of her fingers up and down the thin stem of her wine glass, “if we're to marry, do you intend on taking your pleasure with the servants or your wife?”. 

The hand holding Aemond's wine goblet visibly shook before he placed it back on the table. He cleared his throat and turned his eye to the woman beside him.

“I would take my pleasure nowhere but my wife, and she would take a great deal of pleasure with me,”. 

“Because if I were your wife and found you'd been sticking your prick in the serving girls I'd bite it off,” she said as softly as possible.

Aemond cleared his throat again and gave a small inclination of his head. 

“Understood, my Lady,”.

After the meal there was music and dancing. As expected of her, she danced with her father and her brothers. She'd expected to have to dance with Prince Aegon  as well but he was too drunk to stand straight let alone follow the steps. Aemond, on the other hand, was everything a prince should be, dancing with her step mother and sisters before asking her to dance. 

The music changed to a fast paced peasant tune that meant they needed to dance in a small circle of others before being paired off. Once alone and moving around the floor they were able to speak again. 

“I just want you to know,” she started as she stepped around him, before coming to face him, their toes almost touching, she looked up at him, taking in the curve of his lips and a sharp shape of his chin, “the way you spoke to me, when you thought I was a serving girl made my cunt ache,”. 

She went to twist away from him to continue the dance with the man beside him but he caught her hand and held her, letting her twirl around him again. The line of dancers they were part of muttered and tutted as they scrambled to sort themselves without the Prince and his lady. 

When they were face to face again Aemond held her still, placing his hands on her waist. 

“When you are my wife, it will be my utmost honour to make your cunt ache every day,” he breathed before leaning down and placing a soft kiss on her cheek before adding “my slut,”. 

A shiver of pleasure ran down her spine and settled deep in her belly, making her cunt throb again. If she really was a slut she could drag him away somewhere quiet and make him repay her in kind for earlier but she was a lady, and he was prince and they were in a room full of gossiping courtiers. 

“Is that a formal proposal?” She asked as he straightened. 

“I think it is,” he replied, a small smile turning up the corners of his lips. 

“Then I accept,” she said, before twisting around him again in time with the music. 

The other dancers had moved on, leaving the two of them in their own space on the floor, undisturbed by anyone else. The swirling dancers around them made it feel like they were the only two people in the room, trapped by a colourful snow storm. 

Aemond didn't care that he wasn't in a position to officially offer marriage to her yet, his meeting with her father hadn't straightened out all the details but suddenly the dowry, the lands and the titles of their future children didn't matter anymore, these details were nothing compared to how badly he wanted to take her to wife. 

The song ended in a final flourish and the dancers clapped and called out requests for the next piece of music.

“Another dance? I certainly prefer it to small talk,” she teased with a smile as the music started again and the dancers around them took their places. 

“And is there something else you’d enjoy even more than dancing?” he asked before bowing to her and offering her his hand. 

Her neck flushed with heat as she took his hand and the two of them moved in a slow circle. 

“There are many things I enjoy more than dancing, my Prince, and I suspect you’ll show me a great many more,” 

For the rest of the night Prince Aemond danced with no one else and while it certainly earned some raised eyebrows from the more modest members of the Highgarden court neither Lady Tyrell or Aemond could bring themselves to care. They only had eyes for one another and as they danced the rest of the world seemed to melt away. 

At the top table Lord Tyrell watched his daughter and the prince with great interest. He was thinking he might have saved himself 9 months of bartering, letter writing and hand wringing if he’d just invited the prince to visit in the first instance. 

“They make a fair couple, don’t they?” his lady wife asked from beside him.

“When I met with him this afternoon I’d never have believed he could be so taken with her,” Lord Tyrell said, “he was so cold I didn’t think he could look at someone with anything other than contempt but she seems to have won him over,”. 

It was the small hour of the next morning by the time the music and dancing ended. Lord Tyrell and his lady had gone to bed hours before but the revelry had continued. Prince Aegon had staggered from the table and made toward a door at the side of the hall, he’d only made it through the door before tripping on his feet, falling on his face and deciding to stay there. 

As the musicians played their final notes prince Aemond kissed the back of his lady’s hand, looking up at her and smiling. 

“Until we meet again, my Lady,” he said softly, she opened her mouth to reply but he pulled her toward him, bringing his cheek to hers, his lips touching the shell of her ear, “my whore,”.

additional A/N : this has the potential for a part two if anyone's interested? Just putting it out there, letting the universe know.

[grimm-writings]

HI ITS BARD ANON I MISSED YOU!!! insane request but what about a situation where the party + kabru + chil’s family orchestrate a date between chil and reader? like setting them up… i think that’d be so cuteeee

for the dancing and the dreaming

…ft! chilchuck x gn! reader

…tags! fluff, post-canon spoilers, chilchuck’s wife remains nameless, i love chilchuck's family can you tell

…wc! 1887

…notes! BARD ANON I’M BACK FROM WAR (burnout) !!!! these two requests are similar so i decided to make ‘em a wombo combo!!! enjoy my loves!

The woman gives you a kindly smile as she waves you off, you and her ex leaving the tavern.  She sighs and leans back, crossing her arms.

God, Chilchuck is more stupid than she remembered.

How could he possibly miss the affection in your eyes when he called out to you both before you left?  Or how you clearly wanted to ask if you can stay with him longer?  He’s just going to ignore that and consider it all platonic?

What an idiot.  Do I really have to step in for him again?  Just like old times, huh…?

The half-foot taps a finger against her cheek in thought.  Maybe she can push you to confess?  No, you’d probably wave your hands around and insist against having feelings for Chilchuck in the first place.  A heavy sigh escapes her.

Looks like she has to do things the old-fashioned way.

Step 1 – Family

The quickest way to alert someone is to see who the people closest to you know.  Flertom is rather in-the-know about any gossip.  Usually, as a mother, the half-foot really doesn’t want to encourage such things, but for now…

“What’s trendy in dating circles nowadays?”  She asks offhandedly, eyeing a bouquet Flertom bought to gift a possible suitor.  “Is the man still expected to be the one to initiate everything?”

She could nearly scoff at her own words.  Only reason she and Chil got together was pure happenstance.  Practically a blur by now.  He’d be hopeless at actually trying to start anything with you.

The younger woman hums in curiosity, before stopping to think.  “Not really nowadays, no…  If you have enough charisma, you can charm any man into taking you out for a drink.  Why do you ask, Ma?”

Flertom squints as she watches her mother laugh and shake her head in response.  “Oh, I just think your old man might need some… encouragement with a new flame is all.”

Just as she expected, Flertom was immediately on the ball with planning, rushing out to the town in order to visit her sisters and inform them of the operation.  She practically commanded her old mother to see if she could look for any clues about Chilchuck’s possible beau.  With a knowing smile, she remarks that she’s very happy to pay a visit to Melini.

Step 2 – Friends

“You really think something that elaborate could work?!”  Marcille Donato leans forward in her chair.  Her eyes shine with a certain kind of joy at the idea of playing Cupid that amuses the matured half-foot significantly.

She nods.  “I don’t see anything else coming close to pushing them.  Force might be the only way.”

A female tall-man, Falin if recalled correctly, squints and hums, tapping her finger on her chin as she tilts her head.  Her brow furrows.  “From what I know, Chilchuck seems to be more open, but… I don’t know if he has the courage to be truly vulnerable in front of someone like that.”

“No need to tell me twice,” his ex scoffs.

“Oh!”  The king, of all people, seems to have an epiphany.  “We could hold some sort of ball, encourage him to invite a plus one.  That can work, right Kabru?”

All eyes turn to look at the advisor standing to the side, clearly enjoying the conversation but not wishing to intrude.  He startles at the sudden attention, before clearing his throat behind his fist.

“It will take some time to plan, but it could work…  You mentioned having three daughters, ma’am, you can take one as a plus-one, and the two will take each other.”  He’s calm with his conclusion, which the half-foot woman can definitely respect.

“A banquet of all their favourite foods,” the dwarf Senshi, as food-brained as ever, sighs in daydream.

Kabru takes a step forward.  “Though I have to ask,” he enquires, “is it really necessary to call upon all of the king’s advisors and himself for a Cupid scheme?”

Silly boy.  He doesn’t yet realise the stakes.

If Chilchuck and you don’t say something soon, then you may stay silent forever.  This idea might be the best shot they have.

Step 3 – The Preparation

“What’s even the occasion…?”  Chilchuck sighs as he adjusts the sleeves of the formal outfit he’s wearing.  He’s definitely unused to something so high-class.  Being invited as a guest of honour certainly isn’t doing any favours either.

Not to mention, Laios was stupid enough to not even bestow upon you a guest of honour title!  Chilchuck has to go through the means of inviting you as a plus one due to some ‘organisational issues’, as Kabru put it.

What a load of crap.

“I ‘unno!”  Puckpatti peeks her head around the corner to look at her father.  “Royals just seem to like their balls!”

“This isn’t one of your period romances…” Meijack’s voice rings from the other room too.

You sit with them, talking amongst one another.  Flertom’s plus one remains a mystery to you, though she assures you that you’ll meet with her when you get there.  You can only assume it’s the girls’ mother but you have no clue why she’s so giggly and secretive about it.

“On the contrary!” Flertom announces.  “I think it’s exactly like a period romance.  Maybe one of us will be swept into a dance so beguiling, you forget there’s a whole ballroom of people!”

You squeal in surprise when Flertom takes your hands and pulls you out of your chair.  You dance together in a fit of giggles.  You only barely miss Chilchuck walking out to meet with you all, a fond smile on his face.

Little do you know, he’s thinking about what it would be like if joy like this could be shared in a household with the two of you.

“Come on now, settle.  Apparently there’s gonna be a carriage taking us to Melini.  I couldn’t fight against the theatrics, according to Marcille…”

“Oh Papa!”  Puckpatti sighs blissfully.  “We truly are living like nobles now!  Maybe you can… ah…”

Both you and Chilchuck spy her eyes darting towards her sisters with unsureness.  How strange.

“You can find… someone nice there!”

“No, Patti.”  Chilchuck shakes his head with a sigh.  “I’m not gonna marry some rich dwarf.”

“You are too cruel, Papa,” Flertom points out with a pout.  “No one will want you if you just keep saying no.”

As the three bicker, Meijack spares you a sympathetic glance, and she rolls her eyes.  Her sisters hardly know subtlety.  Finally she stands up and walks to your side.

“I’m glad you’re here with us,” she says with uncharacteristic softness; she’s similar to her father like that.  “Papa has good taste.”

You go red just as much as Chilchuck.  For a moment, Flertom and Puckpatti wonder if their less romance-focused sister has some secret charisma she’s been hiding up her sleeve this whole time.  It seems to work though, as they chorus their agreements loudly.

“Very good taste!”

“Their formal wear matches yours fashionably well!”

“Just as pretty as Ma too!”

“If not prettier!”

The entire carriage ride to Melini was full of this type of chatter, asking questions about you and Chilchuck’s time together the whole way.  A few times you had to clarify that you are only as close as the rest of your old party were close, but were only met with a few smug “mhms” and “sures”.

Chilchuck can only roll his eyes when he gets the chance to comment on it privately with you.  “I have no idea what’s up with them.”

“Oh, cheer up!”  You laugh softly.  “I’m flattered that they like me.”

Chilchuck can’t help but hear your laugh and chuckle along – music to his ears.  “...Yeah, I’m glad they like you too.”

“Come on!  Ma is here to greet you two!”  Flertom’s voice calls out.

The mastermind has been watching you and Chilchuck the whole time you approach.  Her expression remains neutral, with the smallest sliver of a smile.  Seems like the proximity has been lending itself quite well.

“Well, aren’t you two a pair,” she greets you both.  “Ready to take the ball by storm.”

“Your jokes haven’t gotten any better,” Chilchuck replies.

“And you’re still wearing the same shabby suit from sixteen years ago.”

Chilchuck flushes red once again and you can’t help but laugh, patting his shoulder sympathetically as he hooks his arm through yours.

The watching half-foot knowingly grins.  Yes, you two are definitely going to take it up a level after tonight.

Step 4 – Profit!

The ball came and went.  It goes as typical as the dark-haired half-foot expects.  What really is supposed to be a high-class noble event is a mask for foodies, romantics, and those looking for a fun time.

Senshi’s food was as wonderful as promised, and even if this was all done in the name of romance, Flertom and Puckpatti had to be held down from trying to approach the dwarf with lowered eyelids and twirled hair.  Chilchuck doesn’t need more heart palpitations than he already did.

She did her best to encourage Chilchuck to drink.  She knows better than anyone that his tongue only loosened when he got enough alcohol in him.  It hurts just a little, knowing that this is one of the only ways Chilchuck can be open with someone romantically.

The temptation did cross her to ask how Chilchuck views her now, but she stood against it.  It’s not the night for that.

By the time the party drew to a close, people were exhausted, drunk, in a food coma, or all of the above.  The King had to be dragged over to his quarters, and Marcille had since passed out on Falin’s shoulder, who’s bidding farewell to guests.

The dark-haired half-foot swirls the last of her wine in a glass as she stands outside, making small-talk with the tall-man.  It’s not until you stumble out with Chilchuck clinging to the fabric on your hip that she looks up.

“Do you—”

“No need for help!”  You reassure her with a grin.  “He always seems to get clingy with me when drunk, so I’m kinda used to it at this point!”

Your laughter meets a knowing smile, not knowing exactly what she’s so smug about.  “Yes, he seems to really like you.”

“I sure hope he does, considering he’s accepted my request to go on a date with him.”

Falin perks up enough to wake up the elf on her shoulder.  “A date?”

The half-foot across from you is stunned into silence.  It actually worked.  The atmosphere and passion of it all actually egged you both on!

“Congratulations.”  You’ve seen more emotion from the dark-haired woman than ever before.  Her smile relaxed but her eyes shining, the lines underneath crinkling with happiness.  “Treat him well, okay?”

“Of course,” you reply, and you lean forward a little.  “Thank you for your help.  Kabru couldn’t help but gossip to me.”

You wink and lean up again.  Chilchuck at your side whines for your attention and you laugh, walking towards a carriage.

Safe travels were promised, and the dark-haired half-foot turns to the two blonde women.

The elf blinks slowly, red-faced from drink.

“Did we win…?”

The two other women laugh.  Stories must be exchanged the next time you all meet – especially on your end of things.

[kiatheinsomniac]

──── 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐠𝐨 (𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭) ˊˎ - ⊹₊ masterlist / rules ꒰ pairing: Cyno x Reader ꒱ ꒰ word count: 4.9k ꒱ ꒰ c.w: NSFW content, MDNI, hurt/comfort, reader has disorganised attachment style bc it's angsty and I self-project, semi-public sex, make-up sex ꒱

❀ 。𝒔𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒍𝒖𝒄𝒌𝒚 𝒅𝒊𝒑!

⊹ ° 𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒍 𝒕𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒔: "I need you to let me go." ⊹ ° 𝒅𝒓𝒚𝒂𝒅 𝒐𝒊𝒍: "Then let’s just stay here, together. No words needed." ⊹ ° 𝒏𝒚𝒎𝒑𝒉 𝒕𝒐𝒏𝒈𝒖𝒆: "Shh... you don’t want anyone to find out, do you?"

It was foolish, really, to think you could evade the General Mahamatra’s eye. You haven’t seen him since your days in the Akademiya, of course, but your friend Amira has been keeping you up to date with all that’s been going on in your absence since you moved to Natlan two years ago to conduct research on the paper you’ve been working tirelessly on. You told her that you didn’t want to hear about Cyno’s rise through the ranks, that anything there once was between the two of you was over, but she always seemed to ignore that part as she kept you up to date with everything. She’d always been a bit of a gossip but you were no saint in that department yourself. 

A part of you is sure that he must have seen you before you noticed him in the market, white hair shining under the blaring desert sun from beneath his jackal hood. But if he had seen you already, he’d chosen not to approach you. You were glad for this, worried that he’d come along to open old wounds. 

You’d done well in breaking his heart, even if you broke your own in doing so. 

He’d only written to you once but you never replied – in fact, you’d never even broken the wax that sealed the envelope shut. It was still tucked away amongst your old essays you kept from when you were a student, gathering dust in a box in your storage room. After your silence, there were no more letters sent from him. 

You weren’t prepared for anything long-distance. It’s not that you wanted to see other people in your time abroad, just that it would hurt too much, it would feel unfair to the both of you, to pass so many milestones with neither of you there by one another’s side… 

He’d tried to convince you otherwise, of course – you’d been in love after all – but you were adamant on breaking things off. He deserved better and that serpentine sensation of insecurity would constrict at your chest. He was worthy of someone who would be there for him, someone better than you. It was for his own good. That’s what you told yourself, what you’d repeat when you’d wake from dreams of his sun-kissed skin and jasper eyes. How the mind likes to torture. 

Evening falls and you sit in the tavern you’ve been staying in while you make your way back home to the city, eating your dinner alone while the room is full of chatter. That’s when the chair opposite you scrapes along the floor and the very man you’ve been avoiding seats himself before you. You finish your mouthful and find yourself swallowing harder than needed. 

“Cyno…” Is all you can think to say to greet him despite the cacophony of regrets and apologies that run amok in the back of your mind. 

“I didn’t think you’d be back for another year yet.” His words make you bite the inside of your cheek at the implication behind them. Had he been waiting for your return? That wasn’t what you wanted, you’d wanted him to find someone worthy of him, to move on and be happy, to leave you in his past where you belonged. 

“The sakoku decree.” You answer with a sigh. You hadn’t anticipated coming back this early but political tensions had begun too thick and as soon as whispers of the nation locking its borders became public concern, you decided to get out while you could. You’d have no way of knowing when you could return home otherwise, research be damned. It would be for nothing if you couldn’t even get it out into the world. “I was right to leave when I did, the Raiden Shogun’s already summoned storms in the seas over Inazuma’s waters.” Cyno lets out a hum to show he approves of your foresight, a nod of his head accompanying the gesture. 

This smalltalk was meaningless and you both knew it. The room felt stuffy with unexpressed thoughts and feelings. But you’ve been running from this for two years now and you weren’t sure you knew how to face it yet and so you keep the small catch-up going.

“Amira told me about your promotion to General. Congratulations.” You say. It’s over a year late though and you know it. If things had worked out any better, you’d have been with him celebrating upon the day of the announcement. 

“Thank you. I’m definitely a lot busier than when we were together but it’s important work and I take pride in it.” There it is. The past. It’s a not-so-subtle hint he wants to talk about how you broke things off, how you were so stubborn in not finding alternatives to being near one another to make things work, how cruel your words had been when you broke his heart to make sure he wouldn’t come chasing you. “All these years I’ve been thinking about you, about us-” 

You cut him off there, insecurity sharpening itself into a spear that impales through your chest and commands you to pull him onto its blade with you.

“I need you to let me go.” You say bluntly, voice cold and harsh despite the pain in the back of your throat. Why were you like this? Why did you feel the need to hurt him out of some misguided – perhaps even deluded – sense of emotional self-preservation? Perhaps he was expecting you to be this same way as when you last spoke because he quickly closes his mouth and looks at you with pensive eyes. 

“Aren’t you tired?” He simply asks and a part of you both yearns for and detests the pity in his voice.

“What?”

“Of running. Aren’t you tired of it?” 

You scoff, leaning back in your seat. Everything about your body language is the opposite of how you truly feel and you get the sense you’ll lay in bed tonight tearing yourself up about not just telling him while the opportunity sits before you now for the taking. Why are you like this? Why can’t you just spill what’s in your caged heart? “And what exactly is it that you think I’m running from? What we had was good but it’s over now. Our relationship doesn’t need a post-mortem.” The words come out harsher than intended. 

But, as you’ve spent years having dreams of him and missing what once was, he’s had time to think about how you acted that day too. Your facade no longer fools it and he’s had time to chip away at cracks to reveal what was truly going on in your mind when you ended things. He didn’t think he’d get to see you for another year but you’ve run into each other by chance and, unlike you, he seizes his opportunities when presented to him. And now he’s going to tear down those walls you’re desperately building high around you. 

He stands. “Come with me.” You sigh as though it’s a huge inconvenience to you but, really, your fingers are already trembling at the thought that he’s seeking your vulnerability, that you’ll have to tell him that you broke things off when you left because the thought of being so far from him made you realise that he deserved so much more than you felt you were able to give. 

“Fine, let me pay for my meal first.”

“I already did.” Your heart warms at the thoughtful gesture from him but guilt then twists at it. You didn’t deserve his kindness. 

“Thank you.” You tuck your chair in behind you and follow him in silence through the village as he leads you over a bridge towards the statue of the seven. You find yourself hiking through the sand as the sun sets over the desert until the two of you are atop one of the many steep rock faces that surround Aaru village and protect it. He sits down and you join him, looking up at the emerging stars for a while with an unusual energy between the two of you. On one hand, this brings back pleasant memories of when you’d stargaze from the canopy of the ancient tree that Sumeru City is built around. On the other, you weren’t those in-love students anymore. Those days were now gone, shattered by your own cursed hands. 

“I never really needed to know all the fates written across the stars back then. That was always for the Rtawahist students to understand. I was just happy to be there with you.” His words make you bite the inside of your cheek. You felt the same way.

“Yeah… me too.” You reply quietly and lay back in the sand, finding it easier to talk if you have an excuse to not look at him. 

“You know… it really hurt, the way you broke things off.” He says quietly. He may be a General but he’s still just a man with a heart soft for those he holds dear. 

“It was supposed to…” You mumble. “I didn’t want you coming after me.” He lays down beside you but he’s on his side while you’re on your back, looking at you while your gaze is fixed to the twinkling lights in the darkening sky. You could curse them for the way you are, for being so afraid without the fear to express it, for lashing out at those you love out of some overwhelming feeling even you’re yet to wholly understand. You open your mouth to elaborate more but end up closing it again. Maybe you should just let him hate you, maybe it’s for the best. But he says nothing, seeing your hesitance and giving you the room to continue.

“I…” You rub the edge of your shirt between your fingers, hands needing something to occupy them, body needing some way of expressing the whirlwind of strange feelings in your chest that your brain can’t quite seem to translate, a foreign language you have no dictionary to. “I wasn’t going to be able to be there for you. You deserved that at the very least from a relationship. I’m not good with words so letters never would have sufficed in place of being there. I’m just glad to know you still had people like Tighnari there for you – Amira told me about that too.” 

He lets out a soft laugh, your words heavy but he doesn’t want them to weigh upon your being and crush you before this opportunity can slip between his fingers. “She’s always been a gossip, she doesn’t seem to miss a thing. Perhaps I should try convincing her to join the Matra. We’re always looking for better ways to gather intelligence.”

Despite your gloomy mood, the banter brings a faint smile to your lips. He can’t help but look at you the way he once adoringly did as a student. 

“I was horrible to you and I don’t want you to think that I don’t know that or I don’t care about it. I guess I wanted what’s best for you and I took that decision into my own hands. Y’know… cruel to be kind.”

He lets out a sigh and follows your gaze up towards the stars. “But that wasn’t your decision to make. I deserved a choice in that too.” You stay silent and chew your lip. You don’t want to admit it but you know he’s right. 

“I dreamt about you a lot while I was away.” You murmur ever so quietly, treading a line towards vulnerability that you’re not sure you’re comfortable with. His brows raise and he turns his head towards you once more.

“You did?” 

You nod your head. “I don’t regret ending things-” Not exactly the truth, “-but I do regret how I did it. I was cruel to you. I knew you were doing well in Matra and I didn’t want you following me out of Sumeru. I’m not worth throwing away something that special for.” The self-depreciating words slip out before you can even register how raw they are and it makes you swallow down a burning that’s building up in the back of your throat. Cyno props himself up on his arm to get a better look at you. 

“It’s hard to hear you talk about this like some big self-sacrifice after the things you said, you know.” 

“Yeah…” Guilt buries its talons into your heart, “I wanted you to hate me…”

“But why?” He presses, feeling as though he’s finally starting to get somewhere with you. 

“I was always so focused on my work, leaving everything else behind in favour of it. Honestly, I was surprised with myself when I even entertained having a relationship at all when we were students, it was so unlike me. I can’t… I can’t be that and a good partner at the same time.” Your eyes scrunch shut. This is getting too much now, too raw and that instinct to lash out, to run away, is rearing its ugly head again. “I know sorry won’t cut it but I hate that I hurt you and I- I know it was fucked up and I wasn’t even thinking, I was just feeling but I don’t even know what and- and I’m sorry. I know that won’t make things right but I’m shit with words and I’m shit with expressing myself and I never should have hurt you. It was hypocritical to want what’s best for you and break your heart in the same breath, selfish even.” You ramble out as you feel yourself closing up again, wanting to get it out before you can ruin things all over again with him.

You tilt your head back against the sand and bite down on your quivering bottom lip to keep it still as tears threaten your eyes. Cyno is quiet for a while and the silence tortures you. 

“I’m glad you can see it from my perspective at least. You hurt me a lot and… honestly, it was pretty fruitless because it made it harder to move on from you instead of easier like you seemed to think it would. But I don’t want to hate you, I’m not sure if I can. I care about you too much and I think you still care about me too, you just…” He’s not quite sure how to agree that your attachment style is a wreck without upsetting you and potentially killing his chance to mend things between the two of you. You might act like you have everything together but he’s had time now to realise that isn’t the case. You’re defensive, evasive even, but he wants to know why, to help perhaps. “I’m just glad to see you again right now, to be under the stars like we used to.” You’re quiet for a moment as a wave of nostalgia hits you at the familiar sight of the night sky above. Why can’t you go back to that delicate, fleeting time when you could connect with people again? How could you stop those misguided outlashes? 

“Me too…” You whisper. Tears bud in the corners of your eyes. You want to spill out apologies over and over but you know the damage you caused is beyond that. You want to beg for forgiveness but feel as though you don’t deserve it, you don’t have the right to put him in that position. “I just… I don’t want to mess things up again. I feel right now like if I keep running my mouth, I’m just going to set myself back to square one, so I-” You cut yourself off, having said enough. 

"Then let’s just stay here, together. No words needed." You finally turn your head just enough to glance at him through glassy eyes and give a grateful little nod. Feeling the prelude of tears and sobs, you seek a distraction but there’s only the stars above and sands below. You want to burrow yourself into his chest like you used to but no longer feel worthy of such a privilege. 

However, he’s the one to reach out, fingers brushing ever so lightly against your wrist before laying his hand over yours, not quite holding it, giving you a chance to retreat. You don’t and instead hook your little finger around his, undeserving of anything more from him in your own mind. You felt pathetic, like a hypocrite, stuck in your own self-loathing and lashing out with hatred  at the first sight of a helping hand. But change doesn’t come easily, even if you yearn for it. 

Having missed you ever so dearly, he intertwines his fingers with yours. The feeling makes you tremble and you close your eyes to try and stop your forthcoming tears but it’s counterproductive, instead making them slip down the sides of your face. 

“Hey…” Cyno says softly as he sees them track down your skin, propping himself to lean up over you and brush one away with a calloused thumb. Your tears only confirm his theory that you’re not maliciously cruel, that there’s something going on within which you’re struggling with, seemingly fighting a losing battle against. His tender touch feels incredible and yet you’re riddled with guilt for accepting it. But you give in, placing your hand over his as he cups your cheek and more tears pour freely from your eyes. You choke back a sob and he helps you sit up before pulling you into your arms. You bury your face in his shoulder, not wanting to be seen as you cry, and he can feel the tremors that wrack through you as he rubs your back soothingly. 

“I should’ve been so much better to you.” You sob and he shushes you, not wanting you to upset yourself any more than you already are. 

“Don’t think about the past right now, we’re in the present. We’ll talk it out later.” He says, knowing he’ll get nowhere if he doesn’t tread your careful pace. You cling to him like a lifeline as you wet his clothes with your tears. After a while, the sobs stop but you can hardly bear to pull away and have him see you with puffy eyes and wet lashes. He seems to understand and instead pulls you closer, sitting between his legs now. You steady your breathing as you lean against his chest and his hand rubs up and down the silhouette of your waist in soothing motions. 

After a while, you finally tilt your head up to look at him but find he’s so close that his nose is nudging against yours ever so slightly. Suddenly, a spark seems to alight between you, one you thought you’d stamped out and doused in water. But it persisted, survived, and right now it’s stopping either of you from pulling apart from each other, instead causing your gazes to fix to one another’s mouths. 

Cyno is the first to lean in more, giving you every opportunity to pull away. But he’s missed you, missed holding you close like this and kissing you breathless like he used to. You don’t pull away though and instead give yourself to the count of three to either put distance between you or finally conquer that terrible creature within you that seems so set on keeping you alone. You surge forwards and crash your lips against his before you can make the wrong decision and his arms wrap around you even tighter to pull you in and never let you leave again. 

It’s raw and messy, his tongue soon gliding against yours as your hands tangle in his soft hair, skewing the hat of his uniform to one side in the process. Your heart bursts and suddenly all the weight that had been crushing it is lifted by his kisses. A small part of you almost can’t believe he even wants to kiss you after all you’ve done; but you push the thought down, instead simply taking the present for what it is as he told you to do earlier. 

He leans back and you follow him until you’re perched over him, propped up by one hand beside his head. His kisses trail down your jaw and his hands glide from your hips just slightly up your waist.

“Is this okay?” He asks, not wanting to charge into this too soon if it’s not what you’re feeling too. You eagerly nod and your lips find the place just below your ear that you remember to be oh so sensitive. He turns the two of you over so you’re now the one laid in the sand, hands roaming the shape of your body, how you’ve changed, how you’ve stayed the same. His teeth tug gently at your bottom lip as his hands rest just below your breasts. He doesn’t quite cup your plush bust just yet, still wary of how skittish you may still be about affection after all these years. But it only feels like a tease and you whine before grabbing his wrists and dragging his hands upwards. The way your flesh yields under his calloused hands makes him feel weak and he’s not so sure he can hold himself steadily over you.

A breathless laugh leaves you when he moves you yet again, making you straddle his lap this time, strong thighs beneath yours. Cyno may not have a towing figure but he’s still the General Mahamatra and to underestimate his strength would be foolish. His hips buck up against yours instinctually before he reels himself in a little. But you’re caught up in the moment now, despairing insecurity be damned. Right now you’re who you used to be, the student who could float through social groups effortlessly and spent her free time with her white-haired boyfriend. You fear this moment may be fleeting so you take it for all it’s worth. 

You reciprocate his grinding motion, breasts pushing against his lean chest. His hands glide over your hips and fingers splay over your ass, taking greedy handfuls of your softness. He starts to hike up your long skirt until it’s bunched around your waist and he pulls away for a moment to look down at how your thighs straddle his lap, thin panties the only thing covering you as you sit atop him. He lets out a moan and drags you closer by your rump, seating you right upon his stiff cock that’s still confined to his pants. 

Arousal pools in your core and becomes all that exists, pussy drooling at the now-distant memory of how he used to stretch you open. Pleasure fogs your mind and you barely even care that the two of you are tangled in each other’s limbs on the sand right now. Your back arches and your lips find his neck again, pulling at his clothing so you can glide your lips across his shoulders and nip at his collarbone. He lets out a growl and the way his leaking tip is seeping into his pants becomes an unbearable sensation. He pulls at his belts until he can free his cock with a shaky breath of relief, pumping it a few times. You almost grow jealous of the sweet friction he’s feeling as your own hand goes down the front of your panties.

“Ah, ah, ah~” He tuts and pulls your hand away by the wrist, instead he tucks the cotton of your underwear aside and his own fingers glide through your sticky slit. “Fuck, you’re already so wet.” He hisses under his breath. He remembers exactly how to touch you like you’d only last slept with each other yesterday, thumb swiping upwards to lightly press against your clit. You whine while he slides two more fingers through your folds to cover them in your juices before pressing up into your cunt. 

Your arms had been loosely wrapped around his neck but your hands now tug at his long hair, pushing your hips down to fuck yourself on his fingers.

“Archons, you’re still just as tight.” He moans as he curls his fingers to rub against your sweet spot while his thumb presses more firmly to your clit. You can’t resist the urge to rock your hips against the sweet sensation. It’s almost like you two of you had never parted in the first place, your bodies remembering each other. You let out a soft mewl and reluctantly drag his hand away from your slit in favour of grinding yourself against his hard length instead. His hands sink into your hips as he bites his lip at the feel of you, so soft and slick, teasingly grinding on him with nothing between you. You mewl as his tip catches against your clit a few times before taking him in your palm, feeling the weight of him, and pumping him in your fist a few times as you lift your hips to line him up to your hole. 

Your eyes meet his now, both your gazes glazed with lust, a silent question passed between you. He gives a curt nod of his head without hesitation and you can’t help but keen at how his thick cock stretches you open as you seat yourself on him. You support your weight with your knees digging into the cool sand, moans bubbling past your lips as you begin to bounce shallowly on his length. His lips press to yours in order to swallow up all your saccharine sounds. 

"Shh... you don’t want anyone to find out, do you?" He croons against your mouth as you puff out little panted breaths. He’s right and you know it. You might be out of sight but you’re not out of earshot to anyone who may be at these outskirts of the village. His fingers dip into the plush flesh of your ass to gain the leverage to start bouncing you on his lap, his head falling against your shoulder at the squeeze of your cunt around him. “Fuck I’ve missed this, missed you.” He moans as his lips wrap around a tender spot on your neck, teeth grazing your skin as he sucks a mark onto your flesh. 

Your mind isn’t clear enough to stop him, instead all you can do is buck your hips against him, grinding your hips in circles that make him draw in an inward hiss while your aching clit catches against him. You squeeze on him more and you can hear the slick sounds he pulls from you as your ass smacks against his thighs each time he bottoms out into you. 

He lays back against the sand so he can get a better look at you as you ride him, propping his knees up so he can better push up into your warm, sticky hole. He lets out a long groan and deft fingers reach up to open your blouse and pull your bra down just enough to reveal your pretty nipples to him. 

“Archons, these are still as pretty as ever too.” He practically whines as he watches the way they bounce with how you move up and down on his thick cock. His hands come up to grope at them, pinching and tugging slightly at the peaks in a way that causes shivers to pour down your front, pooling in your core where he buries himself over and over again. 

He seems to remember all your sweet spots as he keeps rubbing against them as though the two of you haven’t been apart for years. Your breath comes out in fast, warm pants as you tilt your head back, arms resting over his shoulders and hands tangling in his mass of white hair, tugging without even realising.

“Fuck, ‘m close.” You whine and he sits up with a speed that almost startles you, using more of his strength to pull you up and down on his cock as his lips wrap around one of your nipples and suck hard, pulling a cry from you that you muffle against his head, teeth sinking into your bottom lip. 

“Cum for me.” He groans as he unlatches from your breast. “This cock’s always been yours, show me you know that. Come on, darling.” His honeyed words and the way he moves to suck on your other nipple tip you over the edge and your walls flutter and squeeze on him as your orgasm rips through you. He lets out a moan hypocritical to how he’d reminded you to be quiet earlier and lifts you off his cock to seat you on his thighs instead, taking himself in hand and rubbing his length with your wetness until  he’s shooting ribbons of hot cum on your abdomen with a series of grunts and whines. “Fuck…” He gasps at the sight of his seed painting your skin. 

Heart still hammering, you lean forward and rest your head against his shoulder as he squeezes your hips and his hands glide up and down your back to try and soothe the way you’re shaking. His lips press against your skin below your ear as you both pant for breath. “Don’t leave again.” He murmurs in a quiet plea, “I don’t know what you’re running from, and you don’t have to tell me right now, but let me face it with you. Don’t think you have to walk through this world alone.” 

Feeling a little more vulnerable and open after having shared your body with him once more, you offer a little nod and nuzzle into his chest once more beneath the stars. 

Who knows? Perhaps they may have already determined that you can evade this terrible insecurity with him holding your hand along the way.

⊹₊ liked it? why not: ∘ buy me a coffee? ∘ comms. ∘ taglist ∘ follow/reblog

ᯓ✩ 𝒑.𝒔: this ended up being way longer than I anticipated because I got pretty into it lol. my first time writing for Cyno too!

i've always loved these sort of aesthetic secret ingredient requests!!! hm hm hmm, ah, how about cyno, kaveh, baizhu, ayato....... ingredients!!! - angel tears - dryad oil - nymph tongue NSFW welcomed with open arms!! <3' i also had sort of a theme with this pick with these characters, i dubbed it "the before" because i like the idea of the chars falling in love before they entered/during the time they attended the akademiya finding an upperclassmen they respect and admire turning to something more, or in ayato's case it could be angst-y because it's before his current rise to power, maybe you looked down on him but now he has you at his beck and call? optional spice for extra flavoring, yandere or omegaverse or both are equally welcome, also ummm i'm down bad for any scenes that involve sitting in a char's lap. let me sit on those legs!!!! -@yanna-yuna

[naomihatake]

In search of freedom (Ch. 1)

1. They're bad news

Chapter 1 ; Chapter 2

⠀⠀⠀⠀She's been searching for freedom her entire life and everytime she thought it was laying right in front of her eyes, she was mistaken. She was running around the East Blue, seeking herself and her dreams, meeting people she never forgot. No matter how much she traveled, she could only catch a glimpse of peace before realizing everything would crumble at her feet.

⠀⠀⠀⠀Maybe it was destiny that brought her on that ship with three strangers — foolishly, that's what she tried to believe when the moon shined beautifully and hope settled in her chest, squeezed by the same ribcage where feelings were blooming.

Pairing: female!reader x OPLA Zoro Roronoa. This chapter follows the events of the first episode.

Warnings for this chapter: physical violence (fights), mentions of deaths, fluff, some cursing, mentions of tarot and palm readings

Word count: 3,6k

Theme song: “Loreley” by Blackmore's Night (click on the link)

A/N: This is the first part of a fanfiction I was thinking of since first watching One Piece Live Action. I started the anime too and I'm around episode 64 already. I'm using the OPLA course of action for now and I have no idea for an ending, but enough scenarios to write and share. I don't know how far this will go, but I'll have fun writing it and considering how much I like Zoro (born anime and LA), I'm using both of them as inspiration. Sorry for the lack of interaction between reader and Zoro, but I promise things will change.

The reader will be referred to as "Witch" especially in the next chapter, because I have no intentions of using "Y/N". There will be more information revealed about her past and abilities in the next chapter.

I'm open for comments and opinions <3

"Excuse me," she smiled sweetly while swaying away from someone who was standing right in front of her and a table she had to serve for. "Here," she carefully let the plates down.

She received a large smile coming from the young man with dark curls and a straw hat hanging around his neck. His pink haired companion seemed very shy, barely glancing at her before looking back at his plate, thanking in a small voice.

The tavern buzzed with a peaceful energy in the late hours of morning, the big windows letting the warm rays of sun in, lighting up the place. There were men sitting at a few tables, no sign of any other woman except for her and the very owner of that place, who just finished cooking something — were those cookies? It smelled divine.

Her dress fluttered around her knees as she moved away from their table to take other orders, a strand of her hair falling against her cheek after running around for so long. When she finally stopped in her tracks by the bar, intense eyes searched for anyone else who might've needed something. Lucky for her, she could finally breathe for a few seconds, resting her hips against the bar.

However, her eyes fell on the tall figure who just chugged down his throat a shot of alcohol. His green hair made her frown to herself, looking away before she could get caught ogling some stranger. After a few seconds, she looked at him again, this time at the three swords resting against his hip.

Three swords? What can someone do with three swords?

Everyone probably had the same question whenever they saw him for the first time. However, he felt somehow familiar, as if she's heard of someone like that before. A pirate? No, wait, a pirate hunter? The owner told her of so many things and so many people it was impossible to remember each one of them, but she was pretty sure she mentioned some pirate hunter only a few days ago.

Her thought process was interrupted when a man with blonde hair and suit walked by in front of her. Considering the men dressed in white uniforms who entered with him, they must be marines and he was probably their superior — he was walking like he owned the entire port.

She held back from rolling her eyes in annoyance. Her thoughts ran back to what her friend said about pirates last time, the way they argued back and forth about how pirates aren't good. However, she had her own reasons for claiming that not all pirates were ruthless monsters, without elaborating.

She flinched lightly when she heard the thud of a metal plate falling on the floor, snapping her head towards a little girl who was stuttering apologies to the blonde man. Her eyebrows were pulled together at his angry and loud voice mocking the child who had tears in her eyes, fear seeping through her very bones at the exaggerated reaction.

Apparently, they knocked into each other. Oh, there were two cookies on the floor. One of them got crushed under the man's foot.

She smoothly made her way by the side of the little girl, smiling at her as she crouched down to her level.

"Is everything alright, little one? Did you apologize?" the woman's hand squeezed the girl's shoulder warmly.

Rika's only response was a nod.

"Good job. It's alright, I'll help you clean up. Why don't you bring me a broom, hm?" she coaxed the girl with a gentle voice.

Once the girl walked away, she stood up straight again, arching her eyebrow questionably at the arrogant man by her side.

"Is there anything else I could help you with?"

"What, are you working here? If the answer's positive, then you better teach those stupid kids some manners," he huffed.

"You should teach yourself how to behave," she commented right back, her sharp gaze sizing him up and down.

"Take that back. Next time I won't be so nice," the blonde marine grinned.

Oh, and what an ugly grin it was on that fucker's face.

"You dropped my food," a low voice from behind interrupted.

The young woman turned her head towards the voice, confusion written on her face as she made a few steps back, out of his way. It was the green haired man she noticed earlier, now sitting on one of his knees on the cold floor.

Rika came back with a broom almost twice her size, the object quickly taken from her hold by the woman who smiled at her again. While they exchanged glances, the pirate hunter let himself down on one of his knees, taking some of the crushed cookie into his palm.

A sly smile tugged at the woman's lips. A pirate hunter or not, he had more dignity than a marine even in that kneeling position. She was more satisfied to see the little one smiling.

"Your turn," the green-haired man lowered his voice, a dark glare thrown at the astonished marine.

The pirate hunter raised back up and placed the metal plate on the bat, his intimidating height against the arrogant blonde monkey in front of him telling enough.

"Apologize to the girl," he demanded in a relaxed tone.

"Me? It was her fault for bumping into me. The lady should apologize for disrespecting me."

Apologize, my ass, she thought to herself, one step away from bursting out laughing. What did he take her for?

"Do you want a fight or what?" he drew his sword out, a knowing grin curled on his face. "I don't need three swords to fight."

The woman looked down at the little girl who was still by her side, ruffling her hair.

"Why don't you go to your mother, hm? And stay there until I call you back."

Her stern voice didn't give space for arguing; Rika complied, going to the kitchen.

She heard some muttering and next thing she knew, both of the men in front of her had drawn their swords out. Apparently, the green-haired one decided to advance closer to the marine, in an attempt to keep the fight away from the lady.

Hmph. Swordsmen and their unusual gentlemanly behavior.

Squeezing the broom in between her fingers, she moved away, furrowing her eyebrows in a scowl.

"No fights in here, you jerks!" she scoffed.

Expertly, while the other marines attacked one man — how unethical of them — and swords clashed against each other after sharp whistling noises, the woman swept away the cookies on the floor. She faked doing her own duties, like the good employee that she was, throwing careful glances at the fight happening right next to her. If she wasn't careful enough, she could get sliced in two.

"I advise you to get out of the way," she heard the swordsman's voice growling right after he threw a chair into three men, making them fall to the floor.

"You'll destroy the entire place if I do."

Right after saying those words, without anyone noticing in that damned agitation, with a quick movement of the broom, she made one of the marines trip.

Just like the idiots that they were.

"Oh my god, you should be more careful!" she placed a hand over her lips, fake surprise and fear coloring her features.

Who would believe such an innocent being was capable of such malicious actions?

With a strong creak followed by a thud, one marine was thrown into a table that turned the both of them upside down, groans filled with pain vibrating through the tavern.

She was right about them destroying the place.

However, the commotion didn't cause too much distress to the woman still moving the broom around, acting as if she had business with that newly found weapon. It might not be lethal, but she couldn't be spotted while she was intentionally making the marines' jobs harder. In the month she's been working there, she saw more than just one fight and used everything that she saw fit to stop it — be it a broom or a kitchen knife.

Now that she analyzed the fight better, it seemed like the pirate hunter barely even had to draw his sword out of its scabbard, at some point knocking someone's head into the bar. He used his raw strength and the objects surrounding him, thankfully without destroying any of them. The can he threw into another man's stomach seemed so effortless.

That must've hurt, though.

The blonde marine was quickly pulled by the back of his collar, back colliding with the bar, and an angry swordsman towering over him. She didn't hear anything nor paid attention anymore, eyes focused on the tavern that was ruined only half way through.

She sighed after watching both of the men walking out of there, biting her lower lip to hold back a fit of laughter at the marine who stumbled while being dragged by the bounty hunter.

"Why do men always fight in this tavern?" she talked to herself, raising one of the chairs and putting it back in place. "One day of peace is all I want in this port, only one day, and I can't get even that."

She sighed again, only for that long exhale to get stuck in her throat once her eyes fell on the table that was almost sitting in the opposite way rather than how it should be. Once she approached it, stepping by the marine who was trying to get up.

She would never help someone who had less dignity than a dog following some orders from a brainless monkey. Heck, even those animals were smarter.

Instead, she tried to move the table back in its place. Her fingers were so close to gripping at one side of the table before someone appeared at the opposite side. The young man with a straw hat and a square smile she served only a few minutes ago raised the table by himself, carefully arranging it until he was satisfied with its position.

"Thank you so much for the help," she smiled at him. "Be careful where you step, I think a glass also broke."

There were some shreds on the floor somewhere close to the table the young man sat at earlier.

"Thank you for your concern," he smiled just like the first time.

Gosh, has she ever seen such a beautiful soul? His eyes sparkled and the happiness suited him like it did to a little child who has no clue of the harsh world. However, he didn't seem phased or scared by what happened earlier — his hands weren't shaking at all and there was no fear lingering in his stare.

She turned to take the broom and came closer to his companion, who was sitting under the table. She bent her torso to give him a hand, helping him get back to his feet.

"Careful with the glass, check your hands," she warned again.

"I saw what you did there."

She turned towards the straw hat guy, blinking owlishly at him.

"I don't really get what you mean."

She started sweeping the shred of broken glass, not paying attention to the curious and insistent gaze she was receiving.

"You surely do. I'm Monkey D. Luffy and I'm gonna be King of the Pirates!"

Her eyes widened at the second part of his speech, snapping her head back at him. Without even realizing, her fingers were squeezing the broom quite harshly, fingertips going white.

"That's—" she started in a small voice, blinking like an idiot and staring at him.

She's heard that before. She's heard the same dream before and it brought so much suffering.

"That's dangerous," she finally got the courage to continue, still hesitant.

"You're brave for interfering with their fight."

Luffy looked into her eyes as if he could guess the thoughts running through her head, as if he could read her very soul, drinking in her features and reaction.

"You must've seen wrong," she let out a light chuckle, getting a grip on herself. "I'm just clumsy sometimes."

She was thankful she stopped herself from cussing out the Marines, because in less than a second after she finished her sentence, a few other men dressed in white uniforms appeared to help their comrades back to the base. She casted a skeptical eye at each one of them, like silent warnings.

They were pathetic, some of them still stumbling while trying to get up, their swords thrown around carelessly. After they all disappeared from her sight, her shoulders obviously relaxed again.

"I have to admit I hated each second of staying so much with these idiots around," she huffed quietly. "That spoiled child who takes advantage of his father's status was getting on my nerves."

"That's why you helped that swordsman, right?"

Luffy continued with his supposition, not letting go of what he thought he saw — it was the truth, but it would be dangerous to admit.

"I didn't help anyone, really. That was unintentional."

"Don't press it too much, Luffy," his companion's voice trembled.

"Koby, I know what I saw," Luffy pulled his lips into a straight line.

She resumed what she was doing, sweeping at the pieces of glass, seeing almost each one of them in the light seeping through the window.

"If you want to become King of the Pirates, I suppose you also want to get the One Piece, right?"

She was foolish. She was stupid for asking, for getting herself in such business that somehow always ended with too many deaths, with broken dreams. However, something was nagging in her gut. Deep down, it felt so right to ask.

"Yes! I need the Grand Line map for that and I intend on getting from the Marine Base here."

"You're insane, kid," her shoulders shook with her light laughter.

It was a sour sound.

She stopped, leaning her weight into the broom, looking down at the glass in front of her. She shouldn't help them. She should stay in her place if she wanted those young men to survive. What they were trying to do was basically suicide, they just didn't know. Koby seemed to be more fearful, hesitant and so, so shy. Luffy didn't say "us"; he said "I" — the pink-haired guy was not really part of the plan.

Against better judgment, she raised her head at him, promises sparkling in her eyes just like the shreds of glass.

"You can't just ask for that map and I hope you know that. What you want to get yourself into isn't just dangerous, it's like jumping into a suicide mission," her voice strained, pouring all of her hope in her next words: "However, I can help you get inside. Be careful, you have to make sure no one catches you."

"So I was right about you!" Luffy beamed.

"Right about what?"

"That you're brave."

Her lips opened, but no sound came from between them. It was pointless to deny it when he seemed so stubborn about what he saw and believed.

"I think this is a lot to say about someone who's helping you steal secret maps," the side of her mouth curled upwards.

Koby was left astonished. Stealing from the Marines was suicide.

"Listen here, kid," she lowered her voice, stepping closer to whisper. She set her gaze on Luffy's. "You have to get out of there alive, no matter what. Lie if you have to, but I have a feeling you're very bad at that, so be careful. That isn't a place to fool around in. You could get yourself killed in a blink. The Marines are very sneaky."

"There are good Marines and bad Marines," he shrugged. "Maybe I'll meet someone who's willing to help."

"I like your enthusiasm, but that unit base doesn't fit," she shook her head. "Both Captain Morgan and his son aren't the good kind of people."

She squeezed the broom in between her fingers again, an ugly feeling clawing at her throat. She didn't want a kid to die for following his dreams, but freedom was something she always craved.

"I'll tell you a way to get inside the base from underneath. You have to keep your lips sealed — I don't worry about myself, but about the owner and her daughter. I don't want word spreading around."

"You can count on me!" he placed his hand on his heart, as if he sealed the promise there. "Who are you? I want to know who's helping me."

Damned be his sincerity.

"I'll give you my name after you get out of there alive."

She smiled, eyes sparkling with delicious mischief.

"That is a promise. I'll be around the Marine Base and I'll tell you my name after I see you get out of there alive."

That seemed to stir something in Luffy's soul, inhaling with pride. A man of his word, indeed, just like she thought.

"Deal.

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈

Her name left the lips of a scolding mother, even if it wasn't her mom.

"I saw you." The second time she heard tthat same phrase in one day.

Annie patted the tip of her shoe against the floor repeatedly.

"I was just lucky enough not to get myself in trouble," she shrugged.

However, her eyes fell on the floor, guilty about getting caught like a deer in the light.

"You could've gotten yourself in big trouble!" the owner of the tavern raised her voice.

Rika pouted up at her mother, trying to sweeten her reaction.

"She just wanted to help, just like—"

"Rika," this time, the scolded one firmly spoke her name. "Don't take me as an idol. It's true that something could have happened."

The little girl shouldn't worry about such a bloody world just yet and she wanted to help it for as long as possible. Being stubborn was a death sentence, even if she would always get herself into trouble if it meant to stick to her principles.

She'd rather die on her feet than live on her knees.

"Just because this time everything was fine, it doesn't mean next time will be the same," Annie exhaled loudly, frowning.

"There won't be a next time," the young woman sank her chin in her chest. "I should leave these days. Soon enough, word will spread out about my tarot and palm readings. I don't want to cause you any more trouble."

"You little witch," the usual scolding was replaced with a warm nickname.

She raised her head again, struggling to smile. Leaving after she got attached always hurt.

"That man was Roronoa Zoro, wasn't it?" Annie asked, her body suddenly tensing.

"Most probably," she shrugged. "Three swords, three earrings. He put on quite a show, to be honest," the words were followed by a chuckle.

"I see the way your eyes are sparkling. Don't even think about getting into some conversation with such a troublesome person."

"What could do some adventure to a poor soul like me?" she teased.

"It could bring you six feet under."

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈

"I'm no witch, you idiots!" she struggled against the harsh grip the two men had on her arms.

She hissed when one of them sank his fingertips in her upper arms, glaring at him.

Shithead marines.

She continued writhing and struggling, stomping her feet into the ground in an awful attempt to stop them. She intended on keeping her promise after she helped the straw hat sneak into their base. She waited for as long as it was necessary after she gathered her things in a bag that hung around her shoulders. She was supposed to leave that place after she made sure the kid was alright and alive.

"God dammit!" she shouted. "How many times do I have to explain I'm not doing anything wrong?!"

"You're lying to people and receiving money, filthy witch. You're a thief," one of the men commented as they continued walking her away from the port.

"I didn't steal shit!" she snapped.

"Watch out!" she heard a familiar voice.

Instantly, she bent her torso down. The man on her right was punched in the face with so much force he released her grip on her and stumbled into the marine on her left, both of them now on the ground.

She didn't even get enough time to process what was happening, something curling around her waist carefully, but so fast. A yelp left her lips when she realized she was being lifted off the ground, turning her head towards the source.

It was the straw hat's arm. He ate a devil fruit, didn't he?

He was on a boat that was sailing a few meters away in the sea and she was being pulled towards him. She also recognized the pirate hunter from earlier and a woman with orange hair, both of them far too relaxed for what was happening.

That guy was made of rubber!

She recognized Koby who just got to his feet after she got past him, her feet finally touching something solid again. She blinked confused at the straw hat.

"You can't bring everyone that you like on this ship," the swordsman let out a hopeless sigh.

She busted out laughing like a maniac, the colorful and rich sound filling the air. Her shoulders shook and she had to place her hand over her stomach, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. Obviously, her reaction was met with an especially questionable look coming from the swordsman, who most probably thought he got on a ship with another insane human.

"You're insane, kid," she wiped the tears in her eyes with her fingers, still smiling widely.

She hasn't felt such relief in years.

"I guess I gotta fulfill a promise, right?"

•┈┈┈•┈┈┈•┈┈┈

[lynnlovesthestars]

Could I ask for a Astarion x Durge!Tav

I've done 2 Durge playthoughs and wish , which ever companion you romance has a reaction when Durge rejects to be bhasls chosen and gets killed but brought back to life by withers .

When the party returns to the camp after they discover she was a mastermind in all the trouble .

she doesn't talk to anyone . Especially Astarion ....She has now taken the farthest away bed from the others and waits for everyone to go to sleep and she would get up and leave kethrics netherstone next to Astarion and she would leave to face orin alone .

But by the time they find her they find her after she defeats orin she's Exhausted and bloody they would get there too late as they would enter the temple and get close to her Astarion and the others would hear her go " I reject "and see her get killed by bhaal. His love , his darling was now gone....he cradles her when withers appears to bring her back .

If this is a lot I'm sorry I got carried away . I haven't found anything but one snippet someone made about this scene . And I love you writing and wish to see your take on this .

Sorry im so late, but here i am. Lete but always coming back at a certain point t.t

BG3 x durge HC When you refuse bhaal

The shock of the new discovery downs on the group only when you return to the elfsong tavern. The room is filled with an unusual tension as everyone follows your movements unsure whether they should trust you or avoid you.

You are silent as you gather your belongings to move, your brain swirling with all the new knowledge as it threatens to overwhelm you.

You move to the bed in the very corner, opposite to where everyone rested, to give them space and to give yourself some as well as you had to reweight the path you followed and prepare for your next act.

It is past midnight when everyone is finally asleep and your plan is finally set in motion. You leave Ketheric’s netherstone on Astarion’s nightstand and leave.

Astarion notices accidentally, the clung of the stone on his nightstand somewhat wakes him from his trance, yet only when it was too late, he realizes what’s going on.

The whole group rushes through the city, quick to reach the sewers and delve deeper into the ravines as everyone is panicking. Whatever you were planning, they knew it was going to be disastrous, and they wouldn’t- no, couldn’t allow it. As much as they were shocked, they still cared about you. Yet the moment the doors of the temple of Bhaal flung open, they were late.

“I reject.” You beamed clearly, not an ounce of remorse in your voice before you quickly turn your head towards the commotion at the door, and you couldn’t help but smile as they all stood there, desperate as you breathed your last breath.

Wyll:

“DAMNED YOU, BHAAL” He yelled as he rushed to your side, his hands quickly reaching around your contorted figure, bringing you to his chest. He pressed his ear to your chest, still arched in his arms, trying to find a pulse, life, anything, yet he was met with silence.

“Shit” He murmurs as he curls on the floor, his arms bound to you as if in a curse. He had to do something. He had saved Baldur’s Gate, slayed dragons, minotaurs, and couldn’t save you, his sweet love.

How many people was he bound to lose? Was he ready to give up his dream of a life with you? No, no, no he wasn’t, so he did what his chest told him to do.

It was almost a cry in pain as he sobbed the syllables out loud, knowing she was already listening. She was always there, he knew it.

“Mizora, do what you do best” He spat as the tears still descended down his scarred cheeks.

“Now, now,  pet.” She tsked sadness in her voice. “I wouldn’t rush certain decisions” She warned, aware of what was going to happen, yet incapable of telling him it was already going to be okay.

Gale:

He is rushing down to the altar, trying to stop the inevitable as he tries to cast a spell, Tiny Hut, as if it could stop a God’s punishment. He should have known better.

“Why did you do it, you fool” He cried out as he sunk to his knees, hopelessly placing his head on your chest to feel your pulse, as if the broken bones were not enough an indication of how dead you were.

The second he couldn’t feel your heartbeat, and he could physically feel your body from growing cold, he couldn’t hold back the tears anymore, soaking your shirt as he clinged to you as if you were going to disappear at any moment, his sobs echoing in the temple.

“You can’t leave me, you understand?” He sobbed as he fisted your shirt and hopelessly tried to shake you awake. 

Astarion

Shit.

He’s running before you can even fall to the ground, oh he wished he had some magic to protect you from the impact with the floor, but he could barely make it in time to see you eyes turn lifeless.

“You can’t do this to me, you idiot, I love you, you understand. I can’t bear to see you like this“ He cries as he hoists you up in his lap, your head lolling on his shoulder.

“I love you” He whispers as his head drops to the side, the tears flooded his eyes as he rocked the two of you back and forth. “Tav, please” He murmured as if just begging would help.

Shadowheart

They say there’s nothing worse for a medic to see their loved ones hurt, their bodies fall to the ground helpless as they can do nothing but stare. They say that you lose all reason, and that’s what she felt like. She felt as she lost everything all over again. She felt just like when she was under Shar’s tyranny all over again.. lost.

Before she could comprehend what she was doing she was on her knees, your head resting on her  thighs as she rubbed her hands together and channeled all her magic in the healing spell. Yet it was not enough. She tried and tried as tears stained her cheeks as, one at a time, they joined her in a circle, some trying to reassure Shadowheart and some already feeling defeated.

But she didn't want to lose faith, she couldn't. She couldn't just abandon her lover when your love had just had the chance to blossom anew. She couldn't give up.

“Where is that sack of bones?” She wailed as she picked up the beaten body. “Someone call withers please” She'd beg desperately until he appeared in front of her, and maybe there was still a chance.

Lae’zel

You can’t be dead, she swears as you break in front of her. She wonders how you do it, to smile one last time as you bid her goodbye before falling to the ground, as your bones split in half yet you hold back the screams. It can’t be.

It takes her one second too long to realize what's going on before she’s at your side. Her hands barely shaking as she picks you up and cradles you to her chest.

“Bhaal, can you hear me?” She asks in the hollow temple. “You have made a dangerous enemy” She swears as she tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “I will find you and I will slain you” She screams as she does her best to hold back the tears and stop her voice from shaking. “Tsk'in'va” She can almost hear the god’s laughter as she pulls you impossibly closer, whispering in your ear. “I will avenge you, my love”

Karlach

Anger bubbles up in her stomach, as she bolts down the stairs. "you can't abandon me too, Okay Soldier?” For once she fights the rage, she turns the heat into despair as she falls to her knees and envelopes you with her warmth. It was heartbreaking, for so long she was Stripped of love, of care, and once again the universe was against her. “ FUCK YOU BHAAL. If you think you can take them away from me, you are wrong.” She pulled you up in her arms rocking your lifeless body as shadowheart approached you two. “I WILL HUNT YOU DOWN AND TAKE AWAY ALL YOU CARE ABOUT, You sack of shit“ She screamed in front of the hollow altar that she desecrated with her spit.

Halsin:

Halsin can’t believe his eyes; his body moves as per inertia as he rushes next to you, his arms finding their home around your middle as their usual, and yet met with your lifeless body. He doesn’t care about what happens around him, as your companions take out their weapons ready to fight, he weeps, he prays Silvanus, he holds you as if everything depends on your sweet eyes meeting his again, but he knows.

He knows deep down that Silvanus can’t help him, that his tears can’t bring you back to him, and so he clutches desperately to your cooling body, uncaring if his robes soak in your blood, uncaring if he will break down in front of everyone.

He uses all his magic attempting to heal you, he begs Shadowheart and Jaheira, but neither can help.

The room fell silent when everyone but your companions were alive, the echo of the sobs mixed with the panting as Halsin managed to cast one last spell. The crown of roses sits around your temple delicately as he can’t help but sob louder. So many times he had wished he could stop in a flowerfield to make you a crown, the crown you deserved, yet the only time he was able to give you the flowery circlet, it was as you laid dead in his embrace.

Withers speaks and speaks as Halsin weaves his hands with yours, before placing a soft kiss to your forehead. His tears stained both his and your skin as he can’t help but ignore what the Skeleton is saying, whispering prayers, begging to have you back.

“My love, please, please please” He says under his breath, his eyes are completely drained of tears, his throat is sore, his body aches from sitting on his knees for so long, and yet he doesn’t let go. “Silvanus had just blessed me with you, I can’t lose you already” He cries as he holds you to his chest tighter. Then he feels. The slow beat in your chest, your body fighting to get back in its shape, your chest rising rhythmically as your eyes finally open.

“My love” He sobs as he tightens his grip around your frame. “Don’t do this to me ever again” He nuzzles his head against your shoulders, more tears streaming heavily down his cheeks as his prayers turn to thanks.

“I thought I had lost you forever. For so long I wanted to give you a token of my love and I-” He hiccups. “I failed you, my love”

[shizuturnspages]

The mother of diluc is a complete mystery and it is as if she does not exist 🤔🤔

Do you think she's a traveler or witch who erased herself from the memories of others?

Let's say that reader had an open or strange relationship with the father of diluc xD, what kind of relationship mother and son would they have?? (Nobody knows reader, but diluc and kaeya do) Thank you :3 could be yandere if you want

The Forgotten Flame

Synopsis: There was a time when she was nowhere—when her existence had been smudged from history like ink wiped from a page. No portraits. No records. Not even a whisper of her name. And yet, Diluc remembered. Kaeya remembered. Even if no one else did.

A Love Lost in Time

Crepus Ragnvindr had been a man of ambition, but more than that, he had been a man of secrets.

The greatest of them was her—a woman who did not belong to Teyvat, who carried no past, who left no trace but the embers in Diluc’s blood and the ghost of a memory that clung to Kaeya’s mind like a forgotten dream.

To everyone else, she did not exist.

To them, she was everything.

Diluc – The Son Who Remembers

He did not speak of her.

Not because he had forgotten—he couldn’t. Even if he tried, even if he wished to let her go, her presence lingered in his veins, in the fire that burned too bright, too untamed, as if it had never belonged to this world in the first place.

“Diluc.”

His grip on the glass tightened at Kaeya’s voice. The tavern was quiet, the evening lull settling over Angel’s Share like a thick fog.

“She was here again, wasn’t she?” Kaeya mused, twirling his wine absentmindedly.

Diluc didn’t answer.

There was no point in lying.

She was always here.

Not in flesh. Not in voice. But in the way the lanterns flickered when no wind passed, in the way the wine never tasted quite as sweet as it did when she poured it for them.

“I don’t understand why you let her haunt you,” Kaeya continued, his usual jest missing, replaced with something heavier.

Diluc exhaled. Because he was still her son.

Because the world had forgotten her.

But he wouldn’t.

He couldn’t.

Kaeya – The Orphan’s Memory

Kaeya had no mother.

Not really.

And yet, the first time she had pressed a cool hand to his forehead when he was sick, the first time she had looked at him—really looked at him—he had believed, just for a moment, that he could have been hers.

That he could have been theirs.

But it was a lie.

A sweet one, a cruel one, because he remembered her, too.

Even when no one else did.

Even when her name vanished from the manor, when the maids stared at him blankly whenever he mentioned her, when Crepus’ eyes no longer carried the warmth of a man who had once loved something not of this world.

Kaeya remembered.

He remembered the way Diluc clung to her, the way she smelled of something not quite real, the way her eyes shimmered with the kind of knowledge that came from beyond Teyvat’s borders.

He also remembered the way she left.

The way one day, she was simply gone.

And no one but them seemed to care.

The Return of the Forgotten

She never should have come back.

Not when she had spent so long ensuring that the world would never recognize her.

But Mondstadt was still the same, still carrying the scent of wind and grapes, still humming with the distant echoes of laughter that belonged to children who no longer needed her.

And yet—

She felt it before she saw him.

The rage. The hurt.

The fire.

When Diluc stood before her, he did not look surprised. He did not look relieved.

He looked furious.

“Why did you come back?”

His voice was quiet, steady, but she knew better than to mistake that for calm.

“I…” she hesitated.

What could she say? That she missed him? That she regretted it? That she never wanted to leave?

That she had been erased?

But before she could answer, another voice cut through the night.

“Welcome home,” Kaeya murmured, and his smile was sharp, his eyes calculating, as if he were peeling her apart piece by piece.

“Did you miss us?”

There was no warmth in his voice.

Only accusation.

Only the unspoken why did you leave?

Why did you forget us?

But she hadn’t.

Not really.

She just hadn’t realized how much they remembered.

And how much they refused to let go.