#but it can also be after he declared himself king)

[suliigwp]

Only Mercy I Could Give

King Maximilian Verstappen x Assassin!Reader

part of the TRONAB series

First Read All You Need To Know Here

SULI: HEY BESTIES! I cannot tell you how in love I am with this world I've created and the little personalities the reader will have in every chapter— after the series is over PLEASE FEEL FREE (like please) to request anything from this world again I am in love — I hope you'll love this as much as I do, thank you for your support and for being here with me🫶

THE PART TWO OF THIS STORY HERE

Warnings: wars, murder... (Not proofread... Hehe I'm lazy)

Smoke has a sound.

Max knows that now.

It crackles, yes—but it also sighs. It whispers through the bones of the ruined city like a lullaby for the dead.

He stands at the highest tower of the fallen capital, boots blackened by ash, blood drying on his fingers like rust. Below, the city burns.

It should feel like triumph.

Instead, it feels like silence.

A general approaches behind him—someone with polished armor and too many words. Max doesn’t turn. Doesn’t blink.

“They’re calling it a final victory,” the man says carefully. “Valtarys is unified. The other crowns are gone. The boy king of Solmara is confirmed dead. Castelana’s been scattered. Liora—”

“Bent the knee,” Max finishes, low. “I know."

The wind shifts. He closes his eyes. The crown is being polished behind him. He can hear the servants murmuring in the chamber below. The torchlight flickers. The people chant his name in the square, over and over again like they’re begging for something.

“Your Majesty,” the general dares say—for the first time.

Max doesn’t respond.

The general shifts again.

“They’ll want you to speak, sire. At the coronation.”

Max opens his eyes.

And they are empty.

Like the war carved out whatever was human and left only the shape of him behind.

“No,” he says.

The general hesitates. “No… speech, Your Majesty?”

Max finally turns, eyes sharp like broken glass.

“No. I’ve already spoken. In everything they’ve buried to get me here.”

He steps down from the tower, the crown waiting in the shadows.

“They wanted a king,” he murmurs. “Let them choke on him.”

He descends the tower like a man walking to his own funeral.

The ruined stone stairs wind through the keep, lit by half-dead torches that flicker against the soot-black walls. Every step echoes like a bell toll. And still—the chants rise outside like a storm tide: “Valtarys! Valtarys! Valtarys!”

Max doesn’t flinch.

Two guards bow at the doors to the grand chamber, hands resting on their swords as though they expect something to go wrong.

He pushes open the doors himself.

Inside, the chamber is gold.

Gold ceilings. Gold columns. Gold trim on blood-red silk.

As if covering the bones of this war-stained palace in shine will make people forget it once burned.

There are nobles gathered, cloaked in submission.

A bishop. A bladebearer. The steward of crowns.

And the throne—massive, obsidian black, carved from stone dragged from the mountains after the first conquest.

It is not a beautiful thing.

It was not meant to be.

The bishop raises a scroll, ready to begin the coronation rite.

Max walks straight past him.

He doesn't kneel. Doesn’t wait. Doesn’t speak.

He grips the crown in both hands.

It’s heavy.

Not with weight—but with memory.

This was the crown of the kings he killed.

The crown of the boy he crushed at the River Arlin.

The crown that watched five cities burn.

He places it on his own head.

No fanfare.

No ceremony.

The bishop hesitates.

“…By the gods and the will of the realm,” he begins cautiously, “I declare—”

Max lifts a single hand.

The room goes silent.

“I don’t want your blessings,” he says, voice low and carved from iron. “I don’t want your rites.”

He turns, facing the room—then the open windows beyond, where the whole of Valtarys waits.

“I took this crown,” he says simply. “With blood. With steel. With fire.”

And he sits.

Not like a ruler.

Like a man anchoring himself to what’s left of the world.

The room exhales. Then bows.

Outside, bells toll.

Inside, no one breathes.

The king has been crowned.

And no one dares say what they truly think.

...

Valtarys, one month after the Crown War

The war had ended a month ago, but the halls of Valtarys had not yet learned what peace was supposed to sound like. The silence here wasn’t gentle. It was cold. Suspicious. Still armed. Dust hovered in the air like smoke that forgot to leave, and the courtiers walked like they were waiting for a blade to fall—not from above, but from behind.

The king did not speak often. He didn’t need to.

When he entered the war chamber that night—long after the bells had quieted, after the wine had gone stale—there were only three people in the room: the steward, a guard, and the general who had survived the longest. Max walked to the head of the war table without a word.

The maps were still there. Every city. Every fallen kingdom. Markers made of iron—sharp at the bottom, so they pierced the wood when pushed into place. He stared at them like he was staring at ghosts. His crown was somewhere on the floor behind him. He’d thrown it earlier.

The general cleared his throat gently.

“Sire. The last stronghold has sworn fealty. The rebellion’s quiet. The—”

“Do you think it’s over?” Max asked softly.

The man blinked.

Max didn’t look up.

“I asked you a question.”

The general straightened. “I… no, Your Majesty.”

“Correct,” Max murmured.

He lifted one of the markers—House Castelana. Red enamel chipped, burned on one side. He turned it over in his fingers, slow.

“They kneel,” he said, “but their hands are still wrapped around knives.” He set it back down. “They send coin, but not soldiers. They smile at feasts, but their scribes send messages in ciphered ink.” His voice never rose. “They think peace means I’ll stop watching.”

He looked up now. Cold. Still.

“But I see them.”

The steward shifted nervously. “What would you have us do, sire?”

Max was quiet a moment longer. Then—he turned fully to the fire, as if watching something dance inside it that no one else could see.

“Call the court.”

The general frowned. “Your—your court, Majesty?”

Max shook his head once. Slow.

“No. The court.”

He turned, eyes flickering like steel.

“Every house I spared. Every kingdom that still breathes. Every bastard heir, second daughter, backwater lord who dares to think they were left untouched. Summon them. To Valtarys. All of them.”

He stepped closer. His voice dropped low, but heavy.

“They will come. Not because they want to. But because they fear what happens if they don’t.”

“They will smile in my throne room, while I watch how they blink when they lie.”

“Let them believe this is unity. Let them dress it in lace and song.”

He leaned against the edge of the table.

“But what we are building… is control.”

The steward nodded, pale as snow.

“I’ll draft the summons at once, Your Majesty.”

Max nodded once. Then he picked up the crown. Turned it in his hands. There was blood dried in the creases. He hadn’t noticed it before.

“Make sure they bring their heirs,” he said absently. “And their clever ones.”

The steward hesitated. “…Your Majesty?”

He looked up. Eyes darker than coal.

“Because clever people betray faster. But they also bleed slower.”

By the next sunrise, the messengers rode out. Sealed letters on black vellum. Bound with Valtarys wax.

By the next sunrise, the messengers rode out. Sealed letters on black vellum. Bound with Valtarys wax.

And as they reached the corners of the realm—so too did the whispers.

In Liora, Prince Charles broke the seal with elegant hands, and stared too long at the words. In the southern wilds, Carlos read his by torchlight, silent. Calculating. Already planning what mask he’d wear.

And somewhere deep in the forest pass between Meravin and Valtarys, a carriage never reached its destination.

She’d been waiting all night. Cloak soaked. Blade hidden beneath her hem. When the wheels creaked into earshot, she stepped into the road like a ghost.

The guards didn’t even draw their swords—just barked at her to move.

She didn’t.

The first two were easy. Fast. No screams. She slipped into the carriage before the others even noticed something was wrong.

The girl was exactly as the rumors said. Fragile, ivory-pale, swathed in traveling silks. She hadn’t even seen the world yet.

She looked up in surprise, confusion—no fear.

"Are you lost?" she asked softly.

She almost didn’t do it.

Almost.

But orders don’t care about softness.

The dagger slid in fast. Under the ribs. No blood on the dress. Just a slow breath that never finished.

When it was done, she dragged the body into the river and let the current take her name away.

She stripped off her cloak, stepped into the carriage, and took the sealed letter from the floor where it had rolled.

Her hand trembled only once—when she pressed the signet ring into warm wax and sealed the lie shut.

She was a Meravin now.

And she was going to Valtarys.

The king had summoned the court.

The game had begun.

...

Valtarys, the Iron Capital

The gates of Valtarys opened like the maw of something ancient.

Two wolves carved from obsidian stone towered above the archway, their jaws meeting in the middle, fangs outstretched as if they could bite down on the sky. Their eyes were inlaid with red crystal—old magic, some said. Cursed, others whispered. Watching. Always watching.

As the massive gates creaked open on rust-forged hinges, a single carriage rolled forward.

Its wheels cracked against the cobbled stone, slick with rain from the night before. Each echo seemed to carry too far, as if the capital itself had fallen silent to listen. The procession that followed was subdued—only a handful of guards, all on edge, too tense for a formal arrival. Their blades were drawn, but sheathed. Their expressions unreadable. The flag of Meravin fluttered from the side of the carriage, soaked and torn at the edge.

The rumors had arrived long before the girl inside did.

A princess. Hidden for most of her life. Brilliant, some said. Others claimed she was ill, or cursed, or born under a blood moon. No one knew what she looked like. Not even those who had bowed to her house. All they knew was that Meravin was quiet, neutral, and clever—and that its court had finally answered the king’s summons.

Up on the marble terraces above the courtyard, courtiers gathered in the shadows. Ladies in deep-colored silks, scribes with ink-stained fingers, lesser lords wearing stiff collars and practiced sneers. They whispered behind lace fans, tilted their heads to see through the mist.

The carriage door opened.

And she stepped out.

At first, all they saw was black. Deep, layered mourning silk. A full-length veil drawn low over her face, almost to her waist, obscuring every detail. Her gloves matched her gown, and her hair—what little peeked through beneath the veil—was bound tightly, braided with dark ribbon. No jewels. No crest. Not even a visible dagger. Her presence was her weapon.

She moved slowly. Precisely. Like someone whose grief had taught her how to walk without trembling.

It was a performance.

And a perfect one.

Each step she took down from the carriage was deliberate, soft. The guards—those who had survived the fabricated “attack”—kept their heads low. Not one dared look her in the eye. Whether from guilt, shame, or fear, she didn’t know. Didn’t care.

She reached the base of the marble stairs leading into the keep.

A thin breeze swept through the courtyard, and for a moment, it lifted the edge of her veil—just enough for those closest to see the suggestion of her face. Pale. Composed. Her lips unmoving. Her eyes unreadable.

And from the highest balcony above, overlooking it all—

King Maximilian watched.

He stood without guards. Alone. A tall figure in black armor, scarred at the edges and traced with silver. His hands rested on the marble railing. His crown—a circlet of blackened iron—sat heavy on his brow. His gaze never left her.

Not when she paused.

Not when she lifted her chin.

Their eyes met through layers of gauze, stone, and something colder than either.

He didn’t blink.

She bowed, slow and deep, her form folding like silk under snow.

She stayed bowed for a beat too long.

When she rose, she let her gaze flick up—just once. Just enough.

She met the king’s eyes again.

Still, he didn’t move.

The entire courtyard held its breath.

Then the steward stepped forward from the base of the stairs. He unrolled the scroll in his hands, voice echoing across the stillness like the toll of a bell.

“Princess of Meravin,” he called. “You are received by His Majesty, King Maximilian of House Verstappen. Sovereign of Valtarys. Keeper of the Iron Crown. Lord of the Nine Realms.”

The formal words landed with the weight of iron.

Still, the king said nothing.

Still, she did not flinch.

She dipped her head once more, graceful, measured. Then straightened, her hands clasped in front of her, fingers still stained beneath the gloves.

Max’s gaze hadn’t shifted. Not once.

Then—he turned.

He spoke over his shoulder, voice calm, cold, final.

“Let her in.”

The steward bowed so quickly it nearly became a fall.

Guards moved aside. Doors groaned open. Light spilled from within the great keep like something golden—and she stepped into it like a shadow slipping beneath a door.

Inside, the castle was too warm. The air held the scent of polished steel, burnt oil, and roses from a garden no one could see. Tapestries hung from the walls—scenes of old Valtarys, of wolves and flames and crowned warriors who looked more like ghosts than kings.

She walked without hesitation.

Her footsteps barely echoed.

Far behind her, a scribe crossed out a name in the royal guest ledger.

The court had arrived.

And so had the first lie.

...

The First Gathering of the Crowned Court

The throne room of Valtarys had once belonged to another king.

Now, it belonged to war.

Black banners hung between the towering columns, stitched with the sigil of House Verstappen—two wolves, one with its mouth open, the other closed. The room smelled of ash and iron, not incense. The stained-glass windows remained covered. Max had ordered it on the first night of his reign.

The court had gathered in full.

House leaders. War generals. Diplomats dressed in sharp colors and sharper smiles. Some leaned forward, curious. Others sat still, wary. A few glanced at each other—subtle nods, whispered alliances. The seats reserved for Meravin had been empty when the doors opened.

Now they weren’t.

She walked in precisely on time. The princess of Meravin—cloaked in black, still veiled, still silent. A shadow among a room of glass blades.

Max sat at the head of the long stone table, wearing no crown today, only his armor and a look carved from stone.

His eyes locked onto her the moment she stepped in.

“Princess,” he said, his voice low, clear, echoing.

Every head turned toward her. The tension snapped tight, like a pulled bowstring.

“We’ve begun.”

She offered a slow bow. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. I wished to pay my respects to the Iron Garden before stepping into this room.”

The voice was steady. Elegant. Just touched with grief.

The performance was flawless.

Max didn’t blink. “We’ll see if they were well received.”

She moved toward her seat.

Across from her sat a man from the Eastern Realm—calm, ageless, watching her with polite disinterest. Duke Lewis. He gave a slight nod as she passed, unreadable.

Beside him, Prince Charles of Liora leaned back slightly, one finger resting against his lips. He looked at her the way one might look at a riddle carved into marble—admiring, intrigued, trying not to care too much.

Farther down, one of the generals shifted, his jaw tight. Someone else coughed. The silence before a storm.

Max’s voice cut through it.

“Before we begin, one thing must be addressed.”

He did not look at her. But she knew the words were meant for her alone.

“All houses who enter this court do so in full transparency.”

There it was.

She paused beside her chair. Hands still at her sides. Her veil untouched.

And then—without flinching—she reached up.

The room didn’t breathe.

Her fingers found the edge of the silk, and slowly—slowly—she lifted the veil over her head, revealing the face the realm had never seen.

She didn’t smile.

She didn’t need to.

She was younger than some expected. Sharper than others feared. Her features held no softness. They were made of focus, shadow, silence. A curve of mouth that did not often laugh. Eyes too watchful for a court girl. Too calm for someone surrounded by enemies.

But beautiful. Unforgettably so.

The kind of beauty that didn't beg to be liked.

Max stared.

So did Lewis. Charles blinked once, as if surprised that she was real. Having met the princess a few times, but never seeing her without a veil, Charles was exited to go back and tell his douchess what she really looked like.

Only one voice broke the silence.

A merchant lord leaned forward slightly and whispered across to the scribe next to him, “She doesn’t look like a Meravin. They're supposed to be—?"

The other whispered back, "Maybe that's why they hid her away —?"

Max spoke before anyone else could follow.

“She looks exactly how she needs to.”

And with that, he gestured for her to sit.

The session began.

They discussed trade first—boring, sharp-edged numbers and threats behind every offer. Then regional patrols. Rebellions flaring in the western woods. One lord accused another of withholding grain. Voices rose. Apologies were offered like poison in gold cups.

The session trudged on, as council meetings always did—layered in politics, patience, and veiled insults.

She sat without fidgeting, hands folded in her lap, veil tucked behind her now. The silence around her had a shape. The others stole glances when they thought she wouldn't notice. Charles stared too long. A general furrowed his brow every time she so much as shifted.

Max didn’t look at her.

Not directly.

But his voice dropped every time he asked for a report. His thumb tapped once against the arm of his chair when she tilted her head at a particular map. And when she leaned forward slightly—ever so slightly—during a disagreement over borderlines, he spoke up again before anyone else could.

He felt her watching.

She felt him not looking.

That was the game now.

Then, halfway through a debate over grain storage and whether the southern roads should be opened for more frequent trade, one of the lesser lords turned to her directly.

“Perhaps the princess of Meravin would like to offer her thoughts?” he said, his voice soaked in sugar and doubt. “Your house has long been praised for… strategy.”

The pause hung there like a blade.

She lifted her chin.

“Yes,” she said simply. “We have.”

The room stilled.

Her voice was calm, smooth. Not haughty. Not meek. Not at all the voice of someone who had just entered the capital for the first time. Her accent was a whisper of something southern, polished and deliberate. Controlled.

She stood, as was custom when addressing the crown, and turned to face Max. Not the lords. Not the court.

Only him.

“Your Majesty,” she said, bowing her head with the precision of a blade unsheathed. “Meravin’s silence during the Crown War was not indifference, but survival. What we lack in military strength, we maintain in roads, in land, and in knowledge. The grain stored in the Meravin valleys could feed this kingdom through two winters. But those roads must be secured—otherwise they’ll bleed us dry before they ever reach Valtarys.”

She didn’t blink.

“Open the southern roads. But station your soldiers there, not ours. Let the kingdom see it is your crown feeding them, not the lords who let them starve.”

She turned to the rest of the table—slowly, gaze steady, measured.

“Let them love you for it.”

A silence followed that felt too big for a simple trade suggestion.

One of the generals coughed quietly. Another scribbled something into his parchment. The merchant lords were already calculating how much profit they’d gain. Charles leaned forward again, his mouth parted slightly. Impressed.

And Max?

He finally looked at her.

Fully. Clearly. Eyes like polished steel under stormclouds.

And for a long, long moment, he said nothing.

Then—

“Sound strategy,” he said.

Nothing more.

But he held her gaze for three heartbeats longer than necessary.

When he finally turned back to the room, his voice returned to that same, low, steady hum.

“Then we station troops in the south. Effective immediately.”

No one dared question it.

The court moved on.

But the room had already shifted.

She had entered with a borrowed name.

Now, she had spoken with her own voice.

And Valtarys was listening.

...

One day before the death of the Real Princess Meravin

The room was cold. Not the kind of cold that came from stone or wind—but the kind that lived in the bones of old places. She stood in the middle of it, arms crossed beneath her cloak, damp boots still caked with mud. The fire crackled low. Shadows danced against the cracked walls. She didn’t look at the man sitting at the edge of the hearth. She knew his voice before he spoke.

“You came.”

“I always do,” she answered. “What’s the job?”

He didn’t look at her right away. Just stared at the fire, jaw clenched like he’d already been arguing with himself for hours. “This one’s different.”

“They all are,” she said, shrugging off her cloak. “But the coin spends the same.”

“This isn’t about coin.”

She turned, finally meeting his eyes. Familiar. Tired. Eyes that once made her believe in things like home. Eyes she hadn’t seen in nearly a year.

“Then what’s it about?” she asked, carefully. “Why me?”

He stood. Took a slow breath. Walked to the table in the corner and laid out a folded parchment. The seal was broken. The edges torn. She didn’t move toward it.

“He’s summoned the court,” the man said. “He wants every surviving kingdom, every noble house, every voice left in the realm at his table.”

She stared at the paper.

He didn’t say the name.

He didn’t have to.

Valtarys.

The King.

Maximilian.

Her jaw tensed. “You want me to go to him?”

“No,” he said quietly. “I want you to end him.”

Silence.

She didn’t laugh. Didn’t curse. Just stood still, every part of her trained body frozen for half a breath.

“The envoy from Meravin—” he continued, “—they’ve kept her hidden her whole life. Only a few know her face. No one’s seen her since the war. She’s being sent to Valtarys tomorrow.”

“And?”

“You intercept her. Take her place. Slip into the court before anyone learns her name. You earn his trust. You wait.”

“And then?”

His voice dropped, low and final. “You kill the king.”

She didn’t move. Not yet. Just stared at him.

“You told me you were done with vengeance,” she said. “You told me—”

“I told you he burned my brother alive,” he snapped. “I told you he razed our cities and left the children buried in ash. I told you what his peace really means. And I told you, one day, we’d take it back.”

She swallowed. Her voice was quieter when she said, “So this is how it ends. Not on a battlefield. Not with a crown lost in war. But a knife in the dark.”

His expression didn’t change.

“He has to die,” he said. “He’s too powerful now. No army can reach him. No rebellion can touch him. But you—you’re the only one who could ever get close enough.”

“And when I do?” she asked. “What happens after?”

“You disappear,” he said. “You vanish. We’ll never speak again.”

She nodded once.

Then again.

But she didn’t look at him.

He crossed the room and placed a dagger on the table. Not ornate. Not ceremonial. Just clean, black steel.

“I didn’t want to ask you,” he said. “But I trust no one else.”

She didn’t pick up the blade. Just said, without looking at him, “You still dream of justice.”

“I dream of an end.”

She stepped forward slowly. Wrapped her fingers around the hilt.

“I’ll do it,” she said. “For you.”

“No,” he said. “Do it for all of us.”

...

The war room of Valtarys was nothing like the throne room.

No stained glass. No gold trim. Just bare stone walls, dim torchlight, and a long table carved from an ancient tree felled in the Crown War. Scratches still marred the surface from old blades and spilled ink. A massive map of the realm lay unfurled across it—edges curling, corners pinned with iron daggers.

The fire crackled in the hearth. One candle burned at the center of the table.

Max stood at its head.

His armor was gone. He wore only a black linen tunic and a leather belt, sword still sheathed at his hip. His hair was damp, like he hadn’t bothered to dry it after washing away the weight of the day.

Lewis leaned against the far column, arms crossed, robes as crisp as they’d been that morning. His silence was heavy.

Charles had stayed. Not officially summoned, but Max hadn’t sent him away either. He sat near the corner, one boot tapping slowly against the stone floor, eyes on the map.

Lando was late.

Oscar, already standing in the shadown of the corner.

“Reports from the west,” Max said, his voice low. “Two villages burned. One banner raised.”

He tossed a rolled parchment onto the table.

“Carlos?” Lewis asked without looking up.

Max gave a short nod.

“No sign of him, but the men who led it spoke his name. Loudly. Publicly.”

Charles leaned forward, brow furrowed. “The rebellion was supposed to be scattered. That’s what you told the court.”

Max looked at him. “It was. Now it’s not.”

Oscar stepped forward from the corner. Quiet as breath.

“They’re gathering in the pines,” he said. “Moving between the old trade routes. The ones the kingdom stopped using after the war.”

“They know the blind spots,” Lewis murmured.

“They were ours once,” Max replied.

He didn’t need to say more.

Silence settled. Thick.

Then Charles spoke again. “You think Carlos wants the crown?”

“No,” Max said. “He wants to take it from me. That’s different.”

There was no anger in his voice. Only truth.

Lando finally arrived—messy, slightly out of breath, a faint cut on his jaw.

“Riders were spotted near the southern watchtower,” he said as he dropped a blood-marked rag on the table. “No sigils. No survivors.”

He nodded toward the map. “That’s Meravin’s border.”

The room paused.

Max didn’t look up. Just smoothed a crease in the map with one finger. “Then we’ll tighten the gates.”

“They’ll notice,” Lewis said.

“I want them to.”

Charles looked across the table. “And the princess?”

Max’s hand stopped moving.

“She’s not the threat,” he said.

“Yet,” Lewis added.

Oscar said nothing. But his eyes never left Max’s face.

The fire cracked. Somewhere outside, the wind howled through the Iron Garden.

Max stood at the table, shoulders tense, staring down at the map—not at the borders, but at the supply lines.

He placed a finger at the edge of the southern trade route, where Castelana once thrived. Then slowly traced north, toward the capital.

“They’re testing us,” he said.

Oscar looked up. “Who?”

“That’s the question.”

He glanced at a sealed scroll beside him—wax slightly broken, the insignia of House Valcorre still visible.

“This letter was meant to confirm grain convoys from Meravin. Sent a week ago, addressed to me personally. Except…” He held up a second scroll, identical.

“This one arrived three days earlier. Also from Meravin. Same message. Same seal. Slight variation in phrasing.”

Lewis narrowed his eyes. “Forgeries?”

“No. That’s what’s unsettling. Both are legitimate. Both came through official channels. But one of them was hand-delivered to a steward who no longer works in this castle.”

He let that sink in.

“Disappeared a month ago. Quietly. No official leave. His name was never cleared from the castle roster.”

Charles leaned forward. “You think he was used?”

“I think he was planted. And whoever did it had access to the court’s rotating service logs.”

Oscar stepped beside the map. “We’ve been assuming the disruption is external. But this—this feels internal.”

Max nodded. “Not a coup. Not yet. Something slower. A reshaping.”

He picked up another paper. This one, a detailed ledger.

“This report claims southern arms were delivered to the eastern gate of Valtarys ten days ago. But that gate’s been under reconstruction for two months.”

Lando cursed softly. “So they’re using dead gates. Routes no one checks.”

“They know how we file,” Max said. “How we overlook things under our own roof.”

Lewis folded his arms. “You think they’ve already infiltrated?”

“No,” Max said. “They’ve been here. For a while.”

He stepped back from the table, gaze distant.

“We keep looking for a rebellion with banners and blades. But someone’s already drawing new maps beneath us. Quiet ones. With ink, not blood.”

Charles exhaled, slow. “You don’t suspect any council member yet?”

Max’s voice dropped.

“Not yet. But the timing of Meravin’s arrival is… convenient.”

Oscar glanced up. Just slightly.

Max didn’t follow the look. Didn’t name names. Just folded his hands behind his back.

“I want the next three caravans rerouted without notice. New guards, new gates. Don’t announce them.”

Max turned to Oscar, precise as ever.

“I want you on the paper trail. Start at the western quarter—Valewatch, the ravine scribes, then push outward to the border files—”

Oscar flinched.

It was quick. Controlled. But not well enough.

“That far west?” Oscar asked, quieter than usual.

Lando looked up from where he was fidgeting with a ring. Lewis paused mid-fold of his arms.

“I… can’t go that far,” he said.

His voice didn’t waver. But something behind it pulled, like taut string just shy of snapping.

Max’s gaze lingered on him a beat too long.

Then his gaze relaxed again.

“Right,” Max murmured. His voice was cool, casual, but the room shifted with it. “Your… situation.”

Charles looked up. Lewis froze just slightly beside the flame.

But Max moved on before questions could root.

“Begin in the east. The inner court scribes. That will do for now. Follow the paperwork. The forges, the scribes, the runners. Quietly. If someone’s rearranging our court from within... I want to see the shape of it.”

Oscar gave a sharp nod. His hand had curled—just once—at his side, like he was grounding himself.

Max didn’t look again. But he made a mental note of the border Oscar would not cross.

And the storm he might be tethered to.

Then to Lewis and Charles:

“Delay your responses to any outer kingdom for two days. See who asks why.”

And finally:

“Do not speak of this beyond this room. Whoever they are, they’re listening. I can feel it.”

The fire crackled low. The walls held their silence.

And somewhere far below, the kingdom kept moving—just slightly off-rhythm.

Finally, Max spoke again—quiet, firm, absolute.

“Carlos is moving. The court is watching. And someone’s lying in this castle.”

He looked up.

“Find out who.”

...

The walls were too clean.

That was the first thing she noticed—not the guards in ceremonial armor, not the velvet runners down the hall, not even the absence of sound that fell over everything like snow. The stone was polished. Too polished. And the torches along the corridors burned too steadily for a castle this large. The scent of burning oils and citrus soaked the air, but underneath it, faint as breath on glass, she smelled smoke.

Old smoke.

From wars that had ended too quickly.

She walked in silence, steps slow but certain, her veil falling like a silk shadow over her shoulders, obscuring the sharpness of her jaw and the edge in her eyes. She held herself like nobility—neck long, back straight, hands folded at her waist. Just enough softness. Just enough lie. But everything in her was on edge. Every footstep calculated. Every corner mentally mapped.

This wasn’t a palace. It was a trap built like a throne room.

And someone had made sure it was beautiful enough to make you forget that.

She passed by two guards stationed at an archway leading toward the banquet wing. Their eyes lingered on her—not rudely, not lecherously, but with the kind of caution that came from serving a king who did not tolerate mistakes.

She lowered her eyes. Bowed her head.

Walked on.

Her pulse didn’t shift.

They told her Valtarys Castle had been reforged from the bones of the conquered. That its stones had been quarried from razed capitals, its foundation paved with the marble tiles of three fallen thrones. She saw it rully as she turned a corner.

The stained glass window.

High, elaborate, nearly the full height of the wall. Crafted with precise, reverent hands and lit from behind by the western sun.

It showed the siege of Solmara.

She recognized it instantly. The spires, once gold, depicted now as blackened, crumbling. The queen on her knees. The fires behind her. And a figure standing above it all—shrouded in shadow, crown held in blood-stained hands.

She stared longer than she meant to. Not out of reverence. Not even hatred. But to examine the light. To study the distortions in the glass—where reflections overlapped, where angles split the corridor behind her. She counted the exits. Clocked the blind spots. Calculated the distance to the nearest tapestry that could hide a blade.

Behind her, a child’s laughter broke the silence.

She turned.

A boy no older than six darted past her, giggling. Behind him, a nursemaid followed, apologizing as she passed with a hurried bow. The boy waved at her.

She smiled.

Practiced. Sweet. Hollow.

Then she kept walking.

By midday, she had already mapped three wings of the castle. She had counted the shifts of two separate guard patrols, learned where the castle dogs were walked and at what hour, and discovered that the war room’s balcony faced an inner courtyard with a broken drain gate just large enough to slip through.

She had also discovered something far more valuable: silence.

Not the silence of peace. Not the hush of reverence.

But the silence of unspoken things.

She was seated during a midday council session—present, but not important. Her presence was treated as ceremonial. The envoy from Meravin. A noble daughter raised behind veils and books, here to fulfill diplomatic appearances and flatter a king’s pride.

They didn’t expect her to listen.

She did anyway.

Trade routes were discussed. Grain stores. Tax levies from the west. Boring details.

But then…

Border tensions.

She felt it then.

The shift.

And still… she waited.

Waited for him.

Not out of nervousness.

Out of necessity.

She needed to study him. She needed to understand the man she had to kill. And yet… when he entered that chamber, when he finally stood at the head of the war table and swept a single look across the room—

Her blood cooled.

Not from fear.

From instinct.

He was not what they told her.

He was worse.

He did not speak often. But when he did, the room fell still. He did not move like a man ruling by force. He moved like a man who had ruled without question. His eyes were unreadable. Cold. Distant. But not detached. She felt them on her once. Just once. A flick of recognition, too brief to call awareness.

But she felt it.

She felt heat bloom beneath her skin.

Danger.

That night, in the guest chambers she’d been given—draped in silver curtains and cold marble—she unfastened the pearls from her neck. They clinked softly against the lacquered tray.

She poured herself wine from a decanter left on the table.

It tasted like fruit and velvet. Too rich.

She drank it anyway.

Then she stepped in front of the mirror. Pale candlelight licked at the edges of her face. Her reflection looked like someone else.

That was the point.

She whispered the name they gave her. The name that wasn’t hers.

Once.

Then again.

Then a third time.

Not because she needed to remember.

But because one day, someone might call it out in warning—or rage—and she’d need to answer like it had always belonged to her.

...

The council chamber was a cathedral of tension.

Old stone walls caught every word like secrets. Torches guttered along columns carved with the names of dead kings, casting flickers of gold across a war table stained with history.

Max stood at the head of that table, arms folded, ringless fingers curled loosely beneath his jaw. His silence held more weight than anyone else’s voice.

The nobles didn’t notice. Most never did. They thought the Crown War had made him brutal, made him cold.

They forgot it had made him observant.

General Alonso leaned forward, pointing at a cluster of tiny markers on the western ridges. “Skirmishes along the Valewatch lines have intensified. Scouting parties are returning with bruised ankles, cracked ribs, and claims of shadows too fast to name. Three riders disappeared this week. One returned without a tongue.”

Murmurs spread.

Max’s gaze didn’t shift from the map.

But something else did.

Her.

The envoy from Meravin — the princess in name, the stranger in silk.

She had not spoken for some time. Had merely sat, hands folded in her lap, eyes placid. Watching.

But now…

Max saw it.

Her eyes moved.

Not toward Alonso.

But to the exact ridge on the map before he spoke.

She didn’t trace. She didn’t blink. Her gaze simply settled — as if it knew where the pain already was.

A subtle flick. The kind of detail no court would catch. But Max did.

She looked at Valewatch two seconds before the general’s hand even touched it.

The room kept speaking. Alonso continued.

Max said nothing.

But a thread pulled, quiet and sharp, in the back of his mind.

He shifted slightly, enough to glance down the table. Lando Norris sat three seats to the left — posture half-lazy, one boot tapping under the bench, fingers turning the edge of a wine cup.

But his eyes?

They were on her.

Not long. Just a glance. A little too steady. A little too knowing.

Lando didn’t speak. He never did in these meetings unless asked. But his brow furrowed, and he tilted his head as if trying to place something he’d seen before.

Max caught that, too.

The council pressed on, debating grain shortages and steel from the East, but Max’s attention splintered into parts.

One part stayed sharp on the map.

Another on Lando’s glance.

And the third stayed locked on her.

She had resumed her diplomatic posture — quiet, polite, untouched.

But that moment…

That moment didn’t belong to a diplomat.

That moment belonged to someone who had seen the battlefield before the reports arrived.

When the meeting finally ended, the nobles filtered out in pairs and trios, voices fading into marble corridors. Lando was one of the last to rise, stretching his arms dramatically like a man who didn’t just notice a stranger make a war table twitch.

Max didn’t say anything.

But Lando caught his look.

And for once, Lando didn’t smile.

He just nodded once, slow.

Max turned back to the table and stared at the ridge where her eyes had landed before the war was even spoken aloud.

And for the first time since the Crown War ended…

He felt uneasy in his own castle.

...

She had just begun to believe he wouldn’t summon her.

Three days since the council meeting, two since the banquet, one since the quiet glance across the great hall that lingered too long. She had traced the shape of that moment again and again in her thoughts, unsure whether she’d imagined it — or if he’d truly looked at her like that.

Like he knew something.

Like he wanted her to know he knew.

So when the quiet knock came at her door near moonrise, she wasn’t surprised.

She followed the guard through the castle’s western corridors, not asking where they were going. She had already memorized the paths. She knew which ones led to the war rooms and which led to the crypts. She recognized this one — the turn near the carved pillar, the scent of damp stone and rose oil.

The garden.

Of course.

A king never confronts. Not directly.

He walks among flowers and lets the silence do the rest.

The door opened onto a courtyard lit only by moonlight and flame. Braziers burned low. The night air was cool, brushing against her skin like breath. She stepped out carefully, veil still in place. Her slippered steps made no sound on the marble floor.

He was already there.

Standing beside a tall rose tree, dark cloak drawn over his shoulders like a second crown. He turned when she approached — not sharply, not with surprise. As if he’d known the exact moment she would arrive.

“Lady Meravin,” he said. His voice was quiet. Unhurried.

She dipped her head. “Your Majesty.”

He gestured to the path beside him. “Walk with me.”

It was not a request.

She took her place beside him. Not too close. Not too distant.

They walked in silence at first. Past trimmed hedges and quiet fountains. Past old statues weathered by wars he had survived.

He didn’t look at her. Not yet.

“When I summoned the court,” he said at last, “I wasn’t sure Meravin would respond.”

She answered lightly, “My kingdom honors its oaths. Even in uneasy times.”

“And yet, it has been… quiet. For years.”

She smiled behind her veil. “There is wisdom in silence.”

He paused beside a bench of black stone. “Or secrecy.”

Her breath held. A half-beat. Just enough.

“Some would say the two are the same,” she replied.

Now he looked at her.

The first true look. No council chamber. No audience. Just moonlight and scrutiny. His eyes weren’t as cold as she expected.

But they were worse.

Sharp. Alive. Calculating.

She felt the weight of that gaze settle over her like chainmail.

“You’ve adapted quickly to court,” he said. “You seem to understand things most newcomers don’t.”

She tilted her head. “I was raised to observe.”

“Observation,” he murmured. “A dying skill.”

Another step.

Another silence.

He glanced toward a rose in bloom — sharp-petaled and dark. “Tell me, Lady Meravin. If you were in my place… would you trust a court built by the kingdoms I destroyed?”

The question hung in the air like smoke.

And she, the snake beneath the silk, answered without blinking.

“No,” she said. “But I would watch. And wait. And see who flinches first.”

A pause.

And then — something unexpected.

He smiled.

Not warmth.

Not charm.

But something close to recognition.

“You’ll do well here,” he said.

Then turned, and walked ahead, the dark of his cloak trailing behind him like a storm that had yet to fall.

She remained there, under the moonlight, for a breath longer than she should have.

Because he hadn’t tried to corner her.

He hadn’t questioned her like a man hunting truth.

He’d just spoken.

Like a man already planning what to do once it was revealed.

...

He didn’t summon her this time.

She came anyway.

The doors to the high council chamber groaned open just as the king raised his hand to begin. Heads turned—some with interest, some with open disdain—but none dared speak.

Not when she entered like that.

Lady Meravin moved as if nothing could touch her. As if the air itself parted in deference. Her veil was sheer today, brushed back just enough to reveal the line of her jaw, the dark arc of her lashes. Storm-colored silk clung to her frame without ornament. No jewels. No crest. No colors.

She wore neutrality like armor.

Max didn’t speak. Didn’t gesture. Didn’t acknowledge her at all.

He simply let her sit—in the same place as before, at the edge of the table, where the flickering chandelier light couldn’t quite reach her eyes.

The council began.

Reports of uprisings. Negotiations. Shipments of iron going missing on the northern border.

She said nothing.

But Max could feel her attention like a blade against his throat. She didn’t look around, didn’t fidget, didn’t even blink more than necessary. She listened—actively, precisely. Her eyes moved not with the flow of the conversation, but with the currents beneath it.

When General Alonso grunted about sending troops east, she tilted her head slightly. When the chancellor boasted of a surplus that didn’t exist, her fingers tapped once against her knee, then stilled. And when Lord Taren—fat, smug, always eager to please—suggested raising grain taxes on the border provinces, she didn’t move at all.

She simply exhaled.

Barely audible. Barely real.

But Max caught it.

That subtle release of breath—disbelief, irritation, warning?

He turned his head minutely.

She wasn’t looking at him.

She didn’t need to.

He leaned forward.

“Lord Taren,” he said, voice smooth, “we will not further punish regions already on the brink of revolt. Let’s revisit the trade routes instead.”

Confusion flickered across Lord Taren’s face.

Meravin didn’t even blink.

...

The fire crackled low in his chambers as Max peeled the wax seal from the parchment.

He scanned the first few lines with the kind of stillness that unsettled lesser men.

' Lady Meravin keeps to her quarters. Declines all invitations. Eats sparingly. Dines alone. Attends archery practice at dawn, in the western garden. Her only companion appears to be a personal maid—mute, possibly deaf. She has yet to visit the chapel, the gallery, or the west tower. No unauthorized movements observed.'

Max frowned slightly.

Too silent. Too perfect. Too prepared.

Silence, in his experience, wasn’t the absence of noise.

It was the presence of control.

He read the report twice, fingers drumming once against the edge of his wine glass. Then, wordlessly, he fed the parchment into the flame.

It curled like a dying snake and turned to ash.

“She’s not hiding,” he muttered. “She’s waiting.”

...

The council was in disarray. Tempers had flared. The southern treaty negotiations were hanging by a thread, and the king’s advisors were too busy shouting over one another to see the trap unfolding.

She did.

She saw it, and she acted.

Her voice, when it came, was not loud. Not commanding.

It didn’t need to be.

“If Lord Halric is named envoy,” she said coolly, “the southern lords will walk out. No treaty. No trade. Possibly no peace.”

Silence slammed through the chamber like a blade striking marble.

Dozens of eyes turned to her.

Even Max looked up.

Lord Halric flushed crimson. “How dare you—”

“Your father,” she continued, without blinking, “ordered the hanging of two sons of House Derelan. Their blood still stains the southern stones. You think they’ll forget that because you bring honeyed wine?”

“Those executions were lawful—”

“So is vengeance,” she said.

Her eyes never left his.

The room was frozen.

Max leaned back in his seat, expression unreadable. “You speak with remarkable confidence, Lady Meravin. Do you speak on behalf of your kingdom?”

“Yes. Yes, I do.” she replied calmly. “I speak on behalf of memory.”

She stood. Smoothed her gown with one graceful sweep.

“Forgive me, Your Majesty. I overstepped.”

And without waiting to be dismissed—without even glancing back—she left.

“She should be corrected,” one advisor said, scowling. “Publicly.”

Max didn’t look up from the map he was marking.

“She spoke out of turn,” the man continued. “No woman at court has dared—”

Max’s quill paused mid-stroke.

“I wonder,” he said softly, “how many men at court would’ve dared say what she did. And been correct.”

The advisor cleared his throat. “Still—if you’d like me to speak with her…”

Max set the quill down.

“Tell the kitchens to send hot tea to her chambers. The blend from Tethir. No honey.”

The man hesitated. “Why—”

“Because,” Max said, already turning away, “that’s what she drinks.”

...

The castle slept like it was holding its breath.

Wind clawed at the high towers. Somewhere beyond the gates, the forest moaned. But inside the ancient heart of the keep, all was still—heavy stone and colder silence. No footsteps. No flicker of life.

Except one.

Max descended the narrow stairwell to the royal archives without escort. No guards. No fanfare. The halls had long since been cleared by the steward’s orders, his instructions vague: Do not follow. Do not wait.

It wasn’t insomnia that led him here.

It was her.

Or rather—the absence of her.

Lady Meravin had not appeared at court that day. Not for the diplomatic reception. Not even for the ceremonial procession that was supposedly her reason for being in the kingdom. It was unusual.

And Max did not trust the unusual.

The torches lining the archive corridor had all gone out save one. And beneath that lone, flickering flame, the door stood ajar.

He stepped inside without sound.

She was there.

Bent slightly over a long, cracked table of carved oak, her fingers ghosting across a page the way one might trace a scar. One candle burned beside her, casting a dull glow across the map-strewn surface. Her veil was gone. Her hair—normally braided, perfect—was pulled loose, the strands clinging damp to the back of her neck.

She hadn’t noticed him yet.

Her lips moved. A whisper. Half a prayer, half a thought.

Then, the words:

“Delen ar vassin… valtere en ar kai.”

Old Vessic. Rare. Dead.

Max stopped in the doorway.

He hadn't heard those words spoken aloud since he was a boy, sitting at his grandfather’s feet while the old man sharpened blades and muttered prophecy like poetry.

Her tone was exact. No stammer. No hesitation. Fluent.

And still—she hadn't seen him.

She turned the page slowly, pulling it back with her left hand. The sleeve of her gown shifted, just slightly, revealing a mark.

A bruise.

High up, above the elbow. Faded. Ugly. The color of ruined plum.

Old, but not ancient.

Max's jaw tightened.

It wasn’t the bruise itself that caught him. Warriors bore marks. So did spies. But it was the placement. The shape. The distinct spread of fingers.

It was the kind of bruise left by someone who grabbed.

Hard.

Someone who didn’t care if it hurt.

She straightened—finally sensing him. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t reach for a weapon. She simply froze. As if she’d known this moment would come, and all that remained was the timing.

“Majesty,” she said, her voice low, smooth as silk drawn across steel.

Not startled. Not ashamed.

Max stepped forward. The door whispered shut behind him.

“You speak Old Vessic,” he said quietly.

She turned her head to face him. No veil now. Just eyes that shimmered in the candlelight like tempered gold, trained and unreadable.

“I listen to dead things,” she replied. “You learn a lot.”

Max approached the table, slow, measured. The room felt smaller now. Tighter. Like even the air leaned in to hear.

“You study war records?”

“Patterns,” she said, tapping one page lightly. “Losses disguised as victories. Retreats sold as strategy. Whole kingdoms rewritten with a few clean lines.”

He glanced at the book. Dated three decades past. Southern front.

“You think we lied,” he said.

She looked up at him, gaze steady. “I think someone always does.”

They stood in silence.

The candle flickered. The shadows danced.

Then, very deliberately, she closed the book and laid her palm flat over the cover. Her sleeves fell back into place.

But Max had already seen it.

He studied her face now—not just for deceit, but for something far more dangerous.

Humanity.

The flaw that made killers hesitate.

He stepped closer. Only slightly.

“You didn’t come to the banquet,” he said.

“I wasn’t hungry.”

His brow lifted. “And yet here you are, devouring ghosts.”

A pause. Her expression didn’t shift, but something in her gaze changed—just a flicker, just enough.

“They speak more clearly than the living,” she said softly. “They don’t bother pretending.”

Max watched her.

Longer than he meant to.

And when he turned to leave, he didn’t dismiss her. Didn’t warn her. Didn’t threaten her.

He simply said:

“You should be careful. The dead have sharp tongues.”

Her reply followed him out the door, quiet and almost gentle.

“Only if you fear what they remember.”

...

The wind was sharp at this height. Cold enough to slice. It tugged at the hem of his cloak and whispered through the stone arches like an old friend bearing secrets.

Max stood alone.

The court had long since gone to sleep. Only a few lights still flickered in the lower halls.

He didn’t feel tired.

He felt haunted.

That voice.

Those words.

That bruise.

He should have pressed her. Should have demanded to know who laid hands on her. Should have asked why a woman raised in courtly safety spoke the language of a burned-out empire.

Instead, he’d listened.

He let her speak.

And something in that stillness had unnerved him more than any blade ever could.

“A weapon is forged,” he murmured to the night, “not born.”

He didn’t know yet whether she’d been tempered.

Or if she was still burning.

But he’d seen something tonight.

And now that he had…

He couldn’t unsee it.

...

The storm hit harder than expected.

Snow slammed into the fortress walls with such force the stone moaned under it. The wind howled through the arrow slits like something alive. Everyone—soldiers, servants, horses—had burrowed deep into whatever warmth they could find.The wind howled like it was grieving.

They hadn’t meant to stay the night.

It was meant to be an inspection—symbolic. The northern fortress had sent worrying messages about troop loyalty, and Max wanted to see it for himself. Publicly. Visibly. And she was part of the performance.

Max had expected her to vanish after supper. She hadn't spoken much, just sat at the lower end of the great hall, eating like someone trained not to enjoy food.

When he realized she wasn’t in the wing she’d been offered—bare, cold, barely fit for use—he sent his guards away with a lie about fresh air and quiet.

And he found her.

In a forgotten library tucked under the northern battlements. There were no guards here. No advisors. No watching eyes.

Just her.

She was sitting on the stone floor with her back against the hearth, firelight dancing over the worn hem of her dress. She had stripped off the tight outer layers of court wear, down to a dark linen shift and thick stockings. One boot was off. The other rested beside her, as if she'd gotten halfway through untying it and lost interest.

A blanket—thin, clearly taken from somewhere less-than-royal—was draped around her shoulders. A book lay open in her lap. Her hair was loose, tied only at the nape of her neck. Shadows caught the curve of her cheekbone, the faint, tired set of her mouth.

She didn’t look at him.

Not at first.

“You walk quietly for a king,” she said softly.

Her voice was low. Warmer than usual. Frayed at the edges.

He stepped inside, letting the heavy door close behind him. The fire cast the room in uneven gold, every wall moving with flickering shadows. She didn’t rise. She didn’t cover herself further. She just turned a page and waited.

“You disappeared after dinner,” he said.

“I was told the wing they assigned me doesn’t keep heat.”

“It doesn’t.”

“Then I didn’t disappear. I adapted.”

He moved closer to the fire. Not too close. Just close enough to feel the warmth reach under his cloak. For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Then he noticed the book in her lap.

“Poetry,” he said, almost surprised. “I didn’t take you for the sentimental type.”

She didn’t smile. But something in her mouth tilted.

“It’s not sentimental.” She touched the page with two fingers. “It’s about soldiers starving to death in a siege. Their last words were written as rhymes.”

He lowered himself slowly to sit across from her, on the other side of the hearth.

Not a threat. Not an ally.

Just there.

“And you read that for comfort?”

“I read it to remember what men do when they’re afraid.”

He looked at her for a long time. The flames moved between them, twisting upward. Her face was unreadable—but not impenetrable.

There were cracks. Quiet ones.

Her shoulders were tight from exhaustion. Her hair was damp from melted snow. Her hand was still resting on the page even though she’d stopped reading.

She was holding herself together by routine.

By force of habit.

“Why did you come with me on this inspection?” he asked.

“You told me to.”

“I could’ve left you behind. You didn’t object.”

“I wanted to see how your kingdom treats its edges.”

“And?”

She looked up.

For the first time that night, really looked at him.

“It keeps them cold. Like people it’s not sure it wants.”

That shouldn’t have hit. Not the way it did.

But it did.

And he couldn’t help it—the way his voice softened, just slightly.

“Is that what you are? Something the world isn’t sure it wants?”

A pause.

She didn’t look away.

“No,” she said. “I know what I am. The problem is when others start thinking I’m something else.”

Max felt something shift. Not in her. In him.

Not pity. Not admiration.

Recognition.

She was a creature of function, just like he was. A sword, sharpened. A mind built to observe and outlast. He understood what it meant to be used, and then feared, and then discarded.

She pulled the blanket closer. Her fingers were trembling now—just slightly, from cold or fatigue or neither.

He leaned forward. Reached out.

Paused.

“May I?”

She looked at his hand. Then at him.

Nodded.

He took the edge of the blanket and adjusted it higher over her shoulder—slow, careful. His hand brushed hers in the process.

She didn’t pull away.

“You never flinch,” he said, almost absently. “Not even when I touch you.”

“You’re not the one I’m afraid of.”

“Who are you afraid of?”

Her silence was not a refusal.

It was a wall.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, voice quieter now. “They’re not here. You are.”

A simple truth.

And somehow—it wrecked him.

Because he’d spent weeks preparing for her betrayal.

And now, she was here in firelight. Human. Cold. Still dangerous. But real.

He wanted to ask more. Wanted to push.

Instead—

“I can stay,” he said quietly. “Just until the fire dies.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

And he did.

He stayed.

They said nothing for a long time.

She leaned her head back against the stone. He watched the fire. Her breathing slowed. The snow beat against the window. And for one stolen night in a crumbling fortress at the edge of the world—

Neither of them played a role.

He watched her mount her horse the next morning.

Veiled again. Guarded. Composed.

But her hair was still slightly damp from where it hadn’t fully dried. Her voice, when she gave orders to her attendant, was a shade gentler than usual.

And when their eyes met across the courtyard, something passed between them.

A flicker.

A memory of warmth.

No words. No nod.

Just knowing.

...

He didn’t sleep.

He sat at the edge of his desk, staring down at a blank letter he’d been meaning to write.

He couldn’t stop seeing her.

Barefoot by the fire.

Eyes half-lowered.

A poetry book about dying soldiers resting in her lap.

“She’s dangerous,” he told himself. “Trained. Manipulative.”

“She wants something.”

“She’s lying.”

But another voice—quieter—said:

“So are you.”

He clenched the edge of the desk, jaw tight.

“It was nothing,” he whispered.

But he didn’t believe himself.

...

CASTLE KAVENHOLD

Late Autumn, A Royal Banquet, Four nights before the Winter War Council.

The scent of burning myrrh and roasted pheasant clung to the hall like silk draped too heavily over stone. Courtiers lounged in their finery beneath high-gabled ceilings, murmuring over gold-trimmed goblets and political gossip.

The air buzzed. Not with celebration. But calculation.

Max watched from the high table. One hand on the carved wolf’s-head armrest of his throne, the other loosely curled around a cup of wine he hadn’t touched.

The banquet was a necessity. A performance of power before the war council. Meant to remind the realm — and its watching enemies — that he ruled with unity at his back.

But not all unity is loyal.

And tonight, he could feel the cracks widening.

At the edge of the hall sat Lord Vellen, draped in eastern silk and quiet smugness. A vulture of a man with fingers in too many purses. He had been stirring rumors for weeks — of weakness, of doubt in Max’s legitimacy. Whispers of shifting alliances.

Max had planned to trap him. Not tonight. But soon.

But then—

She stood.

Lady Meravin.

Without warning. Without ceremony.

In her dark veil and silver-trimmed gown, she stepped down from her seat — not rushing, not stalling. Just walking with quiet, precise purpose.

Every head turned.

Max straightened. His council stiffened.

She passed the court musicians, the servants, the scribe table. All the way to Lord Vellen’s side.

Vellen looked up, amused. A slow grin spreading.

“My lady,” he drawled, loud enough for all to hear. “I didn’t think the King let his newest ornaments walk unattended.”

“No, my lord,” she replied. “It’s striking.”

A few polite, nervous laughs. Vellen tilted his head.

“Striking what, exactly?”

“An accord,” she said.

And then she produced it.

A scroll.

Sealed in black wax. With the royal crest.

Max’s crest.

A stunned silence fell over the room.

Even he didn’t move.

“A royal decree,” she said coolly. “Recognizing Lord Vellen’s historic grievances at the border, and offering restitution in the form of trade and protection—should he pledge full, public loyalty to the crown before the Winter Council.”

Vellen blinked.

The scroll trembled slightly in his hand. He knew what this was.

“This is… a forgery,” he said, carefully.

“Is it?” Meravin’s voice remained smooth. “Then why did your men begin troop recalls last week? Why was your steward overheard quoting the exact tax exemption clauses in this document? Why have the merchants in Skir’s Bay already begun renegotiating your salt exports as if this were already law?”

Now Max’s heart was pounding.

He hadn’t written this decree. He hadn’t even seen it.

But she was right.

Those things had happened.

How—

“You knew I would grant it,” Max whispered, half to himself.

Vellen was already pale.

She stepped closer, just a breath away from the noble, her voice quiet enough now that only Max, and a few terrified lords nearby, could hear:

“You wanted to blackmail the crown with half-promises and quiet treason. I simply made your story louder. And now, if you don’t accept this deal, you look like the traitor you almost became.”

“If you do accept, you swear loyalty on paper forged in your name.”

She took one step back.

Curtsied.

“The crown thanks you for your cooperation.”

...

The war room was silent but for the slow hiss of logs burning in the hearth.

She stood near the map table, alone but unbothered. Still composed. Like she hadn’t just outmaneuvered one of the most dangerous men in court.

Max entered slowly, closing the door behind him.

He said nothing at first. Just watched her.

She didn’t look up.

“You went off-script,” he said.

“There wasn’t a script to follow.”

“You made promises I didn’t approve.”

“It won't be a big deal if you do, it was necessary."

Finally, she lifted her gaze.

Her eyes gleamed.

Max stepped closer. His voice dropped.

“You put yourself in front of him. You gambled with power that wasn’t yours.”

“Yes, your magesty...” she said quietly.

He stared at her.

And slowly, the anger drained away.

Because he wasn’t furious. Not really.

He was in awe.

“You saved the crown tonight.”

She looked up at him and down again.

A long silence.

He looked at her then — truly looked.

The way the fire caught in the silk at her throat. The steadiness in her hands. The terrifying stillness in her voice.

She hadn’t done it for applause.

She’d done it because she could.

And maybe — just maybe — because she wanted him to see her.

“I trust you,” he said, before he could stop himself.

And for the first time, her mask cracked.

She smiled.

Not cold. Not mocking.

Sweet. Quiet. Beautiful.

A softness he had never seen in her.

It knocked the breath from his chest.

“Thank you,” she said gently.

And just like that, she sealed it.

A moment he would never forget.

"Have a good night, Princess Meravin."

Later, in bed, Max lies awake staring at the carved ceiling beams.

His chest tight.

He should feel victorious. Empowered.

Instead, all he can feel is her smile burned into his memory.

"She smiled at me like I gave her something precious.

But all I did was tell her I trust her.

Gods help me.

Why do I want to see that smile again?"

TRONAB taglist, comment to be added; @trashmouthsahra @lalala-by-bbnos @fergalaxy

Taglist, comment to be added; @angstynasty @cryinghotmess @mits-vi @dramaticpiratellamas @mimisweetz @mrssaturday @chiara8104 @moonlight-girls-posts @linnygirl09 @rue-t @danielricroll @the-vex-archives @trees-are-books @blodwyn4u @yoruse @ccrickett-t @l-a-u-r-aaa @multifans-things @woderfulkawaii @azrinableuet @mayax2o07 @everyday-is-sunday365 @devilacot @faithxyu @freyathehuntress make sure you can be tagged!

[giantkillerjack]

Betty is so relatable I would do the same shit for my wife

[theglamorousferal]

Teenaged Danny and Bruce meet somehow and become friends. (Summer camp? Boarding school? Training? Gala with Vlad? Can't be a TUE au because the clones need to exist for this particular fic.)

They lose contact when Bruce drops off the map to train to be Batman.

In the meantime, Danny has ascended to the Throne of the Infinite Realms and established himself as some sort of paranormal archeologist in the living world. (It's easiest way to declare treasure from the King's Coffers to the IRS.)

After Vlad got redeemed ( l like to think after he got over himself and realized he was in love with BOTH Maddie and Jack), he turned over all his research to Danny. This includes the fragmented cores of all the Danny clones.

After an issue where Danielle was destabilizing again, they found that if they introduced another person's DNA, that she would stabilize. Sam volunteers. So Danielle is stabilized with Sam's DNA, however it ages her down so now she's her actual age, 11 at this time. Danny is 26, and ends up adopting her, she chooses the name Ellie. Ellie ends up with some of Sam's attributes, like her eyes turning more purple and her hair being easier to tame.

After some researching, it's found that the clone's cores could reform themselves if they can absorb enough healthy ectoplasm and a stable human DNA donor.

When Dan breaks out and is shoved into a clone body, he asks Valerie to be his donor, as she was the last person he had respected. He ends up at three years younger than Danielle. He prefers the name Dante. His skin is darker than it was, and his hair gains a wave to it when in human form, it's still flames when in ghost form.

The first of the failed clones to reform about 5 years later got some of Tucker's DNA. A pair of twins that have heterochromia with one piercing blue and one ocean teal eye, on opposite sides of course. They go by Kelly and Sprite. (they were the bedsheet and pixie ghosts) Somehow the genetics introduced while they were still dormant resulted in them both being girls. They appeared as 9 year-olds.

The last one took the longest to reform and when he did, he reformed as 6 years old. Obsidian used some of Wes's DNA. He got Wes's green eyes and freckles.

Danny is able to work with each of his adopted but also genetic children to harness their powers and helps them re-form their ghost halves so they can choose how they present themselves to the world instead of being locked into their original forms.

Fast forward about 9 years and the Fenton family is attending a gala at a museum that Danny is lending pieces to in Gotham. He ends up running into Bruce who is there with his gaggle of children. They end up getting lost in their conversation and are going over the different things they've been doing since they last saw each other. They end up dancing together at least once, Danny beaming and a quiet smile on Bruce's face not normally seen when he's in his Brucie persona.

Somehow the children of both of them have all found each other and are observing their respective parents closely, noting that they haven't seen their father look so besotted in a long time.

Numbers are exchanged and group chats are made. They plan to Parent Trap their fathers together.

[sourcherryandsprinkles]

Can you do aemond x reader x cregan ?? Reader has a thing with aemond b4 the dance, but after aegon is crowned, she goes with jace to the winterfell and ends up with cregan ?? 🖤♥️

Request: Cregan smut pleaaaaase

A longer fic for Cregan is in the work (Jacaerys twin!Reader), but these take more time to write...so be patient

Warnings: 18+, smut, implied cheating (sort of), oral (f receiving) 

my taglists are here + you can send requests here at any time

—

Cregan Stark wasn't immune to your charms. It didn’t take him long to fall under the spell of the Queen’s daughter, captivated by your breathtaking beauty and fierce determination. 

Since the day you and Jacaerys landed in Winterfell, you and the northern Lord had many occasions of getting physically closer, but Cregan refused to engage in anything with someone who was already promised to another. He didn’t want that kind of trouble. 

Yet, he found himself drawn to your presence, unable to deny the stirring of emotions you awakened within him whenever you were around. He felt drawn to you in a way he had never experienced before.

But control was more difficult when he had a few cups of wine at supper. 

Cregan stopped at the junction of the guest wing and his private quarters, the flickering torch lights casting shadows on the stone walls of Winterfell. ‘’I should not accompany you to your chamber tonight, Princess,’’ he said, his voice thick with restraint as you walked through the corridors.

‘’Why not?’’ you asked, raising an eyebrow as you stepped closer to him. ‘’You agreed on a cup of wine.’’

‘’I did. But I'm afraid I will not be able to resist to temptations if I am alone with you,’’ Cregan admitted, his gaze locking onto yours with a mix of desire and hesitation. ‘’And I cannot give in to such desires.’’ 

You chuckled softly, leaning against the cold stone wall and looking up at him with a mischievous glint in your eye. ‘’And what’s so wrong with a little temptation?’’ You paused for a moment, your gaze wandering over his tall frame, taking in his rugged features and muscular build. You bit your lower lip gently before continuing. ‘’Is the Lord of the North not allowed to indulge in pleasure?’’ 

Cregan's breath hitched as he struggled to keep his composure. ‘’I am allowed to indulge in pleasure, Princess. But you are already promised to another man,’’ he said, the long silver hair and black eyepatch of Aemond Targaryen flashing through his mind. ‘’Giving in to my desires would make my people question my honor toward others.’’

Your feelings for Aemond had once been true and pure, which led to your betrothal. It was also a good way to unite the families. A date had been set for your wedding and ravens had been sent through the realms announcing the big day, but your grandsire died and Aemond became a traitor to the crown. It didn’t surprise you that he stood by his brother’s side. Aemond had always been loyal to his family, it was part of who he was. What surprised you was the raven the Greens sent to Dragonstone to summon you to King’s Landing and bend the knee to their new King. 

Saying goodbye to the person you once loved was difficult, but you could not see yourself at the side of someone who supported the man who stole your mother’s throne. 

‘’Aemond Targaryen supports the usurper. Our betrothal is no more. I belong to no man,’’ you declared. 

Cregan leaned closer to you, his body only a few inches apart from yours. His eyes roamed over your features, lingering on your lips before returning to meet your gaze. ‘’Does he know?’’ he whispered, his breath warm against your skin.

You slid your hand up the thick leather of his chest, feeling the warmth of him beneath your touch. ‘’Who I bed is no longer his concern.’’

Cregan held his breath as you touched him, holding back from pressing himself to you against the wall and crashing his lips on yours. ‘’Gods, Princess, you drive me mad with your words,’’ he confessed, his voice a low growl.

You pushed your teasing further, feeling his self-control about to snap. ‘’Are you afraid of taking a princess to bed, Lord Stark?’’ 

The control he had tried to maintain snapped. Your words and touch awakened something within him, igniting a fire that he could no longer keep at bay. A soft gasp left your lips as Cregan closed the distance between you, pressing you against the wall and kissing you. His strong hands found their way to your hips, gripping you tightly, and in one swift motion, he lifted you off the ground, pressing you firmly against the cold stone wall. Your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer as the kiss deepened, both of you lost in the heat of the moment, forgetting you were in a corridor where anyone could walk by.

You moaned into his mouth as you felt his body pressed against yours and tangled one of your hands into his dark hair, your slender fingers running through it as you held onto his broad shoulder with the other. Cregan’s grip on your thigh was iron strong and possessive. 

He wanted you. 

He pushed his body even closer to yours, his lips leaving your mouth and trailing down your jawline, to your neck, where he began to nibble and kiss the sensitive skin there. You wanted to tear his clothes — and tear your clothes — and see if wolves treated their women better than dragons.

‘’I think we should take this to your chambers, Lord Stark. How scandalous would it be if anyone were to their Lord with the Dragon Princess?’’

The door echoed as it shut behind you. Without losing any time, Cregan pulled you in another kiss as he began to disrobe. You unbuckled your own cloak, letting it fall off your shoulders, and helped Cregan with the buckles of his leather doublet. Why were there so many? 

Once you were both out of your clothes, he carried you to his bed. Depositing you gently on the soft furs before joining you, pinning you beneath him. The fire in the hearth was keeping your naked body from shivering, and casting a soft glow on your skin. You felt the press of Cregan’s cock against your thigh, hard and warm, and reached for it, air catching in your throat at the size. 

The Northern Lord trailed kisses on your hot skin and moved further down your body until he was lying on his stomach, using his elbows to keep himself upright. He gently parted your legs, his fingers brushing over the inside of your thighs as he took in the beauty of your pretty pussy, his mouth watering for a taste. 

Cregan placed a kiss on your mound, smirking when he heard you gasp softly. His lips moved lower, and his eyes drinking in your every reaction, the soft sounds of pleasure escaping your lips making him even more determined to drive you wild with pleasure. He was going to show you how men kiss their women in the North. 

Soon, you were mess on the furs as he tongue licked and teased your pussy. Your legs were folded to expose you more, and Cregan kept a tight grip on your trembling thighs. Your back arched from the bed, accompanied by a loud whine as you reached down to grab his hair and guide his face closer to you. 

‘’Kessa! Lua doing bona!’’ (Yes! Keep doing that!) 

The High Valyrian words had spilled from your tongue without realizing. Although Cregan didn’t understand a single word, he assumed he was doing a good job and continued working skillfully with his mouth to bring you to the edge of madness.

He swiped his tongue over your swollen clit, relishing in the sounds he was drawing from you. He loved hearing the moans and gasps that escaped your lips, knowing that he was the one causing them. 

You rocked your hips into him, practically riding his face, and Cregan moaned, his cock twitching — and leaking — between his stomach and the furs. ‘’Needy, are we, Princess?’’ he teased, his voice low as he looked up at you through half-lidded eyes. 

Pulling on his hair again, you forced his mouth back on you. ‘’No more talking.’’

—

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[celestialgalaxyglow]

Batfam and Danny, Part 8

Jason and Danny leaving Catholic Mass.

Danny: That was sooo long.

Jason: Yeah, Father Henry spoke at length today.

Danny: I know the exodus is important and all, but there was no need for that to last 3 hours. Besides the man is ancient, how does he have that much energy?

Jason: I've been asking myself that for years. Our lead pipe issue here was so bad, the man should be long dead.

Danny: Had? Let me guess, Bruce paid to have them replaced?

Jason: Yup. Speaking of Bruce, want to go to the manor?

Danny: Sure why not?

Jason picked up his phone and called Alfred to pick them up.

Jason: Alfred should be here in five minutes or so.

Danny: Why don't we just fly there? I can carry you with me.

Jason: Kid, last thing I need is for you to be declared the anti-Christ by Father Henry.

Danny: I'm not even a baptized Catholic so...

Jason: What even are you?

Danny: Well I was raised Protestant, but after the whole ghost king thing, I more or less converted to the main religion of the Infinite Realms, called Infini. It's basically the worship of the multiverse itself.

Jason: I was half expecting you to say you were a figure of worship yourself.

Danny: No, the old king made himself a figure of worship. Once I took his place I put a stop to that.

Jason: Damn, I wouldn't have.

Danny: Luckily you're not king.

Jason: I think it's for the best.

Danny: Hmm, what about everyone else? I know Bruce is Reformed Jewish, he's taken all of us to his synagogue.

Jason: Oh, we are very religiously diverse, let me think. Alfred is Anglican/Church of England, Dick and Duke are non-denominational protestants, Tim and Barbara are Agnostic, Steph is an Eclectic Pagan, Cass is Buddhist, and Damian is Muslim. He laughed. Poor Bruce has to keep up with so many holidays.

Danny: Is that why we never do any vigilante stuff on Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays?

Jason: Yes, Bruce made that clear to the rouges years ago. Besides they like the days off to make their plans.

Danny: How nice of them?

Jason: One time the Penguin tried to rob a bank on a Saturday and Bruce landed him in the ICU for a month. No one dared brake Batman's "days of rest rule" after that.

Danny: Is that why his nose looks weird?

Jason: No, he was born like that.

Danny: Hmm, follow up question why don't the others join us for mass?

Jason: Father Henry has banned from attending, after they almost burnt the church down.

Danny: They almost burn the church down!?

Jason: Long story, Father Henry has never forgiven them.

Danny: I think Big J might disagree with that.

Jason: Did you just call Jesus "Big J?"

Danny: Yes, and he cheats in Monopoly.

Jason: You've played Monopoly... with Jesus...?

Danny: Yes, it was the Annual Abrahamic Figures Assembly. That game of Monopoly was between Jesus, Abraham, Moses, Ramses, Muhammad, and myself. And Jesus was cheating! He had half the railroads, houses, hotels, and was stealing everyone's money!

Jason: Hold up, Ramses was there?

Danny: Yeah, Moses and Ramses reconciled when they reunited in the afterlife.

Jason: And you attended a gathering of Abrahamic figures?

Danny: Yes.

Jason: ...I sometimes forget you're basically a god.

Danny: Yeah... I sometimes forget that myself. They looked at each other. Oh! Also Mary makes one hell of a challah.

Jason (ruffling Danny's hair): You never stop surprising me kid.

Danny: And I have no plans on stopping.

Jason: Nor would I want you to.

Alfred rolled up in front of them.

Jason: Well Alfred's here, let's go kid.

(Master Post)

[evilminji]

You know what I think would be neat?

Loki, the Sky Walker himself, when he fell beyond the trees branches but before that Purple fucker could get him... felt A path, much like the hidden ones he'd wandered for YEARS, and franticly tries to catch himself.

After all, he let go in a moment of incredible emotional distress. But that moment passes. The fear kicks in. The natural, strategist's, "survival at all costs" primal drive starts SCREAMING. You grab for the ledge. Try to STOP your fall.

But~!

What if? What he was FEELING?

Was a Natural Fuckin Portal.

And Loki is no slouch! He manages to change his trajectory. His mind is still in shambles, he's an emotional wreck, mascara probably running, just? Having THE WORST month or so of his life. He's too pretty for this bullshit, he would insist, if he wasn't FALLING THROUGH THE VOID.

He's made some choices.

They may have been ill advised.

Possibly even terrible ideas, actually.

But he's come too far to die NOW. And if his brother's insane adventures and hare brained schemes haven't killed him, then THIS sure as shit won't be putting him in an graves. He refuses to allow it.

He expects to slam face first into alien dirt. At speed. It? Is going to HURT, he knows.

But that is not what happens.

He passes through a yawning portal, into Veridian skys, and slams face first into the back of passing youth. Knock BOTH of them from the sky and through several nearby floating islands.

He nearly gets punched for it.

The boy only stopping, fist merely moments from his faces, when he seems to finally register the state Loki is in. The next thing Loki knows? He's being rushed off Yeti healers. A FUSS is being made.

The youth is strong arming him into being a guest in his... frankly ALARMING home.

Loki likes the Gothic one. She seems like she bites. But the boy's parents BAFFLE him. The boy, "Danny" just? Showed up with him? And declared he was a "visiting Fenton Cousin"? SURELY that can not WORK! Boy, they are your PARENTS, they know better then YOU who is and is not rela-.....

How did that work.

No, HOW DID THAT WORK? Child answer me. And explain the violent cold meats.

Just? Loki, intellectually stimulated, like a cat in a fresh new environment. Removed from stressors. Not the strongest being around by far, but enjoying the challenge none the less. Fulfilling his life long trained role of "king's advisory" in an almost relaxed Highly Sarcastic Uncle On Vacation Who Is Also A Semi-Feral Cat sorta way to this new Child King he found.

Loved and respected for Being Loki. Just Loki. No preconceived notions to fulfill, no roles he must play, just... Be Loki.

Best part? Asgard and Thor and such? Irrelevant! Their own closed system far, far away. He's finally FREE of the shadow Asgard casts. He's taken "starting over in a new country to escape a toxic home life" to a whole new weight class unique just to him. The dude is THRIVING.

And? I bet he REALLY enjoys tormenting Vlad.

@ailithnight @hdgnj @hypewinter @lolottes @nerdpoe

[kingdomaddiction]

Cumplane friendship, maybe a more idk hear me out—

Shen Yuan knows Mobei-Jun hits Shang Qinghua. He has seen the bruises. He also knows this is supposed to be a normal behavior amongst demon kind.

Call him stupid but for a long time he thought Airplane had no issues with it. I mean, they are cultivators, right? They can heal fast. It’s nothing. Also, Airplane told him it was fine. Mobei-jun and him went way back. It was the way things were.

Mobei-jun was a King. Qinghua was his servant.

Simple as that.

None of the other cultivators seem to worry either, so why should he? Everything was fine. Everything was normal.

Until today.

It began as a simple meeting. The demon lords were discussing the recent changes in politics as Binghe and Mobei listened to their complaints. Then Airplane intervened, made a few comments and next thing Shen Qingqiu knows his friend is lying on the floor shaking.

None of the demons bat an eye, not even his darling husband. Why should they? Shang Qinghua is nothing more than a servant.

But Shen Yuan…

He’s heard about it, has seen the bruises already but it still shocks him to the core. Witnessing in person the abuse… Shang Qinghua didn’t even try to stop it. He just closed his eyes and let Mobei struck him.

Qinghua lays on the floor. Shaking, rapid breathing. He looks so scared and heartbroken. But mostly humiliated. The way he lowers his head as if trying to seem smaller and puts his arms around himself trying to protect his body as if expecting another vicious blow it’s too much for him.

Shen Yuan hates it.

Without thinking he takes his fan about and sends a strong and quick wave of power that knocks Mobei. The King taken by surprise is unable to stop the attack and hits the wall.

“Airplane!” SQQ calls as he rans towards his friend. He kneels beside him and delicately touches his cheek.

Shang Qinghua looks at him with tears in his eyes and it only fuels his anger.

“Shizun!” His husband calls no doubt running after him like a puppy. Shen Qingqiu does not turn away from Qinghua.

“Shen Yuan? Why… why did you..?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions.”

“But my King…!”

“No longer will be your King.” He declares and his tone is so final that SQH can’t find the words to fight against it. There’s a unspoken understanding.

Mobei Jun finally gets up and approaches them with a snarl on his face. Before he could get closer Binghe steps in between and lets out a terrifying growl. Mobei stops, but looks directly at SQQ as he speaks.

“You dare—!”

“Yes, I fucking dare! You can’t hit this royal consort shidi and expect no consequences.”

“This king can do whatever he wants with his property!”

“Well, this royal consort has decided he does not belong to you anymore.”

“He’s my servant—“

“And you are my husband’s servant. Therefore you will obey me.“

.

That’s all I have but yeah the general outline is SQQ takes SQH with him and LBG is pretty confused? Jealous? But also aroused because his shizun looks so damn hot when he acts protective and strong around Shang-shishu, and maybe the other peak lord is not so bad ???!! On the other hand MBJ is losing his head. He wants, needs SQH back. In his eyes he was just treating him as any other demon. LBG then helps him understand the cultural differences. Now he wants to make amends but in order to get closer to SQH he needs to win SQQ approval first. And no, he won’t make it easy since he has being working hard to help SQH earn some fucking self respect and maybe falling a little in love with him.

Yeah this ended up being a poycule lol.

((Anyone can use this idea if they want just leave me the Ao3 link lol ))

[zyafics]

BROTHER'S RIVAL | 03

MASTERLIST (Series)

Pairing — Rafe Cameron x Female Reader .ᐟ

Summary — You and your brother were born Pogues, but once your family made enough to move to Figure Eight, you became a Kook. Unfortunately, Rafe doesn't welcome Pogue-born Kooks. It doesn't help that your brother is determined to steal the 'King of Kook' title from him. So, if your brother is attempting to steal something from him, Rafe will return the favor.

Content — 18+, smut, angst, and usage of drugs.

Rafe: i don't like being ignored after giving u the best orgasm of ur life

You didn't expect to see that message flash on your screen. Especially since you're with your brother, helping him load all the shit he bought from Heyward's into the back of his truck. You didn't even know he got a truck.

Lowering your brightness, you type back a haste reply.

You: don't type that shit Dean sometimes reads my text

Rafe: but it's true

You: that's an overstatement

Rafe: how about you come over here and we'll test that?

You: no, thanks i'm with my brother

Rafe: maybe he should fuck off

You roll your eyes at the message, just as your brother calls your name. Slipping the phone into your back pocket, where you are positive Dean won't be able to reach, you turn back to see him standing on the trunk of his truck with his arms outstretched.

"Did you hear me? Bring me the next case." He declares, his tone chipped with semi-annoyance at your distraction. You were about the grab the box, but with his attitude, you decided to put your hand on your waist and stare him down instead.

"Do I look like a dog to you? Say it nicer."

Dean sighs but doesn't argue back. Rather, he prepares himself to lunge through the next few words. "My dearest sister, the light of my life, the only person in the world who I would kill for, can you pass me the goddamn beer?"

Close enough.

You reach for one of the cases of booze set near your feet and hand it off to Dean, who easily takes it off of you and stacks it in the back of his cargo bed with the rest.

"I still don't understand the plan here." You confess, picking up another box and starting a momentum. "You're going to host a party, so what? What does that gotta do with anything?"

Your brother decided that he wanted to start hosting parties at your house. Since now he's intersecting himself into more Kook spaces, he wants to also start stripping away the pride of certain members too. According to Dean, Rafe is the top host for the grandest parties on the island—his containing a multitude of wild nights and adventures, all oozed out of his all-expensive paid amenities.

But you, for the life of it, don't understand how this has anything to do with his goals. Dean confirmed, after your little encounter with Rafe on the golf course, that he did have plans on taking the title of Kook King from Rafe. That Rafe's hatred of him was not unwarranted. However, he didn't tell you why.

All you know is that for the duration of this summer, your brother is going to do everything he can to convince the rest of the Kooks to follow after him.

Dean sighs, approaching you at the far end of the tailgate, crouching down till his face is to your level. "It's simple. Kooks are superficial and flimsy. They are only loyal to the Camerons because they have money. So, we need to shift the tides."

You are not getting in the middle of this.

"We—" you gesture to yourself, then to your brother, "are not doing anything. You are trying to do something with something we don't have a lot of. AKA, money."

While your brother does have a cushy job that pays better than most living in The Cut, and your mother secured herself as a respectable accountant who works with several high-profile Kooks—your family is nowhere at the levels that the Camerons is.

Dean chuckles. He finds it humorous that you're trying to distance yourself from this ongoing rivalry, drawing a line that you would not cross. Though, he knows, you would choose his side if it came down to it. "I know," he agrees with a nod. "But that's not the only way we can even the playing field. We can get power elsewhere."

"You do realize that this is just a meaningless feud between the Kooks and the Pogues, right?" You remind your brother. You know that he's competitive and stubborn; when he sets his mind on something, nothing you can or do can change it. "That it's not going to matter in the long run?"

His jaw locks and it takes several beats before he answers. "It matters to me."

Your older brother pushes himself back up to his height, jumping off the trunk onto the ground, and starts carrying the boxes himself. Without your assistance. You feel like you pushed a button you didn't know existed, and step back timidly.

"Fine, tell me," you announce after a few minutes of unbearable silence, trying to retain Dean's attention. "How are you planning on getting power?"

"No, you don't care."

You grab your brother's arm before he hauls the next case onto the cargo bed. Finally, he turns to you. "But, you care," you rectify, in a small voice, "so that means I care too. What is your genius plan, Lucky?"

Dean lights up at the nickname you used. An inside joke between the two of you. When you were children, you two were obsessed with the film Lilo & Stitch—so much that you had adopted the nicknames as your own. However, for the better part of your childhood, you had a difficult time remembering it was Lilo. You kept calling it Lucky. In turn, you kept calling your brother 'Lucky.'

"Alright." He sets his current case on the tailgate, turning back to give you his full attention. "Y'know how Kook doesn't just party? They do a lot of other shit too. They smoke. They do drugs. They fuck one another on the off-chance that they could gain something from it—a job, an inside scoop, maybe even the life of a housewife."

You raise your brow at his example. "Men can't be the sluts?"

"Can you let me speak?"

You raise both your arms in surrender. He cuts you a playful annoyed look before continuing on his mastermind.

"So, that means, Kooks change loyalty based on whoever has most access to the things they want. The drugs, the alcohol, the parties. Everything. If I can take that away from Rafe, they will shift their loyalty."

You cross your arms, considering his words. "You can't honestly believe that's true. They have more loyalty than that."

"I don't think so," he shakes his head, the firmness in his voice makes you wonder how he's so confident about it. "They're not like Pogues. Loyalty isn't the only thing they have left."

You don't respond. Instead, you remember. You can't shake off the rising guilt in your gut, knowing what happened the other day with Rafe—your brother's enemy—and how your brother still doesn't know. While you don't consider yourself a Pogue anymore, you know you are loyal to one thing.

Dean.

Your family.

This, you are certain.

In that moment, you decided that you need to put some distance between yourself and Rafe. That whatever happened that night was a one-time thing, a flunk in the system, a brief moment of vulnerability.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket again and this time, you pull it out, expecting to see another text from Rafe.

Unknown: come on, don't ignore me

You swallow hard, clenching your phone in your palm. Dean has returned back to lodging his cases onto his trunk, picking up his own routine without you.

"Hey, Dean," you call out, to which your brother hums in response. "Have you talked to... him?"

It takes a moment for your brother to register who you are referring to, and his whole body goes rigid. "No," he says with gritted teeth, not bothering to hide his discontent. "I blocked that bastard months ago."

He glances down at your phone clutched in your hand. "Didn't you?"

You know you should. You know it would be better for you. But, something in you just doesn't allow it to happen. That you wonder, for a moment, if he would ever change and need help. To get back on his feet. To make amends. You couldn't let that happen without you.

"Yeah," you lie, "I was just curious."

—

The party is full of Kooks. You didn't expect this many people to show up, especially knowing that they're supposed to be resenting you and your brother, but somehow you were proven wrong. Perhaps it's because Dean went all-out that drove them, or because Kooks didn't like to miss out on something on their own street, but they're here.

You wonder, for a split moment, if what your brother said has some merit.

The party wasn't just Kooks. He invited the Pogues too. Unlike you, where your friends dropped you upon learning that you were moving to Figure Eight and you didn't care enough to keep in touch—Dean carefully kept in contact with his childhood buddies. Because, at heart, Dean still sees himself as a Pogue.

You didn't care. You took advantage of it. Dressed in your best party outfit—a skirt that barely covered anything, a top with such a large cut that practically revealed your cleavage—and a fuck-it attitude, you descended to the party and have fun.

You drank, danced, and even grind against a couple of guys on the dance floor.

That's when it hits you. Where is Dean? Usually, by the time the second guy got too handsy with you, he would appear out of nowhere to shove the guy off. An overprotective streak that you can't help but roll your eyes to, it's also a measured move that allows you to know when and where your brother is at all times.

Taking the final sip of your drink, the liquor of mixed fruits and vodka slipping down your throat with a burn, you separate from the guy to search for your brother. He wasn't outside, where most of everyone is, lounging around the lit pool; he wasn't on the roof, where Kooks were jumping off the ledge into the water below; he wasn't gone—his truck was still here. When you went inside, you searched the first floor to find him nowhere in sight. That's when you head upstairs. Opening the door to your room, you didn't find Dean.

You find Rafe instead.

"What the hell?" You exclaim, your words slightly slurred as you step into your bedroom and lock the door behind you. Rafe turns around, his previous attention paid to the various frames decorating your walls now pins onto you. "What—what are you doing here?"

"I heard there was a party," he shrugs, his demeanor completely casual while his hands rested inside the pockets of his khaki shorts. "Thought I'd check it out."

"The parties downstairs,"

"Huh," he hums, feigning innocence. "I must've gotten lost."

You aren't satisfied because, despite your intoxicated state, you can clearly see through his lies. Crossing your arms over your chest, you accuse, "thought you gave yourself a house tour the other night?"

"I did," he chuckles, closing the distance. His height towers over your own, and as he meets your gaze, a smirk rises over his face. "I got distracted."

You swallow hard, your heart skipping several beats knowing exactly what he's alluding to. It doesn't help that Rafe carries the same look behind his eyes—the same glint he had when he made you come.

"You know," Rafe begins, trailing down the length of your body, causing heat to bloom under your skin, before meeting your eyes again. "I talked to girls before and none of them has ever made me work as hard as you."

He's referring to the fact that, while you're replying to his texts, after your talk with Dean, they've been mostly monosyllabic answers. One-sided attempts at a conversation. You thought he would take the hint to leave you alone.

Once again, you're wrong.

You cross your arms and challenge him, "Go talk to one of your girls, then."

"Nah."

You don't know if it's the alcohol or his words, but your entire body is buzzing. You should leave, and go back to your search—what were you looking for again?—but something made you stay rooted in your spot. Rafe takes note of your internal battle and takes advantage of it.

Moving even closer, until he's nothing but a breath away, Rafe lowers himself to your level, his mouth right beside your ear. "You know what I can't stop thinking about?"

"How you can't seem to take no for an answer?"

"No," he chuckles, his breath fanning the crook of your exposed neck. "You and your little moans as you called out my name."

Your legs squeeze together, arousal stirring in the pit of your stomach as your mind flashes to the vivid memories of that night. Of Rafe touching you and making you come with the skillfulness of his hands. You can't help but imagine what he could do with his tongue.

Pulling together whatever little restraint you have left, you set a hand on his chest. "Well, cherish it. Because it's not going to happen again."

You're proud of how steady your voice sounds. It's almost believable.

But Rafe doesn't look completely convinced. A cocky smile forms on his face, his eyes diligently scanning your features, picking you apart under his scrutiny.

"You don't believe that."

"I—" You begin, stuttering. Goddammit. "I do. I'm serious."

His hand raises to cup the side of your profile, the pad of his thumb drags across the plump of your bottom lip and they part unconsciously. His smirk broadens.

"Look at you opening up for me. Showing me how much you want me."

You internally groan. He's so infuriating, hot, and obnoxious, that you can't believe you're falling for any of it. You need to do something. Flattening both hands on his firm chest, you give him a light shove, forcing him to release.

Turning, you head for the exit when Rafe captures your wrist, spins you around, and crashes his lips onto yours.

Everything zeros into this moment. All those nightly fantasies of Rafe kissing you finally come to life as he groans against the taste of you. His hand travels to the nape of your neck and holds it tight, using it to steady himself as he presses closer, pulling you in, needing to feel nothing but skin-on-skin.

And you allow it. You don't know if it's because of the vodka mixers you had, or because Rafe is just an incredible kisser, but the way he sucks the plump bottom of your lips draws out a breathy moan, and your skin buzzes with fervent heat. His free hand descends down to grab yours, before placing it against the hard bulge under his pants.

"Do you feel what you do to me, princess?" He murmurs against your vodka-stained lips. "I fucking need you."

Your eyes connect with his, but meet nothing but the pitch-black of his dilated pupils. "You're drunk," you say breathlessly.

His tongue swipes across your bottom lip, leaving tingles in its place, before he confesses, "Not enough."

Then, his mouth meets yours again.

Without breaking for air, Rafe steps forward, causing you to step back. It becomes a two-person dance, and it doesn't end until the back of your heels hits the frame of your bed, tumbling you onto the mattress.

Rafe is immediately on you. Your back flattens against the sheets, your heart thundering, as Rafe parts from the heavy kiss to lay wet ones on the side of your throat, teasingly, nibbling the tender skin until he leaves a mark, before moving down to the valley of your breasts.

Half of you wish you weren't wearing such revealing clothes. The other half wished they were already gone.

Your core aches as Rafe's hands fall between your legs, skimming the short skirt, until he feels the patch of your panties. "You're so gorgeous," he confesses, before chuckling at the slickness collecting on his fingertips, "and wet."

He tells you to lift your hips and you oblige. Removing your skirt, he toss it to the floor, and his eyes zoom into the red pair of panties you decided to wear tonight.

"Did you know red's my favorite color?" Rafe asks. You shake your head softly. "Do you know why?"

"Anger issues?"

He grins, his thumb gently stroking the drenched spot in a way that causes your hips to buck off the bed. But he pins you back down. "It's because it's a good color to fuck to."

"Never knew you were the type of guy to set the mood."

"Didn't need to. You did it all for me."

You open your mouth to retort when his thumb massages your clit in such a sensual manner, a moan rips from you. Rafe watches the way your eyes flutter from the ounce of pleasure, how easily stimulated you are by his touch, and he revels in that feeling.

"You want me," he murmurs, full of confirmation this time, but you don't answer. Rafe watches the way your teeth sink to your bottom lip, embarrassment flushing your face as you refuse to accept it. "Say it."

"You want me," you correct, changing the subject as you arch into his hand.

His fingers stop their magical strokes, and you whine. "No, princess, you want me. I want to hear you say it."

Desperation seeps. Your core aching, pleading for stimulation, and he is right there. You have half a mind to push him off and finish the yourself, voyeurism included. But, you don't. As your eyes connect with him, you breathe out with reluctance, "please make me come."

It isn't exactly what he wanted, but he takes it.

His fingers slip under the band of your panties, pulling them off and discarding them. You thought he would do the same methods as the other night, his fingers finding your sweet spot, but he surprises you when he lowers his mouth and finds your swollen nub.

"Shit," you whisper breathily, his mouth suctioning the clit in a manner that causes your back to arch. Your hands go to find his hair, threading your fingers through his roots as you grind on his face. "That feels so good."

"You taste so fucking good," Rafe growls, the vibration of his words causing your stomach to tighten. When he sees how responsive you are to him, he slips two fingers into your pussy, feeling your walls immediately fluttering around his digits.

He fingers you, as he sucks on your clit. The double stimulation causes your head to spin and your heart to hammer out of your chest, your stomach coils with the familiar pang of pleasure.

"Oh my god, Rafe," you moan, gripping his hair tighter. For a moment, you're afraid of hurting him, but it's quickly dismissed when he flattens his tongue against your slit.

"Say my name louder."

"Rafe."

"Would you do anything I say to come?" Rafe asks, taking the opportunity to get something from you. And you're willing.

"Yes," you whimper, tipping your head back against the bed. "Anything."

"Moan louder for me, baby."

You do.

"Play with your tits."

Your hands push up your top till your breasts are exposed, using a hand to grope the flesh, brushing your fingers through your perked nipples. Groaning from pleasure, it arouses Rafe further, his fingers penetrating deeper and faster into your cunt, while his mouth returns to your clit.

"Oh, god," you moan, chest rising and falling in rapid succession as your pleasure crescendos through your body. Your legs attempt to squeeze close from the sensitivity, to push Rafe out, but with one strong arm, he widens them instead. "Please don't stop."

Rafe doesn't respond but you can feel him grinning into your pussy, flattening his tongue across your slit as your core pulses around his digits. Nothing at this moment could be more perfect, the slow-burning building to your orgasm, the pleasure rippling through your veins.

Nothing can ruin it.

Until you hear your brother calling out your name.

"Shit," you swear, your heart rate spiking through the roof, and a hand slips between your thighs to push Rafe away. But he doesn't move. "Rafe—fuck," a clever roll of his tongue against your heat causes your mind to short-circuit, and you limp back onto the bed as Dean's voice grows louder.

Like he's outside your door.

"Rafe, please," you beg.

"Please what?" Rafe taunts, lifting his head from between your thighs, the lower half of his face dripping with your arousal, while his eyes gleamed that same mischief he had the other night. "Make you come? Or stop?"

You don't know what you want either, and it doesn't help that Rafe continues to stroke your cunt, his thumb rubbing your clit to make up for the absence of his hot mouth. Your legs twitch from the act, again, attempting to close around him, but he pushes them further apart.

Your door rattles. And Dean calls out your name again.

"Are you in there?" He asks, "are you okay?"

No, you want to rasp, but nothing comes out. Rafe grins devilishly, before lowering himself back onto your clit and sucks harder—quickening the arrival to your blinding climax.

"Rafe," you whisper roughly, your mind caught between two forces. The door continues to rattle as Dean tries to force the lock open, a protective trait of him needing to make sure you're okay, while Rafe has you in the most compromising position.

With the worst person.

"Go out with me."

"What?"

You think you heard him wrong, that Rafe definitely isn't asking you out while he's between your legs. But you didn't. Rafe lifts his head and repeats the question once more. "Go out with me."

"I—"

"Come on," Rafe soothes, his fingers fastening their strokes, your walls clenching around him. "Go out with me. Or else, your big brother's gonna come in and see you mid-orgasm."

"W–What do you mean?"

"I know you don't want me to stop," Rafe taunts with a smirk, "And I know your brother probably got some way of getting that door to open. So, you got two choices: either accept my date and come, or your big brother is gonna see me between your legs."

"I—" Your breath shudders as Rafe's signet cool ring presses against your heat. "You're despicable."

"Yet I'm here," Rafe lowers himself back on your clit, sucking languidly as if you don't have a threatening force outside your door, seconds from being let in. Your heart piercing out of your chest. "Come on, princess, go out with me."

Your mind is caught in a tailspin. Half of you want to tell him to fuck off, that you can't believe Rafe is using your moment of weakness to coerce you into a date, but the other part is wrapped in the absolute pleasure of your onslaught orgasm. The white-searing hot power that's coursing down your spine.

"Fuck," you say breathily, eyes fluttering shut from the way Rafe suctions on your clit. "Fuck, fuck, okay, okay. I–I'll go out with you."

You don't see it, but Rafe is grinning between your thighs. He goes faster, harder, pushing you over the edge as you slap a hand over your mouth to muffle the loud moans leaving your lips.

And just in that moment, the locks disengages.

With whatever mental capacity you have left, you quickly shove Rafe onto the floor and throw your blanket over your body. Dean barges into the room, blinking out his drunken haze, while his eyes scans the space for any disruptions.

"Did you hear me?" He asks with a subtle slur, scanning your face to see you comfortable in bed. He doesn’t know what got you here. "I've been calling out to you."

Your heart is hammering, and you pray that Dean doesn't approach the bedframe or look on the floor to find any semblance of his enemy hiding out. Rafe, thankfully, doesn't make a sound—though, you’d imagine he's hiding behind a cocky smile at the situation he's in.

"I—" you don't know how to answer him, "I was listening to music. Sorry."

"Oh," Dean says, taking the excuse as acceptable. He glances back at the door. "Why was your door locked?"

"It—it's a party," you explain, surprised at how easy the lie is flying off your tongue. "I didn't want drunk people to stumble up here and have sex on my bed."

"Right, right, smart," Dean nods, and he turns back around. "Alright. I'm going back down. Sleep tight."

You hum back in response as Dean stumbles out of your room, and you finally feel like you can expel a breath. The moment the lock clicks, Rafe lets out a rich laugh, straightening himself into a sitting position as he turns his head and connects his gaze with yours.

"Nice lie."

"Fuck off."

"Can't, you promised me a date," Rafe grins cheekily, pulling himself to his feet while he holds out something in his hand. "I think this belongs to you."

Your panties.

You snatch it from him, heat flushing your face as you want to nothing more than to bury yourself into your sheets. Well, you technically already did. Regardless, Rafe takes one final look around the room, at you, before he says, "I'll text you." And before he leaves, he gives you a sharp look and a reminder, "And actually respond."

IMPORTANT INFO ABOUT TAGLIST AND UPDATES: if you want to be notified about all my fics and updates, follow @zyafics-library and turn on notifications! however, if you want to be added to this specific taglist, let me know (but to remain tagged, you must interact with the posts).

Navigation — Part 02 | Part 03 | Part 04

[hobgoblinsandpeachfuzz]

here have a musical number as a treat*

*i don't write songs very well forgive the cheesiness

But on the plus side, instead of this being my planned finale I now have a rough outline of where I wanted all this to go and more doodles planned xD

We'll see how long it takes to get to all of it xD

(pt. 1, pt. 2, pt. 3, pt. 4, pt.5, pt. 6)

outline under the read more:

Act I

Overture: Lady Ambrosia kidnaps the players and the narrator so they will tell her story.

Matchmaking (A woman with a kingdom must be in want of a consort)

Just Leave Everything to Me but evil and fairy like

More Important Things

Tadius and Ella agree that there’s too much work to be done to be focused on this. Both are reassured in each other’s commitments, and there is lingering romance. 

Mischief and Romance - Lady Ambrosia Approaches Ella

She tries to go for the kill here first and asks what love looks like to her. Ella does reveal she is in love, but she also confirms her suspicion—Lady Ambrosia is a fairy.

A Quest

Ella sends Sir Crumb to inform the Fairy Queen

The List

Ella was a dead end. Tadius is now the next victim. Lady Ambrosia has finished her list of bachelors and approaches Tadius with them.

Mischief and Romance - Lady Ambrosia has acquired a new target

Lord Cornelius Appleton

Destiny

Tadius laments the clearly destined love between Cornelius and Ella. Ella celebrates the good things in her life now, and how she will protect them, and how she loves Tadius. Lady Ambrosia plans on making things a whole lot worse before they get better—destiny is her plaything after all.

The Bachelor Parade

All the bachelors are introduced and present themselves to Ella, Lord Hop-a-Lot, and Tadius. Tadius does not do his usual good job of keeping in how he feels. Ella reprimands him.

Tadius’s Soliloquy

(Based on How I Am meets Who Am I)

He’s pissed! They were doing good and now distractions are happening! Royals end up only caring about parties and silly things (and maybe he’s in love and can’t admit it!) Ella would never do this!

Take What You Want

Lady Ambrosia steps in right after the soliloquy to encourage Tadius not quite yet fairy reveal. She explains that she has seen that the Queen favors him. It wouldn’t be hard to do all the things they want to do if they were both on the throne.

Tadius isn’t fully convinced yet, but he’s thinking.

Cornelius and Ella

A duet where they reminisce about childhood. Tadius sees them get close and leaves before Ella explains to Cornelius that her heart belongs to another. In being her friend, he encourages her to go for it. Ella says it’s Tadius, and Cornelius, a good dude, reminds her she has changed so much already, who cares about Tadius’s upbringing. This can only make the world better. (A positive spin on Take What You Want)

The Ball

The Way I’m Meant to

Ella and Tadius fight and then confirm their love.

Take What You Want Reprise

Ella leaves and while in love and feeling better Tadius still has fears and doubts. This isn’t how things are done. Lady Ambrosia preys on them. When Tadius affirms that he believes in Ella and loves her and will do the right thing, Lady Ambrosia is grossed out and has to go to plan C: possession. What’s important is she is only revealing his darker impulses—none of this is not something within Tadius himself.

Act II

Sir Crumb returns and tells Ella what the Fairy Queen told him. She’ll need to go to the forest herself to be able to get the means to defeat Lady Ambrosia. She leaves with Sir Crumb and asks Lord Hop-a-Lot to keep an eye on things.

A New King in Town

Dark Tadius Emerges and declares all the Bachelors can go home. He will be marrying Ella and he will be King. Fairy Guards drag them to dungeons. He is VIBING HARD.

Sisters

Ella talks to the Fairy Queen. She cannot grant Ella another wish, but if Ella takes a wand from her branches she can at least have one moment of starlight to confront Lady Ambrosia. The Fairy Queen sings about the two sisters duality and how they are oft opposed but have to survive together.

Ridiculous

Lord Hop-A-Lot tries to get through to Tadius. He sings his genuine feelings on royalty, magic, fairy tales, and love—it’s ridiculous. Hard work is all that matters, and sense. Lord Hop-A-Lot tries to remind him of Ella—everyone knew they were in love. Tadius thinks he is doing this for Ella—magic has hurt her so. But now he is at war with himself. He is also ridiculous.

The Way I’m Meant to Reprise

Ella returns with the wand and Sir Crumb and confronts Dark Tadius. Love does conquer all especially within the powers of a fairy of romance.

Mischief and Romance and Green and Goodness

Lady Ambrosia Fights Back. She is defeated by the wand in a kick ass fairy battle.

Tadius and Ella (a reprise of sorts of Cornelius and Ella)

Tadius apologizes profusely to Ella. It was him, it was his darkest thoughts, and Ella forgives him. She still chooses him, no matter what. Their dark impulses are actually quite the same. But as a team, they can balance each other. 

They apologize to all the nobles and bachelors. There likely will be further fallout but they’ll deal with it together.

The Way I’m Meant To (Finale)

Tadius and Ella get married. Lady Ambrosia crashes and flirts with Lord Hop-a-Lot. 

Storytelling (A woman with a kingdom must be in want of a consort)

The narrator finally escapes Lady Ambrosia’s clutches and sings his own version of the beginning song to end.

[entitled-fangirl]

Devotion.

Benjicot Blackwood x Bracken!wife!reader

Summary: After the Battle of the Burning Mill, the reader is relieved to see Benjicot unharmed. The same could not be said for her brother.

Warnings: War, blood, death, murder, misunderstanding, cursing, harsh talk of women

A/n: This came from some dark place in my brain😭 Also the fucking PowerPoint presentation I could make on my differences in characterization between Benjicot, Cregan & Jace. Benji is the harshest out of the three obviously, so keep that in mind when reading. He's a lot more... crude.

Large italicized sections indicate a flashback!

Masterlist

.............................................

"Benjicot!"

The great Lord Blackwood turned at the sound, his face lighting up at the sight of his lady wife. 

He barely excused himself under his breath to the men he spoke to, briskly moving to her. He would run, but his heavy armor could never allow that.

He braced for her, catching her with ease as her chest slammed against his metal breastplate. Her arms wrapped around him, relaxation finally moving through her body now that he was alive and in her sight.

"What are you doing here?" He asked in a hushed state, holding her firmly to him. "You shouldn't have come."

"The battle is over," she murmured against his neck.

He couldn't help a small grin from coming over his face. "Only barely. There is still much to do."

She pulled away just enough to look around, taking note of the bodies that laid across the fields, cloaks both red and yellow alike. "That's why I've come. To help where I can."

He sighed and looked over her. "That's thoughtful of you."

She hummed. "You're still bloody. Did it not end yesterday?"

"It did." He looked down at his armor then back to her again. "The blood does not bother me."

"Have you not even washed yourself?" She reached up and wiped a bit of blood from his cheek.

He gently pushed away her hand. "You fret for me far too much."

"Can you blame me for doing so? Look around. In another life, one of these bodies may have been yours."

Benjicot shrugged. "But it's not."

She sighed and pulled away, taking in the sight of the bodies. "What warranted such a killing?"

Benji bit his cheek. "Border stones," he lied through his teeth. "Just the border stones."

She huffed. "Men and their land. I'll not understand them."

Benji forced himself to laugh, a guilty feeling erupting in his stomach. 

…

"BRACKEN!" Benjicot screamed as he and his men neared. "Put the boundary stones back."

Aeron Bracken scoffed. "We didn't move them."

"Ah. Did they move themselves then?" He questioned. "Just rolled their way over so Bracken cows can fill their bellies on Blackwood grass?"

"The assize-"

"Fuck the assize." Benjicot stepped into Aeron's face. "And fuck you. This is our land."

Aeron grew nervous under Blackwood's glare. "T… This is Bracken land."

Benjicot's tilted his head, studying the man closely. 

Having enough, Aeron turned around and began to storm off, muttering under his breath. "…babe killer-"

"What did you say?"

Aeron paused in his steps, realizing exactly what he had just done. But he was too stubborn to step down. He turned. "Your false Queen Rhaenyra is a kinslayer."

Benjicot paused. "Your uncle declared for Aegon, did he?" When Aeron said nothing, he continued, "Well then, let me tell you." He took steady steps towards the Bracken as his anger grew. "Aegon Targaryen is no true king. Just as you are no true knight."

Aeron's hands shook but his voice remained steady. "Craven. Little. Cunt."

Benjicot couldn't find it in himself to be mad at that. He even took a step back and let out a hearty laugh. "The only cunt I know of is your sister's."

Aeron growled and drew his sword, pointing it at Benjicot. "You'll watch your words, Blackwood."

The men with Benjicot all flinched, hovering their hands over the handles of their own swords. Benjicot laughed and held up his hands in mock surrender. "What? I can't speak of your sister's love for me? Dare I speak of her willingness to carry a Blackwood's heir contently? Because she would. She takes me so well-"

"-QUIET!" Aeron stepped forward. 

He grinned and stepped closer, the tip of Aeron's sword only inches from his chest. "You wouldn't dare."

…

"Must have been quite a fight," she remarked as the two walked through the fields. They avoided the people who loaded a few of the dead bodies up to take them back to their families. 

"Aye."

She looked up at him. "You've been awfully quiet." She reaches up and brushes his hair back.

He sighed softly, trying to hide his guilt. "Only the wears of war finally getting to me. That's all. Perhaps we should go to my tent."

She hummed and walked on. "In a bit." Her eyes scanned the field, obviously looking for something. 

He had a good idea what she was looking for. Any sign of her brother. "I've grown weary, my love. As I'm sure you have." He reached out and grabbed her arm to try to stop her.

Not even looking at him, she brushed her hand across his chest before stepping further from him. "Only a moment, Benji."

He forced another sigh, keeping his nerves down. "You shouldn't be out here. Let me take you back."

"Benjicot, please." 

"I'm only thinking of you, girl. C'mon."

She turned in frustration. "Just a moment."

When she began to look eerily closer to where he knew her brother lay, he rushed forward and grabbed her arm. "Darling girl, stop this now."

And she did. Her entire body froze and a soft sob wracked her body.

"A- Aeron?"

Benjicot cursed under his breath. "You shouldn't look at this."

Aeron lay in the mud next to the small creek. A sword ran through his neck, blood staining his clothes and the little grass that he lay on. 

She felt as if a bucket of cold water had been dumped on her, or a knife in her heart, a tremor now in her hands. 

She spun around. "Did you know about this?"

"What?"

Her eyes watered, her jaw clenched. He watched her pick at her fingers. "Did you know about this?"

Benjicot ran his tongue across his teeth. 

She didn't bother to wait for a response, running to the dead man and dropping to her knees at his side. Her dress began to soak in the mix of mud, water, and blood. 

The Blackwood watched with an aching heart. He swallowed hard. "Y/n…"

"No." She brushed her fingers over her brother's face, pulling the hair back. She tried to ignore how cold his skin was. "No, no."

Benji dared to take a step closer to her. He couldn't stand to only sit and watch her suffer like this. "Y/n," he tried again.

"Why?"

His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper, "Why what?"

She sniffled. "Why couldn't you prevent this?"

Benjicot felt as if he'd been punched in the gut. His breath caught in his throat. "Do you think I wanted this?" He asked with a trembling voice. "I bled for our cause. War is unpredictable, and death has a way of finding its way into every battle."

Her fingers shook violently against her dead brother's shoulders. 

He forced a sigh. "I promise you I didn't want this. But he started it."

Her hand faltered. Her head tilted to look over her shoulder at him. "What?"

Benji bit his cheek. He shouldn't have said that.

"Benjicot. What do you mean?" She asked. "Were you there when it started?"

He couldn't bring himself to speak. He tried to, but his voice was gone, the guilt beginning to eat him alive. His eyes were set on the cold body. 

"W-" She followed his gaze, looking at the longsword that held her brother's body down.

Benjicot's longsword. 

Her head snapped back to him, noticing that he indeed was missing his longsword from its sheath. 

Her eyes slowly moved up Benjicot's entire body until she found his eyes. 

"You killed my brother?"

…

Benjicot pulled his sword out of a man's body, moving on to the next one. He was covered in blood, his armor starting to irritate his skin from the constant movement. But he hardly cared about that. 

His sword collided with another and he looked. 

"Take it back!" Aeron growled. 

Benjicot tilted his head, "Or what?"

Aeron stepped back and fixed his position. He looked terrified, but he refused to let it show. "Or I'll gut you. And I'll take my sister back."

"She's a Blackwood," Benji grunted. 

"She'll never be," the Bracken rebutted.

Benjicot's anger grew, pushing him to make the first real attack. He swung his sword with accuracy and precision, intent on doing anything to injure his opponent.

Aeron was quick, but he wasn't as accurate. While his dodges were good, he was only defense. 

So when he finally lifted up his sword to swing it in offense, Benjicot lifted his foot and kicked the Bracken firmly in the chest. 

Aeron lost his footing, falling backwards and rolling. He panicked at the cold feeling of the water that stood only inches from him. He groaned and tried to get up, but Benji was quick to keep him down. 

The Bracken reached out blindly across the ground, trying to find the handle of his dagger that had fallen from his belt. It was somewhere around here. 

There it was.

Benjicot caught his actions at the last second, pulling himself away before Aeron could cut him.

Aeron growled and sat up, getting up as fast as he could.

But the Blackwood knocked the dagger from his hand and tackled him back into the dirt, now straddling him. He bent down to spit in his face.

Aeron grunted and flinched. He tried to fight against Benjicot, but the darker haired man was beginning to lose his patience entirely. He grabbed Aeron's armor at his shoulders, picking up the boy's torso and slamming it into the ground again.

"I hope you're right," Aeron wheezed out.

Benjicot snarled. "What?"

"I said," Aeron said as he spit up blood from a tooth lost earlier. "I hope you're right."

Benji shook his head, "I don't care for final words and monologues."

"Then know this, Blackwood. I hope she does carry your heir. I hope you fill her with your seed over and over and over again." He laughed cruelly, looking up at the sky. "I hope the future of your house depends on a Bracken womb."

Benjicot slammed the man again. "Shut up."

Aeron looked him in the eyes now, using the last of his strength to get in his face. "I hope House Blackwood is forever tainted by the cunt of a Bracken. Your children will be Brackens."

"I said shut up!"

Bracken spit in Benji's face. "Fuck her well. I hope they look Just. Like. Me."

Benjicot felt something in him snap. His eyes glazed over. 

He stood and stared down at the man with no mercy. Benjicot pressed the tip of his longsword to the neck of his enemy.

"I hope that you're lost to time, Aeron Bracken."

…

Benjicot felt his heart break and splinter at the sound of her voice. His own was a whisper, "please, listen to me." He took a slow step toward her.

"STAY AWAY FROM HIM!" She screamed. She began to sob violently as she threw herself over Aeron's body, grief truly hitting her like a wall.

He staggered back in shock. His jaw clenched, the urge to gather her in his arms and make her see the truth becoming overwhelming. "Listen to me," he repeated. 

"We were s-supposed to be the treaty," she muttered against Aeron's chest. 

"W… What? What was that?" Benji asked.

She sat up. "You and I. We were supposed to be the treaty. The thing that could have prevented this. And we weren't. Divorce me or kill me, but please. Please. Don't torture me like this."

He was beginning to lose his patience again. "Dear girl, you must listen to me. You must."

She shook her head. "I won't."

"Y/n," he grunted and stepped to her. 

"NO!" She held a hand up, as if the young woman could stop the force that was Benjicot Blackwood. "Don't touch him!"

He held his hands up, forcing himself to calm down. "I won't. I just want to speak to you."

"You've done enough, Benjicot."

"I know. I know what I've done is cruel to you, but you have to let me explain myself."

"Leave, Benjicot."

He huffed. "I won't. You're going to listen."

She pushed herself up onto her knees. "Leave," she spoke through clenched teeth.

"What?" He asked in anger. "You're not going to return to Raventree Hall with me?"

"Not by will."

"You can't be serious. You'd rather abandon our marriage, our home, then return with me?"

She wiped at her cheek, unknowingly smearing dirt and blood across her face. "My home was with Aeron. M-My brother is dead. I have nothing."

He took a cautious step toward her. "You have me," he muttered, the words like a vow.

"You never wanted me."

Benjicot's arms fell to his sides, feeling utterly defeated. 

The man was a valiant fighter, a formidable warrior, and four words from his wife made him feel utterly hopeless.

He looked out over the field, debating what to even say. His voice broke, "You know that's not true."

"You killed my brother. If you love me- if you ever loved me, you wouldn't have done this."

"It's not that easy."

"It is!" She stood up. "It is that easy! All of this," she gestured around, "Over the fucking boundary stones?"

"OVER YOU!" He yelled. "He dared to speak ill of you and you know I'll not have that!"

She felt a shiver move down her spine slowly. She looked over to Aeron's body. "Did he?"

"Darling," Benjicot tried to speak reasonably once again, "I am a dangerous man. It feels as if I fall asleep in battle and wake up covered in another's blood. I am no saint, and I refuse to pretend I am. But listen when I tell you that I am no liar." He sighed. "If he had let it go, perhaps he would still be breathing. But if defending your honor makes you hate me then perhaps it is worth it for I know I did what was right."

She was quiet for a long time, staring at the water. "Do you believe the old stories?"

His brows furrowed. "I'm not understanding you."

She looked up to him. "The weirwood tree. Do you believe that the Brackens poisoned it all those generations ago?"

Benjicot shuffles his feet, not sure what to answer. "I-I couldn't say for certain."

"And yet you still wear it on your chest with pride? Something you don't even know for certain?"

He looked down at his family crest and back to her. "It's a part of who I am. I can't change that."

She tilted her head. "Then don't expect me to either. You can love me or hate me, Benjicot Blackwood, but I am a Bracken no matter which way you twist your story. I cannot change my blood."

"Where are you going with this exactly, beautiful?"

She took a step towards him. "If you kill all of the Brackens in the world, it'll only lead you back to your own house. You shouldn't have married a Bra-"

"-Shut up," he ordered. 

She looked up in shock. "What?"

"I don't care what you are. I don't care if you're a Targaryen or a fucking toad. I do not care. You are mine, as I am yours." His eyes glazed over with a new emotion. "The rest of the world could rot for all I care."

She watched him take slow, deliberate steps to her until the gap was completely closed. He leaned in, his lips almost brushing hers. "I am addicted to you. I always have been."

She took in a shaky breath, her heart pounded in her chest. Only Benjicot had ever made her feel so alive. "I-I'm in love with you."

He paused, his eyes trying to read an emotion from hers. 

They had never said such a thing to each other. This was supposed to be a marriage for alliance purposes. There wasn't supposed to be love. There wasn't-

He couldn't stop himself, connecting their lips roughly with a low groan. 

He could faintly taste dirt on her bottom lip, but he paid no heed, pulling her closer to feel her body against his. "Have you ever felt this before?" He whispered against her. "Utter devotion?"

She let out a whine.

He kissed her again. "Fuck the weirwood tree. I'll worship you until the end of my days."

She tugged at his hair, making him growl with lust. He gripped her jaw easily with one hand, holding her firmly. He was never a cruel lover, but he was a firm one. 

"Tell me what he said," she managed to pant out.

"No," he hummed, beginning to kiss down her neck. His hand pushed her head back to expose more of her skin to him.

In the unyielding hands of the infamous Bloody Ben, she'd never felt safer. 

"I'll bury him for you." Was all the more that Benjicot said about it.

"Hard to jump your bones in all that armor," she whispered in his ear. 

"Fuck," He groaned. "Careful, Braken," he teased.

She pulled away and he instantly began to feel regret for his jest.

Her brows furrowed as she stared up at him. "Fuck you, Blackwood."

"Darling-"

Her lips pulled into a small smile and she began to laugh. 

"Don't fucking do that again," he exclaimed, grabbing her jaw again roughly. 

"You fell right into my hands, Blackwood," she continued. "The great Lord Benjicot, so gullible."

He pushed a smile down. "You're a cruel goddess."

"I don't think you mind."

He pulled her face to him, placing a heavy kiss to her lips. "You're right."

"Trust me, my lord, you'll be rewarded for your devotion."

His brows quirked up. "Will I?"

Her eyes flicked to his lips and back up to his eyes. "I can be benevolent when I want to be."

He groaned. "I'll worship you forever."

…

Only a year later, Benjicot held his newborn child to his chest, caressing the young boy.

The babe's eyes opened, revealing dark brown pupils.

Y/n cooed, "He looks just like his father."

Benjicot let out a breath he didn't know he was keeping. 

Aeron Bracken was wrong. 

Seems even genetically, Blackwoods were the dominant house.

........................................................

[queers-gambit]

The Risk

part one: Match Made in Grey Haven

prompt: after your wedding, you and Elrond embark on your honeymoon touring Middle-earth. your company is attacked on the road by Orcs. help comes from an old friend.

pairing: Elrond x shy!female!wife!reader

fandom masterlist: The Rings of Power

word count: 7.1k+

note: internet researched Elven wedding customs, i don't want to hear it. keep the Elrond requests coming.

warnings: pre events of TROP, the "shyness" more so conveys as inexperience, romance, little bit of fluff, Gil-galad is a girl's girl, and Elven weddings! also cursing! violence! angst! character injury! Orcs! blood! literal hurt and comfort! emotions are hard! abrupt but happy ending, not edited, wonky brain went wonky, and intentionally misspelled words to indicate accent.

You spent a year and a half planning your wedding.

Due to your status amongst the Elves and their court, it was declared the event of the century and the High King himself demanded it be planned to the highest of exquisite detail. Granted, you and Elrond were content to marry in a quicker fashion, leaving it between family, but Gil-galad loved a good party and who were you to refuse your King?

So, you spent about 18 months (on and off) in Lindon, going over details and specifics with Gil-galad while Elrond did the King's actual work. You're positive Elrond was content to escape the wedding planning and honestly, you didn't mind as much as you feared you would because the King was opinionated, decently funny, and decisive. He spared no expense. He encouraged you to branch away from your usual humble taste. He wanted the whole of Elvendom to come together to celebrate. He wanted this occasion to be...his.

You had no objections.

You were honestly relieved someone else wanted to plan such an extraordinary event for you - but were beyond you ready to be married! Several times in the last several months, Elrond actually offered to elope - run away to the Gray Havens and marry before your beloved grandfather, Elrond's old master, Círdan - but the King was putting so much effort into your wedding, you didn't accept. It was nice, though, how mutually anxious Elrond appeared to be to marry you, too.

However, the past three moons, you've been absolutely inconsolable. Your wedding was only days away, Elrond had traveled to Eregion for "business" months ago, and Círdan had yet to arrive! You felt overwhelming panic consume your very being, becoming slightly more irritable as you couldn't help but feel (wrongfully) abandoned - should it not of been for your best mate, fellow Elleth, Bôril. She held your emotions in check, posed as buffer between you and emotional ruin, and was the voice of reason when your rationality vanished.

"What if something happened?" You worried during one of your late night, last minute sessions. "How would we know? What if - while traveling - something went awry?"

Gil-galad sighed gently, "Herald Elrond was sent with some of my most trusted warriors."

"Elrond is warrior enough by himself," Bôril smirked, "you worry for nothing - "

"I am supposed to get married in a matter of days and neither my grandfather nor my intended can be found. I think I have plenty to worry over!" Gil-galad and Bôril shared a knowing look while you wiped your face clear of frustrating fear. "I am not accustomed to not knowing. It's this unknown, the lack of answers that pushes me towards insanity."

"Well," Bôril smirked, her eyes casted towards the hall, "fear no longer, sweet friend, all your answers approach."

In confusion, you turned in the seat you had been slumped in, seeing Elrond and Círdan heading down the hall towards the room you were gathered in. With a gasp, you leapt from your chair and rushed into the causeway towards your dearest loved ones. "Thank the Valar! Elrond!" You gasped first, flinging yourself into his arms; which coiled around you tightly and lifted you, his face burying in your neck. "My love - where were you? What happened - why the delay?" Your voice cracked as your whispered, "You said you'd be only 6 weeks, you were gone twice that! I was so worried!"

"I'm so sorry for worrying you, my star," he whispered back; breath hot in your ear. "I'll explain it all," he promised, lowering you back to your feet to pull back only to instantly take your cheeks in his hands. "I'm sorry it took so long, but I promise, it was for a good reason," he told you softly, thumbs sweeping over the apples of your cheeks; then glancing over pointedly at your grandfather.

"And you!" You scolded playfully. "We expected you weeks ago! Yet you sent no word!"

"We were delayed," Círdan smirked, approaching you as Elrond released his hold; confirming they were together this time. "C'mere, sweet one," he chuckled, bringing you in for a tight embrace. After releasing, he gently tapped the button of your nose, "I am here now, ready to help where I can."

"Oh, please," you chuckled, taking a half-step closer to your betrothed, "there's nothing left to be done, our generous King has planned it all for us. I'm just relieved you are both safe."

Elrond smiled and wrapped his arm around your waist, bringing you in to place a sweet peck on your cheek. "Come," your fiancé encouraged, and when you reentered the planning chambers, you realized others had followed you in.

Evidently, Elrond had gone to Eregion on "business", yes, but it was personal. He had gifted you a ring to symbolize your engagement; modest, silver, simple, gorgeous, and so perfectly "Elrond" - but he wasn't satisfied with it, apparently. As per Elven customs, the engagement rings would be exchanged at the ceremony for wedding bands, and Elrond was determined to give you something extravagant - to prove his adoration. So, he went to Eregion and forged with the Greatest of the Elven Smiths, Lord Celebrimbor, a wedding ring he thought suitable for your finger. Círdan met them to aid in the creation of this gorgeous ring Elrond crafted - insisting you couldn't see it until the ceremony. The trio also crafted Elrond a matching wedding ring that would only accentuate yours; another show of his devotion to you.

Hence their collective delay. Lord Celebrimbor arrived with them, greeting you with mirth; truly excited and honored to have been involved with your wedding band creation.

You were just relieved everyone finally safe and gathered in Lindon. That night, you laid in bed with Elrond; deflated by relief, just staring at him, hand on his cheek, caressing his flesh. "Next time, send word if you're to be late," you requested in a whisper.

"I'm sorry," he repeated, "we were so focused, purely driven by creating something that you'll have forever - we lost track of so much time."

"How many rings did you make?"

"Too many. Though, Celebrimbor will have now options to gift others."

You both snickered, sighing with contentment. Then you whispered, "I fear I might owe a few people an apology..."

"Why? What happened?"

"I was... Operating on a short fuse while worried about you. Might've gotten a little snappy."

"You were rude?" He gasped comically. "I didn't know you even knew how to be."

"Hush," you breathed, leaning closer, "I was worried."

"But I'm here now," he promised, hand to your neck encouraging you to kiss him.

After that, the days passed in a breeze, as if a collective sigh of relief had been heaved by all of Lindon.

And then, the morning of your wedding finally arrived and it was like chaos struck. You never knew, but apparently, outside the chambers you used to prepare in, Gil-galad had everyone rushing around to perfect final details; prepare food, set tables, water and arrange flowers, retrieve whatever was requested by other guests. However, you were none the wiser (as he intended), being fretted over by all types of Elves who were impassioned to make you and your day as flawless as possible.

The High King ensured Elrond was taken care of, the young Herald quiet and seemingly concentrated on his thoughts; lips moving without words, repeating his vows to himself silently. Before it could've been questioned, Círdan arrived with a velveteen jewelry box; appearing ready for the day's events, as if awake for hours.

"Here," Círdan smiled, shooing away the attendants so he could sit beside Elrond, "this is for you, my boy."

"My Lord?" Elrond questioned softly, accepting the gift.

"It's customary."

"What is?" He wondered, opening the lid and revealing a gorgeous, glimmering broach. "Lord Círdan - "

"It's custom for the bride's mother to gift her new son-in-law a gem to be worn as a boastful show of the joining of two families," the craftsman explained. "This... This sapphire belonged to my daughter, and now, I'd like you to have it."

"I don't think I could accept - "

"It is customary," Gil-galad stepped in, seeing the refusal ready on Elrond's tongue.

So, Elrond swallowed his nerves and nodded to Círdan, "Thank you, my Lord. This stone is... Beyond words, surely, only it's previous owner could rival it's beauty."

The tears were bright in Círdan's eyes the rest of the day.

Due to the lack of conventional family, the ceremony was kept between only the High King Gil-galad as officiant and Círdan as witness. The King had designated a private overlook for your ceremony, standing at the cliffside under the golden glow of the Great Tree with Elrond in fine velvet tunics; gorgeous sapphire glittering on his chest, keeping his father's cloak in place as his own special tribute. Just as the sky turned heavenly, sun in position to set, Círdan began to lead you down the pathway - towards your forever.

Elrond choked on air, tears slowly filling his eyes.

You were draped in the finest of silks, a thin veil covering your face; hair in long ringlets, pinned back from your face in an elegant updo. It was like the Light of Valinor itself was shining through you, nearly blinding Elrond with sheer bliss. It was almost as if time slowed, nearly stilling completely; as if your form was moving in slow motion. Even under the sheer veil, Elrond could see your grin and suddenly, he couldn't hear, see, smell, feel anything but your love and light.

With a gentle sniffle, Elrond glanced at Gil-galad, who was beaming with pride already; his own growing, which nobody realized was even possible. Upon approach, Elrond instantly met you at the base of the stone stairs; watching Círdan give a watery smile while hugging you sweetly. He pulled back, gently lifted the veil to flip over your head, and sighed while caressing both cheeks.

In Sindarin, he whispered, "They'd be so proud of the woman you've become... And the man you're marrying. Just as I am."

Now, Elrond choked on his emotion.

"Thank you for everything," you managed to whisper, your grandfather sighing gently before guiding your hand from his into Elrond's. He joined Gil-galad on the platform, both watching proudly as Elrond was at a loss for words - only able to look you up and down.

Finally, he breathed in Sindarin, "Gorgeous."

Before the Elven High King and under your grandfather's loving eye, you and Elrond exchanged vows during sunset. It was intimate and private, either of you slipping your engagement rings off as Círdan presented your wedding bands. You gasped when you saw the ring Elrond crafted for the first time, looking at him with wide eyes, voice gentle as you asked, "You made this?"

"I did."

"For... Me?"

Elrond smiled, "Of course. A wife as beautiful as you deserves a ring that could only strive to embody your shine."

"Don't make me scold you for being so cheesy on our wedding day, my love, please," you giggled, Elrond chuckling while he took your hand to splay before him. He slid the ring onto your index finger, allowing you to do the same with his matching band. Neither of you were able to contain your glee when Gil-galad pronounced you officially as man and wife - Elrond all but lunging forward to hold your cheeks, swooping in to sear your lips with his kiss. You were just as excited, holding onto his biceps to keep him close; feeling warmth swell and burst in your chest as you realized... You were finally married.

After, at the feast Gil-galad had planned, the whole of Lindon was decorated and celebrating your union; hosts of food on long banquet tables, live bands entertaining the crowds, lanterns and candles glowing, conversation turning boisterous as Elves indulged on the castes of wine gifted or collected by the King.

Who, if you were wondering, was hosting the entire affair and having a splendid time as Bôril danced with Camnir - seemingly to Vorohil's chagrin, which Elrond pointed out to you first.

You were just happy to bask in your husband's glory; unable to believe he was yours, that you get to spend your life with him, that you were bound together. He seemed... Youthful in this setting; a young lad that was forced to grow up too quickly, finally able to appreciate the attention directed at him while gracefully accepting words of congratulations everywhere he turned. It was so simple, something decently mundane, but you found it impressive; the way Elrond could accept conversation from just anyone.

It simply intimidated you; content with your written letters and accounts, never truly needing to interact with people on this level. You were better, not quite as shy as before, but old habits die hard and overcoming social anxiety was a lifelong profession. Speaking of, your anxiety spiked from the sheer number of attendants, but Elrond was both sword and shield - intercepting people left and right, saving you from any "on the spot" moments.

The party went deep into the night, and while it was a fun time - complete with Bôril challenging the High King to a silly drinking game, Celebrimbor teaching the steps to an old dance, and Vorohil getting shot down by several Elleths - you were beyond exhausted. Perhaps you didn't hide it as well as you thought because Elrond slid into his empty seat and instantly leaned into your ear to ask, "All right, love?"

"Hmm? Yeah, 'course," you answered, setting the glass of First Age wine (a gift from Celebrimbor) aside to focus on him. Gently caressing his chin, you asked, "You all right?"

"Perfect, actually, just look at my wife," he mused, "though, you look tired, my star."

You hummed, "Can't fool you, can I?"

"It's my job now," he chuckled, letting you lean in gleefully to peck his lips. "How about we slip away? Hm?" He whispered softly, glancing around dramatically - like he was conducting a secret mission.

"Yes, please," you hissed, both snickering lightly. Like a couple of randy youths, you stood with the gifted First Age bottle, hands tangled together, 'sneaking' away to your rooms; thinking you were pulling it off, being so sneaky.

"Oh, bless their hearts, look. Look! I love those idiots," Bôril giggled to the King, "they're so obvious! Look at them go!"

"They're in loooove," Gil-galad teased, refilling his goblet.

"Guess they just can't wait to consummate their marriage, huh? Good for Elrond," Camnir snickered, freezing when Círdan's blank stare registered. "I-I'm so sorry, my Lord, I did not - I misspoke - I didn't think you, uh... I'm sorry."

Círdan just groaned lightly, his friend, Lord Celebrimbor, leaning over to top off his glass and encourage it closer to him; patting his shoulder in sympathy. Bôril and Gil-galad truly tried to hold back, but the scene was truly comical to witness and the two laughed so hard, they ended up leaning on each other and slumping in their chairs.

The party continued without you and Elrond, but it's safe to say, you were engaged in a party of your own.

"You've been quiet, love," you noted softly, one hand held tightly by Elrond's, the other holding your horse's reins; walking to give them a break on this leg of the journey. For weeks, you've been on the road together, touring Middle-earth as part of your honeymoon.

Never having been anywhere other than the Gray Havens and Lindon, you were like a new born fawn in the wilderness - but it was exhilarating to travel.

"Hmm?"

"You're pensive," you amended.

"I am simply in thought, my star, nothing of concern," Elrond assured.

"You're sullen."

"I don't mean to be," he sighed.

"What's troubling you?"

Elrond was quiet for a long moment, stepping carefully as neither of you noticed thick, dark clouds beginning to fill the sky. Finally, he admitted quietly, "We are not far from Khazad-dûm."

You hummed in understanding, then pondered while stepping around overgrown tree roots, "Remind me why we did not extend Prince Durin a wedding invitation?"

"We did," Elrond informed, sighing deeply, "he just... Did not respond..."

"That does not sound like him, based on your account."

"No, it was truly... Odd," Elrond admitted, "perhaps being why I feel strange being close to his kingdom now."

"Do you wish to visit?"

"We don't have the time - "

"We can make time, Elrond," you insisted, squeezing his hand with a grin. "And as far as anyone is concerned, the great Dwarven Kingdom of Khazad-dûm is part of Middle-earth, and therefor, part of our tour. I'd like to meet your friend, my sweet. Now, which direction?"

"We don't have time, starlight, we are expected by Lord - "

But Elrond came to a sudden halt, pulling you into his side as both your horses stamped and whinnied loudly; tossing their heads and snorting, the whites of the eyes flashing as ears flattened as they suddenly stopped in place. You flinched into your husband's side, the horses restless, guards circling around the pair of you quickly. Darkness descended.

"What is it?" You asked in concerned confusion.

"Something is amiss," Elrond rushed, looking confused and concentrated. "I-I do not know what, but the shadow has stretched. C'mere, mount up, my love, quickly, please."

"My Lord," Vorohil, one of your guards and a friend to your husband, directed his horse between yours while Elrond ensured you were safely seated, "there's a darkness to the path ahead, the horses - they are refusing to go forward. It grows darker, my Lord."

You had to reseat yourself as Elrond mounted; the horses backing away as there sounded a ghostly moan from the woods surrounding you.

"This darkness?" Elrond repeated, "Where did it come from? 'Tis midday - "

"Look around us!" Vorohil barked, Elrond sending him a sharp look before looking up - realizing there seemed to be a sort of dark cloud covering the sun, your path, and the woods surrounding you.

You gasped when there came a sudden, horrendous, guttural screech in an echo, making it impossible to locate the origin; and suddenly, a force bodied into your side. It knocked you from your horse, but due to the sudden nature of the attack, also took your beast down with you.

You were lucky your leg didn't shatter on impact.

You heard Elrond scream your name; body hitting the dirt and rolling a few feet before being halting by a boulder. Your sight cleared, evened out, gasping again and shoving yourself against the jagged rock in an attempt to create distance when you saw the horrid, gangly creature made of pure, tangible darkness - pure evil - muddy and growling while surging towards you with gnashing teeth.

A sword decapitated the creature before it could reach you, making you flinch at the show of violence. Your name was spoken in a rush, but you couldn't comprehend hearing words yet; staring at the dead creature, twitching from the severed nervous system at your feet - spewing black blood. Your eyes caught sight of it splattered up your skirt.

Boots hit the ground, a pair of hands caressing both your cheeks and making you gasp in panic. But Elrond's worried face was in front of yours, speaking soothingly in Sindarin, "Easy, easy, be calm, it's me, my love, it's just me. I'm so sorry, but we have to go - now, my love, please, get up for me, come with me - "

"My Lord!"

"Elrond!"

Elrond was forced to stand over you and use his bloody blade to defend you both; choking back tears as you realized this was an ambush by Orcs, creatures of pure hate; something Middle-earth thought extinct after not having been seen in an age. And you were defenseless.

"NO!" You gasped when a hand came around your throat, hoisting back into the boulder; holding you in place as two Orcs ravaged your body for anything of value they could've taken. When they tried taking your wedding ring, you fought back harder - struggling in their putrid arms, sobbing, trying to stave them off. "ELROND!" You begged, gagging when the hand around your throat constricted to close your airway.

"Just cut the bloody thing off!"

You whimpered when you were overpowered, hand flattened to the rock forcefully; fingers spread, the Orcs snarling as a dagger was brandished and stabbed directly into the boulder through your pointer finger.

"Y/N!" Vorohil was heard struggling, your cries muffled from the lack of air and tight hand. The gem-glittering belt you wore was yanked from your waist just as the Orc holding you hostage was ripped away, making the other react by stabbing your lung with his dagger between your ribs.

After Elrond killed the first Orc, he instantly engaged the second; only Vorohil catching sight of you freezing before slowly collapsing against the boulder and sliding down it. He noted the smear of blood you left on the rock before the blade protruding from your ribcage.

You were in shock. The pain was insurmountable, yet you felt nothing at the same time. Numb. Confused. Overwhelmed. Paralyzed.

The fighting lasted several long minutes after that, your dress now properly saturated as you knew enough survival skills to not pull the blade free of an injury; it acted as a plug to keep the blood from pouring OUT of your body. You were left on the ground, slumped, weakly holding your wound and feeling unable to react when an Orc leered closer to you.

Elrond's blade emerged from the Orc's chest and was yanked free, the body dropping to reveal your husband; bloodied, panting, caught off guard, but obviously fairing well enough. He was in the heat of the moment, battle turning his blood hot, eyes catching something glittering in the mud and only thinking how out of place it looked. When he blinked, Elrond realized it was your wedding ring - complete with your severed finger still in it.

Elrond snatched the digit from the mud, eyes raking over you, needing to do a double look when he realized the extent of your injuries. Your finger was lost but your ring was secured in your husband's belt.

"No," he whimpered, rushing forward and dropping his sword to take hold of your cheek; blood gently leaking from your nose at a slow but steady pace. "No, no, no, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, stay with me, stay awake for me," he begged, sniffling emotion as his other hand laid over yours around the dagger's handle, "just let me see, let me see the damage, my love, c'mon, I've got you. I need to see to help."

You were too weak to fight him anyways, letting his muddy hand pry yours away to reveal the weeping wound. His eyes widened, nodding as he assessed the situation; wanting to get you out of here, but the Orcs weren't yet vanquished.

In fact, Elrond was tackled off you by another Orc, crying out when the momentum yanked the dagger free. Ironic timing, perhaps, because an injured Orc was clawing at your legs; biting at your flesh; making you grit your teeth, pick up the dagger, and drive it into the Orc's eye. You were relieved when the creature stopped moving; adrenaline instantly draining and making you slump back once more.

You didn't notice when the Orcs were fully killed off until Elrond was propping you up again, sprayed in blood and mud, tears in his warm brown eyes. "No, my starlight, no, you have to stay awake, you must," he reminded, getting one arm around you, the other first laying to your openly bleeding wound, then shoving the dead Orc off your legs. Elrond cursed in Sindarin when he noted the bite marks, how dirty nails left deep streaks after clawing up your body. "Please, stay awake," he hissed, cradling you into his chest before calling out, "Vorohil!"

"My Lord!"

"We need to get her to a healer - where? Where?" He begged, sniffling as you were shifted into his arms and lifted; few surviving horses being wrangled in.

"I don't - I don't know - "

"You are the cartographer!" Elrond snapped, "Tell me where to take her, where are we closest - !?"

"My Lord," Vorohil sighed, "t-the closest civilization to these parts is-is Khazad-dûm - "

"Hurry!" He barked, situating you sideways on his horse before swiftly mounting; settling you into his chest with a secure hold. The others were left in the dirt as Elrond spurred his steed onward, knowing the way to the Great Dwarven Kingdom of Khazad-dûm.

Upon arriving at the gates, he was a frenzied mess. Elrond doesn't even remember the procession of events; he just knows his men showed up at his flank, he was holding your limp body, begging for aid, and someway, somehow, was then lead into the Kingdom's healing quarters.

"Elrond?" A voice questioned softly, a few nurses and healers checking over the remaining company as you were laid on a surgical table. "Is tha'... You?"

He looked over, eyes void, dead, still splattered in the blood and grime of his enemies. "Durin," Elrond whispered.

"What happened?" The Dwarf Prince asked carefully, taking a slow step forward.

"We... We were..." Elrond looked back at you, hating how many healers surrounded you, "We were attacked - just less than a league from here."

"I see. Who... Who attacked you?"

"A pack of Orcs," he whispered, stumbling back into a wall as his breathing turned ragged, "while we were on the road."

"She's not breathing!" It was announced, Elrond sliding to the floor as horror struck his face. Panic seized his heart, short circuited his brain.

"Elrond?" Durin worried, Disa rushing into the room after him. "Hey? Can yah hear me?" The ginger asked, hand to Elrond's shoulder. "Elrond? Elrond, can yah - "

"I need help! Hold here! She's bleeding!"

"I can't see the wound - cut the corset!"

" - the finger's been lost - "

"She's got bruising on her neck, help me save her windpipe!"

Elrond's breathing became erratic, knees pulling into his chest as his men stood firm in support. Tears were streaming down his cheeks, Durin asking his name again, then, "Who is she?"

"M-My wife - she's my wife, Durin, she's my wife - "

"Okay, okay, okay," Durin comforted, kneeling to the ground at Elrond's side; keeping themselves separate as Disa neared them slowly. Durin shot her a look, silently saying 'close enough', and she stopped - heart aching for the devastation on the Elf's face.

"What's this? An Elf!?" Another Dwarf was heard barking.

"We do not deny aid!" A different Healer Dwarf barked, quickly shedding your dress and revealing your wounds to the room; making a few avert their eyes and hiss as ebony poison had taken to the veins around the wound.

"Do what needs done!" Durin barked, "To save her life! Use any means necessary!"

"You heard your Prince!"

"C'mon," Disa encouraged the Elves, "we should let the Healers work, we do not want to get in their way."

"Is there... Somewhere we can wait, nearby?" Vorohil asked nervously, glancing at you, who was being fussed over as blood splattered onto the ground; wound raging, blood covering your side as they seemed to aggravate the wound in order to clean it of the infection. "What if they need us?" Vorohil whispered.

"We have somewhere close-by for yah's," Disa assured. "Durin?" She asked, "Perhaps Elrond would like t'wait with us?"

"We'll be along," he agreed, knowing Elrond was like a rock in that moment. Disa lead the others away, leaving Durin to sigh and take a seat beside Elrond; just watching the Healers at work. "So, uh, how long yeh been married?"

"We... We sent you, um, a, uh..."

"Oh, right, yeah, yeah, of course. So... Only a couple months, then?"

"Seems like no time at all."

Durin chuckled, "Nah, two months in? You's two are still in that blissful state."

"And when it ends?"

"Oh, yeh'll see, married life becomes all yah know." Durin sighed, hating himself but needing to ask, "What happened to her, Elrond?"

The Elf shook his head, the tears never ending; suffocating him. "The horses," he managed to choke out.

"What of 'em?"

Elrond gulped. "They picked up on it first - that's what I noticed. They didn't want to go down the path, then this sort of darkness came... It was quick... It happened so quick, Durin, I did not - I did not see nor hear them. We were unprepared."

"What else?" Durin was unusually soft.

Elrond shook his head, "I got her on her horse, something didn't feel right. I thought - I just thought to get her out of there, get to safety - you know?"

"Just in case?"

"Yes. But the darkness - it brought them, let them move in the daylight. They tackled her from her horse - I tried to get to her. I swear, Durin, I tried, but it was all so fast - I didn't even see her get hurt. I just found her like that, holding on. What kind of husband can't even defend his own wife? By the end... She was... She wasn't..."

Elrond melted into sobs, folding in on himself, Durin's frown deep and concerning. Despite his own feelings of malcontent towards his old friend, he reached out and let his arm wrap around Elrond's neck. This allowed the Elf to lean into the Dwarf's neck and absolutely lose his shit. Not like anyone heard him, though; the Healers all yelling over one another as they rushed around in an effort to pull the blackened poison from your body.

You don't remember much. Just pain.

Then you remember voices. They were all around you, yet hazy; like you were underwater.

You remember smells - like alcohol and disinfectant.

You remember warmth in your hand; a weight, a constant presence that you squeezed when you felt ready to open your eyes. The twilight had passed, you were awake, a soothing voice cooing and encouraging you back into reality. It was just hard to pull yourself out of the tarpit your mind was seemingly lost in.

Upon regaining consciousness, you were greeted by Elrond's tearful expression of relief. "My love," he spoke clearly, "can you hear me?" You nodded, trying to open your mouth, but he rushed, "No, no, do not - don't do that, don't try to talk. Save your strength, please. You're okay." You nodded again, watching his watery smile warble before dissolving into sobs. "I thought you wouldn't make it," he admitted through his emotional breakdown, hovering close to you if only to feel your warmth and be assured that blood still pumped freely through your body.

"I had reason to come back," you whispered, earning a stony look of reprimand before he sighed and leaned in to kiss your forehead.

"Here, I have something for you," Elrond sniffled, reaching for his belt, "and I cannot keep it any longer." Your brows furrowed when your husband retrieved a bright gem, quickly realizing it was your wedding ring. Elrond saw your confusion, lifting your hand to place the ring on your pointer finger - making you lift the other, finding it bandaged with only four fingers. Your head snapped towards Elrond, but he begged, "Please, just rest, my star, you've been through enough - "

"What happened?" You demanded in a gravely voice.

"Do not - "

"Tell me."

Elrond sighed and situated himself at your side, careful not to jostle your form. "Well, first... We are in the Dwarven Kingdom of Khazad-dûm." He descended into the tale of how you lost your ring and obtained further injury, then rushed to get help, being reunited with Prince Durin, and ending on how you've been asleep for 'too long'.

You croaked, "I'd like to thank our hosts..."

"That can wait until you've rested longer. You've been unconscious for days."

"Then I've rested enough."

"I almost lost you," Elrond growled, "you will not move, not until you are cleared to do so. And I have the best authority to ensure you follow the rules."

You chuckled, "Oh?"

Elrond went to answer, but frowned in a panic when you started coughing from the dry prickle in your mouth and throat; quickly fetching the cup of water from the side stand. "Easy, my star, here, carefully, carefully," he whispered, holding the back of your neck, helping you sit up only slightly as to not irritate your abdomen, and tip the cup to your mouth to fill it with cold, fresh water.

"How's our patient doin' today, Elrond?" A voice asked cheerfully, "I'm tellin' yah, I can feel it, she'll be awake in no time, real soon, and then you'll actually sleep - "

"You have not slept!?" You asked sharply, looking to Elrond and noting the contradiction to his flesh; how pale he appeared with dark circles under his eyes, cheeks sunken.

Yes, Elves didn't need sleep like humans or Dwarves, but still, they needed some - and it was evident Elrond had none.

The Dwarf gasped and whirled around to spy you awake and conscious on the stony bed they had layered with fluff, furs, and blankets for your comfort. She dropped the tray of nutrients to another table, looking like she wanted to rush you. "You're awake!" She squealed.

"Disa - "

"DURIN!" She bellowed, hiking up her skirts and rushing from the room, "SHE'S AWKAE! DURIN! DUUURIN!"

You couldn't help the laughter that burst forth, wincing when your side seared in pain - making you choke on air. Elrond muttered to himself in Sindarin, finding a wet cloth and approaching your injury, carefully lifting the thin sheet covering you and peeling the bandage off. You heard Elrond hiss between his teeth, you trying to glance at the mark - but your husband would not let you. "Just stay still, my love," he whispered, "this won't take long, but it might sting - "

You grunted and whimpered when Elrond began soaking your wound; the cold water feeling nice in the hot infection, but making you squirm from discomfort. "Elrond," you begged, hand slapping to his wrist, "please."

"I know, but it needs cleaned - it won't hurt forever, my love."

"Oi," the Dwarf, Disa, snapped as she reentered the room, "get away from there, Elrond, go, go, go, shoo, let me through."

"Disa - "

"No," She now scolded Elrond, pushing him to stand straight and take the cloth from him, "your only job is to be a husband, not Healer - that's my job. You stand over there, hold her hand, and - DURIN!" She suddenly shouted towards the door, where a ginger Dwarf revealed himself sheepishly.

"Oh," you breathed in interest, trying to sit up a little, "Prince Durin, what an honor - "

"Oh, no, no, you don't, lassie, you lay back - just lay back."

"Listen to Disa, starlight," Elrond worried, both their hands reaching out to try to gently encourage you back down.

"It's customary to greet royalty on your feet - "

"Not in yer state, dearie," Disa comforted softly, patting your shoulder; Elrond gently caressing the top of your head. "Just rest - Durin will come to you," She shot her husband a look, who slowly entered the room.

"I just - I want to thank you, Prince Durin," you stuttered, wincing as Disa started tending to your wound again. "For saving me - or saving us, so I hear."

"Ah," Durin cleared his throat, nodding with pursed lips, "'twas nothing, uh, my Lady, we just... Couldn't say no to the state of things."

"Still. Thank you," you breathed. "And for your friendship to Elrond, it's been - "

"Starlight," Elrond quietly discouraged you with a small head shake, looking just as uncomfortable as the ruddy-faced Dwarf.

"What? What's wrong?" You asked, but neither man could meet your eyes. So, you looked to Disa, "What did I say?"

"Oh, you said nothin', dearie; 's just two stubborn mules refusin' to speak of the boulder in the room," she tisked with a small smirk.

"Do you think this boulder has to do with your absence from our wedding? I must admit, I allowed myself to feel excited, thinking we'd finally meet; and was entirely saddened by your lack of attendance."

"I know, sweetling, me too," she assured with a sigh, "but their boulder is truly suffocatin' - prevents them from speakin'."

"Oh-hhhh," you hitched the word to exaggerate, both your husbands stunned into silence by the quickly casual conversation, "so, like most men?"

"Mhm," she hummed sassily. "Friends for decades, Durin even considers Elrond a brother - "

" - So does Elrond - "

" - And yet, the fools cannot bear t'speak few words t'mend the bond! Oh, it's absolutely pigheaded!"

"What exactly needs mending?" You pondered softly. "I thought..." You looked over to see Elrond's head bowed, both hands resting in your single one; looking ashamed. "Elrond?" You asked, squeezing his hand.

"It's nothin' of note anymore, my Lady," Durin stepped in, making your suspicion grow, "just... A little, uh..."

"Distance," Elrond supplied finally, lifting his head and nodding, "our tension stems from a matter of distance."

"Hm," you noted, turning to Disa - who was already offering you a tired, pointed look. "What do you know of this boulder?"

"Oh, aye, it's distance," she nodded, frowning, "some... 20 years of it? Or just about."

"Has it been only 20?" Elrond questioned softly, looking earnestly to his friend; who stiffly looked away, but you saw the cracks in the ginger's foundation.

"'Only'?" You repeated, Disa sending her husband a look. "Prince Durin, my Princess, you must forgive my husband - he can forget how... Long life is. 20 years is a mere blink to an Elf, but to the other races, Elrond, it's a lifetime."

"I did not mean to offend," Elrond told you.

"I know, love, but you speak to the wrong person - I am not the one who deserves to hear your apologies," you said, pointing at Durin with your wedding ring firmly in place.

Elrond agreed and turned to his friend, admitting, "I'm sorry for the offense I've caused. I did not realize so much time had passed." Durin scoffed, Disa growling his name. "Is there more I've done? I do not understand, I have missed my friend - "

"Missed!? Yah missed my weddin'!" Durin snarled in a shout, your head resting on the pillow under your head and deflating in pain as Disa worked to fix one of the stitches.

"You missed ours - "

"And the birth of my children! Two of 'em!" Durin tacked on. "You cannot barge into my mountain and demand I welcome you with open arms! You cannot claim that which you discarded! I did yah this favor because of the obvious threat to life, and I comforted you in the wake of yer wife's injury! I ignored my own woes and bygones because that was the decent thing t'do! I mean," he chuckled without humor, "even when yeh wrong me and refuse to even take ownership - accountability - for yer wrongdoings, I still comfort yah!"

"'Discarded'? 'Refuse to take'..." Elrond repeated, "Durin, I - "

"It's as yer wife said!" Durin growled, "20 years might be the blink of an eye to an Elf... But I've lived an entire life in that time!" Emotion caked Durin's tone. "A life you missed! So, yeah, yeh know what? We missed yer weddin', yeah... But you've missed the past 20 years..." There came an awkward sort of silence, the group stewing in their tension. The Dwarven Prince scoffed a couple times as Elrond processed his words, asking with attitude, "So what do yah have t'say to that... 'Friend'?"

You smirked gently as Elrond did not respond, instead slowly approaching his friend as if a skittish, injured deer. Slowly, in a fluid movement, Elrond laid his hand to Durin's shoulder, squeezing as he spoke with sincerity, "Congratulations." Disa laid her hand in your bandaged one, both smiling as she paused her cleaning session to watch and listen. "On your wife, your children," Elrond elaborated. He slowly retracted his hand, "And thank you for your help, the aid that saved my wife's life. Thank you for comforting me, too; I hope you can come to forgive me."

You cleared your throat, the two turning to find their wives watching them smugly. "I think you might owe someone else an apology, my love," you whispered.

"Disa - "

"Don't even," she beamed, "yer already forgiven."

"Ah, don't let him off easy," Durin grumbled.

"His wife almost died in front of him, I think that's reparation enough."

Durin paused for a long moment, then nodded, "Yeah, all right, fair enough."

"Now," Disa announced, standing, "I think the Lady's wound is as good as it'll get for now - it's up to you for the rest of the healing," she patted your shoulder.

"On the morrow, we shall - "

"Oh, no, you mistake me," Disa smirked to Elrond, "there's no leavin' yet. She's not ready - she can't sit on a horse, one awkward bump on the road and she'll pop a stitch, start bleeding, risk worse infection - "

"How long?" Elrond worried, magnetized to your side again with one hand in yours, the other caressing the top of your head to stroke your hair in calming motions.

"Just a few days, until the stitches come out," Disa assured. "Yeh'll stay with us!"

"No, they will not," Durin argued.

"They're staying."

"They're leaving."

"They're staying!" Disa scolded her husband, who huffed and shook his head before pacing in a circle. "Now, yeh wanna try t'move around a bit, love?"

"Please," you begged, "losing my mind just sittin' here."

"All right, just be careful - your legs took a beatin', too. Them buggers got you good with their teeth - easy, easy, there's a good girl." Once on your feet and both hands in Disa's, she distracted you from the pain by asking, "So, go on, lass, tell us 'bout yer weddin', hmm?"

You chuckled, stumbling a little into her arms before rightening yourself while answering, "Oh, it was lovely. 'M pretty sure my best friend hooked up with the High King, too."

"No!"

"I know! I knew the King wanted the party of the century, but there's other ways to achieve such status."

Durin snickered, thinking Elrond looked like he was going to have a stroke as Disa helped guide you around the room to earn your bearings. Behind you, Durin's hand held Elrond's shoulder to keep him in place; letting Disa assist you as the two men appreciated the obvious relationship blooming before them.

And years from now, when your daughter rescued the Ring Bearing Hobbit, Frodo Baggins, your husband would heal him; a direct result after nearly losing your life that caused him to study the art.

part one: Match Made in Grey Haven

requesting rules and masterlist

TROP masterlist

[satoruhour]

Need sukuna in racer au 😩

REWARDS FROM A RACER

a/n: more of smut than him being a racer …. im not opposed to doing a ‘how they met’ ngl

wc: 2.1k

warnings: ooc sukuna, dom!sukuna, lewd declarations in public, he’s a little mean and calls you ‘whore’, ‘slut’, praise, degradation, pet names, car sex, semi-public sex, oral (m! receiving), light face-fucking, unprotected sex, riding, p → v penetration, clit stimulation, dash of daddy kink, creampie / breeding kink, n*sfw under the cut

“doll, c’mon, we don’t have much time till the race starts.” 

“i know, ’kuna! give me a minute, ’m just tightening the screws on the crankshaft.” you already hear the joke from miles away, a soft chuckle comes after he mumbles “heh, shaft” and you resist the urge to roll your eyes while stifling a smile. it seems like sukuna had enough of waiting for you in the driver’s seat, so he meets you at the front of the car where the hood is popped.

if anyone told you sukuna was someone who would’ve made time for anyone else but himself, you would laugh in their face because when had ryomen “king of curses” sukuna ever thought about anyone but himself? he had all that he could have: a ’66 Ford GT40 (that he named king of curses — a tad bit goofy, he knows), girls on his arm, first place for every race he took part in. he was untouchable.

but during a night in the midst of a drag race he saw you outside a club, barely catching a glimpse of you shoving off a man who couldn’t take no for an answer. he wasn’t surprised to see kenjaku — another racer from another region and someone who he had an infamous rival with — laugh when he had come to your rescue, cut off when the king of curses landed a clean hit to the other’s face. sukuna made sure you were okay after the whole debacle, but he also fucked you silly to show you how a man should really be treating you.

it was the only race he ever lost.

“sometimes i forget how much shit you put up with when you’re with me,” sukuna grins, a sneaky hand moving from your waist to your ass to squeeze it, “fixing my engine like an obedient little girl.”

you simply turn to him with a bored expression, but you can’t deny the throb between your legs when he talks to you like that, “glad you’re self aware, ’kuna.”

“smart mouth you have there, hm?” sukuna pulls you even closer against his front and you can already feel the half-hard bulge there. he’s always hard before a race, too. that you know, because it’s an emerging characteristic of his that you’re not opposed to because sukuna ends up pounding into you in his driver’s seat once the race is finished. he just can’t help the adrenaline, can’t he?

“guess i’ll just have to ruin you,” sukuna cuts off your next reply with a messy kiss, swallowing the soft moans that leave your mouth at the temporary relief you’re getting from grinding on him, “later.”

you scoff, feigning annoyance, “yeah, yeah, i know. you never miss a race.”

sukuna just smiles, smacking your ass slyly and makes his way to the driver’s seat before you have time to gasp, simply raising an eyebrow (“don’t tell me you didn’t like that?”) when you slap his chest later in the passenger seat.

“oh god, he’s going to do that thing again right?” beside you are the other more prominent racers of tokyo, the famous four excluding sukuna. gojo is the one who asked the question, nudging you with a grin that’s got you groaning into your hands. slowly, you nod.

across from you is sukuna in his Ford GT40, shouting with his windows rolled down, “i’m gonna fuck you so good after i win this race, princess!” and while you’re turned on at the prospect, you’re also wincing at how everyone whoops and cheers because he does this in every race. it never gets old, though, just as the laughter of the other four floods your ears.

“do you really have to scream it every time?” you lean down to the window once the two cars are at the starting line, running a hand through his mildly sweaty locks. his perspiration is a little pink from the dye he’s used to top up the colour of his hair and you jokingly wipe your wet hands on his top.

sukuna grabs your wrist, pulling you gently to give you a noisy, sloppy kiss, his words whispered against your lips, “they have to know how you scream every night.”

you tsk with a laugh, hand reaching down to palm his dick that makes him grunt, “give ’em hell, baby.”

and he definitely makes the other wish he never was born. sukuna likes to play dirty, bumping into the rear of the other when he’s behind, sending a middle finger to the racer when he passes him, it’s part of why your boyfriend tends to prefer solitude because he’s not on everyone’s good side.

with skidding tires, sukuna finishes with a dashing grin, but he’s so focused on you that he doesn’t realise the crowd around him, some reaching forward to congratulate him, others wanting to touch his car. the racer barks out before anyone can violate his ride.

“oi, you fuckin’ idiots dare touch my car and i swear i’ll fuck up yours.”

beside you, geto mutters out a yeesh while gojo just giggles, patting your shoulder before you bid goodbye to the famous four. the crowd makes way for you, naturally, when you walk towards his car, because what kind of mental person willingly dates sukuna? they follow your figure as you make your way to him, swaying your hips for everyone to see, but you hardly care when all you can fixate on is his promise to you before every race starts.

and all he does that night is fulfil his promise, whisking you away from the cramped parking lot and into the late tokyo roads, whizzing past street lamps and cop cars and howling at the top of his voice. he loves it, he loves you and you see it every time he drives you home after a late night race and every time he noisily drives up to you when someone’s bothering you.

sukuna loves your body, too, because all you know later on is his cock in your mouth on a quiet, remote mountain used for drifting. with the winter season approaching, it was desolate, except for the way your head bobs up and down on his length, which hardens even more inside your mouth.

“that’s it, fuckkk yes.” sukuna groans, a hand clutching onto the leather of his seat while the other finds purchase in your hair, pulling on your locks till it hurts. with his hips moving erratically paired with the soreness in your jaw, it’s really the only thing you can concentrate on in an awkward position while hovering over the stick shift. “suck like the dirty cockslut you are.”

“’kuna, mmfhh—!” your hands rush to find his thighs on a particularly deep thrust, tip hitting the back of your throat and you look up at sukuna through teary lashes and breathe through your nose before he lets you off briefly. but your mouth is too warm just like how your pussy feels and sukuna forces your head onto him again.

sukuna groans when he lets you do your own thing, mouth taking half of him while your hands help you with the other, alternating between taking sucking the bottom of his cock and lapping at his tip, continuing to flutter your lashes at him.

“stick out your tongue f’me, doll,” he manages to choke out a moan, grabbing his cock to slap it on your tongue (it’s so heavy that you moan), making lewd sounds before he starts thrusting again, feeling every inch of your mouth with no time to warn you of his impending orgasm until the car is filled with his incessant groans and grunts, hips faltering at how your mouth just keeps sucking. “fuck— i’m cumming.” sukuna spills unexpectedly, shooting his cum deep down your throat and you moan around his shaft. he’s not laughing now, focused solely on getting every last bit of cum into your system as he tilts his head back in utmost pleasure. 

“take all of it,” his movements slow down, admiring how you look like you worship him with a lax mouth and pleading eyes, and he knows you do, but before that he’s ensuring you know that his worship of you overtakes yours by miles, pulling you impatiently to his seat before dragging your panties to the side. the other likes it when you wear skirts, easy access he says, licking his lips in anticipation when he sees how the fabric sticks to your cunt from how wet you were, leaving a string of arousal that snaps once it’s far enough.

“well? what’re you waiting for?” sukuna raises an eyebrow, a small chuckle leaving him when you mumble out a i’m getting to it! as you gather the slick leaking from your needy pussy. the feel of his mushroom tip against your clit is gratifying and you line him up before sinking down slowly. even after taking him multiple times, his size always makes your eyes widen and jaw drop at the stretch, incoherent whimpers leaving as he watches you take all nine inches of him.

“s’kuna, f-fuck…” you wrap your arms around his neck, suddenly shy at being so spread open for him to see, “s’big, you’re so big!” he hums, pressing little kisses down the side of your face while kneading your ass, plush thighs nestled around his pelvis so cutely that he appreciates your brief pause before you start riding him — because he can’t resist cumming when he sees you crying on top of him, trying his best to prolong the way you feel around him.

“i know i’m big, but you’re taking me so well, aren’t you, baby?” sukuna coos, holding your eyes that struggle to stay open as you bounce on his thick cock, ass meeting his hips in noisy pap’s as you flood his car with whining pleas of him filling you to the brim. there’s a white ring of pre-cum at the base of his shaft where your juices mix, dripping down the hilt and onto his balls, definitely soaking his leather seats. “just a whore for me to fuck stupid, yea?”

you nod frantically, babbling to no one as you throw your head back, pussy clenching when his lips meet your tits and he sucks hard on your nipples, flicking his tongue around your buds before moving to the other. “got so t-tight from me doing that,” sukuna laughs, wrapping a hand ’round your chin to force you to look at him. lips pursed, eyes blown wide from his cock in your cunt, hair sticking to your forehead, he swear he could cum deep in you right there and then.

“you love how i stretch you out?” he then yanks your head down to make you watch how your pelvis meets his, juices spurting in all directions by how wet you were. it truly was a sight, how his cock disappears into you and reappears, thighs burning from how fast you were bouncing on him.

“love it s’much, daddy,” you whine, eyes rolling to the back of your skull as you grab his free hand, bringing it to your neglected clit that’s been throbbing all night, “but i n-need you here, s’kuna…” and when he starts to rub circles into your puffy clit, you jolt at the feeling, screaming out obscenities at the sensations that overwhelm your body. he knows you’re getting tired and close, too.

so he shocks you by thrusting up, your body immediately halting to receive the way he rails into you and while your muscles are still cramping, it’s infinitely better than riding him. with his thrusts and his hand on your clit, you can already feel the coil in your stomach turning as your body slumps against him, “daddy!”’s spilling from your lips with mixed wanton moans. “that’s it, a good little slut who’s taking daddy’s cock, fuck—”

“so warm, and tight,” within seconds, his thrusts are irregular when you start to clench around him again, high-pitched whines filling his ears before you reach your high with a slack jaw and trembling thighs, body lined with sweat. but it’s the way your cum leaks down his length that gets sukuna releasing after you, the familiar pleas of wanting his cum deep in your cunt. he does just that, grunting into your neck when his hips thrust deeply before he releases his hot, thick semen into your pussy, gushing out because there’s just so much.

“love it when i breed my girl,” he mutters with a laugh breathlessly while you’re moaning softly at how he’s still spilling into you, overflowing cum leaking from your cunt even when he’s still inside. sukuna grins when your hips never really stop, still continuing to grind aimlessly.

“love my sweet girl who can’t think of anything but getting fucked stupid.”

[earthlybeam]

im exposing myself a bit but whatever I want to know how elves react to this happening to them by their lover! 🤪 UMM. characters Elrond, thranduil, Gil-galad, celeborn….i wish for all characters but don’t want to give you too much work!

So reader Just saying goodbye with hug or something where reader ended up hugging each other but reader and catch their scent within the hug, as them moves to break the hug as can’t stay hugging forever (I wish) reader bring your head back to neck and smelling their scent again more than once sniffing more harder like melting like omg you smell so good! What’s elves reaction to this?

also thank you very much for taking your time to make this, have good day or night 🧡🧡🧡

Omg yess love this idea!! And honestly, I’m enjoying writing this so much haha 🤣 So I will definitely be writing a Glorfindel, Haldir, Lindir, Círdan, and Celebrimbor version next! I can just imagine how each elf would react—Ugh, elves just smell too good, what else is one supposed to do?! Thank you for sharing this idea, and I hope you have a wonderful day or night too! ❤️‍🔥🫶✨

Gil-Galad, Thranduil, Elrond, Celeborn versions below.

🏵️𝓖𝓲𝓵-𝓰𝓪𝓵𝓪𝓭

The sun had begun its slow descent over Lindon, casting the land in warm hues of amber and deep gold. The sea breeze carried the soft scent of salt and pine, but as you stepped into the courtyard where Gil-galad stood, it was not the evening air that captured your attention—it was him. He had just finished his duties for the day, the weight of kingship still lingering in the way he carried himself. The regal composure, the quiet authority—yet when he saw you, some of that tension eased. A small, private smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he opened his arms.

You wasted no time, stepping into his embrace, pressing yourself against the steady warmth of his chest. His arms wrapped around you, firm yet unhurried, as if anchoring himself in the moment. The faint scent of metal and parchment clung to him from a day spent in counsel, but beneath it was something unmistakably him—cool night air, aged cedarwood, and the faintest hint of something warm, something that made your stomach flutter.

The scent was intoxicating. As he began to pull away, you found yourself lingering. Your arms remained looped around him, and instead of letting the hug end, you buried your face into the curve of his neck, inhaling deeply. Then, just as he shifted slightly in question, you inhaled again—this time more deliberately. A second, deeper sniff.

And then another. Gil-galad went utterly still. “…My love,” he murmured, his voice edged with both curiosity and amusement, “what exactly are you doing?” But you couldn’t answer yet. Not when the scent of him wrapped around you like the coziest, most luxurious thing you’d ever known. Your breath came out in a pleased hum, and, without thinking, you nuzzled just a bit closer, taking one final, slow inhale.

Gil-galad exhaled through his nose, his grip on you tightening subtly. You could feel the slight rumble of a restrained chuckle vibrating in his chest. “So,” he said at last, voice smooth yet touched with unmistakable mirth, “this is what greets me after a long day of ruling? My beloved, utterly helpless against the way I smell?” You gave an unapologetic sigh, finally leaning back just enough to meet his gaze. “You smell so good,” you admitted without shame, your hands still resting on his shoulders.

His brows lifted slightly, his deep blue eyes gleaming with restrained laughter. “Good enough to forget proper decorum entirely, it seems.” You grinned. “You’re my king, yes, but you’re also my Gil-galad. That means I reserve the right to sniff you whenever I please.”

He tilted his head, a soft hum escaping him. “A bold declaration.” Then, after a brief pause, his expression softened into something even more unreadable—something fonder, quieter. His hand lifted, fingers brushing lightly along the curve of your cheek before he leaned in, pressing the barest kiss to your forehead.

“If my scent brings you such joy,” he murmured, dangerously close now, “perhaps I should make a habit of holding you longer.” Your breath hitched. Gil-galad smirked—just slightly—as if he knew exactly what effect he had on you. And then, to your utter delight, he pulled you back into his arms, this time lingering on his own accord. And you? You took full advantage of the opportunity to inhale to your heart’s content.

A pause. Then, with unmistakable teasing “Shall I bottle it for you?” You swatted lightly at his chest, but it only made him laugh again, his voice warm as the twilight. “Very well,” he murmured, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. “Take all the time you need, meleth nin.” And so he stood there, patient and unbothered, allowing you to remain wrapped in his scent, in his warmth, in him—for as long as you wished.

🍷𝓣𝓱𝓻𝓪𝓷𝓭𝓾𝓲𝓵

The halls of the Woodland Realm were ever bathed in twilight, the golden glow of lanterns casting soft pools of light against smooth stone. The scent of moss, aged oak, and distant rain curled through the corridors, but none of it—none of it—held a candle to him. Thranduil moved through the halls like a shadow of silver and deep green, his robes whispering with each step, the weight of his presence unquestionable. He was a king, a ruler of untold centuries, with matters far more pressing than lingering in corridors—but when he crossed paths with you, that ever-so-slight shift in his gaze, that flicker of acknowledgment, was enough to make your heart stumble.

A greeting was expected. A simple exchange before he continued on his way. But instead, he surprised you—just slightly—by pausing, allowing your fingers to brush his arm before you both leaned in for a fleeting embrace. A rare gesture, fleeting—until you caught his scent. Oh. Oh no. The scent of him was nothing short of divine. A deep, rich blend of aged cedar, cool river lilies, and something elusive—something uniquely, intoxicatingly Thranduil. It struck you like a gust of autumn wind, wrapping around you, curling into your lungs like a siren’s call. He moved—elegantly, effortlessly—to break away.

But your body? Your foolish, lovestruck body had other plans. Before he could fully retreat, your hands tightened ever so slightly against his back. You tilted your head, pressing your face into the curve of his neck, and inhaled. Deeply. A slow, deliberate draw of air, savoring the way he smelled—like the wild heart of the forest itself.

Thranduil stilled. You barely noticed. You were too lost in the scent of him, the way it made you melt. So, naturally, you did what any reasonable person would do—you sniffed again. Harder. And then again. And—oh, Valar help you—again. A low breath escaped him—not quite a sigh, not quite a scoff. His hands, once poised to leave you behind, now hovered at your waist in bemused hesitation. Slowly, ever so slowly, his head inclined just enough to glance down at you, eyes sharp with unreadable scrutiny.

“Meleth…What,” he said, his voice smooth as darkened glass, “exactly… do you think you are doing, meleth?” You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. How could you, when you were currently melting into his scent, your brain too busy dissolving into a puddle of sheer bliss? Instead, you gave one more shameless inhale, your grip slackening as if he might as well carry you off because you were done for.

A pause. Then—a chuckle. Low. Soft. Entirely too amused. Thranduil let his hands settle fully against your waist, fingers ghosting over your sides as if contemplating whether you were utterly ridiculous or simply his problem now. “You are insufferable,” he murmured, but there was a thread of something dangerously close to fondness beneath his words. Then, as if to prove a point—to remind you who, exactly, you were indulging in—he turned the tables.

Before you could react, his lips barely brushed your temple, and in the same motion, he inhaled. Slow. Deliberate. A mirrored indulgence. Your breath hitched. Oh. Oh no. Thranduil hummed, a smirk flickering at the edges of his mouth. His hand lingered at the small of your back, just enough to remind you that you were well and truly at his mercy now.

“If you wished to drown in my presence, meleth nîn,” he mused, far too pleased with himself, “you needed only ask.” The boldness of it sent warmth rushing to your cheeks, and you huffed, tilting your head just enough to glare at him. “You act as if you are not enjoying this just as much,” you shot back, refusing to let him have the last word. A brow lifted—a silent challenge. “Do I?”

You narrowed your eyes, lips pressing together as you contemplated your next move. And then, with all the defiance in your heart, you sniffed him again. Hard. Thranduil let out a slow breath through his nose, a mixture of amusement and exasperation. “You are impossible,” he murmured, but his hands hadn’t moved from your waist. If anything, they lingered, as if betraying his own indulgence in your presence as you giggling.

“And yet,” you teased, pressing a lingering kiss to the cool metal of his collar, “here you are, suffering me still.” A silence stretched between you, thick with something neither of you dared name. Finally, Thranduil exhaled a sigh, tipping his forehead against yours for the briefest of moments before he murmured, “Go, before I decide to keep you here all evening.” You smirked. “Perhaps I wish to be kept.” His fingers curled against your sides—just once, just enough for you to feel the unspoken promise in his touch. “Do not tempt me, meleth nîn.” And with that—he left you there. Warm, flustered, and utterly wrecked.

📜 𝓔𝓵𝓻𝓸𝓷𝓭

Elrond had just finished his duties for the day, the weight of governance and counsel finally lifting from his shoulders as he stepped into the quiet sanctuary of his chambers. The evening air carried the faint scent of Rivendell’s gardens—floral and crisp, mingling with the ever-present undertone of parchment and candle wax that lingered from his study. He had removed his outer robes, now dressed in a long, flowing tunic of deep blue, the fabric soft and well-worn with age. The flickering glow of candlelight cast golden hues across his sharp features, but as soon as he saw you, the tired lines at the corners of his eyes softened, his lips curving into something warm, something meant only for you.

You stepped forward, drawn by the quiet intimacy of the moment. Without hesitation, he welcomed you into his embrace, arms wrapping securely around you, his warmth enveloping you like a protective cocoon. His touch was steady, his breath even, as though he were anchoring himself to you after a long day of duty and thought.

But the moment your face pressed against the side of his neck, something shifted. His scent—deep, woodsy with hints of parchment and ancient ink, warmed by his own natural essence—was intoxicating. You felt yourself relax completely, melting into him, the scent making your heart flutter in a way you hadn’t expected. It was grounding, familiar, and entirely him.

As he moved to part from the hug, you resisted. Your hands tightened slightly against his back, and instead of pulling away, you leaned in further, burying your face against the curve of his neck once more. You inhaled deeply, this time with intent, savoring the warm, rich scent of him. A soft, appreciative hum left your lips, and before you could stop yourself, you went in again—this time slower, deeper, taking him in like he was the rarest perfume in all of Middle-earth.

Elrond stilled. There was a moment of silence, and then you felt his chest rumble with a quiet chuckle. Amusement flickered in his voice as he spoke, low and smooth against the shell of your ear. “You linger, meleth nín,” he murmured, the barest hint of a smile threading through his tone. His hands traced a slow path up your back, his touch indulgent, as though he found your reaction both endearing and intriguing. “Has my scent bewitched you so?”

You didn’t answer immediately—too lost in the sheer comfort of his presence, too content to do anything but take one last lingering inhale before sighing against his skin. “I cannot help it,” you admitted, tilting your head slightly to look up at him. “You smell so good.” His brows lifted slightly, his expression equal parts amused and pleased. His fingers drifted to your chin, tilting your face up so he could study you. The corner of his mouth twitched, eyes twinkling with something mischievous, something ancient and knowing.

“Then by all means,” he murmured, lowering his head so his lips ghosted over your temple, “breathe me in, meet. I am yours to linger upon.” He allowed you to stay nestled against him, his hand threading through your hair as you relaxed into him completely. There was no rush to move, no urgency—only the quiet understanding that in this moment, he was exactly where he wished to be.

Elrond let out the smallest hum, and though he did not move to stop you, there was something entirely knowing in his expression now, the way he tilted his head just enough to regard you with quiet interest. “though I do hope you do not plan to make a habit of ensnaring me so the moment I return from my duties.” His tone held all the dignity of a lord of the Eldar, but his hand at your lower back was holding you closer, betraying the fact that he did not entirely mind your little fascination with him. In fact… perhaps he found it rather endearing.

“…No promises,” you murmured, utterly unwilling to let go just yet. Elrond only sighed again, this time in soft acceptance, and let you continue your little indulgence—his hands smoothing slow circles against your back as you all but melted into him, your lips curving into a blissful smile against his throat.

🩵𝓒𝓮𝓵𝓮𝓫𝓸𝓻𝓷

The soft glow of the fading sun filters through the golden leaves, casting shifting patterns on the forest floor. Celeborn holds you in a lingering embrace, his arms firm but gentle around your waist. The scent of the wood—earthy, fresh, with the faint floral whisper of Elven magic—lingers in the air, but beneath it all is him.

At first, it’s just instinct. A light inhale as you rest your head against his shoulder, taking in that uniquely Celeborn scent—clean rain, old parchment, and something deep and green, like the heart of the forest itself. It’s grounding, comforting. But then, as he begins to pull away, you realize oh no, that wasn’t enough.

Before he can step back completely, your hands tighten just slightly against the fine silver embroidery of his robes, and you tilt your head in, pressing your nose against the juncture of his neck and collarbone. A deeper inhale this time—gods, he smells even better up close. Celeborn stills immediately. You can feel the faintest hitch in his breath, a pause, a flicker of understanding at what you’re doing. His head tilts just slightly, his long, silver hair shifting against your cheek as he exhales in what can only be described as the softest, most bewildered chuckle.

“My love…,” he murmurs, his voice a warm, amused hush. His hands rest lightly against your back, as if unsure whether to let you continue or to pull away with bemused dignity. But you don’t stop. No, now you’re melting—your second inhale is even deeper, needier, like you’re trying to commit the scent of him to memory, or absorb it into your very soul.

Celeborn’s hand drifts up to your back, stroking absently as he huffs out another breath. “Are you sniffing me?” You make a small, completely undignified sound against his skin. “Mmm-hmm.” His fingers flex at your waist as he shifts, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “Is that—oh, Valar—is that why you’ve trapped me here? So you may indulge in…” He pauses, his deep voice taking on a teasing weight. “More thorough investigation?”

You nod without shame, nose still buried against his skin. “You smell so good,” you murmur, voice practically dreamy, drunk on the sheer essence of him. Celeborn sighs, the long-suffering sigh of a dignified lord whose reputation as a wise and venerable Elf is currently being dismantled by the sheer ridiculousness of his lover burying their face in his neck like an affectionate cat. Still, he doesn’t pull away. “Must you?” he asks, voice carrying that particular tone—the one that suggests he already knows the answer but asks anyway, out of principle.

You nod against his shoulder. “Mhm.” Another deep inhale. His fingers tighten slightly at your back, and then, very deliberately, he leans back just enough to look at you—his silver eyes calm, patient, but glinting with something wry. “Are you done?” You shake your head. “Not yet.” His lips twitch. “Of course not.” Yet, despite all his sighing and supposed exasperation, he doesn’t pull away. No, he simply tightens his hold just a fraction, as if resigned to his fate. “If you must,” he says, voice low and indulgent, “then make it count, meleth-nîn.”

And with that, he tilts his head, ever so slightly, allowing you just a little more access—because, as much as he pretends to endure this with patience, his hand remains firm at the small of your back, keeping you close. (And if, later, Galadhrim sentries witness their Lord standing amidst the golden trees, being dramatically ensniffed by his lover, well… Celeborn will simply pretend he does not see their knowing glances.) 🤣

[koiiiji]

Hiiii

Can you do a senrio where Busan crew heads babysit jinrang's daughter? 😶

Also I love your writings

little boss

author's note ; hiiii! thank u hun <3 HELL YES I CANNNNN!! i bet uncle Baek gonna be best nanny to Jinrang's kid, and since whole busan highly respect him, they would melt if they find out about daddys lil princess🥺🥺

summary ; dad have some busy time after long absence in prison, but thankfully you have a lot of uncles who are happy to look after their boss kid.

Baek Sang had never been more honored in his life.

Jinrang had barely stepped out of prison, but he was already back to work, making up for lost time. and while he handled things, he left his most precious treasure in Baek’s care.

his daughter.

he stood in Jinrang’s office, arms crossed as he leaned against the wall. across from him, the king of Busan was watching him with sharp, expectant eyes.

“she’s six, Baek. six.” Jinrang’s tone was calm, but there was an undeniable weight behind his words.

Baek straightened his posture slightly. “of course, hyungnim. i understand.”

“do you?” Jinrang narrowed his eyes. “because i’m trusting you with her for the day, and i swear, if she so much as scrapes her knee, i’m taking yours in return.”

Baek swallowed. “i totally understand the weight of this task, boss.”

Jinrang glanced down at you. you were standing beside him, tiny hands gripping his pant leg, eyes peeking up at Baek with caution.

“she’s a little shy,” Jinrang muttered, ruffling your hair gently. “give her some time. she’ll warm up to you.”

you blinked at your father, hesitated, then nodded ever so slightly.

Baek Sang prided himself on being a lot of things: Jinrang’s right-hand man, a formidable force in Busan, and an expert in handling business matters. but now he gonna be something far more important.

Jinrang sighed. “be good, kid. i’ll be back soon.”

and with that, Baek was officially on babysitting duty.

he gonna be an uncle. the best uncle. in the world.

⠂⠁⠈⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂

Baek practically vibrated with excitement as he held your tiny hand, like a proud father, while driving down the streets of Busan.

“i promise, little lady,” he declared, grinning ear to ear, imagining how good he gonna spoil you, “you’re gonna have the best day ever. uncle Baek has a whole plan — candy, arcade, more candy, maybe some ice cream...”

you blinked up at him. “dad said no too much sugar.”

Baek scoffed. “yeah, yeah. but what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, right?”

and before he could continue spoiling you, his phone buzzed. a meeting. with other affiliates heads in Busan.

Baek’s face fell. but… this was his work too. and Jinrang trusted him to handle both.

which meant… he was bringing you along.

⠂⠁⠈⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂

the second Baek stepped into the meeting room with you in his arms, the entire room froze.

men who were feared across Busan — leaders of other affiliates, powerful men who could end someone’s life with a snap of their fingers — suddenly looked like they had forgotten how to breathe.

you peeked out cautiously from Baek’s shoulder, tiny fingers gripping his jacket. the number of unfamiliar faces was overwhelming, and you instinctively curled in closer to him, pressing your cheek to his chest.

Baek smiled warmly. “aww, what happened to all that confidence, huh?”

silence.

then, a cough..

then —

“who’s this?” one of them finally asked, staring at the child in disbelief.

Baek rolled his eyes, on the one who asked such stupid question. “this is the boss’s kid.” puffed up his chest with pride, “i’m babysitting.”

a pause. then another.

the fearsome, battle-hardened leaders of Busan’s underworld stared at you, the little girl, who hid behind Baek’s leg, peeking out at them with wide eyes.

a pause. and in a second atmosphere changed at 180 degrees.

“oh my god, she’s adorable.”

“she looks just like little princess.”

“does she like sweets? i have candy.”

Baek watched in utter satisfaction as the meeting room transformed from a den of criminals into a daycare full of cooing uncles.

“Baek hyungnim,” one of the heads cleared his throat and whispered on Baek ear. “with all due respect, it’s kinda hard to focus on business when the boss’s kid is staring at us like that.”

he glanced at you. you were indeed surrounded and you were staring — big, hesitant eyes watching men bustling around you from behind Baek's jacket.

Baek had barely opened his mouth when one of the older gangsters jerked his chin toward five young figures.

“you guys. babysitting duty.”

all five froze and exclaimed in unison, clearly unsatisfied with such tasks, “WHAT??!!”

“keep the little boss entertained. that’s an order.”

Hyunjin Jin sighed. “this is not in my job description.”

Shin Arim groaned. “we’re crew heads too, not daycare workers.”

Min Jihoon shrugged, as if it was not a big deal at all.

“it’s just for a while,” Kang Jinchan added

Park Hyukjin decided to just stay silent.

Baek sighed and shot a murderous glance in the direction of the young guys.“if she cries, all of you are dead.”

the disciples saluted in unison. “yes, sir!”

⠂⠁⠈⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂

at first, you were quiet.

the five young men sat around you, unsure of how to make you comfortable. you sat stiffly, glancing at them with hesitant eyes, still gripping your plushie like a shield.

Jinchan, grinned cheerfully. “so, kid, your dad’s the boss, huh?”

you nodded.

“that means you’re kinda the boss, too.”

your grip loosened just slightly. “…really?”

“of course,” Shin, who sat before you in lotus pose, chimed in. “you’re the little boss.”

that made you smile a little. the guys all exchanged looks — they were getting somewhere.

Min Jihoon leaned forward, “hey, young lady, do you wanna draw?”

you hesitated, but when he held out a small notepad and some pens, you slowly reached out and took them.

the ice had been broken.

from that moment on, your shyness began to fade.

⠂⠁⠈⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂

and of course what started as quiet babysitting quickly turned into chaos. boys shouldn't have pampered you way too much.

Shin let you do his hair, sitting patiently as you carefully tied tiny ponytails all over his head.

“i’m making you pretty,” you declared. the others died laughing while Shin sighed and smiled in defeat. “of course you are.”

Jihoon, meanwhile, made the mistake of letting you have a pen. he was next victim.

“ooh, you don’t have a mustache!” you realized.

“…y-yeah?” Min already understood where you getting, slowly rising up his hands, in weak attempts to stop you... or at least hide his face.

“yeah!! but my daddy have!! so let’s fix that.”

before he could hide his face in hands, you had already drawn a curly mustache on his face.

Kang Jinchan, thought he’d impress you, by flashing his champion’s belt, because you definitely going to tell your father about what cool guys you met today, so the very next day, Jinrang-hyungnim may notice him or even commend him!!

“check this out, little boss. i earned this.”

you tilted your head. “what is it for?”

“for being the toughest guy in the ring.” Jinchan even started flexing his arm muscles.

you nodded thoughtfully. immediately a lot of questions were arisen and spinning through your head. wasn't your daddy the strongest? in Busan? no! in the whole world!! and then, without second thought, out of nowhere — WHAM! — you kicked guy with belt right in the knee.

“OW—! Shit!” muffled curses left his lips, but he was loud enough that you and whole room could hear him.

and the room fell into silence.

you gasped. “shit?”

from across the room Baek’s soul left his body.

Jinchan, still clutching his knee, looked horrified. “i didn’t mean to say that —”

but it was too late. you were now testing the word.

“shit. shit? shiiit.”

with two big steps Baek crossed the room and grabbed Jinchan by the collar, quietly hissing each word right in his face. “you. absolute. fucking. moron.”

and now others scrambled to distract you. Shin let you add more ponytails. Min let you give him eyebrows to go with his fake mustache. Hyunjin Jin even let you color in his tattoos. Jinchan, desperate for redemption, let you climb onto his back for a piggyback ride.

even Hyukjin, who left for a moment, returned, and now he had three massive plushies in his arms. “bribery successful.” he muttered to Baek.

your eyes lit up. “WOW!”

and just like that, the curse word was completely and successfully forgotten. the disciples collapsed in relief.

Baek exhaled. crisis averted.

⠂⠁⠈⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂

bonus ;

when Jinrang came to pick you up, he was exhausted but happy to finally see his little princess.

“she is safe and happy,” he said, exhaling. “thank you Baek, don't know what i would do without you…” Jinrang's eyes never left your sleeping figure, stroking your hair softly.

Baek smiled confidently and came closer to his boss, patting on his shoulder.. “hyungnim, i told you. best uncle.”

Jinrang huffed, scooping you into his arms. “alright, young lady. let’s get you home.”

you sleepily curled up against him, plushies still clutched in your hands.

and then, just as Jinrang was about to leave, you mumbled drowsily —

“…shit.”

Jinrang turned back slowly, eyes glowing with danger.

Baek paled. “i can explai —”

cracking knuckles were the last thing Baek heard that night...

[genevawrenn]

Looking back over yesterday, the timeline for The Realm is wild /pos

First, Foolish eats a sandwich.

Ros shows up to inform her King she negotiated to put in a good word for his longest enemy to take him to the ball cause he helped build the ballroom, and now owns 10% of it.

Foolish agrees to go to the ball as long as he can kill his date on the night of the event.

He asks Smajor if he can kill him after he just arrives, stating he feels out of pocket today and Smajor declines. He invites Smajor to Yellow, who declines.

Foolish states that in an ideal world, everyone would be on Yellow except BBH.

Ros shows off her ballroom build so far [has she slept? /lh]

Ros offers for Foolish to help with the chandelier, and he declines, citing the great Mansion crash out of old.

Foolish : "How does on kill BBH?"

Smajor : "With a lot of effort."

Foolish : "I'm just gonna ask him to take off his clothes."

[53 minutes into Foosh's VOD yesterday]

Foolish : "Take off your armour, we are going to fight to the death"

BBH : "Okay :D"

They debate the logistics of said fight and then pivot to speaking about the ball.

Foolish asks BBH about the invite, BBH gives him a diamond and asks him formally, which Foolish surprises us all by agreeing too.

Before adding the condition of murdering said demon at the ball, which BBH joyously agrees to only if he can kill the totem too.

Foolish agrees.

They then state how neither of them is going to treat the other well and the night is going to end in a swordfight, and yes I would mean it as an innuendo with the way these two bastards said it. /rp

Smajor tries to play relationship counsellor but gives up.

They then begin firing crossbows at each other?

BBH tries to argue he now owns 10% of the castle, which Foolish absolutely disagrees with.

BBH offers a tour of the cathedral after Foolish asks how progress is going.

BBH tells Foolish about Chip's pet parrot.

Foolish decides to 'trim' Blueberry's beak and kill the parrot.

BBH immediately threatens to kill Foolish and begins chasing him down.

Foolish dies and reappears at the castle, and then states deal is off.

Foolish then returns to the cathedral to murder every pet that Bad owns.

Bad also calls off the date for the ball and begins to hunt down Foolish for his crimes and for sport.

Foolish thinks the date is back on.

Foolish states he doesn't care how many lives he loses as long as Bad dies once, somewhere during this I believe is when Bad kidnapped the camel that Landduo has joint custody of.

Ros runs to her King in an attempt to save him.

Bad catches back up with Foolish.

By the skin of his serrated teeth, Foolish escapes due to a lucky pearl and flees into the mines.

Foolish decides to go mining.

Chip begins to hunt the King and tries to signal to Bad where he is hiding, appearing before Foolish to bother him and help Bad track him.

They run between dimensions and caves hunting each other, which goes on for quite a while.

At some point during this, Pili gets killed by Pangi once via his axe from Pili1 and the other via ender crystal placed in his home.

Doozers declare the King part of Witness Protection and name him Eduardo.

Foolish is still mining while Bad tries to convince him through chat to return to the castle.

The chase continues through several dimensions and areas of the Realm, with no luck.

The Doozers suggest for Foolish to disguise himself as a certain diamond-themed soul from Bad's past in efforts to hide his identity.

Ros & Aimsey are doing their darnedest to get Foolish to Sneeg cause they think he would be safest there.

They eventually do manage to reunite after several close calls including one in the castle where Bad almost caught Foolish escaping into a nether portal, Ros & Aimsey find the King and begin their mission to escort Foolish to their Smith Daddy aka Sneeg on the Mushroom Island.

They manage to reach Sneeg after Aimsey lends the King his elytra and explain the whole story to their blacksmith who sounds like the most disappointed father ever™.

The Kingdom then decides to have a Kingdom meeting as an aside and discuss Owen.

They receive information that Bad is approaching the mushroom island and proceed to stash their totem King near the Blender™.

Bad then decides to return to the main area after an unsuccessful hunt, and Foolish wants to go back to the castle. They do so.

At some point between the Kingdom meeting and returning to the castle, Pili begs Foolish to take his 3rd life.

Foolish follows through on this request on the castle's front steps, resetting Pili.

Bad and Foolish then get into another argument, and Bad kills Foolish again.

Which means Bad has killed Foolish twice today and four times in total upon this server.

Aimsey calls Landduo out for starting most of the conflict upon this server, which the immortals laugh off.

They reach an impasse but agree to truce on behalf of the mortals.

They discuss the invitation to the ball once more and decide today's events change nothing. They also decide to still go arm-in-arm to the event as well as agree the plan to demise each other that day is still a go.

They part ways, leaving us all confused and amused.

~~~

Like what the hell is wrong with them /lh

They hunt each other for sport by day and go on dates at night (which also might end in death), confound everyone around them, and drag poor mortals into conflicts.

Immortal courting goes wild man, like what the hell.

And this isn't the first time they have been on a server together but its slowly evolved into this bond no one alive understands yet is also goals at the same time cause it seems like they have so much fun together.

It just took The Realm for them to kick it up a notch. Or 3.

[syndrossi]

From the above prompt, enjoy the Starklings meeting the dragons!

x~x~x

“They can swim?” Robb asked.

The full size of the twins’ dragons was obscured by the steaming surface of the spring they had submerged themselves in, though judging by the two large horned heads facing in their direction, he would guess them to be ten feet tall at least.

“Not very well,” Raymar—Aemon said. “They enjoy a good soak, however, and it is cold here in the North, even in summer.”

The young prince had already stripped down to his smallclothes. He waded into the shallows of the pool, then swam, reaching the dragons in a dozen graceful strokes. Aemon grasped onto one of the horns of the blue dragon and laid his cheek against its own. The dragon’s silver eyes slitted, and Robb assumed that the low rumble that emerged was one of affection.

“That is Qelebrys,” Baelon said. He followed his twin into the water, albeit with more splashing, and as he neared the other dragon, a large black-and-copper wing emerged from the depths to sweep him in upon a mighty wave, startling laughter from the prince, who also found a horn to cling. “I have missed you too, Shadow.”

Robb stole a glance at his siblings, who were watching the display with expressions of awe, and he had to catch Rickon by the arm to keep him from cheerfully toddling to join them. “Perhaps later,” Robb promised him before swinging him up onto his shoulders to at least enjoy a better view.

Jon stood slightly apart, as he had since Daemon Targaryen had come to rain fire and ash down upon King Robert and his men—and name Jon as kin.

Ghost was at his side, as quiet and attentive as ever, though he too seemed plenty curious about the two large interlopers.

“Where—” Robb stopped himself. Where is yours, Snow? he had almost asked. He and his brother had always traded playful barbs, but such moments had become rare since the twins’ arrival in Winterfell. And might very well never return now.

He is a prince. Some might call him the rightful heir to the Iron Throne, now that King Daemon had named him the legitimate son of Prince Rhaegar and his aunt, Lyanna. But few would be foolish enough to do so to the king’s face. His claim to the Iron Throne was by right of dragon conquest, and he had very openly declared his two sons his heirs.

Whatever love he claims he held for Rhaella Targaryen, it does not extend to crowning her eldest children. Whispers of Viserys Targaryen’s demise had already circulated through the castle. Burned alive by King Daemon’s own mount, Caraxes; some said for the crime of kidnapping his sons.

But once King’s Landing was taken, and the Red Keep in Targaryen hands once more, Robb knew from his history lessons what would happen. Those who had opposed King Daemon, or those who had played the bloodiest role in House Targaryen’s demise during the rebellion, would be stripped of their holdfasts and very likely their lives.

Jon could become Lord of Storm’s End, or Casterly Rock. Third in line to the Iron Throne itself.

He should be happy for his brother. And it was not that he begrudged him his good fortune, for he knew how he had always longed for a holdfast of his own, but—

I feel as though I have lost him. 

It was a feeling that only grew as Jon was coaxed out into the water by his brothers to be greeted by their dragons. His true brothers, Robb thought, unable to help the stir of jealousy. And we are but cousins.

Bran and his sisters had run to the edge nearest to the dragons, shouting questions at the trio of princes in the center and clapping in delight at Ghost paddling in the water. It took Rickon’s insistent urging for Robb to join them.

They were wondrous beasts, the prince’s dragons. At not yet three years of age, Robb could not imagine how large they would be after another three. He could hear the princes promising rides to Bran and Arya, and even Sansa asked, uncharacteristically shy, if she might accompany them on one. The thought of soaring through the skies on dragonback had always been a child’s fantasy, one lost along the way to becoming a man. Such wonders, if they had ever existed, were so far in the past as to be legend themselves.

And although Robb found those same fantasies reawakening in himself, they tasted bittersweet. Those very same dragons would carry Jon away, to a life far from Winterfell. To a new family.

x~x~x

Jon and Robb take turns being angsty teens, alas.