#her previous title was just that. golden

[i-mybrunettelady]

I finally sat down and finished the last pieces of the Mistwarden collection! I namely did it for the title, so that my revecat Kosara can have her proper title now 💕

Here she is being so happy that she finally has her title

[theonottsbxtch]

THE PRINCESS AND THE DRIVER PT.3 | MV1

an: i had so much fun with this chapter, i'm debating how to go about part four but i have ideas! can't wait to do this part four IM HAVING SO MUCH FUN WITH ALL THESE REQUESTS RAHHH

wc: 7k

part one | part two |

The morning sun filtered through the delicate curtains of her bedroom, casting gentle, dappled light across her room. Dust motes danced in the golden rays, but they failed to lift the heaviness that clung to her heart. She sat up in bed, her mind still tangled in the memories of the previous night. The taste of Max’s kiss lingered like a bittersweet dream she couldn’t shake, and the thrill of racing felt like a distant echo.

Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she took a moment to collect herself. Her reflection in the ornate mirror showed a girl caught between two worlds—a princess burdened by expectation and a young woman yearning for freedom. She sighed deeply, brushing a hand through her tousled hair. Today was another day, but the weight of her thoughts made it feel like a chore.

Just as she was about to stand, the door creaked open, and her mother stepped into the room. The queen’s expression was soft yet tinged with concern. She approached with the grace and poise that came so naturally to her, but her eyes betrayed her worry.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” The Queen said, settling on the edge of her bed. “How are you feeling today?”

She forced a smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I’m fine, Mama. Just tired, I guess.” The words felt hollow, even to her.

The Queen’s brow furrowed slightly as she studied her daughter’s face. She reached out, her fingers brushing against her cheek, a familiar gesture that always made her feel safe. “You’re not fooling anyone, darling. You’ve been distant lately. Is something bothering you?”

“I promise, I’m okay,” she insisted, trying to infuse her voice with conviction. “I’ve just been overwhelmed with everything.” She avoided her mother’s gaze, afraid that if she looked too deeply into those knowing eyes, the truth would spill out.

The Queen’s expression softened, but the concern lingered. “You can talk to me about anything, darling. I’m here for you, always.”

She nodded, grateful for her mother’s unwavering support. “I know, Mama. It’s just… it’s complicated.”

As her mother stood to leave, her heart raced with a sudden question that had been nagging at her since her escapade to the karting track. “Mama, wait!” she called, her voice shaky.

The Queen paused, turning back to face her daughter, curiosity replacing her earlier concern. “Yes, dear?”

“What would happen if I fell in love with a commoner?” she asked, her heart pounding. The question slipped out before she could filter it, but the weight of it hung heavy in the air. “Just out of curiosity.”

The queen’s expression shifted to one of contemplation, and she took a moment before responding. “Well, it’s happened more often than you might think,” she said gently, her voice thoughtful. “Love doesn’t recognise titles or class. If you ever wanted to explore a relationship with someone outside our world, I wouldn’t stop you. Your happiness is what matters most to me.”

She felt a rush of hope at her mother’s words, the small flicker of possibility igniting in her chest. “Really?” she asked, surprise colouring her tone. “You wouldn’t mind?”

“Of course not,” she replied, a soft smile gracing her lips. “You deserve to experience love in whatever form it takes. Just be careful, and know that you can always come to me for guidance.”

As her mother left the room, her heart raced, fueled by a blend of excitement and apprehension. Could it be possible? Could she truly pursue something with someone like Max, someone outside her royal obligations?

With newfound determination, she crossed the room and opened her laptop, the cool metal feeling familiar under her fingertips. Her mind buzzed with thoughts of Max—his laughter, the way he had looked at her as they raced, the electric connection they shared. Taking a deep breath, she typed his name into the search bar, her heart pounding as anticipation filled her.

“Max… local karting track,” she murmured, pressing enter and watching as the screen populated with results.

The search results flooded her screen, and she leaned in closer, her heart racing with each click. As she scrolled through the articles, her eyes widened with disbelief. Photos of Max behind the wheel flashed before her, images capturing the intensity of his focus and the thrill of competition. He was not just an ordinary boy; he was a celebrated Formula One prodigy, known for his incredible talent and charismatic personality. The realisation struck her like a lightning bolt, sending a rush of emotions coursing through her veins.

“How did I not know?” she whispered to herself, disbelief mingling with excitement. The exhilaration of their time together was now tinged with a complex reality she hadn’t anticipated. This was no fleeting romance; Max was famous, and she was a princess—a reality that felt impossibly daunting.

She continued to read, her heart pounding as she absorbed the details of his career—his remarkable wins, interviews that painted him as a relatable yet extraordinary figure, and the countless fans who admired him. Each piece of information felt like a layer added to the weight resting on her shoulders. The thrill of what they had shared was suddenly overshadowed by the realisation of their differences.

Leaning back in her chair, she ran a hand through her hair, the excitement and anxiety coiling tightly within her. The prospect of a relationship with someone so far removed from her world felt both thrilling and terrifying. Could she really navigate the complexities of love while upholding her royal duties?

As the weight of her thoughts settled over her like a thick fog, she felt a storm of emotions rising within her. A mix of hope and fear filled her heart. The thought of Max, so vibrant and alive in her memories, was intoxicating, but the reality of their worlds colliding loomed large, casting long shadows over her dreams of love and freedom.

After several moments lost in contemplation, she closed the laptop, the finality of her discovery sinking in. As she stared at the wall, she knew that the choices ahead would not be easy, and the conflict within her heart was only just beginning. But for the first time, she felt a spark of determination. If love was indeed possible, she would find a way to pursue it—no matter how complicated or unconventional it might be.

With newfound determination, she retrieved a sheet of crisp, ivory stationery from her desk. The elegant paper felt cool against her fingers as she settled into her chair, her heart racing with the thrill of what she was about to do. She took a deep breath, letting the silence of her room surround her, and began to write.

Dear Max,

I hope this letter finds you well.

It’s hard to find the right words, but I must try. Our time together at the karting track meant more to me than I can express. It was a breath of fresh air, a moment of freedom that I didn’t know I needed. I’ve been thinking about you since that night, and I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something special between us.

I would like to invite you to the palace, to talk and spend some time together. I understand that my position complicates things, but I would be grateful for the chance to see you again. Please consider this as an opportunity for us to connect outside the world that often feels so confining.

I eagerly await your response.

Sincerely,A princess who occasionally enjoys karting x

She paused, her pen hovering over the paper as she reread her words. The letter felt both exhilarating and terrifying, the vulnerability of it almost overwhelming. With each stroke of the pen, she was exposing a part of herself that had long been hidden, reaching out into the unknown.

After a moment of hesitation, she signed her name with a flourish, her heart pounding in her chest. This was a step into the uncharted territory of her emotions, and she couldn’t help but feel both empowered and afraid. She folded the letter carefully, her fingers brushing over the elegant paper, and placed it into a matching envelope, sealing it with a royal insignia.

She stood, the letter feeling heavier in her hands than she had anticipated. She made her way to the door, her mind racing with what might come next. As she stepped into the hallway, her heart raced with a mix of excitement and trepidation.

“Where do I take this?” she wondered aloud, glancing around as if the palace would offer her answers. She knew there was a royal messenger who handled correspondence, but she needed to be discreet. The last thing she wanted was for anyone to read her letter before it reached Max.

With a surge of resolve, she walked toward the palace’s administrative wing. The familiar corridors felt both comforting and daunting as she navigated the maze of polished marble and ornate paintings. She approached the door to the office of the royal messenger and knocked lightly.

“Enter,” came a voice from inside.

She pushed the door open, stepping into the warm, well-lit room. The messenger, a middle-aged man with kind eyes, looked up from his desk, his brow raised in surprise. “Your Highness! What a pleasure to see you. How can I assist you today?”

“Good morning,” She greeted him, her voice steady despite the fluttering in her stomach. “I have a letter I would like to send, but it’s quite personal, and I need it to reach its destination without anyone else reading it first.”

The messenger nodded, his expression turning serious. “Of course, Your Highness. You can trust me. Who is it for?”

“It’s for Max,” she replied, a blush creeping up her cheeks as she spoke his name. “I met him at the local karting track.”

“The driver?” he asked, his eyes widening with recognition. “I’ve heard of him. Quite the rising star, I must say. I’ll make sure your letter reaches him directly.”

“Thank you,” She said, feeling a wave of relief wash over her. She handed him the envelope, her heart racing with anticipation. “It’s important that he receives it soon. I was hoping someone could take it to the track in the next hour?”

“Leave it to me,” he assured her, taking the letter with care. “I’ll dispatch it immediately.”

As she turned to leave, a mix of exhilaration and nervousness swirled inside her. With the letter now on its way, she could only hope that Max would respond favourably. The prospect of seeing him again filled her with a sense of hope, a promise of the unknown waiting just beyond the palace walls.

Returning to her room, she sank onto her bed, a nervous excitement buzzing in her veins. What would Max think? Would he feel the same pull she did? The uncertainty loomed large, but deep down, she knew that she was ready to take a leap of faith.

That night, long after the palace had quieted down, a knock on her door startled her. She wasn’t expecting anyone. Her heart leapt into her throat as she crossed the room and opened the door.

Lukas stood there again, holding an envelope. “A reply,” he said, handing it to her.

Her fingers trembled as she took it from him. “Thank you, Lukas,” she whispered, closing the door behind her before returning to her desk.

She sat down, her pulse quickening as she stared at the envelope in her hands. It was simple, unmarked by royal seals or insignias, just her name written in a messy, bold script.

She opened it carefully, her breath catching as she unfolded the letter inside.

Dearest Princess,

I’ll admit, I didn’t expect to hear from you again, especially not like this. But I’m glad you reached out.

I’ve been thinking about everything since last night, trying to wrap my head around all of it—who you are, who I am in relation to your world, and what this means for us. I won’t lie, it’s complicated, and I don’t have all the answers. But I don’t want to leave things the way they are. I don’t want to walk away without understanding what this is between us.

I’d love to come to the palace and talk. We need to figure this out together. And if that means learning more about your world, then I’m willing to do that. Let’s take this one step at a time.

Yours,Max

She let out a breath she didn’t realise she’d been holding, her eyes scanning over his words again and again. He wanted to come. He wasn’t walking away—not yet.

A mixture of relief and nervous excitement coursed through her. It felt like the beginning of something—something real, something honest. But with that also came the fear. The fear of what it would mean for Max to step into her world fully. The fear of what others might say. And, most of all, the fear of what might happen if it all fell apart.

The next few days passed in a blur as the preparations for Max’s visit began. She made sure everything would be perfect—ensuring his accommodations would be private and discreet, arranging a quiet meeting room in one of the less formal wings of the palace where they could talk without interruption. The staff were informed that a guest was arriving, but only Lukas and a few others knew the full story.

Finally, the evening arrived.

She paced her room, feeling a nervous energy she couldn’t quite shake. She had chosen a simple yet elegant outfit—something that felt royal but not overly formal. A soft white dress with delicate lace detailing, understated yet regal. She wanted Max to feel welcome, not overwhelmed.

As the time drew closer, Lukas appeared at her door once more.

“He’s arrived, Your Highness,” he said with a slight bow. “Shall I escort him to the sitting room?”

Her heart raced. “Yes, please,” she said, smoothing her dress one last time. “I’ll meet him there.”

As Lukas left, she took a deep breath, trying to calm the storm of emotions swirling inside her. This meeting felt monumental, like it would determine the course of everything between them. But despite the nerves, she knew it had to happen. She couldn’t keep running from her feelings—or from the truth of who she was.

She made her way through the palace, her footsteps echoing lightly in the grand hallways. The sitting room Lukas had chosen was a small, intimate space, with soft lighting and plush chairs that made it feel more like a cosy corner of a home than a grand palace. The fire in the hearth crackled softly, casting a warm glow over the room.

When she stepped inside, Max was already there, standing by the window. He turned when he heard her enter, his face lighting up with a smile that sent a wave of warmth through her.

“Liefje (darling),” he said, his voice soft but filled with relief. “You look… amazing.”

She smiled, feeling a bit of the tension ease. “Thank you. I’m glad you came.”

He crossed the room toward her, and for a moment, they stood there, just looking at each other. There was a charged silence between them, thick with everything unsaid.

“I couldn’t say no,” Max said, his eyes searching hers. “I’ve been thinking about you since last night.”

“Me too,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

They moved to sit by the fire, the warmth of the flames a contrast to the nerves she felt bubbling up inside her. For a while, the conversation was light—how the drive had been, what he thought of the palace—but there was always an undercurrent, a sense that the real conversation was waiting to happen.

She leaned back in her chair, a small smile tugging at her lips as she studied Max. There was something comforting about sitting across from him now, in the warm glow of the fire, where they could speak openly without the masks they wore in their respective worlds. She tilted her head slightly, her voice soft but playful.

“So… you’re a Formula One driver,” she said, watching his reaction closely.

Max let out a small laugh, shaking his head. “And you’re a princess,” he shot back, his tone just as light. “Guess we both had a few secrets up our sleeves, huh?”

She couldn’t help but smile wider at that. “I suppose we did.”

They sat in the quiet for a moment, the fire crackling between them. She felt a strange mix of relief and vulnerability wash over her—relief that she could finally be herself in front of him, but also the vulnerability of not knowing how he would truly react now that the truth was out. She took a deep breath, gathering her thoughts.

“You know,” she started, her fingers tracing the delicate lace of her dress, “it felt… good, not knowing who you were. I mean, back when we first met. I didn’t have to worry about how I was supposed to act, or what you might expect from me.”

Max nodded slowly, leaning forward in his chair, his elbows resting on his knees. “I get that. It’s the same for me. It was… refreshing. You didn’t look at me like ‘Max Verstappen,’ you know? For once, I wasn’t being defined by what I do or how fast I can drive. I could just be… me.”

Her gaze softened as she watched him speak. There was something raw and real in his voice, a vulnerability she hadn’t fully seen before. They were both so used to being seen through a certain lens—the princess, the driver—that neither of them had expected to find someone who saw beyond that.

“I think that’s why I kept coming back to the track,” she admitted quietly. “Because when I was there, I didn’t have to be a princess. I could just be… someone else. Someone freer.”

Max looked at her, his eyes warm with understanding. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I felt the same way. That first night at the track, when we talked, it was just about two people enjoying the moment. No titles, no expectations.”

She smiled, a soft, wistful kind of smile. “It’s strange, isn’t it? The way we met… It felt so normal. Like, for once, I wasn’t carrying this weight of being royalty.”

Max leaned back, his eyes locked on hers. “I think that’s what made it real,” he said. “We weren’t pretending to be anything other than two people in the same place at the same time.”

For a moment, they both fell silent, the conversation settling between them. She felt her heart beating steadily, a sense of calm washing over her despite the intensity of their conversation.

“It’s funny,” Max said after a beat, his lips curving into a small, thoughtful smile. “I’ve spent most of my life trying to get people to notice me. You know, with the racing and everything. But with you… it was different. It didn’t matter that you didn’t know who I was. It felt like, for the first time in a long time, I wasn’t defined by that.”

Her heart softened at his words. She could feel the sincerity in them, the quiet admission of how much it had meant to him, too. She nodded slowly, her eyes meeting his with a shared understanding. “I know what you mean. I’ve been so used to people treating me differently because of my title. But with you… I didn’t have to worry about that. And I liked that.”

Max smiled at her, his expression warm and open. “So, we didn’t know each other’s titles,” he said, his voice low but light. “Maybe that’s why it worked.”

“Maybe,” she echoed, her voice equally soft.

They shared a quiet moment, the firelight casting flickering shadows on the walls. There was a deep sense of ease between them now, an understanding that went beyond the words they’d spoken. The world outside—the palace, the race tracks, the media—none of it mattered in this space they’d created together.

“So, tell me,” Max said, leaning back with a playful grin, “what’s it really like being a princess? All gowns and tiaras?”

She laughed, the sound light and genuine. “Not exactly,” she said, shaking her head. “Though there are plenty of gowns, I’ll admit.”

“And tiaras?” he teased, raising an eyebrow.

“Only on special occasions,” she shot back, a glimmer of mischief in her eyes. “Honestly, it’s mostly a lot of meetings, appearances, and making sure everything is running smoothly.”

Max chuckled. “Sounds a lot like racing. Just, you know, with more… kingdoms.”

They both laughed at that, and for a moment, the heaviness between them lifted. It was like a breath of fresh air, this easy conversation where they could just be two people again, without the weight of the world pressing down on them.

“So, how do I ask a princess on a date?” he asked, the teasing tone in his voice making her heart flutter.

She smiled, but her expression softened slightly as she looked away, her fingers tracing the arm of her chair. “Well… we don’t really go on dates. At least, not in the way you’re probably thinking.” She glanced up at him, almost apologetic.

A flicker of disappointment crossed Max’s face, his brow furrowing just a little. “Oh,” he said, his voice dropping slightly. “I figured it might be more… complicated.”

“It is,” she admitted, biting her lip. “Dates aren’t exactly something I can just do. There’s protocol, public appearances, always someone watching…”

Max sighed, nodding as if he was trying to absorb this new reality. “Yeah, I guess I should’ve known,” he said, his voice quieter now, the teasing gone. “I didn’t really think about how different things are for you.”

For a moment, the weight of their worlds seemed to hang in the air, threatening to pull them back into that chasm of reality that had always loomed between them. But then, a spark of defiance lit up in her chest, the same spark that had driven her to the track in the first place. She looked at him, her heart racing with the sudden realisation that, if this was going to work, they couldn’t be bound by the rules her world normally imposed.

“But…” she began slowly, her eyes locking with his. “None of this is really conventional anyway, is it?”

Max looked up, a flicker of hope returning to his eyes. “What do you mean?”

She felt a surge of excitement rise in her chest. “I mean, who says we have to follow the usual rules? I snuck out of the palace to race go-karts with you. We met as two strangers, not as a princess and a Formula One driver. So why should we start following the rules now?”

Max’s smile grew, lighting up his face as if her words had reignited something inside him. “Are you saying…?”

She grinned, the mischief back in her eyes. “Let’s ring for dinner. Call this our first date.”

Max blinked, caught off guard by her suggestion, then laughed, his whole demeanour brightening. “Dinner in a palace? You’re really raising the bar for a first date.”

Her smile widened, feeling the playful energy return between them. “Well, I don’t do anything halfway, do I?”

Max chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. “Apparently not. But hey, if my first official date with a princess is dinner in a palace, I’ll take it.”

With a gleam in her eye, she stood and moved to the small bell on the wall near the fireplace. She hesitated for a brief second, wondering if she was really doing this, but then a quiet resolve settled over her. She rang the bell, a soft chime echoing through the room.

Within moments, a palace attendant arrived, bowing deeply as they entered. “Your Highness?”

“Could we have dinner brought to the small  dining hall, please?” She asked, glancing back at Max with a playful smile. “Something simple.”

The attendant nodded, understanding the subtle request for privacy. “Of course, Your Highness. I’ll see to it right away.”

As the attendant left, she turned back to Max, a mix of excitement and nervousness bubbling inside her. She wasn’t sure what was going to happen next—whether this night would be the beginning of something real or just a brief escape from the complexities of their lives—but for the moment, it felt right.

Max stood, stepping closer to her, a warmth in his eyes that made her heart skip a beat. “I didn’t think I’d be having dinner with a princess tonight,” he said, his voice soft but full of amusement.

She smiled up at him. “And I didn’t think I’d be having dinner with a Formula One driver.” Come with me,” she said softly, her voice full of excitement.

Max raised an eyebrow but didn’t hesitate. He stood, trailing behind her as they left the cosy sitting room and stepped into the quiet, echoing halls of the palace. The air was different out here—cooler, grander, as if the palace itself were holding its breath.

They walked in silence for a few moments, their footsteps the only sound, until she led him to a set of grand, double doors. They were ornate, with intricate carvings along the wood, and as she reached out to push them open, Max could already sense they were about to step into something extraordinary.

The doors creaked open, and Max’s breath caught in his throat.

The dining room before them was massive, its high, vaulted ceilings adorned with gleaming chandeliers that sparkled like stars. Long, elegant curtains draped from floor to ceiling, framing enormous windows that looked out onto the palace gardens, where moonlight bathed the flowers in a silver glow. The room itself seemed to glisten, with golden detailing on the walls and an enormous mahogany table stretching down the centre, polished to perfection.

In the soft candlelight, everything seemed to shimmer, and Max couldn’t help but feel completely out of place in such grandeur. He took a step inside, his eyes wide with wonder.

“Whoa,” he breathed, unable to keep the awe from his voice. “This is… incredible.”

She smiled at his reaction, feeling a strange mix of pride and amusement. She had grown up surrounded by this kind of opulence, but seeing it through Max’s eyes made it feel new and magical again.

“It’s not every day I get to eat here,” she admitted, stepping further into the room. “Usually it’s reserved for state dinners, or formal events. But tonight…” She turned to look at him, a mischievous smile playing on her lips. “Tonight, it’s just for us.”

Max blinked, shaking his head as if he still couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. “Just for us?” he repeated, glancing around the vast room as if he needed confirmation. “You’ve got to be kidding me. This place is like a scene out of a movie.”

She laughed softly, walking over to the long table and taking a seat at one of the chairs that had already been set with plates and cutlery. “It can feel like that sometimes,” she admitted, gesturing for him to join her.

Max hesitated for a moment, still trying to wrap his mind around where he was. He’d been to plenty of fancy places in his career—exclusive parties, high-end restaurants, luxurious hotels—but none of it compared to this. The sheer scale of the room, the way everything seemed to shimmer in the candlelight, the weight of centuries of history pressing in on him… it was overwhelming.

But when he looked over at her, sitting there with a warm smile on her face, it all seemed to fade away. She wasn’t the princess in this moment. She was just a girl who enjoyed karting, inviting him to share a meal with her. And that was enough to ground him.

He took a deep breath and walked over to the table, sitting across from her. “Okay,” he said, his voice lighter now. “I’m officially impressed.”

She chuckled, pouring them both a glass of wine. “I thought you might be.”

Max took the glass she handed him and looked around the room again, still a little in disbelief.

The attendant returned briefly to set down their meal—elegant but simple dishes, as she had requested—before leaving them in privacy once again. The quiet in the room was soft, comforting, as if the vastness of the space only made their intimate dinner feel even more special.

They ate slowly, their conversation flowing as naturally as it had in the cosier sitting room. But now, the grandeur of their surroundings added a new layer to the evening—an unspoken acknowledgment that this was no ordinary dinner, and they were no ordinary people. Yet, in the midst of all that opulence, there was something wonderfully real about the moment.

At one point, Max set his fork down and just stared at her, a smile tugging at his lips. “You know,” he said, leaning back in his chair, “I still can’t believe we ended up here. I mean, a few days ago, I was just some guy at a karting track. And now I’m having dinner in a palace with you.”

She looked at him, her heart warming at the wonder in his voice. “It’s surreal, isn’t it?” she agreed softly. “It feels like… I’ve been living two lives. There’s the princess part of me that follows all the rules, attends all the meetings, and stays within the lines. And then there’s the part of me that just wanted to sneak out, race, and be free for a little while.”

Max nodded, his expression softening. “I get that,” he said, his voice thoughtful. “I’ve spent so much time in the spotlight that I almost forgot what it’s like to just… exist, without people knowing who I am. When I met you, I wasn’t the driver, and you weren’t the princess. We were just… us.”

She smiled at him, a warm, appreciative smile that made her chest tighten. “I needed that,” she admitted quietly. “I needed to just be me for a while. And you gave me that.”

Max’s eyes softened, and he reached across the table, his hand resting lightly over hers. “Well, for what it’s worth,” he said gently, “I like both sides of you. The princess… and the one who sneaks out to race go-karts.”

She felt her heart swell at his words, a sense of warmth and connection settling deep within her. She squeezed his hand softly, feeling the sincerity in his touch, in his gaze.

Leaning back slightly, a playful glint returning to her eyes. “Well,” she said lightly, “since this is our first official date, I think we’ve set the bar pretty high.”

Max chuckled, nodding. “Yeah, I don’t know how I’m going to top this. Next time, we’ll have to settle for a quiet dinner at a small café or something.”

“Next time?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

Max grinned, leaning forward with a mischievous look. “I’m definitely hoping there’s a next time.”

She laughed, her heart light. “We’ll see,” she teased. But as she looked at him, she couldn’t help but feel a quiet hope blooming in her chest.

After dinner, the air between them was lighter, and she found herself not wanting the night to end just yet. The palace had a stillness about it that felt peaceful, and for once, the weight of her title didn’t seem so heavy. She stood from the table and glanced at Max, a small glint in her eyes.

“Fancy a walk?” she asked, nodding toward the large doors that led to the palace grounds.

Max grinned, standing and adjusting his jacket. “A walk sounds perfect.”

They stepped out into the cool night air, the garden illuminated by soft lights along the paths. The scent of jasmine and roses filled the air, and the trees swayed gently in the breeze. It felt as though they had the entire world to themselves, cocooned in the serenity of the palace gardens.

They walked side by side, their conversation easy and full of laughter. She pointed out little details about the gardens—her favourite hidden nooks, the ancient trees, and even a small stone bench where she liked to sit when she needed a moment of quiet. Max listened intently, his eyes occasionally drifting from the scenery to her, a fond smile never far from his lips.

As they reached a quiet clearing, the palace loomed behind them, and the soft glow of the distant main gate flickered ahead. The night seemed to wrap around them, the world growing smaller, more intimate.

“It's beautiful here,” Max said softly, glancing around, but his gaze eventually settled on her. “You’re beautiful.”

She felt a warmth rise in her chest, her heart fluttering at his words. She looked up at him, a soft smile playing on her lips. “I’m glad you’re here,” she whispered.

They stopped walking, standing close now, the soft sound of the wind in the trees surrounding them. For a moment, neither of them spoke, the space between them narrowing with each passing second. Max’s eyes flicked to her lips, and he stepped forward, his breath catching as he moved closer.

Her heart pounded in her chest, her pulse quickening as his hand gently brushed against hers. His eyes searched hers, asking a question without saying a word. Her breath hitched, and just as their lips were about to meet, a low, deliberate sound broke the silence—a throat clearing, deep and authoritative.

Max froze, eyes widening as he quickly stepped back. He turned toward the sound, his face flushing with sudden embarrassment.

Standing near the main gate, half-shadowed by the dim light, was Lukas.

“Your Highness,” Lukas said, his voice calm but pointed as he stepped forward, his face unreadable. “I believe it’s time to return to the palace.”

Max stared at Lukas, his heart racing. “Uh… right.” He scratched the back of his head, clearly caught off guard. “I didn’t realise we had an audience.”

She pressed her lips together, trying to stifle a laugh at Max’s obvious discomfort. She turned to him, her voice soft but full of amusement. “I forgot to mention…” She glanced at Lukas, who stood waiting patiently. “Lukas was here the whole time.”

Max blinked, the colour rushing to his face. “Wait—what?”

She smiled, her eyes twinkling. “He’s my personal guard. He’s always nearby. Even when you don’t notice.”

Max looked from her to Lukas, processing this new information, his embarrassment deepening. “So, you’re telling me that… the whole time we were walking around…?”

“Yep,” she said, biting her lip to keep from laughing.

Max shook his head, chuckling despite himself. “Well, that’s good to know,” he said, his voice filled with a mixture of awkwardness and humour. “Nothing like a royal guard to remind you of your place.”

Lukas stepped forward, his expression stoic, but there was a hint of understanding in his eyes. “It’s my job to make sure Her Highness is safe, Mr. Verstappen. I hope you understand.”

Max nodded quickly, trying to play it cool. “Of course. No problem at all. Just… wasn’t expecting a third wheel.”

“You know,” she said, her voice light, “you didn’t have to hover quite so close the whole time. I think I can manage a walk around the garden without needing a royal escort.”

Lukas raised an eyebrow, his expression unchanged but the slightest glint of amusement flashing in his eyes. “My duty is to your safety, Your Highness,” he said smoothly. “And besides, someone has to make sure certain race car drivers don’t get too carried away.”

She laughed softly, shaking her head. “You could at least give me a moment,” she teased. “It wouldn’t hurt to, I don’t know, turn around for a bit?”

Lukas met her gaze, the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth now. He considered her for a moment, then gave a small nod. “Fifteen seconds,” he said, deadpan. “No more, no less.”

Her eyes widened slightly, both surprised and amused that he had actually agreed. She glanced at Max, who had stopped a few steps behind, watching the exchange with curiosity.

“You heard him,” she said, turning toward Max with a grin. “We’ve got fifteen seconds.”

Max blinked in surprise, a slow smile spreading across his face as he realised what was happening. “Wait, what—”

“Starting now,” Lukas interrupted, turning his back to them, his hands clasped behind him. “Fourteen… thirteen…”

Without wasting another second, she stepped toward Max, grabbing his jacket and pulling him down toward her. Their lips met in a sudden rush of heat, the kiss filled with the passion that had been building between them all night. There was no hesitation, no shyness—just the raw intensity of finally being somewhat alone, even if only for a brief moment.

Max wrapped his arms around her, pulling her closer, his heart pounding in his chest. The world seemed to fall away, the grandeur of the palace, the weight of their titles—all of it disappeared as they kissed under the quiet night sky.

She melted into him, her hands sliding up to his neck as the kiss deepened. It was everything they hadn’t said, all the emotions they hadn’t dared to speak, pouring into that one stolen moment.

Lukas' steady voice started counting down, reminding them that their time was limited. “Eight… seven…”

But they didn’t pull away. Instead, Max kissed her more fervently, as if he could hold on to these last few seconds forever.

“Four… three…”

She smiled into the kiss, her heart racing, and she could feel Max’s smile against her lips too. The thrill of sneaking in this moment only made it sweeter.

“One,” Lukas’ voice said, just as she and Max finally broke apart, both of them breathless and laughing.

Max chuckled softly, his forehead resting against hers as he caught his breath. “That was the fastest fifteen seconds of my life.”

She laughed, her cheeks flushed, and she glanced over at Lukas, who was still facing away, clearly giving them the privacy he had promised. “You’re not wrong,” she whispered, still catching her breath. “But worth every second.”

Lukas, with impeccable timing, turned back around, his face impassive as if nothing had happened, though she swore she saw the faintest trace of a smile.

“Time’s up,” Lukas said, his voice steady. “I trust you made good use of it.”

She grinned, biting her lip. “I think we did.”

Max laughed again, running a hand through his hair, his embarrassment from earlier completely gone. The kiss had left him lightheaded, and the laughter between them made the moment feel less like a stolen secret and more like something beautifully real.

“Thanks for the, uh… window of opportunity,” Max said, glancing at Lukas, his eyes filled with gratitude and amusement.

Lukas gave a small nod, his eyes meeting hers. “Anything for Her Highness,” he said, his tone a perfect blend of formality and knowing humour.

Max looked at her, his expression softening. “I’ll be thinking about those fifteen seconds for a while,” he said, his voice low, but filled with sincerity.

She smiled, her heart full. “So will I.”

They shared one last look, a silent promise in the air between them, before Lukas gently stepped forward, signalling it was time for them to head back. As they turned toward the palace, Max shot her a playful wink, still clearly riding the high of their stolen kiss.

Her heart soared, a mix of happiness and hope swirling inside her as they walked away from the gate. The world around her felt lighter, brighter, and despite the complexities of their lives, in that moment, everything felt right.

And as they walked in the silence of the palace grounds, she couldn’t stop herself from glancing over her shoulder, her eyes locking with Max’s for just a second longer, both of them smiling at the memory of their passionate, stolen kiss.

She laughed softly, reaching out to touch Max’s arm. “You get used to it,” she said gently, her eyes meeting his with a knowing look. “He’s just looking out for me.”

Max exhaled, his embarrassment slowly fading as he smiled at her. “Guess I’ll have to be on my best behaviour, then.”

Lukas stood back, watching their interaction, and for a moment, it seemed like he was content to let them finish their goodbyes.

She stepped closer to Max, her hand still resting lightly on his arm. “Thank you for tonight,” she said, her voice quiet and sincere.

Max’s expression softened, his gaze lingering on her. “Thank you for dinner,” he said, a playful smile tugging at his lips. “And for the… unexpected company.”

She laughed, the sound light and warm, and for a brief moment, they were alone in their little world again, even with Lukas nearby.

“I’ll see you soon?” Max asked, his voice filled with hope.

She nodded, her heart skipping a beat. “Yes,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Soon.”

With one last look, Max smiled and turned to leave, walking back toward the main gate. She watched him go, her heart full but heavy at the same time. She wanted nothing more than to stay in this bubble with him, but reality, as always, had a way of intruding.

As Max disappeared into the night, she let out a long breath, feeling the weight of the world settle back onto her shoulders. She turned to Lukas, who had remained silent, his eyes watching her closely.

“You like him,” Lukas said, his tone soft but observant.

She sighed, nodding as she wrapped her arms around herself. “I do,” she admitted, her voice laced with uncertainty. “But I don’t know how this is going to work, Lukas. It’s… complicated.”

Lukas stepped closer, his expression gentle. “Complicated doesn’t mean impossible, Your Highness.”

She looked at him, a small smile tugging at her lips. “You always know what to say, don’t you?”

He gave a slight bow, the corners of his mouth lifting ever so slightly. “It’s part of the job.”

part four...

taglist: @iimplicitt @bookishnerd1132 @bratstappen @mastermindbaby @abbyandersonstargirl

[lemonlover1110]

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐬

Satoru Gojo

[Chapter 8] Unanswered Questions

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Pairing: Satoru Gojo x f!Reader

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Satoru never thought that he’d be in this spot. He’s watching the woman he once loved or– His feelings are all over the place right now. He just knows that you’re treating him like a complete stranger. Although he can’t be mad since he asked for professionalism… You just treat him like you absolutely have no clue about him. Like you didn’t grow up together.

He can’t be mad. He asked for it. He tries not to think about it but he can’t stop. His eighteen-year-old self would be kicking himself if he knew about this reality. He really thought at eighteen that at this point of his life he’d be married… Which he is, but not with you. You were supposed to be together with a kid by this point, but now you’re playing secretary, one that acts as if you don’t know anything about him. Basic things about him seem to have slipped your mind.

He tries not to dwell on it… He doesn’t love you. At least not how he did five years ago. He’ll always have a soft spot for you, after all, you are his first love. He can’t help but wonder how life would be if he was married to you right at this moment.

“Mr. Gojo, I’m leaving.” You have to repeat yourself because Satoru is out of it. You walked in and he didn’t notice you, and he didn’t hear your voice the first time. His eyebrows raise, looking at his watch before nodding. You begin to walk away and he’s watching you.

“Actually–” He begins, making you stop. You turn to look at him, “Would you like joining me for dinner?”

“What for?” You respond. You’ve been working together for two weeks, and as much as you wish to say that you’ve grown close, you really haven’t. Satoru bites down on his lip, and he ends up shrugging. “I would rather not. Sayo is really sweet… But your mother isn’t exactly–”

“Why did you go to her? What happened to your studies?” He asks. Those questions bug his mind. When he left you, he thought that you’d be fine at the very least. You were studying to be so much more than what you are now.

“Not everyone is born with a golden spoon in their mouth. A lot came up in one moment and I couldn’t afford to study. It wasn’t because I decided that working for your mother was worth it.” You answer, leaving out the obvious details. Satoru slowly nods his head, and he clears his throat before speaking again,

“Well… I was asking you to dinner alone. There’s a new restaurant just around the corner and I don’t want to try it out alone.” He says, and you titl your head.

“What for? We have nothing to talk about, it’d just be awkward.” You respond, and his finger begins to tap against the hardwood desk. You try to smile at him but it comes off as insincere. “Thanks for the offer.”

“Are you sure? There’s a lot for us to unload… And since we’re working together, I think it’s best we get along.” He answers, and his hand begins to shake. He hides it under the desk so you can’t view it. The confident Satoru that he usually is isn’t all that confident now.

“I think it’s best if we don’t. That’s too personal considering we’re just working together.” You respond. He doesn’t have an idea but it seems that you’re desperate to leave, and it hurts him. Back then you would’ve jumped at the opportunity of having dinner together since you barely had any time to spare.

“It’ll just be for a short while.” He insists. He’s used to getting his way, he did grow up spoiled. He’s not stopping until you finally agree.

“Look, Satoru, I know you want to continue whatever you had with the previous secretary, and let me tell you this– I’ll remember our past for a minute or so. I’ve had you, and I don’t want you anymore. I have no idea what you have in mind but it’s not going to work with me.” You tell him, and he’s taken back by your response, but of course, he really wasn’t expecting much different. “Just let me go back home, I have a cat that’s waiting for me.”

“Why is this stupid cat so fucking important? I just want to talk.” He responds. He stands up from his chair. “It’s just dinner, the cat can fucking wait for an hour or so. There’s so much to talk about.”

“I’m the one that has a lot of questions that need to be answered, and I don’t want to hear it. I just want to go home, Satoru! Just leave me alone.” You slightly raise your voice, clearly annoyed. You just want to go home and see your son. “We have nothing to talk about. We must keep it professional.”

“You’ve grown so pathetic… Really, over a cat?” He pushes it, and it makes your blood boil. He’s simply just confused. He swore you were a dog person, but he guesses you’ve changed.

“Are you jealous over a fucking cat?” You question in disbelief. His jaw clenches, and he tries to take a deep breath. You have to remind him, “The fact gets priority over you. He always will. At least Ren didn’t fucking leave me and got married two months after you asked for a fucking break!”

“I–” Satoru can’t find the right words to say. Blood flows everywhere and Satoru’s face is flushed. He’s not sure what to say to that. “I had my reasons.”

“Then I have my reasons to not have dinner with you. If you’d excuse me, Mr. Gojo, I have to go home.”

Satoru’s mind feels as if it goes a thousand miles per hour. He’s thinking about you. You’re right, you’re rightfully upset but he’s so irritated with the fact that you’d rather spend the night with a fucking cat than have dinner with him. It’s on him– He knows it’s on him but he’s not thinking like that. 

“Hey, Satoru. How was work?” Sayo asks when she spots her husband. He’s not really in the mood… His feelings toward Sayo are weird. Sometimes he thinks he loves her, sometimes he can’t stand her. Tonight is one of those nights where he can’t stand her. He can’t even stand to look at her. “Everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine. Where’s my mother?” He responds, and she shrugs. Of course she doesn’t know, Sayo and his mother don’t really get along that well, at least that’s what it looks like. Sayo is about to ask a question but he walks past her, completely ignoring her. He goes straight to his mother’s bedroom, and he presses his ear against the door, and once he hears her footsteps, he barges into the room. She’s startled, her hand going over her heart before she looks at her son who clearly isn’t happy.

“Satoru? You look mad, everything okay?” His mother sounds genuinely concerned.

“Why the hell did you hire her? I thought you couldn’t stand her. At one point you were begging for me to break up with her.” Satoru asks, and he tries to keep his cool, to not lose control, but it’s hard. It’s so fucking hard. “You’re just fucking with me.”

“She needed a job, I couldn’t just–”

“You do it with everyone else! Why do you suddenly care about her?” Satoru cuts her off, and maybe he could’ve worded it differently. He doesn’t want you to be jobless, and as you’re right, he was born with a golden spoon in his mouth, he doesn’t understand your struggles and he doesn’t want to leave you without a job just because he’s… Mad at you. “Why did you put her as my secretary? Couldn’t you just leave her with Shoko?”

“You needed someone and she was available.” She answers, but that’s not good enough. She must have an ulterior motive, even if it’s his mother. She’s cold hearted enough to hurt him, and it’s so upsetting to think about because that’s his mother. “I don’t see the big problem… What’s wrong?”

“I was planning on getting married to her! And this is the stunt you pull?” He’s raising his voice, and his mother doesn’t like the tone that he’s picked up. Her arms are crossed and she raises a brow. 

“Don’t talk to me like that.” She tells him, causing him to roll his eyes. “You’re in my house.”

“I’ll be moving out soon! And I’ll get a new secretary.” Satoru responds, causing her to scoff. The arrangement that’s happening isn’t permanent either way, the moment that Satoru finds a new secretary, you’ll go back to Shoko. They’re throwing you around as if you were a ball of sorts. 

“What the hell did she do to you… Why are you so upset?” His mother asks, curious as to why he barged into her room. He hasn’t cared up until now. Satoru shakes his head and scratches the back of his neck, too embarrassed to admit anything. He just doesn’t know how to handle this rejection.

“I just don’t get it. You were so set on us being apart and you do this?” Satoru’s voice is laced with disappointment. He’s never really counted on his parents for any type of support, they were always absent. He counted on you for a big part of his life and when he didn’t have you, he only had his mother. He hoped that he could finally count on her for once in his life, but he can’t. He wants to fall to his knees and cry because he doesn’t understand why his mother is doing this to him.

“Satoru, you wouldn’t understand.” She says. 

“You did this to me, don’t you forget.” He points his finger at her before he walks away. He doesn’t understand why he’s on the verge of tears. His own mother is making him work with a woman that he once loved– Or loves… He still can’t figure it out. Seeing you every day is bringing back his old emotions, and he doesn’t know if he’s actually in love with you or not. 

“Everything okay, Sato–” Sayo begins as Satoru walks past him, and she can’t even finish her sentence before he’s gone. He doesn’t care to stop, stomping away from the place. 

She slowly blinks, watching her husband walk away. She ends up shrugging before leaving to do something else.

[alicesivory]

Old Habits Die Hard [5/?]

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Pairing: Nightwatch! Aemond Targaryen x wildling female! Reader

Genre: Historically accurate Aemond

WC: 3454

Summary: Aemond gradually embraced the rugged and untamed ways of the wildlings, adjusting to their customs and survival skills in the harsh environment they inhabited.

As dawn broke, the first fingers of light seeped into Aemond’s tent, casting a gentle, golden glow that wove through the coarse fabric. The sun’s early warmth stirred him from his slumber, and he awoke with a serene awareness of another day granted to him. The sleep he had savoured was a rare gift from the gods especially when he stepped foot in the north. 

The finest sleep he had enjoyed in months.

Surely this humble tent wasn’t as extravagant of his chambers in King's Landing. The Wildling’s tent was as if it brings comfort to him than the Night's Watch barracks. Here, the simplicity of his shelter was a luxury in itself, a sanctuary far superior to the cramped mattresses and the chill of the stone walls. Aemond’s gaze fell upon the fur and blankets that cocooned him—a gift of warmth from the Wildling woman who had shown him unexpected kindness;  he knew he might never be able to fully repay her. As he drew the fur closer, he inhaled deeply, savouring the lingering scent of the wild, a subtle fragrance of her that spoke of forests and untamed lands. 

Aemond took his time layering his new clothing that formerly belonged to the wildling named Yuri, one of her wildling companions. He wondered if she herself could make good clothing. Putting on the thinnest layer first, he wrapped the sheep skin next around his waist up to his chest. After several layers, he topped it off with the wildling’s distinctive camouflage fur coat. Tying it up, he peeks through his tent, finding the area already alive. Stew boiled as children ran through the snow. 

Far much different that the smallfolk yet they were just as simple as they were. 

He slips on his boots also made out of thick fur, possibly sheep skin. 

Tying his hair like he always did since he was a child, 

He looked up to the tent’s opening. 

It’s time. 

Parting the tent’s entrance, revealing himself as Aemond stepped out of his tent, he felt eyes on him. Some were the same, some were positive stares. Through all that, he couldn’t help but to feel a sense of insecurity washing over him. Yet he masked it well enough, walking through the crowd, searching for familiarity in this foreign world he walks in. And he finds his answer well enough when he spots her. 

Sitting on a wooden log on the edge of the camp, beside the stallion he brought from castle black, sharpening her arrows. He stepped closer as his heavy footsteps stomped through the snow. Heavy enough for her to notice him, turning her head around. “Snow haired! You’re finally awake. A good night's rest, I suppose?” She teased with a childish grin across her face. “It was well enough,” he said with a smirk. His wildling friend could only smile back before carving her handmade arrows once again. 

“Do you sharpen your arrows everyday?” He asked curiously. 

“No, not everyday. Just for special occasions or for hunting,” she said as she shook her head. “And what is today’s occasion if I may ask?” Satisfied with his question, the she wildling turned her head once more. “We are going to take you…hunting, Prince Aemond.” Saying his title with a hint of tease, standing up before him. “Taking me for a hunt?” He repeated. 

“Why yes. If you shall fight with us, we would like to see first how well you hunt. How you ride your horse, how quiet your steps are–,” tapping his feet with her bow, recalling how heavy his footsteps were wearing her kind’s heavy boots, “–and how true you were of your skills in swords and such.” 

“You want me to prove myself to you?”

“Oh not to me. But to the Chief, to Gruff, to Yuri, and the whole tribe, basically. I have no doubt for you, my prince,” she mocked with a chuckle, bowing ridiculously in front of him. “Do not taint my title,” Aemond said, a bit frustrated with her childish behaviour yet his words did not scare her, it just made the situation more amusing to her. “You clearly are no fun! But is it true though? Are you actually a prince?” Her bow reaches out to swipe his hair away from his shoulder in which he swats it away with a scowl in his face. “Yes, I am.” 

She snorted. 

“You don’t act like one.” 

Walking away to their horse, Aemond took hold of her with his grip on her arm. 

“Was that supposed to be an insult?”

She snorted once again. Amused with his temper. 

“You tell me,” she cockily said to him before taking her arm away. 

“Besides, I can’t imagine you sitting on a tall palace drinking wine as your servant pour you more into your cup. Whilst you stare down at your people like some kind of god–,”

“–I hate to break your imagination, but I simply do not do that–,”

“–Now you just made me doubt for a second. Maybe you really did do that in your lavish castle,” she teased with a laugh. “And what? You have ten girls surrounding you?” She mocked once more, turning herself to face him as she walked backwards. “If you are asking if I have ten whores, no I do not,” he snarled. “I beg to differ, snow haired. I bet you cuddled with them all day as they fed you the ripest fruit in the realm!” She cackles, throwing her head back as she started to walk side by side with him

“And what of you? You yourself are surrounded by two men,” Aemond bickered back, playing with her games. 

“Gruff and Yuri? You disgust me. They are like brothers to me.”

“But do they see you as a sister?–”

“–Gruff has a wife and Yuri has two children. Do not speak of them that way.” 

Surprisingly, he was satisfied with her answer. 

They walked side by side as the sun shone down on them. 

“But do you actually have maidens by your side?” He heard her ask. 

“Maidens? No, not all the time,” he hummed, his hands behind his back. 

“Not all the time? Then when do you have maidens beside you?”

He knew of the maidens she meant. Not just ordinary girls but women who threw themselves at him. Lovers or mistresses. He recalled one or two. Sylvie and another woman he replaced her with. He doesn’t even know if Alys is considered one. But he didn’t want to admit this to her. And he does not know why. She was just a stupid wildling, why would he care what she thinks of him? She could not change his past and he should not care if it did affect the way she looked at him. But he couldn’t. 

“Why do you want to know so badly?” He instead said, smiling smugly at her. And he swore to the gods he saw a faint of red tint in both of her cheeks. Surely she had them before because of the cold but he could differentiate her usual red cheeks with a woman’s natural blush. “Badly is a strong word. I was just merely curious,” she replied, inserting her arm into her bow. The one eyed prince has a smirk painted on his face as he watches his flustered friend walking ahead of him. It seems he had struck a chord. And he liked it. 

Hunting was a rare activity for him at his youth. His father was too sick to even teach him how to hold a bow and arrow or even a sword. The last time he went hunting was for his ten-and-four nameday. Ser Criston Cole was the one who guided him, Aegon, and Daeron through the woods to catch the biggest boar they could find. Even in that, ser Criston was the one who slew the boar himself for the guard told him that he should not risk himself with hunting since it could put him in risk. 

And now Aemond finds himself hiding between trees and shrubs, sitting close with the she wildling. The others hid in other places around them as the snow fell from the sky, slightly covering the area around them. “Look!” She said, pointing towards a doe, walking curiously around the forest as it sniffs an area uncovered by the light snow. “It should be an easy target,” smirking at the one eyed prince before lending him her bow and arrow. A crossbow, yes he has taken hold of that weapon. But to act as an archer? He is ashamed to admit that he is untalented of that particular skill. “I shall skin the deer–,”

“–No, I want you to do it. Prove to them,” she insisted, nudging his arm with her bow. 

If he lied– no. There is no escape to this. 

“I am untalented with this weapon,” he said, boring his healthy eye onto her eyes that resembled the doe they’re hunting. His heart rate quickened when he didn’t earn an instant answer from her. They were cramped as they hid themselves quietly from their prey. In a swift motion, she positioned herself beside him, guiding his calloused hands to her bow. 

“An untalented can be talented if they try,” she whispered. 

Her whisper was relevant for their situation, yet he felt tiny bumps erupted across his arms. Every word she spoke was like a spell to him, obeying her as he took the bow into his hands. Her small calloused hands guided him to the bow’s grip, close enough for him to feel his cheek pressed to hers. 

“You have your foundations for archery. You just need to take another step further– Keep your grip tight, now pull the string back.”

He did as she told him to. 

Fixing his fingers with hers, calloused and rough that made him want to know every single story behind it. 

He took a deep breath, aiming at their prey. 

“Do not let it slip. Just breathe,” she whispered to him. 

Aemond’s hands were steady, but his pulse hammered like a war drum in his ears.

His bowstring flicked, his fingers trembling ever so slightly as he drew the bowstring back, the taut cord singing a soft, tense note. But it hits a tree beside their prey, causing it to flinch and move from its place. 

No, he failed.

“Oi! Catch that deer!” He heard Gruff say from a distance, assuming he said it to the other wildlings that came with, but Aemond wanted to prove himself. He was the one who startled it, letting it run. So he took no choice, leaping from his spot and sprinting to the deer. Startled by a human’s presence, it started to run. But Aemond was close enough to leap and trap the deer with his arms. Tackling it down, he pulled out his dagger. 

Ready to stab his hunt.

But he looked down, finding the doe’s eyes looking up at him with fear. 

It was alive, and it reminded him so much of her. 

Doe. 

He asked himself, why did he become so weak?

Was it grief? Fear? Was it all consuming his bravery?

Or did he just know how to feel once more?

To be alive like he was before they took his eye?

His train of thoughts were suddenly interrupted when an arrow shot through the doe’s body. He looked back, and saw her standing not far from him, lowering down her bow as she saw how distraught he was. She saw through his cowardliness and he was ashamed of it. All this time he thought of her as his prey, someone he could easily devour. But now he was the one who felt powerless. 

He even could not shed a single blood from a doe. 

“You are angry.”

The tent’s flaps were yanked open with a force that sent them flapping wildly against the tent’s sides. Aemond stormed inside as she followed along behind him. His boots pounding the earth with a ferocious rhythm that echoed the thunder of his anger. Each step was a declaration, a defiant stamp that shook through the small, confined space. He grunted, throwing his sword and dagger away. 

“Snow haired–,”

“–Do not call me that!” He hissed, pointing at her as he glared the seven hells out of her. 

“Is your temper that short, Aemond?”

“My temper can be as short as I please.”

Ignoring her question, he sits down and looked away at her as he felt so defeated. 

“Then why was it short today? Was it because of the doe?”

“No,” he coldly replied. 

“Then what is it?” She asked again, sitting on the fur covered ground beside him. Then he felt it, her hand placed on his shoulder. “If it is not because of the doe, then what is it?” Her tone is careful and gentle. Aemond forgot the last time someone asked him why he was angry. Not why he did what he did, but why he was angry. He turned his head slightly towards her direction, but not fully showing her his vulnerability. 

“When you first saw me, what was the first word that came to your mind?” 

A comfortable silence. 

A faint laughter of small children bleeding through the tent. 

“Different,” she answered honestly. 

“How so?” He asked, not daring to lock his eye with her. 

“Your hair. It was silver. And your posture, your physique was not big and rough like northerners,” she explained further. “Did I scare you? When we exchanged words in that bridge?” Playing with the dagger he previously tossed away. “I know I should be, and I was at first. I was scared that you would not help me or my people,” she answered again. “But did I– scared you?”

“You’re asking the wrong person, snow hair.”

A chuckle erupted from him. 

A genuine one. 

“It all felt so easy back then. To kill, I mean. I rode Vhagar on dragon back and burned everything to the ground as I please,” he told her, spacing off to a distance recalling his rage and anger throughout the war. “She was my pride and glory— my dragon, Vhagar. The only thing that preserved my identity and power as a Targaryen prince,”

“So you were not a kind prince,” the spearwife pointed out, listening to every word he uttered. 

“I believe so. A war cannot be won merely by someone occupying a position on a council or residing in a castle. It requires more than just strategic planning and oversight from a distance. Someone has to take direct action on the battlefield, face the dangers, and engage in the conflict firsthand. That was the role I had to take on, and I embraced it more than anyone.”

“But it was not a pure act, I must admit. All the bloodshed I have done were sins that I must pay— and I believe the way to pay for my sins were to suffer like them. The Gods kept me alive a little longer for me to endure the torture I have placed upon— innocent lives at war. I suffered when I placed my foot on winterfell. I suffered when I heard of my brother’s death. I suffered when the gods left me to realize that the war was not worth all the pain.”

Throwing his dagger aside, Aemond clenched his fists tightly, his knuckles paling. It was true—he was furious. His anger was directed at his own blind ambition during the war, the realization hitting him with a pang of regret. Everything he had fought for now seemed meaningless, and he was tormented by uncertainty about his family's fate. While he remained free in the wilderness, he could only wonder what had become of them, knowing he had abandoned them in the process.

Where is duty? 

Lost in his own labyrinth of his mind, he didn’t feel her shift. Their arms touched as the wildling leaned on to speak,

“Everyone who took part in a war has ever felt that way, Aemond. They all thought about what-ifs to escape for a moment from their fate. A war must be won one way or another. But even the one who wins made as many sacrifices as you did. You both endured the same grief as the other.— Both spilled as much blood as the other.” 

“But you are still alive now. You might see it as a punishment, but you have a purpose in life.” Placing her palm on his chest. “You are more than just a pawn at war. This place is not your realm anymore. We live beyond the wall and you are free. You are welcome to be anything, for the wilderness does not limit the people.” 

“But what is my purpose if I am not a Targaryen? What is the purpose of being free if I know that the people I love are caged in the walls of—.” He halted, a pregnant pause. 

Aemond swallowed a lump in his throat, desperate for an answer. 

“Then that is your purpose, is it not? You are free so you could rescue your loved ones from misery. To lead my people back into the wall— pass through it and sail your ship home. Save them from their torment. When 5 people are trapped in a cage, without any of them escaping or letting loose from its cage, they would all be trapped in that cage forever. But you— have escaped. You are outside of your cage and it is your mission to find the key and let them all out.” 

As the wildling’s words flowed, a spark of intrigue ignited in the the one eyed prince’s eye. Each carefully chosen phrase seemed to resonate deeply, building a sense of connection and understanding. His posture relaxed and their gaze sharpened with growing admiration. Slowly turning his head to face his now companion. 

“How old are you, wildling?” He asked.

“I just turned twenty years of age. Why do you ask?” 

“I am one year older than you, yet I feel like a boy beside you.” 

She smiled gently at him, letting out a bashful chuckle.

“Your mind is clouded by your emotions. I am sure you are just as intelligent as anyone.” 

The air crackled with a charged tension. The girl and the prince sat close, their proximity amplifying the intensity of their unspoken connection. Shadows danced on the fabric walls as they exchanged glances that lingered longer than usual, each look revealing a flicker of vulnerability and curiosity. The silence between them was thick, filled with an electric anticipation, as if every word they might speak could unravel the depth of their hidden emotions.

“Preserving my identity as a Targaryen means so much more to me than I can imagine,” he whispered.

“Then preserve it. Don’t let it slip away from your grasp.”

Their nose almost touched as Aemond felt his body drawn to her. The way she never felt him lesser, validating his feelings that no one could ever did in his life. Helping him to crawl out from his own darkness. 

Her eyes still reminded him of the doe he failed to kill. He could devour her right now if he wanted, for she was supposed to be his prey and pawn. But something changed within him. He does not wish to over power her. He does not want to exploit her the way he did with the others. She was his prey but he did not want to make her as one.

He refused to kill the doe.

He refused to harm his doe.

His doe.

Brushing a strand of hair away from her face, he sighed. “But I have changed now. I am not the same person I was in the war,” he confessed.

“Then what shall you do about it?” She asked.

Reaching out for his dagger once more, he looked down upon the sharp edge of it. “The Targaryens were identified with its silver hair, and I would like to keep it that way.”

Taking her hand gently in his, he placed the dagger in her palm.

“But I want to leave bad omen from my identity. For I have changed. My hair was long when the war started— and now it has ended. It is time to cut away the man I once was.”

a/n: they’re evolving😈😈😈 STAY TUNED FOR THE NEXT CHAPTER🌷✨🎀

[whocaresstillthelouvre]

So It Goes...

Gold cage, hostage to my feelings Dieter Bravo x Female Reader

Rating: Teen. Summary: Today's the day you've been dreading... letting everyone know. Little do you know your day is about get worse... Dieter has to leave. Warnings: pov switching, pining, fluff, comfort, so much inner turmoil for them (don't worry they'll figure it out soon), call back to one of my favorite simpsons episodes, a secret reference to drag race because @devineconjuring is very funny, croissants Words: 3,400

A/N: Help, I've fallen for characters I've written and I can't stop writing out scenarios. If you love Dieter and Golden Girl like me, welcome back. The biggest most grandest thank you to @devineconjuring for being the bestest beta who lets me yell insane typo'd ramblings to her. She gave me the title suggestion and also is so smart and wonderful and excuse me, I have to go wave a flag with her name on it as I march in a parade in her honor. Previous Chapter Masterlist

*** His phone shrills him awake at 8:25. 

ALEX DAVIES CALLING

Shit. 

He gently shuffles out of the bed, instantly missing your touch when he delicately lifts your arm off his chest. He quickly tiptoes out the room and answers the call.

“Alex,” he whispers, eyes focused on the framed wedding photos that hang across the hall from the guest room. 

“Sorry to call so early, Bravo, but Spencer’s decided to go a different way and he’s going to need you for reshoots on Bittersuite. He needs them stat, so your hiatus has been cut short.” 

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “How short?” He steps closer to the collection of photos, focusing on the photo of you smiling in front of a grand bookcase full of leather books. Your white wedding dress with the delicate threads of golden ivy flourishing across it catches his eye. He had downed drink after drink that night, trying to quiet the thoughts that rattled through his mind. God, he wishes it was him.

“Shooting starts Tuesday… back in London.”

His head hangs down. “Fuck,” he mutters.

“Sorry, Bravo. You good to leave tomorrow?”

“I have no other choice,” he grumbles, his eyes focusing on a backlit photo of you laughing and dancing at the reception.

“You don’t. I’ll have Court get your travel and hotel situated. She'll follow up later today. Alright?”

“Alright,” Dieter sighs, his heart breaking at the thought of 7,000 miles separating the two of you and not being here for you. 

Ending the call, he opens his camera and aims it at a candid shot from your wedding. You and him are laughing, your heads thrown back, your arm grabbing his. Warren stands with his arm around you, wearing that same sly smile he always has. Dieter zooms his camera in, cropping Warren out of the picture. Now, it’s just you and him. To a blind eye, it looks like it could be a happy bride and groom on their wedding day. He snaps a pic, feeling somewhat like a criminal, rewriting the narrative of your wedding night in his head as he quietly walks back into the guest room. 

You’re still asleep, splayed across the bed, mouth slightly agape. Your green pajamas have your old initials embroidered on them in golden thread that reminds him of the ivy on your wedding dress.

He gently lays back down. His jeans annoy him, but he didn’t trust himself to sleep in anything besides them. Like a self-imposed denim chastity belt. 

He replays last night–the secret moments, half-spoken confessions, feelings, and declarations swallowed down before they could escape. One day you’ll know. One day he won’t feel like he’s crossing a line. He just wants to do good by you. 

Two days now, he’s woken up next to you, feeling like he’s been in a dream. But everyone eventually wakes up. Reality always returns. 

Today’s the day you open the proverbial door to hell, letting everyone know. Today, he has something to tell you: tomorrow, he leaves for London.

He watches you peacefully sleep, chest steadily rising and falling. You’re the first thing he’s seen when he’s opened his eyes for two mornings now, yet it feels like something he’s done for a lifetime. You’re not his, and yet it feels so right.

You sigh in your sleep. He wonders if you dream of him. Or is it Warren? God, he hopes it’s him. 

He shouldn't feel this way. Your life will soon turn too chaotic, too unknown. 

And yet he can’t ignore the way you looked at him last night, eyes heavy with words left unsaid. He wonders if you truly know how he feels. If you feel the same pull he’s always felt.

He pulls the sheet up over your shoulder with adoration. He wishes he could stay in this bed with you forever, shielding you under his heart and the soft blankets. 

Tomorrow he’ll be far away, on a film set–surrounded by people, lights, and cameras–playing the hero of the story. And none of it will matter. Because you won’t be there with him. Because he can’t protect you. Because he won’t wake up next to you, feeling the warmth of your body next to his. Because he won’t be able to get lost in this temporary illusion of him being the one who holds you and loves you. 

He could wake you up and tell you everything. Confess all the feelings he’s felt for all these years, risk it all, take a chance, and gamble with his heart. But he can’t. He’ll continue to toe that line for as long as he can, too terrified of losing you. He’ll take his unspoken words with him across the ocean and time zones. Where they can’t hurt you. 

The morning sun shines through the sheer curtains, backlighting you, casting you in a rich golden glow. For now, he’ll stay here, laying beside you. Pretending you're his golden girl for a little longer.

–

Your phone alarm rings, jolting you awake. Your head is pounding. The bed is empty, but you swear you remember placing your head on Dieter’s warm chest in your drunken haze and being lulled to sleep by the tranquil rise and fall of his chest. You try to rub the sleep out of your groggy eyes, letting out a large yawn. God, you drank a lot last night. Speaking of last night–the realization wallops you upside your already aching head–the song confession to Dieter, the way his eyes rounded in sadness, how close he held you against him. The press of his lips against your forehead when he wished you sweet dreams. The feel of his arm wrapped around your body, pulling you deeper against him. 

Another realization hits. You have to let people know today because, once they know, you can begin to move on. God, you don’t even want to think of the prospect of telling everyone. What will you say? Hey, it’s me, Warren left me for someone else, but it’s okay. I was kind of miserable in the marriage as it stood. Anyway, see you around!

You shake the thoughts out of your head. First thing first, find Dieter, then get some sustenance in your stomach and some Advil for your head. 

“Dieter?” you call out as you get out of bed.

No answer. 

You walk down the hall, and the house is quiet. 

“Dee?” you shout as you head down the stairs. 

Nothing.

Did your feelings offend him? Did your drunken confessions spook him? 

The only sign he was here is that the records are cleaned up, no longer strewn across the floor. No note left, nothing. There’s no way he’d do this to you… right? God, what did you tell him last night? You feel like a fool. Not even 48 hours after your husband walked out and you’re trying to confess your love to someone else… let alone his best friend. 

Why does this hurt more than your marriage ending? 

Flopping against the couch, you feel ridiculous at how sad you are over Dieter leaving you like this. You feel the trail of a lone tear as it falls down your cheek. You knew today was going to be awful. You just didn’t think it would be this ba–

The doorknob jingles open, and Dieter walks in with a white bag and a tray of coffee.

You can’t hide the smile that spreads wide across your face when you turn and see him. 

“Dee,” you whisper.

“Hey, Sweets,” he sends you a lopsided smile. “Was hoping I’d be back before you woke up. I got you your favorite.”

"You're the best, Dee," you say, gratefully accepting the coffee.

You can’t even recall the last time you told him what your favorite food was. Something as simple as breakfast is making your heart race in the middle of your living room. “You didn’t have to…”

“Of course I did,” he interrupts, walking over and setting the bag on the coffee table. “You need food, and I need…” He trails off, his eyes staying on you for just a second too long before he looks away. His voice softens. “...I need to make sure you’re okay.”

“Thanks,” you say quietly. “I am.” 

He sits down next to you, tenseness radiating from his body and the way he moves. He clears his throat, nervously raking his hand through his hair. 

You take a drink of coffee. Of course he ordered it the way you like it. “What’s on your mind?” you ask tenderly, turning to him. 

He looks up at you, and for a quick moment, you think he might tell you everything you want to know… but then he looks away and leans back, rubbing his face with both hands.

“I–uh,” he starts, then stops. His voice cracks. “I have to leave tomorrow.”

A bomb. Dropped in the middle of your living room. 

Your heart sinks. “Tomorrow?”

“Yeah.” He whispers, as if saying it out loud will make it even more real than it already is. “Spencer wants me back for reshoots. London. I leave first thing tomorrow.” 

Your stomach twists, the thought of him being thousands of miles away hitting you harder than you expected. You haven’t even begun to process the end of your marriage, and now the one person who has held you together is about to leave.

“Oh.” It’s the only word you can manage. 

His brown eyes watch you, his brows furrowed as he tries to figure out your reaction.

“Look, I-I wish I could stay here and not g–”

“No, I know. You have to.” Your voice cracks. “I’m sorry, I’ll be okay. You can’t just stay because…” Your words trail off as they reach your mouth, dying in your throat.

Because you have to lie. Because you do need him. Because you know you can’t do this without him.

His jaw clenches. His eyes flash through something akin to anger, sadness, and frustration. 

“I know, I’m sorry.” His voice is so fragile, like he knows just how much this is going to break you. 

“Last night… What I said… Did I–?”

“You didn’t say anything wrong,” he interrupts, his voice soft but firm. “You didn’t.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, his hands clenching into fists as if holding himself back from saying more. He stands and paces the room like he’s trying to burn off the nervous energy buzzing within him.

“I told you I’d be here for you, Sweets, and now, I can’t.” He stops and turns to you. “I can’t be what you need right now. Not like this.” 

Your heart breaks a little more at his words. You want to tell him he’s wrong, that he’s exactly what you need. But you don’t. You just nod, because you think he might just be right. 

He moves closer, standing just inches away, his eyes searching yours for something. You don’t know what he’s looking for, but you want to give it to him.

“Dieter,” you say, your voice barely audible as a tear slips down your cheek. “I don’t want you to go.”

“I don’t want to either,” he says softly. He steels himself with a deep breath. “But I have to.”

“Can we just have breakfast together still?” Your voice sounds so infantile and desperate. Another tear falls.

He kneels in front of you, wiping your tears with his thumb. “Of course,” he says, giving you the smile you’re going to miss. 

—

He reaches into the bag and pulls out a croissant, flakes scattering like confetti around you. This is undoubtedly the saddest party he’s ever been to. He smiles at you, and you return it, but the smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes. He feels like a fuck up again. He feels sick to his stomach, his appetite waning as he studies you.

“How’s your head?” he asks softly.

You glance down at your cup, swirling the coffee absentmindedly, avoiding his gaze. “No complaints yet,” you reply with a weak smile, trying to lighten the mood. 

Dieter laughs at the joke, but he knows you’re upset. Hell, he is too.

“You should have seen the line at the café,” he says, trying to distract you. “A guy recognized me and let me cut the line, so I got the last croissants of the morning. Sometimes this whole acting thing works out.”

You let out a weak laugh, but it’s barely a whisper against the silence that envelops you both. He wants to reach for your hand, to bridge that gap now clinging between you like a thick fog. “I’m glad I went, though,” he adds. “You deserve a good breakfast after last night.”

“Yeah, last night…” Your voice trails off.

His heart sinks at the way your words are left hanging in the air, raw and unspooled. It hurts to see you so distant. The croissant feels heavy in his hands. He places it on the table with a sigh.

“Look,” he starts, trying to steady his voice. “I-I hate this, Sweets. You nee—I told you I would be there for you, and now, I’m going to fail yo—”

“No, Dee. God, I’m sorry,” you turn to him, your eyes rounded with guilt. It breaks his heart to even look at you, sitting vulnerable next to him, still in your cute little pajamas.

“I didn’t mean to put you in this position.” Your voice trembles. “I just… everything is so overwhelming right now. I’m still trying to process all of it.”

He nods, his chest tightening with every word you speak. “It’s okay,” he reassures. The words feel hollow coming out of his mouth. He knows it’s not. He knows he’s lying. “You’re allowed to feel everything. I just…I want to help you, not make it worse.”

“I know you do,” you say softly. “That’s why it’s so hard.”

“Hard?”

You look away, fiddling with the edge of your pajama top. “Dee, it’s hard… because… I’m scared of what this means for us. For me.” You breathe in deeply. “Warren left me–no notice, no explanation. And now… here I am, sitting with you, and last night I–I–the song, you know. It feels like I’m just rushing into something I don’t understand, and now you’re leaving… for… so long, and I feel…you–you’re so important to me, and you’re–you–”

He interrupts gently, “You don’t have to say anything more if you’re not ready.” He can’t hear this now. He can’t. He stayed up holding you last night, thinking of that song and the lyrics. Eyes like sinking shipsOn waters so invitingI almost jump in

You nod, returning to your croissant. The bite you take of the flaky pastry echoes in the shared silence that hangs heavily in your living room. He wants to pull you close and hold you, but the fear and the quickly approaching deadline of his inevitable trip keep him at bay.

“What are you going to tell everyone?” he asks quietly. His shoulders hurt from the stress of holding everything back; he tries to loosen them. He feels like he’s letting you down with every word he speaks.

“I don’t know,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper. “I guess I’ll just… tell everyone the truth.”

You’re so brave. He swallows hard. Warren’s ruined your life, and now he feels as if he’s done something wrong too.

“Well, you’ve already told me, so there’s one person down,” he offers with a slight smile.

You laugh, and his heart soars, reminding him of the plane he’ll soon be on, traveling far away from you. Why can’t his brain just allow him one victory?

“I guess I’ll start with the important people and work my way down the list,” you shrug.

“Sounds like a plan, Sweets.”

“God, I am not looking forward to it,” you sigh, dusting off the crumbs that had fallen from your now-finished croissant.

He watches you with a mixture of admiration and concern. Your shoulders slump, pressed down from the weight of your own thoughts. His heart aches for you and all of the vulnerability you’ve shown him.

“Come here,” he finally whispers, leaning back on the couch. You hesitate for only a moment before sliding closer. He wraps an arm around you, pulling you in. His heart skips a beat when you lean against him, resting your head against his chest. This is all he’s ever wanted.

“Cartoons?” you ask, your voice already relaxed.

“Cartoons,” he nods, grabbing the remote. Now, this is all he’s ever wanted.

—-

The clock ticks above the television screen. Dieter has to leave your house by 3 to pack and get ready to go. You almost ask if you can accompany him, but you stay silent. You have too much to take care of today. Your family doesn’t even know yet. The sooner everyone knows, the sooner you can begin to heal.

It’s 2:45 now. Fifteen minutes left. You cuddle closer to him, relishing the feel of his soft shirt. He chuckles at Homer Simpson ordering a crab juice, and a small smile edges your lips. For a moment, you feel happy. You hum a peaceful sigh, feeling his strong arm wrap around you even tighter. His lips ghost the top of your hair as he takes in your scent with a deep breath.

The clock insidiously continues to tick. You wish it could just stop. That time could suspend itself here in your living room. But it won’t, and it doesn’t.

The Simpsons episode ends. Dieter reluctantly extracts his arm from around you. “I—need to get go—”

“I know,” you say.

He stands, the space between you widening, a chasm filled with unsaid words and feelings not realized. You watch him move, already mourning the warmth of his company as he slowly begins to grab his belongings. The sun filters through the windows, lighting your house in a bright glow, but all you feel is the darkness of your and Dieter’s impending separation.

You reluctantly rise from the couch, feeling foolish in your pajamas as he puts his sunglasses on and grabs his keys.

“Well,” he softly says, reaching for the door. “I should get… going.”

“Yeah,” you reply, trying not to sound as sad as you feel.

“You know, I’ll be back before you know it,” he offers, though the words feel like a fragile promise.

“I know,” you say, stepping towards him, bridging the distance between the two of you.

“And I’m always just a call or text away,” he says, his hand cupping your chin. “Take care of yourself, Sweets.”

“I will,” you whisper. “You too, Dee.”

You lean forward to kiss him. Just as your lips are about to meet his, he slightly turns his head, your kiss landing softly at the corner of his mouth. A bit of hesitation lingers between you, and a flush of embarrassment warms your cheeks as you pull back. He offers you a shy, sweet smile before he turns away and walks out the door. 

Why did you lean in? You feel like a fool.

He walks down your front path and unlocks his car, and with one last solemn nod toward you, he gets in. You can’t watch him drive away. You shut the door. 

Now it’s only you in your cold house, alone. You head to your kitchen and grab a bottle of wine and a wine glass.

It’s a pajamas and wine day today.

You pour yourself a glass and settle on the couch. It’s time to move on. It’s time to take care of yourself. You’ve got this. 

You spend a long time on the phone with your parents, reassuring them that you are okay and will be fine. Exhausted, you switch to Turner Classic Movies and find a marathon of war films. Oh good, nothing with love, please. You begin to write the list of everyone who needs to know as William Holden tries to escape a POW prison camp.

Dieter’s text tone dings from your phone. Two texts. Your heart pounds against your chest when you read them.

Hey, sorry about earlier. I just knew if I kissed you…. I wouldn’t stop

[crow-raven-crow]

hi this is a very simple and kinda vague request, but i'd luv a larissa x fem reader fic involving feet or hand play? either that or something involving the reader realizing she really likes how larissa smells when she comes home from work and larissa starts to tease her and encourages her to smell her while they're fucking because of that. maybe both! hope this isn't too weird lol

𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐒𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐓𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡

𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐭 - [𝐧𝐬𝐟𝐰 𝟏𝟖+]

✧･.☽˚｡･ﾟ✧ :══════⊹⊹══════: ✧･ﾟ｡˚☾.･✧

𝐋𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐚 𝐖𝐞𝐞𝐦𝐬 𝐱 𝐟!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: ~3k 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐜 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬/𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭: fluff !! teasing, NSFW, Reader receiving, g!p Larissa, hand kink, choking kink, slight marking, vaginal fingering, mirror sex, begging, praise kink, mommy kink, shape shifted dick, what a way to come back ohmygods

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: see above

𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

AO3 link in title ✧･.☽˚｡･ﾟ✧ :══════⊹⊹══════: ✧･ﾟ｡˚☾.･✧

✧･.☽˚｡･ﾟ✧ :══════⊹⊹══════: ✧･ﾟ｡˚☾.･✧

The crackling fireplace painted dancing shadows against the dark walls, creating a show of golden hues just feet before you. The warmth emanating from the soft flames filled you with a peaceful comfort with each bursting ember. Soft, worn pages of a book sat in your hands, the universe that it created in your mind was almost impossible to keep up with, as it kept clouding over with thoughts of her.

The mere thought of her name casted a spell over your senses, making your heart swell and your stomach fill with butterflies. Images of her echoed through your mind, your heart quickening in pace as you did so. You were so consumed with the show of her in your mind, that the book had become long forgotten, as your eyes focused on the flickering firelight.

You felt the rumble of her laughter echo in the chambers of your mind, the softness of her touch as though it was tracing invisible patterns against your skin, the tenderness of her lips as they kissed along your body as though it was a masterpiece, the pleasure of her tongue as though she-

The metallic sound of a key turning in the lock cut through the quiet of your quarters, closing all previous thoughts and jolting you back into reality. The world outside your thoughts immediately rushed back in, leaving only the lingering emotions of them in their place. Your chest heaved slightly, a noticeable heat rushing to your face and making your whole body hot as you caught onto your most recent thoughts.

You quickly composed yourself, inhaling deeply in attempt to settle the small heat igniting within you. Standing slowly as you let out the breath, you placed your book onto the side table, the pages neglected as the fire still roared on and danced behind you. You stepped closer as the door slowly swung open, an excitement filling your chest knowing that she stood behind it. The sight of her stilled the air in your lungs, your lips parting ever so slightly as you took in her beauty.

Her white hair, almost glowing with the light of the flames behind you, was perfectly pinned in her flawless updo, each strand falling together perfectly with each other in every twist she pinned. The pin at the back of her head concealed the length of the silvery locks, but came together to show her grace and elegance all the same. The dress she wore clung onto her every curve, the sleek grey becoming a canvas to her form, allowing her sapphire eyes to pop with the cool tones. The collar of the dress flared out just enough to draw attention to her neck and the delicate lines of her collarbones. The belt that tied around her waist framed her hips in a way that made your mouth water. Gold accents adorned her wrists and neck, being the final touch of warmth that brought out the beauty of her tall frame.

As she entered the room, it was as though all the gods worked in her favor. The light from the flames lighting up her features, yet the dark colors of the room giving her command over it all if she were to say a word.

You must have been staring for too long, your eyes moving up and down along her form to drink in every detail that it snapped you back to the present when you felt her hand trace along your jawline. Her delicate fingers smoothed up the features of your face, cupping your cheek in her palm before laying a gentle kiss against your lips. It was warm, tender as though it was translating a million unsaid words: perfect.

"Hello, my dear.." Her voice was just as serene, overflowing with the happiness and love as though it were day one all over again. Her lips shadowed over your own as she spoke, delicate in all her movements as though she would break you like porcelain. The scent of her perfume overtook your senses, the intoxicating smell of her being so strong that it made your eyes roll back slightly and a deep breath of it fill your lungs.

"Hi, my love.." Your voice was just above a whisper, but running deep with the effect that she had on you. She had known for a while just how drunk you could get on the smell of her alone, and since then she made it a point to wear a little more every so often.

You allowed her to settle into your quarters, her heels quickly coming off with a distinct click of each heel. As she moved deeper into the room, all her items found their familiar homes, making your heart swell knowing this was a place of home to her. Your gaze lingered on her form, watching as comfort seemed to overtake her, her shoulders relaxing and her face coming to a content calm. It was hard not to fall in love with her all over again just at the simplest of things.

You followed behind her with two wine glasses and her favorite bottle, as she moved to sit on the couch in front of the fire. This was one of your favorite ways to unwind with her, and relishing in each others company was something that you would always cherish.

Though.. your thoughts from earlier always had a way of coming back in, especially now that she was even more of a delicious distraction being in front of you.

She spoke about her day, going through the details of her meetings and any particularly interesting emails she had to deal with today. The way she spoke with her hand was mesmerizing, easily capturing you in a trance due to your already heated thoughts about her, as your eyes devoured every detail of her long fingers. You felt your eyelids grow heavy, your breathing hitch and your mouth water as you remembered just what those fingers could do to you.. How she could so easily have you at her mercy.. digging into your flesh and leaving crescent marks in their wake, trailing along your skin and rising goosebumps with each pass, have your back arching and your hips swaying with one simple touch-

"Y/n.. Could you repeat what I just said, my dear?" Her voice shocked you back into your body, the rapid blinking of your eyes and the small jump when she had said your name giving you away immediately. She seemed amused at your blush, the pink hue only making a smirk come to her red painted lips as she caught on to where your thoughts were.

"I- U-Um.. You-" As you spoke, her fingers trailed up your arm, smoothly tracing against your skin and leaving electricity in her path. The rest of your words were cut off when her fingers made it to your collarbones, eventually curling their way around your throat and squeezing oh so gently.

The sensation made your eyes roll back as they fluttered shut, your fingertips gripping onto the hem of your skirt as you felt her move closer to your form, her breath ghosting over the shell of your ear. "What exactly is floating through the pretty head of yours, darling?"

You could feel your heart rate pick up, especially with her fingers resting just above your pulse point, and you were sure she could feel it too. The way your thighs clenched together and how a small whimper left your throat as she squeezed harder were all signs of how the night would go.

"Your- mmph.. your fingers.." Your chest heaved in pleasureful desperation as her lips moved down your neck, her fingers pushing against your jaw and allowing her room to flatten her tongue against your skin. Arousal shot right through to your core, and she'd barely even touched you.

She pushed you down slightly, your hair sprawling out against the cushion as she shifted perfectly between you legs. Her lips met yours in a hungry kiss, her tongue smoothing over your bottom lip as she pushed her hips against your core. Your gasp gave her the opportunity to explore your mouth, the opportunity to start to devour you..

Her fingers worked on the buttons of your collared shirt, quickly exposing more of your skin to her. When she reached the last button, she pulled the garment off completely and took a moment to trace over your skin, her lips gently pulling away from yours as her hands met the skin of your torso. Her fingers lightly scratched against your sides before smoothing their way up to beneath your breasts. Her thumbs worked their way under your bra, her fingertips smoothing over your nipples and causing a whimper to leave your throat.

Before long, your bra was discarded as well, her lips making their way down against your skin and leaving deep marks against it. One of your hands tangled into her hair, disrupting the perfect curls with each tug of pleasure you gave her. Once her tongue smoothed over your right bud, any hopes of staying quiet had left, the need for her building within you even before she was present. She worked on both buds, forming both into hard peaks and giving them both attention before she was satisfied.

When she moved up to capture your lips again, her gaze met blown pupils swirling with lust. You crashed your lips into hers, one hand pulling her in from the back of her neck while the other rested behind you for balance. She was quick to move you into her arms, carrying you to your bed with ease.

She sat down on the edge, placing you onto her lap after getting rid of the rest of your clothes, though slight confusion came over you when your back was to her front.

It didn't take you long to realize why, when she rested one hand back against your throat while the other toyed with your breasts. Your eyes darkened at the sight in front of you - you welcoming her fingers into your mouth with a deep moan, your legs spread open and showing your glistening folds - for the mirror in front of you gave you the best view of what was would come.

"Mmm.. you like Mommy's fingers, hmm?" You felt your brain short circuit at the sound of her voice, at the sound of her title making its way through your ears and building a home inside your rapidly beating heart. You felt the heat course through you as your tongue swirled around her digits, and it showed in the reflection that it was getting increasingly harder for you to wait the more you got drunk on her.

She pulled her fingers from your mouth with a trail of your saliva attached to the ends of them, your breathing labored and filled with lust as you looked into her eyes through the reflection. She nipped the skin of your shoulder, while her other hand traced over the marks she had already painted against you. You were so focused on her lips, that you didn't notice her hand trail down to your core, until she teased against your slit, running her fingers through your folds and making your back arch as a gasp left your lips.

You threw your head back as her fingers began circling your clit, but it didn't last long as her other hand moved your gaze back to the mirror, making you watch her fingers get coated in your slick, how they toyed with the sensitive bud with just enough pressure to make you beg for more, how they circled your entrance soon after, making you clench around nothing.

"Ple- Please- mmn gods please.." Your voice was desperate, full of lust and the undying need to feel her inside of you. It wasn't something that didn't go unnoticed, two of her fingers thrusting into you soon after and making your hips buck into her touch.

"Watch the mirror, sweet girl.. You think you can do that for Mommy?" Her voice took over your senses and felt as though it was consuming you whole. It rang out like a low, velvety rumble with promises of more as each one of her hot breaths trailed against your skin.

Fuck..

"Yes- mm~ yes.." Your half-lidded eyes turned back to the reflection, your breasts rising and falling with each of your heavy breaths as more and more pleasure ran through your body. You watched as she thrusted in and out of you, her fingers curling in just the right spot to have moans flooding out from your mouth and into the dark evening.

"Such a good girl for me.. Taking Mommy's fingers so well.. Oh, look at you.." You could tell with how dark her eyes got, how husky her voice was that this was doing something to her as well. Your body at her mercy as she brought moan after moan to escape your lips. "Good girl.."

Each of her thrusts grew rougher, quicker in pace, and your thighs began to tremble with your impending orgasm. You did your best to watch the way her fingers fucked into you, disappearing with pleasure and watching them come all the way out again, only for the motion to repeat over and over.

Her fingers curled with precision, her other hand toying with your nipples and sending your body rushing towards a peak. You clenched around her fingers hard with each thrust, loving how they felt inside of you. It was all consuming, building up the coil in your abdomen until your peak crashed into you, wrecking through your body as her ministrations didn't stop.

Your body shook with pleasure, taking every new thrust she gave you as you turned into putty in her arms.. but you couldn't help but want.. crave.. need more.. And it seemed as though she had the same thoughts.

The sight of you coming undone in front of her was too much to bare, her own heat building itself up in her body and causing her desire for you to push itself forward. She shifted you onto the mattress, watching as she discarded her clothes after licking her fingers clean. The sight made a moan escape your lips, your own cum disappearing from the actions of her tongue and her pale skin becoming completely exposed to you made your mouth water.

She settled herself between your legs and you couldn't help but pull her down, crashing your lips into hers for an all consuming kiss, tasting yourself on her tongue. Your tongues danced together as you both nearly begged to be impossibly closer.

You pulled away, your lips centimeters away from hers. Your voice was a whisper, but translated so much urgency, so much desire that you knew she would fold when the words left your lips. "Please, Mommy.. I need you.."

Any resolve that Larissa had left faded as you watched her eyes grow impossibly darker, swirling with a hunger that was near insatiable. A growl left her throat before her lips were on yours again, though the kiss didn't last long, a gasp leaving your lips as you felt her hard member press against your core.

You immediately rolled your hips against her, earning a broken moan from the tall blonde. She moved to position herself, then slowly pushed into your entrance. Loud, unadulterated groans left you both as she pushed herself deeper and deeper into you, the stretch quickly becoming a delicious addiction.

As she started to move, it was as though all that existed was her. Each breath you took filled your lungs with her perfume, quickly making you intoxicated and full of her. Each thrust rocked your body with a deep hunger, the sound of your skin slapping together and your moans filling the room only seemed to serve you pleasure in tenfold.

"Please, please, please- I-I need-" A moan tearing through your throat had cut off your next words, her pace growing faster with each beg you were able to shoot out. Each thrust took you to new heights as she pulled nearly all the way out of you before pushing back in all the way.

"You feel so good.. Look at you taking me so well.." Her breathing was labored, her words paired with moans as her own pleasure was building itself up. Your peaks were close, her nails digging into your hips to leave crescent marks there, both of your moans growing louder.

Your mind grew hazy with the feeling of her so deep inside you, the pleasure building the coil up again as a chase towards euphoria. With a few more thrusts, you came hard, your body shuddering as you clenched around her. Her actions only continued as she chased her own high, soon letting out a deep, loud moan and filling you up, just moments later.

Your heavy breaths filled the room, your skin coated in a layer of sweat as you both focused on coming down from your highs.

She shuffled and moved to lay next to you, pulling you into her arms and tracing invisible patterns along your back. After your breathing settled, you slowly opened your eyes to meet deep sapphire ones, a smile coming to both of your lips as only love was reflected back at you.

You shuffled closer, burying your head in the crook of her neck to place soft kisses against her neck and jawline before resting completely against your lover. Your hands found their home against her skin, and the darkness of night mixed with the comfort of your lover made sleep an easy world for the both of you to slip into.

~~

✧･.☽˚｡･ﾟ✧ :══════⊹⊹══════: ✧･ﾟ｡˚☾.･✧

𝐚/𝐧: IMMMMM BACCCCCKK!!!!

YO IM ACTUALLY SO SORRY I WAS GONE FOR SO LONG- the traveling got to me, and then finals season started, and then more traveling and a lot of other life things happened !!

BUT IM BACK AAHAHHAHHHH

this genuinely felt so good to write because i haven't even touched my writing in so long other that organizing everything in my notes to look better lmao

i know you all understand, and i couldnt be more grateful for that fact

here you go anon :,,,,))) im sosososo sorry for how long this took like holy fuck- i hope you enjoyed it

xx,

~ 𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐰

✧･.☽˚｡･ﾟ✧ :══════⊹⊹══════: ✧･ﾟ｡˚☾.･✧

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: (tagged anyone who asked/wanted to be on the "all works" taglist)

as always, feel free to ask to be added <3

@autumn-leaves-chasing-breeze @weemssapphic @readingtheentrails @finnja555 @barbarasstar @vendocrap8008 @gwendolinechristieiscute @lilfartbox1 @agathaandgwenslesbian @lvinhs @kimiinou @ladybathoryy

✧･.☽˚｡･ﾟ✧ :══════⊹⊹══════: ✧･ﾟ｡˚☾.･✧

[velisle]

IKEVIL THEORIES

(CW: JP SPOILERS FOR VOGEL, ENG SPOILERS FOR VICTOR, SPOILER ABOUT KATE IN WILLIAM'S BLIND ROUTE. ALL OF THESE ARE SPECULATIONS.)

VICTOR'S BACKSTORY

• How do you know about this story, Victor? Did she tell you this herself? Or were you her Aide even when the Queen had just ascended to the throne? If so, how old are you actually? So many questions!!

• So Victor hasn’t told this secret to anyone else... Not even William, then?

• Also, why that child in particular? It sounds like he’s implying something here...

• What if he is the child in question?

VICTOR'S PROFILE

• Firstly, the “resent” section on the Villains’ profile usually gives some information that’s directly linked to their past

• This can be applied to the currently released routes: William with his “restrictions on freedom” and Harrison with his “corruption, police” (Liam’s a different case here)

• In Victor’s profile, it’s stated that he resents “being excluded”. Therefore, it’s likely that he has experienced or witnessed an incident related to this in the past

• The most logical conclusion would be that it is related to his status as the Grim Reaper. It’s only natural if he were feared by others for his connection with Death. Perhaps, that’s why he acts cheerful and lively. So that people aren’t afraid of approaching him. However, it has been seen in events that he does have a hidden side to him — one that is much more dangerous —and he even mentions it in his bond story

• The other plausible conclusion is related to my previous theory that he was that child. Though we don’t know at which age he got his curse, we can safely assume that he’s been working in the palace for a long time, potentially before the Crown was created. In such an environment, it’s easy for him to be discriminated against by politicians and other nobles

• The lack of his last name can connect to these two conclusions. Maybe he doesn’t have one because he’s the Grim Reaper. Or... He had no family at all?

• Let’s look at his other sections: skills — dancing, magic tricks, piano

• Dancing and playing the piano are typically the things you’d learn if you were an aristocrat. Especially at a young age

• This disproves my theory of him being that child. But you know what contradicts this? Sewing and baking/cooking are also one of his skills, though not written explicitly here

• You could argue that he learned to do those things for the sake of the Crown, just like with his magic tricks

• But it’s surely more interesting to think, what if he knew these things from a young age? As a means of survival. Because he only had himself for the longest time until Queen Victoria came along

• I know he’s exaggerating his feelings here, but what if it’s true? He feels so lonely, all the time, despite being surrounded by everyone.

• This is addressed towards Harry and Jude, but what if he said this to others before? To stop them from leaving 'cause they didn't want to be around him

• There’s already a lot of theories about the relationship between the Queen and her Aide. Siblings, lovers, friends or even that Victor is the Queen. Who knows?

• Side note: why is Victor always called as eccentric or a weirdo in-game? What has he done to deserve this? He’s just a silly lil guy (called the Grim Reaper)

DARIUS AND VICTOR'S DYNAMIC

• Moving on, here’s why I think Darius could possibly be the rival in Victor’s route or vice versa

• Appearance-wise, they both have contrasting colours. And contrasting personalities, for Victor at least

• Both Lynn and Nica also have whites in their outfits, however, Darius is probably the one with the lightest colours (his golden hair and eyes count too)

• Most of us imagined Victor would’ve been ruthless and wickedly evil based on his dark appearance (not that he isn’t; we simply haven’t seen that side of him). You’d never have expected a villain with the title of Grim Reaper to be some happy-go-lucky single father of 8, would you?

• Darius’ title (not officially translated) is something along the lines of “The Cruel Angel of Distrust”. He’s likely the type to be all polite and kind on the outside while harbouring twisted plans in his mind

• Victor is the leader of Crown whereas Darius is the Chief of Vogel; both organisations have cursed members

• Funnily enough, Darius apparently hates scones. Then there’s the long-haired dad who loves buttering up his scones with EXTRA butter

• Both of them are collecting the Cursed like Pokémon

• He won't hesitate to steal your girl

• Victor, despite his philosophy of freedom, subtly exerts dominance through his words and actions. It’s not that noticeable because of his carefree attitude, but it’s definitely there

• So how would Darius act?

PERSONAL THOUGHTS ON VOGEL

• Vogel appears to follow a uniform code to some extent, most noticeable with Nica and Lynn

• Both of them also have the Vogel organisation symbol separately on a badge like thing?

• Whereas Darius has his on the neck

DARIUS

• What in the world are milk puzzles? Does anyone have an answer? (I've received an answer by @/fictional-men-set-my-standard so thank you!)

• This actually makes me think he really likes the colour white. And by extension, purity. He's also the only one wearing gloves in Vogel (Lynn should be wearing gloves too, fingerless ones specifically)

• Proposal: Darius’ nickname should be Darry (or Darrie if you prefer that spelling)

• As previously mentioned, the “Resent” section of each Villains’ profile tends to be related to their past

• For Darius, it says something like “looking after living things,” which makes me think he could've had a pet that died because of him

• His weapon is interesting, the top part resembles the handle of a cane, while the end is sharp like a sword

• His line, “Hello, Cursed and all. Won’t you join me in creating a wonderful world?” is supposed to make him sound kind, but it’s giving the impression that he has a twisted sense of humanity

• Bet he has something against people who are not Cursed, or treats them differently

• Is he a noble by any chance? His whole look screams rich

• This might be an overreach but I NEED him to be this person from Kate’s childhood

• It could be anyone else but this just feels like it would suit Darius’ nature

• Childhood friend troupe with him aaaaah

NICA

• Both variations of his name are cute (Nika/Nica)

• His “Resents” are something like “deep affection”, which is ironic since he’s apparently a frivolous, cunning man who plays around with love. Does his curse involve something with controlling feelings?

• Maybe inside, he’s deprived of love. All playboys are desperately in need of love in their lives

• He sounds like a good rival for Jude, especially with his interest in money and power. Plus, he knows how to forge a person’s writing, which is handy for messing up contracts

• “I’ll play with you like a toy” — Alfons better watch out you’ve got a new competitor

LYNN (RING)

• And for Lynn, his “Resents” say something like “eating alone”? Which makes me think he could have spent a period of time where he ate all by himself, without Nica, at the dinner table...

• And yes, I’m calling Ring “Lynn” because it's much cuter

• His hobby of sitting in the corner of a room oddly reminds me of a doll (or puppet in this case) thrown away, forgotten

SWAN LAKE

• I’m not at all familiar with the story of Swan Lake, so I had to do some research first

• As with all fairytales, there’s going to be many variations and multiple endings, but I’m going to follow the general plot

• The story primarily involves Rothbart, an evil sorcerer who turns Odette into a swan and prevents the curse from being broken by sending his daughter Odile to fool the prince

• Darius’ last name makes more sense when you relate it to his curse, Rothbart, who was able to transform into an owl

• Befitting an owl, Darius also happens to have a sharp sense of sight and smell

• The organisation being called Vogel makes sense now since all their curses are from the Swan Lake, which heavily involves themes of transformation and birds

• Both Nica and Lynn seem to have the same curse, though I think it’s more fitting for Nica

• He is a sly schemer who manipulates feelings, just like Odile, who does it with the prince, by pretending to be Odette

• Lynn is described as Darius’ puppet, and he’s not exactly villainous, judging by his profile.

• His hobbies, skills, and likes remind me more of Odette, but of course, he can’t be the white swan, right?

FOOD FOR THOUGHT?

• All Villains have Curses based on the respective Villain of their fairytale (or an associated object like the magic mirror in Alfons case)

• Which makes me think... What if “curses” also existed for the heroes? What if, instead of being called the Cursed, such people would be called the “Blessed”?

• And they’d have “blessings” based on the protagonist or good guys of the respective fairytale. And their ending will always be happy

• Unless they try to escape it. You know, do things they shouldn’t. Opening secret doors, entering forbidden forests... And falling in love with Villains

Tysm if you've read this far into my rambling ⁠♡ And don't hesitate to interact and share your ideas on this because I would LOVE to hear it

[val-of-the-north]

Tibia Mariners and Those Lost in Death

While I am at it, I should talk about a detail found in Messmer's Shadow Keep. On the way to the Specimen Storehouse, you'll be faced with a peculiar sight: boats lit on fire.

This seems to be a callback to Viking funerals, except the boats are placed in a row and burnt on land. It's certainly an odd practice, but it might only be done this way because Messmer's forces are far from an accessible shore or water that's deep enough to perform it normally.

However, something else caught my eye. The boats looked quite familiar so I went back to check and...

It was the EXACT model as the boats used by the Tibia Mariners! Perhaps it is obvious seeing as the Messmer boats are used in a funerary rite, but I think it's still quite a significant connection, especially since the old Mariners have gotten quite a bit of new lore in the DLC. In Charo's Hidden Grave we can find the skulls of boatmen as a crafting material, presumably that of previous Tibia Mariners.

This is outright confirmed after finding the lone Tibia Mariner in the area, who upon defeat drops the Tibia's Cookbook, which describes them as the oldest of grave keepers.

(Btw I love the detail of the piece of lace cloth and golden ornaments, they are the same found on the Mariners themselves. They even come with the same ghostly glow)

This is quite the revelation, as prior to Shadow of the Erdtree we had no way of knowing that these guys actually predated the spread of Deathroot and Godwyn's transformation into the Prince of Death. And how could we doubt that, since they even drop Deathroot themselves? But there was something that most people have neglected to note about the Mariners, me included.

In the base game, the Tibia Mariner found in the Wyndham Ruins drops a spell called Tibia's Summons. This inconspicuous sorcery of the servants of death actually holds a perplexing description which mentions a group known as "Those Lost in Death".

There was something seemingly redundant and unexplained about these guys. What does "Lost in Death" mean? Why aren't they simply called "Those Who Live in Death"? It wouldn't blame anyone for assuming that this description just contains an outdated term for the undead before they stuck with the one used in-game. However, through the Tibia's Cookbook, we find a NEW reference to this same concept.

Roughly the same title (Those Lost in Death = one lost in death), the same underlying sentiment, and we have verifiable proof that the Tibia Mariners are outright ancient... so what's the deal with this? Well, I have a theory.

The descriptions of these things hint at the fact that the dead have been wandering for a very long time, and that they are in need of leadership. Before the DLC, it was easy to assume that the undead were simply a result of Deathroot, and the game seemed to suggest the same thing by stating multiple times that it was the origin of Those Who Live in Death...

... but that's the thing! Prior to Deathroot connecting them to Godwyn, the undead amounted only to shambling corpses. They were not LIVING in Death, but simply LOST in it, which is how the Mariners were able to control them in ancient times through the use of sounds, both their horns and the Calls of Tibia. It's only through the guidance of a lord, in this case the Prince of Death, that they found an identity and new life.

It's likely the undead waned in the era of Marika because of her elaborate Erdtree burials and general control of life and death. Heck, the figure of Rosus, who guides us to the Catacombs, must have also played a big part in their disappearance. His axe has a similar power to the Tibia's Summons and it's called Rosus's Summons. Its description also mentions that the dead easily lose their way, meaning that Rosus was meant to lend the dead a guiding hand. "Those Lost in Death" would be lost no more.

Without people Lost in Death, the Mariners kind of lost their purpose and vanished for a long time... until the Shattering and the rise of Those Who Live in Death of course. It might mean that the only reason they hold onto Deathroot is because it attracts and connects the new undead.

I guess Godwyn was meant to be a sort of "lighthouse" for all undead. He would make sure they never lost themselves but also that they would be allowed to live instead of being forced back to rest like with Rosus and Marika. Him being a "lighthouse" also fits the marine theme that all this death business is going for quite neatly I think...

But to return to what started this... maybe those boats lit on fire are Messmer's way of making sure the soldiers of his army aren't lost to death after their passing. A way to give them a proper rest the way Marika would have wanted, even though he is limited in what he can do about it. The Catacombs are now corrupted with Deathroots and Godwyn's corpse bodies, and guarded by his fervent golden Death Knights.

(P.S. - I didn't know where to put this, but "Charo" is one letter off from Charon, the ferryman of the dead in Greek mythology. Seeing as the place is connected to the Tibia Mariners, who shepherded Those Lost in Death in an age long past, I find that this connection might not be mere coincidence...)

[delicatebarness]

winters widow | chapter iv

Summary: The journey to the capital brings tests that bring our lord and lady closer which results in Lord James giving her his word.

Warning: Arranged Marriage. Storm/Severe Weather. Emotional Distress.

Word Count: 1096

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A/N: These two have my heart. - Please feel free to leave feedback or let me know where and how you want the story to continue, this is just as much yours as mine. - B

Winter’s Widow: @lanabuckybarnes | @sapphirebarnes | @sebastians-love | @mrsnikstan | @learisa | @railmesebstan | @mishkatelwarriorgoddess | @barnesxstan | @ghalouha | @mrsstuckyboo | @g-nobody

Everything: @hallecarey1 | @pattiemac1 | @uhmellamoanna | @scraftsku35 | @ozwriterchick

On the sixth day of the journey, Lord James, the bannermen, and yourself neared the borders of the neighboring land. Suddenly, a storm swept across the plains, rain lashing down and turning the ground into a quagmire. 

Tents were hastily pitched as everyone sought shelter from the downpour. Huddled under a small canopy with Lord James and a few of his closest advisors, the tension in the air was thick as the storm raged. Illuminating the worried looks of the soldiers and servants, the lightning split the sky, and thunder drummed. 

You couldn’t help but feel a sense of closeness in the discomfort of the situation as you weathered the storm with Lord James. 

“I don’t like the look of this weather,��� one of the advisors muttered, their gaze fixed on the sheets of rain outside. 

“It will pass,” Lord James reassured before turning to you, speaking with a hint of concern. “Are you holding up alright, Lady Romanoff?” 

Despite the unease settling in your stomach, you offered a reassuring smile as you nodded. “I’m fine, my lord. It’s just a bit of rain.” 

He glanced down at you, a flicker of something passed through his eyes before he placed another layer of pelt around your shoulders. “Stay wrapped. We’ll resume the journey as soon as it lets up.” 

As the storm continued, raging around you, you felt Lord James’ presence closer to you. His breath was warm against your ear. “Have no fear,” he spoke firmly, his voice steady. “This storm is no stranger. I was born amidst such tempests.” 

Resonating deeply within you, his words carried a weight of resilience. Looking at him in the dim light from the flickering torches, you swore you saw a glimpse of the man behind the titles. His expression softened slightly as he met your gaze. 

“You’ve faced many trials,” you acknowledged, your voice audible to only Lord James over the howling wind.

A faint smile touched his lips. “And, I have survived them all.” 

Hours passed in comfortable silence, only broken by the occasional clap of thunder. Leaving behind a soggy landscape, the storm began to subside. Albeit at a slow pace, the decision was made to press on with cautious optimism due to the muddied roads.

Still guarded, the aftermath of the storm mirrored the newfound shift in your relationship with Lord James as you rode alongside him again. 

~

The sun hung high in the skin, a golden hue over the hills as your entourage continued the journey south. Riding alongside Lord James, Honeybreeze and Alpine trotted gracefully in tandem. The days grew warmer, and a gentle breeze carried the familiar scent of wildflowers through the air. 

Glancing over at Lord James, you noticed his jaw set in determination as his eyes scanned the horizon. His focus mirrored his reputation as the White Wolf. Clearing his throat, he jolted you out of your trance.

Realizing your eyes were locked onto his side profile, you averted your gaze and offered a sheepish smile. “My apologies, my lord,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

He glanced over at you briefly, amusement in his eyes before he returned his focus ahead, “No harm done, Lady Romanoff,” there was a hint of a smile in his reply. “Just keep your attention on the road ahead as we enter more contested lands.” 

You nodded, grateful for his understanding. Turning your focus back to the road stretching ahead, the landscape shifted around you. 

“Tell me about your sisters,” Lord James prompted, his voice carrying above the rhythmic sound of hooves against the dirt. 

You faced him, a curious expression on your face. He caught you off guard with his inquiry, but you welcomed the opportunity to share a piece of your world with him.

A smile tugged at the corners of your lips as you began telling him about your sisters. Lord James listened intently, a thoughtful look in his eyes as he took in the details of your sisters’ strengths and characters. Bridging the gap between you both, the conversation flowed easily between you. 

~

As the weeks wore on, the relentless pace began to take its toll as the sun was high overhead. There was a growing weariness in your limbs. Honeybreeze’s usually smooth gait seemed to jar your bones. 

Ever vigilant, Lord James noticed your discomfort. Concern flickering in his gaze as he looked at you, the furrow between his brows deepened. “Lady Romanoff,” he began in a gentle tone. “You appear fatigued. Perhaps riding in the carriage would be best.” 

Shaking your head, you forced a smile. “Just a bit tired, my lord. I’m fine, I can remain here, with Honeybreeze and yourself.” 

His gaze didn’t waver. “I appreciate your desire to ride,” he admitted. “But, I worry about your safety, I would feel more at ease if you traveled in the carriage for a while.” 

You hesitated, his genuine concern tore into your steadfast decision. Your gaze moved down to Honeybreeze. Just say you were about to respond, Lord James continued, his voice gentle yet persuasive. 

“I promise you,” he continued. “I will keep Honeybreeze close to me. She will receive the best care and attention. You have my word… my lady.” 

Resonating with sincerity, his words made it difficult to refute his earnest pleas. Gazing into his eyes, you saw a depth of concern in the ocean color, touching you deeply– a concern that went beyond his obligation.

You relented with a small nod after a moment of internal struggle. “As you wish, my lord,” you acquiesced quietly. “I shall travel by carriage for a while.” 

Relief flickered across Lord James’ features. “Thank you,” he said sincerely, offering an appreciative smile. “Your decision will serve us both well.” 

As you dismounted Honeybreeze, he signaled for the carriage to be prepared. You gave Honeybreeze a reassuring pat before climbing into the waiting vehicle.

Through the window, you watched cautiously as Lord James took the reins of Honeybreeze. He gently guided her alongside Alpine, true to his word, he kept her close. 

You settled onto the cushioned seat, a surprising sense of relief as it offered a respite from the constant jostling. 

As the procession moved forward, the gentle sway of the carriage lulled you into a state of relaxation. Resting your head against the window, you noticed occasional glances from Lord James toward the carriage.

Closing your eyes, you allowed yourself a moment of rest. You were comforted by the knowledge that your lord– your future husband, was looking out and protecting both you and Honeybreeze.

---

Series Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

[cryptidclaw]

Star Tigerclaw

Design Notes:

Here he is!!! Tigerclaw based on a white tiger!!! love this design so much ??? omggg

he has his mother Snowstorm's blue colorpoint gene , but he has dark black stripes like his dad Thistleclaw!

Character Bio:

Star Tigerclaw

Straight; Cis Tom; he/him

Age as of 1st arc's beginning: 4 cycles, 4 moons; ~33 Hyrs

Title meaning: -claw =  a cat who is very skilled in battle; they fight ferociously with their claws; may have distinctive claws, most likely extra large or sharp.

Warrior -> Guard Charge -> Second of Thunder Order; he was in line due to being Star Bluefrost's nephew. He was banished for murder and an attempted takeover of the Order.

Leader of Shadow Order; was in no way in line for Shadow leadership, he convinced the Order that he would be their best choice for leadership, as he came from a long line of powerful leaders and he would keep the Order strong after their many recent losses.

Second: Vulturemask; was in line and should have been leader due to being the previous Shadow Leader (Star Brokentail)'s Second and mate.

Mentor: Star Sunfall

Mother: Snowstorm

Father: Thistleclaw

Siblings: Sky; Shine; Shimmer; Lynxstorm

Ex-Mates: Goldenflower; Star Leopardpelt (Political marriage, ended when Tiger died)

Kits: Swift; Brambleflower; Star Tawnyclaw; Mothwing; Tadpolefrog; Star Hawkfrost

Grandkits: Falconclaw; Jaywing; Dove; Dawnpelt; Goldenheart; Flamespirit; Dovesong; Ivythorn; Junipersnow; Dandeliondust

Other notable kin: Star Pineheart (grandfather); Leopardfoot (Grandmother); Sootfur (nephew); Sorreltail (niece); Rainwhisker (nephew)

Character notes: Tigerclaw actually did truly love Goldenflower, and he was actually a pretty good mate and father before this betrayal was revealed. Golden cat divorced him during his banishment and Tiger chose to become mates with Star Leopardpelt soon after as a political marriage, this relationship was loveless and only for political gain and a continuation of their bloodline through their kits.

Character Backstory:

Tigerclaw and Lynxstorm were Thistleclaw and Snowstorm's second litter, their first was one of three kits which all tragically passed due to a premature birth (their names, Sky, Shine and Shimmer were given in reference to the Stars, as they joined them almost as soon as they were born).

Thistleclaw took great interest in Tigerclaw, as he was the strongest, and most alike him out of the pair of brothers. Due to this Tiger was greatly influenced by Thistle, with his father trying to pass on as much of his ideals and attitude as possible. The tom often gave Tiger extra training sessions in the dark forest, or during the night, sometimes White would be included as well though he never went to the Dark Forest (Thistle knew that White would tell on them).

Snowstorm died early on into her sons' apprenticeships and as a result Thistle became even more rash and cruel which only increased the extreme extra training Thistle put Tiger, and sometimes Lynx under. Thistleclaw's cruelty and actions made his sons hate him (they had also noticed how cruel he could be to their mother before her death as well, and hated him even more for it), White stayed away from his father all together, however Tiger wanted to continue training with him to increase his power and skill.

Despite hating his father and denying that he would ever become a cat like him, Tiger took on much of Thistle's teachings, the tom is adamantly anti-outsider and codebreaking and is very bloodthirsty just like his father. Though maybe Tigerclaw never fully believed the anti mixed blood, outsider and adamant code following ideals, maybe deep down he just liked them because it gave him power over other cats, and a seemingly "devout" and "loyal" exterior.

The first cat Tiger ever killed was Thistleclaw, after Thistle's grooming of Spotted was revealed Tiger joined Bluefrost, Lynxstorm and Redtail in assassinating Thistleclaw. Tiger hated his father and despite him agreeing with many of his views, he was horrified by his actions towards Spotted. He had other motives as well, Thistle was a high ranking warrior who used his power to control Tiger for his own gain, Tiger did not want to be anyone's pawn, he wanted the power for himself. After killing his father Tiger realized how much he liked the power in killing a cat, which wasn't all to surprising, but it was all the more reason he was so willing to kill later in his life.

Despite being an obviously bloodthirsty and increasingly cruel cat, Bluefrost refused to believe that her nephew was anything like his father. She desperately wanted to trust her sister's kits, and Tigerclaw was apprenticed to Blue's pseudo father Star Sunfall who Blue was certain would counteract any of Thistle's impact on Tiger. Of course Blue didn't know about Tiger's extra training, nor did she know about his secret lust for power.

[emeritusemeritus]

Nice sweater. [Fred Weasley x Reader]

Image found on Pinterest.

Title: Nice Sweater

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Reader (established relationship)

Timeline: Non-specified. Set after Christmas break.

Summary: Draco tries to wind you up about your handmade sweater from Molly and gets firmly put in his place.

Warnings: Draco being antagonistic. Derogatory comments about wealth. Mentions of shagging. Brief mentions of physical abuse and scars.

It was the first week back after Christmas break and you were thankful that Saturday had eventually rolled around as the early morning starts, hard classes and already mounting homework had taken some re-adjusting to. You'd spent the two weeks of Christmas break at the Burrow with your boyfriend Fred and his family, just as you had for the previous two years and it was both fun and relaxing at the same time, a perfect break from your usual school routine.

"Morning y/n," Hermione says as she walks into the great hall, sitting down at the table in front of you as she fills her glass full of pumpkin juice. Your sleep schedule had been thoroughly thrown off by the holidays and you'd groaned as you shot awake way before you needed to this morning, not able to get back to sleep. You'd begrudgingly dragged yourself out of bed and gotten dressed in thick, warm layers before taking a small walk around the grounds as the sunrise bloomed over the hills, the sun waking up with you.

You'd been early to breakfast, arriving at the deserted hall even before breakfast had started and so you slipped away into the kitchens and had managed to acquire a cup of tea that one of the busy house elves had placed onto the Gryffindor table for you with an accommodating and very appreciated snap of their fingers. You'd pulled out your book and had read a few chapters whilst drinking your cup of tea before the breakfast had magically appeared on the tables promptly at 7am.

"Morning Hermione," you greeted with a tired smile, still feeling as if you were waking up slowly. You chatted for a while as you both ate breakfast before some of your other friends turned up. You were just about to leave and go back to your dorm when a familiar presence appeared behind you, placing a kiss to your head as he climbed onto the bench beside you, his identical twin slotting in directly across from him.

"Morning gorgeous," Fred says with a smile, already piling up his plate with golden toast with one hand as the other wraps loosely around your waist from behind.

You noticed he and George were both wearing their new sweaters that Molly had knitted them for Christmas and you had to smile as you looked at your own sweater which was also a christmas gift from Molly and Arthur. Yours didn't have your initial stitched on the front like the others did but rather it was a beautifully intricate design of blended colours in a fair isle style, with multiple geometric patterns running across in various orange, autumnal hues. You'd been so excited to receive a Molly crafted sweater and she had really outdone herself with this one. You always looked forward to her gifts, having received a beautiful scarf last year and a pair of mittens the year before that, both lovingly created by hand.

"Morning Freddie, morning Georgie," you smile as George greets you enthusiastically, much too awake for this time in a morning. You tiredly rest your head on Fred's shoulder as he eats and he responds by stroking your back soothingly as you talk quietly to each other, joining in with the larger group conversation but also running your own little chatter just between the both of you.

"Did you want to come to Hogsmeade with me and George later? Got to pick up some stuff from Zonkos," Fred says as he tucks into his sausages, a smirk on his face at the prospect. "Thought we could get a butter beer or a takeaway tea from Puddifoot's and maybe have a walk to the shrieking shack."

"How romantic," you say sarcastically as he chuckles, nodding his head.

Feeling a chill run over you, you pull the sleeves of your sweater down over your hands, trying to fight of the cold air that circulated around the room.

"Oi Weasel-bee, nice jumper," you heard Draco's whiny voice say from the table behind you, making you roll your eyes. You glanced up at Ron who looked immediately offended but was choosing to ignore him until he spoke up again, "I'm surprised your family could afford all that disgusting wool or does she reuse the same jumpers? That would make them what, fourth-hand at this point?"

"Shove off Malfoy," Ron says with a bite in his voice, turning abruptly back to the table as Harry tries to divert the conversation quickly away.  You can see George is looking angry across the table as he tries to calm himself and Fred beside you is stiff in his seat.

"Oh look, it seems the Weasley's have a new family member they can't afford!" He says, fixing his attention to you, looking at the jumper you were wearing.

"Nice jumper y/l/n," Draco says mockingly.

You simply look up at him with a fakest, most sarcastic smile and tone of voice you could muster and playfully said, "thanks Draco!"

He frowned briefly at your pleasantness before trying again to wind you up, not happy that he didn't get the reaction he wanted.

"So which one are you shagging again? Do their parents really hate you that much to give you that jumper?"

You feel Fred tense even more and you place your hand on his leg under the table to stop him from starting anything, knowing how cross Draco's words would have made him. You briefly catch George's eye, who looks furious, but you wordlessly tell him not to do anything with a subtle look before turning back to Draco.

"Are you deliberately thick?" You ask, raising your eyebrow at him as he blanched at your words, standing up and moving over to the table. "This jumper was a homemade gift from their parents, showing that I've got two sets of parents that love me and care enough to give a thoughtful gift, can you say the same? What did you get for Christmas from yours, more scars on your hand from your dad's stupid cane? Maybe another tailored black suit that shows how little personality you actually have?"

There's silence in the hall as everyone seems to watch your interaction. Draco, falling silent for a few seconds suddenly huffs and walks away muttering under his breath with Crabbe, Goyle and Pansy trailing behind him like faithful sheep.

Your friends all erupt in cheers at your little victory and you laugh at them as you take a sip of pumpkin juice.

"Which one am I shagging," you laugh, "that's a new one."

[rayne-astrophile]

Special oneshot before Valentine's Day ends :D

Buttons - Rayne Ames x F!Reader

Notes - inspired by a comic I read when i was a child where japanese students give their shirt's button (the one in the same level as their heart) to their crush because it kind of means they give their heart to them!

- highschool!au & ooc rayne

You have a crush on Rayne Ames even before he becomes the Student Council's president. He might not remember you, but he had helped you with your homework when you first attended Easton.

Since then, you fell in love with him.

And today is Valentine's day. Students start to give their shirt's button to their crushes.

You grip yours in your hand. You want to give it to Rayne, but you're still considering it. What if he doesn't accept it? What if he doesn't like you? What if he doesn't remember you at all?

But you have promised yourself to confess your feelings for him today, on Valentine's day. It doesn't matter if he rejects you, you just want him to acknowledge your feelings.

In the end, you come to a conclusion to give him your shirt's button.

It is lunch break when you try to find Rayne. You look around the school, and finally you catch a glimpse of half blonde and half raven hair behind the class building.

Your eyes lit up as you take a step forward, but-

"Please take my button," You widen your eyes when a girl's voice reaches your ears. You immediately hide yourself at the other side of the building as you listen to the girl's confession for Rayne.

Your heart aches in pain, as the possibilities of him accepting the girl's confession still exists. You peek silently from the other side.

That girl is the student council's vice president, Judy. She is the beauty of the school, and she didn't get that title for nothing. Her blonde hair and her ocean eyes... she's just perfect. She also performs well in academics, adding to her popularity.

You're doing well with your academics, too, but you're more low key. You always hate attention.

Despite both of them being the dream partner, the students can't help but ship them. "Perfection is for perfection", they say.

That makes you ponder,

What if Rayne accepts her? Do you have no chance at all? Does he---

"I appreciate your feelings for me," Rayne's smooth voice cuts you off from your train of thoughts. "But I can't accept it. I'm sorry," he apologises as Judy slowly retreats her button. "It's fine, Rayne." She smiles as she puts her button into her pocket. "I just want to get over this feeling and focus on studying." She runs a hand through her hair.

Judy lets out a sigh as she looks at Rayne. "So, who's the lucky one? I see you already took off your button." She asks in interest.

Her sentence makes your heart shatter into pieces. You lower your head and your feet finally take you away from the scene as you put your button into your pocket.

Rayne stays silent as he looks to the side; at your previous hiding spot.

"I'm going to give it to her now."

You enter the empty class, while the other students are busy giving their buttons to their crushes. Everyone is laughing and smiling, while you're alone, doing your own things.

It is not long after that you hear the door of the classroom being pushed open.

What you do not expect is your crush walking in.

Your heart skips a beat as your eyes meet his golden ones, which you immediately look away. Even so, you can see him entering the class from the corner of your eyes.

"Why are you here? Don't you want to give your button to your crush?"

You raise your head to look at him as he is already (surprisingly) in front of you. You look around the class before pointing to yourself, "You're asking me?"

Rayne visibly frowns. "Who else would I be talking to if it's not you? Do you see anyone else in this class, (Last name)?"

You gape your mouth, "Y-You know me?" You ask in disbelief. His frown darkens as he furrows his eyebrows. "What's that supposed to mean?" He mutters. "We've been classmates since our first year."

You look away timidly as you brush a strand of your hair to the back of your ear, only for it to fall back. "I didn't think you'd remember me," you whisper softly, which is audible to him.

"And why'd you think that?"

Is he always this talkative? You are already screaming on the inside.

"I..." you trail your eyes away from him. "Have... have you given your button to your crush?"

His frown is even more visible when you change the topic. He lets out a sigh, but he wants to get over it anyway.

"I was going to give it to her," he murmurs. "Do you think she'll accept it?" His question makes you confused. Why would he want your opinion?

"Of course she will. You're everyone's crush, you know?" You mumble, your voice is barely above a whisper.

But he still can hear it.

"Is that so?" He asks, and you can barely see the corners of his lips lift up as he reaches out his fist to you. "Then, you'll accept this, right?"

He opens his fist, revealing a button in his palm. Your eyes widen as you look at him in disbelief.

"W-What?"

Rayne trails his eyes away from you. "It's okay if you don't want to. I see you, too, have taken off your button." He lowers his hand, only for you to take it into yours.

"N-No! I..." you stutter as you take out your own button from your pocket. Hesitantly, you put the small object on his palm. "You can take mine. I-I can't possibly take yours,"

Rayne stares at the two buttons on his palm before locking his eyes with yours. "Why not?" You lower your head as you fiddle your hands on your lap. "I-I just can't believe it. You can't possibly have feelings for someone like me-"

"Let me prove it to you, then."

You flinch when his warm hand cups your cheek and lifts your head up to face him. Before you knew it, his soft lips pressed against yours, taking your breath away.

He moves his lips with a gentle, delicate movement as his other hand rests on your nape, allowing him to deepen the kiss. You find yourself lost in his kiss as you grip the hem of your skirt, your cheeks burning and your heart beating faster than ever.

Seconds feel like eternity for you until Rayne finally pulls away. His tongue runs on his lower lip as his golden eyes stare into yours.

"Is that enough?" He asks breathlessly, his own cheeks heating up as you are already as red as a beautiful rose. "I-I..." you stutter, struggling to arrange your words.

"It's still not enough, I see."

You gasp, "Wait-"

Before you can finish your sentence, he presses his lips against yours once again. His hands move from your nape to your waist, pulling you closer, earning a gasp from you, and he takes advantage of your parted lips to slip his tongue into your mouth.

He tastes every inch of your mouth as he turns your bodies around so that your back is against the desk. His hand on your waist moves onto your desk, trapping you as he kisses you passionately.

After what seems like forever, he finally pulls away. He looks over to the door before looking back at you. "Seems like the other students are still not coming back," he hums. "I've been waiting to do this since our first year," he mutters, his thumb brushes against your lower lip. His eyes stare into yours as he leans in, hungry for more.

The moment the sentence escapes his lips, you figure, that him, too, has fallen ever since your first encounter.

BYE

[separatist-apologist]

The Other Side Of The Apocalypse

What would you trade the pain for?

Summary: One last grand adventure. Rhysand had promised his father that after this final journey, he would take a wife and resign himself to inheriting his title. As it turned out, Rhysand had other plans, and so did the huntress he'd encountered in the village.

Note: Sending my love.

Read on AO3 ・Previous Chapter・Masterlist

Chapter 7/9: The Sunshine Of My Lifetime

Rhys couldn’t get the taste of Feyre out of his mouth. 

He’d tried, scrubbing his teeth twice and rinsing his mouth with something minty first, before chugging a cup of wine. Still, the sweetness of her lingered, making each step toward the sixth court miserable. Rhys wanted to return to Dawn and stay for the rest of his life, ideally.

But Feyre had been the one to insist they leave, Cassian trailing just behind her. Rhys liked Cassian, trading barbs and jokes for the better part of the morning. And his presence kept Rhys from grilling Feyre about their shared kiss.

Had she done it on purpose?

Had she enjoyed herself? 

Did she want to kiss him again?

Predictably, Feyre betrayed nothing, her face placid, blue eyes focused on the path before them. Thesan had taken them directly to the border with a casual remark about the tunnels between Dawn, Day, and Night closed for obvious reasons. Feyre had nodded sagely, but Rhys had no fucking idea what that mean. Closed for what obvious reason? 

Cassian walked between the pair of them, talking about anything and everything while Feyre stared into the distance. The air had become warmer and more humid with each step they took toward the Day Court palace. They should have asked Thesan to winnow them straight to the door.

Did there need to be so many rocky hillsides? Did the sun need to be so unrelenting? The sky so cloudless? 

“Tell me about Day Court,” Rhys said, trying to distract himself from how sweaty he was, and more so with how sweaty Feyre was. Tendrils of golden brown hair curled around her face while little beads of sweat slid down her neck, tracing a path he’d like to follow with his tongue. 

“You mean Prythian’s best court?” Cassian asked, earning a dark look from Feyre. “Day Court is home of countless scholars and even more libraries. All the knowledge of our people is housed here. It was the first court to be subdued in the ah…curse. The rest fell like dominoes.” “What can I expect?” Rhys heard himself asking, eyes darting from the unending hillsides stretched before him and Feyre half hidden by Cassian’s bulk. 

Cassian only shrugged, wings pulled tight. “I guess we’ll find out together.”

“Are you going to be helping?” Feyre snapped, wiping her brow on the back of her hand.

“Oh, I’ll leave that to you two humans,” Cassian replied with a grin. “I just need to speak with the prince.”

“The one who owes you money?”

“Lucien,” Cassian agreed, far more forthcoming than Feyre had ever been. “I haven’t seen him since the curse. I never thought I’d miss the bastard.”

“We just need to get in and get out,” Feyre said in that straightforward way of hers. 

“Eager to see the Lord of Night?” Cassian questioned. “You’re on your own for that fight.”

“Tell me about him,” Rhys said quickly, earning an exasperated sigh from Feyre.

“He can’t—he’s bound by the magic of the curse,” she said as Cassian opened and closed his mouth wordlessly. “They aren’t supposed to help us.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t tag along, see you get to the final trial in one piece,” Cassian said. It was more than that, though. Cassian had a mate riding on the outcome of things, and Rhys didn’t think he’d leave until she was either freed, or they were all dead. He couldn’t help, but that didn’t mean he had to stand idly by, either. 

He almost asked Cassian to just fly them there. Surely, with all those muscles, he could handle it. “There it is,” Feyre murmured, pointing at a blinding light in the distance. The palace, Rhys realized, with spires that seemed to touch the sun itself. The golden dome reflected the sunlight back at them, causing him to shield his eyes with his hands the closer they got.

Unlike the other courts, the Day Court palace was situated atop a winding hilltop they were forced to climb, overlooking what must have once been a bustling city. Where had everyone gone? Had they fled? He wanted to open the doors of the empty homes and try and make sense of it. 

Feyre trailed ahead, her back to Rhys. It was a nightmare—he couldn’t focus on anything but the sway of her hips and the way her braid moved back and forth from her shoulder to her spine. Cassain hung back, his expression wary, nostrils flared. 

“I’ll leave you here,” he murmured, not getting close to the entrance of the palace. 

“What about the prince?”

“I’ll talk to him when this is all resolved,” Cassian said, wings flaring. Rhys started to ask what he knew, but Feyre had vanished within the palace and Rhys felt compelled to follow her. The air smelled salty both inside and outside the expansive, marble palace. Was it beautiful? Perhaps the most beautiful place he’d ever seen?

The temperature dropped considerably once they were out of the sun, offering immediate relief. He could have used some water, but all things considered, Rhys was feeling a lot better than he had a few moments earlier. He jogged after Feyre, who was all but sprinting through the palace. 

“Where are you going?” he asked, reaching out for her arm. “I’ve been trying to talk to you all day.”

“Rhys,” she breathed, and was it his imagination or were her cheeks flushed? Eyes dark? Fuck, he wanted to kiss her. “We need to just…do this.”

“We do?” he gaped, mouth falling open.

Feyre exhaled, her breath sweet against his face. When had he gotten so close. “The trial. We need…Rhys…”

“Just one kiss,” he murmured, sliding his palm over her cheek. He was so close—his lips all but touching hers, when the sound of shoes on marble began to echo around them.

All of Prythian was conspiring against him, he thought as Feyre skittered back, hands balled to fists at her sides. With her back pressed to the wall, Feyre turned to the hall where the obvious High Lord approached. Rhys would have known him even without the obnoxious golden crown set atop his onyx hair.

“The human who has come to save my home,” he said, offering an outstretched hand to Rhys. He ignored Feyre entirely as if he didn’t see her, and though Rhys bristled that he was getting all the credit, he accepted the warm hand all the same. “Welcome to Rhodes.”

Rhys offered what he hoped was a charming smile, trying to match the man—male—before him. 

“Helion Spell-Cleaver,” Feyre said smoothly, unbothered in a way Rhys could only ever hope to achieve. “I thought you were locked up.”

“Life finds a way,” he replied, not bothering to explain himself to either of them. “Where’s Cassian?”

“How do you know Cassian is here?”

Helion rolled golden eyes, turning to look wholly at Feyre. Rhys didn’t like the look on the fae males face—that unguarded lust, that open hunger. It didn’t help that Helion was, by far, the most beautiful man—male—they’d encountered thus far. It didn’t help that he wore a white piece of material wrapped around his waist and secured with a heavy, circular piece of gold shaped like the sun, an arm cuff, and some wrist braces and absolutely nothing else. 

He might as well have been naked—Rhys could all but see the curve of his ass beneath the cloth.

“I can scent him,” Helion replied. 

“You know why he didn’t come in.”

Helion sighed. “This may be my last opportunity. Ah, well. You’re here…where did you start?”

Feyre’s eyes flickered to Rhys before she looked back at Helion. “Spring.”

“Is my court all that’s left?”

“And night,” she murmured, her voice taking on a softer quality. “But the others are liberated.”

There was a question lingering that the male didn’t dare ask, though his expression seemed to burn with it. He merely shrugged his shoulders as if it didn’t matter, glancing at Rhys again. “It won’t be as easy to liberate my home.”

“Respectfully, we killed a dragon,” Rhys snapped, his temper getting the better of him. Helion was walking around, wasn’t he? How bad could it be? He just wanted to get things over with so he could corner Feyre somewhere and demand she talk to him about what had happened earlier. 

We kissed! 

Feyre glanced away, eyes lingering on the floor beneath them. 

“Drinking the wine makes it worse,” Helion told her before gesturing for them both to follow. “The task itself is simple. Walk through the throne room and destroy the burning incense.” Rhys’ steps faltered. “That’s it?”

Surely there was more to it. Helion threw Rhys a smile that irritated him and nodded. “That’s it.”

“Why haven’t you done it, then?”

“Rhys,” Feyre hissed, clearly frustrated. Helion only chuckled, pulling open the double doors to his throne room. The smell was cloyingly sweet and strangely salty, choking Rhys’s lungs as he blinked away tears. Coughing, Rhys waved at the fog in front of his face. Was it poison, then? Something the fae could withstand but would kill himself and Feyre? 

He turned around to step back in the hall, but the doors had swung shut behind him. Helion was sauntering toward the large, golden throne situated upon an elevated dais. The floor itself was littered with pillows and bodies…all of which were naked. Were they dead?

No, he realized as hands began gliding up torsos. It was…it was…

“Is this an orgy?” Rhys whispered, eyes massive.

“We just…we walk across…the room,” Feyre reminded him, her eyes strangely unfocused. Rhys couldn’t stop staring at her. She’d put on clean clothes made of fine, Dawn Court material—the flowing white pants hugged her hips and the pale pink top shifted and rustled with each breath, revealing little bits of her tanned torso. The little wisps of hair framed her beautiful face and when she looked up at him, Rhys was struck by just how much smaller than him she was.

How they might fit together. 

“Feyre,” he murmured, walking toward her. They had a moment. It was strange how easy it was to forget what was happening in that cavernous room. The sunlight pouring through open windows illuminated her form, turning the dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose into a glowing constellation of stars. 

Her lips parted, but no words escaped.

“You kissed me,” he reminded her, reaching for her face. Her skin was soft beneath his palm, and he could resist running his thumb over her plush lips. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“Neither can I,” she admitted, sliding her fingers over his wrist to hold his hand in place. “But Rhys—”

“Let me just…” he lowered his face, waiting for the resistance to come. Feyre only tilted her chin toward him, her grip tightening. 

“Just one,” she whispered. 

“Just one,” he swore. There would be others when they finished their embarrassingly simple task. He’d kiss her for luck, they’d destroy the incense, and then he’d ask for a private room and see what he could get away with. 

It was better than the first one. Perhaps because it lacked urgency, or simply because he knew she was seeing him. Really seeing him, touching him, offering herself to him. Rhys couldn’t help the groan that escaped him, teeth scraping her bottom lip. Feyre pressed closer, hand leaving his wrist to grip his shoulders. He was barely conscious of himself, especially when she sighed against his lips, nails digging through the fabric of his shirt.

Rhys hadn’t realized he’d hauled her up into the air until her legs wrapped around his waist, causing her body to rub against his erection. Fuck. In the list of things he hadn’t noticed, his rapidly hardening cock was one of them. The other was the room they were in slowly coming to life. The once lethargic bodies began to rouse themselves, touching and tasting without concern for who might be watching.

Rhys could relate to that. He was only peripherally aware of his surroundings, especially when Feyre’s tongue slid into his mouth. Mother above, but Rhys lost all sense of self at that moment. She tasted better than he’d dreamt, hazy and sweet in a dizzying concoction. Rhys needed…he needed more. He was desperate, quenching his thirst for the first time in his life. 

She tugged at his hair, pulling his head back so she could all but devour him. Rhy’s knees shook, though he remained standing only through the grace of the gods above them.

“Walk, Rhys,” she pleaded, her voice breathless with arousal. That’s what she said. What he heard her say, however, was a different matter entirely. 

Fuck me until I forget my name, Rhys. 

He took a step, stopping when her thighs clenched around his middle. How was he supposed to do anything? All he could think about was the sweet taste of pear and lilac invading his senses and how her breasts kept rubbing against his chest. 

“Not like this,” he whispered, well aware that he’d take her however she offered herself. Even here, in this place, surrounded by strangers that both watched and touched and tasted within inches of themselves. 

“Stop talking,” Feyre replied, teeth grazing his bottom lip. Who was he to argue with her? After everything they’d been through and everything they’d seen, didn’t they deserve a chance to relax? To enjoy themselves after what felt like months of non-stop fighting and walking and faerie politics. He wasn’t convinced they’d survive, and worse still, was his fear that when it was over, she’d want nothing to do with him again.

He’d see her in the village, pass by without any recognition in her eyes. She’d find some other man, one who suited her better, and Rhys would spend the rest of his life like his father—mourning a woman he’d lost and punishing everyone around him for his misery. 

His arm was wrapped around her waist, free hand gripping her hair tight enough he could feel the tension on her scalp. She couldn’t leave him. He simply wouldn’t allow it. 

Their mouths collided in a symphony of pent-up need. Rhys groaned at the taste of her, sweet and heady just the way he remembered. Feyre was voracious, untethered from whatever restraint typically bound her. Raking her nails through his hair, Feyre gripped him just as tightly as he held her, holding him in place with each rough, frantic kiss. 

They weren’t the only ones, though they were rapidly becoming one of the few left with their clothes on. Rhys was vaguely aware of what was happening around him, just as he was aware that he was still dressed even when he didn’t want to be.

Feyre, either, it seemed, given that she reached for the hem of her shirt and pulled it over her head without a second thought. Rhys stared, momentarily blinded by her undergarments which she quickly removed as well. Feyre was there, in his arms, without a shirt. Rhys didn’t know how to act—sure, he’d seen other women without their clothes on.

He’d never seen this woman without a shirt, though. And right then, he may as well have never seen a pair of breasts in his life. They were perfect, deserving of poetry sonnets, of portraits hung in the palaces of kings, of the sort of worship he would never master. That didn’t stop him from walking six steps to the left toward an elevated platform where the High Lords throne sat. Helion was otherwise occupied by two males and a female perched rather neatly atop his face. 

Rhys was jealous of the scene—he wanted Feyre on his face, too. He’d take whatever he could get, and right then what he’d managed was setting her atop the purple cushioned seat so he could fall to his knees before her as nothing more than her eager supplicant. 

“What are you doing?” she whispered, chest flushed as it rose and fell rapidly. Feyre’s eyes, usually a pretty, starlit blue, were so dark they seemed black to him. 

“What I should have done the day I met you,” he replied, well aware he had no authority to make her a princess anywhere but in his own life. Maybe that was enough? Worshiping only at her altar,  restructuring his worldview so she was the most central star illuminating his otherwise dreary world.

It was a simple thing to unlace her boots and toss them behind him. Running his hands up her thighs, Rhys swore he felt heat emanating from just between. Maybe it was wishful thinking–he wouldn’t know until he got his hands and face between them. He hated those well-made pants, hated the way she knotted the laces at the waistband and how clumsy his large fingers felt trying to undo the knot. Feyre merely watched, tugging at her braided hair as if she were nervous. 

He managed to undo the laces, relieved when she lifted her hips to help him shimmy her out of them. There she was, wholly naked, perched atop that throne with flushed cheeks and bitten lips. He didn’t know what to do, suddenly, his mind clouded by desire and indecision. What if she didn’t like whatever he did? What if she woke in the morning and changed her mind?

What if you overthink this and never get another change?

Rhys leaned up on his aching knees, ignoring his own discomfort to kiss her again.

And again.

And again. 

He forgot he was wedged between her legs, so caught up in the taste of her mouth and how good her tongue felt stroking his own. He needed nothing more, he thought. Rhys’ mind couldn’t stay focused on his long term goals. Kissing her felt good and that was all that mattered. He had time, besides. They didn’t need to go anywhere else. There was no rush to the act, no great hurry. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he felt that wasn’t quite true. 

He’d worry about it later. How often was the woman of his dreams splayed out naked before him? Rhys pulled away, breathless and desperate. Ignoring his aching cock rubbing against his own trousers, which suddenly felt uncomfortably tight. His indecision left him the moment his fingers grazed her exposed navel, tracing a few errant freckles dotted along her ribcage. 

His hands found her breasts, teasing the peaked nipple with the rough padding of his thumbs. Feyre arched her neck upward, eyes fluttering shut. She liked that. Rhys felt the way a dog must when praised by its master—all he wanted was to please her. It felt instinctual, like his purpose and reasoning for being. Rhys dared to lower his mouth, taking that same nipple into his mouth. Feyre cried out softly, a mere whisper of pleasure that ignited an inferno within him. He forgot himself, trying to elicit that sound again. While his tongue worked, making promises he fully intended to keep, his fingers began to push apart her legs. 

It was curiosity, truly, that made him want to touch her. He wanted to know if she was half as aroused as he was—if she felt the same way. Feyre was so guarded, so careful with her emotions and Rhys never quite knew where he stood with her. Her body wouldn’t lie, though—if she was aroused, he’d know.

Gliding his fingers through her cunt, he found a mess. He could have wept at how wet she was, how easily he slid right into her. Rhys wanted to abandon all logic, replace his fingers, and fuck her until the two of them passed out in a heap of sweaty limbs. 

Maybe just a taste, he reasoned to himself. That was all he needed. It was a pretty lie bouncing around his skull, and the realization he’d lied to himself, however trivial, pulled him back to reality for just a moment.

The throne room had devolved into a mass of writhing bodies performing every sexual act imaginable. Twisting to look behind him, Rhys’ mouth fell open at the sight of all those entangled limbs. Never in his life had he seen anything like what was happening before him, the pure bacchanalian display momentarily stunning him.

He was supposed to be ending this—he remembered, now. The incense was still burning, still close enough that he could simply rise back to his feet and extinguish it. It would be so easy, too—but Rhys lacked the willpower. His mistake was looking back at Feyre, legs draped over each arm of the throne, displaying the prettiest cunt he’d ever seen.

Was he supposed to tell her no? Rhys would rather be trapped by the curse forever than have her think he was rejecting her. It wasn’t going anywhere, he repeated to himself as he trailed his tongue down the flat plain of her stomach. He’d already forgotten what it was—but he trusted he’d remember later—when it mattered. 

All that mattered to him then was the woman in front of him. Something was happening to him—something that had never happened before. Warmth flooded down to his very marrow, his chest tight as he struggled to draw breath. He glanced up at Feyre and her midnight dark eyes and wondered if she knew what this feeling was.

He could guess, but if he sat back to untangle it, he’d ruin everything. She didn’t want to hear it—Rhys knew her well enough to know the unspoken truth between them, that there was only so much Feyre could handle at any given time. There, vulnerable and naked, eyes pleading with him to finish what they’d begun, Rhys didn’t dare say a word.

He merely pressed a kiss to her inner thigh, the realization clanging like a bell in his head.

I’m in love with you.

Two courts, he reminded himself, kissing the other leg while holding her gaze. They’d figure out how to undo the curse in Day, and move on to Night, and then…and then they’d be free. Forever changed by what they’d seen and lived through, bonded and connected just as surely as any chain between them, only this one seemed to be wrapped around his heart rather than his wrist. He needed her, and he didn’t believe she didn’t need him, even if she thought she could rely only on herself.

She’d gone to the ends of the earth for her sisters, had risked life and liberty to see them unshackled from whatever spell housed them. Rhys simply meant to be that for her. He’d make the same journey to save her, would give up everything for her if she asked. Already, on his knees before her, his queen, his goddess, his northernmost star, Rhys would have done anything she asked of him.

And more.

He was close to reciting poetry, which seemed a shame given Rhys didn’t know any poetry. He’d studied it, once, but he’d been too busy screwing around with his friends and his sword to commit any of it to memory. What a waste, he thought, gaze slipping to the wet, pink cunt before him. Feyre’s body deserved at least a ballad at the very least. A sonnet or two about her perfect form. Surely someone must have.

He’d kill them.

Feyre raked her fingers through his hair, pushing at his face gently, though he wished she’d be rough. Tell him what to do—that was her way, after all. It seemed uncharacteristic of her to leave the decision in his hands when Rhys had come to enjoy being bossed around by a woman not half his weight or height. Rhys smothered a smile and finished what Feyre had started.

It was magic moving them, and magic that made her taste like some sort of elixir that granted immortality. Rhys couldn’t stifle the moan that rose up threw his throat and seemed to echo louder than the music around them. Fuck. Was it just anticipation, or something else? He didn’t know—didn’t care. His tongue found her again, licking slowly up the length of her and back down. Feyre’s hair was falling from his clasp, longer than he remembered as the long, golden brown strands framed her flushed face. She seemed otherworldly to him, shimmering with the same need that he felt bubbling in his blood.

Rhys forgot how his knees were aching, the cold marble seeping through his trousers to lodge itself against his spine. For all he knew, they were floating in some ethereal plane, the only two people left in the world. This was what he’d been born to do, and it would take the very gods themselves to pull him off her.

Or Feyre herself.

She surged forward, pushing him back without any care or concern for his comfort. Rhys grinned, landing flat on his back not far from a writhing group of women moaning and touching in a display that ought to have fascinated him. Feyre, however, climbed atop him, straddling his waist with a sly smile on his face.

“You look tired,” she all but purred, pulling at his shirt. He was quick to help her, tossing it somewhere in the room before both her fingers and his went scrambling for the clasps on his trousers. It was erotic to watch her undo them, even as he gracelessly kicked himself out of his boots. She peered down at him, running her hand over his stomach with that same smile that made him feel out of his mind with lust.

“I wasn’t done,” he complained, afraid she was going to try and repay the favor. “I need you to come on my tongue.”

Feyre blinked, digesting his words before color stole over her chest and up her neck. Was this what embarrassed her? Absurd. Rhys reached for her before she could squirm away and with relatively little effort, positioned her over his face. Finally, a warrior's death, he thought to himself. With both arms wrapped around her to keep her from pulling away, Rhys went back to the feasting from before. She was dripping wet, making a mess of his face, and Rhys had never been happier.

He’d just assumed she’d ride his face—that was what he wanted, anyway. Her hips rolled over him as she sighed breathlessly just before she shifted. Rhys held tightener before his back arched off the cool, marble floor, just in time to realize Feyre was only readjusting so she could take his cock in her mouth.

Fuck.

 The memory of his task slipped back to the forefront of his mind at the same time her soft tongue slid down the length of him. Who cared anymore? Rhys didn’t hate the fae like he once had, but right then, he didn’t care if they suffered under the same subjugation he’d promised to unravel. All he cared about was Feyre spread out over his face while she sucked him. Nothing else was important—nothing else mattered. 

Rhys had time, for once, to do everything he wanted. It was tempting to lap at her frantically, to draw her upward just to prove he could, to know what she sounded like when she came. He had to force himself to slow down, to temper his excitement with the reminder that he had time. They had nowhere to be and nothing important to do. 

That lasted for all of ten seconds. Feyre gagged as she tried to take more than half of him, the sound shooting straight to his balls. Forced to clench his cheeks to keep from coming prematurely, and desperate from excitement, Rhys redoubled his efforts over her cunt, tongue swirling and teasing her clit until Feyre’s rhythm faltered. Bolstered by his success and drunk off the knowledge she wanted him, Rhys continued licking and sucking at her clit until Feyre screamed. Her legs clamped around his head, keeping him in place while preventing him from taking a full breath of air. Rhys simply rode it out while taking her through her orgasm without stopping.

Feyre fell forward, cheek pressed to his thigh. “It’s not enough,” she moaned, echoing his own thoughts. Scrambling off him, Feyre tugged at his arm to pull him to his feet. He did as she demanded, wishing for some of his usual eloquence. He wanted to tell her he felt the same way, that his blood was thudding painfully in his chest.

“It’s magic,” she whispered, more to herself than to him. Rhys’s heart sank, his mind once again returning to the task at hand. She was looking at him, but he turned to look at the bowl of incense. He didn’t want to destroy it—was it so bad to be trapped here like this? Together? 

It wasn’t real. Rhys found his pants laying in a heap and grabbed them as she tried to reach for his arm and pull him back. 

It’s magic, it’s magic, it’s magic.

Not like this.

It was agony to leave here standing there, to feel her eyes burning against his back. Worse to pull those trousers over his raging erection while his blood thrummed, beating in time with her own heart. Rhys knew how he felt—the spell merely enhanced what was already there. Did she feel it? Or was she merely trapped? The thought ate at him, ravaging him until his heart felt like a ruined wasteland. 

It was easy to get to the bowl of incense, and easier still to raise it over his head before throwing it to the ground. The little flame extinguished as the pottery shattered irrevocably, spilling sweetly scented oil all over his bare feet. The moaning and sounds of copulating slowed to halt as the music came to a grinding halt.

Rhys turned to find those once writhing masses slowly untangling themselves, blinking as though waking from a dream. Feyre was scrambling for something—his shirt, he realized, which engulfed her in the stained white fabric. She wasn’t looking at him, though her cheeks still bore the tell-tale flush.

No, Feyre was looking at a very naked Helion. “Lucien,” she said, the only person who spoke at that moment.

“Go,” Helion ordered and just like that, Feyre raced out of the room, leaving Rhys standing there feeling like a fool. She had his shirt, so Rhys couldn’t fully dress though it was better than Helion who didn’t seem to care at all. Rhys supposed if he looked as good as Helion did without clothes on, he’d strut around, too. 

“Fifty years,” Helion said as Rhys joined him, Feyre’s clothes and their shoes all heaped in his arms. “I’ll need about that long to recover.”

“At least it wasn’t a dragon,” Rhys heard himself saying, barely aware of the conversation at all. He could still taste Feyre in his throat, could still feel the weight of her on his body. He would have liked those fifty years—nobility was for those with a moral sense of righteousness.

He simply didn’t want her to hate him. 

Helion put a hand on Rhys’ bare shoulder, golden eyes filled with nothing but a mixture of relief and sadness. “I owe you everything. Tell me how I can repay you.”

“A room?” Rhys asked, at a loss for what this man could give him. All he wanted had left the room, another man’s name on her lips. For all he knew, Feyre loved that man, had been thinking only of him while Rhys touched her. Jealousy was an ugly emotion and as Helion walked him through the warm, sprawling palace, all Rhys could think about was Lucien.

Who was he? Why did she care? He remembered Cassian mentioning Lucien, the memory returning in a haze. Lucien was a faerie prince. How did he compete with that? Everyone they’d met had been impossibly beautiful and powerful, and for all he knew, Feyre had been silently trying to free the prince alongside her sisters. 

Feyre was nowhere to be found. Helion promised to tell Feyre where he was when he saw her next, his face unreadable as he took one last look at Rhys before closing the door. Rhys wanted to smash the room to pieces. Petulantly, he wanted to leave Feyre to finish the task on her own. The thought of abandoning her made his chest ache and water prick at the corners of his eyes.

So she loved another man. That didn’t mean he didn’t still love her. He was simply disappointed that she might not want him back—that despite what he’d told himself in that throne room, he had been hoping she returned his feelings.

Rhys took time to bathe, pleased to find clothes laid out on the bed for him. He wasn’t alone, though Cassian was hardly the company he wanted right then. Sprawled out on his bed casually, his leathered armor swapped out for the same loose pants and shirt that Rhys had been given, Cassian seemed as irreverent as usual.

“Want to get a drink?”

“Make it a double,” Rhys said, returning the smile. 

“I know just the place. This whole palace reeks,” Cassian said, wrinkling his nose. It was easy to like Cassian, perhaps because he seemed so very human—minus the wings on his back. His ears were rounded, his eyes a very normal hazel, and his face looked as if it belonged to a regular man rather than an immortal creature capable of ripping him apart with their bare hands. He didn’t doubt Cassian could if he wanted to. The glowing siphons on his person certainly suggested he commanded some sort of magic—Feyre had explained it all to him once, but Rhys didn’t remember.

He didn’t want to think about Feyre at the moment.

Cassian let Rhys dress, pointedly turning his back without leaving the room. “Where’s Fey?” he asked casually.

“With Lucien,” Rhys spat, his hatred irrational.

Cassian chuckled. “I’d say we should rescue her, but maybe she deserves whatever hell he’s currently giving her.”

Rhys bristled. “Why would he give her anything but his gratitude? She just rescued him—”

“You don’t know Lucien, but he can be…difficult…at times,” Cassian replied, running a hand through his shoulder length hair. 

“How do they know each other?”

“I’ll let Feyre tell that story if she wants. Lucien hates humans, and well…Feyre doesn’t, obviously. So their friendship has always been interesting.”

Friendship. “Does she see him often?”

“Too often, I think, given he’s mated to her sister. I’m sure he’s waging war on Elain’s behalf, pissed they’ve been separated for so long.”

The knot that had settled in his stomach seemed to untangle. “Mated?”

“Married,” Cassian amended, tucking his wings tight against his back. “It's a similar principle.”

“Marriage implies choice,” Rhys heard himself saying, a frown stretched over his lips. “What if your mate wants to leave you?”

True anger seemed to shine on Cassian’s face before he banished it with a shake of his head. “You don’t understand. It’s…she’s half my soul. I could no sooner leave her than I could leave my own body.”

“Surely not all matches are happy.” It didn’t seem possible that fate could select people who got along flawlessly and created nothing but incandescently, happy pairs.

“They’re not,” Cassian agreed. “There are plenty of unhappy pairs—you have a choice to accept the bond. Lucien and Elain had a hard time of it—”

“Because he hates humans?” Rhys asked, piecing Feyre’s life together 

Cassian chuckled. “Among other things. Lucien can be a real, arrogant bastard.”

“Feyre doesn’t have a mate?” Rhys asked suddenly, uninterested in the Day Court faerie prince and his love life. He recalled slaying Tamlin and the relationship that had existed between them. Had she dragged him into this to kill a mate she didn’t want?

“I’m sure she does,” Cassian replied as he stared studiously ahead. “Everyone does—even humans.”

Cassian didn’t need to explain to Rhys that if he had a mate, he wasn’t going to feel it the way the fae could. Feyre, too, would never know if he was hers. Would she always wonder given her sister's circumstances? Would it be enough?

Could he be enough? Feyre didn’t seem to hold any love for the culture or people, even if somehow she knew all of them by name. Maybe, once it was all done and she was certain of her sister's safety, she’d want a little peace. He could give her that. Hells, if she wanted he’d live in this land though preferably far from the sprawling palaces of the High Lords. 

Rhys had two drinks with Cassian down in the emptied city—where was everyone? The winged male seemed in high spirits, grinning and laughing as he told story after story about battles Rhys wished he could have seen. He was jealous of Cassian’s long life and the things he’d seen, of the things he’d do before it was all over.

He had to half carry Cassian back to the palace, leaving him in a patch of grass beneath an olive tree. “This is perfect,” Cassian had mumbled, snoring before Rhys had taken more than three steps. Maybe he should have let himself get obliterated, too, but Rhys was hoping to talk to Feyre. He thought he might die if she decided she wanted to pretend nothing had happened between them. 

He just needed to tell her how he felt, he decided. Fumbling for a light switch in the room he’d been given, Rhys decided he’d just tell her he was in love with her. He’d— “Feyre?”

He was drunker than he thought, because surely that wasn’t his Feyre, kneeling on the end of his bed in a nightdress so sheer, she may as well be wearing nothing at all. Her hair was unbound, the ends curling ever so slightly as they hung over her shoulders

Rhys turned to look over his shoulder, back down the dark hall he’d come from. Rubbing his eyes, he turned back to his room, certain he’d be alone.

She was still there, cheeks red, lips pink and swollen. Rhys closed the door softly, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Can’t sleep?” he asked, trying to project calm when his insides were turning over. 

“Can you?” she replied, her sultry tone settling at the base of his cock. He hadn’t forgotten that she’d had her mouth on it, though right then his mouth began to replay the way her tongue had felt, how her lips had wrapped themselves around him. His stomach tightened from excitement. Please. 

He shrugged. “Not really.”

Feyre uncurled her legs from beneath her body, bare toes touching the floor as she straightened herself. The little nightdress she wore was a joke—he could have shredded the delicate cloth with his teeth if he so chose to. And gods, did Rhys want to rip it ribbons with his teeth. Feyre was in charge, though, so he remained as still as he could manage while she sauntered forward. His eyes fell to the swing of her hips, visible beneath the cloth. The neckline scooped low enough that he could see the swell of her breasts while the hem just shimmed the uppermost part of her thighs. 

He was dreaming. This wasn’t real. It was a fantasy.

“Neither can I,” she told him, pulling him closer by the laces on his trousers. Rhys had to remind himself to breathe. 

“What are you doing?” he whispered, afraid he might ruin everything with that question. “Are you well?”

“I’m tired of pretending I don’t feel it, too,” she said, deftly pulling the strings until they were unknotted. “That I don’t want you.”

That may have been the most erotic thing that had happened to him all day. Rhys froze as she pushed his pants to his ankles, revealing his already rigid cock. “I didn’t get to finish,” she told him, sliding to her knees before him. Her fingertips skimmed over his thighs, drawing a shiver up his spine. 

“Feyre,” he whispered, unsure what he planned to say. She ignored him, licking his shaft from root to tip while Rhys had to employ every ounce of his will to keep from falling to the ground in a boneless heap. His mind barely worked, though he had enough thought to gather up her hair and pull it off her face. 

Feyre took him into his mouth, eyes pinned to his face. All the air available to him punched out of his lungs, leaving him gaping like a fish. He had to remind himself to take a breath, that passing out in front of her was unlikely to make her want to touch him again. 

“You don’t—” The next slide of her mouth silenced him. She didn’t have to do this, but why was he trying to stop her? He wanted this so badly it made his teeth ache. Rhys wasn’t above begging, either. If she stopped, he thought he might die. He’d take her however he could get, though he was hoping he might manage to take a little more from her.

That he could give her something, too. Rhys wanted to take her out of her clothes, lay her out, and show her what he felt. He didn’t move, drinking her in as he fisted the soft strands of her hair between his trembling fingers. Right then, Rhys would have given anything for faerie powers—if only to tell her, mind to mind, all the things he wanted to do to her.

He groaned instead, spreading his legs wider as she worked him slowly. It was exquisite—better than anything he’d ever felt in his life. If he died right then, he could have died satisfied with his life. He couldn’t pretend Feyre on her knees before him didn’t please him immensely, especially after everything they’d shared together. 

He wondered what she’d make of this if he could go back to when they met and smugly inform her that one day, she’d willingly take his cock in her mouth. Likely nothing pleasant—something that had an arrow pointed directly at his cock. He would have deserved it, too.

Release built along his spine, his arousal and desperation pushing him toward the edge far quicker than he wanted. He needed to draw things out—he needed to be inside her. Feyre moaned around his cock, convincing him she needed the same thing. Rhys reached for her and Ferye sprang up with far more athleticism than Rhys thought he possessed—his knees would never allowed for him to come up so quickly. 

Their mouths collided, frenzied and hungry and oh, it felt good to know she felt the way he did. Rhys was unspooled and undone, desperate and dizzy as he tried to both get that stupid night dress over her head and walk toward the bed. 

He’d once considered himself graceful, though not anymore. They collapsed in a heap of elbows and half-discarded clothes, unwilling to stop what they were doing for even a moment, and thank the gods for that. She was undressing him with clumsy fingers, though somehow managed to get him out of his shirt before he gave up and did what he’d wanted from the start—Rhys ripped the night dress from neck to hem in one solid, fluid move.

Gripping his waist with her thighs, Feyre flipped him to his back, fingernails digging in his bare chest. She was naked again, and oh, Rhys wished he could draw. He wanted to keep an image of her straddling him in his pocket, folded up for his eyes only. Maybe he’d ask when she wasn’t shimming down his body so she could rub her slick cunt against his throbbing cock.

“Fuck,” he whispered, the word pushed from his gut with the force of a punch. “Feyre, please.”

“Please, what?” she practically purred in response. Gods above and the hells below, she would be the cause of his early demise. 

She just barely had the upper hand. Reaching for her waist, Rhys flipped her to her back so her hair became a halo around her beautiful face. “Please, Feyre, darling,” he breathed, pressing his mouth to the hollow of her neck, “make a mess of my cock.”

She exhaled, her eyes rolling upward which was all the permission Rhys needed. He didn’t wait, sliding himself wholly into her body while she was still catching her breath. Her eyes flew open, lips parting and in a moment of panic, Rhys kissed her. He’d just assumed he wasn’t her first, given how he’d found her and her general lack of concern regarding her nudity.

“Did I—”

“Big,” she managed, tightening herself around him. Pure, masculine pride warmed his gut, propelling him forward for that first, perfect thrust. 

“Tell me you want this. That you want me,” he whispered, burying his face in her neck.

“I want you,” she replied, pulling at his hair so he had to face her. “I want this.”

Gods, he could have come from those words alone. Rhys had to squeeze his ass tight to keep himself from doing so, overwhelmed by the rush of emotion. He wanted to tell her everything—the things and people he loved tended to be taken from him. Or they left him, physically or emotionally. It was easier to be guarded, to place walls around his heart and play the irreverent rake. 

There was risk to vulnerability. To admit to Feyre that he both wanted and needed her. It was on the tip of his tongue, telling her that he loved her, too. Rhys wanted to—he was afraid. So afraid she didn’t feel the same, that this was some fleeting amusement, a passing fancy. Better to just take what he could get for now. If that was all she ever gave him, that was better than nothing at all. Far more preferable than a life without knowing her. A life where they turned back to strangers.

“Come back to me,” Feyre whispered, pulling him from his thoughts. The blue of her eyes centered him, settling his fears. They were here, now, and that was enough. Pumping his hips, Rhys returned to kissing her, albeit messily given he was also trying to find her clit with his clumsy fingers. 

He was hanging by a thread, just barely keeping himself together. Feyre moaned when he found what he was looking for, digging her nails into his shoulder while meeting him thrust for thrust. He could feel her own need, how she convulsed around him as her own kissing became slower, less focused.

“That’s it,” he whispered, picking up the pace. He was going to finish and she wouldn’t and what then? He simply no longer had control of his body—something deep in his gut was unspooling like thread, winding its way through him as it demanded more, more, more. He couldn’t stop himself even if he’d wanted to.

There was no skill to Feyre coming mere moments before he had—only luck. He wasn’t discounting it, grateful all the same as Rhys released himself with a guttural whimper that seemed to ignite the room in blinding starlight. There was none—just the same darkness, the same bed, the same ceiling and floor.

Heart pounding, Rhys was certain things must have changed. He felt changed, and so the rest of the world must be, too. Feyre reached for him, kissing one cheek, and then the other, before her fingers skimmed over his jaw.

“You were perfect,” he told her, catching the way her eyes widened. She blinked, eyes strangely glassy. 

“You’ve always been perfect,” he added, just because he thought maybe she needed to hear someone tell her that. I love you! His mind screamed, though his lips refused to give them voice.

“So are you, Rhys,” she replied, pulling him back toward her. He let her push him to his back, making a mess of his abdomen as she slung her leg over his hips. “And I’m not done with you. Not yet.”

Not ever, he hoped.

[novaursa]

Unseen Fires (him)

- Summary: He loved you as long he knew how. And you never noticed it.

- Paring: sister!reader/Aemond Targaryen

- Rating: Mature 16+ (just to be safe)

- Previous part: the price

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

The great hall of the Red Keep was awash with light, the flickering glow of torches and candles casting a golden sheen over the long table where your family sat. The air was thick with pretense, the weight of unspoken rivalry hanging over the feast like a blade waiting to drop. But as Aemond sat in silence, his eyes fixed on the figures around him, none of that mattered as much as you did.

You sat near the center of the table, beside your mother, offering quiet smiles and nods as King Viserys beamed down the length of the hall, clearly pleased with the fragile peace his presence had managed to forge. His voice was soft and warm, filled with the forced optimism of a man who believed his family could be whole again, if only for this one evening.

But Aemond knew better. He saw the way his brother Aegon glanced down at the cups of wine, already seeking to drown the discomfort with drink. He saw the tightness in Alicent’s smile, the way her eyes flicked toward Rhaenyra and her children, the tension visible in the very air she breathed. He felt the falseness in it all, the underlying resentment that simmered beneath the surface of their half-hearted pleasantries.

And yet, none of it stung more than the way you smiled across the table at Jacaerys.

Aemond’s gaze hardened, his jaw clenching as he watched his nephew bask in the warmth of your attention, your gaze lingering on him just a moment too long. You laughed softly at something Jacaerys had said, and Aemond felt a tightness in his chest, like a coil winding ever tighter with every word you exchanged with the boy.

He had known this would happen. From the moment he stepped into the hall and saw you seated near Jacaerys, Aemond had felt the bitterness rising inside him, the jealousy gnawing at the edges of his composure. It wasn’t enough that Jacaerys had everything before him—a dragon, a title, his mother's approval. Now, he had your attention as well.

Aemond’s fingers tightened around the silver goblet in his hand, the metal cold against his skin. He wanted to stand, to cross the table and drag you away from his nephew’s side, to demand why you looked at Jacaerys with that softness in your eyes, that ease that you rarely showed him. But he knew better. This was a family feast, after all—one that Viserys had insisted upon, desperate to believe that his children and grandchildren could set aside their differences, if only for a few hours.

Aemond could see the hope in his father’s eyes, the way he smiled faintly each time you spoke to one of your nephews or cousins, as if convinced that this was a sign of healing. But Aemond felt none of that warmth, none of that illusion. All he felt was the slow burn of resentment as he watched Jacaerys inch closer to you, his gaze lingering on your face in a way that made Aemond’s blood boil.

How can you not see it? Aemond thought bitterly, his eye narrowing as Jacaerys reached for your hand, his voice low as he murmured something in your ear. You smiled, and it felt like a dagger twisting in Aemond’s chest.

He had always known that his feelings for you were different—dangerous, even—but seeing you now, with your attention focused on someone else, made the weight of that realization even harder to bear. You had never seen him, not truly. Not the way he wanted you to. You looked at him and saw your brother, someone who had always been there, always reliable, always constant.

But Jacaerys? He was different. He was easy to smile at, easy to laugh with. He didn’t carry the same darkness, the same bitterness that Aemond did. And it made Aemond sick.

Across the table, Rhaenyra raised her goblet, toasting to her father, her voice bright with false cheer. The others raised their cups as well, echoing her words, but Aemond barely heard any of it. His focus was entirely on you, on the way your hand lingered just a moment longer on Jacaerys’s, on the way your eyes softened as you met his gaze.

Aemond’s fingers dug into the arms of his chair, his knuckles white. He could feel the heat of his anger simmering beneath the surface, threatening to break free at any moment. But he knew he couldn’t let it. Not here. Not with everyone watching.

This is all a farce, he thought, bitterness lacing his every thought. They all play their roles, pretending to care, pretending to be a family. But it’s all just a game. He watched as you leaned in closer to Jacaerys, your laughter soft and musical, and Aemond’s patience snapped.

“Aemond,” Alicent’s voice broke through the haze of his anger, her hand reaching to gently touch his arm. He turned to her, his expression hard, but he forced himself to nod, his mother’s pleading eyes pulling him back from the edge. She knew, as she always did, that he was on the verge of losing his composure. But for her sake—and for the sake of this cursed feast—he swallowed it down.

He forced his gaze away from you, away from the sight of Jacaerys’s hand still too close to yours. But even as he stared at the flickering candle before him, the jealousy festered inside him, like poison seeping into his veins. He knew that nothing he did would change the way you saw him. He knew that you would always look at him as your brother, while Jacaerys, with his easy smiles and bright eyes, would continue to capture your attention in ways Aemond never could.

And yet, the hope still clung to him, stubborn and painful, refusing to let go. The hope that one day you might see him—not as your brother, but as something more. That one day, you might look at him the way you looked at Jacaerys now.

But as the feast wore on, as your laughter continued to drift across the table, soft and warm, Aemond realized that hope was a fool’s dream. And as he sat there, watching the charade unfold before him, he felt the bitterness in his heart harden into something darker, something more dangerous.

He would never be Jacaerys. He would never have your easy smiles, your light touches, your effortless affection. But he would be strong. He would be feared. And perhaps, one day, that would be enough.

For now, though, he would endure the pain of watching you, the bitter taste of jealousy clinging to his every breath. He would wait, as he always had, for the moment when you would finally look his way.

But until then, he would sit in the shadows, his eye fixed on you, and burn with the knowledge that it might never come.

The room seemed to shift the moment Viserys was carried away, his labored breathing filling the hall as the king's illness finally took hold. The fragile pretense that had kept everyone in check, the forced smiles, the careful words—it all began to unravel the instant he was no longer there. The weight of the inevitable chaos hung in the air, and Aemond could feel it, like a storm gathering on the horizon.

You watched your father go, a flicker of worry crossing your face as you looked after him. The tenderness in your expression, the care you had for him, only served to deepen the ache in Aemond’s chest. You had always been so kind, so full of warmth for those you loved. But that warmth never reached him the way it did others. He wondered, not for the first time, if you would ever look at him with the same concern, the same softness you reserved for those you cherished.

He felt Aegon nudge him then, a smirk curling on his lips as he leaned in close, his breath heavy with wine. “Now’s your chance, brother,” Aegon whispered, his voice dripping with amusement. “Make a toast. Say something clever. Or better yet… say what you’ve been dying to say all night.”

Aemond’s grip tightened around the goblet in his hand. He could feel Aegon’s eyes on him, gleaming with mischief, eager for the coming spectacle. Aemond knew that this was Aegon’s game—to push him, to see how far he could go before the cracks in the family’s carefully constructed façade shattered entirely.

And yet, despite the heat rising in his chest, Aemond couldn’t stop himself. He rose slowly from his seat, the scrape of his chair against the stone floor seeming to echo through the room. All eyes turned toward him, the clattering of cutlery and low murmurs fading as the hall grew still.

For a moment, he felt every gaze upon him—the eyes of his family, of the courtiers, of the servants. But none of them mattered. Not really. Not even his mother’s tense, worried expression as she glanced at him from the far end of the table.

The only person who mattered was you.

You were looking at him now, your brow furrowed in confusion, perhaps a touch of curiosity. You had always been able to read him better than most, always aware when something simmered beneath his composed surface. But you had no idea of the war raging within him. You had no idea that everything he was about to say—every word, every gesture—was all for you.

Raising his goblet, Aemond’s voice cut through the silence, smooth and controlled, yet carrying a sharp edge beneath its surface.

“To my nephews,” he began, his eye sliding over Jacaerys and Lucerys, their expressions already hardening as they caught the undertone in his voice. “Jace. Luke. I wish you well in your studies of the blade. You’ll need it.”

The tension in the room snapped taut, like a bowstring pulled to the point of breaking. Aegon chuckled softly beside him, delighted by the growing discomfort. Aemond’s eye flicked toward Jacaerys, watching the way his jaw clenched, the way his hands curled into fists as he fought to keep his composure. But Aemond’s gaze quickly shifted back to you, waiting—hoping—to see how you would react.

You weren’t smiling anymore. Your lips pressed into a thin line, the warmth in your eyes replaced by something colder, something wary. It wasn’t the reaction Aemond had wanted, but it was better than nothing. At least now, you were paying attention.

Aemond’s gaze lingered on you, a twisted sense of satisfaction curling in his chest even as the air in the room grew heavier with the threat of what was to come. He should stop now—he knew that. He should let the moment pass, let the tensions ease before they spilled over into something worse.

But he couldn’t.

Not with Jacaerys sitting there, his hand still too close to yours. Not with the memory of your shared laughter, your smiles, still burning in Aemond’s mind like salt in a wound. And so, he pressed on, his voice sharpening like a blade drawn from its sheath.

“Of course,” he continued, his tone deceptively light, “strong boys need strong blades.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Aegon’s snicker was drowned out by the sudden clatter of a goblet hitting the table, followed by Rhaenyra’s sharp intake of breath. Jacaerys rose to his feet, his eyes burning with rage as he glared at Aemond across the table.

“Aemond!” your voice, soft and shocked, cut through the tension, drawing his attention away from Jacaerys. You looked at him now, wide-eyed, disbelief and hurt flashing across your face. “What are you doing?”

Aemond’s heart twisted at the sound of your voice, the disappointment in your tone striking him deeper than any blow Jacaerys could have delivered. For a moment, he faltered, the fire in his chest flickering as he met your gaze, your plea for him to stop written in the way you looked at him.

But it was too late. The words had already been spoken, and there was no turning back now.

Jacaerys slammed his hands on the table, his voice rising with the fury that had been held back for too long. “Say it again, Aemond! Go on!”

Aemond turned to face him fully now, the heat of his jealousy and frustration boiling over. He no longer cared about the consequences, no longer cared about the fragile peace his father had tried so hard to maintain. All he saw was Jacaerys—Jacaerys who had everything Aemond had ever wanted. Jacaerys, who had you.

“Why should I?” Aemond replied coldly, the challenge clear in his voice. “It’s the truth, isn’t it?”

Chaos erupted then, the room exploding into shouts as Rhaenyra surged to her feet, Alicent following, both of them shouting over each other in a desperate attempt to regain control. Lucerys stood beside Jacaerys, his face pale with shock, but his hands ready to act, as if he expected the violence to follow. Aegon watched it all unfold with a grin, as if this was nothing more than entertainment for him.

But Aemond’s focus never wavered. Not from you.

Even as the shouting grew louder, even as his mother’s voice cut through the noise with frantic urgency, Aemond’s eye remained locked on yours. You stood there, frozen in place, your hand clutching the edge of the table, your expression torn between anger, disbelief, and something else—something that twisted like a knife in his chest.

You weren’t angry at Jacaerys. You were angry at him.

Aemond’s heart pounded in his chest, the bitterness rising like bile in his throat. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. You were supposed to understand, to see that he was fighting for you, that every word, every action, was for you. He had claimed Vhagar for you, had endured the pain of losing his eye for you. And now, he was here, trying to prove that he was worthy of your attention, of your love.

But instead, you were looking at him with that same disappointment, that same pity that had haunted him his entire life.

In that moment, Aemond realized that no matter what he did, no matter how far he went, you would always see him as your brother—your reckless, damaged brother, who never knew when to stop. And Jacaerys, with his easy smiles and gentle words, would always be the one you turned to, the one who could make you laugh, the one who could make you happy.

The realization hit him like a blow, and for the first time that night, Aemond felt something cold settle over the burning anger inside him. It wasn’t defeat—not yet. But it was the beginning of something darker, something deeper.

You would always choose Jacaerys over him. Always.

And as the chaos continued to swirl around him, Aemond stood there, unmoving, his gaze fixed on you. The storm inside him had not calmed—it had simply shifted, taking root in a place that would not be so easily extinguished.

For now, he would wait.

[itstheendofthegoddamnworld]

Swallowed Whole by The Flame (Messmer the Impaler x Tarnished! Reader) 7

MASTERLIST

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Summary: In the Keep now as a guest rather than a prisoner, the Tarnished gets used to her new surroundings.

A/N: Tarnished had the last laugh in the last chapter, and Messmer is all the more grumpy about it. Tarnished also really loves calling Messmer 'My Lord' as a mocking title.

A03 link

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Chapter 7: Vindication

"Impressive, the stab wound has healed remarkably!"

Remarkable, you say? Lowering your shirt as Sir Aldwin finishes assessing your injuries. Your body feels energised and rejuvenated once you've awoken by the golden site of grace, embraced by its warmth, only for the reality of being back to hit you in the face. It was always a constant disappointment. 

Aldwin is as fascinated in your revival as are Messmer's men: calling it some fate from the Greater Will. You called it sheer humiliation. 

"This process... tell me about it." Aldwin is ever more curious about the ways of unnatural order. Something flashes in your waking mind, as clear as a living dream. Of a memory you cannot tell if it belonged to you, holding an ornate sword, covered in someone's blood or your own. Experiencing dying for the first time. Waking up in a place, dark and cold, only just remembering your name.

You shudder, trying to think of something else. "I'm uncertain I could explain it all to you, Aldwin. It's... still so unfamiliar to me. Why I was chosen." You hold out your hands, staring deep and hard. These hands, this body, this is not your first life. You would need answers, and the curiosity of walking past the large specimen storehouse piques your interest.

Aldwin seems disappointed but he seems to understand. "He who doesn't fear death shall only have to die once. I have seen it many times in the dying." His words carry a sense of acceptance, though you cannot think of dying over and over again the same way. It is not the acceptance of it that men dread, but its arrival.

"Aldwin, I must ask you something." You bring the Nightfolk's attention back after changing the subject quickly. "The storehouse, who uses it?"

"Well, it is rather a place of collection that his Lord uses for gathering everything known: the history, the arts, culture. It has become his very own gallery."

"And does he... allow anyone else to use it?"

Aldwin seems confused by your question before he pieces it together. "Ah, well, it would be odd if it was not used. Many in his Lord's libraries pour into the histories, using that knowledge to piece a clearer timeline." He pauses, eyeing you carefully, "Why do you ask?"

"No reason."

Before the Nightfolk can answer any more, there is a growing sound of heavy armour approaching. You're already looking to the doors when you see who comes around the corner, a black knight, armour gleaming like Obsidian, Messmer's personal guard has come to greet you.

"Lady Tarnished," His voice is muffled behind the heavy imposing helmet, covering the entirety of his face, "Lord Messmer has asked that I show you to your apartments."

You look to Aldwin, before facing the black knight once again. You're surprised to hear of your new title, questioning to yourself whether it was something the staff and knights had come up with or something higher up ordered them to address you by. "So, I'm not bound to that cell anymore?"

"Nay, milady. His Lord has also asked that a tour of the Keep is given."

You say your goodbyes to Aldwin, relieved he cannot ask more about your whole life and death process, following grudgingly behind the knight. You pass many of those under Messmer's control, all willing soldiers ready to die for his honour. It's amazing and chilling to see the amount of power one can hold, but also the loyalty they have for him. 

You pass by those who are still surprised their Lord has given you his protection. They whisper as they pass you in corridors: a Tarnished who came back from the dead. It's rather comical to hear, for them to create their theories and marvel as you go past. Some are still hesitant around you, others are cold and look through you, as if you don't exist in your eyes. A few of Messmer's staff have grown to give you a bit more respect.

When you reach the highest of the towers, towards the Keep's chambers, does it dawn on you that it would only be you and Messmer in this part since it was the royal apartments, and though you knew you were not part of some royal branch, this was all very unfamiliar to you.

Your apartments were certainly something to marvel at; a canopied bed was big enough to fit maybe five of you, decorated with embroidered cushions and sheets of a deep rich red hue. A roaring fire hit you in contrast to the coolness of the air outside. Intricate tapestries decorated the walls, of faces you didn't recognise, others, from their red hair were obvious. There, in the middle of the mantle above the flames, was a portrait of Marika, holding in her arms the same clothed babe, this time it was obvious from the details that there were two tiny serpent heads poking out surrounding the babe. 

A vanity was present beside a desk by the stained-glass windows, oddly barred from the outside with spikes not allowing anyone to crack them wider than a few inches. There had been a chest opened with a variety of clothes already out for you to touch and gawk at. It had been far grander than you had expected, far better of a place than sleeping in the mud and rain, fearing to catch a chill.

Messmer had provided you with maids-in-waiting, women of different ages who all curtsied as you greeted them. How odd, indeed. 

Turning to the guard, still hovering in the doorway to your room, you asked. "This is all been provided to me by his Lord?"

"His Lord did not say otherwise." The guard muttered curtly, and before you could have more of a chance to get used to your room and look around, you were being whisked away, back down the tower and into the main part of the keep to be shown around. By the time it was almost over, you felt exhausted, not realising the hunger gnawing at your stomach. You couldn't remember the last time you had eaten something properly, but you did not doubt that Messmer's staff would provide some proper meals for you.

The tour was not quite over, until the final part you had been very excited to see appeared to you. 

The high walls, decorated with thousands of books, and artefacts, were a sea in your vision, clear and bright. You could sense if you didn't have to return to your chambers, you would spend days here, looking at every book if you could and finding more information for you to take in. 

Light poured through, casting bright streaks of light to come through like the heavens had opened and poured through. It was a hearth of endless knowledge, stored in what you thought was maybe one of the best citadels you had come across. 

Marvelling silently to yourself, you could not help but have to look to every section as quickly as you could, trying to best believe where you would begin in your pursuit for knowledge, when something, or rather someone caught your eye. Standing in the corner by piles of books towering high, was an armoured man, his silver-white long beard a familiar sight to you. 

"Righteous Tarnished, what brings you here?"

"I could ask the same for you, Sir Ansbach. How did you find your way here?" You're wary of how he's been allowed to step foot through the Keep without all of Messmer's soldiers on him. Surely, there has to be some misunderstanding? 

"Kindly Miquella's charm has worn off from me. I have seen through his ways." He says earnestly.

"What insight of Lady Leda do you have?"

"She schemes and her blind love for Miquella has set her astray. It did the same to me, blinding me to his charm. Truly, there is nothing so Kindly about him. He's a monster. It is why I have come to Messmer not only for his aid but to seek shelter. There will be no doubt Leda and the others will hear of my betrayal."

You feel your eyeball twitch involuntarily at the mention of seeking shelter. "You mean Messmer handed it to you willingly?"

"Yes, did he do the same for you?"

"No, no he did not." Of course, he didn't.

"Ah, what challenge did you have to do to prove your worth?"

"By bringing Redmane Freyja's head."

Ansbach is silent by this, but when he responds, his voice wavers, "Ah, I see. A true Redmane, to the very end." He is resolute in his decisions, you note. "Then we are both running from the injustices of this world. I stand as your ally through and through, Tarnished."

You don't give much to rethink Ansbach's words, as you're stalking back to your chambers in a huff. Your cheeks are hot in rage as you storm into your apartments, dismissing the maids there. You look out the window, to see it is already dark. Exhaustion has claimed you, and when you expect to go to your new bed, you find sitting on the desk is a meal, still steaming with heat.  

It's a simple bowl of something that looks like stewed chicken in a sauce with a small cut of bread freshly prepared. Eyeing it cautiously, your hunger betrays you before you can believe it was all to have you poisoned, grabbing the spoon and delving into the meal. You come to realise it's chicken stewed in an ale sauce. You can taste other ingredients like pepper, ginger, breadcrumbs and even saffron. The bread is not stale or covered in mould, and you appreciate the warmth that comes from it, hinting that it had just come fresh out of the oven. You also find in the room two pitchers, one full of fresh water, the other with wine. 

You don't waste time after finishing your meal to grab a glass and delve into drinking the water first, two glasses of it before you drink the red wine, full of body and richness. It hits your tongue with unexpectedness. It tastes almost familiar to you, though you can't quite place when or how you tasted wine that belonged to the royal house.

Now that you've eaten, you can finally think back to Sir Ansbach's words, thinking to the storehouse, but most importantly, to Messmer. It was only did you realised since your revival, that you had not spotted him for a full day, being whisked away to the infirmary rather than to be seen by him again. Had he been avoiding you since you bested him at his own game?

You look at the portrait of Marika and a baby Messmer in her arms. It seems through all his isolation, he has few allies and fewer allies. He is a lonely demigod, but a man still is part of him. All men need companionship, no matter how small. You thought, dressing in a simple white shift dress as you got into bed, praying that whatever you found in the darkness of your dreams, awaited you was finally peace.

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

It is maybe the first time in what feels like forever that you get the first night of unbroken sleep. A dreamless sleep is however all you need to feel alive. Dawn rises as do you, triggering the door to your chambers to be rudely opened, pouring in are your new handmaidens who come, already pulling back the curtains as they present you with a flurry of things: clothes to wear for today, a suggestion of a bath, and jewels that would suit you well. The bombardment of options is so much that you opt firstly for a bath, which is given quickly when they go back and forth providing already hot steamy water.

Your private tub is smaller than the one in the bathhouse and you're thankful for it, for it gives you your privacy away from those as you scrub yourself and clean your hair. When you're dried and dressed in a simple cotton shift, the maids once again present you with many options for clothing, and it is only when you cast your eye on them, that you come to realise something.

"Is there anything else here than dresses?"

One of the maids, younger than you eyes the eldest, unsure how to answer. "My lady," the eldest responds, "We were given direct orders that these were what were to be provided to you-"

"Ordered you say? By whom?" You already know by who, but it twists in your gut and anger rises in your throat.

"Lord Messmer had asked we provide you a ... fitting selection of dresses that would be appropriate for you."

You scowl at all the garments, all oddly enough differing shades of red. Is this some kind of twisted joke to him? You seethe, telling yourself the next time you see him, you will give him a piece of your mind. You cross your arms like a child having a mild tantrum. "I refuse to wear them."

"My Lady-"

"If Messmer wishes for me to play dress up, he can think otherwise. I require trousers, boots and a decent tunic instead."

The maids give one another side-eye glances, bowing quickly before some go on the hunt for your request. It takes some time before they find what you ask for: some of the knights had some spare which you're thankful for, however, the tunic they do find had to be brightly coloured crimson. You huff through it all but finally dress, more comfortable than you would've been in silk dresses.

"Where is Lord Messmer?" If he wishes to play games so early this morning, you're not going to stop yourself from competing against him.

"His Lord is breaking his fast privately this morning, my Lady. We shall bring you to the solace where you may have yours."

You silently grumble, being led into another isolating room, windows barred against the stained-glass windows, with a hint of peppermint heavy in the air. You sit as you're presented with an array of dishes: dried berries with apples, salted cod and rye, bacon and sausages spiced with something that stings your nostrils, and a cup of what you're told is nettle tea.

You begin with the fruits, which are sweet on your tongue and better than anything you have before. The sausages entice you as you pluck one and cut into it, where the smell is stronger. Curiously biting into it, you're surprised by its almost sweet taste, with a hint of heat that makes you nearly cough. You wash it down with the tea as you eat some bacon and bread too, before you are done.

Your morning has you continuing your exploration of the keep, certainly aware you're not wandering alone, for you hear the heavy thuds that move in time with your footsteps. You look back a few times, eyeing the fire knight who seems just five paces behind, following intently and keeping an eye on you. It had you greatly irritated, trying to lose track of him but to no avail. 

It is only when you come outside to the training yard that your sights are taken by what has gathered in front of you.

Before you, Messmer's soldiers train, the clanging of swords, some metal and wood, clash with one another. You take in those of a lower rank, trainees who fight one another as they're taught the best stances and positions. Those of more experience duel with the intent of knocking their opponent to the ground. It is far more interesting to see what is indoors, and you find yourself stepping closer and closer to the ring that has formed around one certain fight.

A soldier wielding a wooden spear and shield is knocked onto his back like a turtle, struggling to get up from the weight of the shield, when his opponent launches on him, triumphantly holding the tip of his sword under his chin. "You'd be dead." You hear from the victor, his voice muffled yet there is a charm as those around him cheer him on. The one who lost gets picked back up as he slinks away, the cockiness of the victor is embued in him.

"Who dares best me I wonder? Any one of you fools brave enough to fight me?"

"I will." 

Heads turn as you step into the middle, and whispers can be heard as some aren't certain what to do with you. Should they allow someone from outside to train with them? It is only when you hear amongst the chatter the taunting laughter of the soldier in front. "You? Trust me, Tarnished, I wouldn't wish to have you spilling your guts all over the courtyard." There is some quiet laughter amongst some of the soldiers, but you pay them no attention.

"Oh, no need to fret. I'm feeling the need to knock some teeth in." You're looking at your selection of weapons, realising all of them are wooden props. Great, all the more to enjoy whacking than slicing. You pick a wooden sword, light in its hold, it's shorter than your nagakiba, but it will still be of some use to you.

You both get into your positions, knees slightly bent, torsos upright and rigid as you await him to swing first. He is cocky and does so, charging you as you swiftly dodge out his way, slapping him as he passes across his lower back. He grunts, rage building as he goes to attack again, this time you block as you push him back, jabbing another time just below his armpit in the part where armour is not covering him.

"My, did you have a heavy breakfast?" You taunt, smiling throughout. It's only now that you're enjoying this, the thrill of not having to strain yourself, and you feel you could taunt them forever. These are Messmer's men, loyal, but in need of good training. What would they do if you or another Tarnished were in the field to meet them? A warrior with years of experience compared to a page.  

 Though this opponent is quick and skillful, he is full of rage, one that could evenly match the raging flames Messmer channels. The soldier cries out as he lunges again, taking a hit whilst you're distracted, and you give him the benefit of the doubt, it did hurt. You copy by getting him by the shoulder blades, hearing a crunch of your sword as it almost snaps from how hard you hit him. It's enough to have him stagger forwards to his knees, as you stand over him.

"That was easier than I expected-"

You see the glimpse of his vicious grin through the visors of his helmet, so fast does he move and have you believe it's all done that you only feel the connection of his fist right into your nose. You nearly fly backwards, holding what you believe is your now broken nose, feeling the heavy pouring of something drip down your lips. 

You spit in disgust, hissing as you now hold the offensive, charging as he only gets up in time before you're swinging down on him. One, two, three, he tries to block, but you're angrier, blood boiling as you kick him in the stomach back. It's not foul play you assume, for no one calls out that you just cheated. The crowd around you is larger, consuming you as you feel as if you're being engulfed in an oven from the pure heat despite being outside.

It rages like a storm, your head hurts, your nose too, but you continue to fight in a rage, swinging harder and quicker until the soldier can't keep in time with you. You knock him onto his back, as you point the sword down on him this time. You witness he only has bruises on him, despite the now bloody knuckles he has thanks to his lovely punch.

"Do you yield?" You growl above him, shoving the wooden tip of the sword into his throat. He is quick to nod in shame, and the crowd around you continue their murmurings, their eyes cast on something above.

You follow their gazes, believing it was some divine being of Miquella that had flown down upon them, only to see a mass of red, two-winged serpents and one cold golden eye.

Ah, there you are. You stare at one another as you chuck the sword into the mud. You believe that to him, you must look like some madwoman, dressed in men's garbs, wielding a wooden sword with blood dripping down your face. In fact, rather than wiping the blood from your face, you keep it there. Look at how dirty I fight now, My Lord. You think mockingly.

You don't break eye contact with him, grinning wildly with red in your teeth as Messmer simply holds your gaze a second longer, before turning and walking away. But you know all too well that through that scowl, there is something that he is thinking other than wishing to burn you alive. 

Vindication builds within you, as you saunter off back to the infirmary.

-

A/N: Ah, I love feral Tarnished, looking like some rabid dog that needs to be put down, whilst Messmer must be thinking what on earth has he brought into his Keep. More fighting! And even though I didn't think this chapter would have any, I surprised myself by including some. I'm also really building into the 'they hate each other's guts and want nothing to do with one another' but I promise I shall have them interacting with one another once again.

[diwatopia]

★ cruel ; neteyam

synopsis. as of recently, neteyam's been slipping away. attempting to get to the bottom of his negligence towards you, he spews harsh words that begin to form cracks within your relationship. will neteyam be able to fix this despite being the cause of your pain?

info. angst / no comfort, gn!na'vi!reader, 1135 words

warnings. arguing, yelling, outta pocket teyam (boo 🍅), one use of y/n, crying, grammatical errors, based off "queen elizabeth" fight scene :P

neteyam has been distant.

physically, he's there, but mentally — he's lightyears away from you.

it hasn't always been like this though. during the beginning of your courtship, neteyam was nothing short of attentive and caring. he was everything you wanted in a lover but as of recently, he slowly began drifting away from you. at this point, he's been more of an acquaintance than a mate.

and if you were being honest, you couldn't help but find the situation slightly comical. your mind fills itself to the brim with memories of falling so deeply in love with one another, but now — now, he's just gone.

"you never have to hide from me," he told you.

his words were doused in honey, every single insecurity that plague your mind began melting away. he wanted to know the real you. not the village's tskarem, not the "golden child" title that the elders bestowed upon you.

he wanted to know you.

he wanted to drown himself in your scent, burn the feeling of your body next to his, he wanted to know the ins and outs of your soul.

"i am just neteyam when we are together. not the clan's future olo'ekytan, not the successor of my father. i am simple and plain neteyam."

the memory brings the smallest of smiles to your lips, yet it does nothing to ease the surge of loneliness that consumes you, your heart. it keeps you up at night, eyes wide open as you replay everything that had let up to this point of your relationship. you were beyond tired having to play this game with him, so you decided to bite the bullet and ask him.

"neteyam are you here — oh, kiri!" you speak out, sending her a sweet smile her way. she returns the gesture, "hi, y/n! he's near the shooting range." she states simply, going back to her weaving.

you thank her before scurrying away. luckily, he wasn't too far and you were able to catch up with him. your hands nervously tremble, wringing themselves out in hopes to stop the shakiness. your strides are slow, but with a few encouraging words, you will yourself to walk up to him.

as if on cue, he turns around and catches you staring. his eyes catch you off guard, sunflower-hued orbs swirling with something you can't seem to put your finger on.

"hey..." you say, tone unsure. the sunlight sparkles, flashing through tiny openings of leaves as they sway in the wind. the mossy floor quiets your footsteps as you get closer, standing next to him wordlessly.

he parrots your greeting before going back to his previous task. he draws his bow, eyeing the target that stares back at him. "have you been well?" you ask hopefully. he shrugs, muttering something about being busy and that he's fine. your lips purse at the lack of communication on his end.

"okay, stop. what is wrong with you?" you ask sternly. your eyebrows scrunch in displeasure, subtly creating space between you and him by taking a step sideways. he looks back at you, surprised at the sudden fierceness to your voice.

he sends you a quizzical look as if he genuinely had no clue what you were hinting at, "i do not know what you are talking about." he states it as if it were a fact.

you roll your eyes at his deflection, crossing your arms irritably. "do not play this game with me," you scoff, sounding like a parent scolding their child. neteyam's eyes downcast shamefully towards the bow in his hands, the seriousness of the situation beginning to crash down on him.

"look, i know you have been having a hard time with your duties, but 'teyam, i'm here for you. there is no need to run away from me, from us —"

"there is no 'us'," he cuts you off, not sparing you a single glance. "there is nothing here. you have absolutely no knowledge of what it takes, what is thrust upon me as the next olo'ekytan. i am forced to love you, a simple clans person who does not contribute a single thing to this village," he grunts out, nostrils flaring in irritation.

"yes, i have my duties but i will not be forced to go through yet another day where you think we are true lovers. so back off." his voice grows angrier with each word. his words resemble a whip, every word that tumbles past his lips begins to hit you again, and again, and again. his breath gets caught in his throat as his face flushes a darker plum color.

your jaw drops slightly, an instant gasp leaving your lips. the tiny noise knocks neteyam out of his defensive state and with every passing second, regret begins to consume him whole.

both of you stay silent for second, just staring at each other in search of how to respond, to no avail. he watches your face morph into one that is more closed off, walls building themselves high as you straighten out your posture before responding.

"my mistake," you swallow thickly, voice almost mocking him in a sense. "i apologize for thinking there was an us. i thought i was speaking to just neteyam, not the chief's son. forgive me for thinking otherwise." your tone is monotonous, gaze meeting his in an intense staring match.

his brows drop, eyes widening as his frown begins to grow deeper. "y/n..." he tries to take a step closer to you, in return you take a step back. you cut off his advances before they can even start. "i am truly sorry for the fact that our entire relationship was a mere inconvenience for you."

neteyam hisses as if you had slapped him across his face, and after everything he had just spilt, he wouldn't be surprised if you actually did so. but there you stand, the sparkle in your eyes dimming. his mouth open and closes, trying to muster up enough words to form a proper sentence. and to rub salt into his freshly cut wound, "was there anything else the chief's son needed to say to me or am i free to leave?" you ask calmly, eyes never leaving his.

his hands twitch nervously, biting the inside of his cheek as he contemplates his next move. "there's nothing else to say on this matter," he mutters.

you nod affirmatively before turning your back towards him. as you begin walking away, neteyam's hands instinctively reach for you, calling your name desperately as the space between you and him grows bigger.

he knew he had messed up, big time.

"that's enough, neteyam." your voice stern, pointing an accusatory finger his way. he continues to watch your retreating form, heart willing him to run after you, yet his brain forces his body to remain deathly still.

⋆ ˚｡ ୨୧ reblogs / feedback are highly appreciated. thank you!

★ diwa's notes. i always write fluff n shit so i decided to change that LOL there might b a pt 2, not sure tho :P

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