#it's the first (unspoken) rule of chosen oneness

[velarisdusk]

Signed, Sealed, Unspoken

Rhysand x Reader

summary: Following a long and brutal war, the Dusk Court has finally reclaimed the lands seized by the Night Court generations ago. Yet its new capital, Velaris, remains tangled in the Night Court's intricate trade agreements. Now, negotiations are underway. word count: 21.3k (you're welcome, it's worth it) content: [ explicit sexual content, oral sex (f receiving), piv, explicit language, alcohol, mentions of alcoholism, mentions of war (& like one descriptive scene) ] author's note: important! this fic takes place in an AU where the Night Court absorbed the Dusk Court forever ago, this is where the borders are (<- google drive link lol, do u like my ramiel rendition). i've never written a fic formatted like this but i'm super duper mega obsessed with how it turned out :D i always wanna hear yalls thoughts but i EXTRA wanna hear your thoughts on this one, its kinda my baby not to be dramatic, ive been working so hard on it im sad its over :( ✦ . 1k Celebration Apothecary . ✦ midnight essence infused with a dash of blaze & a splash of venom enhanced with echo leaves stirred THANK YOU SO SO MUCH @raccoonworld FOR THE REQUEST I LOVED LOVED LOVED WRITING THIS!!!!! i saw enemies to lovers and tension/banter and RAN with it >:) I REALLY HOPE YOU LOVE THIS

To the Most Esteemed High Lord of the Night Court,

I will dispense with pleasantries, as I doubt either of us have the patience for them. 

It has come to my attention that despite Velaris now falling under Dusk Court rule, the existing trade agreements with the other courts remain bound to the Night Court’s discretion. As it stands, merchants who once conducted business freely within Velaris now find themselves unable to do so, citing the stipulations you have so conveniently chosen to uphold. 

This impasse benefits no one. The artisans and traders of Velaris are not pawns to be maneuvered at your whim, nor should they suffer disruption simply because the Night Court has yet to accept the reality of the shifting landscape. I am certain even you can see the impracticality of maintaining such restrictions. 

Thus, I formally request the reopening of Velaris’ merchant ties—with full autonomy under Dusk Court governance. This is not a demand, but an offer to facilitate an arrangement that benefits both our courts. As a gesture of good faith, I am prepared to waive all tariffs for Night Court merchants entering our borders for the first decade of this renewed arrangement. Should you find yourself inclined toward reason, I trust we can discuss terms that do not waste either of our time. 

I await your response. 

(Y/n) High Lady of the Dusk Court

✦

To Her Radiance, High Lady of the Dusk Court,

Your request has been received and thoroughly reviewed. While I appreciate your concern for Velaris’ merchants—and your attempt to frame this as an act of mutual benefit—I must remind you that these agreements were established with the Night Court for a reason. The conditions under which they may be altered are, as I’m sure you know, not so easily dismissed. To shift its economic ties without careful negotiation would be careless at best and disastrous at worst. 

That said, I am not unreasonable. I am willing to entertain a renegotiation of these trade restrictions provided certain terms are met. Surely, a ruler as pragmatic as yourself can appreciate the necessity of thorough discussion. 

I trust you’ll give the matter due consideration—after all, I’d hate to think the High Lady of the Dusk Court acts on impulse alone. 

Rhysand High Lord of the Night Court

✦

To the Most Generous High Lord of the Night Court,

I must commend you on your impressive ability to complicate what should be a simple matter.

The conditions you mentioned remain conveniently vague, and your insistence that this requires “thorough discussion” feels less like prudence and more like a deliberate attempt to stall. You claim to appreciate the merchants’ concerns, yet your actions suggest otherwise. Whatever terms you are withholding, I suggest you present them plainly rather than wasting both our time beneath the guise of diplomacy.

This trade arrangement is not the delicate, volatile affair you’re attempting to make it. It is, as I said before, a practical solution that benefits both our courts—one that should have been resolved by now had you been willing to engage in good faith.

If you are not prepared to negotiate in earnest, I suggest you say so plainly. Otherwise, I await your response—and your so-called conditions.

(Y/n) High Lady of the Dusk Court

✦

To the Illustrious and Ever-Gracious High Lady of the Dusk Court,

I assure you, I have no intention of stalling—only ensuring that all necessary terms are made clear. Since you’re so eager for my conditions, allow me to offer them plainly: full claim over Ramiel.

I assume, of course, that you understand the significance of Ramiel to the Illyrians, though I wonder if sentimentality is a concept the Dusk Court is capable of recognizing. Perhaps you’ll manage, when thousands of Illyrians take it upon themselves to storm your borders, demanding they’ve nowhere for their Blood Rite.

Of course, if you’d prefer to drag this out further, by all means keep posturing. I don’t mind waiting—I hear patience is a virtue, though I doubt that’s a concept you’re particularly fond of, either.

Rhysand High Lord of the Night Court

✦

To the Self-Appointed Arbiter of Illyrian Tradition, High Lord of the Night Court,

Your terms have been received—and rejected.

Ramiel is not yours to bargain with. Its ownership was divided between the Night and Dusk Courts long before either of us held our titles, and I have no intention of surrendering what is rightfully mine. Whatever misplaced sense of entitlement has led you to believe otherwise is your burden to bear, not mine.

If you are truly so desperate to appease your Illyrians, I suggest you find another solution—one that doesn’t involve attempting to strong-arm me under the guise of negotiation. Or did you imagine I’d be too naïve to recognize a pathetic attempt at leverage when I see it?

Next time you attempt to disguise arrogance as diplomacy, do try harder.

(Y/n) High Lady of the Dusk Court

✦

To the Tireless Defender of Lost Causes, High Lady of the Dusk Court,

Your refusal, while unsurprising, was disappointingly predictable. I had hoped you might be capable of recognizing an opportunity when presented with one.

But I understand. Ruling can be… overwhelming. Perhaps the burden of leadership has clouded your judgment—or perhaps you’re simply too proud to admit that the Dusk Court cannot stand alone. Without those trade routes, I imagine it’s only a matter of time before your court’s merchants start looking elsewhere for stability. I wonder, how long will your people’s loyalty last when faced with empty pockets?

Of course, I’m more than willing to assist you in finding a solution—if you’re willing to discuss this matter in person. Surely, a female as capable as yourself wouldn’t shy from a real conversation. Unless, of course, you’d prefer to keep trading letters instead. I can’t say I’d mind. Your insults are far more entertaining than I anticipated.

Do let me know.

Rhysand High Lord of the Night Court

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Adriata, Summer Court

The meeting had been set. The Summer Court had been Tarquin’s suggestion—one neither you nor the High Lord of Night could easily refuse. Neutral enough ground, given the mess of alliances during the war to take back your court. Enduring his insufferable theatrics under Tarquin’s watchful eye was unpleasant enough. The thought of tolerating them indefinitely only soured it further. 

The air was thick with salt and sun, the Adriata breeze rolling in from the open sea as you ascended the marble steps of the Summer Court’s palace. The gates were already open, a silent invitation—and the two Summer Court guards flanking them did not so much as twitch as you approached, their expressions impassive. 

Inside, the refreshing chill of the palace provided welcome relief from the sweltering heat outside, a reprieve that might’ve been pleasant had your mind not already been preoccupied with thoughts of the impending meeting. Your footsteps echoed against polished floors as a familiar figure emerged from the arched hallway ahead. 

Tarquin approached, dressed in deep blue, the color of a tide just before dusk, his crown of pearl and gold glinting beneath the glow of the faelights suspended above. He had never been one for ostentatious displays of power, and yet there was something effortless about the way he carried it—shoulders squared, chin high, every inch the High Lord of Summer. 

A polite, knowing smile curved his lips as he bowed in greeting. “High Lady.”

“High Lord,” you returned, dipping your chin in greeting. “I appreciate you hosting this meeting.”

His smile deepened, but there was something almost conspiratorial behind it. “I can’t say I object to the entertainment.”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “That makes one of us.”

Tarquin’s amusement lingered as he extended his arm toward you. Without hesitation, you slipped your arm through his as he led the way inside. “I take it the correspondence has been… eventful?”

“That’s a word for it,” you muttered.

He chuckled, leading you through the wide halls of polished coral and pearl, sunlight filtering through arched windows that overlooked the sea. The sound of distant music drifted through the corridors—a low hum of strings and laughter. 

It took you half a breath too long to place it. 

You glanced at Tarquin, brow furrowing. “I was under the impression this was a private meeting.”

He exhaled, something wry tugging at his mouth. “It was.”

Was.

You dropped your arm and stopped walking. 

Tarquin turned to face you fully, sighing as he rubbed a hand across his jaw. “I had planned for it to be a quiet discussion,” he admitted. “Apologies, truly. My cousin’s… enthusiasm often precedes her judgment.”

Of course. Cresseida and that damned mouth of hers. 

A headache threatened at the base of your skull, and you pinched the bridge of your nose. “Tell me you’re joking.”

“I wish I was.” He shook his head, sounding far too amused for your liking. “Cresseida only meant well, but—well, you know how quickly word spreads. The moment it was known you and Rhysand would be in the same room together, the interest became… considerable.”

Your lips parted slightly, incredulous. “How considerable?”

A swell of noise—laughter, voices, the unmistakable hum of a gathering—rose from deeper within the palace, as if in answer. Tarquin’s eyes widened slightly, his expression caught between amusement and resignation.  

You exhaled slowly, pressing your lips together, willing patience into your voice. “And how many High Lords are in attendance?”

Tarquin’s gaze flicked toward the crowd, then back to you, his lips quirking up at one corner. “All, and at least half of Prythian, by my count.”

You closed your eyes for a brief moment. 

Wonderful. 

Of course it wouldn’t be a simple negotiation. Of course this had turned into a spectacle. All of Prythian must have been abuzz with curiosity, all eager to see if the rumors were true—if the Dusk Court’s High Lady and the Night Court’s High Lord could even stand to be in the same room without bloodshed. 

And now, you’d have an audience. 

You sighed, smoothing a hand down the front of your skirts. The dress was a deep violet-black, and shimmered with a subtle, shifting sheen that caught the light as you moved, like twilight settling over the horizon. The bodice was intricately designed with delicate lace, while the long, sheer sleeves flared gently at the wrists, trimmed in silver embroidery. And resting atop your head, a slender tiara of dark metal, woven with amethyst and moonstone—like the first stars pricking through the evening sky. 

At the very least, you wouldn’t look out of place. 

Tarquin studied you for a moment before offering, “You could always turn back and we’ll reschedule.”

You arched a brow, both of you knowing that was not an option. “And let him spin his own version of events? I’d rather suffer the evening.”

A low chuckle. “I thought you might say so.”

Tarquin turned, resuming his path toward the open doors far ahead—toward the golden light and music spilling from the grand hall beyond. 

You squared your shoulders and followed. 

The noise struck first—a soft roar of conversation that swelled as you stepped through the open doors. Laughter rippled beneath the clink of glasses and the steady rise and fall of music. Strings sang from somewhere across the grand hall, their notes weaving through the air, bright and lilting—completely at odds with the tension coiling in your chest. 

The room was bathed in gold, sunlight spilling through towering windows that overlooked the sea. Gossamer curtains billowed with the breeze, carrying the scent of salt and citrus. The palace’s coral-hued walls seemed to glow beneath the faelights suspended like stars above, glittering and warm.

Nobles clustered in tight groups, each dressed in silks and jewels that shimmered like fish scales in the light. A delicate blend of perfumes clung to the air, mingling with the faintest trace of seafoam. Glasses gleamed in their hands, wine swirling dark and rich as they murmured in low voices. 

And there—by one of the open archways that overlooked the distant cliffs—stood Rhysand, High Lord of the Night Court.

He stood tall and commanding as ever, his usual confident smirk playing on his lips as he engaged in some pointless small talk with a cluster of nobles from some court you couldn’t be bothered to identify. His smile was sharp and easy, his laugh a low rumble that you somehow knew managed to sound genuine. He looked entirely at ease—all dark elegance in his finely tailored attire, the night-black fabric swallowing the warm light around him. 

You watched as he sipped from his glass, his fingers curling around the delicate stem with calculated ease. Ever the picture of charm—poised, composed—as if he hadn’t been hellbent on driving you to the brink of madness over the past several weeks. 

A hush rippled across the room, subtle but unmistakable. Not silence, not entirely, but it was enough. They’d seen you. And the whispers that followed? Soft, barely audible beneath the music, yet you could feel the weight of their stares. Curious eyes flicked between the two of you, waiting, wondering. 

You bit back a sigh and crossed to the nearest drinks table, letting the cool stem of a wine glass rest between your fingers. You busied yourself casually moving through the hall, eyes drifting over the various High Lords deep in conversation, striking deals in hushed tones, some more conspicuously than others. A few were already exchanging knowing glances, clearly eager to witness the first public encounter between you two since your courts had ended their bitter conflict. You could practically feel the weight of their eyes, even from across the room. 

The air was thick with pretenses, with politics, with old alliances shifting beneath carefully constructed smiles. The longer you lingered in the thrumming hum of the palace, the more you realized just how much was at stake in this charade. 

You spent the first hour engaged in clipped, careful conversation with Tamlin and Lucien. Tamlin, all tense shoulders and tight-jawed restraint, spoke little beyond what was necessary. Lucien, at least, filled the silence with dry wit, though his sharp eyes missed nothing. There was a flicker of curiosity in them, a silent question he did not voice: What exactly is your endgame here? You only smiled, noncommittal, and let him wonder. 

Then came Beron and Eris—an exercise in endurance more than diplomacy. Beron played at civility, but you could see the sneer behind his eyes, feel the weight of his disdain curling in the air between you. Eris, ever the sharper of the two, was all smooth words and knowing smirks, his amusement a blade he wielded with practiced ease. His compliments were barbed, his observations keen. And though you had no doubt he enjoyed watching you hold your ground against his father, there was a lingering watchfulness in him, a game being played that you had no interest in deciphering. 

Eventually, your glass was empty, the wine gone as quickly as the patience you’d started with. You set it down carefully on a nearby passing tray before you straightened. Taking a slow, steadying breath, you steeled your spine and finally began the long walk toward him. 

He noticed you before you reached him. 

Of course he did. 

Violet eyes flicked to yours—a brief, cutting glance that held no warmth. Then he turned back to his group, murmuring something that earned a round of soft, agreeable laughter. By the time you reached him, his companions had scattered, as if sensing the change in the air—like birds taking flight before a storm. 

“High Lady,” he greeted smoothly, taking a slow sip from his glass. His eyes gleamed above the rim—cool, knowing. “I was beginning to think you’d avoid me all evening.”

You smiled tightly. “And miss the pleasure of your company, High Lord? Please.”

He chuckled, low and quiet. “Dangerous words,” he warned, his voice just loud enough for you to hear. “I may begin to think you enjoy it.”

“I enjoy watching you run your mouth,” you countered, feigning disinterest as you reached for another drink from a passing tray. “It’s remarkable, really. You hardly need anyone else in the conversation.”

His lips twitched. “Efficient, wouldn’t you say?”

Then his gaze dipped, tracking the movement as you took a slow sip from your glass. A flicker of amusement danced in his eyes, something sharp and searching—a silent dare.

And for a heartbeat, you nearly smiled. 

Okay. The bastard was funny. You’d give him that much.

 “Among other things.”

That smirk of his deepened, and you felt the annoying tug of frustration tighten in your chest. He knew exactly what he was doing, and he reveled in it. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said, swirling the wine in his glass.

“Oh, I wouldn’t flatter yourself,” you shot back. “I’d sooner pay a compliment to the tableware.”

“I’ve been told I’m just as sharp,” he countered smoothly, lifting his glass in a mock toast. 

“Only half as useful,” you muttered, the words slipping out the moment his toast was raised, brows lifting as you took a slow sip from your glass. 

The High Lord chuckled darkly, stepping just a fraction closer—not enough to break propriety, but enough that the air between you felt thinner. Warmer. “You’ve always had a fondness for sharp things. Trouble is,” he added, with a pointed glance at your glass, “you haven’t quite learned how to hold them without cutting yourself.”

You arched a brow. “And yet I’m still standing.”

His smile widened, slow and feline. “For now.”

“High Lord,” you said, voice dripping with dry formality, “if you think you can rattle me with such feeble attempts, you’re mistaken.”

“Oh, please,” he drawled, sounding almost bored. “We’ve spent decades at each other’s throats, (y/n)—surely, you can address me by my name.”

You blinked, glass halfway to your lips. 

“...No, thank you,” you said primly, taking a slow sip. “I’d hate to give you the satisfaction.”

His gaze danced over you, sharp and glittering. “Coward.”

“I prefer to think of it as prudence.” He wouldn’t be getting a reaction out of you tonight. 

“Is that what you call it?” Rhysand mused, swirling his drink. “I was beginning to think you avoided me out of… shyness.”

You let out a breathy laugh, tasting the remnants of wine on your tongue. “I’d hardly call avoiding you a loss.”

“And yet,” he countered, voice all lazy arrogance, “here you are.”

“Only because I’m certain you’ve already cornered half the room,” you said sweetly. “I figured someone should check that you haven’t charmed them all into some terrible bargain.”

Rhysand’s smile turned cutting. “Now you’re giving me too much credit.”

“You’d take it if it were offered.”

He chuckled under his breath, gaze flicking down your face—searching, calculating. “Perhaps I just wanted to see how long you’d last before you came to find me.”

“If I knew it’d only encourage you,” you said coolly, “I may have waited longer.”

Something gleamed behind his eyes. “You wound me, High Lady,” he said smoothly, tilting his head just so. “I’d hate to think the conversation is so unbearable.”

“Oh, no. You mistake me,” you countered, gaze flicking over him with mock deliberation. “It’s not the conversation that’s unbearable. Only the company.”

His laugh was a low, knowing thing, and you hated how easily it slid down your spine. “That almost sounded personal.”

“Take it however it helps you sleep at night.” You lifted your glass to your lips, only to find it empty. Annoying. 

Rhysand followed the movement, watched as you set it down on a passing tray and took another. His gaze lingered for half a beat too long—so brief you might have missed it had you not been so attuned to the way he moved, the way he studied. 

You’d already drained a glass during this conversation, never mind the two others throughout the evening. He’d barely touched his—just one sip, if you’d been paying attention. And Rhysand certainly was, if you knew him at all. Which meant you wouldn’t be having another—at least, not until you were free of his watchful gaze. 

You let the silence stretch between you, just long enough to suggest boredom. Let him wonder if he’d lost your interest already. 

He only smiled, unruffled. “So?” he drawled, slipping a hand into his pocket. “Shall we play nicely and discuss what we’re actually here for?”

You huffed a quiet laugh, tipping your head slightly. “And here I thought we’d already abandoned that pretense.”

Rhysand’s lips curved. “I suppose we have.” his gaze flicked briefly over your shoulder before settling back on you, heavy with implication. “Not that we truly have the luxury of privacy, do we?”

Your fingers traced the rim of your glass as you looked over your shoulder, following his line of sight. “The High Lords have never been particularly skilled at minding their own.”

“No,” he mused, swirling the wine in his glass. One of these times, it would spill, Cauldron-willing. “But usually they’re more subtle.”

Across the room, Beron leaned back in his chair, a smirk playing at the edges of his mouth as he murmured something to his eldest beside him. Helion, a few seats down, wasn’t even bothering with discretion, openly entertained as he twirled his glass between his fingers. And Tarquin—Tarquin, for all his efforts to seem engaged in a separate conversation, kept glancing toward the two of you like he was expecting the walls to crack beneath the weight of whatever game you and Rhysand were playing. 

“That would be too convenient,” you murmured, gaze sweeping the room in one slow, deliberate pass. 

Rhysand huffed a quiet laugh, low enough that only you could hear. “Pity. I was looking forward to seeing how many veiled threats you could fit into a single conversation before Tarquin stopped you.”

“Five, at least.”

His brows lifted, mouth curving in a mockery of admiration. “Ambitious.”

You turned to him fully now, tilting your head. “Concerned?”

Something flickered behind his eyes, too quick to name, before that infuriating smirk returned. “Hardly. I just prefer results over theatrics. And right now, I’m afraid we won’t be getting any.”

You exhaled slowly, glancing once more at the gathered High Lords, at the nobles who clearly had no intention of keeping to their own business. 

Cresseida had been clever—forcing this into a public spectacle rather than a quiet, controlled negotiation. But if her goal had been to force you both into some kind of amicable resolution, she was bound to be disappointed. 

You met his eye. “Then it seems we’ve wasted an evening.”

Rhysand tilted his head, studying you with a lazy sort of amusement, fingers tapping idly against the stem of his glass. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that.”

Your jaw tightened. “No?”

“No,” he said smoothly, taking a slow sip of his wine. “I’ve had quite a bit of fun. I’ll give you credit, you’ve made it almost enjoyable to watch you stew.”

Bastard. 

You shifted forward just enough that it could be passed off as casual to any onlookers. Just enough that the space between you thinned, that he had no choice but to notice the shift in proximity.

“Tell me, Rhysand,” you said, voice dipped in silk and steel. “Do you ever tire of hearing yourself speak?” You studied his face for any sign of a reaction, a flicker in his eyes—something, anything— at the sound of his name on your tongue. You swore you saw his jaw tighten ever so slightly.

He smiled as he leaned in, matching you breath for breath. “Tell me, (y/n), would you find my voice tolerable if I took the more subtle route?” he said, voice barely above a murmur.

You felt the faint pressure at the edges of your mind, like the brush of something sharp testing the barriers you’d carefully constructed for this very reason.

Your answering smile was slow, sweet, and entirely false. “Try it and see how fast I rip out your tongue.”

Then… he laughed—really laughed, low and rich, the sound cutting through the tension like a blade. He leaned back with it, head tilting, and the shift sent you bristling, spine straightening before you could think better of it. 

His laughter faded, tapering into a breath that still carried the ghost of mirth. “Careful, High Lady,” he said, eyes alight with something dangerous. “I might begin to suspect you’re attempting to entice me.”

Your nails pressed into your palm. Self-satisfied prick. As if you’d waste the effort.

“Rest assured,” you said, voice smooth as glass, “if I meant to entice, you would not be left wondering.”

His brows lifted, just barely, before his weight shifted away, as if to study you. “Ah,” he said at last, a touch too light. “Then I must have misjudged your intentions. My sincerest apologies.”

Your breath felt too shallow, your skin too warm. Unacceptable. And of course, he knew it.

So you only smiled again, slow and sharp, before turning on your heel. “Enjoy your night, High Lord.”

You didn’t wait for a response, only tossed the words over your shoulder and kept walking, leaving him standing there. Watching you go. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

To the High Lord of the Night Court, whose lack of talent in negotiation is rivaled only by his truly abysmal attempts at seduction, 

It seems our time in the Summer Court was just as unproductive as our letters, though I suppose I should commend you for attempting a new strategy. Unfortunately for you, whatever effort you put into wooing me was wasted—I can assure you, I am not so easily swayed by charm, nor will I be seduced into accepting an entirely unreasonable deal.

Now, unless you’d prefer to spend more time failing miserably at that endeavor, perhaps we can return to the actual purpose of these discussions. You proposed a meeting to negotiate, yet I’ve still heard nothing of what—aside from the absurd—might convince you to release the other courts from their trade agreements with the Night Court. So, tell me, Rhysand: do you have any real terms to offer, or should I expect another pointless conversation?

(Y/n) High Lady of the Dusk Court

✦

To the High Lady of the Dusk Court, whose wit remains as swift as her refusal to entertain reason,

I see your patience is as thin as ever. I was hoping you’d save your biting commentary for after our negotiations, but I should have known better. Your sharp tongue is always ready to make an appearance, even when the subject is far more pressing than whatever petty barb you think will get a rise out of me.

As for this wooing nonsense you insist on mentioning, had I wanted to spend the evening trying to seduce you, I certainly wouldn’t have agreed on the Summer Court. I’d have taken you somewhere far more secluded—perhaps an estate along the Day Court’s southeastern coast, where the sunsets are golden and endless, and the warmth of the air would make it all too easy to lose yourself in far more pleasant distractions.

I’d even go so far as to arrange a romantic candlelit dinner. A small, intimate table set for two, close enough that you’d have no choice but to brush against me whenever you so much as reached for your glass—the first, second, and third. Though, knowing you, I’d likely have to wait until your eighth before you finally deemed my shoulder worthy of supporting that insufferably high-held head of yours. Roses, of course, scattered in excessive, bordering-on-ridiculous abundance. A personal violinist to serenade us—no, perhaps an entire string quartet, just to ensure the moment is properly insufferable. I’d be remiss if I didn’t include poetry of course—something overwrought, preferably recited under the stars with all the solemnity of a male professing his undying devotion. Really, (y/n), if seduction had been my goal, I’d have made sure to leave you with no doubt about my intentions. 

We’d have had plenty of time for meaningful conversation, uninterrupted by the chaos of Cresseida’s “enthusiasm”—which, I might add, was the delicate (I say delicate with the utmost sarcasm) term Tarquin managed to muster for the spectacle she orchestrated. I suppose it was foolish of me to expect any self-respecting High Lord to take command of his own palace and dismiss his unwanted guests, though I’m sure you’d prefer to dismiss such reasonable suggestions as impractical, as is your way.

But, of course, I digress. As it stands, my terms remain unchanged: Ramiel. The western half. You’ll find that without it, there’s little incentive for the Night Court to make concessions. No amount of your desperate little dramatics will sway my stance. I think we both know this is the only real term on the table.

Rhysand High Lord of the Night Court

P.S. I must thank you for the satisfaction—I believe that was the term you used—of hearing my magnificent name fall from your lips the other night. And now, to see it written by your delicate hand as well… Truly, I must be the most Cauldron-blessed male in all of Prythian.

✦

To the ever-persistent High Lord of the Night Court, whose ego remains as unshakable and misplaced as his faith in his own charm

It seems I underestimated just how much time you’ve spent considering the matter of seducing me. Such detail, such effort��few males would go to such great lengths to convince a female of their supposed disinterest. If I didn’t know better, I might think it’s been occupying that scheming mind of yours far more than you’d care to admit. Though I have to wonder… Do all your fantasies involve me drinking myself into some pliant, starry-eyed fool? Or is that your way of compensating for the fact that I would never find you charming of my own accord?

And here I thought you were merely insufferable—imagine my surprise to learn you’re a gossip as well. I should have guessed. You seem precisely the type—sharp-eyed and sharper-tongued, always poised to collect whatever little scraps of intrigue fall into your lap. I can only assume you relish hoarding such information, tucking it away until it serves some greater purpose. I wonder, do you find as much satisfaction in keeping secrets as you do in sharing them? Or is it just my ability to match that insufferable wit of yours that has you so eager to write?

Speaking of which, your remarks about Tarquin were as predictable as they were shortsighted. I’m sure it must be easy business to force out fae who have ruled for millennia when you yourself have only been alive for a fraction of that time. Even easier when one in particular has a habit of reducing things to ash. 

Tell me, Rhysand, do all your enemies receive such personal attention, or am I special? I must be, considering how quickly you seem to find time to respond to me. It’s impressive, really—your letters reach me in a fraction of the time I typically receive correspondence. You’re either woefully impatient or remarkably eager, and I’m not sure which is worse. 

But since you’re so determined to keep the discussion of rights to Velaris’ trade agreements at a stalemate, perhaps I could put my delicate hands to some use. That is, if you can manage to set aside your fixation on Ramiel long enough to consider alternatives. I wonder if I ought to bring something else to the table—something of more… immediate value to you. 

That being said, you’ll have to quell your impatience for the time being. I’ll be away on business, which means you’ll have to find some other means of entertaining yourself for the time being. As much as I hate to deprive you of my company, I suspect you’ll manage. Try not to let your restlessness get the better of you. I’d hate to return to a stack of letters detailing all the ways you ‘could have’ won me over, if only I’d let you. 

(Y/n) High Lady of the Dusk Court

P.S. As lovely as your rose-petaled fantasy sounds, I much prefer mirabilis. I wouldn’t expect you to appreciate the significance. 

✦

To the High Lady of the Dusk Court, whose ability to misinterpret my intentions is truly something to behold,

I hate to shatter your illusions, but you are not special—not in this regard, at least. The speed of my letters has nothing to do with my enthusiasm and everything to do with geography. Our courts share a border, after all—an unfortunate reality, considering how much of it you carved from my own. Proximity is a rather mundane explanation, but if you’d prefer to believe I spend my days waiting by the window for your next scathing remark, far be it from me to rob you of that fantasy. 

On the subject of fantasies: You do love to twist my words, don’t you? If I recall, you were the one to pose the question—am I not allowed to entertain it? I simply offered you the scenario that seemed most realistic. And yet, you seem quite fixated on the idea of me seducing you. I wonder—do all your rebuttals involve projecting your own preoccupations onto me? Or is this your way of compensating for the fact that I’ve gotten under your skin more than you’d care to admit?

What you refer to as gossiping, I prefer to think of as being well-informed. A skill you should appreciate, given your own sharp tongue and penchant for gaining leverage. But I’ll admit, secrets do make for excellent company—particularly when the alternative is a conversation as dull as this stalemate of ours. And I have yet to decide whether the pleasure of matching wits with you outweighs the agony of your stubbornness. 

Now, as much as I’d love to ignore the blatant baiting in your letter, I find myself… curious. I can certainly imagine the lovely image of those delicate hands of yours being put to use—after all, I distinctly recall them attempting to drive a sword through my neck not long ago. I’ll admit, I’m rather torn between dreading the thought and finding it intriguing. And if that amuses you, then by all means, enjoy yourself. I’m sure you will. 

I’m sure I’ll find some way to pass the time. Perhaps I’ll spend it in quiet reflection. Perhaps I’ll take up a new hobby—painting, poetry, composing terribly romantic ballads in your honor (for the string quartet to play, of course). Or perhaps I’ll simply use the opportunity to reclaim what’s mine. Ramiel, for instance. Wouldn’t that be amusing?

Enjoy your business, (y/n). Try not to miss me too much. 

Rhysand High Lord of Night

P.S. The mirabilis is an exquisite flower. I had a bed of them at my townhouse in Velaris—I always admired them for being the only flora wise enough to appreciate the beauty of night in the Night Court. 

✦

To the High Lord of the Night Court, whose delusions of grandeur are as endless as they are exhausting,

I must confess, I almost missed these letters in my brief reprieve from them. Almost. Though I must say, I imagined your anticipation a little differently. Not waiting by the window, pining for my response, but rather rifling through your mail, skimming past important matters of state in search of your name in my handwriting.

I’m right, aren’t I? 

As amusing as it is to imagine, you’ll have to forgive me for not sharing in your enthusiasm. You’ll find I have more pressing concerns than indulging whatever thrill you get from these exchanges.

And yet, despite that eagerness, you still managed to disappoint me. You dodged my question so artfully, I almost didn’t notice. Again, almost. You say I’m not special ‘in this regard, at least’—which begs the question: in what regard do you believe me to be special, Rhysand? Go on, amuse me. Though I imagine you’ll find a way to dodge the question, just as you so skillfully sidestepped my last.

On the matter of your other fantasies, I do hope you weren’t too attached to the idea of reclaiming Ramiel. I’m surprised I wasn’t informed of an attempt while I was away. Either you truly were joking, or you failed spectacularly. I suspect the former—if only because the latter would wound your pride too much to keep quiet. But don’t delude yourself into thinking I’ll let you take it so easily. Should you ever try, I suggest you prepare for far more resistance than the last time your court made an attempt at mine. I suggest you spare yourself the embarrassment and resign yourself to the reality of the border as it stands.

And speaking of revisionist history, I see you’re still clinging to the notion that I carved something from your court. Let me remind you that I took back only what rightfully belonged to Dusk. Not an acre more. The distinction may be an inconvenience to your pride, but I assure you, it’s quite important to me.

As for the truly pressing matters—you say you can imagine my hands being put to use, torn between dreading the thought and finding it intriguing. How very dramatic. I only meant to say I would see what strings I could pull. What exactly did you imagine I was referring to? 

Speaking of which—I do have another portion of my reacquired land that I might be willing to bring to the table. But before I entertain any offers, I think I’d like answers. To all of my questions. 

Try not to let the anticipation distract you too much. 

(Y/n) High Lady of the Dusk Court

P.S. A poetic interpretation, though an inaccurate one. The mirabilis does not bloom for night, Rhysand. It blooms for dusk. I’m hardly surprised you managed to make it about yourself. Though, I suppose I can’t fault you for finding familiarity in beautiful things. 

✦

To the unshakable guardian of borders, both territorial and personal—though one seems far less impenetrable than the other, High Lady of the Dusk Court,

I’ll admit, my evenings were far quieter in your absence. Dreadfully so. I found myself quite bored without your charming insults—perhaps I should be worried? I fear I may have grown too accustomed to your scrutiny.

I did have an enjoyable time speculating about what, exactly, could have kept you from writing. Was it boredom? A newfound commitment to your so-called pressing concerns? Or were you simply trying to teach me the virtues of patience?

A noble effort, if so. Though I must say, for someone with more important matters to attend to, you seem remarkably preoccupied with my pride. Your fixation on it would almost be endearing—if it weren’t so transparent. Are you hoping to wound it? Searching for some weakness, some bruise you might press your thumb against? If my ego is as fragile as you imagine, why are you working so hard to shatter it?

On the matter of Ramiel, I’m flattered by your assumption that I would go about reclaiming it in such an underhanded way. But contrary to popular belief, I am not entirely cold; I can make a joke. I make many of them, really. And taking Ramiel back with anything less than a true effort would be disgraceful to it. A sacred mountain deserves a worthy battle, don’t you think? I can only assume you agree, given how fiercely you cling to what you’ve taken—excuse me, what you’ve reclaimed. I’ve found myself agreeing with you on this front—revisionist history is an unfortunate thing. Perhaps we should compare records sometime, particularly those regarding the last time our courts clashed. Preferably over a bottle of that wine we had in Adriata. Seven glasses that night, was it? Or was I too distracted to count? Either way, I’m sure the discussion would prove enlightening—it may remind you history has a habit of repeating itself. 

Speaking of indulgences, I find it fascinating that, of all the questions I so skillfully evaded, the one you’re most intent on prying an answer from is what I think of your hands and what you’ll do with them? An interesting choice, considering your previous insistence that you have far more pressing concerns than indulging me. But who am I to question your priorities?

I suppose I can be merciful and share the long-awaited answers you so demandingly requested (Mother help whatever poor male ends up as your mate, if this is how you insist on getting your way):

Partially. Matters of state demand priority, but I do allow myself certain distractions. 

If I told you, I’d lose the pleasure of watching you try to figure it out yourself. But since you seem desperate for an answer, I’ll offer a hint: it’s not your modesty. Or your patience. Certainly not your generosity. 

I thought it was quite evident what you meant to imply. But if you insist on feigning innocence… Truthfully, I assumed your offer was one that would require privacy. And a great deal of generosity on your part. This is something, I now realize, you certainly wouldn’t have put into writing if only to uphold the charade that you’d never find me charming. And now that I’ve said as much, I do hope you’ll allow me the dignity of never having to elaborate further. For both our sakes. 

Yours in anticipation, Rhysand High Lord of Night

P.S. Can you blame a male for admiring fine calligraphy? The way you curl the R and y on the envelope—it does wonders for an already stunning name. Almost makes me forgive the rest of your letter. 

Almost. 

P.P.S. You can’t fault me for finding familiarity in beautiful things? It seems I’m beginning to grow on you. 

✦

To the High Lord of Night, who wields wit like a blade yet underestimates the sharpness of my own,

I should make one thing abundantly clear: I did not call you beautiful. I merely acknowledged your tendency to find yourself in the presence of beautiful things—an unfortunate distinction you seem determined to misinterpret. Your ego has always had a habit of bending words to its will. 

As for your supposed concerns over my absence, rest assured—I had no ulterior motive for not writing. No grand scheme to test your patience or see how long you’d last before you wilted from neglect. I was simply occupied. The life of a High Lady is not one of idle indulgence, after all. I leave that to you. 

And yet, you speak as though I spend my precious time working to shatter your ego. An interesting claim, considering I’ve done nothing but respond to the words you so generously provide me. If anything, you’re the one offering up your pride, Rhysand. If it’s cracked, I certainly wasn’t the one to drop it. 

On the matter of history, I must say, your memory is sharper than I gave you credit for. Seven glasses, was it? And here I thought I’d lost track. I wonder—does an obsessive enemy count each sip so meticulously, or only a male in love?

Speaking of unanswered questions, you’re still avoiding mine. And until you decide to remedy that, I see no reason to disclose what I plan to bargain with (a term I use loosely, as I know your court has a rather… rigid interpretation of the word). But since you seem so desperate to know, I’ll offer you a choice: either admit there are too many ways in which you find me special to list, or do your best to name them all. 

And regarding your… interpretation of my offer, I’d suggest you check your assumptions. Whatever it is you imagined, that was entirely your own doing. A slip of the mind perhaps? A rather telling one, if so.

(Y/n) High Lady of Dusk

P.S. Since you seem so taken with my calligraphy, I made some additions in honor of your rather devoted attention. A fitting touch, don’t you think? Do let me know if you’d noticed before reading this.

✦

To the most self-important High Lady in all of Prythian,

Love? You flatter yourself. A male in my position would be reckless not to keep a close eye on his greatest adversary. And a sharp memory is hardly a crime—though I suppose I should be grateful you only accuse me of counting your drinks and not of slipping something into them. It would not be the first time you assumed the worst of me. 

And since you’re so eager for me to list them—very well. The ways in which you are special:

You wield words like weapons, yet claim innocence when they strike true. A fascinating contradiction. I’d almost admire it, were I not so often on the receiving end. 

Your dedication to antagonizing me is truly unparalleled. The effort, the commitment—it’s impressive. One might even say admirable. 

You’ve managed, against all odds, to make even silence feel pointed. A rare skill. Not one I’d expect of someone so supposedly burdened with more pressing concerns.

You have an impeccable memory for every instance in which I’ve stalled or withheld negotiation details for my own gain—yet here you are, doing the very same. Hypocrisy has never looked so graceful.

I could continue, but I wouldn’t want you to mistake it for admiration. And besides, I believe I’ve humored you enough. 

I am not going to argue the wording of your offer with you. You chose your words carefully, as you always do. And I am but a male. Where, exactly, did you expect my mind to go?

And if I were to claim that you, of all people, would never be so sentimental as to embellish my name with hearts—would you deny it? You accuse me of obsession, of something more, yet only someone utterly besotted would go to such painstaking effort. Curious isn’t it?

Yours in ruthless scrutiny, Rhysand High Lord of Night

P.S. You can spare yourself the trouble in your next letter—I will not be listing any more. I wouldn’t want to inflate the ego of my greatest admirer lest she believe me to be interested. 

✦

To the most infuriatingly self-satisfied High Lord in all of Prythian, who so skillfully dodges a direct answer while pretending it’s beneath him to do so,

Besotted? I would have thought a male in your position would be reckless to mistake a simple acknowledgement of his shortcomings for something so tragic as infatuation. But if it soothes your ego to believe I spend my waking hours consumed with thoughts of you, I suppose I shouldn’t deny you that small comfort. The fragile need their delusions.

Where did I expect your mind to go? If my phrasing left room for your mind to wander, it says far more about you than it does me. Projection is an unbecoming look on a High Lord—though, lucky for you, it seems to suit you well. 

And if you were to claim that I—of all people—would never be so sentimental as to embellish your name with hearts, I’d wonder what you’d do if I denied it. But alas, I have no need to lie. It was not painstaking to do the calligraphy, nor did I waste away hours perfecting it. It comes quite easily to someone as skilled as myself. But if you prefer to imagine me blushing, lovestruck, ink-stained fingers pressing to my lips as I sigh over the flourish of your name—far be it from me to rid you of such a fantasy. We all must have our amusements, mustn’t we?

Now, I ignored it the first time, but I can’t any longer. Twice now, you’ve signed off your letters, “yours, Rhysand.” A rather bold choice, don’t you think? Unless, of course, I’ve missed something and you are. Mine, I mean. Seems an odd habit for a male so determined to deny any particular interest in me.

Not yours, in measured indifference, (Y/n)

✦

To the ever-distractible High Lady, whose selective attention is as impressive as her deflections,

You seem to have overlooked a few key matters in your last letter. Namely, any mention of our negotiations. I upheld my end of your demand by providing the list you so graciously insisted upon. And yet, curiously, I find myself still waiting for the slightest indication of what land you intend to put forth in this bargain. A mere oversight, I’m sure. Or perhaps my entirely accurate assessment of your infatuation left you so flustered that you simply forgot?

And speaking of such flustered states—you made quite the fuss over how I sign my letters, yet in your haste, you seem to have neglected to properly sign off your own. Are we abandoning such formalities now? A shame. I had so been looking forward to seeing what you might come up with next. 

Yours, as ever, Rhysand

✦

To the most persistently arrogant High Lord, whose ability to fixate on trivialities is truly unmatched,

Oh, I do apologize—was there something important hidden between all the self-satisfaction and baseless accusations? How careless of me to overlook it. You’re right, of course. I should have addressed the matter of our negotiations. It’s just that I found myself distracted by your transparent attempt to shift the conversation. A flimsy strategy, Rhysand. I am ashamed it hit its mark. 

You claim to have upheld your end of the deal, and yet, all you’ve provided is a list dripping with backhanded compliments and veiled frustration. Hardly the fair exchange you make it out to be. But fine. Since you’re so desperate to discuss it, here it is: shared rights over the Prison. The island was, historically, my ancestors’ land, after all. You should consider it an honor—and a rare olive branch—that I’m willing to grant you even that much. 

As for your signature dilemma—what an astute observation. If my lack of a formal sign-off has rattled you so, I can only imagine how unmoored you’d be if I started leaving my letters entirely unsigned, much in the same way you have a habit of leaving my questions unanswered. A terrifying prospect, I’m sure. But since you so clearly long for my parting words, I wouldn’t dream of disappointing you. 

Still not yours, (Y/n)

✦

To the ever-elusive High Lord,

It has now been a full week past when I expected your reply—an unusual delay, given not only the geography of our courts (as you so helpfully pointed out before), but the sensitive nature of my last correspondence as well. Surely, by now, you have some response, unless, of course, there is truly so much to discuss with your advisors? I would have thought a male of your remarkable intelligence could have reached a decision long before now. 

But perhaps you are merely searching for the perfect way to tell me what I already know—that this is a wonderful opportunity for the Night Court. I have no doubt your brilliant mind will find some way to convince the Illyrians that they only need half the mountain for their precious Blood Rite. Surely, their warriors will be just as fearsome without every inch of Ramiel beneath their feet. 

Patiently (for now), (Y/n)

✦

Rhysand,

I sincerely hope my last letter has reached you. It would be a shame to have to fire someone over such a careless mistake. But since I have yet to receive a response, I must now assume one of two things: either my words were lost twice, or you are deliberately ignoring them. Neither is particularly reassuring. 

That said, I have reconsidered a portion of my last letter. In hindsight, my suggestion was both insensitive and entirely wrong. It was not my place to suggest forcing the Illyrians to alter a sacred tradition they have upheld for generations. I recognize that now. So let me be clear—I have absolutely no problem allowing them full access to Dusk’s half of Ramiel for the duration of their Blood Rite. It is not my intent to rob them of something so integral to their history. 

I trust this correction will not go unnoticed. And I expect to hear from you soon. 

Yours (less patient than before), (Y/n)

✦

To (y/n), the High Lady whose patience, it seems, is as thin as her restraint in letter-writing,

I appreciate the flood of correspondence awaiting me upon my return—truly, it is touching to know that my absence was felt so… acutely. Though I must say, I expected better of you than to jump to the most uncreative conclusion. Ignoring you? Deliberately? You wound me. And here I was, under the impression that you enjoyed a bit of mystery. 

I am sure you will be surprised to find that I, in fact, do not have the luxury of spending my days hovering over my desk, eagerly awaiting the arrival of ink-stained letters. I have been occupied. Surely, a mind as sharp as yours can deduce that certain matters require my undivided attention—ones that, regrettably, cannot be shared in writing. Or perhaps you’d rather I neglected those responsibilities to promptly return your ever-charming correspondence?

As for the contents of your latest correspondence—finally, some substance. Shared rights over the Prison. A bold proposition. I find it endearing how you frame it as an honor rather than the calculated power play it truly is. Your generosity is noted, as is your gracious concession regarding Ramiel. I suspect the Illyrians will be deeply relieved to know you have found it in your heart to grant them access to land they have fought and bled upon for millennia. How lucky they are to have your benevolence. 

And now, to address the most pressing concern of all—I do wonder if you are more fixated on our negotiations, or on me. I will grant you the mercy of answering your most burning question. Am I yours? A dangerous thing to suggest, especially from someone so insistent that she feels nothing at all. 

Yours, as always, Rhysand

✦

Rhysand,

I had no place to suggest altering a tradition that is not mine to change. It was careless, and I regret it. Please consider this my formal apology—to you and to the Illyrians. I will ensure that my future propositions are made with greater thought. 

As for the matter with the Prison, I will not waste either of our time dressing it up as anything but what it is. A necessary arrangement. One that, should you still wish to discuss, I will be available at your convenience. 

(Y/n)

✦

(Y/n),

How uncharacteristically… restrained. I confess, I find myself at a loss—where has the sharp-tongued, impossible-to-rattle High Lady gone? I was rather enjoying our exchanges, yet now you write to me as if I am nothing more than a bureaucrat awaiting your next trade proposal. It does not suit you. 

Something must be weighing on you to make you forget our less stately topics of conversation. I wonder—should I be concerned? Or will you insist, as always, that nothing at all is amiss?

Yours, Rhysand

✦

Rhysand,

I regret to inform you that I am currently preoccupied with matters of importance. Your musings about the missing High Lady of Dusk, while charming, do not qualify. I have neither the time nor the energy to explain, but rest assured—it’s nothing that requires your concern.

(Y/n)

✦

(Y/n),

I’m not asking for the inner workings of your court. Only some assurance that the High Lady I’ve been painstakingly coaxing into a negotiation hasn’t decided to throw herself into the abyss. A waste, truly—in more ways than one. I’d hate to lose the only opponent who’s ever managed to keep pace. 

Yours (against my better judgment), Rhysand

✦

Rhysand,

If you must know—though I suspect you already do—I’m fine. Truly. Or at least as fine as one can be when balancing the weight of a court that seems determined to pull itself apart at the seams. 

I wanted this. Fought for it. Sacrificed for it. I would do it all over again if I had to, if only to reclaim what was stolen from my ancestors and restore Dusk to what it once was. But I can’t say I anticipated how steep the price would be. 

Beron, for one, seems intent on ensuring I feel every thorn in the crown I now wear. I knew his help would come with strings—but I misjudged how tightly he’d be willing to pull them. He’s been pressing me for greater trade rights along the southern border, a thinly veiled attempt to undercut Velaris’ control over the merchant routes. I refused, of course. Which only gave him an excuse to retaliate—restricting shipments of raw materials that my court requires to rebuild. He knows exactly how far he can push before I’m forced to give him something in return. 

And then there’s the matter of Thesan’s generosity. Or rather, the staggering debt it left me with. His support during the war was invaluable, but now the treasury is running thin. I’ve already levied new taxes, cut court expenses, not to mention countless other efforts, but it’s not enough. It will never be enough. 

As for Tamlin—he’s been… circling. Watching for weakness. He hasn’t demanded anything outright, not yet, but the implied threat is clear enough. I suspect he’s waiting for Beron or Thesan to draw blood first, hoping I’ll come crawling to him when Dusk begins to buckle under the weight of their demands. And I’m certain he’ll enjoy every moment of it. 

And through all of it, I’m expected to smile and remain composed. To reassure my people, my advisors, my allies—that I have it all under control. That their High Lady is not unraveling beneath the pressure of debts and threats and politics. That I am not coming apart at the seams from the sheer exhaustion of being tugged in every possible direction. 

I know I shouldn’t be telling you any of this. I’m sure you’ll eventually use it against me—some leverage to play when it suits you best. Hopefully I’ll come to my senses and burn this letter before it reaches you. If you’re reading this, then evidently I need to be evaluated for hurling my court’s politics into the hands of my enemy.

I knew this would be difficult. I was not naïve about the cost. But there is something uniquely punishing about knowing I fought so hard for this crown, only to find myself bound by a different set of chains. 

And yet, I’ll keep going. Because what other choice is there? Because this is what it means to rule—to carry the weight alone. 

You understand that don’t you?

(Y/n)

✦

(Y/n),

I can’t decide whether I should be flattered or insulted that you think me capable of using this against you. If I were going to exploit you, I would have done so long ago—by making sure everyone knew just how fond you are of me.

Beron is not nearly as clever as he thinks he is. His entire approach relies on you needing him more than he needs you. Which means you need to make it clear that you don’t. If he’s restricting raw materials, look elsewhere. There’s a port in Day, just south of your shared border, that could cover the loss. Speak with Helion. It’ll be more expensive, yes, but not so much that it’d justify letting him think he has the upper hand.

And Thesan is not unreasonable. He wouldn’t have extended his aid if he didn’t believe Dusk was a worthy investment. But debts of this scale aren’t meant to be paid off in coin alone. Offer him something softer: diplomacy, information, a trade route that benefits both courts—perhaps the one Beron is panting after. Show him that aiding your court wasn’t charity—it was a strategic decision. If you position it correctly, you can turn him from a creditor into an ally. 

Tamlin—well. I wouldn’t waste too much thought on him. He’s not bold enough to make the first move, and even if he were, he’s too predictable to catch you off guard. Let him watch. Let him wait. He’ll tire of it eventually. And if, by some miracle, he proves otherwise—you won’t be the only one handling it. 

And you’re right—this is what it means to rule. To be pulled apart, worn down, tested until there’s nothing left but steel and bone. But you’re not as alone as you think. And if you ever tire of pretending you have everything well in hand, you know where to find me. I’ll even provide the wine (Eastgate Ruby, Tarquin tells me, is what was served at our “meeting”). 

You should know—you’re doing well. Better than well, actually. They wouldn’t be pressing this hard if you weren’t already a threat. 

Yours, Rhysand

P.S. Take your time responding—see to what needs seeing to. But do keep in mind, every day we linger in this stalemate is another day merchants are kept from Velaris. And I do hate to keep good wine waiting. 

✦

Rhysand,

I imagine I owe you an apology for how curt I’ve been. If I were you, I wouldn’t have bothered replying, much less with actual counsel. And yet, here you are. I won’t pretend to understand why, but I’d be a fool not to recognize the value of what you’ve given me. 

Your assessment of Beron was correct. Helion has surprisingly agreed to supply what we need, though not without cost. I suspect I’ve a certain High Lord to thank for that…

But that’s not why I’m writing. You said my offer of the Prison was something— but is it enough? You were adamant before about Ramiel. Has that changed, or are we only delaying the inevitable? I’d rather know where we stand than waste time circling the same conversation. 

And despite my better judgment, I’ll say it again—thank you, Rhysand. Truly.

Yours, (Y/n)

P.S. I am not fond of you. Do not spread baseless rumors. 

✦

(Y/n),

The advice was nothing—really, if this is all it takes to earn such enthusiastic gratitude from you, I almost feel guilty for not demanding more in return. Try to keep your wits about you, will you? It’d be a shame if our negotiations were cut short because you keeled over from sheer appreciation. 

Speaking of—the High Lords’ meeting next week seems as good a place as any to finalize our discussions. I doubt we’re the only ones eager to put this matter to rest. 

Let me know if I should move your place card beside mine. 

Yours, Rhysand

P.S. The rumors would not be baseless.

P.P.S. I’ll see about officially changing them to High Lords’ & Ladies’ Meetings. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The marble gleamed gold beneath the afternoon sun, intricate carvings twisting along each column of the Day Court’s grand hall. Sunlight spilled through arched windows, catching on the etching along the ceiling—everywhere you looked, there was radiance, warmth. But the mood within the room was anything but bright. 

Tamlin and Tarquin were already at it. 

“I don’t give a damn what your scholars have said,” Tamlin bit out, his fingers curled into the polished wood of the table. “Your dam project diverts water away from the Riverlands, which directly impacts all of—”

Tarquin exhaled sharply, leaning back in his chair. “You mean it impacts Spring. The other Courts seem perfectly content with—”

The argument barely cut through the layered hum of conversation. The hall was packed—High Lords, High Ladies, emissaries, and advisors all seated along the sprawling table or just behind the leaders of their court, quiet but watchful. Courtiers lingered at the edges of the chamber, murmuring among themselves. Further down the table, the room had splintered into smaller conversations, hushed discussions carried between tilted heads and subtle glances. Viviane murmured something to her counterpart in Autumn, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass. Eris murmured something low enough that only Azriel could hear. Whatever it was made the shadowsinger’s mouth curl. Some spoke of alliances, of shifting borders and trade disputes, while others engaged in idle pleasantries, weighing their words with careful calculation. 

You hadn’t spoken to each other yet. Hadn’t needed to. But his attention settled over you all the same, a quiet pressure against the edges of your awareness. 

Rhysand lounged beside you, one arm slung over the back of his chair, fingers drumming idly against the carved wood. His expression was the perfect mask of boredom, his violet eyes sweeping the table as if merely observing, gathering. 

But each time you spoke, each time your voice wove into the discussion, something in him tensed. Not noticeably, not even in a way you could explain, but you felt it. The way his fingers stilled against the chair, the way his head tilted just slightly. 

Your place card was, in fact, next to his.

You hadn’t asked him to move it. Hadn’t responded to that letter of his.

You’d gone to read it, expecting nothing more than the usual formalities, maybe a carefully chosen turn of phrase or two. But the first page had barely contained a paragraph, just a handful of neatly penned lines before cutting off entirely. You’d frowned, turning it over, checking for more—only to find the second page clinging to the back.

The moment you saw it, you realized the second page wasn’t part of the letter. Not officially. 

The stray notes scrawled in the margins, phrases crossed out and rewritten, thoughts scattered between lines of unfinished sentences. Lists, reminders—half a to-do list squeezed into one corner, a set of numbers you didn’t recognize. And then, amid all of it, a letter. A real one. One that had never been meant to leave his desk. 

The handwriting was messier, less composed, as if written in haste. He hadn’t redrafted it. Hadn’t refined the words or arranged them carefully. It was raw. Unpolished. And as you read, a slow, twisting pressure built in your chest. 

You still didn’t know what to do with any of it. 

So you did what you always did: you kept your expression unreadable, smoothed down the silk of your sleeves, and shifted just enough to let yourself feel the weight of his attention. 

You’d chosen your dress carefully. The rich midnight blue of Dusk, the embroidery catching faintly in the afternoon light, shifting between silver and violet in the right angles. The fabric was sheer in places, opaque in others, with delicate beading that traced the bodice and sleeves like constellations. The silhouette was deceptively simple, fitted through the torso before cascading in effortless folds, pooling slightly where you sat. Your jewelry was understated—a bracelet of woven platinum and black diamonds, earrings and a necklace to match. But the tiara was another thing entirely. 

Dusk’s coronet was a thing of starlight and shadow, its intricate metalwork impossibly delicate yet undeniably strong. Bands of dark silver twisted together, slender but unyielding, their curves resembling the arms of a crescent moon. Small gems were inlaid at precise points, catching the light like scattered stars, a constellation mapped in precious stone. At its center, the design wove into an intricate lattice, almost imperceptible unless one looked closely—a reminder, woven into its very structure, that not everything of Dusk could be seen at a glance. 

Still, there was business to be done. 

“The borders between Dusk and Night remain unchanged,” you said when the conversation made its way to you. Your voice was even, measured. “The western face of Ramiel remains under Dusk’s jurisdiction, but the Illyrians retain access for the Blood Rite.” 

There was a beat of silence. Agreement, consideration. 

Then from beside you—

“My Court shares access to the Prison,” Rhysand said smoothly. “And as long as there are no tariffs imposed on the Night Court, trade will resume with Velaris at Dusk’s discretion.”

He didn’t look at you when he said it. His voice was cool, each word delivered with the sharp precision of someone well-versed in negotiation. Nothing in his tone hinted at the letters he’d sent—not the formal, measured ones at the start, but the later ones, where the careful mask had begun to slip. Where the words had become… something else. 

You weren’t sure what unsettled you most—the contrast, the deal, or the fact that, beneath all of it, you still hadn’t decided how to act on that letter. 

“That brings us to trade,” you continued, your gaze sweeping the table. “After lengthy discussions, the Solar Courts have reached an agreement regarding our eastern waters.”

A ripple of interest passed through the room. Some leaned forward slightly, others tipped their heads, listening. Across from you, Helion and Thesan exchanged glances with you and Rhysand—subtle, knowing. 

“Only the Solar Courts may conduct trade with one another through the eastern waters,” you announced evenly. “Any trade between the Seasonal and Solar Courts must be conducted through land or the western waters.”

The statement settled like a stone in the room’s collective understanding. 

Tamlin, Tarquin, and Kallias looked largely unbothered. The arrangement changed little for them—they had ample access to the western coast of Prythian and had conducted most of their trade through those routes already. 

But Beron. 

You turned your attention to him then, the barest trace of a polite smile tugging at your lips. 

“Surely, you all understand the desire to avoid unnecessary hassle,” you mused lightly, watching as the realization sank in. 

Autumn had no western coastline. No direct route to the western waters. Which meant Beron’s merchants would now be forced to transport goods through other courts to access those trade routes—incurring delays, additional taxes, and the general headache of relying on the goodwill of neighboring courts. 

Beron’s jaw tensed. His fingers flexed slightly where they rested against the table, and though his face remained carefully neutral, you caught the flicker of something sharp in his eyes. 

A quiet hum of approval came from Helion, his grin barely restrained. Tarquin exhaled a soft chuckle, though he masked it with a sip of wine. Even Kallias looked vaguely entertained, his cool blue stare flicking toward Beron before settling back on you. 

Rhysand, however—

Your peripheral vision caught the slightest tilt of his head. The slow, deliberate tap of his fingers against the arm of his chair. But it was the glint in his violet eyes that held your attention, the way his lips parted just slightly, as if he might say something. It seemed you’d surprised him. 

You smoothed an idle hand over your skirts and said simply, “This arrangement best serves the Dusk Court’s interests.”

And you settled back in your chair, your expression unreadable, the matter closed. 

The meeting stretched on for another few hours, dragging through the usual political pretense, minor disputes, and long-winded proposals that wore your patience thin. Rhysand, ever the picture of relaxed authority, lounged in his chair as though he hadn’t a single concern in the world. But every so often, when some lord made a particularly absurd suggestion, his gaze would flick toward you—dry, incredulous, as if waiting to see if you’d heard the same nonsense he had. 

When it finally ended, the room shifted from rigid diplomacy to something looser, easier. Wine flowed, platters of food were brought in, and the stiff atmosphere gave way to quiet chatter, laughter, the clinking of glasses across the grand table. 

You turned to Rhysand, leaning slightly toward him as you picked up the thread of conversation from the meeting. “Don’t think I didn’t notice you trying to guide the negotiations with Kallias in your favor,” you said, voice smooth. 

He exhaled a soft laugh, setting down his glass. “You wound me, (y/n). I did nothing of the sort.”

Your brows raised. “Mmm. You’re insufferable when you lie.”

“I wouldn’t know. I don’t do it often.” His eyes glittered with that infuriating look, the one that made you want to roll your eyes—or perhaps throw your glass at him, just to see if he’d still be smirking afterward. 

You huffed a quiet laugh. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t. Lying is a delicate art. You, Rhysand, are a hammer.”

His brows lifted slightly, amusement flickering in those violet eyes. “And yet, I always seem to get the job done.”

“Blunt force trauma has its uses, I suppose.”

That earned you a low chuckle, the sound curling through your spine. Before you could savor your victory, he glanced over his shoulder, scanning the room. “I believe they’ve got Eastgate Ruby here somewhere. I requested it—for your sake, of course. I’d hate for you to suffer the effects of withdrawal.”

You exhaled a sharp laugh. “How thoughtful. I assume you’ll be the one administering the cure?”

Rhysand’s grin was slow and wicked as he stood from his seat and reached for your chair, pulling it back with an easy grace. “It’s the least I can do.”

You didn’t move at first, just arched a brow at the gesture. He only held out a hand, expectant. 

When you finally slid your fingers into his, his grip was warm, steady. He helped you up with an ease that felt almost practiced. 

You gave him a look. “Chivalry, Rhysand? Really?”

“I’m not uneducated, (y/n),” he murmured, the edge of his thumb brushing against your knuckles before he released your hand. “I do know how to treat a lady.”

“And yet, I remain unconvinced,” you replied dryly.

His smirk deepened, but he said nothing. 

The two of you strolled toward the side of the room, the low hum of conversation filling the space between you. For a fleeting moment, it almost felt civil—but then Rhysand tilted his head slightly, considering you. And you wondered, fleetingly, if he was thinking about you the way he claimed to in that letter. If his mind lingered on the words he’d written, just as yours had. 

“I have to admit,” he mused, “I’m impressed with how you handled Beron.”

You shot him a sideways glance. “Are you?”

“I know people who’ve sat at this table far longer and wouldn’t dare speak to him like that,” he said, pouring wine into both of your glasses. “I suspect you may have even rattled him.”

A slow, satisfied smile curled at your lips. “Good.”

His gaze flicked toward you, unreadable. “Good,” he echoed softly. 

You took a sip of your drink, then tilted your head. “I’ll admit, your advice was… helpful. As was your agreement to reroute your Seasonal Court imports through Dusk.”

Rhysand let out a hum of acknowledgement. 

“But,” you added, “I don’t recall asking for it.”

His lips twitched. “Oh, forgive me. I should have realized that underneath all the pitiful complaints about the other Lords, you were just waiting for an excuse to take his head off.”

“Precisely.”

Rhysand chuckled, shaking his head. Then, after a moment, his tone turned deceptively light. “Speaking of being offended—imagine my surprise when I wrote to you and received no reply.”

You merely blinked at him. “A tragedy.”

“Indeed.” He took a slow sip of his wine. “So, I took it upon myself to move your place card.”

You gave him a look. “That explains the seating arrangements.”

His smirk was nothing short of wicked. “Did you really expect me to let you sit anywhere else? Besides, you were originally meant to be seated next to Beron. I imagine you wouldn’t have spoken quite so freely had you been within arm’s reach of his fire. 

You huffed a quiet laugh, swirling the wine in your glass. “You assume so much, Rhysand. Maybe I would have enjoyed the warmth.”

His brows raised slightly. “Oh? Should I tell him he missed an opportunity?”

You gave him a pointed look before taking a slow sip, letting the dry sweetness of the wine sit on your tongue. Then, with deliberate ease, you murmured, “I prefer a more tempered heat. The kind that lingers, burns slow.”

His grip on his glass tightened—just slightly.

But he didn’t rise to it. Not yet.

The conversation wove effortlessly between sharp-witted remarks and veiled barbs, the hum of the room growing livelier as tensions fully eased. The air felt lighter, laughter ringing out across the space, and for once, there was no pressing matter to discuss. So you let yourself settle into it—just a little. 

Rhysand, too, seemed comfortable, the usual sharp edge of his presence dulled by wine and something more elusive. A sense of ease, perhaps, though it didn’t stop him from watching you carefully over the rim of his glass. 

“I must admit,” you said idly, swirling your wine, “I expected Adriata to be a far greater distraction than it was.”

He hummed. “Did you?”

You nodded, tilting your head ever so slightly. “I thought the festivities would be enough to hold my attention but… I was proven wrong.”

The words were casual—innocent, even—but something flickered across Rhysand’s expression, so brief you might have imagined it. He only chuckled, eyes glinting in the light of the setting sun. “Tragic. Was it boredom, then, that drove you to linger?”

You leaned against the wall, crossing one ankle in front of the other. “I wouldn’t say boredom. More like—” your fingers trailed along the stem of your glass, “—an unexpected tether.”

That time, you were sure you saw it—the way his fingers paused against the base of his own glass, how his posture remained utterly poised save for the slight shift of his jaw. But he recovered quickly, that ever-composed mask slipping easily back into place. With a quiet, breathy laugh, he tipped his head slightly, eyes briefly shutting as he exhaled through his nose—the kind of laugh meant to brush something off. 

You knew that laugh. You knew it well. 

It sent a slow thrill curling through your chest. 

He drained his glass and set it down. “You’re in rare form tonight, (y/n).”

You feigned innocence. “Am I?”

Rhysand only looked at you, an unreadable half-smile playing at his lips. The silence between you stretched, tension coiling beneath it, but then the conversation carried on—seamless, effortless, that undercurrent still thrumming between you both. 

It wasn’t until later, after another glass of Eastgate Ruby each, when the moment felt right, that you finally struck.

“Tell me,” you mused, leaning in slightly. “Do you ever think back to Adriata?”

Rhysand stilled—just for a fraction of a second. 

Then, as if nothing had happened, he set his empty glass down with a quiet clink. “Fondly,” he said smoothly. “Why do you ask?”

You only smiled. “Oh, I was just wondering—if you make a habit of spending your nights consumed by thoughts of me.”

That time, he definitely froze. It was brief, but it was there—the faintest hitch in his breath, the subtle clench of his jaw. 

And gods, you could see it, the way his mind must have been racing, trying to determine how you were able to see straight through him. 

Then, slowly, his smirk returned—lazy, measured, meant to convey utter indifference. He exhaled, almost pitying. “Really, (y/n), all this just to get my attention? You could have saved yourself the trouble, darling.”

You hummed, unimpressed. “Is that what you think this is?”

“An obvious bid for my affections? Yes, I’m afraid so.”

You exhaled, shaking your head. “Gods, Rhysand. You must really enjoy the sound of your own voice.”

“Say it, (y/n),” he teased, voice a near-mocking whisper. “Go on. Say it.”

“Oh, I’ll say something.” With a flick of your wrist, a small, folded parchment materialized between your middle and forefingers. You held it out to him, watching as his smirk faltered ever so slightly. 

He eyed the paper, then shot you a dry, unimpressed look. “What’s this?”

You didn’t take your eyes off his. “Read it.”

He scoffed, plucking it from your fingers with a lazy flick of his own. “If this is a declaration of your love,” he said, unfolding the paper, “I’m sorry to say I’ll have to decli—”

He went silent. 

You watched the exact moment realization struck. How his mouth parted just slightly, how his posture stiffened, fingers tightening around the parchment. 

The letter. 

His letter.

✦ — — — — ✦ — — — — ✦

roses           mirabilis candles Eastgate Ruby!!! violin serenade?           string quartet.                    6 - 2 -2 -1

To the relentless archivist of my supposed delusions, High Lady of the Dusk Court

             (y/n)            Dearest (y/n)           My Dearest (y/n)           My Dearest, (y/n)                            My (y/n)

To the relentless scholar of my every flaw, whose thoroughness borders on devotion, High Lady of the Dusk Court, 

        “burden of leadership clouded your judgment?” Insufferable, Rhys? Sexist, even? I think so. I thi—why the fuck did I send that   High Lady, do you ever stop scheming?

(y/n) of Dusk.               High Lady (y/n)          (y/n) (y/n) (y/n) (y/n), High Lady of the Night Court       (y/n)       Why can’t     I   write (y/n) properly…. (y/n)...

To the incomparable, unparalleled High Lady of Dusk,Arriving in Adriata, I’d presumed the festivities would be the distraction. Yet, as usual, you managed to prove me wrong. Your presence, always commanding, kept me tethered to that place far longer than necessary, though I suppose there are worse ways to spend one's time. 

            Find better excuse to avoid bets with Az… You always lose.                      looked godsdamned good today. Fuck that dress.     

That dress—fuck. I could hardly believe you had the nerve to wear it. Of course, you couldn’t have known how impossible it would be for me to focus on anything but the way it clung to your body. But it was your eyes, the way they met mine with that knowing gleam, that reminded me why I can’t entertain these thoughts. And gods, when you leaned forward—deliberately, no doubt—I had to force myself to remember that there were other matters at hand. That I had a court to oversee, another war to stave off, and yet—yet—all I could think of was the way your body moved.   Send Amren report. Or don’t. Let her stew.                      Draft something strong for Beron. Or just set him on fire.        37690 And your lips. The way you licked the wine off of them, tempting me to be the one to trace them with my own. I should have been horrified, or at the very least, unnerved enough to turn away, but instead, I found myself imagining what it would be like to kiss you, to pull you close, to feel you press against me, hard, and feel that warmth only you seem to emit. 

                                        ^What would you taste like, sound like And then I could not shake the image. That night, in Adriata, it was as if you knew. Every movement of yours, every glance, every gesture, it felt like you were feeding the very thoughts I dared not admit to myself.                           Pen test.. .  .  .

I spent the rest of the night consumed by you. By the memory of your body, the way you moved, the way you tensed when our eyes met. I couldn’t stop picturing it—your fingers digging into the sheets, your mouth parted, breathless, wrecked. The way you’d sound with my name on your tongue, desperate, ruined. I fisted my cock for hours that night to the thought of you. But it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t you. My grip, my own touch—pale imitations of what I craved. I wanted those delicate hands you offered, your body beneath mine, shattering for me. I wanted to hear it, the little sounds you’d make, the way you’d gasp as I buried myself in you. 

I bit out your name into the dark, over and over, as if saying it aloud might summon you. Might let me taste you, feel you. Might let me have you the way I wanted.                       985    87396                  696543I’m reminded of a night many years ago, one I’d rather forget. The war camp. The way the rain had turned dirt to sludge beneath our boots, the way the air reeked of steel and blood and something burnt. Our magic was drained. The battle had gone on too long, had stripped us of our elegance, our strategy. And there was only raw will left—yours against mine, fury against fury. You struck first. Your blade hissed past my ribs, slicing through my leathers, leaving a gash in my skin. I don’t even think you meant to miss. 

I threw you into the mud, pinned you there. You fought like an animal, snarling, kicking, teeth bared as if you would sink them into my throat given the chance. And for a moment—for a sickening, electrified moment—I wanted nothing more than to break you. To press you into the dirt until you yielded, until you spat out my name with a curse and finally, finally, it would be over. 

I hated you then. Hated you. 

And yet—when I lay alone in my tent, it was not the war I relived, not the blood or the near-miss of your blade. No, it was you. The heat of you against me, the way your body had fit against mine even in our struggle. The wild, frenzied way you fought, like a storm given flesh. I thought of you pressed against me in the mud, of the way your breath had mingled with mine, the way my body responded to yours despite everything, despite knowing you would have killed me just as easily as I would have killed you. 

I dealt with it that night the same way I dealt with it after Adriata. Even then, I couldn’t explain it. I should have wanted to hate you.                 You can’t fault me for finding familiarity in beautiful                 things? It seems I'm beginning to grow on you.          Infatuated, obsessed, besotted No, I couldn’t help it. Every time you glanced at me, every time you spoke, I could feel that pull. And when you left, I won’t lie, I was relieved. You were leaving before I did something monumentally reckless. But don’t for a moment think I wasn’t wishing for a different outcome.  

The matter at hand remains. Perhaps, next time, if you find yourself at my side again, I can be of service to you in a more personal way. 

Consider it, my lady. 

Eternally at your feet, if only you’d let me,                Bound to you in ways I have no right to claim,      Yours, in every way I shouldn’t be,

Yours, Rhysand hair gel ear plugs cufflinks assorted chocolates an apple (for balancing the chocolate)

✦ — — — — ✦ — — — — ✦

Rhysand exhaled sharply through his nose, his expression shifting into something between incredulity and resignation. Then, slowly, he looked up at you. 

You only sipped your wine, waiting. 

For the first time since you’d known him, Rhysand had nothing to say. It was a rare thing, to see the High Lord of the Night Court like this. Unmasked. Uncomposed. 

“What’s wrong?” you murmured, tilting your head ever so slightly. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

His jaw worked , muscles tightening, and you swore you saw the flicker of something else. A sliver of vulnerability, gone as quickly as it appeared. 

Then he exhaled, long and slow, the sound almost amused. “And here I thought you lacked a sense of humor.”

You merely hummed, watching him, your patience infinite. You wouldn’t grant him an out so easily. 

Carefully, deliberately, he folded the letter, pocketing it. “How, exactly, did you come by this?”

“Oh, Rhysand,” you purred, feigning sympathy. “Would it wound you further to know that I didn’t have to try very hard?”

His gaze darkened, sharp as a blade. “You couldn’t have rifled through my things…”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you said smoothly. “It was sent to me. By accident I assume, considering the look on your face.”

Silence. A long, stretched moment of it.

Then, at last, he smirked—but it was different now. Subtler. Wry. “I’m touched,” he murmured. “You kept it.”

You let your lips curve just slightly. “Of course. I’d be an idiot not to.”

A quiet hum left him, his violet gaze tracing your face, searching for something—perhaps for any sign of what you truly wanted from this. But you gave him nothing. 

Rhysand’s tongue ran over his teeth, considering you. Then, without warning, he laughed. Low, quiet, a thing of disbelief and wicked amusement all at once. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”

You leaned in, voice a whisper against the space between you. “I can’t help it. You’re so much more fun when you lose.”

Rhysand exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head again as though you were impossible. “You think this is a loss?”

You only smiled. “I think you should choose your next words carefully.”

He let out a quiet, humorless laugh before pinning you with a look so cutting it nearly stole your breath. But there was no true bite behind it. No sharp edges—only something molten, something simmering. His voice, when it came, was soft. Dangerous. “Tell me, my lady—do you make a habit of inciting war in the middle of a crowded room?”

You only smiled. “I prefer my battles to be fought in private.”

His pupils flared.

It was all you needed. 

You turned without another word, setting your glass down as you slipped through the crowd. You didn’t have to look back to know he would follow. You felt it—that tether pulling tight, that unrelenting weight of his gaze pressing into your spine as you wove through the bodies, effortless, deliberate. 

You led him out of the hall, past the open archways leading to the moonlit balcony, past the guards stationed at the entrance. Only when you reached the dimly lit corridor beyond did you glance over your shoulder. 

Rhysand was already there. Already close. 

You barely had a second to register it before he was moving. And then… gods.

Then you were pressed up against the cool stone wall, his body caging yours in, his hands braced on either side of you. He wasn’t touching you. Not yet. But his scent wrapped around you, intoxicating, dark and rich, and when he leaned in just slightly, his breath fanning against your cheek, your entire body tightened. 

A pause. A deliberate, torturous moment where neither of you moved, where the space between you became razor-thin, humming with something volatile. His head dipped, his lips hovering near the corner of your mouth, as if he could taste your breath, as if he was considering closing that final inch. 

Then, lower. A shift, a slow drag of heat down the line of your jaw, until his mouth hovered near the hollow of your throat. Not touching. Not yet. 

His breath was steady, infuriatingly controlled. “Was this your plan all along?” he murmured, so soft it was almost a whisper. 

Then he lifted his head, the movement slow, measured. When your eyes met, you saw it—the strand of midnight hair falling across his brow, the way his gaze flicked over your face, dark and searching. The sharp cut of his cheekbones, the slight part of his lips, as if he were only just remembering to breathe. 

Your fingers twitched at your sides. Gods, this close, he was—No. You shoved the thought away, locking onto his stare instead. 

“If you’re asking whether I planned for you to humiliate yourself tonight,” you said at last, “then yes.”

A quiet, dangerous laugh. His body didn’t move, but the sound of it wrapped around you, coiling tight in your stomach. “And yet,” he mused, “you’re the one against the wall.”

Your heart was a war drum in your chest. “I led you here, didn’t I?”

Something flickered in his expression, something deep and molten that sent a sharp pulse of heat straight to your core. And then, faster than you could react, his hands were no longer braced against the wall. Fingers brushed your hips, featherlight. A test. A warning.

Then his grip tightened. A firm, possessive press as he pinned you, properly now, his body a wall of heat against yours. His hands dragged up until his thumbs skimmed the barest sliver of exposed skin between the fabric of your dress and the curve of your waist. 

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t let it slip, didn’t let him see how the warmth of his hands against your skin sent heat curling low in your stomach. But he felt the way your ribs expanded with a sharp inhale you couldn’t quite control.  And he liked it. You could see it in the way his smirk softened into something lazier and edged with indulgence. Like he was savoring this. Savoring you. 

Your fingers twitched at your sides, itching to move. 

So you did. 

You let your hands drift upward, skimming over the muscle of his forearms, his shoulders. You weren’t gentle. Your nails scraped against the fabric of his jacket, dragging just hard enough to make him feel it. You weren’t going to stand there and let him have the upper hand. 

Rhysand stilled, just for a second, a breath caught between his teeth.  “Careful, (y/n). You’re starting to seem a little desperate.”

You looked up at him through your lashes. “That’s rich, coming from a male who’s been standing here breathing down my neck instead of doing something about it.”

A flicker of something dark in his eyes. His fingers flexed against your waist, his thumbs pressing in, dragging ever so slightly along the curve of your hips. Not enough, never enough. And you wanted to see how far he’d let you go before he snapped. 

You rolled your neck with a sigh, all patience and unbothered amusement. “Surely you don’t need me to spell it out for you,” you mused, voice just shy of mocking. “Not when you so generously did so for me.”

Rhysand exhaled sharply through his nose, something between a laugh and a warning. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re predictable.” You dragged your hands down, fingers skimming the hard places of his chest, settling just at the lapels of his jacket. Your nails caught the fabric, a teasing little pull. “Always talking. Always circling. But when it comes down to it, you—”

A sharp inhale from you, which made his hands tighten. 

You smiled, slow and wicked. “You hesitate.”

And whatever tenuous thread of restraint was holding him together snapped. 

It happened too fast for you to do anything but gasp as Rhysand surged forward at the same time you yanked him down. A collision of heat and breath and hands grasping, dragging, pulling. His mouth was on yours, fierce, consuming, and you met him with equal fire, teeth clashing, nails digging in, every ounce of restraint gone. 

His hands were everywhere—on your hips, at your back, tangling in your hair as he pressed you further into the stone. His lips moved against yours like he meant to ruin you, and you let him, let him take because you were taking just as much, matching every rough kiss, every sharp inhale, every fevered touch. 

Your hands fisted in the front of his jacket, yanking him closer even as you arched against the press of his body. His answering growl sent a sharp thrill down your spine. 

“See?” you breathed against his lips. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

His teeth scraped against your bottom lip before he bit down, just enough to make you gasp. “Hard,” he growled, “isn’t the problem.”

Heat flooded your cheeks—not from embarrassment, never that, but from the way he pressed against you in proof of his words. 

You dragged your fingers down his chest, slow, teasing, until you reached the buckle of his belt. A light touch, the barest flick of your fingers against the leather. “I almost feel sorry for you.”

Rhysand dipped his head with a low chuckle, pressing his mouth to the curve of your throat. “And here I thought we were past pretending.” His hands were doing their own exploration, fingers tracing the curves of your waist and hips before skimming lower, his grip firm, insistent, like he was committing the shape of you to memory. 

You sighed, letting your head fall back against the wall, only to jerk it forward a moment later when you heard footsteps echoing down the corridor. But Rhysand didn’t move. He didn’t even lift his head, only kept pressing slow kisses along your throat. 

You scowled, pressing your palm against his chest. “Someone’s coming.”

“Mm.” His lips brushed the shell of your ear. “So will you, if you’d stop interrupting me.”

You shoved him, but he barely budged, only laughing quietly as he nipped at your jaw. “Rhysand,” you hissed, your breath uneven. “They’ll hear us.”

He pressed his hips against yours. “Let them.”

You almost choked. “You’re insufferable.”

He grinned, all wicked teeth. “And you’re loud. But lucky for you…” His fingers skimmed your spine, sending a shiver straight through you. “I have a solution for that.”

And before you could say another word, darkness curled around you both, swallowing the hallway, the stone wall, the distant sound of footsteps—

And then, you were somewhere else. The air was warmer here, laced with the scent of citrus and jasmine. 

You looked at your surroundings. Velvet sheets, intricately carved furniture, and an unmistakable large, luxurious bed. From beyond the balcony, the distant murmur of the Day Court’s nightlife carried through the air. 

Your lips parted as you took it all in, realization creeping over you. 

He’d winnowed you straight into his bedroom. 

You turned your head sharply, meeting his gaze. “This,” you said, voice rich with disbelief, “was your solution?”

He only grinned, unrepentant. “Would you have preferred I left you there? So you could step out, all flushed and breathless, and explain to whoever came wandering that your hair isn’t a mess, your lipstick isn’t smudged, and that your dress has absolutely been this rumpled all day?”

Your glare was sharp enough to cut. “I would’ve managed.”

Rhysand hummed, clearly unconvinced. “I don’t doubt it. You always do. Though I can’t say I’m not enjoying this alternative.”

You exhaled sharply through your nose. “What, dragging me into your room so you can avoid being caught acting like a depraved bastard in a public corridor?”

He clicked his tongue. “And here I thought you appreciated efficiency.”

You rolled your eyes, but the effect was somewhat ruined when he reached for you again, his fingers gripping the curve of your waist. “Besides,” he murmured, dipping his head, “if you were truly so scandalized, you wouldn’t still be standing here.”

Your lips parted, a sharp retort forming—only for it to dissolve as he kissed you again, stealing the words straight from your tongue. 

It was different now. Less reckless, more intent. Like he was savoring the feel of you, like he knew how to dismantle every bit of your composure. His hands dragged down your back, gathering the fabric of your dress, pulling you flush against him. Clothes vanished between desperate, grasping hands. His jacket went just fine, the thud of it hitting the floor soon followed by the quiet, unmistakable sound of your tiara slipping from your hair, landing in a delicate clatter of metal against stone. His shirt had been the first casualty, though. Your fingers tore at the buttons, sending a few flying before you shoved the ruined thing from his shoulders. His hands weren’t much kinder to your dress, the delicate clasps at your back coming undone with infuriating ease, the fabric pooling at your feet. 

You found yourself pressed down onto the edge of the bed, his body still caging yours in. You propped yourself up on your elbows, watching him through heavy-lidded eyes. He stood before you now, bare-chested, his hands moving to the fastening of your heels. 

Your breath caught, though you’d die before admitting why. The way his fingers brushed against your ankle, the slowness with which he undid the first clasp—it was infuriating. And the entire time, he held your gaze, eyes dark and intent. 

You exhaled, leveling him with a look. “Strange, for a male so fond of his dramatics to feign chivalry.”

The corner of his mouth lifted, but he didn’t take the bait. Instead, he finished undoing the strap and slid the shoe from your foot, his fingers pressing into your calf as he set it aside. “Can’t a male show some courtesy?” He shifted his attention to the other. 

You arched a brow. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

“I could always leave them on, if you’d prefer.”

Your eyes flicked to the heel still dangling from your foot, then back to him. Slowly, you lifted your leg, pressing the pointed toe just beneath his ribs, applying the barest hint of pressure. 

“I think,” you mused, “you just want an excuse to be on your knees for me.”

His pupils flared. “Oh, darling,” he purred, fingers wrapping around your ankle as he tugged the shoe free, tossing it carelessly behind him. “If you wanted me on my knees, all you had to do was ask.” Then his grip shifted as he pushed your legs apart. 

The sight of him there, settled between your legs, dark and utterly unrepentant, sent a sharp pulse of arousal straight through you. You barely had time to work through the implications of that before his mouth was on you. 

A sharp gasp tore from your lips as he mouthed over the thin scrap of lace still covering you, heat and pressure teasing, tormenting. His tongue pressed against the damp fabric, moving in slow, devastating circles, tasting you through it, his grip keeping your thighs spread as you instinctively tried to move. 

“Fuck,” you breathed, fingers curling into the sheets beneath you. 

“So soon?” he murmured, pressing another kiss to the soft heat of you through your underwear. “I know I’m irresistible, but I thought you’d at least try to play hard to get.”

A retort formed on your tongue, something sharp and scathing, but it died the moment he hooked his fingers beneath the waistband of your underwear and pulled them down. His mouth followed the movement, his breath hot against your skin, and you shivered, unable to stop the anticipation that spiraled low in your stomach. The soft drag of his lips against your inner thigh had you clenching the sheets, the heat building inside you before he’d even touched you properly.

He took his time, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your thigh, making your breath catch. The lace of your underwear was dragged down the rest of the way, and your body tensed, the slow movement of his hands almost maddening in its gentleness. Your eyes fluttered shut, and before you could make a sound to make your frustration known, he was there—his mouth, warm and wet, pressing against your skin, tasting you slowly. 

A breathless gasp escaped you, your hips instinctively trying to press closer to him as his tongue moved over you, teasing and tender at first. He wasn’t in a rush. Each flick of his tongue, each press of his lips, felt like it stretched on for eternity, drawing out the pleasure until it became a slow, aching burn. His grip on your hips tightened as he angled himself better, his movements becoming firmer, more purposeful. 

The heat in you intensified, the building pressure almost unbearable as his tongue worked you, flicking and teasing at just the right moments, just the right way. You could feel your body growing more desperate, each brush of his lips drawing out a soft moan from deep within you. His hands dug into your hips, holding you steady as he devoured you like a male starved. 

You fisted the sheets beneath you, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer as if you could bring him even deeper into you. The pressure was tight and unyielding, but still, he took his time, savoring you as if he had all the time in the world.

“Gods,” Rhysand groaned against you, the sound vibrating through your body and sending a shudder down your spine. “I could get drunk off you.” His voice was thick, dark with something near reverence as he pressed another slow, deep kiss to you.

A sharp tug to his hair was the only response you could manage, desperate now. His only response was a low hum, the sound reverberating against you as he doubled his efforts—his tongue pressing deeper, more insistent. 

The pleasure was unbearable now. Every movement, every stroke of his tongue, pulled you closer and closer to the edge. You were trembling beneath him, your fingers scraping at the sheets, your body writhing.  

His voice was a dark whisper against your skin. “Come for me,” he said, and it wasn’t a request. 

And when he sucked that sensitive, aching part of you into his mouth, it was like the world exploded. The coil inside you snapped, and you shattered, your back arching off the bed, a strangled cry escaping your lips as wave after wave of intense pleasure crashed over you. You felt like you were drowning in it, unable to breathe, unable to think—just lost in the feeling of him. 

Because he didn’t pull away immediately. No, he lingered, his mouth working slowly, indulgently over you as you trembled beneath him, trying to ride out the aftershocks. His lips glistened with you as he finally pulled away, his pupils blown, a wicked satisfaction playing across his features. 

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, but his gaze never left you, taking in the way your body still trembled, the way your breath came in ragged gasps. “You taste like heaven,” he murmured as he leaned down to press lingering kisses to your inner thigh, as though savoring the aftermath of what he’d just done. 

Your breath still came fast, chest rising and falling in uneven bursts, but as the haze of pleasure began to clear, your focus settled elsewhere. You propped yourself up on your elbows, the movement slow and shaky as your gaze tracked lower, and you couldn’t tear your eyes away. Rhysand was still kneeling between your legs, his hands braced against your thighs, but your attention dropped to the front of his pants—where he was still painfully, achingly hard, the outline of him straining against the fabric. 

Your lips parted slightly, and the barest flicker of amusement crossed his face as he followed your gaze. 

“Oh?” he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction. “Are you finally taking pity on me?”

You said nothing, just arched a brow and let your eyes drift back down again, pointed. 

A low sound slipped from his throat, rough at the edges, as he stood to toe off his shoes, then his socks, before finally working the buttons of his pants. His fingers were deft, practiced, and within moments, he was shoving the fabric down his hips, taking his underwear with it. 

And gods.

Your breath hitched at the sight of him—thick and heavy, the flushed head already leaking, the sheer size of him reigniting the heat in your core. Your mouth went dry, then immediately watered. 

He must have noticed, because his lips curved—lazy, smug, as if he could already hear the thoughts racing through your head. But he didn’t comment on it. Instead, he wrapped a hand around himself, gave himself a few slow pumps, and exhaled roughly through his nose. 

“Strange,” he mused, voice like silk. “I don’t recall you ever being this quiet.”

You dragged your gaze back up to his, leveling him with a look even as warmth licked at your skin. 

“Savor it while you can,” you muttered.

“Oh, I’d actually prefer you be loud.”

His hand left himself, and in the next breath, he was reaching for you. His touch was firm but unhurried as he guided you further up the bed, his palms skating over your skin, coaxing you into the pillows. The mattress sipped as he followed, settling between your legs, his body radiating heat against yours. Then his fingers found the clasp of your bra, undoing it with one deft flick. The straps slipped down your arms, the fabric falling away, but he didn’t move to touch. Just looked. Took his time. The hunger in his eyes was palpable, the weight of it pressing heat into your skin. The intensity of it made warmth crawl up your throat, but you held his gaze, refusing to be the first to break. 

But as the seconds stretched, a thought coiled through you, unbidden. The words from his letter ghosted through your mind, teasing, taunting. He’d imagined this before. Imagined you. 

Your heart stuttered as the realization settled fully in your bones. 

Because when he looked at you now, he wasn’t just seeing you. He was seeing every thought he’d already had—every fantasy he’d already spun in that scheming, insufferable mind of his. You could almost feel it in the way his gaze traced over you, in the way his chest rose and fell, in the way his fingers flexed as if resisting the urge to reach for you. 

What you would taste like, sound like—

The way you’d sound with my name on your tongue, desperate, ruined. 

A slow, satisfied smile curled your lips. You wondered if you were anything like what he’d imagined. If you matched the image he’d conjured those nights alone, all those moments he’d spent thinking of you when he shouldn’t have. 

Then his grip tightened on his cock, just slightly. He gave one more slow pump before lining himself up against you. And then, barely above a whisper—

“Tell me to stop.” His eyes bore into yours. 

You could. 

You should. 

But instead, your hips tilted ever so slightly forward—an invitation, a challenge. 

And Rhysand, the bastard, took it. 

A sharp inhale left him as he pushed forward, sinking into you with a reverence that sent a shiver down your spine. His head tipped back slightly, lips parting on a groan, and gods—just the sight of it, the way his chest heaved, the way his fingers dug into your hips as if grounding himself, sent a slow, molten ache unfurling through you. 

He stretched you in a way that had your nails biting into his arms. His gaze snapped to yours as if he felt it too—that unbearable, perfect tension wound so tight between you. He bottomed out, holding there for a moment, his jaw clenched, the muscle feathering in restraint. 

Then his grip tightened. And he moved. 

A slow, dragging pull before thrusting back in, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your body arched into him, a choked sound escaping before you could swallow it down. The answering smirk that flickered across his face was nearly as infuriating as it was devastating. 

“Oh, you can do better than that,” he murmured, punctuating the words with another deep thrust, the movement sending a delicious shockwave through you. Your fingers found purchase in his shoulders, nails raking down his back, but it only made him groan, his pace quickening as he leaned in, his breath ghosting over your lips. 

“Much better,” he praised, voice rough. “But I want to hear you.”

As if to prove his point, his hand skated down your thigh, hitching it higher around his waist, angling you just right—and stars exploded behind your eyes as his cock slid deeper, filling you completely. The pleasure was almost too much, each thrust dragging a gasp from your mouth, each move of his relentless.

Your fingers dug into his back, nails scraping over his skin as you pressed yourself up into him, matching the rhythm, desperate for more. “Rhysand…” The name escaped in a broken gasp, barely audible over the sound of your breaths and skin slapping on skin. 

His eyes glittered with satisfaction, his pace steady but unyielding as he watched you. “Tell me what you need,” he demanded, his thrusts pushing harder, deeper, each one making your breath stutter in your chest. 

You swallowed, barely able to think straight with the overwhelming pleasure flooding your senses, but the words came anyway, whispered, breathless. “Don’t stop.” A particularly hard thrust had you gasping, your fingers digging into his shoulders, nails leaving marks on his skin. Rhysand’s pace was relentless, pushing you higher and higher, but you needed more. 

“Tell me,” you gasped, “how often did you think about me like this?”

His breath hitched, but he didn’t slow. His hand tightened on your thigh, pushing you even further into him, and the tension in the room seemed to snap tighter. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

You smirked, feeling emboldened. “How many nights did you spend alone, imagining me underneath you? How many times did you get off to the thought of me?” Your voice dropped low, a teasing edge creeping into your tone. “And that night in the tent… did you picture me like this then too?”

His cock slammed deeper into you at your words, and you could feel him shudder, his control faltering for a moment. He leaned down, lips grazing the curve of your neck, his hand sliding up to palm at your breast, fingers teasing over your skin. 

“I’ve thought about you more than I should,” he confessed, his voice a growl. “Your body, your voice—gods, the way you look at me, like you know exactly what I’m thinking. Every letter you’ve sent, every word you've written has been etched into my mind. You’ve kept me awake more nights than I care to count. So many nights I’ve imagined you… ached for you.”

The words came fast, like he couldn’t stop them, like they’d been building up. “Every damn letter you wrote—I read them more times than I’ll admit. I’d catch myself thinking about you when I shouldn’t, remembering your words when I tried to forget. And I’d get lost in it… lost in the thought of you. That night in the tent…” He growled, pulling you closer, slamming into you harder. “I couldn’t forget how you moved, how you fought, how you looked at me like you wanted to tear me apart. And I hated it—hated how badly I wanted you.”

His hands tightened on your hips, controlling the pace as his thrusts grew more demanding. “I would lie there, late at night, thinking about your fingers on my skin, your mouth—thinking about how you’d taste. How you’d feel under me, desperate, ruined for me. I pictured it all—what you’d look like when I finally had you, when I could take you in every way that I wanted.”

His voice dropped to a whisper as his lips brushed against your ear, his breath hot against your skin. “I couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t stop thinking about you, even when I wanted to. Every time we wrote, it only made it worse. I’d catch myself craving more—more words, more of you—before I even realized what I was doing.”

Another thrust forced a moan from your lips. His mouth curved against your skin, savoring the sound, reveling in the way your body clenched around him. His grip on your thigh was bruising as he angled your hips just right, dragging another helpless cry from you.

“Fuck,” he murmured, his breath hitching as he felt you tighten around him. His forehead dropped to yours, his thrusts growing rougher, more insistent, as if he were chasing the very thoughts that had plagued him for so long. “You feel better than I ever could have dreamed.”

“Gods, Rhys—”

A sharp gasp tore from your throat as his hand slipped between your bodies, fingers pressing where you needed him most. Your head fell back against the pillow, pleasure cresting so fiercely it left you dizzy. 

His breath caught. Just for a second. 

Not at the way you shuddered beneath him, not at the way you tightened around him—but at the way his name had slipped from your lips, unfinished, softened. 

Rhys. 

You barely registered it, too lost in the pleasure as his pace faltered for the briefest moment, a sharp inhale through his nose before he recovered, his free hand grabbing your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. But you felt the shift, the way his lips brushed over your jaw—softer now, lingering. 

And then, quieter, rougher: “Say it again.”

Not a command. Just… a request. 

It took a moment for your mind to catch up, to realize what he meant. Heat curled in your stomach—not just from the way he was moving inside you, but from the way he wanted it. The way he needed it. 

You turned your head, breath mingling with his. “Rhys,” you whispered. 

A wrecked primal sound from his throat as he shifted suddenly, rolling and pulling you with him until your thighs framed his hips. The world tilted, pleasure still rippling through you as your palms found his chest, heat meeting the inked whorls of black that curved over muscle. He leaned back against the pillows, gaze dark, ravenous, drinking you in like he’d never get enough. 

“Fuck,” he breathed, his grip firm on your waist, fingers pressing into heated skin as if to memorize the way you felt in his hands. “Look at you.”

Your cheeks burned under his gaze, but it wasn’t embarrassment—it was the way he was looking at you, like he wanted to devour every inch of you, like he was worshipping the sight of you above him. 

A slow roll of your hips had him swearing again, jaw tightening, his head pressing into the pillow for a brief moment before he lifted it again, eyes locked onto the way your body moved above him. The way you trembled. The way your chest rose and fell, glistening in the dim light, every bounce, every shift of your body against his making his hold on you tighten.

His fingers slid lower, curving over the swell of your ass as he pulled you down hard, meeting you with a sharp thrust that sent you keening. 

“Oh, fuck—Rhys—” The words left you in a breathless gasp, pleasure knocking through you, but he only smirked, his grip flexing. 

“Yeah?” His voice was teasing, but there was an edge to it, something unraveling. 

You wanted to reply, something sharp on your tongue, but the words never made it out—lost the second he drove into you again, harder, faster. 

His smirk told you everything—he knew exactly what he was oding to you. Dark satisfaction gleamed in his eyes as he thrust into you, each movement sharper, more insistent. 

“I—shit—” You barely knew what you were trying to say, only that your body felt like it was on fire, that you could hardly breathe, that he was fucking you so good you couldn’t think. “Rhys, I—”

He wasn’t letting you work for it, wasn’t letting you do anything but take it. His hands gripped you tighter, fingers pressing into your skin—just shy of bruising, just enough to make you shudder, to make the ache feel just as good as everything else. He dragged you over him like he couldn’t get enough, guiding you exactly where he wanted. His chest heaved beneath your palms, every breath ragged, every sound punched from his lungs with each thrust. 

Your head tipped back, pleasure cresting, every nerve in your body alight. But he wasn’t done. 

One moment you were gasping, hands bracing against his chest as he drove into you with deep, relentless thrusts, and the next—his arms wrapped around you, dragging you down, pressing you flush against him as he buried his face in your neck. 

And then he fucked you like he meant it. 

Hard, deep, his grip unyielding as he drove into you, hips slamming against yours with a pace that stole the air from your lungs. 

“Fuck, Rhys—” You weren’t even sure if you were saying his name or just gasping it, like it was the only thing you could cling to in the onslaught of pleasure. 

“That’s it,” he rasped against your ear, voice wrecked, sending shivers skittering down your spine. “Just like that, just take it. Feels good, doesn’t it?”

Your fingers tangled in his hair, nails raking against his scalp as a broken moan tore from your lips. 

“Feels—too good,” you gasped, a half-delirious laugh slipping out before another sharp thrust stole it from you. “Fuck—you’re so—”

“So what?” he teased, his lips dragging over your jaw, your neck, anywhere he could reach. “Say it.”

You swallowed hard, trying to force the words through the haze clouding your mind, through the pleasure threatening to consume you whole. “So—fuck, Rhys—so deep—”

A groan rumbled in his chest, low and satisfied, before his grip on you tightened. “Yeah? You like that?” His voice dropped, rough, nearly smug. “Like the way I feel inside you?”

Pleasure surged through you, coiling hot and deep, making every nerve in your body tighten in anticipation. 

Your hands clutched at his shoulders, at his hair, desperate to ground yourself against the intensity of it all. “You—” Your breath caught as he snapped his hips up, hard and precise. “You already know.”

“Maybe.” He smirked against your skin, then his voice dipped, quieter, raspier—”Say my name again.”

Rhys. Rhys. Rhys. 

Your breath tangled with his, and for a moment, everything felt different. More than just pleasure. More than just bodies moving together. 

“Rhys,” you gasped, the word slipping out without a second thought. “Fuck, you’re—you’re so deep. So—so fucking perfect.”

He moaned at that, a low rumble of a sound, his chest rising and falling against yours as his hips snapped up to meet yours with relentless rhythm. You could feel every inch of him, the way he filled you, the way his movements were both precise and utterly frantic. The pleasure had your head spinning, but the way his name tasted on your tongue—how it felt to say it again and again—was a drug in itself.

His eyes locked onto yours, something wild in them now, a primal hunger that only grew as you spoke. “You feel so good,” you breathed, your nails digging into his shoulders as you moved against him, feeling every flex of his muscles beneath your fingertips. “I can’t—I can’t get enough of you, Rhys.”

The words spilled from you now, breathless and unfiltered. “You’re everything I need,” you whispered, voice a little desperate. “So fucking deep, so good, Rhys. You make me feel—gods, you make me feel so good, so full of you.”

His body responded to your words like a switch had been flipped. His fingers dug into your flesh as he pulled you down against him again and again, each thrust now more forceful, as if he couldn’t get enough either. His lips found your throat, kissing and biting his way down your collarbone. 

“Don’t stop,” he muttered, his voice a rasp in your ear. “Tell me how I make you feel.”

“Like I’m falling apart, Rhys, like I can’t take it—can’t think—fuck, Rhys” Your breath caught as his thrusts deepened, hitting the perfect spot, and your head fell back, your eyes fluttering shut for a moment as the sensation overwhelmed you. “I never want to stop feeling this—never want you to stop. I’m so fucking close. I—”

His groan cut off your words, a sharp sound of pleasure as his hands moved to your ass, pulling you down harder, faster. You could feel his body tightening beneath you, and it sent a shockwave of heat through your own, pushing you to the edge. 

“Gods, (y/n),” he gritted out, his voice raw, strained, and low. “You feel so fucking good. Don’t stop, please, don’t stop.”

Your chest heaved, your body trembling as you struggled to keep yourself steady, meeting his thrusts with everything you had left. The intensity of it all had your head spinning, the pleasure so overwhelming that you barely noticed the words slipping from your mouth until they were out. 

“I’m on the tonic,” you gasped, your voice unsteady as you focused on the way his body moved against yours. “I don’t want you to pull out—please.”

A rough, breathless curse left him, his hips snapping into you with a new urgency. Your body responded instantly, your thoughts dissolving into sensation. The tension in your body was at the breaking point, every inch of you coiled so tightly that you felt like you might snap. You could feel him losing control, each thrust harder, faster, the desperation mirrored in his eyes. 

Then his hips jerked up into you one last time, and as you heard the low, guttural sound of his release—his breath hitching, his hands gripping you like a lifeline—you couldn’t hold back anymore. The sensation of him finishing inside you was all it took. You exploded, the orgasm rushing over you in waves so intense you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, could only feel him, feel his body trembling beneath you. 

“Rhys,” you gasped, your voice raw as you rode out the waves of your release, still trembling in his arms. 

He groaned your name, holding you against him as your body shuddered with the aftershocks. He kept you close, his chest rising and falling in sync with yours, as if he couldn’t bear to let go of you just yet. 

“You’re fucking perfect,” he whispered, his voice rough with satisfaction. “Gods, you drive me insane, (y/n).”

You huffed out a laugh,  your fingers lightly tracing the lines of his chest, still catching your breath. “I should drive you insane more often.”

Rhysand let out a low chuckle, fingers brushing lazily along your spine. “Oh, you already do enough for a lifetime.” Then, after a beat—”You’re a handful.”

You raised an eyebrow as you propped yourself up just enough to meet his gaze. “I thought you liked it.”

His gaze locked onto yours, no trace of humor in it now. “I do.”

“Then maybe you’d do well to stop your incessant talking.”

He smirked, but it was soft, almost like he was holding back something—something he knew better than to say right then. “Fine.”

You rolled your eyes, shifting to climb off him, only for his arms to tighten around your waist.

“Stay,” he murmured, a little too smooth, a little too comfortable. 

You hesitated. The air between you was heavy, charged, but the moment was already slipping away, back into something more familiar, something edged with unspoken things neither of you dared put a name to. 

“Fine,” you muttered, feigning exasperation as you let yourself settle against him once more. “But if you start snoring in my ear, I’m gone.”

His laugh rumbled beneath you. “Noted.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

(Y/n),

I trust you’ve arrived safely back in Velaris. The final terms of the agreement regarding the Seasonal Courts’ trade routes through Dusk have been sent with this letter for your review. Barring any objections, we should be ready to move forward by next month. I assume you’ll have thoughts on the restructuring of the second clause—if only to disagree with me on principle—so let me know where you’d like to make your changes. 

On a separate note, I expect my bed will feel unusually empty tonight. A tragedy, really. Let’s hope I can bear the suffering. 

Do try not to miss me too much. 

Rhys

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You let the letter fall to your desk, lips pressing together as you read the last few lines again. 

Despite yourself, a quiet scoff escaped you. Typical. 

Shaking your head, you reached for a fresh sheet of parchment. Whether he deserved a response was another matter entirely. 

[claramelooo]

YeY, my readers! Another chapter to brighten up your lonely nights.

I'm thinking about posting a chapter every day while I'm on vacation, but don't hunt me down if I'm late with a chapter LOL

Enjoy it! <3

MINORS MUST NOT INTERACT

Warning: +18, NSFW

Paring: Mommy Wanda x Brat Fem reader

Summary: Your relationship with Wanda deepens more and more after the kiss.

Read here: Prologue | Part 1 - Predator | Part 2 - The Prey | Part 3 - On your Knees | Part 4 - The Spider

VELVET CHAINS

The Lamb

Mornings began to take on a new rhythm. Your phone buzzed with punctual messages, always at the same time, as the sunlight painted the sky a soft orange.

Good morning, my darling. I hope you slept well. I'm thinking of you.

You read the message with your heart pounding as if it were the very first time. Each word brought an involuntary smile to your lips, and your response was swift: a shy emoji, a short phrase. Wanda always replied quickly, her tone steady and composed, subtly steering the conversation with a calm confidence that was nearly impossible to disrupt.

The days passed like a carefully choreographed dance. In the library, stolen moments were brief enough to go unnoticed by others yet intense enough to set your body ablaze and your heart racing.

You were arranging books in the history section when you sensed her presence before even seeing her. That familiar, subtle perfume—already uniquely tied to Wanda in your mind—reached you before her voice.

"Need help with that?"

Her tone was casual, but when you turned around, her eyes gleamed with something deeper. Without waiting for your reply, she stepped closer, taking one of the books from your hands. Her fingers brushed against yours, and for a fleeting moment, time seemed to stop.

"Sure," you replied nervously, feeling your face heat under her intense gaze.

She was so close that her body heat seemed to wrap around you like an invisible blanket. As she examined the book she’d taken from you, her head tilted slightly, almost absentmindedly. You couldn't help but notice how every movement she made seemed deliberate, as though even the act of flipping through pages carried an unspoken intent.

"History section, huh?" she commented with a small smile, her fingers lightly grazing the pages. "I've always found it fascinating how some things never change, no matter how much time passes."

You swallowed hard. "Well… I guess some stories are timeless."

"I agree," she said, lifting her gaze to meet yours. "Like us."

Your mouth opened, but no words came out. It was incredible how easily she left you speechless with a simple comment. Before you could recover, Wanda leaned slightly, placing the book back on the shelf. The gesture seemed casual, but her proximity sent your heart into overdrive.

"You know," she said with playful mischief, "there’s a library rule against inappropriate behavior."

"I… didn’t know that," you stammered, trying to ignore the fact that her body was almost touching yours.

"Oh, there is," she confirmed, her eyes sparkling with amusement as she leaned closer. "Something about not kissing anyone between the shelves."

You blinked, startled. "I don’t think that’s in the rules…"

"It should be," she murmured, her voice low and husky, "because it makes me want to break them."

Before you could react, she stepped back with a triumphant smile, holding another book she seemed to have chosen at random. "I’ll take this one," she said, as if the charged tension between you didn’t exist.

Then, just as she was about to walk away completely, Wanda leaned in again, this time whispering near your ear, "That short skirt of yours is driving me crazy."

You froze, heat flooding your body as she walked away, her soft laughter echoing between the shelves. Her words lingered in your mind, your body reacting even before you could fully process them. A shiver ran down your spine, and your skin seemed to burn under the weight of her suggestion.

When you finally managed to turn to look at her, she was already a few steps away, pretending to peruse another book. But the sly smile on her lips gave away her true intentions.

"Wanda…" you called softly, your voice shakier than you intended.

She turned slowly, her eyes alight as though savoring every second of your reaction. "Yes, darling?"

You swallowed hard, searching for something to say, but the words escaped you. All you could think about was the way she looked at you, as if you were the only thing that mattered in the world at that moment.

"You’re teasing me," you finally managed, trying to sound firm, though your voice trembled slightly.

Wanda took a step closer, then another, until she was so near you could feel the heat radiating off her. "Teasing?" she repeated, a smirk tugging at her lips. "You think I’m teasing?"

Your breath hitched as she raised a hand, her fingertips tracing a light line along your arm. The touch was almost imperceptible, yet it felt like fire against your skin.

"Because if I am teasing," she continued, tilting her head, "you wouldn’t be reacting like this."

"I’m not reacting," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper, though it betrayed the lie.

Wanda laughed softly, a low sound that reverberated through you, as if she could see right through your fragile facade. Taking another step closer, she closed the already small distance between you until her warmth was nearly suffocating.

"Not reacting?" she questioned, her tone dripping with disbelief as she arched an eyebrow. "Then why are your cheeks burning?"

Your lips parted to respond, but no sound came out. Her proximity, her voice, and the intensity of her gaze left you completely disarmed. When you tried to step back, Wanda moved with you, maintaining the impossibly close distance.

"Y/n," she whispered, her voice low and rough as her fingers traveled up your arm, stopping at the curve of your neck. "Do you really think you can hide this from me?"

Your eyes locked with hers, and the weight of her gaze seemed to pierce straight through you. It was overwhelming, like she could see every thought and emotion you were trying to bury.

"I… I don’t know what you’re talking about," you managed to say, but your voice shook, and Wanda’s eyes gleamed with a mix of satisfaction and desire.

"Don’t you?" she replied, leaning closer, her breath warm against your skin. "Then why are your lips trembling when I’m this close?"

Her fingers trailed along your jawline until she gently tilted your chin, forcing you to meet her gaze.

"Why don’t you tell me what you’re really feeling, hmm?"

You swallowed hard, your throat tightening under the intensity of the moment. "Wanda, I…"

"Come on, sweetheart," she interrupted, her eyes darkening as she tilted her head, her lips hovering mere millimeters from yours. "I’m waiting."

The silence between you was electric, the air so thick it was hard to breathe. And then,almost instinctively, you closed your eyes, surrendering completely to the moment."I… I’m nervous."

Her lips twitched into a predatory smile—a wolf savoring its prey.

Hearing your confession, Wanda finally closed the gap, her lips capturing yours with an almost calculated precision yet brimming with fervor. The kiss demanded a response, coaxing you to cast aside any hesitation or fear.

You clung to her, your hands gripping her arms like lifelines, and Wanda pulled you closer, her fingers tangling in your hair, holding you in a possessive grip.

When she pulled back, her eyes gleamed, and her victorious smile left you breathless.

"That’s all I needed," Wanda murmured, her voice soft as her fingers trailed through your hair. "Just a little honesty."

“Wanda…” you whispered to yourself, finally letting out the breath you hadn’t even realized you were holding. The sound of footsteps in the distance made the two of you step apart. She smiled, that lazy, secretive smile, as she adjusted her hair like nothing had happened. Yet, before you could even try to collect yourself, you heard her voice from the next section:

“Oh, and darling? Bring me a coffee. I like mine strong, no sugar, and hot. Just like you.” She winked at you, teasing.

With your face completely red, you tried to focus on organizing the books, but you knew her smile would be the last thing you’d be able to forget that day.

“I’ll be back later,” she said in a nonchalant tone, leaving you there with trembling legs and a racing heart.

At night, the pattern repeated. As you climbed the stairs to your room after a family dinner, you checked your phone, and there she was again, as if she were everywhere all at once.

I can’t stop thinking about you. I wish you were here with me right now.

And then came the calls, always after your study sessions—long calls filled with comfortable silences, soft laughter, and conversations that seemed simple but always carried an undertone. You felt, somehow, that Wanda was shaping you, pulling you deeper into her world.

Wanda, on the other hand, felt alive again. The world, once so predictable, had gained color once more. Every shy smile of yours, every hesitant response, was like a spark reigniting something she hadn’t realized had gone out.

The control she held over you was like a masterpiece she sculpted with patience and care. But beneath her obsession, there was something deeper: a silent fear that you might slip away.

Still, she never let it show. The next day, the ritual began again, and you, without even realizing it, surrendered more and more to the web Wanda wove around you.

Wanda sat at the dinner table, twirling a wine glass in her hand with a distracted air. Vision moved through the room with calculated steps, his presence always meticulous, always restrained. But tonight, there was something different. The tension in the air was almost tangible.

“You’ve been… distant,” he began, stopping beside the table. His voice was calm but carried a concern that didn’t feel genuine.

“Distant?” Wanda repeated, not lifting her gaze from the glass. A light, almost ironic smile played on her lips. “I’d say busy.”

Vision sighed, pulling out a chair to sit down. He placed his hands on the table, fingers interlaced. “Busy, then? With what, exactly? It doesn’t seem to be with the family.”

His tone was accusatory, but Wanda didn’t flinch. She lifted her gaze, finally meeting his eyes. Hers were calm, cold. “With what I’ve always been: trying to keep everything running. Someone has to do it, since you’re always off on your ‘business trips.’”

“Oh, so that’s it?” Vision asked, leaning slightly forward. “This is about me? About my trips? Wanda, you knew from the beginning that my work was part of who I am.”

“Just as my life is part of who I am,” she countered, her voice gaining a firmness that made him hesitate. “And yet, you expect me to mold myself to your world, to fit into it without question. But maybe I’ve started questioning.”

Vision blinked, confused, trying to grasp what she meant. “Wanda, that’s not fair. We built this together.”

“Built?” She laughed, but there was no humor in her laugh. “Vision, we followed a script. One you wrote, but never bothered to ask if I wanted to act in it.”

The silence between them was deafening until Vision, weary, shook his head. “What do you want, Wanda? What’s the solution to this?”

She didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she let her gaze wander around the room. The walls, the furniture, the carefully organized life they had built together. A life that, not long ago, had seemed enough.

But now...

Her thoughts drifted to you. To the warmth of your shy smile, to the way your eyes lit up when she said something that touched you. Thinking of you was like breathing fresh air after years of suffocation.

The weight on Wanda’s shoulders eased instantly. As if all the problems with Vision, all the arguments, were nothing but distant noise.

“I don’t know what I want,” she finally replied, standing from the table and picking up her wine glass. “But I know I won’t find the answer here.”

She left the room without looking back, leaving Vision alone, lost in his thoughts. Climbing the stairs, Wanda felt lighter. The world seemed less oppressive when she thought of you.

[...]

Another Sunday, another sermon. The day dragged on at a pace Wanda found nearly cruel. The pastor spoke enthusiastically about patience as a virtue, though ironically, he seemed to lack any urgency in concluding his message. She sat on the pew with her arms crossed, trying not to sigh audibly.

Her sharp eyes scanned the congregation, searching for anything to distract her restless mind. But there was nothing beyond familiar faces, whispered conversations, and children failing to stay still.

Same as always, she thought, as boredom settled in with a vengeance.

But then, as the sermon finally drew to a close, Wanda caught something intriguing. Two rows ahead, your mother was speaking with Dottie. Their voices were low, almost conspiratorial, but Wanda had a near-supernatural ability to pick up details when she wanted to.

A fragment of conversation snagged her attention.

"I just don’t know if we can trust leaving her alone. She’s so... restless at times," your mother’s soft, worried voice floated over, accompanied by polite smiles exchanged with Dottie.

"Wouldn’t it be a good idea to take her with you?" Dottie suggested, leaning in slightly.

"Oh no, that would ruin the mood of the trip. We need some time for ourselves," your mother replied, sounding embarrassed. "But I also can’t leave Y/n completely unsupervised. She needs someone responsible, someone who understands her... challenges."

Wanda nearly laughed aloud at that. Challenges? It was an almost endearing understatement.

Curiosity piqued, she rose discreetly, adjusting the tight dress that hugged her silhouette perfectly. Her steps were light, almost inaudible, as she approached the two women. Once close enough to be noticed, she smiled politely, her expression more friendly than genuine.

“Hello, ladies! What do you talk about?” Wanda delivered her most dazzling and irresistible smile to the pair.

Both Dottie and your mother turned simultaneously, visibly startled by the sudden interruption. But Wanda knew how to disarm any reaction with her magnetic presence and impeccably practiced smile.

“Wanda! What a surprise to see you wandering over to this side,” your mother responded, clearly grateful for the unexpected distraction. “We were discussing the trip my husband and I are planning.”

“Oh, a trip,” Wanda said, her eyes lighting up with apparent curiosity. “Where to?” She infused her voice with interest that sounded fake to her but seemed to escape your mother’s notice.

“A second honeymoon in Santorini,” your mother replied with a hint of pride, while Dottie murmured something impressed.

“How romantic,” Wanda murmured, tilting her head slightly. “But you seem tense, dear. What’s the matter?”

Your mother sighed, adjusting her pearl necklace in a nervous gesture. “My concern has a name and a rebellious streak, as you know… Young people these days,” she scoffed, rolling her eyes before continuing. “I don’t want to leave Y/n alone, you know how she is... independent, yet still so young.”

Wanda’s brow furrowed, a slight crease of concern appearing on her face. She sat down beside the two women, as if genuinely interested. “Y/n is truly a special young lady. And you’re right; leaving someone so sweet and full of life alone could be risky. There are so many dangers...”

“Exactly!” your mother exclaimed, seemingly comforted by Wanda’s empathy.

“Well,” Wanda continued smoothly, “if you need someone to look after her while you’re away, I’d be happy to help. I already spend a lot of time with her at the library and have developed quite a... fondness for her.”

Dottie narrowed her eyes briefly, but her expression quickly returned to neutral. Your mother, on the other hand, lit up with immediate relief.

“Would you really do that? Oh, Wanda, that would be a godsend. I’ve been so worried.”

“Of course,” Wanda responded, placing a reassuring hand on her mother’s shoulder. “It would be my pleasure. Besides, Y/n and I get along very well. I’m sure she’ll feel comfortable with me.”

“Perfect then,” your mother said, visibly lighter. “I’ll confirm the travel details and let Y/n know tonight. You’re an angel, Wanda.”

Dottie, however, observed in silence, her faint smile not quite reaching her eyes. “You’re very kind, Wanda,” she remarked, her voice carrying something that might have been admiration or suspicion.

Wanda simply smiled, not letting her perfect mask slip. “I enjoy helping where I can.”

As she walked away, Wanda felt a wave of satisfaction swell inside her. The thought of having you under her roof, within the comfort of her home, made something tighten in her chest in a way that was almost painfully sweet.

My little one, she thought, nearly laughing at the irony. They have no idea how much you’re already mine.

The day had finally arrived. The morning seemed brighter than usual, sunlight flooding the living room as your parents finalized preparations for their trip. Your mother was radiant, dressed in an elegant outfit with a smile as bright as the sky outside. Your father, more reserved, was still double-checking the documents and tickets with his usual seriousness.

You were sitting on the couch, hugging a pillow, trying to mask the unease you felt. It wasn’t their trip that bothered you but the idea of spending so much time under Wanda’s watchful eyes.

“Sweetheart, come here,” your mother called, breaking through your thoughts. You got up slowly and walked over to her. She held your hands, squeezing them affectionately. “I know it feels strange to leave you here, but I promise it’ll be quick. And Wanda is wonderful; you’ll be in good hands.”

“Yes, Mom,” you replied, trying to sound more confident than you actually felt.

Your father approached, putting an arm around your shoulders. “Be a good girl and don’t give us any reason to worry, okay?”

Before you could respond, the sound of the doorbell echoed through the house. It was her.

Your mother opened the door with an enthusiasm that seemed slightly forced, though you knew she truly trusted Wanda. And there she was: impeccable as always, dressed in neutral tones but exuding a natural sophistication that was magnetic.

“Wanda! So good to see you,” your mother exclaimed, giving the woman a brief hug.

“Good morning,” Wanda replied with a warm smile, her eyes discreetly flicking to you for a fraction of a second before returning to your parents. “I hope you’re excited about your trip.”

“Oh, very,” your mother said, pulling Wanda inside. “And you’re sure it’s no trouble to take care of her?”

“Not at all,” Wanda said quickly, casting a glance your way that made your stomach tighten. “It’ll be a pleasure. Y/n is a lovely young woman, and we’ve already spent quite some time together at the library. It’ll be wonderful to have more time with her.”

Your mother smiled, satisfied with the answer. After a few more hurried goodbyes, your parents finally left, promising to call as soon as they landed.

The door closed, and suddenly, the house was silent—a silence that seemed to hang heavy in the air. You and Wanda stood still for a moment, her eyes fixed on yours in a way that made your skin tingle.

“So,” she began, breaking the silence, her voice soft but carrying something you couldn’t quite decipher. “Just the two of us now.”

There was a calm certainty in her words, one that made you feel any resistance would be futile. She smiled, picking up your small suitcase and setting it aside.

“Where should we begin?” she asked, her gaze almost predatory as it locked onto you.

Your blood rushed to your cheeks, and you offered her a shy smile. “Hi…” you whispered.

Wanda bit the corner of her lip and strode toward you, her hands finding your waist. “Hi, little one…” she purred into your ear, making you gasp. “I missed you.”

Wanda pulled you into a firm yet gentle embrace, enveloping you completely. Her arms around your waist felt both protective and possessive, and you couldn’t help the slight shiver that ran down your spine. Her scent—a mix of expensive perfume and something inherently her—surrounded you, and you almost closed your eyes, as if you could lose yourself in that moment.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” Wanda murmured, her voice low and melodic, as if it were a secret shared only between the two of you. “How did you manage so well without me around?”

Your voice faltered for a second before you managed to respond, a slight tremor in your words. “I… don’t know. But I’m glad you’re here now.”

She pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, her fingers reaching up to brush aside a strand of hair that had fallen onto your forehead. The touch was soft but deliberate, and you felt your face heat even more under her intense gaze.

“You’re so sweet,” Wanda said with a smile that seemed maternal but carried something more, something that made your pulse quicken. “And so obedient… I bet you did well.”

You lowered your eyes, feeling both embarrassed and strangely pleased by her words. It felt so comforting, her treating you this way… maternal? Wanda tilted her head, studying you as if reading every thought.

“It’s okay, Dekta. You can relax with me,” she said gently, her fingers now lightly caressing your cheek. “Let me take care of you, okay? You don’t have to worry about anything now.”

You nodded, your submission clear and genuine in the gesture. Wanda seemed pleased, her lips curling into a satisfied smile. Your posture was stiff, almost awkward—as if you weren’t used to this kind of comforting presence.

Wanda noticed your hesitation, the way your shoulders remained tense as if you still weren’t sure whether to relax or keep your defenses up. She didn’t rush anything; instead, her movements were calculated, gentle, as if handling something fragile and precious.

“Shhh, sweetheart,” she whispered, taking your hand and guiding you onto her lap. “Sit here.”

You obeyed without thinking, settling onto her lap with your hands nervously resting on your knees. Wanda didn’t speak for a moment, simply letting her presence envelop you, her calmness radiating until it began to seep into you.

When she placed a hand at the curve of your neck, the weight seemed to dissolve all the tension you’d been holding. She slid it gently down your back, drawing lazy, soothing circles that sent waves of warmth across your skin. You closed your eyes reflexively, feeling strangely safe, as if there was no danger in the world while you were there under her touch.

“There,” Wanda murmured, more to herself than to you. “Let it all go. Everything holding you back, everything weighing on you… you don’t have to carry any of it now. Not while you’re with me.”

She pulled you closer, making you rest your face against her chest. You felt it rise and fall with her steady, deep breaths. She began to hum softly, and the vibration in her chest lulled you further into relaxation.

Your eyelids grew heavier, and heavier, and heavier. Until the last thing you heard was a barely audible whisper.

“Mommy will make it all go away…”

Wanda felt you completely relax in her arms, the weight of your body now light and surrendered. It was a unique, almost intoxicating sensation to realize how much you trusted her, how willing you were to let go. She knew this went far beyond the physical. It was something emotional, visceral.

She observed you for a moment, your long lashes resting on your cheeks as your breathing slowed, rhythmic and calm. Every small movement of yours seemed so innocent, so vulnerable, that Wanda felt a surge of emotions she hadn't realized she was capable of experiencing. A mix of tenderness, possessiveness, and something burning deep within her: the need to care for you, to protect you... to have you entirely for herself.

She ran her fingers through your hair, gently combing it as she murmured soothing words, almost inaudible. "Good girl… so sweet, so mine…"

Each word was a quiet reminder to herself, an affirmation of the bond she was building between you. Wanda felt a maternal warmth growing in her chest, something she hadn’t felt since her own children. But this was different, deeper. With you, she didn’t just want to protect; she wanted to mold. To guide you until you completely depended on her.

She tilted her head, her lips brushing your forehead in a soft kiss. A sigh escaped her lips as she allowed herself to sink into the moment, into this role that felt so natural to her. You were perfect like this, Wanda thought. Fragile, delicate, needy.

“My little girl,” she murmured again, with a small, satisfied smile.

And there was something more—a feeling of quiet power. She knew you needed her, that you trusted her in a way no one else could. And it fed something dark and secret within her, a desire to keep you exactly like this: dependent, submissive, hers.

Wanda watched as you slept, your features soft and relaxed. She didn’t want to move, didn’t want to disrupt the moment. But at the same time, a part of her was already planning what would come next.

She wasn’t in a hurry. You had all the time in the world, and Wanda was willing to make it last. To mold you little by little, to tear down any remaining barriers, until you no longer remembered who you were without her.

“I’ll take care of you, Dekta,” she whispered, more to herself than to you. “Forever.”

[...]

You wake up with a start, as if everything has been a dream. However, you find yourself in your room, covered with soft blankets that do not seem like your own. You feel light, in such an intense state of relaxation that it leaves you lethargic.

Descending your stairs, you find two packed suitcases leaning against the door. Reaching the kitchen, you see Wanda taking something out of the oven and upon seeing you, she offers you a brilliant smile.

“Look who’s awake…”

You blink, still drowsy, trying to process the scene in front of you. Wanda is there, impeccable as always, with an apron tied around her slim waist, her hair perfectly arranged, her face illuminated by that smile that seems both welcoming and… dangerous.

“Did you sleep well, Dekta?” she asks, her soft voice laden with a warmth that makes you blush instantly.

You murmur something inaudible, feeling a bit awkward under her penetrating gaze. Wanda places the dish on the counter and approaches slowly, like a predator observing its prey.

“You looked so calm,” she says, her eyes scanning your face, every reaction being silently noted. “I made sure you needed this rest.”

“I… thank you,” you murmur, swallowing hard as she continues to approach.

“No need to thank me, dear,” Wanda replies, now close enough for you to feel the warmth of her body. “I said I’d take care of you, didn’t I?”

You nod, your throat dry, unable to find words. The way she looks at you, like she can see right into your soul, is both disarming and captivating.

“Come,” Wanda says, extending her hand to you. “Sit down. I made something special.”

You hesitate for a moment before accepting her hand. Her warm fingers wrap around yours, and the touch is enough to make your heart race. She guides you to the table, where plates are elegantly arranged with a breakfast that looks like it came from a culinary magazine.

Wanda pulls a chair out for you, her eyes never leaving yours as you sit down. She leans slightly, adjusting the blanket still draped over your shoulders, and whispers: “Are you comfortable, my little girl?”

You can only nod, feeling your cheeks burn. There is something about the way she says these words, the way she takes care of you, that makes your head spin.

As you eat, Wanda sits across from you, watching with a calm yet unyielding intensity. Each time you look up at her, you feel a warmth rising up your spine.

“You seem nervous,” she comments with a subtle smile, tilting her head. “Is everything alright, Dekta?”

“I just…” you hesitate, your fingers playing with the fork. “I’m not used to… this.”

“To what?” she asks, her voice low and inviting, her eyes fixed on yours.

“To someone taking care of me like this,” you admit, your voice a bit shaky.

Wanda smiles, this time with a depth to her expression. “Then it’s time for you to get used to it.”

The silence that follows is heavy, filled with a tension you don’t know how to dissipate. Wanda reaches out again, this time holding your hand across the table, her fingers tracing soft circles on your skin.

“You know you can trust me, don’t you?” she asks, her voice almost a whisper.

You nod slowly, your eyes locked with hers.

“Then show me,” Wanda continues, her eyes darkening slightly. “Show me that you trust me, Dekta.”

Your heart races. You know what she is insinuating, you know what she is expecting. But taking the initiative seems as frightening as it is necessary.

You take a deep breath, trying to gather your courage, and slowly lean over the table. Wanda’s gaze never wavers, encouraging you, pulling you closer.

And then, finally, your lips meet hers in a hesitant but emotion-filled kiss. Wanda responds immediately, but with delicate control, guiding you as if she knows exactly how to make you comfortable.

When you pull away, breathless, Wanda’s eyes shine with a mix of satisfaction and something more, something that makes your legs tremble.

“Such a brave little girl…” she whispers, her voice as sweet as it is possessive.

You exhale.

“I’m not a baby.” You say, forcing your pride.

Wanda clicks her tongue and murmurs something under her breath.

“Oh, yes… You’re a big girl, aren’t you?”

But what is this? You’re a girl! And a big one! Why is she talking to you like you’re some stupid child? And why is it sending waves of heat to your core?

Wanda forces you to look at her and meet her intense, wild—and cruel—eyes. You stay like this for a moment, until your body starts to tingle under the effect of her presence.

“Are you okay, sweetheart? You’re squirming all over…” she blows into your ear, making you let out a small moan. “Do you feel strange, my sweet?” you try to escape her, averting your gaze, but Wanda seems determined to see you embarrassed and small in front of her.

You nod your head, trying to stammer a response while being caught up in her.

“Uh, I know, dear. I know…” the older woman murmurs. “But I want you to use your big girl words and tell me where it feels strange.” her voice seems to grow, almost as if she’s holding back.

“I…” You rub your legs together, trying to alleviate the growing burn in your core.

“I know it's hard, isn't it, sweetheart?” You nod vehemently. She’s so close it’s making you lose your senses. “But you’re a smart girl, aren't you? I know you can. Use your words for me, come on, Y/n.”

Breathing deeply, trembling, looking at her, her lips so close to yours you could lean in and capture them. A trembling hand resting against your core.

“Here.”

“Ah, your tummy? Your tummy feels strange?” she places her hand over the spot and starts massaging it, making you automatically let out a moan at the feel of her warm palm.

So close to where you need it most, but so far…

“Eyes open for me, baby.” at the woman’s command, you realize you were so relaxed you had closed your eyes, and upon opening them, you see her most radiant smile.

“Good girl! There you are!” Wanda purrs, making your eyes roll back at the feel of her breath in your ear.

You smiled shyly, loving the taste of her words.

“Do you want anything else, dear?”

You shake your head, feeling your hair mess up with the movement.

“No? It doesn’t feel slimy anywhere else?” the wrinkle in her forehead showed she wasn’t happy.

Her hand, which previously held your cheek gently, now holds your chin, her fingers pinching your cheeks, making a painful pout. Not too harsh in itself, but firm enough to remind you who’s in charge.

"It's not polite for little girls to lie," her tone is severe in a way that makes you feel like you're being chastised.

You whimper at the thought that she might be mad at you.

"I'm sorry, Wanda..." your words come out a bit muffled by the way she’s pinching your cheeks.

Her expression softens and she lowers her face to the crook of your neck, hugging you against her as she places a kiss against your nape.

"I know, dear, it’s okay." she says, rubbing firm circles on your back. "Perhaps I should just check then, hmm?"

Your eyes widen in shock but she just smiles, seeming delighted, as if she didn’t just The smile that formed on Wanda's face was not the same as before. It was deeper, more laden, as if she had just claimed something she always knew was hers.

“I…”

"Big girls know where they feel everything. I thought you were a big girl, Y/n." she arches an eyebrow, provocative.

"I am!" You shout, frustrated.

"Then prove it." Her voice is dark and husky, making the pulse between your legs increase tenfold.

No one has ever touched you down there, thinking about it always made you so nervous. Wanda seems to know this—however, your inexperience seems to please the woman.

With trembling hands, you take her hand—perfectly manicured with red nails, dragging it down below the navel, resting it on top of your panties.

���Oh, sweetheart…” her voice comes out trembling. Wanda presses her fingers to you, making your hips jerk and a high-pitched and needy moan escape. “You’re so beautiful…” she murmurs as if it’s the simplest and most obvious thing in the world.

“It… hurts.” whining, you try to move your hips toward her again, offering yourself.

“Do you want Wanda to make it go away?” hearing the woman refer to herself in the third person is strange, you frown, but you nod. “Words.”

“Yes.”

The woman stops all of her stimuli suddenly, making you protest.

“Yes, what?” she prompts something you don’t understand, so she starts moving her hand up to your neck—squeezing, squeezing and squeezing.

“Yes, Wanda…?” the sentence comes out muffled with a hint of insecurity.

Wanda huffs, leaving you confused. What does she want?

She loosens her grip and backs away a bit.

“How about this?” her hands squeeze your hips and rub against the bottom of your stomach, as she makes you straddle her; pulling your body against hers in a way that creates exhilarating pressure on your pleasure point.

A dragging and needy moan escapes your throat.

"Oh, is that good?" Wanda laughs, as you nod weakly.

The dress you wear starts to bunch up around your waist. Wanda's gaze is lost, as if she’s thinking about many things at the same time.

"You’d look lovely in my clothes, kitten." she moans.

Wanda slides her fingers inside your pussy, not deep enough to break your hymen, but to explore.

“Are you getting close, dear?” without thinking, you nod.

She extends one hand to toy with your hard nipples.

"My beautiful girl..." she moans.

Wanda pulls you harder against her. Your sex is so wet, the lewd and sticky sound is audible, while she beams brightly at you.

"Do you hear that? Hear the mess you’re making on my hand?" She taunts, her fingers moving in slow circles, pushing you to the edge.

“I’m going to cum!” you whimper to her with glassy eyes.

“Are you going to make a huge mess on Mommy’s lap?” she was as desperate as you were—dark and wild eyes.

The woman grips your hips even tighter, pressing you against her even faster.

“It’s okay, little girl. I’m here for you!” exploding against her a few seconds later, you let out a loud, high-pitched, irregular cry of pleasure.

Babbling helplessly, fixing your eyes on the sea green of hers, you let her guide you.

“There she is! There’s my pretty girl…” she says, sniffing your skin.

You’ve never felt like this.

Not sure if it was the peak of edging, the constant arousal, or Wanda’s extremely sexy and dominant overall presence. But that orgasm was the most incredible thing you’ve ever experienced.

Wanda pulls you close to her, kissing the top of your head, soothing you, giving you all the time you need to return to yourself. Whispering quiet words of reassurance, and gently caressing your pussy, inducing your aftershock tremors post-orgasm.

“Thank you…”

She laughs softly, combing your hair back from your damp forehead with her fingers. She gives you a kiss, smiling as she sees you trying to caress her shakily.

You cuddle against Wanda, her scent enveloping you like a blanket that warms and calms. Her breathing is steady, a tranquil beat in contrast to the internal turmoil you feel. Your mind is a whirlwind, trying to process everything that happened, but your body seems to have other ideas, sinking deeper into that moment of comfort and surrender.

“Why…” you begin, your voice sounding fragile, hesitant. “Why do I feel like this around you?”

Wanda tilts her head, her green eyes glowing with something you can’t completely decipher. There’s a trace of tenderness, but also something deeper, something that seems almost possessive.

“Like what?” she asks softly, her fingers still stroking your hair.

“Relaxed…” you confess, swallowing hard as you try to find the right words. “As if… as if nothing else matters. As if I can just… let go of everything.”

She smiles, a small smile but full of meaning. “Because you trust me,” she says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “And because I make you feel safe, don’t I, my sweet little girl?”

You blush, her words hitting something deep inside you. It’s true. There’s something about Wanda — the way she looks at you, touches you, guides you — that makes all your barriers fall, as if you can finally be yourself without fear of judgment or rejection. But that leaves you vulnerable, and that vulnerability scares you as much as it comforts you.

“It’s… strange,” you admit, lowering your gaze. “I’ve never felt like this before.”

“There’s nothing strange about it,” Wanda responds, her voice firm but gentle. “You’ve never had someone take care of you like this before, have you?”

You shake your head slowly, feeling tears threatening to form. She’s right. All your life, you’ve built walls around yourself, keeping others at a distance, believing that independence was your only option. But with Wanda, those walls no longer seem necessary.

She leans in and kisses your forehead, a gesture so gentle it makes your heart ache. “You don’t need to worry, darling. I’ll take care of you. Always.”

Her words resonate within you, like a promise that seems impossible to break. You look at her, your eyes meeting, and for the first time you feel like you can truly believe it.

“Come on,” Wanda says after a moment, stroking your cheek. “I made a strawberry pie, and I want you to try it while it’s still fresh.”

She helps you up, guiding you to the kitchen as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. And somehow, in her presence, everything really does feel easier, lighter. As though, for the first time, you’re not alone in the world.

Wanda is seated across from you, with a generous slice of strawberry pie balanced on a pristine plate. Her eyes sparkle with joy, and you notice a mischievous smile forming on her lips.

“Now, open up, little girl,” she says, holding a spoonful of the pie right in front of you.

You blink, blushing immediately. “I can feed myself, you know?”

“Oh, I know,” Wanda replies, her voice sweet but with a clear tone of amusement. “But where’s the fun in that? Come on, don’t be shy.”

You hesitate, feeling the blush rise even more in your cheeks. But before you can protest again, Wanda tilts the spoon towards your mouth. “Be a good girl,” she murmurs, her eyes playing with an unmistakable gleam.

Sighing, you give in and open your mouth, allowing her to place the spoon inside. The sweetness of the pie explodes on your tongue, and you can’t help but let out a small moan of approval.

“See? I knew you would like it,” Wanda says with a broad smile, but soon the smile turns into a genuine, warm laugh that reverberates through the kitchen.

Hearing that laugh made your heart tighten. It was contagious, and you ended up smiling as well, even as you tried to wipe the corner of your mouth with your hand.

“Okay, your turn,” you said, grabbing her spoon, but before you could reach her, Wanda gently held your wrist.

“Oh, no, dear,” she said, leaning forward. “I said I’m feeding you today. Relax and let me take care of that.”

She dipped the spoon back into the pie and, before you could protest again, was already offering you another spoonful. You shook your head in an exasperated gesture, but obeyed, feeling ridiculously embarrassed and, at the same time, warmed inside.

“I look like a child,” you muttered after swallowing.

“A lovely, sweet, and stubborn child,” Wanda teased, laughing again. “And it pleases me much more than it should. Now, open up again.”

You couldn’t help it. You laughed along with her, the tension that always seemed to hover between you momentarily forgotten. For a moment, it was like the world was simple, made only of laughter, strawberry pie, and the strange feeling of being exactly where you should be.

The kitchen was full of relaxed laughter as you and Wanda shared the dessert. The strawberry pie was delicious, but the real sweetness was in the interaction between you two. Wanda, always with that air of control and fun, kept feeding you, insisting on larger spoonfuls despite your protests.

“I swear I’m full!” you said, gently pushing her hand away while laughing. “If I eat more, I will explode like a balloon!”

“Explode? Nonsense,” Wanda replied with a mischievous smile. “You still have space. I’ve barely started.”

“You are impossible,” you muttered, still laughing as you tried to dodge another spoonful. “And if I really explode? Then it will be your fault.”

“If that happens, I will clean up the mess,” Wanda replied casually, but the predatory look suggested something more.

You laughed again, but then Wanda straightened up, looking at the empty plate. She seemed to change her tone suddenly, adopting a more serious air. “Okay, enough pie. Time for you to drink a glass of water and maybe rest some more.

"I want to watch a movie now." You request, with puppy dog eyes. “Not now, dear. Maybe if you behave until evening, I’ll let you choose.” Wanda smiled, getting up, placing the dishes in the sink.

You raised an eyebrow, surprised by the authoritative tone. “Oh, no, mommy, please!” you said playfully, making a face and stretching your arms dramatically.

The air in the kitchen changed. The earlier lightness was replaced by something denser. Wanda’s eyes darkened, the smile disappearing as she tilted her head slightly as if studying you.

“Say it again,” she demanded, her voice low and laden.

The blush rose instantly on your face. “I was just joking, Wanda,” you began, but the intensity of her gaze made your voice falter.

“Say. It. Again.” She repeated, moving slightly closer, the tone firm but not aggressive. It was a command, not a request.

You swallowed hard, your heart racing. There was something in her eyes, a mix of authority and desire that made you dizzy. With a mixture of shyness and hesitation, you murmured: “Mommy…”

The smile that formed on Wanda's face was not the same as before. It was deeper, more laden, as if she had just claimed something she always knew was hers.

"Good girl," she said softly, leaning in to caress your cheek. "Come. Let's pick your movie now." She takes your hands, pulling you both onto the couch—making your eyes shine as you realize the power of that single little word.

During the chosen movie—Disney's Tangled—Wanda's mind began to work. Hearing you say "Mommy," the woman felt something she hadn't expected: a wave of warmth, a sense of completeness that seemed to touch every part of her being. It was as if a piece of the puzzle she didn't even know was missing had perfectly fallen into place. For a brief moment, she paused, as if time had frozen, absorbing the moment with an intensity that nearly took her breath away.

The word echoed in her mind on a loop, like a melody composed exclusively for her. It wasn't just the sound, but what lay behind it: the surrender, the trust, the recognition. A mix of possessiveness and tenderness flooded her. It was more than desire, more than control—it was something primal, a protective instinct that made her chest swell with pride and satisfaction.

Her fingers stroked your cheek almost reverently, while her eyes burned with intensity. "My little girl," she thought, a smile appearing on her lips as she realized the impact she had on you. There was something deliciously addictive about the way you submitted, even without fully understanding just how much you did.

Wanda had always been in control, always the one leading others, but this was different. With you, there was a perfect balance between the dominance she cherished and the sweetness she secretly craved. And now, hearing you call her that... Well, that was the cherry on top.

The sight of you curled up against her, like a baby seeking maternal warmth, drove her wild. It made her want more and more of you. Seeing you so unaware of her thoughts—your gentle eyes focused on the screen, captivated by the animation's events, so sweet. You resembled a little lamb—so soft and affectionate—that in two days is taking its graceful leaps; in two weeks is playing 'follow the leader.' Your frailty was part of your charm. A lamb is pure innocence, so innocent that people want to possess it or even devour it. People like Wanda...

She inhaled the scent of your hair deeply, feeling the strength of her emotions, while a certainty formed in her mind. You were not just someone under her control—you were hers, and she would do whatever it took to ensure that never changed.

~*~

Be a good girl, Y/n... Wanda's watching

Tag List <3

@vyvvycg @beggingonmykneesforher @rosekjsses @trindad2k @indentity0018 @3liyuh @trying-to-do-good @reginassecretlover

[flwrkid14]

Could you continue the one where Tim and Danny or each other's favorite sibling, cause like ,imagine that everyone wants to be their favorite, cause being Danny's favorite means that he will lean on you and purr or whatever and it's like being picked by a feral cat, and being TIM's favorite means that you are the chosen one TM

absolutely!! thank you sm for the ask <3

being Danny’s favorite means warmth in winter and cool fingers against your wrist in the heat. it means you’ve been claimed. gently, wordlessly, completely. it means you’ve earned the trust of someone who doesn't give it lightly. he’ll phase through walls and shadows to find you—not to hover, not to demand, but just to be near you. he curls into Tim’s space like smoke, soft and familiar, and never gets told to leave.

he never says it out loud. not in words. but he always knows where Tim is. he always chooses the seat next to him. when things get loud, when the weight of being known by too many people starts to suffocate, Danny drifts toward Tim and tucks himself into the quiet comfort of being understood without having to explain.

he doesn’t say he cares. he just knows when Tim’s blood pressure drops before Tim does. he brings him water before patrol. he touches Tim’s shoulder and waits for him to lean in, and when he does, Danny stays, content and solid in the way only ghosts can be.

Tim never says it either. but everyone else can tell.

when you’re Tim’s favorite, he doesn’t say it. he just starts doing things like checking your vitals without complaint, or trusting you with his work, or calling you first when it matters.

and Danny is that, for him. the one Tim trusts without hesitation. the one who doesn’t ask for more than Tim can give, but still—somehow—gets everything.

they see the way Tim lets Danny into his personal space like it’s normal. lets him lean against him while they work. lets Danny lie on the couch with his feet in Tim’s lap while Tim pretends not to smile.

Tim, who flinches at touch but never pulls away from Danny. Tim, who doesn’t share feelings but lets Danny see him. Tim, who doesn't keep photos of anyone on his desk—but Danny’s doodles are stuck to his monitor with a bat-shaped magnet.

they see how Danny looks at Tim like he’s gravity. like he’s home. and how Tim looks at Danny like he's the only part of his life that isn't scheduled, guarded, or weaponized.

and the others—well. they want that.

Dick aches for it. he’s used to being the favorite. he tries, tries to be warm enough for Danny to drift to, tries to be patient enough for Tim to relax around. but it’s not the same. they don’t sink into him like they do into each other.

Jason tries to be chill about it. really. but sometimes he watches Tim lean into Danny’s side like it’s the most natural thing in the world and something in him pulls. he’s the one who gets it, right? the ghost stuff, the death stuff—he should be the one Tim trusts like that. he should be the one Danny clings to when he’s tired. but he’s not. not the same way.

Steph jokes about it—calls them each other’s emotional support cryptids—but it stings a little when she sees Danny instinctively step in front of Tim in a fight. when Tim glances to Danny before anyone else. like their world starts and ends with each other.

Cass watches it in quiet stillness. she sees what others don’t—the way Tim’s body language eases when Danny’s near, the way Danny breathes steadier with Tim beside him. she understands it. she doesn’t envy it, not really. but she does wish she had something like it.

Duke tries so hard to be part of it all. he's the new one, the one who’s still learning the unspoken rules of this strange little family. he doesn’t know how to crack into the space between them. sometimes he sees Tim touch Danny’s wrist just to ground him, or Danny float through a room only to settle next to Tim like it’s instinct, and he wonders if he’ll ever be seen like that.

even Damian watches from the edges. pretending he doesn’t care. pretending he is the one keeping his distance. but he trains harder when Tim praises Danny. he lingers longer when Danny’s around, hoping, maybe, to be noticed. to be chosen.

everyone wants to be their favorite. everyone craves it.

but there’s only room for one. and they already chose each other.

and it stings—not in a bitter way, but in the soft kind, the kind that longs. because being Danny’s favorite means being trusted by someone who’s made a habit of vanishing. and being Tim’s favorite means being known in the quiet, unwavering way that feels like gravity.

it’s like being chosen by something skittish and wild and real. like earning the loyalty of a ghost who never stops watching out for you. like learning how to stand still long enough for a storm to settle beside you.

so yeah. they’re each other’s favorite. everyone else just has to live with that.

[hamilton-here]

𝒰𝓃𝓌𝓇𝒾𝓉𝓉𝑒𝓃 𝑅𝓊𝓁𝑒𝓈

Authors Note: Hey everyone! I wanted to write a rivalry of some sort between the teams, so I hope you like this. Lots of love xx

Summary: The daughter of Red Bull’s team principal and Lewis Hamilton fall into a secret romance that risks rivalries, media chaos and family fallout all for love.

Warnings: mild sexual content, age-gap, mild language

Taglist: @hannibeeblog @nebulastarr @cosmichughes

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The world of Formula 1 had always been a battleground. The speed, the precision, the raw hunger to be first it all collided into one of the most high-stakes environments in global sport.

But for you, the daughter of Christian Horner, team principal of Red Bull Racing, it had always been more than just the race. It was about legacy. About control. About the unrelenting pressure of being born into the fire rather than choosing to walk through it.

From the moment you were old enough to understand the difference between soft and hard compound tyres, you knew your life was destined to revolve around motorsport not because it was your passion, but because it was expected.

Your last name wasn’t just a name it was a brand, a symbol of Red Bull’s grit and calculated dominance. And being Christian Horner’s daughter came with rules. Boundaries. Expectations so deeply ingrained they felt like law.

The most ironclad of those unspoken rules? Never speak to Toto Wolff let alone entertain anything or anyone associated with Mercedes.

Toto and your father had a rivalry so bitter it felt almost Shakespearean. Every press conference turned into a subtle war of words, a performance of thinly veiled contempt.

Their disagreements weren't always televised, but you'd seen enough tense meetings behind hospitality unit doors, red-faced shouting matches over regulation loopholes, and that one memorable argument at Silverstone where your father had stormed out, muttering that he wouldn’t “waste another breath on that corporate bastard.”

As a child, you didn’t understand why it mattered so much. Why every time a silver car overtook a Red Bull on track, your father’s jaw would tighten, and his voice would drop.

Why Toto’s name was always said like a curse word. But as you got older, you understood the deeper truth: this wasn’t just about racing. It was personal.

And you were caught in the middle of it.

Now, at twenty-six, the burden had never felt heavier.

Your father had begun talking more seriously about grooming you for a greater role within the team “PR first, maybe, then management. Just like Susie Wolff used to be, but for the right team,” he joked, with an edge in his voice. You smiled, but your stomach twisted. You didn’t want a life defined by rivalries you hadn’t chosen.

You loved Formula 1 truly but on your own terms. You admired the technology, the finesse, the community that thrived behind the scenes. But you wanted to choose your place in it. Not have it assigned to you like an inherited seat in a car you never asked to drive.

That’s why, on that particular race weekend in Monaco the crown jewel of the F1 calendar you found yourself wandering a little too close to the Mercedes garage. You weren’t supposed to be there, of course. Just passing by you told yourself. But curiosity tugged at you.

And then you saw him.

Lewis Hamilton.

He was just stepping out of the garage, helmet in hand, suit half unzipped, revealing the branded fireproof undershirt clinging to his chest.

He walked with that unmistakable ease, the confidence of a man who knew exactly who he was not just a seven-time world champion, but a symbol of poise and persistence in a world that had often tried to box him in.

He passed by the engineers with a nod, his braids pulled back neatly, sunglasses perched low on his nose. And then, somehow, his eyes met yours.

It was no longer background noise. No longer fans chattering or mechanics working or engines howling. For a heartbeat maybe longer, it was just you and him.

You froze, blinking in disbelief. He looked straight at you, as if he'd been expecting to see you there all along. His smile was warm, genuine, and laced with something more curious… a spark. Not flirtatious, not bold just...interested.

And in that moment, everything shifted.

The paddock you’d walked through a hundred times before suddenly felt different. Brighter. Warmer. And not because of the Mediterranean sun. But because of him.

Your pulse quickened. Heat flushed beneath your skin. You tried to look away you should have looked away but you didn’t. Couldn’t.

He offered a small nod of acknowledgment, subtle, but purposeful. And then he was gone walking down the path, chatting with Angela, disappearing into the Mercedes motorhome.

But the moment stayed.

And you knew, deep in your chest, that something inside you had changed.

You didn’t know yet that that brief encounter would unravel the tightly wound world you lived in. That it would pull you into something dangerous, something exhilarating. That it would challenge everything you thought you stood for.

You didn’t know that the smile Lewis Hamilton gave you so simple, so soft would be the beginning of a secret that could shatter the paddock.

But you felt it.

Like a warning.

Or maybe a promise.

It started innocently enough. Or at least, that’s what you told yourself in the beginning. A passing hello at a post-race gala. A casual exchange of words in the VIP lounge of a luxury paddock suite. He’d always keep it light with playful glances, soft smirks, the kind of flirtation that could be dismissed if anyone saw.

But it never was just that. Not really.

The first real conversation happened at a sponsor’s dinner in Milan. You were seated a few tables apart, but during the mingling that followed, you found yourselves standing near the same corner, pretending to admire the same oversized art piece none of you really cared about.

“Did you know the artist was once banned from this gallery for lighting a sculpture on fire?” Lewis had said, his voice low, edged with amusement.

You turned, raising a brow. “No, but that sounds about right for this sport. Always a bit dramatic.”

He grinned. “And competitive.”

“Dangerously so,” you replied, your voice soft. He tilted his head, like he was reading between the lines. Maybe he was.

From that point on, it became a dance whispered conversations behind velvet curtains, stolen moments behind hospitality doors, late-night texts that made you smile in the dark while lying in your hotel bed, phone screen illuminating a world you were trying desperately to keep hidden.

A world that felt like yours.

You kept telling yourself that it was harmless. That a conversation wasn’t betrayal. That a smile across a crowded press room wasn’t a line crossed. But deep down, you knew the truth this was no longer innocent.

And neither were your feelings for him.

Lewis was everything you thought he’d be. Charismatic, confident, with that quiet, magnetic charm that pulled people in. But what you hadn’t expected was the softness behind it all. The humanity. The thoughtfulness that lingered in his words, the way he listened — really listened to every answer you gave him.

There was no ego, no bravado. He wasn’t trying to impress you. He was just trying to know you.

And the more he did, the more he peeled away the layers not just yours, but his own.

You learned things that never made it to the cameras or the interviews.

His doubts. His exhaustion. His moments of feeling like the world had placed him on a pedestal he never asked for. And in return, you gave him your own truths the weight of growing up in a world where your choices were shaped by power and legacy, not desire. Where your name opened doors but also chained you to expectations you never agreed to.

You told him about the pressure of being your father’s daughter. About the way the paddock looked at you like a fixture, not a person. He never judged. Never interrupted. He just listened, his gaze steady and kind, like he understood every word without needing you to explain further.

And then, one night Monaco again, always Monaco you found yourselves alone on a quiet balcony during the afterparty.

The music pulsed behind the glass doors, soft bass reverberating through the walls. Laughter and clinking glasses filled the air inside, but out here it was just the two of you, cocooned in shadow. The city lights glittered below like fallen stars, the harbour shimmering in the distance.

You were leaning against the railing, arms bare in your sleeveless gown, the night air cool against your skin. You felt him approach before you even saw him the way the air shifted, charged and thick with something unspoken.

He came to stand beside you, his tailored jacket open, shirt unbuttoned at the collar. The scent of him clean, warm, unmistakably him wrapped around you like a secret.

“I never thought I’d be talking to the daughter of my biggest rival,” he said, voice low and velvet-smooth, a teasing smile tugging at his lips.

You turned toward him, your heart skipping at the sight of that half-smile. “I could say the same about you,” you murmured, keeping your voice light, but there was a tremor in it. “My father would have a fit if he knew I was talking to you.”

Lewis chuckled, and the sound melted something inside you. “Good thing we’re not telling him then.”

He looked at you, really looked like he was memorising your face in this light, in this moment. “You know I don’t like following the rules anyway.”

There it was. That shiver again. A current of electricity that danced over your skin whenever he looked at you like that like you weren’t part of this world that had always sought to define you. Like you were simply you.

You exhaled, quietly, as if trying to steady the storm rising in your chest.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” you whispered, but you didn’t move away.

“No,” he agreed. “But I want to.”

His voice was lower now. Rougher. And his hand, slow and deliberate, brushed against yours on the railing. Barely a touch featherlight but it felt like a match had been lit.

The city below continued on, unaware. But for you, time had stopped.

And in that pause that breath between decision and desire you leaned in, just slightly. Just enough.

And Lewis met you there.

The kiss was soft at first. Cautious. Testing. But the moment your lips met, it deepened into something inevitable. His hand cupped your cheek, warm and grounding. Your fingers tangled in the lapel of his jacket, pulling him closer.

You didn’t think about the consequences. Or your father. Or the media.

All you could think about was how right it felt. How everything in your life – the weight, the pressure, the legacy disappeared when you were with him.

You broke apart just long enough to breathe.

“You know this will complicate everything,” you said, your voice barely a whisper against his lips.

He smiled not his public smile, not the one cameras loved. But the real one. The one meant only for you.

“I’m not afraid of complicated,” he said. “Not if it means I get to be with you.”

And just like that, the line was crossed.

And you didn’t want to go back. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

As the weeks passed, your secret relationship with Lewis grew into something far deeper than either of you had anticipated.

What began as curiosity and chemistry had quietly unraveled into a connection that neither time nor rivalry could easily sever. It was a flame you tried to hide behind closed doors, but it burned brighter with every encounter.

Late-night texts became your lifeline tucked beneath your pillow after lights out, buzzing softly with messages that made your heart race. “Land safely?” he’d send after a late flight. Or “Wish you were here,” from a hotel room in Monaco when you couldn’t travel with him.

You’d reply in whispers under the covers, your fingers dancing across your screen in the dark, smiling like a teenager with a crush only this was no crush.

It was stolen glances at race weekends, the kind that lasted just a second too long. Eyes meeting across the paddock, his lips twitching in a subtle smile while your father stood just metres away, oblivious.

Sometimes he’d brush past you in the corridors between hospitality suites, his fingers lightly grazing your hand in a fleeting touch no one else could see. You lived in fragments tiny collisions of longing in a world that was never meant to let you fall for each other.

You met where you could wherever there were shadows and privacy. Hotel suites booked under different names. Discreet drives with tinted windows.

Once, after a race in Singapore, he flew you on a private jet to his next stop, the lights of the city falling away as the sky darkened and you curled up beside him on the leather seat, his arm around you as you whispered stories neither of you had ever told another soul.

He never made you feel like a secret, even when you were one.

What surprised you most was that it wasn’t just physical. Not really. There was desire, yes - a magnetic pull that neither of you could deny. But what truly bound you to Lewis was how seen he made you feel.

In the quiet, private moments between races, when the world stopped spinning, he showed you pieces of himself that no press conference or post-race interview ever could.

One night in Paris, wrapped in the sheets of a hotel bed after hours of talking and tangled limbs, Lewis had stared at the ceiling and said quietly, “You know, there are days where I walk out onto the grid, and it feels like I’m completely alone.”

You turned toward him, watching his profile in the dim light. “But you’re surrounded by people. Fans. Media. The team…”

He sighed, eyes distant. “That’s the thing. I’m never alone physically. But sometimes I still feel like no one really knows me. Not the brand. Not the champion. Just me.”

You reached out and slid your fingers between his. “I know you.”

His eyes met yours, and for a moment, he looked almost vulnerable. Like that small sentence meant more to him than trophies ever could.

In turn, you found yourself opening up to him in ways you never had with anyone else. You told him about the weight of your last name. What it was like to walk through the paddock and feel like you were always being measured not just as Christian Horner’s daughter, but as a woman in a sport that still viewed you as ornamental unless you proved otherwise.

“I get these looks,” you confessed one night while sharing a quiet dinner in a candlelit booth in a back alley restaurant in Rome. “From the engineers. The sponsors. Like I’m just a decoration. And my father doesn’t see it. He thinks I should be grateful to be part of his world.”

Lewis leaned in, resting his hand over yours. “You don’t belong to his world. You belong to your own.”

You blinked back the sudden emotion in your throat, because no one had ever said that to you before. Not your family. Not your colleagues. Not even your friends. But he did and he meant it.

Even in your most hidden moments, when you lay curled in his arms in the dim light of a suite somewhere in New York, Abu Dhabi, or London, Lewis never treated you like a secret. You weren’t an escape. You were home. And he became that for you, too.

There were times you’d lie awake at night beside him, tracing the tattoos on his arm with your fingers while he dozed beside you, the slow rhythm of his breathing anchoring you.

You’d memorise the curve of his shoulder, the way his lips parted slightly in sleep and wonder how something that felt so right could be so wrong to the world around you.

Because outside those walls, everything was different.

Your father still tore into Mercedes every chance he got. Toto Wolff’s cold fury flared in every interview and Christian Horner was just as quick to fan the flames.

You’d hear their voices bitter and biting echoing through the media, slinging barbs at one another while you quietly sat on the sidelines, hiding the fact that you were slipping further in love with the one person who could ruin everything.

And yet, you didn’t want to stop.

Not when Lewis made you feel understood in a way no one else did.

Not when the sound of his voice, the safety of his arms, the truth in his eyes, had become your calm in the chaos.

What started as a secret was now your sanctuary.

And every day, you found yourself sinking deeper into it even knowing the fallout that might come.

Because loving Lewis wasn’t just a rebellion.

It was a revelation.

One night, after a particularly explosive press conference the kind that had journalists buzzing and social media ablaze you found yourself pacing the penthouse suite of a luxury hotel, heart pounding, hands trembling.

Your father and Toto had just gone head-to-head in front of the cameras, their voices sharp, their words venomous.

It was supposed to be about team strategy, about upgrades and pace. But somehow, as it always did these days, the press twisted their questions just enough to suggest something personal. About Mercedes and Red Bull. About you and Lewis.

It was subtle, but it was there a whispered rumour turned into a media feeding frenzy. Every glance between you and Lewis, every moment you spent near the paddock he walked in, had been photographed, dissected, speculated on. You felt like a live wire, exposed and fraying at the edges.

Now, the only place that felt safe was here inside this dimly lit suite above the city, wrapped in silence, waiting for him.

The door clicked softly behind you.

You turned.

Lewis stepped in, his movements quiet but deliberate, his presence grounding you in an instant. He didn’t say anything at first just took you in, the tension in your posture, the way your arms were crossed tightly over your chest as you stared out the glass wall at the glittering skyline.

He dropped his keys on the console and walked toward you. “You okay?” he asked, his voice low and warm, as if he already knew the answer but wanted to hear it from you anyway.

You didn’t answer right away. You felt the weight of everything pressing down on your shoulders your father’s fury, the reporters' questions, the endless hiding. You swallowed hard.

“I hate this,” you finally whispered, your voice cracking as you blinked back tears. “I hate the secrecy. I hate lying to everyone. I hate pretending like this like we don’t exist.”

Lewis reached for your hand gently, lacing his fingers through yours. His thumb brushed softly over your skin, grounding you in the moment. “I know,” he murmured. “I hate it too.”

He stepped closer, his free hand brushing a strand of hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear with a tenderness that made your chest ache. “But I’d rather have a thousand secret nights with you than a lifetime without them.”

Your eyes met his. There was something raw in them tonight something more vulnerable than usual. A softness that warred with the storm you both lived in. You could see the strain behind his eyes, the exhaustion of playing roles, of keeping up appearances.

His voice dropped lower, almost a whisper. “I can’t stop thinking about you. About us. About what it would be like if the world just didn’t matter for once.”

He moved closer, his hands settling on your waist, fingers splayed gently against your sides as he guided you toward him. The air between you shifted, heavy with unsaid truths and barely restrained longing. You could feel his breath on your skin, warm and steady.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he whispered. “But I need you to know I’m not going anywhere. Not unless you tell me to.”

And you didn’t want to. Not tonight. Not ever.

When his lips met yours, it was slow at first tentative, careful, like the two of you were still learning how to exist in this fragile in-between.

But as soon as your lips moved against his, as soon as you tasted him, something inside you snapped. The kiss deepened, grew hungrier. Your hands slid up his chest, fingers curling into the soft cotton of his shirt as you pulled him closer, needing to feel him, needing to know that he was real.

Lewis groaned softly against your mouth, his hands roaming your back, tracing the dip of your spine like he’d memorised every curve of you.

You broke apart for air, panting, your lips swollen, heart pounding. “Lewis,” you breathed, “we can’t people will find out. My father, the media it’s too dangerous.”

But he shook his head, his expression fierce, unwavering. “I don’t care anymore,” he said, voice hoarse. “Let them find out. Let them talk. I’m done pretending like you’re not the most important thing in my life.”

His words pierced through you, melting every last wall you had built between you and this man. You cupped his face, your thumbs brushing along his jaw, remembering the way he looked at you like you were something holy, something rare.

“I want you,” he said again, softer now. “All of you. No more hiding. Not tonight.”

Your lips met again, this time with no hesitation. It was all heat and hunger and need. You tasted his desire, felt it in the way his hands slid under the hem of your shirt, lifting it slowly as his fingers trailed fire across your skin.

He lifted the fabric over your head, discarding it to the floor, his eyes never leaving yours. “You’re beautiful,” he murmured, almost reverently. “Do you know that?”

You couldn’t speak. You could only reach for him, tugging at his shirt, needing him closer, needing more. You kissed him again, your hands roaming over the hard lines of his chest, feeling the way he trembled under your touch.

Clothes fell away like secrets piece by piece, until there was nothing between you but breath and skin and years of longing finally unleashed.

Lewis guided you back toward the bed, his lips never leaving yours. He laid you down with a gentleness that contradicted the fire in his touch, his body settling between yours as he kissed down your neck, your collarbone, every inch of skin he could reach. Each kiss was a promise. Each touch, a declaration.

When he finally paused, hovering above you, his forehead resting against yours, his breath mingling with yours, he asked the question that made your heart stop:

“Are you sure?”

His voice was barely a whisper. His eyes searched yours, vulnerable and full of love real, honest, earth-shattering love.

And in that moment, everything else faded away.

There was no Red Bull. No Mercedes. No media. No fathers or rivalries or reputations.

There was only this.

You nodded, your fingers threading through his curls as you whispered, “Yes. I’ve never been more sure.”

And when he kissed you again, it wasn’t just passion.

It was surrender.

It was love.

You nodded, your hands moving to his chest, feeling the strength beneath his clothes, the warmth of his skin. "Yes," you breathed. "I’m sure."

There was no hesitation after that. Lewis kissed you again not the tentative, careful kiss from before, but something deeper. Something desperate. His lips moved against yours with a fervour that sent shivers down your spine, his hands threading through your hair, anchoring you to him like he was afraid you might vanish. And you kissed him back just as fiercely, clinging to him as though he were the only solid thing in a world that kept trying to tear you apart.

The urgency between you intensified. His hands explored your body reverently, almost as if he were trying to memorise every curve, every inch of skin, every tremble beneath his fingertips. He guided you backward, the two of you stumbling toward the bed, laughing breathlessly between kisses when you nearly tripped on the plush edge of the rug. The moment was so achingly tender it broke something open in you.

Clothes were discarded in quiet desperation not rushed, not careless, but with the aching patience of two people who had waited far too long for this. His shirt came off first, revealing the toned, tattooed skin beneath that you’d seen only in flashes before in paddock glimpses, magazine photos, stolen moments. But here, now, it was all yours to touch.

Your fingers traced the familiar ink over his chest, lingering over each design like it told a story. He watched you the entire time, eyes dark with affection, with desire, with awe. He wasn’t rushing you. He never did. He waited until you were ready, until you reached for him and when you did, when you pulled him closer, skin to skin, it felt like coming home.

The bed sheets tangled around your bodies as he hovered above you, his lips pressing slow, tender kisses along your neck, your collarbone, your shoulder. Each kiss felt like a vow not loud or boastful, but silent and steady. A promise that whatever this was, whatever storm waited outside that room, you’d face it together.

And yet, even in the quiet intimacy of that moment, fear hung in the corners of your mind.

Because this was dangerous. So, so dangerous.

Every stolen moment, every touch, every whisper could unravel your lives if discovered. You knew it. He knew it. The truth of your relationship the secret you both carried could destroy your bond with your father, tear apart the fragile peace between two rival teams, and ignite a media circus that neither of you would walk away from unscathed.

But none of that mattered right now.

Because his hands were on your waist, and your fingers were in his hair, and he was kissing you like he was drowning, and you were air.

You let yourself fall not recklessly, but willingly. Completely.

The intimacy between you wasn’t hurried. It was slow and purposeful, unspoken in the way you moved together like you’d done this a thousand times in another life. You touched each other with reverence, kissed with a hunger born not of lust but of need, the need to be seen, to be understood, to be loved without condition or consequence.

And Lewis loved you in a way that made you believe it was possible.

His hands trembled slightly as he held you, not from nerves, but from emotion from the overwhelming truth of finally being able to hold you like this, freely, if only for one night. You could feel the vulnerability in every movement, every whispered word against your skin. He wasn’t hiding behind charm or media-trained confidence now. This was him, raw and real and utterly yours.

When it was over, neither of you spoke. You lay tangled together in the low light of the room, your head on his chest, his arm curled tightly around your shoulders. His other hand moved slowly along your back, tracing mindless patterns as your breath slowed and synced with his.

“I don’t want this to end,” you whispered into the quiet.

He kissed the top of your head, his voice barely audible. “Then it won’t.”

But you both knew the truth. Morning would come. The world would return.

There would be team briefings, press questions, your father’s sharp eyes and the relentless pressure of keeping your secret intact. There would be cameras waiting, headlines written, assumptions made.

But right now, in this room, in this bed the rest of the world didn’t exist.

You turned your face toward his, brushing your lips against his jaw. “I’m scared,” you admitted. “Not of being with you but of losing everything because of it.”

He looked down at you, cupping your cheek in his hand. “Then let’s make it worth the risk,” he murmured. “Let’s make us the thing we fight for.”

You pressed your forehead to his, your fingers slipping between his. And for the first time in weeks, the weight on your chest felt a little lighter.

Because no matter what happened next no matter how hard things got you knew you weren’t facing it alone.

You had each other.

And tonight that was enough. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

It was only a matter of time before someone found out.

You’d always known it, deep down that the secret you and Lewis shared wasn’t sustainable. That the soft moments in the shadows, the kisses stolen behind trailers, the late-night rendezvous in locked hotel rooms none of it could remain hidden forever. But still, when it happened, the reality hit harder than either of you had expected.

The photo was simple, almost innocent a single kiss in a quiet corner of the paddock. Your hand on his chest. His lips brushing against yours, gentle and unguarded, the kind of moment you thought no one had seen. But someone had a photographer with a long lens and an instinct for scandal.

By morning, the image was everywhere.

Headlines screamed from every corner of the internet:

“PADDOCK ROMANCE: LEWIS HAMILTON SPOTTED KISSING RED BULL TEAM PRINCIPAL’S DAUGHTER”

“MERCEDES AND RED BULL’S BIGGEST SECRET EXPOSED”

“LOVE IN THE FAST LANE – OR CAREER SUICIDE?”

The fallout was immediate and vicious.

Christian Horner was on you within the hour.

He didn’t knock. He didn’t pause. He slammed the door of the motorhome open and stood there, red-faced and trembling with fury. You barely had time to stand before his voice exploded through the small space like a bomb.

“What the hell were you thinking?”

You flinched at the venom in his voice. You’d seen your father angry before at drivers, at mechanics, even at reporters but never like this. Never directed at you.

“You’re dating him?” he spat, each word like a slap. “Him? The enemy? The man who has humiliated this team, year after year? The man who has kept us off the top of the podium?”

“It’s not like that,” you tried, your voice shaking. “Dad, please—”

“No.” He raised a hand sharply, cutting you off. “Do you have any idea what this does to our credibility? To your reputation? To mine?”

Tears stung your eyes, but you held your ground. “I love him.”

The words slipped out before you could take them back. Quiet. Honest. Devastating.

Your father froze for a moment, as if the sentence had stunned him. And then, his shoulders dropped but not in defeat. In disbelief. In something darker.

“You’ve ruined everything,” he whispered, his voice suddenly hoarse. “I brought you into this world. Into this paddock. You grew up surrounded by this team, this dream. And now, you’re throwing it all away for him?”

“I didn’t plan this,” you said, your voice breaking. “It just happened.”

Christian shook his head slowly, as if he didn’t recognise the person in front of him. “You’re betraying everything I’ve built.”

Then, without waiting for a reply, he turned and stormed out, slamming the door behind him. The echo lingered longer than the confrontation itself, leaving you alone, numb, and breathless.

But you weren’t the only one facing the storm.

On the other side of the paddock, things were no better.

Toto Wolff stood in front of Lewis, barely containing his fury. The team’s hospitality unit buzzed with tension. Engineers pretended not to listen, but their silence said it all they were hearing every word.

“This is a disgrace, Lewis,” Toto snapped. “You’ve jeopardised everything - everything we’ve worked for. You’ve crossed a line.”

Lewis didn’t flinch. He stood tall, arms crossed, jaw tight.

“I didn’t betray the team,” he said, voice even. “I fell in love.”

Toto scoffed, turning away for a second like he needed space to cool the heat rising in his chest. “Love?” he repeated, almost mockingly. “Do you think love excuses recklessness? You know what this looks like to the board? To our sponsors? You handed Red Bull ammunition on a silver platter.”

Lewis stepped forward then, his voice firmer. “What matters is her. Not the politics. Not the optics. Her.”

Toto’s eyes narrowed. “And if it costs you your seat? Your reputation? Are you willing to lose everything for this girl?”

Lewis didn’t hesitate. “I’m not losing her.”

There was a pause a long, tense moment where the two men stood, the weight of legacy and loyalty pressing between them like steel. And then, slowly, Toto stepped back, his face unreadable.

“This isn’t over,” he said coldly, then walked away.

Back in your room, you sat curled on the edge of the couch, your phone buzzing nonstop texts from friends, PR statements flooding your inbox, news articles piling up by the second. You couldn’t bring yourself to open any of them.

Then there was a knock.

You didn’t need to ask who it was. You already knew.

Lewis stepped inside, closing the door quietly behind him. He crossed the room in three strides and pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly, protectively, like he was trying to shield you from the rest of the world.

“I’m here,” he murmured against your hair. “I’ve got you.”

You clung to him, burying your face in his chest as the dam finally broke and the tears came fast, hot, and helpless.

“I don’t know what to do,” you whispered. “My dad hates me. Everyone’s talking. I feel like I’ve lost everything.”

Lewis tilted your chin gently, forcing you to meet his eyes. “You haven’t lost me.”

And somehow, in the middle of the chaos that was enough to help you breathe again. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The media went into a frenzy.

You knew the photo would make waves, but no one not even you had anticipated the scale of the storm. It wasn’t just a headline or a scandalous blip in a news cycle. It was an explosion. It was everywhere.

“Racing’s Forbidden Romance: Horner’s Daughter and Mercedes’ Champion Exposed”

“Star-Crossed in the Paddock: Hamilton’s Secret Love Affair”

“Red Bull vs. Mercedes Just Got Personal”

Pundits speculated. Fans took sides. Social media became a battlefield your name trending for all the wrong reasons. Every movement you made was analysed, every silence picked apart. You couldn’t so much as walk to catering without a camera flashing in your face or someone whispering behind your back.

And the worst part? No matter how hard you tried to stay out of the spotlight, it seemed impossible. Your private life had been wrenched into the open dissected, sensationalised, and stripped of any dignity.

Your phone buzzed constantly:

“Comment on the rumours?”

“Is this relationship real or just a distraction?”

“How does your father feel about you betraying Red Bull?”

You stopped answering. You stopped looking. But even silence became a headline.

“Her Silence Speaks Volumes: Is Horner’s Daughter Regretting Her Romance?”

In the paddock, you were no longer just your father’s daughter. You were his girlfriend. Lewis Hamilton’s girlfriend. The scandal of the season. The distraction. The drama. The enemy within.

Your father barely looked at you now. Your former friends in the Red Bull garage whispered and avoided your gaze. Some of them unfollowed you on social media. The divide was sharp, cruel, and constant.

But through it all, Lewis never wavered.

He was your anchor. Your safe place. In hotel rooms behind drawn curtains, in quiet car rides between events, in stolen seconds between interviews he made you feel like yourself again. When the world felt like it was burning around you, he held you closer, kissed your forehead, and whispered, “We’ll get through this. Together.”

And you clung to that. Clung to him.

Then came that day.

You’d just stepped out of the paddock hospitality unit when the swarm descended a wall of reporters, microphones shoved in your face, voices shouting over one another.

“Is it true?”

“Have you spoken to your father?”

“Is Lewis just using you?”

“Do you realise what you’re doing to both teams?”

Your heart pounded. Your hands shook. But just as the panic was rising in your chest, Lewis appeared beside you. Calm. Steady. He took your hand, threading his fingers through yours, and turned to face the press.

You looked at him, and he nodded once giving you the space if you wanted to speak, but showing he’d be right there if you didn’t.

Your throat tightened. But then you looked at the wall of cameras, the endless flashing lights, and something in you snapped into focus. You were done being a headline. Done letting other people tell your story.

So, you stepped forward, your hand still tight in Lewis’s, and raised your chin.

“We’re together,” you said, your voice steady even as your heart thundered in your chest. “And we’re not going to hide anymore.”

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd. Reporters jostled for better shots. The flashes were blinding now, the chaos deafening. But for the first time in weeks, you felt… free.

You looked to your left and saw the soft, proud look in Lewis’s eyeslike you’d just told the world the truth he’d been aching to shout for weeks.

He squeezed your hand gently, grounding you. It was a silent promise, clear as day.

You’re not alone in this.

He turned to the reporters, calm but firm.

“We love each other,” he said, his voice carrying over the noise like thunder. “We’re not here to play games. We’re not here to fuel some rivalry narrative. We’re two people who found something real and we’re not going to apologise for that.”

There was no more denying it. No more hiding in shadows or ducking around corners.

The two of you stood there, hand in hand, while the media storm raged but for the first time, it didn’t matter. Because this time, you weren’t afraid. You weren’t ashamed.

You were together.

And that made everything else feel a little easier to bear.

It took time longer than you thought, longer than your heart sometimes felt it could endure but eventually, the noise quieted.

The media, always hungry for scandal, slowly turned their attention elsewhere. A new controversy emerged in another sport, a celebrity breakup, a political scandal. And just like that, your story slipped from front pages to the middle of the pack, and eventually, to the archives.

You could breathe again.

It didn’t happen overnight. At first, everywhere you went felt like walking on glass. Journalists still asked sly questions. Some fans booed. There were snide comments in interviews, cold shoulders in paddock halls. There were days you questioned if it had all been a mistake not your love for Lewis, never that, but whether the two of you could ever truly exist in the spotlight without being reduced to clickbait.

But through it all, Lewis never once faltered.

He stood beside you through every cold glance, every backhanded comment, every uncomfortable silence. He held your hand tighter when the cameras rolled. He brushed a kiss to your temple before you stepped into a swarm of reporters. He looked at you really looked at you — like the world outside didn’t exist. And in those moments, you believed him when he said it would all be okay.

As the season rolled on, the story began to shift. People started to see what you’d both known all along: that this wasn’t some passing fling or an act of rebellion. This was real. This was love built through late nights, hard conversations, and quiet moments when no one else was watching.

Even your father stubborn, fiercely protective, and still carrying the weight of Red Bull’s legacy on his back began to change.

Christian never said the words, not directly. He never offered an apology or admitted he might’ve overreacted. But there were small signs. The way he stopped bristling when your phone buzzed, and he saw Lewis’s name. The way he no longer avoided your gaze when Lewis’s name came up in briefings. And the day he sat silently in the back of a Mercedes hospitality tent, sunglasses on, arms crossed but watching the race by your side something in you healed.

It wasn’t perfect. Maybe it never would be. But it was something.

And then came that race one of the biggest on the calendar. The grandstands were packed, the atmosphere electric. You’d slipped into your seat on the Mercedes pit wall; nerves coiled in your stomach like wire as you watched the final laps unfold.

Lewis had driven like a man possessed. Brilliant. Calculated. Relentless. Every corner, every overtaking move, felt like poetry like he wasn’t just racing for points anymore, but for something more. For you.

When he crossed the finish line, the world erupted.

Victory.

Cheers rang out through the paddock. The Mercedes garage exploded in celebration. Engineers high-fived, mechanics shouted, and you - you just sat there for a moment, breathless, the roar around you fading to a quiet hum.

Because up on that podium, champagne dripping from his fire suit, trophy raised high above his head was him. And when the crowd chanted his name, Lewis turned, his eyes sweeping the sea of people until they landed on you.

He smiled.

Not the smile for cameras, not the one reserved for sponsors or photo ops.

It was yours.

Soft. Private. Radiant with a kind of pride that only the two of you understood.

In that moment, the months of chaos, of whispers and slammed doors and broken loyalties they all felt worth it. Because love, true love, was never meant to be easy. It was meant to be fought for.

And you had. Both of you.

You weren’t just the daughter of a rival team principal anymore. You weren’t a scandal. You weren’t a pawn in a rivalry between two titans of Formula One.

You were his - his partner, his peace, his person.

And nothing not media storms, not rival teams, not even the weight of your father’s disapproval could take that away from you.

As the national anthem played, Lewis glanced back at you once more. His hand briefly touched his heart, a subtle gesture just for you. You stood there, a small smile playing on your lips, tears blurring your vision, knowing with absolute certainty:

This was just the beginning.

[buckysleftbicep]

beneath the crown (2) 𐙚 b.b

pairing: knight!bucky barnes x princess!fem!reader (set in medieval times)

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, forbidden relationship, yearning, oral sex (f rec), unprotected sex, creampie, possessiveness, lots of tension

summary: in a kingdom ruled by duty, you’re a princess promised to a prince you don’t love. sir james buchanan barnes is the knight sworn to protect you. but one touch turns into a secret affair, dangerous, all consuming and impossible to stop. and now, you’d risk everything just to be his.

word count: 2.6k

author's note: and i'm finally done with chapter 2, i can't tell you how many times i wrote and rewrote some parts of this chapter, because i genuinely want it to be perfect! i hope you guys will love it, thank you for stopping by! lots of love for you guys! <3

series masterlist

It was just after midnight as the corridors of the castle pulsed with quiet life, soft-footed guards paced their patrols beneath arched ceilings. A candle flickered behind a shuttered window in the library tower and somewhere deeper in the keep, a hound barked once before falling silent again. 

And the rain, ever so persistent pattered against stone and slate, whispering secrets to the turrets, slipping through the ancient cracks like nature itself had a stake in the court’s treacherous games.

The air was thick with it, tension, grief, something unspoken and restless.

As if the gods themselves mourned something not yet lost.

But in your chambers, the world was still.

You stood at the tall glass windows of your quarters, your silhouette outlined in moonlight, arms folded across a thin silk shift. The hem kissed your thighs, dampened where it had stuck to your skin. The chill of the stone floor crept up through your bare feet and into your spine, but you didn’t move. Didn’t reach for a robe or call for warmth.

The cold sharpened your senses keeping you wide awake, raw, alive.

You watched the raindrops glide down the colored glass like tiny ghosts, racing each other to vanish at the sill. And behind your reflection, faint and superimposed in the glass, you could almost see him.

Bucky.

Four years ago, he’d been assigned to your personal guard, a former soldier, chosen precisely for his skill with a blade and his unwavering silence.

At first, he was a ghost in armour, present but unreachable, he never spoke more than necessary. Never lingered too long. But even then, even in those early days of practiced distance, you had felt the storm beneath his control.

He watched the court like a wolf watches a campfire—curious, calculating, always prepared to strike.

And when it came to you, he was worse. Or better. You couldn’t tell.

Wherever you walked, he followed, not just with his steps, but with those piercing cerulean eyes you’d quietly come to crave. Whenever other men dared to stare too long, he moved closer, ever silent and watchful. When your father’s advisers raised their voices in council, Bucky’s hand tightened around the hilt of his blade like a warning no one dared to ignore

When you’d once stumbled in a courtyard after your horse bucked, he was off his own before you hit the ground, arms wrapping around you with such speed it made you breathless.

And after that, something between you changed.

You began to feel it in the way his fingers sometimes lingered just a moment too long when helping you onto a carriage, as if memorizing the shape of your skin beneath his touch. In the heat that flared quietly in his gaze whenever your bodice dipped too low or your laughter carried too freely through the hallways. 

He was never inappropriate. Never disloyal. But he watched you like a man drowning watches the sky, with a desperate awe, a fierce longing held tightly beneath a fragile veil of restraint. 

It was a silent storm, fierce and unyielding, hidden behind the calm of his controlled exterior, a madness that whispered of things left unspoken and battles fought in shadows.

You should have ignored it. Should have folded that aching longing into the shadows like every other piece of yourself the crown demanded you to silence. Buried it deep where no one could find it, where it wouldn’t unravel you in the quiet moments between duty and expectation. 

But you didn’t. 

Instead, you let it pulse beneath your skin, stubborn and alive, a secret fire that refused to be smothered.

You found yourself standing too close when you spoke, the air between you shrinking without meaning to. Your fingers brushed his arm when he opened doors, a touch light as a whisper but charged with something unspoken. Your gaze lingered just a moment too long, stealing seconds that neither of you dared admit held weight. 

And in response, the unyielding armor around him began to crack, slow fractures of vulnerability breaking through the walls he’d built so carefully.

Tiny fractures, barely visible to anyone else, but to you, they were as clear as daylight. In the tight clench of his jaw. In the way his eyes traced the shape of your mouth whenever you spoke.

And most of all, in that single, breathless moment in the garden just days ago, when he kissed you with the desperate fierceness of a man who thought it might be the last time you’d ever touch.

And now, with your betrothal publicly declared and your fate sealed with the cold hands of politics and power, that crack had become a chasm.

You pressed a hand to your chest, your fingers trembling. Your heartbeat thudded beneath your palm, loud in the stillness.

He was close. You felt it.

Like a tether drawn too tight. Like a shadow at the edge of firelight.

You hadn’t seen him since the king’s announcement at the banquet, hadn’t spoken to him, hadn’t dared, but your father’s words still echoed in your head:

“The alliance with House Hydra must be sealed by blood and marriage. The date is set. You will be a queen, and your duty must begin.”

A future traded for power, your heart for diplomacy, your body pledged to a man who looked at you as though you were a piece of meat for the taking, as though you were his to bend, wield and command.

And Bucky had been there. Across the hall. Standing behind your chair in full regalia, silent and still.

But his jaw remained clenched, a fortress of control. His shoulders tensed and coiled, like a bow pulled taut, ready to unleash. And his eyes, when you dared to meet them for the briefest moment smoldered with a fierce fire, as fierce and unyielding as the torches flanking the king’s throne.

You haven't slept since. You didn’t want to.

Because sleep would bring dreams, and dreams would bring him, not as he was now, distant and restrained, but as he had been in the garden.

His hand on your cheek. His lips crushed against yours. The raw sound in his throat when you’d said his name like it meant salvation.

You hadn’t heard him enter tonight.

But you felt him before you saw him.

The air shifted, a pressure change, like a storm about to break. Your skin prickled. Your spine straightened. Your breath caught on instinct alone.

And then—

“Princess.”

The voice was low. Rough like worn leather. It rasped across the dark like a sin and a promise.

You turned sharply, your pulse hammering, but even before your eyes found him in the shadows near the stone archway, you knew.

You knew.

His hair was wet, rain still dripping from the ends, plastered to his forehead. His cloak clung to his shoulders, and the outline of his body beneath the damp leather was unmistakable—broad, strong, still humming with tension. Water trailed down his cheekbone in a silver ribbon, and his eyes were dark. 

“Bucky,” you breathed, barely audible.

And in that moment, every night he had guarded your door, every battle he had fought at your side, every time his body had shielded yours from danger, it all came rushing back like a dam breaking.

He wasn’t just your protector.

He was the part of you that still felt like freedom.

He emerged from the shadows, dark as sin in black leathers, his damp hair clinging to the sharp planes of his face. The rain had soaked through his cloak, droplets gathering on his broad shoulders like scattered gems, but his gaze seemed to burn through you.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whispered, though your voice lacked conviction. You took a step toward him like gravity itself demanded it.

“I know,” he said, voice hoarse. Broken. “But I couldn’t stay away.”

He looked like he’d walked through a storm just to reach you—and maybe he had. His knuckles were scraped raw, his eyes dark-ringed with sleepless nights, tension etched into every line of his brow. He looked feral, tired and somehow in all that still beautiful.

His gaze dropped, trailing over you—the way the silk shift clung damply to your skin, the curve of your thighs, the outline of your breasts beneath the sheer fabric. His jaw clenched.

“I needed to see you,” he murmured, stepping closer. “Needed to know you were still mine.”

Your breath caught, sharp and trembling.

“You can’t say things like that.”

“You want me to lie?” he asked, his voice rough, low, every syllable scraping against your ribs.

“No.” Your voice barely rose above the rain tapping the windows. “Never.”

“Then tell me to leave,” he said.

You couldn’t. You wouldn’t.

Instead, you closed the last of the space between you. Your fingers brushing his. Electricity sparked, something inevitable and the dam cracked wide open. You slid your hand into his, and the world slipped away.

He kissed you like a man undone like someone who had held back too long and now burned beneath the weight of his own restraint. His hands tangled in your hair, twisting and anchoring you, while his mouth claimed yours with a fierce desperation that stole the very breath from your lungs.

You moaned into him as he walked you backward, his palms finding your hips, your ribs, the small of your back, greedy and fierce, like he couldn’t decide whether to worship you or break you.

The backs of your legs hit the bed and you let yourself fall, your body aching, wet and wanting. He followed, kneeling over you, tearing off his cloak and tossing it aside with a grunt.

“You have no idea,” he groaned against your lips, “what it’s been like. Watching you. Wanting you. Knowing I can’t touch you.”

“Then touch me now,” you gasped, pulling at the buckles of his tunic, your nails catching on damp leather.

A low, guttural sound escaped him, part breath, part whispered plea. He shed his armor with a fierce impatience, peeling it away piece by piece until only a thin shirt clung to his rain-soaked chest. His hands found your waist, pulling you close, while his mouth traced heated, open kisses along your throat.

“You’ve been thinking about this,” he murmured, voice dark silk against your ear. “Haven’t you?”

Your breath hitched.

“About me between your legs.”

“Yes,” you whispered, hips shifting toward him, “every night.”

He dropped to his knees, his hands trailing fire up your thighs. He pressed his face against your core through the silk and inhaled deeply, a broken, shaky sound rumbling from his chest.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “You smell like heaven.”

You arched, fingers tangling in his hair. He hiked up your nightgown and dragged it over your hips, baring you completely to his gaze.

“Mine,” he said again, voice like gravel, like thunder. “No one else will ever have this. No one else gets to taste you.”

He leaned in close, his breath warm against your skin before his tongue traced a slow, devastating line up your slit. Every flick and swirl was deliberate, teasing you with a precision that left you gasping, thighs trembling beneath his touch.

Your head fell back, lost in the tidal wave of sensation as he explored you relentlessly, tongue, lips, and fingers moving in perfect, unyielding harmony. 

His hands gripped your thighs firmly, holding you wide open as if daring you to pull away, refusing to let you escape the delicious torment he was inflicting. Each slow lick, every teasing flick of his tongue ignited sparks under your skin, stripping you down to nothing but a desperate, aching need—need only he could quench.

“Oh, gods, Bucky,” you moaned, your voice cracking as your hips bucked against his mouth.

He groaned into you, the vibration sending shocks through your body. He flicked his tongue over your clit, fast and precise, before sucking it into his mouth, lips tight, tongue relentless. You cried out, legs shaking as pleasure built fast and hot in your belly.

Your first orgasm hit like a wave crashing through you, blinding and all-consuming. You sobbed his name, one hand fisting in the sheets, the other still tangled in his wet hair as he licked you through it, groaning like he was addicted to your taste.

When you finally collapsed back against the bed, limp and shaking, he rose over you. His mouth was slick with your pleasure, his eyes dark with a hunger that hadn’t lessened in the slightest.

“I could die like this,” he murmured, brushing your cheek with the back of his hand. “With you beneath me.”

 “Then take me,” you whispered, eyes blown wide with lust, “Make me yours.”

 He stood, kicked off the last of his clothes, and your breath hitched again.

He was stunning. Hard and heavy, flushed and leaking, his cock resting thick against his thigh. Your thighs fell open instinctively, aching to feel him inside you. He crawled onto the bed, the mattress dipping beneath his weight, and hovered over you. Your foreheads touched, Bucky’s hand cradling your cheek.

“Last chance,” he said, voice ragged. “Tell me no.”

You reached down between you and wrapped your hand around him. He hissed through his teeth, hips twitching forward.

“Please,” you whispered, gaze locked on his. “I want you. I want all of you.”

That was all it took.

He surged forward, thrusting into you in one long, brutal stroke that stole the air from your lungs. You cried out, body arching, nails clawing at his back as he filled you completely.

“Fuck—” he groaned into your neck. “So tight. So fucking perfect.”

He set a rhythm, hard and deep, each thrust knocking the breath from your lungs. You met him with every stroke, your bodies crashing together like waves on stone.

His mouth found your throat, your shoulder, your lips, biting, sucking, tasting. His hand slipped between you, fingers circling your clit again, drawing you back to the edge with ruthless precision.

“Say it,” he growled, teeth grazing your ear. “Say you’re mine.” “I’m yours,” you moaned. “I’ve always been yours.”

He kissed you hard, desperate, groaning against your lips as your second climax ripped through you, tighter and hotter than the first. Your whole body shook as you broke beneath him, crying out, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes.

He didn’t stop.

He chased his own end with ragged, punishing thrusts, hips slamming into yours until he buried himself deep and came with a guttural growl, shuddering as he spilled inside you.

You lay tangled together, your legs still wrapped around him, his face buried in your neck. Both of you shaking. Slick with sweat. Full of something far more dangerous than lust.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he murmured against your skin. “But gods help me, I don’t regret it.”

“Neither do I,” you whispered.

You stroked his hair, letting the silence wrap around you. The rain kept falling, soft and steady. Your fingers curled around his nape. You might have drifted into sleep, wrapped in the haze of your shared sin.

But then— Three sharp knocks. Your blood froze.

Bucky was on his feet in an instant, grabbing for his cloak and belt, his breath still ragged. You hurriedly pulled your nightgown down, smoothing the fabric over your skin as fast as you could, your heart pounding wildly in your chest.

“My lady,” came a voice through the door.

Familiar. Cold.

Prince Rumlow.

“Open the door.”

Bucky turned toward the window, half-dressed, his jaw clenched. You steadied your breath, walked to the door, and cracked it just enough to block the view behind you.

“I’m sorry, your highness, I fell asleep,” you said smoothly, masking the panic in your chest.

He scanned you carefully, you were disheveled, flushed, hair damp with sweat and his smile twisted with sharp malice.

“You reek of sin,” he said.

You met his gaze, defiant. “Do not think I am blind, princess,” he sneered. “I’ve seen the way Barnes looks at you. If I find proof, any proof—I will have him burned alive for treason.”

You stared back, expression blank. But inside, you were enraged.

Let him try.

He had no idea what it meant to threaten what was yours.

a/n: i hope that you enjoyed this chapter, i am partially done with chapter 3 and i am so excited oh my gosh i can't wait for you guys to read it! love ya and stay safe out there my loves!

[myfairstarlight]

I need to ramble about the wedding breakfast dance.

That is Colin and Penelope's "Stare into my eyes. (s1) / Just keep looking at me, no one else matters. (s2) / Keep your eyes on me. There is no one here but us (QC)" iconic couple dance scene except no word is exchanged the whole time.

Instead, we get a visual representation of that feeling as the room empties, and only them remain. Albeit the editing did not let us savour that long enough, where's the full footage in HD Netflix???

And I think it's a core aspect of a friends to lovers story and Polin's that is so under-appreciated, this silent understanding between the characters. They've known each other for years, they've always been comfortable when together, so in that moment, no word of reassurance is needed because they already know! They have always been each other's safe space, even before friendship turned into romantic love. After all, they just need one look and a nod, just like at their wedding, to be secure in the other's love. No one else matters indeed.

Furthermore, unlike the other couples who were scrutinised by the Ton at some point or another because of their match, with the unfortunate pressure that comes with it, Penelope and Colin were always more of the outcasts, gossiping on the side of balls and no one truly paid them any attention until very recently as they both forced themselves to take part in society (Penelope to seek a husband, Colin to be taken seriously). Their season is the first time the Queen (or Lady Danbury) does not meddle with the main couple! (I would add Violet to the list who was more withdrawn than in previous seasons and mostly focused on Francesca this season, but she did nudge Colin a little.)

As soon as they get together, they stopped caring about others' judgement, because why should they? The Ton did not care before, after all. Colin and Penelope dancing in broad daylight at their wedding breakfast was breaking some unspoken society rule, but even before that, dancing at the church (also in broad daylight), at the Mondrich ball as they break the dance routine to add a twirl. They simply do not care. In fact, they never truly respected propriety rules, have they? Calling each other by their given names (even a nickname on Colin's part), the letters, the many unchaperoned encounters (one of which they got caught by Portia and Jack and yet nothing happened), Colin refusing a dance with Cressida to dance with Penelope instead... it just never brought a scandal because, well, the Ton constantly overlooked them, so now Penelope and Colin return the favour by overlooking the Ton.

And it is so significant that despite the Whistledown issue still hanging over their head, it does not change the fact they have chosen each other, that they will keep being their most authentic selves with each other and act like the whole world around them does not exist because they have each other, and as long as they do, everything will be alright.

After all, it is Colin loving and supporting Penelope that will give her the courage to step into the light and face the Queen as Whistledown, and it is Penelope loving and supporting Colin that will inspire him to write and publish, and make him feel like he finally belongs.

Oh also shout out to Albion Finch, best brother-in-law, always delighted to see Penelope thriving <3

And credit to this post I saw on twitter that prompted me to write this.

[louisaskywalkerani]

Whispers in the Dark, forbidden embrace.

Pairing : Anakin Skywalker x f!Reader

synopsis : anakin reassures you about your forbidden relationship in more ways than one.

CW : 18+, smut! minors DNI. no movement but, p in v penetration, cock warming.

an : ok this is my first fanfic i've ever written, i'm completely petrified tbh, i tried to do my best, if u can give me some advice, it would be super nice. enjoy this ig.. the end is also inspired by @ohcaptains !!

The dim lighting in the temple corridor casts long shadows. Anakin's footsteps echo softly as he approaches you, a determined look in his eyes. You've been avoiding him, knowing the danger of your connection. Tonight, there's no escape.

"Anakin, we shouldn't be here," you whisper, your voice trembling with the weight of unspoken emotions.

He steps closer, his presence overwhelming. "We can’t keep pretending, not anymore," he replies, his voice husky. "The Council doesn’t understand what we feel."

You look into his eyes, seeing the conflict mirrored in your own. "What if we're caught? The Council—"

"Screw the Council," he interrupts, his hands gently cupping your face. "I need you. We both know this is more than a fleeting desire."

Your breath hitches as his thumb brushes over your lips. "Anakin, we're risking everything."

"Some things are worth the risk," he murmurs, leaning in. His lips capture yours in a kiss that speaks of months of longing and suppressed passion. The kiss deepens, and you feel the warmth of his body against yours, his heartbeat pounding in sync with your own.

Breaking the kiss, he rests his forehead against yours. "Tell me you don’t feel the same, and I'll walk away."

You close your eyes, the truth undeniable. "I can’t," you admit softly. "I’ve tried, but I can’t."

With a relieved sigh, Anakin wraps his arms around you, holding you close. "Then let’s not fight it anymore."

—

The night is serene, stars twinkling above as if to guard your secret. Anakin spreads his cloak on the ground, inviting you to sit beside him. “Remember when we first met?” he asks, his voice a soft murmur.

You smile, the memory clear in your mind. “You were so arrogant,” you tease. “I thought you’d never take anything seriously.”

Anakin chuckles, his hand finding yours. “And you were so serious. Always following the rules.”

A comfortable silence settles between you, the bond deepening with shared memories. You both lie down on the cloak, looking up at the stars. "I used to think the stars held our destiny," you say, your voice barely audible.

"They still do," Anakin replies, his fingers intertwining with yours. "But we can choose our path."

The quiet of the night is broken only by the soft sounds of the temple gardens. Anakin turns to you, his eyes reflecting the starlight. "Do you ever wonder what life would be like if we didn't have to hide?" he asks, his voice tinged with sadness.

"All the time," you admit. "But the life we've chosen doesn't allow for what-ifs."

Anakin's grip tightens around your hand. "We could leave. Start a new life, far from here. No rules, no codes, just us."

You look at him, the sincerity in his eyes making your heart ache. "And what of our duties? Our responsibilities?"

"We've given enough," he says fiercely. "Isn't it time we lived for ourselves?"

The temptation is strong, the vision of a life with Anakin almost too beautiful to resist. But the weight of your commitments anchors you. "I don’t know if I can."

Anakin sighs, pulling you closer. "I can't lose you," he whispers. "Not now, not ever."

"You won't," you promise, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "We'll find a way to make this work."

The night stretches on, filled with whispered words and tender touches. As dawn approaches, you both lie entwined, the weight of your choices pressing down but the warmth of your connection offering solace. For now, in this moment, you are together, and that’s all that matters.

You lay there, enveloped in the warmth of each other’s embrace. The temple gardens, usually so serene and quiet, now seem to pulsate with the forbidden energy of your bond. The leaves rustle gently in the night breeze, almost as if they are whispering your secrets.

Anakin strokes your hair gently, his fingers tracing patterns that send shivers down your spine. “I’ve always admired your strength,” he says softly. “You’ve kept us hidden so well, even when it must have torn you apart.”

You sigh, nuzzling closer to him. “It hasn’t been easy,” you admit. “Every time I see you, I have to fight the urge to run into your arms. But I’ve never regretted it. Not for a moment.”

His grip tightens around you, as if he fears you might slip away. “I want to show you something,” he says suddenly, sitting up. “Come with me.”

Curious, you follow him through the winding paths of the garden until you reach a small, hidden alcove. The moonlight filters through the leaves, casting a mystical glow over everything. Anakin kneels and presses a hidden switch, revealing a small passageway.

“How did you find this?” you ask, amazed.

“I have my ways,” he replies with a wink. “Come on.”

The passage leads to a secluded chamber deep within the temple, one that even you, with all your knowledge of the place, had never discovered. It’s filled with ancient artifacts, relics of Jedi history, and texts that seem almost forgotten by time.

“I come here to think,” Anakin says, lighting a small lantern that casts a warm glow over the room. “It’s a place where I can be myself, away from the pressures of the Council and the weight of my duties.”

You walk around, marveling at the treasures surrounding you. “It’s incredible,” you whisper. “Like a sanctuary.”

Anakin smiles, coming up behind you and wrapping his arms around your waist. “I wanted to share it with you. A place that’s ours alone.”

You turn in his embrace, your eyes meeting his. “Thank you,” you say, your voice thick with emotion. “It means more than you know.”

For a moment, you simply stand there, holding each other, surrounded by the silent witnesses of a bygone era. Then, with a gentle tug, Anakin leads you to a small nook filled with cushions. You sit down together, and he pulls you into his lap, his lips finding yours once more.

He breaks the kiss and smiles up at you, taking in every curve of your body, his hands brushing along your thighs as he drinks in the sight of you.

“You're so beautiful... even more so up close.” he whisper 

He reaches up, his hand cradling your cheek as he kisses you again. As the kiss deepens, he pulls you closer, his hand sliding lower along the curve of your waist. His touch is gentle at first, but as his passion grows, he holds you tighter against him.

Anakin's tongue explores your mouth as his hands roam over your body, tracing the curves of your hips. His touch is electric, sending shivers down your spine as it ignites the fire burning within you.

You moan softly into his mouth as you feel his fingers brush across your skin, their touch leaving a trail of warmth in their wake. Your hands explore his back, feeling every muscle as they clench and relax beneath your fingertips.

Anakin breaks away from you briefly, trailing kisses down your neck and collarbone. His teeth graze against your skin, causing goosebumps to rise in their wake.

“Ani... what are we doing...?” You breathe, biting your lip as his lips find a sensitive spot on your neck.

Anakin chuckles, his breath warm against your skin as he leaves a trail of kisses along your jaw.

"I think you know, love.." He murmurs, his hand slipping under your chin to tilt your head back and expose your neck to him.

“I want you,” he whispers in your ear, his voice low and husky.

His words send shivers down your spine, and you can't help but arch your back, pressing yourself closer to him. Your body aches for his touch, but you’re thankful that he can’t see the way you clench your eyes closed. 

Regardless, he can sense you tightening your grip on the back of his head. As you shift up against his thigh, the heat from your underwear burns against him.

He is aware that you are hesitant.

“It can be like i told you last time.” He stutters, licks his lips, and struggles to get the words out of his throat.

“Just- sit on it.” he managed to say. “If you don’t want to move it’s alright love, just wanna be inside you.” 

He buries his head into the crook of your neck and kiss it carefully to not leave any marks.

“Anakin..” You whisper softly as you struggle not to close your eyes to his touch.

He pulls away from your neck and looks up at you.

“What? Are you afraid?” 

Your eyes roll slightly “No i’m not afraid.”

A slight smile appears at the corner of his lips. “Then what is it?”

You squint at his attitude. “Nothing. I- I just won’t move.”

He nods and slowly kisses your neck, his fingers tangle in your hair, pulling your head back to expose your neck. “Alright, love.”

You shift back so he can pull his trousers down to his knees, and you take his cock in your hand, feeling him melting at your simple touch.

“Love,” he whispers, his voice deep and rough. “I want to be inside you. Now.” 

You feel a surge of heat between your legs, and you can't help but moan in response. You've never felt so aroused, so completely lost in the moment.

You push your underwear to the side, and you lift yourself to sink onto him as Anakin breathes “Take it easy love, don't want you to hurt yourself.”

You halt. To avoid pushing him inside of you all at once and hurting yourself, you grip his shoulder to steady yourself.

You push against him once more, and the tip of his cock nudges between your folds, forcing an ache to shoot through your clit and make you dizzy. You pause as a slow burn builds in your thighs, you clench down in an effort to relieve the pain.

“Fuck,” Anakin grunts as he wraps his arm around the back of your hips, “Lemme,” he mumbles, and he flexes gently his hips up, slowly feeding his cock into your soaked core and kiss your neck again to distract you from the potential pain.  

You're gasping for air, you moan softly in pleasure, the heat of his mouth on your skin igniting the fire within you. You've never felt anything like this before, and you never want it to end.

When you finally sink to the depths, the pair of you moan out loudly in unison.

Anakin buries his face in your neck, “Now, don’t move. Just don’t move.” He grunts once again.

You nod a little too vigorously, which creates a slight movement in your hips, and because of that you feel Anakin pulse from inside of you.

he manage laughs falsely and grips your hips more firmly “What did i say?”

“S- Sorry” You whisper as you feel his wet lips brush against your breasts which makes you throw your head back.

“If you move again,” Anakin begins to say, panting, “I'll leave the Jedi order and do what I should have done a long time ago.”

Anakin always wanted to fuck you properly and it drove him crazy not to be able to do it.

“D - Don’t try to tempt me, Anakin” You managed to say, saying in your head to yourself,  

Don’t even move.

But Anakin brings you out of your thoughts by licking gently your neck, making you clench around him, causing him to groan deep against your neck.

“I'm warning you, this is the last time.” He says, gritting his teeth and gripping your hips even more firmly, but not enough to hurt. 

“It’s all your fault this time” You whimper as you tighten your grip on his shoulders. 

“Just stay still,” He said firmly, concentrating on not moving and coming inside you.

[splinterclan]

what is the clan's relationship with the warrior code. Because they don't really seem too strict about it.

I just went and copy pasted the Warrior code from the WC Website and I'll put what percent they follow that rule after each one (never actually read the warrior code so this is fun jsjs)

1. Defend your Clan, even with your life. You may have friendships with cats from the other Clans, but your loyalty must remain to your Clan, as one day you may meet them in battle. - 100%

2. Do not hunt or trespass on another Clan’s territory. - 100%

3. Elders and kits must be fed before apprentices and warriors. Unless they have permission, apprentices may not eat until they have hunted to feed the elders. - 100%

4. Prey is killed only to be eaten. Give thanks to StarClan for its life. - 100%

5. A kit must be at least six moons old to become an apprentice. - 100%

6. Newly appointed warriors will keep a silent vigil for one night after receiving their warrior name. - 100%

7. A cat cannot be made deputy without having mentored at least one apprentice. - 90% Was lax for Moor since the clan started without any apprentice age kids, but will be 100% for every deputy after her

8. The deputy will become Clan leader when the leader dies or retires. - 100%

9. After the death or retirement of the deputy, the new deputy must be chosen before moonhigh. - 100%

10. A gathering of all four Clans is held at the full moon during a truce that lasts for the night. There shall be no fighting among Clans at this time. - 0% There's 5 clans total around, but their territories are so massively far apart it's really not feasible for them to visit each other at all (like, miles apart - Oakclan is a 2-3 day journey from Splinter's camp). Every clan interaction in the game I interpret as happening with wandering rogue groups instead

11. Boundaries must be checked and marked daily. Challenge all trespassing cats. - 100%

12. No warrior may neglect a kit in pain or in danger, even if that kit is from a different Clan. - 100%

13. The word of the Clan leader is the warrior code. - 80% ish? the clan is just way too small for there to be the separation that is required for dictatorship effect. It's more like a family where your dad "sets rules" but you know he won't beat your ass if you disobey them, but you mostly obey them anyways bc you love him (Whorlstar is their dad)

14. An honorable warrior does not need to kill other cats to win his battles, unless they are outside the warrior code or it is necessary for self-defense. - 100%

15. A warrior rejects the soft life of a kittypet. - 100% They won't go near or take food from humans - even when Cedar lived near one for a bit, he never took food from them.

So apparently they follow it pretty well? There seems to be a lot of unspoken rules in WC (like don't have kits with outsiders etc. Med cats can't have kits) That aren't on this list, so I guess they're not official? Idk xD I've said this before, but I have only read the first series of books so I don't have the fullest knowledge, but I do feel like with WC-based stories stuff like having the Med Cat get in trouble for having kits or half-clan relationships being persecuted are dumb rules anyways so I'd just rather write about something else

Plus clangen itself has no internal code for punishing that kind of stuff so it's all free game there too luckily ^^

[in1-nutshell]

Greetings, can i request an Earthspark Buddy, who's the youngest terran and was born after the last episode of season one, they got a Brown Bat alt mode, and have a sonic scream. When they found out the first time, they fled to the woods, their family was worried sick, but after some time they came back and told everyone that everything was fine.

They kept dissapearing some days and this worried their fam, they called megatron to help them follow Buddy and find where they go. They find Buddy at the middle of some free space and then they hear a guitar, Frenzy and the other cassettes appear and calls them their adopted sib. Buddy Laughs and Soundwave appears, the maltos and Megs come out of their hiding spot and take possitions to attack and defend Buddy.

Soundwave attacked first and they began fighting. Buddy, in distress, released a Sonic scream. Everyone was on the ground, their sibling couldn’t believe that they controled it after not much time. They told their family that Soundwave was their friend and that the should not fight, Soundwave had been mentoring them on their ability and helping them understand cybertronian things.

The maltos didn’t trust Soundwave because of the past, but Buddy seemed happy with them, and the other way around with the cassettes. The cassettes helped them too, so they controled their ability much faster because of the help they have been getting. Megatron was still 9n disbelief, but he understood. Soundwave had alredy lost a kid, and this one was their new menteé and they wouldn’t let anything happen to them.

By the endeverything turns up good, but now a family member had ti be around in the lessons.

(I love found family trope, you are amazing and don’t feel bad about the other requests, it wasn't your fault)

Love that Found Family Trope too!

Hope you enjoy!

Buddy the Terran with a bat alt mode

SFW, Platonic, Familial, Slight Angst, Cybertronain (Terran) reader

TFE

It was an unspoken rule that Buddy was the youngest.

No one really knew who was the oldest from the newest group of Terrans, but it was agreed that Buddy was the youngest.

Though they were the first to scan their alt mode.

Thrash: “Has anyone seen Buddy?” Mo: “I thought they were with Robbie.” Robbie: “I thought they were with Twitch?” Jawbreaker points to the top of the barn roof. Jawbreaker: “Look!” Buddy is slightly crouching in their new alt mode blinking at the others. Twitch: “They got their alt mode!” Robbie: “Buddy! You’re a bat!” Buddy: “Yeah…” Nightshade: “Why don’t you come down so we can have a better look.” Buddy: “…I can’t get down…” Hashtag: “What do you mean you can’t get down?” Buddy: “I don’t know how to get down!” Robbie: “How did you even get up there?” Buddy squeaking: “I don’t know! One minute I’m visiting Barry and the next I’m on the roof!” Mo: “Who’s Barry!?”

Dot received a video from Hashtag of Buddy in their new alt mode on top of the roof while Thrash and Jawbreaker were telling them to jump into their arms.

Alex was holding onto dear life as his wife hit the gas and sped back to the house.

After nearly another hour of trying to get Buddy from off the roof, they finally alerted Bumblebee to come and help.

Bumblebee: “Its alright Buddy! Its going to be okay!” Buddy slowly inched to the ledge. Buddy: “Are you sure this is a good idea?” Bumblebee: “You’ll be fine! Just jump—AAAHHHHHH!!” SLAM! Bumblebee was on the floor with Buddy sitting on his chassis. Bumblebee groaning: “You were supposed to wait for my count….” Buddy: “It worked when Barry tried it.” Bumblebee: “Who’s Barry?”

Other than the ‘Roof incident’, things seemed to be going well for the Terrans and the Maltos.

That, however, changed on one Family Movie Night.

Hashtag had chosen an old timey slasher film with some of the fakest props ever.

Many of the Terrans were laughing and having a good time… except Buddy.

It wasn’t until a particular jump scare came up that they screamed.

But this scream literally through most of their family back.

In their panic state, Buddy transformed and flew into the woods behind the barn.

Everyone was both in shock and worried for Buddy.

By the looks of it, Buddy didn’t even know they could do that… sonic screech either.

What if they hurt themselves on accident?

What if they got lost?

What if someone found them?!

Dot is about to call in Megatron and Optimus to help look for Buddy when said Terran carefully descended in the middle of the cow field.

Buddy nervously fiddling with their alt modes digits. They look up to see their family run to them. Buddy: “Listen I’m so, so, so, sorry—” Nightshade gets to them first and wraps their wings around them. Nightshade: “Thank goodness you’re okay!” Jawbreaker, Hashtag, Twitch and Thrash also throw themselves into the group hug. Buddy sniffles a bit before they let go and turn to their human family. Buddy: “I- I so—” Mo and Robbie hug them the best they can. Alex and Dot follow right behind. Dot places a hand on the side of their face. Buddy leans into her touch. Dot: “You okay baby? You gave us quite the scare there?” Buddy slowly nods. Buddy: “I… I just needed some space. I’m still sorry about what happened with movie night…” Alex: “Forget movie night kiddo. The important thing is that everyone is okay.” Buddy: “Yeah… I bet Barry was scared too. I need to say sorry to him too.” Alex: “Who’s Barry?”

The family made sure to tell the bots about Buddy’s new screeching abilities the next day.

It was rather difficult for the bots to find ways to help Buddy control/ train their screech.

None of them had experience with training with sound.

Buddy soon found themselves a bit left out on training, so as not trigger their scream.

This was also around the time that the family started noticing Buddy begin to stray into the woods and not come back until the evening time.

At first, they didn’t think too much about it.

It wasn’t until they started missing some mandatory training and coming back even later at night that the family started worrying.

Mo and Robbie tried to talk to them, but they only patted their heads and continued on their way.

The other Terrans tried to talk to them, which led to a sky chase between Buddy, Nightshade and Twitch.

Twitch and Nightshade groaned as they walked back to the house. Robbie: “Where have you two been?” Twitch: “We got lost trying to find Buddy.” Nightshade: “Did they come back?” Jawbreaker: “Yeah, they came back a few hours ago and just waddled to he barn.” Hashtag: “They said they needed to tell Barry something.” Nightshade: “Who’s Barry?”

The latter two got lost in the woods while Buddy returned to the roof of the barn.

Dot decided to bring in reinforcements and calls in the bots.

The next day the Maltos and bots follow Buddy into the woods.

They all hide once Buddy stops flying and waddles a bit into a clearing.

Twitch from Megatron’s shoulder. Twitch: “What are they doing?” Thrash: “Ha! They’re doing the waddle!” Hashtag: “Hush Thrash!” Everyone quiets down at the sound of a familiar jet landing into the clearing. Soundwave transformed right in front of Buddy and let the minicons out too. Buddy waves their wings a bit. Frenzy chuckled as she put them in a mini helm lock. Jawbreaker: “They’re under attack!” Optimus: “Autobots and Terrans roll out!” The bots come out of their hiding places just as Soundwave had picked up Buddy from underneath their wings. Buddy squeaked in surprised at their family and the bots being at the clearing. Buddy: “Guys? What are you—” Megatron: “Release the Terran Soundwave. No one has to get hurt here.” Frenzy, Lazerbeak and Ravage stand in front of Soundwave. Frenzy: “You want ‘em? You’ll just have to go through us!” Soundwave puts Buddy down behind him and readies himself. Buddy had a nervous face. Buddy: “Wait I—” Their pleas were drowned out by the sound of Soundwave’s fist on Megatron face.

The fight broke out.

Thankfully it didn’t last long.

Buddy had let out a low scream, making everyone stop in their tracks.

Once they stopped, they nervously waddled to the middle of the bots and cons.

They explained to the bots and their family that they had been seeing Soundwave for the past few weeks to help train them.

Soundwave had the best experience with sound and how to use it.

They begged Megatron and Dot to let them continue to train under the Decepticon.

Dot looked unsure, but seeing the results did put her in a tough decision.

Megatron just looked at his former friend.

Soundwave looked ready to fight him again in order to continue to see the little bat.

It had him thinking about…

Megatron walks a bit to Soundwave. Buddy nervously began to rub their digits a bit. Megatron looks at Soundwave. Megatron: “… Have you ever harmed them?” Soundwave: “No.” Soundwave: “Do you intend to use them for any future plans with the Decepticons?” Soundwave: “No.” Megatron turns to Dot: “I don’t see why not. Soundwave is the only Cybertronian we know of that can help with Buddy’s new abilities…” Dot makes her way to Soundwave. Dot: “You can train Buddy… but I swear if my kid comes back hurt from one of your outing, I. Will. Come. For. You.”

The first few times Buddy went to training, they had to be accompanied by someone.

From Mo and Robbie to Megatron and Optimus.

Slowly it turned into a babysitter.

Until Buddy went to practice and noticed no one had followed them.

Buddy had flown straight into Soundwave’s arms that day just letting out little jittery chirps and squeaks into his chassis.

Soundwave just held them close to his spark.

This little bat had managed to squeeze their way into his spark and he was not letting them go anytime soon.

[sahmiarlert]

"Would you leave with me?"

Armin has always been gentle, understanding, and patient with you. He knows about your family, your traditions, and the unspoken rule that binds you to their expectations. Loving him was never the plan—at least, not out loud, not in the way that would make your world collapse.

But love, real love, doesn't ask for permission. It blooms in quiet moments: in stolen glances, in the way his hand lingers just a second too long, in whispered conversations under the moon when no one is watching. And most painfully, in the way you both know it cannot last.

You try to distance yourself. You try to be practical. Armin deserves someone who can love him freely, who doesn’t have to weigh every moment against the consequences. But every time you look at him, see the unspoken devotion in his ocean-blue eyes, your resolve cracks just a little more.

One night, he finally asks.

"Would you leave with me?"

It’s not an impulsive question. Armin has thought about it endlessly, imagining a life where you don’t have to hide, where you don’t have to live in fear of disappointing anyone—except yourself, if you let this love slip away.

But leaving means breaking away from everything you’ve ever known. Your family. Your home. The life that was written for you before you ever had a say. And the worst part? You don’t know if they would ever forgive you.

The silence after his question feels like a living thing. Heavy. Waiting.

You stare at him, and for a moment, he looks almost afraid. Not of your answer—but of how much he wants it to be yes. He’s never asked you for anything. Not really. Armin gives without expecting. Loves without condition. But right now, he is asking.

Not to be chosen above everyone else.

Just to be chosen. Once.

Your throat tightens. You want to tell him that you’ve imagined it too—a life away from the weight of “should,” of “must,” of “you can’t.” You’ve imagined mornings without guilt. You’ve imagined waking up to the sound of his voice, not the echo of your parents’ expectations.

But dreaming is easy. Leaving isn’t.

“I—” you start, then stop. Your fingers clench at your side.

Armin doesn’t press. He waits, the way he always does. With patience. With kindness. Like he’s bracing for your no and will somehow love you through it anyway.

“I’d lose everything,” you whisper.

“You’d have me,” he says quietly.

It shouldn’t be enough. But it is.

And maybe that’s the problem.

Your eyes sting. “Armin, if I go… they’ll never forgive me.”

He exhales slowly. “Then I’ll forgive you twice as much.”

Your laugh is broken, choked by tears you didn’t realize were building. “That’s not how it works.”

He steps closer. Takes your hands. His touch is warm, grounding. “I know. But I also know that if you stay only for them, a part of you will always resent them for what they made you give up. And I’d rather live with the ache of maybe being wrong… than the certainty of watching you walk away.”

The moonlight catches on his lashes. He looks like a dream that’s already halfway out of reach.

You could still say no. Be the daughter they want. Be the version of yourself that fits neatly into the box they built for you. You’d still survive.

But you wouldn’t live.

Your voice is barely a whisper when it comes. “Okay.”

His brows lift, like he can’t believe what he heard.

You take a shaky breath, nod once—just enough to make it real. “I’ll go with you.”

And Armin… he doesn’t smile. Not yet. He pulls you into him, wraps his arms around you and kept you close.

He presses his lips to your hair. “Thank you. It will be okay.”

And for the first time, you relaxed and completely believed that it will be alright.

[into-fiction]

fourth wing

(credit to @c-rose2081 for putting the fourth wing idea in my head btw)

(also lowkey minor fourth wing spoilers)

Elphaba's heart is pounding so hard it makes her newly bruised ribs hurt, but she shoves to her feet regardless and plants herself, spitting out a mouthful of blood.

"Stay away from her," she demands, emerald eyes piercing as she glares at the only boy left standing. One has already run. The other is dead at her feet.

Behind her, the little pink dragon still hasn't moved.

"You're gonna pay for that, Thropp," Avaric growls. Blood seeps through his fingers where he holds them over the cut, Elphaba's dagger having sliced right through his upper arm.

It won't stop him. His sword has more reach, his legs have more strength. Elphaba is already swaying where she stands, her fingers barely holding on to the handle in her grasp.

Terror beats a steady rhythm through her chest, and still- she does not move. If she is going to die, it might as well be to give the pink dragon one last chance at surviving.

There's a rush of motion, a gleam of metal that Elphaba knows she won't dodge in time, and then-

The gust of air is hard enough to send her stumbling, a short cry of pain leaving her mouth as she's forced to put weight on her ankle. Everything hurts, but she's not dead. That's her only thought at first.

Why am I not dead?

Wiping sweat and tears and blood from her face, Elphaba slowly turns around, wondering if maybe the pink dragon finally took flight.

Nope. She's still sitting there, gazing calmly at the scene. But behind her, is a tower of scales so large Elphaba feels her stomach sink to the floor the further back she has to crane her neck.

There, standing protectively over the pink dragon with his head outstretched and his bared teeth gleaming, is the giant navy daggertail.

Avaric never stood a chance. He's a pile of ash on the ground before he even makes it three steps, and Elphaba's heart climbs up her throat when she realizes she's next.

She'll never get a chance to be chosen, not by the pink dragon or anyone else. The navy is going to fry her where she stands.

Except, beat by beat, seconds pass, and Elphaba is still a trembling, bleeding mess, but she's an alive trembling, bleeding mess.

The blue dragon dips his head down, golden eyes looking right at Elphaba.

Hello, she hears. A deep, masculine voice fills her head, unmistakable in origin. I am Fiyero, son of Marillot and Baxian, descendant of the Tigelaar line. It is nice to meet you, Elphaba Thropp.

A dragon does not speak to anyone who is not its rider. It's an unspoken rule that every cadet knows. Except- she's not a cadet anymore, is she?

Fuck, Elphaba thinks, and she swears she can almost see the dragon grin.

She's a rider now.

***

(drabble two)

***

There's an ominous rumble and a hot blast of air that immediately makes Fiyero regret asking.

I chose you, Elphaba growls. Because you protected her.

Fiyero swallows hard, his gaze shifting to the little pink dragon. Her wings have to beat double time in order to keep up with them, and she looks over at him as though she can sense him watching.

"I- I don't understand," Fiyero says. His grip tightens on the scales in front of him, his eyes still stinging from the earlier acrobatics.

Elphaba snorts in annoyance, a stream of air so hot Fiyero can see it leaving her. The pink dragon tilts her wings slightly, getting so close Fiyero worries for a moment that they're about to crash.

But then, Elphaba stretches her neck out, emerald meeting pink in the air as scales slide across smooth scales, the little one running her snout down Elphaba's lower jaw and rumbling in her chest like a cat. Something pleasant and warm blossoms faintly in the back of his mind.

Oh.

Fiyero finds himself blushing against his will. He clears his throat awkwardly, focusing instead on the way the ground is quickly getting closer, Elphaba angling in to prepare for landing.

Do you understand, now? Elphaba asks.

"Yep, yeah, uh, yes. I understand."

He has a feeling that if dragons could laugh, Elphaba would definitely be doing so. When they land, the pink dragon tucks herself against Elphaba's side, curling her tail around and sitting primly. A large green wing unfolds to drop over top of her.

Yes. Fieryo understands perfectly. His legs wobble when he hits the ground, and he gulps down several raggedy breaths, steeling himself for the walk across the field. People are staring already, and he doesn't want to look weak.

Before he can turn, there's another rush of warm air and a rustle of wings and then- a high, sweet voice in his head.

My name is Glinda, the pink dragon says. Make sure to tell them that, too.

Fiyero gapes, not even bothering to try and hide his surprise. Fuck, he thinks, and he knows Elphaba heard him by the amused curl of smoke that leaves her nose.

Apparently, Fiyero has two dragons. And they're mates.

[rd0265667]

Magenta x Reader: Of Seasons and Symphonies

A/N: This is a fic that might not catch as many of your eyes, given that Qwer and Magenta aren't as big as the usual groups I write for, but I do hope you guys read this and hope this helps to kickstart the QWER fanfic community

Spring

This isn’t a fairytale. Not even close. Fairytales don’t begin in places like this, where hope feels like a ghost, faint and fleeting, like it’s forgotten why it came in the first place. Once upon a time, the world was flawed but breathtaking—messy and wild in a way that almost felt intentional, like it was daring us to do better. We had room to grow, to screw up, to try again. Choices, too—ones we didn’t always get right, but at least they were ours.

But now? Now, you look out the window and see what’s left. A fractured mosaic of humanity, held together by threads so fragile they shimmer, ready to snap under their own weight. Down there, in the shadows of something that used to matter, people don’t live so much as survive, clawing their way through each day because the alternative isn’t any better. And up here, in a palace of glass and gleaming steel, you just watch. Helpless. Or worse—complicit. You wished you could do something about it. But everything had changed too quickly, and now, there is nothing to do but watch.

The world didn’t fall apart slowly. It didn’t even give us time to grieve what we were losing. One moment, there was a path forward; the next, the ground had disappeared under our feet. But even then, we had a chance to fix it. We could’ve fought for what was left, planted our feet, and rebuilt. Instead, we ran.

We turned our backs on the flames and pointed to the stars. Mars. It started like all big ideas do—idealistic, hopeful, wildly expensive. A handful of the world’s wealthiest pooled their fortunes to terraform a planet and call it paradise. And in a way, it worked. Mars became everything Earth could no longer be—pristine, abundant, perfect. A utopia, if you could afford the price of entry.

At first, it was just the billionaires who boarded the ships, their wealth carving out seats for their families and a few carefully chosen friends. Then it was the upper class, the “almost rich,” their one-way tickets bought with every penny they had. The rest of us stayed behind, watching the rockets vanish into the atmosphere, one by one, taking the future with them.

Governments tried to step in, to level the playing field, but the math never added up. The cost of salvation was always just out of reach. What remained of Earth became a pyramid scheme of survival. At the top, the upper-middle class lived comfortably enough to forget how bad things really were, literally living upon mountains, as if to emphasise their self supposed superiority. Below them, the rest of humanity scraped by, scavenging scraps of a once-golden age, living more like cave dwellers than citizens of the 21st century.

“Focus,” your mother snapped, her sharp tone slicing through the room like the crack of a whip. You dragged your gaze away from the window, back to the banquet table, its surface an explosion of opulence. Gilded plates, sparkling crystal, an array of dishes so rich and vibrant they almost looked alive. Lifeless. It was suffocating. Just like everything else here.

“Apologies, Mother,” you murmured, though the words felt as hollow as the polished silver centerpiece. You should be used to this by now. The rigidness, the rehearsed movements, the unspoken rules that turned every family meal into a performance. And yet, it still felt foreign.

“As I was saying,” your mother continued, turning to the butler who stood stiffly in the corner, “the trespassing problem. What’s the latest update, Beakley?”

Beakley cleared his throat, his voice as measured and flat as always. “There has been an uptick in attempts to breach the mountain barriers. The enforcement units have dealt with the intruders.”

Dealt with. Such a tidy little phrase for what he really meant.

“And those trying to leave?” your mother pressed.

Beakley didn’t miss a beat. “A few individuals have been caught attempting to descend into the slums. They were… managed.”

“Sneaking into the slums?” your father scoffed, his voice thick with amusement. “How utterly moronic.” He chuckled, low and earthy, and your siblings joined in, their laughter ringing out like the clink of champagne flutes.

You didn’t laugh. You couldn’t. You just sat there, hands clenched in your lap, forcing your face into an expression that wouldn’t betray the disgust curling in your stomach.

They laughed. Laughed as the world burned.

The dinner continued with that lifeless conversation, you and your siblings finally being excused. As you gazed out from your balcony, you sighed, looking out at the open lands below you. It smelt of Spring. You used to love Spring.

You leaned against the railing, letting your gaze drift across the dark landscape. That’s when you noticed it—a break in the fence. Small, almost unnoticeable, but there. A jagged edge where the metal had bent or rusted away. No guards patrolled nearby.

And then, you heard it.

A voice, soft and low, carried on the breeze, accompanied by the twang of a bass guitar. A song, lilting and sweet, threaded with melancholy so raw it made your chest tighten. The melody danced just beyond reach, but the voice—hers—was unmistakable. It wasn’t just singing; it was an invitation. A tether to something real, something alive, somewhere down there in the darkness.

You pressed a hand to the cold railing, your pulse quickening. For the first time in ages, you felt something stir in you—something reckless, something alive.

The song lingered in the air, tugging at you like a thread unraveling a tightly wound spool. You gripped the railing, your knuckles white against the polished metal, and stared at the jagged tear in the fence below. The world up here, pristine and glittering, suddenly felt suffocating—an artificial cage that smelled of rosewater and desperation. Down there, in the shadows beyond the break in the fence, was something raw and untamed. Real.

Your heart hammered in your chest, each beat urging you forward. You stepped back into your room, quickly pulling on a dark coat over your dinner clothes, its hood heavy enough to mask your face. There was no time to think, no time to second-guess what you were about to do.

The halls were silent, their marble floors gleaming under soft, calculated lighting. You moved quickly, your steps light, your breath shallow. The guards wouldn’t expect anyone to leave the compound. Why would they? No one in their right mind would trade gilded cages for the chaos below.

But the chaos was calling you.

You slipped through a side door near the kitchens, your pulse quickening as the cold night air wrapped around you. The fence wasn’t far, the jagged edge glinting faintly in the moonlight. You crouched low, keeping to the shadows as you moved closer, every rustle of the wind making you freeze in place.

When you reached the fence, your fingers brushed the rough metal, and you hissed as a sharp edge nicked your palm. You ignored the sting and pressed on, tugging at the damaged section. The metal groaned, loud enough to send a spike of panic through your chest.

“Come on,” you whispered, the words barely audible over the sound of your own heartbeat.

Finally, the gap was wide enough. You slipped through, the jagged edges catching on your coat as you emerged on the other side. The ground here was different—uneven and raw, dirt kicking up beneath your shoes. You were outside the perimeter for the first time in your life.

For a moment, you just stood there, your breath clouding in the night air, the fence a silent sentinel behind you. And then you heard it again—the song.

It was closer now, the voice clearer, rich and haunting. The melody wound through the darkness like a ribbon, pulling you forward. You followed it, your steps cautious at first, then quicker as the song grew louder. The air smelled different here, earthier, filled with the sharp tang of something alive.

She was sitting under a cherry tree, the blossoms stark and ghostly in the moonlight, her bass guitar resting across her lap. Her fingers moved over the strings with a practiced ease that made the song feel effortless, though you could hear the ache in every note. Her head tilted slightly, the movement revealing sharp cheekbones and the soft curve of her mouth, a contrast that stole the air from your lungs.

You hadn’t realized you’d stopped until the music did.

Her head snapped up, and her eyes—dark and unflinching—landed on you. For a long moment, neither of you moved. Then she stood, the guitar hanging loosely from its strap over her shoulder, and planted her boots firmly on the ground.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded, her voice cutting through the stillness.

The warmth of her song was gone, replaced by a razor-sharp edge that made you hesitate. She crossed her arms, her stance radiating defiance, as if daring you to take one more step.

“I…” You faltered, suddenly feeling foolish. What could you say that wouldn’t make this worse? “I heard your song.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “You heard my song?” she repeated, her voice dripping with disbelief. “And you thought that was an invitation to waltz on over like this is your backyard?”

“No,” you said quickly, your heart pounding. “It’s not like that. I just… I couldn’t stay up there anymore.”

Her eyes narrowed, her gaze dropping to your coat, your shoes—both of which were far too clean, far too well-made for anyone who belonged here. “Up there,” she echoed, her voice thick with disdain. “Of course.”

She stepped closer, and you could feel the tension radiating off her in waves. “Let me guess,” she said. “You got bored of your glass palace? Thought you’d come slumming it with the rest of us for a little excitement?”

Her words hit like a slap, but you held your ground. “It’s not like that,” you said, your voice firmer now. “I left because… because I needed to. I can’t explain it, but when I heard you—”

“Oh, I see,” she interrupted, her tone mocking. “You heard a pretty song and decided to go on a little adventure. Must be nice to have that kind of freedom.”

“It’s not freedom,” you said, your chest tightening. “There’s nothing free about it. You think I don’t know what this means? That I don’t know what’ll happen if they catch me down here?”

For the first time, her expression faltered. Her eyes flicked to the fence in the distance, then back to you, as if weighing your words against her instincts. “Then why risk it?” she asked quietly, the sharpness in her voice giving way to something softer. “Why come down here at all?”

You hesitated, struggling to put it into words. “Your song was the first real thing I’ve experienced in, ages.” You took a step closer, your voice dropping. “It felt real. Like I could finally breathe.”

Her cheeks flushed, and she looked away, her fingers fidgeting with the strap of her guitar. “Well, that’s poetic,” she muttered, but her voice lacked its earlier bite.

“It’s true,” you said, taking another step. “And I think you know it too.”

She glanced back at you, her eyes searching yours as if trying to decide whether to trust you. “You’re really not like the rest of them, are you?” she asked, her voice softer now, tinged with curiosity.

You shook your head. “No. I’m not.”

For a moment, the only sound was the wind rustling through the trees. Then she sighed, running a hand through her messy hair. “Magenta,” she said abruptly.

You blinked. “What?”

“My name,” she said, her lips twitching into a faint smirk. “Figured I should tell you, since you’re apparently risking life and limb to hear my music.”

“Your real name is Magenta? What’s the meaning behind it?” You ask.

“My parents weren’t poets, neither am I, my name’s Magenta, that���s that.”

“Magenta,” you repeated, the name settling on your tongue like a secret. “It suits you.”

“Don’t get any ideas,” she said, though her smirk lingered. “You’re still a rich kid trespassing in my world.”

“And you’re still just a singer with a bass guitar,” you said, unable to hide your grin.

Her laugh was quiet but genuine, and it sent warmth blooming in your chest. “You’re trouble,” she said, shaking her head. “I can already tell.”

“Maybe,” you admitted, your gaze locked on hers. “But so are you.”

She didn’t deny it. Instead, she looked at you with a mixture of exasperation and intrigue, her walls cracking just enough to let you see the person beneath. The distance between you felt smaller now, the night pressing in around you, making the world seem impossibly close.

“What song was that? An original creation?” you asked, sliding down to sit beside her. You leaned back against the cherry tree, your eyes drifting toward the fields stretching before you—worn paths of dirt and grass where people like Magenta’s family likely lived, their lives tethered to the earth in a way you hadn’t known in years.

“It is. I call it Rough,” she replied, tossing you an apple from her bag with a casual flick of her wrist. “You like it?”

You caught it, weighing the fruit in your hand before biting into it. The sweet juice dripped down your chin as you spoke, your voice laced with the faintest amusement. “You do realize I’m risking my life to hear it, right?”

Magenta raised an eyebrow, a teasing glint in her eye. “Guess I’m just that good.”

You chuckled but didn’t let go of the question lingering in your mind. “I have to ask, though… is that song for anybody? It sounds… kind of romantic.”

She hesitated, her fingers absently picking at the strings of her guitar. The night felt suddenly heavier, as if the air itself were waiting for her answer. “I don’t know,” she said after a moment, her voice softer, almost unsure. “The lyrics just came to me one spring day, you know? Like they were already there, waiting to be sung.” She turned her gaze away from you for a moment, staring out over the fields. “Guess sometimes the songs write themselves. Maybe I’ll know why the song chose me one day.”

“And you say you’re not a poet.” You say, your eyes with a teasing glint.

“Oh shut it rich kid, or I’ll stop singing.” Magenta teases back, nudging you with her shoulder, her velvet smile more beautiful than anything you had seen in years. Perhaps the most beautiful thing you’d ever see

Summer

The summer sun hung heavy in the sky, draping the orchard in a golden haze. Everything smelled like ripe fruit and freshly turned earth, the kind of heady sweetness that clung to your skin long after you left. You wound your way through rows of cherry trees, the bag over your shoulder growing heavier with each step, though you couldn’t quite summon the energy to care. You already knew where she’d be.

And you were right. Magenta sat perched on the low branch of that same old cherry tree, her guitar resting on her lap, its worn wood catching the sunlight like it belonged there. Her hair shimmered as though she were something out of a dream—or maybe something sharper, something too smart and too fleeting to pin down. She glanced up when she heard your steps crunching over the dry grass and gave you that grin—the one that always landed somewhere between playful and cutting, like a dare and an invitation rolled into one.

“Took you long enough,” she said, her voice lilting in that teasing way that made it impossible to tell if she was actually annoyed or just liked keeping you on edge. Probably the latter.

“I had to smuggle this past a fence, you know,” you said, jerking your chin toward the overstuffed bag weighing down your shoulder. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to climb while also keeping contraband intact?”

Her gaze flickered to the bag, and for the briefest moment, her expression wavered. Her walls went up so fast it felt like watching shutters slam closed. “I told you not to do that anymore,” she said, strumming a soft, dissonant chord. “It’s not like I asked for this. I don’t want—” She stopped, exhaling hard like she was trying to push the words out. “I don’t want this relationship to feel transactionary.”

“Good thing it’s not,” you replied easily, setting the bag down between you and dusting your hands off like it had been some monumental task. “It’s not even for you. It’s for everyone. You just happen to be the only one sitting under this particular tree…the tree I always come to.”

Her lips twitched, but she stubbornly fought the smile threatening to break free. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Funny. That’s not what you said last time,” you quipped, brushing a hand across your brow for dramatic effect. “If I remember correctly, you called me a saint. Or was it an idiot?”

Magenta snorted, finally setting her guitar aside. “Definitely an idiot.”

“Yeah, that tracks.”

For a moment, the air between you held its usual electric charge—the one that always felt just shy of sparking, like a storm that hadn’t quite gathered itself. Then she hopped down from her perch, landing with a soft thud beside you. Up close, she was all sharp edges softened by the sunlight, her quick smile disarming even as her eyes stayed guarded.

“So, what’s the grand prize today?” she asked, nodding at the bag but keeping her hands conspicuously to herself.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” you teased, unzipping the bag slowly, savoring her impatience. Her eyes darted toward the contents like she couldn’t help herself. “Honeycombs,” you said, pulling a jar out.

“This is your big smuggling job? A honeycomb?” she asked, though she didn’t put the peach down.

“That’s not what I brought for everyone. For everyone, I brought just a variety of foods, whatever was free at the kitchen and pantry. I got you the honeycombs because you were complaining about your throat that one time, besides, it’s sweet, kinda messy, and a pain in the ass to deal with, just like you.”

“Wow, thanks for the compliment.” she said dryly, plucking the jar from your hand. 

“You’re welcome,” you said, leaning against the tree and watching as she twisted the lid open with her bare hands. She dipped a finger into the jar and took a bite without hesitation, her expression carefully neutral as she licked the honey off her finger. “Good?”

“It’s fine,” she said, shrugging, though the way she reached for another taste betrayed her.

“That’s the highest praise I’ve ever gotten from you,” you said, grinning. “I think I might cry.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re impossible,” she muttered around a mouthful.

“And yet, you keep inviting me back,” you said, leaning back against the trunk of the tree and crossing your arms like you’d won some kind of battle. “Why is that, Magenta?”

“I don’t,” she replied quickly, almost too quickly. Then, softer: “You just keep showing up.”

“Same thing.”

She groaned, throwing her head back, but there was a smile pulling at her mouth now, something genuine breaking through her carefully constructed defenses. “You’re exhausting.”

“And yet, here we are,” you said, plucking a peach for yourself and taking a deliberate bite. “Speaking of exhausting,” you added, gesturing to the guitar she’d left lying in the grass. “What’s the latest masterpiece?” You asked, settling back against the tree trunk, your voice light but with just enough weight to make her feel cornered. You knew she hated being put on the spot almost as much as she loved proving people wrong.

Magenta stiffened, her fingers twitching toward the guitar before stopping, like it wasn’t worth the effort. “It’s nothing,” she said after a beat, her voice quieter now, the bravado she always wore peeling away like old paint.

“Oh, come on.” You leaned forward, resting your elbows on your knees, the teasing edge in your tone softening. “I know it’s going to be good, like all the other songs. What’s it called?”

Her jaw tightened like she was chewing on the answer, debating whether or not to spit it out. Finally, with a sigh so dramatic it should’ve come with its own sound effects, she muttered, “Summer Rain.”

“Wow,” you said, letting out a low whistle as you bit into the honeycomb you’d been holding. “Summer Rain for the season of summer. Truly groundbreaking stuff, Magenta.”

She shot you a glare, but the corners of her mouth twitched. “Do you want me to play it, or do you want me to murder you?”

You grinned, sticky honey smearing the edge of your mouth. “I mean, ideally neither. But if I had to pick…” You dragged the words out just to get under her skin. “I’d say play it. We can revisit the murder option later.”

“Unbelievable,” she muttered, but the way she lazily slung the guitar strap over her neck betrayed her. She was going to play it, and you both knew it.

She adjusted the guitar on her lap, her fingers brushing over the strings like she was coaxing them into cooperating. The first few notes came softly, tentatively, like they weren’t sure they belonged. Then her voice slipped into the gaps, low and unpolished but so achingly real it made your chest tighten.

She didn’t look at you while she sang—not at first. Her gaze stayed locked on the space just above her hands, like the music might fall apart if she acknowledged you were there. But as the song stretched on, her eyes started flickering in your direction, fleeting and sharp, like she was daring you to say something, to ruin it, to tell her it wasn’t enough.

You didn’t. You couldn’t.

When she finished, the orchard seemed to hold its breath, the buzzing of insects and the rustle of leaves suddenly muted, like the entire world had paused to listen.

“That,” you said softly, the word feeling too small for the moment, “was incredible.”

Magenta scoffed, her fingers still resting on the strings. “It’s nothing,” she said, her tone casual, but the way her hands fidgeted betrayed her. “Just something I’ve been messing with.”

“It’s not nothing,” you insisted, leaning forward like you could physically close the distance she was trying to create. “It’s you. And it’s beautiful.”

She froze, her fingers tightening around the neck of the guitar. For a moment, she didn’t say anything, her expression unreadable, and then she turned her head sharply, her gaze flicking to the horizon like she couldn’t handle the weight of yours.

“Shut up,” she muttered, but the words came out softer than usual, and her lips were already curling into that faint, shy smile she always tried to hide.

“Make me,” you teased, leaning back against the tree with a grin. “Although, fair warning, you’ll have to use some pretty impressive insults to top that song.”

Her eyes snapped back to you, her smile gone but the light in her gaze unmistakable. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, you keep me around,” you shot back, letting the words hang in the air like a challenge.

She exhaled, shaking her head as she set the guitar aside, her hands finally free to pluck the jar of honeycomb from your lap. “That’s because I haven’t figured out how to get rid of you yet.”

“Don’t bother,” you said, your voice dipping lower as she unscrewed the jar’s lid with a deliberate twist. “I’m like this orchard. Sticky, sweet, and entirely too much in the summer.”

Her laugh burst out before she could stop it, a real, unguarded sound that made the corners of her eyes crinkle. “God, you’re so full of yourself.”

“Maybe,” you said, watching as she dipped her fingers into the jar and pulled out a small chunk of honeycomb. “But I’m also right about the song.”

She popped the honeycomb into her mouth, the faintest smile tugging at her lips as she chewed. “You’re exhausting,” she said, but her voice had softened, the edges worn down by whatever it was you managed to get past her walls.

“And yet, you wrote a whole song about me,” you said, crossing your arms like you’d just won the argument.

“Summer Rain is not about you,” she shot back, rolling her eyes so hard it looked like it might hurt.

“Oh, sure,” you said, raising a brow. “Tell me you weren’t thinking about me every time you sang about love.”

She groaned, leaning her head back against the tree, but this time she didn’t fight the smile. “Shut up, or I swear to god, the murder option is back on the table.”

“Make me,” you said again, your grin wide and shameless.

Autumn

Summer came and went, and soon, Autumn dawned, and all you could think of was, what new symphony had Magenta cooked up

"Your father has requested your presence. You will head to the main hall immediately," Beakley’s voice came through the door, as crisp as ever, a reminder of everything you couldn't escape. His uniform, perfectly pressed and stiff as always, made your stomach tighten, like you were already expected to be something you weren’t.

You sighed, running a hand through your hair and quickly straightening your shirt. You hoped your nerves weren’t showing as you hurried downstairs. Your father sat at the large mahogany table, his expression a perfect mask of authority. Across from him was Mr. Suputhipong, a businessman whose smile didn’t reach his eyes, and beside him—Natty.

"Where are your manners?" Your father’s voice snapped, making you wince. "Come, greet Mr. Suputhipong’s daughter."

You gave a stiff bow, fighting the urge to roll your eyes. "Good morning, Mr. Suputhipong."

He gave a sharp nod, his voice booming but empty. "Ah, lovely. Now, if you would, take my daughter for a walk in your garden." It wasn’t a request. It never was.

You nodded and motioned for Natty to follow you, and the two of you stepped outside, the heavy door closing behind you like a lock clicking into place.

The garden, with its manicured hedges and perfectly laid paths, felt like yet another gilded cage. You didn’t want to be here, didn’t want to walk with Natty like this—playacting under the watchful eyes of parents whose plans were already made for you both.

"So…" Natty’s voice cut through your thoughts, light and easy, as though it were nothing at all. "Guess we're stuck with each other for a bit."

You glanced at her, raising an eyebrow. "Looks like it."

She shrugged, her hands slipping into her pockets, her posture relaxed in a way that seemed effortless. "At least we’re outside," she added with a small grin. "Could be worse."

You chuckled at that. It was true—things could always be worse—but Natty’s casual ease made you feel like she didn’t take any of this seriously. You had to admire that, even if you didn’t feel the same way.

“So... this is what we're doing now, huh?” she said, her tone more dry than curious, but there was an amused look in her eyes. “Walking around pretending like we care about all this nonsense?”

You couldn’t help but let out a short laugh, shaking your head. "Yeah, pretty much." It was like living in a play where you were always the understudy, never the lead. “I can’t say I’m a fan of these… arranged encounters.”

"Arranged, huh?" Natty’s voice was playful, but there was an edge of weariness to it. “Guess we both know why we’re out here. Both are just tokens in their little plan.”

Her bluntness surprised you, but it also made something inside you snap into place. "Yeah," you said, trying to keep your voice light. "Pretty much. Just pieces in a game."

Natty snorted softly, her lips curling into a dry smile. "Funny how they pretend it's all about alliances and family pride when it’s really about keeping us where they want us. Like we're anything but chess pieces."

You didn’t have to think hard to agree. It wasn’t something you’d ever quite put into words before, but Natty had said it exactly right. You both knew the truth, even if neither of you wanted to say it aloud.

"You’re right," you said, your voice quieter now, the weight of it all pressing down on you. "They want us to fall in line. To just... follow the script."

Natty leaned against the garden wall, her gaze drifting across the horizon as if searching for something beyond the perfectly neat rows of flowers and trees. "Yeah, well. I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of the script," she said, her grin playful but with a hint of rebellion. "I’d rather be anywhere else right now."

You chuckled, though it felt more strained than you wanted to admit. "I’m getting there too."

The conversation fell into a comfortable silence. You both stood there for a moment, side by side, the shared understanding hanging between you, unspoken but undeniable. The arrangements, the alliances, the families using you as pawns—it all felt suffocating. But as much as Natty was easy to talk to, to be around, the truth was clear: she wasn’t her

There was someone else. Someone who wasn’t part of this world.

Magenta.

You thought of her, and your chest tightened. It wasn’t just a passing thought, either. She made you feel like you could breathe, like you didn’t have to conform to the rigid mold that had been set for you. When you were with her, you could be yourself. Unpretentious. Untethered to expectations.

She was real.

And you couldn’t get her out of your mind. The way her laugh seemed to make the flowers sing back in a harmonious melody, the way her eyes sparkled when she talked about something she loved. The way she never tried to make herself something she wasn’t. You thought about her when you woke, when you closed your eyes at night.

You thought about her now.

But Natty, standing next to you, was just... easy. She wasn’t Magenta, and it wasn’t fair to either of you to pretend that she could be.

"So, what about you?" Natty’s voice pulled you back into the present, her eyes suddenly sharper, as if she had read the shift in your expression. "Anyone in your life?"

You hesitated, the weight of her question lingering longer than you would’ve liked. Magenta’s face flashed in your mind, her smile, her energy, and your chest tightened all over again.

"Yeah," you said finally, keeping your tone neutral. "But it's... complicated." You didn’t need to say more. Natty didn’t press.

She looked at you for a moment, her gaze softening, as if understanding the layers behind your words. "Yeah, me too," she said with a small, knowing smile. "We all have someone, don’t we? It’s just… in this world, it’s never really about what we want. It’s about what fits. Like we’re jigsaw puzzles first and humans second."

You nodded, the unspoken truth between you both like a weight that refused to lift. "Exactly. It’s never been about us."

The silence that followed was comfortable in a way, but it was also heavy. You both knew what was coming, even if neither of you wanted it. The arrangements. The alliances. The marriages.

And the truth you couldn’t ignore: you were both stuck with futures that weren’t yours to choose.

"I guess we just have to play along for a little while longer," you said softly, breaking the silence.

Natty gave a small, resigned nod. "Yeah. For now."

“I’m sorry.” You whisper, a resigned look as you lean on the railing.

“I’m sorry too.” Natty responds in earnest, the both you stuck in this sick game

“You’re late,” Magenta said, her voice teasing but warm as her fingers strummed effortlessly across her guitar, the sound carrying lightly in the cool evening air. She didn’t look at you as she played, but you could hear the smile in her voice.

You chuckled, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “I swear, you always know when I’m running late. Are you watching me from the window?”

She smirked, still not looking at you. “I’ve got my ways.”

“Uh-huh. Sure, sure,” you teased, walking closer to her, boots crunching on the wet grass. “And what’s your excuse? You were probably waiting here for ages already.”

Magenta finally looked up at you, a glint of mischief in her eyes. “I don’t need an excuse. Time doesn’t pressure me the way it does you.” She grinned, letting the last note of her guitar linger in the air before she added, “Though, you’re lucky I’m in a good mood.”

“Yeah, well, I’m glad I made it before you started your solo concert,” you said, raising an eyebrow as you took a step back, mock bowing as if she were the star of the show. “Should I be impressed?”

Her lips curled into a playful smile. “Oh, absolutely. But if you’re so impressed, you better be ready to hear my new song.”

“New song?” you asked, leaning against the nearby tree, intrigued. “Well, I’m all ears. What’s it about this time?”

Magenta’s fingers moved with ease over the guitar, the chords shifting into a new pattern. “This one’s called All About You.” She said it matter-of-factly, but there was a hint of something behind her words, something she wasn’t quite sharing.

You raised an eyebrow. “All About You? Seriously? Sounds a bit... on the nose, don’t you think?”

She shot you a playful glare but didn’t respond, letting the song speak for itself. The melody was soft at first, a gentle flow that pulled you in, but it quickly became clear that the song was filled with emotion—warmth, longing, and something far more intimate than you were expecting.

By the time the chorus hit, the words were unmistakably romantic, and the way Magenta sang them made it feel like she was pouring every bit of herself into the song. You couldn’t help but grin, listening closely as the lyrics unfolded, each one wrapping around you like a thread tying you to something she couldn’t hide.

When the song finished, you couldn’t help but give her a knowing smile. “Wow, that’s definitely... all about someone.”

Magenta set the guitar down with a light laugh, but there was a faint blush on her cheeks. “What? You think I wrote it for you or something?” she asked, her tone defensive, though it only made the blush on her face more obvious.

You smirked, crossing your arms as you raised an eyebrow. “Hey, I didn’t say anything. But if I’m the first one that came to mind…I mean, it sounds like it’s about someone. You really think you can write a song that sappy and not have it be about... well, someone?”

She rolled her eyes, clearly flustered, but she wasn’t backing down. “It’s not about you. I didn’t even mention your name.”

You held up your hands in mock surrender, trying to suppress your grin. “I didn’t say it was. But it’s obvious, right? All those lyrics about being captivated, about waiting for someone—come on, Magenta. That’s practically an open declaration.”

She huffed, looking away, but her lips betrayed her with a tiny smile. “You’re impossible.”

“Maybe,” you said, stepping a little closer, not wanting to push too much. “But that song is definitely about someone. I mean, I could see how someone might get the wrong idea with all that heartache in it.”

Magenta’s eyes flickered with something you couldn’t quite place—perhaps annoyance, perhaps embarrassment. “It’s not about anyone specific,” she muttered, but even as she said it, you could tell she didn’t quite believe it herself. “Just... inspiration.”

You chuckled, knowing full well that she was trying to brush it off, but it was clear from the way her fingers tapped nervously on the guitar that she was a little more rattled than she was letting on.

“Well, whatever it’s about, it’s a beautiful song,” you said, smiling genuinely this time. “But come on, it sounds like you’re secretly in love with someone. Or... at least have a crush.” You teased, nudging her shoulder lightly.

Her cheeks reddened again, and she shot you a glare. “I don’t have a crush on anyone, okay?” She said, voice slightly tight, though the amusement was still there in her eyes. “It’s just... a song. Not everything has to have a backstory.”

“Sure,” you said, holding her gaze, though you couldn’t help but push a little. “But it’s pretty obvious that you’ve got feelings for someone. It’s a lot of emotion packed into one song.”

Magenta shifted uncomfortably, clearly trying to laugh it off, but you could see it. That flicker of something. She liked someone. And maybe, just maybe, she didn’t want you to know about it.

You decided to drop the teasing for a moment, though the thought of her love life still hung there, unexplored. Instead, you let the moment sit in the air, both of you feeling the weight of it in silence. Magenta, with all her bravado, wasn’t as immune to vulnerability as she liked to act.

“Well,” you finally said, breaking the tension, “whether it’s about me or not, I still think it’s a great song. Really.”

She sighed, exhaling through her nose with a soft laugh. “You’re impossible,” she muttered again, but there was no malice in it this time. She was just... flustered.

And honestly, you found it endearing.

“You know, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re definitely hiding something,” you said, raising an eyebrow.

Magenta turned her head, pretending to ignore you as she picked her guitar back up. “Not everything needs to be about me, alright?”

You laughed, but there was something else there now, something more... serious, between the two of you. Magenta had a way of hiding her emotions behind that tough exterior, but you weren’t fooled. You weren’t sure what it was—maybe it was the song, maybe it was just being here together—but it felt like something had shifted.

Then, without warning, you decided to bring up something else entirely, something that had been weighing on your mind since you’d gotten here.

“So, there’s this girl,” you started, and even though you hadn’t meant for it to come out like that, it felt important to say. “Natty. My father wants me to... well, to marry her. It’s all part of some arrangement with Mr. Suputhipong.”

Magenta’s fingers stilled on the guitar strings, the air around you suddenly feeling heavier. She looked at you, disbelief flickering across her face before it quickly morphed into something more guarded. She didn’t say anything for a long moment, her gaze piercing through you like she was trying to make sense of your words.

“Marry? As in, marry, marry?” she finally asked, her voice flat, though there was a quiet tension in her tone that you couldn’t ignore.

You sighed, leaning back against the tree as the weight of the situation settled back on you. “Yeah, that’s what I said. I mean, it’s not definite yet, but with how my father operates... it’s probably gonna happen. My siblings are already being set up with other kids from Mr. Suputhipong’s family too. It’s all this whole arranged marriage thing. Mass marriage bullshit, really.”

Magenta’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, you thought she might say something sharp or dismissive. Instead, she just let out a breath, looking at the ground as if she were weighing her words carefully. There was a flicker of something in her eyes, though—a mix of frustration, confusion, maybe even jealousy. It was there, whether she wanted to admit it or not.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” she muttered under her breath. “So just like that, you’re supposed to be... what, married off to some stranger? All because your father says so?”

“Pretty much,” you said, trying to keep the tone light, but inside, it was anything but. “I don’t know. I don’t want it, but... it’s just the way things are going right now. It’s all about business and alliances and all that. My feelings don’t even come into play.”

Magenta shook her head, her expression a mix of disbelief and something deeper, something that looked almost... hurt? “And what about you? What about what you want?”

You hesitated, not really knowing how to answer that. How could you explain that you felt trapped, like your life was being decided for you? You wanted to fight it, but at the same time, what could you do against your family’s expectations?

“It doesn’t matter,” you said, trying to brush it off. “It’s just something I have to deal with. You know, family stuff.”

But Magenta was still staring at you, her eyes searching yours, as if she were trying to find some clue in the way you were talking, some hint of how you really felt. She bit her lip, frustration clearly simmering under the surface. And then, just as quickly as it had appeared, that defensiveness slipped away, replaced with something that almost looked like vulnerability.

“You’re... not serious about this, right?” she asked, voice quieter now, almost uncertain. “I mean, you don’t actually want to marry her, do you?”

You felt your stomach churn at the question. There was something in Magenta’s voice—something fragile—that made you pause. For a moment, it felt like the world had shrunk down to just the two of you standing in the clearing, everything else fading away.

“No,” you said quickly, trying to reassure her. “I don’t want to marry Natty. I don’t want any of this, Magenta. It’s just... expected. You know how it is with my family. But I’d never just go along with it. I don’t want a life like that.”

Magenta’s eyes softened, but there was still a shadow of uncertainty there. She crossed her arms, her gaze flickering away from you as if she were trying to collect herself. “So... you’re saying, if you could choose—” She hesitated, as if the question was harder than it should’ve been to ask. “You wouldn’t marry her? Not if you had the choice?”

Your heart skipped a beat. “Of course not. I don’t even know her, Magenta. I don’t want to marry someone just because my father says it’s a good idea. I’ve got... other things I want. And if it were up to me, I wouldn’t go through with any of it.”

Magenta took a deep breath, exhaling slowly as if trying to process everything. Then, after a long pause, she looked at you again, her voice barely above a whisper. “Then what do you want?”

‘You.’ You opened your mouth to speak, but for a moment, the words didn’t come. There was something in the air between you, something unspoken that made the moment feel bigger than it was. You didn’t know what you wanted, not entirely—but in this moment, with Magenta standing so close, you had a pretty good idea.

“I want...” you started, then paused, considering how to put it into words. “I want to be in control of my own life, Magenta. I want to make my own choices, not just follow what other people think is best for me. And right now, that means I don’t want to marry Natty. I don’t want to marry anyone unless I really choose to.”

Magenta’s lips parted slightly, as if she wanted to say something but couldn’t quite find the words. Instead, she just nodded, her arms still crossed as she looked down at the ground. Her expression was harder to read now, a mix of relief and something else—something more subtle that you couldn’t place.

“Well,” she said quietly, “I’m glad to hear that. I just... I don’t like the idea of you being stuck with someone you don’t care about.” She shifted, avoiding your gaze for a moment. “And I definitely don’t like the idea of you marrying some stranger.”

You took a small step closer, your voice soft. “I promise that I’ll do what I can.”

Magenta finally met your gaze, the tension in her expression easing just a little. “Good,” she said, a small but genuine smile tugging at her lips. “I mean... if anyone’s going to marry you, it better be someone who actually matters, right? Someone good with the guitar at least.”

You couldn’t help but grin at the way she said it, the mix of playfulness and something deeper that made your heart flutter just a little.

“Right,” you said, your voice light, but underneath it, you both knew there was more to it than just words.

Winter

The winter wind cut sharp, carrying whispers from the upper levels down to where the air always seemed a little heavier, a little colder. Magenta had heard the news—everyone had. Mr. Suputhipong, the head of S2, had announced a new round of transport capsules bound for Mars, seats reserved for his family and their extended network.

Magenta hadn’t cared at first. Space travel was a rich person’s game, nothing to do with her. But then someone had mentioned the list, rattling off names like they were celebrities. One name had stopped her cold.

Natty.

Magenta’s fingers froze over the guitar strings, the name ringing in her ears. You’d mentioned her not too long ago, but it made sense now, all the talk about marriage alliances, the quiet weight in your voice when you’d brought it up. This wasn’t just a rumor. It was real. You were leaving.

You were going to Mars.

You were leaving her.

Magenta let out a low grunt as she slumped back against the gnarled tree. The bark pressed into her spine, grounding her even as her thoughts spun out of control. Her fingers moved again, plucking lazy, dissonant notes from her guitar, but her mind stayed stuck, clouded, frantic.

She couldn’t let you go. That much was clear. But how could she stop you? How could she even begin to ask you to stay? Her mind raced, sifting through excuses, schemes, anything to keep you here, on this Earth, in this moment with her.

But for all her sharp wit, for all the teasing comebacks she always had ready, Magenta couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

She shouldn’t ask. It was selfish. Even by the standards of the upper levels, Mars was the closest thing to heaven. To deny it was stupid, and as much as she’d tease you and prod you for the slight bursts of stupidity that she often found more endearing than anything, you had to jump at any chance to go to Mars. Even if it meant leaving important things here back on Earth, it only made sense to leave. What would you most mind leaving on earth? Magenta wondered if she made the list.

You hadn’t mentioned it to her, this move to Mars, not once. All winter, she’d been waiting for some small hint, some casual drop of your plans. But it never came. A tiny, bitter part of her wondered if you’d ever planned to tell her. Maybe you were just going to disappear, leaving her sitting here under the wish tree, strumming her guitar and waiting for someone who was never coming back.

She glanced down at the scratched notebook in her lap. Her new song, Wish Tree, stared back at her, the ink still fresh, the lyrics mocking her now. It had come to her on the same wind that had carried the news, and she’d written it in a rare moment of hopefulness, her fingers moving faster than her doubts.

Her songs had always leaned melancholy, romantic with an edge of longing, but this one was different. Wish Tree was a hopeful ode, a soft prayer for staying together, for finding a way through the chaos. And now, just as it had started to sprout, the news had come, ready to uproot everything.

Magenta closed the notebook and leaned her head back against the tree, exhaling a shaky breath. The irony wasn’t lost on her. She’d written about wishes, but she hadn’t made one. Not yet.

She wondered if she’d waited too long.

She was pulled from her thoughts by the familiar crunch of your boots on the soft mud.

“I’m early! Right?” You asked with an almost joking tone.

Magenta smirked, a quick, automatic reflex, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Depends what you mean by ‘early,’” she said, her fingers idly strumming a chord. “You missed the winter solstice, but I guess you’re on time for… Tuesday.”

You grinned, hands shoved deep into your jacket pockets, the wind making a mess of your hair. “Guess I’ll take that as a win.”

Magenta’s gaze drifted back to the guitar strings. She didn’t know why her hands were still moving, picking out a quiet, aimless melody, but it felt safer to look at the guitar than at you. “I wrote something,” she said, almost too casually, like she wasn’t sure the words should leave her mouth.

You tilted your head, curiosity lighting up your face. “Yeah?”

She nodded, brushing her thumb over the strings, the sound soft and tentative. “It’s not finished,” she added quickly. “Probably needs, like… a bridge. Or a chorus that doesn’t sound like a bad diary entry. But I—” She hesitated, her usual teasing confidence faltering just enough to make you take a step closer. “I could play it for you. If you want.”

Your smile softened. “Of course I want to hear it.”

As Magenta began to strum, the light breeze carrying her harmonies, your mind began to whir. The song was hopeful, uncharacteristically hopeful for Magenta’s music. Did she really not know? Not heard about the new capsules? You had been pondering for weeks on how to properly tell her, but now, sat in front of her, mesmerised by her symphonies as you gazed into her eyes, you wondered if it would be better to give it all up. Attempt to run from your family, gargantuan task as it is, risky too, but if there was anyone you’d do it for…

“Did you like it?” Magenta’s voice pulled you out of your reverie. 

“Of course I liked it, Magenta. It was exquisite, just like you.” You almost whispered the last words, catching Magenta’s gaze.

You shook your head, stepping closer until you were standing just a few feet away. “It’s perfect,” you said, your voice quiet, almost reverent.

Magenta’s cheeks flushed, and she looked away, brushing her hair back from her face like she could shrug off the compliment. “You always say that. You’re biased.”

“Maybe,” you admitted, grinning slightly. “But I mean it.”

The silence stretched, the winter wind tugging at the edges of it, neither of you quite ready to fill it.

And then, so softly it was almost lost to the breeze, she asked, “When were you going to tell me?”

Her voice was quiet, almost steady, but she wouldn’t look at you.

“Tell you about what?” Magenta was right, you really were stupid.

“The Capsules. News travels down here too, you know.” Magenta replied, scoffing, her mood clearly having taken a turn for the worse.

“I…I’m sorry, I wasn’t sure how to tell you, I was-” You tried to explain, but Magenta quickly turned toward you, glaring at you.

“You were what? Going to Mars? Leaving without a word or even a goodbye?” Magenta challenged as she stepped closer to you, almost cornering you into the cherry tree.

“I wasn’t sure if I was going to go.”

Magenta didn’t move at first. Her eyes were locked on yours, disbelief rippling through her like a wave about to crash. Then she laughed, sharp and humorless, the sound cutting through the cold air like broken glass.

“You’re not sure if you’re going to go,” she said, her voice dripping with incredulity. “Do you hear how ridiculous you sound?”

“Magenta—”

“No, don’t ‘Magenta’ me,” she snapped, stepping closer, her words coming fast and fiery now. “Do you have any idea what you’re saying? You’re telling me you’d give up Mars—Heaven, for God’s sake—for me?”

“Yes!” you said, the word bursting out of you like it had been trapped inside too long. “Yes, Magenta, for you. I—”

“No,” she interrupted, her voice rising. “You don’t get to say that! You don’t get to stand here, under this stupid tree, and act like I’m worth that. I’m not.”

“Stop,” you said, trying to close the gap between you, but she stepped back, shaking her head.

“No, you stop,” she said, her tone sharp and cutting. “Do you even hear yourself? Mars isn’t a vacation. It’s a whole new life. A better life. And you’re telling me you’d throw that away for what? For me? For some girl who spends her days sitting under a tree and writing songs no one even hears?”

“I hear them,” you said quietly.

Her mouth opened, then closed, her breath hitching for just a moment before she threw up her hands. “Well, great. One audience member. Guess that makes me worth uprooting your entire future.”

“Magenta,” you said again, your voice softer now, pleading. “I don’t care about Mars. I care about you. You’re worth it. Can’t you see that?”

Her eyes burned as she stared at you, her jaw tightening. “No. No, I can’t, because it’s not true.”

“It is—”

“Stop!” she yelled, and the force of it made you freeze. Her hands curled into fists at her sides, her voice trembling now, even as she tried to keep it steady. “You don’t know what you’re saying. You’re just—you’re just trying to make this easier for me, and it’s not. It’s not easier.”

“I’m not—”

“You are!” she cut you off, her voice cracking at the edges. She sucked in a shaky breath, her anger slipping for just a moment, just long enough for you to catch a glimpse of the hurt underneath. “You think this is what I want? You staying here, wasting your chance, looking at me like I’m worth more than heaven?”

“You are,” you said firmly.

She laughed again, bitter and cold, and it broke something in you to hear it. “God, you’re so stupid,” she muttered, shaking her head. Her voice dropped, quieter now but no less sharp. “You’re going to regret this. Maybe not right away, but someday. You’ll look at me, and you’ll see all the things I can’t be, all the things Mars could’ve given you, and you’ll hate me for it. And I can’t—I won’t let that happen.”

“Magenta—”

“Just go,” she said, cutting you off one last time, her voice tight, her eyes refusing to meet yours. “Go to Mars. Forget about me. It’s better that way.”

You stared at her, your chest tightening, words piling up in your throat that you couldn’t force out. She stood there, arms crossed over her chest like she was holding herself together, her jaw clenched so hard it looked like it hurt. 

You turned and walked away, your footsteps crunching against the frozen ground, the distance between you growing with each step.

You didn’t see her crumble the second you were out of sight. Didn’t see her drop to her knees under the gnarled branches of the tree, her hands clutching the cold earth like it could anchor her to something, anything.

She buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking, her breath coming in broken gasps. She did the right thing. It had to be the right thing. Or else, that would mean…mean that she ruined the only thing she ever really loved.

She pulled herself up from the ground, dragging herself onto the tree that had been your meetup point for so long. Your cherry tree, your Wish Tree. 

Spring

(Imagine the pre chorus but slowed down and sang through sobs)

It had been a year—a whole, impossibly short, impossibly long year—since you appeared out of nowhere, stumbling into her life like some cosmic accident. A stranger, in a place where strangers didn’t just happen. A year since she’d looked up from her guitar, startled by the sound of boots squelching through the muddy ground, and seen you standing there, impossibly wrong and yet somehow exactly right. Like you’d been meant to find the cracks she hadn’t even realized were there.

She’d told herself she wasn’t counting. Not really. But she knew. Knew it had been exactly one year since you wandered into her orbit and tilted everything, just enough to let the light in.

Now, lying beneath the gnarled branches of the cherry tree that had become yours—not hers, not yours, but yours, together—Magenta couldn’t stop thinking about it. About you. About the capsules.

The capsules.

Her eyes squeezed shut, trying to keep the image out. It didn’t work. Her fingers dug into the damp grass beneath her as though holding on tight could somehow stop the inevitable. She didn’t want to see it—the sleek, gleaming capsules with their yawning doors, ready to whisk you away. To lift you up, out, beyond. Somewhere she couldn’t follow. Somewhere she wasn’t sure she could even imagine.

She should be happy for you. That was what she told herself, again and again, the words looping endlessly through her head like a melody she couldn’t escape. This was what you’d been waiting for. The chance to leave, to start over, to escape the heaviness of this place. To find something better.

It was what she deserved, wasn’t it? She’d told you to go. Pushed you to go, her voice steady even when it felt like the weight of it might break her in half. She’d told you she couldn’t be the reason you stayed, couldn’t let you throw away a shot at something brighter, something easier, just because she wasn’t brave enough to let you go.

But lying there, staring up at the branches shifting against the pale winter sky, Magenta felt the truth settle deep in her chest, heavy and sharp-edged. She wasn’t noble. She wasn’t selfless. All she wanted, in the quietest, most desperate part of her heart, was for you to stay.

And then it came. That low, growing hum, the sound that swallowed everything else. The capsules, rising in the distance, their engines roaring as they tore away from the earth and into the sky. Magenta’s breath hitched as she watched them climb, higher and higher, until they were nothing but a distant speck. Until they were gone.

Her hands found the guitar beside her, her fingers brushing against the strings like muscle memory. It felt wrong to play it now, cruel, even. The song she’d been playing the day you first appeared. What had once been the beginning of everything now felt like a cruel epilogue to what she’d lost.

Still, the melody spilled out of her, her voice soft and trembling: We are revolving because we can’t meet

We are like parallel lines

If I could run through time and become an adult

I will hold your hand in this cruel world

We aren’t closing in, that one tiny bit

We are like parallel lines.

When the last note faded, Magenta folded forward, her body curling into itself as the tears came, hot and unrelenting. She pressed her forehead against the guitar, her shoulders shaking, her breath coming in broken gasps.

And then, softly, the words she’d never expected to hear again, carried on the breeze like an impossible dream:

“Would it be too much to ask for an encore?”

Her head jerked up, her breath catching. And there you were, standing beneath the cherry tree, the same tree where it had all begun. Your face was sheepish, almost apologetic, as you took a slow step toward her, then another.

Magenta blinked, her tears blurring the edges of you, but there was no mistaking it. You were here.

Before she could stop herself, she was on her feet, her fists against your chest, her sobs spilling over as the words tore out of her.

“Why didn’t you go?” she shouted, her voice trembling with anger and heartbreak. “You could’ve had it all! You could’ve gone to the closest thing to heaven, and you stayed—for what? For me?”

Your hands found her shoulders, steady and warm, and when she didn’t pull away, you pulled her closer, wrapping her into the kind of hug that felt like it could hold her together, even as she fell apart.

You pressed a kiss to her forehead, soft and lingering, and when you spoke, your voice was quiet, like a secret meant only for her.

“Oh, my love,” you murmured. “What’s heaven got that beats a picnic in spring, just you and me?”

[siampie]

Risk and Reward || Chapter 13: Fall Into Me

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 2.7k

Summary: After finding out about his secret identity, your relationship is getting deeper. Falling deeper in love with one another.

Warnings/tags: fluff, sickeningly sweet

A/N: Commentaries and reblogs are greatly appreciated.     

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Dividers by @cafekitsune

Song the title is referring to:

Then you walked down those stairs

And I knew my heart wasn’t mine

On the day that I met you

My whole world came alive

The smell of his body wash floated towards him as you walked out of his bathroom. His senses honed in on you. Drying your hair with the towel, you were wearing his clothes, that you borrowed, smelling like him. His lips turned up as you came up behind him. Knowing that you were wearing his clothes and smelling exactly like him, stirred something warm deep in his chest.

Something only reserved for you.

Matt had been in love before. With Elektra. And he thought he could fall in love with Karen, even if he had been for a brief moment.

With Karen things had been slow. And new. And full of light. And secrets. It had only been one date. It felt nice for a moment. She only knew the best version of him, then. The one he wanted her to see. The one he needed her to see. The one version he knew Karen could love. But it wouldn’t have worked out between them. Too many secrets. Too many walls built from unspoken words and unshared truths. And in the end, it kept them apart.

In the end, Matt had chosen Elektra.

Elektra Natchios.

“I do know that I’m free with you. Like with no one else,” Matt said, breathless. Unmasked.

“You hide from yourself,” she shook her head. “You don’t let anyone in.”

“You. I let you in.”

And he had. She was his first love. They were madly in love with one another. Passion ruled them when they were together. Passion and their own darknesses. She had accepted the Devil easily because of her own demons. And whereas Matt was struggling with his own morality, Elektra embraced her demons fully and easily. Their love was toxic and twisted. But it was all worth it. He had loved her more than anything. And until the very end, he had tried to save her. And failed. Twice. And almost lost his own life.

It was a miracle, or rather a curse as he had thought at the time, that he was still alive. A joke played on him by God. Still, he survived. He made it through and came back to life.

After Midland Circle—after his return to life, he had entertained the thought of trying again with Karen. There were no more secrets, no more lies between them. They knew each other like they never had before. He still loved Karen. She was his best friend and partner. But after everything, although no more secrets stood between them, they remained friends. Not willing to revisit their brief infatuation. Because that was all it was. Infatuation. They found they were better friends than lovers.

From those two failed relationships, Matt has learned his lessons. He couldn’t be just one version of himself. He couldn’t let the lies and the secrets build walls between the two of you.

“I don’t want better. I just want you.”

Your words had rung true. A soothing balm to his wounded soul.

You jumped up to sit on the counter. The towel was draped over your shoulders. The smell of his bodywash stronger now, “Whatcha you cooking?”

“Breakfast,” Matt’s lips quirked up slightly.

“I can see that,” you rolled your eyes. Your stomach gave a low rumble.  “But what exactly?”

“Scrambled eggs, bacon and some toast. How does that sound?”

“Delicious,” he heard your smile in your voice. It sounded beautiful, “I’m starving.”

Matt scoffed, “yeah, I can hear your stomach from here.” He turned around after switching the stove off.

“And whose fault is that?” You shot back as he moved towards you.

His hands ran along your naked thighs, “didn’t hear any complaints from you last night.”

“Well,” your arms wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him closer. “I was too busy enjoying myself.”

“Yeah, I think the whole neighborhood heard you, sweetheart,” he chuckled, his fingers grazed the skin under the hem of your (his) boxers.

You burst out laughing, “let’s hope you don’t get any complaints from the neighbors.”  

Matt pressed his lips against yours. Your legs wrapped around his waist as he moved his hands under your (his) shirt, running along the curve of your back. Your skin soft against his calloused hands. Heating up under his touch, the scent of your arousal rose in the air. Mixing up with the lingering scent of last night activities. His tongue slid in your mouth, tasting his minty toothpaste. He swallowed the moan you let out as his thumb brushed against your hardened nipple. A smile graced his lips at the sound.

A low rumble from your stomach interrupted you both.

“Let’s put some food in your stomach before we take this any further, yeah?” Matt laughed; his eyes focused on your chin.

“Yeah,” you nodded, huffing out a laugh of your own.

“Come on,” he helped you down, patting your butt as you moved to grab the mugs from his cabinet.

You placed the mugs on the table, pouring coffee for both of you while Matthew plated your breakfast. In the streets below, the city was bursting with life, cars honking, people heckling, police sirens. And there you were, moving around his kitchen, in a comfortable domesticity. He couldn’t help the small smile that graced his lips when he sat down across from you.

You fitted perfectly into his life.

“What?” You asked him before taking a bite of your eggs.

He shook his head, “nothing. I’m—I’m just glad you came last night.”

Your lips lifted at the corner, “I’m glad I did too—several times.”

Matt burst out laughing. One of those belly laughs that made you giggle along with him. You loved hearing his laugh, and seeing the giant grin that came with it. You loved seeing the crinkle around his eyes when he did, how it lit up his face. He looked younger. He looked happy.

He was happy.

“I’m also glad I came last night.” You said again, something in your tone made the smile on his face drop slightly. “I’m still—wrapping my mind around it,” you took a hold of your coffee mug, the heat of the dark liquid warming up your hands. “But—I want all of it. I want all of you.”

Your soft words sounded like an oath. An oath, he knew you would keep. His hand reached out for yours, interlacing his fingers with yours. His eyes, warm and soft, unfocused, falling somewhere along your collarbone. While your heart under your ribcage tried to escape its cage. His lips turned up at the corner as his thumb brushed against your knuckles, he enjoyed the way you responded to his touch. To his words. He would never tire of this, he knew it. He loved how a simple brush of his fingers had your breath hitched in your throat. How a simple smile from him made you grinned bright and wide. The most beautiful smile he’s ever heard.

Matthew Murdock, the lawyer, the vigilante, had felt the pull of you since the very first time he heard the steady pitter-patter of your heart across the bar. It had become his favorite song. He could tell it was yours as soon as you stepped into a room. It skipped a beat when your eyes landed on him, and he could sense the smile that split your face. The song of your heart was accompanied by your familiar fragrance. The very one he couldn’t get enough of. Especially now that it was perfectly blended with his.

“I want all of you.”

Matt believed God had place you in his life that night. His salvation. The solution to his inner struggles. Near you, the world grew quieter, less hectic. You were his haven. His peace. His shelter away from the chaos of Hell’s Kitchen.

You have touched his heart in ways other had not. And he knew your imprint would stay there forever. That he would carry it with him forever.

“You know—” you started, pulling him out of his thoughts and putting down your fork. “Since we’re revealing secrets, I have to tell you—“ he waited patiently, his heart speeding up in anticipation. “you—are my longest relationship. Ever. My first real boyfriend.”

He let out a low laugh, “I found that hard to believe.”

“Well, I did have—previous relationships but—they were really���flings. And they didn’t last long. And with you—things are—different.” Your heart sounded as though it tried to escape your ribcage. Your ears heated up as the blood rushed to them.

As he had dreamt of doing many times before, he reached to sooth away the heat of your ears. “Different, how?”

“Better,” you leaned into his touch, “I think—you’re—it for me.” A slow grin made its way onto his face. “I mean—I don’t—what I’m trying to say is—” you let out a shaky breath. “I—I—I don’t want this with anyone else.”

“Good,” he let go of your ear before wrapping his arms around you. “Cause I don’t want this with anyone else, either.”

He leaned in pressing his lips against yours, pulling you out of your chair, you let out a small shriek that he swallowed in a heated kiss. He pulled you tight against him, his arms circled your back in a tight embrace. With no intention of letting go of you. Never.  

“So, everything’s fine between you and Matt?” Amelia asked you while you stared down at the two label makers in your hands.

“Yes, for the hundredth time, everything is fine between us,” you answered without looking up. “Which one looks better?” You showed her the two products.

“The handheld one,” Amelia pointed to the one in your left hand. “At least, there’s letters on this one. The other one might be too hard for you to figure out.”

“But it looks pretty,” you whined.

“Maybe, but unpractical for you.”

You let out a deep sigh, “you’re making a lot of sense and I don’t like it.” You put down the colorful one and kept the handheld braille label maker.

“It’s a curse,” Amelia shrugged. “Are you really sure that everything—?”

“Girl, if you ask me one more time, I’m gonna punch you in the titties,” you threatened her.

She cupped both of her boobs, gasping, “you wouldn’t?”

“Oh, I would,” you assured her. “Everything is fine between Matt and me. We talked it over and solved it. Everything’s good. So, stop asking.”

“You’re not even going to tell me why you two were fighting in the first place?”

“No. I don’t need to.”

“Oh, come on. Give me something.”

“Amelia, whatever’s going on between Matt and me—stays between Matt and me, okay?” You turned to face her again, “if I tell you what we were fighting about, you’re only going to get one side of the story. My side of the story. And you’ll side with me. But you don’t know Matt like I do. I don’t want you to build up resentment towards him on my behalf. I want you to love Matt for Matt. I don’t want you to hate him for me.”

“Fair enough,” she laced her arm with yours as you made your way to the checkout lines. “I’m kinda proud of you.”

“You are? What for?”

“Setting up boundaries, protecting your man,” Amelia listed off, “I love this for you. And for Matt.” She squeezed your arm affectionately, “have you said the words, yet?”

“What words?”

“You know—I love you?”

You cleared your throat, your heartbeat speeding up immediately, “I want to but—I feel like it might be too soon.”

“It’s never too soon. If you are with the right person—which I think you are—he’s going to say it back.” She smiled down at you. “He won’t run away.”

You let out a deep sigh, “I guess I need a little more time.”

The words always seemed to be stuck in your throat. Every time you had wanted to say them, it felt like this huge step you were about to take. It felt as though the words would change your relationship forever. And you weren’t ready for this.

Not yet.

After spending the whole afternoon labelling the different items in your kitchen, you put the label maker in your junk drawer. Someone knocked on your door, stopping you from putting away your spice jars. Your socked feet padded on the hardwood floor as you made your way to the door.  A grinning Matt stood on the other side.

“Hey, sweetie,” he greeted you softly, his hands gripping your hips. He pecked your lips.

“Hey, baby,” your arms wrapped around his shoulders. “How was your day?” You asked him, pulling him inside your apartment.

“Busy,” he answered, you closed the door behind him as he moved towards your bedroom, putting down his duffel bag by the door. “We still need to figure out a few details on the case but we’re getting there.”

You walked back to the kitchen, and proceeded to put away the spice jars. “Does this mean it’s almost over? Or there’s still a long way to go?”

He huffed out a laugh, “there’s still a long way to go. Those court cases last for months. And more often than not it ends up on a settlement.”

“And what about the underground part of things?”

He leaned over the kitchen counter, grabbing one of the spice jars in his hands. He let out a long sigh, “well, on this front, things are getting rather complicated.”

“Complicated how? Aren’t the two connected somehow?”

“They are but proving it—is—harder than I thought it would be,” Matt’s head tilted slightly, his thumb running on the braille label, his eyebrows pulling down into a frown. “Sweetheart?”

“Yeah?”

He pushed off of the counter and walked up to you, you gulped down your saliva. Nervous. He took one the jars, still in your hands, from you. “Is that—?”

“Nutmeg, yeah,” you replied quickly.

He huffed out a shaky laugh, tears pricking at the corner of his eyes. Shaking his head, he took your hand gently, and guided your fingers over the label.

You took in a shaky breath, nervous. Blood rushed to your cheeks and to your ears, “see, Amelia and I went out together to buy a label maker. A braille one. I figured that since you’re spending a lot of time in my apartment, I might as well make the place comfortable for you. Because I do want you to feel comfortable, you know,” you finished with a shrug.

“Yeah?” A wide grin split his face in two.

“Yeah,” you let out with a smile of your own. “You like it?”

He put down the jars and pulled you into him, your body molding into his immediately. His arms wrapped around your shoulders, his lips hovering above your own. His sightless eyes staring down at you. Full of something warm. Filled with fondness. Beautiful.

Your arms wrapped tight around his waist. Deep in his chest, right where his heart was, something warm, akin to love stirred up. He didn’t need you to say the words to know how you truly felt about him.

Didn’t need words to know how he truly felt about you.

His lips pecked yours, “very much,” another kiss, “I like it a lot.”

You pulled away a little, biting down on your bottom lip, “are you sure it’s okay for you to spend the night? We could always stay at your place. It’s not too late for that.”

“I’m sure,” he assured you. “I want to make up for lost time,” he brushed your hair away from your face. “And I love staying at your place. It smells like you.”

Your lips turned up in a bright smile, “what do I smell like?”

Matthew leaned into you, burying his nose in your neck, he inhaled deeply, “divine.” He murmured against your neck, the brush of his lips against your neck sending shivers down your spine. Desire shot down your core. Soon, his lips pressed intently against your neck, “delicious.” Your hands run along the curve of his back. His lips travelled up to your jaw before finishing their course on your mouth. Tasting the sweet nectar of your soft lips.

Words weren’t enough to describe how much you meant to each other. How deep your love for each other truly ran.

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[heresronnie21]

toapril7 - home, hearth, and grief

@toapril-official

okay so let me vulnerable, i've never publicly shared writing and i am terrified. u know what, though? it's cabin 7 and i love those guys. here it is. it doesn't really have "hearth" but whatever.

The Wall had been there since well before Will’s time. As far as he knew it had existed for as long as cabin 7 had. On the back wall of the cabin, behind the rows of bunk beds, was a sort of collage of hundreds of names, scrawled over every inch of free space and often overlapping. The oldest were carved  at eye level into the wood panelling, then the mural grew outward, the names getting smaller toward the edges, then more squeezed between the older ones. Some were in Greek and Latin letters, which Will could read, some in other alphabets and logograms he couldn’t. There were names painted and scratched and scribbled on in Sharpie. He hadn’t paid attention to it in a long time, The Wall had become just a wall in the background while he filled out cabin inspection checklists, planned activities, and continued the Sisyphean task of dragging Austin (ever the artistic soul) out of bed before noon. He had only been put in mind of it when Yan, one of the new campers, had stopped him on his way back from the showers.

“Hey Will,” they looked up from a game of Uno they were playing with Gracie and Jerry, the other new campers.

“What’s that?” They asked, pointing to The Wall. The other kids agreed that they were wondering, too. 

Will looked at The Wall for the first time in a long time. There was a tightness in his chest. He wished his other siblings, Austin and Kayla were there, but they had been given leave to head into town for “personal errands,” whatever those were. They were closer in age to each other than to Will, and he didn’t like to be a bother, so he left them alone most of the time. He drew a breath, then began,

“Well, ah-”

Will explained that the tradition went back longer than anyone could remember. Not long after a new Apollo kid was claimed they would add their name to The Wall, a sort of unofficial record of the campers who had passed through for at least several hundred years, though it was difficult to tell based on numbers. Theirs had tended to be a more populous cabin in peacetimes, their dad being rather… free spirited to put it politely. Or to put it the way his older brother, Michael, had put it “incapable of keeping it in his pants.” He meant it with love. Will knew exactly where his name had been written, an inconspicuous spot in the corner, somewhere no one would find it unless they tried, in plain black ink. At the time he'd made his mark he'd only had to bend at the waist, now he was sure that if he went over to find it he'd have to squat.

He finished explaining The Wall,

“So..  yeah,” For a child of the god of poetry, he wasn't the most eloquent. 

“Do you guys want to put your names on?”

The kids’ faces lit up, so he took them over and fished through his pockets. Gum wrappers, receipts, a multi-tool, a miniature sewing kit, packs of tissues, his harmonica, chapstick, tylenol, batteries, dog treats, the Field Guide to Medicinal Wild Plants of North America, a set of Allen keys, smelling salts (they come in handy more often than you'd think), a protein bar, and… there! A marker. God bless whoever invented cargo shorts. He handed it to the kids, who immediately began to tussle over who got to go first, then leant back against The Wall and watched them. He didn't stop them. It was something of an unspoken rule at camp to let the younger demigods fight it out. 

As he watched Gracie, Jerry, and Yan scrambling to find empty spaces to write their names, something caught Will's eye. Zeus-a-mercy, the Fates must have been sitting wherever they did while they spun their string, laughing at him. He brushed the back of his hand lightly over two names that were just near where he had chosen, or thought he had chosen to lean. They were two familiar names, carved close together with a pocket knife that now lay untouched on the bunk above Will's, “Lee” and “Michael”. From what Will had heard, they had arrived at camp together, though Lee was a few years older, been claimed at roughly the same time, and became best friends. They were inseparable. Lee had been their cabin's head counselor when Will had first come to Camp Half Blood. He was a born leader, gentle but firm about enforcing the rules, elegant in his manner, kind, and athletic. He treated everyone fairly, and was always the first to volunteer his help. He was the kind of guy you couldn’t help but to look up to. Michael had been brash and intimidating at first, despite his compact frame, but it didn’t take Will long to realise he was kind too, in his way. He had his siblings’ backs no matter what, and he always stuck up for Cabin 7, although that sometimes landed them in more trouble than they had started in. The guy was a damn good medic, he used to talk about being an EMT one day, and when Will had discovered that he was… not inept.. unskilled at most of the things Apollo kids were meant to be skilled in, Michael had taken him under his wing, let him hang out in the infirmary, grindin medicinal herbs and picking out records from his own collection. Michael had explained to Will how music and healing weren’t so different, that it was the nature of living things, birds and bugs and whales and humans, to sing and even if you weren’t “good” you had to do it because it healed your soul. With a little magical help it could heal the physical body too. Michael had even allowed Will, against almost everyone's advice, to work on the really gory injuries, the kind that thrilled him, filled him with the delightful terror of flesh that made his stomach turn with excitement.  They weren't just guys from camp, they were real older brothers.

Then Lee died. Everything should have changed, but it didn’t. That was the worst part. They ate dinner that night, then led the campfire sing-a-long. They celebrated like it had been a good day. Across the ocean parents were seeing off their kids at the school gates, and a couple miles down the road parents were sending their kids to bed. The moon rose in the sky. The waves crashed on the shore. The world carried on relentlessly, as if Lee hadn’t been special. It should have come to a standstill. But it didn’t. Outside the cabin things went on as normal, they went to archery practice, played basketball and capture the flag, ran first aid classes. They were bright and genial with the other campers, although they knew that they were hurting, and they knew the other kids were hurting, and no one said anything. Mourning was private at camp. Inside the cabin was quiet and disorganised. No one played their instruments inside anymore. They broke out in scraps among themselves more than they had before. Michael was the worst off. He spent his time smoking behind the Big House, staring off into space, or else getting into screaming matches with Clarrise from Cabin 6. He hoarded supplies, weapons, even food, better stuff than the other cabins, he said. One time, Will caught him crying. He never mentioned it.

About a year later Michael took an impromptu dive into the East River. In the span of a few hours Will went from being one of the younger kids in a cabin of twenty or so, to the counselor for only three kids including himself. And he wondered if Lee had really been as put together as he had seemed. And he understood why Michael was angry. Will was angry. And life carried on regardless. What he hadn’t, wouldn’t, tell the kids was that when he had written his name on The Wall it had felt like an honour, like he was part of Something. Now when he looked at it he saw a Menin Gate decorated in an orange shirt and friendship bracelets. The tightness in his chest squeezed harder. Breathing became difficult. He looked away from the carving on The Wall. these feelings aren’t helpful, he thought, nothing gets done when you stand around moping. He focused again on the kids. Gracie was tracing out her signature in the air, practicing to get it just right before it was immortalised on The Wall, while Jerry scowled impatiently behind her, his expression making Will chuckle to himself. As he did so, he realised that these three weren’t the only ones whose names had been missing from The Wall. He swallowed his grief and took the marker from Gracie as she finished writing her name with a flourish, pretending Jerry’s face, eyes now bulging, was not amusing. He found an empty space and squeezed it in, “Λεστερ”.

[starkeven]

Glory & Gore.

Werewolf ! Rafe x Vampire ! reader.

warning : blood sucking, blood kink, HEAVY SMUT UNDER THE CUT, p in v, power play, teeth play ( LMFAO ? idk how to word it. ), family war. lmk if i forgot anything.

Both of your families were sworn enemies, bound by a hatred older than any living soul on the island. You had been here for ages, long before the world changed, back when your kind—vampires—ruled the island in its glory days. It was a time when the night belonged to you, vampires, when power flowed through your veins as effortlessly as the centuries passed. Until the Camerons came.

Werewolves—Camerons feral, proud, and relentless—challenged the natural order of things, turning the tides of power. Their arrival marked the beginning of a bitter war, one that stretched across centuries, leaving scars too deep for healing.

But that was long ago. The wars had quieted, the world had moved on, yet the weight of that ancient rivalry remained, shaping every glance, every interaction, reminding you that some things were never meant to be forgotten—even if the war itself had become a distant memory.

You were both born into this conflict, taught that their blood was your enemy, just as yours was theirs. The Camerons controlled the real estate market, their influence extending over the land itself—every house, every piece of property, every deal went through them. It was their stronghold, their mark of dominance, built stone by stone over the years.

Your family, on the other hand, had secured the island’s lifeblood: tourism. From the grand resorts to the quaint seaside cafes, the sprawling vineyards to the guided tours through ancient, haunted ruins, it was all in your hands. Your name was synonymous with the island's allure, drawing in visitors from all over, their money flowing into your coffers, feeding the empire that had once ruled uncontested.

It was a delicate balance, this division of power. Both sides kept the peace for the sake of the island’s prosperity, but everyone knew the truth—the truce was as fragile as a whisper. Beneath the polished veneer of business deals and territorial lines, the old hatred still burned, ready to resurface with the smallest spark.

Tonight was different. The air was thick with anticipation, charged with an energy that unsettled you more than the usual Midsummer gathering ever had. It was an annual event— a fragile tradition that dated back to the uneasy truce between your families. Every summer, the two clans came together to celebrate the so-called "peacetime," though everyone knew it was more for show than true reconciliation. Smiles were forced, glasses raised in toasts that carried the weight of centuries of grudges.

But this year, you couldn't shake the feeling that something was about to happen, something that would change everything. You knew he would be here. Rafe Cameron, the heir to the werewolf clan, and the one person who made your blood boil more than anyone else. He had a way of making his presence known, always in control, ruthless, handling everything that belonged to him with an almost brutal precision.

Rafe had a reputation. The kind that sent whispers through the crowd when he entered a room, the kind that told you it was safer to stay out of his way. He dealt with problems the Cameron way—swiftly and without mercy. Anything, or anyone, that threatened his family's power was eliminated, no questions asked.

You had chosen the crimson red dress for a reason. It was bold, deliberate—an unspoken declaration that tonight was different. A statement had to be made, though you weren't entirely sure what that statement was yet. The fabric clung to your figure like a second skin, the deep color standing out against the moonlit evening, drawing attention the moment you stepped into Tannyhill.

The sprawling Cameron estate was as grand as ever, every inch of it a reminder of their dominance over the land. As you crossed the threshold, the first thing that hit you wasn’t the lavish decor or the murmurs of the mingling guests—it was the smell. It slammed into you with an unexpected force, making your head spin and your breath hitch.

Someone was in heat.

It was unmistakable, the sharp, primal scent that clung to the air, seeping into your senses and settling deep into your bones. You weren’t sure who it was, but the effect was immediate. A dizzying warmth spread through you, unsettling and invasive. Every inch of your body seemed to react, a visceral response to the scent, sending a tremor down your spine.

This wasn’t just any night. Whatever had brought you here, whatever tension simmered beneath the surface of this fragile truce, was about to come to a head. And you had a feeling it had everything to do with him—Rafe Cameron. The predator in him was unmistakable, and somewhere in the depths of this house, you knew he was waiting. Waiting for you.

You knew, without a doubt, that it was all for you. The scent hanging heavy in the air, this shameless display of power and lust—it was a message meant solely for you. Your body remembered him before your mind even had the chance to catch up, and the memory of that night came rushing back with a heat that sent a shiver down your spine.

It had been a few moons ago, but it felt as vivid as if it were happening now.

The night Rafe Cameron had taken you, relentlessly, without holding back. His body pressed hard against yours, his skin burning with raw, primal heat as he pounded into you over and over, driving you past the point of control. Your fangs had sunk deep into his flesh, tasting the iron tang of his blood, marking him just as he marked you.

He hadn't just claimed your body that night-he'd claimed every part of you, leaving you so tangled in his scent and his touch that it was days before you could return to your own house. You could still feel the way his scent had clung to your skin, overwhelming every other sense, reminding you with every breath that you had been his, even if just for that fleeting moment.

It was intoxicating, dangerous-exactly the kind of thing that shouldn't have happened between two sworn enemies.

But it had. And now, standing here in the midst of the gathering, with his scent in the air and the tension coiling around you like a noose, you knew this night was no different. He was here, and he wanted you to remember everything.

You shook your head, trying to clear the fog of memories that clung to your mind, and reached for the nearest crimson glass, almost as if it were calling out to you. The liquid was dark, rich, and you downed it quickly—one glass, then another, letting the warmth spread through your chest. By the third, the hum of the alcohol started to dull the tension twisting in your gut, but it didn’t erase the knowing feeling coursing through you.

Then, the sound of applause rippled through the room.

Straightening up, you wove through the crowd, your heels clicking softly on the polished floors, and that familiar sense of unease settled in once more. It was like you were on autopilot, following the sound, knowing what you would find.

And there he was.

Your father stood tall in the center of the room, his face the picture of nonchalance as he shook hands with Ward Cameron, the two heads of the families locked in the familiar dance of politics. But your focus wasn’t on them. No, your heart quickened because standing right next to Ward was Rafe. You could feel him before you even saw him.

He hadn’t looked at you yet, but you knew—he knew you were there. His eyes were scanning the crowd, but his focus was distant, almost strained. You could sense it, the tension in his posture, the way he held himself too still, trying to appear calm and composed, but failing. He was lost already, the scent of you in the room, the pull between you undeniable, even though he hadn’t even laid eyes on you yet.

You slipped through the crowd, watching him from the shadows, a smirk playing at your lips. You hadn’t come near him, hadn’t spoken a word, but you could already feel his need—the way he was unraveling. Even without looking at him, you had him. He was losing himself, and it was because of you.

But deep down, you knew the truth—you weren’t in a position of strength. For all your attempts at control, his scent was overwhelming, sending wave after wave of raw, intoxicating lust surging through your veins. Your breath grew uneven, your heartbeat erratic, no matter how hard you tried to focus. It was futile, especially when you felt it—the weight of his gaze burning into your back. The intensity of it was enough to send a shiver down your spine, like a spark igniting something inside you that you couldn’t hope to extinguish.

It almost felt like a shock, jolting you from whatever fragile hold you had on yourself. That’s when all your carefully constructed demeanor crumbled. The confidence, the smirk, the game you thought you could play—it all vanished the moment you turned around and locked eyes with him.

Slowly, deliberately, you faced him, your crimson eyes glowing in the low light as they met his. And there he was—Rafe. His expression was dark, predatory, but it was the way he licked his lips that made your pulse stutter. The hunger in his eyes mirrored everything you were feeling, and that’s when it hit you—you weren’t any stronger than him. You weren’t any more in control. You were just as lost, just as consumed by the pull between you as he was.

In that moment, it was undeniable. Whatever this was between you, it had already devoured you both whole, and there was no turning back.

And lost, oh, how lost you were. Every rational thought had disappeared the moment he touched you. Now, your body was pressed against the rough bark of a tree, your cheek flushed and your breath ragged as he pounded into you from behind. His fist was tangled tightly in your hair, pulling just enough to make you gasp, while his other hand muffled your cries, stifling the sounds that would've torn through the quiet night. But it was impossible to silence the desperate whimpers that escaped you, the way your body trembled with every relentless thrust.

Rafe was merciless, moving against you with an intensity that sent shivers through your entire being. His chest was hot against your back, his breath heavy in your ear. Then, you felt it-his tongue, teasing along the edge of your ear, sending jolts of pleasure through your already overwhelmed senses.

His voice was dark, taunting, the words dripping with cruel satisfaction. “ What would your poor daddy say if he saw you like this? ” he whispered, his breath hot against your skin. “ Getting fucked by a werewolf... reeking of him for days? ”

The shame of it should've burned you, but instead, it only fueled the fire raging inside you. You couldn't answer, couldn't think-only feel. The war between your families was nothing compared to the war inside you now-one you had already lost the moment he laid his hands on you.

The moment his hand released your mouth, a loud moan ripped free, filling the night air. You could hear him laugh behind you, low and wicked, as his pace quickened. His hands gripped your ass roughly, fingers digging into your skin, leaving marks you knew would last. His breath was ragged, matching the relentless rhythm of his movements, and you could feel your own body betraying you-your fangs revealing themselves as the primal pull between you grew unbearable.

His nails scraped against your skin, each drag sending a mix of pain and pleasure coursing through you. His voice, thick with lust, whispered in your ear-praises laced with degrading words that made your head spin, your mind teetering on the edge of submission and chaos. Every filthy thing he said, every breathless taunt, only pushed you further into the abyss.

You bit down hard on your lip, tasting blood, trying to ground yourself as the sensation threatened to overwhelm you.

Everything was too much. The rough scrape of the tree bark against your flushed skin, the aching pressure of his body pressing into yours, and the intense pleasure that surged through you as his fingers found your clit, playing you like he knew exactly how to unravel you. Pain and ecstasy merged, making it impossible to separate one from the other. Your body was lost to him, lost to the sensation, drowning in the dark, twisted pleasure that consumed you both.

You couldn't help it-your body reacted on its own, tightening around him as the pressure inside you built to an unbearable peak. That's when you heard his voice, cold and commanding.

“Don't fucking do that, ” he growled, his tone laced with warning, before his hand came down on your ass with a sharp slap that made you cry out, the sting of it burning through your skin.

The raw power behind his strike left you breathless, and you could only nod, trying desperately to hold on. But no matter how hard you tried, you couldn't stop the way your body clenched around him, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

It was building, the pleasure twisting tighter inside you with every relentless thrust, and finally, you felt it-the moment of no return. “ ´m coming... ” you babbled, barely able to form the words through the haze of lust and need.

“ Oh yeah? ” he asked, a cruel laugh slipping past his lips. He knew. He could feel it too, the way you were trembling, so close to shattering. You nodded frantically, seconds away from the release your body was begging for, every nerve alight with anticipation.

But just when you thought you'd finally fall over the edge, he stopped. Pulled back completely, leaving you empty, desperate, the sudden loss almost as painful as the pleasure had been. The shock of it hit you like a wave, your body screaming in protest as you hovered on the brink, denied the one thing you needed most.

“ Rafe-what are you doing? ” you protested, your voice shaky, your body still pressed helplessly against the tree, aching with unfulfilled need. You could barely stand, your legs trembling, but even then, you didn't move away. Some part of you was still hoping, still wanting.

He shrugged casually, as if what had just happened was nothing, his hand smoothing down his suit as he pulled his cock back into his trousers. That damned smirk played on his lips—the one that made your blood boil with anger and desire all at once. God, how you hated that smirk.

“ You gotta work better than that, ” he said simply, his voice calm, almost amused. The arrogance in his words left you breathless, your heart racing in frustration and disbelief. He knew exactly what he was doing to you, how close you had been, and now, he was walking away like it didn't even matter.

And then, with one last look at you, bent over against the tree with your dress still hitched up, he turned and started to run through the trees, disappearing into the shadows as he made his way back to the party. The sounds of the celebration drifted through the night, distant and surreal, as if mocking the raw, burning desire still coursing through you.

He'd left you there, unfinished, throbbing with need, and all you could do was catch your breath, knowing deep down that this was only the beginning. The night was far from over, and whatever game Rate had started, you were already too deep to pull yourself out.

let me know if you want part 2!

[ser3nityst4r]

Jamil’s Backstory

Jamil Viper prided himself on his control. For as long as he could remember, he had mastered the art of swallowing the bitterness in his throat, the sting of resentment behind his eyes. His life was a carefully crafted performance, a constant dance of deference and feigned incompetence. 

It all started with a sun-kissed boy named Kalim Al-Asim. The very first memories Jamil could conjure were not of his own home, but of the ostentatious halls of the Asim estate. There, amidst the lavish gardens and echoing corridors, a young Kalim, full of boundless energy and unadulterated joy, declared, "Let's play, Jamil~! I'm gonna win against you this time for sure!"

And Jamil, already educated in the unspoken rules of their world, would sigh inwardly and reply, "Again? I always win, you know? I wanna play something else, too…"

The reprimand was always swift, always predictable. His parents, faces contorted with a mixture of fear and servility, would chastise him for his "disrespect." And Kalim's parents, their smiles never quite reaching their eyes, would praise their "kind-hearted master" for indulging him.

Over the years, the pattern cemented itself into his very being. His father, his voice laced with a desperation Jamil understood all too well, would whisper instructions before every sparring match or competition. "Let Master Kalim win the third time, understand? Don't outshine him."

His mother, her eyes filled with a weary acceptance, would add, "You're a smart child, Jamil. You know how important this is."

And Jamil, his small hands clenching into fists, would whisper back, "I know."

He knew that the Al-Asims were everything his family was not - wealthy, influential, untouchable. He knew that his very existence revolved around serving them, around ensuring Kalim's happiness, even if it meant suffocating his own.

So, he played the role of the loyal friend, the perpetual runner-up, the slightly less capable companion. He let Kalim win at games, even when it meant deliberately fumbling the ball or miscalculating a move. He feigned confusion during lessons, allowing Kalim to bask in the fleeting glow of academic achievement.

He became a shadow, always present, always supportive, yet always a step behind. The bitterness, however, simmered beneath the surface, threatening to boil over with every forced smile, every insincere compliment.

Even when they came to Night Raven College, nothing changed. The whispers followed them, the expectations remained. And when Kalim, with his usual carefree demeanor, was chosen as Prefect, a decision clearly influenced by his family's generous donations, Jamil felt a surge of rage so potent it nearly broke through his carefully constructed walls.

"He doesn't have exceptional talent!" he'd argued with Headmaster Crowley, his voice tight with suppressed fury. "We're the ones who constantly cover for him!"

Crowley, ever the cryptic mentor, simply chuckled and replied, "Sometimes, Viper-kun, there are things that mere grades can't achieve. Asim-kun's family…well, they do have a way of making their generosity known."

Jamil knew. They all made sure he knew. His parents, Kalim's parents, even the Headmaster – they all expected him to understand, to accept his predetermined role. But understanding did little to quell the burning resentment within him. 

Who was there to understand him? Who saw the sacrifices he made, the talents he suppressed, the dreams he buried deep within himself? The weight of their expectations, the burden of his own resentment, threatened to crush him. 

He was trapped in a gilded cage of his own making, bound to Kalim by invisible chains forged from societal expectations and his family's ambition. As he watched Kalim celebrate yet another victory, oblivious to the true cost, Jamil couldn't help but wonder if the day would ever come when he could finally break free from his shackles.