#sorry this takes forever to write

[separatist-apologist]

A Lost Princess Of Sunlight

Summary: Lady Elain has spent her life in the idyllic countryside wanting for nothing, so when her adopted sister Vassa begs her to accompany her to court, how can Elain say no? The roguish prince is in need of a wife and Elain, certain she'd make a terrible princess, has no interest in such theatrics.

But something about the palace brings back memories lost to the sea ten years before. Memories Elain had been certain she'd never get back…memories that speak of a colder place, and sisters long forgotten. Amid the tumultuous politics and the looming war, Elain finds herself embroiled in a mystery to find out who she really is.

And where she really comes from.

My humble offering to @writtenonreceipts for the @acotargiftexchange. Am I releasing fewer chapters because I've realized I need more than 7? YesNO STOP ASKING

Thank you again to @velidewrites for the moodboard and making me seem more put together than I am.

Read On AO3

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He was doing it again.

Lucien knew it, rationally. Knew he was making all the same mistakes he’d made with Jesminda—rushing head first into something without thinking about the consequences. Damn them, he decided blithely as he made his way toward his mothers chambers. All Lucien could think about was Elain in the moonlight, her lips on his.

Might as well declare his intentions privately. 

Just in case.

It was here Lucien was finally confronted with the sight of his eldest brother, standing at a window just outside the door that would take him to their mothers room. The sight of Eris Vanserra was the only thing that could empty Elain from Lucien’s thoughts. Eris had no right to his home and his presence was unwelcome. 

There, hands clasped behind his back, Eris looked every inch the pensive king and Lucien’s fingers curled to fists at the sight. No one could touch Eris but Lucien and Lucien was itching for a violent confrontation. He’d argued passionately that giving Eris free reign of their home would see it laid to rubble for all the good it did.

Eris turned his head, eyes sliding down Lucien’s body as his lip curled with disdain. Lucien still remembered the last time they’d seen each other—he’d been ten, Eris nineteen and Eris had kicked him hard in the spine off a ledge straight into the frothy ocean water below. 

No amount of telling his mother had earned Eris any consequences. He was always favored though Lucien was sure Eris didn’t think so because Eris was so spoiled and selfish nothing would ever be good enough for him. Maybe if they all died, then Eris would be satisfied. Until then, he’d continue appearing on occasion and ignoring their mothers letters in between, determined to punish her for the crime of leaving his father.

Lucien used to wonder how Eris rationalized that. How he could look at his mother, covered in bruises from the neck down and so thin his father had once said he didn’t know how she stood, and blame her for leaving. Lucien didn’t wonder now—Eris couldn’t be bothered to sympathize because he was the same terrible bastard as his father. 

And Lucien had a score to settle. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” Lucien said, praying Eris would hit him with just enough attitude he could justify the punch that was coming, at least to his father. There was no avoiding his mothers tears, her guilt, and the fear that perhaps she should have stayed, if only for Eris’s sake. 

“I was invited,” Eris replied, his voice dripping with condemnation. “As much as it displeases you, mother still finds value in me.”

“The only person in the world, I imagine,” Lucien shot back. “I’m surprised you left given the state of your father. Though, I suppose if I had poisoned my father, I wouldn’t want to be around when he finally died.”

“When you require assistance on that front, you’re welcome to shelter in my court,” Eris replied, slick and stupid as ever. Lucien loved his father and was in no hurry to be King, besides. It seemed like it was aging his father at an accelerated rate, not mentioning the utter responsibility Lucien had no interest in. 

The insinuation was foul, besides. If Eris was hoping to provoke a reaction, it was working. Lucien’s self control was shredding by the moment. 

“Maybe I’ll get lucky and he’ll take you out before—” That was enough. Lucien swung without thinking, howling in rage well before his knuckles ever connected with Eris’s jaw. Eris slammed against the window hard enough to rattle it, blood splattering against his nice jacket. Lucien knew he fucked up the moment his brother refused to hit him back, teeth stained red as he flashed Lucien a sly smile.

His expression crumpled into pain the moment their mother flung open her chamber door, eyes on the pair of them.

Eris shook his head. “If you didn’t want me here, you could have said so,” he spat, eyes on their mother. Russet eyes became glassy with tears, and Lucien could have killed Eris right then for the guilt he was capitalizing on.

“Why would you do this?” his mother asked, turning her gaze to Lucien. “We raised you better than this.”

Eris’s gaze gleamed with triumph. Nothing Lucien could say would fix this moment for his mother. What she wanted was for Lucien to take the high road, to forgive and forget rather than respond to Eris’s goading. And there was no way for Lucien to act as though he’d been forced into hitting Eris—he’d wanted to.

“Someone should have a long time ago,” Lucien hissed instead, surprised by the way both his mother and brother seemed to flinch back from his words. 

“Go tell your father you said that,” his mother ordered, her words blunted with ice. Finally, a good idea. Unable to bear the sight of his mothers grief or Eris’s vindication, Lucien turned on his heel and strode away. His father would understand, even if he couldn’t totally absolve Lucien of his violence. There would be a little eye rolling and a promise to talk to Lucien’s mother to smooth things over. 

And Lucien could finally tell someone in his family about Elain. If he told his father and his mother, he could tell Elain his parents were just delighted he’d picked someone born and raised in the South so she’d stop wringing her hands over the circumstances of her birth. Lucien needed something positive to happen and being able to track down his lady and inform her his parents were thrilled by the match was the only thing that convinced Lucien to see his father immediately, rather than to wait until his mother forced him to.

His father was lounging in his office, the balcony doors, head tilted toward the warm sunlight. Lucien stepped through the bright room, ignoring the paperwork stacked that Lucien probably ought to know about. He likely ought to know more about state affairs and kept himself intentionally oblivious to get out of taking on more responsibility.

But…maybe…maybe he ought to try, if only to prove he was worth marrying. Jesminda had hated everything to do with the monarchy but did Elain? Lucien realized he didn’t know much about her at all.

It was merely another problem he needed to rectify. 

“Father,” Lucien said, forgetting Eris’s blood was still splattered against his face. He hadn’t forgotten the ache in his hand and when both he and his father looked down, Lucien saw his knuckles were cracked and swollen. 

“Tell me you were fighting Jurian,” his father ordered, groaning when Lucien set his jaw. “Tell me he deserved it—and your mother doesn’t know.”

“He did deserve it,” Lucien swore vehemently, unable to say the second part. 

“You let him crawl under your skin far too easily. What upset your mother?” his father asked with some amusement. Sighing, Lucien set his elbows against the wide lip of the marble balcony and stared out at the sea.

“That someone ought to have hit him long ago.”

His father exhaled a breath. “Ah. That’ll do it.”

“Is it wrong to wish Beron had—”

“Yes, it is. Your mother desperately wished to bring Eris with her. In another life, under different circumstances, you two might have loved each other. You shouldn’t wish that, though, no matter how much you loathe him. Keep your distance if you can’t be civil.”

“Fine,” Lucien agreed through gritted teeth, “I can do that. I didn’t come to talk about Eris. I’ve come to tell you about a woman.”

His father turned, golden eyes bright with delight. “So your mother was right, just as I knew she was. Tell me who so I can start wooing her father.”

“Lady Elain Koschington,” Lucien said, surprised when his father took a step backward. 

“Are you certain?”

“Well…there’s time…but I’ve made my intentions toward her plain—”

“How so?”

“Just courting, nothing untoward!” Lucien assured his father, slightly embarrassed. 

“There’s time to change your mind,” his father declared, catching Lucien off-guard. Surely he was happy that Lucien had picked a woman rather than pining after Jesminda and sleeping his way through the city. 

“I’m not going to change my mind,” Lucien said, uncertain if that was true. “What is the problem with Lady Elain?”

“She is hardly a lady,” his father replied.

Lucien swallowed. He didn’t care—he swore he didn’t. If she’d been with another man, that was fine. Maybe he was jealous, but he’d certainly been no saint either. “I don’t care—”

“No. You may not court Lady Elain—”

“Mother said any Southern born lady—”

“And she was not born within our border—”

“She is a citizen of our crown and you are merely quibbling over semantics!” Lucien exploded, angrier than he’d ever been with his father.

“I forbid it,” his father said, facing Lucien with all the wrath of a king. “And if you test me, I will have her sent so far from your reach it would take you lifetimes to find her.”

“Why?”

“Are you asking as a prince? Or my son about to disobey me?” 

Lucien hung on a knife’s edge. If he demanded the truth, he would be bound by it. Lucien would be forced to put duty over his feelings, something he’d never been good at. And if he asked as his fathers son, Elain would be sent away. Which was worse, he wondered? Never seeing her again, or seeing her while knowing he couldn’t have her?

“The truth, as both your son and the prince.”

“Elain is an Archeron, and a political prisoner of my court.”

Lucien blinked. The heat had finally overwhelmed him and he was hallucinating. 

“A fisherman scooped her out of the sea when she was a girl and kept her separated from her sisters. It was my original intention to ransom her back…but she had no memory of her life in the north and I saw an opportunity to keep her troublesome family in line. She hasn’t be mistreated, but when we returned her sisters under the treaty, we kept Elain as insurance for when her father inevitably tried another invasion.”

Lucien felt like gagging. “You…” 

“To marry her would start a war. You cannot court Elain, nor can you marry her. No man can—she is off limits.”

“And what happens when she realizes she is unmarriageable? Have you seen her?”

“She will think there is some quality of hers that men find unappealing and adjust to life as a spinster, like many women do without complaint or regret.”

“Does mother know about this?”

“Yes.”

Lucien felt his world crumbling. In his mind, his family was above reproach and morally righteous. Everything they’d done had been in service to the safety of their home and anything said to the contrary was merely lies meant to discredit his fathers rule. The idea that his father was calculating enough to use a little girl as a political pawn—and would steal her entire life on the bet her father might one day try and invade—was too much for Lucien to process.

And Arina—oh, Arina. She was trying to find the village Elain had come from. How long before she put it together? Lucien opened his mouth to warn his father before snapping it closed again.

Why? 

What would happen to Arina? And Elain? Hell, what would happen to him? Rubbing his eyes, Lucien said, “How could you?”

“You will do just as bad—worse, even, if needs become must. That is our life. One of duty, not romance.”

Lucien scoffed, unwilling to say what he was thinking. Had it been duty when his own father had nearly started a war over his mother? He could see his father daring him to say so and knew it would not end well for him if he did. “Swear you’ll stay away from her.”

Fingers crossed behind his back like he was a child, Lucien looked his father dead in the eyes and lied. “I swear.”

Lucien had no intention of staying away from Elain. No. A new plan was forming in his mind—one that was just as idiotic as his fathers original plan to dangle her like meat over her fathers head. As if that wasn’t justification for war? As far as Lucien could see, there was no outcome that avoided it other than Elain simply vanishing into the ether, never to be seen again.

At least if she was his wife, Lucien could argue they were now allies, not enemies. 

Fool. He was an utter, stupid fool. It was Jesminda all over again. One kiss and Lucien was ready to make her his wife, consequences be damned. 

And yet as he walked out of his fathers study, Lucien felt confident.

Certain of his decision.

“What happened to your face?” 

Beautiful Eris Vanserra trudged up to the library where he had no right to be, his left eye brutally swollen, nose blooded and shirt stained. Arina rose from her spot at her desk, forgetting she wasn’t supposed to touch him again—a promise she’d made to herself after he’d kissed her—to reach for his face. Dull, amber eyes peered back at her, uncertain of what was about to happen. 

“Who did this to you?”

“Don’t make your first kill on my behalf,” he said with none of his usual fire. 

“Sit down,” she said, careful to keep her own voice soft. Arina had no intention of killing anyone ever, though she might have words with the offender. “What happened?”

“Your lovely prince’s fist happened.”

Oh. 

“What did you say to him?” she asked, making her way toward a pitcher of water. It would have to do for now—just to clean him up. After, she could cajole him into seeing a healer, if only to make sure he hadn’t broken his nose. 

“You assume it was my fault? Cruel.”

“I think I know you well enough to know you can’t help yourself,” Arina murmured, pulling up the hem of her dress to soak it so she could dab at his face. Eris watched, tracking her every move the moment the fabric exposed her thigh. Of course that would interest him.

He was a rogue—a villain, really. Arina knew exactly what Eris wanted—a distraction during his time here only so he could forget her the moment he left—and she was determined not to give it to him.

Which was difficult given she wanted to. Arina was no lady, even if technically, by birth, she could have been. Should have been, truly. Her father had ruined himself long before Arina had come up but Helion could have salvaged her reputation much like he’d salvaged her fathers. Arina could have asked for a household of her own—but she wanted peace and quiet and to be freed of the expectation that a man she hated would get to decide her future. 

But perhaps there was some wisdom to it, given she’d been ready to throw her lot in with Eris Vanserra, damn the consequences. She’d half convinced herself the time spent with him would be worth it, besides. How many women could say they’d been with a king? A lot, probably, given their reputation for infidelity. Still. 

“I wanted to piss him off,” Eris admitted, his gaze uncharacteristically soft. “I thought it would bring me some peace.”

“And did it?”

Eris slid a hand up her bare leg, halting just above her knee. “No.”

Pretending she hadn’t notice how warm his fingers were, Arina began wiping at the blood though it was ruining the pink of her dress. “Then maybe you ought to employ a different tactic.”

“A blade, then?”

“How about a conversation?” she suggested, arching her brow. “An honest conversation.”

“I’d rather he stabbed me,” Eris grumbled, tilting his chin ever so slightly. It looked as though he was giving her access, permission, even, for a kiss. That path only ended in destruction and she knew it. If Eris ever learned she was half as attracted to him as she truly was, he’d never leave her be. The only thing saving Arina was his belief she was mostly ambivalent about him and required persuasion. 

In truth, she required no persuasion at all. Eris was beautiful—easily the most beautiful man she’d ever laid eyes on—and ever since he’d kissed her, she’d thought of nothing else. She couldn’t be the one to kiss him again—to kiss him ever. If nothing else, Arina wouldn’t give Eris the satisfaction of one day breaking her heart. 

“Would it be so terrible if he liked you?”

Eris considered this for a moment, eyes glazing over which made wiping the blood from his face far easier. Copper salt mingled with woodsmoke and whiskey which wasn’t entirely unpleasant. And she had to admit, there was something particularly inviting about the sight of Eris covered in blood, though she would rather see him covered in someone else's rather than his own. 

“Yes, I think it would be,” Eris finally murmured.

“Why?”

His eyes grew sharp and cold. “Prying for secrets, are you?”

She shrugged. “I might give you something in return.”

Straightening his spine, Eris asked, “Something I want?”

“Within reason, I suppose. I’m not taking my clothes off for you.”

The grip on her leg tightened as if to say, we’ll see about that. “If I liked Lucien…if I liked your self-righteous king, even…” Eris drew in a sharp breath before rushing out the words, “it would mean she was right to leave us.”

Arina’s fingers slid over his cheek without meaning to, wanting to comfort him before she even considered why she’d want that. Eris didn’t seem like a man with deep feelings or thoughts beyond what might best service him. 

“I don’t think she left because of you,” Arina murmured, wondering if he considered himself part of the problem. Eris raised his brows, his expression betraying how little he believed her. However, his next words held none of the vulnerability as the ones that had come before.

“You promised a kiss.”

“I promised to give you something you wanted—”

“That’s what I want,” he said, his free hand gripping her waist to pull her into his lap. Before she could protest, Eris had his mouth against her own and she found that her fingers betrayed her, sliding through his hair before she ever thought about it. 

He tasted like warm sunlight somehow. It was a mistake, one she knew she’d come to regret but right then, Arina told herself kissing him couldn’t hurt her. Couldn’t hurt anything, really. She knew what this was—nothing at all. Passing attraction, a distraction that they’d both tire of if they ever had to spend any significant amount of time together. 

Besides, he didn’t know anything about her. To him, she was simply little more than a servant, a peasant that had been elevated just enough to be given importance, but without the family name or wealth that would make her a viable candidate for courting. Safe to dally with because no one would ever expect him to make good on any promises he made to her. Helion wouldn’t demand Eris marry her if Arina complained and so Eris could bother her, could slide his hand up her dress, could accost her with his mouth.

He’d go home and pick a suitable woman and forget her.

And she swore that was her preference. 

It made it easier to kiss him without fear. I’m no one to him. 

Though right then, she certainly felt like someone. His mouth was warm, his hands soft and Arina wanted. Wanted this unattainable, emotionally disturbed  man and the mess he was almost certainly dragging behind him. He’d destroy her before she ever managed to peel back that first layer, leaving her in bloodied ruins as he sauntered off, divorcing her from his memory while she thought of nothing else. 

“I love this,” he whispered, teeth nipping along her bottom lip as he fisted her thick, long hair. “All of it.”

“Love it less,” she heard herself responding, her own heart thudding in her chest. “It’s not yours to keep.”

Chuckling, Eris bit harder. “You won’t come to my bed?”

“I wouldn’t go to dinner with you,” she lied. Arina would have gone a great number of places with him, though it was far easier to lie to herself and pretend she wouldn’t. That this was all nothing and he was meaningless to her.

“You had breakfast with me,” he reminded her, as if Arina could ever forget. 

She let him kiss her again, cognizant of the hand creeping toward her thigh. Frustration was building in her chest—both because she wanted him and because he so casually believed she was his for the taking, if he wanted her.

“I have breakfast with many people—your brother, for instance, most mornings.”

That soured Eris’s mood. That bruised, blackened eye met hers and she found it was filled with loathing. 

Twist the knife, she ordered, holding herself on his lap like she was so utterly careless. Arina cared, far more than she should. Better to stop this now. “I’d have dinner with him, too.”

“Why not throw yourself at his feet, too?” Eris snapped, rising so sharply Arina all but fell to the floor in a graceless heap. “Or is that reserved just for me?”

That was better, she decided. Better for him to loathe her than to want her—or worse. “Your brother is nice to me.”

“Oh, is that it? He thanks you for putting a knife to his throat?”

“He’d never give me cause to do so,” she bit back as she wiped her palms on her dress. “Your brother is a gentleman.”

“Yes, perfect little Lucien,” Eris snarled in response, advancing on her. “And yet here you are. Kissing me.”

He waited for a comeback, some response that would explain this all away. What was she supposed to say? That if she lined Lucien and Eris up, there was no comparison? That she’d have picked Eris with her eyes closed, hands tied behind her back and that fact scared her? “At least Lucien likes me,” she whispers, certain that she was right about this. Eris was attracted to her, of that Arina was positive, but she thought the fact rankled him. He didn’t want to—and hoped to exorcize her from his system at the very first opportunity. 

His eyes flashed. “Who says I don’t like you?”

“Do you like me, Eris?” she challenged as he reached for her face to draw her closer. What was happening? They were supposed to be fighting and yet the tension in the air had shifted again and she knew she was going to kiss him. 

“I like you right now,” he murmured, mouth brushing her own. “I like you enough to come looking for you.”

“You’re just bored,” she whispered, one hand half-heartedly pushing against his chest. 

“Surely there are simpler ways to get a woman naked if I was truly that bored,” he disagreed, nipping softly at that bruised lip of hers. “Women who would pay me a compliment, even, without me having to beg.”

“Is that what you want?”

“Among other things,” he managed, kissing her softly. “Say something nice to me, Arina.”

“You first,” she replied, grateful for another kiss that silenced them both. She didn’t want to hear him say anything nice to her, knowing full well she’d turn those words over in her mind until she’d made them more romantic than they were. Eris didn’t push it, either, content to pull her back to his chair and into his lap and kiss her until they were both breathless. 

Arina was careful when she climbed out of his lap, not daring to touch anything but his hands for fear he’d take it as an invitation. Eris stood, adjusting his clothes as if that would distract from his ruby red mouth and his mussed hair. Arina walked around her desk, bracing herself against the wood as she waited for Eris to leave. 

“You’re too good for Lucien, you know,” he murmured, halting with his hand on the door handle. Without looking back, he added, “Probably myself, too.” And then he was gone.

She’d been right about that compliment—for the rest of the night, Arina turned it over and over in her mind, trying to make meaning of it until she found the words romantic. 

Fool.

She was an utter fool.

“Move your foot just a little,” Cassian murmured, stepping toward Nesta’s slim thigh before he remembered he wasn’t allowed to touch her. It was becoming far too easy to forget. She had been alone with Rhys last night, taking a turn around that dead garden or something equally horrible. Cassian had been agitated the entire time and Rhys’s silent return only to stalk into his bedroom did little to improve Cassian’s mood.

What had happened? And which was worse? A night that had gone so well Rhys needed to lock himself behind a closed door in order to deal with it, or so terrible he’d had to hide his rage? Cassian didn’t want to think about his brother treating Nesta badly—nor did he want to imagine Rhys realizing how wonderful Nesta was, either.

Cassian had woken to a dream that Nesta was his queen and he was made to bow before her, unable to look either her or Rhys in the eyes. As if the alternative—a world in which she was ever his—existed at all. That much was clear given he and Nesta were hidden in her dead sister's bedroom while he taught her the finer points of self-defense…and it was one in the morning. 

“Do you sleep?” Cassian dared to ask as Nesta looked down at her booted feet, adjusting them just like he told her to. She had a dancer's stance, her movements lithe and graceful even if she was still a little clumsy with a blade. Give her time and Nesta would be lethal, a shadow much like Azriel if she wanted to be. 

What would Rhys say when he learned that Cassian was teaching Nesta to potentially kill Rhys in his sleep should they ever end up married? 

“No,” Nesta replied, though she looked like she should. Cassian had no business trying to put her to bed which was enough to focus him. “You train Rhysand’s military, don’t you?”

“I do,” he replied carefully, well aware of why Nesta wanted to know. There was nothing Cassian would have liked more than to unseat her father and those prickish nobles always sneering at him and seeing Nesta sit on that gleaming throne. It was another lurid fantasy best left to the dark of night when he was alone and no one was around to witness him.

“Our general isn’t so…”

Handsome? Virile? Single?

“Young,” she finished, looking up at him. “How many battles have you won?”

Her eyes lingered on his neck and that old wound he was both hoping she did and didn’t ask him about. He could paint it heroically enough—after all, he’d lived, hadn’t he? Barely, but that was a story for another day, another time.

“Enough,” he said, gesturing for her to try and stab him. “I don’t have all night, princess. Some of us need sleep in order to maintain our good looks.”

“Who told you that you were good looking?” she replied with a gleam in her eye.

“Are you implying they lied to me?” Cassian shot back with faux hurt.

“I’m not implying it. I’m stating it outright.”

Cassian laughed as Nesta lunged, her sharp blade slicing through the thin material of his shirt and cutting through his skin. It was a shallow wound hardly worth the loud gasp that escaped her and yet…

“Oh,” he breathed, eyes not on the blood now soaking his clothing but at the woman mere inches in front of him. “You stabbed me.”

“I’m so sorry,” Nesta said, tugging at his shirt to get a better look. Cassian knew he was a bastard because it barely stung. It was hardly worth paying attention to and had it been Azriel or Rhys, he would have kept sparring, unconcerned. Instead, Cassian removed the offending garment so the princess could fuss over him a little.

“It’s nothing,” Cassian told her honestly, dropping into a chair they’d pushed to the side while Nesta fretted, looking for something to dress the cut. “I doubt it’ll even scar. Besides—you got me. That’s something, Nes.”

She turned, wisps of hair brushing against her cheek and gods she was so beautiful. 

“I did, didn’t I?” she replied, a genuine smile curving over her lips. What would happen, he wondered, if he just kissed her?

Nesta was still holding that bloodied dagger in her hand which was enough to temper Cassian’s thoughts. He didn’t need to teach her to stab, after all—that was intuitive. Still, Nesta seemed like the kind of woman who ought to have been born wielding a weapon and he suspected with a little more practice, she’d be a born natural.

And then what? Would Rhys want to help her wrest control of her kingdom from the men who’d long ruled it? Cassian was certain he didn’t, that he was only here to prevent their long-standing ally Helion from another war. 

It was a secret he was keeping from her.

He didn’t owe Nesta the truth. After all, he was no one to her. Just some man she’d tricked into helping her. Cassian imagined Nesta did this every day with any number of men and he was merely the latest one. And yet with each passing day, guilt gnawed at him because she genuinely believed they were there to help her.

And they weren’t. Rhys and Azriel were more likely to destabilize things entirely than they were to offer her any real assistance. Maybe Rhys would offer her an out by making her his wife—but maybe he wouldn’t. Cassian would be the villain because his job was to destroy their military and leave the north in tattered ruins. 

Nesta came closer, a little ripped piece of cloth in her hand. Cassian caught her wrist, wanting so badly to touch her when he knew he didn’t have the right. “Don’t worry about me,” he told her, holding her gaze. “I’ll have forgotten about this in the morning.”

Nesta came closer still, until she was standing between his parted legs. “You’ll forget me?”

“That’s not what I said,” Cassian heard himself reply. He didn’t feel in control right then, but like a spectator watching another man who was far calmer and more collected speak to the woman of his dreams. “I don’t think it’s possible to forget you, Nesta Archeron.”

It was that other man, still holding her wrist, that turned her palm up and pressed a kiss against her skin. A man who knew how to court a woman like Nesta—who knew what he was doing at all, even. Not Cassian, who felt as though he was screaming with delight and fear, pressed against his own eyes to watch. She was going to shove him, would scream for her guards and he’d be arrested. Rhys would ask him if it was worth it and Cassian would say—well, Cassian would say it had been worth it. Because it had. 

Nesta didn’t do any of those things. Shuddering, she took a careful step backward with an audible swallow. “Is it hard? Killing another person?”

Was that what she was thinking? Like cold water had been poured over his head, Cassian felt his desire cool. It was with great reluctance that he dropped her hand, sighing softly. “I can’t speak for everyone. Killing is personal, even when it's not.”

“Do you think I could?”

Holding her gaze, Cassian thought Nesta could do anything with sheer will alone. He understood what she was asking, though: did he think she could follow through? Did Cassian think Nesta was capable of taking a life? Yeah, Cassian thought Nesta could kill as well as the best of them—maybe better. 

“Yeah, Nes, I think you could.”

Nodding her head, a soft smile spread across her lips. “I have a list.”

Cassian had never wanted anyone more than he wanted her right then. “Oh? Where do I fall on it?”

“You’re so full of yourself,” she said, smothering a smile. “Why would you think you rank at all?”

“Hope, I suppose,” Cassian replied with a grin. 

“You hope I’d kill you?” she asked, eyes wide with a mixture of what he thought was delight and surprise. 

“Anything to feel your hands on my skin,” Cassian responded before he could think about it. Nesta sucked in a soft breath and he knew he’d taken it too far. He shouldn’t have said that. Heart hammering, Cassian turned slowly to look at her, waiting for her to order him out. 

“That’s pathetic,” she said, her voice strangely breathless. “Where is your dignity, General?”

Had he ever been so aroused in his life? Cassian was hard pressed to think of a time as Nesta made her way toward him, hips swaying beneath her dress. She was out of bounds, and even though Rhys said he had no intention of courting her, she did technically belong to his brother. What would happen if Rhys learned of this?

Would he be jealous?

Angry?

“I suspect you hold that, along with everything else, princess,” Cassian replied, deciding he was going to see this through to whatever conclusion. Nesta closed the gap between them, her body close enough that her breasts all but touched his chest. Cassian wanted to kiss her and swore he wasn’t going to right until she tilted her chin upward with that hint of defiance he liked so much.

Was that what this was? Just a princess defying her father until she couldn’t? Or did Nesta feel the same attraction Cassian felt, too? 

Reaching for her cheek, Cassian held it in his hand, thumb sweeping against soft skin. Oh, he was in such trouble and yet he knew if he hesitated, Nesta would never give him another opportunity. He might lack dignity but Nesta held her pride so tightly he suspected she wrapped it around her body like a second skin.

She wasn’t going to beg him. Cassian would have, though. 

Still, Cassian didn’t know just how true those thoughts were until his mouth brushed hers. Nesta smelled sweet, like something sugary baked on the streets of Velaris. If he’d smelled it while walking by, Cassian would have ducked in for a taste, unable to help himself. He felt the same right then, kissing her with a sharp inhale of air. 

It was a miracle that Nesta kissed him back, her fingers gripping the tops of his arms to hold him steady. Cassian felt dazed, drunk on his success though he had no idea how he’d managed to convince her to kiss him in the first place. All he knew was he wanted more and would commit an unknown, unnamed number of atrocities to kiss her again. 

He ought to have known she was unpracticed—that Nesta would need more care than he was used to. Cassian was so lost in the moment he didn’t think about winding an arm around her body to pull her flush against him. Nesta gasped, her little hands pressed to his chest as she tried to back away.

“I—Sorry,” he breathed, eyes on her as she put a healthy amount of space between them. Nesta’s fingers touched her lips, eyes glassy and far away. 

“I shouldn’t have done that,” she whispered, her words a knife to his heart. “I…that was a mistake.”

“Don’t do that,” Cassian half pleaded, half growled. “You know it wasn’t a mistake.”

Her spine straightened. “It was. You’re—” she swallowed the words she was about to say, eyes flashing a warning. If Cassian had been smarter, he’d have let them die.

But Cassian had never been accused of intelligence. “I’m what, Nes?”

“You’re no one at all,” she replied lightly, eyes sliding toward the door. “And I’m a princess. This never happened. Forget it like I already have.”

“You’re a liar, Nesta Archeron,” Cassian called, swallowing his anger in favor of keeping his tone light. She turned, eyes flashing.

“You can’t talk to me like that,” she snapped.

“Just did,” he replied, crossing his arms over his chest. “Throw me in prison if I offend you.”

“You will keep your distance or—”

“Or what?” Cassian murmured, taking a casual step toward her. They both knew she couldn’t—Nesta wanted to learn to use a blade and could ask no one but him. Either she abandoned her plans or she sought him out. Either way, Cassian held all the cards. They stared the other down, searching for some weakness to advance their position. It was Nesta who turned again, chin raised with a haughty arrogance that made his blood race. 

“Or nothing, Cassian. This never happened.”

“We’ll see, Nes!” he hissed after her retreating back. 

Cassian didn’t give up that easily. Not when he wanted something.

And Cassian had never wanted anything or anyone half as much as he wanted Nesta.

Feyre’s heart thudded in her throat as she raced through the palace, skirts held in one hand, feet slipping against the smooth stones. You’re dreaming, you’re dreaming, you’re dreaming— It wasn’t a dream. Tamlin was standing in the grand hall, head bowed low as her father and Lord Nolan spoke to him, their words too soft to be overheard by the hiding Feyre. What could her father have possibly needed from Tamlin to call him back? 

Feyre’s hands were numb, cold despite the roaring fire that warmed the room. The only thing that had ever given Feyre peace was the knowledge that Tamlin was not coming home. He’d never have a chance to apologize for what he’d done, which meant she’d never cave and forgive him like she knew she would.

Seeing him there, though, broad shouldered and beautiful, softened some of her resolve. He’d struck her but it had been an accident—she’d merely been in his way and he hadn’t intended to hurt her. He’d meant to strike the wall, to knock over his desk and its contents. She’d rushed forward and he’d lashed out and Feyre was far softer and more breakable than stone and wood. It was the kind of bruise that couldn’t be explained away, couldn’t be hidden.

Tamlin had offered a half-hearted apology, his kisses turning into reassurance sex that left Feyre feeling empty and hollow in the aftermath. She hadn’t protested when her father ordered Tamlin away and Tamlin hadn’t put up a fight. He’d merely packed his things, leaving Feyre with a ruined reputation and a broken heart.

Feyre waited until there was a lull in the conversation to step into the room. It was strangely empty, devoid of the usual advisors and courtiers that made the grand hall seem so small. Now it was cavernous, a death march as Feyre made her way toward her father, desperate not to look at Tamlin at all.

She’d been summoned, after all. That was how she’d known—a nervous servant had told her to meet her father and when Feyre pressed, they’d whispered of Lord Tamlin’s return. Feyre felt her stomach sinking lower and lower as Nolan stared her down, his curiosity warring with some other emotion. Was it irritation, perhaps? There was no joy on that face.

“Majesty,” Nolan murmured when Feyre approached, bowing low not to her, but her father as he excused himself. Feyre wanted to grab his arm and beg him to stay though she didn’t dare. Lord Nolan would never intentionally help her—he cared only about his own standing, his own wealth, his own power. She was merely a pawn in whatever game he played to get his son on the throne. 

She was close enough to Tamlin she could smell the soft, masculine scent wafting from his form. Could have touched the fingers at his side if she’d wanted to—and some pathetic part of her did. Feyre looked at her father, too afraid to look at Tamlin. 

“Feyre,” her father began, rising from his chair to descend the steps of the raised dais so they could be at eye level. “How did you sleep?”

“I—” Was that really what he wanted to know? “I slept well.”

Her father nodded, reaching out a hand to brush her cheek. The same cheek Tamlin’s bruise had once adorned, faded with time. “I’ve called Lord Tamlin back to court for a purpose, Feyre. Before he left, he offered—”

“Please,” she whispered, swallowing hard. 

“Feyre,” Tamlin tried but Feyre stumbled back a step, holding up a hand as she finally looked at him. He was even more beautiful than she remembered, so achingly handsome it made her want to go to him. “What happened between us…you have to know how sorry I am. I always—it was always my intention to ask you—I left and the rumors—”

“No,” she breathed, taking another step back. “You can’t be serious.”

“Think on it,” her father urged with kindness in his voice. Was she allowed to decide for herself, or was this an order dressed up like a choice? Feyre turned without another word, storming from the hall before she could do or say something she’d regret. She wasn’t marrying Tamlin, couldn’t bring herself to marry a man who at best was so angry he occasionally lost control of himself and at worst had meant to hit her and only felt sorry because he’d been caught. More than that, though, Feyre wasn’t going to do anything that made Lord Nolan happy. This was his doing and she knew it, some game he was playing in which Feyre was the unwitting pawn. If she slowed down, she likely could have figured it out. She could have gone to Nesta, who likely knew exactly what was happening and was three moves ahead.

Instead, Feyre went outside into the mist, trying to control her breathing.

“There you are. I’ve been looking for you,” a voice murmured from the fog. Feyre started as Rhysand appeared, his usually perfect hair plastered against his forehead. Gone was the elegant king, replaced with someone who looked like any regular man. A regular man with a perfect face, but a regular man all the same. 

Feyre found herself at a loss for words as she looked up at him, remembering his hands on her body in the hot spring and the way his eyes had been on her mouth the entire time she talked. He was here courting Nesta, she reminded herself. Rhys was merely amusing himself with the daughter he’d heard was easier to get undressed, which made him a prick, not someone to fantasize about. 

“Walk with me?” he asked, offering Feyre his arm. She took it without thinking, fingers sliding over the velvety soft black fabric. 

“Is something wrong?” Feyre dared to ask, noting how tight Rhysand’s jaw seemed to be.

“I need some quiet,” he replied, closing his eyes for a moment as he led her from the sparse, gray courtyard and into the city proper. 

“Then why bring me?”

“I always want to talk to you,” he replied without his usual mockery. 

“Did something happen?” Feyre heard herself asking—like she cared. Maybe she just wanted a distraction from her own problems but…Rhysand never seemed like the kind of man who was bothered by anything. 

“Your courts politics frustrate me,” he admitted, running a hand through his wet hair. 

“Yours are better?”

He shrugged, some of that charm seeping back into his expression. “Would you like to find out, darling?”

Wrenching her hand from his arm, Feyre elbowed him in the ribs. Rhysand smiled, ducking his head as if she’d given him a compliment. “Don’t be gross.”

Rhysand only grinned, the sight of which made her blood warm. “What is Velaris like?” she heard herself asking after a moment of comfortable silence. “I hear it’s cold.”

“You should visit,” he began, eyes shining. “There is nowhere in the world like Velaris. We have seasons—it’s not just snow and ice all year round. We also host some of the best artists on the continent…and I hear you like to paint.”

Feyre’s throat constricted. “Who told you that?”

“I’m not divulging my sources,” Rhysand replied, those once starry, shining eyes dulling as he drank in the capital city. It was dreary, she supposed, though the fog and rain did little to help. People didn’t want to be out if they didn’t have to be, and if they did, they were bundled in wool cloaks to keep them from getting wet. She doubted his own perfect home was devoid of mud and animal droppings and the sounds of people shouting over each other as they traded for goods. 

“Why are you talking about me?”

“I like talking about you,” Rhysand replied with a smoothness that irked her. “I want to know everything there is to know about you.”

“Why? Shouldn’t you be getting to know my sister?” Feyre demanded, though something oily slid through her at the mention of Nesta. Rhysand, too, shifted, his body more rigid, his face stonier. He didn’t want Nesta and Feyre wasn’t stupid enough to pretend he wanted neither of them. He’d come looking at the eldest daughter to consolidate his power but now he was looking at her. 

Did her father know? 

Oh gods…did Nolan know? Was that why Tamlin was back? Nolan knew Rhysand had no interest in Nesta and hoped to keep all foreign interest out of their court by dangling Tamlin over Feyre’s head. Had he thought she’d jump at the prospect, or did he merely bank on her father wanting to silence the rumors swirling around Feyre and her virginity? 

“Can’t I get to know you?” Rhysand asked, his voice smooth and low.

Feyre halted in her tracks. “Are you asking to court me?”

Rhysand merely grinned. “That depends on the answer you give me.”

Feyre’s mind raced. Nesta wanted Rhysand’s army for retribution on the south but Rhysand didn’t want Nesta. If Feyre told him unequivocally no, he’d likely leave sooner than he said he would and Feyre would be pushed into a marriage with Tamlin. Did she want that? Part of her did, but the other part—the part that still remembered the fear, the pain, and the heartbreak—wanted to never see him again. To bury one of her arrows in his throat and watch him suffer the way she had. 

That didn’t mean she wanted Rhysand, though. He’d owe Nesta through an alliance between their homes, but…he’d take her away from her sister. And that felt intolerable to Feyre. The choices were unfair, her position a misery. Did she want Rhysand to court her, though, was the question? 

Taking a breath, Feyre said, “Fine.”

“You’re so romantic,” Rhysand teased, his cheeks warming. “You can say no, darling. My ego can withstand rejection.”

Feyre believed him, too. Something about him—the casual way he talked, the friendly demeanor his warriors employed around him, and the way he looked at her made Feyre think he was being honest. If she officially declined, she suspected Rhysand would withdraw entirely out of respect. Even if she didn’t know what she wanted, she knew she didn’t want him to leave just yet. 

“Can we keep this between us for the moment?” she heard herself asking, wringing her hands nervously in front of her body. “Just until…”

He raised his brows. “Until the summer is over?”

“Yeah,” she breathed with relief. That way, at least, she didn’t mess things up for Nesta and whatever clandestine things she was planning and almost certainly not telling Feyre about and see Tamlin sent back to the countryside, ideally forever. And if she ended up like Rhysand, well…that wasn’t a bad thing, was it? 

“Whatever it takes,” Rhysand murmured, staring down at her with the kind of affection that made her stomach twist in knots. She’d seen that look on a man's face before and it hadn’t ended well. It always started sweet but how long until Rhysand erupted and hurt her? After all, much like Tamlin, he was accustomed to getting what he wanted and Feyre was famously difficult—or, that's what people said about her, anyway. What did he even want, she wondered? Obedience? An alliance? Something else she hadn’t considered.

“I do have one request from you, since we’re negotiating terms,” Rhysand continued, flexing his fingers at his side.

Here we go, she thought. He was going to ask her to get in his bed since she was no longer a virgin, and—

“I’d like you to call me Rhys.”

Feyre blinked. “What?”

“Only my enemies call me Rhysand,” he informed her, eyes bright again. “But my friends call me Rhys.”

“Is that what we are? Friends?”

“I hope so,” he replied, and for some reason, Feyre believed him. 

She took a breath. “Alright then, Rhys.”

He smiled. “That’s my girl.”

[tubbytarchia]

Missed drawing these two too

Bonuses

[wispscribbles]

why are you and your drawings so cool 😭🙏

afdsasdfasg thank you !! irl ppl would laugh at me being called cool lol - Have a ghoap as thanks <33

[mattodore]

birthday boy 🎂

[blueskittlesart]

*sigh* thoughts on Nintendo's botw/totk timeline shenanigans and tomfoolery?

tbh. my maybe-unpopular opinion is that the timeline is only important when a game's place on the timeline seriously informs the way their narrative progresses. the problem is that before botw we almost NEVER got games where it didn't matter. it matters for skyward sword because it's the beginning, and it matters for tp/ww/alttp (and their respective sequels) because the choices the hero of time makes explicitly inform the narrative of those games in one way or another. it matters which timeline we're in for those games because these cycles we're seeing are close enough to oot's cycle that they're still feeling the effects of his choices. botw, however, takes place at minimum 10 thousand years after oot, so its place on the timeline actually functionally means nothing. botw is completely divorced from the hero of time & his story, so what he does is a nonissue in the context of botw link and zelda's story. thus, which timeline botw happens in is a nonissue. honestly I kind of liked the idea that it happened in all of them. i think there's a cool idea of inevitability that can be played with there. but the point is that the timeline exists to enhance and fill in the lore of games that need it, and botw/totk don't really need it because the devs finally realized they could make a game without the hero of time in it.

[wisteriagoesvroom]

Would you ever consider writing Carcar where Lando accidentally finds out about them and decides to wait for them to come clean…only it’s been nearly 6 months and Lando is fit to burst, but they both seem happy and he doesn’t want to meddle?!?

that would be a funny epilogue to at a constant speed wouldn’t it??

mainly it’s because oscar and carlos aren’t subtle like, at all. little hints here and there.

carlos starting to smile at oscar at the driver’s parade even if the fans only ever catch oscar staring for a beat too long, and never smiling back. the fans suspect oscar has food poisoning. the carcar believers think something is up.

oscar spends texting too long to carlos, talking about the history of like, lorries that cross the australian desert or something. lando asks if oscar is “writing an essay or something”. oscar blushes and says, “no, i’m making a point”. lando says “ah so you’re writing an essay then.”

carlos walks into the mclaren motor home, chats to lando, and tosses a pack of double-layered tim tams at oscar who catches it stoically. lando stares at them both and once carlos leaves, goes: “you’re on talking terms now?” and oscar says “if you noticed, we actually weren’t talking.” then goes back to staring at his chess game on his phone.

carlos and oscar go dolphin watching in the off season for some inexplicable reason. carlos thinks it will be funny. oscar is not sure why he goes along with this. it turns out to be kind of romantic. carlos never lies to lando and says “i am going dolphin watching.” oscar just says “i’m on a boat.” lando is getting very suspicious now.

and at one point:

carlos eats a specific type of spanish mackerel as part of his meal plan and lando is over at oscar’s monaco place and carlos has to quickly leave the house and hide somewhere (“this is undignified,” he tells oscar before he makes himself scarce). lando goes to open a cupboard to get some water and then sees the specific tin of fish and is like. OMG! I KNEW IT, BOTH OF YOU

there is also a polaroid that carlos took of oscar when they both cycled to a hilltop once. oscar eventually sticks that one near his sim rig. “spite motivation”, or so he tells himself.

[exhaustedwerewolf]

okay not to waste energy being mad about the minecraft movie of all things but I am actually kind of heartbroken by how cynical it feels.

for example, making the creatures that inhabit the world offputting is so indicative of the underlying attitude the film seems to be taking to me. how many millions of minecraft animals, despite being pixels and code, have been genuinely loved by players around the world?

minecraft, despite everything it’s associated with these days, is incredibly earnest in a way that I feel few properties are these days… and genuinely one of the most beautiful games I’ve ever had the pleasure of playing. in its surprisingly melancholic moments in a solo survival world. in the laughs it’s given those far apart from beloved friends, allowing them to be roommates in a beautiful forest cottage or a volcanic fortress or a treehouse palace they’ve built together when thousands of miles apart. in the things people working alone and together have made of it- libraries of banned books made accessible through the medium of the game, scale models of worlds real and fictional, redstone machines with intricate circuitry and incredible intelligence and diligence behind them, in the friendships forged in the pursuit of these creations.

minecraft is collaborative and creative and contemplative in a way few games can be. minecraft, to those who have ‘beaten,’ it, says: everything you need is within you, the darkness you fight is within you, the light you seek is within you, you are not alone, not separate from every other thing, you are the universe tasting itself, talking to itself, reading its own code.

minecraft, when so many games are about escaping from yourself, is about connection with your self, your creativity, the plants and earth and animals and structures around you, the people around you.

for it to be, in this context, a self-referential, debasing cash grab, is not a surprise to me but does feel like a disservice to what the heart of this game is, and symptomatic of a wider trend in a storytelling climate increasingly dominated by spin-offs and reboots and tie-ins and remakes. the writers could have had the courage not to break the fourth wall, not to point and laugh and decry the silly memeable ‘get a load of this guy,’ block game, (and by extension ridicule themselves,) but I understand. it’s the same instinct to make the self-effacing joke before you can be laughed at by others for showing your honest self, to cringe from the vulnerability earnesty demands. that’s fine. personally- and I’m probably not alone- I just wish it wasn’t this game.

[nedlittle]

need the historical romance girlies to go back to their roots and read forever amber (1944)

[coolnonsenseworld]

A little promo with my little obsession on the side...........

Reminder all items are shipped from Poland - for details on shipping times check out FAQ or send me a private message!

 mmezzy.bigcartel.com

[inchidentally]

"short and easier to read" babe I am so sorry to you and everyone else for how my insane posts come out - it's why I link to so much stuff bc it is a struggleee for me to not write just run-on sentences ;__; but I do get what you mean and I promise I tried my best - it's def shorter than the og and in smaller bites if that helps ??

(I actually wrote this on someone else's laptop so it's got proper punctuation and capitalization and everything!)

For those who don’t know: Oscar is an acts of service guy Lando is a words of affirmation guy. Let’s remember that someone’s love language is how they choose to express themselves, not what they should demand of others!

Oscar is also very much not a PR guy, for anyone totally oblivious to the obvious (and that all his "greatest hits" in PR were done unintentionally or bc he's awkward or bc his mom is cooler than him). For example, Oscar brings up his girlfriend of 4-5 years a fair amount but it’s almost hilariously not gushy or romantic (having a “cuddle” is as far as it goes lasfgjlsagfl). But he’s said himself that for the most part he’d prefer not to have too much private life available to the public. *His downtime with Lando joins in with all his other social life in being extremely limited to the public. 

The “thanking the sponsors” thing is one of Oscar’s safe, approved speeches he pulled from Andrea so that Oscar doesn’t have to do spontaneous on-camera speaking. Sorry but not all of us are good at it and it’s wayyyy easier to just have some rehearsed pre-approved soundbites. He tends to have a few that he repeats for a while until he updates the list lsafjslafhlafh.

He also very openly struggles to do on-camera speaking and no one knows that better than Lando who’s had to help him a huge amount. 

It does seem to be mostly cameras that make him stressed bc he was fine thanking Lando for his help in Baku at the fan stage in Singapore and overall he can use more of his dry humor when he's speaking to people rather than just to a camera. 

Lando’s recent inclusion of Oscar in his media responses to this degree is a reaction to Hungary and Monza - normally, his post race responses focus on himself and his own performance (which is literally normal and the default for drivers!!). The recent emphasis on teamwork/Oscar is something he feels he needs to do with his own PR work right now. He’s a smart man who’s been doing this a long time, so his reasons are valid no matter what fans think. He’s not sitting there working out or analyzing Oscar’s PR, just his own. 

People are absolutely running away with themselves over Monza and ignoring that apart from that one moment, Oscar is widely popularly seen as the supportive teammate role. To the point where last year and even part of this year, Lando was criticized by a lot of fans for not acknowledging Oscar enough.

Going off of that, let’s show how easy it is to take PR and media to make one of them look bad by turning it around onto Lando (!! this is for an example, I do NOT endorse hating on Lando for any of it !!)

Lando openly disliked being referred to as the “older teammate” and kinda left Oscar to his own devices so much last season that Oscar wouldn’t know where he was going a lot of the time and even semi-joked “my teammate’s abandoned me” (again, reminder this was not a source of drama for anyone but fans). He got called a little duckling a lot bc he’d tail Lando closely so as not to lose him. In fact it started irking some people that Lando would spend so much time with Carlos or Daniel and not getting to know his new teammate and helping him out with his rookie season of F1 the way Carlos did for Lando.

In every team photo where Lando has had a podium and Oscar has had nothing (and sometimes due at least in part to team orders!) which is very often! the comments sections have always had plenty of ‘Oscar is such a great team player, always happy and showing up for Lando no matter what’. So the whole ‘Oscar doesn’t do enough for Lando’ narrative is extremely recent and at odds with the rest of reality.

Please read the very first part of my enormous full post bc Lando didn’t thank Oscar for his Miami win, he praised his driving.

Even though at Silverstone this year Lando got on the podium and Oscar didn’t, Oscar made the fan stage all about bringing Lando out of his disappointment and even said he did the shoey “to make us feel better” and then dedicated the top row of his IG that week to photos and videos of him and Lando. Special note that this is in no way Oscar’s home race and he was solely seeing it as emotional for Lando and McLaren - and he had zero reason to personally be very happy after that weekend.

I’ve seen Melbourne this year get mentioned in the team orders discussions on my fyps, so that’s a handy example in many ways: Despite Melbourne being Oscar’s literal hometown race - and Lando even filming some Quadrant stuff at Oscar’s childhood karting track where a corner is named after him* - this year Lando didn’t acknowledge Oscar really at all over the weekend until someone mentioned him at the end of the podium press conference. Lando acknowledged that Oscar following team orders made his (Lando’s) drive a bit easier in Melbourne this year but said that he was faster than Oscar and deserved third over him anyway. (Good contrast to Hungary and even Carlos stating that something an undercut due to pit strategy shouldn’t erase one teammate being faster/more dominant in a race in order to give the other teammate the win!) He did PR work with pretty much everyone except Oscar actually, even doing promo for his (Lando’s) dad’s electric scooters on the new dotmov acc. Kind of like him being on a similar PR campaign at Singapore this year because of a sneak preview of Quadrant rebranding and announcing the Landostand at Silverstone  - he went for the biggest PR hits and posted Daniel on his jpg account, did a golf day with Carlos and Max F and was more active on socials than he had been for months. All while only having Oscar in one photo out of the whole weekend’s carousel despite the McLaren double podium. You could even read into him cutting Oscar and Oscar’s trophy out of two of the shots if you wanted! (He did include Oscar in the big group photo after the podium celebrations.)

*I saw some ppl say he didn't include Oscar in the Melbourne karting filming bc McLaren doesn't cross over with Quadrant, which isn't true. Zak has shares in Quadrant and Bianca has been included in the Quadrant rebranding launch with Lando's Singapore helmet design.

See how easy that was to flip it around?? If you’re even slightly biased against a driver or never see flaws in another- or are dying for two teammates to hate each other - then confirmation bias will always find plenty of “evidence”! Because the reality is that after the Austin GP, Lando found his “older teammate” mode and began helping Oscar out with his rookie year. In Melbourne, Lando spent his first day filming for his .mov account including the Oscar jersey and merch he came across - and Oscar mentioned how he and Lando talked about Lando filming at his old track. (Again, not PR coordinated or filmed, just mentioned!) And that after the Singapore race this year, they beamed at each other every other second of that night, filmed a deliriously happy post race video and joked in the cool down room - I honestly doubt have even noticed yet what the other has posted to IG salfhsalfafa. All of the negativity fans are coming up with is their own personal spin and does not resemble how Lando and Oscar are behaving to or speaking about each other.

They base their relationship on their conversations and interactions solely away from the public and the cameras and don’t do any inflammatory commentary about each other. They bragged about the door in the team hub that separates their drivers rooms from everyone else and leaves them open only to each other. Their communications only matter to each other when in private.

Segueing on from that: media and social media are literally PR. Lando is extremely skilled at it now and Oscar is not at all naturally skilled and is still learning. Lando is quick to be able to adapt his media responses, Oscar is not and often sounds stilted and uncomfortable. But it still has nothing to do with how they think of each other and talk to each other personally.

And “Landoscar” has never had the typical PR bromance aspect that we all love in other teammates, and it never will. Lando and Oscar mention but don’t broadcast or package their downtime together and they don’t share their private dynamic with fans or the media apart from the glimpses we see in more relaxed content. It’s just their choice! And just like it doesn’t mean Lando and Oscar are less friends because they don’t PR their relationship, it doesn’t mean the friendships who do utilize PR are less friends! 

And tbh that’s a good note to leave on: that seeing two drivers with no PR to gain from openly liking and respecting each other should mean that we as fans place less importance on the PR responses they give to media and put on social media. So many people want them to hate each other (Netflix even begging them outright) and rivalries get far more headlines and fan engagement, that if these two didn’t like each other or even were blah about each other, they wouldn’t waste time trying to fake it (side note ppl actually thought this joke was deadly serious for a short while). F1 isn’t team sports, no one really cares if drivers or teams appear “friendly” unless they’re desperate for money/engagement to keep them afloat (even there, Alpine prove it clearly isn’t a priority to have friendly teammates when you’re lower down the grid!)

There is absolutely nothing to be gained for them in faking the smiles and laughter and twinning. Equally there’s nothing to be gained by us as fans in judging them and their relationship based on their PR responses and PR work. Lando beams and smiles the same at Oscar after all of Oscar’s awkward, stiff debrief speeches and I kind of want one of these crazy stans to say to him that Oscar is a bad team player and doesn’t show Lando enough appreciation just to watch what his adorable face does in response (don’t do that I’m joking).

[ecstarry]

do you perhaps have any Mexican James hc?

james keeps a list of all the places he wants reg to visit when they travel to mexico, he wants to show him all his favorite places but he also keeps a second list of all the places he hasn't gotten around to visit and wants to go for the first time with reg. so he has this entire tour that is like a month long and they take el tren chepe, he makes regulus go to a mezcaleria in oaxaca and is fucking impressed with how well reg can hold his liquor, even better than james himself !! they spend a few days at the hacienda that effie and monty live in, they go to vineyards in san miguel de allende and then spend a few day's at the potter's summer house in valle de bravo and they have the best fucking time

[sickficideas]

"You just threw up the water you had ten seconds after drinking it, but you're still gonna keep saying you're fine, huh?"

[fujimousee]

mugiwaras...

[lemonzestywrites]

seven sentence sunday

tagged by @eddiebabygirldiaz MWAH ty bestie adore you!!

i know zesty’s back to writing— CRAZY right? anyways here’s a little bucktommy fix-it fic cause if i’m being honest gang even as much as my multishipper heart loves buddie that breakup was fucking wack and if there’s anything i love doing, it’s ignoring canon when it suits me

anyways hope y’all enjoy :)

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“He wanted serious, and I—” Something violent. A grey and harsh shoots through his veins. A sicken feeling that Tommy hasn’t felt in so long. He almost forgot what it felt like. He swallows deeply, trying to shove the rash of emotion that threatens to crawl up his throat. He glances over, hoping his eyes don’t look as wet as they feel. “Lucy, no one wants serious. Not with me.”

“It sounds like Buck does,” she insists.

For a second, a fleeting moment, hope flickers in his heart. Dancing at the idea of something more. But the emotion only lasts for so long before it feels extinguished by something else— something greater.

It’s like a dog he can’t control, something rapid and full of hate. Tired of mistreatment, of being used for another purpose. It kicks back wildly at the thought, harsh memories shooting back through his mind so many times before.

Of promises pressed into intimate skin. Of someone else he used to know so damn well that left him like a stranger at a train stop. In another life maybe it worked out. But being used isn’t abnormal to Tommy. He’s better as an experience.

A fragment of time that was glorious and good. Like a meteor shower hung beautifully in the sky that you witness for the night while the moon sits overhead. The promise of something better.

Tommy redirects his eyes back into his locker, head down as he finishes buttoning up his suit, prominently ignoring the hung photo of him and Evan on a picnic date a few weeks back that Tommy hasn’t had the heart to take down yet.

“Sal didn’t.”

tagging - @hippolotamus @devirnis @aroeddiediaz @jeeyuns @shyaudacity

[pierrotwrites-hc]

sneak peak: part III chapter 2

The hatch above sliced the weak light like a cutting wire, casting a grid on the damp stone walls below. Connell watched through half-closed eyes as two water droplets slid down the wall toward a patch of light. He wasn’t betting on any droplet in particular; simply observing their progress.

Doran spoke, his voice raspy from dehydration. They weren’t quite thirsty enough to start licking the walls, but it was only a matter of time.

“Hey, Con,” he rasped. “What time d’you think it is?”

The first dozen times Doran had asked this question, Connell had tried to make out the hour by the subtle variation in the darkness. The next dozen times, he’d responded with sarcasm. Now he didn’t even bother to reply.

“I’d wager it’s lunchtime,” said Doran. “Hey, Con. What’ll you wager it’s lunchtime?”

“Doran, we’re in a pit. What do you expect me to wager, rat bones?”

There was a pause.

“I don’t think all of these bones belonged to rats,” said Doran.

Connell had been trying not to look too closely at the pitiful heap of bones against the far wall. Now it loomed hugely in the corner of his eye, a portent of a future he didn’t want to contemplate. He turned back to the water droplets, but they had already been absorbed into the stone.

“Hey, Con.”

When Connell didn’t reply, Doran kept repeating his name until he snapped.

“What?”

“D’you think Toby and Luca made it to Fleetside?”

There was a long silence. This time Doran didn’t try to break it.

The top of the pit opened with a scream of metal. Piercing sunlight streamed down. Connell and Doran scrambled to their feet, squinting up through watering eyes. Connell could just make out dark figures high above. He had the image of hunters looking into a trapping pit to see what they’d caught for dinner.

There was a muffled discussion, too far up for Connell's straining ears to hear. Then something was thrown down. A rope ladder. It unrolled as it fell before jerked to a stop a few feet above the damp ground.

“They can’t seriously expect us to climb up,” said Connell.

Doran was already testing the ladder’s bottom rung to see if it would hold his weight. He cast Connell a scornful look.

“What else are we going to do? Stay here and starve?”

He had a point. Still…

“What if they cut our heads off once we get to the top?”

“It’ll be a better death than that poor bugger got,” said Doran, nodding to the heap of bones.

That was all the convincing Connell needed. If he was going to die, he wanted to die on his feet, under the sky, with the gods as his witnesses. Not here in a hole like a rat.

Doran was already scaling the ladder. Connell took a steadying breath and pulled himself up after.

They emerged several long minutes later, sweating, panting, dizzy with hunger and vertigo. After so long spent in the dark of the pit, even the pale gray sun was blinding. Connell wiped his streaming eyes on his sleeve. The figures swam into focus—not Dogs of Guye but a dozen armed men who wore no uniform. Still, Connell could tell they were soldiers. It wasn’t just their weapons, but their air of casual menace and the readiness with which they held themselves.

Gods above and below, Connell was sick of soldiers. Nearly as sick as he was of waiting to die. He almost hoped this lot would just kill them and have done with it.

“You’re the freedmen they call Connell and Doran?”

The question was asked by a wiry, weathered, quick-eyed man in a dark orange greatcoat. He had no symbols of office on his breast, but it was clear from the way his fellows regarded him that he was the leader here.

Connell and Doran shared a speaking look. They had no friends in this place. Anyone who was looking for them by name meant them harm.

Their fear must’ve shown on their faces. The soldier held up his hands.

“We’re no enemies of yours, lads. Got you out of that pit, didn’t we? I’m to bring you to Robert Black. Orders from the man himself.”

“Why?” asked Doran, only remembering to add “Sir” when Connell elbowed him.

“Something to do with his boy,” said the soldier, shrugging. “Anyway, you ought to be thanking your lucky stars Black spared a thought for you, busy as he is. The Dogs meant to leave you down there. They were taking bets on how long you'd last.”

Connell and Doran shared another speaking look. This time it was horror that echoed between them like the sound of a scream too deep in the earth for any living soul to hear.

“How long were we down there, sir?” Doran asked.

“Two days,” the man replied. “And no wonder you’re jumpy as cats, you must be bloody starving.” He took some bread from the inside pocket of his greatcoat and tossed it to them. “Thought so,” he said, as they fell on their portions like wolves. “I’m Tyburn, by the way.”

The name was vaguely familiar. From Doran’s reaction, he knew it.

As they followed the man—away from the pit, thank all the gods; Connell would be glad to have no more dealings with pits for as long as he lived—Doran leaned in and hissed, “Willy Tyburn, Con! He’s the Terror of King’s Road! His gang held up Lord Ambrose’s carriage, remember? The Duke wouldn’t leave the grounds for months without an armed guard.”

As usual, Doran had spoken louder than he intended. Tyburn cast an amused look over his shoulder.

“Belonged to the Duke of Chesten, did you?”

Connell and Doran exchanged guilty looks.

“Yes, sir,” said Connell. He turned his forearm to show the Duke’s mark branded there. He was so blanched from the cold that four-ringed annulet stood out like a blood-blister.

“We aren’t runaways, sir,” said Doran quickly. “The Dogs freed us.”

“I’m in the business of taking collars off slaves, lad, not putting ’em back on,” said Tyburn. “Whether in the Dogs’ camp or ours, you’re free men.”

Doran didn’t try to hide his relief. Seeing it, Connell had to tamp down a searing flash of anger. After everything Doran had put them through—after what had been done to them, to Toby, to Luca—even now, after all of it, the only thing he cared about was his precious fucking freedom.

Toby and Luca. Could they have run into Robert Black on the way to Fleetside? Luca had been a spy, after all, however difficult it was for Connell to get his head around; he and Black were on the same side. And they’d known each other in Lyonesse, hadn’t they? That brute Arkwright had said as much. Black had been one of Luca’s clients when he was still posing as a lord. But maybe that, too, had been a ruse, a cover for their meetings. Maybe Black and Luca were better acquainted than anyone knew.  

The same thoughts were going through Doran’s head. In a voice too low for Tyburn to hear, he whispered, “Something to do with his boy. You don’t think…?”

Connell didn’t know what to think. But he hoped. He hoped more fiercely than he’d let himself hope for anything in a very long time.

They passed through the vast gates and emerged onto the moor. When Connell was here last, it had been an expanse of damp mist drifting over earth so barren even the snow seemed to wither as it fell. Overnight, a city had sprung up. It was a city of tents, thousands on thousands, vanishing into the far distance. Within those tents and bustling between them were twice, no, three times as many men—soldiers, Connell supposed, though few wore anything like a uniform, and some of those uniforms were in Ademar’s colors. At least half looked more like Midland peasants than battle-hardened rebels.

“Con, look!”

Connell followed Doran’s pointing finger to a group of men distinct not only for their richly-colored skin but their military bearing. These must be the Enkaaran mercenaries he’d heard about. They were certainly easier to imagine in battle than the peasants. Still, in their pale uniforms against the backdrop of gray tents and grayer sky, they looked lost, even a little forlorn, like a flock of birds blown off-course in a storm.

“Poor buggers came all the way to Castle Guye just to camp on the bloody doorstep,” said Tyburn, shaking his head. “That’s Northern hospitality for you.”

He brought Connell and Doran to a tent that would have been indistinguishable from any of the others except for its size and the sense that, somehow, the rest of the camp had been built around it. A line of people queued outside, all with that air of self-possession particular to freeborn men. They reacted with varying degrees of indignation as Tyburn pushed Connell and Doran past them and into the tent.

Judging from the bustle of activity within, they’d just entered the center of operations. These soldiers were clearly among the more seasoned. Connell even spotted a few faces he recognized from Redditch. Others were familiar from the wanted posters he’d seen in Lyonesse and along the King’s Road.

And at the center of it all was Robert Black.

He would’ve stood out even if he hadn’t been half a head taller than everyone but the barbarian who loomed at his right side. There was the red hair, of course, unnervingly similar to the color of dried blood, and the eyes that stared out of deep hollows, as hard and bright and calculating as a carrion bird’s. Connell had seen drawings of Black’s face on wanted posters—bad drawings, he’d thought at the time, but seeing their subject now, there was some truth to the depictions. He might not have the cartoonish menace of the posters, but Robert Black was the most dangerous-looking man Connell had ever seen.

Robert looked up and saw them. It was like being pinned under a glacier.

“That will be all,” he said.

He didn’t even need to raise his voice. In a moment the tent was empty. Even Tyburn melted away. The only one who stayed was the barbarian. Black’s bodyguard, Connell assumed. His was not a comforting presence.

Robert Black came around the desk and leaned against it. There was a silence; Connell measured its length in heartbeats. When at last Robert spoke, his voice was chillingly devoid of feeling.

“So you’re the so-called friends who abducted Luca.”

[morskisir]

HEAVY TF2 TUMMY ‼️‼️‼️

here's mister TF2 himself enjoying a good book