#silver cloud iii

[swpics]

There was more than one Rolls Royce at the June Heart of England Retro and Classic Vehicle show. See the other in the August issue of Classic and Competition Car magazine. Free to read at www.classcompcar.com

[mopsburgfalls]

[belovedbluv]

Marvin Gaye’s Car Collection.

1: Driving with Janis Hunter on Sunset Boulevard, 1975 in a Rolls Royce Silver Cloud III Continental Drophead Coupe (1963-65), by Mitchell Walker Jr

2: Customized 1971 Cadillac Eldorado

3: Excalibur, 1965

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

1963 RollsRoyce Silver Cloud III Drophead Coupe by Mulliner

The Cloud III was the last production Rolls-Royce to employ a separate coachbuilt chassis, which means that this was generally the last car on which custom coachwork could be ordered.

[untouchvbles]

Rolls Royce Silver Shadow II at Cassandra's Motorsports Open House (2023) in Pewaukee, WI.

[shiny-jr]

damnation (peek VII?)

Warning: Yes, this is a yandere thing. Gender-neutral reader.

Characters: Sebek Zigvolt, Silver, Lilia Vanrouge, Malleus Draconia.

Summary: When you commit a crime, you receive a punishment. This is especially true in your society. No matter the crime, your punishment is the same: banishment. But to where you will be sent in exile and how miserable will it be? No one knows, because no one has ever returned.

Note: This is for y'all that supported me throughout the latest situation. NEVER EVER let it be said that I don't cherish my readers. Remember, this is NOT the full damnation Diasomnia chapter, just a fourth of it. A peek. Keep that in mind. Things are subject to change or rewrite. May not be completed in time for the milestone, but I wanted to give y'all this anyways. I sincerely hope you enjoy this slice.

I . . . II . . . III . . . IV . . . V . . . VI . . . VII

THE MASTER OF ALL EVIL

A mask. There was a mask of cold black metal settled on the upper half of your face. It was cold, smooth against your cheeks. This was new. It wasn’t some sort of blindfold, as you could see perfectly and last you heard, they never blinded their prisoners. Concealing an evil-doer’s vision during their banishment was considered a small mercy, something they wouldn’t do, and the judges wanted each sinner to see the fate that awaited them. 

A supposedly horrid fate, but what sort of cruel end required you to wear a plate of armor and a warm cloak? Over your chest, your hand traced the curves and swirls on a metallic chest plate, reaching the black fabric over your shoulders and extending down your back. Removing the mask over your face and turning it in your hands to examine it, the empty eye holes of a feathered fiend stared back at you. The accessory resembled a bird, dark feathers carefully forged into the mask as the end curved into a sharpened beak. It was slightly unsettling, somewhat resembling the type of mask a plague doctor would don during the middle ages in times of peril. 

On the ground, just past the mask you were staring down at, were shreds of paper which caught your attention. It looked as if something or someone had torn a sheet to shreds and disregarded them in the middle of this dark and dreary hallway. Upon kneeling down to pick up a few pieces, your eyebrows furrowed as you attempted to piece them back together like a puzzle. 

Piece after piece, you managed to somewhat make out the painted image despite the face of a crowned figure being burnt black beyond recognition, but the rest of the image could somewhat be salvaged at least enough to draw a conclusion. A taller faceless crowned figure in garbs, beside a queen, holding a bundled baby in their arms that had been torn straight through. Below, on the aged paper was written text reading: Announcing the birth of the princess. A holiday is to be proclaimed throughout the entire kingdom in honor of the princess. 

Why did this all seem so awfully familiar? 

Slowly standing, you jumped upon hearing the rumbling start of thunder. Outside, past the window, dark storm clouds gathered in a hurry above a dense forest and towering wall of thorns. Thorns! Thorns so tall that even from afar, they looked as big as a house! 

“Oh… my god.” You whisper in slight horror. 

The royal family and birth of a princess, a deep dark forest, a deadly wall of thorns–– these were all part of a story. These were points of a fictional story, and yet you were here. Here, somewhere, in a corridor where the walls were dark stone bricks and a long carpet ran along the floor. How did you play into this? The bird-like mask still in your hands and staring back at you, appeared to answer that. The only bird in the story was a black-feathered one, which served as the villain’s little pet.

This couldn’t be real, could it? Why was this your punishment, of all things? How did the story go again? 

A king and queen had a child, a princess, whose birth was celebrated throughout the entire kingdom. A glittering assemblage of folk from all walks of life, foreign and local, rich and poor, from royalty, nobility, gentry, and even the rabble, were invited to pay homage and revel in the festivities. However, the procession was disrupted by the arrival of an uninvited guest, the Mistress of All Evil, a malevolent fairy, which brought a curse upon the infant princess. A curse which promised death upon the princess. The princess goes into hiding with three good fairies for years, until the curse can pass, but eventually the malevolent fairy does capture both the princess and her betrothed prince. The princess falls into a death-like sleep, and the prince escapes to rescue her. In the process, the antagonist’s avian companion is turned to stone while the malevolent fairy turns into a dragon to face off against the hero in a grand battle, only to be defeated by a holy sword through the heart! 

It caused you to freeze, gulping as you imagined such an end. Stone… You were to be turned to stone! Would that mean instant death, or were to become a prisoner forced to be still and silent until the very end of time or at least until your stone body crumbled to dust? 

A pair of wooden doors flew open, the sudden sound as it slammed against the wall caused you to scream. That, and the appearance of an odd stranger in armor, was enough to make you believe that your end was now and sooner than expected. 

“YOU!” His booming voice nearly ruptured your eardrums as he pointed an accusatory finger. Directing a rather sharp nail, almost as equally sharp as his two front canine teeth which you caught sight of but sharper was the sword sheathed at his hip.

“Me???” You looked at the intimidating stranger, baffled and uneasy. 

The man clad in armor was certainly not a shining knight of goodness or a pure princess blessed by fairies. It became apparent by his pointed nails, sharp teeth, and unnaturally thin pupils that he wasn’t human. What sort of human had slicked back natural mint green hair? 

“Yes, you!! Do not be so dense, human! Who else do you see in this hall?” He stomped up to you, frowning deeply, almost snarling. As he got closer, you realized he was very tall and built like a soldier. At his hip, opposite to his blade, was a mask of dark metal, resembling yours. However, his mask was crafted to resemble a crocodile. “Do not think yourself superior for even a second! You are only valued for the intel you can provide, nothing more, nothing less. Here you are, milling about uselessly while the rest of us search tirelessly for the girl! I shouldn’t have expected anything less from a mortal!” 

Squinting a bit at him, it took a solid second for all those words he spoke to be processed in your mind. Another round of thunder rumbled outside, sounding closer than before. “But… I am stupid?” You smiled a bit awkwardly, watching how the stranger’s face fell with each following word. “Sorry, who are you? I think you have the––” He has the wrong person. Before you could complete that thought, thunder seemed to shake the very walls as its booming clap reverberated throughout the air. 

It was loud, loud enough to startle both yourself and the uncouth bright-eyed one. 

“Have you no decency? You cannot even recall your colleague’s name! It’s Sebek! Sebek! We spoke months ago before departing for the most recent search!” He replied, frustrated that you didn’t remember his name, despite not even meeting before. Was he mistaking you for someone? It’s as if you had been thrust into some sort of role, maybe that’s why he didn’t take you for an intruder. 

“Okay, okay, Sebek. Got it. You don’t need to say it a third time. Please, spare my poor ears.” Raising an eyebrow, you nearly flinched every time he spoke. It’s like he had a megaphone built into his voice box, because he talked in what sounded like shouts. “Also, why are you yelling? I can hear you perfectly fine, you don’t have to be so loud.” 

“Why am I…?” The weirdo, apparently called Sebek, parroted in disbelief as he ran a hand through his mint green hair. His fingers gripping his head, fingers tangled through his own locks. “Why are you still here?! General Vanrouge has requested I look for you because you were absent for an assembly called by the Master! Deliberately missing special councils called by him is deplorable on every level!” Reaching forward, he suddenly caught your arm in an iron grip as he practically dragged you through a maze of corridors until they approached the source of a commotion. 

Better to allow this Sebek character to escort you than refusing and risking him having an aneurysm, you figured. Something in your gut told you to go with it, and don’t immediately bring up the fact that you weren’t who they thought you were, especially now that you had arrived in a room chock full of armed soldiers dressed in a manner similar to Sebek. 

However, all these people had two striking features, slitted pupils and pointed ears. Pointed ears. Definitely not human. Yes, you were stupid, but not stupid enough to expose yourself when you were outnumbered a hundred-to-one. 

“What’s all this––?”

Before you could completely round the corner, you nearly fell back into Sebek as a cloaked figure appeared out of the shadows. They hung from the ceiling, their face in front of yours. A terrifying individual, with thin locks of pitch black and blood red, and a face of a terrifying gnarling beast. “Boo!” 

Wide-eyed, you stared at the figure as you leaned back into Sebek’s arms who didn’t seem as surprised as you. Was this a companion of his? The matching cloak, the similar armor, and… that face of the hanging stranger was metal. A mask. A mask that looked like some horrifying monstrous bat.

Placing a hand on your heart, you closed your eyes and fell back dramatically, playing the part. Your legs went limp, the only thing preventing your form from hitting the cold hard floor was the pair of strong arms holding you up from behind. 

A snicker was the only applause for your small performance, as Sebek jostled you from your act. For some particular reason, Sebek was impatient as he forced you to your feet, but he didn’t dare raise his voice at this surprisingly short figure that somehow floated down from the ceiling like a feather drifting to the ground. 

“This is an entirely serious matter! Lilia–– General, please.” Sebek pleaded, keeping you stuck in place by gripping your shoulders to keep you facing the General. What did Sebek call him earlier? Vanrouge? This was him? 

This Vanrouge character was on the petite side, he hardly looked like a general with his undersized stature and thin limbs. Yet his armor fit him just fine, and on his belt was a great big cleaver that sparkled like jade. Definitely not about to cross him when he had that on his person. 

Cleaver aside, it was really difficult to fear him when he removed his terrifying mask. While yes, his features were far less human than Sebek’s, he was somewhat adorable. When he laughed, you noticed small sharpened fangs while his big crimson red eyes and slitted pupils shined with mirth. Even one of his pale pointed ears appeared to twitch. “I know, I know, but can’t I enjoy one moment of laughter before everything goes to rack and ruin?” 

There was no need to even ask what exactly he meant by that, because again, there was that thundering rumble that shook the very palace walls. It sounded even closer this time, like it was in just the next room over! 

Vanrouge, or rather, Lilia, appeared a bit anxious, jittery as he brushed off his nerves with a quieter laugh. His own hands had gripped your shoulders as Sebek took a step back. “See, this is why you are one of my favorite humans! Mortals are so easygoing and you get my humor.” 

“Thank you? And you’re my favorite…” You paused. What even was he? What were they? In some renditions, there were fairies, but sometimes the creature that was the malevolent fairy and her goons were left a mystery. In one story the malevolent fairy had an army of creatures with animalistic features. Is that what they were supposed to be? It would explain the masks. What if you were wrong? “You’re my favorite little guy.” 

Sebek looked down at you incredulously as if you had insulted his own mother, and you realized far too late that you had quite literally called a General a little guy. However, instead of bringing his cleaver down upon you and splitting you in half or destroying you with some type of wild fantastical twinkly fairy magic, this General only giggled. He giggled, which made you grin like a fool. You had done something right, apparently! 

Deciding against saying the first thought that came to mind, Sebek instead blurted out, “This is the only human you actually talk to! They are the only one among us fae!” 

So that’s what they were. Fae. “Details, details. It still counts.” Lilia dismissed, leading you closer to the very end of the hall where it opened up to a space with more soldiers like him and Sebek. Faes. In a huge spacious room, gathered, listing reports on the results of their scouting missions. Missions likely with the goal of finding the princess. Once there, he placed an arm around your shoulder. Here, his voice was quieter to avoid being heard by the masses. “Come, we know the Master will be in need of some good news right about now, whether you can deliver it or fetch it. It will quell his… irritability. And it may take a human to catch a human. We cannot fully comprehend how your minds work, but perhaps you can understand a fellow mortal’s and finally make this search a success. Go now, courier.” 

Lilia had pushed you out in the open just as the last of the soldiers were wrapping up their report of failed searches. Your dark garbs and metal crow mask had allowed you to blend right in, but it felt like you were a rabbit in a den of ravenous wolves. No one stared at you, because they were far too transfixed on a towering figure not too far from where the General had pushed you. 

As soon as the figure entered your line of vision, you too became just as transfixed as everyone else. Master. This was their master, which could only be the malevolent fairy, fae, in this case. It should have never been possible for someone to have both the facets of a devil but the magnificence of an angel, but he did. Horns as black as night curved atop his head and inky black scales bordered the bases, making it look like a crown while shadows appeared to blend into his robes like fabric weaved of pure darkness devoid of any light. The only light that escaped him came from his eyes, like the common slitted pupils in this crowd yet his eyes glowed an enchanting green like no other. 

It was like a moth to a flame, destined to burn, but you found yourself drawing near behind his dark throne anyways. 

“It’s inconceivable!” He hissed, loud enough so that the entirety of the gathered could hear his voice echo in the space around them. The thunder outside seemed to crack with his every word. The fae, his loyal denizens, shirked back instinctively yet they continued to awe at the malevolent one. “Twenty years, and not a trace of the princess. How is it that this one human, a mortal, has miraculously escaped the vigilant watchful eyes of every one of my most diligent knights and soldiers who have searched all but endlessly, high and low, for two decades? Hm?” 

You kept glued to the wall, the uneven bricks against your back as you attempted to make yourself as small as possible. What were you supposed to do? What could a mortal do against him, the same fae that has the ability to transform into a dragon of immeasurable strength? This fae was the one who would eventually drag you down with him. 

“Humans are numerous, and they are a tricky sort, Your Majesty.” Lilia appeared at the forefront of the throng. Despite the obvious vexation of the horned-one, he continued merrily with an encouraging smile, despite the apprehension of his armored colleagues. “We can’t exactly venture into towns too long without the risk of being discovered or the presence of that pesky iron weakening us. But we make do, and during nights we’ve checked every strip of land from the moors’ borders, to the villages and towns, even the highest mountains. Haven’t we, boys?” 

A murmur of agreement washed over the crowd. For twenty years they had tirelessly searched, and they had no princess to show for their efforts. It wasn’t that the princess disappeared into thin air, this much you could remember. There was a reason they couldn’t find the princess as she dwelled in a cottage deep within the woods with her caretakers, the three good fairies, acting as poor mortal women. What was that reason again…? 

One hand shot up from the crowd, a voice louder than the rest, the familiar voice of Sebek. “Yes, Master Malleus we did! And we will gladly continue our search, comb through every region once more, and check every cradle again all for you to extract your revenge upon the despicable humans and their wicked king!” 

“Cradles…?” The dark fae, apparently named Malleus, directed his widening eyes towards them. His grip tightened on his long twisted wooden staff. You were given the answer as to why they never found the princess within the first years. The faes had forgotten that mortals aged, so the princess they were looking for was no longer a baby in a cradle. 

“Oh no.” Sensing the impending danger, you took cover behind the throne. From behind the throne you peeked out, using the royal seat as a shield. When the towering fae’s green-eyed gaze landed on you by a glance, you stilled like a frozen statue. The hair on the back of your neck raised as your gaze met his. Seeing his eyes become temporarily focused on you, feeling his unholy presence, sensing the incoming disaster he would wrought–– everything about this man, if he even was a man, made alarm bells ring on your head. 

Suddenly, a smile graced his features. It was the sort that masked his frustration simmering beneath the surface. He was close, close enough to reach a hand forward slowly so his fingertips grazed the underside of your chin. Lips curled upward into a menacing grin, but it wasn’t the crazed sort. He was scarily calm as he peered down at you. “Did you hear that, my courier?” 

There were over a hundred pairs of eyes on you at the moment. Watching intently as you leaned back a bit, a chill traveling up your spine as his sharp black nails traced your flesh. You’re sure you were beaming like a simpleton, whether out of instinct or out of some sort of response to your current nerves. Certainly this was how the sailors felt in times of old when confronted by enchanting sirens that lured them to certain doom in watery graves. What were the don’ts regarding fairies and faes of myths? Don’t give your name, don’t lie, and don’t enter the obvious fae traps designed to ensnare curious humans. This must’ve been some sort of fae trap, it had to when he had a face like that. 

Was Malleus addressing you directly because you were the only human in the room? “Yes… Loud and clear.” One corner of your mouth twitched into an awkward smile in return, but you found yourself unable to remove your eyes from his. A brief and quiet chuckle left your lips, “It’s… kinda funny.” 

“Isn’t it?” When he removed his fingers from your chin, you nearly tumbled forward, but you managed to successfully catch yourself before you could crash into him. The fae turned around, beginning to chuckle in his deep voice, a sound which echoed in the tense silence of the packed throne room. “For all these years I have been waiting, and they have been looking for a baby.” 

The General, Lilia, was perhaps the first to realize something was amiss when the Master of All Evil began to laugh. Vanrouge seemed like the type to enjoy a laugh, but this wasn’t just a moment to crow about their recent failings. A moment of clarity dawned on him while his colleagues unsurely joined in on the commotion. Your gaze met his and you frantically shook your head as Sebek rapidly clasped his hands over his mouth in shock and regret upon realizing their mistake and his blunder. You tried to signal them to flee while you yourself retreated further back behind the throne for cover. 

It was just in the nick of time too, as the air began to fizzle with static electricity, growing with every passing second as his laugh became less humorous and more diabolical. There was the same lightning from before but instead of being outside, it sounded as if it was inside these very walls. Crashing and striking every second, one, two, three, four, five, shaking the castle. You felt your eardrums vibrate as you continued to brace yourself behind the throne until it stopped. This was your first true taste of utter terror and helplessness. 

Here you were for a reason, to die, either by stone or before, whether it be by the clubs of the fae soldiers, at the sharp end of a holy sword, or between the maws of the Master of All Evil. It felt like an eternity, but it was likely under a minute, when the destruction ended. Trembling slightly, you peeked out to survey the damage. 

It was a harsh reminder of your current plight. There were no bodies laying motionless, as everyone either had the means to defend themselves or Malleus simply wasn’t aiming for any of them in his burst of anger. The throne room had been largely evacuated thanks to General Lilia and Sebek. Only shields and the occasional weapon were left behind in the hurry to avoid being struck by his wrath, dark spots were ingrained where the lightning struck the ground, a few stones tumbled loose from any walls that were hit as collateral damage. 

If you somehow survived this, it would be no less than a miracle.

[pomefioredove]

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ ad perpetuam memoriam III

I II III IV

summary: taking on problem with only the help of a mysterious penpal and an unlikely savior type of post: series includes: riddle, jack, ruggie, silver, sebek, ??? additional info: platonic, reader is gender neutral, reader is not yuu, this is all AU, not making predictions for how twst will end, a blood, vomit, tears, and other fun things like that, NOT EDITING THIS AGAIN IT'S BEEN HOURS

Dearest Reader,

I understand that today, the first of October, makes one month of tenure at Night Raven College.

I apologize, for I cannot think of any words of comfort.

I am pleased to hear that my study recommendations have kept your mind and hands at peace with one another.

And to answer your request as per your last letter, I am afraid I can't give you my name. Call me whatever would please you.

Yours truly.

The absence of a name and address on each envelope should trouble you, shouldn't it?

Your pestilent stay at Night Raven College has been plagued by names without form or face, words that weigh like stones in your stomach. Conversations with boys whose eyes hide when you speak, wanting for something, someone else.

You suppose this is different. This is a boy without a name, not a name without a boy.

Its words are his face, his delicate features the trembling of the quill, his body the paper, soft and pale, his clothes the envelope, which eternally smell of smoke.

These letters, cold and unalive, are your friends.

You're not as sure about their writer, though.

From what he'll tell, and from what he'll not, those lingering breaths between each word, the blank space beneath each line, which you must read, you know little things.

You know he pities you.

You know he knew the person that came before you.

But not well.

You know that two terrible things have happened to him.

You know that he wants to help.

And you'll catch yourself, in moments of pity and melancholy and cold, sweaty silence, with these letters held tight to your chest, as if they really were a person.

As if they really could help you.

You don't have a name for the boy, but you write to the post-box that makes the bottom line of each letter nonetheless. A paper person is still more of a person than you.

In this world, at least.

In his last letter, the one you had just read, he told you to give him a name. It's only a word, but what are words here if not weapons of a warring past? Giving a name is a holy act of sovereignty. This stranger has handed you his weapon.

You wield it awkwardly and call him "Smokey".

Your mind is still clouded from last month's fever.

"I don't get it,"

Silver lowers his sword. Sebek, leaning against the stables, scoffs.

"It's simple," Housewarden Vanrouge says, pushing his silver locks out of his eyes. How many times has he done that? He's nervous.

"Hands on the hilt. Remember, strength in your shoulders. Swing with your torso, and the sword will follow."

Sebek scoffs once more. "If they hurt themselves, I will NOT carry them to the infirmary!"

Lies. He would.

How strange, that you can make such assumptions about strangers, and with presence of mind. Have you tricked yourself into thinking you know them?

"That's fine. I will," Silver says, ignoring Sebek's schemes for attention. "And Riddle is here. If anything happens, he'll tend to them."

Riddle's eyes come from around his horse, narrowed and dark. He points his brush at you, accusing you of some crime you didn't commit. "Yes, but I would not like to have to tend to anyone, so be careful, would you?"

Sebek smiles triumphantly, and Silver rolls his eyes.

"Steady. Find your balance," the Housewarden mutters. The hilt of Sebek's sword slips from your hands. They're sweaty.

"Oops," you say, not all that sorry. Your shoulders ache and your arms are trembling from the weight of the sword.

"They tire!" Sebek shouts. "May I have my sword-"

You hand him the hilt with no further interrogation. Silver's shoulders slump. "Maybe next week,"

But you're already thinking up enough excuses to get you out of a year's worth of Equestrian Club meetings.

At least you got out. Sebek and Silver squabble about the sword, and Riddle brushes his horse, seemingly busy mastering the art of not listening to them.

It's a good day. The sky is blue, the wind smells sweet, the earth is soft and inviting. You could fall asleep here, if not for the nearby bickering.

At least you got out.

"I should go," you announce, both to yourself, and to your friends, the strangers.

Silver's eyes widen and his voice warms. He always speaks softly when it's to you. "Are you certain? We-"

"I'm going to see... uh... the Headmage. For a thing,"

Sebek and Silver share a look of antipathy, but neither say anything against you. You suppose they don't quite know how to speak to you- you, not a friend, not an enemy, not a dormmate, not a guest, but a ghost, something revered and respected, but that couldn't be touched, that couldn't be befriended, that couldn't be spoken to as if it were a person, like them, but a specter, a space between the walls, there but unseen and unfelt.

"...If you must. Take care,"

You weren't going to see the Headmage. Obviously.

He sought you more than you sought him, and only to yield the letters you'd come to welcome like warmth in the cold of winter. Crowley had committed himself to the daily ritual of delivering your mail, something that he had described as "an honor".

...For you, of course, not him; not just any student has the Headmage himself hand them their morning mail.

You know he's suspicious, and that's why he's been insistent on holding the letters before they're in your eager hands. They're undisturbed, unopened, though, confirming that Crowley doesn't read them. Good, you think. You don't want him to know what you've been saying about his college.

Your college, you figure. Though that still feels unfamiliar, unnatural, nothing in this world could ever really be "yours", could it?

You aimlessly wander the atriums of the castle, hand lost in the cavernous pocket of your uniform, the welcoming warmth of the last letter against your skin. It had been bent by your sword-swinging, crinkled, the ink smudged against the sweat and salt of your fingers.

Pity. You haven't thought of what to write in return, yet.

SMACK!

Your hand soars to your nose, you stumble and spin and eventually hit the wall behind you, bloody and startled.

"Oh, crap!"

You would have thought that your own body had become sentient and started talking, if a warm cloth hadn't suddenly taken your hand's place. "It's not broken, is it?"

You sound stuffy. "...No," How should you know?

This boy sighs, relieved, but not reprieved of punishment. He tugs off his tie, which is what he'd been holding to your nose to take on the trickle of blood that'd come from the collision with his head. "Here, I don't got a handkerchief on me,"

That's a first, you think. "Fanks,"

"Don't worry 'bout it," he says. It must be bad, if someone's being this nice to you.

The boy, blond and scrawny, digs something out of the deep pockets of his uniform and puts it in your hand. It's a crumpled wad of paper. "Uh... here, sorry again, but I gotta run."

Weird. But nice.

Maybe getting smacked was just what you needed.

You smooth out the crumpled papers on your dorm desk. The bleeding had long since ended, leaving you with a stranger's tie and six or seven emulsified, mulchy coupons for doughnuts.

Expiration: a month from now. You'll have plenty of time to appease your appetite, if you ever find it.

Fried foods would do awful things to your stomach today.

Knock, knock. Two soft raps on the door. It's Silver. "Hello?"

"Good evening," he says, his voice muffled through the thick oak. "...Are you feeling better?"

He doesn't know what else to say. Silver, and Sebek, and the others, are pressed by some imaginary commitment, a duty that tiptoes around you, silent and soft but not tender, but not honest.

You are, too.

"...I'm fine," you lie, scooping the coupons into a desk drawer and slamming it shut.

Silver says nothing. Has he left?

"...Did you need something?"

"Oh, yes," apparently not. "Jack Howl would like to speak with you."

Jack Howl? The name feels unfamiliar, even though you know who he is. "Why?"

"...I don't know," Liar. He only knows you won't like it.

You stand, anyway, pushing yourself to open the door and join Silver in the hall. He's holding something in his pocket, his hand tightly curled around it, quivering in the cloth.

"You okay?" you question, following him to the foyer- the lounge, that's what they call it.

"I'm fine," he says, and that's the end of that.

Jack Howl is waiting in the doorway, either too well-mannered or too wary to come inside Diasomnia dorm. You almost try to smile, but you can't seem to move any muscle above your neck.

"Thanks for comin' on such short notice," he says, "I-I didn't wanna have to burden you with this, but somethin's happened and no one can find the Headmage."

"Crowley?" you ask, giving him an odd look. "You can't find Crowley?"

He begins walking, obviously not wanting to waste any time standing in the door (or he just feels uncomfortable with the intense stare Silver's been giving him). You walk beside him.

"It's not that weird. It's a big campus," he mutters. "Could be working or 'somethin."

For some reason, you find that hard to believe. Crowley isn't difficult to find- if anything, he hasn't left you to yourself in weeks. You're sure if you rounded a corner he'd be standing there, perfectly happy to hand you another letter and exchange pleasantries.

"No one can find the Headmage" Psh.

"Why me, then?"

"Well, you, uh..." Jack trails off. "You spend a lot of time with him."

You give him another look, and he bites his tongue, tucks his tail between his legs, and turns away.

"What's the problem?" you try for a better answer than last.

"We, uh... um... housewarden situation,"

That's even worse than the assumption that you'll know how to handle a Headmage-level problem because you "spend a lot of time with him". You suddenly feel quite uneasy about leaving the mirror chamber, empty and quiet by this time of evening.

But, you're already here. And it wouldn't be good form to flee back to your bed and hide under your blankets.

You're not sure if Silver will let you get away with any more of that.

Savanaclaw, a place which you had heard the name of, which you had seen the striped band of, but had never beheld the body of, is as unsurprisingly surprising as anything else at this peculiar school: it's big, it's foreboding, it smells of blood, sweat, and sand.

You can hear the distant beat of barks and broken glass, the thud of bodies hitting the broad walls, shouts and cries that go beyond dorm bickering. You give Jack a look, this one worried, and unapologetically so; you think you deserve to be wary, this time.

"Don't worry," he says. "I just need you to talk to them."

You suddenly forget how to walk, your feet falling silent and sinking into the soft sand.

"Talk to them?" you repeat.

Jack's eyes widen. "Uh, yeah. I thought... maybe you might be able to... get through to them or something. I haven't been able to..."

"Me?" you say. "I can't do that."

"Why not?"

Why not? Why would you? Why would anyone listen to you? They won't even talk to you. They won't even look at you- their stares and stolen glances are hollow- they only see their own reflections in the whites of your eyes. You're nothing more than a piece of glass, broken from a beer bottle or a battered lightbulb, something worthless, tossed to the sea without a thought, without a moment of bothersome musing or emotion, to sink to the bottom, and to be smothered by the water. You weren't the waves that crashed at the walls of Savanaclaw; you weren't the tide that had brought you to them; you weren't even the careless creature that had tossed you here, whoever or whatever that may be, without a second of consideration. You weren't the storm above the sea, the one you could not see nor hear, but could sense in the trepid respite of the water.

You had nothing to give, and, then, by process of thought, you deserved nothing to take. You were nothing, and you would die this way. And here- perhaps not your body, but your spirit, your will, the thing that made you walk and talk and come with a stranger to solve a dorm problem past dark.

And all you had was that thing. All you had was yourself; if you lost that, if you became soft, if you forgot what it was like to have jagged edges and ugly curves, what made your feet stuck in the sand, what made your heart beat, if you became like the one who was here before you, weak and witless and pitiful and worshipped by their friends, the classmates who thought you could be Them- the soft, smooth, soulless thing that came from the parting sea and put itself on a shelf to be loved- then what would you have? Nothing. Not a thing but your body and the meat in it, a supermarket bargain, a deal, four for five donuts at participating locations.

The thought was as terrifying as the thought of being bitterly hated- and it all became very obvious, then, that Jack had asked for you because he wanted you to throw yourself into the sea, into the frozen aisle at the supermarket, and be beaten and battered by the waves, and to be bought and cut up into pieces one could swallow without chewing because it would make you smooth and small and easy to love.

It would prove to everyone that you deserved to be here- because you were worthy, and honorable, and selfless, and Good, and a someone like Them, something that could be loved. You could be made beautiful, like sea glass. And you had come because you wanted that, too. Didn't you? You want to be Them. You want to be loved like a child is, tucked in at night and protected from all the pain in the world. You wanted to be a dearly deceased, beloved and remembered.

Who are you? What are you? And what are you becoming?

You had been mirroring your classmates recently; their mannerisms, their movements, the way in which their mouths opened and closed as they wanted for words to say, yes. But you had been mirroring Them, too, this Someone, this smile, this unspoken name in the dark, because it was demanded of you. Because you wanted to be them, perhaps. Or because you wanted to be something- anything at all. A corpse is still a corpse, a thing you can touch, a thing you can dress and kiss, even without a soul or a light in its eyes.

It was easy to say that no one cared for you; that it was obligation, or bitter resentment, or both. But had stopped caring about yourself, too, some time ago, to be here; to be desperately trying to fill this role, to fit in these clothes, to find the eyes and hands of these people who were repulsed by the thought of seeing and touching you. You were begging for absolution, you were punishing yourself in penance for a sin that was never by your own hand; for weeks, you had been telling yourself that you were useless, unneeded, but that wasn't quite right. You were needed. You were simply unwanted, and that was all.

An unforgivable thing.

You shake yourself, and hunch your shoulders, and put your hands over your ears to silence the shouts of the students and the sound of your name, empty and meaningless, as you ran back to the mirror.

Somewhere between the mirror chamber and mail room, you remember yourself.

That is, your body, your presence, your place in the world and your proximity between each wall. You remember that you're a person, not glass, not meat, not a ghost, and not Them, and you feel your feet stumbling over one another, and you fall.

Nothing is broken, but you can't get up. And you're alone here, anyhow, the ache in your nose making itself known again, accompanied by a throb in your head, behind your eyes.

The endless, dark hall becomes blurry for a moment. Had you thrown up earlier? Your mouth tastes salty and bitter, like you had been drinking seawater, and your throat burns, but you can't remember having vomited.

You can't focus on anything. You can feel the hard, stone floor beneath your hands, but it's blurry, fuzzy, as if you had suddenly lost your vision, which would be a bad thing to have happen now. Not because you would have minded blindness- perhaps then you could have pretended you were somewhere pleasant- but because you had finally thought of a response to that letter.

You wanted to tell it- him, you mean, him (your head hurts terribly, now)- about the sword, this morning. How you kept trying to hold it, but your arms were too weak, and your will weaker, because you hadn't even wanted to swing a sword around while you felt sick, but you wanted to try, like Silver was trying for you. And how that had made you sicker, because you weren't doing it for yourself, and you weren't doing it for Silver, either, you were doing it for Them- this thing you didn't know, this thing you hated, this thing that was more human than you. The sword, the parties, the pleasantries, Jack, and Deuce, and Riddle, and Silver. You were living on someone else's behalf. You were being who you were supposed to be- you were becoming the someone that was wanted. But you were doing it badly.

You were failing at the one, the only thing they all needed from you. You couldn't be selfless enough, or friendly enough, or smart enough, or good enough, or anything, you couldn't be anything, to fit in these clothes. You couldn't be anything but yourself, and yourself wasn't what was wanted. Or needed.

But that thought only made you feel sicker.

You still don't remember throwing up, but you can at least feel the stuff beneath your bruised fingers, black and blue from the intensity you were holding the hilt of the sword with. Someone will have to mop this before morning, and you feel awful about that. You've been leaving messes all over the place, lately. Most of them have been of your mind, though, and have smelled much better.

You feel, for a moment, something come over you, something unfamiliar, and you wonder what would happen if you were someone else. Would your classmates come to your side? Would they kneel in your wettened woes without a care that wasn't for your own comfort? Would they scoop you up and carry you, magically or otherwise, somewhere warm and safe?

And you only realize that you hadn't been in someone else's body, you hadn't been having a dream or delusion of being loved, when you no longer feel weightless, when there's fluff and comfort beneath your battered and bruised body.

Someone had come for you, but it was not who you thought, or, rather, who you had really wanted. Which was silly for someone like you to complain about.

"Sleep, now, you must have taken quite the fall,"

You don't want to listen. You're sick of people lecturing you on who you ought to be, even if they never say the words aloud, even if they never even think them. Even if they're only felt, carved into their ribs and hummed by their hearts, in a song you aren't allowed to listen to.

Or, perhaps, that you can't.

But your body has had a will of its own, lately, and so it does as its told.

Dear Writer,

I have a name for you, but I've decided to keep that to myself. I think I rather like having something of my own here, something that no one else can have.

These last few days have been difficult. The Headmage says I have a concussion. He found me half-conscious and crying last night. I thought I had thrown up, I guess, but I'm fine. It's not too terrible, a few days of rest should help.

One of the dorms here doesn't have a housewarden, and a fight broke out last night. The Headmage and I have been talking about it, but neither of us had a good solution, until I remembered what you had said about your own school's student council- and an intermediate council has been elected for the dorm to democratically choose a leader.

So, thank you, I suppose. I hope to hear from you soon.

Yours truly.

[crappymixtape]

because of you • part one

PART II • PART III • PART IV • PART V • EPILOGUE // REQ -> @sattlersquarry ❝ an enemies to lovers fic with Steve? 💙 maybe they have to put aside their differences to fight upside down stuff and realize they actually have a lot in common 👀 • 18+  | ( 2.1k – little bit of king!steve, mostly angst with a dash of fluff, enemies to idiots in love, steve x reader )

B E C A U S E O F Y O U • P A R T O N E 🎶 good girls ( john carpenter remix ), chvrches

“Why is she even here?”

“Steve!”

A loud smack cut the air in two as Robin slapped a hand against Steve’s shoulder, rendering the rest of group there in Max’s trailer silent.

Your arms were crossed tightly over your chest, cheeks burning under his gaze, lips twisted into a scowl and trying hard to hold back the daggers you wanted so badly to throw at him.

“She doesn’t know what the hell we’re up against! How’s she supposed to–“

“Steve, none of us knew either, cut her a break.”

“Cut her a break and then what? We all get eaten by a fucking melted people monster?”

“That’s not fair–“

“It’s fine! It’s fine, Nancy,” you cut the girl off, standing quickly from your spot on the couch.

They’d been talking like this since you showed up. Like you weren’t right there in the room with them and honestly you kind of wished you weren’t anymore.

“I need some air,” you grumbled before giving Steve a pointed glare and shouldering open the front door.

The air outside was crisp as you sat down on the front stoop. Not a cloud in the sky and sunlight washing everything in soft golden light, but it all still felt so dark. Like it was harboring thick shadows. Long, spindly, and pitch black. Waiting to wrap their twisted fingers around you.

Waiting to dig into you and squeeze tight.

Waiting to lift you twenty feet into the air and snap your bones like twigs.

Waiting to leave you for dead.

And here was Steve fucking Harrington asking what right you had to be there. Asking what purpose were you gonna serve amongst this “holier than thou” joke of an army. Steve, Robin, Nancy and Eddie had already gotten their asses handed to them by what they’d called demobats, Steve arguably needing serious medical attention, and they wanted to go back? It took everything you had to not leave right there on the spot.

Hell, maybe you should, you thought for a minute. You didn’t owe them anything, especially Steve, but you did owe it to your best friend. The one who basically had a hit out on him. The one who wouldn’t hurt a goddamn fly, but all of Hawkins had already decided he was guilty and you weren't about to leave him.

Eddie.

❝ SO SAVE YOUR BREATH, GIVE A LITTLE OF WHAT YOU HAVE LEFT – DO THEY KNOW SOMETHING I DON’T? ❞

You met him two years ago under the bleachers at the Homecoming football game. It seemed like the perfect place to smoke the joint you’d messily rolled in the car right before you’d come into the stadium and apparently you’d been right, but someone else had already laid claim to it...

“Hate to break it to you sweetheart, but this is kind of my spot.”

He’d been all black leather and denim. Dark curls and clove. Silver rings and chains and heavy boots and maybe you should’ve been more intimidated, but the smile lines at the corners of his mouth gave him away.

“Don’t see a sign anywhere,” you’d shot back, no hesitation. Looked over at him all skeptics and attitude and took a long drag from your joint. Blew the smoke off in his direction and it made him grin like an idiot.

“Been sellin’ weed down here for like…the last three years so–actually, yeah. What the fuck, man. Someone owes me a sign.”

...And that was it, you were a goner. Laughing mid-toke and coughing so hard you cried and it made him feel so bad he gave you a baggy for free. Eddie "the freak" Munson and you – best friends.

Skipped all the stupid dances and football games with you. Paraded around the lunch room like an idiot with you. Threw fries back at the jocks for you when they called you a loser and sat on the floor in the bathroom with you when you cried.

So fuck “King Steve” Harrington.

You had every right to be there, probably even more than he did and you were gonna tell him to his face, but—

“Can I sit?”

The sudden sound of someone else made you jump.

“Jesus, Eddie.”

“Sorry,” he chuckled and sat down next to you. Gave you a sidelong glance and a small lopsided smile. “He’s really not so bad–”

“You’re joking. Right? Tell me you’re joking.”

The boy hummed, dropped his gaze down to the rings wrapped around his fingers and twisted the one on his thumb.

“He doesn’t want me here. None of them do,” you grumbled, frustration fed further by his non-answer and it pulled his eyes back up to you.

“Hey now, that’s not true–”

“Yes it is! Even Nancy looks at me like a kicked puppy.”

That pulled a laugh from him. Made him scoot closer to you and bump his shoulder into yours. “Listen, sweetheart,” the nickname made you soften, but you tried to keep your scowl in place, “We’re all in over our fuckin’ heads, hm? And Stevie boy…he’s seen some shit. He’s just trying to–”

“Just trying to what? Be a complete dickhead about it? Mission accomplished.”

Eddie sighed and roughed a hand over his face. Rested his elbows on his knees and laced his fingers together. He knew what you felt because he’d felt it too. Knew what it was like to get laughed at and mocked in the lunch room. Knew how it was supposed to be between him and the other boy. Hell, he nearly cut Harrington’s face off with a broken bottle a few days ago, but one thing was clear.

Change was possible and Steve Harrington was proof, he just wasn’t great at showing it.

“Alright. He could be less of a dick,” he conceded, propping his chin in his hand and looking at you with his big brown eyes. How could you be mad at that?

You mumbled under your breath about that not being the only thing, but fine, okay, only for you, Eds.

Reaching over he flicked at your fingers and looked at you from under his curls with a stern pinch between his brows. “He’s helping me, sweetheart. They all are. Shit, without them I’d probably be in jail already. Or in Carver’s trunk,” he tried a laugh, but it fell short at the end with the weight of his words and it made you grab at his hand and squeeze it.

“Shut up,” you chided softly, no heat behind it. The anger that had been swelling in your chest all but extinguished.

Silence settled between the two of you then, heavy and tinged at the edges with worry. With everything that was at risk and it started to gnaw at the pit of your stomach. What if you couldn’t fix it? And even if you could, this Vecna asshole was about to end the world anyway so what the hell did it matter?

How were a bunch of kids going to do anything about it?

“Ahem,” the door knocked into your back and jolted you back to earth. Pulled a gasp from you and when you looked up over your shoulder you felt your anger return ten fold. “We’re leaving, geniuses,” Steve announced, pushing at you with the door.

“Least you know you’re an idiot,” you mumbled under your breath, standing up from your spot to glare at him at eye level.

“Real cute,” Steve shouldered past you on the stoop, took the last two steps in one go and turned to face you both as he landed on the grass. “For you, Munson,” he said, throwing a mask at Eddie, “Courtesy of Mayfield.”

“What’s that for?” you couldn’t help asking as Max appeared at your side and pointed so casually – too casually – at the mask.

“Gonna steal a Winnebago. Get that on, dingus. Let’s go.”

“Nice,” Eddie grinned up at the red-headed girl and yanked the mask on over his head, “Thanks, Red.”

“Let’s go,” Steve urged, waving his hands at everyone to get out of the house and you felt your heart racing.

“Steal a Winnebago? Eddie. Fuck that–”

“Honey, I’m already a wanted man–” Eddie cut you off and readjusted the ridiculous looking mask a bit. “–c’mon,” he said, tugging at your belt loop to get with it.

“I–that doesn’t mean you can just steal–”

“We’re way past that,” Dustin chimed in, shoving past you just like everyone else, “Besides, if the world’s gonna end anyway, what’s it matter?”

Shit. The kid had a point. It was probably fine. It was just a trailer. Maybe you could give it back afterward? You needed it more than they did. Right?

“Dammit,” you grumbled under your breath, now the only one still standing around. “Wait for me!”

❝ THEY TELL ME I’M HELL-BENT ON REVENGE, I CUT MY TEETH ON WEAKER MEN, I WON’T APOLOGIZE AGAIN ❞

The first time you ran into Steve Harrington was sophomore year. In the hallway before Click’s class. You were cramming everything into your bag, but struggling with your history book when you heard it coming.

Tommy Hagan’s stupid laugh.

Your stomach sank, eyes glued on your things and trying to ignore it. He was in your science class the year before along with his ditzy girlfriend Carol and they always made sure to get a spot in the back just to make out.

“Need some help?”

When you finally looked up at him he’d stopped right in front of you, the grin on his lips sharklike as Carol smirked out from under his arm. Another boy you didn’t know was standing just behind them wearing a stupid member’s only jacket, half unzipped, and had hair that sat perfectly in place. Too perfect.

“That looks heavy, hm?” Tommy said grabbing your book, voice all saccharine sweet and sharp around the edges. Flipping through the pages he pulled a face, clicked his tongue and weighed it in his hand, then made a show of dumping it on the floor. “Whoops. Sorry!” he half-laughed and your cheeks burned.

“Bite me, Hagan,” you snapped back, bending down to grab your book, and it only made his grin grow wider.

“Ooo. She’s fiesty today, Stevie. I like it.”

And then he chimed in. Stevie. The had-to-be-douchebag that everyone called 'King Steve.'

“Probably on her period,” he said scoffing a laugh, all confidence and bravado and the look on his face was so smug. Thought he was so clever and funny and when you finally turned around it was to take the two steps up to him in one.

“Really? My period? So original.”

It made him swallow hard. Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he blinked back the flicker of surprise glinting in his eyes. He took a quick glance at Tommy like he didn’t want to disappoint him and then hardened his expression. Crowded down over you and nodded.

“Explains you being such a bitch.”

And it took the air from your lungs. Stuck in your sides sharp like a knife and you felt your throat tighten as Tommy and Carol snickered, but you wouldn’t let him have the satisfaction. Not here.

“Yeah. Bet you wish you had an excuse for being such an asshole,” you cut at him and it pulled an Oh shit! out of Tommy as he doubled over laughing, Steve’s mouth dropped open in shock.

Your feet couldn’t carry you away fast enough as you shoved your book in your bag and turned to leave, but you refused to run. Refused to let them see weakness, and as Tommy yelled down the hallway after you about tampons you raised a middle finger high in the air to punctuate just how much you hated them all.

Eddie met you in the bathroom after that, the one nobody used on the other side of school, and you told him everything. He let you have the joint he had tucked behind his ear for emergencies, listened to you and told you they weren’t worth it. Especially not Steve. Because even though Tommy started it, Steve was the one who dug in. Could have left it alone but didn’t and that was what really got you.

How obvious it was he knew how shitty they were being, but went along with it anyway because he had to maintain his status. Had to uphold how ‘cool’ he was and keep the line in the sand drawn between him and ‘the freaks’ like you.

So he wouldn’t get a second chance.

And he wasn’t worth your time.

Not then and sure as hell not now.

[ NOTE: THIS IS PART ONE OF A THREE PART SERIES, PART TWO AND THREE TO COME SOON ]

crappymixtape™ • steve harrington masterlist // stranger things masterlist ♥️ reblogs and comments keep me going, friends! ily! ♥️

[urdreamydoodles]

X-Men x Reader (Part.2)

You are being mind-controled by a villain and you believe your lover cheated on you (Part.2)

A fog has settled between you, a cruel illusion woven by unseen hands. You now look at your beloved with wounded eyes, twisted by whispers that cloud your trust.

Characters: Wanda Maximoff, Pietro Maximoff, Emma Frost, Laura Kinney, Wade Wilson, Cable, Hank McCoy, Colossus, Magik, Warren Worthington III & Alex Summers

Wanda Maximoff aka. The Scarlet Witch

- When you confronted Wanda, your voice cracked with pain as you accused her of something unimaginable: betrayal. Her usually warm, compassionate gaze turned pained and wide-eyed as she tried to process what you were saying. Wanda listened in stunned silence, her hands reaching out to you but hovering, unsure whether her touch would comfort or drive you further away. Her lips trembled, her voice barely above a whisper as she denied your accusations, her confusion mirroring your own hurt.

- "I’d never do that to you," she murmured, the hurt in her voice raw and palpable. Wanda’s eyes glistened with unshed tears as she watched you step back, taking your accusations like wounds to the heart. She tried to explain, reaching out to touch your arm, but your mistrust made you pull away, leaving her standing there, alone and heartbroken.

- In the days that followed, Wanda grew withdrawn, her usual warmth replaced by a quiet, haunting sorrow. She would cast glances your way, her gaze searching, desperate for some hint of understanding. You saw her retreating into herself, losing herself in her spells and practices, the vibrant energy she once shared with you fading like a dying flame.

- After a week, the mind control finally lifted, and the cruel reality of the villain’s manipulation settled heavily on your heart. The betrayal you’d felt was nothing but a twisted illusion, and the memory of Wanda’s tearful gaze lingered, a reminder of the pain you’d caused. Knowing you couldn’t leave things as they were, you sought her out, needing to make things right and to show her that your love hadn’t wavered.

- You found Wanda in the garden, her hands moving in gentle patterns as she conjured small, delicate lights that danced around her fingers. She looked up at the sound of your footsteps, her expression shifting between relief and wariness as you approached. Stammering, you explained the mind control, your apology pouring out as you confessed the regret that had haunted you since that day.

- Wanda’s face softened as she listened, a mix of sorrow and relief filling her eyes. She reached out, her touch warm and forgiving as she placed a hand on your cheek, brushing away the tears that had begun to fall. "I forgive you," she whispered, her voice as soft as the magic she wielded. Wanda pulled you close, her embrace gentle yet firm, a silent promise that she understood and would stand by you.

- That evening, as you sat together beneath the stars, Wanda wove delicate illusions, creating constellations that glowed above you. In her magic, you found comfort and forgiveness, her warmth rekindling the trust between you. She leaned against you, her head resting on your shoulder, a silent reminder that despite the pain and doubt, love could prevail, stronger and more resilient than any darkness.

Pietro Maximoff aka. Quicksilver

- The confrontation with Pietro was fast, heated, and painful, your accusations spilling out in a wave of hurt and anger. Pietro, normally so confident and quick-witted, looked stunned, his usual cocky grin vanishing as he stared at you in disbelief. His quick retorts faltered as he tried to defend himself, his words tumbling out as fast as his thoughts, each one tinged with desperation.

- “Why would you even think that?” he exclaimed, his voice cracking as he attempted to make sense of your accusations. Pietro took a shaky step back, running a hand through his silver hair, his frustration evident as he tried to explain himself. Despite his protests, the doubt and pain in your eyes cut through him, leaving him visibly wounded as he watched you walk away, his usually confident demeanor shattered.

- In the days that followed, Pietro’s energy dimmed, his usual lighthearted, quick-talking spirit replaced by a sullen silence. You saw him running alone, pushing himself faster than usual, as if speed could somehow escape the weight of what had happened. Whenever you crossed paths, his gaze would shift away quickly, a mixture of hurt and longing flickering across his face before he sped off again, leaving a gust of wind in his wake.

- After a week, the villain’s manipulation lifted, and the full reality of what had happened hit you like a shockwave. Every accusation, every hurtful word you’d thrown at him had been based on nothing but lies and illusions, a cruel attempt to shatter what you had together. Overcome with regret, you sought him out, determined to make amends and to explain what had truly happened.

- You found Pietro by the lake, pacing back and forth, his agitation evident as he mumbled to himself. When he noticed you, his pacing stopped, his gaze wary but hopeful as he waited for you to speak. With a heavy heart, you explained the mind control that had twisted your thoughts, your apology flowing out in a rush as you tried to show him how deeply sorry you were.

- Pietro’s tense stance softened as he listened, his familiar cocky grin returning, albeit with a hint of sadness. "You know, I can outrun a lot of things, but not this," he muttered, though his tone was light, his words carried a weight that hit you. With a sigh, he closed the distance between you, his arms wrapping around you tightly as he pulled you into a fierce embrace, his forgiveness as swift as his love.

- Later, as you both sat by the lake, Pietro’s usual humor resurfaced, his teasing remarks helping to ease the lingering tension. He laughed, his voice carrying a warmth that filled you with relief, and as he leaned in close, you felt the familiar spark between you reigniting. In his laughter, in his touch, you found reassurance, a silent promise that your bond was unbreakable, no matter the obstacles in its path.

Emma Frost aka. The White Queen

- When you accused Emma, the words slipped out in a way that felt like betrayal even to you. She listened in silence, her icy demeanor only hardening as you laid out your suspicions, her diamond-sharp gaze piercing you with every word. Emma’s usual confidence faltered just slightly, a flash of hurt crossing her eyes before she quickly masked it, her walls rising higher than ever.

- “I don’t need to explain myself,” she said coolly, her tone firm but carrying a hint of vulnerability, one she rarely showed. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she crossed her arms, her stance defensive as she denied your accusations. Despite her calm facade, you could see the pain hidden beneath, the subtle tension in her posture revealing more than her words ever could.

- In the days that followed, Emma distanced herself, her presence colder and more guarded than ever. She buried herself in work, focusing on training and the business empire she controlled, leaving little room for anything else. Whenever you passed her in the mansion, her gaze was distant, her walls impenetrable as she maintained an air of icy indifference, though you could sense the pain simmering just below the surface.

- When the mind control finally lifted, the truth hit you with a harsh clarity, the betrayal you’d seen nothing but a lie woven by a villain’s cruel manipulation. Guilt settled heavy in your heart as you remembered the hurt you’d caused, each cold look you’d thrown at Emma replaying in your mind. Determined to make amends, you sought her out, needing her forgiveness and knowing it wouldn’t be easy.

- You found Emma in her office, her gaze cold and unreadable as you entered. She listened silently as you explained the villain’s manipulation, her expression unreadable, though a flicker of pain softened her gaze as she absorbed your words. When you finished, the room was silent, tension thick between you as you waited for her response.

- “I’m not one to forgive easily,” she said, her voice low but with an edge of vulnerability that she rarely exposed. Despite her words, she stepped closer, her hand resting against your cheek, her touch surprisingly gentle. Emma’s gaze softened, her ice-like exterior cracking just slightly as she pulled you into a careful embrace, her touch a quiet acknowledgment of her forgiveness.

- That night, Emma let her guard down, allowing you to see the softer side she kept hidden from the world. She spoke of her past, her voice steady but carrying a weight that showed just how deeply trust mattered to her. In her rare openness, you found comfort, a renewed understanding between you that felt unbreakable. As she rested beside you, her head on your shoulder, you felt the strength of her forgiveness, a silent promise that your love was worth the risk, no matter how high her walls might be.

Laura Kinney aka. X-23 / Wolverine

- When you confronted Laura, accusing her of betraying you, she stood utterly still, her eyes wide and sharp, like a cornered predator. At first, she didn’t respond, her expression frozen in disbelief as she tried to make sense of your words. Hurt and confusion flashed across her face, mixing with the anger she tried so hard to suppress. You could see her claws twitch, her hands curling into fists, as if the accusations cut deeper than any blade could.

- “You think I’d betray you?” she finally whispered, her voice low and raw, almost a growl. There was a sharp edge to her words, but beneath the anger, you heard the unmistakable crack of vulnerability. Laura had always been guarded, keeping her heart closely protected, and this accusation seemed to tear at her carefully constructed defenses.

- As the days passed, Laura withdrew, retreating further into herself. She became quieter, her responses short and guarded, only speaking when absolutely necessary. She spent hours training, pushing herself to the limits as if punishing herself for something she didn’t even do. When you passed by her, she wouldn’t meet your gaze, her usually fierce eyes turned downward, a subtle indication of the pain she carried.

- A week later, when the mind control finally lifted, realization dawned on you like a crushing weight. The betrayal you’d believed in was nothing more than an illusion forced upon you by a villain’s manipulation. Your chest tightened with guilt as you remembered the look of hurt in Laura’s eyes, the pain you’d inflicted without even realizing it.

- Seeking her out, you found Laura alone in the training room, her face set in a mask of hardened resolve. When you explained the truth—that it had all been a cruel trick—her expression softened, but only slightly. She listened quietly, her gaze intense as you apologized, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, a wall still standing between you.

- “I don’t trust easily,” she said after a long pause, her voice steady but filled with a quiet hurt. Despite her words, she took a step closer, her hardened gaze softening as she finally met your eyes. Laura placed a hand on your shoulder, her grip firm yet surprisingly gentle, a silent acceptance of your apology. She wasn’t one to easily forgive, but you sensed that she was willing to try.

- That evening, Laura let her walls down just a bit, allowing you to sit beside her in silence. She held your hand, her fingers intertwining with yours, the warmth of her touch a silent promise to rebuild the trust between you. Her gaze softened as she looked at you, her eyes reflecting a fierce loyalty that hadn’t been broken. Though words weren’t needed, you could feel the strength of her forgiveness, a bond unspoken yet unbreakable.

Wade Wilson aka. Deadpool

- When you accused Wade of cheating, his immediate reaction was… laughter. He chuckled, thinking you were joking, until he noticed the serious, hurt look on your face. His laughter faded, and his tone shifted, a flicker of sadness and confusion crossing his face. Wade’s usual bravado faltered as he struggled to understand, an uncharacteristic vulnerability showing through his typically goofy exterior.

- “Hey, babe, I’m a lot of things, but a cheater isn’t one of them,” he said, his voice softer than usual. He tried to joke, to lighten the tension, but every attempt only seemed to make you more frustrated. Wade watched you, his usual humor giving way to a quiet sadness, his gaze holding a hint of desperation. For once, he didn’t have a clever comeback, his expression turning serious as he saw your mistrust.

- In the days that followed, Wade grew quieter, his playful nature dampened as he dealt with the weight of your accusations. He stayed out of your way, though you’d occasionally catch him watching you from a distance, his gaze more somber than usual. His attempts to make you smile were rare, his usual antics replaced by an uncharacteristic silence that made your heart ache.

- When the mind control finally wore off and you realized the truth, guilt washed over you. The accusation you’d thrown at Wade had been based on nothing more than a twisted manipulation, a trick meant to break you apart. You found him in the kitchen, attempting to make a snack, though his usual energetic humor was absent.

- As you apologized, explaining the mind control that had fueled your anger, Wade listened quietly, his gaze shifting from his food to you, his expression softening. "So… I’m not the bad guy here?” he asked with a grin, though the hurt still lingered in his eyes. He smiled, but it was gentler, and as you finished your apology, he wrapped an arm around you, his usual playful energy returning.

- “Hey, what’s a little mind control between lovers?” he joked, his voice light, though you could sense his relief. Wade’s forgiveness came easily, his laughter lifting the weight between you as he playfully ruffled your hair. He pulled you into a hug, his embrace warm and genuine, a silent assurance that he understood and wasn’t holding a grudge.

- Later that night, Wade surprised you with a ridiculous, over-the-top apology of his own, complete with flowers, confetti, and a poorly written song about love and mind control. As he serenaded you with his off-key voice, you couldn’t help but laugh, the weight of the past week finally lifting. In Wade’s laughter and his antics, you found forgiveness, a reminder that your love could withstand even the strangest obstacles.

Nathan Summers aka. Cable

- When you accused Nathan of cheating, his immediate response was silence. He stared at you, his usually intense gaze softening with a flicker of disbelief and hurt. Cable wasn’t one for outbursts, but your words had hit him hard, his jaw clenching as he took in the weight of your accusation. His voice was low when he finally spoke, each word measured, tinged with sorrow.

- “I thought we trusted each other,” he murmured, his eyes narrowing as he tried to understand why you would doubt him. His posture stiffened, his face set in a mask of controlled anger and pain, though beneath it, you sensed a deep sadness. Nathan valued loyalty above all else, and the idea that you thought he’d betrayed you seemed to shake him to his core.

- The following days were tense, with Nathan throwing himself into his work, his focus sharp but cold. He avoided you, his usual steady presence feeling distant and unapproachable. You’d catch glimpses of him, his expression hardened, his gaze no longer seeking yours as he buried himself in planning and strategies, distancing himself from the pain he felt.

- When the villain’s influence finally lifted and you realized the truth, remorse hit you hard. The accusations you’d thrown at Nathan had been nothing but illusions, a twisted ploy meant to break his trust in you. You found him in his study, his face shadowed with fatigue, his gaze distant as he stared at maps on his desk.

- You explained everything, your apology heartfelt as you recounted the mind control that had driven you to accuse him. Nathan listened quietly, his expression unreadable, though a flicker of understanding softened his gaze. “Mind control,” he repeated, a hint of relief mingling with the remaining hurt. He sighed, reaching out to rest a hand on your shoulder, his touch firm and forgiving.

- “Next time, just trust me,” he said, his voice gentle yet firm, a reminder that loyalty was something he valued deeply. He pulled you into a brief, reassuring embrace, his hold warm and protective, a silent promise that he understood and would forgive. Though he didn’t say much, his presence was enough, a reminder of the bond that remained strong despite the shadows cast by the past week.

- That evening, Cable surprised you by joining you for a quiet moment outside, his usual intensity softened as he sat beside you. His hand found yours, his grip strong yet gentle, and he offered you a small, rare smile. In that moment, you felt his forgiveness, his steady presence a comfort that reassured you of his loyalty. As the stars shone above, you found solace in Nathan’s strength, a quiet promise that your love could endure even the hardest trials.

Hank McCoy aka. Beast

- When you confronted Hank, accusing him of infidelity, his reaction was one of shocked bewilderment. He had been immersed in one of his lab experiments when you stormed in, and his initial thought was that you must have misinterpreted something he’d said or done. But as you continued to lay out your accusations, the color drained from his face, replaced by an uncharacteristic sorrow. You could see his mind racing, trying to understand where things had gone so terribly wrong.

- “Why would you ever think that of me?” he finally asked, his voice barely above a whisper. There was a pleading look in his eyes as he searched your face, desperation mixed with confusion. Hank was a deeply loyal partner, and the notion of betrayal was so foreign to him that he struggled to process the accusation. His broad shoulders slumped, and for the first time, you saw him without his usual buoyant intellect to lean on, looking lost and vulnerable.

- In the days that followed, Hank’s demeanor became subdued, the usual spark in his conversations dampened. He threw himself into his work, but his usual enthusiasm was absent, as though a weight hung over him that even science couldn’t lift. He avoided spending time with you, afraid that his presence might cause you further distress, but his absence left a void that reminded you of your argument at every turn.

- When the mind control wore off, clarity crashed over you with an almost unbearable guilt. The accusations you’d thrown at Hank had all been lies, seeds planted by a malicious mind to break your relationship apart. You found him in his lab, once again immersed in his work, but this time his gaze was distant, the traces of hurt visible in his softened features.

- As you apologized, explaining how the villain’s manipulation had clouded your mind, Hank listened patiently, his expression softening but still filled with lingering sadness. He was a man of reason, yet your words had cut deeply into the emotional side he rarely showed to others. “I know you wouldn’t have done this if it were truly you,” he said, his voice gentle and warm. But there was a slight tremble to his words, revealing the pain he’d been holding back.

- After a moment’s silence, he placed a hand on your shoulder, his touch as soft as his gaze. “Let us rebuild from here,” he murmured, offering you a small, understanding smile. The reassurance in his eyes was enough to show that, despite the hurt, he was ready to forgive. With Hank, there was always an endless well of empathy, and his patience offered you the chance to find your way back to each other.

- That evening, Hank invited you to the lab, handing you a pair of safety goggles and playfully guiding you through one of his experiments. As you worked side-by-side, he shared soft laughter and small, tender touches, his kindness reminding you of the depth of his love. Hank’s forgiveness wasn’t spoken aloud but shown in his quiet acceptance, his compassion allowing the wound to heal as you rekindled the warmth between you.

Piotr Rasputin aka. Colossus

- When you confronted Piotr, accusing him of cheating, his usually gentle expression turned to one of heartbreak, even through the steel-hard exterior. He looked down at you with hurt eyes, the reflective metal only amplifying the pained expression you could see in his features. Piotr wasn’t used to being accused of something so hurtful, and his hands balled into fists as he tried to understand why you believed he would betray you.

- “I would never do that to you,” he said, his deep voice echoing with restrained emotion. It was rare to see Piotr so visibly shaken. Yet his vulnerability shone through, despite the seemingly unbreakable exterior. You could see the toll your accusations were taking on him, as though he’d been shattered beneath the impenetrable surface.

- Over the next few days, he withdrew, seeking solace in solitude and throwing himself into physical training that kept him at the far corners of the mansion. Each clang of his fists against metal training equipment echoed the heartbreak and confusion he felt, while he kept his distance, unwilling to confront you in his hurt.

- When the mind control lifted, and you finally realized that your accusations had been planted by a villain seeking to tear you apart, guilt filled every inch of your heart. You found Piotr training alone in the danger room. You stepped in hesitantly, the remorse clear in your voice as you explained the mind control and your apologies spilling out.

- Hearing your explanation, Piotr’s metallic expression softened. He looked at you for a long moment, as if weighing the pain he’d felt against the forgiveness he wanted to offer. “I know you wouldn’t say those things if you truly felt them,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “But it still hurt.”

- Taking your hand, he brought it to his chest, placing it over his heart. “I love you,” he whispered, the words filled with an earnestness that told you just how deeply he had been affected. The wall of steel was gone, and in its place, his gentle, warm touch reassured you that despite the damage done, he was willing to forgive and rebuild together.

- That night, Piotr pulled you close in his arms, offering the comfort of his warmth and strength as he wrapped you in a protective embrace. You stayed like that, his hands resting softly on your back as he traced small patterns with his fingertips, grounding you in the reassurance of his forgiveness. It was a quiet, powerful moment, a reminder of his loyalty and a fresh start born from his boundless patience and compassion.

Illyana Rasputin aka. Magik

- When you accused Illyana of betrayal, her initial reaction was one of icy indifference. She raised an eyebrow, folding her arms over her chest as she listened, her expression unreadable. But as your words grew harsher, you saw a flicker of something hurt cross her face, quickly masked by her usual confident, defiant demeanor. Illyana wasn’t one to easily show her emotions, and the accusation seemed to put her in a place of unfamiliar vulnerability.

- “You really think I’d do that?” she asked, her voice low and dangerous, with a hint of anger simmering beneath the surface. Illyana’s gaze was intense, her eyes narrowing as though trying to peer into your mind, searching for the reason behind your sudden mistrust. The betrayal she felt was evident in her stance, and though she didn’t outwardly break, there was a clear hurt in her gaze.

- Over the next week, Illyana distanced herself, retreating to Limbo to avoid dealing with the pain your accusations had caused. She was rarely seen around, and when you did catch sight of her, she was surrounded by a dark, unapproachable aura, her eyes colder than usual. She threw herself into training and work, hiding the hurt behind a wall of indifference that only made you feel more isolated.

- When the mind control lifted, realization struck you with a painful clarity. The accusations you’d made against Illyana had been nothing but fabrications planted by a villain to tear you apart. You sought her out in Limbo, where you found her training alone, her expression hardened and distant, as though she’d been trying to forget the pain you’d caused.

- As you approached, offering your apology and explaining the mind control that had twisted your perception, Illyana’s gaze softened, though she maintained her guarded stance. She listened in silence, her expression unreadable, but the slight tension in her shoulders seemed to ease. “Next time, don’t be so easily fooled,” she muttered, though there was a hint of warmth beneath her sarcasm, a reluctant forgiveness peeking through.

- She extended a hand, pulling you close with a surprising gentleness, her usual cold exterior softening just for you. “I don’t trust easily,” she said, her voice low and serious, “but I’ll make an exception for you.” There was a fierceness in her words, a promise of loyalty and forgiveness that only Illyana could offer in her unique, unwavering way.

- That night, she took you to a secluded corner of Limbo, where the stars shone brilliantly overhead, creating an otherworldly atmosphere. Sitting beside you, she leaned against you, her hand reaching for yours, her touch firm and protective. In her own quiet way, Illyana had forgiven you, and as you watched the stars together, you felt the strength of her loyalty, a bond that even the harshest trials couldn’t break.

Warren Worthington III aka. Angel

- When you accused Warren of infidelity, his wings instinctively flared, and his usually calm, composed demeanor broke into a stunned silence. Warren was used to shielding himself from judgment due to his appearance, but having that distrust come from you was something he never expected. His wings curled protectively around himself, as if they could somehow shield him from the pain in your words.

- “Why would you think that?” he asked softly, his voice edged with both shock and hurt. Warren’s usual confidence faltered as he struggled to process your accusation, and his piercing blue eyes searched yours as though he could find an explanation that would make the hurt less unbearable. For a man who was used to the spotlight, he now looked like he’d rather disappear, the betrayal visible in his eyes.

- The days that followed were filled with a painful silence between you both. Warren withdrew, often flying alone in the evenings, taking solace in the solitude of the skies. He avoided eye contact, the trust between you seemingly damaged beyond repair, and he’d barely return to the mansion, opting to spend nights outside, where he could process his emotions in the quiet embrace of the stars.

- When the mind control finally lifted, and you realized that your accusations had been orchestrated by a villain to sabotage your relationship, guilt consumed you. You found Warren alone on a rooftop, his wings spread wide as he looked out over the city, his posture one of pained introspection. You stepped up to him, your apology coming out in a rush as you explained what had happened and begged for his forgiveness.

- Warren turned to you slowly, his eyes softened but still tinged with the hurt he’d carried over the past week. He listened to your explanation in silence, and when you finished, he looked at you for a long moment, his wings folding close to his back. “You have no idea how much that hurt,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, a trace of vulnerability in his usually composed tone.

- After a pause, he opened his wings, wrapping them gently around you in a quiet acceptance of your apology. Warren was slow to forgive, but his touch conveyed an understanding and a desire to move past the pain. “I trust you,” he whispered, his voice filled with a cautious hope. “Let’s rebuild that trust, together.” With his wings embracing you, you felt the reassurance of his love, and that was enough.

- That night, Warren invited you to fly with him, lifting you into the night sky where you soared above the city together. The thrill of flight, coupled with the feeling of his hand holding yours, was exhilarating, his forgiveness wrapped in the beauty of the skies. It was a silent promise of a fresh start, a renewal of trust forged in the quiet, expansive night, with only the stars as your witnesses.

Alex Summers aka. Havok

- When you confronted Alex, accusing him of betrayal, his reaction was a mixture of anger and shock. His jaw clenched, and he ran a hand through his hair, clearly struggling to keep his emotions in check. Alex wasn’t one to take accusations lightly, especially from someone he loved. His gaze was fiery, the same intensity that fueled his powers flashing in his eyes as he stared at you, wounded and deeply hurt.

- “How could you even think that?” he asked, his voice rough with emotion. You could see the frustration building up in him, and he let out a bitter laugh, disbelief evident in his expression. Alex had always been a fiercely loyal partner, and to have that loyalty questioned by you hit harder than any physical blow. He turned away, unwilling to let you see the pain that was etched into his features.

- In the days that followed, Alex became distant, throwing himself into missions and training with a renewed, almost reckless intensity. It was his way of coping, of channeling his hurt into action. He avoided you at every turn, his once warm and playful demeanor replaced by an icy wall, his body language closed off and guarded. Seeing him like this only made your guilt grow, the silence between you like a painful reminder of the trust that had been shattered.

- When the mind control finally wore off and you realized that your accusations had been nothing but lies planted by a villain to create division between you, you knew you had to make things right. You found him in the training room, his expression hardened and focused, as though he was trying to push through the hurt with sheer determination. Your apology poured out as you explained the manipulation, your voice breaking as you begged for his forgiveness.

- Alex listened, his face expressionless at first, but as your words sank in, the anger in his eyes began to fade, replaced by a mixture of relief and lingering pain. “Do you have any idea what that did to me?” he asked, his voice laced with frustration but softer than before. There was a vulnerability there, a part of him that had been deeply wounded but was willing to listen, to forgive.

- He pulled you close, his arms wrapping around you tightly, as though afraid you might slip away again. “Don’t ever let anyone make you doubt me like that,” he murmured, his tone protective yet filled with an intense sincerity. Alex’s embrace was warm and grounding, a silent reassurance that he was willing to put the pain behind him if it meant having you by his side.

- That evening, he took you out on a long drive, just the two of you with no destination in mind, the open road stretching out ahead. He held your hand as he drove, the quiet moments between you filled with an unspoken forgiveness. The freedom of the road, coupled with his presence beside you, was a powerful reminder that your relationship was strong enough to survive even the darkest moments, and together, you found comfort in each other once more.

[frenchcurious]

Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud III 1963. - source Amazing Classic Cars.

[colouredbyd]

Time Cast A Spell On You II: The Kingdom

reincarnation au: Regulus Black x fem!reader

synopsis: across lifetimes and names, two souls find each other again and again, tangled in memory, haunted by love, and drawn toward a quiet kind of forever that always slips just out of reach. But maybe this time, for the fifth and last time, the story will end differently.

word count: 12k

prologue lifetime I lifetime II lifetime III masterlist

lifetime II: The Kingdom

“I won’t do it.”

The words tore from your mouth before you could stop them, sharp and jagged, echoing off the courtyard’s stone walls. Your fists clenched at your sides, knuckles whitening against the fine silk of your skirts.

“I won’t marry him, Lily. I don’t care what my father says. I don’t care what King Orion or Queen Walburga demand. I am not some—some pawn to be traded.”

Lily’s eyes widened, and she cast a hurried glance around the courtyard, her red hair gleaming like fire in the sunlight. “Keep your voice down,” she whispered urgently, reaching out to grip your arm. “If anyone hears you—”

“Let them!” you snapped, yanking your arm free. “What more can they do? Chain me to the altar? Drag me down the aisle by my hair? I’d rather throw myself off the cliffs than marry that wretched prince.”

Her expression softened with sympathy, though her hands twisted nervously in the folds of her skirts. “It’s done,” she said quietly. “The contracts are signed. The banns will be read next week. Your father—”

“My father sold me,” you interrupted, voice cracking under the weight of it. “He sold me to that family the moment Sirius disappeared. The moment King Orion and Queen Walburga realized their precious heir wasn’t coming back, they turned to me. To us. Like we’re nothing more than cattle to be auctioned off.”

Lily’s mouth opened, then closed, her gaze flitting to the iron gates at the far end of the courtyard, where the Black family crest hung heavy and unyielding. “It’s politics,” she whispered, though her voice faltered. “The North needs your father’s lands. And your father… he needs their protection.”

“I don’t want their protection,” you spat. “I don’t want their name. I don’t want him.” You stepped back, breath coming quick and sharp. “I haven’t even seen his face, Lily. Not once. They keep him locked away in that iron fortress like a ghost. Like a myth.”

Lily’s eyes shone with the kind of pity that made your skin crawl. “You’ve heard the stories,” she murmured. “They say he was born during the longest night of the century. That the moon hid behind the clouds for three days straight. Some say it was a sign.”

“A sign of what?” you demanded, voice hardening. “That the Black family is bound to darkness? That they’re born with shadows in their blood?” You laughed, sharp and humorless. “I don’t care if he was born under a blood moon or blessed by demons themselves. I won’t marry him.”

Lily reached for you again, her fingers soft but unyielding. “You don’t have a choice.”

The words stung, sharp and unrelenting. You turned away, fists clenched so tightly your nails bit into your palms. “It wasn’t supposed to be him,” you whispered. “It was supposed to be Sirius.”

“And Sirius left,” Lily replied, her voice steady and unflinching. “He abandoned the crown. He abandoned his family. And now you have to pay the price.”

Your throat tightened, rage bubbling hot and thick in your veins. “I’ll run,” you said, the words slipping out before you could stop them. “I’ll leave. They can’t marry me off if I’m not here.”

Lily’s grip tightened. “You won’t make it past the gates.”

You wrenched your arm from her grasp, heart hammering in your chest. “Watch me.”

Outside, the banners of House Black flapped in the wind, threads of silver and iron woven through their midnight silk. Somewhere beyond the iron gates, the sea crashed against the cliffs, relentless and unyielding. A storm was coming. You could feel it in your bones.

The halls of your father’s castle stretched long and empty, shadows pooling in the arches, sunlight spilling like molten gold across the flagstones. The silence was a living thing, pressing against your ribs, winding tight around your lungs until it hurt to breathe. You walked with purpose, chin tilted high, footsteps sharp against the stone. Every servant you passed averted their eyes, dipping into bows and curtsies with hurried grace.

You ignored them all.

The council room loomed ahead, its iron doors shut fast, the sigil of your house gleaming in the dim light. Two guards flanked the entrance, their faces obscured by helms etched with curling vines. They did not stop you as you pushed the doors wide, the creak of iron groaning like a wounded beast.

Inside, your father sat at the head of the long, polished table, his hands folded neatly before him. His crown, heavy and wrought with iron and emerald, gleamed beneath the torchlight. Beside him stood Lord Wilkes, his advisor, his eyes sharp and calculating, mouth twisted into something that might have been a smile if it wasn’t so cold.

The room fell silent as you entered, every gaze shifting to you with the weight of expectation. You did not waver. You stepped forward, the hem of your gown whispering across the floor, and inclined your head just enough to pass for respect.

“Father,” you began, voice steady, strong. “I wish to speak with you.”

Lord Wilkes’s eyes flickered, amusement sparking in their depths. “A private audience?” he asked, voice dripping with condescension. “How very bold of you.”

You ignored him, eyes fixed on your father. His gaze was sharp and unyielding, the weight of years heavy upon his brow. He gestured with one hand, a flick of his wrist. “Speak, then.”

You didn’t just speak. You erupted. “You have no right,” you snarled, voice cracking like a whip against the stone walls. “No right to barter me off like some trinket. Like livestock. I am not some—some bargaining chip to be handed to the highest bidder!”

Lord Wilkes raised an eyebrow, his smile deepening with cruel delight. “Your father has every right. You are his daughter, bound by duty and oath.”

“Duty?” you spat, eyes blazing. “My duty was never meant to be shackled to some prince no one has ever seen! A spare kept in the dark because his brother fled. A shadow locked away behind iron gates while the rest of us bleed for this kingdom.”

“Mind your tongue,” your father growled, voice low and dangerous. “You forget yourself.”

“I forget nothing,” you shot back, stepping forward until your palms slapped the polished table, the sound reverberating through the hall. “I remember everything. I remember you promising I’d have a choice. I remember you saying that I would marry for strength, for alliance, for love. Not for desperation. Not because the Blacks snapped their fingers and demanded a bride.”

Lord Wilkes chuckled lowly, the sound like knives scraping against stone. “The banns are read, Your Highness. Your father signed the papers himself. This is no longer a matter of choice.”

“Then burn them,” you hissed, turning your gaze back to your father. “Tear them apart and send their ashes back to the Iron Keep. Tell King Orion I am not his property. Tell Queen Walburga I am not her broodmare. Tell them both to find another way to fix their broken bloodline.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. Lord Wilkes’s smile was gone, his eyes narrowed to slits. Your father leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin, gaze as heavy as iron. “You will marry Prince Regulus,” he said, voice smooth and final. “You will marry him because it has been decided. Because you are a princess of this house, and you will do your duty. And you will do it with your head held high.”

You could feel the scream clawing its way up your throat, desperate and searing, but you swallowed it down, straightening your spine. “You’re sending me to them like a sacrificial lamb. Do you even know what they say about the Blacks? About their heir?”

“I know enough,” he replied coolly. “And so will you. In time.”

You stepped back, rage and disbelief coiling hot and vicious in your stomach. “You can’t make me do this.”

Lord Wilkes’s smile returned, sharp and wolfish. “You’d be surprised what kings can do.”

You stared at them both, feeling the fire burn hotter, brighter, until it threatened to consume you. And then you turned, skirts flaring out behind you, iron doors slamming shut with a thunderous crack as you fled the council room, the echo of Lord Wilkes’s laughter chasing you down the corridor.

The halls blurred around you as you stormed through them, your footsteps a rapid staccato against the stone. Fury roared beneath your skin, a wildfire that threatened to consume you from the inside out. Every door you passed, every whispering servant, every flickering torchlight only fueled the blaze. You did not stop. You did not slow. You moved like a tempest, skirts whispering furiously against your legs as you pushed your way through the iron-clad gates and into the courtyard beyond.

The stable hands scattered at your approach, wide-eyed and silent. You didn’t bother with pleasantries. You grabbed the reins of the nearest mare—a dappled grey with eyes like molten silver—and swung yourself onto her back with practiced ease. Her hooves pawed restlessly at the ground, mirroring the rage that coiled in your stomach, and you dug your heels into her flanks without waiting for a saddle or bridle. You wanted the wind. You wanted the thunder of hooves beneath you, the wild, reckless freedom of flight.

You rode hard and fast, the world whipping past you in a blur of green and grey, branches lashing at your face and skirts as the mare thundered through the forest. Leaves scattered in your wake, birds bursting from the canopy above, and still you did not slow. Not until the world opened up before you in a burst of light and water.

The lake stretched wide and glittering, its surface catching the sunlight in ripples of silver and gold. At its edge stood the willow tree, its branches sweeping low, trailing into the water like fingertips. You swung off the mare, feet hitting the earth with a jolt that rattled your bones, and let her wander to drink from the edge. The silence here was different. Heavy. It pressed against your ears, muffling the world beyond the rustling leaves and the gentle lap of water against stone.

You sank to the grass beneath the willow, breath coming fast and ragged. You could still feel the weight of their eyes, the press of expectation, the iron-clad certainty in your father’s gaze. You dug your fingers into the earth, grounding yourself against the rage that threatened to spill over. You had been promised freedom once. You had been promised a choice. And now you were nothing more than a pawn on their chessboard, shoved into place because they had nowhere else to put you.

A rustling from the tree line made you jolt upright, eyes narrowing as you rose to your feet. “Who’s there?” you called, voice sharper than you intended.

A boy stepped out from the shadows, hands raised in mock surrender. He was tall and lean, dressed in simple clothing, a leather cord looped around his wrist. His hair was dark, nearly black, and his eyes—

You couldn’t place the color. It shifted with the light, sometimes grey, sometimes green, always sharp. He did not smile, but his expression was not unkind. Merely watchful. But when his eyes settled on you, there was something unspoken that passed between you—like the whisper of fate threading itself into the moment, delicate and unbreakable.

“You ride like you’re chasing ghosts,” he said, voice low and smooth. His gaze did not waver from yours, as though memorizing every detail of you: the flush in your cheeks, the wildness in your eyes, the way your breath caught unevenly. You felt it, a spark in the silence that hung between you, heavy and unyielding.

You straightened your spine, brushing dirt from your skirts. “And you sneak through the woods like one. Who are you?”

He paused, considering you with a tilt of his head. His gaze flickered over you again, lingering for just a heartbeat too long. “Call me Arcturus.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Arcturus?”

His gaze flickered to the sky, a hint of something sharp in his eyes. “After the star.”

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it, brittle and edged. “How poetic.”

He shrugged, unfazed by your tone. “Some things are.”

You watched him for a moment, silence stretching long and taut between you. He did not move closer, nor did he step back. His presence was steady, unwavering, like the lake itself. But there was something electric in the air, like the world had paused just to watch you both. Like the universe had caught its breath.

Finally, you crossed your arms. “Are you just going to stand there, then?”

A flicker of amusement crossed his features, brief and fleeting. “I’m waiting to see if you’ll run again.”

Your jaw clenched. “I don’t run.”

“Then what do you call that?” He gestured behind you, to the path you had carved through the forest, branches snapped and leaves scattered in your wake.

You glared at him, daring him to press further, but he only watched you with that same quiet patience, like he had all the time in the world. Like he was waiting for you to shatter or to scream or to bolt back into the trees.

But you did none of those things. You only turned back to the lake, ignoring the way his gaze burned against your back.

“Arcturus,” you murmured, testing the name on your tongue. He did not correct you. He only watched as you sat back down beneath the willow, your hands tangling in the grass, eyes fixed on the water’s edge.

And there he stayed, a shadow against the light, watching, waiting, as if he belonged there. As if you did, too.

The lake rippled softly, the branches of the willow swaying in a breeze that whispered secrets you were not yet ready to hear. But something had shifted, something unnamed and electric, simmering just beneath the surface. And though you did not know it yet, you had just met the boy who would unravel everything you thought you knew about fate.

You watched him for a moment, silence stretching long and taut between you. He did not move closer, nor did he step back. His presence was steady, unwavering, like the lake itself. But there was something electric in the air, like the world had paused just to watch you both. Like the universe had caught its breath.

Finally, he tilted his head, gaze never leaving yours. “Princess Y/N,” he said, voice like velvet and edged with something almost mocking. “What brings you to such a place?”

You scoffed, crossing your arms defensively. “Trying to escape,” you bit out. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

“Escape?” he echoed, raising an eyebrow. “From what?”

“From whom, you mean,” you corrected sharply, eyes blazing. “From my father, from his schemes. From—” you paused, jaw clenching. “From Regulus Black.”

Arcturus's lips twitched with a hint of a smile. “Prince Regulus?”

“Yes, that one,” you snapped. “Arrogant, entitled, thinks the world should fall at his feet because of his family name. I haven’t even met him and I already hate him.”

Arcturus chuckled, a low, warm sound that rippled through the quiet. “Hate him already? That’s impressive.”

You scoffed, unyielding. “Impressive would be if he vanished like his brother. I’m sure the kingdom would be better off. He’s probably preening in some gold-walled room right now, admiring his reflection and practicing his smug little speeches.”

Arcturus’s laughter deepened, a genuine sound that caught you off guard. “So the stories are true, then. The princess of the Northern Isles has quite the tongue.”

You tilted your chin up defiantly. “And Regulus Black is just a pampered little prince with a crown too heavy for his head. I’m amazed his ego doesn’t crack his spine.”

His eyes glimmered with amusement. “Perhaps you’ll find him more tolerable than you think.”

You rolled your eyes. "I would rather drown in that lake and snog Dumbledore than marry Regulus Black. And I swear it—I’d do it with pride if it meant avoiding that smug, pretentious prince."

Arcturus grinned then, and there was something like admiration in his eyes. “I don’t doubt it.”

You turned from him, feeling oddly lighter for having spilled your frustration to a stranger. Behind you, Arcturus remained, hands in his pockets, eyes lingering on you with an unreadable expression. “Good luck with your escape, Princess,” he called after you, voice soft and laced with irony.

You did not turn back, but his voice followed you, trailing like smoke, lingering far longer than you would have liked.

The evening air had cooled as you wandered through the royal gardens again, seeking the solitude that had become a rare commodity in the midst of all the royal duties. The past week had felt like a whirlwind of preparations, and the thought of your betrothal loomed large, an ever-present weight that you could barely escape.

That was, until you found yourself walking once more towards the fountain where you had seen Arcturus a few days before. There he was again, perched on the stone edge of the fountain, his legs casually crossed and a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He looked at ease, as if he belonged in the garden as much as the flowers themselves. You couldn’t help but find it a little frustrating how effortlessly he seemed to exist in this space, where you felt so out of place, trapped by expectations.

You hesitated, but after a few moments, you couldn’t resist approaching. "You've been here often," you remarked lightly as you came to a stop a few feet away from him, your arms crossed over your chest.

Arcturus glanced up at you, the soft glow of the setting sun reflecting in his eyes. There was no surprise in his gaze, just that same quiet amusement you had come to expect. "And yet, you still don’t know much about me, do you?"

You raised an eyebrow, an easy smile tugging at your lips despite the undercurrent of frustration you felt. "You don’t exactly make it easy, do you?"

"I try not to," he replied with a slight shrug, the playful edge to his voice making it hard to tell if he was teasing or serious. "Some things are better when they’re left a bit mysterious."

You leaned against the stone railing of the fountain, eyeing him with a touch of curiosity. "You really like being mysterious, don’t you?" you said with a small laugh, letting your guard down just enough to match his teasing tone.

Arcturus gave a soft chuckle, a quiet sound that seemed to come from deep within him. "Maybe I do," he admitted, his expression still unreadable but his tone light. "Though, I’m sure you’ve gathered by now that I’m not as interesting as I might seem."

You tilted your head, watching him closely. "You’re probably right," you teased, "but I’m not sure you’re off the hook that easily. We���ve been meeting like this every day for almost a week, and I still don’t know the first thing about you. No family? No interests? No favorite foods? No dirty secrets?"

Arcturus raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching into a grin. "You want to know about my dirty secrets?" he asked, clearly amused. "I’ve got a few, but they’re not for public consumption. You’re hardly the first to ask."

You rolled your eyes playfully, trying to ignore the curiosity that still burned within you. "You’re terrible. Seriously, what do you like to do when you’re not hiding in the corners of the garden?"

He considered the question for a moment, then sighed, as if offering a rare glimpse of himself. "I enjoy reading, mostly. History, poetry, anything that allows me to pretend I’m not really here, in this place, living this life." He glanced at you then, the slightest hint of something in his expression. "I’m also rather fond of stargazing. I think the stars are more honest than most people."

You couldn’t help but smile at that, the way his words seemed to reveal a little more about him, even if he was still holding back. "So, you spend your time pretending to live another life, watching the stars, and avoiding conversations with people like me?"

Arcturus gave you a sidelong glance. "Mostly, yes," he replied dryly. "Though, I must admit, you’re not entirely unpleasant to talk to."

Your smile softened, and for a moment, you forgot about all the weight of the responsibilities that awaited you. "Is that your way of admitting you like talking to me?"

He chuckled, a warm sound that made his whole demeanor seem more approachable. "Perhaps," he said with a slight smirk. "But don’t go getting any ideas, Princess. I’m not exactly the type who falls for princesses with fiery tempers."

You laughed lightly, feeling the tension you’d been carrying start to slip away, replaced by the faintest spark of amusement. "Good thing I’m not the type who falls for smug, mysterious strangers who hide their secrets behind cryptic smiles."

He gave you an exaggerated look of mock offense. "I’m wounded, Princess," he said with a grin. "Here I thought we were getting along so well."

"Oh, we are," you replied, a mischievous glint in your eyes. "But that doesn’t mean I won’t keep you on your toes."

He raised his hands in mock surrender, a small smile still playing on his lips. "Fair enough. But for what it's worth, I’m not that mysterious. I’m just... selective about what I share. What’s your excuse?"

You raised an eyebrow, not sure how to answer that. The truth was, you hadn’t shared much about yourself either. "I suppose I’m just... waiting for the right person to ask," you said with a teasing smile.

Arcturus looked at you for a moment, something unreadable flashing in his eyes. "Well, it seems you’re in luck," he said lightly, "because I’ve already asked."

You froze, taken aback by his words. "What?"

He shrugged nonchalantly, as if the conversation were nothing more than an idle chat. "You wanted to know about me, Princess. But you’ve yet to ask the real question."

The tension between you shifted, lighter now but still present. You felt the stirrings of curiosity again, that odd sense that there was something more to him.

"Alright, then," you said, more softly this time. "What’s the real question, Arcturus?"

He met your gaze for a long moment, a flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes. "Maybe you’ll find out, Princess. In time."

Before you could respond, you heard footsteps approaching. You glanced back, seeing James Potter walking toward you with that signature grin on his face.

"Y/N!" he called. "There you are. Been looking everywhere for you."

Arcturus gave you a final, cryptic look before standing up and slipping into the shadows once again, vanishing as quietly as he had come.

"Who were you talking to?" James asked as he reached you, a look of mild curiosity on his face.

"No one important," you said, the slightest smile playing at your lips. "Just someone passing through."

James seemed satisfied with that and fell into step beside you as you started to make your way back toward the castle. But as you glanced over your shoulder one last time, you couldn’t help but feel the odd, lingering pull of Arcturus’s presence.

As you made your way back to the castle with James at your side, your thoughts lingered on Arcturus. His words and the way he seemed to see right through you left an odd, fluttering sensation in your chest. You couldn’t quite place it—curiosity, annoyance, something else entirely. Whatever it was, it unsettled you more than you wanted to admit.

James, oblivious to your distraction, rambled on about some tournament he was organizing, his laughter ringing out as you both crossed the courtyard. You nodded absently, not really listening, until you spotted Lily waiting near the entrance with Marlene. The two of them waved you over, their faces bright with excitement.

"There you are!" Lily called out, pushing her hair back from her face. "We’ve been looking everywhere. Marlene nearly organized a search party."

Marlene scoffed, rolling her eyes. "I was not that dramatic."

You couldn’t help but smile, grateful for their familiar, easy presence. "What’s going on?"

Lily shot you a pointed look, crossing her arms. "Did you forget? You have a dress fitting today, and the seamstress has been waiting for nearly an hour. We had to tell her you got stuck in an unexpected royal meeting."

You blinked, the memory of the fitting slipping back into your mind. "Right," you mumbled. "I just... needed some air."

Marlene arched a brow, her mouth quirking into a knowing smirk. "And by air, you mean sneaking off to the lake again?"

James snorted, clearly entertained. "I found her chatting with some mysterious stranger. She’s probably plotting another escape."

You shot him a glare, but he just grinned wider before heading off, calling over his shoulder, "Don’t worry, Lily, I’ll keep her out of trouble next time."

You rolled your eyes, but the flush on Lily's cheeks did not go unnoticed. Marlene leaned in with a whisper. "You know he’s head over heels for her, right? I swear, every time she’s around, it’s like he forgets how to act."

You stifled a laugh. "That’s putting it lightly."

Lily turned back, raising an eyebrow. "What are you two whispering about?"

"Nothing," you and Marlene said in unison, both of you biting back grins.

You huffed, brushing past Lily and Marlene as you made your way toward the east wing where the seamstress awaited. They followed closely, their curiosity palpable.

"A stranger, huh?" Lily asked, sidling up next to you. "Do tell."

You bit your lip, hesitating. "It’s nothing. Just... someone I’ve seen around the gardens lately. He’s strange, but not in a bad way. Just... different."

Marlene smirked. "Different as in handsome?"

You glared at her, but the heat in your cheeks gave you away. "I didn’t say that."

Lily snorted, nudging you with her elbow. "We haven’t seen you smile like that in days. Maybe this mysterious boy is just what you need."

You rolled your eyes, refusing to give them any more ammunition. "He’s just... odd. He doesn’t act like anyone else around here. It’s like he doesn’t care about courtly manners or what anyone thinks of him."

"Sounds refreshing," Marlene quipped, casting you a sly glance. "Better than the prince, then?"

You grimaced, the thought of Regulus Black immediately souring your mood. "Absolutely. At least Arcturus doesn’t look at me like I’m just another pawn to be moved around."

Lily’s expression softened, her voice dropping to a gentler tone. "You know, Y/N, it’s alright to hate this situation. None of us expected it, especially after..." She hesitated, glancing around before lowering her voice. "After everything changed. I know you’re angry, but you’re allowed to be. You don’t have to pretend you’re alright with it."

Your throat tightened, and you swallowed down the surge of emotion. "I just don’t understand why it has to be me. Why can’t they find someone else to bind to that family? It’s like they’re determined to tether me to their legacy, whether I want it or not."

Marlene wrapped an arm around your shoulders, squeezing lightly. "They’re just trying to secure the throne. With Regulus as the only heir now, they need to keep alliances strong. Doesn’t mean it’s fair to you, though."

You managed a weak smile, leaning into her comfort. "I just... I want to decide my own fate. I don’t want to be some princess they pass around for political gain."

Lily nodded, her eyes fierce with loyalty. "We’ll figure something out. You don’t have to go through this alone. If you want to run away, we’ll help you. If you want to fight, we’ll stand by you."

You couldn’t help but laugh, feeling the weight on your shoulders lift just a little. "You two really are impossible."

Marlene winked. "That’s why you love us."

As you reached the seamstress’s chambers, the room was already bustling with maids arranging silks and laces in every imaginable shade. The seamstress herself—Madam Pomfrey—looked relieved to see you, bustling over with a measuring tape and a pin cushion.

"Finally," she huffed, though her tone was more affectionate than annoyed. "Let’s get you fitted, Your Highness."

You allowed yourself to be ushered onto the platform, your heart still heavy but a little lighter with Lily and Marlene chattering away, poking fun at the frills and ruffles that adorned the dresses. You found yourself smiling despite everything, grateful that even in the midst of chaos, you had friends who reminded you of who you were—more than just a princess bound by duty.

But as the seamstress adjusted the fabric around your shoulders, your thoughts drifted back to the garden. To dark hair and stormy eyes, to that quiet, easy smile that didn’t seem to belong in the court.

Arcturus.

You couldn’t help but wonder why thinking of him made your heart beat just a little faster.

The next time you meet Arcturus, it is once again beneath the willow tree, the moonlight spilling through its branches like threads of silver. You don’t know why you keep coming back, only that you do, and that each time you find him there, you are almost...relieved. As if some part of you is tethered to this place, to this boy with his sharp eyes and sharper tongue. It has been nearly two weeks of these stolen moments, these twilight conversations, and yet you realize with a twinge of surprise that you hardly know anything about him.

Tonight, he’s sitting cross-legged at the water's edge, skipping stones across the glassy surface of the lake. He looks up when he hears your footsteps, a grin already spreading across his face. "I was starting to think you’d forgotten about me," he teases.

You roll your eyes, settling onto the grass beside him. "Hardly. Though I’m beginning to think I should’ve."

Arcturus chuckles, tossing another stone that skips four times before disappearing into the dark water. "That’s the spirit."

A comfortable silence settles between you, broken only by the soft lap of water against the shore. After a moment, you glance over at him, curiosity bubbling up unbidden. "Do you ever think about fate?" you ask quietly, the question slipping out before you can catch it.

He tilts his head, turning his gaze to you. "Sometimes. Why?"

You sigh, picking at the grass beneath your fingertips. "I don’t know. I just...I feel like I’m trapped by it. Like no matter what I do, my fate is sealed. My father...my kingdom...they all expect me to do things I never wanted."

Arcturus studies you with a softness that you’re not used to. "Like marrying the prince," he says gently, and it’s not a question.

You nod, the weight of it pressing against your ribs. "Like marrying the prince," you echo. "Regulus Black. His name sounds like it belongs in a storybook, like something distant and unreal. I haven’t even met him, and yet he’s already my fate. Isn’t that absurd?"

He is quiet, his eyes tracing your expression. "Maybe," he says finally. "Or maybe it’s just the way things are."

"I don’t want it to be," you reply, voice cracking just a little. You hate that it does. "I don’t want to be some...some pawn to be shuffled around. I don’t even know him. For all I know, he’s hideous. Or cruel. Or—"

"Or maybe he’s neither," Arcturus interjects, his voice careful.

You scoff. "You’re defending him now? What, are you his friend? His secret protector?"

Arcturus chuckles softly, shaking his head. "Not exactly."

You glare at him, but there’s no heat behind it. "He could be a monster, for all I know. My father says he’s cold, that he’s everything the Black family represents. Whatever that means."

Something flickers in Arcturus's eyes, something you can’t place. "And what do you think?"

You huff out a breath, plucking at the grass again. "I think...I think I hate him already. I hate that he’s stolen my life without even knowing my name. I hate that I have no choice. That I’m just...waiting for my fate to catch up with me."

There’s silence, and when you look back up, Arcturus is watching you with something like sorrow in his gaze. He shifts, his hand moving to brush a stray leaf from the grass between you. "I’m sorry," he says softly, and there’s an edge to his voice, a crack that you don’t understand. "For what it’s worth, maybe he’s not what you think."

You sigh, resting your head back against the tree trunk, eyes fixed on the canopy of leaves above. "Maybe," you murmur, voice heavy with disbelief. "But I doubt it."

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The only sound is the wind through the willow branches and the distant call of night birds. Finally, you glance at him, eyes heavy with questions you don’t know how to ask. "What about you, Arcturus? What is your fate?"

He smiles then, but it’s a brittle, hollow thing. "That," he says quietly, "is a very long story."

And you don’t know why, but the way he says it makes something inside you twist, like you’re grasping at shadows you’ll never quite catch.

He takes a breath, his gaze flickering to the lake's surface as if he might find the right words somewhere in its depths. "I suppose...I’m meant to be something," he says finally, voice almost too soft to catch. "Something important. But it’s all...expected. It’s a role I’m supposed to play, no matter what I want."

There’s a pause, and his eyes find yours, sharp and searching. "My family...they’ve always been strict. My brother...he left. He found a way out, I suppose. And now...well, now it’s just me."

The sadness in his voice is unexpected, laced with something you can’t quite understand. You want to ask more, to pry open that sliver of vulnerability, but the way his jaw tenses tells you it’s not a wound that heals easily. "I wish I could be brave enough to do the same," he adds, almost like a confession, and it strikes you that for all his sharp words and easy smiles, there is a weight on his shoulders too.

You don’t know how you get there, only that you do, and suddenly, you’re speaking about things you haven’t spoken of to anyone—not even Lily. About the way you feel trapped, the way the walls of the castle seem to close in on you more and more with each passing day. How your future is laid out before you like a map with no alternate routes, a cage dressed up in gold and silks.

Arcturus listens with a kind of intensity that is unnerving, his gaze steady on yours, his hands folded neatly in his lap. When you fall silent, he’s quiet for a long time before he speaks, his voice low and careful. "You’re different, you know," he says, his eyes never leaving yours. "Different than...well, than what I’m used to."

You blink, caught off guard. "Different how?"

He looks at you then, really looks at you, and the weight of his stare is almost too much to bear. "I don’t know," he admits, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. "You’re just...not afraid to be who you are. Even if it’s complicated. Even if it’s messy."

You laugh, the sound sharp and unbidden. "Messy? That’s a kind way to put it."

"I’m being honest," he counters, his gaze unyielding. "There’s something...remarkable about that."

His words settle over you like a blanket, warm and heavy, and you don’t know what to say to that, so you look away, fingers curling into the grass. "You don’t know me," you murmur, voice almost lost to the wind.

"I know enough," he replies, and the certainty in his voice makes your heart stutter.

Silence stretches between you, thick and charged. He shifts closer, his hand moving, fingers brushing yours where they rest between you. You look up, startled, but he doesn’t pull away. His eyes are dark and deep, like the surface of the lake at midnight, and there’s something written in them that you don’t dare name.

"Arcturus," you whisper, his name slipping from your lips like a secret.

He doesn’t speak, only leans in, so close you can feel his breath against your cheek, warm and steady. His gaze flickers down to your lips, and the world narrows to this moment, this breath, this heartbeat. You don’t think, you only lean forward, eyes slipping shut as the space between you shrinks to nothing—

But then you stop, pulling back sharply, your eyes wide and breath coming in short bursts. "I can’t," you stammer, shaking your head, the words spilling out before you can stop them. "I...I’m engaged. Even if I hate him, even if I don’t want this, I can’t...I can’t do this."

His expression shutters, the warmth bleeding from his gaze, replaced by something you can’t quite name. He nods once, jaw clenched. "I understand," he says, voice clipped and precise, and it is like watching a door slam shut.

You want to say something, to apologize maybe, but the words don’t come. Instead, the silence stretches between you, heavy and unyielding, until you finally stand, brushing off your skirts with shaking hands. "I should go," you whisper, not meeting his gaze.

"Right," he replies, his voice distant. "Of course."

You turn, walking away from the willow tree with your heart pounding in your chest, the taste of regret bitter on your tongue. You don’t look back, and he doesn’t call after you. But you can feel his eyes on you the whole way back to the castle, and it is a weight that lingers long after you’ve gone.

The wind whips at your face as you tear through the gardens, skirts catching on hedges, branches snagging at silks and lace as if they, too, wish to hold you back. Your heart is a drumbeat in your chest, pounding so fiercely it rattles your ribs. Arcturus’s eyes still linger in your mind, the way they had softened just before you had pulled away, the unspoken words hanging heavy in the space between you. You can still feel his breath on your cheek, the whisper of something tender and true, something you can’t afford to touch.

The path to the castle blurs before you, cobblestones slick with the remnants of last night’s rain, but you don’t slow. You can’t. Your mind is a storm, a tangle of thoughts and fears, of truths you’d locked away now clawing to the surface. You think of him—of his laugh, of the way his eyes darken when he’s teasing, of the rare smile that breaks through his careful composure. How could you let it get this far? How could you be so foolish? You’re engaged. You’re practically wedded to Regulus Black, heir to the Black Kingdom, a future carved out in ice and stone. And yet…

You can’t do this.

The castle doors loom before you, tall and imposing, but you don’t hesitate. You burst through them, your breath ragged, tears streaking down your cheeks, burning hot against the chill of the stone walls. You don’t slow until you reach Lily’s chambers, the familiar oak door swinging open as you crash through, startling her where she’s settled by the window, embroidery hoop in hand. Marlene is there too, sprawled across the chaise with a book, her gaze snapping up at the intrusion.

“What in Merlin’s name—” Marlene starts, but you don’t let her finish.

“I can’t do this,” you gasp, voice cracking, hands trembling as you press them to your chest, as if to hold your heart together. It’s a futile gesture; you feel like you’re coming apart at the seams. “I can’t—I think I’m in love with someone else.”

Lily’s embroidery slips from her fingers, landing forgotten on the floor. Her eyes widen with shock. “What?”

“I’m in love with someone else,” you repeat, the words tumbling from your lips unbidden, like they’ve been waiting to escape. Saying it out loud makes it real. Makes it dangerous. “I can’t marry him. I can’t marry Regulus Black.”

Marlene’s eyes narrow, sharp and assessing. “And who, exactly, are you in love with? You’ve barely left the grounds.”

“His name is Arcturus,” you whisper, voice barely above a breath. “We meet at the willow tree by the lake. I know it’s reckless, I know it’s dangerous, but I can’t help it. He understands me, Lily. More than anyone ever has.”

Lily’s gaze softens, her hands coming to rest gently on your shoulders. “And you’ve been meeting him often?”

You nod, tears spilling over as you wipe at your cheeks, but they keep coming, unchecked and unrelenting. “Nearly every evening. I can’t stay away. I feel like—I feel like I can breathe when I’m with him. Like the world isn’t so heavy.” Your voice cracks, and you bite back a sob. “What am I going to do?”

Marlene scoffs, crossing her arms. “You realize you’re engaged to the heir of the Black Kingdom, yes? To marry into that family is an honor, not some burden. Y/N, I love you and you know I stand with you but you can’t do this.”

You turn on her, voice sharper than you intended. “I don’t care if it’s an honor. I don’t even know him, Marlene. I’ve never known him. I don’t want this. I don’t want him.” Your hands clench into fists, knuckles white as the words pour out, unfiltered and raw. “I would rather rot in this castle than be bound to him for the rest of my life.”

Lily’s expression softens further, and she pulls you into a gentle embrace, her hand smoothing down your back. “Do you love him?” she asks quietly, voice barely above a whisper.

Your breath catches painfully. “I—” The words tangle in your throat, suffocating and sharp. You don’t know what you feel; you only know it’s more than you’ve ever felt for anyone. More than you ever thought you could feel. “I don’t know,” you whisper, voice cracking under the weight of it. “But I know I don’t love Regulus. I never have.”

Marlene’s expression is inscrutable, her gaze flickering between you and Lily. “Your wedding is in five days,” she finally says, her voice low and edged with warning. “What are you going to do?”

The question hangs in the air, heavy and unyielding, pressing against your ribs until you can barely breathe. You feel the weight of it settle into your bones, cold and unrelenting. Tears blur your vision again, and you shake your head, a sob escaping your lips. “I can’t—” you choke out, hands trembling as you clutch Lily tighter. “I don’t want this.”

And there it is—the truth, raw and unyielding, settling over the room like a storm cloud. Five days to decide between duty and desire, between a crown of gold and the whisper of freedom beneath the willow tree. Five days to unravel a destiny that has been written in stone since the moment you took your first breath.

The wind whispered through the gardens as you stood at the edge of the balcony, eyes fixed on the distant silhouette of the willow tree by the lake. It had been two days since you had last seen Arcturus, days that stretched long and empty, filled with silks and measurements and Lily’s anxious fussing over the wedding preparations.

 The weight of your obligations pressed heavier with each passing moment, suffocating and relentless. Yet, your thoughts always drifted back to him—to his knowing eyes, his quiet laughter, the way his gaze seemed to peel back the layers of your guarded heart.

It was late, the moon heavy and low in the sky when the knock came at your door. Lily’s head peeked in, eyes bright with something like hope. "He’s here," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "He asked for you."

Your heart stuttered in your chest. "Arcturus?"

She only nodded, stepping back to let you pass. Your feet moved before you could think, silk skirts brushing against marble as you wound your way through the castle corridors. The guards didn’t stop you; they never did. Perhaps they sensed the urgency in your steps, the way your breath hitched with every turn, every flickering torchlight casting shadows that stretched like grasping hands.

You found him by the edge of the gardens, just before the pathway to the lake. His back was to you, shoulders taut, hands clenched at his sides as if waging a war within himself. When he turned at the sound of your footsteps, the moonlight caught on his eyes, illuminating something raw and unguarded there.

"You came," you breathed, the words slipping out unbidden.

He smiled, soft and aching. "I always do."

You stepped closer, heart pounding, your eyes searching his. "I haven’t seen you in days," you said, voice trembling with the weight of it. "I thought—"

He stepped forward, cutting off your words with the closeness of his presence, his hands coming up to cup your face. "I would never leave without saying goodbye," he whispered, his gaze flickering over your features as if committing them to memory. "I’m sorry I’ve been away."

There was something fragile in his tone, a vulnerability that you had never heard before. Your hands came up to cover his, your fingers brushing against the callouses there. "I thought I’d lost you," you confessed, voice barely above a whisper. "And I couldn’t—I couldn’t bear it."

His eyes darkened, his hands dropping to your shoulders, pulling you closer. "You won’t lose me," he promised, the words slipping between you like a vow. "Not now. Not ever."

You wanted to believe him, desperately, fiercely, but the weight of the world hung heavy between you, the shadow of Regulus Black looming like a curse neither of you could escape.

Silence stretched between you, thick with unspoken things. His gaze faltered, dropping to the grass before he spoke again, voice softer, laden with something you couldn’t name. "I need you to forgive me," he said, his eyes lifting to meet yours. His expression was guarded now, almost pained.

You blinked, confusion threading through your thoughts. "Forgive you? For what?"

His mouth opened, then closed, like he was swallowing words before they could spill out. "For what I am," he finally whispered, eyes dark and unyielding. "For what I have to be."

There was a heartbeat of silence, the air between you shifting. You opened your mouth to ask, to pry into the layers of his confession, but he stepped back, his hands slipping from your shoulders. "One day, I hope you’ll understand," he murmured, voice laced with something like regret. Before you could respond, before the questions could claw their way out of your throat, he turned and disappeared into the shadows of the gardens, leaving you standing alone under the weight of moonlight and unspoken truths.

The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting molten light through the arched windows of the drawing room. You sat curled up in the velvet armchair, fingers tracing idle patterns along the embroidery of your skirts. His voice still echoed faintly in your ears, the warmth of Arcturus’s presence lingering even after he had left. You could still picture the way he’d leaned back in his chair, arms crossed and that familiar glint of mischief in his eyes before he’d bid you goodbye.

But the peace was not to last. The door swung open with a sharp creak, and you flinched at the intrusion. A guard stepped in, his armor gleaming under the dying light, his expression stern and unyielding. He bowed stiffly. “Princess, His Majesty requests your presence immediately.”

You straightened, smoothing the creases from your gown and nodding to the guard. “Very well.” Your eyes flickered to the empty seat where Arcturus had been just moments before, and you felt a flicker of disappointment curl low in your stomach. But there was no time for that.

Following the guard through the winding corridors of the castle, you found your mind racing. Your father had not summoned you in weeks—not for dinner, not for counsel, not for anything. The sudden urgency clawed at your thoughts, tightening the knots of anxiety already woven into your spine. When you finally reached the double doors of his study, the guards stationed there stepped aside wordlessly, pushing the grand doors open for you to enter.

Your father stood by the window, hands clasped behind his back, his gaze fixed on the sprawling gardens below. He did not turn when you entered, and for a moment, the silence hung heavy between you, suffocating and stifling. You took a step forward, the heels of your slippers muffled by the thick carpet. “You called for me, Father?”

He finally turned, eyes sharp and calculating, the weight of his crown almost visible in the furrow of his brow. “Yes,” he said simply, gesturing for you to step closer. You obeyed, clasping your hands before you as you awaited whatever command he would cast upon you this time.

“There is to be a dinner tonight,” he began, voice clipped and authoritative. “In your honor.”

Your brow furrowed. “In my honor?”

“Yes.” He moved away from the window, circling his desk with slow, deliberate steps. “We will be traveling to the Black Kingdom. The King and Queen wish to make your proper acquaintance.”

You felt the blood drain from your face, your hands clenching so tightly your knuckles went white. “Tonight?”

“Tonight.” His gaze did not waver, the weight of expectation heavy in his stare. “You are to be dressed accordingly. I will not have our family disrespected by carelessness.”

The words stung, but you swallowed your protest, nodding stiffly. “Yes, Father.”

“You are dismissed,” he said, already turning his back to you, his attention back on whatever plans sprawled across his desk. You stood there for a moment longer, heart hammering wildly in your chest before you turned and fled the room, the doors shutting heavily behind you.

The corridors blurred as you walked, footsteps quickening as you tried to process the onslaught of anxiety clawing at your thoughts. You would meet them tonight. The infamous King and Queen of the House of Black. Your future in-laws. Your heart squeezed painfully at the thought.

And Regulus Black. The boy who would be your husband.

Your mind drifted to Arcturus, to the peace you felt in his presence, to the way his eyes softened when he looked at you. You could still feel the ghost of his voice in your ears, his scent lingering like smoke on your skin. A part of you longed to return to him, to bury yourself in conversation and let the world fall away. But tonight, there would be no escape.

Tonight, you would step into the lion’s den, and you would do it with your head held high.

The hours passed in a flurry of silks and whispers, the sun dipping low behind the castle walls as maids bustled around you, their hands working quickly to lace up the back of your gown. The fabric was rich, a deep emerald green that shimmered with every breath, cinched at the waist and cascading down in layers of soft velvet. Tiny pearls were threaded along the seams, catching the light as if each one held a secret of its own. You stared at your reflection in the tall, gilded mirror, barely recognizing the girl who stared back.

Lily flitted around you like a hummingbird, her hands deftly adjusting your hair, pinning loose strands back with delicate clips adorned with emeralds. “You look breathtaking,” she murmured, stepping back to admire her handiwork. Her eyes shone with something soft and wistful, and you could see the reflection of her smile in the mirror.

You forced a smile, smoothing your hands down the front of your dress. “If only looking like this could make me disappear,” you muttered under your breath, barely loud enough for her to hear.

Lily scoffed, reaching for the silver necklace that lay on the vanity. “It’s just a dinner. Smile, nod, and pretend to be impressed by whatever grand tales they decide to boast about.”

You caught her gaze in the mirror, your own eyes sharp and steely. “Pretend?” you echoed, voice dripping with defiance. “No, I don’t think I’ll be doing that.”

Lily paused, the necklace dangling from her fingers. “What are you planning?”

You turned to face her fully, skirts swishing around your ankles. “What I should have done from the very beginning. If they want a perfect little princess to marry their perfect little prince, then they can look elsewhere.”

Her eyes widened, a smile creeping onto her lips. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I would,” you replied, smoothing the sleeves of your dress as if readying yourself for battle. “I am going to make tonight the most disastrous dinner they’ve ever had.”

Lily’s grin was wicked, eyes gleaming with delight. “And how exactly do you plan on doing that?”

You reached for the emerald earrings on the vanity, fastening them with steady hands. “I haven’t quite decided yet,” you admitted, lips curling into a smirk. “But I guarantee it will be memorable.”

Lily laughed, clapping her hands together. “Well, I hope I get a front-row seat.”

You straightened your shoulders, feeling the weight of the gown settle around you like armor. “Trust me,” you murmured, turning back to the mirror. “You won’t want to miss it.”

The grand hall was a masterpiece of opulence. Chandeliers dripped with crystal teardrops, casting fractals of light across polished marble floors. Silver and emerald banners hung from towering columns, each embroidered with the proud sigil of the House of Black—a serpent coiled around a constellation of stars. Long tables stretched the length of the room, set with gleaming silverware and goblets of glimmering wine, servants standing rigid at attention. The scent of roasted pheasant and honeyed figs clung to the air, heavy and decadent.

You swept in with your head held high, emerald skirts trailing behind you like a river of silk. Lily and Marlene flanked your sides, their eyes wide as they took in the grandeur of it all. "Are you sure about this?" Lily whispered, eyes flickering nervously toward the thrones at the far end of the hall where King Orion and Queen Walburga sat in all their regal splendor.

You barely spared her a glance, lips curling into a sly smile. "Positive."

A herald announced your arrival with a flourish, voice booming across the hall. Conversations hushed, eyes turning toward you with varying degrees of interest and scrutiny. You caught your father's gaze from across the room, his expression strained and painfully neutral. Your mother stood beside him, fingers clasped tightly around her wine glass. She looked as though she might shatter it with sheer force of will.

You offered them a dazzling smile and dipped into a graceful curtsy—one that stretched just a bit too long, toeing the line between elegance and mockery. A ripple of whispers fluttered through the crowd, and you straightened, chin tilted defiantly.

King Orion's eyes were sharp and calculating, glimmering with the weight of decades spent ruling with iron fists and unyielding ambition. Beside him, Queen Walburga's gaze was colder, eyes like shards of glass fixed intently upon you. You felt their scrutiny burn into your skin but met it head-on, refusing to shrink beneath it.

"Princess," King Orion greeted, his voice smooth and slow, like the drag of a blade across silk. "We are most pleased to finally meet you."

You inclined your head, your smile sharper than any blade. "The pleasure is all mine, Your Majesty," you replied sweetly, your voice dripping with saccharine politeness.

Queen Walburga's lips pressed into a thin line. "I trust your journey was pleasant?" she asked, though her tone suggested she did not care in the slightest.

"Oh, absolutely," you drawled, eyes glimmering with mischief. "I only got lost...what? Three, four times? But I suppose that’s to be expected when half the roads are littered with statues of your... glorious family."

A sharp intake of breath rippled through the hall, and you caught the flicker of amusement in Marlene's eyes. Your father looked as though he might choke on his own tongue, his knuckles white as he clenched the armrest of his chair.

King Orion's expression remained unchanged, though his eyes gleamed with a dangerous sort of curiosity. "I shall have to remind the sculptors to make them more... accommodating," he replied smoothly.

You flashed him a smile that was all teeth. "Oh, there's no need. I’m sure it brings great comfort to the peasants to look upon such... unwavering visages every few miles. It’s a wonder they don’t burst into tears of joy."

Lily coughed loudly into her hand, poorly masking a laugh, and you heard Marlene snort behind you. Queen Walburga’s gaze could have frozen the sun. "We are quite proud of our heritage," she intoned icily.

"As you should be," you shot back, eyes glittering with mirth. "It must be very inspiring to rule over a kingdom with such... graciousness."

Your father’s eyes were wide with horror, his hands gripping the table so tightly his knuckles blanched. You could practically feel the waves of panic rolling off of him, but you were far from finished. Oh no, you had only just begun.

You sauntered forward, uninvited, to the edge of their grand table, running your fingers along the polished surface. "It’s really quite something," you continued, voice loud enough to carry through the hall. "Statues, songs, entire holidays dedicated to the House of Black. One would think the sun itself rose and set at your command."

Walburga’s jaw clenched, but Orion only chuckled—a low, rumbling sound that made the hair on the back of your neck stand on end. "You have spirit," he remarked, his eyes glinting with something that bordered on admiration. "I can appreciate that."

You opened your mouth to retort when you suddenly remembered the entire point of this charade. A wicked smile curled your lips. "And of course, there's your son," you began, voice dripping with condescension. "What was his name again? Ah yes, Regulus Black. How could I forget? The prodigal prince. What a delight it must be to have such a paragon of charm and grace representing your family. I hear he never smiles—perhaps it’s because he’s too busy admiring himself in those polished statues. Or maybe he's just terribly, terribly constipated."

A stunned silence gripped the hall. Marlene choked on her wine, and Lily's eyes grew as wide as saucers. Your father looked like he might faint right there in his seat.

And then, somewhere to your left, someone laughed.

It was rich and full-bodied, entirely unrestrained. Heads turned in shock as the sound echoed off the marble walls, filling the hall with something so uncharacteristic that it nearly sent a chill down your spine.

You turned sharply, eyes locking onto the source of the sound, and your breath caught in your throat.

He was standing just beyond the archway, draped in black and silver, a gleam of wicked mirth in his eyes. His lips were curled into a smirk, and he looked every bit the devil you had just mocked. But that wasn’t the most horrifying part.

It was him. Arcturus.

No. Regulus Black.

Your stomach dropped, the world tipping dangerously on its axis as you stared at him. His laughter faded, but the smirk lingered, sharp and knowing. He dipped into a graceful bow, eyes never leaving yours.

"A pleasure to finally meet you, Princess," he drawled, his voice like silk dragged across your skin. "I must say, I’ve never been so thoroughly entertained at my own expense."

The world shattered into shards of disbelief around you. Your hands clenched at your sides, fury and humiliation battling for dominance. Regulus straightened, eyes gleaming with wicked satisfaction.

You wanted to scream. Or faint. Or both.

The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on, heavy with disbelief and something far more dangerous—betrayal. Your gaze remained locked on his, searching for the traces of Arcturus in the lines of his jaw, the curve of his mouth. But it was gone. In its place stood Regulus Black, heir to the throne, shadowed by duty and expectation, polished and poised like a blade fresh from the forge.

"Arcturus?" you breathed, voice strangled and raw, as if speaking the name would summon him back. His shoulders stiffened, the flicker of regret in his eyes shuttered behind a mask of indifference.

King Orion’s gaze cut sharply between you and his son, calculating and cold. Queen Walburga, however, was less composed. Her eyes narrowed, lips curling back as she rose from her throne, each movement deliberate and sharp. "That is quite enough," she intoned, voice like iron wrapped in silk. Her eyes pinned you to the spot, sharp and unyielding. "I will not have you insult our family in front of us. Your father may tolerate your childish insolence, but I assure you, I do not."

You opened your mouth to speak, to spit something venomous and defiant, but your voice lodged in your throat, tangled with shock and disbelief. It was him. The boy from the willow tree, the one who listened to your secrets, who laughed at your jokes, who looked at you like you were something brighter than the sun. It was him. And he had lied.

"You… you pretended to be someone else," you said finally, voice trembling with fury. "You—"

Regulus stepped forward, expression smooth and indifferent, the warmth you had known gone as if snuffed out by cold wind. "I did what was necessary," he replied, voice sharp and practiced. "I wanted to know who you were beyond the walls of your father’s castle." His eyes met yours, unyielding and impenetrable. "And now I do."

Queen Walburga’s eyes glittered with satisfaction. "It seems my son has a better understanding of your nature than we initially thought." Her gaze swept over you, thinly veiled disdain dripping from every word. "Perhaps now you might think twice before running your mouth like a common street wench."

Your fists clenched at your sides, nails biting into your palms hard enough to draw blood. "A common street wench? How fitting, coming from a woman who thinks cruelty is the same as class," you spat back, eyes ablaze. "But please, continue—I was just starting to learn all the ways to be absolutely miserable."

Walburga’s eyes flared with fury, but before she could open her mouth, Regulus’s voice sliced through the tension. "Mother," he said, voice steady but edged with warning. "That is enough."

Walburga’s eyes flashed with surprise before her lips pressed into a thin line. "Enough? She has disrespected our family, insulted you to your face, and—"

"And it is done," Regulus interrupted smoothly, his gaze unyielding. "Let us not embarrass ourselves further." He turned back to you, his expression a mask of cold civility. "You wanted to make an impression, Princess. Consider it made."

You scoffed, fury crackling beneath your skin like wildfire. "Oh, I’m sorry," you said with a vicious smile. "Did I not behave like the perfect little doll you wanted? Should I have sat quietly and batted my eyelashes while you all preened in your thrones? Should I have complimented the wallpaper while you all plotted my life for me?"

Regulus’s lips twitched—almost a smile—but it faded as quickly as it came. "You always did have a flair for dramatics," he remarked dryly.

"And you always did have a flair for lies," you shot back. "Arcturus, really? How dramatic. What was next? Would you have told me you were a traveling poet looking for inspiration?"

He snorted despite himself, the sound startling in the heavy silence of the hall. But it was gone in an instant, his expression shuttering as he straightened, glancing back at his mother. Walburga looked fit to burst, fury coloring her pale cheeks. "I think we’ve had quite enough of this," she snapped. "You are a disgrace, speaking this way before your future husband’s family."

Before you could fire back, your father’s voice cut through the chaos. "Enough," he commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument. He stepped forward, placing a firm hand on your shoulder. "Apologize. Now."

Your gaze flickered to your father’s stern expression, then back to Regulus, who was watching you with an unreadable look. You swallowed hard, defiance and fury clawing at your throat. "I’m sorry," you bit out, voice dripping with venom.

Regulus's eyes darkened, but he remained silent. Walburga raised her chin, satisfied. "I think it is time we continue this discussion in private," Regulus said suddenly, his hand gripping your arm with surprising gentleness, though his eyes were locked on yours with a glint of warning. He turned to the table, voice smooth and polite. "Excuse us. I would like a word with my fiancée."

Without waiting for a reply, he led you out of the hall. Regulus’s grip on your arm was firm but not cruel, his hand wrapping around your wrist as he led you through the winding halls of the palace. The echoes of your footsteps bounced off the marble walls, sharp and unforgiving, accompanied by your furious string of curses. His expression remained infuriatingly calm, unyielding even as you dug your heels into the floor, forcing him to all but drag you forward.

“Let me go!” you hissed, voice cracking with rage. You tried to yank your arm back, but his grip only tightened, unyielding as iron.

“You’ve made enough of a spectacle for one evening,” he replied coolly, his voice as smooth as polished glass. “Now we are going to talk.”

“Oh, now you want to talk?” you spat, stumbling slightly as he pulled you through the great wooden doors and out into the gardens, moonlight spilling over the hedges and fountains. “You didn’t seem too keen on talking back there, Your Highness. You seemed just fine letting your mother treat me like—”

He stopped so abruptly you nearly collided with his back. Regulus turned to face you, his eyes dark and unyielding, shadows pooling beneath his lashes. “You think I wanted that?” he asked, voice low and sharp. “You think I planned for any of this?”

You wrenched your arm free, stepping back, chest heaving. “I don’t know what you planned, Regulus,” you snapped, voice splintering with every word. “I don’t know anything about you. Not really. Arcturus was a lie. This was a lie.”

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, something like pain flickered across his expression, raw and unguarded. “It wasn’t,” he said, almost a whisper, like the words might shatter if spoken too loudly. “Not all of it.”

You laughed, the sound harsh and broken. “Right. So which part was real? The lies? The deception? Or maybe it was the part where you pretended to be someone else just to humiliate me?”

Regulus stepped forward, and for the first time, you saw the crack in his armor, the flicker of something unguarded in his eyes. “I never planned for this,” he said again, voice sharper this time, edged with something desperate. “I never planned to meet you under that willow tree. I never planned for you to haunt my thoughts or make me feel like I’ve known you my entire life when I’ve barely known you a month.”

You took a step back, but he followed, his eyes locked on yours with a determination that stole the breath from your lungs. “You think I wanted to feel like this?” he asked, voice dropping to a whisper that seemed to curl around your heart, squeezing tight. “You think I wanted to look at you and see something familiar, something I can’t name? Something that feels like I’ve been waiting my whole life just to find it?”

Your breath caught, your hands curling into fists at your sides. “Stop it,” you whispered, but there was no strength in it.

“No,” he said, voice roughening with a kind of frustration that edged on desperation. “You think I wanted to be dragged to dinners and meetings, paraded around like I’m some kind of perfect heir? You think I wanted any of this?” His voice cracked, just slightly, but it was enough to send a shock through your spine.

“You’re still playing a game, Your Highness,” you shot back, chin tilted defiantly. “Still pretending to be someone you’re not.”

“Maybe I am,” he conceded, stepping closer, his eyes burning into yours. “But I wasn’t pretending with you. Not under that willow tree. Not when you called me Arcturus and I almost wished I was.” His voice dropped, softer now, edged with something like longing. “Because with you, it was the only time I felt real.”

“You—you don’t get to say that,” you snapped, anger and desperation bubbling up in your chest. “You don’t get to pretend you’re some tragic hero when you’ve done nothing but lie.”

“And you think I wanted that?” His voice sharpened, his eyes blazing. “You think I wanted to feel anything at all? I don’t have that luxury. You want to know the truth? Fine.” He stepped closer, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him. “I haven’t slept since that first night at the lake. I haven’t thought straight since you started looking at me like I’m worth something more than this crown. You want to hate me? Go ahead. But don’t you dare think for a second that I don’t feel this.”

His chest heaved, breaths ragged, his eyes locked on yours. And before you could think, before you could speak, his hands cupped your face, and his mouth crashed onto yours, fierce and desperate and so full of unspoken words that you felt your knees weaken. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. It was raw and wild and everything you never thought you wanted until now.

You melted into him, fingers tangling in the dark strands of his hair, his hands firm on your waist, pulling you closer until there was no room left for air. It was everything and nothing like you imagined: tender and desperate, the taste of unspoken promises lingering between you.

Regulus pulled back slightly, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath uneven. “I’m not ready to lose this,” he whispered, the words slipping out like a confession. His eyes opened, dark and gleaming with a sincerity that left you breathless. “Not yet.”

“You won’t,” you promised, voice trembling as you brushed your thumb across his cheek, marveling at the warmth of his skin, the fragility of this moment. “We have time.”

But the words barely left your lips when the sound of shouting shattered the stillness. You flinched, your hands slipping from his hair as you turned toward the noise. The distant flicker of torches wove through the hedges, shadows stretching long and dark across the grass.

“Stay here,” Regulus commanded, his voice sharp with authority you had never heard from him before. He straightened, eyes fixed on the approaching chaos. “I’ll see what’s going on.”

“Wait,” you grabbed his arm, nails biting into the fabric of his coat. His eyes flickered back to yours, softening for just a moment. “Be careful.”

His gaze lingered, his hand covering yours and squeezing gently before he pulled away, disappearing into the shadows. You stood there, breath held tight in your chest, the echoes of raised voices growing louder. You could hear footsteps, hurried and frantic, moving through the gardens, and your stomach twisted with unease.

It happened before you could scream.

A flash of silver, the whisper of a blade slicing through the night air. Pain bloomed in your side, sharp and unyielding, knocking the breath from your lungs. You staggered back, eyes going wide as you looked down, blood blossoming across the fabric of your gown, staining it crimson. Your hands flew to your side, warm liquid pooling between your fingers.

“No…” you whispered, legs giving out as you collapsed to the ground, the cobblestones hard and unforgiving beneath you. The world blurred, darkening at the edges, and you could faintly hear the sound of your name being called, frantic and desperate.

Regulus appeared as if conjured from shadow, his eyes wild with panic as he dropped to his knees beside you. His hands were on you immediately, pressing against the wound, trying to stem the flow of blood that spilled between his fingers. “Stay with me,” he choked out, his voice cracking. “Don’t—don’t do this. Please.”

You tried to speak, to tell him you were still there, but the words wouldn’t come. His hands were shaking, stained red, and his eyes—those beautiful, haunted eyes—were rimmed with tears. “It’s going to be fine,” he said, over and over, as if the words could will it into truth. “I won’t let you go. I swear it.”

You reached up, your blood-slicked hand brushing against his cheek. He flinched, eyes snapping back to yours, and you saw it—the raw, unrestrained terror written across his features. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, the words barely a breath. His hands pressed harder, desperation etched into every line of his body.

“Don’t be,” he growled, shaking his head. “Don’t you dare be sorry. This isn’t—you’re going to be fine. I’m going to fix this.” His eyes flickered up, scanning the darkness, as if help might emerge from the shadows. “I swear to you.”

But your vision was fading, the garden blurring into shadow and light, his face the only clear thing left. You tried to hold onto it, to the curve of his jaw, the storm in his eyes, the way his hands trembled even as he tried to be strong. You wanted to tell him not to be afraid. That it wasn’t his fault. That you weren’t afraid.

But the darkness came, slow and suffocating, wrapping around you like a whisper of silk. His voice grew distant, the echo of your name dissolving into silence. His hands were still there, trembling against your skin, unwilling to let go even as the world faded away.

And then there was nothing but the cold and the sound of his breaking heart, shattered like glass in the quiet of the garden, under the light of the merciless moon.

Your mother is the first to scream. It is a sound that splits the morning in two, a raw, unyielding thing that splinters through the garden and shatters whatever delicate peace remains. She crumples to her knees beside you, hands hovering above your blood-soaked dress as if afraid to touch, as if the reality of it all might burn her palms. Her fingers finally make contact, smoothing back strands of hair from your forehead, her breath ragged as she whispers your name over and over again, as if the syllables alone could summon you back.

Your father is next, stumbling through the manicured hedges, his crown slipping from his head as he falls beside her. His hands are not so gentle—he grabs your shoulders, shakes you as if that could rattle you back to life, as if that could unspool time and undo the iron-wrought truth of your stillness. His voice is choked, desperate, the kind of desperation that makes kings into beggars. He is pleading with the universe, with fate, with whatever gods may be listening. But you do not stir. You do not move.

You are gone, eyes still open, lashes damp with dew or tears—no one can tell. The willow's branches sway above you, casting dappled light across your lifeless face, and somewhere in the distance, the lake sighs against its banks, uncaring and eternal. It is as if the world itself refuses to acknowledge the loss, as if the birdsong and the rustle of leaves are too cruelly indifferent.

The kingdom weeps for you. The whispers rush like wildfire: the princess is dead, blood-stained and cold beneath the willow tree. The flower that was promised to bloom has withered before the sun could touch its petals. Servants sob in the corridors, maids clutching at their aprons as if the seams might hold them together. The nobles murmur behind gloved hands, eyes wide with disbelief, with fear. Because if even love like that could end, what hope did the rest of them have?

And while your parents scream, while the palace floods with grief, Regulus walks.

He is not there to see you lowered into the earth. He is not there to watch the marble doors of your tomb slide shut, sealing away whatever softness had lived between you. He is gone, long before your father’s blade is raised to the throne room doors, long before Walburga’s brittle hands clutch at her son’s absence, long before Orion’s rage splits the air. He walks alone, feet bare and bloody as he treads the path toward the willow. He does not feel the earth beneath him, does not hear the wind rustling the leaves. His mind is empty, hollowed out, a ship adrift with its sails torn and rudder shattered. He walks like a man in a dream, eyes unblinking, gaze fixed on the distant shimmer of the lake.

When he reaches the water’s edge, dawn has bled into morning. Light splays across the surface like shards of glass, and the air is sharp with the promise of rain. He steps forward, the water curling around his ankles, then his knees, then his waist. It is cold—he barely notices. He walks deeper still, the lake whispering against his skin, tendrils of willow brushing his shoulders as if bidding him goodbye.

He remembers the first time he saw you beneath its branches, sunlight splintering through the leaves, your laughter spilling out like music. He remembers the way you’d crinkle your nose when you were frustrated, the way your eyes shone with rebellion and fire. He remembers your voice, how it lilted when you spoke his name—Arcturus—and how it sounded when you finally whispered Regulus. He had never heard his name sound like that before, like it was safe, like it was something worth saying.

The water reaches his chest, then his throat, lapping at his jawline, pooling into his mouth with each ragged breath. He inhales, the lake filling his lungs, heavy and unforgiving. His eyes never leave the horizon, even as the water climbed higher, even as the weight of it pressed against his chest, making it harder to breathe. He did not stop. Did not falter. There was nothing left to stop for.

The lake swallowed him whole, the willow branches swaying with the wind, whispering secrets only the dead could keep.

When the water finally stilled, there was nothing left but the ripple of leaves, the quiet sigh of the wind, and the memory of a prince who loved too fiercely in a world that did not know mercy.

And in that silence, the world went on, unknowing and unchanging, as if you both had never existed at all.

Years passed, and the kingdom moved on, as kingdoms always do, but the lake remained untouched. The willow grew taller, its branches sweeping the surface like fingertips skimming the water, and people stopped walking its shores.

But sometimes, when the moon was high and the wind was soft, travelers swore they could hear it—your laughter, his voice, entwined beneath the willow’s shadow, echoing across the lake like a memory that refused to die.

taglist: @kysidctbh @tuttifrutt1 @primroseluna

[rottenpumpkin13]

HC:

Genesis is addicted to Reddit because Drama™︎. He is ready to call out all the assholes & give advice for wedding time vengeance. He has so many tabs open. So many.

Everyone has had to drag him off to bed & confiscate his PHS at some point. Their greatest weapon so far is a sleepy, adorable & grumpy Cloud who just wants Genesis to come to bed, maybe carry him, please? Before Cloud threatens to bite him like the tired little Nibel dragon he truly is inside.

Depending on the schedule, if Sephiroth is there he goes full cat mode & just flops down on Genesis, pinning him to the bed. Can't move a cat. It's illegal.

Sometimes Genesis is just at the center of a fiercely cozy snuggle pile of silver, gold & obsidian. Sometimes it's okay.

...but then his PHS chimes because no one turned it off && he needs to know if brideaway123 succeeded in getting one over on her snippy, downright insulting, obsessively micromanaging MIL! He needs to, Angeal!

Oh this I can get behind. The man loves life and drama, so he takes to lurking in every subreddit, from his fan clubs to SOLDIER, to endless Loveless. But his true love is r/AmITheAsshole, where he's defo written a post or two that's carefully worded to paint himself as the misunderstood hero.

*Genesis sits down across from Sephiroth at lunch*

Genesis: Am I the asshole for borrowing Masamune because a hero's blade adds poetic gravitas to mundane moments, then using it to recreate the sword-raising scene from Act III, but then scratching the blade when I plunged it into the wall to kill a spider?

Sephiroth:

Genesis: The Reddit thread has 10k upvotes and they say it's 'iconic behavior.' Also, the spider was fine.

Sephiroth: Am I the asshole for murdering the person sitting across from me?

Genesis: What do you mean? You're not—

*Masamune materializes at Genesis' throat*

Genesis: HELP

[mopsburgfalls]

Rolls Royce Silver Cloud III H.J.Mulliner saloon

[les-belles-mecaniques]

1964 Rolls-Royce

Silver Cloud III by Mulliner/Park Ward

[hainge]

Fourth bullet: A bow for the bruised

cowboy!kaiser x fem!reader pt. 4 (wc 6.5k) from Silver bullets and stolen hearts part III part V warnings: MDNI!!! blood, violence, trauma, panic attacks, emotional breakdown, mention of death, intense emotional distress, swearing

“Listen to me, goddamn it!” he shouted, his hand grabbing at your neck, tightening just a little too hard, almost choking you with the weight of his desperation.

You froze.

Your breath caught. For a moment, everything stopped, the air, the sound, the light in the room. You could only stare at him, eyes wide in disbelief.

Realizing what he'd done, Kaiser’s face dropped in horror. His hand slipped away from your skin like it burned him. “Shit… I didn’t mean-” he turned sharply, dragging a hand over his face as if he could wipe away the guilt. “Fuck, sorry,” he muttered, voice low and tight with frustration, though not at you. At himself.

You were still frozen, shaking, your pulse hammering in your ears.

“You’re not him,” you whispered again, like if you said it enough, it might all go away.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” his voice was clipped now, colder than before. It cut through the air like a blade.

You backed away from him with a glare, your voice trembling but fierce. “Don’t even think about reaching for me again.”

Then you turned and stormed off, footsteps heavy and fast up the stairs. You didn’t look back.

“Fuck!” Kaiser roared, slamming his fist into the nearest wall. The thud echoed through the house, followed by the sound of his harsh breathing.

Upstairs, you stumbled into your room and slammed the door shut behind you. You couldn’t breathe right. Your hands were shaking uncontrollably as you collapsed into the chair by your desk.

You gripped the sides of your head, nails digging into your scalp as if the pressure might stop your thoughts from spiraling.

Tears streamed down your face, and with a broken sob, you wiped them away with the sleeve of your shirt, harsh, dramatic, like trying to erase something permanent.

You reached for a pencil. Drawing always helped. It always grounded you. But this time, the lines came out shaky, the sketch unrecognizable. Your fingers trembled, and the paper blurred beneath your tears.

It wasn’t working.

Nothing was.

And for the first time in years, even art couldn’t save you from yourself.

Kaiser stormed out of the house, frustration bubbling inside him. His jaw clenched as he made his way to his white horse. Why’s she gotta be so difficult? he muttered under his breath, the words tasting bitter as they left his lips.

In a swift motion, he mounted the horse, the tension in his body mirrored by the sharpness in his gaze. He didn't know where his anger was taking him, but it seemed like his instincts knew better. The ride was a blur, his thoughts clouded with a mix of frustration and worry. Before he knew it, he found himself standing at your father's office, the door creaking open as he stepped in.

Your father, engrossed in important papers, looked up with a raised eyebrow when he saw Kaiser. The tension in the room was immediate. “Tell me,” he said, his voice cool, assessing.

Kaiser slumped into the chair opposite him, his expression vacant but clearly laced with anger. “I fucked up,” he muttered, the words heavy on his chest.

Your father didn’t flinch, merely watching him with a steady gaze. “You didn’t tell her?”

Kaiser let out a frustrated huff, running a hand through his hair. “I did. I tried. But… she kind of overreacted.”

Your father’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he remained silent, waiting for Kaiser to explain further.

Kaiser shifted in his seat, trying to organize his thoughts. “She… she was already losing it. Woke up from those damn nightmares again, and then, when I tried to talk to her, I-” he stopped himself, visibly frustrated. “I didn’t even get to finish. She freaked out on me, told me to never reach for her again.”

Your dad placed the papers down, his fingers lightly tapping the desk as he sighed, absorbing the weight of Kaiser’s words. “I understand...” he murmured, his voice calm but carrying the weight of understanding.

Kaiser clenched his fists. “It’s my fault,” he said, his tone dark, self-critical.

Your dad shook his head. “Don’t say that.”

“I pushed her too hard,” Kaiser continued, his frustration getting the better of him. “I didn’t even let her breathe, and now she’s completely shut me out. I didn’t mean for it to go like this.”

Your father leaned back in his chair, his gaze thoughtful. “She’s been through a lot. You need to be patient with her.”

Kaiser’s jaw tightened. “I know, but... What if it’s too late?”

“I think we still have time,” your father said quietly, his voice carrying a mix of reassurance and caution. “You’ll need to approach her carefully, but don’t give up on her.”

Kaiser’s eyes hardened. “I’ll try talking to her when I get home, but I don’t think she wants to hear from me right now.”

Your dad nodded, his eyes softening just a touch. “I’ll handle it,” he said. “Give her some space, but don’t let her shut you out completely.”

Kaiser hesitated, a flicker of doubt crossing his face. But he nodded, standing up from the chair. “Thanks.”

As he left the office, the weight of the conversation hung over him, heavier than ever. He knew the path ahead wasn’t going to be easy, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he needed to fix this, no matter what. He walked into the saloon, his boots dragging a bit more than usual. The light chatter and clinking glasses barely registered in his mind. He made his way to the bar, eyes shadowed, shoulders tense.

"A beer," he muttered to the bartender, voice low and tired. A part of him wished it were you behind the counter, giving him that cautious stare, maybe even asking what was wrong.

When the drink was placed in front of him, he didn’t thank the man. He just took a sip and stared at the amber liquid, letting his thoughts drown in it. Your eyes, your voice, the way you pulled away from him, it all played over and over in his head.

He let out a long sigh, his thumb rubbing against the rim of the glass. Then, without meaning to, he set the glass down harder than he should have. It hit the bar with a loud thud, making the worker flinch. Kaiser didn’t even apologize. Threw few coins on the counter and walked out without a word, the saloon doors creaking shut behind him.

Back in your room, you sat hunched over your desk, sketching with a tight grip on your pencil. Your fingers trembled, but the lines were cleaner now, more deliberate. The drawing wasn’t of anyone in particular, just some imaginary figure with eyes too sharp and a mouth too kind. Still, it looked more alive than anything you'd drawn recently. You’d calmed down just enough to hold the pencil straight, but your chest still ached, tight and twisted like something inside you was slowly collapsing.

“Fucking dumbass,” you hissed under your breath, jaw clenched. Of course, you were talking about Kaiser. Who else?

Your hand snapped forward. The page tore out of the sketchbook in one swift motion. You crumpled it into a tight, wrinkled ball and threw it hard at the wall. It bounced off with a soft thud and disappeared somewhere under the desk, but it wasn’t enough. The anger didn’t leave. It sat under your skin, boiling.

“Idiot, idiot, idiot,” you muttered, punctuating every word with a sharp tap-tap-tap of your pencil against the sketchbook cover. Each hit was a little louder, a little more frantic. Then, without thinking, you hurled the whole book across the room. It smacked the wall and landed with a heavy flop on the floor, the sound slicing through the stillness of the night like shattered glass.

And just like that… you broke.

You curled up on the chair, arms hugging your knees to your chest as you slid down, burying your face. A choked sob clawed its way out of your throat, then another, and another, until they came in a stream. The tears came fast, warm and salty, blurring everything. You couldn’t see through them, couldn’t speak—just small, broken cries and shaky inhales filled the room.

You didn’t even know what you were crying about anymore.

Maybe at first it was Kaiser, his recklessness, his smirk, his gall to play with your heart like it was a game, but now… now you weren’t crying over him. Not really.

You were crying over everything.

Over every mistake you made. Over every word you shouldn’t have said. Every fake scenario you played in your head where you were braver, cooler, stronger. Where you weren’t you. You cried for every time you bottled it up, every time you smiled when you wanted to scream. Every time you let people in who walked away like you were nothing.

The tears weren’t about him anymore, they were about you.

This, somehow, was how you comforted yourself. Not with kindness or softness. But with this: sadness. This hollow, aching thing that wrapped around your shoulders like a blanket. You curled into it, held it close. The crying, the pain, the numbness that followed, it was familiar. Familiar enough to be soothing in its own twisted way.

And so you stayed there, alone in your room with tear-streaked cheeks and a storm in your chest, holding yourself as if you could keep all the pieces from falling apart. The sun had just risen over the hills, painting the dirt-strewn land in hazy blue and gold, but the air was already thick with dust, sweat, and something fouler, tension.

Behind the old millhouse, tucked in the shadow of a crumbling stone wall, four men stood in a crooked circle. Kaiser leaned against a wooden crate, turning an Apache revolver in his hand with absent precision. The brass glinted with each lazy spin of the cylinder, but his eyes didn’t follow it. They were distant, unfocused, as though his mind was somewhere far away, or stuck on someone far away.

Ness watched him out of the corner of his eye. He stood a pace back, hands tucked behind his back in his usual prim fashion. "Kaiser," he asked softly, almost like a whisper not meant to be heard, "is everything alright?"

Kaiser hummed in response, a low, noncommittal sound. He didn’t lift his gaze. Didn’t blink. Just kept turning that gun in his hand like it was the only thing keeping his thoughts from unraveling.

Ness fell silent. He knew better than to push.

“OI,” Shidou barked, snapping the silence like a whip. He stepped toward the trader, the jittery man with a gut too big for his vest and a twitch in his eye. “You tryna rob us, old man? This here’s not even Colt steel. You polish up some rusted trash and think we wouldn’t notice?”

The man paled. “I told you it’s genuine! French issue. Mercenary-grade!”

“Looks like you fished it outta a pig’s ass,” Shidou growled, reaching for his belt. “We could just shoot him and take the rest. Save us the goddamn trouble.”

“That’s against the rules,” Rin’s voice cut in cold and calm, like steel in a snowstorm. He stood with his arms crossed, posture rigid. His sharp gaze flicked from the gun to the man, calculating.

Shidou whipped his head around, scoffing. “And since when do you speak, Mr. Daddy Long Lashes?”

Rin’s jaw clenched. “Since you started running your mouth like a rabid dog. We’re here to do business. Not butcher street rats in broad daylight.”

The trader nodded eagerly, desperate to side with someone, anyone. “Y-yeah! Listen to your friend here. He’s got a brain-”

“I wasn’t defending you,” Rin snapped. “You tried to sell us rot disguised as gold. You think we’re blind or just stupid?”

“I’m telling you, it’s all clean! Nothin’ wrong with the-” "-And you think dragging your ass to us with lies wouldn’t blow back? Who do you think you’re dealing with?” Rin stepped closer now, his voice low but lethal. “This isn’t some street corner trade. You try to cheat us, we don’t forget it.”

The trader’s face twisted. Maybe it was fear. Or maybe pride scraping up what little spine he had left. “Don’t act so damn holy,” he spat, looking between them. “You’re all outlaws playin’ dress-up in town colors. And you” he pointed a shaky finger toward Kaiser, “all this hell lately? All ‘cause your little slut got herself mixed up in something she shouldn’t.”

Everything stopped. Ness’s quiet humming faltered. Even Shidou’s usual smirk twitched, as if caught between surprise and fury. The wind seemed to hush for a moment, letting the silence ring louder.

Kaiser didn’t look up. Didn’t speak.

CRACK.

The revolver slammed into the side of the trader’s jaw with such force that his knees buckled before the pain even registered. Blood sprayed in a thin arc as the man collapsed into the dirt, gasping through grit and broken teeth. His body twisted in a spasm, half-conscious already.

Kaiser stepped forward, slow and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world. He planted his boot against the side of the man's skull and leaned his weight down. Not enough to kill. But enough to make the man freeze, trembling under leather and steel.

“Say it again,” Kaiser muttered, voice calm, too calm. “And I’ll take your pitiful little life right here. I’ll gut you like the pig you are, and let the buzzards eat your pride.”

The man whimpered something unintelligible. Kaiser pressed down harder.

“Where’s your boss?” he asked again, low and cold.

“I-I don’t know!” the man coughed, voice hoarse. “I swear it-he moves around-never tells us where-”

“I knew it,” Kaiser muttered, half to himself. He stepped back and landed one more kick into the trader’s ribs, sharp and efficient. The man wheezed, curling into himself like a crushed dog.

“Fucking cowards,” Kaiser growled, turning his back. “Always hiding in someone else's dirt. Rats under states that should’ve burned a decade ago.”

He didn’t look at the others. Just kept walking, revolver still in hand, the morning light making the barrel gleam.

“Take everything,” he called over his shoulder. “And him.”

The three moved at once.

Ness crouched to begin gathering the crates, rifles, revolvers, cartridges, and a crude satchel of homemade explosives. His movements were quiet, practiced. No hesitation.

Rin grabbed a small bundle of dynamite sticks, tied neatly with a crude cloth strip, and examined the capped fuse like he was checking the craftsmanship of a blade. “Crude but functional,” he muttered. “Could bring down a wagon.”

“Could bring down a town,” Ness corrected softly, wrapping the satchels in burlap and tossing them into the back of the trader’s own horse wagon.

Shidou tied the man’s hands and legs with rope from the supply packs, not bothering to be gentle. “Guess we’re keepin’ you,” he said, tugging the knots tight enough to make the man groan. “Hope your boss likes sendin’ flowers to corpses.”

The trader didn’t respond. He was half-conscious, his face bloodied and his pride long gone.

Once everything was packed, Rin and Ness mounted their horses. Shidou climbed up into the wagon bench, reins in hand, humming a mocking tune as they pulled away from the millhouse.

Meanwhile, Kaiser rode alone.

His white horse moved smoothly beneath him, hooves crunching over the dry gravel path that led through the outer farmlands. The sun had climbed a little higher now, painting the sky in pale amber and blue. A breeze tugged at his coat.

The horse let out a soft, low whinny.

Kaiser patted her neck gently, fingers brushing through her mane. “What is it, beautiful?” he murmured. “Hungry? Yeah… I figured.”

He leaned down, pressing his forehead briefly to the side of her head. “We’ll stop by the next ridge. Get you something good. Something sweet.”

Then he sat back up, jaw clenched and eyes ahead.

But his grip on the reins never tightened. Shidou hadn’t stopped talking since they left the millhouse. The poor trader, now tied up in the back of the wagon with a bloody rag stuffed in his mouth, sat hunched between crates of dynamite and stolen rifles, looking like he was reconsidering every decision that had led him to this moment.

“Look at you,” Shidou jeered, grinning wide as he leaned over the side of the wagon. “Sweatin’ like a hog in church. I bet your wife left you 'cause your breath smelled like bad clams.”

The man didn’t respond, but the dead-eyed stare he gave back said enough.

“No, no, I got it,” Shidou continued, slapping his knee. “You were breastfed with moonshine, weren’t ya? That’s why your brain so small.”

Up ahead, Kaiser’s white horse slowed at the fork in the road. Without a word, he steered left, veering away from the wagon’s path.

“Oi! Where you goin’?!” Shidou hollered after him.

“I’ll be there after six” Kaiser called back, voice half-lost in the wind.

Shidou rolled his eyes. “Jeez. So bipolar.”

“Bipolar people aren’t like that,” Rin muttered coolly, not even glancing his way.

“Boy, shut yo bitch ass up.”

Rin’s expression darkened, but he said nothing. Kaiser rode into the quieter part of town, the clip-clop of his horse echoing softly in the still morning air. Dust clung to the hem of his coat, and the handle of the Apache revolver still poked from his holster, but he didn’t care. His mind was far from guns and gangs right now.

He stopped in front of the small, weathered storefront with faded green lettering above the door:

“Sage & Tallow: Books, Paints, Supplies”

The moment he saw it, the memory came back like a sudden breeze.

You were here once, not long ago. Not drawing, no. You had your arms full of brushes and ink bottles, a new journal tucked beneath your chin as you grumbled at the shopkeep about him not having the right paper weight. He remembered watching you from the street. Just watching. You hadn't noticed him at first, or if you did, you didn’t care.

He remembered the way you barely looked up when he walked inside. How you gave him a bored glance, barely more than a flick of the eyes. He’d tried to flirt, some dumb line about how people like you shouldn’t be allowed to roam around unsupervised with that kind of beauty.

You blinked. Bought your things. Walked right past him with a disinterested, “Excuse me.”

He’d fallen even more for you.

The bell above the door jingled softly as he stepped inside. The smell of paper, dried paint, beeswax, and wood polish washed over him, grounding him for a moment. Shelves stood crooked with age, packed tight with art supplies, tools, and handmade stationary.

“Good morning, sir-”

“Uhum. Morning,” Kaiser muttered, barely glancing at the shopkeeper as he headed toward the back aisle. He walked past rows of rolled-up parchment and watercolor tins, his hand brushing over jars of powdered pigment and delicate brushes.

He wanted to find anything that might mean something to you.

He didn’t know what to say, not really. Didn’t know how to apologize for everything that had happened. All he knew was that words wouldn’t be enough. Not from him. Not now. So maybe a gift would say it better. Kaiser stood in the middle of the aisle like a lost outlaw in a library, completely out of his depth and starting to get annoyed by it.

He stared blankly at the shelves. Pens. Sketchbooks. Paintbrushes. Pencils. Canvases. All things he could name, sure, but beyond that? Useless. He had no damn clue what any of it meant in your world. Would be dumb to buy you something you probably already had five of. And he sure as hell wasn’t about to grab the first thing that looked vaguely artistic and call it a day.

A voice chirped beside him.

“Need any help, sir?”

He glanced sideways, startled. It was the same shopgirl from before, young, bright-eyed, and entirely too observant for his liking.

“Uhhh-” he started, trying to collect a single coherent thought.

“Looking for something in particular?” she cut in before he could finish. She smiled like she already knew the answer.

Kaiser’s brows twitched together. The hell was her rush? Couldn’t she let a man think for a damn second?

“Yes?” he said, confused and slightly irritated.

“What is it? I can see you’re clearly not into this stuff. Did you come here to get a gift for someone?” she asked sweetly.

Kaiser blinked at her, jaw slack. What the hell—how does she— He caught himself and scoffed, making a face that landed somewhere between what the fuck and mind your business. But she wasn’t wrong.

“…Yeah. That.”

“Well then,” she grinned, “how can I help?”

He turned his face away slightly, hiding his tightening jaw and sharp exhale. He hated feeling out of control. Even more, he hated asking for help. But if this girl got him out faster, so be it.

“I don’t know,” he muttered. “Stuff to draw or something.”

“Ooooh, perfect!” she clapped her hands lightly. “We just got a new shipment this morning. Faber-Castell pencils, from Germany. Ever heard of them?”

He perked up at that. “From Germany, you say?”

“Yup!” she beamed. “Very high quality. Is the person a painter? Designer?”

“Uhhhh… I’d say both,” he answered, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Then these might be perfect,” she said, grabbing a sleek black box off the shelf and handing it to him like it was a sacred relic. “Clean lines, smooth finish. Good enough for professionals, but easy for anyone to use.”

Kaiser hummed, flipping the box over in his hands. He didn’t really know what the hell he was looking at, but he liked the feel of it. Solid. Elegant. Thoughtful.

“I’m gettin’ these,” he said firmly, as if it were his own idea.

“Great! Anything else?”

That question spiraled into an unexpected whirlwind. Somehow, Kaiser left the shop twenty minutes later with a full bag of stuff he didn’t understand, several kinds of paper, a book on composition, two charcoal sets, a tin of graphite sticks, some brushes with animal-hair bristles, and a handful of accessories the girl promised were useful.

He didn’t remember agreeing to all of it. But she had talked fast and looked so damn sure of herself, and by the time he realized what was happening, he’d paid for half the store.

Still…one thing stood out.

The last item the girl had added, almost as an afterthought, was a simple little blue ribbon. Velvet, soft to the touch, tied in a delicate bow.

Kaiser stared at it in his hand as he walked out, boots kicking up little clouds of dust. The color was nice. Soft and cool, like the sky before nightfall. He imagined it in your hair, swaying as you walked ahead of him like always.

He smiled to himself, just a little.

“That one’s my favorite,” he muttered.

Not that he’d say it out loud. Kaiser stepped out of the shop with the bag of supplies slung loosely in one hand, the soft blue ribbon draped over his fingers. The sun was climbing now, casting long, golden streaks across the dry street. His boots struck the wooden planks of the sidewalk with slow, deliberate thuds, each one echoing like the tick of a clock.

When he reached his horse, the mare let out a sharp snort and immediately craned her neck toward him, trying to nibble at the dangling ribbon.

“Hey hey! Quit that,” Kaiser barked, pulling his hand back with a chuckle. “I’ll get your food, calm down. This ain’t for you.”

He rubbed her neck affectionately, trying not to smile too much. The ribbon was for you. He wasn’t sure what it would do, if anything, but he had to try something. Words weren’t exactly his strong suit. But this? This might get him halfway there.

Downstairs, in the soft quiet of the parlor room, you sat at the upright piano. The room was dimly lit, dust dancing lazily through the sunlight that filtered through the slats. Your fingers moved slowly across the ivory keys, tentative, delicate, like they were testing the floor after a storm.

You weren’t playing anything in particular. Just letting the notes bleed out of you. You’d calmed enough to stop shaking, but your breathing still came uneven, and now and then a sniffle would escape, quiet, involuntary.

Your voice, too, broke through in fragments. A soft murmur, barely audible, singing the words you half-remembered from somewhere long ago:

“At least the sea where liberty…will stand in place to seek the rule...the world…”

Then—knock, knock, knock.

Your hands froze mid-phrase. The final note rang out, hung in the air for a moment, and faded.

You sat still for a second, staring ahead. Then, with a soft sigh, you wiped at your cheeks and rested your hands on your thighs, grounding yourself before rising to your feet.

You moved toward the door slowly, hesitantly. “Who’s there?”

A voice answered, muffled but clear. “Letter carrier.”

You opened the door just a crack at first, cautious. A tall man stood there in a dust-coated coat, eyes politely lowered. “D/N L/N?”

You blinked. “…I’m his daughter.”

He gave a slight bow of the head, pressing a knuckle to the brim of his hat as he extended a single envelope.

“Delivered express. No charge today, miss.”

“…Thank you,” you murmured, taking it gingerly.

Without another word, you shut the door quietly behind you.

But you didn’t move.

You stood in the stillness of the hallway, eyes fixed on the card in your hands. The envelope was thin, off-white, sealed with a wax crest you didn’t recognize. You hadn’t even broken the seal yet, but your breath had caught in your throat, held hostage by whatever it might contain.

You pressed the card to your chest and stood there in silence, listening to the wind outside… and the sound of someone’s boots approaching, slowly, from beyond the porch.

You’d always respected your father’s privacy. His letters, his papers, his silences, you never once crossed that line. But this card...something about it didn’t sit right. It wasn’t the seal or the handwriting, it was the strange, heavy feeling in your chest the moment you touched it. Like a warning, almost.

A little glance…won’t do no harm, you told yourself.

You sat down on the worn velvet seat by the piano, folding your skirt beneath you. The envelope trembled slightly in your fingers as you broke the wax seal with care. The paper inside was thick and slightly yellowed at the edges, freshly written, but old in the way it made you feel.

You let out a quiet sniff as your eyes scanned the words.

Your lips moved silently, murmuring the contents like you needed to hear them out loud to believe them.

"Sent under discreet channel—by order and concern of the council. As of the latest developments in our district, the following names must be accounted for and relocated in silence. All moves must be made without suspicion or any hint of escape. Towns and villages are not to be warned in advance. Targeted searches will increase over the next days. Those named are considered priority for transfer, regardless of social or familial status. If resistance arises, secondary measures may be initiated..."

Your brow furrowed.

What…?

As you read further, you recognized several names. Men who worked with your father, names you’d overheard over dinner or in passing through his study. Associates from other cities, maybe even counties. You had never thought much of them. Just business. And then, your name.

“Y/N L/N.”

Right there in the middle of the list. No title, no explanation. Just your name, bold and solitary on the line.

“…without any hint of escape…”

You blinked at the words. Your fingers tightened around the edges of the letter.

“Why…?” you murmured.

Your heart began to beat a little faster, slow and uneven. You read the paragraph again. And again. The message didn’t explain much, just orders. Instructions. Warnings disguised in formal language.

Relocated in silence. Targeted searches. Priority for transfer.

You swallowed hard. The names kept running together now, the letters blurring slightly as the weight of it pressed down on your chest.

Why were you on that list?

Why would someone send this to your father, in secret, and include you?

You stared at the letter, the silence in the room suddenly deafening. The soft scent of dust and old wood from the piano didn’t soothe you anymore. You weren’t just scared.

You were suddenly aware that whatever was happening, it had already started.

The midday sun hung heavy in the sky, casting long blades of light through the thinning branches overhead. A dry breeze rustled through the grass, brushing over the scattered straw where Kaiser lay stretched out, hands behind his head, coat spread beneath him. His white horse grazed nearby, nosing at a patch of wild clover with lazy interest.

Kaiser’s eyes were closed, his face relaxed, almost boyish in the rare moment of quiet. One leg bent at the knee, boot rocking gently in rhythm to some half-thought tune in his head.

"Do ya think she’ll like it?" he asked aloud, voice muffled slightly by the arm he’d thrown over his eyes.

The horse huffed softly.

"Hm? Why you not answerin’?" he teased, lifting the arm to squint over at her. “Tch. Ungrateful.”

The mare gave a slow flick of her ears and went back to chewing.

“Uhum...she’ll like it. Of course she will. She’s not that heartless,” he said with a lopsided grin, letting his head fall back into the straw. His voice lowered to a murmur, more to himself than anyone. “Y/N, Y/N… Y/N…”

He said your name like it had just occurred to him how it really sounded, how it tasted when spoken softly, without rage or urgency. He stretched it out, slow and thoughtful, like a name carried on wind.

“You know,” he began, almost conspiratorial, “I had a dream ‘bout her last night.”

The horse didn’t look up.

“She was in my bed,” he continued, a lazy smirk pulling at his lips. “You should’ve seen her,” he muttered to the horse, who didn’t so much as glance up. “She looked so damn soft. Weren’t wearin’ no corset, no boots, nothin’ that kept her distant.”

He smiled to himself, slow and private.

“She laid next to me, no anger, no glare, no tension in her brow. Just…quiet. Just her. She had her hand on my chest like she meant to stay there.” His fingers pressed lightly to his own sternum, right where he remembered the warmth of your palm. “And she kissed me. Real slow-like. Not rushed. Not ‘cause we were drunk or pissed off. Just ‘cause she wanted to.”

His voice dipped lower.

“I remember her voice. Whisperin’ things she’d never say while awake. Callin’ me by my first name like it was a secret. Told me she missed me. Said I made her feel safe.”

His eyes fluttered shut at the memory, lips parting just a bit.

“She touched me so gentle, I thought I’d imagined it. Her fingers ran down my neck, my arms, like she was memorizing me. And when she climbed on top, she didn’t say a word. Just looked at me…like I was hers. and then…god”

A dry laugh escaped him.

“Never seen her look like that. So sure. So warm. Like she knew what she wanted and it was me, no one else.”

He paused, the grin fading slightly into something more fragile.

“And I held her close, real close,  her breath on my skin, her heartbeat next to mine.”

He rolled onto his side in the straw, facing the horse now.

“I didn’t want to wake up,” he admitted, voice hoarse.

The horse gave a small snort but didn’t move.

Kaiser sighed, brushing a hand down his face.

“She ain’t ever looked at me like that in real life. Maybe she never will.”

He reached over to his saddlebag and fingered the corner of the blue ribbon peeking out.

“But maybe she’ll wear the ribbon. And maybe that’s a start. But I’m still mad at her ok?”

He leaned back again, the name still dancing unspoken at the edge of his mouth. And for the first time in hours, he let himself hope. " I think she’s good in bed," Kaiser murmured, eyes half-lidded as he stretched out on the straw with a dopey grin. “Especially on top - A-OUCH!”

THWACK!

A thick leather belt snapped across his backside like a viper. He jolted upright with a yelp, rolling halfway over and clutching his hip.

“Ah! Miss Ir—ow ow ow—Miss Irene, why?!” he whined like a caught schoolboy.

Behind him stood the small, sturdy silhouette of Ms. Irene, arms crossed, her Sunday apron stained from cooking, and her belt already pulled back for a second swing.

“Been callin’ you for lunch for the past ten minutes, you little mule!” she barked, wagging the belt like a sheriff's badge. “You out here layin’ in dirt talkin’ about bed things like a fool in heat, leave your filthy dreams alone and get your boots in the kitchen!”

“You heard me?” Kaiser asked, scandalized.

“Yes, I did! Heard every damn word, and may God strike me blind if I ever hear it again!”

“I thought you had hearing problems-”

WHACK.

The second lash came quicker than a rattlesnake’s strike. He scrambled back, holding up his hands in surrender while laughing through his flinch. “Okay, okay! I’m coming, I’m coming-!” he cried, rolling to the other side, only to thud hard off the haystack.

He hit the ground with a grunt and a puff of straw, face down, groaning. “You fight like a veteran,” he muttered into the grass, rubbing his sore rear.

His horse, hearing the commotion, trotted over with a slow clip-clop and poked him gently in the ribs with her nose.

“I know, I know,” Kaiser sighed, rolling onto his back and brushing off his shirt. He reached up and gave her a little pat between the ears. “Stay here, alright? Don’t eat the ribbon.”

The mare flicked her tail, unimpressed.

Kaiser stood, brushing hay from his pants, wincing slightly with every step as he limped after Ms. Irene, who was already muttering about “young fools and their rotten brains.” The warm scent of stew and roasted vegetables filled the old wooden kitchen. The table creaked as Kaiser leaned forward with a lazy grin, one hand holding a fork like it was a revolver.

“You haven’t changed at all,” Ms. Irene muttered as she brought over a basket of fresh bread. “Twelve years, dealin’ with the same creature.”

“Mind you, I’m twenty-one now” Kaiser said, puffing out his chest proudly.

“Still growing,” she replied flatly without missing a beat.

Kaiser scoffed. “At least I got a little more mature now, no?”

“Not at all,” Ms. Irene quipped, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Awwwhh…” Kaiser pouted, slumping in his seat like a scolded puppy.

“You did get a little more mature,” came Mr. Ritter’s gravelly voice from behind a rustling newspaper. “Don’t listen to her.”

“See? Nice observation,” Kaiser smirked, turning his smug face toward Irene only for her to walk over and dab his mouth with a towel like he was a toddler. “What was that for?!”

“Eat your vegetables,” she ordered sternly.

“I don’t like ‘em. They’re green.”

“Michael.”

“I hate broccoli,” he grumbled.

“Michael Kaiser.”

“Fine…” he groaned, poking the broccoli with the tines of his fork like it had personally wronged him.

“You want me to feed you again?”

“Nononononono—!” he blurted in panic, shooting her a horrified look.

“Then eat.”

Ms. Irene marched back to the sink, mumbling something under her breath about “overgrown children and empty heads.”

Kaiser huffed dramatically and rested his cheek against his palm, sulking into his plate. “I come back here after nine months and this is how I get treated. I’m not ten anymore,” he muttered, spinning a single carrot like a roulette wheel.

“For us, you are,” Mr. Ritter said, lowering his newspaper with a smirk. “Our little cricket.”

Kaiser barely had time to react before the old man ruffled his hair, rough and affectionate.

“Jeez stop ittt!” Kaiser groaned, batting his hand away while laughing. “Y’all are lucky I like you.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t tan your hide for the things you said to your horse,” Irene called from the kitchen.

"for your information, her name is Athena" Kaiser slumped even lower in his seat, muttering, “and I said I was comin’ to lunch…”

The broccoli remained untouched. “You don’t understand how perfect she is to me,” Kaiser said, turning on his heel with theatrical flair. One hand on his chest, the other gesturing to the heavens, his smirk full of smug devotion. “Y/n was made for me.”

Ms. Irene didn’t even look up from kneading dough. “Mmmhmm.”

“I’m tellin’ you, she’s got that glow, the kind only the good ones got. I can tell she’d be great with kids.”

“You’d be enough for her to babysit,” she replied dryly, patting the dough flat with a sharp thwack.

Kaiser’s face dropped. “Okay, that’s harsh”

He stood up from the chair but something caught his eye, a photo album and numerous faded pictures scattered on a shelf. He paused mid-step and reached for the album, curiosity overtaking his fatigue.

“Wow, wow, wow…What’s this?” he murmured, flipping through its pages. A soft smile tugged at his lips as he discovered snapshots of himself when he was just a kid.

He picked up a particular photo, squinting as he examined it. A kid with a crooked grin stared back at him, all front teeth and scabbed knees, golden hair a wild mess.

“I look adorable,” Kaiser smirked, holding it up like a trophy.

“You were ten there,” Mr. Ritter replied, not even glancing up from his chair.

Kaiser chuckled, flipping to another picture. Then another. His smirk softened. His fingers slowed. The more he looked, the quieter he became.

“I was cute,” he said with a chuckle.

“You were eleven here,” came the steady voice of the man who had helped you earlier, leaning casually against the wall.

Kaiser’s smile widened as he studied the image. “How come I’ve never seen these before?”

The man nodded toward the album. “We lost this album for a few years. Didn’t get a chance to show it to you. This picture-” he pointed gently at one photo, “-was taken on the very same day you came here.”

Kaiser examined the photo closely. Compared to the other pictures, his eyes in this one were dark and tired, as if they had recorded not just a day, but a lifetime of weary determination.

“Anymore important memories, huh?” he murmured, voice soft with a mix of nostalgia and wonder. “I gotta go.”

“Already?” Ms. Irene asked, half-amused and half-concerned.

“Important stuff to do,” Kaiser replied with a wry smile.

With one last glance at the photos and the memories they held, he turned and headed to his room to change, leaving behind the remnants of his childhood, and maybe, just maybe, the promise of new beginnings.

He didn’t want them to see it, but a part of him was still raw, still quietly burning. All from you. And yet, he didn’t want to be mad at you. He couldn’t be, not really. So he swallowed it down, bit back the sting, tucked the ache where the rest of his storms lived, and shut the door behind him.

A beat of silence passed.

"MICHAEL, YOU DIDN’T EAT YOUR VEGGIES!!" came Ms. Irene’s shrill voice from the kitchen, piercing through the house like a bullet through peace.

Kaiser groaned from behind the door. “I knew I forgot something.”

he blinked. Once. Twice.

Then frowned.

He looked over the edge of his bed, only to be met with the sight of Shidou, lounging on the floor like he owned the place, arms behind his head, legs crossed.

“The hell you doing here?”

Kaiser didn’t bother sounding surprised. He knew better than to think a locked door would ever stop Shidou.

“Missed my favorite little bedbug,” Shidou smirked, teeth flashing. “Besides, thought you might wanna hear the latest disaster.”

Kaiser didn’t respond. He just stared, waiting for the inevitable madness.

Shidou sat up with a lazy stretch and spun his body around to face him, cross-legged like a mischievous schoolboy. “Remember that geezer from earlier? Somehow he escaped. Don’t ask me how, probably slipped through a drunk guard’s shadow or some dumb shit.”

Kaiser just raised a brow. Still not reacting.

Shidou grinned wider, undeterred. “Yeah, well, the bastard went straight for revenge, or insanity, who knows. Burnt down a flower shop with one of his old war buddies. A flower shop, bro. The one owned by that sweet lady with the cats? Gone. Toast. Ashes.”

“...How do you miss that bad?” Kaiser muttered under his breath, annoyed but not surprised.

“Right?” Shidou laughed, flopping back onto the bed before propping himself on his elbows. “Anyway. We figured we’d soften him up a bit first, y’know, break the man down.”

Kaiser glanced at him warily. “What the hell does that mean.”

Shidou wiggled his eyebrows. “We tossed him in a room with a few of the local ladies of the night.”

“Jesus Christ-”

“One round in,” Shidou interrupted with a flourish of his hand, “and the guy loses his damn mind. Starts yelling about ghosts, heaven, his wife, foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog. Then boom. Drops dead. Right there. Pants still on his ankles.”

Kaiser stared at him, arms crossed, unimpressed. “That’s not a story. That’s a war crime.”

“And that’s showbiz, baby,” Shidou replied with a wink.

“Oh- and one of the prostitutes took a bullet. Some trigger-happy idiot thought she was holding a knife. She was holding a shoe. And yeah then the old man disappeared after the shot”

Kaiser groaned and dragged a hand down his face.

Shidou beamed. “So. What’ve you been up to?”

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[untouchvbles]

Rolls Royce Corniche at Cassandra's Motorsports Open House (2023) in Pewaukee, WI.