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helenanell · 4 months

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Contempt of Court || Challengers

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Art Donaldson X Fem!Reader

CW: 18+ MDNI. Alcoholism / substance abuse. Suicidal ideation. Mentions of car crash/ injury, infidelity (technically - Art is still married to Tashi, but they’re separated) Angst. Smut. A little toxic.

Wordcount: 10.8K

Notes: No use of y/n. Set after the events of the film. Reader is a Tashi stan (There’s too much Tashi Duncan erasure happening and I won’t stand for it.)

Summary: Still recovering from an injury that put your tennis career on pause, your publicist has landed you a deal to be an ambassador for Nike. What she doesn’t tell you, is that so is Art Donaldson: the player who bad-mouthed you in a live, post match interview two years ago. You only find out once it’s too late.

(This story was inspired by the dynamic between Billy and Daisy in Daisy Jones and The Six. But…make it tennis.)

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For eight agonising weeks, your wrist has been encased in a cast, but now that it’s finally off, you feel far from relieved.

As the doctor had sawn into the plaster, producing a cloud of white dust like he was breaking into a bone instead of revealing a healed one, you had actually felt panicked.

After the car crash, you had spiralled into a pit dug with your own self-pity and pain. And once you’d reached the bottom, you’d staved off the encroaching darkness with alcohol and too many painkillers.

You’d taken drugs before at parties and drunk until you wiped your own memory, the consequence being waking up with your skull practically splitting open from pain. But there was something profoundly different about becoming intoxicated in the hopes of rendering yourself numb:

You hated yourself whilst you were doing it, and once the harmful buzz wore off, you hated yourself a little bit more.

You had become fast friends with shame in the past few months.

You have been desperate to play again, screaming, crying and practically tearing off your own skin with the need to get back to work- to not let yourself fall behind or your ranking suffer.

But, amongst the amalgamation of negatives there had been a sort of relief, too. Relief, because the choice had been taken away from you.

The accident hadn't been your fault and nor could you force your bone to heal faster, so for a brief period of time, you had convinced yourself nothing was your fault. For once, you couldn’t be blamed for your own fall from grace.

But now your bone had healed and if you didn’t give recovery your all, it would be your fault. If there was no triumphant comeback, it would be on you.

Another thing to fail at.

Another thing to lose.

All of which only added to your bafflement over your publicist’s insistence on coming over this morning, in order to discuss ‘a major opportunity’ that wasn’t related to a competition.

You had originally tried to worm out of it, but your coach had found out and given you the third degree.

You’re already tired at the thought of it and you don’t even know what it is yet. You don’t want to think about anything but tennis. You don’t have the energy for it.

In all honesty…you’re hanging on by a thread.

‘Drinking too much’ is a far too casual phrase for how you’ve been living: it has connotations of casualness- a glaring lack of stakes. For you, the stakes are unbelievably high.

You know you can’t afford to become alcohol dependent because even being a functioning alcoholic isn’t an option for you. The only way to function as an athlete—to maintain your career trajectory and the attain the US Open title—is to be at one hundred percent.

Mixing your painkillers with straight vodka isn’t one hundred percent: it’s a cry for fucking help. Except you can’t let anyone hear the cry, you need to stifle it.

It’s bad enough that pictures of you being rolled away from your totalled car in a gurney had been plastered over the internet for weeks after the accident. The alcoholic, pill popping tennis pro was a story that would never go away.

It would morph into an ugly sort of infamy: you’d been in the exclusive club of American sweethearts and heartthrobs who had been hounded so much by the ‘devoted’, that it had driven them to substance abuse to drown out the noise and fortify against the flashing lights.

So, no one could know. No one.

Which is why, as your publicist pulls into your driveway, you’re rushing to hide a half full bottle of vodka inside a hideously expensive—and also just hideous—vase that had been given to you as an engagement gift.

Two years ago, when your fiancé–and fellow tennis player–had been caught in 4k, kissing a barely legal actress from a HBO teen drama, you’d almost smashed the vase. But, something about destroying a gift from Serena Williams felt like spitting out the ambrosia a god had fed you from their very own hand.

So, while your ring had been thrown into a ravine (best not to dwell on that.) the vase had remained.

The doorbell rings much sooner than you’re prepared for. Who knew a five-foot-two woman in heels could move so quickly?

You run over to the door, chewing down on two pieces of gum you’d hastily shoved into your mouth to cover up the scent of alcohol. When you pull it open, you’re met with the stern face of your Publicist, Rebecca. She’s tiny but terrifying, her sharp features framed by a pitch black bob.

Sometimes, it does feel a bit like you’re talking to Edna Mode, but you’d never dare say that.

“Rebecca, hi!” You’re aware the greeting is too happy, and try not to grimace.

When you step back to allow her to enter, Rebecca frowns at you as she passes.

“Why are you fake smiling?” she questions. “Your cast is off, you should be actually happy.”

You drop the toothy grin, wincing with embarrassment as you follow her into the kitchen.

“I am happy about that, obviously.” You clear your throat, overly aware of how disingenuous you still seem. “What I’m not exactly overjoyed about, is whatever this ‘opportunity’ is.”

You watch as Rebecca grabs bottle of water from the fridge and then pulls out a stool to sit at the kitchen island. You follow suit, dropping down beside her.

“Well, you should be. I practically had to sell my soul to get them to pick you.”

You level her with an unimpressed look. “Wow, Rebecca, way to raise me up from rock bottom.”

She waves you away. “Oh, please! You hate when I coddle you.”

You huff, dropping your chin into hand and propping your elbow on the counter. “Okay, out with it then. What is it?”

Rebecca’s cheeks split with a blinding grin. “Nike.” She declares gleefully.

“Nike.”

Her smile dampens, disappointed you haven’t burst into happy tears. “Yes, Nike. You know…Just Do It.”

“Yes, I do. I’d just prefer not, you know…do it.”

Your publicist looks just about ready to slap you. “You’re kidding. It’s Nike.”

“Oh, is it? You haven’t mentioned that.”

Rebecca’s frown becomes a scowl and you think about ducking when she angrily snatches up her water bottle. But she doesn’t throw it, just waves it around as she begins to rant at you:

“Do you know how hard it was to get this?! They wanted Naomi Osaka but I convinced them to go for you instead. And christ knows they were hesitant after the US Open meltdown-”

“We agreed not to refer to it as a meltdown.” You cut in. “My therapist says it has negative connotations that, ‘make me feel a harmful degree of shame.’”

Rebecca scoffs. “You went to one session with that therapist and then fired her because you didn’t like that she drew you a diagram.”

“It was condescending: I’m not five, I don’t need visual aids.”

“Okay, just shut up!” Rebecca barks, smoothing down her still immaculate hair and taking a deep breath. “This isn’t actually up for discussion. You’re doing it.”

“I’m not doing it.”

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( Two Weeks Later… )

‘Just Do It.’

It’s the first thing you see when you walk into the Nike office for the photoshoot.

The poster from a past campaign with Andy Murray has been blown up to ridiculous proportions and framed, hanging in on the first wall that greets anyone who enters.

“If they make mine that big I won’t be able to look at it. I’ll actually vomit. ”

When Rebecca–who is the epitome of a chatterbox–remains silent, you turn you head to look down at her. She’s already peering up at you, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

Your eyes narrow with suspicion. “What have you done?”

Rebecca lets out a laugh laced with unadulterated fear. “Okay…so, any minute now you’re going to be super fucking pissed at me and you have every right to be, but remember that as you’ve already signed the contract, you don’t have a right to walk out of here.”

You stare her down, knowing it doesn’t take much intimidation for her to crack.

You don’t end up needing her to blabber, however, because not even five seconds later, the door you’d just come through swings open and a lone figure enters.

As you turn, you feel your publicist actually take a step away from you.

“Rebecca, I’m going to kill you.”

You’re not looking at her as you spit out the threat, your eyes are already boring into the man who’s noted your presence and is lingering just beyond the doorway.

Your history with Art Donaldson is far from extensive. In fact, while the trajectory of your careers have practically run parallel, the two of you have spoken maybe twice.

But then, almost two years ago, the U.S Open had happened.

Still dealing with the fall out of your fiance’s cheating scandal, you’d been in potentially the worst mental space of your life. And yet, you had still made it to the final.

But, during the match…well you’d sort of lost your shit. And then you’d just lost. It had been dramatic and mortifying.

Then, with the dust not even close to settling, things had gotten even worse.

Having just clinched the men’s singles trophy for himself, Art Donaldson had sat down for his live post-match interview and one of the first questions he’d been asked, was about your ‘comportment’ during the final.

You would never forget his answer:

'Well, obviously it’s a massive disappointment. In so many ways the match between those two women today was legendary. But it always stings when you see someone get in their own way. Anger like that doesn’t belong on the court: it’s infantile and disrespectful to staff and to the fans. It threatens to overshadow what was otherwise a phenomenal game of tennis for both of them.'

When he had then been pressed for his thoughts on what should be done in regards to sanctions, Art had simply said: ‘I think whatever she’s feeling that made her act that way, is probably punishment enough.’

In a few minutes, Art had made you a subject of scorn as well as unwanted sympathy. He’d made you sound simultaneously contemptible and pitiable.

He was right, but he hadn’t needed to sound so sanctimonious when he’d said it. And telling the world your own mental anguish was probably torment enough, was just salt in the wound.

In your own defence, you had gone into the final right off the back of the announcement that your ex-fiancé’s new girlfriend was pregnant. And the dates had made it blindingly clear, that conception had happened whilst you were still with him.

You’d never felt so worthless or dehumanised. And then, after you’d practically killed yourself playing the match of your life, only to lose, Art fucking Donaldson had felt the need to call out your behaviour.

‘Anger like that doesn’t belong on the court.’

Anger ‘like that’ wasn’t something you’d brought to the competition in your overhead luggage, it was a parasite that had been poisoning your blood.

You’d thought that sort of self-cannibalising rage was in your past, bust as Art starts walking over to you, it rears its ugly head once more.

And he has the gall to smile at you. It’s an amicable, almost anticipatory smile.

You barely even register when Rebecca ducks away, muttering something about finding the photographer.

Art calls out your name as he stops before you, the corners of his eyes creasing as his smile intensifies. “It’s good to see you.”

“The feeling is not mutual.” You intone harshly.

Art’s smile doesn’t drop, it just becomes tighter, his eyes sparkling with mirth. “Ah- so you are still upset about what I said at the Open.”

You glare at him, forcing yourself to stop gritting your teeth lest they shatter. “What could possibly make you think that I wouldn't be?”

Art laughs softly, running a hand through his short blonde hair. “Well, because your coach and your publicist both assured me that you weren’t.”

Those fucking traitors.

It looks like you’ll be going into tomorrow with only your nutritionist and your physio left on your team.

“They lied.” You reply sharply.

Art tilts his head, his gaze becoming brazen in the way it assesses your face. “Clearly.”

“Well, obviously this isn’t happening.” You gesture between the two of you. “I’m not doing a photoshoot, let alone an entire campaign, with you.”

“I don’t see why it can’t go ahead.” Art declares casually, his lips tugging upward as he observes your indignation.

You take a step back, not trusting yourself not to lunge for him.

“Well, it’s a good thing I have little regard for your opinion then, isn’t it?”

Art's brows draw together, some irritation beginning to pollute his easy going demeanour. “You do care.”

“Excuse me?”

“You do care about my opinion, because f you didn’t, you wouldn’t still be this pissed over something I said years ago.

“Pissed?” You almost choke on the word. “You made me sound pathetic. Weak. You insulted my entire career!”

“I seem to recall saying that your match was ‘legendary.’ Phenomenal, is another word I used.”

If there wasn’t so much anger writhing in your gut, you might have rubbed it in his face that for something he’s outwardly dismissing, he seems to remember what he said about you very well.

You step up to him, closing the distance in two strides.

“‘Whatever she’s feeling that made her act that way, is probably punishment enough.’ You said that about me in front of peers and fans in a live interview that was watched by thousands!”

“You’re telling me you don’t think you were out of line?” Art challenges, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning in.

You know he’s not wrong: it hadn’t been your finest hour. In fact, the morning after, with your behaviour laid bare in the cold light and already being picked over by commentators and tabloids, you had been able to acknowledge it may very well have been one of the worst hours you would ever have.

But you’d rather die than acknowledge that to Art.

“Oh, that’s fucking rich coming from you!” You hit back disparagingly.

Art’s fingers dig into his arms. “What does that mean?”

“It means you’re a hypocrite, Art. I watched your match against Patrick Zweig at the…what was it- Phil’s Tire Town Challenger? Someone recorded it from the stands. Tell me, what emotion were you bringing to the court when you yelled ‘fuck you’ at him across the net?”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I’m not proposing a thesis, Art. This isn’t up for debate. I’m just telling you what I saw. And it seems to me, that you have some fucking anger issues of your own, so quit chewing me out over mine.”

“Chewing you out–” He splutters, his cheeks flushing with outrage. “Wow, you really do have a victim complex, huh?”

“Fuck you!” You seethe.

Your exclamation doesn’t dissuade Art, instead he gathers momentum:

“You’re acting like I should fall to my knees and beg for forgiveness over an entirely reasonable answer I gave to a question about your piss-poor behaviour. But I didn’t make you launch your racket across the court or cuss out the line judge. You’re not a tragic woman, or some wronged heroine, you’re a grown woman throwing a tantrum because I wasn’t very nice about her in an interview, two goddamn years ago!”

“Well, I’m a bitch and you’re a hypocrite, looks like neither of us should be tennis’ poster child.” You snap, pushing past him and heading for the door.

There was absolutely no chance you were doing this photoshoot. Nike could give Naomi Osaka another call.

Just as you’ve got past him, Art is following you, snagging your wrist with his hand. “Hey! I didn’t call you a bitch.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to tell anyone. Badmouthing people in public forums is your move.”

You yank yourself out of his hold and with his eyes burning into the back of your head, you leave Art Donaldson alone in the lobby.

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( Three Weeks Later… )

In the intervening weeks since your confrontation with Art, you have discovered just how airtight employment contracts can be.

Nike should really give their lawyers a raise, because you have been assured that there is more chance of you sprouting wings, than being able to get out of the ad campaign.

You’d been forced back to the studio a week later with your tail between your legs, but while you’d felt genuinely apologetic over the inconvenience caused to Nike’s team, your fury at Art had only compounded.

Thankfully, the feeling had been mutual and the two of you had passed the entire shoot in utter silence. Neither of you had offered up so much as a hello or goodbye to the other, and while it had clearly been painfully awkward for everyone around you, it had worked out quite well.

Unfortunately, you and Art had been called back for a day of what they were calling ‘action shots.’

Which is why you’re currently at a country club, dressed in all of Nike’s new gear, being forced to actually play tennis against Art.

If it was anyone else, you would already have drawn attention to the fact that your wrist is in excruciating pain, but you refuse to falter in front of him.

Besides, as much as you’re loathe to admit it, playing against Art is exhilarating.

The team have just called for a break and somehow, despite the innumerable people that have been buzzing around you for the entire day, you and Art suddenly find yourselves alone at the side of the court.

You’ve done well at remaining civil with each other, but that’s only because you only said ‘hello’ and ‘ready’ before you’d started playing.

Unfortunately for you, Art seems to be in the mood to antagonise.

“I don’t get why this is making you so miserable.” Art says, dropping down onto the bench beside you with a shit-eating grin on his face.

You hold up the can in your hand, fingers biting into the condensation slick metal.

“I specifically asked for Tangerine La Croix and they’ve given me Pure.” You mock. You couldn't care less about what you’re drinking.

“Funny.” Art deadpans.

“And here was me thinking you’d jump at the chance to call me a diva.” You answer, donning a smirk of your own.

“You’re being ridiculous.”

Some genuine anger colours Art’s tone and it only feeds the fires of your own.

“What?”

Art grabs the can from your hand and maintains eye contact as he steals as a sip.

“You refuse to let go of a few critical, but very valid sentences I said about you in that interview and you’ve used them to construct a narrative about my dislike for you. I don’t dislike you.”

“Oh, you don’t? That’s good, because this amicable exchange is really making me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.”

Art groans, slumping back on the bench. He manspreads so wide that his knee knocks into yours.

“Can you not just enjoy yourself? It’s a beautiful day and we’re being paid to do what we’re great at.”

You wrinkle your nose and try to snatch back the can, but Art tightens his grip and the metal crumples as you both tighten your hold.

“Yeah, well, not everyone gets off on having their face on a billboard.” You sneer, almost falling back when Art suddenly lets go of the can.

It’s practically empty and completely deformed, so you slam it down onto the empty space beside you.

“How do you know that I do?”

“What?”

“How do you know that I get off on it?” He repeats glibly.

“Because, you’ve clearly wanted to retire for years and now that you have, you can monopolise on the popularity that your wife built up for you and live off clothing lines and ads for the rest of your life.”

“Being great at tennis built up my popularity.”

“Oh, don’t tell me you actually believe that, Art? So many phenomenal players go widely unknown for their entire careers. You are only The Art Donaldson instead of just plain old Art, because Tashi Duncan made you a brand. She’s responsible for your legacy.”

“She didn’t make me.”

“Maybe not, but she did mould you into what you are. You would have been just another generic Stanford whiteboy if she hadn’t decided to give you fucking form.”

“You talk about her like she’s God.”

“Are you telling me that’s not what it feels like when her attention is solely on you?” You challenge, but you don’t wait for an answer. “You know, I actually played her quite a lot when we were teenagers– we always ended up being us against each other in finals– and even then…it was like trying to play against an elemental force. Every time, without fail, there was a tiny part of me that just wanted to fall to my fucking knees in front of her. But I never did, instead it made my game better. She made my game better. Tashi put all she had into you after her injury, the least you could do is acknowledge what she’s done for you.

“You don’t have to tell me what I owe my wife.”

You scoff, rising to your feet. “I’m telling you what you owe your coach.”

You don’t actually know where you’re going as you walk away, only that you need it to be far from him.

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( Two Months Later… )

At the launch event for Nike’s new line, you’re standing in front of the massive poster that’s at the forefront of the campaign and swallowing down bile.

It’s a great picture, you’ll give them that: Your feet are practically lifting off the ground as you throw up the ball for a serve, your expression is contorted with a ruinous passion that portends some sort of violence. And across the net, there’s Art: he’s dropped into a crouch, ready to pounce once you send the ball his way. In the face of your fury, his anticipation comes fitted out with his signature smirk.

It’s not just a great photo, it’s phenomenal.

You want to tear it off the wall.

You’re on the verge of asking anyone if they have a pen so you can scribble over Art’s face, when the man himself appears beside you. In your peripheral vision you catch a glimpse of his sleek, all black suit, but you don’t turn to look at him.

“I’m not sure you’d get away with defacing it in front of so many people.”

Trying to suppress your eye roll would be a fruitless endeavour, so you turn to face Art, forcing him to bear witness to your indignation.

“You should know by now that I have little regard for decorum. You certainly like commenting on my lack of it.”

“I thought you’d still be hung up on that.”

“Yeah, well, some of us have follow through.” You give him a venomous smile. “How is retirement treating you?”

“Ah, I should have known.”

“Known what?”

“You see retirement is quitting. So, you’ll force yourself to continue well past the point you should, your game will get shittier and shittier, so by the time you’re forced to quit, people will be pitying you instead of remembering how phenomenal you were.”

There’s a compliment in there, but you’re not feeling generous of spirit enough to pluck it out of the insult.

“I know when to stop, Art. It’s just not now.” You answer coldly.

“Okay, when? Like- give me your timeline. You must have thought about it.”

“Not yet.”

This answer seems to really frustrate him and he just stares at you, a muscle in his jaw feathering as he grips his champagne flute.

“Do you think I didn’t notice how much your wrist was killing you when we played each other? Are you really going to wreck your body out of stubbornness?”

“You know, Art, what you did wasn’t bowing out at the perfect time, it was cowardice. You skipped right to the curtain call when you still had a last act left to perform. You never got that US Open trophy, did you?”

Art sighs, his gaze moving back to the photo of the two of you. "Yeah well, something tells me you won't either. Have a good night."

Then he's backing away, his stare lingering on you even as he lets the crowd reabsorb him.

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( One Month Later… )

Had Tashi Duncan not been one of the people in your life that you most respected and admired, you wouldn’t even have considered attending the fundraising gala for her and Art’s foundation.

But you were, quite frankly, obsessed with her, so of course you had come.

Sitting in an uncomfortably tight dress at a table of people you don’t know and with a fair amount of alcohol circulating through your system, is quite possibly the most painstaking thing you’ve ever gone through.

Apart from the car crash. That had been pretty bad.

But you’re adamant you won’t think about the car crash tonight, or the fact that, somehow, your wrist seems to be getting worse; devolving to a state more dire than when the cast had first come off.

The meal—which you hadn’t been able to stomach—had come and gone and now the auction is beginning. Tashi is up on the stage, dazzling in the way that only she can and Art is standing at the bottom of the set of stairs that lead up to the platform.

Unfortunately, your table is very close to the front and you’re positioned right in his eyeline.

Art keeps stealing glances at you with an emotion you can’t place. You had tried to switch seats with the man across from you, but the asshole turned out to be a real stickler for assigned seating.

If only to distract yourself, you whip out your phone, resting it in your lap beneath the table.

The moment you open up Instagram, your heart drops into your stomach.

You thought you had expunged any remnants of your ex from your life, but it seems you’ve missed a mutual friend on Instagram, one who has just reposted his engagement announcement with his girlfriend and mother of his now one year old daughter.

That bastard has broken your heart and wrecked your head, but while your life just keeps getting worse, the universe has seen fit to bless him with everything he’s ever wanted.

The auction is already in full swing when you rise clumsily from your seat and weave through the tables, heading for the closest exit.

It’s only as you push open the door and begin to sway, that you realise you’re actually quite tipsy. You might have drunk a little too much before you’d left the house.

It’s freezing outside, but you can’t face going back for your coat, so, unsteady on your feet, you flee into the extensive gardens that surround the estate that’s acting as the gala’s venue.

You walk well past the point where the lawn lighting disappears and clamber over a fence that has ‘restricted area’ prominently posted in front of it.

You don’t know where you’re going, but as you stagger down the hill, your sadness is alleviated very slightly by the sight of a massive pond that you’re sure is beckoning to you.

You kick off your heels and drop down onto the bank, quick to put your feet into the water. Once you’re settled, you retrieve your hip flask from your clutch and begin to guzzle vodka in earnest.

“What the hell are you doing?!”

You turn and you find an incensed Art striding towards you. You’re more than a little delighted by the sight of mud splattered over the polished surface of his shoes.

“I was having some time to myself.”

“You needed to walk all the way down here to get it?”

You laugh caustically, gesturing at him. “Well…no. Obviously I should have walked even further away.”

Art huffs, entirely unimpressed. He takes a few steps further down the bank and holds out a hand beckoning you over.

“Come on, you need to come back inside.”

“Why is that?”

“Because, you offered tennis lessons with yourself as an auction item and you’re up soon. You need to be on stage.”

Ah. You’d forgotten about that.

“Why do I need to be seen? It’s not like they’re buying me.”

“You still can’t stay in there. Get out.”

“I’m not in it, Art. I’m just dangling my feet in the water.”

“Well, you can’t ‘dangle’ your feet in there, it’s a pond not a swimming pool.”

“I can’t?” You feign a bafflement as you look at your feet, submerged in the murky water. “I sort of already am?”

Art moves even closer but falters, his bright eyes becoming an invading force: his gaze takes hold of your edges and peels them back.

He can see inside.

“What’s wrong?” He probes, the harsher edges of his previous words now nowhere to be found.

“At the moment, it’s you.”

“You’re drunk.”

“I’m not actually, but I’m getting there.”

Art’s eyes flick to the metal object glinting in your hand. “Is that a hip flask?”

“What a keen eye you have.” You mutter sardonically.

“Okay, I'm serious now, get out.”

“Oh, he’s being serious!” You mock, rising to your feet.

But you don’t move away from the pond. Instead, you turn and start walking backwards into the water you wobble when your bare feet sink into the mud, icy liquid seeping into the thin fabric of your silk dress.

Art lunges forward, closing the distance until he’s standing at the edge of the water. His hand darts out and he grabs your forearm.

“You’re too close to drunk to be near a body of water, let alone in one. You’ll drown yourself.”

Art plucks the hip flask from your fingers with his free hand and tosses it into the grass behind him, all without taking his eyes off you.

Then he seems to actually register where his hand is. He’s still gazing into your eyes as his thumb brushes over the scar above your wrist.

“Compound fracture.” You say on a bitter breath. “The bone went right through. Fucking drunk driver. Funny that, isn’t it? He crashed into me, fucked my career probably permanently and then I became a drunk to cope.”

Some of the hardness in Art’s expression melts away, but it pools into the bags beneath his eyes and the shadows beneath his cheekbones, making him look almost distraught. Once you realise it’s sadness--no, pity--for you, you wrench your wrist out of his grasp and wade further back into the pond.

You gasp, shocked as the frigid water wraps around your legs in an eager embrace. It’s like it’s clinging on, wanting to keep you forever.

You find the thought of it quite peaceful.

You think on Art’s words from months ago: he’s right, about you being too stubborn to know when to stop. You won’t retire until you’re physically falling apart.

But what if you just sink down into the water right now? You’d disappear and the memories would be of a great player gone too soon.

God, you didn’t realise you had such a large ego that you’d consider letting yourself drown just to save face.

Art is beyond unimpressed now. He’s furious.

“Get out.” You just smile at him, stepping further back. The water reaches your navel and you let your fingertips skim over the water. “I’m not kidding, get the fuck out. Now.”

“Will you just back off!” You erupt. “We’ve done the campaign, we’re not friends, there’s no reason for us to be involved.”

“None of that gives me a reason to leave you alone out here.”

“Why not?!” You protest desperately. “It’s not the ocean, I can’t be swept out to sea!”

“Get out of the water.”

“No.”

“Get out.”

“Get fucked.” You hit back, letting yourself sink back into the water.

As you move to float on your back, another frantic laugh bubbles up as you're enveloped by its icy grip. Your dress becomes heavier, a five thousand dollar weight around your body, urging you to sink lower.

You turn your head to the side so that you can see the surface of the water:

This far out of the city, the stars are no longer choked by smog and so are able to tear through the darkness. The water perfectly mirrors the sky, so much so that it’s like you’re swimming in the cosmos. If you open your mouth, you could take some of it into yourself.

You had struggled to get out of bed this morning, but now, in the quiet night, you have the chance to swallow a thousand stars–

Impudent splashing disrupts your peace.

Your head shoots up, water running in eager rivulets off your hair as you watch wide eyed, as Art drops into the water. His jacket and shoes have been discarded on the edge of the bank.

“What are you doing?”

Art doesn’t answer, instead he drives through the water towards you, his strides producing ripples that disturb the reflected constellations. Shooting stars.

You’re not very far out, so just as Art closes in on you, you plant your feet on the muddy bottom of the pond and stand up.

The fabric of your dress is dark and slick against your body like an oil spill. The breeze blows a tentative breath against you, causing your skin to pebble and your nipples to harden.

Art reaches for you but your hand flies out and you swat him away.

You push yourself further out, giggling at his expression as the water comes up to your chin.

Then Art’s diving after you, the white material of his shirt submerged in the water.

“Art, this is a pond, not a swimming pool.” You tease, amusement blooming.

In fact, you’re relishing the sight of his arms pushing through the water so much, that you forget to make another escape attempt.

Before you know it, Art is right up in front of you, his breath coasting over your face as he wraps an arm around your middle beneath the water.

You drive your feet into the mud, your smile growing as he looks exasperatedly up at sky. His fingers press into your side.

“This is so beyond funny.” He grouses, trying and failing to tug you closer.

Seeing as you’re not actually drunk, you’re not sure what comes over you, but you’re seized by a giddy, childlike urge.

You decide to give into it.

Art’s eyes widen slightly as you rush forward, pressing your chest right up against his. Then, you place one hand on each of his shoulders and push.

There’s a brief moment, where your face rises above Art and he gazes up at you, droplets of water rolling off your face and onto him. He’s looking at you in the same way you had been gazing up at the stars. Perhaps you’ve become one of them. Wouldn’t that be something?

Art realises too late what you’re going to do.

“Don’t you dare–”

You push all of your weight onto his shoulders and dunk him into the pond. His head goes under, short blonde locks floating up in the water.

You immediately let him go and when he comes up, spluttering for air, the hand not on your waist winds around the back of your neck, threading into the hair at the nape of your neck. He pulls you flush against him again.

When he speaks, it is a whisper you feel against your cheek. “You’re such an asshole.”

Your hands fall onto his waist beneath the water. “I know.”

You shriek as Art tips you back, his hand still cradling the back of your neck as he dunks your head into the water in retaliation. It feels like a baptism.

When you come back up, he's chuckling as you gasp for air.

“I had to do that.” Art defends.

He notices you scrambling to push soaked strands of hair out of your eyes and proceeds to help you, his hand brushing over your cheeks and forehead before returning your sight to you.

“I feel like you didn’t have to.” You splutter, fighting back a laugh of your own.

You’re suddenly glad for his grip on you- you’re far too flustered to stand firmly on your own two feet.

Art’s cheek’s dimple as he smiles, shaking his head at you. Your breath hitches.

When he’s unencumbered by negative emotion…Art shines.

He leans in again, his lips grazing the shell of your ear:

“Don’t start something you’re not prepared to finish, sweetheart.” Your breathing becomes even more laboured as he draws away, his nose briefly dragging against your cheek. “Now…get out of the goddamn pond.”

And then he’s pulling away, leaving you gaping after him as he moves back towards the bank.

His touch is an absence you really wish didn’t feel so profound

“Spoilsport.” You grumble. But you’re already moving after him.

The alcohol you did have in you has disappeared; shocked out of your system by the frigid water and the feel of Art’s hands.

You wade back towards the bank, your hip flask is nestled in the grass and glinting seductively in the moonlight.

With Art’s back to you, you let yourself stare as he drags himself out of the water. His shirt is stuck to his body and entirely see through, settling into the ridges of his muscled chest. The moon’s light shines through the fabric hanging from his sleeves, making it look like the membrane of wings.

As Art kneels on the grass, you blink rapidly as if he’s a vision you can dispel from your sight.

You can acknowledge he’s attractive- you’re not blind– but you can’t abide the yearning arising within you. You don’t have room for that in your life, for anyone, but especially not for him.

You finally reach the edge of the bank and then Art is kneeling at the edge, holding a hand out for you to take.

You consider him for a moment and process the newfound ease on his face. He seems almost serene.

You fight off a shiver that you blame on the cold and ignore his outstretched hand, pulling yourself out of the water unaided.

“Really?” Art bites out irritatedly, watching as you wander over to your hip flask and sit down right beside it. You take it into your hand and unscrew the cap.

When you bring it to your lips you look right into his eyes. “Really.”

You throw your head back, the path the vodka burns down your throat is a welcome discomfort. You had felt far too peace just now, floating in a sea of stars with Art.

But those weren’t stars, just a reflection of them. It was a trick. Nothing that could ever be real.

When you drop the now empty flask into your lap, there are tears in your eyes.

When was the last time you’d felt even close to the happiness you’d found in that water?

It wasn’t real.

A traitorous tear is already rolling down your cheek as you drop your eyes to your hands.

“Hey.” Art says softly. He kneels down beside you, one hand on your soaked back as the other plucks the flask out your lap. “What’s wrong?”

You make a noise that’s half sob, half laugh. “I already answered that question.”

“Yeah, except I know you’re full of shit.” When you look up at him, Art’s frown becomes something gentler. “I know I’m not your problem.”

You scoff, shoving his chest. He sways backwards, but drops down onto his knees, planting himself on the ground beside you. His hand is still on your back.

“Yes, you are actually.” You answer nastily. “You really are.”

“Just tell me.” Art whispers, ducking his head into your field of vision so you’re forced to look at him. His free hand settles on your cheek. “Tell me what’s wrong because this…is sort of scary.”

You lift your hands and clasp his cheeks, digging your fingers in. You’re overcome by a violent impulse to tear into his skin.

It would be far easier to draw blood than confront how you’re beginning to feel about him.

“Aww.” You croon. “Did I scare the poor little baby?”

“Stop it.” He scolds. His hands move to grasp your wrists but he doesn't pull you away, not even as you press your nails further in.

But you won’t stop- can’t stop. Your feelings have become spiteful and unruly, running away from you at a pace which you can’t hope to match.

You can’t take the strain. And because Art is the contributor to that is closest to you, it’s him you’re going to lash out at.

“No, really, I didn’t think you’d be such a pussy.” You forge on, spewing venom. “I scared you by getting in a pond? Grow the fuck up, Art.”

But Art doesn’t rise to it. His jaw doesn’t clench and his grip on you doesn’t tighten.

“This isn’t okay.” He says, tentative but assured. “You’re not okay.”

“No, I'm not!” You snap wrenching your wrists free. “But it’s got absolutely nothing to do with you.”

You try to rise to your feet, but Art doesn’t let you. He moves so he’s kneeling either side of you, his legs pressing into your thighs as his hands fall onto your shoulders. You can feel in the way his fingers press into you that he’s fighting the urge to shake sense into you.

You look up at him, slightly startled by his forcefulness. His back is facing the moon now and his drenched body is limned in silver.

Before you can berate yourself for even thinking about it, you’re winding your hand around his tie and dragging him down, smashing your lips against his.

You shouldn't be doing this, a large part of you doesn’t want to, but it feels like the only way to purge yourself of him. And what kills a bacteria faster than blazing heat?

Art lets out a warning groan, but your teeth nipping his bottom lip is all it takes to have him leaning in. Even your kiss feels like a fight, battling each other for control, pressing with bruising force.

Art crowds over you, guiding your back against the grass.

You let yourself fall.

As your back presses into the earth, one of his hands settles on the side of your neck as he drags the other up your leg. When he peels up the sodden material of your dress, his hand exploring your thigh, the cold air bites tauntingly against your rapidly heating skin.

Your hard nipples brush against his soaked t-shirt and the feeling is so tantalising, that you find your back arching, pressing yourself into him and chasing the sensation.

When you let out a moan into his mouth, Art draws back as if some unseen hand has pulled on him.

He’s still agonisingly close, his lips a hair's breadth away as he gazes down at you through heavy eyelids, water droplets running down his face from his hair. His breathing is ragged.

Art’s eyes close and with his sight lost to him, his lips drift closer to you again and his teeth nip at your chin. After placing a ghost of kiss over where he’s bitten, he takes a deep breath.

Then his eyes open, and his expression is blank. It makes you feel sick.

You’re burning up with want, but you can already see the realisation of your transgression settling into the very bones of Art. He’s about to spurn you, disdain no doubt working its way to the surface. So you have to get there first.

“Poor, sensitive Art, scared by a kiss.” You goad. The words are forced out and they feel malformed on your tongue. “Don’t worry your little head over it, it doesn’t mean anything.”

Art drops his eyes from you, shaking his hand as he pushes himself off up.

“Nice try, but I know what you’re doing.”

He mumbles it and doesn't give you a chance to acknowledge it befores he’s on his feet and walking away.

Tears prick insistently at the back of your eyes but you force them back, pressing the heels of your thumbs into them until it hurts.

You sit up, feeling leaves and blades of grass sticking to your exposed skin.

You feel the air shift behind you, and are startled when you peer over your shoulder and find Art standing at your back. He has his shoes back on and is gripping his dry jacket far too tightly.

You find your voice, but it’s weak: “What am I doing Art?”

He doesn’t meet your eye, instead he opens up the jacket in his hands and settles it over your shoulders. You sit there, stunned as he tugs it around your body. Then he leans down and over your shoulders, his breath on the side of your face as he deftly buttons the jacket up.

Art encloses you in the dry garment that carries the scent of him.

“You’re doing the same thing as me.” He says quietly. It sounds almost painful for him to talk. “Running away. I guess we’re both cowards.”

And then he’s gone, marching back up the bank without another word.

You’re left sitting there, wrapped in his jacket and staring out at the pond.

Not the night sky.

Just a pond.

━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

( Three Months Later… )

After your cast had first come off, Wimbledon had felt like an intimidating but still far off thing; a dark shape on the horizon, but one you had to squint to see. But then it moved closer, barreling towards you like a bat out of hell.

You’ve made great progress in your recovery, you really have…but all your extensive physiotherapy hasn’t been able to heal the nerve-damage you’d turned out to have- at least not in a timespan that’s workable for a professional athlete.

You’re done. Tennis career over.

And your worst fear has come true: it hadn’t been your choice. Injury has forced you out and the public discourse is rife with commiseration and useless, positive platitudes.

Art has been proved right. Everything would be so much better had you known when to quit. You had preferred ridicule to this.

But until you’d come to Wimbledon, it hadn’t really sunk in yet: you hadn’t had the moment of finality.

What closure has ended up feeling like, is the final nail in your coffin.

As you had watched the first matches of Wimbledon from the stands, Rebecca glancing at you constantly–presumably to check you weren’t about to burst into tears–you had felt as though you were being buried: each serve and volley another hand tossing dirt on top of the coffin, sealing you beneath the ground for good.

At least one part of your day has been successful. You have completed the challenge you’d set for yourself that morning, which was to not drink any alcohol until the evening.

It has been excruciating.

Evidence of your victory lays in your trembling hands as you fit your keycard into the door of your hotel room. You’re desperate for what you know sits waiting for you on the other side.

But then, just as the lock mechanism chirps to let you know you’ve been granted entry, someone calls your name.

Your keycard is left in the door as your fingers fall away from the handle and you turn to face Art. He’s stopped himself a safe distance from you and is gazing at you with what looks like…relief?

Of course you knew he was at Wimbledon–you’d narrowly avoided crossing paths with him a number of times already today–but to hear his voice and having his probing stare directed solely on you, is as debilitating as you remember.

You haven’t seen each other, or even spoken, since the night by–or rather in–the pond.

The only place the two of you are still together in any capacity, is on the Nike billboards that are still occupying space throughout the world.

And as if Art’s thoughts align with your own, he says:

“You pull an impressive disappearing act.” He steps closer.

“That suggests you went looking for me.” You counter, pleased with how detached you sound. “We both know you didn’t.”

“No. I didn’t.” Art replies frankly.

“So I didn’t disappear, did I? You just couldn’t see me.”

Art moves towards you some more, stopping an arms length away.

“It felt the same.” He utters lowly. “You were gone.”

You shrug halfheartedly. “So were you.”

Then you press your back into the door, fingers seeking out the handle, shaking now for a reason other than alcohol withdrawal.

You really don’t know if you’re running away or urging him on, but when you push open the door and duck inside, you do know that you’re not angry when he follows.

You put your back to the hallway door, expecting Art to move past you and head into the suite, but he doesn’t. At least not right away. Instead, he stops right in front of you, looking down at you as the door swings shut.

You would barely have to lift your hand and you’d be touching him.

You hate that he looks so good. He’s in simple navy dress pants, a white shirt sitting snugly on his chest, the top few buttons undone.

The two of you stand like that for a minute or so, and just as you realise that your breaths have practically synchronised, Art is moving away from you and wandering inside.

It’s only then, as he ventures deeper, that you remember what you’ve been so eager to get back into the room for. You curse yourself, letting your head fall back against the wall behind you.

Even if he hadn’t already seen them, it would be too late for you to hide the line of alcohol minis that you’d gathered from the bar cart.

You’d set them out earlier, the process almost meditative. It had been a promise to yourself: get through the day without drinking and you can have all of these once you’re alone.

But now they’re standing out in the open, displayed on the nearby desk like pieces knocked off a board in a game that you’ve been playing against yourself.

You watch helplessly as Art walks right over to them, his hands in his pockets. Your face flushes with shame.

Art cranes his neck back to look at you. You’re still pressed against the wall, afraid that if you take one step closer, you won’t be able to stop yourself from taking ten more. And you don’t want to be close to him when his face shifts into pity or revilement.

“You planning on drinking all of these?” Art asks, turning back to the bottles as if he knows his gaze is steadily undoing you and wants to grant a reprieve.

Eased slightly by the remarkable placidity of his tone, you’re able to answer calmly. But you still don’t move.

“That was the plan.”

Art lets out a non-committal hum. “Why?”

You laugh awkwardly, wringing your hands together. “I don’t know, why does anyone drink?”

“I don’t care about anyone, I'm asking about you.” His voice is firm, but the foundation of it is something less solid. His words shake on the way out.

You’re overcome with the urge to be honest. It’s actually a lot easier when he’s not looking at you.

“I drink because at some point in my life, every tiny thing became really difficult- like, embarrassingly difficult, to the point where I feel like a child again. And it turns out that ineptitude is easier to bear when you feel like you’ve imposed it on yourself. I drink because it makes me feel helpless…but, helpless by choice.”

The confession hangs suspended in the air, a horrifying, complicated marvel- like a beautiful butterfly now dead and pinned by its wings to a board.

Art speaks into the silence, his back still turned to you. “Do you want to forget? Is that part of it?”

“Forget what?” You’re struggling for breath now, his presence drawing all of the oxygen from the room.

He half-turns his head, blue eyes settling over you once more. “All of it.”

“There’s not enough alcohol in the world for that.” You say morosely.

You have learnt that getting drunk doesn’t rid you of all the thoughts that torment you in sobriety, it just pushes them further to the back. Even if you drink so much you can barely walk, the thoughts remain, banging on the barrier and demanding to be let back in.

Art doesn’t respond to that. He turns back to the little bottles and you watch as he reaches out a hand and knocks over the one closest to him. He pushes it forward, sending them all toppling one after the other like dominos. His eyes are set on them as they roll around on the table, a couple falling onto the plush carpet. And your eyes are set on him.

Then, he finally turns to properly face you, knocking the fallen bottles with his feet as he leans back against the table and crosses his arms against his chest.

He’s waiting, you realise. Waiting for you to speak. Waiting for you to make the first move. Wanting you to come to him.

You push off the wall and start walking towards him. “Why did you follow me in here, Art?”

He sighs, the corner of his lip pulling up with a melancholy smile. “Because you make me feel helpless.”

That almost stops you in your tracks, but you recover quickly, barely a footstep faltering as you advance on him. Your heartbeat is a warning drum in your ears.

Once you reach him, Art widens his legs, allowing you to step between them.

As you settle your hands on his thighs, his duck beneath your dress and come to rest on the bare flesh of the back of your legs. He draws you closer, making you fingers dig into his trousers to steady yourself.

You sigh, your eyes fluttering shut as he leans forward, brushing his lips against your exposed sternum.

You’re still flushed and sweating from the uncharacteristically blazing English sun and you shudder as Art’s tongue darts out lapping at the moisture there.

You rock forward, placing your chin on the top of his head, inadvertently pressing his mouth further into your skin. His lapping tongue turns into kisses, kisses that travel down onto the swell of your breasts and into the valley between them.

Even when he reaches the fabric of your dress, he doesnt let it stop him: Art’s lips close around your clothed nipple, wetting the thin fabric with his saliva. You let out a breathy moan into his hair as he moves onto the next one.

As Art works his mouth against you, you push your hands higher, letting your fingers brush the bulge in his pants before they’re settling on his belt buckle.

He says your name, each movement of his lips searing into your flesh.

“Do I make you feel helpless?” He asks, his hands moving up to curl in the sides of your underwear.

“No, Art. You don’t.”

As you undo his fly, he begins to pull your underwear down.

“Why?” He closes his mouth around your breast and bites down just enough to make your breath catch in your throat.

You remove one of your hands from his crotch and use it to grab the back of his neck, you pull him away from your chest, forcing him to look up at you as your other hand disappears into his trousers, palming his hardness.

Even as you step out of your underwear and kick it away, you’re starting to stroke him. His mouth falls open, sucking in a breath as gazes up at you as if you hung the moon.

“How could I feel helpless?” You goad, leaning in and resting your mouth beside his ear to whisper. “When I have so much power over you?”

Art’s initial answer is to buck up into your hand, chasing the friction you’re moving too slowly to give him, but when you laugh at his desperation, he’s surging up, wrapping his arms around your waist and spinning you.

In a flash, you’ve taken up his position: ass resting on the edge of the desk.

Before you can catch your breath, Art has his hands on your knees and is spreading your legs, exposing your bareness to him.

But apparently he still hasn’t got you where he wants, because his fingers then wrap around the back of your legs and he lifts you, placing you further back onto the wooden surface. More bottles roll off the edge and drop into the carpet.

Then, finally, Art’s eyes meet yours. His smirk makes a return.

“So…” He begins, his hands gathering up your dress and leaving it to bunch up at your waist. “I have absolutely no effect on you? None at all?”

“No-” You can’t even finish your thought let alone the word before his fingers are running through the wetness between your legs. Your instinct is to shut them, but his hips are in the way, so you only succeed in holding him firmly in place.

You are left to stare as he lifts his hand up, evidence of your arousal glistening on his fingers. Then, slowly enough that he can watch the realisation of what he’s doing dawn on your face, Art takes his fingers into his own mouth.

His eyes meet yours and do not shift away for even a second as he licks your wetness from his skin.

The tightness in your belly becomes almost too extreme to bear, and a throbbing begins between your legs.

“I want you to ask.” Art says, his fingers–now wet with his own saliva–drawing circles on your inner thigh. “I want you to ask me to fuck you.”

“I thought you were here because I make you feel helpless?” You try to sound taunting, but your voice is ragged with want. “Now you want to be in control?”

Art leans down and you expect an abrupt, bruising joining of your lips, but instead he kisses you slowly, tenderness in every gentle movement. His mouth is is still aligned with yours as he answers:

“It’s not about control, sweetheart. I just want to hear that you want me as much as I want you.”

You begin to kiss along his jaw, your sentence formed with words cushioned between the press of your lips:

“I want you to fuck me, Art.”

Art's fingers curl around your jaw, bringing your lips back to his as he frees himself from his pants with his other hand. Your kiss is languid but rapidly growing with force, passion driving pleasure ever closer to point of pain.

“Condom?” Art questions into your open mouth.

With his fingers digging into your chin, you can't shake your head so you’re forced to gather enough of your wits to speak again:

“Birth control.”

“Okay.” Art pecks your lips before lifting a hand and spitting onto it. Then he’s fisting himself in his hand and pressing inside of you.

Your legs immediately wrap around his waist, hooking together to pull him in even further.

Art lets out a shuddered breath, his head dropping to your shoulder as he settles himself inside of you.

He kisses and licks across your collarbone, only stopping when he comes across the thin strap of your dress. With a little growl, he takes it between his teeth, tugging it back and then letting it ping back into your skin.

You laugh, still adjusting to the feel of him inside of you as you move to pull down the top of your dress. But Art has other ideas. He stops you with a slow thrust, rolling his hips just enough to have your hands wrapping around his neck instead.

“Let me do it.” He’s giving a command and yet it sounds like a grovel.

Then, in unison, his fingers find the straps of your dress and he’s pulling them away, tugging the bodice down and exposing your breasts to him completely. His hands fall onto them immediately, palming the supple flesh and lifting them up higher so that he can kiss them even as he begins to rock into you.

Just as your heartbeat begins to find some sort of rhythm again, Art pulls out of you almost completely before driving back in. Your breath is knocked out of you and as he begins to thrust with controlled rapidity.

Your hands fall to his still covered ass and dissatisfied with the lack of contact, you push your fingers past the waistband and dig your nails into his naked flesh.

Art moans into your neck, clamping down with his teeth as he picks up his pace yet again.

“Art-” You call out, lost in the press of him inside you.

The table begins to shake so much that it’s slamming against the wall, the noise perfectly aligning with the sound of your hips slapping together.

“Tell me this doesn’t make you feel out of control.” Art pleads, his movements growing frenzied.

By this point you can hardly think straight, so you give in, his statement going unanswered as your head is thrown back in pleasure. Art chuckles, licking up the column of your neck.

“I think I got my answer.”

“Shut up.”

When Art laughs at you again, you remove your hands from his ass and grip his face instead, drawing his lips back up to yours. He opens wide, panting into your mouth before your tongues start to move together.

You stay like that, mouths joined and breaths shared as his thrusts become messier, his hands on your back beginning to tremble.

But you’re not close yet and he knows it. He reaches between you and presses his thumb into your sensitive bud, applying enough pressure that, combined with him driving into you, has you quickly coming undone.

You break the kiss, crying out as your body is wracked with convulsions.

Art smiles, his eyes drooping closed as he chases his own release. And it doesn’t take long. You’re still coming back to yourself when his hips stutter and his fingers dig into you. He lets go, spilling inside you.

You both go still. You press your face into his chest–his shirt now dappled with spots of sweat–as he places a kiss on the top of your head.

You’re both breathing heavily, reeling in the wake of your joining when your phone–tucked into your purse that you had dropped by the door–begins to ring

Still inside you, Art shifts, pressing closer as his lips begin to kiss a path down your cheek. “Don’t answer it.”

You lean back just enough to meet his eye and smile. “I’m not going to answer it.”

Art matches your grin as he leans down and gives your lips a peck. “Good. Because I’m nowhere near done with you.”

#art donaldson x reader #art donaldson #challengers movie #art donaldson smut #mike faist #tashi duncan

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sprintingowl · 2 years

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What Non DnD TTRPGs Feel Like

Okay, quick thread about what playing different non DnD ttrpgs feels like.

Pathfinder

This is DnD. It feels like DnD. It's like going to a slightly different church. Some of the words used during the service are different, but at the end of it the pulpit turns out to be a mimic and you cast Entangle and summon your direwolf.

Fate

This is Rule Of Cool with additional rules. The GM has powers to one-up you or lead you into temptation, but you have powers to one-up the GM, and all these powers use the same kind of token that you ultimately shuffle back and forth.

Savage Worlds

Handwave-style DnD (positive connotation.)

The GM has a lot of freedom to pick genre and setting, and the gameplay is sleeker, rule-of-cool-ier without losing meaningful combat or character building.

Call Of Cthulhu

You may not be an old librarian, but you sure are built like one. Most acts of violence can flatten you in a couple of hits, but violence doesn't happen often. It's the punctuation mark at the end of a long sentence. Atmosphere and pacing rule over this land.

World Of Darkness

This is a game about getting deep into your character's headspace. It's about figuring out who they are and roleplaying them passionately. Your backstory choices and powers have a huge affect on how you interact with the world around you.

Warhammer Fantasy / Dark Heresy

You are Scrumbles McGrumbles, a walking heap of morbidity and washed-up soldiering. You are trying to find your place in a world that's having an even worse day than you are. Your best friend is a ratcatcher. Together you will be heroes.

OSR (Mork Borg, Mausritter, Into The Odd, Dungeon Crawl Classics, Labyrinth Lord, Cairn, tons more)

DnD boiled down to two components: GMing + Making A Guy. GMing is made as easy as possible and PCs are somewhat disposable, so the story is the hijinks you get into together.

The goal is to get into trouble and stir up drama. Succeeding on a roll with no consequences is rare, but when you fail you fail forward into even bigger, messier drama.

Blades In The Dark

You go on missions and then return to your base. The missions are about choices as much as about rolls, and you build your base together to make yourselves more powerful as a squad.

Trophy

Your goal is to lose. Specifically, it's to lose in a dramatic and harrowing fashion that sticks with everyone at the table. Think movies like Annihilation, but as oneshot games.

Golden Sky Stories

You like everyone at the table with you. When someone does something adorable, you can award them exp. The highlight of the session is someone getting flustered and/or speaking in a squeaky voice.

Ryuutama

You are going on a journey and helping other people along the way. Important choices include packing lunch, wearing appropriate clothing, and completely filling your canteen. Combat is a cozy, pastel color jrpg.

The Indie

There are so, so many games that are just completely their own thing, and that I can't squeeze into a single thread. If you discover you like game mechanics and you want to Get Weird with seeing what they can do, there is an entire scene here waiting to welcome you.

Stuff I Missed

There's lots of stuff I haven't played, or didn't remember in the moment, or absolutely love but it would take a whole thread to explain why I love it. I will do more game recommendations in the future, but you can also comment systems you like below!

#dnd #ttrpg #ttrpgs #ttrpg design #ttrpg homebrew #indie ttrpgs

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wheeboo · 8 months

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eyes don't lie | jeon wonwoo

SYNOPSIS. in which you and wonwoo have a late night conversation. PAIRING. jeon wonwoo x gn!reader GENRE. fluff, comfort, lil angst if you think about it, best friends to lovers WARNINGS. conversations abt death, just 2 'besties' having deep talks :') WORD COUNT. 1.5k

notes: idk rlly know what this is and idk where i was going with it but i hope you enjoy lmao

"Do you think that when we die, we see black forever?"

You hear Wonwoo's phone shut off immediately at your question, and the silence that follows right after is almost suffocating, like you're holding your breath. You feel the bed dip right next to you𑁋probably from Wonwoo adjusting himself𑁋and then you feel the momentary contact of his arm against yours. He feels warm, like he always does.

Your brain is doing its runs, Wonwoo presumes, eyes gazing around your dimly-lit room before landing on you sprawled on the bed next to him, legs straight and eyes piercing up at the ceiling above. The only sounds he can hear is your synchronized breathing, the ticking of your clock on the wall, and the distant blare of car horns from the city outside.

You steal a glance at him, his silhouette barely visible in the moonlight filtering through the window. His forehead is creased, eyes shadowed in thought, nose crinkling for a brief second to rid of an itch. He's thinking about the question, and you swear you can visibly see the gears and cogs turning in his mind.

"Maybe," he finally says, voice barely a whisper. "Or maybe it's like that dreamless sleep we have at times. Nothingness, but not in a bad way. Just... a pause, I guess."

"A pause?" You lift a brow. "But wouldn't that be like... ceasing to exist?"

Wonwoo just shrugs, the movement barely discernible in the darkness. He shifts his body slightly, and maybe there's just a bit more space between you two because a sudden chill seems to course through you.

"Not exactly," he murmurs. "Think of it like a comma. It's not a full stop; it's a moment of quiet before the next chapter starts."

"The next chapter?"

He hesitates, then speaks cautiously, "It's... you know, like another life. We shed this skin, and become something else, somewhere else."

A hum leaves your lips, then a wave of silence washes over the room. It stretches for what feels like an eternity, and Wonwoo can't tell if you're lost in thought or waiting for him to elaborate. The moonlight pouring in from your bedroom window dances on the edges of the room, casting shadows that flicker like the thoughts swirling around you two.

"But... but don't get me wrong," Wonwoo adds, breaking the silence before it grows even longer. "It's not something to be scared of, I think. It's like... coming home. Finally understanding the story you've been living without even knowing the plot."

A quiet chuckle leaves your lips, soft as the rustle of leaves in a night breeze. It's a sound laced with both amusement and wonder, and it catches Wonwoo off-guard, sending a shiver down his spine, and maybe his heart to race a little faster too.

"What?" he asks, voice coming out a bit hoarse and deep.

"Just..." Your voice trails off, tracing patterns on your bedsheets below your fingers. "The way you put it. Coming home. It's comforting... somehow."

"Comforting?" he repeats, surprised. "Death usually doesn't get that label."

You snort, letting your body fully face him now. "I know. I just... I guess I'm a little scared. So I like to think that it's, um, different for everyone, you know? Like maybe... it's your favourite dream, or the most beautiful sunset you've ever seen, or a room with everyone you've ever loved. Or maybe..." You pause, unable to voice the thought twisting your gut. "...it's just nothing. Just darkness."

You watch as Wonwoo turns his body to face you fully, a soft, understanding smile playing on his lips. Your eyes drop down to his mouth for a second, a breath catching in your throat, before meeting his gaze. You've always admired how his eyes look, but there's something about it right now𑁋the way the lights catches them, like flecks of stardust scattered across the night sky𑁋that makes you feel so small.

Yet you also hate how it's so beautiful, like something you think you can look at forever, even though 'forever' is simply just a concept, isn't it?

So you really wish he can he can just freakin' close them𑁋

"Please don't look at me like that," You mutter aloud as you break the eye contact, feeling a sudden vulnerability run through you.

Wonwoo blinks, puzzled. "Huh? I'm just looking𑁋"

"You look at me like... like every𑁋actually, just forget about it." You suddenly sit up in bed, taking in a deep breath to calm your racing heart. "Forget everything I just said."

Your abrupt shift hangs heavy in the air, the unspoken words louder than any you'd spoken. Wonwoo's brows furrow as he sits himself up on your bed as well, a frown now etching across his features, his hand hovering in mid-air as if reaching out to you but unsure where to land.

"I... Did I say something wrong?" he asks, quietly and cautiously. Seriously, why does he have to exist? He's just looking at you, he's right, but the way he does it feels like he's seeing right through you, straight to the raw, exposed core of your fears and feelings. "I'm sorry if I did."

You shake your head. "No, you didn't. I-I'm sorry. I ruined the moment."

The air around you is thick with something unspoken, a lingering tension that hints at a conversation left unfinished. You can practically feel Wonwoo's gaze burning into the back of your neck, even though you can't bring yourself to look back at him. Your fingers play absentmindedly with the edge of your bedsheets, lips pursing together into a tight, straight line. You don't know where to go from here.

And then, Wonwoo takes a leap of faith. "Can you... tell me how I look at you?"

You feel yourself hesitate, the question catching you slightly off-guard, an unexpected flip of the script that leaves you momentarily speechless. It was like he'd plucked the very thought you wished he wouldn't voice: the one that made your throat constrict and your stomach flip. When you turn back to him, he's already looking at you, and you feel that vulnerable feeling again.

"It's like... I-I don't know. You just..." You begin, searching for the right words to say. "You look at me like you're telling me that everything's okay."

There's a dance of emotions that flicker on his face at your words, like he's trying to process everything and nothing at once.

"Oh," is all he mutters out, the single word hanging heavy in the air between you.

"Yeah, and I really hate you for that," You say heartedly, attempting to lighten the mood.

Wonwoo giggles nervously. "I'm sorry."

"You're sorry?"

"For... um, looking at you like𑁋"

"No, I'm sorry for falling for you," You confess, a half-smile playing on your lips. "I tried not to, but... I did."

For a moment, the only sound is the rhythmic click of the clock on your wall. You watch him closely, heart hammering against your ribs, waiting for some reaction, any reaction. You almost wish you could take it back, swallow it whole and pretend it never happened.

"And I guess that's why I'm scared," You continue on, knowing there's no going back now. "scared to lose this, to lose you, that something as inevitable as... you know, death, will take it all away."

"You're not going to lose me," Wonwoo reassures. "I'm right here."

A small, appreciative smile tugs at the corners of your lips. "You say that like you can control everything."

"I know I can't," he admits with a gentle chuckle. "but I can promise to be here for as long as possible."

A heartbeat passes, then another. Wonwoo swallows, his throat suddenly feeling dry from your locked gazes. There's that look in his eyes again, the one that sends butterflies to your stomach and makes your heart flutter so clumsily. You feel the heat crawling up your cheeks, because dammit you really could push him off the bed right now.

You let out a cough, face feeling hot. "Anyway, can you reject me so I can move on?"

A playful grin stretches across his face. It starts small, perhaps a hesitant curve at the corner of his lips, but it blossoms quickly like a sunrise chasing away the night.

"Reject you?" he questions in disbelief, peering at you as if you were crazy. "Why on earth would I do that?"

"Well," You start. "because it's the only way for me to get over you, obviously. Oh, and so I can stop tripping over my own feet every time you're around and move on."

Wonwoo throws his head back and laughs, the sounds coming deep within his chest. You would never get tired of his laugh. "And who said I wanted to reject you?"

It's your turn for the smile to your face to fade just slightly, mouth agape as if you're about to say something, but nothing comes out.

Wonwoo scoffs. "I like you too, you know. I was just waiting for you to figure it out."

Now it's your turn to blink in disbelief.

"You... like me?"

He just shrugs, but the curve to his lips remains.

"Maybe that's why I look at you the way I do," he tells you, the tips of his fingers brushing against yours on the bed. "because you make everything feel okay."

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damn-stark · 8 days

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Chapter 20 The Witch, The Siren, and The Prince

Chapter 20 of Moonlight

A/N- this was very fun to write, I hope you all enjoy it!!

Warning- Swearing, talks of pregnancy, violence, angst!!, fluff!!, SPOILERS FOR FUTURE EVENTS OF HOTD, USING FIRE AND BLOOD, LONG CHAPTER.

Pairing- Aemond Targaryen x Velaryon!fem-reader, Cregan Stark x Velaryon!fem-reader

Episode/Pages- 447- (only a part of) 449

(If you want to be tagged let me know)

————

Maybe it’s the rain, the grey skies, and the chilly air that makes your mind wonder about your mother and how she’s dealing with Jacaerys death. Has her heart completely been torn from her chest like yours was? Is she overcome with nothing but a raging storm that doesn’t let her see a single break of light in the darkened clouds?

You don’t want to think of her, you want to stay angry, but she appears in your mind like some ghost haunting you from the great beyond. And her eyes, her tears, her reaction to all that transpired in the Gullet fills your head. You’re still angry, you still feel that poison deep within you, but…you can’t help but wonder what she might've thought when she heard what you did. Is she disgusted? Horrified? Is she scared of the woman she birthed and raised after she heard how you relished in that massacre?

No matter what, you don’t want her to be scared of you. You don’t want her to be horrified. And even if some part of you wishes you hadn’t been born, you don’t want her to feel that regret about you. No matter how angry you are…

“My Prince Regent. Princess Regent,” Ser Criston greets Aemond and you with a bow of his head. “Welcome to Harrenhal.”

You snap from the depths of your mind and find Ser Criston glaring at you. If looks could kill his glare would have killed you the moment you hopped off Astraea and stepped onto these damp lands. Why is it so?

Is it because of the lack of a battle and his all too clean armor that should be stained with the blood of the Rivermen? Is it because of the lack of an army and the lack of dragon battle between Caraxes and Vhagar? Or is it because you’re all in Harrenhal?

Sure as you saw it from the sky, you could see the reminder of what happened when Aegon the Conqueror showed the rivermen the power of the dragons, but it’s not a terrible sight. The castle is tall, it was probably the tallest tower once, and it probably touched the sky before it was burnt down. The stone is dark which adds an eeriness as it’s cast by grey clouds, and a large lake sits by the castle which contrasts its eeriness and offers some serenity—for those who can find it anyway.

So it’s not all bad. To you at least. To Ser Criston it’s a different story and a different reason why his frown is carved so deeply on his face—you can already predict why he’s so upset, he’s practically yelling it at you through that glare.

“Men are already rounding up everyone who lives within the castle,” Ser Criston shares as he brings out his arms from behind him and steals a glance at the entrance of the dark castle before looking at Aemond. “And guards are being posted in every direction of the castle.”

Aemond hums and turns around to look at the castle, letting Ser Criston once again sneak a glare at you.

“Taking the castle was easier than I imagined it would be,” you mock Ser Criston as you hold his glare through the silver chains that fall over your face like a veil.

Aemond hums, and you let a faint smirk play in the corner of your lips before you turn away and face the castle from the ground, catching yourself smiling instead of feeling a chill as you see a small brown owl flying overhead.

“Where is everyone?” You don’t try to ease that frustration Ser Criston so obviously holds. You instigate the problem with a smug look playing in your eyes instead of your lips as you face the knight again.

“Why don’t you come with me to the main tent before we head inside,” Ser Criston suggests and Aemond doesn’t hesitate to follow, making you turn to trail after him. Yet as you’re going to step away, suddenly a breeze brushes over you that carries unintelligible whispering which causes you to snap around and face the castle.

Was it just some fragment of your imagination? Some mind trick? It could just be the wind, but you know the difference between a breeze and the whispers that come from someone’s mouth, and what you heard just now was whispering; not from Aemond or Ser Criston, they’re walking away. The whispering came from the breeze that blew from the direction of the castle.

If only you understood what it was saying, but not a word was clear. You just know it was someone whispering, and you wait in hopes you will hear it again, but you instead hear Aemond calling out your name.

“I’m…coming!” You respond over your shoulder and wait for a split second more before you turn around and see him waiting at the bottom hill for you. When you catch up you hook your arm around his and whisper to him as Ser Criston leads the way.

“He seems upset,” you point out as you flip back the chains hanging over your face, and then look at the back of the man's head. “At me more than anything else.”

Aemond sighs and speaks up in High Valyrian so he’s not understood—yet talking in a different language only makes him more suspicious. “<Don’t pay it any mind. There’s no reason to be upset, Daemon left. He’s a coward. It’s that simple.>”

“<You're not upset at me?>” You can’t help but ask and glance at him, catching him glance at you at the same time. “<He saw me. I could’ve been the one who sent him flying.>”

Aemond shakes his head. <You said he was wearing armor. I'm certain he didn’t know we were nearby before he saw you, so he most likely already planned on leaving. It’s not your fault.>”

You glance down at the hand you have around his arm and hum in comprehension, giving away the uneasiness that you tried hard to fight off, but finds a way to still weigh down on you as you feel some responsibility for facing an empty castle. Aemond senses that and leans over to press a kiss on the side of your head.

“The twins don’t like this weather,” you complain and look up. “It messes up my hair.”

“You were just covered in blood,” he rebuttals, making you snicker—“anyway with Daemon gone we won’t stay long. We’ll have my uncle stay here to keep the castle.”

You nod softly. “Good, I miss Aerion and our bed.”

He scoffs, but you make a faint smile tug on his lips regardless.

Before you can reach the tent you feel his gaze on you, so you look over to lock eyes with him and catch the corner of his lips twitching to a smirk. “You look beautiful in that gown. If that wasn’t obvious,” he says, making a warmth creep on your face, and causing you to turn your head away to grin as you mindlessly brush the long silk crimson skirt with your hand.

“You’re being unprofessional, husband. You're going to make Ser Criston mad.”

Aemond scoffs and leans over to whisper in your ear. “I don’t give a damn. I can tell you you look nice whenever I please.”

You smile wider and then lull your head back toward Aemond to look at him with a love-struck gaze. “Thank you,” you whisper against his lips that you brush against as you find him closer than you thought.

He hums and looks down at your lips before he presses a peck on your forehead, making you groan, but making him smirk before he flips the silver chains back over your face to fall like a veil instead of using it like a hairnet.

“<Protect yourself. We’re on enemy grounds.>” He says in High Valyrian.

“It’s more like a fashion piece,” you mumble as you fix the chains.

“It works both ways, that's all that matters,” he retorts before he walks ahead of you to open the tent and let you walk in first.

Once inside the perimeters of the main tent, you’re greeted with the sight of other knights and commanders who hadn’t been in your meetings before. And they all go quiet when Aemond and you walk in and steal their breaths—All except Ser Criston’s and Ser Gwayne’s breath that is.

“Welcome to Harrenhal my Prince, my Princess,” Ser Gwayne greets with a kindness Ser Criston lacked. “If it wasn't obvious we have already taken over the castle with minimal challenge.”

“If a challenge is what you call it,” Ser Criston grumbles. “The doors were open, and the halls emptied. All that remains is prints of what used to be.”

His eyes follow you as you make your way to a seat. You can feel him glowering.

“Have the men inside faced any resistance?” Aemond asks as he takes a seat across from you since there’s no map to study or markers to move. The wooden table is empty and men in their armor simply surround it.

“No, none,” Ser Gwayne answers. “Some men were left, but easily fought. The Strong’s have all but surrendered.”

Aemond hums and Ser Criston parts his lips to finally express his anger against you in a daring and bold tone. “Perhaps if the Princess Regent had not been so reckless in her scouting task then the army would be here, and Daemon would not have fled.”

You look at him unbothered as you cross your leg over the other and sit back before you let your head loll to the side, and then interject in your defense with this cocky air mingling around you. “Mind your tongue Ser,” you roll out softly but threatening in every way. “You may be the Hand, but you still are a Kingsguard.”

You narrow your gaze and a faint smirk that only Ser Criston sees plays on the corner of your lips.

“Forgive me,” he says with no sentiment behind his apology, he just loses his glare and averts his gaze. “I did not mean to raise my voice. We could have had them pinned and destroyed their army. Or if we hadn't, we could have at least diminished their numbers, but now who knows how many more men we may have to face when he joins the others. The Northmen get closer by the day, their numbers may be small, but together they will be a much more dangerous threat.”

Your smirk falls and your eyes fall on your hands as you start to fiddle with your rings at the mention of the Northern men.

“The Northerner army still has to face our Western army,” a commander offers some consolation. “Lord Jason may be dead, but the Lannister army is still prevailing. They fight under Lord Humfrey Lefford now.”

“He’s in a litter,” Ser Criston snaps back spitefully as if the man had any fault.

“But still fighting,” Ser Gwayne counters. “Ease that brow Ser Criston, the princess did not send Daemon and the Rivermen army fleeing. It seems that by the time the Princess went to scout, the army was already leaving around us to avoid us. The same goes for Prince Daemon.”

“Daemon and his river scum fled rather than face my wrath,” Aemond proclaims and as much as you would want to agree, you have a feeling that there’s a much more significant reason why Daemon finally left the Riverlands and the castle undefended—“we will take the castle and after it falls the Princess and I will return to King's Landing. Ser Gwayne—”

Before he can finish sharing his plan a knight walks in with a raven scroll. “My Prince, this came for you from King’s Landing.”

You and Aemond share a confused and concerned glance before he walks over and takes the scroll, letting the knight walk out.

As Aemond opens the scroll, you slip your leg off the other and sit up straight to watch as Aemond’s face begins to twist with a seething rage.

“What is it?” You probe as you stand up. “What’s wrong?”

Aemond crumbles up the scroll and hurls it on the tabletop before he snaps his glare up as he huffs out through his nose, and then exclaims. “Daemon and that cunt Rhaenyra took King’s Landing!”

Tension fills the room, and everyone around the table passes worried glances as Aemond’s nostrils begin to flare with each heavy breath he takes.

“They took it while we were away! They have my son captive! And my mother and sister along with him!” He yells, making you swallow back nervously. Not out of fear of what they would do to Aerion, your mother wouldn’t hurt him, nor would Daemon. You grow nervous because of what Aemond wants to do to retaliate such an attack against him and the crown he almost held at his fingertips. It was there in his reach and now it got taken away by a man that a few days ago was under his nose.

“That’s where that craven took that army! That’s where that fucking craven went!” His angry shouts fill the tent, making everyone not dare to look him in the eye. You don’t even look at him, not because you fear him, you don’t. You don’t face him because you once again redirect your thoughts to your mother.

She took King’s Landing. That’s what she has been up to since Jacaerys death. She most likely used her anger to finally take the capital from Aemond and the rest of the Greens while Vhagar was away. She did it and you don’t know if you’re angry, or secretly proud. You don’t fight for either side, that’s still true. You fight for yourself, for your survival and that of your children and Aemond, but as she sits on the throne of swords does she think about you? Or does she now look at you the same way she looks at Aemond? Like an enemy that needs to be taken down? A daughter turned enemy that she will not consider her heir now that Jacaerys is dead?

What are you to her now that she finally sits on the Iron Throne? And are you proud or upset? Then again that last question depends on how she sees you now.

Regardless, it’s not like you can know now so you focus back on Aemond still simmering in his rage before he suddenly turns around swiftly and stomps out of the tent.

You and Ser Gwayne share a concerned look before you quickly follow Aemond out, seeing that he seems to be heading toward the castle.

You then quickly catch up to him and match his pace even if he takes very long strides, and manage to catch his arm.

“Aemond?” You beckon his attention, and he doesn’t hesitate to give it to you. And rather than meeting anger because you are the daughter of Rhaenyra; the one who took the throne behind his back, you actually see that he shares a malicious and smug look with you that answers your upcoming question before you can express it, and eases your chest from its clenched hold whilst also sparking those same emotions inside you.

That malice playing in his eyes is contagious, and you welcome it with open arms. You don’t fight it, it eases right in you. Which sounds twisted that with one look from Aemond you match the emotions inflaming within him, but you can’t help it. Be it doubt about your mother and the anger you still hold for her that makes understanding him and matching his fire that much easier, but you do. And it’s also with another single look that he gives you that you trust him wholeheartedly.

No words were exchanged. There’s no need for them. He asks you with his eye alone to trust him, only glances are exchanged, only your souls communicate together through your eyes, and without hesitation or pesky doubt, you trust him. You show him that you trust him without a single word, you lift your nose in the air and pass him a sly smirk. And he is relieved to know you understand. It’s your understanding, your matching fire that makes his shoulders roll back with more confidence and makes him have more cockiness in his stride.

When you finally make your way past the entrance of the blackened castle, your gaze hardens and emanates an icy fire that intimidates those who meet your gaze and gives away the suffering that made you so cold.

For those who look closely anyway, otherwise, they meet the eyes of a dragon in human form, the Blood Dragon, and the Fire Demon who demolished the Triarchy in The Gullet. You are a sight to behold, more so as you walk side by side, and at a matching pace with your husband Prince Aemond, the Prince Regent.

Before there was a change in the air as all the bodies that inhabited the castle were rounded up and confronted by a large army, but now it’s a different story. Now a darker cloud looms over Harrenhal as Aemond and you make your way into the courtyard, as they announce your names and titles, and you both pierce your glares down at everyone from the clouds. You literally stood before them, face to face, on the ground, but to the eyes of captured men and women and everyone that was not either of you, you watched them from a throne in the clouds.

Aemond and you are the very picture of royalty. Whereas Daemon waltzed about the castle looking every bit of a dragon warrior and offering his assistance where he could, Aemond and you differed; you’re like gods with your piercing glares that could damn anyone if they looked too close, and your noses in the air that showed everyone you were nowhere near them.

“Who is the castellan of Harrenhal?” Aemond asks a question he knows, but he’s playing around with all the captives set before you. “Step forward.”

The old and the young men all look between each other before a plump man with grey hair steps forward in his velvet robes, and his eyes downcasted.

“It is I, Ser Simon Strong, at your service, my Prince…and Princess.”

He dares himself to glance at you as if waiting to be corrected, but you tilt your head up, proving he was right to also name you.

“The castle is yours,” Ser Simon Strong adds, making Aemond snicker, and unsettling the old lord and every man behind him. “We surrender Harrenhal to you.” The man declares and bows his head.

Aemond and you share a quick glance before Aemond steps forward and pulls Blackfyre out of its sheath to lift Ser Simon’s chin with the flat side of the blade.

“Did you fall on your knees just as quickly when Daemon barged in here and took the castle?” He asks with his anger heightening in his tone. “Why should I trust the words of a man who yielded the castle and his loyalty to the enemy?”

Ser Simon swallows thickly and shakes his head as panic grows in his eyes. “No, he forced us, my Prince. He took the castle by force. My loyalties are to King Aegon. We are true and loyal servants of the crown,” he runs his mouth without trying to avert his gaze so his every word is believed, but Aemond is no fool. Even if he was, nothing would spare the castallen from Aemond’s wrath.

“My nephew Lord Larys Strong serves the realm, and the King as the Master of Whisperers,” he continues to add, but that only makes Aemond’s grip around the sword tighten. “House Strong serves no other ruler but King Aegon, and you.”

Aemond lowers the sword and steps back, giving the man a false sense of relief.

“Lord Larys tried to kill my son and heir,” Aemond makes the man stiffen. “He is only five months old. Lord Larys tried to kill my wife, your Princess, and the babes growing inside her, so tell me, Lord Strong,” Aemond rolls out with every word laced with venom. “Why should I trust the words or loyalties of a man whose nephew betrayed the crown? Who let the pretender inside the city and take the throne?!” He sneers, and Ser Simon shakes his head trying to argue but what words can he use to assure Aemond?

There’s nothing the man can say. No excuses, no protests. There at that moment, inside of Aemond’s eye, he can see the fate that awaits him.

“Give Ser Simon a sword,” Aemond demands as he turns to start pacing menacingly. “Let the Gods decide if he speaks truly. If you are innocent Ser, the Warrior will give you strength to defeat me. If not…” he trails off and ends the sentence with silence, but there’s no need for him to finish, everyone knows what will happen if the man doesn’t defeat Aemond. Just like everyone knows that will be the only outcome of this duel. Aemond knows it, and you know it.

Everyone knows that Ser Simon’s fate is imminent. He knows it for certain and it’s why he looks at you for reassurance, for a wedge that could let him escape his lurking fate. Yet he’s mistaken. Besides he only looks at you for help because you’re a woman for one; you are meant to have a woman’s merciful heart. And two, you're Rhaenyra’s daughter, you are the Realm’s Golden Girl, but the Realm’s Golden Girl doesn’t reside within you anymore, she’s dead, and he sees that when he catches your intimidating glare behind those silver chains over your face. Thus he leaves you be as he sees that his fate is set in stone.

“<You may not need it, but I’m still going to give you my favor,>” you tell Aemond as he waits to fight Ser Simon, making him hum in response before you stand on the tip of your toes and press a kiss on his cheek. “<The gods are in your favor, my love.>”

Aemond holds your gaze for a lingering moment before he turns away and heads to the center of the courtyard to face his old opponent shoved to the center. All while you walk back in the shadows to stand next to Ser Gwayne.

“What happens to the other men of the castle?” You ask as you see how Aemond rolls his shoulders back.

“If the Prince is merciful they are kept captive where they’re forced to work for us or rot in a cell,” Ser Gwayne says without trying to hide a thing. “If he’s not well, your dragons are going to be well-fed tonight.”

You hum and drift your eyes to all the men and the boys nervously watching the fight about to commence. You would like to say there’s a flicker of some sense to help them, but all that grows within you is a dangerous smugness that accompanies a wicked plan that starts to take root.

Would you be denied such pleasures though? That’s the question you should ask yourself before you get excited.

Perhaps by Ser Criston, but Aemond? Doubtful. Actually probably not since he’s furious that King’s Landing was taken. You will have to wait until after the duel to know though.

Until then you clasp your hands before you and feel a rush of excitement as the duel starts and Aemond stares the man down. Yet as Ser Simon is going to attempt to make his first move, a breeze blows past you again and that same whispering travels amongst it, pulling your eyes away from the duel and drifting them toward an arch that leads out somewhere you don’t know, somewhere that every muscle in your body wants to move toward, but somewhere you don’t push yourself to go to just yet.

You stay where you are and slowly bring your eyes down, at that moment catching distant green eyes looking back at you. Big green eyes that belong to a woman in dark purple who sports long black hair that flows behind her as a breeze also brushes past her. A woman that steals your attention over the singing of the swords hitting against each other and holds your attention over the fact that Aemond is the one dueling.

You don’t know why she holds your attention captive, you don’t know why you look at this woman amongst the flock of other women who reside in this castle. You just hold her gaze and feel a familiarity deep in your bones. Have you seen the gleam of her eyes somewhere? A haunting dream perhaps?

You don’t know, she just seems familiar. And the way she holds your gaze makes it seem like she knows you too, like she’s not scared of you like the others are.

“No!!”

You rip your eyes away from the woman and look back to the center of the courtyard, finding Ser Simon bleeding out from a large gash on his stomach that has his inside leaking out, and proves Aemond the winner. Not like it was going to go any other way, everyone knew, you knew with certainty. But even still, you beam at him and clap, making him smirk at the ground as you make your way to each other.

When you meet in the middle he grabs your hand and kisses your knuckles. Before he turns around you tighten your grip around his hold and draw his attention to you. “Do you trust me?” You ask out loud.

Aemond’s eye digs deep into your soul to try and figure out what you’re up to. Yet even if he sees that malice reflecting back at him, he can’t exactly pull your mind apart so he nods. “Of course,” he assures you.

You blink and sigh with relief before you glance at the women cornered at the far end of the courtyard. “Oh, and the women, spare them.”

Aemond follows your gaze and shakes his head lightly, but you grab his arm and pull his attention back to you. “Aemond,” you insist and come up with a quick but strong excuse to spare their lives. “With King’s Landing taken we might stay here a while, we need them. I need them. I need someone to tend to me as I am with child.” You press and make him hold your gaze for a long while as he debates your proposal.

When his mind is made he sighs deeply. “Alright. They will be spared.”

“Good…and let me handle the sentencing of the sons, everyone else is yours to do as you please,” you add for some context before he can get carried away.

“They will not be spared,” he clarifies, making you nod in comprehension before you let his hand go and face the horrified and solemn crowd together.

“Have his body fed to Vhagar,” Aemond proclaims as he strides forward to be at the center of attention. “As for the rest of you, hm.”

He turns with his hands clasped behind him, and his nose in the air to show his boast in confidence and power after his win. “The Princess Regent wants the women spared, so they shall. Thank her for I thought of you as dragon fodder.” He huffs with amusement. “Tend to her, and if she or my children are harmed I will slay you down myself.”

There’s no echo of responses, everyone understands and agrees in a sign of relief.

“And if I hear that any man from our army touched them against their will, I will hunt them down,” you make it known threateningly. “Ser Criston? Ser Gwayne? The men better behave and find whores to bother instead.”

“Understood,” Ser Gwayne is the only one who voices his comprehension, while Ser Criston, well, as you peer back he simply offers you a stiff nod.

You don’t argue about his response, you simply hum and then roll your shoulders back to mirror your husband's stance before you stalk toward him as you have your gaze set on the crowd of men now.

“As for the men,” you continue to have your voice be heard, piquing Ser Criston’s attention now more than before. “Every bastard boy seventeen and younger is spared. As for the sons of Ser Simon Strong, please step forward.”

Whispers travel about the crowd of men and women, while you peer over at Ser Criston and catch him looking at Aemond as if seeking for him to control you and stop taking charge.

Alas Aemond is too busy with what you have planned to pay Ser Criston any mind.

“Good,” you say as the men you asked for walk to the center of the courtyard, whilst in the air the sound of large flapping wings is heard before Astraea makes an appearance as she perches herself on a wall that towers over the courtyard, setting terror within the men before you as her gaze pierces in them the same way yours does.

“W-we surrender!” A man seeming to be not much older than you stammers out as he falls to his knees. “Please, please Your Grace we are at your mercy!”

A wicked smirk tugs on your lips at the sound of his words, but before you can do or say anything, you look over at Aemond, and with your eyes point at the empty spot next to his uncle that’s right under Astraea’s neck, and away from her target of fire.

Aemond of course seems hesitant at first, but after you insist he falls back, letting you face the men with a dark and piercing gaze and a menacing smirk only meant for them.

“You’re at my mercy. That’s good,” you interject in a soft voice before you utter a single word in the softest most alluring way. “Dracarys.”

Astraea doesn’t hesitate, she doesn’t need to be told twice, she brings her head down right behind you and opens her mouth to blast out a blazing cloud of fire that captures you in its rage along with all the men you brought to the middle. All except one.

One man manages to slip away from Astraea’s wrath the moment she opens her mouth. Albeit he’s caught by Aemond before he can run any further and is forced to watch as his brothers cry out in pain, as their skin melts from their bones, and as you stand there unharmed and a cold look in your eyes. There's no menacing smirk, no smug one either. You watch them suffer from inside those flames with a piercing look; not amusement or pride, and not malice either. Pure anger flickers in your eyes the same way the flames flicker around you.

Why anger though?

Because you’re angry at the world. You want the men you set ablaze to suffer the same way you’re suffering over the loss of your brothers. You want them to suffer the same way you suffer as those lies you were told echo in your head. You want them to live in the same pain you do as you remember at every waking hour that the man you loved with all your heart left you behind.

You’re full of rage and you want them all to feel the heat of your anger.

——

*LATER*

“What do we do next?” You ask as your eyes wander yet another darkened hall. “With Vermax gone that still leaves us severely outnumbered.”

Ser Criston sighs deeply and for once his glare is not aimed at you, or anyone for that matter, he looks down at the table and thinks over the next course of action.

“We march South, join Daeron and the rest of the Hightower forces,” Ser Gwayne suggests and looks to Aemond in hopes he will agree. “Our support is the strongest in the South. With the Rivermen supporting the Blacks we are surrounded by the enemy now that they have taken the throne. Our best choice would be to march South, have three dragons joined together, and two large armies join strengths. We could have a chance to retake King's Landing with our forces together.”

You slowly drift your eyes toward Aemond, and as he glances at you, you let him know with a slight lift of your chin that you agree with whatever he has planned—He understands that and rolls his eye back to his uncle.

“No. That is a craven’s choice. That’s what they want us to do, run like they did. I will not run like a dog with its tail between its legs,” he sneers and presses his hands on the surface of the round table. “We will hold this castle and find a way to retake King’s Landing, even if it means having to lure each dragonrider one by one until all that Rhaenyra has left is one dragon.”

“There's no use for our armies here,” Ser Criston argues and approaches the table. “Prince Daemon is gone and the men with him are too. That’s why we came in the first place, to fight them, and now they’re gone. We will just be a sitting target ready to be plucked by the enemy around us.”

“Enemy?” Aemond bites back as he tilts his head. “The Lannister army is taking out our enemy. We will not run. We will hold this castle and make our plans here, do you understand?”

Ser Criston and Ser Gwayne share an unconvinced and doubtful glance before Ser Gwayne meets your gaze and seems to ask for help to talk sense to Aemond. Which is kind of funny because ever since you stood there in that courtyard with the ashes of your enemy at your feet and you perfectly unscathed, Ser Gwayne nor Ser Criston have been able to meet you in the eye.

They can’t look past their horror because that’s what it is, there’s no mistaking the horror you saw on their faces when the fire died down and you stood there unharmed. It’s like you turned to a plague in their eyes, a fearsome thing to behold, or even look at.

Not like you care. You don’t give a damn if they fear you, or if they think of you as some demon. Aemond looked at you with fascination as the fire died and you stood there unharmed. If it was possible his love for you only intensified, and if he wasn’t already in love, he would fall with you all over again at that moment in time as the fire bathed you and you stood there radiantly, like the very sun itself. You were not someone to fear. You were and are awe-striking, something to look at with wonder and fascination. Someone to worship. What you possess is a gift, not a curse. He sees that, he knows that and he could never fear you because of it. That’s all that matters to you.

“Great,” Aemond adds with a huff as neither Ser Criston nor Ser Gwayne protests his plan.

“What of Ser Simon’s youngest son?” Ser Gwayne brings up now that he has the chance. “What will be of him?”

You stand up straighter and stifle your mischievous smirk. “I will give him the chance to gain his freedom on the morrow in a…trial by combat. He managed to escape Astraea’s wrath, so I will give him a chance to gain his freedom. It’s only fair.”

Ser Gwayne does not seem to have any protests about your plan. It’s insignificant so it doesn’t bother him, but Ser Criston seems annoyed, disgusted almost, and he hopes Aemond has some protest, but your husband did not see what he did. Not even a bit, which only leaves the knight more annoyed.

Does he say anything though? No, he stays quiet and doesn’t really speak up about any other matter that’s discussed. A silence falls over the hall as they all swallow any protests that go against Aemond’s plan, which makes for a short meeting. Which is great for you, it feels like you’ve been on your feet for days without rest. The twins are only getting bigger by the day and are only draining more of your energy. You want to sleep until the next day, and maybe eat something sweet?

Cake! That sounds good. Maybe you’ll have one of the cooks make you one—then again what if they try to poison you?

If only you had the faintest idea of how to make a cake of your own. Alas, you don’t, and you don’t want to ask anyone to make one either. You’ll have to live with the temptation.

Unless…

“Ser Jason—”

There it is again. That whispering accompanying the wind.

It’s still unintelligible, but you hear it again. Only this time it doesn’t go away with the wind, you keep hearing it. It's loud and then it goes quiet as it lures you somewhere you shouldn’t go, somewhere you should be cautious about, after all, you just got here, Daemon held this castle previously, and someone loyal to him could harm you. Yet no matter how many times you try to tell yourself to stop, you can’t ignore the soft whispering. It’s as if the wind is pulling you with it throughout the wet grounds, and you’re too entranced to stop.

“What is it, princess?” Ser Jason interjects.

You shake your head. “Never mind,” you brush him off and walk faster, turning corners, and passing by servants who stop to let you pass. You walk over puddles, and forget corridors you take to get to the Godswood?

You’re in the Godswood, in front of a large Heart tree with vibrant red leaves, the finest and whitest wood, and long roots that spread all over the ground. You stand there under its towering ancient presence and realize at that instant that the whispering is calling you to its presence. It’s telling you to go so you go with no protest and no fear. You walk to it with fascination as that whispering gets louder but not clearer, just louder as you get closer and closer.

Once you stand before the weeping face an urge takes over you to touch the sap that falls from it. It’s telling every muscle in your body to touch it and finally cipher what the whispering is saying, so you start to stretch your hand out. Yet as your fingers hover over the red sap, the sound of Ser Jason’s threatening voice stops you.

“There is far enough.”

The whispering goes quiet and you drop your arm back to your side right away before you turn and face, her. It’s that woman from the courtyard, the one that you swear you know, but can’t pinpoint from where. A dream perhaps?

Regardless, she’s standing there behind Ser Jason’s sword looking directly at you with her big eyes.

“Ser,” you interject softly and walk down toward them. “It’s alright.”

Ser Jason glances over at the entrance to make sure your husband isn’t lurking and ready to get him in trouble before he slowly does as he’s told, leaving the woman with access to you now.

“You,” you direct at her with a hint of wonder.

“Alys,” she says and side-eyes your sworn protector with the most rudest side-eye you’ve ever seen and then slowly drags her feet toward you. “Rivers.”

You take in her name with a gentle nod and she stops walking while you step back on the ground to be on the same level, but still several feet away.

“You,” she redirects, making the corner of your lips twitch up, but not extend to that smile just yet. Not even when she says your name.

“Some of those boys you and the Prince put to the sword were good. Boys with no name who were just trying to live,” she says boldly, making you raise your chin and show no falter in your decision. You show no regret and no guilt. Pride sparks in your eyes and makes the corner of your lips tug to a malicious smirk.

“Boys turn to vengeful men,” you counter simply. “Men have already tried to kill me and my children. I won’t let them get close again.”

She doesn’t say anything in return, she instead walks closer but stops soon thereafter and looks you up and down, letting you do the same in the silence that comes down over you.

You still try to figure out where you might know her from, but you can’t come up with an answer, just more curiosity.

“I’ve been waiting for you for a while now,” she breaks the silence, making you stiffen and causing your lips to part as your eyes slowly widen—“It’s about time our paths crossed, don’t you think?”

The corner of her lips lift slightly, but you only look at her shocked as your mind unravels what she might be.

“Are you—”

“A healer,” she interrupts you. “Yes.”

You shake your head as that shock turns back to fascination. “A witch?”

She scoffs and brings her hands together as she slowly makes her way closer to you, causing you to try and step back out of caution. However, you don’t actually end up moving. You think you do but you can’t bring yourself to really move.

“Well, I dabble in some medicinal things and people call them potions. The wind speaks to me, murky waters and fire paint me a picture, but I wouldn’t call myself that.”

You let out a breathless laugh, and then as she finally stops only a few inches away do you study her; her defined jaw, her big green eyes that have a way of luring you in, and her long and beautiful black hair that flows down her back.

“I am merely Alys. That’s all. That's all I’ll be in this long game.”

Your eyebrows twitch together in confusion, but you don’t question her. You don’t dare to yet.

“And you,” she continues and piques your curiosity. “A spark that triggers a greater fire.”

Your shoulders fall and a flood of questions come through your mind, drowning out any suspicions you held for her.

“What do you mean?” Is the first question that escapes you, making her lips lift up to a smug smile.

“All in due time, Princess, we still have a lot of time together,” she deflects and steps aside to point at the door that leads back inside the castle. “Why don’t I check on your twins first, hm?”

You part your lips and finally have the right mind to hesitate. “Maybe a maester can help me.”

She scoffs. “There’s no maester here. He left. Don’t worry, you can trust me.”

You draw in a deep breath and continue to hesitate for a moment longer until you remember that there’s no maester in your grand arsenal of men, so there’s no other choice but to trust her.

“Very well,” you give in with a deep breath and walk with her, but end up stopping when Ser Jason doesn’t follow closely behind. He stays in the middle of the courtyard and looks around panicked until you call for his attention.

“Ser Jason?”

His head snaps toward you and he looks at you horrified.

“Are you alright, Ser? Too brisk for you?”

Alys snickers and you offer the man a teasing smile, but he just heaves until he shakes his head and clears his throat before he finally catches up. You then continue your path inside side by side with Alys until you reach some messy hall with a cozy fire lit inside, and a round table full of clutter.

It's hard to be awed by the mess.

“Sit,” she orders and points to a large chair before she goes and tries to close the door. However, Ser Jason puts his foot in the way to stop her.

“No,” he deadpans.

“No men, just us. I have to check on her privately. Unless you want to be a part of it?” She asks and then seems to whisper something you don’t catch, but makes Ser Jason’s eyes flutter nervously before he slowly slides his foot back, making her scoff.

“None of your father’s backbone. He would’ve fought to stay here,” she has no shame in saying. And even if you should be in disbelief, you’re awed by her jab.

Poor Ser Jason can’t say the same, he’s horrified and flabbergasted all at the same time, and it’s her comment that lets her shut the door in his face and then face you with a smile.

You had the thought of asking her how she knew about Ser Jason’s big secret, but how do witches know anything?

Who knows. You leave it as just an impressive feat.

“How far along are you?” She asks as she makes her way to the round table.

You draw in a deep breath and look at the floor for an answer, but you can’t come up with it right away. There’s been death after death, and devastating news after devastating news that you lost track.

“A month maybe? Almost two? I have lost track. I just know that I am not showing yet.” You say.

Alys hums as she puts a kettle over the fire. “Has there been bleeding?” She then asks as she turns back to her table. “Anything of note?”

You shake your head. “No, I’m just more tired now. Hungry. The aches have slowly gone away.”

She nods in comprehension and you interlace your hands together and let your eyes explore the dimly lit room. Alys walks over to you, but doesn’t garner your attention until she’s standing over you.

“You ought to be more cautious,” she almost scolds you. It sounds like it anyway. “Locked in a room with me? After having just met me.”

You slowly stand up as you hold her gaze and without saying anything you flip back the silver chains that fall over your face, as if leaving the most valuable part of you vulnerable after feeling the need to protect it after Jacaerys death.

“There’s nothing you can do that can hurt me,” you mutter full of gloom. “Whatever was left of my heart died with my brother.”

Alys looks deep into your eyes and you catch the slight shake of her head before she whispers. “Is that why you leave yourself vulnerable to me? Armor can only protect so much.”

You draw out a deep breath and finally let go of her gaze. “Let’s just say it feels as if I already know you. Is it you? Some trick?”

She rolls her eyes. “No,” she retorts. “No trick, our part of our story is at last getting told. That’s all.”

You scoff and nod softly. “Okay. You’re strange, you know that?”

She smiles. “So I have been told. Sit and put your legs up on this,” she says and drags a tall stool in front of the chair, letting you do as she asked to let her check on you and the twins.

“You ought to be careful with whom you share your fire with,” she finally goes back to what she was trying to get at. “You don’t know me. You don’t even know half of this world. There are cold people who would do anything to snuff out a warm and blazing fire like yours. You can’t let them, you’re a dragon with fire-made flesh, be a dragon,” she gets across harshly as she’s examining you, which kind of fails to get her point across, but it still finds a way to travel in your ears and make you quiet. Like a mother would, or an older sister, or some passionate and dedicated teacher.

And like a scolded child you stay quiet until she’s done.

“Strong,” she shares, easing your worry. “And growing as they should be.”

You let out a relieved sigh and slide your legs back to let your gown fall back over your legs. “There was one smaller than the other, is that still the same?” You have to ask, making her hold your gaze in a gentle manner as she nods.

“Keep trying to stay strong and your little dragons will do the same, hm?”

You nod in comprehension and watch her walk to a bowl of water to wash her hands before she pulls the kettle out of the fire to now prepare some tea or something you can’t figure out yet.

“It’s nice talking to another woman,” you share with no shame and with no kind of hesitation to her warnings. “My handmaiden Vanessa stayed behind, and so did Helaena. It’s just me and a bunch of men. Only Aemond doesn’t let me converse with any, so it’s mostly him, and Ser Gwayne. So it’s nice talking to you.”

Alys stops mashing some kind of herbs and blinks repeatedly as if caught in disbelief over your words before she slowly lifts her gaze and looks at you with this different gleam in her eyes. It’s much softer, but still bright that it makes it look like she’s smiling with her eyes before an actual smile paints on her features.

“Daemon was much colder and distant, you—”

“Ew,” you cut her off with disgust. “Never ever compare me to him. That’s…no.”

She giggles and besides your disgust, you laugh quietly along with her. You share a laugh until the door is ripped open and Aemond stomps inside with a glare already set on Alys.

“If you’re done let’s go,” he says through gritted teeth as he snaps his gaze to you.

“It’s quite alright,” she tries to assure him as she mixes the hot water and herbs she dumps in a cup. “I don’t bite.”

Aemond drags his gaze back to her and passes her a glare without returning any word. He just glares at her before he looks back at you and presses his insistence to leave.

“I’m going,” you whisper sharply as you make your way to him, whilst Alys makes her way to you—“she was just checking on me and your twins.” You snap and he presses his glare at you, making you roll your eyes in return.

When you reach Aemond’s side, Alys reaches you, so he grabs your wrist and steps back, but you stay grounded.

“Drink this, it’s red raspberry leaf tea. For you and your babes,” she says and offers you the cup which you take without question.

“Thank you, Alys,” you tell her with a gentle smile as you slide your arm up to grab Aemond’s hand.

“And if you,” she directs at him. “Find yourself having…sleepless nights, I can make you something to aid in that. You need only ask.”

Aemond’s gaze hardens as he hums before he turns around swiftly, making his hair turn dramatically. Before you leave Alys behind you offer her one last smile, and then catch up to Aemond’s side so he’s not dragging you with him.

“I went to look for you at our chambers and you were not there,” he says in annoyance, but you brush him off.

“She was merely checking on me and the twins. That’s all.”

Aemond stops walking, and you stop with him. Before he can face you he mutters. “Then talk to a maester or a midwife. Not some…whatever she is.”

“Healer,” you avoid saying witch so he doesn’t overreact. “And if you must know the twins are fine. Strong, she says.”

Aemond turns slowly with a change in his expression; going from upset and overly concerned to relieved and soft.

“Are they?” He probes as he reaches over and gently caresses your belly.

“Mhm-hmm,” you reassure him with a hum. “Getting bigger.”

The corner of his lips twitch up very faintly and you just watch him with a blissful smile before you glance down at him pressing his hand against your belly.

“<That's good,>” he whispers in High Valyrian.

You press your hand over his and smile wider, which is something he catches now and studies for a lingering moment before he then snatches the cup in your hand and throws it back.

“Aemond!”

“You’re not drinking that,” he deadpans and continues walking.

It’s not like you can collect the tea off the ground so you follow at his side. “You’re being dramatic,” you mumble.

“No. You don’t know her,” he argues. “It could be poison. I’m just protecting you and the twins.”

He is right to be wary, so you don’t argue, but to throw out the tea like that?!

Regardless, with nothing to be done over the spilled tea when you make it to your quarters, you once again hesitate and stiffen at the sight of your new dark chambers with a leaking roof.

At least there’s a hot bath ready now.

“Bathe with me, my love,” you tell Aemond over your shoulder, and at that moment catch him still in the hall, seeming to be staring at something in particular that has him stiff, his nose flared, and his chest rising and falling quickly.

“Aemond?” You call out and walk back out, catching a simple dark empty corridor. “What is it?” You query and grab his hand to tug it and gain his attention. “Aemond?”

Said man’s lips curl as if he’s getting upset at the emptiness, so you step in front of him and find his lost gaze.

“What is it?” You ask with concern and finally, his attention finds you after being somewhere far away. “Are you okay?”

His gaze flickers behind you for a second before he looks back at you and nods. You question him speechlessly as you’re hesitant to believe him, but he presses a kiss on your forehead and finally heads inside.

“Come on,” he whispers, but before you follow him back inside you steal a glance at the end of the corridor first. When you find it empty once again you just head back inside your chambers.

——

*THE NEXT DAY*

“The prisoner as you requested,” a man says as he pushes the Strong boy in front of Aemond and you, letting Aemond and you share the same mischievous look before he steps forward and simply studies the boy.

After a minute of silence, he steps before him, towering over his kneeled figure and looking at him with a pointed glare. “I will say I am…surprised you managed to avoid getting burnt,” he breaks the silence in his menacing low voice. “It is for that sole reason that the Princess Regent has granted you a chance to live.”

The boy blinks repeatedly in disbelief and shifts on his knees but doesn’t dare to look up at the lurking menace before him.

“A simple trial by combat,” Aemond reveals, making a crowd of men begin to gather in the tall and long great hall. “I’m sure you are aware how that works or do you need someone to explain it to you?”

The boy shakes his head. “No, I know.”

Aemond shifts his feet around and looks at the ground before he slowly scales his gaze up your figure before meeting your gaze with a sense of hesitation in his eye. All because he isn’t a big fan of your plan. He only agreed to it after a lot of persuading.

“Albeit,” you interject and walk forward, catching the young man’s attention, and making Aemond watch you walk forward until you reach his side—“there’s a change in the rules. You cannot pick your champion, you will fight, but you can pick your opponent between fighters we have chosen for today.”

The young man’s eyes widen before he drops his gaze to the ground and dares to argue. “But…”

“You can always choose death,” Aemond cuts him off, and the young man closes his mouth and stays quiet, responding to Aemond’s comment at that moment.

“If you win you get to be free, and if they win well…” you trail off since there’s no need to finish the rest, he knows what will happen. “Here are your choices,” you gain his attention once again.

“Ser Gwayne Hightower,” you announce and point to the knight. “Ser Criston Cole. Prince Aemond Targaryen,” you say and look at your husband who is hoping he is the one picked for today's trial. “Or…me.” You smirk, and the young man of course doesn’t reflect any sort of amusement. He looks rather baffled and slightly horrified that you, a woman, would offer to be his opponent.

“Don't worry you will get to wear armor,” you try to reassure him, but that’s not what he’s worried about.

“But the Prince is the Prince, I cannot harm him,” he argues as he shakes his head in denial, making you grow annoyed rather quickly.

“Choose,” you urge him impatiently.

The young man looks between Aemond, you, and the two knights behind you. He debates for a long moment, bringing tension to the hall until finally a shaky finger points at you.

“Good,” you whisper with a smug smile that slowly spreads on your lips. “Why don’t you help him don some armor,” you direct at the guards and start to turn to Aemond.

“No,” the young man cuts in, pulling your eyes back to him—“I do not require it. I am good as I am.”

And there it is, overconfidence because you’re a woman. You admire it.

“Are you sure?” You make sure to ask, but he doesn’t think it over, he nods, making you scoff softly before you turn to your husband whilst the young man is pulled off his knees to be prepared for the duel.

“I could take your place,” Aemond tries to protest. “I know you can fight, but you do not have to.”

You grab his arm and shake your head. “No I do not have to, but I want to. I can. And he is already doubting me. I will use that and win.”

Aemond swallows thickly and still looks unconvinced.

“I will be okay,” you assure him softly as you slide your hand down his arm to grab his hand. “You have to trust that I can win. Alright?”

Aemond draws in a deep breath and steals a glance at the young man getting a sword handed to him.

“I don’t know, it takes one swing,” Aemond argues and returns his gaze to you to plead with his eye as well. “And you are with child. No, you cannot.”

“I will,” you press and grab his other arm to lean in closer. “I have fought men much more threatening than him and won, and I have learned from good men like you.”

Aemond’s gaze falls and he shakes his head. “You more so stalked our training.”

You chuckle softly and his lips twitch but he can’t find amusement in your laugh, he only finds more reasons to stop you.

“Aemond,” you insist softly. “I will be fine. I will win. I won’t die today.”

Aemond’s gaze slowly drifts past you and fixates on something. You slowly follow his line of gaze and see nothing but a group of men waiting eagerly for the duel, so you look back at him and cup his cheek

“I will be fine,” you say one more time to reassure him and then lean in to press a kiss on his cheek.

“At least use Blackfyre then,” he quips as he has no other choice but to accept your decision. “If he’s a great fighter he will win regardless of what sword you use.”

He pulls the sword out of its sheath, and you gladly take the massive Valyrian steel sword.

“<Be careful>,” he finally says in High Valyrian, making you nod in comprehension before you let him press a kiss on your cheek.

Before he pulls back he keeps his face close to yours, letting his breath unfurl over your cheek, and his lips grazing on your flesh. You stay in his presence and take in his gentle gesture before you tilt your head and slowly press a kiss on his thin lips before you pull away and walk to the middle of the circle the audience of men has created in anticipation and curiosity.

The young man slowly follows suit and rather than looking nervous, he looks rather determined and quite vengeful. Rightfully so, but let’s see if all those emotions will help win.

He does start right away by stalking around you, which gives him an edge, but you're quick to fix your stance while you follow his figure with your eyes until he's finally face to face with you again, glare narrowed and full of fury. He parts lips and you wait for a word to slip, something to express the grief and the anger, but instead, he lets out a deep guttural scream before he sprints at you and throws a harsh swing that you avert by stepping back with your hand relaxed.

The man sees that you swerved, so he reacts with a growl before he follows with another swing that you once again avert by turning away swiftly.

This only infuriates the young man more so he grabs his sword with both hands and brings his hands back to swing down at your head. You, albeit, quickly swing Blackfyre up and let your swords sing in the tense silence that fills the hall.

“That’s right,” you whisper as you hold his gaze overfilled with anger, and those two simple words only trigger him further, causing him to shove you back with all his strength to the point you stumble but react with a grin.

The young man lunges at you out of anger, but you’re quick, you meet his action and use all of your strength to push away his sword. He then quickly throws his arm back up, but you once again meet his swing. This time though you see that he’s focused on your upper body so you use your leg to kick him back.

The young man stumbles back and you take advantage of the rush passing through your system and stomp toward him. He quickly finds balance and swings hard at your neck with an angry bark leaving his lips, but you duck, and as you’re swinging down past his blade, you swiftly twirl the sword around in your hand to pass it to your non-dominant hand over your back. When you’re standing to your given height you reach your dominant hand back to rip your cloak off and hurl it at his face the same way you saw Ser Jason do to his opponent when you watched him fight for the first time. And like when you studied his fight you actually manage to catch the man off guard and block his view. Just the way you wanted.

Thus just as the man grabs the cloak on his face and begins to pull it off, you swing your sword and manage to slice his head clean off his neck, ending the fight, and proving you the winner.

Now that nail-biting tension slowly slips away, the nervousness on the men’s faces gathered around fall and a mix of disbelief and pride begins to seep through. And as much as you rejoice in the people’s reactions, and find an immense pride in proving men wrong by winning, you turn to look at Aemond first and foremost. You meet his gaze and get lost in his eye, causing everyone and everything around you to slip away and only leave you and him in the hall full of people.

There you are in your own little world, relishing in your achievement, proving you are strong and capable, someone worth fearing just like him, and Aemond can’t offer you anything else but a soft prideful smile as his eyes offer the same emotion, but also an intense awe. And no matter how much you like the attention of other people, the praise, and demonstrating that you are a fearsome thing to behold, all that matters at that moment is Aemond’s reaction. Everything else is meaningless compared to the pride and praise he offers you with his smile and that look in his eye. That’s all you need, all you could ever want.

“Let’s give a cheer to the Princess Regent!” Ser Gwayne breaks you away from your moment with Aemond before you can run over to him. “Princess!”

“Princess!”

“Princess!” The cheers fill the room, ridding the hall of all that tension that once held a grip on everyone. After seeing you come out of that dragon fire unscathed they thought of you as some demon from the seven hells or some damn curse, but now that’s all quick to vanish after you won your duel. Now every man that is fighting for the Greens is filled with admiration and respect for you.

All except Ser Criston, of course. You find him through the crowd gathering around you. He carries a look of disgust as he looks at you in the center of attention after having won a hand-to-hand duel. He hears all the praise in their cheers and sees the way they all crowd around you to be close to you, but he cannot see what they do. You’re like the eye of the storm in a sea, captivating perhaps, calm looking, but you’re completely dangerous and carry the potential to destroy everything in your path just like your mother.

You see straight through that, you note his disgust and don’t get shamed by it. You’re not belittled, you raise your nose in the air and shoot him a malicious smirk before you flash him a grin and turn away to give your attention to the men around you. You relish the praise and the celebration all meant for you.

For a while at least until you’ve had enough and slip away while they’re all busy talking amongst each other, and go in search of Aemond.

However, you find it difficult to find him when he’s not where you last saw him. He’s gone so you have a choice to wait for him to return because you’re sure he will since you’re out here, or you can go find him.

It’s a rather easy decision, you choose the latter as you have a bubbling excitement to talk to Aemond about the way you fought.

Yet when you leave the great hall and find yourself within the dimly lit corridors, you catch Ser Criston talking to Aemond just above a rather pressing whisper. You almost just reveal your presence by joining the pair, but you then catch your name and instead hide behind a wall with Ser Jason listening beside you.

“…too extreme. She cannot be allowed to be doing such barbaric acts. Not in front of the army of men, not in front of servants with slippery tongues.” He says in regards to your duel, and you wait with your breath held for Aemond’s response, hoping he will counter this rather stupid argument that comes from what? Misogyny? Ser Criston has never cared enough to worry about your well-being.

“Why would I do that?” Aemond snaps back, making a slow relieved breath escape past your nose—“She’s a fighter. A warrior with a great capability, far greater than most men here. She’s also a dragonrider, a talented one at that. Why should I care what people think or say about her in regard to her talents? She’s a Targaryen.”

The corner of your lips slowly pulls up whilst you hear feet shuffle against the stone ground.

“She may be all things you say and more, sure, but she is Rhaenyra’s daughter, Aemond. Don’t you see?” Ser Criston argues sharply and with a loss of patience in his tone. “What would the people think when they hear the whispers about her winning battles and duels?”

“I do not care!” Aemond loses his own patience, making butterflies flutter in your stomach at the sound of how desperately he’s defending you against a man who is his mentor, and like a father.

“She is my wife before she is Rhaenyra’s daughter! She is mine!”

“Then think about your unborn children!” Ser Criston cuts Aemond off in that heat of the moment with a sharper tone in his voice that pierces right through Aemond’s quick-rising rage—“It takes one lunge Aemond, one strong hit against her belly and you lose it all. Your legacy is threatened. Everything you’re fighting for will falter if you lose them over something you can prevent by keeping her away from these duels and battle plans.”

There’s a moment of silence that grows tense for you as you await Aemond’s response like waiting for bad or good news. Then again that is what it is to you, no matter how hard you may fight, Aemond still holds a lot of power over you. You see it, you recognize it, and you slightly fear it only because of the insecurities you hold for being pushed aside and locked away like some exotic bird only needed to be gawked at.

“But that’s it, Ser Criston,” Aemond responds clearly and calmly. Which is far more frightening than if he spoke with anger clinging onto his voice. “If it’s a choice between them and her. I chose her. Legacy be damned. We can always make more.” He finishes with a soft huff before you hear his heels turn against the stone and then click against the hard surface louder and louder as he approaches where you hide, making you bold and step out of the shadows.

When you’re under the revealing fire casting down from the walls, Aemond comes to an immediate halt and his eyes widen as his heart seems to fall to his stomach.

“Ser Criston,” you greet dryly at the man at the end of the corridor, making him avert his gaze and bow his head.

You pierce your glare into him until he escapes down the other corridor, letting you then face Aemond with a softer gaze that brings a sweet smile to your face.

“You heard?” He asks.

You nod without hesitation or shame. “I did. You are arguing in a corridor.”

He holds your gaze and then hums before he starts to walk, making you walk with him at the same pace.

“Thank you, I appreciate you supporting my decisions to be involved,” you say sweetly and reach for his hand, realizing at that moment how stiff he is, but not questioning it, just thinking it’s this castle and its eeriness.

“By the way I’m going to scout on Astraea, make sure there’s nothing lurking in the forest,” you bring up hopefully.

“Alright,” he gives in, making you beam at him before you lean in and press a kiss on his cheek.

“I won’t be long.” You assure him. “I will make sure to not engage in anything that might give me away this time. Swear.”

Aemond scoffs softly in amusement and strokes your knuckles with his thumb before the cold air hits his hand when you pull away and hurry down the hall to go to your dragon. Yet as fast as you are he catches up to you to watch you leave and make sure that what? You don’t slip off the rope ladders hanging on Astraea’s side?

Whatever the reason he follows you until he reaches an arch that leads to Astraea resting on the side of a hill. He stays leaning against it as you mount your dragon and ascend to the grey skies. It’s only once the sight of you is lost amongst the clouds that he turns away.

Nevertheless, when he faces the courtyard in front of the weirwood tree he comes to an immediate halt when he sees him again. A ghost haunting him since the moment he stepped foot in this haunting castle. It’s Lucerys Velaryon once again, standing there with a shadow cast behind him, looking at him with a pointed gaze, and a disappointed frown.

Like the other times before he doesn’t say a word, he just stands there watching him, as if threatening him, overlooking every action he takes. Especially when it comes to you. Like many times before he feels the need to react, to tell him to go away, but before he can part his lips he comes to his senses and realizes he’s not real. He's just some illusion. So with that thought in mind, he intends to walk away, but then the unexpected happens, Lucerys eyes drift up and he watches something in the sky.

Aemond doesn’t want to pay him any mind, but as if he has no control he slowly looks up and sees you returning.

You must’ve forgotten something or seen something.

Thus he turns back around to return to the arch and wait for you to land, but the moment he faces that arch Lucerys is standing under it, watching him again quietly until suddenly he parts his lips and it’s as if he’s really there. “You’re going to kill her.”

Aemond turns away swiftly but there Lucerys is again!

“Just like you killed me.”

“It was an accident!” Aemond barks out and storms toward Lucerys until he’s before him. “It was an accident,” he says quieter but through gritted teeth as his irritation heightens.

“Was it an accident when you slashed her cheek?”

“Yes.” He answers without hesitation or deceit because it was a stupid accident.

“How about when you seeked the company of that whore?” Lucerys quickly counters, making Aemond grow quiet this time and letting Lucerys continue. “It's inevitable, that’s who you are. What you are. You will be her death.”

Aemond shakes his head as his eye quickly wells with tears. “No,” his voice cracks. “You’re wrong. She means much more to me than you ever did. I ride the biggest dragon! I am a skilled swordsman! She will not die by my watch! She will not die. No. She’s mine.”

Lucerys chuckles dryly, causing Aemond to look him up and down with a curled lip.

“Keep telling yourself she won’t die if that’s what helps you sleep—”

“I will not send her away!” Aemond bellows back before Lucerys can finish. “Her mother lied to her and pushed her away! Her grandfather prefers bastards over his own kin! There’s no place for her to go! She’s safe here with me because I will not harm her. You’re wrong! You’re dead!”

Lucerys nods. “I am, but you’re wrong, her mother loves her, you know that. Just like you know she’ll welcome my sister back with open arms. That’s the difference between you and her.”

Aemond shakes his head. “Her place is here with me,” he whispers with a quiver in his voice.

Once again Lucerys nods as if assuring Aemond’s claim before he whispers this time. “Okay.”

Aemond blinks repeatedly to blink away the tears, but at that moment he hears it, a screech ripping through the air. He snaps his head up and right away he is welcomed with the horrifying sight of an arrow pierced through Astraea’s eye, killing her instantly, and setting her plummeting to the lake behind the Godswood.

Aemond gasps your name and before he could even think he sets off toward the lake, forgetting the ghost haunting him, and only thinking about you, hoping—no, praying that you are okay.

He can’t fathom Lucerys being right, he can’t let himself imagine your death. It terrifies him to his very core, so as he runs and runs as fast as his long legs can carry him, he builds up the illusion that you can survive that fall, and that you will just hit that water and walk to shore with a beating heart, and just simply shaken up.

He doesn’t think of the realistic outcome. He can’t. He can’t. He can’t! Not even when he makes it to the Gods Eye and sees your body washing up ashore. He just tricks himself into thinking you’re passed out, he ignores the blood running out of your mouth and your nose. He ignores how lifeless your body looks when he drags you out of the water and cradles you there on the sandy ground.

“You’re okay. You’re okay,” he whispers as he wipes the blood and the water off your face.

You won’t open your eyes, but that will take time, he tells himself, so he waits. He keeps you in his arms and keeps wiping off the blood that keeps running out of you. Even if his hands get covered in the thick crimson liquid he keeps wiping it off your face, hoping that with his gentle touches, you’ll wake.

But you don’t. Your eyes stay closed, your chest keeps still, and the heart in your chest that he keeps feeling with his palm remains lifeless.

“Wake up,” he whispers and leans in to press his forehead against yours. “Come on. I have you, you’re okay now…” he trails off and lowers his gaze to wait for a breath to escape you, but your lips remain closed, and your nostrils unmoving.

“It’s not funny,” he hisses. “Wake up!”

He waits desperately. Pathetically so, but you don't laugh, or break into a smile. Your face is stiff, slowly proving his worst fear. “Please don’t do this to me, my love. Please, please.”

Tears run down his cheeks before he has a chance to process that they were building up, while his chest is hit with the worst pain he’s ever felt in his life. And the only way he can expel a fraction of that suffering that torments him so is by letting a wail rip out from the depths chest; one so broken and raw that his throat and chest hurt altogether. It’s so unlike him to let out such an emotion so loudly but there’s no other way to express what he feels inside and what makes it hard to breathe with how choked up he gets.

And yet he tries to keep pleading, he calls out your name over and over again with every word trembling and accompanied by a tear.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers against your lips. “I’m sorry. Please, I can’t…I can’t keep roaming this world without you. It won’t make sense. Please.”

“I told you,” he hears Lucerys whisper, hitting him with a burning fury. Yet when he snaps his head back Lucerys is not there. It’s that strange woman, Alys, looking at him with that same frown Lucerys carried, but a different look in her eyes than Lucerys’. She looks at him without fear, no respect, just a shameless icy look.

“You have to help her,” he ignores her piercing glare and glances back at you to reposition you in his arms so he can get up, but when he looks back at his arms where he once held you, you’re gone and the blood that once covered his hands is also gone. He then looks over at the lake in search of Astraea, but nothing is in the water. You’re not even in the sky…

It was all…fake…

It was all a cruel trick, but one that helps him realize what he must do in regards to you, so you don’t suffer the fate he just saw.

A/N- Conversations with Alys reminds me of how young mc really is.

Tagged- @namelesslosers @stargaryenx @chainsawsangel @lauftivy @winxschester @cloudroomblog @llarue @padsdarlg @sofietargaryen @gracielikegrapes @dreaming-of-the-reality @itzelpeyton @patdsinner33 @mrsdominickstark @elaena-aerrin @todoroki-slut @snh96 @urmomsgirlfriend1 @nifujiswhore @sweethoneyblossom1 @kaetastic @lightdragonrayne @squidscottjeans @oh-you-mean-me @wallacewillow0773638 @icefrye19 @thescottpack @fiction-fanfic-reader @crazymusicgirl104 @r-3dlips @strangersunghoon @just-pure-trash @ethereal-athalia @missyviolet123 @callsignwidow @xunquish-blog @tabathastan @weepingfashionwritingplaid @answer-the-sirens

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shhhhimwatchingthis · 13 days

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Cinderella's Castle Lore:

Some interesting world building/character lore dropped in Cinderella's Castle that may be further explored in The Lands That Are:

There was a time when the sun was blotted out and Trolls controlled/had free reign over the lands that are. What happened to sun? how did humans bring it back?

The Fairy Queen of Sweet Dreams, The Goddess of All That is Green and Good:

So much to chew on from her scene:

She was 'caged' in the land of death, so who caged her there (killed her)?

There are Nine Good Gods worshipped in the Lands That Are, but when Ella names the goddess of love the Fairy Queen has never heard of her, implying these gods are false/don't exist. If they are a real power in this world, they aren't as old/powerful as the fairy queen.

The Lady Ashmore: was the stillborn she placed at the roots of the old oak her still born child (a sibling of Ella's?) if not where did she get the body? how did the Lady Asmore know of the goddess of all that is green and good? how long had she worshipped her? Finally if her version of the ritual had succeeded what was the sweet dream she wanted the fairy queen to grant her?

The Grizzwald Bastard: part of why Justine and Lucy believe Ella about her step mother is they know about Trolls because 'their bastard brother hunts them' this is just such a specific detail I feel like this brother has gotta come back in some way

especially interesting to note he slays trolls, when there's a whole scene with our Narrator and Master Dwarf spelling out that trolls are fucking hard to kill, so how powerful is this guy?

The Narrator: this one is super small, the type of detail that drives me insane but I don't know if anyone cares. At the very end of the play, when the peasants bow for Queen Ella Ashmore, the Narrator clearly bows to her as well. As the Narrator. What i mean by this is unlike say Kim, who is in that scene costumed as a peasant, the Narrator is in the same outfit he has always been,he is not a background peasant, he is still clearly the Narrator. But he interacts with the story. He bows to Ella. This is the only time he does this. What does this mean, if anything? That he met Queen Ella Ashmore? That he was there? Are you thinking about the implications?

Some Miscellaneous points, not from the show itself, but from cast/creator comments:

The Fairy Queen of Sweet Dreams wanting revenge against the King and Prince, and that being part of why she pushes Ella to her own revenge. This is a hint dropped i believe from Kim Whalen about the Fairy Queen's motivation in one of the promo vids about her character. Brings up the implication that the royal family was behind the Fairy Queen's imprisonment in the realm of Death. (or at least did something that infuriated her)

Jon Mattheson in a cameo to a fan mentioned the possibility of Sir Hop-A Lot...or his descendants returning in a future show. Ella wishes for Sir Hop A Lot to 'sire many tadpoles' and grants him the lands of the swamps (land that would pass to his heris). Interesting to think of the other Castle shows taking place in the Lands that are but centuries apart. (either centuries before or after Ella) some interesting themes about the nature of stories and myth could come from this. What are the stories of Queen Ella Ashmore in the Lands That Are hundreds of years after her reign? Could be cool to hear stories of the events of Cinderella's Castle and see how they differ from the version the narrator told us.

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theresattrpgforthat · 10 months

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Do you have any recommendations for games in the western genre? Or western fantasy/sci-fi? Absolutely can’t get enough of the combination of cowboys and six shooters, steampunk, and magic fantasy. I’m considering writing my own setting for DnD5E that combines these elements.

Theme: Fantastic Westerns

Friend, I think I've collected a real tight bunch of winners here, so I'm confident you'll find something that really scratches that itch you've got!

Wicked West, by Finch Edmund.

Wicked West is a PbtA game by Finch Edmund (they/them) about paranormal cowboys. It combines classic monsters with the backdrop of the old west and is meant to be played with at least two players with one player taking the role of Game Master. Wicked West is made to tell stories similar to the westerns of the 1940s-1960s about small towns and the struggles of life with a horror twist.

If you like combining monsters with your westerns, this is the game for you. It looks like you combine a couple of different options to make your character playbook, which is something I’m personally pretty jazzed about when it comes to creating characters. One interesting thing about Wicked West is the relationship your cowboy has with their horse: a vampire might feed off of their steed, while a witch can cast spells on their horse to run faster. If you don't mind a bit of a horror flavor to your Western, this might be the game for you.

Wizards of the Wild West, by ckellyrpg.

Wizards of the Wild West is an action-oriented TTRPG that combines fantasy magic with classic Wild West themes. It is powered by the LUMEN system, and takes heavy inspiration from looter-shooter games such as Destiny.

LUMEN is still a game that I’m excited to try out, so seeing it tagged onto a western game about wizards made me take a second look. This is a game for a raucous good time; you’ll be pulling off sweet character combos, with easy-to-understand breakdowns of each character class. Right now the game is still in development, but it’s still considered playable, so if you get it now it might have more content for you down the road!

We Deal in Lead, by Odin’s Beard.

You look to those closest to you, fellow gunslingers of the Order of the King. The arduous trek across the bleached desert is over and now you stand before a slip door. Though tested, the fellowship of your Order stands true.

You grasp the worn sandalwood grip of your artefact gun and twist open the door. You gasp as the sharp sea air hits your lungs. Gulls caw and the foam sprays your face like a baptism. You step through to another reality.

After all, there are other worlds than these.

We Deal In Lead comes highly recommended to me by folks who like the OSR scene. It’s based off of Cairn, a well-beloved fantasy system, and if you got the TTRPGs for Trans Rights in Florida bundle, you already have a copy!

The setting is meant to be somewhat post-apocalyptic, but the barriers between your world and others are thin, causing threats (and allies) from other dimension to have a chance to enter your world. The game focuses on combat, exploration and survival, and it’s almost completely compatible with anything released for Cairn.

If you like what you see so far with this game, you might also want to check out Omega City, a weird west city setting, still in ashcan form.

Vampire Cowboys, by Maddy Searle.

You are a gang of outlaws in the Wild West. You have a lot to contend with: enemy gangs, law enforcement, wild animals, and… did I mention? You’re also vampires. You must figure out how to survive in this harsh land, where “justice” is often swift and violent. Will you blend in with the crowd, and hide your vampiric side in an attempt to live as a gun-toting cowboy? Or will you give in to your monstrous urges and use your supernatural powers, making yourself known as a vampire? It’s entirely up to you.

This game premise is simple and easy to describe: you are vampires who are also cowboys. You live in a world where everything wants you dead, and you’re constantly fighting the parts of you that make you monstrous. The mechanics are very familiar if you’ve every come across a Lasers & Feelings game: a couple pages to read and you’re off to the races, ready to play.

Reboot Hill, by Groovy Dad Games.

REBOOT HILL is a sci-fi Western TTRPG set in the "Future West" of the far flung Hill-Ceballos System. When a war back on Earth results in a cyber-attack that frees all of the bots in the Hill-Ceballos, things go bad for the humans right quick. In the aftermath, bots have got to rely on their shooting irons and their processors to make their way in this new, post-human frontier.

REBOOT HILL is a card-driven tabletop role-playing game in which players portray "Aces"--bots with advanced AI that find themselves on the right or wrong side of the law.

Finally, a space western! Here’s a card-based game with a plethora of character options, including mechanical upgrades, as well as weapons and vehicles. You’re mainly going to be bounty hunters, chasing after varmints and villains so that you can scrape together a living. If you want a game whose game mechanics make you feel liked you’re sitting at a poker table, you should check out Reboot Hill.

Clink, by Technical Grimoire.

Clink is a tabletop RPG about drifters, the creeds that bring them together, and the history that drives them apart. This game uses coins to tell a story inspired by spaghetti westerns, ronin tales, and shows like Firefly or Supernatural.

Characters begin as rough sketches of the shifty sort you’d see in an old Western or Noir film. They all start as blank slates, their histories unknown. Tell stories about their past and create your character as you play.

I’m a big fan of Technical Grimoire, especially their expertly-designed Troika setting, Bones Deep. Clink isn’t Troika - it uses coins as a storytelling mechanic - but it’s very setting-flexible, as seen in the variety of the starting scenarios provided.

The game is also non-linear: throughout play your characters will experience flashbacks, which will help flesh out who they are as you play, and tell us something about who they used to be. You’ll start the game with two coins, which you can spend to gain a flashback, but you can also flip them to try and succeed at various tasks. As you play, you’ll also gain coins using a mechanic called a Trigger - bad habits that get them into trouble.

If you want a fresh set of rules to play around with in a flexible setting that stays true to the woes of outlaws and other Western tropes, I heavily recommend Clink.

Boondock Cartomancy, by Hookline & Sinker.

The consequences of westward expansion rear their head. Desolate, inhospitable, and unpredictable - the Outbacks are a ravaged desert, a wild tundra, an ancient tomb. Host to a plethora of unknown variables and formed from the corpses of failure, it’s a hotbed for the lawless, the corrupt, and the lost. Conditions for growing a corporate empire couldn’t be more ideal.

BOONDOCK CARTOMANCY is a tabletop roleplaying game about personal growth in a cruel and inhospitable wasteland, backlit with Western cowboys wielding powerful and unpredictable magic. It’s a game about reflecting upon the world and systems of exploitation we live in, and using ancient spells to blow up a caravan of criminals in a climactic shootout. It’s a game about interfacing with the human condition, and feeling cool as shit while doing it.

This game looks so cool! You are brokers, going on dangerous jobs in a hostile frontier, giving your characters objectives to complete while also exploring the way colonialism forces so many folks to act as simply cogs in a larger, uncaring machine. The game also gives you a fantasy to explore, by granting your characters card-based magic skills, and replacing their hit points with a luck meter. The game itself also has a really clever layout, presenting itself like an old-fashioned newspaper, with pieces of advertisements sprinkled throughout to give you bits of lore about the world. All in all, definitely worth checking out.

Former Rec Posts to Check Out

Rootin’, Tootin’ and Shootin.

Space Westerns.

#tabletop games #indie ttrpgs #dnd #game recommendations #asks #western games

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astaroth1357 · 1 year

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My Incredibly Spoiler Heavy Thoughts on Nightbringer

TURN BACK IF YOU HAVE ANY INTEREST IN PLAYING THE GAME AT ALL. I MEAN IT.

Hello. I have completed all 10 lessons on the Normal difficulty. These are my thoughts:

First, a disclaimer. All of this is my opinion. If you feel differently about a character or plot point, that's fine. This is all just as I see it.

Holy hell, I love the setup here so damn much. The Nightbringer story so far is truly more than just a rehash of the OG plot, largely because of all the small stuff that keeps happening in background. Yes, we're befriending the brothers again, but we don't know WHY. Why are we in the past? Who sent us there? What do they want from us, or... what do they want out of somebody else?? 👀 I have to hand it to the writers for coming up with this premise, it's soild. Will they stick the landing...? We'll see.

The New! (Old) Cast

Lucifer:

Whelp, Luci is being colder to us than ever... But far more openly involved with his brothers than we saw previously. You can really tell that this is fresh off of the War and he's just trying his best to keep everybody corralled and (somewhat) comfortable.

He still holds onto his Celestial Realm prejudice against demons, so he doesn't trust MC at all which is an interesting turn on the dynamic from before. As a human, Lucifer saw us as weak and insignificant so he didn't give us much time of day. But as a "demon," and someone more knowledgeable about the Devildom than himself, he has to suck it up and rely on MC even if he wants them to stay away.

By the end of Lesson 10, it's safe to say whatever trust he had in MC is going to be shattered. MC has talked their way out of a lot, but even Dia looks shaken by their abilities this time... I'm curious to see if they can reestablish a relationship with him when he was already keeping them at arms length to start with.

Mammon:

Ah, Mammon... Once simp, forever a simp across time and space. Bless him. I guess he's just doomed to always fall first when it comes to MC. It DOES NOT take long for him to be down bad even if you don't romance him specifically (I would know because I'm trying to stay mono-Levi this go around).

Aside from his tsundere-ness, though, we do get a look into more of his insecurities. I find an interesting pattern developing in him where he just tends to latch onto a person and follow them unfailing. He did that with Lucifer before the Fall, he didn't even think about the consequences before going through with it. You could see him doing much the same with MC. I think it stems from a lack of confidence in himself and his own abilities, constantly relying on others to guide him through big decisions and provide him with validation. Add another poor thing to the list...

Leviathan:

I swear to God, the devs realized that Levi's charm lies in his pathos, so they went out of the way to make him EVEN MORE pathetic than normal. I still love him for it, of course. But seriously, Levi starts out practically afraid of his own shadow when the story starts. It makes sense, Levi would have probably one of the more negative impressions of demons of the seven, having fought them head on. He was a shut in before the War and now he's even more terrified to leave the house, let alone his room... (I can't be the only one who's wondering how the hell Dia's going to look at him and go, "Ah yes! I see Admiral material right there!" right?)

I do like that the writers took the time to show that he's one of the more empathetic brothers, right alongside Asmo and Beel, even if he's bad with people. Levi is quick to sympathize with beings and creatures who don't fit in and it's always very sweet to see. I also guess that Simeon wrote TSL in secret or after the War? You think he would know of it at least having lived so long with the author... Anyway. I digress.

There's a lot of... small things around Levi that I think hint at the inner feelings of the brothers, though (of all seven of them, he has the WORST poker face I swear). I may touch on those in another post because I need time to gather my thoughts on how it all connects there... Anyway, he's still my favorite and I'm going to try to see if there's any truth to this "you get a deeper connection if you stick to one brother" thing. Wish me luck.

Satan:

Okay, load your guns now because I think Satan is the real star of the show here. They're actually pulling way more than the "He's mad because he's seen like Lucifer" card. We're at a point where Satan doesn't even consider himself associated with the brothers AT ALL. That means something and has consequences on the story. He didn't even go with them to check on Beel, despite having enough fire power that he could have probably helped a lot.

Now before someone goes screaming at me that they've devolved him into comic relief, I'd first like to ask what did you think he was going to be? OG Satan told us himself that he used to feel nothing but anger. He's going to be pissed, irrational, and violent. He's Wrath.

What truly they're giving us under all of that is a look into a vulnerable guy who doesn't know anything about the world around him and is trying to pick it up on his own because his brothers can't (and maybe won't) teach him. They keep chaining him up (which I hate btw) and talk about him like he's a beast. But it's partially because they're such terrible communicators that he flies off the handle so often to begin with.

Satan is more alone than really anybody else is the Devildom. His brothers already have all this history together and memories shared during their time as angels, stuff he has no context for and could never experience himself. He's still an outcast among demons for his association with them, despite being a fully fledged demon in his own right, and he doesn't know why he has to be linked to them because he barely knows them anyway. He's taking baby steps to understand the world, but when he goes to his brothers to ask questions they lampshade him for even having clear thoughts. All they see him as is a roaring beast. This version of Satan is fascinating to me. How does he start here and end up the eloquent, emotionally-controlled bookworm with a planet's worth of connections? I gotta know!!

Asmodeus:

They FINALLY started giving Asmo his proper flowers! I still think it could have been more, but he's gotten way more depth than he had before. I know that Asmo part technically involved MC's input the least out of all of the brothers, but I think that was by design.

Asmo is a surprisingly introspective individual under his urge to perform. MC didn't have to give much input because he just didn't need as much. He knows himself very well (unlike some of the others). He's an emotionally intelligent guy who can sort out his own inner problems and remain empathetic enough to want to help his brothers in his own way. I wanted to hear more from this side of Asmo, honestly, but the game seems to make it clear that he's content with his spot of being the family's brightest smile. I hope it makes more appearances as we go on.

Beelzebub:

This one is tricky, because lesson 10 leaves off on a cliffhanger related to Beel... So I think Beel's feelings will have more consequences than the other brothers' on the story. Most of all that we see of Beel is, unfortunately, him being hungry or off being wholesome with Belphie but lesson 10 did give us some eye-openers regardless.

First, apparently if he flies off the handle, Beel is quite the challenge to handle. It takes Dia himself to restrain him, which is pretty insane for the sixthborn in the line-up. It's possible some outside magic is cranking up his power somehow, but we won't know until the next lessons are out.

Secondly, I find it very interesting that Beel's "heart-to-heart" moment with us is being saved for last... It was definitely the most surprising one of the secrets in the teasers (in my opinion). Beel and Belphie are glued to the hip and share everything together so for him to have a secret "not even Belphie" knows is pretty shocking. I hope it's not just that he saved Belphie instead of Lilith since we all already know that. It'd be a pretty cheap pay off to all this buildup... Not that I haven't been disappointed before or anything.

Belphegor:

Similar to Beel, Belphie doesn't get much attention until the end and it isn't much that we haven't heard before, unfortunately. You kind can't blame them, since plumbing out Belphie's inner trauma about the War was the entire climax of the first game. It's nothing we don't already know. That being said, I think there's some more interesting things that are being said about Belphie or left unsaid by the others that I find more fascinating to keep track of.

TLDR, I think there's some weird distancing going on between Belphie and the others. It doesn't seem super apparent, but Levi dropped some weird bombshells early on and I can't help but notice how he just never seems to be without Beel. Those two are close, yeah, but in this game they're practically a unit. I'm pretty sure Belphie is using Beel as a security blanket of sorts. He's also the ONLY one to mention Lilith in any great detail. Unsurprising, but it's worth noting that the others haven't really brought her up despite it (supposedly) starting the War.

Diavolo:

Somebody give this guy a vacation and a raise... So apparently, the brothers were cast down, the old King took one look at them and counted to seven, then conked out. Now our boy has to rule the kingdom. He's... the same really. As far as I can tell. You can really see how much he's taken to the brothers' antics though, which checks out in the other game too.

WAAAY more fascinating to me is apparently there's some kind of body called the House of Lords who think that Dia is too young for the job. What's the House of Lords?? Who are they? Are they like a council or advisory board...? Or is this a UK setup? Is there a Parliamentary board?? I dunno, could just be my Poli Sci talking but I'm now so lost on how the Devildom operates now...

Barbatos:

Oh my God, if there is any character I could live vicariously through, it was Barbs here. For whatever unnamed reason he is NOT having any of Solomon's shit right now and I'm living for it. Setting my delight aside, we don't get to see very much of him and what we do see doesn't really differ from the norm, which only makes his detest all the more shocking.

Through Barbs, we also see just how potent the power of the pacts can be when Solomon summons him and more or less forces him to do as he says. Nothing seems to stop him from retaliating after the fact, as he sent Solomon off who knows where, but seeing that kind of power wielded over a being who's almost unattainable to us is... Well. I feel bad for Asmo.

Simeon:

There's a lot to unpack with Simeon... and a lot of it is in the stuff that goes unsaid. First, I already found it strange that he didn't seem surprised to see Satan in the House. Or if he was, he didn't say it or bother introducing himself which is... telling for a guy like Simeon. He's back to being Luke's minder in front of demons, but I can't help but notice that he doesn't do much to counter Luke's tirades. He only indicates that it's impolite to say them, so he may still harbor the very same feelings.

Simeon and Lucifer have something of a heart to heart together that they never would in the OG title where Simeon admits his biggest regret. It isn't that he didn't follow Lucifer, as we might think, but that he doesn't feel like did enough to reach out to him before he made his decision. Lucifer dispells this, but I think it goes to show that Simeon stands behind his decision to stay and that it was the better option. Lucifer also confront Simeon on why he didn't take a high position (seraph) and instead settled for archangel. It's left open ended what his real motives for that would be, but I suspect that it has something to do with Simeon's troubling streak of going against the grain, even in subtle ways. Or he has too much anger about what happened to accept taking Lucifer's old position.

I found it interesting how easily these two seemed to talk about intimate topics together here where Lucifer barely even acknowledges Simeon's attempts to reach out in the OG story. I wonder what may have happened to sour their relationship so severely...?

Luke:

Luke the Racist Chihuahua returns!! Okay, I'm being a little mean but he's pretty much just self-righteous little kid the whole way through. I will admit, it is a little funny that the person who came up with the nickname was actually Lucifer. I think it's now retconned and confirmed that Luke and the brothers never knew each other before the Fall... though Luke seems to know OF their former selves in some capacity. I could be misinterpreting things though.

The Rat Bastard Solomon:

I swear to God this was me playing through the whole game tied to this guy.

He's lying. A lot. Constantly. And it pisses me off to no end. I was wondering why things he was saying and the stuff he was doing weren't lining up and OF COURSE it's because he's either working his own agenda or being outright deceitful. I hate him so much, y'all, you don't even know...

That aside, as an impartial observer Solomon is pulling a lot of work to support MC and you can TELL how down bad he is for them, which actually has significance for the plot I think. He's keeping them in the dark about something, but considering his feelings I say we can at least be charitable and assume it isn't to hurt them or cause them any suffering... intentionally. He's also as unscrupulous as ever, considering how he ordered a very angry Barbs around and more or less took advantage of a life or death situation to make a pact with Asmo.

So. At the end of the lessons, we're reintroduced to the mysterious Nightbringer. The character who actually sent us back in time at the start of the game. Yeah, it wasn't Barbatos... probably. At least not our reliable neighborhood butler anyway. They seem to be different entities but I THINK they might share some connection....

I have to wonder who disguised MC when they first arrived. The marketing made it seem like it would be Solomon but the marketing has been hit or miss on actual accuracy about the game we're seeing. If it was Solomon, then he had to have known where the MC was before he called. If it was Nightbringer then... well actually. We need to touch on that first.

Nightbringer:

Now, much of this is just me speculating so take things with a grain of salt. Nightbringer's name is blocked out, but it seems like it identified itself to us in the beginning before sending us to the past. It appears like it wants something from Solomon.... to fully corrupt him maybe? And it's using MC as leverage against him.

I suspect that all of the weird stuff that has been happening is tied to its meddling in some way, but to what end is unclear... Sending Levi and MC into TSL, tricking Asmo then trying to feed everyone to a spider, and, likely, whatever is going on with Beel. I can't tell if it's trying to push MC and the brother's closer together, or just making vaguely comical attempts at homicide by fictional characters, spider, and Gluttony incarnate.

The situation with Adam does give us a hint into its nature. It appears to be some kind of dark, trickster being that gives a person what they desire, but never the way they intended. A walking monkey's paw, if you will. Solomon says that Nightbringer made him what he is today, so perhaps he worked under it or is simply under the influence of one its "deals." Their relationship is adversarial, though. When they're speaking, they talk about the two supernatural sides, Angel and Demon, and Nightbringer seems to want to force Solomon to make a choice between them. Lose his humanity, maybe?

I'm not quite willing to say that Nightbringer is a demon just yet, at least not one of the ones we normally encounter. Something about it seems... older. More powerful than that. But we'll have to wait for more info.

My crackpot theory?

Solomon has made a deal with Nightbringer in order to go back in time and do... something. He's after something. Nightbringer agreed, but dragged MC along as collateral for Solomon to get it done within a certain amount of time or makes sure he honors his part of the bargin. Barbatos knows this, either because he is linked to in some way to Nightbringer or saw it happen in the doorway, and is disgusted by his actions but unable to speak about it due to the pact. Or, you know. That's our present Barbie also dragged along for the ride and he's pissed that he's been essentially hijacked and taken away from present Diavolo, but forbidden to speak about it.

#i may do ONE LAST analysis post #over my speculation #and just weird stuff I saw #but after that #it’s back to the normal content #obey me #obey me shall we date #shall-we-date-obey-me #obey me nightbringer #obey me analysis #obey me nightbringer analysis #om spoilers #omn spoilers #obey me spoliers #obey me nb spoilers #obey me nighbringer spoilers

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dangermousie · 9 months

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2023 End of Year Post - kdrama edition

Yes, we have a some of December left, and I want to check out Death's Game but whatever. I got time for this now and not sure if I will have later so here goes.

This is only going to cover kdramas that aired in 2023; if I watched it but it was made in a different year, it’s not on the list. This was an excellent kdrama year, the likes of which we hadn't had in a long time.

DRAMAS WATCHED

In order of liking from least to most as opposed to pure quality so pls don't come for me, fans of some popular dramas that are on my nope list. Also, I am including if I’ve seen enough to make up my mind; yes I realize that’s inaccurate, but that’s my list.

33. The Escape of the Seven - this is so aggressively stupid and mean that it feels like the makers are playing a practical joke seeing how much their audience will take. This has a season 2 coming, so the answer is a lot.

32. Behind Your Touch - the FL gets superpowers by touching people's and animals' butts. Yes, you read this right. Do I really need to add anything?

31. King the Land - yes, it was a hit. Yes, it stars popular actors. I HATED IT LIKE IT TOUCHED MY BUTT TO GET SUPERPOWERS!!! Plastic people in paint by the numbers story, with about as much genuineness or retability as a barbie aisle in walmart. I never expect much from Yoona so whatever, but to have LJH go from The Red Sleeve to this boggles the mind.

30. Mrs Durian - this is so dumb that I think I lost a few IQ points watching this, but its insanity becomes entertaining - I mean what kdrama can you name where a daughter in law declares her love and lust for her mother in law at a family dinner?

29. The Matchmakers - there is nothing offensive about this drama at all. But there is nothing in the least interesting either. If elevator music took drama shape, it would be this show.

28. Destined with You - sorry, Rowoon, I am still fond of you, but you are two for two in drama duds department this year. This is a drama where I loved ep 1, liked ep 2, was indifferent to 3 and...you get the point. Each ep was worse than the one before, and I bailed before I was dragged into a cosmic singularity.

27. Oasis - great first two episodes. Unfortunately it was not a two ep show. The performances are solid but the story is just not there - the effect is like a fancy chef making an amazing sauce to put on pig slop.

26. Boyhood - it's not you, it's me in action. I can see why people would like it but a 34-year old playing a high schooler in a Weak Hero Class 1 Slapstick Edition is no go for me.

25. Castaway Diva - it's so precious and kooky in the most annoying ways, with the most well-adjusted abused castaway in history. I like magic realism when done by Jorge Amado, but this ain't Amado.

24. Island - it had a good concept, good cast and fun visuals but the execution deserved one of ML's swords through the neck.

23. The Worst of Evil - if I wanted an American show, I'd watch one. Very solid performances though.

22. Song of the Bandits - period edition of what I said about The Worst of Evil.

21. Welcome to Samdalri - and goodbye to any hope of emotional involvement.

20. Joseon Attorney - I have yet to like a single sageuk centered around a profession and this was not an exception. I guess it could be worse but it also could have been so much better.

19. Twinkling Watermelon - everyone loved this drama. Everyone except for me. It's the kind of precious that sets my teeth on edge and I couldn't stand half the main characters we were supposed to root for. I guess I like my fruits to shine steadily.

18. Our Blooming Youth - probably the biggest disappointment on this list. This is not a bad drama by any means, but with that cast and that story (I loved the novel), I was hoping for a memorable sageuk not merely all right.

17. Vigilante - it has the emotional complexity and nuance of a punch to the throat but it gives us quasi-gay openly-murderous dudes going after psychos and Yoo Ji Tae holding feral Nam Joo Hyuk by his hoodie at his feet.

16. The Forbidden Marriage - expected nothing but it was a surprisingly enjoyable trifle of a costume drama that was also quite pretty.

15. Arthdal Chronicles: Sword of Aramun - a hot mess but such an entertaining epic one. And it gave us TWO Lee Jun Kis in period gear and who am I to cavil at the bounty of God?

14. The Story of Park's Marriage - it's a trifle, a souffle, so light it might blow away, but it keeps my attention and is so fun and sweet.

13. My Lovely Liar - a huge surprise, that manages to mix a murder mystery and a romcom, and shocked me by showing Hwang Minhyun can act.

12. Tale of the Nine Tailed 1938 - the original ToNT was my fave drama of its year and I did not think it needed a sequel. But this is not a sequel but more of a side-quel and is such a total delight with brotherly love, adventures, romance and hijinks. It's a joy.

11. Perfect Marriage Revenge - it's actually very hard to do a soap right but this slim 12 ep drama managed. So fun, so crazy, such a good ship!

10. My Lovely Boxer - not really about sports, but about two broken people finding salvation because of and in each other. Also, if you like age gap romances, this is delicious. Sort of loses steam by the end but c’est la vie.

9. The Secret Romantic Guesthouse - this was a sageuk that was not on my radar with a bunch of actors I was not familiar with but it took my heart away. A good plot that was perfectly paced, characters and ships I adored, a logical ending. This is one of the biggest positive surprises of the year for me.

8. Tell Me That You Love Me - a slice of life remake (sort of, it's more "inspired by") of my favorite jdrama of all time. It's not as good as the jdrama because nothing could be, but it's an aching lovely story with some incredible performances.

7. See You In My 19th Life - funny and romantic and haunting and hopeful and odd. This was one of my favorites of the year.

6. Alchemy of Souls: Light and Shadow - it's rare for me to like a (1) sequel (2) with FL actress change (3) that is a Hong Sisters drama. But this was such a gorgeous, surprisingly achy story of love and loss and love regained with some cool monster fighting in the middle. Between the two seasons, this is the first Hong Sisters' drama I enjoyed from beginning to end in well over a decade.

5. My Demon - so tropey (chaebols, supernaturals) but it proves that these tropes are popular for a reason. The chemistry is fire, the story is unpredictable and the whole thing is an addictive delight. A rare drama where I like each new ep more than the last one.

4. Goryeo Khitan War - an old school sageuk in every meaning of the term (no romance, no eye candy, lots of bearded men, battles and politics), this feels like watching an epic movie more than a drama. The vast cast all earns their place and the performances (mainly from character actors given a chance to shine) are incredible.

3. Call It Love - two very very damaged people finding love and healing with each other. This is a narrative very hard to do to my satisfaction but when it's done well, as here, there are few things that can hold a candle to it.

2. My Dearest - a masterpiece of cinematography, narrative, performances. This is an old-school epic romance in the best sense of the term. If it doesn't make you swoon or break your heart, there is something wrong with you. A story of two untraditional, strong-willed, flawed people who fall in love in the middle of the horrifying Qing invasion of Korea and have to deal with all that the world throws at them, this is a bona fide masterpiece.

1 - Moon in the Day - who knew my favorite kdrama of the year will star a store brand Domyoji from Extraordinary You and an actress I was never familiar with. But this part period/part modern fantasy tale of doomed cursed lovers is everything I knew I wanted and everything I didn't know I wanted but did. Two lovers where their love did not save them and in modern day it might not again, has got me obsessed the way I haven't been in years.

FAVORITE DRAMA

Moon in the Day - if there is such a thing as a drama made perfectly for me, this gorgeous, emotionally haunting, utterly romantic, twisty tale is it.

WORST DRAMA

The Escape of the Seven. This drama is proof that demons exist and not sexy ones like Song Kang but horrible nasty ones who delight in the torment this hot mess inflicted on its viewers.

FAVORITE MALE CHARACTER

Do Ha, Moon in the Day - a Silla general and a consummate killer who committed atrocities on the orders of his monster father and yearned to die for them, who found the meaning in life in loving his enemy but it did not make him better, a man so obsessed he literally was around for 1500 years of horrifying ghostly existence and still went "worth it" for a woman who killed him as long as he knew she loved him while she did it. He's intense and competent and beyond fucked up and has never had a normal day and I love him so so so very much from a safe distance.

FAVORITE FEMALE CHARACTER

Gil Chae, My Dearest - she starts out as vain and spoiled but the horrors that break so many others bring out all her fierce survivor potential and she becomes such a force of nature - capable of incredible love but also sacrifice and strength and compassion.

Runner Up: Shin Hye Sun's reincarnator in See You In My 19th Life - quirky, damaged, strong, so odd and so vulnerable at once.

NEEDS TO BE MURDERED

There are a lot of characters who fit that category (King Injo in My Dearest? My God) but the crown belongs to So Ri Bu from Moon in the Day. You think you've seen abusive parents but until you've seen a man abuse his son his whole life and then continue for 1500 years after his death, you ain't seen nothing!

FAVORITE SHIP

The doomed by the narrative OTP of Moon in The Day. Only thing that's better than enemies to lovers is enemies while lovers and their impossible relationship where her killing him is a supreme act of love and his refusing to let go is so strong that he stays around for 1500 years watching her, helpless as she dies over and over again, is everything you ever want.

Runner up: Jang Hyun/Gil Chae, My Dearest. They are so strong and so damaged and it takes them so long to figure out what they feel and what the other person feels but their love and sacrifice and complexities are perfect.

FAVORITE SECONDARY OTP

Kim Shi Yeol/Hong Joo, The Secret Romantic Guesthouse - an assassin bodyguard pretending to be a carefree scholar and a widow of the man he killed to protect his king (and whose life was destroyed as a result.) I enjoyed the main OTP of this drama but I was utterly and completely unhinged for the secondary couple.

I'd have probably picked Rang and his mermaid from TotNT 1938 even over them, but they really were the main OTP of that drama.

NOTP

King the Land couple seems like an easy target but honestly, they are both so terribly bland and antiseptic and marketing by committee, they kinda deserve each other. So I am gonna go with Destined with You, one half of which thinks supernaturally roofying someone into loving them is cute and the other half thinks dating one woman while wooing another is totally a-ok. Ugh.

FAVORITE SCENE

There is no competition for the scene in the slave market in My Dearest, where Jang Hyun finds Gil Chae - the way he screams and tries to clutch the hem of her skirt will live in my head forever.

And the scene where he 'wins' that horrifying bet, or the scene where she finds him in a pile of bodies - they are as good also. Or when he fights off a squad to protect her even though he's sick. That whole drama is perfect.

Runner up: the scene of Do Ha executing Ri Ta's family, covered in blood, as she looks at him from the crowd in Moon in the Day.

Or the scene where he talks about how he cannot live as a person but at least maybe she will kill him and he will die as one. Or when her confession in the past intercuts with his walking in the present, or when he comes home in his bloodied armor and she finds he has a fever and it's the first tender touch he's probably ever known. Her murdering So Ri Bu saying she knows she's going against filial piety in loving her parents' murderer, the way they hug, both bloody, as he says "let's live." The way she says she can't go on as she's hit rock bottom and he replies she cannot quit because she must accompany him to his rock bottom now. Honestly, the drama is a font of amazingness.

Also, the opening scene of Goryeo Khitan War or the scene of Yang Gyu ordering to shoot the captives and having to do so himself.

The OTP meeting again at the intersection at the end of ep 1 of Tell Me That You Love Me. SHS comforting ABH as he's having a traumatic breakdown in 19th Life. The love-making scene in Call It Love. There were a lot of great scenes this year.

BIGGEST CRUSH

Lee Jang Hyun, My Dearest - is that even a competition? He's flawed - vain, often emotionally closed off, not great at processing emotions, lashing out when hurt. He is also incredibly heroic in a real, knows the cost but bears it, kind of way. Whatever he does, he commits utterly but it's never without understanding the cost. He felt both larger than life and utterly real. He went through hell and maintained his soul and the way he loved Gil Chae was breath-taking to behold.

Runner Up: Yang Gyu, Goryeo Khitan War - an experienced military commander who wins an impossible victory even as it ravages his soul. Competence is sexy as fuck.

BEST SCENE STEALER CHARACTER

Rang, Tale of the Nine Tailed 1938 - 1938 really was Rang's chance to shine and he took it. For a character I started out disliking in the original, he really stole my entire heart in this drama. I am so glad he got his happy ending with his brother and his girl.

Runner Up: Crown Prince, My Dearest. He started out as a sheltered, spoiled aristocrat, convinced the world owed him for existing. He grew up slowly and painfully into an amazing man. And then was murdered for it and I cried.

NEEDS A SEQUEL

Arthdal - it leaves the story at a good stopping point but it's very much a "world in flux, adventures and conflicts continue" ending and I would love to see more of these characters. I know we won't but it would have been nice.

NEEDS SCISSORS TAKEN TO IT

Behind Your Touch - should have been snipped at birth.

TOO MANY SCISSORS TAKEN TO IT

Vigilante - I don't mean it had scissors taken to it because it's not cdrama and there is no NRTA, but this drama would have benefitted from being longer. I mean, I love fights and gay polycules as much as the next tumblr person but a bit more character development would not have come amiss. (ahaha - I said come. Leave me alone.)

TROPE THAT NEEDS TO DIE

I don't care about cops/doctors/trash collectors/whoever - workplace drama centering on their "cases" needs to die. I hate procedurals from any country and Korea is no exception.

FAVORITE TROPE WE’VE SEEN A LOT OF

Supernatural critter devoted to their OTP with all the power of their long life.

BIGGEST DISAPPOINTMENT

Our Blooming Youth - it was far from terrible but it was a giant meh. I was so excited to see Park Hyung Sik in a sageuk (that wasn't the hot mess that was Hwarang) and I adored the source novel. It actually started well and then...it's like Revenge of the Beige!

BIGGEST GOOD SURPRISE

I want to say Moon in the Day but to be honest, I was excited by posters and trailers so it wasn't wholly a surprise despite not having much of an opinion on the actors before I saw them. So I am going to say My Demon. I was bored by the trailers, I can't remember the last time I enjoyed a Kim Yoo Jung drama and before this year I would have said Song Kang was an incredibly limited actor in everything I've seen him in and not appealing to me at all. And here I am rabidly rabiding for this drama!

If I am not limiting myself to dramas but can use this for actors - Hwang Minhyun in My Lovely Liar. I genuinely did not think the man could act and then he gave such a pitch-perfect, nuanced performance out of nowhere!

2023 DRAMAS I HAVEN’T SEEN THAT I MOST WANT TO WATCH

I have actually watched all the kdramas that aired this year that I wanted to check out except for Evilive. I am saving this for when I have time.

BEST NON-2023 DRAMA I’VE WATCHED IN 2023

I don't know if I'd say it's the best but Say You Love Me (2004) with Kim Rae Won as a quasi monk seduced away from his true love by an evil older woman was a hell of a ride.

MOST ANTICIPATED

Love Song for Illusion (Lady assassin falls for her royal target who has two personalities), Captivating the King (lady spy falls for her royal target who is tormented) - notice a theme? Also Flower that Blooms at Night because Honey Lee in a sageuk, The Life of Mrs Ock (Lim Ji Yeon in a sageuk), The Love Story of Chun Hwa (an "erotic" sageuk, hmmmm, what?!), Hong Rang (Lee Jae Wook in a super angst sageuk), Queen Woo (that cast and set in Goguryeo!), Wong Kyung (about Lee Bang Won's wife and I love the cast.) Basically, if it's period, I am there with bells on.

#kdrama #year in review #my dearest #moon in the day #call it love #tell me that you love me #goryeo khitan war #tale of the nine tailed 1938 #tale of the nine tailed: 1938 #The Secret Romantic Guesthouse #my demon #the story of park's marriage contract #perfect marriage revenge #Alchemy of Souls: Light and Shadow #see you in my 19th life #my lovely boxer

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velteris · 8 months

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I’ve seen a fair amount of posts complaining about this arc in Frieren and… we are all entitled to our own opinions etc which is why I will be launching into a Defense of Frieren’s Exam Arc :) Keeping it manga spoiler free since it seems like most of these complaints are from anime-only viewers.

For me the main draw of this arc is the world building. We’ve spent all this time with Frieren and Fern as our main perspectives on magic. Because it’s Frieren, the magics we’ve been hearing about have mostly been a little silly and sweet. But now we’re finding out that 1) “mage” is largely still a combat designation, and 2) Frieren and Fern are actually incredibly jack-of-all-trades when it comes to their magic repertoire. The “magic is visualisation” part is starting to be really leant into and we’re seeing more humans as well who seem to specialise in one magic (steel flowers, rocks, clones, ice and water…) It’s cool!! It’s objectively cool! I love being able to see this range that we wouldn’t have had otherwise! Also it’s fucking fantastic to see how much of a BEAST Fern really is when compared to other human mages. And she doesn’t even seem that aware of it.

Coupled with that is being able to see different people’s philosophies toward magic. I think a lot of viewers are kind of down about the sudden huge influx of side characters who they don’t really care about. But these philosophies—Land’s maximum wait-and-watch, Wirbel and Ubel’s vastly different approaches to killing—keep expanding the world and highlighting Frieren and Fern’s own perspectives. It’s soooo good seeing them react to situations not of their own making and people not of their own kind.

We get to see human society that isn’t a village in the middle of nowhere! We get to see Frieren being forced to socialise! We get to see Fern away from her emotional support elf! We get to see how society has changed since the demon king was defeated! I love that Himmel and co ushered in an era of peace, which it is, and yet the world is still full of conflicts. Truly the story continues after the hero is finished.

To address a few specific complaints I’ve seen brought up:

Frieren isn’t about all these nonstop shounen fights.

Agreed! Which is why it’s cool as hell that Frieren’s main badass shounen strategy is “sit very still for 10 hours”. That aside? There actually hasn’t been much actual fighting. You could probably count up the minutes in which actual spells are being cast and it’ll be something like 2 minutes max in the latest ep20. And that’s because it’s not about who beats who, it’s about the philosophies, the worldbuilding, the ways of thinking about magic. This is not a power-measuring contest, much as Genau would like to make it. And the random lucky draw-ness of the Stilles only plays further into that. It is possible to pass this exam without coming into conflict with others, and certainly without battles to the death. It hasn’t ever been about the shounen fights.

The good part of the show was about the delicate melancholy and that’s totally missing here.

I agree that it’s one of the strong points. But the thing with the melancholy is that it only works when juxtaposed against other moments. A story that’s composed of a bunch of unlinked wistful slice-of-life episodes will eventually fall apart because it has no momentum, no driving force. And ten years to Ende is too long to go without at least some conflict. Also, again, ten-hour bird meditation session?

Anyway, there’s melancholy, but how sad it would be if there was nothing but introspection and wistfulness. Frieren is bringing the memories of Himmel forward with her into the future. That means she has to be moving forward, forging new relationships with unrelated people, going into situations that she hasn’t been in before. A Frieren stuck in the past would be against the themes of the show, of remembering and yet moving on.

Why should I care about them spending ages trying to catch a bird?

You don’t like Stille? 🐤 fweet?

Actually I care lots about this funky thing. Indestructible and goes supersonic fast. That’s fucking hilarious. Bird that simply cannot be contained. Genau is a dick for setting up this kind of exam when, Your Honour, my client Stille does not deserve to be imprisoned.

Too many irrelevant side characters who it’s hard to care about, and they’re gonna be thrown away at the end anyway.

Again, it’s the worldbuilding. And also, mild spoilers for stuff that won’t be covered in the anime, but at least one of these side characters does come back and we get more delicious main character development as a result. Though frankly many of these characters are deeply compelling and interesting to me so I don’t rly get this complaint. Give me more Lawine.

Where’s Himmel? What do these exams have to do with the hero party? Frieren is good because of the links to the past.

Frieren is good because of the links to the past, which affect how Frieren responds to the present. The whole point of Frieren is that Frieren’s life continues. And through her new experiences, she comes to understand and reconnect to the emotions she didn’t realise she felt about her past. I don’t care what Himmel would think of the mage exams, I care what Frieren thinks of them now. And the answer is that she doesn’t really give a damn but she’s in here anyway because Fern strongarmed her into it, and then she was forced to adopt two more kids along the way, and all of that is something she never would have done if she was still hermiting in the Central Lands. Somehow we are still getting Himmel flashbacks anyway? So? He’s still haunting the narrative guys. Just because Frieren isn’t saying “that’s what Hero Himmel would do” out loud in these circumstances doesn’t mean his ghost isn’t here.

Even so, Frieren clearly recognises the name Serie. Do not fear. There is going to be more about links to the past.

I miss Stark.

Fair enough. It’s okay, he’s just on vacation rn. Having an appy juice.

It’s taking too long. The arc is too slow.

It’s only been three episodes… I’ve seen people going “it’s already been three episodes!” but what? Really? Is that considered an excessive amount of time now?? Given the amount of story covered I think it’s quite reasonable? There’s still 8 episodes to go in which we cover the remaining exam stages. Have some patience like Frieren. The payoffs are being set up; they’ll resolve before the end of the mage exam arc. In the meantime, let’s enjoy theorising about the soft magic system and hollering for full auto Fern.

#frieren #sousou no frieren

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coolemmasulivan2 · 5 months

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Love Wins (Even in Red) | 3

Pairing: Mason Mount x Reporter!Reader

Summary: Fate reunites them under the red lights of Old Trafford. Interviews are frosty, leaving people wondering why. Can Mason forgive Reader for something that happened in the past? Can she win Mason's heart and prove love wins even on red?

Word Count: 3526

Author's Note: You could read part 1 and 2 in my now old blog, but my account was closed by Tumblr, but I still wanted people to read part 3 (even if the other parts have died), so here it is. If you haven't read or don't remember the other parts, I think it's best not to read this one.

Thought you'd hate me, but instead you called And said, "I miss you", I caught it

Your shoes on her feet were pissing you off. Everything about her visit, the bad timing, the unwelcome reminder of the past, was starting to grate. Lily was your little sister, and despite the years of hurt and betrayal, a sliver of love still flickered within you. It would always be there, buried deep, but trust and affection? Those were long gone.

Across the table, your roommate glared at Lily with daggers for eyes. Clare wasn't happy about this surprise visit either and the way she chopped her steak said it all.

Clare's voice, sharp as a knife, cut through the awkward silence. "So, Lily, what brings you here?"

Lily offered her a smile. "Oh, I just miss Y/n so much! And since she couldn't make it to my graduation, I thought I'd surprise her with a visit. You know, it's been ages!"

You scoffed internally. Lily wasn't the sentimental type, and affection had never been her strong suit. Neither had it been for the rest of your family.

"Right." She managed, forcing a neutral smile. You shot Clare a glance, hoping to restrain her hatred, but your roommate ignored you completely. "How long are you planning to stay?"

"Only three days!" Lily said. "I got a job back in London, going to start next week."

"Oh, that's good."

You stayed silent, picking at your food without much appetite. You could practically hear your mother's voice in your head: "Y/n, don't play with your food!" Your stomach was already churning from the earlier incident, and the awkward dinner atmosphere wasn't helping.

"Y/n? Did you hear me?"

You blinked, startled by your thoughts. "Sorry, what were you saying?"

"Just wondering how things are going with you. Work? Everything alright?" Her voice dripped with a sweetness you found questionable. Was she mocking you? Or maybe trying to pry about how you were doing with Mason now that he was around?

Across the table, Clare let out a loud scrape as her knife snagged across her plate. The harsh sound did little to hide the tension radiating from her. You could practically see her clench her jaw, trying to control her anger.

"Everything's good," you mumbled, forcing a smile. You didn't want to get into a conversation, especially not with Lily. But the silence felt suffocating, so you offered a bland reply, hoping to deflect further questions.

The Christmas lights twinkled on the tree, casting a warm glow on the richly decorated table. You, recently graduated, sat across from your parents, a nervous excitement bubbling in your chest. You'd finally landed your dream job – a football reporter. Tonight, you wanted to share your accomplishment, to celebrate this pivotal moment in your life with your family.

"So, Y/n," your father started, "tell us all about this 'football reporter' job of yours. Sounds… interesting." His voice held a faint undercurrent of scepticism that sent a shiver down your spine.

Your smile was big. "It is, Dad! I get to meet incredible athletes, analyze the game from a different perspective, share the stories behind the players that make them human, not just statistics on a page…"

"The stories behind the players," your mother echoed, her perfectly manicured red nails tapping a rhythmic counterpoint against the tablecloth. "Like what, exactly? 'Football Star caught eating pizza before the big match'? Don't you think you could be using your talents for something… more important? A doctor, perhaps?"

The air hung heavy, the weight of their disapproval pressing down on you. "Mom, I love this job. It lets me be creative, connect with fans, capture the passion of the sport…"

"Creative?" Your mother mocked. "Medical school, that was clever. Imagine the impact you could've had as a doctor, Y/n, making a real difference in the world."

A heavy silence fell upon the table. Your mother pursed her lips, her disapproval a palpable presence. You glanced at your younger sister, Lily, who sat beside you, seemingly engrossed in her phone, like always.

"At least we still have Lily." Your father finally muttered, a hint of resignation in his voice. "She's on track to become a Lawer, just like we always hoped." His words, though apparently meant to be comforting, only deepened the depth that had grown between you and your family.

You sprawled on your bed, watching a random movie on TV. The awkward dinner had left a sour taste in your mouth, and the tension with Lily still crackled in the air. You sighed, a wave of exhaustion washing over you.

The door creaked open, and Clare poked her head in. Her usually bright eyes held a dark glint. "Can I please kill her?" she whispered, gesturing towards the living room where your sister was sleeping.

You chuckled, the sound echoing in the quiet room. "No, Clare, you can't kill her. She's still my sister, even if…" Your voice trailed off, searching for the right words.

Clare walked into the room, closing the door behind her and flopping dramatically onto the bed beside you. "Even if she's a… leech?"

A ghost of a smile played on your lips. "Something like that."

Clare propped herself up on one elbow, her gaze fixed on the flickering TV screen. "But seriously, why do you think she's here? The timing is awfully convenient, wouldn't you say."

You couldn't argue with that. "Maybe she just… missed me?" you offered, the doubt heavy in your voice.

Clare snorted, a skeptical eyebrow raised. "Honey, let's be real. Lily missing anyone besides her phone or free vacations? Not likely."

Her words were harsh, but they held a ring of truth. "So, what do you think she wants? You don't think…" you stammered, the unspoken question hanging heavy in the air.

"Think what?" Clare prompted, her gaze sharp. "That she's worried about the video being leaked, especially now that Mason plays for United and is practically your neighbour?"

You stared at the ceiling, the image of Mason's smile flashing before your eyes. The idea of Lily sabotaging your relationship with Mason once again filled you with a cold fury.

"Well," you finally said, your voice steely with resolve, "if that's her game, she's underestimated me. I won't let her hold this over my head anymore. It's my time to be happy."

Across the white tablecloth, Olivia's voice buzzed like a nervous bee. "So, my parents dragged me all the way from California to Manchester when I was eight. Talk about culture shock!" Her laugh, light and tinkly, didn't quite reach Mason.

His smile, felt heavy tonight. It was a mask hiding the knot of butterflies twisting in his stomach. The fancy lobster soup in front of him remained untouched, a sad contrast to the vivid picture playing on repeat in his head.

You! Your long hair illuminated by the warm sun, your eyes sparkling when talking about the things you liked and made you happy, your pink soft lips touching his. He could almost feel the warmth of your hands as they brushed against his cheeks, sending a shiver down his spine.

"It must've been tough." He said, moving uncomfortably in his chair.

Olivia, oblivious to his internal baggage, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "It was, but Manchester grew on you, you know? There's just this… vibe here. It's electric."

Mason forced a chuckle. Vibe! His brother loved throwing that word around. It was probably the same way he'd described the blind date he had set him up with – "She's got this great vibe, Mase, you'll love her!" But that wasn't what he was feeling.

"So, Mason…" Olivia continued, her smile fading under his distracted gaze. "Tell me about yourself. Is there anything you're passionate about outside of football?"

Mason blinked, pulled back from the memory of your face by Olivia's question. "Uh, well, football obviously takes up a lot of my time, but…" He trailed off, his mind searching for something, anything, to fill the silence. However, he knew he should end the dinner soon, it was not fair to Olivia. Your image always in his mind, vibrant and passionate, made it hard to stay present. "Olivia..." he started.

Olivia's smile faltered slightly, but she recovered quickly. "No worries, Mason. It's clear we're not really on the same page. It's fine."

A real smile finally broke through on Mason's face as they said goodbye. After paying the bill and making sure Olivia got a cab, a wave of relief washed over him. He pulled out his phone, his heart pounding, as he typed a single message to Bruno: "Can you send me Y/n's number?"

The sunlight sliced through the gap in your curtains as panic jolted you awake. A frantic glance at the old clock you still had on your nightstand confirmed your worst fear. You were late. Way late.

Your phone lay lifeless on the nightstand after a tense dinner with Lily. No phone alarm, no clue what time you'd fallen asleep, no idea if you'd missed any messages or calls. Mostly, you worried about work. Being late wasn't your thing.

Throwing off the covers, you launched into a record-breaking morning routine. You put on the first thing you pulled from the closet and practically ran out of the room, searching for your coat.

A glance towards the kitchen caught you off guard. Breakfast sat on the table, a spread fit for a king compared to your usual morning routine.

"Good morning!" Lily appeared with a glass of orange juice in her hand. You couldn't help but wonder if you even had oranges in the house.

"Hi," you mumbled, pulling your hair into a messy ponytail. "What's all this?"

She smiled, clearly proud of herself. "Breakfast, silly! Sit down and eat something."

The tempting aroma tickled your nose, but you couldn't. "I can't. I'm already late." You reached for your coat, glimpsing out the window to see that it was raining.

"Oh, I hoped we could talk," Lily said, a hint of disappointment in her voice. "You know... without Clare around."

"I'll be back later. We can talk then. Now I really have to go." You grabbed your bag and everything you needed, throwing a hurried goodbye over your shoulder.

"Have a nice day."

Lily's words echoed in your ears as everything went wrong. You missed the bus, the rain hammered down as you stepped outside, and to top it all off, you'd left your phone uncharging at home in the morning chaos. By the time you finally reached your work, you were soaked to the bone.

When you were finally leaving work, one of your coworkers who witnessed your day of misfortune, took pity on you and offered you a ride home. At least something seemed to be going right.

Stepping inside the house, the clean, fresh scent greeted you like a warm hug. Lily sat on the couch, laptop open on her lap and a smile on her face.

"Hi, big sis! How did your day go?"

You wanted to scream the first words that came to mind: awful, the worst, horrible. Instead, you settled for a simple, "Busy!"

"Did you clean?" You asked, gesturing to the spotless living room. She nodded. "You didn't have to."

"It's the least I could do."

"Well, thanks." You took your coat, hanging it by the door. "I'm going to take a shower and then we can talk about what you wanted to talk about this morning."

"Okay."

In your room, you tossed your bag onto the bed and flopped down, staring at the ceiling. It had been a long time since a day had gone so wrong, and all you wanted was to sleep and erase it from your memory. But Lily still wanted to talk.

With a sigh, you got up and spotted your phone, still dead, lying on the nightstand where you'd left it. You grabbed the charged cable from your bag and connected them, a flicker of life returning to the screen as the battery symbol lit up.

Grabbing some fresh clothes, you headed to the bathroom, letting the warm water wash away the stress. You didn't know how long you stood there, but eventually, the water grew lukewarm, and you stepped out.

Back in the living room, you dropped onto the couch, the TV playing some random show Lily had left on.

"So, what do you want to talk about?"

Lily closed her laptop and faced you, her expression serious. You mirrored her posture, sensing the conversation was going to be serious.

"Okay, so, I have some news I haven't shared with you." Confusion clouded your face. She shifted slightly, a sign of nervousness. "Well, I have a boyfriend."

You smiled. "Lily, you're a grown woman, you don't have to tell me about your boyfriends."

She stood up and walked over, sitting on the coffee table in front of you. "This time I do have to tell you." Your silence encouraged her to continue. "You see, it's a serious relationship and... We're engaged!"

Your jaw dropped. You were happy, but deep down there was also a sense of jealousy. So, she was supposed to be happy but you weren't, you thought to yourself.

"I— I don't know what to say. Congrats!" You opened your arms for a hug, which she returned. "How— how long have you been dating him? I mean, what's his name?"

"His name is John. John Kingsley." Lily said a nervous smile on her face.

The name hung heavy in the air, a suffocating weight pressing down on you. Lily felt a sense of dread as she saw a flicker of recognition in your eyes, her nervous anticipation replaced by fear.

Blood roared in your ears, drowning out everything else. "Professor Kingsley?" you choked out, the words barely a whisper.

Lily's expression was replaced by a grimace of apology. "Yes!" She stammered. She knew the truth would explode, and the fear in your eyes was a reflection of her own.

"How could you?" you said, the anger you'd bottled up for three years finally bursting. "That video, of both of you, forced me away from Mason! He ruined my life!"

"It was not him that blackmailed us."

"Blackmail us? You mean Blackmailed me!" Tears welled up in Lily's eyes, but they did little to extinguish the fire in yours. "How could you even think about marrying-- How old is he?"

She'd known this anger was coming. She still remembered the fear and the disappointment in your eyes as you'd agreed to leave Mason and London behind.

"Y/n, I—" she started, but your voice cut through her like a knife.

"I had to leave Mason," you choked out, your voice thick with unshed tears. "I had to give up everything because of that video. And you're going to marry him?"

"Like I said, It wasn't him that blackmailed you."

The weight of your sacrifice, the years of unspoken hurt, crashed down on you like a tidal wave. "It doesn't matter, Lily! It was because of your video that they were able to blackmail me." You shouted. Lily reached for you, a silent plea for understanding, but you flinched away. "Don't touch me," you whispered, the words laced with ice.

"Y/n, please." she pleaded. "Let me explain."

"I don't want to hear it," you said, your voice trembling with the force you were trying to contain. "I want you to be happy, Lily. Seriously, I do. But I can't be a part of this. Not after everything you two did to me."

Without another word, you grabbed your coat and stormed out of the house. You slammed the front door shut, the rain hitting your face. Tears streamed down your cheeks, blurring the world around you. You didn't see the familiar car pull up in front of the house.

Mason.

He approached the house, unaware of your presence as you left the house. He quickly got out of the car, his concern etching on his face as he knocked on the door.

Lily opened the door, a flicker of surprise crossing both of their features.

"Ahm-- Lily?" He said, unsure of the name. He had only met her once and she didn't exactly look like that young girl anymore.

"Mason? Hi. What are you doing here?" She looked nervous and looked like she'd been crying.

"I've been trying to reach Y/n, but her phone is off. I needed to talk to her."

Lily's eyes darted nervously around, avoiding his gaze. "She's not home."

Disappointment clouded Mason's face. "Oh, okay. I guess I'll try her again later. Thanks anyway." He turned to leave, his shoulders slumped.

But before he could disappear into the rain, Lily spoke up. "Wait, Mason. Can I talk to you for a minute?"

He stopped, and a flicker of confusion appeared in his eyes. "Sure." Lily stepped aside, guiding him into the house.

Your breaths mixed in the quiet aftermath, soft sighs escaping your lips. Mason traced a finger along your cheek, his touch sending shivers down your spine.

"You know," he began, his voice husky with tiredness. "Spending time with you it's the best part of my day."

A shy smile bloomed on your face as you ran your fingers slowly on his chest. "Really?"

"Absolutely," he confirmed, his eyes searching yours. "I just... I really like you, Y/n. More than I thought possible."

Your heart skipped a beat. "I... I feel the same way," you confessed, your voice barely a whisper. "So," You murmured, your voice filled with unspoken hope. "What does that mean for us?"

He pulled you closer, his forehead resting against yours. "I think," He said, his voice gaining strength. "That maybe we should make things official. Be a couple, you know?"

Your eyes sparkled with joy. "I'd like that more than anything."

He leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a tender kiss.

Pushing open the front door, you were greeted by an unfamiliar darkness. The dining table was illuminated by the soft glow of two flickering candles, casting the rest of the house into darkness.

"Clare?" you called out, your voice echoing in the silence. No answer. You reached out to find the light switch, but there was no light when you clicked it.

"Clare's not home." a voice startled you from the shadows.

You felt relieved at the familiar voice, and for a moment, the intense emotions you were feeling were pushed aside. "Mason? What are you doing here?"

He stepped closer, the candlelight painting his features in a warm glow. "Been trying to reach you since last night." You remembered your phone, still charging on the nightstand. "Lily opened the door for me." You looked around for any sign of her and Mason could tell. "She's also not here. She left." Good, you thought. "She told me everything. About the video, the blackmail... Why didn't you tell me?"

Tears welled up in your eyes, blurring the image of his concerned face. "I'm so sorry," you choked out, the apology tumbling from your lips before you could stop it.

He reached out, his fingers gently cupping your cheeks. "Why are you apologizing?"

"I shouldn't have ended things with you." You confessed, your voice thick with regret. "It was Lily's mistake. But then they blackmailed me and I couldn't... I did it to protect her. I had to."

His eyes softened with understanding. "I know. I understand." He said, his voice gentle. "Hell, I would have done the same for my family." The tears came harder then, a torrent of relief and regret. He pulled you close, his embrace a safe place in the darkness. You missed his hugs. "Don't cry, please." He murmured, his fingers stroking your hair. "It's okay."

"I'm sorry." You murmured against his chest. "I broke your heart and you didn't deserve it."

"Stop that." He whispered. "Look, romantic dinner by candlelight wasn't exactly the plan, but the power's out, so..."

A choked laugh escaped your lips. "I missed you. Every single day." You admitted, the words tumbling out before you could hold them back any longer.

His smile, illuminated by the flickering candlelight, was the most beautiful thing you'd seen in days. "I missed you more." He confessed, his voice husky with emotion.

He leaned in, his lips brushing against yours in a kiss that tasted of forgiveness, relief, and a love that had never truly died. It was a slow, and tender kiss, filled with unspoken promises of a future where nothing, not blackmail, not family drama, would ever tear you apart again. As you pulled away, his hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb gently brushing away a stray tear.

"No more goodbyes, okay?" He said, his voice firm with resolve. "We'll face everything together. Always." You nodded, a new strength blooming in your chest. No more running, no more hiding.

He leaned in once more, his eyes searching yours. "Mason?" You murmured. "I love you. I always did."

"I love you too. Since the first moment that I saw you." You locked your arms around his neck and kissed him passionately. The future, with him by your side, was all that mattered now.

#football imagine #footballer imagine #mason mount x reader #mason mount fanfic #mason mount fluff #mason mount x y/n #mason mount x you #mason mount imagine #mason mount imagines #footballer x reader #mason mount

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