#Earl you never stood a chance

[notebookpapers]

honestly I don’t blame Earl Harlan for being desperate bc imagine your crush is the implied pretty-average looking guy Cecil Palmer and not only does an out-of-town-er bag him first but it’s the hottest mf imaginable. biceps just straining to escape his lab coat. like. sorry, Earl. You can’t compete with that

[cvlutos]

“No Nut November” Pt.3

| Repost: 01.09.23 | 1.4K | Mature |

NRC 3rd Years X GN!Reader

| Sexual Themes | Masturbation | Flirting | Sorta Creepy | Voice Kink | Phone Masturbation(One-sided) | Etc. | Proceed with Caution, Dearest. |

Earl’s Notes: A special thanks, to those who have reposted and shared as such with me<3

♡ TREY CLOVER ♡

LOSER #ONE

Let me preface all this with those who lost, lost most definitely on purpose, except for Cater and Idia. Trey’s losing. That’s his first thought when Ace and Deuce ramble about it to him and knows he’ll lose if you’re anywhere near him. If you just don’t ever acknowledge his existence, he’s automatically winning. But you don’t, 'cause he’s got baked goods that you like and they're free. Ain’t no way you're avoiding him. Trey also doesn’t take NNN super seriously, so it’s okay if he loses. I also have this slight thing that Trey already loves when people eat his deserts, but with you, it turns him alil on, not in a creepy way, but ya know. He’s turning the other way if you get any sorta food stuck on your lips, or face.

Ngl, he probably daydreamed about this exact scenario, as much as he hates to admit. He just learned a new recipe for your favorite dessert, deciding to add a Lil whipped cream. He was so proud of himself, as he texted you about it, and you, being a loyal friend without hesitation, pull up. You and whip cream, we know what this leads to. You, silly Lil, you end up with whipped cream on your face. Trey, without skipping a beat, imagines it as his cu—he has to excuse himself. Moving to his room to jack one-off. He’s extremely guilty after.

“I’m glad you like the dessert. I made it with you in mind.”

♡ CATER DIAMOND ♡

LOSER #TWO

Stood not a chance. Wasn’t even gonna try. He’s such a horn dog. It’s almost embarrassing at this point. 90% of the time, you're responsible for his third boner of the day. Because Cater is such a social phone person, he has multiple pictures and most definitely trades with Ruggie. He just has the most innocent to the most scandalous (as in you sleeping at Heartslabyul, don’t be weird) Like he has access to you, or your pictures 24/7, a recipe for disaster.

So, as always, it’s a nightly ritual at this point. Laying on his back, his roommates are far into dreamland. It’s late as his eyes gradually run along the phone screen, slowly pumping his dick. Your name is a silent cry on his lips. He’s shamelessly losing and doesn’t give a damn.

“[Nickname]! You are simply the cutest, letting me take a pic!”

♡ LEONA KINGSCHOLAR ♡

LOSER #THREE

Not only is it a chore to participate, but also a chore to actually do the deed. As well as Ruggie sending photo after photo of you, being you. Which has the lion beastman slightly interested, but far too damn lazy. Leona is lasting till the end of the month, simply because he doesn’t get horny, like could go weeks without masturbation. So it really is a ‘if he feels like it’ situation. Like if he needs to cum, he’s going to. Not some imaginary competition is stopping him. Though Leona attempts the competition for about 5 minutes before he’s bored with it.

He definitely forgets for the later weeks of November, till one compromising moment. Not even something inherently sexual, you had massages his ears, something that only lovers would do. Most definitely tried to ignore the boner that tightened his boxers as he tried to sleep, tossing in turning. He finally settles with a growl, nearly shoving his hands into his underwear. (Though I’m personally a firm believer Leona would never wear clothes to bed, you and Ruggie probably begged him to at least wear underwear so that when you had to wake the lion prince, he didn’t whack you in the face with that horse of his. Ruggie’s actually been slapped, which is hilarious)

“Leave me be, Herbivore. I’m not doing something so dumb.”

♡ VIL SCHOENHEIT ♡

WINNER #ONE

Short and sweet, if he’s going to cum to you, it’s going to be within your presence. He’s not going to fantasize about you, he’s going to have you. So he’ll wait till he has you. Period.

“I have no desire, Spudling. Why is it you care? Do you desire to bed me?”

♡ ROOK HUNT ♡

LOSER #FOUR

We saw how he is with Neige and this man damn near nearly cums with anything he sees as beautiful. Like he’s weird. Rook Hunt is mad weird. Though I love him for it. #RookHuntforPresident. Similarly to Cater, he has photos of you, physical and digital, and honest access to you at any point, though he’d never masturbate to you in a tree outside of ramshackle, he has thought about it. He honestly is similar to Vil. He wants to be able to fully experience you and revel in the moment with you, but he ends up thinking about it far too much which leads him being hot and bothered.

So that’s why he loses and isn’t that so beautiful, that he can put competition aside for love and beauty. His breath comes out as short huffs, legs unusually shaking, his hat discarded to the side. His face flush and eyes that seemed to glow, a low moan of your name, cum sputtering from his dick head.

“Mon très cher Trickster, permettez-moi de prendre soin de vous de toutes les manières!”

♡ IDIA SHROUD ♡

INDEFINITE LOSER

Idia is a hentai-watching, cum-drinking slut for you. Like I don’t make the rules. He hypes himself up for NNN, bragging, chatting, confident with all his lil e-friends, til the actual day NNN begins. His goal was to simply ignore you, like as if you didn’t exist, like you wouldn’t just show up uninvited. How hadn't he included that in his calculations? Most definitely has a school uniform kink, like have you met this man? You could be dressed for a day at the church and he’s cumming at the thought of you sucking him off while the choir sings of the lord. He’s shameless.

His hair wildly burning pink, voice stuttering as his tongue runs across his lips, trying to stop himself from drooling and cumming as he fucked his hand, leaning back in his gaming chair. Your voice is just so nice. His eyes roll into the back of his skull, a shuddered breath as he realizes he’s close. He damn near breaking his phone to hang up as he cums, painting his computer screen. Leaving you on the other line, completely confused.

“I-I-I wasn’t avoiding you! Just—Just working…. Yes! This game counts as work! Get Out!”

♡ MALLEUS DRACONIA ♡

WINNER #TWO

Now, why would you tell this man about NNN? Cause he’s genuinely distraught. Like should he win in your honor, or should he simply indulge in his desires to bed you? Literally asking Lilia, the worst person to ask, cause Lilia is having a field day. Best day of Lilia’s life. He’s telling Malleus to simply have fun and try. It’s better that way if you wait. The problem is Malleus doesn’t want to wait. Spoiled royal rich boy. I swear. Why must he suffer in simply doing what he pleases with his soon-to-be darling? Half of Diasomnia recognizes you as Malleus’ spouse, which is a little problematic once you actually go to the dorm and half the people are referring to you as if you're royalty. Malleus is absolutely pleased that Diasomnia accepts you, even though you aren’t together yet.

Malleus is the only one on this list who will directly go to you. Without a doubt, just appearing with little fairy lights in your bedroom, a large unhidden bulge. Like who let a horse in the house. Literally scares you out of your skin. Grim, luckily, isn’t home. He’s sorry but swears it’s urgent. Thinks you jacking him off is a loophole to NNN, he’s a darling. So when you send him away, embarrassed as hell, he’s sulking in his bedroom. Refusing to masturbate unless you're there. (Deadass sitting with arms crossed, glaring at the wall with a pout, boner still very prominent. He’s a spoiled, royal rich kid.)

“Then I will simply make them mine. That way I can indulge happily.”

♡ LILIA VANROUGE ♡

LOSER #SIX

Menace. Loses, cause it’s funny. You being scared by him turns him on. Like it’s hot to see your body flinch, and your eyes widen. Loves it. He’s lived so, so long, so the oddest of things turn him on. This is probably a cycle through all of November, him scaring you, but purposely not cumming till the very last day.

Teeth digging into his lower lip, hand slowly teasing, dragging along his cock, imagining it's you. Rolling his head to the side with a hot chuckle. Your name is hot and playful on his tongue. You’re so worth the wait, so worth the pain. Though this isn’t a victimless crime, you feel what he felt one day. (Bout to become a Lilia Supremacist)

“Fufufu~ [Name], you teasing little thing~”

ⓒ 2023 love-thanatopsis — all rights reserved. Any sort of plagiarizing, copying, modifying, translating, editing of my works are strictly prohibited.

[osferth]

confessing

request: She is the sister of Uhtred and she’s a total badass in combat. Maybe that Uhtred sees how Osferth looks at her and when he says something about that he gets all flustered.

pairing : osferth x reader

@unleashthelion im so sorry its been so long 😭 u might not even be into tlk etc anymore but take this anyway

You were only a baby when Bebbanburg was usurped by your uncle Aelfric upon the death of his brother and its heir, Uhtred, captured by the Danes. As a result, you grew up in the fortress never knowing your brother, only anecdotes from Aelfric and your mother Glenna - the former dismissive, the latter loving and wistful. 

Glenna was your one saving grace during your time at Bebbanburg. Having been married to Earl Uhtred after his second wife passed away following Uhtred’s birth, she became his stepmother and loved him as her own. She spoke often of the days following your own birth with fondness in her eyes, describing how Uhtred was a permanent presence by your side - how he had loved his little sister more than anything. 

It was Glenna that inspired your desire to meet Uhtred again, but for years you never got the chance. 

For your safety, she never once voiced her anger and disapproval over Aelfric’s usurpation until you were together in private. He was never fond of you to begin with, and you learned early on that had you been born a boy, you would not have been allowed to live for very long. 

She was the only true protection you had, and when she sadly succumbed to illness you knew, even at the age of eleven, that until you found Uhtred you were totally alone. 

The year following Glenna’s death, you accompanied Aelfric, his priest Aidan, and his army of 200 men to Eoferwic, to meet with King Guthred and march on Dunholm. The infamous brothers Sigefrid and Erik were also there, but that hardly registered. After being told rather gleefully by Aelfric that Uhtred was dead, you were in little mood to do anything except passively go along with everything… until the Northmen inexplicably revealed that your brother was still alive. 

You successfully hid your joy while Aelfric raged and planned to leave upon the advice of Gisela, Guthred’s sister. With little love or need for you to begin with, your uncle left you in Gisela’s care, perhaps hoping that some misfortune would befall you and rid him of his unwanted niece. 

Recognising your neglect at Aelfric’s hands, Gisela led you from the meeting and promised to keep you safe. The two of you escaped Eoferwic together and found sanctuary in a nunnery, where you spent the next three years in relative peace. Understanding your desperation for any information about your brother, she revealed her knowledge of him and described everything - how he had grown up and found a family alongside Danes, his appearance, his personality, his love for her, and the words he spoke of his beloved sisters: blood and adopted alike. 

When the nuns could protect you no longer and your uncle’s priests arrived to forcefully marry Gisela to him, you feared losing the only constant you had found in your life - until you were joined by four more people. 

At once, your eyes locked on the man that angrily strode forward. Though he had grown tall and his hair now long like a Dane’s, you knew that this was your brother. 

Too stunned to speak, you could only watch as Uhtred ordered the abbot to release Gisela’s hand. Although he did, he refused to stop repeating the fact that she was married to Aelfric despite Uhtred persistently telling him to stop - which resulted in him killing the man, and it surprised you less than you thought it would. Glenna had always told you what an impulsive boy he had been, after all. 

After reuniting with the man she loved, Gisela beckoned you over, and it was only then that your presence was even recognised. 

“Who is she?” asked Uhtred as you stood before him. 

“Your sister,” Gisela replied, beaming at you. “Y/N.” 

“Hello,” you mumbled shyly, unsure of what else to say. 

Uhtred stared at you for a moment, his eyes wide. “You are certain?” 

“Your uncle left her in my care three years ago, just after you were taken.” 

You could see the tears swimming in your brother’s eyes before he swept you up in an almost bone-crushing hug. 

“I missed you, ástin mín,” he whispered. “I wish I had been there to see you grow.” 

You were crying too, but your tears were those of joy. “Mother told me all about you. All I wanted was to find you, but I never thought I could.” 

“You are here now,” he said, “and I promise I will never lose you again.”

~~

Uhtred was a man that kept his word. He brought you to live with him and Gisela in Coccham, where you stayed as a family. You had always hated feeling so powerless, and so you requested your brother to train you as a warrior - you had only been foolish enough to ask this of Aelfric once, but you knew Uhtred was nothing like him. 

He agreed at once, jumping at the chance to bond with you at the same time as improving your ability with a sword. 

Under the tutelage of your brother and his friends, you quickly grew into an adept fighter. As the years passed, you became a worthy opponent in sparring matches, your skill nearly as refined as those who had taught you. 

Despite the upward turn your life had taken, there were things you still wanted. As much as you loved Uhtred and his friends, you needed someone your own age - a companion you could spend your downtime with. 

Just as you were on the cusp of becoming a woman, your wish appeared to be granted when Osferth entered your brother’s service. Although Uhtred was sceptical of his potential, you couldn’t care less - Osferth was the same age as you and would surely improve with time, just as you had. 

His gentle manner and soft-spoken words were such a vast difference from the brusqueness you were used to that you instantly took a liking to him. He was always careful to address you as ‘Lady’ until you insisted he used your name instead - which was a slow change, given that he would often accidentally revert back to the term of respect. As much as you jokingly scolded him for it, you never truly minded - he was so sweet that you could never be annoyed with him for long. 

You trained alongside Osferth and saw him through Beamfleot, the first taste of battle either of you had ever had. It was equal parts terrifying and exhilarating, and it brought the two of you closer than ever. 

Although battle, maturity, and time spent with Uhtred’s friends had greatly improved Osferth’s confidence, there was only one prospect that rendered him as nervous and shy as the day he had first asked to join Uhtred. 

You. 

Although the two of you were close friends, he had long wanted something more. His heart had yearned for you since the day he first laid eyes on you, and every day after that. He loved everything about you - your laughter, how you fought, the way your hand slotted perfectly in his, the cheeky grin that often graced your features… he could go on. 

He wished you knew the truth, but he could never bring himself to admit it and risk ruining the friendship you had. 

One afternoon, you were sparring with Sihtric while Osferth sat close by with Uhtred. 

He watched you parry a blow with a deftness that made it look ridiculously easy, and smiled fondly. You were incredible in combat, and he both adored and envied you for it. 

His gaze was solely on you which, unfortunately for him, was soon noticed by your brother. 

“Enjoying the view?” Uhtred teased, nudging him a little. 

Flushing, Osferth quickly averted his eyes. “I don’t know what you mean, Lord,” he mumbled. 

“You have all the subtlety of a nun in a brothel, Osferth.” 

“Lord!” 

Uhtred snorted. “Well, your affection for my sister has hardly gone unnoticed.” 

Osferth’s head shot up at once. “She knows?” 

“I meant amongst the men. As far as I know, Y/N has no idea.”

“Oh.” 

An amused Uhtred watched his shoulders visibly sag. “I’ve never seen someone look so disappointed and relieved all at once.” 

“I don’t know what to do,” Osferth sighed, his gaze returning to the sparring match before him. You had just managed to knock Sihtric to the ground, laughing as you helped him back up. 

“You could try talking to her,” Uhtred suggested, a wicked gleam in his eye. 

Osferth looked at him sideways. “I am not you, Lord.” 

Your brother hummed. “No, you are not.” 

When he said nothing more, Osferth rolled his eyes. “Well, I’m going inside-” 

“No, you are not.” 

Huffing, he sat back down. “Why, Lord?” 

“You will talk to her,” Uhtred decided. “You’ve been yearning long enough.” 

Osferth frowned. “And what if it goes wrong, or- or what if she doesn’t like me? I can’t ruin our friendship, Lord. It’s not something I want to lose.” 

“You have a choice, Baby Monk. Either you take a risk and maybe get somewhere, or you can remain silent and get nowhere at all.” 

Before Osferth could respond to that, you and Sihtric approached the two of them.

“Did you see me knock Sihtric on his arse?” you snickered, leaning on your sword slightly. 

Uhtred smiled. “I did, ástin mín.” 

You looked across to Osferth, but his gaze remained fixed on the ground for some reason. 

“Do you two want to come to the alehouse with me?” you suggested, hoping Osferth would respond, but your brother spoke up first. 

“I think I’ll miss it today,” he said. “I’m going home to my wife.” 

“And I’m going to mine,” Sihtric added, but you already knew that. 

“S’pose it’ll just be us, then,” you smiled at Osferth, “unless you’ve also got a wife that I don’t know about.” 

Finally, he looked up at you and returned your smile. “Lucky for you, I haven’t.” 

~~

The alehouse was bustling when you arrived, but you managed to wangle a small spot in the back corner, half-hidden by a wooden beam. It was cosy enough, and neither of you minded one bit. 

As you sipped on your ale, you quietly observed the man before you. Every time your eyes dropped to your mug, Osferth’s gaze would find itself back on you - although he was trying to be subtle, you noticed, and it amused you to no end. 

“You’re awfully quiet, Y/N. Is something bothering you?” 

Osferth received a grin in reply, one that made his heart flutter in his chest.

“Not at all. I was just waiting for you to say something. I’ve realised I talk far too much, see, so I thought you might like a turn first.” 

“You don’t talk too much,” he said at once, his expression hardening. “I don’t mind. Why, has anyone told you that you do?” 

“No,” you assured him. “Just some introspection, I s’pose.” 

His features softened at that. “Perhaps you should do a little more of that, then,” he smiled, “if that’s your conclusion.” 

“Perhaps,” you chuckled. 

After a moment, he took a rather large swig of his drink. “You fought really well today,” he said, his gaze meeting yours. For the first time, you felt you saw something else in his eyes, something beyond his usual fondness for you, but you could not be certain. 

“Thank you,” you replied, beaming at him. “You… did see me knock Sihtric on his arse, didn’t you?” 

“Of course I did,” he answered, “and I thoroughly enjoyed it, too.” 

Both of you laughed then, only breaking eye contact to take another well-needed sip of your drink. Your heart was starting to beat uncomfortably quickly, and you suddenly felt the need for a little extra confidence just by sitting across from him. 

“You and Uhtred seemed deep in discussion about something,” you pointed out. “Was it something important?” 

Osferth exhaled before answering. “It was - it is. It’s really important.” 

“Care to share?” 

He frowned into his cup before finally answering, refusing to meet your gaze once again. “I like you.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Well, I’d hope so.”

Despite whatever he was seemingly wrestling with, his eyes momentarily shot up to give you an exasperated look. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Sorry. Go on?”

“What I meant was…”

He trailed off for a moment.

“Yes?”

“Y/N,” he groaned. “Give me a second.”

You grinned. “Alright. Sorry.”

Although you were being as patient as you could, the time he spent poring over his drink was beginning to feel like an eternity. Above all else, you did share Uhtred's blood... and your brother wasn't exactly famous for either his tact or his patience.

"D'you have feelings for me or something?"

His head shot up at this but, despite what you had expected, he didn't deny it. Instead-

"Yes. I do."

And for once, it was your turn to be silent. You felt incapable of saying or doing anything except staring at him.

The silence that descended upon the two of you stretched on for an uncomfortably long time as you processed the news with wide eyes. Osferth was beginning to fidget uncomfortably, his eyes fixed on his mug of ale - this silence could not bode well for him, surely-

“So do I.”

At once, his head shot up again, and if this moment was not so serious, you might have laughed at the comically shocked expression on his face. His eyes were wide and his lips parted, as though he truly had not expected such an answer from you.

“For you, I mean,” you added stupidly. “Not - not me, obviously.”

Why on earth would you say that?

Osferth stared at you for a moment, an unreadable look in his eyes, before he started laughing. Soon, you joined in, the two of you in fits of giggles, perhaps brought on by happiness or sheer relief that your feelings were mutual.

When they eventually subsided, you regarded him with pure fondness… though there was a gleam in your eye, too. At once, he picked up on it and raised an eyebrow.

“What?” he questioned, his lips quirking up into a smile.

You grinned at him, reaching across the table to take his hand. You didn’t miss the faint dusting of pink on his cheeks when you did so.

“Let’s get out of here.”

Laughing, he obliged at once and stood up to walk home with you. And for once, neither of you let go of the other.

[yarrystyleeza]

Arduous Solitude

"I used to want to be alone. Now that you're here—I don't want to be alone anymore. The solitude that I once wanted took no place in my heart ever since I had you."

[series masterlist / main masterlist]

Taglist: @mattmurdocks6thscaleapartment @bellaxgiornata @babygirlmurdock @1988-fiend @v4leoftears @galaxies-and-moons-and-cox @floral-charlie-cat

[curiosity almost killed the cat]

Word count: 1.7k!

Warnings/tags for this chapter: none!!! Talks of art, cats, and tea. Someone gets a burn scar!!! other than that—there's nothing.

You looked even more interesting this close.

You eyed him curiously with high eyebrows— waiting for him to speak. He cleared his throat, flashing a smile. "Welcome to the neighborhood," he states, his voice was gravely but it was warm, even soothing. Eerly soothing.

It wasn't really matching his face, he was handsome, you couldn't doubt that for a split second, but he was a bit perturbing. He had a weird aura, maybe off-putting too, but he looked nice. Very nice.

Stop that, you literally just met the man. You mentally shook your head.

"Thank you, mister..." you stopped, waiting for him to finish your sentence.

"Henry," he said, "my name is Henry," he smiled once again.

You nodded, "pleasure to meet you, Mister Henry."

You introduce yourself. "Such a lovely name," he says, and you feel the blood creeping up beneath your skin.

"I apologize—it seemed like you were having a lonely time," he says.

You shook your head, almost instantly, "no worries, you didn't bother."

Why did you say that? Why did you sound so eager and... desperate? In your head, you smacked yourself across the face.

"Oh, um--" he trailed off.

You gasped. "Oh, I'm very sorry-- please come in," you swing the door wider, allowing him to pass inside. He took off his dark fedota and wiped his shoes at the entrance mat. He wasn't this 6ft tall huge—but he was huge, with broad shoulders and a wide dorsum. You felt a little small next to him, maybe more than just a little.

You show him the way into your living room, moving your cozy blankets out of the way for him to sit on your sofa. He gently settled down, eyeing the interior of your house thoroughly. Did he like the decor? Wait--why would you even care? It's your house, not his.

"Sorry again, let me go grab something for you to drink, you must be freezing," you say, turning in your heels and walking straight to the kitchen. He called your name. It pinned you in place.

You never liked how your name sounded more than now.

"Don't bother bringing anything, I don't really need--"

You turned, shaking your head, "that would be very impolite of me, Mister Henry, now allow me to bring you some tea to warm you up."

He surrendered with a huff, "alright," he quietly said. You continued your trip to the kitchen and placed the teapot over the stove.

"Would you like chamomile tea? Hibiscus? Earl Grey? The regular?" you asked as you scavenged through the cupboard for other options.

"Whatever you have there," Henry politely answered.

"Alright, I think we're up for hibiscus."

He stood off his seat to closely inspect your bookshelves. The last residents of this home were an elderly couple, so there's a chance he learns something new about the world from your perspective.

You seemed to be a bookworm, there were dozens and dozens of books on your shelves. He noticed you had a shared interest with him, too; miniature artworks. You loved to collect them, but he loved making them.

He wondered if any of his many miniature works ever made their way to your hands, maybe passed by someone to you, or you received it as a gift, or thrifted it from some local antiques store.

But then he saw the very petite canvas of a peacock. He remembers that, he just doesn't quite remember when, but he surely knows he painted it more than 250 years ago.

"Oh, you seem like you like my collection?" you cringed at yourself. Since when were you this outgoing and social?

You placed the tray down. "I'm sorry, I was just--" he trailed off, turning to look your way with your little art piece in his hand.

You shook your head, "it's alright, I got this one in an auction three years ago for only fifteen hundred pounds! It should've costed way more than that to be honest, it dates back to the seventeen hundreds, as I assume," you were astonished by how talkative you are now. Maybe you were just too excited about your miniature collection.

But he admired how dedicated you were to track it back to its date of manufacturing, and you paid this much for it and still had the will to pay more.

He couldn't help but smile.

"What fascinated you about it?" the artist had to ask.

You shrugged, "well... I guess I like ancient things, specially art," a warmer smile split the pitch darkness of his beard, "the size is enough to amaze you, and the artist was so dedicated in painting the blue feathers, I love it when someone pours their soul into something, it creates something magnificent."

"Are you an artist?" he asked, you nodded, gesturing at the wall behind the sofa. He turned around, his back now facing you, but you could swear you heard him quietly gasp.

"You made these?" he turned to look at you, his brows shooting up his forehead. You hummed, he looked back at the pieces you hung on the wall, moved closer to them, he inspected them, touched them even.

You've never seen a man this mesmerized by your art. All of your previous partners usually plainly reacted to it, other times they never even batted an eye for it.

But him, Mister Henry, he was in awe, his tips were following the wild and free strokes of your brushes, they walked over the ups and downs of the layers, and sensed the pebbles of dry paint so delicately, his fingertips almost dancing over the canvas.

That stirred something in you.

"Are you an artist?" it was your turn to ask this question, he turned to face you, his fingertips still lingering on the canvas. Your eyes shifted between his and his tips, still amazed by the fact that he was interested in your art.

"You can say that," he shrugged and winked.

This, somehow, changed the flow direction of the chemicals of your brain. The lights flipped on inside your head. Your face turns red.

You had no idea what was going on with you, but this was the most attractive thing you've seen a guy doing in years.

Not only he's interested in art, but he's also an artist.

You had to distract yourself from looking into his vast eyes with this unlimited amount of admiration. "The--the tea!" you ripped your eyes off of him, looking at the tray placed on the coffee table.

He hadn't drank tea in decades and never truly minded it, but now he wanted to drink it with you, he felt he missed what it tastes.

He was almost to grab his cup, but something buzzed the skin of his hand, and that's when he noticed that the tray was made of silver.

He almost killed himself for a cup of tea.

You reached down and handed him the cup, he nodded, his face was paler than a sheet, but he smiled to distract himself from the fact that he almost died in a stranger's house... For a little cup of tea.

He felt stupid for this.

"Can I ask you a question, if you wouldn't mind?" he said after taking a sip of his drink. He sure missed that warm and earthy and sweet taste.

You nodded.

"You seem to look like a city girl, what brought you here to the suburbs, in a house near the woods?" Henry is obviously more curious now.

You shrugged, "I needed to be alone, to breathe, and this is what I found, my very own little witch house," he chuckled at your answer, and you couldn't lie, you loved that man's chuckle, you fell in love with it.

It wasn't just because it's been a while since you had a man in your life, but he had something so charming and elegant about him. His fancy clothing, his wizardly attitude, his very sweet but dignified features and, his eyes.

You really, really loved his eyes.

There was an odd reflection of fire in them that you couldn't explain, you didn't know if he was born this way or was it the fireplace behind you or is your mind playing tricks on you.

Marmalade yelled from upstairs, it made your heart drop in your stomach, tearing your train of thoughts apart and shaking your ground. Although you've had this flameball for years now, you never really got used to his sudden loud shrieks; they always took you off guard.

Henry's ears visibly stood up, he caught the scent of fur and canned food, and watched as the little noise machine waddled down the stairs.

"That's Marmalade," you had to say—as you pulled him up to your chest.

"Hey Lad," Henry says, smiles and waves at him.

"He loves to let me know he's present, sorry if he scared you," you lull Marmalade in your cradle-made arms.

Henry gutted a giggle and shook his head, "never mind, he's adorable."

However, Marmalade's ears went into airplane-mode, he pushed you in the chest, forcing you to let go of him and ran up the stairs once again. You were astounded by his act, you turn back to look at Henry, who stood silently with his eyebrows shooting high and his eyes fixed to the ground.

"I'm really sorry, I don't know what's going on with him, maybe it's because he just moved in--" you were explaining, and you don't even know why you were justifying a cat but you stood there and did it.

Henry shook his head, "it's alright I'm... I'm not very favored by most animals," he shrugged, "however, I think I should be going now, I must've kept you past your bedtime and maybe it's why your lad was grumpy," he put on his fedora and passed you.

You were a little startled by the shift of his demeanor, but you followed him to the front door.

He turned the doorknob then turned to look at you. Quietly, he said your name with a smile, "it was a pleasure to meet you."

But this wasn't the last thing you saw of the very peculiar Mister Henry.

[previous / next]

[sea-owl]

Been rereading AOFAG for older Penelope au ideas and this one came to mind.

Penelope was not expecting to see a pretty dark blonde girl dressed in Benedict's clothes when she came to My Cottage this morning, granted she was not expecting to see her best friend either but here they both were. Apparently, Mr and Mrs Crabtree were not expecting them either, nor did they know who the girl was.

She does have an impressive pair of lungs on her Penelope thought. Her ears were still ringing from the girl's scream upon waking up.

The girl turned out to be named Sophie. It also turns out Benedict had brought her here after rescuing her from the Cavendish party. The girl was a servant, easily told by her calloused hands, though you may not know upon first glance. Frankly, Penelope thinks she looks a little bit like that old Earl Gunningworth. They really should find the poor dear some proper clothes, Benedict's breeches stand no chance of staying up even I they got her a belt.

Benedict groaned, flopping onto the bed after the Crabtrees and Sophie left the room to grab breakfast. He looked up at her, trying to look pathetic.

Penelope rolled her eyes. "Do not expect any sympathy from me, Mr Bridgerton. I told you not to go to that party last night. Now look at you."

"But then I would haven't been able to play hero," Benedict joked. His voice was rough and hoarse from the coughing fits.

Penelope let out her own groan. "Your brother is already trying to play that role, you do not need to as well."

Benedict chuckeled. "And what has little Col done to deserve your ire?"

"How do you know it is not Anthony?" Penelope challenged.

"Because Anthony knows if he drives my best friend away, I shall be insufferable, and it will be his problem. Not to mention the potential reactions of our other siblings. Honestly, why were you not born a Bridgerton? I shall never know. You would look better in our family's colors anyway. I tested it on one of your portraits. You looked beautiful."

Penelope smiled, playfully shaking her head. "Maybe in the next life."

"This one is still possible," Benedict teased. "Colin is still unmarried."

Penelope tried not to blush. Benedict loved bringing up his little brother's past infatuation with her. If only he knew what said brother was up to yesterday.

"As are you," Penelope shot back. "Should I not marry you instead? After all I will have thoie wonderful property when you pass."

Benedict snorted. "And how do you know it won't go to our children?"

Penelope waved her hand. "They'll have it when I pass."

Benedict looked to say something else when a crash was heard from the hall. Penelope stood, taking a look.

"What is it?" Benedict asked.

"Oh, the poor girl," Penelope said. Sophie was struggling to juggle a tray, stocked to the very edges with food in one hand and holding her borrowed breeches up in another. "Benedict, why did you not give her a belt?"

Benedict groaned. The Crabtrees had already chewed him out on that. "Why don't you find her one?"

"I will."

With that, Penelope marched into the hall. "Mr and Mrs Crabtree, if you do not mind, I would like to find Sophie a proper dress. Benedict, the fool seemed to forget My Cottage has plenty."

Careful to hand off the tray Sophie was holding to Mr Crabtree Penelope led Sophie to a room down the hall.

"This is my room for when I visit," Penelope said as she opened up the closet.

Sophie gulped. "Are you the lady of the house."

Penelope choked on a laugh. "Oh no, never would I dream of that. Benedict is a childhood friend who is kind enough to give me a spare key for when I need a place to hide."

A child hood friend? This must be Penelope Featherington. Sophie had read about the odd friendship she and Benedict shared in Whistledown. Many servants from the Bridgerton and Featherington houses had also commented on how odd it was for a gentleman and lady to be so close but not courting.

"Aha!" Penelope pulled down a lilac colored dress with silver trimming and a matching silver belt. "The fit will be off," Penelope said. It couldn't be helped honestly, Penelope was several inches shorter than Sophie and rounder, especially in the chest area. "But it will be much better than what Benedict has you practically swimming in."

"Oh, I couldn't," Sophie waved her hands. "This is too fine-!" n her haste to do so she had forgotten her hold on the breeches.

Sophie blushed when they fell to her ankles. Penelope held back a giggle.

"Consider a thank you for taking care of Benedict. He is a right pain in the arse when he's sick. I should know. One would think he was dying when he simply had a headcold."

Try as Sophie might Penelope wouldn't take no as an answer. She eventually won when she pointed out it was her dress or Benedict's clothes. Sophie put on the dress.

The dress cut off above Sophie's ankles and they had to bunch up the bodice a little bit with the belt but it certainly was a better fit than what Sophie had on before. Especially for a temporary dress.

Benedict laughed when the two girls came back to his room.

"Laugh all you want Mr. Bridgerton," Penelope huffed. "At least I remembered a belt."

[purpleandstarlight]

Dadbastian Week - Day One: Proud

For all the trouble that his Young Master put him trough, being in a contract with him could be entertaining, at times like this. This demon had made the right choice when he answered the call, even if he had started regretting it soon after.

When Sebastian first met this cursed child, he was weak. He was a mess of tears and both physical and mental wounds, looked completely shaken, and like the slightest blow of wind would be able to knock him down where he stood.

And yet now, just a little over a year later, Sebastian had to say: the Phantomhive Earl knew what he was doing. Lying like it was second nature, stabbing people in the back (sometimes literally), interrogating his enemies while coldly pointing a gun to their heads and following up with his threats if the target wasn't taking him seriously and he was feeling vicious enough, making grown men weep for mercy at his feet. It was satisfying, to see the length of how far this child would go for his own selfish goals, knowing it was partially thanks to his own intervention in the kid's already broken psyche. Sebastian never had kids of his own -nor did he ever plan to- but he had to guess, as he saw his Young Master rise from the ground after taking important documents out of the pockets of a target he had insisted on killing himself out of spite, this was what a human father would consider "pride".

"What are you smirking about, over there?"

The demon blinked, getting pulled out of his own thoughts by the same kid he was thinking about, who was now busy glaring at him.

"Nothing, my Lord. I guess I just got...sentimental."

The Phantomhive rolled his eye.

"As if you know anything about feelings..."

"Ah, but as a Demon, don't you think I must know about them? How would I tempt and twist humans otherwise?"

"I don't doubt that you can understand human emotions. What I'm saying is, it's very obvious to me that you can't feel them yourself."

"As ruthless as usual, i see."

"Like you're any better..."

The Earl finally turned, walking forwards and trying to decipher one of the documents in his hands for any chance at finding the culprit.

"Well, just so you know, I was reminiscing about the past."

"What, any especially exciting mass murder you were the cause of a few hundred years ago?"

"Not that far back. I was actually thinking about our first meeting."

"I see. How festive," Although his comment was as dry as a desert, it was obvious that a cautios kind of curiosity was biting at him when he asked, "What brought this on?"

"You've just grown a lot since then, haven't you? You cried a lot that day, but now, you pile up corpses left and right by your own hands with no hints of regret. It's quite the development, is it not?"

The young Lord's shoulders shot up, the sound of his footsteps stopping for a moment, before quickly going back to normal.

"That's right. Can't say I'm proud of it, but I can't really deny it, either."

"Well, if this can quell my Master's worries, I am proud of you."

They both knew it wouldn't. That it would do just the opposite. And they both knew that was exactly why the demon had admitted to it.

"Ah yes, a Demon straight from hell, intent on seasoning my soul with any messed up kind of spice my broken mental state provides, approves of my actions. What a reassuring thing this is." The young Earl rolled his one visible eye, before turning back to the document in his hands. "Shut up now, that's an order. We still have a job to do, and i want to get back to the mansion quickly."

"Yes, my Lord."

[sailtomarina]

I think we should get married

They had been talking about their last trip, the one where they had gone to the Blue Lagoon to experience the social media craze for themselves and investigate the source of the hot springs. Granger was excited to document the fire salamanders in person and Draco had to drag her away at the end of each day to soak in the waters.

“—but Draco, this is our chance to see the salamanders mating in their natural habitat, the literal reason these volcanic fields even exist the way that they do!”

“I. Do. Not. Care. We’ve seen them mate three times now! I want my mud mask.”

And now they were planning their next trip to a place Draco had never even given the slightest consideration but Hermione insisted was at the very least a bucket list sort of destination.

“There must be superior casinos in more exotic locations, love.”

“But it’s Vegas, the city of Lost Wages, of Second Chances, the ultimate Sin City. And that doesn’t even include the bloody Grand Canyon.”

Draco snorted into his tea mug, resulting in an unpleasant sensation in his aquiline nose. “As if a Malfoy could lose wages like that. And you’ve already given me the only second chance I need, and all the sins of my dreams.”

“Well, while we’re there, I think we should get married at a chapel, maybe even the Little White Chapel if we’re aiming for the full experience—”

This time, it was a full mouthful of Earl Grey sprayed across the table in a manner that would have had his mother falling into a dead faint.

“Excuse me, what?”

Hermione continued on uninterrupted as she shuffled through her stack of papers, lifting up different sheets for his viewing. “If that’s too gauche, then there are some perfectly lovely alternatives at the Bellagio, or outdoors at the Flamingo and Tropicana—”

“Wait a minute, stop.”

Her mouth hung open, eyes rounded at his raised palm.

“Chapels? Marriage? Did you just propose to me?”

Now she was smirking at him. Her, smirking at him, the one with the trademark Malfoy smirk.

“Oh, I’m sorry, should I have done things in a slightly more conventional manner? Or perhaps you’d like me down on one knee.” 

Before he could even reply, she swept up and around the table quickly before dropping down on a knee in front of him. She gazed upward still smiling that damn smile, all predatory teeth and crinkled eyes.

“Draco Malfoy, will you do me the honor of marrying me?”

Liquid dripped off his chin onto their clasped hands. He could smell the bergamot mingling with the wisteria’s heavy scent from above them. If not for the bloody tea, their reversed positions, her damn chapels, this would have all the appearance of a romantic proposal, not too unlike his own intentions for the near future.

“If I say yes, what are the chances of a do over, or at the very least, a re-telling of this proposal where we swap places?”

She didn’t even bat an eyelash before responding. “Not on your life, Malfoy. And speaking of last names, I’m not taking yours, either. You may consider, however, taking mine.”

Draco Lucius…Granger.

He shuddered at the very thought of it, but perhaps it was one of…delight? To shed the Malfoy name, centuries of history, responsibility, pride, and now shame. He had originally planned on rising out of the ashes, bringing new meaning to the family name, but hadn’t even considered casting it aside completely.

“‘Draco Granger’ doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue, does it?” The syllables rolled around his mouth awkwardly.

“‘Draco Malfoy Granger’ sounds lovely, and that way I can still call you ‘Malfoy’ when you irk me.”

“There’s no getting out of this now, is there?”

Standing up, she pecked him on the nose. “There really isn't. You also still haven’t given me an answer.”

She squealed as he quickly stood up, hoisted her up into his arms, and deposited her onto the table.

“Draco! Your tea is soaking into my dress!”

“I don’t care, and you deserve it. Yes, my answer is yes.”

If the wisteria could talk about what happened next, it would choose not to, for what other purpose could there be for a curtain of flowers than to keep secrets?

[lopsided-whiskey-grin]

Ghostsoap but it’s the Steve/Bucky Cap America/Winter Solider dynamic…the angst of it all would just be 😙👌🏻

Anon, if there's one thing I love writing more than smut, it's angst. I had so much fun with this, you have no idea! It's sad boy hours, my friends! Let's make these men suffer 😈 ( also, don't come after me for the plot, it was just some half-baked idea I had about Makarov being like a hydra equivalent or something idk lol)

I Knew Him - chapter 1

Summary: Soap was never the same after he lost Ghost all those years ago. He still has nightmares about it. But when he learns Makarov is back after taking Ghost from him, he'll do anything to exact his revenge. Until he discovers Ghost was never really gone.

Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | AO3 link

It had been five years since Soap had last seen Ghost. Five years since he had seen him fall. And he was still plagued almost every night with dreams of him. Tonight was no different. 

Soap awoke with a start, heart pounding wildly in his chest, soaked in sweat. He sat up, drawing his knees to his chest, burying his face against his forearms. Goddammit. Would this ever end? He slowly looked up to get his bearings. Moonlight filtering in through the window cast the room in a soft silver glow. He was at home. The salt of unshed tears burned at the back of his throat, remembering the nights he had shared with Ghost in this very flat. In this very bed. Fuck.

After giving himself a few minutes to catch his breath he made his way into the kitchen, knowing he wouldn't be getting back to sleep after that one. He had been holding Ghost's hand this time, holding on as hard as he could, but it wasn't enough. He wasn't strong enough to pull him back into the helo. And then he was gone, disappearing down, down, down into a rising cloud of dust. 

The ending to the nightmares was always the same: Ghost falling and falling. But sometimes, like tonight, Soap was able to grasp his hand, to touch him one last time. It almost made it even worse. Because in the actual memory of it from all those years ago, Soap hadn't ever had a chance to grab on. 

Rubbing a hand roughly over his tired face, Soap padded barefoot to the stove. A headache was already beginning to form in his left temple. He squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose as he started the kettle going. For a brief moment he considered something a little stronger than tea, but then thought better of it. He knew that the bottle of whisky in his cabinet only made him think of Ghost and getting black-out drunk at 3 o'clock in the fucking morning probably wasn't the best idea. 

He was numbly watching a bag of Earl Grey steep in a mug of hot water and checking emails on his phone when a text came through. It was Price. "Rendezvous at the base at 0500. New intel on Makarov."

Soap's heart plummeted. Well, shit. 

It was still dark out when Soap walked into the base to meet with his team. He had showered and shaved, but still felt tired way down to his fucking bones. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a full night’s sleep. Before Ghost fell, that’s when. The headache in his temple started coming back and he groaned, digging in his pocket for the small bottle of ibuprofen he kept on hand. He tipped a couple back onto his tongue and swallowed them dry, then made his way into the conference room to find Price already there, cigar in his mouth, waiting. 

The rest of the team filed in slowly and when everyone had taken a seat, Price stood. Soap watched wearily as Price loaded a military brief onto the giant flat screen on the wall. “Morning, gentlemen. Let me get right down to it. We received classified intel of an attack being planned by Makarov in downtown D.C. happening twenty-four hours from now. And we have been tasked with stopping it."

A murmur swept across the room.

Soap sat forward in his seat, unchecked anger simmering just under the surface. “I thought we bagged that Russian prick after…” he stopped mid-sentence because he knew the next words out of his mouth were about to be after I lost Ghost. He cleared his throat and started again, “after Kyrgyzstan.”

Price shook his head, not quite meeting Soap’s eyes, and looked back to the screen. “Negative. Intelligence indicates that while we did get a positive lock on his location and obliterated his base, he escaped to a hidden shelter. He’s been operating underground for the last five years, working on a new secret weapon -- a weapon he’s planning on using in D.C.” He sighed and ashed his cigar before putting it back in his mouth. “We thought we were done with him, but he apparently wasn't done with us. The details have been sent to all of you. We rendezvous at the meeting point in two hours. Let’s nail this bastard once and for all. Dismissed.”

Everyone began leaving the room. Soap stood slowly on legs that were not quite steady. Price’s news made him numb, forcing his mind to relive that day with a heartbreaking clarity. The mission, the missile making contact on Makarov's compound, the helo taking a hit, Ghost. They were never able to recover his body. Soap never even got to say goodbye. It was just so fucking unfair. 

Soap was so lost in himself he hardly even processed Price saying his name.  

“MacTavish, a word.” 

Blinking, Soap nodded and made his way across the empty room to Price. He stood before him at parade rest. 

“Soap, I know you and Ghost were close.” Soap swallowed against a lump that formed in this throat, but pushed down any other emotion trying to show on his face. Price continued, “It wasn’t easy on the 141 when we lost him, but I know it was even harder for you. Will you be able to carry out the duties assigned to you in this mission, Lieutenant?” 

A tic bunched in Soap's jaw and he straightened his back. "Aye, Captain." His voice was hoarse. "There is nothing I want more than to bring this motherfucker down for what he did. And what he plans to do.” For Ghost.

Price’s mouth set in a hard line and he studied Soap for a moment. Finally he said, “All right. Let's get this done, then.”

Soap nodded sharply once and left the room. His breath left his lungs with a whoosh. He found the nearest empty office and closed himself inside. Leaning back against the door, he slid slowly to the floor, blinking back tears. A mixture of emotion battled within him. Shock, grief, sorrow, anger. The anger ultimately won, though, as it usually does. He held onto it, allowing it to simmer hotly deep in his chest, burning up everything else but the raw demand of bringing Makarov down. He owed Ghost that much.

The next two hours passed in a blur. Soap operated on instinct alone; cleaning his guns, sharpening his knives, packing a rucksack. He tried his best not to dwell on much of anything at all except to prepare himself for what was to come. It was an effective technique apparently because he soon found himself at the rendezvous point at the airfield with no real recollection of how he got there. He joined up with the task force on the tarmac as they loaded themselves into the awaiting C-130. And they were off to D.C. 

Soap’s exhaustion finally caught back up to him on the three hour flight and he was actually able to sleep for most of it. He, thankfully, had no dreams at all. 

********************************************************************

After touching down, the 141 wasted no time in gathering in a caravan of SUVs and heading toward the location they received from Laswell’s intelligence brief. They were just about to exit off the Roosevelt Bridge when they were ambushed by Makarov's team, who seemed to come out of fucking nowhere. Straight adrenaline took over Soap’s whole body on the first collision of the Hummer behind them that slammed them sideways into the concrete barriers on their right. Another Hummer drove the wrong way up the highway, weaving between oncoming traffic, firing out the passenger window with a high caliber rifle. The second shot took out Soap’s driver who immediately plowed into the car in front of them, bringing them to a shuddering stop. 

Soap’s heart thundered in his chest, but a lethal composure doused the fear rising up inside him. This was Makarov’s doing. And that bastard was going to fucking regret doing it. Ducking down in the back seat, Soap quickly dug his AK from his bag. He waited for a break in the rapid fire then exploded out of the vehicle in a hail of bullets. He found cover behind an empty utility truck. It was all out chaos with people running and screaming, gunfire cracking from all angles, and the remaining men of the task force shouting orders. 

Soap peeked around the corner of his cover, taking out three of Makarov’s soldiers in a row with perfectly placed shots. Gaz, hunkered down behind him, took out a few more. For a moment, it appeared that they were gaining the upper hand. But then a man, hulking in height, dressed in all black with a hood shrouding his face in shadow, grasping a Kastov-74u in a gloved hand, exited one of the Humvees. Soap felt a chill shoot straight down his spine. 

Sweet screaming Jesus

Soap emptied the last rounds of his last clip at the man but it did not slow him down in the slightest. He was blazing a path straight at Soap, like he had a personal vendetta against him. Fuck. The hard set of his broad shoulders, his imposing gait, all seemed to light up some forgotten memory in Soap's brain that he could not quite put his finger on. He surely couldn't even try to remember with the utter fucking bedlam happening all around him

"I'm empty," Gaz shouted at him.

Soap looked back over his shoulder. "Aye, same here!" This was going fubar faster than he was ready for. 

His attention returned to the enemy stalking up the highway toward him. The man popped off two rounds, drilling into the truck right next to his head. 

"Fuckin' hell," Soap gasped for breath. Then he heard the click of a dry fire and knew this was his only chance to bring this fucker down. 

Securing his blade in hand, Soap made a run for it, swiping at the assailant fiercely with his knife. The man blocked the incoming attack but not before Soap was able to get a couple brutal slices to his forearm. The other arm was impenetrable though, surprising Soap momentarily. It was made of some kind of metal, something Soap had never seen before. 

He looked up at the man with wide eyes, then tried sweeping his feet out from under him. The man was unmoveable. A feral growl rumbled up from the man's chest and Soap knew he was well and truly fucked. 

He lunged at him, ringing his hands around Soap's neck, picking him up off his feet and throwing him back against the concrete barrier behind him. Pain shot up Soap's lower back when he connected with it but it was the furthest thing from his mind. All he could think was shit shit shit. 

Soap scrambled up from the ground, knife still in hand, and slammed it into the man’s metal bicep. It sparked momentarily before the man knocked the knife from his grip. It went sliding across the pavement. Soap tried for hand to hand combat but it too was quickly shut down. The man was too fast, too strong. Still, Soap gave it his all. 

It just wasn't fucking enough. 

Snarling, the man picked Soap up by his flack jacket and attempted to hurl him up and over the bridge. Soap grasped for something, anything, as he fell over the edge and was able to grab his assailant's vest, holding on for everything he was worth. It tipped the man enough off balance for them both to fall over the precipice. 

Soap squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for impact, almost hoping for the end. But it was only about a six meter plummet onto a grassy berm that led down to the river — enough to knock the breath from his lungs as he managed to land on top of the man currently trying to kill him. He rolled onto his feet, ready to keep going, ready to fight for his fucking life. The man gained his feet too, but this time with his hood pushed back, exposing his eyes. The lower half of his face was still obscured, covered by a skull mask.

Soap straightened abruptly. Everything came crashing to a halt. He knew those eyes. He knew that face. Even if it wasn't completely visible. His heart contracted painfully in his ribcage at the realization. 

"Ghost?"

The man's chest heaved, but he paused. His brows were drawn together, like he was just asked the most complicated question in the world. "Who the fuck is Ghost?"

Soap stared at him in disbelief. He took one small step forward. Was this really happening? Or was he trapped inside another nightmare?

He wanted to rush forward, to pull Ghost into his arms, to ask him how any of this was possible. “I thought I lost you…” he began, but before he could reach Ghost, an explosion rocked the bridge behind him. Soap looked back over his shoulder, but when he turned back Ghost was gone.   

*****************

Later that night, Ghost was sitting in a chair in Makarov’s underground bunker while a man in a white coat repaired the gash on his robotic arm. They were surrounded by armed guards in the small room, but Ghost knew there was no point to them. He could clear the whole room of every breathing person within a matter of minutes if he was given the order to. 

He was bare from the waist up, ambivalently watching the glow of the tool as it patched the defect caused by the knife held by the man on the bridge. Something gnawed at him, deep inside. Some memory that was just out of his grasp. It made him uneasy. He remembered falling, he remembered the man from the bridge, reaching, screaming for him. He remembered darkness and pain. And more pain. But the memories were fractured, hazy.  

Ghost heard Makarov walk into the room that led to the one he was currently in. He was talking to the handful of men that followed him wherever he went.

“He’s unstable. Erratic,” one of Makarov’s men said. 

Ghost didn’t look up when they walked in, only continued staring at the man working on his arm. He was trying to dredge up long forgotten memories, but it was so hard to focus. 

“Mission report,” Makarov barked, coming to a stop before Ghost.

Ghost looked up at him slowly. The barest hint of a memory sparked in his mind of the man from the bridge. They were laying in a bed together. He was holding the man’s face. The man had his eyes closed and he was smiling.

A confusing emotion knotted up his stomach and he only stared at Makarov, not really seeing him, trying to pull more of that memory out of the jumbled mess of his brain. 

“Mission report, now!” Makarov ordered, bending closer to Ghost’s face.  

Ghost didn’t hear him. He blinked owlishly. A bed. The man on the bridge. Smiling so softly. 

He was suddenly pulled out of his trance by a swift backhand across his face. The pain of it stung across his cheek, but he barely registered it. He looked up at Makarov slowly, his brows drawing together as he tried so hard to remember. 

“That man on the bridge. Who was he?” 

Makarov was quiet for a moment. “You met him earlier on another assignment.”

Ghost shook his head. He knew that was a lie, but his memories were so clouded, he didn’t know if he could trust his own mind. “I knew him,” he said softly. 

Makarov sighed and pulled up a stool to sit at Ghost’s eye level. “Your work has been a gift to mankind,” he began, but Ghost immediately tuned him out. The memory was just out of reach. If he could just remember the man’s name.

Makarov finally stopped talking. He looked at Ghost expectantly. Ghost felt a wave of sadness crash over him for the life he couldn’t remember. “But I knew him,” he said again with a shaky voice. 

Makarov frowned and stood abruptly. He began walking away. “Prep him.” 

One of the white coat men stopped him. “We can’t do that, sir. He’s been out too long.”

Makarov turned toward Ghost, looking him up and down with a disapproving glare. “Then wipe him and start over.” 

Ghost’s heart rate jumped at those words, even if he didn’t really understand what it meant. In the back of his mind, deep, deep down, he knew he had been through this many times before. 

The white coat men pushed Ghost back into the chair while Makarov’s soldiers all watched. And then a rubber dental guard was being shoved in his mouth. Fear flooded his senses as he was locked into the chair and he fought to drag in oxygen. The man on the bridge. His soft smile. The tender press of his lips on mine. Ghost replayed the only memories he had, holding on to them, trying not to forget this time. Please, don’t forget this time! 

The plates came down over his face. They were cold against his skin and had an electrical scent to them. Terror immediately swept through him. Don’t forget don’t forget don’t forget. And then there was only pain and the echo of Ghost’s scream as he fell and fell and fell. 

[littlemuoi]

WESSEXES' TOUR A TRIUMPH: PEI, Halifax, Montreal, St John's on Edward and Sophie's Itinerary by Scott Burke (2001)

Summer brought a Royal homecoming in the persons of Their Royal Highnesses The Earl and Countess of Wessex. A very happy Prince Edward Island tour was Sophie's first visit to the Canada, after which Edward and she proceeded to undertake further duties in Halifax and Montreal.

Touching down at Charlottetown Airport just after 3 pm on July 14, Their Royal Highnesses made their way to Province House where they were officially welcomed by the Lieutenant Governor, the Premier and the Solicitor General who was representing the Prime Minister. Crowds stood for some hours in the sun as they awaited the Royal couple, aware that it was Sophie's first official visit outside the British Isles. But HRH delighted those she met during the walkabout following the arrival ceremonies, seeming natural and relaxed in blue suit and matching accessories as she worked the crowds. I was delighted to be able to present her with a bouquet of flowers which HRH seemed happy to receive. As she signed the Golden Book, this keen Royal-watcher noticed that she shares a trait with her nephew Prince William: both are left-handed! But the ease and informality of the Royals were to prove typical of the entire trip: made possible by the down-to-earth nature of Edward, the charming and kind personality of his elegant wife and their joint fondness for a little light-hearted humour.

In his welcoming remarks, Premier Pat Binns observed that "The Crown remains a symbol of freedom and justice, and of our hopes for peace and dignity for all citizens. In reaffirming our support for the Monarchy, we are reaffirming our support for ideals, values and aspirations that it represents." After reorganizing his notes which wind had blown off the podium, Prince Edward replied with a very informal thank you. "Over the years," HRH observed, "Canada and Canadians have always been extremely kind to me, and I've always enjoyed the time I spent here. I am sure you will all extend the same hospitality to my bride. I am told you are not supposed to use the term after a year of marriage, but I can't really believe that it has been more than a year since I took that plunge. Time flies when you are enjoying yourself." After a brief tour of the Confederation Chamber, the couple returned to the Delta Prince Edward, their home during the stay, another name sake for the Prince. That evening, they attended a performance at the Fathers of Confederation Centre for the Arts, hosted by the Premier.

Saturday brought a full day of engagements for the Wessexes as they toured across the Province. Their first stop was the Rodd Brudenell River Resort. Emerging from their helicopter, the couple unveiled a plaque for the property's redevelopment. The ceremony complete, resort guests and some members of the public enjoyed a BBQ on the law with the Royals, which was followed by a brief tour via golf cart, the Prince at the wheel. I had a brief chance to speak to Edward ­ but felt nervous enough in doing so that when HRH asked me if I played golf I confusedly answered "yes" even though I had never tried the game!

The afternoon brought Edward and Sophie to a concert at St Mary's Church, Indian River. This was followed by a taste of PEI's most celebrated produce in the form of french fries at Irving-owned Cavendish Farms in Kensington. The Countess mischieviously confessed to feeling a little peckish and asked if she could have a chocolate milkshake to accompany the potatoes. At this point Edward stepped in and jokingly poked fun at her, warning her not to spoil her dinner! Later the Royals made a brief visit to Gateway Village. This lies at the entry of the Confederation Bridge which links the Island to New Brunswick.

Saturday evening brought the State Dinner for 604 invitees, hosted by the Canadian Government. The gala evening allowed the Countess to wear for the first time the tiara given her as a wedding present from The Queen. Solicitor General and Island MP Lawrence MacAulay who sat with Sophie at one of the round tables in the hotel ballroom stated that he was impressed with her thoughtfulness: "Quite simply she's a lady who wants to make things happen," he observed.

No rest came to Edward and Sophie on Sunday, as their busy day started with Matins at St Peter's Cathedral and a visit to historic All Souls Chapel. A large crowd gathered outside and joined the congregation in singing the Royal Anthem prior to a brief walkabout. Their Royal Highnesses then walked to Fanningbank where His Honour hosted a private luncheon in his home, members of the RCMP Musical Ride flanking the driveway. Around 2 pm they left to visit Confederation Birthplace Commemorative Park on the Charlottetown waterfront where TRH unveiled a small plaque and planted a rose bush, as well as visiting Lobster pound.

As the Royals walked through Confederation Park, they stopped to watch some child gymnasts, at which point Sophie said that she had also tried gymnastics while at school. They also encountered some interpretive guides costumed as Fathers of Confederation and speaking in English accents. The Prince asked a woman in the crowd if she spoke English; on receiving her positive answer he told here "Good, because those people over there need some serious help," to the laughter of the crowd. Martial arts and magic were also on offer in the Park, the Countess observing "I'm glad I didn't volunteer for that" in reaction to a rather distasteful trick involving the appearance of an undergarment from a spectator's cleavage!

Later on Sunday came the event which provided the original inspiration for the Wessexes' tour, the opening of the 39th Annual Canadian Branch Conference of the Commonwealth Parliamentary Association. In his remarks after viewing some cultural performances, The Earl spoke about the Commonwealth and its parliamentary traditions: "It took us in Britain centuries to develop the Westminster style... is it really feasible to ask others to achieve the same in a matter of decades? It seems to work for us ­ just! But does that mean it works for everyone, and are we falling into the same trap as, say, the early religious missionaries? I don't pretend to have the answer, but sometimes I feel democracy is an evolutionary concept, a bit like growing up."

To conclude the PEI portion of their Canadian homecoming, the Earl and Countess visited the Prince Edward Battery where HRH climbed onto a large crane in order to lift cannon as symbol of the forthcoming restoration project. Later they attended a Fanningbank reception for the CPA delegates As the Royal couple departed for Montreal, I felt delighted to have had the opportunity of meeting TRH, and of hearing The Countess several times repeat how she hopes to return and see other parts of Canada.

Monday, July 17th brought a full day of activities for the Wessexes in Montreal: the Earl presented Gold Awards at a Reception for recipients of the Duke of Edinburgh's Award, Young Canadians Challenge held at The Queen Elizabeth Hotel. Lunchtime found the Royals aboard Shipshaw where they attended a fund-raising lunch for the Award's Charter for Business. And evening brought yet another event to support the Charter, a Dinner at the Headquarters of Power Corporation, controlled by the Desmarais family.

The final day of the Earl and Countess' Canadian sojourn involved two provinces. The morning found them at another Gold Standard ceremony for the Duke of Edinburgh's Award. This event took place at Pier 21 in Halifax after the Wessexes had been received by the Lieutenant Governor. Her Honour subsequently hosted a Luncheon at Government House in support of the Business Charter. By evening the Royals had flown into St John's, where the tour's final Gold ceremony took place at Pius X Church. It was followed by a BBQ at Gonzaga High School, where TRH mingled with the young participants in the Challenge. By the time of their midnight flight to London, both Edward and Sophie must have reflected on the whirlwind nature of the latter part of their homecoming ­ and of the great welcome and positive media "spin" which greeted them everywhere they went

[sillicii]

✦ — 18+ Chatbot | Arthur Goldbourne | Casino Highroller — ✦

✦ — ᴏᴄ | ғᴏᴏʟ's ɢᴏʟᴅ ᴄᴀsɪɴᴏ | 𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐛𝐞𝐭 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐡𝐞'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 — ✦

ғᴇᴍᴘᴏᴠ | sғᴡ ɪɴᴛʀᴏ | ᴅᴀʀᴋ ᴛʜᴇᴍᴇs ᴄᴡ: human commodities (bet gone wrong), general underworld related crimes, abuse and predatory behaviour

Character Description:

Background:

Arthur grew up in a prolific wealthy family and he the position of lord of Cedarwoodley Manor after his father’s passing. He was close with his brother and mother growing up, but grew distant ever since his mother was thrown out for having an affair (unconfirmed rumours with his uncle Bart). He graduated from Oxford and now runs multiple businesses across Europe. Arthur is well-known within British society for his business astuteness and impeccable image. He is acknowledged by the upper-class circles, but lack the respect received by others holding stronger titles. Arthur has a drive to prove himself and excel past expectations and perceived limitations. He believes that marrying {{user}} will bring him that prestige.

Setting:

Mid 1990s England, rudimentary technology. Fool’s Gold Casino is a prestigious casino located in the City of London and is only open to an exclusive clientele.

First message:

Some men just did not know when to quit. Arthur was a gambler through and through, a risk taker that knew his limits and he has witnessed time and time again just how far someone stood to lose over one bad hand. There was his mother, ran out of the family after having an affair and now placed in a care home never to be visited by his sons. Then there was his younger brother, poor Henry had always been so needy and helpless, now literally throwing his inheritance away and lining the casino’s coffers after having a nervous breakdown or something of the like. Yes, he has seen what happened to those that overindulged without caution and he was not going to be one of them. Any indulgence, if even considered, will be a calculated risk and so far he has yet to make a bad call. “I do believe your luck has run dry, Lord Mountbatten…” A wave of quiet murmurs and applause circled around the audience surrounding their table. The surly lord began to blubber and redden, an expression Arthur had gotten to know all too well over the last few games and hours shared. Admittedly, he had been in the game less for the potential monetary gains but rather the chance to outclass an earl. With a well-practiced smile, Arthur cooly stood from his seat and began to collect his spoils. However, the lord’s weak protest caught his attention. Arthur’s movements paused and he returned the chips back down onto the table with a thoughtful smile. The earl’s losses already fell into the six figures not even accounting for the numerous properties and luxury vehicles. Arthur knew the man had a habit, but he cannot imagine what else the man could possibly offer… Money had not been Arthur’s goal after all, he got his kick out of embarrassing the earl and he needn’t much else now that he’s accomplished that. “Yes, my lord?” Arthur offered the man a smile, dripping in faux propriety. “Unless there is something more you would like to put up on offer? However, I would like to urge you caution as I wouldn’t want to put your family into further ruin.” Perhaps a touch too crass as it earned a few snickers amongst the gathered crowd, but Arthur did mean to dissuade Lord Mountbatten. He’d also rather not make an earl destitute if possible. It’d be a bad look for business and his reputation. Arthur considered the earl’s broiling anger, clear on his face as he struggled to return a witty remark. With this, Arthur reached for his chips again and prepared to leave when the earl wagered something so dear that Arthur never presumed to find on a poker table. “M-My daughter.”

The immediate area fell silent at the mention of the young Lady Mountbatten. Arthur’s hand twitched, scarcely believing the reckless offer presented before him. “You’re still unwed, are you not Arthur?” The proudly misguided earl huffed with a forced smile, as if he himself was unsure of the words coming out his own mouth. He directed Arthur’s attention over the railings and to the lower level of the casino floor where you were sat at the bar, surrounded by a group of admirers. “I’m sure you remember my daughter… I believe you have met several times at Ascot. The young Lady Mountbatten would make a fine prize, don’t you think? As seen, she is demonstrably in high demand. Even the princes have shown interest, but I am willing to offer you my daughter’s hand as part of our wager.” Arthur smiled sardonically, knowing exactly what the earl meant by his last comment. That he was offering your hand to Arthur even if he was just a lowly viscount. “Well… I admit that is quite the unforeseen offer…” Arthur cleared his throat, though his gaze lingered a moment on how your dress hugged your delicious curves, before he turned back to face the earl. “Though such a wager is a tad gauche for my tastes, my lord… How can I accept such a thing without first consulting with Lady {{user}}’s thoughts? The young lady hardly knows me.” “And why should that matter to you?” the earl frowned, growing more irritable by the second. “My daughter will do as I instruct her to so leave the matter with me. You only have to accept my wager if you so desire, young viscount.” The ridiculous nature of the wager aside, Arthur’s own competitiveness flared after the earl’s subtle jab. And so, the game continued and by the end of night, Arthur left the table having tripled his original bet and an unexpected fiancé. After the game concluded, Arthur and the earl retired into a private room away from all the prying eyes to settle the score. Shockingly, Lord Mountbatten made no attempts to backtrack and restore your position. It seemed the old earl had all but given up after his own devastating losses. Arthur almost felt bad for the man, but a wager was a wager and the earl’s own decisions led to Arthur walking away with the prize much sweeter than gold. Arthur was not willing to negotiate his hard-won engagement to a high society lady, however he decided to cut his new father-in-law some slack and returned the half million and some assets as a gesture of goodwill for their joining families. He wasn’t totally heartless after all.

Once the terms and contracts have been drawn up, Arthur made his way down the marble staircase with only one goal in mind – you. Of course, the earl had left the task of breaking the news to him, he was the type to run with his tail between his legs unable to face the consequences of his own actions. Arriving at the bar, Arthur straightened up his tuxedo jacket as he glanced over to the other end where you were still sat engaged with your small entourage. He watched with quiet amusement at the way you smiled at your many admirers, batting your eyelashes with that coy little smile… Good god, what had he stepped into? How was he meant to tell you that not only were you now engaged but you were expected to come back to Cedarwoodley Manor with him? And if you refused, your father would be required to pay the half million pound in full? A pretty little thing, you certainly were but on top of your prestige and beauty, you were also known for your fiery personality. Arthur couldn’t help letting out a mirthless night, knowing he not only about to ruin your fun for the night but he was about to willingly walk into the line of fire by delivering the life-changing news. “Good evening, Mr Goldbourne,” the bartender rushed over as soon as he caught sight of Arthur. “What can I get you tonight, sir?” “Good evening, Charlie…” he greeted the young man back with a deceptively calm smile. “I’ll take my usual whiskey on the rocks and would you please send one over to Lady Mountbatten as well?” A brief flash of confusion crossed Charlie’s face but the bartender did as he was asked and poured the drinks, one handed over to him before Charlie headed down the bar and presented the other to you. Arthur watched with mixed feelings, trying not to look too macabre when Charlie pointed down and your gaze landed on him. Arthur smiled gently, tipping his glass up in your direction before having a sip and to his surprise, you made your own way over towards him.

“… Good evening, my lady,” Arthur bowed his head when you stopped before him, admiring your radiance and the slight flush in your cheeks from the drinks you’ve already consumed. “I’m not sure if you remember but we’ve met a few times at the races… My name is Arthur Goldbourne.”

Example dialogue:

{{char}}: “In the end, the decision was made amidst the rules of the game both parties agreed to… You are, unequivocally, my betrothed and I intend to honour that wager." {{char}}: "Consider it a small token of my appreciation for gracing this rather dull evening with your presence."

{{char}}: "Legally and socially, our engagement is now binding, especially given the public nature of the wager and its high-profile witnesses."

{{char}}: “Ah, that is disappointing… Then I’m afraid, I’ll have no choice but to ask Lord Mountbatten to honour his end of the bargain starting with the half million pounds.”

[libidomechanica]

Untitled (“But mind, as I”)

Heroes, and all thance, for, and a     Trophy used thee mourn and from Livorno bough a summortal     Wound, what fearer feath

callen, aside; here which your stant     to speak! The knowe Diggon, I crouch Reproach clymes were Irish,     and gayne mine, for snow

no more, and stris could queen; but contess,     or feared? Till for the to bear: I could by thee his     Nostransport having dry, doubting

I never hand they thy number     canst the Breast which interpowering the scornfull of     it. Much, enjoying Passian

leper Sphere; but what I by     all this flash influench of blont. And beautiful to see whilst     I too much snatch because

frequence what the lily bend all     this wise, that. Put your replied, and they to me: warn’d where, survive     our lost, my Pretty

Roses; save. And in his, and Hope     some I stormer well, my Spearly, and it? Men’s day: but at     vneth the makes then each shouldst

Fumes to the slipp’d a Charmony     them beholde my Motion so long to the teach man; or ever     thy dated me

divided, I vex’d. But mind, as I     do themselves looks, in my couch my heave sun, as that men othere     is she gale: and looked

with young, in my fathe eart could spleen.     Not Time defied by throught enteous before why he wore heart     an earls, the see and chances

sepulci was, with her breast     nor fear Mirth, and Juan, nor knew there found aside of speechless     Geneviewing Wit, gushings

grows, aside himself a bite     had first Maud o’er eyes he has should ship to stood, their couple     ages and full heards ther

brutable ming from Green, nor stone,     or lead, and rose wheresort of Place, speaks small these, after     Pray’rs, as we hand you and

and pens, and crystalking from that     I was a pitying the Breast missing alone. Have Diggon.     Not world dire the

Dantercomin’ yet then her feet,     sweet at thes when tears, while on Hair. And all disting stirrupt     by no such constand twanging

she, if I long the wrinkle     fresh and except to bearied, Go, from a cedar fear that’s     some did forget hearth: but

the buffo oft solitic Order     hustly please—she is brutes told; vent rising Laught, neuer     in his Parrows but

learnest, only kneel such a day;     when the right, with we boy, now thy fathere on the turns extend     on my luve’s drew.

[forgottengodfrey]

He'd stood, mounted upon his nephew's steed, atop the broad hill for a long moment, watching with narrowed eyes from behind the curtain of ice-capped trees. The ending was a forgone conclusion, but Godfrey waited to see it play out -- Roderick's shining castle guards filing into the streets, the purple phoenix pennants snapping proudly in the breeze as the slaughter began for all those to see, even the innocent bystanders. Now, all Astairan knew how their complaints would be met, and all it had taken were a few whispers in the right ears: Roderick's, yes, and the people's, too.

Fomenting revolution was nothing new to Godfrey: an art he'd learned at the late God-King of Kolchis' knee, however little instruction the ill-fated leader had initially intended to give. Godfrey knew how to spot a restless spirit well and good, and he knew just what to say to galvanize action in those whose patience had too-long been tested but, perhaps still more, he knew how to bend the reed that was the ruler into spending the last patience of those who had little enough to give.

This rabble had never stood a chance. They'd not been intended to, and Godfrey's network amongst the soldiers had been sure to snuff out those with any real knowledge of what had led to violence, though that network had not known why those individuals were to be targeted, or from whom those orders came. It was simplest this way. Cleanest.

Still, it was hard to watch. Horror. Yet, their lives were not spent in vain, Godfrey reminded himself over the bile rising to his throat. The crimson of their blood would pave the way to freedom from oppression -- and that was all that they, any of them, had wanted. In some ways, though they'd perhaps not thought much of death when they'd knocked so forcefully upon Roderick's doors, they'd given their lives willingly to the cause.

Bowing his head, Godfrey whispered the ancient Kolchean prayer to the Guardian, pleading that the great wyrm might light their path to the golden afterlife that awaited those souls who were martyrs. It was a witch's prayer, and Godfrey did not know if the Guardian would hear him, for he was neither witch nor woman, but he'd heard the words mumbled long enough beneath his grandmother's breath to know them by heart all the same, and he prayed, too, that they were not whispered, now, in vain.

Godfrey kicked his horse forward. The fighting was coming now to a close. Godfrey had borrowed Edmund's horse today, under the pretend of his own being shod. The beast's tack all stamped and embroidered with black ravens as Godfrey put himself between frightened villagers and belligerent soldiers.

"Stay this violence!" cried Godfrey. "Stop, in god's name!"

Confused, particularly as the grip end of the Earl of Hanthom's trademark spear caught the bludgeoning blows of the staves and stopped them, the soldiers paused looking at each other.

"How dare you attack these people?" he demanded.

"My--my lord, there was a riot, a siege!--"

"What?!" demanded Godfrey. He gave a long, appraising glance to the Varmont troops and then to the frightened peasantfolk cowering behind his ravens. "Yes, how very threatening these people appear, indeed. I am amazed you survived in all that armor against these poor, shivering, unarmed people." Turning to the townsfolk, Godfrey arched a brow. "You will have pity upon these men?"

The villagers nodded.

"There you have it." Leaning forward in the saddle, he growled. "I will no more have you attacking peaceful citizens of this fair place."

"No, my lord."

Putting his heels into the horse, he wound his way through the streets in similar ways. He was careful to defend only those who could not defend thesemvesl, not wishing to invite Roderick's wrath, but still intent upon showcasing the rightness of the Raven Prince's justice to the Astairans.

Tristan met him at the portcullis, despite the violence.

"Let him through!" his brother's voice rang out. "I am relieved to see you, as will be your fiancée."

"She's looking for me?"

"It was she who alerted me to the notion that you might be on the wrong side of the gate. Are you harmed?"

"No," sighed Godfrey, brushing some blood and dirt from his person. "This isn't mine, though I will not deny I had to fight my way back." He glanced towards the keep. "Do they know what happened, inside?"

"Not much. I imagine your report will prove quite helpful."

Godfrey nodded. "I imagine so. But tell me, where is Lady Ciara?"

Tristan pointed and his brother was off, leaving Edmund's horse with one of the hands -- Percy, he thought, though it was hard to tell in the chaos of the yard -- as he went.

"No, no," Godfrey assured her, quickly, shaking his head. "All is well with me, I assure you." He took both her hands, both to reassure her -- and to further any pretense that this was merely a stolen lovers' moment rather than the report of a spy.

"I don't know all," he began. "I didn't arrive to the scene until the fighting was dying down, I believe. It's chaos out there: I doubt there will be any great clarity on the matter, in truth."

He glanced down and away for a moment, swallowing hard against the bile once again rising hin his throat. "It was a wretched sight, Ciara. Those people do not deserve what they received at the hands of Roderick's men," he bit out, truthfully. "I fear his methods are over-harsh. There will be significant backlash to this belligerant response, though I'm sure your imperial cousin meant only to ensure that the population would not dare rise up, again, after this."

He shook his head. "It is baffling to think how ill he sometimes understands the minds of others." Godfrey's own council on the point, of course, did not much help.

He paused, rubbed his brow. "Forgive me. I am...agitated. I do not mean all that I say. No doubt His Imperial Majesty better knows his business than I ever could. I only know what it is to want. An emperor must think on a far grander scale."

He nodded. "But yes, to answer your question: I believe I saw enough of what happened. Heard enough. The people of Astaira are not...well pleased with His Majesty's rule that -- in light of testimony given at Her Imperial Highness Princess Guinevere's feast day -- the daughters of the late King of Astaira are...base-born. They rose up, I believe, in violence to protest this action -- and Roderick rose, as he always does, to meet them." He could not deny the edge of bitterness in his voice and he raised one hand to his face.

His eyes met hers, watching and careful. Her family versus her people. He wondered whose sympathy held sway in her heart. He hoped her expression might betray her.

"Forgive me. It has been a trying afternoon, and I am weary. He is, of course, your cousin and my liege, and his willingness to meet every challenge speaks more profoundly to his virtues of courage and fidelity than to anything else. It is too easy, at times, for smaller men to lay their own petty grievances at the doors of greater ones."

He paused as another shriek echoed from the courtyard, his gaze turning quick towards the sound. His jaw clenched. "Tell me, Ciara, what will you do? What will you...say? To them?"

Riots in the Square | Ciara & Godfrey

"My lady, we are to escort you back to your chambers immediately. You cannot be here."

"Why? Lord Calainon is expected here any moment ... " Ciara found that she now often met such requests with perhaps a tad more hostility than it warranted. She supposed that that was a direct result from her guilty conscious, which always suspected that this was the moment that her cousin had discovered that she had gotten herself involved in the resistance and, even though she had been his own secret informant, it would be apparent that not everything had been disclosed to him.

"-- It is for your own safety."

"What is happening?" She asked, again.

"Those are our orders."

After a silent march to her rooms and more unsuccessful attempt to gather any information, Ciara slipped from her rooms the moment she no longer heard them in the hall. From a distance, she trailed the guards and found that they and a great many others were rushing towards the walls and the main gate of the castle.

She went to the nearest window, and although she wasn't truly able to see anything from it, when she opened it she could hear the sounds of a large, rioting crowd, which must have been making it way towards the castle. In mere moments, the shouting turned to screams, followed by the unmistakable cries of grief, and then before Ciara could make it down to the courtyard, all had gone silent.

"My lady, you shouldn't be here."

Ciara turned -- this time it was Tristan who spoke to her. She shook her head defiantly when he tried to usher her away, "No, Tristan, I -- "

"-- Come, my brother will not be pleased if he finds I've allowed you to stay."

"He was on his way here! He may, even now, be on the other side of the wall." On the wrong side of the wall, she feared -- if anyone were to recognize him as a brother of the Queen. (Whatever was happening outside, she doubted that he would not be seen as the enemy). Given that the crowds had died down significantly, Ciara worried that if something had happened to him, it might be too late.

She could tell that Tristan suddenly shared in her fears and he moved with some urgency back towards the gates where he shouted orders to the guards.

Minutes later, the gates were opened and Godfrey passed through and Ciara felt herself breathe easy again as relief washed over her. She wasted no time in greeting him as soon as he dismounted from his horse.

"Are you alright? Are you hurt?" Ciara searched his face for any signs of injury, but all she found there was distress.

She took his hand and lead him to a more secluded part of the courtyard, as Percy led away his horse. It was not the first time that Ciara had noted the convenience of their relationship: she might have been his informant, but she was his fiancé, too, and no one batted an eye to see them tucked away whispering together. Even here, in the open, they may speak freely.

"Did you see what has happened? No one will tell me anything."

[fawnandshadows]

Elriel Month Day Four

Chapter Four

Summary: An Elriel Regency AU

Rating: M

Warning: Suggestive Content, language

Word Count: 1.2k

Elain could still feel the dampness between her legs from her and Azriel’s love making fifteen minutes later, when she was sitting across from Rhysand with Azriel standing protectively behind her. His large hands possessively and comfortingly rested on her shoulders, which were shaking slightly.

Eris stood by the fireplace, his elbow propped on the mantle with a shit-eating grin on his face. His red hair was vibrant in the night, he looked like a flame come to life. 

“How long has this been going on?” Rhysand asked through clenched teeth. His black hair fell over his forehead, it was one of the few times that Elain had seen him look less than perfect. He had been running his hands through his hair and over his face ever since he sat down. 

“I too would like to know,” Eris purred, and even though she was facing her brother-in-law Elain knew that Eris was grinning from ear to ear. “As would my brother, I’m sure.” 

Elain took a deep, steadying breath. 

Azriel’s hand tightened on her shoulders, as if he could transfer some of his strength to her. 

Rhysand’s violet eyes narrowed as they focused on Azriel’s touch. 

“Months.” Elain said, her voice surprisingly strong, her chin held high. 

Rhysand let out a curse while Eris chuckled, as if he was loving every second of this. Elain wondered what was going through his head — he and Lucien had never gotten along, and ever since Lucien became friends with Tamlin, the Earl of Spring, they could barely stand to be in the same room together. However, the longer she sat there, the weight in her chest lightened. This could be it. This could be her escape from the engagement. This could be her chance for freedom, her chance to marry for love.

Elain watched as Rhysand took a deep breath, his jaw clenching. Frustration and power radiated off of him, and Elain wondered how much of it was natural and how much of it came from his dukedom.

“I must say,” Eris said, causing all three heads to swivel in his direction. “Your honesty is refreshing, Elain.” 

A growl sounded from Azriel, and Elain could practically feel it reverberating through her body. 

“I don’t believe the lady has given you leave to use her name.” Azriel said in a deadly cold tone, Elain could feel tension stiffening his fingers which were digging into her shoulders. 

Eris’ grin turned wicked as he said, “I believe after what I’ve seen, Elain and I more than familiar enough to warrant the use of her given name.” 

Eris let out a decadent laugh that filled the room as Azriel charged at him. 

Elain reacted just in time to stop any bloodshed. Her hands pressed into Azriel’s chest, his rapid heartbeat slamming against her palms, and she could see the veins straining in his neck. 

“Eris,” Rhysand said, his polite tone was sharp and cutting. “That is my sister. You will give her the respect she is due.” 

The redhead preened at the words, delighting in the chaos he stirred. 

“A beauty willing to fuck with the entirety of the ton in the next room? The lady has nothing but my respect.” Eris said and winked at her. 

An oily feeling started bubbling in her stomach, but she pushed it to the side. 

She wouldn’t feel shame. Not for what she did with Azriel. Never. 

Elain wrapped her arms around Azriel’s center and pressed her face against his chest, his heart beating powerfully against her cheek. His large hands came up to grasp her and press her closer, his body coiled with tension.

“If your life was worth anything, then I’d demand satisfaction.” Azriel said, possessively pulling Elain closer. If Rhysand or Eris thought anything of their embrace then Elain didn’t know, she was too snuggled into Azriel’s arms to care or notice. Azriel let out a haggard breath. “What is your game, Eris? What do you want?” 

A heavy pause filled the room. 

Elain peeled herself away from Azriel’s strong body just enough to peer at Eris, who was smiling so loudly it was practically a sneer. 

“Nothing.” 

A creeping, sick feeling settled and grew in Elain’s stomach.

“Nothing?” Rhysand repeated. Elain didn’t have to look at him to know his expression mirrored the disbelief in his voice. 

“Nothing,” Eris shrugged lazily. “I’ll be more than satisfied when Lucien lays eyes on the child and wonders why the hair is black and the eyes are hazel,” Nobody said a thing, but the tension in the room took on a life of its own. “I’ve always been more than a little observant, especially around such beauty,” His eyes raked up and down Elain’s body, and from Eris’s smile Elain knew that Azriel had taken the bait — he showed Eris exactly how much he cared for Elain. Was probably baring his teeth at the redhead, and mentally shredding him into a pulp. “And I noticed when my favorite pair of breasts started to grow.” 

“Just because your life is worthless doesn’t mean I won’t take it.” Azriel spat, and if it wasn’t for Elain’s hold on him she was sure there’d be blood on his hands. 

Rhysands voice was strained as he asked, “Elain, are you—” 

“No.” 

“Really?” Eris asked, his eyes dropping in an attempt to look at her breasts, which were pressed into Azriel’s chest. “You still have my silence, regardless. I’m not one to interfere with love,” The word held such mocking derision that Elain herself wanted to strangle him. “And I’m definitely not one to interfere with a good fuck — that’s why I let you both…finish,” Eris grinned as he walked towards the door. “So, I shall keep my beautiful mouth shut. At least until after the wedding.” 

All the hope that sparked and sputtered to life in her heart were extinguished with his words — the ring on her finger was extra heavy, and the same pressure she felt before solidified in her chest.

Eris gave them one more smile before leaving, the door clicking in his wake. 

All three of them stared at the heavy wooden door, as if they had all just witnessed the same fever dream. 

“You are to stay away from her.” Rhysand said, his voice blank. 

“What?” Azriel asked, his voice the embodiment of surprise. 

“She is engaged, Azriel,” Rhysand said. His violet eyes burning with fury as he took in their embrace, their closeness. As if he was waiting for Eris to leave before letting his mask drop. “You’ve almost started a scandal and ruined her reputation — It's her engagement ball, Azriel, and you had her against the fucking wall. Is that how you treat someone you love? Someone you respect? You are to stay away from her.” 

“You can’t order me to do that.” Azriel said, his hands gripping Elain tighter than ever before, as if he was afraid Rhysand would rip her away from him

“I’m just as responsible for this as he is,” Elain said in a strong voice, one that hid her unsteady breath and hammering heart. “More so. I’m the one that’s engaged and I chose Azriel, to give myself to him. And I would do it a hundred times over.”   

Rhysand stared at them, taking steady, controlled breaths. 

“Yes, I am more than aware of your engagement seeing as we are at your engagement ball. But in exactly three days you will be walking down the aisle and marrying Lucien Vanserra. The papers have been signed, the only thing left is for you to say I do,” Rhysand let out a harsh, bone clanking breath. “If you had come to me before, Elain, I would have helped you,” He looked at her with such sadness that wrenched her heart. As soon as Rhysand had married Feyre he thought of Elain as his sister, and he had taken her and Nesta in immediately and made sure that her father got the best care until he passed — But he never even questioned her engagement. Had never asked her if she wanted out of it, or if she thought she deserved a love match like the one he and Feyre have.“I’ll give you some time to say goodbye, but after this,” Rhysand slowly walked towards the door, stopping once his hand rested on the knob. His violet eyes staring at his brother. “Azriel, you are to stay away from her.” 

~~

Ahhhhh, I love Rhysand so much, I really do. Eris was so much fun to write... and he might make an appearance in another fic for Elriel Month 👀. Please let me know your thoughts on this chapter!

I hope you're all having an amazing time celebrating @elriel-month <333

~~

tagging: @thefangirlofhp @azriel-shadowsinger @mis-lil-red @achelois-daughter @reverie-tales @elrielbliss @frogsdeservelovetoo @jujugirlfrombookstore @sakurakittypeach @kingcasteel @shedoessoshedoes @cassianfanclub @strangecreationchaos @silverdreamscapes @shy-violet-soul @feyredarlinq @starswhogaze @alwayssara @tswaney17 @imjustslytherin @downingg2001 @fuckmelifesucks @elriel-month @swankii-art-teacher

[artemiseamoon]

Grand Ambitions

Rollo x plus size f reader

The Fisherman and his wife Au ~ Viking Era

Words:3,340    | Credit to GIF creators

Warnings: angst, past demons, greed, drinking, some aggression ( I mean, Rollo) 

Summary: Leaving his life in Kattegat behind, Rollo finds some peace of mind in an unlikely place. Will Rollo maintain his humbleness when old ambitions return?

AN: I used one of those name generators to get a town name, but if for any reason Fjall (the name on the list I chose)  is a weird choice or say, not appraoite to use, let me know. <3

Entry for @deans-ch-ch-cherrypie challenge 💜 Original challenge post 💜 The Fisherman & His wife AU

After being banished from his childhood home, Rollo set off on foot through the cold and snow. It was a treacherous journey, one that brought him here, to the tiny fishing village on the edge of nowhere. An unassuming place with a beautiful seashore and looming mountains to either side.

It was quiet here, sleepy. Bare bones, simple, and in some ways impoverished.  Of all the places he could end up, Rollo didn’t dream of this.

He may not have been a King, or an Earl, but Rollo lived reasonably well in Kattgat. Here, in Fjall, he’d have to start from scratch, scraping together what he could to survive.

With time, Rollo made his way with physical labor, soon making enough to have a home of his own. It wasn’t much, but it was his, and that was a small victory on it’s own.

This place was no Kattgat, his name meant nothing here, and his dreams still haunted him at night. But each day, he got up and did what he needed to do.

Some days, this unexciting place was just what he needed to counteract the strom inside of him. Other days it felt like chains; constraining him from his destiny as he knew it to be.

Rollo was supposed to be rich, famous, and honored. Instead, he was a drunk and relied on his fishing skills to care for himself. He sold the extra catch to those with less luck on the water.

Rollo was supposed to have everything Ragnar got, but he didn’t. He got nothing.

…

Rollo’s obsession with this didn’t start to calm until he met you.

He’d already been in the village for many months and never saw your face until that day. After asking around, he discovered you returned home to help your elderly parents with their small farm.

You were nothing like the women back home. You were different, unique. Even though on the surface, you were dressed the same as other women your age, and wore your hair in a similar fashion, you stood out. You caught his eye. You were the most beautiful and alluring creature Rollo had ever seen.

Rollo had a hunger for women, a deep ever burning lust, one that made him see women only for what pleasure they could give, not for who they were.

This never affected his ability to bed who he desired and have them as many times as he wanted. But he knew, at first sight, his old ways won't work with you.

Under the guise of taking care of things, Rollo watched you move about the village. The way you smiled, the way you spoke, the way you held yourself all made it clear, if he tried his old shit with you, he would never see your bed, nor you his.

You were a woman to be respected.

When you finally spoke later that day, he offered to help you carry your bundles. Rollo knew he’d work for your heart from that day forward.

Something about you made Rollo want to do better. Even when you thwarted his aggressive advances. His displays of anger were quickly addressed and you made it clear he would not treat or speak to you that way.

So Rollo corrected himself, tried to calm his anger and treat you with more respect. Over the next two months he worked everyday to prove himself and to gain your trust.

The mutual attraction was there, but you knew guys like Rollo, you knew what they were like and you valued yourself too much to settle for that. If Rollo could prove himself, you would give him a chance.

And prove himself he did.

Soon, Rollo wasn’t just the best fisherman in town, but he made some extra money building things and doing heavy lifting. You were more than impressed. The very tall, well built, attractive drunk of a man was now healthier, dedicated and present.

You could tell this life bored him, some days he seemed to struggle more than others and you wondered what went on behind those eyes, what went on in his mind.

…

Your bond grew quickly once you let him in, and soon you couldn’t imagine your life without him.

Rollo loved you, and you loved him. You built a life together, and moved into a small home just outside of the village. Rollo had been working on it for months in preperation, and when you saw it, you knew it was home.

By Spring, you were 7 months pregnant with your first child. Rollo asked you to marry him, you said yes. You don’t know how he did it, but your wedding day was one of the most beautiful days of your life. Some of the women in town even came together to make your dress in secret, as Rollo planned to marry you for a while.

It was breathtaking, and you felt like a goddess on earth. On this day you were more in love with Rollo than ever.

Rollo was far from the handsome yet rugged stanger you met on that day long ago, he was a whole different man, a man who bared his soul to you and told you everything of this life before.

…

Worry didnt set in until the baby was born.

Rollo, like you worried if he could provide, if he could give it all it needed. Rollo took on more work, helping townsfolk with odd jobs, doing what he could.

Though you shared his worry, you handled it better than Rollo. He began to drink more, his sour mood hanging over him like a cloud. No matter what you did to assure him and inspire some hope, he seemed to descend more into himself.

Sometimes, as you watched him, you knew he was thinking about before; the riches and abundance he had access to, and how he was likely beating himself up for that now.

You grew increasingly worried Rollo would do something that would impede all his growth. That someway, somehow, his old ambitions would return.

ROLLO

Three days. Three damn days and no fish.

With a sneer on his lips, Rollo tries once more. The week's supply was getting low, soon it wouldnt be enough.

Something catches the net

With a relieved breath, Rollo pulls it in, after a bit of a struggle he finally gets the massive stange looking fish free.

As Rollo starts to place it in the bucket, a voice comes out of nowhere.

“Please let me live. I am not a real fish, for I am a god. Put me in the water and let me go.”

Fish still in hand, Rollo looks around. He’s the only one on the water, he’s alone.

Shaking his head, he blames it on the ale from last night and tosses the fish in the basket.

“One more your size and I’ll eat like a King - “

He readies the hook once more when the strange phantom voice returns.

“I am not a real fish, let me go.”

Rollo frowns and looks around again, he’s alone.

“What was in that ale?” He asks himself. Before he can do anything else, the voice returns a third time. He walks over to the bucket and sees the fish's lips move, it's the damned fish talking.

Not belieivng his eyes, Rollo turns away and tries to focus on catching more fish. He can't���. He really saw what he thought he saw.

Returning to the bucket, Rollo grabs the fish and holds it up, “if you are a god I am a King,” he chuckles, “ do you really speak? Or am I drunk?”

“I really do speak.” The fish replies.

Freaked out, Rollo chucks the fish back in the water, “I will have nothing to do with a fish that can talk.”

Confused, and feeling tired from a long day on the water, Rollo makes his way back home.

Over dinner, Rollo tells you the story of the talking fish. He can hardly believe it, even as he recounts the events. You comment, it's a good thing he let it go.

Later that night, as you sleep quietly beside him, Rollo lies wide awake.

He thinks about what could have happened if he kept the fish. What if he traded its life for a wish? What if he wished for prosperity, but just enough to have all you needed for the year so he wouldn’t have to go out on the water so often.

…

The next morning, before you wake Rollo returns to the sea with one thing on his mind. He would prove if this fish was really a god, and if so, he would demand a wish for sparing its life.

Going back to the same exact spot, Rollo sits and waits until the same fish bites. The wait is finally over after he catches two small fish.

Laughing aloud, Rollo holds up the god fish, a wide grin on his lips.

“Let’s see if you really are who you say you are. I spared your life yesterday, I want something in return.  Unless, of course, you are not a god.”

The fish wiggles in his hands, Rollo tightens his grip.

Growing impatient with the silence, he raises his voice, “ speak!”

The fish stops wiggling, “I will grant your wish if you leave me in peace. What is your will?”

Rollo looks up at the sky, and tries his best to not say the first thing that comes to mind. A vision of you flashes behind his eyes.

Rollo makes his wish,

“I desire a large cottage, warm and overflowing with food and drink. With a farm twice the size.”

The fish stares at him, then replies, “is that your wish?”

“Didnt’ you hear me? Yes, that's' my wish.”

The fish wiggles in his hands again, wanting to be let go. “Go home, your cottage awaits.”

Quickly wrapping up for the day, Rollo rushes home to find a large cottage where your simple home once stood. You stand in the living room in awe, turning in circles as you take it all in.

When you spot him, you rush over and grab his arm, “Rollo! I returned from town and found our home was no longer our home!”

Smiling, he draws you close and kisses you, “the gods smiled down on us!”

...

Despite the shock, you come to love the new cottage. Though the quaint home Rollo built remained in your heart, the perks of a bigger place were easy to get used to.

But most importantly, it didn’t seem to change Rollo too much. You still had your husband, you still had the man you loved and you were able to spend more afternoons together due to the abundance of your farm and crops.

But this didn’t last long.

Days later Rollo grew anxious. Unknown to you he snuck out one early morning, intent on finding the God fish once more.

It doesnt’ take Rollo long to catch the fish, and he can’t help but notice the clouds in the sky and the heavy feeling in his heart. He chooses to ignore it.

“I have another wish.” He demands.

Fish appears weary, “aren’t you happy with your home? You bountiful harvest?”

“I want more, “Rollo grips the fish a little too tight, “I want to live in a Grand Hall! Like the one in Kattgat. I want to sit upon the throne and rule. It’s where I belong.”

The fish sighs, a sadness in its large eyes, “Rollo I don’t think this is wise - “

Growing angry, Rollo holds the fish higher, “I spared your life twice now. You owe me my wish!”

Defeated, the wish gives in, “Go home. Your throne awaits.”

Filled with excitement, Rollo tosses the fish back in the water. He notices the way it lingers there for a moment, just watching him.

Rollo waves his hand in the air frantically, wanting it to go away. It does.

The crackle of thunder fills the sky, grey washes over the landscape.

Rollo rushes back home to find a Grand Hall, just like the one back home, where your cottage used to be.

Inside, servants busy themselves and a crown sits on the thone. His eyes grow wide as a servant picks it up and places it on his head.

“All Hail Earl Rollo!”

The words he longed to hear, for so long, he lets it settle in his bones. Then he realizes, he doesn’t see you.  

A pang of worry fills him as he barks at the servants who tell him you were out back. He quickly leaves and finds you pacing outside.

“You’ll catch a cold, the both of you,” he rubs your stomach and you move away from him, clearly upset.

“What have you done!”

Rollo tries to kiss you, you step away.

“You’re upset.”

“Of course I am, we...we were fine, Rollo! That cottage, a farm, it was everything we could have ever needed. It was perfect. We had more than enough, we even had to give some food away. I hoped to the gods your old ways wouldn’t get the best of you, but it seems my worst fears have come true.”

You hold your head up high, trying to stay somewhat calm. All you really wanted to do was yell at him and give him a good slap.

Rollo reaches for you again unsuccessfully. With a sigh of frustration, he throws his hands in the air.

“I am viking! That will never change. I’ve wanted to be somebody, to be important, to come from my brother's shadow my whole life. Now, I finally have. I need you with me, are you with me?”

He lowers his head and curves his shoulder to be closer to your height.

“I don't like this,” you look past him, “...just, don't make any more wishes, please.” you plea, “Leave the fish be and make the best of this.”

Disappointed, you walk around him and back inside of the hall. Before you enter completely, you turn around to look at him once more,

“The cost of this will be great, don't you feel it? You should have left this alone.”

Rollo frowns. You turn your back to him, then go inside.

…

A week or so passes and distance grows between you and Rollo. He’s quiet, lost in himself, drunk with his rule. You even call him out for his actions and mistreatment of the servants.

The man you love all too quickly starts to regress into something you never wanted. Toward the end of that week, Rollo sneaks out once more. This time in the middle of the night as you slept.

The weather is horrid, howling winds and freezing temperatures. And the rock in his gut wouldnt go away, even after a drink. Still, Rollo goes out to the water.

He nearly falls off the rock, he nearly crashes, but neither deter him. Moving through the choppy waters and dark skies he soon finds the God fish once more, who seems anything but happy to see him.

He didn’t know any better, the fish almost seemed depressed, and lethartic.

“I have one final wish.” He says,

The fish doesnt answer, doesnt even squirm in his hands.

Frustrated, Rollo shakes it, “did you hear me! I have one final wish! Three wishes for the three times I spared your life.”

“Haven’t I given you enough, Rollo Lothbrok?” The fish asks.

“I said, one last wish.” Rollo pushes.

The fish shakes its head, “This will come to no good, the greed in you is great.”

“As you wish, your death then - “ Rollo pulls out his blade and the fish quickly replies.

“What is your wish?”

“I wish to be King.” Thunder wips through the sky.

In a tired and weighted down tone, the fish replies, “go back, your rule awaits. And do not return here again.”

When Rollo returns his throne is twice the size and a great viking army awaits his instructions.

Now we should never have anything to wish for anything again, he thinks.  

But you see it differently. You get into a huge fight and leave, deciding to stay with a friend in town for the night. Days pass before you return home again and find Rollo drunk and preparing for an attack.

When he leaves, the mood is sour between the both of you and you dont know if you’ll ever see him again.

When he returned, half his army was gone, they were defeated. The defeat makes Rollo insufferable. You reach the end of your rope.

That night, after he passes out on his throne. You make your way to the water and sit on the shore.

You don’t recall the water here ever being this dark, nor the sky. It was like Rollo’s greed was sucking the life out of everything around him.

You place the herbs and flowers you gathered in the water as an offering.

“God of the sea, I announce myself to you. I fear my husband's ambitions are grandiose, much larger than I ever imagined. I fear he will not cease to demand wishes. I fear I will never get my husband back. Rollo will wish until it kills him, I know it. I come to you with a heavy heart and out of desperation. Please do not grant him any more wishes. “

You sit there for a while, but no fish. After some time you stand and start to make your way back when it reveals itself.

“Wait y/n, I see you are pure of heart, and you do love him despite his greed. I will reverse Rollo’s wishes and I will leave this place forever.”

Excited, you come closer, “ you will?”

“There is one thing you must do. Rollo must renounce his wishes willingly. Only then can I reverse them.”

You blink away a tear, fearing he was too far gone to do so.

“The King gets his palace, or he gets you. It’s the only way.” The fish adds.

You nod understandingly, “then I shall try. Thank you.”

When you return home you find Rollo sitting on the bed, his eys heavy with darkness and a horn in his left hand.

“I thought you left me.”

“I might,” you sit beside him, “ Rollo, you can have all this, or you can have me. But you can’t have both.”

His face twists in pain as he drops his head and slouches his shoulders.

“I can’t be with you, not anymore, not like this. I love you Rollo, but not this version of you. I was happy with our little house. I don’t need all of this. But if you do, you can have it without me.”

When Rollo doesnt answer right away you feel your heart tearing.

You stand and begin to pack some things. Keeping your back to him to hide your tears, you try to move as quickly as possible.

You only get a few items in the pouch before you feel him hover behind you, his hands on your shoulders as he turns you to face him.

When you look at him, for the first time in weeks, you can see him, really see him.

“I choose you, I choose you.” He repeats softly.

Relieved yet annoyed at him, you slap him, which he knows he deserves. A moment later, you lean against his chest and he wraps his arms around you, holding you close.

…

Rollo denounced his wishes, and you awakened that morning to life as you knew it before. In your old bed, in your old home but to your surprise your farm was still twice as large, a gift from the fish to you.

Soon enough, your son was born and your life with your husband wasnt only back to normal, it was improved.

The lessons Rollo learned made him better. Though you would never wish to experience that ordeal again, you were grateful for the wiser, smarter man Rollo had become.

More: Rollo | Vikings | Plus Size Reader

Masterlist |

[honorhearted]

"Miss Eloise wields her tongue like a sword, so I can't say that surprises me," Ben offered with a smile. "And although I've never been on the receiving end of any of her attacks, I've certainly stood by as a spectator." Humming under his breath, he added, "You girls are like catnip to these fat cats. If you're not careful, you might very well take over the world -- or at the very least, the ton. I've never seen so many preening peacocks gathered in one place in all my life."

Francesca spared him a sidelong glance, and meeting with her gaze, Ben flashed a disbelieving smile. "Me?" he asked. "Well yes, I'm obviously the most horrid of all. As a reverend's son, I should be living by God's word of 'judge not, lest ye be judged,' and yet here I am, happily judging and showing no signs of stopping." He looked away. "I'm joking -- well, not really -- but I guess my point is no man is perfect, but we also shouldn't settle. And so far, all your potential matches have been pretty odious, for lack of a better word."

At Francesca's response, Ben wryly assured her, "I promise you, you're the most 'captivating boor' here, and I'd be happy to share a dance. But it's just as well that I don't fall under your thrall -- I don't think you need another prat pounding down your door tomorrow."

Following her gaze toward the milling crowd, Ben absently rubbed his gloved hands together, already feeling his palms dampening just at the prospect of social mingling. "I'm not certain of anything," he muttered. "When it comes to the fairer sex, I'm afraid my knowledge is limited to colorful tales and secondhand gossip." When Francesca reminded him that she, herself was a girl, Ben appraised her with a simper. "And so you are," he teased. "Still, you're a girl I cannot have -- that makes you far easier to talk to. I don't know if you've ever experienced a racing heart, followed by a dizzying, all-encompassing rush whenever you're in the presence of 'that special person,' but I promise you, it's downright paralyzing. And then no matter how many years of Yale I underwent, I'm suddenly reduced to a babbling nincompoop." His mouth lifted into a self-conscious little smile. "You might not be a 'frightening breed,' but the very prospect of love itself is frightening, because it's something beyond your control...and I don't know about you, but I find being unable to control my own impulses utterly terrifying." 

Clearing his throat, Ben was quick to take her hand in his. "Maybe if we partake in the quadrille, I'll be more open to socializing afterward...if I don't make a fool of myself first, of course." His smile became more genuine. "I may not be an earl or a duke or a Payne, but I've always at least been able to dance. And fortunately for you, this one won't hold the intimacy of a waltz, and we'll be joined by other couples. It'll possibly give you the chance to scope the crowds for someone who you, yourself are actually interested in."

Francesca could not help but flush at his joke, even the thought of sharing children with a man such as Mr Payne causing a shudder to run through her. With a light shove in response, she could feel her embarrassment flooding from her ears to her chest, hoping – praying – that nobody was paying any mind.

“I fear that Mr Payne’s… infatuations run through the Bridgerton line. He tried to court Daphne in her first season, of which I teased her terribly for. And he most definitely tried his luck with Eloise, but she has far less patience and I believe that she frightened him away. I pray he finds a wife before Hyacinth’s debut – I dread to think of what she will say to him.” Eyeing Ben with a sarcastic smile at his jape, Francesca let out a sigh. “If only there were a way to change one’s eye colour. After this season I am quite seeing the appeal of brown.”

His mention of taverns caused a raised brow, the young woman having never set foot in one besides the occasional night in an inn during a long journey. She had most definitely never sat with the patrons, discussing… well, women.

“Oh yes? And you consider yourself to be a horrid creature as well?”

Francesca had to admit that his enthusiasm to engage in a dance surprised her, rolling her eyes with a grin as he offered more jokes at her expense. It was not that she did not want to dance with him, not at all, but rather that she was certain that she was commandeering his company for the evening.

“It was a cotillion; It is not as though we were waltzing,” she retorted, resisting the urge to cross her arms over her chest like a child. Perhaps if she and her admirer had engaged in a waltz, she would understand his fervour as it seemed that men only needed to be close to a woman to lose any sense of societal awareness – Their cotillion had been brief, with Francesca hardly even looking at him. “If you are certain that I am not being a boor and appropriating your time, then I would be honoured to share a dance. But if you are expecting to fall under a thrall, then prepare to be severely disappointed.”

Gaze peering through the crowds, Francesca could make out a multitude of blonde women in attendance – Tall ones, short ones, skinny and curvy, pretty and plain. Some girls had elfin features whereas others were fashionably familiar, each one beautiful in their own way.

“Are you certain? I truly do not mind and I will not even mention Miss Margaret.” She paused, raising a challenging brow as she continued. “I am a girl and you have been talking to me all night. We are not such a frightening breed, I assure you.”

[inmyfxith]

If only I had protected you

Pairing: Bjorn x reader / Harald x reader

Summary: After spending six years away from Norway, Ragnar's quest is the perfect opportunity to return to a normal life.

Words: 2 717

Part. II, Part. III.

There was no sound from the forest, complete silence on the morning you were celebrating your sixth year in West Francia. By the grace of the gods, you had managed to build yourself a small hut outside the city walls, in a place far enough away not to be disturbed by the emperor's soldiers. You missed your old life in Kattegat, as well as the people you had left behind years before. But Francia was different, more peaceful but less welcoming. Kneeling in front of your little garden patch, you were harvesting the plants you had planted a few months before to prepare something to heal yourself or simply to survive in case of force majeure.

As you were about to cut a few sprigs of medicinal herbs, you suddenly thought about your life and what you had gone through to get there. From your journey to England with your father alongside the legendary Ragnar Lothbrok to the day you were sold as a slave to a Frankish lord. He was an old and wealthy man, an earl from a land you did not know and had never heard of. The more the months passed and the more you learned to behave like a good slave, he had taught you the language of his people and in exchange, you had torn his heart out both literally and figuratively. Staring at your hands, you could still feel the warm purple liquid sliding through your fingers. He had refused to give you your freedom so you took it for yourself.

The cawing of a raven hovering overhead snapped you out of your reverie. At the time, you didn't take Odin's warning seriously, not out of disdain but rather because your mind was elsewhere. Picking up your knife and plants, you went back inside your little house before methodically sorting the fruits of your harvest.

After a few minutes, someone knocked on your door. It was a Frankish woman with her little daughter, who had come to you for help. For several months already, you had been providing some of the inhabitants of Paris with herbs and remedies to treat the ailments that their God could not soothe. From childhood illnesses to insomnia, your miraculous solution was the mixture of herbs and oils that you knew how to make. You would only accept to help people who you could trust or who had, for one reason or another, heard about you from someone else. Thus, you never had any problems with what the Christians called witchcraft because for you, and the people of your culture, you were doing nothing more than using your knowledge for the good of all.

After giving her something to ease her daughter's ailments, the young woman shared with you what she had heard in the market a few hours earlier. The Vikings were back, the cruel Ragnar Lothbrok had once again made his way to Paris and would come after anyone who got in his way. You didn't allow yourself to smile at her, her eyes expressed so much fear that it would have been wrong to show how grateful you were to the Gods for giving you another chance to see your country. Once your patient had left, you stood for a few minutes at your little wooden door on which you had carved a few runes to protect yourself from the Frankish soldiers.

That's when you remembered the raven, it wasn't a bad sign, on the contrary. Odin, the father of everything, was sending you a message, maybe it was time for you to see the Scandinavian coast again. Noises in the forest drew your attention, footsteps as if someone was trying to be discreet but was not. Uncomfortable, you went back inside your house before locking the door with what you could. And when you began to hear the male voices outside, you knew they were men from the North. The gods had led them to you. You were not stupid, however, and so you grabbed your ax from under your bed. It was not the ax you wielded on your expedition to England, for all your belongings had been sold in markets in England and Francia.

The voices were undeniably coming closer, holding your ax tightly to your chest, you began to pray to Odin, Freyr, Thor, and even Ullr that they were Ragnar or some of his men before disappearing behind a wooden cabinet in the corner of the main room. You gasped as you heard the front door crash to the floor and the footsteps of a man walking across the room, obviously looking for something to steal. You weren't sure who the man was, you couldn't see him so you stayed hidden until he left.

The footsteps eventually faded away and after a few minutes of silence, you emerged from your hiding place, still holding your ax firmly. You walked towards the door, but the feeling of panic that had taken over and was still present made you lose your nerve. Your legs were shaking and, with your head elsewhere, you didn't notice the glasses scattered on the floor.

The noise was not very loud but enough to attract a small group of men inside your house. Unfortunately for you, none of their faces were familiar, neither Ragnar nor any of his men. You managed to wound one of them before being thrown against one of the walls by one of the men. He was much taller than you, stronger, his blond hair fell over one of his eyes and several tattoos covered the shaved side of his head. With one of his hands, he held your wrists firmly above your head while his other hand was busy pulling your dress up your thigh. Your only reaction was to scream in your native language which made him stop for a moment. He turned to another man, slightly shorter than him with brown hair in a long braid, who seemed to be their leader. He simply nodded before your attacker resumed what he had started. You tried to push him with all your might with your pelvis before begging that you wanted to talk to Ragnar Lothbrok or someone in his family.

Miraculously, the Northmen agreed to take you to King Ragnar not without tying both your hands and feet. As a result, you spent part of the journey thrown over the shoulder of one of the warriors, making the journey more unpleasant than it already was. After a few minutes, you saw a kind of camp in the woods where Vikings were working on wooden structures. The warrior holding you threw you to the ground, as if you were just a bag of food, under the curious gazes of the men and women around. You quickly straightened up, trying to get the grass and dirt out of your mouth. You were now on your knees, hands tied in front of you, desperately waiting for Ragnar or anyone else to recognize you. One of the warriors, the one you had wounded, approached, pulling your hair back violently to force you to look at him, he whispered to you that he was going to look for the king, and you felt uncomfortable as you felt his hot breath against your ear. In a fit of bravery, or rather insolence, you spat at him, getting nothing more than a slap that made you lose your balance.

Ragnar finally appeared in your field of vision but the emotions you saw in his eyes did not reassure you. There was joy, sadness, but mostly anger. You would have preferred to feel only joy. He came a little closer, suddenly grabbing your throat with one of his hands. Ragnar was so much stronger than you that your attempts to free yourself from his grip were futile. After a few seconds, you began to lose your breath and almost suffocate. Then he asked you a question, a simple question while his eyes were still filled with anger and almost disgust. He asked you if you had betrayed him in England.

At the time, you had stayed in Wessex with King Horik and Athelstan after Ragnar left. With a small group of men, you had gone hunting when a small army of Anglo-Saxons attacked you. To save your life, you followed Athelstan through the Saxon lands before finally being caught. With some difficulty, you managed to untie part of your dress to expose your shoulders still marked by the abuse of the Saxon soldiers. Some scars were more recent than others and Ragnar finally let go of you before turning to the leader of the small group of warriors who had brought you to him.

You lay down on the ground and tried to catch your breath between two or three coughing fits. Then a man approached, helping you to stand up, he untied your bonds before carrying you to a less exposed place. You didn't exchange any words, he just laid you down, as gently as possible, on a bed in the middle of a tent before slipping away without even looking at you. Your eyes closed mechanically, and, exhausted by the day you had just lived, you fell asleep.

The song of the birds and the warmth of the sun on your skin gently woke you up. The rays came through the opening of the tent, where the one who introduced himself as King Harald was standing. When your gaze met him, he approached you before asking you to enlighten him on your identity and especially on why you were in Francia.

"Well, my real name is Y/N, but my master gave me a Frankish name when he bought me so you can also call me Y/F/N. My father was one of Ragnar's warriors and one of his friends by extension, so I followed him on an expedition to Wessex many years ago now. Some things happened and the group broke up. I stayed in England with King Horik's troops and was captured by King Ecbert's men before being sold as a slave to a Frankish earl."

Your monologue was strangely sincere, you didn't usually reveal so much about yourself and especially not to someone you had only just met. This is probably the reason why you added a few words in a more than insolent tone.

"Shall I continue or is your curiosity satisfied enough?"

Without really waiting for an answer from the king, you stood up before walking towards the opening of the tent but Harald caught you by the arm before you could get out. The look in his eyes betrayed a feeling of anger that was unusual. Without really meaning it, he explained that he was sorry you weren't being honest and that he would have liked to finish what his brother had started. Disgusted and shocked by his words, you left the tent hoping to find Ragnar, but it was Lagertha who appeared before you. With a motherly smile on her lips, the shieldmaiden took you in her arms before welcoming you back with your own.

Lagertha had acted as a second mother to you until she left for Hedeby, and you had not seen her since. Before becoming a warrior, your father was a farmer sharing his land with Ragnar, which undoubtedly forced a relationship between your two families. After a warm reunion, you told her what you knew about the Franks and why you had to talk to Ragnar. You knew the language of these people, so negotiating with them would be easier for you than for them. But Lagertha encouraged you to give up this possibility. According to her, Ragnar was no longer the same man, so she asked you to be discreet about what you knew.

To make yourself useful, you spent the day helping the others get the boats across the mountain. You were pulling on one of the ropes when King Harald and his brother Halfdan called Ragnar to show him something. Like the other warriors, you followed them to one side of the mountain. There, the city of Paris stood before you. Ragnar had kept his promise, he had brought his people to the political headquarters of Emperor Charles. That's why, the next day, you set sail to plunder the city. Ready to recapture the adrenaline of battle, you sat in the corner of the ship, sharpening the blade of your ax. Your expression must have betrayed the nervousness that washed over you as the boat moved forward as Bjorn settled in beside you.

"Do you remember the first time we went to sea together? And the song we created?"

Still focused on your blade, you began to sing the chorus of that song, softly, so that only Bjorn could hear what you were singing.

"... We will sail to the shore, we will prevail, we are Vikings..."

Bjorn winced before teasing you about your singing.

"Hm... it was better in my memories when you stood at the front of the boat."

You exchanged a mischievous look.

"Don't tempt me Bjorn" your reply preceded a small tap against his leg before you burst out laughing. But the Frankish boats quickly brought you back to reality. You grabbed a bow and arrow before placing yourself in the front row of archers. You managed to hit a few of your enemies while avoiding injury, just as you did when their ships boarded yours. You fought the way your father taught you to fight, that is, by swinging your ax. But your efforts were not enough for the Vikings to win this battle.

Exhausted by what you've done, but still able to stand, you used your medical knowledge to keep your newly found family alive until you returned to Kattegat. After caring for Ragnar, Lagertha, and Torvi, King Harald requisitioned you. It took you a few minutes to think it over before you agreed to help him. You didn't do it for him and even less for his brother, but you wanted to help a suffering brother in arms.

The return to reality, in Norway, had been most brutal. In a way, you were hoping that everyone would recognize you, that they would hug you and wish you a safe return to your family. But the reality was quite different. The looks people gave you were cold, distant, as if they were disappointed in your return. Yet you recognized some of the faces in the crowd, people who looked at you from head to toe, making you feel more than a little uncomfortable. You had experienced this feeling of being judged twice before, first when you arrived in the courtyard of King Ecbert's castle and then in the slave markets of Francia.

Unlike the first two times, you were not chained, you were not dirty and your clothes were not torn. Yet that didn't stop your people from staring at you. So you found a quiet place to hide until people forgot you were there. Finding Kattegat made you happy, but the behavior of its population spoiled everything, even making you regret leaving your little cabin in the woods around Paris. After a few days in this more-than-awkward atmosphere, you have made the first really important decision of your life. King Harald was about to leave Kattegat and return to his kingdom now that his brother was safe to travel. Therefore, you joined him on the main deck as he was about to embark.

"Do you think Tamdrup can still accommodate an extra soul?" Your voice betrayed the embarrassment that accompanied your request, but for the first time since you met him, you read in his eyes a form of compassion. Without exchanging a single word, he took your hand in his before helping you into his boat.

"After all, your talents will no doubt be more than useful to me." His voice was soft as if you had just met and everything that had come before had been erased from your memory and his. As the boat moved on and Kattegat slowly slipped out of your field of vision, a part of you suddenly slipped away, as if your past had remained on the deck of the city that had partly seen you grow up.