#Free etiquette lesson of the day

[a-consuming-passion]

It is, of course, abominably rude to respond to an invitation with "who else will be there?"

[asterafroditis]

tumbler user @staplertwst here!

i still don't really know how to write requests or if you have a character limit for requests but uhhh

may i ask for vil, adeuce, and a character of your choice with reader/yuu being a really doting and affectionate and unconditionally sweet person to their friends because they wanted someone like that in their life but never did. they never ask people to reciprocate but they need it sooo bad it's actually really sad??

(if that makes sense :p)

have a swagtastic dayyy

𐔌 . ⋮ bittersweet giving .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☓┆ Vil, Ace, Deuce, & Trey x gn! reader (separate)

𓏵 995 words

ᝰ.ᐟ headcanons, no pronouns used, hurt/comfort

Decided with Trey for the fourth character, hopefully this fulfills your request (๑•́ω•̀) feel free to like, reblog, or comment!

ᝰ.ᐟ masterlist

Vil noticed it in the little things first.

The way you remembered others’ routines, how you’d pack extra snacks for your friends just in case they get hungry or give Epel a warm pat on the back when he came out of a difficult etiquette lesson. You weren’t loud or attention-seeking with your affection, but it was everywhere—consistent, thoughtful, always pouring outward.

To him, it was admirable. But one day, in the quiet of a shared afternoon tea, he noticed the cracks.

“You always care so much for others,” he said, watching you gently fold a napkin beside his tea cup, “but who does the same for you?”

Your smile faltered just a little. “That’s not really what matters.”

But it did matter. He saw the hollowness in your eyes when the laughter faded. The way you reached for warmth, not because you expected it, but because you didn’t know what it felt like to be held.

Vil set his teacup down with a soft clink.

“You deserve to be adored too,” he said. “To have someone think of you first. To be held like you're precious—not for how you give, but because you're you.”

You didn’t speak, just blinked rapidly, startled. And then you were in his arms, soft and trembling, finally letting yourself be small. He held you as tightly and as gracefully as he knew how.

“I see you,” Vil whispered. “And from now on, I will love you as fiercely as you’ve loved everyone else.”

─────────────────────────

Ace teased you a lot. That was his love language, after all. But even he couldn’t deny there was something strange about the way you treated others; like you were constantly giving out love as if trying to prove something, and never letting yourself ask for anything back.

He caught you one evening, staying late to help someone with a project that wasn’t yours.

“Y’know, you don’t have to keep playing the guardian angel,” he said with a lazy grin, trying to sound playful. “You could let someone take care of you for once.”

You laughed, but it was weak. “I’m fine. Really.”

Ace didn’t believe you. And later that night, he found you curled up in Ramshackle, reading something quietly, but your eyes weren’t moving across the page. You looked so... alone.

He plopped down beside you, suddenly serious.

“Hey. Look, I suck at this kind of stuff, but—I see how much you do for everyone. How nice you are. And I don’t think it’s fair that no one returns the favor.”

You looked at him with a mix of confusion and pain, like you didn’t expect him to say anything like that. So he added, softly:

“I’ll stick around, okay? Even if you never ask. I’ll stay. ‘Cause you deserve someone who sees how tired you are, not just how sweet.”

And for once, you leaned into someone instead of away. He held your pinky under the table. Didn't let go.

─────────────────────────

You reminded Deuce of his mother—kind, nurturing, endlessly patient. But even his mother had people who loved her back. With you, he noticed, that affection only went one way.

It broke his heart.

You always said things like “don’t worry about me” or “as long as you're okay, I’m happy.” But he noticed the way your smile strained when no one thanked you. When everyone moved on after taking the warmth you gave so freely.

So one day, when you handed him a water bottle after his practice and brushed some dirt off his jacket, he couldn’t take it anymore.

“Why do you do that?” he asked quietly. “Why do you act like... you don’t need anything?”

You froze. That wasn’t a question people asked.

“Because no one ever gave me anything when I needed it,” you said finally. “So I guess I just got used to... giving. It makes people stay.”

Deuce’s throat tightened. He stepped forward and gently placed his hands on your shoulders.

“You don’t have to do that with me. I’ll stay, even if you never lift a finger. I care about you for you, not what you do for me.”

You tried to speak, but the tears hit first. Deuce held you close and let you cry. He wiped your cheeks with his sleeves and didn’t leave your side until the tears ran out.

“You’re allowed to need love too.”

─────────────────────────

Trey was the one who noticed how tired you looked after everyone else left. The one who saw how you stayed back to clean, how your voice stayed warm even when your eyes were dull. How you gave everything and accepted crumbs.

He invited you to the kitchen one night after the others had gone, letting you stir the batter while he prepared tea.

“I hope you know,” he said gently, “that you don’t have to keep earning your place here.”

You blinked, startled. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he said, turning to face you, “that you’re always showing up for others. Always being kind. But I don’t think anyone’s ever really shown up for you. And that’s not fair.”

Your hand shook slightly. You looked down. “I guess... I just want to be wanted. Even if it’s just for how I make others feel.”

Trey quietly took the bowl from your hands and placed it aside. Then he took your hands in his—floury, warm, grounding.

“I want you. Even if you were cold, or messy, or forgot to smile. I’d still be here. Not because you’ve earned it. But because you deserve it.”

You broke down in his arms, and he held you with a tenderness that needed no words. That night, for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel alone.

[himasgod]

Neuvillette x Reader arranged marriage!

Where you are forced to marry Neuvillette, but your dream is to be a blacksmith

The sound of rain echoed on the roof of the workshop, accompanying the monotonous rhythm of the drops hitting the glass of the windows. The workshop was a sanctuary that you had built with your own hands after months of effort, finally free of the restrictions you had endured during your marriage to the Supreme Judge of Fontaine, Neuvillette.

“A marriage of convenience,” that’s what everyone had called it. And they were right. When the Supreme Court had decided to unite the sole heiress of an ancient lineage—you—with Neuvillette himself, it had all been cold, calculated. A political decision to strengthen the stability of Fontaine, or so the decree had said.

From the beginning you had hated the idea. Your heart was in fire and iron, not banquets and fancy dresses. Being forced to abandon your dream of being a blacksmith to become the wife of a man you barely knew was like putting out a living flame with a bucket of ice water. For your part, Neuvillette was not enthusiastic either. While he was always polite and courteous, his coldness and emotional clumsiness only made the distance between you widen.

Mutual respect was the only thing that kept everything from falling apart faster. But respect was not love. Or so you thought.

The first few months were full of awkwardness. You refused to say more words to him than necessary and he, with his eternal patience, accepted your slights without reproach. His way of speaking was so calculated that sometimes you felt he treated you like a colleague at a business meeting rather than his wife.

There were attempts, that was undeniable. Small gestures that might have gone unnoticed by others.

Once, noticing your frustration with etiquette lessons, he brought you a book on the philosophy of art and left it discreetly on your desk.

Another day, you had heard rumors that he had spoken to the local master blacksmith to allow you to work clandestinely. But every time you tried to thank him, he denied it with a clumsiness that only fueled your frustration.

“I just wanted to be useful, nothing more,” he said, without looking directly at you.

Your frustration came not only from the situation, but also from him. He was a complicated man, shrouded in a cloud of mystery and repressed emotions. His eyes, always filled with an inexplicable melancholy, seemed to hide a pain that you never quite understood. You tried to ignore it, to focus on your own aspirations, but his silent presence was always there, reminding you of the cage in which you were both trapped.

The real turning point occurred one rainy night. As usual, Neuvillette was locked in his office, reviewing court cases until the wee hours. You had decided to confront him, tired of the coldness that seemed to consume everything.

"Why do you try, if it's clear that we both want this to end?" you snapped. Your words were harsh, but also sincere.

Marriage was a cage for both of you.

Neuvillette looked up, his eyes filled with that melancholy that you never fully understood.

"Because I believe that, even if we don't fully understand each other, the respect we have for each other is worth preserving" he answered calmly. His words left you frozen. There were no reproaches or sadness, just a raw and honest truth that you didn't know how to respond to.

The divorce came silently, like the tide receding after a storm. Neither of you fought it; it was simply what had to happen. You returned to your dream of being a blacksmith, while he continued with his life of duties at the Supreme Court.

You thought there would be relief. But with each blow of the hammer on the hot metal, you realized something you’d tried to ignore: you missed his presence, his calm, even his clumsiness. The little things you’d taken for granted—the way he’d tilt his head when he listened to you talk about your passions, or the way the rain always seemed to fall softer when you were near him—began to linger in your mind like a lingering echo.

For his part, Neuvillette felt the emptiness, too. Though his face remained as impassive as ever, his heart carried a heaviness he’d never felt before. He’d lost something important, something he didn’t know how to value until it was gone.

On the loneliest nights, you’d find his gaze fixed on the rain, searching for answers in the drops running down the glass. He’d remember the moments shared with you, no matter how insignificant. A fleeting laugh, a conversation about something trivial, or even the sound of your hurried footsteps as you left the office in a huff. All of this was part of a mosaic that he now wanted to be able to reconstruct.

Fate, capricious as always, he brought you together months later. In the middle of a downpour, your paths crossed near Fontaine streets. You had taken shelter under an awning, your hands stained with soot after a day of work in the workshop. When you looked up and saw him, a mixture of emotions ran through you.

Neuvillette looked at you with that same melancholic expression that you had so hated and learned to love at the same time. For a moment, neither of you said anything. The rain fell between you, erasing the distance but also the words.

“You look happy,” he finally said, his voice as soft as the murmur of the rain.

“I am… for the most part,” you answered, not daring to look him in the eyes.

The silence stretched on, laden with unsaid things. Perhaps you would never recover what they had lost, but in that instant, both of you knew that the respect that had been born in your marriage had evolved into something deeper. Something that, even if you couldn't name it, could never be forgotten.

The moment you put down your towel to wipe the soot off your hands, and took a deep breath to let your feelings out, you heard your words come out of his mouth as well. Exactly the same.

"I think it would be nice to try something again."

You said in unison. Your brow furrowed as you looked away.

"Don't copy me."

"I said it at the same time, excuse me. I didn't copy y-."

"Shut up."

However, you set the hammer aside as you lowered your head slightly before muttering.

At the same time as him, again.

"I've been missing you."

You felt a drop of sweat fall down your forehead as your teeth ground together. Neuvillette gulped.

The rain continued to fall, but for the first time in a long time, it didn't feel like a weight. Maybe it was a promise, a chance to start over,

even if it was as two strangers who once shared an important chapter of their lives.

Here is my masterlist, in case you are interested in any more of my work or want to send me a request <3

[celestiamour]

Would you do Peter and his spouse welcoming their first child to narnia if they had never left and gone back to the professors house

ft. pevensies & f! reader’s daughter (& peter x f! reader) — the chronicles of narnia

╰₊✧ welcoming the birth of the first heir of narnia┊0.7k words

setting: the golden age contains: mentions of labor & one of death

➤ author's note: i probably went off prompt because i assumed that you meant peter & the reader having their first kid in the golden age, but i didn’t focus it on them and focused it on the kid so feel free to send in something else!!

news that the queen had gone into labor spread like wildfire throughout the palace and spilled into the rest of the kingdom, becoming the only thing anyone could talk about for the day since the realm hadn’t seen the birth of a son of adam or daughter of eve in a hundred years after the reign of the white witch. all of narnia held its breath in anticipation for the safety of the queen and the healthy arrival of her child, knowing that the magic of the lands would protect her yet still nervous at the slim chance of a worse-case scenario. one half of cair paravel was bustling with maids running around like headless chickens to tend to their queen while the other half didn’t feel like they could even speak above a whisper for these hours out of nervousness, many simply loitering about instead of working and patiently waiting for an update since they didn’t feel like they could do anything at all until then.

oh, but when the first piercing cry of an infant rang throughout the hallway, it was like the entire world stilled for all the attention to be focused on the first heir of the prophesied monarchs: a daughter of eve with the same royal sapphire eyes as her father and the smile of her mother that shines brighter than the sun. the next high queen who will someday rule with the same grace and wisdom as her parents once did before they eventually pass, but for now, she is a little bundle of joy who doesn’t even know her own name, much less how important she is or the future she’s destined for.

peter couldn’t help but shed a tear of happiness at the sight of her, sitting next to you in the bed and gently holding her for the first time. a product of your shared love and devotion for each other through thick and thin, so frail and delicate placed perfectly in his arms and without a single thought in her little head as she stuck out her pudgy arms at him to touch his face. and just like your love that started out small, she will grow into something so beautiful and powerful that its power will be written into history books about the beginning of narnia’s golden age.

lucy is gushing over how cute she is and immediately runs over to pinch her chubby cheeks, so thrilled that she’s no longer the youngest in the family (even if she’ll always be the baby to her siblings) and to be the cool aunt that she’s always dreamed of becoming— the one who helps her sneak out of boring lessons for an adventure and the one who shields her from her father’s scolding once they get caught, she’ll always be your daughter's favorite relative because of all of the whimsical memories and helping her to always be a child at heart.

susan is calm as always with a glint of excitement and adoration in her eyes when she sees her new niece. she’ll act like a tutor of sorts for her as she grows older, teaching her about the ways of royalty and proper etiquette for young ladies (which are often the very classes that lucy occasionally assists in skipping). despite that, your daughter will deeply appreciate her older aunt for everything she does for her: for helping her out when she fights with you, for teaching her that a lady doesn’t always need to be submissive, and for all the knowledgeable advice that she will carry with her for her entire life.

edmund is just in awe at the very fact that he is an uncle, knowing that this day would have come inevitably and still in disbelief that it happened. he’s a bit of a bad-influence uncle, accidentally teaching your child swear words, helping her prank her father on occasion, and swinging her around on his shoulders when she’s still little, but he always means well and teaches her that being nobility doesn’t mean that you need to give up your sense of humor.

mr tumnus was the one to announce to the people that the queen safely delivered a healthy heir, a daughter named aurora which has latin roots meaning “dawn” to represent the dawn of her generation of rulers. she will be a beloved monarch who will look over narnia and its inhabitants with the same love that her parents raised her with, eventually receiving the worthy title of “high queen aurora, the gracious.”

[0silver0dreams0]

"Whispers of Devotion"

Pt. III

Yandere House of the dragon x ModernReborn!Reader

Summarized: Gradually, as time passes, the girl she once was begins to transform into a woman. Those around her take notice, and the actions of those in her life start to bear consequences. As tensions rise, rivalries deepen, and complex feelings begin to intertwine.

Warning: hatred, love macking, mutual masturbation, clues of incest, forbidden love and stalking.

<< Pt. 2 — masterlist — Pt. 4 >>

When will they finally leave you alone? Letter after letter after letter. They just don’t understand—you don’t want them anymore. Jacaerys, Rhaenyra, Daemon, even that insufferable boy Lucerys. You burned their letters in the fireplace without hesitation. You don’t care about them; you only wish for their suffering and demise, imagining it vividly before see them with your eyes. But you force yourself to set those thoughts aside. They are a distraction, and distractions displease your mother. Every minute of your day is accounted for, each task meticulously planned to maintain the illusion of perfection. If you falter—if you make a single misstep—Alicent will not forgive you. She will punish you, lock you in your chambers for hours, sometimes days, leaving you isolated with nothing but your thoughts.

You live to please her. To earn her approval. To become the daughter she expects you to be.

8:00 - Etiquette lessons 9:00 - Dance lessons 10:00 - Bath 11:00 - History lessons 12:00 - Go to the Great Sept with Alicent 13:00 - Have tea with Alicent 14:00 - Valyrian lessons 15:00 - Lunch with your family 16:00 - Watch Aemond train and encourage him 17:00 - Talk to Alicent about everything that happened during the day 18:00 - Sneak into the kitchen to eat something 19:00 - Pray Alicent doesn’t notice you ate something 20:00 - Read 21:00 - Prepare for bed 22:00 - Sleep

It’s almost noon, which means it’s time to accompany Alicent to the Great Sept. Yet, as the clock ticks closer to the hour, temptation claws at you. There’s a small gap in your schedule, just enough time for a stolen moment. You glance around to ensure no one is watching before slipping away to the gardens.

He’s waiting for you, leaning casually against a stone column, his armour glinting faintly in the sunlight, he was there, with his brown eyes, his blonde hair, Ser Alaric. The sight of him brings a rush of warmth to your chest.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says softly, though the smile on his face betrays his words. “I could say the same to you,” you tease, stepping closer. “But I’m glad you are.” He reaches out, brushing his fingers against yours—a touch so fleeting it almost feels like a dream. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Princess. If your brother finds out…”

You tense at the mention of Aemond. He must never know about this, about you and Alaric. Aemond’s protectiveness would turn violent in an instant, and you dread to think what he might do.

“He won’t find out,” you assure him, though your voice is quieter than you intended. “I won’t let him.” Alaric studies you for a moment, his expression unreadable, before he nods. “Just be careful. For both our sakes.”

Before you can respond, the sound of footsteps makes you both freeze. Your heart leaps into your throat as you whip around to see Aemond standing at the edge of the garden, his sharp gaze fixed on you.

“(your name),” he calls out, his tone neutral but his eye narrowing slightly. “What are you doing here?” You force a smile, stepping away from Alaric as casually as you can. “I had a bit of free time before prayer. I thought I’d take a walk.”

“And you, Ser Alaric?” Aemond’s voice hardens as he shifts his attention to the knight. “I was ensuring the Princess’s safety,” Alaric replies smoothly, bowing his head. Aemond’s gaze lingers on him for a moment before turning back to you. “Mother is waiting. You should go.”

You nod quickly, glancing at Alaric one last time before following Aemond.

When you arrive at the Sept, Alicent is already there, her gaze darkening the moment it lands on you.

"You’re late," she says, her tone sharp and clipped. “I apologize, Mother. I—” “I’ve no interest in your excuses.” She steps closer, her expression cold and unyielding. “You’ve been acting irresponsibly of late—sneaking off like a petulant child. I won’t allow it any longer.” Her voice is calm but cuts through you with the precision of a blade.

“After prayers, you will return to your chambers,” she continues, each word deliberate. “And you will remain there until I decide otherwise. Perhaps solitude will instil the discipline you so clearly lack.”

You open your mouth to object, but her piercing glare stops you mid-breath. Any protest dies on your lips.

The prayers are long and stifling, each moment stretching painfully under the weight of her disapproval. When they finally conclude, Alicent herself escorts you back to your chambers, her grip firm as though she fears you might slip away.

The heavy door shuts behind you with a finality that sends a shiver down your spine, followed by the unmistakable sound of the lock turning.

Left alone, you search your bed, hoping the books you’d hidden earlier might still be there. They aren’t. In fact, none of your hidden belongings remain. Realisation dawns—she must have discovered them. That’s why she was so angry.

With no distractions to occupy your mind, you lie on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Maybe sleep will offer a reprieve. But the hours drag on, the silence pressing against you like an iron weight. Just as the last light of day fades, a soft knock breaks the stillness, startling you.

“Aemond?” you call out hesitantly.

The door creaks open, and your brother steps inside, a tray of food in hand and a book tucked under his arm.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whisper, though relief rushes through you.

“And leave you to starve?” he replies simply. He sets the tray down on your desk before sitting beside you on the bed. “Mother can be harsh, but she forgets—you're human, not an extension of her will.”

“Thank you,” you murmur, taking a tentative bite of the bread he brought. “But if she finds out, she’ll punish me even more.”

“I’ll speak with Father,” he says, his voice calm but resolute. “Perhaps he’ll see that Mother has gone too far.”

Your fingers graze the book he hands you, and for the first time in hours, a faint smile graces your lips. “You’re always looking out for me,” you say softly.

Aemond’s gaze lingers, his voice low but steady. “They don’t see you for who you are. To Mother, you’re a pawn; to them, a symbol. But I see you.”

Your breath hitches, his words stirring something deep within you. Before you can reply, he gently brushes a strand of hair from your face.

“I know how she treats you,” he continues, his tone measured but intense. “Always demanding, always expecting. But you don’t have to bear it alone. I’ll always be here.”

“Aemond…” you begin, unsure of what to say, but he interrupts with a faint smile. “Rest. If she troubles you again tomorrow, come to me—or Father. I’ll handle it.”

Without waiting for a response, he rises, his movements deliberate. At the door, he pauses, glancing back with a rare softness in his eyes.

“Remember, I’m always here.”

The door clicks shut behind him, and you’re left with a strange mixture of comfort and unease. Aemond’s presence was your refuge, but his intensity… it left a lingering weight in the air.

It was already dark when you decided to take a bath. Perhaps it would help ease the tension gripping your body. Surely Mother wouldn’t mind—not if it was just a few minutes to the bathing chambers nearby.

The corridor was silent as you slipped out, your footsteps a soft echo in the stillness. You moved swiftly, heart racing with the thrill of disobedience. Reaching the bathing chamber, you let out a quiet sigh of relief, pushing the heavy door shut behind you.

But before it could close, a hand shot out, stopping it. Panic flared as another arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you back, and a hand covered your mouth before you could scream. Your heart pounded, every nerve on edge, until the faint scent of leather and cedarwood registered.

“Relax,” came a low, familiar voice, its velvety tone tinged with amusement. “It’s just me.” You pull his hand away and whirl around, your expression a mix of relief and exasperation. “You scared me half to death!” you whisper fiercely, mindful of the echoing corridors outside.—”

“Forgive me, my lady. I couldn’t resist.”

“This isn’t funny,” you muttered, crossing your arms. “If Mother knew you were here—”

“She’d lock you away again?” he finished, his smile fading as his brown eyes softened. “I know. That’s why I had to see you. I couldn’t bear the thought of you trapped in that room, alone, while she wields her control over you.”

His words sent a rebellious spark through you, a flicker of validation in the face of your mother’s suffocating expectations. But just as quickly, the reality of your situation weighed it down. “Alaric, you shouldn’t be here,” you whispered, glancing nervously at the door. “If Aemond finds out…”

At the mention of your brother, Alaric’s expression hardened, his jaw tightening. “Aemond won’t find out. And even if he did, I’m not afraid of him.”

“You should be,” you murmured, your voice barely audible. “He’d kill you if he thought—”

“That I cared for you?” Alaric said quietly, his gaze piercing.

Your breath caught, and you looked away, heat rising to your cheeks. “You shouldn’t care for me,” you muttered. “It’s not safe—for either of us.”

“And yet, here I am,” he said softly, his hand reaching out to tilt your chin up, his touch gentle but insistent. “I don’t care about the risk, (your name). I’d rather face Aemond’s sword and your mother’s wrath than stay away from you.”

The weight of his words struck you, before you can stop yourself, you close the distance between you. Grabbing his arm, you pull him back, your heart pounding. His eyes widen in surprise, but he doesn’t hesitate. His hands find your waist as you lean in, and his lips meet yours in a kiss that drowns out every rule, every fear, and every consequence.

It wasn’t just a kiss—it was desperation and lust, a silent scream against the forces trying to pull you apart. For a fleeting moment, the world dissolved. No Mother. No Aemond. No suffocating expectations. Just Alaric and the reckless hope he represented.

When you finally pulled away, your breaths came fast, and your cheeks burned. Alaric’s eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that made your knees weak, his thumb brushing the curve of your jaw.

“I…” you started, but your words faltered.

His lips curved into a faint smile, tender yet resolute. “Say the word, and I’ll stay. No matter what.”

You shook your head, your voice barely above a whisper. “No. Not tonight. But… tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” he echoed, one brow lifting in curiosity.

“Here,” you said firmly. “The same time, the same place. I’ll find a way.”

He studied you for a moment, as if weighing the risk against the determination in your eyes. Then, he nodded. “Tomorrow, then.”

With a final lingering kiss to your forehead, he stepped back toward the window. “Don't let her break you. Be careful, (your name).”

“You too,” you whispered, watching him slip into the night, his silhouette vanishing into the shadows.

As the quiet of the chamber settled around you, your fingers brushed your lips, the memory of his kiss still vivid. The enormity of what had happened began to sink in, but instead of fear, a strange exhilaration coursed through you.

The following day dawns with an air of tension you can’t quite shake. As you dress for your morning lessons, the memory of last night lingers like a forbidden dream. You replay every word, every touch, every moment with Alaric, but reality presses in too soon.

When you enter the dining hall for breakfast, Alicent’s gaze immediately locks onto you. Her expression is stiff, and her tone, when she speaks, carries a sharp edge.

“Sit,” she says curtly, her eyes flicking toward the chair opposite her.

You do as instructed, lowering yourself into the seat. Aemond is already there, silent but watchful as always, and Viserys occupies his usual place at the head of the table. His expression, however, is uncharacteristically lively this morning, his gaze softening when it lands on you.

“Good morning, my dear,” Viserys says warmly, his voice cutting through the tension.

“Good morning, Father,” you reply, a cautious smile tugging at your lips.

He waves a hand dismissively toward the plate before you. “Eat well. And don’t worry about that ridiculous punishment. You’re free to go about your day as you please.”

You blink in surprise, your fork pausing mid-air. Alicent stiffens visibly, her lips pressing into a thin line.

“Viserys—” she begins, her voice tightly controlled, but he raises a hand to silence her.

“She’s done nothing to warrant being locked away, Alicent,” he says firmly, though his tone remains even. “Our daughter is a credit to this family. She carries herself with grace and dignity, and I won’t have her treated like some wayward child.”

Alicent’s hands clench in her lap, her composure barely holding. “It’s not about grace or dignity. It’s about discipline. She’s been sneaking off—”

“And you dealt with it, as you always do,” Viserys interrupts, his tone softening but leaving no room for argument. “But she’s learned her lesson, hasn’t she?” He glances at you with a fatherly smile.

“Yes, Father,” you reply quietly, your gaze lowering to avoid Alicent’s piercing stare.

“Good, then it’s settled.” Viserys returns to his meal, clearly considering the matter closed.

The tension at the table is palpable as Alicent pointedly cuts her food, the sound of her knife scraping against the plate unnervingly loud. Aemond exchanges a glance with you, a subtle flicker of support in his eye, but says nothing.

After breakfast, Alicent corners you just outside the hall, her voice low and sharp.

“Your father may see you as flawless, but perfection comes with a cost,” she hisses, her gaze cold. “You will not jeopardise what we’ve worked so hard to build with your recklessness.”

You swallow hard, nodding quickly. “Yes, Mother.”

Her glare intensifies, her tone biting. “You are the model of what a princess should be, and you will act accordingly. The court looks to you for inspiration, and I will not have them see weakness. Your lessons will continue, every one of them, and I will ensure your Septa does not coddle you.”

“Yes, Mother,” you reply, your voice steady but soft.

She studies you for a moment longer before sweeping away, her skirts rustling angrily behind her. The encounter leaves you standing tall, not because of fear, but because you know the weight of perfection that has been placed upon you—a weight you have always borne with grace.

The day stretches on, a never-ending cycle of lessons and expectations. Each moment is meticulously scheduled, a testament to your role as the perfect princess. Etiquette lessons are followed by hours spent discussing history, with each lecture becoming more and more of a blur. Valyrian is mastered with grace, the elegant words flowing from your lips as if they were second nature. The pressure to be flawless weighs heavily on you, but you bear it with an air of calm, never allowing it to show.

Throughout it all, Alicent remains a constant presence. She watches your every move, her sharp gaze never leaving you. You know she is pleased with your progress, but there is always a lingering sense of expectation in the air, as if the tiniest misstep would undo everything.

Even as you move from one task to another, the thought of Alaric flickers at the edges of your mind. The stolen kiss, the promise made—these moments linger in your thoughts like a secret thread woven through the fabric of your day. You push the thoughts aside, knowing you must focus on your duties. There is no room for distractions, not when you must remain perfect in every way.

Lunch comes and goes, a quiet affair with your family. You speak with your mother and Aegon, though your words are carefully measured. They don’t know—none of them do—but you catch Aegon’s eyes occasionally, a silent understanding passing between you. Afterward, you attend more lessons, this time under your mother’s watchful eye. Her gaze is always on you, sharp and piercing, but there’s also an unspoken encouragement there. She expects greatness, and you deliver it.

As the afternoon wanes, you move to your final task of the day: another meeting with Alicent. She inspects your progress with a critical eye, praising the things you’ve done well and reminding you of the things that still need perfecting. Her voice is firm, but there’s a gentleness there, too, the kind that only a mother can convey.

The hours pass like this, one after another, each duty completed to the highest standard. Finally, the evening arrives, and with it, the promise of a brief respite. Dinner with the family is a quiet affair, the room filled with the soft clinking of utensils and murmured conversation. You eat in silence, your mind elsewhere.

Afterward, you retire to your chambers. You change into your nightgown, the fabric cool against your skin. You look in the mirror for a moment, seeing the poised princess staring back at you. No mistakes. No cracks in the façade. Everything has been handled with perfect care.

You make your way to the bath chambers, the solitude of the corridors a small comfort. As you approach the door, you hear a voice from behind.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Alicent’s voice is sharp, and you freeze mid-step.

Turning slowly, you face her, the tension building in the air. “I’m going to take a bath, Mother,” you answer calmly, offering her a small, composed smile.

Alicent looks you over, her gaze lingering on your attire. “In that? Why are you dressed like that? You know it’s improper to go without the servants’ help.” Her tone is questioning, but not unkind.

“I didn’t want to trouble them, Mother,” you reply smoothly. “I thought I would go on my own this time, just to... clear my thoughts.”

Alicent studies you for a moment, her expression unreadable. “Very well,” she says, her voice softening slightly. “But you must remember to call for help if you need it. Don’t forget your place, (your name).”

You nod quickly. “Of course, Mother. I won’t be long.”

She gives you one last scrutinising look before nodding, satisfied for the moment. “See that you don’t. You’ve done well today, but there’s always more to be done. I’ll be watching.”

With that, she turns and walks away, leaving you alone in the quiet of the corridor. You exhale slowly, the tension in your body relaxing. Without another word, you slip into the bath chambers, and then you hear a sound outside the window. It’s him.

You approach the window, heart racing, and peek through the gap in the curtains. Alaric stands there, his presence unmistakable even in the dim light. His gaze meets yours, and the weight of the promise you made to each other the night before hangs in the air. The excitement builds in you as you move away from the window, quickly securing the door.

Moments later, the door creaks open just enough to reveal Alaric slipping inside, his eyes scanning the room before settling on you. His gaze lingers on your nightgown, the soft fabric clinging to your form in the dim light. You feel his eyes on you, heat rising in your chest. Neither of you speaks immediately—words are unnecessary now. The anticipation crackles between you, and it’s clear that tonight will be different.

He steps closer, the air thick with tension, and the space between you is filled with a promise of more. You meet his gaze, your heart pounding with the realization of everything you’re about to risk. But you don't care, and you know that neither does he. Without a word, you begin to unlace the ties of your nightgown, letting it fall to the floor at your feet, leaving yourself exposed completely to him. He watches you, his gaze intense, and then, without hesitation, he closes the distance between you. His lips crash against yours in a kiss that’s both hungry and desperate, a mix of desire and an unspoken understanding of the consequences. The kiss deepens, pulling you both into the moment, where nothing else matters but the heat between you, a connection neither of you can deny.

“Wait, I don’t want to be impure, even if I love you too much, and I need you so much that even words can’t describe it,” you say, voice trembling with a mix of desire and guilt. “I don’t want to disappoint my family by being impure before the wedding.”

Alaric watches you, his eyes dark with an intensity that both comforts and unsettles you. Even though you know he’s hungry, his gaze softens with concern, a frown tugging at his features. “Then don’t do it,” he says, his voice low and steady, almost like a promise. “We can always do other things.”

His words are a balm to your anxious heart, yet there’s something deeper in his tone, an unspoken suggestion that he’s willing to go to great lengths to keep you safe, to protect you—his obsession so deeply rooted in his care for you, and yet, there's a hint of something darker behind his gaze.

You hesitate, your hands shaking slightly as you look away, unsure if his care for you is truly all it seems. "But what if... what if I'm not enough for you?"

Alaric steps closer, his presence overwhelming as he lifts your chin gently with one hand. "You are more than enough," he says, his voice softer now, almost a whisper. "And no matter what happens, I'll make sure you're never alone."

His lips brush your forehead in a tender gesture, but the warmth doesn't quite reach your heart. You can feel the weight of his gaze, the unspoken promise of his love—and perhaps something more—pressing on you.

"You don't need to worry," he adds, his words both comforting and possessive. "I'll take care of everything. You just need to trust me."

And before you can say anything, he runs his hand down your body, touching your tits, your belly, all the way down to your private parts. You feel his fingers on your clitoris, circling, you want to moan, but before you do, his other hand goes to your mouth. As his head moves down your neck, kissing and sucking, but not leaving any marks. You were feeling so good, you don't know what he is doing down there and then he move away his hand of your mouth, and grabs yours, and guide to his dick and star to make moves.

"Just let me make you feel good too, all right, my lady?" Alaric’s voice is soft yet commanding, a tone that leaves no room for doubt.

You nod silently, your mind hazy and overwhelmed. You don’t fully understand what you’re doing; all you know is that you feel so good, so utterly consumed by the moment, that everything else fades into the background.

You barely notice what he’s doing with your hand or how quickly he’s guiding it. His touch is deliberate, firm, yet somehow gentle enough to keep you entranced.

You don’t have any idea what’s happening; the world around you blurs into pleasure and nothingness. All you know is the sensation—the warmth spreading through you, the dizzying rush of emotions—and the way he looks at you, as if you’re the only thing that matters in his entire world.

Pt. 4 >>

Author’s note: My apologies for the delay, I’ve had a busy few months, but I’m here now, and I hope to release part 4 very soon. Tomorrow, I’ll be posting some headcanons that I hope you’ll enjoy.

Taglist: @ursinaw @dakota-rain666 @laura-naruto-fan1998 @pookiedragonfire @jjggdfvvy @maryldrsstuff @1soultaken @ceramic-raven @eissaaaa @moodyblueberrytree @xadaboo @labryel @zoeyburton @hopingtoclearmedschool

[rosierin]

Mischief & Manner│Miya Twins

In Tokyo, (y/n)'s days are neat and predictable—vintage dresses, polite manners, and the buzz of the big city filling the spaces in between. But summers belong to the countryside, where the air is thick with cicada songs, and her grandfather’s home stands at the edge of an ancient forest.

She has always known to stay on the path.

Until, one warm summer evening, she doesn’t.

The trees stretch taller, the air tingles with something unseen, and just as the forest begins to feel like a place she might never leave, she meets them— two masked boys with fox tails and knowing smiles.

Chapter I: Lost in the Woods, Found by Foxes

Next >

The first time (y/n) met them, she was six.

The summer holiday had always been a sacred time for her, a time where she could leave behind the hustle and bustle of the city and spend a month at her grandad's rural paradise. The air held a different scent here— clean and free of pollution, filled with the scent of pine and wild sakura. The sky was clear and endless, the sun bright and warm, and the countryside full of rolling green valleys, open fields, and small woodland areas, waiting to be explored. Her grandad's house was her haven, a place of tranquillity and fond memories.

The same couldn’t be said about her parents’ estate.

Their home was big. Too big. A sprawling maze of winding staircases and labyrinthine corridors, each one polished to perfection. But (y/n) never got lost— how could she with maids constantly scurrying throughout the manor, each one dedicated to her every need. They hovered over her like shadows, ensuring that she never took a wrong turn. From preparing her three meals a day to brushing her hair, their attentions spared the young lady from the mundane demands of daily life. They were there to take care of her needs, down to the most trivial detail. They would even tie her shoelaces, if she so wished. She needn’t lift a finger.

Back in Tokyo, her days were dictated by the ticking of a clock.

Piano lessons at ten— hours spent reciting Für Elise until the once-romantic melody became nothing more than a series of lifeless notes.

Etiquette lessons at noon— back straight, chin up, hands folded neatly in her lap.

“That’s not how a proper lady speaks— articulate your words.”

“Don’t slouch. A lady carries herself with grace.”

“Confidence, always. When you enter a room, the world should feel it.”

Gruelling as it was, at least the weekends offered a small glimmer of escape. Sometimes, she was allowed to see her friends. Not just any friends, though— Priscilla and Grace were acceptable, but never Jeanne. Her family is different from ours, they said, though they never explained what different really meant.

But somehow, she knew.

Her grandad’s home was that same kind of different.

It was small— just two rooms and a single bathroom, its walls built from the sturdy wood of Japanese chestnut trees. Nothing like the cold, impersonal stone of her parents’ estate. He had called it a kominka, an old, traditional house. Here, there were no maids, no schedules. No one to brush his hair or tie his shoelaces. He did everything himself, and somehow, it never seemed like a burden.

Maybe it was because she only ever visited in the summertime, but his house always smelled like sunshine. It felt warm. Alive.

Here, there was no schedule to follow, no lessons to endure or strict rules to uphold. Sometimes, he'd ask her to help him in the garden, but he never hovered, never corrected her trivial mistakes. He only laughed when she plucked a strawberry too soon, never scolding, never sighing in disappointment. He didn’t even make her wear gloves.

She'd never admit it aloud, but she preferred life at her grandad's.

For a lack of better word, here in Kyoto, she felt free.

As free as the birds that visited the birdhouse she and her grandad had built together. As free as the wind that made the chimes sing. As free as the river that had led her— step by step, deeper into the ancient forest— to the day she first met them.

“Be back before sundown,” her grandad reminded her.

The warm afternoon breeze tousled her hair as she stood at the base of the shrine, the scent of cedar and incense lingering in the air. He had settled onto a wooden bench nearby, stretching out his legs with a contented sigh. “These old bones aren’t as fit as they once were,” he chuckled, rubbing his knee.

(Y/n) frowned. “That’s not true! You still look young and sprightly to me.”

He laughed at that, shaking his head. “I wish.”

She grinned, but her attention was already drifting to the towering red torii gate that marked the entrance to the forest. Beyond it, a narrow path stretched beneath the trees, dappled with golden light. It was calling to her, like the start of an adventure waiting to unfold.

After waving him off, she flashed him a smile before venturing into the mouth of the forest, breaching two tall red pillars bearing the words— Fushimi Inari Shrine.

The world beyond them was breath-taking. Sunlight filtered through the dense canopy above, casting golden patches of light onto the mossy ground. Towering trees stretched high into the sky, their thick trunks adorned with twisting vines and delicate clusters of pale flowers. The air was crisp and clean, carrying the faint scent of earth and the lingering whiff of afternoon showers. It felt like stepping into a dream— one spun from folklore and fairy tales. Everything about the forest seemed alive, as if it had been waiting for her.

Fwoosh.

She froze mid-step. A strange noise rustled through the trees, faint yet deliberate.

Curious, she turned toward the sound, half-expecting to see a squirrel darting between the leaves. When nothing appeared, she hesitated only for a moment before pressing forward. The forest was safe— wasn’t it? With nimble steps, she climbed over a fallen log, landing softly on the other side.

Fwoosh. Fwoosh.

This time, the sound came from somewhere ahead— just beyond a small thicket of trees.

Her breath hitched slightly. It wasn’t the rustling of wind through the leaves. It was something else. Something moving.

Swallowing her nerves, she crept closer, weaving between the trees as she searched for the source. But nothing came into view. No rabbit, no bushy-tailed squirrel, not even one of those adorable pink sugar-mice that her beloved grandfather used to sing about in her favourite lullaby.

With every step, the forest around her seemed to shift. The sunlight that once dripped through the leaves had faded, swallowed by thickening shadows. The warmth of the afternoon air now felt cold against her sun-kissed skin, sending a shiver down her spine.

She turned back the way she came— only to find that the path was gone.

Her heart clenched with panic. Hadn’t she just passed that fallen log? Where was the red gate? The more she looked, the more unfamiliar everything became. The trees loomed taller now, towering over her, their roots twisting like clawed fingers. The once sweet scent of earth had turned damp and heavy.

She called out, her voice trembling. “Grandpa? Are you there?”

Silence.

Tears welled in her eyes as fear took hold. Should she keep moving? What if she wandered further from the shrine? But if she stayed here, would anyone find her? With a quiet sob, she stumbled toward the nearest tree and curled up against its trunk, hugging her knees to her chest.

The forest was quiet now, too quiet. The only sounds were her tiny sniffles and the rapid pounding of her heart.

Then—

A glint of gold.

A flicker of silver.

Her breath caught. She sat upright, pressing herself deeper into the tree bark as the flashes appeared again, closer this time. Something— someone— was moving.

Silence.

Then— soft footsteps against the forest floor.

She squeezed her eyes shut. Don’t look. If you don’t look, maybe they’ll go away.

“Yer lost.”

The voice was calm and composed, neither harsh nor unkind, but firm enough that it left no room for denial.

Cautiously, she lifted her head.

Two figures stood before her, bathed in the last slivers of fading sunlight. Both wore masks— fox-like and beautiful, with intricate crimson markings curling along the edges— but it was their hair that set them apart. One, silver-haired and slightly tousled, stood still and unreadable, his presence as cool and steady as the moon. The other, golden-haired and just a touch messier, tilted his head, a glint of mischief in his stance— radiant and careless, like the afternoon sun. Sharp, furred ears, the same colour as their hair, flicked atop their heads, and behind them, twin fox tails swayed lazily, catching the light as they moved.

“Yeah… and lucky for you, we found ya first,” the golden-haired one added, his tone far too amused for her liking.

Her pulse quickened. What does that mean?

She shrank back against the tree, gripping the fabric of her sundress as she tried to make sense of them. They weren’t like anyone she’d ever seen before. Their masks concealed their expressions, but something about them— about the way they stood, the way they watched her— made her wary.

The silver-haired one sighed, as if this situation was nothing more than an inconvenience. “Yer scarin’ her.”

“I just said we found her. How’s that scary?”

“Because ya sound like a fox that just cornered a rabbit.”

The golden-haired boy scoffed, crossing his arms. “Not my fault she looks like one.”

Her breath hitched at that. A rabbit. Small, fragile, prey.

The little girl’s fingers clenched the fabric of her dress, her breath catching in her throat. The fear was still there, chest tight, but something about them— something in the way they stood, in the way they spoke— kept it from overwhelming her entirely.

Kitsune.

She had seen them before, in picture books and bedtime stories. Tricksters, guardians, spirits of the forest. Not all were good, but not all were bad, either.

Still, she couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.

A beat of silence passed.

Then the silver-haired Kitsune sighed, the sound slow and measured, like a breeze rustling through leaves. When he spoke again, his voice carried the same unhurried cadence. “Do ya understand us?”

His words were gentle, yet certain, like a statement more than a question.

The golden-haired one, however, leaned forward slightly, his tone sharper, more playful. “Or did we scare ya that bad?” His voice had an energy to it— lighter, more teasing, laced with something almost smug.

The girl flinched, her wide eyes darting between them. The silver-haired one exhaled, shifting his weight ever so slightly. “Yer not helpin’ .”

“What? I’m just checkin’.”

The silver-haired one ignored him, turning his masked face back to the girl. “Yer lost.” He said it again, the same quiet certainty in his tone. No accusation, no amusement— just fact.

That was enough to break her daze. She swallowed hard, finally finding her voice.

“I… I don’t know how to get back.”

The golden-haired boy hummed, tilting his head. “Yeah, I figured. Ya looked like a lost kitten when we found ya.”

The silver-haired Kitsune shifted ever so slightly toward the other. “A rabbit, earlier. A kitten, now. Make up yer mind.”

The golden-haired Kitsune scoffed. “She can be both.”

The girl blinked between them as they fell into an easy back-and-forth, their words slipping into something that felt almost like habit. Their voices were similar in a way— both smooth, both strangely melodic and carrying that same amusing accent— but where one was slow and deliberate, the other was quick and untamed.

Somehow, despite everything, it made them feel less frightening.

The golden-haired one suddenly clapped his hands together. “Well! We should probably do somethin’ about this before she starts cryin’ again.” He gestured vaguely in the little girls’ direction, making her frown. This?

The silver-haired fox exhaled. “Ya could try not bein' rude.”

“I could,” the golden-haired fox echoed with mock consideration. “But I won’t.”

The girl sniffled, rubbing at her eyes with her sleeve as she attempted to mask her unease. “I-I wasn’t crying that much…”

That made the golden-haired Kitsune pause. Then he shrugged. “Sure ya weren’t.”

The silver-haired one tilted his head slightly. “Can you stand?”

She hesitated, then nodded. Carefully, she pushed herself up, her legs wobbling beneath her.

The golden-haired Kitsune huffed, hands on his hips. “Good. Woulda been a pain to carry ya.”

The silver-haired one shot him a look before turning back to the girl. “We’ll take ya back.”

She hesitated. “You… will?”

“Obviously,” the golden-haired one drawled. “What, ya think we’re just gonna leave ya here?”

She hadn’t known what to expect, but somehow, she felt a little lighter. Maybe it was the way they bickered, or the way their voices filled the once-empty forest, but for the first time since she’d gotten lost, she didn’t feel so alone.

And so, with one last glance at the darkening trees, she took a step forward— toward the Kitsune boys, and toward whatever came next.

The little girl’s small hands were swallowed by theirs, warm and steady as they guided her through the twisting forest paths. She wasn’t sure if they were leading her forward or if the forest itself was parting for them, but with each step, the once looming trees seemed less daunting. The Kitsune moved easily, as if they belonged here— as if the trees, the roots, even the wind knew them well.

The golden-haired one broke the quiet first. “Are ya scared?”

The little girl stiffened, straightening her back. “No.”

His masked face tilted, as if he were inspecting her. “Huh. Coulda fooled me.”

“I’m not scared,” she insisted, gripping their hands a little tighter.

The silver-haired one hummed, his voice as even as ever. “Yer holdin’ on pretty tight for someone who’s not scared.”

The girl quickly loosened her grip, cheeks warming.

The golden-haired one snickered. “Relax, kid. We don’t eat children.”

“I knew that,” she huffed, lifting her chin.

The silver-haired one let out a slow sigh, almost like a laugh. “Good. That woulda been awkward.”

They kept walking, the trees thinning little by little. The girl glanced around, the gentle sway of leaves above making her think of stories she had heard— tales of spirits, of gods who lived in hidden places. She hesitated before asking, “Are there… other spirits here?”

The Kitsune exchanged a glance.

“There are,” the silver-haired one admitted after a moment. “Some are like us.”

“Some ain’t,” the golden-haired one added, far too casually.

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

The silver-haired boy gave the other a look before turning back to her. “Some spirits are kind. Others aren’t as friendly.”

The girl looked up at them, wide-eyed. “Oh…”

“Don’t worry,” the golden-haired Kitsune said, squeezing her hand lightly. “We got ya.”

Something in the way he said it made her believe him.

They walked in comfortable silence after that, the exit of the forest now in sight. The girl felt her heart sink a little. She was almost out. Almost home.

Almost gone.

The thought made her hesitate. She looked up at the two fox-masked figures beside her, at their strange yet familiar presence, their easy, teasing voices. Would this be the first and last time she saw them?

“…Will I see you again?”

The golden-haired one made a thoughtful noise. “Dunno. Depends.”

“On what?”

He grinned behind his mask. “If ya come lookin’.”

The girl frowned. “But I’m leaving tomorrow… I have to go back to Tokyo.”

That made the golden-haired Kitsune whistle. “The big city, huh? No wonder ya look so fancy.”

She pursed her lips. “I am fancy.”

The silver-haired one sighed. “Don’t encourage him.”

Too late. The golden-haired boy ruffled her hair as though she was a puppy. “Well, Your Highness, if yer so fancy, maybe ya can find yer way back next summer— without getting lost."

The girl’s frown deepened. She bit back a small pout. “I won't.”

The golden-haired one laughed. “I guess we'll see.”

She looked up at them, expectant. “Will you be here?”

The silver-haired one gave a small shrug. “You’ll have to find us.”

Something about that answer felt right. Like a secret left in the wind, waiting to be discovered. As the trees finally opened to the path she knew, she held onto that thought— next summer, she would find them.

They walked in comfortable silence once more, the forest thinning around them, the distant sound of cicadas filling the air. The golden-haired Kitsune gave an exaggerated sigh. “Guess this is where we say goodbye, huh?”

The girl didn’t answer right away. The thought made her chest ache in a way she didn’t quite understand. They had only just met, and yet…

Her steps slowed as they reached the base of the shrine, where the stone steps stretched up toward the world she knew. The Kitsune stopped just short of the tree line, carefully watching her leave.

At the top of the shrine steps, the little girl hesitated, turning back toward the forest.

The Kitsune stood at the bottom, bathed in the golden light of the setting sun. For the first time, she saw them as they truly were— like something out of a picture book, guardians of the woods, belonging to the whispering trees and shifting shadows. The breeze stirred their hair and the ribbons tied to their masks, making them look almost unreal, like a vision she might wake from at any moment. Their twin tails swayed idly behind them, brushing against the fallen leaves, their movements slow and deliberate.

She clutched the hem of her dress, suddenly feeling small. “Before I go… can I ask for your names?”

The silver-haired one tilted his head slightly, and the golden-haired one’s shoulders shifted, as if he might’ve been smirking beneath his mask. They answered together.

“Miya.”

She murmured the name under her breath, as if tasting it, letting it settle on her tongue. The sound rang through the air like wind chimes, light and familiar, despite being new to her ears. It made her smile.

“And yers? Little Miss...” the golden-haired Kitsune asked.

She straightened her back, chin lifting slightly, just as she had been taught. “(Y/n).”

At the sound of her name, their ears twitched— an almost imperceptible movement, but she caught it nonetheless. Their tails flicked in unison, as if acknowledging it.

“Fancy name,” the golden-haired Kitsune mused, arms folding across his chest. “Kinda suits ya, though.”

“Better than yours,” she said, mimicking his tone, jutting her chin challengingly.

The silver-haired Kitsune let out a quiet chuckle while the golden-haired one scoffed, indignant. “Oi, what’s that s’posed to mean?”

“It means we should let her go before it gets too dark,” the quieter one interrupted, already turning back into the woods.

“Yeah, yeah,” the golden-haired one muttered, his tails flicking dismissively.

(Y/n) stifled a giggle. “I’ll see you next summer.”

The golden-haired Kitsune glanced over his shoulder. “That so?”

“We’ll be waitin’,” the silver-haired one said, his voice carrying in the warm evening air.

(Y/n) smiled. “Goodbye for now."

With that, she turned and made her way down the shrine steps, her hair catching in the golden light. As she walked away, the last thing she heard was the distant sound of bickering.

“Ya just had to get the last word in, didn’t ya?”

“Least I didn’t trip up the stairs.”

“That was one time!”

(Y/n) laughed softly to herself, holding the memory close as she disappeared beyond the torii gates.

Hey guys! Thank you so much for reading! This'll be my first ever multi-chapter fic on here so I appreciate the support sosososo much <3

This is most likely gonna be a light-hearted, whimsical story with a very chill plot. Just somethin' nice and easy to read to make yourself feel good :)

Likes, comment & reblogs are much appreciated, any feedback makes my day c:

Stay tuned!!

[kissmetwicekissmedeadly]

MIDNIGHT CINDERELLA MEMORIAL POST

The Midnight Cinderella app will be closed on Monday August 26th, 2024 (5 PM JST). The English version was actively updated from 2014 to 2021 when Cybird announced the ceasing of operations for MidCin, but the app remained accessible until today. I'm sure I'm not the only one who mourns the loss of it even after all these years of discontinuation, so I wanted to put together a post to properly say goodbye to it. Trying my best not to make it all too sappy - I'd rather look at it as a show that reached its final episode. Some things might be left unresolved but in the end, you remember the cast and the emotions they made you feel more than the actual plot. Nowadays there arguably may be better titles by Cybird out there, but for me, the simplicity of MidCin was what made the details so memorable.

1. VIDEO - POV: You're playing Midnight Cinderella (for 10 minutes)

The 10-minute version (without sound) is accessible via the link above (opens in Google Docs) This one I was really excited about recording! It's just your normal day playing midcin, I'm sure many will find it nostalgic and comforting. You log in, claim your daily bonus (I used the chance to do a present box reveal, 90+ items, many of which you might recognize from route grace checks), play the garden gacha (in my case, I used up all the points I had accumulated, 7800 which equals 39 solos), do your princess lessons, change your avatar, greet your friends, read 1/5 of today's free story parts, check the ranking and your stats, look at your memories directory. The video has no sound, as the game wouldn't let me turn it on (you will see me try to do so throughout the video...) but later on I got it to work so I recorded a one-minute video (the one imported above) of me replenishing stamina just for those iconic sound effects that you either loved or absolutely couldn't stand the volume of, haha.

2. A Midnight Cinderella playlist (spotify link)

While I wasn't there for the early days of midcin, the songs I associated with the game almost always captured this very specifically nostalgic 90s-10s period, you'll see what I mean. Many of those are taken from 8track playlists dedicated to Midnight Cinderella, and if I'm not mistaken you can still look at what is left of them if you search them up. Others are just my very random interpretations of the route stories and the characters.

3. Fic recommendations

We have a lovely community of creatives and there are still so many works left behind which you can check out on the tags! But especially for fics I wanted to list some that truly touched me during the years (all links open in ao3) -

i'm on fire and its NSFW bonus scene bloodstream by a deleted user - words are not enough for this one. It's like it meant more than Nico's whole route for me at one point, and the songs are forever in my heart as Nico songs...

MidCin Works by DBMidCin (SoftSen) - ALL of these. This is my go-to collection of writings for midcin when I start to miss the game, it has a little bit of everything. The headcanon of Giles teaching his girls French for instance is one of the things I still remember reading like it was yesterday!

Bedroom Etiquette (NSFW) by RubyLeeRay - Because this is the dream. Doing something forbidden with your tutor Giles is the ultimate fantasy, I swear. I just love it.

And of course, many, many more. There are currently 166 works on the midcin tag in Ao3, and I'm sure there are a lot of hidden gems here on tumblr as well! Reminder that writers LOVE it when you interact with their old works, it's not weird, you shouldn't hesitate doing so if you find yourself enjoying any of them! <3

4. My own humble collection of MidCin writings on my writing blog @xxsycamore!

Maid, Butler, Chamberlain (NSFW) - Nico x MC with Giles joining them

Grabbles: 💋 Demand for a kiss, right here, right now (GILES); 👔 Stealing their clothes to cuddle when you miss them (BYRON); more coming soon as there are still some in my askbox and I plan on including midcin in future short writings request openings too.

Shared Moments (NSFW) - Nico x Reader - Secret relationship

Ice-cold heat (NSFW) - Byron x Reader - Temperature play

Double the Surprise - Alyn and Leo birthday fic

Leo Crawford having a misadventure with a cat (ao3 link) - crack fic featuring most of the suitors

5. Out of context Midnight Cinderella screenshots

This is a sideblog of mine dedicated to posting out-of-context funny screenshots that I took while playing the routes - @oocmidcin . If you have some of your own that are not on there, you're free to submit them and add to the archive!

6. The perfect MidCin song - The Moon Will Sing by The Crane Wives

When I first discovered this song back in 2020 I dreamed of making it into a midcin music video with simplistic art and animations... It ended up being just something you daydream in detail about while in the car, but that's alright. I could at least share my vision with you! Disclaimer, this is just an interpretation and obviously it can't fit all characters ideally - In the brackets, I explain how the lyric is related to them and usually it reveals their backstories. Some of the details I've already forgotten, sorry if it's inaccurate.)

Tell me once again

I could have been anyone, anyone else

Before you made the choice for me

(Giles - his family making the choice for him since birth and later disowning him once he failed to become a knight due to his illness)

My feet knew the path

We walked in the dark, in the dark

I never gave a single thought to where it might lead

(Nico - wandering the streets with his mother once they were thrown out of Stein castle because she was a commoner having an affair with Byron's father, the King)

All those empty rooms

We could have been anywhere, anywhere else

Instead I made a bed with apathy

(Robert - the empty rooms of the once flourishing palace of the country that Robert ruled and led to demise, nowadays becoming a mere court painter)

My heart knew the weight

Ten years' worth of dust and neglect

We made our peace with weariness and let it be

(Leo - the years in which Alyn didn't speak to him, after the death of their parents)

The moon will sing a song for me

I loved you like the sun

Bore the shadows that you made

With no light of my own

(Albert - loyally standing in king Byron's shadow)

Name your courage now

We could have had anything, anything else

Instead you hoarded all that's left of me

(Sid - his relationship with his fiance that he agreed upon just to find out more about his parents by getting close to her father)

Swallowing your doubt

Like swords to the pit of my belly

I want to feel the fire that you kept from me

(Alyn - searching for answers about the murder of his family and the fire that burnt down their home)

I shine only with the light you gave me

(I could have been anyone, anyone)

(Louis - being a nobody and MC being his sun)

7. It goes on

I went to read what I could of chapter 4 of Rayvis' route, using my last two chapter tickets as well, thinking it won't make me cry. And then I'm hit with those familiar things.

So let's close this with a word about the things that never change in the universe of Midnight Cinderella.

Stumbling down the grand staircase and right into the arms of somebody. Escaping the palace at midnight with Nico's help. Sitting at breakfast with Giles giving you your schedule for the day. Nico's teasing little smile as he accompanies you everywhere and listens to your relationship troubles. The way he's just a little suspicious at times. Finding Robert painting in the garden of Wysteria palace. Going to the room of your chosen suitor for the first time and meeting a pet there. Leo teaching you history and politics in his office. Dance lessons with Louis. Needing those dance lessons because King Byron is coming to Wysteria and a ball is going to take place. The bureaucrats being unhappy with you as a princess elect, no matter what. Galloping on a horse with Alyn who just protected you from an enemy attack. Getting information from a certain flirty merchant at a bar. Albert bickering with Nico, Sid teasing Louis. Being introduced to Archduke Herneit at Stein castle. King Byron appreciating the night sky. The sight of your yellow and orange princess elect room where on the large bed with its blue bedframe and tall see-through canopy you lie awake and think about the events of the day and how would a wise future Queen of Wysteria deal with the current situation. But ultimately you fall asleep, hearing the melancholically beautiful sounds of a violin coming from somewhere deep within your dream, and leave it all to the following day.

Thank you for everything, Midnight Cinderella!

08/26/2024

[syndrossi]

October Trick or Treat #7: Consummation babies

Aka "what if Rhea and Daemon had conceived the twins on their wedding night" aka "Regnal AU."

x~x~x

“I am pregnant.”

His lady wife had announced the news in the very tone she had used earlier in the day when issuing judgment on two squabbling farmers who’d brought a dispute before her, and she was looking at him now as though he were the farmer on the losing end of it.

Daemon could only stare at her. When he had been summoned to her solar by the maester, he had assumed it was for yet another narrow-eyed lecture on his conduct in town, where he had gotten riotously drunk last night in a desperate bid to stave off the boredom of life as the Lady of Runestone’s unwanted husband.

“You are certain?” he asked, recognizing the question as stupid the moment it left his mouth.

“I waited for the quickening,” she said, hand straying toward her stomach before she seemed to realize, pulling it back to rest at her side.

Daemon’s gaze dropped to her midsection, marking what might be a small bump beneath the fabric of a loose dress. They had lain together no more than thrice in their four moons of marriage, one of those their wedding night, and had happily kept to their personal bedchambers since. For her to be so far along already, the babe must have been conceived that very night.

“That is good,” he said stiffly, in part because she seemed to expect the opposite sentiment from him. “You have my congratulations, my lady.”

She did not frown at him for once, though neither did she smile. “Should not half the congratulations be yours?”

Nothing about this marriage is mine. Certainly not his choice. It had been his grandmother’s scheming and his grandfather’s command, carried out over his every protest. His own father had escorted him to the wedding ceremony at Runestone as though he were his aunt Saera being marched to join the Silent Sisters.

And the very moment Runestone had passed to Rhea at her father’s death, not a moon into their marriage, it had been made abundantly clear to him from every quarter that nothing about Runestone was his, either. She was the lady, he was her consort, and he was to entertain himself with mindless pursuits in a castle whose walls felt smaller by the day.

One year, he had told himself. He only had to endure for one year, long enough to put in a showing that his grandfather would accept, and then he would be free to return to King’s Landing, and fly off on Caraxes wherever he liked, and find someone to fuck who didn’t stare at him throughout with frigid disdain. It had been clear to him from the very beginning that he was nothing more than a duty to her, an inconvenience to be suffered.

A duty, as though he were not the son of the Prince of Dragonstone, the next ruler of the Iron Throne. A dragonrider of pure Valyrian descent, the blood of Aegon the Conqueror singing in his veins. Dark Sister moldered in her sheath, hungry for blood and glory, and he—

He had been just another marriage alliance to his grandfather, like Aemma’s mother before her. A political maneuver by House Targaryen to gain a powerful seat in the Vale through his eventual children, as though their house were not capable of seizing whatever they wished by force.

And now I am trapped.

A babe tied him fully to his wife, to this damp, miserable castle, because he could not abandon a child of his blood to suffer the cold and joyless fate he sought to flee.

For once, Daemon was grateful for every lesson of courtly etiquette that had been drilled into him. It allowed him to act on instinct, even as his mind was elsewhere. He gave his wife’s cheek a stilted kiss, murmured the appropriate words, and then begged leave to write to his family with the happy news.

It was Viserys who he addressed it to, fingers pinching the quill hard enough by the end to snap it, sending a spatter of ink from its tip across the parchment. He did not bother rewriting it, steps quick as he brought it to the rookery, to the raven he could have raced on Caraxes with the news if his grandfather’s command would have let him.

And with quicker steps still, he sought Caraxes and what little air he was permitted.

x~x~x

“Did our father send you?” Daemon murmured as he embraced his brother. It would not surprise him; he seemed to know them at least as well as they did themselves.

“He might have suggested it,” Viserys said, pulling back with a grin before moving to greet Rhea with a brotherly kiss to the cheek.

Daemon turned to Aemma, who held his young niece by the hand. Rhaenyra would be nearly three, and she gazed up at him shyly.

“Your company is most welcome,” Daemon said to his cousin as he kissed her cheek. “As is your experience in these matters.”

There was a teasing glint in her eyes as Aemma smiled at him. “And I am sure you will heed all offered advice, as always.”

Daemon rolled his eyes at her in response, then crouched down. “Are you excited for a baby cousin, Rhaenyra?”

“Maybe,” his niece said, which about summed up his own feelings on the matter.

He picked her up then and sprang to his feet, tossing her up—to an audible wince from Aemma—and catching her. His niece giggled with delight as she settled in his arm, where she spotted Dark Sister and turned her attention to the sword.

Daemon transferred her to his other side, well away from the hilt. “Let us not alarm your mother any further.”

“I shall believe it when I see it,” Aemma told him, standing on tiptoes to kiss his cheek in turn and steal her daughter back.

In truth, he was relieved at their presence, after six moons being surrounded by only Royce retainers and stern Valemen. It was no small distance from Runestone to King’s Landing, either—a week at least by ship, though at least the waters were calm in summer. It was but a two-day ride on dragonback, but Viserys had shown no interest in claiming a new mount since Balerion’s death by old age, which baffled Daemon to no end.

I shall have to take him up on Caraxes while he is here, so that he can be reminded of the thrill of dragonriding. There was a particular stretch of mountain he enjoyed flying over, near the Royce summer manse, that still had snow flecking the tops of the peaks, even this deep into summer.

Aemma greeted his wife warmly, and Daemon recalled that they had known one another as girls. His cousin had tried to reassure him before his departure for Runestone that Rhea Royce was a spirited, adventurous woman. Daemon had seen very little evidence of either, though he supposed a pregnancy was a fair enough reason to avoid adventure.

“You must take poor Fallow out hawking in my stead,” Rhea was saying to Aemma. “I was too sick the first few weeks, and too large now.”

She had grown considerably over the past two moons, and Rhaenyra stretched her arms upward to place them on his wife’s swollen belly. “It moved!” she exclaimed.

“Yes, the babe is quite active,” Rhea agreed, leaning to kiss Rhaenyra on the crown of her head, then straightening slowly, a hand to her back.

Daemon cleared his throat. “Shall we move to the solar?”

“An excellent idea,” Aemma said, her smile at him warm with approval. She took Rhea’s elbow and they started for the holdfast, with Rhaenyra grabbing for his wife’s other hand.

Viserys remained at the rear of the procession with Daemon. “What do you think?” his brother asked. “A son or a daughter?”

His voice was light-hearted, but Daemon could hear the strain beneath it. His brother’s quest for a son had been fruitless thus far, with Aemma suffering two miscarriages prior to Rhaenyra’s birth and two since. Their grandfather had sternly reminded Daemon of his own duty, and that misfortune could befall the king’s heir at any time, as their uncle’s death had painfully demonstrated. Their father was a second son, and now in line for the throne. If Viserys were to struggle to provide the realm with a son, and their own father refused to remarry, then it fell upon Daemon to produce the necessary spares.

Daemon’s gaze went to Rhaenyra’s small form at Rhea’s side, hand swinging as she walked with her, hair long and pale. He imagined a child of his own holding her hand, but the details shifted constantly. Long hair, then short. Light, then dark.

“I do not know,” he said.

“Rhaenyra will love any daughter of yours like a sister,” Viserys said confidently. “And if you should have a boy, then we may have a match in the future.”

Daemon grimaced. He had not even begun to think so far ahead as matches. The one consolation was that their grandfather would surely no longer be around to wrest the decision from him. Their father would not force an unhappy pairing, though he could not imagine his children and his brother’s not growing close.

“How long do you intend to stay?” Daemon asked.

“So eager to be rid of my company?” his brother teased. But then his voice grew serious. “For as long as you like. I am sorry that I could not attend the wedding.”

“Do not be. It was a grim affair.”

And Aemma had been recovering from her last miscarriage.

His brother slung an arm around his shoulder. “You do not seem quite as miserable as I feared from your letter. Are you warming to the thought of fatherhood?”

Daemon bit back a grimace, recalling the letter he had sent. The news had unbalanced him at the time, and he had poured far more into it than he had intended. If Viserys had shared his words with their father, it was no small wonder that he had urged Viserys to visit. He had likely sounded on the verge of fleeing in the night.

“Perhaps.”

He and Rhea had gone from wholly avoiding one another’s company to taking suppers together now in her solar. They had been stilted affairs at first, and he had felt like someone playing a part in a mummer’s show. The first conversations that had not been pure torture had pertained to preparations for the babe. Ensuring the nursery was ready, beginning the search for an experienced wetnurse. Daemon had taken one look at the rickety cradle that had last been used by Rhea’s younger half-sister, Elys, and demanded a new one, which she had deferred to him.

The duties had begun piling on after that. He had resented them initially, viewing them as more bars being added to the cage, or even demeaning—he, a prince of the realm and a dragonrider, seeing to tasks ordinarily left to a lord’s wife. Rather than filling his nights with revelry, however, he had found himself thinking beyond the present. Would his child be allowed an egg in the cradle? When would it be safe to make the journey on dragonback to King’s Landing to present their babe to king and court?

His saddle was already modified to seat two, but he would need something of his own to hold the babe secure. He’d spent more time speaking with the craftsmen of Runestone in the past moon than he had in the air on Caraxes. It was tradition for House Royce to present newborns with a bronze medallion etched with runes to protect them from illness and injury, and it had fallen to him to arrange that as well.

His wife’s castle was laden with history and tradition for her house, and he had none on hand for his own, so he had chanced a trip to Dragonstone, poring over the volumes there for any ancient customs that had fallen out of practice in his own family, finding one at last wherein damaged and shed dragon scales from the mounts of the infant’s parents were carved up and set into a bowl of silver or gold.

Caraxes had been willing enough to make a few donations to the intrigued smith who had forged the Royce medallion, and the end result reminded Daemon almost of a mosaic, with darker and lighter patches of red arranged in a pattern not unlike flame within the gold.

The smiths of Runestone, he was forced to admit, were quite skilled.

“Come,” Daemon said, suddenly eager to show it to his brother. “I have something for you to see.”

x~x~x

“It is too early,” Daemon repeated, mouth dry with fear as he stared at the door, listening to the moans of pain from within.

His father’s hand came down on his shoulder, pulling Daemon into his side. “It is not too early. Not every babe is willing to wait nine full moons in the womb, and it surprises me not at all that one of yours wishes to scream fury at the world sooner than late.”

Daemon leaned his head into his father’s shoulder, grateful that he had come nearly a full moon before the babe was due. Every nightmare scenario played in his mind, presented to him earlier by the maester. A dreaded breech birth. An ill-placed umbilical cord strangling his child. Unexpected trauma to mother or babe, killing one or both.

Rhea’s labor had started the better part of a day ago, and he had been in and out of the room as the maester allowed. His wife was a strong woman, he knew, loath to show weakness even among those she trusted, but she had long since stopped trying to mask her pain.

“It is taking too long,” Daemon said, his worry a wild thing, whipping from one fear to another.

“Shall we go back in?” his father asked.

He had been banished from her sight last time, but she barely seemed to notice their re-entry now. Since Daemon had been chided by the maester for hovering, he settled on the couch by the window, his father sitting beside him.

There were cloths upon cloths stained pink and red, buckets of water, implements he did not recognize. Daemon was grateful that the view was mostly shielded by the maester and his attendants, even as he agonized over their decision to have the birth here, rather than at the Red Keep, with the realm’s best maesters at their disposal.

He clutched the bronze medallion in his hand, thumb running over its runes. Rhea had insisted that he hold onto it, that it was for the babe and not her, but she and the babe were yet one and the same, and if it could afford either of them some protection—

Rhea cried out again, this one nearly a battle shout in volume, and the strain in it gave way at the end to something like relief. A second cry came, this one high in pitch, and Daemon stood up so fast he nearly collapsed, only his father’s steadying arm keeping him upright.

Past the maester, he glimpsed a pink, wriggling shape being handed to one of the maester’s assistants. There seemed to be no alarm as they worked on the babe, but he was waved back when he tried to approach.

“Not yet, my prince,” the maester said. “There is another.”

Another. Daemon stood a moment, uncomprehending of his words at first. Then— “Twins?”

“Yes, my prince.”

As Rhea panted, a sheen of sweat on her face, the first babe was cleaned, cord tied and then cut. Daemon was permitted to approach then, as the screaming babe was handed to her.

“A son, my lady, my prince. Small, but healthy.”

Daemon’s heart fluttered as he gazed upon the child in Rhea’s arms. He had a crown of dark hair, clearly taking after his mother, though with his eyes squeezed shut as he howled his fury, it was impossible to catch a glimpse of their color.

A son. A shout caught in his lungs, and he choked it back, because the birth was not yet over, but for now, his wife was alert if tired, coaxing their son to her breast. The wailing stopped once his mouth found the nipple, and Rhea’s head eased back into the pillow, eyes closing in obvious fatigue.

Daemon dared reach for her hand, and her eyelids fluttered open, gaze landing on him. She did not pull her hand back, and he squeezed lightly. They held one another’s stare for a time, then glanced as one at their son. Their firstborn.

The minutes slipped by, long enough for Daemon to wonder if something was wrong with the second babe, but Rhea tensed then, her grip tightening around his hand. Their son was taken from her breast and given to his father to hold as labor resumed.

The second birth was mercifully quick, the pain either lessened or dulled by all that had come before it. In less than half an hour, another small head emerged, then took to wailing, and Daemon felt himself relax at last at the sound.

The babe was cleaned, cord cut, and the second proclamation made. “Another healthy son, my lady.”

His firstborn was relinquished to him by his father, who had been gently rocking him on the couch, and Daemon in turn gave him to Rhea, who kissed his head, eyes bright with tears, and returned him to her breast. She reached eagerly for their second son, whose head was topped with tufts of pale silver, and he quickly latched onto her other breast.

Dark and light. The contrast as he looked between them felt right somehow. Two sons. I have two sons.

His firstborn, who had already suckled for nearly half an hour, pulled back, face scrunching up as though contemplating another wail, only for it to become a yawn. At Rhea’s nod, Daemon took him in his arms, staring into his face, taking in his impossibly delicate features. His hand wrapped around Daemon’s pinky finger, and he could see tiny fingernails.

His son was staring up at him, his eyes a purple-hued grey, everything about him perfect. His frown, his nose, his dark eyelashes—

Another yawn broke his son’s steady contemplation, and Daemon yawned with him. His father murmured congratulations to them, praising Rhea’s fortitude as Daemon probably would have thought to do if he weren’t so exhausted. He couldn’t imagine having been the one actually giving birth.

Their younger son had finished his own first feeding just in time for the afterbirth. While Rhea was cleaned and the bed linens changed, Daemon cradled him in his other arm, as perfect in every way as his twin. His son’s sleepy eyes blinked at Daemon, a pale lilac that took his breath away when he saw it.

“Aemon,” his father whispered beside him, voice cracking midway through.

They need names. But that was a battle for tomorrow, when they had all slept at last. His son’s face scrunched up as he continued to stare at Daemon, a whimper that became a howling wail that woke his brother, who immediately began fussing.

“Here,” his father said, taking his younger son from him. He rocked him gently, murmuring soothingly at him, and the babe calmed, gazing up at him in a fierce study that was just like Aemon’s. His father smiled at the babe with a joy Daemon he had not seen in years and kissed his tiny cheek.

Rhea eased back onto the now-clean linens of her bed, and Daemon carried their eldest over to her, placing him in her arms. “They are perfect,” he said, because it was truth. The sweat had been wiped from her face, though her hair was still damp. She looked pale and exhausted, but her smile as she gazed at their son was unexpectedly radiant. Daemon took her free hand, squeezing it once more. “I am glad you are well.”

She gave an answering squeeze, understanding his meaning, then gazed about the room. “Where is our other son?”

Daemon glanced behind at his father, whose back was to them as he faced the window, which he was holding their youngest near to catch the last rays of sun.

“We may have to ensure my father doesn’t steal him back to King’s Landing.”

x~x~x

“If he is to inherit Runestone, he should have a Vale name,” Rhea said stubbornly.

It was an old argument, but this time Daemon had his father, heir to the Iron Throne, present to influence the matter, though he was distracted with both babes currently, a small bundle in each arm.

Their size still kept Daemon awake at night, and he had found himself sleeping in the nursery for the past three, soothed by the sounds of them stirring in their cradle—which was large enough to hold them both for now. Still, the maester checked them every day, and assured him that they were in as fine health as could be hoped for such tiny babes.

“He is my father’s eldest grandson,” Daemon countered. “And he is a prince of House Targaryen. Should anything happen to my brother, he could very well be king himself someday! He cannot be named Rodrik or Hubert.”

Rhea glared at him. “Or Jon—”

“Jon!” he exclaimed, throwing his arms up. “You cannot be in earnest.”

“We have two sons. It would be a sign of unity between House Targaryen and the Vale to name one each in the fashion of both their houses.”

Daemon managed to hold back his instinctive sneer at the suggestion, contenting himself with a frown instead. It was already settled that their younger son would be Aemon. It was a fitting tribute to his uncle, and his father would not hear otherwise. Thus Rhea was scheming to get her way with their eldest’s name instead, using that as leverage.

“Perhaps we should seek the king’s opinion on the matter,” Daemon said. “I am sure he will have one.”

Let his grandfather’s overbearing nature be of some benefit for once. Judging by the endless stream of ravens into the rookery today, they could very well hear from him today. With four days passed since the birth, the responses from his family in King’s Landing would just be arriving.

The king’s would be effusive in its praise, he knew, with a tone of unbearable self-satisfaction at such an outcome less than a year after the wedding.

“You could let the babe decide,” his father said, earning Daemon’s glare. Whose side are you on, Father?

“Baelon and Aemon,” Daemon said, irritated that his father refused to take either the compliment or the bait. “They are twins. That is a bond they will have their whole lives. What better bond to honor than yours and Uncle Aemon’s?”

“I recall Viserys saying you favored Aegon.”

He had, but that had been when Daemon had been expecting a single son or daughter. A grand name, to herald a grand legacy. But two sons who had shared the womb, who already seemed upset to be parted for too long—

There was only one bond like it that Daemon had known.

His father glanced down at Jon, who had woken from a nap to peer at him. “What are your thoughts, little dragon? Do you favor Aegon?” His dark-haired son frowned, almost as though in response. “No? And what of Rodrik?” A whimper this time. “Hubert” was met with a screaming rage that Daemon had to take him in arm to calm, pleased at his son’s good taste, until “Jon” received an alert blink and an excited flailing of limbs.

“Baelon,” Daemon suggested quickly to take advantage of his son’s good mood. The suggestion was not received as poorly as the others, at least.

“That settles it, does it not?” Rhea said.

“It does not,” Daemon said through clenched teeth. Jon. The most plain of names imaginable. He could not believe that his father was willing to play along with this charade. “Let us ask Aemon his thoughts, if we are to be listening to infants.”

Aemon fussed at being taken from his father’s arms, and when his light purple eyes focused upon Daemon’s face, he fussed all the louder. “You were happy enough to be sung to last night,” Daemon reminded him, humming the tune of the lullaby until his son’s upset softened to light worry instead. “Is your brother a Jon?” He paused to give him a moment to respond, but his son continued to stare at him, as though awaiting something. “Or is he a Baelon?”

His son cooed softly, causing Daemon to turn to his wife in triumph.

“He is asking for his grandsire,” she said, her gaze withering.

[claudemblems]

A Kiss to End All Doubt | Albert Moriarty

Summary: When you agreed to tag along with the Moriarty brothers to a grand ball, the last thing you expected was to receive a noble's offer of marriage. Thankfully, Albert plays the part of your lover well, perhaps a little too well for his affectionate words to be fake...

Content: SFW. Fem!Reader. 3,723 words. Pining. Soooo much romantic tension. Albert is a flirt and no one is surprised.

Notes: I have been writing this fic for what feels like forever BUT IT'S FINALLY FINISHED :3 I'm so excited to finally give this to you. I hope you enjoy it 💖 I may also add an epilogue if there's an interest for one...🤭

Did Albert Moriarty, one of the many faces of the Lord of Crime, truly not have the slightest idea of the effect he had on you?

It was silly to even fathom that a man of his stature could be so oblivious, but you couldn’t help but start to wonder once he started giving your flushed cheeks and wide eyes a quizzical look.

That, or he was playing coy with you, which wouldn’t be all that surprising coming from him. He’d long since mastered the art of making noble ladies go weak in the knees.

But that was a skill he’d acquired out of pure necessity. If he had things his way, he’d refuse to give the stuck up women of the nobility the time of day. Unfortunately, he had a role to play in all of his brother’s plans, and so he continued flirting with the noble ladies just long enough to leave them wanting more.

You, on the other hand, were no noble. In fact, you had no good fortune, distinguished education, or marriageable prospects to speak of. Truly, you were nothing but a mere face hidden amongst the shadows, which was perfect for an assistant to the Lord of Crime.

You’d begun to empathize with Albert’s disdain for these royal functions, mainly the lavish balls he and his brothers had little choice but to attend. It was important for them to keep up appearances as a well-rounded noble family who knew how to mingle with the upper-class, whether they enjoyed doing so or not. While they seemed to have gotten used to it for the most part, it proved to be quite the difficult adjustment for you. Thankfully, Albert had patiently taught you the ins and outs of noble life, giving you lessons on small talk and etiquette whenever time permitted.

However, he hadn’t yet taught you how to handle a nobleman’s advances.

“You must be Lady [Name],” the man greeted, holding out his hand for you to take. You briefly glanced towards Albert, taking his nod as a sign to follow through with the gesture. A kiss was placed onto your hand before the man let go, stepping back to better admire the exquisite sights around him. “It’s quite a splendid ball, isn’t it? There’s so many well-mannered and intelligent guests in our midst, such as you, young Lord Albert.”

“Lord Darnley, you are far too kind,” Albert said, placing a hand over his heart and bowing. “I ought to be extending the compliments to you. Your presence here is most welcome, as well as that of your entourage. Would the girl you brought with you happen to be your little sister, Lady Georgina?”

“Ah, I see you’ve made sure to memorize the names of all the guests! Indeed, she insisted on joining me, and no matter what I said, she refused to take no for an answer!” Darnley bellowed in laughter, briefly drawing the attention of the other guests nearby.

“She already seems to be quite the free spirit. I’m sure she has a bright future ahead of her.”

“If you’re so interested in my dear Georgina, I would be more than willing to sit down and discuss a potential marriage between the two of you.”

You swore you saw a flash of disgust appear in Albert’s eyes, but he simply smiled brightly at Darnley, careful that his emotions did not look fake or contrived. “While your offer is certainly generous, I have no plans of marriage at the moment. I’m afraid I’m already plenty busy with my service in the royal army.”

“Ah, what a shame,” Lord Darnley sighed, but his disappointment quickly turned to anticipation when his gaze once again fell on you. Your stomach lurched at the look in his eyes, but you tried to retain your composure, copying Albert’s mannerisms by offering a surface-level smile.

“Lady [Name], I am supposing you are not yet married if you’re attending this function with the Moriartys.”

“That would be correct, my good sir. How astute of you to notice.”

Lord Darnley grinned at the news like a hunter mere moments away from ensnaring this prey. “Well then, my lady, is there anyone that has asked for your hand yet?”

Goosebumps ran down your arms as you swallowed thickly. Anyone with a right mind knew exactly where this conversation was heading.

“I…well…” Should you tell the truth? Should you lie? But then who would you say had expressed a desire in marrying you? “It’s…complicated.”

“So, that would mean no formal question has been posed then, correct?”

“...Correct.”

You heard Albert’s feet shift next to you, on guard for whatever preposterous idea this nobleman could come up with next.

“Well, it’s certainly not good for a lady of your standing to be without a husband. I, myself, am quite the romantic, and I believe a courting period fosters a genuine love between both parties involved. If you have no one currently vying for your hand, perhaps you’d offer me the chance to earn it.”

No. No. On so many levels, no.

But this wasn’t about you—your happiness or married life did not come before the liberation of London. Whatever the brothers asked of you, you would adhere to their words, even if it meant having to be stuck with a man such as…this. Though you knew they’d never even entertain the thought of offering you up to some man who cared only for your beauty and status and nothing for your heart. If you were to refuse Darnley’s advances, at the least, you were confident the Moriartys would respect your decision.

Even so, you didn’t want to cause any more trouble for them. If you couldn’t agree to the idea of marriage, perhaps a date or two would suffice, right?

Just the thought made you feel sick. 

“Well, what do you say, my lady? Will you allow me the pleasure of courting you?”

You knew you had to keep up appearances. You couldn’t allow for cracks to show in the perfect and amicable facade the Moriartys had carefully crafted. You knew that well, and yet…

This was a proposal that not even death itself could bring you to accept.

“I’m sorry, my lord, but I must sincerely refuse.”

Lord Darnley stared at you in alarm. “Come again? You didn’t just say no to my advances, did you?”

Your heart rate quickened as his words grew heated, and in that moment you wanted nothing more than to take off and hide somewhere safe and quiet in the manor’s garden, away from other people who might come up with even more ridiculous propositions.

“It’s just as you heard, my lord. I must decline.”

An uncomfortable silence hung in the air as Lord Darnley stared straight into your eyes, not blinking for several long moments. Your hands had begun to shake as you feared that you’d just begun tarnishing the reputation of the Moriarty family. Truly, there were fewer things more terrifying than a nobleman who felt he’d been insulted, and the consequences for such an offense would be nothing short of dire.

“Lady [Name], you are in no place to refuse my offer. You said yourself that no other man has even brought up the idea of marriage to you! Are you truly so brazen that you would reject the prospects of a life in union with mine? We all know who makes the decisions around here, and they’re certainly not made by women—!”

“My good sir, I believe you’ve said quite enough.”

A small gasp left your lips as Albert sneaked a hand around your waist, still carefully holding his glass of wine in the other. You searched his face for an answer as to what he was scheming, but he simply smiled—a true one this time—wordlessly reassuring you that all would be well.

“You see, Lady [Name] may not have received an offer of marriage as of yet, but that is only because I have been quite busy protecting our beloved country. I wish to propose when I am able to be at home more often and thus can fulfill my duties as a devoted husband to my wife. So I must politely ask that you rescind your offer, lest you make yourself seem as though you chase after taken women.”

Propose? Husband?

If you were afraid of tainting the Moriarty image, Albert clearly didn’t share your concerns.

“Taken? Why, I—! You’re bluffing, Lord Albert! You’re not planning on marrying this woman!”

“And what has brought you to that incorrect conclusion?”

“If that were the case, you would have brought it up the moment I asked if she were single!”

“To be fair, you asked if she’d received an offer for marriage, not if she was currently available to court.”

You could practically see the steam coming out of Lord Darnley’s ears, his face growing redder with each passing minute. He was still unconvinced, and for good reason, too, but you weren’t about to let Albert’s kindness go to waste.

You placed a hand on Albert’s shoulder, smiling up at him as he redirected his full attention to you. “It’s true, my lord. My affections have been reciprocated by my dear Albert, and I am patiently waiting for him to ask me to marry him. It will be a proposal I shall readily accept.”

Darnley scoffed, a hand placed over his heart in disbelief. “And you had the gall not to tell me when I’d begun to question you? Either you’re a terrible liar, or you’re just hoping to humiliate me in front of all these guests!”

“I would never dream of deceiving or insulting you, my lord. I should have made my relationship status clear to you earlier. Please forgive my carelessness.”

“I still think this is some elaborate hoax the both of you are trying to pull off. If not to tarnish my good name, then to convince every noble here that you’re worth the status bestowed on you at birth.” Lord Darnley swiped a fresh glass of wine off the tray of one of the waiters walking by, the man watching in horror as the lord downed all of the liquid in one gulp. His cheeks had started to take on a flushed hue from the great amount of alcohol he’d consumed that night, and with the way things were going, he was sure to be drunk by the end of it. “Perhaps, Lady [Name],” Darnley continued, a lopsided smirk forming on his face, “you’ve been lying about your social status, and you’re hoping that your marriage to Lord Albert will secure you a place in the upper class.”

Anger surged through you at his utterly ridiculous theory. Darnley had unknowingly gotten one fact right: you were a nobody. When you’d been taken in by the Moriarty family, you had nothing to your name but pen, paper, and the clothes on your back. But you knew one thing for sure: you had worth as a human being, and no one, noble or otherwise, would be able to change that.

And marrying a noble for status? What a laughable suggestion. As if you’d stoop so low just for some so-called “honor” among the elite.

“Well, dear sir,” you began, discreetly hiding a smirk behind your gloved hand, “I had no idea you were so foolish as to even come up with such an inconceivable thought. I once held you in high regard as I’ve heard many within the nobility sing your praises, but your current behavior is quite unbecoming of a person of your stature.”

You heard Albert try, and fail, to stifle a laugh next to you. You quietly breathed out a sigh of relief to see that he’d chosen not to reprimand your strong words. If anything, he seemed eager to encourage them.

As Lord Darnley frantically signaled for a waiter to bring him more wine, Albert took the opportunity to lean down next to your ear, whispering a simple yet heart-pounding question, “[Name], would it be all right with you to play further into these roles of enchanted lovers?”

Your breath caught in your throat, butterflies beginning to form in your stomach. “Of course,” you said. If only you knew how I truly felt, you wouldn’t even need to ask.

He smiled down at you, a sight that only stirred up the butterflies even more, and pulled you closer against him. Meanwhile, his eyes bored into Lord Darnley’s frame, darkening with every passing moment. If there was no one else in that ballroom, you had no doubt Albert would have leapt at the chance to get rid of him.

When Lord Darnley had finished downing another glass of wine, his fiery countenance returned to you and Albert. “You both are frauds,” he spat. “Everyone else here might be too dim-witted to figure it out, but I’ll make them aware that you’re not the upstanding moral characters you believe that you are.”

“It’s a shame to hear such vile thoughts coming from your own mouth, good sir,” Albert sighed. “But if I must be honest, I don’t care what any noble in this room thinks of me or the house in which I rule over.”

“Oh? And why is that, good sir?”

“Because,” Albert answered, turning his body towards yours, his visage noticeably softening when his focus returned to you, “the only person I want to please is the woman I adore. Not one person in the nobility is worthy of praise or merit—no one but her alone.”

Setting aside his glass, Albert gingerly took your hand in his own, meeting your eyes to silently ask for your permission. At your nod of approval, he lifted your fingertips to his lips, placing a gentle and almost reverent kiss against them.

“I love her,” he said, his sweet gaze reaching the very depths of your soul, “and when the time is right, I will make her mine.”

His words were like a match igniting the fire blazing in your heart, the flames fed by your deep affections for him, growing with every beat that thumped in your chest.

Your breath caught in your throat as his hand came to rest against your cheek, his touch so light yet so dizzying, more intoxicating than any wine you’d had that night. 

Albert searched your eyes as all the feelings you’d tried to keep at bay finally came pouring in like waves. You were sure he could see it all: the admiration, the yearning, the love you’d kept locked away. But somehow he’d managed to find the matching key, the truth you’d been hiding for all these years finally at his reach.

His fingers traveled along your cheek and down to your jaw, this thumb tracing patterns against your skin. You were still dazed from his words to Darnley, but you brought yourself to meet Albert’s gaze once more, curious to see what truths you could uncover in his own expression.

And you wished you hadn’t, because when you saw the affection so clearly present in them, you wanted nothing more than to throw yourself into his arms and kiss him until the night turned into day.

Albert wasn’t oblivious, and you knew it. Whatever people thought of him as—a genius, a young prodigy, a man of great knowledge—his ability to read people was beyond the average person’s comprehension. And you knew when he’d finally figured out what the person he’d been surveying was hiding. His lips would quirk upwards ever so slightly, the dimples on his face just beginning to show, and he’d cock his head to the side, pleased with his findings.

And that was exactly how he was looking at you.

You’d placed your heart out in plain view of his observant eyes, and he’d figured you out. But now that he knew of your feelings for him, what was he planning to do with them?

Albert’s thumb drifted from your jaw down your lips, careful not to brush off the lipstick staining them. He stared at them for several moments, deep in thought, before he returned his eyes to yours, a single question hidden within them.

May I?

Already breathless, you squeezed his hand once, closing your eyes as Albert leaned in painstakingly slowly, every nerve in your body alight with anticipation. This was the moment you’d only been able to imagine in dreams, on nights where you sat wordlessly under the stars, silently wishing upon them in vain. They couldn’t grant you your desires. They couldn’t give you everything you ever wanted. You were the only one with the power to seize your opportunity and make your own wish come true.

And as Albert’s lips finally fell on yours, you smiled.

Your greatest wish was being granted right before your very eyes.

His lips tasted faintly of wine, and the subdued scent of his cologne still lingered on his collar. Combined with the warm and comforting touch of his hand cupping your face, your senses were overwhelmed in the most wonderful of ways. It felt as if you’d begun to float, brought into a fairy tale-esque trance where the entire world grew still except for you and Albert.

Time had stalled to allow you this moment of pure, undeniable bliss that not even the corrupt powers of this world could take away from you.

With his lips still on yours, Albert’s hand snaked further around your waist, gently pulling you closer against him. You practically had no room left between the two of you, and so in a moment of boldness, you placed one hand on his shoulder, the other on his chest, right above his heart. Even through his suit, you could feel it beating wildly.

It only made you wonder: did he truly mean what he’d said earlier? Did he really harbor such affection for you? Did he really intend…to make you his?

Before you could ponder anymore, Albert finally pulled away, cheeks faintly dusted with rose. He appeared somewhat dazed himself, but he kept his composure, still well aware of where the two of you were at the moment.

But this time when he turned to Darnley, he smirked, practically beaming from head to toe with delight as he spoke. “Well, Lord Darnley, do you believe us now?”

If looks could kill, both of you would have succumbed to that man’s rage.

Darnley’s hands gripped his wine glass so tightly that it shattered onto the floor, the remnants of wine staining his once perfectly polished suit. Other nobles stopped their conversations and turned to him upon hearing the commotion, a few of them even pulling out handkerchiefs.

“Sir, let me get you a new glass,” a waiter spoke, holding his hand out to take the broken one from him. But Lord Darnley was already fuming, and he shoved the waiter to the side, smashing the rest of the wine glass against the floor.

“You will pay for this,” he snarled. Sending you one final glare, he turned on his heel, marching out of the ballroom, hopefully never to be seen again (at least for the night).

“Well,” Albert breathed, laughing as he ran a hand through his hair, “I don’t think he’ll be bothering us anymore.”

“You’re right…Thank you, Albert.”

“What are you thanking me for?” he asked, gaze drifting back to yours. “I’ve done nothing to warrant your gratitude.”

You shook your head. “You have, Albert. You didn’t have to step in and save me from Darnley’s advances, but you did, even though doing so could have tarnished your family name. I’m indebted to you.”

Albert frowned ever so slightly, and you cocked your head to the side, confused. After a few moments, his gaze flickered to the people dancing around the room, his cheeks still tinged a beautiful red. “If you thought I was doing all that just to be a gentleman,” he murmured, “then I don’t know what it would take to make the truth clear to you...”

Well, suddenly you were the one left blushing. 

“It’s not that. I…I don’t want to assume anything more, not when you’re such a precious person to me. I’m just scared of ruining what we have between us.”

Albert turned his attention back to you, using the hand that was still on your waist to pull you close to him again. Taking your other hand in his, he lifted it up to his lips, your faces now just mere inches apart.

“And what if I were to say that I do want something more?”

You almost wanted to pinch yourself to make sure it wasn’t all a dream.

But you still felt the press of his lips against yours, took in the smell of his cologne, and memorized the touch of his fingers running along your cheek. It was not a dream. It was even better.

Albert leaned down next to your ear, his breath fanning against your skin. “If one kiss isn’t enough to convey how much my heart yearns for you, then allow me to kiss you until you’re breathless, and no more words of doubt are left on your tongue.”

Albert smiled as your face grew redder, and with the way he bit his lip, you knew he was struggling not to comment on it.

“For a noble, you sure lack any semblance of shame, Master Albert."

Albert shook his head and chuckled to himself, that mischievous glint having once again returned to his eyes. “Keep teasing me and you’ll find out just how shameless I can be, darling.”

“Is that a threat or a promise?”

“Do you want to find out?”

Despite your flustered state, you couldn’t help but laugh, squeezing Albert’s hand tighter in yours. “If you want to kiss me so badly, do so in a place that’s actually romantic, will you?”

Taking you by the hand, Albert began to lead you outside of the ballroom and into the rose gardens. “Of course, and I’ll take my time to make sure I kiss you properly.”

You made a mental note to thank William and Louis for letting you tag along to the ball. If all went well, they would end up becoming your own brothers-in-law, after all.

But that could wait until you finally had Albert’s affections all to yourself.

[vintagedebutante]

Playing Rough

A JFK x Tomboy!Reader Fanfiction- 18+

Further Info: My first actual drabble, Kennedy Compound activities, YOU GET EATEN OUT OKAY

Word Count: 900+

A/N: I want to personally thank the numerous anons and folks who requested a fic loosely based on some hcs I wrote a little while back! I'm super proud of this one and hope you all enjoy it!

“That’s what you get for playing rough,” your neighbor, Jack, quipped through a wry smirk as his damp handkerchief made contact with the tender skin of your freshly scraped knee. You winced, but only briefly. God, his Boston accent was amusing--you could never be immune to Jack’s charm. He was right. If you had done the smart thing and not challenged your former boarding school football player neighbor to an impromptu wrestling match, you wouldn’t have been in such a position. One would have assumed you would have learned your lesson after many summers in Hyannis Port together--you’d watched Jack roughhouse with your two older brothers for years. But, this time, you wanted in on the action--which, in hindsight, you realized was a big mistake. 

“I guess so, Kennedy,” you laughed.

On a better day, you swore you could have taken Jack. As the youngest girl in a family of mostly boys, wrestling was routine for you. However, it seemed like the universe had other plans when you slipped on a wet patch of grass while trying to hook your arm around Jack’s sturdy neck, sending you both tumbling to the ground. While Jack got off scot-free, you were stuck with a nasty scrape, and less importantly, a stained skirt--which wasn’t a problem for you per se, but something your parents would certainly not have appreciated. You wanted to walk it off, but Jack insisted on carrying you to the steps of his family’s massive mansion’s wraparound porch. Normally, you would have found this humiliating. But, with everyone else currently inside, you didn’t see a problem. 

Jack knelt, dabbing your aching knee with a feather’s touch. He could be such a gentleman, you thought. Yet, you were certain that from this angle he must have had a clear view up your skirt--the thought of which brought color to your cheeks. You had always found Jack handsome, an impossible notion to verbalize in a house full of rowdy men. Showing any hint of interest in a friend of your brothers would have gotten you teased to no end. Even in their absence, you found yourself flooded with nerves.

Your train of thought halted when Jack pulled a long gauze bandage out of his left pocket--something he must have grabbed when he wet his handkerchief inside. 

“Here, can you move your leg?” Jack asked. 

You giggled coyly at his pronunciation of the word “here” as he nudged your legs apart with his rough, callused hands. Jack inched closer, wrapping your knee with the care and caution of a longtime friend. It was such a kind gesture, though, you noted your family would have been livid had they seen the position you were in. You couldn’t care less about etiquette or society’s expectations for young women of your financial standing, but, the sight of a man between a woman’s legs for any reason would have undoubtedly caused a scandal--especially the son of such a prominent family. You were thankful for the evening sky for hiding your rapidly reddening cheeks.

You watched intently as Jack tied the ends of the gauze into a neat bow at the base of your kneecap. The sensation of Jack’s hot breath on the soft skin of your thigh sent a waterfall of shivers down your spine. You had no choice but to let out a small, flustered moan, which you attempted to muffle with your hand to no success. Your eyes darted to the man before you. There was no way in hell he hadn’t heard... 

“Be quiet now,” Jack urged, slithering between your legs. You nodded in acceptance, unable to form words. You were in disbelief.

Hastily, Jack moved closer, pulling your underwear to the side just enough to fully expose you to the night air. You immediately felt a rush of cold--had you soaked through them already?

“Excited, are we?” Jack sounded amused--your question had been answered.

Jack clutched your hips and pressed the heft of his hot, wet tongue to your throbbing clit just enough to make you dizzy. You regretted agreeing to silence moments earlier, every fiber of your being longed to cry out in pleasure. You gripped your skirt tightly as Jack began to slowly circle your most sensitive place. The feeling was indescribable. It was as if a round of fireworks had been lit in your abdomen; white-hot, almost too much.

Jack’s tongue traveled, parting your lips to meet your growing wetness with vigorous licks. You noted how enjoyable the smooth sensation of Jack’s tongue against you was... He was voracious. His saliva mixed with your pleasure formed a small puddle beneath you. You bucked your hips in rhythm, eager for more. 

Swiftly, Jack moved his tongue back to your pulsating clit, repeating the same slow circular motion from moments earlier. You felt the fireworks return, stronger this time. You parted your lips anticipatorily, desperately trying to remain silent. Suddenly, you felt your abdomen contract, followed by a rapturous shower of euphoria. It was like being overtaken by a large wave--you nearly went cross-eyed as your toes curled inside your patent leather shoes. You began panting heavily in an attempt to catch your breath.

Jack came up for air, wiping the lower half of his face with the back of his hand. He looked so pleased with himself. 

“Don’t even think about telling my brothers,” you whispered half-jokingly, struggling to stand up. Jack offered you a hand.

“I wouldn’t dare,” Jack laughed.

[eatsbooks]

34 bauble for adonia/emile gimme the other side of the coin

adile / maronia + bauble

When Adonia was a youngling, her mother had a statuette on display in their sitting room. Not a single guest came to visit without heaping compliments on her.

Every strand of her mid-night hair had been lovingly carved, then painted over with so fine a brush that none clumped together. Her dress, a rich, royal crimson, fluttered down her body as though caught on perpetual breeze. Always, she was laughing, the beautiful, tinkling noise that males preferred. Her dewdrop face was bright with it.

The detail was so fine, it seemed impossible to Adonia that she was not alive and simply faking. A pixie seeking safe harbor, perhaps. Such pests were known for their trickery.

Adonia would often leave the room — with intention, mind you, so that the pixie would not sense the lie — then exercise her newfound ability to step through the world and appear before the statuette to catch the pixie, finally, in motion. Devious herself, she never fell for such a ruse. Adonia was still not convinced.

Frustrated one afternoon after her etiquette lesson, and not yet tall enough to reach for the pixie to shake her into truth, Adonia flicked her fingers at the statuette and set her on fire. She did not want to hurt the pixie, of course. Just startle the little thing into action. Her flame never hurt her, you see, so she did not think much of it at all.

But her mother, who had been walking by, was at once aghast.

She is alive, was all Adonia first said by way of explanation.

She is not, her mother said. Why would you want to hurt her, if you thought she was?

I did not want to hurt her. Angry, suddenly, and uncertain why, Adonia asked, What is she for, if she does not do anything at all? If she only stands there, laughing, day in and day out?

Her mother looked at her quite sadly, then. It would be many years before Adonia understood why, and when she did, she would make a very similar face. She brings people joy, little love. Just by being. She does not need to do anything but that.

After that, Adonia came to live like the statuette.

She brushed through her hair, until it shone, until every strand was separate and fine.

She donned the latest fashions, in royal colors, in eminent cuts.

She laughed, beautiful and tinkling, in the way that males preferred.

Not a single suitor came by without heaping compliments on her.

When she attended court for the first time and the mating bond snapped between her and Emile — when she felt it, before he had even looked her way — when she could not keep from blurting it out and earning his sneer — she was glad that even for her indignity in the moment, all she needed to do was be, and she would soon bring him joy.

Sitting at his side now, Adonia stares into the flickering centerpiece of the banquet table and thinks to the statuette, as she has not done for some time. In her memory, it is alive. In her memory, it is still a pixie, tricky, devious, aflame.

The fire before her goes out. It is such a trivial use of her ability that she waves her hand before she can think better of it, and the flame roars back to life.

In her periphery, Emile’s grip on his fork tightens. He interrupts his conversation to snap, “That is servants’ work, Adonia.”

One of his brothers snorts from across the table, just as she murmurs out, “Apologies, my lord.”

Emile cuts a look to him. “Something amusing, Marius?”

But it is the same-faced one beside who leans forth and says, “It’s such low-hanging fruit. Must we even give it voice?”

Marius laughs, then incites the fire into a dance between them.

Silas waves a hand, and a centerpiece down the table flares up. “Come now, Emile,” he says, tipping his head to the other end of the table, where a third candle burns tame. “Your turn.”

In her lap, Adonia feels her fingers twitch. She does not mean for them to. It is much like setting the statuette on fire: frustration set free.

The flame soars towards the ceiling.

Down the table, the eldest brother issues command, cutting and final: “Enough.”

All of the centerpieces die down, abruptly.

Emile, staring daggers at his brothers across, thankfully does not seem to realize it was her who lit the third. But the twins do.

Marius slides his eyes to meet hers and smirks, a clandestine curve to the corner of his mouth.

Adonia drops her gaze to her plate.

But late into the night, when Emile has left their bed in pursuit of another, she dreams about it: a statuette burning up into a pixie, and a male who prefers her that way.

[intothefairiesland]

Chapter 1 ― Secret garden in my mind

I hate it here so I will go to secret gardens in my mind People need a key to get to The only one is mine

Richard Wilson, Lake Nemi and Genzano from the Terrace of the Capuchin Monastery, ca. 1756–57, The Met, New-York.

N.B: It took me 5 months to finally publish!! The truth is, I was a bit scared to publish this first story and I don’t know if it will be liked… (but I’m convinced that we should always do the things we enjoy in life without expecting anything in return!). I hope you’ll enjoy this first chapter. Since I'm not bilingual in english, I probably made some mistakes, and I apologize for that! I’d love to hear your feedback. You can follow me on Twitter: https://x.com/thefairiesland. Love, Abby xx

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1807 ―

Emma stayed there, immobile, captivated by what was before her. It was the first time she had entered such a place. She had read in the newspaper, which she had brought to Lady Alice’s drawing-room the day before, about the exhibition at the Royal Academy of Art, where entry was free at certain times of the day.

She didn’t quite know why she had stopped in front of this particular painting. There were others that were spectacular, larger, more technically accomplished, she told herself, but her eyes had landed on this one, and now, twenty-five minutes had passed without her moving. It was an idyllic sunset landscape, bathed in soft, golden light. A landscape she had never seen before. Since her childhood, her parents had worked for the Braybrooke family, and the only places she had visited were the roads of Kent leading to the family’s country house. To the right, towering trees, including umbrella pines and cypress trees, majestically framed the scene. Their dense foliage contrasted with the clear sky, blending into pastel shades of blue and yellow. Emma was mesmerized by the precision of the colors and the choice of the gradient that made the sky so soft, one could almost imagine bathing in it. In the center, was a house? A palace? Her knowledge of architecture and history was limited, but what was certain was that she would have given anything to discover this place.

This painting confirmed what she had always wanted to do: paint. Since her earliest childhood, Emma had drawn—or rather, scribbled, as her parents would say. Scribbling on a scrap of paper for a few minutes each day brought her all the serenity a young girl could dream of. Despite a life filled with thankless tasks in the service of others, Emma was happy as long as her dreams were put on paper. She considered herself fortunate. Her parents and grandparents before them had all worked for the Braybrooke family. Her father was the first butler, her mother a housekeeper, and she would later become the lady's maid to Louise, the youngest daughter of the family. Unlike many other London aristocratic families, the Braybrooke family, who were mere barons, had always treated Emma like their second daughter. This may have been because the family had only inherited the title of baron 20 years ago and were not the greatest defendeurs of British noble etiquette. As the only child of the servants, she enjoyed a special place and had always been close, as much as etiquette allowed, to the mistress of the house, Lady Alice. From a young age, she had attended a few lessons in reading, sewing, mathematics, and drawing. Music, dance, and horseback riding were not part of the lessons she had been allowed to follow, as her parents considered them unnecessary.

At 15, Louise had discovered Emma’s talent, and to showcase it, she had presented her sketchbook to her teacher, pretending it belonged to her. Impressed by her works, he didn’t hide his admiration but remained pragmatic: “If you were your brother, you would already have a guaranteed spot at the summer exhibition.” Emma was thus supported as much as possible by her family, which allowed her to take a few hours to devote herself to her passion.

One thing was certain as she stood before the painting: she would follow her passion, no matter the cost, and one day, she would visit that Lake Nemi where the artist had sat to paint this very scene.

1815 ―

The entrance to the tiny classroom located on the top floor of the Royal Academy was through a hidden door, away from prying eyes. The class started at 6 p.m., lasted an hour, and took place three times a week. This was far fewer hours than their male counterparts, but it was what Professor Toms had agreed to with Emma and her two fellow models. Emma posed several times a week in exchange for valuable advice to improve her art.

The lesson of the day was still life.

“The most important thing,” Professor Toms began, “is light and texture. You want to draw a beautiful juicy apple and make the viewer want to reach into the painting and eat it.”

Emma had already redrawn her apple four times in an hour. This time was too much, she tore the paper and took a deep breath.

“Patience is not one of your virtues, Miss Watts? I thought being a model would have taught you patience.”

Emma smiled and didn’t respond to Professor Toms’ somewhat inappropriate comment. While he taught three hours a week for free to women, it was clear that this was not done out of goodwill. Though the talent of his females students was evident, he knew it would lead to nothing to teach women the art of painting. The fact was that Emma was not patient. The hours modeling, half-naked or draped in luxurious fabric, felt like an eternity. She ignored the looks of men who sometimes stared, somewhat interested, at her body, as well as the unflattering comments about her too large breats, her too round face, and her hands often stained with paint. During these hours, Emma drifted off into her secret garden, in her head, far from everything. She imagined herself standing at her easel in the middle of nature, her bare feet in the grass.

The hour was coming to an end, and the charcoal drawing of the apple Emma had made was hideous and would have poisoned anyone who dared to try to eat it. Emma was also sure she was much better at portraits than nature morte, and she would get her revenge in the next class. Unlike the male students of the Academy, the three fake female students had to bring their own materials: the easel, paint, canvas, charcoal, and sometimes even the subjects to be drawn. An arrangement which, Professor Toms thought, would discourage the three participants. However, for months, none had missed a class. Bessy, or Lady Bessy Johns, came from a noble family, recently arrived from the north of Scotland. Her accent, both melodic and harsh, made Emma smile but unsettled the entire London society. So she didn’t speak much, bowing to silence, but was skilled at painting flowers and other details in still lifes. Lady Claire Neville, on the other hand, came from a gentry family from Surrey and was the opposite of Bessy: blunt and talkative, she never missed an opportunity to remind everyone that she wished to become “the greatest female painter this world has ever known.” Emma, although naturally optimistic, was known to be down-to-earth and realistic. A painter, yes, but certainly not recognized.

Bessy and Claire came from families rich enough to bribe the professors at the Academy and also had a carriage at their disposal to carry all the required materials. Emma, on the other hand, struggled to carry all her equipment under her arms, in her hands, or in her old leather bag. The Braybrooke family lived in Mayfair like many other aristocratic London families, which was quite convenient since the Academy was just a few steps away. So, as every night for the past year, Emma carefully packed away her instruments (carefully, because they had cost all her savings and her parents’ savings, and carefully because, with only two arms, she had to make everything fit into her bag).

In June, the air was warm, though night had already fallen a few hours earlier. Emma felt tired but not yet enough to go to bed. She thought, on her way back, that she could still take an hour to draw an apple again, with all the reflections and texture this time.

[prythianpages]

ACOSM | The Night she met Cassian

azriel x rhy's sis (oc)

*Azriel is not in this particular imagine as this was before he met Rhys, Cass and Val.

warnings: fluff/mild angst

A/N: this is an imagine among my collection of imagines that follow Rhysand's sister, Valeria. This is when Cassian gets introduced to their life. You can find the masterlist for the collection of imagines here.

**

Windhaven was cold, dark and uninviting. It lacked the warmth and joy Velaris radiated. Still, Valeria preferred to be here as she found a strange comfort in the seemingly desolate place. Home was wherever her family was and for the time being, it was necessary for Rhysand to spend his adolescent years here.

 It was a huge adjustment for her as the Illyrians in the camp did not take kindly to her free-spirited nature. How dare a young girl act like the child she is? It became abundantly clear to her that she had to tread carefully, being mindful not to transgress the rigid boundaries set by the Illyrians. The boundaries that were interlaced with the toxic threads of misogyny and patriarchy in the disguise of tradition.

Days slipped away swiftly within Windhaven's clutches. Valeria's mother had taken it upon herself to oversee her daughter's education, a responsibility she gladly accepted. Lessons would commence after breakfast, right after bidding Rhysand farewell for his long day of training. Instead of delving into the teachings of “noble lady” etiquette, Valeria's days concluded with a needle and thread, her mother, a revered seamstress, guiding her through.

On days when tasks were few and far between, Valeria would dedicate her time to music. The violin, a gift from her mother, allowed her to lose herself in the gentle melodies. She did not expect to fall in love with music the way she did.

Her mother was overjoyed with this newfound passion. She continued to fuel it with more musical instruments. First, a harp and then finally, a piano. Valeria had been initially drawn to the allure of the violin, hoping to capture her father’s attention and follow in her grandmother’s footsteps. However, she found an unexpected sanctuary in the gentle embrace of the piano’s keys and preferred it to her other instruments.

Valeria gently set her violin down as her gaze wandered toward the window in her room, tracing the silhouette of her brother. Her brows knitted into deep furrows and she rushed to the window for a better look. The signs of a grueling training session were etched on Rhysand's features—bruised jaw and a cut lip with caked blood. It was not uncommon to find bruises on her brother’s face but as her eyes raked over his form, she also noticed the wince in his walk and the absence of the coat he had been wearing this morning before he left. 

The winds outside were chilling yet Rhysand looked unfazed by the cold. If anything, Valeria couldn’t help but sense a touch of smugness in his demeanor. Strange, she thought before rushing down the stairs to greet him. She itched to ask about his day, as she always did.

“Rhysand!” Their mother called out as she met her children in the foyer with wide eyes. “What happened to your sweet face?”

Rhysand shrugged as he stuffed his hands into his pockets. “You should see the other boy.”

Valeria rolled her eyes at his arrogance. A trait of his that grew more and more apparent every day. A part of her secretly hoped that the other boy’s injuries were less and not as severe. While their mother scolded him for braving the cold without a coat, Valeria shifted her gaze towards the window in time to spot as a young boy passed by.

He appeared to be the same age as Rhysand and recognition dawned on her. She had seen him before. Multiple times, actually, as it was a daily sighting after training hours.

Although she did not know his name, she was aware of his identity. A bastard, as the camp referred to him as. He was the bastard son of another camp’s warrior. He was separated from his mother at a young age and forced to fend for himself and train here. Val couldn't fathom a life devoid of warmth, safety, or care, but she imagined it to be a dreadful existence. Nobody should endure such hardships. 

A nasty bruise adorned his eye and there was also a wince in his walk. She wondered if both Rhysand and this boy received lashings on their backs as punishment for any mayhem that may have caused in training. Unlike all the other days, the boy was appropriately dressed for the weather this cold day. Realization flashed within her eyes as she saw it was thanks to her brother’s coat.

Driven by curiosity, Valeria ventured outside, ignoring her mother’s scolding for leaving without her coat. She found herself eager to engage with the boy. She had been itching for an excuse to do so when she had learned why the camp shunned him. "Hey!" she called out as she approached him.

The boy paused and met her gaze.

"That’s my brother’s coat," she pointed out, the cold wind nipping at her cheeks.

The boy responded with a defensive glare, his long wavy hair whirling in the wind, but Valeria remained undeterred.

"Would you like to eat dinner with us?"

"I kicked your brother’s ass," the boy stated with a raise of his brow. A flicker of amusement flashed in his hazel eyes.

"I know," Valeria said, a smile playing on her lips.

"Valeria, it’s dinner time!" her mother's voice called out from the doorway. “Invite your friend!”

The boy weighed his options. He could go home, where there would be no dinner, but at least he’d be in the comfort of his own space. As tiny and humble the tent may be. Or he could accept the girl’s invitation and enjoy a warm dinner in her company, even if it meant entertaining whatever intentions she had. It couldn’t be that bad, right? And as the aroma of dinner made its way to him, his decision was clear.

As the evening sun painted the sky with hues of orange and gold, Valeria and the boy headed inside into the tranquility of her family’s home. The flickering candlelight casted shadows across the room and the scent of dinner filled the air.

Rhysand furrowed his brow, glancing at Valeria as both her and the boy approached the dining table. Rhysand made a motion and with a sigh, she followed her brother who led her back to the hallway. He leaned in close to whisper, encouraging her to keep her voice low too while their mother introduced herself to their guest and happily set another place at the table for him.

"Why is he here?”

“He has nowhere to go.” She whispered back.

“He has his tent!”

Valeria shot him a look. “It’s cold outside.”

“He has my coat.” Rhysand replied as he motioned to the injuries on his face.

“It’s cruel for him to be left on his own.”

Rhysand sighed as he leaned back, understanding dawning in his eyes. He recognized the gravity of the boy’s situation and although he couldn’t deny the ache to his injuries or the lashings they received as punishment for their brawl earlier, he was not mad about them. He would’ve done the same, if he were in the other boy’s shoes.  

Just then, a voice chimed in from the kitchen, where the boy had remained seated at the dining table. 

"I can hear you, you know," The boy interjected, a hint of pride in his tone. He had heard the entirety of their conversation.

Rhysand flicked Valeria’s forehead.

“Ow!” Valeria blinked, her hand flying to her forehead. “What was that for?”

“For not knowing how to whisper, you fool!”

“You’re the one who wanted an explanation.” Valeria shot back in defense, scowling at her brother.

 “I don’t need your pity.” 

The siblings turned to the boy, who now stood under the doorway and glowered at them. Valeria smiled warmly at the boy, extending an understanding gesture towards him. "Of course. We were just discussing that everyone deserves a warm meal and a place to call home." 

The boy’s expression softened at her kindness but he was wary of the pity that often accompanied such gestures. He disliked being seen as someone in need, even though that was the cruel reality of his life.

Their mother, sensing the need to ease the situation, spoke up. “Let’s hurry and eat dinner before it grows cold. Then, off to a warm bath and bed. For everyone.” She said, extending a genuine invitation to the boy with torn shoes. “We don’t have an extra room but we have an extra bed. You’re more than welcome to stay with us.”

The boy hesitated, battling with his pride. The prospect of a warm bath and a comfortable bed was enticing. After moments of contemplation, he managed a grateful bow of his head and accepted the offer.

As they gathered around the table, Cassian–as the boy had later introduced himself– found himself grateful for the warmth and acceptance of Valeria and her mother. He could not say the same for Rhysand, their animosity toward each other after their earlier brawl still strong and evident. He chose to ignore him, opting to exchange casual conversation with their mother and finding humor in the looks Valeria kept sending her brother instead.  

**

There were only three bedrooms upstairs.

One for Lady Yvaine, one for Valeria and one for Rhysand. Valeria had offered to move into her mother’s room but her instruments took up too much space and their mother also used her room as storage for her seamstress work so the idea was shot down. Much to both of their dismay, this resulted in Cassian and Rhysand reluctantly sharing a room. They had agreed, with a hint of humor, not to let their animosity reach murderous levels during their sleep.

Valeria thought that perhaps, Rhysand and Cassian would grow tired of their constant bickering and viciousness toward each other but it appeared it would take much longer than a couple of weeks for their animosity to resolve. Rhysand seemed to enjoy honing his newfound daemati skills at Cassian’s expense, taunting and teasing his mind. The tension often escalated into heated wrestling matches on the living room floor. 

Their mother decided to intervene.

Initially, she denied them supper when their fights escalated, hoping hunger would put an end to their quarrels. When that method no longer seemed to work, she devised a new approach. Bonding time, she called it. It involved the two boys sitting face-to-face, forced to give each other genuine compliments. Even Valeria found herself subject to this discipline when her bickering with Rhysand escalated.

Though Rhysand and Cassian no longer resorted to physical fighting–at least not in the confinements of their home–a new form of subtle passive aggression emerged. When Rhysand learned that Cassian loved peas, he made it a point to consume the majority of them, despite his personal distaste for them. In turn, Cassian became aware of Rhysand’s preference for chicken thighs and on nights they’d have roasted chicken, he would slyly ensure he secured the first pick of chicken thigh, despite his own preference for wings.

A month had passed since Cassian had moved into their home, and the dynamic between him and Rhysand remained a complex work in progress.

However, his bond with Valeria had blossomed into a relationship akin to that of a brother and sister. Initially born out of gratitude for her dinner invitation, Cassian's kindness toward Valeria had deepened as they spent more time together. On nights he wasn’t so tired from training, he’d join her in the living room.

Sometimes, they’d sing or draw together. Their drawings were often at Rhysand’s expense. Valeria had even moved her piano to the living room so that she could show him new songs she’d come up with. He couldn't help but notice Rhysand's subtle pouts whenever their conversations ventured into inside jokes, exclusive to their newfound friendship. Cassian was sincere in his intent but it was an added bonus that his growing closeness with her seemed to needle Rhysand.

**

As the night enveloped the household in a cozy embrace, Rhysand found himself wrestling with a whirlwind of emotions. He had always been close to Valeria, their bond unbreakable, but now seeing her befriend Cassian stirred something inside him. An unfamiliar pang of jealousy. 

He found himself approaching his mother later that evening in the dimly lit kitchen. Valeria had gone to wash up and Cassian had already excused himself to bed. Rhysand’s steps were heavy and as he loudly dragged one of the dining chairs to sit on it, he let out a loud sigh.

His mother, who had been cleaning the dishes, paused. A knowing smile touched her lips as she turned to lean against the sink and observe her son’s turmoil. 

“What troubles my little star?”

Rhysand fidgeted with his hands on the table. He was hesitant to open up, so his mother approached him. Her gentle hand reached out for his, offering comfort through her warm touch.

"I... I don't understand why Valeria is becoming so close to Cassian. You saw how she let him have the last lemon cake slice! She never offers me the last slice.”

"Rhysand," His mother said tenderly, "Valeria has a big heart. She is capable of forming many meaningful bonds and at the moment, Cassian is someone who needs a friend. He could use another one, you know.”

"But what about us?" Rhysand's voice quivered with insecurity.

"No new friendship can replace the bond you two share,” his mother assured him. “Valeria cherishes you deeply. You are, and always will be, her best brother."

Rhysand leaned into his mother’s embrace as her words sinked in, calming the storm of doubts and jealousy that raged within his heart earlier. 

**

Valeria stepped out of the bathroom and hummed quietly to herself. As she passed the room Rhysand and Cassian shared, she noticed the door slightly ajar. Rhysand was still downstairs with their mother but she caught a glimpse of Cassian, who was alone, gazing out the window with tears glistening in his eyes. She recognized the look in his eyes– it was a glimpse into his vulnerable heart.

Deciding she had to do something about her friend’s sadness, Valeria made her way to her room to retrieve something precious to her. It was a  figurine her mother had given her before first leaving for Windhaven. The obsidian figure depicted an Illyrian mother cradling her child, a symbol of protection and love. It had brought her immense comfort in the absence of her mother's physical presence.

Approaching Cassian's room with delicate steps, she caught the sight of him hastily wiping at his eyes. He turned as he heard her footsteps, meeting her gentle gaze. 

Valeria held out the figurine, her voice soft and comforting. “My mother gave this to me when she had to leave. Although she was not with me, she said this mother would take care of me.”

Cassian hesitantly took the figure made of pure obsidian into his hands and studied it intently. The craftsmanship was exquisite, capturing the essence of a mother's love and protection.

“The Mother watches over everyone,” Valeria added, her violet eyes conveying empathy and understanding.

“I hope it can bring you comfort like it did for me.”

A quiet and heartfelt “thanks” escaped Cassian’s lips. He was touched by Valeria's understanding. It was a subtle reassurance that he wasn't alone in this new journey.

**

Valeria found herself calling after Cassian the next morning. “Cassian, your coat!” she exclaimed in concern, hastening her steps to catch up to him. “You don’t want to be cold!”

Rhysand let out an exaggerated sigh as he followed after the two. “Cassian this. Cassian that. Does she not know she has a brother??”

Their mother, standing nearby and having overheard the banter, couldn't help but laugh at Rhysand's playful exasperation. She walked over, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“Of course she does, Rhys.” His mother replied, reminding him of their conversation the night before with a gentle squeeze to his shoulder. “You’re still the best big bruder,” she added, using the endearing term for “brother” Valeria had used for him when she was younger.

Oblivious to the conversation between her mother and Rhysand, Valeria ran back up to Rhysand. She grinned as she dug into the pocket of her coat and extended her hand out to Rhysand. “I saved you some for your walk to training.”

Rhysand’s lips curled into a grin of his own as he saw her hold out the leftover blueberries from the muffins she and her mother had baked earlier. She had carefully wrapped them in a cloth for him. Blueberries were his favorite.

 “Go on, now. You don’t want to be late,” his mother said as she gave him a gentle push.

Rhysand took the blueberries from Valeria with a quick thanks and ran to catch up with Cassian. His grin grew wider. The warmth of his mother's reassurance and the small treat in his hand thawed any lingering traces of jealousy or insecurity he might have felt.

He knew that despite the newfound bond Valeria had with Cassian, their sibling relationship remained strong and unbreakable.

***

Tag list: @justrepostandlove @kemillyfreitas

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for missing rehearsals for a concert?

I (17X) play the cello and am participating in my local conservatorium’s string ensembles concert in three days. I have been aware of the concert since the start of term (aka four weeks ago). For the first three weeks of this term, I have been completing my final high school exams (I can’t be more specific because it differs wordwide, but they’re the exams that acknowledge that you’ve fully completed your secondary education y’know) so that was obviously very intense and I had a lot on my plate. At the start of term, my cello teacher S (late 20s?F) told me that I’d be playing a solo in the big finale piece that everyone from every ensemble plays in, as I’m one of the more advanced students. I was given the music for this at the start of term, and we have been practicing it in our weekly lessons so that I am prepared. There will be a rehearsal for this piece a few hours before the concert begins. I was also aware that I was performing in my school strings ensemble (which is a piece I have played before with the ensemble and am familiar with), and S also organised that the four Year 12 students (including me) would play a piece together. She organised to have three rehearsals for this on the three days before the concert (aka today, tomorrow and the next). As by this time I knew I would have finished all my exams, I told her that I should be free to be at these rehearsals.

Since finishing high school a week ago, I have gotten a job at a local café, as I haven’t had a job in high school like most people due to not having time with my music commitments. Unfortunately, I was rostered to have work on the days of the first Year 12 piece rehearsal (aka today), the third Year 12 piece rehearsal, and the day of the concert itself (so I would miss the finale piece rehearsal beforehand and would just make it on time for the concert). I considered trying to swap these shifts so that I could go, but A) given that I am brand new (today was my third ever shift) I didn’t think it would be a good idea to try and get out of it so early on in my employment, and B) I didn’t actually have any way to contact a manager and ask for shifts off until today because they hadn’t properly sorted out my paperwork and information yet. I tried to look for solutions for this, but yesterday I decided that I just wouldn’t be able to make it, so I message S to inform her and apologise. She obviously wasn’t happy about this (she started her reply with “yikes”), and checked to see whether I was still happy to play in the school string piece (which I confirmed) and asked whether I was able to play in the concert with another ensemble that I used to play in (I said yes, and she said she’d get the music to me). I left it at this, with the intention to practice my pieces a lot over the next few days.

Today, both me and my mum received an email from S. She was quite angry about the fact that I wasn’t able to attend two out of the three Year 12 piece rehearsals, calling it bad etiquette and saying that it “reflects poorly in the professional world”. (I agree that it wasn’t great for me to have to pull out of those rehearsals when I had previously said that I should be available, but as I said above, I wasn’t really in a position where I could change this). She also said that I was supposed to be at school strings rehearsals yesterday, and at rehearsals for the ensemble I’m no longer in and was only just asked to play in. In this ensemble’s rehearsal, they also ran through the finale piece that I am playing a solo in (which I wasn’t aware they would be doing). S claimed that I had been told that I was supposed to be at these rehearsals this week — I have absolutely zero recollection of this, to the point where I doubt I was asked, but if I was, it was before or during my exams, in which case it doesn’t surprise me that I forgot, as I was highly stressed and just trying to focus on getting through school. I was never given another reminder to be there, so I had no idea I was supposed to be at the rehearsals yesterday. Because of how annoyed she was, I was forced to speak to someone about leaving my shift on the concert day early so that I can attend the rehearsal beforehand, but I’m still not able to attend the Year 12 piece rehearsal in two days time.

I feel really bad about the whole thing, because I genuinely am quite close with S and I know she’s put in a lot of effort to this concert. However, I feel like she’s being unfair in her annoyance. I was unaware I had to be at any rehearsals yesterday because this wasn’t clearly communicated to me (and even if to others it was implied that I should be there, I’m not the kind of person that will pick up on this — I need to be explicitly told). If I had known I was expected to be there, I absolutely would have been there. And obviously not being able to go to the rehearsals because I’m working is frustrating, but I really don’t feel like I had much choice in the matter. If I had been working there for a while, I absolutely would have asked for the days off, but I feel like it’s unfair to expect me to try and cancel those shifts when I’ve only just started the job. I’m glad I’ve managed to arrange to be at the concert day rehearsal, so that I can practice the solo with the rest of the ensemble, but even if I hadn’t been able to, I’ve been practicing the piece and I’ve done performances where I haven’t had a proper rehearsal before, so I think it would have been fine.

Hopefully this made sense, I tried to provide as much detail as possible but I’m very tired and am struggling to be coherent, and it’s also hard to explain the situation through text. So, tl;dr, AITA for:

Not being at rehearsals yesterday that I was unaware I was supposed to be at?

Having to cancel rehearsals because I was rostered during those times?

What are these acronyms?

[noosayog]

[IT'S ALWAYS BEEN YOU] - knight! Iwaizumi x princess! reader

warnings/content: royal au, arranged marriage, mutual pining, angst

wc: 1.7k

part 4. directory here.

--

Iwaizumi has always been serious. He takes his studies seriously, his knight training seriously, his duties seriously. His primary school teachers often praised him for being a wonderful counterpart to Prince Oikawa’s flippantness and spells of melodrama, unbefitting of a future king. By the end of his first year of primary school, he had heard more compliments for his prompt leashing of Prince Oikawa than for his own achievements. Perfect scores would be praised for being a good example for the future king. Team athletics wins would be praised for making Prince Oikawa look good. Every achievement was marked by the effect it would have on the Prince. 

During Iwaizumi’s first visit to the palace, King Oikawa had said, “I’m glad to meet the young man who has been the subject of unending praises from all the teachers.” 

Iwaizumi had lifted his head from its bowed position, preening from the high praise. 

“Thank you, your Highness.” 

“I thank you for being an exemplary friend to keep my son in check.” 

Smile fading, Iwaizumi had bowed again, muttering an obligatory “of course, it is only my duty.” 

By the time Iwaizumi meets you, his station is very much established. He is your older brother’s companion, friend, and keeper. 

And his frequent visits to the castle translates to frequently seeing you. Oftentimes, he would offer you a wordless bow as you skipped around the palace, no particular destination or objective in mind. You were free, unlike your brother, destined to sit on the throne. The first time he ever spoke words to you, an introduction of himself, you had cut him off. 

“I know you,” you said. “You’re like Toru’s doggy!” 

No doubt, you had innocent intentions but Iwaizumi’s expression had frozen in place. You left him standing there while you frolicked away, blissfully unaware of how easily you had called him out. Even from your young age, you were unapologetically outspoken, no doubt a product of Toru’s spoiling and your parents’ leniency. Iwaizumi was happy to be added to your group of admirers, along with the maids, butlers, and visiting nobles that would trail after you, charmed by your innocence and brightness. Your straightforwardness, untainted by hidden desires and ulterior motives.

You, on the other hand, grew in your dislike for him. He had always suspected it had much to do with the way he always followed orders, solidifying his position as the kingdom’s dog in your little mind. He didn’t mind, though. Iwaizumi was happy to be near your sunny disposition, even if he had to be your raincloud occasionally. 

When Iwaizumi, along with Matsukawa and Hanamaki, were finally knighted, you were just then beginning to start your lessons and etiquette training. Iwaizumi took instant notice of your increasing tantrums and prickly behavior. Nothing irritated you more than knowing that every detail of your day was being reported to your father. 

The anger on your face could not be hidden when the King had formally assigned Iwaizumi as your personal knight. 

“I don’t need a babysitter, father!” 

“Silence! Your mother and I have been lenient enough for your childhood. You are coming of age soon and it would benefit you to learn from someone as upstanding as Sir Iwaizumi.” 

Iwaizumi stood stoic, only bowing a goodbye before following you, storming out of the throne room.

The first couple of months were tough. You did anything and everything to try to shake him from following you and yelled scathing comments everyday. However, it all changed that day when you had tried to sneak out of the castle by jumping your balcony. Iwaizumi’s heart nearly stopped when he saw your little palms gripping the rail and your body swinging precariously from the ledge. 

When he had caught you, your face was pinched up, as if bracing yourself for a lecture from him. And usually, he would. But Iwaizumi himself, was still calming his heartbeat from the fear that he may not have made it in time. Selfishly, he held you closer and tighter the entire way up to your room and it wasn’t until he went to lay you in your bed that he realized how scared you must have been. Your arms refused to unwind themselves from his neck and he simply stayed bent over, allowing you to use him however you pleased. 

After that, well, the rest was history. You abandoned your old methods of bullying him (well, the worst you could really do is make him stand behind you while you invited Hanamaki, Matsukawa, and your elder brother to tea). You swaddled him with attention and he, for once, was pleased to be on the other side. While he already very much liked your prickly, temperamental side, he found that he liked being on the receiving end of your smiles and laughter more. This period of gentle times made it easy to overlook your growing affection for him. He was grateful for your pleasantness and basked contentedly in your attention, so much so that he convinced himself that your newfound attachment to him was simply out of thankfulness and respect, something he didn’t have from you before.

It would be a lie to say that he had never once considered you as a woman upon your growth into your twenties. But whenever those thoughts crossed his mind, he immediately squashed them. He had gone on many midnight runs and requested spontaneous spars with fellow knights to banish those thoughts. You were a princess and he was simply a knight who was lucky enough to be friends with your brother. If he were to even consider breaking tradition and courting you, he would no longer be of use to you and Toru. He was sure the king would banish him from the castle, from seeing you and Toru ever again.

And in spite of all this, he never could have predicted that your feelings for him would remain strong throughout your adult years and even worse, threaten your path to happiness.

Yes, Iwaizumi had known about your engagement many moons before you were to find out. The king had plied Iwaizumi with a file of information on your future partner, prince Kuroo Testuro of Nekoma. It was only natural that Iwaizumi, as your knight and friend, did proper due diligence on the one who would take over his role permanently – his role of caring for you. The bitterness at the thought of being replaced is easy to ignore when he imagines how happy you would be with a partner befitting of your status. 

On paper, Kuroo Tetsuro looked the perfect partner, suitable for someone as wonderful as you. Well-liked, intelligent, and has no history of womanizing. Not that Iwaizumi cared, but the foreign prince was apparently tall, handsome, and funny as well. 

So in a way, this request for union with Nekoma came at a good time. Your prince would be someone all-around loved and lovely. Befitting of a princess.

And your infatuation with him? It has always been something temporary. Once you meet your future husband, you would see how much better you can have than a knight like himself.

Now, he knew you would oppose when the king told you of the betrothal; it wouldn’t be you without the spark of rebellion and slight flair of dramatics. You were your brother’s sister, after all. But nothing prepared Iwaizumi for the sheer despair in your eyes as your father all but prisoned you in your room. He followed you to your room, taking extra care to trail steps behind you. You just needed time, he nodded to himself. 

Intending to give you space and quiet, he remained at the door but you had tugged on his hand, pleading for his company. The signals were going off in his mind, but he couldn’t bear to turn you down, with your watery eyes and red cheeks staring imploringly up at him.

His fears were realized when you had asked him to run away with you.

A part of him that he had been denying and ignoring for years began to fester and throb like a wound that had been ignored for too long. He felt ill at the sight of you being willing to risk your future, your happiness, just to be with him. It was head-spinning, heart-throbbing madness.

And so it had to be him. He had to be the responsible one here. As much as it filled him to the brim with joy that you loved him this much, it scared him equally. Scared him because he had already made up his mind to let you go. Scared that he had far underestimated your infatuation. Scared him that he had made the wrong choice all these years, that he should have distanced himself the moment he realized your feelings. Scared that it was his fault that you won’t be able to fall in love with the right man. Scared that you could now never be happy because it can’t be him. All his fault.

With a breaking heart and shaky hands, he had pried your desperate fingers off. After all, his moment of weakness now could cause you your happiness forever.

And he would never forget your face when he had left you sitting there on the floor of your bedroom.

—

And in spite of all that, Iwaizumi felt betrayed. Betrayed by the on-paper, perfect Prince Kuroo when he heard of the prince’s proposition for you.

He can’t help but feel his efforts wasted. If only this prince had any idea of the clenched fists and unsaid words that Iwaizumi has had to hold back all these years. It should have been so easy for him. Without lifting a finger, this prince has a chance to be with you. To have you as his. And yet, he wants more. He wants you as his partner and another lover. 

This is not the happiness he had always envisioned for you. 

You deserve the world and a husband who loves you whole-heartedly is only the bare minimum.

Iwaizumi cannot believe his ears when you agree.

It gets worse when you send him home. With one word from you, he is not even allowed to remain by your side, watch over you as you attain the happiness you so deserve. He doesn’t know where it comes from, but a hot, bubbly feeling overflows in his chest. It leaves hollow caverns running through his body, nothing but the following thought echoing in his mind:

I’m in love with you.

[blackstargazer]

kys<3

Firstly, if you’re gonna tell someone “kys” say it with your chest, don’t hide behind an anonymous wall, coward.

Secondly, I can only assume that this was in response to my response to your unsolicited opinion on the wonderful piece @wormvirtues drew.

If that is the case, please note that it is entirely valid for you to have a differing opinion on the piece. Not everyone enjoys the same art, same works, same content as others and that is okay. You have your preferences and they don’t align with the work that was created.

What is not valid is you coming into an artist’s space after they spent hours working diligently to create something that wasn’t even for you and shit all over it because you didn’t enjoy it.

Lastly, here are some key etiquette lessons that can help you tremendously in your travels through fandom spaces:

1. Your Kink is Not My Kink (And That’s Okay!): More commonly known as the Kink Tomato! It means exactly what it says. You may not have a size difference kink, however there are many people that do. You wouldn’t want to be shamed for something you enjoy that others might not, right? So please don’t shit directly on someone’s work whether it be art, videos, or fics because you saw/read something you didn’t care for. It’s not for you and that’s fine, just keep on scrolling until you find something you like.

2. Don’t like, don’t read: Now, I realize this is mildly different because it’s art and it’s not like you can just unsee it, however, you can still acknowledge that this was not for you and again, just scroll on by.

3. Golden Rule (treat others as you would want to be treated): imagine you spend hours possibly days working on a piece, whether written, drawn, or recorded. You’ve put so much care and effort into this gift for a friend for their birthday because you care about them right? You want to show them how special they are to you, and then someone comes along and says it wasn’t good enough for them, that the characters you’ve created don’t match their perception and not only that but they try to shame you for ever having written/drawn/portrayed such a thing that was borne from love. Just because the creator put it out there for others to enjoy doesn’t mean it’s your job to ‘police’ their works. If you don’t like it, it’s not necessary for you to ruin a creator’s day by telling them how much you didn’t like it. Just scroll on by, find something you do like, and give that creator some love.

Which brings me to my last point:

4. Don’t comment if you have nothing positive to say: Artists/Cosplayers/Writers/etc aren’t looking for your criticism (unless specifically asked). They’re putting out their work in hopes that people will like it, and when people come into their dms/comments/public blogs/spaces giving unsolicited criticism on work that (I cannot emphasize enough) was not for them, it is incredibly fucking rude and discouraging and there is no place for that kind of behavior in public spaces (especially on the creator’s blog).

Please keep in mind that the people you are engaging with on the internet are not just avatars but living breathing human beings, just like yourself. They have thoughts and feelings and a desire to create and just because it isn’t something you enjoy, doesn’t mean you have to shit on then for having the “audacity” to create and post something not to your liking.

Side note: When you gain some maturity (please see your anonymous ask), I am open to discussing differences in opinion on kinks/preferences within the fandom, because as I stated before everyone is entitled to their opinions and views as to how they see characterizations. Just don’t shit on people because their opinions differ from yours and especially don’t shit on creators who have made a thing free of charge for others’ viewing pleasure. It is easy to have a conversation about how you view characters differently when you keep an open mind that your preferences may not align. <3