#IT WAS A STAINED GLASS VARIATION OF THE TRUTH!!!!!

[princess-of-purple-prose]

Almost cried in the car today constructing a mob animation to "neptune" by sleeping at last today ✌️

[formorethananame]

“Do you want to hear the dream I had about us last night?” (from Misty to Sunny)

Sunny slides his hands up Misty's sides. He watches the way the fabric of her shirt bunches under his fingertips, watches the way more and more of her skin is exposed.

The shirt is one of his, yet another way of Misty claiming him as hers. It warms him in a way he can't quite describe.

"Tell me, baby."

Sunny lets his hands slide under the shirt. Misty's skin is terribly soft, and sometimes, he worries that the callouses on his fingers will harm her somehow. For all of her might, she's still so delicate, and the idea of that delicacy coming to ruin is hard to bear.

Sunny sits up. He kisses Misty gently, slides his hands around to her back to hold her against him. He's curious, and that gleam in her eye tells him what she's going to say is something wicked.

"What did you dream about? Were we naked? I like it best when we're naked."

[ignisregina]

@shireentheunburnt from here

Shireen giggled, agreeing with Marianne there. Councils could indeed be tedious, even upsetting, events, as had been proven time and time again. Still... "A dear friend of mine once declared that 'a king protects his people or he is no king at all'. I think being a king, or queen, is far more than the power the title, the crown, bestows. For, if a ruler cares naught for their people, then, surely, they are false. The people should come before the person responsible for them, always."

"A moment, don't tell me just yet." Propping her head on her palm, Marianne feigned to think deeply. "Is this dear friend yours, mayhap, a bearded man? Short of few fingers?" Once more her lips pulled into a thin smile. Of course, it's Ser Davos, which was a shame - not because the knight was bad company but surely, Shireen should have more good friends closer to her age than her father's. "I have seen men do evil things for the sake of their people, sadly. Power is shiny, bright - it blinds." Fortunately, she was able to stop herself from saying more on the bleak subject. "And this is why, milady, we shall work on finding you friends that are your age."

[betweensaintsandmonsters]

i haven't written any of the time war fic bc i got too stuck in the meta world building but my brain has caught on to a song lyric for a title so that might be the spark i need to write this

[madeofstardustandmagic]

I started writing today :)))

i desperately want to write a fic where remus is struggling with believing sirius could love him and he's grappling with sirius telling him he'd love him in any universe, until he starts waking up in different universes where him and sirius fall in love through like all the major fanfiction tropes, except for one where they don't (right person, wrong time/ mcd) and finally he wakes up in his world and there's a big confrontation

all that being said, the scope scares me and a million writers could do it a million times better Edit: see my reblog of this for some important questions

[velidewrites]

Lucien has long given up on his crush on Elain Archeron — until she drops by his flower shop to return a bouquet from her now ex-boyfriend.

OR

Elucien Flower Shop AU except that Lucien is the florist.

Notes: This is my contribution for Day 5: Nature of @elucienweekofficial!

Warnings: Graysen, Lucien's slutty apron

Read on AO3

Lucien looked at the clock and sighed. He’d have to close the shop in about ten minutes—something he was actually supposed to do fifteen minutes ago—a sign, if nothing else, that the time for stalling had long passed.

She obviously wasn’t coming, and it had been foolish of Lucien to hold out hope. Catching himself glimpsing at the open glass door every few minutes had become somewhat embarrassing—especially since he was pretty sure the woman in question didn’t even know his name.

Lucien knew hers, though. Elain Archeron. He liked the way it lilted on his tongue the first time he tried it, a sound so sweet it could very well have been a melody. He hadn’t tried since—hadn’t really dared to, fearing she might hear it somehow, even from her bakery a block away.

She dropped by almost every day, though, as if fate was intent on testing Lucien’s will until he cracked. He called her “miss” instead, which—of course—ended up being worse than actually saying her name. This nickname of sorts made Elain’s face light up every time, a small smile curling up the corner of her full, rosy lips, as though being addressed as such by someone so close to her own age amused her. Lucien, frankly, didn’t care if she found it silly—he was simply content to watch that pretty smile of hers and know he was the reason behind it.

Besides her beauty, so breathtaking he still was not entirely sure she wasn’t some kind of hallucination from all the colourful scents surrounding him, Lucien knew a grand total of two things about Elain Archeron. One: she enjoyed baking, which resulted in her hands almost always being stained in some kind of flour or spice, and two: she had a particular affinity for flowers, which was just as well, because it always led her right to him.

To be fair, there weren’t any other flower shops in the area that she could choose from, but Lucien conveniently chose to omit the fact. It was easy to forget anyway, when she would show up in the doorframe nearly every day, her silhouette lit up by the golden sunlight. She looked like a spirit sent down to Earth to bless him with her beauty—or haunt him, perhaps, given that there was no way Lucien could ever do anything more than stare.

It was a very cruel punishment, really, and lately Lucien began to wonder what, exactly, he had done to deserve it. He’d always been a hardworking man—finished college with outstanding scores, opened his small business and he liked to think he was kind—better than his wretched family, at least, which, truth be told, was not exactly a difficult thing to achieve. Perhaps fate was punishing him simply for being born into it, and to be completely honest—Lucien wasn’t sure he could blame it.

Punishment or not, Lucien wasn’t sure he could live without it, anyway. He’d grown used to the frequent visits from the beautiful baker, always looking for fresh flowers to liven up her place whenever she made her way back from work. She went for tulips nearly every time—of different colours and crowns, yes, but they still seemed to be her preference, and ever since it had become obvious, Lucien began ordering new variations every week. It was an effort Elain had definitely noticed, sometimes playfully teasing him about his indecisiveness, though she’d always chosen the newest option instead of going for the standard pink. To Lucien, it was rewarding enough.

She’d gone home with a pretty purple bouquet yesterday, and Lucien told himself it was the only reason she hadn’t come today—the flowers were of good enough quality to last her more than the usual few days, giving her no reason to drop by again today.

Still, he’d kept the shop open. Just in case.

It was almost 6pm, though, and Lucien did need to get home eventually. He sighed again, throwing his white apron over his shoulder and eyeing the old green stain he was pretty sure was never coming off no matter how many times he washed it.

Today was a busy day—maybe it was a good thing Elain hadn’t come. Lucien would go straight home and—

The little bell tied to the doorway rang, and Lucien’s head snapped toward the sound.

She came.

“Oh! I’m too late, aren’t I?” Elain’s honey-brown eyes flickered to Lucien’s apron. “Oh. I’m ah, sorry, I—”

“No!” Lucien cleared his throat. “No, I mean—you’re good. I wasn’t going to close for another ten minutes or so.

It was definitely wishful thinking, but Lucien could have sworn her gaze dipped lower, right where he’d rolled up his sleeves earlier to avoid the thorns cutting through his linen shirt. He flexed his arms as if on instinct, feeling immediately stupid afterwards and awkwardly shifting on his feet.

Still fixed on his half-bare arms, Elain said, “I thought you closed at 5:30?”

“There was a late delivery,” Lucien lied, wondering if she could tell. He summoned the usual joke to help cover it up. “Anything I can help you with, miss?”

There it was. That damned smile, more beautiful than any blooming flower he’d ever sold. Elain’s lips parted slightly, revealing a perfect set of pearl-white teeth—Lucien could not believe he was lucky enough to be on the receiving end of Elain’s grin.

“Well—yes, actually. There is.” Her smile faltered slightly as she spoke, and Lucien frowned.

“Don’t tell me the Rembrandts wilted already?” The Rembrandt tulips, if handled by the right hands, could last well over a week.

“Oh, no—they are perfect,” she assured him. “I’m…well, I’m actually here to return these.”

It was only then that Lucien realised Elain was actually holding something—a bouquet so familiar it couldn’t have been made by anyone other than himself. A bouquet he’d sold just this morning—to Elain Archeron’s boyfriend.

She and Graysen Nolan—Lucien had finally learned his name after he’d placed the order—had been dating ever since he could remember. Graysen’s card stated he was an accountant for a well-known corporation downtown, which explained the insane price he paid for the gift. Lucien, of course, did not dare to suggest his girlfriend might have preferred something less ostentatious—from what he’d gathered, Elain was not the type to revel in thirty long-stemmed red roses, their leaves adorned with a thin layer of real gold, all finished off by a silk ribbon and heavy perfume. Lucien had simply assembled the bouquet and charged him the price, almost as ridiculous as the bouquet himself.

Special occasion? he’d asked Graysen then, unable to help himself. He’d recognised him the minute he walked into Lucien’s shop—he’d seen him pick Elain up from work too many times to count. For some reason, though, she’d never brought Graysen to buy flowers with her.

The man merely shrugged. Something like that, he chuckled, then added, as if he and Lucien were old friends, Women. You know how they are—gotta give them something pretty whenever they get too mad.

Lucien tried not to take too much hope in that—still, he couldn’t help but sneak a sly smile. So the two of them were fighting—and he doubted this monstrosity of a bouquet would be any help at all.

It seemed that he was right.

“There’s nothing wrong with them,” Elain added quickly. “I just…” she took a levelling breath. “Some people just can’t seem to let go.”

“Oh.”

Oh? Seriously?

“I’m sorry,” Lucien continued a shade pathetically. “It must be…hard.”

Elain hummed. “Not as hard as I thought it would be.”

He studied her beautiful face as she spoke, wondering if there was any chance she knew about the singular, white streak of flour staining her cheek. Wondering if she'd toss his hand away if he dared to swipe his thumb across it, marvelling at the softness of her skin. She probably would.

She definitely would, Lucien corrected himself silently—he couldn’t possibly ask her out if she’d just gotten out of a relationship. Elain had always been so close, yet completely out of his reach—life liked to be cruel this way, it seemed.

Lucien had only tried to get over her once—the first time he saw her plant a kiss on Graysen’s cheek, just outside of Lucien’s shop. He’d decided it was time to stop lusting after someone so obviously unattainable, and move on with his life. Dating apps were surprisingly easy to figure out—Lucien had gotten himself a date not even two days later. Jesminda, from what he could see on her profile picture, was a pretty girl about to graduate from the local college and looking for some fun now that her finals were finally over. She was exactly what Lucien needed—distraction and fun. He’d promised to take her to the bowling alley a few minutes away from campus which Jesminda somehow had no idea existed—it had been Lucien and his friends’ favourite spot after his own exams last year, and he’d been excited to revisit.

Until, of course, Elain had shown up at the shop the morning before his date, golden-brown hair unbound and framing her face in soft waves. She was wearing her apron, a pale shade of yellow with the logo of her bakery, which meant she’d come straight from there—if the small paper bag in her hand wasn’t already enough of an indication.

Sorry to bother you so early, she’d said, as if she could ever. I made a few extra cinnamon rolls and thought you might like to try some.

Lucien had only gaped, which, in turn, had made her cheeks flush a lovely shade of pink. I hope you’re not allergic? Elain had asked.

No, he’d finally told her. No, it’s just…I forgot my breakfast this morning. Wound up in all the planning, he’d forgotten to pack the sandwich he’d made earlier, figuring he’d have to wait a few hours until he could finally appease his growling stomach at the date.

Oh, Elain had smiled at his words. Looks like it was meant to be, then.

Lucien had cancelled on Jesminda the minute Elain left. He had felt bad, of course, but there was no point in even trying to get over Elain—not after she’d beamed at him so bright even the morning sun dimmed in comparison.

Meant to be.

“Would it be alright, then?” Elain’s voice snapped him back to reality as she approached the counter. “To return it, I mean? It’s very beautiful—it’s just…”

“Not for you,” Lucien finished for her, earning a small nod and a shy smile. “Yeah, it’s no problem at all—thank you, actually. You could have just thrown it out.”

Elain looked as though the very idea appalled her. “I would never do that,” she said with a vehemence that made Lucien chuckle.

“Glad to hear it,” he said, freeing the bouquet from her hands. It still smelled strongly enough to make his nose wrinkle. Elain giggled at the sight, as if she knew exactly what Lucien had just been thinking.

The thought caused a surge of bravery to rise through him, so before he could really think it through, Lucien told her, “I didn’t think you’d like them, you know.”

Elain cocked her head to the side. “Am I that predictable?”

Lucien winked. “Only to me.”

Her cheeks heated, that pretty blush he’d been waiting for gracing her stunning features, and Lucien couldn’t help but feel as if he’d just won the lottery.

“You just don’t strike me as a roses kind of girl,” he added, and it made Elain’s brow arch.

“Oh? And what kind of girl do I seem like?”

Lucien placed the bouquet in a glass vase, considering before he turned to her again. “Roses like these have to be bred—carefully crossed, time and time again, until they achieve perfection—until they reach the desired shade of red or the curve of its petals. You…” he hesitated, meeting her gaze. “You need a flower that’s wild—a flower that grows tall and—and free, and…” Elain’s eyes shimmered, and Lucien was no longer sure he was still talking about flowers. He swallowed something tight in his throat. “And brighter than the very sun.”

Silence wrapped itself around the room, and for a moment, there was nothing but them and the light buzzing of the street outside. Elain simply looked at him, an incredulous expression on her face, as if this was the first time she was truly seeing him.

Unsure if he’d gone too far—if he’d taken her smile for a lot more than it actually had been—Lucien quickly cleared his throat. “Anyway—thank you again. I really appreciate you bringing these back.”

Elain blinked. “Oh—right. It’s no problem at all,” she said, and, unable to hold her gaze any longer, Lucien grabbed a nearby cloth and began polishing the already-shining counter. Yes, he’d definitely gone too far—she had just broken up with someone, and there he was, spewing some kind of nonsense about…about her wildness.

He could only pray Elain would leave before she noticed the furious blush beginning to stain his cheeks.

“Lucien?” she asked, and, his hand sweating over the cloth, Lucien looked up. She stood at the doorway, gleaming in the fading sunlight, watching him with such softness it knocked Lucien’s next breath from his lungs.

“Yeah?” he asked weakly.

Her smile widened. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

The world spun and locked back into place. “Yeah,” Lucien repeated, and found himself smiling back. “Yeah, Elain. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

A few minutes after she left, Lucien found himself scrolling through his order log until the rose bouquet from this morning finally appeared. He stared at the screen for a few seconds, his mouse hovering over the “Home Delivery” button like a beacon calling out his name. Hoping Elain wouldn’t kill him for this, he clicked on the details Graysen had provided until he found her address at last.

Tomorrow morning, Elain would wake up to a small bundle waiting at her doorstep—six sunflowers, tied together by a single, golden thread. Deep down, something told him she would like them.

Elucien Week Taglist (let me know if you'd like to be added!): @melting-houses-of-gold @areyoudreaminof @fieldofdaisiies @kingofsummer93 @witchlingsandwyverns @gracie-rosee @stickyelectrons @selesera @sv0430 @vulpes-fennec @captain-of-the-gwynriel-ship @screaming-opossum @autumndreaming7 @sunshinebingo @spell-cleavers @starfall-spirit @lectoradefics @this-is-rochelle @goldenmagnolias @bookeater34 @capbuckyfalcon @betterthaneveryword @tasha2627 @tenaciousdiplomatloverprune

[lyselkatz]

Pitch black, pale blue • There was a stained-glass, variation of the truth • And I felt empty-handed

I'm only honest when it rains • If I time it right, the thunder breaks • When I open my mouth • I wanna tell you, but I don't know how

Sleeping at Last - Neptune

I binged I am Nobody 異人之下 in 3 days and it's really good!! So many cool characters and I like many of them but I'm especially soft for ZhuGê Qing 諸葛青 and Wáng Yê 王也!

...☕?/commission

[formorethananame]

For Hwayoung, something pretty and practical:

For Tai, all of Yirim's favorite songs about him:

For Nao, something coveted from Woojin's hoard:

For Toi, an older camera decorated by Soo himself:

For Misty, to wear later when they experiment with the new camera and printer:

For Blue, her husband's fingerprint so that he's always with her:

For Raphael, a reminder that he's locked down for eternity now:

For Minsung, something pretty to wear later:

For Gyeongeun, because Saemi just can't help herself:

For Yongsun, plucked right out of his most favorite meal:

Secret Santa🎁 @formorethananame

From Hwayoung to Daemin🖤 She's gonna get him one of those thermal underwear sets to keep him warm during the winter

From Tai to Yirim🤎 He's gonna get him a nice quality wallet

From Nao to Woojin🧡 this year they're gonna make him these bags themselves, one to to remind him of their little friends in the woods and the other to remind him of his foxy boyfriend

From Toi to Moonsoo🩶 a professional 3D printing pen along with this vintage-looking keyboard

From Misty to Sunny🤍 portable mini printer for… reasons & instant camera for… reasons

From Blue to Cinnamon💞 these cute slippers that they can match and also this super cute hat

From Raphael to Corazon💖 purse and golden earrings + jewelry organizer

From Minsung to Teddy💗 silk gift set

From Gyeongeun to Saemi🩷 they got her something, and something that's rather nice, surprisingly enough

From Yongsun to Rowan❤️ BLOOD RINGS, BLOOD RINGS (and a necklace)

[deicidis]

Come Wander With Me

Morpheus x f!reader

Status: Completed one-shot, requested by anon 

Wordcount: 5.1K 

Warnings: light smut, religious trauma

Summary:  Morpheus finds the reincarnation of his former wife in the house of god. He tries to find out whether they could be each other again.

—

He came from the sunset

He came from the sea

He came from my sorrow

And can love only me

—

In that cool evening, when he sits in the park he frequents with his sister, The first sight of her binds his chest in a shrinking rope. 

Her laughter is the same tune from centuries ago. Millenniums. A familiar smile plasters on her face, laughing along with children, small fingers grasping her calf-length skirt, begging to go home. A silver cross hangs on her chest, winking under the sun. 

He is rooted to where he sits. Fear made him so. If he so much as blinked, twitch a finger, let out his tears, she could be taken from him and it all would just be an illusion. 

She walked away with a toddler on her arm and a boy no more than 7 hanging on to her hand. 

—

She dreams of a silver cage with a restless serpent trapped inside. She dreams she lays bare inside that cage, voiceless and decaying inwards. 

Morpheus is the king of dreams. Every creature that sleeps he knows them all. But this, watching her dreams, quenching his thirst with slivers of imagery feels like a violation because she bears the face of his long-deceased mortal wife taken too soon by his sister. Some ages ago when mankind’s hubris offended god that he decided to converge their speech in other variations. 

The curse of the endless is that every aspect of themselves is also endless. His contempt is everlasting, his rage stretches for centuries. His love eternal. Nada, Calliope, Kilalla, (y/n). Each of them unequivocally holds a part of him. But his dear (y/n)... half of his being, the only one who could take him completely has gone. Her shadow is the only part he has of her, carved on the marrow and the spine of the dreaming. 

If he could take the chance to recover what was…

He rises from his throne and sets himself to where she dwells

  —

The convent she lives in is on the same grounds as the church. A small one that had only been thrice renovated despite being 3 centuries old. 

He pushes through the double-lidded door, and he finds her figure in a black habit lighting a prayer candle before a stained glass that depicts a saint on the wall to his right.

He steadies his heart. Swallows the heaviness in his throat. His feet carry him to approach her. 

“Will you tell me about this saint, sister…” He trails his voice in hope that she would catch his meaning. 

He sees her hesitation. 

“(Y/n).” her voice throws him to his days as a husband, and he feels slightly lightheaded. The ground feels unsteady under his feet. 

Even her name is the same. 

“Saint Anthony of Padua.” She shifts her gaze to the stained glass. Her face glows with light refractions in arrays of blue, red and purple. 

“Patron saint of lost items, lost people, lost causes and souls.” she continues. 

Morpheus silently clears his throat. 

“Should one pray to this saint, will my lost one be returned to me?”

“If God wills it.” Her voice is low and quiet. If he was a mortal being he would not hear it. But he hears her clear as day. The growing strands of her hair and her decaying cells if he wants to. 

There is nothing more to say. The truth is he doesn’t know what to say. 

She walks away from the room and he merely watches her. 

Morpheus takes an unlit candle, burns the twine in the fire she lit moments ago. 

—

He comes to pray beside her before the saint the next day. The next, and then the next. He attends Sunday mass and shed his coat in the summer to blend in with the congregation.

He still doesn’t know how to properly make conversation with her for she doesn’t seem to have the inclination to make small talk with him either. She seems to be—understandably—wary of new people. 

He really can’t just say hello, you are the carbon copy of my dead wife and I want to get to know you.

All he manages to say is formal pleasantries that she meets with polite nods or few syllable answers. Then she returns to pray before the Saint. 

He finally summons the fates and asks if she is truly her wife in some form of rebirth he doesn’t understand, and the fates confirm that she is the direct descendant of the same family tree. She might be her very own reincarnation, but that answer would cost him a higher price to pay. 

“What is it that you gain by putting her in my path?” sometimes the thought of her pierces him a little too hard, unbalances his breathing. The fates are cruel creatures he knows of this, but to play with his dearest one like this—

“Dream, you speak as if your brother is not Destiny itself.” The maiden wears a coy smile. 

—

When he visits the church again (y/n) is not to be found. He asks Sister Siobhan—the matronly old woman who always greets him kindly—and informed him that she had fallen ill. A sudden fever struck her and she resides in her room

“Would it be alright to pass her my well wishes?”

Sister Siobhan hums as she rests her arm on the tip of her broom.

“What do you have in mind?”

He sends her large bouquets of flowers and some sweets she might like with a get-well-soon card. Then he visits her dream that night. 

Trapped bare in the cage with a sleeping Serpent, (y/n) lays on its scales. Her hand rests on her stomach. Her breathing rags. 

As if she understands his presence is not conjured from her subconscious, her eyes are probing him, wrings his inside with little thrill, the eyes that used to bloom flowers in the Dreaming in its image. 

“What are you doing here?” she rasps. Morpheus has no words to answer that question. 

—

He waits for 3 days until he visits her again. Relieved when she sees her figure praying in front of Saint Anthony. 

“Thank you for the gifts. You didn’t have to do that.” She says when they’re standing side by side.

“I do.”  

“For what? You barely know me.” her brows crease slightly.

“I… would like to get to know you.”

She laughs. He swallows, it reminded him that laughter used to linger in his throne room, his library, his chamber… 

“I am married to god, Morpheus. My spouse is a jealous man.”

“I- enjoy your company. As a friend nothing more.” Morpheus doesn’t know whether his words are true. What it is he hoped to unearth within her. The soul of his former wife, a memory he hoped she’d remember, it all seems foolish but he had to try. 

 I want to know whether my wife is inside. 

��It’s funny, I saw you in my dream a couple of days ago. It feels… it feels like we’ve known each other for a long time.” 

Her words slightly tremble his hands.

“Perhaps an age ago we did.” he manage to say. 

“Perhaps.”

—

The life of a nun is bound by Christ, it requires her to be away from worldly endeavours. Morpheus know and understand this, he becomes patient with this fact. (y/n) doesn’t go outside much except for taking the orphan kids to the park or helping in the soup kitchen. He meets her on both occasions apart from visiting the church. 

“What do you do, Morpheus?” (y/n) asks after she swallowed a slice of Tangerine they currently share. The peel settles at the bottom of her net bag, along with 2 bottles of water for the orphan children after they stopped playing.

He ponders for a moment. 

“I’m a creator.” he takes another slice of Tangerine. 

“What do you create?”

“Everything.”

She chuckles at the ambiguity of his answer. 

“That’s a little vague.”

“One day I promise I will show them to you.” he gives her the last slice of the fruit. She puts it in her mouth, smiling. 

“Alright, I’ll be waiting.”

  —

What traces left of his wife he found is merely in her physical appearance, name and gestures the mortal eyes can easily be missed. Where his wife was an exploding cacophony of exuberance, (y/n) is quiet and talks as gently as winds of spring. 

He finds himself sinking deeper into her when she sits beside him watching the children play. A content look graced her lovely face. When her wilful kindness and her sense of duty come to act to help those who need help. When her patient voice would always come to her little orphan kids, to the needy. Her endless devotion to them. He can’t help but stand beside her to ladle soup into the bowls with her. He tries to wear the same warm smile just like her for the people who say thanks after each bowl. 

“There’s not much to know, this is all i am.” she says one afternoon when he walks her back to the convent from the Soup Kitchen.

“What you are is extraordinary, all of you.” he replies. He notes the little bashful smile she tries to contain. 

When they say their goodbyes at the gate of the church, Sister Siobhan stands at the doorstep, she gives him a knowing smile and look. 

Morpheus hides his own bashful smile as he walks away. 

—

“Why do you become a nun?” Morpheus asks at one point. Sitting beside her in the afternoon watching over the children play. Her leg crosses on top of the other. 

“I have a very religious family. I’m just following their footsteps.” she says quietly, in the tone only he could hear. 

“Do you believe in him?”

“God?”

He nods.

“i- hope he doesn’t.”

He waits for her to continue.

“I have many friends that would… that would…”

She trails, her eyes darting around the park. 

“He made parts of them that he rejects in his book. I almost hate him that way.” she finally says. 

“I understand. He can be fickle and obtuse.” 

“You made it sound like he owes you money.”

A smile creeps on Morpheus' face.

“Do you?” she returns. 

“No. He exists, but he is not of my belief.”

“And how do you know he exists?”

Morpheus turns his body towards her, drinking in the beauty of her eyes.

“Because he owes me money but lives in a mansion somewhere in Las Vegas.”

Gentle laugh breeze from her lips like winds of spring. Morpheus’s heart quickened slightly. The featherlike tingles on his stomach are something entirely new, relentless. 

—

Every week he looks forward to meeting her. There is not a second that passes that she stopped lingering in the crevices of his mind. A month turns into three, then six, and a year they develop a kinship with one another.

Her, this new form of his long-deceased wife that is in fact an entirely different being, eclipsed what he tried to find. Puts him to shame for his false pretences. 

He realised at one point when they prayed before the saint, when the refraction of light landed soft on her face, altogether he stopped looking for something that doesn’t exist. He chose to cherish her as a friend, her irreplaceable presence that comforts him in their routine. Her dearest (y/n). 

But lately, when he meets her, her eyes are sunken ever slightly. Her silence seems to be that of wariness instead of contentment. 

“You are troubled, (y/n).” he nudged her knee with his knuckle as they sit in the park again once they take the children home. An unusual request from her. 

Only her silence meets his observation.

“Are you alright?”

She focuses her eyes on the horizon instead of answering his question. 

“You can tell me anything.”

“I’m fine.” she snaps at him. Morpheus closes his mouth. Fall silent in resignation. But as moments pass he can feel her agitation, see her thumb digging into her palm. Notice the film over her eyes, an indescribable sort of anguish. 

“I’m sorry.” she sighs.

“Don’t be.” Morpheus assures her.

I used to…” she breathed. Hesitating for a moment. 

“I used to teach at the elementary few years ago. I remember that it was hard work, and the hours are long. But I never felt that sense of purpose in my entire life. It was all I wanted to be.”

She says quietly. Morpheus waits for her to continue.

“And I fell in love, you know, with one of the teachers there. She’s brilliant. And kind. She has a way that makes your insides just- melt into mush. I had the best summer holiday with her before my father found out.”

There is a yearning smile. Morpheus notes the tears gathered in her eyes. 

“He is a bigot and wealthy. There are no more dangerous traits than those combined in mankind.” she says then laugh bitterly.

“You took your vow unwillingly.” The realisation hits him.

“All because I love men and women equally.” she mutters bitterly.

“The sisters are kind enough to let me see you regularly, even sister Siobhan fought with my father for my release. They know that this life… it’s bleeding me dry.” 

Then there is nothing but hollowness in her eyes. All the rage and yearning and restlessness dissipate in a blink. In turn, he feels it tenfold.

“I could give you another.” he offers.

“You don’t know how powerful my father is.” she whispers. 

“I can assure you that would pose no problem for me.” 

“He’ll find me even at the edge of the world.” 

“I’ll make sure he won’t even so much as think of you.”

For a moment she looks hopeful, but the light is doused quickly.

“Leave the convent. Break your vows. You shall not be disturbed by your father.” 

“Please Morpheus. You’re being foolish.” irritation laces her words. 

“Trust me i-”

“Enough. No more, please.” she pleads. 

Desperate, Morpheus uses a last resort as he takes her hand. 

“You dream of a serpent trapped in a silver cage. Tonight you shall dream that she is free.”

“What?”

“Please. Trust me. I shall be with you when you walk away.” 

She contemplates his words, her eyes never leave his. Then she tips her face to the moon. To the horizon in the distance. She mulls over it for almost an hour, Morpheus is there beside her every second. 

—

Morpheus stands at the gate of the Church as he watches the sisters tearfully say their goodbyes to her on the doorstep. (y/n)’s eyes do the same thing, filmy and wet. She wave one last time and blow her kisses. But once she reaches the gates and walks away with him, her tears never fall. The usual cloud over her brows is replaced with something else, something light and easy. 

Hob Gadling is kind enough to let her stay at the New Inn upstairs. She settles there quietly. Resumes her teaching as a private tutor to the children of the parents who frequents the church. Resumes her service in taking the kids to the park and participating in the Soup Kitchen.  

Once they meet at the park again, when the last traces of sunlight sink in the horizon and the sky wear its dark blue, she asks him a long overdue question. 

“What did you do, Morpheus?”

He falls silent. For if he open his mouth, he fears that everything would pour from his lips and the truth would drive her away. The omission of truth lies heavy within him. But he could no longer do such a thing. 

She notes his unnatural silence. Her inquisitive eyes burn his profile as he rests his arms on his knees.

“What are you?” she whispers once more. 

Morpheus straightens his form. Then look her in her eyes.

“There are no words that would suffice to tell you what I truly am. I can only show you.” 

He offers her his hand. She eyes it cautiously, faint crease forms between her brows. But she takes his hand nonetheless.

—

She takes him so readily. Her eyes take in the Dreaming unflinching. Takes his nature without fear as he explains. There is even wonder twinking in her eyes. The part of her mouth in Awe of his Dreaming. Morpheus can’t help but preen under her marvel, never felt more proud of his creation.

Then he saw Lucienne’s bewildered face as he takes (y/n) to his throne room. It must be quite a sight that the ghost of her queen wanders the halls beside him. 

“My lord.” Lucienne greets him. Rigid and strained. 

“Lucienne, this is (y/n). My friend.” Morpheus notice the even widened eyes of the Dreaming’s librarian. 

“Welcome to the dreaming, Lady (y/n).”  Regardless of Lucienne’s bewilderment, she can’t help but give (y/n) a warm smile.

“Please, just (y/n). It’s nice to meet you.”  (y/n) returns Lucienne’s smile.

“Of course, (y/n).” Old habits die hard, Morpheus think of Lucienne. The title was used affectionately. After all, they were as close as any sisters could be when his former wife reigned beside him. He notes something of nostalgia in Lucienne’s eyes. The longing. The daze. Morpheus can imagine Lucienne’s feelings upon it, remembers he’s the one who felt it first. 

“Come, my friend. There is something I want to show you.” Morpheus beckons her to a hallway that leads to his chamber. As they walk through the stretching floor, on the wall to his left are the windows overlooking the sea of the Dreaming. On the wall to his right hangs all manner of paintings from all genres. Tonalism, Realism, Abstract and more. Subjects from still-life, animals, historical, vistas to portraiture. 

Morpheus stops at a portrait wedged between an abstract of Joan Miro and the tonalism artwork of Angel de Cora. He awaits for her response. 

“Who’s- who’s that?” she stumbles upon her words

“My former wife. The queen of the Dreaming.” In the style of Naturalism, he depicts her in draperies of white Muslins surrounded by bushes of her favourite flowers, smiling softly as her hands folded on her lap. He painted the portrait with his own hands, when his longing was too unbearable that he doesn’t know how to relieve that burden. 

“You are the descendant of the same family tree as her. Her name was (y/n).” The truth bursts from him. The guilt weighs too heavily. 

There is only silence. The slight labour of her breathing. She leans on the wall, trying to catch her breath. Morpheus paces to support her but she pushes his hand away.

“I want to go home.” she mutters under her breath. Refusing to look him in the eyes. 

“My friend-”

“Take me home.” She speaks with a finality in her voice. Morpheus understands whatever he would say after that point would be of no use to her well-being. So he nods and grants her wish. He commits her form, her face engulfed by sand as he watches her disappear. Not knowing if she truly lost to him once more.

—

The subjects of the Dreaming know that their king is in a state of agitation. They can feel it in the constant changing of the weather every hour. Some parts of the Dreaming plunges into sandstorm then rain, dry clear skies, drizzles of snow then sandstorm again in no particular order. The sun is quivering from one into three then four, as does the moon. 

Morpheus waits and waits and waits, until the second week passes and she calls his name. He appears outside of her room before she could finish mouthing all three syllables. 

She asks if he would like to accompany him to the park when she opens the door, at the very second of that midnight. 

They sit in silence. Barely illuminated by the white light with a tinge of pale blue from the lamppost in the distance. Neither knows how to start the conversation, Morpheus more than her. 

“What are you doing here Morpheus?”

He recognises her allusion. What is your intention with me?

“Do you wish me to be her?” there is a hint of fear in her voice.

“No, (y/n). I do not.” he muster earnestness as best as he can. 

“Do you pity me?”

“No. never that.”

“What are we doing Morpheus?” she whispers.

He falls silent.

“It’s true I approached you because you bear my former wife’s face. But I found myself comforted merely by your presence. I found myself thinking of who you are constantly, not who you’re supposed to be. I can assure you that you are far from what she was.” He says, his throat heavy.

She nods. Recognise the sincerity in his voice. Her quiet exhale sound that of relief. Then she takes his hand, he tangles his fingers around hers as he counts her tears dripping one by one. His own heart aches at the sight of it. 

“Thank you. For everything.” she whispers once more. His grip bound tighter. His whole being sinking into the pools of her irises. 

—

In no time, her list of students is growing, her lives are busier. Bountiful. Her smiles and laughs are lighter and airy. In several months she moves out of the Inn and lives in her own apartment she rents. And Morpheus is in every step she takes, admires how smart and sharp she is, how it is in her nature to be kind and gentle. How dear she becomes to his heart that it almost hurts. 

He would always be there whenever she needs him in any way, even so far the only thing she asks is nothing but his company, he would always give her more. Inspire her with the sweetest dreams. 

He frequents her apartment with all sorts of gifts. He’d bring her favourite flowers, her favourite takeout, books she might like, his own favourites, and her preferred brand of wine. 

This time he brought her a necklace forged from the stone of fiddler’s green that bears the same colour as her eyes. The stone is no bigger than her fingernail but she claims she never seen a stone so beautiful and otherworldly. So stupefying when a direct light hits it. She conveys her thanks and sheepishly turns on her back to let him clasp the necklace around her skin. His breath brushes her nape, he hears her heart beating erratically. The hairs on her arms stretching on ends. 

Now the jewellery dangles between her collarbones. 

He wishes his fingers could linger on her skin a little bit more.

“Pasta or Roast chicken?” she flutters away to the kitchen with his answer, her necklace winking under the afternoon sunset filtering through her apartment’s windows. 

Morpheus can’t help his own smile, strangely feeling mortal-like in their routine. He cherishes their routine.

—

  “This sounds like the bowels of Tartarus.” Morpheus says as he listens to one of her favourite records playing on the turntable, an Oratorio sung in Baritone integrated with gentle synths and Cellos, composed by a recently deceased composer that makes her cry the whole day when it happened. She lets him comfort her that day. 

“No fucking way, the Pantheons are real?” 

“Not just them, The Vanirs, Aesirs and their kind, the Sumerian gods and all.”

“Wow…”

He can’t help his smile spreading as he watches her eyes, drooping lovely by the wine they currently share on the dining table side by side. The cores from eaten Strawberry Apple stacked on the bowl. 

“So… he’s real too?”

“Unfortunately.” Morpheus sip the wine from his glass. 

“Fuck. I just know I’m going straight to hell.”

“No. I’ll not let that happen.” Morpheus says it earnestly, she chuckles and gives him a lazy grin.

“The perk of befriending a god, huh?”

His smile grows wider. 

“I’m not a god.”

“To me you are.”

He pauses. His heart picks up slightly at the words. Feel the heat creeping to his neck.

“You’ve done more for me than he ever did.” she continues. Her fingers search for his, memorising the texture of his nail with the pad of her finger. 

“Do you worship me?” Morpheus leans inch by inch. Brushes her hairline. Twirl the necklace between her collarbones. 

“I know you heard my prayers.” she gravitates forward towards him. 

“I do.” 

(y/n) tilts her head to the side, drinking in his features. He recalls her prayers whispered quietly at midnight. The words trembled his hands on that night. Burns his chest with euphoria. 

“Your prayers, your recent dreams, I witnessed it.” he almost says breathlessly. Heat pools in his stomach. 

“Does it reflect your desire?”

“Yes.” she whispers. Her own voice strangles by desire’s hands. 

He watches the expansion of her pupils. Hears her heartbeat pace quickly when he focuses on it. 

“You will have me?” he asks. 

“Yes.” she licks her lips. 

“I am wholly yours.” he claims when their faces are close enough they could count each other's eyelashes. He brush away the one that fell on her cheek, then caress her jaw with his fingers. She leans into his touch, into his warmth. Her hands fists on his chest as she presses her lips to his cheeks. 

Morpheus sighs in pleasure. A thrill of shiver runs along his spine, his hand circling her back as the other takes her jaws to kiss her on the lips. She kisses him hard enough to turn him inside out, to make her a god if she asks for it. 

That night, every being that sleeps dreams of her glistening skin against his, of her lips chanting his name. Her eyes and her satiated sighs. Her tears of pleasure. Morpheus swallows everything he could. 

—

“Hello little brother.” Death's warm voice calls to him. He turns from the waterfall and meets her warm smile as she opens her arms to receive him, Morpheus return her gesture. 

“It’s been quite some time since you summon me to your realm.” She says as she takes in the beauty of Fiddler’s green.

Morpheus stays silent because she knows the answer to that statement. The last time she was here, Death took the queen of the Dreaming. And the dispute after that, the calamity he wrought after their fight can be felt even upon the waking world. 

An altercation that he believed was a betrayal. She took centuries to mend their relationship into what it was. 

“So, what is it Dream?” Death squints slightly under the sun of the Dreaming. 

He remembers last night, when (y/n)’s half asleep from euphoria after their intercourse, his dearest said the words that stir him with complete devotion. That fills his stomach with dread and reminds him of his duty as an Endless. I love you, Morpheus. I would do the unthinkable for you.

“You know what this is about.” he firmly says. 

Death’s mouth twists into a faint grimace. But she nods.

“Promise me, Death. Promise me.”

He sees Death’s throat swallow. 

“What affection you have for me as your brother, promise me this. Do not betray me again.” He rasps. His chest feels the heaviness on that day.

“Please, Morpheus, I did not betray you. It is only the rule that binds, little brother. Our duty” she takes a step towards him. Her hands reach but he pulls back. 

“You owe me.” he whispers. His tears sting the back of his eyes. 

Death's lips are pursed thin. Her gaze remorseful and rue.

Death takes a deep breath. 

“Make her an Endless then. I will help you.”

Her words stun him into silence. A proposal that is painstakingly leviathan in nature he never thought his dutiful big sister would ever offer him. A proposal that is to be made in such a short time and the risk would be insurmountable for both siblings. 

And he couldn’t think of someone more worthy to be an Endless. 

“I will help you before it’s too late. After that, we’re square. Deal?”

He nods. Unable to find his words for a moment.

“Agreed.”

—

“Hi!” She giggles with glee when he circles his arms around her as she’s preparing the ingredients for dinner on the counter of her kitchen. 

“You’re early.” she turns and gives him a chaste kiss on the cheek. 

“I couldn’t wait.” he murmurs as he buries his eyes on her shoulder. 

“I can tell.” She teases. But when he is silent, he takes his face in her hands. Search for his evading eyes. 

“What’s wrong Morpheus?” she gently calls for him. Concern between her brows. 

“There is something I must ask, (y/n).” he says restlessly. 

“Of course.” she replies. 

He takes her to the dining table and sits side by side. He explains what it is to be an Endless. How one of their great weaknesses is bound by the ancient rules that predate even their creation. One of them, the Endless can not fall in love with a mortal and prolong their affiliation, or the Mortal’s downfall would soon follow. 

A tear slips from her eye. 

“You’re leaving me?” she asks, strikingly calm even through her tears. 

“Without the alternative, I must, (y/n).” he caresses her jaw. His own eyes smarting. His chest weighs heavily. 

“And the alternative?”  she takes his other hand to anchor herself down. The numbness in her legs became too much. 

He feels her pulse quickening on her wrist. 

“Understand this. I was blinded by my foolishness, it was not my intention to put you in this precarious position and I assure you I never wanted to jump into your life to just leave-”

“Just say it Morpheus.” she whines. 

“Will you become an Endless?” he blurts. 

She stares at him for a moment as if he grows a second head. Then quickly realises the gravity of his question, the unsaid pleading in his eyes, his inability to beg her because he does not want to pressure her into compliance but his heart—rending eyes, his bright—sharp eyes, the colour of a brewing storm, says it all. She wants to weep for those eyes. 

She takes his face in her hands. Kisses him on the lips. She feels the tension lining his shoulders melt away. His hands slither to grip her waist, washes her body in pleasure. 

“Yes. Make me a god.” she says when she pulls away. 

His wide smile could replace the sun. She realised, in a heartbeat, that she would do anything and everything just so she could see that beautifully divine smile for the rest of her life. Would do the unthinkable for him. Devote her life to her Dream. Devotion and Dream, that is all she needs. Devotion and Dream for eternity until the universe erodes and blinks away. 

—

Taglist: @aurorarevenclaw1927​

[guinevere-of-smiths]

a stained-glass variation of the truth

Book: The Unexpected Heiress

Words: ~6600

Rating: G

Pairing: John Somerset x f!MC (Celeste Hayes)

Characters: John Somerset, Celeste Hayes, Lady Ashbourne, Francis Somerset, Delia Hayes, Mrs. Watmore and Effie Ainsley

Warnings: I imagine Delia to be mildly emotionally abusive, but that isn't even really alluded to in this. She is just overbearing and unplesant.

Summary: John and Celeste think themselves safe after Lord and Lady Ashbourne agree to call of the engagement. They are wrong. Some in-between scenes for the beginning of Chapter 16.

Featuring, among other things: Lady Ashbourne having a soft spot for John, Delia not having a soft spot for anyone, Celeste being very determined and John being very fatalistic.

Fun Fact: The title is a lyric from Neptune by Sleeping at Last, which in my mind is the "John-romancing MC marries Francis"!AU song.

If John was hoping to find Celeste in the great hall, he was in for a disappointment. Neither she nor his brother were anywhere in sight, although they had been penning letters here only an hour or so ago.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Truth be told, it wasn’t all that surprising; both were eager to end their engagement officially. Certainly, they would have sent the letters out as soon as his parents had given them their approval. Someone of a more philosophical bent than John would find much to ponder about their unity in trying to disentangle their lives from each other, but as far as he was concerned, the sooner the better. He couldn’t wait for Celeste to be free of the engagement, if only because he would finally be able to court her as she deserved.

But that didn’t tell him where they were now or why Celeste hadn’t appeared for their stroll in the gardens as she had promised. It wasn’t like her to stand someone up without explanation.

He had just hazarded a step towards the family drawing room when a figure rounded the corner. He paused. “Mrs. Watmore. How fortunate to meet you here.”

Mrs. Watmore had never been overly fond of him, and her movements were clipped as she halted and inclined her head. “Mr. John. What can I do for you?”

“Do you happen to know where I can find Miss Hayes?”

“As far as I know, she is talking to Mrs. Hayes upstairs.”

At first, John thought he must have had misheard. Celeste’s stepmother wasn’t scheduled to arrive for a few days yet if his parents’ telegram calling off the engagement hadn’t postponed the journey altogether. “Mrs. Hayes?” he repeated, just to be certain. Mrs. Watmore sniffed and made a show of looking around, as if she wanted to make sure that no member of the Hayes family was within earshot.

“She showed up here a little while ago, without so much as a letter announcing her arrival, and wasn’t here two minutes before she started to make a scene to Miss Hayes about the engagement. Mr. Francis barely managed to welcome her before Her Ladyship arrived to take charge of the situation.”

Her dislike for Americans oozed from every word. Usually, John would have chuckled and gone on his way. Not this time. His blood went cold when he realized the implications of her tale. Francis, Celeste, and he had been so caught up in getting his parents’ approval to end the engagement that they hadn’t even considered that Celeste’s family might think differently.

Calm yourself. If his parents and, most importantly, Francis didn’t agree to the marriage, there was nothing Celeste’s stepmother could do.

And then he realized, to his horror, that that didn’t mean that she couldn’t sabotage her other marriage prospects. Celeste, at nineteen, wasn’t old enough to be married in England without her parents’ consent. He didn’t know where American law stood on that, but if Delia Hayes just carried her off, that didn’t matter either way. Maybe he would have to raise the possibility of his marrying her far sooner than he would have liked. Or maybe his mother, diplomat that she was, had managed to smooth the situation over already.

“Where is my mother now?”

“Her Ladyship is in her boudoir.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Watmore. That will be all.” His pace when he started towards his mother’s boudoir was far more measured than he would have liked, but even now, he couldn’t bring himself to run through the manor like a maniac. His mind was reeling. His mother would usually withdraw to her private sanctum to write letters in peace. Was that what she was doing now? If so, what about? Dread coiled in his stomach at the thought of the plethora of letters replanning the wedding would take. He stopped in front of the closed door to take several deep breaths, only knocking when he was sure that his face wouldn’t betray his inner turmoil.

The world hung in silence for a moment before his mother asked him inside, voice clear. Even if the morning’s events had upset her, she didn’t show it. She was even smiling, sitting at her small writing desk when he entered. That would have comforted John if he didn’t suspect that it was forced.

“Pardon the interruption, Mother, but I was informed that we have surprise visitors.”

“News travels fast, I see.”

Nothing was further from John’s mind than telling on the staff to his parents—even disagreeable staff like Mrs. Watmore—so he decided to keep the tone of her words to herself. “I crossed paths with Mrs. Watmore. If you want a thorough report on what everyone heard, I will certainly keep my ears open.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Sighing, she put down her pen and motioned for him to come inside. John closed the door behind him before taking a seat in the armchair nearest to her desk. “This entire situation is a debacle.”

He watched his mother put the cap back on the pen and waited a few more moments before speaking. He didn’t want to hear the answer to his question. He wanted to close his eyes and leave this room and stay in that blissful bubble he and Celeste had been in for the past few days. He wanted to court her until they were both certain that they were ready for marriage. He wanted her to be part of his life, but not as his sister-in-law, forever out of reach. 

There were so many things he wanted, but he forced himself to speak. “Then she really demanded for the marriage to take place?”

“Most empathetically. I must admit, she is not wrong about it being a waste to cancel the wedding on such short notice.”

“Not such a waste as forcing Francis and Miss Hayes into an unhappy marriage. You’re not implying that your opinion has changed just because an American showed up and made a scene?”

"John," his mother scolded.

“It would have been good manners to at least take off her coat.”

His mother didn’t even acknowledge the quip. “Her demeanour wasn’t the best,” was her single reluctant admission. “And I still have no wish to force your brother into a marriage that would make him miserable, nor Miss Hayes. But that decision at dinner a few days back wasn’t easy.” She sighed. “The upkeep of both estate and servants won’t lessen, John. And if Delia Hayes wishes to, she could make it harder for us to make another lucrative connection.”

“There are plenty of wealthy daughters in England. Delia Hayes has no sway over them.” I’d marry Celeste. The words burnt his tongue, begging to be spoken. Marriage was a step he hadn’t yet wanted to put into words. Celeste and he had known each other for barely two months. Much as he wanted to remain part of her life, it wasn’t enough time to be sure that it wasn’t just infatuation, a reckless reaction on his part to a fascinating, vivacious, beautiful woman he had gotten close to only because of the thrill of a murder investigation. But he refused to let that chance be taken from him. If Delia Hayes insisted on an engagement, she would have it—if it proved necessary. “Did she really threaten you with destroying our reputation?”

“No. But we are in no position to take that risk.”

“Fear usually isn’t a good tool for judgement,” John said, feeling like a hypocrite. Why had he flown abroad, if not for fear? But that hadn’t gained him anything but guilt about wasting more of his family’s resources. “I’m sure that once she has calmed down, we will find a solution that makes everyone happy.”

“I hope so.” His mother gave him a direct look. “But you should know that she will likely insist on a marriage between young Celeste and Francis.”

She knows. Dear God. The foolish, inappropriate need to apologize seized hold of him. He hadn’t thought the attention he gave Celeste subtle—he hadn’t wanted it to be, especially during the last few days. And still, he wanted to assure his mother that it hadn’t been his intention to fall in love with his brother’s fiancée. That the hope the false engagement had stoked inside of him had burnt too bright, turning all his resolutions to stay away to cinders.

But he was no longer fifteen years old. Carefully indifferent, he raised his brows. “What, is a prospective husband only worthy if he is to inherit a title?”

“She is a very ambitious woman. She didn’t say so openly, but it was certainly obvious that she wants her stepdaughter to become a viscountess. And I can’t fault her for wanting the best for her family.”

“Why stop at viscountess? Why not find a willing duke?” He shook his head. “I shouldn’t say that out loud; that will only give her ideas. But still. Father and you said we’d find another way. I don’t see why we should abandon that stance now. It’s a matter of principle.”

His mother’s smile was sympathetic. “I fear if we don’t assent, Mrs. Hayes will look for another husband for her daughter. Possibly a duke.”

The implication was obvious. Regardless of whether Celeste married his brother or not, he would lose her. And he refused to accept that. “And it is certain that she would only accept Francis?”

“I think it's quite likely. With her family's... resources, she has bargaining power, and she knows it.”

I’d marry Celeste. The words were searing him from inside out. It might solve their problem, but he couldn’t bring the idea up to his mother before speaking to Celeste first. Even if his mother accepted that he had fallen in love with his brother’s intended, she would have expectations regarding Celeste that might prove too difficult to bear. Celeste had just escaped an unwanted engagement. He owed it to her—and himself—that she chose him of her own free will.

But that meant that he might lose her just because he hesitated, and he didn’t know if he could bear that.

His mother had watched him closely, shaking her head with a sigh after a few moments. “You have always been too stubborn for your own good, John.”

“How do you mean?”

His mother had been Viscountess Ashbourne and a member of the English Peerage for far too long to do anything as demonstrative as to lift a brow; considering this, it was a far more impressive feat that it still felt as if she did. “I can suggest to Delia Hayes that there is a far happier marriage to be made between our families, but first I need to know if that is in your and Miss Haye's interest.”

“Mother, certainly you are not suggesting that I fancy my brother’s fiancée.”

It was a last desperate attempt at decorum. His mother only smiled benignly. “I may have gotten old, but I’m not blind. You have never cared about your brother’s marital prospects as much as you do now about arguing against his marriage to Miss Hayes.”

“I…” He realized as he opened his mouth that he was struggling in vain. His parents might have been blind about Amelia’s death, but the revelations at dinner seemed to have opened his mother’s eyes at least. “She’s a charming woman.”

His mother was still smiling. “That she is.”

“Does Father know of your suspicions?”

“Not as far as I know, for now. Until now, I wasn’t certain myself if I wasn’t reading too much into your friendship.”

That at least was a small consolation. As generous as his mother appeared to be towards his indiscretion, he assumed his father would think differently. He had, led by his anxiety over the estate, urged Francis’ engagement with the younger Hayes daughter from the very beginning. But that was a problem for a different point in time. “If Mrs. Hayes could be talked into it, at least our fiscal problems would be solved. And it would spare Francis the guilt of marrying Amelia’s sister.”

“And you’d be prepared to marry her?”

“As I said, she’s a charming woman.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“You’re right.” The boudoir’s windows looked out onto the garden, presently bathed in the most beautiful sunshine he had seen in days. Had Delia Hayes not made her abrupt appearance, he and Celeste would be promenading there now, talking about everything and nothing—a book she had read, their travel experiences, absurd anecdotes about social engagements, society, philosophy, whatever brought them joy. The end of her engagement and the murder investigation had given their conversations a freedom that hadn’t seemed possible before. Feelings they couldn’t afford to indulge in had always stood in the way of the friendship they could have had otherwise. Imagining all of that being taken away, hardly won, hurt more than he dared to admit.

But did that mean that he was ready for marriage? He felt he had been once upon a time. But that had been in another life, with another woman. And while he was sure that he could love Celeste, was well on his way to loving her, in fact, he didn’t want to give her less than his entire heart. If it weren’t for the fact that he would lose that possibility if he let fear get the better of him now. As his parents’ younger son, he would never face the same marital expectations from his parents as his brother—he could wait for years if he so pleased. But would he ever find someone like Celeste again?

“John?”

“Forgive me. I hope you understand that that is not an easy question to answer. I greatly enjoy Miss Hayes’s company, and I think we could be happy together. It wouldn’t be my choice to suggest marriage to her under such circumstances, but if there is no other way..."

“Do you think she would agree to such an arrangement?”

I love you too, John. “I couldn’t tell you. I hope so.” He took a deep breath. “I would be grateful to you if you could at least put forward the possibility.”

His mother regarded him for a few endless seconds before nodding. “I will see what I can do.”

“That’s all I ask.” Guilt crept up from his chest to his throat, heavy and dark. He could only pray that he wasn’t wrong about Celeste’s affections for him. If he forced an engagement on her out of egoism, she would never forgive him—and he wouldn’t forgive himself, either. He stood quickly. “I should let you write your letters in peace.”

He was almost at the door when his mother spoke again. “John, one more thing.”

“Yes?”

His mother hadn’t moved; she hadn’t even picked up her pen. She was just looking directly at him. “Should Mrs. Hayes insist on the marriage we originally planned, and should your father and I decide that it is what is best for our family, I’ll expect you and Miss Hayes to comport yourselves accordingly.”

He swallowed. He had expected no less, but the knowledge that his mother would be watching them and know of his desires filled his stomach with lead. “Of course, Mother.”

Then he left, praying to every divinity that might hear him that his mother would be successful.

~*~

Whatever it was that his mother said to Mrs. Hayes, it wasn’t enough.

He shouldn’t have expected any other result. Francis was their father’s rightful heir and would be viscount one—hopefully distant—day, while he himself was only the child his parents had taken in out of pity and sorrow and had never cared much about societal influence. Not only did his brother stand between himself and Windcroft, but his natural father did as well, if he was even still alive. Looked at logically, the decision made sense. Celeste had mentioned again and again how ambitious Delia Hayes was and how desperately she wanted her family to climb the social ladder. An adopted son without legal entitlements to anything of relevance was bound not to be enough for her.

And still, deep in his heart, he had nurtured hopes that died an agonizing death that very afternoon.

It was cruel irony that it was his mother that told him the news. A year ago, it had been her that had taken him aside after his return from India to tell him what had laid his world to waste back then—that bloody ship, Victoria’s father’s business trip, her mourning brother’s note that had ended the faint hope that she, at least, had been able to escape. He felt just as numb as back then when he nodded, excused himself, and left the room.

Celeste was alive. That was the small consolation left to him. He would still be able to see and talk to her. She would remain a part of his life.

Until the thought of everything they would never have drove him mad.

~*~

For the rest of the day, he didn’t get a chance to talk to Celeste. Even when they were in the same room, Mrs. Hayes successfully kept her occupied—on purpose, if John wasn’t imagining the glances she threw his way now and then. Considering the antagonism he felt towards the woman, imagining foul play where there was none was a distinct possibility.

Heaven knew how he had managed to get through dinner—he had blocked out so much of it that he wouldn’t have been able to tell. Still not seeing much of what was around him, he followed his father and Francis to the library, only to nearly collide with Francis’ back when his brother suddenly stopped walking.

It took him a few moments to grasp the reason for the sudden halt: Mr. Barnes was speaking to his father in a low voice. After a moment, Father sighed and nodded. “Then I’ll better have a look at it right away. You two go on into the library.”

He only waited for a nod before walking off with Barnes. A viscount didn’t need permission to leave people out in the cold, after all. Privilege gave them the right to destroy lives or to stand idly by while others did the destroying.

For God’s sake, don’t be so dramatic. It was unfair of him to even think like that, and he knew it. His parents had given him so much, and they were only doing what they felt was best. It was ungrateful of him to jeopardize that. “What happened?”

“There has been a letter from Mr. Giles that father was waiting for.”

“Ah.” Disregarding Francis’ raised brow, John walked past him into the library. “If it is legal business, we could be waiting for a while.”

Luckily, there was already a bottle of port standing ready on a side table. Drowning his sorrow in alcohol was neither healthy nor effective—he knew well his problems would still be there afterwards—but he wasn’t sure he would survive the evening sober. He went to pour himself one and looked over his shoulder at his brother. “Do you want some as well?”

“Yes, thank you.” Francis accepted the glass and sat down in an armchair without taking his eyes off him. “John, you have to know that I am sorry.”

“It is how it is.”

“I’m serious. If there had been any way to convince Father and Mrs. Hayes that—”

“Francis, leave it be. There is nothing we can do about it either way.”

The last thing John wanted were discussions about something that could only hurt him. He didn’t blame his brother for what had happened. At least he was trying not to. Certainly, Francis could refuse to marry Celeste, but then her stepmother would whisk her away to the States and find her another husband. This way, she at least remained in his life. Maybe, someday, when the wound wasn’t as fresh, they could be friends.

Until that day, he refused to spend more time thinking about it than he had to.

“Maybe there is.” His brother put down his glass and rubbed his forehead. “There has to be some way to make her understand that you’d be just as good a husband for her daughter as me.”

“Only that I am not.” John drained his drink. “You’ll inherit the title; I won’t. That’s enough for that woman.”

“But-”

“Francis, leave it be.”

His brother shut his mouth and looked at him with far too much pity for comfort. When he didn’t say anything, John squared his shoulders. “Don’t make the situation bigger than it needs to be. Miss Hayes and I have known each other for, what, two months? We’ll bear it.”

For a moment, he was certain his brother would disagree, but then Francis only nodded and released a slow breath. “You’re probably right. I’m sorry nonetheless.”

After that, neither of them uttered another word. John would have liked to say that this would change nothing between them. All of them were mature adults. They moved in circles in which marrying purely for love was a luxury. He would be expected to master his feelings and be the perfect brother-in-law to Celeste.

He repeated that knowledge to himself again and again. Tried to internalize it. Tried to remind himself that what he took for profound, fervent love could well be nothing but infatuation that would dissipate if he ignored it long enough. That was how feelings were supposed to work once one was no longer an adolescent.

If only reality were as simple as the theory.

~*~

He stayed in the drawing room for as long as he could stomach, but in the end, he couldn’t bear it anymore. Listening as Delia Hayes talked excitedly about wedding preparations with his grandmother, while his mother and father made polite replies, Celeste sat there looking as miserable as he felt, and Francis gave every appearance of wanting to disappear then and there, was a new form of torture.

The proper behaviour on his part would have been to listen with a stiff upper lip, but his patience was at an end. He stood, instantly feeling all eyes on him.

“I’m sorry, but I just recalled that there was an urgent letter from an acquaintance I need to reply to. It slipped my mind, what with everything that happened today. I hope you’ll excuse me.”

His mother nodded immediately. “Of course. Will you rejoin us once you are finished?”

“I don’t think so. I wish everyone a good night. Mrs Hayes. Miss Hayes.”

“Can’t your letter wait awhile longer?”

Of those present, most could not have made him hesitate, but he couldn’t ignore the sound of Celeste’s voice. Everyone’s eyes shifted from him to her. Her gaze was on him, her smile brave, but with a plea in her eyes that made his heart stutter painfully.

He cleared his throat. “I don’t think I have much input to give on the wedding preparations.”

“That topic will surely soon be exhausted.”

Her stepmother tsked. “Don’t be foolish, Celeste. We’re not nearly done even with the guest list!”

Celeste’s smile was as polite as it was impersonal. “The guest list has been finalized months ago. I can imagine that you’d like to hear what important personages will be in attendance, but everyone here should be able to participate in tonight’s conversation, don’t you think?”

“As yet, nobody has voiced a complaint about this topic, dear.”

Her smile was so patronizing that it made John’s blood boil. As if Celeste was nothing more than a misbehaving child that one needed to explain basic concepts to instead of a mature, intelligent woman that knew her own mind.

His grandmother waved her hand dismissively before he was able to rise to her defence. “I’d like to hear more about the intended guests. So, Blythe, Rebecca has made certain of the accommodation despite this unfortunate matter?”

The beginnings of hope that had crept into Celeste’s face for a few traitorous heartbeats vanished. She was still looking at him, silently pleading with him to stay. And he wavered. He didn’t want to abandon her. But she was his brother’s wife-to-be. The sooner he accepted that there was no future to this kind of closeness, the better.

So, he held her gaze for a moment, trying to silently give her the apology he was unable to speak aloud, and then left the room.

There really was a letter to be answered (the only thing that had been a fib was its urgency), but he halted at the foot of the stairs to breathe in deeply. He might not have been able to bear the drawing room, but the prospect of his empty quarters seemed no more inviting. If he went about it quietly, he would be able to sneak out to spend a few hours at the pub. Its laughter and noise were sure to distract him. Going there wouldn’t solve his problem, but it would help him forget for a time.

But first, he would have to change his clothes. His tailcoat was unlikely to be inconspicuous in a pub. He was so immersed in debating his plan that he nearly collided with Effie once he reached the upper floor. The maid only just managed to jump aside.

“Oh! Master John!”

“My apologies, Effie. I should have watched where I was going.” He made to move past her when she suddenly cleared her throat.

“Beg your pardon, sir, but I have a message for you.”

“Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”

Against his better judgement, he had stopped, which allowed him to watch Effie look around furtively before pressing the sheets she was carrying to her chest with one arm and using the other to pull a sheaf of paper out of her apron’s pocket. “It’s from Miss Hayes. For you. She gave it to me before she went down to dinner. I was supposed to give it to you as soon as I saw you.”

If he were wise, he would dismiss the letter, especially after all his lofty professions of good intentions, but he couldn’t bring himself to. “Thank you, Effie.” He took the note from her and was about to turn away when she cleared her throat again.

“I’m sorry, sir, but Miss Hayes asked me to tell you to read it immediately, so I can give her your answer.” She lowered her gaze, as if she expected an upbraiding for her brazenness. Even investigating a murder together couldn’t change some things.

Celeste’s letter was short. Instead of the unnecessary apologies and vows to never forget him he had expected, there were only two sentences.

John,

I need to speak to you. Tonight, at the top of the tower, once everyone has gone to bed.

All my love,

Celeste

He shouldn’t.

But he couldn’t resist, either. “I’ll be there," he said, pocketed the note, and continued his way towards his room.

~*~

Celeste threw herself into his arms the moment he reached the top of the stairs.

“Careful!” The unexpected force made him teeter backwards; only a quick grab for the railing prevented them both from tumbling down the staircase. Celeste backed up immediately.

“I’m sorry, but I’m so relieved to see you.”

“It’s alright.” He took a few steps away from the stairs, just to be safe. “Are you telling me that seeing you during that farce of a dinner wasn’t enough?”

“You mean the dinner where I hardly had a moment to speak to you?” Celeste, usually a picture of decorum and grace, laughed bitterly. At least she hadn’t completed the indecency of their situation by having shown up in a nightdress. She was still wearing her evening gown, merely without her gloves and jewellery. “I’m glad Effie caught you before it was too late, at least.”

“I wasn’t sure whether to come.” Every shred of common sense he possessed was screaming at him to leave, that there was no use, that their disappointment would only get bigger the longer he held on, but instead, he wrapped his arms around her when she embraced him again. “But I couldn’t stay away.”

“You better not.” It was her who pulled away, if only far enough to look up into his face. “John, I’m so unbelievably sorry. I tried to change Delia’s mind, but she twisted every word I said.”

“I’m under the impression that your stepmother is quite determined not to let anyone veer her from her course. Even my mother couldn’t do a thing about her.”

Celeste twisted out of his arms completely, her lips pressed tightly together, and walked a few steps away from him, only to turn sharply around. “Delia has always been like that," she announces, her eyes blazing. “Whenever something doesn’t fit into her plans, she just stops listening, no matter how many arguments one brings forward. And with this, it doesn’t help that it’s about our feelings. Who cares that I’ll still marry into English nobility, but will be happy about it, if she could brag about her daughter the future viscountess instead?” She looked on the verge of punching or kicking something.

John understood. He was just as furious at the powerlessness he felt.

“She can’t force Francis and you to marry.”

“But she can force me to go back to the States.” Sighing, Celestes dropped down onto the cushioned bank they had sat on only a few days ago when he had confessed his love to her. The memory turned his stomach. How naïve they had been. “I don’t know whether she’d use force, but I’m financially dependent on my parents. And, well, they're my parents.” She looked away. “I can’t simply break with them.”

“They’d really disown you?”

“I don’t know.” She sighed deeply, closing her eyes for a moment. “But I fear it. In any case, I doubt they’d agree to pay the large dowry that made me attractive as a daughter-in-law for your parents in the first place.”

“Even if I don’t marry for money, Francis could still do so in the future.”

“But will his marriage prospects be improved by a penniless American, disowned by her own parents and without any connections worth mentioning?” Her hands balled into fists. “And all this wouldn’t be such a problem if Delia wasn’t so good at dismissing anything that doesn’t fit into her view of the world!”

He would have liked to reassure her that all her stepmother needed was time to acclimate herself to the idea, but she had told him enough about the woman to know that that was unlikely. Once Delia Hayes had adopted a goal, she held onto it, even if she had to walk across corpses to reach it. “I’m sorry, Celeste.”

Immediately, astonishment softened her angry face. “Why? Nothing about this is your fault, John. If anything, I have to apologize for Delia.” For a moment, she seemed on the cusp of saying more, but then, she pressed her lips together and shook her head. “We have to come up with something, and fast.”

John laughed without joy. He had been wracking his brain since his conversation with his mother, without one decent plan to show for it. Only ludicrous, half-formed ideas. “Sadly, I don’t have any claims to titles I haven’t told you about. Without eloping to Scotland, I don’t see a way out.”

Celeste was silent for some moments. She stared out at the moonlit hills, her brows furrowed. “If this was only about showing Delia that she can’t control everything, I’d be tempted to ask you for precisely that.”

“I beg your pardon?” He was sure that he had misheard.

But Celeste merely met his eyes and shrugged. “That isn’t a new idea, is it? Two lovers throwing duty and opposition into the wind and running away together?” She forced a smile. “Aunt Maude, at least, would be thrilled.”

“Your aunt would probably even help us if we asked her to.”

“Oh, she would.” As if she had suddenly forgotten why they were meeting clandestinely and talking about hypothetical secret marriages in the first place, Celeste’s eyes took on the mischievous gleam he so loved. “If only to see Delia’s face when she finds out. You don’t know how much Aunt Maude would enjoy holding that over her head for the rest of their lives. That all her tyranny and propriety didn’t gain her anything in the end, I mean.”

“There isn’t only your family to consider, however. There’s mine, too.” John had meant to remain serious, but when he looked into Celeste’s sparkling eyes, the same recklessness he always felt with her seized him. “My grandmother might actually have a heart attack when she hears of it.”

“Your grandmother always seemed rather tough to me.”

“That’d be the alternative: her having both of our heads.”

“Obviously, there is only one solution for that.” He had sat down next to her by this time, so instead of continuing her speech, Celeste scooted closer to him, let her fingers wander down his lower arm until she could take his hand in hers, and looked at him so intensely with her warm brown eyes that his chest warmed. Only then did she speak. “We just turn our back on it all and make sure we are never heard from again.”

“Or we rely on your charm winning over my parents to our side and let them deal with Grandmother. Provided you don’t object to marrying a younger son without much to offer.” He held her hand tightly in his. All of this was nothing but idle daydreaming, but he couldn’t make himself let go.

“Only if that younger son doesn’t object to marrying said penniless, disgraced American.”

He swallowed with difficulty. The mischief had vanished from her eyes, although her gaze hadn’t lost any of its intensity, and without her having to say it, he knew what she hoped for from him. “If this was only about myself, I wouldn’t care a whit about anything else, Celeste," he said, his voice suddenly hoarse. “I would go anywhere with you. But my family…”

His parents had done so much for him. He couldn’t repay them by not only foiling a lucrative marriage but making it harder to find another such one, at the very moment they needed the money the most. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he disappointed them like that.

Celeste didn’t seem to have expected another answer; she only nodded and took a slightly shaky breath without loosening her hold on him. “I understand.”

“But I’m grateful for the time we had," he said after a moment. “As short as it might have been.”

“So that’s it?” She looked up at him with those big, dark brown eyes he had found such joy losing himself in during the last few days, and his heart constricted painfully. It was obvious that she felt the same. He saw her swallow before she could speak again. “We just give up?”

It was as if her words pulled his fears and anxieties into reality with gruesome clarity. For a moment, he felt as if forced into icy water; his lungs closed as if every breath was pressed out of them, and his heart first stuttered and then beat thrice as fast as usual, painful and in panic. He had only just found her. No matter what they did now, their lives would alter forever, and both paths were littered with things they would regret.

But how was he supposed to put his own happiness over the financial security of his family?

“It was a beautiful dream, Celeste," he said, shaking his head. “But it was always too good to be true.”

“There has to be something we can do," she insisted, but at this point, she likely spoke out of stubbornness rather than real hope. He wanted to deny it himself, but the truth was that there was no escape. Hoping at all had been naïve, but he couldn’t regret having given into it. He was just about to say something to that effect when Celeste suddenly dropped his hand and stood. “We just have to find some means to delay the wedding; buy ourselves some time. Enough to come up with something to convince our parents to let us decide for ourselves.” She started to pace. “Maybe I can fake an illness. Effie would certainly aid me. How kind or liable to bribery is your family’s physician?”

“Celeste, even if we were able to fool anyone, which I don’t believe we could pull off, what good would it do? There is nothing that could make me look like a better match than Francis.”

“I refuse to just give up. After everything we’ve been through in the last few months, I won’t waste my life by being forced into a marriage that will make every single one of us unhappy.”

“Francis is a good man.” It hurt, saying the words, but someone had to. He had to make both of them realize that it was easier to look their fate in the eye. “He would never mistreat you.”

„He would do his best not to see Amelia every time he looks at me, you mean.” Suddenly, she stilled and looked at him with steel in her gaze. “How am I supposed to marry a man who I know wishes I were my dead sister, while he knows that I wish he were you? Just how do you expect this to work, John?”

“We would hardly be the first to marry other people than those we wish to.” She was right, of course she was, but what would admitting that aloud change? “It will hurt in the beginning, but we will learn to live with it.”

“Even if we could, that isn’t what I want.”

“It isn’t what I want, either.” He stood and walked over to where she was standing. In the dim light, her hair silvered by moonlight, her face gilded by the lantern’s glow, she looked like an ethereal creature out of a dream, hidden from daylight. Just what she had always been to him. And yet, she was so beautiful that he wanted nothing more than to pull her to him and kiss her until they forgot everything that had happened that day. The thought did nothing but feed his misery. “Believe me," he said, “I wish things were different.”

“John…”

“I can’t hang on to pointless hopes again and again, Celeste. Not after everything.”

“They won’t be pointless if we can find a way to convince Delia.” When he didn’t reply to that, because he honestly didn’t know what to say, she reached out a hand to gently stroke his cheek. The tender caress sent a shiver down his spine, and although he should have put distance between them, he leant his hand into her warm, soft hand when she let it rest against his skin. He didn’t want this moment, possibly the last they’d ever have, to end. Her thumb softly stroked his cheek. “Promise me you won’t give up, John, that you’ll at least try to come up with something. Then I’ll promise the same.”

It was pointless; it was foolish, but looking into her eyes, he couldn’t bring himself to say so. At the end of it, she was right: after everything they had seen and lost, sacrificing their happiness to duty was laughable. He could only hope that they would find a way to win this fight before it was too late.

[ignisregina]

Marianne took the piece of paper, folded it neatly, and stuffed it in her pocketbook. "If this is just as effective as the last one you suggested, I'm going to need something stronger." No, that was inaccurate. The medication Doctor Crane prescribed last time, albeit still in development, was rather potent and sent her to sleep in no time. But the slumber was the kind that offered no rest. If anything, it made her dreams more vivid, more alive than they usually are, and she woke up in worse state than when she turned in. "And with milder side effects, if possible."

@ignisregina. 𝐏𝐀𝐆𝐄 𝟑. 𝐀. 𝐌. 𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐄, 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐗𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊.

“ it’s the best we can do for you, I’m afraid, ” The Doctor’s handwriting stretched across a small sheet of paper in an indecipherable, spidery, line. He placed his pen down and tore the prescription from it’s pad in a swift stroke, leaning across his desk to hand it to Marianne. “ I hope you’ll be able to get some sleep. ”

[betweensaintsandmonsters]

chapter one of the time war au is up!

The force glimmers here, more vibrant than anywhere else on the field. He is certain this was the Republic, one of their operatives acting to sabotage his efforts. Beneath the rage he feels bubbling in his chest, there is fear, and there is admiration. It is not often he is bested. He is his Master’s right hand for a reason. He does not fail, he is not thwarted. And yet. And yet. He finds it admirable that someone has beat him here, has taken his game and twisted it up in front of him. He feels the challenge in his veins. or The 'This is How You Lose the Time War' au no one asked for

[wolffyluna]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you’ve written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Let’s spread the self-love 💞

Ten of Swords, Silmarillion, Tar-Miriel/OFC about the fall of Numenor. It's one of the first ~novel-ish lengths things I wrote, and I still love Zimrazagar, the King's man who falls in love with Tar-Miriel. I also love the tragedy and apocalypse vibes

Stained Glass Variation of the Truth, TGCF, a Mu Qing centric post canon Xianle trio fic. This started from a kernel of "I want Xie Lian to tell people about book 4, except he is never, ever going to do that" and ended up becoming about Mu Qing's relationship with Xie Lian and how it's coloured by his time as a servant.

it deepens like a coastal shelf, MDZS, a Mo Xuanyu & Nie Huaisang & Jin Guangyao fic. I have so many emotions about Mo Xuanyu and the way Nie Huaisang manipulated him. I also, relatedly, have so many geology metaphors that can fit in this baby.

A Fermi Estimation of Devil Possession Prevalance, a WKTD fic that asked both 'what would these girls be like once they were a bit more grown up?' and also 'can I write a post yellow ending fic that Venus survives?' It's got statistics! Spiritual experiences during Satanism! Being convinced for several years that your friend is dead!

hai gynaikes, tois idiois andrasin hos to kyrio, a DSMP Quackbur royalty AU. I was kind of torn about which mcyt fic to include here, but it's gotta be this one. Sometimes, you just so happen to be inhaling elections arc DSMP at the same time as a book about Dark Age queens, and you end up creating something very specific about power and who can directly have it, gender, and Medieval Catholicism.

I'm tagging @arofili, @chocochipbiscuit, @corviiids, @earlgraytay and @coldwind-shiningstars, and anyone else who wants to play this game!

[remcocoa]

stained glass (variation of the truth)

@cycleprompttuesday: "colour"

also on ao3

you dream in yellow.

yellow for the sun, for its flowers, for the jersey.

yellow in your hair when you look in the mirror, in the eggs they serve you for breakfast each morning, in the fading bruise running down your side.

up a mountain and down again, try not to kill yourself on a climb and then speak to the press, take the jersey off and put it on again. rinse and repeat.

yellow bleeds into red and the tour bleeds into the vuelta, messy and orange like the sunset in paris and the sunrise in spain. where does one stop and the other begin? you do not know.

you dream in red.

red for denmark, for spain, for the jersey.

red on primož’s knee after another crash, on sepp’s face after another hard climb, in your eyes after another sleepless night.

up a mountain and down again, nearly kill yourself on a climb and then talk to the team, call nathan but don’t look at social media. do not pass go, do not collect $200.

red bleeds into blue and the long months of the off-season form a buffer between you and the world, muted and grey like the clouds over glyngøre and the clouds over monaco. does it matter where it starts and ends? you don’t know that either.

you dream in blue.

blue for denmark, for monaco, for the jersey.

blue in the ocean outside your window, in his eyes when he asks you to stay another night, in the veins under your skin with every kilo toward race weight.

up a mountain and down again, kill your opponents on a climb and then talk to the press, try to keep the jersey colors straight and do not think about him. is the glass half empty or half full?

blue bleeds into pink and the season spirals toward the summer, bold and purple like the jersey wout is chasing and the photo noemi sends you of the flowers outside her window. maybe there is no beginning or end, maybe there is no dividing line. you cannot think about it.

you dream in pink.

pink for the sunrise, for his lips, for the jersey.

pink in the confetti they spray all over the podium, on his cheeks when he facetimes you late at night, on your cheeks when christophe spies the messages on your phone.

up a mountain and down again, try to kill your feelings with every pedal stroke but realize you cannot, watch him resurrect like a phoenix and try not to cry. the heart wants what it wants.

pink fades into green and spring into summer, bright and alive like the look in his eyes when he sees you in florence and the rolling hills around you on the road toward paris. something has begun, though you do not know what. maybe that's okay.

[cycleprompttuesday]

End of Challenge Roundup

Our Colour challenge is closed.

We had 7 stories this round:

stained glass (variation of the truth) by etapereine

rosa, jaune, rojo, and all inbetween by pernice

Blonds Have More Fun by curious_bibliophile

An empty space to fill in by mundanememory

Primary Colours by danseuse (superSepia)

twisted by indie-summer

So much wine by and_nobody_noticed

Thank you to everyone who participated in this second round! The next prompt will be up shortly.

[a-field-of-dragonflowers]

For your consideration, a Solas POV song for the Crestwood breakup scene:

Pitch black, pale blue

There was a stained-glass, variation of the truth

And I felt empty-handed

You let me set sail with cheap wood

So I patched up every leak that I could

'Til the blame grew too heavy

Stitch by stitch, I tear apart

If brokenness is a form of art

I must be a poster child prodigy

Thread by thread, I come apart

If brokenness is a work of art

Surely this must be my masterpiece

I'm only honest when it rains

If I time it right, the thunder breaks

When I open my mouth

I wanna tell you, but I don't know how

I'm only honest when it rains

An open book, with a torn out page

And my inks run out

I wanna love you but I don't know how

I don't know how

No, I don't know how

I don't know how

I wanna love you but I don't know how

I don't know how

I wanna love you but I don't know how

I wanna love you but I don't know how

I wanna love you

Pitch black, pale blue

These wild oceans shake what's left of me loose

Just to hear me cry mercy

The strong wind at my back

So I'll lift up the only sail that I have

This tired white flag

(White flag)

I'm only honest when it rains

If I time it right, the thunder breaks

When I open my mouth

I wanna tell you but I don't know how

I'm only honest when it rains

An open book, with a torn out page

And my inks run out

I wanna love you but I don't know how

Know how

I'm only honest when it rains

If I time it right, the thunder breaks

When I open my mouth

I wanna tell you but I don't know how

Know how

I'm only honest when it rains

An open book, with a torn out page

And my inks run out

I wanna love you but I don't know how

I don't know how

I don't know how

I don't know how

I wanna love you but I don't know how

I don't know how

I wanna love you but I don't know how

I wanna love you but I don't know how

I wanna love you