#Taylor Swift Lineage

[msclaritea]

Taylor Swift has become the most influencial artist in modern history. Of course anyone who gets publicity is part of the establishment. I looked into her father Scott Kingsley Swift. His paternal ancestry traces back to Durham, England. Looks like a possible Knight Templar link.

Ding ding ding we have a winner. Traced all the way back to Thorfinn Rollo. England even has a school dedicated to the Knights Templars with the buck as their symbol matching Swift/White/Rollo. Here's another interesting factor. Swift/Haste/Ocypete/Harpy

"The Duke of Normandy aka William the Conqueror's lineage can be traced straight back to the dynasty which ruled the ancient Roman empire. The "Norman conquest" 1066 served to reinforce the myth that the Roman empire "fell".

[thinking-in-broken-scenes]

@emiliosandozsequence

luke & leia || peter

taylor swift / phoebe bridgers / anton chekov / jodi picoult / lindsey drager / jandy nelson

insp.

[gluion]

between steel and velvet ➵ park gunwook

knight!park gunwook x ruler!reader

although you and gunwook knew your respective duties to rule and protect the adrestian empire, the reality is that you two are only kids forced into such responsibilities.

general genre/warnings ➵ friends to lovers, royalty au, hurt/comfort, angst, gender neutral reader, theo of p1h & seungcheol of svt mention, use of names from fe3h because im unoriginal to be thinking of new names

word count ➵ 1.7k words

playlist ➵ the lakes by taylor swift // die with a smile by lady gaga & bruno mars

a/n ➵ this drabble is connected to my upcoming fic "prayers for a garden" :]] this can be read alone for the time being but it would be good if you check it out once it releases! for @shegotthewoobies who survived the gluion drought. thank you real yearner for supporting me. if you enjoyed reading, please do reblog & leave feedback!

want to be part of my taglist? send me an ask! masterlist

gunwook is all too familiar with the weight of steel; rattling with every step and causing his shoulders to ache. the coolness of a silver hilt doesn’t faze him. his balance rarely falters with every jab and his arms are accustomed to every swing. still, he finds himself muttering complaints when he retreats to the quarters after a long day of training.

maybe it helps that he grew up surrounded by knights. with his father leading them, gunwook always found his home filled with men in armor who swung their tankards as they sung out sorrows of what it means to be one. on most nights, they’d tell gunwook to find another job (like he had a choice). they’d joke to him about running away from the life of a knight, but all he would do was smile as he shook his head.

because if gunwook had to be honest, he always found himself gravitating towards steel and chain—the only thing he hates is the idea of fitting into his father’s shoes; a well-respected commander who has known of sacrifice from the start, even going as far as having his own portrait on a wall filled with a lineage of rulers. after all, every king and commander is marked into the adrestian empire’s history—a pair from every tenure.

the reality is that gunwook lacks the skills of what it takes to be a commander. he has yet to learn what it means to lead an army, let alone know how to strategize, but his father had expectations that gunwook had to fulfill before he retires (or much worse, dies on the battlefield). 

gunwook can bear the weight of steel on his shoulders—not the title of a commander.

but his world shifted when he learned of who would be his partner—the one who he would be going down in history with—and he found himself constantly faced with the question his father would throw at him: does he have what it takes to serve you?

perhaps gunwook has time to level his expectations on what it means to take over his father’s role. because when he comes across you, he realizes that you two are in the same boat.

the only difference is that he seemed to have more time; more days to train and more hours to study battle plans.

your life, however, turned upside down in one day.

gunwook was going to call it a day. something about today’s training drained him until his legs were cramping. whenever he had to move his arms, he muttered profanities over the soreness. he already denied theo’s invitation for a night out at the saloon, to which he received an earful of complaints for. it didn’t help that seungcheol was making use of his superiority over him, going as far as ridiculing him for his lack of endurance.

but gunwook is all too familiar with his comrades; he wasn’t going to fall for the same tricks.

regardless of the objections, gunwook managed to escape the barracks. he didn’t even think to strip off his heavy armor. but the breeze of the night hit his cheeks—that was enough to give him the last ounce of energy for him to march back to the quarters.

he takes the same path from the barracks to his room; through the garden of different-colored hydrangeas, past the entrance of the chapel where he offers reverence, all the way to the hall filled with portraits. every time gunwook passes through this hall, his steps always slow down as he takes in the same paintings.

tonight shouldn’t be different.

as gunwook’s eyes grace through the portraits, paint strokes capturing commanders’ similar stern expressions, he recalls their history: their journey into the royal army, the sweat it took to become commander, and the sacrifices they made as they led the knights.

and similar to other nights, he makes the same comment: despite the bloodshed, they stood tall—will gunwook be able to say the same for himself?

yet, tonight presents its first difference.

from a distance, gunwook spots someone sitting on a velvet bench. his eyes squint as he continues to walk through the hall, only to make out that it’s you

it’s not unusual to spot you outside of your chambers but you were always accompanied, either by gunwook or a maid. yet, your lonely figure has their eyes peeled to a portrait.

his steps hasten—his majesty cannot be left unattended. no one would allow it—until he hears your sniffles. gunwook watches you wipe away your tears, only for more to stream down your cheeks, and he understands why you’re alone tonight.

you were never the type to cry in front of others. gunwook first learned that when you were scolded by the king. and while he can’t recall for what reason, he remembers the tremble in your voice as you asked him to wait outside your door for a few minutes. you came out of the room with a red, runny rose.

and it’s during these moments where gunwook curses the rattling of his armor because the next steps he takes draws your attention. you glance at him before blinking back the tears. “gunwook, i didn’t know you were here,” you say as you clear your throat in between words.

“your majesty, i didn’t mean to intrude. i was only on my way back to my quarters.”

you wave your hand in reassurance. “it’s okay.” another cough. “did your training finish just now?” you ask without sparing him a glance.

“yes, your majesty.”

with one nod, you say, “okay. i don’t want to keep you from resting. i’m sure you’ve had a long day.”

but gunwook doesn’t care for the lack of sleep he got today or the countless hours he spent in the barracks. “your majesty, there is no trouble with me staying.” you look at him, and he takes in your bloodshot eyes and red nose. “i’ll accompany you until the very end.”

all it takes is one smile from you before he stations himself beside you. as he looks straight ahead, he realizes what you’ve been looking at this whole time: a portrait of the king. your father.

“why don’t you sit down beside me?”

“your majesty, i don’t think it would be proper for me to do so. i’m only allowed to—”

“gunwook.” as your tone shifts from curiosity into agony, he peers over towards you. your eyes are glossy once more. “would you sit down beside me? just this once?”

and gunwook realizes that you didn’t need your commander right now—so, he follows.

he looks at the same painting you’re staring at, respecting and offering your last ounces of privacy. regardless of your request for him to stay by your side, he knows to not look should you shed any more tears.

but then you ask, “do you think you’re ready to be commander?”

gunwook thinks this is a test. if he lies, he might find himself poorly delivering his duties—but to be honest would mean to be removed from his job. away from you.

so, he settles for an answer that held a bit of both. “i don’t know.”

a soft hum leaves you, then silence follows.

gunwook thinks he might’ve failed to give the answer you were looking for. he shouldn’t have kept his guard down. he’s meant to serve you, after all—

“you have time.” his heart beats twice. “time to train. time to learn.” he exhales. “time to figure out if you want to be commander or not.”

gunwook can’t find the right words to say, so he opts for no response.

“i wish i had the same amount of time as you.”

your voice crack causes gunwook to glance at you, only to see you hiding your face behind your hands, and he looks away as he scolds himself for not respecting your privacy. 

he remains frozen in his seat. he didn’t know what to act as: your right-hand man or your counselor. at this moment, the boundaries are blurred.

gunwook doesn’t know how to serve you—until your hand reaches out for his.

he looks down to your linked hands that rest on his thigh; his callous-covered fingers in between yours. you grip onto his hand like it’s the first and last thing you can reach for in this hall, like how you were taught to hold a scepter, and gunwook figures out what you need him to be: your comfort.

as he laces his fingers with yours, your sobs turn into wails.

“gunwook, i can’t be the ruler. i can’t.” he looks at you whose eyes remain stuck to the painting. “i’m not fit for it, and i can’t be the ruler the empire wants. i can’t be what the people need.”

for a second, gunwook thinks he should interject. out of all the commoners and royalty within this castle, he’s certain about you. after all the time you’ve spent together, sharing to him in secrecy about your own plans for reformations, he knows where your heart lies—and that’s enough to prove your entitlement to the throne.

but it’s one sentence that changes his way of thinking, and he mourns with you.

“i’m only but a child.”

because like you, gunwook thinks the same of himself. maybe his hesitation doesn’t only come from his lack of skills and experience.

maybe it stems from the fact that he is still a kid, too.

and like every kid who cries, they long for a hug—and he does that for you.

as he wraps his arms around you, your face finds its spot by the crevice of his collar. the steel armor against your cheek is cold, and you try to chase his warmth by nuzzling into his neck, but his suit prevents you from doing so.

the last thing gunwook wants is to make you feel any lonelier, so he holds you close. his hand rubs your back in circles as you continue to sob, hoping that its warmth is enough to suffice. without thinking, his free hand reaches for the back of your head.

he freezes. he should be more careful with you. it’s not right for a knight to hold you—

you nuzzle your face closer to his neck.

gunwook realizes that this is what you need.

even if it meant going against the king. going against the commander. going against the world.

he’ll do anything if it means to remain by your side.

(gunwook would never expect the same thing from you.)

(but you would give up the world for him.)

networks: @kflixnet @k-labels @blankjournal @zumblrnet

zb1 permanent tag list: @deinsleeps

[dreamcubed]

lover | mattheo riddle x reader

song; lover [taylor swift] pairing; duke!mattheo riddle x fem!baronet's daughter!reader genre; marriage of convenience, s2l, fluff, angst, hurt comfort word count; 9,1k timeline; bridgerton au (again lol) warnings; abusive parents (verbal, neglect, psychological), implied anxiety, panic attacks, near death experience (illness) summary; born into a loveless family, you had been denied the opportunity to marry for many years. that was, until, a duke noticed your situation and gave your parents an offer that they simply couldn't refuse - but would it be a love match?

suggested by @fictionisjustbetter ! (sorry this took so long)

icl mattheo is just so perfect for period aus

masterlist

"all's well that ends well to end up with you."

———————————————

Sir Vincent Malton was a baronet and nothing more. Of course, while being a low title, it was still a part of the aristocracy, which was much better than the alternative. He took his role very seriously, as his father before him had, and his father before him.

So, when the first Lady Malton of his passed during childbirth having sired not an heir, but a daughter, he had arranged for a new wife to marry ready for his first day of it being considered acceptable to be out of mourning. The second Lady Malton of his was more successful in the heir department: during her first pregnancy, she sired twins, both a boy and a girl. And then after two more girls (of separate pregnancies), she had another boy. Sir Vincent Malton then finally felt safe in the security of his baronetcy lineage.

But he never spoke to any of his six children. He left them up to the second Lady Malton, including his firstborn, who was not her blood. Where other ladies would have accepted their stepchildren as their own, Lady Daria Malton did not. As far she was concerned, Y/N was not her child and thus not her problem. But Sir Vincent was a traditional man who saw the children as the mother's business, so she kept up appearances to continue her life of comfort.

Sir Vincent didn't even bother with the marriage mart, instructing his wife to simply inform him when a suitor (with a title) proposed to any one of his daughters. And Lady Malton had - with her own eldest daughter, Samantha, when a baron asked for her hand. He was twice her age, but Lady Malton (like her husband) cared about title more than anything. Samantha was quickly married off to her new life as a baroness.

One thing Sir Vincent didn't know was that Lady Malton had never officially debuted Y/N. She brought her along to more casual soirées that other non-debutantes attended to keep up appearances, but as far as the one-and-twenty-year-old's actual debut - well, it was significantly overdue. The thing was, Y/N had received callers after such events before, but callers were received by the baronetess and not the baronet, and she quickly sent them away. Thus, the actual stage of proposal was never reached, so Lady Malton was by all technicalities following her husband's instruction.

Y/N knew that it was unfair, that her stepmother's abuse was unjust. She didn't see why she couldn't just allow someone to propose and get her out of the home: Lady Malton clearly didn't like her, so why not be rid of her?

But, she supposed, someone like Lady Malton must quite enjoy having a scapegoat around to target their frustrations at.

***

"Last year was a tremendous success by all means," Lady Malton spoke as her lady's maid attended to her corset, "To have Samantha married off in her first year as a debutante was a splendid result."

Y/N subtly rolled her eyes: Samantha was eighteen and her husband almost forty, it really shouldn't have been a permitted pairing. But, her husband was a baron, and title was all Lord & Lady Malton cared for. They couldn't choose to be fussy as the lowest titleholders of the aristocracy.

"Thus, Y/N, I do not wish you to cause any interference," she explained further, glaring at you through her reflection in the mirror, "I am bringing you along to Lady Bridgerton's birthday soirée out of necessity, as she always includes young ladies of whom have not made their debut."

You knew that: you had attended Lady Bridgerton's birthday event the year prior for the same reason.

"Rumour has it the Duke of Covenshire has returned from his travels to the Americas and will be attending tonight," she proceeded, "And it would simply be marvellous if Grace could secure him as a match in her first year as a debutante."

You glanced over at Grace, sat at the dresser as her lady's maid applied her makeup. She was putting on a remarkably brave face, but you could tell that she was nervous: she was too young to debut. After Samantha's success, Lady Malton had felt confident enough to debut Grace at only seven-and-ten. It wasn't entirely uncommon, but typically Mamas waited until their daughters were at least one year older.

Meanwhile you were one-and-twenty and still yet to have your debut. At this rate you would be a spinster before you had even entered the marriage mart.

You looked to your other side at Tia, your youngest sister at fourteen, who was more than thrilled to be allowed to attend that night. You never saw your brothers, really: Vincent (creatively named after your father) was away at Cambridge, and Henry, the youngest of the lot, was away at Eton.

"Right, is the carriage ready?" Lady Malton snapped at one of the servants, who quickly nodded.

And then with a curt bob of her head, the baronetess proceeded over to the door - a silent instruction for her daughters to follow - and they all headed to the front of Malton House, the London lodgings of the family.

***

"Lady Bridgerton! How good to see you," Lady Malton beamed at the dowager viscountess, "Such a lovely soirée."

"Why thank you, Lady Malton," the kind woman replied, "Pleased to see all your daughters could make it."

"Oh, is Samantha here already?"

"I believe Lady Halterton is over there," Lady Bridgerton vaguely pointed in a direction, "But how are all the Miss Maltons?"

"Grace is excited to make a match this year," the poor girl was pushed forward, "With any luck, she shall follow in her sister's footsteps."

"And what of the oldest Miss Malton?"

You looked up and gave Lady Bridgerton a hesitant smile.

"You know how Y/N is - still doesn't want to debut," Lady Malton sighed, "At this rate she shall be a spinster before even trying for marriage. But, we love her and support her decisions."

You scoffed internally, wanting nothing more than to blaspheme at your stepmother in that moment.

The conversation with Lady Bridgerton wrapped up and the focus then became the considering of various potential suitors. It was the first social event that you had the privilege of attending since the year prior, so you fully planned to savour the moments you were free from the house.

And then the room hushed into whispers as the door opened, it being remarkably noticeable how all the ambitious eyes of the Mamas zoned in on one particular man gracing the room with his presence.

"That's him- that's the duke!" Lady Malton whispered, mainly to Grace, but anyone close by could have heard her.

"Gosh, he's handsome," Tia mumbled to your left, "Shame I'm too young."

You kept your eyes glued on to the pale man with curly brown hair gelled somewhat neatly. His eyes were narrowed like that of a cat's, and his very presence commanded authority - yet he was polite to every hopeful Mama who approached him. Dismissive, but polite.

"Ah, Lady Bridgerton," he spoke, near enough to you for you to hear his gruff monotone voice as he bent over to kiss the dowager viscountess's hand, "Thank you for the invitation, and happy birthday."

"It is an honour you attended, your grace."

The man nodded, chatting to her for a few moments longer as the noise and bustle returned to the room, so you couldn't hear the rest of it.

"Now is our chance," your stepmother said as the duke's conversation wrapped up. She quickly sped towards him. "Your grace!"

The duke paused, and half-turned so he was fully facing your brood.

"Lady Malton, Baronetess of Catury," she curtsied, "And this is my daughter, Grace," she gestured towards the girl.

When his eyes flicked to Tia, she hurried to introduce her, but when his eyes flicked to you, she remained silent.

"And you are?" he inquired.

Your eyes widened: you were rarely spoken to, "Y/N- Miss Y/N Malton," you corrected.

"Don't pay her any mind, your grace," your stepmother quickly said, pinching you in the side as subtly as she could which made you flinch - as it always did. You didn't notice the way the duke's beady eyes followed the interaction. "She isn't a debutante."

"She looks old enough to be." He was clearly referencing the fact you obviously had a few years on Grace.

"It is her own choice."

You couldn't help the scowl that itched at your eyebrows, and the duke couldn't help but notice it.

"Would you care for a dance with Grace?"

The duke's eyes flicked over your sister again, "I have no intentions of dancing this evening- if you excuse me."

And with that, he departed, just to be ambushed by yet another Mama.

Your stepmother turned and glared at you, "You ruined Grace's chances."

"I didn't do anything," you said simply.

"You spoke. You know you're not supposed to."

"He asked me a question."

"I respond to the questions about you."

"Mama," Grace interrupted, shooting you a sympathetic look, "Is that the Earl of Kilmartin over there?"

Lady Malton's head snapped in that direction, "So it is! He has returned from India."

You couldn't be more grateful to Grace for the distraction.

***

"Saunders," the duke, Mattheo, called from his work study in Riddle Manor, his London residence. It was merely a couple hours after he had returned from Lady Bridgerton's soirée.

The secretary hurried into the office, "Yes, your grace?"

"What do you know of the Malton family?"

Saunders paused, "Sir Vincent Malton?"

Mattheo nodded.

"He is married to Dame Daria Malton and has six children. He attended Eton and Cambridge, studying history."

"And of his children?"

"Two sons and four daughters, I believe."

"And what of Miss Y/N Malton?"

The secretary immediately recognised the name, "She is the oldest, your grace. She is one-and-twenty and well-known for not having debuted yet."

Mattheo frowned, leaning back in his chair, "Is there a way in which she is different from her siblings?"

"I-" the secretary thought for a moment, "I believe she has a different mother than her younger siblings, if that's what you mean."

"Lady Malton is not her mother?"

"Well, yes and no. The current Lady Malton is not her mother, but the Lady Malton before her was. She passed in childbirth, I believe."

Mattheo hummed, "I see."

"Is that all, your grace?"

"Prepare the carriage to journey to Malton House tomorrow morning, Saunders, and locate my mother's engagement ring."

Saunders' eyes widened, but he quickly nodded, "Of course, your grace."

Nothing made Mattheo angrier than cruel parents.

***

Lady Malton and Grace were up bright and early the next day, as all debutantes and their Mamas were after a social event. They were to dress in some of their nicer but not so fancy attire ready to sit in the upstairs drawing room in await for any callers they may receive in the downstairs drawing room. You, however, stayed tucked nicely into bed until a more reasonable hour, since your stepmother certainly wouldn't want to catch sight of you until lunchtime - if then.

Still, you rose from your slumber at around eleven o'clock and called for your lady's maid, getting dressed in a simple baby blue piece that you had purchased a few years ago. You rarely got new dresses under Lady Malton's reign.

"I'll take my breakfast in here, please, Melinda," you smiled.

***

The Duke of Covenshire had been up at an exceptionally early hour, having taken a ride on his favourite stallion at sunrise, to then return to his city house and retreat to his office for a few hours accompanied by some breakfast.

He was still there at eleven o'clock.

"Your grace," Saunders began after having knocked on the door, "The carriage is ready for you."

"And the ring?" the duke inquired.

"Here," the secretary presented it, "It was still safely in the dowager duchess's bed chamber."

Mattheo had seen no point in keeping it anywhere else since that room had remained unoccupied for quite some time now.

"Excellent," he murmured, "Now, let us make haste."

***

It wasn't a long journey to Malton House, so really it was no time at all by the time that the Covenshire carriage pulled up to the smaller but still grand home. There were two or three other carriages parked outside, likely belonging to other potential suitors.

Mattheo wasn't worried: he was a duke, after all, and the Maltons were merely baronets. They would jump at the opportunity to marry a daughter off to be a duchess.

After knocking on the door, he was greeted by a short balding man with a seemingly permanently curved eyebrow.

"Here for Miss Malton?" he asked.

"Yes," Mattheo replied, although he had a feeling they weren't referring to the same one.

"Name?"

"Mattheo Riddle, Duke of Covenshire."

The butler's eyes widened, "Right this way, your grace."

Mattheo was led through the hallway into the downstairs drawing room, where Lady Malton and Grace were perched on an orange settee. On the other side of Grace sat an older gentleman, meanwhile on the settee sat across from them were two others. One of them was roughly the same age as the first, whereas the other was much younger - closer to Grace's age.

"Your grace," Lady Malton instantly said, shooting up to curtsy.

"Lady Malton," Mattheo nodded, "May I speak with Sir Vincent?"

"Yes, yes, of course," the baronetess said with widened eyes, "I'll go fetch him at once."

Typically she would have sent a servant to complete such a task, but clearly the shock had consumed her to the point she sprung into action. Once she had departed the room, Mattheo turned his eyes to Grace and the other three gentlemen who were all staring at him curiously.

"Who are you gentlemen?" he asked.

"Edward Cann, Viscount of Sancourt," one of the older gentlemen introduced.

"Gareth Warner," the other older one spoke.

Mattheo couldn't help but question the audacity of an older man to pursue the hand of such a young woman when he didn't even possess a title. Still, his eyes turned to the youngest man.

"Sir Charles Robinson, Baronet of Rackney."

"And how old are you?" his eyes were still on Charles.

"Twenty, your grace."

Mattheo hummed, that was more appropriate for Grace. Unusual for a man to seek a wife at such an age, but not unheard of.

"Lord Cann and Mr Warner," he began, and they perked up at his address, "May I ask what the devil men of your age are doing pursuing such a young woman?"

They were clearly taken aback by his blunt honesty, as were the servants littered around the room.

"I certainly will have to rethink my family's business with your estates in light of such news."

And with apologies to Grace and Mattheo, the two older gentlemen quickly vanished from the room, moments before the Lord & Lady of the house made an appearance.

"Your grace," Sir Vincent spoke, holding out his hand, which Mattheo shook, "To what do I owe the honour?"

"May we proceed to a more private location?"

"Of course, right this way."

"Your presence won't be required any longer, Sir Charles," Lady Malton said, clearly confused at the absence of the two other gentlemen.

Mattheo interrupted, "Oh, I'm sure it will, Lady Malton. I wouldn't dismiss the young gentleman."

Before she could ask what he meant, he was being led out the drawing room and to the baronet's office.

"I believe you know what I am here for," Mattheo stated simply, after declining the offer of brandy.

"I shouldn't want to get my hopes up, your grace."

"I would like your daughter's hand in marriage."

Sir Vincent nodded, "Of course, I shall dower her fairly-"

"Unnecessary. I have no use for a dowry, no matter the size."

"Oh- okay," the baronet paused, "Which daughter is this?"

Mattheo almost frowned: was Sir Vincent not aware of his daughter's status in society? Perhaps he left such matters up to his wife.

"Miss Y/N Malton."

"You're the first suitor that we have received for her."

The duke's breath hitched.

"This is such a relief - of course, we will arrange the wedding right away."

"I would like to marry her quickly," Mattheo said, "We will need to procure a special license."

Sir Vincent nodded, "Whatever you wish, your grace. It is an honour to be your father-in-law."

Mattheo turned to leave after saying his thanks, but paused and faced the baronet again, "You should definitely consider Sir Charles Robinson to marry Miss Grace Malton, he is a fine young man."

The baronet was clearly confused at such a statement, but absently nodded nonetheless.

***

You had been shocked when your father called you down to the drawing room: you couldn't remember the last time that he had requested your presence. Not that he requested your sisters' presences either, you were pretty sure your brother Vincent was the only of his children he spoke to.

"Excellent news for our family," he began, with Lady Malton looking thrilled at what she expected him to say, "Excellent news indeed."

You almost rolled your eyes, expecting that you had simply been called down to receive the announcement of Grace's engagement.

"The Duke of Covenshire has proposed."

Lady Malton stood up, "This is fabulous news! Well done, Grace."

"No," Sir Vincent silenced his wife, "Well done, Y/N."

Your head snapped up.

What?

"Whatever do you mean, Father?"

"His grace has asked for your hand in marriage," you had never seen your father so happy, "And naturally I accepted."

Lady Malton stood in absolute horror.

"I was beginning to become worried about your lack of proposals," he continued, unaware of his wife's reaction, "But clearly God was holding out in await for this massive surprise."

"But- what about Grace?" Lady Malton finally spluttered out.

"I am in the process of discussing that matter with Sir Charles Robinson, the duke recommended him himself."

You noticed the way Grace smiled to herself at that and looked abashedly to the ground. Clearly she was happy with such an arrangement - had the duke known that and so used his influence to help her?

"His grace wishes to be married quickly."

And thus, at the end of the week, you were married.

***

You had no idea what a honeymoon night was supposed to entail. Typically, a Mama would give a bride-to-be 'the talk' the night before her wedding, but Lady Malton would never do such a motherly thing for you. Thus, you were left completely clueless.

Plus, apart from the exchange of your vows, you had hardly spoken to the duke before, so you really didn't know where the evening was going to take you as you stepped out of the carriage outside Riddle Manor. You were both to spend the night in his London home before beginning the three day journey to his countryside residence the next day. It was a typical agenda for newly weds.

You were introduced to the various staff, including your new lady's maids - you now had two of them, as opposed to one - before you were both led through to the dining room. Your eyes fell on the long dining table, with the two distanced ends laid and nothing more.

You grimaced.

"Is salmon not to your tastes?" your husband asked you.

"Tis a very formal set up," you explained simply, but said nothing more as you assumed one of the seats.

"I mostly take dinner in my work study, so this will be a rare occurrence."

You ate the entire meal in silence, and then it was time to be shown your bed chambers.

"This is the duchess' chamber," he gestured to the door, "You may redecorate it however you so wish."

You hummed.

"My chamber is next door - we have an adjoining door, of course."

You said nothing.

"Are you going to enter?"

"But what of our consummation?" you asked.

Mattheo paused - he hadn't expected you to be so blunt.

"Lady Malton did not give me a talk like she was supposed to," you explained, somewhat shyly, "I do not know what is meant to happen, but I know that something must."

"Right," he said slowly, "We will consummate."

***

You lay awake in bed next to the duke the next morning, unable to get the memories of the night prior out of your head. Never would you have guessed that that was how babies were made, something that felt so heavenly, so good. But, you were also confused, many women muttered about it in fear, as if their consummation was unenjoyable.

Perhaps it differed with each man. Regardless, with Mattheo, it was completely and entirely soul-consuming, and you wished to experience it a countless number of times over.

A knock sounded on the door, "Your graces, breakfast is ready."

Mattheo was still sound asleep, "We'll take it in here," you replied.

You weren't used to having power in a household.

Also, how did the servant know you weren't in the duchess' bed chamber?

Mattheo woke up once the servants had wheeled in the breakfast selection, and once you were both loosely dressed, you began eating. It was then that he began speaking.

"Now is as good a time as any to set out the details of this marriage," he said, making you look up from your eggs, "I married you because I can't stand when parents mistreat their children."

Your heart warmed at that: he had noticed how Lady Malton treated you?

"I do not intend for love, but obviously at some point there will need to be an heir," he said, "You may have conceived last night, but it is unlikely. In the probable case that you haven't, we can wait a couple years to produce one should you so wish."

You thought over what he was saying - perhaps part of you had hoped that he had fallen in love with you at first sight, but you knew that was childish. This was a marriage of convenience.

"I only have one condition when it comes to children," you said slowly.

"Which is?"

"That you are an involved father," you said, "Like the Bridgertons are known for being."

Memories flashed through Mattheo's mind of his childhood: his father's coldness and distance all throughout the years until he returned from Cambridge a grown man. Only then did the late duke want anything to do with his son.

"I shall be involved," he said.

***

You couldn't look Mattheo in the eyes, you soon realised. He scared you, not in the way that Lady Malton had, but in a way you didn't quite understand. He made you nervous, made you unable to speak more than a few words at a time. Not that you did speak much: the entire journey to Covenshire Hall had been very much one of silence. The only sound to accompany you was the wheels and hooves against the cobbled roads.

The nights were spent in inns, in separate bed chambers.

Covenshire Hall was enormous: far bigger than the Catury estate that you had spent half your childhood on. It made sense, obviously, you were no longer a mere baronet's daughter, but a duchess.

"Your graces," the butler greeted you as you stepped out the carriage, "Welcome."

"Dantle," Mattheo replied, "Gather all the servants in the entrance hall."

"Right away, your grace."

The man disappeared inside, and you soon had entered through the same doors that he had, to be greeted by the largest entry room that you had ever seen. Symmetrical stairs curved around the walls either side of you, carpeted in plush blue velvet. The walls were decorated in a branch-design, but the once deep maroon colour had faded over time: it was evident to you that there hadn't been a lady of the house in quite a few years.

And then, quite quickly, the room filled with lines of house staff - more than you had ever seen for one household before. You were introduced to them all, including the primary housekeeper, Ms Godley. She was an older woman, with mostly grey hair that still held evidence of her brunette days, and a lightly wrinkled face that seemed more to do with the permanent pursing of her lips rather than age. Her eyebrows were ghastly thin, much like the rest of her, which could only be described as bony. She wore a pleated black dress down to her ankles, suggesting that she was in mourning.

You smiled politely at her, but she did not return it.

"I will leave you in her capable hands," your husband said to you, "She will provide a tour of the grounds."

"Where are you going?" you couldn't help but ask.

"My office."

You watched as he left, before turning back to Ms Godley.

"Where shall we begin?" you asked, attempting to be friendly.

***

You didn't like Ms Godley - not one bit. She reminded you of your stepmother, except this time you didn't even have younger siblings to provide a distraction. It was quite evident that she wasn't particularly fond of you either, although you had no idea what you could have done.

"This is the nursery," the woman said tightly, "It has been empty for some years now."

Gazing around the room of faded yellows and purples, you were cast back to when you were in your nursery, though you always got the short end of the stick when it came to beds. Nonetheless, it had been a relatively pleasant time for you, back when your sisters were too young to notice that Lady Malton treated you differently, so you would all play together as children do.

You didn't want any of your children to feel left out.

"Your grace," Ms Godley said curtly, "We don't have all day."

You sighed, exiting the room.

***

Loneliness was a familiar emotion to you, so a week of solitude in Covenshire Hall wasn't all that much of a change from your old life, other than the fact you now had servants waiting on your hand and foot. Although, you were growing quite bored: at least with the Maltons, you were always distracted by gauging your stepmother's mood.

You decided that you needed a distraction, and since the prestigious house was in desperate need of a fresh lick of paint, you landed on redecorating.

"You called for me, your grace?" Ms Godley stood before you in the duchess' office that you had taken to using regularly.

"Yes," you stood up, walking around your desk, "I have a matter to discuss with you."

It took everything in you to act courageous in front of a woman so similar to Lady Malton.

"I wish to redecorate the house," you said simply.

By some miracle, Ms Godley's lips pursed even more.

"Starting with the entrance hall - since that is the first room guests see, then-"

"No."

You paused - was she allowed to say that to you? "No?"

"No. This estate is not a part of your lineage, you have no right to tamper with it."

The amount of bravery that it had taken for you to have this conversation with her, just for her to pull a line that sounded so eerily similar to Lady Malton's.

"I am the lady of the house," you said, but it was obvious you weren't speaking as surely of yourself as moments prior.

"The dowager duchess was never permitted to redecorate either," she said, "And I imagine that the late duke would especially not want somebody as measly as a baronet's daughter interfering with his heritage."

You stood in shock for a few moments, eventually managing to splutter out, "You are excused."

Once she was gone, you finally gave in to the panic consuming you, feeling your breath beginning to dramatically labour and push against your corset. You felt trapped, suffocated, like you had your entire childhood, and you didn't like it. You had to escape.

So, you did.

You weren't running away by any means: you just needed fresh air, and the woods on the Covenshire grounds seemed perfect to hide away for a while. Just a couple days ago, you had taken a walk through them. Of course, that was on one of the paths that navigated between the trees, this time you simply started running straight ahead once you breached the tree line.

But you could only go so far when you had to hitch up your thick heavy skirts to make progress, so it wasn't long before you collapsed against a tree, your lungs pounding against your rib cage which were in turn pounding against your corset.

It was then that floods poured out of your eyes and down your cheeks, leaving a sticky, puffy trail behind.

You should have known better.

Just because you were a duchess didn't mean you suddenly had control over your own life.

You failed to notice the looming grey clouds gathering above, up until the sky thundered, and the familiar trickle of heavy rain commenced.

***

Mattheo was sat in his office, going over estate finances, when a knock sounded on the door.

"Your grace?"

He hated being interrupted during work, but still said a grumbled, "Come in."

"I am so sorry to disturb you, your grace," Dantle said, bowing his head, "But the duchess appears to be missing."

Mattheo's head shot up, "Missing, you say?"

"Ms Godley was the last one to speak to her, approximately two hours ago."

"Where has she gone?" the duke was now standing up.

Dantle appeared uncomfortable, "I do not know, your grace. Apparently she ran down into the woods."

"Ran?" Mattheo felt his blood boil, "Have you gone out to look for her?"

"No, your grace, the storm-"

"The storm?" he saw red, "The bloody storm?" He then let out a sound somewhat adjacent to a growl before pushing past Dantle out his office.

He was going to find his wife.

***

You probably had pneumonia or something at this rate, you thought to yourself. Your body was completely freezing and soaked, and your lack of cloak was becoming apparent as a massive problem in terms of your well-being. You should have gone back inside the second the rain started, but that was when you were still in the depths of your upset. It wasn't until you were too cold to move did you calm down a bit more.

To be honest, you were about ready to accept your fate.

"Y/N!" a faint cry came from nearby, and as much as you wanted to call out and alert them of your location, your voice was weak.

By some miracle, the man - your husband - managed to locate you.

"Y/N, oh, God," he blasphemed, "Are you okay? What are you doing out here?"

You couldn't even reply.

Mattheo scooped you up into his arms and began making haste back towards the mansion that you shared.

"Stay with me," he murmured at irregular intervals, right up until you felt the warmth of a fireplace hit you on the cheeks. You were in your bed chamber, you realised, upon noticing the faded floral pink wall decor.

Your skin was so numb you hardly felt your husband begin to peel off all items of your clothing, including your undergarments. Typically, you would have felt embarrassed, but you were completely spent.

As he picked you up again and carried you through to the bathroom, where a bath had been prepared, you couldn't help but curl into him.

"I ordered it be run before I went to find you," he said softly - the softest you had ever heard him speak.

The warmth of the water felt heavenly.

"What happened, darling?"

You shivered, this time not because of the cold, but because of the nickname.

"Godley," you forced out between your blue lips.

"Ms Godley? What did she do?" he asked as he began to wet your hair.

"I wan- wanted to redecorate the house," your teeth were chattering, "She said I couldn't change anything."

Mattheo said nothing.

"It's- it's the way she said it," you clarified, not wanting him to think you were a brat who had simply been told 'no', "She was so mean."

"How did she say it?" you didn't miss the edge to his voice that hadn't been there before.

"She said it would upset the- the late duke - and that- that he especially wouldn't want a measly baronet's daughter to-" you choked on re-emerging sobs, "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry, my love," you felt him press a kiss to your forehead, "I will handle this."

***

After you had warmed up in the bath and been wrapped up in thick clothing, Mattheo gently escorted you to one of the larger drawing rooms, where, to your horror, every single staff member of the house was gathered. Including Ms Godley.

"It has come to my attention that the duchess is not receiving the respect she deserves in this household," your husband sent an icy glare in the housekeeper's direction, "As the lady of the house, it is her right to decorate our rooms however she so pleases."

Ms Godley's lips pursed.

"The redecoration that her grace desires will commence immediately," Mattheo gave a forced smile, "Follow her every instruction. Any questions?"

"What of the late duke?" Ms Godley asked.

"What of a man of whom is dead?"

"Surely you should respect his wishes."

"How I choose to treat my father's wishes is none of your concern, Ms Godley. You are overstepping."

The old woman opened her mouth to say something, but decidedly shut it before saying, "My apologies, your grace."

"Apologise to my wife as well."

"My apologies," Ms Godley gave a stiff curtsy.

You had been glancing nervously between your husband and the housekeeper throughout the entire exchange, feeling overwhelmingly put on the spot. It was the second after Ms Godley apologised to you that your chest tightened and you erupted in a coughing fit.

"Darling?" Mattheo asked worriedly as you fell forward.

"Can't- breathe-" you choked out.

You felt a hand press to your forehead.

"She's overheating," the duke said loudly, "Help me get her to bed. And call the doctor."

Murmurs of, "Right away, your grace," came in reply.

"You're going to be okay," Mattheo said softly to you as he picked you up for the millionth time that day, "You must be."

***

The doctors concluded that you were pneumonic, which had been what everyone suspected but were too scared to say in front of you. But, you weren't an idiot, and understood what your symptoms meant.

There was a good chance that you would die.

It was dark outside: it often was when you came to from your fever dream episodes, for a few minutes of painful consciousness. You lurched up in bed, quickly producing horrific gurgling coughs and splutters, unable to stop yourself from groaning in pain in between. Tears pricked at your eyes as you placed a hand on your chest, your blurred vision just about making out the duke running in from the door between your bed chambers.

Mattheo grabbed the cloth from your bedside table and dipped it into the pot of water placed for this occasion, hurrying to press it to your burning forehead. You let out a brief sigh of relief, before you began coughing again.

He rubbed your back, "You can get through this."

You weren't sure if you could, in fact, you felt deathly, as it were. But, your husband's words gave you a sense of strength and hope, and it was all you could do but nod after the coughing subsided.

"If- if I make it," you murmured, falling back on to the pillows. Your voice was low and cracked. "Please- may we go to London?"

"Whatever for?"

"I..." you trailed off, "I would like to make friends."

And before Mattheo could question you further, you drifted back into unconsciousness and shallow breathing.

***

It was three days later, on a chilly but sunny morning, when you awoke naturally instead of being forced awake by coughs. Your breathing felt stronger, and you weren't overheating, which was the best feeling you had felt in forever.

You heard voices outside your door.

"Is she doing any better, your grace?" who you assumed to be the doctor asked.

"We were about to check," your husband's familiar voice replied.

The door opened, and you blinked a few times to clear your vision as the two men approached you.

"Mattheo," you said softly, your words still sore to speak.

"You're awake," he said simply, pressing his hand to your forehead. The physical contact comforted you.

"How do you feel?" the doctor asked.

"Better."

He raised his eyebrows, "In what way?"

"Every way."

He performed a more thorough examination, and concluded that while you likely still had a couple more days of illness, you had pushed through the worst of it and were well on your way to recovery. You were relieved to hear that, but even more relieved to finally be able to take a bath and and cleanse yourself.

"You wanted to return to London," Mattheo said simply at dinner that night, as he was taking it in your room with you.

"I said that?" you asked. You knew that it was what you wished to do, you just couldn't recall mentioning it to your husband.

He hummed, "While you were feverish."

He had been taking care of you?

"Well, yes- I wish to finally have a social circle."

"You mentioned that also."

You said nothing.

"Once you are fully returned to health, we shall make the journey," he said simply.

You couldn't help but beam, "Really?"

"Really."

"Thank you- thank you so much."

He shook his head, as if to say 'don't thank me'.

"I'm so glad you're my husband."

Mattheo chuckled, "I'll take care of you no matter what, darling."

***

Two weeks later, and the doctor had determined that you were back to being healthy and thus your convalescence was able to come to an end. It was then arranged for you and Mattheo to return to London for the remainder of the season but three days later, once you would have passed an appropriate honeymoon duration. While you were terribly excited to be able to properly socialise, you were also nervous. For one, your stepmother would be there, and for two, you weren't that experienced with the correct customs for socialising. The only comforting factor was that your husband would be there with you: a man who you held a lot of adoration for, and felt an immense amount of comfort from.

After the pneumonia episode, he hadn't distanced himself quite so much. Granted, you still hadn't engaged in your wedding night type of intimacy again yet, but you ate meals together, and frequently found yourself wandering over to his bed chamber in the night. The first time you had done it, it had been most nerve-wracking.

It had been a few days since you had snapped out of the fever dream episode, and were feeling much more energetic. Unfortunately, you had also been dealing with bouts of insomnia, which you suspected had something to do with your fear of falling asleep and re-entering the fever dream. Like usual, you found yourself up at the early hours of the morning, only the exhaustion was catching up to you and you could feel your chest tighten as hysteric panic began to set in.

Before you completely freaked out, you forced yourself up and over to the adjoining door, aiming to seek comfort from Mattheo even if the prospect of doing so petrified you. He stirred the second that you entered the room, at least it appeared like he did from what you could make out in the shadows. "Y/N?" he murmured.

You let out a sob.

"Come here," he said without hesitation and you gladly obliged, finding that you could finally drift into a slumber once in his arms.

And, thus, you went to him whenever you couldn't sleep.

But, now, you were in the carriage back to London, with your hands folded neatly in your lap and your husband sat across from you. You weren't sure why, but there was an awkward silence present.

***

Mattheo was conflicted.

He didn't know why he cared so deeply for you, why he was so willing to aid you whenever you were in need.

A strangled, screaming part of himself deep inside knew exactly why he felt how he did, but the part of him that he listened to feigned ignorance and told him it was simply expected of him to take care of his wife.

But the thing that confused him the most was the fact he felt the urge to tell you about his childhood, about his father, and about the lack of family and love he had endured. Why would he want to tell you such personal information that didn't even matter any longer, since the cause of it was dead?

Why did you make him feel this way?

"Mattheo?" he looked up at you sat opposite him. Your voice sounded small and timid.

"Yes?"

"Are you mad at me?"

He could have sworn he actually felt the searing pain of his heart breaking at that moment. He wasn't sure he was capable of being mad at you. "Of course not, why ever would you think that?"

You gave a gentle shrug, "You're quieter than normal."

"I'm often quiet." It was true: he was often regarded as a grumpy and brooding individual.

"Yes," you said tightly, "But not like this."

It stunned him how easily you could read him, but, then again, maybe he had never been close enough to anyone for them to know him. Maybe his emotions were obvious to anyone who cared enough to try and figure them out.

"Do you not wish to return to London?"

Mattheo paused for a moment. He hadn't put any thought into whether or not he wanted to go back to the capital, but initially it seemed like an obvious answer since he had always despised the season. Overbearing Mamas and their brood of debutante daughters were his idea of hell, but now he felt different. He realised that he did in fact want to go to London, not just because he was now married and off the Mamas' radar, but because you wanted to go. Mattheo was faced with the overwhelming realisation that he simply wanted to do whatever you wanted to do.

"Oh, dear, you don't, do you? We can turn around," you said quickly, making him snap out of his thoughts.

"No," he rushed to say, "We shall go to London."

"But you don't want to go."

"I do."

"But-"

"We are going, and that's final."

You opened your mouth to say something more, but decided against it, and turned your gaze to out the window.

The rest of the journey was silent.

***

"We need to discuss the rules for our time here," Mattheo said once you had settled into Riddle Manor for some dinner.

"We do?"

He hummed, "I will not be attending every social event we are invited to."

"But- people will think our marriage is rocky if you're not with me. The ton will talk, they always do."

"I said not every social event," he reminded, "I will attend some."

"You have to attend the first one," you said, "That one is the most important."

Mattheo agreed, "Of course, but from then on, it will be events here and there. You are welcome to attend alone."

You deflated a bit, but nodded your head, "Maybe we can host a ball at some point."

His eyebrows raised. Riddle Manor hadn't been the location of a ball in almost thirty years - there had been no lady of the house to host it.

"Perhaps," he replied pensively.

***

The next social event, to Mattheo's great horror, was the infamous Smythe-Smith musicale. Otherwise known as a torturous cacophony of four tone-deaf girls of whom were trusted with instruments that should have undoubtably never been allowed within five feet of them. You had heard what the quartet were like, having never attended yourself, and - honestly - you were rather excited to finally be a part of an inside joke of the ton that you had been left out of. Your husband was not nearly so enthusiastic, having attended exactly twice before, but not for a good many years.

Unfortunately, as selfish a woman as Lady Malton was, she was more than willing to sacrifice her hearing in order to secure impressive marriages for all of her (biological) daughters. So, you weren't surprised to enter the Smythe-Smith ballroom and see her stood with Grace closely by her side.

"Introducing, the Duke and Duchess of Covenshire," the man stood by the door announced, making your half-sister and stepmother quickly turn their attentions in your direction.

You squeezed Mattheo's arm tightly, to which he patted your hand and nodded when your family members approached.

"Your grace," Lady Malton gave a gentle curtsy - to Mattheo, not you, "How fares your marriage?"

It was a question that bordered on the edge of improper for polite society. "Most excellent," the duke replied coolly, making you smile to yourself.

Lady Malton gave the politest smile her sour face could muster.

"What brings you here?" Mattheo asked, trying to gauge why Lady Malton would put herself through the Smythe-Smith musicale with no daughters on the marriage mart.

"Marriage prospects, of course."

"Is Miss Grace Malton not engaged to Sir Charles?" he asked.

"Well- uh- yes."

The duke raised an eyebrow at the woman, and you must say that you were thoroughly enjoying this interaction.

"They shall be married at the end of the week," she said reluctantly, "But until the vows are complete, things can change."

That was when you realised: Lady Malton was praying on securing a last-minute proposal from someone of a higher status than Sir Charles. If it meant marrying into more wealth and more powerful connections, surely your father would agree to it.

"You should come to the wedding," Grace blurted out, "We thought you would still be in the country, so we didn't send an invitation."

You knew the real reason that you hadn't received an invitation was because Lady Malton would have taken control of all the wedding arrangements, and you were most certainly not on her invite list. But, she couldn't revoke the invitation to the duke's face and in a public setting, so she forced herself to smile and agree.

"That would be lovely," you beamed, purposefully showing as much enthusiasm as possible, simply to upset your stepmother, "Now, if you excuse us, I wish to secure front row seats."

Multiple people around you stared at you like you were insane - they just wouldn't understand your motivations.

"Trust me, front row seats are never the ones that need to be fought for here," Mattheo whispered to you as you both moved over to the rows of chairs set up.

You shrugged, "You're sitting with me whether you like it or not."

"Ah, Lady Danbury," he spoke as you came face to face with the renowned old woman sat in the very central front seat.

"Your grace," she raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

"Come to enjoy the musicale?" your husband asked, the sarcastic undertone impossible to miss - at least to you.

"But, of course," Lady Danbury smiled, "I attend every year."

You desperately wanted to enter the conversation, but you didn't know how.

"You're the eldest Miss Malton, aren't you?" she said towards you, making you freeze on the spot.

"Uh, yes - Lady Riddle now, actually."

She hummed, waving her cane around despite being sat, "Yes, Duchess of Covenshire. Quite grand, no?"

You awkwardly smiled.

The dowager countess turned her attentions back to Mattheo, "I must admit, I didn't think you would marry for quite some time, your grace."

"Nor did I," he simply replied, which for some reason, slightly hurt you. You had inconvenienced his life: you were a burden to him as a result of him being a good person.

"I fear that love does tend to have the effect of uprooting our lives," Lady Danbury said wistfully, a gentler emotion than you had ever witnessed on her from afar at the few social gatherings you had been allowed at.

Love.

"I only wish I had been so lucky as to have had it been with my husband."

You looked up in surprise. To be honest, you knew very little of the dowager countess' life: she had been a widow for as long as you had been alive, so it was hard to imagine her having a husband. All you knew was that she was widowed very young, and chose to never remarry. Part of you had assumed that it was because of how much she loved her husband, like the dowager Viscountess Bridgerton. It was clear now that you were wrong, but you knew better than to pry.

"Alas, let us enjoy this musicale," she said with a glint in her eye, "It is meant to be a joyous occasion, after all."

You knew she said it sarcastically, but, for you, this was indeed a joyous occasion. You were more than thrilled to finally be a part of London society - the ton.

Sparing a glass in Mattheo's direction, you were surprised to see that he was already looking at you.

***

The duke did not attend another social event with you for the rest of the week, but almost every night you were out. It was strange, not needing to be chaperoned as a married woman, but you quite enjoyed it.

The first two events alone you spent as a wallflower - albeit a married one - which weren't so enjoyable. But, once people realised that the Duchess of Covenshire was present at the social events, you began attracting a lot of attention from fellow ladies who aspired to be friends with someone of such a powerful status. Soon, you were mingling with the ton as if you had always done so, although your social skills were still inept. Thankfully, most were willing to overlook this due to you being a duchess.

Then, your sister's wedding came around, and it meant that you would have your second outing with your husband accompanying you. That made you more excited than you were willing to admit.

"Blue is most becoming on you," Mattheo spoke from behind you, making you jump. You hadn't heard him enter your bed chamber.

"Thank you," you replied, "I had it tailored on Tuesday."

"How much?"

You blanched - it had been quite expensive. You had felt guilty at the time, but found it difficult to say no to the Madam who had been dressing you.

"Darling, you are free to spend my money, I am simply curious," he reassured you, "My wife deserves only the best, after all."

Butterflies swarmed in your stomach. Was it normal - for you to feel this way towards your husband when it was merely a marriage of convenience? You were snapped out of your thoughts when he moved closer to you and began kissing along your neck.

"Mattheo," you murmured.

He hummed, "Shame you're already dressed," and then he reluctantly pulled back, "But, we must depart now anyway."

That was the first hint you had received that he wanted to repeat the intimacies of your consummation. And it made your skin feel hot and prickly.

***

Your half-sister was a gorgeous bride: her elegant dress matching her eye colour and making her glistening smile seem bright. It was obvious that she was elated to be with Sir Charles, the incredibly young baronet who hung off her every word. One could only describe it as a love match.

"Thank you," you said to Mattheo, who was stood next to you as you applauded the newly weds.

"For what?"

"For recommending Sir Charles - and for marrying me."

He chuckled, "There is no need to thank me, darling. I can hardly complain about having a breath-taking wife, can I?"

Yet again, butterflies, and the overwhelming sense of desire.

Soon, it was time for the first dance of the newly married couple, celebrated back at Sir Charles' London residence. After they danced the first number alone, more couples joined the dance floor for a waltz. You couldn't help but look up at your husband hopefully.

He sighed fondly and held out his hand, "My lady?"

"My lord," you murmured, taking his hand and allowing him to lead you on to the dance floor.

As you moved into position, you found yourself avoiding looking at Mattheo's face, as for some reason it scared you. Maybe it was the proximity, or the emotions you had been consistently feeling for the last few days. Regardless, you felt timid.

"Darling?" your stomach flipped, and you were forced to meet his eyes.

"Yes?"

"I prefer it when you look at me," Mattheo muttered before he could stop the words from tumbling out. Momentarily, he froze, unable to ignore the way his heart burned in his chest.

"Okay," you said breathlessly, now not being able to tear your eyes away from him.

"You're so perfect."

A lump formed in your throat, "No one's perfect."

"Perfect for me," he said so quietly you almost didn't hear, just as the dance came to an end.

You stood in silence for a few moments, unable to process his words.

Eventually, you spoke, "Mattheo, I- I..."

The look in his eyes beckoned you on.

"Heaven knows I know nothing of love nor what it's like to be loved, but- but I think I love you."

His expression was unreadable, and you felt as if you had said the wrong thing, right up until, "I think I love you too."

God, why were tears pricking in your eyes?

No one had ever said that to you before.

And then you shoved yourself into his arms, desperately seeking warmth and affection as if it were your life line. The other people at the wedding and propriety be damned.

Mattheo moved his head to whisper in your ear.

"All's well that ends well to end up with you."

————————————————

masterlist

written; 09/08/2023 —> 04/10/2023 published;05/10/2023 edited; —/—/——

[theygotbitchesinmedia]

okay. hear me out. i know you’ve said before no concept albums but this is one of my favorite pieces of media and means so much to my acceptance of my own womanhood and i really hope you just give it a chance.

taylor swifts The Tortured Poets Department is one of most groundbreaking and heart wrenching sapphic aligned media i’ve ever experienced, and it’s backlash by music review jornos is no doubt because of its focus on womanhood and queer love. the album embraces melodrama and emotional vulnerability, often using heightened expressions of emotion as a narrative device. swift’s lyrics are central to the album, with developed imagery taking precedence over catchy pop hooks. the album is also recognized for its references to other artists and poets, suggesting a lineage of “tortured” lyrical poets.

in terms of its significance in lesbian and feminist art, while there is no direct confirmation of the album being labeled as such, it could be argued that its themes of love, relationships, and emotional expression resonate with broader human experiences, including those within the lgbtq+ community. the album’s exploration of heartbreak and creativity might align with feminist ideas of personal agency and the rejection of societal expectations.

you've got a glowing review

[silverflqmes]

໒⦂ 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑.

notes. genshin boys as songs from taylor swift’s album, lover, super sorry for misreading your request mikan, i hope this one is better for you!

genre. fluff + angst

for @alatushours <3

ft. xiao, kazuha kaedehara, albedo, scaramouche ( wanderer / kabukimono / kunikuzushi / balladeer )

tw. implied alcohol consumption ( scaramouche’s ), implications and discussions of abandonment issues.

gender neutral! reader

ะ ྂ ❤︎ . ˚˖ now playing.. the archer.

+ about. the archer tells the story of someone’s anxiety, inner suffering and insecurities. while they have had their fair share of the upper hand in a situation, they’ve also been in a more vulnerable, hunted position. relationships are hard to hold onto, as most of their enemies started off as friends

+ xiao has lived a long time, having gone from a peaceful life among his yaksha allies — whom he called his friends. in the present, those friends are no longer, having become corrupted with karma and the after effects of the cataclysm, which had left him with no choice but to fulfill his duty as the remainder of the five. on the outside, the conqueror of demons stands as a symbol of strength and protection for the people of liyue, a hope for a karma-free region. yet, there stood somebody who always seemed to see right through him, who saw through the stable front he put on for everyone. he found it stupid that you did, but deep down it scared him. xiao once wondered who could ever leave him, but now.. it’s who could stay? it strained his chances at new friendships, at relationships — at letting somebody into his life. yet you paved a path towards him, through all the karma that follows and bathes him under the moonlight, and reach out for him to hold onto you.

+ “i’ve been the archer.. i’ve been the prey..”

ะ ྂ ❤︎ . ˚˖ now playing.. daylight.

+ about. daylight tells the story of a person who has been stuck in what feels like a never ending dark night, and finally breathes out a puff of fresh air when the brightness of day, their cherished love, washes away the eternal darkness that has trapped them for so long.

+ kazuha didn’t want to look anything else now that he saw you. ever since the lockdown on inazuma with sakoku decree, the loss of his friend, what remained of his lineage; just about everything, he felt stuck. stuck within a night without a moon or stars to light his way, to guide him out of the dark.. until he met you, that was. with his only escape through beidou’s ship, he was met with the most cleansing opportunity of meeting you upon his arrival in the ever prospering liyue. you were like a ray of sunshine, the daylight he’d been search for what felt eons for, and finally found. you’d driven out every shroud of darkness that held onto him and flooded his vision with a brightness so warm, it gravitated him to you. of course there had been the fear of flying too close, like the story of icarus. only, if kazuha flew too close, there was the fear of losing you as he’d lost another once before. but as he drew closer.. he found himself greeted with warmth, rather than ashes.

+ “and now i see daylight, i only see daylight.”

ะ ྂ ❤︎ . ˚˖ now playing.. lover.

+ about. lover tells the story of someone who feels they’ve known their partner a lifetime, rather than the amount of time in which they’ve been together. they have finally found the one they have been searching for all their life, and wants to go wherever they go.

+ albedo never thought himself to be cut out for frivolous love and romance, and yet here he was now. a holiday dinner at his place had ended with his colleagues friends of the knights crashing in the living room, fairy lights still up, casting their warm glow. he held up a cup of tea as he walked in to see you snickering at them with a morning drink of your tastes in hand, wrapping an arm around you as he held you close to him. he could remember last night near perfect detail, recalling the cooking, the laughter, and the seat you saved him right next to you, just as he did for you at every table you both sat at. it was always the little details that made his heart burn with an unfamiliar warmth, similar to the one he felt with alice’s daughter, klee, yet different. yours felt like a bundle of blankets on the coldest day of the year, on the peak of sal vindagnyr, with a shower of adoration in the form of sweet nothings, dirty jokes and the tenderest kisses. a reminder that you are his, forever and ever and ever. his.. lover.

+ “i take this magnetic force of a man to be my.. lover!”

ะ ྂ ❤︎ . ˚˖ now playing.. cornelia street.

+ about. cornelia street tells the story of someone afraid to lose another person they loved, due to previous loss. they’re enjoying the moments with the person they love, but doubts and fear surface in their head of those moments coming to an abrupt end, just as everything else does.

+ scaramouche swore off getting close to people after the third incident in his early life. now, he is met again with what could be the fourth incident, out of his ( stupid ) feelings for someone that warmed their way into his hollow chest. that was you. after a night out, feeling tipsy, you threw in the idea of renting a place for the both of you to live in. the wanderer thought it to be stupid. given his new lifestyle, renting a place didn’t align with that. but he didn’t refuse the idea. he enjoyed his time with you there, life was never brighter.. except for those moments where he thinks back to his past, and wonders if he would lose you, too. if the former harbinger did, he knew he would never be the same, that he would never be able to walk the street of your rented home again. terrified, he tried to leave at point, fearing history would repeat.. and yet you showed your hand before he could leave, and sat on the roof with him that night with the promise of never leaving.

+ “hope it never ends.. i’d never walk cornelia street again.”

notes. hello mikan! super sorry again for misreading the request, i hope this one is better and that the songs i chose are okay😭 i only listen to a few tracks on lover so i tried my best to pick what fits them best</3

↳ return to main masterlist . request rules . send an ask

[ewanmitchelll]

Imagine Taylor Swift’s songs (XVII): Anti-Hero.

Imagine Aemond is the King of Westers when you, a Greyjoy, rebel against his rule on behalf of a pretender to the throne.

Warnings: lots of drama, angst; smut, fluff ending like always.

***

•I have this thing where I get older but just never wiser. Midnights become my afternoons when my depression works the graveyard shift all of the people I've ghosted stand there in the room.

Just as Aemond lands, rain begins to fall. Storms usually bring bad omens, but he takes his time in going back inside. He knows he’s expected and yet the prince has no need to rush inside.

His hair is soaked as well as his leather robes. Nevertheless, he acts as if he’s been barely touched by the foul weather. Iron doors are pushed so Aemond walks inside. The moment he does Ser Criston Cole greets him.

“I salute you, lord. It appears you bring me bad news.”

“Has my grave look delivered it?”

Aemond doesn’t show him any emotion.

“The king lays in his deathbed and has requested your presence.”

Tragedy has marked the few years since his older brother won his crown upon the longer period of time spent fighting Rhaenyra and her children. Madness followed when sweet Helaena went on her free will to the grave once the twins were bitterly deprived of their lives.

Because Lucerys had to be avenged for what Aemond caused. Their mother, some would whisper, did not last longer either. Victory came when most of the greens were buried and the blacks were dead and gone.

Now all that has remained is Aemond, recently a widower after his lady wife, the unpopular Alys Rivers, died in childbirth, preventing the greens to continue their lineage since their unborn child never breathed their first breath.

He tries not to dwell in the dark waters of the past if he does not wish to be drowned in the worst depression that could make any sane man sink into it.

But a path of blood has led him to this moment. One that he always desired. At what cost, though?

“I shall see him. No need to show me the way.”

Ser Criston doesn’t seem pleased with the cold remark of the prince who has been like a son to him, but the knight knows his place and lets him be.

Aemond soon takes the stairs and in this state, he walks to his oldest brother’s privy chambers. Once he gets in, unannounced, the silver haired prince is surprised by the bad smell that comes in.

It’s the smell of death.

“Brother”, the ghostly, pained voice reaches his ear in a most unpleasant way.

Aegon II is prostrated unhealthily in bed, the opposite of what his young self used to be. The weight of the crown costed much, but no price was high enough to restaure his sanity, health or, worse perhaps, his glorious past. In his eyes, there is nothing but the disgrace of another kinslayer, consumed by remorse.

A terrible sight to behold.

“My king”, he bows his head.

“Even in my darkest hour you are tied to formalities”, Aegon snarls in disdain. “It should have been you here, not me.”

“Time has always been a great thief, on that we agree, but do not think the shadow of death will not be casted upon me”, responds Aemond in a whisper.

“I should have been wiser”, says Aegon with eyes blurred by tears. “The older I grew, poorer were the decisions made.”

Aemond doesn’t know what to respond, opting for silence. In truth, he’s always been more of a soldier than a general. Always one to follow orders than give them. Or perhaps the civil war has led him to shape this perspective of himself.

“What good is there to think of what should or could have been done? The past is there for a reason.”

“How can you be so cold?!”

“I am being reasonable, logical even. Where is the need of being sentimental when pointing facts?”

“The woman whom you fought so hard has died! And here you are!”

Out of respect for the dying king, Aemond doesn’t pick this battle to fight. Not again. Not now.

“The crown is yours to use. But there is one thing you must be told before I’m gone…”

Aemond steps closer now, accustomed with the bad smell. The heat of the fireplace seems unwelcoming now that he’s friends with the cold.

“Yes?”

“Not every kin has perished in the war”, he murmurs.

“What the hell are you talking about?”, this is the first time in a while that Aemond has shown some emotion.

Aegon smirks at his brother, pleased to get him some reaction.

“Two of Rhaenyra’s sons are living”, but for some reason the dying king thinks it’s not his problem to give Aemond their whereabouts. Or perhaps this is remorse for all that he’s done.

Who knows? Who could tell what’s in his mind?

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me…”

“I am not”, and as if he is suddenly tired of living, Aegon coughs.

Aemond spots blood in his brother’s mouth, but by now his heart and mind are divided in between genuine concern over Aegon, his last remaining family, and the whereabouts of possible pretenders to his throne.

“Aegon…”

“Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown, brother.”

That being said, Aegon’s life has been turned into nothingness. The old king is dead. Long live the new king.

***

• I should not be left to my own devices. They come with prices and vices. I end up in crisis (tale as old as time). I wake up screaming from dreaming. One day I'll watch as you're leaving 'cause you got tired of my scheming (For the last time)…

You stand in black leather robes by your father’s side the moment a messenger enters the great salon. Outside waves hit the shore violently, announcing a tempest that has been forming in the past twenty and four hours. Clouds have been obscuring the skies, but only by this twilight they’ve been producing electric sounds.

A lightening is heard.

“Well, lord. Under hospitality laws you are welcomed in this household”, says the chieftain of the House Greyjoy. “What news do you bring us?”

The messenger inspires some sympathy in you. He’s younger than your youngest brother and appears to have been made of summer. He knows naught of the perils that coming to Pyke might indulge him. But to his fortune Lord H/N Greyjoy is the head of the House at the moment, which means that he knows the aforementioned laws and would never harm a messenger.

“We have a new king”, by his accent you know he comes from a mid noble house of King’s Landing. “Aegon, second of his name, has died and transmitted the crown to his successor. His brother, lord Aemond Targaryen, is now the new king.”

“Ah”, says Lord H/N, playing with the knife. “A usurper following another usurper. Why does he care about us, often ignored by most Targaryens? Is he familiar that our laws somewhat differ even though we have been paying tribute and homage to them for a while?”

The poor messenger is sweating cold. You think wise to interfere when Lord H/N smiles benevolently.

“Young man, as bad reputed as my house is, we are honorable. At least I like to think my kin and I are. The laws of hospitality mean a great deal to us. But I appreciate the message you delivered us. I presume this means Lord Aemond is expecting that we submit to him as our overlord and king.”

The boy swallows again in relief. You see he’s considering correcting your father for the misuse of titles, but opts not to ruin his fortune.

“Aye, lord. The time to pay homage is soon.”

“Indeed it is”, your father strokes his chin. “These are the days I miss King Viserys. Many took him for a fool, but peacekeeping is the product of hard work. This is what made him a good king. And His Grace respected us, the houses that made his reign proper to rule.”

Then he stands, indicating the time to talk has come to an end.

“Tell lord Aemond that we recognize no king but the one who attends the name of Aegon III, son of the formidable Lord Daemon Targaryen and the queen who should have been, Rhaenyra.”

The warning is done. When the messenger leaves, you pity the poor lad’s fate. As you see the wind whirling against the sea, you say:

“The bad omen is sent by the God.”

It’s your elder brother, your father’s heir, who says:

“What do you understand of such things?”

You shoot him a gaze as if you are speaking with someone whose comprehension equals that of an ant.

“Great tempests like the one that’s been forming is hardly favorable. It is known.”

“A bad omen for the self pretentious new king”, you hear your father correct you. “This is our God preparing us for war.”

“War”, your brother repeats. “Was it necessary, father? We do not know whether the offspring of Queen Rhaenyra are alive.”

“They are”, lord H/N says in a tone that makes clear he knows many more things than he’s letting show. And here is how the schemes begin. “However, we must test the new king’s forces.”

Looking at you, his favored daughter, the head of Pyke says:

“Take with you a great number of men. You do well in tempests like this. The new king will assemble his army, but he’s not foreseeing our attack against his shores, assuming we are going to Lannisport again.”

You nod, unquestioning. Another brother, however, meddles:

“Is it prudent to underestimate the usurper, sire? He collects epithets that make quite a powerful sobriquet.”

“Words as those are meant to break fools by creating unreasonable fear of a man who is just that: a man.” And giving you a look, he says: “You may go.”

You hide away your fears, taking his orders. Unlike your brothers, you don’t question your father and you have no taste for blood. Though sensitive you may be—grieving the loss of your sister springs ago when she was forced to marry a green partisan only to die in childbirth and that of your mother by melancholy made you deal with your rage through violent seas—, you hide away your true self off the eyes of others.

Despite the beauty that brings admirers to your side, iron is set above it so though you never caused any death directly, you had enough power to bring it—which only means how fearful to some you can be, not to mention the protection and favor you have of the family.

Now here you are with the men under heavy rain. It’s time to scheme. Despite the bad feeling you bear with you—the fights you won previously during the civil war for the blacks usually occurred in calm sea, not amidst violent waves—, what else is there to do but to obey your father and overlord?

You turn at the ship and instruct your loyal men to follow you. But you do not enter in it before praising the God you serve and yelling after taking a long sip of wine:

“What is dead may never die!”

***

• It's me, hi, I'm the problem, it's me. At tea time, everybody agrees. I'll stare directly at the sun but never in the mirror. It must be exhausting always rooting for the anti-hero

Aemond’s coronation may have happened with no issues, but brought vices of temper that were not sufficiently tamed during his days of prince. One of which was the obsessive search for the lost sons of Rhaenyra.

Amidst this inconclusive search, the wolves of Winterfell are threatening to revolt at the same time the Krakens of Pyke delivered the message of subtle warning of war.

In spite of the circumstances, he is more than acutely aware of the fragile state of his kingship. This is the time to show his subjects he is not like Aegon.

Nay. He is better.

All the whilst the whereabouts of his nephews remain inconclusive and unknown, Aemond concentrates in issues that expect pragmatism of his part.

The North can still be dealt with the use of diplomacy and he sends his Hightower cousin to Winterfell with gold and an arrangement that works for his cause—presumably a match between a daughter of Lord Cregan and his envoy himself since Aemond has no desires in remarrying.

However, the Greyjoy assault assumes preoccupying colors. What could possibly lead an old house to open rebel against his rule?

“This is easy to resolve”, he shares his thoughts with Ser Criston Cole. “Their fleet will burn with fire and blood.”

Aemond does not fantom how the glory of his moment, albeit with a bloody path that brought him there, can be eclipsed by the refusal of a general acceptance of his rule.

Leaving personal vanities aside, cleaning his judgement of probable vices, the new king understands that the civil war of years ago has not yet been put to an end.

As he watches from the Red Keep the storm outdoors, calmly and steadfastly, a part of him comprehends that he may not be the best loved king time has witnessed and the pen of the maesters registered, but duty is what will always impel him to do what’s best.

If those will not see it through his good, may they see through his worse.

*

You cling onto optimism under the advantage that this is a surprise attack well coordinated, not a spontaneous sack in search for gold, nor an occasion fighting with random pirates.

This is not, however, a mere thirst for adventure being satisfied. The purpose, although ignored by you in great measure, is bigger than what your reason can conceive.

Perhaps you lack ambition to fight your wars, to be manipulated by your father like your brothers accuse him of doing—but what other choice do you have? He’s never treated you unkindly nor forced you upon an unwanted marriage, giving you liberty to do as it pleased you as long as you’d not forget your duties to your house.

You had your mother and your sister to tame your worse tendencies—whether to be slaved by the passions of the flesh or under the sins of pride—, some of which you’ve learned to repress. Now, however, you are where you belong. In the midst of chaos.

You do not like to fight it or to shed blood. To waste lives is a purpose you take no pride of. But leading others to it… or letting them choose to do what circumstances impel them to do so… this is what you are born to do. This is what makes most men fear you, comparing you to your father.

But they don’t see that, underneath this iron, there lies something pure and good. Sensitive. Aiming to be seen, aiming to be truly free of the duty that ties you to your family.

For however loved or useful you may be to your father, you are still under his command. Even here, even now.

However, it would have been prudent to question it, to have followed your instincts. For you have forgotten, or perhaps not have been told, that a storm never stopped King Aemond of flying his great legendary beast.

Waves clash against the ships, threatening to drown the men in them, or perhaps, as you hopefully attempt to see, leading you all to your destination.

But you miss a great shadow following above clouded skies. The night looks longer and deadlier, specially when it’s heard a roar right when a lightening bolt hits the ocean.

It doesn’t take long before you and your men pale as a shadow of the largest creature you’ve ever put your eyes on is casted upon the ship. You yell orders to separate the ships, with each carrying a beast to put it down.

The rain is too strong now and thus muffles your commands. To worse all, fire comes from above. Two of your ships are gone. You try not to succumb to your fear, soon leading the ship yourself. The desperation of your men is heard, but you try not to let the sound shake your core to join them in frustration.

Some of them opt to jump into the arms of the Drowned God and you cannot blame. But as you try to flee out of the dragon’s grasp, to your dismay you spot an outstanding number of fleet coming to your direction.

You flush violently.

“Fuck, we are ruined! This mission has been…”, your voice dies out. What is there to say? Has your father sent you to a trap?

“What should we do, lady Y/N?”, the second in command asks you.

“Never surrender”, your pride takes the iron shield back to surface. “If we must die, so be it.”

Aemond, however, has other plans. Despite burning and leading his own men to suffocate your rebellion before it reaches land, he wants to imprison the leader of it, which means you.

Soon, your ship is bombarded—and you watch as the king’s men slay all of yours, but you.

“Why are you sparing me?”

To no avail you seek death or protest. As if you are nothing, Lannister men hold you tight, removing you from the wrecked ship. By then you do not know whether you are weeping or the rain is washing your face. What difference is there?

You understand death is coming to you soon or later. Realizing that gives you strength, but paradoxically descend into melancholy.

***

• Sometimes I feel like everybody is a sexy baby and I'm a monster on the hill too big to hang out, slowly lurching toward your favorite city, pierced through the heart, but never killed…Did you hear my covert narcissism I disguise as altruism like some kind of congressman? (Tale as old as time)

Aemond’s victory upon the two threats against his rising reign leaves him comfortable to deal with upcoming events. Whilst there is no indication that only the names of his nephews are alive in the memory of his enemies, with no bodies found he focus in the real threats and these have been placated.

But curious in meeting the leader of what he judges to be a piracy house, he expects to see you soon. Barely he knows, as well as you, what will result of this.

In the meantime, as comfortable as you are in new robes and in fancy quarters of the Red Keep, protected from the storm that is still daunting outdoors, you have your nightmares to deal with.

The sounds of the men screaming as they either embraced death willingly or were deprived of their lives with inutile resistance bend you to your tears. Never before you felt so weak for loving the sea, the wilderness in it.

What hurts more is the realization you were not born to be a soldier. A part of you always expected to be equal your brothers, but your failure shows precisely that you are not like them.

Lost in your contemplations, you are trying to think of a solution about leaving the place when you are surprised by the presence of no one but the king himself.

Aemond has no time to waste in delegating useless tasks that he can do it himself. Thus it is this anxious warlord comes to the chambers he located you.

Whilst he stands there, you and him share a silent stare. The silver haired prince is significantly taller than you, possessing, as you first notice, a long sword in his right side and a dagger in his left. The idea that he came protected to meet you almost makes you smile.

“What reason is there to your lips twirl in a smirk? You have no reason to commemorate”, his husky voice assaults your troubled mind, forcing you to focus on him.

“You came alone to meet me, lord king. Armed. Do I pose you enough danger for that?”

Aemond takes a seat before you. His good, lilac eye studies you intently. Despite feeling crimson paint your cheeks, you do not look away.

“You think too high of yourself, lady Y/N Greyjoy. I suggest you to know your place.”

You fold your arm, mockery rising to your eyes.

“Please, lord. Enlighten me what place is this when you have no morals to speak in such terms.”

Aemond is patient. And unlike many of the men that crossed your path, not tempted to easily demonstrate or slip into his temperament.

“I wear the crown and impose a defeat on your feeble attempt to overthrow me, lady Y/N. It is unwise to dictate the rules of this game.” And then he adds. “A game that you perhaps have not been prepared to play. Has your good father not instructed you on it properly? By the sounds of your defeat, I guess not.”

You clench your jaw. Despite the broken pride and the heat in your throat that might vert in unwelcoming tears, you hold back the instinct of throwing your hands around this king’s neck and break it.

But you’ve never been one back to violence, have you?

“Has the cat eaten your tongue?”

You stand at last.

“Why coming to insult me so freely? Kill me if you must, lord king. One less enemy to humiliate!”

Aemond too stands, hands contrived in his back.

“Nay”, he speaks in almost a whisper. “The rules are not yours to dictate. Besides, with your supporters dead, I have a guess that your father will not come for you.”

With a side smirk, he leaves you. Victoriously so. And as he closes the door, there locking you in, the prince hears your screams.

*

But he wonders what to do with you. This is not a typical rebel, nor a natural leader who easily inspires dissent. A soldier. The word brings him back to his memories when, as the right hand of King Aegon, his brother, he did what you are doing now. Obeying orders.

Intrigued by this comparison, he goes back to your quarters after he finishes dinner. Unannounced, he surprises you combing your long y/c hair, wearing a white night gown. As you readily stand before the noise of opening door, he sees not only fear behind your eyes… but comes to notice the strong firm breasts the silk poorly disguises.

However, to his own sake he best not to look too much in you.

“What are you here for, lord king?”, you ask away, throwing robes over your shoulders. “I-It’s too late for a visit and I shall not be your whore.”

Your words, much to your dismay, make him chuckle. Aemond pulls a chair and there sits, holding your uncomfortable gaze still.

“Despite the inappropriate hour, I had to speak with my lady”, says he.

“What for?”, you retort, still at a corner like a frightened animal.

“I will do no harm to you, Y/N Greyjoy. I am not my brother”, he clenches his jaw, waving his hand dismissively. “All I want is talk. You have my word.”

You hesitate and Aemond sees distrust in your eyes. He doesn’t blame you for this behavior. Now wondering what he’d do if his sister’s forces had captured him many moons ago, he comes to think he’d behave similarly. If not more rudely.

Eventually you cede and take a distant seat of him.

“Well?”, you say, anxious. “Speak your terms.”

“I did not come to bargain”, Aemond smirks. “Why, as a victor, would I do so?”

“I am not your trophy, lord king”, you frown your eyebrows in clearly displeasure. “Either send me home or execute me. Other possibilities are out of consideration.”

Aemond is entertained by how your pride takes the reins of the situation. Ignoring what you just said, he proceeds rather cautiously.

“You are a soldier.”

On that you don’t see it coming. You tilt your head and had not it been for a few scars over your eyebrows and on your neck, besides the calloused hands, he’d take you as a princess.

“I’m sorry, what?”

Patiently, the king explains.

“You were following orders to bring your men here. When we captured you, I’ve already had some informations about you. You are the only daughter of Lord H/N of Pyke, but hardly as skillful as your brothers… at least where bloodshed is concerned. You have a tender heart and even when you sack or pile you tend to have mercy on your enemies.”

You look at him in between astonishment and embarrassment.

“You planted a spy at my father’s household.”

Aemond’s lips twitch in a smile.

“You are clever, my lady.”

You feel a strange urge to weep, but you blink a few times, refusing to cede to it.

“I will not ask why. You’ve been counting on that, haven’t you? But seeing I am useless to my father, why keeping me here at your mercy?”

“I do not think you are useless to him. On the contrary”, Aemond rests his hand over his knee. “I know how cherished you are for him.”

“You are using me to bring out my family and defeat it publicly. My House will stand, lord.”

“There are many ways a House can perish, lady. But this is not about it. Disregarding what you may have heard about me, I was a soldier like you. Obeying orders blindly without questioning. However, I was born to hold a sword. You, perhaps, to command.”

Silence hangs in between the two of you. Aemond sees the value you have for your family, but what surprises him is that you don’t share the perspective.

They see the beauty in you, not the iron that lies underneath.

A thought he doesn’t find convenient to share. He stands, having collected enough for his judgement.

You watch as he stops by the door. He knows you have the urge to beg him to spare your family. It is an instinct that many would have in your position. But because you know that he studied you well, you say nothing.

You turn your back on him, disappointing your captor for sparing him of temperamental exhibition.

***

As days turn in weeks, you have been forced to deal with eminent loss of the main purpose that has led you there. Serving your family has not only brought you disgraces or exposed your fragilities to your enemies, but comes to nothing when no news of your father or brothers searching to avenge you reach you.

“A soldier is replaceable, whether by blood or not”, says Aemond.

This evening you two are dining together at his privy royal chambers. You realize the king is a lonely man with unseen scars. Like you.

“You have offended my honor and disgraced my pride”, you speak softly as you take wine to your lips. It’s sweet and part of you wishes it to be poisonous. “Until when do you intend to break my spirit?”

When Aemond raises his eyes to meet yours, your soul is perturbed. You wish you could look away, but not even vengeance is a scheme tolerable by your mind now.

“Despite the circumstances, I wish you had not seen me as such”, he speaks behind the glass he takes to his lips. “I believe there’s much to gain in here.”

“What’s there to gain?”

“Liberty.”

“By what means?”

No answer comes. As you now start to study him, you come to see him as not the villain many folks had moulded him to, but not the hero either. Somewhere in between.

Aemond doesn’t say. Silence again hangs in between you, but this time it has not the same shades of awkwardness.

By the end of the dinner, he is leading you back to your quarters. He sees that you still shake when he takes your hand.

“Lady Y/N…”

You look at him, deprived of your pride.

“Y-Yes?”

“This would all be different had you not openly rebelled against me on behalf of phantoms. I sought about the whereabouts of the princes myself and didn’t find them. Why letting yourself be the pawn of others game?”

You lower your eyes so he doesn’t see the depth of melancholy that has hammered these questions long ago, but the king lifts your chin, there gently holding it.

“What other choice did I have? You, of all, should understand what is like to be tied to the family. Have you never sacrificed anything for them?”

Aemond contemplates you in silence, words that echo that fatidic night where his mother claimed Lucerys’s eye for the loss he suffered.

“I have”, he admits. “More than you will ever know.”

A ghostly smile is seen forming shyly on your lips.

“Then we are not different. Soldiers, like you said.”

And then you stop by the door. Looking back at him, you find the king staring at you. Why, this time, does his intent stare shake you? Why do the parallels between you two bring something more?

Worse is, why does your prison doesn’t feel like one anymore?

***

Aemond leaves the council, certain that no more rebellions will spread. There had been no more words from Pyke, though he’s more than aware that the remaining of your brothers might attempt something in not a near future for he’s been informed that they plan another sack at Lannisport.

In that order, he instructs his spy to pay enough gold to have the Greyjoys protecting the bays of Westeros if they occasionally let go of supporting names that are nothing but a memory of days long put to rest.

However, a question remains: what to do with you?

***

You are allowed to walk freely through the castle. At first this intrigues you. As you love the unknown, you occasionally lose your fear as you start to explore this new environment.

But when going to the gardens and there spotting the sea, your heart aches. As you contemplate those calm waters, you wonder why your father had sent you in such a suicidal mission. He knew you had won previously in placid seas. It was never prudent to combat in ugly storms.

Such are your thoughts that you do not see him coming. Aemond has realized that for a long while he hasn’t come to enjoy a feminine companion, gotten now used to you.

Like a hawk in guard, he sets his good eye to scrutiny over you. This time, your beauty captivates his sight. Your y/c hair, falling down to the mid of your back, is only partially tied according to the local fashion; he notices it’s cleaner and better brushed too. As the sun lights on it, it makes it shine in almost a different shade of y/c.

The gown you dress is silk made and it slips delicately in your body, shaping your curves. Aemond’s good eye notices your hips, how firm they are. He thinks you look good in red and black, the colors of his house. This perception makes him smirk unconsciously.

Feeling you have been under observation, you promptly turn in defense mood, admonishing yourself for letting your guards down, until you see it’s the king, your captor, who’s been the observer.

“Staring is rude”, you do not know how else to greet him and curtsying is not an option; this means that you are subduing to his authority, and as much as you are thankful for his clemency to you, you still have your pride.

Aemond notices it, which amuses. Nothing different that what would have he done, had he been in your shoes.

“Not greeting your king properly is as well”, he remarks. “I thought that even the Greyjoys had some manners.”

You scoff at him in defiance.

“Who do you take us for? Barbarians?”

“No”, Aemond wrings his hands behind his back in his usual composed posture. “Only a folk who is often on combat with their own kin when not assaulting other shores.”

“Please”, you snarl in response. “Says the one who came to power after murdering a few of his own kin.”

Any sign of humor dissipates of the king’s eyes. Darkness casts its shadow upon his face and your smirk is instantly wiped off yours. You instantly regret saying it so, even though you cannot understand why.

“Do not speak of matters that you don’t understand”, the king addresses you in a cold tone.

“Then you should not judge a life that you never lived.”

No one admits defeat. Pride takes victory, thus separating one from the other. For the moment.

***

But your remorse begins to hammer against your conscience. You know if you wanted to make your way, you would. Perhaps seducing the king to buy your ticket to liberty.

As days turn into months and these begin to slowly turn into another year, no signs of the Greyjoys in avenging you shows that there is no point in going back home.

Have you been tamed? You fear to find the answer. It’s when you come for him.

“I need to find His Grace”, you ask Ser Criston, his closest advisor.

The knight looks down upon you and you detest to feel small by this man’s gaze. I’m still a Kraken’s daughter. But you keep the thought to yourself.

“He’s occupied at the moment.”

Sounds come from the king’s bedchambers and you narrow your eyes at what you hear. Why are you flinching upon hearing these scandalous noises?

You do not answer the knight. Lifting your chin, you storm out, perhaps prompted to do something very impulsive.

Which is, for now, getting yourself drunk. Now familiarized with the kitchen and collecting a few friends amongst the servants, you get yourself some good bottles to yourself.

“I do not think wise that you should drink alone, my lady”, a maid responsible to look after you named Gisla tells you concerned.

“Who cares if wine takes my breath away, dear? I am forsaken by all, a prisoner whose life turned into dust.”

As you lock yourself in your bedchambers, you get to wonder why the possibility that the king has found lovers to warm his bed should affect you.

Trying to dissipate these uninviting thoughts, you begin to unlace the gown he gifted you, ready to toss it in fire. Pouring wine in the glass, you try to release your caged spirit in the best way you can.

Now wearing nothing more than undergarments, you open the window in search of fresh air. Moon rises high at sky and when looking at the reflection it casts down the sea, melancholy strikes again.

Having calmed your temper, you start to reason with yourself. Who are you now? A memory that remains, a survivor long forsaken? As you taste the sweet flavor of red wine—Dornish, you are sure—you don’t see the king getting to your chambers.

Aemond is dressed in his usual robes, but looking somehow less than a royal. He throws his cape at the seat, his good eye scrutinizing over your melancholy. Almost twelve months have passed and somehow one remains unreachable for the other.

Under moonlight, he spots a free spirit caged. A woman born to rule, his other half in another life if defeat was meant to him. He did to her what others would do to him. And he realizes how unjust he was.

To secure his throne, he did what he must. But growing used to you, he refuses to let you go. The mere thought of you abandoning him is… unacceptable.

Nevertheless, the king wishes to compensate you. Desire arises, sparked by perhaps his utmost selfishness in keeping you with him.

Or perhaps you are only a gift by the Gods to put an end to this misery. His head is heavy with the crown he wears, a burden that tests his limits and feeds his ambitions.

Yet, all is set aside when he looks at you. Slowly he comes behind you. Sensing an enigmatic presence behind you, you abruptly turn only to find him this close to you.

“Lord king! Your Grace!”, you exclaim out of short breath.

“I see we are welcomed properly now, my lady”, he never noticed until now how deep your y/c eyes are, as if sea is calling him. “I have missed you.”

You scoff, trying to find a way out of his arms, but Aemond doesn’t let you to.

“Will you please let me go?”

“Nay. I was prepared to do so, but I am a selfish man, Y/N. I care about you.”

You clench your jaw, frustrated. So many men have been pushed away, despised and looked down by you, but this king… When you look up, you are trapped.

“You care not!”, your voice betrays your spiritual state. “You have been whoring!”

Aemond’s eye twinkles with amusement. He is now holding your wrists as he pushes you against the wall, his knee gently parting your legs. You feel a strange ache burning your womanhood, rising to your chest.

“What makes you think I was?”

His long, slander pale fingers wrap around your fingers, eyeing your chest with lust, perceiving the hardened nipples under the white nightgown you dress. Then he raises his eyes only to meet your inexpressible face completely red.

“I… It doesn’t matter how I think when it’s a fact”, you try to protest, but it dies incomplete in your throat the moment Aemond gently rubs his knee against your entrance.

You should not enjoy this, but by the Kraken, here is no ordinary man.

“And if it was? Why would you care?”, he is pleased to find some reaction in your eyes at the moment he speaks with his husky voice, a positive effect of him over you.

“I don’t”, you squeak as he continues doing what he’s been doing with his knee.

“Deny me, then. Send me away the way you sent your suitors all before”, Aemond defies you, aroused as you begin to rub against his knee, willingly this time.

Eyes locked in one gaze, no one is ready to surrender. Yet.

“My king should know better whom you speak to.”

“One day you’ll wake up with regrets if I leave.”

You move closer to take hold of his long face, fingertips daringly touching his cheeks, up to his eye—but despite your staring you don’t touch the eye patch. Letting them slip to his silvery hair, wrapping your fingers around his locks, pulling him closer to you.

“Will you dare to leave me, Aemond Targaryen?”

His eyelashes barely open as his lips remain close to yours, his left hand holding your waist as his right one leaves your neck, slipping vaguely and purposely over your breasts before resting over your waist.

“Will you stay, Y/N Greyjoy?”

When you dare to remove his eye-patch, Aemond surprises you by not fighting away your curiosity. Knowing how this means he trusts in you, it’s enough to knock down every other barrier you’ve held up to him.

“Must be exhausting to repress your sentiments to this anti-hero”, he stares at you intently.

“It is”, you gasp, spreading your legs as his hand finally moves under the skirt of your nightgown. But he doesn’t make to your core, not yet, which makes you mewl.

Aemond side smirks at you, waiting to bend you to his will. You barely breathe, but this time you turn the tables by letting another hand finding the way to his pants.

“My lady!”

“You did not take me as a damsel, did you?”, you chuckle, even though he sees you are misleading in your eyes.

In truth, as you feign a confidence you don’t have, all you did was having a limited experience with men. So you did know some things as he can tell by the form your fingers skillfully unlace his pants and…

“Shit!”, Aemond curses.

You giggle quietly, appreciating the mix of shock and libidinous in his wide-eyed gaze. It feels good to have his length throbbing against your hand, how you manage to have him under your control.

It feels so good to deflect him to you, to have captured your captor.

“Gods…”, his moans are sensually low, the pleasure stamped in his features making you wet in your legs.

What is meant to be an instrument of domination is now domineering you. And oh you want more… But then, you stop.

“Y/N…” Aemond groans in between annoyance and disbelief.

“I cannot do this”, you say, detesting to break the spell, but then…

He gives you a quizzical look, perhaps thinking many possibilities of why you are doing this to him after he let himself be so crudely open to you.

Precisely why you are surprising him again when you tell him.

“I am not your whore, Aemond. You either make me your wife and queen, or my life ends right here, right now”, you indicate with your head in direction to the opened window. “I am a Kraken’s daughter. I am the sea, I cannot be caged for longer.”

Maybe it’s the wine, but you are scarcely afraid of holding back a character that hasn’t fitted you for long.

“I grew to love you and even though I am forsaken by my family, more painful would be if I were deserted out of your heart.”

Aemond’s features sooth before your words. Indeed he’s been taken by surprise, a deed few would have claimed to do.

“You could have said this earlier”, says he, shortening the distance between you two, cupping your face with his. “I meant not to dishonor you, my lady.”

“I was afraid you would not…”

“…love you?”, he chuckles, resting his forehead against yours. “I fucking do. Hence why I said I’m not prepared to let you escape. I cannot do so. And I am ready to make you my queen.”

One smile is enough to firm the peace between hearts in array.

***

• I'll stare directly at the sun but never in the mirror. It must be exhausting always rooting for the anti-hero…

Aemond admires the wild beauty that sleeps next to his side. His queen, at long last announced before the whole realm notwithstanding the disapproval of his council, his wife.

He begins to kiss your face, before burying his face against your hair. No more sorrow when your sea salt scent envolves him in a jolt of happiness never before experienced… not before Alys.

No more past to daunt his heart and torment his mind as his tongue slips to your ear, biting your earlobe and sliding to your neck, his hand pressing against your waist. His eyes remain glued at your peaceful, serene face, despite the shivers that begin on your skin and, as he discreetly pulls off the blankets, sees the exposed nipples hardening.

Aemond is careful not to wake you yet. Admiring your nude frame as his lips move to your neck, he keeps in mind the events of the day before. No protest came from Pyke as one of them is crowned their queen. But you are still resented to write them letters, despite the efforts of your brothers in renewing a direct alliance with the crown—to the Lannisters’ preoccupation.

The king is not here to please anybody, but you. He recollects how beautiful you were in a green, silk gown, appropriated for summer feasts. His mother’s tiara was placed above your head, and your hair down reinforced your sparkling beauty.

As his mouth leaves bruises against your skin, you move lightly, making incomprehensible noises. Aemond smirks, slowly turning over your body, always careful when doing so.

Contemplating your nudity under his gaze, he recollects the night before—and the nights beforehand where he took you as his wife, never able to leave your body, remembering how you mewled under his touch, how humbled you were when you begged.

“My lady likes to be commanded in bed”, he said in the occasion.

“Only you has possessed this right”, so you snapped in between short breaths.

Smiling at the retrospective moment, his lips now move delicate to mouth out your nipples, finally awaking you as his fingers move down to your womanhood.

“Oh Aemond!”, you cry out in pleasure, eyes open with despair, as your body reacts like a big wave sets to hit the shore violently.

“Yes, my lady?”, he takes his time in each nipple until your cries get louder, all the whilst his now two fingers make way deep inside you, already familiar with the walls that clench around it, the spot that is soon making you call his name.

And then…

“I need you!”, you whimper.

Your wishes are prompted complied. What a good way to start your tenure, you remember thinking. When looking at you, Aemond Targaryen knows he is not merely a king, but a man who finally found love in his lifetime.

[jahayla-parker]

Lavender Haze : Nikolai Lantsov x Reader

Description: 4.8k wc, to the theme of Lavender Haze by Taylor Swift. Nikolai helps his girlfriend cope with the stressors that come with dating the King of Ravka and ensures she finds herself in a state of comforting bliss each night. Hurt-comfort, angst-fluff, fluff, song-aesthetic

Warnings: insults and rumors, reference to Nikolai’s bloodline, melancholic feelings/situations, some angst, Grishaverse themed material

Note: again, this moodboard was made before Season 2 of Shadow and Bone, so it was done with the aesthetic and envisioned appearance of Nikolai based on the books instead of Paddy himself.

Y/n knew that courting/dating a member of a royal family would be a challenge.

She even knew that it would be a bigger task when Nikolai became the King of Ravka and was no longer just the King and Queen’s second son.

But that didn’t mean it was easy.

If Y/n thought the eyes of the other girls in Ravka (and surrounding areas) were intense when he was merely a prince; this was almost unbearable.

In fact, it probably would be if it weren’t for Nikolai himself.

He knew of the weight that their stares, speculations, whispers, scrutiny, and societal expectations and pressures, that had fallen on her merely for dating him.

As such, he did everything in his powers to minimize them as much as he could.

But, Nikolai knew it wasn’t even close to being enough.

It practically killed him to see what y/n was dealing with and know he was more or less the reason behind all of it.

That sentiment and his general overwhelming love towards her, resulted in Nikolai making it his mission to help her.

He knew nothing he could say or do would prevent the pressures or challenges she had to endure.

So instead he decided to comfort her and tenderly guide her on how to handle/cope with each type of situation he could predict.

Nikolai had to learn these lessons himself when he was a prince.

It had taken him years, essentially from his birth into his early adulthood, to learn how to cope with the stresses that came with being affiliated with the Royal Family.

It wasn’t easy for him either, and he struggled on many occasions for many years as a result.

Especially when the rumors and speculations about his mother and his lineage came under scrutiny.

It took time, but Nikolai developed skills and found ways to make it all manageable and not let the weight become crushing.

It wasn’t until now that he was truly grateful for having learned those hard lessons.

For now, he was able to assist the woman he loved and hopefully keep her from experiencing as many hardships as he had.

——

🎵 “Oh, you don't ever say too much” 🎵

Guidance #1: never respond to any of it/them, unless absolutely necessary

“Nikolai?” Y/n whispered shyly.

He spun to glance at her as she set her book down on the coffee table before her.

“Yes, darling?” He smiled.

Y/n bit her lip as she stared back at him before shaking her head and looking down at her lap.

Nikolai sighed quietly, standing up and making his way to her.

He silently squatted before her, his thumb brushing underneath her chin to tilt her head up.

When her eyes lifted to his face, he gave her a sympathetic smile.

“What’s troubling you, milaya?” Nikolai sighed, his hand shifting to cup her cheek.

She forced a polite smile and shook her head, “nothing, don’t worry about it”.

“Too late y/n/n, I know you. I can tell when things aren’t right” he frowned, scanning her eyes for any signs of the trouble she was having.

She shrugged, “it doesn’t matter what it is though”.

“It does so” Nikolai declared, his voice affirmative but somehow still tender as he stroked her warm cheek.

“Snoepje, please” he pleaded as he watched her eyes begin to shimmer with newly formed tears.

She took a shaky breath and sighed.

“Do- do you agree with them?” Y/n asked nervously.

Nikolai’s eyes furrowed as his head tilted to the right slightly, “pardon?”

“Adeliza, Narcissa, and Everalda…” she mumbled, looking away from him.

He silently watched the way she reacted to her own comment.

She curled inwards on herself, her shoulders hunched closer to her legs, head hung lower, eyes closed and lips frowning.

He hadn’t even responded to her question before she’d seemingly decided she knew his answer.

Nikolai frowned deeply, dropping to his knees as he silently pulled her to him.

As he ran his fingers through her hair, he tenderly whispered, “of course not. Do you truly believe I’d agree with those disparaging remarks?”

She sniffled against his chest, prompting him to move his hands to her biceps and softly push her back so he could see her face.

“Lyubimaya” Nikolai whined, his right thumb moving up to wipe her tears.

“Why would you think that, love?” He questioned, frowning as he continued drying her tears with his fingers.

She bit her lip and stared at him with sad eyes, “you didn’t say anything”.

Nikolai took a deep breath and nodded once, “ahh, I see.”

“Thank you for explaining darling,” he stated, stroking her cheekbone delicately.

Y/n nodded minimally as her eyes dropped to her lap again.

“Please don’t look away y/n, I want to look in your eyes as I answer” Nikolai said, squeezing her cheek softly.

When she looked back up at him, he gave her a soft grateful smile.

“I do not, in the slightest, agree with any of their insulting comments. The reason I did not respond to them y/n/n, was because they don’t deserve a response” Nikolai told her.

“You see, my love,” he sighed, “they want attention. They’ll do anything to get it”.

Y/n shook her head, “I know. But, they also wanted to insult me and you didn’t disagree”.

Nikolai felt a pang of guilt radiate through him as he watched her try to stand up for herself but simultaneously start tearing up again.

“Y/n, precious, I’m so sorry” Nikolai confessed, moving closer.

“I didn’t want to fuel their hatred or extend the life of their words” he explained, “I was hoping by not giving it the time of day, you wouldn’t let them hurt you”.

Y/n let out a long breath, “oh, okay”.

Nikolai sighed, “I swear to you, milaya, that’s the only reason. I should’ve explained that before”.

“By not talking about it, it…” she began, trying to explain his meaning to herself.

“I thought if I didn’t respond it would mean the words ended as soon as they were spoken. I can see why you’d think I might agree given my actions. For that I’m truly sorry” he apologized.

“So, you’re saying, they get power from the possibility of us reacting or responding to them?” She pondered.

Nikolai nodded, “they know their words can carry weight and they want it to make us angry or hurt. Even if it does, they don’t deserve to know that”.

She nodded with him in understanding, “that makes sense. It’s revolting, but makes sense. I won’t question it next time”.

He shook his head, “if it’s bothering you or you aren’t certain my stance on something, please do talk to me. But, as far as why I don’t bother responding to them is because they’re not worthy of seeing a reaction”.

Y/n smiled softly and nodded, leaning down to him.

Nikolai smiled back widely upon seeing her grin, “I love you”.

“I love you too Kolya” she hummed, “thank you”.

He hummed, standing up and extending his hand down to her, “let’s go start you a warm bath?”

——

🎵“And you don't really read into my melancholia”🎵

Guidance #2: don’t focus on the feelings of melancholy the situation often caused, redirect instead.

Nikolai could always tell when the feelings of melancholy would set in for y/n.

She did her best to hide it as much as she could, and she did so successfully for most people.

Nikolai was the exception, he always saw the tiniest of signs.

But he also knew there would be no point in questioning her about it.

He knew the reason behind her sadness and was always able to trace it back to the direct source on his own.

As such, he never brought it up to her.

There was no point in them talking about something they both understood and couldn’t change.

Plus, Nikolai didn’t want her to feel guilty for her feelings or ashamed she couldn’t hide it from everyone.

So, he would instead merely redirect her focus onto something positive.

Nikolai watched as y/n nodded respectfully as the daughter of one of the legion’s commanders spoke to her.

He could see the distant look behind her gaze even as she continued holding eye contact with the girl before her.

The stiffness of her overall posture stood in stark contrast to her slightly lowly hung head.

Nikolai excused himself from the pointless conversation he was in and made his way to y/n.

As he approached, y/n looked over and gave him a soft smile, her head rising slightly.

He grinned widely at the faint progress and grabbed her hand.

“Pardon me miss,” he spoke to the legion commander’s daughter, “but I’m afraid I need to steal Ms. Y/l/n for a moment”.

The girl nodded rapidly and stepped back to let the couple through.

Nikolai silently led her to the office space down the hall.

He nooded at the guards encasing the doorway and they parted.

Nikolai smirked slyly at y/n as he opened the door and followed her inside.

“Nik?” She questioned, turning to him as the doors shut.

He smiled as he closed the distance, placing a tender kiss to her forehead.

Y/n silently pressed closer, wrapping her arms around Nikolai.

“I thought you could use some self care” he whispered, prompting her to pull back and stare up at him.

“Follow me” he directed, tugging her hand to the far corner.

Her eyes widened as she noticed the craft space he’d arranged for her.

“Tolya suggesting this set” Nikolai admitted, rubbing his neck with his free hand.

Y/n giggled at his nervousness and quickly turned to him.

“It’s perfect, thank you lyubimyj” y/n beamed.

He nodded, nudging her slightly towards the table.

Nikolai watched with a smile as y/n began dipping her brush into the tin of paint.

She glanced over at him to silently question if he would sit with her or if he needed to return to the party.

He gave her a sympathetic smile but as he saw her nod and turn back to the canvas, he noticed she was far less tense.

He bit his lip as he fought the desire to stay with her, perhaps reading a book while she painted, or just watching her create her latest art piece.

But he knew he had to return to their guests at least long enough to formally excuse himself for the evening and end the event.

Fortunately, he was able to tell that painting was already helping her mood.

So he decided it was safe to leave her for a few moments until he could return.

“I will return shortly my dear” he promised, bending down to kiss the top of her head.

Y/n set down her brush and signaled for him to kneel down beside her.

Nikolai of course complied without question, smiling at her.

“Thank you moi tsar” she grinned, cupping his face in her soft palms.

Nikolai hummed quietly, “I’m sorry I need to step away for a moment. But-“

Y/n shook her head and stroked his cheeks, “shhh, you’re fine, handsome”.

“Thank you for all of this, I love you” she grinned, leaning forward to press her lips to his.

As she pulled back she giggled.

Nikolai pouted, “what?”

She bit her lip and turned to grab the clean towel from the table and dipped it in the glass of water.

Nikolai watched as she reached up and delicately dabbed his face.

“I got some lavender paint on you” she laughed.

As she dried his cheek he shrugged, “you can mark me in anyway you wish”.

“Nikolai!” She gasped before she began laughing hard, “you’re a menace”.

He grinned and nodded, kissing her temple, “I’m your menace. Now, while I’m gone think of where you’d like this to be hung when you’re done”.

Y/n nodded with a smile as he squeezed her hand before departing.

——

🎵 “I've been under scrutiny (yeah, oh, yeah). You handle it beautifully (yeah, oh, yeah). All this shit is new to me (yeah, oh, yeah)” 🎵

Guidance #3: people will scrutinize anything they can, the only way to respond is sticking with your gut and doing what you think is right.

“Nothing I do is working!” Y/n groaned.

Nikolai sighed and set his hand on hers as she pressed her palms aggressively against her desk.

“I’m a failure, Nik” she whispered.

“No you’re not” he argued, resting his head on her shoulder from behind.

“Yes-“ she responded, hand tugging on her hair.

“People make mistakes time to time, no one is perfect. Even if you look like you are” he winked.

“Nikolai, they are analyzing everything I do and see every mess up and are making note of them” y/n explained, his flirtation not helping currently.

Nikolai hummed softly, “Y/n, they are going to scrutinize everything you do, but that doesn’t say anything about you”.

“It does too if I can’t perform well when being scrutinized, then ho-” she began, clearly heading into a self deprecating spiral.

He turned her around so she was facing him as he whispered, “You only feel that way because they’re watching so closely. If they weren’t, you wouldn’t feel so bad about the tiny errors”.

She stared at his chest, unable to meet his eyes, “maybe… but it’s like you said they are scrutinizing it. So it doesn’t matter what I’d feel if they weren’t.”

“You can’t let it impact you y/n. Remember? When they get a reaction, they win” he pointed out softly.

Y/n sighed loudly, looking up at him with sad eyes, “How do I do that?”

Nikolai grabbed her hand and led her away from the desk enough to pull her chair out.

Once it was out, he guided her into the seat and knelt beside her.

“Take the fact that they are not only scrutinizing all of my actions due to me being their King. They are also comparing every decision I make to my father’s past rulings, and other previous Kings. Then add in that Vasily was supposed to be the next King instead of me” Nikolai began, hoping to show why he understood what she was going through.

“You’re right, everything one does is being watched closely. But, you know yourself, and that’s what matters. Stick to your ideas, try your best, and it’ll work out” he swore.

“Just like that?” She questioned quietly.

He nodded, “just like that. Be true to yourself and their criticisms and scrutinizations won’t carry much weight”.

Y/n watched as the advisors from the Shu Han border argued with Nikolai’s decision on what the military guards covering that region should do next.

He was making the right decision, it would risk the fewest lives and protect the kingdom.

Yet, these advisors were questioning Nikolai on every single detail of the decision and pointing out potential flaws and reasons he might not be deciding ‘correctly’.

“Your father knew that such an action would be seen as weakness when it comes to Shu Han” one of the advisors scrutinized, his beady eyes staring at the King.

Y/n’s eyes narrowed, brows furrowing, as she resisted glaring at the man.

She opened her mouth to defend Nikolai but stopped when Nikolai laid his hand on hers.

“I acknowledge your interpretation of my decision, Advisor Malenovik,” Nikolai nodded, squeezing y/n’s hand.

“Yet, as your King, I am telling you what the choice is, and what the corresponding actions from our military will be” he stated firmly.

Y/n watched as the beady-eyed man huffed but accepted his rejection and stepped aside for the next person to speak to the King.

This type of situation presented itself several times and it took watching him handle the scrutiny over and over for her to realize Nikolai was right.

It was clear that while it was frustrating, the scrutiny didn’t impact Nikolai the way it would’ve for y/n.

Nikolai knew his choices were correct and as such, he stuck with them even if it meant people would still find something ‘wrong’ with it.

Soon she’d adapted the same sentiment and let herself not feel pressured to please everyone with each choice she made.

“Miss y/l/n, the Hungilmans are going to be expecting the-“ Nikolai’s kitchen manager argued.

They were discussing the arrangements for the various families visiting the castle in the coming weeks for an event that was to help form alliances between the kingdom and influential Ravkan families.

Jayclyn, the kitchen manager was adamant that one particular family should get the preferential treatment Nikolai’s father would always extend them.

Whereas, y/n was against that, worried it would send a message of inequality between the families during an event In which they wanted the opposite.

It was a risky call, as one didn’t want to offend the Hungilman family either.

But, y/n held firm the principle behind her choice and stuck with the decision.

“Jayclyn, I appreciate you sharing your thoughts and concerns. However, as I’ve stated, the Hungilmans will not be getting the extra incentives you’ve suggested” y/n stated politely but with clear confidence.

That evening when y/n returned to her and Nikolai’s chambers, she explained her choice to him.

Nikolai informed her that he was completely supportive of her choice and was proud she didn’t let their scrutiny get to her.

Unbeknownst to y/n, Nikolai had been just around the corner, smirking proudly (towards himself and her as well) when he overheard the interaction that afternoon.

——

🎵“No deal, the 1950s shit they want from me. I just wanna stay in that lavender haze. All they keep askin' me (all they keep askin' me). Is if I'm gonna be your bride. The only kind of girl they see (only kind of girl they see). Is a one-night or a wife” 🎵

Guidance #4: don’t let their pressuring and ideals change what you do or want, especially with something as intimate as your personal life.

The citizens of Ravka, especially the influential families and advisors, wanted the King to take a wife.

They suspected y/n would be the one chosen for that.

Unfortunately for them, the couple weren’t willing to marry right now.

It wasn’t so much that y/n and Nikolai weren’t wanting to be married or were against getting married in itself.

But, it was only a year (plenty of time for a royal marriage, but Nikolai wanted more for both of them) into their romantic relationship, and so much had already changed or still was changing for them.

Plus, they didn’t want to marry just because the people of Ravka wanted that.

They also didn’t care to have their relationship broadcasted as much as it was already, much less if they were married.

And she wasn’t sure she wanted to be a queen.

If Nikolai was to remain her King, she would consider it… but still.

Even then, they knew his title as King was in jeopardy currently given his blood line.

And y/n didn’t want to be a Queen without Nikolai there as her King.

So they chose to ignore the constant pressures from the people to marry right away.

“He has to take a wife, no King before has ever refused to marry!” A strongly haired elderly woman murmured, “something surely must be wrong with her”.

“Maybe she’s barren” a young blonde girl suggested smugly.

“Or maybe she’s not into him that much” another young girl spoke up.

“Are you saying she’s insane?” The blonde questioned.

“Perhaps” the elderly woman hummed.

“Or maybe he doesn’t want her” a new voice chimed in.

“Fair, it’s been a year and I’ve heard of no proposal” the blonde chuckled.

“Of course not, why would he when he can have her there as the image of a monogamous relationship and use her to unite people while secretly sampling from the other eligible girls still?” Someone questioned.

“True, like certainly they’ve slept together, but clearly it’s not enough, so he wants more choices” the blonde agreed.

Y/N’s mind replayed all the comments she’d heard that day in her head as she groaned.

She dragged her damp hands down her soapy face.

She didn’t want to let them get to her.

And in some way they weren’t.

It didn’t change her mind on what she wanted for herself or for their relationship.

But it didn’t mean it was enjoyable to hear the implications they were making.

Nikolai walked into the room, watching her from the corner of his eye as he hung his suit’s jacket up.

Noticing she hadn’t heard him enter, he neared her until he could see her eyes.

As soon as he saw the distracted look in her eyes while she washed her face, he knew something had happened.

He took a deep breath and walked behind her, wrapping her in his arms as he kissed her left cheek, “milaya”.

She smiled into the gold-framed mirror before drying her hands and turning to him, “Kolya”.

“What seems to be troubling you?” Nikolai questioned softly.

She sighed and shook her head, grabbing his hand as she walked to the end of their bed.

“I know none of it is true, and I don’t feel pressured by them, but-“ y/n groaned, “I just wish they’d shut up”.

Nikolai chuckled softly, y/n following suit.

“Care to elaborate, dear? There are frankly too many reasons for that statement” he pointed out.

Y/n hummed in agreement as she rested her head on his shoulder, “some of the women and girls wouldn’t shut up about you not marrying me”.

Nikolai frowned at her words, a sigh leaving his lips.

“Do you want me to propose?” He asked, wanting to ensure what she truly wanted.

She shook her head, “I mean, it’s not that I do or don’t. We’ve talked about it”.

Nikolai nodded, “I know. It’s just the way you worded it. Saying that I was not marrying you, as if that were all there was to it. I don’t want you thinking I was refusing to marry you for some reason rather than us deciding together to wait”.

Y/N’s eyes widened as she spun towards him and cupped his cheeks, “no handsome, I’m sorry! I merely said it that way as that’s what the comments were about today”.

“What do you mean?” He questioned.

She laughed, “they were coming up with their opinions and ideas on why you hadn’t proposed and-“.

Seeing the sadness, guilt, anger, and worry in Nikolai’s eyes, y/n cut herself off.

“Honey,” she cooed softly, “I know none of them are true. I’m not mad you didn’t propose yet. We both want to wait, I’m not letting them get to me”.

“You aren’t?” He asked, satisfaction and relief coating his voice.

“No, I learned from the best how to not let things like that get to me. Especially when you and I know the truth” she complemented.

Nikolai grinned, lifting her hand to his lips and placing a kiss to it.

“Good, because I will propose to you my love, one day” he promised.

——

🎵 “I find it dizzying (yeah, oh, yeah). They're bringin' up my history (yeah, oh, yeah). But you aren't even listening (yeah, oh, yeah). (Ooh-whoa)” 🎵

Guidance #5: people will always make up rumors or cling to stories they’ve heard, you need to be okay with where you came from and not let their comments change that

“I heard her mother is Grisha” a wrinkly snooty woman whispered as she picked at her plate.

The castle was holding another event in which many townsfolk were invited to attend a feast with the King and his staff.

“Truly? I heard she wasn’t anyone important” a petite girl responded.

“You’re both correct. Y/n y/l/n comes from parents whom aren’t of any significance to Ravka; nor the crown. But, there is some Grisha blood in that family, I just wonder if the girl got any of it” a middle aged woman stated.

Y/n had to fight from rolling her eyes.

It was unbelievable that they’d discuss such matters in the first place.

Much less doing so when they were mere feet from y/n herself.

It was clear that they knew she could hear as well, but it didn’t matter.

They all knew y/n wasn’t able to respond.

Her role by Nikolai’s side prevented her from doing such without being seen as unprofessional.

That didn’t mean it was easy.

Y/n rarely wanted to stand up for herself, and now that she did, she couldn’t and that was infuriating.

After all, they brought her family into it as if something was wrong with them or with being Grisha.

——

Nikolai was holding a meeting with his wide selection of advisors when her history as it relates to their relationship was brought up yet again.

Yet, he attempted to brush it aside, “y/l/n’s history, and our relationship, are not open for discussion”.

“King Lantsov, if that’s the case, she shouldn’t be here as it’s possible her family is Grisha or unimportant politically as many have stated” his oldest advisor said.

Nikolai disregarded the entire affair, acting as if the advisor never even spoke.

Instead, he called on the next advisor, asking them to provide him with any updates they’d had since the last meeting.

Y/n watched from the side as the next set of advisors were respectful in their comments and knew they’d be ignored if they attempted to make any reference to y/N’s past.

Y/n took that attitude moving forward whenever someone said something about her or asked about her past.

Instead of trying to defend herself or sulking over the rumors, she just ignored them and moved on.

After all, she learned Nikolai was right when he said it wasn’t worth dignifying them with a response.

——

🎵 “I feel (I feel) the lavender haze creepin' up on me. Surreal, I'm damned if I do give a damn what people say (oh, yeah)” 🎵

And

🎵 “That lavender haze, I just wanna stay. I just wanna stay in that lavender haze”🎵

Overall/Final Guidance: you’re dammed if you give a damn about what anyone thinks or says. In other words, don’t let their noise get to you. You just need to know who you are who you are individually, as a couple, and what you mean to each other.

Y/n and Nikolai were often being told their date nights should be done more publicly.

They were informed it would help strengthen the positive outlook people hand on the King if they could see how he cared for her.

Especially if the rumors of her being Grisha and/or a standard Ravkan citizen were true.

But they didn’t care what the people wanted when it came to their relationship.

So, they continued having dates in the castle’s gardens after guests had left.

They still held dinners just the two of them in private when there was not a need to hold a formal meal.

Overall, they typically completely disregarded the requests and suggestions others had for their relationship.

On the other hand, the couple would still have discussions over some of the challenges they faced in these situations.

If something happened that upset, hurt, or otherwise made one of them question themselves or their relationship, it would be discussed without judgment.

They knew they didn’t need to talk about each and every situation as that would only fuel the public’s desires to overwhelm them.

But sometimes, situations required a discussion.

Most got the time it would be brief, just long enough to ensure they were in the same page and reassure/comfort each other.

Other times, they’d indulge themselves by laughing and joking about some of the insane remarks people would make.

Regardless, Nikolai taught y/n that she was damned if she gave a damn about what people would say.

But more importantly, he helped her feel much more comfortable with her position by his side and under the constant scrutinizing eyes of the public.

It felt as if she was encased in this warm, comforting, delicate, lavender haze.

The haze that acted as a shield from all the pressure and negative energy she would otherwise have experienced.

She felt as if she was in another word, one tinted by her favorite color, lavender.

The otherworldly haze would appear whenever alone with Nikolai.

It sometimes faded or floated away whenever she had to out on a front in order to maintain her image with the public.

But it was all worth it knowing that the comforting lavender haze would undoubtedly return each night to comfort her and lull her to sleep next to the man she loved.

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[rose-lunaire]

snow on the beach | regulus black x gn!reader

inspired by snow on the beach by taylor swift (feat. lana del rey). the story of two people rewriting traditions. happy new year everyone!!

pairing: regulus black x gn!reader

warnings: heart-fluttering is expected!

family home. the place you’re supposed to feel most at ease, welcomed and safe. but within the world of sacred heritages and centuries-old dynasties it sometimes felt more like an elaborate prison. your mother the main guard, your siblings and cousins fellow inmates unwillingly participating in this masquerade-like event. yet this year was supposed to be different. the man of your life was standing by your side thought the dragging ceremonies, squeezing your hand every time a quiet sigh escaped your pouty lips.

he understood your pain better than anyone. hating the lineage you were forced to continue. still, having no will to abandon it completely. hell, there were times when you envied the fearlessness of sirius’s choice. admiring his courage, wishing you had as much strength as him. one glance at your boyfriend’s face was enough to keep your fantasies at bay.

“are you alright?” he mouthed over the sounds of a christmas carol. his concern so out of place with the joyful notes of the song, you cracked a weak smile. regulus joined your hands together and led the chorus with his solemn voice. the depth and complexity of his feelings ringing with every word he sang, making you thankful he managed to spend holidays with you. he fitted so well in the festivities, mingling with your family members, ever so stoic and charming standing by your side every second of the day. nursing old wounds under the moonlight.

times like these you were thankful that you never ran away, for it would mean you would never get to see regulus in you home. the way his face lit up tasting your mother’s dishes, complimenting the stuffing of the pie you made. the way his baritone blended in perfectly with the choir of your family’s voices. snickering when your father told one of his many terrible jokes and making silly faces with your sister’s children.

there were no dark undertones to the celebration with him by your side. no snarky comments reached your ears. the candlelight reflected in his eyes was so bright you couldn’t notice how great aunt janice looked at you two. too lost in your own world, you were busy fantasising about the life you wanted to build with regulus. he seemed so much younger than his usual self, burdened with his family’s expectations and brother’s shadow resting upon his face. he was in peace.

slowly the dining room started emptying. children being put to sleep, some family members departing for home. that’s why nobody paid attention to the young couple leaving. laughing like two kids who were playing hide-and-seek with their parents, hiding behind the doors and about to surprise them. “where are we going?” your boyfriend’s voice felt distant from the wind. but you couldn’t be bothered neither by the snow drifts nor the blowing mistral. you tugged onto his sleeve, dragging him further, your careless laughter the only clue he had of the destination.

the view was hard to distinguish because of the snow but then it all made sense. the sudden change of surface that made his boots sink a little deeper. faint salty smell and humidity in his throat. “careful now baby” you whispered. as cliff was ending abruptly the sea came into full view. powerful in its silent struggle against the wall of sand, the horizon nowhere to be seen. stars blending with tiny snowflakes resting on the locks of your hair.

“focillio” regulus murmured under his breach, warmth from his wand encapsulating the both of you within its protective bubble. as if his mere presence wasn’t enough to set your insides on fire. there was a bonfire of passion hiding beneath his long lashes, deep below the icy surface of his pupils only for you to see. and it was hungry. ever since you left the house it was begging to be set free and devour you both.

before he could even but his wand in the back pocket of his pants your lips landed on his. a little flustered at first, he responded eagerly. the kiss was sweet, full of grateful inexchanged feelings, it was patient, slowly progressing into a full-blown make-out session. your hands were wrapped around his frame, drawing hearts onto his lower back. you didn’t notice when your face ended up nuzzled in his cashmere scarf, inhaling regulus’ scent. his head weighting on your shoulder, grounding you in this intimate moment.

but then you felt a cold pinch on your exposed neck. and then another two before snowflakes decorated the crown of your head. “bloody hell, im so sorry!” your boyfriend jumped away from you, scratching his hair in embarrassment. you just laughed and kissed his cheek. “you’re just too distracting” he murmured bashfully, causing you to erupt in laughter once again. “what? why are you laughing at me?” oh dear, he looked like a lost puppy. “i’m just really happy. that’s all” you confessed. regulus held your cheeks in his hands. “i love you, y/n l/n” you went on your tiptoes to reach his face and join your foreheads together. “i love you too, regulus black”

[lala3244]

hello I love the heartbreak series just absolutely immaculate, but can I request dunno if you are taking request but if you are can you do where reader is actually a star and is like Taylor swift and made a song for them like and she sang "Enchanted",and "mine" or , "speak now" to tell them how she feels for diavalo, Lucifer specifically it's ok if you don't do it ,it is what it is .

Woah! My first request! I am so happy!! Thank you @sleepdeprivedpotaoto!

I tried my best as it's the first time I write for someone else's idea. I went with Diavolo. It is a tad long... But I hope you like it !

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You started dating them but others had decided they should date demons of powerful lineage not a mere human.

Warnings: Hurt/no comfort

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You arrived in the Devildom, not knowing what was going on. You looked around you and saw only strangers. You frowned but decided to stay silent and listen to the huge man in front of you. When you understood it was an exchange program and you had to stay for a year you started to worry. You had many concerts already sold out happening during the next year and you couldn’t be missing for that long because yeah, you were famous. In the human world, you would tour the globe for a few concerts in each continent so you could meet your fans from all over the world. You decided to let the introductions and the day pass before saying anything to the man who you now knew was named Diavolo. You didn’t really realise that those men were demons or angels or sorcerer as you were more concerned about your concerts than anything else. 

While walking to your new home, you finally registered what just happened and you stopped then looked around. It was dark and the demons in front of you kept walking so you jogged after them as you didn’t want to get lost. You said nothing to them and followed them until you arrived at the House of Lamentation. They showed you to your room and you tried to settle in. They called you for dinner. You tried the food but you weren’t really hungry. They didn’t talk to you just Lucifer telling you the time you needed to get ready and you just nodded. You went back to your room and tried to fall asleep which you failed miserably. You just waited for the hours to pass. 

You arrived at RAD the next day with Mammon. Lucifer had assigned him to you as a sort of bodyguard. You were fine with that, obviously. You asked Mammon if he could show you to Diavolo. He mumbled something you couldn’t hear but agreed anyway. Mammon stopped in front of a door and pointed at it, “it’s there.” You smiled at him. “Thank you Mammon. Do you mind waiting for me?” He sighed “Sure”. You knocked on the door and you heard a faint “come in”. You opened the door and stood in front of Diavolo’s desk. “Good morning Lord Diavolo. I am sorry to bother you so early but may I have some of your time? I need to talk to you.” Diavolo looked at you with a huge smile. “Of course! Please sit down!” You smiled back, happy to see a friendly face. “Thank you!” You took a deep breath, “I am not sure why I was chosen or even why I was a choice but I can’t just disappear for a year. I have commitments I can’t just ignore.” Diavolo put his head on his hands and studied you. “Sure. What commitments?”

You explained to him that you were a successful singer and you had a few concerts coming up soon, also you needed to do rehearsals with your group. Diavolo was attentively listening to you, eyes sparkling, a smile plastered on his face. For a huge demon and the future king, you thought he was kind of cute and the more you talked the more his eyes sparkled. “You really are famous?” You nodded “Well, I don’t want to sound immodest but yes and I don’t want to disappoint my fans.” He leaned back on his chair. “I understand. It’s similar to me not wanting to disappoint my people.” You laughed at the comparison. “Yes but I don’t manage a country, I just create songs.” He laughed with you and you took the opportunity to watch him more closely. He was a handsome demon and he seemed genuinely interested in you. Finally, he calmed down. “I see, we need to find a schedule for you to continue practising and to go to your concerts. Will you be able to come tonight at the castle so we can talk about all of that?” You hesitated “Hmm… Sure but I don’t know where it is.” He laughed again. “Don’t worry, after classes I’ll come find you and we’ll go together.” You laughed with relief “I’ll see you later.”

After your evening at the Lord’s Castle with Diavolo, you would spend most of your free time with the future King and he would come with you to the human world. He would stay backstage during your concerts, being your N°1 fan. The first time he heard you sing during a rehearsal, he was completely transfixed by you and your voice. He wouldn’t AND couldn’t go a day without listening to you so he bought all of your albums. You cringed at the idea but it was really cute. After the concerts, he would bring you to the most luxurious hotels in the area where he paid a lot for you to be pampered all day and night. He would order room service every time and eat with you on your bed. Slowly, you started to get closer. He was always happy when with you and he looked like a normal demon not one who had an entire realm to look after. 

The day after one of your concerts, you decided to go on a walk and visit the city you were in. When you talked to Diavolo about it, he was really excited. You got dressed and left the hotel. Instinctively, you took Diavolo’s hand, you didn’t even notice it until a few seconds later when you felt a squeeze. You looked down and then at him, scared that he wouldn’t take it kindly. He was looking straight up with a huge smile on his face. You giggled and leaned your head on his arm. You walked for a couple of hours until you sat down on a bench to enjoy the view. “Wow! It’s breathtaking.” You heard the demon humming in agreement so you looked at him, he was looking at you. You could feel your cheeks burning a little then Diavolo leaned down and he kissed you. 

Since that kiss, you went on dates more often in the Devildom even if it wasn’t really official until one day, after a few weeks, The House of Lords announced at RAD that Lord Diavolo needed an heir rapidly and that they had found the perfect mate for him. You froze at the announcement, you were on a date just last night with him and he hadn’t said a word to you about it. You left RAD in a hurry, you couldn’t face anyone right now. You kind of knew that you dating unofficially wouldn’t go unnoticed and you had guessed that someone might interfere. You were right, you could feel the stares, the hatred coming off the other demons but you didn’t care, he was the future King, right? Nothing could go wrong. 

The next few days passed in a blur and you threw yourself in writing new songs. It helped you with seeing Diavolo every day at RAD or around town with his new mate. Everyone was talking about this new couple but they would stop when you arrived somewhere. You realised they all knew and tried to be considerate even though you didn’t care what they thought. When you finally started to feel better about the whole situation, Barbatos arrived at the House of Lamentation with an envelope. “Hello, My Lord organises a ball to make his relationship official. He is asking for you to sing at this event.” You laughed, tears building up. “Seriously?!” Barbatos raised an eyebrow “Well, yes of course.” You calmed down. “What do I get in return?” Barbatos made a move to leave “His gratitude” then he left. You stood there, flabbergasted. You had taken the invitation from the Butler’s hand and started to read it. Your heart sank, it was official and that idiot of a demon didn’t even speak to you about any of it. You decided to text him.

You: Hi. I’ve just received your invitation. I also agree to sing as apparently your gratitude is the best I can have from you. I’ll see you then.

He never answered. 

Finally, the day of the party arrived. You had purchased a beautiful outfit that would highlight your body and you had asked Asmodeus to help you get ready. You spent your day with him, prepping your skin and your hair. You had a wonderful day with the Avatar of Lust and it helped you forget for a minute why you were making yourself the most beautiful you had ever been. You went to the party earlier than anyone else to get ready for the show. You were a bit anxious but it was your job so you started to do your warm-ups. Barbatos came over and explained to you the schedule. You nodded and went on the scene to get ready for their entrance. Barbatos had asked you to sing a slow song. You agreed and knew which one. You didn’t want to look desperate but you thought this song would be a good balance of what you felt. 

You were standing on the scene looking around as people were filling the room and waiting for the couple to arrive when Barbatos looked at you. He made a sign so you knew you could start singing.

There I was again tonight Forcing laughter, faking smiles Same old tired, lonely place Walls of insincerity, shifting eyes and vacancy Vanished when I saw your face All I can say is, it was enchanting to meet you

They had entered the room when you started singing and people were applauding the couple. Tears started to fill up your eyes but you carried on.

Your eyes whispered, "Have we met?" 'Cross the room your silhouette Starts to make its way to me The playful conversation starts Counter all your quick remarks Like passing notes in secrecy

Diavolo was talking, seemingly not noticing you. You were starting to get upset but it wasn’t really about you tonight, was it?

And it was enchanting to meet you All I can say is, I was enchanted to meet you You were watching the couple who were all smiles with sorrow in your eyes. You were impressed with how your voice was still when your emotions were in turmoil. This night is sparkling, don't you let it go I'm wonderstruck, blushing all the way home I'll spend forever wondering if you knew I was enchanted to meet you The lingering question kept me up 2 AM, who do you love?

Finally, he looked at you. You saw the desperation and the longing in his eyes. Your chest was hurting at the sight and you understood he had no choice. Tears fell on your cheeks but your voice was steady.

I wonder 'til I'm wide awake And now I'm pacing back and forth Wishing you were at my door I'd open up and you would say, "Hey" It was enchanting to meet you All I know is, I was enchanted to meet you This night is sparkling, don't you let it go I'm wonderstruck, blushing all the way home I'll spend forever wondering if you knew That this night is flawless, don't you let it go I'm wonderstruck, dancing around all alone I'll spend forever wondering if you knew I was enchanted to meet you

Tears kept flowing while you were looking at him. His eyes were bright and focused only on you. It was as if no one else was there. 

This is me praying that this was the very first page Not where the story line ends My thoughts will echo your name, until I see you again These are the words I held back, as I was leaving too soon I was enchanted to meet you Please don't be in love with someone else Please don't have somebody waiting on you Please don't be in love with someone else Please don't have somebody waiting on you

You finished the song earlier than you were supposed to and left the castle. You didn’t want to see him with another one and to be the one singing for this occasion. To hell with the repercussions, you ran and ran till you were lost and hoped no one will ever be able to find you.

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THE END

[eletricheart]

Delicate

(Mother Miranda x Reader)

*image creds to owner

Word count: 1560 (ish)

I got the story idea from Delicate by Taylor Swift, most specifically the part "this ain't for the best, my reputation's never been worse so you must like me for me."

ps: the song is at the end of the story.

----------------------------------------------------

Rumors, as always, spread like wildfire in the Umbrella's facility. You weren't a stranger to the experiments performed, but the prospect of a new relatively natural form of life was definitely enough to make you head down to the laboratories floor. As far as everyone knew, some being was brought by an unknown scientist, who was working in a private room.

You, of course, weren't part of the new crew that were crowding the hallways trying to see. You knew Mia would be involved, especially after seeing her all week when her working days were usually just three.

You caught up with Mia the following day in the elevator, making sure that no one else entered it.

She looked at you with a questioning look. "Is everything okay?"

To which you responded with a mischievous smile.

Mira quickly understood and shook her head. "The answer is no."

You sighed and pouted. "Come on Mia, just a little info."

She rolled her eyes. "All of the information is confidential."

You scoffed. "Like that stopped you before. Please, one info and I'll never ask again."

She gave you a sly smile. "Very well, we are working with a sentient mold to create a human body."

Your mouth hung open in disbelief as Mia left the elevator laughing. "Wait, what?! Miaaa!"

However, as promised, you never asked anything else. You heard rumors of the experiments not working, you were there for Mia when she vented about how cruel the new scientist was.

One month later

Mia was frustrated, which meant that you were also frustrated. Apparently the project hasn't been going well, and the head scientist, who you found out is called Miranda, has become even more demanding.

A lot of things were made at Umbrella, most if not all laboratories were violating some human rights. However, they suddenly decided to draw a line at child endangerment. In result, Mia and the others became number one enemies for the employees.

Thankfully, for your sake because you were getting annoyed at Mia complaining about everyone all the time, Miranda decided to appear at work, and well, all the rumors stopped. With one look the head scientist could threaten your entire lineage, no wonder things went back to normal.

As the days passed by you started to see Miranda more and more, and with that your interest grew. Mia, on the other hand, hated your sudden interest and would constantly call out how bad the woman truly was but you didn't mind.

You first spoke to the scientist during a late night of work, almost everyone had left and you headed down to the labs to check if Mia was still there. Once at the laboratories level, you went straight to the "forbidden" era, knocking four times. Since no one answered, the proper thing to do would be to leave…but the door was open…one peek wouldn't kill.

And that's how you found yourself against a wall with a scalpel on your neck and a woman smirking at you.

"Well well, and what do we have here?" She asked with an arched brow.

You chuckled, nervously. "Such a warm welcome, I'm assuming you're Miranda."

"What do you want?" She asked, removing the scalpel and going back to her desk.

"I was looking for Mia, have you seen her?" You responded, following her.

"She left, hours ago."

You scoffed and rolled your eyes. "Of course she did."

Miranda paid you no mind, continuing her work.

"So…what are you doing here?" You asked, sitting on the free space on her desk.

She looked up, slightly annoyed. "Planning your murder."

You chuckled. "Don't threaten me with a good time."

She rolled her eyes. "Make yourself useful and grab me the files from the desks."

You nodded. "Which one?"

"All of them."

You silently took all the files and organized them on her desk.

You pulled a chair and sat beside her, almost falling asleep to the sound of writing.

"She is married." Miranda stated, not looking away from her paper.

You furrowed your brow. "Who?"

"Mia."

You shrugged. "I know."

She hummed in agreement and continued to work, and eventually you fell asleep.

You woke up in your car at a stop sign, with Miranda driving.

You looked at her in confusion. "Did you steal my car?"

She rolled her eyes. "You're in it, so it's more of a kidnap.

You nodded. "Do you know my address?"

"I do."

You chuckled and turned on some calm music for the rest of the ride.

During the next day, you obviously told Mia about it. She went on and on about how dangerous it was for the scientist to know your address, to which you responded with a bored nod.

She looked at you angrily. "She knew your address!"

You sighed. "And? Umbrella knows my entire life, besides she just took me home."

Mia shook her head in resignation. "Look, what I'm trying to say is be careful, she's been trying to get children into the experiments and even the executives are reluctant." She sighed. "Just...promise me to stay away."

You nodded and changed the subject. The evening was uneventful, you saw Miranda sometimes but she ignored you.

Once the night fell you waited until it was late enough for Mia to have left and headed towards Miranda's lab.

You knocked the door four times before entering.

The scientist looked up at you. "Tell me this isn't going to be a regular thing."

You giggled. "Maybe. Need anything?"

She furrowed her brow in thought. "You work in administration, right?"

"To simplify it, yes." You responded, sitting on her desk.

"I'm having a certain issue with getting…approval from the executives. Can you solve it?" She asked, mumbling at the end.

You smiled and partially laid on her desk, mindful of the documents beneath. "Sure. I'm at your service."

She pointed towards a chair, so you pulled it and sat beside her. Therefore, for the next three nights, while she did her research, you improved the request papers.

You discovered that your request was accepted through Mia, who was conflicted between happiness and apprehension.

On that same night, you went to see Miranda with a small celebration cake. She stared at you at the door, chuckling and standing up to walk with you to a small lunch area near the lab.

"I suppose Mia told you of my success." She said while sitting beside you at a corner table.

"She did, I'm happy for you." You responded, cutting the cake.

The scientist arched a brow. "Why? You're not gaining anything from this."

You shrugged. "I don't know, you seem committed to this."

She ate a piece before speaking again. "She doesn't like me, but you already know that."

You nodded. "Yeah, she made me promise to stay away from you."

For the first time since you started talking, Miranda truly laughed, not sarcastically or anything. You followed along and started laughing not even a minute later.

It became a secret routine, you would always meet her at night. At first most of the time was occupied by work, however as the days passed you were both just casually hanging out. You never missed a day, even when Mia would tell who Eveline was.

The moment that Miranda ended her project was heartbreaking, there was no more late night talkings followed by the scientist pretending to be annoyed in taking you home. But after a month, you got used to it again, and the pain became only an uncomfortable memory.

Therefore, it was a surprise to see Miranda in your living room.

You placed the keys on the table before walking towards her. "Breaking and entering, that's new."

She momentarily smiles before shoving you to the ground and holding a knife against your neck.

You smiled. "This brings back memories."

Miranda rolled her eyes. "Who are you?"

She huffed. "Shut up! Just…let me think."

You gave her an awkward smile. "Is this a pick up line? The delivery is not great."

The woman shook her head. "Don't play with me."

"I'm not!"

She gave you an angry look. "Yes you are, you're lying!"

You rolled your eyes. "Yes because it's smart to lie to a woman pointing a knife at you in your own house."

"Sure, I'm definitely comfortable." You talked back, sarcastically.

Miranda placed the knife beside you and continued to sit on you, holding her head with her hands.

You lifted the best you could and sighed. "Talk to me…please."

She nodded. "Why don't you hate me?"

You tilted your head in confusion. "Why would I hate you?"

She grunted in frustration. "You knew what I was doing but even so you helped me get approval while everyone else was secretly celebrating my failure." She looked up at the ceiling, swallowing hard. "I just…My reputation has never been worse."

You took a deep breath before circling her waist with your arms. "I like you. Yes you may be slightly psychotic but that's just your charm."

The scientist laughed and looked down at you. "I can't promise you anything. This probably won't work and I'm aware of how feelings can be…delicate." Miranda held your shoulders tight before speaking again. "But I also like you. Isn't that the worst thing you've ever heard?"

You looked up, grinning. "How about we start with a drink?"

----------------------------------------------------

masterlist

[vivianbernadetteaurora]

Part two

Moon signs and your mum

Cancer moon 🌑🥀💫🦀♋️😇

I’ve noticed with cancer moons, they fall into one of two categories. They fall into the one where they can be quite abusive with their mother, or they are attached to their mother dearly. They will defend their mother to her deathbed mother is everything think their moonshine is cancer. That is the home of the moon, the mother everything where you came from and have this moon placement is really significant specially for the likes of someone like Drew Barrymore, mother was a stage mother and not very good to do. She let her go out partying and taking drugs when she was like 13 maybe younger, and of course she’s a Pisces, and that’s like that goes through the territory and a Gemini rising, if they have that right It’s very sad I feel like cancer so good at picking up the energy of a room and knowing how to deal with it. You also get the stone cold ones who are like don’t care and we’ll just do it as they don’t care about the social graces and they don’t care about trying to fit in which to me is actually a lovely trait. You know where you are with someone like that rather than someone crawling all over like eczema , they like to either be the counsellor or council others. I had a cancer moon boyfriend. In fact I have had two cancer boyfriends and they had two sides of them. Definitely one of them was an Aries and one of them was a Pisces, the Pisces, one was very deep and sentimental already, but he was also could be an eternal victim whereas the other one was had this weird relationship with his father. The mother was everything he loved his mother and he put a lot of emphasis on his mother and the time they spent together, but his father never wanted him so he always had that energy so my astrology now he’s teaching me teaches me that the fourth house can also be father , it’s a put if a cancer is going to have to choose between a parent every time it is going to be mum, even if they have a very close relationship with the father it’s always going to be my mother . you may have had a mum who is very emotional, very heritage and learning about her lineage, she may have had a very stressful start herself emotionally she in the dark and she could’ve had issues getting pregnant. You may have been adopted she could’ve been Baron on the lighter and she could’ve got pregnant really easily and had a lot of children definitely an emphasis on children and emotions. Your mother may also have been mentally ill and you may have felt like a bit responsible for your mother’s feelings. She could’ve been very emotional about your father or her partners and you have protected for all that cancer and moon, who she loved ever so much .

People say that Gemini or Libra placements can be bisexual or lesbian, but I’ve tend to disagree. I feel like people have got strong cancer placements will either be queer, bisexual, pansexual, bisexual, pansexual and the rest, but some of them may pull against that and be closeted case in point Taylor Swift, a lot of her fans believe that she’s secretly gay and has gay relationships instead of the relationships that her PR team put out and if you listen to a lot of her songs which I haven’t, but I know by listening to her fans they’re very pro woman, and I love that maybe because of my Some of them will be quite stone cold like Kurt Cobain, one of my favourites and Courtney Love they could be a quite wild. Can’t is a crazy fuck at the moonchild. Don’t be too hard on these people because they they have the moon cycle like every two days, and it’s gonna fuck with them specially if they’re a cancer rising, and they’re gonna fill that intensity and ability Mariah Carey Aretha Franklin they’re both Aries and they both fucking speak their truth and they ain’t gonna lie about it they don’t know her.

Some celebrity examples of having a cancer moon would be Courtney Love, Tana, Mongeau, Drew, Barrymore , Mariah Carey, Taylor, Swift, Shakira, Kurt Cobain, because that’s face of his feminine , Drake,  Vanessa Paradis, Gwen Stefani,  Kris, Jenner, Queen, Camilla  Janis Joplin and  Sophie Vergara . 

Leo Moon 🛍️💘✨😎♌️🦁🌝

The Leo moon and the relationship with their mother Leo actually rules the father so to start off with. We’re not rolling a mother like planet. These guys might have quite masculine energy and may have needed a father figure in their life, even though they didn’t get that, so the mother becomes complicated and almost a third wheel on this relationship, I get this as I’ve got a Leo moon sister, and I feel like she really needed a father. Her father had horrible. Things said about him in the family that he was a child abuser, and I’ve never really ever spoken to my sister about this, but my sister exerts such a masculine energy and I get it because I’m Leo son but it feels like a lot of it locked away. She has very sarcastic sense of humour. She’s an Aries son, the mother almost becomes an irritant so the mother on the end may be narcissistic. Maybe all about her a bit of a victim. This is just how the child sees it. It may not be completely true, but the child is true. The mother may also be a bit emotionally distant from the child, and not so attached to the child on the lighter end of the spectrum, the mother could’ve had quite an easy-going approach but could’ve also been strict in earlier childhood and the early years and then when it came to adult which this child peaked to a younger age they didn’t get as much attention as they maybe should from like their brothers and sisters as their brothers and sisters dead they can feel like a bit lost so they could constantly trying to be striving for that male energy in their life, which can be very exhausting like I feel a lot of Leo placements are looking for that father approval daddies daddy saying like it’s okay so on the lighter and your mother could be very kind, very gentle very humbling she could be entertaining. She could be a caring mother a hands-on mother. She could also be shy at times and sensitive and a lot of the times people don’t get this about Leo energy. This may rub off to you. You can be very quiet but you could also have a very sensitive deep side and if people say something to you that well you up you may it may hurt you for a very long time you may all see partners that are quite a bit older than you as that emphasis like I said on the father other than the moon sign previous to you which is cancer which is doing the opposite of what you’re doing. They’re doing it to their mother, not their father so is a Leo moon always know that you are loved whether your father was there or not you are worth to be loved and you deserve that respect. You deserve the love and know that you are worthy of any kind of love and if anybody hurts you, it says more about them and it says about you I know that you’re sensitive Leo I love you as a Leo son kiss kiss examples of Leo moons

Celebs

Lana Del Rey, Megan Fox Monica Bellucci, Julia Roberts, Queen Elizabeth the second, Paris Hilton, Megan Thee Stallion, Renée Zellweger, Jane Fonda, Dakota Fanning

I’ve definitely noticed there’s an emphasis on the father like I said with Leanne and them trying to find that relationship with men that’s definitely examples of the mother also though with people like Megan Thee Stallion who is orphan from young adult from her mum and her dad. Her mum was the one who inspired her to be a rapper, but died just before she became famous Very sad. Lana Del Rey seems to be influenced a lot by men and men culture and sexual culture, but that could be like I say high school rising coming into the mix as well which is also about men because it’s ruled by Mars and then her mum is in cancer. So yeah there’s just a lot going on there I feel like Leo moons are very reserved and back and like I said they’re more sensitive than they let on so if theycome across this shitty or arrogant to you just know that this isn’t who they really are they’re just it’s just a bravado with Leo sometimes

Virgo 🌑 moon 🌚🧐♍️🌪️🍏

If you’re a Virgo man, you probably go out with a mother that was maybe very cautious. She might’ve been cautious about your health. She might have been quite dynamic and flexible. She also might have turned her nose up at other people she might have felt like her actions were always the right actions, and she was always right with that earth, sign energy and your relationship with her may have felt very Verbal all about verbality, she could’ve been a massive talker. She could’ve been very sociable. She might’ve made you be quite neat and tidy and make sure that you had that as an ability to be clean and sensible, she might have also taught you all different types of lives out there and not to get caught up in anything. She wanted to pass you on the front of knowledge with Mercury ruling that sign as well as Gemini means he might have had a very social house I have found sometimes with Virgo means to be quite abusive and like I said with dark side and like it’s end of the signs that not every sign is going to have those attributes, but you need to be aware that you come off is quite abusive, emotionally, passive, aggressive, and almost jealous of other peoples happiness or if this is not the case this is the case with your mother, it can be a very psychic placement.You were taught to be very adaptable for a young age your needs emotionally. You need someone who you can intellectually understand you so when you can have a really good chat with Someone you can bond with on that level, but you say might have a tendency to be an introvert and need your own time you’re not the biggest socialiser ever which is some misconception with Virgos. Virgos can actually suffer with anxiety quite a bit but they might have verbal diarrhoea, if they were brought up in a hectic household they were to self soothe maybe from a young ,age. having this placement, you may have also appreciate where in a conversation and use with as a way to get free things but also you may have a really good sense of humour due to this when it came to hell maybe your mother was over cautious with your health. Maybe you had a lot of health problems or stuff suffered with stomach problems upset stomach or diarrhoea and that comes with the anxiety which rules Virgo and also the stomach. You may find things that are really good for this, such as yoga any kind of exercise, walking or reading, also may have a very good singing voice and may be inclined to the arts of music or playing an instrument. You definitely have the attention span to do so, you may have felt like your mother didn’t encourage you enough at sometimes so you had to do it yourself. Virgo grows up from a very young age and I have noticed this placement moves out of home, very young or to another relatives house and that’s not, Virgo means that’s placements. 

Celebrity placements Sharon Tate,Madonna,Nicki Minaj ,Selma haiak,Blake lively , Jodie foster , Jada pinkett smith ,cab

[madeline-kahn]

Creator Shoutout - Weeks 41 + 42

hiiii hello and welcome to a completely unscheduled long overdue installment to my creator shoutout posts!

Everything in this series is tagged #creatorso and all shoutout posts are tagged #cswrapups

week 41 (#csw41 tag)

breaking bad: colors by @samanthamulder

heathers: veronica by @dunhamsolivia

jatp: juke by @thereigning-lorelai

the lord of the rings by @gizkalord

mad max fury road by @figueroths

paper girls: kj by @hanmegumi

pitch perfect by @jenna--ortega

riverdale: betty and jughead by @simon-eriksson

six the musical by @avalance

stranger things: joyce by @simon-eriksson

stranger things: lucas by @jakeyp

stranger things: robin and steve by @disaster-lineage

when harry met sally by @livelovecaliforniadreams

week 42 (#csw42 tag)

a league of their own: august by @rebecca-weltons

do revenge by @worldoffeelings

duck tales: della by @deweyduck

harry styles by @henry-alex

heartstopper: nick by @robin-buckleys

jatp: anniversary by @thereigning-lorelai

jatp: here comes the sun by @thereigning-lorelai

marvel: posters by @sandibullock

nightmare on elm street by @jeffreywinger

oscar isaac filmography choices by @oscarskirt

sandman: death by @napoleon-usher

sandman by @difanghua

star wars by @disaster-lineage

star wars: rogue one + peace by @jyndor

stranger things: ronance by @toplines

succession: test answers by @jakeyp for @succgifs

taylor swift: midnights style covers by @thatwasthenightthingschanged

x files by @samanthamulder

my hope is these posts will come every couple of days until i catch up and then it's full steam ahead :) sorry if you get tagged a lot and that's annoying!

[piss-wizard-ao3]

dndads s2ep45 spoilers

re: that one quote that absolutely emotionally obliterated a decent chunk of the fandom

alright fuckin bear with me i have some Thoughts and Feelings about particularly how the Close-Foster-Swifts deal with a) parenting and b) intergenerational trauma Anthony: 'As you're saying this, without even wanting it to, tears are rolling down your cheeks. And in that moment, you, and Taylor, and Nick all realise... That there is no fixing this. That this is as good as it's going to get. That you are stuck with each other in the forms that you are now.' this fucking DESTROYED ME and, from what i can tell, a lot of other people in the fandom also. i think this brings up some really important points that resonate w/ me personally about intergenerational trauma, and that are super important to talk about like with the wilsons and the oaks, they manage to (in varying degrees) realise what they did wrong, or what they could do better, and actively try to do better. they actively try to go out of their way to fix things, which is great! breaking that cycle is important, and it takes a while, but they're trying. with the stamplers (+ marlowes), specifically ron and terry jr, they do the 'acknowledging i havent been good enough' to 'trying my best to be what you deserve' pipeline and its Beautiful. and we get a little of that with terry jr and scary too, with terry jr just trying to do his best and scary slowly coming around to realise that she does, actually, care about her stepdad. and its so wholesome and good. it really pays homage to the ron and terry jr relationship i feel, where they end up before he died (F). BUT THE CLOSE/FOSTER/SWIFT FAMILY. i fucking. it hurts. but its the one that hits the closest to home. 'This is as good as it's going to get' fucking resonated with me. im sure it resonated with a lot of people. intergenerational trauma and the effects it has on people is such a core theme of dndads, and the way its handled so differently through each family line is honestly artful. but an important part of the story of intergenerational trauma is when it's not something that you can fix, or go back and apologise for, or something that you can become better from. sometimes trauma just is. sometimes you can't recover from it. families will break up, lineages will die out, stories and lives will be forgotten. and as tragic as that is, as much as it hurts, it's so real. in a way, its a double-edged sword that they all still talk to each-other, that they still cling to what they have, what they wanted to have. especially in the case of Taylor, who does spend a lot of the series with questions about his dad but ultimately thinking he's pretty neat, to then break down to wishing there was time travel so Nicky could be there for him, so they could re-do childhood. i just. screams. thats such a pivotal moment for him. to finally come to terms with and admit the fact that no, things aren't okay, this isn't what he wanted, and if given the chance he would go back and fix them himself. that his father, and his father's father, have failed to do it, and now it falls upon his shoulders. (this also resonates very well with the whole 'our parents unleashed the doodler and both our grandparents and parents failed to fix it so now that's our burden to bear') i wonder if we'll ever get to know if the teens from this series go on to have families. if Lincoln ever introduces his children to grandpa Grant, or if Normal ever feels, well. normal enough to even consider the possibility of raising kids. if Scary ever takes her children to visit Terry Jr's grave, or tells them about his exploits, or recounts to them the things he did for her before she grew to appreciate him. i wonder if Taylor will ever even consider the concept of having a family, upon looking back like this at his own, upon knowing first-hand the stakes if he gets it wrong. would he think that he can break the cycle? that he could be better? or is it, truly, as good as it's going to get?

[chongmiz]

initially posted to main blog but i wanted to expand so

i think a good rule of thumb is artists don't need to disclose their medical history to "prove" their credentials. i understand how the fortnight MV and suicidal lyrics throughout ttpd can read as careless; i had some initial hesitation because i haven't stopped thinking of britney spears' memoir since i read it, and the lineage of women in her family being institutionalized against their will by and pumped full of lithium. but just because one blond pop star publicizes this doesn't mean every other should follow.

however, strong reactions to fortnight, in particular, must come from the discomfort of taylor's proud ownership of her songs as "about her life" (miss americana doc), but this wasn't even true of her discography at that point in time, before folklore; they've been about friends' lives, the kennedys, characters from books and film and tv, like she says about "death by a thousand cuts" and much of her older songs at NPR tiny desk. but taylor hasn't framed her music as narrated by characters since folklore and evermore, and she's never not appeared in a self-directed music video; i think she's only been a supporting role twice, in the ATW "film" and "i can see you."

i wonder if some more obvious buffer between her and the material might help its reception infinitesimally, like having an actor in the fortnight MV. then again, i'm reminded of pj harvey:

'Some critics have taken my writing so literally to the point that they’ll listen to 'Down by the Water' and believe I have actually given birth to a child and drowned her,' scoffed Harvey to Spin in 2005. It’s a curious trend: unlike her old pal Nick Cave, a man always left free to slip into the skins of murderers, sleazebags or demonic preachers because he’s playing characters, Harvey has often been shackled by folk desperate to bolt autobiographical meaning to her every song. 'It can be very frustrating, particularly when it seems almost preposterous that it could be autobiographical,' she told me in an interview for the Quietus in 2011, just before the release of Let England Shake. 'People don’t allow the metaphor, the imagery, all the things that you work with as a writer … standing completely outside, as the narrator of a story.' (The Guardian, 2015)

i don't bring in pj harvey for no reason. her late career has included incidental music for ivo van hove's west end productions, including all about eve starring gillian anderson and lily james. a few years prior, gillian anderson played blanche dubois in a streetcar named desire at st. ann's warehouse dir. benedict andrews. the ending of "hits different" (feeding into beginning of "fortnight") made me think of a streetcar named desire on first listen, which ends with blanche involuntarily committed after her brother-in-law assults her, her sister helpless to intervene. you might recognize the line "i have always depended on the kindness of strangers" that lana quotes somewhere on born to die, said by blanche to the nurses taking her away. i suppose early lana's midcentury nostalgia successfully separated lana from lizzy, and pj harvey did not start her career claming her lyrics as autobiography. unfortunately, taylor swift may never be allowed such estrangement because she doesn't seem to want it ("i hate it here"), even if her next directorial outing is something vastly more "period" than fortnight, even if she doesn't appear onscreen.

as much as people fantasize about her writing a musical one day, 1) "beautiful ghosts" was redundant to an already nonsense libretto and really just the ingenue version of "memory," so you're back to a ybwm madonna/whore binary, groundbreaking and 2) based on her music video treatments, i question her interest in writing in someone else's voice, as in a flesh-and-blood character with material context, not loosely-defined devices like betty and james

[clatoera]

Always Remember We’re Burned for Better Chapter 9: Everything Was Slipping Right Out of Our Hands

....hey.

So so sorry for yet another incredibly late update. I’m honestly drowning with school. I might end up having to push my boards back because I am simply not yet ready. Ya girl is STRESSED. 

As always, title from a Taylor Swift song --> Mine

AO3 Link

Masterpost

As always. BIG thank you to @ohhowwehavefallen who literally talks about Clato all day every day with me across multiple apps. @afterfawn who DIRECTLY gets credit for helping me with the training flashback, you’re brilliant my friend. And @ms1818 as usual. 

Thank you all SO much for your patience. I hope this was worth it.  (Only one more chapter until the quell how did we get here and can you believe the story was originally supposed to START at the quell? wild).

There are ten of them gathered in a board style room on the top floor of the District Two training center. There is an eerie energy amongst the ten surviving victors, as they gather around and commence the yearly confirmation of tributes.  This time though, instead of choosing the two teens who have given their lives to this honor, they choose from amongst their own ranks.

Five men. Five Women.

It was a pride of district two, to have ten living victors. Historically they had the most victors of any district in the entire history of the games, always in close competition with One but always inching out just ahead. There were more before these ten, who are no longer amongst the category of living victor.

Soon that number would be four and four. Four and Five if they are lucky.

“We need to discuss this. We could vote, as usual, after a round of performance.” ‘The discussion is initiated by one of the older Victors, back from the games right before the last Quarter Quell, Lyme. She has always been well respected– her opinion over tribute selection one of the most appreciated and revered. She had hand picked Enobaria in her childhood, as well as Clove’s mother. Ultimately she had even given her support and blessing behind Clove and Cato’s selection when they had been merely ten years old.

Crazy, really. Exactly ten years later and they were back where they began. Two well trained kids with weapons in their hands and no future with the other in it.

“Most of us are out of practice. We should send the youngest two. They just won. They’ve got the best chance. It’s a Quarter Quell, after all. A victor coming from two is an absolute must.” Comes from a male victor about the same age as Lyme. He had been the one who a decade ago directly suggested to Brutus to take on Cato as a trainee. He had been the one to see that same brutal force in them both.

“Those two.” He points towards the youngest of the victors, settled side by side, sandwiched between their own mentors on either side of them. “We picked them together and then split their games explicitly because we knew both would win. They’re the best choice.”

“It will be a vote. We just need to decide the parameters on which we decide.” Lyme insists, rising to stand at the head of the circular boardroom table, an ever commanding presence that just makes you listen and obey.

“I don’t know why we’re wasting time over parameters and a vote. It’s Cato and Clove. They’re the youngest. They’re the most recently out of training.” The middle aged man once again insists, crossing strong arms over his broad chest. There was a clear lineage from mentor to mentee from Him to Brutus to Cato himself.  “They’re the obvious choice.”

“They also have their entire lives ahead of them.” Enobaria, for all she composes herself, nearly snaps at the pool of victors. “That's exactly the point. They’re kids. Let them live their lives now. They have earned it, just as we all have.”

“We have families and ties to this district.” There’s a red headed woman Clove vaguely remembers from old clips. She had won a few years before Clove had been born, and was one of her mother’s mentors sixteen years ago. “I’m sorry, it’s very unfortunate that you are so young, but you have to understand. Some of us have families, we have entire lives built here.”

“Well we haven’t been given the chance to do that!” Clove is the one of the two who finally interjects, though without the fire that is so synonymous with the name Clove Kentwell. There is a power hierarchy, one that the newly minted victors have not yet earned their way into.

Even now, adult victors themselves, they were still thrown back to those good little soldiers they were raised to be.

And these, well, these were the victors who watched their training sessions.

Who voted for their selection.

Who taught them the proper technique for holding a sword and slipping out of a headlock.

They had been raised to revere them. Respect them.

That was part of training. You don’t argue with the decisions, you don’t question them. Especially not The Victors.

Even now a peer in this exclusive group– these were still The Victors they were taught to fear and revere.

“We aren’t being given the chance.” Clove doubles down, a softness in her voice that is so uncharacteristic of the strong spirited woman she is.. “I only won two years ago, Cato only three. We haven’t had the chance to do the things you all have..”

“I have a sister. I have parents. That's not family enough?” Cato adds, leaning forward to place his elbows on the table. “That's family enough in the eyes of the Capitol. A sister is plenty enough family for that girl from twelve.”

“You’re missing the point.” The redheaded woman interrupts, a sharp tone in her voice. Demanding. Controlling. “Yes, it’s sad, but one of you will get to come home and live out the rest of your lives. You just have to win.”

“You two trained together, your entire life, for this. What an honor it should be to get to represent your District a second time. To become the first two time victor in the history of the games.” The oldest male of the victors, a man probably in his sixties reminds them. “It is an honor to be chosen as the volunteers. You have such a unique opportunity to bring us so much pride.”

“Do we get a choice, or are you just going to talk over us?” Cato slams his fist on the table, demanding the attention of all the remaining victors. In another life the two of them would have become the leaders of this group in the future, demanding the respect of all those who came after.

“Maybe we should send the weakest. The oldest, with the least to offer the district anymore. Clove and I could always become trainers. That would be the way for us to bring pride to the district– ensuring future victors. I can’t say the same for some of you. Past your prime and clinging to glory days.”

Cato scoffs, shaking his head with a clenched jaw, bracing himself for the argument he has unleashed. “None of you want to go in because you know you don’t have a shot at winning. When it’s your fifteen years out of practice against Katniss Everdeen who can kill from twenty yards, you know you don’t have a chance.” There is rage in his voice, the kind that comes just before the outburst. The edge of warning that very few are even lucky enough to have. “You’re sacrificing us.”

“That is NOT the attitude of a Career Tribute.” The remaining male interjects. He had won in the years preceding Enobaria, but had never made much of an accolade for himself. He trained the spears lessons at the academy occasionally, but had been relatively low key in terms of life of a victor.

Clove absently remembers the tulips in his yard, which she ran past every morning on her run of shame back to the academy.  

No, maybe that was not the attitude of the teens who were told their whole lives that nothing was greater than winning the hunger games. But it is the attitude of two people who are being robbed of the joy that accomplishment was supposed to allow.

“We aren’t career tributes anymore.” Clove announces, whipping her head up to look at them. “We are victors. We are victors like the rest of you. We earned our place here. We aren’t potential tributes anymore.”

“You are. We all are.” The remaining woman, a girl about the same age Clove’s mother would be, announces. Distantly, Clove can remember her name being something stupid. Justice, maybe?

She reminds Clove of Glimmer, with her long blonde hair and high pitched voice, and for a moment Clove wonders if these conversations were being held in District One right now as well.  “I’m not going. I have a three year old, he needs his mother.”

“Yeah, well you let my mother go when she had a three year old who needed her mother, so I don’t see how this is any fucking different.” Clove snaps, hands grasping and releasing a pen in her hand before she risks letting it fly into the eye of the next victor to offer them up like sacrificial lambs. “Maybe fair is fucking fair.”

“It’s not our fault your mother died, Clove.”

“Who fucking chose her to go?” Funny, the same people who marched her mother to her death were now sending her.

“I for one think there should be skills involved.” Brutus levels, waving a hand in embellishment. “We should all present ourselves like we do to the game-makers.” He shoots a look to Cato, that anyone else would have missed, had it not been for the long standing relationship between the two. “See who is in the best place to go into these games.”

Cato gives the briefest of a nod, a single jerk of his head. Throw it. Throw the trial. Throw the trial and let someone else go prove their point.

“And who would vote? The academy children?” Lyme questions, raising a light eyebrow at the group. “Certainly not. We are their superiors.”

“They could. Let them decide. They’re well trained. They know what to look for.” One of the others agrees, before the eldest male once again shuts them down.

“We are going to vote. Right here. If there is a tie then we will hold such a competition. There's no need for all that fanfare if we can reach a majority without it.”

“And what if the winners refuse to volunteer.” Enobaria suggests, a sinister smile smirk on her face.. “There will be a reaping. There is no guarantee the chosen victors will volunteer. You can’t force someone to volunteer. That's not a volunteer.”

“They will volunteer. There will be grave consequences otherwise.” The statement from Brutus’ mentor is directly aimed at Cato and Clove, the decision all but understood. It would be them.

Pieces of paper are being distributed amongst them, and Cato and Clove share a knowing look. This is inevitable and will be discussed among the two of them the moment they are alone.

“We’ll do ladies first.” Lyme, their unofficial official leader, collects the slips of paper and reads them aloud. “Clove. Clove. Clove. Justice. Justice. Clove. Lyme. Justice. Clove. Clove.” She swallows and nods towards the youngest woman in the room, barely more than a girl. “Clove. Congratulations.”

She’s silent, flipping the market between her fingers like a knife, staring at the oak of the table. Her eyes are glazed over, jaw locked. She is numb, completely and totally numb, but she will not give them the satisfaction of seeing her falter. Of seeing her bend.

“The men.” Lyme flicks through the papers efficiently, lips pursed. “Cato. Cato. Cato. Cato. Cato. Cato. Six. A Majority. Congratulations” The other four are for the man who trained Brutus.

It is not hard to decipher exactly who voted against sending Cato and Clove back in.

Nor, who now signed their death warrant.

“Congratulations. Our District Two volunteers for the Quarter Quell. Cato Hadley and Clove Kentwell. We will clear out the training center, send the children home for the rest of the year, so the two of you may use it. Brutus..Enobaria. You will continue your roles as their mentors seeing as you were so successful the first time.” Lyme sighs, folding the papers back up and placing them in piles according to the vote. “What an honor.”

Cato doesn’t even care to look and offer a refute before he is pushing himself to stand. In doing so he flips the table in front of him, earning an alarmed jump from the other victors save for Enobaria and Brutus who expect nothing less. He is joined by the two of them, who also intend to leave in a rage before their internal thoughts become external violence beyond their repair.

He grabs Clove’s hand and tugs her to a standing position, tugging her towards the door.

“Fuck all of you.” Clove hisses, gladly pushing herself to her feet before following Cato out the door.

So much for victors standing with other victors.

They wonder, silently but in unison, if the other young victors– their friends, likely soon to be competition– would have so easily and willingly thrown them to the wolves.

-

Let it be said that despite the rage they feel at going back, they are nothing but dedicated to their craft.

An entire academy to themselves would have been an absolute dream back as teenagers, with tireless taunting and tearing into each other before laying each other out right in the middle of the training room floor.

Now of course, they had a home together to return to after long days of training rather than sneaking in and out of each other's dorm rooms. Some things change, but some never do, and the way they are firmly attached at the hip of the other has been the way it is for over a decade.

The reality of the entire situation is one they repress.

It’s a conversation for later, not as they actively train for their grand return to the games, this time as the partners they were always supposed to be.

Funny, ten years ago Clove and Cato would have given anything to go into the games together. Today, it’s a nightmare they do not allow themselves to dwell on too long.

They are still as dynamic as they ever were. She never misses, target after target hit straight through the heart. He wields a sword like an extension of his arm, showing no mercy to any of the training aids much in the way he never did to his competitors.

And still, they are an extension of each other. He can still anticipate her next move before she can, ducking just in time before a knife clips his temple. She can still remember the exact way his shoulder twinges before he lunges for her.

When Enobaria trains Clove how to disarm someone with an axe, Clove does not think too hard about the only option of a district seven female, or how that girl was at her undesired birthday party.

Brutus teaches Cato how to snap a trident over his knee, and they do not think too long about the only options from district four being Finnick, Annie, and some elderly woman for Finnick once spoke so fondly of.  

Clove is ready for the battle of precision and accuracy against the girl from twelve and her arrows. Two girls with deadly aim from a distance who would have to take out the other to have any semblance of a chance of coming home. Enobaria had mentioned in passing that the expectation was for it to come down to the two of them. Clove isn’t sure who will come out on top of that battle of wills.

At the end of the day, they cannot blame the other victors for choosing them. It’s self-preservation, which the Victors of Two had superior instincts in.

That does not make it any easier.

Every day is a painful monotony that is blended with blissful routine.

They wake up, tangled in a mess of sheets and skin.

Clove makes breakfast, with flavors and spices and everything training food should not have according to the academy.

They train, they train hard, miserable hours until their bodies ache. They train until she needs to be half-carried home from the exhaustion in her legs They train until he needs to shower for forty minutes to work out then tension in his back. They train until their teenage selves would be scared of them.

They train for twelve hours and then they walk home.

Clove refuses to regress to dinners of plain rice and perfectly measured proteins. Cato takes his forty minute showers and she enjoys making food that tastes good. Every night is a combination of favorites of his or hers or theirs. Life, their lives at least, are far too short to give up the simple treasures they have come to love.

Despite the exhaustion they barely sleep. They spend their nights alone together, nothing but skin between them until the sun comes up.

Sure, they need rest to recover, but once more, life for them is shaping up to be so terribly short.

They could sleep when they were dead, which is sooner than they want it to be.

Wake up. Train. Each other. Repeat.  

Such is their lives for almost three entire months. Just them and the academy, where one last time they revisit the place they spent the last ten years of their lives.

Sometimes they had fans, kids who broke protocol for a chance to see the most famous victors of District Two.

“I thought they sent the kids home.”  Cato whispers, wiping the sweat from his face with his shirt he had discarded on the ground earlier when the intensity of Enobaria’s training against him amped up. He throws the shirt back down, walking towards Clove with open hands and a bare chest. “I think we have a fan club.”

“Of course we do.” Clove teases, glancing at the corner of the room where preteens had begun to sneak in and huddle around the entrance. “Can you blame them? We’re the best this district’s ever seen” Clove grabs him by the throat, swinging around to wrap her legs around his hips as she climbs on to his back. “Give them the show they came for.”

Cato flips her off, landing her firmly on her back on the ground, watching as she reaches for the knife on her thigh.

It reminded them of a simpler-- dare to say happier—time. Of being kids, whos only competition was each other. Or even when, in the wake of his games, Cato recommitted to the center, and in turn, maximizing his girlfriend’s training.

Or maybe running her into the ground.

“Cato, let me go.” Clove kicked her feet into his chest, a futile effort to get him to release his iron clad grip on her throat. “Seriously. Let. Go.”

“Noone’s letting you go in the arena.” Cato raises the hand around her throat, dangling her by the beck off the cushioned floor. “You’re little, Clove, they’ll get you like this, and if they do, you’re dead. Work harder.” He is careful not to actually harm her, not now, though as they progressed, he would have no choice but to get more aggressive and intentional with their training. “Come on Clove, fight back.”

Clove is squirming, desperately trying to pry his hands off her throat with both of her own, trying to pull back on each finger. “Cato-” This time it’s a choked gasp as he presses the space between his thumb and index finger into the front of her neck, cutting off the air to her lungs.

“Cato, STOP.” Enobaria – the only other person in the training center this late, equally as dedicated to Clove’s success as he is– goes to shove him off. “If you fucking choke her to death in here she’ll never see the arena, let her go. Now.”

“She’ll be fine if she just pushes harder. Come on. Kick me off, use your legs. Work for it, Clove.” He’s arm’s length away, close enough that with full use of her legs she could work her way out, but not close enough to give her any advantage of her hands clawing at his face. “Do you want to die like this? A foot off the ground and useless? Fight me Clove, come on.”

Enobaria goes to step in, to peel Cato away, but she is stopped when Cato himself holds her out with his other arm. “We aren’t going to be there to help her. She needs to work for it.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Cato. Is this some fucked up excuse to get all domestic violence on her? You’re crossing a line, this isn’t helping–”

“I know what that arena is like. We didn’t come this fucking far for you to go in and die, Clove.”

Clove finally plants her foot in the center of his chest and digs in, pushing him back enough that he at the very least is satisfied and loosens the hand on her throat. She crumbles to the ground, coughing violently as she chokes desperately for the air to reenter her lungs.  Clove’s hand comes to her own throat, curling her knees to her chest as she leans into the wall.

“She’s perfectly well trained. Don’t take out your insecurities on her.” Enobaria kneels beside her girl, using her hand to tilt Clove's face. She takes in the paleness of her skin from the restricted blood flow, Clove leaving out shaking gasps as she reorients herself. There is a redness already filling in the skin on her neck, and Enobaria will not be surprised if she has a handprint shaped bruise along her airways tomorrow.  

“We’re done for the day. Go get some rest, Clove. We’ll see you tomorrow.” She grabs Cato by the shoulder and pulls him back. “Get the fuck out of here. You went too far.”

“The games are coming fast, Enobaria.” He tries to defend himself, tugging his arm from Enobaria’s grasp. “We don’t have time to mess around.”

“There's a fine FINE line you are crossing, Cato. Go home.”

Enobaria leaves them alone in the center, then, Clove still steadying her breath and her mind after the mild asphyxiation she nearly suffered.

He crouches in front of her, offering a hand to her. “I know, it’s a lot. I can’t lose you in those games, Clove. I’d rather push you now, so I know you’ll come home.”

Clove curls away from him, laying her head against the wall. “I’ve been training longer than you did, Cato. I know what I'm doing.”

“I know. But Clove if something happened to you–”

“NOTHING is happening to me except winning.” Comes out in a rasping voice, Clove finally having steadied her breathing enough to argue. “I can handle myself.”

He won’t say sorry because he is not. He can make it up to her once she wins, once all this training was worth it and they are safe and together for the rest of their lives. Instead, he once again offers his hand to her. “Come on. Let's go home. “

“Fuck you.” Clove smacks his hand away, hiding her face in the space she’s made between her bent knees and her body. “Go away.”

“Babe don’t be like that. I’m just trying to help–”

“Leave me alone”

“I don’t want to watch you die. You can hate me now, but I’d rather you hate me and be alive.”

“Oh I hate you alright.” Clove coughs sighing as she relaxes against the wall. “I’m serious. Leave.”

“Baby. Just come home. I’ve got that bath stuff you like..” Cato rubs his hand on her knee comfortingly, testing the water of physical contact after the admittedly intense training only minutes ago. “I leave for my victory tour in a few days, I won’t see you for weeks. You’ll miss me.”

“Good, I don’t want to see you.”

“You don’t mean that, come on, don’t be like this.” Cato goes to wrap his arm under her knees. “I’ll even carry you home.”

“Get away from me.” Clove nudges his hands off her forcefully, kicking his hand away as hard as she can manage. “I’m staying in my room tonight.”

“In that shitty dorm bed? Why would you stay there when we have a bed back home. Seriously,  I’ll carry you. I’ll make up for it, I promise.”

“YOU have a bed in your house. Your house for victors. Which I am not, as you so kindly love to remind me. I’m still at tribute, remember?”  Clove raises to her feet, rubbing absently at the swelling she feels deep in the tissue of her neck.

“Fine. Be a bitch, Clove. I’ll stop trying to help you.” Cato growls, throwing his hands up in defeat. “Enjoy your dorm bed and your shitty food and your mediocre training partner.” This was new for him. No matter how far he usually pushed, she could take it. She fought back. She NEVER refused to come home.

Maybe he actually went too far, he considers only for a moment.

Clove turns away, planning to storm off and out of the room in the way most of their arguments resolve. She turns too fast and the world spins for her, and she steadies herself on the wall. She slaps away the hand of his that reaches to grab her hip, reaching to steady her. “Enjoy your tour, go choke some bitch from one since that’s what you’re into these days.”

“Remember how crazy you went before my games? I thought you were trying to actually be the one to kill me.” Clove wipes the blade of the knife on her thigh, clearing it of ballistics gel from within her favorite mannequin she had just pulled it out of (the one that felt like real flesh, of course it was her favorite, she had explained when they were thirteen).

“And yet you still came home with me almost every night anyway.” Cato pinches her hip, wrapping his arm around her waist, before leaning in and whispering against her ear. “Maybe you liked how it felt a little too much.”

“Did you consider it was because you had a nicer shower?” Clove taunts, twisting out of his grasp and pushing him against the wall by his shoulder. Clove takes a moment to appreciate how her hand plants against the dense muscle of his chest. Sure, it had only been a few years, but somehow even in the short time from seventeen to twenty he had just gotten bigger. “What do you say? We give them one last lesson?” She flashes him a wicked raise of her eyebrow and a snarky smile, nodding her head towards the herd of adolescents by the door.

“I guess we would have been their trainers. Maybe they deserve to see how it’s done.” Cato nods his head in the general direction of the huddled children. “Are any of you going to come watch or are you just going to cower in the corner?”

The kids do in fact shuffle over, about ten of them, sitting in a semi-circle in front of Cato and Clove. In another world they would have trained these kids, picked the best from their ranks, and sent them into the games. In another world they would have mentored some of them in the games and watched them come home as victors in their own right.

The kids can’t be much older than eleven or twelve, barely eligible for the reaping themselves. Clove remembers that age, how by that point Cato had distinctly been assigned as her partner for the rest of their time in training until one would die in the games at the hands of the other.

Maybe he had unintentionally also been assigned as her partner in all meanings of the world, in all facets for the rest of their lives.

“Have any of you been assigned to each other yet?” Clove waves a thin knife in their general direction, taking note how some groups of kids sat in almost pre-made pairs.

A little girl nods at her, with wide eyes and a childish gap between her teeth. She grabs the hand of the boy next to her and raises it above her head. “This one’s mine.”

Cato smiles to himself, at the natural possessiveness of the kid over her anticipatory partner. Clove had been like that, too.

“Alright. You two get up then.” Clove instructs, waving them forward. The boy walks towards Cato, and the girl to her.

She kneels behind the girl, hands square on her shoulders. It gives her the briefest sense of déjà vu. The little girl and the boy already a head taller.

“Rule number one.” Clove tells her facing her squarely against the boy her age. “Size doesn’t matter.”

“Actual rule number one.” Cato interrupts, bringing the lanky male child directly infront of him. “If you’ve got an advantage, use it.”

Just for a moment they get to pretend that they are living the future they imagined back when they were the same age as these very kids.

-

It is the last night in their home, probably forever, that they finally address their lives crumbling around them.

It’s sometime after midnight as they lay side by side on the floor of the spare bedroom next to theirs. They had gone room to room, sitting in silence as they soaked in the last night in the house, they had made their home so easily.

Years ago, now, she had laid in this very room imagining painting the ceiling and making the room their little training studio.

Now, she just wished she had enough time to store sweaters in it.

“So this is it.” Clove whispers, threading her fingers through his before bringing their linked hands to her lips. “Ten years to come to this.”

“All I ever wanted was to go in to the games.” Cato recalls, staring at the ceiling with nothing but numbness in his tone. “And now— I don’t want to go back, in, Clove.”

In the deepest corners of their home, at the latest points of the night, the nightmares had begun.

Cato, who had never even been at risk of losing, would sit on the edge of the bed awake and sweating and refusing to elaborate.

Clove, who would wake up gasping for air, hand at her throat hoping he does not hear.

Cato, who squints a little too long at the sun on those hot days and feels his skin ache when the heat settles in too long like it had back in that arena.

Clove, who cannot get out of bed during the first winter storm, because just like that she is aching deep in her bones, the feeling of metal slipping between frozen fingers all too engrained into her brain.

No one ever cared to warn them that the games will not leave them unscathed even when they come out alive. Even as careers, apparently you don’t come out without the games taking part of you, too.

“I don’t want to go back, either…what if we just refuse.” Clove murmurs, turning her head to face him. “What if tomorrow we just don’t volunteer.”

Cato squeezes her hand but says nothing. They’ve considered it, both individually and together. They know, though, that it’s not as easy as that.

Rebellious has never been the word to describe them, except perhaps when it came to being together.

“I can’t kill you.” Clove admits, voice soft and tired. Tired of training, tired of the endless games the world has played with them.

For all they talked about being the one to kill the other, suddenly that feels impossible. It feels like stabbing a knife through their own hearts, like leaving the most vital organ in their bodies behind in the arena.

Killing the other now feels unthinkable. And oh, how their sixteen year old selves would be furious at them because of that.

And yet…

She does not feel like the sixteen-year-old girl who wanted to go to the games more than anything. The girl who just wanted blood on her hands and a crown on her head.

He does not feel like the same boy whose only goal was brutal, bloody killing for the title before his name.

Maybe they are not those people anymore, or maybe they just grew up. Maybe they found something other than the games and victory worth living for.

“I won’t kill you.” Cato agrees, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her in close. “There’s no way.’

“What happens if it comes down to the two of us.” Clove lays her head on his shoulder, curling up and tossing her leg over his, intertwining their limbs. “Are we going to pull what they did? Just refused to kill each other and threaten to kill ourselves instead?”

“That is exactly what we’re going to do.” Cato kisses her temple, giving a firm shake of his head. “If it comes down to us…they can kill us themselves. We’re not doing it. It’s both of us or neither of us.”

“Together or neither.” Clove whispers, desperately trying to quell back the emotions that she feels rushing forward. “I’m not coming back without you.”

“What’s the point.” Cato agrees. Yes, he has a sister and parents, but what truly was the point. Cato without Clove may be a body without a head. Unnatural. Dead. What did they have back here, after that?

“Together.” She promises out loud, to which one of them is unclear. “Together.”

They lie there, silent, for what feels like hours.

They think of the future, that is gone before it could start.

They say goodbye to the children who will never be born. The blonde boy and his freckled little sister who they would have loved more than life itself.

They say goodbye to the empty home without the dog he so deeply wanted.  

They say goodbye to every part of their lives, except each other. Never each other.

They accept that it is either all or none. Together or neither.

There is no future here, not one they want, if they come back alone.

For all their lives they had planned to go into the games together. Side by side. The greatest team two would ever know, go down fighting against each other, and show respect in the way they killed the other.

Somehow nothing seems less appealing than coming home to two alone. Except maybe being the one to take the other out.

“We’re still partners, right?” Cato asks, voice softer than she may have ever heard it before.

“In every single way that matters.”

If either of them cry, well, that is a secret that will die between them.

-

The next morning is their last attempt at celebrating their lives.

Clove changes the sheets on the bed, with the intention that when they come home, they will want a clean bed to crawl into together. Call it delusion, call it manifestation. Call it hope.

Cato leaves his laundry on the bathroom floor. God forbid if they didn’t come home...there will signs of their life together throughout this house, he insists on it.

Signs of life-- In the laundry on the bathroom floor. In the half-used jar of honey in the kitchen cabinet to the left above the sink. In their names forever carved into the bed post.

When someone takes this home after them, they will be inextricable from the four walls.

It will forever be their home, even if they lived inside just for a short time.

Enobaria and Brutus come for breakfast. Clove does not complain this one time, as she instinctively adds a handful of mini chocolate chips to Brutus’.

Enobaria doesn’t question when Clove leans in and whispers a thank you, so quiet she almost misses it, when she hands her a plate of her favorite breakfast foods.

This is not the time for their goodbye. Not yet.

His parents come by, of course, bringing his sister. It is best to have goodbyes now. They are officially Careers the minute that reaping starts. The softness and gentle words of love for his family are behind closed doors.

Cato is being held by his mother, who over and over tells him how proud they are of him. “We love you so much.” She promises her son, who is hunched over, shoulders shaking, with his face hidden in her blonde hair. “We are so so so proud of you, my love.”

Clove feels a tightness in her throat, at the way her heart yearns for such confessions. She has no mother to promise eternal pride or love, nor a father who wordlessly hugs the way Cato’s currently is doing, holding his only son close for what will likely be the last time.

“Don’t send her to training.” Clove hears him plead, and the ‘her’ in question could only be the five year old who is currently sitting in her lap. “Let someone else volunteer. You’ll have lost enough.” It’s a plea, nearly begging, that his parents will not willingly lose their last child. Please save his sister, the child they both have done so much to protect.

“Clove?” The little girl leans back in her arms, looking up to her with innocent blue eyes full of tears. Cora has always been such an empathetic thing, so intune with the people who love her. This sweet child, who would never have the killer instincts to win the game if god forbid she is sent.  “Why is everybody so sad?”

Clove forces a smile, blinking back the tears that started threatening to well in the front of her green eyes. “Cato and I have to go away for a little while, that’s all. We don’t know when we’ll be back.”

“But you’ll come home, right? One day?” Cora Hadley leans against her, head on her shoulder, looking at her as if she hangs the sun in the sky herself.

“…I hope so, kiddo.” Clove brings her hand up to stroke at the blonde curls of her baby sister-in-law, and she remembers for a moment that no one even knows that little fact. Yet another secret will die with them.

“Promise?” Cora sniffles, and Clove feels the warmth of her tears dropping onto her skin.

“…yeah Cora, I promise.” It was a lie, and she would likely never hold this girl again, but a little white lie never hurt anyone. Why break her heart now, when with the right amount of time she may not remember them at all.  

“You can’t break a promise.” Cora reminds her, curling up in her arms like she had when she was just a toddler, arms wrapped tightly around her neck.

Clove leans her neck back to stop the tears that so badly want to flow, blinking aggressively. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Do not let this girl’s last memory be of her crying, and not the fierce competitor she is.

She sighs deeply, gently tapping Cora’s shoulder to pull her attention., “I have something for you.”

“Like a present?”

“Yeah…kind of like a present.” Clove leans back, snaking her hands around her neck. She unlatches the dainty silver chain, holding it out for Cora to inspect. The silver C that sits on the end has been through more than its fair share of games, across multiple chains and bodies. It’s time that cycle ends.

The little girl gasps, excitedly wrapping her little hands around the charm at the end. “It’s a C! For Cora?”

“Cora. Clove. Cato.” Clove explains, offering to take it and secure it around the little girl’s neck. “This was my mom’s. Then she went away, and I had to keep it safe. And now I’m going away…and I need you to keep it safe for me, okay?”

“I promise!” She agrees, nodding with a brilliant, bright smile on her face. Cora touches the script letter, but then launches her arms back around Clove’s neck. “..I’m gonna miss you.”

“…I’m going to miss you too. So much.”

Clove wonders, as she holds on to this little girl, how her mother ever let her go.

Cato joins her on the couch then, eyes red, but no tears streaking down his face. He holds out his hands and she shifts his baby sister to his arms.

“We love you.” She hears him whisper to her, holding her little head against his shoulder. Cato looks up at his parents, and she sees him hesitate, going to say something then biting back his tongue. She wonders if he was going to tell them what she thinks he was, but she will never know now as he changes his topic.

“Don’t…Please don’t let her forget about us.”

-

They are in Careers’ mindset the moment they walk into the town square for the reaping. This is the footage the other tributes their friends would see. They must be on their A game. They must be intimidating. Everybody knows, the games really start now.  

They wear head to toe black, the days of navy-blue suits and white lace dresses of their childhood reapings long behind them. No longer are they the volunteers with stars in their eyes. They’re experienced killers, now, with a lot more to lose.

They are going into this the stone-faced brutal killers that they are, murder behind their eyes and hatred in what is left of their hearts.

The surviving victors are lined up on that stage before all of their home district, and the ceremonial card is read aloud to the district. While the others beside them look fierce, none look more frightening than the cold, hardened looks of Cato and Clove.

In the end, Cato does not get to volunteer. He is oh-so-conveniently reaped, the name Cato Hadley broadcast for all the district to hear. If Clove didn’t know better, she would swear that there is annoyance in his face, that his moment to shine was taken away from him.

Despite not necessarily smiling, there is the slightest hint of a cocky smirk on his face.

They have a reputation to uphold, of course.

For a moment, Clove debates on risking it. She considers letting one of those bitchy women take her place, or rather, she debates not taking theirs. Wouldn’t that be poetic justice, refusing to volunteer, to let one of the women who voted to send her to her death go to their own. Fair is Fair.

But then the name pulled is the woman who raised her, and Clove cannot get the words out of her mouth fast enough.  

Cato and Clove join hands at the front of the stage, and when their hands are raised above their head for all of District Two, they do not smile.

They are hard. They are cold. They are killers.

When they are ushered directly to the train, without the traditional time for goodbyes, they realize they are not the only ones no longer here to play games.