#aislin writes

[aislinrayne]

[𝔐𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱]

𝔖𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: After a particularly rough case, Reader starts acting distant. Lockwood thinks giving her space will help. When he's woken by the phone ringing, George doesn't need to know what happened to know it's probably Lockwood's fault.

ℜ𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤: Mature/Explicit.

𝔚𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: Alcohol consumption, strong language, sexual content (second base with intent to go further), anxious avoidant Reader, Reader is shorter than Lockwood, drunk Reader, Reader is harassed at the bar, brief touch without consent, no use of y/n.

𝔄𝔲𝔱𝔥𝔬𝔯'𝔰 𝔑𝔬𝔱𝔢: Fuck I love playing with different kinds of dynamics. I've had this sitting partially drafted in my writing folder for a year now, and the brain-goblins wouldn't let me keep working on SM until this was done lmao Please let this be the year I finally get a handle on my creative flow fml

𝔚𝔬𝔯𝔡 ℭ𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱: 6.1k

    The first time the phone rings, both inhabitants of 35 Portland Row manage to remain deep in a well earned slumber.

  The second time the phone rings, it successfully rouses one George Karim.  Muttering a string of colourful insults under his breath that - had he been in his family home - would have earned him a smack over the head with his mother’s slipper, he reluctantly drags himself from the warmth and comfort of his duvet.  Letting out a long suffering sigh that lasts through the entire shuffle from his room to the phone on the floor below, he lifts it from the receiver and greets the caller with a noise somewhere between ‘hello’ and ‘fuck off’.

  “Evening, sorry to wake you.  This is James, calling from The Royal Oak.  Is there a, uh-”  Even over the numerous voices and the clinking of glass in the background, George can hear the gruff sounding man being interrupted by a woman’s voice mumbling incoherently before all sound is muffled by a palm being pressed over the mic on the other end, “-sorry, did you say…?  Really, sweetheart?  Alright, but don’t try to blame this on me tomorrow when you sober up.”  

  Then the phone is back to full volume. “Sorry about that, I’ve got a young lady here who says she lives at this address?  She’s too drunk to get herself home and this is the number she gave for someone she trusts to come get her.  But, uh, she-”  James seems like he’d rather not say the next bit, “well, she just keeps asking for ‘that selfish wanker’?  Won’t give me a name otherwise.”

  There’s not a lot in this world capable of rendering George completely speechless, but that…  That does it.  He allows the phone to drop from his ear for a moment, resting it on his shoulder as he attempts to compose himself and reply to the nice man on the other end of the line.

  “Uh…  Yeah, she- she’s ours.  Probably talking about our boss, then.  I’ll, uh…  I’ll go wake him.  I’m sure he’ll be there very soon.”  He has to speak up over the sound of James choking and sputtering in surprise to say a polite ‘thank you’ and ‘goodbye’, before slamming the phone down and jogging up the stairs to wake his friend.  

  He pauses for a moment halfway up, considering heading back downstairs to grab a boot to throw at the door.  Unfortunately his need for immediate answers outweighs his urge to be petty, so he settles for pounding loudly on the door instead.   There’s quiet rustling and not so quiet cursing on the other side before it’s ripped open.

  “What?!”  A dishevelled Anthony Lockwood snaps, blinking sleep from glaring eyes and leaning on the doorframe in an endeavour to keep himself upright.

  “Just got a call from The Royal Oak, down on York Street?  Turns out they have a resident of this address drunkenly calling for a ‘selfish wanker’ to come pick her up.”  George crosses his arms, raising a challenging eyebrow at the taller man.  

  Lockwood’s expression shifts from its existing irritated frown into confusion, then straight to alarm.  He wastes no time flipping the light switch beside the doorway, bathing the room in light as he crosses it to tug one of his dresser drawers open.

  “Can you call me a Night Cab, please?  Offer them double fare to prioritise.”  He calls over his bare shoulder, searching for a t-shirt and hoodie to toss on.  His researcher says nothing as he complies, deciding to save the interrogation for later.

  Anthony is properly worried.     Their third roommate had come back from their last job acting distant.  They’d been separated by a pair of particularly nasty Spectre’s for close to an hour, but she’d succeeded in securing the Source’s and they’d all made it out in one piece.  He’d been so caught up in pride for his team he hadn’t noticed the effect it had on her until days later.  When he tried to approach her with his concerns, she clammed up and looked as though she was about to cry before excusing herself to her room.  None of the members of his agency, himself included, had seen her exit her room for two days after that.   He hadn’t asked about it since, and while giving her space seemed to be working by way of not making her cry, he was starting to wonder if it had been upsetting her in a different way.     Even taking all of that into consideration, there’s still no way he could have seen a phone call like this coming at 2:56 AM on a Tuesday.

  All he can find is a sleeveless black undershirt.  With a huff of frustration he pulls it over his head, kicking the drawer closed simultaneously, then pulling open the one above it.  The joggers he fell asleep in are fine enough, so after a fit of undignified hopping across the room to cover his feet with pink socks he grabs a random hoodie off of the armchair by the window, shrugs into it, and zips it on his way down the stairs.

  George is waiting for him at the bottom, staring at his watch.

  “Your cab should be here in three minutes, mine should be here in thirteen.”  He looks up from his wrist, meeting his boss’s confused look with an exasperated one.  “I’m heading to Flo’s for the night, so whatever you fucked up, mate?  Fix it.”  Karim claps him on the shoulder, walking past him to pack an overnight bag.  It might not be conventional, but Anthony knows it’s the closest thing to encouragement he’s going to get.

  The next several minutes pass in a blur of waiting and worrying, until finally it’s 3:14 AM and he’s slipping the cab driver an extra twenty quid to wait for them, swearing to be no longer than fifteen minutes.  The ungodly-early morning air is sharp and cold, cutting to the bone as soon as he steps out of the comforting warmth of the vehicle.  It’s plenty enough encouragement to hurry his way to the building, pulling the door open to slip into the soft golden warmth and loud ambiance of the pub.  

  He hesitates on the doormat, catching sight of the other patrons.  Thankfully it isn’t a particularly highbrow establishment, but it's nice enough for him to feel noticeably underdressed in black joggers and a grey zip-up.  And then he lays eyes on her, and all insecurities are immediately banished by the sharp knife of shock burying itself in his gut.  

  She’s balanced on a table, wearing a little black dress he’d never seen before.  Her arms are raised above her head, fingers combing through her hair as her hips sway to the bass of the music in a way that probably would have had his mouth watering if it wasn’t for present circumstances.   He isn’t the only one noticing her.  There’s a group of men standing around the table, watching her with hungry eyes that make his skin crawl with disgust.   A tall blonde man pushes his way past the rest of the crowd, deep set ice blue eyes chasing up her legs.  She seems to either be unaware of his presence, or too lost in the music to care.  Even from his position across the room he can see her eyes are out of focus, drifting away for split seconds every few beats from the speakers on the wall.     The man raises a hand and grabs her thigh, using enough pressure to leave visible fingermarks.

  Lockwood finds himself frozen in place, blood boiling as he mentally considers how challenging talking his way out of a murder charge could really be.  Surely not that much harder than talking his way out of an arson charge, and he’d done that often enough to be confident in his abilities.

  Before his sleep deprived mind can break free of its indecision, the girl spins around abruptly and slaps the lecherous limb away from her.  The slime of a man attached to it is none too happy about that, making a move to grab for her arm.  Her normally impeccable reflexes are slowed by the alcohol, she can’t move fast enough to avoid the attack.  When his fingers close around her wrist, he pulls.  Hard.     She teeters on the edge of the table, her short cry of pain audible even over the music.

  Huh.  He’d always thought the whole ‘seeing red’ thing was entirely turn of phrase, but as it turns out, there’s actually a modicum of truth to it.

  He’s halfway across the bar by the time he realises he’s in motion, but he’s not about to stop.  Closing the remaining distance in a few purposeful strides, he grabs the creep’s arm in a vice grip.  The blonde releases his hold on her immediately, instinctively trying to pull away from the pain.  Lockwood lets him stumble away in surprise, wasting no time placing himself in between his friend and the threat to her safety.  At first he’s optimistic he might have a chance to vent some anger when the wanker locks eyes with him, but whatever he’d seen in Anthony’s was enough to make him back down and stumble off with an insincere apology.  

  Reminding himself to focus his attention where it belongs, he turns to look up at the girl on the table.  Her face lights up with delight when she recognizes him, then swiftly sours the longer she looks at him.   He feels like an absolute prick for not noticing the dark circles around her eyes sooner.  Swallowing around the lump in his throat, he reaches up to offer her both of his hands, palms up.  She sways in place for a moment, scowling pensively at the proffered appendages.  He studies her face while he waits patiently, trying to find any hint of what could be bothering her enough to take this approach to forgetting.

  With a tiny hiccup she finally caves, placing her hands in his and allowing him to help her to solid ground.  Once both of her feet are securely on the sticky floor, he offers her his arm for support.  She gives him another little glare, but just like before, she eventually accepts his help.   Scanning the other tables and chairs around her makeshift stage, he sees no sign of a purse or jacket that he recognises in the slightest.

  “Did you bring anything with you, sweetheart?”  He asks her directly, leaning closer to her ear to be heard over the noise.  If he didn’t know any better he’d say she looks almost flustered; eyes glazed, cheeks flushed a beautiful shade of pink, looking through him rather than at him as she tries to filter his words through the haze of liquor clouding her mind.     Although he’s prepared to wait as long as it takes for her to answer, he can’t help but feel a touch relieved when the bartender waves him over holding a familiar leather clutch.  Gently taking her by the arm, he guides her to a nearby chair to sit and wait for him to collect her belongings.  Giving a final warning look to the remaining crowd for good measure, he leaves her side to approach the bar.

  The man behind it is average height, with mid length dark hair as well kept as his perfectly trimmed goatee.  He abandons the glass he’s polishing, tossing the white cloth he’d been using over his shoulder and offering Anthony a calloused hand.  “I take it you must be-”

  “‘That selfish wanker’?  Present and accounted for, though I also answer to ‘Anthony’.”  He replies, accepting the handshake.  

  The other man’s grip is firm but friendly, and he throws his head back in merriment at Lockwood’s unexpected introduction.  “James, pleasure to finally meet you.  I’ve heard a lot about you from your little Songbird over there.”

  Lockwood winces.  “Not all bad, hopefully.”

  “No, not all bad.”  James soothes before leaning in conspiratorially, “Just don’t tell her I said that.”

  He shoots him a wink as he settles back, and now it’s Anthony’s turn to laugh.  It’s decided then and there; they like each other.

  He reaches behind the lip of the bar, grabbing the clutch he’d tucked out of sight until he could determine Lockwood’s identity.  “This is all she brought with her.  You’ve got a safe way home?”

  Anthony takes it from him with a grateful smile.  “Yeah, paid the driver to stick around.  I consider myself pretty good at multitasking, just not ‘keeping her upright and not getting ghost-touched’ good.”  James lets loose a hearty laugh in response.

  The screech of wood against the floor draws their attention back to the woman formerly in the chair, now standing unsteadily a few feet away.

  “And that’s my cue.  Pleasure to meet you, James.  And, uh-”  He glances back at her involuntarily.  “Thank you.  For keeping an eye on her, calling us, the lot of it.”

  The bartender smirks, quirking an eyebrow and giving him a knowing look.  “It's what any decent person would do.  Don’t be a stranger now, either of you.”

  Lockwood departs the bar, clutch in hand, with a salute and a promise to be back another time.   She seems confused at first when he tries to get her attention, switching to stare at him reproachfully when she recognises him again.  He sighs, trying to tuck away his own feelings of exhaustion and defeat.  

  “Let's get you home, love.”  He murmurs, offering his arm again.  She takes it without hesitation this time, leaning heavily against him as they make their way to the exit.  Pausing on the doormat, he carefully extracts his limb from her grip, soothing her little noise of protest by assuring she’d be using him as a crutch again momentarily.  The metal of the zipper is cold against his bare arms as he shrugs his hoodie off, blatantly ignoring her attempts to argue with him and draping the grey fabric over her shoulders.

  The cold breeze cuts into him once they’re outside, but he carefully schools his expression to avoid showing her it's affecting him at all.  Despite having paid the man extra, he’s still pleasantly surprised to see the black cab still waiting at the curb.   It’s easier than he’d expected to load her into the comfortable back seat.  She doesn’t even try to swat his hand away when he places it on top of her head to prevent her bouncing it off the roof in her attempt to get in.   Once she’s scooted to the far side, he climbs in after her.  She seems lost in thought, staring absently at the headrest in front of her.  He leans closer slowly, giving her ample time to move away if she doesn’t want him in her space.  When she remains stationary, he reaches across her body to grab her seatbelt, gently buckling her in and tightening the belt over her hips.  

  She finally looks at him, expression blank as she studies his features.  It’s clear her mind is elsewhere, and she returns to staring at the black leather so quickly he wonders if he’d imagined the whole thing.   He gives their driver the all clear, directing him to drop them off where he’d first picked him up before slumping back into his seat for the uncomfortably quiet ride home.

  They’re half-way there when he can stand to ignore the elephant in the room no longer.  The words slip out before he can think of a more tactful way to ask;  “What’s going on with you?”

  She turns to look at him so slowly it’s almost unnerving. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  She answers bitterly, her voice laced with the same steel as her eyes.

  “That’s bloody horseshit!”  He scoffs, far too tired to hold back.  “If there was nothing wrong, I wouldn’t have gotten a call tonight.”

  Her mouth opens and closes soundlessly for several seconds, seemingly overwhelmed by the number colourful insults she’d like to hurl at him.  

  “Like you care.”  She finally mutters, shaking her head and turning away from him to stare pointedly out her window.

  “...What?”  He manages to put his frustration on hold for a moment, making room for his growing concern.  “Of course I care, what makes you think I wouldn’t?”

  She laughs darkly, shaking her head.  “You’ve got a funny way of showing it.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?!”  He cries in exasperation.

  She whips around to face him.  “You knew I was struggling!  You knew, and you ignored it because it was easier than dealing with me!”  Her eyes are wild, chest heaving as she draws in air like she has to fight for every breath.

  All hostility drains out of him in an instant, leaving him uncomfortably hollow in its absence.  He’s intimately aware of her eyes searching his face, trying to gain some kind of insight into his mind.     He feels like he’s just stumbled into a minefield, and in a way he has.  If his next words aren’t carefully chosen, he could detonate one and destroy his friendship with someone he can’t live without.

  Organising his thoughts and taking a deep breath, he plunges ahead.

  “I’m sorry.  I thought by giving you space I was giving you what you needed, but I should have just talked to you.  And you’re right, I was being selfish, just… not in the way you’re thinking.”  She looks like she’s about to interrupt, but he ploughs on.  “I was afraid if I pushed too hard you’d shut me out.  I thought it would be safer to stay silent and let you come to me when you were ready, but it was my responsibility to communicate that to you, and I failed.”

  They sit in stillness for far longer than he’s comfortable with, his words hanging in the air between them.

  When she finally puts him out of his misery, he has to strain to hear her over the rumble of the car.  “It wasn’t two Spectres.”

  It feels like someone’s poured ice down his back.  “...What?”

  “The last job?  We thought it was just two Spectres, but it wasn’t.  It-”  Her voice shakes, then dies.  She has to stop and breathe, looking like she’s about to be crushed by the weight of the words on her tongue.  “One of them was a Fetch.”

  Staring down at his hands, he searches for the right words to say.  Is he supposed to say anything at all?  If he interrupts now, will she shut him out?  If he doesn’t, will she think he doesn’t care?     A point of personal pride for him is being able to read people, to shape himself into whatever role they need him to fill, but… he has no idea who she needs him to be right now.  

  She hesitantly continues.  “It was you.”  

  He looks up at her only to find her eyes already on him.  “It wasn’t.”

  She laughs sadly, but doesn’t look away.  When she tips her head to concede the point, the light catches at the corner of her eye.  “Right.  It did use your face, though.”

  “Whatever it said, it isn’t true.”  He can’t resist the urge to reach across the seat between them, wiping the tear from her cheek and hoping she can feel the truth in his words when he says;  “A Fetch will find your worst fear and exploit it.  And I swear to you, I will never allow anything to make you feel afraid like this again.”

  Silence stretches on between them, becoming heavier with every second passing them by.  His thumb continues stroking her face slowly, absentmindedly.  If he didn’t know any better, he’d think her eyes had drifted to his lips. 

  “Kiss me.”

  His hand falls from her face.   For a second, he thinks it’s him that’s said it.  When he realises it wasn’t, the potential implications of her words make his heart stutter.  There’s a chance this is just a drunken impulse, a need for comfort in a moment of vulnerability.   If it is, what the hell is he supposed to do about it?  If he gives in to her, will he be able to carry on working beside her once he’s had a taste of the life with her he doesn’t even allow himself to dream about?   On the flip side, there’s a chance that this is an actual confession.  The Fetch had chosen his face to torment her, and as horrifying as that had been to hear, it only would have done so if she felt something for him.  Maybe she feels the same as he does.  Maybe the reason he can never figure out what mask to put on for her, is that she’s only ever needed him to be himself.     Hope fills every inch of him as he stares at her, enraptured.

  Then, he realises he’s been quiet for long enough for panic to fill her eyes.

  “Ask me in the morning.”  He breathes, feeling as perplexed as she looks when the words come out of his mouth.  She’s confused that he hasn’t directly shot her down.  He’s confused that he’s capable of this kind of restraint while sleep deprived.

  “What?”  She frowns, blinking as her eyes lose focus for a split second in her bewilderment. 

  Feeling more confident in his decision, he smiles softly at her. “Ask me when you’re sober, and when we’re not in this nice man’s cab.” 

  The driver laughs, trying and failing to cover it with a guilty cough.

  Once they reach 35 Portland Row,  Anthony covers the fare and slips the man a generous tip for enduring their antics before exiting the cab.  The emotional intensity of the ride home had been enough to partially sober up his companion, but he still isn’t sold on her ability to climb stairs without assistance.     He keeps his arm wrapped tightly around her waist until they reach the door of her room - formerly Lucy’s - on the top level of the house before reluctantly removing it.  She wobbles for a moment, but it seems to be more from her leaning to chase his touch than any serious instability.  They stand there for a while, neither willing to walk away from the other, until a large yawn overtakes her.

  He chuckles, suddenly remembering James’ nickname for her.  “Goodnight, Songbird.”

  “That’s a stupid nickname.”  She complains, scrunching up her face in distaste.  When all he does is laugh some more, she sighs and carries on.  “Goodnight, Anthony.  Sweet dreams.”

  He disagrees completely, of course.  From her lips, his name is the sweetest song he’s ever heard.   Turning away from him, she places her hand on the doorknob but doesn’t make any move to twist it.  He’s about to ask her if something is wrong when she turns back to him swiftly, closing the distance between them and standing on her toes to brace her hands on his shoulders as she presses the ghost of a kiss against his cheek.  By the time he’s raised trembling fingers to the tingling skin, she’s already in her room with the door closed behind her.

  He spends his early morning dreaming of the flutter of wings, and birds gently pecking him on the cheek.

  When he’s woken by persistent knocking on his door once more, Anthony Lockwood finds himself wondering what precisely he had done to piss off Hypnos in a past life.

  Still on high alert from his unusual evening, he’s out of bed and across the room without a second thought.  When he pulls the door open he’s entirely expecting another emergency, not to find the girl of his dreams standing there staring steadfast at her feet.

  “I am so sorry about last night, I should have told you what was going on instead of going on a bloody bender.  That was incredibly immature and irresponsible of me and I completely understand if you want to fire me.”  She starts slow, but by the end of her apology the words are flying out of her mouth.  Despite her best efforts, the misery in her voice as she says the last bit is tangible.

  Why would he want that?  Still not entirely awake, the first thing out of his mouth is the first thought in his mind.  “Please don’t leave.”

  “...What?”  Not even remotely prepared for that response, she finally looks up at him.  As their eyes meet, reality sets in and time seems to slow.

  When he takes a proper look at her, he completely forgets the entirety of the English language.  Her hair is mussed from sleep, remnants of last night's makeup smudged under her eyes.  She’d apparently had the mental faculties to change into her pyjamas the night previous, and while he’d seen her in those shorts often enough to control the urge to stare, something about her wearing his hoodie zipped over them was making him feel like a moron.  He’d never seen anyone more beautiful in his life.   On the other side of the doorway, she’s having a very similar crisis.  His sleep tousled hair only doubled her ever present urge to rake her fingers through it.  And not only had he been in such a hurry to answer the door he hadn’t bothered to slip on a shirt, his joggers were also sitting dangerously low on his hips.     Their eyes snap back to each other's faces in tandem, both flushing almost comical shades of red.

  “Did you mean what you said last night?”  He asks hurriedly, heart pounding in his throat.

  “I said a lot of things.”  She wraps her arms around herself, laughing nervously.  “Which part?”  

  He keeps his eyes fixed on hers, searching them for some clue to tell him what comes next.

  Mustering more courage than she thought she was capable of, she answers honestly.  “Yeah, I did.  Every word.”

  Mimicking his actions from the night before he extends both of his hands towards her, palms up.   She tilts her head quizzically, but places her hands in his.  He uses them to pull her close enough their bodies are almost touching, guiding her arms to rest on his shoulders, releasing them to place one hand on her waist and the other on the side of her neck.  She inhales sharply when he leans in, his thumb lightly stroking her jaw while her gaze flickers between his eyes and lips.   He’s studying her face like he never wants to forget a single detail, but he doesn’t get any closer.  She’s lightheaded and pretty sure she’s going to die if he doesn’t kiss her soon, which is probably why it’s not until she sees the corners of his mouth twitch into a smile that she realises what he’s waiting for.  

  “Kiss me.”  She breathes.

  He doesn’t need to be told a third time.   He leans down and kisses her like he’ll never get the chance to do so again, like the world is falling to pieces around them and the only thing that can save them is the feeling of her lips against his.     The hand on the side of her throat slides back to bury itself in her hair, cradling the back of her head to take the strain off her neck from their notable difference in height.  Her hands wander the expanse of bare skin across his back, mapping every muscle and scar like it’s the braille translation of his life story.  He shivers under her touch, wrapping an arm around her waist to pull her body tight to his in a desperate attempt to fill the yawning pit within him that had grown larger with every day he believed he’d never get to hold her like this.  

  As she runs her hands down his sides to his hips he gasps involuntarily, deepening their kiss with enthusiasm.  Driven by curiosity, she lets her nails graze his skin as she retraces her previous path.  The noise he makes in response is downright sinful, but so is the feeling of his rapier-calloused skin against her back as he slips his hand under the hem of his hoodie.  Her breath catches as his fingers trace featherlight patterns up and down her spine, feeling him grinning between kisses when he notices she’s not wearing anything beneath the grey material.  When he nips at her lower lip, she drags her nails down his back, and the last of his restraint abandons him.  

  Both of his hands drop, fingers dimpling the flesh of her upper thighs.  As in sync as they are in the field he’d never dared to imagine the same would apply to the bedroom, so he’s a little blown away when she understands his intentions immediately, jumping as he lifts her up to wrap her legs around his hips without breaking from each other.  Now he’s the one craning his neck to capture her lips, the floor creaking beneath his feet as he crosses the short distance to the wall, pressing her back against it and groaning at the restrained whimper that slips free from her.

  “Please don’t hold back.  I want to hear you sing for me, my little Songbird.”  He urges, adjusting his grip to slide his hands up her sides under his hoodie, palming one of her breasts and swiping a thumb experimentally across her skin to carefully catch one of her nipples between his thumb and the side of his forefinger.  She finally breaks, back arching away from the wall, head falling back against it as she moans unabashedly.  All of his strength threatens to leave him when she rolls her hips against his, dropping his free hand to grab at the plush of her ass and pull her impossibly closer as he whispers praise between frenzied kisses pressed to her throat.  She buries her hands in his hair, gasping for air as his ministrations travel to her collarbones then slowly down the centre of her chest, placing an open-mouthed kiss to swell of her breast-

  The front door slams open, startling them apart.  There’s the sound of shuffling beneath them as someone kicks off their shoes.

  “OI, MATE!”  George’s voice calls from the base of the stairs, “Did you fix it?”

  They look at each other, dazed and drunk off each other.  A confused frown decorates her features, mouth falling open to ask him what the hell their other roommate is talking about.  He shakes his head in exasperation, shooting her a look that reads ‘I’ll fill you in later’ and dropping his head to rest on her chest.  They take as many seconds as they dare like that, her fingers combing through his hair soothingly as he wraps his arms around her back, basking in the warmth of her body against his.  Reluctantly, he lifts his head and steps away from the wall, gently setting her back on her feet and pressing a kiss to her temple.  She seems hesitant to move away from him at all, back to staring at her feet instead of looking at him.  He’s known her for long enough to know she’s overthinking.

  “Hey, look at me.”  He slips his fingers beneath her chin, gently lifting her face to meet his concerned gaze.  “What’s on your mind, darling?”  

  “I don’t-”  She starts strong but stops suddenly, shifting anxiously.  “I really don’t want this to be a one time thing, or - or just a way to blow off steam-”

  He lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, cradling her face and pressing a brief but searing kiss against her lips.  She softens, melting into his touch.

  “Good,” He murmurs as he pulls away, tucking her hair behind her ear and giving her a peck on the cheek like the one she’d given him the night before, “because I don’t think I can survive another day of not being able to kiss you.”

  George chooses that moment to begin his ascent of the stairs.  They break away from each other, struggling to make themselves presentable before he makes it to the landing.  Anthony rushes to grab a shirt from the foot of the bed, throwing it over his head haphazardly  She squeaks when she finds the zipper of his hoodie down to her navel, shooting him a teasingly chastising look when he snickers and crosses past her to greet their researcher in the hall, running his fingers through his hair in an attempt to tame it.  She yanks the zip as high as it will go, trying to smooth her own hair as she approaches the bookshelf and grabs something at random.  She throws herself into the armchair in the corner of his room just in time, flipping the book open to roughly the halfway point and staring intently at the page as George reaches the top step.

  “Good morning!”  Anthony greets him far too cheerfully, leaning against the doorframe in an attempt to obscure the other man’s view of his room.  

  “...Morning.”  George replies, not even trying to disguise his attempts to peer around his boss.  “How’d it go last night?”  

  “Um - fine!  Yeah, just fine.  Perfectly fine.  Everything is… fine.”  She closes her eyes, letting out a slow quiet sigh at his obvious nerves.  

  Adjusting the book to make sure it’s in his line of sight, she grits her teeth and bites the bullet.  “Morning, Georgie!”  

  Lockwood looks over his shoulder at her in alarm, but at her reassuring nod he steps hesitantly out of the way so she’s in clear view.

  George inspects her with narrowed eyes.  “You are significantly less hungover than I’d expected.”

  She winces, not able to fault him in the slightest for the disappointment in his voice.  “Yeah, pretty sure it just hasn’t hit me yet.  Sorry about that.  It won’t happen again, Scouts Honour.”

  “Why are you in Lockwood’s room?”  His brow furrows almost imperceptibly.

  She doesn’t miss a beat.  “I was so drunk last night he was worried I was going to fall asleep on my back and choke on my own vomit, so he made me sleep in this ridiculously uncomfortable chair.”

  Both men fix their eyes on her.  Anthony looks horrified, while George looks strangely impressed.  The bespectacled man studies her for another moment and she holds her breath, hoping he’d bought it.  Shrugging a ‘fair enough’, he bids them a temporary farewell and walks into his own room, closing the door behind him.  

  She huffs a sigh of relief, closing her eyes and slumping back in the chair as the tension drains from her body.  When she cracks an eye a few long moments later, Anthony is still standing in the doorway with the same look of horror plastered across his face.

  “What’s wrong?”  She asks, worry laced in every syllable.  

  “I didn’t even think of that!  I could have let you die!”  He seethes, throwing his hands up in annoyance at himself.  

  She has to fight the urge to laugh at him, focusing instead on gathering her strength to stand and walk over to take his hands in her own.  

  “I appreciate the concern, my love, but I wasn’t that drunk by the time you got me home.”  She smiles fondly at him, lifting his hands to press soft kisses to each knuckle.  When she glances up at him even his ears are flushed pink, looking at her with a lovesick smile.  

  “Call me that again?”  He implores, pulling her against him.

  With a quiet laugh, she drapes her arms over his shoulders before replying.  “My love.”

  They lose themselves in each other for another several minutes, only parting grudgingly at the rumble of his stomach and the threat of another interruption.

  George waits until later that morning when Lucy, Kipps, and Holly have joined them and they’re all in the kitchen eating breakfast to comment on Anthony’s inside out shirt, and how impressed he is that the sixth member of their agency has learned to read upside down.   As Lucy slowly turns to look at them, eyes wide and jaw seemingly aiming to touch the floor, Anthony lets the red-faced young woman beside him hide her blush in his shoulder.  For some reason, he can’t even bring himself to be annoyed.  Grinning proudly, he winks at the Listener, causing her to shriek loudly and demand to know the full story.

  When his girlfriend looks up to shoot him a warning look, he mimics zipping his lips.  “Gentlemen don’t kiss and tell, Luce.”

  Lucy’s demands are finally met five years later when James taps the side of his champagne flute with his knife, drawing the attention of the room full of guests to tell his favourite story about the bride and groom.

⤛⊹ 𝔣𝔦𝔫 ⊹⤜

taglist: @tessas4 @chloejaniceeee @shakespearseclipse @ettadear @kassandra1000

𝔉𝔬𝔯 𝔱𝔞𝔤𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 𝔪𝔞𝔫𝔞𝔤𝔢𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔱, 𝔱𝔞𝔭 [𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢]

[aislinrayne]

I would LOVE to do something like this! If anyone has any questions or curiosities drop me an ask or a message!

Fanfic Writers: Director’s Cut

Reblog this if you want readers to come into your ask box and ask for the “director’s commentary” on a particular story, section of a story, or set of lines. 

Or, send in a ⭐star⭐  to have the author select a section they’ve been dying to talk about!

[prince-liest]

I wrote 4.2k words so far today! What did I work on?! Let's guess!

a. 666

b. Once Bitten, Back For More

c. A completely unrelated pre-radiostatic-breakup era PWP that I won't be able to post until June because it's for an event week

Hahahaaaa....

[indigos-shits-and-giggles]

homosexual.txt

(yes that is what I named the google doc I wrote this in)

Reblogs greatly appreciated! AO3 Link

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

“So, like… what’s your name?”

A question Wes expects, but always dreads.

It glances up from his notebook at the man sitting opposite to it for a brief moment, squinting at his face to get a gauge for their emotions. The dishevelled, somewhat awkward seeming man appears to glance away the second their gaze meets, though Wes can’t really tell from the mop of long, curly brown hair that covers his eyes. Wes doesn’t blame them, though, it isn’t like it was ever one to enjoy eye contact either.

Besides, he can still read the stranger’s emotions just fine. It isn’t hard to pick up on his anxiety from the way they idly pick at the skin on his knuckles, or to catch onto their subtle skittishness from the way his muscles tenses slightly, as if their body is instinctively preparing to flee at the slightest motion. Though, it also notices his genuine attempt at being curious in the way their head tilts slightly towards him, trying to hear it better. And of course, Wes notices that smile; a small, awkward little half smile that holds an earnest friendliness he hasn’t seen in a lot of people, a spark of kindness it finds himself wanting to shield.

“He’s got a cute smile,” Wes thinks before it can stop himself, and it quickly glances down at his notes to hide the embarrassment that flashes on its face in a split second, trying to keep up that cold, bitter demeanour he’d forged to protect itself.

Remembering he has to actually answer the strange man’s question, it adjusts his glasses as it replies in a calm voice, “No thank you. I don’t want to give you my name.”

Wes swallows, inhaling as he braces itself for the usual responses his refusal receives; confusion, irritation, and even anger that it doesn’t want to give something as simple as a name.

“Oh,” The brown haired stranger comments after a long pause, “Well… I’m See. Just See.”

Wes blinks, surprised by how nonchalant this “See” individual seems to be. Sure, it can still pick up on their confusion without even looking at him, based on how experienced he is with this very same conversation, but he seems to decide it’s more polite to not pry and just introduces themself instead. See seems to be trying their best to navigate this conversation properly, which Wes can’t help but appreciate.

So, Wes lets the barest trace of a smile show on his face as it replies, “It’s nice to meet you, See.”

Silence follows Wes’ response, an uncomfortable silence both clearly want to fill but don’t know how to. Wes takes the time to flip to an empty page in his notebook, before writing See’s name at the top of the lined page in all-caps, taking note of anything that could be important to its private investigations. See doesn’t seem like someone that’d be relevant to his search, but it still likes to keep notes on any interesting people he meets in case it can get that one step closer to reuniting with his brother again. It’s so, so close, he can feel it, it just needs to find that one more clue, find one more thread to tie together, it always got Ridley out of messes, he HAS to—

“…why, uh, why don’t you want me to know your name?” See asks, jarring Wes from its thoughts. A feeble attempt to make conversation, to break the tense silence that had settled between them.

Wes sighs, trying to remind himself that people have perfectly benign reasons to want to know that and it shouldn’t lash out at the stranger immediately unless he’s got a good gauge on their motives. It glances up at See with a raised eyebrow, and his exhaustion from many sleepless nights causes its tone to be a bit sharper than he intends as it replies, “Because I just don’t want you to.”

The reaction Wes receives is far different from what he’s grown to expect, and it’s surprised by the sudden pang of guilt that stabs at his heart from the sight before it. Instantly, See seems to deflate, the smile on his face that’s (in Wes’ objective opinion) absolutely adorable falters for just a moment, and their face twists with sudden alarm as he quickly stammers, “I’m sorry, I didn’t.. Did I do something wrong? I promise I didn’t mean any harm, I just-”

“No, no it’s fine!” Wes hurriedly interrupts, his expression softening as it tries to reassure the jumpy man that he’s not upset. It rests his notebook down in its lap so he can see See’s face better, clearly concerned by just how panicked they seem. Trying to keep its voice steady and calm, he clarifies, “Look, you didn’t do anything wrong, promise. I just… like my privacy. A lot. So I generally don’t let people know my name.”

“Oh,” See mumbles, the second time he’d done that in the space of this single conversation, and they seem to visibly relax a little from Wes’ reassurances, “Yeah… yeah, that makes sense.”

That small half-smile returns, if slightly more tentative than before, and Wes picks up its notebook again to hide a smile of his own. The silence that follows feels a bit more comfortable, though it doesn’t last long before See hesitantly questions, “So, what can I call you, then? D’you have, like, a nickname?”

“Nobody,” Wes answers matter-of-factly, “Just call me Nobody.”

See nods for a moment, fidgeting with his green flannel shirt as they consider Wes’ words. Taking a deep breath, he remarks, “Well, I mean that, like, sounds a bit strange. Calling you ‘nobody’, I mean.”

“Well, it’s what everyone calls me.”

“That.. sounds kinda rude. I mean, like.. I mean, I don’t think you’re a nobody.”

Wes’ face hardens a little at See’s words, finding them shockingly kind for a stranger it just met. He regards the messy haired man with a little more suspicion, searching their seemingly genuine smile for a flicker of malice, but it can’t seem to find any. He finds it hard to believe it’s an honest statement with no ulterior motive, but from what Wes can tell, it’s apparently just the other man's somewhat awkward attempt to connect to it.

Still, Wes remains guarded as he snaps suddenly, exhaustion making it defensive, “If it’s my name you want, you’re not getting my name out of me by saying that. You know that, right?”

See raises his hands in a placating gesture. “No, no, I just… I thought maybe I could, like, call you something else,” they explain, nervously wringing his hands.

Wes forces himself to take a breath, noticing just how stressed it’s unintentionally making See. Trying to bite back his sarcasm, it asks, “Like what?”

“Like, uh…” See begins, idly twirling a lock of their hair around his finger.

Wes finds himself looking up from its notebook, listening to See intently despite his previous attempts to seem disinterested.

“Oh! Like.. Buddy!” See cheers, a look of sudden delight and pride on their face that feels almost infectious as Wes struggles to keep its composure.

“Buddy?” Wes repeats, trying to adjust to how the word sounds on his lips, “Why?”

See doesn’t seem to mind Wes’ confusion as he explains, “See, it- it’s like ‘Nobody’, except you’re not nobody, and like.. like, ‘body’ and ‘buddy’ sound similar, so…”

They trail off, seemingly worried that his explanation doesn’t make sense. The glow of pride on their face dims, his grin fading as they sigh softly.

“That, uh, sounds stupid when I say it out loud…” See mutters, his nerves quickly returning as they idly pick at his skin.

“I like it,” Wes blurts out without thinking, a tiny smile unknowingly slipping onto its face. “It’s cute.”

“Like you,” he adds in its head, though he makes sure to not admit that out loud.

“Well, you’re-” See starts, before their jaw snaps shut comically quickly, cutting himself off as an embarrassed blush colours their cheeks.

Wes does a double take as it clicks in its mind what exactly See was about to say, and his face warms with a light, subtle blush on its own. He stares down at its notebook, suddenly finding it hard to think of what to say, or even to think at all.

After a long pause, See clears his throat and says, “Well, I’m gonna, er… go.”

“Uh- alright,” Wes replies, cringing inside at just how awkward he sounds, “See you later, See.”

See chuckles a little, assuming Wes’ joke was intentional, even though it very much wasn’t. “Yeah, I, like, guess you will, Buddy,” they comment, giving Wes double finger guns as he nervously walks away.

Wes sighs, feeling oddly giddy as it watches See leave, reflecting on the conversation they just shared. A memory of See’s awkward, friendly little half-smile slips into his mind’s eye, and it feels its heart race slightly as his lips curl into a sappy smile.

Shaking its head to clear his mind, Wes quickly stops itself, silently cursing himself for getting so distracted. Now isn’t the time to reminisce on some guy, it was supposed to be researching right now. He doesn’t deserve to get all lovey-dovey when Ridley is still out there somewhere, if he’s even still—

Wes catches itself before he can finish that thought, swallowing hard to get rid of the sudden lump in its throat. Trying to distract himself, it turns back to his notebook, deciding it might as well start jotting down some information about See that might be useful. He examines the otherwise blank page for a moment, staring at the name of its new acquaintance for a long, long moment.

Sighing, he picks up its pencil to write his first thought down on the nearly empty paper. His pencil hovers over the space next to See’s name, before it impulsively scribbles a small heart next to it.

And then another.

And another.

[hubris-the-if-game]

Can you give us the npcs names and info ?

Yep ofc! (This is everyone excluding Valentine)

Kane- Your mentor and temporary guardian since you were 13. General of the 5th Cavalry Regiment (His Majesty's Own).

Aislin Jewele- She's a witch employed by the Paian army but she mostly has to put her powers towards healing you after your many, many training sessions.

Mycha Kane- A retired Champion and brother of Kane, he however does not share her coldness or ruthless nature. He prefers to take a more parental approach to teaching the you when Kane's back is turned.

Emilio- Paian revolutionary and current prisoner. He hates you for reasons only he and the guards paid to keep him sane know.

Evia- Head Mage of the Royal Institute of Magic. Socially and skilfully powerful.

Ilya Zhdanov- Seventh in line to the Paian throne and makes it everyone else's problem. She can often be spotted moping around Bellesea Palace.

Sorry this took me a while to reply to I was camping! Thanks for the ask :)

---Quinn

[greypetrel]

WIP Whenever

Tagged again by @shivunin and @daggerbeanart, thank you very much! I'm on holiday right now, so I'm a little bit slow and working traditionally but...

I found an Art Nouveau piece and thought that oh look that's Radha. And redrawn it on my sketchbook. And coloured it with watercolours. I have... A love/hate relationship with watercolours, but I haven't brought any markers with me this year to force myself to use them more. And since it's been a while since I've been wanting to do a couple set in Art Nouveau style with her and Aisling... Here. Your muse of Writing and History, Prophet's Laurel all around and PURPLE. The paper is blotchy and not the right one, don't mind that, OOPS.

DadWolf going on, page 5. This page has been... Something that picked me a little off the ground. I'll speak about it more when it won't come out as terribly sad and sappy. I'm looking at those bookshelves and shivering at the idea of colouring them, for now.

Not Dragon Age related, and I'll hope you'll forgive me... But yeah. I am a sucker for trash movies, and John Wick is... It's a trash movie with a lot of money and Keanu Reeves and I love the saga. The sketch on the left was drawn... I think in 2017 when I first saw the first movie and snickered a lot because in Russian he's nicknamed "Baba Yaga"... Which isn't really the boogeyman. It's an old witch that lives in the woods in Slavic folklore, in a tiny hut with chicken legs. And travels on a cauldron. I kept the chicken legs as a reference to the hut. But well I fount the sketch and thought to redraw it. Adding the dog because the dog is VERY important.

Writing-wise I'm a little slow at the moment, but here's a piece from Monster Fic that I don't know if I'll keep. The night right after the Arbor Wilds, Aisling got back, managed to quarrel awfully with Cassandra AND Cullen. Everyone is miserable.

Tagging: @transprincecaspian @zenstrike @scribbledquillz @heniareth @herearedragons @oxygenforthewicked @layalu and YOU who are reading this!

---

Abelas told her she shouldn’t really roam on her own in the Temple, particularly at night. The complex was built on the side of a cliff that opened on more forest down below, with gentle hills and mountains in the background facing west. In some places, where balconies had been long ago, the balaustrade had long fallen, leaving just openings on nothing: the incautious visitor could all too easily fall to their death.

But she was left with very little to do, after unloading Little Brother and setting up a camp in the big atrium for them… Four. Because it ended up that one of the Templars gave in for good, and didn’t really feel like going out. Not with the whole of the Inquisition army ready to jump on him. No one there could really disagree, and since the man -George, a burly man in his fourties, with a ruddy face that spoke of many laughters and evenings spent drinking with friends and eyes that still sparkled even if they were heavily rimmed in red- had been so quick in lowering his sword and yielding…

Aisling had given him one of the cots that were packed on her horse, insisted when he tried to say that no, that was hers, and just… Curled around her saddle, using it as a pillow and rolling herself in a blanket side by side with Radha, and allowed herself to cry.

Except, no tears came forth.

She was grateful of being there, and opening her eyes, looking at remnants of a past long gone, something that every First would have killed to find. Something that poor Taven actually died to find. It’s huge, it’s been kept in wondrous state… And it’s inhabited. It’s inhabited, and she has the way to ask to her heart’s content.

And yet, all she can think of is that the Herald of Andraste would be up in a camp on the top of a hill, after a round of greetings and congratulations with the Empress, the Marquise of the Dales and all the nobles they rallied to the help. After that, she would have pretended to retire in her tent and slipped right out to slowly reach and sneak in the Commander’s one, and sleep curled against his warm frame, caressed by hands that were always cold, held and safe and loved.

And yet, she’s just Aisling, a Dalish mage that touched the wrong artifact and now has gained a unique ability, the mask has been left in her tent up the hill, and she feels giddy from both the sensation of having stood up for herself and the idea of all that she wants to ask to the elves there and explore and learn there. At the same time, tho, the giddiness is chased around by regret, the slimy feeling of being ignoring responsibilities, that she should be up there and doing her job, that she let everyone down. Nobody who stopped in the Temple was happy: Radha is angry because Morrigan drank from the Well, and both Aisling and Solas stopped her when Aisling turned down the chance. Solas is in one of his moods and hurt from Radha being angry.

Her heart beats too fast, her thoughts are too quick: she knows she won’t be sleeping any time soon, unless she does something. So, she lets go of the saddle, quietly slips out of the blanket and leaves on tip-toes, bringing the blanket with her and careful not to wake her sister up.

She saw the old balcony on her way to the baths, and even if there’s no more an old elven guide and the corridors are dark, she can find her way back with ease. The moon is shining up above between the canopies, and the corridors are large, easy to follow. She could maybe activate the magical lanterns that glows very dimly hanging from the ceilings, but on a second thought, she doesn’t know where the other elves sleep, here, and she doesn’t want to risk waking someone up and having to explain why exactly she’s walking around on her own. “I miss my boyfriend, but he believes I am the elven tool of the big plan of a deity I don’t believe in and so I can’t sleep” sounds too pitiful, and who knows whether they’ll approve of her being with a human.

She takes a couple of wrong turns, confused in the darkness, but in the end she finds the place she was looking for. The old pavement is broken, but bathed in moonlight, and even with the plenilune the stars are still shining, more than she can count. It’s beautiful and it’s terribly lonely, and Aisling wonders who was the last person that leaned into that balcony to see stars and enjoy the view. How many centuries passed, what were they thinking.

She curls in a corner, draping the blanket around her shoulders as she leans over the wall. One leg gets bent under the opposite knee, the other foot dwindling in the void. There’s a waterfall roaring nearby, an owl screeches somewhere in the distance, and a choir of crickets are there to lull her to sleep. The breeze is chilly, in spite of the day having been hot enough. It’s a perfect summer evening, and the stars are twinkling and she is not pretending anymore to be someone she isn’t, and she is alone.

Tears stars to fall, because she is not pretending to be someone or something that she isn’t, and the result is that she is alone. And Mythal, it feels like emerging from underwater, but keeping her breath has been so good and warm that she really thinks she could stay underwater forever.

It’s just tiredness making her think that way, she knows -she knows herself well-, the hour is very late and the day has been incredibly long, the choice she had to make a hard one, and one she doesn’t think was the right one. It’s everything, and it’s nothing, and she will feel a little better in the morning.

She lets the crickets and the owl lull her to sleep.

[aparticularbandit]

Current Counts for WIP Prompts:

gtds: 4

thrall: 3

aislin: 3

inklings: 3

This is actually a pretty even spread WOW.

[fannypeepot]

Mentally, I stalk him. Yet, I know he is somewhere waiting and stalking me and yes, in silence there I am weeping and hating myself for not screaming.

My senses are like the world, but I am on this higher alert and somehow, I am his guided missile aching to squirt and without even touching myself.

I remember a moment last night when I whispered, more pain more pain Oppa, please and without saying the words.

He is evil, He is mean and when I am with him, I laugh, I giggle and to him I could only explain, the pressure felt extremely deep and underneath, my tummy, it seemed.

[aparticularbandit]

WOO WIP WEDNESDAY!

As last week, I will not be sharing from inklings or gently down the stream, so those two will be 2-for-1 specials!

File Names:

Aislin Mom Question

inklings

immortal witch riding hood

The Thrall of Magic

gently down the stream

Snippet (from Aislin Mom Question because i finished the third chapter and I only have one chapter left in this one y'all):

“Eve—”

“No.”  More forceful, louder than even she thought she could be, but still nowhere near loud enough to startle the birds in the trees around them.  “Don’t.  Please don’t.  I know she’s my daughter, but I can’t think she’s my daughter, because then she should be mine, and she isn’t mine, she’s yours, and I can’t—”  Her breath catches in her throat.  Tears spring to her eyes, but she thinks this time, for once, she can pass them off as waterfall spray instead of tears.  She always cries so easily.  (Cian knows this.  Maybe that’s why they brought her here.)

Cian moves closer to her, and Eve hesitates before leaning against them.  They’re sick.  They’re having to tell their daughter something that their wife doesn’t want because they want to make sure she finds out before they die.  They think they’re dying.  And yet, Eve isn’t the one comforting them; they are comforting her.  As she leans against them, they rub her back, and they let her think before asking again, a third time in such short succession, “Do you want her to know?”

WIP Wednesday Game

It’s WIP Wednesday, time for a little accountability, sharing your work, and getting a kick in the pants.

Here’s how it works:

In a reblog of this post (so people can find you in the notes) or new thread (w/ rules attached) if you want to play on your own, post up to five (5) filenames of your WIPs; not titles, file names.

Post a snippet from one of them. Snippet must be words you wrote in the last 7 days. We’re posting progress here. If you haven’t made any, go make some and come back to play!

After you’ve posted, people can send you an ask with one of your file names. You must then write 3 sentences in that file. If the filename is one you can't share from (for example, an event or gift fic), write 3 sentences on it anyway, and then 3 more on another to share.

That’s it! You can invite others to join in, or just post. I’ll be searching the reblogs to find people to send asks to!

If you’re reading this, you’re invited!

If you see someone posting a WIP Wednesday Game snippet, send them an ask! Make them write.

Requested/Friend event mentions under the cut! If you'd like to be pinged next week, let me know!

Friends @fiore-della-valle @redbirdblogs @greenbergsays @idkfandomwhatever @luckyspike

@obaewankenope @mad-madam-m @anonymousdandelion @geometricfractal @prettybirdy979

@eriquin | Requests @aparticularbandit @madnessfromthemountains @makeroftherunes @1attheedge

@whimsicalmeerkat @kidsomeday @lizhly-writes @skyderman @adhdavinci

@owlbearwrites @anachronismstellar @anyctibius @rilannon @lazinesswrites

@zyrafowe-sny @dreaminghour @blue-eyedbeta @candyskiez @dreamerking27

@kalira @virgulesmith @i-want-delfeur @selkies-world @exceedinglygayotter

[joyfulmagic]

PSA: Mythological Muses

Due to my own personal practice surrounding deities, I will no longer be writing canon mythological muses. Instead, I will “create” my own pantheon(s), or have children of the deities who do have semi-divine children (versus are virgin deities like Lady Athena). Aislin, Alastair, Relta, and Madeline are already all Demi-deities, and I will be creating two more OCs soon, one being of divine lineage.

[aislinrayne]

[𝔐𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱] [𝔖𝔢𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔰 𝔐𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱]

𝔖𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: Lockwood wants Reader to go to the hospital. Reader does not want to go to the hospital. A mysterious visitor arrives...

ℜ𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤: M

𝔚𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: Language, alluded medical trauma, Reader has a past, dealing with fear via anger, allusions to unfortunate and untimely demise, canon typical violence... pretty sure that covers it!

𝔄𝔲𝔱𝔥𝔬𝔯'𝔰 𝔑𝔬𝔱𝔢: Two chapters in one week?? Who am I. There's only been a few major changes to this one since the original release as I was actually pretty happy with it, so I didn't want to make you wait any longer than was 100% necessary. Shorter word count on this one too since the next two are already monsters

𝔚𝔬𝔯𝔡 ℭ𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱: 2.66k

⇠ 𝔓𝔯𝔢𝔳𝔦𝔬𝔲𝔰 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯

  “For the last time, I am not going to the fucking hospital!” she spits, the final threads of her restraint turning to spider’s silk and breaking under the weight of the fear hiding behind her anger.  Lockwood’s narrowed eyes glare daggers at her across the thinking cloth.  He scoffs as he leans back, crossing his arms defensively over his chest.

  He swears he can see steam pouring from her ears.  She swears he’s an argumentative prick.

  Their… ‘disagreement’ has been slowly building over the course of several hours, culminating in an explosion of epic proportions in the kitchen around lunch time.  She insists she’s fine, that she barely even has a headache left over from the incident the night before.  He insists she’s irritable, and is clearly having difficulties focusing.  George – who had spent the previous night in his old room after losing track of time researching an upcoming case – chimes in to mention that isn’t exactly out of the ordinary, and the look she gives him in response could probably peel paint.

  He mutters something under his breath about picking something up from Arif’s as he flees the room, grabbing his coat from the floor in front of its designated hook and opening their front door just as Lucy reaches the top step.  She quirks an eyebrow and opens her mouth to question his urgent departure, but he vehemently shakes his head to silence her.  Grabbing her by the wrist, he drags her behind him as he flees the scene of what he is certain will soon to be a crime.

  The first one to break the terse silence of their glaring contest is Lockwood.

  “Look, I’m not trying to be an arse-”

  “Since when do you have to try?” she interjects bitterly, pushing away from where she’d been leaning against the counter and raising her arms to rake her fingers through her hair.  He grits his teeth, trying to bite back a scathing rebuttal.  Her fingers lace behind her head and she stares at the ceiling as if begging for strength.  She paces back and forth in front of the kitchen sink like a caged animal, and his heart aches at the sight.  Even if he disregards whatever past she’s unwilling to disclose and only considers what he knows about the strength and nature of her talent, it’s understandable why she isn’t keen to be surrounded by the painful echoes of lives lost in a multitude of traumatic ways.

  That being said; some things are worth facing discomfort for, and her long-term safety will always be at the top of that list to him.  He takes a deep breath, schooling his expression into something more neutral before trying another approach.

  “I understand you don’t like hospitals, and I respect that you have your reasons,” he assents, “so what about a clinic?  Something small practice, with no ghost-locked patients?”  He uncrosses his arms and raises his palms in a placating manner, silently imploring her to be reasonable.

  She fixes him with a suspicious glare and he worries he’s accidentally stumbled upon a landmine, but it isn’t long before she visibly deflates, dropping her arms and staring intently at her now fidgeting hands instead of meeting his gaze.  While it wouldn’t remove the discomfort of the dull lights and surgical cleanliness, nor the chill she still gets from being around doctors in general, not having to be around ghost-locked residents would help a considerable amount…

  “Fine,” she eventually mumbles, more misery and reluctance packed into one syllable than he’d ever heard before.  She wants nothing more than to hide and wait for the problem to go away, but when he looks at her with those eyes – soft, pleading, filled with distress – she can’t say no to a half-decent compromise.  No matter how desperately she wants to. “but only on one condition.”

  “Anything,” he replies instantly.  He’s too relieved to be embarrassed by his immediate willingness to do whatever she’d ask of him, or by the breathless quality of his voice.

  She picks at the skin around her fingernails as she gets lost in a maze of tumultuous thoughts.  Showing any sign of weakness isn’t exactly easy for her.  Vulnerability is terrifying, and the concept of actually relying on someone else is as intimidating as it is foreign.

  Familiar with this pattern by now, Lockwood takes the time to gently rotate his neck and release some of the tension he’d built up.  He gives her the space she needs to muster the courage necessary to coax her thoughts into words.

  When she does speak again, it’s so quiet he almost can’t hear her.

  “Come with me,” she begs, her voice hardly more than a whisper.  It’s such a contrast to the bravado and indignant fury from earlier that it almost steals his breath away.

  He has to fight every fibre of his being as it screams to cross the table and hold her, to protect her from anything and everything that has ever made her feel the need to make herself small.  Suddenly he’s filled with hatred towards faceless memories he’s never even heard as more than fearful cries echoing through the house on the nights she wakes from night terrors she never speaks of come the light of day.

  It takes a moment for him to remember how to use his voice again.

  Anywhere, he wants to say.  “Of course,” he says instead; as though it were a fact, some kind of indisputable truth.  As though there was never any other way he could answer.  If he were to be completely honest with himself, there wasn’t.  He would do anything to have a front row seat to every glimpse of vulnerability showing through the cracks of her perfectly constructed mask. 

  

He’s distracted from his lovesick internal monologue by the sound of an urgent knocking on their front door.  

  The noise startles her. She jumps, lifting her head to meet his eyes.  She raises a challenging eyebrow at him.  It’s a look he knows is accusing him of arranging a meeting with a client today and forgetting about it.  He shrugs, replying with a series of nods and puzzled looks that he hopes conveys his understanding of her reasons for doubting him, but he genuinely doesn’t know who it could be.  He pushes himself out of his seat to go greet their guest.  

  The sound of her quiet footsteps on the linoleum tells him she’s not far behind, likely planning to eavesdrop from out of sight in case it happens to be trouble knocking.  Considering their track record, that’s probably a good call.

  His hand grasps the door handle– but something stops him from opening it immediately.  A strange shiver down his spine urges him to look through the peephole.  The first thing he sees is the top of a balding head, the portly man attached to it coming into view a few seconds later as he steps back to wait and wring his hands.  The man looks harmless enough.  Lockwood shakes off his unease, slides the locks back, and swings the door open theatrically.

  “Good afternoon, sir.  Anthony Lockwood of Lockwood and Co., at your service.  Do you have an appointment today?” he asks, extending his hand and donning his megawatt smile despite knowing damn well the startled little man did not.  

  The man in question stares with too-big eyes from behind too-small spectacles, and for a moment Lockwood can almost see a terrified mouse standing frozen on his welcome mat instead.    The man gasps and lurches forward, quickly stuffing a clammy and trembling hand into the one offered to him.

  “Oh, yes!  Yes, very good.  My name is Oscar Hughes, pleasure to make your acquaintance,” the mouse/man proclaims, shaking the offered hand vigorously, “I don’t have an appointment, but I do have some information that I think will pique your interest.”  

  The name lights a spark of recognition at the back of his mind, but Lockwood can’t quite put his finger on why, leaving him standing in awkward silence for a split second longer than he’s comfortable with.

  “Forgive me if I’m mistaken, but are you the same Oscar Hughes who owns the Lighthouse Theatre?” asks the woman behind him, and Anthony has the urge to either give her a raise or sweep her off her feet.  He makes a mental note to check their wages budget.  Oscar dips his head in confirmation, glancing down the street behind him with what seems to be concern.  

  “It appears I’ve been quite rude.  Terribly sorry, Mr. Hughes, why don’t you come in so we can talk in private?” Lockwood accepts the man’s cue and steps aside to allow him entry, returning to the picture of professionalism with zero hesitation.  He can almost feel the girl behind him fighting the urge to roll her eyes at him.  It’s only once he realises that the shorter man hasn’t moved that he sees the cane in his right hand, bowing under the strain of supporting the majority of his weight.  Internally scolding himself for becoming so distracted, Anthony offers Oscar his arm to cross the raised threshold.  

  As her boss helps the fidgety man into their foyer, she offers him a reassuring smile and extends her hand to take his jacket.  He bows his head repeatedly in thanks, firing off a few rapid sentiments of gratitude before allowing himself to be led into the sitting room to discuss the case.

  Lockwood takes a seat in the armchair, gesturing to the loveseat to convey his want for their potential client to sit across from him.  Oscar hesitates for a split second before shuffling over and dropping onto the well worn cushions.

  “Now, that’s much more comfortable.  All that’s missing now is some tea and biscuits; would you mind, love?” his voice is soft, the pet name slipping past his lips before he has a chance to think about it.  There’s a pause, the slight twitch of his brow the only significant outward sign of his immediate panic.  Thankfully, she takes it in stride and exits the room with a quiet affirmation and an air of purpose.

  He doesn’t see the blood rushing to her cheeks, or notice her relief at being given an excuse to exit stage right to compose herself.  He does find the lack of ribbing slightly unusual, but he figures she’s probably trying not to embarrass him in front of their client.  That theory is swiftly dismissed when he remembers she would definitely jump at the opportunity to do precisely that.

  He’ll have time to worry more about the implications of that when there isn’t a potentially high-profile client sitting less than five feet away from him, he reminds himself.  

  Clearing his throat, Lockwood leans back into his seat, crossing his legs and fixing the cuffs of his sleeves in one smooth motion.  

  “Excellent!  While we wait, Mr. Hughes, I believe you’d mentioned having some information that might interest me?”

  “Right, to the point, then.  You may have heard of the tragic case of Alexandra Wright?” he stares at the younger man expectantly, waiting for confirmation as if the whole of Marylebone hadn’t been following the case for years.

  Alexandra Wright had been a young local stage actress at the start of a very promising career when she’d suddenly disappeared without a trace.  She’d been playing Titania in a production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream in Mr. Hughes' own theatre on the last evening anyone had seen or heard from her.  She’d declined her Oberon, Matthew Moffat’s invitation to have a celebratory drink with the cast on the eve of their final performance, opting instead to go home for a quiet evening with her feline companion and a bottle of wine.  

  Unfortunately she’d never made it back to her flat.  Death wasn’t exactly uncommon even in those days, but it was the mystery of it all that made it so hard for the town to move on.

  Occasionally there would be whispers of spottings; the grocer down the way who closed late one night would swear he’d seen her hurrying along from ghost lamp to ghost lamp, or Mrs. Peterson who swore her granddaughter had told her of seeing a ghost perfectly matching Alexandra’s description.

  Despite the small town rumblings and rumours, no legitimate reports of a Visitor matching her description had been seen since her unusual disappearance.

  Until now, if one were to believe the claims of Mr. Hughes.

  Apparently, the ghost of Ms. Wright had been Visiting an alley adjacent to the theatre, leaving those unlucky enough to have to pass through even before curfew with a persistent sense of dread.  Those with Talent who lived in the flats above the alley reported seeing her wailing as she tried to drag herself away from the invisible echo of the assailants responsible for her untimely demise.

  His associate had returned part way through Oscar’s account, and when she steps away after handing their guest his cup she looks downright nauseas.

  Lockwood can’t resist the urge to reach out and run the back of his fingers comfortingly up and down the back of her arm.  She turns her head to give him a grateful little smile, and surprises him by moving to perch on the armrest of his chair instead of taking one of the other empty seats in the room.  He’s never been more unsure about what to do with his hands.

  “As you can imagine, these rumours haven’t exactly encouraged paying customers to come knocking,”  Hughes laughs dryly, his eyes portraying an edge neither of them had thought him particularly capable of.

  “My team and I will investigate tomorrow evening, and I assure you we will do so with the utmost discretion,”  Lockwood flashes him his signature grin, easily gathering the underlying meaning behind the man’s words as he leans back 

  “Oh, well, you see…  Time is of the essence, if I dare be so bold.  I was hoping you’d be willing to take a look this evening.”

  Lockwood considers him for a moment.  On one hand, he’s certain Lucy would tan his hide if she caught wind of him taking on a case of this magnitude without her.  On the other, there are so many similarities between the cases of Alexandra Wright and Annabel Ward that even after all these years he finds himself eager to solve it without sticking her in the middle of it all.

  And George…  Well, with his Talent now gone, George preferred to avoid being in the field whenever possible.  The likelihood of a scolding from him was much lower than it would have been when they were young.  Hell, Flo would probably even thank him for keeping the man out of it–

  A hand resting featherlight on his shoulder pulls him from his thoughts.

  When he turns to look at her, her eyes are already on him, and they’re glittering with excitement.  She knows as well as he does what solving this mystery could do for Lockwood & Co., and for him.  He’d told her about Fairfax and Ward when they had started becoming closer to friends than colleagues.  About the crushing frustration and disappointment that had hounded him for years after, urging him to make impulsive and reckless decisions to try and regain what he felt had been stolen from him.

  Frustration at a system supposedly put in place to protect Agents being manipulated to treat them as tools and nothing more, disappointment at having the crown jewel accomplishment of the legacy he’d been trying so hard to build torn from his hands mere moments after earning it. ‘Do it,’ her eyes seem to urge, ‘say yes.’  His heart soars.

  Emboldened by her touch and eager to right a wrong once done upon him, ignoring a strange sense of dread as that familiar feeling of invincibility settles over him, he fixes his eyes on their client once more.

  “All right, Mr. Hughes.  We begin at sunset.”

𝔑𝔢𝔵𝔱 𝔠𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 ⇢

taglist (if your name is in bold, it wouldn't let me tag you!):

❁ @shakespearseclipse ❁ @tessas4 ❁ @chloejaniceeee ❁ @ettadear ❁

❁ @kassandra1000 ❁ @stardust611 ❁ @ell0ra-br3kk3r ❁

❁ @hellojameshowyadoin ❁ @Sarahhelpimsinking ❁ @soapshipper ❁

❁ @myownpainintheass ❁ @furblrwurblr ❁ @sleep-i-ness ❁

❁ @uku-lelevillain ❁

[alwaysaqueene]

Destined Queen

Indie RP Blog for Original Character’ Medieval, Regency, and High Fantasy Verses — Sideblog to @joyfulmagic & special verses for Relta & Aislin of @fantasiesandfolklore, guest test muse Prince Alastair as well

Written by 𝕷𝖊𝖙𝖙𝖎𝖊 [Lettie] || Mun is 25+ || Blog is 18+ (Preferably 21+)

Minors (under 18) and Personal Blogs DO NOT INTERACT

[Relta’s “Regular” Bio]

[Verse Info Tag] [Guest Staring Lord Alastair, Half-Brother to Relta] & Aislin’s Medieval Verses from @fantasiesandfolklore FCs Used: Charlotte Hope (18-32); Rebecca Ferguson (30+); Ruairi O’Connor (18-35); Anya Taylor Joy (18+); & Natalie Dormer (30+)

Rules are below the readmore on this post

Heavily Affiliated With: @ofheroesandscholars, @singeart, @blackarrcw, @luposcainus, @aislingarrow and @tsarincvdova

𝒜 𝓈𝓉𝓊𝒹𝓎 𝒾𝓃…being the bad guy, raising Hell and high water, religion, paganism, royalty, destiny, fighting fate, the girl with ice in her veins and a heart of gold, blood spilled for justice, living out of spite, heroics, being the final girl, the stench of the battlefield after a war, and taking one’s rightful place on the throne.

𝕽𝖚𝖑𝖊𝖘

NO minors (under 18 years old / still in high school) or personal blogs please! I’d prefer to write only with muns ABOVE age 21, as I am currently 27 (6/2024) years old.

Open to non-mutuals, but still semi-selective toward the selective side

Preferential treatment given to those I’ve built an OOC relationship with / am heavily affiliated with. Just being honest.

No god modding with the exception of starters, as I know you kind of have to a bit to write a decent starter

Multi-para / novella length replies usually. Please attempt to meet my length or at least my effort. Sometimes replies are short to move things along, I get that.

No auto-shipping, as Relta does not want to fall in love or have a co-monarch as a default in the phoenix queen/queen of ashes verses

IF we do ship, know I’ll be simping for them and wish to talk about them OOC a fair amount. Also, expect playlists for solidified ships haha.

My main triggers are animal death, parent death, cancer, infertility, and Dementia/Alzheimer's. Memory issues due to other reasons are fine. PLEASE let me know your triggers so I can avoid them as well.

Dark topics will be present, and the presence of NSF/W isn’t impossible. I will tag NS/FW as “lemons” or “mild lemons” depending on the severity (like PG-13 versus R rated).

Relta is queer, as is the mun. Please be respectful of that.

The mun is neurodivergent and disabled, so please be patient with me. I may miss stuff like social cues at times.

My discord is open to mutuals, but it’s an easy one to guess based on my main blog hub title lol

I have studied history and international politics in college, and plan to focus on medieval times in graduate school when I attend. Relta’s verses on this blog are heavily influenced by actual history and historical figures, so please know I HAVE done my research or asked my Tudor historian friend lol I might twist it and throw in a ton of various influences, but it’s still historically inspired.

I saw BBC’s Robin Hood…18 years ago now…when it first came out and I was a kid, so I’m a bit rusty on it since I can’t find a free way to rewatch it. Thus, I’ll be leaning into headcanons a bit and actual history about King Richard, the Crusades, and Robin Hood lore for the V: Lionhearted verse. I’d be happy to discuss the show AND history/lore with anyone interested in this verse.

I often post worldbuilding and headcanon stuff about Relta in these verses, so don’t be surprised if they outnumber IC posts for a while.

Relta has been an OC of mine since I played make believe with my friends in elementary school, and simply has evolved to who she is now through a passion for creative writing and a gaining of knowledge on character building. She’s still a bit Mary Sue-ish at times, but I work hard to incorporate her flaws and weaknesses as much as I do her strengths and positive traits. She’s not perfect, as no one is.

I am mobile always, so I cannot cut posts unfortunately.

[prince-liest]

YOOO! I remember the ask about Alastors accent that ya answered a while back!!! The recent snippet was a pretty nice callback which I simply adore♡

ALSO! The recent installment? It is peak writing 10/10 and the art is top notch as well and reading/seeing it made me grin like an idiot for the next half a day hahah♡ Thank you for sharing it with us!! :DDDD

ALSO also I hope ya doing allright there m8, I know that lately there's beena lot going on in your part of the world so I'm just here to remind ya to drink some water and take it easy on yourself. Hope ya have a wonderful rest of your day/night♡

Aw, thank you so much! I'm doing pretty well - there's been a lot going on in my life the past couple of weeks (some of which is Still Happening), haha, but also some good things coming my way! I just had my rent application accepted for the place I'm moving for work in June, so that's really exciting, and I basically have the next three weeks off to relax before graduation!

And eyyyy, haha, absolutely delighted that you immediately picked out that callback! And I'll definitely pass on your kind words to Aislin as well, I honestly had SUCH fun working on Cable Management with her from start to finish. Thank you, I'm really happy you've been enjoying our work! <3 I hope you have an absolutely lovely rest of your day as well!

[randomestfandoms-ocs]

To Do

Make headers + answer asks for named plot bunnies

Finish saving pins for MCU headers part 1

Fix two text errors in Olivy gifset

Create Marvel OC masterlist A-B

Write summaries for ocs with finished posters (Aislin Hart, Clara Waldorf, Josette Cobblepot, Cosima Holmes, Mya Jalali)

Update Bridgerton & OUAT masterlists

[angsty-prompt-hole]

WIP Introduction: Catalyst

[IMAGE ID: A scratched up and battered black background with flames coming up from the bottom. In the top left corner in orange letters is the word “Catalyst.” END IMAGE ID.]

Blurb: It’s been nearly a hundred years since the demons were released back onto Emoria, the world they fashioned to be their ultimate playground, the world that trapped them in another reality. Nearly a hundred years since a sibling feud ended the world for a second time. Now, the time has come for a great reckoning, one that will either save the world, or destroy it. On the banks of a great lake, tensions are brewing between the Orders, three groups of shapeshifters who settled there centuries before, as they combat demonic incursions, and caught in the middle are four young shapeshifters who have found them bound up in the strings of destiny itself after an investigation gone awry. With the Orders hiding secrets and protecting old wounds, and a massive army of demons just over the horizon, it falls upon these four to save everything they know from destruction.

Genre(s): Fantasy, adventure.

Detailed Description/Author’s Commentary: This is my oldest and most neglected WIP by far. It originated from a short story I wrote for my 9th grade English class (which I lost a long time ago, sadly). It was originally going to be some weird warrior cats fanfiction, but then I stopped writing fanfiction and a few years later I decided to resurrect this world for a small interactive event I did on Discord for Halloween.

Now, it’s just sitting here waiting for me to actually do something with it. Another interesting bit about this WIP is that is has absolutely no connection to any of my other stories, which are all interconnected. This is the only story of mine that has zero crossovers or recurring characters from other stories in it (because it predates my entire multiverse concept and all of those OCs). Overall, it’s a very weird little story that’s been around as long as I’ve been writing, and it has wildly different vibes from everything else.

Catalyst takes place on world of Emoria, which is a vast planet full of many strange and mysterious things. It is kind of a post-apocalypse world, in that it was created during the end of days when some demons decided to crash some planets together and make themselves a world. What they didn’t count on was their tormented creations turning on them and sealing them away. Our main story takes place among the Orders, groups of shapeshifters. There is the Order of the Blazing Leaf, the brash and bold, the Order of the Misted Lake, the balanced and calm, and the Order of the Crescent Moon, the secluded and wary. The Orders aren’t strict in their divisions, and oftentimes families will spread out among the Orders.

The main story follows Valeria and Cariad of the Order of the Blazing Leaf, Magnus of the Order of the Misted Lake, and Aislin, a half-demon shapeshifter from the Order of the Crescent Moon. They are an unlikely group of friends, and they often get into trouble. When Magnus discovers that the elders of his Order know what released the demons back onto Emoria, they decide to investigate, and they begin to uncover secrets, demonic dealings, and other terrible things going back at least a hundred years. Meanwhile, there is a demonic army marching towards them, and the friends realize that if they don’t act fast, it may be the end of the world as they know it.

Character Introductions

Main Catalyst Cast

[fantasiesandfolklore]

The Phoenix Queen — Relta Fun/Misc Facts [Part I of ?]

CW: Very mild lemons (more like a sour orange), death in childbirth mention, slavery mention, colonization mention, illegitimate children

Relta bleaches her hair at times to keep it clean, subsequently being a strawberry blonde at times.

Relta is a skilled combatant even without magic, knowing how to use a variety of sword/blade types — including foreign ones — and is knowledgeable about poisons and antidotes as well.

Relta makes her own perfumes in the little free time she has

At age 25 Relta became her father’s regent, which is uncommon in Lunaruz, but her father was becoming too bloodthirsty and The Council decided he needed to be reined in a bit. Thus Relta being Princess Regent of Lunaruz until her coronation at age 30.

Relta’s FCs are Charlotte Hope (up to 25 years old) and Rebecca Ferguson (25+)

Relta’s voice claim is Susan Egan (Meg from Disney’s Hercules [1997] / The first Belle from BATB on Broadway), including her singing voice

Relta is a polyglot, including local dialects and allies’ languages

Relta has a special, secret chamber attached to her bedroom and meeting room for “special guests” (aka her lovers). She has a variety of “fun” things in said chamber, and it is decorated beautifully.

Relta is a collector of antique/ancient books, tomes, and scrolls.

Relta has a professional dog handler that helps her train her wolf-dog.

Relta also has a cat, as of age 16, that is her familiar.

Doves, dolphins, sparrows, swans, hares, geese, bees, fish, and butterflies are all fond of the Queen as well due to her being connected to Lady Aphrodite.

Relta loves sailing, and is excited when she gets to go on overseas diplomatic missions. She is an excellent passenger, along with also knowing basics of sailing a large ship.

Relta named the first ship built for the Navy after her great-grandmother, calling it the Charlotte de Lunaruz. It was used for the entirety of Relta’s reign, retiring only when she did.

Relta stepped down from the throne five years late, as she knew there was unrest regarding her heir also being a woman.

Relta identifies as, in modern terms, bisexual and demiromantic/biromantic. She suppresses her romantic side though.

Relta adores children and is the godmother to many of her allies’ and friends’ children. She spoils all of them, but not spoiling them rotten of course.

Relta sets up the first steps toward becoming a democracy in the end of her reign, knowing her heir would continue the work and end the monarchy’s reign at their resignation.

Relta kept diaries since she was able to write proper letters, developing a cipher for them so no one would know the political notes she took. Only her father and Lady Aislin (half-sister) know how to decipher the diaries.

Relta makes jewelry out of any gifts from friends, such as crystals or flowers.

Relta’s favorite flower is the Lunaruzian White Lavender, which only grows in Lunaruz and is an albino mutation of lavender. It is in most of her self made perfumes, and there is always a bouquet of it in her room.

After using magic on a large scale (such as in combat), Relta gets migraines, and hides out in her chambers for about three days each time

The “color” of Relta’s magic, and thus the weapons she materializes, is crimson.

Relta’s personal coat of arms, not the family’s or Lunaruz’s, include a crest with pomegranates and Lunaruzian White Lavender, with a dove on one side holding an olive branch and a phoenix on the other side. It is embroidered somewhere on all her clothing.

Relta is a skilled archer and fencer, finding the hobbies in her teens after she read all the books of interest that she was allowed access to as a youth.

Literacy rates in Lunaruz went to 100% under Relta’s reign within the first ten years.

Relta’s favorite fruits are oranges and pomegranates, both of which grow in various areas of Lunaruz. She uses them for her rituals rather often as well.

Relta can communicate with spirits and deities due to her small amount of divine blood — the same blood that gives her such powerful magic. She mainly focuses on her patroness (Aphrodite Areia) and patron (Thoth).

Relta took a pilgrimage to the Mediterranean's equivalent in this verse to see what would for us be Greece, along with seeing what would be Egypt.

Relta’s love languages are primarily quality time and gift giving.

Relta has a small scar on her right palm from a ritual done in her youth when she was declared to the public as Aphrodite Areia incarnated. It never healed properly due to the properties of the blade used — it being of one of the few substances able to hurt or kill Relta and her relatives.

Relta raises her bastard niece in court, declaring the girl her ward but never explaining why to anyone except some of her more trusted lovers. She instead just says she wanted to give back to the people of Lunaruz, and this “orphan girl” was her first step. She began raising Eleanor beginning when Eleanor was age 5, first having the young child be raised by her grandmother for safety.

Eleanor and Relta adore each other, Eleanor knowing the secret as she sees how much she looks like Relta and King Ares. She initially thought she was a secret child of Relta’s until she learned about the king’s second daughter who died in childbirth.

Relta is why Lunaruz was kept out of the Crusades (yes, they still happened…), insisting upon religious freedom. The Pope nearly cut ties with Lunaruz over this, until Relta explained in her kingdom, laws for freedom of religion were specifically made for monotheists like Catholics and had to bite his tongue.

Relta’s youngest sibling, Lady Madeline, was essentially Relta’s daughter due to Lady Madeline’s own mother having no interest in giving King Ares more female offspring, and trying for a son until she died. Lady Madeline is Lady Eleanor’s mother, which is part of why Relta is so fond of Eleanor. Lady Madeline may have died in childbirth, but Relta was at her side when she delivered Eleanor despite the king forbidding it.

Relta’s birthday, based on our calendar system, is June 21st 1485 (sub-verse dependent). [I will expand on this in another post]

Relta’s childhood friend was, for a time, her world/universe’s version of Catherine of Aragon. She warned Catherine about Henry, for Henry had hit on Aislin himself much to Relta’s disgust at the time despite the two being closer in age compared to Henry and CoA.

Relta is anti-colonialism and anti-slavery. She enacts many laws protecting Lunaruz from these issues. It is also why Lunaruz never became an “empire”, as it had no colonies.

Relta loathes war, yet under her reign the military was the strongest it’d ever been in Lunaruzian history — especially the Navy.

A ship was named after Relta, called The Phoenix, and bears Relta’s personal crest on its flag.

If she were to take a modern DNA ancestry test, most of Relta’s results would line up with our world/universe’s: Greece, Scotland, Rus (Russia), and Spain.

Relta loathes her step-parents, despite Lord Heron’s attempts to win her over as he truly loved her mother for more than just a spiteful affair.

Relta is 10 years Aislin’s senior, and 12 years Madeline’s senior. She took on an extra protective role over them because of this and despite hating their parents.