#anyway sweet summer child the fever is called love

[fangsandsoftgrass]

Day 18 Pining./Violent.

This is gonna b short as well as LATE sorry 😭

De nile is a river in Egypt Fenn I'm talking to YOU 🫵

Some sickness had taken hold of him. Some fever, be it the cold, the thin air, it had to be something. At least, that's what Fennorian told himself as he sat watching the sun rise over the mountains east of Old Mjolen's hut. It seemed that every waking moment, he felt some kind of fever take hold, and every thought, every traceable symptom, eventually led back to her. It had to be that he'd been plagued by some magic illness atop Kilkreath when he'd followed her; it only made sense. From the moment she charged over that hill on a bear, he'd been so desperately curious about her. There was something so distinctly other about her that Fennorian just couldn't place, and it only made him want to know her more. He'd seen her run into that storm like it was just another downpour, and she'd come out of it like just another day. He had been in the region for nearly a fortnight before the storm—he'd never been close enough to one before—but until they'd met, Fennorian felt as healthy as he could, given his situation. But whenever she was near his heart raced, his stomach felt weak, and he thought he might drop right then and there. There was no explanation, and it frustrated him. Was he scared? She was most certainly a terrifying sight to behold in battle, but there were moments in which they spoke, and no sunrise could compare to the way she looked at him. The feeling of having such attention was...exhilarating.

Then there was a sound—footsteps, muffled by the dry grass—and Fennorian startled from his fervid scribbling. A Lynx stalked across the slight stretch of land behind him toward a rabbit, and he couldn't help but liken the sight to the way she stalked that assassin through Blackreach. The Lynx pounced, and he turned his head before blood spilled, forcing his attention back in front of him. Her countenance covered every inch of the paper, and from the other side, Fenn could see the notes he'd taken on the Dusktown storm the days prior. He'd need to buy a new journal whenever he found time since his last page was now filled with the freckles of a near-complete stranger. Was she covered in them? The freckles? Did the scars above her brow have more like them beneath the furs?

The sun was just peaking over the horizon now, and there was a moment where he was certain he saw her eyes in the orange light bathing everything beneath. Were his palms sweating? For a moment he felt embarrassed, but he turned to reach for his pack regardless. He had to get these visions from his mind, and he had to get this fever out.

"We have much to go over, Fenn. Come." She gave a final glance into the distance behind her before turning into her dwelling and disappearing from view, a strange amusement on her face. Whatever it was, he was glad to have a distraction before his stomach could start churning again.

"What are you doing, Fennorian?" He was talking to himself now. Had he really been so sick? Still, his mind wandered to Cirwedh. That's what she'd called herself. It felt like his tongue was meant to say it—made to say it. The sun had now passed the trees and was nearly above him, chasing the last colors of dawn to the west, signaling to Fennorian that he had spent far too long indulging this plague of the mind he was seemingly afflicted with. Just in time, it seemed, for Old Mjolen to finally rouse, stepping out onto the steps of her hut and searching the marsh. For what, he couldn't say, but she seemed to find it and shook her head.

Was she grinning?

Regardless, she soon turned her gaze towards Fennorian, and when their eyes met she waved him over with her staff before calling to him above the sound of the now wide-awake crows overhead.

If this was a sickness taking hold, he might find a remedy with the Wise Woman. At the sound of his name again, he stood and gathered his things, taking a moment to shove his journal into the furthest corner of his pack before heading back to the small wooden shack. In the distance, a pack of wolves howled, sending shivers down his spine, and something told him to hurry inside. It was a long day ahead, and Fennorian needed answers.

[thelindenpapers]

Excerpt from a horror short story/novella I keep toying with, called "The Mountain".

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

When we measure all the things that went into making your being on this world, you can know very well that how you have been shaped and how you have been made to live is not your fault.

Yet, it is embarrassing.

And any assignation of fault, whether yours or others, never changes the effects of you on those around you.

You want to go. So badly. You just want to go.

Still, you know.

It is not your intention to die on the Mountain. You must reach that one particular spot.

…And you are hungry. Energy flagging, movements slowing, having run all day.

In your search for food, your sense of smell discovers even more hunger.

In a battered tent lit by a dim electric lantern, you find a dirty child: bruised, sleeping, and smelling of weakness.

Well...

Now, whatever you find, you will share.

You force as much quickness as you can from your limbs, looking for sustenance.

You try to at least seek it out where the faces will be fresh and full-fleshed: the insides of the houses decorated, comfortable, and quiet.

To take from those who can spare.

It isn’t too hard to find.

The proverbial pie on the window-sill stands literal: steaming in the cool night breeze; smelling profusely of nuts, berries, butter, spices, and honey.

You are nothing, and have nothing to offer, but you try anyway.

On the sill, you place a woven round of grass, feathers, and seed beads about the size of your palm, with a pretty seashell at center… handmade last Summer, which was the last time you saw The Sea.

You quietly chant at the corners and seams of the house: wishing it well and whole and loved – though, you are no witch, and understand that wishes do nothing, and that bothers you and makes you feel silly for even bothering....

…But you do not matter. The child, to which you return, does.

You put a nearby cloth over her mouth, and wake the child.

“Shhhhh.”, Your finger over your bizarre lips.

She is frightened, but nods.

You step back, and break the pie in half, pushing one half towards her.

“This was stolen.”, you tell her quietly. “After you eat it, you must leave. Or else they will think you did this.”

…She thinks you a fever dream.

But she eats with desperation as you quickly leave; and you know that, once she has gained strength from this food, lucidity will find her, and she will know you were real.

She will move onwards, for sure. To a new life, you hope. A safe one.

But you choose a path through the dark, and make messy tracks along it: heading well away from her, in the direction of nothing; hoping that it will help divert any searches away from her…

You push yourself until you find a deep little nook within the rocks where you can dine.

...The eating is sweet.

Still oven-warm, the golden-browned textures are flaky and crunchy and juicy and soft.

The ingredients so fresh that your senses taste the grains in the pie crust, the rain and the minerals of this mountain in the berries, the flowers of the mountain in the honey, the woody resin of the trees of this mountain in the nuts, the grass of the mountain in the milk in the butter….

The sweetness of the honey and raw sugars perfectly balanced by some subtle undercurrent of savory herb you never knew, and the acidity of lemon and citrus juices.

A king could not have demanded a better feast.

The hot meal awakens your thirst.

You remember the cream in the jug on the counter just beyond the sill, next to a cooled pitcher of fresh-brewed tea, but are embarrassed at the idea of going back to take from either without absolute necessity.

You instead follow your senses, and quench your thirst in a nearby fresh-water stream; stopping to watch it flow, and to clean your hands and nails, and to splash the clear mountain water over your face and neck…

Walking a little further, you find a little corner to rest in: a clearing, a ledge, on a level apart from and above the mountain pathways.

You sit, and lean your back against a large, aged walnut tree…

As you rest, you sing.

It isn't a lovely voice.

It's a lot like the places on the mountain where the humans do not go.

There is only the vaguest sense of time, though the rhythm is sure as it waxes and wanes; chaotic with shifting bright and shadow.

Vibrant where it is abundant. Hopeless where it droughts.

Something in it is keening: but because you are the one singing it -- you who are not human, and yet, who do not belong wholly to nature -- the keening is not wild nor freed enough to make it Live.

Your loneliness and frustration give it a sadness that nature does not know, and half-ruins the sounds…

It is a song not meant to be heard, so you don't care.

Pouring yourself heedlessly into it, knowing well that these are some of the last sounds you will make.

…Yet, ears find it.

The ears, set beneath smooth waves of curled dark-brown hair, belong to the full house to which they were walking home: carrying tired hands that smell of fire and coal and clay.

The sound of his approach makes you to stop immediately.

You get to your feet, and crane your neck to see, cautiously observing his search…comfortable that you are adequately hidden in the night….

But, in fact, you remain curious too long, forgetting both who you are and your aim and your need to stay unseen -- so, when he finds the vague pathway up towards the sounds he heard, you are taken completely aback, and panic.

The chipped off facing of stone from which this ledge split long ago is ten feet taller than the twenty that you can jump: too sheer and smooth to climb.

You try and force your way through brambles on the other side of the ledge, thinking to jump down…but further in, the tangles and the thorns make a wall far too dense to pass.

With a quiet curse, you scramble back out: your rough, sparsely-furred hide covered in welts, scratches, and cuts.

You could climb the huge nearby tree, but there are no leaves to conceal you: its branches gone early to Autumn's sleep.

…You can see him clearly now, but he has not yet rounded the turn past the boulders leading up, that he can see you.

"Hello? Anyone there?", he calls, searching the shadows in an already dark night.

"Hello!", you manage in your best phone voice, making one last attempt to avoid an encounter, "I am just here resting for a moment. I am fine, only a woman traveling. It's okay. I am leaving now, so you should go."

The click of his phone light is almost comical.

Like a spotlight turned on a housemate who has snuck downstairs for 4am ice cream…

He is utterly frozen.

…

You stand there awkwardly.

It occurs to you to try to assume a casual posture that you saw in a magazine once, but you're pretty sure you don't nail it.

Your large dark eyes might soothe, were one of them not ringed and threaded through by wires.

"What. The. Fuck!!"

"I mean no harm.", you raise your arms with huge open hands straight above you. You tilt your head – forgetting that it adds to your strangeness, rather than softens it, as it might in another human being.

“What the fuck are you!!!?”

…

The temper climbs in your throat.

You are so so tired of this reaction…but…with quick, cold calculation of who he is, who you are, what this world is, what he is used to…

Can you blame him?

You are not normal.

So, as usual, you carefully catch the tail of your temper, yanking it back like an aggressive pet dog in front of new neighbors: with a sheepish smile.

You blurt out something meant to be funny, attempting to allay his concerns; adding, “It would take a while to explain, but if you really want to know—”,

As usual, nothing you can say helps.

Stumbling backwards in fear, his feet tangling in the brush, he falls, head landing on stone.

…You kind of want to cry.

But, with sharp self-reminstration, you force yourself back to task.

You know, from experience, that no help comes, when you cry.

You must manage this yourself.

Blinking your eyes clear, with cold calculation, you take a deep breath and try to focus on the man's current status:

Alive? Or dead?

And to what degree?…

You carefully crouch over him, leaning slightly forward; watching carefully, sifting the air with your nostrils, ears twitching and listening closely.

He's breathing.

Unconscious; and, you note with relief, that the wound looks not too bad.

Thus reassured, your eyes cannot help but gaze: sliding along their freckled skin, as it clings comfortably and sure to their human hands, their human arms, their human neck.

Such luxury.

Just for a moment, you dream.

Your hand reaches out, towards theirs, so slowly.

Delicate and careful as you can.

Yet, the closer you get, the more heat pulses in your veins, your arteries, your capillaries, emitting that yellow-orange glow: beginning to smoke even before the touch.

You bite your lip, like a prayer. Desperate to ignore your realities.

But even passed out, their skin twitches, sensing the danger of fire.

A small, strangled sound escapes your throat: the horrific, intrusive thought of their hand blistering and burning beneath yours makes you STOP…

…You know better.

Yanking back your hand, you stretch smoothly from your crouch, standing straight, staring down, face a mask. A switch flipped.

…You can't even touch him to help him.

You settle for what you can do.

You pile leaves upon him, to insulate him from the gathering autumn mist and cold; and lope back to the house where the pie-maker's voice is raised, seeking.

You bang on the side of the house, rattle the nearby shed, and run before they can see -- but not quick enough that they can't glimpse the movement of branches in your wake, and note the direction in which you sprint -- towards the fallen one, with their fallen phone light still shining -- and so the woman grabs her garden rake and follows.

From a tree beyond the path, thick with stubborn red leaves, you watch the matron find and attend to their younger cousin.

…You watch knowing that they will be helped, and that that is good.

Watching, with a warm feeling, the tender care that the matron provides...

Understanding, also, that these humans will always help in ways that you cannot.

Because, to do that, you have to have hands that do not burn.

And you have to know how to help.

To know what it is to be human.

And you know that you don't know…

This is the third knowing that you won't need anymore; and the letting go of it lightens you so much, you suddenly feel you might float into the sky.

And you want to…

But this isn't the place to float away.

You don't intend to die on the Mountain.

You MUST reach the top.

run.exe

[hansolmates]

hoshi; vowels and veracity (m)

summary: after a blind date that makes you feel like a giddy teenager all over again, you’re forced to grow up and take a chance when you realize that special someone is your daughter’s kindergarten teacher. pairing: teacher!soonyoung x single mother!reader genre/warnings: fluffity fluff nuggets, humor, a lil bit of angst when yn panics, *steve rogers voice* language! alcohol, unprotected sex (wrap the pickle before u tickle), face sitting w/c: 5.2k a/n: i really have nothing to say about this but i’ve been thinking about going back to school all week so this manifested. enjoy a lil sexy but sweet hosh💕 

“Y-you,” another giggle and the press of wet lips to the sensitive spot of your neck, “stop, Soonyoung! I’m ticklish there!” 

You feel a pout imprint itself in the sweet spot between your ear and your jaw, and you sigh at the rumble of his lips against your skin, “But you taste so sweet, baby,” he croons, and you’re practically melting between the door with how much Soonyoung has pressed himself against you, all of himself. 

“What if I don’t wanna stop, pretty girl?” he husks against your soft skin, whispering things in your ear that aren’t for the faint of heart. In your haste to keep a firm grip, one hand goes to his clothes and the other nips at the undercut of his midnight black hair, “what if I just open the door right now and we slip right in, and then I slip right in you?” 

Your breath hitches and suddenly your core feels like a timebomb, ready to combust. 

Go on a date, Joshua says. He’s a sweet guy, Joshua says. He’s a friend of Joshua’s, so you know going into this blind date that at the very least, he wasn’t a serial killer. But what Joshua failed to tell you going into this was how much Kwon Soonyoung packed and how much of a temptor in disguise he is. 

“I really would love to invite you in,” it looks like it pains Soonyoung to admit this, as he presses his forehead to yours and the edge of his fingers dig into your crushed emerald velvet number, “but tomorrow’s the first day of work and I am not emotionally prepared. But, I do want to see you again. I had a great time.” 

The previous mood melting into the night sky, you reluctantly let go of the lapels of his tweed blazer. Unable to suppress your crestfallen smile you nod, “That’s fine,” you reply, inching away from him to send him a pointed look, “I wouldn’t have gone inside anyway. I don’t put out on the first date,” you cross your arms in an attempt to feign nonchalance.  

Which isn’t a lie, although if Soonyoung had asked you two minutes ago to come inside for a cup of tea, you wouldn’t have argued. He is just that tempting. Said date raises an eyebrow in response, tucking a strand of loose hair behind your ear at the defiance in your eyes. “Oh?” he echoes, “then what date do you put out?” 

“Date seven.” 

“Lucky seven,” he grins, “so if we go on a date every day this week by Friday we should be good to go. How do you feel about steak?” 

You slap his shoulder in his response, and the giggle that erupts from his lips in response has you feeling dizzy and giddy with excitement. Soonyoung has you feeling like a college freshman all over again, floating like Cloud 9 and drunk in anticipation. You peck one, two more kisses on his lips. He tastes like the peach champagne you shared and his own scent as he pulls you in for a much longer, much hotter kiss. 

“Good luck on your first day,” you mumble against his lips, vaguely remembering that he’s a teacher in a school nearby. 

“Mm, text me when you get home,” and with a final kiss to your forehead he unlocks his door, leaving you warm and full of heart-eyes on his front porch. 

The walk home, more like float home, has you feeling all parts exhausted and hopeful for the days to come. For the first time in a long time you feel young and unbridled, thrumming with excitement. Now you’re just playing with your phone, waiting to exchange goodnight texts. 

“Nari’s asleep,” when you walk into your shared apartment, you spot a sleepy Seungkwan on his laptop and sprawled across your couch. “How was it?” 

“It was reealllly nice,” you’re still a little wine tipsy, drunk on the taste of Merlot and a certain someone’s kisses, “he was really sweet, and surprisingly sexy.” 

“Did you get dicked down?” Seungkwan asks only the most important questions. 

You scoff, flopping down on the couch next to him, “As if, we have work in the morning.” 

“Speaking of work, are you sure you’re not able to drop off Nari to school tomorrow? It’s her first day of kindergarten.” 

“I can’t,” saying it feels absolutely awful, but a single mother has to work extra hard to keep her and her daughter happy. 

“It’s fine,” Seungkwan easily waves you off and runs a hand through his fluffy auburn hair, “her favorite Uncle is there, anyway.” 

“Hey,” you lightly punch his arm, “I’ve already talked Nari through it. I’m cooking a big breakfast tomorrow—chocolate chip pancakes, duh, and taking a million pictures before we have to part ways. I packed a little Kit-Kat for her lunch with a sweet note. When I come back in time for dinner I promised her pizza from her favorite parlor and she can tell me everything about her day.” 

“So, you’re bribing her with food.” 

“Sue me, it’s every parent’s weak spot.” 

Seungkwan stretches his arms, cradling you between his chest. You sigh into his clean linen scent, feeling sleepy. “Yeah, I’ve bribed her with my Switch once or twice,” he admits softly, eyes also drooping, “but you’re a great mother regardless. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything tomorrow.” 

“Thanks, Kwannie,” you sigh, feeling more at ease. 

Nari is the light of you and Seungkwan’s life. Five years ago, you promised yourself that if you were more than financially stable and still sick with baby fever, you would adopt. You didn’t want to find a romantic partner for the sole purpose of having a child, you could easily do that on your own. And that you did, you researched and visited foster homes off in the countryside. 

In a little town off the coast of the shore was where you met Nari, only six months old and full with cherub cheeks and eyes that sparkled like the moon and stars. You fell in love with her instantly. Fast forward five years later and she’s the reason you wake up every morning and work hard every day. Seungkwan being your best friend, also wanted rights as the godfather and therefore is also part of your perfect family picture. 

You and Seungkwan sleep warmly tonight, both excited to share yet another year of Nari’s milestones. 

“And then Mr. Kwon said I was an ‘ace’ with my vowels!” Nari has a string of cheese hanging from her chin, and you don’t bat an eye as you reach to pat it away with a napkin. 

“I wouldn’t expect any less, baby,” you coo, carding a hand through her hair so her bangs don’t get caught in her meal, “remember when mommy and Uncle Kwannie taught you the vowels this summer? We sang that song.” 

“Yes! I sang the same song and showed everyone how ‘ta do it,” your heart is swelling with pride, and you fight the urge to tear up because Seungkwan’s already showing signs of waterworks from his side of the table, “I read a book Mr. Kwon gave me today and he said he’s so impressed I read at a Level B.” 

You quirk your brows at the new jargon. You certainly don’t know what it means to be a Level B, but it makes Nari happy and that’s all that matters. Wiping the orange grease off her lips, you muse that you must get in contact with her teacher one of these days.

“What’s a Level B?” Seungkwan similarly looks stumped at the new vocabulary. 

“I don’t know!” Nari shrugs, but nevertheless her teacher’s attention has her glowing. 

You giggle, “I’m so happy for you, baby.” 

“I’m excited to go back tomorrow, I made a new friend! His name is Jeonghan and he helped me with my numbers today. He called my bows cute.” 

“Cute?” Seungkwan perks up from his stupor, “of course you’re cute, Nari. So cute that you’re too good for this Jeonghwan boy.” 

“Jeonghan, Uncle Kwannie,” she pouts when Seungkwan scoffs, in favor of shoving half a slice in his mouth. She turns to you, tugging on your blazer, “Mama, can I go watch TV now? I finished my homework and I wanna see the new Ladybug and Cat Noir!” 

“Of course,” you pull away her plate, gesturing for her to go to the living room. 

“Thank you mama,” and she’s bouncing off her seat, pushing her chair in and off to watch Miraculous Ladybug. 

You sigh, “They grow up so fast.” 

Seungkwan’s eyes widen at your age-old phrase, the words reminding him oddly of his parents when they used to talk down to him. “And here we are, aging twice as fast,” Seungkwan bemoans, already starting to feel the greasy food settle in his stomach. “We used to eat a whole pie! We could eat absolute garbage back in college and here I am weak at two slices—oh my god, am I having a ‘back in my day’ moment? We need to go out. I need to go out. I’ve been practicing consonants and vowels all day. I need a boyfriend,” he playfully narrows his eyes at you, “I need a boyfriend like yours, sweet and sexy.” 

“Sorry,” you stick out your tongue, “but he’s mine.” 

Perfect timing, Soonyoung’s name pops up on your phone. You two have been texting sporadically throughout the day, making plans for your next date. The two of you are going to watch a drive-in movie, a situation that screams teenage-back-of-the-truck-sex but the movie is a much anticipated favorite of yours and you genuinely want to watch it. 

Soonyoung is full of humor and laughs, getting you to smile and relax at the right times during work and always manages to keep you on your toes whenever he says something flirtatious. 

“Are you gonna introduce him to Nari?” 

You stop typing, and look up towards your beautiful little girl in the living room. Her hair is out of her pigtails, drooping tiredly like she is. Her cheek is pressed against her favorite plush cat, fighting for consciousness because she’s waiting for Marinette to save the day. Your heart swells with affection. 

“Dunno,” you shrug, trying not to think too hard about it, “we’re not that serious right now.” 

You’re absolutely winded. You finished work early today, due to the fact that came in early so you could clock out and pick Nari up from school. Despite the fact that Nari says it’s okay for you not to pick her up, you can’t allow it and you want to be the one who she runs into when she comes out the door. 

“Who do you think she’s gonna hug first?” Seungkwan’s elbowing you, baiting you. “Because this morning she gave me a hug and three kisses before I dropped her off.” 

“Three?” you seethe in annoyance, “three kisses is our thing! Two on the cheek and one on the forehead!” 

The two of you slowly steep together, waiting for the colorful blue door to the kindergarten area to file out. The heel of your shoes are digging into the grass, probably making a needle-like  indentation in the dirt as you struggle not to seep into the lawn. You feel like you’re going to flop on your heels, wishing you could go run back into the car and find your flip-flops from last month’s beach trip. But before you could debate on the run the bell rings, and you’re on livewire when you see the students start to file out. 

Your smile grows ten-fold when you see Nari’s jaw drop in surprise, seeing you waiting for her. She fists whatever is in her hands in surprise, breaking into the cutest smile as she screams, “mama!” 

And you’re ready to hold your arms out and throw her around in circles, until you see who follows right behind her. 

Kwon Soonyoung is Nari’s kindergarten teacher. Kwon Soonyoung with his hair down and untextured, wearing a mint polo and looking nothing like the date you had the other night. He looks absolutely soft and so, you are weak. 

Kwon Soonyoung, the sexy deviant who sends you questionable texts and sends you funny puppy videos, is staring right at you and utterly confused when Nari rams straight into your hip. 

Momentarily distracted, you pepper your pretty daughter in kisses (all three of them, two cheeks and one forehead) and tell her how much you’ve missed her. Clearly she doesn’t miss you as much, as she’s waving around a picture she drew during playtime, one of her and Jeonghan in the sandbox. 

“Really, Nari,” Seungkwan mutters under his breath, shamelessly vocalizing his opinion on a five-year old, “can’t you choose a different friend?” 

“Seungkwan!” you chide, but he pointedly annoys you when Nari finally enters Seungkwan’s embrace. He takes extra time to cuddle her, obviously jealous that another boy has taken refuge in your little Nari’s heart. 

The moment is so sweet and simple you have no choice but to revel in it and take out your phone to snap a photo. 

“Mama!” she pops her head off of Seungkwan’s shoulder, “come meet Mr. Kwon!”

And she’s tugging your hand, only you’re much stronger and you stay firmly planted on the grass. Heck, you even sacrifice your shoes by digging your heels in for extra measure.Your eyes widen in panic, but Nari doesn’t notice because she’s paving a path of dirt with her lime green light-up sneakers, trying to get you to move. You nearly forgot your latest tryst is your daughter’s teacher, and you never told him you have a kid. 

But within seconds, there’s an audible slam and the three of you are shattered from your bubble. Turning to the noise the heavy navy door is now locked shut, all the students dismissed for the day. The crowd is gone. Soonyoung is gone. 

Seungkwan’s eyes dart between the closed door and you, the pieces clicking. His mouth forms a little ‘o’ and he nods in understanding. “He thinks I’m your baby daddy.” 

The two of you point out each other like the Spiderman meme. “He thinks you’re my baby daddy,” you echo, horror marrying your face. 

“Mama? What’s a baby daddy?” 

“Shh, Nari—” he picks up Nari in one swoop, mouthing a go to you as he leads her to the car. 

All alone on the grass, you panic as you watch your family grow smaller and smaller as they enter the parking lot. Soonyoung’s just behind that door, right? Looking left and right to assure no one is going to think you’re being that parent and harassing the teacher within the first week of school, you bound up the steps to knock on the door. Your knocks clang heavily, echoing against the building. 

Ten seconds pass. Nothing. 

You deflate, pulling out your phone to shoot Soonyoung a quick text. 

You: hey, can you come out for a bit so i can explain? Please

A minute passes. He leaves you on read. Defeated, you slump against the door. This day is really a whirlwind on your mental state. All you wanted today was some extra time off work, Nari’s three kisses, and maybe a goodnight text from Soonyoung if you were lucky. 

The door suddenly flips open, and you’re braced against someone’s hands. 

“Whoa, you okay?”

Your face crumples in relief when it’s Soonyoung that’s come out to respond to you. He’s bracing your weight by holding your arms between his hands, although keeping a respectable distance between the upper half of your bodies. It makes you a little upset, but you understand. Once you’re stable, he lets you go and leans away from you.

“Why are you waiting out here?” he asks pointedly, looking at you up and down. You seem terribly overdressed in your coral pinstripe suit, mismatching with Soonyoung’s apple sauce stains. 

“Why do you think I’m waiting out here?”

“And if I close the door again?” he retorts suddenly. 

“Then I’ll follow you home.” 

A beat passes, whatever expression he conveys on his face is practiced and primed. You have a terrible time trying to decipher his blankness. Working with kids probably does that to an adult. “Come in,” he says neutrally, and you wordlessly follow him into his classroom. 

The room is decorated beautifully, with rainbows and glitter. It’s also surprisingly organized, all the crayons in place and the play area free of stray toys. Your eyes instantly search for Nari’s desk, and a small smile fits on your face as you trace her handmade name tag. 

“Normally, I don’t let parents in my room until it’s Back to School Night,” Soonyoung says, leaning against his desk. It makes you terribly nervous, knowing the ball is in your court and he’s waiting for you to make a move. His carefree, easy going nature is nowhere to be found, and all you see is walls and a mean poker face. He pulls up the sleeves of his polo, exposing pale, strong arms. Your mouth waters a little (you can’t help it!) and you immediately reach for a bottle of water in your purse. “So, what is it you have to say?” 

“Seungkwan’s not my baby daddy,” you blurt, and you immediately blanch when Soonyoung’s eyes widen. “Wow uh. I didn’t mean to say it like that.” 

“But you did say it like that,” Soonyoung replies slowly, “no child just doesn’t give three kisses to someone who isn’t their father.” 

“I only called him my baby daddy because he said it first,” you grumble, almost childishly, “and Nari’s a baby, of course she’s going to give three kisses to anyone that feeds her and coddles her.” 

“It sounds like an excuse.” 

“It sounds like I’m freaking out because you keep talking back and forth like this!” you cry, slapping your hands against your thigh. You don’t have to look in a mirror to know that you’re quickly getting annoyed, your face morphing into a shade of embarrassment. You can’t tell if this is amusing him or this is a real interrogation. “Let me explain, Soonyoung!” 

He says your name slowly, deliberately. And then, “do you want to take a break in the Calm Down Corner?” 

“The—the what?” Soonyoung’s eyes flicker to a corner at the far end of the room. The radiator is decorated in a sky blue wallpaper, and there’s a yoga mat on the floor. There are chairs next to a desk filled with coloring pages, decorated with fairy lights. Filling three of the chairs are various stuffed animals, a tiger, a cat, and a panda, all dressed as doctors. It’s a child’s therapy corner. “You gotta be kidding me.” 

He raises a brow, and—is that a smile on his lips? “Then explain, why are you here?” 

“Because I think I really like you,” you confess, frustration melting away to reveal the uneasy upturn on your lips. You lied when Seungkwan asked if you would ever consider introducing Soonyoung to Nari. In a different world, you would’ve loved to take the time to take Nari to the museum and introduce Soonyoung there. They’d definitely bond over their love for tigers. “Seungkwan is my best friend, and helps me take care of Nari. I adopted her five years ago.” 

Something softens in Soonyoung’s eyes, and the air feels much more relaxed. But his dark brows remain knit together, and he looks at you with confused eyes. “Then if you like me so much, why didn’t you tell me you had a daughter?”

“Because kids can be deal breakers,” you admit, and the colorful classroom feels smaller as you hug yourself. “I just, wanted you to like me first.” 

It’s the primary reason why it’s taken you so long to date. Sure, there’d be a fling here and there, but nothing that feels as tangible as Soonyoung is. You’re not old enough to find a partner that wouldn’t blink at the sign of children, yet you’re still at that weird age threshold where a partner could immediately run for the hills at the mention of one. Nothing will top Nari, she’s number one in your heart, but the small selfish part wanted you to put the focus on yourself for just one night. 

“You don’t have to hide, I want every part of your life no matter how long we have,” he assures you gently, firmly without an ounce of regret. Soonyoung opens his arms, and you cry in relief when you get to collapse in the scent of his cologne. You tuck your head in the crook of his neck, slightly sweaty from whatever activities he needs to do with the kids, but you don’t mind. His voice is quiet, melting in your ears, “and I really like you too. I really like Nari as well, she’s a great kid.” 

“She is, isn’t she?” 

You two pull away, and he swipes a thumb under your eyes in case some tears manage to escape. “So, Friday? Movie?” 

“It’s a date.” 

“Where’s Nari?” the question is huffed against your breath as you’re pressed between your freshly washed bedspread and Soonyoung’s body. He takes care in making sure the zipper of your delicate dress doesn’t get caught in the rush, easily slipping your dress off and throwing it on your desk chair. 

“At Seungkwan’s, why?” 

His cheshire cat eyes glow under the moonlight, positively devious. “It’s date seven,” he announces sweetly. His gaze betrays his saccarine reply, a look that only tells you that Soonyoung plans to fuck you five ways to Sunday, and you’ll gladly let him. 

You sit up on your elbows, enjoying the show as Soonyoung quickly sheds his clothing. It’s ungraceful, exciting. Tonight was a simple carnival date, easily making you feel like a giddy college student all over again. Soonyoung won you five Pokemon keychains today, you could put a whole party on your hand. 

“It’s actually date six,” you tease, tilting your head as his pants finally come off, revealing black boxer briefs that snug deliciously around the waist. 

“Oh, okay,” he looks at you like you’ve spoken God’s word, reaching to pick up his shirt, “so you don’t want my dick fucking you raw tonight? Okay, I see how it is,” he pretends to put on his clothing, jabbing a thumb out the door. 

You have the audacity to giggle, pulling him over by the waistband, “Come here so I can make an exception.”

You don’t know what it is that makes you want you want to give everything to this man. Heck, five years ago you didn’t even want a man as an excuse to have kids. But as he nudges you in all the right places and places you on top of him, you know this man will treat you like an absolute treasure. Every kiss is laced with smiles and sweetness, filled with vigor and vivacity that fills you up and leaves you afloat. 

He takes care of you first, unwilling to let you budge as he places your core over his face. He makes quick, but effective use of his tongue and fingers, making sure you’re nice and sensitive for his future plans. You’re practically throbbing with pleasure, vibrating from every cell of your body. Within minutes he’s glistening in your arousal, and he pulls you down so you’re lined up with his crotch. It’s involuntary when you pulse against his member, your body shamefully alerting you that it’s desperate with need, and the remedy is right under you. 

Soonyoung looks more satisfied than you, eager to please you. Without warning, he stuffs two fingers in your mouth, “You pretty, pretty girl,” you are keen at the attention, your body is glowing a radiant rose. 

Your tongue rolls against his fingers, sticky and tasting of your arousal. Tilting your hips up you let Soonyoung pull his member out, lining it against your entrance. Feeling the soft tip brush against your delicate folds, you moan against his mouth. With a little ‘pop’ he releases you, lips shiny and parted. 

“I hope you don’t think I’m some kind of hit-it-n’quit-it kind of guy,” he noses the sensitive spot of your jawline, which distracts you momentarily when the plush tip nudges your folds, coaxing you to unite. “Because after tonight, I’m definitely keeping you. Forever.” 

The reply that dances on your tongue is overtaken by your whines when Soonyoung slips in fully, forcing your body to clench tightly against his. You take him, all of him. You feel wet and sticky and hot and swollen with affection as Soonyoung praises you for taking him so well. His pace is firm and passionate, short nails digging deliciously into your hips for leverage as he makes sure to fill you to the brim. 

He’s right, tonight is far from being a means to an end. You feel like you can have nights like this the rest of your life. And when the both of you finish and you’re pulling the covers over one another, you finally manage to grasp the reply that was nearly forgotten. 

Pressing a kiss to his jaw you whisper, “I’m keeping you, too.” 

“So, how long can we keep this a secret for?”

“Ideally? Ten months. Realistically, I’d say Christmas.” 

“Why Christmas?” 

“Because I know you’re going to be dying to get Nari a Christmas present.” 

Soonyoung props his elbow on the pillow, looking at you petulantly. “I could say it’s a good behavior reward. She’s been racking up those gold stars during morning meetings, babe. She’s not even trying.” 

“That’s my girl,” you coo, rolling over to lean your head on his chest. Light has long flooded into your apartment, seeping through your curtains and reflecting on your white duvet. Soonyoung looks absolutely fluffy and well rested, and you can’t help but reach to pat down the ebony bird’s nest atop his head. 

The two of you lay like that for a little bit, playing with each other’s cold feet under the covers and relishing under the touch of bare skin to bare skin. You remind yourself that you need to take Joshua out to dinner one of these days, as he managed the inevitable and set you up with  an amazing partner. 

“Breakfast?” Soonyoung pops the question easily, “let’s get steak.”

“Steak isn’t eaten for breakfast.” 

“Then can I eat you for breakfast?” 

You snort, hiding under the covers while Soonyoung attempts to tickle you. The whole act in itself feels wholly innocent despite the fact that you’re both naked and smell like sweat and sex. Just as you feel Soonyoung’s head dip under the covers to meet you at your chest, the door swings open. 

“Mama!” 

The previously warm room feels like wickedly sharp ice, freezing you to your spot as you clutch the covers closer to your chest. “Baby!” you cry exasperatedly, flinching when she throws all her weight on you. She’s still in her ladybug pajamas from last night, hair falling out of her braid. 

She lifts her head from your breast to give you an adorable one-toothed grin. You try your best to maintain eye-contact, but Nari has impeccable vision. Her grin evolves into a full-on beam when she finds your bed partner.

“Mr. Kwon!” she’s squealing, clamoring over your lap. You do a double-take when you see Soonyoung sitting next to you, wearing a t-shirt. Where on earth did he get that?

Soonyoung’s eyes reduce to crescents at his (secretly) favorite student. “Good morning, Nari-ah. Had a fun time at your Uncle’s house?” 

“Nari,” you force your daughter down to stand on the hardwood, giving her a stern look, “give Mr. Kwon some space, it’s really early and it’s the weekend.” 

Knitting her brows together, she looks between the two of you, “But you two don’t have any space.” 

You wince at her perception, and nudge yourself away so you’re pressed against your nightstand. The oakwood corner digs painfully into your back. 

“We were haviång a very special parent meeting,” you fight the urge to cry when Soonyoung turns on his teacher's voice, sending your daughter a very convincing smile. You watch as your daughter’s eyes go wide, probably feeling very special that her teacher came all the way to her house to have a meeting. “You’ve been doing so well during the read-alouds that I had to tell your mama in person!” 

“I told you mama!” Nari juts out her chest, and you lean over to kiss the crown of her head. “But Mr. Kwon, why are you having it in mama’s room?” 

“Her room is the warmest!” he says like it’s the most obvious thing, his and Nari’s eyes widening simultaneously as he gestures to the open window. “The sun travels directly into your bedroom in the morning, and those rays send heat—”

“Mr. Kwon,” your voice is as steady as it can be, and  you frown when Soonyoung wiggles his brows. You already know he’s thinking of three separate ways you can use the term Mr. Kwon in private, but you’re not having any of that, “shouldn’t we uh, wrap up this… meeting?” 

“I wanna stay,” Nari glowers, obviously nosy as to what you two are talking about.

“I know baby. We just gotta finish up the meeting, okay? Can you—” you cut  yourself off when Seungkwan finally decides to make his appearance, eyes wide at commotion he’s created. He’s in matching pajamas, ridiculously red as he bends down to scoop up Nari. Absolutely sweating and as red as his clothes, his eyes dart between the two of you. You could care less that Seungkwan’s eyes have bags under their bags, and was probably too tired to catch her when she ran inside the house. No, Seungkwan doesn’t deserve the title of godfather anymore. 

“Nari! You can’t interrupt teacher meetings,” Seungkwan pretends to scold, and Nari turns her head so she can hide in her Uncle’s shoulder. 

Knowing that Nari can’t see a thing, you mouth a very explicit I will kill you to your best friend, and he immediately mouths an apology to the both of you as he ushers himself out the door. You wait ten seconds for your daughter to be out of ear shot, before dropping the blanket from your neck and throwing yourself against the pillows. 

But Soonyoung’s chuckling, pressing a litany of kisses all over your bare body in an attempt to comfort you. Instead of reveling in his lazy morning touch, you want to disappear between the sheets, never to be seen. What will the PTO moms say when they find out? How will you stop Nari from telling Jeonghan, and therefore Jeonghan telling the entire kindergarten population? Why isn’t Soonyoung freaking out about this? Instead, he favors to taste your body, in between kisses muttering something about it being kismet that Nari so happened to see right as you were discussing the secrecy of your relationship. Ten years from now, your daughter will be horrified when she realizes that no, teachers don’t normally give housecalls in your mother’s bed.

Your boyfriend pinches your thigh, regarding you with mirth in his eyes. 

“So, that means I can buy her a Christmas present now, right?” 

[cupsofsuga]

𝐔𝐋𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 ━  𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐎𝐊 *:·。.

{ ⚠️} WARNING - This is a yandere au, meaning the following may be triggering to some viewers.  I am not trying to discriminate the boys in any way, this is for entertainment purposes. Viewer discretion is advised!!!

{ 🗺} PROMPTS - X

{ 💐} REQUEST - ❝ May i ask an imagine for yandere hobi when his s/o asks him to teach her how to dance and the first time she got the whole choreography correctly she so happy she calls him the " best boyfriend ever " and shower him with kisses everywhere all happy and smiling. Well overall I just need fluffy and happy hobi 😔 ❞

{ ☕️} NOTE - thank you for requesting, tulip!

━━━ Hoseok’s giggles reverberate within the abandoned practice room, having just ended a call with a melting heart. Oh, your voice is so heavenly! Even through the tone of static, he still encounters the lilac-stained harmonies that sing along with the mourning doves and midsummer fruits. He’ll hold up his phone with a dewy eloquence as if he was a child settling a seashell to their ear and listening for the oddities of a mermaid’s melody. And the siren before him seems like they had just inhaled the galaxy and spat out the ash of stars and planets with every syllable of theirs.

There was only so much time before you, his wild iris, will accompany him in the haven of a moonlit evening where the brume of nightfall becomes misty and the golden stars rain tendrils of light. Hoseok will attain his hope, and for the umpteenth time, the violets of devotion will tangle themselves with the whorls of his heart. Once again, beneath the sweltering sweetness, bliss will cloud his lungs. At last, with you at his side, he’ll taste the paradisiacal rays of light as they tremble within your smile.

Without another honeysuckle thought, the door creaks and there you stand in all of your empyrean glory.

Bathing in the depths of your velvet voice was infatuating enough, but to see his love before him felt like a fever dream. His cheeks burn a flamingo-pink, his ears value in shades of summer roses, the race of his heartbeat could be heard from planets away. The trembling of his soul is shattered by your pure presence. The revelation was maddening but enchanting in the most luscious way imaginable. Blinded by obsession, overwhelmed by desire. Hoseok's throat closes in on the affection he so desperately longed to drown you in due to melting under that deadly smile of yours lacquered in honey. Oh, how he longed to drown in you...

Now, he analyzed your figure to try and pluck some form of mistake (mostly just for an excuse to touch you and guide you through a certain step), but it was marveling how thoroughly and utterly flawless you were. Like a ballerina, you twirled with Eden’s nymphs and serene stardust, echoing throughout the ballroom with an angel’s laughter in your eyes. He feels his breath get caught in his teeth; he feels his heartbeat tremble within his chest. You, under the beams of white light, are beautiful. Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.

There are no words to describe how addicting the fragrance of your soul is. There are no words to describe this aching within his ribs, this blooming of July tulips and shy poetry.

Oh, and your smile when you see Hoseok at loss for words! It must be some sort of dystopian honeymoon. It is an ocean breeze against the mysteries of the sea, it is solace blended in with sugary-sweet rose lemonade. There is no possibility of a human possessing so much perfection, but then again, you were never human, were you? You are a free-spirited necromancer who lives amongst the milky way, a superlunary leviathan who collects pearls and sings with the sirens. You are inhuman, but you are pure. You have ascended from the clouds, ate away at psychedelic manifestations, but you are eternal. You are unreal in the most astonishing way possible.

You thank him for the lesson with your glittering laughter after he so kindly canceled his after-school club for this (he’d much rather take another beating from the school bully than miss a chance at finding nirvana with you), eyes glistening with Aphrodite's touch. Your words of encouragement are like fresh honeydew, but then you begin to submerge him in your heavenly affections. And nothing, nothing could make him happier. To taste the sage and lavender on your lips, to feel your tender touch so close to him. He is in a lovesick gaze, with bluebirds and hearts flying over his head like in cartoons.

There is no limit to Hoseok’s captivation. No matter the effort, you always linger within his mind and turn his cheeks rosy-pink. Forever and always, he shall be yours. Forever and always, you shall be his, but it’s not like you have much of a choice, anyways.

[owillofthewisps]

gaze upon my bones

notes: are you ever just doing something and then you’re like ‘oh! a lightning strike to the brain!’ and you drop everything to do something else? that’s kinda what this was. which means idk about the quality but hey!

playin’ real fast and loose with gods and oracles in the witcher verse here because, well - i can.

title is from rafferty’s ‘mausoleum’

i tagged everyone in my ‘all witcher’ taglist but if renfri ain’t for you just skip it!

rating: hard teen? (warnings: canon-typical violence, major character death [canon compliant], brief mention of implied child death, brief references to sex, angst i guess?)

pairing: renfri/fem reader

word count: 3.5k

knowing fate does not save you from it.

People so rarely want the truth of fate.

You learn to read your patrons early, divine their desires from the lilt of their lips (pulled pink between their teeth, curved quiet around a secret, laugh lines carved around an unsmiling mouth) and the way their hands flutter like moths against the silk of your cushions.  In the beginning, they come to you relentlessly, mindlessly, a river destined to spill into your ocean, to mingle with the salt of you.  They pour into your endless reservoir and they never want the truth of it.  

It is a hard lesson to learn, to swallow down the truth, but you never forget the prick of the mother’s blade against the soft curve of your belly and the way her sobs burned bright against your ear.  When you were a child, pressing your ear against a seashell gave you the music of the ocean.  If you returned to the coast now, you think, the shell would echo with her wails instead. 

They do not want the truth, and so you no longer give it to them.

Instead, you carry their fates somewhere deep inside.  You have been to war a thousand times, all without even knowing how to swing a sword.  Have felt a man’s skull split beneath your blade, felt the pulse of it resonate up into your arm.  Cradled a child as they sweat out a fever, held them for hours after they went limp in your arms. The first time you’d orgasmed, it had paled in comparison to the one you’d lived through the woman with hair that cascaded like fire against her freckled shoulders.  The first time you’d loved, it hadn’t been as ardently as the man with night-sky eyes, a vast dark gaze full of the tenderness of the guiding stars.  

A trickster god, you said to your mother, years ago now.  Hundreds of other people’s not-yet lifetimes ago.  Of all the gods you could choose.  

She hadn’t known the trick would weigh heavy on you and not her, but that is the way of the gods.  

(In your seventeenth summer, you give yourself to a forest goddess, let her priestesses drape you with ivy and fiddleheads still tightly furled.  You trace a finger over the curved stem of the fiddlehead and turn your face towards the forest canopy, letting the dappled sunlight shimmer over your skin.  It feels like a blessing.

Not three evenings later, you dream.

There are teeth shining in the darkness, slick white against velvet night, each tooth sharp with something unearthly, a knife’s blade of divinity.  They smile terribly, and you know what it is to be small.  

Very well, the teeth rumble, dark amusement apparent in the rockslide click-clack of them.  I suppose you are owed a trick of your own. 

You wake with winter spiraling down your spine, the chill spreading cool across your skin despite summer’s heated kiss.  The gooseflesh prickles like little thorns, the sensation rolling over you like a shroud.

You do not know if it was just a dream, and you do not want to know.

If the trickster god has let go of you, he has not taken back your sight, the way lives unspool over little flickers of smoke with you a captive audience to their play, and that is the cruelest trick of all.)

There is inherent trickery in fate, you know, and most of your patrons’ fates are blurred at the edges, still intangible, still changeable.  

Not Renfri’s.

She comes to the temple, hidden deep in the shadows of the woods, and you are entranced.  

She is incandescent with youth, supple and wild.  She reminds you of a waning moon.  Aglow with vigor, the type of beauty that makes you want to raise your face to her and bathe in her light.  But at her edges, a shadow that consumes, that edges closer to the heart of her.  

She settles at the edge of the cushion across from you.  Her legs are long, lean things, slender but heavy with muscle, and something in you aches to touch.  

There is a small streak of dirt smeared across her graceful neck.  Your sisters had offered her a bath, hands twisting nervously in their sleeves, and she had laughed, a low, clear noise. 

“Some things we can’t be cleaned of,” she’d said.  “I would see the oracle first.”

And so she came to you.

She slings her arm over her knee.  In the sunlight, her eyes are the color of a newborn fawn, tawny brown and beautiful, but she has none of the fawn’s timidity. 

“I’d thought of oracles as old,” Renfri says.

You quirk a brow.  “Come back in several decades and I will be.”

Her pink lips lift at the corners with something sweetly sly. “I’d also thought them dull, so you’ve proved me wrong twice over.”

You hum something soft.  

Renfri considers you, and you can feel her trying to split you at the seams, to open you to her curiosities.    

“Do you truly know what is fated?” she asks softly, and for the briefest moment, she is delicate. Her leather armor, worn and nicked where blades have floated too close, seems too big on her.  

More than I wish, you think.  “Only time can answer that,” you say instead.  “Would you like to know?”

She nods, and there is the snarl of a feral thing tucked between her teeth.  The wild uncurls in her, that dark edge of the moon spreading across her, seeping like a shadow just beneath her skin. 

You contemplate the small scars scattered like stars across her knuckles, the fine delicacy of the scar tissue, and the hard peaks of her knuckles beneath.  “Think of what fate you want to know,” you say.  “You may speak it aloud, if that pleases you, but hold it in your mind.”

Most close their eyes to bring their uncertainty out of the depths of themselves.

Not Renfri.

She meets your gaze, her hard eyes framed by the soft sweep of her chestnut waves, and though her face is blank stone, you can sense the bared teeth.  She is all coiled snake, sleekly muscled and ready to strike. 

“Hold out your hand.”

Renfri extends her hand.  Her fingers are fine-boned, sleek and slender, but her calluses scrape against your skin as you turn her hand over.  Her scars are small hills, and you trace the pad of your thumb over the raised skin without thought.

You have only a moment to register the warmth of her skin against your questing fingertips, and then her fate sweeps you away.

And it is terrible.

Blood swallows you like a tide, drags you deeper into a wash of violence that makes you tremble.  Bellies burst and split open against the cruel drive of a spike; symphonies of cracking bones. The heavy thud of a sword pushing through a skull. The smell of copper and rot and death.  An empty space inside, a void hungry for control, for taking back what is yours. 

And then, for the briefest breath, for a lightning strike of a moment: your own lips, curling up into something fond. A touch so light it reminds of the sun, intangible but felt anyway.  The woody, pungent scent of thyme mellowed by soft, sweet clover, soap and skin perfumed by the temple’s lush cloverbeds. 

Then there is laughter, a comfort of familiar men’s low voices flashing by too quick for words.  Blood blossoms and fades and rage so deep it winds up your throat like vines until you are choking on the breadth of it and then - 

Snowy hair gone silver with grime.  A voice like a landslide.  Warmth and wonder, heat in the hallowed embrace of the woods. Two swords, silver and steel, and the bite of a blade at your throat.  Pain spreading like a disease.  A gaping maw of hunger never filled. 

Renfri’s death pulls you out of her fate.  You pick carefully at the threads of her still wound around the needle of your mind, tease them out before they can be woven into you.  It takes more concentration than usual.

The breath you take is deep and slow; it washes the copper stink of blood out from your nose.  “Do you want to know your fate?” you ask Renfri.

She considers you.  She has eyes like the forest, deep brown and full of life.  “No,” Renfri says.  “Not yet.”

Your hand is still on hers, but she does not move. 

You are the one who pulls back.

Later, once Renfri rejoins her men, Maya brings you a skein of water.  She hums quietly as you drink deeply. “What did you see?” she asks.  “It is not like you to be so shaken.”

You wipe the water from your lips.  “Me,” you say.  “I saw me.”

Maya cups your cheek.  Her dark eyes are soft.  They have the sorrow of the winter forest in them, bleakly quiet.  She runs her thumb across your cheekbone, her touch feather light.  “Knowing fate is a dangerous thing,” she murmurs.

You wrap your hand around her wrist, let your fingers play across the delicacy of her skin. She smiles, slow and sweet, and pulls away gently.  

Maya settles next to you, her skirt flaring like an opening bloom.  She rests her head against your shoulder and hums quietly.

The two of you stay like that for a long, long time.

-

Renfri returns a scant month later.  

She is wild with delight, all bared teeth and feral joy.  There is a cut healing on her collarbone; the edges of it going pink with the promise of a scar.  Her chestnut hair is mussed by the wind.  It wisps around her face like smoke.  

She is achingly beautiful.  

Maya must tell her where to go, for she finds you sprawled in the cloverbed behind the temple.  She hunkers down next to you in one fluid motion.  You blink up at her.

“Renfri?”

She smiles.  “Oracle. You remember me.”  

How could I not, you don’t say.  Instead, you tell her your name and say: “You don’t need to call me oracle now.”

You push to your elbows as Renfri plops down into the clovers with you.  She’s feline in her grace, stretches her lithe form in the sunlight, tilting her face up towards the light.  You think of her grace as she prowls around the broad man in the market square. 

“Would you like to know your fate?” you ask.  It feels an odd thing, to ask it here, in the warmth of the sun with the clovers brushing against your skin, the sweet scent of them catching in the breeze.

“Why do you ask that?” Renfri says.  She peers at you, shading her eyes from the sun, the deep mahogany of them almost black in the shadows.  

“What?”

She sighs.  “Why do you ask if I’d like to know my fate, instead of just telling?”

You shift.  “People don’t always understand what it means,” you tell her.  “Sometimes knowing the end makes you lose the present.”

Renfri hums.  “I don’t think I could lose the present,” she says softly.  “Not until I’ve run my blade through Stregobor’s belly.” 

“You’d be surprised.”

“You didn’t ask.”

“About what?”

“Stregobor.”

You sigh.  “If you wanted to tell me, you would.”

“You can say it, you know,” Renfri tells you.  She’s watching you carefully, those dark eyes half-wild.  “You know the stories, even out here.”

“Do you want me to call you Shrike?” you ask.

She tilts her head.  The waves of her hair spill against the shore of her shoulders.  “No,” she says quietly.  “I don’t think I do.”

“Alright,” you say.

You fade into silence, listening to the creaking lullaby of the forest.  Renfri lies down next to you, her dark hair stark against the verdant green of the clovers.  She tugs at them with nimble fingers.  The snap of their stems sharpens their scent as it floats sweet around you.  

Eventually, she tells you about Stregobor.  

Eventually, you nudge closer to curl up by her side.

Eventually, she leaves, and you are left with nothing but the lingering scent of her - warm cloves and sword oil, and just beneath it, the copper tang of blood - and the choking feeling of a sob caught in your throat.

-

“Would you want to know your own fate?”

“No,” you tell Renfri as you separate a wild cherry from its stem.  You split the flesh of it between your fingers and pry the stone free.  The pit plinks into the wooden bowl, the sound of it oddly musical. Maya had pulled you both into the kitchen to help her when Renfri first arrived.  It hadn’t taken her long to disappear, but you can still feel her warning gaze prickling against your skin.

Renfri steals the cherry from you with nimble fingers and pops it into her mouth.  The carmine juice of it stains her pink lips dark.  You try not to stare.

“Why not?” she asks.

It takes a moment to understand what she’s asking about.  You pull your gaze away from the dark sweep of her eyelashes against her pale skin. 

“Sometimes you can know too much,” you tell her.

Renfri hums. She cuts off a sliver of a nearby apple with a small dagger, holds it to your lips.  You roll your eyes at her but pull the crisp slice from her blade, let the fruit’s flesh crunch under your teeth, sour and sweet in the same breath. She pulls back and sucks the juice from her fingers.  

Heat rises to your cheeks.

You busy yourself with the wild cherries, breaking them down with the easy precision of constant work.  The smell of them fills the air.  “Besides,” you say absently, working at a particularly stubborn pit, “it’s hard enough already, waiting for what I’ve seen come to pass.”

Renfri pauses.  “You’ve seen yourself in other’s fates?”

“Ah,” you say.  “Yes.”

“Many of them?”

“No,” you say carefully.  “Just one.”

“Oh,” Renfri says, and then she is working at the apple again, peeling its skin off in a long, curling ribbon.  She’s quiet, then, and she stays quiet. During the mid-day dinner, with Maya and the rest of the table sharing the low benches at the long table, she seems to find her chatter again.  

She leaves the same night.  Her men are itching to move on, and from what low chatter carries to you, they’ve caught wind of Stregobor for the first time since he fled Angren. The sun is just gaining the golden hue of the late afternoon when she saddles her horse.  Her men start ahead of her as she dallies at the door of the temple.

“Stay safe,” you tell her, even though you know that in the end, she cannot.  

Renfri nods, and the sun catches in her chestnut hair, paints it bright and dark all at once.  “The fate you saw yourself in,” she says quietly.  

Don’t, you want to say. Please.

“Yes?” you ask.

“It was mine, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” you say, and your ribs crack under the admission.

“I knew it,” Renfri breathes, and she tastes of cherry juice and a hint of spice bread.  She kisses you again, fervent, her callused hands rough against your cheeks, and you open to her.  Renfri softens against you.  She tastes of cherry juice and something tenderly sweet and fate - fate has not prepared you for this.  

She pulls away from you and rests her forehead against yours.  You breathe in her air and push it back out as your own.  Her eyes are mahogany in the afternoon light, tinted darker still by want.  

“I have to go,” she says.

“I know.”

“Soon,” Renfri says.  “I’ll be back soon.”

You push into her again, catch her lips with yours.  She pulls you close, one hand dropping low on your waist, her fingers dipping under the gap between your bodice and your skirt.  She is so warm against you.  

Renfri rides off into the distance.  There is a moment where she blocks out the sun, and it gleams at the edges of her, crowning her with light seeping around her shadowed edges.  An eclipse all your own.

Please, you think that night, as you tend to one of the patches of your goddess’s favored ferns. Let me be wrong, just once.

-

You trace a finger across the scar just beneath Renfri’s left breast, a little sickle moon of healed flesh.  Your touch is feather light.

Renfri laughs and catches your hand.  She brings it to her lips, presses a kiss to the pads of your fingers.  Her lips are swollen and red and hot beneath your touch.  You echo her with a kiss against the lean muscle of her belly.  

“What are you thinking of?” she asks softly.

“Nothing and everything,” you say.  She had come to the temple wearing a leather vest with a familiar pattern.  You could not strip her of it fast enough.

“Come now, oracle,” Renfri chides.  “Tell me.”

“It’s nothing,” you say.

You crawl up and kiss her red, red lips.  She tastes of cherry juice and campfire smoke.  It’s a lazy, sweet kiss.  She cups the nape of your neck and urges you against her.  Renfri touches you with a reverence you’d never expected, her rough hands soft against your skin.  

Her hair is dark against your linens, the waves of it spread wide against your thin pillow.  She glitters with delight, but there is still something feral tucked into her lips.  She kisses you like a wild thing, sometimes, her deep brown eyes hazed until they are almost black, a velvet night to embrace you.  You curl into her side and stroke your fingers over her skin.

The two of you doze until Renfri murmurs: “Would you tell me my fate, if I asked?”

You think of blood, and how the sound of two swords scraping against each other reminds you of a mourning knell.  You think of Renfri’s teeth nipping against your neck like little knives, and her form molded soft against yours.  You press your face into her neck and she smells of thyme, wood and earth, your soap still lingering on her skin.  

She leaves tonight.  The two of you are hoarding every moment you can have, winding sinuous around time like a dragon guarding its treasure. 

“Do you want to know it?” you ask, tasting the salt of her skin on your lips.

Renfri traces the curve of your hip with a long finger.  You pull back enough to peek up at her, to see the way the fan of her lashes flutter over her skin.  She tips your chin up until you meet her eyes.

“No,” she says.  Her eyes glimmer and gleam like torchlight.

You think some quiet part of her already knows.

You press a kiss against the blade of her collarbone.  “Then I won’t,” you say.

The two of you stay entwined until Renfri has to leave.  The Arc Coast is not small, and there are many towns where Stregobor may be hiding, though there are whispers that he is in a sorcerer’s tower in one of the larger towns.  

Renfri’s goodbye kisses are always her hungriest ones.  

She casts a long shadow as she and her men ride off.  It glows around the edges, and you think again of an eclipse.

Not three evenings later, you dream.

There are teeth shining in the darkness.  Each tooth is sharp with power, all honed pale bone gleaming in the velvet cradle of the deep, deep night.  They are ghastly things, otherworldly, piercing through the veil. They do not smile, but you still feel small.  

It is a cruel trick, fate, the teeth say, all rumbling thunder crackling just overhead, splitting the sky with sound. The order of it brings comfort, but the knowing - the knowing is pain. I am sorry, child of mine.

When you wake, you are already crying. 

-

Years later, you step into a tavern and see a witcher with white, white hair tucked away at a table in the back.  His eyes glow sun-gold, and he is as handsome as you remember.  

You order a tankard of ale. Those amber eyes flicker towards you as you approach.  His face is stone, but his eyes are a warning all their own.  

“Thank you,” you say to Geralt of Rivia.  “For trying.”

The tankard makes a heavy noise against the pitted wood of the table.

From the deep grunt, he doesn’t understand, but you don’t need him to.  You still remember the look on his face as he skimmed Renfri’s own blade against the delicate skin of her neck.  The desolation of it, the crack in the very foundation of him.  You still know the touch of his arm against your back, how he cradled her as she fell. 

You had always known you were going to lose her. 

Knowing fate does not save you from it.

taglist: @whitewolfandthefox @hina-chans-stuff @witchernonsense @tutuwho @riviawitch3r @restingnurseface @consultingdetextive @ambivertomnivore @theunwantedomega @shewritesinthethirdperson

[narniaandplowmen]

It is not that I love you less / Than when before your feet I lay (But to prevent the sad increase / Of hopeless love, I keep away)

Fandom: The Witcher Pairing: Geralt/Jaskier Also on AO3 2154 words.

General Audiences / No Archive Warnings Apply Complete

Part 2 of Half a Century of Poetry

Jaskier, back in Lettenhove for the winter, considers how Geralt's words on the Mountain were unfair, but that nothing on this world can stop him from loving the Witcher anyways.

They had talked, after the Mountain. Or, well, Jaskier had talked. Geralt had been about to leave when Jaskier finally made his way down, exhausted and devastated and wounded from the lonely, perilous journey downhill. It was clear that Geralt had wanted to avoid him, but Roach, always a sucker for the sweet sugar cubes and shining apples the bard usually carried with him, had approached Jaskier on her own free will. And he had to say something, he couldn’t just stay silent. So he had given a promise. I will not come to you, but if you ever change your mind I should not be hard to find. 

And so he had. There was much that could be said about the bard, about his extravagance and tendency to ignore the rules. But if Jaskier made a promise, he made sure to keep it. Which is why he almost never made promises, regardless of what other people might think he did. Answering ‘sure’ to ‘will you promise to stay behind whilst I fulfil this contract’ meant that he is open to making that promise, but not that he is actually making it. Being part-Fae, fully noble and just generally a little shit made Jaskier proficient in finding loopholes in his so-called promises. But this? This was a real promise. And he had kept to it.

It was winter, and Jaskier had returned to Lettenhove to reunite with his sister and his nieces and nephews. The little kids were elated to see their favourite (and only) uncle, and although his brother-in-law - who had married quite above his station and continually feared Jaskier would reclaim his rightful place as heir - was less happy to see him return, his sister had welcomed him with open arms. The lands of Lettenhove looked gorgeous in the shimmering snow, white like- Jaskier bit his lip, an awful habit he had picked up since-

 Avoiding the thought was hopeless. He had tried everything to distract himself, but nothing could take away his endless, hopeless, futile lover for Geralt of Rivia, friend of humanity. His sister had noticed, of course. Damn observant, that woman. She had always been, but Jaskier was sure it had gotten even worse now that she was a mother. The Fae blood probably didn’t help either. 

‘Why don’t you write it out? That always helped you when you were younger,’ she had said one day, breaking through Jaskier’s musings of how the colour of her dress reminded him of Geralt’s eyes.

‘You don’t have to share it with me, or anyone, if you don’t want to. But it might help.’ 

So here he was, sitting in the manor’s humble library overseeing the snow-covered vineyard, with a quill in hand and paper in front of him like he was twelve, whilst longingly staring at his baby brother, who now lied next to his parents in graves covered in snow,  and younger sister, who were allowed to play outside whilst he was forced to make his homework. Now he looked down at a new generation of children. One day he had wished he could have some of his own, and he could not deny that, after Geralt had accidentally ended up with a child surprise, he had dreamed of the three of them forming a family. Nothing now could be further from the truth. Instead of living in a cottage near the sea, Geralt retiring from his Witcher business to open a smithy, Jaskier opening a school and them raising the adorable Ciri together, Geralt had refused to claim his promised child, shunned Jaskier from his life and gone off to who-knew-where to, as far as Jaskier knew, continue killing monsters for little pay. He had not come to apologise, not come to ask Jaskier to rejoin him, not come to find him at all. And so, Jaskier had kept his promise. And Jaskier had kept away. If only his heart would get the message, too. 

It is not that I love you less

Than when before your feet I lay,

But to prevent the sad increase

Of hopeless love, I keep away.

Carefully placing his quill back in the inkpot, Jaskier resumed his watch over the playful children in the snow. They had found some sticks now, and were playfighting. From his third-floor window he could hear fragments of their conversation.

‘You -- monster!’

‘I wanna be the Witch--’

‘--ys get to be the Witcher!’

‘Because the Witchers are -- cle Jaskier says so!’

‘I don’t want to be a kimimomo! I don’t want to be the bad --’

Jaskier smiled at little John’s mispronunciation of the monster’s name. The kids, inspired by Jaskier’s songs, had taken to playing ‘Wicher and Monster’, with dramatic fake-out deaths and some accidental real injuries. It seemed that, even in the quiet, boring lands of Lettenhove, Jaskier could not avoid being reminded of the man he loved so dearly. The snow as white as his hair, his sister’s yellow dresses, the wolf statues at the entrance of the property, the children’s play, the notes with unfinished lyrics describing Geralt’s heroic actions Jaskier had left behind during previous stays… Every day there was something, no matter how small, that reminded him of the man he had lost. The soup that tasted exactly like that served in the inn where he had first been allowed to wash the Witcher’s hair. The snide remarks from his brother-in-law that seemed to come straight from Geralt’s vocabulary.  Filavandrel’s lute, greeting him whenever he entered his room. Everything around him was another tiny dagger piercing through his skin, making its way to his heart and cutting yet another piece of it in half. 

In vain (alas!) for everything

Which I have known belong to you,

Your form does to my fancy bring,

And makes my old wounds bleed anew.

It had been late spring when they had parted. It felt like they had barely reunited after winter, during which Geralt had visited his strange Witcher castle Jaskier was never invited to and Jaskier had spent his days teaching Ciri and nights playing his music at the Cintran court. And although he loved the court, Calanthe’s murderous glares when he accidentally mentioned Geralt had made him nervous enough to be happy when spring arrived and he could leave again, back on the road, following the person holding his rapidly-beating heart without even being aware of it. The dragon hunt had only been their fourth contract of the year, and after- After, when summer still stretched in front of him for another six long months, everything had felt off. 

Sure, he had travelled, sang his songs at inns and bars and the occasional manor. Sure, he had met up with other bards, competed in a couple of sing-offs, written a handful of new songs which gained instant popularity. Sure, he had lived the life any normal, travelling bard did. But he wasn’t normal now, was he. He was Jaskier, Bard Extraordinaire, the best songwriter and lute-player on the Continent. His audience’s words, not his. He knew there was always something to be improved upon: a lyric that could be better, a beat he missed, a chord he botched. His audience might not notice, but he most certainly did. He would make quite an awful bard if he didn’t, after all. So, even though he did everything any other travelling bard would do, those six months had been strange. He had automatically found himself drawn to notice boards, turning around to inform Geralt of a contract only to be, once again, reminded the man was not there. No rhythmic sound of hooves touching the dirt during the day, no scraping noise of someone sharpening their sword near the campfire during the evening, and just his own breath breaking the silence of the night. It had been as if the world was ill, asleep in bed trying to fend off a fever that caused strange, surreal visions that gave everything normal a slightly sickly hue. Maybe his sister was right, maybe writing would help heal his broken heart.

Who in the spring from the new sun

Already has a fever got,

Too late begins those shafts to shun,

Which Phœbus through his veins has shot.

The playful screams of the children in the snow briefly silenced as the cheery voice of Molly the Cook called out that dinner was almost done. Jaskier knew that one of the kids would knock on his door soon, giving Uncle Jaskier the same message. Three stanzas in just as many hours, a poor yield for a poet of his stature. A sudden rage overtook him as he looked down at the half-empty paper. The words Geralt had thrown at him on the Mountain had felt fair at first, but after moping about them for while, Jaskier had realised that Geralt had been incredibly unfair. Him, shovelling Geralt’s shit? Yes, shovelling it out of his stable and onto the compost pile where it belonged. It was Geralt who created the shit around him, making stupid wishes that endangered the people around him, invoking the law of surprise less than fifteen minutes after learning Parvetta was a child surprise herself. Surely the Witcher knew that child surprises tended to give birth to child surprises, surely he smelled that Parvetta was pregnant to begin with. Even Jaskier had noticed that Parvetta had worn an unusual, slightly-out-of-style dress clearly intended to hide her abdomen. If Geralt had not been so incredibly self-centred, so incredibly self-absorbed and emotionally stunted he would have realised that his words were absolute bullshit. It had been Jaskier who had calmed Calanthe enough to not send hundreds of assassins after Geralt. It had been Jaskier who had tried to take the djinn away so the clearly exhausted Witcher would not do anything stupid. His wishes might have sounded idiotic, but they were clearly and precisely phrased, his mother had taught him enough about Fae magic for him to know djinns were just as tricky, if not worse, to deal with. Yes, Jaskier had shovelled the shit, but it was not his fault Geralt liked to dive into every single heap of manure he met. So no, what Geralt had said had not been fair. But by the time Jaskier had gathered enough of his wits to realise that, the Witcher had long been gone, and Jaskier’s promise had already been made. 

Too late he would the pain assuage,

And to thick shadows does retire;

About with him he bears the rage,

And in his tainted blood the fire.

The sound of a wildly thrown-open door and a young boy’s voice shouting his name calmed the bard’s sudden anger. 

‘UNCLE JASKIER DINNER’S READY MOLLY SAYS YOU NEED TO WASH YOUR HANDS!’ Little John, still carrying his stick, now ran into view. 

‘Did Molly also say you were allowed to take your sword inside?’

‘A Witcher always carries his swords with him, you told me so! And I am a Witcher, not a stupid kimino- kimomo-’

‘Kikimore,’ Jaskier helpfully supplied.

‘Yes that. Will you tell Eddy? Will you tell him I’m a Witcher? I don’t want to be a monster, the snow is cold and wet when I fall down to die.’ 

Jaskier smiled at his youngest nephew’s petulant face. ‘Only if you put your sword back outside. True gentlemen don’t carry their swords to the dinner table, not even Witchers. Come, we’ll place it in the stables to keep it safe, and then we go wash our hands together, okay?’

‘Okay, uncle Jaskier. Can I sit next to you during dinner?’

‘Of course you can.’

Jaskier smiled at the young boy stretching out his arms to be picked up. If only life could stay that easy, with simple concerns like cold snow and fake swords. Jaskier knew, after all,  it was impossible for him to stay angry. How could he hate the one he loved? The one who had, unknowingly, carried his heart for the past two decades, and would carry it for eternity and beyond? He would keep his promise to the Witcher, he would stay in his self-imposed exile, no matter the cost. A promise is a promise, after all. And just as he would keep the promise he had made to Geralt whilst feeding Roach that final, slightly crushed sugar cube, he would keep the promise he had made to himself whilst walking down the first mountain he and the Witcher had climbed to fight a supposed devil. I will love you till my dying days. 

And, as he placed his nephew on his back, joking that ‘this horse will lead the noble Witcher to the stables,’ Jaskier mentally composed the final stanza he had struggled with for so many hours. 

But vow’d I have, and never must

Your banish’d servant trouble you;

For if I break, you may distrust

The vow I made to love you, too.

[dachi25writes]

Chapter One: Up North

AEGON I

It felt surreal.

Blond hair and violet eyes– just like his own– stared vacantly into the ceiling. Pale skin, translucent in the fluorecent lights.

Just a nightmare, any minute now he would wake up in the station, have some of that tasteless but nutricious space food, don his spacesuit and go out to the surface of the moon to collect data he would later send to his father…

His dead father who seemed to be staring right through him, body stiff as the metalic table he laid on, his lashes still frosted, lips blue.

What was he thinking? Going up to the North like that without proper equipment or a guide of any kind, it was not like him at all, but maybe things hadn’t gone as he planned, maybe he had been forced to–

Aegon turned around just as his sister apologized for his distracted behavior and signed for the body to be discharged so it could be sent back home. Gods, it had been almost 6 years since he had last seen Dragonstone, he remembered the salty air and ashen grey sand so cool to the touch you could lie there even on the hottest summer day.

[[MORE]]

The memory was enough to make him smile, wan and melancholy for he did not– could not - forget the circumstances in which he was going back.

Rhaenys touched his arm, gently almost tentative “C'mon Egg, we have to go”

He nodded and walked along, she was very diferent from the sister he remembered, not taller though he coludn’t be sure with the heels she was wearing but the way she carried herself was diferent. She used to slouch, father always tried to correct her posture. Rain never cared to try though, she still slouched a little, it was only noticeable in a slight bend of her shoulders, but that didn’t take away from her overall air of confidence, she didn’t have much of that back then; most shocking of all, her hair was long, she really hated long hair would chop it off herself if mom refused to take her to the hair saloon “It’s been a long time”

She sighed “ I know”

"Where’s mom?”

“She’s back at the hotel I did not think it would be right to bring her here”

He nodded, of course she couldn’t bring mom to the body deposit, Rhaenys would never risk to upset her “How- how did she take it?, about Dad I mean, did you tell her yet?”

As soon as they were out of the building Rhaenys opened her purse and got out a cigarette and a lighter, she offered him one but he refused waiting for her answer as she put the cigarette between lips, gave it a long drag and exhaled the smoke slowly.

“Of course I told her” she answerered at last “C'mon Egg, I’ll give you a ride I parked just around the block”

He nodded and followed “And how did she take it?”

Rhaenys shrugged “She took it well all things considered, said we should have visited Dad some time and other stuff, you know how she is, but I think she is looking forward to seeing us all again”

He grabbed her arm “You called them?” he couldn’t belive Rhaenys! she was family but them… if they came at all it would only be to gloat.

She raised her eyebrow at him and shook his grip with ease “Didn’t need to, it’s all over the news, also from what I know Mr. Connington called us, well he sent this really long e-mails but you get the idea, didn’t you get one?”

He shook his head , dumbfounded “I don’t know, I really haven’t got the chance to catch up. Mr. Connington commed me at the station and I just had to get here” actually he never even expected to see Rhaenys here. He hoped she would at least go to the funeral, Mr. Connington was arranging at Dragonstone, but this… He felt anger claw at his belly, like oil on a sizzling pan the heat thretened to jump in every direction, he held it in, gods he was so out of shape.

Breath in, 1, 2, 3… Exhale. Keep focus.

And it passed.

Rhaenys studied his face, really seeing him for the frist time since they had started talking

"Fuck Egg you look like shit!”

He shrugged but felt self conscious nonetheless, Father had always insisted to always keep a good image for the Academy’s sake. He ran a hand through his short buzzcut, and dragged it all the way down to his face, he was so, so tired.

The car was a small old looking thing of a vibrant orange color, Rhaenys opened the passanger’s door for him as if he hadn’t enough strenght to do it himself.

“Where you staying at?”

"Well as I said I haven’t really–”

“ 'Kay so that means you are coming with me, we rented a room with two beds but I guess mom and I can share,it’s just a night anyway.”

He had half a mind to protest but he was just too tired to go around town looking for some place to stay so he just stayed silent.

Rhaneys started the car and soon enough they were at some cheap-looking but cozy motel called “Winterfell” which wasn’t surprising at all , he had seen at least 10 different stores with the same name since they left the morgue, according to his sister everyone had the Stark fever around here and wanted to be part of the ancestral noble house.

“For real” she said between giggles “I pulled over for some gas on the way here and the guy at the station told me he was a distant relative of the Stark, but not only him the hotel clerk, the barista at Manderly’s and they all say it in this really secret conspiratorial way. It’s kinda sweet really, now I get why Robb insisted we should do a roadtrip here, I can practically see his smug face when he mentioned he was an actual Stark”

Her laugh stopped, and became a bitter sigh.

Aegon wished he could say something but he knew he would most likely say the wrong thing and he just wasn’t up for a fight.His sister parked and proceeded to rest her forhead on the steering wheel, brown curls obscuring her face.

“Sorry Egg, I just can’t help thinking about Robb when we are here. He was always talking about Winterfell and I just-”

“It’s fine” he tried to be nonchalant about it but he felt uncomfortable, he had never been particularly close to Robb, he did like him though. Robb was one of those people you inevitably admire, but after he died everything went to shit at the Academy, everyone blamed Dad for it even Rhaenys, Aegon had been the only one that stayed after that. He knew it was pretty shitty to blame Robb for dying but if he hadn’t maybe…

“God I am such a jerk” Rhaenys lifted her face enough to look at him “I haven’t even asked if you have talked to Sansa or–?”

“I haven’t” he pressed his mouth into a thin line, he didn’t want to talk about this with Rhaenys now or ever really. “You know what? The space travel is really catching up on me so I better go rest like you said”

He opened the door and practically slammed it shut when it dawned on him he had no idea of the room number and he had to wait for Rhaenys. Fuck! just after he had stormed out of the car like a broody asshole(Jon’s asshole face flashed briefly in his mind), the day couldn’ t get worse really.

Fortunately Rhaenys let him save some dignity and got out of the car calmly as if nothing had happened but in her eyes so alike mom’s he could see worry.

"Sorry Egg, you know I am an idiot sometimes, we should go rest”

He wanted to tell her that she wasn’t, not really, not even after she left did he ever thought that, but he couldn’t bring himself to say it.

She led the way to a simple room decorated in pastels with two identical beds, matching night tables and a very stiff looking couch where his mother sat reading one of the romance novels she loved so well.

As soon as she saw him she got up and enveloped him in an embrace he immediately returned, they parted after a while but she stayed close enough so he could smell her characterístic orange scent, she caressed his face.

"You look so much like your daddy”

Aegon searched for a trace of emotion in his mother’s eyes to know at least someone was grieving as much as him, but her eyes were dry and he remembered that even if his mom felt any pain for her husband’s death she couldn’t be able to express it. Maybe the only thing he resented his is dad for.

“You must tell me all you have done in this years, your sister and little Nym have kept me so busy I haven’t got the chance to visit you and dad.” she made him sit beside her in one of the beds, her soft hands patting his face and squeezing his arm, it made him feel comforted in a way he hadn’t in years “I hope you made him get out of the lab once in a while, Rhaegar needed someone to force him to rest or he would simply drop exausted which of course was never safe–”

"Mom” Rhaenys interrupted putting a hand on mom’s shoulder “Aegon has just arrived and has barely slept I think we better let him rest”

"But look at him dear, your brother looks like he hasn’t eaten a proper meal in years.”

That made him genuinely smile, gods, he really had missed mom “I’ve been eating just fine, I just need some sleep”

“Aegon you can’t sleep like that, you should at least change into your pajamas”

“Well I didnt bring any change of clothes” he confessed rather ashamed. It wasn’t like him to be so unprepared.

"Such a careless boy! Rain we cannot let him like this, we should go out to buy your brother some clothes and food”

Great, now mom was treating him as a 6 year old child.

“Ok, mom just give me a minute I need to call Daeron and Nym to let them know we are at the motel”

His mother nodded, and Rhaenys got out of the room with her cell in hand.He still couldn’t wrap his mind around the fact that Rain was a mom now, much less that he was an uncle. He had seen photos of ‘Nym’ when she was a baby and another one of a toddler dressed like Princess Jonquil from that animated movie, but he had never met her.

“Nym has been dying to meet you” As always mom guessed his thoughts.

"She has? I wasn’t sure that Rhaenys talked about me or the Academy”

Mom smiled sadly “Oh, Rain doesn’t talk about the Academy, but about you of course. You are a superhero to Nym, protecting the world from the alíens and meteorites, that girl is obssessed with space, she is always saying that when she grows up her uncle will take her to live with him in space”

He felt a warm feeling wash over him, more than ever he wanted to return to Dragonstone and meet his little niece. That would be nice, he figured, a quiet normal life where he could play with little Nym, of course first he had to investigate what dad was doing in the Wolf’s Wood on his own, he was the head of the Academy now, well he would be if there was an Academy anymore.

Rhaenerys entered again, she had a smile on her face. “Daeron said he and Nym will meet us tomorrow in Dragonstone, I was worried about not being there for her frist flight but her dad says she is very excited”

“I am looking forward to meet them” said Aegon at last, he wished so desperately to have his family back especially now.

"They do too” she replied with a soft smile “Mom, we should get going. Egg you should try to take nap until we come back”

He said he would, and he did try. As soon as they left he took off his shoes and laid down on the bed to the left. It was stiff and smelled way to much of air freshener, but he had been living in a space station for 2 years now so this was more comfortable than he expected. Still he couldn’t fall asleep, as soon as his eyes closed he thought about dad and his mysterious death.

Frustrated, he decided to watch TV to drown out his thoughts. He regreted the decision almost immediately, on the screen appeared a flash of red hair. He almost laughed at his own hopelessnes, there must be a thousand woman in Westeros with that same hair color, and even if he knew them all he would still wish it was Sansa.

The woman turned around and it was her. Sansa. She had grown taller and impossibly beautiful, statuesque and regal were the words that came to mind to describe her.She became an actress, he knew that much. It seemed she was at some red carpet event. His finger thumbed the button to change the channel, he didn’t want to see her, but suddenly a reporter came down on her like a falcon on his prey, and asked her about father’s death. Her brow furrowed, she looked around as if trying to gather if this was some kind of twisted joke, her eyes filled with tears, still she politely excused herself and went back to her limo.

She cared.

His heart skipped a bit, and this time he did laugh. Gods! He felt a fool. Sansa had made her feelings for him very clear on that last note she left him…

When the hosts of the show started talking he finally turned off the TV. He grabbed one of the pillows underneath him and covered his face with it no matter what he did his mind made up diferent scenarios for their reunion each more farfetched and unsatisfactory than the last and like that he fell asleep.

[haec-est-fides]

Filodox’s Trials of Apollo Reactions [Part I]

Welcome to part one of a reflective journey through Trials of Apollo ft. my original ebook annotations! I’ll be your host, 2020!filodox.

For this first episode, we’ll be going back to May 2016, the beginning of it all: The Hidden Oracle.

Annotations for this round are brought to you by 2016!filodox.

Is there anything we should know before we begin, 2016!me?

2016!filodox: I swore on the Styx never to read another Riordan book after he killed Octavian. And yet here we are.

... Alright then! Let’s get started.

But first, a more detailed overview on how this series will work: I will excerpt bits and pieces of the books based on what I highlighted / annotated on my first read. Beneath each quote, I will share what I wrote in the annotation. Below that, I will (occasionally) laugh at my past self, clarify the note, or say how my view has changed.

I encourage questions, comments, and concerns (of which there may be many), so go ahead and use that replies feature if you feel so inclined! However, these are just my opinions and (occasionally) emotional reactions, so no hate pls. <3 (Or, if you do send hate, pls make it funny.)

Now, diving right in with Riordan’s dedication!

To The Muse Calliope. This is long overdue. Please don’t hurt me.

2016!filodox: Hurt him. He didn’t even name the chapters.

As you can see, I had yet to experience Lester’s haiku and was already mad based on the table of contents alone. I went into this series very salty...

I inflicted a plague on the Greeks who besieged Troy.

2016!filodox: At least he did something right. Once.

I was just,,,extremely ready to die on Octavian’s hill. (Though I was a huge Troy / Aeneas stan before all this, just to be clear.)

Is anything sadder than the sound of a god hitting a pile of garbage bags?

2016!filodox: I actually find this particular god crashing into a dumpster quite amusing.

I also blamed Apollo for what happened to Octavian. I think that had a lot to do with how Apollo acted on Delos in Heroes of Olympus, basically disowning Octavian and whining about how some “creature” scammed him? That was bullshit. Apollo needed to own the fact that he blessed Octavian, but he just abandoned him and denied all the blame. TL;DR I had a grudge, okay?

My mind stewed in confusion, but one memory floated to the surface -- the voice of my father, Zeus: YOUR FAULT. YOUR PUNISHMENT.

2016!filodox: Wait, is this bc everyone blames Octavian and therefore Apollo? Bc lol but also no?

*cough* Octavian did nothing wrong 2k16 *cough*

Zeus will reconsider, I told myself. He’s just trying to scare me. Any moment, he will yank me back to Olympus and let me off with a warning.

“Yes...” My voice sounded hollow and desperate. “Yes, that’s it.”

2016!filodox: Apollo is a self centered frat boy, I forgot...but it is slightly...endearing? *narrows eyes*

Ah, how close I was to stanning Lester in the first chapter, when he was at his most “goddy”. You know, I actually made a rule for myself when I started reading Trials of Apollo that I would not under any circumstances stan Apollo. That was a naive goal, because it was never really a danger.

Regardless, Zeus had held me responsible for Octavian’s delusions of grandeur. Zeus seemed to consider egotism a trait the boy had inherited from me. Which is ridiculous. I am much too self-aware to be egotistical.

2016!filodox: I am going to Murder him.

*chef kiss* the hypocrisy ! the lack of self-awareness !

“I just...I assumed -- I hoped this would be taken care of by now.”

“You mean by demigods,” Percy said, “going on a big quest to reclaim the Oracle of Delphi?”

2016!filodox: That sounds like a decent quest, or you know, QUESTING FOR THE SIBYLLINE BOOKS

I’ve always said I can see the future but an inch to the left. Also, I don’t like Ella.

It warmed my heart that my children had the right priorities: their skills, their images, their views on YouTube. Say what you will about gods being absentee parents; our children inherit many of our finest personality traits.

2016!filodox: AND HE’S MAD ABOUT OCTAVIAN?!

I mean ?

Apollo, when Austin and Kayla show ambition: THEY GOT THAT FROM ME <3

Apollo, when Octavian (or Nero, or Caligula) shows ambition: srry i don’t know him ??

He had a weak jawline, an overlarge nose, and a beard that wrapped around his double chin like a helmet strap. His hair was curly and dark like mine, except not as fashionably tousled or luxuriant. His lips curled as if he smelled something unpleasant. Perhaps it was the burning seats of the bus.

2016!filodox: Nero ???

Not quite sure how to feel looking back at this moment. Call out post @ myself for instantly recognizing Nero, when afaik this scene was before we had any hints that Roman emperors were even a plot point? But here’s the thing: I don’t remember why I could recognize him so easily. I don’t remember where 2016!me obtained this ancient Rome knowledge. A mystery.

On another note entirely, did Nero really like,,,astral project into Apollo’s fever dream to address him directly? Because Rhea does. And sometimes Python does. But Nero? Can he do that?

The man laughed as flames licked at his purple sleeves. “You’re not sorry yet, but you will be. Find me the gates. Lead me to the Oracle. I’ll enjoy burning it down!”

2016!filodox: I too enjoy burning things down. # Nero confirmed

My only comment here is “oh you sweet summer child,,,”

Oh. Perhaps some of you are wondering how I felt seeing [Will] with a boyfriend rather than a girlfriend.

2016!filodox: No, actually. I wasn’t wondering. I was plotting how to kill you, them, and quite a few other people. Do you think I could trade you for Octavian?

Oh man, back at it again with the salt. XD

I could only remember my conversations with Octavian, the way he’d turned my head with his flattery and promises. That stupid boy...it was his fault I was here.

A voice whispered in the back of my mind. This time I thought it might be my conscience: Who was the stupid boy? It wasn’t Octavian.

2016!filodox: I can’t really...explain my emotions upon reading this. I’m still not quite okay, but this...it’s bittersweet in a way. I don’t know if this is a poor attempt at a proper closure, the author’s way of beating a dead horse, or just a way to make Apollo seem pitiable. Whatever it is... Octavian was important enough to remain in Apollo’s mortal memory. He somehow made promises to a god and had Apollo wrapped around his finger. And despite being so much like Apollo, the god blames him. Like everyone blames him. But Apollo also realizes, accepts on an infinitesimal scale, that “it wasn’t Octavian”. He wasn’t perfect, but neither is Apollo. Apollo is (at least) subconsciously admitting his own guilt in the whole affair.

...yeah. I will note that this bit isn’t meant to develop Octavian, but rather uses Octavian as a prop to support Apollo’s development? Which is why it still stings. Like thanks, I guess.

“Your judgement in the past has been...questionable. I wonder if you have chosen the right tools for this job. Have you learned from your past mistakes?”

2016!filodox: Nero has made plenty of mistakes to learn from

Love how I just assumed it was Nero back in chapter 10 and went with it, zero hesitation. Also love how I heard Python say Nero has made mistakes and went “oh absolutely”. In fact, here’s something funny in retrospect that will become more and more apparent: I did not like Nero in 2016. Or, at least, I thought I didn’t. There’s something really odd going on here that baffles me, looking back...

“A triumvirate is a ruling council of three,” I said. “At least, that’s what it meant in ancient Rome.”

“Which is interesting,” Rachel said, “because of this next shot.” She tapped her screen. The new photo zoomed in on the building’s penthouse terrace, where three shadowy figures stood talking together....

2016!filodox: Is it bad that I’m smirking? Because it’s getting interesting ~ *clear malicious intent*

Wow, edgy. Triumvirates are just a neat, Roman thing and I stanned.

“The last triumvirate I dealt with included Lepidus, Marc Antony, and my son, the original Octavian. A triumvirate is a very Roman concept...like patriotism, skullduggery, and assassination.”

2016!filodox: THIS IS WHAT I’VE BEEN TRYING TO TELL EVERYONE. MODERN OCTAVIAN IS A VERY GOOD ANCIENT ROMAN. POLITICS, ESPECIALLY SHADY AF POLITICS AND POWERPLAYS, ARE QUINTESSENTIALLY ROMAN. Also, I’d like to note that it’s confirmed, in this universe’s canon, that Augustus was a son of Apollo.

Ohhhh, wait. I think I’d watched the HBO series Rome by 2016, which would at least partially explain my ancient Rome knowledge. (Amazing tv show btw!)

“He heard them talking in Latin.”

“Latin? Were they campers?”

Pete spread his hands. “I--I don’t think so. Paulie described them like they were adults. He said one of them was the leader. The other two addressed him as imperator.”

2016!filodox: !!!! (obligatory 💕)

I was such a simp for Latin in high school. And the Roman Empire. Still am, but hey.

“The Beast is planning some kind of attack on your camp. I don’t know what it is, but it’s going to be big.”

2016!filodox: Runs in the family I guess

The Octavian / Triumvirate parallels are everywhere... 👀

“The emperors made themselves gods. They had their own temples and altars. They encouraged the people to worship them.”

2016!filodox: # deify me

*smacking my past self with a stick* You stop that! Edgy child!

Anyway, a much better point here is like,,,the Imperial cult was huge in the ancient Roman world. Looking at Apollo’s explanation here, why did only the “worst” three emperors get to be immortal? Did famously “good” emperors like Augustus and Marcus Aurelius have the option of becoming minor gods, but they chose Elysium or something? Are there slightly less infamous emperors just hanging around anywhere as minor gods? A lot of Roman emperors live on in human memory is all I’m saying.

“Wait!” Will said as I reached the door. “Who is the Beast? Which emperor are we dealing with?”

“The worst of my descendants.” My fingers dug into the doorframe. “The Christians called him the Beast because he burned them alive. Our enemy is Emperor Nero.”

2016!filodox: I honestly can’t believe it took this long to reveal this? Was anyone surprised?

Nero’s reveal is rather late in the book compared to Commodus, Caligula, and even Tarquin iirc? But it makes sense, being the first book of the series. Also love how 16-year-old me was like “this reveal is silly because everyone, like me, recognizes Nero on sight” and didn’t question that assumption at all.

“Germani.” Instinctively, I moved in front of Meg. The elite imperial bodyguards had been cold-blooded death reapers in ancient Rome. I doubted they’d gotten any sweeter over the centuries.

2016!filodox: BITCH. See? This is why I love Rome. They knew what they were doing.

Ngl, as someone of Germanic heritage, I felt really represented by the Germani, which is hilarious on so many levels.

He tried to compensate for his ugliness with an expensive Italian suit of purple wool, his gray shirt open to display gold chains. His shoes were hand-tooled leather, not the sort of thing to wear while stomping around in an ant pile. Then again, Nero had always had expensive, impractical tastes.

2016!filodox: I don’t exactly like Nero, and actually think he was quite the shitty emperor, but I guess I mildly respect and “like” him on principle (in this book at least).

OH YOU SWEET SUMMER CHILD. I was so convinced that I didn’t actually like Nero, despite all of the lowkey evidence to the contrary? Who hurt you, past me? (Lmao, it was Tacitus, Suetonius, and Cassius Dio.) My working theory is that I was too much of an Emperor Augustus stan at the time to admit liking Nero. It’s hysterical. Look at me equivocating like a champ.

I’d been so proud of my son, the original Octavian, later Caesar Augustus. After his death, his descendants became increasingly arrogant and unstable (which I blamed on their mortal DNA; they certainly didn’t get those qualities from me).

2016!filodox: I’m glad Apollo and I can agree on something. Augustus was amazing and those who came after him...significantly less so.

See! The propaganda really got to me, what can I say?

Nero clasped his hands as if in prayer. “Oh, my. It seems we’ve had a slight miscommunication. You see, Apollo, Meg brought you here, just as I asked her to. Well done, my sweet.”

2016!filodox: This was obvious but I still find it...gods, the only word I can think of is “delicious”

. . .

“The Beast killed my father. This is Nero. He’s -- he’s my stepfather.”

I could not fully grasp this before Nero spread his arms.

“That’s right, my darling,” he said. “And you’ve done a wonderful job. Come to Papa.”

2016!filodox: Okay, but we should have known this since it became apparent her weapons were Roman. Also, oof. Also also, WHY did Riordan feel the need to add that last line? Why?

ASDFGHJKL: I CAN’T

“After the fire, we’ll rebuild,” he said. “It will be glorious!”

2016!filodox: The amount of times I have used this very logic is worrying.

For (some) context, Firelord Ozai is my favorite character from AtLA. <3

The scene might have been funny except that the Germani were now back on their feet, five demigods and a geyser spirit were still tied to highly flammable posts, and Nero still had a box of matches.

2016!filodox: Oh, I find this plenty amusing!

The emperor stared at his empty hand. “Meg...?” His voice was as cold as an icicle.

2016!filodox: The various ways his tone / voice have been described throughout this conversation are just 💕

*looks at camera like I’m on The Office*

Seriously, though. Nero’s voice is like the central descriptive element of his character because he’s so manipulative. It’s really cool and a great use of detail.

[Meg] turned to Nero. “You told me never to lower myself to my enemies’ level.”

“No, indeed.” Nero’s tone had frayed like a weathered rope. “We are better. We are stronger. We will build a glorious new world. But these nonsense-spewing trees stand in our way, Meg. Like any invasive weeds, they must be burned. And the only way to do that is with a true conflagration -- flames stoked by blood.”

2016!filodox: Real 👏🏻 Gods 👏🏻 Require 👏🏻 Blood👏🏻

I was way too enthusiastic about this whole situation, wasn’t I?

Nero grinned. “Good-bye, Apollo. Only eleven more Olympians to go.”

2016!filodox: Wait, shit, WHAT

Having read Tower of Nero, this probably had something to do with Python interfering with the Fates, huh? But does that mean it’s more Python’s plan or Nero’s? If this was Nero’s plan (with his 12 kids literally replacing the Olympians) that’s,,,really fucking bold.

Then I heard the screaming from Camp Half-Blood.

2016!filodox: Music to my ears ~

I’m presenting every edgy detail of my annotations so I have a proper case file when I inevitably have to face the question “On a scale of one to ten, how relatable is Emperor Nero and why should you have realized it’s a ten sooner?”

In a flash of silver light, the camp’s magical barriers collapsed. The Colossus lurched forward and brought his foot down on the dining pavilion, smashing it to rubble like so many children’s blocks.

2016!filodox: Payback! Dear gods, I can’t stop smiling! I’m just like “YES!” I know this will all probably get fixed or whatever but I’M HAVING A MOMENT.

I’ve learned to appreciate the small wins. <3

Percy grabbed one of the crown’s sunray spikes. He sliced it off at the base, then jabbed it into the Colossus’ forehead.

2016!filodox: As much as Nero is FAR from my favorite, I really don’t like defacing ancient (or replicas of ancient) statues and art...

This is where I just start laughing at myself tbh. I was so insistent on not liking Nero. Like, I sound like I’m in denial. Peak equivocation. What happened to that heart emoji a few chapters back? Why did I suddenly make it about *checks notes* ancient art? Updated translation: nooo don’t ruin the Colossus Neronis it’s so sexy aha

Just as the [arrow] reached its apex and was about to fall back to earth, a gust of wind caught it...perhaps Zephyros looking kindly on my pitiful attempt. The arrow sailed into the Colossus’ ear canal and rattled in his head with a clink, clink, clink like a pachinko machine.

2016!filodox: HOW MANY EX MACHINAS IS THIS ?! The dryads, the arrow, Percy, the enchantment, and THIS ?

One of my criticisms of Trials of Apollo in general is just that the stakes are so much higher and Riordan usually solves that problem by having his heroes win on long odds. The chances of them succeeding at like,,,anything they attempt are astronomical, but of course they manage. It’s not surprising but it does get a little tiring.

“Yo, Nico,” Leo called, “please tell me that’s it for the physical abuse.”

“For now.” Nico smiled. “We’re still trying to get in touch with the West Coast. You’ll have a few dozen people out there who will definitely want to hit you.”

2016!filodox: Oh I’d love to hit him. With the flaming, Imperial gold payload of an onager. Preferably WITHOUT the Pontifex Maximus attached to it -- unless of course you mean the false pontifex, Jason Grace.

Leo was the salt in the wound for this one, ngl. He rekindled my undying ire over Octavian’s death. As I said at the beginning of this, I was extremely ready to die on Octavian’s hill after Heroes of Olympus. That sentiment sticks around for a while...

And we can call that a wrap!

Though it may seem like it, my annotations are not, in fact, a compilation of Nero’s greatest hits. There are a lot of scenes of his that I love (naturally) but I didn’t have anything to say about them when I first read the series. Maybe I’ll share those another time.

In any case, I hope you got something out of this ridiculously long post! Until next time! <3

[caterinawriting]

The Cost of a Legacy (4)

Summary : He sees her and she’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, everything perfect. Well except the fact that they’re growing up during the revolutionary war. Their love will hit many hurdles and what the future has in store may not be what they planned. 

Pairing : John Laurens x Reader

Words : 4,851

1771 October

My Dearest (Y/n),

I know by the time you receive this letter you will hopefully be in Switzerland, it's come to my realization that our declarations of love will be few and far. My letters, no matter how many I write won’t arrive in your sweet hands till weeks after it’s written. It was silly of me to hope that the distance between us wouldn’t affect our dynamic.

Don’t misinterpret me my love, this does not change anything between us. This just makes my anticipation for your letters even greater.

Anyway, I’ve returned to my usual routine and to my parents demands, I have begun to take my studies seriously, which I know will ease your mind. It feels odd to have no reason to travel to New York though, maybe I’ll visit your old man after he comes back from seeing you. Henry Jr. has been kinder, he never liked my frequent trips to see you, as you know. I think he’s jealous of how much time I spent with you over him, but I don’t regret it.

I miss our adventures through Manhattan, I wish I had taken you out more. Not that I didn’t love our time spent on the outskirts of the busy town. But I wish I could have taken you to Charleston, to meet my mother or siblings. Aw, little James would have loved you, well he’s not so little anymore but he loves meeting new people. My sisters would have loved to listen to your romance stories, and your life in the biggest city in the colonies.

Well, my love, I wait for your response. I pray you’ve arrived safely in your new home and that you meet new FEMALE friends. I can not stress this enough love, FEMALE friends would be ideal. Though I trust you, I don’t trust the Swedish BOYS, they will try, mark my words. Your beauty charms everyone. But while those Boys wil try to gain your affection but remember you have a MAN across the sea still dedicated to courting you.

With Love

John Laurens

1771 November

To my darling John,

Oh, John, your right, your letter took so long to arrive, I almost had myself convinced you didn’t want to write to me. I guess we both didn’t factor in the whole ocean and thousands of miles of land we'd be apart, seems obvious now.

I want to wish you a happy birthday darling. I wish I was able to stay to celebrate your 17th with you, but it seems like my father wanted me gone quickly. I know it’s not much but I’m sending my favorite hair ribbon with this letter, a small token to remind you of me. I wish I could send you an actual gift but the sisters here are very strict and were only allowed to exit the grounds with a male companion. And as your letter states, I will attempt to stay far away from any gentleman callers.

John, I miss you so much. I long to be in your arms again, who knows when that will next be. Do you have to live an ocean away? What an unfair God we serve, he put this distance between us.

Thoughts of you never leave my mind, I wake and wonder if you’ve gone off to class, after I leave class I wonder how you fared at your job for that day. And at night when I rest on my bed I stare at the stars we used to gaze together I wonder if you're also missing my company. I miss you, John. There’s so much more I want to say to you, but I’ll save that for when I see you again, I pray it is soon.

With Love,

(Y/n) Fiore Gavalanch

1771 December

“Johnny, your old man said you were up he-oh a letter from Miss Gavalanch I assume?” Dave entered the room seeing his friend at his desk reading a letter. “Yea, why are you here?” John answered still focused on his letter.

“Mate, I’m here to save you from your self. Come on John lets go out for  a walk or we could stand in the middle of town and wait for some crazy loon to start cursing about the king?” John shook his head, “No I’ve got to write back (Y/n) back. The faster I write it and send it out the faster it can get to her.” Dave sighed, “John, mate you can’t just live for these letters, you’ve done nothing but study, work and wait for her response for the past 3 months. I’m sure (Y/n) wants you to have a life too.”

John sighed, of course Dave was right, John just didn’t want to accept it. His life these past few months has been terrible, of course reading and responding to (Y/n)’s letters were the highlight but besides that, he felt like a big part of his soul was missing. He knew he felt like this because she was gone. “Your right Davey, let go to town and watch the protesters make speeches about how terrible our leader is... Which he is.” He corrected his friend and he put his coat on. “You have your opinion, I have mine. Call them protesters I call them fools, they deserve to be beheaded.” John rolled his eyes, “Come on let’s go.” They turned to exit, John, paused to grab the ribbon on his desk and staching it in his pocket.

1772 January

“Miss Gavalanch! You’ve got a letter from New York, and Charleston.” (Y/n) ran down from her room to the entrance of the home, one had to be from her father the other John. “Thank you Anna!” She kissed the woman’s cheek before skipping back the room happily, Anna had been hired by her father to keep watch of her here in Switzerland. Not like (y/n) got to do much anyway since she was preoccupied with her studies.

Her first few months in Geneva were to state simply, sad. After her father’s visit she knew her stay would be longer than she expected, she begged for him to take her back and her father a man who has never said no to her refused. After his short visit he left as if there was no issue, which upset her. If he really planned to keep her here for who knows how long she could go years without seeing John.

She sat on her bed and placed her father’s letter to the side, probably just sending her money as he had done so far. She held John’s letter tracing over how he wrote her name on the envelope, she adored his writing. She opened his letter, oh how she longed to hear his voice instead of imagining it.

To my love,

First, let me wish you a Merry Christmas! I know you’re not used to be alone during this time, but I hope your new friends made you feel welcomed. Now let me say Happy New Year, when I’m writing this it’s not yet 1772 but I assume by the time you get this it will be.

I wanna thank you for the ribbon you sent me, I like looking it and remembering that you’re out there waiting for me. No gift from you is too small, I just hope you’re still wearing the necklace I gifted you. I have a surprise for you, during the summer I may have enough saved to come to see you, maybe just for a week but its better than nothing. I know the summer is far from now but think about it love, we could be in each other’s arms again.

Things in the colonies don’t seem to be going well, just the other day I went downtown to see many folks protesting, Dave my friend who I used to mention from school, isn’t very fond of the riots. I don’t understand how he still supports stupid King George, I think if there was a war tomorrow I’d volunteer. I don’t think the people here really want to fight though, so maybe we can come to a compromise that will benefit us all. God knows that if we don’t things could get ugly fast.

Besides how terrible things are going for us over here please write to me on how you are. I worry about you constantly (Y/n). Maybe soon I’ll go visit your old man soon. Take care of yourself love, hopefully, I’ll hear from you soon.

Sincerely Yours,

John Laurens

“What are you all smiley for?” Anna asked standing in front of (Y/n) door entrance. (Y/n) startled dropped the letter and grabbed her father’s. “Nothing just reading what my father wrote to me.”

“And the letter from Charleston, whos that one from?” She smiled looking away from Anna, holding her necklace “Just a friend.” Anna hummed shutting the door leaving (Y/n) to herself. Oh John, how I long for you, she thought.

1772 February

“JOHN!”

“Coming mother” He ran up to his parent’s room striding over to his mother. “Yea Ma? You need me to get you more water or get a meal started?” She shook her head and motioned him to sit. “I’m fine son, I just wanted to talk, see how you’re doing in school.” She turned her head to cough.

“I’m good ma, focusing on my studies as you wanted.” He took her hand and tried to warm it with his, she was getting worse. His mother had entertained 5 pregnancies, so when she announced her sixth pregnancy everyone was elated, another Laurens child. But this one was different from the start, his mother was put on strict bed rest from the doctor, he said that since she was older she wasn’t able to handle being pregnant like younger women could. So here she was bedridden for 3 months so far and she’d stay her for another 6, the doctor blamed her pregnancy on her other symptoms too. Lack of appetite, weight loss, and constant fever.

“How’s that girl, what’s her name again?” He smiled, the mention of (Y/n) always brightened the day. “Ahh, Martha! Hows she son?” He frowned, Martha. Martha who was his father’s business partner’s daughter. Martha who stayed with his family over the holidays, something he didn’t want to include in his letters to (Y/n). Martha who had apparently grown fond of John because she sent him a letter every two weeks. She was from London where his father’s new business took place, where letters got here faster than from Switzerland. “Shes good I think.”

“She’s such a sweet girl John, only two years younger than you. And she seems to like you very much, I see she send you letters more frequently than Gavalanch’s girl.” Ever since his mom met Martha she was obsessed with her, always bringing her up during dinner and how elegant of women she was. It wasn’t that he hated Martha she was just too bland, shes like every girl in Charleston, except she has a British accent, which didn’t help her here in the colonies anyway. She had no opinions, agreed with all his statements, and laughed at everything he said, even when it wasn’t funny. He understood why she was like that but he wasn’t interested.

“(Y/n) cant write to me as often because she’s in Switzerland, which is so much farther than Britain. You know that mother, and you know I’m not interested in Martha so please stop writing her.” She huffed, John understood she knew nothing about (Y/n) except that her father was a cruel man who constantly put down his father, which didn’t make (Y/n) seem like the best person. “John, sweetheart I just wanna see you marry soon, before I go, to great women like Martha.” He sighed trying not to be angry with his mother, not wanting to start an argument with his ill mother.

He stood up leaning down to kiss her head “Maybe I will.” A white lie, something to calm his mother’s nerves for a bit. She smiled pulling him close “John, Marthas a good girl who likes you and her father could provide you with a good career. Think about it, you could be happy.” He pulled away with a small nod making his way to his room. He sat at his desk and began composing another letter, why could you be here?

1772 March

“Is that John Laurens? John, John!” He turned startled to see no one other than Angelica Schuyler and her two younger sisters trailing after her. “Angelica! Long time no see, how are you? Elizabeth, Margarita.” He greeted the younger girls. “I’m as good as I can be when my best friend is a world away, but I guess you can relate. I knew her father was mean but to send his only daughter away for no valid reason, that man upsets me.” She frowned at him, her sisters nodding in agreement, at least their father wanted them around. “What are you doing in Manhattan John?” Eliza asked.

“Well truly I just wanted to get away from the noise in my home, so I wanted to go where I feel most at peace, and well I got in a carriage to New York.” New York always calmed him, or he supposed (Y/n) calmed him. He hoped he could relax even with her not being here. “I was actually on my way to see (Y/n)’s father, it been a minute since I’ve pestered him with my existence. In all seriousness though, (Y/n) wanted me to see how her father was doing, she says her father’s letters are becoming sporadic and shes worried. So here I am”

“Well John maybe you should fix your coat first, you’ve got a huge hole on the arm, I’m sure Mr. Gavalanch won’t think highly on you if you show up like that. Good luck but me and the girls have to go home before father starts looking for us. Don’t be a stranger!” He waved goodbye watching his old friend leave, maybe he should visit Manhattan more often. Just because (Y/n) was gone doesn’t mean he should avoid the city entirely. He looked at his coat seeing the whole Angelica was talking about, dammit shes right Gavalanch would use any imperfection against him. He made his way downtown, he’s pretty sure he saw a tailor on his way up.

He arrived at “Mulligans Tailor” he walked in happy to see it wasn’t busy. “Sir how can I help you?” The young man behind the register asked him to which he pointed at his jacket “I’m on my way to see my- my father in law and I noticed a hole in my jacket. Is there any way you could fix it now?” He took off his coat and handed it to the tailor “Yes I could fix it, it’ll be 12 pence”

“12 pence to fix a small hole? That’s insane sir.” The man smirked “Sir we provide luxury tailoring here, most of our business comes from British soldiers, so our prices are high for a reason.” “Fine here.” He took out his wallet and gave the young man money. “It’ll be ready in 10 minutes, so you can take a seat.” He gestured to the stool and began working on the coat. “So whos your father in law must be an important man to fix a coat for 12 pence.”

“Well he’s not my father in law yet, I’m courting his daughter. Um, Mr. Gavalanch up on Williams Street.” The boy gasped “Your courting (Y/n) Gavalanch? Well, I thought her father wasn’t giving permission to start courting her. So many of my pals from school have asked him and he’s said no every time.” John shrugged “I didn’t exactly ask for permission.” The tailor laughed, “that makes sense Mr. Gavalanch even said no to Thomas Detuch, his father is rich. With their combined fortune, they could own all of New York.”

“Gosh your a lucky man what I would do if I could get my hands on her-”

“Watch it.” He glared at the boy, no one was going to talk about his girl like that. “Woah man just congratulating you, I don’t have anything to offer a girl like that anyway.” He nodded in reply, he didn’t have enough to provide for a girl like (Y/n) either. The thought saddened him sure his father was respected in Charleston but here in Manhattan, they were no ones. “All done man.” He stood up and approached the tailor “Thanks-”

“Hercules, Hercules Mulligan.” He shook Hercules’s hand “John Laurens, thanks, Hercules. See ya around.” He put his coat on and exited the shop making his way back uptown.

Looking at (Y/n)’s home you’d think it was abandoned, the grass dead, stairs dirty, and (Y/n)’s beloved flowers shriveled. He knocked on the door, looking around the porch, mail on the ground. He picked them up to see 2 from (Y/n) and 5 others from some men, he assumed business partners of Gavalanch.  He knocked again, wondering why the help hadn’t come to open yet, he waited until the door was opened. There stood a disheveled Gavalanch, it looked as if he hadnt shaved in 2 months, his clothes wrinkly. He looked like a bum in comparison to Johns’s neat look. “Laurens? What are you doing here? (Y/n)’s gone.” He stepped out closing the door behind him, not wanting John to see the state of the inside of the house.

“I know Sir, um your daughter wrote me. She asked me to come up and check on you, she states you’ve seen distant in her letters and don’t tell  her anything about how you are doing.” Gavalanch smiled “My girl, always worrying about me. Boy, write to her and tell her I’ll write to her as soon as I get the chance, I’ve just been busy with business, that’s all.” He nodded but something was off, a man John knew his whole life to be a neat, sophisticated looking man now looked like he lived outside for the last 5 months. He started to retreat, “John, does my daughter write you frequently?”

“No sir, she was worried and knew that her friends here wouldn’t want to approach you, so she asked me.” He lied trying to read Gavalanches face, did he buy it? “Okay, after this letter please don’t write her again she needs to focus on her studies.” He nodded making his way out of the yard, “Yes sir, see you around.”

1772 April

My dear (Y/n),

I spoke to your father on my trip to New York, he looked tired to say the least. He assured me he was just overworked, yet if that were the case Id think your father needs to retire. He said he’d write to you as soon as his work allowed it. Don’t fret my love your father will write to you soon, he’s a hard worker and sometimes works can consume men. But they do it to provide for those they love, as I will with you when you return back from the Switz.

On my trip, I saw your dear friend Angelica, and her darling sisters. They grow ten times faster than normal children I swear. Angelica expressed to me how much she missed your company, Elizabeth probably still too young to understand her. I bet you miss her, I remember when she joined us on our adventures, or should I say when I joined you two. I admire your friendship so much.

While in Manhattan I met a friend of my own, a tailor named Hercules Mulligan, he patched my coat and after I spoke to your father we chatted a bit, I told him how I used to visit the city every weekend to be with you, and how now I long to be in the city again. The pace in New York is just so much more exciting than Charleston. I think when you come back I’ll stay for good, to be with you and the city. Any way Hercules offered to let me stay with his family when I want to come visit the city.  

As you might recall I told you my parents were attempting to have one more child, well mother is now pregnant. Shes become ill through her pregnancy, the doctor says after the baby is delivered she will be healthier. I hope that is the case. Well, love I hope you write me back as soon as possible. Remember I hope to see you this summer.

Yours always,

John Laurens

1772 May

“Henry go get your brother” Mrs. Laurens laid on her bed sweaty, weak, and fragile. Her skin sunken, only her bump sticking out. He nodded leaving his mothers beside to find his brother, he looked in Johns’s room seeing no sight of him, he headed out to the garden in their backyard. As his senses told him there was John with a letter in his hand laying on the grass without a care in the world. Everyone but John had pretty much known that their mother was close to death, she woke up every day in pain and rambled nonsense, they assumed only holding on to deliver her last baby. John chooses to ignore the obvious.

His actions the past few months angered Henry. He had been so focused on (Y/n) and her family and his new friends in New York that it seemed like John wasn’t even there. He approached John snatching the letter from his hand “Mom wants to see you.” John stood up snatching the letter back and tucking it in his pocket. “Just say so, no need to get nasty.” He pushed past his younger brother and made his way to his parents room.

“Mother, Henry said you wanted to see me.” He sat down beside his mother, a position that he grew to hate. “Yes Johnny, I have something to give you.” She reached over and handed him a letter “It’s from Martha, your brother gave it to me while you were out and I read it. I know that’s your mail but son from what I read this girl really loves you.” She smiled, she looked down at her left hand and began pulling off her wedding ring. He gasped as she took his hand and placed the ring in his hands. “Mom what-”

“Shh Johnny, my first baby. I love you and I wanna see you happy. And I think we all know after I have my last angel, I won’t recover. I want you to take this and give it to your bride.” She gestured to the letter in his other hand. “Mom don’t say that you’re going to have this baby and raise it. God wouldn’t let you die.” She chuckled wiping the tears that spilled from his eyes. “Sweetie I think God is calling me, it’ll be my time soon. So I want you to stay here and help your father with your siblings, your father could move his business to Charleston and you could work for him here. And Martha and her father could come here and it would bring you closer-”

“Mom no, I don’t want Martha, you know that.” She shook her head “I know, you don’t want her right now. But you could learn to love her John, she’s a great girl.” He stood up wiping his tears on his own, he smiled tucking in his mother, knowing he couldn’t change her mind. “Rest mom, I’ll come to see you after your nap.” She nodded falling asleep quickly. He turned to leave stopping when he saw Henry waiting for him the hallway.  “What?”

“Read Marthas letter, Mother read it to me and well, I know you love (Y/n). But you need to set things straight with Martha, shes… I would call her delusional.” And with that Henry left to his room, John made his way to his, and opened her letter.

Dearest John Laurens,

I found it odd that you haven’t written me back since my visit to your family in December. As you know your mother and I have become close friends, shes assured me you’re very busy with work and your studies. Which I completely understand, I’d expect nothing less of a great man like yourself.

Your mothers told me you’re very shy with your feelings too, so here I am being rather bold to say  I Adore You, John. I know its not very characteristic of me, but your mother says you enjoy that. If you don’t please let me know, I want to be the perfect match for you.

My mother raised me to be a perfect bride for whatever groom would have me. I also wanted to let you know my father one hundred percent approves of you, so it is whenever your ready we can begin courting. Im patient John.

Say hello to your mother for me, and let her know I’ll be around by the end of June. See you soon.

Yours Truly

Martha Mannings

Oh god, what is happening to his life.

1772 June

“JOHN, HENRY! Hurry” John heard his younger sister yell, he sighed as he out his half-written letter to (Y/n) away. He stood up making his way to where he heard her yell. “Mary I was writi-”

“John! We need to go, get to the horses!” His younger brother yelled running past him to their stables. He quickly followed his brother mounting his horse, “Henry what happened?”

“Mother went into labor” He gasped, his mother wasnt due for another month. “I’ll get the doctor, you go find father.” Henry nodded riding away, to find their father while John went the other way to the doctors home.

---

“How’s  your mother?” Their father who was out of breath, arriving with Henry. “The doctors been with her for a couple of hours and the midwife arrived half an hour ago. They said when you arrive to go in.” His father nodded running up the stairs to his wife. For the past hours, all the Laurens kids were hearing were screams and cries from their sweet mother.  “John is mommy going to be okay?” Mary the youngest asked, in tears hugging her brother’s side. “I don’t know Mary.”

“John! Mary of course Mothers going to be okay.” Henry responded trying to calm their siblings. He sat down next to John and took his hand and Mary’s. “We’re going to pray for Mother, Mary do you wanna start?” The little girl nodded, shutting her eyes and began her prayer. John sat there holding hands with his four siblings watching them pray, pray to a God who put their mother in this situation. He sat in silence.

---

“John, John.” He awoke to see his father red-eyed in front of him, he stood up without waking his siblings since they had fallen asleep waiting to see what happened. His father gestured that they leave the room, John followed. “How’s Mother? And the baby?” His father held his oldest son’s shoulder, “The baby, was a boy. He didnt make it, he was gone when he came out.” His father cried hugging his oldest, “And mother how she take it?” He father cried harder, “Father”

“Your mother had to go with your brother.” He stiffened “What?” His father pulled away, “The pain was too much for her, son.” He felt like he couldn’t breathe, just like that. Their savior not only took his brother but his mother. “I need to go, I need air.” He walked out not saying another word to his crying father.

---

Her ceremony was beautiful. He sat by her freshly covered grave, hours after the burial happened. His father and siblings gone, crying inside. He had yet to shed a tear, anger consumed him, why kind of god would kill his mother and baby brother. He stood when he heard footsteps behind him.

“I came as soon as I heard what happened. I’m so sorry I wasn’t here, I wish I could have gotten here earlier but I’m here for you now John.” He ran to her and hugged her. “Thank you for coming Martha.” He whispered, “Its no trouble John.”

1772 July

John, John, John. He was all that was on her mind, why hadn’t he written her? Was he still coming to see her? Did he still want this, her? She paced around her room waiting to see if Anna had any mail for her. It wasnt like John to leave her feeling so helpless.

“(Y/n), I’ve got something from Charleston!” Anna yelled as she made her way up, ‘Oh thank you Anna, thank you!” She smiled kissing both her cheeks grabbing the letter. “After you read your letter please come down to eat (Y/n) you need to eat tonight.” She nodded.

“Of course Anna Ill be down soon.” Anna nodded leaving (Y/n)’s room. She sat on her bed and took a deep breath, this would answer all her questions. To why her love hadnt written her if he was going to travel the sea to see her.

Dear (Y/N)

I won’t be coming to Switzerland, I’m sorry. I’ll write to you soon.

Sincerely

John Laurens

---

I finally edited this! I don’t know how Britains currency worked/use to work so sorry if thats wrong. 

New chapter soon!

[nevermoremagic]

aren’t you forgetting something? - jj maybank x reader

A/N: I’ve been wanting to write fics for JJ ever since I finished watching Outer Banks, but my writing is rusty as hell :) Nonetheless, I really wanted to post something, so here’s a fluffy little drabble!

It’s based on a prompt I found on @otpprompts ! Referenced in the notes at the end.

Pairing: jj maybank x reader

Prompt: You are about to leave for work. JJ asks you if you’ve forgotten anything, and you give him a kiss. JJ turns red and opens his hand to reveal your keys, saying “I meant this, but thanks.”

Warning(s): a bit of swearing, a lot of fluff and cheese

Word Count: 1k

--

“JJ… let go of me, please.” Only a piercing groan in response. Still, the muscular arms remain wrapped around your frame and the tufts of golden hair shoved into your face don’t move the slightest bit.

“JJ,” you whine, squirming in his hold. God, if you were late for another shift at Heyward’s, surely Pope’s father would have your head.

The culprit of your tardiness, the one whose arms have your body pressed tightly against his chest like an octopus, buries his head into the crook of your neck, moaning a mocking “(Y/N)” in response to your whine of protest.

“I’m gonna be late for work.”

“Yeah. That’s the point. So you stay here longer.” JJ’s chin hooks onto your shoulder, and when you turn to give him a pointed glare, he beams at you. The classic JJ smile. The one where your heart skips a beat at the sight. Your glare immediately melts, and instead you sigh and roll your eyes at the whining child you’ve unbelievably called your boyfriend.

Oh, you’d love to stay. In your experience, there’s nothing more blissful than laying in a hammock watching the sunset and feeling the sea breeze brush past you two. And JJ’s built like a furnace, always keeping you warm in his embrace during the windiest of days. It’s days like these where it’s hard to pry yourself away from him.

“Heyward’s going to fire me and I’ll be jobless and broke,” you warn JJ, but also make no move to escape his clutch.

He sucks air between his teeth and furrows his eyebrows, thinking of what you assume to be a solution to this dilemma of yours. Then, his eyes widen as a thought you were expecting to be ridiculous comes to him.

“I’ll be your sugar daddy.”

You scoff. “Oh, please. Your broke ass?”

He lets out an indignant squawk. “Broke? Who are you calling broke? Was the treasure hunt last summer for 400 mil a fever dream to you?”

“Oh?” Your eyebrow quirks. “You mean, the 400 million dollars that’s currently in the Bahamas? That’s the money you’re going to use to pamper me?” You smirk, fondly watching his soft blue eyes narrow at your triumphant teasing.

JJ quiets, shaking his head at the sight of your cocky smirk. Finally, he clicks his tongue, barking a “fine!” before unwinding his arms and springing out of the hammock in an instant, nearly sending you toppling onto the ground.

You gasp in shock, fingers frantically trying to find purchase in the netting beneath you as you cling for dear life. The snickers behind you serve as a reminder of the idiot that nearly sent you to your death. “Asshole,” you mutter, although it doesn’t sound nearly as resentful as you’d like it to be. You’re too whipped for JJ to truly be mad, and you knew it.

It takes a few seconds, but you find your balance and roll off the hammock with ease. You refuse to look at your boyfriend while you begin stomping towards your car, pettiness apparent. Your angry facade can only continue for so long though, as JJ’s happy laughs trail behind you.

“Hey,” he calls, and before you can guess what’s happening, his hands curl around your waist, holding you close. When you look up, you’re convinced you’re staring straight through heaven’s gates.

The last rays of sun peek through the tree leaves and cast a halo of light around JJ’s head, setting his golden tresses aglow. He looks angelic, and the sight sends bursts of love through you; so strong, they make your heart hurt.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” he chuckles, still amused from earlier. His eyes crinkle when he speaks, exuding a boyish charm that you can never get enough of. But what were you forgetting?

“Huh? Oh, right.” Before you can stop yourself, you lean in.

You give him a soft and sweet peck on the lips, smiling as you pull away and watch his cheeks turn into a pale pink. It’s not often that you see JJ so flustered from affection, so you indulge in the sight of his blushing cheeks with satisfaction.

“Uh,” he says, buffering. “I meant these, but thanks.”

Your blood turns over in your veins when he holds out the car keys you left at the hammock in his palms, embarrassment flooding through you.

“Oh,” You say breathlessly, fumbling for the keys. “Oh, right, that.” You laugh awkwardly, still cringing a little from your sudden burst of affection. Too focused on berating yourself, you fail to see the soft smile adorning JJ’s face; eyes soft, heart soft. Too damn soft for the girl in front of him; whom he loves so easily, and who loves him just as much in return.

If you thought your heart could handle any more surprises today, you were definitely wrong. JJ pulls you impossibly closer to him, and he leans in and gives you another kiss on the lips; the kind only a playful, teasing-but-equally-loving-JJ could give. The kind you loved.

When he pulls away, you think you forget how to breathe. You and JJ have kissed too many times to count, and somehow, he still manages to sweep you off your feet every time.

“I’ll see you later,” he murmurs, face inches away from yours. You can only nod in response while your breath is - quite literally - stolen. “Love you.”

“Love you too,” you say, but it sounds too airy, as if your head was stuck in the clouds.

JJ grins at the sight of you - wide-eyed and a little spaced out. With a final peck on the forehead, he unwraps his arms from your waist and saunters back into John B’s shack, turning to shoot you a final wink before he disappears through the front door.

If anyone asks, you won’t admit it, but it did take you a few seconds to process where you were and where you were supposed to be. And like the typical lovesick fool, a dazed, euphoric grin adorned your face once you were reminded of the work shift you still had to cover. It was a happy grin that danced on your lips when you arrived at Heyward’s, a grin that Pope was quick to make fun of once you walked into the shop, because he knew there was only one person who was able to put such a lovestruck, happy smile on your face.

-

Notes:

lol the ending was shite

sorry if it’s garbage! again, I haven’t written in a while, so it might sound a little clunky.

thanks for reading anyways!!

Original prompt: Person A is about to leave for work [or insert any other suitable event/place]. Person B asks them if they’ve forgotten anything, and Person A gives them a kiss. Person B turns red and opens their hand to reveal Person A’s keys/wallet/etc., saying “I meant this, but thanks.”

[qqueenofhades]

I WATCHED TIMELESS BECAUSE OF YOU? UNSPOILED NAIVE AND FULL OF HOPE?ALWAYS LOOKING FOR MORE FLYNN CHARACTER ARC AND LUCY4S TOO AND TO SEE THIS SHIP BLOSSOM BECAUSE OF COURSE I STARTED TO SHIP THEM AND NOW I'M IN MIDDLE OF SEASON TOO? THE COUCH SCENE AND I CAN'T EVEN AND NOW I'M SPOILED AND I'M SO PISSED AND HEARTBROKEN FOR FLYNN AND GARCY LIKE WHY I DON T EVEN DARE TO CONTINUE TO WATCH IT S SO PAINFUL AND UNFAIR,WHYYYYYY,,? also lyatt endgame ? how to the no ? liked them as friends, whyyyy ?

Oh dear. You sweet summer child.

(Note: Below follows a bit of a Rant ™ on a two-season cable television show that was cancelled over a year ago. Feel free to keep scrolling, especially if you are a fan of the ship that ended up as endgame on said show.)

First off, I 2000% feel your pain, because I will legitimately never forgive the Christmas…. whatever that was (there’s a reason we call it the Abomination). It basically got the ball rolling on 2019 being the Year of Horrible Endings For Shows You Once Loved 11 days early, and yes, it was because of the hatchet job they did on…. pretty much everyone, but especially Flynn/Garcy. It was also spectacular in the way it forced Lyatt, which had always been a painfully obvious, predictable, the-writers-clearly-want-this-to-happen-but-whatever basic white het ship, at the expense of everyone, particularly their OWN GODDAMN HEROINE, Lucy Preston. Basically, at the end of season 2, they realized they’d written themselves to a place where Garcy had developed more naturally, far more interestingly, with many more layers of character dynamic, the COUNTLESS TIMES Flynn and Lucy had parallel moments, the unique connection they had with the journal, the extra layer of enemies-to-friends-to-lovers, etc, and… junked it so they could Stick To The Original Plan (because everyone who watched the pilot knew they wanted Wyatt/Lucy to happen). Not only that, they comprehensively destroyed everything that had ever been special or meaningful to Garcy, killed Flynn in the lamest way imaginable, and turned Lucy into a Stepford Wife. This was because the last episode of the Abomination was by the one writer who was constantly up on Wyatt’s jock and insisting that he had never done anything wrong, even though he was a soggy-white-bread, pity-me, bland AF, undeveloped, whiny mess of toxic masculinity in s2 (after being inoffensive enough and mildly likeable in s1). And as a result, we got… we got that. It’s 9 months later and I still randomly just get these…. WAVES of pure fury if I think about it for too long. So yes. That is what happened.

(Also, Abigail and Goran had ten times the chemistry, while barely even touching, that Abigail and Matt did, even when they were Trying Really Hard to act explicitly romantic scenes. Oops.)

Anyway. That’s why I hate canon Wyatt with the burning passion of a thousand fiery suns and can’t even stand him in fic unless he is a) not a whining douchebag and b) far, far, FAR away from Lucy in any romantic sense of the word. (It is to my own surprise that I actually have some feelings about him in the All Souls trilogy, but then, I can fix him. So yes.)

BUT THE GOOD NEWS IS….

THERE ARE OPTIONS!

First off, I do recommend watching episodes 2x06-10, because they have some of the best Garcy of the series (especially 2x06 which is like a Garcy fever dream). Then after you watch 2x10, “Chinatown,” do not touch the Christmas special, do not pass go, do not collect $200. Hasten ye directly to:

…. @timeless-season-three….

and BE HAPPY.

That is a full 13-episode season 3 which I organized and served as the showrunner and writer, and I can promise it will be what you want. Go explore the blog and click around, because it was run like a real show, with episodes dropping weekly on 8pm on Sunday night, a midseason hiatus, breaks for other events, etc. There is art, press releases, advance reviews, recaps, etc – in short, everything that you would get for a real show, as much as we could provide. The episodes obviously aren’t filmed, but they’re available to download and read in script format, it picks up directly from the end of 2x10, and develops everything as realistically as possible in the manner of an actual TV season (written by competent people, ahem). Season 4 remains a wanna-do-it-maybe possibility, if not one that will happen this fall because of my ridiculous workload.

Anyway. Yes. This is what you need. Trust me.

[deedeehazard]

Circus of Freaks (CoF) OC

(This is gonna have mistakes and I just made this OC like minutes ago-)

Name: Chloe Ferrell

Gender: female

Sexuality: Bisexual prefers men

Height: 5'10 -keep in mind women back then were like 5'2 or so, so Chloe is like a giant during this time-

Weight: 148 LBS

From: Down in the South America

Accent: Southern but not thickly Southern

Outfit:

(I chose this dress because I wanted something similar to what I wore to a wedding as a child which to me was gorgeous and absolutely stunning) Chloe does not wear shoes she is looked down at by women and men for the way she is being barefooted all the time but she hates shoes can't convince her to wear any.

Hairstyle: Unlike other women with all the weird painful looking hairstyles and all the accessories they had in their hair Chloe didn't wear one accessory or had a fancy hairstyle she just left it down which most didn't mind since they're stunned by her natural curly wavy hair (and quite frizzy)

(Here's an example except her hair is dark brown colored)

Ethnicity: Mixed white and native

Since there was LOTS of racism back then (and still is) some people would avoid or look in loathe at Chloe mainly in the summer when she gets tanner and also darker making the native show more obviously but still she's more white than native she knows that for sure so she is more paler but peachy skin toned

Birthplace: Oklahoma which also known as Indian territory Chloe does not tell where she is from to people she only and always says "from the South" Or "From America" Since she's now in England with her older half sister living together

Age: 22

Eye color: brown

Wide lips with a little chubby body but slim and lengthy with a bit of curves and big bondongas (˵ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°˵)

When Chloe was able to finally live on her own and away from her broken messed up family even though she loved them with all her heart she just needed to get away. But hearing from her older half sister Allison she decided to travel with her to England and live with her there. When finally arriving and getting adjusted Chloe hears about the freaky circus full of freaky people and "creatures" So she decided to stop by and look at the place. Once reaching destination she immediately sees the first freaky people Etch and Dalien the conjoined twins. When Etch flirts with her and telling her he could let her in for free if she gave him a kiss and astonishingly it worked she only kissed him on the cheek being the heart of gold and couldn't say no person she is she did (not to mention already taking a small liking to Etch by his voice and looks) When inside she takes her seat watching the show they gave seeing Half boy, Goat girl, Cannibal Twins, and knife woman along with Etch and Dalien she was very fascinated and stunned but tried best to keep the expressions she had not too obvious as she did see them freaks but more like just different from normal people and stood out she didn't pity or seen them the way others did. After the show the freaks did noticed that the rest of the audience seemed disgusted or thought of Chloe as a freak keeping distance away from her and whispering to one another since she seemed like a giant to women and even some men and for as a weirdo no shoes not really dressed like the people there. When everyone left Chloe stayed waiting for all to leave but was stopped by the conjoined twins as they asked and wondered if she would like to join the circus and surprisingly after persuasion and convincing words she did. They did take her back and had to mark her as in taking a tooth out which she actually needed a tooth removing having a bad cavity so she pulled out the bad tooth herself. Etch and Dalien haven't met anyone like her which no one has anyway, then things have turned now having to be kept in a cage with the others and all she did end up fighting back a bit not liking this a bit but gave in didn't want to cause no trouble anyway she stayed in a bigger cage next to the Cannibal twins and the Morgan twins. Chloe wondered what in the living hell are kids doing in here being locked up they didn't seem like the others but kinda thought they're probably hiding something that she doesn't know or can see.

After a bit at the circus being locked up and all now being told the truth of this place and that everyone here was a normal being that was turned into freaks by the brothers she was scared for her life. She was the easiest going out of everyone not much of a talker but when did her voice was shy and soft quite skittish. She didn't argue or say anything bad to Ringy, Tickets or the Michelson twins and went along with everything causing no trouble. She would be in the ticket booth with Tickets helping give out tickets to customers and would chit chat. Sometimes Ringy and Chloe talked a bit and even Etch would talk with her when at the ticket booth. Chloe would chuckle and have a little smile from Daliens terrible puns and the funny things Tickets would tell her, and when Ringy told her about the Michelson twins of how they were homeless and all she felt very sorry and terrible for them couldn't blame them for becoming like this since they had a terrible life so couldn't forgive what they done but give another chance and forgive them. Chloe was more interested and awe by Ringy which he also awed her finding her mysterious as well and stunning for the hair and the way she dresses differently and mainly for the size of her. Whenever locked up she would do her best to make the others laugh and smile and comfort the others mainly interacting with the Morgan twins, Halfy and the Cannibal twins she was seen sensitive and very sweet lacking backbone and a heart of gold by all the others. Goaty and Chloe didn't get along well both having anger issues and easily aggravated/irritated. She really loved Igor and Blake being the child and baby fever woman she is liking to interact with children. When they're fed Chloe had an amazing appetite eating like Dalien but didn't seem to gain a pound really and would even receive apples from Etch which would make her face and heart flutter a bit. When the Morgans asked about Chloe's story and all how she came here and England she told most some of her life which was got the others attention. As a child when only 5 her mother was murdered being motherless most of her life, then having a bit of the Cinderella story of father finding another woman the "step" Mother and step siblings a older step sister and younger step brother which she saw them as siblings but didn't see their mother as her "step" Mother only calling her by her name, her papa emotionally and mentally abused her and the family being a German and whatever else he was part of alcoholic he was but Chloe still loved him wholeheartedly and dearly for he was still a loving silly papa he was being the one that mainly understood him. And that the family was loving silly and crazy ofc but also broken and messed up growing up in violence seeing her own family members would argue and even fight as getting older. Was traumatized by it and also by a man when 15 that always liked to be too close to her and had to put his hands on her always staring at her and talk to her in creepy manner putting his lips on her face once and her hand(s) seemed to target her then her younger sister since Chloe was older. He was a crazy man too fighting and argue with the air and talk to literally the air when there's no one there. And grew up lonely and distant not really having friends and all and growing up in poverty close to being homeless. The freaks really were heartfelt and sorry feeling pity for her and so did Ringy and the etch and Dalien who overheard and stood by the tent listening. Chloe would sometimes even stay up whole nights or sleep not well like others having insomnia couldn't even stay asleep always waking up having dark circles under her eyes.

(SPOILER WARNING IF DON'T WANT SPOILERS DON'T CONTINUE!! THIS CCONTAINS CHAPTER 9 ENDING BUT DIFFERENT)

When the Morgans broke free out the cage and free the others Chloe kept guard and watch as she also had to distract them for the others as they all quietly escaped as knife woman stayed behind to get revenge on Tickets which she did Chloe had to fight back and persuade them they could live with her and her sister and have better lives and be happy she in tears also a bit blushing mess confessed her feelings to Etch and all wanting them to start over and that they could put all this behind them taking his gun throwing it away and hugging them trying not to sob a wreck from almost at death and from the overwhelment of what happened seeing what happened to Tickets feeling sad he's gone now, enjoying his company when she could. But she did convince them as they both had their moments being at finally peace and quiet ( (˵ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°˵)) then Chloe gets a smooch from Etch and yea romantic moment then yuh happily ever after they lived with Allison and Chloe living together happily as would visit and see the others after their escape to see how they're doing now. Happy ever after TEEHEE the end LMAO-

(please no hate I spend like 2 hours non stop on this!! -😭😭)

Circus of Freaks and all the characters belong to @kibadoglover45 ! Go read her comic and go support her Patreon if you can and see her other content!

[savinscripts]

Frost Flowering (GOT AU)

❝ Love is the bane of honor, the death of duty. What is honor compared to a woman's love? What is duty against the feel of a newborn son in your arms ... or the memory of a brother's smile? Wind and words. Wind and words. We are only human, and the gods have fashioned us for love. That is our great glory, and our great tragedy. ❞ 

  - George R.R. Martin, A Game of Thrones

Faye Lacroy shivered beneath her cloak as a gust of wind blew beneath it and up the back of her riding leathers. The journey had been pleasant enough, until it had started to get cold. The warm sun and cool breezes of the Southern Plains had long ago been left behind, replaced by forest and rivers and flurries of snow. The drifts were small, and the tree still green. The rivers still ran strong and the creeks and ponds still shimmered brightly in what sun peeked through the clouds. It was beautiful in it’s own way. But Faye knew it wouldn’t last. Not when they ventured into the true North. She’d been once with her father. As a young girl. There was no real green where they were headed. Only snow and ice and rock. And if the men of the North were anything like the land itself, Faye didn’t expect a very warm or pleasant welcome. Though perhaps the more pleasant - and she used the term loosely - weather of the river region would thaw some of the harshness out of the Northmen.

Faye sighed, shifting in her saddle. She didn’t want to be making this trip. It was nearing harvest season back home, and with her brothers gone there was no one to oversee it but her and her father and a few trusted men. She hated not being there to help.

But the Tyrells had called for them. After being insulted and scorned by the Lannisters, the great house at Highgarden has pulled back from the golden lion, and sought out better allies. As her father’s only living child, and the only heir of House Lacroy of Burning Rock after her one remaining brother’s death from fever, Faye had the duty of representing her house and leading their bannermen North, heeding the Tyrell’s call to arms.

Resistant to her father marrying her off for interhouse relation building, Faye had earned a reputation as being afflicted with everything from warts to greyscale to looking like a hedgemaid. She was only in her early thirties, but most women had married and birthed several children already at Faye’s age. Stories said she was harsh-looking and leather-skinned; that she looked like a man and had hair shorn short as the fuzz on a peach; that her chest was flat and her womb barren, and that was why no man would have her. But that was far from true.

Faye was tall and shapely, with long hair the color of ripe wheat, and skin that was burnished bronze by the southern suns. She sat a horse as well as any soldier, and could use both sword and bow from the saddle, though she preferred the bow. Her father had raised her right alongside her brothers, learning to hunt and fish and learn the ways and strategy of war. Probably because her mother had died when Faye was small, and her father hadn’t had the heart to turn her away when she asked to come with him and the boys.

So now she was riding towards RiverRun, to meet with the newly appointed King in the North, Rob Stark himself. The only Lady among the Lords Hightower, Tarley, Fossway, and Rowan. All of which barely acknowledged her beyond the required formalities and out of respect for her father.

“Fuck, it’s cold,” Faye said to her handmaiden, who rode alongside her on a big bay gelding.

“We’re not even in the real cold yet, m’lady,” the younger woman said. “This is just a dusting. Wait ‘til the drifts are high as your head.”

“Gods save us,” Faye shuddered, but smirked. It didn’t last long, as from up ahead the call to halt rang out. “Wait here,” she said, and spurred her horse to the head of the line, waiting to see what the commotion was about.

Stefan Savin had been sat outside his tent honing the edge of his blade when the scout came pounding through the war-camp set up around the outskirts of Riverrun after their most recent successful series of battles against the Lion. Jaime Lannister their prisoner, the Kingslayer, pride-hungry fool that he was, baited successfully into a trap within the boundaries of the Whispering Woods followed by a swift demolishment of the remaining Lion’s forces- taken unawares at the Battle of the Camps.

The mood in camp was mixed, jubilant but sombre considering the harrowing news of Lord Eddard Stark’s death at the hands of the most recently crowned King Joffrey first of his name though, the event in turn had spurred the crowning of Robb Stark, King in the North and declaration of independence from the rest of the seven Kingdoms. Fane liked the boy well enough, was reminded of his father by his steadfast nature in a way but there was no denying the fact that Robb was still only fifteen and whilst having proven himself a capable warrior and leader there was no denying that the mantle handed to him was a heavy one. Though he’d been handling matters diplomatically, as such with arranging a marriage to one of the Frey daughters to secure their passing at the Twins. Where the Weasel had gotten the notion he was worthy of a royal marriage was beyond him and most other Lords but there was little outward grumbling about such things. This mantle was one he’d been reluctant to take up, further proof that perhaps he would indeed make a capable King for these people so often misunderstood by their Southern counterparts, who were so taken with the flights of fancy, silken dresses, endless bards and sweet summer wines. The North was a mysterious and unforgiving place to those summer children, and its inhabitants born and raised with a grit not well comprehended. Their religion even less further understood.

But the North was his home, born the eldest heir to Alistair and Katherine Savin (formerly of House Manderly) with a younger brother who stewarded with House Umber, widower to Eddara Tallheart along with their stillborn son and ancestral links to House Stark it was easy to say the North was very much in his blood. His people. His home. His life. Like the other Northern Lords he would fight until his last breath until he saw it secured and freed from the Capitol so far South and full of shit that it was almost incomprehensible why they even allowed the person sitting on that throne of swords to rule the North anyways. The Starks had bowed to dragons but where were those dragons now?

Dead. Dead and gone an age ago now.

Either way, something had a scout hurrying through the gates like someone had set his breeches on fire and Fane was quick to pursue the young lad on his flight through the castle, stepping into the back of the makeshift throne-room where Robb Stark sat with a bronze crown nestled on his auburn curls. Automatically, Fane sought out the corner of the room out of the way to observe the goings on.

“Your Grace! Your Grace! I beg a word!” the young mud-brown haired scout wheezed as he pushed through the congregation of Lords drawing attention and turning heads by the sudden intrusion on discussions about their continued pursuit deeper into the Westerlands. To poke the lion and try to get Sansa and Arya Stark freed along with the remains of Ned Stark returned.

“Yes Darrin?” the young wolf’s voice cut across the mutterings.

“Tyrell banners, spotted riding along the Red Ford -- Mace Tyrell riding at the head of their columns with a wheel-house followed by Lord Fossoway, Lord Hightower, Lord Tarly, Lord Rowan and Lady Lacroy.”

Murmurings a mixture of outrage and disbelief stirred from the assembled crowd with the given information remarks of “traitors” “turn-cloaks” “green-boys” “summer knights” all amongst the various insults thrown about.

“I say we tell them to turn around ‘n’ go right on back to where those boy-fuckers come from” Lord Bolton declared getting a murmuring of ayes going up, “we don’t need green-boys to fight our wars.” Several other such remarks were made, and Robb listened to each Lord in turn.

Eventually, Fane stirred from his corner eyeing the other gathered Lords “Your Grace, if I might have a word-- I know our pride runs deep, but consider this: the numbers of the Reach by far outweigh the Lannister forces, their gold supply is almost comparable too and their harvest the largest yield seen in the Seven Kingdoms…” he was drawing more heads and attention as he stepped forwards through the crowd which parted until he stood at the front not minding the collective sets of eyes upon him whilst he spoke. “To insult the Warden of the South by turning him away would be a mistake I believe…” a chorus of agreement and some mutterings rose behind his back but Fane persevered “they have journeyed a long way to come here, you once sought an alliance with King Renly-- let them come and make their requests… Entertain them, listen to them, charm them if needs be but allow their party entry… We outnumber them, it’s not as though they’ll be foolish enough to try anything in our walls and if they do… We’ll teach them a lesson for it.” That earned a bout of laughter and rap of cups against long-tables in support. “But, your grace turning them away would be a grave mistake I believe.”

Robb’s bright Tully-blue eyes studied him from where he sat, taking every piece of advice and Catlyn also stepped forward to speak something in Robb’s ear. He seemed to make his mind up, “very well… Lord Savin, considering this was your proposal collect your men and ride to intercept their bannermen… Escort them here safely and we shall hear what it is they have to say.”

With the orders issued, Fane bowed low quickly “aye you’re Grace” and with that he turned and headed to gather his men.

Soon enough, Fane was astride his large 15-handed destrier leading the band of his men along the cobbled trails South along the banks of the Red Ford towards the last-known location of the knights from the Reach. The weather here was by far warmer to what he was used to back in Blackspire located on the shores of Long Lake and he was dressed in black leathers with some of his steel armour strapped on a black cloak draped about his shoulders his familial clasp hanging heavy on his chest. His band of men numbering twenty in total dressed similarly, plain and boring by Southern standards with their fancy colours and patterned clothing but these were no men of light entertainment, nor was this his full force just a band to safely see the Lords to their destination. Eventually, in the distance Fane spotted the familiar green banners and golden roses decorating them and spurred his horse on the thunder of hooves at his back as they approached slowing as they approached the rotund Mace Tyrell sat astride his horse infront of a decadent green and golden leaf wheelhouse containing his daughter and her handmaids. “Lord Tyrell,” Fane greeted giving a small dip of his head “I’ve been sent by the King in the North to escort you on your journey to Riverrun… I hope the journey has treated you well so far.”

Mace took one look at the young man who looked nothing more than a ranger to him, with no banners to to indicate his House sniffed a little down his nose and seemed to bluster a little about being Warden of the South and how he deserved a proper escort. That is before remembering himself and nodding “ah-- well, yes… Yes it’s been long but soon enough I’m sure it’ll be worth it to see the infamous Young Wolf! My Margy, she’s heard all the stories and is quite taken with him…”

“Aye, I’m sure” like most other maidens, but he left that unsaid as the other Lords rode up to see what was going on though he did pick out two women amongst them and his dark eyes lingered on them momentarily. It seemed like an age since he’d seen a woman after marching to war but such thoughts were soon replaced by courteousness or what were considered courtesies in the North “well-- no point freezin’ your balls or tits off here chin-wagging.”

That earned a scandalised look from a few of the Lords present who mumbled a few things about “uncouth savages”, “no manners” and “how dare they speak in such ways in the presence of women.” Either way from his own men it earned a rumble of laughter as he turned a tight circle his men who recognised what he wanted without him needing to give a direct order and riding to form two columns either side of the Lords. Soon enough they were on the move once more with Lord Tyrell droning on and on and on to anyone who would listen.

Though Fane eventually fell in beside the blonde and the other dark-skinned women beside her he’d noticed amongst the assembled Lords, “Lady Lacroy aye?” he glanced back over at Mace Tyrell who was still talking “I’m surprised none of you have fallen asleep yet listening to that drone.” Which earned a snicker from her handmaid though she stifled it with one hand and tried to keep a straight face.

Faye had seen the bannerman coming, rows of horses and armor and proudly thrust out chests covered in leather and mail. She’d waited, watching as Lord Tyrell and his daughter were greeted first, as they should be, by a man in black leathers. She could hear the Lord’s booming voice from where she sat on her dapple grey stallion, who pranced beneath her as the ranks of men started to file alongside them. The ranger’s - for that’s what she took him for - words merely caused Faye’s eyebrow to raise. Raised the only girl among three brothers, not much shocked her. Even less offended her. And if there was one thing she hated, it was men thinking she was some delicate flower like Margaery Tyrell. Someone who needed protecting. She loved Lady Tyrell, thought her an intelligent and resourceful woman, but she was no fighter. She was a rose. And Faye was the thorn.

Faye gave a roll of her eyes as Lord Tyrell kept talking. She turned her horse back to where her own men rode, taking her place at the front of the line as they headed towards Riverrun. She’d noticed the black clad ranger as he’d taken up a spot next to her, her horse trying to nip at his. A sharp, firm tug on the reins pulled him back into line, though not without an excess amount of tail flicking and head tossing. “Show off…” Faye muttered to the animal as she looked to her handmaiden as she tried to cover her laugh. “Yes,” she said in answer to the man’s question, though she only gave him a small amused look at his comment. “And you are…?”

Lord Mace Tyrell’s reaction was almost comical, how he could barely seat his horse and almost fell off in his bluster and commotion not that Fane made any real effort to correct him that he was speaking to an anointed knight. There was no real point, nor was it worth the effort to correct him even if he was tempted to see Mace grow even more red in the face. Soon enough the party was on the move again, making their way along the track which wound through open plains, forested trails but the rush of clear water at their sides a constant companion. The nature in itself was beautiful and Fane found himself breathing in the air as the wind brushed through his raven locks.

The departure of the woman was well-noted by Fane who keenly eyed the gathering of nobles in front of him and he was curious to learn more of her. After all, he’d heard of Brienne of Tarth even Arya Stark was a little spit-fire more interested in shooting bows than stitching threads. Falling into place alongside the two women his own steed merely nickered and gave a slight jerk of his head nostrils flaring as hers tried to nip him. Though both seemed to eventually settle with some direction from their respective riders although no such remark or comment was made by Fane as Faye did. The look was some sort of success he supposed, just a small quirk at the edge of her lips but he was interested in her. The only remaining heir to her house or so he knew from his studies.

“Stefan, of House Savin” again not that he bothered to clarify that he was Ser Stefan, Lord of House Savin after all who was he to correct these generally pompous Lords who looked down their noses at him. Whether she would figure it out was the puzzle after all or would it take a revelation back at Riverrun. Though something gave him the feeling this one was different, hence his curiosity. “Long journey I hear, King’s Landing to Riverrun… No hassle from the Lannister’s along the way?”

“It’s a pleasure, Stefan of House Savin. You’re already more agreeable company than most.” She didn’t presume that he was a Lord, but merely took him at face value. He seemed a ranger, and a ranger he would be. Besides, he didn’t seem to have a stick up his ass, and he had what seemed like a fairly decent sense of humor. And he was talking to her instead of leering at her or staring at her tits. He couldn’t be a Lord. At least none that Faye had ever met.

“No more than usual,” Faye said to his questions about the Lannisters. “They couldn’t very well hold us captive. Though I hear the Queen Regent wasn’t entirely happy with Lady Margaery. But what does make Cersei happy these days? Besides her brother’s cock?”

“M’lady,” Catarina, Faye’s handmaiden, said in a quiet hiss of shock.

“What? I doubt our companion has never heard the word ‘cock��� before, seeing as how he possesses one.” Catarina gave her another look, and Faye turned back to Stefan and sighed. “I apologize for my choice of words. And if I offended you.”

“Aye, I’d hope so, I know when to stop talking to stop company falling asleep” he lowered his voice so as not to let the other Lords riding nearby overhead “but call me Fane most do after all” Fane said as he righted himself in his saddle raising a hand to push back his hood letting it fall about his neck as he grasped the reins of his mount. His  features that were formerly cast in partial shadow revealed. His attention for the most part was on the woods and forest surrounding them, always vigilant for bandits or others out to try and cause hassle. You never could be too careful after all and he’d been charged with seeing them safely escorted after all.

Fane barked a hearty laugh at her joke turning a few heads in their direction with the sound, Fane ignored them instead opting to look at Faye with a mirthful grin that settled over his features. The grin only grew as her handmaid tried to get her to tone it down and the conversation that came after. “It’s a valid question” Fane turned his head aside and spat at the ground “still that brotherfucker’ll get what’s coming to her in time.”

He waved his hand at her apology, “no need, you’re right and what’s there to be offended about” though it did leave him eyeing her thoughtfully for a few moments. “I’m getting the feeling you don’t fit in all that well where you come from, aye? Are you sure you ain’t a Northerner?”

Faye gave a tip of her head. “Well, Fane, you have a pleasant voice at least,” Faye noted, “unlike some. Braying jackasses are more tolerable to listen to than half these windbags.” The way men droned on and on over the most ridiculous things ate away at Faye’s nerves. Who gives a shit if so and so’s castle in three quarters of a mile away instead of a half mile? Who really cares if the horse you’re looking at is 15 hands or 15 hands and an extra inch? Does it really matter? No. Not in the grand scheme. But men always had to fight over everything. Castles, lands, horses, honor, women.

Anything and everything was worthy of going to war over.

Case in point, and the reason for Faye being here now. Though at least this cause was a good one, and at least what she’d heard of King Robb had been positive so far. Other than he was young. Though youth hardly meant anything these days. She turned her head at his bark of laughter, shooting Catarina a look as well that said ‘see? He thinks I’m funny.’

“That she will,” Faye agreed, hands tightening marginally on her reins. “I’m glad the Tyrells finally saw sense. Though it took someone hurting their precious pride to get them to jump ship and find a better ruler to serve. Even if he is just a boy.” Faye’s words weren’t said with disrespect. It was merely a statement of fact. “Cersei Lannister has had a long time to grow into the evil cunt that she is. Let’s hope the King in the North knows that. Because she’ll cut off his head and put it on a pike to decorate her garden. Just because she can.”

They rode on down the trail, the sounds of the river and the sounds of horses’ hooves and jingling tack drifting back towards them. A gust of cold wind kicked up Faye’s cloak and made her shiver slightly. “No. I don’t,” she answered after a moment. “And no. I’m not a Northerner. It’s bloody cold here. I’m a Southern girl, born and raised. I’m not made for the ice and the snow. But I’ll bear it gladly,” she said, looking at him again. “If it means an end to tyranny.”

“A pleasant voice?” he echoed a little surprised but pleasantly so, “it’s been awhile since I’ve heard someone tell me anything like that… Been a while since I’ve heard anything half so nice, so thank you m’lady” he dipped his head in a small bow. If there was one thing he knew it was that more often than not men were stupid, after all when Robert had been wearing the crown who had been pulling the strings? Not that such measly things bothered him so far North but still, the point stood what were Kings and crowns good for besides getting people killed.

He made a slight sound of agreement, “from what we hear in the North you Southerners don’t mind being pricked all that much either so I’m sure it’s nothing they can’t nurse” though there was the matter of how easy the Tyrells and their bannermen turned their cloaks. “Seems to me they also do a lot of jumping ships,” there was a pointed look that came to his onyx eyes “answer me this m’lady and answer me frank why should we even consider whatever Mace Tyrell has to offer? How do we know he isn’t about to turn coat the moment things start going awry?” Much as her own words were spoken plainly his were too, a genuine sense of curiosity behind them and no doubt it was a question this band of Southerners would grow used to hearing posed to them.

Fane merely gave a slight lift of one shoulder, “aye, I think we’ve got a decent measure of her considering what she did to Ned Stark, held two of our own hostage and refused to return Lord Stark’s remains to us.”

Fane hardly seemed bothered by the weather, it was so warm down here in comparison to where he was from that the multitude of leathers seemed hardly worth it if not only for the sake of defence. His hair ruffled as he looked aside at her “aye, thought as much. Mind you we don’t get so many lady-knights like you, last I heard of was Brienne of Tarth or the women of Bear Island.” He mulled over her words before he spoke again taking a moment to pull a leather flask from his belt using his teeth to uncork it “still, I can respect that,” he took a sip before he offered it across. “won’t fill your belly but, it’ll warm you ‘n’ make you forget you’re hungry.”

“No need to thank me for the truth, but you're welcome.” she said, adjusting her cloak where it had blown over her shoulder. It was held together at her neck by two Phoenix, the sigil of Faye’s house, clasping beaks. Faye had thought Robert Baratheon a fool. At least the Mad King had had madness as an excuse. Robert had just been a slothful, disgusting womanizer. It was only his lifelong friendship to Eddard Stark that gave him any credit at all in her eyes.

Faye hummed at Fane's words, neither confirming or denying his opinion. But then came the matter of Mace Tyrell and his see-sawing loyalties. It was a valid question, the one he posed, and Faye took her time before answering. “Because Highgarden has more money than anyone in the Seven Kingdoms. Because Mace Tyrell lacks a lot of things, but pride isn't one of them. He won't go back to Cersei. Not now that she's scorned him. The North need only make him feel important. Useful. Make him think good ideas are his ideas. And of course offer him full protection, the bloody coward, and you'll have him.”

Faye's face darkened at the mention of what had happened to Lord Stark. “That's bad blood she's calling up. He was a good man. He didn't deserve to die. He was a scapegoat. An example. Cersei waving her cock.” Fane knew all this, but Faye couldn't keep it to herself.

She gave a small laugh as he compared her to Brienne of Tarth. “I'm no true lady knight,” she said. “I'm barely a lady. My father raised me just  like he did my brothers. And I could only hope to compare to Lady Brienne or the women of Bear Island. But… for what it's worth… thank you.”

Faye took the offered flask with a nod of thanks, taking a long sip. She coughed a little as she handed it back. “No wonder you Northmen are so hairy… drinking that dragon piss.” She grinned though, letting him know she was kidding as her cheeks warmed from the drink.

“Money’s all well ‘n’ good,” wars were won with money after all “but a man of such means hardly inspires the sort of loyalty and confidence we look for in allies.” If there was one thing that could be said of Northerners is was that they were people of simple means, not all that interested in the politics South of the Neck. They were people who respected strength, strength of mind, strength of physicality and strength of character. Part of the reason they all looked to the Starks, they seemed to have decent measure of all three with justice and loyalty to boot. What more did anyone really want when looking for a new leader than a person who put the people first. Still, Faye echoed the sentiment he’d sold to the Lords earlier and it was a small comfort having measured this Southern Lord well enough to predict that this would likely be a decent course of action. “Still, I suppose we can only hope King Robb will see reason in this.”

Fane’s own features were drawn, neither giving nor taking any of his particular thoughts on the matter though his words spoke volumes about his thoughts of those with political agendas within King’s Landing. He merely huffed a little but made no further comment, the Lannisters, all of them would pay for the insult they brought to the North.

“You carry a sword and bow, you wear armour” Fane countered evenly “Brienne would bluster at anyone daring to call her a lady yet it doesn’t change that you are technically both such.” He meant nothing by the term, if anything it was an acknowledgement to their dedication and skill. “No need to thank me, if you ask me everyone should be able to defend themselves and their homes… But it’s not a commonly shared belief.”

A small smirk curled his lips as she coughed tucking it back into his belt under his cloak, “aye, we need all the warmth we can get. Better than that watered down piss you call ale down South though.”

Faye nodded, agreeing with Fane. “I hate politics,” Faye scoffed, frowning out at the river. “Especially the interhouse politics that say that just because I’m a woman I should want nothing more than to marry a wealthy Lord and have his children. That should be my lot in life. Do you know,” she looked at Fane, “how utterly mind-numbingly boring taking tea is? Needlepoint? I’d sooner stab my eyes out.”

Putting the people first should be a priority of every man or woman that held such a responsibility. But sadly, many simply spoke the words and didn’t back them up. Words and wind. That’s all it was. Until someone showed their true self through actions, Faye would keep her opinions closely guarded. “We can only hope,” Faye agreed once more.

“I do. And I suppose I am. But I’d rather sit here, on my horse, with my bow and sword to protect me than in that carriage.” She tipped her chin towards the one in which Lady Margaery rode. “Not that I fault her for it. We all have roles to play. Places we belong.” Faye’s face tightened, and her eyes grew unfocused. “Or no place at all.” She seemed to realize what she’d said as soon as she’d said it, because her cheeks flamed red. As he took back his flask, she plastered a smile on her face, though it turned more genuine as he teased her back. “I don’t drink ale. I drink wine. There’s nothing sweeter. Or more potent. Except maybe Dornish drink.”

“I don’t understand people who enjoy politics, I mean… I respect those who can turn the system to their advantage but all this backstabbing and treason?” Fane merely pulled a face, like most of his other Lords up here none of them sought any more power than what they each wielded in turn. There was less scheming and cunning because the lives they led relied on their mutual trust and loyalty. Life in the North was unforgiving for the unprepared, and as he’d often heard Ned Stark say himself the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. It was the mentality of the North. They stuck together, it was why he was dubious how these Southerners would fit in. But Faye it seemed understood this mentality better than the other assembled Lords he heard speaking nearby. “I don’t know, but I’ll take your word for it… Though stabbing them out seems a tad excessive and like a waste of a pair of pretty eyes.”

His eyes drifted to the wheelhouse, aware the young Tyrell daughter; the same age as Robb coincidentally and apparently quite the beauty herself rode. Rumour had it she was quite a girl and Fane found himself curious about her but less curious than he was about his current companion. It wasn’t hard to miss the colour flaring in her features at her slip of the tongue, but he let it go not pressing further considering they didn’t really know one another. “You don’t drink ale, we don’t get much Dornish anything where I come from-- I don’t think I’ve ever seen a Dornishman as it is, probably afraid their cocks will freeze ‘n’ fall off considering it’s their prized possession… Wine’s good, but expensive so we tend to save it for particularly special occasions.”

“Yes! I mean… there needs to be a system in place, leaders and people in power who care about the people. Lords and Ladies, Kings and Queens… just be good to each other and the Gods will smile on us. But why must that be all their life is about? For fucks sake… go riding, go hunting, go explore the mountains or the seaside. Do you know how many books are in my father’s library that I’ve never read? How many works of art I’ve never seen? How many lands I've never been to? Gods… people just want war and power and bloodshed. What about… what about life? Love? Adventure?” Faye had dropped her reins now, gesturing with her hands as she spoke. Her mount paid no attention, keeping his steady pace forwards, used to his Mistress’ antics over the years. Faye seemed to catch herself again soon enough though, unused to having anyone but Catarina that would listen to her ramblings. The woman herself was riding along, a small smile on her face.

Though as he said she had pretty eyes, Faye looked over, and it seemed to make her remember herself. She dropped her hands and took up her reins again. “Apologies. I forgot where we were.”

“What man’s cock isn’t his prize possession?” she asked, continuing to look ahead. “And they look the same as any man. Full of pride and deceit and lust. No offense meant to present company. I’m sure you’re an honorable gentleman.” Faye knew better than to judge a man, or anyone, by their outward appearance. Though Fane seemed to speak true. He seemed genuine, and that was a rare thing indeed.

“As it turns out, I just happen to have a few bottles of Dornish red in my supply wagon. Perhaps I’ll share. It’ll keep you warmer than ale, I can promise you that.”

His brow lifted a bit, it seemed as though he’d struck a topic of passionate belief in the woman beside him not that it really surprised him. Though the outburst in itself was a touch unexpected that he would admit. “Part of the reason we named Robb our king, he cares about the North and doesn’t really give much of a fuck about the rest of the seven Kingdoms… He’s our King because we chose him not because he picked up a crown and declared himself a regent.” Whilst he fully supported her belief things in this world simply didn’t work like that. “Love hardly has anything to do with it for nobles.” Her wild gesticulations drew some attention of the nearby Lords who gave a few jeers and turned their heads away but Fane continued to listen with interest.

There was a wry smile on his lips as she apologised and he chuckled, “oh you’re quite alright. Hardly like you don’t speak the truth.”

He gave a small snort of a laugh at her continued barb, ah he did admire that sort of fire and life in a person. “Oh you never know,” Fane shrugged but gave her a bit of a sly grin “I could be an absolute scoundrel for all you know. I’m sure you’ve heard the rumours about us Northerners being... wild and I’m not just talking generally.” There was a mischievous glint in his eyes but he made no particular advance, just light-hearted teasing “Savin roughly translates to savage so… maybe it says something about the people associated with it ‘n’ the Lord of the house himself.”

His interest did perk up however at the mention of wine, “oh see that there, that is the way to a man’s heart. If you are willing to share I’d be fully appreciative of it I assure you.”

“If only everyone could just worry about themselves and their people, help their neighbors, and not have the desire to crush the entirety of Westeros under their heel.” It was a dream, Faye knew, for war to end. She’d only ever been a part of a few small skirmishes, after the death of her brothers, but she didn’t think herself a leader. She certainly was no commander. She merely had the fortune - or misfortune - to be the last of her father’s line. And while her father was still head of house, Faye was in line for his seat. She didn’t want it, she just wanted to live her life in peace, but sometimes, as Fane had said earlier, your family and your house came first.

“A chosen King doesn’t necessarily make him a good one,” Faye said, and left it at that. She would see King Rob for herself, and set her own judgement on the man. “And I’m well aware that love has nothing to do with much of anything in this life. My father’s tried to marry me off three times. To say I strongly protested is putting it lightly.” Her face clouded. She couldn’t run from that duty - because yes, as much as she hated it, it was her duty to carry on her family name - forever. Time was against her now, at her age. She wasn’t old by any means, but most women she knew had married and had children at ten years her junior. Faye just… she couldn’t. Not yet.

“You could be.” She turned to look at him again. “Or maybe not. You don’t particularly look like a savage.” Her gaze took in his dark leathers and his slightly wild hair. “Though I’ve met enough Lords and their men to know that the two aren’t necessarily the same type of person. Though like calls to like, doesn’t it? Perhaps your Lord is a savage. Perhaps he carries a war hammer instead of a sword. Rides a great bear instead of a horse. Wears the skin of his enemies instead of armor. Perhaps he’s a tyrant in his own right. Just less a tyrant than Cersei.”

Faye turned back to the road. “Perhaps,” she said of the wine, but a small smirk lifted one corner of her mouth.

They rode on, chatting back and forth, until the walls of Riverrun came into view. “Bit less impressive that King’s Landing, isn’t it?” she commented, though it was merely in jest. If Faye never saw the walls of that place again, she would die happy. “I suppose this is where we part, Fane.” The company was starting to break apart slightly. “Thank you for your company. I’m sure we’ll see each other again.”

A little piece of Faye hoped so, he had been pleasant to talk to, though she let the feeling flutter away in the cold wind, knowing that the world didn’t work that way. It didn’t work that way at all.

“Well, he’s a damn better one than any I’ve seen in the past generation so I’ll take what we have” he countered with an idle shrug. Robb was fair and just, young yes but with the council of those around him there wasn’t far he could really go wrong. At least not in Fane’s eyes, he was a Stark and that had to count for something. These Southerners would see with time. As she spoke of refusing to marry he looked at her for a long while, but decided to save those questions for another time.

There was a slightly private smile which came at her words about the Lord of his house being a savage but it could simply be passed off as enjoying the weather and scenery of the forest around them. Oh little did she know. “A bear? Oh yes, he rides a cave bear with a great scar down its left eye-- he carrouled that beast and uses it as his mouth just as King Robb rides his Direwolf into battle” he’d heard the rumours the Southerners told of Robb and it was rather laughable even if Grey Wind was indeed almost the size of a smaller mount himself. “I suppose you’ll have to make your mind up when you meet him. Though we have less tyrants between us than you in the South do I’d say.”

As they approached the castle and encampments around it, Fane merely gave a slight shrug of his shoulders “smells less of shit than I hear King’s Landing does.” Still her parting remark earned a smile, “aye, and you’re welcome m’lady perhaps we will…” Oh they certainly would, Fane was sure of that.

With that, Fane spurred his horse on to the head of the party and when they finally entered the courtyard of the castle he dismounted. “My lords, my lady… If you’d be so kind as to follow me, I’m sure you’re weary and we shall see you housed in due time.” His own men dismounted and came to take the horses of the party to be stabled and housed whilst Mace Tyrell went to help Margaery out of her wheelhouse. Fane couldn’t help but take a moment to admire the beauty, which she was for certain with her hair loosely braided in a Northern style he noted. A deliberate act no doubt. Still, no point delaying and soon enough he was walking through to the room where Robb sat with the open bronze circlet nestled atop his auburn curls, handsome no doubt but he wore a stern expression that told little of his thoughts and Grey Wind lurked at his feet. The sight of the wolf startled several of the Southern Lords and a few snickers went up from the Northern lords gathered. After all, there had been plenty of rumour about Robb being a warg, and particularly about the monstrous beast he called a companion.

The Greatjon a great beast of a man, with thick hair and a beard to match stepped forwards his voice booming across the hall “you stand before Robb of House Stark, rightfully declared King in the North and King of the Trident.”

Fane smiled a little at the tall man, bowing gracefully before righting himself and gesturing to each Lord when he introduced them “your Grace, may I present Lord Mace Tyrell, Warden of the South, Lord Fossoway, Lord Hightower, Lord Tarly, Lord Rowan, Lady Lacroy and Lady Margaery Tyrell.”

Robb looked at each Lord in turn but as Lady Margaery was introduced his eyes lingered on her, seeming interested but doing his best to keep his features schooled. He spoke then, his voice smooth and eloquent but with a familiar rough Northern accent “welcome Lord Tyrell, sers, and my ladies” he greeted each in turn before pausing to look aside at where Fane had gone to stand. “Thank you Lord Savin, I appreciate your swiftness with escorting our guests here. I hope the journey wasn’t too unkind?”

“Not at all your Grace, an easy ride if ever I’ve had one” Fane replied with a genuine smile that earned a nod of acknowledgement from the King.

“Good,” he looked aside “Lord Karstark see to it our guests are shown to their rooms and food made ready for them whilst I speak with Lord and Lady Tyrell. Give us the hall sers,” he spoke to his own Lords then before then finally looking to Fane “and Lord Savin, please retire and get yourself some food for your efforts” the Northern Lords filed out, Lord Karstark nodded and gestured for the other Southern Lords and Lady to follow him. Fane also bowed backing up but not before catching Faye’s eye and giving her a slightly cheeky smile as they both departed the hall.

“I can’t argue with that,” Faye agreed. Robb Stark was certainly a better man than most recent holders of such power had been. The Starks had always been a good family. Fair and just. Respected. But not feared. Not like the Lannisters. Who were anything but fair and just. So Faye silently hoped the boy King was all she had heard he was.

Faye only gave a half smile at his story. But again, she had to agree with him about the tyrants. And nodded as such. “It does. There’s air here, air you can breathe and not choke on. Cold air, but good air.” She pushed a strand of hair back from her face, giving him a nod as he spurred his horse on ahead. Faye watched him go, a strange wondering left floundering in her chest.

“Careful m’lady,” Catarina said, moving her horse closer once more. She too watched the receding back of the man in the black leathers. “There’s trouble there.”

Faye looked at her handmaiden, frowning. She and Catarina looked at each other for a long moment before Faye spurred her own horse ahead to meet the others that would be taken to see King Robb. “No… there’s not,” she said over shoulder, the finality of her words ringing through the cold air.

Catarina sighed and shook her head. There’s was always trouble.

A bit later, Faye slid off her horse and he was led away to the stables to be fed and watered and rested, and she fell in line with the other Lords and Lady Tyrell. None of them spoke to her, though Faye inclined to head to Lady Margaery as they saw each other. Inside River Run, Faye’s first impression of Robb Stark was that he looked like a boy. A boy sat in a man’s seat, with a man’s power, and a King’s crown upon his head. That being said, he held himself well, and when he spoke, welcoming them, Faye gave a bow of acknowledgement, just as she had when they’d been introduced a few moments prior by her riding companion.

Who apparently wasn’t a ranger after all.

She met his eyes as they were all asked to leave, and raised an eyebrow at him. It wasn’t until she approached him in the hall, lingering behind the other as they followed Lord Karstark, that she spoke. “Lord Savin, is it? Of Blackspire? And here I thought you were a ranger,” she said so that only he could hear her, though her voice was edged with humor.

The look of dawning realisation upon not only Faye’s features, but the other Lords upon being thanked was rather comical. They all, much like Faye had presumed him to be nothing more than mud under their respective boots just a lowly ranger sent out to get them from point A to B as efficiently as possible and their rather general disregard beyond a passing few words could have been seen as quite the sleight. But Fane was hardly one to kick up a fuss, so long as they minded out of his own business he didn’t really mind all that much what these Southern Lords did so long as it didn’t put his own men and people at risk.

He’d departed upon request of Robb, and had been caught up in a few passing words with Lord Glover about the general state of things before the other Lord grew quiet and said something about speaking later. Sensing another presence he turned a slight grin passing his features as she addressed him correctly. “Aye,” his eyes crinkled a little in mirth “that’s me and well, you’re not entirely wrong. I am a ranger, but I’m a Lord more prominently.”

His humour seemed to mimic her own, “I hope you’re not disappointed that I don’t wear the skin of my enemies as armour or ride a great bear into battle… Bears don’t like me much, unless they’re a Mormont, in which case they’re not half so grizzly.”

Faye didn’t miss the way Lord Glover stopped speaking as she came up behind him and Lord Savin. Her eyes followed the man as he headed off, but she soon turned her attentions back to the man still standing next to her. “It’s not nice to lie to a Lady, m’Lord.”

She looked him over as they walked, the soft swish of her cloak muffling her bootfalls. “Maybe a little. Though I will say that black suits you better than skin. Other skin, that is. Not your own.” Faye huffed. “Nevermind.” A few of the passing Lords gave her a look, even going so far as to look back over their shoulders at her before scoffing and turning away. Faye glared daggers at their backs.

“Why’re you talking to me?” she asked, pulling her cloak tighter around herself. “No one else does.”

“I never lied, you merely assumed I just didn’t choose to correct you” Fane pointed out giving a small shrug of his shoulders. “Plus, it was quite amusing watching you all realise after the fact” he grinned much like he had earlier, by no means offended by the lack of recognitions “and please, it’s Fane. M’lord is so stuffy and pretentious” he shook his head never particularly having been all that fond of the title itself.

His own cloak hung heavy, the material weather-worn but her words caused his brows to raise towards his hairline thoroughly amused by where this conversation had suddenly taken a turn towards. “Oh, I don’t know… I think my own skin looks pretty good, granted I prefer having a drink before we get to that part, though that reminds me you did offer wine if that offer is still going?” He was teasing, and his eyes glittered merrily as they walked not even bothering to pay the other Lords around them heed.

The question was a good one, and he mulled over it. “I like you and find you interesting? I think those are two valid reasons aye? Plus, you failed to recognise me and I feel oh so slighted by that” he was joking having adopted a slightly dramatic tone when he spoke “so, drinks would go a long way to making amends don’t you think, hm?”

“Well, for that I apologize.” Another raised eyebrow was shot his way. “Like to see people squirm do you? Fane?”

As he countered her words, Faye blushed, though she looked away as she felt her cheeks flame, hoping the dim light of the corridor would shield it from him. Though her skin was tanned from the southern sun, she flushed easily. “Perhaps,” she said to try and cover the blush as well. “Though I could say that’s highly inappropriate of you, considering your standing. And considering I’m not wed. Very scandalous.” A few heads turned towards them, but Faye ignored them.

Instead she focused on what Fane was saying. That he found her interesting. “Is that because I’m a novelty for you? Or is that a genuine like? As in… perhaps we could call each other friend some day?” She laughed out loud as he mentioned the wine again. “I see .your game now. You’re only interested in my wine.” They walked a bit longer, a few of the Lords being shown off to their quarters. “If you’d like, I might spare you a bottle. But only if you let me share it.”

“Aye,” the affirmation was drawled and deliberately drawled out that similar glimmer seeming to remain sparkling in the darkness of his eyes “I love seeing people squirm” though the tone of his voice when he spoke that sentiment suggested he really wasn’t just talking about a few misdirections and misconceptions of identity.

His grin became almost wolfish as she blushed, feeling rather satisfied that he could cause such a reaction from her even if it was all light-hearted fun and needling. “I did warn you, my name means uncouth and savage-- if you’re looking for appropriate behaviour I am certainly not the man you want to befriend.” Not to say he was a very scandalous person, though there were more than enough rumours about him in kind that really he didn’t mind all that much anymore. “Have a virtue to protect hm? Though, I could argue that it was you who brought up my skin in the first place” he countered knowing very well he in a way had her on this matter.

“Novelty?” he echoed seeming a little confounded by such a notion, “not at all. No,” he assured growing more sincere then “as I said earlier-- you remind me of several very capable women some of whom I know others only through tales but... I find you interesting because not many really deserve the sort of respect that comes from earning your position considering it’s handed to most like us… not earned…” The last bit was said more quietly, just for her to hear not particularly wishing to offend any of their guests. “I mock you not m’lady. You’ve carved a different path for yourself and that in itself makes me… curious about you. I do, genuinely hope we can be friends if not today then one day… That is if you forgive my highly inappropriate humour.” He had the decency to look wounded for all of a second before his smile soon returned, “who said it was just the wine I was interested in?” he paused but eventually added on “no but seriously, I’m joking, though whether I share or not depends on how good the wine is.”

As Lord Karstark showed the last of the Lords to their rooms he figured he might as well take Faye and Cat to theirs “I’ll show them the way m’lord” Fane said to Lord Rickard who looked between the trio before decidedly washing his hands of them and letting them on their way down the corridor towards a door that he opened and held for the two women.

Faye hummed as they walked, smirking at his humor and how easily it seemed to flow from him. It was unusual to find someone, especially in his position, that took a lighter approach to life. Times were serious, as was his position as a Lord, but life was about more than politics and brooding and barking orders and war. What was all the fighting and death for if not so people could live and prosper and be happy? Faye would argue that point until her last breath. And she didn't care who didn't agree.

She returned his look as her blush faded. “Who said I wanted to befriend you, m’Lord?” she asked. She was teasing him, and using his title merely because he had asked her not to. It was nice to meet someone that spoke to her like she wasn't an imbecile. Like she was more than a pretty face in leathers. “And my virtue is my own, thank you.” In this she spoke true; it was literally her own. She was no trembling waif, but she'd never known the true touch of a man, other than a few fumbling antics in her youth and the occasional - mostly - innocent tryst in her adult years. But for all intents and purposes she was still untouched. Her sheets would still stain red on her wedding night. But that truly was none of Lord Savin’s business, so Faye was glad when the conversation moved on.

She dipped her head. “You're very kind. I never wanted this,” she gestured vaguely at herself. “The responsibility. But… it's fallen to me. And I'll do my best to be the person my house deserves.” Smiling over at him, genuinely this time. “I’d like that. Truly. You intrigue me as well, Fane. A Lord who doesn't think himself the center of the the world. As for your humor, well, it's refreshing. In its way.” The rest of his comments were met with low laughter. “I suppose we'll see then, won't we?”

Faye ignored the disparaging look of Lord Karstark, and they were escorted to their rooms, Fane holding the door for her and Catarina. Faye paused a moment as her hand maiden entered first. “I suppose I'll see you this evening then?” she asked, pulling her cloak around her. “If I don't freeze to death before then.”

There was plenty of seriousness in him, but it was hard not to want to talk lighter topics with someone he hoped to consider a new acquaintance. War had taken its fair toll on everyone and if he was honest, Fane was tired of it. Yet, it seemed there was no end on the horizon and so he trudged on to wherever this road might potentially lead in the end. “You did bring up whether you could call me a friend earlier, so I’d say you did” he pointed out with a hint of a smile playing at his features well aware she was teasing but playing along anyway.

His brow quirked slightly at her words, not sure whether he believed that or not but letting it go anyway. She had no particular reason to lie after all. “None of us wanted this, well, we didn’t want this but what can you do but do as is expected of you.” There were hardly very many successful tales of people breaking the molds and living to tell the tale after all. With Lord Karstark left in their wake he lingered in the doorframe as Faye and Cat entered.

“Aye, m’lady” he dipped his head before casting a look over to the firepit “a fire will help stave off the chill of travel and some food in your belly will help too.” He needed to go and clean up anyway but the prospect of seeing her later did earn a smile, “but aye, I’ll be around for dinner. It’d be nice to speak more with you” figuring this was as good a time as any he took her hand lowered himself into a bow and pressed a kiss to the back of her hand. “Have a good evening ‘til then.” With that said, Fane backed up and turned to head for his own chambers within the castle to get a bath and remove the mud from riding.

“What can you do,” Faye agreed quietly. Her own thought were morosely drawn to the future that would one day be hers. She would have to marry, lest her house die with her and her father. There was no getting around it. Faye had been able to skirt that responsibility for years, but she was growing older, as was her father. Soon there would be only two choices, and even Faye, who hated the idea of marrying for anything other than love, wouldn’t let her house down.

“I’m sure it will.” She let him take her hand and felt herself blushing as he pressed a kiss over her riding glove. “I’d like that. And you as well, m’Lord.” Faye watched him go until he disappeared, and then closed and locked the door behind her. Catarina, who was already taking off her cold and wet things, simply gave her another strange look. “Hush,” Faye said, and that was the end of it.

[michelles-garden-of-evil]

Episode 5 Review: In Which the Horror Begins (+ A Lesson on Irony)

{ YouTube: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 }

{ Synopses: Debby Graham | Bryan Gruszka }

{ Screencaps }

We have reached the end of the first week of Strange Paradise and the real beginning of the fun. I hoped to get to this post a week or two earlier, but I kept having to postpone writing entries for this blog because life kept getting in the way. I’ve also been re-watching episodes from later in the Maljardin arc, because I actually re-watch, screencap, and write commentary on each episode twice before I review.

In the last episode, THE DEVIL JACQUES ELOI DES MONDES, while possessing his descendant Jean Paul Desmond, brought Jean Paul’s sister-in-law Dr. Alison Carr to his private island Maljardin. (I find it amusing how these soaps introduce almost everyone with their full names each episode and include so much exposition about earlier events. I know that it was necessary at the time because most soap opera episodes only aired once and DVRs weren’t invented yet, but it still sounds silly.) In this episode, Alison discovers to her horror what we the audience already know: that her sister Erica is dead and sealed in the cryonics capsule.

The first half of this episode and the way it is written is a good example of dramatic irony. Nowadays, the concept of irony is often misunderstood because of the way certain hipsters in recent years have abused the word, to the extent that few people now know what it really means. The term “irony” actually refers to several distinct devices used in fiction, rhetoric, etc. which all involve a difference between the appearance of or one’s expectations for a situation and the reality:

There’s verbal irony, when someone says the opposite of what they mean: for instance, if Raxl were to sarcastically call Jacques an angel or I were to say that this show is as subtle as a neon pink sledgehammer to the skull.

There’s situational irony, when something goes differently to what we the audience expect: say, Jacques signing his name instead of Jean Paul’s on Dan’s documents while impersonating him, or no one but Raxl and Quito knowing about the temple despite its incredibly obvious “hidden” door. (Had it ever happened, Raxl calling Jacques an angel would also qualify, because she is always so upfront about how she feels about him.)

There’s historical irony, when history turns out to be the opposite of what one predicts: take this early ad for the show that boasts, “Don’t laugh. Wait until you see the ratings.”

There’s cosmic irony, when a character’s fate turns out the opposite to their expectations. This is what happens to the protagonists in the majority of deal-with-the-Devil stories, who are manipulated into signing pacts for things like unlimited wealth or magical knowledge and who trick themselves into thinking that their good fortune will last forever, but who end up damned to Hell when the Devil comes to collect their souls.

There’s Socratic irony, which means feigning ignorance to trick an enemy. This is Jacques’ usual modus operandi when someone tries to unmask him.

There’s romantic irony or metafiction, which is not present in this show at all. Strange Paradise is not meta; it takes itself too seriously.

And then there’s dramatic irony, which applies to the plot of the first half of this episode. Dramatic irony is when we the audience know something that a character does not, but which will influence their ultimate fate.

 Alison came to the island to visit Erica, to ensure that she was alive and well. Jacques disguised as Jean Paul convinced her that Erica was OK and then repeatedly changed the subject and took her on a tour of Maljardin to distract her. Thinking that she must be somewhere upstairs, Alison starts to climb the steps and says, “I’m going to see her. Where is she?”

“She’s not upstairs,” Jacques replies, making Bissits Face™ as a mike shadow passes along the wall. “She’s”--dramatic pause--”below. In the family crypt.”

He looks so sincere. Not.

At first, Alison does not understand and laughs. “What on Earth is she doing in the-” she asks, but then it hits her. Then she realizes that he means that her sister is dead. “No, no, she’s not!” she cries.

“Only temporarily,” says the handsome devil.

“What kind of a man are you? Take me to her!”

He gives her directions to the crypt and then de-possesses Jean Paul, who blacked out while he was possessed and is therefore confused about what is going on. Alison calls for him and he joins her in the crypt. This is Part Two of the big reveal of the ironic twist to Alison, when she discovers the Cryonics Capsule. “You didn’t! You couldn’t!” she screams, thinking that her brother-in-law has frozen Erica alive.

"I love her too much to just allow her to die,” Jean Paul replies, but that does not reassure her. She accuses him of freezing her alive, but he denies it and reassures her that she was already dead. She starts crying and we get the first of many scenes throughout the Maljardin arc where these characters display affection for one another. And with that come even more feels.

Jean Paul/Alison is my OTP.

Jean Paul confesses that he no longer has complete control over himself. “I don't know what I believe, what I accept these strange days,” he says. “Sometimes I don't even realize what I am doing. Something drives me on, some power stronger than me. Some…evil force.” Cut to Jacques’ coffin in the crypt followed by his portrait, because this show’s directors don’t know the meaning of subtlety. “Raxl claims it’s the devil.”

Following this, we get some background information, first from Jean Paul about Erica’s death and then from Raxl about Jacques. I will probably end up referencing the former again in later posts, so I will quote it:

Erica hadn't been feeling well, so Dr. Menkin took some blood samples to the Mainland for tests. She was sitting on that couch just as you are now, when the first attack came. It was devastating. I have never known such fear. Dr. Menkin called it an eclamptic convulsion...Well, I got her up to her room and put her to bed. Dr. Menkin took over but there was very little he could do to ease her suffering...We lost [the baby]. But I couldn't care in that moment. About an hour later, when I was holding her in my arms, she cried out, "no, Jean Paul, no, don't let me go.” Her body felt like a steel spring under compression. It felt like it was almost ready to explode. When the spasm hit her, she arched. There was nothing I could do. Nothing!...All that beauty, all that life. My life, snuffed out as easily as a candle. How I loved her. How I still love her. My darling Erica, gone.

The latter is longer and contains some tangents, so I will summarize. That evening, Raxl reveals that, after Jacques’ wife gave birth to his son, he murdered her. Raxl and some unspecified others (she says “we”) avenged the death of Madame des Mondes by making the Conjure Doll and piercing its head with the silver pin, which she says “destroys all hope for salvation.” Then she tells Alison about how Jean Paul set him free and that Jacques possesses him. Alison refuses to believe her, saying that such things don’t happen “in this day and age.” That she doesn’t believe Raxl creates more dramatic irony, because, in case you haven’t already figured it out, Raxl and possibly Quito are the only good characters so far who understand what is going on. But Quito is mute and a zombie--meaning that he can’t say what he knows--and almost no one believes Raxl.

She is probably thinking something like, “Oh, Dr. Carr, you sweet summer child.”

Then they hear a scream outside and open the front door. Because this show had neither the time nor the budget to film more outdoor scenes, they stay in the Great Hall and watch as Quito carries the corpse of an old man inside.

Hmmm...I wonder who did it? Do you think there’s a slight chance it may have been that smirking man right there?

Raxl identifies the dead man immediately as Dr. Menkin, and rightly suspects Jacques. He, of course, feigns innocence, complete with more Bissits Face™ and barely disguised smirking, because apparently he thinks Raxl is stupid enough to fall for that. Here is his alibi, which is thoroughly unconvincing:

But she sees through this, because Dr. Menkin doesn’t drink, and gives him the lie. He makes her swear to keep his implied murder a secret, then orders her to leave. And then Jacques de-possesses Jean Paul, but not before plying him with booze.

I said back in my first review that this would become a common theme.

He has a fever dream that consists of Raxl shouting at him while making some seriously frightening facial expressions. Had I watched this as a kid, the faces she makes in this dream sequence would have given me nightmares.

Raxl: "Don't look! Otherwise, you may see the very man you are…the very man you might have been!"

This line--a paraphrase of one from the first episode--implies that Jean Paul and Jacques are reincarnations of the same person. If this is indeed the case, does Raxl know? Is that one of the messages she intends to communicate to her master in this bizarre sequence? That Jacques and Jean Paul are the same character is something that Ian Martin implies repeatedly but never confirms, and one of many plot points that later writers forget to explore or explain. I’m not one hundred percent certain he was planning to reveal that (I don’t have access to his notes or original outline), but it seems likely.

Anyway, Jean Paul, who does not yet know of Dr. Menkin’s death, wakes up and confronts Jacques’ portrait. He, too, has begun to see the reality and cosmic irony of his situation: that, by setting Jacques free, he may have condemned himself to eternal suffering:

Jean Paul: "You are the nightmare! Must I restore your evil life to have my darling Erica's life back? Damn you!"

“Or am I the one that’s damned? Must I be lost in Hell with you!”

This episode is the first episode of Strange Paradise to successfully invoke the feelings of terror that one expects from a horror show. Although I love this program, I have to admit that, when they try to make it scary, they often fail and end up making it unintentionally funny instead. They tried before in the pilot in the scene where Jean Paul announces “on this island...I am God,” but the drum-roll, dramatic music, and Fox and Lee’s overacting make it instead laugh-out-loud funny. Likewise, the suspense of the scene where he frees Jacques is ruined by ridiculous screechy sound effects and intersplicing with a bad cover of a jazz standard. I think that the Jacques scenes in Episodes 2 and 4 were intended to be funny and, if so, they succeeded. While Episode 3 is scary, it’s a different kind of scary than the classic horror sense, being about two powerful authority figures trying to prey on a helpless young woman: still a common theme in the Gothic genre, yes, but not what most people watch spook-shows for. No, Episode 5 is genuinely frightening and compelling in its Gothic horror, making it a good conclusion to the first week of this soap opera.

Stay tuned for a Bad Subtitles Special on Friday and join us again next week as we review Episode 6, including a detailed recap and analysis (with a side of bad costume roast) of the second flashback about the life of Jacques. I look forward to it, and I hope you do, too.

( <-- Previous: Episode 4   ||   Next: Episode 6, Part I --> }

[fmdxjerome]

Heyhey, I’m the memer behind the suave fuckboi Jérôme. The name’s Naomi and if u like rap or just khiphop in general pls hit me up lets talk about my cHILDREN or my actual dad Simon Dominic. Also. Plot page is almost done [check back tomorrow or the day after GMT+1 time] but I’m always open to plot just on the fly, u feel. I’m very excited to finally rp this kid, ugh he’s so beautiful. I don’t even fuck with Got7 that much but Jaebum just works greatly and he’s my small son even though he could break me with his bicep but whatevs.

Ugh, I’m so excited to be here! (/ ‘з’)/

Under the cut you’ll get a “brief” look of his backstory (if you haven’t got the time to read my novel lmao. I do highly recommend it though for more details and such because I suck at summaries) plus some random facts cuz idk yooo

Also his name is technically Jérôme but I’m lazy af so I just write Jerome lol you can just write Jerome too lolol

Trigger Warning: Racism, Yellow Fever type ish, Bad Adoption and Violence kinda? (this shit heavy son :( )

First I want to clarify I’m Biracial (black/white) and I’ve suffered from some gross racist shit in the past but in no way am I trying to speak over Korean struggles regarding the topic. I tried to apply my own experiences to Jerome’s life like struggling with rejecting culture, European beauty standards, internalized colourism and just growing up not being able to talk to people going through the same stuff. My life hasn’t been as crazy as Jerome’s thank god but I just wanted to clarify before you dive into this or his biography. Wow, heavy. I’m sorry lol. Anyway, please enjoy my tiny son and I hope we’ll rp soon!

Mom got persuaded by her family to put him on adoption because she wasn’t married and dead beat dad just left her when it was discovered she was with child. He got adopted at the age of two by a Franco/Anglo couple who reside in France.

Adoptive parents have a bad case of the yellow fever.

Raised in France multilingual (French, English) Also Korean but when he got older he got really reluctant to it. Only when he met Marie he got into it again and then he went to Korea. So he would still make mistakes. 

He was named after his adoptive grandfather Jérôme Gauthier Senior and Leslie Cheung, the singer and actor. His birth name is Jeon Jun-Hoe. (but he doesn’t know his birth name)

When growing up he was often seen as “other” by classmates in a negative racist way and by his parents in a “positive” racist way. (note; positive in this sense doesn’t mean it was good for him, it was terrible for him. What I mean with “positive racism” is instead of viewing a race in a negative light (e.g. black people are all lazy) the subject is seen in a positive light that has negative connotations (e.g. Asian people are all hardworking). Even though hard working is a good attribute, it can cause negative feelings towards the person of that certain race. Fetishizing a culture or a race is never okay and in Jerome’s story he still bares the scars of it. 

Finally didn’t feel like an other when he met his now best friend Freddy who introduced him to his own friends.

Got into Hiphop mostly because of his friend Freddy but started songwriting a year before that. (Outkast is his shit bro)

Started a hiphop trio with Freddy and another friend Khaled called Blanc.

People loved them tbh they were great.

Hiphop gave his life a purpose. An outlet if you will. He was quite the emo little shit when he was younger. (and understandably so. :( my son.)

Had a lot of fights w/ his parents.

Lived with his grandpa for awhile when he couldn’t bare to be in the same room as his parents, let alone the same house.

Eventually moved to Paris to pursue higher education.

Met the love of his life there. (Y O G A P A N T S) 

It was awkward but great.

Marie aka the love of his life went to the same school as him and they dated for a long time before she eventually cheated on him.

Before she cheated on him though she helped him accept his Korean heritage (something his parents stripped away from him due to them forcing it upon him.) 

Went to New York in the summer of 2012 and got offered a job at a major record label when the CEO heard his lyrics. 

His girlfriend cheated on him during that time and found out a few months later after he returned to France. Almost beat the shit out of the dude who she cheated on him with.

Got expelled from school because of that fight. (parents blamed the “violent” rap music) and because life felt meaningless in Paris. He grabbed his bags and moved to Seoul to work under the record label.

Asked his adoptive parents for his adoption papers in that time because he couldn’t find his birth parents without them. Parents basically refused and he just fell head first in work to forget that. He also drank a lot sometimes but only when stress got to him.

Eventually changed companies to write under BC Entertainment before they signed him to BCreate. (his honey voice was too much for KBC lmao no but really though)

Ex girlfriend made an appearance during his debut years. (*writes connection form ;)*) got like really emo and savage during that time. 

Now that he got moved to just the regular BC Entertainment he’s really nervous about the past haunting him. With more fame more eyes are on him and just one slip up could ruin his career. Having almost beaten someone up is a great first scandal. Misogynistic words to his ex is another (I mean he called her a whore tho. like boi.) and being adopted ? oh boi. my poor son. 

PLS LOVE HIM HE NEEDS LOVE HE’S SO EMO DON’T LET HIS FUCKBOY AESTHETIC FOOL YOU ITS JUST PROTECTION. HE HAS DEMONS. PLS HOLD HIM.

Random facts!

I actually got inspired to write Jerome because I was struggling between Jooheon or Namjoon and I randomly started adding on an old muse of mine. 

Is connected to another muse of mine on my indie blog lol I’m like the Disney Channel I like to crossovers.

He has two tattoo’s, one on his right hip of a French Cavalry pistol because his grandfather had one in his antique shop *nudity warning* [x] [x] the model is Julian Schratter btw love him he’s great. And one which I’m still musing about. 

Dyed his hair pink to show support for female rappers as he’s now a producer/judge on Show Me The Money 6. You would think with his fuckboy image he’d be misogynistic but no women are great and he wants more women in the hiphop scene. His princesses are Jessi and Cheetah and his queen is Yoon Mirae tbh. He gets so excited when he hears good female rappers. 

Has a Oriental Short Hair as cat. Her name is Edith or Edi named after Edith Piaf, his grandfathers favourite singer. (here is how I see her [x] its a video) She’s like his true wife. If you ever catch him with her you might be confused at how cute Jerome suddenly is.

Looks down on idol rappers a lot. Not all of them (he’d be cool with rappers like Zico, Rap Monster, etc.), but just the manufactured ones. You know the ones that couldn’t sing so they debuted as a rapper, know nothing about hip hop. Those ones. Hiphop saved him in a way and to see pretty boys disrespect the art like that just rubs him the wrong way. He’s pretty vocal about it too and yo fans of groups drag him for it lol. It’s great I love it. 

The Weeknd is his favourite artist of this time. Like he has that image he tries to emulate. 

Is actually pretty sweet though. Like Marie and his parents fucked him up and with stress consuming him he’s kinda distant but get him comfortable and he’s a really kind soul. The kind of type to have you lay on his lap whilst you rant about your problems and he just listens.

Hates when foreign fans call him “oppa” like boi he will come for you. He once almost called out a girl doing that at the airport. He eventually just “tsk’ed” her as he walked to his car lol. Jerome is my idol. I’m srry KBC He’s not an idol he has a hard time controlling himself.

Has troubles dating so he doesn’t date at all. Like he really needs to fall for you to get him to start a relationship again but lol trust issues and a fucked up view of love kinda ruins him as a partner. I mean if your muse wanna try be my guest but GOOD LUCK lol.

Never dated a guy before because he only realized he was kinda bi when he was 19 and at the time he was in a relationship. And after that ended he went to Korea. So he only ever fucked with girls.

The story behind his “bi discovery” was thanks to the land of the free *eagle screeches in the background* basically he saw a guy and he was like “wow... ? what ?? okay.. ? you’re cute in like a ‘let me hold you and give you kisses’ kinda way ?? but you’re a dude?? o ?” but he never acted upon shit obviously. (COUGH ITS A PLOT COUGH) In hindsight he wishes he did something so he could’ve been like “I CHEATED ON YOU TOO YOU BITCH” but he’s a faithful boi. 

Hates liars. Please don’t lie to him. This isn’t for his sake but for your muses sake lmao he’s awful when he finds out. He holds a grudge.

Has a real bad self image due to years of racism thrown at him. Like complimenting him is like poison to him. Compliment his work not his looks. 

Contrary to popular belief, he doesn’t really sleep around a lot. His last sexual partner was probably before his debut tbh. 

Donates to the orphanage he was from secretly because he cares a lot. If the fame ever runs out he’d probably end up working there. 

Dig hard enough on youtube and you’ll find his old youtube channel where he uploaded covers and original songs together with Khaled and Freddy. It’s really nice. He seemed happy.

Is very suffocating when he cares. Like when he really likes you he’ll REALLY like you. You feel me? (he hasn’t learned from Marie because he never asked why she cheated on him? So IF he eventually becomes close to someone again, he might find himself in the same situation. C R I E S.)

eh eh do i know more little facts? idk it’ll be in his profile when I finally get around to making it (i had a whole week but suddenly everything happened in that week so i couldnt do it. but it’ll be up soon *nodnod*

Okay that’s it for now. Again. I CAN’T WAIT TO RP WITH Y’ALL I hope you’ll enjoy my muse <3

[seriouslysexytunes]

Pussycat Dolls- Vocal analysis

For the longest time, I’ve thought of doing a Pussycat Dolls vocal analysis but I never thought anyone would be interested given most people don’t want to give them any credit for their talent, singing and dancing. I often felt the rest of the members besides Nicole deserved to have their talent recognized but for some reason I was never able to bring myself to actually do it- I think partly because at the time, I didn’t have any material from the other ladies to work with. Seeing as now, they’ve all had solo careers and I got a proper taste of their voices, and at the request of someone who has read my other analyses, I guess  it’s about the right time to do it.

So, who remembers the first time they saw the mv for ‘Don’t Cha’? I certainly do, listening to that song full of sass and in-your-faceness and watching the video with a bunch of sexy women driving on an empty highway like sexy road ragers, jumping on trampolines, the blonde mohawk girl getting pulled ins some wild cage fight (poor Kimberly) ,dancing in girtty underground boxing rings like a bunch of savages. My first thought was ‘, wth is happening ? who are these women? why are they are they sexily angry? why are they angrily sexy? So many questions. They certainly caught my attention and they’ve given us many entertaining hits over the years so without further ado.

Nicole Scherzinger aka...

...'I’m the lead doll, hear me roar’ ***

There is no denying when Nicole sings she catches your attention, just listen to any PCD songs, no really, she sings 99.9% of them. She can make any kind of song come alive. From her time in Eden’s Crush, to her time in PCD and throughout her solo career, she has demonstrated that she can sing a variety of song types from pop, R&B, Jazz- she is a vocal chameleon, her voice can be sexy, sultrous,  vulnerable, she can also display attitude and excitement. She also has good range; her low notes and falsetto notes tend to be soft but stable, when she belts her voice is very clear, when she goes higher though her voice strains a bit when singing live. Last but not least, I first heard her whistle note in the song ‘Let Me Know’ from Eden’s Crush album, that made  the song and the album for me lol (besides everyone’s favorite ‘Get Over Yourself’ of course.)

I think the vocal producers who worked with the Dolls also suffered from the ‘ higher  singing = better singing’ as Nicole was often screaming in some songs like this live version of ‘Don’t Cha’  and her prolongued ‘hey’ at the end of the dance break of ‘Beep’- which sounds great in the studio, live... not so much. She is the complete package as a true commercial artist in that she has the look, the talent and the sexiness to boot, her songs are catchy to listen to, her music videos are amazing and her voice is fantastic but in my opinion she lacks humility; she seems to be more focused on showing off her vocal skills (and making weird animal sounds) then connecting with her audience.  She sings as if she were a world-renowed songstress who’s been on the scene for decades when really most people know her as the ‘lead singer of the PCD’ but not ‘Nicole, the artist, the person,” etc..

Speaking of connecting with the audience, the main thing that has prevented me from fully connecting with ther as an artist is that  fake ebonics voice or accent she uses/used  Example:

“Dawls. Let's daince. Ooh behbeh. I know you lahik meh That's why wheneva I come araound, she's all ova yoo! I know you won't it It's easy to see And in the backayo maaaaaind I know it should be on wtih me

Let's keep it friendlaaay Yah have to play fay ah See I don't caaaaaayy but I know she ain't gon wonna shay-ah" etc...

Omg, who sings like that? Whoever told this woman singing with attitude meant singing as if her jaw was dislocated needs to be ashamed of themselves. The style of singing doesn’t feel her own, she sounds like she’s imitating someone else and she comes off as dishhonest and try-hard. Compare that to times when she gives up the ‘accent’ such as 'I Hate This Part’, Sway and if you really want to hear a song when I can ‘feel’ Nicole, I advise you listen to her song ‘Run’, raw, pure, and goosebump-worthy.  I’m not going to spend any more time on factors that may be affecting her career because this is about her vocal talent. To put it simply, anyone (including myself) can say whatever they want  about Nicole and  regarless of a few minor vocal flaws, her vocal versatility is off the chain and she is a vocal powerhouse, period. 

Vocal range: Soprano- Best suited for: Pop, R&B, Classic, Jazz, Alternative and many more.

Listen to: I Hate this Part, Try With Me, Run, Poison, Don’t Hold Your Breath

Carmit Bachar aka...

...the fiery redhead

 I just love the tone of Carmit’s voice because it’s raw, raspy and edgy. It sucks how fickle the industry can be given that singers with voices like hers don’t get much appreciation. For example, watch this performance for  Carmit’s raw and edgy voice (also featuring Melody’s beautiful melismatic runs). Now though her edginess comes out mostly when she’s in her belting range but she can also soften up as she did here- although in that song I think she goes in and out of falsetto albeit very softly. In general though, she doesn’t seem to have an extensive range, the lowest I’ve heard her go is as far as this performance when she sings “you give me fever” a few times and her low notes are very quiet. Any higher than what her range is and she falls flat a bit like here; to be honest, she sort of all over the place but she tried. 

One thing I noticed she did in that performance is how she threw her hand up as she was singing a high note. Like, girl, why? Many singers do this especially when they’re struggling to hit a note lol. You can either reach the note or you can’t, throwing your hand up is not going to save you from not hitting that note. Most of the time they come close(they shout it or scream it) but they don’t actually hit it lol. In any case, Carmit  is/was the oldest member of the group but don’t let her age fool you, she is a joy to watch while performing and she dances with such passion. She’s also got some cool acrobatic moves in her skills and she’s also a ‘split’ master

though she didn’t get to showcase it often during her time in the group.

Vocal range: Mezzo-Soprano- Best suited for: Rock, Alternative, Indie, Pop, R&B, Jazz

Listen to: Tainted Love, Santa baby, Fierce, Keep on Smiling, Cream.

Kimberly Wyatt aka...

...the fiesty, edgy blonde.

Well, how can I put this lightly? Kimberly’s voice sounds...underdeveloped? I’m not quite sure which word to use but that’s the closest I can come up with. Her  ‘Don’t Wanna Fall in Love’ solo for the Doll Domination album was..difficult for me to listen to; she almost souned like a chipmunk and her voice was nasal. Though after PCD, she formed a duo with Spencer Nezey called Her Majesty & the Wolves and in their song ‘Stars in Your Eyes’ she sounds like she has better vocal control but her voice forever sounds light and sweet. She sounds good during this performance but the backing track is so loud as if to cover the lack of vocal strength on her part; so take that and add the awkward dancing and it looks like she’s performing karaoke.

 Kimberly doesn’t have a wide range but then again having a big range isn’t everything and it doesn’t mean with proper vocal technique she can gain even better control and help her voice ‘mature’ a bit. In ‘Goodbye, Goodnight’, she uses her falsetto which sounds cute, light and sweet but in this live performance, with that loud backing track again her voice does nothing for me at all and the woman looks like she is trying to sing. I. Just. Can’t. But during ‘Walking On the Sun’ her voice sounds beautiful; well controlled, cool with some nice subtle vibrato. 

Apart from singing, many PCD fans love Kimberly for being a beast on a the dance floor. Watch this performance, and this one, she’s dancing as if her life depended on it, I LOVE it! She was also known mostly for her standing splits, so here’s ‘split’ master #2.

Vocal range: Mezzo-Soprano- Best suited for: Pop, Electro Pop

Listen to: Santa baby, Glaciers, Stars In Your Eyes

Jessica Sutta aka...

the brunette (turned redhead) with 

THE

MOST

GORGEOUS

SMILE!

Before I start my analysis, I just want to laugh at PCD’s record label’s poor attempt at covering up the fact that Carmit had left group. Before PCD’s second album, rumor is (label, Robin Antin, whoever it may have been) had Jessica dye her hair red so maybe people or fans wouldn’t notice, now that’s what you call cutting corners! And are the members that repleaceable or unimportant? these people are sad. Anyway, moving on to better things. 

My introduction to Jessica’s vocal talent was ‘If I Was A Man’ on the ‘Doll Domination’ album which to be honest, a child could sing. PCD’s record company must have really wanted to downplay the girls’ talents because if that song was all I ever heard from Jessica, then any time I heard her name, I would run in the opposite direction.

But THANK GOODNESS Jessica for showing us what sexy, sultrous and beautiful voice which was hiding underneath that sing-talking, nasal and whiny falsetto or whatever thing  you had going on.  I love the tone of her voice and she is also a vocal chameleon; she can easily portray different kinds of emotions and she has good voice control as well; not very powerful but defintely solid. Examples of her low notes would be in the bridge of  ‘We Can’t Dance Anymore’, that rich tone in ‘Gotta get you’ also take note of her belt notes in that song. Other songs like ‘Shame’ demonstrate her mezzo range and she sings with vulnerability in the song.   Not only that but if you haven’t heard her mixtape ‘Feline Resolution’ nor her album ‘I say Yes,  Give them a listen, you won’t regret it! You’ll have jams for ‘dem nice cozy nights, chilly summer nights, rainy days, sunny days, romantic days, party days, days you wanna beat somebody up, days you wanna cry, whatever you have going on in your life, she’s got a song for you!

Vocal range: Alto, Mezzo-Soprano- Best suited for: Pop, R&B, Rock, Contemporary 

Listen to: Show Me, Shame, Lights Out, Feline Resurrection, Gotta get you, We can’t dance anymore, Feel Like Making Love, Universe.

Ashley Roberts aka...

...the sweet and sassy blonde

I feel with Ashley I don’t really have much to say except for that she has a beautiful voice. Whatever she’s singing, she delivers and i think it’s because she knows her limits and knows her strengths. Her voice is sweet and light and sometimes raspy, her lower notes are hauntingly beautiful and she sings songs that are within her range so she always sounds beautiful lol. But I think in knowing her limits she limits herself a bit too much when she could have pushed on a little bit more. For example in ‘All in a day’, her voice is dark and raspy and I kept waiting for the part of the song that would bring an emotional high and take me to the  Heavens but alas, it never came. Oh welp. In another song, she plays it way too safe then again I could listen to this while sitting on a cozy sofa while watching a sad movie.

Vocal range:  Mezzo-Soprano- Best suited for: Country, Pop, R&B, Folk

Listen to: Clockwork, Lonely lights, Face of Love, All in a Day

Melody Thornton aka...

....’Baby Doll’ 

Two years after getting into the Pussycat Dolls, I see this video and nearly fell off of my chair, obviously from the shock of hearing Melody’s voice for the first time and wondering why the hell she wasn’t one of the lead singers. Well we all know now that the company wasn’t gonna have any of that. I’ll keep my analysis simple for Melody , she has a powerful voice, that’s all there is to it. ‘Baby Doll’ was her nickname while in the group because she was the youngest but who can forget her set of pipes? She made it into the group as a vocalist and we know why, it’s because of the runs, um...vocal runs that is lol, melismatic vocal runs. I bet you all PCD fans know her runs by heart because they’re so iconic lol. As far as range, her low notes sometimes fall flat so she sings better when she’s in her middle notes (belting chest voice), falsetto and head voice. She also has a strong vibrato which can get out of control during live performances, other than that, she has a solid voice.

Vocal range:  Soprano- Best suited for: R&B, Pop

Listen to: Sway, Tainted Love, Buttons, Stickwithu, Bite The Dust, I don’t Need a Man.

In conclusion, my final rank is: Nicole, Melody, Jessica, Carmit, Ashley and Kimberly.

My favorite PCD & solo songs:  Buttons, I Hate This Part, Beep (PCD), Don’t Hold Your Breath, Poison, Run, Boomerang (N), Show Me, Gotta Get You (J), Clockwork (A). 

Credit goes to  owner(s) of any article, picture, audio, or video mentioned or used. None of those belong to me.

Thanks everyone, leave comments, suggestions, discuss!

*Following Robin Antin’s de-facto motto about ‘every woman having an inner doll’ I included 2 picures for each member,  1 picture “represents’ the person and the other her ‘doll’ side. Feel free to disagree with my interpretation. 

***Mini rant: I used stereotypical taglines for all the members not because I prefer to use them but because that’s the way most non-fans would remember them in case they read this analysis. Imagine how far they could have gotten if their record contracts didn’t suck? I don’t think the company really thought things through and the way they handled PCD makes the group seem like a novelty act with Nicole and the 5 nameless women behind her.