#but i doubt ill be able to afford it

[smolmagicalmuffin]

First its a pain in the ass for me to get my HRT refilled, now I'm losing my loophole thc. Can't win in this state huh?

[confused-alpaca]

extremely annoyed at myself bc i went to a doctors appointment this week and was going to talk about trying to get on hrt and i just. fucking. forgot. to do that while i was there.

[violetrainbow412-blog]

Day 30: forever?

Masterlist flufftober 🎃

TW: Mentions of schizophrenia. This would also qualify as hurt/comfort or flangst, but I wanted to write it anyway.

Spencer stared at the ceiling of his room in silence, lost in thoughts that seemed to tangle without remedy. He had been feeling this pressure in his chest for weeks, a fear he couldn't shake off, as if a shadow was relentlessly pursuing him. He knew it wasn't just stress, although that would have been the simplest explanation. This was something much deeper, darker.

His mind, always his greatest strength, now seemed like a source of fear, an invisible enemy haunting him with doubts and insecurities. The possibility of beginning to show signs of schizophrenia, like his mother, terrified him.

He picked up his phone, hesitating over whether he should call someone; whether he should call you. Your number had been there, patient, waiting for him to reach out, to ask for medical advice, a consultation… maybe even just to hear your voice.

He was so scared that he felt his hand trembling as he pressed the call button.

“Spencer?” you asked as soon as you answered. The warmth of your voice on the other end calmed him a bit.

“Hi, how are you?��

“Good, darling. A bit busy because I'm covering a shift in the ER and… ugh, everything is hectic.”

“Oh, then I'll let you go. I can call you later.”

“NO! It’s fine, it’s fine. My relief will be here in ten minutes; I can afford a moment of peace before that,” you murmured, sounding a bit tired. You fell silent for a moment. He said nothing. “Are you okay?”

He swallowed hard, noticing how the tension in his throat made it difficult to speak.

“I know you’re busy and I…” his breathing started to become erratic, despite his wishes. “I’m so sorry, but could you come? I just… I could really use someone to talk to.”

Hearing the tone of his voice, you agreed without hesitation, and an hour later, you were sitting on his couch, surrounded by the silence of his apartment. When you arrived, he didn’t say anything; just seeing his face and how he rubbed his eyes made you realize he was distressed.

Spencer didn’t even know how to begin. How could he explain the terror the idea of losing his mind caused him, of slowly crumbling without being able to do anything?

You didn’t pressure him. You just waited, giving him the time he needed, despite how exhausted you were from being awake for 20 hours. Finally, he took a deep breath and started to speak quietly:

“I’ve been… feeling strange. I’ve had horrible migraines and I thought that was nothing to worry about, but… lately I’ve been hearing things. Voices, whispers. And I see shadows where there shouldn’t be anything.”

His confession filled the room, dense as fog, and for a moment, he feared that you might feel uncomfortable, scared, as if sharing his fear made it more real. You had patients all the time, perhaps in worse conditions than he was, but all those ailments were physical; blood, fluids, skin… you didn’t deal with mental illnesses. Would you be afraid of him?

However, when he looked up, he noticed that you were simply looking at him with concern and tenderness. Despite the dark circles under your eyes, you regarded him with such kindness that he felt unworthy of it.

“How long have you been feeling this way?” you asked softly.

“For a few days… maybe a week,” Spencer sighed, feeling more vulnerable than ever. “My mother… you know what she…” he paused, unable to continue. He didn’t want to say it out loud, didn’t want to invoke the fear that gnawed at him inside. The possibility of also losing himself, like her, was an idea that paralyzed him.

You didn’t respond right away. Instead, you reached out and intertwined your fingers with his. The warmth of your skin anchored him, a reminder that he wasn’t alone, that there was still something real and solid in his life. He remembered the last time he had felt that certainty, many years ago, when they were just kids.

The memory took him back to that day in the park. You were just two children sitting on a bench, the sky clear and the sun shining down on you. Spencer had been strangely quiet, lost in thoughts that seemed too big for his age. His mother had just gone through a very strong episode, and although he didn’t fully understand what it meant, he could feel the fear in his chest, a fear that seemed to settle in his bones. You had noticed his worry, and he, not knowing how to express it, ended up confessing his fears and doubts to you.

“What if something bad happens to my mom?” he had said softly, his gaze fixed on the ground. You had looked at him with that seriousness that only children can have, and without saying anything, you extended your pinky toward him.

“I’ll always take care of you, Spencer,” you told him as if making a sacred promise. He had entwined his pinky with yours, seeking that security that only you could give him.

“Forever?” he asked, unsure if you could keep such a big promise.

You nodded without hesitation.

“Forever.”

Returning to that memory brought him a little peace, a reminder that someone was willing to hold him, to be his refuge. Now, years later, you were by his side once more, fulfilling that promise you seemed to have made a lifetime ago.

Suddenly, he found himself in the present, gently squeezing your hand. The tears had already begun to slide down his cheeks, and he felt so lost… so vulnerable.

Of course, you weren’t going to demand medical details from him at that moment; you were exhausted from attending to patients and knew that what he needed now wasn’t an evaluation, but simply the company of a friend.

“I don’t want to end up like her,” he whispered, not looking at you, his voice broken.

“Spencer,” you replied firmly, taking his chin between your fingers and looking him directly in the eyes, “You don’t have to face this alone. I’ll help you with whatever you need.”

The certainty in your voice was so solid that he felt a part of his anxiety begin to dissolve. But still, the insecurity persisted, a shadow he couldn’t ignore.

He hesitated for a moment before whispering, barely audible:

“Forever?”

You didn’t remember that childhood promise made so many years ago, but at his question, you looked at him with a soft smile and squeezed his hand again.

“Forever,” you affirmed, without wavering.

Spencer felt his shoulders relax at hearing you. That simple word, laden with an unbreakable promise and loyalty, was all he needed at that moment. There were no medical exams, studies, or therapies that could compare to the peace he felt hearing you reaffirm that you would never leave him. Since childhood, he had treasured in his memory the recollection of your pinky intertwined with his when his whole world seemed about to fall apart; now he felt the same, and you were still there.

He allowed himself to release a trembling sigh, and without saying another word, you wrapped your arms around him, drawing him into a warm, firm embrace.

Spencer felt himself crumble at the contact, finally letting go of all those repressed emotions. He held onto you with a mix of desperation and relief, hiding his face in your neck, seeking in your closeness the comfort he had longed for in silence.

The tears flowed freely now, and he stopped fighting against them. It was strange; he used to be the most reserved person, the most contained, but with you, he allowed himself to be vulnerable, human. He knew you could bear his pain without judging him, without being scared. He entrusted you with his deepest fear, and you didn’t leave him alone in the middle of the storm.

You both stayed like that, embraced in silence for long minutes. He felt the weight of his anxiety and fear of illness beginning to give way little by little. The sensation of being held, of being accepted with all his flaws and fears, made him feel less fragmented, less scared.

Eventually, exhaustion began to take its toll on you. After so many hours of work and the emotional effort of comforting Spencer, your body gave in, and you let yourself fall gently against him. Unbeknownst to you, you started to drift off to sleep, and he noticed as your breathing slowed and your weight relaxed in his arms.

Realizing you had succumbed to fatigue, he smiled, touched and grateful to have you by his side. The anguish he had felt all night faded a bit more as he settled in, carefully holding you, protecting you just as you had done with him moments before.

And so, with you asleep in his arms, he felt the darkness that had been looming over him retreat a little; just a little. In that moment, everything seemed more hopeful, less fearsome. He closed his eyes, and for the first time in weeks, felt that maybe he could face his fears. Because, after all, he had someone who would fulfill that promise of being with him forever.

[141goblin]

Hi people. I’ve been toying with the idea of writing a fanfic and I thought i’d put a feeler out there to see if people are interested in reading my silly little brain worms and thoughts. Word of warning, it’s little rusty and definitely still a work in progress. I don’t yet have a title or anything like that, but i wanna share (ok ok leave me alone)

Part one: Soft.

Reader described as plus-sized. Fem reader. Implied past abusive relationship.

John Price X Reader.

“Amelia, I said no!” I huff into the phone, getting increasingly frustrated at my best friend’s insistence. She had been going on and on about some big military party that her boyfriend was going to, and of course, because we’re basically attached at the hip, she ‘needs me there’.

“Oh, come onnnn! It’ll be fun! And who knows, we might finally find you a man for you to spend time with instead of you sitting in your apartment and watching reruns of gilmore girls twenty-four-seven.”

I huff and roll my eyes, grateful that she isn’t able to see me. Honestly, the thought of having to drag myself off of my couch and go through the motions of getting ready and attempting to doll myself up makes me feel physically ill. Truth be told, I haven’t left my apartment for weeks. Not since i had that god-awful night with my arsehole of an ex boyfriend.

My mind drifts back to that night, the time I spent getting ready and psyching myself up, all for me to get there and be completely disregarded and used. Like a piece of meat. He’d been blowing up my phone with messages ever since, insisting he was sorry, and that it won’t happen again, and he just got carried away. I hadn’t had the mental capacity to message him back.. My best friends voice pulls me back to reality.

“You’re coming. I’ll be at your flat in twenty minutes with pre drinks. Shower and shave.”

Before I get any chance to worm my way out of this ridiculous ordeal, she kisses me good-bye through the phone and hangs up. I throw my phone to the opposite end of the couch and groan into a pillow. Just when I was settled, watching gilmore girls for the umpteenth time, with a glass of wine and a bowl of crisps… Shit, maybe I do need to get out…

I down the rest of my glass of wine and wince at the taste. I make a mental note to stop being cheap and buying shit wine just because it’s cheaper. After all, it’s not like I can’t afford to buy nicer tasting wine. But truthfully, I don’t go to tescos at 8pm in my pyjamas and buy nice wine to be all sophisticated. I do it to buy cheap wine and get drunk while i watch gilmore girls and cry, wishing i had the same relationship with my mother that Lorelai and Rory have. It’s pitiful, and pathetic.

I huff and drag myself off of my couch and make my way into my bathroom to shower. Once undressed, i notice just how hairy my legs have gotten. But, is it really worth the effort, the sweating and red face just to have smooth legs? I brush off the thought and step into the hot shower. I do my usual: wash and condition my hair, wash my face and body, and then actually decide to shave my goddamn legs. It takes me the better part of fifteen minutes, but beauty is pain, as they say.

Just as i’m stepping out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel that’s all too small to cover my stomach and wide thighs, my best friend makes herself known, clearly having used her spare key to let herself into my flat. Her face is all scrunched up in disgust at the state of the place and she’s begun to pick up my clothes that are strewn about the place, throwing them into the washing machine. I roll my eyes and make my way into my bedroom, and she follows. She has that shit-eating grin on her face that I know all too well. No doubt she’s going to make me squeeze into some tiny outfit in the hopes i’ll impress some random man and hopefully let him fuck my brains out. She’s highly mistaken.

Instead of a skimpy outfit, we compromise. I end up wearing a mid-length silk dress that has a risky slit up the leg, but not too high that it shows off my cellulite, one of my biggest insecurities. She does up my hair into a messy bun with a few curls framing my face and insists on me wearing her favourite red lipstick, telling me i’ll look ‘fuckable’, her words, not mine. After strapping some heels onto my feet I take one last look in the mirror, face slightly flushed from the two or three glasses of wine Amelia practically poured down my throat to loosen me up. I should feel beautiful, but I don’t. I can’t help but feel like a pig, wrapped in silk and smothered in ridiculous lipstick. Ready to be taken off to market and ridiculed by men that think it’s shameful to like a fat girl. My ex-boyfriend’s attitude and words from the duration of our relationship echoing around my head.

“They don’t see you like I do, babe. They don’t see your personality.”

“You’re wearing that?”

“Oh come on, babe. I was only looking at her. She’s a model, what do you expect?”

After a too long uber ride full of pep-talks by Amelia and discreetly drinking from the remnants of a bottle of wine, we’re standing outside of what can only be described as a fucking mansion. The type that has stairs leading up to its entrance that’s held up by beautifully structured pillars, the type of place i write about in my short stories. There are too many windows to count, most of them lit up by subtle golden glow, the soft buzz of music that’s able to be heart from outside, something soft and jazzy, like the type of music you’d hear in an old jazz bar in New York.

I’m too busy marvelling at the ‘fucking mansion’ in front of me when I hear the recognisable voice of Amelia’s boyfriend, Johnny. Johnny is the type of guy that can make any girl weak in the knees with his charming smile and sparkling blue eyes. He’s sweet and cheeky, but not my type.

“There you two are! Was beginning ‘ter think ‘yaes got lost.”

I give Johnny a polite smile and continue looking up at the grandeur of the building in-front of me while he gives Amelia a kiss and whispers something flirty in her ear. Johnny and Amelia are solid, and he’s good for her. Plus, he knows we come as a package deal, so he makes sure to make me feel included when I end up tagging along on their days out or evening drinks.

“Looking good, bonnie.” Johnny says to me, with a cheeky wink. Amelia laughs, her signature sweet giggle, and it’s clear why she turns heads everywhere we go.

I force a smile and hold back a self-deprecating remark.

“Thanks, Johnny.”

Amelia takes Johnny by the arm and leads her inside, making me follow like an awkward third wheel. I try my best not to feel like an idiot as i’m led into the main ballroom, where i assume the party is being held. Johnny leads us to the bar and buys the three of us a round of drinks. I try to insist that I can buy my own, but both he and Amelia dismiss it and i’m left with a blueberry Martini sitting in front of me at the bar.

After a few minutes of awkward small talk between the three of us, mixed in with too much PDA between Johnny and Amelia for my liking, Johnny leads Amelia off to meet some of his friends, leaving me alone at the bar. I hoist myself onto a barstool, arse spilling over the edge. Fuck sake, I think. People need to start inventing barstools that are fat-girl friendly. I ignore the buzz of chatter in the ballroom and down the rest of my blueberry martini, flagging down the bartender for another one.

I begin sipping on the fresh Martini and start looking back around the room. I can’t help but think this would be a perfect scene to write in one of my stories. A room packed full of rich people dressed in fancy suits and expensive dresses, where everyone pretends to be on their best behaviour.

After a few minutes of being alone at the bar, I make peace with the fact that I will likely be alone for most of the night while Amelia mingles with Johnny and his friends. It doesn’t bother me, per say, but something deep within my belly wishes that one, just once, I could be the one to turn heads, to capture the attention of a group of people with nothing but my appearance and laugh, to have people willing to talk to me and learn about me, without feeling like it’s out of pity.

I shrug to myself and take a few more sips of my martini and let my attention wander over to my best friend and her boyfriend, and his group of (presumably) military friends. Johnny must’ve noticed me sitting alone at the bar and felt pity for me because I see him making his way over, sporting his disarming smile. I smile back.

“What’s the matter, Lass? Not enjoying ‘yerself?”

He leans on the bar casually, and it’s clear he’s making an effort to make me feel included.

“I’m enjoying myself just fine, Johnny. You can go back to your mates and Amelia, don’t worry about me.”

He cocks a brow and flashes that cheeky grin.

“Not gonna join us?”

I shake my head and take another sip of my martini, waving a dismissive hand. I attempt to play it off with a joke.

“Doubt i’d fit in with your military mates.”

He scoffs and looks jokingly offended.

“Aye, come on, Bonnie. We don’t bite. I know Si looks like a scary fucker, but we’re a nice bunch. I swear.”

I laugh and take another sip. Johnny is a good guy, there’s no denying that, even if it does feel like he’s taking pity on his girlfriends fat, single friend that looks like she’d rather be anywhere but here.

Judging from the way he talks about ‘Si’, I make an assumption that he’s the one with the dirty-blonde hair, the one who’s built like a brick shit-house and looks like he could snap anyone in half with one hand.

Johnny points to one of the other lads, a typical pretty boy with striking brown eyes.

“That’s Gaz. He’s a good’un. Likes to flirt too much, but e’s harmless.”

I follow Johnny’s finger as he points to the third man. A man who’s wide, and fucking muscly, but looks like he has a soft layer of fat underneath that expensive suit of his.

“And that, that’s the Cap’n. The best of us all. Keeps us in check when we cause trouble. He won’t admit it, but he’s a softie at heart.”

My eyes stay on the wide man a little longer than the others. I see a smile under his well-groomed mutton chops and moustache that’s peppered with little greys here and there. His shoulders look like they’re about to burst out of his shirt at any given moment, and his hips are exactly the same. That’s all contrasted by his blue eyes, like a deep pool that women no doubt get lost in. The man’s a fucking contradiction. Too wide, Too soft.

Johnny’s voice snaps me back into the room, averting my eyes away from the man I know as ‘Captain’.

“Come on, Bonnie. Come say hello, mingle a little. We don’t bite.”

[thediktatortot]

A Valentines exchange gift for @adelacreations ! It has a little snippet of story to go with it. @hellfirevalex

------

"I..I don't understand...What do you mean you're-"

"Dead? Un-living? Cursed to walk these lands on this earth at night until raptures comes?"

A rumble had escaped from Steven's chest like the thousand hooves of wild buffalo running in the summer nights of the Californian grassy planes, a laugh so deep that I could feel it in my bones as it shook the wooden planks of the floor were we stood.

"Are you scared of me now?"

"...I could never be afraid of you Steven."

"You are though...afraid of me, even just a little. It's alright though, I'm not upset."

I was scared that night, I will admit. Terrified of what the man I had come to know as a friend...a lover really was. The biggest secret he had been keeping from me finally revealed. I had been terrified before of course, laying with another man while the Mother Mary and her child rested on my breast bone, God's judgement weighing heavy on my soul while my breath was light in my throat.

"Will you kill me now?"

"Kill you? No...never...Exactly the opposite my dear William...my Billy."

I'd never been afforded the opportunities and grandiosity that my Steven had been able to shower me with while he courted me, lavish outings and fine clothes draped over my shoulders all paid for by his aloof parents dime. Of course, after he turned me that night, draining me within an inch of my life before supplying me with his own, I found out his parents had been dead for at least a hundred years now.

"S...Steven?...I feel...fa...faint."

"Shh...save your voice my dear."

I'd fallen in love with the man regardless of the gifts and the money, regardless of the lies he had told me to lure me into his web of blood and honeyed words. There was no doubt in my mind at the time that I would have made any other choice than what I did, falling into his arms like a southern bell in the thick summer heat and I was happy for it.

"I'm...I'm scared."

"I know my love...it will be over soon, I swear it."

We had our rough times of course, as all relationships do. Most would call it a human condition but it is not, love and companionship accompanied by hard times and disagreements long settled in by old hurts and misunderstanding Is merely how the world works.

"S...st..."

"Shhh...Once you wake, I will be there to greet you. And then?....Then we can truly begin to live."

However we always made up after a time, slowly gravitating back towards each other over a few years of brooding or ill tempers. It was in our nature after all, something we couldn't fight against lest we fell deeper into the pit of mania. It was easier to embrace it, to throw the punches when tensions got high...yet we always regretted it.

I loved him once. I love him now and I'm most positive I'll be able to love him again in due time.

[milkyplier]

@selkies-song I wrote this for you when you weren’t feeling well, and I intended it to be longer but ran into some troubles. Regardless I hope it brightens your day 🩷

"Legend, can you get the pitchfork?"

It's a simple ask, but his headache filters it through layers of honey, so that by the time he registers what's been asked of him, Malon is watching him with concern.

"Is everything alright, Veteran?"

Legend swallows, words caught in a dry, gummy throat.

“Yeah.” He rasps. “I’m fine.”

He turns to walk back to the barn, but a dizzy spell freezes him in his tracks, and he squeezes his eyes shut.

Goddesses, was it always this hot out? Where was the cloud cover? Hadn’t it been overcast this morning? The light is making his head hurt even worse.

“Veteran. You’re ill.”

It’s not a question.

“What? No, I said I’m fine.” He scowls at the ground. Farore, it’s hot.

“You’re clearly not, dear. You’ve been sluggish and silent all morning. Look at you, the only thing keeping you on your feet is the Hero’s Spirit.”

“I’m fine. Just tired, nothing I haven’t handled before.” He is tired. He’s also in pain, but Malon doesn’t have to know that, and besides. He’s always in pain, the result of years of adventuring without always being able to take the time to care for himself or heal properly.

“I’m fine.” He repeats again, and with a little more firmness.

Malon reaches out and grabs his wrist before he can. His skin is freezing.

“You’re cold.”

He frowns at her. “What? No, I’m—it’s blazing out here.”

She frowns back. “You don’t feel cold?”

“No!”

Malon places her hand against his forehead.

“Well no wonder, you’ve got a fever. And look at you, all glassy-eyed and pale.”

Legend pulls away, scowl returning, wrought with anger at being cornered.

“I’m fine.” He hisses, insistent.

“You’re sick,” Malon replies, equally unyielding. They stand for a few minutes, glaring each other down, before Malon’s gaze is drawn over Legend’s shoulder. Legend follows it, and winces as he sees Time approaching. Time will side with Malon, he has no doubt.

“…I came to inquire about dinner on the Champion’s behalf, but I see I have stumbled into an argument.”

“Of a sort,” Malon tells him tensly.

“That does not inspire much confidence.” Time takes his place beside his wife. “It’s not too heated, is it?”

“Quite, actually, it’s got a fever.” Malon looks up forlornly at her husband, and then back at Legend again. “Our Veteran is sick.”

“Oh?” Time raises an eyebrow, eye now trained on Legend, who does not meet them. Time doesn’t say anything, but somehow he pulls all the information out of Legend faster than Malon did, and with less effort.

“I’m fine,” Legend snaps defensively, feeling raw under Time’s one-eyed gaze. He’s getting sick of the phrase. “I swear, I’m just a little tired. It rained yesterday, made my joints hurt and stuff, I’m just feeling the aftereffects right now. It’s fine.”

“Legend.”

It’s just his name. Not even his name, his nickname. And yet, the way Time says it, Legend knows immediately that he’s lost the battle.

“You have put up an excellent fight up to this point, however, it is truly bordering on pathetic.”

It hurts. Probably because it’s true. It gets worse when Time steps up next to him, putting a hand on his shoulder and lowering his voice.

“I know it is not easy to remember when you’re safe. To stop pushing yourself out of habit, out of that underlying pressure to keep going because that is what you have learned. To keep going, because the fate of Hyrule is in your hands, and you cannot afford to waste so much as a second. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry that you had to learn that, and I’m sorry that because of it, you don’t know how to recognize and take advantage of situations like this. Situations where such pressure does harm, not good. You’re in a safe place, Link. Hyrule’s fate is not is your hands, not in a way that pushing yourself will help. You are not alone anymore. There are people who will pick up the slack while you recover. There is time to heal, so take it. There is strength in recognizing when you are weak, and stepping back to change it.”

Legend desperately wishes Time were not so wise. Suddenly, his fighting against Malon feels silly and rude. He doesn’t even really know why he was arguing with her, what it would have accomplished. He nods numbly. It was hot a second ago, but the clouds have returned and in their shade, he’s cold.

“M’sorry,” he whispers.

“Don’t be. It’s a hard lesson, one we heroes are terribly unprepared to learn.” Time squeezes his shoulder gently before releasing him. “Now, go ahead and let Malon walk you to the house. And I say that because if you don’t walk, she will carry you. I had to learn that the hard way.”

Time chuckles and Malon huffs.

“You heroes and your selfless tendencies.” She turns to Legend, expression softening. “Come on, dear. You’ll feel better with a hot cup of tea in hand.”

[idyllic-affections]

employee benefits.

summary. baizhu remains constantly attuned to his chronically ill employee and their needs. it is no surprise that he knows when they are unwell.

trigger & content warnings. chronic illness flare-up.

tropes, pairings, fic length, & other notes. fluff. baizhu & reader, qiqi & reader. 0.5k words. they/them pronouns for reader. this post is an expansion of invisible disability? it's rather visible to me.

author's thoughts. in celebration of me getting baizhu within 30 pulls and me getting to soak up all of his lore like a dry sponge would to water, heres some more baizhu content!! we love him in this household <33 he and kaveh are literally the REALEST genshin characters ever with the most relatable trauma and ideals like what the fuck man..... /lh

baizhu knows that some days, his junior herbalist just can't work; it's far too much for their body. he's had many such days himself. it's unavoidable and unpredictable—some days, his body doesn't function well even if he was completely fine the day before. the same applies to his young hire. as such, he is often the one able to see the signs as soon as the day begins.

"good morning, dr. baizhu, qiqi, changsheng," they greet, a tired smile on their face. their smile widens a little bit when qiqi tugs their sleeve to draw their attention before handing them a pastry.

"[name] needs to eat."

"hehe... yes, you're absolutely right, qiqi. thank you."

she hums, content, as they pat her head. she remains glued to their leg.

the way their chest rises and falls is blatantly irregular, as if they're trying to catch their breath. there's a slight tremble in their limbs as well. baizhu briefly wonders if qiqi is supporting their weight, if she's somehow, subconsciously aware that something is off about them this morning in particular.

"oh my," baizhu muses, observing their tired disposition. "did you not rest well?"

"what he's trying to say is that you look awful."

"jeez, it's this early and you're already bullying me, changsheng? gui isn't even here yet. it's too early... what did i do to deserve this?" they huff. "to be honest, i woke up feeling unwell. i don't know why. i just feel very weak today."

"hmm..." he's thinking. if they are unwell, he absolutely will not permit them to work, given that they may faint or collapse at any point. he simply doesn't want to see them hurt themselves. "well, there's still quite some time until we officially open. come. i'll examine you."

"do i get an employee discount?" they joked, to which he smiled.

"i won't be charging you."

"wha— no. i was joking. i was kidding. you can't not charge me. that's hardly fair, given that i can afford it. i know we're supposed to make things as easy and affordable for patients as possible, but i don't need those accomodations. i work here. i already have easy access to everything i need."

"don't be stubborn, [name]."

"i am stubborn, dr. baizhu. you can't be hypocritical and expect me to allow that."

silence. then, the liyuean doctor chuckles fondly. the way he gazes at them is soft.

what a handful they are.

"fine, fine. i'll take the cost from next month's pay, alright? just let me look at you. we can't have you collapsing on us today, now can we?"

a month later, they find something... oddly normal about their pay. not a single mora has been deducted.

"dr. baizhu, i love and respect you and would never doubt the things you say, but... you said you would take my examination cost from my next paycheck. this is the same amount of mora i get every month."

"oh, did i say that? hm, i can't seem to recall that conversation."

"...with all due respect, you're insufferable sometimes."

please consider reblogging, it helps me out quite a lot!

[iydiamartinx]

FLAMES OF STARLIGHT

���𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗼𝗻𝗲 | 𝒆𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒂𝒓𝒌

Pairing: Poly!Azriel x OC x Lucien

Hey everyone! So I have this posted on A03 but I decided to begin posting here as well as a back and for anyone who would prefer to read it here instead.

❝ 𝘴𝘢𝘥𝘭𝘺 𝘸𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘦'𝘳𝘦 𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰, 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘪𝘧 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘦'𝘳𝘦 𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯. ❞ — 𝐫.𝐡. 𝐬𝐢𝐧

A DEEP BONE aching pain settled into Valda's body. She was used to pain; she'd dealt with it all her life. However, some days were worse than others, especially during the colder seasons.

The threadbare blanket she had wrapped around her shoulders did nothing to stop the chill from seeping into her bones. She could feel the aches slowly growing worse as she failed to warm up. Yet, she still kept the blanket tightly wrapped around her thin frame, taking the small bit of comfort it offered her.

The door to their run-down cottage was pulled open, and a gust of biting cold air rushed into their already chilly home as her youngest sister stepped in.

"Feyre!" Elain—the second youngest Archeron sister—gasped. She rushed to her feet when she saw what Feyre carried around her shoulders. "Where did you get that?"

Val's bone almost felt like glass as she stood up to gently tug Elain back from rushing at Feyre. Val could hear the hunger in her sister's tone, and even her own stomach clenched at the lack of food, but she ignored it.

"Where do you think?" Feyre questioned, her voice hoarse and tinged with annoyance, no doubt from the exertion of carrying the large beast all on her own.

Val made her way towards her youngest sister, and gently she eased the doe from Feyre's shoulders and onto her own instead. Val's jaw clenched as her body protested at the added weight, but she ignored it just like she always did.

"You should've woken me," Val quietly reprimanded. She didn't like Feyre going out into that treacherous forest alone.

"You're in pain," Feyre instead stated, her eyes already taking in the shakiness that Val tried to hide.

Val just gave her sister a reassuring smile, "I'm fine."

Feyre gave her eldest sister a look of disbelief, one that Val pretended not to notice as she instead walked into their small kitchen. Val placed the doe onto the rickety table, the wood creaking in protest just like her bones had when the carcass landed with a small dull thump.

Val would never admit to how bad the pain got. Years ago, before they fell into poverty, their father had hired the best doctors to find out what illness ailed her body, yet none managed to figure it out. In her youth, she would take tonics that managed to dull the deep pains, but now they were too poor to afford such a luxury, leaving her to be subjugated to the full extent of her illness. There was nothing she could do, so she found no reason to complain. The pain was a part of her, and she'd learned to live with it.

Feyre, on the other hand, had gotten adept at figuring out which days were hard on Val since her sister would refuse to ask for help. She took one look at Val and saw the trembles that ran through her body and the dark circles that told her that Val hadn't been able to sleep—most likely due to the pain. Today was a particularly bad day, and the weather certainly wasn't helping to make it any better. A pang went through Feyre's heart as she looked at her sister; she looked so frail, so fragile, so...breakable.

"Will it take you both long to clean it?" Elain questioned, looking between Val and Feyre.

Val refrained from sighing. She loved her sister, she really did, but sometimes Elain's ignorance and lack of willingness to help out grated on Val's nerve. Elain was too soft, too reliant, yet anytime Val tried to bring it up, it was Nesta —The final Archeron sister and her twin that would surge to Elain's defense.

Val and Nesta shared a complicated bond as twins. Val was the only one who could truly match Nesta, and as the eldest, Nesta usually, albeit reluctantly, conceded to Val's authority. However, when it came to Elain, Nesta became fiercely protective, refusing to acknowledge that their sister needed to harden herself to the cruel world they now lived in. Val sometimes believed that the reason was that Nesta still thought that they would one day regain their wealth. It was a fool's hope, but a hope nonetheless, and who was Val to take that away?

With Nesta favoring Elain, Val naturally gravitated towards Feyre. Even in her youth, Feyre had always been a wild child, and she had been too young when they had their fall into poverty to properly remember the luxuries they had. As such, this was the life Feyre most remembered, and she knew what needed to be done to survive.

Val didn't bother to answer Elain, but instead, she moved to grab her hunting knife, so she could begin skinning the deer.

"Feyre," Their father's deep voice rumbled from where he sat by the fire. "What luck you had today—in bringing us such a feast."

Val's hand tightened on the hilt of her knife. Even worse than Elain in idling around was their father. Val would never forgive him for letting Feyre go out into the woods alone, nor would she forgive him for just giving up. He spoke of trying to regain the wealth they once lost, yet he'd never once done anything to help bring a few extra coins to their table. Her anger towards their father burned hotter than even Nesta's, but like most things, she just managed to hide it better.

Feyre didn't bother to acknowledge their father's words as she moved to stand by where Val sat in front of the doe.

"We can eat half the meat this week," Feyre stated, glancing at Val, who nodded before continuing, "We can dry the other half."

"We can go to the market tomorrow to see how much we can get for the hides," Val added, earning a nod from Feyre. The others didn't bother to respond or even let on they heard what the two had said.

"I'd love a new cloak," Elain sighed wistfully. Right at the same time, Nesta stood up and announced, "I need a new pair of boots."

Val rolled her eyes, choosing to tune out the soon-to-be arguing pair. Instead, her attention shifted to the doe, yet before she could begin skinning it, Feyre's hand gently clasped around her shaking wrist.

"Go sit down," Feyre said gently, "I'll do it in a bit."

"Feyre—" Val tried to protest, but Feyre cut her off with a glare, making the older girl huff, "Sometimes I forget who's older with your mothering."

Feyre's lips managed to twitch, but she kept her resolve firm until Val finally conceded and handed her the knife before shuffling to the nearest chair.

The fact Val hadn't protested too heavily told Feyre just how much pain she refused to admit she was in. On a good day, Feyre wouldn't even have been able to hunt alone. Val would have been right by her side. In fact, it had been Val who had taught Feyre how to hunt in the first place.

While the others may not have realized how much Valda had sacrificed for them, Feyre did. No matter the pain she was in, Val always tried her best. The first time she had found out Feyre had wandered off to the woods alone, she had been livid. After that, she joined Feyre on nearly every hunt, despite the cold worsening the pain she felt.

It was Val who would give up her blanket when the nights were too cold to make sure that her sisters would be warm enough, and it was she who would eat the smallest of portions just so everyone else could eat more.

Feyre knew, which was why she insisted on skinning the deer despite her exhaustion. Valda suffered every day, yet she did everything she could to take care of Feyre and the rest of their sisters; and if Feyre could ease the strain on her sister for even the slightest moment, she would.

Val's eyes had slipped shut as she counted back in her head, trying to take her mind off the deep painful ache in her bones. Hearing the room go silent, Val opened her eyes just in time to see the disgusted look on her twin's face.

"You stink like a pig covered in its own filth," Nesta sneered, picking at Feyre's cloak, "Can't you at least try to pretend that you're not an ignorant peasant?"

"When you put food on this table, then you'll have the right to complain. Until then, leave Feyre alone, "Val's eyes met Nesta's challenge clear in her eyes. At that moment, Val looked anything but frail. Her back had straightened, her lip slightly curled as she glared at Nesta.

They weren't identical, yet both were devastatingly beautiful in their own right. Where Nesta looked most like their mother, Val was a mix of both parents. She was the only sister to share their father's dark brown hair but had their mother's piercing blue-grey eyes that she shared with both Nesta and Feyre.

Nesta returned the glare. The identical blue-grey, almost silver, eyes clashed in a battle of wills, but it was Nesta who broke first. Her jaw clenching and fists curling as she looked away. It was usually Val who won their arguments, and Feyre couldn't help but sometimes wonder if Nesta would secretly let her, not wanting to cause any more strain on their sister than she already felt.

"At least take off those disgusting clothes," Nesta huffed, but there was significantly less bite to her tone.

It was about as much Nesta would concede to defeat, but Val was satisfied. Her shoulders once again slumped as if it was an effort to keep them up.

"Can you make a pot of hot water and add wood to the fire?" Feyre questioned, looking at Nesta before frowning, as she noticed the woodpile—more specifically the lack thereof, "I thought you were going to chop wood today."

Nesta just picked at her long, neatly trimmed nails, "I hate chopping wood. I always get splinters." A frown tugged at her lips at the thought before she smoothed it over with a pout, "Besides, Feyre," Her tone was sickly sweet as if trying to butter her youngest sister up, "You're so much better at it! It takes you half the time it takes me. Your hands are suited for it, they're already so...rough."

"Please," Feyre bit out, trying to hide the pleading note that seeped into her tone, "Please get up at dawn to chop that wood." Feyre began unbuttoning her tunic, "Or we'll be eating a cold breakfast."

"I will do no such thing!"

Val sighed and nodded for Feyre to go. Elain tried to plead softly to Nesta, but she just hissed in return, leaving it up to Val, who was much less kind.

"You will, or you can go hungry tomorrow. Those are your options," There was no warmth in her tone, just cold hard steel letting Nesta know just how serious she was.

Val understood Nesta better than anyone, and she knew why she would do the things she would do. She wanted their father to step up, and Val did too, but Val wasn't about to let that become the reason she and Feyre ended up doing all the work.

Besides, Val had given up on their father long ago. She had given up when he had let them nearly starve to death, forcing Val to take desperate measures. She had given up when he allowed a child to go into those woods. Nesta could hope, but Val knew better.

Displeasure was written all over Nesta's face, but she didn't argue as she had done with Feyre. Nesta would do as she was told.

Thankfully, dinner went without another argument. Everyone was too focused on satiating their aching bellies. Val let out a small sigh as she felt the hunger recede.

She half-heartedly listened to Nesta complain about the villagers to Elain. It didn't even register what exactly Nesta was talking about until Feyre interrupted Nesta.

"Tomas Mandray?" Feyre questioned. "The woodcutter's second son?"

Nesta looked over, her eyes narrowing, "Yes."

Val sat up straighter, paying much more attention to the conversation. "What does he want?"

"He wants to marry her," Elain said dreamily.

Val stilled. Nesta cocked her head, noticing Val and Feyre's reactions. "Is there a problem?" She questioned, almost daringly.

Val snorted, dismissively waving a hand. "You can't chop wood for us, yet you want to marry a woodcutter's son?" Her words made it known just how foolish the idea was.

"You're not marrying him," Feyre added, backing up Val.

Nesta squared her shoulders, "I thought all you wanted was for us to get out of the house—to marry off me and Elain," Nesta's eyes darted to Feyre, and her lip curled, "So you could have one less mouth to feed and your darling Feyre, can finally have enough time to paint her glorious masterpieces."

Val's jaw was clenched so tightly it ached, yet it was Feyre who spoke. "Believe me," She started, "the day you want to marry someone worthy, I'll march up to his house and hand you over. But you're not going to marry Tomas."

Nesta's nostrils flared in anger, "There's nothing you can do. Clare Beddor told me this afternoon that Tomas is going to propose to me any day now. And then I'll never have to eat these scraps again." She smiled cruelly as she added, "At least I don't have to resort to rutting in the hay with Isaac Hale like an animal."

Their father let out an embarrassed cough. However, he said nothing against Nesta, but Val did.

"Nesta, that's enough," Val didn't raise her voice, but her words cracked over the sisters like a whip. It was hard and filled with warning. "Feyre's right. Tomas's family is barely better than ours."

Val remembered the hungry gleam in his eyes when he saw her and Feyre holding a line of rabbits. It was desperate, and she knew from experience that a desperate man did desperate things. Val had a white-knuckled grip on her knife, and she would have done what was needed if he had tried anything. From there on, she steered her and Feyre out of his way.

Feyre nodded, "You'd just be another mouth to feed. If he doesn't know this, then his parents must."

"Besides, we can't afford a dowry," Val looked between Nesta and Elain pointedly, "For either of you."

"We're in love," Nesta stated, and Val snorted as she saw Elain nodding in agreement.

"What do you two know of love?" Val questioned harshly, the words slipping out of her mouth before she could stop them. Nesta and Elain both froze at that. Feyre's eyes flashed with pity. Val reeled back slightly, and she tightly swallowed as she realized she had lost her composure.

"Excuse me," She muttered before hastily making her way out of the kitchen.

In the privacy of the room, she shared with her sisters, her hand shakily reached out to grasp the chain that held a simple ring around her neck while the other came up to muffle her sob.

Everyone knew love was a sensitive subject for Val because she lost her own. They had the love people dreamed about. Everyone in the village looked at them in envy. When Val looked at him, she knew he was her soulmate, as mawkish as it sounded. Yet, life had eventually caught up to them, and he was cruelly ripped away from her. That had been five years ago, and thinking of him still hurt.

She heard the footsteps of her sisters approaching, and not wanting to deal with them at the moment, she turned away from the door, feigning that she had fallen asleep. A few seconds the door opened, and two pairs of footsteps quietly shuffled in. Nesta and Elain spoke in low murmurs for a few minutes before the sheets to their shared cot rustled, and they joined her.

Soon their breathing evened out, but Val remained wide awake. Eventually, Feyre also entered and slipped in beside Val on the unoccupied side. Feyre was fast asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow, the exhaustion of the day catching up to her.

Val waited until she was sure everyone was sleeping before slipping away. Grabbing her cloak, she stepped outside and found a stray log to take a seat on.

The air was frigid, the cold already seeping into her aching bones, but she ignored it. Her eyes were locked onto what was above her. The stars glittered like millions of jewels in the night sky but even more beautiful than the stars around was the moon.

It shone brightly, casting a soft white glow that looked almost ethereal on everything around her. Someone once told her that when someone dies, they become a star in the night sky forever to watch over those they love. But Val preferred to believe that light from the moon was of the souls they lost, guiding the way for those they left behind.

A single tear slipped down her cheek, the ache in her heart was worse than any physical pain she could feel. Her hand came to quickly wipe the tear away as she heard gentle footsteps crunching through the snow.

Val glanced back to see a sleepy Feyre making her way over. "It's late."

Val shrugged, holding her cloak open so Feyre could join her, despite already having her own cloak bundled around her body. Val wrapped her arm around her sister and rested her head on Feyre's shoulder.

"Best time to see the stars," Val replied softly, knowing her sister's preference for them.

They sat there in silence for the longest time until finally, the cold became too much, and they were forced to go back inside. They made their way to their hut and quietly slipped back into their cot, where Nesta and Elain blissfully remained asleep. Feyre curled into Val, who wrapped her arms protectively around her, and that was how both girls fell asleep.

Next Chapter →

banner credits: saradika-graphics & reveriesources

[chernabogs]

Meet the (grand)parent

Requested by @pyroxeene [first request wah!!]

Pair: Malleus & GN!Reader (no pronouns used, second person; reader is a Fae who resided in a human settlement in BV)

Summary: You're set to meet the Queen of Briar Valley, much to your pending anxiety. Isn't it fortunate that you have such a considerate partner [and 1 stressed out valet] by your side?

WC: 2.5k

There’s a sense of trepidation in the air. Anyone can see it in the way that your foot bounces ever so slightly on the ground, and how your gaze darts around the room, as though anticipating something dire to happen. With each shift in your chair and each sigh that slips past your lips, the looming sense of anxiety grows—and it’s beginning to get to the Malleus, too. 

“You’ll put a hole through the floor at this rate,” he finally says, his voice unusually calm for the storm that’s currently brewing. You look over at him as he speaks, a flash of confusion on your face, and he points wordlessly at your bouncing leg. You sigh and force it to stop. 

“I don’t think I’d be able to afford those repairs.”

Despite the nerves, you retain a wry sense of humor about the situation as you go back to looking around the room. It’s a lobby of sorts; a buffer between the hallway and the Queen’s Study, which sits beyond an impressive mahogany door on the far wall. With its dark red walls, wooden flooring, and impressive display of artifacts that look like they date well past your years, it almost feels like you’re in more of a museum than a palace. 

Malleus sighs himself as he leans back against his seat, his chin tilting back to stare at the ceiling in thought. You glance back his way and note that his brow is furrowed, as though something is troubling him deeply. Something probably is; after all, you doubt he’s brought many partners into the Palace to meet his family. 

Truthfully, you’re thankful that it’s just the Queen you’re meeting—if you had to meet all the Senate as well, you would have dug your heels into the ground outside of those palace gates and refused to budge, no matter how hard Malleus pulled on your arm. As someone who grew up in a human village rather than a Fae one, you still find it jarring just how different the two cultures are. Whereas one comment may be seen as a joke in the human village, it may be taken as a grave offense to a Fae. Because of this, your involvement with the Crown Prince feels more like walking on a tightrope in a storm than an amicable relationship. 

“I could just fake sick,” you finally say, leaning towards him a little with a grimace. “If I make myself look queasy enough, the servants will probably usher me out anyway. They seem itching to do so.” 

Malleus scoffs softly before looking towards you, one dark brow raising in skepticism. “She’ll know you’re faking it, and then I’ll need to justify why my partner falsified an illness to bail on our first meeting. Would you really make me go through that?” 

His expression shifts to a playfully hurt one as you roll your eyes and sink back into your seat again. “No, but that doesn’t mean I’m liking this. I feel like if I move too fast someone's going to try and curse me. It’s quite jarring.” 

“Well if someone curses you, I’ll simply curse them back.” Malleus reaches out to lightly pat your hand—perhaps out of comfort, perhaps out of sympathy—before withdrawing again. You miss his touch; ever since you came into the Palace, it feels like he’s been self-aware of how often he’s grabbing your hand, or touching your arm, or standing too close to you. You understand that he has an appearance to uphold, but still… It feels quite grim. 

You’re both soon broken from your thoughts at the sound of the door to the Queen’s Study opening. A tall, lanky man dressed in impeccable attire steps out. He fixes you both with a look before closing the door behind him an steadily approaching. Malleus rises from his seat and you follow suit, using his actions as a guidance of your own as the man pauses before bending in a low bow. 

“Your Highness, and esteemed guest. Her Majesty is presently occupied with another matter, and has sent me to share her apologies for the delay. May I get you any refreshments as you wait?” 

Malleus blinks once before sitting back down which causes you to, once again, follow his actions. “Vuldar… do you know how much longer it will take?” 

The man—Vuldar—straightens back up again. He looks slightly ruffled—his collar slightly askew, his brow furrowed deeply—and you're getting a sense that the man may be a bit stressed. “Her Majesty informed me it will be within the hour, although she cannot provide a specific time.”

“Then yes, bring refreshments.” Malleus sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, an action you’ve come to learn he does whenever he’s feeling frustrated. Vuldar nods quickly before turning and departing from the room, leaving both of you alone once more. 

“An hour…” Malleus grumbles, casting a glance to the window on your left. You can see that the clouds are parting over the Valley, giving you a clear view of the many forests and hills that surround the palace, as well as the impressive peaks of the mountains beyond. He taps his fingers restlessly on the armchair. “I apologize, dearest. I didn’t expect it to drag out like this.” 

“Well, it’s hard to remain on schedule when you’re ruling a nation.” You offer him a sympathetic smile, which seems to ease him as he realizes you’re not too bothered by the wait. As he turns back to focusing on the world outside, you take a moment to carefully reflect on the situation you’re in right now. 

Perhaps you can call it in over your head. Certainly, some would. Certainly, the members of the Senate would. Old money begets old money, and you’re the farthest Malleus could find from such a category. A common Fae, born to common-folk, with no affiliation to the current court or the old High Courts the Draconia’s descended from. The woven tale of your affair with one of the most powerful men in the nation was a complex one that, if it succeeded, would most likely be on-par with the likes of other forbidden loves of the ages. A Prince and a Pauper; a nation's makeshift Saint and a forgotten footnote. You can’t help but hiss between your teeth a little at the thought, which draws Malleus’ attention back your way. 

“What troubles you now?” He asks, both eyebrows now raised in interest. It’s your turn to tap your fingers on your armchair in unrest. 

“Are we sure this is the right idea? I mean, taking me to meet your family… are we sure we’re there just yet?” You glance his way, hoping to portray your thoughts right, only to see a calm, blank look in return. 

“Are you experiencing doubt?” He asks. In a way, you are; how can one live up to a person that an entire nation practically worships? Their golden son? The hope for their future? You knew that being by his side was committing yourself to a lifetime of scrutinizing looks and whispered conversations wherever you passed. Winning both man and Fae was a battle that no one—not even the Night King’s of old—had won.

“I’m experiencing concern, not doubt,” you counter, biting your lip as you do so. Malleus hums and nods in understanding at the change of phrasing. 

“Concern… yes. I suppose there is much to be concerned about.” He taps a finger to his lips before shifting to face you more directly. “Do you feel like you’re not good enough to be here? That you’re not up to par to meet the Queen?”

“Yes,” you counter, frowning. Malleus nods slowly as his eyes narrow. You can see the thoughts spinning in that mind of his and you remain quiet, allowing him to form the a coherent train before he continues. 

“My father was a commoner, you know.” 

It’s not a sentence you expected him to say, and it takes you aback as you look at him. Your expression must’ve spoken your thoughts quite clearly, because it makes a smile spread across his face and a chuckle escape from his lips. 

“Yes, my mother raised hell in the courts when she decided he’d be the one she’d marry. According to Lilia, who goaded her on about it, there were many instances where nobles tried to buy her off, to persuade her that a future queen would not benefit from marrying a man who spent his days strumming a lyre and singing in pubs—us Fae have a weakness for musicians, you know. Even my grandmother was convinced that she was simply going through a phase that she’d get out of soon enough.”

“But she didn’t?” You ask, your own lips pulling into a grin. 

“Well, I’m here, am I not? It was a hard fought battle, but my mother was more stubborn than my grandmother—a trait she inherited from my grandfather, I dare say—and she eventually outlasted everyone in the court. Their marriage was a happy one, right up until the end.” Malleus sat back again and sighed. “This is not my grandmother’s first encounter with one of her own looking to have a commoner as a partner, nor is it the court’s. If anything, I think you may be far more qualified than my father ever was for this.” 

You chuckle at the image Malleus paints. His mother, squaring against her mother and an entire court, with Malleus’ father standing slightly behind her as though she was his own personal shield. You can see that Malleus inherited both her tenacity and her stubbornness—as well as his father’s musical traits. You feel his hand lightly rest on yours again, and sigh in relief. 

Perhaps this will be okay, after all. 

—--

Sometimes, overconfidence can only take you so far. Vuldar brings you refreshments and vanishes again. You and Malleus carry on conversation after conversation; about the ongoing of the Valley, about NRC, about what you’ve both been up to in your free time. Soon enough, the study door opens once more, and Vuldar appears again with his usual stoic look. 

“Your highness, esteemed guest. If you’re ready, you may enter.”

And just like that, you feel your stomach drop once more. You look to Malleus, who offers you a light touch of reassurance on your arm, before you’re both rising and entering the Queen’s Study. It’s only when you’re in does the reality of this really start to hit you, and you don’t even register Vuldar closing the door in your wake. When Malleus drops to a low bow, you follow suit without even looking at the Queen first. 

There’s a moment of drawn out silence as you stare at the carpeted floor, only your breathing and that of Malleus’ audible in the room. Finally, a calm, commanding voice speaks from somewhere in front of you. 

“Rise, and be seated, both of you.” 

You straighten up and follow her directions, and it’s only when you’re seated do you finally raise your gaze to look her way. 

Queen Maleficia is someone that you can immediately tell is related to Malleus. They share similar electric green eyes and dark hair—although you do see streaks of silver in hers. They have the same horns, and the same porcelain skin as well. The only telltale difference between them is that Queen Maleficia’s markings on her forehead are displayed, whereas Malleus stubbornly keeps his hidden by his bangs. When her gaze meets yours, you feel a jolt of anxiety race through you. 

It feels as though she’s observing you, as well. 

“Well.” She finally says, looking from you and back towards Malleus. You feel your shoulders relax as you’re unburdened from that stare. “I must apologize for the delay; as you know, the Senate can be quite… needy in their reports.” 

“Lord Voss?” Malleus hums, and his grandmother cracks a small smile—an expression that seems to instantly make her more comfortable to be around. 

“Lord Voss.” 

“As expected. Fortunately, we didn’t mind the wait too much, did we?” Malleus looks your way, and you realize this is his method of integrating you into the conversation. You clear your throat and offer Queen Maleficia a nod. 

“Not at all. The refreshments and the room were quite nice.” 

Your answer seems to please her as she gives a small hum in response. “Good, good. Now, it’s to my understanding you grew up in one of the human villages in Briar Valley, yes?” 

You nod slightly. “Yes; I was born in one, and I’ve lived there since. It fits me well enough that I see no reason to leave.” 

“And how do you find the human villages? Are they quite adequate? Do you find that you have enough amenities to get you by?” Queen Maleficia fixes you with an interested look, and you’re beginning to feel that this isn’t just trying to learn more about you; if anything, it feels like she’s collecting information about the status of her nation. You suppose a Queen never stops her work. However, Malleus certainly does, and he politely clears his throat to interject. 

“Grandmother,” he says, his voice low with a hint. He raises an eyebrow at her. “Will you be joining us for dinner tonight?” 

Queen Maleficia flashes him an innocent look as she leans back in her seat. “What, dearest? I was just curious. Your partner may have a diverse perspective that I don’t get to hear too often.” 

You tune in on the word choice of partner, and send Malleus a slightly wide-eyed look. For some reason, something seems significant that his Grandmother chose that versus something like ‘commoner’, or ‘friend’. Malleus seems to tune in as well as a slow, slightly satisfied grin tugs on the edge of his lips. 

“Well, perhaps you can speak with my partner further about that over a meal. We just wanted to come and greet you, after all. To show you that we have arrived safe and well.” 

Queen Maleficia hums again as she glances towards you. “Tell me—are you a musician, by chance? Or a bard?” 

Confusion flashes through you at this. “A bard…?”

“We did not meet in a pub, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Malleus counters, pinching the bridge of his nose again. Queen Maleficia chuckles and raises a hand. 

“Calm down, dear. It already happened once—I just wanted to ensure it wasn’t happening again. I will gladly join you both for dinner, if you’ll have me. It will be interesting to hear your perspective on Briar Valley from the viewpoint of someone closely affiliated with our human residents.” 

She gives you a smile that’s both amicable and polite, and you find yourself relaxing further. Between that and the banter she had with Malleus, you’re coming to see that she’s not just the Queen—she’s also a grandmother, and a very sly one at that. Malleus nods politely before standing and gesturing for you to do so. 

“Then we look forward to it. But please, don’t just speak about politics the entire night—you are meeting my partner, not a future advisor.”

“Oh, but the opportunity for both is always there,” Queen Maleficia counters, her grin now becoming more coy as she offers you both a wave. “I will see you tonight. For now, I must return to my… babysitting duties, it seems.” 

You chuckle a little at the realization she means the Senate and, with the feeling of Malleus’ hand resting on your lower back, you depart—looking quite forward to your dinner tonight, despite everything.

[the-lonelybarricade]

Queen of Thieves - Chapter 1

Summary: A fulfillment of this prompt from @sjmkinkmeme. A Canon AU where half fae, con-artist Feyre makes an ill placed bet.

A contribution to @officialfeysandweek2023 Day 1: Night Triumphant and the Stars Eternal

Read on AO3・Masterlist

-

“The game is very simple.”

A crowd of males gathered around the long wooden table. Some were standing, gripping their large metal tankards as they stared on with wary curiosity. Others had sprawled themselves on the tavern’s benches or propped themselves against the wooden beams, occupying every empty space that offered a decent view, effectively boxing Feyre into the scent of stale sweat and ale. The smell burned her nostrils, but given that her family lived in one of the spare rooms above the seedy tavern, it was a scent she was used to ignoring.

Feyre pushed her deck of cards across the table, to the male that had originally piqued her interest. He was a sailor—and not the type that usually frequented these taverns. A merchant sailor, one who worked for the High Lord, if the Night Court emblem embossed into the buttons of his navy jacket was anything to go by.

His kind usually slipped past the docks and stayed at the inns on the other side of the Sidra, where the rooms were more expensive but were met with the promise that the sheets had been cleaned since their last use. Given that this tavern charged its spare rooms by the hour, and its occupants hardly stayed through the night, Feyre had a feeling he was here for something other than clean sheets.

And if she couldn’t win money off of him through cards, then she could always work for it the old fashioned way.

“Shuffle the deck, then cut it as many times as you want. Once you’re satisfied, pick a card from the top. I’ll tell you what it is.”

The sailor narrowed his eyes. “I suppose all the cards are identical.”

Around him, the drunken males shifted. Some of them had seen her play this game before, and wore smirks that said they were excited to see someone else lose their money—which they would later be heckling her for. Others looked disapproving, suspecting some trick. Sometimes, that disapproval was directed towards the male falling into her trap. Usually, it was directed towards her.

Feyre tipped her chin. “Have a look. They’re ordinary cards.”

With slow, methodical examination, the sailor spread the cards face up over the table, allowing the tavern to witness the numbers and symbols that were standard of any deck.

The sailor paused. “These are not ordinary cards.” He pressed a finger to one of the face cards, Night Triumphant, to admire the portrait of a male crowned in stars. “These are hand painted.”

“All card sets are hand painted,” Feyre countered.

“No,” he was frowning. “I mean, yes, they are. But these were painted by you, weren’t they?”

She straightened a bit. No one had ever noticed that much about her cards. “How could you tell?”

“There’s a smudge of paint on your cheek,” the sailor said with a soft laugh. “And I doubt a female reduced to these parlor tricks could afford a deck of such fine artistry, otherwise. You’re either a thief, or you’re very talented.”

Maybe she was a very talented thief.

Her cheeks were beginning to burn. “I may have painted the cards, but they’re identical at the back. I won’t be able to tell which is which.”

The sailor smirked. With a graceful swipe of his hand, he arranged the cards back into a pile and pushed them back across the table.

“For my peace of mind, allow us to play with my own deck.”

“Fine.”

She watched him draw a collection of cards from his breast pocket. Unlike her own deck, these cards were almost certainly rigged. Which meant that he would bet with greater confidence.

Feyre smiled. “Cut the deck, then.”

He arched his brow. “You don’t want to see my cards? They could be a different set than you’re used to.”

She studied the back of the cards, marking their glossy, onyx surface and the serpent that coiled around the border.

“I recognize a Night Court deck when I see one.”

Now, it was the sailor’s turn to smile. “Very impressive.”

The tavern went quiet as they watched the sailor slide his fingers along the edges of the cards. She could see his lips moving, counting some metric in his head, before he paused and lifted the deck at its midway point. He placed the lower pile of cards on the top of the stack, then cut it twice more, each move seemingly well-calculated.

Finally, he looked across at Feyre, and he lifted a card from the top.

“I’m feeling generous,” he said. “I’ll give you five marks if you can guess it in under three tries.”

“How about ten marks if I can guess it in one?”

He pitched his voice low, just like his eyes, which trailed from her face to her breasts, and lower. “And what do I get when you guess wrong?”

“Ten marks, the same from me.”

Feyre didn’t have ten marks to spare, and from the way the sailor laughed in response, she could tell he knew it. And that he would demand something different, if she couldn’t pay her debt.

“Let’s make it twenty, then.”

Maybe he was hoping she would lose and he could force her to go back with him on his ship. She almost didn’t hate the idea. Seeing the world outside of Velaris, never worrying where her next meal was coming from, chasing the sea and sky and never looking back. If that freedom could be gained from fucking a male a few times each night, she couldn’t imagine it would be any less pleasant than sharing a filthy matress on the floor with her two sisters.

“Deal.”

She could scent the magic before she felt the subtle tingle on her skin. A small, delicate whorl etched itself onto her forearm, connecting to the pattern of blue-black swirls that stretched to her fingers like an intricate lace glove. A tribute to the many, many bargains she had made under this very roof.

They were a permanent mark of her poverty, and the things she’d needed to sacrifice to keep her family alive. Feyre was almost—almost—tempted to guess wrong, if only so she could go with him on his ship and spare another bargain from ever marring her skin.

“The Cauldron of Fate,” Feyre said, sitting back proudly on the bench. “A rare card. I’ve heard they’re hardly ever used outside of the playing halls for High Lords and their sons.” She cocked her head. “Did you steal it?”

The sailor’s face had slackened. A drunk male clamped a hand onto his shoulder, leaning to see the card before he howled, “No fucking way!”

A murmur swept through the tavern, though very few people were celebrating on Feyre’s behalf. Most of them were now likely contemplating how they’d win, or steal, the money off her.

“20 marks, please,” Feyre said with a slow smile.

“You cheated.”

“How?” She crossed her arms. “I didn’t touch your cards. Though, if there’s an issue, I’m sure the High Lord would be plenty interested to know how you came about—”

He whipped the money onto the table as he abruptly stood up. There was a dark look on his face that made Feyre edge back in her seat, just a bit.

“Thieving halfbreed whore,” he spat, swiping his tankard from the table and storming towards the door.

It wasn’t anything she hadn’t heard before, though she could feel the smooth curve of her ears burning as the eyes of the tavern turned their attention to her, to the features that marked her as other, even among the lesser fae. Feyre quickly pocketed the money and rose from the bench, elbowing her way through the crowd. She grit her teeth as she shouldered their passing jeers.

“Not gonna stay for another game, sweetheart?”

“Looking for more coin? I’ll give you another 10 if you let me take you upstairs. I’ve never had a halfbreed before”

Someone groped at her, and she yelped as she stumbled forward, into a male who spilled his tankard all over the front of her shirt. The ale had left him swaying and he only grumbled some nonsense about Feyre buying him a new drink before she was able to sidestep him, too, and quickly disappear up the stairs.

Their room was at the very top of the tavern, in the cramped attic that was as far away from the drinking and fucking as they could possibly get. They paid a reduced fee, since this room was hardly big enough to rent to customers looking for a quick fuck, and had otherwise just been used for storage.

Elain and Nesta were nowhere to be seen, which was just as well since they would likely have something to say about the stench of ale. She’d bathe in the Sidra tomorrow. For now, Feyre just wanted to hide the coin she’d won and go to bed without thinking about the tavern-goers or the spiteful sailor.

-

The wind clashed heavily against the sea, scattering white-foam tips across the surface of the inky water. It chopped against the shoreline in persistent, arrhythmic assaults, occasionally crashing into the rocks so violently that it sent the salt water skywards. The mist rained down over Feyre, clinging to her skin, the salt beginning to sting—just slightly—as it was agitated by a cool, whipping gust of air.

Feyre wondered why she didn’t come to the shore more often, especially when it was storming. The world was so alive here. The churning water and the hissing wind and the screaming gulls. It all rushed past her, crisp against her cheeks, tangling in her hair. She could breathe up here. So far away from the cramped attic she had fallen asleep in, where the air was stale and leached with the scent of mold and alcohol.

By the sea, nothing could contain her.

She leapt from the cliff face, stretching her arms to feel the rushing air as the water surged towards her. She laughed, though the sound was quickly torn away before it reached her ears. Then, just as she was about to greet the roiling surface, large membranous wings snapped out from behind her back, pulling her upwards until she was soaring towards the gray sky.

A lock of blue-black hair fell into her eyes. She reached up with an unfamiliar brown hand to push it out of the way. Ferye jolted a bit, to realize that she wasn’t in her own body. This was someone else, flying over the ocean, and the joy she felt building in her chest was not her own. This was someone who was drawn to the sea. Someone who was sharing this moment with her, lending this feeling of freedom that she had never known existed until she tasted the skies.

Feyre wondered if she should have let the sailor win, afterall.

[eleanor-bradstreet]

Fever. Dream.

Benedict Bridgerton x Sophie Beckett Rated: G - romance, hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending Word count: 10.1k (sorry!)

Summary: A twist on An Offer from a Gentleman where it's Sophie who falls ill on the escape from Cavender and in her fever, confesses things to Benedict.

Author's Note: This is an anon request fill (my first!). I loved the idea of reversing roles in the fever scene, leading to caretaker Benedict and an important reveal. Thank you Nonny, I hope you enjoy this! 💙

Sophie’s mind was blank to everything except one imperative: run. Despite how her joints ached and her lungs burned, she had to get off Cavender grounds. It was her only chance to escape prison, transportation, and the brutality that would no doubt be exacted before she was handed to the authorities.

Her feet didn’t fail her, propelling her to the road until the lights and noise of Cavender House were barely perceptible through the trees. As the roar began to fade from her ears she had to pause, wracked by a new bout of coughs. It was going to be a long walk to the nearest village but it was her only choice. In the cool night air under moonlight diffused by gathering clouds, she set off.

As she walked slowly with waning strength a sense of dread crept over her. She had attacked a gentleman. For a penniless maid such as herself it was an offense worthy of imprisonment on the other side of the world. But she had simply refused to fall prey to Phillip Cavender. With his parents away he had invited the most vile assortment of noblemen to fill the house with drink and smoke, shouts and chaos. She would have left as soon as his parents did, knowing how vulnerable she would be to his unwanted advances without Lady Cavender on the premises. But the cold she was combatting had settled into her bones leaving her weak and bleary. With no locks on the doors of the servants’ quarters, she had angled a chair in front of hers and sat upon her bed, praying that Phillip would find distraction with one of the many hired ladies in attendance. 

Her prayers were not answered. Phillip had come banging into her room, easily shoving the chair aside, and began pawing at her. She had tried to reason with him, tried to beg him to leave her alone, but his slippery smile only grew wider as she struggled. Then some primal corner of her mind snapped to attention and took control of her body, making everything both crystal clear and numbingly distant at the same time. She knew, definitively, that she was going to get out of that situation no matter what it took. No matter what behavior she had to exhibit and to whom. Her knee moved before she commanded it to, driving swiftly up between Cavender’s legs.

She saw his eyes widen with pain for a split second before he doubled over, wheezing. When he tried to lunge for her again, her arm flew on its own, planting her fist into the side of his jaw. Cavender hit the floor with a thud, groaning as he began to roll across the boards. After the initial shock of her own actions, Sophie flew into a panic, stepping over the crumpled man to throw her few belongings into a bag and then tear away out into the night.  

Now she trudged, trying to ignore how poorly she felt as she pushed onward toward the village of Rosemeade where she knew she could find an affordable bed for one night. What would happen to her after that was unclear. She certainly could not work in another household of the ton, lest word spread to find her. Maybe, she hoped, Cavender had drunk enough that he would not remember what had happened but she could not rely on that. Perhaps he would be too embarrassed to tell anyone. Then she may be able to work quietly in a home far away. But she could never be sure that Cavender would not visit that household someday and find her. No, as long as she stayed among the gentry she would always be at risk. There was nothing for it, she would need to change her occupation. She could find work in a city somewhere doing…something. 

As she began to contemplate the many dangerous and demeaning ways poor women might make money in a city, Sophie heard the fall of hooves approaching behind her. Her stomach sank. It could be Cavender or someone he sent after her. She glanced over her shoulder and saw a single rider on a white horse moving at no great speed. The Cavenders did not own any white horses but nevertheless, she began to dart off toward the trees. She knew the rider had already seen her and how futile a chase would be but it was her only fleeting chance at freedom.

“Hello there?” The rider called out, his voice gentle, somehow familiar.

She paused. He certainly did not seem to be chasing her. Something within was telling her not to run. Where did she know that voice from? But she was not about to have a roadside chat with a stranger in the middle of the night. She needed to get to the village. She continued to walk along the side of the road, eyes forward, her steps purposeful but not frantic.

Naturally, the rider caught up with her in short order and slowed his horse to match her pace. “Good evening, Miss.”

He sounded polite enough but it didn’t stop Sophie from feeling a stab of annoyance. She was going to have to converse with this person, delaying her arrival to safety. Exhausted and unable to hide a grimace, she turned to look up at him. For a moment she could only see his silhouette, a tall shadow, with unruly hair and a high collar. Then her eyes adjusted and his features emerged in the moonlight. Dear God, it was Benedict Bridgerton.

She froze, every sound and every feeling melting away until all she could see was him. She didn’t even breathe as she stared. She had been fleeing for her life, running from torment, facing a hopeless future, and then suddenly Benedict Bridgerton appeared on a white horse like a knight in a fairy story. She wondered if she had fallen in the road and dashed her head on a rock because why else would she be seeing him unless she was hallucinating or in heaven?

Holding her breath for such a long moment had its consequences and she began to convulse and cough loudly, finally breaking eye contact as she bent over, fighting to catch her breath.

“Are you alright?” his voice was concerned as he stopped his horse and dismounted. Sophie dragged in a steadying breath. All she could think was that those were the exact words he had last said to her before she ran out of the masquerade so many years ago. She had heard them, echoing over and over in her dreams. Of course she recognized his voice. Straightening and swallowing to soothe her raw throat she nodded, looking him squarely in the eye, waiting for him to recognize her. 

“It’s a bit unusual for a woman to be walking the road alone so late at night. Do you work at Cavender House?” He held the reins in his hand, looking her up and down.

She continued to wait silently, jutting her chin so that he might see her better. Surely he would be able to tell. Maybe it was too dark for him to see her properly.

“Miss?” his face was growing increasingly concerned.

She wasn’t sure if she knew how to form words anymore, but found herself replying, “Not anymore.”

“Oh,” Benedict frowned. This night was not turning out at all how he had anticipated. Cavender’s party was not exactly the bacchanalia he had been promised. Benedict had always found him to be a weaselly sort of fellow, but he had grown so bored with the stuffy events of the London season that he would have accepted any invitation that got him out of the city. Rather than finding distraction in the amusements on offer, he had been repulsed by the callow attendees, their slovenly overindulgences and blatant disregard for the women hired to entertain. He had seen his own share of raucous parties to be sure, but there was still such a thing as taste in how one enjoyed themselves and what he had discovered was that Cavender and his friends were lacking in it.

He had managed to extricate himself, tired and wanting nothing more than to throw himself into a bath at his nearby cottage. But now there was a strange young woman in the road and he was not one to ignore a soul in distress. The nearest village was at least two miles away and she was alone, carrying nothing but a small bag which, he guessed, was everything she owned if she had just left the employment of the house. From what he could see of her in the moonlight she was lovely, with a short crop of hair and large, luminous eyes. He had the oddest sensation that they may have met before, though he didn’t know how that was possible. Perhaps she had worked in a household he had visited.

“Something drove you out of the house in a hurry.” He was doing his best to seem trustworthy.

Sophie continued to stare, unwilling to believe that he didn’t recognize her even now that they were standing so close. 

Benedict was running out of ideas to get her to speak so instinctively, he reverted to humor. “I’ve just come from there myself. Between you and I, it was turning my stomach to be around that bunch of louts. Plenty of drink, plenty of frivolity, but certainly no sense of taste.”

“No,” Sophie rasped, beginning to understand how he came to be there. It had indeed been a tasteless party, led by a tasteless host. She was reassured that Benedict wasn’t of the same ilk as Cavender, given his poor opinion of it. For the past two years the memory of him had been the only thing giving her the motivation to press on through the toil of each day, the dream of him and the fantasy life they may have shared together if she had been born legitimate. If it had turned out that he was no better than Cavender, she would have nothing left in her miserable little life. Not even the memory of the masquerade to treasure. But here he was, miraculously comforting her by the roadside, an avenue to safety. 

She opened up to him, surprised at her own words. “I was treated roughly so decided to leave.” Not the whole truth, but enough to explain why she was walking through the night.

Benedict’s brow furrowed with concern and he nodded. “May I ask your name?”

Her name. The name he had begged her for at the masquerade. Now she would tell him for the first time. “Sophie Beckett,” she croaked.

“Pleasure to meet you, Miss Beckett. Are you headed to the village?”

“Yes,” she nodded. “To the Wayside Inn.”

“Would you permit me to take you there?” He chose his words carefully. He didn’t know what this woman had endured at Cavender’s but if it was enough to send her hiking out into the road at night it must have been awful. Being approached by another man was likely the last thing she wanted but if she trusted him, he’d rather it be him escorting her than God knows who else. If she declined, he would leave her be.

“Yes.” She agreed so readily it surprised him. 

“Excellent,” he smiled. “I will drop you there and continue on.” His cottage was in fact a mile closer than the village but he didn’t mind. He would rest easier knowing she was safe. He held out his hand. She did not take it. She just continued to stare at him curiously, her head cocked to the side. “Are you certain you’re all right?” he asked.

And that’s when Sophie realized. When they first met her face had been covered by a mask. Her hair had been longer and powdered to a lighter shade, lovely tresses that she had since sold to a wigmaker. She had grown scrawny in the intervening years of hard servitude. It was two entire years ago and they had only spoken for an hour or so, outside in the dark of the Bridgerton House garden. She understood now. He didn’t recognize her. How could he? She was not the same woman he had met on that magical night. 

She finally took his hand, her thoughts racing. Should she reveal herself? Would he believe her? As she followed him silently he led her to the horse and patted the beast gently. “This is Danae. Not as comfortable as a carriage I’m afraid, but certainly faster than walking.” He grinned, his lopsided smile crinkling his eyes and she felt her legs falter. 

As her mind whirred Sophie moved automatically, lifting herself onto Danae and perching sideways behind the saddle. Benedict looked up at her, the cheeky grin still playing on his lips. “Where are my manners? I’m Mr. Benedict Bridgerton by the way.”

She almost said “I know,” but caught herself. Her voice cracked as she feigned ignorance. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

He glanced down at her legs. “If it would be easier, you can sit astride. No need to stand on ceremony with me.”

Benedict was on his most gentlemanly behavior. It was only right that he escort this quiet, poor young woman away from the fiend Cavender’s house and to a place of safety. It was also ridiculous to force her to ride sidesaddle. Firstly, she was not even properly in a saddle, and secondly, it was a most awkward feat that he had never understood how women managed. He genuinely wanted her to be secure and comfortable while they rode. But he also couldn’t help finding something alluring in the way she lifted her leg and swung it around to sit astride. 

Sophie caught a flicker of something devilish in his eyes as she repositioned herself on Danae. It forced a smirk across her own face even as the debate raged within her on whether to tell him that they had met before.

Benedict mounted into the saddle and took the reins. He was an inch away from her now, his broad back and dark hair filling her vision. She could see the fine velvet texture of his coat, the glint of the moonlight off the waves of his hair, and she could smell his cologne - sandalwood, fresh parchment, a walk in a green forest. She closed her eyes, breathing him in, her every sense engulfed by the man in front of her. Was this a dream? Was it a nightmare?

“Hold on,” he said over his shoulder. Sophie’s eyes flew open. Oh God, she hadn’t thought about this when she agreed to ride with him. She would have to hold onto him, to wrap her arms around him and press their bodies together. She didn’t know if she would be able to bear it but there certainly wasn’t any way to avoid it now. With great trepidation, she settled her bag securely in her lap then lightly rested a hand on either side of his torso.

She could hear him chuckle under his breath. “Tighter than that or else you’ll fall off, Miss Beckett.” Gently, he pulled her hands across his chest. Her palms rested against the buttons of his coat and she trembled as she realized she could feel him breathing. 

“There we are,” she could hear the smile in his voice. Then he signaled to Danae, tapped her with the stirrups and they set off in a gentle, steady trot. 

They encountered no one else on the road and the night was silent save for the trills of evening insects. This was nothing like the masquerade where they had so much to say to one another. But Sophie reminded herself that this was different. She was a maid and he was a gentleman of the ton. They shouldn’t have anything in common now.

She couldn’t spare too much energy on the debate raging within her because a coughing fit was pressing against her ribs just as insistently. She allowed one small, rasping cough and tried clearing her throat to fight it down. Benedict tilted his head back toward her.

“Is that bag all that you have?” 

“Yes,” she admitted. “This is everything.” But speaking released another hacking cough and she turned away, desperate to maintain her composure though she was starting to feel woozy.

“Are you unwell, Miss?” Benedict asked. 

“I’m fine,” she gasped, certain that she sounded unconvincing. It was getting harder and harder to mask how ill she truly felt. She was growing more weary with each passing minute and had to focus to stay upright with the canter of the horse. 

Benedict flicked the reins, his eyes ahead but his mind focused entirely on the woman behind him. What a strange night. As eager as he was to return to his home, he also felt singularly invested in seeing Miss Beckett safely delivered to the inn. While rare enough to have a stranger riding on Danae, with her arms wrapped around him he felt the oddest tingling sensation across his skin where she was touching him. The heat of her against his back nearly made him shudder. There was something about her he couldn’t place. He stole a glance over his shoulder. There was something familiar about the curve of her cheek as well…

“Have we met?” he blurted out.

“No,” she choked, her answer instinctual as a spike of fear shot through her. “I don’t believe so.” But she admonished herself as soon as the words left her lips. Didn’t she want him to recognize her? Wasn’t she hoping he would come to his senses, leap off the horse, gather her in his arms and declare his love? Didn’t she want him to carry her off to the life of her dreams?

But that was precisely the problem. They were just dreams. In her dreams she knew Benedict Bridgerton. In her dreams he loved her. Loved her enough to marry her despite the circumstances of her birth and the chasm of a class divide that existed between them. These were dreams and nothing more. In reality she barely knew this man. He had flirted with her at a masquerade when he believed she was a debutante. They had shared a kiss, one that had stopped her heart with all of its passion, but perhaps he had kissed many ladies at many balls. Just because it had been special for her did not mean it was special for him. Perhaps it was so insignificant that he never again thought of the lady in silver. If she revealed herself to him now, there was a fair chance he would feel honor bound to return her to Cavender House, or perhaps to Araminta. Either way she would end up in prison for theft or attack. Quite the opposite of a dream come true. 

It was best if he did not recognize her. She didn’t know if she could survive his rejection or retribution. She would be grateful for this second meeting that they had, though she railed against fate that it felt like a bittersweet joke being played upon her. She would enjoy the sight and feel and smell of him, the sound of his voice, for these brief moments, rounding off the dreams she had carried with her for years, then allow him to leave her at the inn and once again exit her life. It was heartbreakingly painful but she knew it was for the best.

As if the sky acknowledged her sorrow, she suddenly felt the plop of fat raindrops spattering her shoulders. 

“It’s raining,” she observed, immediately scolding herself for sounding obtuse.

“Of course it is,” he said wryly. “Because we are out in the open. If we were in a carriage there wouldn’t be a could in the sky.”

“How close are we to the village?”

“Just under an hour,” he frowned. “Though the rain may slow us down.”

Sophie was just about to announce that she could tolerate getting wet when the heavens opened up in earnest with a crack of thunder. Within minutes both of them were soaked through, pummeled by rain that obscured the road and turned it muddy.

“I have a cottage up ahead,” Benedict called back to her. “It’s closer than the village. We can shelter there with my housekeepers.” 

“Alright,” Sophie didn’t know if he could hear her over the deluge or even cared to wait for a reply because he had already kicked Danae to set off at a faster pace, driving her forward into the blinding storm and making for a small turnoff.

Sophie tightened her arms around him to hold on. She wasn't sure which part of her was tied into worse knots, her body, which was heating up as her throat began to ache, or her mind which continued to wrestle with this entire situation. Now she was being taken to Benedict’s home. Would he recognize her in better lighting? Would she slip up in their conversation and reveal herself? What would his housekeepers think of her? How quickly could she leave and continue on to the inn?

As her mind filled with questions, she was gripped by a new wave of coughs. Deep, rumbling ones that felt like they were borne out of a furnace in her lungs and were cutting her throat with razors. Benedict felt a pang of concern as he realized her pale hands were shivering against his chest. He winced as she convulsed against his back, her every cough reverberating into him. 

“You don’t sound well.” He shouted over the wind.

“I…” Sophie gasped. “I have a cold. But I am alright.” Her voice faltered again as more hacking overtook her.

“We’re almost there,” he assured her. “Hold on tight.” Then he kicked Danae again, snapped the reins and she broke into a full gallop, splashing through the puddles of the country lanes as they wound through hedges and over a small bridge.

Sophie clung to Benedict, nestling her head against his back both to keep the rain out of her eyes and because she was losing the strength to stay upright. Her throat was torn raw, her chest wracked, and she could feel the portentous chills of fever starting up her spine. She told herself to keep a clear head at least until they reached the cottage. Then she would no doubt become a burden as she asked to rest until she was well again. She hoped his housekeepers would be kind and accommodate her, and she hoped her illness would not delay her in their company too long. She closed her eyes, cognizant only of the rocking of Benedict’s body in time with the horse’s strides. Even in the tumult of the storm he felt so solid, so safe.

Sophie was wheezing by the time they slowed and she opened her eyes to find they were sheltered under a small stable attached to a building. Everything was cast in shadow with no lanterns or candles lit anywhere. She moved to pull away from Benedict but found her arms stiff with cold. Her every bone ached, her skin was on fire, and her clothes were so heavy with rain that she felt she couldn’t rise.

Deftly, Benedict pried her arms open and hopped to the ground then looked back at her, extending his hands. “Allow me.”

Sophie appreciated his concern but did not want to burden him nor humiliate herself any further. She opened her mouth to decline his assistance but another round of coughs bent her double over the saddle and next she knew, he had wrapped his arms around her, slid her off Danae and was carrying her toward a side door. If she had been in any other state, Sophie knew her heart would be fluttering uncontrollably with this turn of events, but now it just fluttered because she was trying to regain her breath.

All was dark inside the house as Benedict kicked loudly on the door. He called out. “Mr. Crabtree? Mrs. Crabtree? Hello?” But it was obvious no one was on the premises. 

“Dammit,” Benedict cursed under his breath. “They must be away for the night at their daughter’s. Serves me right for not telling them I was coming. Miss Beckett…”

Sophie met his eyes, now so close to her own, and they only contributed to her breathlessness.

“Would you wait here a moment?” He gently set her upon her feet. She could stand just fine despite the weight of exhaustion threatening to pull her down to the earth. She clutched her small bag of belongings, realizing it was as sopping wet as she was.

“Of course,” She rasped, her voice raw.

With a quick nod Benedict dashed out of the stable and back into the rain, darting around a corner of the house. This night had grown so strange Sophie didn’t know what to question anymore. Whether it was serendipity or misfortune that Benedict found her in the road, that a storm had driven them to seek shelter, that his home was nearby, and that they found themselves alone together. If she had been a proper lady such a situation would have been scandalous. But for a gentleman to be alone with a maid in his home? She doubted anyone would bat an eye. Assuming they could get inside, she vowed to keep to herself. She would light the fires, rest in the servants quarters and be on her way in the morning. She hoped the Crabtrees would have returned by then. She hated leaving Benedict alone but knew that she couldn’t trust herself in his presence any longer than absolutely necessary. Not because he would do anything, but because she would fall even more desperately in love.

Benedict reappeared, jogging to her side as the rain continued to pummel him in sheets. Once under the stable roof he tossed his head, sending water flying from the dark waves of his hair and leaving it charmingly tousled. Sophie despised him a bit for looking so attractive even when he appeared half-drowned. With a crooked grin he held up the brass key he had retrieved from somewhere and successfully unlocked the door to lead her inside.

Before Benedict even lit a candle Sophie could tell this was not a cottage. Despite how he had made it sound, this was not the thatched roof country home she had envisioned. This was a manor house with six bedrooms at least. With marble floors and gleaming wood everywhere, this would only be called a cottage by the wealthiest of people who didn’t know the common meaning of the word. 

Spying a small door near the stairs, Sophie assumed it led to the servants’ level. “Thank you, sir.” She couldn’t stop herself from shivering as she spoke. “I will light the fires and then find myself a bed downstairs.”

“You’ll do no such thing.” Benedict moved to her side with a candle in hand. She could see his face clearly for the first time. She held her breath seeing how simultaneously similar but still how different he looked from the vision in her dreams. On the night of the masquerade he had been wearing a mask, the same as her, and she had only seen his full face for one fleeting moment after the gong had sounded and before she had run away. She had had to construct his face in her mind from that single image and often found it easier to remember him in the mask. But here he was in the flesh. His mouth was the same as her memory, his eyes the same bright hue but their shade something ephemeral, ever changing. They were always a different color in each dream and even now she wasn’t sure how she would describe them. But they were gentle and delightfully creased at the corners. Seeing all his features together, they were greater than the sum of their parts. He looked older now, slightly more world-weary and like he smiled less often. His hair too was shorter, lending him an air of increased responsibility, making him look less wild and boyish.

“Come with me,” he ordered and began walking up the curving staircase, making sure she stayed close behind. He led her into a bedroom richly decorated with a four-poster bed, upholstered armchairs and a tiled fireplace. She assumed it must be his bedroom.

“This is a guest room,” he explained, as if reading her mind and quashing her presumption. “And it is yours for the night.”

With comic timing, Sophie doubled over with a new bout of coughs. She was indeed overwhelmed by the generosity of his offer. She hadn’t slept in a room so luxurious since she was very small and newly welcomed into her father’s home. These days she only had the privilege to observe such places as she cleaned them. Benedict gently took her bag and set it on a chair. Then he moved about, eyeing her with concern as he lit more candles in sconces on the walls and holders by the bedside. 

Sophie tugged at the knot of her cloak, hoping that losing the weight of it would grant her some relief. “Here,” Benedict stood behind her and pulled the garment from her shoulders, hanging it on a hook nearby. “Now, you’re soaked through. You’ll have to make do with my clothes, I’m afraid. I don’t keep any spare frocks around my bachelor lodgings.”

Sophie’s mind started to reel. She had a nightdress in her bag but knew it would be wet. “That’s quite alright, you don’t need to…” But before she could protest or formulate any kind of plan, Benedict had stepped out then reappeared with a set of folded clothing; a ruffled white shirt and a pair of linen trousers. He set them on the bed then crouched at the fireplace, plucking a nearby candle and holding it toward the wood already stacked within.

“I’ll get the fire going too.” He stayed focused on the task at hand, not turning as he spoke. “You need to warm up. Go on and change.”

A shiver ran down her spine but not from her illness. She was rooted in place. “Sir, this is most improper.” Her voice was a pathetic croak even to her own ears.

Even without seeing his face she could detect his smirk. “Would you prefer I leave you in the cold and dark for the sake of propriety?” He challenged playfully. “You can trust me to keep my back turned, Miss. You need to get out of those clothes before you catch pneumonia.”

“I could say the same for you.” She volleyed back.

His head turned just far enough that she saw him arch a brow. “Do you want me to take mine off now too?”

Mortified, Sophie gaped like a fish then scurried into a far corner. She could hear him chuckle but true to his word, his eyes stayed focused on the spreading embers in front of him. She didn’t have the energy to protest further. She knew he was right, though he had a cheeky way of expressing his concern. She really was desperate to get out of the heavy layers of freezing fabric. Quick as she could, she started to peel them off: shoes, stocking, dress, chemise. She jumped into the pair of trousers he had provided, their outrageous length pooling around her ankles. All that was left were her stays. She had to sit on the bed to prevent the trousers from falling as she tried to loosen the laces. Not only were her fingers rigid with cold and slippery with rain but reaching back pushed her lungs into an uncomfortable position and she fell helplessly into another series of rasping, gagging coughs.

Benedict’s ears perked but he stayed where he was. “Is it safe to turn?”

Sophie continued to fiddle helplessly with her knots. “I can’t…” she gasped. “I can’t untie my stays.”

After a pause, he asked softly. “Would you like assistance?”

Sophie froze, her heart pounding as she looked over to him. The fire was now taking off in the grate as Benedict crouched in front of it. Why had she said anything? What else did she expect him to do than offer to help her? Was it that she had reached the end of her tether and just wanted to sleep in warmth and comfort as soon as possible? Or did some deeper, more devious part of herself want him to undress her?

“Yes.” She breathed, her body reacting before her mind could reason with it.

Slowly, Benedict got to his feet. Still facing away, he stripped off his jacket and dropped it on a chair by the fire where it started to drip onto the floor. Sophie was transfixed, shamelessly cataloging how the muscles moved in his back and arms. He wore a beautiful blue waistcoat, navy with a delicate gold brocade and a blue silk cravat. His shirt was so wet as to be transparent and it clung to the contours of his arms. That dangerous little whisper within her was hoping to watch him remove more but he only rolled up his sleeves then walked over to her, gesturing for her to stand and turn around in front of him.

She thought she saw something spark in his eyes when he beheld her in nothing but her stays and his trousers, clutching them bunched at her waist, but it could have been a reflection from the fire. The room was growing warmer but she didn’t know if it was the flames or the rush of her own blood as she stood before him trembling. She closed her eyes as he silently went to work pulling at her laces. He was gentle, his long dexterous finger making quick work of the bindings and pulling them wide as the garment loosened around her ribs.

“God, no wonder you can’t breathe.” He mumbled. 

Sophie bit her lip, ashamed to admit to herself that she hoped to feel his touch, for his fingers to brush across her arms or the palms of his large hands to press against the skin of her back, soothing her, holding her, tempting her to…something.

“Alright now?”

His voice snapped her out of her fantasy and her eyes flew open. He hadn’t touched her, only performed the task as requested. “Yes, thank you.” She rasped, holding her stays to her chest and shooting a glance over her shoulder. He had turned away again and was facing the door. In a moment she wriggled out of her undergarment and slipped his billowy ruffled shirt over her head. She felt like a child, swimming in adult’s clothes for play.

“Tell me what you need.” He urged.

Another tickle in her throat made Sophie swallow. “Only…only water.”

“Of course.” Without a look back Benedict stepped into the hall, closed the door and was gone.

Sophie climbed into the bed and it positively enveloped her. A plush mattress, thick feather pillows and piles of soft blankets, it felt like absolute heaven. She couldn’t remember sleeping in such comfort and her weakened body went limp, grateful to be cradled so perfectly. Exhaustion would claim her soon. It was too much work to puzzle through everything that had transpired or what she should do next. All she wanted to do now was sleep. With a clearer head, she could piece things together in the morning. Abandoning her confusion, she allowed herself to accept it all as something like a dream. The handsome man she loved rescuing her on horseback, carrying her to his door, seeing tracts of her skin that should have been reserved for a husband alone. Fate’s bittersweet joke was more insidious than she had suspected, but a part of her was still grateful for it.

Benedict returned a few minutes later. Knocking softly, he entered the room carrying a small tray. He had also changed, wearing the same ensemble he had lent to her. With tousled, towel-dried hair and his shirt unbuttoned low he looked like sin. Sophie instinctively pulled the covers up to her chin.

“Comfortable?” Benedict grinned at her, placing the tray on the bedside table. A pitcher, a glass and a suspicious amber bottle.

“Sir, you are far too generous.” Sophie found that her voice was nearly spent. She sounded horrid, which was an accurate reflection of how she felt. “Really, I will be fine. I will…find some way to repay you.”

Benedict waved away her sentiment, kneeling to her level. “You can repay me by getting well. Do not worry about owing me anything. This is for my benefit as much as yours. I could not in good conscience leave you on the side of the road any more than I can allow you to perish under my roof. I’ll send for the doctor first thing tomorrow.”

Sophie vaguely thought of objecting, not wanting to involve more parties in this strange scenario but she was too distracted by Benedict uncorking the bottle. “In the meantime,” he continued, “brandy has always had a medicinal effect for me. In small doses of course.” He cracked a lopsided smile as he poured a splash into the glass and handed it to her. Sophie sat up, weakly returning his smile as her fingers wrapped around his to accept it. Benedict didn’t remove his hand but helped guide her gently as she drank down the spirit. Her fingers tingled where they met his. He did the same with a glass of water next. She was so worn through that she was grateful for his help and for the fleeting chance to feel his skin.

With heavy eyelids she sank back into the pillows, barely able to mumble her thanks.

“Try to get some sleep.” Benedict said softly. She nodded, feeling herself drifting into a comforting darkness. The last thought she registered was that Benedict didn’t leave, but was pulling a chair over to the bedside and watching her intently.

—

Heat. That is what lifted Sophie out of her calm slumber. Sweltering heat burning through her very skin. Eyes closed, she didn’t know where she was but she knew that she felt smothered. She tossed, attempting to kick aside her covers but only seemed to entangle herself further. Every bone issued a pang of protest as she moved, stoking the fire that seemed to have replaced her blood. Her head throbbed. She groaned and gasped, fighting to find air that didn’t feel stifling.

As she started to thrash she was dimly aware of something on her forehead, pressing on her one moment and removed the next.

“Oh God, you’re burning up,” a voice murmured beside her. Whoever it was, she wanted to answer in the affirmative and ask them to help free her. But she hadn’t found her breath and didn’t know up from down.

“Here.” The voice spoke again and then something cool was laid across her forehead. A rush of relief stilled her movements. She was still burning, her whole body pulsing with waves of heat, but now she had a focal point, something to orient and distract her from her discomfort. The coolness moved, smearing down the side of her face and onto her neck, being pressed into her skin. “Does that feel better?”

It did indeed. It calmed her enough that she was able to drag her eyes open. Everything she saw swam just out of focus. She was in some kind of ornate room but had no idea how she had gotten there. She wouldn’t be lying in such a nice room at Cavender House. Maybe she was in Penwood Park? She turned to see who was beside her. Perhaps that would help solve the mystery. 

Her eyes did manage to focus on the figure kneeling at her bedside and her breath hitched. It was him. Him. The man she had met one beautiful night and who now lived entirely in her dreams. It all made sense now. This was a dream. Benedict Bridgerton was with her, as vivid as he had ever looked, dark hair tousled, soft lips parted, bright eyes meeting hers. She was grateful to her mind for painting such a lovely tableau to live in, even for just a moment. It was Benedict who was dragging a cloth across her skin, giving her relief. Of course he would be her savior in her dreams. 

She smiled faintly and closed her own hand over his where it rested at her neck. “Thank you, Benedict.” She could only manage a whisper.

He grinned back in return, the grin that made her lose all sense. One of the reasons she would always recognize him without a mask. “No thanks necessary.”

This may have been a dream, but if it was one where she could converse with him, she wanted to tell him the things she could never say to the real Benedict. She wanted him to know how much their evening had meant to her. “You were so kind to me.”

He moved the cloth back up to her forehead, dabbing lightly. “Any gentleman would do the same.”

“No,” Sophie pouted. “They all stayed in the ballroom.” It was only Benedict who had followed her out into the garden of Bridgerton House and struck up a conversation during the masquerade. Even though every bachelor of the ton had stared at her agog when she arrived, she hadn’t given any of them the opportunity to request a dance. Too anxious with the dawning realization that her dancing skills were inadequate, she had swiped two flutes of champagne and ducked out into the garden. She hoped the bubbles would instill her with courage and she had been clumsily mimicking the dancers she could see through the windows, attempting in vain to teach herself the quadrille when Benedict stumbled upon her and her world was turned on its axis.

Dream Benedict’s brow furrowed and he placed the cloth on the table beside him. He leaned in closer. “What was that?”

“You found me outside.” She stated plainly. Surely he remembered.

“Yes, on the road.” Tentatively, he took one of her hands and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

“In the garden.” She insisted. He had taken her second glass of champagne. He had revealed his own disdain for dancing and they had laughed together.

Dream Benedict seemed at a loss. “I’m not sure what you’re…”

“It was Handel,” Sophie sighed, hearing the music again in her mind. The soft melody that had spurred them both to stop snickering and give it a try. That memory was growing more vivid now, calling her back as it had so many times before. “The moonlight. Thank you for teaching me to dance.”

Benedict’s skin suddenly went ashen and he dropped her hand. His eyes began to dart frantically over her face but the rest of him was paralyzed. “You… No, you…”

Sophie was already stepping back into the garden, her mind too distant to register anything more than that his sweet face was beside her. She brought a hand to his cheek, willing him to recall everything they had shared and to understand her gratitude. 

She smiled, eyes glassy. “It was all I wanted. One night. Happy. Like a dream…”

Benedict watched in shock as her voice faded and her eyes fluttered closed again, her hand falling limply back onto the bed. He was nearly convinced his heart had stopped until he felt it pounding again at full force, pushing him back on his haunches as he all but collapsed on the floor. He felt sick. He felt blind. He felt insane. Was he feverish too? Was this all some hallucination? Was this strange woman some faerie or witch that had ensnared him in a spell to taunt him with what he wanted most in the world? It was impossible that finding his lady in silver, the quest that had seemed so hopeless it had been calcifying his heart for two years, could be so easily concluded. That he could happen upon her on a country roadside at precisely the right moment. 

But Sophie was a maid, not the glamorous woman of the ton that had captured his affection. And yet she knew all the details of the masquerade. Details no one else could know. None of it made sense. Until he remembered the numbness. The telltale sensation that started in his limbs and spread into his torso, infusing him with an acute awareness that something significant was about to occur. It had happened only twice before. The first time was moments before his father had died and the second time was on the night of the masquerade - a certainty that he had to go out to the garden, and that was when he had found her. 

That tingling sensation had hit him again earlier this evening just after mounting Danae to escape from Cavender’s. It had frozen him in the saddle for a moment but he chose to ignore it. Maybe he was lightheaded from the smoky air indoors or his jump onto the horse. Maybe he was falling ill. Or maybe his wiring was well and truly ruined after two years of trying to soothe his heartache with too many liquors, teas and herbs. He hadn’t thought there was any chance something fateful could happen on his ride home down a country lane. But it had. 

Was it possible that it was the most fateful night of his life? 

He was broken out of his thoughts by Sophie shifting again under the covers. She was mumbling, writhing with her eyes closed as the feverish heat continued to pour off of her. He moved back to her side and scrutinized her face, his heart racing faster as details began to fall into place. Her hair was different than his lady in silver and she was thinner, but the shape of her face was the same. Her lips were the same. The gamine little point on the end of her chin was the same. He panted, desperate to see the color of her eyes but knew that it would have to wait.

Her breath was growing shorter and her teeth were beginning to chatter. He held her by the arms, sending out a silent prayer that she could fight her way through until morning. He would do anything to make sure she awoke. He would not be reunited with the love of his life for a few cruel minutes only to have her snatched away again.

—

Turning away from Benedict in the ornate bedroom, Sophie stepped forward into the garden at Bridgerton House. There was Benedict again, this time back in his tails and blue demi mask with his tireless smile, reaching out until she slipped her silver-gloved hand into his. The air was soft with moonlight and fragrant with wisteria. He wrapped his arms around her.

“You’re trembling.” When he spoke Sophie could hear an echo, a second voice repeating him somewhere distantly. She had trembled in his arms that night, wracked with nerves and excitement.

Benedict guided her hands, one onto his shoulder and the other into his outstretched grasp. She felt his fingers wrap around hers and hold tightly, the sensation so realistic she could feel the heat of his palm.

“Hold onto me. That’s it.” Again two voices spoke in stereo.

Sophie gripped his hand and was confused. Her bodice feeling a bit too tight and her skin a bit too hot. But she had been in this dream so many countless times before, she knew she was safe. 

Benedict smiled down at her and she realized for the first time what color his eyes were. They were the color of their love story. They were blue - his family color and his favorite hue. They were green - to match her own and her favorite hue. They were grey - shimmering like the moonlight under which they had met. They were a kaleidoscope of everything she treasured. 

“I’ve got you.” He assured her, his voice echoing somewhere far away. And then they began to dance. This was her favorite moment. All she had to do was give herself over and let him lead her, spinning her through the steps as music drifted out of the house nearby. She could lose herself in his arms and find happiness, however fleeting. If this was all she could have of Benedict Bridgerton anymore, it was enough. Not enough to stem her yearning but enough to make her feel that her life had at least one mote of joy within it. 

As she swayed she gazed up at him. The most handsome man she had ever met. The man who made her believe in love at first sight. The man that she both celebrated and regretted meeting every day. The memory of him filled her with so much delight and torment equally. She could never decide which was less painful: to have known him and lost him, or to never have known him at all. 

He held her tight and spoke again, but this time his lips did not move. It was only the disembodied voice, sounding as if it were right by her ear. It was pleading, desperate.

“Do not leave me. Not again.”

Bewildered, Sophie declared in her heart that she would never leave. Then as Benedict spun her under his arm the moonlight grew brighter, refracting off the embellishments of her dress until she was swirling in a silver cloud. Everything became gauzy and faded into light.

—

The next sound Sophie heard was birdsong. A gentle backdrop to the cozy, nestled feeling she had upon waking. She blinked her eyes open to find herself in the bedroom of the cottage, the memory of the prior evening catching up to her. She had been exhausted with her cold and had fallen asleep. Now, happily, the sun was shining through the bedroom window. Her muscles were still sore as she sat up and her throat felt as if it had been slashed and burned, but she was clear headed. 

“Good morning.” Benedict’s deep voice made her snap to face him. He was sitting in a chair at her bedside, scrutinizing her in an odd fashion. It didn’t appear that he had slept at all.

“Sir.” Sophie nodded at him, finding that her voice was a pitiful rasp.

He leaned forward and studied her face so intently that it made her self conscious. Was he that concerned for her wellbeing? Had her sickness done something dreadful to her skin? With a sharp breath he finally sat back, his brow stern.

“How are you feeling? Your fever broke a few hours ago.”

Sophie didn’t quite recall having a fever, though she had felt one was likely to start. Thankfully she had slept it off. She drank from the water glass beside her. “My throat is worse for the wear but I will be fine.” She offered him a small smile. “Thank you again for…”

“Who are you?” He cut her off, something suddenly harsh in his tone.

She stared at him, confused. “Sir?”

“Did you give me your true name?”

Sophie couldn’t fathom what was happening. “Yes. Why do you ask that?”

“Because you kept so much else from me, I had to know if your name was a lie too.” His words were clipped, his nostrils beginning to flare.

Oh God, did he know? How could he?

“Sir, I…”

“It’s you.” His voice was tight, his eyes fiery. “From the masquerade.”

Sophie felt her stomach plummet to her feet. Her mind wiped blank. 

“I didn’t recognize you, so changed and in the dark. But I see it now. Your eyes in the daylight. I have not forgotten your eyes.”

As he glowered at her, Sophie stuttered. Her mouth moved but no words would come out. She had wanted him to recognize her, so why did it feel so terrifying? Why was he so angry?

Benedict continued. “You were delirious. You confessed it in your fever. You thanked me for teaching you to dance.”

Betrayed by her own fever addled brain. Everything inside her sank. Maybe if she hadn’t been such a dreamy romantic this wouldn’t have happened. Maybe if she had learned to school her emotions and not cling to the memory of him so desperately, she wouldn’t have gone talking about it when she was half mad. Embarrassed and ashamed, she managed to babble, “I didn’t…I’m sorry…”

Benedict learned forward again, his brow knotted with confusion. “Where have you been all this time? How are you a servant?”

Sophie’s stomach did another flip as her previous fears flared. If he learned the truth he might cast her out. He may send her back to her stepmother or her rancid employers and both of them would see her rot in a jail cell or a foreign land for the rest of her days. She had to be tactful but couldn’t bring herself to lie to him when she saw the pain in his eyes. “I’ve always been a servant. My life is…complicated. I had no right to be at the masquerade. I snuck in.” She hung her head in apology.

“Why?”

Clearly her explanation wasn’t enough. Over the past two years she had often asked herself the same question. Why had she snuck into the ball? Why had it felt so imperative to her at the time? She had risked so much for something that seemed so frivolous. Except she knew the answer if she was honest with herself. It had been worth it. It had been the happiest night of her life even if it was the cause of so much subsequent pain. With her identity now discovered, she had nothing left to lose by telling him the truth.

“Have you ever chased after a dream? Allowed yourself to imagine, even for a short while, that you were more than what your birth made you?” He shifted at that, something softening in his gaze. They had spoken at the masquerade about how they each hoped for more in their lives; some way to distinguish themselves that was entirely of their own doing. She hoped he understood. “I only wanted to see it,” she sighed. “To dance and laugh. I didn’t expect any of this would happen. I didn’t expect to meet you, or to feel…”

“What did you feel?” Benedict pressed forward, searching her eyes.

She couldn’t bring herself to say it. Love was a bridge too far. So she gave him her assessment of her feelings rather than the raw feelings themselves. “Foolish.”

He frowned, leaning back. “Is that why you ran away?”

She tugged at her fingers. “If you had realized I was an imposter you would have turned me away, or reported me. Or someone from my house would have recognized me. I had to leave.”

“You fled London entirely!” His voice raised, looking incredulous.

Sophie stared at him. “How do you know that?”

“I searched for you. For six bloody months!”

“You searched for me?” Sophie went numb. There was no way she had meant that much to him. She was a servant easily enamored by a handsome, wealthy gentleman. But he had his pick of young ladies. She could not have left such an impression on him over the course of one evening. “I…I had to. I was found out anyway and I was punished. I had to leave, I had nowhere to go.”

“You had me!” Benedict jabbed his fingers into his chest, sounding frantic. “I would have looked after you.”

Sophie couldn’t help but scoff. “No you wouldn’t…”

“I fell in love with you, Sophie!” The silence that followed his shouted declaration was deafening. They stared at one another, breathing heavily. Benedict with exasperation and Sophie with disbelief. He couldn’t be in earnest. Either she was still delirious or he was mad. A man like him did not fall in love with a woman like her, or at least would not want to pursue her after learning who she truly was. She was a servant but not a fool. 

Fighting against the choking feeling in her throat, she spoke slowly. “You didn’t fall in love with me, sir.”

“Stop calling me sir.” He growled.

She appealed to his reason. “You don’t even know me, Benedict. We are from two different worlds. There could never be anything real between us.” Her heart clenched as she laid it out plainly, tears beginning to prick her eyes. “It was best for both of us that I left you alone.”

Benedict stared at her, eyes aflame, his jaw jutting around as if he were chewing his own tongue. Then he suddenly stood, turned on his heel and marched out the door.

This was the end. Sophie let the tears roll down her cheeks as she planned her next steps. Her limbs were still heavy but she would have to get up and dress quickly. She hoped her clothes were dry but even if they weren’t, she needed to leave. She could walk to the village from here. She could make it down the stairs without him seeing her. She needed to leave before he tossed her out or contacted the police. She should never have agreed to get on his horse. This was the heartbreaking but predictable conclusion to her dreams. This was the ironclad confirmation that she must stop reaching for things beyond her station.

Before she could muster the strength to swing her legs to the floor, Benedict reappeared in the doorway. He carried a stack of papers, uneven, varying in size and texture. He held them gingerly in both hands like priceless artifacts. As he walked toward her Sophie shrank back, wondering what on earth he was doing.

Benedict looked her in the eyes, an unreadable expression on his face, something like reluctance and yearning simultaneously. He reached the bedside and slowly started to spread the pages out before her, separating them to lay across her lap and the whole of the mattress so she could see each one. She gasped. 

It was her. 

They were all pictures of her. 

Dozens of them. Charcoal sketches of a faceless woman in a cascading ball gown. Renderings of a face hidden by a mask with dark lips and starry earrings. A study of gloved hands, another of the curls of her coiffure. Oil paintings of a woman facing away in a dark garden. Watercolors of swirling blues and silver, some painted by his own fingers, abstract and without imagery but she knew what they signified. She held her breath and touched them in awe, her hands shaking. Tears streaming uncontrollably, she looked up at him, speechless.

“I have thought of nothing but you for two years,” Benedict’s voice was unsteady with emotion. “I couldn’t let myself forget you even though I didn’t know your face. You are all I can see. You are in every line I draw, every sky I paint. You are all that inspires and delights me. Don’t tell me that isn’t real, and don’t tell me you spared me any suffering by leaving.”

Swallowing hard, he knelt on one knee and took her hand in both of his own. “In my life, I have endeavored to be guided by one thing,” he paused, looking into her eyes. “My heart. And it is telling me that finding you again is not a coincidence. It is crying out for you. I know the circumstances are not perfect. I know our match would not be traditional.” He nearly spat the word. “But I have never put much stock in tradition or society. I must do what my heart bids me to, above all else. Let me show you the love and comfort that you deserve. We can find a way. Please do not condemn me to live the rest of my life as a broken man. Please, Sophie.”

Sophie’s mind was spinning. She didn’t know if there was air in the room because she couldn’t breathe. She didn’t know if she was lying or standing because she was floating. Her pulse was pounding so hard that her hand throbbed between his. In one moment everything she had ever wanted was placed before her for the taking. The love of Benedict Bridgerton. A life with him. A future. Something full of joy. It was too perfect, too unreal. Could it be this simple?

“This is real?” She asked him, her eyes dancing with a hopeful light. “I’m not still dreaming?”

Benedict grinned. “It is real. I love you Sophie, and I am begging you to stay.”

Tagging: @angels17324 @bridgertontess @broooookiecrisp

[rockyfr0g]

my thoughts on "writing on the wall" by will stetson (as someone who relates to kaveh an unhealthy amount)

(ill preface this by saying im not good at separating headcanon and canon, especially when it comes to kaveh, and im not the best at understanding songs at more than face value cause im autistic but i just have so many thoughts on kaveh and this song and aaa)

firstly, the differences between the three choruses. i love how it encapsulates the devolution of both his mental state and how he views his work. in the first chorus, hes careful and precise, taking a lot of pride and happiness in his work, excited to see the completed project and overall enjoying working on it. whereas the second and third choruses hes been beaten down and rejected more and more by clients, failing to understand his vision, he feels more and more trapped by his creations. but still he holds his pride in them because if he loses that, he'll lose everything hes worked for. at first hes able to ignore the "writing on the wall", but as it gets harder and harder to please his clients or be able to afford what he wants to do, or even to create his visions, the writing becomes harder to ignore. as for what the writing means, im not too sure. but my idea is that the writing refers to the voices of doubt or dissaproval (both from his own thoughts and others comments), as well as the little criticisms when a client asks to revise his design once more. all of the negativity mixing within his own confidence in himself and his art, culminating in the writing on the wall. it represents the thoughts he desperatly tries to keep hidden until it gets too much and overflows (the end of the song).

secondly, i wanna talk about the actual music video. ive only watched it the one time for now, but here are my thoughts on it. the transitions between choruses and verses, and how it becomes redder and more exasperated the longer the song goes on to me feels like a really good expression of kavehs emotional state during the song. how the lines between him as a person and as an artist are slowly blurring, as he feels like hes becoming one with his buildings. being "trapped" by them.

another thing i love about the song is that its JUST focusing on kaveh. it isnt kaveh and alhaitham, it isnt 4ggravate. its all about kaveh. which is rare to see, especially within fandom space where i find kaveh is often diminished to just alhaithams partner, roomate, tormenter, whatever. so its really refreshing to see someone focusing solely on him and his problems without regard for anyone else for once, i love it. it gives you more of an understanding of just how much kaveh struggles, not only when it comes to his professional life, but his personal life too. we see how he struggles to balance keeping his aesthetics and pride while also trying to adhere to what the client wants, with "the right way takes a toll" showing how no matter how hard kaveh does try to keep this balance, it often gets toppled over and his ideas are more or less ignored in favour of something simpler. the balance is something kaveh struggles with throughout the whole song, but it becomes more prevalant in the last couple minutes. as for how he struggles personally, well the song mentions "the bigger the sorrows to drown", hinting at kavehs struggle with alcoholism and his use of alcohol as an escape from the voices and torments hes subjected to by his mind, turning to numbing his feelings with alcohol and often ending up worse off, physically or mora-wise. his alcoholism specifically isn't something i see people talk about a lot as its often glossed over or treated as just one of his quirks, when its evident that it is a serious problem, hes jsut so used to it at this point that he doesnt present it as such.

apologies, this kinda stopped being about the song itself and more just about kaveh and my own thoughts in some parts. but i hope its an interesting read at least!!

[noctusfury]

What Would Have Happened if Stoick Slew Dagur? (Riders of Berk)

Hello, fellow Furians! Welcome to another HTTYD article! Today, we'll dive into the what-if scenario that could've happened in the Riders of Berk episode "Twinsanity".

In this scene, Stoick was clearly about to end the Berserker Dynasty right then and there, until DreamWorks Hiccup and the Gang came along and interrupted it with their fake "Dragon Raid" forcing the Berserkers to retreat.

Thus, the question is this: What would've happened if he had succeeded or failed in doing so had he NOT been interrupted?

Obviously, of course, there would've been war between Berk and Berserk. Reason for this is that there would be witnesses who'd see Stoick strike Dagur down from behind. There are four Berserk Guards who are with Dagur (as seen below).

There's a risk of the one who's not encumbered with a task — and is closest in proximity to Dagur — intercepting Stoick's strike. However, when Stoick closes the distance with Dagur, the other guards, along with Dagur himself, are far too preoccupied with Barf and Belch to notice Stoick's actions. So it's possible that Stoick could easily succeed in assassinating Dagur.

However, it's what happens afterward that's important. The guards would've seen Stoick slay their chieftain and will want to exact vengeance. Of course, as we know, the moment Stoick slays Dagur, Hiccup and the Gang come in with their fake dragon raid on the Berserkers. There might be a 5-10% chance that Stoick, depending on the timing and the Berserker's POV, might get away with it if the Berserkers immediately focus from Barf and Belch to the other dragons without noticing Dagur's fall. But I doubt that Dagur would go down without a fight or without making any sound, hence why the percentage is so low.

So we will continue with the assumption that the Berserkers saw Stoick slay their chieftain. Stoick and the others would have to deal with them, or else they'll report this to the armada waiting near Berk's docks.

Of course, if Berk fails to cover their assassination up, they'll immediately have to deal with an entire armada of angry Berserkers. Even if the Berkians are battle-hardened and every person who can hold a weapon is recruited and the dragons join in the fight, and even if the majority of the Berserkers haven't seen many battles or wars, it can't be denied that the Berserkers have been well-trained and are, of course, Berserkers. It'll still be a very difficult fight. There will be severe casualties on both sides. In the end, though, Berk will probably pull through this with a victory in the end. But at what cost? It'd be a conflict that could've been easily avoided, and Berk suffered losses that it can ill afford to take when they're still fighting with the Outcasts — with little gains to show for it. And there's no guarantee that the conflict will even end there.

So, in summary, if Stoick wasn't interrupted and succeeded in ending Dagur, he'll need to get rid of the guards as well. This will be pretty easy since they have the dragons, and they can easily make it look like a dragon raid killed them and hopefully Berk can relax and keep an alliance with Berk, while Berserk is reeling from their chief's death and busy running around killing as many dragons as they can. And — even better — Berk could masquerade this as something that Alvin, an Outcast, did and can better solidify Berserk's involvement in Berk's war against the Outcasts.

So yeah, so long as the Berserkers don't look too closely at the bodies, the Berkians would have a pretty good chance at getting away with it.

What do you guys think? What would've happened had Stoick went with his plan? Do you think that Berk would've been able to get away with it? Or would it end up sinking in defeat, with Alvin taking advantage of the chaos? Tell me your thoughts!

Thank you for reading! I hope you found this article intriguing and I'll see you in the next article.

Long Live the Night!

— Noctus Fury

[hemlocksandfoxgloves]

Theo hasn’t celebrated his birthday since he was 8 and Liam makes him cry for celebrating it. Thing is, he doesn’t make a big deal out of it. He doesn’t throw him a big party. It’s just the two of them. And it’s the best birthday he’s had in a long time.

Of course Jenna does make a nice meal and gives Theo a vegan muffin with a candle, which makes him laugh.

Later, after everyone has gone to bed, Liam and Theo are watching a movie on the couch when Liam brings out one more surprise for him.

“Liam, I dont need any gifts. This is perfect right here.”

“Well, I’m not taking it back, so you might as well just take it.”

Theo doesn’t say anything as Liam quickly runs to the closet and retrieves something. It’s kind of big, but Liam tries to hide it behind his back. Theo looks at the wrapped case as Liam holds it in front of him. The wrapping paper had squirrels all over it and was quite hideous, but was totally all Liam. Theo stared at the package with wide eyes. He glances at Liam, who’s giving him his best puppy dog eyes. He can’t look at him or he’ll break. 

“Are you… going to open it?”

“No,” he says tightly.

“Theo,” Liam whines.

“No, I can’t take it, Liam.”

Liam sighs. “Here,” he says as he tears the wrapping a little, splitting down a squirrel. He imagines it’s the same way his coyote tears through a small animal. Theo can see the top of the guitar case and the start of the company store name where Liam got the guitar and, no doubt, the leather case with it. Strings and Things, the musical shop off the corner by Sinema. Theo has been in there countless times, always wanting but never able to afford a new guitar. So he’s seen the price tags, and he knows there’s no way Liam could’ve afforded something like this. “I know you lost your old one when your dad…” Theo looks at Liam with slightly watery eyes. “Anyway, I just… I know how you loved to play, and it’s my fault you lost it anyway, so here.” Liam pushes it closer to Theo and Theo pushes it back. “Theo,” Liam exasperates. Huffing harshly, he pulls the wrapping off the rest of the way. He tears through the badly wrapped present and opens the case. The tears that had been so steadily collecting in Theo’s eyes fall and he sucks in a breath as he sees the guitar in plain view. The very guitar that he has stopped to look at every day at work.

Liam is freaking out. He thought this would make him happy, but all he was doing was making him cry.

“Do you not like it? I know it’s not like your old guitar, but the guy at the shop said it was one of a kind and that no other guitar plays like this one—” Liam stops rambling as he suddenly has his arms full of his coyote boyfriend. Theo sobs softly into his shoulder, his arms tight around him. “Theo im sorry. I thought you would like it. Ill take it back, okay?”

Theo shakes his head and looks at Liam. “Dont take it back.”

“But it made you cry.”

“Cause I'm happy you dumbass. I love you so goddamn much.”

Liam smiles, suddenly getting it. “I love you too.” He says before kissing Theo. The guitar lies forgotten till the next morning. Which is the best night of Liam Dunbar’s life. November 23rd is now his favorite day of the year.

[vixen525noms]

Defying Certain Death Part 20

Dual posted to my DeviantArt account, a non-sexual G/T vore story featuring adults along the lines of the lion and the thorn fable. There will be tons of hurt/comfort aspects, lots of safe vore. That is the primary focus in this.

Barrett is an adult giant standing 85ft tall and Hope is an adult human at 5ft 6. Barrett does not eat children at any point. 

Warnings: Fighting; Fatal Mention; Characters in Distress

Future and Previous: While this part has no fatalities, future parts include fatal vore and violence. Barrett, the giant, is not a good guy, so will be doing some occasional bad things.

Editor: @vore-scientist

Picture | First | Previous | Next

Since what happened with the thieves, Barrett did not like being away from camp for long. He didn’t like the idea of Hope being vulnerable or at risk, but taking care of her during her illness hadn’t let him hunt as frequently as usual. He didn’t want to leave her alone, but she also clearly didn’t like seeing when he ate humans, and he suspected she would react similarly to seeing him eat any other sort of small folk. But he needed food, and going hungry longer than usual meant he couldn’t afford to be picky. Which unfortunately meant leaving Hope at camp and hoping the smell of a syor living there would scare off most things. At least today had been a good hunt. A nice moose was caught, not a common find, and large enough to be rather filling. He paused on his walk back and his ears flicked as he heard an unfamiliar male voice. And he dropped his catch and charged forward. He flicked up the tertiary eyelid organ to see past the trees…something larger than Hope was at their camp. His feet moved with instinct before thoughts even formed. 

Another predator was in camp. Another predator was with his Hope.

“MINE!”

-----Earlier....-----

Hope was rather startled when a large naga, standing probably about 25 ft tall or a tad shorter, came through the trees. He had long curly hair that was so intensely black it was as if dipped in ink, but there were streaks of gray despite no other outward signs of great age.. From his vibrant blue coloration, and his thick build, he wasn't one of the native varieties. She wondered if his kind, like native nagas, had the potential to be dangerous predators. He very well could be, but if he was, he wasn't hunting her, instead he smiled warmly, “Hello there! I think I got a bit lost. Can you tell me where I am?”

Still, she was a bit wary. This could be a trick. And yet… How long had it been since she’d talked to someone? “I haven’t seen nagas your size in this area before. Too close to a syor settlement for them to thrive.”

The naga paused, considering, “Then I must be very far off track... May I sit here?” he asked as he gestured near where she sat on the shore of the lake.

 Hope nodded, “I don’t mind... but you may not want to stay long. There’s a syor in the area, and I doubt he would react well to you.”

The naga nodded in return, then curled up in a seated position near her before reassuring her and introducing himself, “That’s alright. I’m quite confident I can handle myself. I’ve studied quite a bit of magic. I’m Taevis by the way.”

The potential overconfidence didn't do much to assuage Hope’s concerns. But they had just started talking and it was going so well, and Barrett was probably still hunting decently far away. “I’m Hope. You say you studied magic but didn’t mention the college... Did you study somewhere else? Like I heard there’s places of study on the far continent... I hope you are right about being able to defend yourself from a syor. He will come back for me... so far doesn’t seem to intend to eat me, but that could probably change at any time... but he definitely isn’t going to let me run off. He left me here while he went to hunt, you can see the tent he uses right over there. If you want, I have a pretty good idea of the direction of the nearest syorian town. They can help you get your bearings there.”

Taevis listened attentively to her, frowning a bit at her ramblings. “If you want me to leave that badly, I can head off... but I was enjoying your company. I’ve been wandering lost for a while now.”

Hope’s eyes widened as she realized her rudeness and she shook her head vigorously, “Oh I definitely love the company. Since that syor has decided to... I don’t know... keep me? I haven’t had much chance to speak to people. Mostly just him, and that’s mostly me hoping every day that he doesn’t change his mind about keeping me alive. I just worry about your safety is all. If you are that confident you can defend yourself, I really do love having someone to talk to. I’ve missed it.”

Taevis’ face flushed slightly, “I don’t intend to scare, but I’m pretty confident I’m one of the most dangerous things around! I’d be far more worried about being lost than about the syor. But even if I’m dangerous, I’m not going to hurt you. I’m really glad to have run into someone so helpful to a stranger!”

 “I like to help people... but my desire to help others has gotten me in trouble a few times,” Hope chuckled nervously, “Like the fact these days I rarely get to see or talk to anyone. Last time he found a traveler, he just ate them. Can’t exactly have a conversation if the person immediately becomes food... And it’s not like I can have much conversation with the syor... I’m still not sure how long he’s going to keep me around before I end up like that traveler.” Hope shrugged and took a deep breath , “But nothing I can do about it, so at the very least I can be kind to the first person I’ve had a proper conversation with in... I’m not even sure how long anymore. Two months? Three?”

Taevis considered her words then smiled down at Hope, “You could always come with me. I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t go around eating travelers, at least. I have no real idea where I’m going at the moment, but it sounds better than staying here!”

Hope sighed even deeper and tried to laugh but it came out wrong, “That’s very kind of you, but I guarantee the syor won’t let me go. But until he comes back, if you want, I have plenty of food. He’s been taking everything the travelers carry, and the amount of food... it’ll go bad before I could ever eat it all. It’s in that cart over there. As for directions... following the lake shore that way will lead to a river. There’s a town just upstream,” she pointed in the direction of the town. 

This new revelation surprised Taevis, “He eats travelers and makes you use their stuff? That’s kind of fucked up! And it seems a proper comb hasn’t been in those supplies. How about I help you with your hair a bit, since you’ve helped me with my problem of being lost?”and he pulled a human sized comb from one of the pouches at his waist.

Now it was Hope’s turn to be surprised, and she nodded hesitantly. She tensed up when he put his hands around her to pick her up and set her on his coils, if he was hunting her she was now in his clutches. At least she knew Barrett would avenge her. Then her fear melted away as the comb went through her hair.  The strong but delicate hands held her secure and though the comb pulled a bit, it felt nice rather than painful. She didn't even flinch when he took out a knife to cut the dead ends. How long had it been since someone had been gentle with her?

Hope was so relaxed she didn't hear Taevis ask her about her life before ending up in her current situation. He had to repeat the question. Now she genuinely smiled, not a shred of discomfort left, “I had a beautiful farm... I actually came out this way to get some new...”

“MINE!”

The roar came as Barrett charged out of the trees.

The naga hissed and slithered back rapidly and held himself tall, knife in one hand, and with the other… Well he tried to put Hope behind him, to protect the vulnerable human. But she ran out and stood between the two monsters. 

Hope was determined to defuse the situation without bloodshed, and she knew Barrett’s first instinct would be to grab her, though she was worried that Taevis would attack as she was lifted up by the syor. Thankfully he didn’t. And more thankfully, Barrett, who was running on pure possessive instinct, didn't crack any ribs snatching her up. 

With Hope in hand Barrett’s eyes looked down upon the naga, taking its smaller size and making quick judgments as to how dangerous it may be. His predator calculations worked quickly to give him an answer. “Looks like I don’t need to hunt anymore…”

A deeper hiss, almost a growl, came from the naga, “Listen, syor. I did not come seeking a fight, but it will not go well if you press the issue.” 

Barrett growled lower, “You were messing with something that belongs to me. I know you could smell I have been here a while and she is mine. Besides, I still need a meal.”

“I recommend hunting elsewhere,” Taevis warned, eyes flashing.

Barrett smirked, confident as he extended his claws, “But I just found something large enough I won’t have to hunt for a few days… Why would I walk away from such a substantial meal?”

The naga exhaled a cloud of frosty mist, intending the elemental magic to be sufficient warning and make it clear to this syor that physical size won’t win this fight. A miscalculation on his part, the syor charged forward and slashed with his claws. The unexpected stupidity caught Taevis off guard and he felt pain as the claws made contact. Then the lightning Taevis had been preparing struck Barrett’s arm, making the syor jerk back as his skin burned and muscles seized with electricity and pain. 

Barrett hesitated to charge again, his predator brain re-calculating. While a large meal was good, getting Hope away from this other predator was top priority. It was time to leave, or convince the naga to leave. Cursing from the pain of the attack he spat at the naga, “What the fuck… nagas don’t do that… Just… get out of here. I’ll just eat the human.”

Taevis let out a very un-naga-like growl, “I was afraid you’d say that,” and lunged forward with another bolt of electricity. At the same time Barrett pulled a dagger from his waist, snarling. 

Barrett charged again, slashing the dagger at the naga’s face and cutting him across the cheek. This time he knew he lacked the element of surprise, and making contact with the knife wasn't his true goal. As Taevis moved away Barrett anticipated the direction and kicked at the naga’s serpent body, punting it into the lake. It landed with a satisfying splash and Barrett allowed himself a self congratulatory purr. Until the surface of the lake bulged, a hill as large as himself made of water rose up, and broke. 

Instead of a naga emerging from the water, a horned humanoid that was, to Barrett's acute dismay, well over a head taller than he was. Horns curved back on the head, bluish silver scales visible on the cheeks under the gash from the dagger. Decorative metal decorated the horns as well as earrings and even gold cuffs on the draconic wings spreading behind him. A long reptilian tail, adorned with those silver scales and fins on the end lashed back and forth creating waves taller than Hope in the water. True vicious talons on the hands made Barrett suddenly aware of his own less substantial retractable claws. A demidragon. Offspring or descended from true dragons, and no less dangerous than the full blooded sort.

The demidragon stepped out of the lake, clawed feet furrowing the damp ground, and Barrett struggled to not show apprehension as Taevis spread his wings to further emphasize his superior size. Barrett was determined to deny Taevis the satisfaction and showing any fear. And Barrett was afraid… but Hope was his and only his, so he tightened his grip on his blade, and held Hope to his chest. “Just leave! I won’t let you take her!” Focusing on his own abilities, Barrett decided to demonstrate the magic syor did have. He flung the dagger, using his natural magic to shoot it towards Taevis’ wing joint. But the demidragon, with an agonizingly casual motion, blocked it with an arm.

With his focus split between his dagger and his Hope, even his quick reflexes failed as Taevis quickly turned his thick tail, sweeping Barrett’s feet out from under him, followed by a horrible loud THUMP and CRACK as Barrett landed on his back. “Don’t you fucking touch Hope! I’ll cut your throat!” His voice broke with fear instead of aggression as he tried the knife again, flinging it wildly at Taevis. 

Having announced the second attack, Taevis was easily able to grab the dagger from mid-air. He ignored the blood dripping from his palm and electricity crackled through his hand, heating the knife white hot and deforming it in the shape of his grip.

Taevis let it drop as he stepped forward, placed a heavy clawed foot on Barrett's chest, knelt down, and got his talons around the wrist which held Hope. Barrett’s eyes narrowed and he growled, “I’ll bite your throat out! I won’t let you take her!” 

Taevis ignored him and spoke words that Barrett did not recognize, summoning gleaming magic that wrapped rapidly around the syor. Once the syor was thoroughly immobilized, Taevis growled, “You want to eat her. I’m not going to let that happen.” He pressed his talons into the soft underflesh of Barrett's wrist and with his other hand pried open Barretts fist. It wasn't that hard, the syor was not crushing the human; not that surprising since they like them alive and squirming after all. 

Barrett snarled at the demidragon, “Like I would actually eat the woman who saved my life!” 

That piqued Taevis’ interest and against his better judgment he let the syor continue to breathe and speak. 

“But saying that makes other syor back off so I thought it would work with other predators!” 

Taevis studied the syor’s expression, thinking. He wasn’t from this region, but had heard from travelers that syor were unusually honest, unless deceit was needed for extreme situations. Keeping a human was not an extreme situation.. Protecting kin, mates, and other giants that were close might qualify and thus force abnormally honest creature to lie… But he did not have enough experience with the species to be sure. 

“Hmm… Do not try to get loose from your bindings.” He moved to open his own hand that had taken Hope from the syor, holding her on upturned palm to try to make her feel less restrained, “Hope, is what he saying true? He threatened to rip my throat out… which was… unexpected.” He could see Hope was nervous with his larger size, so he further adjusted his hold and she relaxed a bit more. 

It still took a moment for her to find her voice, “I… did save his life. That’s what I meant by helping others ending badly… I was about to tell you before he showed up… and… he has said he’ll eat me to another syor who tried to grab me once… but I’ve never been sure if saving his life was enough that he wouldn’t change his mind about keeping me alive…” 

Barrett was surprised by the last part of what Hope said, “I was half starved after you spent weeks freeing me from that rockslide and I didn’t kill you then! Why would I kill you now when I’m not half starved to death?”

In an attempt to reassure Hope, Taevis cupped his hand slightly to provide a cage of talons between her and the syor. His eyes flashed as he glared at Barrett, “I was speaking to the young woman. I am not going to trust you until she corroborates your claims… Besides, can‘t hardly blame her with your kind’s reputation.”

To Taevis’ surprise, Hope peeked over his hand to look at Barrett, “Your kind is notorious for having no regard for human life, and the way you have been hunting travelers makes it clear that hasn’t changed!” her harsh expression turned to surprise as she heard her own torrent of words. She sighed, sitting down on Taevis’s palm as she considered what else her new… friend? captor? wanted to know, “I… I don’t know. I’ve been stuck with him this long and… I just don’t know. He acts sorta nice, for a syor I guess… but also won’t let me leave… It didn't exactly help matters when he tortured and ate my father right in front of me…”

Barrett’s ears twitched at the mention of her father, “I do not regret eating your father. When I brought him back because he smelled like you, the look of pure fear on your face at the sight of him made it clear what I had to do.”

“Should I give you two some privacy?” Taevis narrowed his eyes, “Or perhaps it is my having her safe from you that allows such a discussion…” His tone softened a bit, “If so can at least get more comfortable…?”

Barrett let out a deep hissing sigh, “Hope barely says a word to me these days. The last time she has said this much was when I was trapped under those rocks. I do not like these restraints and I do not like you touching what’s mine… But Hope is actually talking to me for once.”

Hope looked down briefly as she thought about the situation, then at the hand around her, then up at Taevis before looking back down, “Well… a demidragon is strong enough that if you did lose your temper, you couldn’t hurt me…” She turned her eyes to meet Taevis’s, “Please don’t leave me alone with him…” 

Taevis nodded, “Well then, Hope… if you are confident enough in my protection, would you mind if I released his restraints before I lose feeling in my knees? I won’t leave, and I won’t set you down until you are ready.” Hope took some time to consider and nodded. Taevis gestured and released the magic restraining Barrett however hee tensed in preparation as Barrett sat up.“I recommend sitting near the lake, the cool water will ease the electrical burns.”

Barrett hesitated, his instincts to care for his wounds at war with his aversion to moving even a few steps further away from Hope. Finally the pain won and he knelt by the water to soak his wrist.

 Hope expressed a bit of surprise, “You burned Barrett?”she glanced back at his tail again. 

Taevis only glanced briefly at hope, keeping focused on Barrett, “So that’s his name? And yes. While my tail may have the fins of the oceanic dragons, I’m a mix of silver and oceanic..” -

Hope nodded as she thought over that explanation, “That explains the lightning. I’ve met silver dragons and demidragons before. Even had some visit my farm on occasion.” 

Taevis smiled slightly, “I heard some of my kind live around this continent, but I actually traveled here from quite far away, This is my first encounter with one of his kind” meaning syor, “I’d heard stories of these ‘evil giants that treat smaller races as food’. I thought it might be an exaggeration, but he has proven me wrong.” He turned to look at Barrett with a slight glare, “I now suspect you could tell I wasn’t threatening her and you were using ‘protection’ as an excuse to make a meal of me before you knew what I am. With that kind of behavior, I don’t blame her for fearing a change of heart!”

Barrett gave a snort, “You aren’t her. She’s special. She spent weeks saving my life, so I intend to protect her. You were a potential meal. Good meat ain’t always easy to find.”

Taevis thought for a moment as he calmed, “While I understand protecting those you care about, and getting a nice treat as a bonus… that doesn’t seem to be what you were actually doing. It is curious that you would act as if it was…I heard syor aren’t big on deception, and the only one you would be deceiving is Hope… meaning.”

Taevis waited to see if Barrett would continue and when he didn’t, “Meaning… you do care about not upsetting her enough to go against your normal straightforward nature.”

Barrett grumbled under his breath a bit. Clearly unhappy with the implication he was being dishonest in some way, but also not outright denying it. It was true that syor tended to be true to their word and not all that inclined to lie. Occasionally lying to give false hope to humans they caught, that he had done. But that’s not what Taevis was talking about. Protecting a human’s feelings was simply not done. “Still not happy about you touching Hope…”

Hope frowned, “I don’t see what the big deal is, he’s been very kind and friendly.”

Taevis rolled his eyes, “and Yet at you do seem happy that she is more open to talking. But perhaps you will be in a more amicable mood after having some food.”

Barrett gave a slight snort, “Well the bull moose I killed before I saw you is enough for me and Hope.”

This, for reasons Barrett couldn’t understand but Taevis could, angered Hope, “Wait, you were successful at hunting, but you still tried to eat a naga?” 

Barrett shrugged, “Bull moose is a meal for one day, naga is a meal for several.” 

Taevis glanced around the campsite, “I don’t see anything for you to prepare the moose… Where is your cooking fire?” 

Barrett rolled his eyes, “Why would I waste time cooking it? The only reason I didn’t eat it immediately was to see if Hope wanted some.”

Taevis pinched his nose, “You are saying that all these piles of supplies and you don’t even prepare proper meals for yourself? No wonder you are so scrawny and hungry.” He surveyed the piles, “Hope will never use the supplies before they go bad, so why not combine the moose with some veggies that are about to go bad and make something that will last both of us a couple days?”

Barrett was rather confused at the suggestion, “Mix the meat… with something else? You mean like the syorian do? I’m not a wimpy syorian. I don’t do that. I hunt like any proper syor.”

The look of astonishment on Taevis’ face made Barrett uncomfortable, and Taevis’ response didn’t help “You.. aren’t familiar with cooking…” he said with concern before grinning with all his teeth. A mouth full of vicious fangs. “Well I happen to be a very good cook. It will keep it from going bad and be much more filling.”

Hope piped up, “There’s a ton of metal cookware in the carts! If we combine all the metal we have we can make a great pan to cook with! Oh I would love to share some recipes! I wonder if they would turn out as good when done at such a large size…”

Barrett was taken aback by Hope’s boldness and excitement about the prospect of cooking yet he was still hesitant. He wasn’t sure if he should be offended or not, “You want me to do what syorians do with food…”

Taevis arched a brow as he looked at Barrett again, “Like demidragons do. Like many scaly dragons do. You aren’t saying your kind are better than dragons, are you?” he flashed his teeth again. 

Barrett frowned and looked away, not sure how to respond. Taevis stood. “I’m going to go find that dead moose. You keep soaking that hand. Hope seems to want to stay by me at the moment, but we will remain close, I can smell it is just beyond those trees.”

Barrett gave a slight snarl, “I don’t like you having my Hope… But she…” his words faltered so instead he growled, “Try to steal her and demidragon or not I will hunt you down.”

With a shrug of his wings Taevis turned to walk back into the woods, and hoped to have a private conversation with Hope before their return to the clearing, assuming the syor stayed by the lake to soak the burn. 

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[zombie-dumplings]

Managed to check her out after I found her in the little cubby of the small cat tree in my room and the tooth looks to be there its.... Definitely moved tho. Poor baby, I can't imagine how much her mouth hurts. I could give her one of Oliver's gabapentin to maybe help with the pain a little but I don't think she'd want to swallow anything right now. I'm sorry cheddar cheese I know it hurts but hopefully we can get you in tomorrow, I'll even pay the extra fees for last minute emergency visits I don't care

Just got home from work and cheddar has got her tounge sticking out and is drooling, I tried to check her mouth and I think one of her canines is missing but she won't let me near her anymore so I can't really check anymore. God damn it why does this shit always have to happen while I'm at work?? Wod something have still happened if I had gotten off at 3 instead of working the double today? She was fine this morning so I don't understand. I'll be calling the vet as soon as they open in the morning