#celebrity twin filter

[jypsyvloggin]

How to get the celebrity lookalike filter on Snapchat?

Snapchat filter who is your celebrity twin Check out the who is your celebrity twin filter on Snapchat below. There are two ways you can unlock this lens for your Snapchat account. Open Snapchat on your phone, use the Snapchat camera to view the snapcode image above and hold your finger on the camera screen to unlock the Snapchat lens on your device. If you are visiting this page on your…

[ittybittyfanblog]

Error 404: (Self-Aware!AU, Sylus Edition) – Pt. 6

Summary: A LADS self-aware!AU featuring Sylus and a (!) player. That’s it, that’s the plot. Tags: player!reader x sylus, fem!reader x sylus, reader x lads, self-aware!au, strong language, you get your very own samantha from her (2013) lol, time skips as a plot device!, this has an arc i promise, if anybody here plays disco elysium you’ll find that i took concepts of “the pale” as inspo at some points in this chapter lmao A/N: Oof this one’s a little longer than any of the previous chapters. I hope you all enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it! <3 (and just a heads up, this might be the last chapter I post before I kick it off for the holidays. advance happy holidays! if you guys celebrate that sort of thing.) 

Pt. 1 - Pt. 2 - Pt. 3 - Pt. 4 - Pt. 5 - Pt 6 - Pt. 7 - Pt. 8 - Pt. 9

There’s a quiet stillness brought by the morning after that makes the problems of a heavier night seem like a fairly distant memory. 

For at least a few minutes past the moment you blink away the stubborn grit in your eyes—you don’t remember the last time you’ve been this well-rested in ages—you lie, listless, on the soft powder-blue bedding of your twin-size mattress, watching specks of dander and dust drift from the amber sunlight that filters through the cracked panes of the casement window. 

It floats aimlessly; unhurried. Much like you.

The echo of last night’s events return to you in sporadic flashes—fragmented and unsteady. The whispered exchanges, the playful banter between you and your unlikely conversation partner play back in your mind, like some half-finished supercut. 

And the more you recall, the more awake you feel, chipping away the last traces of daytime lethargy weighing you down. 

“So, what happens now?”

The sound of a car backfiring breaks through from the outside, like a starting pistol signalling the beginning of another day. A familiar, heavy weight presses against your side, and you thread your fingers through the scraggly fur of the purring feline who’s taken the empty space on your left, just above the covers. 

You breathe in deeply, closing your eyes. 

“I wish I had an answer—I’m still trying to figure that out myself.”

You realize how many questions still linger, a lot more left unanswered. Far more than what you were able to glean, at least. From what little you’ve learned, an entirely new moral dilemma emerges—one you never imagined you'd have to contend with. 

There’s a lot of things you’ve never expected to happen. Yet here you are. 

“Seems we’re at an impasse.” 

It’s an odd thing in itself. You keep waiting for the disbelief to catch up, for a shred of sanity to surface and make you reject the situation you’ve found yourself entangled in. You should be feeling the same, pesky feelings that pulled you sharply out of your flight of fancy last night; a sense of trepidation for what lies ahead in this tenuous game of two. 

But instead, you’re here. Now fully awake, and already looking forward to the day with wary acceptance. Looking forward to resuming where you’ve left off with that charming anomaly who’s upended your world, and left you suspended in an exhilarating limbo of uncertainty and excitement.

“...Indeed.”

You crave it—like the first stirrings of a neophyte druggie teetering on the edge of an irreversible habit. 

You need another hit. 

“Why the long face, little dove?”

Because if desire could manifest into being, it would’ve been Sylus. 

“We can figure this out together, can’t we?” 

You pick up your phone. 

––––

“You’re here? Make yourself at home.” 

You look at him, deadpan. He looks back at you serenely. 

Your voice takes on a dry monotone when you respond, “Keep talking like that, I’m about to cum.” 

There’s a shocked silence; then––

Sylus barks out a surprised laugh, immediately breaking character. 

You snort. “Good morning to you too, I guess.” 

He meets your gaze with a look of scandalized amusement, his smile wide enough to flash teeth. 

"Good morning, indeed."

––––

You two fall into a natural rhythm even before the day comes to a close. Perceptive as he is, Sylus hasn’t let you linger in the unease left over from last night any longer than necessary—which to say, should be left buried and forgotten, past its provenance. 

“So you could, like–hypothetically, top up my ascension materials… indefinitely?” There’s a manic shine to your eyes when you confront him back at the home screen, gleeful and triumphant after you boost almost all the 5-star cards you have of him up to max level. “Like an infinite glitch?” 

He’s content to just simply listen to your excited chatter from his languid perch on the seat, one palm resting against the side of his face as he watches you—half-lidded and relaxed. Utterly entertained by your antics.

The slight twitching of his mouth, the subtle tilt of his head… each minute shift in his expression makes a whole world of difference from the version you’ve known him longest—almost a lifetime ago. 

Now he acts so human, so alive, that it’s almost unreal. 

(It’s almost imperceptible, but you swear the air also feels different; like the pixelated space around him is bending, stretching, to accommodate this newer him.) 

“Sure,” he shrugs, lips quirking up into a half-smile as he notices the deep crease forming between your brows. 

He knows the question you’re about to ask—curious thing that you are.

“How, though? Like, what are ‘materials’ to you?” You make air quotes with your fingers, making you appear all the more endearing to him look at, in your process to make sense of a world that’s unfamiliar to you.

“Think of it as upgrades,” Sylus explains patiently. “You place the order to modify the equipment I use, in whichever situation calls for it.”

“And Memory Cards?”

“... A video reel, maybe. Or a restricted case file—locked until you’ve got enough to trade for the information you want.”

“And I suppose the dealer in question here is you?”

He arches an eyebrow. “Who else?”

“Huh,” you say, considering. “So, Deepspace Trials. That’s something you do on the daily? Because I… make you?”

“More or less.”

“And you never thought to question that?” 

“Mm, maybe I’ll start charging for my services this time around.”

You roll your eyes, already accepting his analogy for what it is. “Oh, please. With the amount of money I’ve spent on this game, consider yourself paid in full.” 

––––

You were right about your earlier prediction—this new Sylus in combat mode is something else. 

For starters, he’s a lot chattier.

“Ouch, kitten– don’t charge in like that.”

“Why are you using a sword? Don’t you like the guns I’ve given you specifically for this?” 

“What are you waiting for? Make her resonate with me now.” 

And, instead of sticking to his lines and responding to whatever the MC’s programmed to say during battle, he focuses on whatever you’re fussing over—no matter how… moronic it is.

“Ah, fuck! I hate that spinning thing!” 

“Move, then. Let me handle it.” 

“Block it, block it!”

“I would, if you weren’t halfway across the field. Stick closer to your partner next time, yeah?” 

He doesn’t say any of his usual lines. Nothing from his scripted prompts. When all Wanderers are defeated, there’s no post-battle banter between him and the MC. 

“Goddamn, you’re strong!” You whoop giddily, completely energized by straight winning almost twelve Orbit trials in a row. I guess that’s what a fully awakened Solar pair gets you, huh? 

Sylus lets out a chuckle, infected by your enthusiasm. He doesn’t sound the least bit winded, despite all the damned fighting you’ve put him through.

“We make a good team,” he allows. And because he likes the little nose scrunch you do when you’re annoyed— “Although your dodging really needs more practice, sweetie.” 

Before you could think of a comeback, the pop-up window for the next stage comes up. Ass.

––––

Come Monday morning and you’re once again swamped with work. 

You barely have enough time to scrounge something up for lunch—if it weren’t for the persistent reminders from Sylus, chiming in every five minutes once the digital clock on your phone had hit eleven-thirty, you’d probably skip eating altogether.

And make something else than just boiling a pot of instant ramen, sweetheart. You’re on track for an early grave at this rate. 

“I could… add an egg?” You suggest, unsure. “Maybe cut up some tofu, make it gourmet?”  

He doesn’t even dignify the egg suggestion with a response. Tofu’s a good start. Now, what else do you have in your pantry that has nutritional value? 

“I despise that,” you mutter, but start rifling through the cupboards anyway. 

After amassing enough ingredients—or what looks more like a sad pile—that might, with some effort, turn into something healthier than your usual go-to fix, you start Googling recipes online.

‘tofu easy lunch recipe’

‘10 mins tofu recipes’   

‘begginer recipe using tofu frozen dory mixed veg—’ Ping!

… Really, kitten? 

You don’t even have to see him to know he’s giving you that look, the one that’s practically dripping with judgment over your dubious life choices. 

(You know it all too well. Personally, in fact. You see it on some relatives' faces at the family get-togethers you’re always required to attend.) 

Great. Heat creeps up your face as you mumble defensively, “Stop. Not everyone’s a culinary genius, okay?”

After that, he lets you be – something you’re thankful for, really. He’s being too distracting anyway. 

Swallowing down the–stubborn and suffocating–embarrassment that's now stuck in your throat, you keep scrolling through Tasty dot co, praying you can whip up something edible with what (little) you have. You’re fully aware that you’re a grown-ass woman who can’t manage a basic life skill and that you’re probably about to burn down your kitchen—

Another notification pops up.

Pull up your tabs, sweetie. I think you’ll find something there that we could put together easily.

Confused, you do as he says. Sure enough, four tofu-related recipes are neatly grouped together in your Chrome browser, ready to be tried and tested.  

Your eyes widen. “Wait—you did this? How?”

He doesn’t answer your question. He does, however, offer: Want me to coach you through it? Cooking’s more fun done with a partner, I’d say. 

-

-

In the end, you manage to make something that tasted way better than you thought you could do by yourself. You have him to thank for that.

“You happy with it?” Sylus asks, grinning at the satisfied look on your face.

“Mhm!” you hum around a mouthful of food. “Fanks, Sy.”

“Anytime, darling.”

––––

“Do you really have to call me ‘kitten’? You sound like a Discord mod.” 

Sylus has no idea what a Discord mod is, but judging by the contempt in your voice, it’s clear that you’re not giving him a compliment.

"What do you prefer, then? Princess? Poppet? Sweet thing?" He pauses, tilting his head. "Baby?"

You blush and look away. "... Ugh, whatever. Kitten's fine."

––––

Your routine with Sylus settles into a seamless, effortless flow as the days go by; it’s almost second nature, talking to him. So much so that you’d think nothing could faze you anymore.

Well. Almost nothing. 

A message bubble from an unknown number appears on your lock screen: Hi, sweetheart. X

You almost ignore it—brushing it off as some dumb prank from a bored rando—when, not even five seconds later, another text pops up. 

+0063-XXXXXX: Its Sylus.

… Huh? 

“Is someone fucking with me right now, or…” 

+0063-XXXXXX: Nobodys ‘fucking with you,’ kitten. 

Then–

+0063-XXXXXX: Send a reply so I can see how it shows up on my end.

Your jaw drops. “Holy shit—you can text?? How are you doing that?” and, “Did you just cuss...?” 

+0063-XXXXXX: 👍

+0063-XXXXXX: And Ill let you know if you text me the question 🙄

So you do. You tack on a now spill?? at the end for good measure. 

You watch the “typing…” bubble appear, holding your breath.

+0063-XXXXXX: Its a complex mix of technical code and harnessing the energy from a dormant protofield Ive discovered, just south of Vagrants Land.  

+0063-XXXXXX: The energy I got from it felt different somehow from your normal protofield. I figured I could put it to good use. 

+0063-XXXXXX: Oddly enough, theres an… indescribable effect to oneself when youre nearing the centre of disturbance, shall we say. 

+0063-XXXXXX: I can only decrypt the waveforms by the rarefield border surrounding the AoR. Any further and Im afraid the adverse effects may do more harm than good.

+0063-XXXXXX: But if amplified, it seems responsive to the filament of what connects your signal from deep space to this planet.

+0063-XXXXXX: Who knew it could act as a transmitter to send you something as rudimentary as a telegraph? 

… Sometimes you forget how smart Sylus really is. 

You: that’s pretty amazing ?? wtf sylus  

+0063-XXXXXX: I get by OK. 

You could practically feel his smugness radiating from those four words. You scoff, shaking your head in a mix of awe and begrudging admiration.

He sends two more messages. 

+0063-XXXXXX: Im just glad we can communicate through other means, sweetie. 

Sy-Sy (??): Now save my number. Sy Sy will suffice 😉

––––

Since your latest discovery that Sylus can now text (!!), you’ve been talking to him outside the game non-stop. It’s like talking to a very active friend who never leaves you on read, and you couldn’t be more ecstatic. 

You: so no one else in ur universe knows anything abt ur situation?

You: no one else acting funny or sumn ? >.>

Sy-Sy (??): None that I know of, no. I prefer to keep it under wraps. 

Sy-Sy (??): Now that you mention it, Mephisto has been acting quite suspicious lately. 

You: ?? suspicious-suspicious or just reg suspicious??

Sy-Sy (??): Hes with his other crow friends now. They might be attempting a murder. 

You: ………. is that…. supposed 2 be a joke……….

Sy-Sy (??): Im running on 3 hours of sleep, give me a break.   

Sy-Sy (??): Also your textspeak is horrendous, sweetie. 

"Um, hello—?" 

Your gaze snaps back to the–very real, very present–person sitting across from you at the table, sporting box-dyed blue hair and a frown. You're at the Annex House; a sleek, new-age Japandi-style bar downtown, just an easy five stations away from your place. You both decided to try it for their infamous Rotten Apple cocktail and, of course, your weekly catch-up.

Khol, your friend of eight years since college, is currently giving you a mildly annoyed look.

Oops. 

They point at you accusingly while complaining, "Ugh, we don’t use our phones when we’re hanging out! That’s the rule!"

You smile at them, sheepish, pocketing your phone as discreetly as you could. “I know, I know. Sorry.” 

Then, puffing out your cheeks, you meekly ask, “You were talking about Anna...?”

They roll their eyes but go over the gossip a second time, much to your benefit. Phew.

Your phone vibrates. Twice. 

…

You sneak a quick, final peek.

Sy-Sy (??): Enjoy your night out, darling ❤️ 

Sy-Sy (??): You let me know when youre back home, OK? 

Biting back a grin, you send out one last text in reply. 

You: will do !:9 

Sy-Sy (??): Good girl. 

––––

"Um–so this is my cat, Maru," you say by way of introduction, holding the plump, orange tabby in front of your phone that’s propped up against a carton of Koko Krunch. There’s a slight struggle in lifting his left paw between your fingers to wave at the man on the other side of the screen. "Say hi, Maru."

“Hello, Maru,” Sylus greets amicably in return, watching the both of you with clear amusement in his eyes. “Care to tell me the origin of this proud beast?” 

You recount the story where you’ve first seen Maru five years ago, nothing more than a scraggly little runt at the time, hiding in the gap between a dumpster and the interstice of a cragged wall. You were walking home from a night out drinking with your uni buddies, when you heard the incessant meowing. 

It drew you in like a siren’s call. If the siren in question had the vocal prowess of a warbling whale on the brink of death.

Upon closer inspection, the grimy fluffball revealed a stubby, crooked tail and wide, beady eyes. In your alcohol-fueled haze, you briefly wondered if you were staring at a tiny ginger rat.

“Well, it’s definitely all cat,” your friend Bee declared by noon the following day, calmly retracting a scratched and bloodied hand from the disgruntled feline, which promptly hissed and darted right back under the bed.

You hummed in agreement, passing her a wad of tissue. 

"I couldn’t decide between Nospurratu and Catpin Meow," you say matter-of-factly, giving your capricious son a scritch under his chin. "Bee suggested I stick to something simpler, like Maru. Hence the name."

Your explanation is punctuated by an offended nip on your pointer finger. 

Sylus is covering his mouth, but nods solemnly. “I think Maru is a nice name.” 

There’s a moment where the two seem locked in a silent standoff, neither breaking eye contact nor making any sort of outward reaction. Just as you’re about to step in and interrupt the bizarre staring contest, Maru gives a slow, deliberate blink.

Sylus takes it as a sign of victory—or perhaps a ceremonial seal of approval.

 With a faint smirk on his lips, he offers the cat a small bow in respect.

––––

You’ve practically emptied the entire arcade of plushies—enough to put it out of business if it were actually, you know, real—and you’re bored to tears. 

“Another round of Kitty Cards, perhaps?” Sylus suggests, but a single glance at your face is enough to let him know that you’d rather gnaw off your own hand. Or his. He might just let you.

Sighing dramatically, you complain about the limited playability of the “mini-games” in-game.

“There’s literally nothing else to do. Same old shit, over and over again.” There’s a pout on your face that Sylus wants to nibble on, not that you’re aware of the forming thoughts in his head. “No new banners. I’m stuck between Kitty Cards and the claw machines... I’m bored, Syyyyy,” you whine, stretching the last syllable for effect.  

To be fair, he has tried to make it a bit more challenging for you. He stopped fucking around during Kitty Cards—no more extra two cards in exchange for one of yours, no longer placing different colored kitties deliberately in the wrong cups. 

After six straight losses, your frustration is palpable. The fun is gone.

He makes audible commentaries during each of your six tries at the claw machine. Every time you manage to snag a plushie, he praises you for a job well done (It flusters you—not that he needs to know that). When your luck runs out and you grab onto nothing but air, he wryly points it out through some slight ribbing, but nothing that’s actually hurtful (This flusters you too—again, not that he needs to know any of this).   

There’s nothing else to do. It’s like you’ve exhausted all you could in this small, curated window of his that you’re privy to. If only there’s a way to leave the mini-games behind, to do something new, perhaps outside of what the game has to offer…

Oh, wait. 

“Hey, Sy,” you call the man to attention. “Wanna try something out?” 

-

-

You beat him at Words with Friends by a small margin.

“Ha! That’s thirty-nine points, buddy.” You crow proudly, after putting down Devotees in a straight column.

He eviscerates you at Zynga Poker. 

“... How are you so good at this??” 

“Comes with the package, sweetie,” he says with faux-modesty after revealing (yet another!!) full house, winking like he hasn’t just wiped the floor with you.

By the end of it, both of you are in high spirits—except, maybe, for your bruised ego.

––––

“Say my name, say my name… If no one is around you, say baby I love you…”

“It’s nice to know that we have another thing in common, little dove.”

 

It takes you a moment to process what he’s implying. 

You stop singing, affronted. “Wh—how dare you.” 

––––

“Are you having fun?” Sylus asks, his tone droll as he stands there, hands on his hips and a small scowl on his face. You’re too busy spinning him around, thoroughly entertained by the number of outfits and accessories you’ve forced upon your slightly reluctant model in the photoshoot that's currently taking place.

It’s more amusing, knowing that he’s fully-aware of what’s happening. And that you know he’s aware of what’s happening. 

He’s like your personal, sentient Ken doll—if Ken had ashy grey hair, red eyes, and a mercurial attitude.

“I am, actually,” you shoot back, grinning as you plop a tomato stuffie on top of his head. “Look, you two match!” 

He exhales a long-suffering sigh, shaking his head in mock exasperation.

Not that it stops you. Fluffy bunny ears, a fish headband, an uncharacteristic halo—you’re relentless. “Hey, can you try a different pose?”

“That depends on the pose… and how nicely you ask.”

“Dear Sylus,” you sing, jutting your bottom lip forward and fluttering your eyelashes exaggeratedly, “could you please, pretty please, flip the camera off?”

He snorts but obliges, raising his hand to deliver the most effortlessly cool middle finger you’ve ever seen. “Happy?”

Woah. That’s… hot. “Oh! Uh. Yeah. Yeah, that’s—”

He raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued by your reaction. You giggle nervously. “You look… hot.”

“Mm?” His smirk grows, teasing and predatory. “What was that?”

“Nothing!” you blurt out, but the pinking of your cheeks betrays you. He’s definitely enjoying this now.

“I could be convinced to do another one,” he murmurs, voice pitching a little lower.

You bite the inside of your cheek, fighting the urge to say the first thing that comes to mind. Stop, you whore. 

Your nerves get the best of you. Without thinking, you switch to putting the MC back on screen. 

Sylus blinks, red eyes narrowing as he looks at you, perplexed. 

“Uh,” you shift your gaze between her frozen stance and his idle figure. The sudden silence hangs a little heavy in the air. “Would–would you like to do poses? With her?”

He opens his mouth, an automatic response—but he stops, expression flickering into something unreadable. Confusion? Hesitation? 

His brows knit together, and for a short while, he just studies you, the space between you thick with unspoken questions. 

“Do you want me to?” he asks finally, his voice quieter, almost careful.

No–I don’t want you to— To pose with someone who looks so-–

perfectperfectperfect by your side—I only want to see you—

I want to see you––

Why do I care–?

I don’t care––I care, I care so much–– 

“Why not?” you choke out, the forced cheer in your voice grating even to your own ears. You shrug, nonchalant in all the ways you’re not. “I’ll dress her up real nice, and then—” You slap a pink bow onto his head. “You can try to keep up.” 

He doesn’t move, not paying the offending accessory any attention. His gaze is solely locked onto yours. 

I don’t care. I don’t. 

You take the first shot. 

____

“What’s the song you’re playing?”

You pause mid-mop, cocking your head to the side in slight surprise. 

“Uhh—Pedestal,” you answer unsurely. “By Portishead. You like it?” 

He hums, eyes glinting with interest. “I do. Play the rest.” 

And just like that, you’re introducing Sylus to modern twenty-first century music—and to Spotify.

____

From that point on, Sylus begins using your Spotify account to discover a whole new world of music—quite literally, in his case. Sometimes he steals the control from you, overriding what you’re currently listening to, just to hear the most random track play from your speakers.

In the middle of a mundane afternoon while you're completely locked in at work—hyperpop synths blaring in your ears—you’re suddenly jolted by the sound of heavy mandolins as an honest-to-god Russian military march blasts through your headphones, shattering your focus like a damn rhino in a china shop. 

And so with the level of patience that could put the Virgin Mary to shame, you painstakingly explain to your friend the courtesy of not stealing the proverbial AUX cord from the “driver,” especially when it’s their turn on the radio. 

The two of you reach a compromise, and thus the birth of your “shared” playlist. Sylus reluctantly agrees to explore on his own time—when you’re not using the app. Like when you’re busy with other things. Or when you're asleep. 

-

-

-

You wake up to the first strings of a Muse song. One of your favorites, in fact. 

Sy-Sy (??): Good morning, sweetie. 

Sy-Sy (??): Last night was enlightening. I have you to thank for that.

Sy-Sy (??): Oh, and I hope you could indulge me. I added some songs to our playlist. I think youll like them. We both seem to have a thing for alt-rock.

Sy-Sy (??): Give me time and Im sure Ill acquire a taste for electronic music too. Be patient. 

You huff out a laugh, lazily rolling over as you check your shared playlist. Sure enough, there’s twelve new songs on it.   

You: awe that’s great sy :)) and these songz r rly good !! u got sum of my faves here

You: based on what u like maybe u can try looking up sum david bowie, probz massive attack idk 

You: i’ll add stuff later for u to listen 2!!! <2

You: <3* 

Sy-Sy (??): Alright, sweetheart. Im looking forward to it. 

Sy-Sy (??): ♥️

____

From the outside, the studio is just another unit among endless rows of dull grey—small and unassuming. Tucked away on the sixth floor of a nondescript building, it’s built as unremarkable as the rest.

Through a window stained with a mix of corrosive ochre and burnt sienna, there’s a quiet hum—the presence of something that wasn’t there a week ago. Life has shifted, ever so subtly, from an oppressive achroma to a much warmer vibrancy.  

There’s a faint hint of movement. Inside, the young woman wears an almost-permanent smile, her phone an extension of her hand as she taps away with no semblance of rhyme nor rhythm—only in a continuous staccato. Her eyes are locked on the screen, as if drawn by an invisible force.

It’s elusive; this connection—something beyond. Supranatural. It weaves through the room like whispered secrets shared in the dead of the night, beneath a city blanketed in deep ultramarine. Soft, like a wind brushing through a still everglade. 

The apartment, once steeped in a self-inflicted solitude—one that went by unnoticed for a long period of time—comes alive as an intangible presence fills its nooks and crannies with the steady warmth of companionship. There’s a gentle heat to the space now, like the glow of an invisible hearth. 

The flickering of the string lights, the muted laughter shared with a voice through the tinny speakers of a handheld device, a slight signal interference… all feel like the genesis of an impossible story.

Outside, the evening sky is fading into twilight.

And as one looks out onto the street below from the sixth floor window, it’s almost as if the world outside doesn’t quite matter anymore. 

Inside, the air is full of life, in ways it has never been. 

____

“Come to me, just in a dream

Come on and rescue me

Yes, I know I can be wrong

And maybe you’re too headstrong

Our love is––”

Tagging: @xxfaithlynxx @beewilko @browneyedgirl22 @yournextdoorhousewitch @sunsethw4 @stxrrielle @mangooes @hrts4hanniehae @buggs-1 @michiluvddr @ssetsuka @i2sannie @imm0rtalbutterfly @the-golden-jhope @slyfoxtsu @beomluvrr @milkandstarlight @bookfreakk @ally-the-artistic-turtle @tinyweebsstuff @sapphic-daze @sarahthemage @cchiiwinkle @madam8 @slownoise @raendarkfaerie @sylusdarling @luminaaaz @greeenbeean

(if..... for some damn reason..... the tags still don't work i rly don't know what i'm doing wrong T_T i'm posting this from a macbook is that it, is the ghost of steve jobs fucking with me rn)

[hederasgarden]

Protego te

Summary: Macrinus’s ambition brings you and Lucius to the Colosseum. Pairing: Lucius Verus x F!Reader Word Count: 2.1K Rating: 18+ only, mature themes. Brief attempted SA (nothing graphic), brief descriptions of violence and blood and Lucius being protective. A/N: This story takes place between Ab Initio and Post tenebras lux. Thank you to @ryebecca for beta'ing! Based on this request by @aninnai. Please comment or reblog if you enjoyed this and want to see more. Or scream at me in my inbox. That always makes my day.

Gladiator Masterlist ♡ Masterlist

The open-air carriage rattles as the wheels struggle over the uneven, dusty road. The rough ride forces you closer to Lucius and you lay a hand on his chest to steady yourself. He glances at you briefly, his fingertips brushing your hip in a subtle, silent reassurance. Outside the metal bars the crowd mills around, some pressing closer to catch a glimpse of the gladiators traveling with you. Lucius doesn’t acknowledge them, his gaze fixed straight ahead.

It’s clear he’s waiting for something, his breath steady, but shallow. The cart lurches and you gasp in surprise as the Colosseum appears. It’s larger than anything you've ever imagined, its imposing structure dwarfing everything around it. Despite the circumstances that have brought you here, you can't help but marvel at its grandeur. It’s nothing like anything you’ve seen before. 

Lucius seems less impressed by the sight, his expression darkening as he turns to face you. He tucks his head gently against yours, his breath falling warmly over the shell of your ear as he speaks in a low murmur.

“It will be different here,” he warns. “There will be other gladiators — men who don’t belong to Macrinus. Some won’t recognize my claim on you.”

You nod and the fear that’s always simmering just beneath the surface flares up again, expanding, spreading through you. It’s kept in check only by Lucius’s presence beside you. His touch grounds you. 

“I understand,” you reply quietly.

“You cannot be alone here,” he continues. You feel the tension in his grip, the unspoken warning laced in his voice. “You must always be with me or one of the men here.”

You glance up at the group of gladiators riding with you. All of them are seasoned fighters who’ve trained with Lucius as long as you’ve known him. While they don’t openly welcome you, there’s an unspoken understanding between you and them. They fear and respect Lucius enough to leave you alone. And Lucius believes that will extend to protecting you on his behalf as well. You feel less sure but keep that doubt to yourself.

When you arrive at the Colosseum, Macrinus is there to greet your party, a broad grin on his face as he claps Lucius on the back. His voice is animated, excitedly discussing the upcoming games the twin emperors plan to hold to celebrate their birthdays. Like always, his words are filled with a fervor that feels both unsettling and expectant.

He doesn’t spare you a glance as Lucius leads you forward. Your gladiator’s hand stays firmly planted on your lower back, a silent reminder of his claim on you as you pass others. As you are drawn deeper into the bowels of the arena Macrinus departs with a short, bald man in fine robes and a young boy appears to lead your group. 

Torchlight flickers, casting long shadows on the stone walls as you continue down the narrow, winding corridors. The air grows heavier and despite the steady pace, you can feel yourself losing track of where you came from. You knew the Colosseum was massive, but the underground world is a labyrinth, blending together in a disorienting maze. If you were left here, you’d never find your way out, you realize. That thought unsettles you and you grasp at Lucius’s tunic. 

He responds with a low, comforting sound and his hand briefly touches yours in reassurance. You continue on, the feeling of disquiet lingering in the pit of your stomach until you begin to ascend once more. Daylight filters through the gaps in the stone and with another sharp turn you find yourself in a large room with a high ceiling. 

Gladiators line the long wooden table in the center of the room and the rumble of their conversation dims when they notice your group’s arrival. The young boy steps forward, announcing to the gathered crowd that Lucius and the other gladiators belong to Macrinus. Most of the seated men size up the competition but enough of them stare openly at you that you feel Lucius’s hand shift to the back of your neck, his fingers curling around the soft skin there. 

Without a word, he pulls you roughly forward, bringing you closer to the table. His shoulders square and his presence seems to dominate the space as all eyes fall on him. His gaze is colder than you’ve ever seen and you swallow nervously, the shift in his demeanor catching you off guard. The Lucius you know, calm and calculated, seems to vanish, replaced by someone else. Someone dangerous. 

“This concubine belongs to me,” he announces. “Touch her and I will take your hand as payment.” 

A low mummer passes over the table but no one challenges Lucius. He stares at the group with his unblinking gaze for a moment longer before he turns away and strides down the length of the table, pulling you in his wake. He takes a seat at the end and the other gladiators with him follow suit.

“Bring me wine and food,” he commands you loudly. 

You hurry to do as he asks. The young man who guided you earlier steps forward to help and his hands shake as he assists you in loading the plate with fruit, bread, and a thick, straw-colored soup. It’s obvious he’s terrified of Lucius and you wish you could offer him some comfort but you know better than to show any overt sign of sympathy. Your safety depends on their fear of Lucius. 

When you return to Lucius’s side, he draws you into his lap and wraps a possessive hand around your middle. As he begins to eat, you hesitantly look up, your gaze drifting down the long line of faces. Most of the men immediately avert their eyes, but there are a few who meet your gaze head-on. One of the largest men smiles, tilting his head slightly as he watches you with unnerving interest. The scar along his jaw pulls taut, becoming more pronounced as his lips curve upward, giving his grin a vicious edge. You quickly look away and rest your hand on Lucius’s forearm, feeling the powerful tendons flex beneath your palm when he adjusts his hold on you.

–

The first few days after you arrive at the Colosseum pass without incident and you quickly learn the rhythm of life here. The slaves mostly keep to themselves, speaking with you only in brief exchanges. Their eyes are wary, but there’s an unspoken understanding between you all, a shared burden of survival. You find yourself speaking to Rufus, the serving boy you met when you first arrived, the most. He’s so young that it breaks your heart to realize that this is the only life he’s ever known.

There is only one other concubine in the entire arena, a woman who belongs to Emperor Geta’s prized gladiator. You’ve only heard whispers of her, but you’ve never seen her. From what you gather, she spends most of her days locked away in her gladiator’s cell, out of sight and out of mind. You try not to think of her too often, all too aware she likely does not have the arrangement you do. 

With a sigh, you push the troubling thought away and busy yourself with preparing Lucius’s evening meal alongside Rufus. You’re ladling a thick soup into a wooden bowl when the door slams open with a suddenness that makes you start. A young slave you don’t recognize rushes in, his face flushed. He spots you immediately, calling your name urgently.

“Hano calls for you,” he says breathlessly. He gestures for you to follow, his hand trembling slightly as he beckons you closer. “Hurry, he is hurt.”

Without a word, you gather your skirts, abandoning the meal on the counter. Fear claws at your chest as you follow him through the dimly lit corridors. What has happened you wonder, dread pooling in the pit of your stomach. Another more selfish part of you panics at the thought of losing his protection and strength. Lucius has become the one thing in this chaotic, brutal world that feels somewhat certain. Your survival, your very existence, is tied so intrinsically with his that without him, you are truly lost. 

But beneath that fear lies another, more troubling one. You realize, with a jolt of surprise, that you care for him, beyond what he could offer you. You quicken your pace, your mind so focused on reaching him that you do not see the looming shadow until it is too late. Strong arms wrap around your middle, hauling you back against a firm chest. The stale smell of sweat and something rancid fills your nose. The man’s hold is unyielding, his grip like iron as you thrash in his arms while the young slave stares at you. 

“Leave us,” the man behind you orders, his voice rough and commanding. “Your work is done here.”

A gold coin spins through the air and lands with a dull clink at the young slave’s feet. It glints in the dim light, but he doesn’t move. He hesitates for a moment, watching you before he picks up the gold coin and scurries away. 

“Take your hands off me,” you shout but the man only chuckles darkly, his grip tightening around you like a vise. The force is enough to squeeze the breath from your lungs. It feels as though your ribs might crack. 

“Your gladiator is not here,” he rumbles, releasing his hold on you to shove you forward violently. 

You hit the dusty floor with a sharp gasp, the impact stealing what little air you have left. The stone floor is cool beneath your palms and you scramble away from him but he advances on you quickly. He lifts you as though you weigh nothing, pinning you to the wall with a hand around your throat. 

“I am curious to see what all the fuss is about,” he leers. “You must have some cunt on you to make Hano so possessive.”

His vulgar words send a wave of revulsion through you and you claw at the hand around your neck. Your nails tear at his skin, leaving deep bloody marks but he doesn’t even flinch. Instead he nuzzles the side of your face, his sour breath nearly suffocating. In desperation you kick out, trying to break free, but it’s useless. You’re at his mercy.

You squeeze your eyes shut, praying to any deity that will listen to deliver you from this nightmare. But just like all the times before, your plea falls on deaf ears. Your dress is ripped from your shoulder and a heavy hand paws at your chest. Tears leak from your eyes and you realize with a hollow sort of horror that the fate you’ve long avoided has finally found you. 

But then, through a blur of tears, you see a flash of movement. The man before you cries out, an agonizing guttural sound that’s almost deafening. You blink rapidly, trying to clear the wetness on your lashes and bring the world back into focus. You stare at the bloody tableau before you, your mind struggling to process the scene. The gladiator is sprawled on the floor, clutching his forearm as the hand that was around your neck now lies in the dirt between you. 

Lucius stands over him breathing heavily, his features twisted in rage. The tip of the bloody sword rests lightly against the dirt but his body is coiled tight, ready to strike again. 

“Lucius,” you breathe, throwing yourself into his arms. 

Relief sinks into your skin, easing the terror that’s consumed you. His free arm wraps around you, pulling you tight against his chest, and you bury your face in his neck, inhaling the familiar scent of his sweat and skin. You cannot stop the way your body shakes, the tremors coursing through you as the adrenaline slowly fades. 

“I am here,” he murmurs, holding you to him. 

Over his shoulder, you catch sight of Rufus, standing a few paces back, watching the scene unfold with wide, uncertain eyes. 

Lucius turns to him, his voice brooking no argument as speaks. “Get Ravi. Tell him what has happened.”

Rufus takes a hesitant step forward, his worry obvious in the way he glances at you before his eyes return to Lucius. You manage a shaky smile, trying to reassure him, even though your own heart is still racing in your chest. The smile is small and fragile, but it seems enough and Rufus nods before he leaves in search of Ravi. 

Your attacker still lies on the floor, bloody and defeated. You turn away from the scene, focusing on Lucius. He looks like Mars personified, tan, fierce, and unwavering, his body filled with the potential for violence. 

“I warned you about the cost of touching what is mine,” he says to the man writhing in agony. “I keep my promises. If you survive, you will do well to remember that.”

♡

Also part of this series:

Ab Initio

Post tenebras lux

Finis

My inbox is open for your thoughts on this story, requests for drabbles with Lucius and further scenes with Lucius and the Fisherman's Wife.

[pottergff]

dress.

hjp x reader ! (hbp - 6th year).

summary: gryffindor wins a quidditch match, so everyone celebrates with a party in the common room. y/n gets drunk and becomes more flirtatious than usual with harry.

warnings: not really, just mention of alcohol and sexual references.

a/n: this is inspired by the song "dress" by taylor swift and i also mention the lyrics (english is not my native language, so sorry if there are any mistakes) anyways, this was really fun to write, so i hope you like it <3

Gryffindor had beaten Slytherin in the Quidditch final, and as usual, Fred and George had thrown a party in the common room.

"Harry's going to go crazy when he sees you like this, you look gorgeous." Ginny said as she applied a red lipstick that matched her hair. Hermione nodded as she smiled. You giggled as you fixed your dress in the mirror. "I hope so."

And it was true, that dress looked amazing on you. It showed off your curves, showing off your bare shoulders and legs. Not to mention how good the black color looked on you.

Now, it was barely 2am and you were already pretty drunk, you were susceptible to alcohol. The twins had offered you firewhiskey several times and you obviously didn't turn them down.

"Damn, he looks really hot" You muttered to Ginny and Hermione as you looked over your shoulder at Harry, who was leaning against a wall and talking to some guys from the Gryffindor team. "What?!" They said in unison confused, clearly not hearing you over the loud music. "Basically, I said I want Harry to fuck me!" You said much louder, even Ron who was next to you had heard you now.

Ginny almost choked on her drink, laughing at the comment. Hermione exclaimed an 'Oh My god!', laughing too. Ron widened his eyes and burst out laughing. "Frisky, are you? You're really drunk" Ron said a little surprised by your attitude, and raised his eyebrows. "Shut up, Ronald" You rolled your eyes, unable to hide a smile. "And why aren't you going to talk to him? You two are getting on my nerves with his stares" Ginny added between giggles and with a bit of defiance in her voice, before taking another sip of her drink. "Should I?" You thought out loud and tilted your head. "Yep, You should" Hermione nodded with a small smile.

The night went on and Harry's eye contact became more and more frequent. Every time you talked you could feel the tension between you.

The relationship between you and Harry was strange. Since first year you became best friends. Only in the last time you weren't just that anymore, you had kissed a few times and both had confessed your obvious feelings for each other. But you weren't a couple either. You were something like "friends with benefits".

Normally you were a pretty shy girl, at least with people you didn't know. But when you were drunk, you turned into the complete opposite, the embarrassment disappeared and you acted with less filter.

So when your shoulder brushed against Harry's, you couldn't help but think about what Hermione said about talking to him. Harry noticed the way you looked at him and felt watched under your gaze

"W-what?" He said a little shy. "Nothing. You look hot" You said as if it were nothing, shrugging your shoulders. Harry raised his eyebrows and smiled, amused by your nonsense. "You think so?". I nod. "Well, thank you. I'm flattered. That dress looks nice on you" He added the last sentence in a lower tone, still smiling at you.

You smiled when he mentioned your dress. "Only bought this dress so you could take it off" You said casually. Even with the lights on, you could notice his blush and the way his eyes widened. You obviously noticed how nervous he got too. “Uhm.” Was all he could say as he licked his lips, looking at you a little dumbfounded.

You smiled widely and teased him, raising your eyebrows. “Uhm?” Harry snorted in amusement, with a small smile, and looked away. You gently took his chin so he looked back into your eyes, still smiling.

“Is that all you’re going to say?” You said a little softer, still smiling and holding his chin between your fingers. When your eyes met his, his expression softened although his flustered state increased. “Why did you say that?” Harry said, still with an amused smile. He was also a little drunk, but not as much as you. You smiled again and replied “Cause I don’t want you like a best friend.”

You no longer cared about the fact that your friends and classmates were probably watching you, you were too focused on Harry to care about anything else. The pining and anticipation inside you seemed to be the only thing that you feel right now.

"Me neither" Harry said in almost a whisper. Despite the music, we were so close that I could even feel his breathing at this point. "Then?" You murmured, noticing how his gaze shifted from your eyes to your lips and vice versa. "Then what?" He replied. You felt both of their breathing heavy, his breath against your face. "Kiss me" You whispered, and without letting him answer, you kissed him.

When his lips found yours, that feeling of butterflies fluttering in your stomach appeared, as it always happened when you were with him. You gently tugged on his shirt, drawing him even closer to you. The hand that was on his chin, quickly went to his jaw. His hands found your hips and he held you tightly, making you completely glued to him. That action made you let out a small gasp, which he took advantage of to deepen the kiss, sliding his tongue along your bottom lip. You followed him. His fingers tangled in your hair as he made the kiss deeper and even more heated.

After a few seconds, you separated, both of you panting from the lack of air and the intensity of the kiss. You couldn't help but smile as you admired him. His swollen lips, his raven hair messy in a perfectly imperfect way, his hands still holding you and a smile that mirrored yours. He looked beautiful, as as always.

We felt the gazes of our friends (even some classmates) and saw how they were all with their eyes wide open or with their jaws on the floor. We heard a 'Bloody Hell' from Ron, we both laughed.

Harry whispered in your ear, you heard his smile in his sarcastic tone. "I guess they don't know nothing about what happened." You smiled even wider and leaned in to whisper in his ear, smiling "Everyone thinks that they know us. But they know nothing about"

[clockwork-ashes]

Shake the Frost - Part I

Read on Ao3

Summary: Elain’s visions lead her to the human lands where she seeks answers from the one male she’s been avoiding—Lucien. As the two of them work together, the walls built between them begin to crumble.

Note: SURPRISE!!! this is for the lovely @zenkindoflove for this year’s @acotargiftexchange <3 i was so so so excited to get to write this for you, all of your works are simply amazing and it was such fun getting to know you a little better the last few weeks!!! thank you for answering my many (many) questions, and i hope you enjoy this!!!

Elain POV 

Drops of blood, like lovely ruby tears, were scattered along the pure white snow. They glimmered as if they were expensive jewels, an allure to each perfectly shaped one. The sun was bright, vicious as it reflected on the ground and danced as far as the eye could see. 

Elain shook her head with an annoyed sigh, loose curls bouncing around her shoulders. She couldn't move the pieces of hair without letting go of the gifts in her arms, so she blew up at the strands in a way that would seem practiced to any onlookers. 

A dagger, the hilt fashioned from gold and expertly crafted to resemble a snake, was stained scarlet. The hand holding it had rings on each pale finger, no scars on the skin despite the comfortable way it gripped the weapon. 

“That is enough,” Elain mumbled, an order to herself in hopes that the visions would stop bleeding through her waking moments. The images no longer haunted her, but they were still a type of nuisance, like summer gnats, flickering in the corners of her thoughts. 

If she focused, Elain hoped to avoid the most gruesome of her repeating visions. Always, like clockwork, she would witness Beron Vanserra’s death. It was bloody and cruel, never peaceful, even if the way it was done had not yet been decided by fate, the result remained the same. The High Lord of the Autumn Court would die, marked by endless crimson that stained the earth beneath him. 

She had thought them nothing more than a figment of her unsettled mind, especially when at first they had slowly and steadily filtered into her dreams. When they had leaked into her everyday life, when she had begun seeing Lucien’s face among the bloodied chaos, she had no choice but to take matters into her own hands. Elain knew from the war with Hybern that trying to bury and ignore her visions wouldn’t work, and neither would trying to hide her fear and confusion. 

She had tried to tell Feyre once, but hadn’t been able to go through with it. Her sister was finally happy. Nyx was old enough to enjoy the Winter Solstice celebrations, and Feyre had been busy planning for weeks. It seemed unfair, and Elain could admit only to herself that she was using it as an excuse not to share her worries with anyone at all.

Still, the visions wouldn’t let her go. They gripped her, cold and unrelenting, forcing her to face countless versions of the future when she least expected it. Nesta would have asked too many questions, ones that Elain would be unwilling to answer, and so she had turned to Nuala and Cerridwen for help. She had asked the twins to take her to the human lands, and had begged them not to tell anyone just yet. Elain was thrilled when they simply told her she had to be careful, agreeing to bring her directly to the place that Lucien called home. 

Elain stood at the doorstep of the manor, right where Nuala and Cerrdiwen had left her. The evening frost bit at her skin, her arms heavy with the weight of her offerings, small gifts she had taken with her knowing it would be a slight to come empty-handed. She could hear the soft ticking of the stopwatch she had bought for her mate despite the fact that it was nestled in a cushioned box. For the Queen of Scythia, she had brought Winter blooms from Velaris, delicate and white, their petals like soft whispers. She had struggled to find something nice for Jurian and had simply settled for a bottle of expensive wine. 

Her knuckles hovered at the door as she shifted on her feet, hesitation curling through her. She had seen the manor before, what almost seemed like another life, and yet now it felt unfamiliar. She finally knocked, the sound thunderous against the thick wood. 

There was not a single sound that followed, not even the careful tap of footsteps just beyond the entrance. Elain frowned wondering if perhaps no one was home. 

She balanced the gifts in her arms, blowing at the stray curls that had fallen over her eyes. She raised a gloved hand, ready to knock once more, when she heard the lock shift. She stepped back, watching as the door opened slowly, leaving only a crack of space for her to peak into the manor. 

At the flash of familiar copper hair, Elain plastered a smile onto her face. “Happy Solstice,” she said with false cheer, hoping that she covered her disappointment well. She wanted to speak with Lucien first, but she supposed she should be grateful that at least someone was there. 

Vassa looked surprised for the briefest of moments, using her frame to block Elain from entering. She raised an elegant eyebrow, her blue eyes midnight dark as she offered a judgmental glance over the three neatly wrapped parcels. “Who invited you?”

Elain maintained an unbothered air, pretending that Vassa was simply keeping the cold out. She lifted the presents, smiling a bit wider in an attempt to look kind and unthreatening. “I wanted to give Lucien his gift.”

Vassa’s gaze flicked to Elain’s face, where she took her in with an unreadable expression, a hesitation that stretched just a little too long. Then, with a motion too practiced to be casual, she opened the door wider, her gesture one of forced hospitality.

“Come in,” Vassa said, voice cool but not unkind. She waved her hand in the direction of the hall. “Lucien should be back in a bit.”

Elain stepped inside, her breath catching as she recognized the space. It was Graysen’s manor, but the weight of the years made it feel distant, almost like a place she had only heard about in stories. She had barely thought about him in the last few years, and was slightly annoyed at being reminded that he existed at all. 

She followed Vassa down the hall, her booted feet soft on the old wooden floor, the air thick with the scent of something she couldn’t place. Jurian was in the sitting room, bare feet up on a pink couch that was absurdly out of place when compared to the rest of the furniture in the large space. His gaze met hers, unsurprised, as though he had been expecting her arrival.

Jurian. 

The name had been whispered to her since childhood, stories of a human general that had fought for the freedom of her people. Sitting on that gaudy pink couch, he looked ordinary, Elain thought. He was just like any other man, a touch of a battle-weary edge to his face, but nothing of the myth she had imagined.

“Something to drink?” Jurian asked, his voice easy, inviting. He leaned forward, his manner so unaffected it took Elain by surprise.

Vassa did not speak, but Elain felt her eyes on her, assessing and distant, as though her very presence was an offence. The room seemed to thicken with unspoken words, the tension hanging heavy in the air. Elain could still hear the ticking of the stopwatch still in her hands, steady as heartbeat, knowing she was the only one among them who could catch the delicate sound with her ears. 

Elain cleared her throat, her voice coming out smaller than she had intended. “Maybe some tea?” It was not just the awkwardness of the moment that made her throat tight, but also the unmistakable scent of her mate that lingered.

He was everywhere.

On the cushions of the couch, on the fabrics of the curtains, in the very air. It clung to the room like a shadow, a reminder that he lived in this space. Elain scrunched her nose when she was struck with the sudden urge to curl up into the pillows and bury her face into the cushions just to take it in. 

Jurian invited her to sit, gesturing with his hand to leave the gifts aside. Vassa sat as well, eyes watching her every move, as they all waited for Lucien. Time crawled by slowly, and Elain could feel the weight of the room pressing down on her. 

Elain had come in search of answers, and she knew that her exiled mate would have the information she needed. Jurian brought her tea, the night stretched on, and Elain knew with a deep certainty that it would be a long one. 

Lucien POV

The shift of the seasons pulled at Lucien in ways that were nearly painful as he crossed into the human lands, winnowing in one final jump beyond Prythian’s border.

Lucien was always left feeling a bit empty when he returned from his visits to Spring. His thoughts always lingered on the broken remnants of what once was, a court that had once been his home. Tamlin, at least, had seemed happy that he had stopped by. 

Lucien made sure he had a glamour in place as he walked through the quiet village, ensuring none of the human eyes saw anything more than a stranger passing through. They were all weary around him, casting him with careful glares whenever he passed. The streets, though, were empty, the silence eerie as everyone stayed indoors to celebrate the solstice with loved ones. 

He was nearing the manor, his senses piqued by something, a subtle tug that pulled his chest tight, a connection that only his mate could cause. 

Elain. 

The bond thrummed under his rib, constant and steady, like the flow of a river. Lucien rubbed a hand over his chest, frowning slightly. He had not gone to Velaris this year, not even after Feyre had sent her invitation. Perhaps it had been rude of him, but he’d simply written a note, promising to visit soon. It had been easier, after all, to remain distant, he thought. 

Lucien noticed the boot marks still left in the snow leading up the manor, and he felt a chill crawl up his spine. The footprints were small, the pattern of the sole not ones he recognised as belonging to Vassa. Using a simple spell, he unlocked the door and stepped through the threshold and into the foyer. The bond flared to life with sharp awareness, drawing him towards her. It was as though his body had learned to respond to her presence even without his permission. Elain was nearby, and he was helpless to ignore it, to deny the way his heart picked up its pace in response. 

The whole world seemed to tilt on its axis as he paused at the entrance of the sitting room. He was unable to tear his gaze from his mate, even though he knew Jurian and Vassa would be watching his reactions carefully. 

“Elain?” he said, more question than anything. Even to his own ears, his voice sounded rough, unsteady.

He heard the soft rattle of a teacup as she set it down on the table. Her back straightened, as if instinctively commanding the room around her, a queen in all but title. “You didn’t come to Velaris,” she said, her voice even, but Lucien heard the slight accusation buried beneath the calm.

He hadn’t expected her to notice, hadn’t thought she cared enough to even keep track of his comings and goings. It was a surprise, and he was unprepared for the sting it left.

She still avoided him, still turned away whenever he entered a room, her distance like a shield between them. He couldn't even blame her, but the ache of each dismissal settled heavy on his chest. Remembering his manners, he offered her the smallest of bows, “Apologies, lady.”

Elain’s cheeks flushed, and Lucien’s heart did something strange, a flutter he couldn’t quite name. “No need to apologize,” she mumbled, ever polite. “It was just… I just noticed, that’s all.” She looked at him with an embarrassed tilt to her lips, her entire face having turned crimson. 

Vassa snorted then, a laugh that was sharp and unrefined, but somehow it didn’t feel entirely unwelcome. It cut the tension between him and his mate like a blade. 

“I needed to speak with you,” Elain said, her voice soft but deliberate. She glanced over his shoulder at Vassa and to Jurian who sat on the pink couch, a silent apology. “Alone, if that’s alright.”

While Lucien couldn’t see Vassa, Jurian merely raised his shoulders in a careless shrug. He motioned for Elain to follow him, taking his eyes from her as she grabbed onto her skirts and followed him to the porch that looked over the large courtyard. 

Lucien nodded. He motioned for her to lead the way, his mind already racing with questions he wasn’t sure he wanted answers to. They stepped outside, and though Elain kept her distance, it was still the closest they’d been since the battle with Hybern. Her breath misted in the cold air, floating around them like a little cloud. 

Beautiful. 

Elain Archeron was like something made of winter. Her hair was tucked behind her pointed ears and he could see the sharp cut of her jaw as she looked at the frozen gardens below. She reminded Lucien of snowflakes, lovely and fleeting, put out a hand to catch one and they disappear. 

The tip of Elain’s nose was stained a rosy pink, and he created a small bubble of warmth around them instinctively, watching as her posture relaxed, seeming much more comfortable in the harsh cold. 

Lucien broke the silence between them as she hugged her arms around her middle, suddenly looking more nervous. “Please tell me that Feyre and Rhysand know you’re here.” He knew the answer even before Elain winced and turned away from him. “Nesta?”

She shook her head, a small frown pulling at her lips. “My friends know. They brought me here.”

Lucien couldn’t help the sigh that fell from his lips, running a hand through his hair. He had half a mind to walk back into the manor and write to the Night Court about where she was, but something in her demeanor, something in her dark eyes, stopped him. He could feel the weight of her decision pressing on him, even if she hadn’t said the words yet. He wasn’t sure what to make of it, but the truth tugged at him. He was going to be knee-deep in trouble if he kept her secret.

“Why?” he asked, his voice quieter now, gentler. “Why did you need to come here?”

Elain seemed to shrink into herself for a moment, her eyes fluttering closed as though she were steeling herself for something. When she spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper.

“I see you in my dreams.”

Lucien froze, his breath catching in his throat. He couldn’t suppress the choked sound that nearly escaped him, couldn’t mask the shock that gripped him. His heart pounded in his chest, and for a moment, he felt unsteady, as though the ground beneath his feet were about to crack open.

Elain flushed under his gaze, her eyes quickly darting to the snow beneath her booted feet. “I mean... my dreams and my visions,” she corrected, a little embarrassed, as if the admission were something she hadn’t meant to speak aloud.

He didn’t know where she was going with this, but the quiet urgency in her voice made him hold his tongue, waiting for her to explain. He remained still and kept silent, offering her the space to share whatever was on her mind.

“No one listens to me,” she murmured, her voice barely audible. “Not my sisters, not the rest of the Inner Circle... no one. I thought...” She bit her lip, her eyes flicking up to his. “I thought perhaps you would?”

Lucien was left speechless, his heart clenching with something he couldn’t quite name. She was asking him, of all people, to pay attention to her. There was a part of him, an ancient and primal part, that nearly overwhelmed his senses, but he nodded. “I’ll listen.”

Elain exhaled a soft breath, reaching out with her small hand. “And what if I ask you to see?” 

Without a word in response, Lucien put out his own hand, letting Elain grab onto him so that she could pull him a little closer. The bond between them flared to life, the bridge connecting their souls allowing Elain to show him something unexpected. What she saw burned into his mind, and Lucien was no longer sure where his mate’s dreams ended and reality began.

[deathbxnny]

Woooo, congrats on 1k followers, sure has been a ride, huh?

Now, with requests back open, it's time time for the sequel to my Arle request!

Okay so, like I said in that ask I sent a while ago, this one takes place in the same "continuity" as the angsty af Arle request you did last req period. This one takes place some time after that story, and is less angsty in this case (but there's definitely still some here).

Here, similarily to the last request, the "Mother" of the House is staying in... let's say Fontaine, tending to one of the injured children (could be some rando kid, or maybe it's one of the Fontaine trio) after a mission. Unlike last time though, it's looking as though the child will pull through, that "Mother" won't have to bury another of her kids!

Bad news tho, the people responsible for the child's injuries are coming around to finish what they started. Arle, who's handling business elsewhere, catches wind of this and makes haste to help her wife.

Little did those who came to finish the child realize what danger they're in. Because you see, fem!reader is a former child of the House of Hearth. Not just that, she's the wife of a Harbinger. Normally she doesn't engage in violence, but these people Hage intentions of ending her child's life, and she simply cannot let that slide.

And so, Arle arrives just in time to bare witness to her s/o going absolutely John Wick (does she kill anyone with a pencil? That's up to you 🤭) on the bandits who dared to cross her not once, but twice.

(Part one) (Part three) (Part four) (Part five)

Ohoho.... I absolutely love this, dear Anon, and I'm hoping you'll love my spin on this as well!! Although I have to admit that I gave it a bit of a mellow end, instead of the "John Wick" type of ending, mainly because I found it more fitting with what I was going for... but anyhow, thank you so much for this request, I was definitely looking forward to it, hehe!!<33

Content: Some gore, Near character death, mentions of near fatal injuries/wounds, blood, mentions of grief/child loss, Reader snapping, violence, assassination attempts, Reader is referred to as "Mother", heavy angst, hurt/comfort, kind of a good ending for once?, stitches

Reader uses she/her pronouns here!!

((Not proofread))

The last one standing had crimson palms. (Arlecchino x Fem!Reader)

"I... I wish to..." "Shh... not another word, child... don't you dare say it." Your hands were stained red once more, pressing down on another gashing, deep wound, sweat running down your forehead as everyone around you attempted to stop the bleeding. You didn't want him to see what had become of him, one hand resting over his teary eyes to stop your heart from shattering any further. You wished she was here, your dearest wife, who had to choose this week of all the others to leave the country for a short business trip.

And today was supposed to be a good day. One filled with the laughter of children and the smell of grilled sausages and steaks coming from the garden. You were trying to have a little festival together to celebrate the start of warmer months. But the atmosphere had now become suffocating with the smell of sharp iron and sweat instead, the gentle warmth now scorching hot, exhausting, and grinding you down to the bone. However, you couldn't let go of him now. You couldn't let him die. You refused to give up on him, especially. You refused to let him become another buried angel.

His hand pressed against yours weakly, his breaths deep, pathetic gasps for air, as he tried telling you something important through broken cries. "Mother... Mother, please, you have to listen to me." He coughed out, blood staining his lips, as his other hand reached out blindly to grasp onto the fabric of your once white sundress. You furrowed your brows against the darkness of the room, light only filtering in through the moon outside and the shaky hands of Lynette trying to keep a lantern steady so her twin could keep patching his younger brother up.

"What is it, Freminet?" You indulged him, trying to keep him awake at all costs. His voice was hoarse, raspy, once silky blonde hair now sticking to his forehead as he gulped dryly to collect his thoughts.

"They are coming for us, mother... and you are next."

Lyney gave you a look, one filled with an undefined emotion he only ever had when it came to your protection. If you didn't know better, you would've been terrified at how similar he was becoming to his father. "Those assassins we encountered during our mission, Mother... they weren't ordinary ones, to say the least." He muttered to you, his mind replaying the moment one of them struck his brother, who was just trying to protect them out of pure instinct. He was brave, despite the shyness he often portrayed.

"How so?" You wiped away the sweat on your forehead, nose wrinkling when another member of the house handed you a medkit before they disappeared into the shadows again. "They... knew us by name. Every single one of us. And then-" You waved over Lynette to stand in your place whilst her twin spoke, so you could unpack the needed supplies for the upcoming "operation" you had to conduct on your son. You've become a near professional over the years. Something else you didn't choose to do nor want to be.

"-They uttered your name. We... believe that they are trying to weaken Father. And you are that weakness they are seeking, Mother.-" "-They've come to finish the job. We... we need to evacuate everyone.. we need to hide her.-" Lynette hushed Freminet quickly, as she pressed some cloth into his mouth. With a glance downwards to his wound, she determined that it would definitely hurt horribly to stitch him up... but he'd live. For the first time in weeks, someone would live. She closed her eyes to hide those tears that threatened to spill in relief.

You stared at the three of them for a moment before you simply proceeded with placing the first few stitches into the boy's wound wordlessly. He writhed in pain, his fingernails digging into the mattress below whilst his screams and cries were muffled by the cloth. Lyney and Lynette were trying to hold him down, their bodies wincing involuntarily at every sharp breath or movement from their brother. Your expression was meanwhile unreadable, hands moving automatically until you cut the string and were done with your little procedure. It's as if your mind completely fazed out, only driven by the need to fix and protect, keep everyone alive no matter what.

"Lyney." The young man hesitantly met your gaze, his body shaking when his brother fell limply into the bed again, his breathing heavy and uneven. "Evacuate everyone into the upper floors and then come back to watch over Freminet." You said, quick to wipe your hands with a nearby towel nearly coldly, but Lyney knew that look in your eyes. You were sick of it and would take it all into your own hands if your wife couldn't. "Mother, you can't just-" "-Lynette, use the backdoor and let this bird free." You tapped the golden cage on the nightstand with your fingers, the little sparrow chirping curiously. It was a messenger bird, one specifically designed to catch your wife's attention and bring her home instantly when things got out of control.

But you weren't using it for it's purpose tonight. No, everything was completely under control here... you just needed her to come back home to stop you once you're done.

"Mother-" A sharp look made him quickly reconsider what he was about to say, a hand pressing against his chest whilst he bowed. "... we're on it." Lyney muttered, signaling Lynette to love with him, which she did after grabbing the bird cage. Their paths split at the stairs, the girl practically descending them two steps at a time, which got the attention of their fellow bretheren immideatly. "Everyone! Get into the attic or your rooms at once! Mother's orders, so get moving! Barricade your doors and don't open them up to anyone! This is an absolute emergency!" Everyone jumped when they heard the usually playful magicians voice bark out orders harshly, automatically getting the job done as everyone filed up the stairs to do as he said.

Lyney pushed through the crowd to continue looking for stray children who may not have heard him. His heart was racing against his ribcage, sweat dripping off his forehead he could only barely wipe off with a handkerchief he accidentally dropped when someone bumped into him. But your orders were clear in his mind and kept him steady. He knew that he and most, if not all, other kids of the house could take care of themselves just fine... but this was something beyond their means. Something usually only Father got to handle.

By the time he finally got back to his brothers room, you had left it behind, nowhere to be found, and yet the injured boy had a simple blanket covering his shivering form now, dressed in clean clothes and resting on perfectly white bedsheets. Lyney waited by the door, his hand gripping the handle tightly, as he listened to his sisters familiar steps running towards him. He let her in, eyes glancing around the dim hallway one more time before he tipped his hat down and shut the wooden entrance again.

The only sound heard for a moment after was the chirping of a bird in the dead of night until deafening silence filtered in once more.

---

The house of Hearth was never still and unmoving, not even in the darkest parts of the day. The late hours were the busiest, filled with agents and children alike walking in and out of it's doors under the cover of shadows to complete their given tasks and missions. The iron, bloody scent left behind by their previous endeavors, their hushed words to eachother as they passed by, the movement of paper being hidden under floorboards, some given to you with proud looks for approval, as you stayed up with them until the first rays of the sun danced in your eyes... it was never calm, never quiet. Yet the intruders didn't question it. They didn't even think twice to enter the house, the open birdcage. They mistook the silence and stillness for safety.

The first assasin stepped in through the picked lock of a backdoor entrance, his cautious eyes trying to catch any looming danger that may cause them trouble. Yet with nothing in sight, he waved over the rest of his three little friends right into your humble home. "Okay, you know the plan... kill as many of those little rats as you can." "And what about the Mother?" One of them asked, his hair clumsily hidden under a makeshift hood, a dirty grin on his lips in anticipation.

"Can I get rid of her? It won't be much of a struggle, I'm sure. She's just a measly housewife anyway." "Heard she's a pretty thing, though." A round of chuckles filled the kitchen before the first shrugged. "Do what you want. We just have to be done by dawn... let's split up in two groups, then. Just in case." The men agreed, one group making their way upwards, whilst the other searched the ground floors.

The darkness was inviting, the silence emitting a false sense of safety that made the intruders let their guards down, unaware of your form slinking after them. You were calm and collected, eyes dull, the dim moonlight not catching in them anymore. A mother's rage was a dangerous, unpredictable one. Filled with the need to make those who hurt her children suffer, she'd advance even through the most perilous paths for the sake of glory, revenge.

Unbeknownst to anyone, you had put two and two together a long time ago. These intruders, who belonged to a foreign enemy faction, were the cause of many of your children's deaths. They were the reason as to why you had to hear them cry out that odd wish so often. They had dared to enter your territory tonight to take away the rest of the family you had worked so hard for to have. You worked so hard to be a good mother. You bled, you cried, you slaughtered your way here. You became a "mother" one could be proud of. And on this fateful night, you'd prove your worth and pride to even Celestia above you with their screams that will reach far and wide. Your hand gripped a silver dagger, one originally gifted to you by your wife, as you blew out a lantern in one of the hallways, plunging everyone into further darkness that was far from warm.

It was ice cold.

---

"Wait outside." Arlecchino gave the Fatui agents a sharp, warning look, her clawed fingers tight around the Scythe as she entered the still, quiet building she called home. Her eyes glanced around carefully, noting immideatly that the danger that lurked in the dark was familiar. The bird on her shoulder chirped, reminding her of why she had come here in the first place. The meeting she had was cut short by it flying through the window, the call for help loud and clear. She had simply walked out then, her priority always having been you and the house, although it still made her wonder why exactly everything seemed so... unusually silent. Did Lyney and the other children deal with the threat already? If so... where were you?

Her keen ears picked up movement in the living room nearby, which made her calmly make her way over to it's entrance. With a raise of a brow, she stopped when she stepped into a puddle of blood. It seems like her suspicions were partially correct... althkugh who it was that took care of the intruders certainly came as a surprise.

"... You came." Your voice made the tension in her shoulders cease, eyes flickering to your form seated infront of the fireplace. The orange light cascaded across the dark room, the four mangled bodies laying at the bottom of your favorite lavish loveseat being a testament to your victory, and yet you remained still as a statue, back turned to her to observe the flames instead.

"You called." Arlecchino replied after taking in the situation, the sound of her heeled shoe echoing off the walls, as she approached you carefully. Her clawed hand grabbed onto your shoulder, head tilting to look at the side of your head. Your eyes were cold, not even the scorching warmth of the fire melting them. You were unreadable, hands bloody, and yet still so tightly gripping onto the dagger like your life depended on it. And despite that, you were still breathtaking to the woman.

"Are... you alright, my dove?" She asked, a genuine tone in her voice that was only ever reserved for you. The tears in your eyes burned when you finally looked up at her with a pained expression. You weren't like her. You couldn't just kill and be as proud as you hoped to be. You raised your hands towards her, bloody palms raised towards the gods the way they often were when you pleaded for help and forgiveness for the death of your children. You didn't need to say anything anymore, as she pressed a hand to your cheek with an acknowledging nod.

She wasn't good at comfort, nor did she ever try to be. A father didn't comfort his children in her eyes. No, a father simply led them to glory, and that's it. But that didn't mean that she was a bad wife, too. She sat down next to you, uncaring of the bloody mess that surrounded you, when she pulled you close to press your foreheads together. It was a way to silently show her support. She was there for you and understood you.

"I was scared... they hurt Freminet, and I couldn't fathom losing the rest-" "-I know. Thank you for your bravery, my dove. I'll take it from here." Her words were curt and short, and most would perhaps chalk it up to indifference. But when she held you close like this, gently rubbed your back and promised to take care of you only she knew how to, you found yourself being lulled back into the familiar comfort you were so used to. You knew that despite everything that happened, however, she could still not promise that this would never happen again. Your hands will always be stained crimson for as long as you were a Mother. There was no going back. There was no leaving the house.

But... you both were stuck in it together forever, weren't you?

Alrightttt... this took a while to finish, mainly due to work and me being sick again. But yeah, thank you again for the request, Anon, and I hope you liked this!!<33

[radiant-reid]

Hey Cate, I love your writing and love the way you portray Spencer and I would love if you could write a blurb where it's father's day and Spencer is with reader and their twin daughters(#girldadspencer) and it's just fluff with him and their family anyway feel free to just ignore me

thank you <3 dad!spence is my favorite to write, and girl twins!! say less

The soft morning light filters through the curtains, casting a gentle glow across the room. It was Father's Day, a day of celebration and appreciation, and as always, you had plans to make Spencer feel as treasured as he deserves to feel.

Spencer stirs in his sleep, blinking his eyes open to find you're not next to him. Like the majority of the mornings in the last eight years, he hears your voice first. "Okay, be really quiet." You instruct your twin daughters, whose feet pitter-patter on the hardwood as they walk closer to his side of the bed.

They watch him eagerly, and their eyes dance with excitement when his eyes open.

"Good morning, Daddy," Payton says, her voice filled with anticipation.

Spencer sits up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and smiles at the sight before him. "Good morning, angels. What's all this?"

With matching grins, they climb onto the bed next to him and present him with handmade cards.

Their little hands had carefully crafted heartfelt messages of love and appreciation, and you had adored watching them talk about how much they loved their dad.

Spencer's heart swells with joy as he eagerly takes the cards in his hands, studying the colorful drawings and heartfelt words.

For the best dad in the world, one card reads, adorned with stick-figure drawings of your family.

Daddy, you're our superhero, the other card declares, complete with a stick-figure drawing of Spencer wearing a cape.

Tears threaten to escape Spencer's eyes as he looks at his daughters, overwhelmed by the love they've expressed for him. "Thank you, my sweet babies. These are beautiful, you're both such talented artists."

You place a tender hand on Spencer's shoulder as you sit in bed next to him, your smile filled with adoration watching him interact with them. "You're an amazing father, Spencer. You've guided our girls with kindness, patience, and so much love. We wanted to make this day special for you."

Spencer can't have asked for a more loving and supportive family, it's everything he ever wanted. With his daughters perching on either side of him, he embraces the moment, cherishing the love that surrounded him.

As the morning unfolded, you all gathered in the kitchen, the tantalizing aroma of breakfast filling the air. The girls, eager to help, don miniature aprons, their tiny hands assisting you in preparing a special Father's Day feast.

Spencer sits at the kitchen island, watching the beautiful chaos unfold before him. He marvels at the way you effortlessly multitask, balancing cooking and laughter, while the girls enthusiastically pour ingredients into bowls, their giggles echoing through the room.

"You two are doing so well helping Mommy." Spencer praises, his eyes filled with pride. "I'm lucky to have such talented chefs in my life."

The twins beam with delight, reveling in their father's words of encouragement. Together, you cook a delicious Father's Day meal.

As you sit down to eat at the table adorned with their handmade cards and a bouquet of flowers, Spencer looks around at his family. In moments like that, he's always reminded that he has everything he wants.

"I'm truly grateful for all of you," Spencer says, his voice filled with emotion. "Being a father is the greatest gift I've ever received. You bring so much love, light, and happiness into my life."

"And we're grateful for you, Spencer." You reply. "We're lucky to have you."

Your daughters echoed your sentiments, their innocent voices chiming in unison. "We love you, Daddy!"

As you continued to eat breakfast together, laughter and conversation fill the air. Being your husband and a dad, Spencer feels a profound sense of gratitude for having such a beautiful family. And he feels ever luckier that he gets to have those two important roles for the rest of his life.

[sgiandubh]

Sketch for a possible aftermath

Did you ever ask yourselves how would that almost fabled Day After look, as in the day after a Reveal?

Yesterday should be a good indication.

Prudent celebration, but clear celebration here. And across the street, a stunned, heavy silence. It's only fair: shite has been eaten in colossal amounts, in Mordor, on a daily basis. S has been particularly maimed, in the process, the daily divertimento of women sniper commandos, their own sexual fantasy poorly disguised as snarl.

Two of the three sopranos remain silent and the Ur Troll still has to distance herself from the last Harlequin fanfic, featuring something that never was, on a distant shore she has no idea about. The one who immediately spoke, paid perfunctory tribute to her favorite, C, and that's about it. The other, speaking only today, answers Anons about Xena's teeth, Xena's filtered Instagram and Xena's bra: where is her vulgar courage, now? Oooh. Right. Lame, as usual and I have to say I am surprised. And their Investigator in Chief remains silent as we speak: her inflated ego blew a fuse, in the process and anger is always a lonesome territory.

The Spanish Evil Twin does not count. Her attempts at irony are tinged with her proverbial stupidity and, perhaps for the first time, with clear and present panic: she sounds drunk, just like my Anon. She is laughable.

So long for Reason. So long for Braincells. So long for all those painstaking, intricate webs of lies. Something snapped, in the Narrative and you all know it. And it happened not because all those bitter honchos at *** had a sudden Damascus like revelation, but because their complete lack of professional ethics, shamelessly lying to an entire fandom, backfired in the most horrible way they could have ever imagined.

Yesterday was a wonderful day.

Credits given to @themusicsweetly, for this wonderful gif that clearly shows just how much these two people hate each other.

[kultklassickiller]

Prada You Chapter 16

Summary:

In the summer of 1998, sparks fly between Nyeya and Jey.

Nyeya is an 18-year-old around the way girl. Jey is older, paid, and fine. He is also the leader of the infamous Prada Bois alongside his twin brother Jimmy.  The two have chemistry. However, Nyeya has plans outside of her attraction. With a birthday around the corner and dreams of living a good life, Nyeya sets her sights on enjoying the perks of Jey's money and hood celebrity.

But baby girl has no clue what it takes to really be down. Nyeya is about to learn some hard life lessons at the expense of her 'Prada' priced dreams.

Pairing: Jey Uso x Nyeya (Nye) Green (OC)

Author’s Note: This story is happening in an alternative universe. It features the current and original Bloodline members along with other WWE stars. So, the characters are themselves, but some things are switched around for the stories sake. This was originally written with all original characters, but I think it could work better this way. Hope you guys enjoy it and I actually finish it...

Warning: Please be advised that this chapter contains underage drinking, age gap relationships, brief violence.

Disclaimer: This work of art is fictional in nature including the original characters created by me. I do not own any of the existing characters or lyrics from songs referenced in this story (if any). All rights belong to their respective owners with the exception of my original characters. This work is purely for entertainment purposes and is not intended to cause harm.

Chapter 16: Weight

Saturday morning came too soon, dragging the haze of the previous night along with it. Sunlight filtered through the blinds, landing square on my face as I blinked awake. I shifted under the sheets, the familiar weight of the bracelet on my wrist pulling me back to reality. The memory of Damian’s kiss burned hot in my mind, a dangerous mix of confusion, anger, and something else I wasn’t ready to name.

What did he mean by that?

I turned over, burying my face in my pillow. The kiss wasn’t what haunted me most; it was the possibility that someone might have seen it. If the wrong person had been outside, it could ruin everything. Jey wasn’t the type to brush off betrayal—real or perceived. I shuddered at the thought of what he might do.

My mom’s voice broke through my spiraling thoughts. “Nye! I made breakfast, come get it while it’s hot.”

“Coming!” I called, throwing the covers off and heading to the bathroom. I splashed cold water on my face, hoping to wash away the lingering guilt and unease. But when I looked in the mirror, all I saw was someone who was in way over her head. I glanced down at the bracelet before sliding the bracelet off, leaving it on the bathroom counter.

---

Later that morning, Jey’s number lit up my phone. I stared at it for a moment before answering.

“Morning, baby,” he said, his voice warm and casual, like nothing had happened the night before.

“Morning,” I replied, trying to sound normal.

“Tama’s not done celebrating,” Jey said with a chuckle. “He’s throwing another party tonight at his place. You and your girls should come through.”

I hesitated. “Another party?”

He paused, his tone sharpening. “Yeah, Nye. You got a problem with that? You gone be busy or what?”

“No, no problem,” I said quickly. The idea of another party, especially one where Damian might be, made my stomach churn. “I’ll let them know.”

“Good,” Jey said, his tone softening. “Don’t have me waiting all night to see yo’ pretty ass either.”

The line went dead before I could respond. I sat there for a moment, staring at the screen, wondering if “having fun” was even possible anymore.

---

By early afternoon, I was at the mall with Kiyah, Natasha, and Nataya. The air-conditioned corridors were bustling, shoppers weaving in and out of stores with arms full of bags. We ducked into a boutique, the girls immediately gravitating toward racks of dresses and jumpsuits.

“You think Tama’s party is gonna top last night?” Kiyah asked, holding up a sequined black dress.

“Probably,” Natasha said, flipping through a rack of skirts. “I mean, it’s at his house, so you know it’s gonna be even crazier. You know how they get down.”

Nataya glanced at me, her expression curious. “You good, Nye? You’ve been quiet.”

I forced a smile. “I’m fine. Last night was something else. I guess I’m still tired.”

Kiyah smirked, nudging me with her elbow. “Tired from being Jey’s girl? Must be nice.”

“It has its moments,” I replied, trying to keep my tone light.

The girls continued browsing, laughing and joking about their finds. I lingered near the fitting rooms, pretending to look at a dress. My thoughts were a tangled mess, Damian’s words and actions replaying like a broken record.

“Y’all find anything yet?” a familiar voice called. I turned to see Jey strolling into the store, his presence commanding as ever. His red Prada bucket hat sat low on his head, and his black designer tee fit perfectly over his broad shoulders.

“Jey!” Kiyah exclaimed, her voice rising with excitement. “Aye, what you doing here, big bro?”

“Figured I’d stop by,” he said, sliding his hands into his pockets. “Thought I’d treat my girl and her friends today. Pick out whatever y’all want. It’s on me.”

The girls erupted in laughter and cheers, their gratitude spilling over in a flood of compliments. Kiyah practically danced over to the register with an armful of clothes. I was positive she was going to "borrow" some clothes if he hadn't showed up to pay for them.

I stayed back, watching him. “How’d you know we were here?” I asked, my voice casual but edged.

Jey’s smile didn’t falter, but there was a glint in his eyes that made me uneasy. “I always know where my girl is. Gotta keep tabs on you.”

“Tabs?” I said, trying to sound playful despite the knot tightening in my chest. “You’re not stalking me, are you?”

“Nah,” he said, brushing a loose braid from my face. “Just making sure you’re good. You know how it is.”

I forced a laugh, but the unease stayed with me.

---

That evening, as I stood in front of the mirror adjusting the top of my dress, my mom knocked on the door and stepped in without waiting for an answer. Her eyes immediately scanned my outfit.

“You’ve been going out a lot lately this summer,” she said, her tone light but incisive. “You must be seeing someone?”

I froze for a moment before answering. “Just hanging with friends, Ma. Tryna enjoy the summer before I start college courses. And.. it’s nothing serious with him. He's just a friend.”

Her brow arched. “Mmhmm. Friends don’t buy you dresses like that. I’ll say he’s in much deeper than you think. Perhaps, even in love.”

My heart raced as I turned to face her. “It’s nothing like that,” I lied. “Just someone I’m talking to, getting to know is all.”

She didn’t press further, but her eyes lingered on me for a beat too long. “If you say so, girlie. Does he know it’s not serious. If not, you should tell him that. Be careful, Nyeya. People don’t play about their feelings,” she said softly before leaving the room.

Her words stayed with me as I grabbed my clutch and headed out to meet the girls. The weight of everything on my shoulders remained, a reminder of how deeply I was tangled in this web.

---

The twin’s car they borrowed from their mama rattled to a stop in front of Tama’s house, a modest two-story home tucked into a quiet street. The porch and backyard were alive with people. On the porch, groups smoked and laughed, while in the backyard, a grill sizzled, and folding chairs circled a card table where men shouted over a heated game of dominoes. The faint sound of music leaking through the walls promised the party extended inside too.

Kiyah twisted in her seat, craning her neck to take in the scene. “This it? Doesn’t look like much from out here.”

Natasha, gripping the wheel, rolled her eyes. “Girl, it’s not supposed to look like much. You think Prada Bois want attention from everyone on the block?”

Nataya laughed, pulling down the visor mirror to fix her lip gloss. “As long as it’s fun, who cares? Just don’t wreck Ma’s car trying to get in this driveway.”

I stayed quiet, adjusting the top of my strapless black dress. The fitted fabric clung to my body, showing just enough skin to feel daring but not too much to feel exposed. My heels clicked against the pavement as we got out, my nerves twisting tighter with every step toward the house.

“Alright, let’s go y'all,” Natasha said, cutting the engine. “Ma’ll have a fit if we’re back too late.”

---

Inside and outside, the party thrived like two worlds blending into one. The house buzzed with chaos and celebration, while the backyard held its own rhythm. Laughter spilled from the kitchen, mixing with the sound of dominoes being slapped down on the folding table outside. The glow of string lights crisscrossed the yard, casting warm, uneven patches of light over the crowd. The living room buzzed with laughter and loud conversations as people filled every available seat and leaned against the walls. A group had taken over the couch, their dominoes game growing louder by the minute. In the kitchen, a mix of women and Prada Bois gathered around the counter, where bottles of Hennessy and Grey Goose lined the surface.

The backyard was alive with movement. Tama held court near the grill, his beer bottle raised as he told some story that had everyone around him doubled over in laughter. Jimmy leaned casually against the fence, a blunt in hand, trading barbs with Solo and Jacob. In one corner, a group of women giggled as they scoped out the Prada Bois, their bright dresses catching the light with every shift of their hips. The air was thick with the scent of barbecue and the occasional snap of a lighter. Other women, dressed just as boldly as me, hovered near the Prada Bois, their eyes full of intentions I didn’t want to think about.

“Aye, this is more my speed,” Kiyah said, her grin widening as she spotted the card table outside. She gestured toward the domino game, her excitement contagious. “Y’all know I’m about to clean somebody out tonight.” She swayed her hips to the song, “Hypnotize” by The Notorious B.I.G as we made our way into the house. “Come on, Nye. Don’t look so tense. You’re supposed to be enjoying yourself. Ain’t nothing going down 'cause they don’t want it to be shut down.”

I managed a small laugh, but my stomach churned. My eyes scanned the room, searching for Jey. Nataya nudged me, pointing to a corner near the kitchen. “There he go. Go get him, girl.”

Jey was perched on the arm of a recliner, his legs stretched out and a drink in hand. His red Prada bucket hat was gone, replaced by the close-cut lines of his fade. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes sharpened as soon as he spotted me, a slow grin spreading across his face.

“There go my baby,” he said, standing to meet me. His arm slipped around my waist, pulling me close. “Thought y’all got lost.”

“Traffic,” I said, the lie slipping out easily.

He leaned down, his lips brushing my ear as he spoke. “You don’t need to be so stiff, Nye. Loosen up, mama. It’s just a party. I got you. Always.”

The warmth in his voice eased some of the tension in my chest. I glanced up at him, his crooked grin softening into something almost tender. He took my hand, lacing our fingers together. “You good now?”

I nodded, and he kissed my forehead before leading me toward the backyard.

---

The energy in the backyard swirled around me. Groups mingled under the string lights, laughter and conversation blending with the thumping bass from the house. Jey’s hand stayed on my lower back, a quiet reminder of his presence as he led me to where the music pulsed louder.

The beat changed, slowing to “Nice and Slow” by Usher that made couples inch closer. Without a word, Jey pulled me toward the open patch of grass where others had already started dancing. Jey pulled me onto the patch of open space where a few people had started dancing. His hands rested firmly on my waist as we swayed to the rhythm, his eyes locked on mine.

“We’ve never danced like this before,” he said, his voice low and almost amused as his hands adjusted slightly on my waist.

I smirked, meeting his gaze. “You saying you don’t know how to dance, Jey?”

He laughed, the sound deep and genuine. “Nah, I know how. Just never had someone worth dancing with.”

His words caught me off guard, and I felt heat rise to my cheeks. “That supposed to be smooth?” I teased, trying to ignore how much the compliment hit.

“Just being honest,” he murmured, his eyes searching mine. “You’re looking real good tonight, Nye. You always do, but tonight…” He trailed off, a soft smile tugging at his lips before he leaned in closer. “You look edible.”

The kiss came naturally, his lips brushing against mine softly at first before deepening. For a moment, everything else faded—the crowd, the music, the lingering doubts. It was just us, swaying together in a world that felt briefly untouched by the chaos around us.

When the song ended, he pulled back slightly, his thumb brushing my cheek. “See? Told you I got you. You ain’t gotta worry with me, baby.”

For the first time that night, I believed him.

---

The hours slipped by as the music vibrating through the walls and seeping into the backyard like a second heartbeat. The cops hadn’t shut things down, which was good. I hadn’t seen Damian all night either. At first, I felt relief—a reprieve from the chaos his presence always seemed to stir. But as the minutes ticked on, the absence gnawed at me, an itch I couldn’t quite reach.

He’s not coming, I finally told myself. And with that, I decided to let go, if only for the night.

“Girl, what are you doing standing there like a statue?” Kiyah’s voice broke through my thoughts. She grabbed my hand, pulling me toward the makeshift dance floor in the center of the living room. “Come on, Nye. You need to loosen up. Shake that ass with me.”

Her words struck a chord. She wasn’t wrong. Letting out a small laugh, I followed her lead, moving to the beat of “Love You Down” by INOJ that pulsed through the crowd. The warmth of the drinks Jey had brought me earlier made my movements fluid, the tension in my shoulders finally melting away.

Nataya wasn’t far off, but she wasn’t dancing—at least not with her feet. She was nestled on Jimmy’s lap in the corner of the room, their faces inches apart as they whispered and laughed. Natasha twirled near the kitchen, her giggles blending with Sami’s as he spun her dramatically, earning cheers from the crowd. And Kiyah? She was shamelessly pressed against Jacob, the two of them swaying in sync as though the music had been made just for them.

It felt good to laugh, to be caught in the rhythm of the night. For once, I let myself have fun.

---

Jey’s hand found mine as I stepped off the dance floor, my cheeks flushed from the heat of the room. He pulled me close, his dark eyes sparkling with something playful.

“You’re finally having fun, huh?” he teased, his voice low enough to send a shiver down my spine.

I nodded, a small smile playing on my lips. “Yeah, I am.”

“Good.” He leaned down, brushing his lips against my temple before stepping back. “Let’s keep it going.”

The music shifted again, and Jey led me into another dance. This time, the tempo slowed, the kind of song that made couples draw closer. His hands rested firmly on my waist, his fingers pressing lightly against the fabric of my dress. I couldn’t ignore the way he looked at me, like I was the only person in the room.

“You look beautiful, Nyeya. Especially when a smile on your face,” he said softly, his voice cutting through the haze of noise around us.

I looked up at him, caught off guard by the sincerity in his tone. “You’re laying it on thick tonight,” I teased, but my voice betrayed me, softer than I intended.

He smirked, leaning closer until his forehead almost touched mine. “Just telling the truth.”

For a moment, I let myself embrace his soft side. The tension between us felt lighter, like it was something we could set down instead of carry forever.

---

As the night wore on, the drinks kept coming. Jey seemed intent on keeping my glass full, and the warm buzz in my veins made the world feel softer, less jagged. Kiyah was still glued to Jacob, their laughter loud enough to cut through the music. Natasha was practically floating as Sami spun her again, this time dipping her so low she shrieked. Even Nataya had come up for air, though her lips were still red and swollen from kissing Jimmy.

I was watching them, smiling at their antics, when a figure stepped into my peripheral vision. A man I didn’t recognize sauntered toward me, his expression too familiar for my liking. He wasn’t dressed like the Prada Bois—his jeans were baggy, his white tank slightly dingy—but his swagger suggested he thought he belonged.

“You Jey’s girl, right?” he asked, his voice smooth but edged with something sharp.

I nodded slowly, already on edge. “Yeah.”

“Figured,” he said, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Just wanted to see what all the fuss was about. Gotta say, I get it now.”

Before I could respond, a voice cut through the noise, sharp and commanding. “Yo, what the fuck are you doing, uce?”

Jey was already crossing the room, his shoulders tense, his jaw set. The man turned, hands raised in mock surrender. “Relax, bro. Just talking.”

“Talking to who?” Jey snapped, his voice rising. “My girl? You lost your damn mind?”

The tension in the room shifted instantly. Conversations hushed, all eyes turning toward the brewing storm. The man smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s not that deep, bro. Chill.”

But Jey wasn’t hearing it. He shoved the man, hard enough to send him stumbling into the wall. The reaction was immediate—voices shouting, people scattering, the air charged with chaos. Jimmy was at Jey’s side in an instant, gripping his twin’s shoulder.

“Uce, calm the fuck down,” Jimmy said firmly. “Not here. Not now.”

The man straightened, glaring at Jey, but before he could retaliate, Solo and Jacob were there, stepping in to diffuse the situation.

“You need to go,” Solo said, his tone low and menacing. “Now.”

After a tense moment, the man backed off, muttering curses under his breath as he was ushered out. Jey shrugged off Jimmy’s grip, his face still tight with anger. Without a word, he grabbed my wrist and pulled me through the crowd, leading me to a quiet corner of the house.

---

He didn’t stop until we were in an empty room, the door slamming shut behind us. The sound made me flinch, but Jey didn’t notice. He ran a hand over his face, pacing the small space like a caged animal.

“What the hell was that? I leave yo’ ass alone for five minutes and this what you do,” he demanded, his voice low but trembling with frustration.

“I didn’t do anything,” I said, my words tumbling out. “He came up to me. I didn’t even know him. Like it’s not that serious, Jey.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Jey shot back. “You think I’m just gonna let some random ass dude talk to you like that, in my face, around my people? You’re mine, Nyeya. Mine. I need you understand that shit.”

His words hit like a slap, and for a moment, I couldn’t breathe. Somewhere deep inside, a voice whispered something I didn’t want to hear: Would Damian have treated me like this?

Jey stepped closer, his tone softening but still firm. “I’m just trying to protect you. You don’t get it, Nye. Everybody ain’t cool. In my world—it’s dangerous over here. I can’t have anyone thinking they can take what’s mine.”

I nodded, though the knot in my stomach tightened. “I get it,” I whispered, even though I wasn’t sure if I did. “I’m sorry.”

He pulled me into his arms, holding me tightly as if that could erase the cracks forming between us. But even as I leaned into his embrace, the doubt lingered, heavier than ever.

"You belong to me, Nyeya. Can't nobody have you but me.”

---

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[squatch-and-stretch]

Reunion V1

Ford Pines & Stan Pines & Fiddleford McGucket | 829 words | Mystery Trio Through the Multiverse AU

A scrapped draft of Stanley and Stanford’s reunion with Fiddleford in the multiverse.

The first chapter of the actual fic available here!

“Ge’down!” a voice shouts, and the sound of a human other than him or his brother is so shocking that he can’t even try to recognize it.

It stuns him so badly that he doesn’t even register the command, not until Stanley is grabbing him by the back of the coat and pulling him down. On instinct, he rolls onto his back to face the threat, and his eyes land on the massive slithering beast just in time to see something— some sort of squat tube with loose wires and four sharp metal legs— latch onto it. It doesn’t flinch even as those legs dig in and hold on tight, its head twisting a full 180 degrees so its blind, gaping maw can shoot out towards them. Faintly, inexplicably, he hears a sharp series of beeps and then—

Stanley shouts out a curse, grabbing Ford by the shoulder and turning him back towards the cave floor, one arm thrown over the back of his head, hand covering his ear. Ford means to shake him off, but before he can—

BOOM.

Even with Stanley’s hand covering one ear and the other buried in his brother’s armpit— gross, he notes distantly— the sound is nearly deafening. Stanley pulls away with another series of curses, this time under his breath, too soft for Ford to catch.

“C’mon, this way, don’ wanna see what that did to the structure of that there cave!” the voice shouts, or, at least, they say something along those lines. It’s still hard to parse, both physically with his ringing ears and mentally with his mind racing with no known destination.

Stanley doesn’t seem to hear it at all, still kneeling on the cave floor. He lifts a hand to his ear and Ford watches as it comes away wet. As soon as Stanley himself seems to notice, he quickly wipes it on his jacket, letting the fluid blend into his stained burgundy jacket.

It’s up to Ford to grab him this time, pulling him to his feet and towards the entrance of the cave. There's a person— or person-shaped being, perhaps, Ford can’t take anything here for granted— silhouetted against the strange light of this unfamiliar dimension as it filters into the cave. They’re tall and wearing a long, tattered coat, and that’s all Ford can make out at this distance. As cautious as he is of the stranger, he can’t deny the logic of their words.

Once Stanley seems to get the point, he pulls away to stand on his own, wobbling slightly. He shakes his head and shoves his hand into his pocket, doubtlessly retrieving the pair of brass knuckles he has stored away there.

As they approach the stranger, a few more features come into relief; light brown hair pulled back into a messy bun, green-tinted goggles with one cracked lens, a scrap of brown cloth wrapped around their neck and brought up over their nose. The long coat, Ford realizes, is a tattered and stained lab coat.

With a jolt, Ford recognizes the hair color, the lanky build, the anxious hunch…

“Son of a gun,” the not-stranger groans, pulling his scarf down to reveal a familiar soft jawline and tight frown.

“Fiddleford,” Ford breathes, hardly believing his eyes. He wants to run up to his partner, pull him into a hug and celebrate the fact that he’s alive, it worked, Ford made it in time, but even Ford can read the way Fiddleford’s tense posture only tightens at the sight of him.

“Stanford,” Fiddleford says in response, “What in tarnation are you doin’ here? And who…”

Fiddleford’s eyes land on Stanley, brows furrowing for just a moment before his eyes widen.

“Stanley,” he concludes. “Hell of a way to mend bridges with your estranged twin brother.”

“I wouldn’t really say those bridges have been mended,” Ford mumbles, and surprisingly, Stanley doesn’t respond.

He hasn’t said anything, actually, in quite some time. He’s still staring at Fiddleford, posture defensive, eyes wary but distant, somehow. Some sort of cloudy liquid has gathered in the low notch of his ear, a few drops making their way down his jaw. As if noticing at the same time as Ford, Stan huffs and tilts his head, lifting a shoulder to wipe the liquid away. His breath hitches as if the movement pains him.

For all his staring, Stanley doesn’t seem to notice. He squeezes his eyes shut for a long moment before opening them again.

“Stanley?” Ford asks, completely distracted by his strange behavior. Stanley doesn’t respond, still watching Fiddleford warily.

“What do you want?” Stanley says, far more loudly than necessary, glaring at Fiddleford.

Fiddleford, for his part, just stares at Stanley in the same way he used to look over Ford’s less-than-legible notes and equations.

“Shoot,” Fiddleford mumbles, lifting a hand to his own ear. “Done ruptured his eardrum, I reckon.”

“I’m fine,” Stanley grumbles, moving to mirror the motion before just letting his arm drop.

[wisssp]

you walk out of your dorm into the common room to see what the twins have stuck balloons to the ceiling, made you a full spread breakfast and have one rose lying around the table for each year you've blessed the world with your presence. they have shit eating grins on their faces, considering the fact that they know you don't like to be celebrated. they guide you to the seat at the head of the table where a place card read: 'birthday girl'. they sit down on either side of you and in the total wrong key, practically screech the happy birthday song at the top of their lungs until you're a giggling mess. the rest of your house filters in the room to wish you a scattered happy birthday when Fred leans down to your right ear.

"that's not the only gift we have..." his breath on your neck makes you warm as George closes in on your left ear.

"let's just say it's a good thing we know the muffliato charm with what we have in store for you."

and just like that, a ghost of chills flew down your spine and all it whispered was:

weasley.

[slut4alicewu]

Happy Birthday

~ alice wu gulliver x fem!oc (Astrid)

summary: alice and astrid celebrate their twins' birthday.

warnings: magical pregnancy (no men here), bad parentship and crappy writing.

note: i need to cure my broken heart 💔

The sun filtered through the trees, casting a warm golden light over the backyard, where laughter echoed and a sense of joy filled the air. Red and Pink balloons danced in the gentle breeze, and a banner reading “Happy 3rd Birthday, Cassandra and Lorna!” hung proudly across the patio. Today was a day of celebration, a day of joy, but beneath the surface, emotions ran deep for the adults present.

Alice, radiant and teary-eyed, stood beside her wife, watching the twins as they played with their new toys, her heart swelling with pride. “Can you believe they’re already three?” she murmured to Astrid, who cuddled her, wiping away a stray tear. “It feels like just yesterday we were in the hospital, holding them for the first time.”

Astrid smiled, her eyes shimmering with happiness. “I know. They’ve grown so much, Alice. Look at them.” She gestured towards Cassandra and Lorna, who were giggling as they built a small tower with colorful blocks. “They’re our little witches.”

As the twins squealed in delight, Alice couldn’t help but feel a surge of protectiveness. “I just want to shield them from everything,” she admitted softly, her voice thick with emotion. “The world is so big and scary, and they’re so small.”

Astrid wrapped an arm around Alice’s shoulder, drawing her close. “We’ll protect them together, just like we always have.” There was an unspoken understanding between them, a bond forged in the fires of their past. "When we discovered I was pregnant I was so scared.” Alice looked at her wife. “I don't want to be like them.” she didn't asked like who, she knew she was talking about her parents.

Nearby, Sharon, was busy preparing the cake, humming a soft tune. The twins adored their grandmother, her sweet and kind nature a perfect counterbalance to their chaotic personality. “Can you girls help me with the frosting?” she called, and they scampered over, eager to assist.

“Granny Sasa, look!” Lorna exclaimed, holding up a dollop of frosting. “I made a cupcake!”

“Oh, that looks delicious, my sweet!” Sharon praised, her heart swelling with love for her now granddaughters.

Lilia watched from the sidelines, her expression serious but softened by the warmth of the moment. “Don’t get too much frosting on your clothes, girls,” she said, her voice firm but with a hint of amusement. “You don’t want to give your moms a reason to be angry.”

The twins giggled at Lilia’s seriousness. “We’re careful, Granny Lia!” Cassandra chirped, brushing her hands together, frosting smudged across her cheek.

Jennifer, was nearby, setting up a piñata that hung from a low branch. “Alright, who’s ready to break this open?” she called, her playful demeanor contagious. The twins jumped up and down in excitement, their eyes shining with anticipation.

“Me! Me!” they shouted, and Alice couldn’t help but laugh at their enthusiasm. “Thanks Auntie Jen!”

As the festivities continued, Agatha observed from a distance. Though her demeanor was often cold, there was a playful glint in her eyes as she watched the twins interact with their mothers. She had always kept her emotions tightly locked away, but something about being around the girls stirred something deep within her.

They reminded her of Nicholas.

“Come on, Auntie Aggie! Time to break the piñata!” Cassandra called, her tone loud as always. The twins rushed toward her, taking her hands.

Agatha just chuckled.

[anonymousonlyanonymoud]

The Lost de Rolo Chp. 4

The Merchant

TW: TW: Murder, child murder, blood, panic attack, vomit

Previous Chapter

The Market Ward of Westruun was slowly becoming alive as the shops began to open and the chatter of the morning began to fill the streets.

Small crowds formed in front of stores while people began exiting taverns, either drunkenly stumbling home or leaving for whatever job that'd been found for the day.

And at the end of one of the darkest streets, coming out of a dilapidated tavern known for serving watered-down ale and food that was similar to mush, and having beetles in their beds, was Ciara de Rolo.

Her weathered and thin cloak was tightly pulled around her shoulders in a feeble attempt to keep the chill that had begun to set across the realm as the first flurry of snow began to fall. 

The signs of winter were all around the town as the preparations for Westruun's Winterscrest Festival were underway, but Ciara kept her head down to avoid looking at any decorations that would have been put up.

The last Winterscrest festival she'd celebrated had been before she lost everything.

It used to be a happy time for her, watching the Castle of Whitestone being transformed into a wonderland of celebrations as the surrounding city shared a festive joy.

Vesper had taken an interest in overseeing the festivities during the years before...

Both mother and father praised her for her work while Julius said he was grateful for not being the one in charge of parties as it would never look half as good as what she came up with.

Percy asked millions of questions regarding the construction that went on during the setup and would have to be pulled away multiple times from the head builders who had come to finalize plans with Vesper.

The twins had always rolled their eyes at Percy, teasing him about what he was asking. But Whitney and Oliver always looked with awe at what Vesper was able to accomplish.

Ludwig and Cass were filled with wonder at the way the city transformed. Their excitement built each day preparations were made while they used the progress being made as a calendar to count down the days till Winterscrest.

The excitement was infectious and spread throughout the city as the holiday drew closer, even the year the Briarwoods came.

They had been welcomed warmly along with that fucking doctor by her parents, and they repaid that kindness with murder.

Ciara no longer thought about her siblings' happiness when Winterscrest came around. Her mind instead was filled with Whitney's sobs of terror as she was ripped from their sister's arms by Captain Kerrion Stonefell. The man's laugh rang in Ciara's ears before he slammed Whitney's head against the wall. Her blood dripped down the stonework and stained her light brown hair.

Vesper's screams as Stonefell pulled her by her hair and threw her from the window. Ciara heard the sickening snap of bones as her sister's screams cut off. Stonefell continued to laugh as he dragged Ciara to that same window and forced her to look at Vesper's broken body in the courtyard below.

The laughter of children filtered through her head as a small group rushed past. One of the children fell into her side, unintentionally jerking the metallic right arm that the doctor had melded to her years ago. The rods and screws tugged at her skin which sent a sharp twinge of pain through the remains of the limb as she grimaced.

While attempting to blink away the image of her sister's broken body, Ciara sent a glare to the kids who ran off without looking back. 

A part of her, the old part of her that belonged to a young girl who had sat through hours of etiquette lessons with her siblings, the old part that was caged away in the back of her mind in a darkened room, wanted to scold the children for not looking where they were going. That it wasn't polite and they should apologize.

But the main part of Ciara, the part that had been fed on, tortured, ripped apart, and sewn back together with jagged stitches that left horrific scars, only glared as the kids scampered away. 

Ciara continued weaving through the growing crowds, not lifting her head as vendors began calling out for customers as their stalls went up. She heard all the sales pitches before, and it wasn't like she could afford the wares anyway. Ciara was ready to walk past and ignore the merchants until she caught a conversation that her freezing in her tracks,

"-a shop in Whitestone at some point. The tyrants who'd forcefully taken control five years ago are gone and, thankfully, dead. The city is now rebuilding and in need of new economics in the market," The de Rolo felt herself turn toward the voice and saw the person who'd caught her attention.

The voice belonged to a man with dark skin, hair in a half-ponytail with two short braids framing the side of his face, a braided goatee, purple robes with gold trim, gold jewelry, and a red sash around his waist to complete the look.

He was standing in front of a building that looked to be in the middle of renovations with four other merchants. Two humans, a halfling, and an elf. Ciara recognized them as members of the Westruun Merchant Guild. She'd stolen a thing or two from the halfling and spied on the elf. 

His sister was a cartographer who had married a diplomat in Syngorn. He only kept in touch with her and his niece. From what Ciara had found, he didn't have much love for his brother-in-law and rarely spoke to him. Which meant the Clasp no longer wanted anything to do with him.

The merchants were listening intently to the purple-clad man as he spoke about bringing business to Whitestone during and after the city was restored.

But what made Ciara turn cold with shock was when she heard the goateed man say,

"A council has been made, with a de Rolo at the head to rule Whitestone once again," 

A de Rolo? That couldn't be possible.

The de Rolo's were all dead.

Ciara knew they were dead.

She'd seen them, her parents, Julius, Vesper, Oliver, Whitney, and Ludwig. 

She never saw Percy or Cass alive after that dinner, but she heard them. The Briarwoods made sure she heard them scream.

Ciara heard her remaining family as she sat frozen in the cell The Briarwoods had shoved her in. Bound under a Hold Person Spell she was forced to listen as Ripley tortured Percy and Cass. 

She heard them.

Ciara heard Percy weakly insisting he didn't know what was below Whitestone before his voice became desperate as Ripley began cutting into their sister.

When the screaming stopped and Ciara was dragged away, Ripley would visit. The doctor would show her the hooks and tools that had been embedded in her siblings' mere minutes ago. Ciara was forced to listen as Ripley described how she tortured Percy and Cass before going on to say Ciara could stop it.

She just needed to tell Ripley about what was under Whitestone.

But Ciara hadn't, and still didn't, know what the woman was talking about.

And the screaming continued.

Ciara had each of their screams etched into her mind that she heard it everywhere. Even after she'd been taken from the dungeons.

And then, the screaming stopped. She was no longer tossed into a cell to listen as Ripley tortured her siblings. And because of that, a venomous hope leached into her mind, because despite all that she had witnessed, Ciara was naive enough to think that Percy and Cass had somehow escaped.

Until-

Until-

Anger bubbled to the surface as Ciara found herself standing in front of the goateed man with words that were spat with rage and vitriol flying from her mouth,

"Enough! Enough of these lies! The de Rolos are dead! All of them are dead!" 

The goateed man looked momentarily taken aback at Ciara rushing into his space, but he composed himself while leaning against the wall behind him. His arms crossed in front of his chest which made the bangles clink together,

"I can assure you, I speak no lies-"

"And I can assure you, you are!" Ciara hissed, but the man seemed nonplussed at her anger and merely raised a perfectly trimmed brow,

"You are quite confident that I am lying," 

"Because I know you are! Seven of them were killed in one night by the Briarwoods! And the two who were left alive were tortured and killed a year later!" Her voice was tapering out into a harsh whisper, "The only de Rolos left in Whitestone are the ones in the crypts!"

The man, despite the other merchants quickly making their exit, only began inspecting his nails before meeting her gaze,

"I admit, I've never been told the details about what happened. My friend was present for the events, and understandably, Percival hasn't wanted to explain how his family was murdered in front of him,"

Her whole body began to shake as her hands clenched,

"Percival is dead! I don't know who you've been talking to, who's been claiming to be him, who is using his name to rule, but Percival died years ago!"

Once again, as Ciara's anger rolled from her in waves, the man didn't seem bothered and continued inspecting his nails. But Ciara hadn't noticed how his gaze hardened as he began taking in the details of her.

Gilmore was beginning to put the similarities between the woman in front of him, and the gunslinger that followed Vax'ildan's sister around, carefully putting pieces of the puzzle together as he said,

"It is not Percival who rules Whitestone but his sister Cassandra," He tilted his head and gauged her reaction.

 The fire that had been raging inside Ciara turned to ice as the tremors racing through her tripled in strength while she felt her eyes begin to burn,

"Then whoever rules Whitestone is an imposter!" She hissed, "Both Percival and Cassandra de Rolo died! They were flayed and murdered!"

Her voice was shattered as her legs shook harshly and it was a wonder that Ciara was able to stay upright as her mind filled with the bodies of her siblings.

Of Percy and Cass who had been flayed by the doctor's hooks until they died and then thrown out into the courtyard in front of Ciara. Ripley had lit the torch and Sylas Briarwood had thrown it onto what remained of her siblings. 

Ciara had screamed. Screamed loud enough that she was certain her voice had reached beyond the Timberlands as what remained of her family became nothing more than charred bones. And when the fire had gone out, Delilah Briarwood had cast a magical flame that turned their remains to ash that blew away in the wind.

A hand was now on her shoulder and pulling her up.

Ciara had collapsed to her knees without realizing and the merchant was now leading her inside the renovated building behind them.

The interior was plain with empty shelves and display cases, a few rugs rolled up and crates stacked against the wall.

When the door shut behind them, the man snapped his fingers, and a table and two chairs appeared before the two. 

The young woman found herself now sitting across from the merchant who was staring at her with a critical gaze,

"Well," He began after a moment of studying her, "I suppose introductions are in order before questions are asked. I'm Gilmore, owner of Gilmore's Glorious Goods in Emon and of this soon-to-be-open store here in Westruun,"

The merchant, Gilmore, waved his hand in a flamboyant fashion that had small sparks falling from his fingers which made Ciara flinch back.

Gilmore then looked at Ciara as the sparks quickly dissipated and gestured toward her with an open palm and expectant look until she answered,

"People call me Bird,"

"I imagine due to your corvid friends there,"

She didn't need to look to know that Adrik and Nyx were peering in through the window. They were like two small shadows that followed her everywhere, no matter how many times she refused to acknowledge them,

"Suppose so,"

Gilmore hummed while resting his chin against his hand, "If I were to ask for your real name, I assume you would not give it,"

The tension that had slowly been ebbing away returned tenfold as Ciara leaned as far away from the man as possible,

"If I were to say you were right?" 

The merchant shrugged while leaning back in his chair, "Names have power. From the gods and fiends to the most ordinary of folk, a name can have a hold on someone. Whether to bind or summon a being of power, or simply be a shield for someone hiding,"

She should leave. Ciara needed to leave. She had a job that was given a deadline of two days, and she knew better than to slack off or be late. And this Gilmore was prying into open wounds that had festered and rotted over the years,

"What you're implying," Her voice was shaking, "Is wrong. It- It's all wrong!"

"Are you certain? Earlier you counted nine de Rolo's. Correct me if I'm wrong, but weren't there ten in Whitestone? The lord and lady with their eight children? Why have you only counted seven children?" 

Her trembling hand found purchase on the short sword that hung at her hip as she whispered, "The eighth died. She died when her brother and sister's bodies were burned in front of her,"

Gilmore's eyes were trained on her with a look of sadness as he leaned forward,

"Then I'll speak to the ghost sitting across from me. And I'll tell her that her brother, Percival, is coming to Westruun-"

He was cut off by Ciara shoving away from the table, causing the chair she'd been sitting on to clatter to the ground, 

"No-he-He's dead! He's-" She darted out of the store without finishing.

The ravens that had been sitting at the window croaked and squawked in alarm when the door slammed open and Ciara stumbled out into the street.

She couldn't see the people around her, she couldn't see where she was going.

There were some shouts as she ran into things, but Ciara kept running until she skidded to a stop and fell to her knees in an alley.

A burning, acrid taste came hurtling up her throat and onto the ground in front of her as she only thought of the last two bodies. Of Cassandra and Percy.

The exposed muscle and bone had been barely covered by the remains of their formal wear. The remains of what they had been wearing to that fucking dinner!

They were dead. They were dead! 

They couldn't be alive because that would mean she would have-

More bile worked its way up Ciara's throat as her vision blurred. 

When the meager contents of her stomach had all been expelled from her body, Ciara coughed and gagged while wiping at her mouth. She managed to push herself up and saw someone standing to her right with a waterskin held out.

Ciara saw who had found her and took the skin, swishing the water around her mouth before spitting it out as the Spireling made himself comfortable on a few crates,

"You're taking a late start, Bird. Not like you," The halfling rasped.

She sat against the wall and tossed the waterskin back, "Got distracted. Nothing to worry about, Fetch. I'm going to leave now," 

"What did that man want?" The halfling questioned, "The merchant. He's new in Westruun,"

"No one,"

"Really? No one?"

"No one to me,"

Fetch scoffed and leaned toward her, "And despite that, one of your ravens stayed behind at his shop,"

She jerked her gaze toward the sky and only saw one raven settled on the roof across from her. Nyx's beady eyes met hers before darting to Fetch. If a raven could glare, Ciara was certain that Nyx would be. But Fetch was correct, Adrik was nowhere to be seen,

"I don't control where they go-"

"But they've been following you since you arrived in Westruun. And suddenly, one of them leaves your side? What. Did. He. Want?"

Ciara shook her head, "Nothing of consequence-"

"You expect me to believe that?" He leaned forward, "Are you trying to fly away, Bird?"

She unflinchingly met his gaze, "I'm not that stupid, Fetch. I learned my lesson from last time,"

Fetch only continued to eye her for a very long moment before standing,

"You better get going, Bird. You've already lost too much time,"

He disappeared as quickly as he came, leaving Ciara to shakily return to her feet.

With a shaky breath, she glanced up at Nyx who was hopping along the roof and ruffling her feathers, then began making her way toward the Western Gate.

[ourtearsofrain]

Just Another Scary Movie (D.R.W/S.F.K)

Summary: When Sam does everything he can to finally just get one night to himself, he gets exactly what he wanted, spending the night watching shitty rom coms all comfy on his couch. But when a strange caller interrupts his night of relaxation, all his plans come crashing down on his head.

Pairings: Danny Wagner x Sam Kiszka (!Scream AU)

Series Genre: angst, horror

Word Count: 3.4k

Warnings: man threatening/breaking and entering/physically restraining someone (Just imagine the actual Scream movies, less blood and stuff but same phycological mind fuck)

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Sam truly did love living with his brothers, but quickly learned that the two rarely spent time apart from each other, only dragging Sam into their “adventures” as soon as he had settled into their house and his class schedules. Which was fine, after only seeing them on holidays for six years, he was grateful to spend so much time with them again, just like they did before the twins left for college. But Sam needed time to himself every once and a while, a concept that his brothers seemed to not understand. So, he took every chance he could to have the house to himself for the night, often making excuses that he had to be up early for a required attendance lecture the next day or that he was too exhausted to join them.

And that’s exactly what he had done tonight; when the twins invited him to go club hopping with them to celebrate Jake finishing his thesis, Sam had even feigned a cold to stay at home when they didn’t believe his other excuses, wanting nothing more than to watch movies all night long curled up on the couch with a freshly packed bong. Sam didn’t feel like explaining just how stressful and exhausting transferring universities in his Junior year and moving to another state had been for him, he was trying to focus on how great it was to be with his brothers again and didn’t need them feeling sorry for him. So, he had done everything to make sure it would be the perfect cozy night at home, knowing he needed just one calm night to himself. Sam had pre-popped popcorn for when he got the munchies, wrapped himself in his favorite throw blanket, and decided to wear the smallest shorts he owned, knowing that he would be asleep by the time the twins got home so they wouldn’t be able to give him shit over it.

Hitting ‘play’ on whatever new, probably shitty, Netflix original rom com he had decided on, Sam grabs his lighter, already knowing from the trailer that he needed to be incredibly high to sit through it. Just as the intro begins to play, Sam’s phone buzzes wildly on the couch next to him, halting his movements as he reaches for the bong. That’s weird, someone’s calling me. Jake and Josh never call when they’re out, unless it’s an emergency. Trying to keep himself calm, Sam picks up his phone, his heart rate steadying once more when he sees an unrecognized caller ID. Usually, he never answered those calls, choosing to send them to voicemail instead, but his relief that the twins were fine clouds his mind as he answers it, pausing his movie and putting his phone on speaker. “Hello?”

“Hello.” A deep voice rasps through the phone, and Sam can’t help but wonder if that was actually what his voice sounded like, or if he was using some voice filter to remain anonymous.

“Yes?”

“Who is this?” Great, a wrong number dial. Just what I needed interrupting my movie night.

“Who are you trying to reach?” Sam tries not to let his annoyance into his tone, knowing that it probably wasn’t the caller’s fault that they accidentally called him so late into the night.

“I don’t know.”

I’m getting tired of this. “Well, you have the wrong number.”

“Do I?”

“Yeah, have a great night.” Sam hangs up without another word, tossing his phone back onto the couch as he reaches for his bong once again. His hand doesn’t even find the cool glass before his phone begins buzzing, annoyance and frustration taking root in him when he sees the same number flash across his screen. “Hello??”

“I’m sorry, I guess I dialed the wrong number.”

“So, why’d you call me again?”

“I just wanted to apologize.”

“And you have now, so bye.” Sam’s finger hovers over the ‘end call’ button before the mystery caller’s voice filters through the speaker, the hint of desperation tinging his tone.

“Wait, wait! Don’t hang up please.”

“Why?”

“I wanna talk to you for a little.”

Disgusting creep. “Pornhub is free if you’re looking to get off tonight, or go find some AI text chat to fulfill whatever you need.” Sam hangs up, trying to keep the weird caller off his mind as he didn’t want it to ruin his night. You need this, Sammy. You just need one fucking relaxing night at home to reset, don’t let him ruin that for you.

He gets about five more minutes into the movie before his phone rings again, thankful that their family had an unlimited plan so that whoever was constantly calling him wouldn’t drain any of his minutes. With his first bong rip flowing through his body, he can’t seem to find it in himself to be annoyed as calm fills him, curious to see exactly what the fuck this person wanted from him. If all else failed, he could always block them. “Hello? Seriously, what do you want?”

“Why don’t you want to talk to me?” He sounds… genuinely sad?

“Because I don’t know who you are.”

“You tell me your name and I’ll tell you mine.” Sam almost laughs as he picks up a few pieces of popcorn, not realizing that he had put his phone on speaker again and was holding it close enough to himself that the caller would be able to hear him eat. “What’s that noise?”

“Popcorn.” Sam’s answer comes immediately, his mind too muddled to care about the unimportant question.

“I only eat popcorn when I watch a movie.” Amusement tinges the caller’s voice as he pauses, the silence heavy through the speaker as Sam waits to see if he would continue. “Are you watching a movie? Is that what I hear?”

“Yep. Some cheesy rom com. Do you like rom coms?” If he was being honest, Sam couldn’t explain what prompted him to ask the question, too inebriated to care and willing to just talk to whoever was on the other end of the line.

“Not really. I prefer horror movies. Do you like horror movies?”

“Eh, some of the classics. IT, Friday the 13th, The Shining, Halloween, stuff like that. I’m not a fan of most of the newer stuff since CGI has gotten better, it’s too gory for me.” Sam considers his words for a moment, thinking back on all the new horror movies Jake had forced him and Josh to watch over the years. “Actually, the newer IT movies were pretty good too.”

“Is that your favorite horror movie?”

Shrugging, Sam realizes that the other man couldn’t see him over the phone, slightly amused at himself that he had forgotten. “I guess. Do you have a favorite horror movie?”

“Hmmmm… maybe Sleepaway Camp. You ever seen that?”

“Not that I can think of.”

“The ending is reaaally scary.

“Oh, is it?”

“Mhm.” Not knowing how to feel about the hungry undertones of the caller’s voice, he moves past it, unable to care enough about it to end the call. “So, you got a boyfriend?”

Sam’s cheeks tinge bright pink at the unexpected question, his sudden nerves coming off as what he worried was flirtatious banter. “Why? You wanna ask me out or something?”

“Maybe” The single word sends butterflies to Sam’s stomach, the smile in the other man’s voice audible even through his speaker. This is a really weird pick-up attempt, but it’s the first romantic possibility I’ve gotten here so far… “Do you have a boyfriend?”

“No.”

“Hmm. Y’know, you never told me your name.” Why does he sound so hungry? Shit, I’m hungry, I’m probably just projecting. At the realization that the munchies had hit him, Sam moves the popcorn bowl closer to himself, snacking off it as he considers what to say.

“Why do you wanna know my name?”

“‘Cause I wanna know who I’m looking at.”

Sam feels as if he had been thrown into a freezing lake as ice cold fear seeps into his bones at the words. When he doesn’t see anyone after glancing around himself, his eyes go out the large window beside the TV, the night too dark to see more than five feet outside of it. “What did you just say?”

“I said, I wanna know who I’m talking to.” The caller’s smooth, even voice sends another wave of terror over Sam, the other man’s tone unsettlingly calm and collected.

“That’s- that’s not what you said.”

“And what do you think I said?” The speaker goes silent, and Sam’s anxiety finally gets the best of him as he darts up to close the blinds to the window, trying to squint into the darkness to see further. “Hello?”

“I need to- I gotta go-”

“Wait! I didn’t get to ask you out.” Although his tone remains mostly the same, Sam can hear the eagerness and despiration in his voice, and while the anonymity of the other man used to spark intrigue inside of Sam, now it only brought dread.

“No thank you.”

“Don’t hang up on me!” Sam nearly misses his words over the sound of him slamming the blinds closed, his hands shaking as he presses that red button in the bottom center of his screen.

Fuck, did the twins lock the front door? Nearly tripping over his blanket, he absentmindedly chucks it back onto the couch as he races to the front door, his stomach dropping to see it unlocked. He can’t get to the door fast enough, forcing his hands to steady before slamming the deadbolt into place. The sudden buzzing in his hand nearly makes him jump out of his skin, scared tears beginning to brew on his lash line at the number.

“Y-yes?”

“I told you not to hang up on me.” The anger in his tone is enough to nearly send Sam over the edge, his paranoia overtaking him as his eyes stay locked on the door.

“What do you want?”

“To talk.”

“Well then just- just call someone else, okay?” The second Sam hangs up, he navigates to the “contact” for the number, his finger mere centimeters from the “block” button before his screen lights up. It was the same number, the same person. Again. His fear transforms into anger momentarily, his frustration at his interrupted movie night filling him. Who did this person think they were calling him like that? From taking him away from his night of relaxation? “Listen, asshole!”

“No! You listen, you little bitch! You hang up on me again and I’ll strangle you with your own fucking intestines!” Sam is left frozen in his spot at the rage dripping from the caller’s words, his stomach turning from the open and graphic threat as he tries to find something, anything to respond with.

“Is this- is this some kind of a joke?”

“More of a game, really.” There’s that slick, cunning tone again. This guy is fucking psychotic. “Can you handle that… Sammy?”

How the fuck does he know my name? Sam tries to keep himself calm, his mind moving in slow motion through every possibility. “I’m gonna- I’ll call the cops.”

“Even if you hung up right now to do that, they’d never get here in time.” The caller’s voice carries an almost musical, sing-songy lilt to it, only furthering Sam’s utter terror. Is this is all- just some fucking game to him?

“What- what do you want?”

“To see if you’re still this pretty without your skin.” Nausea crashes over Sam at the words, the other man’s sincere tone sending him racing to the kitchen and grabbing the nearest trashcan he can find before emptying his stomach into the bin. Straightening, Sam finds his phone face-down on the floor, almost staring at him, beckoning him closer with each second. Just when he bends to pick it up, three booming knocks ring out against the window over the sink, the frames rattling as if the glass was on the verge of shattering.

“Who’s there?! Who’s there?!” Sam nearly sobs the words out, huddling closer to the counter from the floor, his knees pulled to his chest. “I’m calling the fucking cops!”

“You should never say, ‘Who’s there?’.” The caller cuts him off just as Sam moves to hang up, that deep, smooth voice pausing his motions. “You’d know that if you watched horror movies. It’s a death wish, y’know. There’re three rules to surviving in a horror movie. Rule number one is don’t fuck. Think you’ve got that one covered, Sammy boy. Rule two, don’t drink or do drugs. Not off to a great start here, are we?” Disappointment drips from his tone, tsking at Sam until he feels like he could physically picture the caller shaking his head. “And rule number three is never, ever fucking say ‘I’ll be right back’ or ‘Who’s there?’. That makes two out of three, I’m afraid your chances aren’t lookin’ too good here, Sammy.”

Just as the words leave the caller’s mouth, Sam glances up at the window, catching a flash of white and black just on the other side of the glass. Throwing himself into the corner, Sam takes up as little space as possible, hoping that if whatever had passed by the window looked back into it, he wouldn’t be able to see Sam. “No! Please, please, I don’t want to die. I- why won’t you just leave me alone?”

“I want to play a game.”

Sam’s tears roll down his cheeks at the monotony of his words. It is all just a game to him. He’s- he’s playing with me like I’m some toy. “No.”

“Then you die.”

“No, no, please!”

“Which is it then, Sammy?”

“What kind- what kind of game?”

“Go back to the living room and find out.”

Did this sick fuck get in?! Am I- is he gonna kill me the second I get in the room? Is he just waiting to attack? Sam stands on shaky legs, forcing his body to move through the kitchen in the direction of the living room. The moonlight filtering through the window catches the light off the cold steel of a knife in a woodblock, and Sam grabs it before continuing his path. Tiptoeing through the silent house, Sam peeks around the corner only to find the living room empty, his shitty romcom still playing on the TV.

“Good, now here’s how we play: I ask a question, if you get it right, I leave you alone.”

“Please, please don’t do this.”

“Come onnnn, it’ll be fun.”

This could- this could be my only chance to get out. What the fuck is this, why is this happening to me? I don’t- I don’t know what to do. “Fine.” Sam’s words are no louder than a whisper, heavy with defeat as he peeks through the blinds, his eyes scanning the trees outside of the window desperately.

“It’s an easy category: classic horror movie trivia. I’ll even give you a warm-up question. What’s the name of the summer camp where ‘Friday the 13th’ takes place?”

“I- I don’t remember. I don’t remember.”

“Come onnnn, you said it was one of the classics. You like the classics, remember?”

“I-” Sam cuts himself off, his mind scrambling in his terror to remember anything he could about the movie. “Camp- Camp Crystal?”

“Oh, you’re so close Sammy.” The caller purrs the words out, only adding to the distractions swirling around his head.

“Camp Crystal- Camp Crystal Lake! It’s Camp Crystal Lake!”

“Yes! Good job, Sammy. Now, for your real question. That was just a warm-up, remember?”

“Please- please-” Sam tries to blink the tears from his eyes, knowing that he would never be able to see anything happening around him if he let them pool to blur his vision.

“Same category. Who first says ‘Beep, beep Richie’ in the 2017 IT?”

“One of the Losers- one of- uhhh, probably Eddie! It’s one of the Losers, you sick fuck!” Nearly screaming the words out, relief floods Sam as he realizes what his correct answer meant for him.

“I’m sorry, Sammy! That’s the wrong answer!”

“No! No, it’s not! It was one of them, I’ve seen that movie so many fucking times, I know it’s one of them!”

“Then you should know that in the 2017 remake, Pennywise is the first to say ‘Beep, beep Richie’! None of the other Losers say it in the first movie! That’s only in the original!”

“You- you tricked me-”

“I didn’t though, Sammy. Lucky for you, I’m willing to give you a bonus round, just to see if you can redeem yourself.” Sam holds his breath, the caller’s seconds of silence stretching into what felt like hours. “Where am I?”

“What?”

“Where am I? Am I outside, or am I in the house? Where. Am. I?”

Feeling as if his heart had stopped, Sam can do nothing but hang up the phone, clutching the knife in his hand as he makes a beeline for his bedroom. Ok, Josh- Josh- I need to call him. I need to get to my room, lock the door, and then call him. I need to- to call the cops. Dread fills him with each step towards the stairs as he’s sent straight to voicemail, waiting for the tone to begin his recording. “Josh there’s- there’s someone here with me, threatening me, they want to- they want to hurt me. I’m- I’m locking myself in my room and calling the cops but just- I don’t know if they’re in the house but-” Panic flashes across his mind as realization hits him. I didn’t check the back door. We never- we never lock the back door.

The knife and phone drop from his hand as someone body slams him, sending them both to the floor while Sam can do nothing but yelp in his shock. The other person straddles Sam before he can recover, pinning his wrists down on the floor with his hands, and Sam can think nothing, feel nothing, as he stares up at the masked figure above him. His black, hooded cloak hid any distinct features from Sam, but he swore he could see a singular, dark brown curl hanging down from under the hood, just to the side of his mask that resembled a disfigured, screaming ghost.

Sam sends his knee straight into the other man’s crotch, shoving him off himself as he claws at the mask, eventually ripping it from his face. Before he has a chance to look at him properly, Sam gives the man one final shove downwards before snatching his phone off the ground and darting up the stairs. He doesn’t stop until he slams and locks his door behind himself, looking around his room frantically for anything he could use as a weapon before realizing that he was still leaving Josh a voicemail. “Listen, please, please just pick up. Please, Josh, I need help-”

Something slams into Sam’s door, and hard. The force shakes the doorframe, the lock creaking under the impact, startling Sam and causing him to drop his phone in his terror. Racing to the window, his shaking hands fumble with the lock, finally ripping it wide open before he shoves the screen from the frame and it clatters to the ground as he tries to climb out. A loud crack rattles the room, and Sam glances back to see the man, the caller, standing in the door, the kitchen knife in hand as he takes heavy breaths.

The man makes it across the room and throws Sam to the floor before he can even try to hoist himself up, his terror multiplying as he pins him to the ground once again. Sam can do nothing but stare up at him when the other man straddles him, making sure to keep his legs pinned to the ground too, as he keeps his gorgeous hazel eyes glued to Sam.  I was right. Curly hair. He almost laughs from fear at the thought, knowing that he had much more important things to focus on at the moment, that he shouldn’t spend his remaining time thinking about the caller’s gorgeous shoulder length mess of curls, or how good it looked with the top half held back with a hair tie. And he really shouldn’t have been staring at each individual freckle dotting the arch of his nose, peppered across his sun-kissed skin like stars.

“So,” The caller starts, moving Sam’s wrists to one hand as the other comes down to grab the knife, before bringing the blade up to Sam’s throat, the cool metal stinging his skin under even the smallest amount of pressure. Although Sam realizes that the man must have filtered his voice over the phone, finding it now higher in pitch yet still deeper than his own, it was still as smooth and delicious as honey. “You still don’t like horror movies?”

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A/N:

This is possibly another contribution to @hearts-hunger 's Halloween event (2 or 11 ish if you squint?) (ik it's late, I just needed to write this)

Yes ik that Danny pic is from last yrs Jedi costume but HE’S WEARING A FUCKIN CLOAK/ROBE I HAD TO

I actually fucking hate Sleepaway Camp, the end isn't scary, it's just completely fucked up. Spoilers ahead if you don't feel like watching: the only reason the killer girl starts murdering people is because she's actually a boy who has been forced to dress and act like a girl for the last like 10 years of their life. No. Other. Reason.

Taglist:

@jake-whatthefisgoingon-kiszka @milojames16 @gretnavannfleet @aioba1503-sdm @sanguinebats @cheersdannyx2 @ofthecaravel @holdingup-fallingsky

[moondrop-writes]

Child of Dionysus grieving after Castor’s death and maybe people around camp start to get really worried cause she’s like barely leaving her cabin and so Mr D kinda helps her through it cause he can tell she’s taking it really hard?

hi!! ive been an absolute bitch abt responding to asks so i am so sorry abt that 😭 i’ve been so busy w/ things but everything i’m doing should settle within the next few weeks and i’ll probably get back to being consistent. tysm everyone for your patience <3

The battle was settled, but it certainly didn’t feel like it. The air was still heavy with grief and bloodshed, and everyone’s nerves seemed to be frayed. They’d won. They should’ve been celebrating. But there was nothing joyous in partying when your siblings and family had died.

The Dionysus cabin was small, especially considering that Dionysus had only been freed of his punishment twice. Once, when he met your mother. And the other time, when he met your brothers mother.

Castor, despite the small quantity of the cabin, managed to be the glue of the three of you. While you and Pastor were the more mellow and quiet of the siblings, Castor certainly was not. His smile could light up a room, and he always knew the right thing to say.

Castor and Pollux were twins, both younger than you. Even if you weren’t related by blood, they were still your brothers. They still managed to pull this protective older sibling feel out of you.

It was bad enough when Pollux had nearly lost an arm one time but now? You weren’t sure if you were ever going to be okay again.

Castor’s death felt like a hole inside you. It was as if somebody took your heart and tore out the stem that held all memories of your little brother. He was always in your thoughts, never did a day pass where you didn’t think of him, but he was taken from you.

Children shouldn’t fight wars, you had told your father that much. You refused to let Castor and Pollux fight, but they were boys of honor. In their eyes, if they didn’t fight in Dionysus’ honor, it was disrespectful. It was something that you wished many times you could smack out of them.

Being honorbound was not a good thing.

You couldn’t imagine how Pollux felt, his twin, his other half stolen from him. But you knew very well how you felt. There was a deep ache in you, that would never be satisfied.

Curled up against the headboard of your bed, you stared at the walls, watching the wilted vines and leaves. Once they had shined, just like Castor but now they were dull. You knew they were meant to reflect the mood of those in the cabin, but even then, they couldn’t capture the utter anguish you felt.

Sunlight filtered in through the curtains, spilling rays over your face and your bedsheets. You were wearing old clothes, stained with tears and food, and your hair was tangled. A knot had formed in your throat, preventing you from making any sound other than soft cries.

The door to the cabin creaked open, and you slowly shifted your head to see your father. He was dressed in his finest suit, no doubt prepared for a meeting with the council. He sighed when he caught sight of you, and walked further into the cabin.

“This place is dreary,” he comments, placing his hands on your bedposts. You stared at him, eyebrows furrowed and your lashline red.

When you don’t reply, he only shakes his head and purses his lips.

“I know…I know you miss him,” he whispers thickly, “more than anything. I miss him too, Y/N, and so does Pollux.”

He walks around the bed, and sits next to you. The bed dips, and he gently tugs you against his side. You rest your cheek against his shoulder, feeling that knot in your throat tighten before beginning to break up.

“But…Pollux and I miss you too.”

“What?” you croak, voice breaking.

He cups your cheek, tilting your head up so your eyes could meet. When your eyes begin to bubble over with tears, and he rests his chin on your head.

“You’re gone, Y/N. We can’t reach you, and it’s like we’re talking to a ghost. Pollux and I…we’re trying to move on and you’ve got to as well.”

You sob wetly into his suit jacket. “I can’t—he’s g-gone and there’s nothing I could’ve done—“

“Shhh, baby, don’t cry.”

“I’m trying so hard, Papa—“ you cut yourself off with a whimper, choking on your own gasps.

He runs his hand through your greasy tangled mess of hair, and doesn’t care when his fingers get caught. “You need to take care of yourself,” he says, “you can grieve without hurting yourself like this.”

You cry, and cry, and cry. You cry until your nose is running and your eyes are swollen. You cry until your throat burns. You cry because you had spent so long missing your little brother, feeling so much pain and hurt and yet being unable to get any of it out. And now you can, and you cant stop.

And Dionysus holds you through all of it. He whispers soft nothings into your ear and his warmth enveloping you. His fingers are in your hair, on your cheeks, rubbing your back. It’s his sweet attempt at comfort, and you never want to let go of it.

You never want to let go of him, or Pollux or even Castor. But you know, if you let go of yourself, you’re letting go of the people you care about just as much.

[kmomof4]

To Sir Graham, With Love Ch. 3

An early posting for ch3!!! Hubs and I are heading out of town for the weekend to celebrated our anniversary, and I didn't want Marta to have to wait until we got back for an update!! Thank you so much for reading and sharing! I hope you enjoy and I'd love to know what you think!

Thank you again to @jrob64 and @whimsicallyenchantedrose for beta and sounding board duties, and also to @motherkatereloyshipper for the GORGEOUS banner!!!

And finally, happy birthday again, @snowbellewells!!! I hope you enjoy this chapter!!!

Summary: After a year long secret correspondence, twenty-eight year old spinster Ruby Jones decides to accept Sir Graham Humbert's offer of a visit to see if they might suit for marriage. Unfortunately, he failed to mention that he was the father of twins, and they are not thrilled with Ruby's appearance.

Rating: M (for smut in later chs and mentions of physical abuse)

Words: Approx 8800 of 68k

Tags: Red Hunter Fic, Birthday Fic, Inspired by Eloise Bridgerton's Story, Smut

On ao3 From Beginning / Current Ch

On Tumblr Prologue Ch1 Ch2

Tagging the usuals. Please let me know if you'd like to be added or removed.

@jrob64 @winterbaby89 @hollyethecurious @the-darkdragonfly @jennjenn615

@donteattheappleshook @undercaffinatednightmare @pirateherokillian @cocohook38 @qualitycoffeethings

@booksteaandtoomuchtv @superchocovian @motherkatereloyshipper @snowbellewells @pirateprincessofpizza

@djlbg @lfh1226-linda @xarandomdreamx @tiganasummertree @bluewildcatfanatic

@anmylica @laianely @resident-of-storybrooke @exhaustedpirate @gingerchangeling

@caught-in-the-filter @ultraluckycatnd @stahlop @darkshadow7 @fleurdepetite

@captainswan-kellie @soniccat @beckettj @teamhook @whimsicallyenchantedrose

@thisonesatellite @jonesfandomfanatic @elfiola @zaharadessert @ilovemesomekillianjones

@mie779 @kymbersmith-90 @suwya @veryverynotgoodwrites @myfearless-love 

Under the cut, unless Tumblr ate it.

… implore you, Mother, you MUST punish Belle. It is NOT FAIR that I am the only one sent to bed without pudding. And for a week! A week is far too long. Especially since it was all mostly Belle’s idea.

– from Ruby Jones to her mother, left upon Alice Jones’s night table during Ruby’s tenth year

~*~*~

… have never been so bored in my entire life. David, you must come home. It is interminably boring without you, and I don’t think I can bear such boredom another moment. Please do return, for I have clearly begun to repeat myself, and nothing could be more of a bore.

– from Ruby Jones to her older brother, David, during her fifth season as a debutante, sent (but never received) while David was traveling in Denmark.

~*~*~*~*~*~

How could so much change in a single day? Ruby thought. Not long after arriving - just this morning, Ruby realized with a start - she’d been convinced that she’d made a dreadful mistake, but now, as they strolled through Romney Hall, ostensibly to view the portraits in the gallery, but which she knew was actually just prolonging their time together, she was almost convinced that he would make a fine husband after all.

He was obviously quite handsome. He was tall and lean with a chiseled face that reminded her of some of the works of art she’d seen in the British Museum. His blue eyes were piercing and his boyish curls simply begged for her fingers to run through them. But besides that, he’d been quite a pleasant dinner companion, though not as loquacious as she was used to. He’d accepted, and even admired, her fish-in-the-bed treatment of Ava, proving he had an innate sense of fairness, which to her was quite essential in a potential husband, and for whatever reason, he’d handled Ava’s understandable tantrum with aplomb, which after the confrontation this morning when she’d arrived, was a bit surprising.

They stood now in the hall, his large hand gently holding her elbow, and she was quite simply enveloped in his presence. It was thrilling and terrifying in equal measure, but gratifying as well. She’d taken a gamble on her future and she appeared to have won. Nothing would have been worse than coming back to London, her tail between her legs, and explaining to her family what she’d done. 

Ruby hated to be wrong. 

She hated even more to admit that she was wrong. 

Especially to herself.

But in this case, she didn’t appear to be wrong. 

Perhaps this could work. He wasn’t a complete stranger, after all. They had been corresponding for over a year.

“My grandfather,” Graham said, gesturing vaguely at a large portrait she could hardly see in the low light. 

Ruby nodded. “Is that your father?” she asked, nodding at the portrait on the right.

That was all it took for Graham to tense up - his shoulders and the corners of his lips tightening, the lines on his forehead becoming more pronounced as he nodded sharply.

“And where are you?” she asked, quickly realizing Graham had no wish to talk about his father.

“Over here,” he replied, leading them some distance away from where they stood. They came to a stop before a medium sized portrait of two boys - the older a young teen, the younger a couple of years behind.

“What happened to him?” Graham was obviously the younger and wouldn’t have inherited Romney Hall and the Baronet if his brother still lived.

“Waterloo.” No other explanation was needed. 

Ruby nodded and turned to him. He stood staring at the portrait, profound sadness in his eyes that Ruby couldn’t help responding to.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, laying a hand on his arm.

A small sigh escaped his lips, but his gaze didn’t waver. “No one was sorrier than I,” he whispered.

“What was his name?”

“George.”

“You must have been quite young,” she observed, thinking back to 1815 and doing the math.

“Twenty-one,” he replied.

It was odd, Ruby reflected. At twenty-one she was expected to be married and running her own household. But now, nearing thirty, she thought it was awfully young and green to be thrust into responsibilities he never expected to have.

“My father died two weeks later.”

Ruby gasped in dismay. To lose a brother and a father so closely together must have been terribly difficult for Graham to endure.

“Here’s a portrait of Jacinda with the children,” he said, motioning to the other side of the room. It had been many, many years since she’d seen her cousin, but she still recognized her, the darker skin tone, the dark eyes with a sadness in them that was utterly foreign to Ruby then and heartbreaking to see now. With a much younger Nicholas by her side and Ava sitting on her lap, Ruby would have hoped that her eyes would reflect the joy of having two beautiful children, but no, her eyes still held the same emptiness and sadness that had so baffled her when they were children together.

“She was lovely,” Ruby said quietly. “The children must miss her.”

Graham nodded. “They’ve missed her for a long time.”

Ruby thought that was a rather odd way of phrasing it. “I know how they feel. I was very young when my father died.”

“I didn’t realize,” he said, turning to her.

“It’s not something I talk about all that much,” she replied with a half shrug. “It was a long time ago.”

“Did it take you very long to get over it?” 

Ruby considered her words before answering, quite aware that the question wasn’t simply referring to her. “I’m not sure it’s something you ever fully get over,” she said, “completely, anyway. There will always be moments that you wish they could have been there to see and experience with you. But if you’re asking if I still think of my father every day, the answer is no, I don’t.”

Graham didn’t look away and Ruby finally turned to face him. They were still a respectable distance apart, but the darkness of the room and the intimacy of the conversation had a chill running down her spine. The blue of his eyes was spellbinding, and Ruby could almost feel his gaze as a physical touch on the apple of her cheek, along her jaw, and down the long line of her neck. 

“Ruby?” His voice was a whisper, and it broke the spell she was under. She took a small step back and searched for something, anything, to say in response.

“My brothers!” The words burst out of her mouth. “Especially Liam. He’s the oldest. It affected him much more than it did me. They were very close. And my mother, as well. They loved each other very much.”

“How did she react to his passing?”

“She cried a lot in the beginning,” Ruby said softly. “I’m quite sure we weren’t meant to hear. It was always late at night after she supposed we were all asleep. She missed him desperately, and it couldn’t have been easy with seven children.”

“Seven?” Graham asked. “I thought there were eight of you.”

“Tilly wasn’t yet born,” she informed him. “Mother must have been about eight months along.”

Good God, she thought she heard him breathe. Good God, indeed. She had no idea how her mother had managed.

“He was stung by a bee,” she continued. “Can you imagine?” A small sigh escaped her lips as she looked around the room. It always left her a little melancholy to speak about her father, but now, talking about him to a virtual stranger in a room filled with portraits of dead people, she wanted to leave. Immediately. 

“May I see your greenhouse?” she asked abruptly, turning back to face him.

“Now?” he asked, his voice filled with surprise.

Well, she shouldn’t have been surprised; it was dark outside, after all. “In the morning then, when we’ll be able to see.”

A bemused yet indulgent smile was on his lips. “We can go now,” he said. “The moon is full and we’ll take a lantern.”

She returned his smile. “If you’re sure you don’t mind, I’d like that very much.”

He held out his elbow to her, and she took it, allowing him to lead her out into the night.

“It’s so warm!” she exclaimed some minutes later as he shut the door of the greenhouse behind them.

“It’s usually warmer than this,” he said. “The glass traps the heat from the sun to warm the air, allowing plants native to much warmer climes to grow and thrive, and aside from today, it’s been rather overcast lately.”

Graham often toiled in his greenhouse at night when he couldn’t sleep. Even during the day, he rarely had anyone with him, preferring to work alone, but now he found that he was seeing the greenhouse through Ruby’s eyes, and it was mesmerizing. The moonlight fell on the leaves and fronds of the plants he knew and loved so well, creating an otherworldly hush that was almost indescribable. During the day, the greenhouse wasn’t that different from almost any wooded place in England, but under the light of the moon, it was enchanting and mysterious, as if he moved his head quickly enough, he might catch a glimpse of a fairy, leaving a trail of magic in her wake. 

“What is this?” she asked, looking at a row of pots on his workbench.

His smile was ridiculously wide, exceptionally pleased that she seemed truly curious about his work. Most people feigned interest and looked for a quick escape.

“It’s an experiment I’m working on with peas,” he informed her.

“The kind we eat?”

He nodded. “I’ve been trying to develop a strain that will grow fatter in the pod.”

“Really!” she exclaimed, her eyebrows rising in surprise. “I had no idea that could be done.”

He shrugged. “I have no idea if it can be done, either. I’ve been trying for a year.”

“With no success? How very frustrating!”

“I’ve had some success,” he admitted. “Just not as much as I’d like.”

“I tried to grow roses one year,” she said. “They all died.”

“Roses are not easy to cultivate.”

She raised a skeptical eyebrow at him. “You have a lot of roses.”

“I also have a gardener,” he informed her amusedly.

“A botanist with a gardener?”

He shrugged. “It’s no different than a dressmaker with a seamstress.”

She considered that for a moment before nodding decisively and turning away from him, heading deeper into the greenhouse and scolding him for not keeping up with her with the lantern.

“You’re a bit bossy, this evening,” he said, an amused smile on his lips.

She smirked back at him. “I prefer the term ‘managing.’”

“A managing type of female, huh?”

“I’m surprised you didn’t deduce as much from my letters.” She tossed the words over her shoulder to him flirtatiously and he responded in kind.

“Why do you think I invited you?” He continued to follow her until she came to an abrupt stop and turned to him.

“You want someone to manage your life?” she asked, a bit breathlessly, he thought. He wanted someone to manage his children, but he didn’t think now was a good time to bring them up. Not when she was looking at him like that. Like she wanted…

Like she wanted to be kissed.

“May I kiss you?” he whispered. He would have stopped if she’d shown any hesitation, but her gorgeous green eyes were lit by the moon and there was nothing but wonder and acceptance and desire in them. “May I?” he asked again.

She nodded, a tiny, but sure thing. He lowered his head and simply brushed his lips against hers, the way one should kiss a woman one thought about marrying. But then her arms stole around him and her fingers brushed his neck, and he was lost.

He wrapped his arms around her and drew her closer, closer, closer, until her body fully lined up with his. His tongue touched the seam of her lips and she opened, allowing him full access to explore all the hidden depths of her mouth, and he took full advantage, drawing soft mewling sounds from her that he swallowed with more kisses. 

But it wasn’t enough. 

He wanted to feel her. All of her. His hands ran up and down her back, until one boldly reached the curve of her bottom. He pressed her against him, not caring that she’d be able to clearly feel his desire for her. It had been so long, so damned long, and she was so soft and responsive in his arms, hesitantly at first, but then answering his passion with her own. She gasped, her head falling back and Graham took the invitation to pepper her jaw and the long line of her neck with his ardor. 

He’d begun working his way down, over her collarbone toward the neckline of the gown she wore when she pulled away from him.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted out, her hands flying to where he’d last kissed her.

“I’m not,” he said matter-of-factly.

Her eyes widened at his bluntness. But he’d never been particularly good with words and it was probably better that she learned this now.

“It… it was a figure of speech,” she stammered.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said I was sorry,” she repeated, shrugging one shoulder, her eyes wide and guileless, confusing him further. “It was a figure of speech. I’m not really.”

She sounded rather flustered to his ears, and he couldn’t help the surge of male pride that he’d brought her to this state.

“It’s something one might say to fill the silence,” she continued. 

Graham was beginning to realize that Ruby didn’t like silence. He kissed her again. “You know, silence is sometimes a good thing.”

Her mouth dropped open slightly in surprise. “Are you saying I talk too much?”

He shrugged, the corner of his lips lifted in a smirk, having much too much fun teasing her.

“I’ll have you know, I have been much quieter here than I normally am,” she informed him haughtily.

He wrapped his arms around her again and smiled. “We need a bit of noise around here.”

~*~*~

Ruby woke the next morning feeling wonderful. As if she was still wrapped up in a dream. A dream of a completely unexpected kiss.

A dream of enjoying a completely unexpected kiss far more than she thought she would.

Her stomach reminded her of the lateness of the hour and she decided to make her way down to the breakfast room. She had no idea if Sir Graham would be there or not. Was he the kind of man who rose with the sun? Or did he prefer to lay abed until noon? It seemed rather odd that she didn’t know something like this about a man she was seriously contemplating marrying.

And if he was there - waiting for her to join him to break their fast together - what would she say to him? What did one say to a man who’d licked one’s neck as if it were a delectable frozen treat? It was quite beyond scandalous.

What if she got there and could barely get out a good morning? He’d surely find that very amusing after his teasing her last night. It nearly made her laugh out loud. Ruby Jones - who could carry on a conversation about anything and nothing, and frequently did - not knowing what she was going to say to Sir Graham Humbert when next she saw him.

Of course, he had kissed her, and that changed everything.

Once dressed, she crossed the room, ready to leave, making sure her door was still tightly shut. She didn’t think the twins would try the same trick twice, but she wasn’t willing to place a large amount of trust in the thought. Honestly, after using a fish, she expected they were devising a more slimy or smelly retribution.

Humming softly to herself, she emerged into the hallway and headed toward the stairs. She was in a good mood since the sun had been peeking out from behind the clouds, making the day seem filled with promise…

“OH!”

The cry ripped out of her as she plunged forward, her foot caught back behind her, wrapped in something strung between two pieces of furniture. She had no chance to try and maintain her balance. She’d been walking quickly, as she was wont to do, and never saw the string reaching across the hall until it was too late. She didn’t even have the time to break her fall with her hands.

Tears burned her eyes. Her chin - dear God, her chin - her chin felt like it was on fire. She’d just been able to turn her head to the side before she landed, but the side of her face had taken the brunt of the fall, and Ruby couldn’t keep the incoherent whimpers of severe pain inside. She waited for the pain to fade, like it did when one stubbed one’s toe. The pain would take your breath away for a moment, but then would fade until it was nothing more than a dull ache. But the pain was not fading at all. Her chin, the side of her face, her elbow, hip, and knee were such a cacophony of agony, that she could do nothing more than lie there until she could draw breath without wanting to scream in anguish.

She felt as if she’d been beaten.

“Ruby!”

Graham. She couldn’t even look up, still trying to control her breathing and not willing to move from her curled up position.

“Ruby, my God!” he cried, taking the last few steps in one giant stride until he reached her side. “What happened?”

“I fell.” She tried not to whimper, she truly did, but it came out anyway.

His actions full of tenderness, he pulled her hand away from her face. The words that fell from his lips once he got a good look at it were not words Ruby was accustomed to hearing.

“You need a piece of meat on that,” he said grimly. 

“Is it very bruised?”

He nodded. “You may have a blackened eye as well; it’s too soon to tell.” She tried to smile, but it was just too painful to manage. “Does it hurt very badly?” he asked softly.

She nodded, a single tear finally falling down her cheek. It reminded her of a time when she was very small and fell out of a tree. She’d sprained her ankle quite badly, but hadn’t cried until she got home to her mother.

Graham touched her cheek gingerly, but pulled away with a scowl on his face when she winced. “What happened?” he asked again.

And of course she knew exactly what had happened. The twins had strung a piece of string across the hallway for her to trip over. But one look at Graham’s face and she almost considered holding her tongue. She didn’t think they meant to cause quite so much harm.

But she didn’t need to say a single word. He’d obviously already seen the piece of string, and without taking his eyes off of hers, he’d twisted it around his pointer finger until it snapped in two. He didn’t seem aware of it - his strength, nor the strength of his anger.

“Sir Graham,” she whispered, but it was clear he didn’t hear her.

“Nicholas! Ava!” he bellowed.

“I’m sure they didn’t mean to injure me,” Ruby tried, quite sure that any punishment coming from their father while he was in this state would be far more painful for them than what she’d mete out.

“I don’t care what they meant!” he snapped. “Look how close to the stairs you were! What if you’d fallen down them?”

The thought hadn’t occurred to her, and now that she really looked, she had fallen dangerously close to them.

“They must answer for this.” His voice was low, and shaking with rage.

“I’ll be fine,” she assured him. And she would. In a few days. The agony was finally starting to fade, but she still cried out softly when Graham picked her up in his arms.

“You’re going straight to bed,” he bit out. She offered no disagreement. 

A maid arrived, a dismayed gasp escaping her when she saw Ruby’s bruised face. “Get me something for this,” Graham ordered. “A piece of meat, anything.” She nodded and quickly disappeared.

“Does anything else hurt?” he asked, as he laid her on top of the coverlet.

“My elbow. Hip. And knee,” she admitted.

“Do you think anything is broken?”

“Oh, no!” she assured him quickly, shaking her head as well. “I’m sure…”

“I’ll need to check anyway,” he interrupted her, cradling her arm in his hands as he gently examined it.

“Sir Graham!” she protested.

“My children nearly killed you,” he growled, but with no real heat in it. “I think we can dispose of the Sir.” He finished his examination and moved to the door of her bedchamber, his stride powerful and full of purpose. “Get me the twins immediately,” he barked to some servant who must have been hovering in the hall. She couldn’t imagine they hadn’t heard his earlier summons, but she also didn’t blame them for attempting to delay judgment day at the hands of their father.

“Graham, please,” she tried again. “Leave them to me. I was the injured party…”

“They are my children and I will punish them,” Graham said grimly. “God knows, it’s long overdue. They hurt you and that is unacceptable.” He leaned back against the wall next to her bed and raised his eyes to the ceiling. “If I had…” He stopped and tried again. “If I hadn’t…” He blew out a frustrated breath and that was when Ruby knew. 

The rage in his voice, the shaking in his hands and body, wasn't directed at the twins. Not entirely anyway. 

He didn’t blame them.

He blamed himself.

Some minutes later - as the twins were ushered into the room by their nursemaid, half dragged and half pushed no doubt, if the heaviness of their gait was any indication - Graham maintained his position next to Ruby’s bed, deathly afraid that if he came any closer to his progeny, he’d beat them within an inch of their lives.

And when he was done, he wouldn’t regret his actions.

So he simply crossed his arms and glared at the children, letting them squirm under his clear anger and condemnation, while he tried to figure out what the hell to say to them.

Finally, Nicolas spoke, his voice trembling. “Father?”

Graham took a deep breath, and still not moving from his position, said the only thing he could think of. The only thing that bore mentioning at the present moment.

“Do you see Miss Jones?”

They both nodded, though they didn’t lift their gazes to where she lay on the bed.

“Look at her!” he barked.

They both jumped slightly, and then raised their eyes to actually look at her. From where he stood, he could see sorrow and, he hoped, remorse in their countenances, which helped him rein in his fury.

“Sir?” a servant asked from the door. 

He acknowledged her with a nod and took the piece of meat she’d brought for Ruby’s eye.

“Hungry?” he snapped at the children. When they didn’t answer, he continued. “Good, because we won’t be able to eat this now, will we?” He gently placed it over her eye and then covered it with a cloth so she wouldn’t dirty her fingers as she held it in place. Once he was done, he rose and stood in front of the children.

“Look at me,” he said, his voice still low and furious. They met his eyes and the fear he saw there made him sick, but he didn’t know how else to act. Or what else to do. They had to learn that they couldn’t continue behaving like this. They had to learn to show respect to adults. 

“We didn’t mean to hurt her,” Ava whispered.

“Oh, really?” he asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow. “You didn’t think she might possibly be hurt when she tripped over the string? Hmmm? Or perhaps you correctly thought that the string wouldn’t actually hurt her, but it didn’t occur to you that she might be injured when she actually fell?”

They said nothing. Graham glanced back at Ruby, who’d removed the meat from her eye and was gingerly touching her cheek. The bruising was getting worse by the minute.

“You will come with me,” he said, directing his words to the twins, and jerking his head in the direction of the door. He turned to them when he reached it to see they hadn’t taken a single step to follow him. “Now!” he barked. They finally moved and Graham prayed that he’d be able to control himself.

Once they were gone, Ruby tried not to listen, but she couldn’t stop herself from straining her ears. She didn’t know where he was taking them, but one thing was perfectly clear. They were going to be punished.

And while she agreed that it was necessary, what they’d done was inexcusable, she found herself anxious on their behalf. It reminded her of when Nicholas asked if she was going to hit them after he’d pushed her the day before. As if he’d been hit before. Surely Sir Graham didn’t… No, it was impossible. It was one thing to administer a spanking at a time like this, it was another thing entirely to habitually strike children.

She couldn’t possibly be that poor a judge of character. She’d spent time with the man. Allowed him to kiss her. Even kissed him back. She would have been able to sense if there was an inner streak of cruelty within him that would cause him to beat his children.

Shortly thereafter, Nicholas and then Ava entered her bedchamber again, their father bringing up the rear for the sole purpose, she was sure, of making sure their steps exceeded that of a tortoise. They were somber faced and red-eyed, and Graham looked just as grim as they did. 

They shuffled over to Ruby’s bed and she turned to face them. 

“We’re sorry, Miss Jones,” they mumbled in unison.

“Louder,” Graham said sharply.

“We’re sorry, Miss Jones,” they obeyed quickly.

Ruby nodded and tried to give them a small smile.

“It won’t happen again,” Ava added.

“I’m certainly glad to hear that,” Ruby replied. Graham cleared his throat, loudly.

“Father says we have to make it up to you,” Nicholas said.

“Oh…” Ruby wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that.

“Do you like sweets?” Ava asked, in an apparent burst of inspiration.

“Uh, yes, I do,” Ruby replied. “Doesn’t everyone?”

“I have a bag of lemon drops,” Ava informed her. “I’ve been saving them for months. You can have them.”

Ruby sighed internally. There was something quite wrong here in the lives of these children. She had enough nieces and nephews to know, and her own upbringing as well to reference, what happy children looked like. And these children before her were anything but happy. She felt her heart clench in her chest in compassion for them.

“That’s alright, Ava,” she said softly. “You may keep your lemon drops.”

“But Father says we have to give you something,” she said, casting a fearful glance at Graham.

Ruby was about to say it wasn’t necessary, but then she realized it was. Not only because Graham had obviously insisted upon it, and she wasn’t about to undermine his authority in front of them, but because they also needed to understand what it meant to make amends.

“Very well,” she conceded, “You may give me an afternoon.”

“An afternoon?” they parroted.

“Yes,” she said. “Once I’m feeling better, you may both give me an afternoon. After all, there is much here at Romney Hall that I know nothing about and I’m sure you two know every nook and cranny of the house and gardens. You may take me on a tour. Provided of course,” and here she looked at them as sternly as she could manage with a large steak still covering her eye, “you both promise there will be no pranks.”

Ava nodded vigorously and quickly. “No, no pranks,” she promised.

“Nicholas,” Graham growled.

“There will be no pranks that afternoon,” he mumbled. Graham grabbed him by the collar of his shirt. “Ever,” he shouted. “There will be no pranks ever! We’ll leave Miss Jones completely alone!”

“Well, not completely, I hope,” she said, shooting a glance at Graham until he released Nicholas’ collar, “since you do owe me an afternoon.”

Ava smiled softly, but Nicholas’ scowl remained firmly in place.

“You may return to the nursery, now,” Graham informed the children, and they scurried away as fast as their feet could carry them.

Ruby and Graham remained silent for nearly a full minute after the twins left them alone. Ruby felt quite drained and wasn’t sure what to say. Graham turned back toward her and swallowed hard.

“How are you?” he asked. His voice was still rather gruff, but given the entire episode, she didn’t really blame him.

“If I’m not permitted to remove the steak soon, I think I might be physically ill,” she said, honestly.

He picked up the platter it’d arrived on and Ruby placed the meat upon it, grimacing at the squelching sound it made. “I’d like to wash my face, please.”

Graham nodded. “Let me first examine your eye. Look up,” he directed, probing gently around the socket when she obeyed.

“Do you have much experience with this sort of thing?” she asked.

“A bit,” he replied. “Look right.”

“A bit?”

“I boxed at university.”

“Were you good?”

“Look left,” he said, turning her head to the side. “Good enough.”

“What does that mean?”

“Close your eye.”

“What does that mean?” she asked again.

“You’re not closing your eye.”

She closed both eyes, though with a scowl on her face. “What does it mean!?” she repeated for the third time. And though she couldn’t see his face, the smile came through in his tone when he spoke.

“Has anyone ever told you that you are exceedingly stubborn?” he asked.

“Oh, all the time,” she replied. “It’s my only flaw.”

“The only one, eh?” And now she could imagine his raised eyebrow.

“The only one worth commenting on.” She opened her eyes. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“I’ve quite forgotten what it was. Now close your eye again, I wasn’t finished.” Ruby scowled when she caught the teasing glint in his eyes, but obeyed. “Good enough,” he continued once her eyes were shut, “means that I never had to fight. Not if I didn’t want to.”

“But you weren’t the champion,” she speculated.

“You may open your eyes now,” he said gently. She blinked a few times in surprise when she saw how close he still was. “I wasn’t the champion.”

“Why not?”

He shrugged his shoulders indifferently. “I didn’t care about it enough.”

“How does it look?”

“Your eye?”

She nodded.

“There’s nothing to be done to stop the bruising.”

“I didn’t think I hit my eye,” she said, pressing her fingers gently around the socket. “When I fell. I thought I hit my cheek.”

“Hitting your cheek, the blood will spread to the eye area. I can see from your face that you fell right here,” he said. His fingers oh so gently touched her cheekbone, exactly where she landed, but his touch was so light, there was no pain. 

Ruby groaned. “I’m going to look a fright for weeks.”

“Maybe not weeks,” he tried to reassure her.

She sent him an extremely dubious look, one that should have told him she knew what she was talking about. “I have brothers. I’ve seen blackened eyes. Killian had one that didn’t completely fade for two months.”

“Really?” Graham chuckled. “What happened to him?”

“Our older brother,” she informed him drily.

Graham nodded, his lips pressed together in amusement. “Say no more. I had a brother myself.”

“Beastly creatures,” she said, but her affection for them was clear from her tone.

“Your black eye probably won’t take that long to diminish,” he said, helping her from bed and over to the washbasin.

“But it might,” she said as she washed the smell from her face.

Graham nodded in agreement. “We need to get you a chaperone.”

Ruby stopped abruptly. “I’d quite forgotten.”

“I hadn’t.”

“It’s all my fault, of course,” she said, patting herself dry. “You had written in your invitation that you’d provide a chaperone, but in my haste to leave London, it didn’t occur to me that you’d need time to make the arrangements.”

Graham watched her closely and wondered if she realized just how much she’d revealed to him about her reasons for coming. It was hard to imagine someone as open, honest, and loquacious as the woman before him having secrets, but he did have to admit she’d been rather quiet about her exact reasons for coming to Gloucestershire.

She’d said she was looking for a husband. But he was starting to wonder if perhaps it had as much to do with what she was leaving behind in London as what she was looking for here.

And then the words in my haste…

What could have caused her to leave in such a hurry? 

“I sent a letter to my great-aunt yesterday morning after your arrival,” he informed her, “but she’s not the sort to leave home at the drop of a hat. She’ll need to pack and do whatever it is you ladies need to do when preparing for a journey.” He waved his hand vaguely around, and Ruby tried her best not to laugh. “I don’t expect her before Thursday. At the earliest.”

“Well, it’s only a few days, and it’s not like we’re completely alone,” she asserted. “You do have a house full of servants.”

“That may be,” he agreed, “but your reputation could be seriously compromised if this visit of yours were to get out among society.”

Ruby blew out a long breath, her shoulders slumping slightly. “Well, there’s not much I can do about it now,” she said. Then motioning to her eye, she continued. “And if I were to return now, this will have more people talking than the fact that I left to begin with.”

He nodded, acceding to her point, though his mind started shooting off in other directions entirely. Was there a reason she was so unconcerned about her reputation? He may have spent little time in society, but it’d been his experience that properly bred young ladies, no matter their age, were always concerned about their reputations.

Was it possible that Ruby’s reputation had been in tatters before she’d even arrived on his doorstep?

And more to the point, did he care?

He honestly wasn’t sure. He knew what he wanted - no, needed - in a wife, and it had very little to do with purity and chastity and all those things that society deemed important for young ladies.

He was looking for someone who could step in and manage his life and care for his children. He was quite pleased that Ruby not only appeared to be able to fill the role admirably, but that she was rather beautiful and he most undoubtedly felt a great deal of desire for her. Even if she’d been as ugly as a crone, he’d still have been willing to marry her if she could be a good mother to his children.

But if that were all true, then why did he feel no small amount of annoyance that Ruby might have had a lover?

She settled herself against the pillows, looked longingly out the window, and sighed. “Oh, look, the sun is shining again.”

“Would you like to sit in the garden?” he asked. “You haven’t eaten yet; I can have breakfast brought out to you.”

“I’d like to walk in the garden,” she groused, “but I suppose I should try to rest today.”

“More than just today,” he murmured.

“I’ll never be able to manage it,” she said. 

“You could take a book with you,” he suggested. It didn’t surprise him at all when she said she couldn’t sit still. Even injured, she was fidgety on the bed, and he couldn’t suppress a small smile.

“Will you not join me?” she asked.

“Ah…” he stammered. “I have work to do in the greenhouse today.” Her eyes reflected her disappointment, and as much as he would have loved to spend time with her in the garden, he needed to get away. Away from his swirling thoughts, conflicted feelings, and most of all the desire to crawl out of his skin over having to spank the children. He needed his hands in the dirt where the most complicated thought he’d encounter was about plants, something he did know something about. 

Every fortnight, it seemed, they did something that warranted punishment. He hated having to do it. To the depths of his being. But what else was he supposed to do when they behaved this badly? He could justify to himself brushing aside small things, but when they’d glued their last governess’ hair to the pillow while she slept, how on earth was he supposed to brush that aside? Or when they’d gotten into his greenhouse and broken an entire shelf of terra cotta pots? They’d claimed it was an accident, but Graham knew better, and from their countenances, they didn’t even truly think he’d believe them.

So he punished them the only way he knew how, if he punished them at all - though, to this point, he’d only used his hand. More often than not, he was so overwhelmed at the memories of his father’s brand of discipline and horrified at the way his hand itched to swat them on their behinds that he’d simply stumble away, a trembling and sweating mess.

He knew he was too lenient with them. They weren’t getting any better, after all. He knew he needed to be more stern with them, but the memory of what he’d almost done after the episode with their governess was enough to make him want to retch. He’d been so furious, so blindingly angry, that before he even realized it, he’d gone out to the stable and grabbed a whip. That was all it took for him to realize what he’d done and make him drop it in horror. Graham had fled to his greenhouse, shaking with disgust and hating himself for what he’d almost done.

But not only that. Hating himself for what he couldn’t do. 

Make his children better people.

He didn’t know how to be a father to them. Maybe he just wasn’t suited to the task. Perhaps there were men out there who just naturally knew how to teach, how to mold children, but Graham certainly wasn’t one of them. Perhaps one needed a good father in order to be one. But if that was the case, Graham had been doomed from birth. 

And now, here he was, pinning all his hopes on Miss Ruby Jones. Perhaps he wouldn’t feel so guilty about being a miserable father to them if he could provide them with a good mother. 

But nothing was ever as simple as one might want and Miss Ruby Jones was proof positive of that. He’d never expected to want her. And when he came up the stairs and found her on the floor, his first thought hadn’t been anger at his children, it had been terror for her. For her wellbeing. As well as, if he was being brutally honest, terror that they might have convinced her to leave.

With the glue incident, his first emotion had been rage. With Ruby, he spared barely a thought to the twins until he’d assured himself of her well being. He hadn’t wanted to care about her, and now that he did, he didn’t know what to do with himself. So while a morning in the garden with her sounded lovely, he had to get away for a while. He had to try and bring his chaotic thoughts and feelings into some semblance of order. And if that made him a coward, then so be it.

~*~*~

Ruby spent the entire day in the garden on what she was sure was the most comfortable chaise lounge she’d ever had the pleasure to sit. It must have come from Italy, because in her experience, neither England nor France knew how to make comfortable furniture. Not that she normally spent much time pondering furniture makers, but being left alone in the gardens did provide her with an abundance of time and blessed little else to ponder.

Well, perhaps beside the fact that Sir Graham Humbert had to be the most ill-mannered beast on the planet, leaving her alone after his two little monsters - whom he hadn’t even disclosed the existence of in his correspondence - left her with a blackened eye. 

It was a perfect day. The sun was shining, the sky was the deepest shade of blue, a light breeze was blowing, and Ruby had not a thing to occupy her thoughts.

She had never been so bored in her entire life.

It just wasn’t in her nature to sit still and watch the clouds roll by. She would be much happier doing something - walking through the gardens, or at the very least having someone to talk to, rather than just sitting here like a bump on a log. If she had company, then perhaps the clouds would be more interesting. They could discuss the shapes they saw in them.

But no, he’d left her quite on her own. She could see him out there in his greenhouse from where she sat, but while she’d really like nothing better than to join him - his plants must be more interesting than clouds - she refused to seek him out. Not after the way he’d departed so abruptly earlier. She’d thought they were getting along rather well, but then he’d suddenly grown distant and irritable and made up a terrible excuse about having to work in the greenhouse. He’d all but run away from her.

Odious man.

She picked up the book she’d chosen from the library and held it in front of her face, determined to actually read it this time. Of course, that was what she said the previous four times she’d picked up the book. 

Blast it all. 

The Botany of Ferns? What exactly had she been thinking when she pulled it off the shelf? Well, the clear answer to that question was, she hadn’t been. Ruby rolled her eyes at herself. She should have at least looked for a novel to read. The library was quite extensive and she was sure she could have found something more enjoyable than this thing. And what was worse, if, for some reason, Sir Graham came back and found her reading it, he’d think she was wanting to learn more about him and his interests.

This was ridiculous. She slammed the book closed and back down on the side table. She got up and took a few steps to test the tenderness of her hip, a satisfied and rather smug smile lifting her lips when she realized her hip was causing her no more than mild discomfort. She walked all the way to a large rosebush some ways ahead and bent over to see if they had a scent yet. The buds were still closed, but there was always the chance…

“What the devil are you doing?”

Ruby just managed to avoid falling into the bush in surprise. “Sir Graham!” she exclaimed. “I was just…”

“You were supposed to be sitting down,” he interrupted.

“I was sitting down.”

“You were supposed to stay sitting down.”

The truth would make a superb explanation, she decided quickly. 

“I was bored.”

“Did you not get a book to read from the library, like I invited you to do?”

She speared him with a glance and Graham could feel a flush rising on his skin. 

“You said that you could have breakfast sent out to me,” she began, her temper rising along with her words, “and suggested that I could enjoy a book in the garden, which I wrongly assumed meant that you’d have something I’d enjoy reading included on the tray.”

Blast, he had said that, hadn’t he? He’d been in such a hurry to get away, he’d quite forgotten. The flush reached his face. 

“Allow me to apologize and correct that oversight, then,” he replied in a remarkable display of humility. Ruby wasn’t used to men ever admitting to a mistake, however unintended. “But you should remain seated.”

Ruby patted her hip. “I am truly perfectly fine. It hardly hurts at all.”

His expression was still irritable, but even with filthy hands and face, there was something very striking about him. Elemental, almost. Ruby’s mouth dropped open as a shiver of awareness worked its way over her.

“I can’t work if I’m worrying about you,” he groused.

“Then don’t work.” The solution seemed perfectly logical to her.

“I’m in the middle of something.”

“Then I’ll accompany you,” she said lightly, brushing by him on her way to the greenhouse. Really, how did he expect them to see if they would suit if they didn’t spend any time together?

“Miss Jones,” he bit out, “you cannot…”

“Couldn’t you use the help?” she asked, turning back toward him.

“No.”

“Sir Graham,” she snapped, deciding on a different tact. “Are you the same man you were last night?”

“I beg your pardon?” The expression on his face suggested that he thought she’d lost her mind.

“The man I spent the evening with last night,” she began, only just restraining herself from crossing her arms in her annoyance. “The one with whom I shared a very pleasant meal, then toured the house and greenhouse. The man who actually spoke to me, and seemed to enjoy my company.”

He shook his head at her words, bringing himself out of his haze of confusion. “I do enjoy your company,” he replied, utterly befuddled at her seemingly random tirade.

“Then why,” she asked, “have I been sitting alone in the garden for the last three hours?”

“It hasn’t been three hours.”

“It doesn’t matter how long…”

“It’s been forty-five minutes,” he interrupted.

That silenced her for just a moment. She stood there staring at him, her lips pressed together in a straight line, before opening them to speak again.

“Well…” She lost her words after that and Graham decided he’d better say something to save her from any more embarrassment her countenance told him she was swimming in.

“Miss Jones.” He tried not to snap, truly he did, but was extremely doubtful he’d succeeded. “As you might imagine, the incident with the children this morning has left me in rather a foul mood, and I sought to spare you my company, such as it is.”

“I see,” she said, rather meekly in his opinion.

“Good,” he bit out. 

But then she straightened up and looked him directly in the eye, lifting her chin just slightly. “In that case, I’ll just leave you to your work.” Then she had the audacity to wave him off as if he were nothing more than a buzzing fly, disturbing the peacefulness of the garden.

“And what will you be doing?” he asked.

“I will go for a walk,” she informed him, haughtily.

“You will not go for a walk,” he growled.

Almost, Ruby thought, as if he cared about her.

“Sir Graham,” she began, “I assure you, I am perfectly fine. I shall remain out of your way, which is all that really matters, is it not?” A vein in his temple began to pulse, and Ruby found entirely too much pleasure in the fact. She turned on her heel and began to walk to another area of the garden. 

“Stop this instant!” Graham exclaimed. “You may not go for a walk!”

Ruby stopped and turned to him, about to ask if he intended to tie her down to stop her, but shut her mouth just as quickly when it occurred to her that he might heartily approve the suggestion. 

“Sir Graham,” she said, “I fail to see… OH!” she exclaimed when he scooped her up in his arms, mumbling something about stubborn and foolish women, marched over to the chaise, and dropped her unceremoniously upon it.

“Stay there,” he ordered.

She sputtered indignantly, almost at a loss of what to say after his unbelievable display of arrogance. “You can’t just…”

“Good God, woman! You would try the patience of a saint!”

She glared at him.

He huffed in frustration. “What would it take to keep you from moving from this spot?”

She lifted her chin at him before answering. “I can’t think of a single thing,” she said honestly.

“Fine,” he said. “Hike all over the countryside, if it pleases you. Swim to France.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “From Gloucestershire?”

“If anyone could figure out a way to do it, it would be you, Miss Jones. Good day.” Then he turned on his heel and left her exactly where she’d started from.

~*~*~

Graham sat at supper that evening utterly dejected and lonely. One would have thought that eating alone was commonplace for him after all the years married to Jacinda, but in the last day and a half, he’d become used to Ruby’s presence and now, he missed her. If he wasn’t already painfully aware of how badly he’d handled the day's situations, her short missive informing him she intended to take supper in her room this evening made it abundantly clear. Considering the fact she’d been complaining about the lack of his company earlier, her refusal to join him was a stark insult, indeed, and one that the servants were obviously aware of. Graham sighed. He hated being the subject of the servants' gossip. 

He made his way through all the courses, hoping she might change her mind and come down. It was certainly doubtful, given her stubborn streak, but he could always hope. When it became abundantly clear it was a futile hope, he considered going up to her. But that would have been extremely inappropriate, even out here in the country. Besides the fact that seeking her out after his behavior this morning was tantamount to eating crow.

Which wouldn’t have been the worst thing in the world, considering he’d already decided he was willing to beg her to stay and be a mother to his children, if necessary. But wanting to woo a woman didn’t mean that he knew how to do it.

George had always been the one to charm and woo the ladies. He always knew what to say and how to act. He wouldn’t have cared about being the subject of the servants’ gossip. Graham had always been the quieter one, the studious one, the awkward one when compared to his older brother. Much less suited to being a father and lord of the manor. He’d always planned on leaving Romney Hall and never looking back, at least while his father was alive. George was to have married and had half a dozen perfect children and Graham would have been the somewhat strange but still fun uncle, working on his experiments at Cambridge.

But all of that changed on a battlefield in Belgium. England may have won the war, but it was blessed little comfort when his father dragged him home, determined to mold him into a suitable heir. Determined to mold him into George, who’d been his favorite.

And then he’d died. Right there in front of Graham. In the middle of a screaming, raging fit, his heart had given out on him. 

And Graham had become Sir Graham, with all the rights and responsibilities of a baronet. Rights and responsibilities he’d never, ever wanted.

He loved his children more than life itself, so he guessed he could say it’d turned out alright in the end, but he still felt like he was failing. Romney Hall was doing well. As a result of the agricultural techniques he’d introduced in the fields of the estate, they were turning a profit for the first time since… Well, he wasn’t sure exactly. They’d certainly never turned a profit in the years his father was lord of the estate.

But the fields weren’t nearly as important as the children. They were flesh and blood and would someday grow up, and with how badly behaved they were now, he was terrified of what the future would hold for them if something wasn’t  done soon. Which was why he was so desperate for Ruby to stay and marry him. 

He couldn’t continue to fail his children the way he had been since they were born really, but especially since Jacinda died. He had no idea how to handle them. 

Except the night before, with the fish incident. For the first time, he’d handled Ava exactly right. Ruby’s presence had calmed him in a way that he never would have believed, if he hadn’t experienced it himself.

That was why he couldn’t seek her out this evening. So he couldn’t muck it up any more than he already had.

~*~*~

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