#clash royale generator

[gellavonhamster]

I am the sea and nobody owns me

[sonicprim3d]

}THE COMPLICATIONS OF FEELINGS{

@already-know-this-story asked: ★ Uno Reverse bitch! Elise and Blaze for Sonic UwU

Elise:

I like you // I love you // You’re one of my best friends // You’re like family // You are family // I dislike you // I hate you // I’d kill you if I got the chance // I want you to like me // I’m scared of you // I would adopt you // I’d date you // I’d sleep with you // I’d marry you // I’m worried about you // You confuse me // You’re annoying // I pity you // I respect you // I trust you // I feel protective of you // I’d invite you with me to parties // I’d lend you my money // I’d borrow your money // You’re good-looking // I’m suspicious of you // I’m hiding something from you // You’re fun // You’re boring // I’m upset with you // You’re nice // You’re mean // I’m envious of you // You’re smart // You’re stupid // I look up to you // I think you’re a better person than me // I think I’m a better person than you // I want to apologize to you // I wish I’d never met you // I never want to forget you // I want to get to know you better

Blaze:

I like you // I love you // You’re one of my best friends // You’re like family // You are family // I dislike you // I hate you // I’d kill you if I got the chance // I want you to like me // I’m scared of you // I would adopt you // I’d date you // I’d sleep with you // I’d marry you // I’m worried about you // You confuse me // You’re annoying // I pity you // I respect you // I trust you // I feel protective of you // I’d invite you with me to parties // I’d lend you my money // I’d borrow your money // You’re good-looking // I’m suspicious of you // I’m hiding something from you // You’re fun // You’re boring // I’m upset with you // You’re nice // You’re mean // I’m envious of you // You’re smart // You’re stupid // I look up to you // I think you’re a better person than me // I think I’m a better person than you // I want to apologize to you // I wish I’d never met you // I never want to forget you // I want to get to know you better

[idkyetxoxo]

Daemon Targaryen - Rogue Desires

Summary - Under pressure to marry, she is drawn to Prince Daemon during a tourney. Despite her father's disapproval, their flirtation intrigues her. When Daemon proposes, she's torn, but his vow to win her hand ignites hope, after all, the rogue prince always gets what he wants.

Pairing - Daemon Targaryen x Hightower reader

Warnings - None

Word count - 2172

Masterlist for Daemon • House of the Dragon General Masterlist.

"Remain with Alicent and our father up there, and do not stray," Gwayne commanded, his voice laced with both authority and concern as he meticulously adjusted his armor. Apparently, maintaining decorum fell to him.

I rolled my eyes, a habitual gesture of defiance. His instructions felt as suffocating as the armor he was so preoccupied with.

"And where else would I go, brother?" I retorted, meeting his disapproving gaze with equal stubbornness. "I am not a child; do not treat me as one."

Focusing on the final adjustments to Gwayne's armor, my fingers worked swiftly, tightening the straps to ensure everything was secure. As I finished, I felt an intense gaze on me, a tangible weight pressing down.

I glanced up to find Prince Daemon watching me from across the field.

Our eyes locked, and even as I turned to face him fully, his gaze remained fixed. A smirk slowly curled on his lips, clearly amused by our exchange. His presence lingered, unsettling even as I tried to shift my focus.

With a slight, resigned sigh, I turned back to Gwayne, tightening the final straps with a bit more force than necessary. The weight of Daemon's gaze lingered like a shadow as I moved to join Alicent and Rhaenyra.

"Sister!" Alicent greeted me warmly, enveloping me in a hug as soon as I appeared before her.

"It's been quite some time since we were last reunited," she remarked, to which I responded with a sweet smile.

"Indeed, my dear. I hope you've been well. Has Rhaenyra been keeping you out of trouble?" I asked, casting a glance at the princess nearby, her presence a comforting constant.

"It's more so me keeping her out of trouble," Alicent chuckled, prompting Rhaenyra to scoff playfully.

"If that's what you'd like to believe," she retorted, and the three of us shared a genuine moment of laughter.

As I surveyed the box, my gaze met our father's. Despite my efforts to maintain composure, my expression soured.

"Father," I greeted him with forced politeness. His nod of acknowledgment was devoid of warmth, his face a mask of neutrality concealing a myriad of unspoken expectations and disappointments.

Sighing, I settled down beside Alicent and Rhaenyra.

"He's still upset," I murmured quietly, my attention drifting to the announcements for Prince Daemon's match, which I observed with forced interest.

"He's not upset," Alicent countered optimistically, her unwavering positivity attempting to soften the sting of our father's disapproval.

"He's angry," I corrected her in a hushed tone, feeling the weight of his unspoken reproach settle like a stone in my chest. "Angry that his eldest daughter remains unmarried and childless. He believes my time is running out, that I'll end up alone."

"You will not end up alone," Rhaenyra interjected firmly, her voice filled with conviction as she sought to reassure me. "Any nobleman would be fortunate to have your hand." Her words were kind and well-intentioned.

I returned her smile gratefully, though the weight of my father's expectations lingered heavily in my thoughts.

The joust began, and Daemon and my brother clashed fiercely, the contest ending with Gwayne being carried away, his face marred by dirt and blood. Triumphant, Prince Daemon rode towards the royal box where Alicent, Rhaenyra, and I stood.

As Daemon approached, he smiled up at us, his eyes lingering on me, the unfamiliar face among familiar company. He spoke with playful curiosity.

"I do not recall your name, my lady," he remarked, his gaze twinkling.

"That is because I have never given it to you," I replied with a sly smile, feeling a gentle press from Alicent on my arm and hearing Rhaenyra's amused chuckle beside me.

Daemon's expression shifted to one of impressed amusement at my boldness.

"I am the sister of the knight you just callously defeated," I added, meeting his gaze.

"Lady Hightower," he acknowledged with a nod, his eyes gleaming with admiration. "Well then, I would like to request your favor. I am certain I will not need the luck, but I would love to have it," he said with a roguish grin.

I turned to retrieve the wreath, aware of my father's disapproving glare. Avoiding his eyes, I cleared my throat and confidently took the wreath.

Walking back to Daemon, I placed it on his lance with deliberate grace.

"I wish you luck, rogue prince, though I'm sure you will not need it," I said with a wink, my tone teasing yet sincere, as I returned to my seat. Daemon beamed up at me, clearly amused.

The joust continued, culminating in Ser Criston Cole's victory. The crowd erupted in cheers as he dismounted and approached the royal box, his eyes fixed on Rhaenyra. With a graceful bow, he requested her favor, and she obliged, placing her wreath on his lance.

As the festivities wound down, we began to shuffle out of the royal box towards our chambers. Walking alongside my sister and the princess, the fatigue of the day began to catch up with me.

"It has been a long journey," I admitted with a soft sigh, stifling a yawn. "I'm quite tired. I'll see you both later, perhaps," I added, bidding them goodnight as we parted ways.

With that, I took my leave and headed toward Alicent's chambers, where I would be staying. My mind wandered, lost in thought, as I absentmindedly tugged at a loose thread on my sleeve.

Suddenly, I collided with someone, nearly losing my balance.

"Prince Daemon," I gasped as he caught me, his hands steadying me around my waist. "Lady Hightower," he replied smoothly, his hands lingering on my waist.

"I'm afraid my favor wasn't much help in your outcome today," I teased, biting my lip playfully as I looked up at him, our faces now mere inches apart.

"I was merely distracted during the match," he countered with a mischievous glint in his eye, amusement dancing in his voice.

"Distracted?" I echoed, raising an eyebrow in mock disbelief, though secretly thrilled by his admission.

He nodded, his expression both earnest and teasing. "There was quite an intriguing lady watching me today," he confessed, his tone playful yet sincere.

A blush crept up my cheeks despite my efforts to maintain composure. "What was so intriguing about her?" I asked, trying to keep my voice light and casual.

Daemon chuckled softly, the sound resonating deep within me. "She had a sharp wit and a bold spirit. Quite captivating, honestly," he replied, his gaze fixed on mine with an intensity that made my heart skip a beat.

I glanced away, suddenly feeling bashful under his scrutiny. "Well, I suppose you should have been paying more attention to your opponent," I quipped, attempting to regain some semblance of composure.

His smile widened, a hint of admiration in his eyes as he continued to hold my gaze. "Perhaps," he conceded, his voice low and intimate. "But some distractions are worth the risk."

The flutter in my chest grew stronger as I found myself drawn to him in ways I hadn't anticipated.

"Unhand my daughter this instant!" a voice called out, startling me. I jumped, pushing Daemon's hands off me and stepping back hurriedly.

My father emerged from the shadows, his face a mask of disapproval. Daemon's jaw tightened, his earlier playfulness evaporating.

"What do you think you're doing, allowing someone like him to sully you?" my father demanded, his voice sharp with anger.

"Father, it's not what you think," I began, my voice trembling, but he cut me off sharply.

"You know better than this," he continued, his voice rising. "You remain unmarried despite your age, and now you give people an opportunity to question your virtue."

Hot tears pooled in my eyes as his words cut deep, the humiliation and frustration of the day boiling over, leaving me feeling exposed and vulnerable.

"Lord Hand," Daemon interjected firmly. "There is no need for such harshness. I assure you, your daughter's virtue is intact."

My father glared at Daemon, his eyes narrowing. "Your assurances mean little to me, Prince Daemon. You are known for your reckless behavior. I will not have my daughter associated with such scandal."

"Father, please," I pleaded, my voice barely above a whisper. "Nothing inappropriate happened. We were just talking."

"Talking?" my father scoffed. "It looked far more intimate than mere conversation."

"Lord Hand," Daemon said again, stepping forward. "I understand your concerns, but I assure you, my intentions are honorable."

"Honorable?" my father sneered. "Your reputation precedes you, Daemon. I will not allow you to drag my daughter into your debauchery."

The tension between them was palpable, and I felt trapped between their opposing forces. Desperation clawed at me as I searched for a way to diffuse the situation.

"Please, can we discuss this calmly?" I implored, looking from my father to Daemon. "There has been a misunderstanding, and I would like to clarify it."

My father looked at me, his anger still evident. "Very well," he said coldly. "We will discuss this in private. Prince Daemon, I expect you to keep your distance from my daughter."

With that, he turned on his heel, leaving no room for argument. I cast a quick, apologetic glance at Daemon before following after my father, my heart heavy with dread.

As we walked, my father's words echoed in my mind, each one a painful reminder of the expectations and limitations placed upon me.

The encounter with Daemon, which had felt like a fleeting moment of excitement and possibility, now seemed tainted by my father's harsh judgment.

Once we reached the privacy of Alicent's chambers, my father turned to me, his expression stern.

"You must be careful," he admonished. "Your actions reflect not just on yourself, but on our entire family. You cannot afford to be so careless."

"I understand, Father," I replied, my voice shaking. "I did not mean to cause any trouble."

"Remember your place and your duty. This family's honor rests on your shoulders as much as anyone else's. Do not forget that," he reminded me.

With those final words, he left me alone in the room, the weight of his expectations pressing down on me. I sank onto the edge of the bed, feeling the sting of unshed tears. The night had taken its toll, leaving me emotionally drained and unsure of what the future held.

─── ✦⋅♡⋅✦ ───

The next day, much to Alicent and Rhaenyra's dismay, I spent most of my time wallowing in my chambers. Their persistent urging finally broke my resolve.

"Give me some time to get dressed, then I'll join you in the gardens," I said, my voice tinged with exhaustion.

"Do you swear it?" my sister asked, her eyes full of skepticism. I nodded, and they both left the room, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

With a heavy sigh, I rose and began to prepare myself. I combed through my hair, pinning it back with a single braid that elegantly crossed the crown of my head. Slipping into a simple green dress adorned with gold beading, I tried to muster the strength to face the day.

As I walked slowly through the gardens, I spotted him in the distance. Daemon turned in my direction, and I instinctively looked down, quickening my pace to avoid him.

"Lady Hightower," he called out, his voice commanding and impossible to ignore. I paused, my breath catching as he effortlessly closed the distance between us.

"I do not think this is wise, Prince Daemon," I said, my voice trembling slightly. He scoffed, a hint of amusement in his eyes.

"So now you cannot even speak to me?" he asked, his tone laced with irony. I finally looked up, meeting his gaze.

"My father was right; it is inappropriate. If I wish not to remain unmarried, I cannot spend my time like this," I explained, trying to sound resolute. He paused, considering my words.

"Then marry me," he proposed suddenly, and I almost choked on my breath.

"What?" I managed to stammer, disbelief evident in my voice.

"Marry me," he repeated, a confident smile playing on his lips as if he were merely discussing the weather.

"My father would never allow that," I said, shaking my head firmly, trying to dismiss the idea, yet the thought lingered in my mind like a tantalizing dream.

He scoffed again, waving away my concerns. "I am a prince; there is no better match I can think of," he replied, his arrogance evident.

"And what if I do not wish to marry you?" I challenged, though a part of me already knew the answer.

He laughed, a deep, knowing laugh. "Then you would not have spent this long standing before me," he said, his smile widening as he saw the truth in my eyes.

I bit my lip, considering his words. "If you can get my father to agree to the match, then I will agree as well," I said finally, a small smile tugging at my lips.

Daemon smirked, his eyes alight with determination, a glimmer of triumph shining within them.

"The prince always gets what he wants," he said, leaning in closer, his breath warm against my skin. "And this time, what I want is you."

A warmth spread through me at his bold declaration, the intensity of his gaze holding me captive. "You really think it will be that easy?" I teased, my voice softening into playful intrigue.

"Nothing worth having ever is," he replied.

A/n - Otto Hightower is off seething somewhere

[jester-lover]

if it’s not too much trouble can i please request savannaclaw, octavinelle, and diaspmnia with a starfire-like reader?

-much love,

anon

Hi anon! This was an amazing request, as I personally love dc comics, but I did take the liberty of shortening the post down to the dorm leaders, I hope this is okay!

Feat/ Leona, Azul, Malleus

CWs/ fluff, fem! Reader, I used og comic version and the teen titans cartoon version as reference

Leona

A significant other who embodies Starfire-like traits would be absolutely perfect for Leona. Most of the traits that embody Starfire—this deep loyalty, strength, and kindness—are, in his opinion, all ideal for a significant other.

Leona would probably overdo it in terms of wooing you, probably because your sheer radiance kind of scares him. (But the second you two are together, he’s going to brag about you any chance he gets.)

Leona would be wrapped around your little finger, but never admit it. Anything you want, you get.

One of the other traits you possess is a deep affection for your loved ones, something that Leona is put off by at first but learns to love over time.

Your energy clashes with his general laziness, but when it comes to Spelldrive, he would love practicing with you.

“How do you not tire yourself out, flying around everywhere..?”

Azul

Do y'all know the Jessica and Roger Rabbit trope? 

He is so surprised when an objectively attractive, strong, and cheerful goddess-like girl such as yourself is asking him out.

Azul’s ego is flying.

Canonically, Starfire is over 6 feet tall; if height is a trait you also possess, he’ll be really happy. I hc Azul as a tall woman appreciator, partially because he likes seeing you peer over other people.

(And mostly because he likes powerful women.)

Azul is also fond of your fire abilities; he thinks they complement his well. He finds the green shade of those flames really beautiful.

“Dearest, could you please reach that book at the top shelf for me?”

Malleus

You two are literally designed for one another. We know that despite his stoic personality, he holds an affectionate fascination for certain things, like gargoyles or simple technology. I think this would greatly complement a Starfire-like girl.

This similarity in personality is made even bolder by the fact that both of you use green fire, a trait that earns you his praise.

The two of you honestly just have such a deep adoration for each other; the similarities of your gentle yet stern mannerisms, along with your royal statuses, make you an ideal co-ruler as well as an ideal partner for the future King of Briar Valley.

Malleus loves the gentleness and positivity of your personality and how sweetly you act toward not only him but his dear retainers as well.

He finds the fact that the sun is the source of your power to be a gorgeous contrast to him, a leader of nocturnal fae. Your own beauty both contrasts and highlights his.

“How does your light shine so brightly?”

[jeonggukookies]

the crown's kingdom || jjk

– summary: after rejecting many suitors, your mother chooses a husband for you, and her choice is none other than your worst nightmare: Jungkook, the prince heir of Aurum. How will you survive an arranged marriage with Jungkook, the one you hate the most?

– genre: royalty!au, enemies to lovers!au, prince!jungkook, queen!reader, arranged marriage - fluff/angst

– note: this is rewritten and reposted as i changed and added some NEW details regarding both oc and jungkook & loosely based on the history of mary stuart !! (i am so sorry)

– word count: 1.2K

The two countries, Caelestia and Luxuria, have been in conflict with each other for many generations now, with constant ongoing invasion battles and military campaigns, shedding hundreds of thousands of blood on each landmass. Being two border countries surrounded by the sea, both countries were hungry for the power, land, and wealth for it to be one.  

Tensions escalated even further after your father, the king, had been assassinated by a Luxuria anarchist. Luxuria soldiers saw this opportunity to put the Caelestia castle under siege, seeing this as their chance to finally take the country as their own. 

But what they didn’t know is that your mother, the Queen Consort, had given birth to his heir. 

The throne of Caelestia, was inherited by the daughter of King Constantine of Caelestia and Queen Consort Nylah, you, two days after you were born. 

During your childhood, your mother has been acting Queen Regent, taking care of all the responsibilities on your behalf since you’ve been crowned Queen. She wasn’t like most mothers, letting you live a privileged life, not wanting you to suffer through the hardships of royalty until you were of age. 

Despite spending most of your time with your many governesses and trying to play hide and seek in the castle with other noble children, the People of Luxuria still saw you as a threat. And by your seventh birthday, they were finally brave enough to send a message, that they still wanted your throne by seasoning your porridge with poison, intentionally killing your royal taster.  

With a failed assassination attempt, your mother sent you to the country of Aurum for your protection away from the Luxurians, hidden away from your own people across the sea. 

Not only were you the Queen of Caelestia, but because of your mother’s side, you were related to the Queen of Luxuria, meaning you could claim the Luxuria throne as yours if the Queen of Luxuria dies without a heir and if the people accept you.

Before marrying your father, she had been an Aurum noblewoman with land in Luxuria, and the Aurum court allowed you to be there for your safety and as a part of a small, meaningless alliance. 

Living at Aurum Court was almost the same as your own courts. The only difference was being with other Aurum royals. As a child, the Prince of Aurum had been a constant troublemaker, a reigning terror for his own people. He was known for cheekiness and confidence, getting out of tough situations with his charms and good looks. 

“Jungkook.” You forced a smile, entering the throne room after being suddenly summoned in the middle of the night. “What are you doing here?” 

He pointed in the direction in front of him, and there was his parents, the King and Queen consort of Aurum on their respective thrones with your mother standing next to his mother.

Your jaw dropped, not expecting her to be standing in front of you. You couldn’t even remember the last time you had seen her in person. The last few years, you’ve only been corresponding with letters to her. “What are you doing here?” 

“That’s no way to greet your mother.” She came forward to give you a quick hug and then returned back to her original position. “The Luxuria troops are getting stronger at the border.”

“And I’m sorry, how does this matter revolve around me and my country?” Jungkook asked. 

You rolled your eyes at Jungkook’s comment. As children, your personality always clashed with Jungkook. The two of you always tried to avoid each other at all costs.

Although you and Jungkook were raised together in the castle, experiencing the same exact royal lessons of courtesy, ballroom dancing and diplomacy, you never once could get along with Jungkook, turning everything with him into an argument or competition whether it was for academic endeavors or favoring the people of

the court.

“I took a risk coming here as Luxuria has barely allowed travel between our two countries,” she said. “I came here to finalize the alliance, that the two of you would wed.” 

Jungkook sighed. “It happened, didn’t it?” 

“What happened?” You asked, not understanding the context. “Hasn’t Jungkook been engaged with Princess Comet of Cometes since they were six?”

“The King legitimized his first-born and mistress’s son,” his mother explained.

Your heart dropped upon hearing the news. “She is no longer the Princess of Cometes?”

“I am afraid not, but good news, Jungkook, you have a new bride,” your mother announced. 

“This can’t be,” you insisted. “Surely, there’s someone else.” 

“My child, you will marry our son and make him the king of two countries, and then later put your claim on Luxuria once the queen dies. There, you two will have three countries,” the King said. 

But you never once wanted to rule Luxuria.  

“We have given you protection and will continue to do so for this alliance.” 

“But we cannot be wed,” Jungkook argued. 

“You will especially since you’ve scared all the other suitors away,” your mother said. 

You were fiercely known for your independence and stubbornness, always speaking your mind. Your honesty and independency allowed you to earn your title as the Ice Queen, but that was all because of Jungkook. 

Through the game of telephone and writing secretive notes around the castle, the whole castle knew how you rejected possibly the best suitor for love, Kim Namjoon. He would have given up his country for you, and everyone knew it. 

At the time you were thirteen, still lacking tact, you met with Namjoon in the library and told him that giving up his own country for someone was foolish and idiotic. And Jungkook, hiding behind the curtains of that room, ran with it, spreading the word that you broke Namjoon’s heart, needing more than him and his country as a power hungry queen. 

Kim Namjoon’s heart wasn’t the only one you broke. Prominent and wealthy families from neighboring realms had sent their sons to court you, yet their efforts left you unimpressed and unmoved. 

As the years went on, there were less and less potential suitors. No one wanted their son to marry someone who was an intimidating person, and no one especially wanted a queen that could not be controlled. 

“It’s time for this childhood rivalry of yours to end.” 

“Mother, you know he’s the reason why suitors are afraid of me.”

“Get over it,” Jungkook gritted through his teeth. 

“How dare he disrespect me as a queen?”

“He was thirteen.” Your mother groaned. “You will marry Jungkook for your people, for your country.” 

You stepped forward, distancing yourself away so no one could hear what you were about to say. “And you and I know he will not love me.”

As fortunate as your life was, there was still a burden to bear, a burden even heavier as a royal. You still sought for an union to secure your financial and political status in society. Despite being a queen and having almost everything you want, the one thing you want the most is the one thing you knew you couldn't have: love.

She sighed. “And we both know love does not matter for people like us.” 

“But did thou not love my father and he thee?” Despite his death, the story of your father and his legacy lives on, including his love story with your mother. 

“Indeed, we loved each other truly,” she said. “But stories like his and mine happen once in a lifetime. Perhaps, the promise of love and the future of reconciliation can come.” 

Taking a look over your shoulder. You see Jungkook smirking. “Well Ice Queen looks like we need each other after all.”

________

hello hello hello!

thank you for reading the prologue for this new series :) i am very excited! please let me know if you need more context or visuals of some things were confusing.

[celtigxr]

- - - - - The Pink Dread Master List

Aemond Targaryen x Plus Size!Celtigar!OfC Slow Burn - Friends to Enemies to Lovers

Summary: Theres so much bad blood between these two, but there is also longing... for what they used to have, for what might have been, had it not been for Aemond's betrayal.

Alternatively: First loves. Heartbreaks. Betrayals. Jealousy. Revenge. And repeat. The feud between former friends, Aemond and Valeana, sends a shockwave of social chaos for the Seven Realms as all gather to King's Landing for the Royal Conclave. A season of peace, intended to forge alliances through courtships and marriages, only for it to become a war of a different kind.

Cross Posted with AO3

Mindful of tags of TW below

Please reply if you want to be added to the tag list

Disclaimer: AI is not used in the writing of this story. It is primarily used to generate images when needed (for dresses, mostly), and to help with unique bard like songs, since I am terrible at writing songs and poems. Other than that, rest assured every word is written by me. I will clarify in each chapter when AI is being used and what for.

General Tags: MDNI, AemonxValeana end game, other ships, AFAB, PlusSize!OFC, Celtigar!OFC, Disabeled!OFC, Jealous!Aemond, Angry!Aemond, Healthy!Viserys, Enemies to Lovers, Aged Up characters, Fix It AU, The Dragons Do Not Dance, Eventual Smut, Redemption Arc for Aegon, Slight AegonxOFC, Slow Burn, pining, longing, angst. More may be added along the way. Genre: +18/MDNI, Romantic Comedy, Angst, Young Adult Drama, if Bridgerton had dragons. TW/CW: The story will contain realistic mental health themes. To avoid tumblr taking this post down, they will be coded:

Things such as E. D." Unalive Ideations, B0dy Dysm0rph!a, Blatant Fatph0bia, P T S D, descriptive trigger-induced anxiety attack due to P T S D, and a brief S A (By all definitions, it is, but... You'll see).

Other tw: Typical themes you find in the asoiaf universe. TW will be posted for individual chapters as we go. More may be added here.

Author's Note: Val and Aemond are end game in this, but the other ships are a surprise. I've got spreadsheets n shit.

Credits: Story cover made by me, divider found on pngtree

Prologue: With Friends Like These Chapter One: Return of the Crabs Chapter Two: Familiar Strangers Chapter Three: A King's Command Chapter Four: Unforgiven Chapter Five: Aegon's Doom Chapter Six: Aegon's Delight Chapter Seven: O, Brother Chapter Eight: Still Falling For You Chapter Nine: Protector Chapter Ten: What a Pity Chapter Eleven: Peace of Mind Chapter Twelve: High Horse (September 24th) Chapter Thirteen: Girl's Night (September 27th) Chapter Fourteen: The Will of Man (Sept 30th) Chapter Fifteen: Restless (TBA) Chapter Sixteen: Eggs & Bacon (TBA) Chapter Seventeen: The Daring (TBA) Chapter Eighteen: Hydrangeas (TBA) Chapter Nineteen: Pyres & Proposals (TBA) Chapter Twenty: Family Matters (TBA) Chapter Twenty-One: Green & Black (TBA) Chapter Twenty-Two: Maiden's Day (TBA) Chapter Twenty-Three: A Clash of Princes (TBA) Chapter Twenty-Four: ( to be written ) More chapters to come...

Please do not re-post, redistribute, or plagiarize my stories. I have no problems being a Karen and reporting immediately upon discovery without warning. All rights reserved for GRRM, the creator for this universe and characters, and HBO.

[childrenofcain-if]

Where do the ROs rank against each other in terms of Elias’ approval? What does he think of each of them?

ooh, good question!

W OSTENDORF: for obvious reasons, of course. elias knows them and also the fact that they’d been MC’s best friend for a decade before they lost touch with each other. he sees them as dependable, loyal, and a stabilizing influence—qualities he deeply values in everyone, especially the person he expects to love their only child for the rest of both their lives.

M WHITLOCK-SINGH: who tf wouldn’t like it if their kid was dating a literal heir to the royal throne? (even if they’re british) he also adores the fact that they have very polished manners and were raised to respect their elders, no matter their status. he’d likely just pester them to share gossip about what happens in the palace 💀

C LACROIX: SPOILERS 👀

V NÆSHOLM: ranks a bit lower because they’re way too intense with their piety and while he respects it, elias is generally uncomfortable with overtly religious folks. he also sees them as somewhat fragile and a bit too idealistic, which clashes with his more pragmatic nature. he’ll definitely approve of them more as time passes though, V can become very easy to like once you get to know them.

D DIACONU: point me to one parent who’d be happy enough to have someone like D dating their kid 💀 their commitment issues and tendency to avoid serious responsibilities will grate on elias a lot. he’ll probably only change his mind if he sees them being actively involved in making MC happy and working on their personal issues.

[wri0thesley]

hopeless romantic - percy (yandere demon oc) x reader (4.6k)

valentine's day has snuck up on you. somehow you don't think this one is going to be as pleasant as last year's.

cw: this is primarily a horror work. kidnapped reader, captive reader, mental torture. food warning, claustrophobia. mentions of (non-explicit): insects, emetophobia, dental trauma. general hopelessness and manipulation. REALLY fuck this guy!

a/n: for a very quick primer on percy, please read this, and/or see this!

(also i mentioned this last time i wrote something for lucas but getting a commission for one of my own ocs is so WILDLY exciting and flattering. waaah!!!)

this was a commissioned work.

You didn’t consider yourself a hopeless romantic. 

Perhaps you consider yourself a bit of a romantic, in that you’d always enjoyed a classic love story; re-read your copy of Pride and Prejudice until it had fallen apart, had occasional daydreams of handsome suitors and the swirl of a masquerade ball, had perhaps watched Labyrinth too often as a young woman and wondered ‘what if’ about the Goblin King and his domain--

But you had thought you knew enough not to expect fiction from real life. No balls for you; no impassioned declarations of love soaked to the bone, no royal promising he would move the world for you if only you asked. You had thought you would be content with a bouquet of flowers - a smile, a squeeze of the hand whilst watching a romantic comedy, a kiss goodnight that was a little awkward with a clash of teeth and tongue. That was the kind of life, you told yourself, that waited for an average person like you - and that, too, would be enough. Because companionship would be enough; somebody to walk through life with, somebody who understood you, somebody who would cuddle up to you at night. 

And then you had met Percy. 

You hadn’t been able to believe your luck. 

A man almost exactly like you’d imagined? Someone who held the door open for you and smiled so softly it made you ache, who would sit with you and talk about books and whatever else passed through your minds for as long as you wanted? Always seeming to know what to say, always there for you - he’d brought you a bouquet of roses for your first date, for God’s sake. And though you’d been anxious about the ostentation of them, holding them at the restaurant, the way people seemed to be staring at you from every table . . . you had bit back the nervousness and given him a shaking smile and let yourself be swept off your feet. 

You wish that you’d seen the signs then. 

Maybe you had? Maybe you’d noticed them all and simply let them roll off of you instead, water off a duck’s back, because if you let Percy go you’d surely never find anyone like him again? And they had seemed such little things, too. Waiting just a fraction of a moment too long to comfort you when you were frightened or anxious - almost as if he was letting the moment shimmer in the air, develop as far as he could. Always being awake after you’d had a nightmare (you’d bought the chronic insomnia excuse at the time, but . . . surely someone who never seemed to sleep should be more tired than Percy ever seemed to be?). Nightmares, coincidentally, you don’t remember having so vividly or so regularly before you met Percy-- 

“Hey,” he’d murmured, soothing you, pulling you into him, warm hands rubbing up and down your back as he’d whispered sweet nothings into your hair. “Shh, sweetie. Just a nightmare. Nothing to worry about.”

And those nightmares - the ones where you thought you’d woken up, eyes as wide as saucers, body pinned to the bed by some unknown force . . . and slowly, slowly, the creature of spindle limbs and glowing eyes and sharp bright teeth had crept into your view, sharp fingernails running over the duvet and the blankets, Percy’s presence beside you in the nightmare non-existent--

You curl your body around yourself on the hard wooden floor; there’s a bed, in the corner of the room, but you preferred nowadays to stave off sleep for as long as you could. 

Looking back on it, you think you should have known. Should have run for the hills - your friends had loved him at first, citing his warm smile and the way he treated you like a princess . . . but before you knew it, your friends had dropped away, because you were spending all of your time with him instead. If you still had your cell phone . . . how long had it been since you spoke to your best friend? What was the last thing you said to her? 

Your stomach rolls uncomfortably as you think about how it was probably something about Percy. 

You were such a fool. 

You pull yourself off the bed, your body aching with the effort of it. You don’t get much exercise nowadays; this little room, with a bed and a desk and no windows and the strange sigils scrawled on the floor in paint (definitely paint, you tell yourself fiercely, though it shines strangely when the light hits it and is a dark, dried out red that makes your stomach roll) is all of the space you have. You can stride from one wall to another in fifteen paces. Thirty floorboards. 

You’ve counted all of these. 

You lower yourself onto the chair by the desk, your back crying out in pain. Even if you had been sleeping properly on the bed, it was hardly comfortable - and when one is as racked with nightmares as you are, tossing and turning and twisting and begging . . . Well. No wonder you hurt so much. 

You tread carefully. You have seen this room become a thousand things; have seen a dark pit open up in the middle of the sigil and all manner of creatures crawl out of it, crowding up to you with gaping maws and blood-shining teeth and great pits of eyes. Spiders. Bugs. Screaming. Three days when all of the light in the entire room - your entire existence - had gone from the world, and you had fumbled and stumbled around the room without direction. 

(Into Percy, a couple of times, who had laughed and held you tight and whispered sweet nothings into your ear that might have been romantic, once upon a time, but now just lilted with mockery. 

“Oh,” he’d murmured, soft and silky against your ear. “Poor thing. Are you scared of the dark?”

You had not thought yourself scared of the dark - but until those three days, you suppose, you had not known what the dark was. Had not known it could settle so thick and heavy like covering your entire world with ink; had not known it would muffle everything else so completely. Percy had kissed you demanding and hungry in the middle of the nothingness and you had hated yourself as you’d clung to his shirt in between the kisses and begged him not to leave you there. 

He had, of course). 

There is one other thing you’ve counted. 

As best you can, anyway; it’s hard to keep real track when Percy’s comings and goings can be so sporadic. He remembers to feed you, you think, most days - but with no window, no way to tell the time truly . . . days can blur into one another. And so, though you think it’s February, you wouldn’t have known for sure that it was the thirteenth of February, unless--

“Friday the thirteenth,” Percy had hummed, that what-might-have-been-morning, as he’d held you softly in his arms as you writhed and whimpered, the walls closing in on you. It’s a dirty trick, what Percy can do, you think; the hallucinations, the untruths . . . interspersed with the truth, just so you never quite know what is real or not. You’d known in some primal part of you that this one had to be one of the tricks - walls do not really cave in on you, you are not living in some ancient Egyptian-themed action movie where walls are booby-trapped to crush you into tiny pieces - but when the threat of death looms over you in such a way, you suppose that your mind cannot truly be reasoned with. 

You hadn’t thought you were claustrophobic before this, coincidentally. It’s amazing how Percy can somehow bring out fears you didn’t know you had. 

The times he uses whatever power he possesses to play with you like a spider with a fly trapped in its web are preferable. At least, you think, probing tenderly with your tongue the spot at the back of your mouth where you used to have a molar before Percy had shown you the glint of pliers and murmured for you to ‘be still now, sweetie, or it will hurt more - oh, don’t tremble like that, you’re making it awfully hard to concentrate--’. 

“February,” you’d told him, and he’d laughed. 

“Yes,” he’d said. “Valentine’s Day tomorrow, then? I’ll have to think of something special for us.” 

The very words had sent a tingling shudder down your spine. You hadn’t bothered smiling for him - for someone who had gotten you where you were with a faux tilt of his eyebrows, with pretty lies wrapped in sugar, with promises he never intended to keep . . . he doesn’t like artifice. He’d told you, that first night you had found yourself bound and gagged and trapped, that he had never found you so pretty - and then he’d smiled at you and pinched your cheek hard enough to bruise and promised you that you were going to be wearing that expression rather a lot. 

He’d been right. 

The fear of what he was going to do must have crackled in the air; Percy’s eyes had gone half-lidded and he’d sighed, pleased, before he’d pressed a kiss onto your forehead and let the walls recede back to where they were supposed to be. 

“Something very special,” he’d said, letting go of you; watching, amused, as you’d scrambled away from him. 

You’d tried to ingratiate yourself to him at first; had tried to be well-behaved, not to snap and fight back at him, in the hope it would make him ease up. You’d learnt very quickly that there was no point in doing such a thing; it doesn’t matter if you struggle. Percy will treat you the same either way. 

If anything, the outright shows of fear - the proof that you’re terrified of him - seem to please him more. The more scared you get the quicker, the sooner he usually ends the torment. 

Unfortunately, that’s not exactly something you can pretend. Not with a man - a thing - that can sense your emotions on the air, that hungers for the terror that runs cold through your veins. You can pretend to shudder all you want - and you’d tried - but Percy just clicks his tongue and pulls you back to him and murmurs; “Well. That’s not going to do, is it?”

So he leaves you, that Friday the thirteenth of February, to stew in the fear of what a Valentine’s Day with a demon might entail. 

You and Percy had begun to date, officially, at the beginning of January after meeting at a friend’s New Year party. Neither of you big drinkers (as it turns out, stimulants like alcohol have very little effect on a creature like Percy, but you had not known that at the time), you had found yourself feeling frazzled and frightened by all of the new people and the laughter and the whirling out-of-control dancing, and had been hiding out in that friend’s cloakroom amongst other people’s coats with a book you’d smuggled in in the pocket of your dress. Percy had found you there.

You know now you must have been a buffet; perhaps the most scared thing in the whole room, your anxiety leading him directly to you and setting your life on track for . . . this. But at the time he had recognised the battered old paperback in your hand and been all-too-eager to talk to you about it, smile on his face, his voice kind. You had thought him handsome - and when he’d told you he owned a bookstore, you think you fell in love a little bit right there and then. You’d shared a kiss at midnight and been found afterwards by the mutual friend who had invited you, who had effusively shared praise of the man - he’s magic, she’d promised, cured my insomnia with nothing more than a tea blend! Gave her a couple of nightmares for a few nights, but after that - poof! - and you had really thought . . . 

You had really looked at Percival Thacker and thought; oh. There he is. 

So of course, this wouldn’t be your first Valentine’s Day. 

Your last Valentine’s Day, Percy had gone all-out for - after you’d admitted to him that you couldn’t afford much, that you hadn’t been dating that long, that you were nervous about it . . . He’d told you earnestly that he simply liked you so much, afterwards, and he’d wanted to show it - but of course, now you know his true nature, you know that the shame that must have come off of you in waves and the fear that he thought you cheap and the nervousness that you could not match his energy must have all been a veritable feast for him. 

The gift of hindsight, you suppose. 

So you see, you had a point of reference for what a Valentine’s Day with somebody you thought you might love would be like; you had that thought of roses and a fancy dinner and a trip to the ballet and a first edition of your favourite book. That’s what you’d thought a Valentine’s with Percy would be like, perhaps for the rest of your life. 

And then he had shown himself to you, in all of his true colours, and there had been far more pressing concerns than making sure you remembered to budget enough to at least buy him a card. 

But what he might do, now, as a ‘Valentine’s Gift’ . . . knowing how much he likes you crying, whimpering, begging and frightened out of your skull . . . the very thought of it makes you want to bury your head into the thin pillow and sleep the day away entirely. What a pity that he’s just as capable of getting to you whilst you’re sleeping as he is anywhere else. 

You know that you’re feeding into what he wants by agonising over it; that he can probably feel your anxiety over what is going to happen to you from everywhere in the house, the force of it is so strong. But you simply cannot help yourself. Considering he’d been the first to admit, easy and smiling as ever, that his greatest flaw was a tendency towards laziness, he’s been ever-inventive when it comes to ways to make you feel like you’re going to die of a fear-induced heart attack. 

The whole day, you feel yourself hovering on a precipice; your throat ready to close up at a moment’s notice, your entire psyche balanced on a fragile tightrope ready to snap. Every tiny sound from somewhere in the house makes you jump, sets you on edge, straining for the sound of Percy’s footfalls. The house is not always so noisy, of course - it bends to whatever Percy wants. Sometimes you wonder if this little room is even a part of the cramped little townhouse Percy lives in at all, or if it does not exist in some other dimension - but you are not permitted to step foot outside of it, so it does not really matter. 

You even toy with the idea he’s going to do nothing. He’s going to let you stay here, stewing in might-have-beens and maybes, instead of letting it all build to a crescendo. 

When you do hear his feet on the floorboards, the click of a lock . . . you scold yourself for thinking that at all. Such an outcome would have been far too kind for Percy. 

He walks into the room with a smile on his face. You do not often see him without it; that soft-eyed, careful smile that had so enchanted you at first but has seemed to grow more and more mocking the more often he has used it as a weapon. The door clicks closed behind him, and though he does not touch the handle you hear the noise of locks clacking shut, one by one. Even if you tried to run - to overpower him and go for the door - you know that it would not open for you. 

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” he says to you, with that mocking smile you hate so much. He makes a great show of looking around the room; the bare walls, the floorboards, this prison cell of a home that he has engineered to be your own personal hell. “Oh, this isn’t going to do at all.” 

You’d had some thoughts about the idea of magic, before all of this. You’d always hoped it existed in some capacity - the problem, you suppose, with being a voracious reader and a fantasist - but whenever you had thought of it, you’d thought . . . Wands, or snapping fingers, or little incantations. Percy moves the world around him without blinking; the only feeling you get after he exerts himself to use a little of his power is a faint sickness in the pit of your stomach, the taste of iron lingering in the back of your throat. 

And then there is a little table in the middle of your room; two chairs, and a tablecloth, and silverware glinting in the light. 

“Well?” He asks, and your head bounces from the table and around to face him. In his arms, once more are a bouquet of roses - and you could cry, you could vomit, you could tear him into pieces. You recognise the soft rose hue of the tablecloth; the design of the chairs, the centrepiece in the middle of the table and the dozen red roses that Percy holds in his arms. “I thought we had such a wonderful time last year . . . we can’t quite replicate it, but I’ll do my best.”

It is exactly the same as last year - if last year’s Valentine’s had taken place in a jail cell. He takes your hand and guides you none-too-gently to the table in the middle of the room (it looks silly, there; the prison you call your life is too small for the ostentatious chairs and the dining table). Your eyes frantically scan over the chair and the table, just to ensure there are no secrets lying in wait there. 

(A scorpion, ready to crawl from underneath a plate. Rotting meat, ready to give you the worst attack of emetophobia you’ve had in your life. Some kind of venomous spider on the chair, waiting to bite you and paralyse you and have its poison destroy you from the inside out). 

You take your seat at the table - and nothing happens. You watch Percy warily as he takes his own seat, as he gently places the bouquet to one side - you’d been so rattled to see it, you realise, you hadn’t even taken it from his arms. He doesn’t say anything about it, though. Simply sighs and stretches, looking around your little bare room as if it is the restaurant you two were in only one year ago. 

“I didn’t think we’d need a menu,” he tells you, with a small smile. “I thought we’d simply have everything we had last time.” 

He’d ordered for you, last time - you’d felt so overwhelmed at the restaurant he’d made reservations at, by the class of people around you and the glimpse of the prices on the wine menu, that you’d been glad of it. Looking back, you know he did that on purpose - but at the time, you had only been able to gush about how generous he was. 

There is no waiter to bring your food. There’s that iron again, the tang in the back of your throat - and then the plate of appetisers is before you, your glass full of viscous red wine. It looks far too much like blood, now, for you to want to drink it. 

Through every course, you wait for the sting. 

This cannot be all of it. There must be something more; something hiding behind the sighs of pleasure that Percy makes and the attempts to call back to conversations you’d had. He doesn’t seem to mind you have very little to say in return - he’s happy to talk about how his cat is doing, how the bookshop is faring under this cost of living crisis, a new book he bought last week and is enjoying--

But nothing comes. Nothing happens. For all intents and purposes, the two of you are simply reliving your first Valentine’s date - only this time, in a windowless room, after your boyfriend has kept you captive for months and brought you to the brink of death and manipulated you and used you and hurt you--

The food looks exactly the same on the plate; beautifully presented, and delicious. Your stomach rumbles in hunger, but the thought of what still might come flashes through your mind.

You can’t bring yourself to eat a thing.

“My compliments to the chef,” Percy chuckles, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin. “A pity you’ve barely eaten anything.”

“I’m not hungry,” you whisper, into the air between you, and Percy gives you a sympathetic look. How could you be hungry, when you’d feared everything you might put on your fork would turn to ashes or organs or worse in your mouth? When you’d spent the entire meal wondering about what he was going to do next, what he was going to say next?

He clicks his tongue, tutting at you sympathetically.

“Poor thing,” he says, voice dropping with that faux sympathy. “We can’t have you losing your strength, now. I’ll make sure you have your favourite tomorrow - just to see if we can tempt you into eating.” He leans forward, catching your chin in his hand, still smiling. “I’d hate for you to waste away into nothing.”

This close, you can see the slitted pupils of his eyes, and you know he must feel the way that you swallow. You’re so vulnerable like this - he could do anything to you, use this moment to break you in any way he chooses. 

The moment passes. He lets go of you. 

“Well,” he says, “that was pleasant, wasn’t it?” He sees you staring, helpless, and laughs. “Oh, sweetie. Did you think I would hurt you on Valentine’s Day? When you know how much I adore you? How I couldn’t bear to be without you?”

“It’s never stopped you before,” you whisper to him, a quiet, barbed little thing - and Percy lets you say it, and then throws his head back and laughs. 

“Ah,” he says, “but I’m absolutely stuffed. You’re a meal all on your own. You’ve been terrified of what I might do the whole time! Anything else would have just been greed, I fear.”

You look up at him, barely daring to believe it. He’s really just going to leave? He’s going to take what he did from the meal, from the trembling edge of fear you’ve felt all day, and simply . . . let you think that was enough? 

“Th-that’s it?” You ask, hating how small your voice sounds. You clench your fists atop the table cloth, the few bites of food that you did manage to get down churning in your stomach. 

Percy tilts his head to the side, and then laughs again. 

“How silly of me,” he says, and your throat constricts. “No, no. I have another present for you. I almost forgot!”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a piece of paper, crumpled, folded over and over. He unfolds it for you, and you see that it is a sheet torn from a newspaper - his smile does not budge as he leans over and places it before you on the table. 

You take a moment before you look down at it. You don’t know what it would be, after all; and it would not be the first time something that has seemed perfectly harmless has turned out to be anything of the sort. Percy waits, patiently, and you finally bring yourself to look down and read the small, cramped letters. 

That’s a photograph of you. 

You stare up from the page, caught in mid-laugh, your dark hair blowing across your face. In the background is a sunny day at the park; it takes a moment for you to remember it being taken. It takes a while, now, to remember you had a life before these four walls. 

There are other photos of you, too. One with your family. A baby photo, posed perfectly in a photographer’s studio. A picture of your graduating class, with you circled--

Your eyes scan desperately over the words. You can’t quite take it in. You try to read it properly, but your vision skims and sputters and spots, and only certain phrases make it through the haze of terror and confusion that you feel descending over you. 

‘Missing for eight months’ . . . ‘Every effort has been made to locate her’ . . .‘Family have called off the search’ . . . ‘Presumed dead’ . . . ‘Memorial service to be announced’ . . .

That’s it. 

They have been looking for you - apparently in all the wrong places. There’s something about a forest being combed over, a river being strained for a body. No mention of a townhouse owned by your boyfriend. No mention of a boyfriend at all. 

They’ve been looking for you, and now they’re not. They’ve thrown you to one side; they’ve said ‘that’s enough, we’d rather just act as though she’s dead’. There’s nobody coming to save you. 

You hadn’t realised how much the idea that someone might find you, that you could go back to your normal life one day, that people were out there looking for you had sustained you until you’d read in stark black and white that it wasn’t going to happen.

The future that stretches out in front of you now is simply Percy, and these four walls, and what it feels like to be afraid.

“Why do you look so frightened?” Percy asks, as you sit there, trembling. The table and the chairs and the remains of the dinner fade to nothing around you, and your legs buckle - before you know it, you are knock-kneed and awkward on those awful floorboards, the sheet of newspaper still crumpled in your hands. You can’t breathe. 

Any hope of escape, any hope someone was looking for you, any thoughts that perhaps they’d find Percy’s little house and break it open until they found your prison cell - gone, like that. Nothing to think about. No hope to cling to. 

And he’d called it a present!

He kneels down before you, reaching out - and his arms are wrapping around you, pulling you closer, holding you against him with a grip like a vice. 

“There’s nothing to be scared of,” he murmurs, against the top of your head, as the tears refuse to fall and the certainty that you are either going to be stuck here until you die, or until he wrings you dry, washes over you. “Isn’t it good news?” 

A kiss. From out of the corner of your eye, you see the red roses he had brought you; they’re on the floor now that the table and chair have been removed. A fat spider crawls from the inside of one of the roses, inching closer and closer to you both. Percy croons softly into your ear, fingers running through your hair. 

Is there a point, you wonder, where you will stop being afraid? Where all of this will become background noise, and you’ll be a useless shell of a person? Because at this moment, with the thought of who-knows-how-long stretching on in front of you and all of the things that Percy could do to you, all of the ways he could fuck with your mind and your heart and everything in between--

You think that perhaps being a shell would be better. Percy clucks, rocking you against him like he’s trying to soothe the fear out of you, though both of you know it is the opposite--

“It’s wonderful news, isn’t it? We get to have the rest of your life together.”

[haitaniapologist]

mon soleil ( lyney x fem!reader )

warnings — royal au, general fluff, indications of human trafficking, misogyny, class clash(?), if you squint enough spoilers of the fontaine archon quests and lyney's story quest.

hi! june making a comeback bc lyney is my newest obsession. reblogs and comments are appreciated!

you never understood why you were so fascinated by magic. maybe it was because of how it could bring a bit of color to your dull life, or maybe it was because of the pair of violet eyes from your childhood that always managed to make you smile with some tricks. 

the second option was the truth, but you never spoke about it out loud. the memory of grayish hair and purple eyes was so old that it was almost fading away, and you couldn't remember his face nor his name — sometimes you wondered if he was just an illusion your mind made up to compensate for the lonely years of your childhood, however, your gut always told you he was real. 

the magician from your childhood plagued your dreams with the doubt of his very existence, until a fateful day when a magic show was held in the chief of justice's state.  

as the daughter of one of fontaine's forum members and a count, you were expected to follow your father and sit pretty at his side during such endeavors, maybe to find a husband or just as an ornament for him to show off — but you hated it, because it only showed you how lonely you were. all the other girls were friends and could dance freely with whoever asked for one, while you sat at your father's side, though, sometimes, the conversations you heard were quite interesting. 

your father always said he was doing it to protect you, so, when he announced another ball at the chief of justice's state, you paid no mind. a new dress and new jewels were at your bed when the time came, and you got ready like you always used to. 

the way to the chief of justice's house was the same, though you could see more commoners than normal crowind in the streets. before you could even ask your father if there was having some kind of celebration for them, he already started to complain, and the mask took over your face — it was how you called your ability to hear what the nobles said with a neutral face, even if you wanted to roll your eyes and sneer at their nauseous word. 

the mask stayed in your face the whole way and even when you arrived at the fancy state, greeting the other nobles and hearing them talk nonsense about the crowd in the way. the ballroom was decorated slightly differently, as if the chief of justice prepared a show for his guests, as the chairs were facing a stage and unknown staff members were running around. 

the talk only stopped when the chief of justice himself arrived at the small circle you were in with your father, and you averted your eyes to your shoes. monsieur neuvilette, as kind as he was, still had a position greater than yours. 

“mademoiselle y/n.” he greeted you, gloved hand taking yours and soft lips caressing your knuckles. you gave him a courtesy, the mask still on your face, though you felt nervous — you could feel a pair of eyes watching your very movement, as if waiting for you to notice them. “i hope the magic show will be of your liking.” 

at the word magic, your eyes lit up, and you finally looked at the chief of justice's face. “magic show?” you asked in surprise, mind already thinking about the violet eyes of your childhood.

the mask probably slipped off, as when you focused back on neuvilette's face, he was giving you the gentlest smile you ever saw. “indeed. i saw one of the magician's shows with the supreme judge, and i thought it would be good to change our endeavors this time.” he explained, hand still holding yours. 

“what's the name of the magician, monsieur neuvilette?” it was fruitless to ask for it, since you couldn't remember his name, but you were still curious. you knew about some magicians of the court, but never about one who caught lady furina's attention to the point of her going to show of theirs. maybe, just maybe… you knew he was going to be talented someday. 

neuvilette kissed your hand again. “i think the show is about to start, mademoiselle. shall we go?” he offered you his arm and took it without thinking, though maybe that was what your father wanted — having his daughter married to the chief of justice was a great honor, after all. however, it wasn't what you wanted. 

maybe you just needed a closure from your childhood — to say you were in love with someone you only saw thrice was madness, but he made you feel like a normal person for once in your life. he made you laugh and smile like no else did, and he was the only person that saw you without the mask. monsieur neuvilette, with all his rich and soft words, would only make you more miserable. 

you followed the chief of justice to the front row of the chairs, sitting next to him albeit uncomfortable. all the eyes were on you two, since he never expressed any interest in anyone until, apparently, now. the blonde traveler, who arrived at the court some days prior, was sitting at your side too, and you enjoyed hearing their traveling companion talking about everything and anything with neuvilette. it was good to hear mundane words coming from a different mouth but, as soon as when you started to feel more comfortable around them, the lights were turned off and you could see two silhouettes at the stage. 

“monsieurs and mademoiselles, welcome to lyney and lynette's magic show!” an enthusiastic voice spoke up and, when the lights above the stage were turned on again, you grabbed the end of your seat's armrests. 

the eyes. the eyes from your childhood were looking directly at you once again. 

“is everything alright, mademoiselle y/n?” you heard neuvilette asking and you could only nod, eyes never leaving the magician's figure. it was him — it was the boy who made you dream with flowers and sincere laughs, the boy who made everything else besides him feel so dull and boring. unconsciously, you smiled, and you watched as his smile, too, grew bigger, eyes never leaving your face. 

the show was mesmerizing and incredible. you always knew he would be talented when he grew up — the determination in his eyes to make you smile whenever he performed a magic trick for you back then was what brought him there, to the applause and screams of nobles and senators. lyney knew how to hold a crowd's attention, his charming smile and playful words, in combination with lynnette's calm and soft movements made them an unstoppable duo.

you held your breath when he made lynettte disappear inside the water, squealed when she came back in the middle of the chairs, giggled when he made birds and even a tea set appeared from his hat. you couldn't tear his eyes away from lyney, not even when neuvilette spoke to you — how could you not look at him, now that you've found him? 

“now, monsieurs and mademoiselles, the last trick of the night is going to happen, but not the least important.” lyney smiled at the crowd, a wooden box being positioned behind him. “and, for this trick, i will need the help of the audience. any volunteers?” the nobles started to scream, and you frowned, an ugly feeling spreading out inside your body. 

did lyney remember you? or you were just his first guinea pig? 

you took a deep breath, not trying to jump into conclusions. you needed to talk to him, and you would — if not today, then in another day. you knew who he was now, and that was the biggest step you ever took. 

but before you could revert your eyes to his form, gloved fingers held your chin and turned your head towards their owner, and you blinked in surprise at how close neuvilette's face was. however, before he could even open his lips to say something, another pair of gloved fingers were holding your hand, and you returned your face to where it was, meeting lyney's eyes once again. !would this beautiful lady accept to be my assistant in this trick?”

it was refreshing how he asked you, and not neuvilette, and how he didn't even mention the fact you were being his companion. “yes, of course, monsieur magician. it will be my pleasure.”

“splendid!” he exclaimed, fingers squeezing your hand. despite both of you wearing gloves, you could feel his warmth. “dear sister, if you may.” you were passed from lyney to lynette, who led you to a twin of the wooden box on the stage. 

“he finally found you.” she whispered in your ear, voice as quiet as the wind, that you almost didn't hear because of the screams of the crowd. you managed to capture the disappointed eyes of your father, like they were knives being targeted at you by an assassin. but, for the first time in your life, you didn't care. 

you tried to listen when lyney started to explain the trick, but lynette's words were still resonating in your head. they meant he was also looking for you, wasn't he? that was a good sign, you thought. you entered the box with the help of another assistant, lynette nowhere to be seen — she would probably play a part in the trick, after all. 

it was dark and a bit quiet inside the box, but you could feel someone, for some reason, moving it. you would never question a magician's way of doing his tricks, but you hoped nobody could see what was happening now. lyney deserved to win the favor of all these nobles, to have many sponsoring him and lynette. soon, the box stopped, and you could hear the audience counting to zero. that was it, then — the trick was about to end.

the crowd cheered, and it seemed like it worked. soon, the door of the box opened, but all you could see was lyney — the playful glint in his eyes and his happy smile. you accepted his hand and stepped out of the box, and the crowd cheered once more. you gave the magician a soft smile, remembering to use the mask in front of all these people. 

but you were sure they could see the redness on your cheeks when he kissed your hand. “you are, mademoiselle, the most beautiful assistant i had so far.”

and with that, the magic show was over. 

— 

you needed to find him. 

after the show ended, all the nobles wanted to talk with lyney and you were whisked away from the stage by neuvilette, who led you to another cycle of nobles — this time, not your father's friends, but younger senators who had similar ideologies to yours. it was refreshing to hear young people talking about what to do with the poor of the country, those who were suffering in the streets, then blaming them for the economic crisis fontaine was going through. 

however, you weren't in the mind to talk about politics, far from it. you needed to talk with lyney, but he wasn't nowhere to be seen now — until you saw a pair of violet eyes looking at you through the windows of the balcony, and you knew that was your cue. 

“monsieur neuvilette?”  you whispered for him in the middle of a conversation, and he leaned in to hear you better, while still paying attention to the senator talking to him. “i will go to the balcony to get some fresh air.” you didn't need his permission because he wasn't your husband — he wasn't your anything, actually — but social rules were still expected in a woman's behavior. 

“of course.” he kissed your knuckles once more, but what he said next made your stomach drop. “but be back soon, my dearest, your father has an important announcement to make.”

that could only mean your marriage to him. it would make sense why you were kept at his side throughout all night, why he was calling you by such an endearing term only reserved to those who had the blessing of the supreme judge. it made your heart burn and your vision to be blurry, but you were determined to reach the balcony — no one dared to interrupt you, maybe because the mask was off and no one saw you expressing that many emotions before. 

you opened the doors of the balcony quickly, hoping he was already there. but you found no one, and your heart burned even more — you were sure you saw his eyes asking you to meet him there! were you too blinded by his presence that you were seeing things now? 

“i am deeply sorry for making you wait, mademoiselle y/n.” you heard his voice and turned around to meet him, lyney's hands already finding yours and making the right one to rest on his chest. you could feel how quickly his heart was beating, almost in sync with yours.

you stayed in silence for a few moments, all the words you wanted to tell him now gone in his presence. “who i saw here, then, since it was not you?” it was what you managed to stay, though not what you wanted to. 

he chuckled, and you swore it was the most beautiful sound you ever heard in your life. “lynette. the nobles weren't leaving me alone, and i needed to speak with you.” he whispered, his breath fanning your face. “having a twin sister has its perks.” you nodded, lips parting to ask him all the questions you wanted, but he was quicker than you. “can i make a magic trick?”

you leaned your head to the side, unconsciously, a little bit confused, but nodded anyway. lyney took his hat from his head and took a flower out of it, handing it to you. before you could thank him for it, he took it again from your hands, hat already sitting comfortably at his head, and made it disappear. 

“lyney! that was such a beautiful rainbow rose!” you scolded him, but despite the tone of your voice, he was smiling fondly and with something more shining on his eyes. 

“we never lose something in magic, mon soleil.” you felt his hand on your ear, putting some strands of your hair behind it, his fingers staying there for some more moments than necessary — he had an electric touch, one that brought your heart back to life after so many years of being sleeping, just waiting for him like in the fairytales. “do not you feel something different?” he whispered, his face the closest it ever was. 

you were too lost looking at his eyes to notice anything before, but there was an additional weight on the same ear he touched. you lift your fingers and the flower petals met your skin, as soft as the silk sheets you slept every night. you gasped, though that was the same magic trick he did with you the first time you met — you were crying in the garden after some rude words from your father, and lyney took as his mission to make you smile and forget what it was said to you. both of you were still children, both faces with immature features and innocence shining in your eyes, but even if now you were older, you still felt like the same girl from back then. 

you still felt the same happiness she did at his presence. 

“how can i repay you?” you whispered, looking up at him through your lashes, the waltz playing inside just a quiet sound that made the moment more intimate than it should be — but you weren't asking to repay for just now or the magic tricks he did, but for the moments of happiness and humanity he gave you. in those small moments of your childhood, lyney reminded you that you were first a human, and second a noble. it was hard to remember this with the position you had, but you always remembered his smile and the giggles he managed to coach out of you. 

he smiled at you, hands now cupping your face. “would my y/n be willing to give me a kiss?”

giggling, you lifted your head a bit more, meeting his lips while grabbing his shirt to bring him even closer.

you were no stranger to kissing, the stable boys having the honor of being your guinea pigs for this art, but kissing lyney was the first time you kissed someone with such raw emotion — the way your hands gripped him in desperation, too afraid of him going away without any explanation again, the way his hands held you as if you were his most treasured prize, the way your lips touching spoke more than any words could. 

lyney broke the kiss, resting his forehead on yours, and you closed your eyes — to feel him. “i am deeply sorry for my disappearance,” he whispered. “there was not a day that you were not in my mind, y/n.” you could only nod, kissing his jaw. 

“it is alright,” you whispered back. “i know my father's deeds. what he did to you and lynette, lyney?” you weren't dumb and knew your father was a horrible man, especially to his staff. he would sell them to other nobles just for making a small mistake, and whenever one of your young ladies disappeared, you knew he sold them to be bed warmers of one of his friends. 

it was disgusting, but you couldn't do anything — your position as his daughter forbid you to do so. 

“he sold lynette.” he admitted, and you opened your eyes, this time holding his face between your hands. 

“you do not need to tell me what happened.” you comforted him, kisses on his face followed by your words. “what matters is that you and her are now here and thriving. i always knew you would be talented, lyney.” your words felt like an antidote to a poisoned man, and lyney could only smile. although he only started to do magic tricks for you to see if he was as good a magician as his master, your smiles and giggles became his reason to try better everyday — and after he left, seeing you again became his fuel to become the best magician the court ever saw. 

“and i always knew you would become the most beautiful lady of this court, mon soleil.” 

before your lips could meet again, the chief of justice's surprised voice rang in the air of the balcony. “mademoiselle y/n?” you and lyney turned around, your eyes widening at the sight of the man you were probably going to be engaged in a few moments. you could see disbelief and anger in his eyes, but hurt and sadness shined the brightest. you didn't know what to say, hiding behind lyney who stepped in front of you, maybe to shield you what was coming next — you never demonstrated any interest in the chief of justice, in anyone actually, then why was he looking so forlorn at seeing you in the arms of another man? 

you were saved from any explanations by a scream coming from the inside of the ballroom, which made the chief of justice turn his attention to what was happening inside his home. 

“were you engaged to him?" lyney asked, still in front of you and looking at the commotion inside. he hoped lynette managed to get away safely. 

you furrowed your brows. “no, of course not. i think my father wanted to make his bride.” you explained, brows still furrowed by what was happening. people were screaming and running, and you could hear some servants saying a maid found a dead body. 

“good.” lyney whispered, turning his face to you once more. “lynette killed your father.” he admitted, no shame on his features. although the news were supposed to shock you, were supposed to make you sad beyond human comprehension — after all, the boy you've loved for years just admitted his twin sister killed your father — you just nodded. 

that caught him by surprise, but lyney soon chuckled. “you have two options, mon soleil. stay and be the bride of the chief of justice, or go with me.” he offered you his hand, eyes shining with hope. “i can not guarantee you will have the same life you did, but i can promise that my heart will always be yours and, while i live, nothing is going to harm your beautiful face.” lyney poured his heart out to you, and sighed in relief when you squeezed his hand. 

“how i can let you go again, lyney? take me wherever you go.”

@softbajis here you go loser

[king-crawler]

Have you seen the Disney speed storm king candy model yet. Like don’t get me wrong I’m happy to see my lil dude bro get more attention but also he looks like a bald chipmunk

(He also kinda reminds me of silver in sonic x shadow generations?????)

☹️ Who is this clash royale creature devoid of all character. Where are his clever little candy & royalty motifs. Even his bow tie. GONE . Nowhere to be seen. DISNEY‼️ GET YOUR GRUBBY PAWS OFF OF HIM. YOU DISOWNED HIM. REMEMBER⁉️ HES OURS NOW.

YOU HAVE LOST KING CANDY PRIVILEGES.

👈 OUT ‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️

[kittensartswriting]

I watched a book review video, where there was a broader argument that political fantasy is inherently hard to end in a satisfying way and it got me thinking. Because I'm writing a political fantasy myself, I have a lot of thoughts.

I do agree with the argument in some ways. I think many fantasy genre conventions work against political plotlines, so ending it in a satisfying way requires breaking those conventions. So, the argument was that there's broadly three ways for a political fantasy to end and none of them is very satisfying. First, it can end to the protagonists losing. Second, it can end to a protagonist becoming the monarch. And third it can end to the protagonists abolishing monarchy. First is kinda obviously unsatisfying. Second is unsatisfying because it doesn't address the underlying systematic problem about the previous regime, monarchy being inherently unjust, that in a political fantasy should be one of the core themes explored. Third is unsatisfying because establishing democracy after monarchy is in reality a process that takes generations of political struggle, not last act of a book.

There is of course couple of assumptions already in these arguments, which are typical genre conventions. Fantasy governments are usually feudal monarchies and the protagonists are very often royalty or have potential in becoming one, and this is doubly true with political fantasy. I agree with the argument that all those three options are unsatisfying, but I don't think they are the only possible endings, just what usually happens in political fantasies. Specifically I think they are the options when following genre conventions. The genre conventions I'm talking about are not necessarily the assumptions I already mentioned (monarchy and royal protagonist) though changing them can open more possibilities, but rather protagonist with strong character agency, closed endings and story structure with rising action and decisive battle at the climax. Basically I'm talking about the story where saving the world/country rests upon the hero and they defeat the villain which fixes everything.

There's nothing wrong with these genre conventions on their own and they do work very well in a lot of fantasy, but I would argue that they clash with a political story. In reality real political change doesn't come to the scheming or battle between couple of people, it's collective work done for generations. Every person under a political structure has agency (though often power to use that agency is not evenly distributed), which means that politics is in mathematical terms a chaotic system - unpredictable and complex. That's why it's impossible to predict in the moment the political outcomes, but later, when looking at history, the patterns are easy to see. The agency of one person doesn't mean much in grand scheme of things, not even a very powerful person. Their power comes from something, so if they wish to wield that power, they have to uphold it. So if you give the protagonist in a political story a lot of agency, suddenly they are the one single-handedly making the politics and the people of that world become a mass of drones without agency, who don't have ideology, material interests or even opinions. This completely flattens politics and imo any ending will be unsatisfying.

One thing that I find is very much lacking in most political fantasies, is ideology. I think because we are not often taught about the ideological debates and disagreements that led to every political change in history, we often think of ideology as a very modern thing, but it's just inherent part of politics. Every political change starts with ideology, which comes usually long, generations even, before any large political action. It can start with intellectual elites or on grassroots level, but there will always be some thought leaders that define the emerging ideology, which allows it to spread. For ideology to spread the ground needs to be fertile for it. For example instability, economic or otherwise, is very fertile ground for anti-authoritarian ideologies, even more so than injustice and lack of personal freedom. Different classes are also more fertile for different ideologies. Those in power are obviously more open to ideologies that justify their power, while those not in power are more open to ideologies that question the power structures. After ideology has become popular, it still needs power to actually enact change. If it's popular among those with high relative power, that's easy, but if the opposite is true, to gather enough power, they need a popular uprising with power in numbers. That requires much more resolve from each individual, because while they have collective power individually they are still vulnerable, so uprising is personally extremely risky. Which is why a popular uprising needs in addition wide spread desperation.

Still, popular idea and power to enact it is just the beginning. Then starts the long and hard process of actually doing it, which is basically never linear. There were peasant uprisings thorough Middle Ages trying upturn feudal system, but it took centuries for it to actually collapse, in some places in Europe and around the world there were still feudal structures in 1800s. For a major change to really take root, it has to become generally accepted, and when you have just overturned a previous regime, there's obviously still a lot of people who do not accept the new system. There's couple of options, you can go the guillotine route, where you can try to forcibly strip them of their power and/or kill them and their supporters, which most certainly leads to a civil war with uncertain outcomes. Or you can try to work with the old powers, which most certainly leads to them resisting change as much as possible and diluting the changes. It's not really possible to get a clean change from one system to another at one go. It can even get reversed quite quickly. Usually large systemic changes require at least couple of attempts before they stick.

The point of this tangent is to illustrate that if a political story ends neatly tied up, it feels untrue to reality. A revolution, a coup or a reformation is just the beginning of a structural change. The structure of rising action and decisive climax also doesn't fit to how politics work. Winning an army or dethroning a monarch is just a step to the direction of a new regime. The ideological opponents won't just abandon their deeply held beliefs the moment they lose power. It also ties to the character agency, if the protagonist is part of a regime change, they definitely shouldn't be the one coming up with the new regime or it's ideology. There should be already existing popular movement for it before the MC comes into the picture. (Looking at you game of thrones with the last episode going "what if we come up with a new system out of nowhere without any prior ideological discourse on the spot and everyone just agrees?")

But usually strong character agency, closed endings and decisive climax are thought of as basis for a satisfying fantasy story, so how would a political fantasy be more satisfying without them? Firstly I would argue they are not always necessary for a satisfying story, but I will say it's harder to make a story satisfying without them. My solution to this is to have different primary plot than the political plot. By that I mean for the protagonists to have different primary goal from the political struggle and it's pursuit being the primary plot, while the political struggle is the secondary plot. The primary goal should of course be connected to the political goal. I think the best way to handle it is to have that primary goal be the reason why the character has their political goal, so the political struggle is an obstacle in their primary goal. The primary goal should be something personal, more intimate in scale and tied to their character arc. This allows the character to have more agency over the outcome of their primary goal and for their primary plot to have a closed ending even if the political struggle doesn't, and has the added benefit of making the political struggle more personal and concrete. The primary plot could be revenge against a monarch or freeing from a political marriage or a lot of other options that forces the character to enter the political arena.

With a dark political fantasy, the ending also doesn't need to be perfectly happy to be satisfying, in fact in dark fantasy the ending is usually more satisfying as a tragedy or bittersweet ending. It could even have a corruption arc, where we watch the hero turn into a power hungry villain, or the protagonist could be antihero from the beginning. In a story like that it can be a perfectly satisfying tragic ending for them to lose or to get to the throne and be just as terrible as the previous monarch. Related to this, I have seen couple of popular posts that express annoyance at people who complain about fantasy having overwhelmingly monarchies as settings. The argument is often that part of fantasy is exploring a completely different mindset from us and to people who lived under monarchy it was just expected fact of life. I think this is generally compelling argument. For a fantasy adventure to have monarchy that goes without questioning is not some secret monarchist messaging. Same goes for a dark fantasy where there's oppressive monarchy that's not changed by the end. But I think with political fantasy it's different, because the main theme should by definition be about politics and power. So if monarchy (or a different political structure) goes without questioning in a story like that, I think the story is lacking in depth. Or maybe it is secret monarchist propaganda.

Also just to add to what I alluded in beginning, I think there's a lot of potential for interesting and satisfying political fantasy with different political system from monarchy and/or protagonists with lower class status, but I wanted to mainly make the point that I think the issues with political fantasy are mainly in the story structure. I don't think there's anything wrong with monarchies in fantasy, I have written monarchies in fantasy, and will in future too, but I do think that beyond political fantasy too sticking to monarchies by default is a little limiting.

To be clear, these are just my thoughts on this, not any rules that would apply to every story that could be described as political fantasy, definitely not. And a lot of this is about preferences. I would love to hear other toughts too!

[celenawrites]

Thinking about Human!Reader and Fae!Ghost rn.

Human!Reader who was abducted by a fae to live in the world of faeries and magic. She's got an upbringing befitting a fae royalty, but she cannot deny the mortality that taints her blood. The people around her serve that bitter reminder time and time again.

The fae general treats her like his own child, because she is. He is always there for her and prepares her to march into the royal court with a head held high and a disposition that makes her an asset to him and his allies. Her ability to lie and to blend in the background makes her a most useful spy and eavesdropper.

Human!Reader who swears loyalty to one of the King's children as she tackles the politics of the fae royalty. She wishes to finally have the power she needs.

One of such royal revelry forces her to cross paths with Fae!Ghost - bastard child, half fae and half human. A royal knight, forced to guard the royal throne and estranged from his father and his half-siblings, save for his own brother Thomas. His skull mask hides his face at all times, and you wonder which enemy was unfortunate enough to lose his head to the Ghost. He's tall and overbearing, silent and ruthless - and you feel on edge whenever you're forced to acknowledge him. And yet, you smell the fae blood and pine needles on him and resist the urge to goad the beast of a man into pummeling you into nothing.

You are soon betrayed by the princess who took you in as one of her own. You are hurt at the betrayal, and even more so, humiliated for getting bested by a fae. Unexpectedly, it is the Ghost who saves you from your predicament - taking on the blows meant for him and shielding you from the cruel goons as he obliterates them, leaving nothing but ash and bones.

You fret over him and his wounds, using your knowledge of herbs to create a salve to soothe his injuries, wiping away the dirt and grime and blood from his pale, scarred skin. He stays deathly still while you tend to him.

Things come to a head when the king is suddenly assassinated. Fingers are pointed, blame is shifted. Swords clash, loyalty dies. People die. But most importantly, the death of the monarch invokes such bloodlust in the hearts of his successors that almost all of them die fighting for the throne. All except three. The crown prince, the princess you used to work for, and Ghost.

The subjects of the kingdom anticipate that their future ruler must be between the prince and the princess. The idea of a half-fae like Ghost ruling over them is absurd. Luckily, Ghost is not too eager about taking the throne either.

The fight between the siblings drag on for far too long, and it ends with the death of the crown prince - establishing the ruthless cold princess as the tentative head of the household and the kingdom. But she's not satisfied, letting her pride dictate her actions and her pride would not let the Ghost live.

And so she plans to be rid of him, and you get to hear of it first. You rush to Ghost, urging him to hide - which he refuses. You beg him to leave and to never return, if he wanted to live - but he's Death on two legs. You decide that the least you can do for his kindness is stick by him in his last moments, and when the princess uses treachery to land the final blow on the half-fae, you decide that taking it in his stead would be the best course of action for the kingdom.

You're gone and dark and then you're alive - months after the fight between the royal knight and his sister. Ghost had to assume throne, and his brother Thomas is his advisor. The kingdom has successfully established a tentative peace after the constant bloodshed and familial betrayal. Sickened by the sights you had to witness and the horrors you have survived, you plan and plan and then you flee the fae lands - hoping to connect with your human roots and to be forgotten by the faeries. You hope your father can forgive you. You wish everyone else forgets you.

Except your disappearance causes chaos.

Ghost is inconsolable - unable to function without any trace of you. Thomas suggest him to get hitched to someone else - royalty from other kingdoms, princesses of powerful species; hoping that a political marriage to a powerful ally will strengthen his brother's position as king. Except all Ghost wants is you.

And so he searches for you for years. Five or more years since he last saw you, and when he's desolate and believes all hope to be lost, he finds a trace of you that won't end in a dead end now. He leaves the kingdom and ends up in the human world and it's overwhelming. He had always promised his dear mother that they would escape and live out their lives back here. Seems like you accomplished what he couldn't.

He's fuming when he finds you, all human and weak and occupied with mortal achievements and materialism. You left him reeling with your kindness, with the humanity you have lit up in him. You tended to him and cared for him in a way that even his kin failed to do so. And then you left.

Left him alone to deal with fate and its cruel games. Left him starving of your attention and gentle touch. Left him alone without a taste of you.

He's so furious and starving and yearning, so the moment he sees you notice him, he ensures that you have nowhere to run anymore. You try to run, and he's reminded of a bunny trying to escape the nets meant to trap it.

"You cannot leave me again, not unless you take responsibility of your actions".

You ask him about it, and your morbid curiosity leaves you horrified as you realise that he means to abduct you back into the unwelcoming and treacherous lands of the Fae. You feel hopelessness seep into you when he reveals that he had planned to take you in as his consort before you booked it, and now to ensure that it doesn't happen again, he decides that the best course of action would be to bind your soul to him in holy matrimony.

"Have to ensure that you don't go off running on me now, sweet human. I cannot afford to lose you again."

It almost makes you wish you hadn't helped him at all.

[scorchieart]

⬥◇◆ Clothes Shopping with the Ikeprinces ◆◇⬥

With Act 3 and Silvio's route just around the corner, let's slow down, take a step back, and remember how we all ended up in here. Particularly, how we all ended up in these clothes.

Silvio’s Dubious Preorder ◆◇⬥

*the front door to the clothes shop opens in the middle of the night*

Shopkeeper: Who’s there?

Silvio: Your worst nightmare…

*Silvio drops a heavy bag of coins in the shopkeeper's hands*

Silvio: And your salvation.

Shopkeeper: What?

Silvio: Listen closely, tailor. Tomorrow you will be visited by a pathetic pack of princes with questionable fashion sense. They are in search of new outfits to wear for the upcoming story arc and have chosen your lousy shop as their genius loci. Lucky you.

Shopkeeper: …What?

Silvio: I’ll be in attendance as well, but I’m only interested in an outfit that’ll blow everyone else’s out of the water, so I’ll mostly be observing from the sides. All you gotta do is keep those other guys occupied and catch all the notes I send your way. You’re an experienced man, you’ll know when I’m dropping you a hint. But no one else needs to know about our little deal, capisce? 

*Silvio pats the coin bag and leaves. Shopkeeper puts on glasses and cleans out his ears*

Shopkeeper: WHAT?

⬥◇◆THE NEXT DAY ◆◇⬥

Judge Yves, Round 1 ◆◇⬥

Yves: As members of Rhodolite’s domestic faction, we are the pillars our citizens look towards to represent the values our kingdom instills in art, culture, and conduct. The outfits we select today must not only reflect the propriety expected of the royal family, but also that of our people for generations to follow.

Yves: Jin! Button your shirt all the way up right this moment!

Jin: You can’t cage the collarbones, Yves!

Yves: Leon! Too much detailing will overwhelm your conversation partners! You look like you’re drowning in gold.

Leon: But you’re talking to me just fine now?

Yves: Licht! You look wonderful, of course. But if I had to nitpick, the white on your lapels clashes with your black jacket. Try wearing more color, you don’t want to look like a walking chessboard.

*Sariel slowly backs into the dressing room*

Nokto Seeing Double ◆◇⬥

Nokto: No, this blue vest doesn’t bring out my eyes quite right.

*hands vest over to Licht. Licht tries it on*

Nokto: Hm… and these tassels make my face look too narrow.

*hands shoulder pads over to Licht. Licht tries them on*

Nokto: And these black gloves clash horribly with my hair, what was I thinking?

*hands gloves over to Licht. Licht tries them on*

Nokto: You look great, Licht. Ugh, nothing in this entire store works for me!

*a bag of coins flies across the store*

Silvio: Tailor! No vests, tassels, or gloves!

Judge Yves, Round 2 ◆◇⬥

Yves: Ahem! I’m only doing this because you four are an extension of Rhodolite beyond the borders, and I don’t want you messing up our image in front of our neighbors. It’s not like I particularly care how you dress everyday!

Nokto: Aww, Evie, you care~

Yves: Shut it! Ahem! For starters, the white theme you all have is a very nice choice. It’s a good idea to set up a visual indicator to let others know you’re working as a team.

Clavis: Oh, that wasn’t intentional. This humble shop is simply fortunate enough to have had enough pieces for each of us. Otherwise, these poor white coats would have been prematurely stained red! Hahaha!

Yves: Wha—?

Clavis: With strawberry jam, of course! Chev gets particularly pouty when someone wears white instead of him. I wouldn’t put it past him to “accidentally” sully that poor someone’s outfit with his toast.

Luke: That’s why I eat mine with honey instead!

Yves: No, that’s why we eat breakfast before we leave the palace! 

*Yves swipes the toast from Chevalier and Luke*

Yves: Luke! If you’re going to wear white, you can’t carry honeyed toast in your pockets!

Yves: Clavis! If you’re going to wear a coat over a jacket again, at least make them match in style this time!

Yves: Nokto! If you’re not going to button your vest all the way, you have to wear a shirt underneath!

*Chevalier covers his chest and slowly backs into the dressing room*

Small Talk Sariel ◆◇⬥

*In a quiet corner of the store, Keith looks over himself in the mirror. Sariel notices and joins him*

Sariel: Ah, a modest choice, Prince Keith. Were you to show Prince Yves, I am certain he would impart nothing but praise.

Keith: 🙂

Sariel: Modesty is, of course, cornerstone for a prince to emblem. Although, with our continent so rife with rowdy royals, one would not want to appear too humble, lest he be trampled by his more verbally-inclined peers.

Keith: 😐

Sariel: But too loud a statement piece would have a similar effect of disfavor among colleagues. One would not want to appear too brash in company of those whose opinions matter.

Keith: 😟

Sariel: Finding that sweet spot in the middle is crucial to deduce, and this is the moment to do it. Tell me, Prince Keith, is this the outfit you wish to present to the world in the next act?

Keith: Excuse me, I seem to have misplaced something in the dressing room.

*another bag of coins flies across the store*

Silvio: Make it loud, tailor!

Multi-talented and Multi-purpose Luke ◆◇⬥

Luke: Hey, Yves! How about this? I keep the lid open just enough to stick a spoon in like this, and my pockets get to stay completely… Hey, you okay?

*Yves blushes in surprise*

Yves: Yes, yes! Why wouldn’t I be?

Luke: Well, you’ve been standing by the hair accessories for a long time now.

Yves: Because there’s no one else here. I need rest from evaluating all your outfits, obviously.

*Luke puts down the honey jar*

Luke: Hey, close your eyes for a bit.

Yves: What for?

Luke: Just trust me. Besides, you said you wanted to rest, right?

*5 minutes later*

Luke: Tada! Whaddya think?

Yves: How did you…?

Luke: My sister used to make me braid her hair all the time. I’d say I’m pretty good at it, eh?

*Yves blushes in joy*

Yves: Thank you. But how did you manage to keep it in place? You didn’t use any clips or anything.

Luke: Oh, that’s ‘cause I packed it tight with honey. It oughta keep its shape all week, plus it’s good for the scalp. Bonus!

*Yves blushes in rage*

Life Lessons with Big Brother Jin ◆◇⬥

Jin: Hey, Chevalier. Come try this cloak on, it’ll help cover your…

*Chevalier quickly wipes his mouth and hides his hands behind his back*

Jin: …

Chevalier: …

Jin: Chev…

Chevalier: I was merely inspecting them for poisons.

Jin: Come on, big guy. We’ve been through this.

Chevalier: The showoff apprehended my toast. 

Jin: You can’t eat the roses.

Chevalier: …

Jin: …

Chevalier: The yellow ones taste best.

Jin: So you’ve told me.

*yet another bag of coins flies across the store*

Silvio: Bring me the juiciest rose you have! I know you’re keeping it from me!

Gilbert’s Infinite Hyperspace ◆◇⬥

Gilbert: Are you sure the shopkeeper won’t mind you making alterations to his designs?

Clavis: That wonderful man doesn’t need to worry about a single hair on his rapidly balding head! I won’t be defiling his style because all the additions I’m making will be completely hidden from sight.

Gilbert: How like you to run your dirty work in the shadows. Such fun.

Clavis: I wouldn’t use that particular arrangement of words to describe it, per se. But considering Sariel has egregiously forbidden me from purchasing more than one belt today, I am forced to improvise my carry-on capabilities.

Gilbert: Ah, pockets! How very fun, indeed!

Clavis: Not just any pockets! Secret pockets! And just look at this enormous canvas I have to work with! Only… my hands were full on the way over here carrying Chevalier’s breakfast, so I wasn’t able to bring much of my usual tools to measure. I don’t like leaving the palace without at least a net or two on hand.

Gilbert: You can borrow mine!

*Gilbert produces a large fish net out of thin air*

Clavis: How fortunate, this will work nicely! I do wish I could have brought my trusty shovel with me, though. 

Gilbert: Regular or extra large?

*Gilbert produces two digging shovels out of thin air*

Clavis: Ah... R-regular is fine…

Gilbert: Anything else?

Clavis: You’ve been plenty helpful, I couldn’t impose—

Gilbert: No need to be shy. You still have plenty of space to work with, I see. 

Clavis: …

Gilbert: Try me.

Clavis: …Well, I do like to be armed with more than just my sword—

Gilbert: How about this?

*Gilbert produces a hatchet out of thin air*

Clavis: … Thank you.

Gilbert: What are friends for?

*Gilbert claps his hands, taps his cane twice, and pulls a tiny comb out of the heel of his boot. He combs Clavis’s hair out of his eyes and walks away smiling as the largest bag of coins yet flies across the store*

Silvio: Secret pockets! But don’t tell anyone where they are, you hear? Not even me!

Doggy See, Doggy Do ◆◇⬥

Leon: Find anything you like, Rio?

Rio: Lots! But I’m just not sure she’d like them, too.

Leon: Why not show me what you got so far? I may not be Yves or Sariel, but I’ll bet I can point out a stinker in the mix.

Rio: Okay then. What do you think of this gilded vest?

Leon: Awesome! The color matches your eyes perfectly. That’s good… I think?

*Coin bag toss #1*

Silvio: Tailor! Look into my eyes and get me a jacket that matches them perfectly! No, not a vest! We said no vests!

Rio: Huh, that was weird. Anyway, what about this broach?

Leon: She’d love it! The looped design brings out the curves of your smile just right. That kind of attention to detail is probably really important.

*Coin bag toss #2*

Silvio: Tailor! Bring me your loopiest jewelry! The more hoops, the better!

Rio: Did you hear something? Ah, nevermind. Do you think I should go with one earring or two?

Leon: Hmm… Yves rocks the one earring look—

*Coin bag toss #3*

Silvio: Tailor! I want your gaudiest single earring in my palm right this second!

Leon: —but earrings are supposed to come in pairs, right? So maybe two would be fine. For symmetry, and all that.

*Coin bag toss #4*

Silvio: Make that two!

Leon: Sorry, I’m not too sure, to be honest.

*Rio knowingly smirks*

Rio: Your advice is great, Prince Leon. Tell me, what do you think of these snow boots?

Leon: Well, it’s not exactly winter. But they’re really a statement piece, and she might appreciate a good conversation starter.

*Coin bag toss #5*

Silvio: I need the furriest boots you’ve got in this place, pronto!

Rio: And this zebra-print cloak?

Leon: Chevalier looks good in tiger stripes. I guess that’s basically the same thing.

*Coin bag toss #6*

Silvio: Where do you keep the darn striped fabrics, old man?

Rio: Great! What’s your opinion on oversized hats?

Leon: Uhh… go big or go home?

*Coin bag toss #7*

Silvio: GO BIG OR GO HOME!!

Leon: Hey, Rio, do you hear an echo?

Rio: Nope. Just the sound of a nation’s GDP falling.

I wanted to add a joke about their gloves, but this post is getting way out of hand, even without puns.

Tagging: @queengiuliettafirstlady @violettduchess @venulus @thewitchofbooks @leonscape @rhodolitesrose @venti-tangents @dear-sciaphilia @ikesenwritings @myonlyjknight @ladyofcrowsx @otomefoxystar @my-day6

If you would like to be added or removed from my tag list, please send me an ask or a message.

[distortionbobble]

Royal Flowers Chapter 3

series masterlist

previous | next

pairing: anakin skywalker x f! reader

series summary: A long, long, time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, a certain Jedi by the name of Anakin Skywalker meets you, the current Queen of Naboo and adopted cousin of Padme Amidala, and is tasked with protecting you by pretending to marry you. As a spy, you’ve infiltrated the Separatist ranks and are close to finding out the mastermind behind all of it. The fate of the galaxy is in your hands.

warnings: minors dni! ageless blogs dni! none this chapter (although it gets just a little steamy) but the series will have eventual smut, canon-level violence and just general warnings.

a/n: if anyone’s curious i based the combat style on judo! i’m no expert in judo i’ve just literally been watching “best judo fight” compilation videos so if anyone has any recommendations or corrections let me knoww okay thanks bye! 

You can’t sleep. 

It’s been hours since you came out of the bathroom, the makeup scrubbed off of your face, skin raw from the heat of the shower. Anakin hadn’t even looked at you, and had only offered a grunt of acknowledgement when you had murmured a timid goodnight. 

You think you’re gonna lose your mind. You sit up in frustration with the aim of going down to the kitchens to get a glass of water, rubbing your eyes as you mourn your lack of sleep. Anakin shoots up from his makeshift pile of blankets on the floor, hand already on his lightsaber as he prepares to respond to whatever threat may be there. When he sees none, he relaxes, but his eyes stray to your form and the outline of your body under the silk nightgown. 

“Can’t sleep either?” You ask dryly, making your way off of the bed. You muss up your hair just in case you run into someone on your midnight journey, just so that they’ll think you and Anakin have been up to something other than arguing. 

“No, milady,” Anakin responds quietly. A heartbeat passes before he speaks again, breaking the tranquility of the night. “I apologize for how I spoke to you. I took my frustrations out on you and disrespected you. Your demand is not a foolish one, it’s important and I know that.” 

“I appreciate that,” you respond. “And… about what you said earlier, I do want to learn how to keep myself safe. Of course I do. You won’t always be there, I know that, but how am I supposed to learn? Who would have taught me? My parents died when I was young. I was left in the care of Padme and her family, but that meant that I was part of politics. Running things in the background to support the people I love.” 

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Anakin offers, and you sit with silence for another moment. You take the chance to look at Anakin, the dark circles under his eyes, the shadows on his face, the scar on his eyelid. You have the strangest urge to run your fingers over his cheekbones, over his scars, to know every part of him. You don’t know why, but in the moonlight, everything is so much softer. But you keep it to yourself, sighing and settling on the edge of the bed. You draw your knees to your chest, eyelids fluttering shut to give your eyes some rest. 

“I’ll teach you,” Anakin offers suddenly. 

“What?” You ask. 

“I’ll teach you to protect yourself. You’re right, I won’t always be there, but you should never be defenseless. You’re far too important for that.” Anakin offers a smile to you. It’s the first time you’ve seen him smile, so subtle that you might have missed it had you not been staring so intently at him. 

“Thank you, General Skywalker.” 

“Anakin.” 

“Anakin.” You smile back at him, a tentative truce drawn between the both of you. You have no doubt that you’ll clash with him soon enough, a matter of personality differences, but for now, it’s nice to have him on your side. “You know, I wouldn’t be offended if you came and slept on the bed with me. I’m sure you’ve slept on the ground plenty of times as a Jedi Knight, but I can’t sleep here three feet away from you knowing my guard is sleeping on the ground.” 

“I suppose there only is one bed, isn’t there?” He grumbles, drawing up the pile of sheets that he’s slept in and tossing it at the foot of the bed. Despite the distance between you, you can feel the warmth radiating from him as he slides into the bed. “We’ll start training tomorrow, milady.”

“Goodnight, Anakin,” you smile, facing the wall. 

“Goodnight, milady.” 

~~~

“Wake up, milady.” It’s still dark when you hear him call your name, jostling your shoulder when you don’t wake up immediately. 

“Anakin?” You ask, rubbing your eyes. It must be right before dawn, for everything is so dark that you can’t make out the details of his face. “Is something the matter?”

“You asked me to train you,” he says. You hold back a groan, wanting nothing more than to bury yourself in your blankets and sleep for much longer. 

“Anakin, that’s sweet, but when you said tomorrow I didn’t think you meant before my brain even turns on,” you whine, but he’s persistent. He slides an arm under your torso, quickly pulling you upright as you protest at the sudden loss of warmth. You shiver from the cold, instinctively huddling in closer to Anakin before you realize and pull yourself away. He looks at you with an odd expression on his face, but doesn’t say anything, choosing instead to slide out of the bed and pull the sheets away with him. He folds his hands behind his back, waiting patiently for you to get out of bed. 

“Milady, I must advise that we train now. We should do it in secret, so that your handmaids won’t notice— after all, they are part of the reason that you wish to learn to protect yourself,” Anakin responds. You groan but get up, throwing your hands in frustration. You’re partly convinced that he’s just doing this to be a little prick— there’s not a chance in hell that this was the only time that you could get alone time with him. You’re newlyweds, it’s almost expected that you’d be sneaking off to spend as much time as possible between meetings. But no, he had to wake you before anyone else would reasonably be awake. But it’s not worth the fight. 

“Alright, then,” you sigh. But instead of moving away from the bed, Anakin moves to stand on top of it, looking at you expectantly. 

“We’re going to start with several throws. Now, I’m not absolutely certain about this, but I think you wouldn’t enjoy being thrown down onto granite,” he says impatiently. You get on the bed, mourning the lack of sleep as Anakin eyes you up and down. “In that?” He asks, referring to your silk nightgown. 

“Oh, good grief,” you complain, throwing your hands up. “At this rate there won’t be a point of waking me up before dawn because everyone else in the palace will be awake already when we do start! Can we just do it?” Anakin shrugs, reaching out to position you the way he wants. Anakin positions you standing shoulder width apart, one hand placed on the back of your neck and the other on your arm. The warmth of his palms on your bare skin sends electricity through your nerves, and you blink at him wide-eyed at the contact. With quick footwork he sweeps you on to your back, knocking the wind out of you with the added weight of his body on yours before he swings himself to your side, effectively pinning you down to the ground. 

“Try to move,” he instructs you, but as you wiggle around on the bed, you realize that he’s able to still pin down your shoulders. “See? Doing this gives you leverage. First thing to know,” he says, getting up and leaving you sprawled on the bed. 

“I see.. Was it necessary to do it without any explanation, or was that for your amusement?” You grunt, hoisting yourself up as Anakin watches you struggle rather unsympathetically. 

“For fun. Now,” He breezes past the admission, grinning when you gape at him, “What you’re gonna do is put your hand on the back of my neck and my arm, like I did.” He nods when you’re in the correct placement, turning his focus to your technique. “Now, turn your body so the hand that’s holding my neck is the closest side. Step sideways once, cross the other foot and step towards me, and then use the first foot to sweep the knee on the side that you’re not touching.” 

You step as per his instructions, sweeping him down but when you land, body pressed firmly against his, the door swings open to reveal Reyna. She sputters when she sees the position you and Anakin are in—  Anakin half naked, his thigh slotted between your legs, his hands gripping your hips,  your tits hanging above his face with only the thin silk material to cover you. The immodesty of it all makes you blush, too. Anakin, however, used his quick thinking and craned his neck up to kiss the exposed skin right above your breasts. You know it’s only so that she doesn’t get suspicious but it feels good, dammit, and you can’t hold back the whimper that threatens to escape you when his teeth nip softly at your skin. 

“I’ll come back later,” Reyna squeaks, clearly mortified. 

“That would be best,” Anakin responds, looking at her with half-lidded eyes and a smirk that makes heat run up your spine. 

When the door shuts, he throws you rather unceremoniously off of him, blushing a bright pink. 

“Sorry,” Anakin apologizes. The both of you lay on your backs, furiously avoiding eye contact as the situation’s awkwardness makes you wince. 

“It’s alright,” you say, pushing yourself off of the bed. “So, I’ll, um, see you later today?” 

“Yes, milady,” he answers, sounding distant. “Later today.”

[wisttwist]

jester's privilege

(past) nebu (nathaniel) & reader, morningstar (ithaqua) & reader cliche scene where the hero enters the defeated kings bedroom and all the concubines are crawling all over him but instead of a dozen concubines trying to seduce him it's a single crusty manservant making middle school tier jokes warnings: mentions of canon typical war crimes etc

...

There was a small, breathtakingly ugly cushion in the corner of the room, bright primary colours clashing with the creams and golds of the late Tower Lord's interior design (which was also ugly, Helel would like to append).

A similarly small and breathtakingly ugly servant (?) sits on this cushion, presently engaged in thrilling (mind numbing) icebreakers (he would like to break some ice over your head, yes) with the Sun Eater as he idly turned over Nebuchadnezzar's royal paraphernalia.

"So he doesn't bed you and you aren't politically valuable. Then why are you in here, and not out there?" He gestures to the smoke from the mines, visible from the tower window.

"He doesn't send me to the quarries because I'm special. I'm his special boy."

"He calls you that?"

"No."

Helel made the temporary generalization that conversation with you was a waste of oxygen and stalks off to continue his inspection of the room, deaf to your remarks.

A voice comes from right behind his shoulder. "What do I call you?" Somehow, you'd soundlessly traversed the cluttered floor to stand uncomfortably close.

He scowls. So much for ignoring you. "Don't you know who I am?"

"I do live in a cell." You mumble, picking your nose and wiping the snot on your pants.

For a second, the Eclipse considers retelling the story of his conquest for the nth time but honestly, he wasn't sure how much more gloating he could wring out of it, especially with this audience. "It doesn't matter who I am. Just know that I'm the new king."

"Your voice is very familiar."

"No it's not."

"Very well. It's not." You fidget on the spot, bell-studded clothes jingling. "Do I call you sire? Or are you more formal?"

"Do as you wish."

Satisfied with his vague and minimalist answers, he returns to his prior task of sorting through the Sun King's old shit; mentally categorizing them for later: keep, trash, take to the thrift store, incinerate. Surveying the shelves, he sighs. This would be a lengthy task.

…

"Do you want a tour?" Breathing on the back of his neck, again. Uncomfortably close, again.

Helel gives you a firm push back. "No."

"Are you still wondering what my purpose was?" You chirp, undeterred as ever.

"If I recall correctly, the Sun King already had a clown in his court. I freed him way back when." Maybe if Helel paid more attention to that event, he'd note that the Encroached did mention an irritating bell-wearing obstacle between him and his master. Not that you can prepare for this brand of mild but persistent evil. "But considering this room is full of useless junk, it's not hard to guess why you're here."

Ignoring his jab, you sidle close once more, plotting another invasion attempt on his personal space. "Jesters and clowns are two different things."

Yeah, you were different. The other guy was less annoying. Mercifully, he elects to give a noncommittal grunt instead of mentioning this detail, hoping that you'll lose interest in trying to continue your conversation.

The Sun Eater lifts up a decanter of mystery fluid (pale and golden like everything else). He's about to lean in to give it a smell test when you stop him. "That's not wine, sire."

Owlishly, his head swivels around to face you.

You close your eyes sagely and pause for dramatic effect, wasting more of Helel's time on waiting for you to elaborate. "It's pee."

The decanter shatters on the floor. You watch him frantically wipe his hands off on the expensive curtains. "What the fuck?"

A good poker face is a crucial survival skill for your occupation, but given your employer is currently burning in hell, you are very much off the clock right now. You double over with laughter. "Oh heavens, sire. You're too gullible, oh stars and suns, oh- Oh!"

Helel's clawed hand yanks you up by the hair. "Are you five years old. Greater men have died for lesser-"

"Let me down, please, sire!" The twinge of stifled laughter slurring your pleas for your life don't help your case. "I'm sorry! Please!"

You're dropped in a crumpled, jingling heap on the floor. Briefly, the Morning Star considers sending you to the gallows, but is it really worth the effort? Your transgressions, frequent as they were, weren't significant enough for that. Besides, on a smaller level he won't admit, his pride refuses to let you get to him. "I'll take you up on the tour offer." He declares with finality, crossing his arms. "You touch everything before I do."

"Yes, sire!" You jump up to attention, back ramrod straight in a mockery of military obedience. "Does that make me the royal toucher? Or king's toucher? That's like being a king's taster but instead of tasting-"

Your voice trails off as you feel Helel's glare burning through his mask and into your skull.

"Ahem. On the left, we have war spoils from the southeastern peninsula…"

… 

Truly, the home renovation aspect of overthrowing corrupt tyrants is underestimated. The remainder of the afternoon was spent sorting doohickeys into piles in the middle of the floor for future storage. Or rather, Helel did the majority of the heavy lifting while you (un)helpfully stood in the corner, regaling him with tales of the previous regime and the exact happenings of court life. He wants to tell you to stop talking for 5 minutes and do something useful but you would probably cite the importance of 'moral support' and try to weasel your way out of it. Besides, even if you were trying to do something of substance, it probably involved inventing new ways to fuck up moving furniture, fiddling with his temper even further. You were like a mosquito, he decides. Too little to do real damage, too much to be ignored.

"There was this one time I was doing a bit about his virility and he said he could prove me wrong right there if I wanted." You were presently cross legged on an intricate rug (tribute from the Sun King's unfortunate allies), juggling a series of crystal balls (priceless artifacts, stained with blood by the 'divine' conqueror). "So I said 'You should know that I'm a eunuch', and he went, 'It doesn't matter.' We were hilarious."

The Usurper scratches his chin, half listening. It didn't sound hilarious, just weird. "You're sure he didn't bed you?"

"A joke is just a joke, you know."

"Okay. Just checking." Helel paused. "Then are you really a eunuch?"

"Are you gonna check that too?"

"No." You were really getting your money's worth from that previous temporary generalization.

…

After the walls and shelves were bare, and the loot was bundled up in leather bags, the Eclipse sank into one of the plush chairs, kicking his feet onto the table and massaging his temples. With any luck, you were as tired as he was, and he could slip away while you rested.

You yawned. "Ahh. That's enough for one day, I think." Helel watched as you plopped back down on your hideous cushion, procuring a lit pipe from thin air and taking a hefty drag. "Will you be looking for new furnishings?"

"Probably. This stuff is way too tacky."

A wisp of smoke drifts past, and the Morning Star feels that tell-tale foreboding feeling behind his shoulder again. "Will you be looking for new castle staff?" You bat your eyelashes.

He meets your expectant gaze with the exhaustion of someone who just fought another war and lost. "You're staying?"

Deliberately misinterpreting his question as a statement, you perk up, grinning from ear to ear. "Well, I can't refuse a direct order such as that! Especially not from his most esteemed, illustrious (and if I may add, very handsome) Majesty!" Bowing at the waist with a bell-bedecked flourish, you shoot back to eye level with hands clasped, nearly butting him in the head with your stupid hat. "When do I start work?"

...

(jump cut to jester being tossed out of tower window) this is too long to be funny but idc anymore. next time i'll write romance but i needed to fulfill my desire to annoy him

[blueywrites]

Hi lovely! Congratulations on 1k followers!! 🎉 you totally deserve all that and more! 💕

For your Blueys Bird Blurbs celebration, can I please request smut, Eddie x reader and for the 3 words; shy, forbidden and true

Congats again! xx

the boldest words

princess!reader x bard!eddie

prompt: smut with eddie, shy, forbidden, and true.

this one was super fun to write! I'm very glad I was finally able to finish it. It ended up being a smutty fluffy piece that I really enjoy, and I hope you do too! 💙

tags: 18+. smut, oral (m receiving), semi-public sex, class differences

Bluey's Bird Blurbs 1k Celebration | blurb three: the boldest words (4.1k)

The royal library is your favorite place to spend time. Not because of its rich, ornate furnishings, its soft flowing tapestries or whimsical landscapes depicting far-off lands you’ve oft yearned to walk into, though those things are certainly tantalizing. It’s not because of the sunlight that streams through large cathedral windows in the day or the flickering of the candles in the night, both casting warmth and comfort over the cavernous room, though the gleaming does always make you feel at home. It’s not the towering shelves made of polished wood and carved with intricate designs and the armchairs plush and deep, perfect for sinking into with one of the tomes plucked from rows of endless choices, though that is, of course, quite cozy. And it isn’t the books themselves— works of art, bound in rich leather or velvet covers and embossed with gold or silver filigree, their pages made of the finest parchment and filled with elegant calligraphy and illustrations, though the knowledge contained in each is like a small world unto itself. 

No. Instead, the royal library is your favorite place to spend time for this reason: because only within those labyrinthine rows and columns which weave a maze of wisdom spanning generations— only in the hidden alcoves, tucked within cracks and crevices, secreted away from prying eyes— are you able to sate your burning need.

And that need you feel has naught to do with the pursuit of learning.

With a quiet exhalation of bliss, your head tips back to make more room for lips and tongue, thumping against the surface behind you. Yet when your skull makes contact, it doesn’t meet wood; instead, you encounter plush velvet, the fabric soft and supple as it cradles your body, protecting your loose blue gown from catching on any harsh wooden grooves. The velvet is red as a smoldering flame, clashing brashly with the poise of your royal blue silk, which is adorned with jewels that glint like stars in the midnight sky. That protection does not belong to you, but rather to the man pressed tight against your body, who now has your thin skirt rucked up around your upper thighs, held up by fingers made callused by the lute’s unforgiving strings. 

All is hushed in this place, and silent you both need remain. The only sound you hear is the jostling of your clothing: the hasty way he pushes his hose down around his ruddy knees before tugging open the fly of his brais, the drag of his forest green tunic against the thin bodice of your dress where your chests brush with every movement. Layers stand between you, and yet you barely feel them. There is just his hot skin, then linen, then silk, and your hot skin— no corset or even chemise to further separate you from the only man who can conjure such a passionate ache inside you. It matters not that he is a bard, and you a princess; that burning need you feel can only be satisfied by the meeting of your mouths, your hands, your bodies; by the tight stretch stretch and fill of his thick cock; by the pounding of Eddie’s hips pressing you into the bookshelves as he fucks you full of his vigor and passion.

It is a daring thing to roam the castle without the proper undergarments, though no more daring than these escapades you have been getting up to in the Royal Library these past few months. They occur late in the evening after you have retired from the company of your handmaids and attendants, the ladies of the court, and the presence of your mother and father. A secret affair that leaves you glowing far more radiantly than the crystals in your diadem, stolen moments of sweet whispers and heated passion as you nestle together amongst the dusty tomes. The library is labrynthian and largely unoccupied at night, and it isn’t difficult to evade the few souls still loitering here in pursuit of knowledge, stealing your way to your bard’s chosen alcove: a tight corner of bookshelves wedged near the back left wall, made safe from discovery by the narrowness of its entryway and the tedium of the subjects contained in its books.

Here you have made your love nest these past months, and never before has it been disturbed until this night.

Two sets of footsteps clack across the tile along with the hum of conversation, growing in volume as unseen figures approach. Instantly, you and Eddie freeze. You meet his wide panicked eyes, and the bob of his adam’s apple hints at the depth of his fear. Despite it, Eddie does not bolt; he merely soothes the backs of his fingers against your cheek. Soft and slow, he strokes you, a reassuring touch that bids you stroke his cheek in return. You are grateful for the strength he offers as your heart pounds in your chest when the footsteps discern themselves into two distinctive cadences both familiar to you. The approach of the figures is unmistakable— there is the calm shuffle-step of the royal advisor, walking measuredly beside the bold tread of your father, the king.

There is no risk of them glimpsing you with Eddie behind the shelves, but their presence is unnerving nonetheless, as if they will somehow sense your presence simply because of how deeply scandalous what you’re doing is. Slowly, as they approach, the quiet hum of their voices sharpens into words, and you remain nervous until you hear the weary but uninhibited sigh of your father slumping into one of the armchairs near the darkened window. They are discussing something about trade agreements with a neighboring kingdom, something about tariffs and access to your kingdom’s ports. The voice of your father’s advisor is equally as loud and uninhibited, and as some tense moments pass, you relax as you realize that your father has merely chosen this place for the same reason you and Eddie did: because he knows no one else would be here.

With that, the crease in your brow relaxes, your eyes filling again with the heat pooling in your belly as you shift your hips and feel that despite his fear, Eddie’s hardness has not flagged inside you. You glide your hands up his chest, and the rustle of the fabric is covered by the discussion happening just behind the shelf you’re pressed against. His face has changed from fearful to questioning; in lieu of a verbal answer, you instead cup your palms around Eddie’s jaw and guide his mouth back to yours.

After a brief moment of hesitation, Eddie begins to kiss you back; the tension slowly melts from his body as you coax him with your mouth, and you feel the last of his reticence slip away as your tongue plays against the seam of his lips. They open for you, and as his tongue brushes hot and wet against yours, his hips shift forward, steadily pressing you back against that unyielding wood until the fat tip of his cock is nestled as deep inside you as it can go. Satisfaction simmers; you slink your arms around his shoulders, as he slowly— so agonizingly slowly— circles his hips, rutting into you as the voice of your father continues on right behind you.

The conversation shifts to more personal matters, but you are hardly listening; all you care about is the way Eddie’s hot hips are pressed to yours, skin to skin, the coarse drag of his pubic hair sparking delicious pleasure against your clit. You break from the kiss and nuzzle against his cheek, pressing kisses there and stretching your spine as that pleasure builds. You relish in it until Eddie, no longer content to grind himself deep inside your wet heat, suddenly pulls his hips back. The length of his cock leaves you until just the head remains in your entrance; it’s a loss until he slides back in, stretching you thick and full of him in one long, achingly thorough push after another as he begins to fuck you properly again.

You muffle a whimper as his motions quicken and his warm breath pants harshly against your neck, huffing in your ear. You long to hear the rumble of his voice instead of your father’s or his advisor’s. Eddie’s voice is husky and warm, but that is only available to you in the Great Hall, where all you can do is watch him from a distance as he entertains with songs, and plays his instrument, and flashes dark eyes in your direction. Dark roguish curls— so different from the other men of the court that surround you— tickle your cheeks, swaying rhythmically as you clutch at his shoulders, fingernails raking out a silent plea for more. He obliges you as he always does: hot hands slide up to grip you firmly around the waist as he pumps his hips harder, sinking his cock into the tight wet heat of your cunt, repeatedly plunging against that spot that has you biting your lip to keep from gasping aloud. 

Your ears perk when, amongst the litany of words your father is spilling loosely from his lips, you hear a familiar name— your own. “I swear to you,” he grumbles, his voice nearly echoing in the tall space between the shelves, “I know not what else to do with her. I am at my wit’s end.” 

“I understand, sire.” The sympathetic lilt of your father’s advisor fades in your ears as Eddie licks a fat wet stripe up the side of your neck to the lobe of your ear; you cant your hips into his thrusts, moving with him in a rhythm that has his eyes hazing with desire and his lips curling in a pleased, dimpled grin.

"What can we do about her?" your father mutters, his frustration clear in his voice. "She won't even look at any of the suitors I've introduced her to, let alone speak to them. First was the duke of Wellesley, which I thought was merely a fluke due to his, admittedly, rather stuffy countenance. But it was the same for the next and the next…” He huffs harshly, and you can hear his heavy hand thump against the fabric of the chair arm. “Countless perfectly acceptable suitors, all rejected outright without any consideration by my obstinate daughter." 

The advisor’s question is measured and even. “Why do you suppose that is, your highness?”

It’s a deliciously naughty thing to hear your father attempt to theorize about why you may have rejected all these men while you’re allowing the royal bard to fuck you right under his nose— a man whose flashing smiles and husky voice and talented fingers have brought your unsuspecting father such entertainment.

“I know she can be stubborn,” your father sighs, “but at heart, she’s always been a timid girl. I’m concerned that, perhaps, the process of choosing a husband is too intimidating for her.”

Eddie’s eyes are dark liquid smoke, and you shiver as you watch a a smirk slink across his lips. He ducks close to you, crowding you even closer against the shelves until the scent of his curls is all you can breathe— musky and rich like incense mixed with the leather of his sachets and the salt of his skin. “S’that true?” Eddie murmurs against your ear so quietly, the hum of it playful and knowing, and you whisper a moan as his fingers trail up your waist to ghost over your breast. You nudge your chin against his jaw and smile into his cheek; your grin widens, self-satisfied when you roll your hips into his, and you hear him hiss through his teeth. 

Eddie’s revenge comes swiftly; you gasp as he pinches your nipple over the thin silk of your dress, rolling the bud between his deft fingers and pulling so that your legs tighten against his hips and your pussy flutters around him. Behind you, your father continues, “Perhaps she is overwhelmed by the expectations. Reticent to perform the duties she knows is expected of her.”

 Eddie’s low chuckles husk over the shell of your ear, and you shudder as the wicked sound makes your belly tighten. “You’re just a shy little princess, aren’t you? That’s why you’ve been rejecting all those eligible suitors, hm?” Your hands slide down to his upper arms as he teases the shell of your ear with plush lips; your fingers clutch his biceps tightly when he nibbles the lobe, taking it softly between his teeth. His hips begin to pump more harshly into you and his breath quickens against your skin. “They wouldn’t know what to do with you,” Eddie mutters, one hand snaking down to cup beneath your ass and tilt your hips forward, pulling them flush against him for a better angle. “Those pompous courtesans wouldn’t know how to make you sing.”

You drink in the hint of possessiveness that flavors Eddie’s words; he’s pressed up against you so close, but his mutterings only make you want to be closer, impossibly closer. You twine your fingers in his hair, clutching at his hip with your other hand, holding on as he rolls his pelvis into yours with every stroke. “Mmm,” you hum, your whispered answer throaty with feminine need. “Play me the song only you can, oh humble bard, and I’ll sing for you.” 

You meet his possessiveness with some of your own, and it spurs him on. Eddie pulls you into a deep, wet kiss, and you muffle a slight moan against his lips as his fingers tighten their hold on your ass and his other hand dips between your legs, seeking the treasure below your soft curls. He nestles one finger within the slick heat of your folds, pressing expertly against the bead that makes your eyelashes flutter and your toes curl. “Yes, Eddie, right there.” Your whine ghosts over Eddie’s lips, and he swallows it up with another greedy kiss. 

The king groans and mutters and huffs loudly in his frustration, but you can still hear the wet sounds of your arousal every time Eddie pushes into your body, the evidence that your drooling, needy cunt will soon be satisfied by his dutiful efforts. Your father is lamenting your unwillingness to give any man a try, but Eddie is playing your clit and fucking your pussy until you’re left writhing with the force of your fire, burning up, hushing little mewls of pleasure against his hair. The king wants you to envision the future you’ll have with one of the princes or noblemen he has suggested, but you can do no such thing. Because Eddie is clamping his heavy, ring-clad hand over your mouth as the pleasure peaks inside you, blazing through your body to turn your vision white and wash you in waves of sparkling fire.

The advisor suggests several remedies for the situation, and though the king rejects them all, none would work regardless of his ire. Because you have all you need right here in the arms of your bard; he holds your trembling form, rutting into you softly as you come down from the place he has taken you to, settling back into your body with a shudder of bliss and a heavy satisfied sigh. You wrap your arms around him; you hold him close, and he you, breathing against you deeply. His heart pounds, but his hips still, and despite the stiffness of his cock— so stiff it must be near painful— he doesn’t seem to be in a rush to reach his own conclusion. 

Eddie has just pressed a kiss to your cheek when the advisor says something wholly unexpected. “I suspect that she may…” His words taper off into hesitance, and though you’re stroking Eddie’s curls back from his face, you’re also listening now.

“Speak freely,” your father demands, and his advisor rushes to comply. 

“She may have an unusual soft spot for the bard. And perhaps… perhaps she harbors some… concealed aspirations.” 

As soon as the words have been uttered, Eddie’s head jerks back, his brows flashing in surprise as he meets your gaze. And you know that the truth of those words can be read all over your face. There is nothing to do about it— no way for you to conceal the way your eyes reflect the soft green growing beneath the blazing red of your passion. 

This affair may have started because, when you watched the bard over those many months since he began his service, you’d found him to be enviably uninhibited— all eager flashing grins and hearty laughter and beautiful, playful song, wild and free. You watched him, and when he noticed, he started to watch you. And what budded in the smallest of gestures grew to what it now is.

It had begun as an escape. A fantasy. But it has become more than that now, and that is evidenced in the shyness of your smile, the tenderness of your thumb stroking the plush of Eddie’s bottom lip, the way affection pools in the dark ink of his eyes, echoing what’s found in yours, deepening each time you give yourselves to one another this way.

Even in the dimness of the alcove, you can perfectly picture the man who cradles you against the bookshelves. He is pale of face, with a strong jaw and a soft nose, plush lips and wide, expressive eyes— eyes deep as the brown of his long, wild curls except for when the sunlight hits them, turning them to honeyed mead. You kiss Eddie softly, lingering there for a moment, and when you pull away, the smile that dimples his cheek stirs your heart. His is a radiant face with an equally radiant smile, beautiful in its wildness, and you could never tire of gazing upon it.

But Eddie’s smile is short-lived when your father’s loud scoff bites through the shelves. “What utter childish nonsense is that?” The mockery of his barking laugh— a single, scornful exhalation— makes you both flinch. “My daughter is not so foolish as to entertain such ridiculousness. The minstrel serves his purpose. He is entertaining, I admit— skilled at his rudimentary craft. But to suggest that she would look twice at a rogue pleasant like him…?” 

The king laughs again, and it is far more amused this time. Somehow, the sound of his mirth is worse than the scorn, especially when you see the subtle crumple of Eddie’s brow, the shuttering of his expressive eyes. “You should know this is not a time for jests, Steven, though I appreciate your attempt at levity.”

Despite the truth of the words— that he is beneath your station, that you should not even be speaking with him, let alone cavorting with him— you can see how the dismissal wounds your bard. And what wounds him wounds you; to see his shoulders shrink and his hands grow hesitant in their grip pricks you like your father had meant to cut you with his barbs directly.

A fire lights in your eyes as you make a decision. You know the truth of how you feel in your heart, but you must communicate that truth to Eddie: that while his station may be beneath you, you do not regard him that way, and you never have.

Gently, but firmly, you push Eddie away; he drops his hold on you immediately, and his cock slips out as he backs up to put distance between you. You ignore the way his face falls in favor of sinking to your knees before him and taking him without hesitation into your mouth.

You can feel his entire body tense as your lips stretch over his fat head; you let the thickness of his cock sit heavy on your tongue, looking up at him as he looks down at you— flushed, wide-eyed and so alarmed he looks nearly terrified. “I don’t know what the reason for her hesitance is,” your father says, “but if she refuses to choose, then I’ll make the choice for her.”

The words should conjure fear, that same fear you see inside Eddie’s dark ink eyes. But they don’t. Instead, you grip the base of his cock and tongue the underside, tasting the musk of your slick as you lave the vein that runs along it. You mouth at him gently until Eddie’s hips twitch and the panic on his face has been largely overtaken by pleasure. You hear the creak of the armchair and the clap of the king’s hand against his advisor’s shoulder. “Let us retire for the night,” he says as you stare up into Eddie’s eyes, hollowing your cheeks and sucking the taste of your pussy from his cock. 

Eddie is trying so hard to be quiet as the two pairs of footsteps begin to recede with the agonizing slowness of two men meandering off to bed with no true hurry to get there. You bob on his length, working the remainder with your hand, determined to show him the depth of your consideration. The strain begins to form on his face— the thinning of his lips, the grit of his jaw, the cords of his neck growing taut, the pinking of his cheeks, the subtle shifting of his hips to meet you every time you suck him down. And all the while he stares down at you, enchanted by the sight of your forehead crowned with a diadem but your cheeks streaked with eager tears as you take him as far as you can into your throat, nestling your nose against the curls still matted with your own release. It is hard work, but work happily completed as the footsteps finally fade to silence and the first of his whimpers muffles through his teeth where they’re clamped against his bottom lip, turning the flesh a ruddy red.

With you so determined and he so enchanted, it takes little time for you to work Eddie until he’s gasping and moaning quietly, spilling rope after rope of his hot release into your waiting mouth. You work his head with your laden tongue, and the sight of Eddie biting his fist in a desperate attempt to stay quiet makes you flare with want despite having just been sated.

When the pulsing of his cock stills and his thighs relax under your palms, you pull off him and swallow his load hastily, breasts heaving in your midnight-blue gown as you gaze up at him. You swipe a thumb beneath your lip, panting with ragged feeling, “Your princess falls to her knees for you. Not my minstrel— my lover.” The fierceness of your truth is written plainly in your words, the loudest, boldest words you have yet uttered betwixt you. “Taste your seed on my lips and know that I am yours.”

You have only a moment to see the way Eddie’s face contorts before he’s on his knees, snatching up your face in his callused hands and mashing his mouth to yours. You open for him, whimpering needily as he dips his tongue into your mouth, eager to taste himself on you— to see for himself the evidence of your declaration in the act of service you’ve provided him. 

When he pulls away, you find more truth desires to spring free. “I would sooner forsake my crown than marry anyone but you, Edward,” you tell him solemnly, and the earnestness of your words twists his lips into an expression of bashful hope.

“I have nothing to give you, Princess,” Eddie reminds you.

You draw your thumb across the crest of his cheekbone— a light, reverent touch. “You need give me nothing but your heart,” you reply, voice supple as the velvet of his cloak that protects you. “It is enough.”

His eyes flick between yours, and you ache with the hesitance you see there until his brow crumples again for an entirely different reason. The ache inside eases to a soft, wondrous blooming as he gives you just what you asked for.

Eddie kisses and kisses you until your heart is throbbing and your eyes are pricking with the sentiment he’s pouring out upon you. Eventually, the stream slows; it trickles into the reverence of his hands stroking your neck and hair and the softness of his lips against the corner of your mouth. Those beloved lips feather over your cheek before lingering against your forehead, just below the unyielding circlet that presses to your skin, the symbol of your royalty. 

Your gold and jewels will separate you no longer.