#do they only allow you to do anything if you come from like 4 aristocratic families over there?

[briony-poisoned]

I believe the victims and Neil Gaiman is quite clearly a predator, but it is absolutely bonkers that the podcast breaking this story is hosted by Boris Johnson’s fucking sister. What is even going on in the UK

[merlinssassybeard]

'Ex' husband Gojo - The Aftermath- 01

Tags- self harm, miscarriage, mention of cheating

Synopsis- A look at reader's mental state after the entire ordeal with Gojo.

Part 3 // series masterlist

The maid was just about to enter the private chambers of Lady Y/n to pick up the dishes before she stopped in her tracks and started eavesdropping the conversation...

"Taking pills...precautions...pregnancy...we should divorce.....i...carry children......Satoru..."

These were the words she heard. It was as if the ground shifted from beneath her feet. What she heard was the news of the century.

It didn't take her long to run back to her servants quarters and spread the word...

The Gojo household staff comprises of only five women, one is an attendant of yours and two male out of which one is head staff of the household.

All the servants started gossiping about the matter. It didn't take them long to call their friend servants in other big and small households.

In no time the news of The Gojo Satoru and Y/n, the window (as everybody loved to call you in jujutsu society), Divorcing and supposed pregnancy spread like a deadly wild fire...

Satoru was busy in his mission in Seoul, he had no idea of anything and was scheduled to be back in time for the New Year's Eve Party.

An evening event held at the Gojo Clan's Estate which is attended by illustrious people from both sorcerers to non sorcerers backgrounds.

From Japanese Royal family and aristocrats families, The Zenins, The Kamo, The Council of the Higher ups and every other Clans to J-pop stars, actors, models, polticians, wtiters and whoever not!

The Event is a private Party where red carpets and paparazzis are not allowed but the event's pictures sure find their way to Page 6 each year. Displaying the lavish lives of the noble families of Japan.

For the last 4 years, as the Lady of the Gojo Clan, you hosted this lavish party at the main Gojo Estate. Before you, it was your mother in law.

For someone who comes from an average lower middle class family, you have quite the taste in decor, food, fashion, art and knowledge on hosting parties, qualities that are a must for a Wife of high and Noble stature.

Satoru's mother and the entire Clan was very reluctant to have you in the family. She was against this marriage but Satoru being Satoru, her only son and a total mama's boy, she couldn't get herself to say no.

After your marriage, you both, newlyweds, were living in the main estate but after 5 to 6 months Satoru decided to shift to a new house where both of you will start your newly wedded life.

Your mother in law had accepted you in the family after she got to know you and as a gesture wanted you to stay as she wanted to be the"first to get the news of her grandchildren" verbatim.

Every Clan head's wife has a special personal attendant who lives with them in the household. They are supposed to look after the wife as their lady companion, the woman they could rely on.

You too had one, Mrs Kori.

Mrs Kori was your assigned attendant. But she did not lived with you in the same house. You had allowed her to live with her own family, unlike other wives. She only attended official family Events with you as a part of her duty. You have a semi-formal relationship with her.

30th December, 2016

It was about time for the New Year's Event.

Previously, you would enthusiastically start preparations a month prior, considering it is not a small tea party rather a big event where everyone has their eyes on you as you are The Host.

You would rush at the Gojo Estate and get started with placing orders for flowers, preparing the huge garden for guests, writing invitations and a million other decorations. Your mother in law would watch and suggest or support you every now and then since she's been doing this for over 30 years.

But this time, which would have been your fifth year, it was all gloomy.

Satoru's mother was very concerned regarding the both of you. She noticed how this year you didn't celebrate her only lovely son's birthday neither did you began any planning for the Party.

She wanted to come to see what's gotten onto you but couldn't as she took back the reins of organizing the evening party. Although she did let you know through one her servants that she's taken over.

You on the other hand, wanted to recover from everything that has been going on.

Its LIFE afterall. And life is like a river, you cannot stop moving just like that. Moving forward through all the obstacles, IS life.

Your head was convincing you with all motivation it could but your heart just wanted to hold onto the little snow globe containing an Eiffel Tower, one of Satoru's souvenirs that you found by your bed, just sitting in a corner few days ago.

You were aware about the New Year's Event but you just couldn't get yourself out of bed let alone be out of the house and organize a large scale star studded event. All because of everything going on and that day... 25th of December.

You did something which you shouldn't have... a very horrendous action, a very lowly act indeed.

You wanted to go out and free your mind and to prepare yourself to look normal for the new year crowd. The first interaction with people besides your staff since the whole fiasco with your husband went down.

Your friends from the office you worked with before quitting and marrying Gojo, had called you in for Christmas drinks evening. You went and had drinks but later it took turn for the worse when you went to the house of one of your male co-workers who had a crush on you, and spent the night...

In the days following after spilling the entire ordeal to Shoko, you started developing a weird and concerning 'obsession'...

It started accidentally though but eventually you liked it or simply found it better as a 'punishment' for your actions.

It was just an innocent scratch when the glass fell on the ground and shattered and hurt your knee. But slowly, it took a darker turn and you would start to 'scratch' with a razor on your inner thighs.

It didn't take long when you would just think about that night of 25th December while in a bathtub filled with water and you trying to drown yourself in it only to rush out and slit your wrists with the razor in anger and frustration.

It felt weirdly... nice?

@sindela @dazai-gojo-kinnie @whats-humanity-lol @thewickedofrizz @phantasmia @ghostllyyz @yihona-san06 @Enaaneaen @sweet-almond @Angel_🫶🏻@autumn-slaves @wondermilka @hh0peful @kugisakinobarades @witchbybirth @nineooooo @ssc7514 @Hana-patata @blue_spices @haikyuubiggestsimp @urstepmom69 @hueneve @chayunwoo@waosobii @nadzhaf @yoriichiswife @tiltraumadouspart @kirschtein123 @whoisobsessed @Asala @ashthemadwriter @remnirris @svm666 @voidsatoru @staygoldsquatchling02 @dunnowhy-m @nnasv @violetmatcha @dummyf @Noblog @Littledemoness15 @shaiah @iluv-ace @mmeerraa @angellyah @0bakuzan @waxhers @chanelmalandro @shoutobrainrot @narutosolosurfav @Kei-b-gurlll @🫶🏼 @angrydaughter @Screw-aebi@asdfghjkl7things @kodzukenwhore @gabile18 @bollockswhy @pelicanpizza@electro-supremacy @Zatannaswifeblog@spam-and-eggs @guenievresworld @b0scuit@aliventboo @marit332 @bbylime @ieathairs @hells-escapees @no-name222

Apologies if i forgot to add your blog

AN- There's a 2nd part to this chapter, which will be released after few corrections. Thank you for your support and patience.

[horizon-verizon]

Rhaenyra did not fight for the Seven Kingdoms, but for her own position as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Her character remains obstinately stuck in a routine, and never left the conception of hereditary royalty; she s the kind of monarch who believes that a country has duties towards its sovereign, but the sovereign has none towards his country. Her character deals only with her personal rights, but never with the public good, how the war impact the smallfolk, or the means of developing commerce, navigation, or the military power of her country. We don’t even know if she encouraged companies, merchants, financiers, before the war broke out, or how she wants to rule the Seven Kingdoms.

*EDITED POST* (10/26/23):

Check this POST and this POST out for additions/changes.

Assuming that we're talking about original!Rhaenyra, I don't see how this marks her as different from most monarchs or heirs? And if we can't find a trait that makes her different (in terms of aristocratic desires) then can you really argue she'd be worse? And did she actually go out of her way to harm smallfolk before the Dance, before the usurpation, before her kids died?

A list of monarchs that Rhaenyra wouldn't be too different from: her own father, Aenys, Aegon and all of the greens also show no thought to the smallfolk in any special projects or proposed laws for the public good, as Aegon V did. Even Jaehaerys didn't want to either abolish the right of the first night or to put more attention to giving KL a better water and sewage system. His wife, Alysanne, convinced, insisted, and pressured him on both accounts!

We don't know what the greens planned to do (and I can say with full confidence that they'd be even less likely to even think of all that you list we don't know Rhaenyra would do), the text gives us nothing. But going off of what happened immediately after Rhaenyra died, they didn't appear to plan anything for anyone other than themselves.

With that, she'd be better than the alternative: any of the green children, Aegon (a rapist and can't keep his temper under control unless others make work of convincing him), Aemond (another rapist and genocidal maniac), Helaena (would never be even considered since she female and discouraged/kept from true governing, thus not giving much confidence that she can rule), and Daeron the guy who somehow couldn't stop his men from raping and killing slews of townspeople despite having a dragon and actually ordering another town but here's because he thinks that his nephew's death was all the lady's fault, thus showing more callousness than most fans expect from him. For goodness sake, Aegon (II) gathered people to execute along with the Shepherd despite him already having the Shepherd to just make an example of him!

So why single out Rhaenyra for being similar? Why does she have to "prove" herself more to you, anon, not the lords. To you? Why are you dictating that she must provide a stronger moral character than her already comparatively morally-bankrupt rivals? What do you have against Rhaenyra?

I have said this multiple times:

LINK #1

LINK #2

LINK #3

LINK #4

LINK #5

LINK #6

Some would argue that because Rhaenyra is a woman and she's already in doubt unfairly, that she needs to prove to these doubters that she deserves the throne so that she can actually, "objectively", "earn" the throne. A few things wrong with this idea:

It's actually not objective at all, how these lords and whomever evaluates who should sit on the throne. The very idea of men-only or male primogeniture--along with the reality of patriarchal privileges--comes from ideas about masculinity, womanhood. Little-questioned military control most of the population. And who defines or shapes what is good or evil, for whose interests? The aristocratic men are allowed to have that authority. Since most feudal/monarchial men feel other men can be the only ones to lead forces or direct others and that women are weaker in body and mind, they will always question the validity of a female leader. It is not rational, therefore it can be never be objective. In the story, Rhaenyra is not repudiated because she is a bad ruler or they think she would become one, but because she is a woman. That's all.

with all that energy spent on "earning" or "proving" herself by doing public good (and do more than most male monarchs ever did), Rhaenyra or any woman would not have to work harder to even become and stay a ruler, thus have that much more room to even think about doing "public good" and how. Exactly when would Rhaenyra be even implementing as you suggest after she takes KL, when again she has to concentrate on defeating her usurpers, grieving her 3 dead kids, having no funds because the treasury was stolen, having the greens west and south, and several rioters against her? Even if she had plans? How would she be able to implement them?!

Once again, the greens, even after taking back KL, did nothing to do as you say Rhaenyra should have done. Just create more chaos by trying to go after ALL Rhaenyra supporters and threatening the lives of Aegon (III), Alyn, and Baela, burning people alive, etc.

(if you, as a royal dynasty, want to maintain your semi-absolute power and keep it as absolute as possible) who gets to be heir is and never should have been determined by the lords and make it seem that it was their choice -- this is one of Jaehaerys' many mistakes, and make no mistake HIS goal was to keep absolute power for the Targ dynasty, not to engineer some sort of meritocracy or constitutional monarchy or give power to the people at the cost of the royal family

if you make one person have to "earn" the throne while allowing other heirs be just invested as heir by the monarch's say-so (as is the point), then you have worked to further undermine the word of a monarch AND the heir (again, in the interests of an absolute monarchy who wishes to keep the throne in the family)

If you want a Targ queen for the people, look to Alysanne, Rhaenys I, and Daenerys Stormborn. The last the best of them all, who exclusively thought of rulership as equal to actually protecting EVERY single person under their rule. Funny how I can count only one male monarch who is anything like these women: Aegon V. Even so, why are you so insistent on the women having this responsibility over the men?

But you also must acknowledge that women in general should not be exclusively made into defenders or definers of morality and social conditioning while men are allowed to do willy nilly with their willies and have little-to-no accountability.

Rhaenyra's personality and interests developed from her social circumstances, especially her having to--as I called it in other posts--"self-determine" her rights and value as a person/heir against the repudiaters who repudiate her based on her gender alone. We need to remember this, it is so crucial to understand her character as written or suggested! It is her strength and her flaw, her vulnerability and motivation (aside from that Targ-Andal aristocratic pride that actually buttresses the other part).

Yes she has entitlement and pride. She's a princess who grew up having much more than others and with a heritage of conquerors and dragonriders. Aerea, Saera, Rhaena, Viserra, Alyssa, Alysanne, all these women had that pride but we see them all as very different people nonetheless. Show me who would also not be similar, and does not the human population have psychological variances (personalities) as well as its physical?

Yes that Targ-Andal blood purity is there, but once more how does this make her worse or different from her male counterparts (except Aegon IV, II, Aerys II, she's objectively better than these guys)?

Either way, Rhaenyra wasn't a terrible choice of a leader until she started losing kids and being betrayed.

She doesn't have to be your favorite woman, your favorite Targ, nor even your favorite Targ woman. There are many morally and better written examples, or more deliciously mysterious ones. But I wouldn't make the mistake of thinking she was evil and totally unfit for the throne based on this misplaced take that she had to be the exception on account of her gender or how others would pressure her to be better, therefore she should not have won and ruled.

You fall into the near?-sexist trap that way, where because she is a woman who came into power she needs to prove to those around her that she is "better" than all other paat and present candidates WITHOUT at least acknowledging or addressing the granted & possible realities that made her who she was and came to be. WITHOUT tracking that process of her becoming a tyrant and making as if it came out of nowhere, that she "freaked out" and went "crazy" with no prompt that could affect others in her peace even if not in the same way. WITHOUT considering that those circumstances are not totally unique and share elements of misogyny and misogynist ideology that people should at least acquaint themselves with. If she doesn't excel and be a moral champion, then all her suffering or all that was down against her meant absolutely nothing, means nothing, we should ignore her human development, and she is the actual problem...the only problem.

*EDIT* (8/21/23):

THIS is a great post by @mononijikayu about medieval queens, female rulers, the history of how women in leadership positions were made and seen as threats to the very structure of social "order", and contextualizing Rhaenyra thru Empress Matilda. I didn't even know about Matilda's husband being comparable to Rhaneyra's Daemon! PLZ READ!!!!

Excerpt:

just as much, along with these fictitious portrayals, more lies are depicted. these women are considered vixens that cause havoc to men by shifting them into desires and danger. through the written word, we see how women are cast in roles of villains in men’s lives. it is because by their conclusive thoughts, women are the only creatures that are able to turn ‘good honorable men’ into despicable creatures who do shameful, deplorable acts for the sake of women’s pleasures.  [...] it is within this narrative that ancient chroniclers declare that women were in fact the doom of men. if they were not able to control the dangers posed by the wiles of women, then the foundations of the mighty society they had built would be up in flames.  [...] as i mentioned, these factors of community are written down and preserved. and with that, the example of the ancients were the foundations by which medieval society built itself. the same concepts continued to cause the same issue within society and that was the exclusion of women from participating in the bigger picture of community and state, much so with governing states in their own right—without judgment or disapproval. 

[hookedonapirate]

Lady Cassidy's Lover

Summary: 1919 England, Emma Cassidy, wife of a baronet, finds herself trapped in a loveless marriage after the war leaves her husband, Neal, paralyzed from the waist down and unable to produce an heir.

Despite the obstacles, she sticks by her husband's side at Goldby Hall, his family's estate, but when she meets former army lieutenant and Neal's aloof gamekeeper, Killian Jones, she feels curiously drawn to his distant blue eyes and quiet demeanor.

At first, she seeks him out for reprieve from her soulless, mundane existence at Goldby Hall, but what starts out as purely physical quickly turns into more than either of them expects.

But Emma is a baronetess, wife of an aristocrat and Killian is a working class servant. Their love affair is frowned upon, and she risks losing her title, her wealth and her position in the world by being with him. But she is determined to get her happy ending with the man she loves. Even if it means losing everything else in the process.

A/N: Thank you @ultraluckycatnd and for looking this over and for being amazing!

Hope you all enjoy!

Catch up: Ch 1 I Ch 2 I Ch 3 I Ch 4 I Ch 5 I Ch 6 I Ch 7 I Ch 8 I Ch 9 I Ch 10 I Ch 11 I Ch 12 I Epilogue

Also on: AO3

Chapter Five

Killian watches as Lady Cassidy disappears into the darkness, his heart still hammering in his chest. He hates that she had to go, but he also hates that he had given in. He had sworn off women years ago after he found out his wife betrayed him. He has guarded his heart, kept it intact since then. For the only woman he has ever loved had squashed it to pieces.

He turns toward the darkness of the forest and heads back home. All is still, but he can hear the noises of the night, the engines at Stacks Gate, the traffic on the main road. He had tried to stay hidden and withdrawn from everything, but apparently the world does not allow for such a thing. And now he has let a woman pierce through his hard exterior, and he knows it can only lead to a new cycle of pain and doom.

There’s something different about Lady Cassidy, however. Something innocent and quiet and warm and soft. But also, he could see the loneliness and sadness in her eyes. She is so different from Milah but he doesn’t know if he can trust his gut instincts. Lady Cassidy could be a siren, setting a trap for him and trying to ensnare him.

So it’s good that this cannot happen again. No matter how strongly her scent still lingers in his nostrils or how warm and soft and soaked her walls felt around his cock when he took her in the hut. Or how green her eyes are, how gold her hair is, reminding him of the sunshine he rarely sees, or how beautiful she is. Or how much she has already affected him.

When he witnessed her break down, he knew it wasn’t from holding one of the chicks. He could tell how much she cares for them but he had seen the pure joy on her face when holding the tiny pheasant in her hands. Then that joy quickly turned into tears, and he felt awkward, not knowing what to do. It had been a while since a woman had cried in front of him. 

And he didn’t know her enough or know what she was going through to comfort her properly. But he sensed her husband was the cause of her tears. Of her loneliness, her sadness. For if she were happy with her marriage, there would be no sadness in her eyes. And if Neal is anything like his black-hearted father, Killian can most certainly understand why the young woman would break down suddenly like she had.

He goes home to his dark cottage, lights the lamp and starts the fire, eating his supper of bread, cheese and young onions, washing it down with beer. He’s alone, except for Jolly of course, but he enjoys the silence. At first he had been annoyed Lady Cassidy had come to the hut and asked for a key, because the hut was his sanctuary, the only place no one else knew of, but she had asked with such kindness, and he couldn’t possibly deny her request. 

And that is what scares him. She seems too kind, too nice, too quiet, too much like him to be real. And when they were in the hut—what is now their hut, their little sanctuary—he could see the need, the vulnerability in her eyes, something a woman of her class has never shown him before.

But honestly, he is sorry for what had happened, mostly for her sake. What would happen if Sir Neal discovered Killian had fucked his wife? He would surely lose his job, but that’s not what worries him. Lady Cassidy’s reputation would be tarnished. 

The town would talk, and nothing but vile things about her would come from their mouths. And he doesn’t wish that upon her. If it were just her and him in this world, it would be a different story. He’d no doubt let her lure him and entrap him and he’d be hers for the taking. He’d take her again and again with no remorse.

The desire for her rises within him, his cock stirring to life once again.

He goes to bed that night and dreads the thought of washing Lady Cassidy off his skin. He strokes himself at the thoughts and memories invading his mind of her lithe body writhing underneath him, of her moaning and panting. Oh how sinful and sweet and lovely those sounds were. And that look on her beautiful face when he’d tried to get the firewood. When she begged for him with those hypnotizing green eyes, he knew at that moment he couldn’t say no. Not to her.

He'd fucked her good and hard on the floor of that hut and wished he could do it again and again. He spills his seed as he remembers how hard she had made him come inside her. Lady Cassidy with her tight walls squeezing his cock and making him hers.

Vixen.

He’d agreed a one-time thing is for the best.

But he fears if he sees her again, he surely won’t be able to resist her.

~*~

The next day, he goes to the hut, part of him hoping she’s there, another part of him hoping she’s not. He fears that even if he wants to stay away, he can’t. But he has to check on the coops. Make sure there are no poachers lurking around. 

He’s not sure how to feel when he arrives and sees her sitting on the porch steps, reading her book. Memories flood through his mind, the memories of how tight and wet she was when he took her in the hut, the way she smelled, the way she looked at him. But he has to wonder if she’s here for him. She has a key after all and she’d probably be more comfortable inside the hut. 

Though it’s stopped raining for the time being, so maybe she prefers to breathe in the fresh air of the forest. He glances over at her—saluting when she looks up from her book. Trying not to look at her too long, for he knows if he does, he’ll be tempted to give in—he goes to the coops, crouching down and surveying everything carefully, then shutting the hens and chicks up safe for the night.

When he approaches her, she’s still sitting on the porch step, reading her book, and she’s so stunning in her white and pink floral dress and bright yellow coat, part of her golden hair pinned back behind her head. Something stirs inside him like it had last night when he held her in his arms. She was crying and his heart ached for her.

He wanted to take all her pain away and he tried to ignore the way his heart raced when he was near her. But then he brought her into the hut and tried to leave to get more firewood and she grabbed his arm. Before then, he had doubted that what he was feeling for her was mutual, but then he saw the look in her eyes—the unmistakable desire in her alluring, emerald depths—and he knew in the moment she wanted him.

He very much wanted her too. Bloody hell did he want her.

He tried to fight it, tried to tell himself no good could come from it but whatever had made her sad was obviously not good and it had seemed to vanish from her mind when they were inthe hut and she looked at him the way she did, her eyes full of longing and need. He didn’t want to fight his desire for her. He wanted to give in. And he doesn’t regret what happened, but he worries she will. She, Lady Cassidy, cheated on her husband. He thought she’d wake up this morning, hating Killian for what happened. He thought he’d never get to see her again—unless by accident—that she’d never come to the hut again.

She looks up from her book, those fierce green eyes penetrating his soul. His heartbeat quickens, and he wants so badly to kiss those soft looking lips, but he’s afraid if he kissed her, he’d be a goner.

“I’ve been waiting for you.”

Fear pounds through him, because there are probably a couple reasons she’d be waiting for him  one, to tell him how sorry she is for what happened and that she hates him for it and two, to tell him she wants more than a one-time thing. She doesn’t look angry though. He swallows the hard lump lodged in his throat. “Do you regret what happened between us?”

She shakes her head, and he’s not sure whether to be relieved or bloody terrified. “No, not at all. Do you?”

“No, of course not.” He averts his eyes toward the forest, trying to avoid looking her directly in the eye. “But…don’t you think folks will become suspicious if you keep coming here?” He moves his eyes back to hers. “Imagine how lowered you’d feel…you with your husband’s servant.”

She cocks her head to the side, eyeing him curiously. “You afraid?”

“I bloody well am.” He steers his gaze away briefly and then back to her, nodding. “I bloody well am, yeah. Not of what people think of me, milady,” he clarifies, peering down at the ground. “But if you were to ever feel sorry for what we did—” Before he can finish his sentence, Lady Cassidy attacks his lips with hers, cupping his neck in her delicate hands. He’s too stunned to react at first. She had risen from the steps and sprang forward so fast, he hadn’t even noticed until it was too late.

He was right about his earlier prediction.

Now that Lady Cassidy’s lips are on his, so soft and tender, he’s a complete goner.

Once he returns from his daze, he exhales deeply and moves his lips against hers, closing his eyes. He cups her cheek in his hand, brushing his thumb over her plump bottom lip, savoring the taste of her mouth and the feel of her skin, his heart quickening in his chest.

His other hand rests upon her waist, and he inhales her sweet scent as his lips ghost over hers, her hot breath kissing his skin. She cups the back of his neck in her hand, her fingers playing at his nape and combing through his hair as she slips her tongue past his parted lips, knocking the hat off his head and the wind right out of his lungs. Her tongue is so soft and warm and wet as she drives him mad, his cock hardening in his trousers. He presses himself against her core, making her whimper, and he savors the deliciousness of her mouth pressed against his.

Letting the effect she has on him completely overpower him, for he can no longer find it within himself to resist her, he walks her backward, up the steps and toward the hut. 

They work at tearing off each other’s clothes while looking around to make sure no one’s around to see them. Killian pushes off her jacket as she undoes the handkerchief around his neck, pulling it off of him and tossing it aside, both of them already panting.

“We have to be quick,” she murmurs breathlessly. “I have to be back soon for supper.”

He hates the idea of a time limit, hell, he hates she has to go back, but he pushes the negative thoughts aside, continuing to walk her backward as they both work at unbuttoning his waist coat, and crushes her lips with his. She makes him delirious with need, and he never wants to stop kissing her. He flings it off and kicks the door open behind her, cupping the back of her head in his hands and burying his fingers in her soft hair as he ushers her inside.

When he backs her into the table, he lifts her up and sets her atop it, quickly parting her legs and resting in the cradle of her luscious thighs, their lips still latched. He loves her thighs, he loved thrusting against them when he pounded into her, he loves how soft and lovely they are. Killian rocks gently against her, and she gasps at the feel of him, a sweet little moan escaping into his mouth, and he devours it, his skin tingling.

His entire body is on fire.

Lady Cassidy fumbles for the buttons of his shirt and tugs the suspenders from his shoulders, never breaking the kiss as he helps her with it.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers against her lips as she pulls his sleeves down his arms.

She smiles and blushes. “You are too.”

Once the shirt is on the floor, he wraps his arms around her as she cards her hands through his hair, both of them breathing heavily and moving to get closer and closer until either can barely breathe. She wraps her hand around the back of his neck, and he cups her cheeks in his hands, breaking the kiss very briefly as he brushes his thumbs across her lips and admires her mouth. She’s breathless, her lips pink and bruised, her cheeks a rosy pink shade. Every part of her is beautiful, and her perfection takes his breath away.

Removing his thumbs from her lips, he sighs deeply and leans in again, tenderly capturing her mouth, groaning as he lets himself get completely lost in the kiss. He can’t get enough of her. He wants to stop time so he can keep kissing her.

Snaking his arm completely around her back, he holds her close as his other hand reaches for her breast, cupping the soft weight in his palm and stroking it delicately as her body melts under his touch. He can feel her nipple harden under his thumb as he toys with the delicate bud, eliciting the softest of moans from her mouth.

Reaching for her dress, he pulls up her skirts and she shifts and helps him remove the barriers.

“I can’t stay long,” she murmurs. “Someone will notice.”

Once again he finds himself grimacing at the time limit, but it only means he has to make what little time they have together count. He wants to make her feel good, no he wants her to feel incredible. He doubts Neal ever pays her any attention or touches her properly—or rather improperly.

He licks his fingertips and slips his hand under her dress, his breath hitching, his heart pounding when he finds her naked under her petticoat. She is so incredibly wet as he slides his finger through her folds, placing his other hand on the table. He hears the sharp intake of breath as he strokes her delicate, secret place, sliding two fingers into her heat, coating his digits in her arousal. She leans back and closes her eyes, biting her bottom lip and muffling her sounds of bliss.

“Look at me,” he demands in a whisper, wanting to stare into those hypnotizing eyes when he makes her fall apart.

She opens her eyes, those emerald depths pooled with desire as he thrusts his fingers into her warmth. He slides his lips down her jaw and kisses her neck as she tips her head back, moans pouring from her sweet mouth, her body writhing, both of them panting. Soon he can feel her walls pulse around his fingers and he kisses the delicious moans as she comes hard in his hand. But he’s not finished with her yet.

Carefully removing his fingers from her core, he drops to his knees and quickly, desperately, removes her petticoat and tosses it aside. She’s got these adorable pink, sheer stockings on her legs that go just above her knees and are adorned with pink bows. He throws those stocking-covered legs over his shoulders and pulls her to the edge of the table, looping his arms around her thighs.

She leans back on her elbows as he swipes her brown curls aside and licks up her slit, her sweet, tangy scent invading his senses and fogging his mind as he breathes it in through his nose. Lady Cassidy moans above him, carding her fingers in his hair as he devours her cunt. She’s so soft and warm and decadent, he could feast on her all day.

A gasp escapes her mouth, her thighs tightening around Killian’s head. When he peers up at her, the feeling of his tongue lapping her up has her eyes rolling back into her head. He smirks against her glistening folds as she threads her fingers through his dark hair, scraping her nails against his scalp, her body writhing above him.

He dips his tongue deeper inside her, pulling away almost immediately before repeating, teasing her until she’s completely on the edge and begging for him to finish her. 

“Jones…please…”

It’s in that moment he realizes she doesn’t even know his first name. Hell, he doesn’t know hers either. They are practically strangers, and here he is with his face buried in her pussy. But he’s not complaining.

She tugs gently on his hair and then harder in warning as he pushes his tongue in deeper, wiggling against her slick walls and stroking her clit, coaxing another orgasm out of her. Her thighs clench harder, and she gasps, throwing her head back, moans slipping from her mouth, loud enough to bounce off the walls of the small hut. 

Killian grips her thighs, keeping them still as he drives his tongue deeper and faster until her body arches and her thighs tremble around his head, until she tugs hard on his hair, her hips squirming. His grip never falters, nor does his tongue, drawing out her orgasm for as long as possible. Until she can’t take anymore.

When he finally pulls away, he looks up at her face again. She’s panting, her cheeks flushed, her lips parted, her eyes closed.

She’s an exquisite little thing.

He licks his lips as her orgasm drips down his stubbled chin. He rises and leans in, stealing a kiss, smirking against her mouth.

She laughs and playfully pushes him away. “I’m late.” He helps her off the table, and she grabs her slip and heads toward the door.

“Wait, let me walk you!” he calls through the doorway, picking up his shirt and throwing it on. He buttons it up as he hurries down the porch steps and grabs his hat, replacing it on his head. Lady Cassidy already has her jacket on and her book is already making her way back carrying her book and slip. But she knows he’ll chase her. Which he does.

When they’re close to the park, she spins around in front of a giant oak tree and throws him a curious look. “Do we still feel like strangers to you?”

He arches a brow in amusement as he makes his way to her. “Pardon me?”

“Do we still feel like strangers?” 

He looks around the tree trunk to make sure they don’t have an audience as he steps up to her, removing his hat. “Not like any strangers I’ve ever known.”

She walks backward until she bumps into the tree, her entire face lighting up with a giggle. The sound is music to his ears, and he longs to make her laugh like that and see the pure joy on her lovely face all the time. He closes the distance between them, presses his palm against the tree by her head and kisses her soundly on the mouth, swiping her tongue with his when she parts her lips. She cups his jaw in her free hand, brushing her thumb over his stubbled jaw as she lets a little moan escape into his mouth, making his spine tingle.

He loves her moans just as much as he loves her giggles.

“I don’t even know your first name,” she admits as though she’d been reading his thoughts earlier.

“It’s Killian.” He kisses her again. “And yours?”

“Emma.”

“There, do we feel less like strangers now?” he teases with a grin.

She smiles that big, radiant smile of hers as she gently pushes him backward. “I suppose.”

“Come to my cottage tomorrow.” He longs to have her in his bed, though he knows he won’t be able to wake up next to her, since she would have to return to her husband before supper. The reminder that she’s married makes his heart clench. Technically he is married too, but he doesn’t live with his spouse, nor is he still with her. They are separated. Emma on the other hand still lives with her husband.

She shrugs, looking a bit unsure. “If I can.” She turns around and heads for the gate. “Goodnight.”

He puts on his hat. “Goodnight then, your Ladyship.”

Emma opens the gate and pauses, turning around. “Killian!”

“Yes?”

She tosses her petticoat, and he grabs it with a smirk as he watches her close the gate and saunter away. It’s the first time she’s ever spoken his first name, and he loves the way it rolls off her tongue.

He tucks the slip underneath his shirt so no one sees him with it as he makes his way back home, a smile playing along his lips. His lips haven’t experienced this kind of smile in a very long time, and he has a feeling he’ll be smiling more often now as long as Emma’s in his life.

So much for swearing off women.

He doesn’t think he’ll be able to stay away from her.

He’s so fucked.

[jimlingss]

Moirai [3]

Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4

➜ Words: 4.8k

➜ Genres: 60% Fluff, 40% Angst, Isekai!AU

➜ Summary: Death is supposed to be the end. Or at least that's what you assumed when you're hit by a TRUCK. But the moment you open your eyes again, instead of being sent to the afterlife, you've become a baby. And not just any baby. You're the female villain of a video game.

You’re ten years old when you finally get to go to the Solar Festival.   “Come right up and challenge this brute to an arm wrestle!”   “Get your candy! Fresh candy from the west right here!”   It’s the first time you’re not deathly ill and practically on your deathbed, a secret which has been kept deep in the Devereux house. God forbid, their only heir is found to be weak. It could be detrimental to the whole aristocratic balance.   But frankly, you’re surprised you’re even alive.   While Anastasia’s death occurs shortly after she turns eighteen, the impending doom never stops weighing on your mind. You just count your blessings as each year passes.   You’re ecstatic to finally be able to go to the Solar Festival too. But you can’t believe it’s with Prince Jungkook and his bratty ass.   A year ago, you were horrified to find out you were engaged to him. It came out of nowhere, an announcement in the morning that nearly had you choking on your breakfast. You don’t know how your father managed to pull such strings, but you’re not entirely surprised. It was part of the original storyline after all.   Luckily, little has changed. It’s an arrangement only in name and was the gossip of tea parties for just a week. Jungkook is still largely uninterested in you. If anything, he still seems scared of you for that stunt you pulled when you first met. But you’re going to keep it that way.    If you can’t win him over with overbearing kindness, then fear works.   “Hey, you.” The Prince taps you on your shoulder and you realize he’s talking to you. He didn’t even refer you to your name. The damn brat. Jungkook points off to a stand and then grins. “Think you can win a prize?”   It’s a booth with three different targets two meters away and slingshots. A simple game with pretty good prizes.   You muse the game developers used a lot of modern inspirations in creating this world. The Solar Festival isn’t far off from markets and carnivals from the twenty-first century.   Jungkook smiles lazily and lolls his head at you. “Here, let me show you how it’s done.”   You scoff as he saunters off. For being only ten years old, he sure is cocky for his age.   The Prince flicks a golden coin at the vendor who bows at him and he grabs the slingshot and ball. His left eye closes and the tip of his tongue sticks out as he aims. Jungkook releases after a moment and the ball hits the second ring of the target.   “Amazing job, Your Highness,” the commoner stutters out while bowing again.   Jungkook pays no mind to him, but he turns his head towards you and smirks. “See?”   Your brow twitches and you step up to the booth. You grab the slingshot out of his hand, take a ball and within two seconds, you fire.    Bullseye.   It’s your turn to shift and smirk at the Prince. Pft. A game like this is easy peasy. C’mon, you used to play at arcades and amusement parks where all their games were professionally rigged.   “C-Congratulations!” The vendor hands you a massive brown bear that nearly overcomes you in size.   Jungkook’s jaw has dropped.   “Would you like the prize, Your Highness?”   He points at you. “You cheated!”   “Excuse me?!”   “Cheater!”   Jungkook stomps away and you’re left following after him while glaring into his backside.    The two of you are accompanied by two knights trailing after you. It’s more intimate than being surrounded in a room full of adults and dressed in extravagant attire. You suppose going to the Solar Festival together with the Prince, aka. your fiancé, is supposed to give off the impression that you’re actually close to him and that this isn’t just a shallow engagement.    The actual truth emerges as you’re busy studying the sign of a food booth. You’re perplexed that they have corn dogs here, or whatever they call it in Ashea, and as you turn around, Jungkook and the guards are gone.   Are you fucking kidding me? Did he actually leave you behind?!   You start wandering, scanning the heads around, looking past hordes of strangers, darting between their legs, dodging bodies. But the crowd is thick and before you’re swept up completely, you flounder out of the mass to the perimeters of the Solar Festival. It’s emptier there, only couples searching for an intimate space and stragglers who want a breath of air.    But by sheer coincidence and coincidence only, a familiar boy comes into your sight.   What the hell is he doing here?   You step back in surprise and cover your face with your massive plush bear. It's only when you peek out that your eyes permanently set onto Taehyung. He’s dressed in a black cloak, but the brown strands of his hair are too distinct. He’s taller than when you last remembered, growing into his skin as well. His cheeks are less rounded than before, eyes becoming sharper.   He doesn’t notice you, at least not yet. He’s too busy taking in the Solar Festival, gawking at the crowds, the twinkling lights and glowing lanterns. He stands at a distance, seemingly overwhelmed.   It feels like you’ve accidentally stumbled into a scene you’re not a part of.   It’s then that you remember there was a flashback in the game. Jungkook invited him to go out, but he couldn’t until he gave into the temptation and snuck outside the castle walls himself. This marks the first time Taehyung left the palace since his mother’s passing three years ago. He’s been trapped inside as the embodiment of the royal family’s shame since.   In the game, you remember he wanted food but didn’t have a single coin to his name.   But that’s not your problem.   You’re not supposed to be here anyway. So, you turn and walk away………………..   “Do you want a corn dog?”    Yet, somehow, you find yourself shown up in front of him regardless, arm extended with the stick of deep fried batter. Taehyung’s caught off guard, eyes wide but you’ve already diverted your vision, staring off at the side with an unknowing pout.    You can’t keep running away. You don’t want to.    The last time you did, Taehyung’s mother suffered the consequences of your inaction.   “I don’t know what they call it here in Ashea, but it’s a corn dog to me.”   The pair of you end up sitting together on a bench on the outskirts of the festival. The enormous teddy bear you won sits upright to your left as Taehyung is on your right. You’d be shrouded in darkness if not for the dim luminescence of the strung lights at the distance.    You bite into the hot corn dog, listening to the crunch and Taehyung’s chewing beside you.   He doesn’t say much, so you focus on gobbling up the oily treat.    Truth be told, you feel pity for Taehyung. Guilty. In a lot of ways, the two of you are similar. Outcasted. Isolated. The game developers are real assholes for creating this kind of backstory for the main antagonists while all the protagonists do is fall in love.    Once you’re done eating, you wipe your hands onto your navy pea coat.    The maids can clean it later.   “This is actually the first time I’ve been to the Solar Festival,” you pipe up, swinging your legs on the edge of the bench.   He looks at you, chewing in his cheek. “It’s mine too.”   You figured.   Suddenly, a surge of motivation washes over you.    Alright! You got some money on you. You can blow your entire allowance today and make it the best day ever for Taehyung!   You twist yourself to him with conviction set in your eyes. He’s startled and leans back. “Is there anything you want to do here then?!”   The corner of his mouth tugs. “Not really.”   You deflate. “Oh.”   It simmers down into quietness again, the bustle filling the spaces in between. Taehyung looks straight ahead yet you still catch his timid voice. “I never thought I’d see you again.”   It sinks in after a delayed second and you turn to him slowly. “You remember me?”   It was less than five minutes. Three years ago. A brief encounter at his mother’s burial.   “Why would I forget?” Taehyung smiles softly to himself. “So I’m just happy sitting here beside you.”   In hindsight, he probably wouldn’t have followed you or eaten beside you compliantly if you were a complete stranger to him. But to hear him say that aloud, you feel even sadder. You’re probably the closest thing he has to a friend right now.   You become silent, the knowledge of his future and yours heavy upon your shoulders.   “Revenge isn’t as great as you think it is,” you mutter.   The ten-year old boy frowns. “Pardon?”   You shake your head. “Never mind.”    What’s the point? It’s not like you could say anything to make it better. You know he’s dead set on it, on avenging his mother’s murder and you can’t even blame him for being so angry. For being so fixated. So lonely.   He’s hidden in the castle’s shadows — the only person who cared for him is gone.   You recall from the wikipage on the characters that it’s around this time Taehyung starts dabbling in magic by himself. He ends up becoming one of the greatest magicians in the empire, but obviously winds up using it for bad.   You eagerly twist yourself towards the boy, nearly nose to nose with him. “Don’t learn magic!”   “What?” Taehyung’s frowning, unable to understand where your random demand came from.   You lean closer to him. “Magicians aren’t that great and magic can blow up in your face. Literally.”   A beat later, your eyes stray off of Taehyung’s eyes to three figures in the distance. Jungkook is spinning in every direction, lugging his legs, expression tired and begrudging. The two knights are also looking around and you realize they’re searching for you.   “I have to go.” You hop onto your feet and grab your brown bear. “Bye!”   “Wait!” Taehyung whips himself around, but by then, you’ve already run off. His hand slips into the cloak’s pocket and he looks down at the pink handkerchief in hand with a small sigh.    You feel bad about leaving him behind, but you hope he enjoys the festival even if it’s just a little.

The room is small, dark and dank. With only a single bed in a wooden frame and a wardrobe, he often sits facing the window, looking up at the azure sky and the cotton clouds that are drifting past.   “Your Highness.”   A maid knocks at the door and he turns, sliding off the bed to follow after her quietly without question.   The only time he’s allowed to leave his bedroom is to the study. ‘Even if he’s a bastard child, no son of the King can be uneducated’ is what they said.   “You got two wrong on your examination.” The tutor flips over the parchments. “I’m surprised you managed to memorize up to the fifth volume of the Kalisis scriptures and the fundamental theory of Mahhild, but we’ll have to review Ashea’s sacred Imperial Language.”   Taehyung nods. “I’m sorry.”   “Do better next time.”   Silence settles as the older man puts aside the parchment and goes to pull books from the nearby shelves. In the meanwhile, Taehyung’s eyes stray outside the window to the wispy clouds, keeping still in his seat. He doesn’t ask many questions. He simply learns what is given to him and apologizes when he fails. But his mind strays to a girl in a navy pea coat, someone with a soft expression, who somehow always appears in front of him when he needs it most. And he can’t help his curiosity—   “Sir.” At the sound of his voice, the tutor turns around. “Do you...happen to know anyone by the name of Anastasia?”   The older man’s brow quirks. “You mean the Crown Prince’s fiancée, Anastasia Loretta Devereux?”   Taehyung’s caught off guard. “Fiancée?”   “Why do you ask?”   “N-No reason. I just heard of the name somewhere.” He looks away and the man finishes grabbing the textbooks, dropping them down on the surface in front of him. Taehyung’s fist is crumpled in his lap, quiet.    He didn’t know you were Jungkook’s fiancée. He didn’t know you were from the Devereux house either. Even he’s heard of that name before — the Duke’s house is an influential one.   Taehyung doesn’t know anything about you. He realizes it now.   But that doesn’t mean his desire has dwindled away. He still wants to see you again.   “Is it...possible to travel to another estate, but not by carriage?”   “Not by carriage?” The tutor pushes up his spectacles, puzzled by the inquiry that has come out of nowhere. “There’s horse, boat, ship, teleportation, but of course, you’re not allowed to use magic. Is there somewhere you would like to go?”   He quickly shakes his head.    They would never let him leave.   But he’s tired of waiting for the next encounter, for the next coincidence.   That night, Taehyung cracks open the door of his room. The hallway is swallowed in darkness with only a tiny sliver of the moon’s luminescence that will wane away tomorrow. So with his breath hitched and no one in sight, he slips into the shadows. He traces his steps down the corridor, turning the corner, up the small staircase and enters the library next door to the study.    Taehyung cringes as the glass doors creak, but once the gap is large enough, he fits himself through. The bookcases tower up three floors, ceiling high and the walkways between shelves narrow.    He doesn’t know where he should go, so he twists through the endless library and glances at the spines of the books before moving on.   It’s half an hour later that he finds what he’s looking for.    Magic: A Basic Guide for Beginners.   Taehyung reaches up on the tips of his toes and smoothly pulls the spine from its slot. He holds the emerald green cover to his chest and beelines straight out of the library.   He arrives back in his room with little to no trouble and sits on the floor far away from the door. Taehyung’s back leans against the wooden bedpost and he faces the window to allow the silver light to catch onto the cover. He cracks it open a second later and flips through the crisp pages until he finds what he’s looking for.   Teleportation.   A type of transport magic that allows one to travel to different locations without having to traverse the spaces in between. It is accomplished by the user visualizing the desired location and channeling their mana. If successful, the user will disappear from their current location and materialize at their desired location.    Transportation is by far the fastest way to travel between large distances. However, the success in which a user is able to teleport is dependent on skill level, inborn magical abilities and how detailed the location can be visualized.   Taehyung reads each word carefully and flips over the page to see if there are more details.   Once he realizes that’s all to be read, he shuts his eyes.    He doesn’t know where you are. He doesn’t know what the Devereux estate looks like.   But he thinks about you. The girl who handed him that pink handkerchief, the one who appeared in front of him with a stick of food, who sat beside him underneath that tree, on that bench.   Please let me see her again. Please.   Please.   Through sheer willpower, Taehyung suddenly feels a rush in his body as if he’s falling inside a dream. His senses tingle. Then, there’s cold wind pulling against his cheeks and through his hair, the moonlight no longer shining on his eyes.   His lashes flutter as his lid pulls open.   He’s standing in an empty, grassy field. But at the horizon is an illuminated manor.   The corner of his mouth tugs and he takes a step towards it.   But—   “No. No!”   He feels himself being pulled back. A force that prevents him from moving any further. Taehyung’s arm stretches out towards the manor the size of his thumb as if he could grab onto it. But no matter how hard he tries to stay, the next moment he blinks, he’s returned to the small, dark, dank room.   Taehyung’s chest rises and falls.   He was so close.   There’s a quiet knock at the door and he jolts out of his trance. Instantly, he pushes the book underneath the bed.   The door cracks open. Luckily, it isn’t a maid, servant or someone who’s come to punish him. It’s a dark haired boy with doe eyes, his younger brother who’s two inches shorter than he is.    “Taehyung?”   Taehyung stands up. “What are you doing here?”   Jungkook pouts, dressed in oversized, silk pajamas. “I thought we could play.”   “You know the Queen won’t be happy if she sees me with you.”   “I know.” Jungkook’s voice is pitched, brown eyes looking into his. Yet, he’s still hesitant at the doorway. “But no one will know!”   His younger brother is clueless. He has no idea what consequences or punishment means. He’s the Crown Prince. Pampered. Beloved. Everything he wants, he gets. He came here to play without knowing that if anyone saw, Taehyung would be the one punished. Starved. Locked into his room. There’s a reason he’s kept in the cold Western towers and Jungkook is free to roam the South, East and Northern wings. The entire castle is at his feet.   It’s unfair.   It’s so unfair that Taehyung wants to scream. But no one will hear.   They’re the same. Two boys with the same father. A few months apart. Yet one is loved and the other loathed.   Taehyung’s afraid one day he will come to hate Jungkook.   “We still shouldn’t. Go back to bed, Jungkook.”   “I can’t even stay for a minute?” He huffs out, shoulders slumping, dejected. Taehyung pulls the covers and climbs into his bed. After another moment, Jungkook gives up. “Fine. Goodnight.”   The door shuts and Taehyung rolls on his side to look out the window.   He was so close. A few more minutes and it would’ve been enough.   //   Taehyung guesses he has a natural gift for magic. The book says transportation is one of the more difficult spells that needs a lot of practice, but he made it on his first try without even knowing where the estate is.   The place only becomes more vivid in his mind the more times he goes. It becomes easier for him to visualize, easier for him to visit. And he tries with every chance he gets, every moment of his day, every minute spent alone.   Taehyung steals these secret seconds that have become what he looks forward to most. It’s the reason why he wakes up. Each time, he gathers his magic and teleports himself, it’s an opportunity to see you.   This time, it’s in the afternoon after lunch is brought to his room. Taehyung shuts his eyes and tries to imagine the manor with its brown walls, rounded windows, green field, a majestic arcway door.   When he opens his eyes and looks down at his hands materializing, he discovers that he’s at the side of the house, standing next to the wall.   “My lady!”   Taehyung jolts and peeks out from the corner. There’s a maid looking around and shouting with her hands cupped around her mouth. “My lady! Your dance lessons are starting! My lady?!”    His eyes stray upwards and the corner of his mouth tugs when he finds you in a tall tree. You’re wearing a brown dress with a flower bonnet, hidden up in the branches with a mischievous smile as you look down at the dismayed maid who’s completely oblivious.    He stifles back a laugh.   But it withers away when his body starts to fade.   No. No!   When Taehyung blinks again, he’s returned to his room. Back to where he belongs.   He slumps down on his bed in disappointment. He wanted it to last longer. But maybe next time. Next time, he’ll try harder and maybe then…..maybe then, he’ll actually get to talk to you.   //   The next evening, when no one’s around, Taehyung tries once more.   He shuts his eyes and thinks of you, thinks about the land, the house.   And it comes faster to him this time.    He doesn’t have to wait as long before he feels the breeze against his cheeks, the air fresh to his nose. He’s placed at the same spot as yesterday, by the wall near the back. Except neither you nor a maid are outside. In your place is the sun setting over the horizon, the rays casting into his eyes through the tree branches. The sky is painted in shades of a blazing bonfire, amber, ruby, citrine.   But Taehyung’s not here to admire the outside world. He looks down at his hands to make sure he’s materialized and he starts pacing around the perimeter of the manor. He ducks beneath windows when workers or kitchen staff walk by and sneaks along the walls to make sure he’s not caught.   It seems like he won’t be able to find you today.   But then he hears a— “ha!” followed by a metal whistle as something cuts through the air.   Taehyung peeks through the window to see you swinging your sword in the middle of your bedroom. You’re twirling it around, but after a moment, the weapon clanks to the ground and you drop down next to it on your butt.    “God, I’m so tired!”   Taehyung smiles to himself. His fist lifts to knock on the glass.   At the same time, the corner of your eye catches movement. So you turn your head.   But there’s nothing there.   Your brows furrow and you blink hard. But there really is nothing outside your windows. You swore you saw someone.    Maybe you’re just going crazy.    You should probably call quits for tonight and stop practicing.    You don’t know that miles away, Taehyung has appeared back in his room, looking down at his hands stitching into its form, materializing in the small, dark, and dank space. More importantly, he doesn’t see the horrified maid standing at the open doorway until it’s too late.   He’s been caught.   “Where did you go?”    Taehyung’s thrown onto the marble flooring, cheek bruised at the Queen’s feet. She looks down at him, dressed in a luxurious black gown with golden flowers, hair pulled in an updo with silver ornaments. The maid who tattled smirks as she stands on the sidelines. A guard passes the Queen the emerald spell book and she glances at it before tossing it on the ground where he’s been flung.   “And don’t you dare try to deny it.”   Taehyung sharply inhales at his stinging cheek and looks to the open book.   He exhales a silent breath of relief.    They don’t have the handkerchief.   If they did, she would’ve ripped it in front of him and thrown down the shreds. He’s glad he hid it well between his pillowcase.   “I...I just wanted to go outside. I’m sorry.”   “You’re lying.”   Taehyung looks up. “I swear—!”   Before he can inhale, Taehyung’s head is suddenly whipped to his side. The sound of the slap echoes through the lavish chamber and his hand lifts to cup at his numb cheek now printed with the Queen’s diamond rings.    “You lie!” she spits at him, eyes narrowed in.    “You think I was born yesterday?! There’s no reason for you to use magic to go outside. I know what you’re doing. You’re conspiring against me! Against the King. You’re trying to get rid of your brother and take the throne for yourself! Who taught you?! Who were you visiting?! Tell me.”   Taehyung grits his teeth. He turns his head to look back at the woman.   His hands crumple into fists.   “No one.”   Tears flood his vision. All he wanted was to see you.   But he’s weak. He can’t do anything. Much less fulfill his only wish.   “You dare lie to me again?” She scoffs. “Whoever it is, I will find them and I will punish them.”   He can’t protect himself. He couldn’t protect his own mom.   But he can still protect you.   “I said, no one taught me and I was seeing no one.”   She scoffs loudly and points to the maid by the door. “You there! Report to the King what you found out. When you’re done, let everyone know that this bastard is to be confined to his room for the next three months on full watch. Make sure he won’t be able to leave no matter what.”   “Yes, Your Majesty.”   The Queen stands, height looming over the ten-year old boy. She looks him dead in the eye, lips curling into a snarl. “Don’t think this is the end of it. I won’t let you run around and do as you wish like your whorish mother did. You can deny it for all you want. You won’t eat until you speak.”   “Take him away!” she shouts at the guards and they grab the back of his collar, dragging him upwards and out. Taehyung doesn’t scream, he doesn’t cry. His eyes dim as he looks at the woman until the gap of the door shuts in his face.    He won’t see you anymore. Not until he becomes strong enough.   Inside the room, the Queen collapses back onto her sofa. She sighs heavily and rubs her throbbing temples between her fingertips. Her personal attendant comes to her side and bows. “Is there anything I can do for you, Your Majesty?”   “It’s suffocating being here,” she mutters and drops her hand. “Hmm, maybe I’ll take the trip down to the Summer Palace in Florendale early this year.”   The maid dips her head. “I will make the preparations then.”

Edith swiftly enters the room one morning, drawing the curtains roughly and shedding the blinding sunlight into your still-sleepy eyes. You wince and pull the covers over your head, but she rips them off of you unceremoniously.   What the hell. Seriously?!   “It’s time to get ready.”   “Why?” you groan, peeling one eye open and pressing your cheek to your pillow.   Edith doesn’t stop moving. She opens the doors to your wardrobe and starts picking through the racks of dresses. “The Queen is on her deathbed with the incurable plague. The Duke and Duchess will be leaving for the castle immediately within ten minutes. You must go with them to fulfill your duties as the heir of the Devereux house.”   It takes a delayed moment for the information to sink into your foggy mind.   But then, you’re bolting upright with wide eyes. “Wait. What?!”    You’re horrified.    This isn’t part of the original game. The Queen is supposed to be alive and well even past your supposed execution date!   But there’s no time to dwell when your face is washed and you’re dressed in a black gown, barely enough time to brush your hair. You’re rushed into the carriage and the coachman rides at a hasty speed. Your mother, in the meanwhile, lectures you to stay quiet and solemn.   Your entire family soon arrives at the familiar castle and you’re guided to the main hall.   Jungkook is sobbing in the corner, being comforted by a swarm of attendants. You’re at a loss, looking around, trying to grasp what’s going on. There’s no sight of Taehyung whatsoever.   Your father, carrying the high status of the Duke, manages to visit the King and the Queen in their personal chambers. You’re brought along behind your mother, staying silent as she had instructed you to do. Your parents offer their condolences, but when you peek out behind her and past the royal healers, blood drains from your face.   The Queen is pale. Barely breathing in her bed. Cysts and welts bubble on her wrinkled skin.   Even you know she’s not going to recover. But how? How did this happen?!   The respects your parents give doesn’t last long. You’re soon being brought into the main hall again in favour of delegates from the smaller Eastern empire giving their condolences. But on your way, you catch the murmurs of the maids.   “—plague in Florendale.”   “How awful! If only Her Majesty went in the Autumn season as she usually does. I don’t know why she chose to go earlier this year.”   “It was truly the wrong place at the wrong time.” — “A tragedy!” — “Why is Her Majesty’s fate so unfortunate?”   You can barely stitch together the pieces of what happened and all the gaps in between are full of more questions. Why these changes are happening. Why the original game is changing so much.   What this means.   A feeling of uncertainty swells inside of you.

[ktheist]

saving grace | 1

muses. duke!yoongi x lady!reader

universe. arranged marriage / minor traces of magic in history

concept. driven into a corner with the new king, seokjin, offering to marry you off to a prince in a foreign land and a persistent mother who would seize the chance of a lucrative marriage for her daughter, you’re forced with the only other option to secure your freedom ‒ enter into a beneficial agreement with the man who reaped the seeds of war, the duke of cralon, yoongi min.

words. 6.1k

warnings. mentions of war, it’s cliche and cheesy all in one package

index. 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / finale

x

“that’s not a reward,” you heatedly claim, somewhere in your periphery, the royal assistant flinches from your tone, “that’s banishment! you wish to banish me to another country where i’ll be of no threat to you because of the information i hold!”

“l-lady ___, please lower your voice.” jungkook, seokjin’s new advisor, tries to placate only to stagger back from a glare you shot.

the music and chatters is loud enough to drown a scream - and you haven’t reached that point of wanting to yell your heart out at this man. the area you are in - on the second floor on the veranda overseeing the ocean of people dancing in the hall - is secluded enough to give the king his privacy.

“now, why would i do that to my most trusted confidant?” the smile on seokjin’s face could not have been more dubious. though he may wear the crown and sit upon the throne, his crude nature is what he truly is.

it’s not a secret that seokjin is the son of a maid who rose to the top but it couldn’t have been possible without the help of the count’s daughter. he needed information but his status as a prince born from a mere maid, hadn’t allow him to attend the social functions nor received any acknowledgement from the aristocrats. it was you who offered to be his eyes and ears in exchange for moving into the royal palace once he becomes king after the siege.

“as i recall, you wished to live in a palace like a princess,” his voice is unusually high pitched, laced with mockery of what you can only assume is an attempt to mimic yours, “and it just so happens that the prince of aflar is looking for a bride - who knows, despite being the 12th prince, perhaps he’ll be able to rise as the king. that way, you’ll become queen.”

“i don’t wish to become queen! i wish to live a free life without my parents dictating who i should marry just because a lady cannot inherit the family title.” this time, the heel of your foot hurts from the stomp but the anger rushing through your veins allow forbids you from showing it.

“___,” he’s used to calling you by your name - of course, it’s been five years since you’ve known each other. five years after finding out the second prince’s true nature and regretting choosing his side every waking day of your life, “you wish to live in the palace but refuse to take lessons to prepare you as my queen - what would people think of the respectable lady who doesn’t have any prior relations to the second prince-turned-king suddenly living with him under the same roof?”

“there are thousands of servants living in the palace.” you plainly point out - he must’ve expected this if he doesn’t even bat an eye at your words.

“servants don’t go prancing around the palace looking for the king as they please.”

“th-that’s because you’ve been avoiding me under the guise of the workload left by the previous king,” the stutter is what brings about the sly smirk on his lips.

“my, then your reputation is already ruined,” he feigns a disheartened sigh, almost as though he truly cares, “it’s not like the servants are loyal to me so they’ll talk - they might even be talking now - if news gets out that we’ve been acting like lovers, your chances of marrying well has dwindled to zero. you ought to quickly find a marriage prospect to mend the mess you made.”

something in the way he pans out his words causes your shoulder line to jolt backwards - as though physically slapped by the truth of his narration. though not proven yet, and though the thought of having a man to call your husband would fix everything makes you sick - you can’t deny the simple-minded way of thinking of these aristocrats.

the fact of the matter is, it doesn’t matter if it’s true or not. whether you’re seokjin’s - as he had time and time indicated - lover. what matters is the double-edged sword you’ve forged for yourself.

one wrong move, and they’d believe seokjin if he’d called you his lover and then claimed you a traitor who tried assassinating him in his sleep.

but as of now, despite becoming the king, he’s still struggling with the lack of support from the aristocrats. and having managed to wedge your way into the top circle is possibly the only reason you’re still able to do whatever you want.

all of a sudden, a disarming smile curls on your lips - seokjin must’ve noticed if he’s trying to control the curiosity that flashes in his eyes before he sports a bored expression.

“very well, i thank you for giving your blessing for me to pick out any marriage prospect i want.” the smile stretches gleefully over your features as the man’s eyes widen at your next words.

“what are you-”

“i wish to wed the duke of cralon and head knight of the kingdom, yoongi min.”

x

“the min family is rumored to be the wealthiest family in the kingdom - perhaps far surpassing the previous king. one word from the duke and these filthy aristocrats will grovel at his feet,” the voice you use trickles with sweet honey while seokjin’s hands tightly grip the seat, “but for some reason he’s staying quiet after coming back from the war and finding out the king he serves has had his head cut off.”

“what are you trying to say, lady ___?”

it’s the honorific that tells you he’s speaking as the king and everything that allows him to sit on the throne. his features, when he’s glowering, is heartbreakingly beautiful.

that’s how it feels to be driven into a corner, seokjin.

“i never told you but the duke fancies me. every year, he sends me birthday gifts,” technically he isn’t the only one - it’s just a formality to maintain an amicable relationship between the houses of nobles but having been out of touch with the ways of the nobility, you’re almost sure seokjin isn’t aware of said ways, “but my parents wouldn’t allow us to meet because of his infamous reputation and i never had any interest in marriage,” the pleasant smile on your lips is a contrast to the man’s contorting features - he must understand where you both stand now, “but if i accept his proposal, the duke won’t stand and watch as the new king sends away his fiance, will he?”

when the king glares up at you but doesn’t seem to have anything to say, you thought that’s the end of it. thought you can curtsy and call it a night whilst devising plans on how to get the duke’s attention and make him fall for you within the limited span of time you have to show seokjin how smitten the knight is for you.

...until the man himself steps out of the shadow without even a scrape of his boot against the ground. the duke is a man of many things but graceful had been far beyond your imagination. and yet here he is, in his knightly attire in black and hints of yellow lines on the sleeves and shoulders - a glaring contrast to his porcelain white skin and silvery grey hair yet perhaps what contributes to highlighting his crimson eyes. the color that’s rumored to be the curse of the goddess for the min family’s generational brute and violence that lead them to winning wars and coming back unscathed.

“your ma-” it all happens too fast.

he’s about to greet seokjin - whether it is with weighty contempt or newfound alliance, you’re not sure - with a hand on his chest and an uncaring glance your way. then you’re running towards him and before you know it, your arms are around his neck and your voice is pitched higher than you would like, “your grace, i’m glad you came back safely!”

you never thought someone could actually turn into stone in a split second but you don’t think the man in your arms is breathing at the moment. and you know exactly who’s fault that is - your own.

“please, play along,” in contrast to the high pitched tone from earlier, you curse yourself for sounding meek and timid - if your heart isn’t beating like a galloping horse and your body isn’t heating up like a baker’s oven, perhaps, you would have had better control of the situation, “my life depends on it and if we walk out of here alive, i’ll do anything you wish, duke.”

...was what you said but it all seems too far blown out of proportion, you might as well forego all your worldly desires and surrender yourself to the church and become a woman of god.

“perhaps, marrying the foreign prince would have been a better option after all.” you lament out loud, pressing the sleeve of your nightgown to your eyes but instead of being engulfed in darkness, you see a vivid replay of seokjin’s knitted brows and troubled expression. and if you’d just focus, you would still feel yoongi’s muscles underneath your fingers as you held onto his arm after flinging yourself at him whilst you make your way back to where you were standing - in front of the king.

pleasantries were exchanged while a dark cloud loomed over the three of you before yoongi excused himself and since you were clinging onto his arm, you ended up leaving as well. before you’d managed to conjure up a plausible explanation for your behavior towards a person you’ve never met. but right in that moment, leslie, your maid had called for you to inform you of the carriage waiting outside.

relief threatened to paint your features but you’d hid it with a dip before peeking at the crimson eyes that’d stared right into your soul. ‘letter’ you’d mouthed before leaving joining leslie in search for the carriage.

it’s been three days since then and there is not a single spot on the table perched in front of your window that isn’t covered with the thin bundles of papers leslie has presented you with when you ordered her to find out more about duke min. he isn’t particularly a social butterfly but his reclusive nature had extended to a point where only the butler is the only one who ever spoke to him. besides that, ever since he’d came back from war, he’d been swarmed with reports and the recent issue of missing goods from the iyesgarth port owned by the ducal house. none of which are useful for you to attract the attention of the duke for an exchange of protection.

“what was that, my lady?” at the familiar fluttery voice, your whole body shoots up.

“leslie!” the woman’s name tumbles out of your lips in surprise, “when did you get in?”

you didn’t even hear her enter-

“a few minutes ago while you were still snoring off,” she answers simply as she walks over, inspecting the teal dress she must have gotten from your closet while murmuring to herself about the ‘handiwork is terrible. we shouldn’t order dresses from vivian’s boutique anymore.’

it didn’t seem like she heard anything but if she did, leslie has always had a knack for going about her day as though she knew nothing. you wonder how much information she holds just from that uncaring personality of hers that allows people to feel at ease with knowing she wouldn’t tattle.

but this isn’t something you could let go, “leslie, how much did you-” but it’s her rambling that almost has you biting down on your tongue as you clamp your mouth shut.

“...won’t do. you need to dress pretty for the duke, my lady.”

almost as though the traces of sleep has flown out of the window, you’re crawling over the bed and grasping onto the maid’s shoulders for dear life, “d-did you say duke?”

an unsuspecting smile graces your lips once the realization that your unusual behavior, is caused by the news of the duke, “yes, he’s on his way here as we speak!”

it takes a moment for you to register her words. another for you to blink back at her as though waiting for her ever smiling face to fade into the dark before you finally wake up, wishing fullheartedly that this is all just a bad dream.

“my lady?” leslie cocks her head to the side, as though searching for your conscience that’d retreated so far back into your existence, she realizes she’s staring back at nothing but a shell.

“why...” the lowest murmur leaves your lips like a calm before a storm before a hurricane rages and whirls out of your entire being, “why is the duke coming here?”

x

“___! what did you do to summon the rage of the duke to our home!” your father, dressed unusually impeccably, stopped in the middle of ordering the butler and servants for when the duke arrives.

“m-me?” yes, you knew you had sounded utterly audacious for someone who boasted - and even blackmailed the king - about the duke’s affection for you, “i didn’t do anything!”

it was in that moment that the clamor of a carriage had echoed from outside. the sound of the horses neighing comes a second later. but nobody heard the footsteps of duke min as he tread towards the open doors of the mansion.

he wasn’t named grim reaper for nothing.

“my apologies for coming on such short notice,” at least he's rational enough to admit his fault.

you catch the sight of the tip of his fringes falling over his face as he bows, before you curtsy, head lowered and eyes fixed to the ground.

your mother had scolded you an earful about peeking while curtsying, “___! have some refinement! a lady does not peek like an uncivilized cavewoman!”

if you’d lived in a cave, you wouldn’t have to be constricted to such formalities in the first place.

“please, don’t apologize,” your father presses smoothly, unlike his frazzled self from just a minute ago - it must have taken him years to hone such composure as to not tremble under the duke’s crimson eyes, “we at the ___ manor, are honored to have you as our guest, your grace. though we are quite puzzled by your grace’s reason for coming here.”

“reason.” the duke echoes, it seems the only thing delicate about him is his features but you’d be lying if you said you don’t find the low gruff of his voice thunderous to your heart.

a short silence lapses as though he’s sifting through his memories and finally letting his gaze travel to you - though his tone doesn’t seem to harbor any murderous intention, those crimson eyes that seek yours render your body cold. you clasp your hands together out of needing something to hold onto as you fix him one of your schooled, noble smile.

“i wish to speak to the eldest daughter of this house,” he says simply, “about our engagement.”

that same smile on your face falters into a pressed line.

x

“my, my,” your mother laughs, royal purple fan that’s been fluttering over his face now being lowered to her lap, “what troublesome rumor has spread about our beloved ___.”

the slightest twitch on her pristine smile tells you otherwise. but you can’t challenge her genuinity - not in front of the yoongi, at least.

and to be truthful, the more pressing matter - one that plagues your very talk as of now - is the fact that the conversation pertaining your supposed blessed marriage had only been attended by seokjin, jungkook and you - there were guards but you doubt any of them were interested in gossips about a count’s daughter’s affairs.

...could seokjin be the one to have spread the rumor?

before you can even come to a plausible conclusion as to why the king would do such a thing, you’re brought out of your train of thoughts by the woman covering your hands that are on your lap, grasping onto them tightly - at first glance, it would appear she’s genuinely concerned for you, “how do you plan to take responsibility over daughter’s wounded reputation, your grace?”

it’s commendable how your mother is still able to let her lips stretch over her face as though the man’s red eyes aren’t piercing through her skull like a spear. you’ve always known she was a scary woman - she wished to pass on her legacy onto you and perhaps that was why you would always end up huffing and trudging back to your room every time you tried to tell her you didn’t want to follow such path.

her ways were effective but you weren’t looking to gain something out of another’s suffering.

“mother!” your voice bounces over the walls, “his grace’s reputation is also tarnished by the rumor, how could you ask him to take responsibility as if it was his fault?”

the woman stares down at you with her signature glare but after years of being on the receiving end of it, you’d grown a spine or two, “silly child, who’s going to marry you now that the rumor of your engagement with the grim reaper has spread far and wide?”

“mother!” it almost comes out a chide at the word she uses to describe the man sitting right across from you.

“d-dear wife,” your father is sweating bullets from his seat as he bravely speaks up, “why don’t we let the duke and ___ discuss this matter privately? it is, after all, their reputations that are on the line.”

“theirs?” your mother’s hiss causes your father’s shoulder line to shrink back.

yoongi’s reputation may have been borne by only him but for a lady, everything you do reflects on your family name. that, you understand and for once, your mother’s outburst is well-founded.

the roots of rage almost tangles around your ankles as well - but the uncertainty of the source of rumor lingers on your mind.

it is the moment when the door shuts behind the butler after your parents which required a lot of pleading from your father, do you allow yourself to feel the heat of yoongi’s eyes on you - if looks could kill you’d be dead for simply and foolishly meeting his gaze.

“your grace, i apologize on my mother’s behalf... my mother, she’s only worried about my future like any mother would,” the head that’s held up high, the shoulders that line straight and the schooled smile on your lips - does well to conceal the inner turmoil inside you. but when all you receive is a steel gaze and a pin-drop silence, you’re forced to change the topic, “i was in the middle of writing you a letter.”

in other words, you mean to say you’re too hasty, duke.

unlike you, the man has his legs crossed languidly, his sword - said to be forged by the spine of the devil himself - is leaned next to his foot, almost as though ready for him to pull it out of its sheath if you so much as move, “i thought you would chip a nail writing me one so i decided to spare you the pain and pay you a visit, my lady.”

the underlying mockery in his words does not go past you yet it takes a moment for it to register - he looked like a straightforward man based on the menial conversation he shared with seokjin and you as a witness.

but it’s true what they say about judging books by their cover.

“that’s very considerate of you, your grace,” the smile you force on goes against the normal order of nature but the man doesn’t seem fazed. his crimson eyes fixes themselves on yours as though trying to take a peek into your soul and find out your darkest secret. if there’d been any trace of humor, it’s all vanished into thin air now.

“your grace, i told you my life was on the line that night. and you helped me regardless of who i was - i’m thankful for you. there’s no way i’d start a rumor of us being engaged and trouble you further,” you begin, capturing yoongi’s gaze with yours - where you get such courage for someone who’s about to spew half-truths, you don’t know, “but that night - it was because seok- his majesty was about to marry me off to the 12th prince of aflar because i’d offended him with my words.”

“so he does whatever he wants just like his father,” his eyes glazes over you, as though picturing the new king at the back of his head as you speak. the matter of what he came for no longer as pressing as he made it out to be - dare you say, it was just an excuse to for him to come barging in.

“no!” the hurried denial warrants a narrow of eyes from the duke - as though wondering why the lady whose pleas were ignored, is defending the very person who’d ignored them. you only wanted a way out - not breathe the flames of an uproar from the nobles who chooses to remain neutral, “what i mean is, i’m sure his majesty will understand if you let me stand by you for a short while - i promise i won’t get in your grace’s way.” the last part is added as an afterthought when his eye twitches just the slightest bit as though displeased by the thought of some lady sticking to his side like glue.

the silence that lapses between you is tangible as your body screams to be released from the frozen state you’re in - you couldn’t move a finger even if you’d wanted to, at least not until yoongi seems to finish thinking.

“what exactly did you say to the king to have him want to send you away for good?” comes the million gold question.

this is it. you know he’d catch on but you’re not so prepared to give an answer. you’re not sure if the hesitance shows in your face but you doubt your mastery for hiding your emotions is as spectacular as his.

and so, with a tilted chin, you set a resolute gaze upon the duke, “the missing shipments from the port iyesgarth,” you state, noticing the curious raise of brow, “how are armwells doing these days?”

“impossible,” the frown that etches itself on his face is another kind of heartbreaking beauty. leaning back against the chair again and consequently allowing you to let out the breath you never knew you were holding, he continues, “the armwells own the warehouses. why would they steal shipments from merchants who pay them plenty just to leave goods in their warehouses?”

“the answer you’ve been looking for is right there,” the smile that blooms on your face is a pleasant one and the knit of yoongi’s eyebrows is all heartbreakingly adorable. “their spendthrift son has been gambling away the money and however much they make over the warehouse fee is starting to not be enough.”

there’s a light in his eyes that shines with doubt and with that, births the shadow of, dare you say, plausible confidence in what you’re saying.

“the goods from the shipment are being sold in the black market,” those crimson eyes follows your every movement as rise from your seat, hand clasped together in front of you - a habit you’d developed to appear small and unsuspecting, “ask around for a franny.”

x

franny is baron armwell’s alias. he couldn’t go around selling stolen goods under his name because the authorities - namely, the duke as part of his line of work after coming back from war - would catch on. it had just so happened that isabelle armwell, a lady you occasionally talk to at gatherings was sporting a long face at the debutante ball. she was spilling every single family secret after a trip to the washroom and a consoling hug.

with a heavy heart, you wave at the girl with the brightest blue eyes and blonde locks that flows past her bosom in waves. she’s wearing a light blue dress with minute diamonds pooling around the hem and dispersing up her waist. it’s been exactly five days after the duke min’s visit and over one week of celebrating the knights’ victory.

“___, i didn’t think you’d be here!” her beaming smile reminds you of the smudged makeup and tear stained eyes you bore witness just a month ago.

“why would you think that?” you blink despite having an inkling of where this conversation is going-

“well, since the rumors of you and duke min’s engagement...” she fiddles with her fingers from what you can only assume to be jitters. of course, a lady her age who’s just debuted into society would be curious of how you tamed the beast laying dormant.

to be frank, you did not.

“-remains a baseless rumor.” you speak rather loudly, hands on your hips as you steal a glance at the throne where seokjin sits, his eyes already on you, “i’m not sure who started it but duke min and i are-”

“lady ___,” a familiar guttural voice greets you from behind you. isabelle’s shock-stricken gaze that’s fixed at something - or rather, someone - past your shoulders is enough to confirm who the bearer of your doom is.

and true enough, standing before you, in the min family’s signature black suit and maroon undershirt, is none other than the devil himself. as opposed to last time, there’s a suave smile on his cherry pink lips - perhaps, nothing more than a show - and his silver hair is swept back, revealing his round visage and making his otherwise soft feature appear sharp and clean.

“your grace,” you dip down, dress lifted midair just below your hips before coming up and noticing the man also in the middle of standing back straight after bowing, “for a moment there, i thought it wasn’t you, but a shapeshifter who looked like you and attended this ball.”

if there’s anything you know - and you know plenty - about the duke of cralon, is that he rarely shows his face at balls and parties. even the ones held by the previous king.

the first time you met him was purely coincidental but not unprecedented. granted, the ball was held to celebrate the victory of the winter knights in the war. if there was any celebration duke min would attend, then it was that one. and he did attend.

but for him to appear at a regular ball held by the new king...

“alas, it is i and not some monstrous shapeshifter - i was hoping you’d spare me a dance, lady ___.” a gloved hand extends your way, hovering in the air as you scrutinize the man’s uncharacteristically smiling face - as though he’d found humor in your underlying tone.

his motives are unclear but the fact that you have his attention must mean your lead has lead to a fruitful discovery.

“why, this will pour oil to the flames,” you murmur under your breath - low enough for only him to hear and yet slip your own hand in his.

“so you’re friends with lady armwell,” the mellow tune of the cello pours into the room as a new song begins.

the feeling of the hand on your waist is unsettlingly gentle and careful - almost as though he’s fearful that your bones may break if he held on tighter.

“she only tearfully told me about the her brother’s unmanageable gambling habits, the information i gave you was out of my own findings - i can find out a plenty of many things for your grace if you choose to help me shake his majesty’s eyes off me,” you search for those crimson eyes as he twirls you around once, “i trust it’s been helpful to your grace, but if you are still unconvinced of my expertise-”

the bells of chuckles that drums in your ears are the last thing you expect to hear - quite frankly, the chances of gaining a threat for whatever reason is much higher than bearing witness to the duke’s laughter.

“there’s no need,” this time, his hair doesn’t brush over his eyebrows when he shakes his head, “you’ll make a fine fiance, ___.”

the lack of honorific doesn’t entirely go past you but that isn’t a material matter at the moment.

did he just said... fiance?

“your grace, unless my ears are-”

“yoongi.”

“p-pardon?” the warmth on your hip and hand seeps into you as he directs your body to move with the melody of the instruments, reminding you that there are hundred pairs of eyes on you and if the lady were to stop dancing all of a sudden, then there is no doubt of a new kind of rumor surfacing.

but judging from the way he dips his head and his hot breath fanning the shell of your ear, you can almost hear the squeals and gossip that will fill tomorrow’s tea party, “since we’re engaged, shouldn’t we at least call each other by our names?”

words die in your throat, as does the music. you barely notice the hands that held you falling away as you watch the man take a step backwards and lower his head - so much for formalities after deciding to forego it just five seconds ago.

“i’ll send a letter tomorrow notifying my visit in three day’s time.” with that, you’re left staring like a fool at the black and red insignia engraved on the back of his jacket.

it is a moment later that isabelle and the other ladies begin to crowd you, that you finally come to your senses.

“it it true? you’re engaged to the duke of cralon?” lady irene’s beaming smile is far too close for your liking.

“calm down, lady irene. don’t make a-”

before lady krystal manages to finish her sentence, you already find yourself slipping past bodies and out of the ball room. your destination is unclear but you saw yoongi take a left and that could only mean that he’s heading towards the garden instead of the double doors of the exit.

lights line the tall walls surrounding the palace but you wouldn’t have spot the grey locks that appear almost white if not for the moonlight. the crimson dragons on either side of the shield symbolizes the min family’s pledge to protect the crown. the fact that he’s wearing this and not the official knight outwear means he’s not here as the head knight but as a-

“your grace,” you send a prayer to the goddess for the sternness in your tone but it easily dwindles down and hits the ground as you’re met with the echoing footsteps of the duke who doesn’t seem to acknowledge your presence.

your temple throbs as the image of the duke’s handsome features come unnervingly close to you whilst he whispers-

“yoongi.” you almost scream.

it is settled knowledge that the duke of cralon possesses inhumane abilities that helped him and his predecessors win wars for the kingdom, cearis. if his unfailing reputation isn’t enough, then you’ve already seen how you would be completely helpless in his undetectable presence that night when you failed to notice him until he presents himself to seokjin and consequently you.

but in your haste to right the wrong, you’ve forgotten the possibility of abruptly calling his name ending up with your face buried in his chest when he whirls around to face you.

with cheeks that feels like they’re surrounded by a thousand suns, you quickly clear your throat after taking one step back. his raised eyebrow, however, tells you he thinks nothing of the minor mishap just now.

still, you meet yoongi’s gaze with a pair of knitted brows and a distraught tug in the corners of your lips, “i believe there’s been a misunderstanding, your grace,” the briefest lift of eyebrows as though he is painfully aware of the way you address him, doesn’t go unnoticed by you though you wish it would, “when i asked if i could stand by your side, i did not mean as your fiance - it makes me think you don’t trust me enough to believe that it wasn’t me who spread the rumor.”

“i do believe you,” he says simply, “but wouldn’t you say the rumor plays in your favor, ___?” there he goes again, addressing you informally, “since everyone saw us dancing together, they’ll feed into the rumor. it doesn’t matter if the king doesn’t buy into it. as of now, his position is vulnerable and if he were to break two lovers who are mad for each other apart and marry the other off in the name of political gain, the aristocrats won’t sit still.”

“so just now...” you trail off, the image of isabelle and the other nobles’ fallen jaws flashing at the back of your mind, “it was a return of favor because i helped solve the mystery of the missing shipments?”

“you don’t seem pleased,” his eyebrows begin to knit together.

“how can i be when i was not consulted of such plans prior to this?” the silence that lapses between you is no different than back in the parlor in your mansion, except yoongi seems to consider your request more seriously this time judging from the hard lines set upon his otherwise smooth forehead.

“then, what would you have suggested, ___?” the blinking red doesn’t seem too menacing now that he’s staring at you with genuine concern.

sighing, you curse yourself for admitting the truth in his words, “your grace is correct that the rumor gives us an advantage. however, next time we are to make a public appearance, i’d like to have a say on how it’s to be executed.”

his gaze lingers on you for the longest time - you’re not sure whether he’s debating on foregoing your investigative expertise or whether he should reveal to seokjin that this is all a faux. but what he does next could never have crossed your mind in the list of things he duke yoongi min could be thinking.

“i understand,” the figure in front of you dips to a bow, a gloved black hand levitating midair as a shadow casts itself over his gentle features and contrasting glowing eyes, “my apologies for acting without taking your feelings into consideration just now, lady ___.”

the title returns in his mouth yet your chest caves in displeasure. you’re not too fond of him calling you just by name but you’re not any glad that he’s back to using that honorific.

“v-very well, you’re forgiven,” you force out after realizing you’ve made him wait long enough, cheeks warm as you place your hand in his, eyes fixed on his lips that presses against your knuckles - they really are as soft as they look.

a halo encases his body when he stands straight. and if it weren’t for his abrupt remark, you would have pondered on the faintest hint of smile on his features, “now then, may i ask another favor from you, ___?”

another one? right after you assisted him in finding out the culprit?

“your grace may, though please bear in mind tonight doesn’t count as you returning the favor so you’ll be owing me two public appearances.” you shrug as casually as possible.

“that’s fair,” he nods a little too nonchalantly before getting to the point - and perhaps a tendril of regret wraps around your heart for agreeing without hearing his request first when he utters his next words-

“i wish us to call each other by our names - it’s suffocating to be so polite.” he sighs, hand ruffling his silvery tresses like a child tired of the etiquette lessons forced on him and not at all like the man that had you on the edge of your seat back in your mansion.

“th-that’s-” the words teeter on your tongue but refuse to leave your mouth as you fumble for a reason to object but the longer you stare into those indecipherable eyes, the emptier your mind gets and the harder your heart races.

“r-reasonable,” you stammer out, the flash of anticipation across the duke’s face leaving you no choice but to add, “yoongi.”

x

note. hello!! i’ve been working on this for a month or so (whew) bc i got super into historical au’s and just wanna write something without prince and princesses as the main leads and this happened!! hope you guys enjoyed it and are looking forward for more. drop your @ below if you want to be included the taglist!

[odelschwanky]

Could you do a fluff Byakuya fic

Take a Break (Byakuya Kuchiki x Reader)

This not my best, but I was happy to write it. I’m working my way out of writer’s block. Thank you for requesting. I hope you enjoy.

Word Count: 2257

____________________________________________________

“Working late again, Captain?”

You poke your head into Byakuya’s office. The waning light of the late evening sun streamed in from the open door behind you. It cast your long shadow onto the tatami flooring, shading the man’s busy form. He sat dutifully, inked brush in his hand, looping and curving impeccable characters onto the pages. He held his sleeve regally, so he wouldn’t mess it. He finished his thought before he even thought to answer you. Even then, he didn’t look up.

“Yes. I normally always am.”

He sounded so tired. You didn’t like the way the dark circles made a home under his eyes. Your Captain’s mouth was set in a distinct frown as he stared down at the work he was doing. He still had his kenseikan in his hair which meant he didn’t have any plans of resting soon. You really wished he would relax. Maybe you could help with that.

You waited by the door, kneeling and sitting on your heels until Byakuya allowed you to enter.

“You don’t have to do that.” He murmurs in his even voice.

Byakuya didn’t require all of the superior-subordinate formality from you that he required from other people. He’d even go as far as allowing you to call him by his familiar name. You almost never did, though. You still thought your Captain deserved the proper respect. Deep down, you knew he appreciated it.

“Come in, (y/n).”

Once invited, you tiptoed inside the spacious room, leaving the sliding door open. You left your shoes outside on the porch, lightly scuttling in with bare feet. Byakuya’s sternness lessened a little when you sidled up beside him, hands clasped behind your back.

He would never admit it, but he loved when you came in to distract him from his work. Your bright smile and your lively aura always lifted his spirits. He loved the sight of you, inching playfully in to see him. You would come closer and closer until you were side by side. You always asked before you touched him, although it was never necessary.

“May I?” You lifted your hands to his scarf but waited to lay a single finger on it.

He looked over his shoulder at you before giving a slight nod. His thick black hair tumbled as you swept it gently aside. The masterful fabric of his scarf rubbed smoothly against you as you slipped it from his neck and piled it on the desk. You were mindful of the ink, setting the expensive piece of clothing far from it. Byakuya’s nape was a little red, and it only glowed more when you rested your fingers upon the cool skin of his neck. Tough muscles and stiffness made the tension in Byakuya’s body apparent to you.

“How was your day?” You quietly ask him.

The air in the room had freshened up since you opened the door. The gentle spring breeze danced in to tickle the more easily persuaded aspects of the room: your hair, clothes, and noses. Byakuya told you a little of what happened in his day, although he didn’t go into much detail.

To be honest, his day was tough. He had to discipline one of his subordinates, which pained him to do. There was a lot of paperwork that came with that. Also, he had duties pertaining to the other Royal Families of the Seireitei. He was working on those papers now. On top of all that, he was tired and hadn’t slept well the night before. The noble Head of the Kuchiki Clan wasn’t at his best. His poised and refined nature would’ve never let it show though. He kept it up, his aristocratic composure, especially around you. But you were one of the only people who could ease him.

“And your day?” His voice was deep when he echoed you. His eyes were closed, as he savored the way you worked on him. You shrugged, rolling your fingers firmly in the muscles of Byakuya’s neck and shoulders. He had let you peel back his haori just enough to see a small amount of his ivory skin. You smooth your hands over it, and his body relaxed as you touched him. You could feel him releasing all of that pent-up pressure in the form of a slight slouch. You were satisfied with that.

“It was fine.”

You hadn’t had the best day either but being here with your Captain was making everything better. You would spare him the details.

You leaned down until you were nose to nose with him, the fine hairs on his skin tickling you.

“Take a break?”

Your pleading eyes met your Captain’s. They were always so serious, so steely. His mouth wavered from that small tight line to a pair of parted lips, soft enough to kiss. He was going to try and protest, say that his work needed to be done.

“I can sit and watch you work a little later. Take a walk with me.”

He paused a long time. Byakuya Kuchiki loved nighttime walks.

“We can’t be too long.” You could swear you saw the hint of a smile on his face.

You shooed him away to take a minute while you put aside his inks and brushes, taking care that they would be ready for him when the two of you returned. You stacked the dry papers and held them with a paperweight while he put on his scarf once more and straightened his uniform from where you disturbed it.

“Come on,” you nearly skip out the door into the nighttime air. The sun had just barely set and the sky was tinted a rich purple. The cherry blossoms of the garden outside this part of Kuchiki Manor were twirling in the wind, falling like snow. You always loved coming to see the garden.

Byakuya follows with his usual refined regality. You wait in the middle of the stone path, some twenty feet away, while he closed the door to his office and steps off the porch.

“You’re not going to wear your shoes?”

You look down and shake your head. “No. Is that okay?”

Byakuya gingerly bites his lip and shakes his head, holding back an amused smile. He was probably thinking to himself how foolish you were. He never said anything so mean to you though. You’d heard him scold other people like Ichigo and Renji, and you were glad he was never so harsh to you.

“Yes. It’s fine. Just be careful.”

The two of you walked in silence, as you two normally did. The stones underfoot were so smooth on the bottom of your feet. They were still warm from the day’s sun. The suede finish of the cherry blossoms stuck to your feet too, and you loved the way they felt.

You approached a bench by a koi pond. You let your shihakusho blow open, teased by the breeze. Byakuya looks down at you, at your exposed shoulders and chest. Your uniform didn’t have sleeves like a lot of others did. You just never preferred them.

“You’re not cold?”

You shake your head. “No… not really. It feels nice out.” You stretch, looking at the tall dark-haired man beside you. He gives you another thoughtful glance as you two continued around the koi pond.

A cold gust of wind crossed the garden, carrying a reeking, damning smell. It made your stomach churn. You covered your nose and looked at Byakuya. “Do you smell that?”

He nodded, putting a hand on the hilt of his zanpakuto. A rustling in the bushes startled you.

You jumped a little, all the muscles in your body tensing up. Byakuya took a step in front of you, gently pushing you behind him. You peeked underneath Byakuya’s arm, trying to see what was going on.

A small Hollow emerged and slowly approached the place you stood with gnashing teeth.

“A Hollow, here?” You say, almost to yourself. That was almost taboo. You had never seen a Hollow in the Seireitei. Maybe in the forest, but never so close to somewhere like Kuchiki Manor.

“Hado number 4: Byakurai.”

Byakuya cast his Kido in an unimpressed voice that resonated throughout the garden with authority. He pointed his finger at the small furry creature, a flash of lightning shooting it straight in the face. It didn’t even have time to cry out before it was vaporized.

It was over almost as quickly as it began, and all that was left of it was a small pile of ash maybe ten feet away from you both.

“Are you okay?” Byakuya inquired of you, grabbing your elbow protectively. His fingers were surprisingly soft, and his touch was very gentle. He didn’t touch you often, you mostly did all the touching. You tried to hide your blush but didn’t pull your arm away.

“I’m fine… you took care of it. T-thank you.”

It was weirdly and awkwardly silent for a few moments.

Byakuya released you and nodded. “Do you want to go back?”

You shake your head. “No. Not if you still have time.”

Byakuya was quiet for a minute. “I have time.”

You look at him with eyes full of adoration. The nature of your relationship with Byakuya was so formal. You were sure nobody even knew you were together, Renji and Rukia maybe. They never talked about it though. When you spent time together with Byakuya, oftentimes you were alone. Like today.

You were fine with that. You didn’t need to use him as some publicity stunt, although it was pretty surreal that the Head of the Kuchiki Clan was in love with you. Other people might not view it that way, but you were sure of his feelings for you.

“Can I hu-”

Byakuya didn’t wait for you to ask before he pulled you into his arms. His touch and his hold were so sure, so safe. You drowned in his elaborate clothes, shihakusho, haori, and all. You breathed deeply the scent of him, and you seemed to relax. You didn’t realize how stressed you were until he hugged you. You needed his touch and he seemed to know exactly when to give it.

“Can you stay tonight?”

His unusual words caused butterflies to tear through your stomach like the cherry blossoms outside. You would have never expected him to ask you.

You were most often the one initiating things. You’d ask if he had time for you, to do things like taking walks or having dinner. He almost never refused you, only for the reason of a prior engagement pertaining to work. You were at the Kuchiki Manor more often than you were in your room at the barracks. You spent a lot of time here with Byakuya. You never expected him to go to the squad barracks to see you, though. That would be ludicrous.

But he never ceased to surprise you.

When he was there for business, he never failed to stop and say hello to you. If you were in a meeting, he’d politely come in and greet everyone (really looking at you) and then dismiss himself for work. If he’d see you in the hall between his meetings or duties, he’d soften his gaze and chat with you for a bit. Sometimes he’d watch you train, waiting for you to be done so you could go to the Manor together. You’d read together, talk, and just enjoy each other’s company. You loved Byakuya, and although some people might call your relationship with him stiff and ceremonial, you were very happy with it.

“Yes. I can stay.”

You smile up at him, putting your chin on his chest. He wasn’t quite smiling, but a look of pleasant contentedness greeted you from his handsome face. The locks of his hair streaming from his kenseikan billowed in the tumultuous wind. Your clothes sounded like flags with the way they whipped. It was most likely going to storm tonight. After he was done with his work, Byakuya would most likely keep the door to his bedroom open so that you two could watch the rain before bed.

You strained up on your toes to reach him, thankful that he came down to meet you halfway. Byakuya’s lips we soft and warm as he kissed you. His gloved hand came up and around your neck, pulling you deeper into him still until your senses were overwhelmed with him. The increase of pressure around you both came from your intimate embrace. All you felt was the familiar power of your love.

It wasn’t long until a crack of thunder interrupted your kiss with Byakuya, and rain began to fall. You both looked at each other and for the first time in a while, he laughs. You relish that sound, his light and beautiful laugh. The two of you turn to go back inside.

As you walk, he unwinds the scarf from around his neck and drapes in on your head in a silent joke. The cashmere shroud fell over your eyes and you giggle. You snuggle into it, wrapping it around your bare shoulders, breathing in its wonderful smell.

“There… so you don’t catch cold.”

You press into the side of Byakuya, leaning on him. He puts his arm on your back affectionately.

“Byakuya?”

“Hm?”

“I love you.”

You didn’t have to look at him to know he was smiling. You could hear it in his silence, then in the grace of his voice as he spoke.

“I love you too.”

[gelfbog]

headcanons for the gelfling clans accents !!

As someone who is really interested in languages and linguistics, one thing I always wish AOR did was give all the clans different accents. So, I decided I would do it myself! I’ve basically been researching different (mainland) UK accents and I’ve put an accent to each clan. This is based a lot on my own headcanons, but I’ve taken into account different information we’ve gotten about gelfling accents and languages, as well as the geographical placing of the clan’s settlements, and their clans status and culture. I’ve linked videos with each clan to give you an auditory idea of what I think they would sound like. All under the cut!!

(!! disclaimer !! : I am Irish, not from the UK, so I’m sorry if my description of/videos I have chosen to display any of the accents are inaccurate. I’ve tried my best not to generalize with the accents too much, but I know that a lot of accents change from town to town, so unfortunately I have given just a broad umbrella description of some accents. I’m sorry if I get anything wrong!!!)

Vapra - Queen’s English/Received Pronunciation

I think the Vapra are the only clan to have been canonically distinguished as having a particular accent, but maybe I’m wrong. It’s mentioned a lot in the books about how the Vapra have a very distinct accent, SkekSa even noticing Tae speaking with one, when she was taken over by Tavra. Their accent is “distinct and noticeable” according to the Songs of the Seven Gelfling Clans, and is similar to the Skeksis accent. I think that maybe the normal gelfling of Ha’rar speak with a type of Received Pronunciation, whereas the aristocrats, and the Royal family themselves, would speak Queen’s English. It would make sense that the Vapra would speak in Received Pronunciation, an accent associated with privilege and education, as they are known for.....well, privilege and education. Each word is articulated very clearly, and it is a sharp, almost cold accent - which suits their climate nicely. It is often thought as the “proper” way to speak, and those gelfling who speak with this accent automatically present themselves as a higher class, although other clans may just associate the accent with snobby-ness. Naturally, the Vapra coming from the capital city of Ha’rar, the seat of the All- Maudra, I think Queen’s English is very fitting.

Here are some videos of people speaking Queen’s English/Received Pronunciation!

Old RP

Received Pronunciation (RP)

R.P. ACCENT (REAL EXAMPLE)

Received Pronunciation Dialect Breakdown

Upper-class Accent Examples

Stonewood - Brummy (Birmingham Accent)

I was between Cockney and Brummy for the Stonewood, as I think both accents suit the wood-dwelling clan. However, I think Brummie is better suited, as Birmingham is is situated in the central midlands of England - like how Stone-in-the-wood is “the hearth of the Skarith Land”. The Brummy accent is quite nasally, due to the amount of industry that used to be in the city. Industry is something the Stonewood are known for, with their weapons, tools and instruments their blacksmiths create being well-renowned and sought after across Thra. The accent is sort-of a mix of a southern and northern English accent, which I think this suits the Stonewood well, in terms of their clan status. As much as they are a rough, warrior and battle focused clan, they are of a very high standing, second to only the Vapra. Therefore, the mix comes from Vapra/Skeksis influence, and then their own woodland charm. Although other clans may see the Stonewood accent as brash and arrogant, the warrior clan is proud of their dialect, and don’t try to hide it!

Here are some videos of people speaking with a Brummy accent!

A Brummie Accent

Birmingham "Brummie" Accent (Female) AccentBase File #41

NO F*CKING FIGHTING - Peaky Blinders S03E01

Alison Hammond's Funniest Moments | This Morning

Birmingham: Reputation vs Reality Part 1 @ 2:50 - 5:44

Spriton - Yorkshire Accent (South, West and East)

I have a good bit to back up my headcanon here. The Spriton are a widespread clan, about 1/3 of them living outside of Sami Thicket, some families living over a days journey from the main village. For this reason, I think the different Yorkshire accents suit them very well. Since the Spriton live all over the Spriton Plains, some nearer to Stone-in-the-Wood, some nearer to the Swamp of Sog, and some even living at the edge of the Dark Wood (rip kylans parents), it would make sense that they all have variations of a similar accent. I imagine that it can be hard for other clans to tell each of the different Spriton dialects apart, but the Spriton themselves can hear a clear difference in the voice between someone who was born in Sami Thicket, and someone who was born on the outskirts of the plains. You can see, as we move further south down the Skarith Land, the presence of the posh Ha’rar accent, is slipping away, with different vowels sounds and timbre, even different grammar. The Yorkshire accent often omits words and letters to make speaking faster, which is a practical way of speaking for the busy farmers and soldiers of the Spriton Plains. 

Here are some videos of people speaking with Yorkshire accents!

https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PLOOuqHMY-_tXV8t9mcQt4PtF8S3s577NI

School Of British Accents – YORKSHIRE

interview with millen eve - true yorkshire accent!

South : Louis Tomlinson Gets Quizzed On Yorkshire Slang

West : Zayn Malik Sounds Off on Fashion, Fame, and the Meaning Behind His Home Studio | Vogue

East : Best of Jenny and Lee on Gogglebox

Drenchen - Edinburgh Accent

Now, this is a headcanon I will fight for. I will eternally feel that we were ROBBED of the Drenchen having a Scottish accent. I was deciding which Scottish accent would suit them best, and I finally landed on an Edinburgh accent. As much as I think that my favourite swamp dwellers would have a strong accent, I don’t think it’s overly realistic. While they are isolated from the other clans, which would naturally cause them to speak differently to them, I don’t think they are isolated enough to have a drastically contrasting accent. Therefore, I thought that the Edinburgh accent, said to be softer and less intense than other Scottish dialects, would be perfect. They still have a similar tone to the rest of the clans, but their soggy lilt is unique, and is still noticeably different of a timbre to the other clans of the Skarith Land. I also presume that their gills would have some sort of influence on their intonation, another reason I chose the Edinburgh accent, which comes almost from the back of the throat - closer to the gills!

Here are some videos of people speaking with an Edinburgh accent!

Outlander | The Many Scottish Accents | STARZ @ 1:25 - 2:05

Shirley Manson's Guide To Swearing

Sean Connery 1971: The BBC Interview HD

12 Times Professor McGonagall Was a Boss Ass Witch

Ewan McGregor on being recognised as Obi-Wan | The Graham Norton Show - BBC

Sifa - West Country

I think this is a pretty obvious accent to assign to the Sifa, as it’s the origin of the traditional “pirate” accent. They have a distinctive way to say their “r”s , and it can sometimes be a harsh sounding accent, suiting the sometimes dangerous lifestyle of the rogue clan. However, the rounded vowels and somewhat cozy feeling you get from the intonation of the West Country accent, shows the mythical and peaceful side of the Sifa. I headcanon that it’s uncommon for a gelfling to have a truly Sifan accent, due to the influence of other gelflings with other dialects that join the Sifa, therefore with most Sifa ending up with an amalgamation of gelfling accents. However, with families that have sailed with the Sifa for generations, the accent is still very much alive. For those gelfling who run away to the Silver Sea for a while, they always return home with a subtle sea-faring twang.

Here are some videos of people speaking with a West Country accent!

Learn Hagrid's British Accent (HARRY POTTER) | West Country Accent

Learn how to do the West Country accent - Sound like Hagrid from Harry Potter.

Harry Potter - Best of Hagrid

School Of British Accents – WEST COUNTRY

LOTR The Two Towers - The Tales That Really Mattered...

Dousan - Lancastrian English

It took me a while to decide which accent would be best for the Dousan. I wanted an accent that didn’t draw out many sounds, and was spoken quickly, as the Dousan try to preserve as much moisture in the desert air as they can. After looking through hours of footage of different English dialect videos, I decided on the Lancastrian accent. They have shorter vowels than other dialects, and also shorten a lot of words to make them quicker to say. I thought this was perfect for the Dousan, a clan which avoids speaking for long, if they can. It is quite a unique accent, especially in terms of grammar, which makes sense, as the Dousan rarely socialize with other clans, meaning they would not pick up other slang or pronunciation. The Dousan use the Language of Silence, a type of sign language, which is sometimes used in unison with audible speaking. I thought that the unique Lancastrian grammar went well with this, as in The Songs of the Seven Gelfling Clans, it says that “more was being communicated when both hands and tongues worked together”. Perhaps the reason the Dousan grammar is created to be much shorter and quicker to say, is because the Language of Silence allows the Dousan to communicate in full, meaning there is no need to speak with long sentences? Either way, I think the accent is a perfect fit for the nomadic clan.

Here are some links and videos of people speaking with a Lancastrian Accent!

Lancastrian English: Dialectable Episode 4.

Listen to accent  of Lancashire England

Lancashire Dialect Poem - Northern English Accent

https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PLOOuqHMY-_tVnuxrODGw0BEdZlC9RNHcw

https://www.mykp.co.uk/learn-lancastrian-accent/ (this breaks down what I mean about the shorter grammar)

Grottan - South Wales Accent

Deet’s tendency to sing often made me think that the South Wales accent would be perfect. It is a naturally sing-songy type of accent, with a musical intonation. This is because the South Welsh accent is heavily influenced by the Welsh Language. I thought that because the Grottan have been isolated from other Gelfling, and rarely go “topside”, they would have very little impact on their dialect from the Skeksis, something their sister clan, the Vapra, have been hugely influenced by. This led me to think that perhaps the Grottan accent would have a lot more in common with the old-gelfling language, giving it that sing-songy and particular lilt. Like the Dousan, the Grottan have their own language, Finger-talk, which is incredibly difficult to learn for non-Grottan gelfling. Maybe the reason it is so difficult, is because of, again, the influence of old-gelfling, something the other clans have slightly lost a connection to. But perhaps, the Grottan accent may also play a part in why it is so difficult for daylighters to learn this peculiar language. As the accent has such musical intonation, with lots of high and low sounds in it’s speaking, perhaps finger-talk is based more on these high and low sounds, and less on the actual words themselves, which is why Grottan find it so easy to learn, as these high and lows are built into their accent regardless. Nevertheless, the South Wales accent is one of my favourites, and it perfectly fits the peaceful and secluded Grottan.

Here are some videos of people speaking with a South Wales accent!

Newport (Casnewydd), Gwent, South Wales, Welsh Accent (Female) Accentbase File #144

https://www.dailymotion.com/video/x6x7uaw

School Of British Accents – WELSH ENGLISH

Elis James Bad B&B Experience | Alan Davies As Yet Untitled | Dave

https://www.thevoicecafe.net/learn-Welsh-accent-online.htm

And that’s all! I was really surprised by the amount of people that were interested in me making this post, so I hope I haven’t disappointed anyone! I’d love to know what you guys headcanon the gelfling clans to sound like, and whether you think my headcanons or accurate or not. Again, I’m sorry if I got anything wrong about the accents, or generalized too much. I’m linking a few more videos which go through all of these accents, with more examples of people speaking with them, all well as some linguistics background to the dialects. I’ve also linked the Survey of English Dialects, where you can find lots of clips of all these different accents I have mentioned. Thank you so much for reading all of this, I really appreciate it!!

Survey of English Dialects - Accents and dialects

20 British Accents in 1 Video

One Woman, 17 British Accents - Anglophenia Ep 5

[thexfridax]

Translated interview

Adèle Haenel: 'Sex in cinema is usually quite pathetic’

Wenke Husmann, in: Die Zeit, 31st of October 2019

Additions or clarifications for translating purposes are denoted as [T: …]

Our understanding of art? Patriarchal! Eroticism in cinema? Stunted! The actress Adèle Haenel about her new film ‘Portrait of a Lady on Fire’.

In the film ‘Portrait of a Lady on Fire’, the young aristocrat Héloïse literally catches fire. Around 1770 she falls in love with a young painter, who is supposed to portray her. The role of the shy former convent student seems unusual for Haenel at first glance, who otherwise plays very assertive female characters: an AIDS activist in ‘120 BPM’, a martial artist in ‘Love at First Fight’, a doctor who solves a murder in ‘The Unknown Girl’. But Haenel also interprets the role of the muse as a very active one. The actress had her breakthrough in 2007 at the age of 18 with ‘Water Lilies’, the debut film by film-maker Céline Sciamma. The two were a couple for years. ‘Portrait of a Lady on Fire’ is their second collaboration, which was awarded the Best Screenplay (for Sciamma) at the Cannes Film Festival.

Haenel speaks German very well. She learned the language almost perfectly for Chris Kraus' feature film ‘The Bloom of Yesterday’. However, whenever she speaks German, she will always be so categorical, Haenel warns, and after a very German expletive slips into the conversation, she switches to French.

ZEIT ONLINE: In ‘Portrait of a Lady on Fire’ you play a restrained woman at first. Your Héloïse is supposed to be portrayed by a painter. She is the more experienced, a self-assured artist you fall in love with. But then you reinterpret the role of the muse.

[T: Short bio of Adèle and description of the film is inserted here, but I didn’t translate these, as y’all know everything already 😏]

Adèle Haenel: It's about equality. I believe that the role of the muse is in fact active - and as important as the official role of the artist.

ZE: What is the active part or equality in the relationship between you being the portrayed and the painter? And what's new about it?

AH: I think in art history, being a muse was the role that women were allowed to play. That's why men said, ‘Oh, it's a passive role, the muses are just in the room, and we're dreaming and fabricating great ideas in our heads.’ It was their way of saying that as men, they are the only ones who create art. That's Scheiße [T: 💩 💩 💩] in my opinion. I’m sorry. Whenever I speak German, I am always a bit more categorical. But that’s the way it is.

(Continues the conversation in French)

I believe, however, that muses have always been active. They were just not presented like that. This also has a lot to do with a certain notion of art. Art is not just an ideal sphere that comes down to earth through an artist who is both absolute and ingenious. Art is created by questioning your own choices over and over again, as well as the reasons that led to them. Thus, there is something sacred and something entirely unholy in art. Questioning postulates, constantly questioning your own work, makes art powerful. And that is much more the result of collaboration than of anything else.

ZE: In this case, collaboration is based on love. Muse and artist are on equal terms. Your connection acts like an engine and unleashes the creativity of the artist. Is that the reason why the first portrait that the painter Marianne made of you as Héloïse is technically good but rather conventional? [T: the interviewer uses ‘not befitting’ here]

AH: It's not even about the progression, where only love makes art better, but it’s actually about the process. That's why you constantly ask yourself questions. Of course, at some point a portrait will come out, but in the film it’s not about whether that’s a good thing or not in the end. The problem of the first ‘failed’ portrait is that it avoids any questions. It does not ask exactly: Who is this person? What attitude did the painter take towards her? Does the model have an essence that we try to capture and bring to the canvas? Or is it just about capturing a specific moment? At this point, the collaboration begins. My character Héloïse begins to question Marianne, the artist, ‘What's that supposed to be?’ And when Marianne answers, ‘That's the way to do it,’ Héloïse retorts, ‘What do you mean, that's the way it is done, how do you find yourself in it, what's your attitude towards it?’ And you cannot just take that stance, you have to feel it.

ZE: Is this relationship comparable to what you have as an actress with the director Céline Sciamma?

[T: The above was taken from a translation on the Teller Report website and revised where necessary, my own translation continues below.]

AH: Yes, absolutely. Our collaboration is based on that idea. There are also parallels in terms of content, because painting in this film also has a lot to do with cinema. As it’s also about sequence, scene and so on. The screenplay was very detailed. Improvisation as a method wasn’t intended. But I had a certain amount of freedom to shape my character. The point wasn’t to do this behind closed doors, but the idea was developed in exchange to centre my character around the gaze and into three phases: At the beginning of my journey, I saw myself more as an object, then there was the phase of questioning, and at the end I’m more of a subject. This means that I used my face like a mask at the beginning of the film, very solemn, almost sacral, with little emotion, reserved. The warmer Marianne’s gaze becomes at Héloïse, the more I change the way I’m acting. I become more active and animated. I gave myself a very clear structure. Céline went with this kind of idea. And then we start to discuss about specific and precise things.

ZE: That seems quite practical and unpretentious.

AH: Oh, I’m a very impatient person and get annoyed very quickly. That’s why I can’t stand some of the questions that I get (mimics a stupid tone): ‘How do you endure just being looked at the whole time?’ I do retort then: ‘Have you even seen the film? It’s about the exchange of gazes!’

ZE: There is a narrative framework in the film, where Marianne remembers this love several years later. It’s about the impact of that encounter. How important is such an echo for the arts?

AH: You could say that every human being contains something like an eternal truth inside of them, but that this cannot manifest in a person in its pure form. The potential is there. So, you can develop, change, grow. It’s almost our responsibility to become a better [T: bigger is stated here] person, who exhausts all possibilities to become what makes us human. A romantic relationship [T: love affair…] also makes us feel the possibility to become someone else, more than what we were before. I’m thinking in particular of Spinoza in this context.

ZE: In short, he talks about the necessity of individuals to evolve so that they become more perfect. [T: ‘Vollkommenheit’ is difficult to translate, but I understand that Spinoza meant that this is the ideal state of being, see: The Ethics, Part 4. Of Human Bondage, Or The Strength Of The Emotions, Preface]. Looking at your career, it seems that you and film-maker Céline Sciamma, who was your partner for a long time, also helped each other very much in that sense to evolve.

AH: Céline and I have an extremely close connection and always had an intense intellectual exchange with each other. And an intense emotional exchange, but of course that changes over time. When it comes to what I said before about the search for and questioning of what’s underneath, and how we make choices in terms of our work, then Céline and I understand each other well. We agree about the questions and how we can communicate about them.

ZE: The film takes place around 1770. Back then, the first female artists’ associations were found such as the school of Adélaïde Labille-Guiard. Marianne also worked in such an art school. It was only a few years that women could work as painters. Before and after, female artists could only do that in a limited capacity. Why was that?

Adélaïde Labille-Guiard, Autoportrait avec deux élèves (1785) © Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York

AH: You get the impression that the female gaze is somehow threatening for male colleagues, that’s why they always tried to ban it. And besides, that is still the case.

ZE: How?

AH: Because some kind of natural order is being postulated. We have very much internalised this patriarchal order, in our intimacy, our desires, in everything. Indeed, challenging this perceived natural order is dangerous, because the entire patriarchy virtually depends on this everywhere. The trick to avoid answering questions that women are asking is in pretending that women really don’t have any reason to ask these kind of questions: They are doing well after all. If it wasn’t that pathetic, it would be really funny.

[T: Two of the below bits were extracted (for ease of reading) from @hedawolf​​‘s fantastic gifset on Adèle smashing the patriarchy, please head over and show some love.]

ZE: It seems that many big film festivals are now more open to show films that are about interesting and diverse female characters. Aren’t there more of these stories these days?

AH: Indeed, the problem has now come to the surface of society – two years after the Weinstein affair and #MeToo. You can see the facts. These are hilariously pathetic: 100 per cent of women, who use public transport in Paris, have experienced violence or abuse. 100 per cent! You always hear: ‘No, not all men are like that.’ Yes, of course. But all women have experienced this. And men also feel it. They’ve started to question the structures, in which this was possible, and in which they also lived for a long time. They also question their own behaviour. It’s not about locking up all men in a cage, but that we all evolve. It will make us all freer. But you have to let go of your little privilege of always being in charge. I understand that this is tough. [T: 😏]

ZE: You’ve really shown us one of the most wonderful scenes on this topic in your film, without men.

AH: This scene is sexy, inventive, created in collaboration – we were also quite satisfied with it. That’s why I was so happy at the premiere in Cannes: There are 2,000 people in the audience, who will see something completely different.

[canis-lunaris]

Introducing: The Wandering Witch AU

(With transgirl!Remus, questioning!Sirius and endless conversations about the metaphysics of wandless magic)

This is the latest installment of our various Wolfstar AU's with August, one we came up with while we were on a mini-holiday, celebrating our third anniversary.

In this universe, pureblood-supremacy is rampant, keeping the Wizarding World in the permanent dark ages. Muggle-born wizards are only allowed a wand upon being accepted at a magic school, and most institutions favour pureblood children over half-blood, or muggle-born students. Wands are registered and heavily regulated, including tracking-spells and random spot-checks for counterfeit, or unregistered wands by Ministry officials.

After a werewolf-attack at age 4, Remus Lupin’s father tries to teach her magic using his own wand, knowing she would never be allowed into Hogwarts. However, performing magic with someone else's wand is not only dangerous and illegal, but also extremely difficult. Remus — a savant, who can sense magical currents in a way none of her peers can — realises that she doesn't need a wand to focus her power, and instead develops her own way of casting — or spell-weaving, more accurately —, tying an intricate web of knots between intent and the ambient magical currents to shape reality to her will. While admittedly crude and volatile, her technique turns out surprisingly potent, which makes her more than capable of protecting herself against the many dangers of a transphobic, werewolf-hating world.

Because her condition places both her and her family in a vulnerable position (the "werewolf-issue is an ages-old favourite talking point of mainstream wizarding politics, including a fearmongering campaign designed to marginalise intelligent magical creatures and eradicate non-human magic users), the Lupins decide to avoid registering their child after the attack, relying on the help of muggle medicine and corrupt healers to nurse her back to health after the transformations. They move frequently, bouncing Remus from school to school, but once Remus has gotten a basic education, they settle down in an isolated cottage on the Scottish highlands, and her mum takes on the duty of homeschooling her.

Having been brought up in a mixed family and lived the majority of her life as a muggle, Remus is well-versed in the matters of 21st century life. Once they settle into their new home, she starts transitioning, takes up Luna as her middle name, but keeps Remus as her first name, refusing to abide by arbitrary societal rules about names being connected to certain genders, rather than the people wearing them. After both her parents meet a tragically early death in a car accident, Remus finds herself alone in the world, with both a house and a large sum of money to her name; she sells the cottage and spends her parents' life insurance settlement on getting bottom surgery, then sets out to travel the world, looking for someone, or something to find a meaningful connection with.

----------

On a glance, Cassandra Black is everything her most ancient and noble house could want for an heir. She is brilliant, powerful and a downright genious when it comes to magic; the only problem is, she's a bit too smart for her own good, and no amount of discipline can keep her from asking too many questions. The only thing her bewildered parents achieve with their constant, increasingly violent punishment is that young Cassandra stops asking them, and starts looking for answers of her own.

By the time she's 11, she's thoroughly disillusioned, worlds away from the conservative, blood-supremacist doctrines she was brought up with. Upon entering Hogwarts, she spends the first free breath of her life on convincing the Sorting Hat not to place her in Slytherin, a decision she pays for with the world as she knew it. In return, she gains a new, brighter one, full of friendship, adventure and budding romance — although dark secrets, stomach-turning injustice and bitter heartbreak too. When it comes to her parents' attention that she is sleeping with a witch, their treatment turns from toxic hostility to open abuse, severing all emotional ties between Cassandra and the House of Black. She spends five years as a proud Gryffindor, but by the time her 16th birthday rolls around, she feels like she'd learnt everything Hogwarts had to offer — the good and the bad alike. She decides not to return to the castle for the sixth year: instead, she uses the start of the school year to orchestrate an elaborate escape plan, that would make it impossible for her family to find her. She breaks her wand and vanishes into the night, never to be seen again.

British Wizarding society erupts in chaos, because even one as scandalous as the Black heiress, the mysterious disappearance of a 16-year-old, pureblood-aristocrat (and a witch, for that) brings the Ministry's messaging about public safety into question, and the story keeps the tabloids busy for the better part of a year. The family puts out an enticing bounty on their firstborn's head, but regardless of the spectacular reward, no one can locate Cassandra, and without a wand to track, she proves to be impossible to trace. Eventually, the tabloids move on and the story slowly fades into the background, although, en lieu of a body, they never officially assume her dead, and the family never gives up the secret search for their wayward, blood-traitor daughter.

----------

Three years later:

Somewhere, hidden in the mountains of Scotland, there is a halfway-house, for magical folks who need to get off the grid, for one reason or another. Remus is a regular visitor, using the shelter's reinforced cellar for the full moon, and taking her time to recover at the quaint little house for a while thereafter. Nobody bothers her there, and while people do use the retreat — it's always clean, stocked with food, healing items and clean bedding, among other obvious signs of habitation —, she'd never encountered any other guests during her visits. This time, however, an unpleasant surprise welcomes her, in form of a backpack and a half-drunk bottle of wine on the porch, and soon, she finds the owner of the items as well, lounging on her favorite sunning spot.

The stranger looks ragged; unkempt and malnourished, and when they speak, their voice sounds hoarse, like they haven't used it for a long time. Remus is immediately weary, even though the stranger looks very young and rather unimpressive, expect for the very posh accent and the fact that despite their extremely strong magical aura, they did look startled, almost terrified when Remus walked up behind them — and yet, their hand never even twitched to draw a concealed wand.

"I’m armed!" the stranger warns — maybe they expected a muggle? —, but still doesn't move to reveal any weapon. Remus is quite certain she could take them on in one-on-one combat regardless, should it come to that, but she finds it alarming that this runaway teen would survive alone in the wilderness for what seems like a considerable period; a feat that requires a number of skills and the kind of training that does not come with the elocution training the stranger's speech suggests. Not just the accent, the face too... Under the layers of dirt, severe sunburn and a fading black eye, there is just something eerily familiar about them.

She introduces herself as Remus — it's one of her favourite ways to quickly size up a person, based on their reaction to her obviously masculine name. She does the whole cheeky, "whatchagonnado" act she perfected throughout the years, expecting anything from a spiteful comment to a confused eyebrow-raise in response, but the stranger just nods and gives her a polite "hello, Remus", like this was the most normal interaction between two people who just met at a shelter for magical misfits, in the middle of fucking nowhere.

The stranger, however, is less forthcoming about their identity, and Remus has to openly ask for their name after 10 minutes of tense, but idle chitchat. The stranger blushes a deep red, and once again, there is that flash of panic in their eyes, before they blurt out "Sirius... Black."

"Oh."

Of course, Remus thinks, wondering how she missed it before. She knows exactly who Sirius is, or who they used to be — she'd seen this face a million times before; a younger, smoother version with fewer sharp angles and without the haunted look in their bloodshot eyes, but the very same face was once plastered all over Britain — on missing flyers, in front page news, later on wanted posters... 10.000 galleons are a fine bit of money for a head like this. She gives the stranger a sideways glance, and they glare right back at her, with a defiant expression that might have betrayed their famous origins, even without the esteemed family name. The Blacks, they do all look the same...

"Well, that answers the question whether you're a muggle" Sirius remarks with a bitter chuckle. "Look, I know what you're thinking. And yes, they do have the funds, but just so we are clear on this, if you move to draw, I'll attack you, and it's gonna be over before you ever reach your wand. You will lose, most likely die, and then I'll have to spend this lovely evening digging a hole for you in the woods instead of sharing a bottle of crappy wine. So, just don't, okay?"

Remus can't help but admire the kid's bravado — they aren't stupid, she can tell that much, if from nothing else, the fact that they somehow successfully evaded one of the most powerful magical families, and their countless footmen, for over three years without ever leaving a trace; and yet, they seem to know when they're outmatched.

"Who says I'd need to draw?" she smirks, hoping to provoke a quick duel out of the youth. She likes to get the power-struggle out of the way early on, just so nobody gets ideas while she's sleeping or in recovery. The young Black might turn out to be a reluctant ally, but they could mean real trouble after the full moon, if they were to follow family tradition in wanting to rid the world of a monster like herself. Three days left until the next transformation, which means she's at the height of her power, so taking Sirius out here and now would be the wisest, and she thinks she could do it without harming them too badly. Nothing she couldn't fix in a blink afterwards.

Sirius measures her with a curious squint, slowly raising their left hand into the air. All five fingers are adorned with a variety of silver rings, from plain, thin bands to heavy signets with rune-engraved stones. A web of glowing lines flare up on the back of their hand, spreading out from an intricate magic sigil on their wrist. They emit a faint, blueish white light, running along each finger to the tip, as Sirius charges up for a wandless spell. Flashy, but creative, Remus thinks, truly impressed for the first time. She's used to wizards relying on their wands to do the work for them, and she knows seven different ways to dismantle the connection before they ever get to fire off. The stranger's magic is different — it's raw and unpolished, but brutally powerful, and very complex, in a geometric sort of way. This would be more difficult than she initially thought, and she's unsure if she could immediately disarm Sirius without having to literally dis-arm them.

To avoid confrontation, she raises a hand in front of her too, conjuring a harmless little will-o-whisp in her palm — a trick she developed as a child, tied up on the bare cement floor of her parents' basement, waiting for the curse to take hold. There was no light in the basement; she was lonely, cold and terrified, so she made herself a friend, a cold flame to keep her company while she was waiting for the moon.

Sirius' eyebrows disappear somewhere under their tangled fringe, but their face lights up with a huge, mischievous grin:

"Remus, the girl raised by the wolves... You're not boring at all, are you?"

[thetypedwriter]

The Gilded Wolves

The Gilded Wolves Book Review by Roshani Chokshi

This book was...I can’t quite place it. 

I definitely enjoyed it! And to me, it seemed like the reading experience went very quickly, which is usually synonymous with an enjoyable read, but there were definitely other moments when my head would cock to the side and I would think, “Huh?” and “I don’t get it” and “What even is happening right now?”

That about sums about my experience with The Gilded Wolves, thank you for coming to my Ted Talk. 

No, but really, 

 is the epitome of my exact taste and preference when it comes to a YA novel, at least on paper. Let’s go through the list:

1. A group of misfits coming together in some sort of friendship group/intimate team? Check. 

2. Banter and fluid dialogue? Check. 

3. Whimsy, magic, imagination, and world building steeped in exaggerated history? Check. 

4. Romance galore? Check and check. 

So if this novel checked all of the boxes, why aren’t I lauding it as the best thing I’ve ever read? 

I’ll get to that, don't worry. 

First, I’ll start by saying that this book isn't the most original thing I’ve ever read. In fact, it probably doesn't even crack the top ten. This criticism will likely come up time and time again so I’ll just say it from the get go: having all the ingredients for a good book does not make it a good book. I do think The Gilded Wolves is a fun, fluid, and interesting read, but it's not the best in any category compared to other YA books out there. 

It’s not the best romance, the best friendship, the best magic, the best history, the most well-written, and it’s certainly not the best heist novel I've read, that cake definitely goes to Leigh Bardugo’s Six of Crows. 

It’s like this novel has everything you want and nothing at all simultaneously. 

Our main characters consist of a group of five individuals, all within their stereotypical archetypes of course. 

You’ve got the stone-cold calculating leader that chews cloves of all things, the beautiful girl that’s sort of a robot, the half Filipino boy who struggles with his identity and proving himself, the flamboyant aristocratic outsider, and the girl who can only think, breathe, and speak science, but doesn’t understand a modicum of social interaction or communication. 

They were good characters, but they just weren’t the best. They weren’t memorable in the slough that is the ocean of YA original characters. They had good moments of banter, friendship, and interaction, but also moments of overbearing cliche, unbelievable character dialogue options, and very predictable motivations and actions. 

The plot is worse believe it or not. 

The bare bones of the story is that you have a society in which there are secret Houses that possess Babel rings-artifacts that display their House’s standing as well as give them unique powers- and things called Babel fragments which are buried...somewhere. 

These fragments essentially gift certain people of the population abilities and advantages while other people are just...normal, I guess. I don’t know, no one seems to care about the disparity. 

Then there are other things like Sphinxes which are...guards, I think? But not? I actually don’t even know if they’re truly human. And other cool technological and magical items like Mneno Bugs which record stuff and umm, Tezcat Doors which allow you to see out, but not in or something? 

If you haven't caught on by now, the magic and world building of this novel has much to be desired. 

It’s like Chokshi has the ideas down, the rough outline of what her world looks like and how it operates and how the characters live and struggle in this world, but instead of giving it to us, she gave us the Sparknotes version. 

Half the time I was reading, I felt like I was missing a good 50% of the content needed for the stakes and tension to actually mean something, which is such a shame because her ideas are interesting. They have so much potential.

 I love the idea of old Houses and historic artifacts and complicated political histories interwoven with social implications and new-age technology, but the world-building and magic system just falls flat on his face. I needed more from Chokshi about the world and how it operated and less conversation about Tristan’s goddamn tarantula. 

We read as our main group of five attempt to steal and retrieve a Horus Eye-some piece of something that acts as a Somno-a default button basically-to Babel Fragments. Confused? I am too. 

This book, at the end of the day, is nothing special, but it is enjoyable. This book has several tropes and several things I love, which honestly made this a fun, amusing, and worthwhile read. I’ve actually already gone out to buy the sequel The Silvered Serpents already which is a positive connotation in and of itself. 

  I genuinely found this book delightful, but I also think it's because the parts that comprise this novel are all things I adore, whilst the sum of the parts is...lackluster and unforgettable. 

Since we are still in Quarantine and I miss concerts dearly, here is a metaphor for you: if anything, this is the opener to the band that you've actually waited at the concert to see. The opener isn’t horrible by any means, and it’s similar to other musical artists you like, but it’s not the main attraction or the highlighted draw, and at the end of the night, you’ll forget you watched it in the first place. 

Recommendation: If you like what I like, which are misfit groups, romance, historical Paris, magic, and heist novels, then you will definitely find it as engrossing and fun as I did. If you want something to rock your world, to compete with the likes of other YA juggernauts, then well, this book is not for you. Go read Six of Crows instead. 

Score: 6/10

[loreleywrites]

The Gateshead Engine

If you bought the itch.io game bundle for racial justice and inequality a month ago, one of the games it contains is a single-player ttrpg called The Gateshead Engine by Adam Roy (Follow the link to buy and play yourself!)

The basis of the game is simple: It is Victorian England, and you have been commissioned to built a steampunk mech. You flip cards from a tarot deck to give you situations for your diary entries, and you can finish...basically whenever you want.

I enjoyed it greatly, and wanted to publicly share my game. Content warning for a bit of body horror and minor surgical stuff at the end? It’s not like, explicit though. Anyway, I haven’t stretched my horror muscles in a while, and I love how this game started vs where it ended. Hope y’all enjoy!

Starting Questions:

—Who are you, and why did you agree to build the Engine?

I am Loreley Weisel, German thermodynamicist on the brink of bankruptcy. Europe is corrupt, and my will careens towards destruction.

—Who is your patron, and what, if anything, do you know about them? Why did they tell you they wanted the Engine?

My patron is an English aristocrat, Thomas Boroughshire III. All I know is that he has deep pockets and a fascination for thermophysics. He wants my Engine as a mechanical marvel, a party trick for a boy with too many years behind him.

—What is your community like? What do they value and what do they fear?

The community is wealthy. Large estates line a well-kept road. Dogs are bred. Horses are shoed. Foxes are hunted. Gardens beg for release from their clipped restraints. The air itself is made of brick. They value stability, power (or the projection of it), and greed.

—What will the Engine do when it’s completed, and what will it change? (This may shift during play; for now, decide what you think the answer is when you agree to build the Engine.)

My Engine is a herald of death. The aristocracy will be beaten into submission, and England will follow France in the march towards the guillotine.

My Engine:

Diary:

Monday, April 26, 1880—

I do not belong here, in this kingdom, in this estate, in this…garage. Hope’s Paradise is far from the largest house in this community, and His Highness can barely provide enough space for me to work. He does not respect me, nor does his staff. Dinners will be cold on nights I work late. There will be no hot water when I go to draw a bath. They do not want me here.

Fitting enough; I do not wish to dwell here any longer than I have to.

The neighbors are no better. Squire Duncannon of Blah Blah Blah invites me to speak German whenever he harasses me with what he calls conversation, but refuses to use the tongue himself. His wife has never uttered a word beyond her scowl. When I pass by Covington Place, the children stop and watch, twittering among themselves. I wonder what the Duke and Duchess have told them about me. I would not know, for I have never been allowed inside their gates.

England will burn, and this wretched grove of greed will be the tinder.

Wednesday, April 28, 1880—

That godforsaken child has entered my workshop again. Grease smeared all across the floor. Handprints of coal dust cover every box and bench. Every fire hazard should come at the cost of a finger. The little brat will have nubs by week’s end.

Friday, April 30, 1880—

Saturday, May 1

A song. Melancholic, but strong. Thunderous, but ephemeral.

How many hours have slipped by tonight? Dream grips my mind like a starving urchin with hardtack. Maybe these gears and pipes are singing me a lullaby.

Oh for heaven’s sake it’s half two. To sleep with me.

Tuesday, May 4, 1880—

Fucking Third of Family horseshit-brained fool. Every thief with deep pockets thinks themselves a scientist just because they bought opium from one once. I know how to build my Engine. Fuck off with this talk about gas compression. My math is sound, and changing one element means redesigning the entire boiler system.

His Highness has been placated with some minor aesthetic downgrades that better cater to his asinine tastes. For now.

Wednesday, May 5, 1880—

Fucking Third of Family horseshit-brained fool. If it weren’t for the coal dust handprints, I’d think he was the child ransacking my workshop with relentless fervor. Instead, he has simply decided to rearrange my supplies to the garage entrance. My ankle will heal in a few days, but I cannot work on my Engine until it mends. Time is money, and he has more money than I have time.

Sunday, May 9, 1880—

The ankle works.

Monday, May 10, 1880—

His Highness invited his dearest, most important friends to dine in his atrociously cultivated garden. The Wells boy snuck off and found me in my workshop. I have never met another child like him. His curiosity is insatiable, and he knows more about thermodynamics than most learned men I’ve met.

He asked me a question I could not answer: “If this machine is meant for war, how can you fight a navy with it?”

I suppose this will be a larger problem when the revolution hatches from England and threatens the mainland. For now, I must keep focused on this single-minded task. If we make it that far, I will find an answer.

…Perhaps I am naïve and misguided.

Wednesday, May 12, 1880—

The entire community has decided to roll their porcine asses to the south of France for holiday. Such a shame I contracted a bit of a cough and elected to stay here to recover. The travel would have been much too hard on my delicate frame.

Two weeks of uninterrupted work begins tonight.

Friday, May 14, 1880—

For. Fuck’s. Sake.

Her Highness fainted at the pier moments before they were to board a ferry across the Channel. Feared she had come down with the same pestilence I had contracted. Now the entire extended Boroughshire rabble is returning posthaste.

The quiet? Gone. Their need for attention? Only I can sate it. My Engine? Still incomplete, and will be for some time.

If I drown myself in enough whiskey, the mystery of my death should keep their tiny minds occupied for at least a week.

I intend to refill my lamps and work as long as I can tonight. May their arrival home tomorrow wake me at noon for all I care.

Saturday, May 15, 1880—

I was awoken at nine in the morning. Forty minutes of unrestful rest.

Tuesday, May 17 18, 1880—

Knocked the fucking lamp looking for my pen. Lucky I didn’t burn this entire estate to ash.

…Perhaps unlucky.

He even haunts my dreams, touching my Engine and reducing it to rust at the moment that should have been my victory. What Hell of idiocy have I gotten myself into? Fucking aristocrats standing in the way of their own downfall by sheer incompetence. Back to sleep with me.

Tuesday, May 18, 1880 (again)—

I’ve read a number of fascinating papers that I received in the mail today. While I admit I know little of the burgeoning field of electrical engineering, the work being done in the States is fascinating. I intend to take a short trip into London to seek more research (And get a right stein of beer; this house and its occupants are worthless.)

Friday, May 21, 1880 (London)—

I have been granted access to ~~Royal~~ archives. Despite my distaste for locking knowledge away from the public, I am nonetheless grateful for this opportunity. All the kingdom’s brightest minds (what few there are) have recorded years of research on every possible thread of science.

Galvanic principles are fascinating to me. To think, all these thousands of years, we have had electricity inside us! Thoughts percolate, but I do not yet know to what end.

I shall return to the cursed Golden Land in the countryside tomorrow. Between my notes and a few papers, I have been allowed to abscond with, I am reinvigorated with hope for my work.

Saturday, May 22, 1880—

I should extricate and boil every last one of their tongues!

The entire community’s patriarchs were waiting in the living room of Hope’s Paradise (Clearly not my hope.)  Word got out of my project, and every cock-waggling primitive decided that this was a matter that required ending their holiday early. While their offspring splash in the Mediterranean, their sagging eyes are now fixed on that fucking garage.

I don’t know who is merely curious, who else feels inadequate enough to lie about their scientific credentials, or who wants to break my Engine merely because I’m a woman. Too many men in my workshop. Had I less restraint, an axe may have been all I needed to solve this annoyance.

Hopefully the dullards bore sooner than later. I may need to beat Mr. Duncannon with a German dictionary regardless.

Tuesday, June 8, 1880—

Between the constant need to shun nosy men from my workshop and the actual work itself, I have not had the constitution to keep my diary.

But today…ah, today! The control platform appears to be totally functional! I have toiled too long to have failure spring from my fingertips. Rotational velocities are stable, cranks and gears are greased and mobile, the Gatling guns are…gatling.

For the first time since I began my work here, I feel like I have accomplished something great. The aristocracy’s days are numbered.

Monday, June 14, 1880—

Work continues to sap my focus. Boiler…not cooperating. I fear I will lose all the work I’ve done on it due to some unforeseen flaw. A redesign at this stage would be costly, but so would continuing with a faulty boiler. Either way, I’m taking tomorrow off from work to clear my head.

Thursday, June 17, 1880—

Time off has proved productive. I finally finished reading the documents on loan from the ~~Royal~~ archives, and there is a fascinating bit of research by a man by the name of Frankenstein. His work on galvanic sciences from earlier this century are far beyond anything I’ve found from English archives in the last decade. This even only seems to be his initial work; perhaps I can track down his true masterpieces of intellect. Maybe I don’t even need to redesign a boiler…

One blight on my day over lunch: that coal-handed bastard child has returned. I think it’s Constance.

Wednesday, Jun 23, 1880—

The Andersons down the way lost one of their bitches last night. She was a beautiful hound, but her memory will live on in my diary. I wanted some hands-on experience with Frankenstein’s work, so I was able to procure the corpse for a small fee (to His Highness who is paying my bills).

Wondrous! Such are the things I learned. A body, made of muscle, controlled by electricity. I suspect I may need to seek out an anatomist or some other scholar of the biological sciences to continue this research.

My mind is alight with so many ideas…

Wednesday, June 30, 1880—

June ends and takes the boiler with it. My Engine shall have a grand new design. Thomas has been placated by promises of surprise. “The most groundbreaking work in thermodynamics!” I lied. His is a mind easily led astray by spectacle.

Sunday, July 4, 1880—

Constable came round today. Mr. Duncannon hasn’t been seen in three days. He left for an important business meeting in Paris, but missed his boat. Coach is missing too. It’s all very curious. I did everything I could to keep that sniveling pig out of my workshop. Given the way his nose recoiled into his skull, it seems the stench of grease and ozone was enough.

In more academic news, I received notice that more of Victor Frankenstein’s research papers are being released from an archive in Switzerland. I should have them by week’s end. My excitement radiates like the sun.

Friday, July 9, 1880—

Wolfgang. Heinrich. Fuchs.

At my forsaken door. With my forsaken research papers.

How the fuck did he find out I was working on galvanism? Who is he still connected to? Which one of my friends betrayed me (besides him)?

He was in this fucking house asking me fucking questions about my fucking work. Fuck him. He better not stick around. After what he took from me…fuck.

Tuesday, July 13, 1880—

Chaos reigns.

Wolfgang has shacked up with the Andersons. He swings by almost daily. When I’m not actually busy, I try to look it.

Constance has gotten her hands into the coal again (I haven’t disposed of it for appearance’s sake.)

The Duncannons are planning a funeral for…whatever his name was. I don’t think I ever bothered to remember anything about him other than when he would finally leave this hellish corner of England.

Thomas has been migrating in and out of Hope’s Paradise. Something about a trade deal in India. It sounds very important for a man who makes riches off the backs of foreigners.

I could use a big stein at a small biergarten.

Sunday, July 18, 1880—

Widow Duncannon speaks! Her first words spoken to me in the months I’ve resided her are accusations that I have something to do with the death of her husband and his driver. Utter nonsense. The police found the driver at the bottom of a pint in a pub last week. The way gossip echoes around these families, however, I won’t be surprised if they begin to turn on me.

My work must accelerate.

Thursday, July 22nd, 1880—

Widow Duncannon, Duchess Byron. Mrs. Boroughshire. All the Andersons. None of them will speak to me. They glare if they see me, so I try to keep to my room and my workshop as much as possible. I’m lucky Her Highness is so subservient to Thomas. This house would be unbearable if she had any willpower over it.

Tuesday, July 27, 1880—

Celebrations are in order! I have poured over work by Golgi, Frankenstein, and Schwann. Every guide I could find on electrical engineering. Trial after trial, failure after failure. And yet…

And yet.

It’s not that I have hope my Engine will work, it’s that I have knowledge that it will. My designs are so clear to me. My protypes are all working as planned. The path to revolution has been laid out before me. Now it is up to me to walk it.

Tomorrow is the beginning of the end.

Wednesday, July 28, 1880—

Coal hands. Inside my workshop. Inside. My. Workshop. And this time, ha! This time, I have a culprit.

I made it very clear to Constance that she will not be loitering in my laboratory anymore.

Saturday, August 7, 1880—

What have I become?

Why did I begin building my Engine? Something about a war? Who can say. Time marchers onward. My Engine will march with time. Every experiment has made it clearer to me that I have stumbled upon the greatest discovery of this era.

No one celebrates with me. Not Thomas. Not Her Highness. Not Constance, nor the boys, Timothy and Franklin. Even Wolfgang is silent (at last).

The neighbors have stopped visiting. I wave when I pass them by, but they just sneer and hurry past. Finally, I can work in peace and silence. Finally my genius can become reality. Finally all of Europe will know what Loreley Weisel is capable of.

I have become the herald of great change, a conduit of the very building blocks of existence.

Tuesday, August 10, 1880—

A toast to the Duke and Duchess! May their patronage live forever in my greatest work! Soon I hope to bring the Andersons into this project as well.

Wednesday, August 18, 1880—

The Engine lives! The support of this community has been invaluable as the final construction has occurred. Everyone has poured their hearts into my work, and it’s truly a masterpiece that could not have been built alone.

My galvanic calibrations have been finalized. My circuits have been tested. It is nearing time for me to put all of myself into my work. I will see success.

Saturday, August 21, 1880—

The loneliness is getting to me. Not even the dogs bark anymore. I talk to my Engine, but its flesh is silent.

Monday, August 23, 1880—

The constable returned. With six policemen. He had questions about His Highness and the Duke and Duchess and Widow Duncannon. I told him the truth: I could help him find them.

I cooperated.

I have a surplus.

Wednesday, August 25, 1880—

Why shouldn’t I? It worked for them. Shouldn’t it work for me? All the principles are the same. They’re muscle. I’m muscle. They’re electric. I’m electric. Why shouldn’t I be in control?

Thursday, August 26, 1880—

Wolfgang, that bastard! He said he knew everything that I had been up to. That is outrageous! He knows nothing!

I have destroyed my room in rage. Fucking Fuchs! What does he think he knows? Who has he told? I should have killed him. Why didn’t I kill him? He doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t deserve my creation. He covets it. He wants it for himself. I know it. He got me kicked out of university, he got me run out of Germany. He is jealous. Jealous! He knows I’m better. He knows I’m smarter. He wants what I have, my Engine, my child. He can’t have it. He can’t. He won’t. Where did he go? Fucking Wolfgang I will fucking kill him. He knows nothing. He’s bluffing. He just wants my success. My genius. He is nothing. He will be nothing. Nothing. Nothing. He nothing. Nothing. nothing nothing nothing noth

Sunday, August 29, 1880—

This will be the final entry to my diary. The morning air is heavy with the musk of summer. It’s strange to me how calm I am given what I am about to do.

My Engine has come so far from its days as a sketch on a piece of parchment. Veins of red pulse behind the metal. Sinew, steel, and lightning working in harmony. Every stitch and every suture as perfect as the one before it. So many died for its creation, and so many more will die when I am finished today.

I expected my hand to shake more as I inked the incision lines across my skin. I expected my mind to be foggier as I tried to remember every nerve that would need work. Even the pain I am about to endure has not shaken my resolve.

I am uncertain what the scientific community will think of my work. Of the sacrifices I made. But I have proven a radical truth: All the money in the world does not stop one from being built from the same parts as another. And that’s all we are: Animals with organs and muscles and electricity surging through us. If machines can harness that energy, why can’t we? If new machines can be invented, why not new humans?

All I can hope for now is that my composure holds through the entire procedure. Once I am integrated into my Engine, I will command a mind and body unseen by man. Unparalleled by any of God’s creation. Magnificent in its genius. My genius.

Today I will change humanity forever.

[stupidsexyfandom]

Atonement

@helsa-summer-event

Rated M: Mature themes, SFW // Angst

CONTENT WARNING: Major Character Death, Suicide

Twenty-five years later, a body washes up in Arendelle. 

Written for Prompt #4 of Helsa Summer: Gorgeously tan. 

The morning after the storm dawned cool and gray. Queen Elsa rose even earlier than usual after a night plagued by insomnia. She stood on her balcony, watching as the city began to stir. The sea lay still as glass, slate blue and impenetrable. She wished she could stand staring at it forever. Her mind had been greatly troubled, and today, she did not feel like speaking to anyone.

Unfortunately, she reminded herself, being queen left no room for fits of pique. She would have to go downstairs to tend to her duties eventually, as she had every day for the past twenty-five years. Casting a last longing look at the gray sea, she steeled herself to face the world.

Breakfast with Anna, Kristoff, and the children could always lift her spirits, even on such a dour day as this. Elsa supposed she should no longer think of them as children en masse. The oldest, Isolde, would be twenty-one in the spring. Watching her niece, Elsa could hardly believe she had become queen at that age. She seemed so young. Surely she herself had not been such a child when she had taken the throne? But perhaps she had been so young once. In any case, it was her prerogative as a doting aunt to remember all her nieces and nephews as babes in arms no matter how old they got.

After breakfast, she reviewed her itinerary for the day. The bulk of her time was occupied by a foray into the city to assess storm damage. The high winds and heavy rains of the previous night had wrought havoc on structures private and public alike. Beyond the usual cleanup, Elsa had to decide where to allocate funds for repairs and assistance.

She was accompanied on her inspection tour by the castle’s steward, Kai. He had worked in the castle since her father had been crowned. Although his hair was now white, he seemed to grow shrewder with each passing year. Elsa valued his opinion more than those of most of the diplomats and aristocrats on her advisory council.

Together they walked through the streets of the city. Elsa was pleasantly surprised. All told, Arendelle had weathered the storm much better than she had feared. She knew her people were strong, but the wind and rain had been particularly fierce. When the pair reached a damaged building, Kai would make note of it in his little book, and Elsa would do her best to help. Where shingles had blown off the baker’s roof, she created a patch of ice to keep the rain out. Where the upper story of a tenement sagged, she created an icy scaffolding to support it until repairs could be made. All throughout the city, she did what she could. It was times like these when she was thankful for her powers, and she could tell that her people were, too. Every snowflake was an atonement for what had happened so many years ago.

There was a small crowd gathering at the top of the cliffs overlooking the sea. They appeared to be looking at something caught on the rocks below. Elsa thought the wind must have blown something over something over the edge in the night, perhaps a signboard or even a cart. Perhaps she would be able to get it back for them with her powers. She and Kai joined the townsfolk in peering over the edge. At first, Elsa could see nothing. Then she caught sight of a flash of red and felt suddenly sick. There, where the waves were lapping at the rocks, lay a body.

She immediately conjured a staircase to the foot of the cliff, careful to give the treads an anti-slip texture. Kai was the first down it, moving nimbly despite his advanced age. Elsa followed. When they reached the bottom, they had to pick their steps carefully along the slippery rock. The body lay face down. Its hair had been the red that caught her eye from the clifftop. Kai knelt to check its pulse, although they both knew it was a vain gesture. Sighing, Elsa created a broad platform of ice beneath the three of them. She raised it into a pillar until they were even with the head of the cliff. Two fishermen rushed forward to carry the body onto solid ground.

They lay the dead man face up on a patch of grass. For the first time, Elsa could see his face. A chill of recognition ran through her, and she wrapped her arms around herself instinctively. When she looked down, she was shocked to see spirals of frost covering her cloak. She had not lost control of her powers like that in decades.

“Is something wrong?” She could feel Kai’s keen eyes upon her. With anyone else, she might have been able to pass it off as the shock of seeing a dead body so close. But Kai had known her for too long. He had seen the recognition in her eyes.

“I know this man,” she said haltingly.

“Oh?” Elsa had to think fast. She couldn’t let anyone know what she knew, not even Kai.

“I saw him yesterday. He told me the last time he was in Arendelle was for my coronation, and he wanted to pay his respects after twenty-five years.” This was not exactly a lie, although it was far from the whole truth.

“Did he tell you his name?”

“I believe he said it was Anderson. Hans Anderson.”

-

She had seen him in the town square. All around, the city of Arendelle was bustling with preparations for the oncoming storm. He was standing at a produce stall, examining the varieties of fruit. She might not have recognized him if not for his eyes. He wore the garb of a simple sailor, and his face was tanned and weather-beaten. But she would know those eyes anywhere.

She paused for a moment, uncertain of whether to approach him. Part of her wanted to ask why he had come here, or how he dared to show his face here at all. The other part of her wanted to turn away and forget she had even seen him. She had learned long ago the value of letting sleeping dogs lie. But soon enough the choice was made for her. He had seen her.

“You haven’t changed,” he said by way of greeting, and Elsa hated that he was right. Age had taken its toll on her, but its price had been lighter for her than for most. Her hair had always been white, and her time indoors had kept her skin smooth. He could not see the achy joints and stiff muscles that lay beneath the surface. Nor could he see how she had grown, no longer fearful and isolated. She had learned to be strong for her people, to make difficult decisions and navigate stormy seas.

“You have,” she told him, although she was not sure that it was true. He dressed coarsely and had clearly spent the last twenty years working under the sun, his red hair streaked with gray. He still carried with him a certain air of refinement, but his face held an open simplicity she had not seen before. Still, she was wary. He was an expert pretender, and it was likely the same frozen heart lay beneath this roughhewn exterior.

“I need to speak with you.”

“Then speak.” Her tone was chilly.

“Not here. Somewhere private.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“You only have to listen.” Elsa wanted to dismiss him out of hand, to tell him that she didn’t have to do anything. But there was something in his eyes that was both dangerous and desperate. She found herself assenting. He tried to give her his name and current ship, but she brushed them away. They would meet on her terms.

Sitting at her dressing table that evening, Elsa mulled over her choice. She was not going to allow herself to regret it. So much of her life had been stolen away by fear and regret. As she had grown older, she had learned not to let them dominate her thoughts and actions. But that evening, those emotions threw her back to the day she became queen. What’s done is done, she thought. And although she could not eliminate her regret, she could keep moving forward.

Lost in thought, she removed the pins from her updo and began brushing her hair. As she braided it for sleep, she realized the actions were pointless. She would be going out again anyway. But seeing the braid over her left shoulder gave her an idea. Standing, she replicated the first ice dress she had ever made. She had not worn one like it in many years, finding it too daring to be taken seriously at court. Now, she remembered the power she had felt when she first created it. Perfect, she thought. It was the same dress she had worn that day on the fjord. She wanted him to remember what he had done.

-

The wind whistled as she stole down to the side entrance. Elsa could see the backs of the leaves, but no rain yet fell. When she opened the garden door, she was surprised to find him already waiting.

“Did the guards see you?” The last thing Elsa needed was for anyone to know about their secret assignation.

“I climbed over the wall,” he said, gesturing behind him. Elsa could barely make out a patch of ivy growing over the stonework, and she made a mental note to have it cut back later. But tonight, it had been her ally.

She led him to the chapel. None of the lamps were lit, so the only illumination came from the moonlight streaming in through the windows. She set the lantern she carried on the dais. The flame cast weird shadows across the flagstones.

She whirled to face him and said, “Why did you come here?”

“You don’t know? I came to beg for your forgiveness.” A cold wind blew through the chapel, extinguishing the lantern. Elsa swore under her breath, any cutting response forgotten. She knelt to fumble with the wick, realizing she didn’t have any matches. That was the biggest problem with this ice dress: no pockets.

He was beside her in an instant, proffering a matchbook from his waistcoat pocket. As she reached out to take it, their hands brushed, and Elsa realized neither of them wore gloves. She wondered if it had been as long for him as it had for her. She struggled to light a match, finding the striking pad slick with ice. When a flame erupted at last, it fizzled just as quickly in her cold hands.

“Here, let me,” he said, gently taking back the book of matches. She watched silently as his tanned, agile hands lit the wick. They sat side by side on the edge of the dais, staring into the shadowy corners of the chapel.

Suddenly he said, “I hear the princess is married.”

“Yes,” said Elsa, “Happily married for more than twenty years now.”

“To the iceman?”

“Yes, to the iceman, Kristoff. They have several lovely children.” Elsa was stalling, not eager to return to the subject that had brought them there.

“Children? Will you tell me about them?” It occurred to Elsa that Anna probably would not want her to. Anna probably would be upset that she was speaking to him at all. She was ready to ask him what business the children were of his when he held up a hand.

“Please. Let me hear about the children that could have, in another life, been mine.” His words stung Elsa, especially because she often thought the same thing. She loved her nieces and nephews as though they were her sons and daughters. But sometimes, she imagined an alternate path, where she had loved and married and had children of her own. So she told him. She started with Isolde, who would be queen one day, and worked her way down. He listened with rapt attention, but his eyes held a sadness she knew too well.

When she had finished (with Wilhelm, age nine, avid collector of frogs and turtles), he asked, “And you? You have never married?”

“No. I discovered long ago that it was better to keep power for myself than to trust too easily and share it with anyone whose motives were uncertain. You taught me that. I suppose I never found anyone whom I could trust.” He barked a dry laugh and leaned back on his arms. Elsa studied his face among the harsh lamplight shadows, and she could see his expression soften.

“It is a shame, your Majesty, all that we have missed in life.” She wanted to tell him that he was wrong, that she had missed nothing. But instead she just sighed. They sat in silence for a while.

“You’ve never married either?” asked Elsa. She felt suddenly ridiculous. Here she was, making polite conversation with the man who had once tried to kill her. She wasn’t even sure what to call him. ‘Prince Hans’ seemed out of the question, for she was fairly sure he had been stripped of his title. Just ‘Hans’ seemed too familiar, implying a closer relationship. What else was left? The false name he had given her? But ‘Mr. Anderson’ seemed stiffly formal, like she was addressing a stranger. And whatever their relationship was, they were certainly not strangers. His voice interrupted her reverie.

“No. I’ve been at sea for many years, you know. No time for a wife.” Something in his tone told Elsa there was more to it.

“Many sailors marry.”

“Perhaps I was always too obsessed with what happened in Arendelle. I dreamed of it every night. Even in my waking hours, I could never be free of it. Each wave crashing against the hull seemed to call me to repent. Eventually, I could bear it no longer. I thought it might drive me mad. Perhaps there was a kind of madness in my coming here. But I knew that I could not rest until I saw you again. I could not go on without asking for your forgiveness.”

Elsa stood slowly, feeling stiff from sitting so low to the ground. She almost pitied him. Despite what she knew of him, he seemed genuinely repentant. Perhaps he had learned something in the past twenty-five years. That was what made this so hard.

“Do not ask for my forgiveness.”

“What?” He froze midway through standing up.

“Any wrongs you have committed against me pale in comparison to what you did to my sister. It is her forgiveness you must seek, not mine.”

“Then let me speak to her tomorrow. I won’t expect anything to come of it, so long as I have the opportunity.” His expression was tinged with eagerness verging on desperation. Elsa steeled herself. She had to protect her sister. She had been unable to do so twenty-five years ago when they had first met Prince Hans, and Anna had suffered for it. Now, Elsa finally had the chance to atone for that failure. She would not fail again.

“Princess Anna is happy now. She has a life and family of her own. The last thing she need is for you to dredge up the past.”

“But—”

“I sympathize. Do you think I don’t understand self-recrimination? She has finally managed to heal from what we’ve done to her. I won’t let you disrupt her life.”

Her words proved to be too much for him. He knelt before her, pleading desperately. She thought there was a touch of madness in his eyes.

“Please, I beg of you! If you will not let me see your sister, at least consider my plea for yourself. I don’t know how I can go on otherwise. I cannot live this haunted life.”

“I cannot help you. You must seek absolution elsewhere.” Elsa wished that things could be different. But she of all people did not have the right to grant forgiveness for what had happened at the coronation. Not when she herself had played such a large part in her sister’s suffering.

He threw himself at her feet like a child. She felt his hand on her leg, grasping at it like a lifeline. He buried his face in her skirts, and Elsa felt overwhelmed by his emotion. She noticed snowflakes drifting slowly downward and waved them away with her hand. Perhaps she was being selfish, letting her final act of atonement block his only chance at the same. But Anna’s happiness had to come first.

“Get up,” she said softly, pushing at his graying hair, “Hans. Get up.” He looked up at her, eyes moist but unwavering. Slowly he disentangled himself from her skirts.

“I can’t give you what was never mine to give. The most I can do is let you leave here in peace. I will not alert the Southern Isles, nor will I alert Arendelle’s guard. I have left you with your life. You must be content with that.” Her tone was kind, but she spoke with a sense of finality.

“A cursed life such as mine hardly qualifies. You have left me with nothing at all.” His eyes looked hollow, as if there were nothing behind them.

-

“Give us your best account of what happened last night, Captain,” said Kai. The body was laid out in the castle’s chapel. Because the dead man had no local family, Elsa had volunteered to take charge of the remains. Now a small group had formed there to try to figure out the cause of death. Elsa and Kai, her eternal shadow, stood on one side. The doctor and the bishop stood on the other. The captain of the St. Winifred, who had been found based on Elsa’s information, was the final member of their party. Elsa had worried that they might realize Hans’ true identity, but her secret seemed safe for the moment.

“The night watchman says Anderson returned around midnight, just about when the rain started. He didn’t go below decks right away, saying he wanted some fresh air. By the time of the one o’clock patrol, he was gone. The watchman say he thought Anderson went below deck, but the storm was getting intense by that point, so he wasn’t paying much attention.”

“Do you think he could have fallen overboard? Or could a wave have washed him away?” asked Kai. The captain considered for a moment.

“I would say either of those were possible, if not likely. Anderson was a competent sailor and very cautious. I doubt he slipped and fell. But in a storm like that one, anything may have happened.”

“Was he well liked among the crew?” Elsa could tell Kai was trying to be diplomatic.

“Yes, he got along with everybody. He was quiet and kept himself to himself. But he was always willing to pick up the slack, and that made him popular. I had offered him a promotion several times, but he always turned me down. I can’t imagine anyone wanting to harm him.”

Elsa was finding it difficult to keep her mind on the proceedings. She found herself staring at the corpse several times, fixated on how it compared to the Hans of her memory. Beneath its suntanned skin lay the pallor of death. Its eyes were closed, but she knew they must hold the same hollow look she had seen the night before. She longed to reach out and touch it. Would it be cold as ice? Would she even be able to tell? The bishop was speaking for the first time, and Elsa tried to give him her attention.

“What we must know is this: could he have done this to himself? We cannot move forward with the burial until we know whether he is worthy of consecrated ground.” The other three men looked distinctly uncomfortable. Elsa got the feeling this was a possibility they would all have gladly ignored.

The doctor spoke first: “All I can tell you is that he drowned. There were some abrasions from the rocks, but they were clearly postmortem. His body can give us no evidence aside from that.”

“I wouldn’t believe it for a moment,” said the captain with a bit of added bluster, “He just wasn’t the sort. Sure, he had his troubles, but so do we all. Doesn’t mean he’d do something so drastic.”

“Queen Elsa,” said Kai, “you spoke to him the most recently out of all of us. Can you shed any light on his state of mind?” Elsa had only a split second to decide what to say. She knew her evidence would be damning if she answered truthfully.

“It was only for a few minutes. He just told me how little I had changed since my coronation. He seemed in good spirits, but of course I didn’t know him.” She hoped her lie would be convincing. It was the least she could do for him.

-

The investigation was over. They had reached a consensus that it had been an accidental death. Elsa was glad to be finished with it. At least she had spared Hans the final indignity of an unconsecrated grave. Despite the bishop’s protestations, she had insisted that he be buried in the royal plot. She was not sure what lay beyond the grave, but she hoped his spirit would be able to find some peace.

Now, she walked along the beach, looking out over the slate-colored sea. She turned, hearing footsteps behind her. It was Kai.

“May I join you?”

“Of course.” They walked together in silence for a while.

“You went to a lot of trouble to arrange a burial for that man,” said Kai. He was dangling the bait in front of her. She wondered how much he knew.

“A queen’s duty is to take care of her people. Besides, I feel partially responsible for his death. He only came to Arendelle because of me.”

“Queen Elsa, listen to me,” Kai stopped walking and turned to face her, “this was not your fault. If it was not an accident, he made his own choice. I suspect he made his choice many years ago. You don’t need to hold yourself responsible.”

Elsa appreciated Kai’s kind words and common sense. She hoped that this time she would be able to follow his advice. After so many years, perhaps she did not need another reason to atone.

***

Author’s Note: This fic is brought to you by the letter C. C for Cadfael, an endless source of inspiration for me. C for Culturally Catholic, which bleeds through into my writing sometimes. C for Content warning, which is not something I usually need for my fics. Oh yeah, and C for Completely missing the spirit of the prompt, sorry guys. 

I had to rewrite the entire middle portion because I thought Hans was coming across as too mentally well-compensated. Tomorrow I begin my apology tour. Thanks so much for reading! <3

[ktheist]

saving grace | 5

muses. duke!yoongi x lady!reader

universe. arranged marriage / minor traces of magic in history

concept. driven into a corner with the new king, seokjin, offering to marry you off to a prince in a foreign land and a persistent mother who would seize the chance of a lucrative marriage for her daughter, you’re forced with the only other option to secure your freedom ‒ enter into a beneficial agreement with the man who reaped the seeds of war, the duke of cralon, yoongi min.

words. 6.7k

warnings. mentions of war, it’s cliche and cheesy all in one package

index. 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / finale

x

after your return from the min mansion, your mother, ever the loving parent, greets you at the door. her bright smile can be seen from miles away as she stands with her hands planted on her hips like someone who’s looking at her life’s worth investment.

“well?” she urges with an unfaltering smile.

“well?” you blink once, head lulling to the side as you stare at her for an explanation.

“don’t pretend to be ignorant,” she clicks her tongue but the contorted expression on her face is short lived as the smile returns, its force almost compelling you to take a step backwards, “did you two-”

“oh, ___, you’re back. i heard that you stayed the night at the duke’s.” your father, having emerged out of his office on the second floor calls for you and for some reason causes the woman in front of you to freeze as though haunted by guilt.

oh.

with a disarming smile, you wave at your father before recounting the reason you couldn’t go back right away after the party, “oh yes, it’s because mo-”

“i’m sure our daughter’s hungry, i’ll have the chef prepare something right away and in the mean time, we’ll be having tea in my parlor,” with that, the woman who has her hand clasped over her mouth whisks you away and into a narrow corridor right under where your father was standing.

huffing, she fixes you a displeased frown, “gosh, i only wanted to help my beloved daughter secure a good future!”

“mother!” hands planted on your hips, you fix your mother an incredulous look,   “by getting rid of any other means for me to leave the mention in hopes i’d seduce the duke to sleep with me and get him to marry me quickly in fear for my being pregnant with an out-of-wedlock child?” your shoulder line are stiff as you watch your mother not even batting an eye at the issues arising within that narration and instead grins in approval at what seems to be a mutual understanding between a mother and a daughter.

“i knew you were smart!”

not wishing to burst her bubble of joy, you excuse yourself to your room, saying the fatigue of hosting a garden party hasn’t entirely left you just yet. fortunately, she the matter of whether you’ve spent the night in yoongi’s room has dissipated in the air as she wishes you a good rest before murmuring something about writing a letter to marchioness jung to invite her to tea or rather, to boast about the daughter that’s marrying the duke who’s several ranks higher than a count’s.

you wonder how she would react once your matchmaking succeeds and krystal ends up becoming a candidate as seokjin��s queen but you decide that your mother’s wounded pride would be a matter of a future that you need not yet concern yourself with.

“leslie, prepare to go to vivian’s.” you question as the maid pulls down on the zip of your dress and allow you to step out of it until you’re staring at the woman in a white underdress in front of the mirror.

“but my lady, that boutique is...” the woman trails off, eyes slanted to the ground in search for the proper words to describe the handiwork.

you’re not entirely sure why she’s against it either but if there’s anything leslie’s good at, it’s being meticulous in her tasks which includes making sure you don only the best clothes, “don’t worry, i won’t be buying the engagement dress there. i just wish to confirm something.”

with that, her eyes lights up and for some reason, the same way your mother does when she offhandedly commends your ability to think just now, “right away, my lady!” the beam doesn’t go away nor so much as falter throughout the ride.

“we’re here to see mademoiselle vivian for my lady’s engagement party,” leslie approaches the worker that greets you when you came in.

you don’t miss the stare shot your way as you study the dresses wrapped around the mannequins until his jaw drops, possibly from the realization of who you are, “r-right this way, lady ___.”

the room you’re brought in is furnished with leather couches and extravagant patterns on its walls and curtains that make you wonder if there is such a thing as illegally pairing colors together.

only the higher ranking aristocrats, namely those from count families and above, would be able to afford clothes made by mademoiselle vivian, a foreign woman from a country across the seas who moved to cearis in search for a lover she’d met and fell deeply in love with but up until now, she still hasn’t found said lover.

or so the story goes.

perhaps it was a selling point to catch the eyes of helpless romantics - rich ones at that. but either way, she’s proved her talent through her intricate designs that time and time again sets off a new trend when a fairly influential noblewoman goes to a gathering in the dress she makes.

it’s no secret that krystal is a loyal customer to vivian’s. but then again, it has more to do about her looks than the dresses she wear. not that it matters to vivian because she’ll be dropping names of noblewomen who ordered dresses from her to gain trust from new customers.

but you’re not here for that.

“are the designs not to your liking, lady ___?” the woman’s bespectacled eyes bore into you after you let out a troubled sigh, eyebrows pulling together as though in deep dilemma.

“no, no, they’re all beautiful,” you let your words hang in the air for suspense before setting down the catalog and turning your whole body towards the woman, “it’s just... i want something that makes a statement, you see.”

“a statement...” she echoes.

“something like...” you murmur to yourself while she echoes your very words a second later.

“...a dress that tells other ladies that they can’t compare without being loud!” you clap your hands together, pleased that you’ve found the words you’ve been searching for.

it takes a moment of the woman burning a hole into the catalog of her designs while you take a sip of the lavender tea. it’s harder to find such tea and fewer can afford it because of the limited import and the high tax rate imposed seeing as only well-off nobles would usually have them at homes.

“i see it now,” she seems to have returned from a walk down the rabbit hole of laces and ribbons, “i don’t usually recommend this since the ladies that come to my shop need a little bit of help standing out - and my dresses do just that but! i think simpler designs would fit you and enhance your beauty like lady jung.”

you mentally cheer at the mention of the name, adding in a blink of surprise, “do you mean... krystal?”

“oh yes, she has the beauty of a crescent moon. a mysterious allure that attracts men and women alike...” vivian drones on with glazed eyes as though she’s descended over to another realm where the walls are tower high and plastered with krystal’s portraits posing in different dresses and her cat-like eyes seem to move wherever one goes.

“...but it’s a shame that her engagement with duke gillmore’s son’s been cancelled!” she ends with a dejected sigh as her shoulder line falls.

“the engagement’s been cancelled?” the fruit of your visit is turning ripe by the second as you clasp a hand over your ‘o’ shaped mouth.

almost as though realizing her slip up, vivian’s own hand shoots up to her mouth but for a different reason than yours, “oh, i shouldn’t be telling you this that since it’s not officially announced yet,” she meets your gaze with a hint of sparkle in them, whatever remorse she felt for revealing what isn’t due, has dissipated into the air, “bit to think the dress i made specifically for her engagement party would not be seeing the light of the day! it pains me so!”

the gillmores are the fourth and last of the ducal houses with the mins being the first and strong supporter of the royal family for hundreds of years. understandably, only two of the houses bear marriageable heirs to the title but with yoongi taking on the name grim reaper, naturally marquis jung would never allow krystal to marry him which leaves duke gillmore’s son as the only available candidate.

that was... until the crown prince who was engaged to a foreign princess was heartlessly murdered by his half-blooded brother. judging from how objective driven krystal is, she must have her eyes set on a bigger price than becoming duchess of the gillmore’s dukedom. and coincidentally so, as vivian mindlessly laments, the engagement was said to be cancelled two months ago which is around the same time seokjin must have called her to have her spread the rumor about you and yoongi’s engagement.

“my lady, have you gotten what you came here for?” the woman sitting across from you in the carriage finally breaks the silence after loyally following your lead as you bid vivian a half-hearted farewell because ‘i’ve realized i can’t make decisions like this on my own! please have the catalogs to the min residence. i’ll review them with my fiancee once he gets back.’

“leslie,” you feel a smile bloom across your face, “we’ve got ourselves a queen.”

x

for the rest of the week, you find yourself swarmed with letters and invitations to more social gatherings. back then, when you were just a marquis’ daughter and not a duke min’s fiance, invitations have not been scarce yet they’ve never been this overflowing. white envelops with varying house seals litter the white table in front of the window each day. before you can even finish reading those that accumulated in the inbox yesterday, a new bulk would have gathered by the end of today.

so when you hear the knock on your door, you don’t even bother asking who it was, only a short, “come in.”

in your engrossment in reading a letter sent from irene, you fail to notice the lack of footsteps after the noticeable click of the door swinging open and then shutting until it’s too late.

a black gloved hand props itself on the table while another gently settles on your shoulder, a distinctive scent of mint filling your senses. but the husky voice drumming in your ears is no stranger to you,“you’ve been busy.”

“yoongi!” the letter almost slips out of your hand as you crane your neck to gaze into a familiar pair of crimson eyes. but the surprise is short-lived as you become unnervingly aware of how close your faces are, so much so, you can feel his hot breath on your lips.

judging from how he still has his cloak and the formal knight uniform, he must have rode straight to your mansion after entering the boarders of the dukedom. why he chooses to do so, you don’t wish to indulge in.

“w-welcome back, how was the-” the words die on your throat as the coolness of his gloved thumb grazes your bottom lip.

you barely register the delicate “i missed you, ___,” that’s spoken within the minute space between his lips and yours before he closes the distance.

you’ve known those pink lips were soft from the kisses he leaves on the back of your hand but having them on yours are a separate matter altogether. it feels almost unfair that he’s the one who initiated the kiss but wouldn’t go further than a feather light peck before he pulls away, almost as though he thinks you’d break under the slightest pressure.

the faintest smile graces his features as though content to have felt you, to know that you’re not a dream. but on your part, it’s not enough and it will never be once you’ve had a taste of what sweet sacrilege tastes like.

you don’t have the time to admire the way those usually unbothered eyes widen, taken aback as your arm wraps around his neck, locking him within a birdcage large enough for him to stretch his wings but too small for him to escape.

when you break apart for air, you indistinctly register the burning sensation on your lips until yoongi’s eyes slants over them, finger hooked under your chin as he apologizes, “i might’ve been too rough.”

you’re not quite sure what he means, choosing to ignore such statements because he was every bit gentle - passionate, is a whole different story that you rather not think about as you invite him to sit in the chair across from you but instead, he drags it around and plops next to you. your knee brushes against his from time to time but you rather like the feeling of having a part of him touching you one way or another.

“your mother led me to your room,” he says simply, “i assumed you’d been informed.”

almost as though your mother’s scheming smile is ingrained in your head, you barely bat an eye at yoongi’s words as you sarcastically mutter, “i’m sure it must’ve slipped her mind.”

when leslie comes in with snacks, her lingering stare on your face does not go unnoticed but her free smile allows you to shake off the matter almost instantly.

“the inspection resulted in a graver findings,” yoongi apprises, blood red eyes holding your gaze as his next words sends a spear piercing through your heart, “we found children in the basement of the granary. the count’s been involved in human trafficking - nobody knows yet and the knights won’t say a word but once i report this to seokjin, it’ll be the only thing the capital will talk about for awhile.”

no nobility has ever truly lived an honest and clean life. if one were to dig even just the surface of a noble family’s activities, it isn’t hard to find corruption, bribery and even explanation to murders but to have been involved with human trafficking...

the smiling faces of the orphanage not too far from your mansion, flash at the back of your mind. the children had been in the poorest condition the first time you met them. but over time, they’d gained strength from the supplies you’d brought monthly and would come running to you and seokjin whenever you visited. it’s been awhile since you saw them after seokjin’s coronation and the distribution of supplies had been done by the people from the palace with the help of the servants from your house. the circumstances has significantly improved over the year but the thought of someone going as far as exploiting young children, those who were supposed to be under his care and protection makes your stomach churn.

you should have known. should have looked deeper into the activities of that degenerate count-

“not matter how much resource you have, you couldn’t have seen this coming.” the arms that wrap around your body are warm as they pull you flush against a chest. you don’t even realize you have your hands clenched into fists and trembling for the longest time until your shoulder line sags and all the strength inside your body seems to seep out your pores. if yoongi hadn’t held you, you would have hit the ground. either because of unbridled rage or unadulterated hopelessness.

you’re not sure how long time has passed with him holding you in his arms, but you don’t allow yourself the time to mope around more than you should. when you pull away, yoongi seems to have already expect the words that come out of your mouth, “i’ll make sure he’s stripped of his title and so are the people around him who stayed quiet.”

“i don’t doubt your capability,” his thumb rubs circles on the back of your hand, “but that would mean punishing every single commoner in his territory.”

the sound of your gritting teeth drums in your ears as your jaw sores, “they probably didn’t have anyone to turn to when their own lord was behind the atrocities plaguing their village,” a lump forms in your throat, you can only imagine the state the children were found in.

a hand wraps around yours, thumbs smoothing over each of your palms, “you saved them. if you hadn’t thought to suggest the trade, we wouldn’t have a solid reason to inspect the park family’s territory.”

“it was all his doing- he burst out first,” you swallow thickly, “i just reaped the seed he planted.”

a sigh drums in your ears, forcing you to look up and meet the duke’s molten gaze as his shoulder line falls. almost as though he’s surrendering to a fight he knows won’t be in his favor, “no words i say can possibly lift the heavy burden off your chest.”

you don’t deny it.

“would you like to come with me to the palace? i’ll be heading there in three day’s time to report our findings to the king,” his eyes doesn’t seem to search through the windows of your soul, perhaps because he’s learned that he’ll reach a dead end - a wall of thorns. the only way he’ll ever figure you out is if you let him through.

but he at least knows your answer if he’s leaning back against the chair, almost as though he’s turning his back on the wall and chose to tread back to the direction he came from, “i’ll pick you up some time at noon.”

x

yoongi is reluctant to leave the mansion - or rather, you. the look in his eyes when he looks back at you before mounting his horse, reminds you of the puppy you had when you were a child. she would always rub her head on your leg whenever she saw you dolled up to leave for a party your mother was taking you to. as though begging you not to leave. but she’d always been the first to ligh up when she saw you alight the family carriage when you returned.

you find yourself stepping past the doors of the mansion where you’d intend to wave him off and coming to a stop a few feet away from the horse, “yoongi, can i visit you tomorrow?”

the faint smile breathes fire into your soul as those blood red eyes bore into you like a molten lava, “i was hoping you would. every single day until we get married, in fact.”

it is only after you watch the sleek black stallion disappear through the gates and into the streets, do you notice the maids who have gathered at the doors since the beginning. but their huddled forms as they swoon is the least of your concern.

“so something finally happened.” your mother gathers, nodding in approval as you walk past her with full intention to minimize the interaction - you’ve still not forgiven her for failing to alert you of yoongi’s arrival but even if you quiz her about it, she wouldn’t be able to see the wrong in her actions even if it’d slapped her in the face-

“was that your first kiss as a couple?”

whirling around on your heels, you feel the heat creep up your cheeks almost instantly, “mother! wh-what are you talking about? a-and in front of the maids at that!”

it seems that’s all the answer she needs as she laughs to herself, “dear daughter, i’ve been alive longer than you- you think i would believe you if you said that cut on your lips was from you walking into something?”

“what cut-” the memory of yoongi’s unsettling closeness floods your mind before his peculiar apology echoes in your ears, ‘i might’ve been too rough.’

five minutes later, after you all but sprinted to your room and made a beeline towards the mirror that stands a head taller than you beside your bed, does a bloodcurdling scream fill the recesses of the mansion.

“luckily, it’s just a minor cut, my lady,” leslie assures, her ever smiling features doing better to calm your rapidly beating heart and increasing bashfulness than your mother ever could.

you silently weep at the minute red line on your bottom lip. she’s right. it’s a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it sort of cut and barely stings as you lather a thin sheen of healing ointment the woman brought after you requested it.

“this is humiliating,” you announce, holding a half-hearted vendetta towards the man whose eyes occasionally glaze over your lips during his visit but choose not to say anything else besides a cryptic indication of his lack of self-restraint.

it takes a whole evening of refusing to have dinner at the dining room and a pity party for yourself with flower petals for the muscles in your body to finally relax.

“what of the report i asked you to gather?” you quiz, hearing the pitter patter of someone’s footsteps going around the bathroom.

“most of them come up with similar information - nothing my lady does not know,” leslie’s fluttery voice reverberates against the walls.

“as expected, i’ll have to ask consult seokjin,” the sound of your teeth gritting drums in your ears, “the thought of him getting so smug just because i had to go to him makes me nauseous.”

with the issue human trafficking coming to light, it seems you can’t go around investigating about the nobles as you please, nor can any of your maids be seen asking around about it. discussing the matter with seokjin and gathering the intel you both have to unravel the nobles’ hidden trails would be a more reasonable course of action since they’ll be on high alert of yoongi since he was the one who brought the crime to light. from now on, even your movements might be closely watched.

x

yoongi bursts into your room the next day in a similar manner - unannounced - with a sort of expression you can’t pinpoint.

“don’t tell me my mother-” at first, you’re just about ready to storm to your mother’s room like a child throwing a tantrum until yoongi refutes, “i let myself in, the countess wasn’t around and the butler was too powerless to stop me.”

it takes you a moment to register what you heard, an image of the old family butler flashing at the back of your head. perhaps, it’s because it’s been awhile since you’ve been on the receiving end of yoongi’s frightening glare that you forget just how terrifying it is.

you’re suddenly pulled out of your thoughts when a hand tilts your chin upwards, leaving you with no other choice but to study the yoongi’s handsome face as he inspects the cut.

“i’m sorry,” the ghost of his touch burns your skin as takes a seat in the chair next to you, “i should have been more gentle.”

silence stretches on for the longest moment as you gather your words and sort out your thoughts but most importantly, you make sure to sound nonchalant about it, “you don’t have to... i liked how you kissed me.”

your mistake is letting your eyes roam up to his at the low hum that escapes him. a smirk curls on his lips as he gazes at you with his head propped against his hand, “should we do it again?”

“th-that-!” you hastily reply only to stop dead as the words get stuck in your throat. averting your gaze to the italic writings on the paper, you murmur, “...i’m not opposed to the idea.”

true to your words, you too easily comply when his gloved finger twirls the end of the ribbon around your neck, pulling you to him until your lips meet. a familiar sense of butterfly bursts in your stomach as you savor the taste of something sweet like chamomile tea on his lips.

for the rest of the day, you spend it by walking down the same street you did when he whisked you away from a dreadful tea party held by your mother right after the rumor of your engagement was confirmed by you dancing together at the ball. except now, you’re wearing a black hat with a veil covering your almost healed lips.

x

the day you’re to meet seokjin, the carriage with the min crest rolls into your residence some time a little past noon. not matter how many times he’s shown his unfaltering interest towards you, you can’t help but be surprised. today, he’s donned in his black and golden yellow knight uniform, signaling the formal business he has with his the monarch of the kingdom.

he presses his lips to your gloved knuckles, murmuring a soft, “how have you been?” as if reserved only for you and him.

“better,” you say, holding in a chuckle when his blood rushes to his cheeks and paints them red at your next words, “now that you’re here.”

you don’t miss the way he peeks at something over your shoulder, possibly where your parents stand at the doorway you just passed through. the chuckle you’ve become familiar of and rings like chimes hits the air, “___, why don’t we quickly get into the carriage and away from the count and countess’ eyes?”

“careful, duke,” a grin spreads across your face, hidden underneath the fan you hold just below your cheekbones, “if one were to overhear, we’ll have a lot of explaining to do.”

and yet you don’t delay stepping into the carriage and plopping down next to the window where you can still see your father’s gentle smile that contrasts greatly with your mother’s deep frown.

“no! you absolutely will not go!” she hadn’t meant the palace - or perhaps, she did mean the palace since seokjin is the one who’ll ultimately decide whether you have permission to travel to-

“yoongi,” your fingers curl around the hand on your cheek, breath coming out heaved and eyes barely focusing as you pull away from the aforementioned man.

he doesn’t seem like he’s interested in a conversation but he’s not chasing after your lips either, almost as though his conscience is telling him to be the gentleman he’s raised to be and listen but the beast in his eyes is restless to continue devouring your lips.

so you go on, “i’m going to ask for seokjin’s permission to travel to the park family’s territory.”

the hand in your grasp remains still so does his entire body. the only indication that he’s affected at all is the way those crimson eyes widen with surprise, “what?”

almost as though belatedly registering the weight of your words a second later, he falls to the spot next to you, the legs cradling both your sides leaving  you and even with these layers of clothes, you begin to feel the cold creep onto you, “sure,” he begins after what seems like a moment of pondering, “it’ll take a day at most to gather the knights but a royal notice takes at least three days to arrive-”

“i don’t need them... knights, royal notices... you might as well announce our arrival with horns,” you pause, studying the man’s gaze as it bores into you whilst you meet him head on. your deepset hesitance and worries still hovers over you like a haunting ghost, but you don’t want to keep any more secrets, “there’s something i need to tell you about my mother’s side of the family.”

your mother was from a nameless baron family. nobody truly knew them until she’d made her debut and started mingling with high society. just like you, she was the only daughter. the lineage was to end with her had it been just another penniless noble family.

“they run an informant group and call themselves the kairos,” the carriage shakes, as though trembling with fear at the mention of that name. you would have thought yoongi had known all along - that seokjin had told him, if not for the briefest twitch of his eye, “they supply information for anyone who’s willing to pay but keep an eye for those asking for information that could threaten the royal family - even though the queen was a noblewoman who married into the royal family, my mother, the leader then had been reporting to her up until...”

up until the bells that hung high in the tower at the entrance of the palace rung somberly that day.

all of a sudden, the sun that seemed to shine brighter than diamonds underneath the sky started shutting everybody out, including her husband and daughter. there were times when the door to her study was wedged open just the slightest bit.  your mother who had noticed the creak of the hinges that needed oiling, wiped her tears and held her arms out for you.

the 10-year-old you didn’t understood what she meant when she promised she’d started living for you.

all you knew was, that was the point where she started becoming more present in your life. it took you another few years to learn that your family, greatly influenced by the countess rather than the count, had taken a full on neutral stance on the political matter and the rising rumor about the half-bred prince against the crown prince for the throne.

and a few more, after meeting said half-bred prince, to convince your mother to trust you for the decision you were about to make as the leader of kairos - to support seokjin as the next king no matter what it takes.

“i thought we eliminated scums like jimin as soon as seokjin took the throne but...” the words seem to be lodged in your throat, unable to slip past your lips.

yoongi heaves out a sigh, legs stretching over the space between the seat you’re on and the one across from it as he slumps against the cushioned backrest, silver hair brushing against his brows as crimson eyes stare at the cushioned ceiling, “so it was you? the one who tipped us about the king’s illegitimate son being sent to the battlefield?”

the war yoongi had been in had ceded faster than expected - though his victory was as sure as the ground you walk on. it was because yoongi and his men managed to single out the the warring king’s beloved son who he was forced to send to war because the palace had been a different battlefield that he still couldn’t fight, and held him as a war prisoner until the king surrendered.

“one of the enemy kingdom’s spy managed to infiltrate the palace and knew of our reputation from one of the maids who was sent by them since three years ago - we managed to dig out some information from him that not many outsider knew about before we eliminate him,” you muttered simply, the scream of the faceless spy had drummed in your ears and chilled you to the bones. unlike you who had to turn away in the last minute, seokjin had looked at the man’s eye whilst he thrust his sword into the spy’s gut.

he’d only sat on the throne for a month then but it was far from his first kill.

"when we first found the basement where the kids were held captive,” yoongi rasps somberly, “i was glad you didn’t come with - it wasn’t something i want engraved into your head.”

“i understand your wish to protect me from the viciousness of the world,” you slip your hand underneath the gap between his palm and knee, making him crane his neck to look at you, “i would’ve done the same thing even if you’d already seen them all at war but that protection we wish to cast upon each other only serves to paint a faux image of daisies and rainbows - an unrealistic euphoria.”

“your want to change things with your own hands will never cease, it seems,” he comments, crimson eyes clouded with a sort of reluctance yet he presses a kiss to your forehead, “we’re different in that aspect - you and i.”

“how so?” perhaps it’s the obvious question you’re asking the grim reaper that makes him laugh and flick your forehead right after he kissed it, perhaps it’s the childlike wonder but he explains it anyway, “you grasp fate at its neck and threaten to throw the entire world into chaos if it doesn’t let you decide your own path, and i...” callous thumb caresses your gloved knuckles, “...i follow mine with contempt and despise the goddess for the cursed blood that runs through my vein.”

“if it weren’t for that blood, i wouldn’t have considered striking a deal with you and end up marrying you,” your hand slips out of yoongi’s grasp only for it to wrap around his hand with your free one, “the blood that grants the power for its master to swing his sword and protect his kingdom could never be a curse.”

“that’s not what the rest of the world thinks,” he refutes, a dry laugh escaping his lips.

“does what the rest of the rest of the world think matter more than of those who actually know you?” you’re not sure of his answer. or if what you’re asking is even appropriate. the organ beating in your chest writhes with agonizing anticipation as the man’s crimson eyes bore into you like a liquid fire.

but if there’s anything you’re more sure of, it’s the fact that the servants at the min mansion has never shown a shred of fear while you worked with them to prepare for the garden party. the same couldn’t be said for the other noble families who were infamous for their ill treatment towards those who serve them.

grim reaper is but a name that does yoongi no absolute justice. he’s possibly the most dignified noble you’ve ever met.

“no - not anymore,” he murmurs, the faintest hint of smile curling on his lips as crimson eyes melt like ice come autumn.

he gathers you in his arms and you gladly let yours drape over his stomach, cheek pressing flush against his chest. you stay like that, in complete silence as the carriage shakes with each pebble and hole in the road, for the rest of the ride until it rolls to a stop in front of the palace walls.

x

“child trafficking is a serious crime,” seokjin speaks after a long, strenuous pause once yoongi finished reporting his findings within the park territory, “i bet park isn’t showing any sign of remorse, did he?”

a foreboding cloud hangs over the room as the man hunches over the oak table, elbows propped on its surface and clasped hands hiding half of his face. though he hides his expression well, you can see the way his shoulder line tremble with rage until he looks up at the silver haired man.

“actually,” yoongi’s lips press into a flat line as he seem to stare off into nothingness for the briefest moment before frowning, “he all willingly admitted that he’d committed the crime by himself.”

“what about his lackeys?” seokjin quizzes, fully aware that no lord does the dirty work.

“the dungeon was empty of save for the children - most likely they abandoned their lord for their own lives when they heard we were coming,” the head knight deduces.

a pause hovers over the as silence blankets the room.

“it’s suspicious no matter how you look at it.” your voice cuts through the air like knife.

“no man admits to his dirty crime just like that,” seokjin agrees and judging from yoongi’s knitted brows, he seems to know something you don’t.

“we didn’t believe it was that easy either but there was no proof of any other involvement besides the count,” he confesses - they must have raided nearby smaller granaries and questioned the people who you can easily guess, were tight-lipped.

“your majesty,” you take a step forward before dipping into a bow, an arm slanted over your chest as your hand clasps over the spot where your heart it, “i swear upon the honor of the leader of kairos, i will drag every last person involved in this to hell - please allow give me your permission to go to the park territory to investigate this matter further.”

this time, it doesn’t take long for seokjin to respond, “i was wondering why you didn’t storm over the moment you heard about the duke’s findings,” he leans back against his seat, eyes glazing with a ghost of the past, “love changes people, huh?”

“i-i’m not sure where you’re-” before you manage to barely calmly deflect seokjin’s ludicrous assertion, another voice speaks over you, forcing you to swallow the remaining of your words.

“your majesty, i ask your permission to escort lady ___ in her journey,” yoongi mimics your position in your periphery.

it takes a moment for his words to register and another for you to debate on the pros and cons of having a knight, bound to uphold the law, join you in a not so equitable quest for a justified cause.

yet you lower your head, “his grace will be my only other companion, your majesty. please allow it.”

but the answer you thought to receive isn’t one that he gives, “what about miss leslie? you always go with her.” 

standing straight, you study seokjin’s deep frown before coming to a conclusion that you’ll probably never understand the man’s way of thinking even if you tried.

“i believe his grace will do a better job at guiding me since he’s been there before.” is all you say.

“this is unacceptable!” the sound of skin smacking a hard surface echoes against the wall, you have to resist to check if his hand is red from slamming it onto the table that hard, but he persists like without blinking, “an unmarried man and woman travelling together without servants... what would people think?”

“the question is, your majesty, why are you thinking anything would happen besides his grance and i working to unravel the people involved in this syndicate?” your voice takes on a dangerously low tone as you meet seokjin’s startled gaze.

“e-either way, i’m the king and i say jungkook will go with you,” he announces.

“y-your majesty? b-b-but-” the man in question’s head snaps in the king’s direction faster than you can blink. almost as though seeing a ghost, jungkook’s complexion pales instantly at the order.

“you’re sending the prime minister to do undercover work. outside of the capital, at that.” you point out in a matter of factly. as the silence stretches on, the more ridiculous the scenario seems to be but seokjin isn’t seokjin if he doesn’t try to refute you.

“he hasn’t taken the governmental examination yet,” he holds his chin high like that of a king.

“he’s been filling in for the prime minister anyway,” you challenge, refusing to back down as you hold the king’s equally defiant stare, “and it isn’t so kingly of you to stop your most loyal subjects from serving the kingdom - his grace and i going as leader of kairos and head knight to carry out your bidding, your majesty.”

it’s the jab at his position that makes his eye twitch. after having spent over five years by the other’s side, you know each other’s strengths enough to trust the other with your lives. but the downside is, you also know the other’s weakness like the back of your hand.

“ah, that’s true,” when his tone turns sweet and his shoulder line relaxes, yours stiffen as you narrow your eyes at the man’s sudden shift of personality - and true enough, you don’t like how he decides to take a jab at your- “since members of kairos have been decreasing and as a result, the guild barely have any influence outside of the capital, i suppose you would benefit from having yoongi come with you.”

he knows full well you hate relying on others because of your chest full of pride. yet you force on a smile that points in all the wrong anger, head lowering as you mechanically mutter, “thank you for your consideration, your majesty.”

x

note. and that is all for this chapter! (apparently we’re not having just 4 chapters + finale). 

taglist. @fanfuckingfic @ayujmi @deathkat657

[bipadme]

the thrill of proximity

pairing: female detective (leila) x ava du mortain

prompt: wayhaven week day 4 - thrill

word count: 2213

warnings: none

tagging: @likemoonlights 💜, @otomefandomevents

read on ao3

The key to lying to a vampire is to be comfortable with telling only part of the truth.

Leila had discovered this the hard way, when she’d told Morgan that of course she didn’t know Felix had snuck his laundry into hers again, and then proceeded to spend the next week waving smoke out of her face and out of her office. Felix had cackled pitilessly at her plight, and asked how she hadn’t known better.

A great question.

Well, she’d learned eventually. She’d learned that telling the part of the truth and being okay with it was key to lying successfully. Or, rather, simply omitting uncomfortable truths for the good of the overprotective vampires of Unit Bravo. This was the mindset she went into when she agreed to have a “girl’s night” with Tina, and then told Ava she planned on having a “nice night watching a movie and listening to this new group Tina wants me to check out.”

All technically the truth.

Leila slings her bag over her shoulder and then gives the team leader a warm smile. The stiffness in Ava’s shoulders seems to have dissipated a bit and she nods curtly, “Acceptable. Considering the recent trapper threat--”

Leila scoffs, “Overgrown teenagers with the poor sense to try and accost me outside of the station?” The incident itself had been more annoying than anything else. A sidestep and a quick kick to the rear had sent one straight into a wall, the other downed by the taser she’d jammed into his gut. They hadn’t so much as landed a hit, that time, but it had been enough to make Ava scowl and demand full-time Leila-sitting duty for the better part of a week.

“Trappers are a credible threat, just because this group wasn’t prepared doesn’t mean the next won’t be,” the vampire pauses.

Then she takes a step closer, fear flashing in her eyes, “More and more people are finding out and I…” Her hand reaches out, hovering so close to the detective’s skin that Leila feels a thrill race straight to her heart until it pounds like she’s just been shocked. All she wants is to close that infinitesimal distance, to stop wondering whether Ava runs warm or cool, whether her hands are calloused from training or if she heals too quickly and her hands are soft, or whether her hands will clench a hair too tight in concern or be achingly gentle. She wants to close that distance, but she feels arrested by the intensity of Ava’s full attention. Instead of pushing forward she’s frozen and struck dumb.

Then the tension breaks like a rubber band stretched to its limit. 

The vampire seems to notice how close she is and jerks backwards a good three feet until the distance leaves Leila feeling cold and slightly shattered. She rocks back onto her heels, trying to find her equilibrium in the midst of a moment she is sure the other woman is feeling as well. She swallows past the tightness of her throat, clogged with disappointment.

God, I’m pathetic, she can’t help but think.

What had she expected? Why did she continuously let these moments haunt and torment her like she lived in a romance novel instead of reality? It was as if their orbits had destined them to pull close, but never touch. So instead they spent their days vacillating between being tantalizingly near and terribly far. How long could she be expected to keep this up? Why did she allow it?

With that thought, she releases the breath she’d been holding and tries for a smile. It feels brittle on her face, and it must look as much too, judging from the crease forming between Ava’s brows. A crease that soon smooths out into her usual stoic non-expression (or as the detective had privately taken to calling it, her repression face.)

The vampire opens her mouth, but she cuts her off before she can say anything that will sink her heart any further, “Have a nice evening, Ava.”

She turns on her heel and determinedly walks away with the weight of Ava’s stare on her shoulders. But she knows better than to let her posture droop so soon. She knows how to walk away and smile at the passing familiar faces with something approaching nonchalance, but she also knows that she hasn’t fooled the people she wants to fool the most.

Or herself.

Once she leaves the warehouse and is safely in her car, that’s when she lets her shoulders drop and passes a hand over her face in sheer exhaustion. That’s when she makes her decision.

I’m going to have a nice time with Tina, she swears to herself as she jerks her car into gear, and for one fucking night I’m not going to dwell Ava fucking du Mortain.

That, she hoped, was the truth.

(It wasn’t.)

-----------------------------------------------------

By three in the morning, she has a distinctly pleasant buzz, a lighter wallet, a happily drunk Tina deposited safely at her apartment, and feet sore from dancing all attesting to a night well (and safely) spent. She and Tina had watched a movie, danced, drank, eaten greasy and cheap pizza, and allowed themselves to relax into the comfortable anonymity of the city. For an hour or two, Leila had even allowed herself to forget the team that thought she was safely ensconced in her living room.

Until the texts, and the calls, and the inevitable need to silence her phone to buy a little peace. Beyond all the remnants of a fun night, she has one text conversation reassuring Felix that she hasn’t been brutally murdered and/or kidnapped by ne’er-do-wells, sixteen missed calls from Unit Bravo, and what she’s sure is one furious team leader waiting for her at the apartment.

Leila steps out of the car with a shiver at the cool air on her skin and the near freezing asphalt under her bare feet. Immediately, her gaze is drawn upward to the silhouette in her apartment window, broad shoulders painting a severe figure against the warm light of her living room lamp.

It’s either a particularly stupid trapper, or Ava lying in wait with the lecture of a lifetime, and no matter what she would admit to out loud, Leila knows what she’s secretly hoping for.

Ava, even angry and lecturing, is always far more delightful to see than Leila is ever prepared for.

She takes her time meandering into the building, heels dangling from her fingers as she quietly makes her way through the dark hallways. Her front door isn’t even locked, and she takes a moment to drop her shoes next to the mat before dragging her gaze to the ice-cold fury of Ava’s eyes. 

She forces herself to look away and walk to the kitchen for a glass of water. She can feel Ava’s eyes on the unusual looseness of her stride, and Leila hopes she isn’t so tipsy that she looks foolish. 

Glass in hand, she takes a small sip before leaning forward onto the island and tilting her head in faux curiosity, “I told Felix I made it home safely. What brings you here?”

“I came in,” she says stiffly, “When I was on patrol and discovered that you weren’t in your apartment as you’d told me you would be. Where were you?”

It’s stated more as a demand than a question, and Leila purses her lips before speaking. “I did watch a movie and I did check out some new music,” she hesitates and bites the inside of her cheek, “While I was in the city with Tina.”

At that moment, the buzz notification of Leila’s phone fills the silence following her question, and Ava scoffs.

“Ah, so your phone does work. I was starting to wonder if it was unable to take calls,” the blonde sneers, the aristocratic lines of her face still unfairly beautiful. “Or is it simply my calls you can’t take?”

“I don’t take calls when I’m out with a friend, and I’ve been texting the group and Felix all night to check in,” Leila argues, her ire rising despite her intentions to stay calm. “Just because I didn’t deign to answer your questions--”

“I should not have bothered with texting at all! I should have tracked you down the moment you--”

Leila slaps her palms onto the counter with a glare, “For what? I was careful! I took an Uber there and back, I only had a few drinks, I stayed in sight of a group of people at all times--”

Ava pushes onward and circles the island to stand directly in front of the brunette as if proximity will win her the argument, “You come home, drunk--”

Leila scoffs, “I’m barely even tipsy—“

“In an Uber—“

“Oh, the horror!”

Ava’s scowl deepens, “Uber’s safety policies are far from—“

“Ava,” Leila raises a hand to stop her and rolls her eyes, “If you cite Uber’s safety policies, the most dangerous thing about this evening will be me jumping out of my window.”

Ava sucks in a breath on a hiss, her eyes narrowed, “Someone has to prioritize your safety, since you seem thoroughly determined to take every risk that crosses your path! Do you have any idea how easy it would be for someone to make you disappear from a crowded room?” 

Leila takes a step forward, and it’s a testament to Ava’s stubbornness and irritation that she refuses to back up despite how close they now stand. “Ava, I’m human. I could trip on Douglas’s stupid charging cable and crack my head wide open, tomorrow!” She scoffs and crosses her arms, “So excuse me if I’m not impressed by how easy it is for some ridiculously strong supernatural to kill me! Why should I be more scared of you or anyone else than I am of sharks and car crashes? Or even particularly aggressive geese?” She flings her arms into the air, “Are you going to nail down every vending machine in Wayhaven in fear that I’ll shake one and it’ll crush me? Where do you draw the line?” 

She crosses her arms again and watches with irritation as Ava takes a shaky breath and pinches her nose before speaking,  “You are the most impossibly infuriating human I have met in 900 years,” she seethes. 

“Well I’m not much impressed by you either,” Leila lies, her idiotic brain choosing this moment to notice how close their shared anger has brought them. How, in her pique, Ava had put a hand on the island next to her and drawn close until she loomed over Leila in a shiveringly satisfying way. She’s still irritated, sure, but it takes a backseat to the desire rushing through her and making her warmer than any alcohol could manage.

Determined to maintain her stance, she tilts her face up, jaw set stubbornly even though she only wants to kiss the sharpness out of Ava’s glare.

It’s just for show, she thinks bleakly. She can glare and bluster all night, but she can’t deny what she wants more than anything else. She can’t deny how frightened she is that admitting her feelings would drive Ava so far away from her that this closeness, even if antagonistic and charged with irritation, would be nothing but a distant dream. And fuck if she isn’t pathetic as hell, but she has no plans on giving this up any time soon.

Yes, she feels guilty for making Ava worry. Despite that, now the vampire is closer than she usually ever dares, her full attention pinned on the shorter woman in front of her until Leila’s every nerve sings with energy. Her warmth is magnetizing, and she feels sober in a way that is nothing short of electrifying. So, yes, she chases this feeling harder than any adrenaline junkie looking for a thrill, and damn if aggravating Ava didn’t always always manage to deliver it.

Her heart pounds, and Ava’s eyes flick a quick glance to her chest, before meeting the detective’s eyes once more, this time with a noticeable flush in her cheeks. And Leila… she can’t help herself. She’s sure she’s visibly trembling at this point, and still she can’t stop herself from swaying forward until her chest is barely brushing the other woman’s. If Ava won’t lean down and meet her halfway, that’s fine, she’ll just--

As her hand drifts forward to brace itself against the vampire’s hip, Ava whips away in a cold rush of air. Leila stumbles hard and catches herself on the counter with a curse. When she looks up, Ava is halfway out of the door, trying to school her stricken expression into something resembling neutrality. 

Good for her, Leila’s shoulders droop even as she straightens from her near fall, at least one of us can pretend this is okay.

“Next time,” Ava croaks, her voice betraying her, “You’ll take one of us.” She takes a breath that seems to steady her, and glares, “And you’ll answer your phone.” 

Then she’s out of reach once more.

The momentary thrill long gone, Leila sinks to the floor and drops her head into her hands.

And she plans on doing it all over again, if that’s what it takes.

[gascon-en-exil]

Bottom Ten Three Houses Characters

I decided after a while that I couldn’t fulfill an anon request to do a top 10 list for the whole series, because it would overlap too much with ones I’ve already done - lord privilege is a thing that exists, and I’ve ranked those before - and because it’s really difficult to compare so many characters (~600 if we’re being thorough) across so many different games.  Instead I decided to go negative with it, although around 2/3rds of these ought to be totally uncontroversial at least in my corner of the fandom. Starting from the one I dislike least:

(Dis)honorable Mention: Anna, for putting in such a lackluster showing that she doesn’t deserve a spot on this list despite technically being in the playable cast. It’s not only the lack of supports, although that hurts, but also how obvious it is that the writers have no new material for her. Anna’s gimmick worked fined when she was an NPC and perhaps for the space of a single game as a playable character, and Fates originated the meta idea of making her paid DLC so you have to shell out real money to use her, but that’s the extent of her here too. As a unit she’s far from spectacular, and her paralogue isn’t even good for much but a ton of (mostly mediocre) drops and a tiny bit of context for that Pallardó guy from non-CF Chapter 13. Here’s a revolutionary idea: for the next original FE it might be good to have Anna back to being only a wacky dimension-hopping NPC shopkeeper.

#10 Constance - It pains me that she’s on this list, more than anyone else by far. I really wanted to like Constance, and at first glance she’s right up my alley as a haughty impoverished aristocrat coping awkwardly with her diminished status. I like the dark flier class she’s built around, and her default personality is an even louder pre-timeskip Ferdinand whom you know I love. However, it’s that “default personality” bit that sours me on her, because she’s got two of them. What could have been an interesting take on Constance’s struggles with identity and self-esteem in the wake of her family’s disgrace is presented in such an over-the-top comedic manner that it’s impossible to take her very seriously. It’s more reminiscent of FE13′s Noire than anything, and at least she has the excuse of a mother who performed dark magic experiments on her and fractured her psyche. Constance also supports Jeritza and yet somehow they do no more than lightly allude to their personality issues which is as much a missed opportunity as you can get with such a terrible character (see below), opting instead to try softening Jeritza with his fondness for roses. Lovely.

#9 Leonie - Fandom exaggerates her Jeralt fixation, although it does pop up at the worst times (see: her Byleth support right after his death). As I’m not very concerned with Byleth’s nonexistent feelings though this placement more comes down to general indifference. Leonie feels completely disconnected from the rest of the Deer, and although she’s a supposed reflection of the house’s more egalitarian bent there’s nothing connecting her to the politics or larger culture of the Alliance until you learn about her student loan debt. She really is best understood as a Jeralt fangirl first and foremost, which is why perhaps the most surprising thing about her is when reality comes knocking in her endings and it turns out she picked up her mentor’s vices as well. Jeralt himself would be even further down this list were he playable, but as he isn’t I’ll have to settle for side-eyeing all of his adoring fans. Which brings me to....

#8 Alois - Remember that dating sim Dream Daddy that people were talking about a few years ago? The one that willfully misunderstands what the term “daddy” means in gay male spaces to write fluffy dad joke-laden romances intended for a presumably not-gay audience? Alois is the spirit of that game personified as an FE character, which is not something I ever would have thought to know that I didn’t want. He’s got some funny lines here and there, but that’s the most you can say about him when otherwise he’s just passable midgame filler (of a unit type each house including the Wolves already has one of) standing in Jeralt’s imitation Greil shadow. I don’t even mind the platonic S support all that much because it’s still only Byleth, but it occurs to me that just about the only thing that would have made Alois memorable would be if his S support was romantic but he remained married to his wife. I can’t think of a time when this series has allowed the player to indulge in adultery, so even if it had been limited to an option for f!Byleth it would have been a fascinating option.

#7 Cyril - This isn’t about his devotion to Rhea, which is fully understandable given his circumstances. Nor is it about his performance as a unit which in my experience at least is actually rather good for a Donnel/Mozu-style villager archetype. No, what gets me is that he’s a self-righteous workaholic which makes for quite the grating personality trait. I understand that he finds meaning in his work and that he’s got some entertaining supports calling other characters to task for their terrible work ethics or ignorance of the lives of commoners (VW should have really dug more into his back-and-forth with Claude), but the lectures on not interrupting him or telling Byleth to get back to work are as tiresome as they are frequent. It’s petty I know, but one can only hope he grows out of it eventually. At least he doesn’t wear a pot on his head....

#6 Mercedes - Like Constance, she’s the type of character I wanted to like from the start. She’s pious pseudo-Catholic clergy, with a quirky thing with ghosts and some quiet lesbianism with her BFF that I can take or leave but that I know some people really enjoy (and also she’s bi-for-Byleth, but no one talks about that). Unfortunately as I touched on when talking about Marianne in my Top 10 characters list, Mercedes’s appealing points are sharply contrasted against her more annoying ones. The breathy voice acting I can mostly get used to, but her backstory is unnecessarily convoluted - three families and two flavors of evil adoptive father - and as is also true of Constance her association with Jeritza drags her down a fair bit. To this day I still have no idea what we’re meant to make of the Lamine siblings’ dynamic, but Mercedes’s eagerness to overlook her brother’s crimes and unrepentant bloodlust so she can coo over what a sweet boy he is deep down say some pretty odd things about her personal moral code. Maybe it was implied all along with the paranormal fascination that she’s not as orthodox as she appears to be, but the dissonance is real especially in CF where she gets a support line with Jeritza that tries to woobify him and affirms how much she loves him...and meanwhile in monastery exploration she’s wringing her hands over how much she hates the idea of fighting Faerghus and the church. There’s no through line here, and as justification for characters siding with Edelgard go this one is pretty flimsy.

#5 Gilbert - Similar to Cyril, I don’t dislike Gilbert for the reasons that most of the fandom does. Yes, he’s a crappy father, but as I’m pretty indifferent to Annette and to father-child bonding in general I can appreciate the fresh spin he places on the archetype of the devoted knight. In short, he’s a knight who wasn’t devoted and ran away from his duty, and his arc in AM is all about making up for his past failures both to his family and to his liege. This is an angle to knighthood FE doesn’t delve into often, and it makes him an explicit foil of Dedue as explored in their supports. The reason that Gilbert is on this list though in fact has more to do with that opposition, because I am painfully aware that had AM not killed off Dedue by default in service of self-insert romance Gilbert would not have had to be scripted as Dedue’s replacement both as a unit and as a retainer figure. It’s not his “fault” of course, insofar as one can ever blame fictional characters for the actions of their writers, but whenever I’m running AM and have to take those randomized supply run quests from Gilbert instead of the route’s actual retainer I’m reminded of how we were robbed of power couple Dimidue (in AM anyway - CF of all routes delivers on this point). Gilbert could have been father of the year to Annette and freely given Byleth his (grand)daddy dick and it still wouldn’t overwrite the fundamental problem that Byleth screwed over all three AM-exclusive characters in different ways. As to that, well...look at #1.

#4 Raphael - It’s hard to describe just how much wasted potential there is to this guy. Along with Ignatz and Leonie he could have illustrated the greater social mobility of the Alliance and the increased opportunities non-nobles enjoy there, but all three are mostly side characters. He’s repeatedly positive in the face of tragedy and remains motivated by his love for his remaining family, but 90% of his dialogue revolves around either eating or training to the point that he’s arguably the closest FE16 comes to gimmick character writing (something almost every FE is guilty of, but that has come under heavy scrutiny in recent years because of how much Awakening and Fates used it). He has a sweet friendship with Ignatz with even a bit of chemistry that sits in good company with the kind of simply affability he has with almost everyone he supports, but they have a no homo ending involving one of the game’s eternally offscreen characters. He supports Dimitri, but the bara content is thin on the ground and their line stands out as easily the least substantial of the house leaders’ cross-house supports. Even as a unit he’s lackluster, in the same repetitive category as Alois with nothing that makes him really stand out from the other axe-and-brawling guys. Highest HP growth in the game...whee. I’ve seen arguments that Raphael’s simplicity is the source of his charm, and while I can sort of see that he feels like he belongs in a game like the GBA or Tellius titles where characters have a much smaller amount of overall content to their name. In a game like Three Houses the sheer torrent of lines about food and training wear thin quickly.

#3 Bernadetta - see #8 here. To sum up, she’s annoying, her sex appeal falls flat with me and is frankly just kind of confusing, it bugs me that a significant portion of the Ferdibert fandom headcanons her as Hubert’s bestie when the man clearly does not do besties, and the most positive thing I can think to say about is that based on her habit of befriending known murderers among other things she might be a bit of a sociopath. That’s not very flattering, but at least it’s somewhat interesting. Oh yeah, and Edelgard setting her on fire at the Gronder rematch is good for a meme although I suppose that isn’t technically attributable to Bernadetta.

#2 Jeritza - Jeritza sucks. Everyone, apart from the small number of fans into Bylitza for some reason, is aware that he sucks. He’s a bloodthirsty serial killer we’re meant to like because he killed his father to protect his sister and also because he likes ice cream and kittens...and because he’s clearly mentally ill in some way and Edelgard is weaponizing his illness for her war which means all the murder is okay, I guess. Jeritza is like FE7 Karel if he was somewhat important to the plot and that instead of a redemption arc between games he got Karla and some other characters swearing that he’s really sweet deep down and also he can romance the male self-insert - yay. I love the line of thinking sometimes espoused in anti circles that M/M Bylitza is the only non-Problematic™ Byleth ship because he’s their only gay romantic S rank partner who’s not one of their students, a loli, or Rhea who is obviously the most evil character in the game. As I’ve mentioned above Jeritza also makes other characters he supports worse by association, although he’s not quite as bad in that regard as #1. Do I even need to bring up the painfully affected voice acting? It’s ironic that the vocal director for the English localization turns in unquestionably the worst performance among the named cast, and I have to assume he picked the role for himself solely because he sounds like an imposing Death Knight and not because his voice is at all suited to the troubled twunk underneath the armor. Just about the only thing that would have salvaged Jeritza for me would be if he and Hubert got to have an epic competition to determine once and for all which of them is more evil. Hubert would wipe the floor with this poser.

#1 Byleth - see here at the bottom. They fail as a self-insert, they fail to be a properly realized character even more than previous Avatars, they damage other characterizations and arcs all over the place, and Three Houses overall would have been vastly improved if they didn’t exist or at least weren’t the PoV character. In that previous post I listed just two reasons why I still prefer Byleth to Robin as an Avatar, one being that their significance to the plot is set up before the game even begins and the other being that their lack of a voice makes f!Byleth a less obtrusive presence when it came time for me to have her S rank all the guys to fill out the support log...not enough to where I could treat her as a self-insert, but any amount helps. I do however have to add a third small bit of praise for Byleth, in that they apparently drive antis up the wall for the most asinine of reasons which is always entertaining to witness. I recall when this game’s school setting was first revealed that everyone in the fandom nodded their heads and made the easy prediction that there would be teacher/student sex because that’s just how FE rolls, but somehow still there’s outrage over it. Even so, Byleth is horrible by every significant parameter, and it’s a shame we’ll only be able to imagine what FE16 would have been like had the developers not felt the need to write the whole thing around an Avatar.