#edmund cuffe

[pullhisteeth]

saturn return | eddie munson

hello! I'm back :) will leave a little author note at the end of the fic for u. but in the meantime: enjoy this medieval slow burn fluffy smutty monster of a fic (which has not been proofread because I am so tired) <3

in short: you're from royalty, and the illicit crush you're harbouring on your sworn protector is threatened when your father, the king, reaches the end of his tether and finally begins the search for your husband.

medieval/fastasy au with knight!Eddie and fem!princess!reader, smut (18+ only, minors dni!), implied virgin!reader, (one attempted) assault, general fluff and angst and fun fantasy frolicking, mention/threat of arranged marriage (brief), enemies to lovers if you squint but mostly a bodyguard au but he wears armour and you live in a castle.

14k words (!!!)

-

You had only seen your knight without his cuffs and cloak once before in your life.

When you were nineteen, you had a fling with one of the boys who tends the horses in the stables. It had been a wet summer and against your father’s wishes you’d spent many evenings returning to the castle sodden and smiling. Your afternoons were adventurous - too much so for your age, your mother would say over dinner - and your escapades to the woodland beside the keep resulted in muddy fingerprints up the curve of your thighs and difficult-to-hide bruises blooming below your collarbone.

You may have been reckless, but you knew better than to show up to court with purpling bite marks where the collars of your dresses did not reach.

On one of the rare sunny evenings, you had stolen away after supper to the balcony that extended across the western wing of the castle. It stretched from your quarters around the side of the building, ending at the room that had belonged to your sister before she had been married to a man who lived across the sea. The sun was low and the air was thick and so in your nightgown you prowled the terrace, fingers dancing along the worn stone and up the wilting vines. As you rounded the corner there he was - your sworn protector, a man who could be barely a year your senior, hunched in an old chair over his armour. You stopped behind the wall with enough haste that he didn’t spot you - or if he had, he never let on - and while he was engrossed in the work of polishing the silver, you watched.

He’d done away with his undershirt, most likely because of the stubborn, close heat, and though he was side-on to you, his chair facing out towards the mountains in the distance, he was hunched to his left, leaving you with a view you much preferred to the vast one beyond the wall.

The muscles across his back rippled as his arm moved back and forth over the metal. In the quiet of the evening you could hear small grunts and sighs, and as your eyes adjusted to the light you spotted silvery marks of healed flesh across his side. His back was speckled with freckles and as he moved, you took notice of his mop of hair.

Though your father’s knights were never required to wear their helmets in the castle, the hair that now flowed freely was usually tightly bound at the nape of your knight’s neck. You had never realised how long it truly was - nor how unruly. Brown curls stood in what seemed like every direction, swaying back and forth in tandem with his shoulder, glowing a slight auburn in the setting sun.

You had watched him for a while, listening to the sounds of his efforts and drinking in the way the light made his skin gleam golden. It wasn’t until the sun had set that you had made your escape, bare feet padding silently across cool stone.

Ser Munson - Edmund, or Eddie as he preferred - was assigned as protector of the King’s first daughter when she came of age, at sixteen. You had been a moody teenager, belligerent and stubborn, determined you did not need protecting, even if the protector in question was broodingly handsome and a challenge to crack.

Thus, you lingered around the castle while your sisters sought husbands and new lives. Your father, though a cunning ruler, was soft when it came to his girls, and so no man was worthy of a single one of them unless he made her happy.

And no man ever had made you happy. The ones who put themselves forward as candidates for your hand were, in most cases, perfectly nice men. Mostly wealthy, often handsome, but always boring.

It was always the same: they believed you to be the most beautiful princess in the history of the realm, and they would be honoured to wed you. But as your father’s eldest daughter you knew one thing to be true: every one of them wanted the throne, and would marry you to get there.

So you sought fun in lowly servant boys, stealing kisses from cupbearers and kitchen porters, running wild in the vast gardens of the castle, just out of grasp of your grumbling mother. One day, you’d tell her when she chastised you over monstrously glutinous dinners. One day a man will come here and sweep me off my feet. Until then, I am content with my lot.

After that evening when you were nineteen, you had not looked at Eddie the same way. His job was to follow you everywhere - well, mostly everywhere, unless you were behind a tree with the stableboy again - so it was difficult to not look at him. But those aimless adventures became tiresome, and your daydreams became occupied instead by the man who tailed your every move. Stableboys were getting married, all your sisters were getting married, every eligible nobleman for a hundred miles was getting married - but you remained, as did Eddie.

“So it doesn’t hurt?”

“No, your highness.”

Eddie stares straight ahead, off into the distance, answering your childish questions through gritted teeth. You grin at him, elbow on the arm of your chaise and chin cupped by your hand, enjoying this latest instalment of your petty little game: you ask him silly questions, Eddie’s cheeks go pink, and you get a good giggle and a kick out of teasing him. It began as something lighthearted, a test of the waters after that late night wander changed your perspective, but that was two years ago and understandably, Ser Munson is getting increasingly tired of your games. 

“Your highness, can I suggest that you get dressed? You’ll be late for-”

“No,” you yelp as he stands to move, sword clanking. “I’m sorry, I’ll bite my tongue. Don’t go.”

“But Miss-”

“Okay, okay, I’ll dress, just wait outside the door, will you?”

“I always do, your highness,” he says. “It is my duty.” You cannot see the smirk he sports as he turns his back to you; it is one he reserves only for himself, lest your ego get too big.

You deflate into your chair as he leaves, the heavy door swinging open. Three young maids are by your side as it slams shut, lifting you from your doze and tying you into a corset and skirt. Today you’re offered a deep navy gown, the colour of your family’s flag and perhaps the colour you look second best in.

At least it matches Eddie’s cloak.

You knock softly twice on your bedroom door, your handmaids tugging at the final details, and the guards who stand watch pull it open for you. You breathe in quick and deep, hands smoothing the satin across the top of your skirt, and step forward into the hall.

Eddie stands to one side, awaiting your direction. You follow your usual morning route, down the wide corridor to the stairs, which roll out into an even wider hall like dropped silk. Eddie’s cloak slinks across the stone floor behind you, and you yearn to make a joke, prod at him, get under his skin but you cannot, for many eyes are upon you now.

The Great Hall sits at the opposite end of the atrium to the staircase. The walls between yourself and the huge, towering doors are decorated for the brief return of your youngest sister, the most recent to wed - she is pregnant, and so there must be celebrations.

Floral garlands follow you as you make your way across the room, where, at the far end, your father stands in the doorway, watching, your mother by his side.

Peering glances follow you until other guests arrive and attentions are diverted. So you slow your step just slightly, enough that Eddie does not notice immediately and falls in line with you. Before he can correct himself, you lean in.

“Ed- er, Ser Munson,” you say, tone playful but slightly sinister, an indicator that you are brewing one of your schemes.

“Yes, your highness?” he responds neutrally.

“Ser Munson, would you please do me a favour?”

Long ago, Eddie learned to never respond to this query the way he is supposed to as your protector: Anything, your highness.

Instead, he asks: “What can I do for you?”

“You know that sword?” You twist slightly, tapping the hilt of his blade where one of his fists seems to permanently rest. “You’ve killed people with it, right?”

“Only when I have to, your highness.”

“How many, would you say?”

You hear him take a sharp breath in. You smile softly.

“Eighteen.”

“Eighteen,” you repeat. “Care to make it nineteen? Do me a favour and slice through my guts so I don’t have to bear another one of these idiotic ceremonies?”

If you’d paid closer attention, rather than sharing your gaze between Eddie and your father, who was ever-nearing, you’d have seen that your dear knight almost broke. This would have been the closest you’ve come to getting a laugh out of him, your stoic, stone-faced hero.

“That’d be highly inappropriate, your grace,” he says, composed. “And I’d surely lose my head.”

“Oh, but that’s your job,” you whisper. “To die for me! And anyway, I can’t go to hell alone, you’ll need to keep me company. And protect me from the ghouls. So maybe make it twenty instead.”

This time, you do catch it. The corner of his mouth twitches and something in his eye, the way it dodges you, gives him away. In your peripheral vision you see him open his mouth - it’s close to your ear, you almost hear the beginning of a word - but you’ve reached the end of the hall, and your father awaits. Eddie falls back again, a step or two behind, as you drop your shoulders and brace yourself.

-

Being one of many sisters is a difficult life. Impossible to prevent yourself from comparing their hair to yours, their eyes, the slant of their shoulders, their waists, their hands, and worse is the bickering, the competition.

Being the only one of them not to be married is the worst.

Twenty minutes ago, you stole yourself away to a corner of the Hall with a too-full cup of wine and three slices of the best bread. Here you camp, munching on the final crust, eyeing up the table across the room. How do I get a refill without someone asking me to dance?

With your eyes squinted and shoulders hunched in, you scarcely notice your knight down the wall. He’s on guard, back straight with his hand on the hilt of his sword - watching, as he is supposed to. Only his attention is distracted, because in his peripheral vision is you, alone, as always.

It’s only when you hear the familiar clinking of sword sheath on armour that you turn to see that he’s beside you, and in a rare moment of peace, he’s leaning back, letting the wall take his weight.

“What’re you looking at?” You eye him suspiciously, swallowing the final sip of wine. “Come to ask for a dance for one of those snivelling Harrington boys?”

You hear him scoff, though he’s smiling just slightly. “No,” he says quietly. “Why, do you want to dance with Steven?”

You scoff. “Do I fuck.”

“Language, your highness.”

“Please stop calling me that when dad isn't around.”

He glances at you, smiling still, and rolls his eyes. “Why aren’t you with the other ladies?”

It’s your turn to roll your eyes. “The Buckleys aren’t here. It’s no fun without Robin.”

“And your sisters?”

“Oh yeah,” you drone. “I just love being reminded by all four of them how lucky a man would be to have me and how I must get married because, oh, weddings are so lovely!”

He turns to look at you properly, silver collar creaking, and reaches over to take your goblet. “How many of these have you had?”

You drop your hands behind your back, looking down at your slippers like a naughty child. “Three.”

To your surprise, you feel the damp rim of the cup meet your chin, pushing your face up. Eddie looks back at you and keeps the pressure under your head so you can’t divert your gaze. Your cheeks warm, heat blooming under his watch.

“Fine,” you sigh, eyes dropping closed in defeat. “Seven.”

You brace for a scolding, expecting a telling off from your faithful knight, but when you look at him in the silence, you find him grinning down at you.

“You’re going to feel awful in the morning,” he tells you.

You look back at him a little dumbfounded, because he’s very close to your face and you’re not sure you’ve ever seen him in such detail before. There are creases by his eyes from smiling, and there’s an old, white scar across his nose, which is crooked, presumably from old punches.

“Will you take me to bed, then, please?” you ask softly, and he lowers the cup slowly, placing it on a nearby table without looking away from you. You look back at him, trying your hardest through the fog to give him your best pleading eyes, bottom lip jutting out in a pout. He’s close, still; time suspends as he nears even more and runs his thumb along the underside of your chin. It is the first time in your life that your knight has ever touched you.

 You watch as he brings it to his mouth - it’s a deep, bruised pink, dyed by the wine from the rim of the cup where it had held your face up - and, taking his eyes off you, slides it between his lips.

It’s certainly not the first time you’ve been breathless around him, but it is the first time you’re face to face with him as the air leaves your lungs in a slow, desperate whine. It feels criminal, illicit, standing in the shadows at the back of the room, within reach of anyone who cares to look for you, watching Eddie lick wine off the pad of his thumb.

The festive music on the other side of the room ends and people around you cheer. Eddie’s smile drops and he straightens up as though kicked in the back, looking around like he just woke from a dream.

“Uh, yes- Your highness. I’ll escort you to your quarters.”

He steps back but holds his arm out for you to take. For a moment you just stare at him, incredulous, before wrapping your fingers around the cool leather covering his forearm and lifting yourself off the wall, your heart wilting as his guard rises again and your fun, playful protector is lost to duty once more.

-

The ceiling of your bed chamber hasn’t changed in fifteen years. You know because you’ve had many nights like this, staring at it forlornly, yearning for something you cannot and will not have.

When you were six, your father had the sleeping quarters across the whole castle redecorated, and you requested a fresco above your bed. Under the guise of education, telling your father that it would help you practise your knowledge of Arthurian legends, you asked for a depiction of the knights of the round table. Truthfully, you wanted to be able to look at Arthur every night before you slept.

Now, it makes you feel sick. It’s an ugly, truthless fairytale, spun to make little girls giggle and you despise every inch of it, regardless of how beautiful it may have appeared to you once.

In the dark, you can still make out Arthur’s faded features. He is plain, with cropped blonde hair and a silly chestplate, looking over the expanse of your ceiling to Guinevere, whose clasped hands by her cheek make the picture of a woman in love.

You turn over, frustrated, and cover your head with a spare cushion.

-

The stone of the balcony wall is cool beneath the palms of your clammy hands. In the courtyard, your sister’s carriage is leaving, followed by many horsemen from her husband’s house. They’ll return only when the baby is born, to christen him in the family chapel.

You sigh as she leaves the gates and lean your weight on your hands. It’s still hot out, too hot for so many layers under your dress and a corset so tight, and you’re too exhausted to carry the weight around. Your maids are nowhere to be seen because it’s the middle of the afternoon and you should be socialising, but you’re an adult. You can dress - and undress - yourself.

As you return indoors, you reach behind your back and tug at the knot at the base of your corset. After a couple of frustrated tries it finally gives, loosening so that you can hook your fingers under each stretch and pull it undone. You gasp for air, filling your lungs properly as your ribs expand, and use your shoulders to pull it loose enough for you to remove. You take care to place each layer gently over your chaise - corset, overdress, skirt. You’re left in your undergarments - a long, loose slip made of cotton - when you hear an unexpected knock and the door begins to open.

You jump, feeling suddenly exposed in so few layers. It’s unlike anyone to disturb you at this hour.

You tense even more when your knight, with his hair loose and his cheeks pink, pushes the doors wider. He stops in his tracks for a moment as he spots you across the room, flushed your own shade of mortified.

“Eddie,” you hiss. “Shut the fucking door.”

His eyes widen and he straightens up, knocked out of his daze. You expect him to retreat, but he moves inside and pushes the doors closed behind himself.

“I meant with you outside them, ideally,” you bite.

“I- Uh, sorry- My apologies, your highness, I-”

“Stop calling me that!”

“Sorry! Sorry, shit, I- It’s important, sorry.”

“So important that it requires you to see me indisposed?”

He looks at you blankly for a second. “I mean, technically I see you like this every morning when you interrogate m-” 

“Oh, shut up,” you spit, eyes narrowing. Your arms are still crossed over your chest, even though you’re covered from neck to ankle. “You know that’s different. There’s no robe or slippers between us now, Ser Munson.”

His cheeks bloom at that, pink slipping into fiery red. He breathes impatiently through his nose, clearly irritated by your prodding, and steps closer.

“Your highness,” he says pointedly. You roll your eyes. “Your father- His Highness requests your presence. In the throne room.”

-

“I refuse.”

“Darling, I-”

“No!”

Your father stands at the other end of the table, his head hung and his hands on the wood in front of him. You are in the room in which he has his important meetings with his council. Over the years you’ve tried a hundred times to get in here during such meetings, to no avail, but now all you want is to get out.

“You are twenty-one,” he says after a breath. “I’ve given you time, five years of it. You can’t remain unmarried any longer.” This conversation has only been happening for maybe two and a half minutes, but it seems more like an age; you’re exhausted from yelling already, especially at him. But it feels like the walls are closing in, your entrapment in a loveless marriage with a stranger now a certainty rather than a possibility. It’s beyond your power to stop the tears falling.

“You can’t make me,” you say through the thickness of your throat. Your arms wrap around your waist, squeezing, breath hiccupping on its way out.

“I can,” he sighs. “But I really don’t want to. It doesn’t have to be horrible. Your sisters, they’re all happy, why-”

“I don’t care about them. I want to be-” You stop yourself, because this isn’t something to talk about here, with your father of all people; you’d barely even talk to your mother about this stuff. But he’s looking at you again over the expanse of mahogany and his eyes are sad, because he’s fighting with his first daughter, and you break. “I want to be in love, father. I don’t want to be sold off to the highest bidder because I’m the eldest. That can’t be my life.”

He sighs again. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. It is. There are fifteen houses coming here tomorrow, each with an eligible son. I’m letting you choose; it’s the most I can do.”

Your nose burns with betrayal and terror. Your cheeks are wet, tears falling into soft, wet spots on the front of your dress. Your arms squeeze your middle one last time before you turn, pushing past the Kingsguard who stand at the door, past the cupbearers and the maids, and past Eddie, who has been waiting for you outside. For the first time ever you don’t hear the familiar sound of armour following you, and for a moment you almost stop to turn and look for him, but you’re still crying and although it’s the middle of the afternoon, all you want to do is hide.

-

“It’s true,” Robin sighs. “I’ve been looking in our library, and I’ve counted at least three instances.”

You roll onto your back. Robin sits beside you on the plush of your bed, which has been remade by your maids so that there are no remnants of your painful, sleepless night. She strokes your hairline softly, looking down at you with sorry eyes.

“The most recent was eighty-three years ago,” she continues. “Lady Flora. She ran off with her knight, to be fair… But still!”

“I’m the eldest, Robin,” you tell her, trying your hardest to stop your words coming out in a hiccup; you only stopped crying this morning, and you’re in no mood to begin again now. “There’s too much expected of me. I can’t run off. I have to pick the right person.”

She takes in a breath. “Who says he isn’t the right one? Or that you’d have to run off?”

“Centuries of historical precedent,” you tell her flatly. When you meet her eye, though, you watch as she tries and fails to hold in a laugh.

“Since when have you ever cared about historical precedent?”

“Never, but that’s the problem.” You sit up quickly, knocking her affectionate hand back into her lap. “I can’t… This isn’t right. None of it is, but especially… Him.”

“But in the centuries of historical precedent,” Robin says, a poor imitation of you, “There were people like you.”

“And what happened to them?” you ask with a huff, standing to pace beside your bed. “Exiled, abandoned, cut off, ridiculed… I can’t live like that, Robin. But- But I can’t exist here while he’s always around, right behind my back. He’s like my fucking shadow. I can’t-” You hiccup, a wet sound that heralds the return of tears. “I can’t move on.”

Robin watches you with eyes laced with a pity that makes you furious. You want her to fix this; it’s entirely irrational, but you’re lost, and surely someone somewhere has to take responsibility for this, fix it so you don’t have to feel anything anymore. Remove Eddie, replace him with someone lifeless and unfunny and ugly, hand you a beautiful, attentive husband on a platter and, most of all, take the pain away.

But it doesn’t work like that. You know it doesn’t.

“Your Highness,” Eddie says in a raised voice from beyond your door. “It’s time.”

You look at Robin, who looks back at you, her eyes wide.

“I’ll be a minute,” you shout back hesitantly as she rises and rushes over. You let her help you adjust your dress and she dips a cloth left behind by a maid into the basin of cool water by your bedside, wiping it gently over your cheeks in an attempt to reduce the blotches there.

Neither of you say another word. She takes your hand firmly and squeezes.

-

You hate this.

Although you’re desperate for anything but a pre-arranged marriage pact, part of you had quite genuinely hoped for some kind of miracle, that one of your suitors would be The Guy. In your restlessness the evening prior, you’d even let yourself fantasise that one of them, strikingly handsome in your daydreams, would appear at the foot of the throne and you’d feel it in that instant: love.

But in every version of this delusion, The Guy was faceless, nameless, a blur of a person until he wasn’t. Until he was Eddie.

In reality, your knight is out of sight for once, and you’re nearing hour three in the gardens, where the court musicians entertain the countless guests and wine is flowing freely for everyone except you. (With your father at your elbow all afternoon, it’s impossible to get a second cup. Your mouth is dry and your boredom inflating.)

You know better than to assume Eddie’s left the gardens completely, but there are too many people for you to see him.

Suddenly, you feel a sharp elbow nudge your rib.

You turn to your father and find him wide-eyed and pink in the nose - a tell-tale sign of frustration - nodding to the man standing opposite the two of you.

“Hm?” you hum, painfully aware of how obvious it is to the both of them that you weren’t paying a lick of attention.

“Lord Carver was telling us about his hunts,” your father says through gritted teeth.

“Oh,” you sigh, turning to the stranger. “How… Interesting. What do you hunt?”

“Deer, mostly,” he responds, puffing out his chest. His cheeks are blotched with pink and the caramel blonde of his hair is unpleasant. The pleasure of your attention is clearly feeding his ego. “Started on pheasants when I was ten. They’re far too easy now; I’m heading out tomorrow to try for a stag. Say, care to join me?”

“Oh, I’m flattered,” you say with a saccharine giggle and hand to your chest that your father can certainly see straight through. “But I don’t hunt. Thank you, though, Lord Carver.”

Lord Carver seems to take this somewhat personally, despite your almost sincere attempt at a polite curtsy. He comes over stoney, steel-eyed as though you’ve wounded him.

“No matter. Your highness,” he says flatly, bowing quickly to your father before turning on his heels and marching away.

You barely listen as you are accosted by the king for being so blatantly rude. Lord Carver is far from your mind because across the heaving mass of strange bodies, you can see your knight, looking straight back at you.

Your father hisses your name but you do not listen.

“I’m taking a walk,” you tell him. “Sorry, father, I just need a break. And… A glass of water.”

It must have rained this morning. The grass is damp beneath your feet, soaking slowly through the velvet of your lilac slippers as you push your way between bodies as politely as you can manage.

With your focus on the ground you do not see Eddie’s eyes following your figure through the crowd; you also do not see Lord Carver six steps behind.

The latter reaches you first, by quite a margin, a moment after you’ve broken free of curious strangers and can finally breathe again. Everything happens very quickly. In the shadow of a high wall, the man reaches for your arm like a viper. His fingers coil and the fresh garden air is replaced by his coddling breath on your cheek. He spun you so quickly you feel momentarily winded, enough to catch you off guard as your face scrapes the old brickwork. Spit hits your cheek and mixes with fresh blooms of blood as his pink face looms, dominating your field of vision - like a bear in a trap you feel helpless, his fingers around your wrist so tight you fear he may break your bones. In a moment you’re frozen stiff and he takes his chance, his lips pushing angrily into the stretch of bare skin above the collar of your dress.

“You’re a bitch,” he says, muffled by the skin under your jaw. You writhe and whimper but you cannot scream. “You humiliated me. See what happens to cunts like- Ungh-” 

The force of your knee between his legs is enough force to knock him back. Stumbling, he lurches forward again, only to meet your elbow, sharp and swift at his throat. The pathetic choking sound he makes mixes with the familiar sound of heavy boots; you turn to find Eddie, pink in the face, fist on the handle of his sword.

“Christ,” he pants, “Are you okay?”

Lord Carver coughs as he struggles to regain his balance.

“You-” Cough. “You bitch,” he spits, hand at his collar.

“Watch yourself,” Eddie growls, towering over the spluttering lord, his sword pulled only a few inches from its sheath - a warning: I will not hesitate. “I suggest you take your family home, Sir.”

Lord Carver looks up at him, red eyes watering and breath still catching. For a moment he seems to contemplate fighting back, but even you almost find yourself laughing at the possibility, until you look to Eddie and find a version of the man you’ve never seen before.

Your life, which Eddie tails endlessly from a few paces behind, always, is quiet. Mundane, boring, unadventurous; you rarely leave the castle grounds and when you do, it’s inside a carriage. Your bravest adventure since you were sixteen was taken barefoot, that evening after dinner, up on the balcony where you’d stumbled across your knight, bare-chested and panting.

You’ve teased Eddie before about how the lack of danger in your life must mean his own is boring. Though he never once gave into you, deep down you worry that it’s true.

Now, though, your knight is coloured a shade unknown to you. He’s come over like a shadow, eyes hard and brow set, and there’s a vein visible above the collar of his cape. Lord Carver seems to halve in size beneath his frame, and though he has never shown himself like this in front of you before, you’re sure of one thing.

Your pleading cry is too late, too weak - before you can intervene, Eddie’s fist makes contact with Lord Carver’s cheekbone. There’s a crack that, to you, is as loud as thunder, though the skies are as blue as they’ve ever been. As his back hits the floor, Lord Carver yelps like a wounded dog, and Eddie moves in on him.

“Eddie,” you plead, voice weaker still, your hands grasping his arm, “Leave him alone, I’m okay, please.”

In the commotion, you’d failed to notice your growing audience. You’re sure that if you let him, Eddie would give another punch, and another, but the man on the floor is bleeding from his nose and from a wide gash under his eye and your slippers are drenched through and so is the collar of your dress where your tears, unbeknownst to you, have been soaking the cotton.

“Please,” you hiccup, your hands squeezing, pulling Eddie backwards with as much strength as you can manage.

“Asshole!” Carver spits, his voice broken. Two men who resemble him are helping him up off the ground, the small crowd murmuring between themselves as they watch him stumble away. “You’ll regret this!”

It’s an empty threat. You barely hear it, in fact, because Eddie is finally turning to you, his shoulders dropping. His face softens the moment he looks at you.

“Are you okay? Did he- Where did he hurt you?” He asks again. People are dispersing but you pay them no mind because Eddie’s hands hold your face and it stings when he runs his gloved thumb over the gash on your cheek. You wince and his grip on you tightens, as though you might slip away if he lets you.

As his arms wind around your shoulders, you push your face into the embroidered crest that sits by his heart.

“You’re okay,” he tells you firmly, sweet words murmured into your hair. “I’ve got you. You’re okay.”

Your father’s booming voice cuts through whispering strangers like a whip. Eddie moves away from you so quickly that you almost choke.

Tears mix with old blood and you want to scream. You want these strangers to leave your garden, you want Eddie to clean your wounds, you want to run away.

You cannot have what you want.

-

Two and a half weeks ago, your father replaced your knight via a letter.

Ser Munson has been reassigned.

After two nights of bed-rest in your chamber, wherein you were seen only by your mother and two alchemists, your new knight - an older man, as old as your father and then some - made himself known at your door. He informed you of his new appointment as your sworn protector. When you asked after Eddie, he closed the door.

Two lonely weeks entailed many downward spirals. One evening after countless days spent rotting, refusing the attendance of your mother or father, you find yourself staring blankly at your reflection in the glass beside the chest that houses your dresses. The girl looking back is gaunt and her eyes are bloodshot. There’s an old cut on her bottom lip, close to healing but you’re sure you’ll bite it open again soon enough, splitting the skin so that deep red plumes can burst through and begin the process again.

You think about Eddie. What would he say if he could see you now? Over the weeks you’ve spent more hours than you can count thinking about how he’d held you, the words spoken into your hair, low enough to avoid unwelcome ears. His hands had gripped you so firmly that you’d almost felt whole again after Lord Carver’s grubby paws had violated you so horribly. Now you’re hollow.

His reassignment was surely your punishment: how dare you let yourself be so distracted that you humiliate a noble Lord to the point of such anger? How dare you humiliate him such that he wants to hit you, bite you, kiss you, hurt you?

Meals delivered by your maids go uneaten. You do not speak to your new knight, only catching a glimpse when he opens the door for attendants. 

At the dawn of a Thursday, your mother delivers the news that you are to stay behind while your parents visit your sister. You’re not sure which one of the four it is, but you do not care. With them gone, maybe you can go out; it’s early summer, after all, the weather is glorious, and you’re gasping for some sunlight and some respite from this stupidity.

-

When the sandbag splits, old hay spills onto the muddy ground.

Eddie’s sword is freshly sharpened and slices through the woven material like a hot knife through butter. He imagines Lord Carver’s face where the bag is tied together with string and watches it fall limply to the floor.

Outside in the courtyard, the sun is hot and shade is rare, and sweat beads on his forehead and drips to his chin. Other knights spar around Eddie, practising for nothing. His new position in the Kingsguard is, quite obviously, a downgrade, but only a few of his fellow knights have tried to get the why out of him: why have you stopped tailing the eldest daughter around? Why are you now forced to watch the southern walls in the dead of night? How did it happen? What did you do?

He chances a glance upwards, to the higher balcony along the wall, squinting under the sun. He doesn’t know if what he sees is you, standing in the shadow, or a trick of the light.

-

Your parents have been gone for two days, and the castle is like a ghost town. It’s never like this; even on late night escapades through the hallways, there are always maids at work, cleaning ladies and cupbearers. Guards on constant rotation, your father’s advisers wandering the halls having hushed conversations.

Tonight, though, there’s nothing. Your family’s absence is a moment of respite for the staff, who get a rare few evenings off to venture into town for some fun. You’re completely alone.

The long corridors look almost blue. The full moon is rising over the horizon and you’re enjoying an evening of freedom.

With most of the court staff out of the castle walls, you can’t be sure if you’ll find what you’re looking for tonight. He may have gone off with them, with his friends in the guard, down to a pub, getting drunk because he can, stumbling half-blind into a brothel like the rest of them do.

You shake the thought off because it turns your stomach, despite having no claim over the boy. It’s true that he may have gone but you’re searching anyway, because you’re driving yourself mad with guilt, and secretly you’ve missed him horribly.

You miss knowing he’s right outside your door, only ever a few paces away if you need him. You miss the blooming pink across his cheeks whenever you tease him, his stumbling answers and poor attempt at staying stony-faced and stoic. And you miss the smirk, though you’re sure he thinks he hides it well, that creeps across his face whenever you finish your teasing.

It’s your first time in this corner of the castle. Almost twenty-two years of living here, you’ve never had a reason to venture to where the knights stay. It’s a long way from your own wing - you’ve been walking for ten minutes and you’ve only just spotted a door. You’re treading softly in your favourite ruby slippers which, though you’d never admit it even to yourself, were surely chosen on purpose. You dressed yourself this evening, so there’s no use blaming your maids for the decision to drape you in scarlet.

As you come to a stop outside the room, you hold your breath and listen. You haven’t seen a single knight - not even your own new one - this whole time, but there’s somebody in there, and it sounds like they’re pacing.

Your hand reaches for the handle but just as you touch the iron, it twists on its own and the door flies open. You stumble forwards, losing your balance, but a familiar hand steadies you.

“Your highness?” He breathes, helping you back up. “What the- What are you doing here?”

You look at him. The man staring back at you is wide-eyed, those browns as pretty as ever but framed by new, dark circles. It’s difficult to see in the low light but he’s more tired than you’ve ever seen him. And though he seems sleepy, he’s dressed up in most of his on-duty getup, without the cape and sword.

“Eddie?”

“I thought the- Aren’t you supposed to be seeing your sister?”

“No, I… I stayed behind,” you tell him. A half-lie.

He looks back at you blankly. “Well,” he sighs. “We should… I should escort you back to your chamber.”

“No,” you say firmly. He does not invite you inside but you step over the threshold anyway, pushing past him into what you assume must be his bedroom.

It’s a plain room. The bed is low with old sheets, and there’s one candle burning on a table by the window. On the wall above his bed, he has hammered what looks like a letter into the plaster. And to the left of that-

“Is that mine?” You point plainly to the embroidery hoop. Even in the near-darkness you cannot miss the rosy flush you ignite across his face.

He scratches the back of his neck nervously. “Yes.”

It’s a small hoop, one you must have done years ago. A deep red rose, your favourite.

You look at it for a moment, and then to him. “Where have you been?”

He drops his hand. “I was reassigned,” he tells you.

“Why?”

“I don’t-”

“Why?” you press. He sighs and leans in the doorframe, arms crossing over his chest.

“After the… Incident with Lord Carver, your father thought it best that I be moved.”

“And now?”

“Now,” he sighs, “I’m on the nightwatch.”

“The nightwatch?!” you parrot. Even you, with only superficial understanding of the mechanics of your father’s guard, know that that’s one of the worst jobs. “But you… Why would he punish you?”

“Ask him,” he says bitterly, and so quickly that you know he regrets it instantly. “Sorry,” he corrects, “That was out of order.”

“Don’t apologise,” you say back, stepping past him into the wide hallway. It’s a brighter blueish-grey now, the moon nearing its highest spot in the night sky. You stop, turning to look at Eddie, and there’s a beat of silence.

He’s watching you quietly, and it takes him a moment to realise that you wish him to follow you. Under the moonlight you’re effervescent, your skin almost sparkling. The soft glow of the moon reflects a million times in your eyes like tiny diamonds. You’re so pretty it’s difficult to look away.

Eventually he closes the door behind him and falls into a familiar step, just behind your left foot. You walk and talk as you meander through random hallways, clearly unsure where you’re going but he says nothing, silently grateful to see you again and willing to walk every hall of the castle if it means stretching out the time before he has to leave you again.

“Why do you say that?” he asks. You turn your head to look at him, lost. “You told me not to apologise.”

You huff, striding forward. “You don’t have to respect my father around me, Eddie. It’s not like he respects me, or anything.”

“I don’t understand,” he says quietly. You bristle, frustrated that you’ve allowed the conversation to move to you. You’d intended to find out where he’d gone, not tell him about this.

“He can quite easily forget about me,” you tell him over your shoulder bitterly. “I’m happy to forget about him for a few days.”

“I… I don’t understand,” he repeats, and it irritates you double.

“For God’s sake,” you spit, stopping so abruptly that he almost crashes into your back. You spin and stare him down. “I’m a disappointment, okay? They left for their trip, and they left me behind. I’m useless. No man likes me, not enough to marry me, only stupid stableboys have ever come close to me. Something went wrong somewhere and now I’m here, heir to the throne and without a husband. And it’s. Your. Fault.” You jab your index finger to his chest for emphasis, but it’s meagre because you can feel the tears returning and you want nothing less than to be seen crying by Ser Munson. 

You cross the remainder of the hallways alone, Eddie left behind. Whether by choice or because of shock you don’t know, and frankly you don’t care. When you finally return to familiar halls, you push your way into your chambers and slam the heavy door as hard as you can behind you.

After a few minutes of pacing, having make-believe arguments with yourself in hushed tones, there’s a soft knock. So soft you almost miss it, but the eerie quiet of the castle has you jumpier than usual.

“Sweetheart,” you hear through the thick wood. “Let me in? Please?”

Maybe it’s your fear in the silence, or maybe it’s the way the rare sweetheart makes your stomach drop; either way you cave, rushing over and heaving the door open.

On the other side of the threshold, Eddie stands, hair unruly like he’s run his hands through it a few times. The curls stick out at odd angles and stand out dark against his alabaster skin.

Something in his eyes makes you break. The tears come thick and fast and before you can hide or apologise or close the door, arms wrap you up and his hand is on your back, smoothing patiently up and down.

It’s not the most comfortable hug; his armour is mostly leather and cloth but the toughness of it all makes it difficult to completely lean into him. As though he senses that, he pulls back, though his hand lingers on your arm where he gives you a squeeze.

“I’m sorry,” you hiccup, palms smudging wet tears across your face in an attempt to dry your eyes. “That was so mean of me, I’m sorry.”

“I just want to know what you mean,” he says, his eyes sadder than you’ve ever seen them. You dreaded this inevitability the moment you let the blame fall from your lips, but you owe him that much.

You sigh, look down at your feet, and resign yourself to truth.

“Father… He loves me, but he loves the throne just as much. And I’m the eldest, and I’m almost twenty-two, so…”

In your peripheral vision you see him sag, his shoulder dropping in premature realisation.

“He brought all those men here, and not one of them was even slightly as interesting to me as you.”

Eddie looks at you, at the tears that periodically drop from your cheeks to the floor, listens to you sniff and hiccup, and wonders how on Earth you exist, let alone how you’ve landed here, with feelings so profound for him of all people.

“That’s one of the nicest things anyone has ever said about me,” he tells you honestly. You look up at him and the sight winds him: you’re crying, and it’s sad and stressful and difficult but you’re so beautiful.

You giggle and to him, it’s the ringing of a thousand bells by a thousand angels. It’s golden and brilliant. “I’m surprised,” you say, your smile lingering. “You’re really very lovely.”

He steps forward and reaches up, taking your chin in his gloved hand. You look back at him and sigh without meaning to as he moves his hand to cup your cheek and wipes stray tears away with his thumb. It takes your mind back to loud music, seven goblets, and a wine-stained thumb between his teeth.

“You’re beautiful,” he tells you quietly. There’s no one around but this still feels painfully scandalous, like glass that could - and will - shatter at any moment. No sudden movements.

You smile into his palm. “Stop it.”

“It’s true,” he says as his thumb moves across your skin, over the remnants of the cut across your cheekbone, over expanse of skin to your lips.

You watch him as he takes a deep breath in.

“I wasn’t reassigned,” he admits to you. You match him, breathing deep through your nose, preparing for the truth. “Well, I asked to be reassigned. I had to plead, really, because your father… He’s a good man.”

You roll your eyes without thinking and feel your bottom lip quivering again, the tears reemerging.

“He told me I’d never be able to see you again,” you tell him in a whisper.

“That’s my fault.”

“What?” You lift your head upright and he drops his hand, bringing it to his hair instead to run it through the curls again.

“I asked that I be kept away from you.”

“Why?! Why on earth would you… What could possibly possess you?”

“I couldn’t go through that again,” he says. “I couldn’t be near you. It was too… Too painful, and I let it get the better of me when I punched Lord Carver.”

“You were protecting me,” you say flatly. “That’s- That was your job.”

The emphasis hurts. “I know,” he sighs, “But… I wanted to kill him.”

“I don’t understand,” you tell him. You despise the whimper your words come out with, the way your jaw clenches to hold back more tears. What you can see of his neck above the collar of his thick tunic and under the cover of ringlets of tired hair is blotchy, coming up rosy in uneven patches. Is he stressed? Nervous? Both?

Your vision blurs with tears and your nose burns. He looks back at you softly, just like always, his eyes dark and inviting. Your lip wobbles again and you hear his breath hitch in the quiet.

“Let me show you,” he offers as he holds your cheek again. You cannot help but lean in, head tipping to the left to feel the expanse of leather over your cheek, his thumb dancing softly across your skin.

“No, I- You have to explain yourself, I don’t-”

“Please?” He looks at you with those fucking eyes of his and you want to kick him and kiss him all at once. “Do you trust me?”

The urge to kick him persists but you nod anyway. Perhaps the kicking is not a frustration aimed at him but at yourself instead: why can you not tell him how you feel? Why does the possibility of what he’s about to do scare you so much?

“I don’t know what to do,” you admit to him in a whisper. You feel naked before him, though there’s layers of thick velvet and scuffed leather between the two of you, a hundred barriers of material, an aching yawn of distance that you find yourself disliking immensely. 

Can Eddie read your mind? It feels that way right now - you only uttered six words but he seems to understand you entirely at this moment. He drops his hand from your face, takes a step back, and as you watch him wordlessly unbuckle his armour, your stomach contracts and your soul becomes hollow in anticipation. He removes the belt that the sword usually sits on, and then his leather gauntlets, pulling each finger from the gloves and placing them, too, on the table. As he peels off each piece of his uniform, creating a growing pile on the wood and on your floor, you see, for the first time since that night when you were nineteen, the bloom of his flesh under his billowing undershirt. He’s paler now than he was then, though the moonlight seeping in through the cracks between heavy curtains over your windows is no match for the golden wash of colour he had once basked in. If you had any sense you’d laugh at the display before you: endless metal defences and leather covers come away from his body and pile noisily beside him. But you’re transfixed, fingers fidgeting, bottom lip absentmindedly between your teeth.

You do not notice him glance at you every so often. Between removing each greave, he looks up at you again, and there’s nothing he can do to stop the flurry of blood to his cheeks. He’s baring himself, and you’re looking at him like he’s edible; perhaps, to you, he is.

After many minutes filled only by the sounds of deconstructed armour, metal and leather, he’s free of it, and he stands before you in a loose shirt and cotton slacks. His pale chest is visible behind the deep, un-tied collar and your fingers itch, fidgeting still, yearning to know what it feels like.

“Talk to me,” he whispers. “Don’t go quiet on me now.”

“I saw you like this, once,” you say quickly, voice so low it’s almost a whisper. You’re looking at everything - his arms, his legs, neck, chest, hands - except his eyes.

He’s taken aback. “What?”

“Years ago. I was nineteen. You were outside-” You turn to look through the open balcony door behind you, at the bright white gleaming down on the stone beyond. “-polishing. It was so beautiful out there, but I remember watching you for ages.”

You turn back, eyes on his finally. As ever, they’re wide and deep brown and beautiful. “Sorry. I know that’s strange. And forbidden, I guess.”

“No,” he breathes, taking a step towards you. “No, it’s fine- It’s okay.”

The air is thick and between that and your corset, you can barely breathe. He’s inching closer and it’s difficult to know where to look.

Nobody has ever been this close to you before. Not truly; you kiss your father and mother on the cheek before heading to bed each evening, you give your sisters fleeting embraces, you've fooled around with stableboys and, of course, you once loved to lean into his space whenever you teased Eddie, but this is different. Someone electing to be so near, choosing to breathe your air and not flinching or pulling back, instead lingering just to let his eyes dance over yours once more - it’s new, and it’s addictive.

He’s breathing your air but you’re also breathing his. The hills of his cheeks are mere whispers from your own, and his nose, crooked at the bridge where it once broke, nudges yours so lightly that you ought not feel it. It takes your breath away anyway.

At the sound of your gasp he smiles, only slightly, but you’re so close you see it in his eyes. Crows' feet emerge, wrinkling happiness beside his temples, and you can’t help but return it. As you fight the urge to close your eyes you watch him as he watches you, bated breaths and whimpers. All of a sudden he meets your gaze and you stumble where your foot had been resting on your other ankle. The heel of your slipper slides across bare skin and your balance goes, but before you can panic or cry out, you are pulled in breathless by his strong arm around your back. There may be layers upon layers of fabric but you feel it anyway, the electric jolts up your spine where his palm presses firm into your waist. Whether he means to or not is unclear, but you’re chest-to-chest with him now, the firm bones of your corset pushed against his shirt.

Your fingers spread across the fabric of his shirt. Without meaning to, you venture upwards, fingertips meeting the small smattering of coarse hair there, under the cotton. You watch your hands like they’re moving on their own, until his finger, hooked beneath your chin, tilts you up to meet his eye again.

It’s happening, you think to yourself. But then his arm, still around your middle, tightens briefly and he’s gone.

You watch him cross your room, the few steps he takes to your bed suddenly a criminal distance, too far, far too far. He sits upright on the edge of it, legs parted.

“Come here,” he says, his voice a melodic tug at your core. You move to him, sliding each of your slippers off on the way, and stand hesitantly between his knees, holding your breath without thinking to. 

You can’t look at him. You caught a glimpse of his eyes and the way they’re looking up at you and you can’t. It’ll surely kill you.

He thinks you’re perfect, standing here, towering over him, relenting. His tough palms smooth over the layers of deep red velvet that lie over your hips, and for a moment he allows himself to relish in the small noises of shock you’re making before he urges you to turn around.

“You know,” he begins as his deft fingers untie and release the intricate ribbons at your back. “It wasn’t your fault.”

You turn your head towards him, as far round as you can. “What?”

“The… What happened, that afternoon. The way he spoke to you…” Eddie’s fingers still for a moment and you hear him take a deep breath. “The way he touched you. I don’t know what your father- what His Majesty said about it, but it wasn’t your fault.”

His left hand begins pulling at the ribbons again, but his right rests safely on your waist, as though he’s demonstrating something: how you should be touched, the way you deserve, soft and kind and gentle and wanted.

You hum in agreement.

“And I truly am sorry I punched him,” he says. “It- If I’d just told him to back away, it never would have become such… Such a thing, a big deal.”

“Eddie,” you breathe, grateful that you can get a lung-full again. You turn back to him in his grasp and take his face in both hands. Your palms are warm but they’re nothing compared to the flames of his cheeks, which almost burn under your touch. “I’m not mad that you punched him. I wish I’d done it, truly. But I’m never mad that you want to protect me.”

Your hands on his face startle him. You both sense it in the moment, how unlike you this is, to touch him so willingly and so carefully.

“I don’t think you needed me to protect you,” he says quietly, a smile emerging though he tries his best to hold it back. “Your elbow seemed to do a good enough job of that.”

Ah! The sound of your feather-light laugh fills a yawning gap in his chest that appeared two and a half weeks ago. It sounds even more beautiful than before, a twinkling spark of a sound, just for him.

“You’re funny,” you tell him. “I’ll always need you, Ser Munson. Don’t worry about that.”

He looks up at you from his seat on the edge of your bed with eyes that sparkle like the sky outside. Perhaps it’s the reflection of the faded stars painted onto your ceiling, or perhaps it’s just the sight of you.

Both of his hands are on your waist, now, as you stand between his legs. There’s a lot of material in your skirt, though, and it feels too distant still, so you reach behind your back to pull the remainder of the ribbons keeping your corset on, and pull it over your head. Eddie helps where he can from such a low vantage point, and as soon as it’s off and disregarded on the floor, his eager fingers are pulling the velvet dress down and away from your body.

“Fucking hell,” he heaves, “How many things do you have on right now?”

“You’re one to talk,” you giggle. “It took you five whole minutes just to free your arms.”

“Okay, but that’s important. I don’t want to lose my arms. This must weigh a tonne, and… For what?”

You hold his cheek in your left hand again while he unties various laces and undoes buttons. Your skirt has fallen away, as has the underskirt and the other, thicker layers. You’re left in your underdress, a simple white cotton embroidered at the collar. It’s nicer than the one he caught you in all those weeks ago, moments before your life seemed to tilt and slip away beneath you.

Under the fabric, your nipples harden in the cold, jutting out and catching Eddie’s eye.

“Is this okay?” He asks, pulling you in anyways, standing you safely between his knees, his wide hands tentative on your hips. “We don’t have to-”

“Yes,” you say firmly. “Please, yes.”

His hands slide over the hills of your behind to the backs of your thighs. He’s still looking up at you, eyes drooping when your fingers dance through his hair. 

“I meant it, though,” you say. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“That’s okay,” he sighs, standing slowly. “I have all the time for you.”

The moonlight bleeds a sharp bluish hue but it doesn’t matter. Right now, as he says those lovely words, the boy is a golden ball of light, humming pinks and warm ochre. Your yearning arms wind over his shoulders as his breath mixes with yours once more, his nose nudges the swell of your cheek, his hands press firm into your waist. He’s slow with it, tantalising, keeping you whimpering and desperate, until he finally dips into you, lips on yours with a surprising urgency.

It’s magic, you are so sure of it. His mouth moves over yours with certainty: he wants to be here, he wants to kiss you. He’s wanted to kiss you.

All those fairytales that your wiry old school teacher told you were real, about spells and conjurings and spirits: it’s all real, surely, and it’s in this feeling. There’s no other way you can understand it, though in truth your brain isn’t entirely clear because his fingers are smoothing lower, bunching your dress in his fists to pull the fabric up over the stretch of your legs. All the while his kisses never cease; in fact, once you feel the cool air over the material of your underwear, you gasp and welcome his tongue with your own. Air is worthless to you now; all you want is Eddie.

Much to your dismay, he seems to disagree, pulling back from you to take a breath and lift your dress over your head. He whispers up and you raise your arms, letting him undress you quietly, and once he has, you daren’t open your eyes, instead winding your arms across your chest. You feel the nighttime breeze across the backs of your thighs and you tense knowing that you’re bare in front of him.

There’s a slow beat before you feel his hands again. You hear the dress discarded on the stone floor and then his rough fingers are gently, oh so gently, holding your waist. It’s like he thinks you could break.

“Can I touch you?” he whispers.

“Yes,” you breathe. “Of course you can.”

You expect more solid grabs of flesh, hands smoothing over the expanse of your stomach, maybe even venturing upwards, but you take in a surprised breath when you feel his mouth on your sternum.

His rough hands hold your lower back and he kisses, framing each of your breasts with rows of feather-light pecks, dancing blossoms of affection. You drop your hands to his hair as you let out a breath of satisfaction, tangling your fingers in the curls as his mouth rises.

The whine of your name that leaves your lips is met with his hands tightening, fingers almost curling into the flesh of your back. His kisses turn eager, frantic, crossing the mounds of each of your breasts. His hands leave you to pull his shirt over his head and it’s too much all at once: too much to see, feel, know. You can’t take it in before he’s kissing you again, less than kind as his arms pull your bare chests flush.

Your fingers explore new terrain, which is littered with freckles and white, years-old scars that stretch over his alabaster skin, each one a story that you hope he will tell you one day.

“Eddie,” you pant. He returns the sentiment, breathing your name over and over into your mouth as he sits back down and pulls you into his lap.

The rough of his slacks sends an unfamiliar jolt up your spine when your hips meet his. In the heat of the moment he’s pulling at you a little rough but your gasp draws him out.

“You good?”

“Just… Slow down,” you tell him, resting back on your heels with your hands on his broad, bare shoulders.

“Sorry,” he says. His face is flushed pink and his dark eyes are drooping. “Want to stop?”

“No,” you respond, too quickly to keep your cool. You shake your head. “No, I just- I’m scared I’ll go too fast. I like you too much.”

“I told you,” he says, moving in with his eyes on you. You nod, almost imperceptibly. He kisses your collarbone and then your shoulder. “I have all the time in the world for you.”

“What if someone catches us?”

He pulls back again and reaches up, moving hair from your face and putting it behind your ears. Tidying you up. Fussing over you. It’s nice.

“I promise that everybody who would even think to come anywhere near this room tonight is gone until at least tomorrow afternoon.” He kisses under your jaw, and it returns the shivers back down your spine. “They’re too busy getting drunk. Nobody’s thinking about us.”

“You promise?”

He kisses your chin. “I promise.”

A few years ago, your father entertained a visitor from one of the bigger cities. They had been on a ship for some years and they brought goods the likes of which you’d never seen before: round, vibrant, sharp fruits, powders that made food taste wildly different, and, your favourite, a small collection of fireworks.

In the light of a small bonfire, your father helped the visitor set the wooden tubes alight. They flew off into the air and sparkled, fizzed, popped. It was a display that you couldn’t help but gawk at, enjoying the sizzles and the colours in the deep January sky.

That’s what this feels like. His lips plotting a map across your bare neck, up over your jaw, until they reach your mouth, it feels like seeing fireworks. You keen into his mouth as he licks across your bottom lip, pulling it between his teeth gently before letting go, meeting your tongue with his own. His hands at your back pull you in and that flush returns between your legs. He keeps you moving slowly, a lethargic push and pull across his crotch. The dips and folds of the tough fabric there, paired with the growing hardness beneath, give you a friction that you chase instinctively. It’s coupled with a litany of praises whispered into your skin between kisses, and the combination is clearing your head and sending you dizzy.

“That’s it, you’ve got it,” he coos, “Nice and slow for me, yeah? Just-”

Through drooping lids you watch him, his face scrunching in pleasure as you rock against him. It is not lost on you that this feels just as good for him, but you can tell he’s holding something back.

His face relaxes, and he meets your eye. “Hey.” He nudges your nose with his own and takes a deep breath. “You have to breathe, deep breaths. Doesn’t feel half as good if you stop breathing, promise.”

You let out a sigh and a twinkling giggle and he smiles, wide enough that you can see his dimples. He continues showering you with sweet praises, urging you towards oblivion. Look at you. I don’t even need to tell you what to do. You’re so beautiful.

“Fuck- My god.”

The pace quickens as you chase the abyss. His hands don’t move, keeping you anchored to him, moving you back and forth. It’s bliss like you’ve never felt; your own hand could never get you this far. The friction of his pants between your thighs is perfect and your need is ferocious as your stomach winds like a coil.

“C’mon,” he encourages, “You can do it. You’re doing such a good job, c’mon-”

You fall forwards and rest your forehead on his shoulder, whimpering something desperate into his neck as your stomach tenses and bends. Please, Eddie, please, please, please.

A white-hot light sears the darkness behind your eyelids as you come apart for him. He’s calling you all sorts of filthy things but you can barely hear him, brain too occupied by the burning in your belly and his hands, which are seemingly everywhere all at once.

“Good girl,” he whispers into your hairline. He scatters kisses there as you catch your breath.

“Thank you,” you sigh. “Thank you.”

He laughs and you feel it reverberate through his chest.

As you slouch into him, feeling returning to each limb, you feel a foreign yearning in your gut, a relentless feeling that prompts you to squirm. Wriggling, your restless hands paw at his arms and his back and they move lower, until you meet the waistband of his slacks.

You whine into his neck when he won’t move to accommodate your impatience. His hands lure you back from your resting place so he can look at you, with your kiss-swollen lips and happy eyes.

“I need to know that you want this,” he whispers. He rests your foreheads together, the tip of his nose nudging yours.

All you can do is whine. You’re too elated to care to form words, but Eddie’s not having it.

“I need to hear you say it,” he tells you sternly. His eyes do not betray him: they’re steely and suddenly darker than ever.

You dip your head to kiss his jaw, nosing at his cheek, lips and teeth dragging along his skin.

“I want you, Eddie,” you tell him. His fingers tighten at the nape of your neck and pull you back, gentle but firm, as he watches you speak through obsidian eyes. “Please.”

He says nothing as he gives you one more kiss, soft as anything to the pillows of your lips, before helping you off his lap and laying you between the pillows at the head of your bed. You curl up there, the breeze colder still against the wetness between your thighs, which you squeeze together as you watch him stand.

He’s all lean muscle and long limbs. You let yourself gawk for the first time since that night on the balcony; you usually have to ration your glances at him, and he’s always covered by so many layers, so you allow yourself this luxury.

He knows you’re watching, so he makes a little show of it, bending down to get rid of the slacks. Before he does, you notice that the brown has deepened around his crotch with the stains of your pleasure. Acknowledging this makes you shiver, and though you feel you should be disgusted, it’s oddly comforting instead.

When he looks over at you, finally bared and unflinching, he takes a moment to take you in.

You’re still glowing, perhaps more so than before. Some of your hair is stuck to your face, plastered there in the heat of your first orgasm, but the rest of it is laid out around your head like a halo. It’s unfair that you can be so casually magnificent. You’re also not looking at him - well, not meeting his eye, anyway. The tip of your index finger is between your teeth as you take in the sight before you, Eddie as hard as he’s ever been, just for you.

“You sure about this?” he asks.

You look up at his face and break out in a grin. “Absolutely.”

He’s slower than you want, leaning over you, his knees on the comforter beside you, mouth lazy as he gives you kisses. You take and take, happy under his touch.

His hands are everywhere again. Your skin is on fire, aflame from the praise and the affection and the attention. The sensation of being so close to another person while naked like this is achingly unfamiliar but learning it is nice, new, natural. Though it’s nothing like anything you’ve ever experienced before, you’re finding that you like it. You like smoothing your hands over his back, feeling the dips and peaks of his muscles there, or around to the slight pudge of his stomach, just above a thatch of hair similar to your own. You like the feeling of his palms on your shoulders, down your arms, across your waist. You like that when he kisses you, you feel the nudge of his nose beside yours. You like that he appears breathless to you, like your kisses are preferable to air, especially when he becomes restless and impatient.

Above you, his hand moves south, fingers burying their way between your legs. Without realising it, you’ve been squeezing them together, desperate for any relief you can find, but his fingers are certainly better. They push your knees apart so that he can climb into your space, his waist framed by your thighs, the weight of him crashing into you as he dips again to kiss you silly. You wind your arms around his neck and pull him in, enjoying the proximity rather than fleeing from it, and feeling desperate without shame.

One hand hooks under your thigh while the other plants firmly on the mattress beside your head.

“You ready?”

You nod. “Yes.”

“I’m going to go slow,” he tells you, his lips moving against yours lest he get too far away. “Just tell me if you want to stop, please?”

“Yes,” you pant, “Yes, of course, please-”

The hand beneath your thigh escapes and he holds himself as you wind your arms under his, around his chest, pulling him in tight.

It’s definitely slow. A slow, tantalising push between your thighs, filling that gaping yearning within your gut. He’s big, though it barely takes you by surprise because of course he is.

He’s panting, biting his lip above you. “Fuck-” he gasps, “Shit- You okay?”

You nod as fervently as you can because words are escaping you and all you can think about is him, hovering over you, pushing into you, breathing your air and nudging your cheek.

“You feel- You feel so good,” he breathes, pushing further. You nod in agreement and tug him closer still, until he’s in as far as he can go, filling you to the hilt.

The proximity dazzles you as you open your eyes and examine his face. The scrunch between his brows, the freckles across his crooked nose, his teeth biting firm into his lip. It feels only natural to lean up and plot a path of kisses across the hills of his face, bright, happy kisses that relax him until he can kiss you back. He lets the weight of his body fall into yours, keeping some pressure on his arm so as not to crush you entirely, but the feeling of closeness is too comfortable for him to forego.

He speaks into the flesh of your cheek when he says, “I’m going to start moving, okay?”

“Yes,” you pant, and he does, pulling slowly away before pushing back. The friction of the movement over your clit adds to the swelling feeling of fullness each time he returns to you, and the pleasure is almost overwhelming. You take heavy breaths until they become moans, matched by his own noises. Your head is empty and all you want to do is become him; being here, underneath him, is never quite enough. Instead you wish you could, in this moment, under the stars and the moon and wrapped in the night breeze, merge with your knight and stay here forever.

Your lazy daydreams are interrupted when he groans and mutters some kind of praise into your hairline: You’re doing so well. Fuck, so good. And then, to your surprise, you feel his free hand traverse the expanse of your body, between the two of you, over the hill of your stomach until the pads of his fingers find your clit.

Holy shit. Holy shit. Perhaps you haven’t melted together, but this somehow got even better. His cock moves just as quick as he draws lucid circles with his middle and ring fingers over you. He kindles the flame like an expert as his mouth drops kisses messily across your own lips. That’s it: everything is messy, lazy, desperate. He moves and kisses and whispers please, come on, come for me, are you okay? I know you can do it, you feel so good, you’re beautiful.

The hot wire returns. It burns as it coils, tighter and tighter around an abyss in your gut, tugging on each limb like you might implode and become a black hole right here in your bed.

“Eddie, oh my god-”

“Come on.”

“Unngh- It feels s- So good-”

“Come on, sweetheart.”

His movements never relent as you come, the wire burning out in a white-hot bang. You yelp, moaning his name, and he keeps going through it all, kissing you silly all over your face. It’s only when you start to squirm that he slows, brings his busy hand out from between the two of you and smiles. He allows himself a moment to watch you, face lax and mouth agape, sweaty brow and hair a mess, before he taps your hollow cheek with his knuckles.

You open heavy eyes to look back at him and watch as he smirks down at you and brings two messy fingers to his mouth. He’s still inside you and he feels it, the way you squeeze him just slightly as he tastes you on his tongue, making a little show of it for you. He hears you gasp, panting like a dog, and even the moan that leaves you when he pulls his fingers free and they glisten in the low light. “Holy shit,” you breathe, and he breaks out in a grin before he can stop himself. “Holy shit, Eddie.”

“Happy?” he asks.

“Happy? Fuck yeah, I’m happy.”

His laughter is deep and loud, a rumble from his chest that makes you grin back at him.

“What about you?” you ask, eyes drooping again, bringing the back of your hand to your forehead. It burns there, like you have a fever. You must look a state.

“I’m more than happy,” he says, smiling. “You up for a little more?

You look at him. “Hm?”

“I, uh… I’m hard as a fuckin’ rock,” he admits, flushing, “And you… You feel so good, and I’d like to… Y’know.”

He feels bad for a second when your eyes widen and you look down quickly. “Oh, Eddie, shit, did you not- Oh my god, I’m so selfish, are you okay?”

Your hands are everywhere all of a sudden, pawing at his arms and his chest, your fawning interrupted by another bellowing laugh. When you giggle back, he winces, feeling it in the way your body pulls him tighter.

“I’m fine,” he assures you, “But I want to try something.”

“Of course,” you say.

“You sure you’re okay to keep going?”

“Yes,” you sigh, “I want to help you, I want you to feel good too.”

“Hold on, then,” he says, threading an arm between your back and the sweat-damp mattress. You wind your arms back around his neck and yelp when he swings you around, all the while keeping his cock firmly inside your walls.

“Fuck,” you splutter, planting your hands either side of his head.

He likes this view. Your face hovering over his, your knees either side of his waist. He holds you by the hips, feeling the curves and dips, pushing impatient fingers into the flesh at the base of your back.

“God, you are gorgeous,” he says. He likes this view, too, watching you flush and bat your eyelashes, made nervous under his gaze and by his lovely, genuine words.

“Not too bad yourself,” you respond, smiling, lifting one hand to push curls from his warm face.

This feeling is new but it’s lovely. Gravity pulls you onto him and it feels as though he’s somehow even deeper than before. His hands at your ass fist at the flesh there and he tells you he’s going to help you, that you may be worn out and that’s okay, and as he helps you lift yourself upwards, you get the hang of it.

You plant your hands firmly on the expanse of his chest and drop yourself down before pushing yourself back up again. It helps to sit upright so you do, letting him hold you and watch you and god, his face is a picture.

He’s scrunching his nose again, eyes tight as he huffs each time you drop onto him. He’s droopy and blissful as you move up and down, circling your hips just a bit, letting him guide you. It burns after so long but it’s nothing compared to the warmth in your chest watching him near the edge. His stomach tenses, the muscles flexing between your thighs, as his breathing becomes more ragged. And suddenly his arms come up your back and pull you down flush and inside your walls, his cock sits as far in as he can push it. You feel him stiffen and shudder and the warmth as he comes inside, hugging you close, his forehead on your shoulder.

He warns you as he pulls out, and then you lie still, spent, limbs going soft together. The sky is a pale blue-green now, the sun soon to cross the horizon. You can hear birds, and the soft morning light coats your skin in a kind of effervescent glow.

Eddie’s breathing lulls you into a doze, but after a short while he stirs. The space between your core and his is sticky and damp and it’s uncomfortable for a short moment, until he tells you quietly that he’s going to get up and get a rag. He moves you softly onto your back and you sigh, a happy, contented sound, watching him move around your space so comfortably.

He returns from the water basin with a damp cloth, cleaning the remnants of your night from between your legs. You wince when he does, only because you’re tired and sore and the cloth is cold, but he apologises and kisses the inside of your knee.

“Eddie?”

He’s at the basin again, rinsing the rag. “Mhm?”

“Do you really think everyone will be gone until the afternoon?”

You catch him smiling at your question, like he knows what’s coming.

“If you want to play it safe, lets say noon.”

“And what time is it now?”

He looks over to the clock, which sits above your mantlepiece, ticking softly.

“Early,” is all he says. “Early enough.”

“Stay with me?”

He drops the rag over the side of the basin and pads over to you. The mattress dips as he rejoins you, this time lifting your sheets to bury the two of you beneath them.

“I told you,” he says quietly, kissing the peak of your shoulder and pulling you in, his arm around your waist, “I have all the time in the world for you.”

-

The castle is bustling. People rush here and there, carrying armfuls of floral arrangements, buckets of wine, heaving plates of food. Your home is lively and noisy and your mother is pacing, directing the placement of each bouquet and chair.

In your chamber, the noise seems far away. Your maids finish tying your corset and your shoe ribbons before filtering off to complete other tasks. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror above your fireplace. Red really is your colour.

There’s a resolute knock at your door. The maids stand to attention and move out of your way as your knight pushes the doors open and you step through to the hall.

“Thank you, Dustin,” you say to him.

Your new knight, a replacement both for Eddie and for the man who took his place all those months ago, bows kindly at your regards. He’s young, younger than yourself and Eddie, but keen and worthy and you’re more than happy.

And then he appears, your beacon, a gorgeous vision of handsome beauty.

Eddie, Ser Munson, your knight. Or, rather, your former knight. He’s been promoted to fiancé.

He stands at the top of the stairs, looking back at you like you hung the stars. To him, you may as well have. You are all he has eyes for now, especially now, after giving up his duties and telling your father: Your daughter is my true and only duty.

“My god,” he breathes. You step over to him, too giddy to maintain any air of grace or class. Your step is more like skipping, your love for him giving you far too much energy to merely walk to him.

He holds his arm for you and you take it, leaning up on tip-toes to give him a chaste kiss to the cheek.

“How do you do it?” he says in a low voice, dipping his head so you can hear him as the two of you descend the stairs, Dustin in step behind you.

You’re smiling while you cling to his arm. “Hm?”

“How do you keep getting more beautiful?”

“Just think, Munson,” you say in a whisper, “By the time we’re one hundred, think of how beautiful I’ll be by then.”

“I dread to think,” he says sarcastically, squeezing your arm with his. You look up at him and the noise and fervour of the castle falls away. He looks back down at you and smiles, and it’s truly the only thing that matters.

The engagement party, your sisters, your parents, your birthright - what is any of it for, what does any of it mean, when you have the one thing you ever wanted?

-

author’s note  Hey! Thanks for reading (or scrolling all this way). It's been so long since I uploaded my last fic and I’ve been lurking ever since - I miss u all but there isn’t really any room in my life for writing anymore. I have loved doing this and thank you all so so much for reading everything! I’ll be about, so the blog will stay and you can read whatever you want whenever you want. I love ya, I’ll miss ya, see ya l8r!

[cressida-jayoungr]

One Dress a Day Challenge

October: White Redux

The Court Jester / Angela Lansbury as Princess Gwendolyn

I'm pretty sure this is the dress that Gwendolyn is wearing under the blue and green robe/cloak that I featured in July--compare the cuffs. It's the most luxurious of all Gwendolyn's dresses, with the lavish gold trim and embroidery. It also reminds me of the gown worn by the lady in Edmund Leighton's painting The Accolade (see below)--enough that I wonder whether there is a deliberate reference. Especially since Gwendolyn wears this gown to a knighting ceremony, even though she doesn't get to do the actual "accolade" in the movie!

[darkbluekies]

Oh, oh, I got an idea! How do you think the Yandere characters will do if they found out their s/o got kidnapped! Kinda like how the mad doctor kidnapped Yandere Doctor's s/o??

Warnings: killing, mentions of suicides, violence, manhandling, dismemberment, kidnapping, arson

Silas: 

All hell will break loose once he understands what has happened. Everyone — even his own men — will be scared for their lives. Silas is angrier than anyone’s ever seen him before and the slightest wrong step will result in death. He will cause blood baths wherever he goes until he gets you back. The gang that has taken you will be sorry, Silas will make sure of that. He’ll grab every kind of weapon he can get his hands on before leaving with his men to go get you back in his arms.

“Alright, you shitheads, I’m going to fucking come for you. Touching my baby will be the last thing you’ll ever do. I’m going to make you regret the day you were born. Oh, I’m going to enjoy this …”

Dr Kry: (oneshot where this happens)

He’ll be absolutely terrified if he doesn’t know where you are. This man will never stop looking for you. He’ll not eat, not sleep, not drink until you’re back in your room. This man is smart, he finds clues where others don’t. Dr Kry is a person who never gets down and dirty, his murders look like suicides or accidents. But when he finds the one that has taken you from him, he’ll beat them bloody until they’re on the verge of death. Then he’ll leave them to die. 

“Don’t worry, Y/N, I’m going to find you and I’m going to make sure you come back where you belong. Whoever took you from me is going to suffer. I’m going to kill them, don’t worry, you’ll be safe and sound in my arms soon …”

King Edmund:

This man is ruthless as he is, but if someone dares to take you away from him, he’ll cause havoc. Every kingdom will know about your disappearance and they’ll fear what Edmund is going to do. No one is safe from his wrath. Edmund will burn down villages, he’ll throw people in dungeons, he’ll have public executions — everything to find the peasant (or royal) who took you. And when he finally does … they’ll be tortured for days and days on end until he finally has had enough and kills them himself. 

“The one that touches my queen will be sorry for a long, long time. The kingdoms shall feel my wrath. I’ll burn them all down if I need to. No one takes my queen from me …”

Jerry:

This woman lives for revenge, but not these kinds. You should never be involved. If someone decides to kidnap you, Jerry will turn the world upside down to get you back. No one’s safe from Jerry’s anger. She’ll even hurt her own boss if he gets in her way. Her boss will help her get you back (mostly because he’s terrified of Jerry’s temper) and then, it’s over for whoever was stupid enough to think they could keep you away from her. Jerry is going to cut off limb after limb of the people that separated you from her with a smile on her face. 

“When I’m done with those people, they’ll be lucky if the police will ever be able to find all of them to give them a funeral. Because I sure as hell won’t let them. They’ll be so unrecognizable that they’ll be unsure which name to put on the gravestone! And when I have Y/N back, I’m going to cuff them to my wrist and plant a GPS chip in their neck. They’re mine only. No one else is allowed to touch them.”

Hedwig:

She thought you were safe. She really did. You’re a nobody! She realizes that the one that kidnapped you wanted her to get money, but figured that taking you would be a better way to get a bigger ransom. Hedwig will pay whatever price to get you back. Nothing’s too high. She’ll bring one body guard with her to the meeting place where she can exchange the money for you. She’ll hug your manhandled body tightly while you cry. 

“It’s okay now, sweetheart, you’re safe now. I-I’ll take care of you. I was so scared to never get you back. Don’t cry, my dear, those assholes will get what they deserve. I have my ways, don’t worry. They’ll never see the sunlight again.”

[kingorqueenofnarnia]

Stay With Me Forever

I'm in a Caspeter brainrot. I found the ship less than two days ago and if anyone tries anything against it I shall kill everyone in this world and then myself. Anyways, have a happy ending:

.

Caspian is in the Astronomy Tower.

He stands with his hands braced on the railings, looking down on the castle as the sun climbs higher in the Narnian sky— it will be noon in an hour, and the castle is full of hustle and bustle. The coronation was yesterday, and the messes are being cleaned and Narnians are finally coming out of the woodwork to assimilate into Telmarine society. He can see a Telmarine soldier speaking to Greenbriar the centaur near the gate, both of them with smiles on their faces, and lets his pleased smile grow over his lips.

Surprisingly, the Telmarines have had very few qualms about Narnian Animals roaming free. It bodes well for the challenges Caspian faces as the newly-crowned king in Narnia.

One of the doors in the courtyard are thrown open, and Caspian's eyes get drawn to the forceful movement.

"Helena!" High King Peter's loud voice echoes through the castle as he strides forward, and Caspian cannot help but follow him with his eyes.

The High King is dressed in Old Narnian royal garments, which Caspian has no doubt he grabbed from the treasury in Cair Paravel. Black linen trousers hug his powerful legs, and a short white tunic with laces instead of buttons and long flowy sleeves covers his torso. Caspian sees the sunlight glint off the cloth, and realises that there is gold thread embroidered into the cuffs and the neckline. His golden hair is longer than it was four months ago when they first met— it reaches his shoulders now, and he wears it in a dozen tiny braids interwoven with golden ribbons; no doubt Lucy's doing.

"Helena," High King Peter calls again as he reaches the other side of the courtyard, and Caspian watches as a maid hurries towards him and bows. Then, the ensuing conversation cannot be heard, for they disappear through the doors.

Caspian didn't know Peter knew any servants by name. He sighs and leans forward, elbow on the railing and chin on his palm, staring at the door through which Peter disappeared.

Aslan came, an hour ago. Caspian saw him walking with Lucy, Edmund, Susan and Peter, and while he was not invited to the discussion, he has an inkling as to what the talk was about.

Caspian knows that the Kings and Queens of Old came from somewhere not in this world. He has heard the siblings talk about going back home in soft voices that conveyed just how much they hated the idea of it. He has heard them talk about how it is bound to happen now, because it happened the last time. And now, now that he is King and Narnia is safe and the Narnians have their freedom back and there are no wars to fight, Aslan has come to take them back.

Caspian feels his throat constrict.

He thinks about staying in this Castle, with none of the four siblings to keep him company. He thinks of the talks on politics and law making with Edmund as they kept watch together. He thinks of reading poetry with Lucy, and small competitions in archery against Susan that he kept losing much to his annoyance and Susan's smugness.

Most of all, however, he thinks about Peter.

High King Peter, a boy who looks Caspian's age with eyes so blue it makes one think of the summer sky and hair so golden it seems to be spun of sunlight. Peter, with his terrifying scowls and loud laughs, who talks freely and kindly with the Narnians at one moment and turns into an experienced and ruthless War General at the next. High King Peter, who fought— and won— a duel to the death in Caspian's honour while wearing a bracelet that Caspian tied around his wrist.

High King Peter, whom he nearly kissed last night.

Caspian's cheeks burn at the memory, and he steps out the balcony into the room with the hope that no one noticed him.

The coronation celebrations were in full swing, and Caspian was slightly drunk, and found Peter in one of the balconies away from the throne room. They got to talking as they were wont to do, slowly stepping closer and closer until their noses were a hair's breadth from each other.

And then Peter turned around and left him standing there with a thundering heart and eyes burning with tears he refused to let fall.

By the Lion, Caspian is such an idiot.

Of course Peter would not like him. Why would he? He is High King above all Kings in Narnia, a legendary War General with a lethal sword and a powerful presence, who dragged Narnia into the Golden Age with his siblings out of sheer stubbornness and determination. He is High King, about him ballads have been made and books have been written and on whose name people take solemn oaths.

Caspian, on the other hand, is a young King with no experience who did not even fight his own duel. He has accomplished nothing in his nineteen years of life, while Peter fought his first battle at the age of thirteen and emerged victorious against the White Witch. By the time Peter was nineteen the first time in Narnia, he had fought and won thirteen wars.

Caspian is nothing compared to Peter. Of course Peter does not like him, not the same way he likes Peter.

WHAM!

Caspian whips around, hand flying to his sword as the doors are flung open so violently they slam against the wall and rebound. Peter, he realises a second later, and lets go of his sword's hilt.

The High King moves towards him with long, powerful strides, Rhindon clinking at his waist and boots clicking against the stone floor, a look of singular focus in his eyes.

"High King Peter," Caspian says, standing up straight as the man grows closer, "what—"

Peter kisses him.

A hand cups his cheeks and an arm wraps around his waist, and then he is dragged flush against Peter as his plump lips work insistently against Caspian's own.

Caspian gasps, and Peter takes the chance to slip his tongue into his mouth, running it over the back of his teeth and dragging it over the roof of his mouth, pulling a surprised whimper from his throat. Caspian gives in, lifting his arms to wrap them around Peter's shoulders, and opens his mouth wider to let the man do whatever he wishes.

He moves his lips against Peter's as best as he can, but Peter's touch is scorching where his palm is pressed into his lower back and his fingers are firm yet gentle where they grip his chin and his teeth send a shiver up his spine when they sink into his lower lip and his shoulders are broad and muscled under his hands and oh—

Caspian pulls back with a loud gasp, chest heaving with ragged breaths and blood roaring in his ears. He feels his pulse in his temples and the heat in his bright red cheeks, and he opens his eyes to stare in astonishment at Peter.

Fuck, Peter.

His lips are swollen and pink with the kiss, braided hair just a little out of order, and his eyes shine like jewels as he stared back at Caspian with the widest smile Caspian has ever seen on his face.

"I'm staying," he says breathlessly.

Caspian's heart stops.

"I'm staying," Peter repeats, wrapping both arms around Caspian and shaking him to let the point sink in. "I'm staying, forever. I'm not leaving Narnia, Caspian. I'm staying."

Caspian stares at him with wide eyes, almost afraid of believing what he's saying.

Peter laughs, loud and elated, and surges forward to press a quick, feather-light kiss to his lips. Caspian's cheeks burn hotter, and Peter laughs again.

"I'm staying here, in Narnia, forever," he whispers, leaning forward to press his forehead against Caspian's. "And I am free, now, to ask you this: King Caspian, will you do me the honour and bestow upon me the pleasure of allowing me to court you?"

Caspian squeaks.

"Me?" He says faintly, fingers still gripping Peter's shoulders tight. "You want to court me?"

"Verily, my heart cannot stop wanting you, Caspian," he says earnestly. "You are one of the best people I have ever had the good fortune of meeting. You are kind and smart and loyal and you care about my Narnians and I..." Peter exhales, a soft smile growing on his lips.

"I couldn't help it," he whispers. "Falling for you was so very easy, and it scared me, because I'd left Narnia before and I did not want to go through a second time of leaving love behind and come back to find them dead for thirteen hundred years. I- I did not want to do that again, Caspian."

Caspian lifts a hand to cup Peter's cheek, unable to find the words for the things he wants to say. "Peter..."

"But now," Peter says, and his smile is coming back, bright and wide and oh so beautiful, "now we can stay in Narnia for the rest of our lives if we so wish. For Edmund, Lucy and Susan, they would choose Narnia without hesitation."

Caspian's heart is hammering against his ribs, and he can feel the slow smile that curves up the corners of his lips as the pieces start connecting in his mind.

"And you?" he asks, unable to breathe all of a sudden, "what did you choose?"

Peter leans forward to touch his forehead to Caspian's, a long sigh slipping out between his lips. "You," he whispers. "I chose you."

Caspian cannot help it: he tackles Peter to the floor, desperate lips finding Peter's and prying them open to shove his tongue into his mouth, dragging a hoarse moan from the depths of his chest. Peter's arms tighten around him, and suddenly he is on his back on the floor with a hand under his head and an arm wrapped around his waist, Peter's weight pinning him down and a leg shoving its way between his thighs.

Caspian throws his head back and moans at the sensation, and Peter immediately latches onto the skin above his collarbone with his teeth. Caspian gasps, back arching and hands flying up to grip Peter's hair, but Peter is rolling his skin between his teeth and he cannot think.

"Peter," he whines, tugging on a fistful of braided golden hair, and Peter flicks out his tongue to lick over the bite mark. Caspian hitches out a moan, and he feels Peter grin against his skin.

"Yes, Caspian?"

Caspian tugs on his hair again, whining when Peter moves to the other collarbone and digs his teeth in, sending sparks skittering up Caspian's spine.

"You're staying," he gasps, and Peter laughs.

"I'm staying," he says against Caspian's skin, delight visible all over his face. Caspian surges up to press his lips against that plump, red mouth, and Peter kisses back enthusiastically, plundering Caspian's mouth with his tongue till he is whimpering. "I'm staying, and I'm not leaving you. Ever."

"You have my permission, High King Peter," Caspian whispers when they part, heart feeling like it could burst right out of his chest with how hard it was beating. "I give you permission: court me."

Peter's visage lights up with a brilliant smile, and Caspian loses his breath all over again at the gleam in those blue, blue eyes. Now he understands why the High King is called Magnificent.

"Thank you, Caspian. I love you."

"I love you too," he murmurs, dragging Peter down into another kiss.

.

Background: Peter had a wife and a husband back during the Golden Age. Also, this is very definitely Caspian's first kiss.

[empirearchives]

Description of Napoleon, “The Picture of Bonaparte”

“As I was advantageously placed near this extraordinary man, I had a good opportunity of minutely examining his person and his features. His stature does not exceed five feet six inches, and as he stoops, even that height is much diminished. His frame is thin and delicate; his hair is of a deep chesnut, cut short, lank, and without powder, falling over a high and narrow forehead; his eyes are large, dark, quick and piercing, but as they are seldom raised, give him the appearance of an assassin; an aquiline nose, a raised chin, like that of the Apollo Belvidere, pale complexion, hollow cheeks, mouth large, and lips thin and pallid, complete the likeness. He has a sepulchral tone of voice, and answers briefly ; he is an abstemious, meditative man, but tenacious in the point which he has in view, and affects all the austerity, which characterises the head of Brutus. Though he encourages at his court all the pomp and spendour of royalty, (for the Consuls never appear in public without their body guards, nor without three footmen behind their carriage, who, with the coachmen and out-riders, are all habited in dark green liveries, richly embroidered with gold,) yet he himself indulges in no expensive pleasures. His dress, when we saw him, was strictly conformable to republican simplicity, and negligence. He wore a blue frock, with red cuffs and collar, two gold epaulets, white waistcoat and breeches, and Hessian boots; a plain, small cocked hat, which was ill shapen, covered his head, and nothing in his outward appearance bespoke the hero. This is a correct delineation of his person; but who can pourtray the various passions of his ambitious mind?”

— Edmund John Eyre, Observations Made at Paris During the Peace, published 1803, pg. 341-342

[olivelune]

Dear Ripper Street fans,

golly, do I have a treat for you?

Earlier this morning, as I was searching up our dear Edmund Reid online (MM, of course), I came across a really intriguing item on the real Edmund Reid.

Somebody was fortunate to find the original case that Inspector Reid carried with him during the Ripper murders, including: his warrant card, cuffs and whistle, pistol and pocket knife both engraved with his initials, letters and a photograph plus many more spectacular possessions.

Here are just a few of the photographs below, but I have attached the link so you can browse the whole article and delve a little deeper into the archives of Inspector Reid and his belongings...

Tagging a few accounts who might be interested (hope you don't mind):

@matthewmacfadyendaily @shutterbug-12 @ronique @corpyburd @casadegatos @jennmakesitweird @scienceoftheidiot @firefliesinhollywood @ripperstreetlove

@angelic37

[oflights]

oh this is so exciting! happy pride! You've reblogged a number of pretty bejeweled things today, and I wonder if they could be a prompt, perhaps as a gift, or an item in need of cursebreaking? no stress at all if this doesn't spark the muse!

hi!! thank you for this prompt, i kind of loved it. i chose to use this as a reference point and honestly had a lot of fun with it!

as i said yesterday, this wound up being thematically appropriate for a certain blond someone's birthday, which is why it's posting now!! i'm still working on other prompts, and feel free to keep sending some if you'd like!

this is about ~1100 words (sooo close to under 1k 😭) and features curse-breaking partners harry and draco, very jealous harry, and cheesy gemstone/eye comparisons. 💎🎈

“He bought them at auction,” Draco says in a hushed sort of voice, beaming down at the dangly gold earrings Harry is frantically casting on. “I can’t even imagine the price—not that that matters, of course, it would be thoughtful either way, but look—those are genuine pearls, Harry. Byzantine! Sixth century!”

“Sure,” Harry says through gritted teeth, not pausing in his casting. His hand is starting to cramp a little, so he drops his wand and takes a breath to gather his magic up in his spread fingers, ignoring Draco rolling his eyes and muttering something about showoffs. “Too bad they’re cursed.”

“They’re not cursed!”

“They’re definitely cursed,” Harry says, flexing his fingers over the earrings nestled in their ornate wooden box. He could cast the magic he’s working over them in his sleep—the perks of being a rather competent Curse-Breaker—and it’s no trouble at all to cast a few more times, just to be sure. More than sure. He’s absolutely certain that there’s something magically wrong with these earrings, and he’ll prove it. “And they’re ugly, beside.”

“They’re not—you have no taste.”

“They wouldn’t suit you at all, either; you’ve only got the one ear pierced,” Harry says, glancing up at the tiny diamond cuff glinting over Draco’s cartilage and the even tinier moonstone stud in his lobe, easily overlooked unless you make a habit of looking. Harry thinks he could point them out in the dark, blindfolded and spun around, but that’s not anyone’s business but his own. “Are you sure they were for you?”

“Of course they’re for me,” Draco huffs, shaking his head. “The box had my name on it, and Edmund left a note that he’d been called away but he wanted to make sure I got my present on my actual birthday instead of waiting for the party on Saturday—” The party that Harry had planned with absolutely minimal help from Edmund, who he thinks has a low chance of actually showing up, the bastard. “And, as I already told you, there are pearls.”

Harry just glares down at the stupid earrings, shaking his head.

Draco sighs. “Pearls are my birthstone.”

“Since when?”

“Since I was born in June, you nitwit.”

“They don’t even look like pearls,” Harry says, trying not to swear out loud. He’d gotten Draco a moonstone and diamond cuff so he could switch out his piercings. He’d never even considered birthstones, only that little stud that always catches his eye, and the shimmery moonstones on Draco’s watch; he’d learned about adularescence and thought about what light looked like reflected in Draco’s eyes.

At least, Harry knows, his gift is actually wearable. He can’t imagine Draco in these earrings, dangling there as he chats away with their clients and tosses his head back in laughter at Harry’s scant, interjected jokes. They’d agreed early on in their Curse-Breaking partnership that Draco was more of the natural at client relations, but Harry never feels as good as he does when he can join in and make Draco laugh. And the client, of course. That’s fine too.

He wonders if Edmund ever makes Draco laugh like that, when he’s not Portkeying off to another auction, standing Draco up for dinner with his parents, or gifting him absurd, assuredly cursed earrings. Certainly not, Harry thinks.

“I assure you that there are pearls,” Draco says, reaching out for the box. Harry smacks his hands down over it, shaking his head.

“No way, you know the rules. No touching, not until I’m sure there are no curses,” Harry says. “And I’m sure there are, so—”

“That rule is for both of us,” Draco says, swatting at Harry’s hands, laughing a little as Harry swats him back, their hands fluttering against each other over the top of box.

Harry traps both of Draco’s hands in his for a moment, grinning triumphantly, then yelps as Draco grips his hands back and slams them down on the box.

“You can’t keep me away from my birthday present,” Draco says firmly.

Before Harry can argue—before he can say he’s just protecting Draco, he’s just showing him who Edmund really is, and he could show him so much more, he could prove that Edmund is a dunce who has no idea what he has in Draco, who takes him for granted and thinks Draco would wear yellow gold and pearls and garnets and dangly, ugly, obnoxious, definitely cursed earrings in a pair when he only has one ear pierced—before any of that can come out, the door to their office bursts open to reveal a panting, red-faced Edmund, practically doubled over.

“Edmund?” Draco says, standing up from where he’s been perched on Harry’s desk and whipping his hands back.

Edmund wheezes at him, slowly straightening, his eyes widening as he holds up a very similarly-shaped wrapped box in one hand. “Wrong—present—”

“What?” Draco squawks as Harry grins broadly, triumphant.

“Don’t—open—oh—” Edmund continues, eyes going impossibly wider as he stares at the box still under Harry’s hands. “Don’t—touch—”

It’s Harry’s turn to squawk, “What?!” and whip his hands away, just as Edmund chokes out, “Cursed.”

Harry’s grin drops, staring down at the box—which is now devoid of earrings. He realizes this at the same time that Draco does, at the same time he feels a suddenly pinch in his left earlobe, jumping in his seat and yelping, “Ouch!” at the same time Draco’s hands fly up to his own ear.

He feels a weight near his cheek and gapes, wide-eyed, as he sees one of the earrings is now in Draco’s unpierced left earlobe. The other, he realizes as he cups his hand over the side of his face, is in his ear.

Harry and Draco stare at each, something charged and heated building up in the air between them, tingling where the earring is and spreading out to the tips of Harry’s fingers.

“Right,” Draco says as the moment builds, his eyes never leaving Harry’s—wide, bright, beaming with something that would be adularescence if his eyes were the moonstones they resemble. “What kind of curse, exactly?”

The earrings jingle, the magic tingles, and suddenly Draco drops into Harry’s lap, Harry’s arms going around him with little choice, their breaths quickening and a flush spreading across both their faces, as Draco’s horrible boyfriend watches.

“Erm,” Edmund says. “Right. That is to say, ah—well, you see, it might not be a curse so much as a—a bond, perhaps.”

“Perhaps,” Draco says, pants out really, staring down at Harry, who stares back, until they can’t stare any longer because they’re kissing instead.     

[homerjacksons]

Fluffy February - @fluffyfebruary Day 25: Kiss Word count: 2,637 Fandom: Ripper Street Pairing: Homer Jackson/Edmund Reid AO3

A/N: This is a 5+1 fic!

All 5 "almost kiss" moments are inspired by actual canon events, little missing scenes I've decided to write in. However, I'm only up to the end of s1 in my rewatch and this starts at the end of s1 so...any inaccuracies are due to my goldfish brain, apologies.

The +1 at the end is a direct follow-up to day 3 in this collection, with the first line being the last line from that ficlet.

i

Jackson didn’t know what to do. His whole body was vibrating with pent up energy. The last 24 hours had been absolute hell, hell he’d been sure he wasn’t going to come back from. If he were being honest, he still wasn’t sure. If he were found guilty of being the Ripper, he would hang, no doubt about it.

“I’ll get you out of this,” Reid muttered, still leaning against the bars as though he refused to leave Jackson’s side. After all he’d done, he wasn’t sure he deserved it.

He sighed, running a shaky hand through his hair, pacing the length of his cell once more. He felt sick with it, with all he’d done, with all that was yet to come. He just wanted to rest, to fall into Susan’s arms and sleep, be at peace at last. He wasn’t sure if Susan would even have him, not really. They hadn’t had time to discuss what the day’s events meant for them. All he knew was he wanted–needed–to rest, preferably in the arms of someone he loved.

“Stop pacing, you’re giving me a headache,” Reid bit out.

“You don’t have to be here,” Jackson snapped back, pausing in front of him, just the bars between them and precious little air. “In fact, shouldn’t you be out there clearing my name?”

“Fine.” Reid sounded angry, put out, almost hurt as he pushed away from the bars and made to walk away. But Jackson caught him by the wrist before he could.

“Wait.” Reid stopped, turned to look at him, expression hard. “Are you hurt?”

“You arrived in time.”

“Let me take a proper look,” Jackson insisted, knowing he had to do something.

Reid hesitated a moment before reaching into his pocket for the keys to Jackson’s cell, and he released his hold on Reid’s wrist to allow him to unlock it and enter.

“Sit down.”

“I’m perfectly fine,” Reid said, though he complied.

Jackson knelt before him, peeling back his collar to view the bruises at Reid’s neck, the slight cut where the cuffs had bit into flesh, fingertips trailing gently, reverently, over both. Reid sucked in a sharp breath as Jackson’s fingertips ventured to the edges of the scar at his shoulder and he pulled back, resting his hand over Reid’s chest, fingertips settling at the hollow of his neck.

Reid swallowed thickly, eyes downcast, and when he finally looked at Jackson, through his eyelashes rather than head on, Jackson’s breath caught in his throat. He knew why, knew his mind and his body well enough, he just wasn’t sure why now, why this moment, when so many others had passed before them, more charged and less emotionally fraught.

“I told you I am fine,” Reid said, voice a little huskier than before.

“Just had to see for myself.”

It would be so easy to lean in, to close the distance. What was one more crime tacked onto the long list added to his name today. If Reid didn’t want to kiss him, if Jackson was reading the moment all wrong, it wouldn’t fuck his life up any more than it already was. He thought about it, licked his lips, felt Reid lean in infinitesimally against his hand, that pressure almost like permission, but he pulled back at the last moment, patting Reid’s shirt down before standing once more.

“I am sorry, Reid,” he muttered, voice hoarse enough he had to clear it before continuing. “For all of it.”

For Hobbs, for running, for Goodnight, for Swift, for aiming a gun at him, at Drake, for his past, for what was likely to become of his future.

Reid didn’t respond. He just stood, making his way wordlessly to the door of the cell, casting one last, inscrutable look Jackson’s way before locking it behind him and striding off.

ii

For a brief moment, hope had lived inside his heart, hope that he'd see his little girl again, hold her in his arms, take her home where she belonged. For a brief moment, he'd felt so alive again. Then all his hopes had been dashed in an instant, everything he'd been clinging to had crumbled, and he was left floundering, left to pick up the pieces of his broken heart, his broken life, once more. 

Reid’s whole body shuddered as he suppressed a sob, leaning forward against his desk, letting it take most of his weight. His head hung low, breath hitching as he attempted to pull himself together.

He straightened as he heard the door behind him open, clearing his throat, though he couldn’t dash the damning wetness from his eyes before Jackson was beside him, one hand on his shoulder, the other covering his where it still gripped the desk.

“I am so sorry, Reid,” Jackson whispered, giving Reid’s hand a small squeeze.

It struck Reid as odd and yet fitting at the same time that it would be Jackson here comforting him, Jackson trying to help, and not his wife nor his best friend. He tried to offer Jackson a smile but it crumbled and he looked away, swallowing the lump in his throat.

Jackson eased him into a chair, never once fully removing his touch, whether it was a hand on his arm, his shoulder, his back. He shivered as Jackson took his hand again, kneeling before him.

“I dunno what to say, Reid,” Jackson whispered, offering a sad smile.

He watched as Jackson reached up, hand hovering by Reid’s face as though he were going to cup Reid’s cheek. And oh, how Reid wished he would in that moment. How he wished Jackson would touch him like that, how he wished he could lean into that touch, let Jackson soothe his pain, let Jackson press a gentle, comforting kiss to his lips. He craved it so suddenly his breath caught in his throat, but then Jackson's hand fell to his shoulder.

“Tell me what you need.”

Reid couldn’t, not really. His heart hammered against his ribs as he looked into Jackson’s eyes. Sometimes he was sure Jackson felt this too, this pull between them. But he also knew how Jackson felt about Susan, how he would choose her above all else, always. And quite rightly, too—Reid had no claim over him.

“Nothing, Jackson,” he said quietly, voice tight as it squeezed past the lump in his throat. “Go home, be with your wife.”

iii

“Jackson.”

Jackson hummed in response, forcing his head up enough to look at Reid. “Thought you were gone.”

“I, uh…” Reid trailed off, looking almost embarrassed, and that was interesting enough for him to lift his head properly and look Reid in the eye despite the way the room spun nauseatingly around him.

“I’m on it,” Jackson muttered, realising Reid wasn’t embarrassed at all, that he just looked impatient as always. “Was just restin’ my eyes so I don’t mess up the dose.”

“No,” Reid said softly, moving to kneel before Jackson, hand hesitating before settling on his shoulder. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Jackson snorted, vision swimming a little as he cocked his head to the side. “You've changed your tune.”

Jackson’s head lolled to the side and he was surprised when Reid’s hands came up to cup his cheeks, holding his head upright. Jackson blinked against the vertigo and met Reid’s intense gaze. He looked on the verge of something, eyes flitting across Jackson’s face, from his eyes to his lips and back again like he was struggling with something, though Jackson’s mind was too fuzzy to work out what.

“How can I help?” Reid asked quietly.

His thumb brushed against Jackson’s cheek, distractingly tender, and for a moment, all he could see was Reid’s lips as his heart hammered against his ribs. He tilted forward, unintentionally though he wouldn't be surprised if his drug-hazed brain had tried and failed to make a decision. Reid removed one hand from his face to settle on his chest, keeping him upright.

“‘M fine, Reid,” he murmured, realising it was best to remove himself from this situation before he did something he couldn’t take back. “Just need a coffee and a cigarette and I’ll be good to go.”

He patted Reid’s cheek clumsily before standing, staggering a little as he made his way to the door in search of both, leaving Reid bewildered in his wake.

iv

Jackson had never done this before, never shown up at Reid’s place. He only knew where the man lived on paper, had never even set eyes on the building though he’d thought about it often, thought about how it might feel to be welcome there any time.

He swallowed the lump in his throat before knocking.

He’d imagined showing up here, all casual nonchalance, a cigarette between his lips and a bottle of whiskey in hand. He’d imagined arriving with his arm about Reid’s shoulder, the two of them drunk and stumbling home, invited to spend the night on Reid’s couch, the thought of more teasing him behind closed doors. He’d imagined showing up here with false bravado and declarations he couldn’t take back. He’d imagined this so many ways, but none of them had involved him feeling broken with nowhere else to turn but the bottom of a bottle and a gutter down some dark alley.

The bottle had been tempting, he couldn’t lie, but the temptation of Reid was stronger, the ache in his heart yearning to be soothed in some way no matter how hard it was to picture Reid caring for him.

“Jackson?” Reid asked, snapping him out of his thoughts.

He straightened, swallowed, aimed for a smile then sighed, realising he couldn’t be assed, and braced himself against the door frame instead. “Susan threw me out.”

Jackson was sure he saw a smile tugging at Reid’s lips for just a moment before it was gone in a flash, concern pulling his brow together as he wordlessly led Jackson inside.

“Drink?”

“Please,” Jackson replied, voice catching on that one, simple word, making him sound utterly desperate.

Reid poured them both a drink while Jackson hovered, uncertain and entirely out of his depth. He handed Jackson his glass and led him to the couch, sitting down, gesturing for Jackson to do the same.

He downed a large mouthful of the drink, relishing the burn, hoping it would stop his hands from shaking, but he had no such luck. He gripped the glass tighter, frustration bubbling inside him, and just as he was beginning to wish he’d not come here, not sought comfort where he’d never find any, Reid gently pried the glass from his hands, placing it aside before taking both Jackson’s hands in his own.

“I’m sorry,” Jackson whispered before Reid could say anything, shame bubbling up inside him.

“You’ve nothing to apologise for,” Reid said softly, giving his hands a small squeeze.

Jackson chanced a glance at Reid and his heart stuttered at the look of open affection and compassion he saw there, something he so rarely saw on Reid’s face, certainly not aimed at him.

It wasn’t the first time he was overcome with the urge to close the distance between them and press his lips to Reid’s, but this somehow felt the most dangerous, the most emotionally charged.

He swallowed, leaning in a little, hesitating as he tried to gauge Reid’s reaction. He thought Reid was going to lean in too, meet him halfway. He was sure as he watched Reid lick his lips, watched as his eyes darted to Jackson’s mouth before darting away again. He hovered, about to close the distance, when Reid sat back, letting go of Jackson’s hands with a quick pat.

“I’ll make up a bed for you,” Reid said, and he’d left the room before Jackson’s thoughts had even caught up.

v

Reid bristled, but he thrilled all the same to hear Jackson tease him once again, a response that was insanity, he was sure, but one he was so tired of fighting. So he dared to ask the question, dared to, in a roundabout way, attempt to get to the point, to finally stop, once and for all, their endless dancing around one another.

He found himself leaning in, unable to help it, as Jackson’s hand settled on his back, as Jackson leaned into his space. He breathed in deeply, eyes only leaving Jackson’s briefly to dart to his lips before locking eyes with him once more.

And then Jackson moved away, left Reid hovering in his wake, lips tingling with anticipation, with something that had yet to pass.

“We needle, we goad, because if we did not we would be forced to speak the truth.”

Reid swallowed at Jackson’s words, heart hammering against his ribs, barely daring to hope they may be on the same page.

He trailed Jackson, almost unconsciously. “Suppose for just one moment that was not–” He was brought to a sudden stop as Jackson thrust a drink between them and into Reid’s hands, causing his heart to stutter as their fingertips brushed. He forced himself to continue, barely holding his composure. “Suppose for one minute that was not the case. What would the truth say?”

He looked into Jackson’s eyes, willing him to understand, to play along, to finally put an end to the tension that seemed to be bubbling between them since the day they met. He was not quite brave enough to take that leap on his own, was not brave enough to kiss the man before him or confess to any feelings without the assurance that it was safe to do so, that Jackson felt the same, or at the very least, would not turn away from him.

“The truth?” Jackson started, and Reid had to remember to breathe. “That the good councillor fits with you. That the two of you look right together. And that I am sorry that your life is not less…complex.”

Reid’s heart dropped to his stomach, a chill crossing over him as a lump formed in his throat. He had been sure, so sure, that Jackson would infer his meaning. But perhaps he had. Perhaps he knew exactly what Reid was trying to say and was letting him down gently, safely, a way that they could both come back from, could continue on as though nothing had happened.

Because nothing had happened.

He swallowed down his disappointment, glancing at Jackson’s lips for just a brief moment before downing his drink in one, letting it wash away the hurt.

+

“C’mere, then,” Jackson said, laughter still in his voice as he crooked a finger at Reid. “I can find better ways to entertain you.”

Jackson laughed at the stunned look on Reid’s face, unable to hold it in, pure joy rising inside him. He’d spent so long second guessing himself, spent so long convincing himself that loving Reid was a fool’s errand, doomed from the start, could never come to anything.

But there Reid was, his love so clearly etched into every feature, every inch of his face brimming with affection, and Jackson couldn’t believe he’d convinced himself otherwise. There had to have been moments where Reid had looked at him like that, as though he’d hung the moon, as though his existence was something magical, but it had never been there long enough for him to convince himself he hadn’t imagined it.

Then here Reid was, watching him work, adoration so clear on his face that Jackson almost, almost, felt a fool for having never had the courage to act before.

He cupped Reid’s face in hands, sliding one hand back into his hair. He brushed his thumb across Reid’s lips, faces inches apart.

“I thought—I thought—you rebuffed me and—“

“Shut up, Reid,” Jackson whispered, cutting him off with a kiss.

[hidden-poet]

HEY BESTIEEEE 🩷 I CAN’T BELIEVE FOR ONCE I AM THIS EARLY 😂

CHAPTER 8 - LETS GOOOO

Of course he doesn’t trust her now 😂 our girl keeps trying to run away!

Coryo being worried about Edmund taking her away is so cute 🥹

I love how she tries to soften him with affection 🩷 he’s so baby boy 😭

Awe I love Tigris! She’s literally the sweetest and so blind to her cousins depraved nature 😂

“You’ll be home soon.” , “We’ll be home soon” - okay daddy 🙄

You lean down and wrap your arms around his shoulders, resting your face against his neck. - GOD HIS NECK PROBABLY SMELLS SO FUCKING GOOD 😫

~

DID HE JUST REFER TO HER AS HIS WIFE? 😳

District women weren’t wives. They were barely considered human. - I mean… he clearly has a thing for District women so 😂

I love it when he tends to her with the cold wet rag 😭

At least he was nice enough to make sure she was clean and comfortable before he cuffed her to the bed 😂

“Just in case, Edmund comes back.” - My insecure boy 🥹

“I left you one hand so you can read. I don’t have to.” - Okay chill daddy chill 🙇‍♀️ I mean I rather you cuff me to the bed for other things 😈

“You’ve had a big day. Try and rest. I’ll be home soon.” - 😑😑😑

Girly should be daydreaming of BLONDE haired babies 😂 HER AND CORYOS BABIES, NOT EDMUNDS (even tho I love Edmund lol)

I love how he’s sorry about waking her and I’m like bro… you literally cuffed her to the bed, who tf can sleep through that? 😂

“I was thinking I hope we have a boy first. Then two girls, then another boy.” - WOAH LETS JUST CHILL FOR A SEC PLEASE 😂 It would be my dying wish to get knocked by you but please take it easy daddy… let’s not rush this and just focus on the one 😂 one at a time boo… one at a time 😭

“What else should I have called you? We sleep together, eat together, wake together. We look after each other. The only thing missing is an official title but as soon as we get back to the Capitol, we’ll fix that.” - Yeah... all by force 😂 And baby boy, please don’t forget about the not fucking eachother yet part too…

God my anxiety was so up during the key sequence like my god when he suddenly came up behind her and caught her by the hair 😳

Girl… a hangover cure? Really? He’s not an idiot 😂 Then again, I would probably say anything too in that moment of fear so… and of course he’s gonna cuff you the bed again lmfao

“If I had listened to you, I would have left the door opened. You spoiled, deceiving, little bitch.” - DAMN DADDY 😳 call me a spoiled, deceiving, little bitch again 😈

Oh shit he’s really mad today! The silent treatment. He didn’t even HOLD her hand as they walked out together 😳

I love how he asks her what her dads hangover cure is and he just slams all the cupboards saying it’s all there 😂

Bro just took all the bacon for himself and threw the rest out and slid over the empty plate… like damn that was so cold 😂

“He’s probably hiding with your mother in what’s left of the forest. Don’t worry. We’ll find him and bring your mother home.” - 😳*nervous laughter* we love a good threat right?! 😳

The ‘good’ comment from the both of them had me on the floor 😂

When she begs him not to throw the boy in jail and he gives her a warning look 😬 well he’s officially back to hitting her again hard to the floor… but now in public… wow he’s really really pissed off isn’t he? 😂 The men not doing anything and backing away from her because they’re so scared of Coryo 😑 He just hits her, then harshly takes her arm and pulls her back in one quick motion 😂 crazy boy 😈

“You embarrassed me. Vongurt already thinks I can’t control my Peacekeepers, now he thinks I can’t control my women as well.” - YOUR WOMEN? 😈

“Look at me when I am talking to you.” - yes, daddy sir 🫡

“Ravinstill is expected to die shortly. This behavior of yours cannot be brought back to the Capitol.” - And what are you gonna do about it? Huh? 😈

“You think a Peacekeeper would get the same punishment as a District? No. You would have been hanged. Yet another reason to be loyal to me. I’ve saved you.” - NAH… NOW THIS MOTHERFUCKER 😑but… gladly 😫

Her begging him and crying to not be mad at her so he’ll be in a good mood for her grand escape plan is the cutest 😂

~

This girl is so smart with the washing machine plan 👏

Aweee he’s so excited to finally talk to Grandma’am and Tigris and introduce his girl to them… my heart 🥹🩷

Love how he pulls her down so she sits on his lap as he’s talking to his family 😫

And I love how sassy Grandma’am is 😂 and especially calling her ‘girl’

“You must be grateful he is sending you back to the Capitol. Don’t ruin it like the last one.” - I’m assuming this is about Lucy Gray 😂

He tugs you back down causing you to fall into him. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Tigris almost cringe. - Does she know about her cousin's depraved nature? 👀

You know. Since she attempted to run away from him a few times now… you would think he wouldn’t even let her go do the laundry alone, especially for five minutes. Baby boy was so stupid here 😭

You smile at him as you pull away. It was too easy, You had won. - Yeah! Too easy 😂 omg I feel so bad that she just left him 😭 he was so excited too… and I keep forgetting that this our captor but I don’t care 🫠

Her reuniting with her mom had me emotional 🥹 that was so beautiful 🩷

You were home. You were safe. - Yeah… sure… 😂

~

Awe the way he tries to convince himself that she didn’t leave him and she just felt sick and went back to the apartment to sleep it off 🥹

Okay let’s be real here. He is obviously going to find her (which I hope to god he does because she belongs to him 😈 like how my pussy soul belongs to him 🫠) 

He will not stop until he finds her and once he does… good luck girly. Good luck to you, good luck to your mom, your brother, Edmund, Edmund’s family… and anyone else up in the mountains… Like I am so terrified for all of them rn because it’s not going to end well. This was definitely her last straw, no sweet talking is going to work on him this time…

Something tells me the next chapter is going to be a little time skip… WE SHALL SEE!

Bestieeee this chapter was so anxiety inducing and I LOVED EVERY BIT OF IT 🩷 I am so freakin’ excited to see what happens in chapter 9 because it’s gonna be CRAZY I just know it!

BESTIE LOOK AT YOU GO!

so glad you liked this chapter 😭😭 thank you for taking the time out to write this!

I love when you call the reader “our girl” because it’s so true! She’s our girl!

I’ll see you in the next chapter, bestie ❤️

[ms-rampage]

Anymore Lore on Liv x Ubba or King Fairhair?

So I’m gonna answer both of these.

More info below the cut!

Liv & Harald

Ship name: Livald. Haraliv.

Not my photo by the way

For King Harald Fairhair, this “relationship” was arranged by both their fathers years earlier.

This was arranged because Edmund owed Harald’s father (Halfdan the Black according to the AC wiki) a favor, and as a way to strengthen both their families since Edmund is an apparent relative to King Burgred (hence why he was considered a traitor to the crown for fleeing Mercia/England, and marrying a Norse woman).

When Liv escaped Kjotve the Cruel, she was visited by Harald, and brought up their arranged marriage.

“What are you talking about, Your Grace?.” she asks, confused as to why King Harald would give her the time and day to visit her. Especially after she escaped the hand of Kjotve after all the abuse and torture he and Gorm did to her.

“I apologize for my unannounced visit, milady.” he says, “I don’t know if this was explained to you, but I’m sure your father will explain it.”

Liv plays with the sleeve cuff of her dress, “My father died, a long time ago.”

“My apologies for your loss. Your mother?.” he asks in the most sincere voice.

“She died 72 moons ago. 6 years ago.” she answers nervously, she never knew how to use the whole “many moons” type of thing.

“I’m sorry about your parents, but many years ago, my father and yours made an arrangement for both our families.” he explains to her.

“What arrangement?.” she asks, awkwardly shifting away from him, but not making it noticeable.

“We are arranged to be married, to strengthen both our families because your father, Edmund, was related to the Mercia dynasty.”

Raising her eyebrows, she never knew this information about her father, but then he died when she was 6 years old, so she didn’t know him very well, her mother never mentioned it to her. Unknown if she knew of this arrangement.

“My father? I- I didn’t know any of this. I've never been told about this.” she tells him, feeling like she was on the verge of crying. She started to feel overwhelmed, and Harald saw this. “Marry me, and you won’t have to be scared. You’ll always be protected, and you will be my queen.” he tells her, taking her hands in his. He has this gentle look in his eyes, but it seemed kinda off.

In a way, Liv did believe him, but she wanted to see it to believe it. She reluctantly agreed to take his hand and marry him. But this was just a plot for her to plan her next escape, if given the chance before she was married to him.

***********

Liv & Ubba

Ship name: Libba. Lubba. Livba

They met at a feast held by the Raven clan, Liv isn’t one to be social. She's an introvert. She's one to stand in the corner of the room and watch everyone else have fun. That's her way of having fun.

The drunkards making fools of themselves dancing, eating and singing very loudly. Celebrating very loudly. He approached her, as she was trying not to be seen, but who can miss her with 3 foxes by her side, and her bright copper hair. Not to mention, her lack of tattoos, her long beautiful dresses, and not looking like a viking, but having the mentality of one.

As he approaches her, she tries to not acknowledge him, but not wanting to be rude she gives him a smile. Drinking her mead, and looking down at her furry companions.

“Having fun?.” he asks her, leaning against the wall. Giving her a slight smile, how this man is Ivarr’s brother is beyond Liv’s knowledge. He’s handsome, tall. Taller than her by many, he towers over her and with his big build.

“Yeah, I am.” she responds, giving a smile back.

“Not gonna dance?.” he asks her, a hint of flirtatious in his tone, probably because he's been drinking, and probably wants to get with Liv.

“I’m not much of a dancer.” she tells him, feeling a little embarrassed. Looking away from him.

He lets out a laugh that can’t be heard over the sound of everyone else singing, laughing, and being loud in general. “Neither are these drunken fools.” he tells her as she finishes off her mead and sets down the cup. Finishing her 3rd cup. Feeling a little tipsy and very social.

“I don’t think they will remember anything tonight.” she tells him, feeling the mead hit her as she starts to move a little closer to Ubba. “They’re only good singers when they’re drowning in their mead.”

He takes her hand, “Dance with me.” Unable to protest against him, she follows him, not like she has any choice, she joins him and the others in the group dance of drunks. She had a great time, standing in the corner got a little boring anyway. Dancing and laughing with the members of the Raven clan.

Ubba lifted her up a few times in mid-dance, neither of them could remember, but according to Tove and Petra, Liv and Ubba did share a kiss that was interrupted by Ivarr, and his drunken state.

[elliewiltarwyn]

FFXIV Write 2023 | Prompt #12: Dowdy

I'll be real I didn't really have any great ideas for this one so I sort of grabbed for a trope I've seen a lot and decided to do the opposite of the prompt?? oh well it's something ;u;

-860 words

----

“Oh, thank the Fury, you’re back—I was beginning to think you weren't going to make it in time.”

“The hells are you talking about? It’s still like two hours until it starts, isn’t it?”

Mia shook her head and smiled ruefully as she straightened out her billowing sleeves and tightened some of the laces on her corset—her corset. Of all the things… “You’re right, technically, but… because we’re honored guests of House Fortemps, we’re supposed to attend with the rest of Count Edmund’s retinue so he can look all grand and impressive as the doors open. Which means—”

“We have to be there stupid early.” Ellie groaned, and Mia heard a sort of flump sound from the bed behind her, as if someone had just dropped a heavy mass of fabrics upon it. “Gods, I knew I was in trouble the moment somebody mentioned the words ‘Ishgard ball.’”

“You really should have seen it coming, the moment we began to mingle with Ishgardian high society,” Mia chuckled, now adjusting the bands on her cuffs’ straps. “And especially once we defeated Nidhogg—you thought they wouldn’t have celebrated the end of the Dragonsong War with a big stuffy ostentatious ball?”

“I knew they would. I was just hoping we’d get to avoid it.”

“No such luck, I’m afraid,” Mia mused, and as she ran the tips of her fingers under her neckline, ensuring that it wasn’t scratching at her skin or anything, she glanced over her shoulder. “No, I’m afraid you’ll have to suck it up and wear a—” And then she froze in place.

“What?” Ellie said with a sly smirk, running the tips of her fingers under the fringe of her collar. “Coeurl got your tongue? Or Lily, perhaps?”

“N-no, I—” Mia was very uncertain as to why her mouth had suddenly gone dry upon beholding Ellie standing before her dresser at full height, in a smooth, silk tailcoat, a frilly shirt tucked underneath a tightly buttoned vest, and smart slacks tucked into knee-high leather boots. “That’s just not what I was—” She swallowed, her throat suddenly scratchy as well. “...You… look nice.” Really, Mia? That’s the best you could come up with? At least go for handsome, as someone who looks good in a suit is usually referred to…

“I’m glad someone thinks so.” Ellie’s smirk turned wry as she gestured with her hand across the width of her broad shoulders, down the sleeve filled with her thick arm. “They tried to stuff me in a big flowy gown, but… I just don’t have the right build for it.”

“I- I’m sure that’s—come on, that can’t remotely be true. Of course there are dresses that suit your build.” She tamped down the urge to mention that she had been oddly looking forward to see what Ellie looked like in a long flowing ballroom gown, she does not need to know that.

“Maybe, maybe not. Either way, I’m not going to give Ishgard’s high houses a chance to spend the whole evening sneering at how… dowdy or ungainly I look wearing one of their big flowy dresses.” Ellie chuckled and tugged her glove a little tighter. “No, Artoirel suggested I borrow this, it’s one of his old suits—still had to be tailored somewhat to fit, that’s why I’m nearly late for our very early arrival… but it worked out, I think.”

“It very much did,” Mia had to admit; the more she thought about it, the more a suit did, well…suit Ellie and her long frame and broad shoulders. She glanced down at herself, suddenly self-conscious. It wasn’t like she was familiar with this style of formalwear, certainly no more than Ellie was, and she honestly felt more at home in platemail than anything else… Maybe I should’ve… “You don’t think… I’m going to come off as dowdy or ungainly, do you?”

Ellie blinked in mild surprise. “What? No, why would you think that? You’re gorgeous in that.”

If Mia thought her mouth was dry before, it was parched now. And from the stunned expression on Ellie’s face, as though she couldn’t believe the words that had just tumbled forth unbidden from her mouth, was any indication, the tall roegadyn was just as speechless.

Ellie did recover first, though, clearing her throat and shaking her head as she jerked her head toward the door. “Anyway, uh… are you all set? If we have to leave early, we should probably wait in the foyer or something, for everyone else…”

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”

In a most ironic fashion that betrayed how she clearly had no idea what she was doing, Ellie proffered her arm to Mia with that same smirk as before. “Is this how Ishgardian gentlefolk do things? It’s something like this, right?”

With a small giggle and a warm smile, Mia threaded her hand through the crook of her friend’s elbow, resting it upon her forearm. “Something like this, yeah. Don’t worry, though; whether or not you’re doing it wrong, I think you’re going to be the best looking one there.”

“I don’t know,” Ellie said knowingly with a wink, “I think I have some pretty stiff competition.”

[seekeurs]

In every part of you, I drown.

a short plotless medieval royal!buddie au .

also known as a week of mind-numbing work and buck has been on my mind. trigger warning: mentions of blood, depictions of dysfunctional families & low self-esteem.

Water under his tongue, salty and it burns seconds before he chokes, lump caressing the strained flesh of his throat and it drips down his lips like the ghosting teardrops.

“Evan,” there’s a low sigh, he doesn’t need to look to see those pinched lips but he does anyway. A creature of habit. “Manners , please.”

He inclines his head in apology, between the shadows that flutter on their silver plates and the soft clink of his father’s goblet on the wood. A small sheepish smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, as the candles flicker against the wax, and his skin itches beneath his sleeves ( it’s salty , mother , his lungs scream , just like before ). 

Silk, a deep blue flattening against his chest, a birthday gift from his sister for his nineteenth and it still fits , eight years passing as it still crinkles the same way, a thin thread hanging from the edge of the cuff. It was also not the outfit that had been chosen for him, requested by his mother, but her voice did not share the brittle edge it might have done if they didn’t have guests. At least she was seeing him, caught in the low glow of the flames, it could not shine through him here. 

A brush over the tip of his shoe, his leg almost jerks, a flinch that rolls through his muscles and pools away with the tension as it becomes a pulse pressing down on to his foot. His palm descends to his thigh before he has even registered the grip, fingertips pushing into the thrumming nerves, and he swallows hard. 

A hesitant glance up over the long, but blessedly thin wood and platters of fruit, those eyes are watching him. Dark brown,  Eddie's eyes, soft, and furrowed, and the pressure on his foot falls away with a gentle nudge. 

( two households both alike in dignity, and all that ) 

“I must say, Prince Edmund-”

“It’s Edmundo,” his fork clicks against his teeth, murmuring softly, and his mother’s eyes narrow, as Queen Margaret brushes over them like the glaze in wine-soaked eyes. But a mistake it was not, no fumble of her tongue no matter how her wrist gestures lightly to her goblet, like an airy joke she never quite says. 

Dark brown, they're back, like ripples on his skin. Drawing the air from his lungs in every capacity and his palm splays further across his thigh, jaw tightening. He’s not angry, now, neither seeing or seeking judgment beneath them ( ‘ you know, we’re not here to be enemies, that's the whole point of this trip.’ like he didn’t know that, like it was easy ), not since the flood, and the river, and little Christopher. 

Before then too, if he’s willing to admit it, when they rode out to to help Sir Robert. 

“I had not expected your Madre to be so agreeable.” 

Eddie blinks, a line of tension working its way between his shoulders, and seems to straighten a fraction more. Evan didn’t think it could be any straighter ( always proven wrong ). 

“Agreeable?”

There’s a hint to his tone that King Phillip catches. A sharp flicker up from the bones of his plate, slowly, methodically working through the meat with a precise number of chews, letting the idyl conversation slip by from the other end of the table. Until he wasn’t, like a needle finding a pinpoint, he jumps in. 

A brilliance in diplomacy, damage control. 

“Indeed, it is a mother’s instinct to protect their children, we only thought she might have preferred you home, rather than to venture out so soon after that disastrous flooding.”

 Eddie’s eyes jump down, glancing between the two with an unreadable expression. 

Evan doesn’t buy it, he knows exactly what his mother was thinking, and a small vindictive part of him dearly hopes that Eddie too, sees behind the washed-out fabrics of their politeness. But then, he's not supposed to buy it, they spare little time caring for what he knows. 

“I did not bring my son for that very reason.” Eddie offers, leaning back in his chair, letting the tension smoothen out from his muscles, balancing the fork delicately between his middle and forefinger. 

Redirect. Smart. 

Manners of conversation always win out. He wasn’t afforded that civilness. 

He remembers being younger, wondering if everyone could feel their tension, like bruises painted in the air around their skin, always feeding into the wrong things - he never said the right things. Could they feel it too? Their eyes were discarded to their plates or shoes, never to comment on the inner workings of the royal Buckleys. did they laugh in their homes about the shattered visage they could clearly see through, or was it just Evan who felt so exposed between the cracks? 

“How is the dear one?” Margaret falls for the bait, and Eddie falls back into his comfort zone.

“Good, he’s been obsessed with horses lately,” a small, fond smile peeking at the edges of his lips as the pressure returns to his foot, a faint push down, and then it withdraws, and Evan relaxes his fingers. “Thank you for that, by the way.”

Let it be said by him first, Prince Edmundo has such nice eyes. And if that is one thing history remembered him for, Evan could live with that. 

“Thank who?” Philip asks politely, brow furrowing. 

“Evan. He’s the reason Christopher is interested in them, and honestly, I can’t thank you enough. We took him out riding the other day.”

The light on Eddie’s face is enough to make his chest swell, a warm blush flooding along his cheeks. 

“We’ve seen Christopher ride before?” 

‘Not on his own.”

The air leaves his lungs. First, its every scenario under the sun, ever fall, ever crack, ever possible reason Chris could have bled leaps across his mind. And then, then it's the look, slightly wet, crooked smile, like the whole world tilts just before him, and it’s Eddie keeping him in balance. 

( it worked . he did something right ) 

He exhales, a low shudder in his chest. 

“On his own?”

Almost a whisper, leaning forwards, desperation licking at his heels, and for once he does not care that his mother would most definitely disagree with his display of emotion, the rawness clawing up in his throat. But Eddie, Eddie just grins, this frazzled, goofy smile, like he’s been waiting to tell him that all day. 

And it strikes him in his chest that, knowing Eddie, he probably had. 

“We were all there of course, he didn’t do much more than trot, but he was so happy Evan.”

Another shuddering breath, as the candles flicker warm flames over Eddie’s glowing face, blurring just slightly at the edges with water glistening under his eyelashes. For a second, it was just them and their gaze in the room. 

King Phillip clears his throat, and he falls back into his chair, pretending not to notice his mother’s frown as he swipes a hand over his eyes. 

Faint music drifts from the other side of the doors, braced against the balcony not hiding not hiding not hiding.

“Hiding?”

He almost jerks, fingers tightening on the stone, neck aching as his head swings round and oh. 

It's (just) Eddie. 

Prince Edmundo with his warm smile, like a soft summer breeze and a touch of dawn, like dreams, and ghosts in his eyes that smoothen out as the stars in disarray gleam in the evening air. Prince Edmundo, whose thumb brushes over his knuckle, a slight hesitancy as he rocks back on the balls of his feet - is this okay?

Evan presses his knuckle up, just a little, bumping against the palm of Eddie’s hand, as it smoothes fully over the thin scratches still healing on the back of his hand. The heat of blood, and the cool balcony, smothered under stars and yet not, out from the looming shadows of the castle.

“I..”

Lips heavy, throat dry, a thousand words flooding into his mouth and fumbles over themselves to answer. But they’re so close, two open wounds pushing up against each other to keep the pressure on, closing each other up until the blood stops flowing, faded bruises of restless winds and soft kisses. 

Soft kisses. God he wishes . 

“I’d hide too.” Eddie murmurs knowingly, lips twitching, breeze ruffling his hair. They’re so close, he could touch it. 

“I’m sorry,” Evan breathes instead, looking away, over the ridges of the two splayed out below and the treeline, to the moon just peeking in the distance. 

“For what?”

‘Them.”

Eddie’s fingers disappear, a soft vacant cold left in their wake and he squashes the lurch of disappointment from his chest. 

“They aren’t your mistake to make up for, Buckley.”

Warm breath ghosting his ear, and a graze, slightly ticklish, grinds his teeth as his skin thrums strangely, and that same warm palm circles around his elbow. 

“And you are not theirs, either.”

Was he that obvious?

“Still,” he swallows, carefully shifting his eyes back to Eddie, just below his chin, nothislips, lump burning in his throat. “Sorry.”

There’s a soft sigh, and a squeeze against his arm. 

“I leave tomorrow at noon.”

He knows this, it was just a short visit, one night nothing more. Evan still didn’t quite know why, but he liked it, that buzzing in his chest because Eddie wanted to visit him. Not just see him in passing like so many others. He leans in, tipping his head forwards pressing against Eddie’s, skin yearning for the heat of contact, and closes his eyes. His breath catches. A nervous whisper cowering in his throat, it's a wonder Eddie even hears it. 

“Stay.”

A palm cupping his cheek. 

“Carino, I can’t.”

He hates the water prickling behind his eyes more than anything in the world. 

“But,” his breath stutters in his throat, lips brushing over his, he dare not open his eyes. “You could come with me?”

“They’d never allow it.”

“Don’t ask.” Eddie’s soft whisper, and then, even softer lips, gentle, like fallen petals catching in the wind, and cinnamon, a pleasant taste of chance ever bottled in that moment. 

“I won’t.” He takes the leap. 

[frogshunnedshadows]

When you see this, post 5 songs you actually listen to and tag 10 of your favourite followers/mutuals!

Got tagged by @hikamaus, so now we're playing how much do I want to carefully edit my actual taste in music so I don't sound like some kind of 80 year old jukebox set to shuffle the game of ... musical ... musical chairs (?).

"Hit it."

Getting weird immediately with "Pecori Night," by Gorie with Jasmine and Joann, a Japanese cover of The Bay City Rollers' "Saturday Night." Not just a cover, of course, because this has a cross-dressing guy dancing around dressed like a cheerleader... Can't find the original video for this one on YT, but maybe just listen to the audio only anyway. It's ... catchy. They also have a banger cover of "Mickey." No idea how I stumbled across these.

Song number two: "Fight Song / Amazing Grace" as covered / remixed / performed by The Piano Guys:

Great song, great performance, great video, what more can I say? Look up some other stuff by them if you like this one – "All of Me" and "Rockelbel's Canon" are good examples.

Third song goes here: I'm passing over some of the English-language Eurovision songs from the 80's that I've grabbed recently (I think I already posted them here?), and I'm choosing "The House You Live In" by Gordon Lightfoot:

He's more than just 'the Edmund Fitzgerald guy.' I can also suggest "Don Quixote," "Early Morning Rain," "Sit Down Young Stranger," "Second Cup of Coffee," and "If You Could Read My Mind" if you like this kind of melancholy, folk vibe.

Song Number Four: "Tracy" by The Cuff Links. Here's your obligatory oldies, happy pop song:

Fifth Song Goes Here: Finally, how about a lesser-appreciated 80's pop / rock song? I present to you the ballistic missile submarine Red October "Playin' With Fire" by Lita Ford:

I like her pop / rock stuff, but the majority of her work appears to be more country-sounding.

Thanks for reading / listening and you're welcome / I'm sorry.

[eleanor-bradstreet]

My prediction was correct that I would cry reading about Edmund and Benedict together, but what I did not anticipate was that I would cry so much. You have a superb ability to find stories within music, and I love that these songs inspire you to write such moving work!

You discussed it in the comments and I join the group in agreeing - we need more exploration of Edmund and Benedict’s relationship. The books are written, and it may be too much to expect from the show, but in our collective fics and headcanons, we can examine what is undoubtedly a beautiful bond, and that is exactly what you have done, with exceptional skill. That you not only wrote a fic for them, but peppered it throughout with so many heartwarming and heartbreaking nods and details to other story elements and to Benedict’s character - this is a treasure. 🥹

Ok, the list of all the ways you destroyed me:

I probably should have, but didn’t realize this was a modern setting until movies were mentioned. Mentions of modern technology aside, this fits so perfectly into any time period.

That Benedict could sense the importance of the conversation with his father. Tying this in so beautifully to his book premonitions, when he can sense significant change is coming. Our darling spiritual boy 💙 Given all the parallels that are often drawn between these two characters, it makes me wonder if Edmund could sense it too - some imperative to have important conversations with his two eldest sons as soon as possible, though he wasn’t precisely sure why. Maybe Benedict’s sensitivity to that energy is inherited. 💔

I haven’t read the books expanding on Edmund’s backstory, but would love to know how in the world he became an absolutely perfect man 😭 The way he (which would be YOU) describes women, their strengths, their needs, and how they complement the strengths and needs of men, is so unique, deeply insightful, and in my experience - true. What staggering wisdom he is imparting to Ben, and it all demonstrates how he has loved and viewed Violet in their life together. Seeing that - how much he reveres and understands her - I am once again reminded of how she ended up having 8 children with this man. When he is so perfect, and so perfectly in love with you, how could you not??

“But with a heart built like yours, it will come as second nature. Of that I have no doubt.” Edmund understands Benedict. He sees that he is the child with the biggest heart and can already anticipate how much love Benedict is going to pour out into the world. That is why the topic of this important conversation is love and passion - because he knows these things will be Benedict’s driving motivations in life. As opposed to Anthony, whose final conversation was about persistence, confidence and vulnerability, traits that Edmund knew he would need to rely on as a future viscount. Violet confirmed it to Anthony during their graveside chat, that Edmund was both a strong and dutiful viscount, but also made time for love. It’s clear that the personalities of all his children - especially his sons - are each facets of his own (and Violet’s, I won’t discount her), and your fic demonstrates that so beautifully by focusing in on these two, the romantics in the family.  🥹

THEN YOU START TO BUILD THE POEM 😭 “No pain or burden will be too much to bear.” Tears, just tears pouring down my face as these little words and phrases jump out, showing us that Benedict’s off-the-cuff love poem for Anthony 10 years later was inspired by the wisdom of their father. That Benedict treasured his words and remembered them verbatim for the rest of his life… That it guides the way he sees the world and the way he loves… I am broken.

“Use it as an anchor point.” I just about threw my laptop across the room. Are you TRYING to kill me?????

Violet is standing among the hyacinths. In that fateful spot where we all know what happens. Stop stop stop stop 😭😭😭😭

“It will be as easy as breathing.” Tell me you’ve read AOFAG without telling me you’ve read AOFAG. Aaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

“Sometimes after you had put the book down, he would flip through the pages and try to find you there.” My god, what beautiful imagery. You are so incredibly talented 💙

Then the breathtaking description, from Ben’s POV, of how he saw and loved Reader. Absolutely gorgeous, so real, acknowledging both of their weaknesses and flaws, but that they always gave each other space and support for them. Ugh, every word of this tugged at my already shredded heart. A sweet happy ending to this exploration of Ben’s soul.

I know I rag on you for hurting me with your words but I enjoy it so much. You evoke so many feelings with your work, and it's always a satisfying experience. Thank you, thank you, thank you. 🙏

From A Father To A Son

Pairings:  Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, Benedict Bridgerton & Edmund Bridgerton

Summary - Benedict has held his father’s words close to his heart for his entire life. The model of love that his parents provided set an uncompromising standard. All of the pieces to the puzzle didn’t fully align until he fell in love with you. Although his father is gone, Benedict gets to experience the love of his life through the lens of his father’s parting sage wisdom.

Warnings - This one is pretty tame. I toned down the angst and dialed up the romance. It is sickeningly sweet.

Word Count - 3.1K

Author’s Note - The song inspiration for this one was If You Love Her by Forest Blakk. It isn’t necessary to listen before you read, but if you want a soundtrack… This is where my brain was lol

_______________________________________________

Spring was always Benedict’s favorite time of year, in spite of the fact that it held some of the most painful moments of his life. The world was coming back alive. Colors brightened, days grew longer, and the sun soaked into everything it touched, greeting those in its embrace with a warm hello. It was a time for new beginnings. A time that embodied promises of better things to come. That’s probably why it seemed to be the time of year when the world fell in love. 

Wedding season was in full bloom. He had already watched three of his old friends from school tie the knot this year. Each time he witnessed a bride take her first steps toward the rest of her life, he would turn and look at you. You were always there, right by his side, looking more lovely with each passing day. He watched you, as you watched her. Your eyes would mist over with joy, and when you felt his gaze on you, your skin would turn the most alluring shade of pink he had ever seen. That was always his favorite part.

He could never resist the urge to reach over and join your hand with his, watching together, as the two people before you joined their lives in a sacred union. Naturally, it would always send his mind down a certain trajectory. With the warmth of your palm pressing into his, it was easy to imagine your future, and he would think to himself, some day. 

Keep reading

[xavecamourconnections]

summary:

35. he/him. ravenclaw. halfblood. heterosexual. famous author of fantasy fiction novels. likes lazy days in bed, free champagne and talking about himself. dislikes lack of muse, short deadlines and being asked whether he’s related to “barnabus cuffe” (still to be confirmed ;) he is). (muse page: x)

current connections

“fake” girlfriend - piper potts best friends - armani marino fellow writers - cherry scrimgeour, ciaran killick, auden reyes friends and fans - glenda chittock publicist - ellie dowson

wanted connections

best friends (open) exes (open) rivals (open) fans (open)

[hederasgarden]

New Beginnings

Summary: You are chosen to wed King Harald in order to cement the alliance between King Canute’s growing kingdom and Norway.

Pairing: Harald Sigurdsson x F!Reader (future Harald Sigurdsson x F!Reader x Leif Eriksson)

Rating: Gen (future drabbles will include explicit content) 

Word Count: 1.4K

They say the new King of Norway is handsome, but all you remember from the siege is a bloody face and bared teeth, a fierce man ready to kill King Edmund. When you see Harald Sigurdsson now he looks no less dangerous, standing with his countrymen and yours, sipping from a golden goblet. He is tall and lean, his beard neatly groomed and his hair braided carefully. Though his clothes are spun in the Viking fashion, the English influence in the intricate needlework is visible. Beneath the cuff, there is a hint of tattoo you know winds up his forearm. You've heard of the way the Vikings stain their skin, an ode to battles won and spells of protection. Even those who have accepted Christ and wear his cross bare the same ink. 

"My lady."

The deep voice startles you from your thoughts, and you look up into the cool gray eyes of King Canute. You greet him demurely and drop into a low curtsey. He cups your elbow, bidding you to rise. He offers you a kind smile, his grip on your arm gentle. You see it now and in small flashes, what drew Queen Emma to him. He is a good man, kind but deadly when called for it. You would be lucky if your new husband shared those qualities, though you know little of Harald Sigurdsson beyond his prowess on the battlefield. 

"I realize this must be quite frightening for you," King Canute continues. "You expected to marry an Englishman, yes?"

"I marry who I am bid to,” you reply evenly and he chuckles. 

"I see much of Emma in you, my lady. You will do well as Norway's new Queen." His words ease some of the anxiety you’ve been holding since the announcement months ago. King Canute isn’t one to offer flowery words like your fellow Englishmen, he means every word he speaks. “Come now, let us find your future husband.” 

The King pulls you through the crowd of people. They part for him like the sea, heads bowed out of respect and fear. Harald stands by the hearth, speaking to a man whose golden brown hair is pulled into a low bun. The Greenlander. You heard whispers of Leif Erickson and how his plan was vital to Canute’s triumph over England. His brows lift when he notices you, lips pulling into a soft smile beneath his wispy beard. Heat floods your face at the way he stares so boldly at you. Unlike his brethren, you don't feel your skin crawl under his gaze. He looks at you with only open curiosity, not lust or ill intent.

Harald notices he's lost his companion's attention just as you and the King stop before them. His eyes travel up and down your body in quick assessment, his expression unreadable. Emma had commissioned a new gown for you. The cloth had come all the way from Normandy and been inlaid with gold stitching. It was more intricate and richly attired than you were used to even with your noble status. Something befitting a future queen. 

You blink, breath catching when his tongue darts out to wet his lips and you see a flash of something in his dark brown eyes. It disappears as quickly as it arrives and his gaze is on King Canute once more. They exchange a greeting, their words lost to the beating of your heart in your ears. Leif still watches you, sipping from his goblet. You swallow and look behind you. Emma's cool blue gaze calms you. She sends you an encouraging look. You must be strong. Worthy.

At the sound of your name and title, you return your attention to your companions to find them watching you. They are waiting for you to respond. You smile and lift your chin.

“Heil og sæl,” you greet, the words foreign on your tongue. 

You'd practiced with Emma, working to get the inflection and tone right. She began learning the language of her husband shortly after their marriage and when it became apparent you would wed a Viking she insisted you learn with her. Like all things, Emma was a quick study and spoke the language with ease now. Your grasp remains poor but is improving each day. 

"Heil ok sæl,” Harald replies, brows raised in either amusement or surprise. 

King Canute squeezes your arm in encouragement and you hear his quiet grunt of approval. He smiles down at you before cutting his eyes back to meet his wife's gaze, clearly amused. 

"It is an honor to meet you, King Harald Sigurdsson," you acknowledge.

"The honor is mine," he insists. He lays a hand over his heart and bows. You’re surprised by his deference. "Call me Harald, you will be my wife in three days time after all."

Your brow furrows, anxiety bubbling up in your chest as his request. "As you wish," you acknowledge, unable to hide your discomfort at the breach in etiquette.

"Do not tease the lady," King Canute admonishes, pinning Harald with an unamused look. 

"My apologies," Harald returns quickly. "I meant no disrespect. Only to..." he trails off, searching for his words. "Only to put you at ease."

"That is very kind. Thank you, your grace."

"Yes, King Harald is very kind," Leif says, speaking for the first time. He shoots his friend a look and Harald scowls in return. 

"You must forgive the Greenlander," Harald says to you. "They have even fewer manners than us."

Leif scoffs openly and brings the wine to his lips for a long drink. The friendship and care they have for one another is apparent. It bodes well for the type of man your future husband is, to take the teasing of a man of lower status so well. You've seen Ealdorman whip others for less. You find yourself relaxing in the easy air they've created. 

"I shall leave you to get acquainted," King Canute says, urging you to step towards Harald with a firm push. "Greenlander, come. I must show you the newly constructed bridge. I think you'll find it harder to pull this one down"

Leif and Harald exchange a silent look before he turns to offer you a smile. To your surprise, he bows his head and says, "My Queen."

You watch him leave with King Canute, only returning your attention to Harald when his fingers encircle your wrist. They are thick and warm against your skin. You shiver and he tugs you closer to the roaring fire.

"Are you cold, my lady?" He asks.

"A little," you lie, your body quivering at his touch and the smell of him, something musky and heady. 

"Well you must come closer then.”

He easily positions your body between his and hearth. His frame blocks out the rest of the room so he is all you see. When he shifts forward there's hardly a wisp of space between the two of you and the heat he throws off is more dizzying than the fire at your back. Although you're in a room of a hundred people, it suddenly feels as if you are alone with him. Your heart beats wildly in your chest, a caged bird aching to be free. He smiles down at you, firelight dancing in his brown eyes. 

"Are you warm now?" He asks. 

"Yes, your Grace," you stutter, mouth dry. 

"Good, your comfort is important to me… and Norway can be so cold."

“You are very -”

“Kind?” He interrupts, amused. 

You drop your gaze, embarrassed and uncertain. Harald chuckles, a finger under your chin forces you to meet his gaze. “You are softer than I expected,” he admits. “Your Queen is so fierce.”

You frown and his fingertips travel up your jaw until his rough palm rests against your cheek. 

“It is a compliment,” he assures you. He bends forward and for one wild moment, you think he means to kiss you. Even more startling is that you find yourself wanting him to. “But perhaps you’ll surprise me after all,” he concedes with a grin. 

He draws back and cool air wells in the space left behind. You breathe out unsteadily, fingers shaking against your thigh. He watches you, head tilted to the side as you regain your composure, looking behind him anxiously. No one is paying the pair of you any attention and you relax until you meet Leif’s brown eyes. Like before, he stares at you until you look away.

“Come,” Harald bids, offering you his upturned palm. When you place your hand in his, he grasps you firmly and pulls you to his side. “Let me introduce you to some of your future subjects. They are eager to meet you.”

You can find part 2 here.

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 I hope everyone enjoys my little drabble! My inbox is open for requests or just to say hi. I am looking for new friends!