#elizabeth on the other hand is intrigued

[daaedoodles]

the wildies little mermaid au is very real to me

"Oh, there you are!"

[cassiebones]

I want a scene after Rio's identity is revealed, where she is just name-dropping famous witches

Like, the others are a little spooked by her, but also intrigued. She assures them that she can't kill them...but that doesn't mean she won't make them wish they were dead (looking straight at Jennifer for this one).

So after that initial shock, they are sitting around the fire (Alice is there because I am in denial) and they ask her if she's met celebrity witches. Rio says of course.

Then they ask for details.

Rio starts saying the names of old famous witches, who they might have known personally from covens around New England, but Jen is like, "No, like celebrity famous. Like...who's a famous person who might have been a witch?"

"Elizabeth Montgomery," Lilia offers.

"Who's that?" Alice asks.

"She was in Bewitched, the old television series," Jennifer explains. "Lilia, I'm surprised you watched it."

"I didn't," Lilia assures her, "but there was always something about that actress. I couldn't put my finger on it." She looks to Rio. "Am I correct?"

They all look at Rio, who shakes her head.

"Lucille Ball was, though," she says after Lilia snaps her finger in defeat. Lilia's eyes widen at that and Rio grins. "She was young for a witch," Rio admits, "when she came to me. But, yeah. Witch."

"Ironic that she was accused in the Red Scare, which was a metaphorical witch hunt," Lilia says, as if she's giving them a history lesson, as if the majority of them didn't either live it or learn about it in high school.

"Who else do you want to know about?"

"Ooh, Liza Minelli!" Teen says. "That would be ironic, given who her mother was."

"Her mother was a witch, too," Rio says.

"Seriously?" Teen asks, bouncing like a puppy. "Judy Garland was a witch?" Rio nods. "That is so awesome."

"Calm down, Toto," Agatha says with a snort. Teen pouts at her and she rolls her eyes, affectionately. "Who else?"

"A lot of singers," Rio says, nodding contemplatively. "Like a lot of them."

There's a long moment of silence.

"Such as?" Jennifer huffs, impatiently.

Rio rolls her eyes. "What?" she asks. "No more guessing games?"

"Just spill your knowledge, Lady Death," Agatha says, nudging Rio and smirking when a pink flush lights up her pale skin.

Rio clears her throat. "Eartha Kitt," she says, finally. Jennifer practically falls off her stump in surprise.

"Legend!" Teen says, excitedly.

"You're not surprised," Lilia says, looking at Alice, who shrugs.

"She and my mom ran in similars circles for a while. It was kind of a well-known secret."

"Who else?" Jennifer asks, now looking up at Rio from her new spot on the ground.

"Chaka Khan," Rio says.

"She's not dead," Teen points out.

"Whitney told me that one," Rio says, casually. Jennifer is even further on the floor if it's possible. "What, you thought I'm Every Woman was written by a non-witch?" She scoffs.

"It makes sense when you think about it," Alice says. "I mean 'I can cast a spell with secrets you can't tell'? Witchy shit."

"Mix a special brew; Put fire inside of you," Jennifer sings from the floor, reaching out to hold and shake Alice's hand.

"But anytime you feel fear, instantly I appear," Lilia continues the song. "Cause..."

"IIIIIIIII'm every woman. It's all in meeee!" the three of them sing, together, Alice pulling Jennifer to her feet and spinning her around while Lilia laughs and claps.

Agatha laughs, too, placing her face in the crook of Rio's neck instinctually. Rio stiffens slightly, her face blooming bright red, before she relaxes, one of her arms wrapping around Agatha's waist as they watch their coven dance and sing, with Teen providing backup vocals.

For a single moment, everything is perfect.

[mccall-muffin]

The Lady and the Major - Part 1/3 // John "Bucky" Egan x OC

Summary: Major Bucky Egan is on leave in London, and what else is there to do than to drink, sing, have a good time, and... of course, ladies. But then he meets Liz, a Lady of the Court, and Bucky is immediately entangled in her net.

Warnings: Language, teasing, use of alcohol - soldiers being soldiers

A/N: Okay, wow... I thought today: "Uh, I have an idea for a OneShot with Bucky Egan," and now I'm sitting here with a three-part story. Jeeeeeez... Uh, but what you gonna do. (I've only seen the first two Episodes of MotA as of now, but... I just love Callum)

Here is my Masterlist

Tags: @liebgotts-lovergirl, @softly-writes, @mads-weasley, @brassknucklespeirs, @softguarnere

(Sorry mates, you just have to be tagged ;))

The Ritz, London, 1943

The opulent bar of the Ritz in London, brimming with the raucous laughter and chatter of soldiers on leave. The air is thick with smoke, jazz music fills the background, and the atmosphere is charged with the night's excitement.

Major John "Bucky" Egan, surrounded by a rowdy group of fellow American soldiers, is the life of the party. His laughter is loudest, his stories the most captivating, and his gaze roams freely, appreciative of the scenery—particularly the women who add a touch of glamour to the smoky room.

Bucky, with a glass of whiskey in hand, leans back, surveying the room with a smug grin. "Gentlemen," he boasts, "London's no match for a Yank with charm. Watch and learn."

His eyes, however, catch a sight that stops him mid-sentence—a vision of elegance seated across the bar. Lady Elizabeth Cavendish, unbeknownst to him, sits alone, her posture the epitome of grace, a long, slender cigarette holder elegantly poised in her hand. The soft glow of the bar lights catches her blonde hair and the sparkle in her blue eyes, making her seem almost ethereal.

Bucky's usual confidence wavers for a moment, his friends noticing the sudden change. "Well, I'll be damned... Who's that?" Bucky mutters, more to himself than anyone else.

One of the British soldiers, a man who has seen his fair share of high society, leans over, a knowing look in his eyes. "That, Yank, is Lady Elizabeth Cavendish. The Duke of Wellington's daughter. I'd tread carefully if I were you. She's out of your league."

Bucky's grin returns, cockier than before. "Out of my league? Buddy, there's no league I can't play in. Watch me."

With a swagger in his step, Bucky makes his way over to Elizabeth, his comrades watching eagerly, some with admiration, others with skepticism, and some with knowing faces.

"Evening, miss. Can I say you light up this room brighter than the London Blitz," he says cockily, letting his charm play.

Elizabeth doesn't even glance up from her drink at first, taking a slow drag from her cigarette. When she finally turns her gaze towards him, it's with an air of amusement. "And can I say that's the most American pickup line I've ever heard?"

Bucky, undeterred, flashes a grin. "Major John Egan, at your service. But for you... You can call me Bucky. And you are?"

Elizabeth finally offers him a small, knowing smile. "Elizabeth Cavendish. And I'm quite aware of who you are, Major Egan. Your reputation precedes you."

Bucky, leaning against the bar closer to Liz, his confidence seemingly unshaken. "Is that so? And what have you heard?"

Liz, taking another slow drag from her cigarette, eyes Bucky with a mixture of interest and challenge. "Oh, just that you're quite the charmer. A real ladies' man. Or so you believe."

The air between them crackles with a mix of tension and intrigue. Bucky, for once, finds himself having to work to maintain his usual smug demeanor. "And what about you, Lady Elizabeth? Do you enjoy games?"

Liz's smile widens, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Oh, Major, I don't just enjoy them. I excel at them. Care to play?"

The challenge hangs in the air, a silent dare that Bucky, despite the warnings and his better judgment, finds himself unable to resist. "You're on. Let the games begin."

As Bucky signals the bartender for another round of drinks, his fellow soldiers exchange glances, some shaking their heads, others betting amongst themselves on the outcome. What none of them realize is that in the game of seduction and wit, Liz is a master strategist, and Bucky might have just met his match.

Bucky leans closer, his confidence unwavering. "So, Liz, you don't mind me calling you Liz, right?" he starts, the smug smile never leaving his face, "I've flown some of the most dangerous missions over Germany, you know. But I must say, navigating this conversation with you feels like my most thrilling challenge yet."

Liz lets out a soft, amused laugh. "Major Egan, I've met many men who believe their war stories could sweep a girl off her feet. And maybe it actually does some. But it's going to take more than tales of aerial feats to impress me," she replies, her voice laced with a teasing sarcasm that only someone of her breeding and wit could perfect.

The night progresses, and with each drink, Bucky becomes more audacious, his hand finding its way to the small of Liz's back, a bold move that, in any other circumstance, would have guaranteed success. Liz, however, is not any woman he's encountered before. She plays along, leaning in as if captivated by his charm, her lips tantalizingly close to his, only to pull away at the last moment, leaving him wanting more.

Their conversation ebbs and flows, with Bucky regaling her with his exploits, each tale more daring than the last. Yet, Liz remains unimpressed, her blue eyes sparkling with amusement rather than awe. It's a dance they're both familiar with, but in this instance, Liz leads, her every move calculated to keep him on his toes.

As the night wears on, Liz finishes her drink, placing the glass delicately on the bar. She rises from her stool, the movement graceful and deliberate. "Well, Major, it has been... interesting," she says, her tone implying a myriad of things left unsaid.

Bucky, taken aback by her sudden desire to leave, scrambles to his feet. "Wait, Liz, why don't you stay for another drink? The night is still young, and I feel we've barely scratched the surface."

Liz turns to him, a sly smile playing on her lips. "I'm afraid I have other engagements to attend to, Major. But I must thank you for the entertainment," she teases, her gaze piercing through him with a challenge that silently says she's not one to be easily conquered.

As she walks away, Bucky watches, a mix of frustration and fascination written across his face. For the first time, he's encountered a woman who not only matches his wit but exceeds it, leaving him in uncharted territory. Liz, with her aristocratic poise and undeniable charm, has turned the tables on him, making it clear that if he wishes to pursue her, he's in for a game unlike any he's played before.

Returning to his comrades, Bucky's expression is a mix of irritation and resolve, a stark contrast to the confident swagger he had before approaching Liz. The British soldiers, having observed the entire exchange, can't help but wear smirks of "told you so" on their faces.

"Well, Major, looks like the ice queen has claimed another victim," one of the Brits comments, clapping Bucky on the shoulder with a laugh that's both sympathetic and mocking.

Bucky, undeterred, shoots back, "This isn't over. Not by a long shot."

Another British soldier chimes in, swirling his drink, "Mate, many have tried to climb that mountain. From viscounts to earls, not a single one has reached the summit. Lady Cavendish is... well, she's a fortress."

"Yeah, heard she loves to make sport of men, seeing who can try and fail the most spectacularly," adds a third, his tone laced with a mix of admiration and warning.

One of Bucky's American friends, attempting to find a solution, suggests, "Did you pull the pilot card? Chicks love pilots." The suggestion hangs in the air until another British soldier, who had been quietly listening, interjects, "Her brother's Captain Edward Cavendish, Royal Air Force war hero. Your pilot card might as well be a library card."

The revelation doesn't dampen Bucky's spirits; if anything, it fuels his determination. His jaw sets firmly, the challenge now more personal than ever. "So, she's used to high-flyers, huh? Well, she hasn't met anyone like me. I'm not just any pilot; I'm Major Bucky Egan. And I don't give up that easily."

The group looks at him, a mix of skepticism and intrigue in their eyes. They know Bucky for his tenacity, his charm, and his unwillingness to back down from a challenge. But Lady Elizabeth Cavendish is not just any challenge—she's a high-stakes game that many have lost.

As the night winds down and the group disperses, Bucky's mind races with plans. He knows winning over someone like Lady Cavendish won't be easy, but he's always loved a challenge. The thought of her, with her piercing blue eyes and that untouchable aura, only makes him more determined. He's ready to prove that he's not like the others, that he's someone who stands out, even in a crowd of heroes.

The stage is set for a captivating game of wit, charm, and strategy. Bucky's resolve and Liz's cunning promise a tale of intrigue, where each move could either draw them closer or push them further apart.

In the soft morning light filtering through the hotel's dining room windows, Bucky and his fellow soldiers are halfway through their breakfast, the air filled with the light-hearted banter typical of men who've faced much together. The sudden approach of a concierge, bearing the unmistakable posture of formal importance, silences the table. With a discreet cough to announce his presence, the concierge presents a silver platter to Bucky.

Bucky, eyebrows raised in surprise, picks up the envelope resting on the platter. The envelope itself is a work of art, the calligraphy on the front flawlessly executed, hinting at the significance of its contents. His name, "Major John Egan, US Air Force," is inscribed with elegant flourishes that speak of a bygone era of meticulous attention to detail.

As he carefully opens the envelope, the anticipation among his comrades is palpable. They watch as Bucky's initial confusion shifts to an understanding smile, a silent acknowledgment of the ongoing saga that had captivated them since last night. He pulls out the invitation, and it reads:

Major John Egan,

It is with great pleasure that Arthur Cavendish, Duke of Wellington, and Margaret Cavendish, Duchess of Wellington, extend to you an invitation to a gala being held at our family estate, Wellington House, on the evening of this day.

This event will assemble distinguished individuals from various sectors of British and Allied societies in a celebration of unity and resilience in these challenging times.

Date: This evening at 7 o'clock post meridiem

Dress Code: Formal (Black Tie)

Location: Wellington House, Kent

We anticipate the honor of your presence and look forward to an evening of meaningful exchanges and spirited fellowship.

Kindly present this invitation at the entrance.

Sincerely, The Duke of Wellington

Bucky's grin now spread wide across his face, confirms the unspoken thoughts of his table. "Looks like I've got plans this evening," he announces, his voice a mix of amusement and intrigue.

The soldiers around him, well aware of the story behind the invitation, erupt into a mix of cheers and playful jeers. Bucky's encounter with Lady Elizabeth Cavendish, a tale that had quickly become legendary among them, was evidently far from over. This invitation was not just a call to a social event; it was the next chapter in a story that promised to be as unpredictable as it was entertaining.

As the concierge departs, Bucky's mind races with possibilities. The gala at Wellington House was not just an opportunity to step into the world of British aristocracy; it was a chance to see Liz again, to engage in their game of wits and charm. With a sense of adventure stirring in his heart, he knew one thing for sure: the evening promised to be unforgettable.

House Wellington, Kent, 1943

As Bucky steps into the grandeur of the Wellington estate, the opulence of the gala immediately envelops him. The air is thick with the scent of expensive perfumes mingling with the faint aroma of quality tobacco. The chatter of the high society fills the room, a mixture of refined British accents and the occasional foreign dialect. Bucky, in his crisply pressed formal uniform, stands out—not just for his attire but also for the aura of confidence he carries with him, an unmistakable mark of a man not easily intimidated.

He navigates through the crowd, champagne flute in hand, his eyes scanning the room until they find what they've been searching for: Liz. She's a vision in her gown, embodying the grace and elegance of her status, yet with a glimmer in her eye that hints at her spirited nature. As he approaches, he can't help but admire the way she holds herself, the center of attention yet seemingly uninterested in the adoration she commands.

"Seems like I can't go anywhere without you showing up to steal the spotlight," Bucky teases, offering her a playful smirk as he closes the distance between them.

Liz turns to face him fully, her expression one of amused defiance. "Oh, Major Egan, I was under the impression that an officer of your caliber would know how to read a simple dress code," she retorts, her eyes gleaming with mischief as she gives him a once-over. "But I suppose we can't all have the luxury of choice in our evening attire, can we?"

Bucky chuckles, unphased by her jab. "Well, Lady Cavendish, it seems I'm at a disadvantage here. While you dazzle the room in that stunning dress, I'm stuck in this old thing," he says, gesturing to his uniform with a mock sigh. "But let's be honest, we both know I could show up in a burlap sack, and you'd still find it hard to keep your eyes off me."

The air between them crackles with the tension of their banter, a dance they've both come to enjoy. Liz takes a slow drag from her cigarette, held elegantly in a long holder. "Confident, aren't we? Just don't let that confidence get you into trouble, Major. This isn't the front line, and the battles here are fought differently," she says, blowing out a stream of smoke, her gaze locked with his.

"Then consider me armed and dangerous," Bucky replies with a grin, his eyes never leaving hers. "But I'll admit, this is one battlefield I'm looking forward to navigating, especially if it means crossing swords with you, Lady Cavendish."

Their exchange, filled with the playful yet pointed jabs of two individuals equally matched in intellect and charm, sets the tone for the evening. Around them, the gala continues in its whirl of music, laughter, and conversation, but for Bucky and Liz, the rest of the world fades into the background. They are each other's focal point, engaged in a game where the stakes are undefined but unmistakably high, each moment building on the tension and attraction that simmers just below the surface.

As Bucky and Liz continue their verbal dance, the arrival of a British Captain momentarily shifts the atmosphere. The Captain's demeanor is one of polite curiosity mixed with the protective scrutiny of a brother. When he inquires about Bucky, there's a brief tension, a moment where the social games of the evening meet the reality of wartime alliances and personal connections.

Bucky, with the straightforwardness that military life has ingrained in him, extends a hand. "Major John Egan, US Air Force," he introduces himself with a respectful nod, recognizing the familial resemblance in the Captain's features.

Edward's expression warms slightly at the mention of Bucky's service. "Ah, a fellow pilot then. And where might you be stationed, Major Egan?" he asks, a hint of camaraderie entering his voice upon learning of their shared skies.

"With the 100th Bomber Group," Bucky responds, his answer earning a nod of respect from Edward. The reputation of Bucky's outfit precedes him, known even among the British ranks for their bravery and contributions to the war effort.

The conversation takes a turn when Edward's attention shifts towards his sister, curiosity piqued. "And how did you two come to meet?" he inquires, his gaze bouncing between Liz and Bucky, searching for a glimpse into his sister's enigmatic social life.

Bucky opens his mouth to answer, perhaps a little too eagerly, ready to dive into the tale of their first encounter. However, Liz, ever the master of her own narrative, interjects with a grace that belies the quick thinking behind her words. "We met at a charity event just last week," she states, her voice carrying a tone of casual innocence. "Major Egan was kind enough to share some fascinating insights into his experiences in the war so far. It's not every day we have the honor of hearing such stories firsthand."

Edward's expression softens, a mix of brotherly concern and pride evident in his gaze as he looks at Liz. It's clear he's unaware of the full extent of his sister's adventurous spirit and her propensity for finding herself in the company of intriguing characters. "Well, I'm glad to hear our allies are not just brave but also charitable. It's important, especially in times like these, to remember what we're fighting for," he comments, directing a respectful nod towards Bucky.

The moment passes, and Edward excuses himself to greet other guests, leaving Bucky and Liz alone once again. Bucky raises an eyebrow at Liz, impressed by her quick thinking and ability to weave a story that protects her reputation while not entirely dismissing their actual encounter. "A charity event, huh? You're quite the storyteller, Lady Cavendish," he teases, the corners of his mouth turning up in an amused smile.

Liz, taking a delicate sip of her champagne, meets his gaze with a mischievous glint in her eyes. "One must always be prepared to tell the story that needs to be heard, Major Egan. Besides, I couldn't possibly let you ruin all my fun with the truth, now could I?" she replies, her tone playful yet laced with the underlying thrill of their shared secret.

Their exchange, now even more charged with the thrill of their clandestine understanding, continues to weave a complex tapestry of attraction and intrigue, each moment adding to the layers of their unfolding story.

Next Part

[sequinsmile-x]

Open Your Eyes Into Mine

Five times Emily and Aaron don't kiss, and one time they do.

-x-

Hi besties,

This is for the lovely @eobangingwhen who deserves the world <3

Hope you all enjoy this. As always...the feelings took over in the middle.

-x-

Words: 5.9k

Warnings: Lina said 'there are no warnings, just sad.'

Read over on Ao3, or below the cut

One

He’d intrigued her from the moment she saw him. 

On the surface, he was just like everyone else who passed through her mother’s house - sensible and serious in a slightly ill-fitting suit, but something about him made him stand out to her. He was handsome, younger than all of his colleagues, and the rare times she’d seen him smile, dimples carved out deep in his cheeks, she’d felt her stomach flip. She had this instinctual need to get to know him more, to know more than the fact he was from Virginia and had recently broken up with his high school sweetheart, something deep in her gut pulling her towards him, and she found herself making excuses to spend time with him instead of actively avoiding him as she did with most other people who passed through this house. 

It’s how she finds herself standing in a corner with him at a party her mother was throwing, ignoring all the mingling people she knew she should be talking to, all of her focus on him and trying to ruffle him up as he worked. 

“It’s like looking at those guards in London,” she comments hiding her smile behind the rim of her glass when she sees one of the corners of his lips twitch, “Maybe I should get you one of those tall hats.” 

He chokes on a laugh and clears his throat, shaking his head as he smiles widely at her, “Miss Prentiss, I’m trying to work.” 

Emily rolls her eyes, “How many times do I have to ask you to call me Emily? Agent Hotchner.” 

He smiles again, the back and forth about his insistence to not use her first name they’d been sharing since they’d met hanging in the air between them, “Miss-”

“Emily.” 

She tenses, her smile slipping off of her face as she turns to look at her mother, her grip on her champagne glass tightening, “Mother.” 

“You can’t just…hang out here with the security all evening,” Elizabeth says, her face pinched together with irritation, “There are people here who want to see you. They haven’t seen you since you started at Yale.” 

Emily resists rolling her eyes, her lips pressed tightly together before she paints on a fake smile, “I hardly know anyone here.”

Elizabeth clears her throat, her eyes flicking back and forth between Emily and Aaron, “That’s the point of mingling, Emily. To get to know people. I’m sure Agent Hotchner can do without your charming presence for a while.” 

Emily feels her smile falter, her mother’s barbed words hurting more than she cared to admit even to herself. She hates that even after all this time she can affect her, that no matter how much she prepared herself her mother somehow managed to sneak under the defences she’d helped build with her indifference and the expectations Emily could never meet.  

It’s over in a flash, her smile fixing itself back on her face before she downs the last of her champagne and nods, “Of course,” she says, her eyes flicking to Aaron, something she can’t quite read in his eyes, “I’m just going to go to the bathroom first.” 

She sneaks into a side room as soon as she’s out of the ballroom, her breath stuttering in her chest the moment she’s alone. She closes her eyes and tries to pull herself back together, and she suddenly starts to count down the seconds until she’s back in New Haven and far away from here. 

There’s a knock on the door and she groans, her hand against her forehead, “Mom, I just need-”

“It’s me,” Aaron’s voice cuts over her, the door opening just enough for him to poke his head around,  “I wanted to make sure you’re okay.” 

She’s nodding before she even thinks about it, her smile tight as he steps into the room and closes the door behind him, “How did you know where I was?” 

“I saw you come in here,” he stands a few feet away from her, his hands crossed in front of him, standing in the same pose had been in the ballroom, and it makes warmth spread in her chest, his presence somehow making her feel better. She watches as he furrows his brow, clearly trying to figure out what he wants to say, “I’m sorry she treats you that way. You deserve more than that.” 

A sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob pushes itself up her throat so quickly it hurts, her ribs aching with it as she crosses her arms over her chest to protect herself, “It’s okay. She’s always been like that.” 

His frown deepens and somehow he’s closer, and she isn’t sure if he’s moved or if she has, but she has to grip her arms to stop herself from reaching out and soothing the deep line between his brows. 

“That doesn’t make it better, Emily.” 

Maybe it’s the way he says her name, or even the fact it’s the first time he’s said it, but she feels like she’s burning from the inside out, her cheeks so warm she’s sure they’re red. “I know,” she chokes out, wondering why she feels so affected, why her voice croaks as he steps even closer, “But it’s just one of those things.” 

His smile is sad, his dimples barely making an appearance as their eyes meet, “Well, if it helps, I’m always happy to be in your charming presence.” 

She laughs, her first real one all night, and she presses her lips together to try and contain her smile. She tries not to think about the fact he’s cheered her up so quickly, that he seemingly knows how to do so, instead she nods, her tongue peeking out to wet her lower lip.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she says quietly, her gaze drifting down to his lips before she meets his eyes again, only slightly surprised to find he’s looking at her in the same way she knows she’s looking at him. 

She leans in, her eyes drifting shut as he does too, and she feels his breath skip over her face. Before their lips touch there’s a knock on the door, both of them jumping and putting space between them as one of Aaron’s colleagues asks if he’s in there, and Aaron clears his throat before he responds, throwing Emily an apologetic smile before he’s out of the room, leaving her feeling strangely cold. 

She touches her lips, the ghost of his kiss pressed against them even though it had never happened, and she rolls her eyes at herself, “Get it together, Emily.” 

She shakes off his apologies the next morning, her smile soft as she tells him he has nothing to be sorry for, and they don’t talk of it again. By the time she goes back to college, she’s forgotten about the almost kiss, the moment that could have been.

She doesn’t think about it, doesn’t let it cross her mind, right up until she finds herself standing in his office years later.

___

Two 

He feels pleasantly buzzed, the third scotch Dave had pressed into his hand with a wink and a pat on his shoulder tipping him into what Aaron would admit was tipsy. 

He sighs as he looks down at his left hand, at the paler band of skin where he’d worn his wedding ring for years, and he takes another sip of his drink. Even though he’d accepted that things were over with Haley, that his family was broken, signing the papers had hit him harder than he thought it would. The team had convinced him to go out for drinks after work, their attempts to get him to come with them ranging from Penelope’s bribery with cupcakes she’d bake him, to Emily’s gentle teasing that he owed her a drink from when they’d last gone for drinks, her smile kind and full of something he didn’t want to name. 

He blows out a breath and finishes his drink, placing the glass down on the bar. He turns to Dave, “I’m going to go out and get some air,” he says, and Dave raises his eyebrow at him, “I won’t leave, I promise. It’s warm in here.” 

Dave nods and Aaron smiles at him before he heads outside, sighing as the fresh air hits him. He steps into the alleyway for some privacy and he leans against the wall, his head thunking back against it as he tries to picture what his life would look like going forward. How he’d have even less time with his son, how the person he’d loved for more than half his life would no longer be his partner in everything. He feels his shoulders slump, the weight of everything from the last few months pressing down on them. 

“Hotch? Are you okay?” 

His eyes fly open at the sound of Emily’s voice and he stands up straight. She’s standing just a few feet away, her eyebrows pinched together with concern, her arms crossed over her chest as she shivers, the cool air hitting her since she’d left her jacket inside. 

“We aren’t at work, Emily. You can call me Aaron,” he says, avoiding the question, and he ignores how the smile that flits across her face makes him feel. It’s a call back to a moment that happened so long ago it might as well have happened to other people, something he can barely link together in his head with the woman standing in front of him. It was something frozen in time, a second where everything could have changed if they’d had just a little more time alone. 

“Okay then, Aaron,” she says, smiling again as she emphasises his name, “Are you okay?” 

He chuckles humourlessly and sighs, shrugging as he tries to find the answer, “I don’t know. It’s…hard. I wanted to raise Jack with a family and now…now he comes from a broken home.” 

It was something he’d wanted to avoid, and it was part of the reason they’d waited to have Jack. So Aaron could be more established in his career and be as present as possible, but it hadn’t worked out that way and he wasn’t sure he’d ever rid himself of the guilt. 

“I can’t imagine how hard that feels,” she says, joining him in leaning against the wall, her arm brushing against his, “But I do know how it feels to be raised by parents who stayed together because it was the ‘right thing to do’,” she presses her lips together and sighs, “They divorced the second I went to college and it was hard. And they weren’t very good at hiding how much they hated each other for years before that,” she shrugs and laughs humourlessly, “It doesn’t take an FBI profiler to figure out that’s why I always end up looking for love in the wrong places,” she looks up at him, her eyes wide and honest and he feels his stomach flip again, “Jack has two parents who love him enough to put him first. He’ll grow up knowing that. He’s a lucky kid.” 

He didn’t know that’s what he’d needed to hear until that moment, but it doesn’t surprise him that she apparently had. Her uncharacteristic openness, her willingness to share something she obviously hadn’t spoken about in years just to make him feel better, loosening something in his chest. 

“Thank you, Emily.” 

She smiles, wide and bright and beautiful, “You’re welcome. Aaron.” 

Later, he’d ask himself why he did it, why the way she smiles at him draws him in the way it does, but he leans in, closing the gap between them that was smaller than ever. She sucks in a breath as she pulls back before their lips touch, her smile achingly kind as she sinks her teeth into her lower lip.

“Aaron-”

“Oh god,” he says, his eyes wide as he clears his throat and steps back from her, “I’m so sorry. That should never-”

“Aaron,” she says firmly, cutting him off, “It’s not that I wouldn’t want you, you know that,” she says, coming the closest either of them had ever come to addressing that moment between them almost a lifetime ago, “I just won’t ever be someone's consolation prize.” 

His eyes go wide and he shakes his head, “Oh no, that’s not…you could never be…”

She smiles sympathetically at him and reaches out for his hand, squeezing it for a second before she drops it, the touch of her skin against his almost electric, “I’m not saying no,” she presses her lips together to suppress a smile, “I’m just saying maybe not on the day you signed divorce papers.” 

He laughs, the sound surprising even him, “Yeah, okay,” he says, “I’ll keep that in mind.” 

They’re silent for a moment. Both of them smile at each other, a silent promise passing between them, and she points over her shoulder to the bar, “Come on, you still owe me that drink.” 

He nods and follows her out of the alley, embarrassment still churning ever so slightly in his gut, “I think after that I owe you two.”

She laughs as they walk side by side, “Well, I won’t argue with that.” 

___

Three

She could no longer pretend she wasn’t in love with him.

It was something she’d been denying to herself for a long time, telling herself it was nothing more than an inappropriate crush on her boss, but all of that went away the moment she saw the blood stain on his living room floor. The panic she’d felt was overwhelming and she’d never felt more grateful for her ability to compartmentalise, that she’d been able to hold herself together until she got home that evening, encouraged to do so by him after she’d held her vigil at his bedside long after he’d sent Haley and Jack away. 

Emily had cried the moment she’d locked her apartment door behind her, her chest caving in on itself as she came to terms with the fact that if things had been even slightly different she could have lost him before she ever had him. 

She’s grateful when he lets her look after him. When he doesn’t question her driving him to and from work even after he’s cleared, their poorly covered conversation about his first case back still echoing around in her head weeks later. 

“He has Tommy. He’s not alone.” 

He invites her over to his after they get back from a case and she accepts gladly, happy to spend as much time with him as possible. She doesn’t miss how his eyes linger on the now clean carpet when they sit together on the couch, empty Chinese food containers on the coffee table. She could still see the blood stain every time she blinked, a flash of one of the worst moments of her life that wouldn’t go away even though there was no trace of it left, the professional cleaners she’d hired to remove it worth every dollar she’d spent. 

“Do you have any plans this weekend?” He asks, barely covering a wince as he settles back into the couch. She groans in response and he smiles at her, the familiar flip in her stomach no longer a surprise. 

“My mom is in town,” she says, huffing as she settles against the back of the couch, “So unless we get a case I’ll be having lunch with her on Saturday,” she scrunches up her nose, “Think you can do something to make sure we’re working?” 

He chuckles, “Short of becoming a serial killer myself I’m not sure there is,” he placates, “But maybe we could think of something else to get you out of it?” 

It’s the lightest he’s seemed in weeks, the heaviness that had settled over him ever since he’d sent Haley and Jack away lifting, and her heart feels like it’s being squeezed, pressed out of place as her love for him takes up more space in her chest. 

“What do you have in mind?” 

“My physical therapist keeps suggesting I take up running to try to gain back some of the fitness I’ve lost,” he says, his smile flickering into a brief frown before he shakes it off, “I was thinking of going for the first time on Saturday at around lunchtime if you’d like to go with me.”

His smile turns shy and it makes him look impossibly young, and she sees a glimpse of the boy that Haley would have fallen in love with. It drives her to say yes even though she hates cardio, the opportunity to spend even more time with him something she would grab with both hands. 

“Someone will have to make sure you don’t push yourself too hard,” she says, smiling coyly, “So I guess I’m in.” 

He laughs, which he hasn’t done in weeks, and she has to bite the inside of her cheek to stop herself from smiling too much. It was fast becoming her favourite sound, the almost goofiness of it at complete odds with the rest of him, and she wants to do everything she could to make him laugh as often as possible. 

“You will have to go easy on me,” he says, shifting so their shoulders are touching, turning his head to look at her, “I’m still not up to full strength.”

She hums, “Of course,” she raises her eyebrow at him, “But I won’t let you win.” 

“Now it’s a race all of a sudden?” He asks and she laughs, her eyes flicking to his lips, and she knows in any other circumstances she’d lean in and kiss him, that this could finally be their moment. 

“Don’t hate the player, hate the game, honey.”

The levity between them dies the moment she lets the term of endearment slip free and she curses herself internally for tripping them over the line they’d so delicately walked for months now. He sighs and reaches for her hand, “Em-”

“No, it’s okay,” she says, swallowing thickly to push down the emotion she won’t let herself feel until she’s home, “Not now. I know.” 

“I couldn’t be everything you deserve right now,” he says, squeezing her hand, letting it linger around hers, the way his fingers linked between hers almost cruel in its perfection, “I wouldn’t want to risk this because I wasn’t ready.” 

She nods, hating that tears gather in her eyes, and she clears her throat, “I know, it’s okay,” she repeats, squeezing his hand before she lets go and stands up, desperate to put some space between them so she can gather herself, “It’s probably time I get going.” 

He shakes his head and stands up so quickly he winces, the movement pulling at his still healing wounds, “No, stay-”

“I’ll see you on Saturday, okay? Just text me where you want to meet.” She says, and she stares at him, hoping that he hears what she isn’t saying, that he won’t actually make her beg. He nods and the relief is palpable, carving a hole in her chest as she grabs her purse and turns back to look at him, “Bye Aaron.”

He sighs, his hands in fists at his sides so he doesn’t reach out for her, both of them held back the knowledge now simply wasn’t their time. 

“Goodbye, Emily.”

She cries when she gets home and Sergio climbs into her lap, his purrs and headbutts doing nothing to help ease the ache in her chest. 

___

Four 

She’d been acting strangely for days. 

He couldn’t put his finger on it, couldn’t work out why she was suddenly avoiding him after weeks of them getting closer and closer. He’d been about to ask her out on a date, finally in a place where he felt like he could be what she deserved, but then she started to pull away from him, a tightness in her smile that scared him for a reason he couldn’t figure out. He’d asked her what was wrong but she’d lied and said everything was fine, and he was convinced she’d figured out that single fathers weren’t her thing and she didn’t know how to let him down gently after years of build-up. 

When he finds out she’d thrown up at a crime scene his concern only increases. It wasn’t like her, and they’d seen far worse over the last few years without her even blinking an eye. 

He’s distracted, unable to focus on pulling the final bits of the profile together, a heavy weight in his gut that tells him there is something they do not know. He spots Emily out of the window of his office and sees the tension in her shoulders, a shiftiness she’s covering less and less as the days pass, and his curiosity wins out. He opens his office door and calls out for her. 

“Prentiss, my office.” 

By the time she makes it up the stairs, looking strangely dangerous in her all black outfit and tight shoulders, he’s closed the blinds to give them as much privacy as possible. 

“Is everything okay?” She asks she steps past him, her hands grasped together in front of her, her cuticles torn to shreds. 

“I was about to ask you the same thing,” he says, closing the door and turning to look at her, his concern only heightening when her eyes go wide, “What’s going on Em?” 

She frowns, crossing her arms over her chest in some kind of defiance as she tightens her jaw, “What do you mean?” 

“You aren’t acting like yourself,” he says, stepping towards her, the rock in his belly getting heavier when she steps back, “Derek said you threw up at the scene.” 

He watches as she sucks in a deep breath, her lips pressed together as she visibly folds in on herself, “He shouldn’t have told you that.” 

“He’s worried,” he says, stepping closer again, relieved when she doesn’t move this time, “We all are. What’s going on?” He asks, reaching out for her, his hand on her elbow, “We can help.” 

Her eyes go wide like he’s just threatened her, panic and fear and something he can’t name flashing across her face as she shakes her head, wrenching herself from him, “No. Nothing is wrong. Why won’t you believe me?” 

“Because you’re lying to me, sweetheart.” 

He half shouts it, and it hangs between them. Thick and cloying in the air, the only sound her heavy breathing as she shakes her head, desperate in a way he’s never seen. They stare at each other and time drags out around them like syrup until she starts moving, her hands on his shoulders as she leans in to kiss him and he moves out of the way, her lips catching his cheek instead, her devastated gasp brushing past his ear. He holds her in place, his hands on her waist as he closes his eyes and breathes her in. 

She tries to pull away but he doesn’t let her, his grip tighter as they stand there in silence, her cheek warm against his, damp with tears he won’t acknowledge and knows she won’t either. He wanted her so much it hurt. He loved her in a way he didn’t think was possible after Haley and he wanted everything with Emily, but he didn’t want whatever was happening right now, whatever she was keeping from him, to break what they’d both been waiting so long for. 

“Not like this, Em,” he says, the two of them still standing cheek to cheek, an awful dance made of defiance and sidestepping that he worries they won’t make it back from this time, “Just tell me what’s wrong and I can help you.” 

She’s silent and tense in his arms before she shakes her head, her lips stamped against his cheek again, something she lingers in before she pulls away, “I’m sorry.” 

She’s gone before he can say anything, out of his office and back in the main bullpen, and he tells himself that he’ll try again later. That he’ll go to hers and stand at her door until she has no choice but to talk to him. 

He doesn’t get the chance. 

He stands on the other side of a closed door from the rest of the team as they cry over her untimely death. He barely holds it together, the tears in his eyes real even though what they were all mourning wasn’t, and he hates himself for not pushing any further, for not saving her from herself and from this. 

When he gets home that night he doesn’t sleep. He sits on the couch she’d sat on with him countless times, his eyes fixed on the spot on the floor where he almost died, and he wishes he’d let her kiss him. 

___

Five

She winces as she lowers herself into the chair next to her hospital bed, curses in more than one language aimed at her physical therapist as she gets as comfortable as she can, every muscle in her body screaming at her. 

She felt like crap, which, she thought, was rather fitting for a dead person.

She closes her eyes and leans her head back, desperately trying to pretend she was anywhere else, that she’d made different decisions and hadn’t ended up here. Dead to almost everyone who knew her with the exception of the man she loves and her best friend. 

JJ had been to visit a couple of days ago, her smile shaky as she explained what she knew of the plan, that she’d be back to pick her up and they’d take the jet to wherever she was going together. She told Emily that Aaron could come before she was moved, that he was insistent on doing so even though it wasn’t advised, a glint in JJ’s blue eyes that lets her know she knows about the shifting dynamics of their relationship. The relationship that Emily was now sure she’d never get to have. Her future torn to pieces by her past in a way she felt stupid for not anticipating. 

There’s a light knock on the door and she calls out that it’s okay to come in, sure it’s one of the nurses who always looked at her a little too kindly, and she continues to sit with her eyes closed. 

“Em?” 

She moves so quickly at the sound of his voice that it hurts, pain lancing through her body as her abdomen burns, stitches and skin pulling at each other in a way that makes her cry out, “Fuck.” 

“Take it easy,” Aaron says, already by her side, his touch gentle as he rests his hand on her arm and perches on the edge of the bed next to her, his knees knocking against hers, “You’re okay. Just breathe through it.” 

She nods and places her hand over his on her arm, his skin impossibly warm, and she does as he’s said, breathing along with him until the pain fades back down to a bearable level. She focuses on him instead. The sound of his breathing. The touch of his hand. The smell of his cologne. She stores it all away, like an animal stocking up for winter, not wanting to be starved of him for how ever long she is away. 

“Sorry,” she eventually breathes out, her smile weak when she finally opens her eyes, “Hi.” 

“Hi,” he replies, smiling softly at her, a sadness he can’t hide from her lingering in his eyes, “And you have nothing to apologise for.” 

“JJ said she tried to talk you out of coming,” she says, her eyebrow raised and he shrugs, a nonchalance to it they both know he’s faking, “You could be putting yourself in danger.”

“I had to see you before you left,” he says as if it’s that simple, as if he’d tear the world apart just for her, “I…” he clears his throat, his jaw tight as he clenches his teeth, “I didn’t want the last time I saw you to be the last time.” 

She knew enough to understand he’d seen her during the worst of it, and she nods, pressing her lips together to try and stop herself from crying. She almost apologises again, but stops herself, not sure what it would achieve even if he accepted it, so she squeezes his hand with as much strength as she can muster. 

“I’m glad you’re here.” 

He smiles, one of his dimples making itself known, “I’m glad I’m here too.” 

She doesn’t ask about the team because she isn’t sure she could take the answer, the awareness that she’d caused them pain too much to bear, “How’s Jack?” 

He clears his throat, “He’s good. He asked about you,” he says, and she frowns, confusion pushing its way past the medication she’s on, “I didn’t tell him that you’d…he thinks you’re on a secret mission,” he laughs humourlessly, “I thought it would be easier to explain rather than undo everything he knows about death when you come back.” 

The guilt washes over her, how her desire to protect one little boy years ago had now impacted another and she knows if she wasn’t sitting down she’d collapse with it, “Aaron.” 

“Hey,” he says gently as he leans forward, his forehead against hers, his hand in her hair as he scratches at her scalp, “None of that. You did everything you thought was right,” he says, pulling back just enough to stamp a kiss against her forehead before he presses his against hers again, “I’m not angry at you. You’re the bravest person I know. And when you come back, we’ll figure everything out.” 

She doesn’t pull away, instead, she watches as his gaze drops to her lips, and she wonders what would happen if one of them closed the gap, if the other would stop them this time. Neither of them tries, content to sit there in the promises she hopes aren’t empty, a future of maybes and hope wrapped around them like a threadbare blanket. 

“Can you stay a while? 

He nods, his forehead knocking against hers, “I can stay as long as you want me to.” 

She doesn’t know how to tell him that she wants him to stay forever.

___

+One 

She felt giddy. 

She thinks even a year ago she would have felt ridiculous for it. That she should have chastised herself for acting like a teenage girl in love, but she couldn’t bring herself to, because she was entirely sure that after everything she deserved this. 

That they deserved this. 

She doesn’t let go of Aaron’s hand as she leads him to her apartment door, instead digging through her purse one-handed because the idea of letting go of him now she has him is almost absurd. 

He laughs at her, his smile hidden in her hair as they come to a stop outside of her apartment, his chest warm and full of love, “Need some help, sweetheart?” 

She can’t help but smile as he holds her purse steady for her and she finds the keys easily, her thank you a smile that she throws at him as she lets them in. 

It had been a perfect first date. 

He’d shown up in one of his suits, missing his tie at her request, and a bunch of sunflowers in his hands, his smile shy as he admitted he asked the florist for cat-friendly flowers. He’d booked a table at a restaurant she’d idly mentioned once, long before she’d been sent to Paris, and it had taken all of her self-control to not tell him that she loves him then and there. 

Aaron had been her rock since she came home, content to just be her friend and confidant as she desperately tried to pull herself back together. To slip all the broken pieces of her life into place as she tried to get used to the new cracks that had appeared. He’d expected nothing from her other than her honesty, and after everything she knew she owed him that. In the end, it was she who asked him on a date, her smile coy and shy as she let him know one evening that she didn’t want to wait anymore. 

Part of her had expected him to kiss her on the spot, but he didn’t. Instead, he’d smiled and said he’d plan something, and it turned out he meant for the following evening, just as keen to finally be here as she was. 

A small part of both of them had worried it would be awkward. That there had been too much build-up over the years and that maybe they weren’t destined to be more than friends. They soon realised they needn’t have worried, dinner had been exactly like the countless ones they’d shared before only in a dimly lit restaurant as they held hands over the table. 

“Thank you for a lovely evening,” she says as she dumps her purse on her kitchen counter, smiling as she turns in his arms, only letting go of his hand so she can hook her arms around his neck. 

He smiles and places his hands on her lower back, pressing her closer to him, revelling in the fact he had her this close, that they had made it here, “No problem, Em. I’ll let you pay next time I promise.” 

She laughs, smiling widely at the memory of how they’d playfully argued over the bill in the restaurant. Eventually, she’d relented, aware of his desire to be a gentleman. “Next time? You’re going to take me on another date?” 

His smile gets wider at her playfulness, and if it hadn’t taken them this long to get here he’d say it almost felt too easy to be with her like this, “Another one,” he shrugs, “Or another 20.” 

She bites her lower lip as he pulls her even closer, her eyes flicking down to his lips before she meets his eyes again, “Or 50?”

He leans in, his breath skipping across her lips, “Or 100.”

When they kiss, it’s everything they’d both imagined and more. Something entirely new and coming home all at once. As if every awful thing they’d both been through since that first almost moment between them almost 20 years ago had been leading them to this. The path rocky and treacherous at times but worth every step.

She sighs contentedly as she pulls back, her hands on his cheeks as she rests her forehead against his, his palms wide and warm on her lower back and between her shoulder blades.

“You didn’t stop me this time,” she says, slightly breathless, her tongue peeking out to lick her lip and chase the taste of him. 

“You didn’t stop me either,” he replies, just as affected as she is before he leans in again, kissing her soundly, tasting the groan she releases from the source. When they break away this time he kisses the corner of her lips and then her cheek and then her nose, wholly unable to stop now he’d started, “Worth the wait?”

She chases his lips, catching them as he’s about to press them against her jaw, and she barely pulls back enough to speak. 

“Worth the wait.” 

[icarusbetide]

#save elizabeth schuyler hamilton from male biographers 2024

Just got pissed off so bad. I'm in the middle of reading Burr, Hamilton, and Jefferson: A Study in Character, which presents an intriguing argument that Burr deserves to be put back into the Founding Father Pantheon, so to speak. The author doesn't shy away from hitting hard against the idea that Jeff & Ham were morally superior to Burr, and I was on board! Ready to go!

But then. During the discussion of the women in each of their lives, the author decides the best way to further promote Burr's attitude towards women compared to Jefferson and Hamilton is to disparage Martha Jefferson & Elizabeth Hamilton?

On Martha Jefferson:

Martha Wayles Skelton had been a widow, and none of Jefferson's biographers, even the resourceful Fawn Brodie, has been able to tell us much about her—from the solitary letter remaining to us in her hand or the accounts of their contemporaries—beyond the general impression that she was handsome, musical, and frail.

On Elizabeth Hamilton:

Hamilton's Elizabeth was an heiress, the daughter of an upstate squire, Philip Schuyler, with Livingston and van Rensselaer connections. She was plain, straightforward, loyal, and neurasthenic, endured his flagrant and frequent infidelities, and lived to the brink of the Civil War.

I'm sorry, I don't know enough about Martha J. to protest to her characterization, but I think I can say something about Eliza. Plain? Neurasthenic? And once again, annoyed at the lack of citation or evidence for flagrant and frequent infidelities - but putting that aside, even if it were true, I don't like how her staying in her marriage is subtly implied to be some failure or at least less interesting than a woman who didn't "endure" them. There's a lack of consideration of both her own strength & the societal circumstances of that time that would have influenced her actions.

On Theodosia:

Her character emerges from their large and fervent correspondence. She was confident, well connected, well read, beautiful even after a burn scarred her face, witty, worldly, and full of expectations of him.

Okay. The author saw the point and it sailed over his head. "From their large and fervent correspondence" is key here. Like I said earlier, I don't know enough about Martha Jefferson, but I bet that "handsome, musical, frail" is probably not an all-encompassing picture of her. The similarity between her and Eliza? We don't have the letters that they wrote to their husbands. It's unfair to judge Theodosia (don't get me wrong! she was well read and intelligent, that's not what i'm denying) from her correspondence with Burr, but then not acknowledge that the lack of that perspective would impact how we view the other two women.

And to top it all off:

Unlike Jefferson's and Hamilton's, Burr's character was molded by the love of a woman of immense force and intelligence.

Neither Hamilton nor Jefferson married a woman who evidenced such force of character and independence of view.

Jesus Christ. There's plenty to criticize about Jefferson & Hamilton, and I really wanted to see a well-reasoned argument about Burr's character and whatnot but this lacks nuance and is unnecessarily dismissive. It pisses me off that a book that seems determined to break down the idolized version of Hamilton, somehow ends up using his wife to further their angle, just like biased Hamiltonian biographies. In both cases, Eliza is the plain, unintelligent, steadfast wife. For sympathetic authors like Chernow, that's somehow justification for the Reynolds affair. For Roger G. Kennedy, that's used in an argument against her husband. "Let's talk attitude towards women! Hamilton & Jefferson didn't have intellectual wives! Point for Burr!"

I don't know nearly enough about Martha Jefferson to say anything of merit, but really?

To give credit where credit is due, I think Kennedy is trying to make the point here that Theodosia Bartow Burr was a major influence on Burr, as "Burr's character blossomed in the radiance of his wife and mentor". He also goes on to talk about various genuine reasons why Burr's attitude towards women is noteworthy. But I still don't like the way he dismissed the other two women as what? Not smart enough to help their husbands' characters blossom? Maybe there's merit to this book outside of this one section, The Women, but right now I'm not in the mood. Am I being dramatic? Idk.

[randomestfandoms-ocs]

Time For Tea: Introduction

Lavender Haze ( Violet Kingsleigh & Cian Hearts ) has now been merged with Long Live The Queen ( Queenie Hearts & Ace Hearts & Maria Frollo & Helena ) to create a clusterfuck political intrigue series, and several more Wonderland characters have been added to the mix

PS: huge thanks to @cecexwrites @ginevrastilinski-ocs @the-witching-ash for listening to me completely lose my mind and jump all over the place as I figured this out!

The OGs

Ace Hearts [ Curran Walters ] – Long Live The Queen; son of the Queen Of Hearts, Queenie's left hand man & chief enforcer

Cian Hearts [ Gavin Leatherwood ] – Lavender Haze; son of the Queen Of Hearts, invited to the isle because reports say that the child of the Queen of Hearts is running the Isle and they assume it must be her son

Helena [ Tegan Croft ] – Long Live The Queen; daughter of Hades & Persephone, Queenie's right hand man, and other chief enforcer

Maria Frollo [ Elle Fanning ] – Long Live The Queen; daughter of Judge Frollo, grew up locked in his tower and has only recently been freed and brought to Crims, manages Crims

Queenie Hearts [ Madison Davenport ] – Long Live The Queen; daughter of the Queen Of Hearts, unofficial Queen of the Isle, runs her crew with an iron fist and military precision

Violet Kingsleigh [ Meg Donnelly ] – Lavender Haze; daughter of Alice & The Hatter, heir to Wonderland, goes to Auradon because Wonderland suspects Auradon of poisoning the White Queen

The Wonderland Crew

Caoilinn Whittemore [ Florence Pugh ] – daughter of the White Knight & Violet’s personal guard; goes to Auradon with Violet

Arley Whitaker [ Tom Holland ] – son of the White Rabbit & Violet’s personal secretary / manager / wrangler; goes to Auradon with Violet

Chelsey Chester [ Rowan Blanchard ] – daughter of the Cheshire Cat

Tenney Earwick [ Jack Wolfe ] – son of the March Hare

Mallaidh Merrick [ Mary Mouser ] – daughter of the Dormouse

Deirdra Taggart [ Ella Hunt ] – daughter of Tweedle Dee

Deryn Taggart [ Joe Keery ] – son of Tweedle Dee

Duncan Taggart [ Joe Keery ] – son of Tweedle Dum

The Isle Crew

Neasa Kearney [ Kaia Gerber ] – daughter of the Red Queen, runs recruitment & orientation for the crew

Caitria Devlin [ Billie Lourd ] – daughter of the Duchess, crew manager

Keira Knave [ Alba Baptista ] – daughter of the Knave of Hearts, combat trainer

Killian Knave [ Freddy Carter ] – son of the Knave Of Hearts, combat trainer for the crew

Shiloh Reece [ Emilia Jones ] – daughter of the Cook, medic

Bonus – existing ocs who have been added to Time For Tea as part of Queenie's crew

Nettie Tremaine [ Peyton Elizabeth Lee ] – daughter of Anastasia Tremaine, medic

Raisa Rasputin [ Sophia Ann Caruso ] – daughter of Rasputin, barge day coordinator, collector

Rini Bing [ Jenna Ortega ] – daughter of Herman Bing / The Ringmaster, crew manager

Savina Stromboli [ Diana Silvers ] – daughter of Stromboli, collector

Winona Sykes [ Milly Alcock ] – daughter of Bill Sykes, head of inventory

( now need to decide if the existing ocs added to Time For Tea should keep their current titles or become part of Long Live The Queen )

[anghraine]

@redwooding said:

My only quibble with the letter, by the way, is that in more than one annotated Austen novel, David Shapard says in those notes that it was proper for an unmarried man to write an unmarried woman, and for her to reply, *only* if they are engaged to each other. Marianne violates this informal but strong norm, and (IIRC) Elinor worries about this. It DOES seem out of character for Darcy to do something so improper. Yet the tone of the letter is almost business-like, as if he is writing to a man who has insulted him and they're gearing up for a duel. Obviously he is not planning to duel Lizzie, but it does have that tone of demanding satisfaction to the smear on his reputation, though it's much more correctional in tone than challenging. So maybe he disregards that norm for this important reason.

I wanted to respond to this specifically in case I forget to respond to your overall reply.

David Shapard's annotations are a very mixed bag IMO. His historical annotations are intriguing, as are plenty of the more literary interpretations, but he makes some peculiar mistakes in applying historical knowledge to the characters without always attending to their individual personalities or circumstances. I've used a case where he does this with Lydia as an example (in my prospectus) of why I think interdisciplinary readings need to be handled more carefully than they often are.

As for the particular matter of propriety wrt letter writing, I think it is very much dependent on how openly it's done. Significantly, Darcy doesn't send Elizabeth a letter, which would flout the norm and put Elizabeth in a very uncomfortable situation. He waits for her and delivers it by hand so that she doesn't have to deal with the social consequences of being known to have received a letter from him.

Elizabeth could then destroy the letter if she wanted to be completely secure, and he seems to figure she would (though Elizabeth's response after their engagement suggests she kept it the whole time). But the norm is, of course, why she doesn't and can't respond.

Darcy is maneuvering carefully around propriety here to strike a balance between defending his character and keeping social pressure off Elizabeth. And, after all, this is the same man who will try to give Lydia an out from marrying Wickham despite the dictates of propriety. Additionally, he tries to handle that situation in a way that will accomplish what needs to be done while keeping Elizabeth from feeling social or personal pressure. He cares a lot about propriety, but he's not unbending about it when it really matters.

This is also relevant to Mrs Gardiner's half-expectation that Elizabeth will (openly) receive a letter from Darcy after they leave Lambton. A letter received that way would be very improper without some kind of understanding between Darcy and Elizabeth (which Mrs Gardiner thinks might very well exist, as seen then and in her later letter to Elizabeth). So that would put Elizabeth under quite a lot of scrutiny in a way his earlier letter doesn't.

[midnightsun-if]

Can you give us a fluff, or as fluff as they can be, story with Elizabeth and Rainier? I’m super curious about their dynamic as they seem perfectly matched but complete opposites.

“Why did you do it?”

The soft question, and the even softer voice that asks it, is barely heard over the sharp crackling of the hearth— disjointed rays of orange, red, and yellow flickering across the Victorian decor, bringing new life into the aged room.

Ruby red meets icy blue from across the room; where the former sat sharpening a dagger and the latter lounged in front of the blazing fire with a book in hand.

“Why did I do what?” Elizabeth retorts, dropping her gaze back to shining metal. This game of word chess had been replayed so many times now that she could already tell where her husband was leading up to. “Marry you? Because I truly don’t have the faintest inclination as to why—”

“Lilibet,” Rainier interrupts, a deep chuckle rumbling from within his chest. A sound that only ever came when around his wife, in the privacy of their own home, away from prying eyes, and, like a moth to the seductive flame, he stands to move closer to her. “You know what I’m asking. Why did you do it? Why did you keep me alive?”

Peering up through thick lashes, Elizabeth lets her dagger fall to the cushioned pad below— a brief flicker of annoyance festering within her chest at her task being interrupted before she extinguished it— and she stands to match her husband’s gaze straight on.

“I do numerous things without having a course of action after the fact, Rainier. Keeping you alive was a mere whim that I decided to follow.”

Rainier shakes his head. “I don’t believe that for a second, Elizabeth. You’re the most ambitiously cunning woman I have ever met. You don’t do anything without having a backup plan to your backup plan. So—” He rounds the table, stepping closer to his wife. “— I ask again… Why did you keep me alive?”

There’s a moment of silence— wherein the two simply observe the other; after centuries of being together, they knew how to read one another like a children’s book. Elizabeth knew what her husband wished to hear, that she had looked into his eyes and simply realized she could not bear to be without him, that she had felt a pull towards him long before he became immortal, but such fanciful notions were nothing more than arbitrary lies.

“Because you didn’t weep like a sniveling coward, Rainier,” she replies, settling back down in her seat, aware the game was coming to an end. For now. “I found that intriguing. What more do you wish for me to say?”

Looking down at her, Rainier’s expression doesn’t falter from the serene stoicism she had taught him so long ago, but she could easily detect the flicker of disappointment that flashed through the blue depths of his gaze. “The truth, for starters,” he chuckles, leaning down to place a chaste kiss to her cheek. “Something that’ll I get out of you one of these days.”

Watching her husband amble back to his seat, and whatever book had caught his attention, Elizabeth almost feels regret flooding her chest, a heavy sort of weight that she didn’t quite like to bear…

You already have, you foolish man, she thinks, watching as Rainier relaxes once more. It’s just not something you wish to accept.

It’d only be a matter of time before the question came again and the game would start once more— Rainier, never realizing that he had already won the first time he had played.

[thesymphonytrue]

Hi hello!!!

“Oh honey, I’d never be jealous of you.”

This line has SUCH Elle energy!! Whatever ship u want but it would be so cool if she said it

I immediately thought of El with this line, too!!! So yes....she says it!

Peter/Elizabeth

Pre-canon

"Oh honey, I'd never be jealous of you."

Elizabeth turned over in bed, surprised to find a cold, empty spot where Peter usually slept. Sighing, she propped herself up and checked the time: 3:00 am. Furrowing her dark brows, she pulled back the covers and tiptoed down the hallway to the top of the stairs. Peering into the living room, she saw Peter.

He was sitting on the couch, hair still messy from their evening romp hours ago, clad in a white t-shirt and boxers. One hand loosely held his phone to his ear, while the other rubbed his eyebrows wearily. But on his lips, on those wonderful lips that devoured Elizabeth almost daily, was a tiny smile, a sparkle of amusement and infatuation.

Neal Caffrey, Elizabeth thought.

This was the third night in a row that Neal Caffrey had called Peter and while Elizabeth didn’t so much mind Peter being all-consumed by his job, post-midnight phone calls were…

Intriguing.

In Elizabeth’s mind, Neal was a brilliant mind who had fallen into the wrong crowd (criminals) and latched onto Peter’s stability, whilst also out-smarting him on almost every turn.

And Peter fucking loved it.

When Peter Burke was challenged, Peter Burke thrived. Elizabeth smiled to herself; she knew this on an emotional, intellectual, and sexual level about her partner. Peter was meticulous about learning everything about his pursuit, making him an excellent FBI Agent, but even better in bed.

She smiled coily to herself and decided tonight would be the night she intervened. She couldn’t have a criminal stealing her husband away, could she? Well aware that she was still in lingerie from earlier (a lovely lacy black thing that left absolutely nothing up to the imagination), Elizabeth fluffed her hair, squared her shoulders, and pranced down the stairs like a runway model.

Peter was mid-chuckle when he spotted her, cheeks flushing and eyes widening at the sight of her soft curves. She walked over to him like a lioness stalking her prey and plucked the phone from his hands.

“Hello, Neal Caffrey,” she said cooly into the phone.

She could practically feel him grinning on the other end.

“Is this the famous Mrs. Burke? I was convinced Peter was lying about having a wife. How do you put up with him, he’s insufferably stubborn,” Neal rattled off as if he and Elizabeth were the best of friends.

Elizabeth couldn’t help but feel a smile tickle her lips as she stole a glance at Peter, whose mouth was propped open in despair and eyes wild with panic.

“Well, you’re right about that,” she said, proceeding to straddle Peter and play with his hair while keeping Neal on the line.

“So why are you up at this hour?” Neal chirped, “Are you jealous?”

Elizabeth chuckled, low and sultry, leaning in and kissing Peter’s neck, to which Peter suppressed a groan and motioned for her to hang up the phone immediately.

“Oh honey, I could never be jealous of you,” she said, speaking to Neal, but looking directly into Peter’s honey-brown eyes, whose pupils were now fully dilated.

“Have Peter shown you my picture?” Neal asked, audibly smirking.

Elizabeth narrowed her eyes, realizing she didn’t know anything about this man other than his name and criminal habits.

“No, he hasn’t,” her gaze flicked to Peter, who was still clueless as to the nature of their conversation. She caressed Peter’s cheek, “But looks don’t matter to Peter,” her eyes twinkled as she widened her legs on Peter and pressed herself closer to him, “Peter loves smart—”

“Well isn’t he lucky that he’s got both in you, Elizabeth,” Neal cut her off, as if he knew exactly what she was trying to do.

“Hang up the phone!” Peter mouthed desperately.

Elizabeth’s eyebrow arched in pleasure at hearing this as she surveyed Peter, practically panting after her.

“Thank you for the compliment, Neal,” Elizabeth purred simultaneously into Peter’s ear and the phone, “Now say goodnight to Peter and let him come back to bed with his wife.”

Neal let out a bright laugh at this, one that even Peter could hear through the phone. Peter turned beet red and promptly snatched the phone back from Elizabeth and gripped her waist, gently pushing her off of him and setting her down next to him as he stood.

“Peter! I didn’t know that you had such an active—-“

“Shut it, Caffrey! Goodnight!” Peter barked, clicking the phone off, Neal’s laughter still echoing in Elizabeth and Peter’s mind.

Elizabeth stood and snaked a hand around Peter’s chest from behind, pressing her breasts into his back. She felt him tighten in response and she rested a hand over his fast beating heart.

She glanced down at the coffee table, Neal Caffrey’s file open. A photograph was pinned to the edge of the file.

Slightly blurry due to Neal being in motion, it was a picture of a dark haired man with brilliant blue eyes, chiseled jawline, and wild smile. He was handsome enough to make any woman–or man–swoon.

“Now that you’re all hot and bothered,” she whispered in Peter’s ear, “should we go to bed or take the couch? Or has Neal put a damper on things?”

Peter turned to face her, his hands tracing the curves of her waist, cupping her supple—and practically bare—ass and kissed her passionately on the lips.

“Couch will do,” he said gruffly, lowering her to the sofa.

Elizabeth sighed and smiled as wrapped her legs around him and pulled him on top of her, satisfied with how Peter's 3 am call had ended. She wondered how long this Neal Caffrey would invade their lives. No, Elizabeth was not jealous, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t take advantage of the perks this handsome criminal’s pursuit of Peter provided.

[blackbutler-mylove]

Hello! I love seeing the Black Butler fandom come back from the grave and I feel like it will stay alive for a while until 2024. Unlike the time Queen Elizabeth died and brought it back to life for a few weeks.

Anyways, I have a Ciel x reader. Basically it’s Ciel with a reader that’s gets called “Lady of the Night” because of her dark and mysterious appearance that represents the night. She talks like she’s a character from Edger Allen Poe’s poems and looks like she came straight out of a Tim Burton film. It can be hc of Ciel before he made the reader his s/o and after. Or it can be a oneshot. It’s up to you!

Thank you and have a good day!

Thank you so much!

This headcanon takes place before the « big reveal » ;)

Ciel his still his canon age and reader is 14! (So a one year gap)

°Ciel met you during a very boring reception between the heads of some of most important brands in England. Tea, silks, furniture, land, cattle and well, his toy company.

°Small talk is something ciel is very good at, but absolutely despises. That’s why after his usual tactical greetings, he decided to just sit by a table with a small glass of champagne, Sebastian standing by his side.

°The only thing slightly amusing to do was to watch the other nobles go about their empty conversations.

°That’s where your father comes in. He’s been widowed for seven years, and was at the head of a very important jewelry and ornaments company. Ciel knew that he decided very early on to include the input of his young daughter in his commercial decisions, but the daughter in question was rarely seen.

°Ciel never met you, despite his numerous interactions with your father. Well, until tonight.

°He saw you walking at your father’s side, wearing a very deep and dark plum colored dress. Wearing an array of silver jewelry from your family’s company and striking eye makeup, that made your eyelids look like they were adorned with lace. An odd way for a lady to present herself…

°Ciel got up from his seat and got closer to the small circle that formed around you two, made by very intrigued nobles looking to poke and prod at you with their questions.

°As he greeted your father for the first time this evening, he noticed you were completely unbothered by the indiscreet questions thrown your way, answering with as much bluntness and a whimsy tone.

° « Pray tell my dear, have you found yourself a betrothed yet? »    « It is not one of my priorities. »

°Here’s something he always dreamed of saying… He went to greet you and kissed your hand, but before he could say anything you perked up: « You have the most beautiful eye, my lord. »

°Sebastian chuckled under his breath as he saw his lord lose his composure.

°For the rest of the evening, you and Ciel sat down as you talked, and you even showed him the small sketchbook you carried around to draw down your ideas for new jewelry. 

°You even started to draw a small portrait of him with a certain crow perched on his shoulder, which he didn’t even notice as he was hanging on each word you said. When he asked about the bird, you replied that « Sebastian made me think of one, it is a simple artistic liberty. Crows are very intelligent animals. »

°When you had to return home, you gifted him the portrait. « We will need to meet again soon, lord Phantomhive. You are truly an inspiration. » You said with a shier tone.

°He was blushing each time he thought of you on his ride back to the manor, and he would be caught dead before anyone knew he smiled while he was in bed that night. Much to Sebastian’s amusement.

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

I wrote about how they met! I can image that they kept meeting up after that, and the "lady of the night" might have gotten herself into a lot of the phantomhive's shenanigans!

[kiwisa]

floriography ✩ ln04

Lando Norris x Fem! Parisian! Reader

fluff • 2,800 words

IN WHICH... you met lando during his two-week stay in paris. through streets, places, and dates, you rediscovered your city and perhaps fell in love ⏤ all to the scent of flowers.

A delicious smell emanated from the Queen Elizabeth II flower market: a colourful spectrum in the monochrome place that Paris could sometimes be. Every week, you would go there to buy a different bouquet. Your flat wasn't really yours without a touch of life to brighten it up.

Some would see it as an unnecessary expense; you saw it as a necessity. Your flowers always sat in the middle of the living room, reminding you of the fragility of life and – above all – the need to enjoy the moment: a discreet but omnipresent Carpe Diem.

You could spend hours every Tuesday morning at the opening, wandering aimlessly between these stalls which always managed to make you feel light, carefree – a parenthesis of softness and calm, necessary in the intensity of your daily life.

With your wicker basket in your left hand and your steps punctuated by the chirping of the many birds for sale, you would stop at times in front of a particularly pretty bouquet and then go on your way, empty-handed. You only made your choice at the very end, even putting it off until the last minute to enjoy the bucolic setting a little more.

However, a hint of red suddenly caught your attention. You approached and hastened to read the little slate stuck between two plants: amaryllis, “the desire to woo”. Floriography – the language of flowers, for they could speak better than humans – had always intrigued you. In the corner of your head, you filed this information away.

As you read it, you found yourself thinking of Lando, with whom August had passed so quickly. A simple meeting in the heart of the French capital had led to afternoons filled with the smell of love and the melody of a British accent.

September was already upon you and, as you resumed your walk, the names of flowers seemed to be calling you. Some of them even took you back to those sunny summer days, spent in the company of the one who was becoming more and more present in your life.

WISTERIA ! “tenderness” ✩ Paris, rue Saint-Maur

The Atelier des Lumières was casting Monet's impressionist works on its walls, and, in the middle of these thousands of lights, your face had become that of his muse.

Lando had never been in this building and its peculiar industrial façade. The French capital itself was unknown to him, actually. You had been the one to first tell him about it during your first meeting at a café on the rue de la Convention ⏤ just after almost crashing in each other ⏤, telling him how the exhibition on Van Gogh and his Starry Night had transported you.

“There's something magical about wandering through mythical works of art,” you had told him that day, a dreamy smile on your lips. You were probably thinking of how amazing you had felt in the middle of that blue and yellow sky.

It was only later that you told Lando about the new exhibition, this time devoted to Monet, and expressed your desire to see it.

“I tried to go with my friends, but they don't care much about art.”

The night of your conversation, he had rushed to buy two tickets, even though he didn't particularly love the French painter, even though lighting effects sometimes made him nauseous, even though he didn't want to be in the middle of people who might recognize him. The mere prospect of making you smile motivated him.

When he kissed your cheek in front of the museum, smelling your flowery perfume, he found you shy but cheerful. No doubt you remembered this conversation and were touched to see how far his little attentions could go. His joy increased tenfold as you both moved through the exhibition.

More fascinated by the woman in front of him than by the indistinct lilies, Lando kept his gaze fixed on you, smiling when you finally decided to speak: “I've always wanted to visit the British Museum. If I come to London to see you, will you take me there?”

“Of course.”

The subtle promise of seeing each other again.

“Oh, look! Impression, Sunrise!”

He let himself be pulled towards the animation, a smile on his lips.

CAMELLIA ! “admiration” ✩ Paris, rue de la Légion d'Honneur

With his cap screwed on his head, Lando was desperately trying to follow you through the Musée d'Orsay while avoiding the passers-by, who were far too numerous for his taste.

The great upward path, overlooked by numerous sculptures, including the majestic Porte de l'Enfer, was invaded by art lovers. Among them, you and your look of wonder, who almost pulled him by the arm, eager to show him your favourite works.

He refrained from telling you that he knew the exhibition well, having visited it every time he would come to Paris. He didn't want to tarnish the glow in your eyes.

“The room with all the Bouguereau is my favourite. Come on.”

You led him into Room 2. Immediately, Cabanel's Birth of Venus greeted you. Exposed on the right wall of this recess, he let his eyes wander over her perfectly defined contours, her sensual curves accentuated, her languid position.

“She's beautiful,” you said beside him.

He refrained from nodding, walking towards Room 3, where he saw Bouguereau's version, proud as it was, standing in the middle of this watery painting, like an ancient statue.

“I don't know which one I prefer. They're both beautiful,” you said, your pout showing your indecision. “It's interesting to see the same subject can lead to completely different interpretations.”

“I think I prefer Bouguereau's. She appears less as an object of desire and more as a goddess. She has this aura to her.”

“I mean… They still look at her with desire,” you retorted in reference to the other characters on the painting. “I wish people would look at me like that sometimes,” she went on. “With as much admiration as they do,” you pointed to the two nymphs to the right of the Goddess.

You quickly turned your attention to Dante and Virgil, a darker but equally beautiful painting. Lando followed behind, hands in his pockets, looking thoughtful, but not without taking one last look at the painting.

All were in darkness except Venus, illuminated by a light coming from her right and emanating from the shell, which reigned in the centre of the vision. He looked at you, in the centre of the room, illuminated by one of the projectors. He smiled.

Of all the paintings, between academism and impressionism, your portrait was by far the most magnificent.

DAHLIA ! “generosity” ✩ Paris, rue St-Honoré

Lando and you quickly passed the forest green door of the Delamain bookshop, in desperate need for a refuge to escape rain. This unexpected storm had caught both of you by surprise, spoiling their initial plan to stroll through the Parisian streets.

Laughter – because your mascara had run, because Lando's jacket was soaked – echoed for a moment in the room's foyer but faded when your eyes finally took in the scenery. The central stalls jumped out for the visitors’ eyes, welcoming them and already urging them to buy. So numerous were the titles. One wondered how they didn't fall off. The latest Goncourt prize was sitting in the middle of it all, its garish red label attracting all eyes. Buy me, it screamed.

On the wall, when you could see them, mostly hidden by big oak bookcases, a few frames here and there represented the bookshop at different periods of its existence: 1790, 1850, 1970, 2010…

“How about we each choose a book and give it to each other?” Lando's voice drew you out of your state of admiration.

“Oh yes! That's a brilliant idea!”

You didn't see him smile – amused to see your vocabulary change for British English – as you walked by, already turned towards the back of the shop. You immediately began scanning the shelves for the perfect title. The Pleiades shelf on the left almost called to you, but the obvious language barrier between Lando and you came to mind, and, thus, you resigned yourself to looking elsewhere.

Reluctantly, you headed for the “Literature in English” section, disappointed that you could not share with him the beauty of French literature.

Several times you passed each other, exchanging a brief smile before resuming your search. It seemed endless. You spent the afternoon like this: in front of the stacks, reading the summaries of books, putting them down again. Nothing seemed good enough to be given as a present for the Other.

“What do you give to someone who has already read everything?”

“He'll think your classics are rubbish,” you cringed.

Finally, as six o'clock rang, the two of you stood outside the shop, each with a bag in hand, the rain already forgotten. You immediately handed your brown bag to Lando, who hurriedly took out the wrapped work. You both walked to escape from the street’s noise, while he struggled to remove the wrapping paper. The cover of A Room with a View by E. M. Forster was soon in his hands.

“I hope you like it. I chose it because it has a happy ending since you don’t like to be sad when you read,” you referred to one of your many debates.

Lando laughed, as you looked on in panic and immediately regretted your choice. Maybe he didn't like it? Had he already read it?

“Open yours.”

You complied, eyebrows furrowed, and pulled out The Song of Achilles by Madeleine Miller, which you had never read, despite the waves of enthusiasm on social media surrounding it.

“I got it for you because you love novels with bad endings.”

At his explanation, a giggle fell from your mouth. Your thought processes were not so different from each other after all… Smiling, you thanked Lando with a kiss on the jaw, which he returned.

You both returned to the bookstore several times during Lando’s trip, sometimes alone, but each time with a book in hand for the other.

CROCUS ! “joy” ✩ Paris, Jardin des Plantes

With a smile on your faces and your fingers intertwined, Lando and you strolled between the rectangular flowerbeds of the Jardin des Plantes, stopping at times to smell the sweetness of a bud that had or would soon become a flower. Time seemed to stand still in the middle of these flowers and shrubs. One could almost have seen the coquettes, dandies, grand ladies, and boisterous children who had walked these paths centuries before.

In the distance, the streets of the capital had never been so beautiful, an urban reflection of these hundreds of colourful touches: the yellow of the streetlamps, the orange of the cars’ indicators, the red of the shop signs. The Sun, comfortably seated on its highest point, dazzled your cheerful faces as it watched over you, smiling at this budding love.

Joy was such a pure feeling. One could see its aura, powerful and brilliant: a protective halo from the worst vices of the World. It sparkled around the two of you. Those heartbeats in unison, those candid laughs, all these little touches reinforced the beauty of the idyllic picture that was painted before the Sun’s eyes.

“Look!” you exclaimed.

One hand was holding your straw hat so it wouldn't fly off while the other was pointing to a colourful bird perched on a tree branch, its leaves coloured a resplendent green. The smell of freshly cut grass intoxicated passers-by, plunging them into a euphoria that only the end of spring could bring.

The feeling of being invincible was indescribable, reinforced by the Sun's rays, whose reflections chased away the shadows and, with them, the bad memories. All these trees formed an enchanting globe above the garden, pierced by these beams of light. The soft, pale pink flowers lowered and rose with the rhythm of the quiet wind.

This smooth transition between Summer and Autumn, these few precious days, was without a doubt your favourite time of year, synonymous with holidays, sunshine, tranquillity. You saw the joy of existence as well as rebirth with each yellowing leaf.

Happy to be able to enjoy this beautiful weather, small laughs escaped from your lips without realising it, hypnotised by this pastoral picture.

The characteristic sound of a camera caught your attention. Turning your head, your eyes obstructed for a few seconds by strands of hair, your gaze finally landed on the man a few metres away from. You hadn't even noticed that he had moved away, letting go of your hand as he did so.

You suddenly found it cruelly empty.

Lando was smiling at his screen. Curious, you hopped over to him, your white and light pink dress billowing in the wind. When you reached him, you leaned over his shoulder and stood on tiptoe to see what seemed to hypnotize him. With a grimace on your face, you quickly put a hand on the screen to try and hide the picture.

“Delete that! I'm ugly!”

“Don't bullshit me, you're always beautiful.”

You kissed his cheek, leaving it red from your lips.

BEGONIA ! “faith in the future” ✩ Paris, rue de Palestro

“Can you pass me the jam, please?” you asked, your tongue between your lips, concentrating on digging hearts into the dough with the end of a tablespoon.

An arm passed in front of your eyes, nearly turning the heart into a triangle. Lando easily grabbed the jam jar and continued scraping the bottom of the bowl.

“Stop eating the dough, you'll get sick.”

“Are you my mother? I don't think so.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled at his smug look. He shoved a teaspoonful of the mixture into his mouth to taunt you.

You chose not to say anything.

In just two weeks, and dozens of dates in addition to the many texts you exchanged, your relationship had evolved for the better: more spontaneous, less restrained. You were no longer trying to impress each other, although a few ambiguous little remarks continued to be exchanged, and were now fully enjoying this new comfort.

Neither really friends, nor really lovers, Lando reminded himself.

You hadn't even kissed yet, satisfied – for the moment – with the softness of a kiss on the cheek. Things were moving at your own pace: slowly, but surely. Lando could see that this was all new to you, who had confided in him about your lack of experience in relationships.

He was more than happy with this new pace. His previous relationships had all been formed on the fly, sometimes within two weeks, others within a month. If some had lasted a long time, a few years, all had been ruined by the desire to go too fast without consideration for the other. He had sometimes shared his bed with women he had loved deeply, without ever really getting to know them.

He did not want to fall into that pattern again. You were a breath of fresh air, an escape from this involuntary toxicity.

“I hope you're aware that I'm going to be intransigent on taste.”

“What are you, Gordon fucking Ramsay? You're going to eat the biscuits and shut your mouth. This isn't Come Dine With Me.”

“Shit, there goes my plan.”

The two of you laughed as you carefully filled the holes you had formed with raspberry jam. Without a word, Lando began to help you. Concentrating on your task, you did not notice him. It was only when you lifted your head to brush aside a lock of hair, which was in the way, that you realized his actions.

“You suck at this, get out!”

“Ouch!” You hit him with a tea towel. “Fuck, stop acting like my mother. You're hurting me!”

He fled from the kitchen under your attacks and laughter, finding refuge in the living room where he dropped onto the sofa. With a smile on his face, he traced each of the mouldings on the ceiling before straightening up and quietly watching you, who was humming some song in the kitchen.

He thought he recognised the tune, but didn't pay it any more attention than that, busy gazing at Her.

You looked ethereal, like a touch of heaven in the mundane.

Lando pondered over your future afternoons ⏤ in London, perhaps ⏤ and if, yes or no, they would all be this wonderful.

[sunlit-skycat]

I signed up for Smallfandombang in DW, where I have to write 10,000 words for a chosen fandom, Pale. First deadline is Jan 31 of next year. Release date would be sometime in April. I'm allowed to do short stories until I hit the wordcount, but they should be related.

So now I have to figure out what I'm actually writing. Tentative ideas:

Nicolette fic: I'd like to focus on the relationship between Nicolette and Zed before and during canon, because I feel like there's a lot of interesting stuff there. This also would serve as good prepwork for getting a further handle on these characters for later fics. I already have notes in progress on these characters, which means I don't have to allot time for a research phase. I'm very confident in my ability to write 10,000 words total on this, even if it's across multiple separate short stories. On the other hand, this feels kind of... small? Especially as something to hold until April 2025.

Postcanon Lucy/OC: Fleshing out the political situation of Ontario after story end through the courtship of Lucy. I expect this to be lighter and fluffier than Nicolette fic, which is a benefit. On the downside, I don't have any notes started for Lucy. I expect having to allot a month or two purely to creating those notes, which takes time out of actual writing. Character interaction is easier for me to write than other things, so I think I can probably complete this story on time. The real question is whether I can make it hit 10,000 with romance and political intrigue alone.

Elizabeth Driscoll's History of Kennet: Fleshing out the political situation of Ontario after story end in a different way, through Elizabeth's totally, very definitely unbiased accounting of the rise of Kennet as seen through a series of interviews. This is the most ambitious concept and requires handling a lot of different characters that -- you guessed it -- I don't have notes on yet or much practice writing. Additionally, this story would be mimicking the work of historians in academia, which I'm not too familiar with. I feel like I'd want a beta reader/advisor for this with more grounding in history.

Looking for input. I'll keep mulling over this until the start of October, at which I need to pick a concept and start writing.

[timesimmer]

Elizabeth, her heart heavy with the weight of a year's grief, prepared for bed. The familiar sounds of the blacksmith shop, usually a comforting hum, now carried an eerie silence. Her father, a beacon of strength and guidance, had been gone for a year, and the shop, once a bustling hive of activity, had fallen into a quiet decline.

As she drifted off to sleep, a sudden clang of metal jarred her awake. Intrigued and a bit frightened, Elizabeth ventured downstairs to investigate. The workshop, bathed in the soft glow of the hearth, was a sight she hadn't witnessed in months. To her astonishment, Kingsley Atwood, one of her father's most promising apprentices, stood before the forge, his hands busy shaping a new sword.

Kingsley turned, a small smile playing on his lips. Elizabeth, her emotions raw and exposed, couldn't hold back the tears that welled up in her eyes. She had been trying to maintain a facade of strength for her family, but in Kingsley's presence, her carefully constructed walls crumbled.

Kingsley approached her gently, his touch warm and comforting. As he held her, Elizabeth felt a strange sensation, a tingling that spread through her body. It was a feeling she couldn't quite explain, but it was undeniably powerful. In that moment, she realized she no longer wanted to hide from her emotions, from the pain and longing that had consumed her.

Their eyes met, and a silent understanding passed between them. Elizabeth leaned into his embrace, her heart pounding. As their lips met, a spark ignited within her, a warmth that banished the chill of despair that had enveloped her life. They moved from the workshop to the spare room above, their bodies entwined in a passionate embrace.

Elizabeth knew she was doing something she shouldn't, something that went against societal norms. But in that moment, she didn't care. All she wanted was to feel something, anything other than the emptiness that had consumed her. As Kingsley pulled back, his eyes filled with a mixture of desire and tenderness, she nodded, her silent consent a testament to the intensity of their connection.

Ornelle Smith, her heart pounding with worry, awoke to find her daughter's bed empty. A wave of dread washed over her as she searched the house, her voice echoing through the silent rooms. The blacksmith shop, usually teeming with activity, was eerily quiet. Just as she was about to give up, a faint creak from the spare room above caught her attention.

Intuition, fueled by a mother's instinct, propelled her up the narrow staircase. The door to the spare room stood ajar, and with a trembling hand, she pushed it open. The sight that greeted her was a shock, a betrayal that pierced her heart. There, in the bed, lay her daughter, Elizabeth, entwined with Kingsley Atwood, her husband's former apprentice.

Their attempts at explanation were met with a cold, unforgiving silence. Ornelle's mind raced, her heart heavy with the weight of her daughter's actions. She looked at Kingsley, her eyes filled with a mixture of anger and disappointment. "How could you take advantage of her?" she demanded, her voice trembling.

Elizabeth tried to defend herself, but her words were lost in the storm of Ornelle's emotions. "Leave the room," Ornelle ordered, her voice firm.

Kingsley, his face pale, pleaded for forgiveness. "I didn't mean to hurt her," he said, his voice filled with regret. "What can I do to make things right?"

Ornelle's answer was swift and decisive. "Marry her," she said, her voice cold. "That's the only way to protect her reputation."

Kingsley hesitated, his heart heavy with doubt. He liked Elizabeth, but he wasn't sure if he was ready for marriage. Ornelle, sensing his hesitation, threatened to report him to the authorities. Faced with the prospect of imprisonment, Kingsley reluctantly agreed to the arranged marriage.

[princesssarcastia]

the season 1 finale of Madam Secretary is so rich on so many levels. obviously blockbuster congressional hearings are fun, but all the flashback stuff just has emotional teeth in a way that's hypnotizing.

it is the one moment in the series where i feel a keen hatred for henry mccord. you, mr.-fighter-pilot, want to kick up a fuss about your wife going away to a war zone for a year and change for her job? her very important job, for which she was hand-picked, which would have helped her implement a massive policy shift THAT SHE DESIGNED to eliminate the CIA's use of torture? are you kidding me? hypocrite much! gah! i really just want to whack him over the head.

because really, we see elizabeth sacrifice her whole career for her husband, in that moment. her husband throws a fit about her taking exactly the kind of job he used to have, and she caves. she quits. obviously i hate the CIA and everything it stands for, but from a character perspective, through a feminist lens, it is galling.

on the other end of the flashback zone, we have that final scene where they have juliet reminiscing about a time when they were all friends. it is just picture perfect. the camera spins around the table, and you see juliet, who will spend the rest of her life in prison; and munsey, who will blow his own brains out; and george, who will be murdered by the former two; and elizabeth, who will unravel it all and be emotionally destroyed by it.

all this horror and intrigue and death you've spent watching all season, in perfect tension with the real joy and friendship they're all experiencing. it's the best kind of dramatic irony. helped, of course, by a tonally excellent soundtrack, which somehow manages to sound exactly like what you'd imagine ironic nostalgia sounds like.

"i guess there was a time when we were all friends," Juliet says, looking lost instead of righteous for the very first time. not because she regrets what she's done—not because she regrets murdering george, a man who was once her friend. but because she's honestly forgotten. hmm. fantastic. love it.

[rat-n-atty]

Pspsps I am but a humble moot who is intrigued by Clove! That said, may I have sum Clove fun facts?/nf

I was going to do a big master post about Clove's fun facts but sure! I'll share some! (Also, ackkk-I'm so glad you like her, I was worried no one would)

Fun fact 1: Clove is a neat freak

She was always taught to have a clean work area as a scientist so she strives to do that...everyday...everything has to be clean, tidy, organized, and aesthetically pleasing to the eye.

Fun fact 2: Clove is ambidextrous

This is a trait that she actually inherited from her grandfather (E. Gadd) although it makes it hard for her to choose which hand will be dominant that day and which hand will be semi dominant.

Fun fact 3: Clove is autistic

She actually hates this the most about herself. The reason why she is seen as black sheep to her family and "Nothing you do will ever be good enough" is because she's autistic. It took a loonnnggg time for her to finally accept her autism (like until the Genesis Arc)

I myself am a different kind of nerodivergent (The ADHD) but I chose to make Clove autistic because it just fits her character (I really hope I'm not misrepresenting autistic people when i use her...I know making her scientist is already kinda stereotypical)

Fun fact 4: Clove really loves the sound of old TV static

She doesn't really know either but it's a stim lmao.

Fun fact 5: She has a pet frog

She made her in her lab! She has little wings and can breathe fire. Clove sometimes calls her pet Frankie for short but her actual name is Franklin. Yes. Franklin...

Fun fact 6: Clove was originally a C. Ai persona...

Fun fact 7: Clove studies psychology, forensics, engineering, and memeology

Fun fact 8: All of Clove's family members have the initials E. Gadd

It's like a weird family tradition if you will. Clove's dad is named Edward Gadd while her mom is named Elizabeth Gadd

Clove normally goes by her nickname though; not wanting to be associated with her family at all.

Fun fact 9: Clove's ears are just a birth defect

It's called Stahl's ear or "Spock's ear" and it's actually pretty rare! (I have Stahl's ear lmao) Clove used to hate it when she was younger but as she grew up, she cared less.

Fun fact 10: Clove's voice claim is Sandra Bullock

Specifically, Sandra Bullock from Miss. Congeniality

And that was the last fact lmao

I have billions of others but that will have to be for another time

LATER

BI!

[birlwrites]

I see you often have long lists of stories/books reblogged, do you have a particular favourite you’d recommend?

Also I can’t recall if you have any that are specifically disability linked but if you know if any that’d be cool to know of/have linked if you’d oblige me? I’m ideally in search of a fantasy/fiction book written almost entirely from the perspective of a blind protagonist as I think it must fascinatingly change descriptions throughout it if done well but don’t myself know of any. (And am of course happy to continue a search myself, but you appear to read/learn of a wide variety of stories so thought there was a chance you’d know about something and didn’t think it’d hurt to ask).

my current favorites are the locked tomb series (perhaps better known as gideon the ninth), the death of jane lawrence by caitlin starling, and niche/indie pick miss bennet's dragon by m verant!!

(the latter is the first in a series called jane austen fantasy - if you've ever thought 'jane austen books don't have enough dragons' or 'i think elizabeth bennet could have kicked napoleon's ass' or 'i think mary bennet is an autistic lesbian who should fall in love with georgiana darcy', THESE ARE THE BOOKS FOR YOU. mary is my favorite character hands down i adore her i'd die for her she's so COOL)

also striiiictly speaking i have not actually read this yet but i recently received my copy of the same stars by dori lumpkin (published by @archiveoftheodd whose stuff is so cool that i've even gone to the lengths of telling my not-even-remotely-on-tumblr roommate about them), and i'm SUPER excited to read it, so there's that too!!

i do also often rb those lists so that future me has something to look at - my #other people's writing tag is a reference for me as much as it is one for other people aghslgkjsfd. i have not read everything that i reblog, but i like to reblog when something intrigues me, since if it intrigues me it's reasonably likely to intrigue some of the people who follow me as well. plus word of mouth is basically the only way to get things off the ground on tumblr and i want to support fellow authors and small presses

re a book written from the perspective of a blind protagonist, i don't know of any off the top of my head but @thedisabilitybookarchive might have some!