#joy is thinking about duke in a dress

[manekinoodle]

various payday doodles

[threepandas]

Bad End: Hidden Heir

Next ->

The Duke's family had very distinct eyes. It was genetic. An aggressively dominant trait at that, though it tended to die off, after a few generations out of the family. Supposedly a "blessing of the Gods". Spring to be exact. Bounty and luck. And the family certainly WAS bountiful.

In all the best and worst ways.

Wealth, corruption, children and bastards. It was a family so aggressively ALIVE, it could only be Spring's blessing that made them so. Pouring mania and madness into their veins like sweet sunlight. Whispering glory and riches, into power addled ears. They burst with life. Even as they endlessly destroyed themselves.

They were fictional.

Fascinating set dressings, for the stage play of someone else's story. Unimportant beyond their role in world building. As the origin story and power base of a character lead.

The Story ITSELF didn't even occur here. But rather, in the capital. Where the players of significance had gathered.

And I? Oh I was some minor antagonist, so insignificant to the plot, I genuinely could not remember which of seven different women I actually WAS. It had been an ongoing series. Otome Isekai. Reverse harem.

And I was either in the ORIGINAL original novel, the isekai'd plot novel, the anime adaption, OR a horrifying fever dream. My memory was largely useless. But? I did remember the characters. The archetypes.

And the fact, that the author had clearly been going though a Yandere phase.

My region of the Reverse Harem collect-o-thon? Horrifying! Red flags everywhere! No one here should date, leave room for fantasy Jesus, have we considered the joys of being a NUN? Yes. Yes I HAVE thought about it.

I was pretty sure I'd never make it. End up dead or captured by some sort of Nun Yandere. Or God Yandere. Possibly both. Assuming the bandit yanderes don't get me first. It... it was very stressful, living here.

Luckily? I knew when I could leave.

Or so I thought.

Because my house? The Dukedom? Had the "yandere butler who is secretly an heir." Who starts out with loyal dog behavior. A little highly possesive master and servant play. Then rises to become a Duke. Presumably? That is when I die. Or am disowned.

Death is most likely. Since my role was "minor antagonist" and I was to be mean to the sweet, earnest, Harem possessing Protagonist. Don't see WHY I would. Live and let live. Good for her etc etc. But regardless? Best to avoid, just in case.

The problem? Who do you think Mr Illegitimate Heir serves before she gets here? The OTHER possible heirs? Of course not! They'd "oops! Hunting accident~☆" him in a heart beat. Father isn't stupid. And my sisters? Issues. Violent, violent, issues.

He ends up with ME.

Father, WHY.

Obviously, I ignore him. I see nothing. I hear nothing. There is no war in Ba Sing Se. Mmmmm, tea. Good book. Ignore his creepy staring. His creepy, creepy staring.

Thankfully? I never really ran out of Totally Legitimate reasons to send him away to learn or do something. Proper tea making. Door maintenance. Eastern embroidery. Something, anything, and off you go! Bye bye~☆!

Unfortunately. He got faster. Better and better at learning. Mastering skills. Coming BACK. Showing up to stand in the corner, silent and looming, like an omen of death. Those damn eyes. The fucking family eyes!

I don't have them. And NOT as, my Father would have me believe, because I "take after my Mother". But because I am not genetically related to the Duke. I have GOLD eyes. When I wear the right shade of green? I pass. So I am condemned to forever wear green. Don't even really like it much. But?

I am pretty damn sure? I was just... pretty.

A lovely, orphaned, golden eyed child that COULD pass as his. So why not? It was a whim that payed off. Unlike in the original stories, I imagine. Since I am by FAR the best behaved child in this entire house. Ha! Suck it, bio-kids, the adopted one's the favorite! Maybe should have been less lil bitchs.

....I carefully do not say.

Those are INSIDE thoughts.

Fuck. He's still LOOMING. Isn't he? Go awaaaaaay. Where is Protag-chan? Come be doe eyed and busty! Trip adorably! Go "kyaaa~" or something! I feel body heat and freeze. He's leaning over my shoulder to pick up the teapot, pour me another cup. I can FEEL the barest graze of his knuckles against my back, from where he's gripped my chair. The smell of his aftershave almost hauntingly pleasant.

Like he KNEW exactly what smells I liked most. Went out of his way to find one that best suited my preference. Coincidence. Please, PLEASE be a coincidence! I do not turn my head. Keep my eyes locked straight ahead. Barely breathing.

He steps back.

The new pot is sharp and herbal. Almost bitter. I force myself to drink. Can't see a sugar dish, and REFUSE to turn around and ask for one. Ignore. IGNORE. My pounding heart calms. My muscles slowly start to relax.

It... it IS weird, though, now that I think about it? That Protag-chan hasn't reached the Dukedom yet. She should have. God only knows I sent Creepy to the capital enough times, with enough highly specific instructions, that he should've had his meet cute's and dates by the dozen. Been half way in love. So... why...?

Huh.

Dizzy.

The taste of tea sits wrong on my tounge. I stop drinking as the world sways. Letting the cup fall from my hand. Splatter, roll, and shatter. I try desperately to stand. A gentle gloved hand catches my elbow, supporting me. I turn. Giddy eyes. Triumphant, wide, spring green eyes. Too green to be gold, too gold to be green.

An almost cruel, mocking, yet loving grin.

Another hand slides around my waist, braces me against his side. Gleeful little murmurs, too pleased to be reassuring. You. You did this! You DRUGGED ME!

I can barely move, body relaxing against my command, going limp, as he draws me close. Presses his face against the side of my head, against my temple. A deep, shuddering breathe, that he savors like wine. I try to pull free but can not. Feel his lips pull into a vicious grin against my skin. Hands begin to run in gentle, claiming, exploration.

And at last the drugs kick in... the wo..rld..

G..oes..

Dar..k........

[ladybirdswritings]

Pride & Prejudice - Coriolanus {Young} Snow x Reader

Summary: You’re birthed into a lively family in dire need of financial stability. As the eldest, you’re paraded around to be married and much to the dismay of your mother, you deny every hand offered. Yet unbeknownst to you, a man of great power and influence, Mr. Snow, is lurking in the shadows, waiting for his chance to have you. Steamy Pride & Prejudice retelling with young snow and you! Alternate universe, au!snow <3

Notes: I hope u girlies eat this up, getting scrapped otherwise </3 — as always, thank u for leaving comments and loves as it keeps me motivated!

next chapter

one

You’d much rather be at any other breathing, standing tower of gold trimmings and cracked pillars in existence.

At any building filled to the brim, simply overflowing with tiered skirts and lively grins… offered hands and gentlemen donned in fine suits, pockets suffocated by their own riches.

Yet you cannot be; for mama has ordered your presence to be most dire and mandatory. Although you did consider fleeing for the highest hilltop or feigning ill, you knew well that mama would find you or see straight through your falsehoods.

“My my, you look as though you’ve got something unsweet taped to your vicious tongue.”

You scowl at the blonde goddess most confusingly known to be your sister, and she only flips a ringlet of gold behind her poised shoulder.

“I think it to be quite clear how dreadful I find this. No need to observe aloud, sister.”

Her mischievous sapphire orbs glow with enjoyment, face pink and flushed — skin glistening under the gold lanterns flickering above.

You’ve watched happily from your seat, she’s sure to have danced with at least twenty men now.

No wonder mama has no fears or worries about Jane. She is just guaranteed to run off and be married within the upcoming season, it only makes for less of a distraction for mama— she’ll be glued to you like quill to paper.

It is not as though men do not want you. Oh, they do. Most ardently.

The trouble is only that you do not want them.

How horrible it is to be confined to four lonesome, frayed walls with nothing more than your books and your wit to keep you company. Married to a man who will most certainly be your senior, who busies himself with trivial matters and leaves you to be cold at home.

You would much rather drown yourself in the river stix than face a fate so melancholic.

You wish to be an odd thing, to run away into a cottage and spend your days parted from the people who surround you. You will read books of men made from dreams and you will find comfort in knowing that you will not be wed to a man who will only discontent you.

Of course, that would bring great shame upon your family, ruin them. So it seems you will end up a spinster or a governess. Both fates, although not as you may hope in your dreams, still offer more joy.

“Forgive me for having fun. It is not why I displease you however, perhaps if you picked your pretty head up from that book and stopped waving the hands that greet you away— you would know this. Mama has sent me. The duke, his sister and a dear friend of his have arrived here. Here! At our party, can you believe it?”

You huff out a sigh laced with annoyance, flipping to the next chapter of the dilapidated thing in your hands.

“No, I truly cannot.” You mutter, yet you cannot spare the fresh page even a glance before it is snatched from your clutched fingers.

A first edition, it shreds from its spine and erupts a gasp from both you and Jane. Mama’s cyan gaze is cold and anxious, feigning a tight smile.

That one was your favorite.

You do not lift your head, you do not notice the three towering men who look down upon your reserved oak wood bench in interest. Mama clutches the duke’s palm in an embrace of suffocation, yet you do not pay it even a little mind as you drop to your knees in your pretty dress to find the strayed page.

“My god, where are your manners — girl! Please do not pay her rudeness any attention, she gets sickly over these things. Sweetheart, up now— we can buy you another.”

Her voice is cold, devoid of any admiration. It is a lie, too. Your family cannot afford even a singular chapter of a new novel, let alone a first edition. You should be the one plagued by frustration, yet you feel as though it is you who is doing something wrong.

Even so, your eyes search the floor with great fervor, landing on a polished leather shoe which suffocates chapter twelve.

You wince, preparing all the words you can to kindly request the stranger lifts his big foot off of your paper. Yet they dissipate in the back of your throat.

The man, he bends at his knee as he frees the old thing from his sole. Your eyes lift to greet him, then.

He is a mess of blonde locks, unruly compared to that of the others with hair long enough. Theirs are tamed with ribbons, his only sits atop his head. His eyes are a cold color, one you cannot explain. They are commanding, fueled with great intensity.

Beyond all of this?

He looks most certainly miserable.

He does not wish to attend tonight, one glance proves this.

He spares you no words as he passes you the paper, eyes locked upon the contents of it. He offers you a hand of assistance, too.

You ignore it, wincing at the disgust your mother expresses.

You need no aid as you lift to your feet and dust the old thing off, he follows you — becoming a tower taller once he stands.

Jane, you are grateful now that she is still here. She laughs most uncomfortably, placing a polite hand upon your shoulder as she snatches the page away. Far more gently.

“My dear sister, may I introduce you to your grace — sir Sejanus Plinth of Newbury. Alongside him, his sister — Grace Plinth and their dearest friend, Coriolanus Snow, also of Newbury.”

You know well that you’ve just about boiled a vicious pot of scorching water, one you’ll have to face the many consequences of. A quick glance stolen toward mama proves it.

With a soft sigh, you curtsy to the men before you. A show of respect which you most certainly do not have for them. They are just as unimportant as the others, grand status or not. Including the miserable looking blonde with cold eyes.

“Lovely to meet you. This is truly a grand gathering you’ve all put together…” Sejanus offers with a smile of pearl. You peer up at him, his eyes stealing quick glances at goddess Jane.

Mama goes off on a tangent about how much she adores hosting gatherings as much as attending them — and it’s all a mere buzz in your ears.

Your eyes shift toward the sister, Grace. She’s scowling at you… how peculiar.

“Jane, forgive me if this is far too forward but — I would be most honored to be the last dance you partake in this evening.” Sejanus swallows back his nerves, wincing at the sound of his own voice. Sweet Jane doesn’t bother torturing him, she only nods a shy head.

“Oh, come Grace! I must show you how my youngest daughter performs on the grand piano!”

You feel poorly for the scowling girl who is whisked away by mama. Jane and Sejanus follow alongside them, but part as soon as the music begins.

Both of your palms come to a clasp— shifting weight on your heels as you watch Jane twirl and giggle a golden sound, so beautiful you are certain it could bring each and every single gentleman in attendance to their knees.

Well, except the miserable Mr. Snow.

Your eyes drift to him then — and you catch his gaze already locked upon your stature. He averts it hastily, staring at what looks to be the far wall after he is caught.

Does he plan to lurk here like a shadow’s phantom for the entirety of the evening?

“Do you dance, Mr. Snow?”

His jaw is a sharp — tense thing. It clenches in surprise at your voice. He doesn’t spare you a glance as he answers.

“Not if I can help it.” Is but all he offers before returning to a miserable state of silence again.

By god, to garner more than a mere word is equivalent to the act of tugging teeth loose. You purse your lips, turning your head away to find another question you could offer.

You do not bother, however.

For the first time in all your life, in all the seasons you’ve suffered — you wish to dance. Not because you find it to be fun or any more stimulating than a novel but; rather because you would be far more joyous away from him.

Beyond this, it would make mama less angered when the gathering reaches its end.

You do not offer him a word of parting before you plunge into the lively crowd. A man with blonde locks, not quite as icy as Mr. Snow’s own tousles, offers his hand.

You lose yourself in the rhythm, pretending to be that of a girl in one of your novels. Whisked away by a mysterious, dancing stranger who offers more than just a meaningless hand.

You pretend the blonde is to be a grand lover, one who will care for you beyond material needs. Beyond what is expected and a bore.

You pretend, and when the song ends — so does each and every one of your mindless fantasies.

To normality once again…

[estellan0vella]

Many More Happy Days - Kento Nanami AU Word Count: 6.6K Content Warnings: Death, Child Birth Complications, Still Birth Masterlist for Eras AU

You stand by the grand window in your father's estate, now your estate, gazing at the sprawling gardens that have been your sanctuary for as long as you can remember. The roses are in full bloom, their vibrant reds and pinks contrasting beautifully against the lush greenery. The fragrance drifts through the open window, mingling with the warm summer air. This estate, this legacy of your father, is now yours to command as the Duchess.

The title is a heavy mantle, a blend of pride and sorrow. Your father, the late Duke, was a man of wisdom and kindness, his absence felt in every corner of this vast mansion. As the sole heir, you inherited not just his title but also the responsibilities that come with it. Today, however, your thoughts are not entirely on the duties that await you but on the man who has captured your heart—Lord Kento Nanami.

Lord Nanami is a striking figure, his presence commanding and yet gentle, his manners impeccable. His devotion to you is unwavering, a fact that has been a source of comfort and joy in these trying times. You recall your first meeting at a grand ball, his quiet confidence and piercing gaze setting him apart from the other suitors. Since then, he has pursued you with a sincerity that is both endearing and refreshing.

A soft knock on the door pulls you from your reverie. "Enter," you call out, turning to face the visitor.

Your maid, Eliza, steps in, her expression respectful yet warm. "My Lady, Lord Nanami has arrived. He is waiting for you in the drawing room."

Your heart flutters at the mention of his name. "Thank you, Eliza. I shall be there shortly."

You take a moment to compose yourself, smoothing down the soft fabric of your dress, a rich emerald green that compliments your complexion. You glance at your reflection in the mirror, noting the anticipation in your eyes, the slight flush on your cheeks. Satisfied, you make your way to the drawing room, where Lord Nanami awaits.

As you enter the room, you find him standing by the fireplace, his tall frame silhouetted against the flickering flames. He turns at the sound of your approach, his eyes lighting up with genuine affection. "My Lady," he greets, bowing slightly.

"Lord Nanami," you reply, a smile tugging at your lips.

He steps forward, taking your hand in his, his touch warm and reassuring. "It is always a pleasure to see you," he murmurs, his voice low and sincere.

"The pleasure is mine," you respond, feeling the familiar comfort of his presence.

He leads you to a settee by the window, where the light filters through the lace curtains, casting delicate patterns on the floor. You sit beside him, your hands still entwined.

"I have brought something for you," he says, reaching into his coat pocket. He produces a small, intricately carved wooden box and hands it to you.

Curious, you open the box to find a delicate gold locket nestled inside. The craftsmanship is exquisite, the locket adorned with tiny emeralds that catch the light. "It's beautiful," you breathe, touched by the thoughtful gift.

"It belonged to my mother," he explains, his tone gentle. "She always believed that such treasures should be given to those who would cherish them. I can think of no one more deserving than you."

Your eyes meet his, and you see the depth of his sincerity. "Thank you, Kento. I will treasure it always."

He smiles, a rare, genuine smile that softens his usually stoic features. "I am glad to hear that."

The afternoon passes in a blur of conversation and shared laughter. You talk about everything and nothing, finding solace in each other's company. Lord Nanami's devotion is evident in the way he listens, the way he looks at you, the way he anticipates your needs without being overbearing. It is a courtship built on mutual respect and genuine affection, a rarity in your world of arranged marriages and strategic alliances.

As the sun begins to set, casting a warm golden glow over the room, Lord Nanami rises, reluctantly preparing to take his leave. "I must go, but I shall return tomorrow," he promises, his gaze lingering on you.

"I will look forward to it," you reply, your heart full.

He bows once more, his lips brushing the back of your hand before he turns to leave. You watch him go, a sense of contentment settling over you. In a world full of uncertainties, Lord Kento Nanami is a constant, a steadfast presence in your life. His devotion to you is unwavering, and for that, you are profoundly grateful.

The days turn into weeks, and your courtship with Lord Nanami continues to blossom. He visits you daily, each time bringing a new token of his affection—a book he thinks you'll enjoy, a rare flower from his gardens, or simply his time and company. His attentiveness is unwavering, and you find yourself looking forward to his visits more and more.

One afternoon, as you stroll through the gardens together, he pauses by the rose bushes, his expression contemplative. "There is something I wish to ask you," he begins, his tone uncharacteristically hesitant.

You stop beside him, your curiosity piqued. "What is it, Kento?"

He takes a deep breath, his eyes meeting yours with a seriousness that makes your heart race. "I know that our courtship has been brief by some standards, but I have come to care for you deeply. You are the most remarkable woman I have ever met, and I cannot imagine my life without you. Will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?"

His words take your breath away. You have always known that your feelings for Lord Nanami were strong, but hearing him speak of his love and commitment so openly leaves you momentarily speechless. The sincerity in his eyes, the earnestness in his voice—it is everything you have ever wanted.

"Yes, Kento," you reply, your voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions inside you. "I would be honoured to be your wife."

A look of pure joy crosses his face, and he takes your hands in his, his grip firm and reassuring. "You have made me the happiest man alive," he murmurs, his voice filled with emotion.

You smile, feeling a sense of peace and happiness settle over you. In this moment, surrounded by the beauty of the gardens and the man you love, you know that your future is bright. Together, you and Lord Kento Nanami will face whatever challenges come your way, your love and devotion guiding you through.

The wedding preparations begin almost immediately, the estate buzzing with activity as plans are made for the grand celebration. Lord Nanami insists on handling many of the details himself, wanting everything to be perfect for you. His dedication and attention to detail are evident in every aspect of the planning, from the choice of flowers to the selection of the menu.

Every morning, Kento arrives at the estate to discuss the arrangements. You sit together in the drawing room, pouring over fabric samples for the table linens, tasting dishes prepared by the chef, and reviewing the guest list. Kento's suggestions are always thoughtful, taking your preferences into account with each decision. You are touched by his commitment to making this day special for you.

The flowers are one of the most important decisions. You both visit the greenhouse, selecting a variety of blooms that will create a breathtaking display. Roses, lilies, and peonies in shades of ivory, blush, and deep crimson are chosen to adorn the grand hall. Kento arranges for a renowned florist to craft stunning centrepieces and bouquets, ensuring that the floral arrangements will be nothing short of spectacular.

The menu is another labour of love. Together, you sample an array of dishes, each one more delicious than the last. You finally settle on a menu that includes delicate hors d'oeuvres, a sumptuous main course featuring roasted pheasant and seasonal vegetables, and an array of decadent desserts. Each dish is paired with fine wines and champagne, chosen by Kento with great care.

As the day of the wedding approaches, you find yourself filled with a mix of excitement and nervousness. Eliza helps you into your wedding gown, a beautiful creation of lace and silk that makes you feel like a princess.

The gown is an heirloom, passed down through generations, and it fits you perfectly. The intricate lacework and delicate beading shimmer in the light, and the long, flowing train adds a touch of regal elegance.

Eliza pins your veil in place, her eyes shining with pride and happiness. "You look stunning, my Lady," she says, her voice filled with emotion.

"Thank you, Eliza," you reply, giving her hand a grateful squeeze. "For everything."

The ceremony takes place in the estate's grand hall, transformed into a vision of beauty. The walls are adorned with garlands of flowers, and candles flicker softly, casting a warm glow over the room. A string quartet plays a gentle melody as guests take their seats, the air filled with a sense of anticipation.

Kento Nanami stands at the altar, his tall frame and handsome features commanding attention. He is dressed in a finely tailored suit, the dark fabric contrasting sharply with his crisp white shirt. His eyes never leave yours as you make your way down the aisle, your heart pounding with each step. His expression is one of awe and love, and you feel your heart swell with emotion.

The officiant, a respected clergyman who has known your family for years, begins the ceremony with words of wisdom and blessings. The vows you exchange are deeply personal, crafted from the heart. Lord Nanami's voice is steady and filled with emotion as he pledges his love and devotion to you.

"I, Kento, take you, my beloved, to be my wife. I promise to cherish you, to honour and respect you, and to stand by your side through all the days of our lives."

As he slips the ring onto your finger, you feel a sense of completeness, as if everything in your life has led to this moment. You repeat your vows, your voice unwavering as you promise to love and cherish him for all eternity.

"I, [Y/N], take you, Kento, to be my husband. I promise to love you, to support and respect you, and to stand by your side through all the days of our lives."

"I now pronounce you husband and wife," the officiant declares, and the room erupts into applause.

Kento leans in, his lips brushing yours in a gentle yet passionate kiss. "I love you," he whispers against your lips.

"And I love you," you reply, your heart full.

The reception is a joyous affair, filled with laughter, music, and dancing. The grand hall is transformed into a ballroom, the tables adorned with exquisite floral arrangements and sparkling crystal. The chandeliers overhead cast a warm, golden light, adding to the enchanting atmosphere.

You and Kento share your first dance as husband and wife, the music carrying you across the floor in a graceful waltz. His arms hold you close, his touch reassuring and tender. As you glide together, you feel the eyes of your guests upon you, their smiles and applause a testament to the joy they share in your union.

The meal is a culinary delight, each course a masterpiece of flavour and presentation. Toasts are made, heartfelt speeches delivered by friends and family who celebrate your love and the journey that brought you together.

Kento's best man, a close friend from his days at university, speaks of his unwavering loyalty and the deep respect he holds for him. Your maid of honour, Eliza, shares memories of your childhood and the bond that has grown even stronger over the years.

Lord Nanami never leaves your side, his devotion to you is evident in every touch, every glance. As the evening winds down, you find yourselves alone on the terrace, the stars shining brightly overhead.

"This has been the happiest day of my life," you say, leaning into his embrace.

"And mine," he agrees, his arms tightening around you. "I look forward to many more happy days with you, my love."

Months have passed since your enchanting wedding day, and life with Kento is nothing short of blissful. Your love for each other deepens with each passing day, your connection growing stronger as you navigate the joys and challenges of married life together.

One morning, as you stand by the window in your bedroom, looking out over the blooming gardens, you feel a strange wave of dizziness wash over you. It's fleeting, but enough to make you take a seat on the edge of the bed. You've been feeling unusually fatigued lately, and there's a lingering nausea that you can't quite shake. You decide to visit the physician, more out of precaution than genuine concern.

Dr. Ellison, the family physician, examines you thoroughly. His kind eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles, delivering the news that both excites and astounds you. "Congratulations, Duchess," he says warmly. "You are with child."

The words echo in your mind, a blend of joy and disbelief flooding your senses. You thank Dr. Ellison and make your way back to the estate, your heart pounding with the news you can't wait to share with Kento.

You find him in his study, engrossed in a book. As you step into the room, he looks up, a smile instantly lighting his face. "My love, you're back early. Is everything alright?"

You walk over to him, taking his hands in yours and drawing him to his feet. "Kento, I have wonderful news," you say, unable to keep the excitement from your voice. "We're going to have a baby."

His eyes widen, the book slipping from his grasp as he pulls you into a tight embrace. "A baby?" he repeats, his voice a mixture of awe and happiness. "We're going to be parents?"

"Yes," you laugh, tears of joy springing to your eyes. "We're going to be parents."

Kento lifts you off your feet, spinning you around in sheer delight. When he sets you down, he places a tender kiss on your forehead. "I love you so much," he whispers, his voice thick with emotion. "You have made me the happiest man in the world."

The news of your pregnancy spreads quickly through the estate, and soon everyone is celebrating the upcoming arrival. Eliza is particularly overjoyed, fussing over you and ensuring you are comfortable and well taken care of. She becomes your confidante and constant companion, helping you through the various stages of pregnancy with her usual grace and care.

As the months pass, Kento's devotion to you becomes even more evident. He dotes on you, ensuring you have everything you need and more. He reads every book he can find on childbirth and parenting, eager to be the best father he can be. He often speaks to your growing belly, whispering sweet words to the child within, his voice filled with love and wonder.

One evening, as you sit together in the drawing room, Kento rests his hand gently on your swollen belly. The baby kicks, and you both laugh, feeling the little one's strong presence.

"Do you think it's a boy or a girl?" Kento asks, his eyes shining with curiosity and excitement.

"I don't know," you reply, smiling at him. "But I do know that they will be loved beyond measure."

One particular evening, you and Kento are sitting in the drawing room, the fire crackling softly in the hearth. The room is filled with the cosy scent of burning wood and the faint aroma of lavender from the nearby garden. You are reclining on a plush chaise lounge, and Kento is seated next to you, his hand resting gently on your swollen belly. The baby gives a strong kick, and Kento's eyes light up with joy.

"Did you feel that?" he asks, his voice filled with wonder.

You laugh softly, nodding. "Yes, our little one seems to be quite energetic tonight."

Kento leans closer, placing his ear against your belly as if he's trying to hear the baby. "Hello, little one," he murmurs, his voice gentle. "This is your father speaking. I can't wait to meet you and hold you in my arms."

You run your fingers through his hair, touched by his tender words. "Kento, do you ever think about what kind of parent you'll be?"

He looks up at you, his eyes serious but filled with love. "Every day. I want to be the best father possible. I want to be there for every moment, to guide them, protect them, and show them all the love in the world."

You smile, your heart swelling with affection. "You'll be an amazing father, Kento. I have no doubt about that."

He sits back up, his hand never leaving your belly. "And you will be the most wonderful mother. Our child is so lucky to have you."

You both fall into a comfortable silence, the weight of your words sinking in. The future seems bright and full of promise, with the love you share as the foundation for the family you are building together.

As the months progress, Kento's anticipation and excitement grow. He attends every doctor's appointment with you, always attentive and supportive. He arranges for a nursery to be prepared, choosing soft, pastel colours and hand-painted murals of woodland scenes. You both spend hours in the nursery, imagining the day you'll bring your baby home.

One day, as you're organizing tiny clothes and arranging toys, Kento comes in with a wooden rocking chair. "I found this in the attic," he says, setting it down gently. "It was my mother's. She used to rock me to sleep in this chair."

You touch the smooth wood, feeling a connection to Kento's past. "It's beautiful. I'm sure our baby will love it."

Kento sits down in the chair, testing its gentle sway. "I can picture it already," he says, smiling. "Late nights, rocking our baby to sleep, telling them stories."

You sit down on the edge of the bed, watching him. "Kento, I love how much thought you're putting into everything. It means so much to me."

He stands up, walking over to you and kneeling at your feet. "This is our child, our family. Every moment matters. I want to make sure everything is perfect for you both."

Tears fill your eyes as you reach out to cup his face. "I love you, Kento Nanami. More than words can ever express."

He kisses your hand, his eyes shining with emotion. "And I love you, my dearest. You are my everything."

The day finally arrives. You wake in the early hours of the morning with a dull ache that quickly intensifies. The room is bathed in the soft, pre-dawn glow, the air cool and still. Kento, ever vigilant, is by your side in an instant, his presence a comforting anchor in the midst of your growing discomfort. "It's time," you whisper, your voice tinged with both fear and excitement.

He helps you dress, his movements calm and efficient despite the urgency of the situation. The gentle rustle of fabric and the occasional sound of your laboured breathing fills the room. "I've already sent for the midwife," he says reassuringly, his eyes never leaving yours. "Everything will be alright, my love."

The hours that follow are a blur of pain and exertion. The once serene bedroom now feels like a battlefield, every contraction a reminder of the immense effort your body is undertaking. Kento never leaves your side, holding your hand and murmuring words of encouragement. His voice, though steady, carries an undercurrent of worry that mirrors your own.

As the labour progresses, something feels terribly wrong. The midwife's face, initially calm and composed, grows increasingly concerned. The room fills with tense, anxious energy, the air thick with the unspoken fear that something is amiss.

"Kento," you gasp, gripping his hand tightly, your knuckles white. "Something's wrong."

"Shh, my love," he soothes, though his own fear is evident in the tightness of his jaw and the furrow of his brow. "You're doing great. Just hold on a little longer."

The midwife whispers to her assistant, her face pale and drawn. "The baby is in distress," she says urgently, her voice barely above a whisper. "We need to act fast."

Panic seizes Kento's heart as he looks at you, sweat glistening on your brow, your breaths coming in ragged gasps. "What can I do?" he asks desperately, his voice strained with the weight of helplessness.

The midwife shakes her head, her expression grave. "Pray," she says quietly, the single word a stark admission of the gravity of the situation. "Pray for a miracle."

Hours stretch on, the pain becoming unbearable, a relentless tide that threatens to sweep you away. Your vision blurs, the edges of the room growing dim as exhaustion and fear take their toll. "Kento," you whisper, tears streaming down your face, mingling with the sweat that beads on your forehead. "I'm scared."

"I'm here, my love," he replies, his voice breaking as he clutches your hand, his own eyes brimming with unshed tears. "I'm right here."

The room is a blur of frantic activity, the midwife and her assistants working tirelessly, their movements a flurry of practised urgency. But despite their best efforts, you feel the life draining from you, a cold numbness creeping in from the edges of your consciousness. 

"Kento, promise me," you say, your voice weak, each word a monumental effort. "Promise me you'll be happy."

"Don't talk like that," he pleads, tears in his eyes, his grip on your hand tightening as if he can keep you tethered to him through sheer will. "You're going to be fine. We're going to be a family."

You manage a faint smile, the last vestiges of your strength slipping away. Your hand slips from his grasp, the warmth of his touch fading as darkness closes in around you. "I love you," you whisper, your voice barely audible, a final, fragile thread connecting you to the man you love.

"I love you too," he chokes out, his heart breaking as he watches the light fade from your eyes, the life you shared slipping away into the void.

The room falls silent, the midwife stepping back with a look of defeat etched into her features. "I'm sorry," she says softly, her voice a hollow echo of the heartbreak that fills the room. "She's gone."

Kento's world shatters in an instant, the unbearable weight of loss crushing him beneath its relentless force. He clutches your lifeless hand, his tears falling freely, unchecked. "No," he whispers, his voice a raw, anguished plea. "No, please. Don't leave me."

The midwife places a hand on his shoulder, her expression one of deep sorrow and helplessness. "The baby," she says gently, her words a dagger to his already shattered heart. "I'm afraid... the baby didn't make it either."

Kento's breath catches in his throat, the crushing weight of his grief rendering him speechless. He collapses to the floor, his sobs wracking his body, the magnitude of his loss an unbearable burden. "Why?" he cries out, his voice filled with despair and disbelief. "Why did this happen?"

Kento's cries echo through the room, a poignant symphony of heartbreak that pierces the stillness. The midwife and her assistants, their faces drawn with sorrow, step back to give him a moment with his loss. The world outside the estate moves on, oblivious to the tragedy that has unfolded within its walls.

Days blend into nights, and the estate falls into a heavy silence. The staff, once bustling with the excitement of the upcoming birth, now move quietly, their faces shadowed with grief. Eliza, her own eyes red-rimmed from tears, takes on the task of arranging the funeral, knowing that Kento is in no state to do so.

In the days that follow, Kento moves through the mansion like a ghost. He spends hours in the nursery, sitting in the rocking chair, staring at the empty crib. The dreams he had of holding his child, of seeing you as a mother, haunt him in the silence of those rooms.

The funeral is a sombre affair. Friends and family gather to pay their respects, their faces masks of shared sorrow. Kento stands at the graveside, his expression blank, as if all emotion has been drained from him. As the caskets are lowered into the ground, he feels a part of his soul being buried with you and the child you never got to meet.

A decade has passed since the day Kento lost you and your stillborn child. The once-vibrant halls of the estate have become silent. The vibrant energy that once defined his every step has been replaced by a solemn, almost ghostly presence. Kento Nanami, the once joyous and devoted husband, has become a shadow of his former self.

He spends his days in a solitary routine, the ghostly remnants of his past life ever-present in his mind. Each morning, he wakes in the same bedroom, the bed beside him eternally empty. The garden outside, once meticulously tended by you, has grown wild and untamed, much like his heart. He rarely leaves the estate, preferring the company of your memory to the harsh reality of the world outside.

One fateful day, Kento feels an unusual weariness. It begins with a fever that leaves him sweating and shivering in equal measure. His head throbs with a persistent pain, and he feels a deep, unyielding fatigue that saps the strength from his bones. Dr. Ellison, the family physician, is summoned, his brow furrowed with concern as he examines Kento.

"It's typhoid," Dr. Ellison says gravely, his voice laced with the weight of the diagnosis. "You need to rest, and we must keep you hydrated. I'll do everything I can."

Kento nods weakly, a ghost of his former self. He lies in bed, staring up at the ceiling, the feverish haze blurring the edges of his vision. Days pass in a fog of delirium, the line between reality and memory growing ever thinner. As the illness ravages his body, his mind drifts back to you, the love of his life, the one he lost so tragically.

In his fevered state, he often speaks aloud, as if you are there beside him. "I miss you," he whispers into the empty room, his voice cracking. "Every day, I miss you."

Eliza, who has stayed on all these years, tends to him with unwavering dedication. She hears his murmurs and her heart aches for the man who has suffered so much. "Rest, my Lord," she says softly, dabbing his forehead with a cool cloth. "You need your strength."

But Kento is beyond physical healing. The typhoid is relentless, and he knows, deep down, that his time is drawing to a close. One night, as the fever reaches its peak, he feels a sense of peace wash over him. The pain subsides, replaced by a gentle warmth. He closes his eyes, surrendering to the inevitable.

Once he passes, the world around him fades, replaced by a familiar, comforting presence. He finds himself standing in a beautiful meadow, bathed in golden light. The air is warm, filled with the scent of blooming flowers and the gentle hum of life. He looks down and realizes that his body is whole again, free from the ravages of illness.

"Kento," a voice calls softly, a voice he knows better than his own. He turns, and there you are, standing before him, radiant and serene. Your eyes shine with the same love and tenderness that filled his heart a decade ago.

"My love," he breathes, his voice filled with awe and reverence. "Is it really you?"

You nod, a gentle smile gracing your lips. "Yes, Kento. I've been waiting for you."

Tears of joy and relief stream down his face as he steps forward, closing the distance between you. He reaches out, hesitant, as if afraid you might vanish like a dream. But when his hand touches yours, the connection is real, solid, and undeniable. He pulls you into his arms, holding you tightly, never wanting to let go.

"I've missed you so much," he whispers, his voice choked with emotion. "Every moment without you has been unbearable."

"I know," you reply, your hand stroking his hair soothingly. "But we're together now. Forever."

The weight of the past decade falls away, replaced by a profound sense of peace. Kento looks into your eyes, finding solace in their depths. "I thought I'd never see you again," he says, his voice a mixture of relief and lingering disbelief.

"You were always in my heart," you reply softly. "And now, we have eternity."

Hand in hand, you walk through the meadow, the sun casting a warm glow over the landscape. The pain and sorrow of the past fade away, replaced by the boundless joy of reunion. Kento feels whole again, his soul reuniting with the piece that was missing for so long.

As you walk, you speak of the times you missed, the dreams you had for your future. Kento listens, his heart swelling with love and gratitude. "I promised you I'd be happy," he says, his voice steady. "But it was so hard without you."

"You did your best," you assure him, your eyes filled with understanding. "And now, we can be happy together."

The meadow stretches out before you, a realm of endless possibilities. As you walk, Kento feels a sense of hope and renewal. The pain of the past is but a distant memory, overshadowed by the love and joy that fill his heart.

"Thank you for waiting for me," he says, his voice filled with sincerity.

"I would wait forever for you," you reply, squeezing his hand gently. "You're my heart, Kento. Now and always."

Together, you continue your journey, the love you share lighting the path ahead. In this eternal meadow, you find the peace and happiness that eluded you in life, a testament to the enduring power of your love.

Kento finally feels at home, his soul at rest. With you by his side, he knows that he is exactly where he is meant to be. As the sun sets, casting a golden glow over the meadow, he looks into your eyes and smiles, his heart filled with a contentment he has not known in years.

"We have all the time in the world now," he says softly.

"Yes," you reply, your smile mirroring his. "All the time in the world."

In the afterlife, Kento finds his eternal happiness, reunited with the love of his life. Together, you walk forward, hand in hand, ready to face eternity together. The love that once was lost is now found, a bond that not even death could break.

In a grand, old classroom adorned with portraits of historical figures and tapestries depicting ancient battles, Professor Evelyn Carrington stands before her attentive students. The sun filters through the tall, arched windows, casting a golden glow on the wooden desks and shelves filled with dusty tomes. Today, she will tell the tale of Lord Kento Nanami and his Duchess, a story of love, loss, and the end of a noble line.

"Good morning, class," Professor Carrington begins, her voice resonating with authority and warmth. "Today, we delve into the Victorian Era and I wanted to start us with a tale."

She gestures to a portrait hanging on the wall. It depicts a handsome man with kind eyes and a noble bearing. Beside him is a beautiful woman, her eyes filled with warmth and grace. "This is Lord Kento Nanami and his beloved wife, the Duchess. Their story is one of deep love and profound tragedy."

The students lean forward, eager to hear the tale. Professor Carrington continues, her voice filled with emotion. "Kento Nanami was a respected nobleman, known for his wisdom and kindness. He married the love of his life, a woman, a duchess who inherited the title after the passing of her father, but her name has sadly been forgotten, lost in time, but her impact on his life was immeasurable. Kento Nanami became a Duke when he married the duchess"

As she speaks, the room seems to transport back in time, the portraits and tapestries fading into scenes from the past. The students can almost see the bustling estate, the blooming gardens, and the grandeur of the Nanami household.

"Their wedding was a grand affair," Professor Carrington recounts. "A celebration of love that brought together nobles from across the land. They were deeply in love, and their marriage was the envy of many. For a time, it seemed they were destined for a long and happy life together."

She pauses, letting the weight of the next part of the story settle in. "But fate had other plans. After a blissful year of marriage, the Duchess became pregnant. The estate was filled with joy and anticipation. Lord Nanami was overjoyed at the prospect of becoming a father."

A murmur of sympathy ripples through the classroom as Professor Carrington's expression grows sombre. "However, tragedy struck on the day of the birth. Complications arose, and despite the best efforts of the midwife and the family physician, both the Duchess and the child passed away."

The students are silent, the gravity of the loss sinking in. Professor Carrington's eyes reflect the sorrow of the tale. "Lord Nanami was devastated. He retreated into solitude, the once vibrant estate falling into disrepair. He never recovered from the loss of his wife and child. He lived in mourning, haunted by their absence. Much how Queen Victoria did when mourning the loss of her husband"

She moves to another portrait, this one of the estate in its prime, lush and vibrant. "The estate, once a symbol of prosperity and joy, became a shadow of its former self. Lord Nanami, a man once full of life, became a recluse."

The professor's voice softens as she continues. "Ten years later, Lord Nanami contracted typhoid. His weakened state and the lack of will to fight the illness led to his untimely death. With his passing, the Dukedom of Nanami came to an end. There were no other relatives to inherit the title, no heirs to continue the legacy."

She looks around the room, her gaze meeting the eyes of each student. "And so, the once-great Dukedom of Nanami faded into history. Their story is a testament to the fragility of human life and the enduring power of love."

A student raises his hand, his expression thoughtful. "Professor Carrington, what happened to the estate after Lord Nanami's death?"

"The estate was left to the state," she replies. "Without an heir, it was repurposed for various uses over the years. Parts of it fell into ruin, while others were preserved as historical sites. Today, the estate stands as a poignant reminder of the Nanami legacy."

Another student speaks up, her voice tinged with curiosity. "Do we know anything about the Duchess? Her family or her background?"

Professor Carrington shakes her head sadly. "Very little is known about the Duchess. Records from that time are sparse, and much of her personal history has been lost to time. What remains are the memories and the impact she had on Lord Nanami."

The golden light of the classroom seemed to flicker as the students absorbed the weight of the tale. Professor Evelyn Carrington, standing tall and composed, allowed the silence to deepen before continuing, her gaze steady and thoughtful.

"The story of Lord Kento Nanami and his Duchess is more than just a narrative of love and loss," she resumed. "It is also a window into the societal and personal challenges of the Victorian era, an era defined by its strict social hierarchies, its advancements, and its tragedies."

She moved toward a large, detailed map of the Victorian territories pinned to the wall, tracing her finger along the borders of Lord Nanami's estate. "The estate itself was a microcosm of the period. At its height, it was a bustling centre of activity, reflecting the prosperity and potential of the time. It employed hundreds of workers, from gardeners and housemaids to farmers and artisans. Each played a crucial role in maintaining the grandeur of the estate and the livelihood of its inhabitants."

A student raised a hand, his face reflecting a mixture of fascination and confusion. "Professor, how did such a prominent estate fall into such disrepair so quickly after Lord Nanami's death?"

"An excellent question," she replied, nodding appreciatively. "When a noble line ends abruptly, the implications are far-reaching. Estates of such magnitude require constant oversight and a dedicated heir to ensure their upkeep. With Lord Nanami's death and no immediate heir to take over, there was no one to manage the vast resources or the intricate web of responsibilities. The state took over, but the transition was not smooth. Mismanagement, neglect, and a lack of personal investment led to the estate's rapid decline."

The students' faces were a tapestry of emotions—sympathy, curiosity, and a newfound understanding of the historical depth behind personal tragedies. Professor Carrington allowed a brief pause before addressing another raised hand.

"Professor Carrington, do we know if there were any efforts made to preserve the legacy of the Nanami Dukedom before it was repurposed by the state?"

"Yes, there were some efforts, though they were fragmented and largely unsuccessful," she answered. "After Lord Nanami's death, several attempts were made by distant relatives and former associates to preserve the estate. However, without a central figure of authority or a unifying vision, these efforts faltered. Historical societies eventually stepped in, focusing on preserving key parts of the estate as a testament to its former glory and as a symbol of the era's architectural and cultural heritage."

She pointed to a black-and-white photograph of the estate in its dilapidated state. "This image, taken shortly before the historical societies' intervention, shows the main house and gardens in a state of disrepair. Yet, even in its decline, there was a haunting beauty—a reminder of what once was and the stories that lingered in its walls."

Another student, her expression pensive, asked, "Professor, is there any particular reason why the Duchess's name and background were lost to history? How could someone so integral to this story become almost anonymous?"

Professor Carrington sighed softly, a look of contemplation on her face. "Historical records from the Victorian era can be notoriously incomplete, especially concerning women. The Duchess, though highly influential in Lord Nanami's life, might not have been documented extensively in official records. Her personal papers could have been lost, destroyed, or simply never created with the same care afforded to her husband's records. Moreover, societal norms often relegated women's identities to their husbands, overshadowing their individual contributions and stories."

The room fell silent again as the students reflected on the poignant truth of her words. Finally, Professor Carrington stepped back, allowing her gaze to sweep across the classroom.

"Remember, history is not just about dates and events; it is about the lives lived, the love shared, and the losses endured. Lord Kento Nanami and his Duchess remind us of the human element within the grand tapestry of our past. It is our responsibility as historians to piece together these fragments and honour the memories of those who came before us, ensuring their stories, however fragmented, are not forgotten."

The bell rang, signalling the end of the lecture. The students slowly gathered their belongings, still lost in the echoes of the tale they had just heard. As they filed out of the classroom, Professor Carrington looked up at the portrait of Lord Nanami and his Duchess one last time, a gentle smile touching her lips. The legacy of the two lovers, though marred by tragedy, lived on through the stories she shared and the lessons learned by her students.

taglist: @sad-darksoul

[funficwriter]

A Wolf and A Snake (Wriothesley x Reader)

Chapter 3: In the Low Gardens

A/N: Thank you all so much for being patient with me! I wanted this chapter to be fun to read, but had so little time to write this week. I just hope I have a little more freedom in the future. Anyways, enjoy!

Synopsis: Being a noble meant that marriage was a chess game, not an affair of love. Unfortunately for the pristine Balthazar family of Fontaine, Y/N has long been enamored with love and sought it out before their priorities. After her grey, boring time of courtesy, she meets Duke Wriothesley, who makes her yearn for the first time in her life, and it's the same for him. Threatened by the idea of losing this first, it seems they'll stop at very little to be together...

Taglist: @yue-caelum, @reyy-chanx, @mis-disaster, @ladyarchiviste, @keigo-hawks-takami-simp

Warnings: Talk of murder/violence/corruption, yandere talk, Wrio gets a lil primal, a few smutty details, does scheming behind the back count as a warning? Lol

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Your parents were not the type to sing, least of all sing to express joy. But whenever they peered at you from the balcony, they looked like they could explode in song any minute. They never looked as jubilant, as proud of their daughter as they saw her, arm linked with the chivalrous and gentle Duke Archandelle.

You supposed any other girl would kill to be in your place. Duke Archandelle hailed from a long and well-respected lineage, and made a fortune for both himself and Fontaine's economy through his commerce. He was rather handsome, had a voice described as 'light honey with mint', and towered over you, the lady he was going to protect with that advantage. Hopefully, for the rest of your lives. On top of that, he was cultured, up-to-date with Fontaine's classical and modern trends, but was no pansy; He was an excellent swordfighter and hunter. You almost heard their voices yelling at you: "You've got the perfect gentleman falling at your feet, and you're not grateful?! How dare you!".

There you two were, in one of your manor's many gardens. This was the highest, prettiest one of all, and had a lovely table among the flowers where you would soon take your tea. Both of you were well-dressed, engaged in conversation (he carried most of it) and took tiny steps to ensure it stayed that way. You looked like the perfect royal Fontainian couple. Add on the fact that Archandelle has decreed himself 'fervently in love' with you, and didn't look like he was going to give up... No wonder your parents were probably even happier than they were on their own wedding day.

'Fervently in love', my ass. If I wasn't so angry, I'd laugh. Maybe with his stupid monologues or my last name's history book... My Wriothesley could teach him a thing or two about love.

"And I say, it was so dastardly for them to write that ending! I mean, to let these filthy 'protagonists' get away with their crimes! I can think of youngsters reading this novel. What will they think? How are we raising them and- My dear, are you with me?".

The funny thing about his tirades was how they can be condensed to the same strand of puritanism, either outrageous or righteous. You barely had to listen and should he feel testy, you had an answer.

"Ah, forgive me, my dear Duke. I was just appalled at the text, to the point where I didn't know what to say. But do know I'm in full agreement!".

He beamed: "Why, of course you are. Your parents raised a fine and virtuous young lady who knows right from wrong.".

Your agreement seemed to have calmed him down. He stopped to take your hand and kiss it.

"One of the countless reasons I fell in love with you.".

Liar!

You wished you could shut him up. As he embodied the peak of your social class, he also had all the ideas you wanted to criticize as loud as you can, but couldn't risk. One of them was this picking on cultural output not based on whether it was good, whether they liked it, but whether it was 'moral' or not. What's more is the power they hold. Should something not be 'moral', that would mean another secret trip to the bookstore for you, before it got fully banned.

Though you couldn't shut him up, you had two tools up your arsenal: The first was thinking of Wriothesley, which made you surprisingly more patient than you imagined. The second was hearing Archandelle be less of a whiner, more of an admirer.

"Say, my Lord, surely you've seen some good plays where this doesn't happen, right? I'm sure we'll all need good recommendations.".

Once again, he beamed, and you could tell he was restricting himself from being too physical. But perhaps he felt a bit more daring, because he put an arm around your waist and carried on walking, while talking about 'good' plays he's seen (which you were sure were total dogshit if it came from him.).

The butler had called you for tea time. It wasn't the day for your favorite dessert, but a quick wink from Agatha, who was passing by, let you know who twisted his arm into bending the unofficial rule. You felt a bit of remorse for not being able to tell her who you really liked, but you decided to do it when you were in a more secure position with Wriothesley.

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Curse whoever decided that falling in love with a half-wolf (or any hybrid, for that matter) was a curse, and bless your own canine lover for using his affinity towards the night to pick this one. The stars shined along with the soft moon, with only a few cloudy wisps passing by. The air was crisp, cooling but not so much that you had to stay in.

The hour struck. Your heart did a leap so brusque, you had to take a deep breath. The clock said it all: It was time.

You picked a simple dress for your rendez-voux; Flattering, but no hassle. Your mother wasn't fond of it, because she thought it didn't 'do justice to your beauty'. Another one of millions of differences between you two, separating her and your father into the loud and showy sun, while you counted the minutes until you could entangle your hand into his under the moon. Though everyone slept, the night was still young... Should you desire it, would more than that happen?

No one could police your desires if you thought of them.

Let him hold me again. Let him hold me securely, claiming me as his under the full moon as his own culture decrees. I'm asking a lot... But please, let him kiss me before Duke Archandelle does and let him scream it out to the world so it could throw me into his arms.

As you made your way down, your reverie was only interrupted when you passed by your elder brother's room. Being married, he split his time between his new villa and your manor. You weren't looking forward to his next visit, especially when he caught wind of your 'engagement' with Duke Archandelle and sent you a long, pompous letter congratulating you as his 'equally prestigious sister, upholding the Balthazar's powerful unions'. Ugh.

In retrospect, perhaps you should have hurried along; Just after you continued, you bumped into a curvaceous figure you knew well (after all, she held you more than your mother) and made an audible "Ow!".

So much for not being caught, least of all by your own hissing governess. Should you be caught, she'd surely get heat for not making sure you were in bed.

"Y/N! What are you doing out of bed? You have lessons tomorrow, don't you?".

As she talked, she pulled you away from your brother's door and the bedrooms of the floor. After all, she was just in as much danger as you were.

"Agatha! Hey, um... I was... I was going down to grab a glass of water. I'm thirsty.".

Forget the fact that you weren't in your sleeping attire and that your voice was racked in nerve. How could you have hoped to lie to her, your true mother figure who knew every inkling of you hiding something on your face? Her quirked-up brows clearly let you know that she didn't buy it, but what really made you want to spill the beans was the slight glimmer in her eyes: She was hurt by you lying to her.

"Really, Y/N? After all those years, you think I'd believe that? I have raised you as my own, yet you act as if I were hired this morning.".

"Agatha, I'm so sorry. Please don't be sad, I'll tell you but...".

You couldn't believe it; You were about to tell someone that you were seeing another man behind your arranged partner's back. It would be one thing if he were some king and your parents were idiots at making their final verdict. But you were seeing Duke Wriothesley of Meropide. You were seeing a wolf-hybrid, a dangerous kind to human beings (even though you'd argue that correlation does not equal causation). You were seeing a prison warden, a polite but hardy, brutish man.

Agatha could sense that your secret was a big one. She ran a hand through your head: "My dear, I've always kept your secrets, haven't I? What is so scary that you would hide it from me of all people?".

"Oh, Agatha, it's not scary at all. It's wonderful and lovely and beautiful. It makes me get out of bed with hope in my heart. it sends me to sleep as the happiest girl of Teyvat.".

Her face broke out into a smile: "By Focalors! What is it then?".

"But I'm the only one who sees it that way! It's not scary to me at all. He brings me all the joy in my life, and yet if anyone found out that would spell the end of me and him! Agatha, why did you have to be up tonight of all nights?".

A moment of silence eclipsed, you wallowing in the realization that you gave her a hint. In both your hearts, you felt that she knew you didn't like Duke Archandelle, as with most royal women. But to go to the lengths of seeing another man... Did she think you had it in you?

"Who is he, Y/N?".

"Duke Wriothesley of Meropide. We snuck by the last two socials, and we were planning to meet up tonight in the low gardens.".

You could see the shock in her face. Anyone would be, pairing you with him of all gentlemen. You couldn't blame her. If anything, you wanted to burst in tears, put your head at her feet and thank her for her tolerance. Rather than alerting even the most insignificant servant in the house, she patted your hand and stayed.

"Does he make you happy?".

"Yes. Happy enough to live.".

"That's a lot of happiness. A level you've always deserved, but if you're honest, only recently acquired. If at last my prayers for your joy are answered and they come in his form, who am I to judge you?".

A small, meek smile made its way on her face. You threw your arms around her shoulders.

"Thank you, Agatha, thank you!".

She helped you up, then looked out of the window. Whether it was at the skies or the gardens below, you couldn't tell nor had the time to ask. She grabbed your hand and continued the way downstairs.

"Let's not keep him waiting.".

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You stepped out, feeling light and relaxed under the cool moon. Then there he was: Your very own prince charming, who was expectantly waiting in front of the garden's backdoor. His ears perked up. Once he saw you, your time of admiration from afar was over. A few loud steps resonated before you felt his embrace engulf you, and at last you were in his arms and everything felt (was) alright.

What made it better was his reciprocation; From the big, dumb smile, to the twitching ears (how cute!) to the feeling of his strong muscles protecting you from whatever misery could strike you right then and there...

"If I told you of how much my heart screamed out for you, you wouldn't hear the end of it.".

He kissed your hand as per usual. You supposed that if you wanted more, you had to catalyze it yourself: "I don't want to hear its end, Wriothesley.".

You didn't have to hear it, for you were still held against him. His heart was beating frenetically, reverberating into your own body.

Only when he looked up and saw Agatha, that wonder dwindled.

"What the... Who are you?".

"Wait, Wrio. She's on our side. She's the only one who supports our romance.".

He let out a small 'oh', trying to relax but with worry clear on his face. Agatha, being ever so talented at soothing, stepped in.

"Greeting, Lord Wriothesley. I am Y/N's governess. Forgive me for being out, I wasn't supposed to know of this. I just caught her by accident, but I promise I won't tell a soul.".

He took a moment before speaking up: "Agatha? Oh, Y/N has mentioned you before. In that case, I'm glad it was you who caught her, and no one else. And thank you for keeping up the secrecy, though it won't be that way forever. I intend to marry her, one way or another.".

"Frankly, anyone who can take care of her and makes her happy is great, in my opinion.".

Her warm, motherly smile has lowered many people's guards. You could tell his worry was fading away, knowing she could be trusted. He nodded one more time, and off you two went. The good thing about the low gardens was the fact that unless someone was close, no one could hear you. It was the 'abandoned' garden per se. While it wasn't as grand as the higher ones, it had many beautiful flowers, a lake, and you could never uncouple your memories of playing hide-and-seek there with Agatha or your friends.

But nevertheless, it didn't stop your displeasure at the fact that you weren't recognized at his yet. You wanted to show all of Teyvat who you really loved, who had the right to call you 'mine'.

"I wish... I wish I could have shown you the higher gardens.".

He squeezed your hand and you looked up to him. You could have died with the beautiful vision in front of you: Did the moon make his piercing eyes glow better, or was that just you?

"My love, there will be a day where we can stroll out in the open, in whatever garden you want. And besides...".

He looked on his surroundings as you kept walking, now linking arms.

"I like the secrecy aspect that comes with this one. It's like... Like our social world doesn't want you to be mine. And yet here and now, you are. Always were, always will be.".

It made you blush. It only got worse when you wanted to tuck a piece of hair, and he caught a glance at the wolf bracelet: "And from the looks of it, you want to be all mine, don't you?".

"Oh, yes. I wear it all the time Father isn't around. I'm sorry if I was morose earlier. It's the fact that I can't stand being someone else's fiancée, especially when I had no say in the matter.".

"Don't beat yourself up. I know well that we're on the same wavelength. I'm already scheming on it, too...".

While you loved talking about being his, you knew that alone wasn't enough. There had to be some sort of plan, some idea as to how he'd get you. And much to your happiness, he wasn't empty-headed to doom you to just keeping your affair, an affair. You leaned close to listen.

"So I'm presuming he wants to marry you because of your family name, yes? Like all other shitty noble marriages...".

You laughed a bit: "That's the one.".

"I already have an investigator to look further into his. Depending on whether he committed serious crime, going above the general corruption that's too often seen and brushed aside, you as his future wife have the right to file for a 'Motion of Marital Worry'. Then the Court could look into how that may affect you, and thus stop you from marrying him even if your father objects.".

This was... Wonderful.

"Why, Wriothesley, I love a man who's proactive! But I have one worry about this plan: Fontaine may be less corrupt than other nations, but there's still crime that's deemed as 'not serious', especially from our class. What if they bribe someone? That's what always happens.".

"Nah, don't worry. I myself am well acquainted with some... Important figures in the judicial system. They'll be sure to look out for such a motion with your name or mine on it. And if the crime is very serious, there's no way they'll turn their head.".

He stopped walking, letting the soft howl of the wind play out before continuing: "And anyways, that's only the first plan. I've got more ideas in case it doesn't work.".

"You really think ahead, eh?".

"If it concerns you? I think about it all the time. Even my sleep is yours.".

All the time. All the time, for me. This union was nothing like the trash your father wanted to force you in. In the other one, you belonged to Archandelle, but contrary to his spiel about love, he didn't belong to you. Maybe not other women if he were 'loyal', but you saw his attitude towards seeing you as a Balthazar, versus seeing you as... You. He really only belonged to himself.

"Don't worry. If he didn't do anything, I'll just make him. If his hand is clean, I'll twist it until it bleeds then yell bloody murder until he's sentenced for life.".

Wriothesley long made it clear, and he kept making it clear to reassure you. His loving gaze, his obsession, his thought of you that went as far as remembering everything you've ever loved or told him (and believe me, it's a lot) said it all: He belonged to you, and you belonged to him, as true love should be.

You stroked his cheek, taking in his eyes as he did yours: "And when you twist him into the wrangled, bloody mess you can make... I'll cheer you on. I'll praise like I'm watching the greatest of theater.".

Perhaps it was the fact that everything has been so dreary, or that the full moon just made people playful, but you broke away from him, your arms brusquely rejecting him and giving you distance. His stunned look hurt you a bit, but the fun you wanted was priceless.

"But Duke Wriothesley, the prince must always fight hard for the one he desires, yes?".

His boot made a quiet crunch as he approached you, and you took a step back. In a way, it was fun, withholding yourself from him as he ached for you. However, he reciprocated your playful smirk, understanding what your intention was. As you stepped back, you did the occasional twirl as your dress flowed with the moon's shine.

Teasing him was so fun: "Aren't I right? Isn't what he desires most, the most guarded and forbidden by everyone else? Shouldn't he be ready to do anything if he loves the princess that much?".

"My... Are you underestimating the limits I'll break to call you my wife? While I try to be calm to avoid prejudice, I have no issue tuning into my violent side if it's for you.".

The string snapped. You turned back and ran off: "We'll see about that, Your Grace!".

How long has it been since you ran? You forgot the freedom, the breeziness it offered.

"I'll make you see, alright!"

But that wasn't where your true excitement laid. It was the quicker, heavier crunching sound right behind you.

Off the wolf went, chasing down his partner. He had the advantage of being fit, and his hybrid blood granting him more speed than the average human. But you were also flighty and you knew the garden better than he did. Whenever he thought he had you, you ran back another corner, and even pulled your tongue at him if he was far enough.

At some point, you hid close to the lake. He had not reached this area yet, so you were safe to catch your breath. If only this could last beyond your couple of hours together! Not even factoring the end yet, you thought of him, smiling and chasing you both literally and figuratively. Only when you looked down to check on your dress, did you notice your legs clenching tight and the sudden warmth, the higher you went...

Perhaps you should have remembered that you were still being chased, ergo had no more time than a few quick breaths. You didn't hear the rustle of the bushes. Before you knew it, large hands grabbed your waist and their owner let out a victorious growl, lifting you up.

"Oh no, the wolf got me!".

"Damn right, he did! Now you're his to devour!".

He wanted to carry on, but a loving state always reduces one to recklessness. He tripped on a pebble, but made sure to switch so he'd take the fall rather than you. Thankfully, it wasn't as bad as he expected.

"Wriothesley, my dear! Are you okay?".

He chuckled at your worried face: "Nah, don't worry. It was way softer than I expected. Hah...".

A crimson blush spread upon both of your faces (but especially yours). It just dawned on you: You were on top of him, like on his body, and the chase excited him in the same way it did you. His red cheeks and the hard poke you felt against your thigh said it all.

"Archons, I... I'm so sorry, Y/N. I tend to enjoy that sort of stuff, running around and chasing...".

"It's okay... I enjoyed it, too...".

The time stopped when you (slowly, yet surely) shook off the awkwardness, as you sat up in his lap. How do you proceed from there? How do you deal with feeling so clueless in what you want? You barely processed that, as you ran a hesitant hand through his hair.

"I really like your ears.".

"There it is.".

His arms tightened around your waist as he replayed the phrase in his head: "I really like your ears.". And you liked his dark attire above all the others'. And you liked his voice and his way of comportment, and by Focalors, you were madly in love with the human and wolf halves of him, never conditionally or pretending some part of him did not exist.

In the midst of this prolonged yearning, you two could no longer wait. He leaned down and sealed his promises with the kiss you've long thought of and saved just for him.

The full moon made its appearance on the lake reflection. The wind rustled the plants around you a bit. Unbelieving that this was actually happening, you pulled him in closer, wishing you could merge your bodies together. Even when you were dipping slower, slower into the ground, you knew he wouldn't let you fall harshly. You knew his tight grip was ever present to protect you from that or any other dangers, and its warmth of love and appreciation was only for you.

And you took in his mint breath, each time breathing in more and more. You were starved for your lover, and so was he, keeping you in his arms and away from a world that wanted you two apart. It already did enough of that throughout the day. The night was yours.

You two broke away, panting and looking into each other's diluted pupils. Sometimes, you couldn't believe how being with him was like having your own puppy. He whispered: "I love you with the marrow of my bones.", before dipping his head into your neck to kiss it. If marrying him, sharing the same bed, meant you could nuzzle your face into his fluffy hair, you had another reason to fight away from your other suitor.

Happy with its softness against your running hand and face, and his sweet kisses, you couldn't help but purr out: "I can't wait until... Until we can do this all the time, whenever we want.".

"Hah... And that time will come. I've already handed so much to the world, I'm not handing you out too.".

He looked up at the sky to tell the time, then chuckled in a morose manner: "Time sure flies by when I'm with you. It's like I lose control over it so easily.".

He made a sad, but true point; For one, you had to head back into your chambers, because dawn would emerge soon enough and you needed time to change, actually sleep... There was also the fact that even if he got onto the active part of taking you from your father and Archandelle (funny, you just remembered his name), your parents would probably want to have you married soon. Time was of the essence, and that essence was short-lived and impossible to take back.

As he walked you back to the backdoor, hands squeezed tight, he leaned in: "My dear, can I ask you for a favor?".

"Of course. Anything for you.".

"Next time you have to meet that idiot your parents call 'your fiancé', look at whether he behaves out of the norm. Specifically, if he's nervous or uncomfortable. Or maybe if he talks more about politics.".

"I see...".

"Nobles who feel like they have something to hide always act like that. Depending on what's found against him, he could be called for questioning. That's enough to cause unrest.".

You laughed: "As with every other noble guy. You'll probably find worse skeletons in my father's closet.".

"The question isn't whether there are skeletons. It's how you use them.".

You liked that idea a lot, enough to make you smirk. Now that you thought about it, there were many 'skeletons' around you, especially those belonging to your father. And now, you were growing into a position where you could use them, where you could be as knowledgeable in the law as Wriothesley and use it to your advantage. Sure, that might get you called 'disgraceful', but you'd be ripping yourself away from them faster, ergo into your lover. And if Fontaine was all about fairness, what was happening to you was unfair. You were just rectifying an error.

"Uh-oh. My mischievous darling is smiling like that of all ways. What do you have in mind?".

"I just liked what you said. It feels a lot like how the world works.".

"It's not far off.".

Agatha was sitting down next to the backdoor. She stood up and bowed, but her smile grew bigger when she caught sight of your intertwined hands. You felt very lucky to have her by your side.

Before bidding goodnights, Wriothesley turned you to him, and kissed you one more time, before stroking a strand of hair from your face: "Dream of me. Let us meet in the realm of sleep and continue this, until we won't have to dream anymore.".

"I promise.".

Much to your heavy heart, you headed back in, and he was off to the nearest teleportation waypoint. The ending of your meetings always brought sadness to your heart, but he worked so hard for a reason; He would rather die than you two not be together. His very passion was you, and you knew that if he was yours, some things had to be done. And you were sure that could happen, starting with the favor.

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

"Y/N, you said he made you the happiest girl of Teyvat?".

"Yes.".

"Well, you sure look like that right now! How was it?".

[fandom-go-round]

To Be a Songbird: Part One

Summary: Arranged marriages are wonderful when they work and disastrous when they don’t. The funny part? You never thought that you’d be in this situation. You had always wanted to marry your betrothed and now you’re single. What a joy.

Vil x Reader x Leona

Part One (Here!), Part Two , Part Three

Welcome to the second story for wedding month! This story has some wedding themes that I’m only now realizing lol. I hope that you enjoy! Also: I haven’t decided the final pairing so if you have some thoughts please let me know!

Warnings: Arranged Marriage, Insecure Thoughts (Reader), Political Drama

           To love, in Twisted Wonderland, can be a curse. Not in the literal sense (unless you pissed someone off) but because things always ended up on the extremes. It was either a fairy tail happy ending or a villain’s goodbye. The higher up in class you went, the worse it got. Being next in line to a Dukedom (not officially the heir), love isn’t something in the cards. Even for you.

           Partly that was because you were already in love. In love with someone that you had grown up with, someone who had seen you at your worst moments. Someone who had once claimed that he wanted nothing more than to marry you. Of course, that was a long time ago. Now, he doesn’t want you. Now, you’re too insecure to stay but self-respecting enough to break it off. Now, you’re going to break your own heart.

           Today, you break your engagement since childhood with Vil Schoneheit.

♥

           This isn’t how you planned the night to go. Tonight, you had been invited out to party based on your own status. Vil had been invited separately and you hadn’t mentioned anything to him. He would insist one of you skipped and you weren’t willing to compromise after another skipped meeting. You had your own business to conduct damn it. You were going to chat with your friends a bit, talk about the newest peace treaty and avoid Vil.

           Everything went perfectly fine. Vil had seemed annoyed but said nothing once he saw you. That’s all he looked at you with anymore; annoyance or contempt. You ignored him, doing what you set out to do and having a great time. You were even able to get Duke Rosehearts to agree to meet next month. No one was insulted, you smiled at some of the princes and princesses and headed home.

           Vil was already waiting in the foyer as you pulled up, Charlotte helping slip your jacket off. He was pacing back and forth, glaring at the walls. It struck you that it had been years since Vil was in your home. Before he had gotten more serious about modeling. Before he was aiming to be Queen. Before he cut you out of his life. The last time he was in these walls the two of you were running around the garden with fake swords.

           “Lord Schoneheit. What a late visit.” You raised your eyebrows, showing you were none too excited about him being here. All you wanted to do was sleep. Maybe draft a letter of reply to Prince Malleus. He turned at the sound of your voice, a curled smirk on his face. Even then he looked beautiful.

           “Did you truly think I wouldn’t notice?” His question took you off guard and you paused, stopping in the hallway to stare at him. Out of the corner of your eye you saw Rook and Epel tense and wanted to sigh. There was always an audience now. They were good attendants and you appreciated them but you couldn’t be yourself.

           Vil looked regal in his royal purple assumable, dress ending right above the floor and cape fanned out behind him. His makeup and hair were perfect and you would think he was going to a photo shoot. Rook, his right hand, was in a matching purple suit and cape down to his knees. Epel was also in a suit but in a purple so pale it looked almost white. He looked uncomfortable in the formal wear but had finally stopped picking at his collar.

           “Notice what Vil?” You sighed, tired and not in the mood to play games. “I was ignoring you most of the night, like always.” You thought your reassurances would have made him feel better but instead he scowled more. His heels were muffled on the carpet and he didn’t sway at all on the uneven ground.

           “That’s not what I mean and you know it.” You met his eyes and resisted the urge to step back. His heels made him taller than you and he wasted no time in looming.

           “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” You sidestepped him, not backing up but not letting him corner you. “You made it very clear that we’re not to interact in public and I have respected that.” You made to walk past him and he caught your arm, eyes blazing.

           “You danced with other men tonight.” You scoffed, shaking your head.

           “Of course I did, I was asked. What’s the issue with that?” Rook shifted at your question but you couldn’t look at him to confirm. Epel looked paler and moved back, shifting closer to Rook.

           “You are not allowed to dance with anyone until you danced with your fiancé.”          

           “That’s ridiculous.” You wanted to scream. The rule did sound vaguely familiar but you weren’t going to admit that. Southern countries and their courting rules.

           “You think that I wouldn’t notice? Are you trying to embarrass me?” What was left of your patience snapped as his icy tone. You turned on your heel and Vil’s eyes got wide at the emotion on your face.

           “Embarrass you!? I can’t embarrass you when you’re never seen with me! When no one knows we’re engaged! What was I supposed to do, refuse to dance with the princes? I can’t do this anymore Vil!” You could hear gasps and footsteps running from behind you. Your parents would be coming to mediate soon. He started to call you name but you cut him off, shaking your head.

           “I have no issue with your career. I’m glad that you’re happy and you’ve never once pushed away your duties as future Duke. I even agreed, reluctantly, to not announce our engagement.” You laughed bitterly, refusing to cry. “I’m not good enough for you and I can understand that but this is ridiculous! You can’t have it both ways!”

           “I don’t want it both ways!” Vil’s voice rose to match your own, Rook and Epel watching the two of you like a volleyball game. “I want you to respect your station!”

           “My STATION!?” Your voice was a roar. The door opened behind you and you ignored it, taking a step towards him. “You forget yourself! Our contract is based on equal terms! I refuse to do this anymore! I’m tired of waiting for you to call this engagement off! If you won’t pull this bandage off, I will. I am finished!”

           The room was deathly silent. No one dared breathe. Vil looked like you had stuck him across the face. Finally, Rook stepped between the two of you and your mother grabbed your arm, pulling you back. Servants began whispering and talking, their eyes wide. Your father stepped up and began to direct people, for once no one putting up a fight.

           The rest of the night was a blur. You don’t remember Vil leaving but now that the words were in the air, you couldn’t stop thinking about them. You loved Vil with all your heart but you couldn’t, not anymore. The years to trying to be what he wanted, failing, trying again and again with no change. There’s a part of you that knows he cares, of course he does, but you need more than pretending you don’t exist. You need some acknowledgment of your history, of the little boy who loved you. You need him.

           When you wake up in the morning, the paperwork was all filled out. You signed it feeling numb and your parents only nodded. While a treaty with the Schoneheit Dukedom would benefit both countries, it wasn’t necessary to keep up relations and trade. You had spoken with your parents and they with Vil’s father (years ago) and you all knew; sooner or later, the engagement would be called off. No one had ever expected it to be from you.

           Two weeks later, you were officially back on the dating market. Two weeks later, you had to learn to start putting your heart back together. Two weeks later and it was time to get over Vil Schoneheit.

♥

           It took society by storm when news of your broken engagement became public knowledge. It took a couple of months to really gain traction and by then you were a little number. You had agreed to keep things cordial and say that the two of you broke mutually. Vil hadn’t tried to fight you, letting you lead the charge. He looks haunted every time you see him and it breaks your heart at the same time it infuriates you.

           Leona can’t say that he’s surprised when he hears the news. He knew the two of you were engaged, even if you never talked about it. One of those things on public record that no one ever looks into. He’s only talked to you a handful of times, mostly on diplomatic visits. You’re smart and quick, a little too loud for his tastes and a little too soft.

           You’re one of the heirs to the northern most Dukedom and one of the only kingdoms with a strong matriarchy. Your family isn’t as involved politically as others due to geographical location but a surplus of resources mean that you’re usually invited to the table. The Schonehiet Dukedom is on the southwest side of the boarder, one of your closest neighbors.

           There’s been a lot of controversy from the other lords in the country, mostly around bloodline. Your mother had married your father, a commoner. The North has never been as concerned with bloodline as the Southern lands but it still caused quiet a shock. Even after almost 25 years, there were still some lords that refused to see your father as legitimate.

           It was all stupid in Leona’s opinion but it made things interesting to watch. He was more interested in who would take the crown. Call it morbid curiosity but he wanted to know if the second born would become the new Duke. Your brother didn’t want it, as far as Leona could tell, but the advisors wanted someone who was easier to control. You had too much spirit, you would never let them take power. You brother had stronger magic, that was the rumor at least, and some were saying he had inherited the family’s unique magic as well.

           The announcement that your engagement had ended was going to change the game. You had been off the market for years officially because of the engagement and unofficially because you always waved suitors off. Because there wasn’t a precedent, not one felt the urge to push you to accept courting. Now that had all been turned upside down. Not only were you “on the market”, you were willing to make treaties besides purely diplomatic.

           Leona dozed in the afternoon sun, tail thumping against the ground at a steady pace. Marriage was something every royal was expected to do, even himself. He liked you, as much as he could like anyone and sticking it to Vil was always a bonus. A tiny part of him thought that it might be nice to run to the north and away from everything. He snorted, dismissing the idea. It was about power, nothing more and nothing less. He’d send you a letter in the morning; you had been asking to meet around shipping for a while now and Leona wasn’t going to deny you anymore.

[eleanor-bradstreet]

Touch: Winter (Benedict Bridgerton x Reader)

Benedict Bridgerton x fem!Reader Rated: G, fluff and romance Word count: 1.5k Masterpost Next part Summary: A snowy visit at Aubrey Hall with your friend Eloise and her family.

You are bundled into your carriage, watching the snow-covered fields roll by on your way to Aubrey Hall. Your friend Eloise Bridgerton invited you to visit after the Christmas holiday, and you eagerly accepted. You have been bored out of your skull, trapped in your own country estate for the cold season with just your parents, and Eloise is one of the most interesting young ladies you know. Though some might think it an odd friendship because she is a few years your junior, she is the only lady you have found within the ranks of the ton with whom you can have a conversation that ventures beyond hair styling and gossip. You both love to talk about books and art and politics, to dream of travels you’ll never actually go on, and to just plain have fun. Your mother says your inclinations toward such things are the reason you aren’t married after three seasons.

Aubrey Hall rises into view, looking like an ice palace against the white grounds. You already feel your spirits lifting, even before you and your maid exit the carriage and are greeted by the retinue of Bridgertons. The day passes in a whirlwind as Eloise and her three younger siblings drag you outdoors to march patterns through the snow and pelt each other with snowballs. Eloise is a crack shot and Hyacinth resorts to shoving a handful of frozen powder down the back of her elder sister’s coat for revenge. Though you are having fun, you do wonder if you are perhaps too old for such activities, when you suddenly turn and see your numbers on the field have doubled. Eloise’s three older brothers, all dark-haired and ravishing, have joined in the fray, shooting snowballs at the younger children with deadly speed and accuracy. Beside them, the Duke and Duchess of Hastings, another Bridgerton sibling and in-law, take aim at the eldest brother, the Viscount. Everyone is running and dodging, shouting taunts and encouragements, and crowing with joy.

That evening, when you have all changed out of your freezing, sopping clothes and gathered around the dinner table, the conversation is lively. You still can’t fathom how a family can all be so close with one another - nor how they can all be so attractive. You try to maintain your manners, but you can’t help your eyes wandering from brother to brother. Anthony, Benedict, Colin. All so similar looking, and yet so different in personality. Chestnut hair, piercing eyes, wide smiles. A voice in your head reminds you that they are all currently unattached, but you shake the thought away. You have no interest in searching for a husband right now, especially not amongst your friend’s brothers, even though they may be some of the most eligible bachelors of the ton.

The next day brings a storm, silent but unrelenting curtains of snow billow outside the windows. You have never felt more cozy than in the drawing room, reading on sofas in front of the roaring fire with Eloise. You share passages and thoughts throughout the morning as other siblings file in and out, warming themselves by the fire or plucking at the piano. Gregory and Hyacinth engage in a raucous game of marbles at your feet before wandering off in search of food. At some point, Benedict enters and sets up an easel by the far window, then begins to paint, frowning as he looks out repeatedly at the white blur.

You should keep your eyes on your book, but they keep wandering to him. He has no jacket, and the sleeves of his ruffled shirt are rolled up to his elbows. His red gilded waistcoat is unbuttoned and he wears no tie. You’ve never seen a man dressed so casually who is not related to you. His brow is furrowed in concentration, and he chews on his lips as his hands glide through the air, dipping his brush into the palette on his arm, then floating across the canvas before him. His hands. They look strong, with impossibly long fingers, but they move so delicately as he holds his brush. Something about the way the light is hitting him, the way he is so singularly focused, the way his brow is quirked…

He lets out a frustrated groan, making you jump out of your reverie. You just hope Eloise hasn’t noticed but she keeps her eyes on the page as she calls out lazily.

“Something bothering you, brother?”

Benedict swipes the back of his arm across his forehead. “This is rubbish,” he grumbles. “Why on earth am I trying to paint a landscape inside? I should have finished this yesterday before the weather turned.”

“It can’t be all that bad,” you say, trying to encourage him. You just want to see that crooked smile on his face again.

“That’s very kind of you, Miss y/l/n,” he sighs. “But this one is probably bound for the fire.”

“Oh come now,” and before you know it, you are on your feet and walking across the room toward him. Your boldness surprises you, but you feel magnetized in his direction, so eager to make him feel better. “Let me see.”

You stand beside him in front of the easel and see a snow swept landscape, half-finished on the canvas. White hills under cold shadows, with thin evergreens stretching into the distance.

“It has no life in it,” he says quietly beside you.

You aren’t an expert in art, but you know enough to know that he’s wrong. Even unfinished, and even with so few colors used, it is beautiful. It is perfectly capturing your feelings in this moment, this cold but lovely country visit you are enjoying.

“I wouldn’t say that,” you counter. “It is very evocative. The trees are so lifelike. Truly, Mr. Bridgerton, you have more artistic talent than I could ever hope to possess.” It’s not an exaggeration. You are genuinely impressed.

His brows raise. “Have you tried your hand at painting, Miss y/l/n?”

“For about five minutes,” you smirk. “It was abysmal. I much prefer going to galleries now, and leaving the work to more skilled hands.”

Something lights in his eyes - cheeky and perhaps a bit devilish. A tickling feeling runs down your spine. 

“Not everything is that difficult,” he smiles. “Like these trees you admire. Here,” He presses his brush into your palm, already filled with green paint, and he stands slightly behind you as he points to the canvas. 

“Add another one there. Just feather the brush left and right in layers to make the branches.”

You look at him, nervous to ruin his beautiful artwork, but the warmth in his smile invites you to proceed. Focusing in, perhaps too hard, you swipe the brush left and right and make a fat little blotch of a tree next to his elegant renderings.

He chuckles softly behind you, then suddenly he steps close against your back, and his hand is wrapped around yours, holding the brush between both of your fingers. You exhale shakily, your every nerve set alight at the closeness of him, the heat of him wrapped around you. His hand, streaked with paint, envelops yours, his fingers soft. You can finally appreciate the slender length of them, can see the glint of pale hairs and the veins running from his knuckles up his bare forearm. You feel flushed and hold your breath, trying to stay upright, trying to act normal. 

“Like this,” he says softly, then guides your hand, dancing it around the canvas to make another beautiful tree that blends in perfectly with the rest. As your joined hands move, his free one comes to rest suddenly on your lower back, pressing with gentle but steady pressure, holding you still under his instruction. His grasp is so large, the pads of his fingers pressing through the fabric of your dress, somehow gentle and possessive simultaneously.

You don’t even know what you’re painting anymore. Your mind is growing fuzzy, all of your body is overheating. 

“Very good,” the pitch of his voice drops low, barely above a whisper, rumbling from deep within his chest, and his breath is hot across the bare skin of your neck . You want to lean back into him, to let him orchestrate all of your limbs in whatever way he wants to. You want to be wrapped in his arms. You wonder how he will respond if you ask him for regular art instruction. You are probably going mad…

Then Hyacinth comes barrelling into the room shrieking about Gregory and a ribbon. You snap your eyes toward her and Benedict gently releases you, stepping away and leaving the brush in your hand. Eloise looks over from the sofa, clearly unaware of anything that has transpired. The fire continues to blaze in the fireplace, but it is not the reason you need to retire and fan yourself.

That evening at dinner, the Bridgerton family shenanigans continue, but you are somewhat withdrawn. You smile politely at everyone but your mind is elsewhere, reliving…wondering… And there is only one Bridgerton brother who draws your eye that night.

[fantastic0fairy]

From Cherry Blossoms to Giant Robots: How Anime and Japanese Culture Captivate the World

Imagine a world where cherry blossoms float through the air, where samurai honor codes meet futuristic technology, and where everyone, from a teenager in New York to a retiree in Paris, can find joy in animated tales of adventure, romance, and heroism. Welcome to the realm of anime and Japanese culture, a vibrant, dynamic force that has crossed borders and generations, leaving an indelible mark on global society.

The importance and growth of anime.

Anime, Japan's unique style of animation, isn't just cartoons it's a cultural phenomenon. From classics like "Astro Boy" and "Dragon Ball" to modern hits like "Attack on Titan" and "My Hero Academia," anime has a diverse range of genres that appeal to all ages. What makes anime so special? It's the blend of intricate storytelling, complex characters, and stunning visuals. These aren't just shows; they're experiences that pull you into their world.

Anime is a gateway to Japanese culture. Through anime, viewers learn about traditional customs, festivals, and even cuisine. Think of "Spirited Away," where the protagonist, Chihiro, navigates a magical bathhouse filled with spirits a nod to Japan's rich folklore and Shinto beliefs. Or "Your Name," which beautifully portrays the rural-urban divide and the traditional practice of "musubi" (tying threads as a symbol of connection).

Global influence by connecting generations

Anime's influence stretches far beyond entertainment. It's a style, a vibe, a community. Fashion brands like Uniqlo and Gucci have launched anime-themed collections, while sports stars like Naomi Osaka openly express their love for anime characters. Moreover, the principles and aesthetics of anime have seeped into global pop culture, inspiring everything from Hollywood films to video games.

One of the most magical aspects of anime is its ability to bridge generational gaps. Parents and children can bond over shared favorites like "Pokémon" or "Studio Ghibli" films. For the older generation, anime offers a nostalgic trip back to their childhood while providing fresh stories that resonate with today's themes and issues.

Anime has created a global community of fans who gather at conventions, participate in cosplay, and engage in online discussions. Events like Anime Expo in Los Angeles or Comiket in Tokyo draw fans from all over the world, celebrating their love for this unique art form.

Fun Fact: The Origins of Cosplay

Did you know that cosplay (dressing up as characters from anime, manga, and video games) originated in Japan? The term "cosplay" comes from "costume play," and it has become a worldwide phenomenon. From local conventions to international events, cosplay is a testament to the creativity and dedication of anime fans.

Anime and Japanese culture are more than just entertainment they are a window into a different way of life, filled with beauty, tradition, and endless creativity. They remind us that, no matter where we are in the world, we can find common ground in the stories we love and the values they teach us. So, whether you're a seasoned otaku or a curious newcomer, dive into the world of anime. You might just find a new favorite story or even a new perspective on life.

Ready to start your anime journey? Check out classics like "Naruto" or "Sailor Moon," or dive into newer hits like "Demon Slayer" or "Jujutsu Kaisen." And if you're already a fan, share your favorite anime moments with someone new you never know whose life you might brighten with a little bit of anime magic.

Happy watching, and may your adventures be as epic as your favorite anime!

References.

Cavallaro, D. (2010). Anime and the visual novel: Narrative structure, design and play at the crossroads of animation and computer games. McFarland.

Condry, I. (2013). The soul of anime: Collaborative creativity and Japan's media success story. Duke University Press.

Napier, S. J. (2005). Anime from Akira to Howl's Moving Castle: Experiencing contemporary Japanese animation. Palgrave Macmillan.

Noppe, N. (2013). Fanning the flames of fandom: The commercialization and transformation of fan activities in the age of media mix. In M. Ito, D. Okabe, & I. Tsuji (Eds.), Fandom unbound: Otaku culture in a connected world (pp. 104-127). Yale University Press.

Steinberg, M. (2012). Anime's media mix: Franchising toys and characters in Japan. University of Minnesota Press.

[haydenigmatic]

Lady Nesrin /ˈnɛs.rɪn/ Parovus /pæˈroʊvəs/

Meet Nesrin, the enigmatic jewel of courtly intrigue in the Eight Kingdoms. Behind her charming smile and the gentle melodies of her harp, lies a shrewd strategist, always three moves ahead in the intricate game of court politics.

For her face claim it's a mix between Emma Watson, Lilly Collins and maybe Anya-Taylor-Joy, now for the voice I would say Jessica Brown Findlay (the voice of Lenore in Castlevania)

Main Family Dynamics:

Duke Javaid's Expectations (Father):

Duke Javaid, the family patriarch, holds a firm grip on family affairs and expects unwavering obedience and service from his children. While supportive, his expectations also create a stifling atmosphere, especially for Nesrin who navigates the delicate balance between duty and love.

Duchess Sarnei's Priorities (Mother):

Duchess Sarnei is focused on maintaining her beauty and status within the court. She holds a keen interest in fashion and gossip, involving herself in the intricacies of courtly life, which influences Nesrin's awareness of social dynamics.

Seline's Scandal:

Seline, Nesrin's elder sister, is away from court due to a scandal that stained the family's reputation. Unmarried and seemingly without prospects, Seline secretly has a child from a forbidden affair with a commoner, straining her relationship with Nesrin.

Gennaddy's Charisma:

Gennady, Nesrin's younger brother, is a charming and courteous knight who enjoys the attention of many ladies. Confident in the family's status, revels in the admiration he receives, supporting and challenging Nesrin's approach to courtly life.

Some details about her:

Memorable Quote: "I learned at a young age that sometimes, the most effective way to get what you want is to let others think it was their idea."

She indulges in the guilty pleasure of reading romance novels but dismisses them as frivolous in public.

Occasionally orchestrates situations where she allows herself to be seemingly manipulated, only to unveil a grander scheme.

Her skill with the harp is as enchanting as her political manoeuvrers, her melodies weaving tales of beauty and intrigue that captivate those who have the privilege of listening.

She thrives on challenges, evident in her deliberate attempts to out-dress Odette, turning every encounter into a subtle competition.

keeps a dried flower pressed between the pages of her favourite book, a memento from the first bouquet someone dear to her gave her.

Her Silkshroud Feline (Persian cat), Aziza, is her loyal companion during strolls through the family gardens. Aziza wears small jewelled collars that match Nesrin's accessories.

Practices the harp at night, finding inspiration in the quiet hours. The haunting melodies she creates in the moonlit solitude serve as a therapeutic release for her inner conflicts.

Her sister scandal casts a shadow over Nesrin's life, serving as a cautionary tale that influences her choices and adds pressure to maintain the family's reputation.

Feels a deep sense of betrayal, she had confided in Odette about her dreams and ambitions, Odette's swift action feels like a calculated move to steal Nesrin's opportunities and thwart her plans.

Nesrin battles intense feelings of jealousy and resentment towards Odette, especially as she perceives her former friend not only as a rival but as someone who callously took advantage of her vulnerable confession.

[amerrierworld]

Keep Me Close (pt 1?)

Summary: You have resolved nearly all the problems in the village except one. And she’s unhappy with both you and Alcina.

Characters: Alcina x you, the Lords, the entire village!

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: None (yet) but might have some NSFW soon. Some angsty stuff coming up. A bit AU/out of character, you might find it a little absurd but I just want them to have a happy ending okay ;-; 

Alcina couldn’t believe you had managed to convince her to throw such a massive party. Somehow, your attempts at making peace with the village and expanding her wine production to more than just humans had paid off. 

Everything was going wonderfully. Until Mother Miranda had shown up. 

The ballroom had been lavishly decorated with candles and drapery. Each of the Lords had shown up dressed to the nines with a little entourage, and Alcina let you handpick staff and villagers to invite that you knew and trusted; friends, acquaintances, you named it, and they were there. 

Karl had accused Alcina of becoming soft with a human at her side. Alcina had smiled and blew a plume of cigarette smoke in his face, neither agreeing nor denying him. 

The truth was, she was much happier this way. You brought joy and delight to the castle. With the weather steadily warming at this time of year, you had even taken it upon yourself to take the daughters outside to blow off steam when they were restless and begging to kill some poor soul at work in the kitchens. 

At one point, they had managed to adopt a young Vârcolac wandering through the woods. You had no idea how, but the beastly canine was now their personal pet, as obedient as a lapdog and as murderous as the lycans. 

Sure, maiming and death still occurred occasionally, but hey, you weren’t a miracle-worker. Trespassers were still killed on sight, traitors and disobedience were awarded with limb-chopping or decapitation depending on the Lady’s mood, but you were quite proud to say that the Castle was much more welcoming, and more importantly, clean. 

You had revitalized Castle Dimitrescu, and had rejuvenated some of the humanity in the Dimitrescu family itself. Gosh, what an accomplishment. Though it didn’t happen overnight. There was enough blood spillage, shouting, skillful avoidance and trickery to last you a lifetime. But after all that, and after a wonderful new deal with the Duke to provide top-quality livestock for fresh blood and meat in the Castle, you felt you deserved a nice celebration. The farmers had agreed to tend to the Castle’s new livestock in exchange for peace. There was enough to feed everyone what they needed, and in return their families and friends were protected. Now, eating human was an occasional delicacy for Alcina and her daughters, and Alcina felt she enjoyed that a lot more than barbaric slaughter and tearing limbs without care. It felt like a luxury and a treat, though a little twisted.

The night you had convinced Alcina of your ways was when Dani, restless and out for blood, had held you with her blade at your throat, screaming obscenities and demanding her mother let her cut your throat so that you would stop meddling in their affairs. She called you a whore for sleeping with Alcina yet going behind their backs to change their way of life. Alcina nearly let her daughter kill you, thinking what’s one more? when three of the maids had burst from the kitchens and cellars, yanking Dani off of you. One lost a hand, another lost her head. Alcina stared in wonder as the women crowded you and declared they’d protect you, because none had shown such care to them in all their time at the Castle, despite being allowed to live. 

It had made Alcina long for love and loyalty again. Ruling with fear only got your so far, and she questioned if her morals were worth thinking about again. And what’s worse, you didn’t want the power over the staff that you had given yourself. You simply wanted things to be quiet and peaceful and good.

And then on the next day, when you made amends with Dani despite her threatening to kill you again by offering a fresh dish of raw meat and blood, Alcina realized she had been falling in love with you all along. 

Now, Alcina watched you from her throne-like seat, leisurely laid back with a fresh cigarette and a newly fitted cream dress adorned with subtle crystals, reminiscent of her jazz performances when she’d be decked out in sequins and dazzling pearls. She had a fur boa draped over her arms, and exuded the power of a rich matriarch. 

Alcina had never seen the grand ballroom like this in all her years under Miranda’s service. As a younger woman before the Cadou, yes, there were many lavish feasts like this. But since the world took a dark turn in this small part of Romania, there had not been this much laughter in a room for decades.

You were swinging from one dancing partner to another. The Duke had provided a lovely band to perform and you took every opportunity to dance with their music. Your shoes were tucked by Alcina’s seat after you complained about your toes hurting. Alcina had smiled and slipped them off for you, kissed your hand, and sent you on your way to the dance floor. You were dancing with the baker now, who had learned to make blood-infused bread specifically for the Castle, and mastered new pastry skills for your sweet tooth alone.

“Oh Mother, this feast is hard to resist,” Daniela groaned pathetically by her mother’s side, pushing her raw lamb around on her plate. “I remember a time when all these people would have been appetizers, dinner, dessert, and then some!”

“Calm now, Dani,” Alcina scolded lightly. “You’ve been doing so well. What is it now, four weeks?”

“Almost five,” she pouted. “Can’t I have a cheat day?”

“If you do, Y/N might be cross with you.”

“Not even one of the mean ones?” 

Alcina scanned the crowd. Everyone was in good spirits and seemingly well-behaved. There was one guest however, that Alcina didn’t like. He was too much of a flirt and far too cocky for his own good. He had tried to charm you on the way in, much to your dismay and to the amusement and jealousy of Alcina. He was properly drunk, hanging by one of the tables with another glass in hand, and not even trying to hide the fact that he was eyeing a few of the maids passing by with plates and glasses, who seemed most uncomfortable. 

“Hmmm,” Alcina thoughtfully blew out a smoke ring. “Maybe that one. But don’t make a scene, Dani. And don’t make it obvious.”

Daniela giggled devilishly and poofed away in a herd of flies.

“Must you encourage her so, Mother?” Bela sighed from her seat at the table. Out of the three, she had been the most strong-willed, coming up with new enticing ways to eat raw meat and blood to keep their appetite up. Daniela, however, always had more of a taste for the hunt than the actual meal at the end, and that was even harder to resist. 

“We both know a cranky Daniela is much worse than a satisfied one,” Alcina hummed, sipping her glass of wine. 

“Perhaps she just needs a lover,” Cassandra interjected. “That should leave her satisfied enough.”

“And who do you suggest is mad enough to put up with our sister?” Bela scoffed, chucking a piece of veggie at Cassie’s face. She burst into a cloud of flies to avoid the impact, and the meagre carrot rolled around under the table. It was just for decoration anyway. 

The Lords each had a seat amongst the Dimitrescus. Donna had Angie perched on her lap, who was tittering away with nonsense and annoyance. The most intriguing guest was a curious masked individual that had come in quietly next to Donna. They appeared genderless, though being clothed in robes of deep, dark blue, and not speaking a word made it hard to decipher what kind of person Donna brought in by her side. Still, Alcina was pleased to see her sister had finally found a partner of some sorts. 

Karl had brought another monstrosity of an experiment that was much more behaved than the last one. It resembled something between a large dog and a small horse, and made no noise. You had made sure the half-mechanical creature was well looked after. Freshly oiled, and freshly fed. 

Sal, poor, lonely Sal, seemed much more in his spirits than usual. You had convinced him to take ownership of his own life, and find something to do besides pining over Miranda’s affections. With your care and attention, you had discovered how much of a romantic Salvatore Moreau actually was. He needed things to romanticize his life. So, to add onto your list of crazy, silly ideas, you helped him find a skincare routine, gifted him a modified typewriter that he could use with ease, and a pile of water-friendly toys to splash around with. 

Alcina had been flabbergasted at the sight of a happy, laughing Sal emerging from his water-filled home. He told them how he had finished another one of his short stories, and the exercise of chasing weights at the bottom of his lake had made him much more content. You had laughed and clapped excitedly for him. 

“I don’t know how you do it,” Alcina sighed that evening as you crawled into bed with her. “You have more positive hope in your pinky than I do in my whole body. What on earth possessed you to give Sal a moisturizer?”

“Hey, those waters aren’t the best for your skin you know,” you tutted. “Sometimes a little self-care goes a long way. Turns our a lot of his moping has to do with those sores and humps -- they’re apparently very painful. Aren't you glad he’s not whining for Miranda and begging for someone to love him now?”

Needless to say, they all loved you. And they were all thriving because of you.

That is why no one has told Miranda about you.

Alcina knew Miranda would find out about the party and that she had not been invited. She’d be in for a scolding of a lifetime, probably a bit of torture, but she knew she could handle Miranda on her own. That wouldn’t be the problem. This way, Miranda’s anger would only be pointed at her, and not you. Heaven forbid the priestess ever found out what hold you had over Alcina. You wouldn’t survive a second in her presence. She begged whatever gods or demons existed that Miranda would never find out about you.

Alcina felt another deep sense of dread fill her, and suddenly had the urge to drag your to her side and keep you close. Perhaps the party was too large. Perhaps not this many people should have come. Perhaps--

As if on cue, you appeared by her side. Face shining with a glowing layer of sweat from dancing, you took her cup of wine and took a deep swig -- the taste of blood no longer disgusted you. Alcina felt her worries melt away and smiled happily.

“Hello, darling,” she said softly, leaning down to greet you with a deep kiss. You giggled as she teasingly nipped at your bottom lip. “What happened to your dance with the baker?”

“Oh, he stubbed his toe. He needed to sit out for a second,” you pointed to where the baker was sitting at a table, who was rubbing his feet with a grimace on his face. 

Alcina chuckled deeply. “No one can keep up with you, can they?”

“Well, one person can,” you replied. “But she’s refusing to dance with me!” You tugged at the boa and she scooped you up to set you in her lap, back pressed against her chest as you surveyed the masses.

“Darling, I hardly have the grace of a dancer anymore. I would knock over at least five dancers in the process. You don’t want to dance with me.”

“What if they all sat down and it was just us?”

“Then I would mess up out of sheer panic,” Alcina grinned. “What if I stubbed your toes? Crushed them? I wouldn’t forgive myself.”

“Ugh, fine.” You turned your head up to look at her. “But you better make it up to me tonight.”

Alcina gave you a chaste kiss and then trailed her lips down your cheek to your neck, as a strong, possessive hand curled around your middle. “It’s a deal. You may live to regret that statement.”

“I doubt it,” you hummed softly, squirming as warmth filled your body at her lips caressing your skin. “Maybe we should just go to bed now.”

“And leave all the festivities?” She tutted. “Your guests will be disappointed.”

“Don’t act like you haven’t been thinking about it all night. You always do,” you huffed, your hand grasping Alcina’s. “I’ve been thinking about it too, you know.”

Her hand clutched you more tightly, and a low growl came from her throat just behind you. “Don’t tempt me, dear. I might strip you now and take you right here until you pass out. Wouldn’t that be a sight for them all?” 

The end of her sentence had dissolved into a low, hungry whisper. Possessive, demanding Alcina was always your favourite. You grinned, lifting her hand from your form and kissing along the knuckles. 

“Patience, my love. Before you know it, the night will be over.”

Suddenly, Daniela appeared in front of them, fresh blood dripping from her scythe and mouth, probably from the drunkard that Alcina had pointed out. You were about to scold her for going against her new diet, but her wide, panicked eyes caught both yours and Alcina’s attention first. The night was definitely over now.

“It’s Miranda,” Dani’s shaky voice was unmistakable. “She’s at the door.”

[gemwing1988]

While I’m surprised that the Devil himself, of all villains, actually loves Christmas, this was a rather enjoyable Christmas Special.

Not only did Luke Millington-Duke had belted out such a catchy Christmas song of the Devil expressing his love for the holiday season all the while admitting it also brings out… well the Devil in him, but this is also a very rare episode where the Devil is the main protagonist as he goes on a Polar Express of festive antics to get on the Nice List so he can get a toy train for Christmas by having to literally be Santa Claus for one night to deliver all of the presents for all of the good people on the Inkwell Isles before dawn or else he’ll permanently be “Satan Claus” for eternity.

Bringing up the “Stickler Elf as the Devil calls him, the reveal of Santa having his own Stickler in the form of an elf who looks, sounds and behaves like the Devil’s auditor was certainly a big twist. Heck, even the Devil and Henchman completely shell shocked by this as they simultaneously dropped their jaws and exclaimed, “Santa has one, too?!”

To say the least, even the Devil can’t stand either his auditor’s counterpart, most especially when “Stickler Elf” lectures him about trying to keep his temper in check and be jolly throughout the entire night.

With it said that Santa is basically the Devil’s good counterpart and they are literally polar opposites of one another, it’s left debatable if Santa does like “Elf Stickler” or at least tolerates him and is patient with him as the Devil openly voices out his disdain for his auditor and tries to burn him into a pile of ashes (if not for the interference of the impenetrable invisible sweater since Stickler happens to be the “disclosed location”). Given how they both shrugged to one another after the Devil left for home in a huff, I think their relationship as employer and employees is on some good terms as it can be.

My mind was totally blown when the Devil actually managed to succeed in such a feat, it was still rather heartwarming during his exchange with Cuphead while the Devil had to make the hardest decision to give Cuppy the very same thing the young cup had asked for this Christmas: a toy train.

And once the quest was over and the Devil returned to being his devilish self again, on Old Scratch’s part, it felt somewhat all for nothing. Although Santa meant well and believed that even the Devil is capable of being nice after all, I’m afraid the Devil wasn’t impressed with his reward being swapped with the joy of being nice. Well, what do you expect from the embodiment of all evil and sin?

On one hand, the Devil does get what he wanted after all when Henchman secretly built him an even bigger and better toy train that the Devil can actually ride on while he happily plays with it while dressed up as conductor. That actually makes Henchman even more well-loved as a character and is among one of the few evil sidekicks who have a very healthy best friend-like relationship with their bosses.

Speaking of Henchman, he was definitely the sweetest little cinnamon roll throughout the special where he was like an innocent child as he was excited to meet the real Santa, knows all of the reindeers’ names by heart, does an impressive jolly impersonation of Old St. Nick while reciting the names and had been very supportive of his boss through the whole fiasco.

As the saying goes, “A friend in need is a friend indeed”.

And the scene where the Devil improvises with the sleigh issue by having Henchman be the replacement reindeer to pull the sleigh after the Devil accidentally frightened off the reindeer in a fit of frustration is both funny and adorable while an overly enthusiastic Henchman didn’t mind the least as he was far too happy to help.

A Very Devil Christmas is such a hilarious special and I do wish for The Cuphead Show to be renewed for a fourth season with more holiday specials in the future.

Merry Christmas to every fellow Cuphead fans and may your dreams shine. ✨

🎄❄️

[artficlly]

the horselords of naraik [chapter one]

A quiet civil war has raged across the kingdom of Garwic for nearly three decades. The cruelty of the Duke of Garwic knows no end, bringing death and misery with each raid upon the lower-class. The horselords of naraik have fought to protect those suffering under the Duke's violence. The reader being the daughter of the duke is captured and held for ransom, only things are not as they seem. The reader can only hope that the horselords recognise her as a victim rather than a villain before it is too late.

Pairing: horselord!bucky x duchess!witch!reader

Warnings: huge selfharm warning, self mutilation, suicidal thoughts, violence, blood, death, swearing, yelling, angst, tension, animal death, mention of sickness, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 6.4k

A/N: i've been sitting on this draft for months now. i thought i might as well get around to posting it, super rough i was gonna go back and rework it but meh. i've written most of this fic except for the last 1/2 chapters. so i'll post the other chapters while i work on the end. i'm aiming for 25kish in total but it's already sitting at 18k soooooo i might have an writing over my goal length lol. not proof read - sorry for any typos

chapter masterlist | main masterlist

The metal of the blade had grown warm, the handle sticky against your palm. The manor house stood silent, not even the footsteps of maids and footmen to disturb you. You fantasized about moments like these, alone with just the hardwood floors, velvet curtains, exotic rugs and ornate furniture. A moment to breathe alone with the blade, feeling every groove and indentation intricately carved into the handle. Your fingers would slide across the smooth metal, memorizing every gouge and how the smooth steel narrowed to a point. It was your mothers blade, an athame. 

Your eyes lifted, dark kohl lined eyelashes fluttering as you inspected your own reflection. The mirror was the length of you, maybe taller. A symbol of luxury - sculptured and carved designs twirling around the reflection were painted gold. You despised it. You despised most things about this place, the furniture, the people, the food, the etiquette but most of all you despised your father. You hardly even considered him that. A father was supposed to be kind, caring and protective. All you had ever known was his cruelty. 

You twisted the blade in your palm once more, admiring how the steel caught the light. A part of you sang at the sight of it, craving the sharp sensation. You wanted to feel the shooting, throbbing pain that engulfed you. A feeling of desire always consumed you when watching the way your skin would split apart and scarlet blood would bloom to the surface. Those wounds would save you. Blood wasn’t something to be feared, it was powerful and potent. The essence of everything - the piece that tied you to your ancestors. It could give as easily as it could take. 

The sigil you had carved below your sternum was long healed, raised white scars twisting their way across your skin. You missed the throbbing sensation as it healed, your little secret. A piece of savagery your father had tried to beat out of you but had once again been proved unsuccessful. It brought you joy to think of all the spaces across the manor house that you had hidden sigils - carved into the floor under rugs, furniture and at the back of wardrobes - so many pieces of evidence and so many warnings that his lessons weren’t working. Having that sigil carved into your flesh, that was the best of all. Right under your father’s nose. His work, his daughter, his property - despite all of his plans - was just another Idamiran Witch. 

Your gaze remained steady, fastened on your reflection. You hardly recognised who you had become, what your father had made you. The dress you wore was made of an expensive dyed fabric, lace and embroidery layered with precise detail. The sleeves and hem were long, hiding any amount of flesh beneath. The jeweled earrings, rings and necklaces were obnoxious and expensive. It made you sick, seeing such luxury placed upon you to be paraded around. 

Your hand jerked upwards, the tip of the blade pressed against your throat. Your stare was hard, heart fluttering wildly in your chest. The flesh at your throat bent beneath the sharpened tip as the pressure increased. You could do it, end this suffering with the power of blood. Your father wouldn’t hear about your death until he returned. So many months you had suffered, ripped away from all you knew. You had tried to adjust, tried to make sense of your fate. Now you knew it was useless, now you knew why you were here and where you would go if you continued to hold on. A fate worse than death, so death you would welcome. You could end it all, one final spiteful moment to prove you were not his. If you were to die, it would be at your own hand. The blade was mere seconds away from piercing the flesh when a piercing scream echoed through the silent manor. 

As soon as it came - it was gone. A thick blanket of tension washed over the halls as the towering structure fell silent once more. A sharp exhale left your nose, hand jerking back down to your side as your skin prickled in fright. Your own heartbeat thundered loudly in your ears, the rushing of your blood partially obscuring the sound of heavy footsteps climbing the staircase. 

There was another moment of quiet, hesitation creeping through the walls. You angled your body to face the heavy wood doors, watching to see if the handle would turn. Nothing. The silence became suffocating, your feet restless with worry and so cautiously you moved towards the doors. Another scream broke the silence, your hand hesitating over the door handle. The scream is met by another, and then another. The house became full of a symphony of screaming, shouting, violent thumps and the sound of wet slicing. The sound grew distant as if deep within the bowels of the house, the top floor silent once more. 

In the unsettling quiet, you feel your gut twist in fear. You recognised the sounds of a slaughter, you had repeated it so many times in your mind. Every night you would try to sleep and hear the screams again and again. It haunted you, but as haunted and suffocating as the manor house was, this was not another dream. If the house was truly under attack, you would need to move to safety. It would not be long before the room was searched, you would need to hide. Your hand settled over the doorknob, a numbness settling over your mind as you recognised you must disconnect in order to survive. Before you can act, you jolt backwards in fright as an ear-splitting scream sounds from directly outside the door. The sounds of scuffling and grunting ensue, only growing silent as a loud thump sounds outside the door. Breath held, you listen cautiously to the sounds of shouting and banging rattle the walls, thundering steps storming back down the staircase, barking out orders to those below. 

Slick, crimson blood pools from beneath the door, staining the polished wood below. You stare at it in numb acceptance for a moment, watching as the puddle reaches the tip of your shoe. You had seen blood pools like this before during the Grawic Raids, sticky deep red liquid flowing from lifeless bodies. Whoever was on the other side of the door was not alive, you knew that to be true. 

A creeping sensation of grief begins to consume your body, a shuddering breath leaving your lips. You squeeze your eyes closed, head pressed against the cool wood door as you hear the screams continue below. Your hand trembles around your mothers athame, bile rising in your throat. Behind your eyelids all you could see was memories of the past, vast fires that consumed villages whole, bloodied screaming children clinging to the lifeless bodies of their mothers. You could see your mother, face covered with soot and ash. Run. Run! She had screamed, pressing her athame into your palm. Something between a sigh and a sob leaves your chest, steadying your hand as you twist the door handle. 

You can’t let your grief consume you, can’t let your fear paralyze you like once before. You are numb as the open door reveals the crumbled body of a maid – Sylvia had been her name. Her mouth is open in a silent scream, throat slashed open. Her maids uniform is stained crimson, her hands weakly curled around her neck like she had attempted to stop the bleeding. Another body. Another face imprinted into your mind. 

You don’t allow yourself to dwell on it long, forcing your feet to step over the body. You swallow a dry lump in your throat, creeping across the landing to one of the nearby rooms. The upstairs had grown eerily quiet, the only sounds being shouting and laughing echoing up the staircase. You squeezed the blade tighter in your palm, peeking into one of the rooms. The door had been shoved open, furniture overthrown. In front of the fireplace the firepokers had been knocked over, staining the wood floors with ash, coal and wood scattered across room. You remind yourself to keep your breathing shallow, keeping your panic to a minimum as you quickly examine the papers scattered across the floor. 

You didn’t expect these men were looking for papers or money - rather they would be looking for your father. The accents of the men sounded like they originated from southern Grawic. Perhaps from The Enghin Plains or The Valley of Empyrean. These men were angry, fuelled by revenge not greed. You didn’t dare let your mind wander to who you dreaded it might be. No, with any hope it would just be disgruntled southern farmers. 

With any hope you could hide, survive this attack. Your father would assume you were taken or killed during the attack – this could be your escape from this place. The months of contemplating death left your body like a shuddering breath as you considered your next move. 

A floorboard behind you creaked and you spun around. In the doorframe stood a slender, lean woman. Her face was pulled into a delighted sneer, red hair loose with bits of braids framing her face. You flinch backwards, noting the white and blue war paint lathered onto her exposed skin and straps of leather which held countless weapons. No, it couldn’t be, The Horde never traveled this far north. 

A soft grunt leaves your lips as she prowls forwards, striking you with her fist before you can react. You hit the floor hard, twisted onto your stomach. The pin in your hair clatters to the floors, hair unraveling down your back as you brace your palms on the hardwood floor. The redhead woman laughs, catching the attention of someone nearby. You can make out the sound of boots, planks creaking beneath the weight. 

“Take her downstairs.” A man rasps, voice deep and gutural. Your gaze files across the room, noticing a maid who is hidden beneath the bed parallel to you. Her hand is pressed over her mouth, muffling the breaths and silent sobs that escape her. You stare at the tears flowing down her cheeks, gasping as you claw and crawl away from the woman. 

Your mother’s athame had slid across the floor, slipping from your hand at the woman's blow. It is too far for you to reach in time, you can already feel the woman stalking towards you once more. Instead, you twist your body, seizing a nearby fire poker which had tumbled to the floor in front of the fireplace. It wasn't sharp, but it would do to fend off your attacker. 

Spinning yourself around, you strike the metal fire poker across the woman’s face. She grunts in pain, stumbling backwards into the chest of the male. He chuckles in surprise, his short blond beard flecked with blood and braided with bits of bone. You scramble to your feet, stumbling over your long skirts as the man slides his axe into its holster. 

“She got you good, Nat.” He says to the redhead woman, voice deep and thick. Her amused sneer had turned into a look of rage, cradling a bleeding cheek where the skin split at your blow. You raise the fire poker at the blond man defiantly, arching an eyebrow as he chuckles at you once again. “Fine. I’ll take you downstairs.” 

He is twice the size of you, a hulking mass of muscle, paint and scars. His blue eyes survey you with a look of amusement, quickly closing the distance between the two of you. Your intended strike doesn’t land, his large palms catching the tip of the fire poker and easily twisting it from your grip. A yelp leaves your lips as he snatches you by your waist, hauling you over his shoulder with little strain. Your palms brace against his muscled shoulders, trying to push yourself from his grip as you kick and struggle wildly. Across the room, the maid under the bed decides to dash from the room while the two attackers are distracted. 

The blond man is moving quickly, strides long as he quickly carries you from the room. The last thing you see is your mothers athame discarded on the floor, alongside the ash and scattered paper. Blood sprays across the yellowing papers as the redhead woman throws an axe into the back of the retreating maid. You don’t see the maid connect with the floor, instead only hearing the deranged screaming and wet thumping as the redhead woman butchers the wailing maid in a fit of rage. 

Your struggling stills, a sense of nausea consuming your body as the man descends the stairs. Maid’s and footmen’s bodies line the staircase and halls, blood making the hardwood floors shiny and slick. You can’t find the words to speak or to protest what is happening. Instead, you find yourself trying not to slip back into memories. The smoke, the screams, the sticky blood across your skin. Behind you the redhead woman is descending the stairs, scraping her bloody axe along the railing of the staircase.

The front doors to the manor had been thrown open, the butler brutalized in a pool of blood. The foyer is filled with shouting and laughter, reality only snapping into place as pain bites your skin. The blonde man dumps you onto the floor, teeth clattering together as you slam into the hardwood. You scramble to your knees, cautiously watching as large, hulking, muscled men and women circle you like vultures. You recognise the paint that decorates them, the bits of bone and colorful beads that are woven hair and beards. Beyond the doors, a herd of saddled horses stand in the garden having trampled the flowers and bushes. 

You had seen these people before, only at a distance or in the height of battle. Like many people of Grawic, they despised your father for his poor leadership and tendency to default to violence. During the Grawic Raids, these people had provided aid to many villages victim to the cruelty. They had supplied men, weapons and food. Although many whispered of their presence in fear, it was clear that The Horselords of Naraik were a good people, until you were on the other side of their wrath. The Horde may have smiled kindly on you in Idamir, but in these decorated luxury silks and encrusted with jewels? They would despise you. 

“Found this one upstairs, Buck. Gave Nat a good blow.” The blond man calls out, standing close as you survey the gathering crowd. Your hair, now loose, spills around your waist. You use the strands to partially obscure your face, your gaze darting as you access your options. There was no use in running or fighting back – you would be dead in seconds. 

“Let me kill her Bucky, I’m sure she would squeal.” Nat hisses from nearby, you shudder as you feel her creep closer. Her axe is in hand, dripping with blood and chunks of flesh. You dip your eyes before you can see her face, holding your tongue between your teeth to stop yourself from sobbing. Another face for the dreams that plagued you – the young maid pressed beneath the bed, silent tears streaming down her face. 

“Who is this?” A new voice grunts, the foyer falling quiet. The air in the room shifted, the speaker commanding a sense of respect and power. You dare to let your eyes flutter upwards, clenching your jaw to stop any emotions leaking forth. 

The commanding man steps forward, the crowd parting to let him through. Tall and muscular as the blond man, he stands shirtless. His exposed nature allows you to see the muscles that ripple beneath, scars flecked across his sun kissed skin. One large, raised scar dominates them all, curving around his left shoulder and arm. He is decorated with the same lathered blue and white paint, an axe holstered at his hip and a curved sword in hand. His chest, neck and face are speckled with blood, dark stubble lining his defined jaw. His hair a dark brunet, dusting above his shoulders. Although it is pushed back, only a few strands falling into his face, you can see the bits of bone and colorful beads braided within. His azure eyes bore into you with interest, kohl lazily smudged around the socket in a messy contrast to your own kohl which was delicately lined. 

He prowls forward slowly, assessing you with a predator's gaze. “The duke's wife is dead, and I have heard of no replacement. I would say a governess, but I know his son is fully grown. You’re not a maid, you are dressed like nobility. Who are you? An unfortunate visitor? A mistress?” 

You hold his gaze, nails digging into your palm. Even if mere hours ago you had been contemplating slitting your own throat, you were afraid. The deaths the horselords had delivered upon the maids and footmen were a mercy – quick and brutal. You had heard stories of the ways these men tortured the nobility they captured. They despised the upper class for all they had done – consuming all the food and wealth while the lower class starved and suffered. They despised your father for not acknowledging the thousands that endured famine and plague, instead killing any who protested or fought back. 

“She was carrying this when I found her.” Nat says breaking the tense silence, handing your mothers blade to the brunet man. He eyes the blade with a tilt of his head, callused fingers running down the smooth metal. 

“It’s Idamiran make,” Bucky hums, eyes lifting as he points the blade at you. “You’re the Dukes illegitimate daughter.” 

You remain silent, nails digging deeper into your palm. You use the pain to ground yourself and steady your breath as the horselords circle tighter. Your eyes flick between the crowd, a fixed gaze observing the sneers, flashes of metal and splatters of blood. They did not know the full story – no one did. No one even knew you were the daughter of the Duke until he came to claim you. You would receive no pity, no kindness. If anything, the horselords would despise you more, a simple Idamiran girl turned Duchess. They would never imagine how you might have suffered, the way you would imagine turning the blade in against your own skin. They would only see you as another whore, ready to sell herself for wealth and glory without a care for the other lower class citizens of Grawic. 

“Tell me, is your mother hiding in the house as well?” Bucky asks, waving your mothers blade in the direction of the stairs. He seems annoyed that you are silent, accepting of your situation rather than wailing for mercy. You supposed the horselords liked it when the nobility begged, only to watch the life drain from their eyes. 

“No. She died in the Grawic Raids.” You speak for the first time, your accent nearly as thick as theirs. You both originated from the southern lands of Grawic – though your accent hailed from the west - rather than the eastern Plains of Naraik. Your father had tried hard to lash out any rolled ‘r’s, rid you of your throaty and guttural pronunciations.

“And so you came crawling to the Duke to claim your inheritance?” Bucky says with a sneer, creeping closer. You lift your chin defiantly, strands of hair finally moving to reveal your face fully. 

“I did not willingly come here, if that is what you are implying.” You reply curtly, eyes narrowing at the towering brunet. The horde bristles, a murmuring capturing the room. Bucky doesn’t seem to believe your words, brows lowering into a scowl. 

“You seem quite comfortable and willing, wearing their silks and jewels.” He observes, gesturing to the expensive fabric which pools around your legs where you kneel. You press your palms onto your thighs, watching how the crowd grows conflicted. Maybe if you were younger, more naive, you could have believed maybe these horselords could have helped you. They had saved Idamir once before, but you knew they would never believe you. Even if you were Idamiran, born and raised in the small village, you were still of your fathers blood. They would kill you just for that. Your blood, so potent and powerful, was also your curse. 

“You shouldn’t speak of things you don’t understand.” You finally utter after a long pause. Bucky chuckles, lips curling into a sneer once again. The rest of the horde chuckles alongside him, restlessly shifting their weight, looking between each other with heartless smirks. Bucky slides the athame into his belt, knuckles growing white around the tilt of his sword. There was no winning this situation, it was easier to offer no further information and let death claim you. You could only hope they would make it quick. 

“You even speak like them.” Bucky snarls, which is met with agreement from the horde. He points the tip of his sword in your direction. “Tell me, where are your father and brother?”

“They are away on a hunting trip.” You are slow to reply, tongue feeling thick in your mouth. You are unsure of how to interpret Bucky’s next moves as he places the sword under your chin. You resist the urge to close your eyes, to let memories over your mothers face and touch consume you as the cold metal pressed into your skin. It wasn’t supposed to end like this – you were supposed to die by the athame. One final ritual – one final insult to your father. 

“And when do they return?” He asks, voice low. You look up at him through your lashes, swallowing thickly as the tip of the blade traces down your throat. 

“Not until the end of the month.” 

“Pity. And what a shame that they left you unguarded like this.” The tip of the sword dips to your chest, pulling tight one of the lacing strings that lay in line across your cleavage. Your chest heaves with a sharp intake of breath, heels of your palms digging deeper into the tops of your thighs. His eyes are dark, pupils blown as his tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip.  

“Tell me, is it true that your mother is a witch? That she put a love spell on your father to gain riches and nobility?” He asks, blade pulling down each strand of lacing down the front of your dress, until it finally stills over your stomach. You hold your breath, silent. 

“You shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, they listen.” You utter, eyes flashing in warning.

Bucky chuckled darkly, running his tongue over his teeth as he looked at the blond man. Whatever spell you had held over him was finally broken. He pulled the sword away, a sharp exhale leaving your lips as you nearly slump over as some of the tension leaves your body. Bucky doesn’t offer you a second glance, instead barking out orders. 

“Tie her up. We will hold her for ransom. Maybe that will finally get the Duke's attention.” 

xxx

The rest of the day had been spent on horseback, wedged between the pommel of the saddle and the hulking body of your captor. The Horde were nomads, never staying in one place longer than a few days. They traveled with the seasons, sticking to the rivers and lakes during the warmer months and further south into the plains during the colder months. This party was a smaller one, meaning the men and women who traveled this far north were a part of a hunting and raiding party. Although their camp was large you knew an even larger camp lay in the Plains of Naraik awaiting their return. 

You had clasped your bound hands around the horn of the saddle, steadying yourself with each sway of the horse's stride. Bucky had one hand lazily splayed over your waist to hold you in place, hardly paying attention to you as he continued to direct orders and laugh with the blond man. It hadn’t taken long for you to decode the dynamic of the horde – Bucky being the leader and the blond his second. The blond – who was oddly familiar – was named Steve. Through the ride you and Steve had exchanged uncomfortable glances, like you were both trying to place the recognition. Ever since your father had taken you, you had been isolated in the manor until you could be made into an acceptable lady for society. If you recognised Steve from anywhere, it would have been from Idamir. The Grawic Raids had spanned nearly three decades - the horselords involvement nearly two. You could have met Steve or any of the horde in the past without realizing you would meet again under such circumstances. 

You had been silent the entire ride, and continued to stay voiceless once the herd eventually returned to the small encampment. The camp was as you imagined, a collection of colorfully dyed tents which bustled in the wind. Horses grazed nearby, manes and tails braided with painted symbols lathered into their coats. Despite it being a raiding party, many women and children roamed around, greeting the returning riders. At the center of the camp stood a large campfire, women using it to cook food and boil water from the nearby river. Near the edge of the encampment stood a small blacksmith tent which had been constructed around a sturdy sledge which held the forge. The forge reminded you of Idamir, glowing embers and steam. Idamir was known for its blacksmithery as equally as its witch healers. 

The women eye you with a cautious interest, noting your expensive clothing and bound hands. They rightfully keep their distance, instead congratulating the warriors on their kills. You allow your eyes to wander, committing the scene before you to memory. The camp had no walls, instead guards posted at lookout fires further out. There was a small forest to one side, centered around the side of the river. In order to escape you would either have to bypass the lookouts through the grazing horses, or attempt to cross the rapidly flowing river. Both options also weighed on the likelihood of you escaping your binds and reaching the outskirts of the camp. You felt defeated and exhausted from the day's events - these recent months had made you a pessimist. Nat who sat on her mare nearby watches your wandering gaze, lip pulled into a snarl. 

“You should have blindfolded her, they say witches can enchant you with just their eyes.” She says to Bucky, gesturing to you. Bucky gives her a long look, grunting as he dismounts his stallion. 

“You really think she is a witch?” He asks the redhead with a chuckle, hands gripping your waist as he roughly hoists you from the saddle. You manage to catch yourself before your legs buckle, a part of your dignity left intact. It had been months since you had ridden, your muscles aching and sore from the long trek. 

“Well, if she is anything like her whore mother… I would want to be safe.” Nat replies, an amused smirk stretching across her lips as you glare at her. She leans forward in the saddle, spitting a glob of saliva at your feet in insult. Bucky is quiet, fingers finding your chin as he forces you to look at him. 

“I don’t think she is. She is too little… and weak.” He muses examining your eyes, Nat barks out a laugh in response. Your gaze dart between the two of them, Nat giving you one last sneer before she guides her chestnut mare away. You watch her leave, listening as Bucky commands a nearby warrior to retrieve a length of rope. 

“You are so quiet, do you never speak? Not a single word the entire ride – usually the nobles scream and cry for their lives.” Bucky asks, you take a step backwards. Your back is flush against his stallions flank, the horse as still and calm as Bucky corners you. “Do you think yourself better than everyone?” 

You consider staying silent and biting your tongue in protest. Instead you exhale sharply, holding his piercing gaze. “I am not afraid of death.” 

His stare darkens, only breaking as he nods a silent thank you to the warrior who retrieved the rope. He winds the rope between his palm and fingers, it reminded you of the way your father would weave the end of his whip through his palm. Bucky tilts his head as he examines you with a predatory gleam. “Then I will make you afraid.”

xxx

Your mothers face was smeared with ash, blood pouring from her temple. Around her, the village burned. Women and children screamed, retreating to the river where they were slaughtered by Grawic soldiers on horseback. In the distance, a crack of a whip pierced through the mayhem.

‘You must run, you must hide! He is coming for you, he will take you. I know it. I know it to be true!’

The blade was cool in your palm, the sounds of horselord’s battle cries echoing throughout the carnage. Warriors with swords and axes weaving through the bodies and burning piles, blood splattered across their bare chests, bloodlust dizzying their vision. 

‘But how can you know Mother? How can you know he will find me?’

You cried to her, reaching out for her warm embrace. Further behind her, a blond man sat astride a white stallion among the smoke and flames. The stallion's coat was stained red with blood, the man’s chest heaving as he held his axe in an unshaking fist. 

‘I have seen it. I had a vision. You must run. Run. Run!’

Run!

You jolt awake, chest and stomach straining against the rope tied tightly around you. It was early in the morning, the sun had not yet risen. A chill has set in overnight, a layer of dew developing over your clothes and skin. Your neck and back stiff from your sleeping position - tied directly against the trunk of a tree. Your hair damp and tangled, bits of bark and moss having fallen onto you during your sleep. 

Eyes adjusted to the darkness, you cast your gaze upwards to the stars. The sky was clear, allowing you to see each twinkling light in detail. The Idamiran people used the stars to track the change of season, using it as a guide for sowing crops and calling in livestock from the wilds. Your mother had taught you how to navigate with the stars, every night since your capture by the horde you had tracked your journey south east with the stars. 

“You talk more in your sleep than when you are awake.” Steve grumbles from nearby. He sat hunched over the fire, whittling a piece of wood with his knife. 

The past few nights you had always been left with a rotating selection of guards to watch you. During the day you would ride with Bucky, at night you would be left to sleep while tied to a post or tree. Steve had quickly become your favorite guard, he was quiet and paid little attention to you. Nat was the worst, mocking and sneering at you for hours while you glared. Many turned a blind eye when she struck or kicked you - you hadn’t been able to change your clothes since your capture but you knew there would be bruises along your skin. 

“I cannot help it.” You reply quietly, shuffling in place as you leant your head back against the trunk with a sigh. 

“What do you dream of?” He asks, back still facing you. He doesn’t even spare a glance, instead engrossed in his small carving. 

“Death. Faces of the dead. Visions of the past.” 

He muses on your words for a second, before casting a side-long glance at you over his burly shoulder. His eyes are dark without the glow of the fire, just peeking over the furs that he had wrapped over his shoulders. “I remember you from the raids. I don’t know why I did not place how I recognised you before.”

You had placed it together too, but hadn’t spoken a word of it. That night, when your mother had told you to run, you hadn’t. You had found her body, skewered upon a spear in the center of the village. You had screamed and sobbed next to her body, only releasing her when Steve had scooped you up. He had forced you onto his horse, dragging you away from your mother as he told you to be quiet. Soldiers of Grawic still crawled, executing anyone left alive. The two of you had weaved through bodies and burning buildings, the menacing sound of the whip looming closer and closer.

The two of you hadn’t made it far, his stallion downed by an arrow to the chest. You still remembered the animals' pained screams, the way Steve had muttered a prayer as he slit the creature's throat to end its suffering. He had tried to save you, drag you to safety. Your father had been too quick - recognising you for your looks. A near replica of your mother. He hadn’t been looking for you, rather described it as a blessing in disguise that he had run into you. Your mother’s visions had come true, despite her efforts to stop the wheel of fate. That night the whipping sounds you had heard finally had a face. Your father had stood there, a cruel smile etched into his face. Blood had dripped from the barbed tip of his whip, leaving you wondering how many had suffered at his hand. Steve had escaped with his life, fought off by the force of Grawic soldiers. You however, had been captured and taken to the manor. 

“It does not matter now. It is the past.” You say dismissively, staring into the distant camp as some of the women and men began to rise. The horses needed to be readied early in the morning, or else the horde would not be able to travel a sufficient amount of land throughout the day. 

“I believe that you are telling the truth, about how you were taken against your will. It does not mean that I will stop Bucky from killing you.” Steve says, you bite down on your tongue as you cast him an annoyed look.

“I wish he would get it over with, I am sick of sleeping tied to a tree.” 

Steve shakes his head with a slight chuckle, breaking the serious scowl he usually held. “We are awaiting news from your father over the ransom demands.” 

It would take weeks, if not months to hear back from your father. The ransom note would not reach him until the end of the month when he returned from his hunting trip. The lands of Grawic were long to traverse, taking weeks at a time to reach the northern point to the southern. It could be months from now before the ransom was finally settled, or if not until you met the release of death. 

Across the camp, you watched as the camp began bustling once more, the sun breaking the horizon finally. You let out a soft groan as the sun hits your skin, allowing the warmth to soak into your stiff joints. The people of the horde barely spared you a glance as they worked saddling the horses and putting out fires. Nearby, the blacksmith was working on dismantling his tent. You stared at the back of his head hard, recognising the dark brown locks and shorter frame.

“Peter?” You call out before you can think better of it. Steve twisted where he sat and looked between you and the blacksmith in confusion. Peter turned around, a confused look dominating his features as he looked for the source of your voice. As he stepped closer, abandoning the tent pole he had been holding, his confused look melted into one of surprise. 

A genuine smile crossed his boyish features, brown eyes softening as he closed the distance between the two of you. As your name slipped past his lips in a surprised gasp, a momentary cautious glance was sent in Steve’s direction as Peter kneeled next to you. Steve grunted in a mixture of acceptance and annoyance, holstering the knife he held. 

“I’m sorry - when they said they had captured the duchess I didn’t think they meant you!” He expressed, worried eyes searching the length of rope binding you to the tree. 

“What are you doing here?” You ask, leaning forward in your restraints. 

“After that final raid, I knew I had to get my aunt to a safer place. The horselords offered me protection if I worked as a blacksmith for them.” He explained, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. Peter was close to your age, a couple years younger than yourself. You had both grown up in Idamir, Peter apprenticing as a blacksmith while you helped your mother with her work. 

“How is your Aunt? Is she still unwell?” You question, observing his clothes. He didn’t dress like the horselords, instead clothed in a loose cotton shirt and pants. He didn’t decorate his face with kohl, paint or braid his hair. You imagined his leather apron and belt would be stored safely away with his forge while traveling.

Peter’s face fell into a frown, a sigh escaping his lips as you tilt your head with a look of worry. “She still has the cough, it worsened after your mother… I was sorry to hear about what happened to her. She was always kind to me.”

Steve eyed the interaction from his post, body now fully turned to observe you both. “Thank you… I… it means a lot. Have the healers here been able to help May?”  

“They’ve tried, but it hasn't been as successful as your mother’s remedies. It’s worsened due to all of the travel I think, these last few days she’s developed a fever that will not break.”

“I can help her. I mean, I can try if you bring me herbs.” You say, leaning closer. 

“You would do that? Are you allowed to do that?” Peter asked, glancing at Steve who answered with a shrug. 

“As long as she remains tied to that tree, I don’t see why not.” Steve replied, glancing over his shoulder at the camp. “Be quick, we ride within the hour.”

CHAPTER TWO

[acourtofthought]

This was in my drafts and was waiting to post it but after that earlier anon I felt Elain needed a little love.

I know I (very vocally 😂) have always been for the theory that Elain is being set up as High Lady of Spring. I thought I'd previously noticed all the hints but a few more jumped out at me as possibilities.

(The above is one I had noticed before but the rest were new to me. But still, it is interesting how Elain easily dismisses the command in Rhys's voice)

Elain telling the story of Nesta seducing the duke. Certain items made her truly look the part of the daughter of the "PRINCE of Merchants". A princess wearing an AMETHYST gown and diamonds and PEARLS at her neck and ears.

SJM has Elain take off the ill-suited black dress and replace it with an amethyst gown (see above).

Her mate gifts her pearl earrings (see above).

She sits at the head of the table.

Individually, they don't seem like much but when you put them all together they do make an interesting picture.

And when you add them to everything we've been told of Elain or about the magic system in general, why wouldn't be be an amazing candidate to preside over a land?

She had come alive here, and her joy was infectious. There wasn’t a servant or gardener who didn’t smile at her, and even the brusque head cook found excuses to bring her plates of cookies and tarts at various points in the day. I marveled at it, actually—that those years of poverty hadn’t stripped away that light from Elain. Perhaps buried it a bit, but she was generous, loving, and kind—

Elain had taken charge of planning and finding me a last-minute dress.

Elain, who flitted about the room, personally greeting each guest and dancing with all their important sons.

Elain, to my surprise, had a horse, a satchel of food, and supplies ready

“We keep it secret—we send the servants away. With the spring approaching, they’ll be glad to go home. And if Feyre needs to be in and out for meetings, she’ll send word ahead, and we’ll clear them out. Make up excuses to send them on holidays. Father won’t be back until the summer, anyway. No one will know.”

“My sister Elain can convince anyone to do anything with a few smiles.”

“Feyre gave and gave—for years. Let us now help her. Help … others.”

A lady—that’s what Elain would become. What she was risking for this.

“Today,” I pushed. “We don’t have any time to lose. Order them to leave now.” “I’ll do it,” Elain said, taking a deep breath and squaring her shoulders. She didn’t wait for either of us before she strode out, graceful as a doe.

Elain beamed. “Good. I think there are a few bedrooms ready—”

“Eternal youth. Do you deny the benefits? A mortal queen becomes one who might reign forever. Of course, there are risks—the transition can be … difficult. But a strong-willed individual could survive.”

“That many people? Not without first finding a safe place, which would take time we don’t have.” Rhys considered. “If we get a ship, they can sail—” “They will demand their families and friends come.” A beat of silence. Not an option. Then Elain said quietly, “We could move them to Graysen’s estate.”. We all faced her at the evenness of her voice. She swallowed, her slender throat so pale, and explained, “His father has high walls—made of thick stone. With space for plenty of people and supplies.” All of us made a point not to look at that ring she still wore. Elain went on, “His father has been planning for something like this for … a long time. They have defenses, stores …” A shallow breath. “And a grove of ash trees, with a cache of weapons made from them.”

“Graysen—we’ve come to beg you …” A pleading glance at his father. “Both of you … Open your gates to any humans who can get here. To families. With the wall down … We—they believe … There is not enough time for an evacuation. The queens will not send aid from the continent. But here—they might stand a chance.”

“Grab onto him!” Elain ordered / Elain screamed at her, “If you want to live, do it now!” / But I saw, even as I ran, Elain’s pale hands lurch—gripping the girl by her neck, holding her as tightly as she could. / Elain moved. As Azriel battled to keep them airborne, keep his grip on them, my sister sent a fierce kick into the beast’s face. Its eye. Another. Another. It bellowed, and Elain slammed her bare, muddy foot into its face again. The blow struck home.

Elain stepped out of a shadow behind him, and rammed Truth-Teller to the hilt through the back of the king’s neck as she snarled in his ear, “Don’t you touch my sister.”

“It’s their tradition, though,” Elain countered, her face still flushed with the cold. “One that they fought and died to protect in the war. Perhaps that’s the better way to think of it, rather than feeling guilty. To remember that this day means something to them. All of them, regardless of who has more, who has less, and in celebrating the traditions, even through the presents, we honor those who fought for its very existence, for the peace this city now has.” For a moment, I just stared at my sister, the wisdom she’d spoken. Not a whisper of those oracular abilities. Just clear eyes and an open expression.

“I asked Nuala to do it in that order,” Elain said as the others gathered round. “Because you’re the foundation, the one who lifts us. You always have been.”

“I would like to build a garden,” she declared. “After all of this … I think the world needs more gardens.” (Elain's vision is to bring life to the world around her, not just Velaris)

Tending to the gardens of Feyre’s veritable palace on the river, helping other residents of Velaris restore their own destroyed gardens

It wasn’t a guarantee that a High Lord’s firstborn would be his heir. The magic sometimes took a while to decide, and often jumped around the birth order completely. Sometimes it found a cousin instead. Sometimes it abandoned the bloodline entirely. Or chose the heir in that moment of birth, in the echoes of a newborn’s first cries.

Her sister’s delicate scent of jasmine and honey lingered in the red-stoned hall like a promise of spring (thank you for the reminder on this line @bookeater34)!

“Yes,” Elain said. “She was trained in dance from a very young age. She loves it, and music. Not in the way I enjoy a waltz or gavotte, but in the way that performers make an art of it. Nesta could bring an entire ballroom to a halt when she danced with someone.”/ “The entire ball stopped when Nesta entered,” Elain said. “She made an entrance of it, perfectly cool and aloof, even at fourteen. She barely glanced the duke’s way. Because she’d learned about him as well. Knew he grew bored of anyone that chased him. And knew that the wealth on her that night dwarfed anything that heiress was wearing.”/ “The duke was vain, and Nesta played into that. The entire room came to a standstill. Their dancing was that good; she was that beautiful. And when it ended … I knew she was an artist then. The same way Feyre is. But what Feyre does with paint, that’s what Nesta did with music and dance. Our mother saw it when we were children, and honed it into a weapon. All so Nesta might one day marry a prince.” “Nesta never spoke of it afterward,” Elain said. “I just observed.” Nesta was wrong, Cassian realized, to think Elain as loyal and loving as a dog. Elain saw every single thing Nesta had done, and understood why.

But she hadn’t hesitated to come. When Feyre had offered to let her remain home, Elain had squared her shoulders and declared that she was a part of this court—and would do whatever was needed

Elain, who it had gifted with such powers, found her so lovely it had wanted to give her something.

It was Spring, and yet it wasn’t. / Distant—because on the estate, nothing bloomed at all. The pink roses that had once climbed the pale stone walls of the sweeping manor house were nothing but tangled webs of thorns. The fountains had gone dry, the hedges untrimmed and shapeless. The house itself had looked better the day after Amarantha’s cronies had trashed it. Not for any visible signs of destruction, but for the general quiet. The lack of life. / No whisper of sound behind him. On any acre of this estate. Not even a note of birdsong. / This place was a tomb.

And though he roams these lands, he does not see or care for the neglect he passes, the lawlessness, the vulnerability. Even his manor has fallen into disrepair, half-eaten by thorns, though rumors fly that he himself destroyed it.”

And too bad the lord who ruled these lands was a piece of shit.

But Elain … The Spring Court had been made for someone like her.

But yes, Feyre—there can be High Ladies. And perhaps you aren’t one of them, but … what if you were something similar?

Elain is wise, observant, loving, prefers to handle things in a diplomatic way rather than throwing tantrums, is friendly to almost everyone, is liked by many, was blessed by the Cauldron, and had an upbringing that did expose her to the world of Lords and Ladies and an upper class society.

I have no doubt Lucien will stand beside Elain and help fill in the spaces where it is needed. For now he'd have a better understanding of Prythian as a whole and it's military forces and they would make an incredible team. But I don't know that I see him as the magic chosen High Lord of Spring considering he is currently set up as High Lord of Day (which might not be for centuries). Maybe he'll end up as Interim High King for the war ahead but there will be peace at some point and he'll need something to do until he takes over for Helion.

The missing link to it all is Spring because Tamlin is not the ruler Prythian needs him to be (it actually doesn't sound like he was ever the ruler Prythian needed him to be: "It was what, long ago, he’d once thought life at Tamlin’s court would be.")

Rhys may have been chosen as High Lord of the Night Court by the magic however he made a 19 year old female with no proper schooling and who hated the fae one year prior, his equal. A female who originally looked down on the residents of Velaris for hiding away during Amarantha’s reign (Rhys having to remind her his people were blameless). He made it so her word is law just as his.

Rhys is the most powerful High Lord in the history of Prythian however even his power does not exceed that of the will of the Mother / Cauldron. Fate / Destiny has already chosen the three Archerons to be of importance to the future of Prythian. One High Lady of Night with powers to match that of its most powerful High Lord. One sister with the Power of Death who changed the course of Illyrian history by helping to lead an all female fighting unit and the remaining sister with a future not yet known but with many hints at having the ability to restore a broken Court. A female who the Cauldron blessed and found worthy and who by definition would be the equal and match in every way to Lucien, the eventual heir to another courts throne.

[queenlucythevaliant]

russian opera recs???? please??????? I want to broaden my horizons

I am so excited that you're interested!!! You are in for such a treat. 

I did a write-up of my favorite Russian operas yesterday evening, which is here. I gushed a whole bunch about my faves and recommended a handful of specific tracks on Spotify to get a feel for things. So definitely check that out.

Buuuuut since you've given me another opportunity here-- let's talk about the New Russian School. This is the music of Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky-- what they and their characters listened to. 

The New Russian School was a 19th century movement among composers to create a distinctly Russian style of music. It was spearheaded by the Mighty Five, a group of five composers including my beloved Modest Mussorgsky (my top two on the opera post are his work). But they didn't just write operas! They also wrote parlor songs, symphonies, ballets, marches-- you name it. If you want to get a real feel for Russian music, this is where you start. Some highlights:

- All of Mussorgsky’s Pictures at an Exhibition is wonderful, but “The Great Gate of Kiev” is just grand and magnificent and magical in all the best ways. I swear, it makes me want to weep for joy.

- "The Field Marshall," part of Mussorgsky's Songs and Dances of Death, is sung from the perspective of Death riding through a battlefield after a battle. It's everything you want from that evocative premise.

- "Russia," Mily Balakirev is a symphonic piece that's meant to try and encapsulate the Russian identity. It's beautiful: moody in places, sprightly in others, dramatic, languid, mercurial. Surprisingly good study music, somehow? 

- “Islamey” from Balakirev’s Oriental Fantasy is reasonably well known in the West, but it’s so much fun. That’s all I’ve got to say about it. It totally slaps. 

- “The Lark” from A Farewell to Petersburg (also Balakirev) is just so sweet and sad and delicate. It settles my heart so wonderfully.

- Rimsky-Korsakov's Russian Easter Overture is just glorious. It's the sort of music that grows in beauty and hope from its first strains. It's sunrise on Easter and everyone waking up and getting dressed and going to church. It's mounting excitement of Easter morning and the joy of celebrating the Resurrection.

- Parlor music! You know how in Tolstoy novels a character (or several) will sing something at a private party or gathering? That’s this stuff. Alexander Dargomyzhsky’s is some of the best. I quite like “Enchant Me, Enchant” because I can so easily imagine Natasha singing it. “The Old Corporal” is quite good too. Full disclosure, I mostly listen to Dargomyzhsky while thinking about Tolstoy novels ;)

- A wonderful cello nocturn by Alexander Borodin. Mournful, but with moments of joy and lightness. Perfectly balanced. My mom really likes this one.

Oh goodness, Cesar Cui is the last member of the Mighty Five and I can’t think of anything of his that I really love off the top of my head. So sorry Cesar! I should listen to more of your stuff.

-Tchaikovsky came after the Mighty Five, but was definitely a product of the New Russian School and I need to talk about his Sixth Symphony. His Sixth Symphony (called Pathetique) is popular in the West, but not many know the story and significance behind it. Tchaikovsky was coming to the end of his life and old St. Petersburg was coming to the end of its. Pathetique quotes from the Russian Orthodox funeral service. Its last movement incorporates De Profundis, a prayer for the dead. The Symphony is beautiful and mournful and, when it premiered, the curtain fell not to applause but to weeping. The Grand Duke Konstantin Konstantinovich ran up to Tchaikovsky crying "What have you done? It's a requiem, a requiem!" Ya know that scene in the movie Amadeus where Mozart writes his own death mass in bed and then dies? Yeah. Except in a way, this was a requiem for the Russia that died with the revolution as well. Tchaikovsky was a lot like Akhmatova in that he looked at Old Russia with nostalgia before it was even gone.

Bonus: I like bombast. Here's Glinka's Patriotic Song. Glinka predates all these other guys, but he's wonderful and really deserves to be better known in the West. In Russia, he's like their Mozart.

Between this and the opera post, I hope I haven’t overwhelmed anyone. During quarantine, I used to go for drives with my mom and sister basically every day. Occasionally, I played my Russians and my mom’s response was “this makes the pandemic feel a lot more epic, doesn’t it?” 

[majoringinsarcasm]

I think something very important that I have not thought about until right now is that Crowley knows the bullshit because he’s been a part of it.

In Hell before his “retirement” he was a chaos bringer, a mischief maker. Yes they had the Arrangement, but they did not collaborate on every single project. They were not put in the same place 100% of the time. He has to drive through a wall of fire because his own plan to make the M25 impossible to leave bit him in the ass. Not only was he Doing The Job of a demon, even if he tried hard not to be too Evil about it, he did well enough to earn the honor of delivering the Antichrist to his destination. Crowley might not have been a Duke of hell or besties with Satan (in the show I have not read the book I really think I should bc I love having all the lore) but he was the demon stationed in London causing trouble and had been possibly the main demon on earth for a long time.

Aziraphale on the other hand?

His bookshop is seen as, at best, a meeting hub for angels and at worst a joke. Gabriel questions him about eating which isn’t bad on its own but it’s very “Aziraphale the weird angel is eating food”. Nobody takes him seriously, he’s dismissed and ignored, they think his ideas are stupid. They Punch Him In The Stomach and he’s called useless or something to that effect when he accidentally goes to Heaven and loses his corporation. They hate him. To the point of finding joy in his death.

And here comes the mouth of God telling him that HE is the perfect Angel to take over for Gabriel. The supreme archangel of all Heaven. The one who went out of his way time and again to belittle him. Aziraphale? Replace him? And he can bring Crowley along? They can be safe from Hell and make Good changes and stay together? People will actually listen to him and take him seriously? He can leave behind his bookshop if it means taking Crowley and fixing Heaven. He can leave earth if he gets to have those things.

Because he’s never been Important before. He’s never had anyone from his own side give him a fucking complement in 6000 years. God asked him about the flaming sword Once and then Never Spoke To Him Again. Crowley seems to be the only one giving him compliments that he takes to heart. Maggie calls him an angel for being nice but he knew he did the no rent thing for selfish reasons. Crowley tells him he did a good job investigating and he’s all smiles and happy wiggles. He has never had anyone from his side be fucking nice to him and now the literal Headhancho is promoting him.

And for Crowley it’s easy to turn down. He knows Heaven is shit and he knows Hell doesn’t give a damn bc he’s experienced it before. Hell doesn't care how the job gets done and Heaven can’t see outside of its own ass and doesn't care about the Right thing. They don’t care about humans as people. They are set dressing to their own war not a creation of God that they should observe and care about. They want souls, they want to Win this little game that they SAY God wants them to play. And maybe She does, but maybe She’s Wrong. But regardless they don’t care about anything Real. But Aziraphale does. Crowley does.

And in an isolated incident yeah it might be out of character for Aziraphale to seemingly regress. But that’s not what happens. He’s not interested in joining Heaven as part of the cog again. He doesn’t want to be the universal punching bag anymore. He likes his independence and his records and his freedom. He doesn’t want to be just the weird little Angel everyone hates. But the Metatron is offering him a sort of protection. He’s being appointed by someone high up, given a role that is seemingly untouchable. They can’t hit the supreme archangel. They can’t mock his choice of company if he’s in charge. And it’s all fake it’s all lies he’ll no doubt be just a figurehead with a fancy title. But right now it’s all real to him.

So he says yes. Not because he’s fallen back onto his old ways, not really, but because he really thinks this is Better. Being involved to fix the community vs running away from it and risk being hunted down Again. They found him because he’s at the bookshop but they’re angels. If they want to find him or Crowley they will. This is everything he’s ever hoped for with the added bonus of not being on opposite sides anymore. Because they still are to everyone else. An Angel and demon are still an Angel and a demon to the outside world. Angels can find Aziraphale and demons can find Crowley and the other side can threaten the other and.

If they’re both in Heaven they won’t need to do that. So he says yes, because he wants to. But also… how do you say No to an offer like that? Someone else already said it but it’s Coffee or Death. Become the new archangel or say No to the closest thing to God after already being threatened time and again. Nobody would pick death.

People are Predictable.

[usergrantaire]

episode six lesgo

- don’t worry boo you’ll get your eight hour workday (eventually)

- tired of this cold politeness i need bertha and enid to get into a screaming match immediately. maybe we’ll get a bitch slap or two if we’re lucky

- not the butler beef

- im here for lesbian con artist maud and i am ready to be disappointed

- aw ada is honeymooning at niagara falls

- jack and his wee alarm clock bring me so much joy

- how much would 35 dollars in 1883 be in 2023

- jesus it’s $1066.19

- arthur has made some real bad mistakes but i can’t truly hate him i think. i see where he’s coming from and he really does just want the best for peggy even if he’s misguided in going about it

- ooh i like that they’re getting into how the north wasn’t that great for people of colour either

- “im afraid i made [his bad back] worse” and here i thought ada was cracking a dirty joke 😭

- oh naur is the reverend going to die soon i know how jf works

- “it’s not as if you’re a real teacher” oh he’s definitely getting jilted at the altar

- where did peggy get ye olde lip gloss

- not the cockney lady’s maid

- the opera house guy has such a poor little meow meow look about him…..

- pumpkin 🥹

- oh naur bannister’s already ratted church out lmao

- oscar is gonna get conned isn’t he

- oh that pink dress and hat are fabulous

- the reverend is definitely gonna die

- don’t worry gladys your mom’s gonna sell you to a duke 💀

- why is the butler beef one of the most riveting parts of this show

- dashiell don’t you know it’s in bad form to propose so publicly

- also the camera lingering on larry

- “if you really want me to” THAT ISN’T A YES MARIAN

- peggy establishing Boundaries we love to see it

- poor people don’t get the privilege of going to school mr russell

- “you cannot buy a duke” oh you absolutely could at this point in history, they were all broke as fuck

- oh shut up armstrong

- there jf goes again with never showing the important conversations taking place and only giving us the reactions after

- BRUHHHHH he has CANCER

- did they not have more material for a bigger barricade?

- finally george follows through on that “is it really so bad to let them spend time with their families” instinct

- strike storyline is a bit clumsily handled tho but i never expected much from jf to begin with im gonna rewatch north and south now

that’s it for the week i’ll see y’all next time