#like yes he could take the estate away from the family after the fathers death

[thenorsiest]

Also, different people have different limits. Lizzie couldn’t stand the man. Charlotte didn’t mind his style/level of cringe. We all have different things we’re willing to put up with in relationships.

Me age 15 reading pride and prejudice: HOW could Charlotte marry gross Mr Collins isn't that a betrayal to every ideal of love???!?!?!

Me, now, in my mid-twenties, looking at a woman with no prospects and no chance of independence taking a marriage that not only makes her well off but also gets her an estate big enough that she barely ever even has to interact with her admittedly still shitty husband: actually that's a pretty solid deal lmao good for her

[runnning-outof-time]

The Silver Lining | Tommy Shelby & Daughter!Reader

Request: yes by anonymous

Pairing: Tommy Shelby & daughter!reader

Summary: (Y/N) Shelby's always been the 'forgotten one' in her family, but there may just be a silver lining in all of her suffering.

Warnings: strained familial relationship (father/daughter), mentions of minor character death

Word Count: 1633

A/N: I’m a bit rusty with the daughter!reader stories, so I’m hoping that this is good and was wanted. It’s also a bit of a sad one, but ends happy (or so I think). Enjoy! :)

PLEASE LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK!

Comment/Message me if you’d like to be tagged in future stories similar to this one!

From when she was young, (Y/N) Shelby wished that she was part of a different family. Not even a different family name; she'd be fine with staying a Shelby...she just wished she would be going home to a different parent; a different father at night.

The only thing that (Y/N) did thank her father for was for taking her in. She'd heard terrible stories of orphanages and what happened within them. The fact that she had a place to call home, when she very easily could not have, made her grateful for that.

Her mother died after childbirth, and that side of the family wanted nothing to do with the baby after it was born, so Tommy Shelby decided to take his daughter into his home, accepting the help of his aunt in raising the child. (Y/N) was grateful for it because it was uncommon for the father to do something like that...most just sent the children away when the mother was out of the picture.

But as time went on it seemed like she was the furthest thing from Tommy's mind. Tommy and his brothers came from the war back differently. (Y/N) was left to be with Polly and Finn as he delved deeply into business, making that the highest importance in his life.

And then he met a woman. Grace Burgess quickly became the apple of Tommy Shelby's eye, putting yet another layer of separation between him and his daughter. (Y/N) was still a child herself when her half-brother, Charlie was born. A part of her felt jealous of the young boy; who seemed to get more attention from her father than she ever did.

At least she had the servants that had been hired on to talk to now, and that her father had thankfully listened and allowed her to have a piano teacher. Tommy never had a problem in monetarily giving (Y/N) what she desired...he just seemed to have no desire in actually bettering his actual relationship with her.

Things sort of plateaued for a bit when the family moved into Arrow House. (Y/N) joined the rest of her family for dinner - because she was expected to - and had free roam of the estate's expensive halls and grounds. Sure, it still hurt that at times she felt like she'd been ostracized from the family...that she didn't fit into the family that her father <wanted> to have. Being able to get lost on her own made up for it in a way.

Things took a sharp turn for the worse when Grace died. Tommy sequestered himself away from everyone in the family, only giving the bare minimum to everything that wasn't business. In a dark, twisted way, (Y/N) was kind of happy that Charlie was now getting a taste of what she'd been dealing with her entire life. But, of course, Tommy eventually began seeking his son out again and having meaningful moments with him, whereas with (Y/N) it just seemed like he was going through the motions; having the necessary conversations with her. The fact that she expected no less from her father scared her slightly...it meant that she was getting used to it.

As she got older, (Y/N) threw herself into her studies. She enjoyed reading and writing, and oftentimes would keep herself busy with either of the two. These two hobbies stuck as she made her way through the schooling system. Another thing that she was thankful for was her father's ever-rising status. He may have not been the most open and willing parent to her, but he did still make sure that she attended the best schools and had all of the proper help that was needed to excel in her studies. It was only what was fit for a Shelby.

As it was nearing the end of her secondary school career, (Y/N) found out that she was at the top of her class. She felt exhilarated by this news, and as soon as she got home, she just had to share it with Lizzie. Lizzie was Tommy's second wife, and the only person who seemed to really, truly care about what (Y/N) was doing. It was because of her that (Y/N) even chose to send out some letters to different universities with the hopes of being accepted into them. Her father was spending more and more time in his office due to his job in Parliament, so even if he had an inkling of interest in the things that his daughter was doing, she wouldn't know it. So she stuck to sharing the news with her step-mother.

One day towards the end of the school year, Frances stopped (Y/N) as she was walking through the front door. "Your father wants to see you in his office," she informed (Y/N), her expression not really giving much away.

Not saying anything, (Y/N) nodded and made her way to her father's office. She knocked on the mahogany door before opening it just enough so that she could peek her head through the door. "Frances told me that you wanted to see me," she announced her presence, hoping that her father would hear her and look up from what he was typing on his typewriter.

"Yes, come," Tommy answered her, waving her into the room with a flick of his wrist, his eyes just barely shifting from the work he was doing.

(Y/N) nodded before she opened the door further so that she could properly enter the room. She closed it behind her before silently moving over to the two armchairs that were sitting, facing his desk. "What is it that you want, dad?" she asked him once she was sitting in one of the chairs.

"It's, uh..." he started, pausing to slide the carriage of the machine back over to the start so that it'd ring out, before he looked over at his daughter. He cleared his throat before continuing, "it's been brought to my attention by this letter here that you have been in correspondence with Oxford." He clasped his hands together on top of what (Y/N) could only guess was said letter as he finished speaking.

The breath got caught in the young woman's throat as she nodded her head, hoping that her voice came out steady when she started to speak. There were no clues as to what her father was feeling or thinking at the moment, and she was preparing herself for the worst. "I applied for their writing program. It's been said that it's one of the best in the country, and I feel that I have what it takes to excel in it," she gave her reasoning behind what she had done. There was no use in denying it, he was the one who brought it up. What she did leave out, though, was that she also applied to this particular university because of the substantial distance that there was between its campus and Arrow House.

Tommy kept his eyes fixed on her as she spoke, listening intently to what she had to say. He didn't respond right away after she was finished. Instead he let silence hang in the air for a moment as he looked away, flipping through the papers that were sitting on his desk. The time felt like it was dragging as (Y/N) waited for what he'd say next.

"This letter was sent in response to what you sent them," he finally told her, holding a stark, white envelope out to her then.

(Y/N) looked at it for a moment before accepting it from him. She tried her best to steady her shaking hands as she went about opening it up and retrieving the letter from inside. She read it over slowly, not wanting to jump ahead of herself. But the first line was all she needed to read: Congratulations, Miss Shelby. It is our pleasure to inform you that you have been accepted into our accelerated writing program... She stopped reading there even though there was still a good bit of the letter left. Her jaw went slack as she re-read it a few more times, checking to make sure that what was printed was true.

Tommy knew what the letter held from her reaction alone. "Congratulations, (Y/N)," he offered her his own congratulatory statement.

She looked up when she heard him speak, happy tears stinging the edges of her eyes as everything sunk in. Sure what he'd said wasn't deep or very thought-provoking, but the fact that he'd said something at all was more than enough for her at that moment. "

"I knew that you'd be able to achieve this. You'll do great things, love," he told her, the smallest smile teetering on his lips.

He knew that she didn't need it, but he put in an extra word for her at the registrar’s anyway. It was the least that he could do for her. This would be the silver lining in her bleak life...her opportunity to get so far away from him and the past that he'd given her. She could make a wonderful life for herself once she stepped out from the shadow that was currently hanging over her; that had been hanging over her from the moment she was born.

And so when (Y/N) stood from the chair she was sitting on and stepped around the desk so that she could hug Tommy, he held onto her as tight as she held onto him. They were hugging each other for different reasons, reasons that if you looked at them in such a way, would show that they're actually the same.

Tagged: @mgcldydrms @the-anxious-youth @cloudofdisney @look-at-the-soul @elenavampire21 @mrsalwayswrite @julkaamazing @evita-shelby @lilyrachelcassidy @notyour-valentine @shelbydelrey @december16-1991 @onlydeadcells @peakyswritings @just-a-blackhole @watercolorskyy @strayrockette @peakyduchesss @alexxavicry @captivatedbycillianmurphy @yummycastiel @dark-academia-slut @tommystargirl @stevie75 @lyarr24 @signorellisantichrist @zablife @anotherblinder @midnightmagpiemama @cillmequick @rangerelik @dandelionprints @letal-y-poetica @raincoffeeandfandoms @itscheybaby @gypsy-girl-08 @lora21 @insanitybyanothername @depxiety @dragons-are-my-favorite @sunsetbeachesandwriting @forgottenpeakywriter @cilliansangel

MASTERLIST

[byullielle]

Walls Could Talk // Bang Chan x Mafia!Reader

Part 2/3

Trilogy Playlist, Till Death Do Us Part, is what the vows contain. Hitched off to notorious mafia boss Christopher Bahng, and despite her volatile and bratty attitude–it'll be only through her that anyone gets to kill her husband.

Tags: Yakuza/Mafia AU, Est. Marriage, Marriage for Convenience, Eventual Lovers, Smut, Manhandling, Resolved Sexual Tension, Angry Sex, Rough Sex, Hurt/Comfort

Disclaimer: how chan looks in the freeze mv is exactly how he looks in this fic. SEX SCENE IS CONSENSUAL. MINORS DNI. NSFW Content.

Part 1 | Part 3

Guide: F/N - Father's Name

6.1k Words

You lean against the pillar of the infirmary of your manor, watching while Soyeon, your family physician, patches Christopher up. He winces while she gently prods at his bare torso, feeling for any more fractured ribs in the collision.

Minho is laid unconscious to be tended by Joshua, another physician who works under Soyeon. He did hit his head but was conscious enough to make it back to the estate awake. It was a disastrous crash, leaving Jisung and Changbin to clean up the mess left behind while Chris looked at you with mirth laden in his eyes.

You couldn't care less.

The moment you got home with the two injured men in tow, Felix came rushing to you with Jung Hyeon's file, finding out that she had the exact tattoo you found on the assailants the day before on her shoulder. All of them were piece by piece coming together—all your husband had to do was listen.

"We just have to wait for his X-ray results but he'll be alright with a few days of rest and to keep the wrist brace on at all times," Soyeon speaks up after hushed voices directed to Chris.

"Y/N-ah make sure he doesn't go out of the estate his broken ribs aren't fatal, thankfully they're only the floating ribs are affected,"

"Noted, Soyeon-ah," you nod, a bit frigid now that the adrenaline isn't needed yet still flowing through your veins. You nearly feel like your heart could stop in all honesty, a sharp pain stabbing through your chest that you simply take like it wasn't anything.

"Now you," Soyeon approaches before you hold your hand up apprehensively, "I'm not injured, Soyeon-ah,"

"I know," she sighs before taking your hand and pulling you into the doctor's office you set up for her team.

Jeon Soyeon has worked for your family ever since it was her grandmother running the medical field of the Jinyoung group. You were one of the few families who had well-equipped and strictly confidential doctors, making you less susceptible to hospital arrests.

"How are you doing," she asks before you sigh and lean back against the wall.

"The thigh wound isn't that deep, it'll heal in three days,"

She lifts her gaze from your file to you, "You know what I mean,"

"Do we have to do this?"

"The more you repress it, the worse it gets,"

You look down at your feet, hesitating before taking a stressed breath, "Yesterday. Happened while I was taking a bath, I think the attack on me the other day triggered it,"

You look up to see Soyeon's concerned face looking at you, "I dunno, kinda just remembered mom and stuff," you shrug, pulling your hands up against your arms.

She hums, jotting something down on a piece of paper before pocketing it, "Any more?"

"That's it for this week, I don't know if there'll be more,"

"And you still don't want to get medicated?"

"I think therapy is working just fine,"

She cocks a brow up, crossing her arms before leaning against her desk, "Really now?"

"I'm serious, Soyeon," you press your lips together, "I'm getting better, you said it yourself I'm just having some bad days,"

She shakes her head and pulls off from the desk, "Given your current situation with Bahng, those bad days would probably stretch on," she approaches you before placing a gentle hand on your shoulder, a flinch non-existent anymore.

"If you need someone, I'm a call away, okay?"

"Yes,"

Closing the door behind you, you head to Christopher's bedside.

"I'm sorry I nearly killed you," you sit down by the corner with a sheepish look on your face. The bandage on his forehead was definitely standing out, added to his already prominent collection of scars on his face, 'Continuously added by you, always,' your mind so helpfully supplies.

"Your unorthodox ways always seem to help," he sarcastically replies, making you frown a bit.

"You rest, and then I'll let you know what's going on,"

"No," he shakes his head, “You tell me now. You're still gonna help nurse me too aren't you?" he cocks a brow up and you can't help but scoff, "Aren't you a demanding one,"

"You nearly ended my life, Y/N, I don't know what that says about you,"

Somewhat miffed, you can't help but ball up your slightly trembling hands, "I wasn't planning on killing you! I was saving your life,"

"And how sure are you that it was for saving me?" he counters. You couldn't help but be frustrated with him, standing up from the bed while looking down at his sorry state.

"Oh please your injuries aren't even enough to kill you,"

"Maybe if you didn't act on impulse I wouldn't be on an infirmary bed with a gaping wound on my forehead!"

"I don't act on impulse!" you spit out bitterly, "It was a quick decision but I didn't do it without reason," you frown, voice getting higher and higher, more charged and agitated. He sighs and takes your wrist gently, making you jolt up slightly before he pulls you to his side.

"The Jungs aren't easy to lock down, you know that, right?"

"Of course I do,"

"Then you better make this worth it,"

You didn't know if it was him trying to get on your nerves or general mistrust but your hot temper was already on it's full throttle, you weren't about to hear anyone out because fuck that.

"You're so…" you trail off, closing your eyes before rubbing the spot between your brows, taking a sharp intake of breath.

"We won't get anything done here. Rest up," you mumble before walking away. If walking was stomping out of the infirmary then yes, you walk away there with a scowl on your face.

You saved his fucking life, not even a thanks.

'But then again, did you thank him for saving yours?' your brain nags and you stop in your tracks. Shaking your head away and letting out a fed-up groan, you carry on with the journey to your bedroom.

“Yeah well, she asked about where you were. She hung up on me,” Hyunjin recalls in Chan’s office, while his boss turns to Changbin with a cocked brow.

“She didn’t say anything when we left. Jisung did say she’s expecting either of us to follow,” the other guard explains while nursing a glass of whiskey, smoke puffed out of his lips minutes after.

“But Chan…do you mind?” Bin raises his head as he simply nods, “Go ahead Bin,”

“I don’t think she was planning to kill you,” he confesses, “Why go through all that trouble? She could’ve done it a long time ago if she really hated your guts,”

“Yeah but hyung that could be just her plausible deniability so that she doesn’t go suspect if the boss dies,”

“So you’re suggesting she’s pinning this on the Jungs,” Chan speaks up before reaching out to pour himself a glass.

“A little bit like that,” he meekly states, looking down at his glass. Changbin presses his lips together, “Although, I really think Jung is suspect, at least Jung Kwang-ho,”

Chan licks up his lips before sighing, “Clearly Y/N knows something. I might have to even talk to F/N-nim, he knows something about the Jungs,”

Changbin scoffs, “She did seem mad at you boss,” he shrugs, “Maybe apologize first before heading to her? And especially her father?”

Chan furrows his brows at him, simply receiving a shrug before Changbin stands up and grabs the holster harness off Chan’s table, “I’m on night duty today, I will see you two tomorrow,” he nods to Chan who simply nods back. “Good night, boss, Jinnie-ah”

“Good night Bin,”

“Night hyung,”

The door quietly shuts before Chan places his glass down the table, crossing his hands together before leaning against the oak desk, “Do you really think she’s trying to kill me?” he directly addresses Hyunjin, “I’m trying to be objective boss,” he sits up straight, setting his drink down as well, “Although a huge part of me agrees with Changbin-hyungnim, we can’t ever be so sure with her motivations,” he starts explaining.

“Y/N-nim seems so mysterious and closed-off after all, especially after getting married to you,”

Seemingly placated with his response, he leans back against his chair again, pondering the possibilities of what the fuck was happening to his territory. He knew a lot of people wanted him dead, in this world, there were more detractors than support, his head a constant prize amongst the pedestal of drug lords and mafia capos especially when branching out his reach in Asia or his bastardized status of being hailed as heir. If you have the world within your grip, its prickly sides would want you to let go.

He just won’t.

Sighing, he rubs the space between his brows with his fingers. “I’ll apologize to her,” he resolves. "Make sure I don't have any appointments tomorrow,”

“Yes boss,” Hyunjin’s gentle demeanor changes along with Chan’s. 

The heavy weight on your chest makes you unable to breathe, the struggle in your lungs heavily impeding your airflow. You crack your eyes open, a heavy gasp escaping you while you claw at the front of your gown, making Seungmin jolt up from his sleep as he rushes to your side.

“Boss,” he helps you up, concerned and worrying as you can feel the sweat on your back–sickly sticky and cold while the strands of your hair stick to your forehead.

Seungmin squeezes your hands once, looking directly into your eyes as you look around still shaken up by the feeling. “Remember anything? Where are you right now,”

“Bahng estate,” you answer breathlessly, “What time is it?” you turn to him as he checks on his wrist.

“2:30 in the morning,”

“Fuck,” you’ve barely been asleep, 3 hours in. “I– I don’t remember the dream, you frustratedly bunch your hair and rest your elbows on your knees, “But it felt…” you trail off, words dying on your tongue.

“Here, have some water,” he calmly hands it to you.

There’s a tremble to your hands, a little bit shaken as you take a big gulp, downing it in one go as a tired sigh escapes you. Night terrors–never one to quickly leave yet so fleetingly easy to overlook, to suddenly forget about what was so terrifying you felt as if your lungs were taken, left your chest bare and barren.

“I think I need to take a walk,” you shake your head and swing your legs over the bed, your bare feet touching the carpeted floor, “Go get some sleep. If something happens, Felix’ll be there,” you direct to Seungmin. You could see him hesitate, but ultimately take your order to rest up.

Wanting to feel the sensation of the cool floors of the manor you lived in, you forgo slippers, making it out of your room quietly as the patters of bare feet barely echo around.

Unbeknownst to you, Christopher sees your retreating figure, getting up to relieve some of the tensions of a sleepless night himself. Not wanting to impede on your time, he curiously follows behind right after, making sure his footfalls are light.

You feel comfort around the tall walls and wide ceilings of the house, it makes you feel smaller and a little bit more free, compared to the dark hellscape of a nightmare.

You take a few flights of stairs up, the faint crashing of the ocean audible to you from a distance as you hike up, carpeted floors further muting your presence as the textile presents a comforting roughness to it, like overgrown grass or stepping onto smooth gravel.

You could see the balcony doors, making a small skip towards it before opening it, the warm and humid ocean air pouring in contrast to the crisp air conditioning in the house.

With the deepest breath you can intake, you step out to the cool night breeze flowing against your body, barely covered by the silk nightgown and robe slightly damp with sweat.

Letting a shaky breath out, you let the door knobs go, leaving the doors open before heading forward to the ledge, arms placed atop the porcelain balustrade overlooking the moon shining brightly against the pitch-black ocean.

The silence of the night, crashing waves filling your senses vaguely while you let your nightgown brush and flow against your legs, and your bare feet resting against the cool marble, you could finally feel yourself breathe easy again.

Days of high adrenaline never came easy, the thrill of it all addicting to you yet the crash just as terrifying. You get used to it, but it always feels just as suffocating as the first time—it changes but it never tames down.

Pressing your lips together, you couldn't help but start humming a familiar song, letting the melody vibrate past your sealed lips before you could sense someone behind you. Abruptly stopping you turn and gasp to see Christopher leaning by the pillar of the doors. "What are you doing out here so late at night," he questions.

"What are you doing? Shouldn't you be on bed rest?"

"I'm not invalid, it was a few broken ribs, a wound on the forehead and a sprained wrist," he scoffs, not leaving his post as you simply stand there observing him.

Illuminated by nothing but the moonlight, his features are shaped out by shadows, sharp and chiseled but there was a certain moodiness to his eyes as it stared back at your very soul. You weren't in the mood for it. Y/N L/N loved holding grudges after all. "I'll leave your frolicking to it then," you sigh and detach your body from the balustrade, walking past him before he sighs out.

"I'm sorry for a while ago," his voice permeates throughout the empty hall.

You couldn't help but roll your eyes, back turned against him. You walk away, unsatisfied with the flimsy apology. First he implies disloyalty and rebellion, next he disturb your midnight break? Unacceptable.

You knew Christopher could do better than that.

A knock permeates on the door of your father's den. Breathing out a puff of smoke, he signals one of the men to open it. 

You walk in, your four guards following right behind as your father breaks out in a grin. “Well, well, if it isn’t my baby witch of the westside,”

“Enough of this, I have things to ask you,” you sigh before signaling one of the rookies to give you a chair. They immediately comply, scrambling to move as you take a seat in front of your father, spreading the collected pictures in front of him before raising your brows.

“Well?”

“Ah…” he sighs and plucks one of the pictures off the table, “The Jungs, I know this tattoo well enough,” he grunts while leaning back against his chair, taking the cigar between his fingers before inhaling and blowing.

“What do you want to know, little flower?”

“What is the Jung family’s association with the Jinyoung group?” you ask.

He hums, “Trouble in paradise?”

You scoff a bit, rolling your eyes before crossing your arms, “Tough shit. Not a chance,”

A humored laugh boisterously bursts from your father, making him shake his head, “You’ve gotten smarter when you got married,” he side-comments, “Let’s see… Jung and Jinyoung group,” he tries to recall before almost automatically his head guard hands him a file.

“Oh right,” he flips through the papers, “Remember when rumors of Chan’s induction as head of the Bahng household started to transpire?” he raises your brows at you as you nod.

You were there after all.

“Eugene Bahng, the supposed heir was scrambling to get his hands on the position,” he looks down at the file, “Started pawning off promises to each family he could reach, one of them was the Jungs,”

You attentively listen. Christopher’s climb to the heir position was deeply muddled in objection and rejection. Your father was one of the men who sided with him rather than Eugene, the supposed “full-blooded” heir of the capo seat in the family.

He was the one you were supposed to marry, but you decided you wanted to side with Christopher as well. Your marriage fortified his chain to the position, the smallest push to completely desolate the rest of the family to avoid mutiny.

Which was happening now, so it seems.

“Plain and simple, the Jungs want Chan gone so that they could usurp the promised territories for themselves,” your father finishes his wistful little recollection of events. “I was there when Eugene Bahng called the meeting, did you know he promised off Jongseon-do to me?”

“Did you get it?”

He laughs, shaking his head, “That boy was as stupid as his mother. Anyone with a brain knew his propositions fell flack,” he lights up another cigar, “Do you know why I backed Christopher up?”

You look at him with uncertainty. It wasn’t something you questioned, nor something he openly expressed. “Because he was the wiser son,” you try answering with confidence but your father shakes his head.

“I was too much of a coward to put you out there,” he admits, rendering you confused as to just where was this confession coming from, “You are your mother’s daughter, to have you killed because you meddled too much wasn’t in the itinerary,”

You lean back, a small yet steady lump growing in your throat. This was the most empathy your father has shown you in years. “Christopher Bahng. He saw your potential and took you away from my arsenal,” he chuckles before glancing at you. 

“To each your own. Now look at you,” he juts the cigar towards your direction.

“Hunting down those who threaten your family,” he digs the ashen tip into the glass ashtray, “Atta girl,”

Ever since you woke up, you’ve been avoiding Chris. And now that you’ve gotten back home from your father’s estate it seems like your own stubbornness didn’t want to let up. ‘Trouble in paradise,’ you scoff while Jeongin opens the doors for you, ‘If paradise was nowhere in the first place then yes it is trouble,’

It was a little bit petty of you, you were aware of that. In a normal situation, you too would act the way your husband did—you just wanted to get on his nerves. And wanted him to get on your nerves too.

Dangling a bait too delicious to not take was a waste for you, so why make up and apologize properly when you can constantly avoid his attempts to make peace in a civilized and normal manner. 

Time was still running through the hourglass, god knows what the opposing family is up to now but you can go out and play for a little bit more. Chris was still inside the house breathing and alive.

"Miss boss you're home," Hyunjin welcomes you by the foyer before Jeongin takes your bag and holster away, "I'm home," you tiredly announce before stripping your shoes off, handing them to a maid nearby. 

"The boss would like to have a word,"

You cock your brow up at him, turning to his direction, "Suddenly I'm the one adjusting? Tell him this," you take a few steps toward the guard, "I thought he wasn't invalid,"

You walk off with a snotty stride to you, absolutely biting back the smile off your lips when you hear his footsteps retreat back into the house.

Christopher was normally the more patient one out of the two of you; never impulsive, ultimately pragmatic and a thorough planner. Dream guy, you're sure.

But there was a little bit of fun of him blowing a fuse. You just had to be patient and wait in turn. Heading to the living room of the huge house, you tiredly slump down on the velvet couch, reaching out for the book you were previously reading.

Propping your legs up the couch you comfortably lounge on the couch. It doesn't take you 10 pages until the familiar footfalls prick your ears, Chris' heavy footsteps making itself known once he enters the threshold of the living room.

"You're home," he comments, only receiving a noncommittal hum from you. You can almost feel his heavy breath against your nape, picturing him with his hands on his hips, "Are you really doing this, Y/N?"

A response isn't pulled from you, simply flipping the next page of the book before it gets yanked out of your hands, making you look back with a scandalized look. 

"What the fuck is your problem Christopher?!" you shriek, intentionally sharp.

"My problem is that I'm trying to fucking apologize!" he answers back, breaking patience as you nearly quirk your lips up in a victorious smile. Just a little bit more—if it seemed too serious you'd stop.

Rolling your eyes at him, you let out an exaggerated groan of irritation, swerving around the couch to try and overtake him, "It's fucking useless to talk to you," you mutter before stomping off towards the stairs.

"You fucking get back here Y/N L/N," his voice booms throughout the stairwells.

"Or fucking what, Christopher Bahng," you snap, sharply turning towards him, "Why the fuck are you even apologizing,"

"Because clearly we need to keep moving,"

You let out a snide laugh, crossing your arms, "And? I had the impression you could clearly work without me. Save it," you bitterly spit out, stomping your way up the stairs like a toddler.

Chris follows you, almost giving you a small pave of way before nearly pouncing on his prey, speeding up because once you get to the top your back is roughly pressed against the wall with his hands gripping your arms tightly.

"Don't act like a fucking child," he growls, face merely inches away from yours. 

Your eyes flit down to his lips, then to his eyes, a silent message delivered.

Placing your hands into fists you push him away to the best of your abilities, getting him off you before further shoving him until he stumbles back a bit, "You're the child here! Go and wallow in the fact you thought I wanted to fucking kill you," you brashly answer back, with your own snarl against him.

"Should I have known my efforts would be met with such disrespect I would've left you for dead!" you deliver the final blow before something snaps. 

Before you know it, his hand is wrapped around your neck, making your head tingle and breath hitch as he forces you to look into his eyes. If he really wanted to kill you, he would've done so by now—easily being able to snap your neck in half with just his right hand.

Instead his thumbs press down your carotid, punching out a gasp from you. Your eyes meet, and despite the anger and passion burning in his eyes there was a silent question to everything. And you do everything in your power to relay the fact that he's forgiven, that he's free to apologize again and again along with doing as he pleases. 

And what he pleases he does.

With irritation still flaring in your bones, you press your clenched fists against his chest but never truly pushing him away.

"You're a fucking brat," he spits out bitterly, breath fanning against your face. 

"Not like you could do anything about it," you spit out with harshly.

"Watch me," he lets go of your neck only to grab your wrists harshly before throwing you on his shoulder.

A shriek is punched out of you, gripping and clawing at his back in a poor attempt to break free. "Christopher!" you yell, wiggling out before a harsh slap lands against your ass, groaning at the sting before your worldview changes, immediately facing the unfamiliar ceiling of his room while landing on his mattress with a thud.

He immediately gets to it, pulling your pants off with a rough tug. You bite your lip in order to hone in any noises you're threatening to make, gripping the sheets for stabilization before he strips his own clothing off. His half-hard member springs out of his pants and boxers, precum at the tip but not enough to make him wet.

You were salivating over the view before your ankles are pulled towards him as he stands by the edge of the bed, the pits of your knees now hanging off. 

"What, your brain got jogged in there somewhere?" he smirks cockily while pumping his cock with lazy strokes over your bare lower body. You want to close your legs together, feeling your slick leak out of your folds but with the position you were in his legs were lodged between your legs. 

"Look at you," his eyes zero in your leaking pussy, "What a fucking degenerate you are,"

You glare at him, leaning against your elbows before tugging at his dick a bit roughly, precum flowing out upon the contact, "Speak for yourself,"

Without warning, you open your mouth and stick your tongue out before taking his throbbing cock in one go, punching a groan out of him before you graze your teeth against his member, feeling him tense up a bit before easing it into your throat. 

Holding back a gag, your throat contracts and mouth tightens, tongue feeling the veins on him. 

"Fuck," he curses, reaching out to grip your hair but you smack his hand away, digging your long nails into his hips while bobbing your head up and down.

Spit flows from the sides of your mouth, slobbering about his long member. You knew it wasn't the best head you were giving but the way the oxygen was taken away from you by his huge dick obstructing your throat was sending sparks in your brain.

"You're so fucking shitty at this," he mutters before bunching your hair in his hands before bucking his hips.

A whimper escapes you, unable to pry his hands off this time while being forced to take his cock over and over again, the gagging sounds from you music to his ears. "You like that huh? You fucking slut, this is all it needs to shut you up," he sardonically laughs at you before pulling your head away.

You cough out, a mixture of his precum and your slobber accidentally getting out a bit while he gives you time to catch your breath.

"Fuck you," you mutter through tear-muddled eyes and spite. 

"Try," he pushes you down the bed before placing a bruising grip on your hips and lifting before his thumb pads around your clit. A stuttered gasp escapes you, clawing at the sheets below your hands.

"So wet," he whispers almost to himself while running a finger from your clit down to the shallow part of your pussy.

He takes his member with one hand before slapping the head against your clit, making you bite down on your wrist to hold back a mewl at the stimulation. He starts pushing down, tip catching in between your lips while your hips tremble under his hands. 

Eyes screwed shut, a shudder shakes you to your very core. And you know he isn’t faring well either, one of you ready to break the barrier of hate just so that you could move. Giving in, Chris suddenly slams into you, punching a shout from you before you reach out to claw down at the sheets beneath you.

“Fuck- fuck, Christopher,” you mewl out, helpless under his grip as he chuckles at your wrecked state.

“God, already?” he shakes his head, “I’ve barely fucked you,”

“Too– Ngh– Too much! ” you whimper, hands snaking your way up to your chest to press and tug on your pebbled nipples against the silk shirt that you just realize was still on you–wanting to redirect the concentrated pleasure on your pussy somewhere else.

You were going to explode, his dick continuously assaulting the spongy spot right inside as the nerves jolt your body alight with electricity you couldn’t contain, cries and sobs punched out of you in sheer pleasure. The smacking of his hips against your ass was sticky, juices flowing down and spread out you didn’t know which one was yours and which was his.

“You’re–so rough,” you weep.

“You like rough,” he says through spent grunts, slamming into you full force as if he’s simply using you.

His’ to use, your own pleasure to neglect. Like he didn’t give a shit if he hit the right spots as long as his dick was rubbed raw along your warm walls.

He grits his teeth, thumb catching on your clit once again as a shuddering gasp is torn off your lungs for the nth time followed by a litany of moans.

“You wouldn’t…Fuck…act like such a fucking brat…’f y’didn’t enjoy this,” he slurs through the pleasure. Your back arches back against the tandem of his thrusts and the circling of your clit. 

“Shit! Christopher, fuck!” is what’s left of your vocabulary, thighs trembling against his hold as the knot in your stomach painfully tightens, body going rigid for a bit as the squelching sounds of your juices mixed around by his glorious cock echo around the room.

“That feel good huh? Are you gonna cum for me?” he leans down a bit, flames alight behind his eyes, hair plastered to his temple while he runs a hand over his curly hair, moving it out of the way.

You respond with nothing but a high pitched moan, pornographic at best once he slows down his thrusting to a grind.

"What happened to the big bad wolf that regrets keeping me alive?" he sardonically laughs, making you tear up at the sheer humiliation of it all. He stops his grinding, making you squirm around his dick while the walls of your core flutter around his member in anticipation.

"If you didn't keep me alive nobody would fuck you like this,"

Torn between wanting to keep your pride up and just wanting to cum, you sigh out in neediness, coming out as a pathetic and begging moan.

"Please, it escapes you in barely a whisper, "I'm sorry I said that Christopher. Please, just move again," you plead.

"You like begging don't you?" he mocks before starting his reckless and deliciously fast pace again.

He cocks a brow up, making you clench harder around him, his eyes flitting down from where he was sheathed in to your wrecked face, red and blotchy with tears, mouth with a trail of spit.

Your back arches, hands squeezing on your tits as they jiggle underneath your grip due to his ministrations, body slightly jogged around by his sheer force. His thumb is back rubbing circles on your clit, lifting your hips and thigh up before spitting on your swollen bud, picking up the pace.

You're nothing but a moaning mess on the bed, back arched, head thrown back and hips lifted up. The shocks course through your body like live wire as your clit is continuously abused the way your hole was.

"I wanna cum! Christopher fuck, I'm gonna cum!" you hiccup out.

“Then cum,” he lets go of your thighs while still grinding into the walls of your throbbing pussy. “For all I fucking care,” he takes your jaw into his free hand, letting go of your clit making you wail at the abrupt denial of your orgasm.

“No, no, no,” you try to tug his hand back but he moves it to your neck, squeezing with precision making your eyes roll back.

Squeezing his dick around you, it twitches against his member–making you shake and tremble under him as he doesn’t relent with his thrusts. His hands are still on your neck and you can feel the overstimulation rub you raw, making you arch your back and writhe around his hold which garners him to chuckle darkly, letting go of your neck before pushing you further into the bed. 

“You came huh?” he mocks you, making you sob against the sheets as you move your head to the side, body shaken up by his thrusts.

The pain steadily turns into pleasure as another tremor shakes you to your core, unable to speak, only drooling into the sheets with your eyes half-lidded and directed towards Chris. His grunting and moans start to spill out more frequently, thrusts getting more and more erratic.

And you couldn’t keep up the cruel facade, reaching out for his arm before he looks up at you. “Cum already…inside, inside please,” you manage to mutter out and he lets out a laugh of disbelief.

“Shit, Y/N,” his breath hitches. “Ask nicely,”

You whine, high and needy as the tears further spill from your eyes, cock still assaulting your spent pussy, “Chris!” you further keen, almost into a shriek as he hits a deeper spot than normal.

“Please please, cum already Christopher,” you sniffle. “I forgive you already! Please just cum! I can't take it anymore!” it comes out high and wrecked.

He clicks his tongue, "Yes you can," his thrusts become a staccato of shallow ones that did nothing but hit your g-spot.

It was getting too much, the coil breaking only to be tugged and tied back together. Your back constantly arched and legs trying to squeeze shut only to be blocked by Christopher's body.

“Channie!” the last of your brain cells fight, attacking the soft spot you knew he had, making him hiss. “Holy shit,” he huffs before three more erratic thrusts wreck your walls.

Warmth spills inside your hole, a soft sob wrecking your body while Chris cages you in between his arms, watching you as you tremble underneath him, chest fluttering up against the material of your now sweat-riddled shirt.

Then you feel it, while he pulls out, the obscene sound of your juices together coming from your pussy is heard and after a few seconds you can feel fluid flowing down between your folds.

Chris shudders and chuckles in disbelief, “Look at you,” he whispers.

You couldn’t do anything but let out a sigh, tired and definitely exhausted. “F-Feels…so fucking sensitive,” you whimper softly. 

“Wait here,” he mutters, landing two comforting pats against your thigh. 

You don’t know how many minutes it was, but you could feel a damp towel wipe you all over your body, sticky and soiled shirt now removed. He gently lifts you up a bit, deciding that the small yet damp spot by the foot of the bed could be taken care of tomorrow.

Opening one eye open, you could feel the bed dip before coming face to face with his bare body. You look up, and then your eyes meet. “Sleep,” he runs a comforting hand through your hair, then on your cheek.

He leans down and presses a gentle kiss on the soft skin, before detaching.

Kisses were foreign to you and Chris. And although you wanted to ask, there was a nagging fear that pulled you back down as to where your place truly stood.

He pulls the blanket up your body, a gentle caress on your shoulder garnering a soft and satisfied sigh. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes again, reaching out for your hand before pressing a gentle and chaste kiss on a healing scab on your knuckles, “And thank you,”

Through closed eyes, you savor his scent through the pillows plush against your head, a hum escaping you. “It’s okay,” you whisper, a hand landing on his bare knee as reassurance, “And I got you,” you spend the last ounce of your strength looking up at him, eyes meeting again. “Always,”

The light shines against your eyes, making you groan before feeling the throbbing soreness of your legs and hips.

Cracking one eye open, you notice the black cashmere covering your body contrasting the sheets you were accustomed to. The smell is also highly reminiscent of Chris' perfume and detergent, the pleasant familiarity helping rouse you out of the sleepy state you were in.

Looking around with a sleepy daze, nobody is found around the room but there is one thing you did come to the realization with. In over 6 months, it was one of the best rest you’ve ever gotten–no nightmares, night terrors, or panic attacks.

Sighing, you get up with a grunt before the door suddenly opens, making you pull the sheets up your bare body before Christopher walks in with a breakfast tray.

“Why were your guards so adamant about asking me how you slept?” he immediately asks while you rub your eyes and let go of the sheets.

“I get a bit restless when I sleep,” you mumble out before running a hand through your toussled hair, “Did something happen while I was sleeping?” you look to him before he shakes his head, handing you a platter of food.

“A few murmurs but nothing alarming,”

“Good,” you hum before taking the utensils with a small thanks.

He hums. “Meet me in my office later,” he orders, and you nod towards him. “Don’t let it wait until tomorrow,”

“I know,”

next chapter would be filled with plot, context, and flashbacks so please brace yourselves for the longest chapter in this series. :)

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> moodboard; sampler 3

[ofstarsandvibranium]

To Have & To Hold: Part 10

Fandom: Marvel - Moon Knight (Mafia AU)

Pairing: Marc Spector x F!Reader, Steven Grant x F!Reader, Jake Lockley x F!Reader

Summary: To ensure you’re always safe even after his passing, your father, a mob boss, makes you marry his right hand, Marc Spector. You don’t necessarily hate Marc, but you don’t get along either. Therefore, this marriage of convenience may be a bit difficult for you.

Series Masterlist

The past week and a half was a blur to you. Your father sacrificed himself to make sure Harrow couldn't touch you or his empire again. Marc was with you every single day since the death of your father. He tried helping you as much as he could, being there for you, holding you when you cried. Still, he felt absolutely helpless.

The funeral was hard. All of your father's allies came to pay their respects as he was laid to rest. At the estate, Yelena was quick to hand you a drink.

"The family heads are waiting for you in your father's office," she said as she took a sip from her own drink.

You pinch the bridge of your nose, "They can't at least give me a day of rest?" Yelena shrugs as she pats your shoulder, "Good luck. Both of you," she nods to Marc and you.

Marc's arm wraps around you and rest on your hip, "We can do this." He kisses your temple and guides you to your father's office.

When you walk in, the low chatter that was going on immediately stops. All eyes are on you. You stare at your father's empty chair and feel like you're doing something wrong, being there without him.

You clear your throat and look around you. You clasp your hands in front of you to prevent fidgeting, "First off, thank you all for being here. I'm," you pause as your words get stuck in your throat, "I'm sure my dad really appreciates it." You run your hands down your black dress, "Um, so I'm assuming this meeting is to discuss the new head of the L/N Family?"

Alexei speaks up, "We're all aware that your father planned to have Spector take over and we all know about your arrangement. However, as respect for you, we just want to make sure this is still what you want."

You haven't thought much about your arrangement with Marc since your father's death. You've been too busy mourning as well as making funeral arrangements to really think about your engagement at all. However, throughout this time, you felt more at peace when he was around. He held you as you cried yourself to sleep. Even when you lashed out at him at the beginning because he didn't talk your father out of his sacrifice, he continued to be there for you. Things drastically changed and now...well, now you can't imagine Marc not being there with you in the future.

You turn to Marc, stepping out of his hold and slipping your hand into his, "Yes," then then turn to the family heads, "I do still intend on marrying Marc and having him take my father's place."

Marc squeezes your hand, "You sure?"

You nod, "I'm sure. There's no one else I trust with my father's organization."

Bucky, from the Barnes Family, speaks up, "I suggest you lovebirds get married soon. Harrow might not have been the only one ballsy enough to pull this shit. The sooner you're married the more serious people will take Spector as the head."

Your shoulder slump. Whether you were marrying Marc or not, you always saw yourself being walked down the aisle with your dad. But he's not here anymore.

Your wedding is straying further and further away than what you dreamt of.

Marc nods at Bucky, "We'll handle it," he glances at you and then back at the group before him, "Well, I think anything else that needs to be discussed can wait until tomorrow. Please enjoy the refreshments and thank you again for coming."

You and he step to the side as the family heads files out of the room. The last to leave was Alexei. He wraps his arms around you and hugs you tight. You let out a little sob and he soothes you.

"There, there, my little sunshine. You'll be okay. You're strong, yes?"

You pull away, wiping the stray tears from your cheeks, "I have to ask you something?"

"Anything."

"Will you walk me down the aisle of my wedding?"

Alexei looks at you in surprise, "Me?"

"You're like a second father to me, Lexei. Since my father is no longer here-"

"Of course, I'll do it. It would be an honor." He kisses your forehead and a soft smile.

He then turns to Marc and gives him a stern look, "If I hear a word about you mistreating her-"

"You don't have to worry about that, Alexei."

Alexei nods, "Good." Satisfied, he leave the room and you let out a deep breath.

You face Marc and immediately rest your head against him, "There's so much that needs to be done. How far up should be move the wedding? Did we pick a venue? I can't remember. Then we need to pick catering-"

"Hey, hey. No," Marc steps back, holding your by the shoulders, "Don't worry about that right now," he moves his hands to cup your face, "Go up to your room and rest."

"All I've been doing lately has been resting while you handle everything."

He shrugs, "Isn't this what I signed up for?" You open your mouth to object but he shakes his head, "Don't. Your father made sure I was well prepared for anything and everything that may come up being in this position. I'll handle it all. I just-" he pauses to let out a deep breath, "I just want to make sure you're okay."

You give him a soft smile, "Thank you. I-I know I've been so hot and cold with you since this whole arrangement began but...I really can't see anyone else in this position, at my side, than you."

"That's good to know," he murmurs and he kisses your forehead and then rests his against yours, "Go upstairs and rest," he whispers before pulling away and leaving you in your father's office.

Maybe you should just tell everyone to leave? Steven suggests in Marc's head.

"I can't. I need to show face, mingle with the families and friends."

Y/N needs us, though.

"I just want to give her some space, Steven. Let her have some time alone. She hasn't had much of that lately."

If you're sure.

"I am."

_________________________

When you woke up, it was dark out. You check the time on your phone it reads that it's past midnight. Do you have several notifications and unread messages from people? Yes, but right now you just want to see where Marc is.

You roll out of bed and pull on one of your old hoodies. You call out for Marc in case he might be near by. You were greeted with silence.

You descend the stairs seeing the kitchen light on. It's too late for your family's personal chef to be here so you're sure it's Marc.

When you enter the kitchen, you see Marc. He's sitting at the counter munching on a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, a mug of hot tea beside him.

"Marc?"

He looks up, eyes wide as if he'd been caught in a crime. He quickly swallows his food and sets the sandwich onto his plate, "Oh, um, hello," you hear the British accent and immediately know it's Steven.

"Oh. Hi, Steven."

"You alright?" he looks at you with concern.

You sigh, "I will be. I just need time."

He nods in understanding and gestures to the sandwich, "You want one? Or there's leftovers from the caterers. Marc snagged a little bit of everything since he wasn't sure what you'd want to eat later."

"That's thoughtful of him," you say, going to the fridge and seeing several tupperwares packed with food. You pull each one out, setting them on the island counter, "You want me to heat you up some?"

"Oh no, I'm fine with my sandwich. I'm vegan so I couldn't eat a lot of that stuff."

"Ah. Marc never told me that. I'll make sure to get you vegan options. Do you have any preferences of brands or milk alternatives?"

"You don't need to-"

"I want to, Steven. We'll technically be living together too. I want to make sure you have everything you need."

He softly smiles at you, "You're-That's really sweet of you, love."

You nod, also giving him a soft smile, "Of course." You continue to pile a bit of everything onto your plate and heating it up in the microwave.

You two eat in silence, but it wasn't awkward. You're scrolling through your phone while Steven reads a book on Egyptology. You figure that this would be a good time for you to get to know him more.

"Do you enjoy Egyptology?" you ask him. He looks up and you point to his book.

He breaks out into a smile, "I absolutely love it. The history, the literature, the religion. It's all so fascinating. The Pyramid of Khufu at Giza is the largest Egyptian pyramid. It weighs just as much as 16 Empire State buildings!" He says the fact with excitement and you break out into a grin. His excitement is contagious.

"Tell me more."

Steven snorts, "Oh no. If you do, I'll never shut up."

"I don't want you to shut up, Steven." You bring yourself closer to him and Steven's a little taken back by your actions.

"Oh, um, are you sure?" You can tell Steven's hesitant by the way he starts fidgeting with the thermal shirt he's wearing. The sleeves pulled all the way down to cover a majority of his hands.

"I mean, if you want to. I don't want to force you-"

"No, no, no! That's not it. It's just...I tend to ramble on too much and people get annoyed of me."

You place a reassuring hand on Steven's, "I promise that won't happen. Besides, I think it'd be good we get to know each other, right? Since, you know, I'm marrying Marc and you're a part of him."

"But it's late. You're not tired?"

You snort, "I slept for hours, Steven. I think I'll be fine. You?"

"Same."

"Then that settles it," you stand, "We can head to the library. There's a fireplace there and it's very cozy."

"Lead the way, love," Steven says with a big grin and follows you, exuding excitement.

[annikin-annotates]

Family Ties Part 3

Hello my darlings, long time no see! Sorry for the delayed release of this chapter, University took up all of my time from the start till the very end of term (as it does). But I'm finally on break, which means for the next few weeks I can start putting out some oneshots and more chapters for both My Baldurs Gate III fics as well as my HotD fics. So keep an eye out! Love you all, I hope you enjoy this chapter.

Also! Let me know if you would like to be added to any taglists!

Word Count: 4,347

Content Warning: Blood, Minor character death. 

Juniper’s Pov

The air of Baldur’s Gate was acrid compared to the air of the grove where she grew up. While yes, it was not the most delightful smell - it was an animal smell, fresh grass and the earthiness of mud underfoot, but it smelled like home. Unlike the combination of sour ale, the contents of someone's stomach heaved up on the sidewalk and strong perfume. Juniper scrunched her nose and pressed onward, following the crumpled map of the city she managed to snatch from an unsuspecting tourist - she hoped they hadn’t gotten too lost without it. 

She followed the map to the best of her abilities through the winding streets, hitting a few dead ends before finally reaching the Upper City. High stone walls and menacing wrought iron gates separated the Upper and Lower parts of the city; Juniper rolled her eyes, how original. There were guards positioned at either side of the gate checking everyone who went through the gate, turning away those who didn’t belong. 

She took a slow, steadying breath before pressing forward once more, surely it wouldn’t be too hard to slip in with a crowd, to take advantage of the chaos that seemed to be daily life here. She had managed to slip through the gates with a crowd of tieflings, the sigh of relief that came out of her mouth was immediately sucked into her mouth again when a gruff voice called out to her “Hey! You there, girl!”.

She cringed, her tail dipping between her legs, she turned to face the guard behind her with a smile. “Yes?” she answered, batting her eyelashes. Despite her tail hiding between her legs like the traitor it was, she kept a relaxed posture; she lifted her chin to meet the guards eyes, not that she could see much through the ridiculous helmet he wore.  

He held out his hand expectantly. “I need to see your travel pass to be in the Upper City,” he huffed, her stomach dropped - she didn’t have a travel pass. No matter, she had a foolproof plan that always worked on sentries, just by combining two things they fear most: a woman’s hysteria and a sick family member. 

Tears immediately began to prick at the corners of her eyes, glazing over like a babbling brook over a mossy stone. “I’m so sorry! M-My mother is very sick a-a-and none of the apothecaries in the Lower City carry the herb I need to make her a drought to ease her cough and I thought that -” she rambled.

He held a hand up, seemingly very uncomfortable about the crying tiefling that stood in front of him. “Alright - fine, just get what you need and get out of here,” he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, shooing her off with a wave of his large hand. 

“Oh thank you sir, you are too kind,” she said as she frantically wiped the crocodile tears from her face before turning on her heels to head further into the city. She smirked to herself, looking at her surroundings, tears worked every time. Now her only mission was to get herself safely to her uncle Wyll’s estate - he wasn’t really her uncle, just as Halsin wasn’t really her father. But they had been the only consistent familial presence she had ever known, Halsin had taken her in after Wyll brought her to him. 

Her mother had given her up, for the greater good they had told her, she thought that it was horseshit but who was she to question the ideals of a mother who didn’t want her. They had not kept her ancestry a secret from her either, though she was sure she would have figured it out sooner or later, you know - with the ever present gnawing hunger for blood and all. But she made a promise to herself that she would never drink the blood of anything, animal or otherwise. 

She shook the bitter thought from her head; it was a glorious day, she was in a city with lots of places to explore and only a few hours to do it all in. She shifted her worn leather satchel towards the front of her, there were bound to be other sticky fingered outlanders in the city and she was not about to fall for any tricks. 

Juniper’s first call was to find an Inn to spend the night, a good night’s rest and a chance to bathe would do her good, the last thing she wanted was to darken Wyll’s doorstep looking like a gutter rat. It hadn’t taken her long to find an inn, between following the map and catching the eyes of a few fellow Tieflings who had told her she looked rather lost. They pointed her in the direction of an inn called The Countess, a stunning building with a mahogany facade and plants that hung from large pots, with ferns draping over the edges. 

The inside was bursting with chatter, laughter bubbling through the room like frothing ale over the side of a pint glass. It was the opposite of the grove, which was almost always reverent in its silence, only ever broken by the baying of animals. She cringed as a man who had clearly over indulged gave an offkey rendition of the Bitch Queen’s shanties, at least oxen could hold a tune. 

She managed to cross through the crowd with a never ending stream of excuse me’s and coming through’s. She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw a small gap at the bar, squeezing herself between two drunken patrons flagging the tired looking barmaid down with a polite smile. She gave her a nod motioning to stay where she was as she finished pouring a tankard of ale that was almost overflowing. 

“A druid in these parts? What can I do you for?” she asked, a slender brow quirked, wiping her hands on the rag tucked into her worn leather belt. She was young, no older than she was, her wild hair was a deep shade of mahogany, dark except for when it caught the light, casting a warm mulberry tinted halo around her face. Grey eyes stared at her, thick lashes made her eyes look sultry, plump lips quirked into a kind smile. Her shoulders were broad but she was full of curves and softness, both strong and inviting in equal parts.  

Juniper smiled back at her. “Is it that obvious?” she sighed as she leaned her arm on the counter, tail flicking behind her. “I was wondering if you had any rooms available?” she continued, eyes flicking to the barmaids lips for the briefest of moments before refocusing on her stormy eyes, the heat from her cheeks creeping up the tips of her ears. 

Her laugh was melodical, like bird song in early spring. “I’ll tell you what, a room just opened up. I’ll let you have it for half the price - only because you looked like a lost puppy walking in here,” she replied, reaching under the counter for a key and pushing it across the counter towards her.  

A grin spread across Juniper’s face, dimples on her cheeks standing proud, “Thank you, I really do appreciate it. Is there anything I can do to help cover the rest of the cost?” 

The woman looked taken aback for a moment, as if she wasn’t used to being offered help so freely. She thought for a moment, a hand on her hip, before raising her pointer finger into the air  “Actually! There's a rather vicious bluejay that keeps swooping patrons on the back terrace. Do you think you could give it a stern talking to?” she asked, her eyebrows raised, a light hearted challenge.

“I can certainly try!” Juniper nodded, her smile crinkling the corners of her eyes, the sharpness of her fangs digging into the plumpness of the inside of her lip. She followed the woman, first to her room to set down her pack and then to the back terrace to meet the disgruntled bird. 

—

It was no surprise to her that she found herself out wandering the streets, her head turned towards the sky; the amount of stars were halved thanks to the light pollution of all the street lamps. She could see clouds rolling in from the sea, lightning crackling through the sky illuminating the menacing shade of green the clouds had turned.

She thought that some air would clear her head and slake the ravenous beast that made home beneath her skin. It had taken three hearty portions of stew to take the edge off, only for it to come back with such force it had her doubling over in agony. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, and her head swam with overlapping thoughts - none of which she could make out; it was like looking at a reflection in an angry tide. 

It felt as though bramble had taken root in her stomach, poking and prodding with each step she took. Her skin shimmered with a thin sheen of sweat, each breath she took was pure torture. Even now, out in the open, she could smell the life blood humming in every creature she passed, each pulsing vein made her mouth salivate. At least out in the wilds she could get away, she was used to peacefully wandering off for a stroll. There was no escape here, everywhere she turned there were more people - and more blood ripe for the taking. 

It was agony.

She was no stranger to the bouts of bloodlust, she was not stupid enough to not have coping mechanisms but she couldn’t think, couldn’t focus - gods, she could barely breathe. Her hands shook with every step she took, it was overwhelming in its intensity. Perhaps she could try it, just once. Nobody would ever know. The thought alone was enough to open the flood gates to the darkest part of herself, sending her into a torrent of guilt.  

She had sworn off blood and vowed that she would never become a bloodthirsty beast like her parents. And now of all times for her mind to be consumed with that insatiable hunger when she needed to not draw attention was infuriating. To go back on the oath she made to herself  would surely mean the end of things - Halsin and Wyll’s good graces among them. 

But then again, she had been so good all these years, she deserved this - she deserved a taste of what life could give. Juniper shook her head, no, absolutely not. She could handle this, she would be fine. Her vow was not up for discussion nor was it up for debate; especially not with the ugliest part of her. She turned back towards the Inn; hopefully a cold soak and rest would stave off the worst of it, all will be well in the morning, as it usually was. 

It was close to the wee hours of the morning when she returned to the Inn, the light significantly dimmer than when she left. The young woman from earlier - Elona- was placing the last of the wooden chairs atop perfectly polished table tops. Their eyes caught each other before Juniper had a chance to sneak up stairs to her room, Juniper fought the urge to cower like a pet that had been caught in the act. 

Elona waved her over, plopping down into one of the booths that lined the mahogany walls, “I would ask if you would like something to eat, but you polished off the last of the stew before you left.” Her voice made Juniper’s heart flutter and her stomach twist in a way she had never felt before; she was no stranger to crushes, but this was more than that - far more. 

Juniper smiled as she made her way behind the bar, pinching a bottle of wine that she hoped wouldn’t taste like vinegar alongside two glasses. She set the bottle and two glasses down on the table before sitting across from her, creating a barrier between them. The wine was sweet and the conversation flowed easily between them; they spoke about all things, where they grew up, their families and what they aspired to be when they were younger. 

It was when Elona shimmied into Juniper’s side of the booth that the conversation changed, Elona was mere inches away from her now. Juniper swallowed thickly, she was quite literally backed against a wall, it wasn’t as if she didn’t think Elona was pretty, she was stunning - the very image of a goddess, destined to bring her to ruin, she was dangerous to be around. 

Something stirred in the very depths of her stomach, like a beast reawakening from its slumber; stretching its claws and yawing, displaying its jagged maw. Juniper found herself not in control of her own body as she took both of Elona’s hands in her own, motioning for her to slide out of the booth. From there Juniper took the lead, guiding her up the stairs to her room and closing the door behind them. 

They descended upon each other the moment they were alone; Juniper placed delicate kisses along the column of Elona’s throat, feeling her pulse point flutter rapidly against her lips. A purr rumbled deep within Juniper’s chest at the gasp she elicited from Elona, as she backed her towards the bed, pulling away from her when she reached the edge. “Do you want this?” Juniper asked, her heart beating in her throat.

“More than anything,” Elona replied, her stormy grey eyes looking up at Juniper through thick lashes. If Elona was a tempest that sent ships and crew sailing into their demise, she was a willing captain, if it meant that she would place her hands upon her to drag her under. Juniper placed Elona onto the covers gently, straddling her hips. She began to place open mouthed kisses along her jawline and down the column of her throat, a searing trail left in her wake. 

The way Elona’s breath hitched in her throat as her hands twisted into the front of Juniper’s shirt only served to spurn her on, grazing the flats of her teeth over Elona’s pulse point. She squealed in delight, Juniper couldn’t disguise the airy laughter that bubbled from her as she placed another kiss to her pulse point before pausing.

Juniper sat back on her haunches, fingertips ghosting along the scooped neckline of Elona’s shirt, her thumb stilling over the thrumming artery. “Are you alright, Juniper?” Elona asked, her brows furrowed with worry “If you don’t want -” 

Juniper cut her off, swallowing thickly. “Of course I do, do you trust me?” Juniper asked her, the back of her hand tracing her jawline as Elona nodded. She brushed Elonas dark hair over her shoulder, fanning out in a dark halo behind her. Juniper’s fingertips grazed her soft skin, leaving sparks in their wake. Juniper placed an open mouthed kiss at the junction of Elona’s neck and shoulder, she tilted her head to the side to allow Juniper better access, her eyes fluttering closed at the proximity of her. 

Juniper’s jade eyes were blown wide with lust as she took in the scent of her; ginger, chamomile and smoke. Gods she wanted her, needed her like one needs air, without her she would suffocate - crushed under the weight of her own want. She needed to feel every part of her, to touch her, gods to taste her. 

Without warning, Juniper ran the flat of her tongue across the pulse point of Elona’s neck, a muffled cry tore through Elona as the sharpness of Juniper’s fangs sank into her flesh. She withdrew her fangs and ran her tongue across the wounds repeatedly, keeping the flow of blood constant. What flooded her mouth was more akin to ambrosia; liquid life, searing in its heat and near endless in its flow. 

Elona started to struggle against her, her pulse starting to slow and Juniper realised that she couldn’t pull herself away. In fact, she was actively ignoring Elona’s futile attempts to stop her. She pulled her weak form closer to her chest, her clawed hand entwined in her hair to cradle her head. 

All she could hear was that beast inside of her crying out for more as it lapped at the ichor sliding down her throat. It was when she realised that Elona had stopped struggling against her entirely that she found the strength to pull herself away - to ground herself back in reality.

And what a harsh reality she came back to. 

She gasped, tumbling from the bed. Elona laid before her, deathly pale, her eyes dulled; there was no rise and fall of her chest, no shine to her hair; nothing. Elona was dead. And Juniper had killed her, there would forever be innocent blood on her hands, “I’m sorry, oh gods - Elona I’m so sorry, what have I done?” she weeped. 

Guilt wracked her body, its talons piercing into the very sinews of her heart. This was all her fault, she had led this poor, poor woman to her death; she extinguished a light that this world needed - all for the sake of her own selfishness. She regretted ever setting foot in this gods-damned hellspit, she would pack her belongings and return to the grove; hopefully in a decade she would forget that this mess ever happened. 

She looked back to Elona’s body, lifeless and bloodstained, she couldn’t leave her like that; legs half hanging off the bed frame. Juniper pulled herself up off the floor “I know that you can’t hear me, but I’m going to make you more comfortable,” she whispered, voice wavering as she lifted her legs onto the bed. She continued on like that, telling Elona what she was doing as she repositioned her and cleaned her wounds, apologies tumbled from her lips like prayers. 

Juniper replaced her sullied shirt with a fresh one from her pack, tossing the dirty one; alongside the bloody cloths into the hearth on the main floor of the tap room, watching them burn. Only after a few minutes of solemn silence did she decide to press forward, opening the mahogany door to the quiet streets of the city. 

She shifted her pack to sit more comfortably on her shoulder, eyes trained on the puddles on the street, maybe one might be deep enough to swallow me whole and save me from my suffering. She had been too preoccupied with the metaphorical blood that stained her hands to notice movement behind her, only the pain that bloomed from her temple as the world faded from focus. 

The world came into focus again, she was staring at marble floors; she tried to crane her neck to look at anything else in the room but her head began to swim. Cool hands gripped her knees tightly, a bony shoulder digging into her stomach. Her fingers came into contact with what she assumed was blood as she touched her temple, throbbing pain reverberating through her skull, the world grew dark once more.

The only time she drank blood is when she murders an innocent woman and is subsequently murdered in retaliation, swift justice she’d say. 

Her heart was a buoy that leapt into her throat and sank into the depths of her stomach with each wave of consciousness she crested. Her attacker unceremoniously dumped her from the bony confines of his shoulder, allowing her to collide with the marble tiles hard enough that she was sure would leave a bruise. Juniper let out a groan as she began to push herself onto her hand and knees; only to have a foot make contact with the base of her spine, sending her splaying out onto the floor once more. So much for Baldurian hospitality.  

Juniper could hear the shuffling of footsteps switching to clacking as they met the marble tile that she had found herself well acquainted with. The air became thick as if she was trying to separate the oxygen from within water; it put her whole body on edge as she froze, willing herself to meld into the tile.  

“And what might this be?” A male voice asked, the phrasing of the question was light, but his tone had an edge that sent shivers down her spine. Though she did her best to internalise her panic, to keep her heartbeat steady and not allow the fear that was trying its best to claw its way through her insides. She could get out of this, she just needed to think. 

She could feel how her abductor's leg tensed as he spoke, like an animal preparing to be struck; it made her stomach churn; she was not safe here. “An unattended Spawn from another vampire lord, your Highness. I found it wandering the streets not too far from the Countess,” he responded, his voice wavering in fear. It? Your Highness? Wherever she was, she was a particularly unwelcome interloper.

“Well? What are you waiting for? Let me look at it,” ‘his Highness’ urged, his tone exasperated and clearly not interested. Juniper was rather tired of being referred to as an ‘it’, she had opened her mouth to issue the lot of them a signature witty reply. But she was pulled to her feet abruptly, letting out a disgruntled yelp as her captors' nails dug painfully into her scalp. 

Her eyes were met with the sight of two people, a slender male elf with eyes reminiscent of rubies; or the deep crimson of spilt blood. And a Tiefling woman that stood a few paces behind him, she had dark hair that fell in curls to her waist and the most decadent dress she had ever seen. There was something that she couldn’t place with her, an emotion in her eyes that clouded them like fog in a valley. 

The silver haired elf scrunched his nose at Juniper, as if her very presence was an assault on his senses; she fought the urge to roll her eyes. Bile began clawing its way up her throat, the longer she looked at him the more she began to lose control of her senses; her tail curling to hide between her legs. She had begun to compile what she would say to them, that her father was a powerful vampire lord that would lay waste to the lot of them if a single hair on her head was harmed. 

His mouth opened to speak, only to be cut short by glass smashing on marble, remnants of crystal twinkling across the floor like stardust. His head snapped to the woman behind him, poised to reprimand her, when he stopped himself; his features softening. He turned back to Juniper - more specifically the servant that had her in an ironclad grip, expression shifting into an incandescent rage by the likes she had never seen before. 

“Release her this instant,” Astarion hissed to the man behind her, who released her so quickly it sent her fumbling forward towards the tiles, only for her to be caught at the last moment by Astarion. “I sincerely apologise my dear -” He was about halfway through his sentence before she was pulled into a hug so tight it forced the air from her lungs, it was over before she even had a chance to process it.

Astarion looked to the Tiefling, who was now nervously smoothing her hands down the fine brocade of her dress, and then back to her, a well practised smile on his lips. “Forgive my wife, you remind her of someone we lost a long time ago,” he said softly, his eyes were also leagues away; whoever they lost must have been dear to the both of them. 

He motioned for two servants as they emerged from the very shadows of the room. A woman guided his wife who was now sobbing out of the large room they were in, while the other stopped a few paces from Juniper, his hands neatly folded behind his back. 

Silence hung between them for a moment, before he began to speak again. “How about you stay here for the night, it's rather unsafe for a young woman to be out alone so late, even for a blood thirsty one such as yourself,” his eyes flickered with something akin to delight. Her stomach twisted painfully; something was very very wrong here, and she had no intentions on finding out what it was.

“It’s fine, truly. I have lodgings at The Countess, my friend will surely be looking for me by now,” she lied, well, not a lie exactly - a half truth she supposed; she did have lodgings at The Countess and people would be looking for her come morning. 

He shook his head. “Then your friend would be truly thankful that you found lodgings here for the night,” he argued, the beginnings of a smirk toying at the corner of his lips, he had won and he knew it. The other servant inched toward her; she realised that the statement was less of an offer and more an order, and she was severely out ranked, she had no choice but to concede.  

She gave him a tight lipped smile and a curt nod. “Of course, my lord,” she replied, acquiescing to the servant who now led her back through the foyer and up the grand staircase. His grip on her arm was vice-like, as if he was a cat and she was the fat, tasty mouse he had caught for dinner.

Her room was grand, a bed large enough for at least three people to comfortably lay in, a small ensuite with a stunning claw foot tub in the centre of the room. One thing that did stick out as rather strange to her was that there were no windows in the room, the only entry point was the door to the room itself. Juniper walked back over to the door knob and turned it a little, only to be met with the stiff jiggle of a locked door. 

Fuck.

Thank you for reading! Please take a moment to comment or reblog my work, it brightens my day and makes sure other people see it!

[eva-reviews]

Pride and Prejudice and Pittsburgh by Rachel Lippincott -- a Review

Trigger Warnings: alcohol consumption, reference to mother's death, references to past child abuse, homophobic references, internalized homophobia, references to past gaslighting, emotional abuse, misogyny, classism and sexism

My Rating 

Honestly, I’d give this book an 8.7/10; I really enjoyed it. As soon as I read the back of the book, I was hooked. A time travel romance with miscommunication?? Umm.. yes sign me up!! I loved how it switched from Lucy and Audrey’s perspectives, especially because both of our main characters were experiencing something so new, in many different ways, not just time travel. I do wish that the miscommunication went on for a little longer, but I enjoy the hurt-comfort aspect of the book. 

Overview

Audrey Cameron is an artist who lost her inspiration after a breakup. She has been in an artistic standstill for a while now. She spends her time working at her parent's convenience store in Pittsburgh, when a regular customer, Mr. Montgomery comes in saying he can help her. What she didn’t know though, is he meant sending her back in time to 1812; becoming the main character in a Regency Romance. 

Lucy Sinclair is the daughter of a wealthy businessman, who is trying to secure her marriage to the most wealthy man in England. Locking her in a loveless marriage, and a boring life; that is, until a strange girl appears on the field of her family’s estate when her father left on a business trip. 

While the two girls are together, trying to navigate their new life together and understand what has happened, a spark is born. Both are trying desperately to fall in love with their suitors and live the life everyone wants them to. Until they fall for each other. 

My Thoughts 

I read this entire book in 9 hours, I could not put it down. It was so good! It did not take long for me to get into the plot, there was comedy, heartbreak, embarrassment and of course romance. The ending? Wow, that was stressful. Like on the edge of my seat, book gripping, can’t look away, kind of stressful. 

I did find it annoying how perfect the world was. I know it's a historical fantasy, however, Lucy comments how “this is not accepted here”, but there were so many people that they met in 1812 who were accepting or understanding. It was a little unrealistic, I mean, I know queer people find other queer people, like how a pig finds truffles. But it was a little too perfect. I wish they had to navigate their love life a little more or for Lucy to have a little more turmoil with realizing she is a lesbian. Other than that, amazing!

Growing up bisexual, I always knew I liked both men and women, but it wasn’t until the last few years I became comfortable with my sexuality. I realized I made myself prefer men and go on dates with men because of my internalized homophobia and heteronormativity. Growing up Christian aslo didn’t help this, although my immediate family is ok with me being queer, I always heard how it's a sin from people at church, or how my uncle was shamed from the family because he married a man. I can relate to both the main characters in this respect. Lucy was born in 1794, it was hardly a time when women went to school, let alone kiss another girl and get away with it. She has the confliction of, ‘I have to be with a man because that is what society says’ and ‘I’ve never felt anything for a man and I would like to kiss a girl’. Later this causes some internal turmoil later on when she becomes aware of her feelings for Audrey. And for Audrey, who is from 2023, where she had crushes on both boys and girls, she was not as ashamed or confused by her feelings. But it was easier to be with a guy rather than being with a girl. Because sure, queerness is accepted today, but not by everyone, which is scary. 

Audrey also falls into heteronormativity, it can be easier than really exploring your feelings and facing the world where you are no longer part of the accepted norm. Heteronormativity for those who don’t know is: The assumption that everyone is heterosexual and that heterosexuality is superior to all other sexualities. This includes the often implicitly held idea that heterosexuality is the norm and that other sexualities are “different” or “abnormal.”. It is easier to fall into the social norm, rather than challenge it. Rachel Lippincott explains it really well in Audrey's realization of her feelings, “I’ve never been with a girl before. I’ve had crushes, sure, … And then I was with Charlie, and I could almost… avoid it entirely if I wanted to. Tuck it away into a neat little box; convincing myself it wasn’t a part of myself I really needed to explore.”. Many people feel this way, this is why most queer women and/or transmen go through a period of hyperfeminity, where they try to convince themselves and others that they are straight and/or cis, they can conform to society and live how the world wants them to live, love who they should love. Hyperfeminity for those who don’t know is: the exaggeration of stereotypically female behaviour, based on so-called gender roles. This can be seen in the way they dress, behave or how they pursue relationships. 

I will be honest, I am someone who doesn’t believe in the whole idea of true love, nor do I really understand how love works. This probably has something to do with me being asexual and aromantic… anyway, I had been asking people around me what love is, and why people put effort into something that will most likely fall apart or only cause pain when it ends. I feel like the universe put this book in my way because I was instantly bitch-slapped with an answer to my questions. Which brings me to another reason why I enjoyed this book. It made me understand love a little more, without making me feel pessimistic about my own love life. As Mr. Montgomery told Audrey, who was becoming much like me after her failed relationship, he says “There’s just as much heartbreak in not putting yourself out there, because it guarantees you’re going to miss out. And I’m not just talking about love … Just because you got hurt once by the wrong person doesn’t mean it’ll happen again if you find the right one.” and later on James, a suitor turned friend, says “Sometimes I reckon, love — real love —doesn’t care about what’s proper or what other people think. It finds you when you least expect it, where you least expect it”. Even though love is confusing and you don’t understand it, doesn’t mean that you are any less deserving of it. Even if it ends in failure, and it can lead to pain, at least you loved. I feel this book has helped me grow and understand, that not everything has to be perfect, which is a lesson I have been trying to learn for years now and will continue to learn. Mr. Montgomery later says “But even true love doesn’t come without pain, without risk. And that doesn’t make it something to run from or leave behind. It can be scary, and unexpected… but when it is with the right person. It’s worth it.”.

Conclusion

As the book progressed, it was so irritating seeing Audrey and Lucy misunderstand each other, and I loved every second of it. For most of the book they are pining for each other, it is very much a slow burn. When they finally get together, it is so good!!! There is the beginnings of a sex scene but it’s fade to black, and it doesn’t go into much detail. Remember this is still a YA book. I would have loved for it to have been written as an adult and be able to explore a more mature storyline and themes, but it still works very well as a YA. 

Genuinely, if you like miscommunication, historical, slow-burn lesbians, you will love this book. It's like if Bridgerton had time travel lesbians and a meddling old man turned matchmaker.  Read it!! 

[greyskywrites]

Brother of the Moon V.

As a Hunter

5.8k | kofi | ao3 | tag

Margaret

The world drops out from beneath Margaret’s feet. For a moment she can’t speak, can’t move. It takes effort to remember how to breathe. “Father is dead?” she asks, her voice strange to her own ears. “How?” He was aging, yes, but not old and he was never particularly frail. She would have half expected him to draw sword against the Angel of Death.

“His heart, near as the Sun surgeons can guess,” Harry says. “He was fine one moment and down the next, as though an elf shot him.”

“Worked himself up into one of his rages,” Marcus says. “Suppose his heart finally burst.”

Margaret winces.

“When we met him on our way home—since we weren’t expecting him to be traveling,” Harry says, with a note of reproach, “he tells us this wild story that you’ve run off with some monk to marry a lord in the north and that this monk detained you in Hawbend when Father sent one of his men after you.”

Margaret gives a cold and sharp laugh, her head beginning to clear and come to focus. She thrusts out her arm, dragging the sleeve up so they can see the thin white scars. “No one detained me,” she says. “I would not go back. But for Brother Eadwin, I would be dead.”

Marcus pulls back from the scars, or else the look on Margaret’s face. Harry just gazes at her, his arms folded, looking terribly like their father. Margaret can’t quite reckon him dead, half of her expects this to be a trick, or else a dream. How could his heart simply stop? That sort of thing only happened to other men.

“Is that the only reason you agreed to this?” Harry asks. “Because if it were, then home need not be so frightful, now.”

“I do not intend to grow old and rot away to dust in Grenacre,” Margaret says, with more force than she imagined she had in her. Harry does not frighten her the way their father did. “If I leave this place now, in this way, no man will ever ask for my hand again. They’ll say to themselves, well, the fickle bitch has already run back home once.”

Harry’s mouth twitches to hear her speak like that. Any coarse language she knows, of course, she learned from her brothers.

“Is this what you’ve come all this way to do?” Margaret asks, summoning up her anger. “Come all this way to fulfill our father’s wish to keep me locked up like a songbird he can’t even abide? Have you looked at this house, at these lands? What possible better match could you arrange for me than this one?”

“That is the question, isn’t it?” Harry asks. “Why did Wulfric Seward even know your name?”

“Oh, he didn’t,” Margaret says, airy as she circles past the window. “That is another thing for which I can thank Brother Eadwin. Seems he’s looked after me more competently than you have.” That will fester under Harry’s skin for years.

“Just who are you, that you bring my sister here for Lord Wulfric?” Harry asks, looking to Eadwin still at the door.

“I am Lord Wulfric’s spiritual counselor,” Eadwin says in a cool voice. “And his liaison between the estate and the abbey.”

“And for what reason do you find yourself lurking here now, listening in on family business?”

“Lady Margaret asked me to come,” Eadwin says. “Lest someone should try to force her will, as they did in Hawbend.”

Margaret can see her brother stewing on that, and let him stew. She’s so angry she feels she could spit fire. She was just beginning to find her way here, and now Harry’s come to complicate everything. “I suppose since you’re here,” she says, cold, “you can stay until Lord Wulfric returns. I’m sure he’ll be interested to meet you.” He will want to calculate what sort of sons she will bear.

Margaret stands with her back to the window, arms folded and her shadow looming dark on the floor. Of all the blasted indignities, to have her brothers come trying to collect her home now. Oh, she could tell them just what sort of woman she is, if they want to ruin her reputation anyway. “He’ll also be interested to talk to you about my dowry,” Margaret says, “since Father didn’t see fit to send it with me. The terms he set were terrible, of course, I should think you’ll have to improve upon them.”

Harry’s lip twitches again as he moves to face her. “As I find myself in the position of being Lord Beckett now, I don’t see why I shouldn’t call you back to Grenacre anyway, if the terms are so poorly set as to be disgraceful.”

“I will make your life a hell,” Margaret replies evenly. This was always the way of their arguments as children: the only way for Margaret to win was for her stubbornness to run out Harry’s patience.

“My lady,” Eadwin says, “Lord Wulfric has returned.”

Margaret gives Harry a thin smile, and pulls herself away from the window. “I should greet my lord,” she says, in the same high false voice she always used when they made her play princess in their games. She thinks: is this not what you wanted? Is this not what you and Father always wanted me to be? She turns. “Brother Eadwin, will you accompany me?”

Eadwin nods, and opens the door for her.

The wind is roaring through the trees when they go out on the steps, and it tugs fiercely at Margaret’s skirts and shawl. Wulfric seems to be in good humor as he swings out of the saddle and hands the reins off to a stableman. Margaret greets him with a smile. “Was it a good ride, my lord?”

“Yes,” he says, and kisses her cheek. Margaret manages not to shrink away. She thinks that her knees ache. Wulfric looks at her face. “You seem pale, has something happened in my absence?”

“My brothers Henry and Marcus are here,” Margaret says. “They tell me—” Her voice catches in her throat a moment, the reality still impossible. “They tell me our father has passed unexpectedly.”

“Ah, I am sorry to hear that,” Wulfric says, with no particular passion. “Is one of them Lord of Grenacre, now?”

“Yes, my lord, my brother Henry. Shall I introduce you to them?”

“Yes, I think I should meet my betrothed’s own kinfolk.” He looks past her. “Everything alright, Brother?”

“Yes, my lord.” Eadwin is a shadow, a watchful crow at Wulfric’s shoulder.

Wulfric makes it clear to Aethelric that he will be unwelcome. Aethelric smiles serenely and says he’s off to find the hearth girl. Margaret feels almost bad for him, but not quite.

Harry and Marcus are perfectly cordial, as is Wulfric. It reminds Margaret of dogs meeting for the first time, judging each other by eye and scent, deciding whether or not to growl. Margaret hangs back by the window. Eadwin stands at the opposite side, arms folded, watching in stony silence. She wonders how often people—how often Wulfric forgets he’s there.

She wonders if she’s the only one in the room that could never forget.

Wulfric insists that Harry and Marcus must stay for a few days, see the estate that their sister will soon be mistress of. Margaret wishes he wouldn’t—she doesn’t know how she can get a moment alone with Eadwin if she has two of her own brothers lurking about. If it were Felix, she could abide it. Felix would understand, would keep her secrets. Only Felix thought she ought to be allowed to be a knight, sometimes.

“My lord,” Margaret says, when there is a lull in the conversation.

“Yes?”

“I should like to go to the church, to pray for my father. If my absence will not be an inconvenience.”

“No, no, of course you must go,” Wulfric says with a nod. “Brother Eadwin, if you will take the lady.”

Harry and Marcus, who have never been much given for prayers, blessedly do not volunteer to come along.

Eadwin glances at her as they step back out into the wind. “That was a clever little trick.”

“It was either that or grow fangs and claws and begin to tear my brothers apart.” Margaret lets out a breath. “I don’t know whether to be relieved that my father is gone, or furious at the rotten luck of my brothers being here now.”

“Do you really wish to go to the church?”

“I think if I were found not to, it would make Wulfric suspicious.” She glances at him. “At least I can speak to you at the church.”

Eadwin nods. “That you can.”

#.

Eadwin

Eadwin keeps to the back of the sanctuary as Margaret makes an offering for her father’s safe passage to Paradise. “I would rather he be there than a ghost to haunt me,” she says. They sit out in the entry hall to to talk, so as not to bother any other worshipers. They are visible to anyone passing by, they keep properly distant.

Every boy that comes through on some chore or another slows his pace just a little to look at Margaret, but blessedly she is too caught up in her thoughts to notice, or Eadwin would have to give more than a stern look to chase them off.

The slimmest edge of the paper is visible in Margaret’s bodice, and for a moment Eadwin imagines writing the poetry right onto her skin, drawing a pen against flesh to write an adoration. He imagines the ink smearing between them, marking them both. Some tangible evidence, if only that wouldn’t be so dangerous.

He imagines her hunting again, those clear gray eyes training an arrow through the heart of a stag. Riding back to camp with it draped over the back of her horse.

“I just can’t believe he’s dead,” Margaret murmurs. “I feel almost as though I killed him. Part of me wishes I had.” She looks at him. “Should I atone for that?”

“A man who drives his own child to wish for death rather than return to him is not a man who needs to be atoned to, my lady,” Eadwin says. “Not to my way of thinking.” He had never made any offerings for his father. Hadn’t even told his brothers here when he received the news.

Margaret looks at him, those gray eyes searching. “Your father, has he passed?”

Eadwin nods. “Some ten years ago, now. He drowned.” They had found his body in the black mud of the Penbreak, pale and swollen, after he had been missing for three days. Drowned because of the drink, they said, though that could not account for his broken bones. Osgar had been much better at making enemies than he had at making friends.

“Did you ever see him again after you left?”

Eadwin shakes his head. “I wouldn’t go anywhere near home while he lived. And because of my work here, I’ve not been back since.”

“What of your mother?”

“She still lives, so far as I know.” He wonders what she’s like, with Osgar a decade gone. In his memory his mother always snaps when she’s frightened, and she is very often frightened. She would be seventy-five. It is possible she still brews beer. Possible, also, that his sister Fortune has taken that over. News comes infrequently to him in Eagletop, but he thinks she has a second husband, after the first died of the same fever that took Prue, their youngest sister. He knows she has children, and that she was raising Prue’s daughter.

Margaret is fidgeting with her prayer beads, keeping her hands busy. He thinks of her anger at her brothers, and supposes they must not frighten her much. Easy enough to see the resemblance between them—he imagines Wulfric must be pleased to see the broad shoulders, straight backs, and in particular the self assurance with which the younger Henry Beckett carries himself. “How are you doing with the children, my lady?” he asks.

“Oh,” Margaret murmurs, “well enough, all things considered. Wulfwyn, the poor girl—I asked the nurse if Lady Anna’s dresses were still about, if Wulfwyn could be allowed to choose a few to keep as they were for when she grows, and the rest cut into new dresses for her. It seems a terrible waste to just put them away somewhere to be eaten by the moths.” She rubs the rose medal between her fingers, staring into the distance. “I think her father sees her as a plaything. So long as she pleases and amuses him, he’ll be good to her, and when her temper clashes with his then he says she gives him only grief. It will be hardest for her when he chooses a husband for her, I think. If she doesn’t learn to hold her temper, he will want her married sooner than later.”

“And Everard?”

Margaret sighs. “I won his heart by being kind about his little dog. He says Wulfric kicks her if she gets too near, so she hates and is afraid of him. I told him so long as she was well behaved, he could always bring her to sit by my fire. He told me he likes stories about knight—and I suspect he’d be better suited to writing them than acting them out. I said I would read to him this evening. And Mildred—well. Mildred is five.”

Eadwin nods. “You’ve become acquainted with Cheese, I take it?”

“I thought I hadn’t hear her right, at first,” Margaret says with a smile. “Why on earth did she name her doll that?”

“Because she is five, and it made her mother laugh.” He should have done more for Lady Anna, while she lived.

“My dolls were all named after knights and heroes and battle queens,” Margaret says. “My queens rescued my knights as often as the other way round.”

“She brings the doll to all her lessons,” Eadwin says. “I would say Cheese is one of my best students, but I am reliably informed by Mildred she is in fact very naughty and never says her prayers or practices her letters.”

Margaret laughs and rubs at her eye for a moment. “Heavenly Mother,” she whispers, “if it were just the children I wouldn’t have a fear in the world.”

Father Algar appears, having apparently been told that Lady Margaret is in the church. His eyes flick between them for a moment and he approaches. “My lady,” he says, “can I do anything for you while you’re here?”

Margaret smiles weakly. “No, Father, I only—my brothers came, to tell me our father has passed. It is enough comfort to be here.”

“May his road to Paradise be a soft one,” Father Algar says. “Would you like us to sing a mourning song for him?”

“They will hold his funeral in Grenacre, I should think,” Margaret says. “But thank you, Father. If you would say a prayer for him, that would be enough.”

Algar nods. “Of course, my lady.” To Eadwin he says, “Brother, I would like to speak to you after mass.”

“I will be ready, Father.” He wonders if he’s done something, or if some trouble has come up.

Margaret does not wish to hurry back, and they linger long enough for Marcus Beckett to make an appearance. “Wanted to make sure you hadn’t gotten lost,” he says, pausing to make a sign of prayer to the shrine of Saint Luce which stands in the entry hall. “Are you alright?”

“That’s a fool question to ask,” Margaret says, without any fire.

“I suppose so,” Marcus says.

“Where’s Harry?”

“With your husband-to-be, hashing out the details of your dowry.” Marcus grimaces. “They had no need of me, and if I had to spend another moment with that man giving me the same wretched smile our father always gave to guests I was going to carve it off his face. I don’t know how you can abide it.”

“I have been made to abide a great many things,” Margaret replies evenly. “Are you going to stay, then?”

“For a few days. Harry wants to go back to Grenacre for our father’s funeral, and then he’ll probably drag Felix and Theadora both here for your wedding. I brought you a horse, thought you might like to go for a ride.”

Margaret’s mouth presses into a thin line. “I suppose I can’t stop him.” She brushes out her skirts and stands with a sigh. “I’m sorry for keeping you so long, Brother.”

“It is no inconvenience, my lady,” he says, rising with her. “My duty is to see to the needs of all my lord’s household.”

The corner of Margaret’s mouth pulls up just a little. “That seems a great burden to carry indeed. Will you come to dinner?”

Eadwin nods. “Yes, my lady.”

He goes with them out through the churchyard, watches Margaret pull herself up into the saddle. She makes no complaint of the wind, which has died down only a little. “Where would you suggest, Brother?” she asks. “For a short ride?”

“Out along the fields,” he says, gesturing. “The hedgerows will guide you back, and there will be fewer tree limbs to fall and frighten your horses.”

Marcus thanks him and they set out, speaking between themselves and their words lost in the wind well before they reach Eadwin’s ears.

He catches one of the young brothers, tells him to inform Father Algar that he will not be at dinner, and returns to the castle.

If Aethelric did indeed find the hearth girl he’s done with her now, and being still unwelcome in the company of Lord Wulfric and the new Lord Henry he is sitting in the stables, drinking. Eadwin finds him only because he asks a servant.

“What do you want?” Aethelric grumbles. His mood is curdled, but there’s not yet straw in his hair so the day might yet be salvageable.

“You might allow yourself to be at least a little sober by dinner.” Eadwin takes the bottle from him, and Aethelric lets it go without much fight, which is a good sign.

Aethelric sighs, putting his head back against the wall of the stable. “What I don’t understand, Brother, is why you’re going to help Wulfric ruin another perfectly good woman.”

Eadwin sets the bottle aside, conscious of the work of the stable boys mucking out stalls. “I know you were always on good terms with Lady Anna.” Even though she scolded him more fiercely than anyone in the house, which was an equation Eadwin could never really make sense of. But then, he supposes, Aethelric has always been fond of pestering him as well, so perhaps it’s some perverseness in his nature. Wulfric doesn’t scold, he only bellows about what a worthless drunken layabout and whoremonger his younger brother is, and Heaven’s Queen be thanked that nothing has happened to Wulfric to leave Eagletop in Aethelric’s hands.

“I know she was my sister by law, but she was properly like a sister,” Aethelric says. “And every year in this rotten place she got a little smaller. And that woman—” Aethelric gestures vaguely outside, as if he believes Margaret to be lurking in the horseyard. “—that woman finds Wulfric repugnant. I can see it in her eyes.”

Perhaps the worst thing about Aethelric is that in spite of his habits, he’s always had a keen eye for people. If he weren’t so fond of the drink, he could make himself quite dangerous.

“And you,” Aethelric says, “you know it. And you know she ought to. And yet you still brought her here.”

“If that’s your measure of the situation, you could stand to be a little kinder to Lady Margaret.”

“Kinder?” Aethelric asks, his brows rising. He draws up one of his knees, slinging his elbow across it. “Kindness would be chasing her out of this place with a torch and a whip, before we let Eagletop rip the guts out of her. If you mean I should be sweeter to her, now that’ll just make her think she could survive here, and she won’t. Worse, it might give her ideas that are just a little too dangerous for me. No, better no man here be too sweet to her.” Aethelric’s head is beginning to list to one side, and he gives Eadwin that stupid smile again. “You could stand to be a little sweeter to me, Brother.”

“Forgive me, my lord, but I have never once thought you were worth the trouble.”

Aethelric laughs. “I suppose I can’t blame you for that.” He fumbles upward for a grasp on the stable door and pulls himself up. “Lady Margaret, though—if she were promised to any other man in the world but my brother, she might almost be worth the trouble.” He cups his hands in the air, before his chest.

Eadwin smiles thinly. “Not every thought needs to be shared with your spiritual counsel, my lord.”

#.

Lady Margaret and her brother return to the castle shortly after the rain begins. They are only a little damp, and Margaret goes up to her chambers to put on fresh clothes. Marcus Beckett goes to mutter something to his lord brother, and Eadwin keeps by the fire while Wulfwyn does her stitching and Everard his reading. Mildred is under a table, playing with her dolls.

Yes, if it were only the children, Margaret need not fear anything, because all of the children have a little of Lady Anna’s mild temper in them. What has troubled Eadwin since Wulfric sent him out is the implication that Lady Anna was impious, which he never took her to be. She was perhaps not so ardent about her faith, but it was at her request that Eadwin has taught her children their prayers and stories, and at her will that the children have always been brought at least once a week to mass, even when their lady mother was ill, and after her death.

He wonders what excuse Wulfric will manufacture for his failure to produce the sons he wants if Margaret’s children resemble these ones, because he is certain of one thing: Wulfric will never place the blame upon himself.

“Brother Eadwin,” Wulfwyn says, clearly bored of her embroidery. “Do Rose churches do things much differently than Moon churches?”

He supposes she must have heard that Margaret grew up with the Roses. “Do you remember what the Order of the Moon says is the surest way to our Heavenly Queen?”

Wulfwyn senses that this has been turned into a lesson and gives him an appropriately annoyed frown. In an altogether unflattering impression of his own diction, she recites, “Union with the Queen of Heaven is achieved through the bypassing of the ego or self, which we only imagine separates us from Her.”

Eadwin smiles faintly. “Which means?”

She drops the impression. “We are all of us connected to the Mother, but sometimes we need help to know it, so we can hear Her will and try to understand Her mysteries.”

Eadwin nods. “The Order of the Rose doesn’t disagree, but they place a greater importance on the Queen’s Creation. They say it is their duty to care for all things that live, an echo of Her love. Through care for others and the cultivation of beauty, they honor the Queen of Heaven with their labors and gratitude.”

“Is that why she gave me Mother’s jewelry?”

“She gave you your mother’s jewelry because she felt it belonged to you,” Eadwin says. “But I think it was still an act of love.”

Wulfwyn falls quiet, perhaps troubled by the notion that a stranger could act lovingly to her. “Mildred ought to have something, don’t you think?” she asks. “But—she’s only five.”

“You can choose a few pieces to set aside for her, to give when she’s older,” Eadwin says.

“Will she even remember Mother?”

“Not as well as you do,” he says. “You will have to tell her stories.”

“Brother Eadwin,” Everard says, very clearly having not being doing any reading for the last few minutes. “Did you bring Lady Margaret here because she’s so kind?”

He thinks: I brought her here because I was tired. “I took that into consideration.”

Aethelric has returned from a lengthy period of isolation in his chambers. He’s not properly sober, but he is washed and combed and freshly dressed. He greets Margaret’s brothers politely enough, and Wulfric watches him like a master of hounds prepared to strike an unpredictable cur.

Margaret, when she appears, is dressed in sea blue. Wulfric has gifted her a new hairnet—one of the few things that can be made quickly, Eadwin supposes—and it glimmers in the firelight, freshwater pearls adorning each joining place. She looks, properly, like the lady of a house such as this. As in her father’s house, she carries herself well, with a straight posture and a lifted chin. Her smile comes a little easier here, though it has a hollowness to it. She speaks to her brothers, to Wulfric, and after a moment she comes over to the fire and Everard gives up all semblance of doing his reading.

Margaret sits beside Wulfwyn, looking at her embroidery. “You have a steady hand,” she says. “I always hated my embroidery lessons. I was too impatient.”

“I hate them too,” Wulfwyn confides. “I keep pricking myself with the needle.”

“You’re better at it than I ever was,” Margaret says, which might be flattery but it pleases Wulfwyn. Margaret gives Eadwin a small smile and gestures Wulfwyn’s embroidery. “These are daffodils, yes?”

Wulfwyn nods. “They grow all over, first thing in the spring. You missed them, though.”

“I shall be pleased to see them next spring,” Margaret says. She looks to Everard, who has his arms fully across the pages of the book. “What are you reading?”

She handles them well, Eadwin thinks. If only Wulfric placed any real value on how well she can speak with them, make them feel cared for. If only he valued the notion that his children felt cared for at all. He half listens as Everard tells her about the book, a collection of myths concerning the Queen of Heaven and her angels, their major variations according to place and religious order, and commentary from church scholars. He’s watching the lock of hair intentionally left loose on Margaret’s cheek, curled and gleaming.

“That seems quite a lot for your age,” Margaret says.

“Brother Eadwin is helping me.”

“I’m glad,” Margaret says, smiling.

The dinner itself is almost peaceable. Margaret sits at Wulfric’s side, Aethelric on the other and Eadwin just beyond. Lord Henry and Marcus take up the opposite side of the table, and the children sit wherever they will. There is talk of wedding preparations, of the funeral they will have in Grenacre. The point of tension comes when Henry asks if Margaret will come back for their father’s rites, and the answer is no. “He would have dragged me back by my hair and disgraced me before the entire realm,” she says. “I will pray for his soul here in Eagletop.”

“Flaming angels,” Aethelric almost shouts. “I wish I could have done that. Wulfric, you should have sent me off to marry some foreign woman when our father died.”

“For the love of the Blessed Mother and all Her saints be quiet,” Wulfric snaps.

Aethelric’s mood for humoring politeness has apparently run out. He leans around to speak directly to Margaret. “I turned up piss drunk and half dressed midway through the rites, I wouldn’t be surprised if the brothers still talk about it. Do they, Brother Eadwin?”

“When they are warning the younger ones about you, my lord,” Eadwin says, dry. It is mostly truth—Father Algar is very keen that none of the boys get too friendly with Aethelric.

Aethelric laughs. “Good. Someone ought to learn from my mistakes.” As things are cleared away, Eadwin excuses himself to leave. He will be expected at the church, to make ready for mass. Margaret asks her brothers if they will come, and they say they will. The night is clear and cold.

The church is lit, and mass is performed. Wulfric is in attendance once again, seated between Margaret and Henry. He has brought his children this time, either at Margaret’s request or to give a certain impression to her brothers. He does not linger to ask anything of Eadwin this time. He watches them leave, watches Margaret use her brother to put distance between herself and Wulfric.

As the sanctuary is tended to, he goes back to Father Algar’s office. “You wanted to see me?”

“I wanted to tell you I have handled the questions about the bloodstain on your clothes,” Father Algar says. “Since in your absence rumors were likely to run rampant.”

“What did you tell them?”

“That while you were away you saved the life of some poor soul who otherwise would have lost it. That is all they need to know.”

Eadwin nods. “Anything else?”

“I have asked Sir Laure and Sir Eva if they would consider staying for a time,” Father Algar says. “Until the wedding. I said there was a possibility that Lady Margaret may not want to go through with it—a possibility they seemed curiously prepared for,” he adds, giving Eadwin a pointed look.

“On what are you basing that assumption?” Eadwin asks, suspecting he knows the answer.

“On the grounds that I am going to ask you to persuade her not to.” Eadwin lets out a breath. “Father—”

“You’ve made this mess, Brother, I am asking you to do something to clean it up. It will be better for everyone if she does not go through with this.”

“Her brothers have already tried, she refuses to go back to Grenacre.”

“Then persuade her to a convent,” Father Algar says. “You shouldn’t have to do much to make it seem more appealing than remaining where she is.”

“I do not think she will accept that, Father.”

“And why not?”

Eadwin thinks for too long on how to answer. “Father, I do not believe she will go anywhere she cannot see me. I think that is the primary reason she has insisted on keeping this course.”

Father Algar closes his eyes with an expression that says he is employing a great deal of restraint in not reaching across the desk to throttle Eadwin. “Saints grant me patience,” he mutters.

“I will try,” Eadwin says. “I will say everything I can think to say, but I will not force her hand. I am afraid of what she would do if I tried.” And it will have to be done in the brief moments when he can speak to her alone, when she will not want to hear a word of their parting.

Father Algar lets out a low breath and he nods. “Then we shall have to pray that that is enough.”

#.

Margaret

She has kept the paper against her breast all day, even after her change of clothes. She has felt its folded edges softening against her skin, has thought of Eadwin’s hand penning it in the dark and caressing her in the sunlight. It has lent her strength and solace every time Wulfric has laid a hand on her shoulder or kissed her cheek. It has burned at the edges of her mind since she read the first few lines, and realized what it was.

Now she has sent away the maidservants, and there is only her in these chambers, and a candle, and this paper. She unfolds it carefully, her ear sharpened for any sound, though she has said she does not want to be disturbed until morning. Eadwin’s handwriting is plain and unadorned, but smooth. The black ink stretches in slim lines, like arms reaching up to Heaven and down to Paradise.

As a hunter my Queen comes riding, with hair of burning sunlight and eyes of silver dawn. Into the dark trees She comes a-riding to claim me for Her prize.

On stag’s hooves I fly from Her, not of fear but for the chase. Her hounds will rout me out, Her hands will hang my hide.

This crown of antlers is of Her make, I wore it not before, but as a hunter She comes riding and I the hart to fall.

My Queen will level Her arrow, the shaft runs straight and true, and for the chase I will leap, willingly, into Her view. My Queen will loose Her dart to fly and for Her, and Her alone, I will let it strike.

As a hunter my Queen will come to me and Her hands will cut me open and take out my arrow-struck heart.

Let Her drink my life’s blood, let Her eat my flesh, let it redden Her lips. Let Her suck the marrow from my bones and dress Herself in my skin, for I give my life to Her, to keep as She wills and in the belly of my Queen, I will be reborn.

And in the trees so dark and dim I will place the antlered crown upon my head and I will be again the prize When as a hunter my Queen comes a-riding.

Margaret lets out a breath, tracing the words with her fingertip. She bites her lip with a smile as she reads in the belly of my Queen, a twinge running through her. She reads it perhaps half a dozen times, committing as much of it as she can to memory, because she knows it will not be safe for her to keep this. The description of her hair and eyes is too specific, and she cannot believe that someone here would not recognize Eadwin’s hand.

She touches the paper to her lips, whispering, “For her, and her alone.”

#.

Eadwin

He meets her at the shrine the next morning. She has not brought the children with her.

Margaret is pouring water into the basin at the feet of the Mother when he arrives, and neither seeing nor hearing anyone about, she pulls the poem from her bodice. “It is beautiful,” she says, handing it to him. “I thought of it all night. But I wonder—if there is just one line you could add for me.”

He opens it to read the single line she has written in.

My Queen will level Her arrow, the shaft runs straight and true, with falcon feathers fletched

He considers it in silence for a moment, and looks up as he folds the paper into it already quite worn creases, taking her in. He doesn’t know what it means to her, but perhaps he doesn’t need to. Perhaps he only needs to know that it does mean something. “Yes, my lady, I can do that.”

[senatushq]

NAME. Luciana Vulpe AGE & BIRTH DATE. Appears 36 & December 8th, 1019 GENDER & PRONOUNS. Female & She/Her SPECIES. Vampire BLOODLINE. Juno OCCUPATION. Film Director FACE CLAIM. Amanda Seyfried

biography

( tw death ) “I do.” It’s not an official nuptial, but it might as well be. She was the only girl born to her Romanian family and it didn’t make her any less involved with the farm than her brother. It saddened her mother to see her daughter reduced to someone else in the house covered in dirt with callused hands, but they’d needed all the help they could get. That didn’t mean her mother didn’t tell her of all the finery she wanted for her daughter, of all the things a girl ought to have. They’d all just been silly dreams, she was a simple peasant, a simple farmhand, just as her brothers, as her father, Luciana thought it best not to think too hard on what she would never have. What her mother said, all of it, they were just stories of a life they could never have, they’d only ever know the farm. Until the farm was taken from them. When the war of independence stretched across the land, their village was one of many that had been pillaged, their resources taken. They’d tried to fight, but their little family was no match for soldiers and they’d left her and her family to bleed out. She would have been the last to die, had a dark figure not darkened her door.

“Do you want to live?” “I do.” She’d said, and was taken into his arms, and then the mortal world slowly faded.

Luciana awoke a bride and had gone from having her basic necessities to having the world at her fingertips. The man was an aristocrat, they lived away in the hills and they ate and drank whoever they liked. She was enamored with him, with his attention, with all the gifts and luxuries he provided her. But as her eternity set in, she came to realize he was a jealous man at heart, wanted someone around to fawn over him and offer him comfort, take care of the home. She was to ask him questions to be able to answer them himself, to show off his knowledge, not to teach her about the world, about what they were. Centuries were then spent picking up and picking off mortals, offering immortality to those that they deemed fit, those that her husband deemed of brilliant mind. All the while stifling hers, discouraging her from learning more about the world from behind a lens that wasn’t his own and slowly but surely, she began to resent him. Cast out with her things after a gathering of their kind went sour when she’d managed to embarrass him in front of guests as she engaged them in talk of science and politics. She’d been done away with, he had other wives, other lover’s, he had no need for her and yet the only thing she’d miss was the comfort of the home she’d kept for him. The first husband after him was a Venus vampire centuries older than her, someone she’d met at a tavern that attracted their kind. A poet, he considered her a muse and it was in her best interest to say yes when he asked her to marry him, as she was running out of money after selling her things. The wedding was small and attended by many of his artistic friends, his vows to her were beautiful, and while he was far more appreciative of her, she still felt like a doll sitting on a shelf being admired.

When she said she wanted a divorce, he said at least he could use the heartbreak for his art. Typical. The third husband was not a husband at all, but a wife. Another Juno vampire, beautiful and well established, with a great big estate in Spain. Luciana was in love with her mind, the way she seemed to light up every room she entered and there were times she wondered if she were somehow enthralled by her. Their courtship was quick, the wedding large and the reception in a large ballroom that was grander than anything her first husband had ever given her. Everyone loved her wife. Everyone loved her wife and the time they spent together had her constantly comparing herself to other people, picking her appearance apart. This was her third marriage, Luciana wanted to see it through. They were immortal creatures, surely they were supposed to be together forever, they had so much time. And yet the time they spent together made her miserable and when it became apparent that her wife didn’t see an issue with this, the heartbreak really set in. Leaving Spain was admitting defeat. As far as vampires were concerned, she was still young and she had three failed marriages. She had three failed marriages and she had all of this time ahead of her and somewhere near Valencia, she had a moment of clarity. She had all of this time and so the time she’d already lived, it was a but a blip, it was nothing in the grand scheme of things. And she wasn’t the girl from the farm anymore, she knew about poetry and science and politics and the world outside her front door now. And the world, there was so much of it she still hadn’t seen! Excited, she changed her mind completely. She did not wish to leave Spain to return back to her beloved Romania, she wanted to go where all of the poets and the artists and scholars came from. Luciana wanted to go to Greece, and so she went. She rented a villa, her fingers brushed over marble, pottery, gold, and while she was alone physically, she felt far from lonely. She read by the sea, she watched the ships come in, she gazed out at the islands and allowed herself to feel wistful for a while. But she inevitably learned to sail, got in with the vampires of Greece and found herself a group of companions that knew the sea. Dorian was different. Not a vampire, not anymore, someone who had left their world behind him. A strigoi, it wasn’t something she knew much about and so she wanted to know everything and the romance that ensued was something she still doesn’t think she’s recovered from. For all of her years, she had finally found the love that had been dreaming of. They shared a love of history, he took her around his home of Crete, told her stories of his mortal life. He was the most interesting person she had ever met, but he was also dangerous. For what he was, it wasn’t something anyone was all that excited about. A monster among monsters, he was hunted and the courtship they fell into was not ideal. It shouldn’t have made it more romantic, the sneaking around, the tales they told each other on beaches illuminated by moonlight, it was all so beautiful, it all felt so fulfilling to her and she knew, deep down, that the hardship would be worth it this time, that he would be worth it. She had done the big wedding, she had done the small wedding, but she had not done an intimate wedding and this one took place on the beach, in a cave in Crete. Barefoot and covered in lace she met her new husband at the altar and for the first time, she thought maybe she’d found what her mother had talked about all those years ago. They had to keep moving. It was easier before, when it’d just been him, her insistence to go with put them in danger. Luciana was not a fighter and even though Dorian tried to teach her, even though she certainly had years of rage and frustration to channel, she didn’t quite have it in her. And eventually it began to take a toll on both of them, the life they were living was not the one they wanted for each other and it broke her heart to leave him after nearly a century. If she closes her eyes, she can still see him standing there seeing her ship off as she sailed away. She went back to Romania, it was different now, she had a house of her own, she hired staff, she continued to travel, threw herself into vampire politics, kept up with what was going on with the Senate. She even debated becoming a marshal as Dorian had once been, but figured ultimately she didn’t have the stomach for it. So she kept traveling, kept sailing, saw the world. Ample time was spent in Versaille, in Venice, she even went back to Valencia eventually, reconnected with her ex. There was nothing to rekindle, what Luciana wanted from her was simply companionship, romance aside, her ex wife was a better mentor than her actual sire had ever been to her. She made progeny herself, she took lovers, bought a house along the Seine that she thought might make her happy and when it didn’t, she threw herself into other endeavors. Money was invested, refuge was given to those that needed it to both mortals and supernaturals alike, she traveled to Rome, she stayed at the Palace of Juno and tried to stay in the know with her own bloodline. Everything was done to ensure that her life was full, she had everything a girl could ever need and yet there were nights she’d just stare out towards the sea playing with the only wedding ring she could bring herself to still wear. Her net widened eventually, she entertained fey, druids, even a couple of lycans over the years, but it took well over a century for her to tie the knot again. People came and went from her life, but she never stopped learning from them, never stopped furthering her own interests, never stopped rolling her eyes when Stoker wrote that damn book and everyone and their mother adapted it. After a love life that has been a revolving door of bliss and heartache, full of knowledge and exploration, kindness, and activism, she has come to Rome to be closer to her bloodline in these trying times for the supernatural creatures, to be present if the Senate does indeed fall.

personality

+ curious, whimsical, compassionate – too trusting, stubborn, blunt

played by M. cst. she/her.

[vcnatorr]

Risen, conquering son || Self Para

After a phone call from his cousin, Clayton returns home TW: long term illness, family death

Harry’s voice rang in his ears as he got into the car, putting it in gear and setting off with no great hurry. 

The old man is dying. Yes, really. I think you’d better come home.

It was only about an hour and a half’s drive back to the estate in Oxfordshire. Less than that once he hit the motorway, because he had never had much care for speeding tickets or things like that. The roads were quiet anyway, rush hour traffic long since cleared, the sun long set. He had an idea of arriving in the dead of night, because perhaps then he would arrive and find the doors and windows locked, the lights all out, and he could go home and call his cousin back and say: Tried coming home. Couldn’t get in. Let me know what happens.

It would be rather annoying to have driven all the way, leaving his own engagement party early and no doubt upsetting Isabela, only to find out that nothing was actually wrong, though. It was nice to get to take the Land Rover out for a decent spin he supposed, but it was still rather irritating to have to waste the diesel.

Worse still if his father really was dying. Not because he had any sort of emotional sentiment towards the old man, of course not, but because it meant he would become the Baron. The house, the estate, the whole lot -- his. 

He couldn’t think of anything worse.

His father had done his best to educate him on how to run an estate, of course he had. He had taken his son along on meetings with the tenants and the farmers and the game keepers and all sorts of boring bloody plebeians when he had come home from school for the summer, but Clayton hadn’t paid very much notice. Too busy making eyes at the farmers daughters and the farmers themselves in equal measure to get a good grasp on what running an estate really involved. 

And the house had always been his mother’s domain, of course. He didn’t have the faintest idea how any of it functioned; he’d never asked, but his mother had always insisted that a great house was better kept in the hands of a woman, or rather a wife, something Clayton was working on but hadn’t secured just yet. The timing was terrible -- couldn’t his father wait a few more months, ‘til the register was signed?

The house was lit up when he arrived, parking the car right outside the front door alongside a shiny black BMW that screamed private countryside doctor, and a vintage Jaguar that indicted Uncle Oswald had come over. Not a good sign. There were a few other cars, too. Cars Clayton didn’t recognise, all brand new, of course. He threw the butt of the cigarette he’d smoked on his way up the drive out onto the gravel before he headed inside, catching Mrs. Derrham, the housekeeper, at the bottom of the stairs. 

She had never particularly liked him, and he had never particularly liked her. She stared at him grimly as he approached the staircase, mouth puckered. “You took your time.”

Clayton considered some comment about rethinking the staffing when he took over as Baron, but he simply couldn’t be bothered. “Is he upstairs?”

“The whole family is here - those who could be, at least. You’re the last to arrive.”

He nodded, and began ascending the stairs.

The house had always been horrendously quiet. A grandfather clock ticked away hollowly on the landing, a metronome that Clayton had lived his life by for a good twenty years before he’d moved out for good. He had heard it as a child, the ticking finding its way to the nursery through the part-opened door, and he had been kept awake by it as a teenager, cursing the thing when he found he couldn’t sleep over winter break. He’d get rid of the blasted thing when the house came into his hands, and that was a promise.

There were no noises, no voices, to guide the way as he crept along the corridor towards his father’s room. No chatter, no grief-filled wailing. Nothing. When Clayton stepped into his father’s bedroom he was half expecting the room to be empty.

Christ, but Mrs. Derrham hadn’t lied. The whole family was there. Aunt Arabella on a seat in the corner of the room, Harrold and Lucille, her children, with their backs pressed to the back wall. Tristan had tucked himself into the other corner, arm resting on an old armoir as he leaned. Uncle Oswald sat at the foot of the bed, a hand on his brother’s ankle through the Egyptian cotton sheets and then Octavia, on a chair by the head of the bed, holding her husband’s hand. The doctor stood just behind her, hovering. Clayton approached his mother, leaning down to kiss her cheek. 

“Mama,” He greeted, standing up again. 

“We didn’t know if you’d come.” She said, watching him through watery eyes. 

He smiled softly, almost - almost - ruefully. “You have such a low opinion of me.” 

Octavia gave a hollow sounding laugh. She looked at her husband. Clayton always remembered his father as a man with strong features, like they were carved into a stoneface; he had been tall, too. Broad shouldered, commanding space. Clayton had never been much like him, taking more after his mother. 

Now, though. His father was a husk of the man he had known, skin paper thin, hands frail, face gaunt. Worse than the last time he saw him. Clayton almost regretted coming. He would never remember his father any other way, now. And though they had never really gotten along, he much preferred those old memories of his father in his mid-years, strong and stalwart, the image of an upper class gentleman in this day and age. 

“He can still hear you, if you’ve anything you want to say to him,” The doctor supplied, his voice sounding too loud in the such a small room. “Now would be the time.”

“I don’t think he’d want to hear from me, to be honest. In fact, I think he’s probably rather upset that I’m here.”

Tristan snorted from his corner, but when Clayton glanced up at him, he looked away.

No one was looking at him, in fact. Clayton ran his tongue over his teeth, and settled on the edge of the bed.

You were a terrible father, he wanted to say. You were cold and hard and I barely knew you. You sent me away and then expected me to come back whenever you called. 

He didn’t say anything. The carriage clock on the mantel ticked away, in perfect time with the grandfather clock along the hall. It could’ve been five minutes, or it could’ve been five hours, but eventually Octavia looked over her shoulder, up at the doctor. “He’s gone.”

The doctor shuffled round towards the bed and so Clayton stood, letting him in. He pressed a stethoscope to his father’s chest, the skin mottled, pale. He tucked it back around his neck when he was done, nodding solemnly. “Quite right. Time of death 1:15am, 11th of March, 2023. I’m very sorry, your ladyship.”

Octavia looked at her husband for a moment longer, her hand rubbing over his in slow circles. She glanced up at her son, and Clayton’s gaze flicked to her. For the first time in his life, Clayton saw a vacant sort of look in his mother’s eyes. She had always been a driven woman, sharp and suspicious. Now, though, it was like she was looking somewhere far away, even though she was looking right at him.

“I’ll submit your claim to the baronetcy to the College of Arms,” She informed him. 

He nodded. He paused, and then said, “Can I speak to you? Outside?”

Octavia gave him a long look, and then leaned down, pressing a kiss to her late husband’s pale forehead before she stood. He got the door for her, holding it open until he slipped through himself, and closed it gently behind him.

He didn’t give her a chance to speak. “I’m engaged.”

She had no outward reaction. For a second, he wondered if she’d even heard him. Maybe she was in shock, or something. Not that he had even known his mother to be shocked by anything.

“To who?”

“No one you know,” He said simply. “And since Valentine’s, before you ask.”

Octavia turned her gaze away, her jaw clenched tight. She was quiet for so long that Clayton was again wondering if there was something wrong with her, thinking of going back inside to fetch the doctor out into the corridor. But when she turned to look at him, finally, Clayton saw the mother he remembered: cold and sharp-edged, a Gorgon carved from stone more than a woman.

“Must you make everything about you, William?” She asked. He knew she wasn’t looking for an answer. She turned away, back inside the room, and Clayton thought about following her. Hugs and gentle pats on the shoulder, condolences. It would be the right thing to do, to try and play the part, at least.

Clayton turned and walked back down the hallway, past that damned grandfather clock. He considered it for a moment, the hands perched just after 1:15. He put his elbow through the face of it before he could think better of it, the pendulum stilling with a dull thunk. He turned and headed down the stairs, out into the cold, black night.

[itsyourchoicedevotionals]

Easy Prey

“And let us not neglect our meeting together, as some people do, but encourage one another, especially now that the day of His return is drawing near.” Hebrews 10:25NLT

Our family doctor and I got into a conversation of how she ended up in Ohio, when she hails from New York. She opened up about her doctorate. Hers isn’t the most high paying or impressive Medical Doctorate. In some states, like New York, she’s barely recognized as a doctor. One reason, she gave for the low estate she holds in medicine, is the Doctors of Osteopathy refuse to band together in an association and fight for their rights of medical status.

Even in Ohio, less than half the Doctors of Osteopathy, inside the state, have joined together in the association to have a louder voice in state and federal legislatures. Too many of these Doctors of Osteopathy see no point in joining an association for encouragement, ‘paying dues,’ petitioning in order to have the united voice. Yet these same doctors are constantly complaining about no representation or respect.

As our Doctor talked, I thought about the similarities between the Believers who refuse to attend church. Many have gotten offended over some slight which occurred years ago at church. They’ve become loners like the doctors refusing to join the state association. Yes, they aver to their love for Jesus. But they don’t love church people or need to go to church. Many have a couple of Christian friends they visit with and talk about Jesus. Why do they need to be a part of an organized church?

Unlike the doctors most of these unchurched Believers have a place of unforgiveness in their hearts against a pastor or another believer for an offense. Jesus declared He and the Father’s feelings toward any and all unforgiveness in Matthew 6:14NLT “But when you are praying, first forgive anyone you are holding a grudge against, so that your Father in heaven will forgive your sins, too.” In fact this is Jesus’ commandment to all Believers— forgive and be forgiven.

Crazy as it may sound to other Believers, I’ve watched several of the Randy Kay videos of various different people who died and came back to life. They cited being shown family members praying and hearing their prayers of Acts 16:31ESV “…Believe in the Lord Jesus, and you will be saved, you and your household.” Many were offered salvation, immediately after death. Then of these now dead were asked to choose to forgive those who’d sinned against them, some were asked to forgive the murderer who’d killed them. Far out I know. But I believe they spoke truthfully.

By not attending church, unchurched Believers are easy prey for the devil to pick off like an animal killed by a savage animal. Lions don’t attack an entire herd. The lion lies in wait for the one animal to wander from the herd. Then he pounces upon the prey, killing it. Many who avidly loved Jesus find their passion of Christ waning, certain sins returned in a fervor. All of the coldness in their hearts could be melted away by joining with a body of loving Believers.

The English word ‘church’ doesn’t mean a building. Greek’s word ‘ekklesia’ translated into English meaning "the called out ones.” Our English word for church didn’t originate from ekklesia, but from the word ‘kuriakon’ which means "dedicated to the Lord.” Yes, a building can be dedicated to the Lord, but even more so all Believers are to be called out and dedicated ones. We’re to meet together to encourage, strengthen and love each other. Are you meeting with the church to encourage and be encouraged? It’s your choice. You choose.

LET’S PRAY: Heavenly Father, I know You are calling Your church to assemble together and stand for You. We’re to use our numbers to leverage laws and influence for the kingdom of God. Help us take our places Lord, in the name of Jesus Christ I pray.

by Debbie Veilleux Copyright 2023 You have my permission to reblog this devotional for others. Please keep my name with this devotional, as author. Thank you.

[janeaustentextposts]

If none of them married, how desperate would the Bennett girls actually have been?

Well the only dowry they have is £50 apiece from their mother’s small inheritance, per year; so that’s a total of £250 generated by Mrs. Bennet’s inherited investments per annum.

The Dashwoods (four women) are living on £500 a year when they are forced to live in Barton Cottage (with good-will making the rent presumably ridiculously low thanks to Sir John Middleton’s good nature, to say nothing of all the dinners and outings he invites the ladies to, which will help them economize on housekeeping costs for heavier meals.)

So there would be six Bennet women left to live on half as much as the Dashwoods are barely scraping by on. £250 is roughly considered enough to keep ONE gentleman at a barely-genteel level of leisure (presuming he does not keep a horse or estate or have any major expenses beyond securing his own lodgings/clothes/meals at a level becoming of a gentleman.)

None of the Bennet girls have been educated well enough for them to be governesses to support themselves, so...yes, their situation would heavily rely on mega-charity from others to just help them survive, much less maintain them in the lifestyle they’ve been accustomed to. The Dashwood women have NO social life beyond the outings provided by Sir John and the offer of Mrs. Jennings to host the older girls in London--otherwise they’d be stuck in their cottage, meeting absolutely no eligible men, creating a cycle of being poor and unmarried and too poor to meet anyone with money they could marry.

If the Bennet girls don’t at least have ONE of them marry well enough to help the rest before their father dies, they are really, truly, deeply fucked.

They may joke about beautiful Jane being the saviour of the family, but...it’s true. Mr. Bennet failed his daughters several times over in A) presuming he’d have a son, B) not saving money independently from his income to support his family after his death when it became clear he wasn’t going to have a son, C) not educating them well enough to enable them to support themselves in even in the disagreeable way of being a governess, D) not making any effort to escort his daughters to London or even local assemblies to help their matrimonial chances because he just doesn’t feel like it, E) throwing up his hands and shrugging when faced with the crises of Mr. Collins and Wickham.

Much as we are relieved on a romantic level that Mr. Bennet’s support of Elizabeth saves her from parental pressure to accept Mr. Collins, Mrs. Bennet is NOT A DICK for pushing for the match, because on a material level it very much means they get to KEEP THEIR HOUSE and gain a connection to the powerful patron Lady Catherine de Bourgh, which could be VERY advantageous for the other unmarried girls.

And the scandal of Wickham very nearly scuppers the chances of ANY of the other girls, and Wickham is a further DRAIN on the family finances, not a man who is going to substantially be able to support them. It is SUCH a disaster, and of course there’s not much Mr. Bennet can do until they are found, but he’s away in London and doing...what, exactly? Mr. Gardiner takes over and manages everything and Mr. Bennet seems happy to just let him.

Mr. Bennet does the ABSOLUTE LEAST, and actively damages his children’s futures by his inaction AND by his one action to support Lizzie’s individual needs being prioritized over the collective gain, which...I mean, Lizzie is going to be JUST as homeless and destitute as her sisters when he dies, so much good being Dad’s Favourite is going to do her. :/

[oh-mother-of-darkness]

“Ready?” Tim asked. He took a last look over the microphone on the desk in front of him, then sideways at Dick and Damian, arranged on either side of him, a few feet away, with their own microphones.

Dick held up a sheet of paper. “I have the question list.” 

“I think that’s it, then.”

“Are we supposed to do some kind of intro?”

“Uh, unclear.” Tim snapped his fingers and leaned into his microphone.

“This is a podcast-interview thing,” he said. “We’re answering questions. Okay, I nailed the intro, so let’s hear the first one on the list.”

“Can somebody please explain Bruce Wayne’s family?” Dick read. “I know he has a bunch of kids, but I can’t figure out how many or where he got them from.”

“Interesting phrasing on the back half of that,” said Tim. “I feel like something expensive that went on sale.”

He clutched a hand to an imaginary necklace in feigned admiration. “Why Bruce! You must tell me where you got those!”

“You were never expensive,” said Damian. “Perhaps a grocery check-out display?”

Tim sighed and turned sideways, so he could look Damian in the face. “Being honest, I didn’t think you knew enough about shopping to make that joke.”

“Understandable.”

“I would never set you up on purpose.”

“I know.”

“Let’s get back to the question,” Dick suggested. “Can somebody please explain Bruce Wayne’s family?”

“I don’t know,” said Tim. He swung back towards the microphone, grimacing. “Maybe? It’s complicated.” 

“Complicated,” Dick repeated, flatly.

“Yeah, complicated.”

“It’s your own family.”

“That doesn’t make it simple,” said Damian.

“Do we get time to make an outline?” Tim asked, emboldened by the unexpected support. “Before we do our presentation?”

Damian half-smiled at that, while Dick looked the two of them over with a skeptical expression. 

“Are you telling me you don’t understand our own timeline?”

Tim waved a hand in a why-are-you-looking-at-me kind of gesture. “What, does anybody?”

“I do.”

“You experienced it linearly! We came in partway through, it’s different.”

“Unbelievable.”

“You take the question then.”

“If the two of you can’t manage it,” said Dick, with a distinctly sarcastic shrug.

“Obviously I can do it,” said Tim, suddenly defensive. He knew Dick was trying to get a rise, but Dick was good at that, and it was working. “I’m just saying it’s a confusing story.”

Tim pointed in Damian’s direction. “Back me up.”

“Absolutely not.”

“We can take turns,” said Dick, apparently satisfied with his victory. “Okay. Thomas and Martha Wayne died when Bruce was eight years old. Nineteen years after that, when Bruce was twenty-seven, he attended Haly’s Circus the night two acrobats fell to their deaths during a trapeze routine. Bruce took in their surviving son, me.”

Dick held up a finger. “My name is Dick Grayson, and I was Bruce’s ward from age twelve until the day I turned eighteen.”

“Which is different that being adopted,” Tim put in, “so bear that in mind for later.”

“Right. At eighteen, I became an adult, so Bruce wasn’t my guardian anymore. A year after that, Bruce met and adopted Jason Todd.”

“The second child he took in,” said Tim.

“But the first child he adopted,” said Damian.

“Exactly,” said Dick. “In that moment, Bruce was thirty-four with one former ward and one adopted son— which again, are distinct concepts.”

Tim nodded. “Jason Todd passed away three years after his adoption, when he was fifteen.”

“I never met him,” said Damian, straight-faced.

“Me neither,” said Tim, like he hadn’t spoken to Jason that morning. “I did meet Bruce though, at around that time.”

“The next few years are… harder to explain, I guess,” said Dick.

Tim raised an eyebrow in Damian’s direction, shaking his head in mock disgust. “See? Now he admits it.”

“Unbelievable.”

“The nerve.” Tim grinned as smugly as he could manage, so that Dick could see. Was Tim being difficult on purpose? Absolutely. Was he going to change that? Absolutely not. 

“Right, it can be my turn. I’m Tim Drake, and I met Bruce when I was thirteen years old.”

“I was…” Dick glanced upwards, like he was trying to remember— or, failing that, calculate. “Right now you’re…?”

“Do you not know my age?”

“I probably do.” Dick tapped a finger against the desk a few times, looking pensive. Eventually, he gave up.

“I’m blanking.” 

“Congratulations, Damian,” said Tim. “You are no longer my least favorite sibling.”

“I was your least favorite?” Damian asked, with such innocence that Tim couldn’t stop himself from bursting out laughing.

It took him a few moments to regain control. “You looks so proud of yourself,” he told Damian, as soon as he could.

“Thank you, I am.”

“I’m writing you both out of my will,” muttered Dick, “as soon as we get home.” 

“Shame.” Tim swiped a sweatshirt sleeve over his eyes, still grinning. “I had my eye on your terrible CD collection.”

“The estate in its entirety, I believe,” said Damian. 

“Shut up,” said Dick. “Keep answering the question.”

“Yeah, yeah, give me a minute.” Tim held up a hand to count on his fingers. “We did circus, Jason, Jason’s death— oh right, me. I met Bruce when I was thirteen and Dick was twenty-two, which would make Bruce thirty-seven.”

“I would have gotten there eventually.”

“Go to hell. Two years after that, when Bruce was thirty-nine, he met our sister, Cassandra Cain.”

“She was seventeen then,” said Damian.

Dick nodded. “Simplifying, we met her through a family friend. That same year, Bruce adopted me.”

“Which puts Father at thirty-nine with two sons—”

“One deceased,” added Tim.

“Having already met Tim and Cass,” Dick finished. 

“Now if you think that’s confusing,” said Tim, gesturing broadly, “you’re right, it is.”

Damian nodded. “It gets even worse.”

“Yeah. For another two years we were— again, simplifying— in roughly the same place. After that, Bruce adopted me—”

“—making my life even worse.”

“Shut up, you weren’t even around yet. At forty-one, Bruce had three sons, one deceased.”

“That’s Todd.”

“And then came—”

“Me.” Damian raised his own hand. “My name is Damian Wayne, and I am my father’s genetic son. We met for the first time when Father was forty-one, and I was ten.”

“Four sons,” said Dick. “By age it’s me, Jason, Tim, Damian.”

“But from Bruce’s perspective,” said Tim, “Jason, then Dick, then me, then Damian.”

“I’d note,” said Damian, “that I was born several years before Todd’s adoption, and since I have been a Wayne from the beginning, I am both my father’s youngest child and his first child, whether he was aware of me or not.”

“But wait!” Tim interjected. “There’s more!”

“We’re almost done,” said Dick. “We already mentioned meeting our sister Cassandra. Bruce adopted her formally after Damian arrived, while Bruce was still forty-one.”

“Which means,” said Tim, “that we can do a final tally. Damian?”

“Yes?”

“Assist me. We have Dick—”

“Alive,” said Damian.

“Jason—”

“Not alive.”

“Cass—”

“Alive.”

“Me—”

“Alive, regrettably.”

“And you.”

“Yes.” Damian sat back in his chair. Tim leaned forwards in his, so he could put his elbows down on the desk. 

“That’s pretty much it,” he said. “I won’t say how old we are right now, because it turns out Dick doesn’t know, and I don’t want to help him.”

Dick rolled his eyes. “I barely know my own age.”

“You’re eighty. One thousand, nine hundred, and forty. Some other number. I don’t know, why would I remember a very basic fact about my own family member?”

“To be fair to him,” Damian put in, “you are very forgettable.”

“And you’re my least favorite again.”

“Shame. As a last fact, I’d also note that Martha and Thomas Wayne died when Father was very young, so he was primarily raised by the butler.”

“That’s Alfred,” Tim agreed, “and his formal title is butler, but he’s also, you know, our grandfather.” 

“Can we move to another question now?”

“I guess?” Tim looked over at Dick for confirmation. 

“I don’t know,” Dick sighed. “Maybe.” 

-----------

Merry Christmas, my loves

timeline post / google doc

[darkdevasofdestruction]

My Beloved Cherry Blossom ~ Yamaoka Kazan/The Oni x Fem!Reader

Note: Since Kazan lived in the feudal era, and died there, his S/O would be someone from that time, so, just like him, she'd be dead, so the shock of seeing the dead back alive would be great for him...Who also died in a painful death. Haha.

"My son, you reached the age when you have to marry and ensure the continuation of our bloodline. Since you haven't bothered looking for a potential wife, I took the liberty of finding you a pretty girl. She is the daughter of a respectable samurai who guards the Emperor, and her father ensured she is a very capable, smart and understanding woman, so she will be able to deal with your...Temper." Kazan's father sat down with his son, who scowled, offended at what he heard, but despite all this, he was well aware of this bother he had to deal with. "...Yes, father." he muttered, sharply looking down at the floor. "We will go to meet her tomorrow, at her home, an in less than a month, we will have the marriage. I know you are not the type to care about families and women...But you have to do anything in your power to ensure the honor and survivability of the Yamaoka bloodline." yes, of course, his father just had to sigh in disappointment. "I understand, father. I will make you proud." Kazan answered before leaving the room to train, as a way to let out the pent up rage.

Who needed women and a family? He certainly didn't care about that. They were a nuisance. A weakness, at best. Father is too much of a sentimental, even for a samurai. What a ridiculous charade...

And his displeasure continued even the next day, as he dressed in a rich, official kimono, to show off his heritage, but at the same time, his long hair was put in a disheveled ponytail, rebel strands flying with the wind, and the neck of his outfit was lowered down enough to show his outlaw-ish predisposition. Needless to say, his father was angered by this side of his son - Surely, he taught him better! - But it was far too late, and they had already arrived at the L/N estate.

Just outside the big, beautiful house, a petite young woman, her long dark hair shining like ebony, her skin as white as snow...She looked so frail that she'd almost resemble a snowdrop. And she was delicately playing a soft, yet sorrowful tune on her bamboo flute, while her father put a pink flower in her hair, looking at her with nostalgia and love.

Kazan look at his own father, before glancing back at the girl whom he found out was named Y/N, and realised how big of a difference it was to was a son, compared to having a daughter. The difference in the two men's behaviour was huge.

He once heard a samurai, whose wife had just given birth to his daughter, "Treat your daughter the way you wish her husband would treat her." He didn't care at first, obviously - Kazan's mind was never on marriage - But now he was beginning to understand the meaning of his words, for they were wiser than anticipated.

Her father was tender, and treating her as if she was the soft petal of a cherry blossom, and his voice was low, loving and respectful, not wanting to startle her in any way...He was talking as if he was trying to keep the zen equilibirum intact at all costs.

The love between a man and a woman is supposed to be like Yin and Yang...

But how could Kazan possibly behave in such a way, when all he knew was to be a rageful brute who would destroy everything in his path in the loudest, brashest way possible?

"Ah, Yamaoka-san, you have arrived. And you brought your son with you. It's an honour finally meeting you, Kazan. Here, this is my daughter, Y/N. Y/N, dear, why don't you go prepare some osmanthus tea for our tired travelers, while I guide them to our table in the cherry blossom garden?" her father pat her hair, and in return, she bowed slightly at the guests, offering them a gentle smile, that would put all of Spring's flowers to shame. "Yes, right away, father. I hope you will like our flower garden. Papa had them all planted in honour of my mama. They are all her favourite kinds and colours." ah, yes, of course. Women have a special kind of bond with their mother - That was something he would never be able to fully comprehend, Kazan realised very easily, by the way the girl was close to shining as soon as she talked about her birth-giver.

The son of the Yamaoka family obvious saw women before - He wasn't an idiot - And he had enough experience with them...But there was something different about this one. She was...So...Innocent? She seemed to naive and not from this world, almost as if she had no idea of the terrors of the world outside of her residence.

It was such an endearing thing, almost exciting - But the young samurai wasn't sure if he wanted to protect this innocent ignorance at all costs...Or if he wanted to shatter it into pieces and taint it completely.

But that question was easily answered as soon as she came back and started pouring tea for him. And then later in their marriage, the way she behaved so gently with him, it was so weird, so foreign to him, and yet, it made him feel something else...Something completely different from the bubbling, infernal rage he could feel in his chest all the time.

It was soothing, mending his soul completely, for some reason that he couldn't comprehend at all.

But why should he, anyway? He was content just having her by his side whenever he was home. Only she was able of taming the storm that clouded his mind and soul.

His little cherry blossom.

And only the Gods knew how many men he had to kill to make sure she isn't harmed, or prayed upon. He never realised how many desperate, disgusting, dishonorable and lecherous men could be, but Kazan wasn't going to let her see anything other than the honour of a samurai - Like him, his father, and her own father.

However, not even her gentle soul would be able to contain his rage whenever he'd hear that dreadful, shameful nickname they would call him.

"Oni-Yamaoka"

Why was he an Ogre, all of a sudden? Because he brought justice upon the fakes who made a mockery of the code of the samurai? Because he wanted to protect the sole person he cared for in this life? Even his father was against the aggressiveness he displayed on the battlefield, and in the actions he took...It almost felt like even his father was agreeing with that stupid nickname!

"Here, Kazan, lay your head on my lap and forget about your worries, at least for tonight." Y/N pat her lap with a sweet smile, her eyes gleaming with love and benevolence as she reached out her other hand to reach out to him, and as if possessed, he followed her lead absent-mindedly. "Y/N." Kazan called out after a few minutes of having his eyes closed, feeling himself relaxing as her fingers were soothingly playing with his long, untameable hair. "Why do you always tell me to lay on your lap, whenever I'm angry?" "Do you not like it, darling?" she asked, but the passive smile on her face showed that she knew that wasn't the case at all. "I do. I was just wondering why." he grumbled in a lower voice, which made her muse, her smile shaping into an almost kitten-like one. "My mama always did that to papa. She said that the best place for a man to relax is on a girl's thighs. I don't think she was wrong." oh, what a sweet giggle she had. It sounded crystalline, like a river of diamonds going through the forest. "...I won't comment on that." the man closed his eyes, not wanting to give in to the flushed sensation he felt hearing something so embarrassing. "You do not have to be embarrassed, my dear. We are man and wife. There is nothing we could do or say that would be worth or deemed as embarrassing." she reassured him with an amused tone, as her small hand touched his bare chest, just where his heart would be. "Why are you not afraid of me, like the rest of them? You are nothing more than a frail woman. You have the eyes of a baby fawn, and the frail bones of a rabbit. You are nothing more than a flower in comparison to me. I could snap your neck like a twig if I'm not careful touching you. And yet, you allow yourself to be vulnerable around me, and while at it, you encourage me to be the same as well. I will never understand the complexity of women and their thinking." the samurai sighed, grumbling in faux annoyance. "My, my, was that what was on your mind? How lovely of you to be concerned about me. Well, I will tell you a little secret, since you are so curious, but make sure it stays between the two of us, alright?" she giggle softly, almost like a little child kissing her crush on the cheek, and it made Kazan's heart flutter. Was she truly trusting him with a secret? What did he do so worthy to her that she deemed him the perfect candidate as a secret-keeper? "I would not dare tell your secret even to the Emperor himself, or my father." came the samurai's vow with such seriousness, that made the girl grin. "You see, women aren't physically strong like men are, but what we lack physical prowess, we make up for our incredible emotional strength. So, I believe that, at least in these times of war and bloodshed, a man's role is to protect the physical body of the woman, while the woman's role is to protect her man's heart and soul. Without balance, there is no future and no happiness, wouldn't you agree? If we don't make the best out of this life, and look at the beauty of the world...Then have we even lived at all?" there was wisdom in the words that Kazan deemed rather naive, and yet...What she said wasn't wrong, per se. In fact, it was true. He was well aware that, with his body, the best he could do was protect her, but he would never be able to sooth her broken heart the same way she does to him...And likewise, he remembered the mirthful laugh he let out when she tried lifting his weapon from the ground.

However, he wasn't going to say anything out loud, and decided that, instead of voicing his opinions, he'd rather grunt and close his eyes, letting sleep take over him, his head still resting on her soft thighs.

Maybe having a wife wasn't as bad as he once thought...

But times change fast - Years pass, lives pass, the river passes...And yet, only one thing doesn't pass, and that is Yamaoka Kazan's rage, which only grew stronger and stronger with each day, and each time he heard himself getting called "The Oni".

He was desperately angry, and not even Y/N's loving touch or sweet voice could save his soul, so much, that in fear of accidentally hurting her, he decided to stay out and train or go on and kill more and more samurai impersonators, hoping to somehow release all his anger and be able to return home.

He knew Y/N would be worrying for him, but she needn't do such a thing, it would only hurt her heart, and that was the last thing he wanted. He was strong, and feared - Who would dare go against Yamaoka Kazan, anyway?

The days away from home multiplied, and he was away for a stupefying month...Y/N must be crying, worried sick. He wasn't afraid of anything physical in this world, yet the thought of her doe eyes shedding tears...It was something he was terrified of, especially if he was the cause of that.

But on the way home, he found a pink lotus flower, and he thought she would love it, so he gently took it with him back home. It was raining, and an ominous feeling crept into Kazan's heart, and he realised there seemed to be an almost dark aura around his home.

It wasn't yet sleeping time, so why were there no candles lit? There was no sign of any living being there? Where were the servants? Where was his beloved Y/N, waiting for him on the porch, playing the flute the way she always did?

Something was not right...

The man rushed inside the house, and as soon as he slammed open the sliding door, he was met with nothing that he expected - Pools of blood on the floor, while the otherwise neutral-coloured walls were splattered with the red liquid, and the corpses of the servants were brutally mangled and thrown around as if they were defect ragdolls.

It wasn't the horrifying sight that scared him, but the fate of his wife - So he made haste and ran to their shared room...And there she was.

In more pieces than she should be in.

Her hair was a mess, her kimono was a mess, her make up was a mess...And she had been tortured, from the way her wounds, slashes and cuts looked on her body.

Who...? Who could do something so...So...Disgusting...To a defenseless woman who had no means of fighting back? Where was the honour in defeating a weak civilian, such as her? What was the purpose of this massacre?! Was it to anger him? To bring out the Ogre from him? Is it what they all wanted? To see The Oni they feared and hated so much? They got revenge on a small woman, just to get to him?!

"Ah, Kazan, finally. Took you quite a while to return home...I thought her body would rot away and get swarmed with maggots by the time you'd return. And what's that in your hand? A flower? Did you want to apologise to her with a stupid flower? You have caused my daughter immense distress, and yet, she loved you to the very end. You should have seen her cry out your name, praying for you to come back home and save her...But, alas, the Ogre is never home! He is so busy killing, that he didn't realise he killed his own wife! Hahaha! Yamaoka Kazan, you are a pathetic excuse of a man, you could never come close to her strength! I tried everything to get her to tell me your secrets...But she didn't say a word. She ignored me. In the end, she came to hate me, her own father, who cared and loved her since she was born...And she loved you, some spineless monster who knows nothing but carnage!" what...? What was this man saying...? Is he truly implying that he tortured his own daughter to death, for...Information...On him...? "What...Did you do...?!" red was the only thing he could see, as he couldn't help but stare deep into her dead eyes that still held the fright and agony they last felt when she was still alive. "I KILLED HER! I KILLED MY OWN DAUGHTER, Y/N! This whole marriage was meant to bring down your stupid family of brutes and uncontrollable monsters! It was meant to kill YOU! But she was stupid! Nothing more than a sentimental woman! She LOVED you, a monster who knows only bloodlust! It's YOUR fault that she is dead, Kazan! YOU killed her! YOU!" her father yelled at him only meaningless gibberish.

In fact, Kazan couldn't comprehend words anymore. Instead, he could only hear whispers - They were soft and feminine...They sounded like Y/N...Could her ghost be talking to him? Was she trying to calm him down one more time, from beyond this world?

Yes, you were a saint, truly...It was a pity you had to meet him...If you hadn't, you'd have still been alive...And your beautiful flute song would still resound around the forest, along with the thrill of the birds.

"I am sorry, Y/N" was the last thing Kazan thought...

As The Oni took over completely, and went on the greatest blood shed known to mankind at that time...

------

What am I doing here...? What is this strange place...? It looks nothing like the beautiful flower garden Kazan made for me...So where am I?

The girl looked around like a confused meerkat, asking herself a limitless amount of questions, only to look down and realise her beautiful pink kimono was dirty with mud, and she gasped in shock. How could she let that happen! She can't let Kazan see her like this, what would he think?!

Ah, yes, that's it, just look around for Kazan, he'll surely know what's going on!

However, instead of finding her strong samurai, she saw three other people, all looking of a different race than her, and wearing such strange clothes...

Was she behind fashion, and she had no idea? She was sure she was buying only the best kimonos there were...!

"What are you just standing around for?! Run! We have to repair the generators!" a girl with unnatural coloured hair yelled at her before she sprinted the hell out of there.

Generators...? What are...Generators...? And why is this place so creepy...?

Hold up...This paper wall maze...This was from her home! Yes, that means she was close to home!

She ran through the little maze with a smile on her face, only to see one of the man working very focused on some kind of contraption, and he urged her to help him out. She sheepishly crouched opposite of him, frightened, but she carefully tried to do something, but instead, a loud noise and sparks came out, and she shrieked in fear, shielding her face as she fell on her back.

"What kind of sorcery is this?!" she cried out, her eyes watering. "What the hell is wrong with you?! Do you want to die that badly?! Get a grip and do something useful for once!" the man screamed in her face, before running the hell out of there.

Why were they all so rude to her...?

She was so used to her family, her servants, friends and Kazan to be nice with her, that she didn't realise people like these existed too.

A bit shaky, Y/N got up, trying to pat away the dust from her dirty kimono, and continued to look the estate...Only to find her home...But why was it in such a deplorable state...? Surely, she wouldn't allow her beloved home to end up like this...!

As Y/N made her way inside the home, she noticed the scary amount of blood splattered all over the place...Almost as if there was more red than colours of walls an the floor. It was so frightening...And confusing.

Who died here? And how in the world...I mean...She was sleeping, and then...

Oh.

Oh.

No.

She wasn't sleeping...

As soon as she stepped into her room, she didn't notice the blood on the floor, but the discarded pink lotus that laid on her pillow. As she crouched to take the flower in her room, she got a sudden flashback of her memories from the night she died...

She waited for Kazan, and the elderly servant woman was comforting her, pouring her tea and patting her back, as she played the same flute song she did when she first met beloved.

But then, her father paid her a visit...And a true hell was unleashed...

Her own father did something so atrocious...Such a betrayal was nothing she could ever phantom in her own life, and yet, her life was ended not by a stranger, but by her own kin.

As silent tears escaped her eyes and streamed down her delicate cheeks, a loud roar shook the whole estate, and the brusque blurting in the room of a huge man was enough to fright her to fall on the ground with a startled yelp.

And yet...

The raised weapon, the samurai garments he wore...And that Oni mask... There was only one person in the world who could look like this.

"Kazan...?" her voice came out weaker than a whisper, and she wasn't sure if he even heard her calling out his name. For a split second, she was terrified of the thought of that horribly enormous weapon striking her down where she stood, in her own bed, for the second time...And yet...

The monstrously big man dropped his weapon and slowly crouched in front of her, picking up the flower and putting it in her hair, pinning it away from her gorgeous face.

"Y/N...It really is you..." his voice came out as a dark grunt, in fact, in very much sounded like a demon, and yet, his moves and actions seemed more delicate than even this lotus flower.

The girl started laughing from happiness, allowing more tears to escape her eyes, being reunited with the love of her life, and she threw herself in her arms, feeling safer than she ever did in her life.

"I missed you so much, my dear Kazan...I missed you so...I can't believe such things happened to us...And yet, here we are, together again, even in death, even in hell." as she said that, she slowly took away his mask, and revealing his rugged face, obviously one of a man seasoned in war and tortured to death - She put her hand on his cheek, just as he used to do with her, and caressing him, she leaned in to plant a kiss on his forehead.

It was meant not only as a lucky charm, but as a 'home sweet home' as well, for there was no home without Kazan's arms wrapped around her protectively...

And there was no home without the petite body of his beloved S/O in his strong embrace, watching her fall asleep.

"I promise you never leave you again, my beloved cherry blossom." he said so, and yet, having been in this Hell longer than her, he knew of the atrocities she, as a Survivor, would have to endure, and the hell the Entity would put on the both of them.

And yet...

If anyone even dares to look at her the wrong way, The Oni would make sure that, no matter how immortal the Killer might be, he would bring an end to them.

He already lost her once, and he's not going to let a tragedy befall her ever again.

[kiame-sama]

28 Years (5th Pregnancy)- Yandere!Silva x Reader

Warnings; yandere relationship, yandere tendencies, yandere behavior, yandere, mention of past trauma, pregnancy, c-section, more arguing, vasectomy, Zeno is so done with his son's bullshit

"No. We are not doing this again. I won't allow it!" "Hey, I told you how to fix this from ever happening again." "I did use protection. It clearly didn't work." "I didn't say 'use protection' did I? I said you should get a vasectomy since it's clear that regular protection and emergency medication doesn't work!" "I shouldn't have to-"

"ENOUGH!"

You and Silva fell silent at the firm and loud command from Zeno, looking over at the frustrated elder assassin. He happened to be holding young Alluka in his arms while the infant whined and cried from all the noise, compelling you to take the young child and set to comforting the infant. Alluka quickly quieted once in your grasp and allowed you to return your attention to the matter at hand, the new heartbeat that originated from within you.

You had been trying to avoid a third pregnancy given your prior back-to-back pregnancies and your already fragile health, yet here you were with another infant growing within you. You assumed something like this would happen, given your past attempts with contraceptives and how little they actually worked. Naturally, you suggested Silva have a vasectomy as it was not only a surefire way, but also a reversible surgery.

Originally, you suggested getting your tubes tied despite the danger that came with it but Silva quickly shot down the idea with his usual explanation of not wanting to lose you. Silva knew somewhere in him that the typical contraceptives wouldn't work, given the fact that he had used several similar methods to trigger a termination of prior pregnancies you were unaware of. He had hoped in some way that your body hadn't built up a resistance to them, but he also knew it was going to happen eventually.

He did plan on undergoing a vasectomy when you had first suggested it, but he quickly forgot about it in favor of getting to finally fuck you senseless now that your body had somewhat recovered after your most recent pregnancy. He had just been so relieved you were able to be brought back from your cardiac arrest following his mistake of once again taking your child away, and couldn't help himself from indulging in his favorite pass-time; fucking you. It was clear to everyone how addicted Silva was to you, in the way he would always return to your side after a job, how he would guard you jealously from anyone other than himself.

He was so whipped for you.

But now, you had a serious choice to make for your future and the future of the life already growing within you. It wasn't hard to guess what Silva wants to have happen, and some part of you agreed after enduring all that you had. Yet... You still felt that maternal connection already forming, wanting to protect all of your children from Silva, even the new child within you that had yet to take even a first breath.

"You're not keeping it." "Yes, I am." "No. I won't tolerate this again!" "Good thing you aren't the one who has to tolerate it. Last time I checked, its my body that goes through all the strain and effort of pregnancy, not your’s." "Are you doing this just to hurt yourself? To try and exhaust your body to the point of death?" "... Again, last time I checked, I wasn't the cause of my heart stopping." "..."

Silva stood silently, passive expression on his face as he wrestled with his own mind over the matter at hand. On one side, you were right; he was the reason he almost lost you, he's been the reason every single time. Even if it was complications during birth, it was still his fault entirely for getting you pregnant in the first place. On the other, he knew the immense toll another pregnancy will have on your body and the chances of you dying during birth increased with each one. The odds were not good.

It was then Silva spoke, his voice gentle and not at all like what you were expecting him to growl out with. It was the voice you scarcely heard on those far and few between days Silva would be truly gentle in every way, usually reserved for when he decided to honestly apologize to you for something. He was proud and cold, but there were those moments when that pride was set aside, when he would actually explain how he felt instead of leaving it at short sentences that never offered answers.

"(Y/n), don't do this again. Don't stubbornly hold on to this one. I know you already love it, as you love all of our children, and you will always fight for their safety no matter what, but for once you need to let me win. Let it go." "... If I say 'no', will you take it from me anyway?" "(Y/n)..." "Are you going to take my baby away from me again, Silva?" "..."

A soft sigh left Silva's lips as he frowned, knowing you were going to win the argument regardless of what he said or did. He knew he owed you more than he could give and there was no way he would force you to give the child up. If you truly wanted to keep it, he wouldn't be able to convince you otherwise. Still didn't mean he had to like it.

"There is no sense in saying the obvious or telling you the risks you run having another baby so soon after your two prior pregnancies." "I know..."

Zeno hummed in a contemplative way, knowing Silva would refuse to go out on a job while you are pregnant and he had already refused to leave the Zoldyck estate in favor of keeping an eye on you. Given how intensely and fiercely he protected you, Zeno knew the immense toll the pregnancies have taken on Silva as well as you. But no one in the family wanted a repeat of the events that took place after Silva had taken Alluka away from you without telling you.

It was going to be a long eight months.

~~~~Four Months~~~~

"You need to sleep, (y/n)." "But what if something happens?" "Nothing is going to happen." "You don't know that..."

Silva frowned as he watched you pace in front of the couch in your shared rooms, chewing on your lip as you cradled your youngest in your arms. The child had already fallen asleep in your arms an hour ago, yet you still held on securely and refused to set your baby down for even a moment. Silva had seen the way you reacted to Illumi being taken and the subsequent over protective behavior you showed once you got him back in your arms.

Your behavior now was similar to how you behaved then, refusing to let your infant out of your sight to the point of impacting your health negatively. Silva knew you were reacting the way you were because of how he had managed to take Alluka from you in the first place. He had taken Alluka while you were sleeping even though you slept with the infant swaddled in a pile of blankets in your arms, so now you refused to sleep in fear Alluka would disappear from your arms once again.

Now he had to face the lasting consequences of his actions in the form of soothing you to the point of trusting him once more. It was going to take a while, however, as Silva had broken your already fragile trust yet again by stealing away your newborn, so it was unlikely he would be able to get you to trust him completely any time soon. Instead of the trust he once had, he had to watch you slip away into anxiety driven behavior due to his careless and selfish behavior.

It was driving him mad to watch you slip into such frenzied behavior, especially given the fact that you were enduring your third pregnancy in a row. Not only did you need sleep now more than ever, but you also had been refusing food in favor of feeding Alluka instead. It infuriated Silva to no end, as he had no choice but to let your anxious behavior play out until you calmed down once more. He wasn't going to chance doing anything that may be upsetting to you, but that also meant he wasn't going to force you to rest no matter how much he wanted to.

"At least sit down, (y/n)." "With you? No. No, not again." "I swear to you, I won't take-" "You've said that before, and it didn't stop you from taking Alluka away from me." "I'm aware I made a mistake, but I assure you-" "No."

It was going to be a long four months until you gave birth again and potentially trusted him once more.

~~~~Six Months~~~~

You hummed as you looked down at where your darling Alluka slept, curled up and held securely in the arms of Illumi. Silva had reached a breaking point when it came to your anxious and stressed behavior, deciding to allow Illumi to be by your side consistently so you would finally relax and get some much needed sleep. The presence of your eldest nearby did wonders to soothe you, trusting in your son to take care of his little sibling and keep Silva from stealing the infant away.

Though Silva disliked the fact that he had to share your attention and affection with his eldest son, the alternative was far worse in his opinion. You had gotten to the point of rarely sleeping so you could ensure Silva could not steal your baby away, draining yourself immensely in the process to the point you were not only rapidly losing weight, but you were becoming far less coordinated by the day. When enough was enough, he consulted his father on what his next step should be and the answer was obvious; let Illumi help take care of your wellbeing.

Your eldest practically jumped at the chance to spend unlimited amounts of time with you, not even perturbed by the fact that he had to take care of his youngest sibling. An extra cot was added into the bedroom, allowing Illumi to be present for around the clock assistance in child-care and to give you the added comfort of having your most trusted son nearby. You ensured to teach him how to properly hold an infant and how to soothe Alluka's fussing relatively quickly, only strengthening your motherly bond with Illumi by allowing you to put full faith in him with Alluka's well-being.

For once, Silva's plan worked like a charm. Not only did you finally start catching up on the rest you needed, you began to eat your meals with Illumi and therefore began to eat regularly once more. Along with your physical health, your mental health began to improve as well. You started smiling and talking more, resting with surprising ease in the arms of the very man you refused to so much as blink around only weeks prior.

Thanks to your teachings, Illumi was a rather brilliant nanny in your stead. Alluka would hardly make a peep when held in the comforting arms of Illumi and similarly, Illumi would make little to no noise while caring for his sibling. Even if he had more responsibilities with taking care of Alluka, Illumi wouldn't trade that time for anything in the world. He could spend time with you, talk with you, relax in your maternal love and affection.

Truly it was a win for all three of you. Alluka was always cared for. Illumi was finally able to spend more time with you. You were able to relax for the first time in who knows how long. Even Silva had relatively few losses, given how much more affectionate you were with him now you knew your infant was safe.

~~~~Eight Months~~~~

Silva paced outside of the delivery room, looking up almost every minute to check the time before resuming his endless pacing. He was much like a caged lion or bear, pacing just to pass the time and to do something other than sit still. He certainly was far more dangerous than any of those animals combined, only serving to add a rather pointed reminder to any doctor of what their fate would be should they fail.

But that was the whole purpose of this endeavor, to ensure nothing failed. Surely nothing could have gone wrong with all the precautions that were put into place.

Surely.

Either way, the long time it was taking only served to make Silva more anxious and his presence all the more intimidating. It in truth had only been a few hours since you went under so the doctors could perform a c-section to safely deliver what would be your fifth child. After the close calls with both Killua and Alluka as well as the fact this was your third back-to-back pregnancy, Silva wanted to take no chances with your life.

A c-section was how Killua and Alluka ultimately had to be delivered despite the fact you were able to have a 'typical' birth with Illumi and Milluki, so naturally it would only make sense for your fifth child to be delivered via c-section. It didn't sit well with Silva, however. Nothing would sit well with him until you were safely out of surgery and in his arms.

But what was taking so damn long?

"For fuck's sake, Silva, sit down. Pacing doesn't make it go faster and intimidating the doctors will only make it more likely for them to mess up." "Their lives are forfeit if they so much as make a single mistake." "And they know this. They've known this. All you're doing is adding another element no one wants to deal with."

Despite his father's chiding words, Silva continued to pace and glare at nothing in particular. Where it always seemed as if the man had a scowl on his face, it seemed ten times worse given he was actually scowling. The moment the door opened, Silva was pushing past the frightened doctor and into the room where his wife lay motionless.

For a moment, Silva felt an honest pang of fear in his chest when he saw you were not awake, the ever present beep of the EKG soothed him to know you were still alive and merely unconscious. The doctors all scattered like frightened rats, scurrying away from the intimidating mountain of a man who silently pulled up a chair, sitting by your side and refusing to take his eyes off of you.

Zeno, Maha, Milluki, and Illumi entered the room in a much calmer manner as they also came to stand around you. Alluka had been moved into Zeno's care given the impending delivery of the new addition to the family, and Illumi stood ready to receive the newborn and care for it while you recovered. Everyone had been preparing for the newborn in their own way, from the butlers ensuring the utmost safety to Zeno taking over Alluka's care, it seemed everything was finally prepared for and taken into account.

Meanwhile, in the past month, Silva had finally undergone a vasectomy so there would be no further chance of yet another pregnancy threatening your future with him. It was possible that it could be reversed and so it was the only surefire way no unexpected pregnancy would happen again. Where Silva felt he would have no reason to reverse the change since he already had five children, the option was always still available should something ever come up.

Perhaps finally there could be peace in the house. At least, peaceful enough no sudden pregnancy could threaten your life. Now all that needed to happen was getting the new infant out before Silva could finally have you all to himself once again.

He could wait. He could wait as long as he needed to. Because in the end, you would always be his.

[emeraldvagabond]

If we're talking about retcons can we also please talk about how Tamlin was retconned too? I have a list™️(sorry this is gonna be long): in ACOTAR it’s a big point that Tamlin didn’t want to be a cruel tyrannical high lord like his dad. This is stated SEVERAL times, in fact Feyre falls for him because he's vehemently anti slavery (compare that to Rhys, who says the NC freed their slaves ONLY because they became hard to brainwash and make them forget about Velaris. Ew). 1/5

But in ACOMAF, he's ok with the tithe? Not that he shouldn’t collect taxes, but at the threat of DEATH??? Because “that’s how my dad did it?” What happened to not wanting to be cruel like his dad? In TAR he's kind enough where people keeping seeking refuge, and long before Amarantha comes, Lucien, despite having friends in many courts, CHOOSES to stay with Tam. And Lucien spends 90% of the book mocking Tamlin or challenging him. He even sets Feyre up with the suriel, fearing no repercussions despite Feyre being important in, uh, breaking their curse??? (and there aren’t any from Tam). But in MAF Lucien is afraid of Tamlin? In TAR, Tamlin offers to teach Feyre how to read and to help her write to her family, and the book also mentions that he teaches her how to ride bareback. But now in MAF he doesn’t want to help teach her her powers and in fact, forbids her from training? And most importantly… in ACOTAR, Tamlin notices Feyre's moods despite being very busy with, you know. Running his court. Fighting off Amarntha's monsters. All that stuff. But he still sees when she's sad. In fact, noticing she's upset is what leads to him writing her poems, to make her feel better. So am I really supposed to believe that he ignores her and becomes emotionally negligent in ACOMAF because “he's busy”? That he doesn’t see her feelings or try to help and console her when he does so several times in book 1? Retcon city. Sorry, this is so long, but I’m angry ranting and Tamlin was retconned sooo much in later books.

NONNY THIS IS LITERALLY A TAMLIN STAN ACCOUNT WE CAN TALK ABOUT HIS CHARACTER ASSASSINATION ALLLLLLLLLLLLL MF DAYYY. IT'S MY FAVORITE PASS TIME.

So really, the tithe, I understand, it's even stated that most of the money and things are for running the estate and the land, upkeep etc. I think a lot of people have the tendency to hear(or read) estate and think....a very large house, but that isn't the case. A Lord's estate isn't just his manor, but his workers, his land, the villages that are built on that land, the animals in those villages, and anything and everything in between. He is literally collecting money to put towards their quality of life. HOWEVER, THE THREAT OF DEATH?

I understand he's vulnerable to Ianthe's whims, because as i've said before, he's never had anyone to guide him through this whole Highlord thing that he never asked for, but that is SO MUCH of a stretch for his character. In TAR he tells Feyre that he's no good for anything but war and death, and fiddling, that he's no good at being Highlord and he's terrified of being his father. Every action he takes is consciously for the betterment of his people and their lives, to the best of his ability while under Amarantha's rule. To the point where Fae, including Alis, flee from Amarantha and the effects of her and Rhysand's actions to his court. And when they get there they all choose to stay. Alis and Lucien, two of the main people who we know are refugees in his court, have nothing but kind things to say of him. And like you said- Lucien challenges him and makes fun of him for being awkward and laughs and plays with him as brothers do without fear. Because Tamlin literally does not enforce rank in his court. He doesn't just say that once, it bleeds into every interaction he has with his people. On the Summer Solstice, he sits among the people and plays the fiddle and drinks and dances with Feyre, and leaves everything long enough to take her to watch the wisps until the dawn breaks. He gets on his knees just to play HER a song, right there in front of everyone. He doesn't hide his feelings behind any type of mask, and he doesn't worry about what his people will think because THAT IS THEIR HIGHLORD. Their Highlord is JUST Tamlin, nothing more, nothing less.

He doesn't even wear the fancy, decked-out clothes of a Highlord, because they aren't practical, and he's just Tamlin.

He's never too busy for what Feyre needs- sometimes he has work and he can't spend every waking moment with her, but she never wants for anything. Even when she is so desperately afraid for her sisters...she has no need to be because he's already taken care of everything they could ever want or need. AND NESTA KNOWS IT WAS HIM!!!!! And even after Feyre does....everything that she does, he STILL cares for her family. When her sisters become Fae, he STILL cares for their father right up until the moment he steps onto that battlefield.

I bet, if Elain wanted to return to that house and live out the rest of her days in silence in the mortal realms....he would probably fund it because that's just who he is!!!!

He lets himself be trapped in that snare Feyre lays for him- just to make her smile. Just to see her triumph. Because he knows that's what she needs at that moment. He offers to teach her to read, but it's too embarrassing for her, so he doesn't press. He offers to help her write letters home to her family, but she doesn't know what she would even want to say, so he doesn't press. He keeps her painting of the woods- of a time when she was starving, now, in a time where she is fed and clothed in finery because it reminds him that is not the only one who feels desolate and overwhelmed with responsibility that they never asked for.

And then in the end, despite all this, despite being desperately in love with her, because he is desperately in love with her...he sends her away. He sends her home, back to that estate, away from the danger even when she is supposed to be his savior. Because it's a burden she doesn't know she carries, because he would rather find a million other ways or suffer under a woman who has been obsessed with him since he was a child than see Feyre suffer.

And she comes back for him because she loves him. She loves the freedom he has given her, the ways he's set her free. She loves the Spring Court and the people there, she loves dancing at the summer solstice and a male who plays her solos in front of hundreds of people like he's offering a gift to the goddess.

And then....all of that was just? A show? A ploy? What? What was it? It doesn't make sense. Yes, he's desperately afraid, but the last time he was desperately afraid he let her go. The safest thing for her in book two would be training. Harnessing her new powers, learning who she is now, and what she isn't anymore. But nooo now, suddenly it's lock her up and put her on a shelf? Now it's, he has too much to do, stay here and not, he has so much to do, stay safe? It's no longer teaching her what she doesn't know it's....owning her? I'd say make it make sense but literally, no one can.

And it makes me mad.

[fandomlovingfreak]

Summoned

Chapter 1: Summoned

Sebastian de Poitiers x OC

Rating: E for everyone

Word Count: 1661

MasterList Link I Wattpad Link I AO3

Summary: Summoned, to bid to come : send for

When a letter is received from an old friend summoning her for an unspoken favor, Isobel must set sail from her father's home in Scotland, unsure if she will ever see the shores of the country she loves, ever again. French Court, something whispered about by her and her friends as young girls seem frightening to Isobel. Yet, destiny awaits her in Mary's secret favor.

Disclaimer: The characterizations of characters from Reign (based on historical figures) are all the property of the CW Historical Romance show, Reign created by Laurie McCarthy and Stephanie SenGupta (these characters include but are not limited to Sebastian de Poitiers, King Francis, Mary Queen of Scots). This work has not been created for profit or financial compensations, and is a transformative fair use work in accordance with Section 107 of the United States Copyright Act.

CW nor the creators of Reign do not own my original character Isobel.

Notes: I’ve been reworking this fic for a while. I hope to bring it to life as I’ve quite literally been writing it off and on since 2019!

Enjoy

Dear Isobel,

I would like to be summoning you under different circumstances, but I find myself needing you at this hour. I cannot disclose too much information within this letter, as we are still uncertain whether or not the English are intercepting our letters, but I beg you to make haste.

I await your arrival at French Court.

Your friend,

Mary Queen of Scots

 I've read and re-read the letter from my dear friend at least two dozen times since departing from the shores of Scotland. Reading was a wonderful escape from the thoughts that I may never see these shores again, something my father had drilled into my head a thousand times before I left. He was certain I'd find a match in France, hopeful that the Queen of Scotland was arranging the details as I traveled.

I myself am nervous about the implications of the letter... of the summoning from Mary. Where my father saw hope, I saw dread-- or at least unexpected news.

But she spoke of something important, and I couldn't just ignore her pleads to come to her Court. Last I'd heard, she'd married her long-awaited fiance, Francis, and gone on a long honeymoon tour. What on earth would have her summoning me of all people at this moment?

***

Everything is splendid

I think to myself as I look around the halls of the castle. The people are even dressed splendidly. 

I am greeted by my old friends Kenna, Greer, and Lola, who all talk animatedly about my arrival before I am hurried off to Mary's bed-chamber for the purpose of my summoning. 

She greets me just as our other friends had, warmly, with smiles and small talk. I did miss her, more than I originally thought I did, as I see she's become more Queenly than ever before. Technically, I suppose, she was more a Queen than ever now that she and her husband had officially been crowned King and Queen of France.

"Come sit, please." Mary situates us by a glowing fire, asking if I'd like a refreshment of any sort. I decline, feeling I can't wait another moment. I must know why I am in France.

Mary looks down at her hands, suddenly looking as if she'd rather not be doing this, "Yes, well. I must ask you to do something I feel uneasy asking of you--"

I take Mary's hand in mine, "what is it?" Her tone is almost unreadable, but her eyes tell me I should be nervous.

Mary takes a deep breath of air, "I must ask you to stay here in France and-- marry Francis's brother, Sebastian de Poitiers."

I feel the color drain from my cheeks, "Marry--?"

My Queen has the decency to look embarrassed as she searches for words, "Francis's half-brother."

"The late King's bastard son? That Sebastian? Mary, I don't understand--"

"I know that-- I know how your father would react, will react if you agree to help me, but please listen to me, Isobel. I have good reason to ask for your help." After a moment, I nod, urging her to tell me the point of this-- suggestion.

"I'm not sure what you've heard about my past year in the French court, so I'll start from the beginning." I listen to her retell the problems they've had. The Queen Mother's meddling, the prophecy of Francis's death if he married Mary, the ploy to get Sebastian legitimized by the Vatican. All of the details are poured out for me to better understand Mary's odd request.

"I don't understand how you could have even-- I mean, Mary. He's the King's bastard. Your mother would have never allowed it..."

"And she fought it and won. I know that it seems crazy, but I love Francis. I would do anything to keep him from death, even marry a man I--" she flushes. I can see there were feelings even if she chose one brother over the other. 

"Oh, Mary..."

Mary sighs, "I know it's a lot to ask of you, Isobel, but Sebastian is my friend, and it's the only way Francis will feel... he can let Sebastian stay in court-- if he's married and settled down with his own wife."

I look down at my hands, embarrassed to be asking such a question, "How would this affect me in court, Mary?" How can I turn down my Queen's requests, though? I have to do what is right for the country, even if the country she's asking me for aid from is her husband's.

"Francis has agreed to give Sebastian a title, a small one but a title nonetheless, and an estate that will be available if you wish to escape French Court for a time during each year. Bash is a bastard, but that won't destroy you under Francis's care."

"And has Sebastian agreed to this?" 

Mary hesitates, "He has not." I thought as much, "but it's the only option for him. He'll see reason. Sebastian is very reasonable, Isobel. That's one of the reasons why I thought of you when this predicament came up. I often think he is a reflection of you in ways."

My father's potential thoughts and opinions plague my mind, keeping me silent as she waits for my answer.

"I know I'm asking a lot of you, Isobel." Silence chokes out the conversation.

"Can I think it over, Mary?"

"Yes. If you need me to, I will send your father's word. I'll tell him it was for the good of the alliance between Scotland and France. Anything you need, Isobel." Her hand grasps mine, pleading with me.

With a nod, I agree to be quick with my answer. 

***

The halls are near empty as I walk slowly towards the room prepared for me by my dearest friends Kenna, Lola, and Greer.

Worries come in and out of my brain rapidly. I fear for the fall in my reputation, then feel awful for thinking of another so lowly. Sebastian could very much be a wonderful man, and I'm sure he is if Mary held such a high opinion of him. She wouldn't have entertained marriage with a man if she did not believe him to be a truly wonderful person, I'm certain of it. But, that did not change the fact that he existed somewhat outside of polite company.

Sitting on the large bed, I fold my hands tightly on my lap in worry. If I agree to marry, I will be directly aiding my Queen and helping create peace within both of our countries. Francis was technically now the King of Scotland. On the other hand, I would be marrying someone I don't know, which frightens me. Not to mention I will someday have to face my family, who may blame me for pulling them down with me if all of this backfires and I become some sort of social pariah.

Feeling thoroughly exhausted by all of this thinking, I flop back onto the bed.

In the end, I do trust Mary. I don't believe that she would purposefully lead me astray, and she seemed genuine and confident that Sebastian and I could be a match. A good one at that.

**

With newly found resolve, I wake early and dress before making my way to Mary's bed-chamber. I need to-- before I chicken out and run home to my father. I can be brave.

"Isobel," Mary's voice is full of surprise, "is something the matter?" She takes a few steps towards me

"I've thought it over, Mary," I take a large calming breath, sealing my fate, "I will marry him."

She stands looking at me for a beat before taking a few steps to embrace me, "Thank you, Isobel. Thank you. You can't understand how grateful I am." She pulls back, looking deadly serious, "I promise you that I personally will send word to your father and make him know this was my doing. You will receive no backlash; you have been kind and selfless. I promise you that you will be taken care of under both the Scottish and French crowns."

I smile, pulling her back into a hug, "Thank you, Mary."

"Don't thank me at all. You are doing an enormous, insane favor for me."

"I trust you, you know that? I don't believe you would let me marry someone horrible."

"He isn't! Sebastian is wonderful. He's thoughtful and kind, a little pigheaded, but what man isn't a bit stubborn?" I laugh at her words. "And think of this! You and I shall be related by marriage."

I smile kindly, not wanting to burst her bubble... In many's views, a bastard, even one close to his half-siblings, is not a true sibling.

***

Sebastian looks between Mary and his half-brother, "you can't be serious."

Francis's eyes hold that hatred. The one reserved specifically for Sebastian that has developed since Mary came to Court.

"It's the only solution, Sebastian. I will never feel comfortable with your return to Court-- living near my wife if you remain a bachelor."

He snorts at the ridiculousness of the idea, "If I agree to marry a complete stranger, you will somehow gain comfort?" The venom in his voice pulses through each syllable.

Unluckily, Francis matches his frustration, his tone turning just as icy, "You will be too preoccupied with your own wife and new station to continue lusting over my wife. Your Queen." Mary looks at her husband with concern, a look he used to be on the receiving end of. Sebastian looks away with disgust... no sadness. Some vile emotion that he detests feeling.

"Please, Bash," Mary tries to soothe the pain, "Isobel has agreed. She's wonderful. She will make an excellent wife for you."

Sebastian sighs, running his fingers through his hair, "Can I meet her first? I would like to meet her before you force us to marry, please."

Mary and Francis look between each other. 

"I can arrange that."