#moonlight topaz

[spark-circuit]

crippling the IPC's broader capitalist goals and disrupting their timely communications network by distracting Topaz with Stellaris

[greenwitchcrafts]

September 2024 Witch Guide

New Moon: September 2nd

First Quarter: September 11th

Full moon: September 17th

Last Quarter: September 24th

Sabbats: Mabon- September 22nd

September Harvest Moon

Also known as: Autumn Moon, Child Moon, Corn Harvest Moon, Falling Leaves Moon, Haligmonath, Leaves Turning Moon, Mating Moon, Moon of Brown Leaves, Moon When Dear Paw the Earth, Rutting Moon, Singing Moon, Wine Moon, Witumanoth & Yellow Leaf Moon

Element: Earth

Zodiac: Virgo & Libra

Nature spirts: Trooping Faeries

Deities: Brigid, Ceres, Chang-e, Demeter, Freya, Isis, Depths & Vesta

Animals: Jackal & snake

Birds: Ibis & sparrow

Trees: Bay, hawthorn, hazel & larch

Herbs: Copal, fennel, rye, skullcap, valerian, wheat & witch hazel

Flowers: Lily & narcissus

Scents: Bergamot, gardenia, mastic & storax

Stones: Bloodstone,carnelian, cat's eye, chrysolite, citrine, iolite, lapis lazuli, olivine, peridot, sapphire, spinel(blue), tourmaline(blue) & zircon

Colors: Browns, dark blue, Earth tones, green & yellow

Issues, intentions & powers: Confidence, the home, manifestation & protection

Energy: Balance of light & dark, cleaning & straightening of all kinds, dietary matters, employment, health, intellectual pursuits, prosperity, psychism, rest, spirituality, success & work environment

The full Moon that happens nearest to the fall equinox (September 22nd or 23rd) always takes on the name “Harvest Moon.” Unlike other full Moons, this full Moon rises at nearly the same time—around sunset—for several evenings in a row, giving farmers several extra evenings of moonlight & allowing them to finish their harvests before the frosts of fall arrive. 

• While September’s full Moon is usually known as the Harvest Moon, if October’s full Moon happens to occur closer to the equinox than September’s, it takes on the name “Harvest Moon” instead. In this case, September’s full Moon would be referred to as the Corn Moon.

This time of year—late summer into early fall—corresponds with the time of harvesting corn in much of the northern United States. For this reason, a number of Native American peoples traditionally used some variation of the name “Corn Moon” to refer to the Moon of either August or September. 

Mabon

Known as: Autumn Equinox, Cornucopia, Witch's Thanksgiving & Alban Elved

Season: Autumn

Element: Air

Symbols: Acorns, apples, autumn leaves, balance, berries, corn, cornucopia( Horn of Plenty), dried seeds, equality, gourds, grains, grapes, ivy, pine cones, pomegranates, vines, wheat, white roses & wine

Colors: Blue, brown, dark red, deep gold, gold, indigo, leaf green, maroon, orange, red, russet. Violet & yellow

Oils/Incense: Apple, apple blossom, benzoin, black pepper, hay/straw, myrrh, passion flower, patchouli, pine, red poppy & sage

Animals: Dog & Wolf

Birds: Goose, hawk, swallow & swan

Stones: Agate, amethyst, carnelian, lapis lazuli, sapphire, yellow Agate & yellow topaz

Food: Apples, blackberries, blackberry wine, breads, carrots, cider, corn, cornbread, grapes, heather wine, nuts, onions, pomegranates, potatoes, squash, vegetables, wheat & wine

Herbs/Plants: Benzoin, bramble, corn, ferns, grains, hops, ivy, milkweed, myrrh, sage sassafras, Salomon's seal, thistle, tobacco & wheat

Flowers:  Aster, heather, honeysuckle, marigold, mums, passion flower, rose

Trees: Aspen, cedar, cypress, hazel, locust, maple, myrtle oak & pine

Goddesses: Danu, Epona, Inanna, Ishtar, Modron, Morgan, The Morrigan, Muses, Pomona, Persephone, Sin, Sophia & Sura

Gods:  Bacchus, Dionysus, Dumuzi, Esus, The Green Man, Hermes, Mannanan, Thor & Thoth

Issues, Intentions & Powers: Accomplishment, agriculture, balance, goals, gratitude & grounding

Spellwork: Balance, harmony, protection, prosperity, security & self-confidence

Activities:

•Scatter offerings in a harvested fields & Offer libations to trees

• Decorate your home and/or altar space for fall

• Bake bread

• Perform a ritual to restore balance and harmony to your life

• Cleanse your home of negative energies

• Pick apples

• Collect fall themed things from nature like acorns, changing leaves, pine cones, ect)

• Have a dinner or feast with your family and/or friends

• Set intentions for the upcoming year

• Purge what is no longer serving you & commit to healthy changes

•Take a walk in the woods

• Enjoy a pumpkin spice latte

• Donate to your local food bank

• Gather dried herbs, plants, seeds & pods

• Learn something new

• Make wine

• Fill a cornucopia

• Brew an apple cinnamon simmer pot

• Create an outdoor Mabon altar

•Adorn burial sites with leaves, acorns, & pinecones to honor those who have passed over & visit their graves

The name Mabon comes from the Welsh/Brythonic God Mabon Ap Modron, who's name means "Divine/great Son", However,there is evidence that the name was adopted in the 1970s for the Autumn Equinox & has nothing to do with this celebration or this time of year.

• Though many cultures see the second harvest (after the first harvest Lughnasadh) & Equinox as a time for giving thanks before the name Mabon was given because this time of year is traditionally when farmers know how well their summer crops did & how well fed their animals have become. This determines whether you & your family would have enough food for the winter.That is why people used to give thanks around this time, thanks for their crops, animals & food

Some believe it celebrates the autumn equinox when Nature is preparing for the winter months. Night & day are of equal legth  & the God's energy & strength are nearly gone. The Goddess begins to mourn the loss she knows is coming, but knows he will return when he is reborn at Yule.

Related festivals:

• Sukkot- Is a Torah-commanded holiday celebrated for seven days, beginning on the 15th day of the month of Tishrei. It is one of the Three Pilgrimage Festivals on which Israelites were commanded to make a pilgrimage to the Temple in Jerusalem. Originally a harvest festival celebrating the autumn harvest, Sukkot’s modern observance is characterized by festive meals in a sukkah, a temporary wood-covered hut, celebrating the Exodus from Egypt.

• Mid-Autumn festival- September 17th

Is also known as the Moon Festival or Mooncake Festival. It is a traditional festival celebrated in Chinese culture, similar holidays are celebrated by other cultures in East & Southeast Asia. It is one of the most important holidays in Chinese culture; its popularity is on par with that of Chinese New Year. The history of the Mid-Autumn Festival dates back over 3,000 years.  On this day, it is believed that the Moon is at its brightest and fullest size, coinciding with harvest time in the middle of Autumn.

During the festival, lanterns of all size and shapes – which symbolize beacons that light people's path to prosperity & good fortune – are carried & displayed. Mooncakes, a rich pastry typically filled with sweet-bean, egg yolk, meat or lotus-seed paste, are traditionally eaten during this festival. The Mid-Autumn Festival is based on the legend of Chang'e, the Moon goddess in Chinese mythology.

• Thanksgiving- This is a secular holiday which is similar to the cell of Mabon; A day to give thanks for the food & blessings of the previous year. The American Thanksgiving is the last Thursday of November while the Canadian Thanksgiving is celebrated in October

• The Oschophoria- Were a set of ancient Greek festival rites held in Athens during the month Pyanepsion (autumn) in honor of Dionysus. The festival may have had both agricultural and initiatory functions.

-Amidst much singing of special songs, two young men dressed in women's clothes would bear branches with grape-clusters attached from Dionysus to the sanctuary of Athena Skiras & a footrace followed in which select ephebes competed.

Ancient sources connect the festival and its rituals to the Athenian hero-king Theseus & specifically to his return from his Cretan adventure. According to that myth, the Cretan princess Ariadne, whom Theseus had abandoned on the island of Naxos while voyaging home, was rescued by an admiring Dionysus; thus the Oschophoria may have honored Ariadne as well. A section of the ancient calendar frieze incorporated into the Byzantine Panagia Gorgoepikoos church in Athens, corresponding to the month Pyanopsion (alternate spelling), has been identified as an illustration of this festival's procession.

Sources:

Farmersalmanac .com

Llewellyn's Complete Book of Correspondences by Sandra Kines

Wikipedia

A Witch's Book of Correspondences by Viktorija Briggs

Encyclopedia britannica

Llewellyn 2024 magical almanac Practical magic for everyday living

[dreaisgrayte]

Demon Slayer Masterlist

❁ = NSFW MDNI

First Kisses with the Hashira

Ideal Weddings with the Hashira

❁Lessons of Lust | Sanemi Shinazugawa and Kyojuro Rengoku x fem!reader

Reader becomes a demon during battle (request)

❁Hot and Tasty | Kyojuro Rengoku

Temptress | Kyojuro Rengoku

Topaz and Garnet Teaser | Prince Kyojuro

❁I See All | Kyojuro Rengoku

Pact | Kyojuro Rengoku

❁ “Just Friends�� Full Fic | Kyojuro Rengoku

❁Sub!Kyojuro x fem!reader

❁ReHEARsal | Sanemi Shinazugawa

❁Camp Maple | Sanemi Shinazugawa

Behind me | Gyomei Himejima

Under the Goddess’ Veil Teaser {reworking}

❁Mister Moonlight | Giyu Tomioka

❁Get some ACTION | Giyuu Tomioka’s version

❁Hannya Mist | Giyu Tomioka x demon fem!reader

❁Moonlit Monsters | Muzan x FEM!reader

❁Half Blood | Muzan Kibutsuji x fem!reader

❁Off the Record | Muzan Kibutsuji x fem!reader

❁Fluttering Fluster | Demon Akaza

❁A Secret Technique | Mitsuri Kanroji

❁The Best Friend Bet | Mitsuri and Obanai x Reader

Love Bite | Chapter One

[ickaimp]

[Magic Kaito] Scheduling

It's my birthday, so obviously, there should be fic. 700 words, silliness. +++

Saguru wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing here, other than the fact that it wasn’t a school night. And, well, Kid. Specifically a Kid Heist Notice. Which wasn’t for another three days. A bit larger of a lead time than normal, but Kid hadn’t made an appearance in several weeks, most likely due to it being the end of the school season and this being the first time Kid had a break to do so. But still, Saguru usually arrived later in the process, not for the initial heist note meeting. His presence  was mostly superfluous at them, especially given the straight forward nature of the current note and that Kid wouldn’t be there. “Alright, men!” Nakamori-keibu bellowed and Saguru tried to flinch at the volume. Truely, did everything have time be at high decibel? “Kid has sent us a notice for three days from now at 1800-“

“I really wish he didn’t.” The owner of the large inherited topaz flinched.

Normally gem owners tended to fall into two categories, either having something to hide --usually a fake heist notice-- or attempting to challenge the Kid’s skills. The current target went in a different direction… nervous fussing.  “It’s my daughter’s graduation and I wanted to be there.”

“Oh snap.” A familiar voice said from Saguru’s left and he jumped slightly. “Forgot about graduation. Would you like to reschedule?”

The Kid’s voice came from the officer standing next to Saguru. One who was twice Saguru’s age and whom he’d sworn had gotten checked for being the Kid.

“Oh would you?” The mousy gem owner looked relieved.

Kid stepped forward, the Task Force uniform vanishing with a small poof of smoke, to be replaced by the Kaitou Kid’s familiar white suit, top hat, and cape. “Certainly. When would be a good date for you?”

Kid hopped up on the desk, lightly crouching on it as the gem owner pulled out a paper planner, running his fingers across the pages. “How’s the 19th?”

Kid pulled out a phone, checking his calendar as Nakamori made an irate sound. “I’m booked.” Kid reported. “Can do the 17th or 20th though.”

“I’m out of town the 20th-“

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!” Nakamori bellowed, his face a violent angry red. Kid clicked his finger and held up a finger in the inspector’s direction, the thief’s gaze on his phone as if Nakamori was the one being unconscionably rude. 

“-I have work most of the 17th.” The gem owner continued. “But the evening is free.”

Kid made a thoughtful sound. “I supposed that would give me enough time-“

“You could check it now.” Saguru suggested. “Since you’re currently both free.”

Both Kid and the gem owner looked up at Saguru with identical looks of polite confusion. Saguru resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Not everything needs to be a magic show.”

Kid gasped in outrage, one gloved hand pressed against his chest, clearly offended.

“He’s got a point.” The gem owner gestured to the large stone on his desk. “Help yourself.”

Kid nodded, hopping off the desk, picking up the gem and walking over to the window and holding it up to the moonlight. When nothing happened, he turned back and set the gem back on the desk, offering the owner his gloved hand. “Thank you very much, it was a pleasure doing business with you.”

The gem owner shook his hand. “Likewise.”

Kid turned to the officers and gave them a polite tilt of his hat. “Gentlemen.” He said, then walked out the door.

Saguru pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed heavily as no one moved. 

“-GET HIM!!” Nakamori belatedly bellowed, pointing to the door the thief had just walked out of. That seemed to startle the Task Force and they scrambled to take off running, several getting stuck in the doorway and preventing the others from escaping.

“Well.” Said the gem owner, looking quite chuffed. “That was exciting.” Saguru rubbed his face with a hand, torn between exasperation and amusement, remembering once again why he attended as many Kid heists as possible. He’d been to crime scenes for years and seriously. Stuff like this only happened with the Kaitou Kid. -fin-

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Comet Donati [Chapter 1: History]

Series Summary: Sex, drugs, boy bands. You are a kinda-therapist recruited (via nepotism) to help Comet Donati through a recent crisis. Things are casual with Aegon, very not-casual with Aemond. Loosely inspired by One Direction.

Chapter Warnings: Language, references to sexual content (18+) and drugs, alcohol, smoking, astronomy, mental health struggles, Missouri.

Selected Chapter Quote: “You’re gonna love Aemond. He’s so fucked up. He’s like Disney World for therapists.”

Word count: 4.1k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

* * * I’m going to tag like a bazillion people since this is the first chapter of a new fic, but I WILL NOT TAG YOU AGAIN unless you ask me to. I hope you are all doing well, wherever you are in the world. 🥰😘 * * *

@borikenlove​ @myspotofcraziness​ @teenagecriminalmastermind​ @quartzs-posts​ @tclegane​ @poohxlove​ @narwhal-swimmingintheocean​ @chainsawsangel​ @itsabby15​ @padfooteyes​ @arcielee​ @travelingmypassion​ @what-is-originality​ @burningcoffeetimetravel​ @randomdragonfires​ @aemcndtargaryen​ @jvpit3rs​ @sarcastic-halfling-princess​ @flowerpotmage​ @ladylannisterxo​ @thelittleswanao3​ @libroparaiso​ @tinykryptonitewerewolf​ @girlwith-thepearlearring​ @minttea07​ @trifoliumviridi​ @deltamoon666​ @mariahossain​ @darkenchantress​ @doingfondue​ @atherverybest​ @namelesslosers​ @skythighs​ @moonlightfoxx​ @partypoison00​ @bellameshipper​ @coffedraven​ @greenowlfactif​ @catalina-howard​ @babyblue711​ @marvelescvpe​ @heimtathurs​ @ammo23​

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged in future chapters! 💜

“You are a professional,” you tell your reflection threateningly, like it owes you money. Your hair is painstakingly tidy, your makeup neat, subdued, businesslike. You are wearing a black blazer, a white blouse, and Cookie Monster pajama pants. You are in your one-bedroom apartment in Kansas City, Missouri: grey, thunderous, humid as hell, June raindrops on the windows. “You have a master’s degree and hundreds of clinical hours and you are not afraid of clients. Not at all! Not even a little bit!”

You check your phone. 2:55 p.m.

“Oh God,” you whine to the checkered tiles of the bathroom floor, to the floral wallpaper. You clutch the cold porcelain of the sink: rose-pink, 1950s, diners and Thunderbirds, housewives and Valium. “Oh my God. Oh my God. I can’t do this. Oh my God.”

But there is no escape! You hurry, sweating profusely, to your laptop. You start the Zoom meeting and wait for your client to arrive, chewing your thumbnail until it bleeds, a scarlet semicircle of dull warm pain, a crescent moon like spilled merlot. You glance at your notepad again. David Mills, 25, married, anxiety upon relocating to a new city and beginning employment there.

Wait.

You confirm with a quick Google search in a new tab. David Mills was the protagonist in Se7en.

You sit back in your swivel chair, eyes narrowed with suspicion. The blue-white luminance of the screen glows on your face like moonlight. Your client is either a coincidence or a liar.

So what? People lie. People lie about therapy especially. So he wants some anonymity. Big deal.

“Strange,” you murmur to yourself.

You have no further opportunity to mull it over. A gratingly cheerful ding announces your client’s arrival in the Zoom meeting waiting room. No avatar, name still listed as David Mills.

“Okay. Okay. It’s fine. Here we go.”

You shake the tremors out of your hands and admit him. He pops onto the screen like a bloom of ironweed, like fireworks on the Fourth of July. It’s nighttime wherever he is. The background is dark and indistinct, shadowy; lamplight cascades across his face, topaz and fool’s gold. You are startled to realize that you already know him. And his name is definitely not David Mills.

“…Aegon?!”

He grins, sly and cocky but never cruel. “Hey.”

“Aegon Targaryen??!!”

“That’s me!” he concurs brightly. “What’s up, Stargirl?”

And instantly, you are transported back to almost exactly one year ago: a rooftop bar downtown, neon signs coiled in shades of violet and rhodonite and sapphire, night wind, constellations, ice clinking in misty glasses, locks of his hair skating between your fingers, the sting of his teeth on your throat, the Weeknd. “Hey,” you say softly. And then again, with more enthusiasm: “Hey! I saw you on Good Morning America last week!”

“Yeah? Was I good?”

“Jace was good. You were slightly offkey.”

“Aw shit. I usually am.”

“That’s okay. You’re the hot loser, right? That’s your character?”

“That’s me, baby. That’s why it works so well.”

It’s impossible: time has passed, thousands of miles have opened up between you, and yet it’s like he’s right here in the room, he never arrived, he never left, he’s always been here for life to grow up around like the framework of a house, a trellis, a skeleton. “How did you find me?”

“I couldn’t remember your name, but I figured you must have finished school by now. So I Googled therapists in Kansas City. Do you know how many there are?”

“500,” you guess.

“712,” Aegon says. “At least, that’s how many I scrolled through before I found your photo.”

“Wow.” You’re smiling; you can’t take your eyes off him. A lot of girls have that problem. That’s why he’s worth $100 million. “Couldn’t remember my name, huh? I guess I didn’t make much of an impression.”

He chuckles, a little bashfully, sweeping his blond hair off his face. “No. No, you definitely made an impression.”

So did he. In the downstairs bathroom of the bar, tucked beneath a staircase, stark white florescent lights and red walls, lip biting and ripped seams on your dress. He’d finished in approximately thirty seconds—which, oddly, felt more like a compliment than anything else—and then promptly snapped off the condom, dropped to his knees, and went down on you until you came not once but twice, a rarity for you. But that wasn’t the best part. Afterwards you’d gone back up to the roof together, sat in a quiet corner booth until the bar closed, talked about anything and everything with your bodies folded unconsciously into each other, origami, blended watercolors, whispers and murmurs, your palm on his thigh, his fingertips ghosting the underside of your wrist.

“So,” Aegon says through the laptop screen. “Are you, like, kind of unemployed currently?”

“No,” you reply, palpably defensive. Embarrassing! “I’m clearly working right now. You literally made a virtual appointment with me. I’m just…getting my practice off the ground.”

“Yeah but you seem lowkey unemployed.”

“You are so fucking rude.” But you’re laughing.

“I’m just saying, you had a lot of appointment times available. A lot.”

“I’m recruiting clients!” you exclaim. “I’m not like you. I can’t simulate sex with microphone stands to sell tickets.”

“That was one time!”

You smirk at him, eyebrows raised.

“That was…four times. That I recall.”

“I’m a professional. A serious, grown-up, certified professional.”

“You’re a glorified hobo, admit it.”

“You’re a dollar store Harry Styles.”

“Fuck,” he sighs, clutching his chest. “Okay you win.”

“Why did you do this? Why did you track me down in order to make some fraudulent therapy appointment?”

Now Aegon is something you’ve never seen from him before. He’s nervous. “I, uh…I need your help.”

“Really?”

“Well, not me specifically,” he amends. “We need your help. Comet does.”

Comet. What he means—what screaming fans all over the world mean when they drop this name in Reddit threads or Twitter hashtags or Tumblr gifsets—is the boy band Comet Donati. Three albums, five members: Aegon, Jace, Luke, Cregan, Daeron. The lineup has changed recently. Everyone knows why. “Help with what?”

“I mean…I’m sure you heard about what happened.”

“Yeah,” you say, somber now. Six months ago a piece of rigging collapsed during soundcheck at the Nippon Budokan in Tokyo. It hit Aemond, costing him six inches of flesh on the left side of his face, his sight in one eye, and his position as the undisputed, archetypal fearless leader of Comet. The celebrity gossip sites had reported that he was taking time off to recover, and then that his younger brother Daeron would be filling in for him at a few shows, and then suddenly Daeron was the fifth member of the band, and everyone was so charmed by his distinctly buoyant, sunshine-and-rainbows quality that Aemond faded from the discourse almost entirely, a ghost, a phantom, an antiquated word like telegraph or courtship or laudanum.

“So things are different now,” Aegon continues. “Things are…not always easy. And I think it might be a good idea to have you around.”

“Look, I’m not…like…” How can you put this? It’s something you have difficulty admitting out loud. “I’m not a real therapist, you know? You’re right, Aegon. I’m basically unemployed. I’m fresh out of my master’s program, I don’t have anywhere near the kind of experience that someone would need to adequately help Comet. So, maybe I could recommend some people to you, but other than that I don’t think I can—”

“It has to be you,” Aegon says.

You shake your head, gazing through the screen at him, through the space and the time. “Why?”

“When Comet performed in Kansas City…when we met at the bar that night…” He is hushed, meditative. “I don’t really remember what we talked about. But I remember exactly how you made me feel.” He smiles, the sort of smile you didn’t know he had in him: soft, pure, nostalgic, without edges. “I think Aemond could use some of that.”

The walls fall down around you, this apartment, this city, this life. “Where are you right now?”

“Capri.”

“Where?”

“Capri,” he says again, amused. “But we’ll be in Rome tomorrow. You can meet us there.”

“In Rome,” you repeat, like it’s Mars or one of Jupiter’s moons.

“Catch the next flight out. The band can reimburse you. We’ll get you a contract of some sort. Nothing too long-term, so you won’t be locked in or anything. A few months. Then we can reassess.”

“Okay, but…I don’t feel comfortable serving as an official therapist to you or anyone else in Comet, Aegon. The circumstances are less than orthodox. And not just because of the…um…bar bathroom situation.”

“Fine, whatever.” He’s high on the victory; the details don’t matter so much.

“Okay,” you say. And then again, giggling wildly at the ludicrousness of it all: “Okay! I guess I’ll see you in Rome tomorrow!”

“Cool. Let me give you my WhatsApp.” You exchange information, and then he grins at you, crafty and radiant through the screen. “You’re gonna love Aemond. He’s so fucked up. He’s like Disney World for therapists.”

“We’ll see,” you reply distractedly, already opening Expedia in a new tab.

~~~~~~~~~~

The Midwest, the East Coast, the Atlantic Ocean, the Mediterranean Sea, Southern Europe, green to blue and then green again as the plane descends into the Leonardo da Vinci Airport of Rome. You roll your single carry-on bag through the corridors, peering out the windows at cloudless cerulean skies and towering stone pines. Aegon meets you at the bottom of an escalator. He’s wearing cargo shorts, a neon green tank top, and matching Crocs. He’s slightly chubbier than you remember, just as beautiful, just as chaotically charismatic, the sun made flesh. He’s standing with a man you don’t recognize.

“Benvenuta, bella!” Aegon proclaims, nearly tackling you with a hug before taking your bag. He smells like beer, sunscreen, Axe body spray, summer air that unfurls warm and golden in the lungs.

“Oh, thank God,” the other man—possibly Italian, definitely gorgeous—exhales with great relief. “Aegon said he needed to meet someone at the airport and I was 90% sure that you would be a drug dealer. But you do not look like a drug dealer. You’re not a…are you a…?”

“No, I’m definitely not a drug dealer.”

“Okay. Great. Hello.” He extends a hand, tan and muscley. “I’m Criston, I’m the tour manager. It is my job to keep everyone alive and uninjured.”

“Four out of five isn’t bad,” Aegon says. And then, when Criston is clearly distressed by it: “Uh, anyway, there’s an Escalade waiting outside.”

The SUV is massive and black with tinted windows. As you follow Aegon into the backseat, several paparazzi appear on the sidewalk and begin snapping photos, calling out to you and expelling rapid-fire white flashes like lightning. Aegon ignores them. You’ve been travelling all day, and the sun is setting now in Rome. The sky is the color of embers, autumn leaves, Saturn. Criston climbs into the passenger seat and gives instructions to the driver. The Escalade wheels out of Arrivals, paparazzi sprinting down the sidewalk after it to take a few final pictures.

“So,” Aegon says, smiling. He pops open the mini fridge and hands you an ice-cold can of San Pellegrino. “Do you have a boyfriend back in Kansas? Or, maybe, boyfriends?”

“Missouri,” you correct him automatically. “And no. None worth mentioning.” A guy you’ve had lunch with twice, a guy you made out with at an Olive Garden, a guy you hooked up with back at UChicago who you’re still texting, guys who flit in and out of your mind like birds through the sky, impermanent, inconsequential.

“You still on the pill?”

“Yes.” You’re not offended. Aegon is teasing, and so are you. It occurs to you that talking to Aegon is a bit like talking to yourself; there are no awkward lulls, and he rarely says anything that shocks you. “But that’s not why I came to Rome.”

“That’s fine. That’s not why I invited you.”

As the Escalade zooms by iconic landmarks—the Spanish Steps, the Pantheon, the Piazza del Popolo—you ask Aegon about them. He has no idea; he makes things up instead.

“That’s the duck waterpark,” he says as you pass a fountain that’s over 1,000 years old. Then he points to a naked statue of an extremely buff Mercury. “That’s me before I started eating carbs again.” His only snippet of accurate trivia comes as you drive by the twilight-lit Colosseum. “Holy shit, that’s where Taylor Swift made out with Tom Hiddleston!”

“Surely more important things have happened there at some point in the past two millennia.”

“I doubt it,” Aegon replies, frowning out the Escalade window, taciturn. “I wish I got to make out with Taylor Swift in the Colosseum.”

Comet Donati is staying at the Anantara Palazzo Naiadi Rome Hotel, which closely resembles a palace. When the Escalade stops at the front doors, you drag your luggage out onto the cobblestones.

“No no no,” Criston says, grabbing the rolling suitcase from you. He gives it to a white-gloved butler along with a room number and then escorts you and Aegon to the top floor. It’s not until the three of you are in the elevator that you realize you are still wearing your highly unsophisticated travel-day attire: yoga pants, flip flops, a tie-dye hoodie with Louis Tomlinson’s face on it that you purchased from Etsy last winter. Aegon catches you scrutinizing your reflection in the mirrors that line the inside of the elevator.

“Traitor,” he says with a grin, massaging your shoulders. His eyes lock with yours in the mirror. His touch is—just as it was a year ago at that bar in Kansas City when you were home from school on break and he was a transient visitor, fleeting like a rainstorm—familiar somehow, pleasant and comforting but not profound, welcome without being necessary.

“Don’t hate him ‘cause you ain’t him. When was the last time you wrote a #1 hit single?”

“Never,” Aegon readily admits. “Although I got into the Top 5 in Norway once.” No, everyone knows that Aemond was Comet’s Louis Tomlinson: their best songwriter, their relatively unproblematic and grounded team captain, their protector, their compass. And now he has no official place in the band at all.

When the elevator doors open, Criston leads you and Aegon down the hallway to a bustling suite. Inside there are white leather couches and gold-colored lounge chairs, a bar, a staircase that leads up to the loft bedroom, people wandering in and out of air that is hazy with whispers and cigarette smoke. There are men in suits, women in short tight dresses, leather and velvet and sequins. You are woefully underdressed. Fortunately, so is Aegon. He is greeted with a dizzying array of cheers, waves, and toasts. Someone shoves an emerald green bottle of Peroni into his grasp. Kesha’s Your Love Is My Drug is vibrating through the speakers mounted on the wall: “What you’ve got, boy, is hard to find, I think about it all the time…”

“Hey, hey, listen up!” Aegon shouts, stepping on top of an ottoman, and the chatter lowers in volume like a radio being turned down.

You scan the smokey room until you’ve located all five current Comet Donati members: Aegon the disaster playboy, Luke the sensitive and kindhearted one, Daeron the energetic ray of sunshine, Jace the heir apparent in the power vacuum created by Aemond’s departure, Cregan the brooding, mysterious, sexy Northern Englishman. You know them, and yet you don’t. You know the characters they play, their reputations, their public personas…but that doesn’t mean you know them. Aegon is the only man you spoke to at the rooftop bar that night in Kansas City a year ago. So far, the mythical version of him seems quite consistent with reality.

Cregan is slumped at one end of the couch by the window and knocking back shots of what appears to be straight vodka. In the night sky beyond the glass, you can see stars and the illuminated Rome skyline: modern skyscrapers, ancient rubble. At the other end of the couch is Aemond. He’s smoking, drinking something iced and bloody pink, hunched over with his elbows on his knees, all in black like he’s trying to disappear. His left eye, the blind one, is an ethereal cloudy blue that reminds you of renderings you’ve seen of Neptune, Uranus, exoplanets, the Earth from space. He glances up at you and holds your gaze for just a few seconds too long. Then he looks away, bewildered, taking a drag off his cigarette.

Aegon introduces you to the room as you stand beside the ottoman, awkward and ashamed in your Louis Tomlinson hoodie. “She’s a friend,” Aegon says. “And she’s also a therapist.”

“Good, you need one!” Jace shouts through cupped hands, and there are tipsy titters and guffaws.

“Not for me,” Aegon snaps. “For you deranged bitches.”

As Aegon descends from the ottoman—klutzily, stumbling, clutching onto Criston like a baby lemur to its mother—Luke approaches to present himself. He has a mess of dark curly hair that falls over his face and large, honest eyes. There’s a black spiral notebook and a white gel pen in his left hand. He offers you his right. “Hi! I’m Luke Velaryon.”

“Yeah, I know. I spend a lot of time on Comet’s Spotify page.”

He groans. “I look so bad in that header photo.”

“I don’t think so.”

“It’s the nose. I have a pug nose. The label has been trying to convince me to get it fixed for years.” He turns to a girl who is practically hiding behind him: arrestingly beautiful in a fragile sort of way, gentle like a doe. “Maybe you can help Rhaena talk to people.”

“I have social anxiety,” she explains apologetically. Her voice is very quiet yet lyrical. There are weights tied to her confession, years of shame and despair. Luke throws an arm across her shoulders and hugs her to him, touching his forehead briefly to hers.

“That’s okay.” You give Rhaena a reassuring smile. “It’s super common, and there are a lot of strategies you can try that might make it more manageable.”

“It wasn’t a big deal at first, you know?” Rhaena says. It comes out in a rush like water through a cracked dam. Luke looks astonished but pleased. You have been known to have this effect upon people, a compulsive sort of disclosure that drains, empties, unburdens. Aegon is watching from several feet away, beaming between swigs of Peroni. “Luke and I met before he got famous and we could just hang out around the neighborhood. Ice cream, public parks, Pret a Manger, riding the Tube together. But now…now he’s always meeting new people and there are all these events I’m supposed to go to with him, and I can’t sleep properly for days leading up to each one, and half the time I end up hiding in the bathroom or being too nauseous to eat anything, and…”

Jace is at the bar and slurping a vesper: shoulder-length curls, flashy blazer with nothing underneath it, a contemplative appraisal of you. There’s a stunning girl sitting beside him that he’s not listening to.

As you are explaining the potential benefits of exposure therapy to Rhaena and Luke, Daeron bursts through the crowd to greet you. He’s their Niall Horan: warm, uncomplicated, disarmingly friendly, beachy blond hair, a golden retriever on two legs. He hugs you—spiritedly, like Aegon did—and then compliments your flip flops.

“So you’re our new therapist?” Daeron says eagerly, like this is something he knows they’ve needed.

“Well, I’m a therapist, but I’m not really your therapist. Because I can’t hang out with you guys all the time and also be your therapist. It’s unethical. But Aegon thought I might have some good ideas, I guess. In a strictly unofficial capacity.”

“Okay! Cool! And you and Aegon are…friends?”

“Um…yeah. Sort of.”

“Remember that show in Kansas City last summer?” Aegon tells Daeron. He’s supernaturally gifted at making everything sound blissfully casual, like there couldn’t possibly be more to the story. “I met her at the bar we went to afterwards.”

“Totally,” Daeron says. “Great city. Awesome barbeque.”

Criston asks him: “So, uh, how’s your mom doing?”

Daeron is puzzled. “Fine…?”

“Criston, please stop asking about my mom,” Aegon says. “It’s getting weird. It’s been weird. It was weird four years ago and it’s weird now. She has a husband.”

“Yeah, but is that…you know…is that still going well?”

“Yes, Criston.”

“Fantastic,” Criston mutters, pouring himself a Scotch. He uses the glass to gesture to you. “So what the hell am I supposed to bill her as? Aegon’s friend?”

“She’s a…” Aegon considers this, waving his Peroni around in the air. “Human resources mental health consultant.”

“She’s a what?”

“She helps resolve both intra and interpersonal conflict.”

“That sounds imaginary.”

“Well then you figure something out!” Aegon says, exasperated. “Isn’t this what you get paid for? To make problems go away? To keep us happy? To stop us from killing each other? You figure it out.” He saunters off to grace the drunken masses with his presence. Criston sighs and goes to stand by the wall with a herd of stone-faced businessmen in suits, record label guys, guys who only know how to see the world in terms of contract clauses and account balances.

Rhaena goes to stand by Jace’s companion, who—as you conjure up vague recollections of celebrity gossip sites—is named something like Bella or Bailey. Daeron is commandeered by a gaggle of adoring Italian women. Luke is showing Aemond something in his notebook: black pages, sparkly white ink. Aemond is nodding and giving critique, not that saccharine, generic, brainless kind of praise but authentic encouragement: try to think of a more specific word here, move that line up to the first verse, I love the use of this metaphor. Aemond’s voice dredges up memories you didn’t know you had of him on talk shows, in YouTube compilations, in songs you’ve been streaming on Spotify for years. Smoke drifts from his lips. Ice jangles in his organ-pink cocktail. And again, he looks up at you, inhaling poison as Luke makes his opal-ink edits.

“What’s that drink called?” you ask the bartender, and he squints across the room to where Aemond is seated on the snow-colored leather couch to discern it.

“A Bramble,” he says. “It’s named after blackberry bushes.”

“Can I get one?”

“Sure.”

You procure your drink and when Luke leaves the couch, you whizz past him like a meteor as you walk towards it.

“Hey,” Cregan flings impassively, not knowing why you’re here, not caring either.

“Hey,” you return.

And then you sit down next to Aemond, deliberately on his blind side. He glances over at you, his brow crinkling with confusion. Because—surely, undoubtedly—no one ever speaks about his injury, but it’s veined through everything they do, it’s a perpetual undercurrent that steers his life and yet cannot be voiced without breaching those vigilantly constructed levees of propriety. It’s the elephant in every room. It’s a ghost rattling doorknobs and tapping on windows. And sometimes the only way to free yourself of something is to throw the cage door wide open and set it loose.

“I accidentally wore your competitor’s merch,” you say. “I didn’t want you to have a good view.”

Aemond laughs, and the strangest thing happens: everyone in the room turns to look. On their faces are expressions of shock, bafflement, relief, wonder. Aemond shifts so he’s facing you, one elbow propped on the back of the couch. He sips the Bramble in his right hand, puffs on the cigarette in his left. And there it is, what people like to call a spark, but it’s something deeper than that: organic chemistry, neurotransmitter plumes, wells of marrow that sing to each other from beneath the darkness.

You nod to his cigarette, Benson & Hedges according to the shimmery gold pack that lays open on the glass coffee table. “You think that makes you cool?”

“I know it does,” he says. His gaze flicks down to your Louis Tomlinson hoodie…or what’s under it, perhaps. “Wouldn’t work on you though. Too far gone.”

You hold out your hand. After a few seconds, Aemond passes you his cigarette. You—very stoically, very nonchalantly—take a single drag and then erupt into a coughing fit, eyes watering, lungs gasping, surrendering the cigarette emphatically. Humiliating! Irredeemable!

“Told you,” Aemond notes. But he’s rubbing your back with a hand that is large and strong and yet careful. You smile at him. Aemond smiles too.

Criston pulls one of the suit guys aside and says: “Get her on the payroll.”

[thebenjiblackwoodexpress]

Snow Drop Part. 9

Description: Jacaerys seeks to convince the serving girl he's fallen in love with to be his princess. Y/N teaches Jacaerys the joys of hot chocolate in Dragonstone's kitchen, where secrets of her scarred past are revealed to the Prince.

Writer’s Note: Hey guys, Elizabeth here with an update to my Jacaerys story. Sorry for the long hiatus. I’ve been unwell and unable to write but back on track now, hopefully. There will also be two more parts uploaded in the next two days. Hope you guys enjoy!

Warnings: Female reader, mentions of past sexual assault and trauma.

Y/N tentatively handled the tiaras Jacaerys had so thoughtfully procured for her to look at, knowing by now of her fascination with princesses. She had been embarrassed about this at first, but quickly came to consider it as a further sign of his sweetness to her: that he not only indulged her in her interest, specifically reading of Targaryen princesses to her, but also actively encouraged her to view herself as one of their number. As his Princess. Each of the tiaras were more beautiful than she had the words to express and she could never have imagined, as a young girl dreaming of being a Princess, that she would be handling such precious objects. Each one bore an intricate design, encrusted with priceless gems of Ruby, emerald, topaz and quartz, as Jacaerys would explain whenever she asked what each was called. So enamoured with looking into the gems was she, that she did not notice Jacaerys smiling fondly at her, as he leant against a nearby pillar observing her.

One diadem, in particular, caught her attention, its beauty evoking in her a sense of wonder surpassing that of all the previous ones. This one she lifted more tentatively, holding it to the moonlight to observe how it shone through the white gems like distilled starlight. She gasped as the light passed through the gems and she realised that the delicate foiling around them was meant to resemble snowdrops. Her favourite flower. She then noticed the intricate dragon design interwoven throughout the piece, closely resembling Jacaerys' dragon. She looked up at Jacaerys and met his own gaze, intently trained on hers, as if in anticipation of her reaction. She hesitantly questioned, "this is the most beautiful. Are these snowdrops? The gems look just like the petals. And this dragon looks so much like Vermax." As she spoke, Jacaerys smiled knowingly, responding in a teasing voice: "I am glad that my Princess has found a crown to her liking although, of course, she shall have all of them."

Taking slow steps toward her, he took the tiara from her hands, brushing his fingers against hers as he did so, and placed it on her head. As he affectionately tucked a loose lock of hair behind her hair and stroked her cheek, he met her quizzical gaze with his own adoring one. "I hope you do not think it presumptuous, but I designed this one myself. I wanted to show you how much you are woven into mine own heart, my Princess." Her mouth parted in surprise at this. She had not thought that these tiaras were for her; they were entirely too beautiful, too precious.

The thought that Jacaerys had specifically designed this one for her, to resemble her favourite flower, interlocking with the symbol of his House, made her heart almost burst with affection for him. She felt tears welling in her eyes at his thoughtfulness, which caused a look of alarm to alight in Jacaerys' eyes, as he frantically took hold of her elbows in his hands. "What's wrong, my dove. Have I upset you in some manner? I did not mean to rush you, if that is it." Hearing the panicked note in his voice, she quickly silenced him, pulling the fabric of his tunic so that she could reach, as she crashed her lips onto his. As he wrapped his arms around her waist to pull her closer to him, he lowered his head so she would not have to reach for him, and smiled against her lips as she brought a hand up to toy with his hair. It still warmed his heart that she should like his hair, even find it beautiful, when so many others had viewed it as an impediment. When she finally pulled away, Jacaerys making it a rule never to do so first, they were both breathless and Jacaerys not a little dazed as he struggled to say something witty. He only managed to say, "I take it you liked my gift, then, my Princess" in a breathless voice before she burst out laughing and he smiled in contentment at the sweet sound.

Before she could, however, he quickly turned his head to capture her lips with his, smiling against her lips as he heard her startled squeak, before she raised her palms to steady herself against his chest. When she drew away, breaking the kiss, she swatted his chest playfully. "That was not very Princely". He lowered his head to kiss her jaw, "my apologies, my Princess. I hope you will forgive me." She affectionately patted his jaw, still encircled within his arms as he gazed lovingly down at her. His voice suddenly turning serious, he looked at her intently. "I was concerned when I did not see you today or later in the library. I worried that you were unwell." Her heart stuttering at his concern for her, she pressed her palm to his cheek as he placed his own above her hand to hold it in place and lean into her touch. "It was only that I had many duties to attend to today and did not have the time, nothing more than that." He frowned at that. "I do not like to think of you working so hard that you only return to your own chambers at such an hour. If you would only let me tell my mother of our betrothal and allow me to have you moved to the Royal apartments, I..." she interrupted him once more with a quick peck to his lips. "Not yet, I will tell you when I'm ready," She added in a contrite tone.

It was late on the next evening, when Y/N made her way back down to the servants' quarters after a long day. She had been particularly busy that day and hadn't found the time to meet Jacaerys at the library. She hoped he wouldn't mind, even if she herself missed him, but she quickly banished the thought. It was silly to think he should miss her after only a short time.

As she rounded the final hallway back to the kitchens, to make herself a hot beverage before bed, she was startled to see Prince Jacaerys casually leaning against a wall, smiling and standing up straight when he saw her approach. She excitedly skipped up to him, grabbing his elbows in her hands as she smiled up at him. "And what brings you down here at such an hour, my Prince". Jacaerys could not stop his heart from stuttering at her appellation, knowing now that she meant to say that he was her Prince. Wanting to feel her touch, he playfully tapped his jaw, before she rolled her eyes and rose on tiptoe to kiss the place he had indicated.

He dejectedly nodded his head but took her hand and raised it to his lips, all the same." As you wish, my Princess. Would you at least promise to find me in the library to walk you back, in future. I do not like the thought of you traversing these dark halls alone at such an hour." Nodding at him, she playfully rolled her eyes at his protectiveness, even as her heart secretly skipped a beat at it. "Will you allow me to escort you back to your room now?" He asked hopefully. "I was actually just making my way to the kitchen to make a hot beverage before bed, would you like to join me?" He smiled jubilantly at her suggestion, taking hold of her hand. "Lead the way, Princess" He said, being sure he would follow her anywhere if she asked him to. Interlocking her fingers with his, she dragged him in the way of the kitchen.

Jacaerys smiled at the sight of her hand interlocked with his and affectionately squeezed hers as she led him to the kitchen. This late at night, the fire from the lanterns on the walls cast a golden, ambient glow on the stone walls, creating a warm atmosphere. As Y/N withdrew her hand from Jacaerys', he found himself reflexively reaching his hand out to recapture hers, making her laugh. Seeing his uncharacteristically bashful look, she patted his jaw affectionately and pointed at a nearby chair at the kitchen bench. "Take a seat Jacaerys. I'll make the drinks." Jacaerys obediently sat but was quick to ask her if he could help and was surprised when she laughed again. "That won't be necessary, My Prince." Smirking at her, he teasingly questioned, "and what is so funny, may I ask?" She could not repress her smile as she responded in an equally teasing manner, "only that I highly doubt a Prince would know the first thing about using a kitchen. Have you ever even boiled some water?" Jacaerys had a sheepish expression on his face as he said, "well...not exactly, but I'm sure I could learn and I would be very happy to help. You shouldn't be making me a drink for me after finishing your other duties. Perhaps if you show me how to do it, I can do it for you next time."

Y/N had been fully prepared to tease Jacaerys over his lack of competence in the kitchen, but his sweet offer to learn how to make her favourite drink for her made her walk up to him instead at his perch on a bench, so that she was between his legs, and kiss him. His arms immediately reached out to encircle her waist and pull her toward him. When she broke the kiss, she delighted to note that he had a slight dazed expression on his face. She loved to elicit such a response from kissing him, pleased that he should be as affected by her as she was by him. Rubbing his hands up and down her back, he smiled at her as he questioned, "and what did I do to merit such a response?" She brushed a lock of his hair from his forehead and smiled at him, "You're just sweet." His smile expanded at this, as he pinched her cheek, "not as sweet as you, my Princess."

After ladling the warm milk, steeped in chocolate and spices, into two mugs, she made to carry them over to the table where Jacaerys was sitting. No sooner had she reached out to do so then she heard Jacaerys run the short distance from the bench he was perched on to her. Wrapping an arm around her torso, he playfully spun her so that she was behind him, smirking at her surprised expression. Lifting the tray with their drinks on it, and snatching a kiss to her cheek, he began to walk back to the table, inclining his head to indicate that she should follow him. She raised her brow in mock displeasure and placed her hands on her hips, "I am more than capable of lifting two mugs on my own, Jacaerys". Smiling playfully at her, he rejoined, "I would not want my Princess to burn her beautiful hands, not when her Prince can take the burden from her." She blushed furiously at this, not least because she had the hands of a serving maid, rather than a lady, and yet he still found them beautiful. No man had ever been so considerate of her wellbeing and of her feelings...not even when she had believed that one had been.

As he leant down to recaptured her lips, she pressed her forefinger to his lips before skipping away from him, his arms reaching out as if to stop her. She giggled at the pout on his face, "I shall never get my hot chocolate if I allow you to distract me." He smirked at this, saying in a cocky tone, "so you find me distracting, my Princess?" Rolling her eyes, she lifted the saucepan and held it over the stove she had just lit to boil the milk, "only because you are so annoying". She laughed as his pout, which she was sure he didn't realise he did, returned, finding the expression adorable.

As she prepared the hot chocolate, mixing the heated milk and spices of cinnamon, cardamon, and nutmeg in the pot, she caught glimpses of Jacaerys leaning up from his seat to watch her, a look of intense concentration on his face. She tried not to laugh at his evident confusion, most likely thinking she was performing some feat of sorcery. Her heart warmed to see him mouthing the steps of the process as if to commit them to memory for future reference. The thought of the Prince of the Realm making her hot chocolate was at once inexpressibly sweet and funny.

She shook her head to rid herself of that unwanted thought and instead redirected her gaze to Prince Jacaerys, her Prince, patting the bench next to him to urge her to sit. A smile spread across her face at the sight and she half skipped to sit beside him. As soon as she had sat down, Jacaerys frowned down at the small space she had left between them. Raising his own eyebrow playfully, as she had done before, he wrapped his arm around her torso and pulled her flush against his side. He smiled triumphantly at her as he saw her trying to suppress her own smile and look reproachfully at him. Lowering his head, he pressed his lips to the side of her jaw, whispering against it, "I prefer to keep you this close to me." Pulling away to see her reaction to his teasing, he smiled at the blush on her cheeks as she tried to turn her head away from his gaze. Gently taking hold of his lady's chin between his forefinger and thumb, he turned her face back to his, and stroked her jaw with his thumb. "I would have you be this close to me forever and always, my dove." He lowered his head slowly to press a reverent, lingering kiss to her forehead, before moving back to allow her space to recover herself from his attentions.

A moment later, Y/N interlocked their hands together on the bench and smiled shyly up at him. Quickly shifting his gaze from their interlocked hands to meet his lady's shy gaze, he looked into her eyes with a tender expression, dazed by the sweetness of her affectionate gesture. He squeezed her hand in his, content to feel her delicate hand enclosed within his own, as he raised their hands to rest them against his lap. She smiled at him in response, and he felt his heart stutter at her beauty and the comforting thought that she was pleased by his attentions.

For so long he had been under the painful impression that she would never return his love for her, and that he would be forced to love her in silence. Coughing lightly, Y/N pushed a mug, with her free hand, across the table in Jacaerys’ direction. "Stop looking so pleased with yourself, Jacaerys and try the drink I so carefully made for you." He smirked at her as he replied, "what was that, my dove? I will, of course, be only too pleased to try the drink you so lovingly made for me." He tried to repress a laugh as he watched a look of realisation pass over his lady's features at his emphasis on the word 'lovingly'. His heart swelled with affection for his lady as she adorably swatted his shoulder, "drink the hot chocolate, you knave." His face immediately fell from its previous look of elation at her appellation. Pouting, he grumbled, "what happened to your Prince?" Half hoping she would kiss him for his troubles, he was surprised, but no less pleased, when she lightly took hold of his chin in her hand. Tapping the tip of his nose, she laughed as she told him to "remove the long face. I will give you a kiss if you drink it." His eyes suddenly lit up as he quickly lifted the mug to his lips, burning his tongue in his attempt to claim the proffered reward of his love's affection.

"It's called hot chocolate. My mother used to make it for me on special occasions when we had the money for the chocolate. It was rare but it was all the more special for it. Of course we wouldn't have made it with milk but it was just as nice with hot water. The point was that it was our special thing that we would look forward to doing together. We would take turns coming up with new recipes with the spices we had and it became almost a game to make the best recipe out of what we had." A dreamy expression settled onto Y/N's features as she relayed her childhood memories. "She'd usually save some for my birthday and she'd make me a cup before reading me a story. Those are some of my fondest memories, listening to my mother read me a story by candlelight, burrowed under the blankets. Even now the smell of it reminds me of those times and of her." There's always a steady supply of chocolate here, one of the many perks of serving Queen Rhaenyra." Y/N smiled nonchalantly at Jacaerys when she had finished her story but was surprised to see that his own expression looked almost pained. Before she could ascertain the reason, he carefully raised his knuckle to gently caress the side of her cheek, looking at her with a look of utmost concern. "It is a beautiful memory to have. I would love to have met your mother. I confess that it pains me to think of you suffering any hardships, my dove. I would shield you from any difficulties if could."

At his slightly pained expression, Y/N brushed her lips against Jacaerys' in the ghost of a kiss, as his eyes fluttered closed in contentment. He little cared if he burned his mouth if the feel of her soft, precious lips on his would be the reward. Drawing away, she tapped his jaw, smiling indulgently at him. "You are a silly boy." A grin spread on his face at her teasing, "I am not sure how well that bodes for the realm, for the Prince to be a 'silly boy'" He sighed, "but If I am to be thought so, it is only on the condition that I am your silly boy." He looked into her eyes intently at this, hoping to convey the seriousness of his meaning behind his eyes, even if his tone was light and teasing.

He really did mean to say that he would be happy to be called any playful insult she had for him, if only to be thought hers. If she would only continue to honour him with her love and trust and to look to him for comfort and protection, both for her person and her heart. He had not realised how long he had been staring at her, as if he couldn't believe she was real, he laughed again and he realised he must look a fool. Coughing lightly he took another sip of the drink to appease her. "It's delicious, you are most skilled." In truth, she could have made him a noxious concoction and he would have said much the same, favouring the drink merely because his lady had been the one to make it with her lovely hands. "I have never had such a drink." Smiling tenderly at him, she sipped her own drink and he nearly became distracted, again, in staring at her lips.

She found herself, once again, stunned by his consideration for her feelings and her past struggles. Even now he stared into her eyes with his warm brown ones, as if he wanted to protect her from all the evils of the world....even one so little as an absence of hot chocolate. That last thought made her laugh again, which caused Jacaerys to frown, not understanding the cause. He asked his next question in a tentative voice, as if fearful of her answer, "do not you believe me, my love?". She patted his chest affectionately, smiling as she responded, "it is only the thought of you defending me from a shortage of hot chocolate that makes me laugh." His eyes lit up mischievously and he smirked as he responded in a teasing tone. "I hope my lady will take my genuine concern for her hot chocolate needs more seriously. I shall have a shipment of chocolate brought in from the Gullet if it shall please my Princess. If I have to sack King's Landing for a steady supply, I will have no hesitation." He rejoiced as his Princess broke out into laughter at this, delighted to have elicited such a sweet sound from her, even if he was only half joking. He would have to see the kitchens had a steady supply of the drink for his lady and he would learn to make it himself, so that he could surprise her.

The Prince and his love talked late into the night, as the guttering candles along the walls attested to. Jacaerys paid little heed to the passage of time, engrossed in anything that his lady had to say, no matter the topic. His fascination with her far exceeded her own in even Princes and dragons, viewing her as by far the most wonderful being in existence.

One thought did keep clawing its way to the surface of his mind: What was the cause for his lady's continual evasions of his requests to announce their betrothal? He sought to understand what could be the cause of her delays and if he could remedy any concerns she might have. He could not but worry that it was her difficulty trusting in him that was the cause...that she had changed her mind about him. Resolving to uncover the cause without further delay, he took a deep breath as he prepared for her answer. "What is it that leads you to delay our marriage, my dove? Is it something I can remedy or...is it" He stuttered, "is it me that is is the problem? Do you not yet trust in the depths of my love for you?" She looked momentarily stunned at his directness, having hoped to evade this question for longer, she began looking frantically anywhere but his eyes. Jacaerys once again brought his hand up to gently cup her cheek and turn her face back to meet his own gaze. "Please answer me, my love. I am in agony fearing that it is your distrust in myself which causes this delay. If it is so, tell me what I can do to prove my love for you." He looked at her with so much sincerity and genuine concern in his eyes that she felt she could no longer conceal the real reason for her delay. Whilst she loved Jacaerys and could think of no greater happiness than marrying him, she was also painfully aware of her having felt the same way about another man who had betrayed her trust.

She could not completely erase the fear from her mind that Jacaerys would do the same. She realised that she would have to be completely honest with him if he were to fully allay her fears. She took a deep breath, as she prepared to reveal the cause of her delays and risk his potential rejection. "I wish to tell you something which should go some way to explaining my hesitation. But it may also change your opinion of me. You may not wish to marry me when you hear it. She spoke in a quiet, tentative voice, which expressed her concern that he would be displeased with her. Hearing her dejected tone, Jacaerys took hold of both of her hands in his, cradling them in his lap, as he urged her to continue. Gazing intently into her eyes, hoping to convey the intensity of his love for her in them, he spoke in a resolute tone: "I can already assure you, my sweet, that nothing could ever shake my most earnest desire to marry you. You are and shall remain the Princess of my heart, even should you decide, yourself, to cast me aside." Not fully convinced by this, but nonetheless comforted by his assurance, Y/N continued. "When I was younger, I fell in love with another man. He, too, told me he loved me and made a proposal of marriage. I was foolish enough then to believe in the honesty of his intentions, blinded by my love for him. I was made all too aware of his intentions, however, when...."

Seeing his lady hesitate, intaking a sharp breath and wincing at the memory, he squeezed her hands gently, hesitant to initiate any more intimate embrace as he began to understand what she wished to tell him. He struggled to contain his own anger with the man who had harmed his love, forcing himself to remain outwardly calm, so as not to further alarm her or make her believe herself to be the cause of his ire. Instead, he merely waited patiently for her to continue. "When he tried to force himself on me when I refused to give him what he wanted. I was fortunate that one of the servants boys came across us when they did and intervened. The thought of what could have happened still terrified and haunts me. I had known this man since I was a girl, believing him in earnest when he said that he loved me and wanted to marry me. I am not so naive as to believe every man's promise now. Whilst I do love you Jacaerys and really wish to be your wife, I cannot deny that I still fear that you will change in your manner towards me...that you will betray me in some way or another and that I will have been a fool again. It is hard to give another my trust fully when it was so cruelly trampled the first time."

As she finished speaking, he felt his heart string tugged painfully as he saw her lip tremble and her eyes brim with tears, as if she was trying her best not to fall apart in front of him. Her words had pained him inexpressibly, and he found himself struggling to choke back his own tears at the agonising thought of his love having suffered so much pain. He also fought to suppress his rage at the man who had dared to harm both his lady's heart and person. He could not fathom how anyone could harm one so precious and delicate. Jacaerys inwardly resolved that he would find this man, no matter where he was in the Seven Kingdoms, and he would kill him. He quickly filed this thought away, however. His main concern now, and always, would always be his lady. She needed him now. He knew he would have to approach comforting her delicately, in order to make her feel safe after revealing such a traumatic memory. Speaking in a gentle, cautious tone as if she were a startled deer, he asked, 'may I hold you?" He was relieved when she merely nodded before leaning her head forward to rest on his shoulder, and he carefully brought his arms up to hold her protectively to him, one hand caressing her head as he encircled his other arm around her waist. He rubbed his hand up and down her spine as he whispered soft assurances against her hair. "Hush now, my dove. I am here. Thank you for telling me, my brave girl, I understand now. Please believe me when I make you my solemn promise that I will never allow anyone to harm you again."

He held her tighter to him in a protective embrace, wishing he could take her pain from her and make it his own, as she whimpered into his shoulder. Whilst he would not reveal the full extent of his anger towards the villain who had not only assaulted his love, but had also made her feel as if she were to blame. His chest constricted in pain at his dove's admission that she even feared that he would place blame on her. Breathing shakily, he drew back slightly from their embrace to hold Y/N's face in both his hands, looking seriously into her eyes so that she would understand he meant every word he said. "I wish you to understand that none of what happened was your fault. It pains me to think that you would fear any judgement from me on that account, but I understand your feelings. The craven scoundrel who attacked you is solely to blame and you, my dove, are most brave for telling me something, which I know must have been only too painful to recount."

Seeing that her breathing was becoming calmer, as she looked into his eyes, he continued, stroking small circles on her jaw with his thumbs. "I am honoured by the trust you have placed in me in telling me this. I understand, now, your hesitation to trust fully in my love, knowing how cruelly your precious love has been abused in the past. I can only hope that you will allow me to prove in any way you will allow me to that my love and respect for you will never waver." As he finished speaking, only hoping that she would believe in the ardency of his love and respect for her, he was relieved when she buried her head in his chest. Responding immediately to her need for comfort from him, hating to see her cry and desiring only to make her feel safe and protected, he wrapped his arms more securely around her, cradling her head in his hand. As he continued to hold her to him and whisper soft assurances that she was safe in his arms, Jacaerys mentally vowed to protect his precious love from any harm and to personally despatch the man who had dared to harm her.

[vodika-vibes]

if you don't mind, could I have topaz with crosshair in the summer please? ❤️

Enjoy The Show

Summary: Crosshair doesn't get to spend much time together with his kitten, what with the Empire hounding his every step, and having to go on missions for the Rebellion. But every now and then he makes it his mission to spend time with you.

Pairing: TBB Crosshair x F!Reader

Word Count: 548

Prompt: Topaz - Affectionate Love

Warnings: None

Tagging: @trixie2023 @n0vqni @imabeautifulbutterfly

A/N: So, this is based in the AU that I'm half building where the situation in TBB is switched. So, Crosshair's chip never activated but the others did. Crosshair was forced to join the Rebellion in a desperate attempt to protect Omega.

The summer air is thick with humidity and the crowds of people moving around Crosshair hum with an excitement that feels inappropriate with the state of the galaxy.

His Kitten tells him that people need things to celebrate, or else they would fall into despair, and he knows that she’s probably right. She usually is about these things.

And while Crosshair would, usually, never dare to step foot on Naboo —it’s common knowledge that Vader watches this planet like a hawk— today is different.

Today is Queen’s Day.

And no one cares about one silver haired clone…or, more importantly, the woman he’s here to meet up with. 

Crosshair drops some credits at a food stall, ordering two pita sandwiches, and then follows the crowd of people for a time, before he veers off towards the lake. 

And…there. Sitting on the dock, her feet dipped in the water, her head tilted backwards to focus her gaze on the darkening sky. “Am I late?” Crosshair asks as he steps on the dock.

Her head tilts backwards, and she beams at him, “Not at all. I got here early.” Crosshair walks over to her and sits on the dock next to her, close enough that he’s pressed against her side.

“Not too early, I hope?”

“Hm.” Her smile is warm and fond, and Crosshair feels a surge of affection, “I spent the majority of the day with my family, Cross. No need to fret.” She takes the sandwich that he offered her, and then leans her head against his shoulder, “I’m glad you could make it.”

“As if I would miss a date with you.”

She laughs softly, and rubs her cheek against his shoulder. Crosshair flashes her a small smile and hooks his arm around her waist, pulling her into a tight side hug.

There are a lot of things that need to be said. Offers that need to be made. It’s only a matter of time before people start to realize that she’s the Rebellion’s inside person on Naboo, and Crosshair wants her safe before anyone figures it out.

But those are all conversations for later.

“Are we going to be able to see the fireworks from here?” Crosshair asks.

She nods, “Yeah, I think it’s the best location. No one comes here to watch them, they’d rather climb up to the roofs of the buildings.” She makes a face, “So it’s quiet. Private.”

“You just wanted to get me alone.” Crosshair teases.

She tilts her head to look at him, her smile soft and warm, “Well. You’re not wrong.”

Crosshair keeps his gaze locked with her as the first of the fireworks shoots up to the sky. Red and blue blossom across the dark sky, taking the form of intricate blossoms.

But he can’t tear his gaze off of her. 

Off the way she looks under the moonlight.

Off the way the fireworks reflect in her gaze.

Crosshair’s hand comes up to cup to her face, and he leans in to press his lips, gently, against hers.

He feels her sigh into the kiss, and he feels her relax against him as she allows him to control the intensity of the kiss, and Crosshair is pretty sure that he’s never loved anyone as much as he loves her.

[concretevampire]

Early Morning Breeze

arthur morgan x f!reader ꔫ 9.7k ꔫ emotionally fueled smut, icky gooey lovey-dovey stuff for thou // based off of the Dolly Parton song // religious themes

A/N: this is my first rdr2 fic & my first post on tumblr & english is not my first language so critique is highly encouraged

You sniffle, forearm coming up to wipe away stinging tears clinging to lashes. 

A rough exhale escapes your lips, and you can feel the sweeping glance Abigail sends you. Sniffling again, you press the heel of your palm to an eye, the other shut just as tight. 

“Guess a couple’a vegetables is all it takes to get you cryin’,” she jokes, cleaver slicing off the head of a trout; her apron stanches the briny blood, scales scattered across her forearms like small slivers of moonlight. 

“Onions,” is all you can muster as you finally allow yourself to turn away from the cutting board. You turn your face upward, cracking reddened eyes open to peer at the sky. 

Big clouds– white, ozonated mountains beyond imaginable reach– float by lazily. 

Another sniffle escapes you, but the dam of your eyes has been rebuilt, and the tears secede. Your sinuses still burn though, sending a horrible ache to the back of your throat. 

Swallowing, you return to chopping onions. 

Other than Abigail’s humming and the incessant clucking of hens in the distance (Grimshaw and chickens alike), the camp is quiet. 

Shady Belle is certainly an improvement to dirt-ridden tent floors and crickets in your pillow, but it’s rather gloomy at times. You’re sure that it’s simply the haze of Bayou Nwa and the spectral creeping of ivy along chipping, gray paint. But it would be foolish, and most of all, naive, to ignore the simmering discomfort lingering under everyone’s skin. 

Kieran’s death. Jack’s kidnapping. Dutch’s… nerves, if you were to give it a name. 

Arthur feels it, and so do Abigail and Hosea, but all four of you are unwilling to mention his waning psyche for fear that it’ll only darken the already half-lit moon of his mind. It isn’t worth it. 

And frankly, Arthur’s loyalty to Dutch is suicidal. 

He will hem and haw, but in the end, orders are followed with abandon. Loyal to a fault, you tell him. It’s all I know, he says back, gently smiling as if an inside joke has been said. This ol’ dog can’t learn new tricks, and he’ll chuckle wryly at the quip, head shaking like the sins of the world have been settled and folded into the intestines of his mind. 

You can only let him wallow for so long when he gets like that. 

Though you’ve learned (after too many years as friends and a few more years as something quaintly more) how to put an end to it: a routine. Artfully mastered, a precariously balanced act that includes a succinct scold paired with a slap to his shoulder before pressing a soothing kiss to his cheek as he grovels over his journal like an overgrown child. 

But another layer to the quiet and unease around camp is unarguably Micah's presence. Filthy, bastard leech of a man. Suckling away at Dutch’s good faith. 

The fifth horseman of the apocalypse: treachery.

The way he saunters about is simply nauseating— skinny fingers pricking and prying into people’s souls. And he’s always been particularly taken with you. Disappointingly. 

Micah finds sheer amusement in laying out your arteries on cork board, needles stabbing; displaying your heart like a prize butterfly, blood glittering like topaz stained glass. 

It was simply infatuation at first, back all those months ago. 

A game he had played with many women before and one you brushed aside easily. And then he discovered that you and Arthur were something— and Micah became a true savage, fueled by both contempt and his peculiar fascination with having taken women. 

Even now as he makes his rounds with the gang, purposefully adding to the gloom, his eyes linger on your figure. 

Micah veers closer, and you take a step towards Abigail. Her shoulders straighten, so do yours– a useless attempt to create some sort of fortress. He’s approaching in your peripheral and Abigail slams her cleaver down onto another trout, a singular clawed scale landing on your blouse. 

You’ve moved from onions onto potatoes, your knife cutting away skin in precise shallow strokes.

When he’s close, Micah says your name– a horrible rasp of letters strung together by cigar smoke and glowing ash– the depths of hell holed up in his esophagus. You ignore him. And in turn he grins wildly, as if presented with riches beyond King Midas’ imagination. Your jaw clenches, eyes set on the knife and the naked, golden flesh in your palm. 

“How’s Morgan’s broodmare?” 

Abigail side eyes him. Your next slice is thicker than the last, heavy handed, taking off more flesh than you’d like. A waste. 

“Or has he moved on after all these years? Got tired of the same fuck.” 

You set the nude potato aside, picking up a new one. You imagine it’s Micah’s prick: dirt ridden and calloused. You begin to skin it too, taking extra care to needle out any dark spots. 

“Been awhile since he’s been back in camp too. Makes you wonder.” 

“Oh piss off, Micah,” Abigail hisses, her cleaver resting threateningly against the dark wood of the table. A sharp, glaring warning. 

His smile widens. 

He shifts his stance, shoulders slackening as his thumbs hook on the flap of his pockets. “Hit too close to home? Remind you too much of Johnny and how he ran off?” 

“Micah,” you finally interrupt, picking up a new potato. “Shut up.” 

“So that’s how I get you to talk.” 

You stay silent, returning your attention to vegetables and other honeyed daydreams of skinning the Devil alive. 

“Ignoring me again.” His eyes linger, thinking of horrifically creative ways to dissect and tear you apart as you stand. “Wouldn’t you be worried though? He’s been gone for a week.” The statement is mocking and cruel. 

He wouldn’t know what concern was if it ate his face off, ravaged his eyeballs and devoured his tongue. 

Abigail glowers, this time pointing the cleaver at Micah. “Yer just jealous.” 

Micah sneers, the cylinder in his revolver shaking off a warning like a rattlesnake curling up to bite. “Jealous of what Miss Roberts?” 

“Jealous she ain’t with you.” 

Micah opens his mouth to retort something evil and violent, obvious in the way his pupils have contracted, gray eyes gone silver with wrath. You stab the knife into the cutting board, punctuating the air. 

Both of them have stilled, turning towards you. 

“Quit it.” You snarl. Abigail gives an apologetic look, but not before sending Micah another scowl. She’s back to chopping off fish heads. 

And Micah, damn him, always needing the last word spits out a, “Bet he got himself killed,” before he rushes away, seething and gnashing his teeth. 

It’s quiet again. 

You get through six more potatoes before speaking. “You didn’t have to do that.” It’s a gentle chide towards Abigail, one that makes her huff.

“I just hate how he talks to us. ‘Specially you. And I hate how you don’t do anything.” Her hands wring together harshly, not having any more trouts to dismember. 

“It’s best to ignore him. He gets off on it, the sick freak.” You keep your gaze fixed on your work. 

Abigail relents, fingers stilling momentarily. 

Her gaze rises, eyes trained on Jack’s small silhouette at the far edge of camp, playing in the weeds and brambles. He seems completely ignorant to such plights. What bliss. 

Abigail’s raised him well. 

“Ain’t ya worried though?” She says suddenly, spinning to look at you. You pause your ministrations, glancing into her perturbed blue eyes. “I mean,, well, Micah had a point, I guess.” She’s annoyed at the admittance, even if it is her own. “Arthur’s been gone for a while. It ain’t like him.” 

You sigh. “It is like him,” your teeth chew at the flesh of your cheek, “but you’re right. He wouldn’t leave for a week without saying something.” 

Abigail nods but her fingers have knotted and tangled once again. “Hunting trip?” 

“Yeah, but with how long he’s been gone you’d think he’s trying to take down an entire herd of angry caribou in heat.” 

She snorts. “He would try. Strong enough for it.” 

“Bullheaded, that’s what he is.” And you scowl, starting to dice the potatoes far too quickly; bound to cut yourself. Abigail sends you a sympathetic, knowing smile. 

“So you are worried.” 

“Whatd’ya mean?” 

“I mean you ain’t as calm and cool as yer pretendin’ to be.” 

You continue chopping away, somehow not having cut yourself. Years of practice you suppose. 

“Course I’m not. I’m always worried when it comes to him.” 

Abigail snorts. “Well, ya never act like it.” 

“Because if I act like it,” and you finish dicing off the last potato, ‘then that means something bad would actually be happening’, “then who would you have to talk to when you’re worrying?” And you give a knowing smirk.

She laughs, shaking her head, hands coming to a rest. You feel your own face brighten to a smile. 

That’s the way it is with her; with all the girls. Quilted conversations complaining about men and life and backaches all riddled with coy smiles. 

The breeze picks up then, and Jack comes tumbling along it, hands rusted with the red Lemoyne dirt and beaming at his mother like a little sun; too bright; seen without looking. 

His eyes barely peek over the table, but he’s determined, placing a bundle of messy daisies next to dismembered fish, yet to be fileted. 

“For you Mama,” he adds with his gift, hands clutching the edge of the table to watch her. And Abigail smiles tenderly, picking the flowers up. They drip, raw with dew and fish blood. She tries, ever so delicately, to wipe away the crimson stain on their petals. 

“Thank you kindly, Jack,” she says. And he gives a toothy grin and runs off— on the breeze once again. Abigail ponders the daisies for a moment before offering you one with a teasing smile. “M,lady,” she jests, giving a sloppy curtsy. A true country princess. You snort, but fawn delighted shock, pricking the flower from her nimble fingers. 

“Oh how romantic,” you add, putting a hand to your chest. Pocketing the daisy, Abigail does the same with hers, now fully smiling. 

And with a few giggled words you separate; the chores around camp  looming as Grimshaw’s eyes sharpen into blades, her tongue preparing to tear you both apart. 

You help Tilly with the laundry. 

Karen and you care for spare guns. 

Under the shade, you patch up holes in socks and shirts and handkerchiefs all while Mary-Beth tells you about her new book— a romance, of course— about an outlaw and upper class woman finding love. 

It makes you snort.

Amusement brewing in agitated, annoyed swirls in your chest as you’re reminded of Mary.  

You’re too smart to be reading those kinds of things, you tell her, needle pricking your finger as you push it into the cotton of Dutch’s union suit. She shrugs; tells you she likes it. 

You don’t blame her. You used to too. 

And the sun has begun to set, casting long shadows on long faces after a long day. And people begin returning. 

Javier and Bill from a home robbery. 

Lenny with a wagon of purchases from Saint Denis. 

John and Sadie each with a few rabbits in hand. 

But no Arthur. 

It’s a bit disheartening.  Like a sunshower with no rainbow. What’s the point of the rain then? 

You’ve grown anxious, your hands fussing the linen of your apron though there’s nothing to wipe away. And you don’t have the stomach to eat or the heart to make conversation— so as the gang begins settling in for the night you grab a basket, your revolver, and leave. 

Charle’s, keeping watch, eyes you like a ladybug in winter, but keeps quiet. 

You thank him with a glance. 

And you’re not stupid. You know it’s dangerous in Bayou Nwa— whether it be under God’s sun or the Devil’s moon— crawling with bipedal predators and freaks of nature beyond comprehensible understanding. Arthur has warned you. Don’t you go out, firm words with even firmer hands on your shoulders. Not without me.

But you go.

You need to, if only to catch your breath; to steel yourself away from prying eyes if he doesn’t show up for yet another week. 

And in the tall, marsh grass and bundles of cattails you’ve found something quiet and private; a place where you can crouch and pick away at plants with a frown you don’t have to hide. 

And your fingers are shaky and uncalculated as you rip apart the oleander and sage, like a newborn colt, teetering across grass. You shove the foliage into your basket as if it took Arthur away personally. As if they’ve laced their way into his veins, choking and drying him out. 

You’re upset, but you won’t cry, obviously. There’s no reason to, it’s hysterical and ridiculous, but you’re frustrated.

Because even if Arthur is painfully terrible at communicating, he at least has always told you how long he’d be gone for. 

It’s a luxury you’ve gotten used to. And out of all the silks, jewels, and luxurious baths the world offers, it is your favorite.

The promise of his return. 

“Yer mutterin’.” 

The voice would’ve made you jump if it weren’t for the far too familiar rumble of it. Too often has it soothed you and brought you to climax for it to scare anymore. 

You look at Arthur over your shoulder, glaring. “I do not mutter.” 

“Sure ya do,” he says, stepping over a log to reach you. 

His horse stands in the distance behind him, grazing and chuffing indignantly at the occasional alligator. Flighty things, horses are. Arthur’s is braver than most. 

You turn back around before said man reaches you, hands resuming to the ripping and the pulling and the tearing. 

“I told ya not to come out here without me,” he’s standing right behind you now. 

“I know,” you grunt. And it’s quiet— heavy under the screeching of crickets and cicadas— until Arthur sidles his shins up to your skirts and places his hands on your shoulders, leaning. 

“Yer mad.” 

“I am not mad.” 

“Sure ya are.” 

“I am not,” and you look up, seeing him gaze out into the bayou with a gentle smile. “I’m annoyed,” you correct. 

“Did Reverend chat ya up again?” And he chuckles, stepping aside to finally crouch beside you. 

His knee brushes against yours, a touch starved way of saying hello.  Under the golden sky, his blue eyes have filtered into grays and greens, seafoam and jade alike. 

He looks tired but that pleasant smile is still there; too happy with your presence to be bothered by such ridiculous notions as the human need for sleep. And as much as you’d love to sooth the eyebags away, you continue frowning. 

“You may be surprised to learn that Reverend was astonishingly quiet. For a week.” You add the last part roughly, hoping Arthur gets the message. 

For a second, you think he doesn’t. 

But then his hand raises, the pad of his thumb passing over the furrow of your brow. Achingly attempting to pacify you. To tell you he’s sorry. 

“What’d I do this time?” And his voice rumbles over the question, soft and sweet, a tone he takes only with you. You sigh, turning back to the plants. 

His hand retracts as you pick away at the leaves, but his eyes are heavy on your face, as if he trying to kiss you with just his gaze. 

You’re sure he wishes. 

“I just don’t like when you leave like that without telling me, or anybody really,” you say. And with Arthur, you always keep things succinct and out in the open because lord knows he won’t read between the lines. 

He’s not like you, where you can tell he’s in a bad mood just by the way he drinks his coffee in the morning. 

And Arthur takes a deep inhale, and then an exhale. “Yeah, I know.” 

You look up, raising a brow. 

“Sorry,” he coughs and you know it’s the most you’ll get out of him. It’s always that way with Arthur. Hands-on approach. Not much in the way with words. 

The only way he failed Hosea. 

“Abigail was worried too,” you add absentmindedly, finally letting yourself dawdle a bit now that he’s by your side again. 

Arthur scoffs. “She’s always worryin’ about somethin’. Jack, John, you, me.” 

You can’t argue with that, but you can’t blame Abigail either because you worry too. You just hide it better. 

And you look up, less angry this time. 

He left with a stubble and has returned with a beard. And though you’re sure his hair hasn’t grown much in a week, you notice the way the sandy blond locks brush against his shoulders— like golden willow on blue hills. 

Finally, you acquiesce. 

Your own hand raises, reaching out. And before you can even touch him, his fingers brush against the skin of your forearm. Ferns to sunshine.

You meet his cheek, wiping away at a smudge of dirt before tucking a stray strand of hair behind his ear and hat. 

“Your hair’s gotten long.” 

Arthur looks amused, leaning into your palm not unlike the way a puppy does. 

“Want me to cut it?” 

You shrug. “That’s up to you. But at least take care of this.” And now both hands are on his cheeks, rubbing childishly over his beard. You beam at the way his nose crinkles. 

“Wha’ I thought you liked my beard?” 

“Not when it’s this long. You’d give me a rash every time you kiss me.” 

Arthur smiles, dropping his head to laugh quietly. 

And you stand, hand reaching to pick up your basket, but Arthur already has it in his grip, rising too. 

“Oleander. Sage.” He notes expertly. You hum. “Tryin’ to poison someone?” He asks. 

“You,” is your easy reply as you step away from him and to his horse. He follows in a pavlovian fashion, well trained. 

“That mad about me leavin’ huh?” Long strides quickly bring him to you, arm brushing against shoulder. 

“I wasn’t mad. I was annoyed,” you correct once again.

Arthur makes an entertained sound as he grabs for his horse’s reins. You finally notice all the carcasses strapped to the poor creature. A doe, a fine pelt, geese and rabbits hooked here and there. “Ya missed me?” He teases.

And before you can snort and tell him off, he leans down to kiss you. His hand cups the back of your neck gingerly; giving you all the ability to pull away if you’d like. 

But you don’t. You never would. 

Instead, your eyes slip closed as Arthur presses further. His lips are uncomfortably chapped, dried from the days on the road but so incessant in their need to feel you that you wouldn’t dare tell him to stop. 

Instead your hand rises to hold his wrist loosely, a move that’s always made him melt for one reason another. 

Then just as quickly, he pulls away, brushing his nose against yours. 

“I missed ya.” And he breathes in as you breathe out. 

“Me too,” You admit, though it’s not a secret. He knows. His favorite little luxury it is; the promise you’ll be there, awaiting his return. 

Hasn’t gone a day without it since meeting you. 

Admittedly, 1891 was a bad year to meet Arthur. Grieving, and angry; Eliza and Isaac freshly dead. 

But you were there, picked up by Dutch, almost like a feral animal. Rabid enough to shut down Arthur’s (correction: everyone’s) bullshit immediately, yet organically compassionate to soothe him through bad nights. Even when you barely knew each other. 

That was you. 

Strained it all was at first. Funny, what time can do to two people. 

Unraveling knots and kinks to smoothly twist two lives together. 

And you watch as Arthur starts walking, not bothering to clamber onto his mount— even if the exhaustion in his step is obvious, like meatpie in a patisserie. 

“You’re not gonna ride?” 

He pauses and shakes his head, turning to look back at you. 

“Personally? ‘M tryna get as much time alone before we have to be surrounded by fools and degenerates.” 

You snort, strolling over to his side. “So what kept you away for a week?” 

The back of his hand brushes against yours as you both begin walking. 

“Heard about a wolf in Cotorra Springs. Wanted to check it out and well,” he eyes the pelt. “ Didn’t think it’d take me that long to hunt her down, but she was sneaky.” 

He shrugs. “The rest of this I got on the way home, knowing how Pearson’ll be if I don’t come back with somethin’.” 

You nod knowing how the man can get. Feisty about food, placid about most everything else. Sometimes he reminds you of a bear going into hibernation, and you doodle it on scraps of paper— messy, untrained caricatures of the gang. 

They make Arthur laugh. 

“Me and Abigail joked about you hunting caribou in heat. Not to give you ideas.” 

Arthur flicks a brow. “I wouldn’t do that.” 

“You would if there was money in it.” 

“Is there?” 

“I’ll say no for my own sake.” 

Arthur laughs at that, and you grin, his joy infectious. A bad disease you’re willing to catch. 

“So what have you been up to then, if not grumblin’ and mumblin’?” Arthur asks, eyes sweeping your frame. 

“Cooking. Cleaning. Sewing.” You shrug. Arthur frowns a smidge. 

“You gotta get out more.” 

“I wanted to go out to Saint Denis but I got caught up with Grimshaw, I guess.” 

All he can do is press against you a bit closer. “I’ll go with you soon then.” 

An incredulous look is sent. “No you’re not.” 

And Arthur looks so genuinely offended you have to laugh. 

“What do you mean I’m not?” 

“You hate Saint Denis.” 

“I know but-“ 

You lean your cheek into his bicep. “Thank you, but you don’t have to torture yourself for me.” 

He pouts. “It ain’t torture.” 

“Mhm, sure.” 

Voices in the distance become louder, the echo of Molly’s gramophone and Uncle’s drunken singing coming to a crescendo— smashing and breaking the isolation in a gradual blunder. 

And you pull away, taking the basket from Arthur’s hand as you do. 

Charles greets as you approach, and you hand him the spoils of your anger-fueled gather with another silent thank you. He nods politely, in his own grateful way. 

And as Arthur hitches his horse— cooing with all the affection in the world— you leave him, going up into your shared room. 

You know he has to take care of a few things before you can really have him for yourself: 

Talk to Dutch. 

Contribute money and check the ledger.

Load the hunt’s catches into the kitchen. 

Help with any last minute chores. 

Say ‘hello’ and ‘how are you’ to Hosea, Jack and John; Abigail and Tilly; Sean if he’s in a good mood too. 

So you sit. Passively reading and waiting as you lean against the bed’s headboard. 

And half an hour later, Arthur pulls open the door and then shuts it tight. Like maybe if he held it closed for long enough, the walls would thicken then burst fantastically into a hot air balloon; sending you beyond reach of civilization. 

Under the yellowed light of the lantern, he seems entirely exhausted; the slope of his shoulders dooming, his usually straight back hunched. 

Ain’t no rest for the wicked, Arthur jokes at times. 

He sits down on the bed. For awhile he’s like that; just sitting and staring at the white canvas of the wall. And his eyes are flicking back and forth, like he’s sketching whatever he’s seen in the past week on the molding wallpaper. 

It’s strange when he gets like this. 

It’s not that he’s sad or upset, just caught up in his head. 

“You should get undressed,” you command gently, sliding off the bed as you undo the buttons of your blouse. 

Arthur watches. You pause. And then you deadpan. 

“Are you serious?”  But he says nothing, and neither do you, not as you come to stand between his knees. 

You take his hat off, shoving the worn leather jacket down his arms, and he rests his head against your collar bone, pressing impossibly close into the revealed skin there. 

Like maybe, just maybe, this time your atoms will combine and he won’t have to leave your side ever again. 

When you begin unbuttoning his shirt, his hands finesse to undo the clasps of your skirt and you have to momentarily brush him aside, slapping his hands like a toddler gone for the cookie jar. 

“Hey,” he protests, blue eyes pleading. But the way they blink slowly and idly tells you everything. 

“No. Sleep. We can do that tomorrow.” 

Arthur groans but listens; hands dropping, head knocking against your chest. “A week,” he grumbles. 

“And whose fault is that?” 

He’s quiet as you work, up until he catches a look at the thin silver chain around your neck. His finger notches on the ring that’s hooked to it. 

“I wish you would wear it,” he mumbles languidly. 

“I can say the same thing,” and you glance at the gold band he keeps tucked away on the rope of his hat. “Maybe if things get better.” 

“When,” he amends. “When they get better.” 

“Sure.” 

He glares, the lines of his face darkening. “Don’t be like that.“ 

“Arthur.” And you cup his face, kissing him quickly and quietly. “It’s late.” 

He stares up at you, an odd mix between enamored and frustrated. 

A huff then escapes his lips, and he unbuckles his belt as you finish with the last button of his shirt. Your hands toys with the hem momentarily as if gripping to the tendrils of his soul. 

But you let go, and turn away. 

Getting rid of your own clothes is quick work, but Arthur makes even quicker work of kicking his pants and boots away, collapsing onto the furs and blankets of the bed. And as insistent as he was, he’s out quicker than nightshade, his arousal forgotten. 

You’re sure he’ll remember it in his dreams. It’s happened before. 

And you dim the lantern, laying yourself next to him in your chemise. Even though his back is facing you, a half-hesitant hand runs through his hair. 

He’ll need a wash tomorrow. 

You’ll force him into it, chase him around with a bucket if you have to. But for now, you let him rest; let sleep capture him like a firefly cupped between two soft palms. Pleased, your cheek presses against his bare shoulder blade. 

Obviously, you wake before him. 

Already dressed before he can even become lucid enough to call for you, hand reaching out to grab your missing form. You bend down, press a hand to his forehead, and whisper for him to forget you in favor of his dreams. 

His soft snores ensue. You drift away. 

And today, like yesterday, is quiet. But it’s less gloomy, more of a peace that’s settled because, praise be, Micah is out for the morning. It is both surprising and delightful, and nobody takes it for granted. 

And you drift around the manor and camp, helping with the odd chore, saying hello, sipping at coffee. 

At some point you walk off, where the ground is more solid and less swamp to have a quick word with God in the early morning breeze. 

He doesn’t reply though you knew he wouldn’t. Still, you hope he heard. 

At your return, Grimshaw unloads a torrent of harsh words, quickly placing you on dishes duty. You accept it. 

Mean spirited, but kind hearted, that one. Always has been. You don’t have the will to complain though— not since Arthur’s come back. 

He pacifies you, Hosea has teased, a coy smile hidden by the brim of his hat. At first it was embarrassing, but soon you came to realize denying it is like looking for oranges in an apple orchard. Psychotic and pointless.

Abigail has said the same thing, John nodding along enthusiastically. 

It’s annoying and the truth, and you have no energy to argue. 

Arthur is still asleep by the time you’ve scrubbed both the cast iron and your skin raw. Unsurprisingly. You’ve seen him passed out for nineteen hours once. 

You wish you had that ability, especially with how hot and sticky the Lemoyne air is; boiled molasses in your lungs. You would sleep the entire afternoon just to avoid it all. 

But in the slowness of the day, and your boredom, you approach Dutch, reading as always. 

“Anything interesting?” You ask, readjusting the basket of laundry at your hip. It’s a conversation you have often— ever since you’ve joined the gang your time to read has dwindled— being much more preoccupied with needles and guns and terrible men instead.

He hums, flipping a page. “A collection of essays done by Ralph Waldo Emerson. I presume you know him?” 

You nod, stepping closer. “He wrote before the war. A Transcendentalist, wasn’t he?” 

“Yes,” and Dutch smiles. He’s always told you that you’re too smart for your own good. Smarter than he deserves— than the gang deserves. But you never indulge in his compliments (at least not too much).

And you’ve never really been sure if they’re true.

He’s kind, though that may not be the word. Merciful. Insightful. And perhaps that has fueled the compassionate part in him. 

But as of late it’s all been brought into question you suppose. His sanity. Whether or not he’s still the same old, reliable Dutch that he always has been. 

But you brush it aside for now, letting yourself pretend it’s all normal and everything is okay. A happy family. 

“Which essay are you reading?” And you lean against the doorframe, fixing your apron. 

“Man the Reformer. Do you know it?” 

“Only parts. I think. Care to read me some?” You tilt your head, tucking one ankle behind the other. 

Refined with him, always, even with his penchant for savagery. 

“For you, my dear? Anytime,” and his eyes scan the pages, flipping through to find a piece he likes. “Ah,” he says after a moment, knuckle tapping the paragraph. He clears his throat, then starts. 

“Hence it happens that the whole interest of history lies in the fortunes of the poor. Knowledge, Virtue, Power are the victories of man over his necessities, his march to the dominion of the world. Every man ought to have this opportunity to conquer the world for himself. Only such persons interest us, Spartans, Romans, Saracens, English, Americans, who have stood in the jaws of need, and have by their own wit and might extricated themselves, and made man victorious.” 

He turns away from the page, his face lilting towards yours. “Isn’t that lovely?” he asks you. “Just gorgeous, isn’t it?” 

And Dutch, like most men, has a strange idea of what gorgeous is. Finding it in bloodied knuckles and revenge. In essays about man and power. 

In hatred. In violence. 

You’re unsure why you suddenly remember this— but when you were young, still attending school, you had read that Moses was not allowed to enter the Promised Land. 

It had confused you. Hurt you even. 

And when you had asked one of the nuns: Why? What was the reason? Why couldn’t he? What was the point if his fate was to die? 

And you remember that nun, with reverent eyes and sad smile, told you: 

“For freedom to be reached, the memory of subjugation has to die.” 

And that is why Aaron, and Miriam had died as well. Zipporah too. 

You stare at Dutch. 

“Do you see yourself as Moses?” You ask. It’s a blurted question, not entirely thought through, and you’re embarrassed the moment the words leave your mouth. 

Dutch stares back, his own dark eyes swirling with momentary surprise before he laughs, hitting his knee. Shoulders slacking, your own breathy chuckles escape as you watch. 

“You’ve heard The Good Word?” he questions, almost shocked. 

“Read it.” 

“My, aren’t you full of surprises?” 

“Are you calling me a sinner, Dutch Van Der Linde?” 

He tilts his head, raising a brow. “Aren’t you?” It’s said as if it were common sense. 

“Maybe I’m not a saint, but I don’t think I’m a sinner.” 

Dutch hums, bouncing his knee. “You pray?” 

“When I’m dying,” you tell him, half joking. 

“And how often is that?” 

“More than I’d like.” 

Dutch doesn’t laugh, but a warm, hearty chuckle rumbles in his chest and he picks his book back up. 

“Isn’t that the truth.” 

Looking away, your eyes flick about the greenery outside his window. The chickens cluck incessantly, bouncing about like cotton ball clouds on grassy mountains. 

You can make out the outline of Jack, bounding around a tree with a stick in hand, occasionally swiping the trunk. Abigail keeps a watchful eye. 

And it’s all very domestic. 

A little green rectangle of quiet love, framed by rotting wood and sin. It seems so far away, you can’t tell if it’s real. But you know for a fact it is, and it makes the deep, longing pain in your chest all the worse. It’s a dream really, one you think of often and one you and Arthur have only discussed either after sex or in the early morning— when everyone is still asleep and when things are a little imaginary. 

When dreams rule the plain of existence. 

Suddenly Hosea passes by the room. His gaze stabs through you, a knowing familiar look he’s sent over the past few months. 

Like you’ve discovered a dirty secret. 

And it seems you’ve both come to a conclusion you’re both equally unsure of. Same with Abigail. Same with Arthur, even if he denies it. 

“I should get back to work,” you mumble, pushing yourself off the doorframe.

“Atta girl,” Dutch simpers, but you’ve already walked off, head full of fears and doubts and thoughts you know you’re not supposed to have. 

Hanging laundry is one of the easier chores, one that eases the nerves. Gentle afternoon breeze, as humid as it is, drifts by, wafting the smell of soap and swamp water. Earthy and clean, rolled into a lavender clay. 

Jack hovers around your skirts as you work, and you easily indulge him in poems, songs, and stories, all with a gentle smile. 

He glances at the manor. “Uncle Arthur sure does sleep a lot.” 

“He does, doesn’t he?” 

“Where did Uncle Arthur go?” 

Clipping a bedsheet to the line, your eyes gleam, turning to Jack. “He went beyond civilization” and you crouch down, making claws with your hands, a playful grin at your lips, “hunting wolves.” 

Jack beams, grabbing at your hands, easing the claws. “I wanna hunt wolves!” 

You laugh a little, pulling away and reaching for a pair of drawers in the basket. 

“You’re still too small— they’d eat you up.” 

Jack frowns. “No they wouldn’t.” 

And you hide an amused grin with the back of your hand, thinking of John. After a moment, you nod. “You’re right. They wouldn’t eat you, you’re too skinny.” 

“Hey!” And Jack pouts, tugging at your skirts. You finally laugh, dropping a hand to pat his head, fingers sifting through soft brown locks. 

“I’m sorry. I wouldn’t let them eat you. None of us would.” 

Jack seems appeased. “Do you think Uncle Arthur will take me next time?” 

And not wanting to break his little heart, you say, “I think that’s something you have to ask him.” 

And Jack seems to be somewhat miffed by the answer, reserving himself to sit by the laundry basket as he watches beetles and ants march along the dirt. 

Little brown capped soldiers. 

“Have you ever hunted wolves, Auntie?” 

You hang up the drawers, humming. “No. But one time Uncle Hosea took me hunting for a bear.” 

“A bear!?” And Jack crawls a bit closer. “I don’t remember that?” 

“It was before you were born.” You add gently. 

“Ohhh. Was it scary?” 

“Well only at first. It tried to eat me, but Uncle Hosea wouldn’t let that happen.” Embarrassment bubbles at the memory. The way Arthur had laughed when you sulked, telling him and Hosea you would never hunt again.

Jack smiles. “Do you think Uncle Hosea will take me bear hunting?” 

A downturned smile marrs your features. “I hope not.” 

Jack complains at that, and you gently assert that bears are much worse than wolves, and they wouldn’t care how skinny he is. 

And the moment is sweet and funny and utterly ruined when a horrible, rasping voice says, 

“There she is.” 

Micah’s back. 

Setting your shoulders, you gently tell Jack to find his Ma. Tell her those stories I told you, murmured by his ear. And he scurries away, an excited smile on his face. Your full attention is then granted to the laundry basket and the sodden clothes inside. 

Micah stands on the other side of the clothesline, watching you between the flaps of bedsheets and button ups. A fabric jail cell keeps you separated. 

“Heard our workhorse is back, hm? Where is he?” 

A sock is hung up, next a union suit. 

“Oh, so you won’t even talk about your darlin’ Mr. Morgan with me?” 

You’re running short on clothespins. 

“You gettin’ tired of him?” 

There’s still enough for now. 

“Mr. Morgan, running off for days on end, only comes back to fuck his little mare good and then runs off again. Ain’t that just sad?” 

You could use a new skirt maybe. You’ll head into Saint Denis tomorrow. For now though, another sock is hung. 

“I could take care of ya, while he’s gone. He’ll never have to know.” 

Two blouses are clipped on the clothesline and you’re officially out of pins. 

“So, what d’ya think? Offer stands.” 

You step away from the hanging laundry, your eyes meeting Micah’s. It startles him but turns him on just as quickly. 

And then you walk away, to the manor in search of more pins. Micah doesn’t follow, though you feel his eyes burning holes into you, gaping pits of Tartarus on your skin.

You’re surprised to see Arthur leaning against the windowsill, cup of coffee in one hand, the other scratching away at his journal in long precise strokes; a wolf. And he’s trimmed his beard and hair, his skin clean. 

Washed away of filth and stress. 

An easy smile comes to him when he turns to see you— he downs the rest of his coffee, closes his journal, and steps over. 

“Good afternoon,” you say. 

“Afternoon,” and Arthur glances around for peeping eyes before kissing you chastely. “Thought we could go to Saint Denis today like ya wanted,” he offers. 

You shake your head. “I can’t today; maybe tomorrow?” 

He pulls away, looking bemused. “Always ‘tomorrow’ with you, woman.” 

You laugh, shaking your head. “It’s too late to go to Saint Denis anyway.” 

“We could rent a room.” 

“I am not spending money on a bed I have here,” you chide. 

He raises his head to look at the ceiling, hat tipping back slightly back as he does. A stiffness overcomes him, like a thousand rocks have settled into his stomach. “You always gotta make things difficult.” 

“Shut up,” and you pat his chest, stepping around him to continue your search, “I’ll see you tonight.” 

That seems to help him digest the rocks but he still grabs at your wrist, stopping you. And there’s a deep longing in Arthur’s eyes; lust and sorrow mixing to create something entirely desperate. 

“I love ya,” he mumbles quietly. 

And it’s not something you say often, never really finding the need to. You know. He knows. You’re on the same page. 

But sometimes, you’ll indulge each other with those three little words. 

And Arthur lightens when you smile and nod and tell him you love him too. It’s like he’s seen the ocean for the first time, eyes sparkling in wonderful adoration. So he lets you go, assured he has you no matter what. 

Expectantly, you barely see eachother for the rest of the day, each preoccupied with your own tasks. Small glances are thrown, like pebbles against windows, but nothing more. 

Not until night falls. 

You’re sitting around the fire with Abigail, snorting over a not so appropriate story Karen is telling when you see him in the distance, past the embers, crawling back into the manor. Admittedly, it is late but not late enough for Arthur to call it a night. 

Usually, he’d stay with the group– drink a bottle of beer and sing a tone deaf melody with Tilly and Javier. But not tonight. Tonight he’s waiting you out. 

And so when Karen finishes her story, you give one last laugh and leave. 

Arthur is sitting on the bed when you come in, writing something slowly; the clear mark of verbal constipation.

And the lantern is lit low, warm and golden like a dying star. He only looks up from the page when you close the door, his hand pausing. There’s a droll moment where you stare at him and he stares at you– the little lift of amusement curling your lips can’t be helped. 

In a brisk moment, you’re standing between his knees; but this time it’s him who undresses you. And you let him take his time with the clasps and buttons, resting your palms on his shoulders.

“Jack asked me if I’d take him wolf huntin’,” Arthur mumbles, standing to kiss at the junction of your neck and jaw. In nothing but your chemise, it’s easy to feel the hard line of him press against your hip. “Did’ya put him up to that?” 

You laugh, hands rising to undo his own shirt. “Maybe.” 

A rough palm presses between your shoulder blades, the other cupping your cheek as he nudges you to tilt your head with his nose. 

“Yer evil,” Arthur mutters into your skin, “making me be the one to say no to him.” 

“Was he angry?” 

“Nah,” Arthur sighs, knocking his hips with yours, “just said I’m no fun.” 

And you slip his shirt off, revealing broad shoulders and firm muscle, laced and sewed with scratches and scars. 

You run your hand down a particularly marred one at his ribs. Knife fight. 

“Did he hurt your feelings?” You tease. The hand at your cheek drops, bundling the hem of your chemise up your thighs. And before you can poke his ego again, the hand dips, grazing against your bundle of nerves. 

You sigh, leaning into him as he lazily dips a finger in and out, in and out. 

“John looked like he was ‘bout to have a panic attack,” Arthur rasps right in your ear. “If I had said anythin’ other than no I think he woulda killed me.” 

“Can’t have that,” you hum, and Arthur snorts. 

“Ya need me around to fuck ya, is that it?” 

Scoffing, you pull away. “You’re ridiculous.” Your chemise falls back over your thighs, covering the slick Arthur built up. And he gives a soothing smile, hands lifting yours to twine fingers together. 

“Did I hurt yer feelin’s?” And though you’re frowning, you let Arthur guide you to the bed— let him push you down onto the mattress. At your silence he runs his lips across your face; kissing at your brow, your nose, cheeks and chin. “I didn’t mean any harm by it.” 

Lifting himself on his forearms, he watches you. You’ve softened exponentially, pliant and willing under him. 

Only him. 

And the look on your face is so fond— too loving and so soft, that he feels as if you must be a figment of his imagination. A sick twisted trick his mind is playing to feel something. 

But you’re here, breathing against him, and looking like a drop of sunshine under the lantern’s light. 

He’s struck gold. 

Bending down, Arthur kisses you and in turn you breathe him in, arms coming up to wrap around his neck. You roll your hips, and a groan verberates in his chest— the sound makes your bones rumble— the first sign of an avalanche. 

He lifts the chemise once more and a knee comes up to sit between your exposed thighs. Arthur dips his hand again, this time spreading you open on two fingers. 

The both of you have gotten very good at being quiet after so many years of barely any privacy; a tarp or tent at most; but in Shady Belle, bless the heavens above, you allow yourself little, quiet whimpers. 

The gift of walls. 

And Arthur feels himself pulse as he edges you on, fingers increasing in speed. His thumb brushes against that bundle of nerves again and you choke back a moan, hands gripping onto the sheets. 

“Arthur,” you pant, eyes shining with adoration. And he pauses. You stir something in him, some sort of odd childlike devotion he hasn’t felt since he was in his early twenties. 

Not since Mary. 

And he remembers when you had first gotten together, back in ‘94, you had told him you wouldn’t ask him to stop loving Mary. I could never, ever do that to you. It’d be cruel and unfair of me, you had whispered. 

And you knew he never would stop because that’s how first loves are. Permanent. 

But maybe now, maybe in this moment— just like every other moment with you— he has stopped loving Mary. Perhaps not entirely, but he wouldn’t chase after her like he used to. 

Not when he has you. Not when you beg his name. 

And Arthur rises, lifting you up with him as he sits up against the headboard, huddling you into his lap. His skin is warm, as it usually is, and you can’t discern whether that’s just him or if the Lemoyne heat has to do with it too. 

It’s overwhelming and you’ve barely gotten started. 

Making a pathetic little noise in the back of your throat, you see the way it lights his eyes on fire, as if you hold the keys to enter the Gates of Hell. And it’s almost too easy for him to pull off your chemise, leaning forward to press his lips against yours. 

He’s scarily and surprisingly gentle. Always has been. But tonight there’s an underlying torture in the way he bites at your bottom lip, then soothes it, admonishing his own efforts. 

And Arthur, this sweet, sad man who has killed, murdered, and torn apart men from sanity has resorted to fluttering his fingers against your hips; as if you were a prized butterfly, ready to fly off at any second. 

For one reason or another, it makes your heart ache. 

Your own hands cup his stubbled jaw as you lean down, opening your mouth and letting his teeth gently collide with yours clumsily. 

There’s another rumble in his chest when you kiss the corner his mouth, an apology for your gauche actions. And you can’t tell if it’s a breath or a moan, but you assume that it’s something good. 

A quiet plea for you to continue. Don’t stop. 

Because if you do Arthur’s sure he’ll sob in a pitiful, defeated way that would leave him rutting into the mattress. 

To his relief, your thighs press against his hips all the more, and your chest meets his. One of his own hands slides up your side, and he moans into your mouth at the feeling of your skin against his palm.

Silk against stone. Soft where he is rough– ruined by bullets, knives and meaningless labor. And he decides then, he’ll preserve this. Preserve your warm humanity, if it’s the last thing he does. 

And he is a fool, but he isn’t insolent. He knows you’ve seen and experienced things that would have him reeling with nausea. 

You’re a woman, of course you have. 

But if he can help it, he will keep you like this. Coy and kind. Too good for him and too good for what the world has to offer. 

Arthur realizes he’d gotten engrossed in his worship when you pull away to look down at him, giving a shaky exhale. Running your fingers through his scalp, you let your hand settle at the back of his neck, peering at his face as if he were a saint. 

Arthur can only stare back. Fervently and biblically.

He follows every unspoken order you give him with a ferocity bordering desperation that only stems from his complete adoration. And you’ll never know how or where it started and you won’t ask, in fear of an answer that that any other man could give you. But this outlaw, brute, grunt; this man of all men has become an angel under your gaze and touch. 

It’s intoxicating.  

For awhile this continues. The kissing– the petting and exploration. Whispered ‘I missed you’s’ brushed across your lips, neck, breasts. At some point, Arthur wraps his mouth around one of your nipples, and you stifle a whimper against his temple. 

A hand pushes into the curve of your back, imploring and needy, making you keen. The other, brushes against your core unexpectedly and you almost yelp from the sudden contact. But he dips his fingers into you gingerly, restarting the ministrations from earlier. 

You all but melt. 

You’re panting into his neck, gripping onto him as he plays with you. It’s shameful how a week apart has ruined you so terribly. 

You’re oversensitive and overstimulated. 

When your breathing becomes more desperate (which happens quicker than you’d like) Arthur pulls away again. And he likes this game; the build up before breaking you. An annoyed sigh puffs out from your lips, and you find yourself grinding into his lap for some form of relief.

His trousers have become a hindrance. 

Arthur’s leaning into your chest, eyes half-open and cheek pressed against the space between your breasts. His mouth is hot and open, panting as you grind further into him.

And though you can feel him twitching against you, it isn’t enough. He’ll need more than the dull pressure of your core. But for now, he lets your hips roll, watching brightly as your slick coats the seam of his pants. 

“No more,” he suddenly rasps, the first words said in a long time. “Please, no more teasing.” 

You ponder him for a moment, then nod.

The trousers are off in an instant. 

And his skin against yours is a relieving sin. Hands on your hips, he rubs you against him— and all you can do is sit it out and watch with bated breath. Arthur, at the feeling, lets out a stilted, raspy whimper. 

Before he can do more, you lower a hand, pumping him up and down, up and down; a choked sound catches in the back of his throat when you do. 

He’s bigger than average, but not impressively so. The real volume of his size comes from his width, noting that your thumb and middle finger don’t and have never connected when you jerk him off. 

And you do this for some time, listening to his gasps and mumbled moans, only stopping when he begins pulsing in your palm. 

Arthur whines when you pull away, eyes gleaming almost angrily, and you have to smile at the hypocrisy of his behavior. He bites back a curse at the way you look at him, too entranced to be upset. 

Then, pushing him flat onto the mattress and straddling his waist, you kiss him. His hands land on your back once more, begging to press you closer, further. 

Wanting nothing more than to simply have you against him. 

And finally, you slide onto his length. 

It’s jarring at first, uncomfortable in the way it splits you open. And you feel his every millimeter and every movement. It takes a minute for your body to adjust, to realize it’s him. Arthur lets you wait it out, lets you take your time as you finally sink down completely. 

He thrusts, once, shallow and uncertain, brows furrowed in concentration. And your eyes close shut with a gasp, squeezing your legs even tighter around his waist. 

Then, you lift your hips off him and sit back down. And then you do it again. And again. And again. 

The pace you’ve set is slow, but it allows you to further assimilate to the stretch. Furthermore, the friction is accumulative. You quickly find that Arthur’s hands have lifted to clasp around your own shaking ones in an act to sooth you. 

To quell whatever ache has settled in your abdomen (for the time being). 

And his eyes are shining with an indiscernible emotion as he watches you; something that makes you want to cry out of sheer wonder. 

You’re so sure it’s love. It has to be. You refuse for anything else. 

You refuse to be a broodmare or quick fuck. 

And something must flip inside of Arthur because suddenly, he flips you two over, and moreover, he turns you over onto your stomach. 

“Arthur,” you mutter, as you lift yourself up on your forearms. And he bends down pressing a kiss to the vertebrae in your neck as if they were jewels on a crown. 

His hands return to your hips and bring you towards him. 

“I know,” he replies. It only takes a second for him to slip into you again, letting a deep, pleasant groan out. 

In this position he’s quicker, rougher. Less careful. 

Arthur utters the occasional incoherent word and you can only pant in reply. After a while of this— of his hips slamming against yours— your shaking arms collapse under you, and your cheek presses into the mattress. 

Arthur doesn’t stop though, nor does he slow, and the whole thing overloads your nerves. 

Yet somehow, his touch is still loving— even as he takes you so harshly. It’s an odd dichotomy. You’re not quite sure he knows his own strength in this moment. Maybe he never does. 

And you can’t help but be utterly grateful that this is the only way Arthur uses his strength on you. To fuck you into a mattress. 

And the only noises you can make are broken little gasps for air, an entire lifetime’s worth of vocabulary forgotten. He’s moving in and out of you at a far quicker pace than you had initially anticipated; and you feel yourself begin to shake, quivering for help beneath him. 

“Please,” you beg. 

“Please, what?” 

Your face flushes, hot and embarrassed even if you’ve done this hundreds of times before. “Arthur,” you whine, and he gets the message, quickening his pace as more broken, unintelligible syllables bumble out of your lips.

He brings one hand away from your hip to cup under your chin, lifting your face slightly so he can press his cheek against yours. 

A loving act that tells you this is more than lust and cum. 

Your hands claw into the mattress and his other hand leaves your hip to land on top of your own— fingers moving to curl into the spaces between yours. You’re crying now, sobbing quietly for some form of release at the absolutely brutal pace he’s set. 

And you feel yourself coming close to climax, warmth pooling and subsequently dripping from your abdomen. 

Arthur’s close too. You can tell by the way he twitches inside of you and by the way his groans have become hoarse and breathy. 

He then removes the hand from your jaw and you sink back into the mattress, his fingers reaching for that bundle of nerves and rubbing it. You leave an open-mouthed whimper into the bedsheet, your breath and spit creating a hot and sticky spot. 

Delicately, he pushes your body over the edge.

The orgasm rushes over you like a snap— quicker than lighting but drawn out like thunder. It singes and quakes as you quiver around him, moaning dumbly and begging for some form of sanity. Your back, arching, pushes him further into you, ignorant of your own overstimulation. 

Arthur’s grip is tight on your hips as he watches, having to stop himself from spilling into you right then and there. He would. 

He would if things were better. He would if he were stupid and ignorant. 

But he holds himself back, teeth gnawing at his lip. Eventually you calm, the bedsheet loosening in your grip, leaving linen hills in your wake. And as soon as you take a quiet, deep breath, he continues to thrust just as quickly. 

It’s now his turn to gasp and whimper, and you’ve never heard him so desperate— properly crying as he presses his face into your neck. 

Your own tears bead at your eyelashes as you let him use you, abandoning any and all self respect for yourself. 

But it doesn’t last long, as he’s quick to follow you over the edge. His hips begin to stutter and you know it’s over. 

Arthur pulls out, and you feel him throbbing against you as he cums into his hand. He’s practically collapsed on top of you as well, his body gone boneless and weak from the aftershock. 

He’s still for some time, catching his breath and his mental faculties. 

And you’re not sure how much time has passed until his lips press against your neck and shoulders gently; but you sigh quietly at the feeling, pleased and sated. 

He reaches under your body, cupping your waist so he can roll the two of you over to lay on your sides. And Arthur curls himself around you protectively, like he could obstruct everything evil with the slope of his shoulders. 

It’s quiet and peaceful, as the aftermath of sex usually is. 

And each time he kisses your skin indolently, you press back into him— a silent message that you want to kiss back. He seems to understand.

After a while, he mumbles your name. 

You don’t expect it, his usual preference for silence being the norm. But either way, you hum in reply, entirely lost in comfort and bliss. 

“I’ll kill Micah.” It’s said so simply, like an everyday part of his itinerary. Cleaning, hunting, murder. Well, maybe it is then.

You don’t open your eyes though. This is not a new conversation, nor is it one you like. 

“You heard him today I’m guessing.”

“When you were doin’ the laundry.” 

You want to frown. “It’s fine.” Is all you can say. 

“No it ain’t.” 

You pull away from him a little. “I don’t wanna talk about him. Ever. He doesn’t matter.” 

Arthur’s quiet again. But then he nods and closes the space you created. 

“Okay.” 

[changingplumbob]

Glenn knocked and the door was quickly answered by a pastel wearing spellcaster.

Elise: Hey, Glenn right?

Glenn: What gave it away

Elise: Apart from the fact that the property is shielded to stop trespassers, absolutely nothing. Did you want Marisol? She's down by the river

Glenn: Oh no I was looking for you actually

Elise ushered him in and Glenn took a moment to look around the room. Was that a clay llama in the display cabinet? Well okay then...

Glenn: Nice collection

Elise: I like to display some of the nicer ones rather than just use them up

Glenn: Harmony said you liked gems

Elise: It's more than simply liking them, they're my area of focus

Glenn: There's enough variety for you to do that?

Elise: They may not be as obviously varied as plants but yes, there's plenty of difference in them

Glenn: Harmony said you could give me some helpful pointers

Elise: Because you're trying to shape gems?

Glenn: I guess last night I tried

Elise: Not as easy as it seems huh? You've still got jade dust on your sleeve

Glenn: Oh, I swore I shook it out

Elise: *smiles* Gems can have a mind of their own

Glenn: Are there any I should try and find

Elise: It depends if you want them for decoration or charging

Glenn: Charging?

Elise: Koko and I have been working on stands that will funnel moonlight in to cut gems

Glenn: That sounds... pretty?

Elise: It's more than pretty, it's useful. They can be used for many benefits

Glenn: Such as?

Elise: Charged jet allows you to contact the Grim Reaper directly, and having it around will mean he has to grant your plea to spare a life

Glenn: Wait- I thought you'd be talking about like, happy moods

Elise: Well charged amber can make you happy and brings the sun around

Glenn: They can control the sun???

Elise: Everyone always underestimates pretty sparkly things

Glenn: So which ones would be useful? For like everyday

Elise: Hmm... I'd say try find an amethyst. That'll be inspiring and means you don't need to sleep as long to be refreshed

Glenn: That'd be useful

Elise: Oh for sure, it's the next best thing to creating new hours in the day

Elise: Then, umm... sapphire makes it easier to focus on upskilling. It stops you getting burnt out, but if you're more in to creative stuff I'd say look for an orange topaz

Glenn: There's different colours of topaz? I thought they were all yellow

Elise: Misconception. There are many different shades of colour for that gem but orange ones are the only ones I've tested. If you want to focus on your magic I'd say search for some moonstone

Glenn: What does that do

Elise: Stops your basic spells failing unless you're overcharged

Glenn: Well thanks, I'll scout about for those

Elise: If you find any you're not sure of come see me, I may have already figured out their properties. Oh hi baby

Glenn looked down to see a very white cat had just let themselves in.

Elise: This is BooBoo. He's my familiar

Glenn: Oh he is very handsome

Elise: He's got a mind of his own don't ya baby

BooBoo: *meows*

Previous ... Next

[themanicnami]

Invisibility In Witchcraft

Invisibility is something we see in all different types of media for a very long time - superhero comics and movies, Harry Potter book and movie series, fairy tales and lore from several countries. It is one of those powers that even in modern science they have been trying to create true invisible cloaks and armor for military use. Though invisibility in literature and movies is not the same as when we refer to it in witchcraft. So let us talk about this aspect of magic today, a brief history and even some modern day spells.

What is Invisibility Magic?

Invisibility magic is magic of concealing oneself, others, places and objects from detection. As stated above it is not in the literal sense of you vanishing from sight however think of it like a cloaking device - it helps you go unnoticed or makes you less likely to be observed. Of course take this with a grain of salt - magic has its limits. However, an invisibility spell can help you as an additional buffer of protection. Often times, invisibility spells are to ensure special items you have hidden away go undetected such as your grimoire on a bookshelf or sigils of protection scattered about your home, it can also be used for oneself or others to help them travel in safety.

History

Old manuscripts and grimoires dating back to the 1600s have been found describing spells for invisibility. These such spells include chanting, potions and rituals said to help the caster ‘vanish’ from people’s views or travel unseen. One of these manuscripts has been archived if you wish to see it here and another here please keep in mind these are old scripts and may not be safely done today - do your research on ingredients and if they are safe to use modernly.

Though invisibility in witchcraft is a bit harder to dig up, invisibility has a long and rich history in religion, folklore and tales. Many creatures, spirits and persons of lore, legend and story through the centuries are said to vanish without a trace or go unseen by normal people. 

In the cases of witchcraft though it is harder to find information on it, as listed above some old manuscripts were found listing methods of invisibility. Some other methods listed have been carrying the heart of a bat or a toad or frog under one’s garments (or their right arm) can render you harder to detect. Others speak about how black hens and chickens may be related to invisibility by using their feathers as charms. Mercury historically was used as a method to be deemed invisible, with using it to make jewelry or charms a popular method - however perhaps not safe in modern day terms. Another grimoire called “The Second Book of the Secrets of Albertus Magnus” states that wrapping an Ophethalminus stone in a Laurel leaf will render the wielder invisible. What is an Ophethalminus stone? It is commonly accepted and believed he was referring to a Lapis Lazuli stone. 

Correspondences

Of course modern day invisibility calls for more modern day correspondences - to help insure the user and caster are using ingredients that relate to what they seek. Below is a brief list of some correspondences - please research before ingesting or applying anything to the skin. Research possible allergic reactions, side effects and complications of medicinal herbs and plants. Research all stones you use before subjecting them to heat, water or oil.

Plants and Herbs:

Amaranth

Black Hellebore (toxic)

Cherry/Cherry Bark

Chicory

Devil’s Shoestring/Black Haw

Edelweiss

Fern

Heliotrope (toxic)

Henbane (toxic)

Laurel 

Mistletoe

Monkshood

Poppy

Sow’s Thistle

Tansy

Wolf’s Bane (toxic)

Colors:

Black

White

Gray

Lavender

Elements:

Air

Water

Spirit

Crystals and Stones:

Amethyst

Calcite

Lapis Lazuli

Moonstone

Obsidian

Peacock Ore

Silver Topaz

Smokey Quartz

Metals:

Mercury

Silver

Tools and Other Items:

Mirrors (Black Mirrors)

Sigils

Smoke

Black Ink

Toads/Frogs (symbolism)

Bats (symbolism)

Mist and Fog

Wind

Chicken Feathers

Moonlight

Black Candles

Gray Candles

Modern Spells (note some are not mine, they will be sourced and linked to their original posters)

Invisibility Enchantment- Wishful- Seeker

Some Spellcraft for an Invisibility Ring - smoke-weed-and-hail-thor

Air cloaking glamour - thegildedraven

Invisibility Spell to be Forgotten - breelandwalker

Night walking invisibility and protection glamour - magicianmew

(cheap) Invisibility Spells for Anxious Witches - becomingwitchy

Invisibility - Pathfinder inspired Sachet Spell - Mine!

Shadow Usul’s Night Invisibility Glamour Sachet - Mine!

Chameleon Eye Shadow - Totally Spies Spell - Mine!

Like what I post? Want to support me or buy me a delicious coffee? Feel free to check out my Ko-Fi Page!

[a-gilded-imprisonment]

Intergalactic factions

Argenti: (Knights of Beauty)

~ @argenti-of-the-beauty

~ @knight0fbeauty

~ @knight-of-idrila

~ @rose-tintedknight

Aventurine's sister: (Sigonia)

~ @noglevend

~ @the-mourning-glory

Astral Express:

Caelus:

~ @atom-bomb-raccoon

~ @stellarons-vessel

~ @trailblazer-caelus

~ @trailblczer

Dan Heng:

~ @archivist-on-guard

~ @dan-heng-lunae

~ @danheng-the-archivist

~ @database-enthusiast

Himeko:

~ @himekos-coffee

~ @your-favourite-coffee-addict

March 7th:

~ @march-7th-hsr

~ @march-is-heeeeeeeeere

~ @six-phasedice

Pom-Pom:

~ @pom-pom-official

Stelle:

~ @stelle-aron

~ @stelle-the-great

~ @stellrn

~ @the-better-trailblazer

Welt Yang:

~ @mr-welt-yang

~ @star-shattering

Interastral Peace Corporation:

Aventurine:

~ @a-gilded-imprisonment (this blog!)

~ @aluckiicoin

~ @audhd-aventurine

~ @aventurine-ipc-gambler

~ @aventurinejewels

~ @aventurine-p45-ipc

~ @aventurine-of-stratagems

~ @aventurine-the-finalvictor

~ @avgingambler

~ @dont-ask-just-spend

Diamond:

~ @diamond-of-purity

Obsidian:

~ @obsidian-of-desolation

Topaz:

~ @topaz-and-numby-official

Stellaron Hunters:

~ @ask-stellaron-hunters

Blade:

~ @blade-official-hsr

~ @blades-and-spiderlillies

~ @bladieblog

~ @equinox-blade

~ @stellaron-hunter-blade

Firefly / SAM:

~ @guide-firefly

~ @moonlight-firefly

Kafka:

~ @coat-thief-kafka

Silver Wolf:

~ @c0ntract-zer0

~ @silverwolf-official

~ @silver-wolf-official

[kirric-the-fan]

Master post of links for my precure outfits challenge:

All posts are tagged under precure outfits, cure name for individual cures, and overall season names. All completed and posted drawings linked.

Will be updated as I post the remaining and any future cures. Send me an ask if there is one you want but don't see here yet.

Futari wa: Black, White

Futari wa Max Heart: Black, White, Shiny Luminous

Splash Star: Bloom, Egret, Bright, Windy, Kaoru windy + Michiru Bright

Yes!5: Dream, Rouge, Lemonade, Mint, Aqua

Yes!5gogo: Dream, Rouge, Lemonade, Mint, Aqua, Milky Rose

Fresh: Peach, Berry, Pine, Passion

Heartcatch: Blossom, Marine, Sunshine, Moonlight

Suite: Melody, Rhythm, Beat, Muse

Smile: Happy, Sunny, Peace, March, Beauty, Echo

Dokidoki: Heart, Diamond, Rosetta, Sword, Ace

Happiness Charge: Lovely, Princess, Honey, Fortune

Go Princess: Flora, Mermaid, Twinkle, Scarlet

Leaders set 1

Witchy (Maho Tsukai)(English vers used to avoid spelling diffs): Miracle: Diamond, Ruby, Sapphire, and Topaz forms. Magical: Diamond, Ruby, Sapphire, and Topaz forms. Felice, Cure Mofurun

Kirakira: Whip, Custard, Gelato, Macaron, Chocolat, Parfait

Hugtto: Yell, Ange, Etoile, Macherie, Amour

Star Twinkle: Star, Milky, Soleil, Selene, Cosmo

Healin' Good: Grace, Fontaine, Sparkle, Earth

[megalizardon4736]

Dina Caliente Makeover 💓

Defaults -

Beetle Eyes 2 by squeamishsims

No EA Lashes by Kijiko

Hair -

Dina Hair by Jo_Se_Oh

Eyebrows -

EROS eyebrows by peachyfaerie

Eyes -

Transfix Eyes by Golyhawhaw

Skin Details -

Tahani Skinblend by grimcookies

Lighting Overlay by Jo_Se_Oh

Cheeks and Nose Blush N8 by northern siberia winds

Miscellany Nosemasks by Pyxis

MM Lower Eyelids N2 by northern siberia winds

Transparent Philtrum by obscurus-sims

Lip Tint #1 by sims3melancholic

Cleavage Overlay by Pralinesims (thesimsresource)

ASTRO zodiac tattoo by peachyfaerie

Makeup -

3D Lashes No. 4 by Twistedcat

TOPAZ face highlight by nesurii

I Can Love Me Better Blush by Luxysims (curseforge)

Fairy Gloss by crypticsim

Margot N98 Eyeliner by Pralinesims

Basics Please Eyeshadow by Twistedcat

Fruitcake Lipgloss by raichuu

Wedding Eyeshadow by Twistedcat

Marley Eyeliner by peachyfaerie

Eternal Eyeshadow by crypicsim

Eyeliner by Kijiko

Lip Gloss by Kijiko

Eyeshadow 1 by MMSIMS

Sour Fruit Lipstick by Twistedcat

Titanium N10 Eyeshadow by Pralinesims

Glisten Lipstick by Plumbhead

Clothes -

Daisy Earrings v1 by arethabee

Kai Necklace by oydis

Whimsy Ruffles Top by oydis

High Flared Jeans by helgatisha

Priestess Heels by moriel

Dorothy Necklace by arethabee

Dara Midi Dress by Sentate

Bubble Pop Short nails by Pralinesims

Trefel Bracelet by serenity

Vera Shoes by Serenity

Darika Earrings by ice_creamforbreakfast

Ava Sports Bra by Serenity

Ava Capris by Serenity

Hot Shot Sweatband by Twistedcat

Peak Performance Socks by Joliebean

Moonlight Sneakers by Trillyke

Mila Corset by Caio

Pamela Panties v1 by Caio

Belle Earrings by oakiyo

Camlanin Choker by Pralinesims

Jessa Dress by arethabee

Ornament Bracelet by Joliebean

Glossy N01 nails by Pralinesims

Persuasion Ring by Zeussim

Make or Break nails by oydis

Champagne Heels by Caio

Sindra (Head) Glasses by Pralinesims

Savage Swimwear by Luxysims (curseforge)

BLING Belly Button Piercing by Pralinesims

Deceptia Glasses by Pralinesims

Baddie Top by Trillyke

Allegra Shorts by Arethabee

Gradient Glitter N05 nails by Pralinesims

Helen Wedges by Sentate

First Love Earrings by Pralinesims

Tucked knit by miiko

Enigma N16 nails by Pralinesims

Marfa Boots V2 by Serenity

@pyxiidis @sims3melancholic @twisted-cat @pralinesims

@obscurus-sims @thepeachyfaerie @northernsiberiawinds

@joshseoh @golyhawhaw @plumbheadsims @trillyke

@miikocc @oydis @sentate @serenity-cc @lady-moriel

@oakiyo @caio-cc @crypticsim @kijiko-sims @squea

[coco-bean-1218]

Chuck/Claire "why couldn't it have been us in the end?" For the five lines fic game??

Oh, my dear sweet anon, you are not prepared for the angst I have in mind.

This is wayyyyy more than 5 lines, but I couldn’t help myself!

So, here is a potential outcome in which Claire chooses someone else. You can insert whoever you want to be her fiancé.

Feel free to like, comment and reblog!

----

August, 1946

It was Easy Company's first annual reunion, and every member who could come was there. Claire was glad to see her fellow paratroopers again. It had been a little bit under a year since they had last been together. The party had been going on for a while, and Claire found herself in need of a moment of quiet reflection. She wandered through the venue, her eyes scanning the room in search of a place where she could gather her thoughts.

After a few moments, she saw Grant standing against the wall, drink in hand, and decided to walk over.

"I was wondering where you went," she said as she approached him.

"I was just trying to get a break from the noise," he replied with a weary smile. "You know how it is at reunions."

She offered him an inviting smile. "Care to join me outside?"

He shrugged, a sense of relief washing over him. "Sure, why not?"

As they stepped outside, Claire took a deep breath of fresh air. The noise of the venue seemed to fade away as they walked along the garden path.

"That's quite the ring you've got there," Grant commented on the ring that sparkled in the moonlight.

"Oh, this?" she held up her hand, examining the ring in the moonlight. "It's...uh...blue topaz, my birthstone."

Grant's eyes lingered on the ring for a moment. "I remember," he said softly.

You're coming to the wedding, right?" she asked eagerly.

Grant nodded. "Of course," he replied. "I wouldn't miss it for the world. Besides, what kind of best friend would I be if I didn't?" he added. 

Claire smiled at him, relieved by his response.

As they continued walking, Claire noticed a fountain that caught her interest. She walked up to it, captivated by the gentle splashing sound and the mesmerizing reflections of the moonlight in the water. Grant, sensing Claire's curiosity, joined her beside the fountain. They stood side by side, watching the reflections of the moon dance on the water's surface.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Claire said, her voice filled with wonder.

Grant nodded in agreement. "Yes, it is," he replied, but his eyes weren't fixed on the fountain. Instead, his eyes were fixed on Claire. She was the real beauty of the night, and he couldn't take his eyes off her. She was the one who captivated him, body and soul.

Without warning, Grant spoke up again, his voice filled with sadness and longing. "Why couldn't it have been us in the end?" his voice barely above a whisper.

The question shocked both himself and Claire. Grant hadn’t intended to speak his thoughts so openly, but the words had already left his lips, echoing in the silent night.

Grant's question had stunned them both. Why couldn't it have been them in the end? The words hung in the air, filled with regret and a sense of missed opportunity. Claire felt her heart shatter as tears welled up in Grant's eyes. She could see the pain etched on his face, and it made her own heart ache. She took a shaky breath and tried to find the words to answer him.

"Grant, I don't… I don't know," she said softly. Her voice was barely above a whisper, and she could feel the tears threatening to spill over.

Grant shook his head, his voice filled with regret. "No, you don't."

---

HOLY SHIT THIS WAS WORSE THAN THE LAST POST-WAR CLAIRE AND GRANT 😭

[sapphirestudiosdesign]

Moonlight with Mystic Topaz 🖤

The After Dark Collection

[kenziedrawz]

made a new pjsk au drabble based on a twitter art i saw, heehee.

It's been ten years, ten years since he was forced into this room, this display case, this cage. He'd been kidnapped from his home forest when he was thirteen, but he didn't regret flying in to save Saki from the terrible fate he's living through right now. If you asked him if it was still worth it then he'd absolutely say yes no matter what.

But, he missed her, he missed his dearly beloved sister. He often wonders what she'd be doing, had she reunited with her friends outside of the forest? He could only hope so, hopefully Ichika, Shiho and Honami were looking after her. Maybe even Shizuku was looking after her as well. He could only hope, he could only dream.

But 'Trophies' do not get to dream, well, they aren't supposed to.

Tsukasa paced around his display case. Normally, he'd love the stage as he did when he was younger, but he despised the tiny stage in his case. Yes, it had been made for him, but he was to be silent and simply hold a pose whenever he was being observed. It was torture, he wanted to move, to act, to do anything. But Lady Asahina's rules were absolute, if she said something, then it would be. And he couldn't disobey less he wanted to be cracked apart and pieced back together.

He put a hand to his chest, and although it was covered, he could feel the pain from all the previous times he'd been cracked there. Sure, he was repaired, but it still hurt because there was no way these human's could properly repair him.

Tsukasa was a fairy, a crystal fairy. His body was made of a gemstone, bi-color tourmaline to be exact. His sister was the same, although she had internal fractures which made it difficult for her to use magic and fly. Unlike other fairies, crystal fairies didn't need wings to fly. And they were also very pretty, which caused those with greed in their hearts to target them.

And that's exactly why Tsukasa is in this display case, he's a trophy, and nothing more than that to the humans living here.

Well, there was one who saw him as something other than a trophy, but she was punished and forbidden from seeing him a while ago. It was nice to have someone he could talk to for once, even if it didn't last.

Tsukasa still paced around his cage, but froze once he heard the subtle creak of the window. That was odd, had it been open and a bird flew into it to make it move slightly? No, he would have heard a thump of some kind, right? Tsukasa cautiously yet fearfully looked around, his amber eyes landing on the open window in the far corner of the room. All of the people within the house were supposed to be asleep, so was this a break in? Did whoever this was come to steal him?

He saw a figure quickly and quietly leap through the window, his foot steps made not a single sound as his feet landed on the floor. " Alright, I'm in, now to just find out where they're keeping that Tourmaline..." Tsukasa could hear the figure mutter to himself, the moonlight briefly illuminating him to reveal purple hair with two blue streaks and glistening golden eyes that subtly reminded him of topaz.

Oh crap, he was after him. And by the looks of it, he was the phantom thief that Lady Asahina had mentioned the other day.

" That dastardly phantom thief appears to be targeting you next Lady Asahina." One of the nobles within the room said, Tsukasa couldn't help but overhear their conversation. " he could very well be after your prized Trophy."

" Oh? Is he now... I find that quite disappointing to be honest. Why be such an insolent thief when one could do something far more respectable and beneficial to our society?" Lady Asahina said in reply, But Tsukasa knew that the 'society' she was speaking of was just the nobility.

He didn't remember the rest of the conversation, but he immediately knew that this was the phantom thief, there was no doubt about it. He wanted to hide himself as much as he could, but he couldn't, there was nowhere to hide in this damned display case.

' What is he going to do to me?' Tsukasa wondered to himself fearfully. ' Is he going to sell me off? Cut me up and use me for jewelry? Or maybe something more horrible than that?!" It was safe to say that Tsukasa was incredibly panicked as the thief's eyes finally locked on to him.

First, he saw the thief's face shift into surprise, then horror, there was a brief flash of anger on his face before it melted away into concern. The thief's eyes scanned the room, as if looking for traps before he approached Tsukasa's display case.

" Are you alright..?"

The question was a surprise to Tsukasa, it was spoken ever so gently and filled with genuine concern. It was a genuine surprise to Tsukasa that someone would be so kind to him.

" You're a fairy, right? You're not supposed to be in a place like this..." The thief said, and Tsukasa could feel the rage boiling up beneath the surface of the thief's words. But it wasn't directed at him, it was likely directed at Lady Asahina.

Skillful and dexterous hands worked away the lock on the case, and one of the glass walls opened up. Freedom was in Tsukasa's grasp. The thief laid down a hand for Tsukasa to climb upon, a gentle smile and warmth in his eyes. " Come now, little one, I don't bite."

Tsukasa hesitated, what if this was some kind of trick to lure him into a false sense of security? but he took another look into those big, gentle, golden yellow eyes, he knew he could trust them. He took a cautious step onto the thief's fingers, making his way onto the thief's palm. Tsukasa let out a small yelp of surprise as the thief stood up properly, and slipped him into a pocket.

" Hold on tight," the thief advised him as Tsukasa stuck his head out of the pocket with a small huff and a pout. He wasn't ready for that just yet, and the thief let out a small giggle at Tsukasa's small pout. " Right then, let's go~!"

The thief quickly turned, and with a running start he jumped out the window and into the night. Skillfully leaping across buildings and roofs as if they were clouds, or... what was that word again? Trampolines? Yeah, Tsukasa thinks that's right. Soon enough they arrived at what seemed like a middle-class home, to which the thief quickly ducked through an open window and landed in the middle of a living room.

" Rui!" A sharp voice cut through the night's silence, and judging by how the thief froze up slightly then that was his name. " Did you have to leap through the window again? We have a door for a reason you know."

As Rui turned, Tsukasa saw a girl with long pale green hair. And judging by the scale imprints on her face, she was either a dragon or a mermaid in human form. Her violet eyes glared daggers at Rui, though she seemed more annoyed than anything. Tsukasa still leaned down further into Rui's pocket though.

" Oh Nene, but simply going through the door is awfully dull." Rui said with a pout. " You wouldn't want to deprive me of my nightly thrill, would you?"

" Yes, yes I would if it meant that you stopped coming in so loudly." Nene, the mermaid, retorted.

" Oh you're so harsh Nene..." Rui whined.

" Whatever, now did you successfully steal the jewel from the Asahina estate?" Nene asked with her hands on her hips. Rui put an awkward hand behind his head.

" Well... He isn't exactly a gemstone to be precise..." Rui said sheepishly, causing Nene to crook up an eyebrow in confusion.

" Don't tell me..." Nene began, her eyes slowly widening. " Was it a crystal fairy they had on display? Like Mizuki?" Nene asked, subtle horror in her eyes. Rui looked down, only nodding his head after checking up on Tsukasa.

" You're exactly right, It's sickening to think that some nobles are so corrupt that they keep what's essentially another human as some kind of pet or trophy." Tsukasa had to agree with Rui's words.

" So will you be taking them to Mizuki to see if they know this one?" Nene asked, to which Rui nodded. Tsukasa could faintly remember a Mizuki, he remembered that they were made from pearl as far as he was sure. He then realized with hope that he may be able to see his sister once again.

" I'll go tomorrow, Mizuki may not need sleep, but I unfortunately do." Rui said, beginning to head up to what Tsukasa could assume was his room.

And by god, it was a mess of unfinished gadgets and metal parts. Tsukasa was stunned that Rui could even navigate such a room without getting his foot pierce, the floor was like a death trap for feet. Rui then gently took Tsukasa out of his pocket and set him down on a table. " How are you feeling? Are you alright?" Rui asked him with a concerned tone.

" Y-yes!" Tsukasa replied, he hated how weak his voice sounded, he hadn't been able to use it in so long. " Much better now that I'm out of that dreadful case."

" Fufu~ You seem a lot more energetic now?" Rui said with a soft chuckle.

" You think? I was trapped there for ten years!" Tsukasa proclaimed, though he let out a small wince when he saw Rui's expression change to a mix of pity and horror.

" Ten years?" Rui muttered quietly in shock. " I'm terribly sorry that you had to suffer for so long."

" Don't feel so much pity for me Rui! I'm free now, and that's what matters, right?" Tsukasa said, taking the thief's gloved finger and holding it reassuringly. It hurt to remember those ten lonely years of his life, but he could put it behind him now.

" but still... Ten years... a decade of imprisonment..." Rui said, sympathy in his gaze.

" Hah! A decade is nothing to a crystal fairy such as myself!" Tsukasa said, it was a bit of a white lie. Those ten years felt like ten decades of loneliness to him. " You have nothing to worry about!"

" Alright..." Rui said, trailing off. he took off his hat and placed it over Tsukasa, who let out a sharp yelp of surprise. " Sorry little one, but I need to get changed. I wouldn't want you to see me in barely any clothes."

" Oh, my name's Tsukasa!" Tsukasa yelled out to Rui, and he could hear Rui let out a soft chuckle.

" What a wonderful name, Tsukasa-kun." Rui replied, lifting the hat off of Tsukasa so he could finally see. Rui was now dressed in a nightshirt and some boxers. He put the hat on a rack and rummaged through his desk shelves, taking out an empty matchbox before getting some cotton and a piece of cloth. Combining the three into a makeshift bed.

" It's not much, but it'll do for the night." Rui said.

" Thank you, Rui, you have my never-ending gratitude." Tsukasa said, bowing to the human before settling into the makeshift matchbox bed Rui supplied him with. He didn't really need sleep, but it was a nice comfort and distraction from his thoughts.

" You're welcome. We'll go se Mizuki in the morning, they'll be able to find out where you're from." Rui said, settling into his own bed. " Goodnight Tsukasa-kun." Rui said with a sleepy yawn, turning off the lights with a clap of his hand.