#rainbow menagerie

[brokentrafficknight]

Rainbow Menagerie, is you would. Jaune X Blake/Velvet/Ilia, and any other Faunus girls you want to add.

CyanideSins vibes.

[weatherman667]

Faunus Rights version.

I want to make a meme.

Anyone have a picture of Blake holding up a protest sign?

[haunted-harlequin]

Another collection of some of my favorite recent promotionals - someday I swear I will get these done more than a DAY before stream.

(Stream is twitch.tv/haunted_harlequin at I usually stream Friday's 2:30pm est)

[befuddled-calico-whump]

T$$ AU Masterlist

[beastwhimsy]

a project I finally got around to finishing!! the mane 6, inspired by their earlier generation counterparts, within a medieval fantasy style setting. please don't repost without permission! you just need to ask.

some fun facts:

fluttershy is half unicorn here!! that's why she has the deer-like build and slightly long tail.

rarity is half horse

applejack is fully just a horse.

pinkie and rainbow are the only true ponies

their jobs (in the order shown in the lineup) are royal messenger, royal jester, royal menagerie keeper, royal tailor, royal orchard farmer and Queen Celestia's Most Specialest Student.

in this au, they all met due to working within the castle grounds.

in this au, celestia is queen, luna is still banished, and twilight is discouraged from making friends as it distracts her from her studies. she is celestia's heir and grew up in the castle.

they are all marekissers. lol. also rarity is transfem and rainbow is bigender.

[butterchurn-art]

My “Butterverse” next gen AU :)

Twilight Sparkle and [REDACTED]

Twilight Sparkle gave birth to Berry Fizzion under a royal hush. The identity of her other parent is officially unknown, but whispers of a former villain with a shattered horn have made their way to every corner of Equestria. From a young age, Berry was fascinated by both of her parents - even if she had barely gotten a glimpse of her "unknown" parent.

Her special talent is combining magical theory and chemical experimentation. She's the only pony around who could enchant a fizzy drink to cause anti-gravity! Poor Uncle Spike has his claws full when he comes to visit Twilight.

Fluttershy and Discord

After years of trying and wishing, Fluttershy's heart began to ache with dreams unfulfilled. Discord could no longer bear to see his wife cry herself to sleep at night while their friends raised foals of their own. So, one day, he gave her a gift. A single egg, magically formed by Discord and attuned to Fluttershy's essence. She cared for it devotedly, keeping it either warm under her wing or tucked safe into a nest made of blankets. Then, on a wintery morning, it cracked. Menagerie emerged a healthy draconequus. As he grew into his lanky body, creatures nobody else could approach would walk up to him and nuzzle into his side. His special talent came as the innate bonding with and gentle tending of the world's most odd and magical creatures.

As soon as Menagerie had hatched and was able to stand on his wobbly hooves, Discord had begun to feel the itch again; the chaos of creature. Within mere months, another egg had materialized through sheer impulse. Faunomaly hatched in the middle of the night, under a full moon. She emerged through layers of reality, her eyes unable to focus on just this world alone. Fauna always seems to know more than what she says. She sees glitches in the world, hears cracks in time, and plays with them if her dad permits it. Her special talent is seeing magical anomalies and shifts in the universe.

Years passed after the two draconequus foals were hatched. The two were nearly grown and out of the home when Fluttershy was rushed into Ponyville hospital. There were no eggs this time, no fanfare. Just a foal entered into the world literally upside down - her little legs kicking in the air and giggling before she even cried. With long ears and sturdy limbs, she resembled a mule more than a pony of draconequus. Her special talent emerged in a simple joy: gardening.

Applejack - Rainbow Dash - Rarity

While she loves her family, the stress of Big Macintosh leaving the farm and Apple Bloom growing up and getting ready to move out with Scootaloo made Applejack rethink where she was in life. She'd only lived the past few years to serve Equestria, but now that everything had settled down... what did she really have to show for her life? So, without a thought, she ran. She made her way to Appleloosa and started doing rodeos in her spare time. Eventually, she ended up in Canterlot with a broken leg and nothing to lose, and succumbed to a passionate night with a unicorn of royalty.

Golden Gala was born while Applejack was still traveling Equestria and partying herself sick. By the age of three, Applejack had returned to Sweet Apple Acres to two angry siblings. Despite the tension when she returned, Applejack did her best to settle down again. Sweet Apple Acres needed her, and so did Golden Gala, even if she didn't know how to be a mom - especially not to a foal who demanded napkin rings and chandelier placements more than apple bucking. Gala’s cutie mark appeared during the annual Apple Family Reunion, when he single-hoofedly turned the chaotic gathering into a stunning, smoothly-run gala that had his step-mom Rarity crying in delight. His special talent is large-scale hospitable event planning.

Applejack hadn't been looking for love when she made her way back home, only a purpose. But it turns out that love had been waiting for her. Rarity, who had never stopped writing letters while she was gone, and Rainbow Dash, who proudly declared that "Applejack'll be back when she's ready" and then waited, silent and loyal, until she was. The three of them started slowly. Hesitant steps, shared chores, shared glances. Then one morning, Applejack looked up from her breakfast and realized that the Apple family had just... grown. Without fanfare, without labels. Just love. And from that love came three foals.

Buckshot Blitz came out fighting, a daredevil with the energy of a lightning bolt. She lives for rodeos and races, as well as any opportunity to show off. She's fiercely protective of her younger siblings and the farm. Her special talent is high impact performance.

Southern Belle is graceful and stylish, but unafraid to get down and dirty with the rest of her family. She makes the perfect apple tea when you come over to the barn for her tea parties. Her special talent goes hoof-in-hoof with Golden Gala, venue curation. She can blend rustic and high class with ease.

Savoir Flair is fast and fashionable. Even though he just got his cutie mark, Flair commands the room with confidence and flash, strutting into every situation like it's a runway. Rainbow Dash is a little disappointed her only son is a fashionista, but he still strives to make her proud with his competitive spirit. His special talent is helping others with their personal personas. He can take a pony who has fallen from grace and remake their image within days.

Pinkie Pie and Cheese Sandwich

The easiest love story of all. Two hearts that bounced at the same rhythm, two ponies who could make a whole town laugh just by being together at the same time. After only months of throwing joint parties across Equestria and never quite admitting they were a thing, they got married in the biggest party of all. A week-long festival that went to every corner of Equestria. Their traveling slowed down after tragedy struck and the Cakes were lost in an accident that shook Ponyville. Without hesitation, Pinkie Pie and Cheese Sandwich stepped up and took in the Cake children. They lovingly refer to these two as their "practice foals." Pound Cake ended up becoming a delivery flier, and Pumpkin Cake ended up moving to the Crystal Kingdom as the royal baker.

Soon after adopting the Cakes, Cheesecake came along with a calm, clever, and deadpan personality. He inherited his parents' flair for joy, but channels it into his culinary arts. He learned everything about making cake from his big sister Pumpkin Cake - he got his cutie mark from making the best cheesecake in all of Equestria. The princesses put their stamp of approval on it!

Confetti Cream is quiet yet energetic. She’s a planner, a fixer, and the go-to filly when a party falls apart five minutes before go-time. She doesn't need to be, or even want to be, the center of attention. She runs the show from the sidelines, making sure everyone feels like they belong. Her special talent is emergency party coordination.

Cherry Pop Pie is pure, unfiltered volume. Loud, fast, opinionated, and constantly throwing confetti around. Her voice can lift ponies' moods, crack glass, and start a party with a single shout. Her special talent is emotional support parties.

[forgetful-lethean]

A Hand Bleeding Starlight (III)

A Court of Thorns and Roses Story

Azriel X Hemophiliac!Reader

5.0K Words

Previous | Next

Summary:

A human hiding amongst the Fae, you operate as a common bookkeeper in Velaris, using tactics to avoid being detected and sent back to the mortal realm (or worse). Trouble and violence brews in your homeland and the clarion call of war threatens; if you are sent back, you face immeasurable danger. For now, you pray you remain unknown, and your shop successful. That is, until a stranger appears and challenges your idyllic existence. You have secrets that may spill blood; a certain Fae has secrets that will spill blood. Will they remain hidden? Or will the life you've spent years cultivating come crumbling down in the tangled web of Fate and silver-tongued lies?

Chapter Three:

"Lark Aloft"

Where you spend the day in a Velaris marketplace hunting for supplies, and instead encounter a strange shopkeeper and a stranger book. Payment day looms.

NOTE:

No beginning notes today! Meant to get this out earlier but I got delayed.

Little ol' me screwed up the formatting massively and had to manually go through and reformat each separate text piece. That took, uh, a while.

* * *

The market bloomed before you on the street as if flowers sprung from the cobblestone—a messy, labyrinthine assemblage of stalls slicing through the paved causeways of the Rainbow—crowds sluicing easily through the menagerie of scents and smells, cries and criers, all harking their wares to the available ear and the steely eye, hoping to win from them a silver glint of recognition, a burning interest, a pretty coin for their toils on the street side.

Once, when you had first stepped foot into Velaris, worried step after worried step, you feared such crowds—the dangers it brought, the Fae that all but loomed over you in every aspect of life. The crushing breathlessness of fast-paced conversations without the chance to consider if—and what—you might accidentally reveal. But now...to say you feel like you're drowning in the crowds made as much sense as a raindrop protesting to join the vast expanse of ocean. You felt the energy, the cosmopolitan pulse that shuddered beneath every hurried step, rushed breath, careless words tossed to the wind and the tinkling of coins darting between ethereal figures. You felt that odd sense of serenity, a faceless mass amongst the living body of the crowd; a sense of community that an outcast, a misfit would never even begin to consider.

Sometimes, you wished you could just lose yourself in that crowd, like a raindrop that falls on the beach, sits on a pebble, adores the ocean it failed to join and savoring the aroma from the cyclical motion of the waves. The crowd before you had that aching life, a mass of vibrant clothes shining in the morning light, people gliding like enchanting shoals of speedy fish. There was chatter between the sellers and buyers, the drone of old friends catching up on the wayside, new friends clasping hands. They were, in such a strange way, your kin.

Ellora had sent you to fetch more supplies from the myriad of temporary sellers that dotted the street's landscape—too many repairs on her desk and not enough glue, or enough thread, or enough paper. Her instructions were very precise. Honestly, you thought it was all just a ploy to force you out of the shop! At least it wasn't a terrible deluge like yesterday had been—the sun was shining in full force, a brilliant lantern casting the everyday hues of the marketplace into vivid glows. The kind made of the best of dreams, you thought.

Slipping through the crowds, one hand grasping the edge of your cloak as you were forced to brush by a pair of Fae ogling a stall of prim, intricate jewelry, you forced your way through the cacophony. Your eyes sought two stalls in the mess—like a lighthouse to a lost ship in the sea—two vendors that offered the best supplies for the most reasonable prices. All you needed was some animal and archival glues and a few spools of thread, after all.

There!

The flashing maroon awning, a fabric that seemed to greedily devour the overjoyous light, caught your eye. You fought you ways toward it, a minnow darting against the current, offering profuse apologies to Fae who glared daggers in your direction, grunts of dismissal to those who snatched at your argentite cloak. Every time you felt that pull, fear found infancy in your heart, your mind, twining with the incessant pool of dread plaguing your thoughts.

The crowds were comforting, but they were also your enemy.

Any one of them could grow too curious, peer too closely, ask too insightful a question that threatened the careful sanctity of your disguise. Any one of them could put you, and the veneer of the Fae would be thrown away, the gossamer fabric of reality flowing on the wind, to reflect the beastly, the violent, the dangerous trickster Fae. The Fae that you had read, learned, heard about. That, you feared. Discovery.

Stepping from the stream, into the comfort of distance, you emerged at the edge of that burgundy-covered stall, a bloody light seeping through the canvas to illuminate a man with piercing blue eyes, wheat-dashed hair, flashing the most brilliant of smiles. Recognition widened his grin, and he waved you over with the lilting call of "Wren! Wren!"

You swore it sounded like a bird-call. The man—Kirin, one of your fellow bookbinders in the region—always had some cheerful glimmer in his eye. He never went anywhere without his steadfast cheer, to his stall, his shop on the other side of the Sidra, or otherwise. As such, the two of you had become steadfast trading partners—his supplies, your books; it was a symbiotic relationship. His movements were pragmatic in that casually aristocratic way, tipping his head down at your approach as if you were a wayward royal, then propping himself up by an elbow. He twirled a speckled ink brush between his fingers, an appraising glance sweeping up your figure. Kirin arched a brow, "Always the stylish one, even in this heat, are you not?"

You scoffed, smoothing the fabric of your cloak, "You know how the weather always changes on a whim. No one can be too prepared." A pause, and you set a few silver coins on the counter. Kirin didn't look, not yet—a silent agreement passed between you two. Whatever he could spare.

He hummed thoughtfully, his eyes still staring at you—through you—as if puzzling some secret of your soul. "Of course." He didn't sound fully convinced. You didn't feel convincing either. "I've never seen your eyes before, you know. All this time, all this time," Kirin clicked his tongue, finally turning away—and you swallowed the building anxiety in your throat—and searching through the tinctures and vials, the bound signatures, the leather-pressed covers, the assortment of glues retrieved from all over Prythian and, you expected, a few from the Mortal Realms as well. His stall was always a mess.

Another Fae stalked up to the stall, the delirium of imperial hauteur sharp in his eyes, his clothes a decadent purple. Kirin didn't spare him a glance, offering a noncommittal smile as he, clutching close to his chest a plethora of vials and a spool of umber thread. Not the highest quality, but it would do anyways. You just hoped Ellora was skilled enough with her materials that she didn't waste any (or, worse, that a repaired book would fall apart!). A moment passed, and the strange man released a dissatisfied huff, glanced towards you, and walked away.

"Here you are, my dearest bookkeep!" A heap of supplies dropped to the counter. More than your paltry coins had paid for.

"Kirin, I can't—"

"Word on the street is you're struggling, Wren. Please, let me."

Protests fumbled on your lips, died bloody deaths as you fought the urge to deny his kindness. Why should you receive such a gift? An impostor among their ranks, dressed in their livery, passing for a Fae, and you took their gifts! It wasn't right—but what other choice did you have? You pushed those ceaseless thoughts aside, leaving them for another stormy day. Kirin was staring at you again. Searching. What did he see? What did he want to find?

Gently, you picked up the vials of glue, marveling at the sheen of light curving on their surface; collected the signatures and the thread, the paper too soft, too nice, with a thread much too clean to be old. Met his eyes, offered him a meek smile. "Thank you."

He flashed a smile, "Don't worry yourself. You're my most loyal patron, I wouldn't let you go under just because you can't afford some coin here and then! Cauldron knows you would've done the same for me in your position. Now, shoo! Be safe!"

Be safe. Those words, they stuck to your thoughts like a cloying scent, nauseating, overwhelming. You stepped away, back into the numbing rush of steps and voices and scents. Those eyes—those damned eyes!—peering into your soul. What did Kirin know? Was it possible that he—

Word on the street is you're struggling...

An electric shock sparked wildfire in your mind—some spindly creature of Nature whispering a revelation into your covered ears. Of course. Of course! If he knew of your troubles then he knew of the Wardens. He was just trying to help you out; he didn't suspect you of anything! No nefarious plan, no mortal quandary. But you hadn't told anyone about the beast of burden chained to your store's lot. The bills that piled, the coin that dwindled. Ellora knew, but she wouldn't tell a soul. Solicit help from others that weren't the Wardens, and you invited bundles of trouble that swept, viciously, darkly through the night with fangs of poison and treachery.

That was the rule. Make the payment yourself. Always.

The Wardens sent your mind into a spin. A spiral, aching with heavy gravity—your thoughts, your thoughts always came back to them! The iron grasp they held on your life, your store, your existence. They crowded, a maelstrom occupying too much space. And then the sounds grew brighter, bled from the air, seeped into your ears. The scents grew louder, battering your nose, your throat, your mouth. Choking, suffocating. If you didn't have enough money for supplies, how could you pay them? It was only a few days away! And then—

In your distraction, you missed a step. Fell out of harmony with the flowing crowd. Something slammed into you, your leg twisted and you cried out—a flash of deep purple, remorseless eyes, words spearing through the air, into your chest, "Fool." Thrown off-balance, then another woman elbowed your shoulder—you were too short, or she too tall, to give any pitiful regard, and you gasped, stumbling, eyes wide, clutching your prize to your chest. So many Fae, too many Fae—

The tinkling sound of glass shattering filled the air. A flurry of pages announced your precipitous calamity.

You impacted the ground, thrown to the side by some defiance of nature, some well-timed prayer to the Mother. Your knees burned. You couldn't parse whether it was the sun-baked stones or the pain. Pain. It radiated through your shoulder, your leg. You pressed your hand to the ground, forcing yourself to a stumbling stand. The bruise on your arm, from yesterday, still ached something fierce.

Tears brimmed beneath your sheer blindfold. Panic, that primal, human instinct of dread and fear and despair, ebbed and flowed with your rapid heart and trembling lip. A step forward, two steps stumbling back, clutching your leg with a silent, shaky cry. You'd been shoved into some off-shoot of an alley from the main streets. Steps away the crowd rushed, seemingly oblivious.

Then the sounds caught up to your ears. And you realized what you had done—the glass decorating the cobbled with a mockery of a starlit sky. Glue splattering the stone. Unspooled thread wet and grimy, befouled by the darkened recesses of Velaris. Ruined. And what few coins you'd given Kirin—a sizable sum of your "fortune"—lost to the streets.

The second stall had all but fled your mind as you sat staring, dejectedly, morosely, as the remnants of your supplies. Ellora was going to be furious—she was your assistant, but she was also your partner! It stared back at you, mockingly, the glass reflecting a sharp-fanged smile of light. You sank against the wall of the alley, dropping once more to the ground. You tried not to cry. You didn't want to cry. A tear slipped free anyways, falling sparklingly, radiantly, in a fractal of brightness to the dingy ground.

A voice rasped.

A new emotion—beating back the panic, the distress—swept you forward, up, down, left and right about the tumultuous sea of your brain.

Terror.

"My child, my sweet darling child, come, come. Do not cry."

Something primal jumped in your heart, thundering along the blood racing through your veins. To your right—deeper in the alley, that's where it was coming from. Warily, you shifted your weight forward, snatching a shard of glass. Pushing up from the wall, you peered into the depths. Saw a form haloed by the dying embers of a rusted lantern.

Its hand slithered from the recesses of its ragged, ruined cloak, beckoning, summoning. Darkness obscured the thing's face, a second mask. Thin, bony, too frail for the majestic Fae that filled the streets behind you.

"Who are you?" Your voice was barely a whisper.

A rasping response, the darkness stretched beneath its hood. Smiling, it was smiling. Aged fingers crooked, another summons. Fingernails yellowed and misshapen, long and brittle, accentuating the bulbous, grotesque nature of its hands. "You shouldn't be here, child. Much too dangerous for folk like you."

Silently, the urge to run, to flee, settled in the pit of your stomach. Folk like you.

"What do you mean?"

Its head tipped, and rotting teeth, dark with mossy neglect met the dim light of the alley. A tongue flickered out, ran over them, a tendril of saliva slipping down its lips. Slavering. "You walk among them with such an enchanting cloak. Not as one of them. A mirage. An illusion."

Now, you stepped closer. Closing the distance, and the tatters of its cloak seemed to shift with the disturbance. From the depths reflected beady eyes. Eyes much too wise, too knowing. Eyes that sparkled with secrets and cosmic ideas. No. No. Leave! Everything in your body screamed that this was something, someone dangerous. Words fumbled to your lips, "I actually have to go—"

A hand shot out, clutching your cloak and yanking you towards it. "Human!" Venom infused its words, the seething of its emotion frothing at the corners of its mouth. Spittle hit your cheeks and you sank back. But it's grip—iron-clad—forced you into against its body. Behind it, the lantern jumped with caustic vehemence, casting licking, weak shadows along the walls. Beastly shadows that violently wrestled with your own.

Weakly, fearfully, you ventured your question. "What are you?"

Seemingly satisfied, the thing released you. A shaky breath, and it answered. "A... benefactor." It glided with a smooth, preternatural gracefulness not born of its decrepit form towards a haphazard table. On it, an eclectic collection of wares. Wooden accessories. A book sat primly underneath a thin silk cover. The Fae (for you believed that it was such), removed the cover, seeming to marvel at the book for a moment, before urging you closer. "My child, my child. Come, look. Perhaps I have something you need, no?"

Nothing could replace your supplies—but if it was offering.... Your wariness incensed it. "Please, I speak of truths, child. I seek safety here, like you. I will not expose you. Do not worry."

It struck you then, what this thing was. An ancient, malicious Fae. A Suriel. Panic seized your throat, but you stilled it. Beat it down. Regarded the boom it urged you to. First, you noticed the book was an ancient thing, an ugly ancient thing. Wooden slats crudely bound together in the archaic ways, stuffed with pages of yellowed and crumbling paper. A layer of leather tried to save the integrity of the piece. Second, you noticed there was no title on the wooden cover. And then you noticed the wood was a lighter color—not native to the Night Court or the birds that roosted here. Everything on the table was made of it.

Ash wood. Fatal to Fae.

"I'm sorry, you must have mistaken me for someone else—"

The book flew across the table, shoved by the Suriel's spindly fingers. "No, no. I insist. You are a bookkeep are you not? Ah, I thought so, I thought so. A shame you tripped. But here!" Excitedly, it knocked the cover with its knuckles, "Free of charge, free of charge, for your troubles!"

Everything about it was off. Wrong. Was its mind so addled, so distraught that it made the Suriel...like this? Disturbed. No Fae would willingly offer ash wood.

"Why?" The word sat heavy in the air between the two of you, in this darkened alleyway of covert negotiations. It grew paws, a sniveling snout, pranced around the licking shadows, claws primed. It leapt at the Suriel, these words, brightened its eyes with delirious intensity and it cried out with zeal—

"You will need it! Someone will ask, and you must give it to them." Its voice jumped in the air, like the fluttering of many wings in a frightened flock taking flight.

Its nails scraped along the book, digging up splinters from the soft wood. The crowd, the marketplace seemed a lifetime away as you regarded that singular instance. "And if I don't?"

The Suriel wrenched its hand back as if the words had scalded it, and violence burned in the specks of eyes buried in the cloak, "You must!" Its raspy voice reached a crescendo. The lantern popped, flame unraveling like a thread, tendrils seeking, then recombining.

It sounded like a whip-crack, that quiet pop.

"You must!" the Suriel shrieked.

Suddenly, the storm in its voice, the tempest in its movements seized. It went frigid, stiff, muttering, chest heaving, robes jittering around its body as it struggled to tame its words, its thoughts, its emotions. Silence ensued, thickening the tension, until it spoke, controlled and modulated. "The Fae signed a treaty long ago, to end a war. To end the enslavement of mortals. That was the...purpose of it all. The Wall. The borders." It didn't even seem to be speaking to you. It was staring intently at the book, at the claw marks in the cover. Ancient wisdom spilled from its lips, like a chalice overflowing with wine. Greedily, you waited.

"It collapsed not too long ago. They're trying again—again! The treaty! The negotiations! Vallahan! How foolish. Can't they see? It shall fail. Always. Too violent, too fickle, too aggressive and amoral, you mortals. Prone to war and bloodshed. Too prone, I say."

Surprise nestled amongst your curiosity. The Wall had collapsed? Vaguely, you were aware of the history, just enough to pass, but you'd had to sneak through a crack in the wall so long ago. It was...gone? Who was guarding it? The threat implicit in those words rose to mind, bubbling amongst the vitriol that the mortal realm already possessed against the Fae. A tentative treaty that was going to fail. Violence already champing at the reins that held it back. The wars and violence you fled, the burgeoning turmoil in the mortal realm, if that came here. If that came to Prythian.

Then it became a question of whether mortal fury could beat immortal pride. You had an inkling as to which would win.

"Child of the warmongers—you know, you understand? I see it in the eyes you hide. Truth cannot be so hidden from me."

Forcibly, you cleared your throat. The two of you were both in hiding—one from its people, the other from its past. You swept up the book, eyeing the Suriel with a newfound sense of admiration. It carried ash wood with it not because it was twisted or disturbed—it was a talisman, in case it was endangered. A malicious Fae, holding the very thing that could, just as well, be its doom.

A resolution sat heavy in your mind. Your hands closed around the book, engulfing it in the folds of your cloak. "I accept, Suriel."

"Ah, keen you are. Yes, yes. World-walker, leave me here. You have what you need, what makes your eyes free of the veil and the mask. The others—fools, blinded by their hubris, others by their violence." The Suriel quieted, its words devolving into a series of ramblings and mutterings, secrets slipping into the space between seconds, incomprehensible. Its eyes no longer seemed so transfixed on you.

The loss of your materials no longer seemed so intense. You didn't even regard it on the ground. Glass crunched under your feet.

The lantern sputtered and died as you left. Shadows flooded the alleyway.

* * *

The marketplace's vibrant pulse of life amplified when you fell back into its rhythm. Or, rather, as an accompaniment to its rushing harmony of movement. A stumbling ache in your leg impeded swiftness, and the throbbing in your shoulder, halted by the adrenaline of the encounter, surfaced with force. Their searching eyes now appeared glassy, their chatter having lost its vicious bite. Docile, tamed, from the apparent surge of before. The second stall that you'd intended to visit—more out of courtesy than a need to purchase, given your financial burdens at the moment—stood stalwart before you.

It contained a mixture of inks, a mess of paints, a few blank canvasses, and an assortment of decorated awls for easing the threading of signatures, bone scorers for folding pages, and other useful tools. Ellora always swore the more expensive items off—she preferred her version of repairing the books, and so you often let her decide which tools to buy and which to leave as "window attractions," such that she called them.

You trailed a finger over one of the tools—a stark, ivory bone scorer, with a dull edge so that the signatures didn't rip as you folded them. A pretty little thing, without a mark on it. On a whim, you flagged down the shopkeeper, offered a single coin (just enough to cover the cost, it was), and pocketed the slim device. A dash of mauve caught your eye, right as it knocked into you. A startled cry resounded, like a nightingale striking up its song. The man was more startled than you, running a pampered hand down his richly embroidered jacket.

"Ah, Wren! Just who I wanted to see today! I meant to swing by yesterday, mind you, but that dreadful weather halted my quest. A flood of never-ending water, it seemed; never seen anything like it. I'll say."

Of course. Master Oberyn.

Cautiously, you clasped the strange book tighter under the confines of your cloak. Whatever that Suriel intended, this book was obviously something important—perhaps, even, valuable to the right people. You plastered on a shaky smile, "The weather was terrible yesterday. I wouldn't have dreamt of anyone making such a trek!"

"Ah, nonetheless, I'm glad I ran into you now! I think I still have it..." he pats his suit jacket, puzzling through the curiosity that was his extraordinary attire. All the while, anxiety grips your shoulders, searching for some way to escape the interaction and get somewhere—back to your bookstore. Oberyn, with a huff of triumph, produced a cream-colored envelope, elegantly scribed with your false name, and what you thought was an attempt at drawing a bird. Which one, you did not know, but it was certainly, indubitably, a bird.

He offered it to you, all the while chattering away, "—My lovely Alette, she's just dying to meet you. Growing sicker by the day, I fear, but she simply adores the idea of your store and coming there in person one day. Wants to see all you have to offer; she loves those books more than me, I swear." His laughter was sincere, almost wistful, and he waved off his misty-eyed expression with a bright smile, "She wants to host a small dinner party, just to meet you. Alette, you see, she'll read anything; her knowledge of literature is something rivaling even the best scholars of the Day Court. Anyways, you'll come?"

Not so much an invitation, you saw, but a demand. But Master Oberyn was always so kind and thoughtful, you couldn't disappoint him or his lady. You nodded, somewhat too eagerly, "I'll bring some titles over for her." You knew you couldn't afford that. You knew it might also not make a lick of difference. "Is there a date for the party?"

"Hm, I believe she said...five days from today? She wanted to give you some time to prepare anything you might need."

Your heart sank. Tithing Day—when you were supposed to meet the Wardens for your payments. But, it was necessary to go to Oberyn's party—it was a matter of duty, if that. The payments didn't usually take long—if you had the money, that was. So, a day-trip into the Hewn City, a visit to the Wardens, and back in time for supper at Oberyn's.

Easy, right?

Nevertheless, queasiness turned your stomach, and that Suriel was fresh on your mind. You shouldn't attend. Instead, you smile, "Master Oberyn, I'd be delighted to attend."

And as you turned to leave, pocketing the invitation, he clears his throat, somewhat awkward, "Alette says you can bring someone with you, too! Please do, the more the merrier!" He vanishes into the crowd with a final wave, leaving you standing there with a book that may or may not be cursed, an invitation to a party that may or may not threaten your identity, on a day that may or may not involve death threats.

Fatigued from the adventures of the day, you wind your way free of the marketplace labyrinth, detouring from your route only to stop at the Sidra for a moment of respite, admiring the waters. Trying not to think about the book heavy against your side, of the Suriel, or of anything that brought you back to that uncontrolled spiraling anxiety of the shaky day. So, you decided to think about the one thing that wasn't so awful.

Azriel.

You hadn't seen him since yesterday—when he had left you with a beautifully repaired book, after watching the rare event of an eagle's death spiral. Was he lurking about, the spymaster of the Night Court? Over there, in the shade of the unassuming bush, or flirting with the shadows of alleyways, hunting some common criminal? Ironic, how desperately you wanted to unravel his secrets, yet so desperately clinging to your own in the same fashion.

You breathe in, inhaling the subtle, heady scent of the rushing river, letting it wash through your body, scoop away the day's tumultuous emotions and thoughts and make them anew into something vaguely peaceful. You watched the river, a rushing thing so full of glimmering beauty yet so invariably deadly; a vital glowing thing of flame and gold in the dallying sun. A shadow flitted over the water, and you looked up.

Far above, a small shape zipped by—wings shaped like a bat. At this hour? Much too early, much too early. One part of your brain wanted to rationalize that it was just an early riser of the bats; but the other part...well, it wanted to believe a fiction, a non-reality that could never be, because that would threaten too much. And you couldn't afford what kindling of hope that he stirred.

So, when you turned away from the Sidra, you crushed it. That beauty was much too dangerous.

The walk home was uneventful for the sole reason that there was every possibility of doing so today.

The door rattled as you opened it, as it always did, a warm greeting. Ellora sat at her desk, threading a needle through bundles of pages to be rebound. She barely looked up, but somehow she sensed the rigors of the day. She had that having way about her, always reading people's minds with a glance. "Azriel didn't stop by, if that's what you're worried about."

Strange, how you felt so dejected hearing that. He was a stranger! Someone you barely knew and who'd read only one of your many books. Silently, you stepped past the threshold, ducking behind the counter.

"Birdie, what's wrong?"

Please don't.

"You didn't come back with any supplies, I thought we were running low on glues."

"We were." The phrase sounded hollow to your ears, "I fell on the way back, broke the vials. Oberyn's invited me to a dinner in five days—are you able to come with me?"

Ellora set the book down, a queer light burning in her dark eyes, "That's the day we're supposed to visit the Wardens, Wren. I'll be too busy anyways with the paperwork." She winced, as if the words had struck some harsh blow, "Sorry." Ellora turned back to her book, humming a lullaby she usually sang.

Taking the chance, you slipped the strange book from your cloak, where it had spent the day burning a hole in your makeshift holster. The wood was blemished with age, the nail marks from the Suriel a superficial gouge. You lifted the cover, spurred on by some inane courage to see what it contained—a name emblazoned on the cover, Lady Marin, ringing some faint bell from your travels around Prythian.

An unassuming lady in the Summer Court. What had she done to come into the possession of this book? You suspected that wouldn't be answered for a while—you couldn't ask her directly, and whatever this book was meant for, it was apparently dangerous.

You didn't look further—couldn't bring yourself to. As such, you debated where to hide it—if you should hide it—what might entail if you revealed it to Ellora, or to anyone for that matter. Too many questions and not enough answers. On a whim, you crouched behind the counter, feeling for a loose floorboard. It was an old building and rarely up to code, and the drafts that often leaked in were a result of its less-than-structurally sound foundation. Finding a loose nail, a board that creaked ever so slightly, you pried it up with a grunt.

"Everything okay?" Ellora called.

"Fine, just a nail that snagged on something." You shove the book into the slim gap, just wide enough to fit on, and push the board back down into place.

"Who are you going to take to the dinner? If I can't go, surely someone else would like to?"

You didn't have an answer for her—as you didn't for many of the questions aroused today. But, at least for this one, you had an inkling where to start.

After all, the best way to know your enemies was to keep them closer than your friends, and what better way to do that than to ask the Spymaster of the Night Court to a friendly supper?

Thus entailed your next endeavor.

Finding that secretive bat in time.

* * *

Previous | Next

A/N:

Less Azriel-focused on this chapter in order to set up future points—however, he will be very much present in the next chapters, in whatever capacity that may look like! But, on the plus side, a Suriel! Huzzah!

(If you spot any formatting errors, no you didn't, those were, uh, intentional! Yeah...)

If anyone wants to be added or removed from the tag list, please let me know and I'll gladly provide the service 🫡

Hopefully you enjoyed, and if you did feel free to leave a comment, a critique, or any number of ideas that you might have about the story so far Have a good weekend!

Your friendly neighborhood lore creature,

~ Lethe

TAG LIST:

@blueeclipsepaperstudent ; @vechkinfan ; @fuckingsimp4azriel ; @lunarxcity ;

[kaelidascope]

Blake’s looking up through the windshield, unafraid and amazed. Her lips are parted in a silent gasp as her hands clasp the edge of the seat between her thighs. Rainbow lights coat her dark skin, catching in each ray of cosmic light inside the golden ring around her eyes as they roll upward like a film. Her gasp turns to a smile, eyes widening as she catches the moon peak every so often between skyscrapers, reaching further, to see. She wants to see everything, so she's soaking it in with childlike wonder. 

This was Blake. Yang was seeing Blake. 

She was the most beautiful thing Yang had ever seen. 

🪷🪷🪷

My heart and soul belongs to them <3

[swifty-fox]

several sentences sunday

tagged by @donotnomi thank youuuu babes. I have been working every day since the sixth so my brain is quite honestly FRIED writing has been a struggle the last few days but I have been plugging away at my Mob au....

There’s still glitter in the corners and between the cracks of the reclaimed wood floors when Gale walks into the Gallery on Tuesday morning. Faint remnants of celebration, joining the chips of paint that had flaked off and gotten caught in a rainbow menagerie of dust. He can see a few glimmering shards clinging to the shine of his brown leather shoes. Can see himself frowning in them, a faint stress line between his brows. 

“Gale!”

He subtly wipes one shoe off on the back of his slacks.

“Over here,” Chick calls him, waving one broad, brutal hand. He had sculptors hands, which were the only sort of hands an artist could get away with not being elegant, chipped and scarred and always dirty under the nails.

Gale always took good care of his hands, immaculate care scrubbing paint off them religiously, stretching and exercising between every creative session, determined to preserve his tendons and joints and ligaments for as long as possible. Kept the paint from under his cuticles, kept them trimmed short and polished and unblemished. His hands were his livelihood. His escape. He needed them perfect. 

“General Spatz, Miss Spatz, this is Gale Cleven. I asked him to be here personally, since it’s his work you were interested in purchasing today,” Chick introduces, the perfect amount og boisterous to be be a character, and not a nuisance. 

He understood how to work the clients, how to turn a formal buy into a casual affair, how to play the part of the man who had a little bit less, but not so much as to be looked down on. Gale knew that Chick had a house in Cabo and Jackson Hole, and a garage just for classic cars.

tagging @blixabargelds @stereobone @hogans-heroes @weimarweekly @kaaaaaaarf @reallylilyreally

[larkspyrr]

chapter i — we could form an attachment (wc. 4.9k)

prev — masterlist / ao3 — next

reblogs are appreciated!

The Opera Epiclese was almost always a circus — sometimes in the most literal sense of the word. But this event was on another level entirely.

The epicenter of Fontaine's rich history on Erinnyes played host to a menagerie of pastels, frills, cuffs, and nonsense. A sea of nobles and hopefuls swarmed the Court of Fontaine from Marcotte Station all the way to the Fountain of Lucine — a mass of the nation's wealthiest, most ambitious, and most eligible young people, escorted here and there by older family members with varying degrees of investment, twirling and sipping and gossiping.

The jets hidden within the overlapping layers of shallow pools spouted pillars of crystalline water, casting an almost imperceptible mist over the whole courtyard, granting it an ethereal charm and allure not befitting such fatuous rituals. A flood of rainbow roses, lumidouce bells, marcottes, and activated romaritimes bloomed raucously over every inch of the gardens, their aroma thick but not unpleasant, their petals offering a lush natural carpet for the venue — not that there was enough space between the milling crowd to appreciate it. Cuihua trees bursting with bulle fruit lined the perimeter, the little citruses begging to be picked, only protected by the unspoken high society rule that to do so would be unbecoming. A small quartet of violins stood before the fountain itself, playing a light-hearted and airy song to accompany the festivities, though not a soul was paying attention.

A few lucky (or conversely, unlucky) aristocrats may leave the Opera tonight with the promise of approaching nuptials and a happy future. Far more would simply leave with an impending hangover and some gossip on Baron Something-or-Other's latest romantic failings.

You took a dainty sip from your champagne flute. It would be more nauseating if it weren't so entertaining. You and Lady Furina seemed to have that in common — an enduring appreciation for the cyclical drama. You wondered absently if the Archon herself would make an appearance to stir something up. You hoped she would.

All the world's a stage, indeed.

You made your way across the courtyard, the click of your heels on the parquet stone drowned out by the throng; a nearby wide, stone planter in your sights. It would be as good a place as any for you to remain aloof and antisocial but still in sight of your father, who spared you a supervisory glance from where he stood with other noblemen, certainly discussing nothing of importance.

From your new perch, the noise and color and spectacle all were duller, easier to digest. You leaned against the marble and observed the sea of activity, daintily nursing your drink.

You were enjoying the time spent on your own when you heard a soft rustle of fabric to your right — a noise that would have been impossible to catch had you been any closer to the heart of the gathering. You turned in time to see a man you didn't recognize leaning against the same planter as you, looking for all the world as comfortable as if you'd invited him to be there.

You had not.

He didn't seem to belong there — that much was evident — and not just because he was an unfamiliar face. Tall and dark, his icy blue eyes were framed by a rush of thick, dark hair and a thin, crescent scar. Far from his only scar, by the looks of it — a complex network traveled down his neck and disappeared under his collar, intricate enough to rival the meticulous lacework that had cost your father a pretty mora at the boutique — despite your insistence that such costs were wholly unnecessary. The stranger's suit, a well-tailored gray and black ensemble, was partially obscured by a fussy, fur-lined coat. His burgundy tie was ever-so-slightly crooked, making your fingers twitch with the urge to adjust it. A desire no doubt born of the years you had been doing the very same for father.

Even under the warmth of the setting summer sun, he seemed to radiate a chill that brought goosebumps to your exposed arms.

If he'd ever been at an event before this one, there was no way you could have forgotten him. He seemed the type to linger in someone's mind long after he left a room.

He tilted a polite smile down at you.

"Good afternoon, miss," he greeted in a voice altogether too friendly to match his intimidating countenance.

"Charmed," you clipped. You gave him an appraising look, not rushing the path your eyes made up his frame, from the clunky boots, ill-suited for the occasion, to the silver streaks in his hair he didn't seem quite old enough for yet. He had the dignity not to cower under your inspection. "I'm afraid this flowerbed is occupied, sir. Please find your own."

His smile shifted and was clearly meant to look apologetic. You weren't convinced. "I'm afraid I can't."

You lifted a brow. If nothing else, this could be an entertaining interlude from the pomp and circumstance. "And why not?"

He cleared his throat, nodding in the direction of some hedges across the way. You flicked your eyes over discreetly, just in time to catch a head of blonde hair and another of jet curls disappearing behind the greenery, followed by stage whispers that surely they didn't think were quiet. Didn't they?

"You see," he began in a lower tone, clearly having better mastered the art of not being overheard than your spectators. "There is a gaggle of lovely but persistent young women in pursuit of me at this very moment, and I'd very much like to be engaged in conversation with someone else in order to postpone my torment. I'd be in your debt if you could look engrossed in this discussion for just long enough that they lose interest and find someone else to prey upon."

You hummed thoughtfully, watching now ginger curls leaning incautiously from behind the hedge, green eyes landing viciously on you and the interloper before vanishing once more. Just how many girls were hiding behind there?

"Oh?" you said, raising the glass to your lips with a smirk. "Not interested in sampling their scintillating conversation skills? Are you not here in search of a partner?"

"No, I'm not," he responded good-naturedly, running a hand through the artfully tousled sweep of his hair. "I have no intentions to marry at present."

You hmphed, twirling the flute in a gloved hand. "Yet here you are," you said, softly flicking the glass in his general direction, the tiny whirlpool you'd gotten going interrupted. You did not bother to conceal your skepticism. "Tolerating the vagaries of a high society debutante ball. And you'd tell a complete stranger this, because...?"

He leaned in, conspiratorial. "I am here as a matter of obligation only. Politics. Appearances. You understand." He returned back to his former stance, expression neutral, resting lazily against the polished marble. "Let's just say I'm sharp enough to recognize a kindred spirit when I see one."

You could feel yourself reflecting the same curiosity that danced in his eyes against your better judgment. This exchange was turning out to be interesting. "A kindred spirit, is it?"

"Indeed," he said. "Judging by the fact that you are also skulking in this corner and don't seem to have any more interest in mingling at this event than I do."

"I do not 'skulk'," you responded, unamused at his word choice. "And while I'd ask you to separate me from your assumptions, you aren’t incorrect. I'm also here only because it is expected of me."

He looked pleased with himself at your confirmation, and now dealt you the same appraisal you'd previously subjected him to with a calculating stare. You fought the urge to fidget under his evaluation, finding it beyond frustrating to have no idea what he was thinking behind his amicable yet inscrutable exterior. "Is that so? It is not often you see a noble lady uninvested in the affairs of the court."

You bristled, fighting the urge to furrow your eyebrows in a way you'd been told by many etiquette coaches was 'unflattering'. "There are greater aspirations to have beyond being a pretty little thing for some nobleman to set on his trophy shelf. Even for so-called 'noble ladies'."

He laughed then, a short, surprised burst. The sound was rich, reverberating in your bones. "My apologies. Please don't misunderstand, my curiosity tends to get the better of me. Indulge me?"

You sniffed, turning away from him once more to observe the hedge across the path — it seemed quiet enough now that the ladies within must have moved on like he'd hoped they would. Your chin lifted of its own accord as you flicked your eyes back to him. "I'm not interested in discussing my life aspirations with a man who lacks the good manners to even introduce himself first."

His mouth pulled up at one corner. "Are you sure the exchange of such confidential information would be of equal value?"

You held your stance, unfazed. "That will be for me to decide, sir."

"Very well." He inclined his head, an earnest hand pressed to his chest. "I am Wriothesley, Duke of the Fortress of Meropide. It is an honor to make your acquaintance."

You felt the color leave your face and your fingers go dead cold. This man — the Duke of Meropide, of all things — watched cheerfully as you hurried into polite obeisance. Damn it all. You hadn't exactly been courteous with the man. "Your Grace. The honor is mine."

His eyes still shone with mirth as you straightened. "Please, no need for such formalities. My mistake for — ah, what was it you said?'' he pondered, eyes drifting off in mock thought as you waited, drenched in miserable anticipation. "Right! ‘Not having the good manners to introduce myself first’."

Your cheeks warmed and you forced back a rush of frustration with yourself. "My apologies, I — I meant no disrespect," you said, gathering your composure. "You are not at all what I pictured, Your Grace. I hadn't known you were to attend a society function here on the surface."

"Tragically, society functions below the Fontemer are in short supply," he said sardonically. "And please, don't apologize, it's not often one gets to enjoy a chat with a charming, spirited stranger. What's your name?"

You offer it with another small nod. "My father is the Viscount Vellerot."

As if on cue, you faintly heard your father's voice calling your name from somewhere amidst the hustle and bustle; evidently he'd lapsed in his duty as your chaperone — once again — and had lost track of you. You weren't sure what it was he may want, though; clearly something must have come up to remind him of his purpose at this party. That was generally the way of things.

You tended to prefer being forgotten.

"And that would be him calling for me now," you explained as you pushed yourself from the planter and stepped past him. "This flowerbed is all yours. It was a pleasure to hide from the gaggle of lovely women with you, Your Grace. Good luck avoiding them for the rest of the evening."

He chuckled, a sheepish smile on his face. "The pleasure was all mine, my lady," he said. "But don't think I've forgotten our deal. You still owe me an answer."

With a vague smile and a polite curtsy, you disappeared back into the crowd, leaving the duke still leaning against the flowerbed.

Turns out, your father had only wished to introduce you to yet another son of yet another powerful acquaintance of his. His hopeful eyes as he sent the two of you off to dance only made it harder to turn the boy down, even if he were several years your junior and an entitled brat to boot. Your father truly only wanted your happiness, and you didn’t have the heart to tell him his efforts were in vain. This young noble wasn't the first you'd ever had to reject, and you unfortunately very much doubted he'd be the last — though you hoped he would, at least, be the last for that particular soirèe.

It turned out that would not be the case either, but you tried to keep an approximation of optimism anyway.

The one thing more sure than the line of people begging your attention — for want of your dowry and the association with your family, not anything to do with you, mind — was the tidal wave of whispers that had begun to take over the flow of the neverending gossip. It hadn't taken long for the news to spread —

Did you hear? This event has a special guest —

The Duke of Meropide is here? He must finally be looking for a duchess…

Come, Anne, allow me to introduce you to the duke. Fix your gloves, we want to make a good impression. Let me put this flower in your hair — maybe he will ask you for a dance!

Slowly, all the usual chirping melted away into one, resounding sentiment from all corners of the court — the Duke of Meropide is here, and he will be mine.

None of them knew what you did. You did your best to conceal your smile at the knowledge that all their posturing and peacocking was an investment in vain. Just as it was when their artless schemes were directed at you.

Afternoon melted into evening and you'd been idling away the hours, chatting to and dancing with and entertaining people who you didn't have the privilege to inform were wasting their time with you, longing to be anywhere else.

You finally seized enough of an opening to flee the courtyard proper for a moment of respite in a blooming hedge maze, as the gathering at the top of the grand stone steps was dying down and getting ready to migrate to the beautiful, opulent expanse of the Icewind Suite for the evening's grand finale. You found a remote, hidden spot and sat heavily, removing a shoe so you could massage the soles of your aching, overworked feet.

A branch snapped nearby and you whipped your head in its direction, heart thundering, to find the individual responsible for interrupting your moment of rest.

You should have known.

"We meet again," said the duke with a dip of his head.

"We do indeed," you said from where you were seated, letting your foot drop. Even in the dim lighting of the garden, you could see the man looked worn. Delight pulled at your lips at his evident misfortune. "Enjoying your evening?"

He sighed, a long, drawn-out, heartfelt sound. "Can't say that I am," he admitted.

You smiled ruefully. "That makes two of us. These events are nothing if not a test of our constitution." A yawning silence expanded between you and you slipped your heel back on, standing with a small stretch. You brushed down your dress. "I will return to the group. I really shouldn't be seen here with you without my chaperone, Your Grace. It wouldn't be proper."

He rolled his eyes. "Don't you ever get fatigued by these stuffy, outdated rules?"

"Every day," you said wryly. "But the rules still exist, and I have a reputation to uphold. I can't be thought to have been compromised. There are always sharp eyes waiting for someone to slip."

He crossed his arms in front of his chest, keen eyes glinting, in a gesture all too calculating for your liking. "Why risk coming out here alone at all?" he asked. "What if a person with bad intentions were to come looking for you? Someone who might wish to 'compromise' you?"

"A person other than you?" you retorted. "All I know of your intentions is that they do not include marriage, yet here you are anyway. Who's to say what your intentions truly are?"

He frowned. "Point taken," he conceded. "Though I assure you, they are nothing untoward. You didn't answer my question."

Your smile was scornful. "Fear not, Your Grace, for I am quite sure no one at this party could present any real physical threat to me. Of course, we are all always subject to the whims of the rumor mill, and I'm afraid that could do much more damage to me than any wealthy man in tights ever could."

His lips twitched in amusement. "Physical?" he remarked. "You grow more intriguing with every word."

"I am quite skilled, sir, both with a sword and without," you replied, a proud tilt to your chin.

He hummed thoughtfully, nodding. "That brings our deal back to mind. What is it you'd do instead, if not play along with these society games?"

You considered him for a long moment. His curiosity seemed genuine. You saw no reason to lie or disguise the truth. "I'd become a Champion Duelist."

His eyes widened almost imperceptibly before his smile broadened. "How about that?"

Your eyes narrowed, leaning forward into his space just slightly. "Is there a problem?"

"Not at all," he assured with a dismissive wave and a light, surprised laugh. "Just caught off guard."

You huffed and leaned back, allowing the remainder of your defensiveness to drain away. "Miss Clorinde is an acquaintance of my father, as it sometimes seems everyone in Fontaine is," you said, dry. "She has been gracious enough to join me in training from time to time. Of course, that will slow considerably during the social season while I trade in my boots for heels and my fencing ripostes for verbal ones."

He looked lost in thought for a moment. "I knew nothing about the aristocracy before receiving my title — it wasn't part of the curriculum for urchins, believe it or not. But in all my studies since, I've never once heard of a member of the inherent nobility leaving their seat for such a role."

"There is a first for all things," you said airily. "I had forgotten you come from, uh, humble beginnings. Your studies must have been quite intensive."

"I do, and they were. They still are. There's a lot about all of this I still find kinda baffling. My 'humble beginnings' are unfortunately part of the reason I have to make appearances this season," he said, tone ringing resentful. "It seems not all of our peers are pleased that a former… commoner with an honorary title is in the position I'm in. There are those interested in incorporating the Fortress as an official Fontainian entity — a government-managed facility. The question of my legitimacy is only helping their case when I haven't participated at court in any formal capacity as Duke."

You pondered his words for a moment. "So the rumors are true? This truly is your first time ever attending a society function?"

He nodded, his nose wrinkling with distaste. "It is, and it seems no amount of reading could have prepared me for it. The Iudex suggested that making a point of looking for a wife of noble birth, genuine or otherwise, might be enough to keep the wolves at bay, at least until the nobility votes to solidify or dissolve the Fortress of Meropide's autonomy, and by extension, my position as its administrator. He said if I wished to sway the vote my way, then I'd have to convince them I belong." He grimaced. "And that I’d have to consider making some sacrifices to do so.”

"I can't say that I'm surprised," you said. "These people value one thing above all else — their own superiority. Anything that threatens that, threatens them. If you were to form a connection with a strong family, the fuss would surely die down. No one wants to be on the bad side of those more powerful than they are."

The duke hummed. "Then Lord Thibeault must think he is very threatened indeed. I've been feeling a bit like a fish quite literally out of water. Would it be improper of me to say I miss my fortress?"

You snorted, unladylike. "He's the ring leader? Lord Thibeault must have far too much time on his hands if he is available to cause as much trouble as he does."

"You're familiar?"

"'Familiar' is one way of putting it. Lord Thibeault is a busybody and a wretch. He can't bear to see anything fresh or interesting shake up his beloved court or upset the status quo he holds so dear."

"So it seems," the duke said thoughtfully, letting a quiet beat pass. "Your aspiration was a pleasant surprise. Thank you for sharing it with me."

"It is only a secret by necessity," you sighed. "Not because I'd like it to be. What was your expectation?"

"I didn't have any expectations,” he said. His mouth curved into a roguish grin. “Never do. That's what makes the wait so good. I love cliffhangers."

You laughed. "I'd hate to have kept you in suspense. Sadly, the endless cycles of dancing and tea and etiquette classes will leave me little time to continue my training over the coming months, so my dream will remain just that: a dream."

"Why do you do it, then?” he asked, cocking his head. “Continue enduring all this nonsense?"

"As I said before, it is my duty,” you said slowly, wilting. A familiar feeling of defeat sank into your bones. “It would set a bad precedent if I didn't. I have two younger sisters and my father is a good man who only wants us to be happy, but he is getting on in years and... well. If I were to dishonor our family by abandoning them before they were situated, I could never forgive myself."

His eyebrows drew together and you could see his gears turning. "That's why you continue to take part?"

"Yes. I just need to somehow find a way to avoid any... obligations until they are in safe, happy situations, and then maybe I can be free. They are only just behind me in years, so it won't be that long. If all goes according to plan, a few years, maybe. Otherwise, as there is no male heir, my sisters would be at the next Viscount Vellerot's mercy when my father passes, whoever he may be once he is named. I will not risk their futures for my own selfishness."

The duke frowned. "I don't think wanting to pursue what would make you happy should be considered selfish."

You shrugged. "Nevertheless, if I want to make sure my sisters are taken care of, I likely will eventually need to secure the hand of a respectable man, my own wishes be damned,” you sighed. “I suppose I just can’t help but to naively hope for something more."

He looked to be lost in thought, arms crossed in front of his chest, tapping a considering finger on his chin, a tap-tap-tap that set your teeth on edge and filled your with a sense of foreboding. His eyes, looking at something far off in the distance, eventually focused back on your own as he came to some hidden conclusion in his mind.

"And what of a duke?" he offered.

You blinked, your mind hurrying to understand the implication of his words, yet failing to do so. "Something on your mind, Your Grace?"

"I have a proposition for you."

You looked at him intently. "And what would that be? This isn't going to be another ill-fated proposal, is it?” you scolded. “I thought you were supposed to be smarter than that."

"Oh, not at all," he said, dangerous eyes holding yours in a vice grip. "We could pretend to form an attachment."

You found yourself temporarily at a loss for words. You heard him, knew the meaning of each word in solitude, but strung together in such a fashion they felt like mismatching puzzle pieces, the completed landscape out of reach. "What do you mean?"

He began to pace in the small clearing, gesturing with his arms as he unfolded the inner workings of his mind. "We are both uninterested in marriage and yet forced to give the impression that we are. I need the lords and ladies of the court to believe I have found my duchess to cement my legitimacy as the duke until we secure the Fortress of Meropide’s autonomy. You need them to believe that you are searching for a respectable husband to maintain your, and by extension, your family's good reputation until your sisters have found happy matches. Who could be more suited to our respective needs than each other?"

"You're suggesting a ruse?" you whispered, scandalized. “Are you crazy?”

"Perfectly sane,” he continued. “What I'm suggesting is that we let the people believe we are precisely what we are — respectably off-the-market."

You began to shake your head in disbelief, wanting to back away but finding your legs refusing to obey your command. "Your proposition is ridiculous."

"It's perfect,” he said with conviction. “What better way is there to keep the wolves at bay than to lower the gates? Plus — you understand more about how to blend into society than I could ever hope to, and let's just say that with my background, I could offer a hand in your training. We can help each other.”

“The season won’t last forever,” you pointed out. "And when autumn comes around?"

"Oh, that’s the beauty of it. We go our separate ways," he said, eyes gleaming like he was telling an inside joke no one in Teyvat other than the two of you could ever understand. "It didn't work out! It happens."

You laughed, incredulous, an unfamiliar feeling beginning to fill your chest.

"There are sure to be reporters for the Steambird here,” he said. “One dance in the Icewind Suite, and you and I will be the cover story of tomorrow's paper. Then, no one will touch us."

You blinked, running through every possible outcome and scenario in your mind, but — steadily, the pros began to outweigh the cons. You could continue your training. You would have to invest significantly less of your time at these Celestia-forsaken events and not sacrifice anything for either yourself or your sisters in the process. A smile crept onto your lips as the feeling in your chest reached a crescendo — it was hope, a happy, buoyant feeling you were always afraid to let yourself feel.

"This really could work, couldn’t it?" you asked softly.

His smile looked truly genuine for the first time that evening as he offered you his arm. "It will work."

Your arm was looped through the duke's as you made your way down the stairs towards the Icewind Suite, the path lined with lit lamp posts and romaritimes and gawking attendees. The hydro blooms were releasing an array of colorful, opalescent bubbles into the cooling night air, making the latest turn of events feel even more surreal than they already did. The usual residents of the Suite were nowhere to be seen, likely decommissioned, their eternal waltz paused so they could make room for the evening's closing event — and some select charades.

The crowd hushed as you stepped past, a wave of quiet rolling downwards, and you could feel the weight of dozens of curious eyes on you. With each step, arm in arm with the duke, it seemed that more and more attention broke away to hone in on you. You wondered vaguely if your father was anywhere among them — you wondered what he thought. You managed to spot Lord Thibeault in the throng — a disapproving scowl pulled at his wizened face.

Finally, the two of you reached the ground, the shimmering sea of polished marble spread out before you, empty but for the reflection of the night sky in its depths. It waited for you, the symbol of a successful evening of new partnerships and futures to be shared. You’d seen many a pair spin upon this floor — never once had it been you. You had never intended for it to ever be you.

All the world’s a stage, after all.

The duke gently shifted your body so that the two of you were facing one another. He bowed, an elegant bending of his knees and lowering of his head, far more graceful than a man who had his history etched into his skin should be capable of. He made it look effortless.

Icy blue seized you as he straightened back up, eyes crinkling ever-so-slightly at the corners. "Might I have this dance?" he asked, holding out a hand.

His mirror, you curtsied, slow and deliberate. You smiled, a small and surreptitious thing, and placed your gloved hand in his. "You may. Don't trip on your feet now, Your Grace. Rule number one for fitting into high society — you must be as graceful and confident in a ballroom as you are on a battlefield."

He pulled you in closer; too close to be strictly proper. "Call me Wriothesley. We want this to be convincing, don’t we?” he murmured into your ear. Another pulse of low whispers spread throughout the spectators as a few more pairs joined you on the Icewind Suite. “And you wound me, my lady. I think you will find my performance to be more than satisfactory.”

You swallowed thickly. "That remains to be seen, Wriothesley. Let's hope you can convince them better than you can me."

The grand ballroom and every last soul within held their breath as the duke placed a rough, scarred hand on the small of your back. You could feel the weight of it through layers of thin lace and silk as you wove your free hand under his arm and anchored it against the back of his broad shoulder. Your fingers on his back felt inexplicably cold, but the rest of your body burned hot. Your heart pounded. Your eyes locked onto his. Time came to a standstill.

“I intend to,” he said.

The music began to play, and you allowed him to lead.

a/n: so here she is!! i am really excited to get into this one, and i know there was a bit borrowed here from bridgerton itself, tho i promise this is where most of the direct similarities will end. i simply wanted to pay homage to where this idea initially came from &lt;;3 hope you all enjoy

i didn't initially plan to have a taglist for this one, but if there are enough requests for one, i'll consider it. if anyone knows of a better way to notify people when i update (besides pointing them to ao3, anyway) im all ears

til next time!

[adhdkiramman]

hello, i’m van!!! i’m a transmasc butch lesbian studying english at my university!! first and foremost, zionists and terfs and the like, fuck off!

while i’ve been active in tumblr and twitter fandoms before, i’m starting fresh on a new account because it has been several years. i never really planned on coming back to this kind of blog, but i’ve been super hyperfixated on arcane, and i really want to engage with some more content creators!! i’m also working on several caitvi fics, including a multi-chapter college au!! find my work on my ao3 linked below and in my bio!!!

if it seems like we’d get along/you’re interested in my writing, let’s be mutuals! feel free to send questions or fic requests to my inbox or shoot me a dm!

the format of this is very rudimentary, so i'll be making a more complete list soon, but these are some of my interests:

shows: arcane, yellowjackets, over the garden wall, she-ra, bojack horseman, the bear, killing eve, sex lives of college girls, wynonna earp, pantheon... i love lesbians and beautiful animation!

movies: horror movies, go fish, i saw the tv glow, clerks, bottoms, but i'm a cheerleader, portrait, jordan peele films, juno, jennifer's body, the substance, the watermelon woman, and more! i love horror, lesbians, 90s indie films, etc.

video games: the last of us pt. 1 and 2, god of war, cyberpunk 2077, red dead redemption 1 and 2, night in the woods, batman arkham trilogy, assassin's creed, and more!

music: lucy dacus, elliott smith, pavement, the silver jews, fiona apple, ween, kendrick lamar, megan thee stallion, ethel cain, rainbow kitten surprise, doechii, mf doom, big thief, adrienne lenker, mazzy star, indigo de souza, boygenius, belle and sebastion, japanese breakfast, sufjan stevens, noah kahan, chappell roan, julia jacklin, and sooooo much more!!!! please send me music recs!!!

my favorite author is kurt vonnegut! but i am also a great lover of essays, classics, creative nonfiction, and american modernist stage plays. some of my favorite plays off the top of my head are death of a salesman by arthur miller, our town by thorton wilder, and the glass menagerie by tennessee williams! as a full-time student and part-time barista, among other things, i do not get to read for pleasure nearly as often as i did in childhood. however, i’m always down to discuss literature and take recommendations!

[brokentrafficknight]

Shogun but it's on Menagerie and Jaune just wants to go home

[razorblade180]

As we've sort of seen how it happened with Weiss, how did Jaune end up falling for the girls in their respective aus? How long did it take for him to notice and for him to act on those feelings?

I should really find an efficient way to deep dive into my archives because I know for sure I have this written I. specific details Thank goodness I write things often enough to remember the fundamentals of my stories.

Rosebud- It’s probably the simplest. Ruby always had a crush in this AU. They started getting intimate with one another during their journey as RNJR; out of sense of comfort, stress, and growing affection. Ruby made the first move. They didn’t officially get together until sometime during V5 time frame at the inn. It was pretty much unspoken that they were going to love each other forever, and that only became more true when after Salem was beaten. At that point their love could really flourish. The silver eyed hero that saved the world at 17 was happily married at 19 and Jaune couldn’t be happier.

Lasting Embers is slightly more complicated but I’m not about to get nitty gritty in this specific post. Yang and Blake’s relationship got messy and tense after the revelation that was Adam being alive and the several run in that happened on the journey. After the break up, Yang was incredibly down and upset and it was mainly Jaune that helped get her through the funk. Eventually they got together but it wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows. There were several fights and even a breakup that mainly stemmed from the tense journey and Yang’s emotional baggage. Jaune even briefly dated someone else who Yang believed was better for him and deeply cared about him. However, after what could be described as the most selfless act of a lifetime, the two of them were able to try again and it was wonderful. They continued to love each other and let down walls that eventually led to a marriage that remains vivid in everyone’s memory.

So for Knigtshade context, Jaune and Blake were actually pretty friendly during Beacon days. Nothing crazy happened but they had similar music tastes and quiet spots to think. Also one of the major differences in this universe is they managed to lock Salem behind a relic door for a few years in order to train properly and prep the world for the real fight. It was during this time. Like Lasting Embers, Blake and Yang got into some drama, but this was ten times worse. So bad that it rocked the entire group. Ruby ended up making the executive decision that when it came interaction between Menagerie and the nearest Anima area, it would be Jaune and Blake while Yang essentially worked with Ren and Nora. The constant back and forth as well as the problem solving Blake and Jaune had to do together for so long naturally led to them getting to know each other more and being there to listen. They both fell for each other slowly. Things were a little better with Yang for a while until she noticed the signs. Eventually marriage became a reality and so was a family. Things were never really the same which is a little disheartening. Nobody is hostile to anyone but little Lucas could only wonder why someone so important to his family always felt a little distant on the rare occasions they met.

[heller-meta-of-the-day]

March 11th

Plucky Pennywhistle’s Magical Menagerie (7.14)

"Soaked in gayness'? Yeah hellers, tell us you are the real fans of the show and not fans of a fetish.

Moving on.

Do hellers know WHY the show is called Supernatural? Because Sam and Dean deal with MONSTERS.

That's why Dean reacted the way he did. He heard that the little girl was scared that there might be a MONSTER in her closet.

DEAN: Giant slinky. Would have killed for one of those when I was a kid. How much? Dean's "desire", wasn't about the rainbow, it was about the slinky. Big difference.

Hellers and their offensive stereotypical proof.

[tsupertsundere]

FFXIVWRITES -- DAY 10 -- STABLE Complete ---- 1,319 Words ---- Notes: Another weird one yaaaaaay

When Angeline was a child, one of her most beloved toys was an adorable replica of a stable that she had come across in a peculiar way one day and then lost a couple of years later just as quickly. She had been wandering the very edges of the Carax estate’s gardens where she was (barely) permitted to go, when she sensed a change in the air, molars first. When she turned, a tall tall woman with peculiarly bright eyes and a robe the color of a summer sky was standing very close to Angeline, superseding the sodden, indifferent clouds that had hung over their heads. 

Would you like to see what I have for you? was what the woman told Angeline, her voice perfectly nice and her tone perfectly genuine. There was something about the woman’s too pretty smile (let alone the small-eyed white mask it hung beneath) that struck Angeline as inherently unlikeable, but just as she came to that private conclusion that this woman was full of shit she realized they were walking hand in hand, and had been for long enough to leave the unchanging never ending Sharlayan countryside behind and to be walking through a lush green wood, the air thick enough to make her gasp. Her fingers tried to tighten their grip on the woman’s hand, but they were enveloped so completely they could only wriggle a little. The woman had sharp, sharp nails, bright pink, just level with Angeline’s wide eye.

A brief catch in her throat at an ill premonition turned into a real cry as her next footstep sunk shin-deep into water - she took a few steps forward alone and with pinwheeling arms as she found herself standing in deep blue water, a lake with no shores, as far as she could see. The expanse was only broken by a couple dozen settee-sized islands, if they could be called that, with the one closest to her being the biggest. Set upon it, dominating it, was a beautiful toy stable, gayly built and cheery, just as big around as she could carry. The rest of the island’s grounds had matching paddocks and fences, and to complete it all the entire display was frankly bristling with perfect palm-sized miniature mounts.

Delight rolled a smothering blanket over her precious misgivings and she spared exactly one glance around for the woman. Finding her almost directly at her back again, the woman gave a single nod before Angeline could be too startled, if at all. Released, Angeline took off, kicking up huge sprays of water as she charged at her apparent prize. Every detail lovingly crafted, the roof easily removable and replaceable, every stall appropriately adorned and everything sparkling clean. Better still, the animals that stocked it were a more delightful menagerie than she had ever seen - a herd of horses that hummed with aetheric energy, a flock of birds all the colors of the rainbow and that scintillated with light, humming and whirring mechanical contraptions whose pieces moved smoothly to and fro beneath her questing fingers - and some oddities, too, like dollhouse furniture stood outside in the outline of a house with no walls, or a magical card deck that sorted itself back together whenever any of the cards were split but not before fluttering all amongst her fingers.

The woman was behind her for a long time before Angeline noticed again, almost dropping a long white snake with little grasping claws, trailing melancholy gold streamers. Before Angeline could ask one more time if these things were really hers and if it were really okay to take them, the woman was already speaking, her immense non-presence muffled and fuzzy but a countable number of layers away. 

Of course it’s okay. It’s already yours, the woman said and smiled her terrible and beautiful smile, and Angeline wrapped her arms around that lovely wooden structure and heaved. 

It creaked and some of the little trimmings and finishings got crunched under the pressure but held against her chest, and with a numb kind of speed and a bit of a tunneling vision (looking down and carrying the stable was peculiarly difficult, like she’d pitch forward and smash into the planet) she swept the miniature animals into the open top. Ones that particularly caught her eye - the snake from before, the card deck, a giant toy cactus with glowing buildings attached, a horse that was identical to Cinnamon - she grabbed and shoved into secure pockets in her dress, but in her increasingly closed-throated haste more than a few plunked directly into the surf and disappeared, tearing holes in the water around her legs. All right, the woman’s voice rung lightly, a sweet warning. Angeline shoveled faster, her arms shaking with the weight. 

All right. Angeline grabbed the roof and balanced it precariously on top. 

All right. 💖

A burst of light brought with it a gale and a spray of water so intense it stung Angeline’s eyes closed, and when she returned to her bearings she found herself back at the edge of her garden holding the full-to-bursting stable, the various figures she had grabbed digging into her sides and stomach, wherever she could fit them.

She felt deeply for a moment as if she had gotten away with something she shouldn’t have, like the tiny timbers against her palm were not meant for these dimensions and would snap under the wrong strain, but the toy stable was just a toy stable, a smooth-to-the-touch plaster with its little crimped filigrees frozen safely where she had been in the middle of breaking them. 

She realized then how late it had gotten, even though it was just before noon the last she checked, and she ran with her new treasure back to the main house, up to her room where she nestled it amidst the other amusements and playthings her mothers had gathered for her over the years and which cloaked this new plaster cuckoo egg in plain sight. 

For the next two years, each of Angeline’s seven mothers assumed one of the others had picked it up somewhere, and Angeline’s childhood continued with its own personal woes and joys, and before long the wonder of this little stable was taken a little bit for granted. One by one each of the delightful little miniatures went misplaced, forgotten, taken ahold of by gravity and then taken apart. Misfortune seemed to pile up around this little stable despite Angeline’s increasingly concerned attempts to protect it. When she mentioned anything at all about it to her mothers (a poor season to do so, there was a storm about the house), Sapna only replied that if she couldn’t be bothered to truly care for something, she didn’t deserve to have it. 

That sentence was on her mind when at last she found the stable smashed as if at great force across her floor, the pieces all the rich wood and painted slats from that moment-long afternoon years ago. Angeline took several quickly deepening breaths and revised ‘I have’ to ‘I had’ and began dutifully tidying up. When the pieces were thrown away and her toys re-arranged it was like there had never been a gap there at all, and life in Sharlayan continued, where even now such ‘i have - I had revisions’ are going on every day. 

Two decades later, the Warrior of Light Angeline Carax would be escorted out to the beautiful Ciedadaes Islands by one new island owner and close confidant Tataru Taru. Though reportedly possessed of a great set of sea legs, the warrior of light grew more and more ill at ease the further they sailed, and upon sighting the island - the very picture of paradise, Tataru was saying, and I’ve already got it set up just for you - the Warrior of Light gave a great cry, seized the lalafell, and begged her to turn the ship back around.

[chthonicgodling]

(April’s)Huevember - Part Two! Colors 4-6!

wheel here :-)

featuring - OH BROTHER NOT THESE GUYS AGAIN 🙄🙄🙄 Maci! ELoki! Tory!

trucking along still on my very own Huevember palette collection, abridged version this time around for 2024! Clicky for the full wheel (and feel free to play!)

HAHAAA. forreal stared at this bizarre palette of colors for soooo long blankly trying to figure out who to possibly draw amongst our rainbow menagerie and then my brain drifted to its natural resting point of our stupid Not-Throuple and— GASPED

I assume you’ve all been following all recent shenanigans🤪💕 Their baby is still not here but Loki’s now OVERDUE and their lil babbieeee dwagon kiddo could be here any day now!!!!! I have all my announcement art prepped and ready to go Umm!! Twiddles my thumbs!!! HHHHH!!!

God, EeL’s whole endless shtick of huffing and puffing loudly rolling his eyes while he’s cuddled into oblivion, only to crumple into Maci n’ Tory’s arms the second no one else is looking at him is so—ohghhhh my god. Well it’s fine even while knocked up with their baby and melting into their bed for basically the duration of the past year they’re still NOT ACTUALLY A THROUPLE so just. Ya knowww!!! So normal!!!

(they make me FFUCKINNN INSANEE)

I was going to post my next Elysium Drama Update yesterday but decided not to cause 🫠 However I will now be posting that TOMORROW (Thursday) and despite not being the baby drop it IS an extremely exciting one soooo!! Watch this space!! RAAAAAAAA

My Huevember tag this year for all of ‘em is here! Tory belongs to the wonderful hiatus’d @fenixethekid, Maciiiii is mine and EeL is… :))