#ruby garden series

[navybrat817]

Would you consider writing CE and SS characters in a dominant submission sort of setting?

Hi, nonnie. While I'm very much interested in writing a D/s relationship with Bucky and wouldn't mind one with Steve or another Evans character, I don't know if I have the capacity to do a multi-character AU if that is what you're asking for.

@biteofcherry has a multi-character AU though that revolves around D/s relationships and setting if you're interested.

Love and thanks. ❤️

[rubyloops]

no because i would defend george wilcox with my fucking life

[vagabond-umlaut]

tryst, too tempest

Icarus fell for loving the Sun.

You will, for loving your lover.

▸ trueform!sukuna x wife!reader; 1.1k wc; comprises of elements inspired by the tale of 'hades and persephone' & 'fall of icarus'; warning: sukuna is sukuna, so expect the expected [mentions of violence, murder, cannibalism]; warning 2.0: the reader is not very keen to leave or not love her husband; uraume is the BEST WINGPERSON none of you two ever deserved but still got; FLUFF & ANGST & A MADLY DEVOTED LOVE YOU AND SUKUNA FEEL FOR EACH OTHER

▸ belongs to the series 'mine? yes, mine.' – same universe as the work 'six seeds, like rubies...' — but you can treat this as a stand-alone fic if you wanna!

▸ i don't own the characters, the image or the divider used. please don't plagiarize or translate or repost this. enjoy reading! ❤️

Foul winds howl through the land, the first year of your life as one Ryomen Sukuna's wife.

Servants cower before you the moment your shadow falls within their field of vision, yet their gaze stays steeped in pity and envy the entire time it remains trained on your feet. Grocers mumble to one another, eyes looking away when you move to look at the things in their shops. Even the very flora and fauna, you loved so much growing up, writing poems on them from the day you knew how to pen a poem– even the same flora and fauna feels so foreign to you—

"You do realize your importance to Master, don't you?"

Uraume's quiet question floats in through your thoughts, much akin a gentle breeze creating small ripples over the water surface. You smile. "Given how I haven't been eaten by him or sent to be murdered by his subordinate curses, I think I do."

Emotion, too similar to humor, flits across the mien of your husband's loyal follower — you decide not to think much of it. Too many days of having only them as someone to speak to, outside of requesting for a second serving of the soup or asking for the cost of yukata, has led to you imagining a smile on a person who is famous for their poker face. Shaking your head, you return to your poems, the quill fluttering over the roll of parchment you found lying at the breakfast today morning, and let out a content sigh — only for your peace of mind to be broken by the bursting of a guard into the garden, appearing too terrorstruck to utter a single coherent word.

It takes you nothing save one glance, moving from him to Uraume to your ink-stained fingers, before you find yourself keeping the papers on the ground beside and rising, feet breaking into a hasty giddy run down the corridors of the palace to the throne room where, certainly enough–

"I was under the impression you've run away in the extra while I spent sleeping, wife."

The world around you comes to a dead stop as the visage of Sukuna comes into your line of sight; you feel your heart skip two beats then begin a thundering rhythm against your ribcage.

Four years ago, if someone were to tell you there is someone who is going to free you from the gilded cage you were forced to call 'home', is going to share with you his name and is going to be the reason you will ponder the meaning of love, you would have given them a second of your time before walking away with a polite excuse.

One year before, if someone were to tell you there is someone who is going to free you from the gilded cage you were forced to call 'home', is going to share with you his name and is going to be the reason you will ponder the meaning of love, you would have huffed a quiet laugh. The first two have already come to pass (with too many lives lost and too many lives threatened) — yet the very last prediction? You would have considered it to be highly improbable, if not outright impossible.

Yet, now, if someone were to tell you the same three things, you think you wouldn't have shown much of a reaction. You would have simply turned to that 'someone' mentioned in the prediction, and gazed and gazed and gazed–

"I left the roll of parchment you bought for Mistress at the breakfast table, just as you asked, Master," Uraume's voice cuts your thoughts into half and you twist to catch them offer you both a very deep bow before hurrying out, to the left towards the kitchen, four baskets full of radishes in their arms.

You look back at your husband, only to find him seated stiffly on his throne, eyes landing anywhere but you. Stifling a giggle, you tilt your head to the side.

"Why do you act so embarrassed, my king?" you ask, stepping a timid step towards him, then another. Gleaming ruby eyes dart to your face then to your approaching feet. Something tingles through your veins. Climbing the stairs leading to him, you hum, smiling, "I don't think it's embarrassing – quite the opposite, in fact. To me, giving one's wife a thoughtful gift as that... it seems quite adorable to me."

"Be careful of your words, woman," the King of Curses growls, rising and taking a large menacing step in your direction; your smile grows intentionally too innocent, which does apparently nothing to quell his increasing fury: the precise outcome you've been wishing so fervently for.

He pulls you by the waist, flush to himself and lowers his lips close to yours, tantalizingly so. He smells very strongly of those bath salts you bought from a travelling merchant three moons back; faintly of blood and death, of the priest he diced last night after dinner — you wonder if you're worthy to be called a human, after finding the curse you have sworn yourself to forever, so terribly dear despite these.

Certainly not — but you reckon you're too far gone to care anyways, so you stop wondering such things – and lift yourself on your tiptoes to brush your lips with your husband's, then pull away a touch, words leaving your lips in a breathy whisper.

"What if I'm not careful with my words? What will you do then, hm? Will you devour me like the monster everyone says you are? Or, will you throw me away like everyone warns me you will one day– when you find someone prettier, smarter, better than me, huh?"

Two moments pass in pin-drop silence between the two of you.

Barking a noisy guffaw, Sukuna weaves his fingers through your hair, still damp from the bath you took a short time ago, and plants a deep kiss to your lips. Then parts his lips from yours, although a mere hair's breadth away, and grins, features teeming with that exotic species of malevolence you never saw yourself regarding to be charming.

Until your gaze met with his, one fated evening, that is.

Your nails dig crescents into the broad muscles of his shoulders.

Your lover's grin sharpens. "Let time tell the tale— yes, my queen?"

The next morning, you find a dozen or so heads waiting for you at the breakfast table, severed by a neat slice at the root of their neck– eyes and mouths which once looked down on your wedding with the King, frozen forever now in a scream of terror.

Forsaking the wonted theme of nature, you decide to pen a poem on scathing, soothing love, instead.

or... everyone: your husband is a despicable monster!!! you: uh-huh everyone: he might leave you for someone better!!! you: uh-huh everyone: you better not stay in this union anymore. you: nuh-nuh. i'm so gonna stay and love and fuck my hubby <3

▸ masterlist

[star-my]

BTS Fic Recs ☆ Tumblr (ii)

These are all available on tumblr as of April 2024. Some are likely crossposted on ao3 as well.

~Ao3 RECS HERE~ ~Recs (i)~ ~Recs (iii)~

Almost all are complete works, those with “+” after WC are incomplete. Most are BTS x (F!)Reader.

Most of these are Mature or Explicit (usually because of smut) ~ mdni ~ italicized titles rated G or T ~ Please read responsibly

If any authors tagged here wish to be removed/untagged, please lmk!

F2L = friends to lovers ; E2L = enemies to lovers ; FE2L = frenemies to lovers ; R2L = rivals to lovers ; BFB = best friend's brother ; BBF = brother's best friend etc

OT7/Multi

☆ Crescent Bound series by @parkhabits | Werewolf AU | 32k+

☆ Tainted Souls series by @mininky | ?2l Vampire au, Canon Idol-verse | ?k

Kim Namjoon

☆ He Loves Me series by @bratzkoo | Sugar Daddy AU | 11k +epilogue to come

Kim Seokjin

☆ How to Fake A Boyfriend series by @bts-reveries | F2L Fake Dating AU, Youtuber AU, SMAU | ?k

☆ the taming of the bridezilla by @cinnaminsvga | F2L Fake Dating AU | 7k

☆ Arrogant by @dreamyjoons | FWB2L Uni AU | 7k

Min Yoongi

☆ bloom by @aquagustd | BBF AU | 15k

☆ want a taste by @suga-kookiemonster | S2F2L Mall AU, Rapper AU | 18k

☆ Private Lesson by @dntaewithluv | FWB2L Pianist AU | 6k

☆ what's poppin' by @joonberriess | Sugar Daddy AU, Canon Idol-verse | 2k

☆ angel by @joonberriess | Established Relationship, Canon Idol-verse | 7k

☆ honey bunny by @lonelyhobi | Established Relationship AU | 6k

☆ boseong breakfast by @honeymoonjin | S2F2L B&B AU | 24k

☆ subscribed by @aquagustd | S2L Uni AU, Camboy AU | 15k

☆ eargasm + eargasm, pt 2 by @lavishedinjimin | S2L Phone Sex AU, kind of Uni AU | 24k

☆ first love series by @clouditae | F2L Uni AU, Tattoo Artist AU | ?k

☆ skin deep series by @aquaminwrites | S2F2L Tattoo Artist AU | 47k

☆ ink petals by @yminie | S2F2L Florist AU, Tattoo Artist AU | 11k

☆ love is for the birds, baby by @mininky | (F)E2L Tattoo Artist AU, Author AU | 13k

☆ Arranged series by @minyoongijjangjjangmanboongboong | ?2L Arranged Marriage AU, Chaebol AU | 111k

☆ punch drunk by @joonbird | R2L Boxer AU, Rival's Sister AU | 33k

☆ Sweet like Candy series by @lysjeon | E2L SMAU | ?k

☆ loser baby series by @dejayoonw | R2L SMAU, Witch AU, Uni AU, kind of Hogwarts AU | ?k

☆ heaven's winter by @jksangelic | Supernatural AU, Angel AU, Historical AU | 19k

☆ under the sun by @mirahuyooo | Greek Mythology AU, Greek Gods AU, Historical AU | 25k

Jung Hoseok

☆ baseline by @jiminrings | R2L Teacher AU | 3k

☆ Hot & Bothered by @sahmfanficbts | Gardener AU | 3k

☆ the art of war by @wwilloww | F2E2L Historical AU, Arranged Marriage AU, Royal AU | 5k

Park Jimin

☆ kiss the girl by @sketchguk | F2L Disneyland AU, Coworkers AU | 5k

☆ the happiest place on earth by @dovechim | F2L Disneyland AU, Coworkers AU | 24k

☆ florezco by @honeymoonjin | S2F2L Roommate AU | 24k

☆ Midnight Munchies by @yoongihime | Deliveryboy AU, Uni AU | 2k

Kim Taehyung

☆ good girls go bad series by @jkstompers | S2F2L Uni AU | 46k

☆ paper cranes by @aquaminwrites | F2L AU | 18k

☆ rubies and roses by @min-youngis | S2?2L Fake Dating AU, Chaebol AU | 40k

Jeon Jungkook

☆ Part-Time Lover by @sketchguk | Fake Marriage AU, Agent AU, Journalist AU, Spy x Family AU | 31k

☆ the art of series by @venusianguk | S2F2FWB2L Grocery Store AU, Single Parent AU | 95k+

☆ Heartbreak Trials by @dreamyjoons | R2L Roommate AU | 14k

☆ Stress Relief by @strawbkoo | F2L Roommate AU, Uni AU | 5k

☆ ego series by @suga-kookiemonster | F2L Uni AU, Fboy AU | 97k

☆ Confident series by @h0neypjm | FWB2L Uni AU, Fboy AU | 23k

☆ what money can buy by @jeonstudios | Sugar Baby AU | 18k

☆ rich people shit by @nochueso | S2L Uni AU, Chaebol AU, Sugar Daddy AU but you're the same age? idk | 11k

☆ Diamond in the Rough series by @kimvtae | S2F2L Chaebol AU | 25k

☆ glitter & disquiet series by @joheunsaram | Youtuber AU, Chaebol AU, CEO AU | 36k + drabble

☆ oxytocin by @chemicalpink | FE2L Chaebol AU, Arranged Marriage AU | 6k

☆ the lottery offering by @skswriting | S2L Werewolf AU, kind of Arranged Marriage AU | 22k

☆ to tame a god series by @jeonstudios | S2L Werewolf AU, Supernatural AU | 50k

☆ This Mortal Coil by @jinfizz | BFF2L Werewolf AU | 40k

☆ Temptation series by @aiimaginesbts | Werewolf AU | 25k

☆ Law of Nature by @ausblack | F2L Hybrid AU | ?k

☆ deal by @jeonstudios | S2L Demon AU | 20k

☆ calling you cool by @kithtaehyung | S2L Rock Band AU | 12k

☆ his by @thvhoe | R2L BBF AU, Band AU | 6k

☆ most undesirable by @kinktae | S2L Regency/Bridgerton AU | 5k

☆ bad delivery by @jeonstudios | Deliveryboy AU | 5k

☆ Accelerate series by @dreamscript | S2L Racer AU | 8k

Overall Favourite Authors (If I recc'd all their works like I want to/more than I have, I'd have to make this series even longer >.<)

☆ @eoieopda's masterlist

☆ @gimmethatagustd's masterlists (mxr) (mxm)

☆ @helenazbmrskai's masterlist

☆ @jeonstudios's masterlist

☆ @jjungkookislife's masterlist

☆ @jkstompers's masterlist

☆ @lovesickjoon's masterlist

☆ @sketchguk's masterlist

happy reading!

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Cannibals [Chapter 8: Magma and Sky]

A/N: Only 2 chapters left!!! 🥳❤️💙🦇

Series summary: You are his sister, his lover, his betrothed despite everyone else’s protests; you have always belonged to Aemond and believe you always will. But on the night he returns from Storm’s End with horrifying news, the trajectories of your lives are irrevocably changed. Will the war of succession make your bond permanent, or destroy the twisted and fanatical love you share?

Chapter warnings: Language, mentions of sexual content (18+ readers only), grief and torment, a fun field trip to a volcanic rock, Red and Aemond have a very honest conversation, enjoy our special guest stars!!! 😉🔮🐍

Word count: 5.1k

❤️ All my writing can be found HERE! 💙

Tagging: @themoonofthesun @chattylurker @moonfllowerr @ecstaticactus @mrs-starkgaryen, more in comments 🥰

🦇 Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🦇

“I was with somebody else.”

You startle and look up to see Aemond standing under the arch of the arbor grown over with a quilt of red roses, twisted and thorny and thick enough to drape you in shadows. You are sitting cross-legged on the stone bench and reading a book about all the known varieties of bats; Helaena found it for you in some dusty, ill-lit corner of the library when she was searching for texts concerning insects. It is still the waning days of summer in King’s Landing, and Viserys is the king, and thin threads of sunlight like golden strands of a spider’s web fall down through gaps in the arbor. Last night was the first time Aemond touched you like more than a brother, claimed you, transfixed you, and you are already alight with the lust-red craving to do it again.

Here, now, in the garden of the Red Keep, Aemond won’t meet your eyes. Instead, he stares fixedly into the contorted nest of roses, wild green punctuated with blooms of crimson like blood or rubies or glowing embers. You have no idea what he means. You reply after a moment, closing your book: “With somebody…?”

“Before,” Aemond says, like it takes great effort. He is still not looking at you. “Years ago. It wasn’t my intention for that to happen, I didn’t plan it, I didn’t ask for it…but I didn’t stop it either.” His reticent blue gaze drops to the cobblestones. His voice is very soft, barely audible. “In a brothel…there was…”

Now you understand. “I know, Aemond.”

His attention jolts back to you, a fracture set, a lightning strike. “You do?”

“Aegon told me. He felt badly about it afterwards, he thought he shouldn’t have done it, but he…” You gesture as if you holding a goblet of wine, and Aemond nods. He was drunk, he was reckless, he mistook it for a favor. But he was wrong.

“You will benefit from what I’ve learned,” Aemond says, as if still trying to convince you not to be appalled or angry. In truth, you are neither. “I hope that is some comfort to you.”

“I don’t find comfort in anything that causes you pain,” you reply honestly, tenderly. A warm breeze blows in off the sea, tasting like salt and rustling the roses and the leaves. This morning you tucked a single flower into your braid, a blue forget-me-not. Now you touch it self-consciously. “Do you mind that I’m so unpracticed?”

Aemond seems to find the notion ludicrous. “No. No, of course not.”

“But you’ll have to teach me everything.”

“That’s how I want it to be. I’m of the belief that if two people wish to be together, there should be no other parties involved. I had meant to be pure for you. I’m sorry I’m not. It is a regret of mine that I carry always. It is a failing.”

You shake your head, sensing his distress as if it is your own: a gnawing anxiety, a sickening drop in your belly. “It wasn’t your fault, Aemond.”

“So I am forgiven?”

“I never considered it to be a transgression.”

“Oh. Good.” His mood lifts; there is a phantom of a smile on his lips and a lightness in his stride as he takes a taunting step towards the stone bench where you sit. “And how do you feel? After what happened last night before dinner?”

And you grin with glinting eyes as you answer, setting your book aside: “Still hungry.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Seven days on a ship, and you don’t speak to Aemond once.

The weather is bad, grey and windy, sometimes snow, sometimes sleet, sometimes hail that pelts the wooden deck, and the vessel rocks in bleak violent waves. Aemond had arranged for the ship to meet him near Heart’s Home, where the glacial mountain river flows into the Narrow Sea, where you used to collect seashells to shatter and rearrange into the faces of the people you left in your old life. He had known you would not be able to travel by dragon. And so now Vhagar flies somewhere out there in the cold iron-colored sky and Aemond stalks below deck, haunting your doorway, painting the walls with his shadow.

A maester prods your ribs and says some are fractured but they will heal with rest and time. He gives you tastes of milk of the poppy—just enough to sand the edges off the pain so you can sleep—and compliments the cleanness of your scar. Two maids bring you meals and help you dress, wash the soot and blood from your skin, comb your hair. But Aemond does not touch you. He tries once as the maester is examining you, and you look at him with hatred that is primal and infernal and black like volcanic glass, and he snatches his hands away and makes no further attempts. But he watches you, and he waits, and he tries to piece the truth together. You can feel the bewildered turmoil in him. The ricochets of it echo in the mausoleum of your skull.

When you are awake, you stare at the ceiling or at the floor. When you are asleep, you dream of Jace and Luca. They turn to torrents of blood in your arms, or crumble into ash, or are buried in the earth and you are digging for them with your bare hands. You dream that you are locked in a closet or a trunk and no one ever comes to let you out. You dream that you are at the bottom of the ocean in cages of leviathan skeletons, dragons that lived and died before Vermax or Dreamfyre, before Meraxes, before Balerion the Black Dread, before any of the beasts that perished in the Doom of Valyria. You dream that Helaena is falling from the sky and you cannot catch her, cannot save her. You dream that Mother is telling you that you’ve failed.

Then you wake one dreary morning and hear the sailors shouting that land is in sight, and you climb up out of the depths of the ship and stagger to the bow, hooking your fingers into the rigging to steady yourself as the ship pitches and reels in rough surf. Aemond is standing there with his hands clasped behind his back, his black coat drenched with rain and sea spray, his scarred face far away, miles away, years away. Out of the mist rise the dark jagged walls of the castle that sits atop the island of Dragonstone, where Aegon the Conqueror once plotted his invasion of Westeros.

You ask: “What did you do with him?”

Aemond whirls, stunned that you have spoken at last. His silver hair, half-tied back, hangs in long dripping waves. Your own blows wildly around you. “What did you say?”

“The baby. His body. You took him away from me. What did you do with him?”

“He was burned as a Targaryen.” Aemond’s voice goes quiet, gentle. “Not because Jace was one, but because you are. His ashes were cast into the sea.”

Aemond waits for you to respond. You don’t, you can’t. You close your eyes and see Luca swaddled in one of his blankets; you feel Jace’s dark curls threading through your fingers.

Aemond reaches tentatively for your arm. “Red, I…I didn’t…I never would have…”

You turn away from him and walk from the bow to the stern—your cracked ribs aching, the maids fluttering around you and chastising your sodden ink-colored dress, saying you will catch a chill and die, and if you did you wouldn’t care—and you wait there for the ship to dock.

When you step onto Dragonstone, it’s the first time you’ve returned to the island since you were a child and you tried to claim Vermithor. You don’t understand why Aemond has brought you here, and you don’t ask. You follow the pathway up towards the castle as Aemond trails silently after you like a shadow. Behind him, the maester and your new maids trudge begrudgingly up the countless stone steps and shudder when they hear the distant snarls of the beasts that have lairs here. Cold frothing waves thrash against the shoreline. Gulls circle high overhead, squawking mournfully. Magma flows beneath the black-glass rock; you can feel the radiating heat of it, scorching blood in the arteries of the earth.

Just inside the castle, someone is waiting for you. And it is the first time you’ve truly been roused since Aemond and Vhagar descended upon Heart’s Home.

“Aegon!” you shout, and he rushes to you as swiftly as he can, his walking stick tapping against the floor, his muscles straining beneath knots of scar tissue, his chipped teeth flashing white when he beams. He embraces you like a drowning man grappling for a piece of driftwood in the currents, almost knocking you off-balance. He is laughing, he is smacking graceless kisses onto your cheeks, he is marveling at your face to make sure you’re real.

“You’re alive!” he says, cackling triumphantly. “All this time we had no idea where they’d hidden you, we thought we’d never see you again, but here you are and you’re alive—”

“She’s hurt,” Aemond tells him severely. “Stop yanking her around.”

Aegon furrows his scarred forehead as he checks you for injuries. “Are you really?”

“A few broken ribs. They’ll heal.” Your fingertips go to his mangled cheeks and scalp, to what you can see of his chest. You’ve never witnessed wounds this bad on someone who lived. “Your burns…”

“They felt even worse than they look, if you can believe it. But I’m still here.”

Not all of us are. “Helaena…”

“We heard,” he says, tears glistening in his large ocean-blue eyes. He holds you one more time, more gingerly now. “And those butchers will die for it. All of them. The Bitch Queen and her aged uncle-husband and her idiot children too.” He steps back from you and looks to Aemond. “Our spies have brought word from the mainland. The people of King’s Landing are in open rebellion, they blame Rhaenyra for Helaena’s death. If they can get into the Red Keep, they’ll murder her and free Mother. The Hightower army will soon cross the Blackwater Rush.”

“Daeron knows to wait?” Aemond replies.

“A raven has been sent. I can’t say if he’ll listen.”

“He’d better. Tessarion may have proven herself quick and ferocious, but she is small. She must not fly against Silverwing and Syrax alone.”

“I told him!” Aegon says, exasperated. He means: What else can I do about it? He is still clutching his stick and leaning heavily upon it. He can’t fight as a soldier; he can barely even walk. “So what happened at Heart’s Home? Were the bastard and Vermax there? Did you kill him? Did he beg for you to spare his life, did he weep for the memory of poor pathetic little Luke Strong?”

Aemond doesn’t respond. He winces instead, then shakes his head like he’s telling Aegon to stop talking. You look down at the stone floor, and in the relentless grey gloom of the castle, the island, you feel the white-hot searing of grief and fury in your throat, and if you were a dragon it would not be invisible but a fire that consumes flesh all the way down to its bones.

“What’s wrong?” Aegon asks Aemond, alarmed. “What did you do?”

There are echoing footsteps on the stone staircase, and you are startled to see a woman descending. You’ve never met her before, and you would know if you had; her skin is like moonlight and her pale eyes wide and staring. Black hair hangs to her waist, and it makes you think of swaying branches of a willow tree, or strands of seaweed washing up on the beach outside the Red Keep, or feathers of ravens. She wears a velvet gown the color of moss. Her belly is rounded, just beginning to show. She rests a little white paw of a hand on it and studies you curiously, tilting her head. She is four or five months pregnant.

You gape at her, then turn to Aemond and Aegon, both of whom have averted their eyes. “Whose child is that?”

No one answers you. Instead, Aemond says to the woman briskly: “Your insights were accurate. You will be rewarded accordingly. At the conclusion of the war, you will take up residence at Harrenhal. Until then, you will make yourself scarce here.”

She curtseys; it is a strange, awkward motion, angles in all the wrong places. “Yes, my prince.” But she hesitates before leaving, still watching you. As she strokes the arc of her belly, things kindle in her coin-silver eyes like embers exposed to air: fascination, envy, a vague vicarious fondness. You stare back, thunderstruck. Her long fingernails are filthy with soil or ash.

Whose child? Aemond’s?

You cannot ignore a sharp, nauseous lurch in your own belly, a place where no life grows. Beside you, Aemond is palpably uneasy. You can feel it sweating out of his pores, you can hear it in the sick thudding pulse of his bloodstream. You are reminded of a confession he once brought to you in the garden of the Red Keep as you sat under the shadow of an arbor of scarlet roses.

“Back to the kitchen, witch,” Aegon flings at the woman. “Or the garden, or the cliffsides, or wherever you were haunting before your intrusion.”

She points a talon-like fingernail at you as she begins to ascend the steps. “She is here, but is she yours again?”

“Out!” Aegon barks, and when she has vanished he sighs wearily, as if this is a recurring inconvenience.

You look at Aemond, repulsed, bewildered, betrayed. He says: “Come with me and I’ll explain.”

For a moment, you do not acquiesce. You only glare savagely at him, and if this was before he left King’s Landing a year ago—before Rook’s Rest, before Rhaenyra seized the city and imprisoned you, before Heart’s Home, before your marriage to Jace, before Luca—Aemond would grab you and drag you to wherever he wanted you to be, and he would know that when you fought him you didn’t mean it. But he doesn’t touch you now.

Instead he implores you in a hushed voice: “Please.” And you follow him out of the grey and into the flickering amber light of the Chamber of the Painted Table, where a sweltering hearth crackles and candles burn down into pools of white wax. Westeros is illuminated by fire, like all the places Aemond has burned over the past year. There are chairs positioned around the table. You sit by the Vale; Aemond takes his place across from you near the Reach, where the Hightowers hail from, where your youngest brother Daeron has spent the war waging his battles and torching his enemies. A maid brings two goblets of red wine. You can’t drink it, just like Helaena couldn’t eat blackberry jam after Jaehaerys was beheaded in front of her. Aemond watches you push the cup away and then tells the maid to bring cider instead. You wait without speaking, the only sounds the splitting of wood in the fire and the rumble of the ocean outside and the distant growls of dragons. When the maid reappears with cider, it is a cloudy goldish color and hot and tastes of fermented apples. You sip it listlessly. The maid departs and closes the door behind her.

“It was an exchange,” Aemond says.

“An exchange?”

“Her name is Alys Rivers, she is a bastard of House Strong. I found her working in the kitchen when I took Harrenhal. She is an enchantress, she has some magic to her, just like we do. She said she might be able to help me find you. But she needed something in return. A son, a child built of our ancient Valyrian blood. An heir, a castle, a future. And since Aegon has been rendered impotent by his injuries, and Daeron is far away in the Reach and still a boy himself…”

“You lied with her?”

“Well, I’ve done it before,” Aemond says. And then, when you don’t immediately grasp what he means: “Been with a woman who wasn’t of my choosing.” He draws invisible paths on the Painted Table with his fingerprints. Firelight ripples across his face: a downcast eye, a scar to match the one that cuts down from your left collarbone. “She scoured the woods surrounding the Gods Eye for herbs, and feathers and bones, and all manner of strange talismans. She tried for months to conjure a vision. Then one day she saw it in the flames of the hearth: three black ravens, three red hearts. The sigil of House Corbray of Heart’s Home.”

“And for her services you promised her Harrenhal.”

Aemond nods. “She and her descendants will rule it as House Whent.”

“A new noble house?” you mock bitterly. “And what will its banners be? A burning castle? The charred skeletons of its murdered inhabitants?”

“No,” Aemond says quietly. “Bats.”

You look at him. His blue eye flicks up to your face again, to your black mourning gown—you will wear no other colors—and your unbraided silver hair that drips with rain and seawater.

Aemond asks after a while: “Do you like wearing your hair that way now?”

Distractedly, you touch the damp silver tresses that are unbound, soft and feminine and weak. “Jace told me I wasn’t a warrior. He wanted me to look like a lady.”

“You were wed to him,” Aemond says as if he still cannot comprehend it.

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Soon after Rhaenyra took King’s Landing. It was Mother’s proposal. She convinced Rhaenyra to agree to it.”

Aemond is lost. “Why? He was a bastard, a traitor.”

You flinch. “Mother thought it would encourage the Blacks to spare us if they won the war. Rhaenyra thought it would give her heir legitimacy. Neither Jace nor I wanted the match.”

“But now you…you miss him? You mourn for him?”

“We grew accustomed to each other. There was true affection, there was warmth.”

“Did he…were you…?” Aemond cannot decide how to say it, or perhaps he just can’t bring himself to. You can tell—from the way his gaze drops from your face to your body, a mystery cloaked in soaked black velvet—that he is thinking of your wedding night, something you were supposed to share, something you spoke of often with desperate, willful, blazing yearning. “Did he hurt you?”

“Not purposefully.”

There is a flare of wrath. “It needn’t have hurt at all.”

“Why did you come after me?” you ask, and your voice breaks and tears spill down your cheeks, and your ribs throb and your throat is full of fire like a dragon’s. “Why did you kill all those people in the Riverlands, why did you burn Heart’s Home, why couldn’t you just…just…just leave me there?” Luca and Jace would still be alive. Lady Caro would still be alive. Tens of thousands of people wouldn’t have burned or starved.

Aemond is incredulous. His voice grows louder; firelight engulfs him like he is drowning in a lake of it. “I swore I would find you if you were ever taken away.”

“I waited for you. I wondered where you were. I stood in the rookery and stared out into the Mountains of the Moon and agonized over why you couldn’t hear me or see me, why you didn’t arrive on Vhagar to save me, but you never came, and so I tried to forget the promises we made to each other because I believed you’d forgotten me—”

“I never forgot you.”

“But I was different!” you sob, bolting to your feet, pressing a palm to the glow of the Painted Table. “With Jace, I was different! I learned to be his wife, I learned to be a mother, and I was fine there, I was safe and I was happy and you destroyed my life!”

“I could feel that you were in pain,” Aemond is saying as he stands and rounds the table to meet you. “It was months ago, it must have been when you…when you were in labor…physically, I could feel it, I thought they were torturing you, I thought you were dying, and how would I know anything else if all I’d been told was that you were stolen by the enemy? You think Daemon is above depravity? You think it’s so unreasonable that I believed you to be in peril?!”

“You were reckless and cruel,” you seethe, shoving him away. “You always are. You’re always killing people.”

“When I flew over Heart’s Home, I knew you were in the forest. I saw the trees through your eyes. I thought I was freeing you, I never anticipated that you would return to the castle. I didn’t know you cared for the lives of anyone inside.”

“You should have left me there,” you choke out through tears.

Aemond tries to take your hands, and again you strike him hard, meaning it, hating him. “I would never have abandoned you,” he says.

“Why not?!” you scream at him. “Because you believe you possess me like a sword or a jewel, because it is sacrilege to let another man touch me?!”

Aemond is shaking his head. “It’s more than that. You know it is.”

You scoff at him, vengeful cynical disbelief. “In eighteen years, you never once told me you loved me—”

He seizes your wrist, drags you to him, cradles your face with his left hand and skates his thumbprint over the crest of your cheekbone. “I have loved you forever,” he says. “And if I didn’t express that in a way you understood then it was my mistake, and I’m sorry, and I’d do anything to change it. I thought you knew. I thought we both knew that…that…” Aemond’s lone eye gleams desperately; he is pleading for you to hear him. “Do you have any idea what this past year has been like for me? It was hell. Aegon almost died at Rook’s Rest and I brought him back but I was alone, I had Criston and maesters and soldiers but I was still alone because Aegon was unconscious and you weren’t there, and neither were Helaena or Daeron. Then King’s Landing fell to Rhaenyra and there was nothing I could do about it until I was sure Aegon would live, and when I learned you’d been taken away…I set the realm ablaze, I waded through an ocean of blood, and I did it because I swore that I would find you and bring you home. And now I have but you…you…you don’t even recognize me. It’s like you don’t remember what we were. Only I carry it now, I’m cursed by it, I’m consumed by it.”

You break away from him and Aemond lets you go, but he follows you around the Painted Table, shadowing you, chasing you. You pitch at him: “You were always so rough with me.”

“Because you wanted it that way and I did too, we craved it, we needed it, we’re the same.”

“You liked that I didn’t have a dragon of my own, you aspired for me to be helpless—”

“No I didn’t,” Aemond insists. “I tried to help you claim Vermithor, right here on this fucking island I risked my life when we were children to pursue him with you. And he did not yield but I wasn’t to blame for it. I cannot give you a dragon. You have to bond with one yourself.”

You glower at him, swiping tears from your streaming eyes. “You hardly ever spoke of dragons to me.”

“Because I knew it pained you! Because I have felt the agony of being a Targaryen without a dragon and I didn’t want to remind you of it!”

“You should have left me with Jace at Heart’s Home,” you moan, collapsing into a chair and weeping into your open palms. “I would still have my son. I would still have my family.”

Across the table, Aemond slams his fists against the wood. “Jace could never fathom who you really are. It’s impossible. He wasn’t like us, he’s wasn’t one of us. We are Aegon and Visenya, we are Baelon and Alyssa. Jace wasn’t a Valyrian. He was a Strong, and part of you would have needed to die to live with him.”

You stare desolately down at the Painted Table, glowing golden lines in the shape of the Vale. “Jace hated that I loved you. You hate that I loved him. I’m always at fault, and yet my crimes are so harmless.”

Aemond is staggered; he is heartbroken. “You loved him?”

I told him I did. “I felt something for him. I grew to miss him in his absence. I desired him when he returned.”

Aemond goes to the hearth, rests one hand on the stone mantle, and gazes into the flames. You can feel it like an echo, like a reverberating tremor in the earth: he is broken. You cannot summon compassion for him. Each time you begin to, you feel the still lifeless weight of Luca in your arms. After a long time, Aemond speaks. “I have to return to the Riverlands. I can’t leave Criston unprotected. Daemon and the Northmen will meet our armies in battle soon. Vhagar and I have to be there. If I can kill Caraxes, I think this will be over.”

You turn to him, dimly startled. “You’re going now?”

“I have to make the world safe for us and our family. Even if I’m not here anymore.” Aemond studies you, afraid to ask the question that burns in his throat. “Do you…” He breathes deeply, salt and misery and smoke from the fire. “Do you still want our side to win?”

“I hate what we’ve done to each other. All of us.” The dead innocents, the destruction of our house, the extinction of our dragons. “And you murdering Luke started it.”

“Yes,” Aemond agrees softly. He crosses the room and stalls in the doorway, looking back at you. He waits for you to say that you will miss him, or that if he returns there might yet be a future for the two of you, or that you will be distraught if he is killed in combat, or that you love him.

As the fire pops and crackles, you shrink into your wet black mourning clothes and say nothing.

~~~~~~~~~~

Sprawled across the volcanic-rock throne in the nightscape gloom of the Great Hall of Dragonstone, Aegon gulps cider until his pain vanishes and his mind is a dull sloshing sea. You are slumped on the steps beside the throne and drinking with him. Neither of you speak it aloud, but it stands in the room like a ghost: you have both held a dead son in your arms, you have both lost a husband or a wife to this war. Torches burn along the walls. Outside, rain pours and the dragons creep and snarl. Sunfyre is here too, Aegon has told you. He can’t fly yet—perhaps he never will again—but he is alive and hostilely defends the cave where he dwells from the other creatures of the island: Grey Ghost, Vermithor, the Cannibal.

The Blacks believe Dragonstone to be abandoned, and in any event they are too preoccupied with their myriad of troubles in the Riverlands and King’s Landing to take it upon themselves to investigate, and so you are safe for the time being. You get drunk in the home of your ancestors, the Valyrians who carved out a stark, grim existence here, who dreamed of greatness, who despite all their magic failed to foretell their ruin.

“Do you know what he asked Sylvi?” Aegon slurs. “The woman from the brothel. Not the very first time, the first time…” Aegon smiles nostalgically. “Well, it’s like your first time riding a dragon. It takes you away and you’re just…” His hand flows in the shape of a wave. “Holding on. Mesmerized by it.”

“Sure,” you say, remembering not your wedding night with Jace but the evening when Aemond dragged you halfway out of the chair by your vanity and licked you, swallowed you, devoured you until you could not help but cry out, and you sank to the floor with your heartbeat thudding in your ears and Aemond lying beside you, smoothing back your hair from your burning face.

“Aemond only went to Sylvi a few more times after that. But she told me what his requests were when I inquired.” Aegon looks at you meaningfully. “He wanted to know how to make it good for a maiden. And who do you imagine he was thinking of?”

You don’t reply. You guzzle your cider instead. You want all of your bones to stop aching: your ribs, your skull, every place that Aemond ever touched you. You feel a strange smoldering inside, like all your bone marrow has been quarried and replaced with embers, pulsing, glowing. You feel something dangerous and primordial drawing closer.

“He never would have hurt you intentionally,” Aegon says gently, clumsily petting your loose silver hair as if you are one of the hundred cats Grandsire brought to the Red Keep after Jaehaerys was slain. “He worships you. He always has.”

“I can’t forget what he did.”

“Can you forgive yourself for letting him leave that way? If he dies thinking that you hate him?”

You swallow a mouthful of cider, hot and intoxicating. The room spins. Lightning flashes outside. “Maybe I do.”

“No, you don’t hate him,” Aegon says rather wistfully, with the solemn surety of drunks.

Alys Rivers wanders into the Great Hall, the train of her dark green gown whispering over the stone floor. Aegon scowls at her. She stops at one of the misted glass windows and gazes out into the storm.

“He flies to his death,” Alys murmurs sorrowfully, as if she wishes she could change it.

Aegon groans. “Shut up, witch.”

“Above the Gods Eye, the red and the blue, tangled threads cut by fate—”

“Be gone!” Aegon shouts and hurls his goblet of cider at her. It misses, strikes the wall, clatters to the floor and spills its contents in a puddle. Alys does not seem to notice. You sit upright on the steps by Aegon’s throne, watching her.

“He flies to his death,” she repeats, melodically like a chant or a spell. “Unless, unless…”

Alys looks at you, then turns to peer through the window again. Outside in the darkness, a monstrous beast growls, not Sunfyre or Grey Ghost or Vermithor.

[secretlovezz]

Kisses of the Crown | Part One

Knight!Simon "Ghost" Riley x Princess!Reader

Summary: The introduction to the relationship between a Princess and her knight.

Warnings: none really

Wordcount: 1,206

Not proofread | Series Masterlist

"Teach me to wield a sword."

The tip of your index finger poked at the sword's pommel attached to his hip, fingering the meticulously engraved metal and darkened blood red Ruby gem that adorns it. Simon looked down at you, eyebrow raised in question, with amusement decorating his covered face. Your curiosity led you to inspect his hilt and scabbard further. His body unconsciously leans into your touch; though you do not touch him directly, he secretly yearns for you to do so, body overcoming his mind.

He only moves to stop your overzealous inspection when you advance to remove his blade from its covering. The knight's hand is placed gently over your own, calloused fingers working to pry your wandering hand from his side, thumb smoothing over your delicately soft skin.

Your eyes meet his dark ones, a hunting glare staring into his punctilious glower, “And why, Your Royal Highness,” the title sounds almost belittling and mockingly cheap coming from him, “Would I do that?”

Your jaw drops a little at his blatant defiance, It's not often you’re told no, especially from someone as seemingly arrogant as he. “I- Well, you-” An annoyed scoff leaves your lips, and your glare hardens in frustration. “I am your princess- you must do as I say.”

The guttural chuckle that manages to escape between the lips of the dark knight in front of you makes your face heat up with what feels a little like shame at your outburst; with a pout, you snatch your once brazen eyes from his and rip your hand from his queerly soothing touch to cross your arms in an almost childish way that only seems to fuel his entertainment in the matter. His large hand reaches for yours, wanting again to hold a part of you close in a moment of fleeting joy. However, your stubbornness makes you step back, blowing an exaggerated huff at him while still keeping your gaze in the opposite direction, falsely staring intently at the rows of flowers leading up to the garden.

Simon sucks his teeth at your display and instead reaches for your wrist this time, lean fingers gripping tight but not painfully so he can pull you closer to him. Your chest hits his a little roughly, and the velvety satin of your bodice hits metal. He leans in close, the cold metal of his well-worn helmet brushes against the shell of your ear -you imagine it's the scratch of his lips instead- and when you hear him take in a breath, it makes yours hitch. 

He doesn't move for a moment, enjoying your closeness and cherishing the scent of you.

“Ghost…?” Your call to him is almost silent, but you know he heard it because his hand squeezes lovingly at your wrist.

When he finally pulls back a bit to stare again into your eyes, his lips quirked up only for a second, and you can only tell because of the crinkle in the corners of his stupidly radiant eyes. “I think you forget, Princess, I take orders only from Her Majesty- and last I checked, you weren’t queen yet.”

What. An. Ass.

You scoff for what feels like the nth time that day and swipe your hand away from his grip once again. He watches with smug self-satisfaction as you begin to walk away from him, your royal colored dress flowing elegantly behind you, making your way back to the castle. His legs allow him to catch up promptly and soon he is silently back at your side as he always is.

----------♡

The following day, you woke up much earlier than usual because of a hard knock on your bedroom door. You don’t get up at the sound, though, deciding to ignore it adversely, not wanting to get up just yet after a dream filled restless night. It seems as though whoever stands on the other side of the door won’t have that; they knock again- more demanding than before- finally willing you to get up and unhurriedly make your way to the double doors.

Your hand rubs lazily at your eye while the other pulls at the handle of the heavy door. When your head peeks out the small crack in the door that you created you see no one, your already squinted eyes from having just woken up narrow more in confusion. A deep smoky voice breaks the shuddering morning silence addressing you, “Your Royal Highness.” You jump when Ghost emerges from the darkness of the hall, stepping closer to you.

“Goodness, Ghost!” Your hand is pressed to your chest in an attempt to calm your now racing heart and your other is braced against the door, “What is wrong with you? Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

He raises a hand to point to the door, “I knocked,” His eyes seemingly empty but eyebrows raised in amusement -as they usually are around you-  as he speaks. You glare at him trying to keep an anger filled facade but you know that your body physically lightens when your knight is near and so does he. You clear your throat and straighten your back, “What could you possibly need from me so early this morning, sir Ghost.” Your brow is raised expectantly and do your best to smile despite wanting to be in bed ignoring his sarcastic comments.

“Did you want your lessons on wielding a blade or not?” Simon's heart tightens with feelings he is unwilling to admit he has when your eyes gloss over with pure excitement and your faux smile is replaced with a real lively one. He watches as your fingers anxiously fidget with the light fabric of your chemise, looking away when he realises he can see the soft curves of your breast through the cotton.

“I thought you said you wouldn’t teach me? What made you change your mind overnight?” The knight can tell you’re hesitant at his hasty change of heart and he does not blame you and now he is hesitant to tell you the true reason- he isn’t willing to admit that he simply doesn’t know how to say no to you- he’s willing to break a rule or two if it means bringing you even the most menial amount of happiness.

Simon decides to deflect the question even though he knows that would annoy you further, “If I am to teach you to wield a weapon I will train you as I would train anyone else, understood, Princess.”

There's that name again.

“Fine, when do we start?”

“Now.”

Your brows fly up, “Wha- Now?”

The Dark Knight glances your way again, “Yes, now,” he looks you up and down languidly no longer resisting the urge to keep his gaze appropriate, “And I suggest you get changed into something more… proper, before meeting me at the training grounds.”

You take a moment to take in your attire and your cheeks redden at the realization that you are in nothing but your nightgown. When you go to shoot back an impudent response in embarrassment, Ghost is no longer there. The darkness of the hall no longer encompassed his large form and you sigh dramatically at his usual mysteriousness.

“What an ass.”

[thegoldencontracts]

The Oddity Of Kindness

Jade finds you quite amusing, really. He can't help but wish to catch you off-guard. And yet, his plans are thrown off by your dastardly schemes of- genuine kindness?

Notes: NGL Jade would actually make a really good Kaguya from love is war but at the same time I like it better when there is no shirogane... Just him doing that stuff and some random person who's incredibly nice (I low-key wanna make this fic a series guys HELP-)

Jade always found you to be quite the peculiar individual. You never displayed the fear characteristically shown around him. Oblivious, perhaps?

Your peculiarity just made you all the more fascinating. Jade couldn't help but wonder how you'd react upon finding out his true nature.

He'd lamented this to Floyd. Floyd had just said he was being "lame". How foolish. Jade was most certainly not being lame, in fact, he was being incredibly cunning in his schemes to catch you off-guard. He was intelligent, analyzing your weaknesses with am effortless prowess rarely seen, and he had a flawless plan.

Really, it would be so amusing to toy with you a tad. After all, what could you possibly do against him?

"You're blushing, Jade," Azul had commented idly as Jade left to meet you at the botanical gardens, where you went every Saturday morning to pick strawberries. Somehow, Trey let you pick them without charging anything like he had with Jade. You must've been a genius of wit to make that happen.

"Perhaps you require an eye-exam, Azul," Jade said with a laugh. Honestly, what sort of lovesick fool did Azul think he was? Blushing like some schoolgirl meeting their crush! "Your glasses clearly aren't high enough in power. Would you like me to schedule an appointment for you?"

Azul merely rolled his eyes.

"You would do well to get yourself an eye exam," he said, waving Jade off with a shoo. Whatever. Azul simply failed to comprehend Jade's plan. Really, most people would. It was so dastardly Jade couldn't help but feel a bit bad at his own cold-hearted nature.

He was going to fluster you. That was the end goal. He'd already laid out a step-by-step process, along with backup-plans for your every counter.

The first step was to enter the greenhouse. He'd just done that. The second was to walk over to where you were. Closer, closer, taking in the slight scent of petrichor, the fresh, ruby-red strawberries that surrounded you, until...

"Ah, Jade!" You jumped up at the sight of him, rubbing the back of your neck sheepishly upon facing him. "Sorry. Didn't see you there."

He smiled, making sure to keep his mouth closed. It made him seem polite, but slightly unnerving due to the way the smile didn't reach his eyes.

Phase one of his plan - to catch you off-guard and leave you at a disadvantage - was a success. It was time for phase two.

"Don't worry," he said. "I completely understand. Regardless, I'm rather curious as to what you're doing. You show up at the garden rather often at this exact time, you see."

He'd just combined steps three and four into one. He'd both unnerved you a bit more by implying that he'd observed your habits and made for a smooth transition to bringing up why he came to the botanical gardens.

"Oh, I'm just here to pick some strawberries for Trey!" So you picked those as a favor to him. That explained why Trey never attempted to seek payment. "He's pretty swamped in Heartslabyul most days, so I like to deliver the strawberries to him."

So you were kind, yes, but that was nothing but old news. More importantly, why weren't you unnerved by the fact that Jade seemed to know you well?

"What about you?" You asked. "I can't name a time, but I know you come here pretty often too. Mind sharing why?"

So, it'd finally come to this. Jade could already picture the sight of you caught off-guard. It would be so tantalizing- amusing. It would be amusing. Not tantalizing, and certainly not something to savor.

"You truly wish to know? It might frighten you," he said, with that typical, unnerving grin of his. But you didn't even bat an eye. How peculiar.

"Yeah, sure!" You said.

His plan was coming to an amusing fruition. Jade knew his eyes were sparkling as he started his ramble.

"I have a love for mushrooms," he said. "The beautiful, often poisonous things. I come here to grow them. I cultivate them ad best as I can, you know. Some fungi can't be grown here. Those tend to be more poisonous. The fun ones. And then, after a long time, the mushrooms are ready for cultivation. The ones that seem edible get fed to others. And yet, they must complain. I still remember the ghost chef who kept insisting it was rude to feed others mushrooms that freeze the tomgue. How odd, no? It was merely a bit of fun."

Silence ensued, with you keeping your hand clasped firmly over your mouth. Jade grinned. He'd done it. To think, you were so easily frightened. How amusing.

But then, you burst into laughter.

"What seems to be the matter?" He said. This wasn't what he expected to happen. Most people were dying to run away, yet paralyzed in fear.

"I- hah, sorry," you said, wheezing in attempts to catch your breath. "You're just so cute when you talk about your mushrooms. And then you were looking at me at the end like you were expecting something, and I just couldn't help it!"

At his reaction, you seemed to come to a realization.

"Did you actually think that'd scare me?" Here it was. You'd show your less kind side to mock him.

But then, your expression seemed to somber for a bit, before you puffed yourself up in an act of resoluteness.

"All those people who tell you it's weird are wrong!" You said, seeming awfully indignant. "You're cute when you get all excited and your eyes sparkle, a-and I loved learning more about your cultivation process. The information's a bonus, not something to put up with!"

You thought he was- cute? T-That wasn't true at all! Jade wasn't cute, he was a predator, and he was cold and cunning in a way that had brought fear upon others! Even as a child, he'd been feared by the high-profile clients Father had him hunt.

So how could you of all people think he was cute? This was utterly absurd. No one thought he was cute, especially not when he talked about mushrooms!

His mouth went dry. His face felt so hot it felt like it would combust any second. What was he to do? He'd never thought this would happen!

"You okay, Jade? Your face is really red," you said. Somehow, you seemed nothing but concerned. There wasn't an ounce of malice in your eyes, and he didn't understand that. Why? Weren't you going to attempt to take advantage of this rare moment of weakness? To garner a favor?

"I- must leave," he said, swallowing rapidly in hopes of overcoming the knot that seemed to form in his throat. "Until next time. This was a pleasure."

"Yeah, I was really nice getting to know you better!" You said. "And don't feel bad about how red your face is! I think it's super cute! But, since it probably means you're sick, rest up, okay?"

What sort of dastardly trick was this? You couldn't possibly be so well-intentioned. So caring, so concerned, over him? It was incomprehensible.

A retreat. He had to stage a retreat. This was too much.

"Hey, Jade!" Said Floyd, right as Jade had strained the illusion of safety. "You're so red right now? 'Rest up, okay'?"

Floyd had- heard everything?

"You'd beat be quiet, dear brother," he said. His voice cracked. Jade's voice never cracked! That simply wasn't something that happened.

"No, no, Floyd is right," said none other than Azul, approaching Jade from the other direction. He was trapped. "What happened to you? Perhaps your little crush managed to turn the tables on you?"

There was nothing to speculate for either of them. They'd seen it all go down. But Jade had to put an end to this somehow.

"It would be a shame if I were to tell everyone about both of your more embarrassing moments, now wouldn't it?" That wasn't nearly as subtle as Jade would've liked. But it did the trick, and got both Azul and Floyd to quit revelling in his suffering.

"Why must you be this way?"

"Boo. Killjoy."

Jade couldn't help but let out a small laugh at their comments as he pulled himself together.

"Regardless, the Prefect truly is a fascinating character," he said. You really were quite the odd one, weren't you?

Change of plans. He didn't want to fluster you anymore. No.

Now, he was going to woo you.

[bunnelbaby]

Here is a list of frightfully fun shows and movies for you to get into the spirit of Halloween!

🍂 Fright Krewe

🕸️ Dead End: Paranormal Park

💀Curses!

🦇Gravity Falls

🎃 Kaidan Restaurant

🍂 CreepSchool

🕸️ Supernatural Academy

💀 Isadora Moon

🦇 Frankelda’s Book of Spooks

🎃 Scream Street

🍂 Grizzly Tales for Gruesome Kids

🕸️ Beetlejuice (1989)

💀 Phantom Investigators

🦇 Mona the Vampire

🎃 Tales From the Cryptkeeper

🍂 Bunnicula

🕸️ A Tale Dark and Grim

💀 Scooby Doo

🦇 Over the Garden Wall

🎃The Grim Adventures of Billy and Mandy

🍂 Courage the Cowardly Dog

🕸️ Scary Larry

💀 Aaahh!!! Real Monsters

🦇 The Owl House

🎃 Casper’s Scare School

🍂 Sabrina the Teenage Witch

🕸️ The Real Ghostbusters

💀 Super Monsters

🦇 Dude, That’s My Ghost!

🎃 Monster Loving Maniacs

🍂 Ghostforce

🕸️ Moville Mysteries

💀 The Strange Chores

🦇 Funnybones (1992)

🎃 The Haunted Hathaways

🍂 My Babysitter’s a Vampire

🕸️ Strange Hill High

💀 Martin Mystery

🦇 Wizards of Waverly Place

🎃 Eerie Indiana

🍂 The Ketchup Vampires

🕸️ So Weird

💀 The Ghost and Molly McGee

🦇 Zombie Hotel

🎃 Creeped Out

🍂 A Babysitter’s Guide to Monster Hunting

🕸️ Phantom Pups

💀 Scaredy Cats

🦇 Gargoyles

🎃 Making Fiends

🍂 Goosebumps

🕸️ Bump in the Night

💀 R.L. Stine’s The Haunting Hour

🦇 Growing Up Creepie

🎃 Ruby Gloom

🍂 Zombies: The Re-Animated Series

🕸️ Tutenstein

💀 The Nightmare Room

🦇 Monster High

🎃 Are You Afraid of the Dark?

🍂 Deadtime Stories

🕸️ Vampirina

💀 Scary Godmother

🦇 Count Duckula

🎃 School for Vampires

🍂 The Curse of Bridge Hollow

🕸️ Nightbooks

💀 Wendell & Wild

🦇 Frankenweenie

🎃 The Cat in the Hat Knows a Lot About Halloween!

🍂 Spookley the Square Pumpkin

🕸️ Coraline

💀 Pooh’s Heffalump Halloween Movie

🦇 Oscar’s Handmade Halloween

🎃 Curious George: A Halloween Boo Fest

🍂 The Little Ghost

🕸️ Daddy, I’m a Zombie

💀 Monster House

🦇 Halloweentown

🎃 Howard Lovecraft

🍂 Mostly Ghostly

🕸️ The Little Vampire

💀 Don’t Look Under the Bed

🦇 Spooky Buddies

🎃 The Nightmare Before Christmas

🍂 Corpse Bride

🕸️ Haunted Mansion

💀 Monster House

🦇 Under Wraps

🎃 Little Monsters

🍂 The Dog Who Saved Halloween

🕸️ Paranorman

💀 Hotel Transylvania

🦇 Hocus Pocus

🎃The Halloween Tree

(Gif Credit) (Divider Credit)

[em-writes-stuff-sometimes]

darilaros (princess) │ Chapter 5: Forgotten

terms of endearment ‘verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 │Chapter 4 │Chapter 5 │Chapter 6 │Chapter 7 │Chapter 8 (COMPLETE!)

Synopsis: As the second daughter of King Viserys, you experience firsthand what it means to belong to the House of the Dragon. Your family gains new additions.

Hello! My sincere apologies for how long this took. I got massively sidetracked by researching how to bind a book, the interest in which hit at a completely inappropriate time in the writing-editing-crafting cycle, lol. I should definitely be focusing on finishing this thing before I start fixating on binding books. Anyway; this chapter is a little time-jumpy, given that I have to speed through a bunch of time. Also, note that I've fudged with the ages of Alicent's kids, so in Episode 3, know that she is now pregnant with Aemond, not Helaena like in the show. It's the only way to make him of-age in the Episode 8 scenes. Happy (and well-deserved) holidays to my boobear @ewanmitchellcrumbs, who I have graciously given a night off of slaving away for me, lol.

TRIGGERS: continued discussion of child grief, Viserys's shenanigans in impregnating an underaged Alicent (canon, this is NOT MY ADDITION).

When Alicent gets married to Papa, they have a big ceremony. So so many people come from all over the kingdom to see Papa take a new queen, and the days of the wedding—there are lots of days to them starting in marriage—are full of more noise and colour and movement than you could ever think was real.

Her dress is very pretty, and Papa looks very nice in his new coat, but neither of them look so happy as people who are going to be in marriage should be. Papa keeps playing with the ring on his finger that is from Mama, while Alicent just looks like she is afraid. You think it might be because of how loud everyone is being.

’Nyra isn’t happy, either. She keeps you on her lap the entire time with an angry look and doesn’t speak to Alicent very much at all, but at least she tries to be kind when she does. She ignores Papa, and because you are all sitting at the high table and everyone is watching you, he cannot tell her she is being rude and naughty.

Because you don’t want to look at Alicent’s unhappy face or ’Nyra’s angry one, you play with your sister’s necklace, letting the shiny metal take all your attention. It is Valyrian steel, which is what Papa’s and Uncle’s swords are made out of, so it is very special. Uncle gave it to her. When you let your fingers swirl over the ruby in the middle of the big pendant over and over, you pretend that it’s a part of him and that he’s here, after all.

After the big ceremony is done, life goes back to almost-normal. Now that Alicent is Papa’s queen, she is something called a stepmother, meaning that Brella and Septa and all the people who are made to look after you and ’Nyra have to talk to her about you both. She is like your mama. You wake up and break your fast with Alicent, and she cuts up your food instead of Mama, and she takes you outside to play and tells you about the names of the flowers. Then, when it is time to sleep again, she reads you a story. You think that she likes it very much because she always seems sad until she sees you, and then her face goes bright like the sun.

‘Nyra doesn’t like it. She doesn’t like it at all. When she learns that Alicent is acting like your mama, she goes very red like she’s going to scream, but she just goes very quiet instead and storms out of your rooms. For that whole day, ’Nyra takes you to the gardens and to see Syrax and to the library to learn some more High Valyrian, her new sworn shield Ser Criston behind her all the time. She never once lets you go see Alicent to do the things you normally do. When you finally get to be in the room with her at suppertime with Papa and ’Nyra, which Papa has said you all must do now so that everyone can get along, all she does is give you a small smile that doesn’t make her eyes go bright like usual and ask about your big day with your sister.

That is how things are for a while. Either you will go through your days with Alicent or with ’Nyra, and never both in one day because ’Nyra is still so angry at Alicent for being in marriage with Papa. You keep asking why, but your sister doesn’t tell you anything. She just goes quiet and frowns and mutters things you cannot hear. Meanwhile, Alicent will always stop, take a big breath that sounds shaky when she lets it out, and say, “I have no quarrel with Rhaenyra. She is as welcome to my rooms and in my company as you are, princess.”

You think that might be a lie.

One day, though, everything changes.

’Nyra decides to take you to the library so that you can look at more books in High Valyrian. Even the books written in the Common Tongue make no sense to you yet, and Brella told you this is because you are not old enough to learn reading properly. Still, your sister says that it is still good to try when you’re young, so she sits beside you and points out all the funny-looking symbols and tells you what they mean all together. You fall asleep in there instead of having a nap in your bed, but ’Nyra just puts a blanket over you and keeps reading. When you wake, you listen to her voice as she speaks the words from the pages aloud. You don’t understand all of it, but you think you’ve learned more and more since Mama died and she stopped being friends with Alicent. It means she has lots of time for you. Maybe that shouldn’t make you happy, but you cannot help it.

At supper, you see Lord Hightower, Alicent’s papa, beside her. That means that you have to be next to ’Nyra tonight, so you follow her to her side of the table and sit in the chair that the maid pulls out for you. The chair is higher than the others, made special so that you can reach the food that is put before you. Looking around, it is easy to tell that something is different from how happy Lord Hightower looks and how smiling Papa’s face is.

“My two daughters,” he says a bit too loudly, cheeks bright red. His cup is in front of him, and the gold shines red from the drink inside. Wine, you think. It is for men and women, not little girls, and it makes the people who drink it act strange like Papa is now. He waves his hand in a ‘hello’ as he lifts his cup to his mouth and takes a sip. “Ah!”

’Nyra starts eating her food without a word. Everyone has plates with different foods on it, but you have a bowl in front of your seat. Because you are small, the cooks always give you pottage for your supper so that you can eat it with a spoon and no one has to cut things up for you. You don’t always like it—there are lots of lumps and you can never tell what taste is going to be in your mouth with each bite—but it is warm and makes your tummy nice and full.

The room is full of the sounds of chewing and clack-clacking when the knives and forks hit the plates. You pick up your spoon and scoop up some food. There are dark bits, which means the cooks have put meat in it. You scrunch your nose.

Papa coughs between bites. He is still smiling a lot. “It seems like an age since I saw you last!”

“We had supper with you yesterday evening,” ’Nyra says.

“Ah, yes!” He takes another drink of his wine. Maybe he shouldn’t, because he is blinking very much like you do when you’re trying to stay awake. “Perhaps the waiting has made it seem longer.”

“Waiting?”

“I am sure you have noticed Otto’s presence by now.”

’Nyra doesn’t even look at the man. “My lord.” Her voice seems cold.

“Princess.” Lord Hightower bends his head, but he doesn’t sound very happy either.

Alicent puts her hand on Papa’s arm. ’Nyra watches so closely that you wonder if her eyes can make holes in other people’s skin. “I—we—have some news, Rhaenyra.”

“Oh?” She sounds bored.

“Well…”

When Alicent doesn’t say anything, ’Nyra makes a huffing noise. It is very rude.

“Well?” she asks, looking between Alicent and Papa. “What is it, then? Everyone’s acting rather strange.”

“Alicent is with child,” Papa says.

‘With child’ is what people say when a baby is growing in a lady’s belly. It’s what Mama told you before Baelon grew very large inside her.

’Nyra freezes, almost like she has forgotten how to move. No one says anything. Papa’s smile—the one that his words made so much bigger when he said them out loud—begins to fall, more and more with each moment that ’Nyra does nothing at all. Then, it goes away completely, and he’s no longer happy like he was.

It’s quiet again. Not the nice kind—the kind that means that someone is about to yell or be naughty.

“A baby?” you ask. Maybe you can stop the bad from happening if you help everyone remember that you’re still here.

Alicent looks at you, the fear leaving her face a little. She nods. “Yes, princess. You’re to have a brother or sis—”

“Half-brother.” ’Nyra’s lips move, but the rest of her stays still. She cannot stop staring between Papa and Alicent. “Or half-sister. Either way, they will not be your full blood.”

“You are correct, princess.” From the way Lord Hightower speaks and how silent Alicent and Papa are at ’Nyra’s words, you think she must have said something quite mean. He gives her a little smile, one that makes her hands squeeze really tight on her knife and fork. “Even so, these are glad tidings, indeed. Let us all pray for the queen to be delivered of a son.”

“I’m sure that would be of great benefit to the Hightowers, my lord. A son… to solidify your claim to my father’s throne.”

Lord Hightower stops smiling. Alicent gasps.

Papa makes a small noise. “Rhaenyra—”

All at once, she stands, the plate in front of her clattering loudly with how quick she rises. “Congratulations, Your Grace.” She doesn’t sound very happy for Alicent, even if the words are nice. “Forgive me—I feel suddenly unwell.”

“Daughter—”

’Nyra ignores Papa and storms out of the room, leaving her food only half-eaten. The rest of supper is very quiet, the loudest noise of all being the sound of your own breathing.

Isn’t a baby meant to be happy news? you wonder. You look around, but no one here is very happy—except for Lord Hightower. Though he isn’t smiling, he has his head held high like he has had every one of his wishes granted all at once.

“What do you think, princess?” Brella asks.

You stare down into the cradle at the baby. Your brother. Aegon. He is squirming, face bright red, squished and crying. He hasn’t stopped even once since you came into the room. He might have been crying since before you did, even. Aside from the bright hair on top of his head, you don’t think he looks very much like you.

“He’s nice,” is what you say, but you don’t know if you really mean it. It’s more for Alicent, who is watching you from over on the bed. She looks very tired. If you said something less kind, she may cry.

Alicent smiles. “Thank you, princess. Nurse—bring him to me, please.”

She doesn’t mean Brella. There is another woman here, Gwenys, who Lord Hightower and Septa Marlow assigned to help give Aegon milk and take care of him when Alicent cannot. Gwenys comes and picks up the baby, walking over to give him to Alicent. She rocks him in her arms which doesn’t stop him from crying, but she still keeps on bouncing him softly. He is very unhappy.

Now that Alicent is holding Aegon, you know that she’ll forget you are there. Ever since Papa told you and ’Nyra that he was in Alicent’s belly, neither of them have had much time for you. It feels like all the people in the keep—from Papa and Alicent and Lord Hightower to the servants and maids and stableboys—have been more excited for the baby than they ever were for you. The only person who has remembered you is ’Nyra, and so you are with her on most days. It sometimes makes you sad, because it really was very fun to play pretend that Alicent was your mama for a while, but ’Nyra says that it wasn’t going to last, anyway.

“She is to have her own child to care for, now,” she told you in the days after learning about the new baby. “You were good practice—but you aren’t her blood, not really. Not like you and I. Her son will be born, and you’ll be given to a nurse or a septa to raise.” When you cried, she bent down and wiped away your tears. “It doesn’t make her a bad person,” she said quietly. “But this is the way of the world, sister. Men and women, kings and queens… they all want sons. Us daughters must stick together, yes?”

’Nyra was right. At first, Alicent tried to keep pretending to be like your mama. But then, the baby made her very ill, so she stopped asking you to come to break your fast so you wouldn’t have to see her being sick into the pail by her bed. Then, she spent so much time sleeping that she didn’t have the energy to come outside with you, or to dance with you, and soon, the only time you would see her was at suppertime. Even that wasn’t always. And now the baby is here, you don’t think she will be going back to the way it used to be.

Maybe that is why he feels like such a stranger to you. At least with baby Baelon, you got to feel him kicking in Mama’s tummy. Aegon wasn’t here for so long, and then all of a sudden, he was. He is. You don’t know him at all. He’s just a baby, come to take your papa and almost-mama away from you like all the rest.

Brella’s hand on your shoulder is what helps you walk towards the door, Alicent and Aegon staying in the room behind you. With your back turned, it’s easier to pretend that Alicent is very sad by you leaving.

The more moons pass, the more faded Mama’s face is in your memory. You try to hold onto the way her eyes would crinkle at the corners when she smiled, or how her hair would curl a bit like yours after her bath, or the way she’d smell like roses when she hugged you tight. It slips away, out of reach. Putting rose oil in your bath helps you, but only a little bit—and the longer that Mama is gone, the less you can remember of her.

Papa doesn’t like to talk about her. When you ask him, he just spins the ring on his finger around and says, “Another time, perhaps.” You know that ‘another time’ really means ‘never’.

There is no one else in the keep that really knew her like you and your family knew her, except ’Nyra. She tells you stories sometimes, but you don’t ask a lot because she usually likes to tell the ones that have you in them. When she finishes, she always smiles and asks, “Do you remember?” You never can, and it leaves you feeling like someone has scooped out all your insides.

So, Mama fades, and becomes part of that place in your mind where the things that are being forgotten go. Even though you try and try and try, there is nothing that can stop the forgetting. One day, you think she might be nothing more than a quiet sort of sadness, like looking out the window at the rain and wondering why it makes your chest hurt so much.

Seeing Alicent with Aegon is the only thing that reminds you of her. Even though Alicent’s hair is red where Mama’s was silver, and Aegon is loud and angry where you are quiet and shy, the way that she kisses his cheeks or hums little songs under her breath to him makes you think of how Mama would do the same for you. He doesn’t seem to be very happy when she does these things. If it were you in his place, you know you’d be better than him. You wish she’d realise that.

It seems like no time at all goes by when Alicent is with child again, meaning she’s going to have another baby. If it is anything like Aegon, you do not think you’ll like it very much. Sometimes, you feel very naughty for it, but you cannot help how he makes you feel. All he wants to do is make a fuss and take everyone’s attention, and he keeps crying and being naughty even as Alicent’s belly grows bigger and bigger with your new brother or sister.

When Helaena is born, Papa and Lord Hightower aren’t as pleased as they were with Aegon. You can tell because, while they are both in the room when you come to meet her, neither one is looking at her as she lays in the cradle. They had both been looking down at Aegon last time. You think it is because Helaena is a girl, like you and ’Nyra. You decide that you have to love her if they won’t.

She is a quiet baby, but so still that it makes Gwenys worry and worry, even though all she is doing is lying in her cradle and staring straight up. Maybe she knows how rude her big brother is, you think, and she wants to do and be all the things he isn’t.

You weren’t allowed to hold Aegon because he was so disagreeable, which means he would probably have screamed and cried if you did. He still screams and cries, which is why Alicent has to spend all her days with him even though she’s just had a second baby, so Helaena is by herself with Gwenys most hours.

Helaena isn’t like Aegon. This time, Gwenys has you sit in a chair with a pillow under your arm and brings the baby to you. “Mind her head,” she says, tugging your arm forward so that Helaena fits nicely in your arms. “There we go.”

She is a big baby, round and heavy and warm, but you don’t mind because she gazes up at you with large blue eyes that look like they might turn purple when she gets older. The hairs she has on her head—and there aren’t many, not like Aegon had—are silver, and you know that she will look very much like you when she has grown more. When you stroke a finger over the skin on her hand, her whole fist grabs onto it, strong even though she is so young. It’s like she knows who you are, even without any words being said.

You wonder if this is how ’Nyra felt when she met you—a burning that tingles all through your arms and legs, not in a way that hurts, no, but in a way that makes you want to squeeze tight and never let go.

Helaena doesn’t cry. She falls asleep while you’re holding her, her face turned into you so that you can feel her tiny breaths through your dress. It is special and warm and love-feeling like Alicent used to be, like Mama was when she was not-dead. The hurt goes far away, still there but not so much, not so heavy in your chest.

For a little while, the sadness—of forgetting Mama, of being forgotten by so many others—fades away, too.

When you are five summers old, you have to say goodbye to Brella.

All the while you are breaking your fast, she looks like she is about to start crying. Even though you wonder why, you don’t ask. When someone cries, it means that something bad has happened. So much bad has already happened, and you don’t know if you want to hear any more. You eat in quiet, scooping porridge into your mouth while the sound of sniffles fills the room. The taste of honey would make you feel happy, but not when Brella is so upset. Your food sinks to the bottom of your belly like one of the hot bricks you sometimes get under your blankets when it’s very cold at night, only there’s nothing nice about it. It’s hard and rough and makes you feel sick.

After you have finished every bite—you have to eat all of it, or you don’t get to play—Brella takes you by the hand and leads you to the chair. “There is… there is something I have to tell you,” she says, slow and shaky.

I don’t want to know. I don’t want to know. I don’t want to know. You wish that you were like ’Nyra, that you could say the words out loud—but you cannot. You don’t want to know, but you say nothing, and you wait for whatever bad thing is coming to show itself.

“I…” Brella swallows and looks down at your hands, still holding onto each other even though you are sitting and there is no need. “Tell me again how old you are, princess.”

“Five.” It’s a very small number, but you are still proud because you’re almost a big girl now.

Brella laughs, nodding. “That’s right. Five. My goodness. How time flies!”

You find that silly. Time doesn’t fly. It isn’t a thing-you-can-touch, and only things-you-can-touch can fly, like dragons or birds or insects. Still, you try not to show your thinking on your face as Brella squeezes your hand tighter.

“Being five summers old is a very important milestone when you’re a prince or princess,” she says. “Do you know why?”

“No,” you say. “Why?”

Here, she stops. “It… It means—gods, I don’t know if I can say it.”

“Well, then. It appears that I must,” comes a voice from the door.

You turn. Septa Marlow stands with her hands joined in front of her, her mouth pinched into a line so small it is like it has disappeared from her face. Her grey wimple makes her skin look just as colourless. She steps forward, and the sound of her shoes touching the ground seems as loud as thunder.

“You are of an age to begin your lessons, princess. Thus, it is time for your nurse”—she looks at Brella and her lip curls, though you cannot tell if she’s happy or angry—“to depart, and for me to take over your care.”

The sick feeling gets worse, and you wonder if you might bring up all your food from how bad the pains are in your belly. “But—but Brella will still stay, though? For Aegon and Helaena?”

Septa Marlow huffs. “There is no need, silly child. Their nurse has already been appointed, and Gwenys will suffice for any future children borne by the queen. Brella is to collect her things and return to the Vale.”

Brella has taught you some of the places on the map that shows Papa’s kingdom. You live in King’s Landing, which is in the Crownlands, and it is at the bottom of the map. The Vale is where Mother—Mother, not Mama, Mama is for babies and I am not a baby anymore, you have to keep telling yourself—came from, that it is a bit up and to the side from the Crownlands. It isn’t that far in the drawings, but Brella says that maps show a smaller picture of what is really a very, very long distance.

If Brella has to return to the Vale, it means she will be very, very far away.

You think you might be frozen, like ice. You cannot say anything. All that you can think, over and over, is no, no, no, please, not Brella, no, no, no. The fire-burn of tears warms behind your eyes, but you know that you cannot let Septa see you cry. She’ll think you are weak.

Brella sniffles. “I can write to you,” she says, pulling you closer to her. “And, when you’re old enough, you can write to me. How about that?”

You nod, but her words don’t make you feel better. Paper isn’t the same as a person, not really. Even if she puts letters on paper and sends them to you, it won’t be like one of her hugs or the way she laughs when you miss a dance step or fall over in the grass. It won’t smell like her or look like her. It won’t make you feel safe like she does.

She will turn not-real like Mother. Only, maybe it is worse—because you’ll know that, somewhere a long way away from you, she will be real, but that you cannot have her anymore.

“I don’t want you to go,” is what you say, but it comes out like a whisper, not strong like you wanted it to.

“I know, my darling,” Brella says, hugging you tight so that you can feel her heart beating through her skin and yours. “I know, and I’m so sorry—”

“If you could unhand my charge, nurse.” Septa’s eyebrow is raised. “Although—now that it occurs to me—‘nurse’ is no longer the appropriate moniker, is it?”

Brella glares at her. “There’s no need to be so—”

“Your time here is at an end.” Even though she looks like she’s trying not to show her feelings, Septa lifts her chin in the air like ’Nyra used to when she would win at cyvasse against Alicent. “Say your goodbyes.”

“What—here? Now?” Brella’s mouth is open like she’s very surprised. “I’d thought the princess would be coming to see me off at the harb—”

“That is not a good idea. She is too… attached.” Septa says it like it is a curse. “A public display of histrionics does not a respectable princess make, no matter her juvenility.” You have no idea what most of these words mean, but the way they make Brella sink in her seat cannot be a good thing.

She tucks your hair behind your ears as she looks down at you, her eyes wet. “Be good,” she says, very soft so that Septa cannot hear them well. “Make sure you write to me, yes?”

She brushes her thumbs over your cheeks—out, in, out, in—the way she does when she really means ‘I love you’.

“Please stay,” you whisper, trying not to let your lower lip wobble like it wants to so badly. “Please don’t go.”

Brella hugs you again, her whole body shaking. Your face is smushed up against her shoulder, the smell of her herness filling your nose with so much warm. You wonder if, by clinging on tight, you can stop her from leaving. She cannot leave. She is what you have left now that Mam—Mother is gone, now that Papa has Alicent and ’Nyra has Papa and Uncle has his war somewhere away from you. She cannot leave. She cannot.

It feels like she has been holding on for forever and also for no time at all when she lets go, stands up, and walks away without a word. The door shuts.

She didn’t even say goodbye.

Is it worse or better, watching her go away? you wonder through the cold that settles in your body, in your arms and legs, the sharpness of it so much that you feel like shivering even though the sun is shining hot outside. You never saw Mother die. She was here, and then she wasn’t. But you have to watch Brella leave, knowing there is nothing you can do to stop it all the while.

“Dry your tears, girl. ‘Tis about time your coddling came to an end.” Septa pulls you by the shoulder off the chair. Her hand doesn’t feel warm like Brella’s does. Her stare—fixed on you—travels up and down, her mouth crinkling at the corner like she is thinking about something. “Why she was allowed to linger past your name day, I will never understand.”

You cannot think of anything to say, so you keep quiet. It doesn’t seem to make Septa like you any more than she did before, which you don’t think was very much. The tears keep falling, though you try and try to make them disappear.

“Now,” she says, clapping her hands sharply. The loudness of the noise makes you jump. Teardrops shake onto your dress. “We have a long day ahead of us. The queen has requested an update on your progress, so you will be learning no less than three hymns before the end of the sennight. I should like to provide her with”—she looks you up and down again, and this time it seems like she is thinking something unkind about you—“some indication that you will shape up to be a lady of high standing.”

‘I’m a princess, not a lady,’ you want to say. You don’t.

Septa begins striding away, then stops and turns around to face you. “I expect you to follow when I walk, and to acknowledge me when I speak by saying ‘Yes, Septa Marlow’.” She almost spits the words at you. “Understood?”

“Yes, Septa Marlow.” It doesn’t sound as strong or as clear as when she said it. You wish you could sound less afraid. Still, she seems to find it good enough. She says nothing afterward, just waits for you to trail along after her.

“Hmph.” She clicks her tongue. Staring down at you again, she adds, “And stand up straight.”

You do as you’re told.

Septa Marlow is as frightfully mean as you always feared.

One thing you learn quickly is that everything you do and say is wrong. When you laugh, it is too unbecoming; when you smile, you show too much teeth; when you walk, you are too hunched over; when you eat, you are too gluttonous. You’re a simpleton when you ask to play with your dolls, so they sit at the foot of your bed slowly being covered by dust; you’re graceless when you try to dance, so you practice after you have been put to bed to try and get better before each morning; you’re impertinent when you say what you’re thinking instead of keeping it to yourself, so you learn to let your thoughts stay inside your head. There is little that she doesn’t pick on and tell you that you need to change.

“Use full words, please!” she says whenever you forget to speak in the proper way that she expects. She always raps her willow switch on the table in front of you after that. Lucky for you, she has not yet used it to hurt you. “It is ‘does not’, not ‘doesn’t’. There is no need to employ such low-class mannerisms as a lady of your standing!”

“Yes, Septa Marlow.” There is no point trying to tell her that she’s wrong.

It isn’t all bad, though. Having Septa Marlow take over means that you are now expected to learn all sorts of things, and a lot of it is very interesting. New words, new houses, new hymns, new dances—you start to learn how to sew, how to put letters together to read them, how to count numbers and add and take them away to make different numbers. Septa says that there are so many things a noblewoman like you needs to be able to do by the time she is ready to be married, so that she can run her husband’s household and take care of him and her future children. That is a long time from now, but practice makes perfect.

The only time you are not with Septa is when you are with your family, like today.

Because Aegon has lived past being a baby—and Septa says that babies die a lot from the weather or from being sick or from being fed too much or too little or sometimes for no reason at all—Papa has announced that everyone must go on a hunt to celebrate his name day. You have to sit in the wheelhouse with he and Alicent and ’Nyra and Aegon and three other nurses, but not Helaena. She’s only a baby still, so she must stay in the keep with Gwenys.

It is not a very fun ride. Being in a wheelhouse with them all means putting ’Nyra very close to Alicent, whose belly has grown big with a baby again. Lots of people have lots to say about how many babies Alicent has had since she married Papa, and most of it is not very nice towards your mother. She could only have two girls, and it took her a long time to have you after ’Nyra.

Papa thinks there is another boy in Alicent’s belly. You hope not. Aegon is loud and rude. You think it might be worse if there were two of him instead of just one.

“… whole of our family off to celebration and adventure in the kingswood,” Papa is saying. You swing your legs back and forth, though you must stop each time you roll over a big bump in the road. You stay quiet, because Septa says a lady does not talk unless she is asked a question.

A very big bump in the road makes Alicent’s smile fall.

“Should you be travelling in such condition?” ’Nyra asks. She sounds worried, even though she is no longer friends with Alicent.

“The maester said that being out in nature would do me well,” is what Alicent says back.

Papa starts talking while he finishes giving Aegon a sip from his cup. You wonder if it’s wine. “Well, you will be with your own child sooner than late, and make me a proud grandsire.” He is smiling, perhaps at the thought of it.

‘No, I will not,’ the look on ’Nyra’s face seems to say. You cannot help but agree with her. Having babies seems like such a tiring thing to do.

“It’s not so bad.” Alicent has to speak louder to be heard over the rattling of the wheels and the hoofbeats of the horses. “The days are long, but Aegon came quickly and without fuss. Helaena, too.”

The nurse who is holding Aegon in her lap—Delia, you think her name is—waves a toy dragon in front of him. He smacks at it with his hands, frowning. You would never treat your toys like that.

“You should ride out with me today,” Papa says to ’Nyra. “Join in the chase, while you”—his eyes go to you—“sit about with your lady stepmother. Hm?”

“Okay, Papa,” you say quietly. Proper ladies do what their fathers tell them to.

’Nyra’s hand finds yours. “I’d rather not. The boars squeal like children when they’re being slaughtered.” From the way her fingers squeeze yours and her stare fixes on Aegon, you know she doesn’t mean you when she says that. “I find it discomfiting.”

“It’s a hunt, Rhaenyra.” Papa smiles. It is a careful sort of smile, not a happy one. Aegon’s yell distracts him for a moment, but he is quick to return to speaking to ’Nyra. “How would you like to participate?” he asks her.

“I’d be leaving my sister alone with the vultures of the realm,” ’Nyra says, “so I’m not sure why I must.”

Trying to understand what everyone means by what they say is very difficult—you aren’t sure if she’s saying that the ladies coming along are vultures, or if she’s trying to say Alicent is. You don’t even know what a vulture is, so you aren’t sure if it is a bad or good thing to be.

“Because you are my eldest daughter. The princess.” Papa looks like he is finding it harder and harder to stop himself from telling ’Nyra off. “And you have duties.”

“As I am ceaselessly reminded.” Your sister says it softly, but it is easy enough for you to hear from your place next to her.

Papa doesn’t, though. “I’m sorry?”

Instead of making up a lie or saying that she did not say anything at all, ’Nyra repeats herself louder. It is terribly rude, but you enjoy watching as you have always enjoyed watching her being brave against other people. “As I am ceaselessly reminded.”

“You wouldn’t need to be reminded if you ever attended to them.”

“No one’s here for me!”

Papa doesn’t seem to know what to say to that. Neither does Alicent. They both just fall silent along with the nurses. Even Aegon stops making all his annoying noises, instead sitting so still that he could be sleeping if his eyes were not open.

You make sure to hold onto your sister’s hand even tighter. If there is anyone in the whole world who does know what to say, it is you. If only you were brave enough.

‘I understand, ’Nyra,’ you want to say. ‘No one’s here for me, either. No one’s ever here for me.’

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[supernova049]

I think that if 11 and Ruby met they would get along terribly.

Like, going from 15 to 11's extremely socially awkward and autistic ass is already going to be a surprise, but we're talking about THE Doctor who gets fixated on mysteries and stories. The moment it starts snowing he is going to howl like a wolf and call Ruby some shit like "the girl who made it snow".

Like, both Amy and Clara got along with 11 because they themselves grew up fixated with fiction and because of it they blend more easily with 11's quirks. Like, compare Ruby slowly piecing together The Doctor is a time traveler to Amy being completely normal about The Doctor crashing on her garden or Clara having no reaction to the reveal that he is an alien.

At most I can see Ruby slowly growing to like him, but if it was series 7b 11 I think she would just ask her friends to tear his ass because that version of 11 is not weird about mysteries, he is just straight up creepy about it.

TLDR: they would not match each other's freak

[mischievouslittlecreature]

Part 26: Do You Love Me

Summary: Tommy and Lucy begin to suspect Michael of a far worse betrayal than what happened on the stock market.

Word Count: 6,076

Warnings: Violence and insecurity.

Previous Chapter • Series • Fic • Next Chapter

Chapter 4: The Seeds You Have Sown

Lucy rubbed at her eyes with the heel of one hand as she descended the stairs sluggishly. The house was always disconcertingly quiet in the mornings. Even more so with Lizzie and Ruby gone. Normally she got up with Tommy, which helped to cloak over some of the eeriness that the huge house exuded in the early hours. Especially in her dark, isolated wing of the mansion. 

But this morning she had woken up alone. Well, the second time she woke up, she was alone. The first time she had stirred at movement beside her, rolling over with an arm seeking out Tommy’s space beside her in the bed only to find it empty.

“Go back to sleep, love,” he had said, large hand passing over the top of her head. Rather than laying beside her, he was sitting on the edge of the mattress, already mostly dressed. 

“Mm. Why aren’t you here?” she complained, patting the spot next to her, even as she nuzzled back down into his pillow.

“There’s something I need to go check. Won’t be long.”

“Want me to come?”

“No, sweetheart, just go back to sleep,” he kissed the top of her head.

She drifted in and out for awhile after that, but it was hard to find true sleep without him there. Finally, she’d risen out of bed with a sigh, yawning and stretching and slouching her way over to the wardrobe to pull on her clothes for the day. 

Dressed and at least half awake, she was just making her way to the dining room in the hopes of finding a warm breakfast waiting for her when Charlie came exploding in through the front door. His shoes clattered loudly on the floor as he raced towards her. 

“Lucy! Dad wants you,” he skidded to a halt, nearly colliding with her. “He’s outside in the garden.”

“Charlie, what–”

“Miss. Winters, there was a phone call for Mr. Shelby’s office phone that he just missed,” Frances appeared to her left. “And Mrs. Milligan is here for Charles’s violin practice.”

Who the fuck has violin practice this early in the morning?   

“Alright, um, Charlie, you go with Frances to your lesson–”

“He said I’m to play extra loudly today,” Charlie giggled. “Because there might be some bangs outside. Do you know why, Lucy?”

Her blood went cold, eyes snapping to the windows. Suddenly wide awake. She looked back at Charlie, forcing what she hoped was a reassuring smile to pull at her lips. “Yes, Charlie. I think I do. You said that he’s in the garden, did you?”

Charlie nodded.

“Right,” she turned to Frances, who had gone a little pale. “Where’s the teacher?”

“In the drawing room.”

“Charlie, go with Frances to see Mrs. Milligan. Frances, keep everyone inside until we get back.”

“Yes, Miss. Winters.” Frances took Charlie by the hand, quickly leading him away. Lucy waited until they’d gone before running to the cupboard in which they kept a small artillery. She snatched up a tommy gun, some extra ammo, and raced outside. 

She found Tommy seated on the grass by the barren fields, smoking and rubbing at his face with hands smeared with dirt.

“What’s happened?” she asked, hooking the strap of the submachine gun over her shoulder. Her eyes darted around wildly, searching for any signs of danger but finding none. Until her gaze landed on the middle of the field, where a scarecrow was erected on a wooden cross. Lucy stared at it, breath catching in her throat. 

They didn’t have a scarecrow in the field. Not at this time of year, anyway. There was no point when there wasn’t anything planted in it anyway.

If she squinted she could make out that it was dressed in clothes eerily similar to Tommy’s daily attire: a dark coat, trousers, waistcoat, and white button down shirt, with a pocket watch dangling from its neck that glinted in the sun, and a peaky cap a top its burlap head. 

Tommy looked up at her with bleary eyes, chest heaving up and down. 

“There are landmines in the field.”

“What!?”

He nodded, gesturing with his cigarette towards the scarecrow mounted in the center of the barren stretch of mud. “All around the scarecrow. Fucking miracle that I didn’t step on one.”

“You went out there?”

He nodded. “There was a message pinned to it. Look down on earth and see the seeds you have sown,” he shook his head.

“Fuck,” she looked out at the field, watching whisps of white mist float across it. 

“In our own fucking garden, Lucy.”

“Yeah.” Already, her mind had begun to work. Who? Who would do such a thing? They were not lacking for enemies, but she struggled to immediately think of any who would be so bold as to do something like this right under their noses. 

“Charlie almost stepped on them. He came running onto the field to get me. If I hadn’t grabbed him in time…” Tommy trailed off, shoulders shuddering. Lucy’s lips parted, eyes widening. A sick feeling twisted in her stomach at the thought of what could have happened to their sweet boy. A hand went to his shoulder, clapping onto it both for stability and in an attempt to offer comfort. 

Distantly, from within the mansion, she could hear the sounds of a violin starting to play. She closed her eyes against the sound. Normally, she wasn’t particularly taken with Charlie’s violin playing. Often she caught herself wishing he’d chosen a less…shrill instrument to learn. Like the piano or even the harp. But today, she relished in the shriek and squeaks of the bow against the strings. 

“He’s okay,” she said, to Tommy and to herself. 

“Yeah.” He heaved out a massive sign, head bowing. She rubbed back and forth across his shoulder, feeling the tension in his muscles even through the material of his coat and the shirt he had on underneath.     

“What do you want to do about the mines?” 

“We need to take care of them,” he heaved himself to his feet, “so no one risks getting their leg blown off if they step out there.”

“Alright,” she unhooked the strap of her gun from where it was secured on her shoulder. “Should I shoot at the ground from over here, or…?” “No. They’re only around the scarecrow. I think.”

“You think?” 

“If there were ones anywhere else in the field, I’m pretty sure there would be bits of me scattered all over the garden by now.”

She cringed at the mental image, heart twisting upwards into her throat. “Don’t joke about that.”

He looked over at her, saw the expression on her face, and wrapped an arm around her shoulders, kissing the top of her head. “Sorry.” He reached for the machine gun clutched her hands, but she pulled it away. 

“What are you doing?”

“Well…I need…” he had enough foresight to look sheepish at what he was implying. 

“I’m not letting you walk back out there alone.”

“Luces, please…”

“No! I’m not just going to stand here and watch you get blown up.”

“It’ll be fine–”

“Then you should have no problem with me coming with you.”

He closed his mouth, eyes narrowing down at her. “You’re so bloody stubborn, you know that?” But there was no bite in his words. If anything, he just sounded very, very tired. Lucy touched his chin delicately. 

“Look who’s talking.”

A ghost of a smile danced on his lips for a second. “You really would rather risk getting blown up with me than just wait right here?”

“Yes,” she said, without even a moment’s hesitation. His eyes softened, and he didn’t even need to say anything for her to know that she’d won. 

“Alright, then,” he sighed, looking back towards the scarecrow. “Just stick close to me, yeah?” 

“Yeah.”

Through the mist, Lucy could just make out the outline of another tommy gun laying on its side in the mud. He must have dropped it in his haste to get Charlie out of the field. 

“Come on.”

She followed him towards the gate that led out into the rows of soft, damp earth. She was careful to stay behind him and follow the path he cut through the mud, since he knew where the landmines were. He scooped up his gun where it lay on the ground, shaking dark tendrils from his fringe that had fallen forward out of his eyes. Immediately, he started firing upon the scarecrow. He emptied an entire magazine into it before coming to a halt, releasing the magazine drum to let it go tumbling to the ground, sliding a second one into its place with a click. Lucy’s finger found the trigger of her own gun, raising it once she came to a stop at his side. Squinting at the dirt around the scarecrow, she squeezed her finger around the trigger.     

The ground around the scarecrow erupted, dark soil and boiling flames exploding with a furious blaze into the sky. They were standing close enough for Lucy to feel the heat from the explosions on her face and smell the charred scent of smoke and burst metal. 

The explosions came one after the other as they swept the ground with bullets, setting off landmine after landmine, each bursting in its own mini inferno. 

And then all was quiet. 

Black smoke roiled upwards, rolling over itself, momentarily blotting out the sun above them before being broken apart by the wind. 

“You think that was all of them?” Lucy asked, lowering her weapon, glancing over to see Tommy doing the same.  

“Yeah. We’ll have to dig them up later.”

“Not now?”

He shook his head. “Charlie said that there was a phone call for me.”

“Yeah. To your office phone. Do you think it has anything to do with this?”

“Maybe.”

Mist danced around their ankles while he started to lead the way back to the house. She eyed him as they walked side by side. His entire face was pinched with stress, shoulders wound ever tighter than usual.

Michael was supposed to be coming back today. She knew that Tommy had been dreading the day; the tension within him seeming to build more and more as the date grew closer. 

Not that she could blame him. She felt it too; that sense of deep, approaching dread building in her stomach, hairs on the back of her arms standing on end, alarm bells blaring in her ears that danger was approaching. 

Once they were inside, she took a quick detour to lock both of their guns back up in the artillery cupboard before meeting him in his office. He was already on the phone when she slipped in, cocking it slightly when she came over to stand next to him so she could hear static crackling through the receiver, and then the buzz of the line ringing.

Whoever was on the other end picked up, and for just a second, she heard Michael’s voice before it was silenced. And then an Irish lilt filtered through the receiver, the voice introducing herself Captain Swing. Lucy’s brows pinched, stomach twisting into knots as Swing explained that Michael had been caught onboard the ship he’d taken from America, in his cabin making deals with men in Belfast who wanted Tommy dead. In the background, Lucy could hear the faint sounds of Michael’s voice, screaming that Swing was lying. 

Swing offered that she could have Michael killed then and there, or she could send him home for them to deal with. Tommy chose the latter. 

At Swing’s revelation that Michael was discussing with their enemies how they’d divide up the racetracks after they’d blown away Tommy’s legs, Lucy froze. 

That was a very specific way of wording things. And a very specific type of death. 

Her eyes shifted to the windows, looking out at the misty field. Despite the mines they’d detonated around it, the scarecrow was still standing on its cross, the wind ruffling its clothes.

How did she know about the mines?

Either what Swing was saying was true, and Michael had been in on the planting of them, or Swing herself had been involved in some way.  

“What the fuck,” Lucy said, soon as he’d put the phone down. Tommy looked as if he were seconds away from a stress-induced stroke, turning his back to the room to instead stare out the window while lighting a cigarette. “Do you really think…?” “I don’t know,” he shook his head, voice dropping to a whisper. “I don’t fucking know.”

It wouldn’t be entirely out of the realm of possibility for Michael to betray them. He’d done it before, during the vendetta. But at least then he’d had the excuse of choosing loyalty towards Polly over Tommy. 

“Fucking kid…” the shock was beginning to give way to rage. “We should never have taken him back in.” If it weren’t for them, he’d be some boring accountant, probably for a firm in London somewhere. Or maybe still trapped in that little village that he hated so much. How fucking dare he try to move against them? “He’ll be in Liverpool soon. Assuming that Swing actually lets him go and he doesn’t try to run. I could go to the station and assess him. Find out if anything that Swing said was true.”

“No.” 

She opened her mouth to argue, but Tommy put a gentle hand on her arm, drawing her in closer to his side. 

“I think that if either of us were to see him right now, we might kill him on the spot. I’ll send Polly and Arthur to pick him up.”

“He might not even show.”

“Then we’ll have our answer.” He lifted his cigarette to his lips, movements slow. 

“Even if Polly and Arthur clear him, I think we should quarantine him for a while. Just to be safe.”

Tommy nodded. “I’ll have him and the American girl he’s bringing with him put up at the Midland.”

“Good idea.” The Midland belonged to them. All eyes and ears employed within its walls were theirs. Every phone call, every activity, even every fucking thing that Michael ate would be reported to them. 

“And have some of our boys see what they can find on this Captain Swing and her people.”

“Will do.”

There was the click of heels against the floor outside, and then a few rapid knocks on the door. Tommy’s chest heaved with his sigh, lifting a hand to scratch at his brow. 

“Come,” he called, voice gruff, not turning from where he was still staring out the windows. His voice sounded very far away, and Lucy knew that he was currently locked within his own head, turning each and every possibility over and over in his mind. She inched a little closer to him, and when his arm draped around her shoulders, she looped her own around his waist, hoping that the warm press of her body against his side would help to soothe him. 

Frances came in, bringing with her inquiries from the violin teacher about the bangs she’d heard. Tommy waved away her concerns with an explanation of testing fireworks. One glance at the housekeeper’s face, and Lucy could tell that she didn’t believe him for even a second, but knew better than to pry.

“Also, will Mrs. Shelby and Ruby be home for dinner tonight?” she asked instead.  

“I don’t know.”

Lucy looked down, feeling the all too familiar pang of guilt wash through her. They’d had next to no contact with Lizzie since she’d left. Both of them too afraid of making things worse if they did not allow Lizzie her space. 

But God, it was eating her up not being able to see Ruby. The little girl was like a bright beam of sunlight in the otherwise dreary, melancholic house. The whole place seemed a shade darker in her absence.   

Surely Lizzie couldn’t keep her from Tommy forever. Despite everything, she was still his daughter. She would have to let him see her sometime. 

Him, maybe. But not you. You have no claim to her. No matter how much you love her.

She squeezed her eyes shut. The idea of never seeing Ruby again made her want to curl in on herself and weep. 

Approaching footsteps had the three of them starting and turning to see Charlie standing in the doorway, violin clutched in his hands. Excited to show Tommy the new tune he’d learned that morning. 

“And what have you learned, my boy?” Tommy asked, and Lucy detected that he was making great effort to lighten his tone so Charlie would not notice the deep tension practically radiating from him. He slipped down into the chair behind his desk, a hand on Lucy’s waist urging her into his lap. She settled there, arm around his shoulders and head leaning against his.

Together, they sat, listening to the shrill squeaks and squeals of Charlie’s violin. All the while trepidation sank deeper and deeper into their bones. Regarding Michael. Regarding whoever had planted those land mines in their garden, like deadly flowers waiting to bloom in a fiery inferno. And regarding the danger that seemed to be coming at them from each and every direction. 

∗ ∗ ∗

They stepped into the Garrison to find it utterly trashed. Broken glass crunched under their shoes, half filled and empty glasses littered the tables, and spilled booze seeped into the floorboards. There were only two people occupying the pub: a girl, who roused at Tommy scrapping a barstool against the floor to perch on, and Finn, who remained fast asleep spread out in a booth despite their less than silent entrance. The girl rushed to gather up her clothes and hurry out the door at Tommy’s command.

While he and Arthur set to work dealing with Finn, Lucy grabbed up a broom from the supply closet and started sweeping up some of the broken glass littered all over the place. They seemed to get through to him alright, though Lucy couldn’t entirely shake the wariness that had settled within her when it came to Finn. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but it was something not unlike how she always felt around Polly. That instinctual knowledge that, no matter what she did or how many times she proved her loyalty, Finn would never truly accept her as a part of the family. 

At his mention to Tommy that he’d found a girl he wanted to marry, she started. Jesus, she kept forgetting that Finn wasn’t a kid anymore. In her mind, he was still that little boy running throughout the streets of Small Heath with dirt smeared across his face, grinning as he weaved between the adults’ legs at the betting shop. 

That might explain some of his recent behavior, however, what with the running head-on into danger half-cocked. Whoever this girl was, he was trying to impress her. 

“Tell me about her,” Tommy requested. 

“She likes the life.”

“She likes the life, ey? Well, find one that hates it. Look at him,” Tommy gestured to Arthur. “That’s what he did, and now he’s chairman of the board.”

She frowned, grip tightening on the broom that she was holding, catching her lip between her teeth to worry at it while she shifted uncomfortably. Finn was dismissed, though Lucy barely noticed.   

Was that what he really thought? That all of them were better off with women who hated the lives that they’d chosen to live? 

She did not fit into that category. But Lizzie did. 

Of course he missed his daughter and wanted her to come home. Lucy missed her too. But it had not even really occurred to her that he may be missing Lizzie as well. 

Her fear that Lizzie would someday replace her was a constant, forever presence in the back of her mind. Sometimes it was quiet, hardly even a whisper to be heard. Other times it was a scream, a blaring siren warning her to brace herself for heartbreak that surely would be coming at any moment. The volume of it ebbed and flowed like the tide. 

His words ran on a loop in her head, doubts growing. Maybe the type of person that she was no longer appealed to him. Maybe Lizzie was what he really wanted. A nice, normal woman. Not some basket case who woke up most nights screaming from nightmares, or who flinched at unfamiliar touches or loud noises. Who didn’t find even the smallest enjoyment out of the sport or kind of work that they did. Who rode a horse sidesaddle rather than with a leg on either side.          

Did she like the life anymore? She honestly couldn’t say. The life had caused her an awful lot of pain, as the aches in her shoulders or the twinges in her heart so often liked to remind her. But it had given her Tommy. And if the life of a gangster was what she had to lead to be with him, she’d do it all again in a heartbeat. Without even the smallest hesitation. 

She swallowed hard, shifting uncomfortably. A combination of excitement and dread opened up inside her at Arthur’s report that Lizzie and Ruby would be home later that day. She couldn’t wait to see Ruby. But the idea of having to face Lizzie, especially after the fight they’d had and Tommy’s latest comments, left her feeling nothing but anxiousness. 

Tommy started to give Arthur orders for how to handle Michael once he arrived from Liverpool, but she barely heard him. 

She knew that Tommy cared for Lizzie. That had never bothered her. She cared for her too. But the idea that he might someday fall in love with her terrified her. Because if he loved her the way that Lizzie so desperately wanted him to, there would be no room for Lucy in his life anymore. No love left for her. 

A part of her had always figured it was an inevitability. How could he not fall in love with Lizzie? She was sweet, beautiful, the mother of his child, and he had known her for years. Even longer than he’d known Lucy. It was impossible that he could spend so much time in such close proximity to her–both emotionally and physically–without certain feelings beginning to bloom. 

Once that happened, she would be done for. Because when Tommy loved someone, really loved them, like he did her and Grace, he would do anything for them. And the first thing that Lizzie would ask of him would be to toss Lucy out onto the street like an unwanted dog. 

Everything she had, she had because of Tommy. She was not naive enough to think otherwise. Without him, she would lose everything. Hell, he was everything to her. Some days, she doubted she would even be alive if it weren’t for him. What would she even have to live for? Without Tommy she was completely and utterly alone. 

“Lucy?” Tommy called, and she started, realizing that he had stood and gone to the Garrison’s doors, waiting for her to follow him.

“Sorry.” Setting aside the broom she was holding, she wiped her hands down on her overcoat and moved to trail him outside, giving a sharp shake of her head to try to dislodge the thoughts banging around uncomfortably inside her mind. 

“You alright?” he asked, once they had made their way to the station and seated themselves in a compartment on the next train headed for London. The floor vibrated under her shiny black boots as they started to pull out of the station, beginning the journey south. She looked away from where she was gazing out the window with her knuckles resting against her lips to find Tommy eyeing her, mild concern shining in his eyes. 

She thought about asking him what he meant by what he’d said in the Garrison. But she didn’t have the courage to open her mouth and let the words come out. Too scared by what his answer might be.  

“Yeah,” she said, instead, shifting so that her temple leaned against the cool glass of the window. “I’m fine.”

∗ ∗ ∗

“Excuse me?”

Lucy looked up from her desk into the face of a bald man with a pointed nose and a dark mustache. He had his hat clutched in his hands, running his fingers along the fine material.  

“Yes?”

“This is the office of Thomas Shelby, correct?”

“It is.” She put down her pen. From his desk across from hers, Adam shot her a nervous look. “How can I help you?”

“My name is Stacker. I need to ask Mr. Shelby some questions. Is he in?”

“What sort of questions?”

The man shifted from foot to foot. “There was a shooting two days ago of a journalist who was in here to meet with Mr. Shelby the night before his death. I’d like to speak with him about it.”

“You’re police?”

“Yes, Miss.”

“Police aren’t allowed in here.”

“I’m here in a very…unofficial context.”

“Mm,” she cocked her head, both of them aware that wasn’t truly the case. But flat out sending him away might do more harm than good. “Adam, go find Mr. Shelby and tell him that there’s a policeman here to see him.”

Adam nodded, standing and slipping past Stacker to rush out the door. 

“You can wait in his office,” Lucy said, standing and walking around Stacker to open the double doors, leading him inside. “Who’s your Chief Constable, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Chief Constable Wyatt, Miss.”

She nodded. Good. They knew Wyatt. “Mr. Shelby will be here in a moment. Can I get you something to drink, while you wait?”

“No thank you. I’m alright.”

She went out into the front office, plucking up a folder from her desk and flipping through it to appear busy while waiting for Tommy and keeping one eye on Stacker. The policeman prowled around the office, examining the papers and trinkets spread out on the big desk, then moving to inspect a painting of a white horse surrounded by a golden frame and hung on the wall behind Tommy’s chair. He didn’t touch anything, though Lucy was sure he was making mental notes about all that he was seeing. 

Heavy footfalls announced Tommy’s presence, entering the office with his briefcase in hand and Adam trailing in behind him. 

 “His Chief Constable is Wyatt,” she murmured into his ear. He nodded.

“Five minutes, then come tell me I’ve got an appointment or something that I need to get ready for so he’ll leave.”

She nodded, going to lounge behind her desk while he went in to deal with the officer. 

Just another day in Parliament, she thought to herself as she lit a cigarette, puffing smoke up towards the ceiling, keeping an eye on the clock for when she would need to rise and rescue Tommy from the clutches of the lawman.

The police investigating Levitt’s death wasn’t a particularly unexpected occurrence. Nor was them coming here to talk to Tommy about it, considering that Levitt had died not long after seeing him. Their boys had done good work on the hit, giving it enough flourish to send a message to any other journalists looking to try something, all while ensuring that the police wouldn’t be able to link it to them easily. If at all.  

Didn’t mean that their poking and prodding around wasn’t annoying, though. She had hoped that the police would simply assume that Levitt’s death was a result of conflict caused in his personal life, and they could avoid being pulled into the investigation all together. But apparently not. 

The clock chimed, and she rose from her seat, grabbing up some documents that she needed Tommy to look over anyway, going back into his office just as the last chime sounded. 

“Mr. Shelby, you have a meeting with an MP from Essex in a few minutes.” She reported, placing the documents she’d brought in on his desk. Tommy turned his gaze onto the policeman.

“Your time’s up, Mr. Stacker.”

Stacker said nothing, throat working. Whatever Tommy had said to him before she came in, it had either given him pause, or made him very angry. Perhaps a bit of both. His eyes flickered between them, and then he rose from his seat. 

“Thank you,” Tommy called to his back as he retreated from the room.

“Did it not go well?” Lucy asked, once she heard the door close shut behind Stacker, watching Tommy’s face while he moved around his desk to his chair. 

“He’s suspicious. But I don’t think it’ll stick. If it does, I’ll have a word with Wyatt about him.”

“Alright.”

Tommy’s eyes shifted to the clock. She glanced over her shoulder at it. 

“Arthur was supposed to call me at three,” he huffed, as they watched the minute hand tick over to the right. 

“It’s only two minutes past, love.” She moved around to his side of the desk, touching his shoulder. “Arthur isn’t always the most punctual.”

He just grunted, and she smiled fondly at his grumpiness, rubbing his shoulder a few times to try to massage away some of the tension she felt in his muscles. When she moved to retract her hand, he caught it in his, dipping his face to peck a kiss to the back of it. His eyes squinted at her, assessing. 

“Something’s bothering you.”

She looked down and away. His thumb rubbed back and forth across her hand where it was still clasping it. She glanced anxiously towards the door.

“There’s no one who might see us except for Adam. And he already knows about us,” Tommy said, reading her mind. “Talk to me. You’ve been quiet since we left the Garrison this morning.”

“It’s…it’s nothing, really.”

“Then why don’t you want to tell me?”

She finally looked up at him. The hard wood of his desk was digging into her back where she was leaning against it. She opened her mouth to tell him, then closed it again. It all felt a little ridiculous when she actually tried to put it into words. “Because I’m just being stupid.”

His brows pinched, fingers squeezing a little against hers. “Well, now you have to tell me.”

Her lips pricked upwards. His hand smoothed up her arm, nearly to her shoulder, rubbing a few times before finding its way back to her hand, raising it back to his lips. “Hm?” His head cocked, tempting. “Come on, now, talk to me,” he said, in a voice like a honey. Lucy huffed, trying to stifle a shiver at the warm rumble of his words, struggling to gather her thoughts into coherent sentences.

“I’m happy that Ruby and Lizzie are coming home. Really. I just…” she sighed, glancing away again. Tommy’s thumb massaged across her knuckles encouragingly, his piercing gaze fixed on her patiently while he waited for her to finish her thought. But she found that she couldn’t. She wasn’t strong enough to actually speak the words that rested on the tip of her tongue.

Am I not what you want anymore?

Are you falling in love with her?

Do you still love me?

And yet she didn’t need to. Both of Tommy’s hands landed on her hips. “Come here,” he drew her in closer, head tipping back to peer up at her through his dark fringe, gaze so softened with affection that it nearly stole the breath from her lungs. And she was left suddenly feeling very foolish that she could ever possibly have doubted his feelings for her. 

“I love you.” He laid a quick kiss on her lips. “I love you, not her. That’s never going to change.”

Her hands came to rest on the nape of his neck, skin warm under her fingers. Relief, that he understood what she was trying to say without her actually having to utter it, had tension that she hadn’t even realized had built up in her muscles melting away. A relieved breath released from her lungs. 

She lowered her head to press her lips to his hair, closing her eyes, voice dropping to nearly a whisper. “I know.” And she did. Deep down, she always did. It was just that sometimes the voices in her head screamed so loud that they drowned out everything else. “Sorry. Sometimes…sometimes I just get scared.” 

His eyes grew sad. “Don’t be sorry,” his thumb circled against her hip. “Brains can be stupid, ey?”

A quiet laugh left her. “Yeah. They can, can’t they?”

“Mm,” humming in agreement, he dropped his head to kiss her shoulder.

The phone on his desk started ringing, popping the little bubble of contentment that had formed around them. Tommy let out a soft groan, lifting his head and reaching around her to grab at the receiver. He tilted it just so against his ear so that she could lean in and hear what was being said on the other end. 

“Arthur?”

“Yeah,” the older Shelby’s gravely voice rumbled through the receiver. “Polly says Michael’s telling the truth.”   

“Did you see him?”

“Yeah.”

“And?”

“He was angry with us.”

Lucy snorted. As if Michael had any reason to be mad after he’d just lost all their fucking money. 

“Got some American girl with him, too,” Arthur continued. “They got married on the ship on the way here. Name’s Gina Gray. Formally Nelson.”

“What’s she like?”

There was a snort. “She’s got an attitude on her, that’s for bloody sure. Got rooms for them at the Midland. Michael’s mad as a swarm of hornets about it, but he agreed to stay there.”

“Good. What did you think of Michael?”

There was a long pause. “Honestly, Tom…I thought he was awfully fucking defensive for someone who supposedly doesn’t have anything to fucking hide.”

Tommy nodded, looking out the window, lips pursing together.

“I have my revolver with me,” Arthur said, after a moment. “I could probably catch up to them before they even get to the hotel…”

“No. I want to speak with him first. Before we make any permanent decisions. Just have our people at the Midland watch him, for now.”

“All right.”

Tommy hung up the phone, and then let out a groan, face falling forward to rest on her chest, arms looping loosely around her waist. Lucy laid her palms on the back of his head, hugging it to her while her chin rested on his soft dark hair. 

“Well, at least we can keep an eye on him here,” she murmured. With a sigh, Tommy raised his head. 

“Yeah.”

“If you change your mind and want him taken care of, just say the word.”

“We have to be absolutely sure.”

She examined his face, understanding. It wasn’t about Michael. Not really. Not anymore. Maybe at some point it would have been, but most of the good will that Tommy had towards his cousin had dried up long ago. 

This was about Polly. 

If he ordered Michael’s death without provable provocation, he would lose Polly forever. Hell, even if they were able to prove that Michael was trying to have Tommy killed, that may not be enough to sway Polly to their side. At the end of the day, Lucy believed that she always would side with him. Even over the other Shelbys, if she had to. And understandably so. Michael was her son. 

But Tommy loved Polly enough that he would not have Michael killed. Not until he either had no other choice, or he was confident that Polly would support him on it.

Delicately, she brushed a few tendrils of hair out of his face. “It’ll be okay.” 

He looked up at her with eyes worn ragged, stress pinching at the edges of his mouth and in his brow. She stroked his face, smoothing away the lines, drawing his head in close to rest on her chest again. He nuzzled into her with a sigh, eyes sliding closed and cheek resting comfortably atop her breasts. 

She wished terribly that there was more that she could do for him. All she wanted was to be able to help him. To help lessen the burdens that he carried. But there wasn’t much more that she could do. Not now, at least.

So instead, she just held him.  

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[sir-adamus]

RWBY takes its inspirations from a lot of places

it's no secret that RWBY wears its influences on its sleeves - it's characters are all based on fairytales/myths/legends/memes and is a series created by someone who wanted to make his own anime. and while it does make a lot of nods to specific things (and is dogged on for that by some people despite that it isn't new or even exclusive to RWBY - see the episode of AtLA where Aang dreams about being Goku and Naruto), the show itself draws or seems to draw so many elements from so many different sources and arranges them into something new

putting the rest below a cut because it got lengthy

like i think i've seen the claim that Remnant's four Kingdoms are a ripoff of AtLA's four Nations... except the Kingdoms aren't elementally themed and these places are so important because most of the planet is uninhabitable, which isn't the case with AtLA, and each Kingdom has thoroughly different theming that it's barely similar. it's such a surface thing that it's barely a nod because the world setups are so wildly different

Dust is clearly inspired by Materia from FFVII (or more broadly, Magicite, which recurs through the FF series and has a similar function); a resource mined from the earth that allows the wielder to do magic (though Dust is more limited in its function where materia/magicite can allow for non-elemental and abstract stuff like time-stopping or summoning). the four Academies are almost definitely a reference to the three Gardens in FFVIII (and one of them, Balamb Garden, is where teenagers are trained to become SeeD, a mercenary force for hire that conducts missions around the world, which likely was one of the points of inspiration behind the Huntress/Huntsman career in RWBY)

Aura, being a personal protective shield, both visually and purpose-wise, is a reference to the personal energy shields used by the Sangheili in Halo

the Maidens seem to be a cross between the Sorceresses from FFVIII (who unlike normal people can do magic naturally, and each Sorceress passes on her power to another individual upon her death) and the rule basis for the Sirens from Borderlands (only 6 Sirens can exist at a time and their powers transfer to another individual upon their death, similar to how there can only be 4 Maidens at a time) - Sorceresses, Sirens and Maidens powers can also only be exclusively passed on to women (Troy Calypso in Borderlands 3 has partial-Siren because he was conjoined with his twin sister Tyreen in the womb, and has to leech off of her in order to survive; it's made clear both by the appearance of his Siren tattoos that he's an aberration to the normal process)

Grimm are so obviously inspired by the Heartless from Kingdom Hearts - dark beasts of destruction that are defined by their lack of something (the difference of course being that Heartless come from the nebulous 'realm of darkness' which is separate from the other worlds while Grimm are very much a part of Remnant). Kingdom Hearts has a lot of influence thematically, as it similarly presents itself as a bright and cheery story with a lighthearted, stylised aesthetic, only for that to be an artificial facade for a very dark and often brutal story that becomes more obvious as each series continues. and in terms of specific Grimm, the Apathy (and the Brunswick farm story in general) are a direct reference to the short story Bartleby the Scrivener, but the Apathy's emaciated, skeletal appearance and paralytic scream draw from the ReDeads of the Legend of Zelda series

the Faunus being part animal could be inspired from any number of different shows or games, but in the BlazBlue series, demihumans (who are also part animal) are also noted to face discrimination (though the series doesn't touch on it much by nature of being a fighting game)

in terms of characters, Ruby is obviously Red Riding Hood, but she wields a scythe like Maka from Soul Eater, was initially presented as a completely silent, gun-wielding protagonist in a high octane fight similarly to Black Rock Shooter (the 2012 show also served as an influence on RWBY's animation style, and BRS's flaming blue eye is similar to the Maidens), and her bladed weapon also being a gun brings to mind Squall's Gunblade from FFVIII. plus, positioned as the protagonist and falling into the leadership role and it continuing to weigh down on her is something she has in common with Sora from KH

additionally, the visuals for Ruby's Semblance are inspired by something similar Vincent Valentine does in the FFVII Advent Children movie, with the addition of rose petals (which may be inspired by a similar thing the protagonist of FFXIII, Lightning, has)

Yang is Goldilocks, her design evokes Tifa from FFVII (and her characterisation not being what you'd expect based on the initial impression of her design also borrows from Tifa), her original theme outright compares her to a Super Saiyan from Dragon Ball with her glowing, flaming hair when she powers up with her Semblance evoking the aesthetic appearance of the form (and her 'gets stronger every time she takes a hit' is essentially a temporary, low-level zenkai boost from that series; 'get stronger every time you almost die'). in fact, character-wise, her losing an arm and being characterised as fairly thoughtful and introspective, you could make an argument that she's meant to parallel Future Gohan specifically. however, losing an arm, growing up in the woods and having to care for her younger sibling when they were young also could be a reference to Ragna from BlazBlue (and to boot, Yang's weapon is named Ember Celica, Ragna's parental substitute was Celica A Mercury), and additionally, Nine the Phantom from the same series (Celica's doting older sister) also has heavy fire theming, meaning she could serve as another point of inspiration

finally, Yang may also be partly inspired by Nero from Devil May Cry. while it wasn't explicitly confirmed until DMC5, when Nero was introduced in 4, he is highly implied to be the nephew of series protagonist and demon hunter Dante (who typically wields a greatword) and the son of Dante's twin brother, Vergil (who wields a katana that he can open portals with). Nero's design from jump is asymmetrical, with one of his arms being demonic. asymmetry is a theme for Yang from her trailer (and culminates with her losing one of her arms), her uncle Qrow wields a greatsword and her mother, Raven, Qrow's twin, wields a katana and opens portals with them (that Nero then gained a mechanical prosthetic arm in DMC5 is a hilarious coincidence)

Ozpin, Headmaster of Beacon is obviously the Wizard of Oz (his name comes from the acronym of the Wizard of Oz's actual name, Oscar Zoroaster Phadrig Isaac Norman Henkle Emmanuel Ambroise Diggs - OZPINHEAD), but he also draws from Cid Kramer from FFVIII (being the headmaster of Balamb Garden), as well as Gandalf in putting his faith in a 'smaller soul' (and his manipulative bs is clearly meant to analog to the guy from the bad wizard books, except in rwby it's clearly meant to be a bad thing that has actual consequences, and no more needs to be said about it)

Ironwood is clearly the Tin Woodsman as his main inspiration, a man who (thanks to a cursed axe) kept hacking off parts of his body and getting them replaced with metal until even his heart was gone (and at no point did he consider putting down the axe) - with the key point that he's a subversion of the Woodsman's story. but his descent could be inspired by Walker's descent in Spec Ops The Line (as it would've been in the public zeitgeist when Monty, Kerry and Miles were developing the show and writing these characters, and the game had been played on Achievement Hunter around that time), or from Heart of Darkness and Apocalypse Now, which inspired that game. his willingness to go to extreme and appalling lengths to achieve his goals may also be drawing from Director Leonard Church, from RT's first show Red vs Blue, who has the quote: "Have you forgotten sir, we were at war? A fight with an alien race for the very survival of our species. I feel I must remind you that it is an undeniable, and may I say fundamental quality of man, that when faced with extinction, every alternative is preferable." which feels very in line with Ironwood's willingness to compromise every moral and sacrifice whatever and whoever he thinks he needs to to win

Penny's fairytale inspiration is obviously Pinocchio but her robotic nature and relationship with a caring father also brings to mind Astro Boy and Mega Man, while her combat style is directly inspired by the Prime Field Devices of BlazBlue, who also fight with a floating array of many swords

the structure of the show honestly feels like a JRPG too - with the first few volumes being the lighthearted prologue where characters and concepts are introduced to ease you into the world, there's some hints to a wider world and a bigger story but there's very little sense that the protagonists are in real danger

until they are, and things go catastrophically wrong in a major way that shakes up the plot, throws the characters out into the world and gives them the main goal they're now striving toward (stopping Salem, in this case), with personal narratives developing in tandem with plot progressions that shake up how the audience and the characters see the world and reveal things to be more complex as things go on

you could literally go on forever; and it's not so much 'taking these disparate puzzle pieces and making a collage' so much as it is laying out the bones and building up something new on top of them through the way these bones intersect and interact in new contexts. RWBY isn't ashamed of its influences while still standing as its own story to tell

[pumpkinheadspacestation]

🎃Some of my favorite movies and shows as a spooky baby🦇

🍿Movies🎥

◌The Boxtrolls

◌Coralline

◌Goosebumps (the movie)

◌The Adams family

◌Hubie Halloween

◌Hotel Transylvania (all movies)

◌Beetlejuice

◌Monster House

◌Corpse Bride

◌Spiderwick

◌The Nightmare Before Christmas

◌A Series Of Unfortunate Events (the movie)

Shows

◌Ruby Gloom

◌Goosebumps

◌Creeped Out

◌Courage The Cowardly Dog

◌A series of unfortunate events

◌Dead End

◌DreamWorks Spooky Stories

◌The Last Kids On Earth

◌Are You Afraid Of The Dark?

◌Deadtime Stories

◌RL Stine's The Haunting Hour

◌Over The Garden Wall

─────────ೋღ 🎃 ღೋ─────────

[thebettybook]

｡ The Great Union That Defies All Odds ｡

💐: My entry for the @briarvalleyarchives “Wedding Day” event

💐: As wedding bells chime in June for the Fairy Gala’s Fairy Queen and her fiancé the Fairy Lord of Winter, Leona and gn!reader join hands in coming up with a wedding dress design for the Fairy Queen.

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Strawbetty’s notes:

🍓 Characters: Leona Kingscholar x gn!reader. Leona and gn!reader are in an established romantic relationship.

🍓 Warning: This fic contains spoilers from the Fairy Gala Remix: Operation Illusive Evolution event.

🍓 Song rec: In this fic, I included some lyrics from “The Great Divide” by The McClain Sisters, which is a total bop and I highly recommend listening to it!

🍓 Other notes: Text borders used from the website Cute Kaomoji

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ꕥ ┈┈┈┈┈┈ ⑅﹤୨♡୧﹥⑅ ┈┈┈┈┈┈ ꕥ

You tossed a crumpled ball of white mixed media paper over your shoulder unceremoniously for the umpteenth time that afternoon. Your eyes trailed to the glass window panes on the stone walls of NRC’s spacious attic-turned-elective classroom studio as you noted the spring sky’s robin-egg-blue hue dotted with wispy ivory clouds.

Around you stood adjustable dress forms draped with haphazard fabrics of students’ unfinished projects. Next to the dress forms were rectangular sewing tables with ruby pin cushions, cream sewing machines, and sewing threads of every color of the rainbow that were more than enough for fabled sewing mice to use.

Sigh. You turned your attention back to your mixed media sketchbook, flipping to a new page and tapping your pencil against it. I could use some fabled sewing mice to help me come up with a wedding dress design idea right now.

Your final assignment for Fashion Design class (a new elective class at NRC taught by Crewel) was to sketch a wedding dress design for the Fairy Queen, ruler of the Faeland’s fairies who held the recent Fairy Gala event in NRC’s Botanical Garden.

Ever since Ace, Jack, Ortho, and Silver were discovered by the fae at the event, the Fairy Queen grew enamored by their Fairy Gala outfits designed by Crewel. After the Fairy Gala, the Queen’s representatives sought out Crewel and asked him via translator bell to design a wedding dress for the Queen’s upcoming wedding to the Fairy Lord of Winter.

Crewel, who usually never turned down a challenge or opportunity related to fashion, thought this was an opportunity better suited for his Fashion Design students’ final assignments instead. The student whose sketch design gained the highest marks would be chosen to bring their wedding dress design to life with Crewel’s help. Crewel also emphasized the addition of extra credit points for the student whose sketch design would be chosen.

You didn’t want to pass up the chance to gain extra credit points to boost your overall GPA at NRC. Plus, it wasn’t everyday that one got to design a wedding dress for a Fairy Queen. What you didn’t anticipate, however, was that you’d have problems coming up with a wedding dress design in the first place.

There were just so many options when it came to wedding dress silhouettes, fabrics, and more. Puff sleeves? Tight sleeves? A ballgown skirt? A trumpet skirt? Chiffon? Lace? Tulle??

You wracked your brain, finding it difficult to commit to an idea when there were so many possibilities—the possibilities, not unlike the length of a wedding veil, were endless. Even all the episodes of “Say Yes to the Fairy Godmother’s Dress,” a bridal reality TV series you enjoyed watching with Cater, couldn’t help you think of an idea.

Instead of saying “yes” to a wedding dress idea, your head was filled with “no”’s to all your ideas. You let out another sigh and plopped your pencil down onto the sketchbook. Your eyes shifted to all the crumpled pieces of paper on the floor. I should clean this up.

Littering wasn’t helping you come up with any ideas either, so you decided to give yourself a teeny break and went over to pick up the three crumpled-up paper balls that laid a few feet away from your sewing table. You crouched down, your lips parting to hum a random song that just came to mind.

“Oi,” a voice called to you at the door, making you forget what song you were going to hum. Your eyes shot up to see Leona leaning against the door frame with his ever-so-smug smirk. Rather than one hand propped on his hip as usual, both of his arms bulged with two packaged sandwiches, various snacks, and two carton drinks from the Dining Hall.

You could tell that the smugness of his smirk came from how proud Leona was that he got lunch for the two of you on his own from the Dining Hall rather than Ruggie doing so, even if Leona overdid it a bit.

“Leona,” your face lit up at the sight of him nonetheless, and especially at the sight of lunch. Leona set down all the food at the nearest table, making his way over to you.

Bending down on one knee, Leona picked up all three balls of paper for you. “What’s got you litterin’ like there’s no tomorrow?” The lion beastman raised an eyebrow, his smirk softening into an amused smile as he stood up and threw the paper balls into a nearby recycling bin.

“Uuugh, I can’t think of a wedding dress to design for the life of me.” You joined Leona in grabbing all the food off the table before both making your way to your sewing table. He settled onto the wooden stool next to yours, his knees brushing against yours.

Leona’s emerald orbs settled on the blank paper of your drawing pad. “A wedding dress?” His fingers swiftly unfolded the sand-colored sandwich wrapping paper of a menchi katsu sandwich while you opened a (your favorite meat/veggie/filling) sandwich. The crinkles of the wrapping papers added to your chatting with Leona, making the classroom seem livelier despite it being just the two of you. “Who’s getting married?”

“The Fairy Queen from the Fairy Gala,” you tapped your pencil against your cheek while you held your sandwich in another hand. “She’s getting married to the Fairy Lord of Winter from a neighboring kingdom in a few weeks. She comes from a land of warmth, while he comes from a land of frost. They met last winter and fell in love despite all odds, so the theme Crewel gave us is ‘The Great Union That Defies All Odds.’ But how can I put that into a wedding dress?”

“‘The Great Union That Defies All Odds,’ huh?” Leona sipped his earl grey milk tea box, his thin dark-brown eyebrows knitting together as he pondered over the theme. “To me, that sounds like the impossible being possible.”

You paused your pencil midway before the pencil’s charcoal tip could land on the page. “Wait, you’re onto something,” you set the pencil down on the page and munched on your sandwich. “The Fairy Queen embodies spring, while the Fairy Lord of Winter embodies winter…You’d think nothing could bloom in winter, like their love, but it’s possible. Just like flowers that bloom in winter!”

Without a word, Leona pulled out his sleek ebony smartphone from his school uniform pants pocket and typed “flowers that bloom in winter” into MagiGoogle with one hand while still holding his sandwich in his other hand. You scooted on your stool closer to Leona, your shoulder touching his as the two of you scrolled down a list on MagiGoogle of all the flowers in Twisted Wonderland that bloomed in winter.

“Leucojum, camellias…,” you read the list aloud, none of them screaming “wedding” to you yet. “Wait!”

Leona paused his finger on the smartphone screen. “Did something in the list catch your eye?”

You nodded, leaning in closer to his smartphone screen. “Ornamental cabbage…it says here that the colors of ornamental cabbage grow more intense as the weather grows colder…which could be PERFECT for the ‘The Great Union That Defies All Odds’ theme!”

“I could use the ornamental cabbage as the main material for the Queen’s wedding dress, and have the colors be more vivid at the skirt of the dress like a gradient…,” your voice trailed off as you thought of possible wedding dress design ideas with ornamental cabbage. You finished off your sandwich with a hearty bite, now energized to start designing a wedding dress.

Leona lifted an eyebrow, but his lips quirked into a loving smile at your creativity. “Gotta tell you, herbivore, you know I’m not surprised by many things. But an ornamental cabbage wedding dress takes the cake. The wedding cake, heh.”

“Haha, you’re so punny.” You lovingly rolled your eyes at Leona, who simply winked at you and resumed eating his sandwich. “But now that I’m saying it out loud, ornamental cabbage might not be fitting enough for a queen’s wedding dress. It’s a good start for brainstorming, though.”

Leona finished his sandwich, dabbing a napkin against the corners of his mouth. “Why don’t ‘cha go with camellias? They symbolize romantic love, adoration, devotion, and care,” Leona listed off the symbolism of camellias as if remembering flower language and symbolism were the most casual things in the world.

Those who didn’t know Leona well would never guess that he was well-versed in flower language and symbolism. It was one of those well-hidden hobbies or topics of interest of Leona’s that he shared with you over time, and it added to one of the many things you loved about Leona: his love for the knowledge of topics that related to nurturing the world.

To Leona’s surprise, you brought your right hand up to rest it on top of his left hand—the hand you wanted to hold while you walked through life with Leona. “That sounds perfect.”

Leona slouched in his stool and nuzzled his cheek against the side of your head. His eyelids drooped as the daffodil-yellow afternoon sunlight danced through the glass panes of the classroom windows, adding to the warmth that embraced Leona with your hand on his.

You rested your head on his shoulder, closing your eyes to enjoy the moment as well. The fact that it was just you and Leona in the room, with comfortable silence now between you two as you basked in each other’s company, made a melody bloom from your mouth.

“Mm, mmm, mmm, mm,” You began humming the melody of the song you were going to hum before Leona came in. It was a song known throughout Twisted Wonderland about bringing all species—no matter how great the odds were—together.

Leona’s lion ears flicked at your humming as your lips parted.

“I’m on your side, let’s take this ride.”

Your singing voice possessed a softness to it, yet the lyrics you sang were loud enough for Leona’s ears and heart to hear.

“And together we’re facing the world, doing things nobody’s done before.”

With your right hand still on Leona’s left hand, you used your thumb to draw circles across the somewhat-dry skin of his hand. Your thumb moved upwards to massage his fingers—first his pinky, and then his ring finger.

Before you could massage his other fingers, Leona flipped his hand up so that his palm faced yours, and he intertwined his fingers with yours. His fingers wasted no time in giving yours a firm yet gentle squeeze. The lyrics you sang made Leona think about you—how he too wanted to hold your hand while walking through life with you.

It was your hands, with always the most loving and caring of even the smallest of touches, that helped him gain the courage to want to care for his own life—from the days where you would brush away a crumb from the corner of his mouth with the back of your thumb, to the nights where you would thread your fingers through his mane during the rare times he had trouble falling asleep.

It was those touches from your hands that motivated him to bring to surface and share with you and others his interests, passions, and just anything genuine that Leona thought he had given up hope for or thought he kept hidden painfully well for a long time now.

Because why nurture anything in an endless winter of being overlooked and compared to, with none of his achievements or even actions mattering for as long as he could remember?

His endless winter wasn’t endless anymore, replaced by the blooms of Leona sharing his passions and interests with others (such as teaching you about flower language and symbolism or about the stars, or spending more time with his Magift Club teammates by watching Pro Magift games with them) that led to his experiences over the past year at NRC with those he could now confidently call his loved ones.

While being each other’s most significant loved ones, you and Leona weren’t perfect, and the two of you had your fair share of squabbles from time to time. At the end of any squabble, however, the two of you would always communicate, take each other’s hands, and choose to be part of each other’s lives.

Leona cracked his eyes open, taking in the view that was your hand in his. It was your hands, soft and warm as spring, that never failed to make Leona feel safe, loved, and supported. He wanted his hands to make you feel the same way for the rest of your life.

The first thing you saw when you opened your eyes only a few minutes later was Leona admiring your hand in his. When his eyes shifted to meet yours, you returned his squeeze with your own before gently prying your fingers away from his. “I should get started on my drawing.” You wanted to keep sitting there with your hand in Leona’s, but the lunch period was probably ending soon.

Propping his right elbow up on the table, Leona rested his cheek against his palm and watched you etch light charcoal lines onto your paper.

A low hum rose from his throat. “Mm mm mm mmn.” The light scratches of your pencil against the paper created an odd harmony with his low humming, but your smile at his humming encouraged Leona to keep going.

In a near whisper, he sang the same lyrics you sang to him just moments ago in his baritone singing voice that never failed to soothe you.

“I’m on your side, let’s take this ride.”

To Leona, the lyrics sounded like a marriage proposal disguised in a song. He wondered if you thought that, too, with the way the song came to your mind earlier in the midst of coming up with a wedding dress design for the Fairy Queen.

“The Great Union That Defies All Odds.” It was the theme that symbolized the Fairy Queen and the Fairy Lord of Winter’s love story, but the theme made Leona reflect on your and his love story.

The love story of a human from a magic-less world and a lion beastman from a magic-filled world, where they experience adventures and chaos practically every day on the campus of NRC.

No matter what life threw at you and Leona everyday, the two of you chose to stay by each other’s side.

Hand-in-hand, through it all.

Leona cracked a grin while singing when you parted your lips to join him.

“And together we’re facing the world, doing things nobody’s done before.”

If his relationship with you wasn’t a great union that defies all odds, Leona didn’t know what was.

ꕥ ┈┈┈┈┈┈ ⑅﹤୨♡୧﹥⑅ ┈┈┈┈┈┈ ꕥ

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Important:

🍓 I don’t own any of the characters I mention or write about; they belong to their original and respective creators.

🍓 All content on this blog is created by me, @thebettybook (excluding posts I reblog that aren’t my own posts and unless I state otherwise). Do not modify, claim, repost, or translate my work onto this platform and any other platform.

🍓 Reblogs are appreciated :). Want more Leona romance fluff? Check out my masterlist

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[unusuallysubtext]

I'm a writer with too much time on my hands, excited to see who you come up witb

I am looking for a romantic relationship with any gender

I typically spend my time deeply entrenched in a book or reading some obscure forum for the specific niche I am currently interested in (right now that's the half life game series)

I have shoulder length wavy hair that is naturally brunette that I keep down and my fashion style is whatever is comfortable (Normall byy a black cotton shirt, large black jeans and a watch on my left arm)

I'm good at most mental problems like problem solving (Ironically not maths) and try to help with physical tasks but fail fairly often

Ideal future is any future where I am comftable and with whoever this partner ends up being but would love to settle down in a nice house with a large enough library and expansive garden

Mycroft Holmes

Mycroft Holmes first saw you in Oxford Street's Ruby Jubilee Tea Room.

While it was true that he did not frequent cafés, the Ruby Jubilee was, according to Mycroft, the only worthwhile place to take a break from his steadfast workaholic tendencies and drink tea, as it came with a bonus of observing mere goldfish.

He was in his bubble, they were in their tank.

But you...

Dressed in smart, comfortable (oh! how Mycroft unadmittedly longed for a day where he could match your level of cosiness and ease) oversized jeans and matching black cotton shirt, he watched you delicately hold the teacup to your lips and sip.

You returned to the Ruby Jubilee once a week, and by the third visit, you were vaguely aware of a presence, dark against the ivory walls and milky white furniture with tables laid with lace cloth, and pearly crockery for vanilla cream cakes and Victoria sponges.

You looked to your left to catch the eye of a posh man in a black pinstripe suit.

He smiled softly at you, placing his fork down on a half-eaten slice of cake.

You smiled back, but the connection subsided and you were quickly back to reading.

The next week, sitting alone at your usual table, your focus was broken by a familiar face.

"Good morning. I was hoping this seat wouldn't be taken... Mycroft Holmes is the name."

You introduced yourself, and allowed him to sit down.

That was the first of many more meetings where you would not pick up a novel inside of the Ruby Jubilee, instead absorbed in the beautiful man in front of you and your conversations.

Months later, you were living with Mycroft, in his mansion thirty minutes outside of the London suburbs.

The extensive collections of antique and classic books in the two-story library in the west wing coupled with the expansive gardens planted with roses and archways and a small stream with a little wooden bridge easily filled the hours in your day when Mycroft was working.

When Mycroft happened to be working at home, you would sit in your half of the office with your PC setup and spend time with your video games.

Meanwhile, Mycroft would be coordinating a meeting with the Russian oligarchs about the sanctions on their economy or mediating a borderline war brewing between South Korea and Japan.

However, as soon as Mycroft had a day off, he never failed to whisk you away to the Ruby Jubilee, and gift you with a new novel he had deduced you would like from your previous favourites.

It is an unspoken fact that Mycroft often steals your clothing (hoodies and jumpers) to sleep with or cuddle, or even simply hold and have near him while in the office or sitting room, because it is comfortable.

You ended up buying him baggy jeans and jogging bottoms paired with cotton t-shirts for optimal comfort, but it still took forever to convince him to try them on.

Now he doesn't even blink at his suits when home.

Needless to say, while he may not be one for PDA or excessive touch, he loves you a lot ❤️

-

hope you liked it, @friedtoastandegg! tagging @anonymoussherlockandmarvelgeek @that-ace-idiot @the-girl-who-simps-too-much

Your Sherlock Life asks are still open!

[dominimoonbeam]

A sneak peek into my writer brain/project lists! And a sneak peek at some of the upcoming stories in some of the series. <3 <3

List!

Everton Series - Contemporary Romances

Doors. Noelle/Levi - published

With a Halo. Kelly/Bennet - published

Don't Touch My Stuff. August/Aurelio - published

Irene/Connie - plotting

Pearl/Noah - plotting

Honest Liars - Mobster Romances

Don't Run. Adi/Ezra/Freya - in progress, available on patreon

Don't Fall.

Don't Confess.

Don't Leave.

Defying Gravity Series - Sci Fi Romances

Found Between Stars. Josephine/Atlas - published

Cosmic Dust. Ghazi/Amaya/Tetsu - published

Stargazing Underground. Verona/Iris - published

To The Edge. Stardust/Cosmic - writing / posting on patreon

Galaxies Lost. June/Khan/Mehdi - outlined

Starlight and Oranges. - written

House of Teeth Series - Modern Fantasy Romances

Ruby and the Wolf. Ruby/Liang - short story. published

Bite to Bruise. Wren/Ever - editing, available on patreon

Hyacinth in the Garden. Aravi/Hyacinth - short story. Coming soon!

Bite to Break. Sunny/Micah

Blood in the Heartlands. Wicker/Ebelt

Those are the official, active series... And then there's the plethora of other stories I have stacked up around me...

I have three loosely outlined fantasy world books. One is somehow a murder mystery comedy, the other is just drama drama drama, and the third is intensely fantasy world building.

There's a series of greek god books (because what writer doesn't? i just really want to kill Zeus...) the first of which is partially written and about a primordial ocean goddess shacking up with a demigod on adventure. It's violent and brutal and sooooo romantic and I can't wait.

As you may know, I recently starting outlining a western romance because I was reading one and got frustrated.

Then there are the audio scripts... I've got about four of them in the works right now including the finale to the Adventures of Stardust and Cosmic.

And I have... counting... four? fanfic AUs going? Band AU, Coffee shop AU, College AU, Amnesia AU, Tattoo shop AU, and the Camelopardilliam fic!! Okay, that's six fics.

So... should I be adding the western romance to this roster? No, definitely not. Is it still going to be quietly outlined and stuffed into the files? Yes. Of course it is.