#the mother's recompense

[quotation--marks]

She sat down and waited. Curiously enough, she was less unhappy than for a long time past. His pain and his pity were perhaps what she had most needed from him: the centre of her wretchedness seemed the point at which they were meant to meet. If only she could have put it in words simple enough to reach him - but to thank him for what he was suffering would have seemed like mocking; and she could only wait and say to herself that perhaps before long he would go.

Edith Wharton, The Mother's Recompense

[swannposting]

this writing shit is easy!

(shoves one of my main characters into a cargo hold for several chapters)

[dvchvnde]

when the earth starts spinning backwards

EXCERPT: GEORGIAN ERA AU. ARRANGED MARRIAGE. AGE GAP.

You've been told for most of your life that the measure of a woman's worth laid in the pedigree of her potential suitors.

And maybe that's why—on the eve of your birthday—the pool of your of esteem dwindles to a mere maudlin tear at the bottom of a weather-worn bucket. One swiped up by the trembling finger of your desperate father as he shakes his hand (and within it, the crumpled dowry he had expected to part with on the dawn of your eighteenth year inside his household) at the only man who seems keen to take the heavy burden from his white-knuckled fist.

A man named John Price.

Captain, they say, of the King's Army. Someone who led them to victory on several fronts before being called home year ago when his second wife had passed, marking him a widower with two children. A powerful man on the battlefield, unshakeable in his tenants and faith. A warrior. As fearsome as a wild bear, and hungry for flesh as one, too.

And it's this facet of his character that is given before much else, including the formidable temper that nervously follows when all points of fascinating esteem run dry.

His rage is as legendary as his exploits under the King.

And you're to marry him tomorrow.

A quick, decisive arrangement that brokered no room for negotiations, and likely couldn't since you're well past respectable marrying age and have been already ushered, quietly, into the encompassing title of a spinster. A blemish on your mutable reputation.

But despite the desperate lengths your father had gone to tuck away money for a dowery on the eve of your birth, it had been for naught. Everyone knows the debts your name carries, and any man stupid enough to take you on a bride would only inherit the devastating black hole of your crumbling finances.

Untouchable, it had seemed. Or so those were the whispers late at night.

It's unfathomable a man of his esteem would stoop so low in the social hierarchy for a wife, but from the stilted, haggard conversations you've pried upon, he's in need of a mother to his grieving children. The abysmal state of your family name doesn't matter much when all he needs is a nanny for his children and a pretty thing to warm his bed.

And, they offered begrudgingly, you are rather pretty.

Just much more suited to be the mistress of a Duke rather than a wife of significance to an important advisor to the King.

Envy, you realise, and this pitiless thing called social standing, leaves you very little room to weep over the ill-made match with a stern, ferocious man two decades your senior and twice widowed with three children desperate for comfort you have no idea how to give.

Then again, respectability is more important than comfort, isn't it? And perhaps this is for the best considering your second, and only, option is to agree to warm the bed of a Duke (or several) when he's away from his wife. Who would want to marry the daughter of a penniless estate drowning in so much debt, it's a wonder your father got to keep his flimsy title when the collectors started breathing down his neck, after all? When the jewels were stripped from your neck, the curtains, your clothes and pawned for recompense for a financial loss that happened when you were hardly old enough to feed yourself?

Such is life, you suppose.

And maybe you're giving too much credence to the feverish whispers about your soon-to-be bridegroom.

Two wives—both gifted to him from the kings pool of consorts—who died under strange, mysterious circumstances aside, he might be the polar opposite to the surly beast they make him out to be. One with a temper so formidable, enemies of the country write to air out their grievances after crossing paths with the savage Captain on the battlefield, lamenting the brutal nature of his warfare practises.

It might not be the cage you've been told it will be. Instead of squandering your youth under the thumb of a man so animalistic, they claimed he was birthed by a bear, it could be the escape you've been yearning for.

And perhaps—as silly as the notion is for women of your station—even love.

It's a thought that blots the unease inside your chest. A bandaid over uncertainty even though it's such a silly, silly thing because just what is love to a man thrice wed? Indignity, surely, to stoop so low as to pledge his heart to someone two decades younger than he when an heir has already been secured. Nuptials tied twice before. An old hat at this farce.

What room is left inside of him for a destitute bride with little more than a brooch to your name, and a contemptible debt that will surely ruin any burgeoning matrimony when he doles out whatever sum he agreed to when taking you on as a—

A nanny, maybe.

Pretty thing to warm his bed.

It'll be fine, you think, knuckles bulging from under the thin skin of your fist; so long as there is harmony between you and this man.

That's really all you can ask for, and even that seems overmuch.

He stands across from a man you don't recognise, dressed in a handsome black waistcoat and black breeches. The bristles of his beard—the sight of which gives your mother a terrible start when she sees the unkempt ruggedness of his appearance—brushes against the silk of his white cravat when he angles his chin in defiance at something the man says, arms folded over his broad chest, looking mutinous.

It's not the stance of a man eagerly awaiting his bride but of someone making idle, impatient chatter until the festivities begin.

But—

You can't deny he makes quite a striking spectacle.

His legs are thicker than all of the men in the room, breeches pasted tightly against his skin showing off the beastly appearance they whisper about. More bear than man. And you see it now when he moves. Arms barely contained inside the confines of a thick waistcoat, bulging at the seams. Flexing.

His hair is dark brown. His beard a seamless match to the umbre hue. It peppers along the span of his face, cut clean below the tip of his nose. Bedraggled comes to mind as you take him in. Then—

Wild.

His eyes flash. He rocks forward on the tips of his toes until his nose is a breath away from the man who stands opposite of him, swallowed up in the untenable bulk that threatens to collapse upon him like an unsturdy house. Heaving. The buttons along his jacket stretch taut around every ragged breath he takes, whining under the strain.

He's a beast.

A bear ripped from the wilds and shoved to ill-fitting finery; told to behave.

It's breathtaking, really. All that raw power forced into the shape of a man, one that buzzes with a frenetic energy around the edges as if the potency of it is too much for mortal flesh to carry. Crackling through the air like a whip. His snarling rejoinder clashing against the stained glass mosaic of Mary and Joseph readying their inn for the arrival of baby Jesus, the echo trembling through your bones.

You hadn't realised they were quite so hollow until his growl bounced inside them like a stone tossed into an empty bucket.

Beside you, your mother makes an impatient, contemptuous sound. That, too, echoes, and you smother a wince by burying your hands in the plentiful lace gathering at your thighs. Clinging to the old silks as the men blink from their churlish debate, turning towards the sound.

His gaze is purposeful. He doesn't linger. Doesn't meander. It slashes across the chest of the man standing in front of him like a clutched dagger, stabbing into the thin-lipped frown your mother wears more comfortably than finery with a slight tick of his brow. Settles there just for a moment. Taking her measure. Her worth.

And then it rolls over to you.

Dutiful bride to be.

Standing on fawnlike legs and drenched in a fine sheen of sweat under the swelter of dusty velvet no one expected to ever see the light of day, and jaundiced lace—the one thing your mother was able to convince the debt collectors was worth less than the meagre loaf of bread sitting on the dining room table.

A pittance.

And it's a dismal thing, really. The way he looks at you. Brows pinched. Puckering in displeasure. It's little less than a sneer, and even that feels like a kindness. A blessing.

But you suppose if a woman is fit to lay with the king, then she must be a thing of beauty. That must be the level of esteem he's used to. Lavishness. Sylphlike, pretty things the king is wont to imbibe himself on—a never-ending search for a faerie, or so the rumours go.

But these lissome beauties, the King's hand-offs, birthed this man's children—and rather quickly, you'd heard. Almost scandalously so. But had declared himself the father—at the hurried acceptance of the King—and the matter brought to the church in whispers had been silenced.

You can't help but wonder how you compare in his eyes.

It makes you so acutely aware of every inch of your body that it all starts to sting. Burn. From the way the shoulder of your grown doesn't quite sit tight—having been altered and hemmed over the years to account for your growth; a dress made at the fourteen under the assumption you'd be married away immediately. Extra fabric added at seventeen with illustrious care. There was still hope, you know. And each delicate stitch reflects that. But the ones that follow—twenty, twenty-three, twenty-five—are looser. Less attention was paid to the seam. The project was just that: an obligation. A duty.

Hope ended with the addition scrap of off-colour silk on your eighteenth birthday.

And with such hawkish, keen eyes, you know he must see it.

They dip along the curve of your throat, following a taut, intense line of oceanblue down the drape of it. Puddling at the base where a tear in the lace sits against your neck. Folded into itself because there simply wasn't enough time to mend it properly. A blemish.

Beneath the thick bed of wry, burnt umbre curls, his jaw clenches tight, muscles budging at the sides.

The intensity of endless blue is too much for you to wade through—his stare, the weight of his regard, a crushing thing—and you dip your chin in silent supplication, staring at the floorboards in a shameful display of cowardice to avoid the heat in those eyes. A searing fury hot enough to scald you from this far away.

He doesn't want you.

On the alter, John clenches his fist tight against his thighs as he devours the little bride too frightened to meet his eye, and wonders how much longer this nonsense will take before he can finally sink his cock inside of you—

[howi99]

King of Teachers Au: What's gonna happen when Mama Arc finds out about Cardin bullying Jaune?

The "King" of Teachers 3

Jaune: *Placing himself between team CRDL and his mom* Forgive them mother! They didn't know what they were doing!

Artoria: *a dark aura covering her, her golden eyes as cold as the 9th floor of hell* And ignorance should acquit their fault? Should a killer go unpunished if they didn't know their victims?

Cardin: *panicking* WE'RE SOR-

Artoria: *staring directly into Cardin's eyes* Did I give you permission to speak, vermin?!

Cardin: *shutting his eyes closed, internally praying to all the gods he heard of, hoping at least one could answer his prayers*

???: *Joyful voice* Hey, come on now, no need to be THAT angry, right?

Cardin: *opening one eye, seeing a second woman next to the teacher*

Jaune: *taking one step back* Aesc!? What are you doing here!?

Aesc: *smiling* Your father sent me to look after your mom. You know how my sister can be!

Artoria: *gritting her teeth* Aesc-

Cardin: *tears in his eyes* (A savior! I was saved from certain death! Truly, the gods have answered my prayers!)

Aesc: *placing on hand on her sister's shoulder* Now, i'm sure they didn't mean to really hurt-

Nora: *from the back of the class* THEY PUSHED HIM INTO A LOCKER AND SENT HIM INTO THE EMERALD FOREST! AND NOT EVEN A WEEK LATER, THEY ALMOST GOT HIM KILLED BECAUSE OF AN URSA MAJOR!

Aesc: ... *Sigh, losing her smile as her hair turns white*

Morgan: *pointing her staff at the group of bullies* 'Tis a ruinous dream I cannot bear to see.

Jaune: !?

Morgan: No recompense, no salvation to be had.

Jaune: *turning around, clear panic in his voice* EVERYONE, GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!

Morgan: At the world's end, a bird sings of tomorrow.

Artoria: *now also panicking* Sis, i was just going to chew them off! Dont-

Morgan: Let this be a sign—

_ meanwhile _

Ozpin: *sipping tea with his friend who came visiting* Ah, today's a good day, is it not?

Merlin: *trying not to burst out laughing* Y-yeah, a very nice d-day indeed!

Ozpin: ...

Merlin: ...

Ozpin: Merlin, what did you see-

Morgan: *from afar* ROADLESS CAMELOT!

*sounds of a lot of "unforeseen expenses", as the entire school shakes from the strength of the attack*

Ozpin: ... *Sigh, looking as his "friend" is laughing hysterically* I'm not paying myself enough for this...

_ _ _

Artoria: *having tanked most of the attack to protect team CRDL* . . . *Fall face first to the ground, knocked out*

Cardin: *frothing at the mouth, his eyes turned inside as his consciousness left him*

Jaune: . . . *Taking a slow breath* Aesc?

Aesc: *nervous* Y-yes?

Jaune: *taking her staff from her hands* You are forbidden from using your semblance as long as you stay here. Not only that, but i'm also calling dad and you can say goodbye to your magnificent delicacies for the rest of the year.

Aesc: *lying flat on her stomach, asking for forgiveness* Please, PLEASE! ANYTHING BUT THAT!

Yang: *hiding under a desk* IS EVERYONE IN YOUR FAMILY LIKE THAT!?

Jaune: *turning to Yang* You should see my third mom, she's even worse-

Yang: WHAT DO YOU MEAN, THIRD MOM!?!

Jaune: *pointing to the gigantics holes through the roof* To his defense, it's not like my dad had a choice!

*the wall behind him falls to the ground, as the dust settles*

Jaune: *wince* ... That said, i'm beginning to understand why he didn't want any of them to train me. I'd either be dead, or there wouldn't be much left of our house.

[p1325]

Here's an update to my book collection (2025). More is coming soon.

Jane Austen - Pride and Prejudice

Emily Bronte - Wuthering Heights

Louisa May Alcott - Little Women

Charlotte Bronte - Jane Eyre

Jane Austen - Sense and Sensibility

Edith Wharton - The Age Of Innocence

Jane Austen - Emma

Gustave Flaubert - Madame Bovary

Jane Austen - Northanger Abbey

Edith Wharton - The House of Mirth

Jane Austen - Persuasion

Louisa May Alcott - Good Wives

Nathaniel Hawthorne - The Scarlet Letter

Charlotte Bronte - The Professor

Leo Tolstoy - Anna Karenina (Part 1)

Leo Tolstoy - Anna Karenina (Part 2)

Jane Austen - Mansfield Park

Anne Bronte - Agnes Grey

Thomas Hardy - Far from The Madding Crowd

William Makepeace Thackeray - Vanity Fair (Part 1)

William Makepeace Thackeray - Vanity Fair (Part 2)

Pierre-Ambroise-François Choderlos de Laclos - Dangerous Liaisons

Alexandre Dumas fils - The Lady of the Camellias

Henry James - Washington Square

Louisa May Alcott - A Garland For Girls

Henry James - The Portrait of A Lady (Part 1)

Henry James - The Portrait of A Lady (Part 2)

Jane Austen - Lady Susan. The Watson. Sanditon

Anne Brontë - The Tenant of Wildfell Hall

Thomas Hardy - Tess of the D’Urbeville

Edith Wharton - The Mother’s Recompense

Daniel Defoe - Moll Flanders

Henry James - The Wings of the Dove

Edith Wharton - The Customs of the Country

Kate Chopin - The Awakening

Jane Austen - Juvenilia  

George Eliot - Middlemarch (Part 1)

George Eliot - Middlemarch (Part 2)  

George Sand - Nanon

Henry James - The Ambassadors

Elizabeth Gaskell - Cranford

Thomas Hardy - Under The Greenwood Tree

Edith Wharton - Summer

George Sand - Indiana

Henry James - The Bostonians

George Eliot - Silas Marner

Henry James - The Golden Bowl (Part 1)

Henry James - The Golden Bowl (Part 2)  

Edith Wharton - The Twilight Sleep

Emily Eden - The Semi-Attached Couple

Edith Wharton - The Glimpses of the Moon

Mary Elizabeth Braddon - Lady Audley’s Secret

George Eliot - The Mill on the Floss

Elizabeth Gaskell - Mary Barton 

Fanny Burney - Evelina 

George Sand - Little Fadette

Emily Eden - The Semi-detached House

Charlotte Brontë - Shirley (Part 1)

Charlotte Brontë - Shirley (Part 2)

Daniel Defoe - Lady Roxana

Theodor Fontane  - Effie Briest 

Edith Wharton - The Cliff

Thomas Hardy - Two on a Tower

Frances Hodgson Burnett - A Lady of Quality

Louisa May Alcott - Moods

Lucy Maud Montgomery - The Story Girl 

Elizabeth Gaskell - Ruth

Thomas Hardy - The Woodlanders

Elizabeth Gaskell - North and South

Matilde Serao - Fantasy

Thomas Hardy - A Pair of Blue Eyes 

Emilia Pardo Bazán - Sunstroke/Insolacion

Ann Radcliffe - The Romance of the Forest

Louisa May Alcott - A Long Fatal Love Chase

Charlotte Bronte - Vilette

Sybil Grace Brinton - Old Friends and New Fancies

Edith Wharton - Bunner Sisters

Virginia Woolf - The Voyage Out

Margaret Oliphant - The Chronicles of Carlingford Series by Mrs. Oliphant

Edith Nesbit - The Incomplete Amorist

Virginia Woolf - Day and Night

Guy de Maupassant - Our Heart

Frances Trollope - The Widow Barnaby (Part 1)

Frances Trollope - The Widow Barnaby (Part 2)

Elizabeth Gaskell - Half a Lifetime Ago

Frances Hodgson Burnett - The Secret Garden

[lesbianwyllravengard]

i still have yet to play bg3 so i still dont go here yet but Wyll seems literally like one of the most compelling characters of all time and im not even joking. I havent even played the GAME but his character arc haunts me /pos. people are literally just racist to say that he isn't compelling

LITERALLY. He's utterly fascinating. He is a folk hero, a legend, the fantasy equivalent of superman. He's a warlock who is secretly pacted to a devil. He hates devils. He's an incredible liar. He's incredibly sincere. He's silly. He unironically enjoys puns and clowns. He over-exaggerates his Blade personality because it amuses him. He sometimes doesn't know where The Blade ends and Wyll begins. His hero-ness is a performance; not to hide ill intent, but to hide a broken man, to hide weaknesses and fears. It's who he is. It's always been a distant thing, a mask. It's who he thinks he must be. He loves freely and openly and will let anyone know it. He's only ever wanted to know he's loved. He still thinks his father's inability to trust or believe in him was all his fault. He still thinks that every bit of suffering he's ever experienced was all his fault. He thinks admitting to suffering would be disrespectful to the lives he's saved. He thinks he has to suffer or else his sacrifices were worthless. He thinks it couldn't be a sacrifice if he didn't suffer for it. He would take any suffering if it meant lessening someone else's. He is the first person to stand up for someone's life and safety, the first person to defend someone's worth and autonomy. He is the last person to do so for himself. He is of the least importance to himself.

He needs to be needed, because if he's not needed then what good is his power and the soul he sacrificed for the pact to get it? And if he can't be needed then he throws himself into the fray without hesitation because his purpose has always been to sacrifice himself so others may live. His life has always been one of sacrifice. His life has been recompense since the second he was born and his mother passed as a result. He saves lives to make up for it. It will never be enough to him. It will always be everything to those he saves. He just wants to be seen for who he truly is. He thinks if no one can see him for who he is then maybe it isn't who he is, and maybe he's fooled them all, fooled himself into thinking he can be a better person, be the hero they need. He wants to be known by someone. He's terrified of someone looking deeper. He sees others for who they are. He's a monster hunter who does not hunt the typical definition of "monster", who knows that monsters are not the ones with fangs and horns in his group of friends but the men who look harmless yet cause endless death and suffering to others. Not even the threat of his life was enough to get him to harm an innocent.

He wants to be chosen. He cannot fathom that someone would choose him. He chooses others over himself every time. He has so much love for others. He thinks he must constantly earn love. He is shocked when someone simply loves him. He thinks he cannot love and lead at the same time. His only role model was a father who could never put his son before his city. He is capable of immense anger. He is capable of immense kindness. He purposefully chooses the latter; he works hard to not let his anger consume him. He's still angry over things that happened a near decade ago. He thinks feeling hurt is the same as being angry and so he can't be hurt. He's always hurting. He takes pride in his achievements and he does not underestimate himself. He's not religious. He devotes himself to his cause with the dedication of the most pious believer. He stands by his friends in any battle, against any struggle. He stands against them if they choose to threaten lives. He holds on to those he cares about with bloody knuckles and teeth bared because loss has always been the hardest pain for him to bear. He has lost everything. He gives every part of himself to others. He cannot lose anyone else. He thinks he can do anything because he refuses to believe any alternative. Because he could not survive any alternative. He thinks his intent is as important as his actions, and so he must always intend to do the right thing.

He does not tolerate his boundaries being pushed or his father being disrespected. He tolerates any judgment because he thinks he deserves it. He defends his status as the Blade of Frontiers. He thinks the fear caused by his devil form is a fault of his own that he must work to fix. He hates the patriars and their farce diplomacy, their lethal hypocrisy. He thinks his father is infallible. He does not hold himself to the same regard as he holds everyone else. He thinks its okay if it only hurts him. Anything is okay as long as it only hurts him. He has to keep fighting to prove he can be a hero. He is so, so tired. He cannot for one second admit to wanting for anything, because once he starts he might not be able to stop wanting. He cannot accept that he deserves to not suffer, too, because if he does he might not be strong enough to continue suffering so others might suffer less. He might not want to suffer. He thinks he cannot regret any decision he's made, he cannot regret his pact, because it would be a dishonour to the good he's done with it. He thinks that saying he regrets his pact would be saying he regrets every life he's saved with it and he would never regret saving lives so he cannot regret his pact. He's accepted that his freedom will always be the cost of saving lives. He desperately wants to be free. His life has never been his own, to him. He thinks every choice he's ever made was his own, alone.

He is very complex. He simplifies himself to be easily accepted by others. People fall for it easily. He just needs one person to look closer. He's afraid of what they'll find if they do. He doesn't keep his cards close to his chest, he meticulously chooses which cards to hold at all. Which parts of himself are worth losing if need be. How much of himself he has to keep close in order to keep being himself. He has seen the worst that the world has to offer. He chooses every day to be kind, to see the best in things, in others. He chooses to care. He holds onto his pain because it's proof that he cares. There are several pathways that don't connect quite right in his brain which you'll notice after a few conversations with him. He is wise beyond his years. He is my favourite guy ever

[nelhex]

Just for you @an-ace-aro-mancer

a snippet of a moment after Rook's conversation with Caterina.

Treviso | Villa Dellamorte: specifically Caterina’s office Post "A Murder of Crows" and "A Time to Kill" 

Viago: Among the many messes left for us to clean; the governor had no next of kin. His ill gotten assets have nowhere to go after they were seized.   Lucanis: Did we not appropriate them as recompense for dealing with the Antaam? Teia: That would be the issue. There are already several claims by several houses on what we should do with his estate.  Caterina: Andarateia dear, do you have the reports for the divisions paid out to each house post incarceration?  Rook: I’ve got it here Nonna.  Viago: (choking on his coffee) Teia: (suppressing her laughter)  Caterina: Thank you Rook. Tell me, do you have any ideas? Rook: We could give it to house Egrativi. It would limit any complaints of favoritism as Jacobus was the one to decide Ivenchi’s fate.  Caterina: We will make a wonderful First Talon of you yet. Rook: what. Lucanis: Don’t look at me. She has always wanted my mother to succeed her.  Viago: (actively looking like he’s about to pass out)  Teia: Lucanis, can you please pretend you want the title for at least a few years. I think I can see Vi’s hair turning grey as we speak.  Caterina: Don't worry we have time. It will have to happen after the wedding after all. Rook: ...Neve is going to kill us.  Lucanis: Mierda.

[see-arcane]

Examining the Nosfertrio

I must uphold my position as Words Georg and yammer about the Nosferatu Trio (Nosfertrio) that makes up the core of Nosferatu (2024). Specifically in terms of the love triangle and their roles within it.

Spoilers and a massive monolith of text below.

Ellen and Orlok

I’ve already seen a handful of posts going into the metaphors inherent to their relationship. Orlok as Ellen’s id, as the repressed darkness and fey nature she must keep bottled up for the sake of her era and society, as brutality and sensuality, et cetera. And there’s definitely truth in that. Just as it can be found in a lot of horror-attraction (I hesitate to give all of them the blanket of ‘romance’ but attraction is key on one or both sides for hero and antagonist) stories in various degrees from bodice ripper to outright nightmare. There is a definite cathartic itch that’s scratched in everything from Labyrinth’s Jareth to The Phantom of the Opera’s Erik all the way to this, Orlok at his most cadaverous and insidious.

People want to be wanted. On some level, we want to express the repressed depths of ourselves, be they perverse and violent or weird and whimsical. 99 times out of 100, we still restrain ourselves from doing the Immediate Gratification action—anything from snatching the last piece of cake because we know someone else is looking forward to it or taking a hammer to an annoying customer’s skull—because appeasing that kneejerk urge will have consequences. We will feel bad about having done it or else outside forces will punish us. Repression is a fact of life, with some forced to constrict themselves more than others. Not always for good reason. Case in point, poor Ellen stuck in period piece hell.

Ellen was suffering as a young girl. Her clairvoyance and supernatural susceptibility made her an early outcast and the death of her mother left her alone with a father who we learn had a period where he seriously considered sending her to an asylum. A period we also learn came after Orlok began either causing or infinitely worsening her epileptic fits. The one Ellen describes to Von Franz involves her being found naked mid-spasm. Something to do with her flesh.

Was she found orgasming? Had she clawed at herself, perhaps at her breast where Orlok couldn’t yet feed and bleed her? Maybe she was caught in a masturbatory act that Orlok played puppeteer to. We don’t know because we’re only meant to conjure something mortifying for Ellen to be caught at; just as her other public fits have been. Her father is disgusted by it, whatever it is.

Sometime in this miserable window, Thomas enters her life.

Thomas Hutter who is in every way Count Orlok’s antithesis. He loves where Orlok only wants. He wishes only to give to Ellen, to make himself and their life a thing worthy of her—note, she lived in a stunning mansion as a girl and Thomas needed a loan from Friedrich Harding to afford their tiny home; Ellen married down to be with him and he knows it. If Ellen is an owed piece of property in Orlok’s view, Ellen is precious beyond words to Thomas, who even in his terror and ailment, loves her more than he fears anything.

Then comes Orlok in person, slapping Wisborg with plague and murdering friends and children and threatening to go after Thomas if Ellen does not ‘willingly’ submit to him. A big bloodstained temper tantrum is needed before Ellen dons her wedding dress again and gives herself to Orlok for the sake of being the Judith to his Holofernes. When Orlok’s time comes it is an agonizing thing. A final dose of pain for him to suffer in recompense for years of violation inflicted on a girl since puberty.

Ellen kills him. Ellen dies for the sake of killing him and guarding Thomas. In pure emotional math, she is true to what she told Orlok outright:

No. I love Thomas.

I care nothing for your affliction.

I abhor you.

You revel in my torture.

Nothing but truth here. She loves Thomas. She doesn’t give a shit how ‘afflicted’ Orlok is by him wanting her. She abhors him. And, with almost a lifetime of evidence on her side, yes, Orlok appears to get off on casually, repeatedly, flashily subjecting Ellen to her spasms, however pleasurable or painful they might be, to say nothing of her embarrassment and being ‘helped’ by the era’s dehumanizing quackery.

And yet.

Ellen has two visuals and two lines that suggest that buried in her hate and horror at Orlok and all he does, there is still one wisp of…I really hesitate to call it love. Attraction might be in it. ‘Affliction.’ Whatever it is, it is the tiny buried stretch of spiritual ore that I imagine brought Orlok sniffing in the first place. Ore that has been honed by years of abuse and the hopeless inescapability of his attentions into something that Ellen shelves with the rest of her shame and fear, but cannot let go because it is a part of her and part of what kept her from succumbing to total despair in her time before Thomas.

Because Ellen was lonely once upon a time. Did she know Anna as a young girl? Or did that come later, after Thomas? Either way, she prayed for a companion. For comfort. She felt alien and alone and wrong. Which Orlok scented as she called out blindly—a familiar essence he could take advantage of. Because he is a tyrant. A monster. And he is alone too. 

You are not for the living. You are not for humankind.

The visuals:

Ellen meets him in Anna’s room. Comes close close close to kissing him—and reverses (I abhor you).

Ellen stays with him in the bed, lightly cradling Orlok as the sunrise kills him; and he does not claw or tear at her in his death throes, even knowing her betrayal. Only lays a gentle grasp on her shoulder. They recline again as they die, Ellen letting him lay rather than letting him fall off.

The lines:

Before Orlok strikes her mind: He took me for his lover! (Not victim. Lover. She believes it.)

While Orlok has reached out and pressed his influence on her again, her words possibly not wholly her own: You could not please me so well as him. (Is it Orlok goading? Is it Ellen telling a truth or a lie to prod Thomas into sex? Is it a jumble?)

Ellen loves Thomas more than Orlok or her own life. But there is a grain of care for the monster who obsessed over and menaced her for so long. It’s the grim and heady little whisper under all the trappings of horror-attraction, why fiction loves a demonic dom or a pining terror.

I was never alone with them infecting my life. I was the focus of all their attention and passion. I saw so much violence done for the sake of them coercing me to their side. I had these throes forced on me and in being forced to endure their darkness I was absolved of any guilt in moments of pleasure from it. I held hands with Death in a dream and I was so happy when everyone I knew—everyone I smother myself to accommodate—was dead.

It’s there. Of course it’s there.

But what else is there with it?

Ellen and Thomas

Enter the newlyweds who didn’t deserve Any of That Shit.

We don’t really get much time with these two beyond establishing that they are very genuinely in love, have been thoroughly enjoying a too-short honeymoon, and are each prepared to kill and die for each other.

But something I’m seeing around the edges of post-film analyses is a phenomenon that I recognize from certain unfortunate reads of Jonathan Harker’s character, both from Dracula’s book canon and almost 130 years’ worth of trash adaptations. Already this boy is teetering on the precipice of being done dirty the exact same way Jonathan was via sanding down his full role and character in the story. I’ve seen takes that reduce him to the Normal Guy Your Weird Ex Hates, the Guy Who Doesn’t Listen to His Wife, the Useless Guy, the Boring Normie Guy, the Connecticut Clark to Ellen’s Malfina, et cetera et cetera.  

But like. You have to miss a mountain of context clues to land on any of these statuses as Thomas’ deal.

Let’s look at the chief offense: Thomas disregards and/or shuts down Ellen.

First:

Thomas tries to shush Ellen about her nightmare(s). For a moment. But Ellen insists, and so he listens to the dream of wedding Death. He does shush her then, but in the way of soothing. It was just a dream, not a portent. All will be well. What is he supposed to say otherwise? Yes, I believe you. Yes, something horrible is about to happen. Worry, fear, fret. It’s the best course of action.

As for him leaving the bedside and ultimately going out to Orlok’s castle despite Ellen’s pleading? Again, what else is he logically meant to do? This boy does not know what genre he’s in. Ellen does because she’s Ellen. Thomas thinks he’s in a period piece romance with a happy ending and his moneyed best friend repaid for his loan and his beloved back to living in the luxury he knows she left behind to be with him. To do that, he must work for it. He must jump through whatever hoop Herr Knock tells him to. Between the latter and the bait of the commission he and Orlok dangle in front of him—Friedrich paid back, a step toward a plush future to gift to Ellen—and the fact that Ellen’s warning plea comes from dreamt vapor, it’d make no sense for him to just kick off his shoes, endanger his job and roll back in bed with her because his permission slip would read:

‘My wife said no :)’

Even if he wanted to, and it’s hard to think he doesn’t want to going by how uneasy he was the moment Knock put the job in his hands, Thomas had no real room to refuse without putting himself and Ellen in real economic and interpersonal trouble. At best he might have feigned illness, but even that would be a gamble. All the things Ellen wanted him to do—stay longer with her, heed her premonition, don’t go on the journey—Thomas did want to do. But couldn’t.

Second offense:

Thomas ignores Ellen when she says their petite home (and ohhh doesn’t that sting in the 21st century to think that a place like theirs was considered ‘small’ or lower class once upon a time) is fine and Thomas need not push himself to extremes to finance a bigger better household with a maidservant and other bells and whistles to satisfy her. True! No denying it! Just as there is no denying that, out of the entire ensemble, Thomas Hutter is from the lowest class out of everyone.

Friedrich is his friend, a wealthy inheritor to a father’s shipping company who lent Thomas the money needed to pay for the little home and possibly his and Ellen’s wedding. Anna is Ellen’s friend, two girls with a friendly and possibly amorous history from what we can infer is a similarly well-off social level. Thomas is only in their circle by dint of somehow crossing paths with Friedrich and being charming enough to win an otherwise Classically Masculine and Rich Man’s regard.

And Ellen, again, stepped out of the wealthy life to be with him out of love. In her dream her father was there, one of the dead, but he is absent for the entire film. Considering her only other mentions of him were a childhood of his calling her a changeling girl or an unclean thing meant for a madhouse, we can assume the man did not empty his pockets for or applaud her choice of husband. Hence Friedrich’s loan. But for all the discomfort of her family life, Ellen did live a far more polished life than the one Thomas can give her as-is.

(I envy you, said to Friedrich outright.)

This is Thomas’ most standout flaw in my opinion, one that amounts to a single facet of a wider issue: Thomas Hutter feels inadequate on multiple fronts.

He is not wealthy enough to give Ellen the lifestyle he wants to return to her. He has not made up enough savings to repay a man he wishes were only a friend rather than an all-but-in-name sugar daddy. He’s unequivocally not within spitting distance of any other male character’s classic forms of manliness. Just an ongoing mantra of ‘not X enough,’ and that’s before Orlok gets in his head. More on that later.

He’s not shutting out Ellen’s insistence that she’s happy with their simple surroundings because he doesn’t care about her opinion. He’s shutting it out because he can’t get out of his own head about how much lesser he feels compared to her and their friends, feeling as if he has to make up for not coming from where they do and for basically taking his princess away from her metaphorical castle. Fittingly, it’s the complete reverse of Orlok’s treatment.

If Ellen is the prize to be conquered for Orlok, she is the undeserved prize on a pedestal to Thomas. One who needs precious things foisted on her to make him worthy of her loving him despite her saying otherwise. The guy can’t see past his own low view of himself to accept that she is sincere in his insistence that he is enough.

And that brings us to the third issue:

Ellen says she wants to come Orlok-hunting. Thomas shoots her down.

Bit of an echo from Dracula there, with Jonathan and the rest of the Drac Attack Pack unanimously deciding Mina has to be kept out of the villain’s reach while they go a-hunting..! Only for that very move to be what puts her in an unprotected position when said villain comes skulking up to her. It is a very old school Protect the Fair Maiden! move. Fitting for the genre and the time period and so on.

But unlike in Dracula, Thomas and Ellen’s playing of the scene makes much more sense.

They are not dealing with Dracula the Conqueror. They are dealing with Orlok the Repeat Rapist and Tantrum-Murderer Obsessed with Ellen. If there was one person in the entire ensemble not to bring into closer proximity to Orlok, even if she were at maximum anachronistic girlboss badass levels, or even just armed with her own stake and pistol, it would still very much be Ellen. Orlok’s been making her life hell at a distance. Willingly putting her in arm’s reach would make me blue screen too if I were Thomas. This isn’t Jonathan fearing the chance that Dracula might go after Mina out of convenience. This is Thomas rightfully clocking that Orlok will 110% go directly after Ellen. Obviously he says Ellen shouldn’t be on the hunt.

Which was just as obvious to Ellen before she even suggested it.

Because with or without Von Franz promising to lead Thomas and Sievers on the wild goose chase for the sarcophagus, Ellen was already planning to barter herself in exchange for protecting Thomas and Wisborg. Which Thomas would also 110% slam the brakes on if he knew what she was up to. She didn’t suggest her joining the hunt because she had any intention or expectation of them agreeing. It was to make sure that the suggestion was shut down and that Thomas and the others would be far away when she baited Orlok to her.

Both Hutters are terrified for the safety of one another and would rather face Orlok themselves and risk dying than put their beloved in danger. They are too alike in that regard, just as the Harkers are, and that love and desire to protect is abused by both versions of the Count to get what they want. It’s just that Ellen knew exactly how to ensure Thomas would do what she wanted by nettling him with the concept of her coming along and risking proximity to Orlok; perhaps intentionally implying she meant to put herself between him and Thomas as a shield. Cue him declaring absolutely not. Irony of ironies.

But alllll this is just window dressing compared to my main nitpick when it comes to some folks’ view of Thomas paired with Ellen. And that’s that he is the milquetoast nothingburger ignorant could never truly understand or please her! husband.

Shut the hell your mouth. I am a proud monsterfucker. I am all for the dark gothic fuckeduppedness of Orlok and Ellen’s whole dynamic. But as Stoker and Murnau are my witness, You Shall NOT Slander This Lad as Jonathan Harker was Before Him.

Ellen was the one wheedling Thomas to stay home and roll around in bed while he was late for work, wanting more of whatever he was dishing out. They were left unsupervised in someone else’s foyer for 0.5 seconds and immediately started tongue wrestling while sinking to their knees and cutting away to [REDACTED INTIMACY WHILE STILL VERY VISIBLE IN THEIR FRIENDS’ HOUSE]. Thomas jumped into a river, dragged himself from the brink of undeath, and rode half-dead all the way home to reach Ellen and try to get her out of Orlok’s range. Thomas, who was terrified of Orlok, still put that horror aside because he learned of Orlok’s torturing of Ellen and intended to kill the fucker for it to keep her safe.

Before all of that, Thomas earned Ellen’s love in their even greener youth.

Ellen, the girl who was strange and Other and tormented by Orlok’s spells and despondently alone with her monster? That was the Ellen who Thomas met. Who Thomas fell in love with. Who fell in love with him. And it was a love intense enough to blot Orlok’s shadow. When that shadow came back—

I am become a demon! I am unclean!

—Thomas stayed in the dark with her—

I love you! I love you!

—resolving to either kill the thing that had preyed on her or die trying.

Even if we knew none of this, Ellen’s final act is its own proof of what he was to her. We saw what she’s like with someone she clocks as an asshole when she confronts Friedrich for his actual ignorance and actual callousness. If any character is the starched ‘refuses to believe the supernatural reality/adheres to patriarchal bullshit’ figure, it’s him, not Thomas. (Hello echoes of Jonathan Harker versus John Seward, but I digress.) Ellen calls that shit out.

Why do you hate me? How can you be so stupid? So cruel?

She feels what she feels and says what she means and is the most observant character in the entire story.

And in the end, she deems whole fucking murder-suicide as a price she’s willing to pay to protect Thomas. Whatever we could not see before the film began, whatever romance the Hutters shared, it was true and powerful enough for her to do this.

Which leaves Thomas behind, her cold hand in his, all tears and grief at this—his last failure to tally on his internal chalkboard. He was not the Hero, but the Damsel unaware. He could not protect Ellen because she and Von Franz tricked him into safety as the latter schemed and the former gave herself up to the martyr role. Thomas was too trusting and too late and too much himself rather than the Man ™ who should have saved her from throwing herself on Providence’s pyre.

On that note.

We have to address the mess in the castle.

Thomas and Orlok

Eggers added a lot of meat to the very trimmed-down characters of the 1922 Hutters and Count. Original concepts and harvested bits from Dracula were all applied. The way he composed them served to fix what I still consider to be a barely-concealed plot hole.  

In 1922 and 1979, the Count sees a girl in a locket and immediately becomes obsessed with her. That’s it. That is the entire bulk of his awareness of her before Thomas arrives at his castle. An arrival that was very much based in the original Dracula’s desire to move himself and his deadly presence away to a new place. Original 1922 Orlok seems to just be in it for mysterious plague harbinger reasons. 1979 Dracuorlok seems to be genuinely distraught and resigned to some kind of irresistible condition that says He Must Go Bring Death. But Orlok 2024?

According to Von Franz and his reading, Orlok wants to kill the whole world with his plague..! But has just been chilling for a few centuries I guess. No rush. Not until Ellen happens. She and her covenant and—gasp!—marrying another man!? Barely a man at that.

Ellen Hutter and her new marriage is Orlok’s impetus in coming out of the castle and planting himself in Wisborg. Him stealing the locket and being obsessed with her now makes far more sense than it did in any preceding film because we get the new context of him preying on her since she was a teenager…

…which was interrupted because of Thomas.

The other man. The boy. The laughable gentle meek shivering rival who Knock sends to his door and into his power.

Where 1922 Count was rigid and awkward to the point of seeming like he had to fight rigor mortis with every step and 1979 Count was glassy-eyed and frantically grasping with lonesome eagerness, 2024 Count is stewing over jealousy and disbelief and derision and only the flimsiest attempt at playing client to fool the young man into signing his status as Ellen’s husband away. A farce, a farce. But the covenant demands he cannot kill him outright. That would be theft, not Ellen ‘giving herself freely.’

But after? After the signing, surely he could wring the boy’s neck. Could sit and watch as the wolves tear him to pieces. He could fill him up with plague or snap him in half or drown him like the Pied Piper with a rat… All these things he could have done after he tricked Thomas’ signature out of him on the occult document.

And didn’t.

Let’s retreat to that first strange night together.

Thomas gets subjected to Orlok’s trance the second he reaches the crossroads that leads to the castle. He does not walk as much as float into the coach that has no driver, his next scene showing him abruptly on his feet with his eyes shut in sleep. The doors open to him without hands, leaving him to trail after the Count as if on a string. Orlok gives Thomas two orders the moment they reach the dining room.

One, get out the paperwork. Two, Thomas will address Orlok as his Lord.

“Pardon, sir—?”

“Your. Lord.”

“yesmylordforgivememylord”

Thomas takes his seat and gets treated to Orlok very obviously flexing his powers by doing his little teleportation trick around the table, getting right up in Thomas’ space to pour him his wine, his hand nearly brushing Thomas’ face before retreating.

Thomas asks about the vampire hunting scene he saw in the graveyard and—

“SPEAK NOT OF IT AGAIN!”

Thomas speaks not of it again. Orlok tells him to eat. Cue the mishap with the bread knife and the bleeding thumb. Orlok sounds caught between snarling like an animal or climaxing at the table at the sight of the blood and insists Thomas go sit by the fire where Orlok can see to the wound. Thomas blinks and has lost time again: Somehow he’s been moved to the chair by the fire, fully paralyzed and in tears as Orlok closes in on him, locked in a waking nightmare as the innkeeper woman warned him. This is where Eggers cuts away. All we know for certain is that Orlok fed at Thomas’ breast at least once in the night.

And that he went out of his way to leave Thomas laying face down on the floor come daylight.

The reveal shot is posed as almost comical when coming straight after Ellen’s pining comment about him. I heard some people laugh in the theater. But combining this visual with others to come makes it one of the most awful scenes in hindsight. Because I believe it’s the clearest sign that Orlok outright raped Thomas.

No jokes, no implications, no metaphors. I think he performed the literal act. The only way it could stop short of that in my mind is if Orlok abused his trance state to force Thomas to his knees before or after feeding on him for some emasculating puppeteer work. But no. I think it was genuine rape. It may have happened again in the next feeding night, where Orlok is shown wholly naked as he feeds on Thomas’ breast again. Both times Thomas wakes up dressed. Both times Thomas was preyed on in the exact same way Orlok preys on Ellen.  

And notably, not in the same way as Anna Harding, who immediately got whacked with a dose of plague. Her children had their throats torn out. Ditto the ship’s sailors. Everyone else just sickens and rots and blood-vomits to death.

Thomas and Ellen are the only ones Orlok goes out of his way to prey on in an erotically posed way that results in trauma and ailment, but not the plague or raw slaughter Orlok’s throwaway victims get. Ellen makes sense because she’s ‘his enchantress.’ Thomas because..?

Hm. How does jealousy really fit in here as a reason, Count? Why is it that Thomas is the only man in the film you go out of your way to target by mounting and suckling on him? Why is it that you put words in Ellen’s mouth to describe him as a swooning lily of a woman who fell into your arms? Why is it that you still have your feelers in Thomas’ head to airdrop visions of yourself and your last assault on him? And—big big question here—how much influence did you have on Thomas and Ellen during their spontaneous lovemaking scene? Were you watching like Ellen implied? Did you want to?

Last and certainly not least:

You say you couldn’t kill Thomas or it would spoil the covenant. Yet you were surprised that he was still alive. And you reacted Violently+ when Knock suggested he be ordered to go out and kill the young man in your service. Why is that?

(Who made that vampire in the graveyard?)

((Which of those coffins in the crypt was going to be Thomas’?))

This is dancing around the subject, I know. The gist is this: Orlok wasn’t just angry at Thomas for stealing Ellen from him. He was incensed at Thomas being just as out of place as Ellen herself was. Ellen is not a classic fair maiden. Thomas is not a classic manly man. Thomas is, to Orlok’s surprise, making him pissed and horny. And that opens the door to the Count attacking Thomas in a way that seems to be a warmup for his future laying with Ellen. He wants to ‘make a woman’ of Thomas, the lesser, weaker, kinder, prettier, chosen man.

See? See? She has no husband to thwart his conquest! This quailing thing under him can be no man, so it must be a woman. Ha. Ha.

Cue him leaving Thomas on the floor, ass up, for Reasons.

Whether Orlok blithely accepts his attraction to Thomas (he is merely an Appetite, after all) or is grimly wrestling with ye olde compulsory heterosexuality and quietly framing all his weird attentions to Thomas as just him humiliating/emasculating the young man, we also have to turn the lens on Thomas himself.

Theories have been passed around that, given the queer elements of the film, Ellen and Anna, Thomas and Friedrich, all had romantic pasts of their own. Or at least friendships as intimate as they could get away with before they paired up with their respective significant others. Ellen and Thomas especially are heavily bi-coded. Ellen has Anna, naturally (Thank you for loving me), but Thomas has beats with Friedrich, with the unnamed and charismatic leader of the vampire hunting party in the graveyard, and, if only due to Orlok’s trance, Orlok himself.

Even if it was magically induced, Thomas saw a vision of Ellen in Orlok’s place as he was fed on. Seeing it, seemingly experiencing it, Thomas looks to be in a heady stupor as Orlok feeds—blearily welcoming the initial attack and whatever might have followed it.

Cut forward to his breaking from his fever in Ellen’s company, still in traumatized shock, unable to speak on everything that happened to him. She’s seen the bite wounds on him. That isn’t a secret. Something else, something worse—I can’t breathe! Get off me! Get off!—is left unspoken, and he cannot bring himself to admit it to Ellen. Not even after she divulges her history with Orlok. Not even after the fight or the sex or the broken spell and their embrace. Orlok did an awful thing to Thomas that he is too afraid and ashamed to speak aloud, at least on screen. Would it be better or worse if there had not been a memory of pleasure to taint it as it taints Ellen’s assaults? 

Ellen calls Orlok her shame. Now he’s a shame for both of them.

…

With all that said. Yes, ‘love triangle’ is the easiest name to pin on this entire hot mess, if not a perfectly accurate one. Ellen and Thomas are in love, but the right words don’t exist to label the lines that connect Ellen and Thomas to Orlok.

tl; dr: Orlok was never going to make this polycule happen and I will not give him kudos for trying. 

[quotation--marks]

She had lowered her head again, and sat desolately staring at the floor. With the little wood-fire playing on the hearth, and this honest kindly man looking down at her, how safe and homelike the room seemed! Yet her real self was not in it at all, but blown about in a lonely wind of anguish, outside in the night. And so it would always be, she supposed.

Edith Wharton, The Mother's Recompense

[youcouldmakealife]

SOTM: Alexei Konstantinovich, Vladimir Petrov, Thomas/Anton; making polite conversation

Was aiming to get COTT out today, but twas not meant to be (tomorrow!), so please have a SOTM that's a full 500 words longer than it's supposed to be as recompense.

I'm not going to include a warning, per se, but I will remind people banjos is, was, and always will fundamentally be a lower case series, and so is Alexei Konstantinovich's biography (at least the bits that would never make it to the page), and that internalized homophobia is one of, if not the biggest reason why.

For the prompt: Alexei runs into Vladimir, Anton, and Vinny at an international hockey event, where Vlad introduces Vinny as Anton’s partner.

“You should have warned me,” Alexei says in Russian.

He had to wait for Vladimir’s son to leave first. His Russian’s the sort you pick up when the only time you hear your mother tongue is from your own mother, and all it took to lose him earlier was to speak quickly.

Not that he’d been trying to, originally — he’d been telling Anton a story about his father he was almost certain he hadn’t told him yet, Vladimir cutting him off with laughing interjections, and Anton started looking confused halfway through.

Alexei was in the midst of saying it all again, slower, over Vladimir’s increasingly enthusiastic efforts to disrupt him, but then Anton’s — Thomas came by, and they had, of course, all switched to English, a language none of them learned from their mothers, judging by his accent.

“You’re from Quebec,” Alexei said after he introduced himself, dropping out of their conversational English into a lilting French when he said his own name. Stupid, stupid.

“Northern Ontario,” he said, then smiled, like Alexei hadn’t just done the equivalent of — he doesn’t know. He doesn’t remember much about the nuances, what is and isn’t considered offensive, just that it was complicated. Complicated enough that no explanation he received made sense, but then, how could it? French values explained in fractured English to a culture shocked Russian boy who barely spoke a word of either language back then, who barely retains a word of either now.

“I apologize for the error,” Alexei said, or something like it, in his rusty, ancient French, and Thomas smiled even wider then, said, “no problem at all,” and it took Alexei longer than he’d like to admit to realize that he’d said it not in English, or in French, but in the same halting Russian Vladimir’s son spoke.

You don’t learn a language for just anybody. Alexei spoke paragraphs to the media in English by the end of his time in Vancouver — essays, if you added them all up — but he finds himself losing his place in the most mundane conversations, forgetting the very basics — the words for weather, for fruits and vegetables, for days of the week, for emotions.

Some English words are hardwired — if he stubs his toe, ‘fuck’ is still the word that leaves his mouth, but then, he knows a half dozen others who are the same, and some of them never left Russia. Paragraphs of English, he spoke. Essays. All gone now.

He still watches movies in English, though only the stupid ones where the plot doesn’t matter. His wife watches all the TV shows, rich women with too much time on their hands. English is what he defaults to with old teammates, contacts in the hockey world. The language of business, at least the business of international hockey.

And yet, it turns out, Alexei held on to his French a little tighter.

Alexei doesn’t understand at first, the way it’s put. First, the word itself, ‘partner’, then him trying to remember where he knows it from. Which is hockey. It takes a moment, because he was never a defenseman, and yes, Anton is one, he remembers that, but is Thomas? Has anyone said?

It takes even longer to process information when translation is involved. Long enough to make things uncomfortable, long enough for Vladimir make a weak joke about translating it for him, and Anton and Thomas take that as their cue to leave, which, of course, it is.

“You should have warned me,” Alexei says. “I shouldn’t have had to learn that in front of him.”

“You’re in North America,” Vladimir says, looking at the crowd. Alexei isn’t sure if he’s assessing whether any Russians are close enough to overhear them, or he's simply trying to avoid Alexei’s eyes. “It’s legal here. Not that they are, yet. It’s legal here.”

Not that they are, yet. Marriage, then, Alexei's assuming he's referring to, not —

Not that they are, yet. Said so matter of factly, like discussing upcoming vacation plans — something that hasn’t happened, but that he knows is coming. Said like something he’s looking forward to.

“Just because it’s legal—“ Alexei says, but Vladimir looks at him, then, and the rest of the sentence wilts on his tongue, the conversation dying around it. Vladimir nods curtly at him, and Alexei nods back, aware in that moment, Vladimir disappearing into the crowd, that he has lost a friend.

It keeps happening now. Some he lost to simple distance, time, difference. Some are dead now, or doing their best to end up that way, some walk away after detonating a grenade.

Alexei’s known Vladimir since they were kids, practically. Decades, he’s known him, most of his life. The sum of moments they’ve spent together might not add up to much if you put them end to end, some glorious games and a lot of chit chat at public events in the decades afterwards, but Alexei watched his son grow up. Grow into —

This isn’t the place, he thinks. Not for any of this.

He startles when a hand lands on his shoulder, and the hand pulls back as Alexei looks at Anton’s—

“Sorry,” Thomas says, that per-emptory apology that Canadians do, that Alexei always forgets Canadians do until he’s inevitably reminded.

“Excuse me,” is what he says when he repeats it in Russian, that halting, offbeat Russian that he must have learned from Anton, speaking halting Russian of his own, probably explaining himself in English, explaining a language in the tongue of another to someone who speaks neither, at least not well. Though it isn’t the same, really. Anton’s mother tongue may be Russian, but he’s American through and through.

“Are you looking for Vladimir?” Alexei asks, too loud, the English booming out of him, so that a couple and pair of men — who knows, perhaps a couple — look over.

“Oh, no,” Thomas says. “I actually wanted to talk to you.”

“Oh,” Alexei says. “Sorry, my English is—“

“Is French better?” Thomas asks, and Alexei mutely nods. “I just wanted to say—“

Alexei is quickly realizing his French isn’t as good as he thought when Vladimir cuts in again. Takes a lot after that exit, he thinks, but then, Alexei imagines he isn’t the one Vladimir’s attempting to save here, though that’s precisely what he’s doing nonetheless.

“Thomas,” Vladimir says. It’s only thanks to years of tournaments on top of the decades of knowing him that means Alexei knows what Vladimir Petrov sounds like when he's off-balance. Even then he heard precious little of it — thankfully, because whenever he did, it was after their fates had already been sealed.

He glances at Alexei once, glancingly, but Alexei isn’t sure if he sees whatever it is he’s looking for. Puts his hand on Thomas’ shoulder. Paternal, Alexei thinks. Paternal, and with no hesitation beforehand, no frisson of suppressed disgust.

“I can’t find Anton anywhere,” Vladimir says.

“That’s because Anton’s hiding outside,” Thomas says, laughter in his voice. In his eyes too, which catch Alexei’s, fragmentary, before Alexei can look away. “I’m sure he’ll come in as soon as we’re ready to leave.”

“I’m ready now,” Vladimir says, and Thomas, it appears, is right, because Anton appears at his shoulder as if summoned.

“Ready to go?” he asks, and Anton shrugs a shoulder.

Thomas politely tells him how nice it was to meet him, how wonderful is how long he and Vladimir have been friends, how he’s known Anton all his life, either completely oblivious to everyone else's discomfort or doing a masterful job of pretending to be, before they finally take their leave.

Anton looks bigger than the last time Alexei saw him, though of course, that isn’t true, it’s just that Vladimir’s gotten smaller. Alexei too, probably. Now Anton’s bigger than either of them. That boy who’d once been so small his father could fit him in the bowl of the Stanley Cup.

Antosha, who still lets his father’s old teammates call him by his pet name, even though he sulks about it like he’s still a child, clearly not aware that’s the reason they all still do it.

“Anton,” Alexei says, watches Vladimir’s hand come up, hovering over Anton’s shoulder. Shaky now, that hand. He used to have the hands of a surgeon. Though Alexei can’t say shit, can he? Not when they used to talk about his own hands like they were gifted from god.

Alexei he still remembers all the miraculous things he’s done with those hands, memories seared too deep to lose, but gun to his head, he can’t recall the last time those hands had done something good.

“Antosha,” he says, and Vladimir drops his hand as Anton looks back at him.

“I wish you all the best,” he says, or near enough, and Anton ducks his head slightly, mumbling out a goodbye.

Neither of the Petrovs look back again, but Thomas does. He waves one last goodbye, somehow still smiling, and, utterly helpless, Alexei finds himself waving back.

[todaysdocument]

Liquor Prohibition Ordinance 1900, Ordert No. 3 , An Ordinance to prohibit the supply of Intoxicating Liquors to Natives.

Record Group 284: Records of the Government of American SamoaSeries: Laws and CodesFile Unit: "Laws and Regulations, 1900; 1901"

UNITED STATES NAVAL STATION, TUTUILA.

LIQUOR PROHIBITION ORDINACE 1900.

COMMANDER B.F. TILLEY, U.S.N., COMMANDANT.

No 3. PAGOPAGO. April 28th, 1900.

An Ordinance to prohibit the supply of Intoxication Liquors to Natives.

SHORT TITLE.

1.--The Short title of this Ordinance may be "The Liquor Prohibition Ordinance, 1900."

INTERPRETATION.

2.--n this ordinance the term "natives" shall in its reference mean not merely abori-

ginal natives of Samoa but aboriginal natives of India or of Fiji or of German-Samoa or of

any island in the Pacific Ocean, or any person born of a foreign father with a Samoan

mother and who cannot by law be recognised as being a subject or citizen of

the country to which his father is a subject or citizen, and the term "liquor"

shall mean any wine or other spirituous or fermented liquor or any liquid used for

drinking any portion of which is spirituous or fermented.

3.--No spirituous vinous or fermented liquors or intoxicating liquor or drink whatever

shall be sold, furnished to or procured for any native by any person except as hereunder

provided.

4.-If any person except as hereunder provided shall sell, supply to, or procure for any

native any liquor or drink as aforesaid or shall aid or abet in any way in the giving, selling,

supply or procuring any liquor in any form or quantity to or for any native shall be deemed to

be guilty of an offence against this Ordinance and on conviction thereof in a summary manner

shall be liable in addition to any penalty which may be incurred for the sale of such liquor

without a license to a fine not exceeding $100.0, or in default of payment, to imprisonment

for a term not exceeding 100 days.

5.--It shall not be lawful for any native to possess or have in his possession any liquor,

or to drink any liquor, and any native so doing shall on conviction be fined in a sum not

exceeding $25.00, in default of payment, be imprisoned for a term not exceeding 25 days.

EXEMPTIONS.

6.--Nothing in this Ordinance shall be held to apply

(a). To a minister of religion giving wine in conformity with any religious rite.

(b). To any person not being a publican, and not being within a public house, 2.

who shall give to any native for any urgent cause or necessity, and without

recompense or remuneration, any liquor, when such liquor is given solely

and purely for medical purposes; but it shall rest with the person giving

such liquor to prove satisfactory the existence of such urgent necessity and,

failing such proof, such person shall be liable to the punishment provided

for in paragraph 4 of this Ordinance.

(c). To the domestic servant or other messenger of any foreign resident who

shall bear a written and dated order for liquor from his employer for his em-

ployer's use. The term "Foreign Resident" in this Ordinance includes

and applies to every foreigner visiting, sojourning, or having a fixed place of

abode withing the limits of the United States Naval Station, Tutuila.

7. Any order under subsection "c" of the preceding section shall be signed by the,

employer, who shall also enter upon it the date of the day of his delivering it to his servant

and the order shall have no effect beyond the day of its date. Any person supplying liquor

upon such an order shall initial his name, and retain it in his possession for 12 calendar months.

8.--Any person shall be guilty of an offence against this ordinance and shall on convic-

tion thereof in a summary manner, be liable to the penalty provided in section 4 of this

Ordinance who for the purpose of evading the provisions hereof shall give liquor or allow his

name to be used for the purpose of procuring liquor for a native under color of any other

exemptions contained in this Ordinance.

9.--Storekeepers and publicans shall keep the liquor on their premises in such a manner

as to prevent easy access thereto by natives, and in default thereof shall be guilty of an offence

against this Ordinance and on conviction thereof in a summary manner to be liable to a penalty

of a fine not exceeding $25.00 or in default in payment thereof to imprisonment for a term

not exceeding 14 days.

10.--When any shall be charged with an offence under this ordinance, and said

offence shall have been prima facie established against him by the prosecutor he, unless he be

a medical practitioner, shall be hound to prove that he is, and that the prosecutor shall not

be bound to prove that he is not, covered by any of the exceptions provided by this

Ordinance.

11.--Any charge laid in respect of any offence against this Ordinance shall be laid within

a period of six months from the commission of such offence.

12.--This Ordinance shall take effect from and after the date of its publication.

Published and Exhibited at the Public Office of the Commandant in Fagatogo on this

18th day of April in the year 1900.

B. F. TILLEY, U.S.N.

COMMANDANT UNITED STATES NAVAL STATION, TUTUILA

[altocat]

I find it very interesting that the Lifestream gave Sephiroth his necklace back. Like yeah, Glenn kicked it into the fissure right afterwards, but the planet itself seemed to have shown genuine kindness to Seph, despite Sephiroth being genetically designed to act as the planet's conqueror.

Further proof that Sephiroth was a genuinely good person thrust into awful circumstances beyond his control. The Lifestream recognized him killing Rosen as an act of mercy, and sought to provide him with a small bit of comfort in recompense. The Lifestream WANTED Sephiroth to have that necklace. Maybe it was trying to guide him towards a better path, a path back to his mother.

But unfortunately, so long as he remained with Shinra, there never really was much hope.

[thebenjiblackwoodexpress]

Devil's Snare Part. 8

Aemond Targayen x Reader

Description: A raven arrives to King's Landing carrying news of Prince Lucerys' death. Aemond returns to find his wife has reverted back to the timid and fearful girl he'd first met, horrified by his actions and terrified of the darkness that festers within him.

Previous part

Writer's note: Here it is, the part I've been scared to write as this story has been mostly fluffy up to this point. This is angst city I'm not going to lie. I took inspiration from Stephanie Garber's Once upon a broken heart series. Even more angst to follow in the next part. Thank you as always to all you lovely readers!

Warnings: Aemond being possessive and a little toxic. Angst, angst, angst. Seriously, Aemond is in the trenches because his wife is mad at him. Female reader.

Years of training with Ser Cole to gain mastery over the sword, years spent studying to embody all that a Targaryen Prince should be, years bonded to the largest and most ancient Dragon in existence...all had taught Aemond control. But at the very real threat to those he loved at Aegon's coronation, the realisation that he did not have the power to guarantee the safety of his family, Aemond felt his tenous control over himself, over everything around him slipping.

Seeing Lucerys Velaryon again at Storm's End had been incendiary to Aemond, who already burned with rage and a desire for vengeance. The fear of losing those he loved, his fury at the Strong pup parading about the kingdom trying to steal his brother's inheritance, a loathsome feeling of vulnerability in the face of the boy who'd taken his eye from him and paid no recompense. All had lead him on a path of violence that there could be no turning back from. In killing Lucerys Velaryon, Aemond had begun a war that could lead to nowhere but death and destruction. He felt nauseous as he watched with horror the mangled pieces of Arrax fall from the sky. His mind swam with conflicting fears as he felt the true weight of what he'd done hit him, tightening his grip on Vhagar's reigns, the feel of the leather beneath his hands the only thing vesting him with a sense of reality. It did not matter that he had not meant to kill Luke, all that mattered was that he had lost control of himself and his dragon in turn. The Blacks would seek to retaliate tenfold, and if anything happened to his family now it would be his fault. The thought sent a jolt of fear tearing up Aemond's spine and he struggled to breathe, gasping for air. Then he thought of Y/N's reaction. He pictured her face contorted with disgust at his actions or worse still fear of him. The image sobered him somewhat as if a pitcher of ice cold water had been thrown over him and cleared his muddled senses. He gripped Vhagar's reigns and angled her in the direction of King's Landing. He expected it would not be long before Storm's End became aware of what had transpired and they would inevitably send ravens. He could not bear the thought of his wife hearing of what he'd done from any other lips but his own and that conviction had him pitching forward to urge Vhagar to fly faster.

The Prince's worst fears were realised the moment he stepped foot in the Red Keep as he was immediately rushed by his mother and The Hand, demanding explanations from him he could scarcely give and he knew then that he was too late. Whilst he had been panicking atop the clouds of Storm's End, Lord Baratheon had sent his ravens.

Aemond inhaled deeply, tentatively opening the door to the chambers he shared with his wife. Y/N's hair was mussed as if she'd been yanking at it and her breath was ragged as she paced about the room in agitation. Her head snapped up as he entered and he felt the look of fear in her eyes, of what he had done or of him, pierce his very soul.

He took small experimental steps towards her, unable to stop himself from reaching towards her. Though he immediately halted when she held a hand out to stop him.

Aemond was surprised to hear Y/N's voice break the silence first as whatever explanations, or apology he had prepared died on his lips.

"Is it true. Did you kill a child?" Both her gaze and her question were direct, but the waver in her voice sent a pang of pain through Aemond's heart.

He dropped his head, regret crashing over him all over again and contending painfully with the desperation he now felt to make Y/N understand that killing Luke had been a terrible mistake.

His voice got stuck in his throat as he took note of his wife's trembling form, the tears in her eyes threatening to spill over at any moment. He nodded almost imperceptibly and watched in horror as Y/N brought a hand to her mouth to ineffectively smother a sob, a look of utter devastation and betrayal on her beautiful face before she turned away from him entirely.

Her breathing turned more erratic and she clutched her abdomen as if physically pained by his confirmation of the terrible truth that her husband was a kinslayer.

"It was a mistake." Even to Aemond, this sounded laughable, a pathetic excuse and when Y/N spoke again, her voice was icy.

"You told me once that I was your light, an escape from the darkness that has ever haunted you since you were a child. But Aemond, what you have done..."

Y/N shook her head and rubbed the tears from her eyes, turning back towards him with a fiery resolve that Aemond had never seen lighting his wife's eyes.  "Was it all a lie? Was I simply ensnared by pretty words that dull the senses. Is this who you have always been?"

Aemond stepped towards her again, his words frantic. "No, you know I would never harm you."

Y/N looked at him as if she were seeing him for the first time. "I don't know anything anymore."

Aemond reached for her again but felt his own face crumple as Y/N flinched away from him, his arms falling back to his sides rigidly. 

He took a step back, holding his hands out in a placating gesture.

"I will not touch you if you do not wish me to."

Y/N said nothing, only continued to stare at Aemond with wide and fearful eyes.  Aemond watched her carefully, wishing to beg for her forgiveness but realising she was in too much shock and much too upset with him to take in his accuses.

Clasping his hands behind his back, he bowed his head to her, trying to keep his voice even though he felt his throat constrict painfully at Y/N's rejection. "I will leave you for now. You need have no fear of me." Aemond turned on his heel, quickly exiting the room, not imagining there could be anything more painful to him than the way Y/N was looking at him, with such unbidden terror, as others had his whole life, as if he would hurt her.

Y/N felt as if a mist had been removed from her vision. For all that she had shared with Aemond and for all she'd thought she knew him, she could never have imagined him capable of murdering a child.

She didn't believe it at first when the raven arrived, couldn't believe it. Had her husband not already told her that he'd long ago forgiven Lucerys for the loss of his eye? Had he not allowed his nephew Jacaerys to strike him, laughing it off? But in the space of a few short hours, Aemond had slain his nephew, become a kinslayer and started a war. Y/N was not prepared for this life and her mind was consumed by fears of what was to come. For surely Rhaneyra would seek vengeance. Worse still was the fear that she'd never known Aemond at all. Had she been in love with a mirage this whole time? Y/N recalled reading of a plant in a book of botany helaena had insisted she borrow, that while attractive to look upon was deadly to the touch. Devil's Snare it had been called. Even its flowers were toxic, able to cause delirium or hallucinations. Is that what had happened to her when she fell in love with Prince Aemond Targaryen, not fully understanding how dangerous he truly was? She'd paced their shared chambers, hoping beyond all hope that Lord Baratheon was mistaken. That Aemond would return, sweep her up into his arms and reassure her that it was all a big mistake, that all would be as it was. But she knew by the look on Aemond's face as he entered the room, by the slow and careful way he approached her, that nothing would ever be the same between them again. It did not stop her from asking the truth of it and with his nod of confirmation she felt the breath knocked from her, clutching at her stomach to hold herself together.

She'd finched involuntarily as he made to touch her, his eyes widening in alarm as a sob tore through her. Y/N was reeling from the unsettling feeling that had wound its way deep in the pit of her stomach that she no longer knew her husband. And what she did not know about him, what she could not understand in the conflicting images of him as a loving and gentle husband and a man who could murder his nephew, caused a wave of genuine fear to rise up within her. Perhaps he would lash out if she spoke to her horror at what he'd done.

Though Aemond quickly dropped his hands, wincing as if in pain at her rejection of his touch. Part of her wanted to reach for him, beg him for an explanation, tell him that everything would be OK though she knew it wouldn't. But she was rooted to the spot, lost in staring at her husband who until that moment she'd thought she knew better than any living soul. As Aemond exited their chambers she felt little relief. He had said "for now" and Y/N was certain he would try to speak with her again on the morrow. She doubted she'd be any more prepared than she was now to hear his excuses, to force herself to come to terms with the fact that he had killed a child in cold blood.

When Aemond entered their chambers the next day, Y/N noted the determined set to his shoulders and the seriousness of his expression and knew that this time he would not leave until she'd heard his explanations. Y/N had tossed and turned the entire night before she'd come to her own decision, and nothing Aemond said could sway her from it. She needed space to think, to begin to fully come to terms with all that had transpired in the last few days since Aegon had been crowned...to consider how they would move forward knowing now what Aemond had done.

Aemond spoke quickly, allowing no room for interruption.

"I know you are upset with me, that you are afraid. But I ask you to hear what I have to say, my love." He paused briefly, observing her before continuing as he seemed to find what he was looking for in her expression.

"I did not wish to distress you any more than I could see you were. But I must tell you now that whilst my actions were brash, I had no intention of harming my nephew, only of intimidating him. I acted out of anger and I lost control. I am sorry for it."

Y/N was gladdened at least to know Aemond had not intended to kill his nephew, but it did not change the bitter fact that he had. And she could not as easily accept this as she knew he wished her too.

She wrung her hands nervously, frightened to ask for what she wanted. Aemond appeared calm in the moment, but she had seen first hand how quickly his temper could turn.

Her voice came out meeker than she would have hoped. "I wish to be installed in separate chambers for the time being." It hardly mattered. Aemond stumbled a few steps backwards as if she'd shouted at him.

His voice was ragged.

"Why?

Y/N lowered her gaze to the ground, unable to look up at Aemond.

"I cannot pretend that I am not horrified by what you have done. And I need space to even begin to comprehend it...let alone try to forgive you, Aemond."

Aemond's response was breathless, as if he were trying to speak though a pressing weight pushed down on his chest.

"You cannot stand to be in my presence then? Do you no longer love me?"

Y/N gawked at him.

"I'm not sure I even know you any more Aemond. If you could just allow me some time to think..."

Aemond practically snarled in response, his anger taking Y/N by surprise.

"So easily you cast our love aside. You were meant to stand by me always as my wife. Am I not your husband?"

Y/N felt her own anger rise up and she pushed through her timidity to voice it.

"So I must forgive you any transgression, silently stand by as you commit atrocities? Simply because I am your wife? My thoughts and feelings are my own."  Within seconds Aemond had crossed the room and possessively gripped her waist. "You are mine." 

Incensed, Y/N tried to push against the cage of his arms, huffing in frustration when she failed to move him even an inch. "You cannot possess a person, Aemond...If all you want from me is placid acceptance then perhaps it would be better to dissolve our union." She had not truly meant it, regretted it as soon as the words had left her mouth. But her words had the desired effect as Aemond's eye widened and his arms slackened around her. In the next second he had dropped to his knees in front of her, gripping her skirts. He placed his forehead against her stomach, his anger seemingly entirely dissipated, his touch and voice all gentleness. "No, my love. I will give you anything. But not that. Never that. I did not mean it. Of course your mind is your own and I always want you to speak it. Shout at me, tear this place asunder, strike me if you must. I can live without your forgiveness if you feel you cannot give it, I can live with you hating me.  But I cannot live without you."

Y/N felt her own heart soften at his gentleness, but she was still too upset with him to just fall straight back into his arms.

"Then will you agree to my request?"

Aemond tensed, his grip tightening slightly on her hips before he nodded against the fabric of her dress.

"If it is what you need, then I will see to it."

Y/N prised Aemond's hands from her then, equal parts relieved by his assent and pained at seeing him this way.  She whispered a hurried "Thank you" before moving around him and hastening from his chambers. She expected to meet resistance with every step but as she passed over the threshold she briefly looked back to see thst Aemond had not moved even an inch.

In the days that followed, Aemond scarcely saw Y/N at all. If he did it was  a mere glimpse as she hurried down a hallway, headed for the chambers his mother had settled her in at his request. He had made to speak to her on one occasion as he's come across his lady wife emerging from her chambers. But as soon as she saw him she quickly retreated back into her room. Aemond had rested his forehead upon the door that separated him from his love briefly, feeling the distance between them like a dagger to the heart. He had not meant any of the harsh words he had spoken when they'd last met. Her rejection had stung him and he had lashed out like a petulant child, spoken to her and acted as if she were a possession of his rather than the woman he loved. In his own disgust at himself he'd tried to bear their separation as best he could, but he hoped that with time Y/N's heart would soften to him again. He did not think he could bear what was to come without her at his side.

Two more days passed before he heard the sound of Y/N's voice again. Aemond came across his wife again in halls adjacent to his sister's chambers. She'd stopped, seemingly choosing between turning back the way she'd come or crossing paths and a clumsy servant boy bumped right into her, prompting her to pitch forward. Aemond swiftly darted forward to catch his wife by her waist, pulling her upright and holding her against him as he roughly shoving the boy away away from her. He glared at the boy, speaking through gritted teeth. "Watch yourself."

The boy looked shaken as he stuttered frantically. "My sincerest apologies my Prince, Princess." He nodded at them both before practically sprinting down the hall away from them, leaving Aemond and Y/N alone.

Still holding Y/N in his arms, Aemond took the opportunity to look upon his lady, though he was concerned to observe the dark shadows under her eyes and a certain hollowness in her cheeks. He lowered his head to gaze into her eyes, tentatively raising a hand to brush a lock of hair from her face.

He spoke softly, eager not to scare her away.

" Are you well?"

Y/N nodded, though Aemond noted that she looked anywhere but at him.

"Yes." Her timid reply sent a pang through his heart. He had fallen in love with Y/N's shy and gently nature quickly when they'd first met. It had inspired a protectiveness in him he could never have anticipated, endeared him from the first. From the moment he'd rescued her from Helaena's pet spider she had always just been his shy girl in is mind. But her return to the timid creature who could barely stand to look at him pained him beyond measure.

Lost in his own thoughts, he almost didn't catch Y/N's next words.

"I must go."

"Must you?"

Y/n did not reply, but  she began to push against him to extricate herself from his hold.

Aemond felt himself becoming desperate. "Please, my love."

"Release me, my Prince." Aemond let Y/N go as if she'd scorched him. In a way she had with her use of his formal title, as if she didn't know every part of him, couldn't see into his very soul, as if he were nought but a stranger.

Aemond found himself grateful to Aegon for offering him a place on his small council. Discussions on tactics and strategy gave him ample distraction during the day. At night he could not stand the conflicting feelings of guilt and loneliness that threatened to consume him, heightened by the emptiness of his chambers without the presence of his beloved wife. Each time a maid would enter his chambers he'd startle, feeling strangely as if he were seeing a ghost of the girl he loved. He could not stand it for long and spent his nights wandering about the Keep or the filthy streets of King's Landing, only returning to his chambers in the early hours of the morning when he was wearied to the bone.

His mother regarded him with an air of suspicion and wariness now, blaming him for starting the war with The Blacks. But seeing him look so piteous, she'd softened somewhat and Aemond was glad of the news she would bring him of his wife, of her daily customs and health.

He was unsurprised to learn that she had taken to spending the better part of her own evenings in his sister's chambers, often sleeping there. He'd observed with affection the tender bond his wife had developed with both his sister Helaena and her children.

The hour was late when Aemond came across Y/N again, making his way through an ante chamber that led from the household chambers to the lower levels of the keep just as she had surely been heading to his sister's chambers. She stopped in the middle of the room at the sight of him and Aemond halted, mimicking her movements. A fire crackled in the hearth on his left, casting a warm glow that illuminated Y/N's features. For a brief moment Aemond willed the flames to burst free from the hearth and set the room ablaze, just so he would have an excuse to carry her from it though he knew his touch was no longer welcome. Realising the mad turn his thoughts had taken he decided then and there that he had to fix this. He could not stand Y/N's silence any longer, this distance she had imposed between them. He had to make her understand.

"I will not deny the bitterness I have long felt towards Lucerys for taking my eye and receiving no punishment for it. But I never meant to kill him. It is true, I pursued him but it was his fear I wanted, not his blood. I wanted him to feel as I did when he took my eye. I did not anticipate Arrax retaliating in defense of his rider and...in truth I lost control of mine own dragon."

Y/N's expression turned pensive and conflicted as she mulled over his words 

"You killed a child, Aemond. Lucerys was no match for you or your dragon and yet you pursued him."

Aemond shut his eye briefly, inhaling slowly as he tried to calm himself enough to answer Y/N without frightening her further. He would not shout at her again. But he needed her to understand that the moment the crown was placed on Aegon's head, war was inevitable. He regretted Luke's death, but he could not undo it.

"There must always be casualties in a war. If it had not been my hand that struck the first blow then it would have been Rhaenyra's."

Aemond's voice sounded colder and more unfeeling than he'd hoped, but to him it was a plain and simple fact he'd long grown accustomed to. His siblings had been raised to fear their sister Rhaenyra, by virtue of their posing a threat to her claim to the Iron Throne.

Y/N's voice shook slightly as she spoke, though Aemond was glad at least that she met his gaze now and had not run from him.

"Aemond it was monstrous."

It was like a dagger had been thrust through his chest. Aemond had always been aware of whispers at court of the one-eyed Prince, of his disfigurement and intimidating presence. They had only grown louder since the news of Prince Lucery's death became common knowledge. But while Y/N had undeniably been wary of him when they'd first met, she'd never treated him as others had. She'd been able to see the good in him, the light in the darkness and pulled him towards it...towards her. But he loved her, and he knew that she still loved him too or she would not have listened to his explanations at all and would not still be standing before him. He recognised the warring emotions in her eyes, the agonising mixture of sadness, fear, and longing, because he knew she could see the same conflict in his one good eye.

Aemond suddenly felt that it did not matter if Y/N did think of him as a monster, as long as she thought of him, as long as long as she thought of him as hers.

"If that be so then I am your monster."

Y/N's eyes widened in shock, though he noted how they quickly softened as she shook her head sadly at him. She turned her face to gaze at the flickering flames and Aemond had to lean towards her to hear her.

"You are not a monster, Aemond. That is not what I meant. You would not regret your nephew's death if that were the case."

Aemond quickly closed the distance between them, emboldened by her words, wrapping an arm around her shoulders to draw her to his chest.

"I am glad to hear you say so for I cannot stand this silence any longer. I love you and whatever horrors I have wrought you must believe that I would never do anything to harm you. The thought is inconceivable to me. Can you find it within your heart to forgive me, to love me again my darling girl?"

Y/N sighed but Aemond felt his heart stutter as she leant against him rather than pushing him away as he'd expected.

"What would that make me Aemond? I was never prepared for this life of political intrigue and machinations, for violence and warfare."

Aemond tentatively raised his hand to cup the back of her head tenderly but the loud clacking of footsteps had Y/N jumping away from him, his hand falling to his side again.

A moment later his grandsire entered the room, shooting Y/N a withering look as she hurried past him. Aemond kept hoping she'd glance back at him, but she did not.

Angrily he turned on Otto.

"You frightened my wife, grandsire."

Infuriatingly, Otto bore an expression of amusement as he quirked an eyebrow up at Aemond.

"A wife would not scorn her husband as she does you, Aemond. The whole court has observed her unseemly behaviour towards you, her lord husband who she should obey. She makes a mockery of you. Aemond, you and your dragon are the single greatest power in this war and if she does not realise the importance of this fundamental fact then perhaps it is time for you you consider the disolussion of your marriage."

Aemond felt his blood heat and his temper rise dangerously. He did not wish to harm his grandsire, it would only upset his mother. But neither would he allow Otto to speak of his wife in such a way. He'd become far too comfortable doing so.

"I do not care for whispers. Y/N is my wife and she can do as she pleases. I will not impress myself upon her if she does not wish it but I will not listen to you continously besmirching her either. If you suggest that I annul my marriage again, I will kill you grandsire. I have already been branded as a kinslayer and it would serve you well to remember it."

For once, Aemond could see a flash of genuine fear in Otto's eyes as he was seemingly stunned into silence. Aemond brushed past him, not caring to wait for a response. He bristled with irritation as he passed the throne room, hearing his brother and his friends drunkenly inventing denominations for him as king upon the iron throne. He hoped that the cold night air would help to clear his mind though tonight he felt that the stars looked less desolate, the dark streets of King's Landing less eery and sinister. For a weight had been lifted from him when Y/N leant into his touch, when she'd told him that he was not a monster.

Aemond felt a sense of foreboding when upon returning to the Red Keep around the Hour of Ghosts, the whole keep seemed to be wide awake and and in a state of dissaray. Pulling his cloak from his shoulders, Aemond questioned the first guard he saw.

"What is the meaning of this raucous?"

At the sight of him the guard visibly paled but stayed infuriatingly silent.

"Speak quickly you fool."

At the Prince's stern command the guard stood to attention.

"The Queen was attacked in her bedchamber, my Prince and the young Prince Jahaerys slain. We have yet to find the perpetrator."

Aemond felt as if the ground were collapsing between him. His sweet sister, his little nephew...how could this have happened? Dread seeped into the pit of his stomach at the sick realisation that his wife tended to spend her evenings with his sister and her children. He'd seen her making her way in that direction before he'd left...left both his wife and sister unprotected.

"Where is my wife?"

The guard swallowed loudly, stepping back a pace. "Princess Y/N was with the Queen in her chambers during the attack. I believe they are both with the Queen Dowager now."

Without another word Aemond took off at a run, his heart pounding in his chest and his blood thrumming in his ears.

@jjkysnk

@ieieibhibu8

@skymoonandstardust

@truly-abysmal

@idonotknowenglish

@leonesimp

@hyacinthesiss

@nanawafflesstuff

@callsigncrushx

@bitchyfestivalbouquet

@void21

@sapphiresandferrari

@pinkykats-place

@superintenseart

@youknownothingjohnwatson

@iportes-22

@misspinkonmars

@zoetje2004

@ateliefloresdaprimavera

@sakurachan-9

[thornedrose44]

Lena Luthor: Random Crap Generator

Read on AO3

She liked to think it was a gift from her mother - her final wish or a blessing.

Or maybe even a bizarre recompense from a universe that believed the smallest smidge of magic made up for depriving a girl of her mother. (It was the equivalent of the sun going out and being given a match with the propensity to sputter and die or generate a light unable to cast further than three feet ahead.)

It was still magic - something tangible, individual and beyond understanding - and even in her childish heart, that was so overwhelmed with grief and loneliness, it provided a spark of giddiness and excitement. It made her feel special. 

What would it be today?

A lily so she had something to lay on her mother’s coffin.

An umbrella to shield her when she was caught in an unforecasted shower, sat on the curb by the police station waiting for the strange man in fancy clothes to pick her up and take her to her new home.

A chess piece - white knight - to replace the one that Lex had lost when they had moved the board from the living room to the garden for the day, it meant they could play and pretend to ignore the raised voices of Lionel and Lillian.

A pencil to replace the one that snapped in her first lesson on her first day at school.

It was impressive until Lena grew used to it. Learned that there were limitations. 

It was never anything substantive or of high value, it had to fit in her hand, had to be small and low value as if whatever this ability was could only pull items from a ninety-nine cent store. She got one item a day. It would be there in her hand when she woke up and then it would vanish when she fell asleep.

(She tested it out, working out what it was linked to - a time or the actual act of sleeping. She stayed up all night, holding tight to the sleep mask she’d had awoken that morning with to see when it would disappear. It remained resolute and real. It wasn’t until she fell asleep in the late morning, eye mask pulled on to block out the bright sunlight that it vanished at some point during her exhaustion-induced nap.)

It was during her teen years - particularly the angsty goth phase she leaned into - that she dubbed her power ‘The Random Crap Generator’ (unsurprisingly the name stuck).

The item didn’t tell her the future but gave some decent hints which, as Lena grew older, was more appreciated than the actual cheap item itself. 

The earplugs she woke up to in her hand on her first day at college let her know that the girl next door did not understand that the walls were thin, her moans were loud and pretending that her boyfriend was an effective lover did not actually make it so.

The roll of quarters pre-warned of the washing machine in the shared college house was broken before Jack and Sam yelled for her help in fixing it. 

(The condom was particularly embarrassing and made her acutely aware of the most likely outcome of the fancy date that Jack had planned for that evening).

The cuddly brown bear told Lena that Sam’s water would break two weeks earlier than expected.

Most of the time it was harmless or a helpful nudge.

Other times, though, it was a gut punch or an omen that left her on tenterhooks for the whole day.

Lena remembered waking to find bandages in her hand and small alcohol wipes. She’d had injuries before - fencing could get brutal and every engineer has their personal soldering story that keeps them vigilant for all future interactions. But this was different. It was different because she was set to wear a wire that day. It was different because she now knew what her brother was capable of. She couldn’t take the bandages with her, it would have undermined her role - the doting sister who could never imagine her brother causing her harm. She tucked them into her nightstand and later when she made her way home after hours at the police station - the officers already starting to sneer at her despite her crucial help - she’d come home and retrieved the morning supplied medical items and tended to the damage on her wrists from Lex’s too tight handcuffs.

Then there was the day she woke to something small and cold in her hand. She’d rolled it on her fingertips under the quilt, hoping that when she finally pulled it free and studied it that it wouldn’t be what she suspected it was. She kept the bullet with her, tucked into a hidden pocket of her suit. A single bullet without a gun doesn’t attract much attention. When she picked up the gun and found the chamber empty, she didn’t even bother to check that the bullet was the right type. She knew it would be. One shot was all she needed, and then Lex was bleeding out in front of her.

The days following that she awoke to a box of tissues and she worked away her way through them diligently - until she had no tears left to shed and her heart couldn’t break any further.

She ignored the small compact mirror that was in the palm of her hand every morning as she sought revenge and retribution. She threw it in the trash, out a window, ran over it with her car and even destroyed it with a controlled explosive. Regardless, the exact same mirror (cheesy pink casing and slightly chipped in the corner) would appear and Lena belligerently refused to study herself in it - aware of the unfamiliar darkness she would see brewing in her eyes.

(The day after she had reached out to Kara to repair their damaged relationship and return to the light, she awoke to a simple gold star sticker stuck to the palm of her hand - the exact gold star stickers her Mom had given for completing little chores and tasks. She had cried into the pillows until they were damp and her cheeks red and flushed.)

A red, blue and yellow friendship bracelet - fraying on the ends but clearly made with love and care - was clasped tight in a fist when she awoke every morning during Kara’s absence as if to serve as tether or connection until her return.

Xxx

Despite her Random Crap Generator (trademark pending), Lena had still struggled to believe in magic. 

(Mostly because if magic was real, what was the point of her entire career and scientific pursuits? If magic was real and could do so many amazing things, why did her mother walk into the sea? Why if there was so much wonder and things beyond what they could merely see, why wasn’t it enough for her mother? Why? Why? Why?)

She didn’t understand her power but she believed that there was an explanation that was simply yet to reveal itself - her main working theory was time travel. A version of herself in the future - who for some reason only had a bucket of bargain items on hand indicating a rather dramatic change in her financial circumstances - sent back ‘useful’ items for each day of her life in the hope to aid her without causing some dramatic paradox.

“I’m sorry, I’m going to need you to say that all again…” Kara requested, crease between her brows so deep it almost looked endless.

“Which part exactly?” Lena frowned as they sat down for breakfast in Kara’s apartment.

“The part where you’ve been magical since a little girl and yet belligerently refused to believe in magic? Or the part where you're only telling me this now?” Kara spluttered, resisting even starting the stack of pancakes in front of her to instead question Lena, which told her this was a ‘serious’ matter.

“I just…” Lena waved a hand and shrugged, “didn’t think it was worth mentioning.”

“Wha- I- you- Argh!” Kara aggressively stabbed her pancakes and shoved a chunk into her mouth chewing angrily.

Lena sighed, “Look it’s not like it’s…” She hesitated wondering if they were at a stage in their renewed friendship (post-reveal, post-revenge, post-apology, post-Lex, post-sharing-your-super-secret-with-the-whole-world) to nod back to it in a gentle way. “Cool superpowers. It’s a hairband when my one snapped the day before. It’s a chocolate bar when I have low blood sugar. It’s… it’s crap.”

Kara gasped in outrage at the descriptor. “It’s not crap!”

“Kara… Come on.” Lena rolled her eyes.

“My best friend’s magical abilities are not crap.” Kara declared, chin lifted with determination, reaching out with her free hand to squeeze Lena’s forearm - hand remaining there even once the comforting touch had been provided.

(They were doing that more often, reaching out and maintaining contact. It was simple and affectionate, and from afar it would be considered merely friendly but up close? Up close you could see how Lena’s cheeks became rose-tinted, how Kara’s breath caught and how they both snuck glances at one another, their smiles small yet greedy.)

“Regardless,” Lena continued clearing her throat, and trying to ignore the swoop in her stomach, as her voice softened to something apologetic and deeply sincere. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier.”

She hadn’t even really told Kara either, her ability outed itself. She and Kara had had their twice weekly sleepover (Lena didn’t study the ramifications of them having their own drawer and closet space at each other’s places), and upon waking to Kara’s arm slung over her waist and face pressed to her back, Lena found a full pack of pancake mix in her hand which Kara had immediately queried. 

It sort of all came tumbling out from there.

“I appreciate that.” Kara acknowledged, lips shiny with syrup as she smiled at Lena. 

“Thank you.” Lena nodded.

“But seriously how could you not believe in magic with all that going on?”

Xxx

They started sleeping over at each other’s places more and more. Kara was curious about Lena’s power and had the child-like wonder with each new day’s offering that Lena had lost over the years. Even if Lena couldn’t help but indulge in Kara’s joy, there were other benefits to incentivise her.

Kara would hold her close in bed, pulling her back against her chest, nose sneaking through the locks of her hair to trace the nape of her neck. Lena would press yesterday’s item into Kara’s hand, who always held onto it with the vain hope that if she held it just right it wouldn’t vanish, whilst Lena would keep her right hand held out across the mattress so upon waking whatever had appeared would be instantly visible.

The first morning there was a bright red box with a handle; Lena had handed it over to Kara immediately who giddily turned the handle producing the shrill childish music before popping loudly to reveal a jack-in-the-box. 

Lena had never loved her ability more than she did in that moment.

xxx

“Ugh…” Alex groaned, sniffling loudly as she collapsed onto the stool next to Lena. 

“Everything okay?” Lena queried, flinching away when Alex sneezed violently into the crook of her arm.

“Sorry,” Alex mumbled, voice nasally, “Esme picked up a cold from school and it's taken me and Kelly out. I’m at least somewhat mobile so I took Tower duty.”

“Sounds like this is for you, then.” Lena said, without really thinking about it, handing over the cold and flu medicine she’d been granted that morning.

“Huh?” Alex frowned, accepting the medicine, “Thanks… did you just have this on you?”

Lena hesitated for a second, “You could say that.”

Alex’s gaze narrowed, “Did Kelly message you to pick this up for me?”

“No, I just had it to hand.” 

Alex blinked, “Wait is this… like yours?”

“Mine?” Lena repeated.

“You know…” Alex held out her hand and opened and closed it repeatedly. “Creation magic.”

“Temporary Random Crap Generator.” Lena corrected and confirmed.

“So, if I take this medicine and you go to sleep, would the drug just disappear from my bloodstream?” Alex questioned.

“Not sure, I think it would if I was given a different item upon waking but if I generated the same item, I don’t think so. That’s what happens when I’m ill, I keep getting the medicine until I’m better.” Lena explained.

“Hmph…” Alex replied, eyes watery and cheeks flushed enough to stop her from interrogating further, she shrugged and took her medicine as Lena returned to her work. “Hey… what… what is this branding?”

“Hmm?”

“This look like it's from the nineties?” Alex said, looking utterly perplexed, “Is it like retro or something?”

Lena glanced at the bright colours and blocky design that marked it as older than the sleeker and simpler designs of today. “Uhh… yeah, it must be.”

She’d never really considered the design, whenever she got sick she didn’t go to the pharmacy for over the counter medication, she always awoke with the simple medication she required - anything requiring a prescription was beyond her crap generator abilities. It had never really clicked that the medicine she received was exactly the brands her mother used to stock their medicine cabinet with. 

“Hey, I’m tired and for once there is no crime…” Alex began, glancing furtively around - it was just them and Brainy at the tower since Kara was training Nia to help her take point on missions, meaning Kara could step away from the cape for longer periods as required, and J’onn was having a much earned day off.

Lena raised an eyebrow waiting for the follow-up.

“Want to design some experiments for your RCG?” Alex suggested, a sparkle appearing in her eyes - scientific curiosity that wasn’t indulged as often anymore.

“RCG?” Lena questioned as Brainy popped his head into the room, eyes wide and hopeful.

“Did someone say design an experiment?”

“For Lena’s Random Crap Generator powers - RCG.” Alex explained.

Lena rolled her eyes but she couldn’t help but smile, “Sure, why not?”

“YES!” Brainy and Alex both yelled in excitement.

Xxx

They were all from home. 

As in her mother’s home. Or more generally from her childhood.

The tissues, the medicine, the sweet treats, the gold stars, even the bullet. (Her mother had kept a gun in the back of her closet, she didn’t think Lena knew but Lena had seen her cleaning it when she couldn’t sleep one night). All of it. 

It explained the low cost nature of it all, they’d lived very simply and shopped at the local stores which were always plentiful with their random items and knick-knacks. 

They’d spent the day tracing the items, looking up each one to confirm the hypothesis. Kara had come in and stuck close to Lena’s side, hand on the small of her back throughout it all. It wasn’t until they returned home (together as always) that Lena broke. 

“Hey, it’s okay.” Kara soothed, effortlessly picking her up and taking her straight to bed to lie down.

“I’m sorry, I don't know why I’m crying.” Lena sobbed, curling into Kara’s chest.

Kara kissed her forehead, “You don’t need to know why. You can just cry.”

Lena took the advice to heart and sobbed until her chest ached and her face felt puffy. She fell asleep cradled in Kara’s arms and when she awoke it was to the teddy she’d had when she was a child held close to her chest. 

“You knew I wasn’t okay before I did.” Lena breathed into the still morning air. She knew Kara was already awake - her breathing was an edge to light and her thumb was stroking back and forth on Lena’s stomach to soothe her. Lena turned around to face Kara, the teddy bear held tight in her arms as she met gentle blue eyes.

“Yes.” Kara confirmed, gaze flickering over Lena’s features.

“How?”

“I promised myself I wouldn’t miss it the next time.” Kara replied, volume low as if to create a private bubble that was just their own.

“Miss what?” Lena asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Your sadness. Your hurt.” Kara whispered, “I don’t want you to ever face those things alone again.”

Lena inhaled a shaky breath, hand shyly reaching out to cup Kara’s face, “Kara…”

Kara turned her head and pressed a kiss to the palm of Lena’s hand, her eyes slipping closed as if to fully concentrate on absorbing the contact. 

“I didn’t have anything from Krypton for so long.” Kara revealed slowly, head turning back to look at Lena who took the opportunity to trace Kara’s features tenderly with her fingertips - keeping them linked and bound. “My Mother’s necklace was pretty much all I had. Kal-El kept the fortress to himself for a long time as he wanted me to assimilate and the DEO took my pod.

“I had nothing left but memories and they were shaky, and I would weep for every detail lost over time. A rhyme my friends would sing. The ingredient quantities for my Father’s favourite treat. The exact shade of my Mother’s favourite dress. I know material objects aren’t as important as the memories but they can provide comfort. Give solidity to the events. Evidence that they really happened and don’t just live in your head but were real and tangible too.”

“How could they have taken so much from you?” Lena murmured desperately - she was referring to the DEO, to Kal, to the universe. Why did it take, take, take and leave so little in return? Especially from someone like Kara who would give and give and give without thought for herself.

“They took from you too, Lena.” Kara soothed, reaching out to run a hand over the fuzzy fur of Lena’s bear (a bear that Lillian had snatched away from her a week after arriving at the mansion). “When I found my pod in the DEO…” Kara glanced away, jaw working, “I curled up inside it and cried myself to sleep. I never told anyone.”

Lena shuffled closer, noses near touching and air shared. “I didn’t recognise them, I didn’t… make the connection.”

“It was all you knew as a kid, it was normal, it’s only as time has gone by and the items have remained the same that… you could see it.” Kara explained patiently.

“I feel like I forgot her.” Lena admitted, choking back a sob.

“You didn’t.” Kara said.

Lena sniffled, “Do you think…”

“Do I think?” Kara encouraged when Lena broke off.

“Do you think it's my magic or my mother’s?” Lena asked, wanting Kara to make her believe in the impossible once more. To believe that love was more potent than anything in the universe.

“Does it matter?” Kara replied, “Your mother gave you a safe and happy childhood with the smallest of things, and whether she cast the spell or you did… she was the one that showed you how the tiniest of items can provide the greatest of joy. She did that and you’ve carried it on.”

xxx

“Lena, are you alright?” J’onn inquired kindly, slowly approaching her worktop. 

Lena looked up, shoulders slumped and a slight shake to her hands that prevented her from assisting with the sensitive work that she had been working on with Brainy to handle their villain of the week - an alien that secreted a burning chemical preventing Kara from getting close without receiving burns that took her an entire day to heal. Lena had been relegated to a computer supporting Alex in tracking the aliens movements.

“I…” Lena began, hands frozen over the keyboard before faltering.

“You need not tell me what is bothering you, I merely wish to make you aware that I am here if you require anything.” J’onn murmured. “Nia is looking out for Kara as well.”

“Is she okay?” Lena queried panickedly, remembering how tightly Kara had hugged her that morning and how she promised everything would work out.

“Of course.” J’onn reassured, “She was noted to be more withdrawn than usual and Nia is keeping watch on her demeanour.”

“Oh… good.” Lena sighed.

J’onn waited a beat, clearly allowing Lena to decide if his presence was still wanted.

“It was a box of tissues.” Lena confessed. 

“Your gift?” J’onn checked, moving to take the seat next to Lena - correctly identifying the revelation as an invitation.

Lena nodded.

“Does it always herald something bad?” 

Lena bit her lip and nodded once more.

“I see.” J’onn hummed. 

“What if something happens to Kara?” Lena asked, feeling small and so childish for even voicing the question.

But J’onn didn’t tsk or even reject the possibility, he merely considered this for a long moment.

“Then we handle it. Together.” J’onn said. It was the simplicity and definitiveness of it that helped, Alex had tried too hard to say everything would be okay, but J’onn accepted the possible future and didn’t turn away from it.

“I feel like I’m waiting for the end of the world.”

“Would you like to hold my hand?” J’onn offered, hand moving to rest on the worktop between them. “Until Kara comes back?”

Lena swallowed thickly before reaching out and clinging tightly to J’onn’s hand.

Later, when Brainy had stabilised the neutralising agent and the alien was safely locked away, not a single scratch on Kara in the fight, Lena was nervously waiting on the balcony for her return - J’onn squeezing her hand once more before leaving her to await Kara’s return.

There was a flash - a flicker in her vision - her hair sent wildly off in every direction and loose bits of clothing (her untucked blouse) billowing in the rush of wind.

“Are you okay? Has anything happened?” Kara questioned, warm hands cradling Lena’s face, blue eyes wide and frantic. 

“I-”

“I kept safe, I promise.” Kara rushed on, “I wasn’t stupid, I wouldn’t risk- I wouldn’t hurt you like that.”

“I know, Kara, I know.” Lena replied, hands reaching for Kara’s hips - needing to feel that she was really there with her own hands. 

“I won’t let anything terrible happen, okay?” Kara promised desperately.

“It’s okay, it’s okay if it does.” Lena said; Kara blinked jolting in place slightly. Lena’s hands slipped round Kara’s hips to the small of her back, pulling them closer together until there was no space between them. “Because we’ll face it together. El mayarah.”

“El mayarah.” Kara repeated, gaze dropped to Lena’s lips, studying how she said the words of her family intently. “I’m going to kiss you now.” 

Lena inhaled and then Kara’s lips were pressed to her own, warm and welcome in the cold night air. Kara’s hands moved from Lena’s face, one twisting through her hair guiding her this way and that, and the other to her waist pushing her against the nearest wall. Locking them in.

Kara kissed her with a level of confidence and certainty that revealed how deeply she’d thought about this, had choreographed it for nearly every scenario, adapting it to suit every little bit of knowledge Lena had given her about how she liked to be touched and treated. Her grip was strong but her lips gentle, and Lena couldn’t help but melt.

Every wall and emotional barrier swept away like melted ice with a single sweep of Kara’s tongue.

“Kara,” Lena choked out, needing air.

Kara pulled back immediately, her own lips red and wet, her golden curls tangled and practically debauched. “Lena.. you’re…”

Lena reached up to her cheeks and felt the tracks of the silent, jubilant tears. “Oh.”

“Happy tears?” Kara grinned.

“The happiest.” Lena beamed, arms wrapping around Kara’s neck to pull her back in.

xxx

“Darling, is everything okay?” 

“Swell!” Kara replied overly chirpy, her smile that edge too stiff to be one hundred percent true. 

“Swell?” Lena giggled, grabbing Kara’s hand on the table and squeezing comfortingly.

“I mean… Great! Good! Fantastic!” Kara corrected enthusiastically. “Does the food taste good?”

“Excellent.” Lena complimented, savouring the taste of the meal Kara had been working on and stressing over all afternoon for their one year anniversary. 

“Yeah?” Kara breathed out, the relief obvious in how her shoulders dropped a couple of inches from around her ears.

“Yes.” Lena confirmed leaning over the corner of the table to kiss her girlfriend sweetly. “Thank you so much for cooking. I love how much effort you put into this.” She paused before gathering her courage to add, “It makes me feel special.”

“You are special.” Kara affirmed immediately before sucking in a deep breath - chest expanding. “I was going to wait until dessert but I don’t think I can.”

Lena tilted her head to the side curiously, only to let out a gasp of delight as Kara slipped off her chair and kneeled next to Lena’s, holding Lena’s hand between both of her own.

“Lena,” Kara began, voice warming as she went on, “you are my best friend but you are also so much more than that. You help me to hope and believe when the days are darkest. You inspire me to never give up. You bring me laughter and happiness in thousands of ways I never thought possible for myself. You make everyday feel like a gift with endless possibilities. Best Friend and Girlfriend feel inadequate terms for how much of myself belongs to you, how much of myself wants to be yours. So, Lena Kieran Luthor, will you do me the greatest honour of my entire existence? Will you marry me?”

Lena was already nodding at the start of the speech and the second the question was asked, Lena pushed herself off her chair and into Kara’s arms.

“Yes, yes, yes!” 

Kara got to her feet, lifting Lena up in the process and twirling them round and round their shared home. She gently placed Lena back onto her own feet and reached into the pocket of the blazer she was wearing.

“Oh no…” Kara muttered, expression turning horror struck, “Oh Rao, no.”

“Kara? What is it? What’s wrong?”

“I can’t find the ring.” Kara said, shucking off her jacket and turning it upside down as if it was merely tucked away somewhere inside it. “I was so sure it was in my pocket, it must be somewhere.” She dropped the item to the ground, head rotating left and right, x-ray vision inevitably sweeping the area in order to find it, “I’ll be right back, I-”

“Kara, it’s okay.” Lena interjected, laying a hand on her arm, keeping her (hopefully) fiancee in place with the lightest of touches.

Kara wrung her hands, looking utterly disheartened, “No, you should have a ring-”

“I do have one.” Lena replied, pulling a large mood ring off the index finger of her right hand.  “I think this is for you. It appeared this morning.”

Kara took it, brow furrowing in amazement, “You had this since this morning?”

“Mmhmm…” Lena hummed, holding out her left hand.

Kara carefully cradled her proffered hand and smoothly slipped the mood ring onto her ring finger. “Have I ever told you how useful your power is?”

Lena beamed, “Everyday.”

[lookingfts]

And lastly, here's a regency fic I started a while ago and would actually love to finish someday. It loosely follows canon, but with the twist that Anthony can see visions of the future, and tries to stay away from Kate because he thinks it will end badly.

Dark, glittering eyes. Like the full moon reflecting upon a calm ocean.

She is lovely – this woman. The woman. Anthony cannot explain the sensation that washes over him the first time he sees her, at seven and twenty, sleeping fitfully next to another woman – a mistress. A young widow who sends word whenever she is in town.

The haughty tilt of a sharp chin. A smug smile that graces plush lips.

She is on a horse, the sky misty and gray around them. The woman has bested him somehow, he thinks, as he watches her ride away. Breathless.

Anthony dreams of many women. Some of whom he has met, others who are simply figments of a lonely, fractured imagination.

None that feel so significant, though.

XX

It is three months before he sees her again. In a sheer white nightgown, hair falling in thick waves over her shoulders. She looks different like this, eyes wide and open. Vulnerable.

Lightning flashes through the windows of his father’s library, illuminating the sculpted angles of her face that have somehow gone soft. She is holding one of Edmund’s favorite books in graceful hands, and he takes it. Tells her about his father.

Tells her about the most devastating moment of his life.

Something draws them together, as strong as gravity binds them to the earth. The woman’s eyes fall to his lips, and Anthony-

Anthony wants. He is desperate to hold her, to feel her body pressed to his, filling the cracks and crevices that only seem to grow wider with time. He is desperate to kiss her, to feel the softness of her lips and draw little moans from her throat that will surely drive him senseless.

He wants every piece of her, so badly he cannot breathe for it.

But she does not want him. A crack of thunder shatters the spell between them and she runs.

Far away from him. As everyone always has.

XX

He sees so much more.

A ball, a dance, her eyes boring into his as he holds her as though it would kill him to let go.

A breath shared between them. Night and day, I dream of you.

Hot skin beneath his palms, flawless, glowing. The curve of her body fitting perfectly into his. Need, so much need, so much desire that Anthony fears he will break apart with the force of it.

It is not enough. These pitiful fragments. A taste of heaven before it is ripped from his grasp.

But he is certain, now, that he is not simply dreaming. She is real.

XX

The visions began when he was sixteen. Blurry, half-remembered dreams easily chalked up to déjà vu.

Benedict tossing a sputtering Colin into the lake.

Edmund bringing home a bouquet of yellow daisies for Violet.

Francesca playing the piano for Anthony when she was too shy to do it for anyone else.

And then-

The damn thing stung me.

His father pale, choking, collapsing in his arms.

His mother begging him not to leave.

His life changing, in the blink of an eye.

Anthony vomited when he awoke, face wet with tears. It was the worst dream he could have imagined.

Three weeks after, his nightmare came true.

XX

He had seen his father’s death in excruciating detail, and he could not save him. Did not even think he needed saving, because true visions of the future seemed…preposterous.

What was the purpose of such a gift, if he could do nothing to change the great tragedy that destroyed his family? Was that not a curse, a crushing burden of guilt that was impossible to carry on his weary shoulders?

Anthony became the Viscount. And he worked, pushing aside the part of him that never seem very far from a mental break. Worked to the point of exhaustion, worked until he was miserable.

That was the only recompense for his failure. He was not worthy of a life of happiness, of love, of passions.

He had been given a chance to save his father. To save his mother from her fathomless sadness, to save Hyacinth from the emptiness of never knowing such a great man.

The universe gave him an opportunity to protect the life of someone he loved dearly, and he squandered it. He would not receive another.

XX

She is real.

Awareness prickles at the edges of his memory as he chases the mysterious stranger. Has she lost control of her horse? Is someone chasing her? The world can be an unkind place to women traveling alone.

She jumps effortlessly over the brush and turns to face him. Drops her hood.

Dark, glittering eyes. Like the full moon reflecting upon a calm ocean.

The haughty tilt of a sharp chin. A smug smile that graces plush lips.

She has bested him, he realizes, as he watches her ride away. Breathless.

Anthony feels the cool morning air on his skin, the tension of the reins in his hands. This is not another vision.

He cannot believe she is here, this woman he has dreamed of for two long years. This beautiful, ethereal creature that has made his heart pound innumerable times, even as a mere ghost in his mind.

It pounds so desperately now that he half thinks he may collapse.

Anthony is helpless but to follow her. “Enjoying your victory lap?” he says, smirking at the way she startles and curses under her breath in another language. Hindi, perhaps. “You will not be afforded such an ample head start this time, I assure you.”

“Apologies, sir. I did not mean to cause anyone concern.” Her voice is lovely, crisp and melodic. Though he has heard it in his dreams, the reality far surpasses anything he could conjure.

It is strange. Unthinkably strange. The things he could say to her.

I know how you fit perfectly in my arms when we dance.

I know how you flinch during violent storms.

I know how it sounds when you gasp in pleasure.

For she knows nothing of him. He is a blank slate, a man no different than any other. She has not seen the life they could live. “Are you lost? I shall escort you back to town-.”

“I am not lost,” she says acidly. The bite in her voice is – thrilling, truly. They have spoken for mere minutes, and yet Anthony does not believe he has ever met a woman like her. “I am on my way back to Mayfair. It is just ahead.”

Anthony laughs. “Mayfair? Well, then.”

“I appreciate your attention, sir, but I assure you I am perfectly safe. So perhaps we can pretend this encounter never took place. You allow me to go my way, and you go yours.”

That cannot be, he wants to say. We are bound.

Anthony is no great believer in love. He knows it to be true, to be real. Only a fool could dismiss the connection between his parents, one that surpassed even death.

But he is unworthy of such a love. And even if he was, he does not know if it would be a blessing or a curse. Its capacity for pain is equal to that of its joy.

This woman, though – she is different. He has dreamed of many women, but none so often, none so desperately. Anthony does not even know her name, yet he feels as though he has stumbled upon something that will irrevocably transform the life he knows.

So he bickers lightly with her, enjoys the tinkling laugh he manages to extract from her stern countenance. He thinks perhaps she does not dislike him as much as she pretends to. All too soon, she rides off, leaving him confused and wanting in her wake. “We have not yet been introduced!”

“I am afraid that is not possible. Not when I have a victory lap to enjoy!” she shouts behind her, and Anthony cannot help but grin at her retreating form.

XX

His thoughts are filled with her. This woman who laughs like an angel and taunts him like the devil. This woman who stuns and challenges him, smoky bitterness and honey sweetness.

Anthony itches to learn more about her, considers asking around about the new family in Mayfair. But he will let their story play out how it must. If there is one thing he is certain of, it is that they will meet again.

There will be lust. He remembers the sensation of drowning in it. And a great deal more. His emotions are jumbled in visions, hazy and out of focus, but he remembers pieces. Remembers, most of all, the way his heart seemed to swell beyond the boundaries of his chest as she shuddered in his arms.

A single thought, emanating from somewhere deep in his mind. Finally.

How long does he wait for her?

XX

Cold rain plastering his skin.

A horse rearing in the air.

Kate.

He wakes.

Anthony climbs out of bed, paying no attention to the early hour. He will not be able to return to sleep.

Every blink forces the image of her on the ground, cold and lifeless, blood seeping from her head.

And he knows. Deep in his soul.

These images are not of a great love story. They are what he has always feared. Visions of another death, one that he will be helpless to stop.

He bangs his fist against the wall and bites back a shout for the sake of not disturbing his family. Anthony knows he has not always been a good man, but he cannot imagine what he has done to deserve this torment. Why must he be haunted with this knowledge? Has he not suffered enough already?

Anthony thinks of the woman. Kate.

The heat in her eyes as they lock with his, a thousand words passing between them silently.

The softness of her when her armor is gone, when she lets him see her true heart.

The gentle caress of her fingers against his face, making him feel worthy. Valuable.

It cannot be allowed. Any of it. He has seen himself at her final moments, the unshakeable conviction that all of it is his fault. The only course is to cut off their path before it begins, to keep himself away from her at all costs.

Anthony laughs at his own selfishness. He does not want to give her up, knowing all they will experience together.

But he will do it, in the meager hope that it can change the tide and spare her life. And if it changes nothing-

Well, then, at least he will be spared witnessing the death of someone he loves for a second time.

[lady-amalthea-antoinette]

I gotta be honest it's starting to piss me off a little bit that all of a sudden after one scene of Rhaenyra and Baela grieving RHAENYS, everyone is acting as if Nyra is Baela's closest parental figure or something? Like I'm sorry are you fucking kidding me.. Rhaenys literally raised Baela after Laena died. Nyra literally handed Baela over because she probably felt guilty about Laenor, she took Rhaenys' last child and she knew it so she let her have Baela to ward as recompense. Nyra is not Baelas replacement mother figure, if anything Rhaenys was and now she's lost that. On top of everything Rhaenys was also caring for Baela when Corlys abandoned them both for six years, literally all they had was eachother. But because the writers decided for some fucking reason to barely give Rhaenys and Baela a single fucking conversation to build the audiences relationship with their dynamic, everyone has just casually forgotten. If anything Rhaenyra would be much closer to Rhaena seeing as SHE DID ACTUALLY HELP RAISE HER? But again the writers have basically forgotten that Rhaena exists for most of the runtime, and because of that so has the audience forgotten about her dynamics with other characters. Rhaenys mentioned she said her goodbye to Rhaena BUT THEY DIDN'T FUCKING SHOW IT. Anyway yeah Rhaenys was championing her granddaughters constantly, both Baela and Rhaena. I just wish more people would acknowledge it , put some respect on Princess Rhaenys mf targaryen, the best damn grandmother.