#the patron thief of bread

[haveyoureadthismgyabook]

[ilikereadingactually]

The Patron Thief of Bread

The Patron Thief of Bread by Lindsay Eagar

this was a charming read, even though the aspect i picked it up for, the gargoyle, was the least charming part to me. the main story, about orphan Duck who grew up in a ragtag gang of child thieves, is a delight! she finds her voice, she finds herself, she makes a family, she makes mistakes and then does her best to make them right again. she's a fantastic pov, i love her! and i love stories about food, and this story is so much about bread and baking and sustaining the people you love without expecting anything in return!

what didn't really work for me was the frame story of the grumpy gargoyle at the top of an unfinished cathedral. it was fun at first to have the gargoyle's perspective, a bird's-eye-view so to speak, of the passage of time, or the city where the story takes place, of the people in the city. and the basic premise of a depressed and grouchy gargoyle whose cathedral was abandoned, and whose purpose--to protect--has never been fulfilled, was an interesting way to start, and had a nice moment again at the end. but the gargoyle keeps coming back, interrupting the flow of the story without adding anything to it, repeating the protection theme again and again but never seeming to take any notice or give any new perspective on what's happening down below, in the main plot. this is a middle grade book (meaning for the 8-12 range generally, but i think this one skews young), so i understand some of the messages being quite on the nose. that's the purpose of a middle grade book! to introduce kids to themes and concepts they may not have read about before. but the repetitiveness of the gargoyle's narrative felt pretty unnecessary to me, even with the understanding that children's books sometimes feel a little repetitive to adult readers.

all that said though, it was worth the read to me because of Duck, and also because of the Master Baker, Griselde! absolute butch queen, wears trousers and shirts slit up the side because she works in the heat of the ovens all day, takes Duck to back alley jousts, remembers people's kids' birthdays and makes them special illegal cakes with icing decorations, by her own admission built like an enormous barrel, steadily going blind from having her face in the ovens since childhood but her disability is handled beautifully, with so much skill and care. she moms Duck so hard in the most respectful way, she's friends with everyone, she misses her beloved dead husband and talks about him like he hung the moon and i love her so much!!!

the deets

how i read it: an ebook from the library, via Libby. someday i will pick up an actual physical book again, but between Libby and NetGalley and my day job being nuts right now, i haven't had the chance!

try this if you: have romantic feelings about a good hot loaf of bread, dig a medieval setting, love a story where things work out in the end, read about street urchins and think is anybody going to adopt that?, or know a kid having a medieval or historical fiction phase

a line i really liked:

Griselde hollered, making her blue handkerchief dance. Duck glanced around the stadium. There were only a few others holding up blue banners, and so Duck, feeling bold, tapped the baker on the shoulder. "Why blue?" she asked. The blue knight, by Duck's assessment, was the shortest, the stockiest, and the slowest--the least likely to win by far. Griselde let out another tremendous yawp, then answered, "It's the last color I have left." Duck frowned. "Every other color faded to a tea-stained brown long ago," Griselde explained. "But blue stays." She tugged on the hem of her blue tunic and winked at Duck, who looked back out at the knights in the square, trying to imagine such a murky world.

[maldragon-triplet1]

the patron thief of bread is an amazing book that i am (re)reading

If you see this you’re legally obligated to reblog and tag with the book you’re currently reading

[magpie-trove]

October Reads

Wishtress • Nadine Brandes | everybody clap I finally finished Wishtress it only took me *checks watch* three years. Overall it would have been pretty mid to me except I loved the aesthetic, the audiobook narrators had fascinating accents, and there’s one part at the end that broke me and rearranged me a little. Those three things were good. There were maybe other things and maybe more specific criticisms but I forgot them

How Lovely the Ruins • Annie Chagnot & Emi Ikkanda | poetry anthology, I wished it had been a little more on theme. There were a few good ones in it though

Women in the Valley of the Kings • Kathleen Sheppard | non fiction about the women in early Egyptology. Either there was a statistically improbable concentration of lesbians running around Egypt or the author kept mistaking the way Edwardian women wrote affectionately to each other as romantic overtures, not sure. She also seemed to want to acknowledge the flaws in Egyptology while saying that the women in it were less bad than the men though because they were also overlooked victims. But ma’am. These women are smuggling a mummy in their cabin. And they threw it out the window cause it smelled bad. MA’AM. However. I did enjoy learning about the women involved in Egyptological development and she picked a good variety of them working in different departments and positions that were crucial but overlooked.

The Flight of the Swans • Sarah McGuire | i looooove you <333333 she got redemptive suffering good good good YA six swans retelling

The Patron Thief of Bread • Lindsey Eager [2/3] | EXCELLENT middle grade fiction. It’s a little slow which can be good but my brain got bogged down in the middle and I was going to have to return it soon so I skimmed the second third and read the whole last third and the writing is beautiful the story is beautiful good good good

Who Could That Be At ThisHour • Lemony Snicket | this is like if Humphrey Bogart was thirteen and nobody understood him because he didn’t want them to. It’s got sentences so polished I can see the plot in them but only when it wants me to. It’s got deep character connections you feel with just three details attributed to them. What can I say. I was having a pretty good time in the middle grade film noir parody. I do recommend.

Poetry for Young People: Edgar Allen Poe | just wanted to reread the Raven and a bit of the Fall of Usher with pictures :) if that’s what ur looking for this is the book for you

Call Me Iggy • Jorge Aguirre | YA graphic novel about a Colombian immigrant family. The son starts getting love and Spanish class advice from his Grandpa’s ghost. I liked the art.

Pride • Ibi Zoboi | YA Pride and Prejudice retelling about classism/gentrification in the Bronx. I think it could have had insightful things to say about P&P but I also think it would have been better if it weren’t P&P. Those were its weakest elements, plus I personally didn’t enjoy the voodoo spiritism awakening stuff going on in some parts. But the writing was well done and it was full of such palpable love for a neighborhood that I sobbed at the end about it.

A Pictorial History of Sea Monsters • James B Sweeney | yeessssssssssss a fun silly old nonfiction book I found at the library that just goes through and talks about various sea monster sightings from log books. Very fun, I skipped the second half which is real animal facts only because the book was from like the 80’s and definitely not up to date, but it was a fun read.

The Perilous Gard • Elizabeth Pope | retelling of Tam Lin in the Elizabethan era. WHAT an atmosphere, what a story, what a time!!!! Loved it. Was side-eyeing a few parallels she seemed to be making (was she? tying Queen Mary to the scary pagan human sacrifice goddess fairy queen? did seem kind of like it which is hm. tastes a little bad but I’m going to pretend I do not see it.) the faith & fairy worldview integration should go in a book about non human status in a Christian worldview.

The Secret Lives of Booksellers and Librarians • James Patterson and Matt Eversmann | we all know James Patterson didn’t touch this except for the two paragraph intro you can all stop kissing up to him in your essays ok. But it was a quick easy read full of love. Did get a wee bit repetitive by the end, but overall I had fun thinking about books and libraries <3

Bea Wolf • Zach Weinersmith | Zach Weinersmith the hero that you are for using proper or proper enough Old English poetical devices throughout your entire Goonies-esque graphic novel of Beowulf for kids <333333333

[dolphin1812]

I've been reading Hugo's The Last Day of a Condemned Man, and the edition that I have comes with a preface from 1832.

It's from before the June Rebellion (March), but it still feels quite ironic!

And Hugo's love of Louis-Philippe feels different here, too. The close relation may have played a role, just as it did in his other work, but when he writes this:

"Yet we admit that if ever a revolution appeared capable and worthy of abolishing the death penalty, it was the July Revolution. It really seemed to fall to the most humane popular movement of modern times to do away with the barbaric punishment of Louis XI, Richelieu and Robespierre, to stamp the inviolability of human life into the law's brow. 1830 deserved to break the blade of '93."

I actually don't view this purely cynically? He may have genuinely thought this at the time (especially since he was more conservative then than later in life, as is reflected in his greater skepticism of the French Revolution; he may have remained against the death penalty, but I feel like his portrayal of it here rings much more negatively than it does in Les Mis). I just think it's interesting to reflect on the difference between a Hugo who admired Louis-Philippe as a patron and who was watching his policies in the moment than a Hugo reflecting on the consequences of those policies, rejecting the institution that the man represented, and still praising the man himself.

At the same time, the expectation of greater conservatism made me forget that this is still a predecessor to Les Misérables in many ways, and his condemnation of "gentlemen" (Hugo's word) who only wanted to abolish the death penalty when it affects them -- not when it affects ordinary people, who suffer the most from it -- was a striking reminder of that. Hugo's class-related issues are present, too (he makes some strange comments about slang that I can see that digression growing out of, and while the narrator's education is important in establishing the possibility that he could have written all of this, he also links it to being "civilized"), but I think I expected it to be worse than it is? He also describes the suffering of families left behind after the death penalty takes the person they depend on, which reminded me a lot of Valjean's sister and her children. Interestingly, he also stresses the suffering of those executed who have no families, arguing that their status as orphans of society is equally tragic. It made me think of Gavroche and his lack of options if he had grown up because of his marginalization, but it was also just moving to read on its own, particularly since it argued for caring for people beyond merely the strictures of the family.

It's fascinating to see how the narrator is and isn't like Valjean as well. On the one hand, he's extremely different in that he's our first-person narrator; we rarely get insight into Valjean's thoughts, instead seeing him through the eyes of others, but here, everything comes from this one man. At the same time, I do feel like Hugo's trying to find a way towards the "everyman?" I haven't finished, but so far, we don't know what the specific crime that brought this man to the scaffold is. We do know that he's leaving behind a mother, a wife, and a daughter, and that his daughter is his chief concern. With Valjean, we knew the details of his crime, but we also had time to delve into the different facets of his life that led to such a harsh sentence, and empathy for him on the basis of his "crime" was important in critiquing poverty. Here, we need to empathize with our narrator in spite of his crime, so keeping it vague is powerful. Whether he killed or robbed to support his family like Valjean did, it doesn't matter; what matters is his life.

(And I'd be remiss if I didn't mention that there's a bread thief in the novel).

Justice is also terrifyingly routine. The judges who sentenced him care less that he will die and more that they stayed up late deliberating his case. As he's being transferred, the usher drops his snuff, and when the prisoner says that he's losing more than him (as he will die), the usher complains that he'll not have any snuff on the trip to Paris, not processing that the man he's speaking to is going to lose his life. It's insensitive, of course, but it also illustrates how desensitized everyone involved in this process is.

[mareenavee]

The World on Our Shoulders | Chapter 11: Such Arrogance

They walked hand in hand into the tiny village of Riverwood. It had been a long journey, but this time there had been little distance between them, no fights, and no tears. Athis basked in the warm sunlight, glad to be out of the harshest of the cold wind on the other side of the mountain. Regardless of the sun, it was still the middle of winter and snow blanketed the cobblestones and roofs of all the wooden houses. It was as idyllic as she had remembered, though she admitted it had been even prettier last autumn. They both knew the town well at this point. It had been a frequent stop while they worked on assignments for Farengar. Nyenna was particularly fond of the place.

“I wonder why the thief would plan to flee this far from Ustengrav,” Nyenna mused as they climbed the steps to the Sleeping Giant Inn. The place had been decorated with ivy and wisteria early last fall. The vines had, of course, lost their green now in the dead of winter. Icicles hung from the roof and dripped water onto the porch, bathed in the late afternoon sunlight. Athis let out a deep breath and squeezed her hand.

“Maybe they live here, did you think of that?” he said with a grin. She chuckled. They pushed open the door to the inn and found Delphine sweeping the floor in deep concentration. She looked strange in a patched dress rather than her leather adventuring gear. Even her face seemed more worn than it had been last they saw each other a few months ago. Lines by her eyes were etched much deeper than Nyenna had realized. Everything else, however, looked as it normally did. A few patrons were reading and enjoying their lunch. Orgnar was kneading bread dough at the bar, keeping an eye on everything. The fire crackled merrily, warming the place. It was just as she remembered it. Comfortable.

“Hello. It’s been awhile,” Nyenna said to Delphine, who continued sweeping, ignoring the greeting. She fished around in her bag for a moment, and pulled out the parchment they’d found in Ustengrav. She checked the crumpled note for what seemed like the thousandth time. “Can we rent the, ehm, the attic room?” She looked around and up and couldn’t see a set of stairs. She hadn’t misremembered, then. It was an odd turn of phrase, after all.

“Well…seeing as we don’t have an attic room, the one on the left will have to do,” Delphine said bitterly, like it was some kind of joke she heard all the time. She had acted just as put off when Nyenna had asked where the baths were the first time she had the coin to stay here. She glanced at Athis who just shrugged. She handed Delphine the gold for their room. Delphine glanced side-long at Athis, who frowned under the scrutiny. “It’s only a single room. Your friend can have the other room on the left.”

“He’s my husband, though,” Nyenna insisted. Delphine was acting suspicious and altogether rather stupid, in her opinion. The ornery innkeeper sighed, clearly frustrated. She pinched the bridge of her nose and waved them away.

“Fine. But don’t make trouble,” she said. She walked away to angrily sweep another section of the inn. Nyenna blinked in confusion before turning back to Athis. Delphine had never been particularly nice, really, but never this rude. Nyenna didn’t assume her to be forgetful, either. She had, after all, briefly spoken with them both several times in Farengar’s office early on in their endeavors, before the whole Dragonborn thing. She hoped Delphine was just annoyed, having to do all the inn’s work maybe another employee should have been doing. She did seem more like herself when she was out in the field on assignments for Farengar. “I didn’t realize that they call it trouble these days,” she murmured with a shrug. -> Read the rest on AO3

[omniversalobservations]

Fairy Tail x Nanatsu no Taizai (2013)

Fairy Tail x The Seven Deadly Sins is a special crossover by Hiro Mashima and Suzuki Nakaba, with both mangakas adopting each other's story for a Christmas omake.

Hiro Mashima x The Seven Deadly Sins Meliodas, Elizabeth and Hawk enter Magnolia, admiring their vicinity. When Meliodas spontaneously asks Elizabeth if she wants a Christmas present, she requests a talking cat, perturbing Hawk. As Hawk states that there is no such thing as a talking cat, they encounter Happy, whom is astonished by the talking pig. As Elizabeth and Meliodas marvel upon the sight of the talking cat, Hawk feels neglected and wanders off into Magnolia.

Later, Elizabeth sits on a bench and sobs for her lost pet, as Meliodas tries to pacify her. Meliodas heads out and searches through the town, asking various patrons (including Erza Scarlet) about Hawk. After searching a bit more, he finally finds Hawk, who is donning a pair of cat ears atop his head. After Meliodas drags Hawk over to Elizabeth's location, they come to find that she has also gone missing.

Subsequently after, Elizabeth returns carrying three fresh breads wrapped around her arm, with Hawk inquiring if one is for him. After Elizabeth and Hawk apologetically embrace, the three go on to celebrating Christmas with their peers.

Suzuki Nakaba x Fairy Tail Natsu and Happy venture through the snowy roads of Magnolia, heading back to the Fairy Tail Guild after completing their job set by Hawk. As they walk over to the Guild, Natsu spots a mysterious figure atop the Guild's roof, wondering who it could be. Happy bursts out in fear and states that the figure is Sunder Claws, an evil monster that kills people on Christmas Eve and reaps human souls, only to reveal that he was fibbing. However, Natsu swiftly jumps up towards the threat, with Happy walking away and ridding himself of involvement.

As Makarov, dressed as Santa Claus, tries to enter the Guild's chimney, Natsu appears and approaches the "threat", demanding to know what it wants. After Natsu kicks him into the chimney, they start to battle within the dark chimney, with both Natsu and Makarov thinking the other threat is a thief. After Natsu casts his Fire Dragon's Roar, they both realize who the other is, but the spell combusts and burns both Natsu and Makarov, and also Lucy and Erza, whom were by the chimney within the Guild. The presents within Makarov's sack start to rain over the citizens of Magnolia, and Natsu apologizes to an angry Makarov for assuming that he was Sunder Claws.

Source: Fairy Tail Wiki

[the-shadow-of-hemlock]

Josephine “Seph” Hemlock | The Shadow: [21]

Orphaned from a young age after her father, a knight, was killed in war, and her mother died from tuberculosis, Josephine was left on the streets. Tired of scavenging and begging for food, she finally took matters into her own hands by becoming a thief. Despite the numerous times she was almost caught by the royal guards patrolling the streets and had some near death experiences, Seph continued to steal and rob for survival. She broke into people’s homes and shops to steal coins or wares, mugged drunkards who roamed at night after the curfew, and even took hit jobs from the brothel to protect the women from abusive men. Sometimes she wouldn’t accept coin, only a decent meal for the night.

Josephine became a professional at her “career”, and eventually started training to become an assassin at the age of 12. At first, she practiced assassinating people that she knew were horrible and cruel—several shop keepers who abused their assistants, abusive husbands and wives who neglected their families, corrupted officials who let their guards down, criminals who managed to escape conviction, etc..

She continued to work for the brothel, only because the workers and head matron treated her like family. They are the only family she had. And in return for their support, love, and respect, Josephine protected them from harm. She even saw the matron, Lady Merylin, as a maternal figure, and several of the workers see her as their younger sister.

“The Shadow” soon became her nickname and secret identity as her influence across the underground operations grew, invoking fear into the hearts who wish to spread injustice and destruction. After Josephine gain enough money and saved an old alchemist man, who goes by “Saullen” from being killed by an assassin sent by a nobleman, she was taken under his wing and was taught everything about alchemy. For nine years, she was his assistant until he passed in his sleep; her old mentor had left everything to her in his will, and Josephine vowed to continue his legacy.

Every now and then, she would sneak shipments of special “potions” to the brothel so the workers could poison and drug the patrons afterwards if they refused to pay or got violent. Josephine continued to play her part of being the Shadow to protect the innocent and punish the wicked in her own twisted sense of righteousness and justice, but recently she has gotten the attention of the Queen and her little jester…

Josephine has jet black hair, ocean green eyes, pale skin, and light brown freckles.

Her costume is made of various fabrics and scrap metal she has gathered over the years, “trophies” of the people she has slaughtered in cold blood. Richmen, knights, government officials, priests, crime lords…all who deserved to die by her hands.

The alchemist shop she helped ran with her former master, “The Bubbling Cauldron”, was a two story building with a three-roomed residential space (kitchen, bedroom, bathroom), with an average sized balcony area to wash and dry clothing, and access to the rooftops, with the two-roomed shop, basement, and access to the alleyways bellow.

After her master died, Josephine changed the shop’s name to “The Hemlock Wonders and Potions”.

So far she has made a good amount of coin creating potions and poisons, selling herbs, and providing enchantments and supplies for travels and regulars.

She stole a goblin (who goes by the name of Shanky) from an evil wizard, and gives him stale bread and water daily to sustain him so that he may continue to shank anyone who dares to steal from the shop. She even made him a small cushioned bed to sleep in.

The King of the nation—and whom lives in the castle looming over the capital city—Stephan Edwards ||| has no issues with this “Shadow” keeping the crime out of the city, but his wife, the cruel and evil Queen Janeth, has been keeping tabs on Josephine’s alter ego’s murders. She plans to use this mysterious assassin as a weapon of war against the kingdom’s enemies, and her own personal hitlist. She has sent her little puppet, an insane jester by the name of Harlen Zorkinzel who is no stranger when it comes to backstabbing and killing, to seduce persuade the assassin into becoming allies with the royal family.

And the persuasion attempts were successful. You can guess why…

The Queen’s Harliquin has the skill range of aerobatics, sorcery, weapon handling, animal taming, sleight of hand, sing, and playing several instruments such as the lute, drums, flute, viola, and harp. Although she isn’t stealthy due to her bells on her costume, she can be very agile and quick on her feet, staying out of sight and playing tricks on the mind.

Josephine often uses Harlen as a test subject for her potions. Once, Josephine had Harlen drink a potion that was supposed to make her into a giantess (she had to be naked so her outfit didn't rip). After chugging it down, Harlen didn't felt anything different, despite her stomach rumbling. Then the effects of the potion hit her body like a sack of bricks and—let's say, the jester didn't grow in height; rather, her "assets" (four of them, actually) fattened up to the size of small boulders in an instant. While the alchemist was perplexed on the results, Harlen seemed to enjoy her new appearance.

Harlen has a very…complex background. Like Josephine, she was an orphaned child who tragically lost her parents and had to earn a living one way or another. She earned coin by performing in the streets, doing mediocre magic tricks and stunts. Harl had to fight other homeless citizens for scraps of food, but after taming some wild dogs, she finally had some protection against others. After several more years of performing, doing petrifying and thrilling acts to amaze crowds, her mind started waning and the stress of surviving became too much for her fragile sanity to handle. Nightmares plagued her mind, funneling all the horrors she had witnessed over the years into her dreams. With every little issue and worry pressuring down on her like a mountain of marbles, her brittle consciousness stretched and eventually snapped. She started stalking the wealthy, learning to easily pickpocket them in broad daylight. She trained the strays to obey her commands and attack those who wish to harm her. She jumped over the rooftops to chase after her dreams. She stole a dark arcane arts book from a magic pawn shop and practiced spells everyday until she memorized every single one. She often stole weapons from blacksmiths and guards to practice on her victims, enjoying watching the light leave their eyes.

She no longer feared. All that she was a catalyst for mayhem.

When she was finally captured by the royal guards, the Queen took interest in the young teen criminal. She saw potential for a puppet that she could manipulate under her thumb, and had the girl properly trained to become a weapon of war, now serving the royal family as their jester, spy, advisor, messenger, and personal hit woman. That’s how Harlen became the royal family’s puppet.

[crownofconvergencerp]

𝐕𝐄𝐃𝐀 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐔𝐌𝐀𝐍 𝐓𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐍 𝐎𝐖𝐍𝐄𝐑

the phrase “too clever by half” might have been inspired by veda.  despite her beginnings on the streets of destarin surviving on the scraps she could find for herself, she has managed to become a semi-reputable tavern owner at the age of 38.  though she openly deals in food and alcohol, vee also peddles in secrets and claims to know everyone worth knowing within the town. 

TW: Child Abuse, Death, Poverty, Child Abandonment, Homelessness, Starvation.

Veda’s first vivid memory was that of gnawing hunger, filth beneath her fingernails, and pain.  No one could tell her how long she had been at the orphanage with any sort of certainty, but it didn’t take long for her to forge her own path that didn’t involve daily abuse and starvation.  At least on the streets, strangers would sometimes take pity on her and give a coin, or a chunk of bread.  Any time she thought about returning to the orphanage, she thought about those strangers and their kindness -- there was no mercy to be found between those four walls.

It didn’t take long for Vee to realize that begging alone would not be enough to survive for long.  Fast and clever, she took to picking pockets when desperate, often taking beatings when she was unsuccessful.  It only takes so many lashes for hard lessons to be learned, and her abilities quickly grew.  After a year of going unhanded, her confidence soared.  Until she decided to slip into the wrong tavern.  Or the right one, depending on perspective.

Duarte Goodwine, a Withermore warlock and current owner of the tavern, caught the thief red handed. Blood, Sweat, and Beers was particularly busy that night, Vee trying to slip through the crowd unnoticed given the general raucousness of the pub’s patrons.  The tavern owner took pity on the lowly human, taking her under his wing and teaching her the ins and outs of the business.  Duarte even went so far as to teach her to read and do basic math so she could help handle the bookkeeping.  One thing the man did not teach her was the value of the secrets she overheard while serving customers, in discovering who to go to for what when discretion was required.  Both served her well before the old warlock passed away and left her the tavern; once it was under her purview, they became the bread and butter of her business behind closed doors.

WHAT ARE YOU...?

species: human. weaknesses: mortality. strengths: nothing beyond the normal scope of humanity. physical description: 5’2” slight brunette with brown eyes and a mischievous grin. additional info: none.

veda "vee" is played by ali and their fc is jenna coleman.

[haveyoureadthismgyabook]

The Arkadians by Lloyd Alexander

The Search for Delicious (Babbitt, Natalie) The Frog Princess by E.D. Baker

Maya and the Rising Dark (Barron, Rena)

Peter and the Starcatchers (Barry, Dave)

The Looking Glass Wars (Beddor, Frank)

Eigth grade bites by brewer (published under author's deadname?)

Minecraft the island by Max brooks

Molly Moon's Incredible Book of Hypnotism (Byng, Georgia)

The Awakening (Carroll, Michael )

I'd Tell You I Love You, But Then I'd Have to Kill You (Carter, Ally)

A Week in the Woods (Clements, Andrew)

The Supernaturalist (Colfer, Eoin)

Artemis Fowl (Colfer, Eoin)

Airman (Colfer, Eoin)

Of Fire and Stars (Coulthurst, Audrey)

Into the Land of the Unicorns (Coville, Bruce)

Out of My Mind (Draper, Sharon M.)

So you want to be a wizard by Diane Duane

The Patron Thief of Bread (Eagar, Lindsay)

Half Magic (Eager, Edward)

Inkheart (Funke, Cornelia)

Bunnicula James Howe

Which Witch? (Ibbotson, Eva)

The Secret of Platform 13 (Ibbotson, Eva)

Evil Genius by Catherine Jinks

The Reformed Vampire Support Group (Jinks, Catherine)

The Akhenaten Adventure (Kerr, P.B.)

The Tail of Emily Windsnap (Kessler, Liz)

Savvy (Law, Ingrid)

The Fairy's Mistake (Levine, Gail Carson)

Fairy Dust and the Quest for the Egg (Levine, Gail Carson)

Ella Enchanted (Levine, Gail Carson)

The Two Princesses of Bamarre (Levine, Gail Carson)

Nightmare Academy (Lorey, Dean)

The Merchant of Death (MacHale, D.J.)

The Ruby Princess Runs Away (Malcolm, Jahnna N.)

If the Shoe Fits (Mason, Jane B.)

How to Become a Planet (Melleby, Nicole)

Game of Strength and Storm (Menard, Rachel)

The Host (Meyer, Stephenie)

Fablehaven (Mull, Brandon)

Five Children and It (Nesbit)

The Borrowers (Norton, Mary)

The Wicked Bargain (Novoa, Gabe Cole)

If I Was Your Girl (Russo, Meredith)

Magyk (Sage, Angie)

The Alchemyst (Scott, Michael)

Scythe (Shusterman, Neal)

The Glitch in Sleep (Wexler, Michael)

You, me, and our heartstrings by See, Melissa

Instructions for dancing by Yoon, Nicola

The Jasmine Project by Ireland, Meredith,

Rise to the sun by Johnson, Leah

Happily ever afters by Bryant, Elise

Everything I thought I knew by Takaoka, Shannon.

The falling in love montage by Smyth, Ciara

The peasant's dream by Dickerson, Melanie

The princess will save you by Henning, Sarah

If I'm being honest by Wibberley, Emily

Opposite of always by Reynolds, Justin A

Summer constellations by Sevigny, Alisha

The wicked deep by Ernshaw, Shea

The supervillain and me by Banas, Danielle

The boyfriend bracket by Evangelista, Kate

An enchantment of ravens by Rogerson, Margaret

Wild beauty by McLemore, Anna-Marie

Stay tuned 🐺

[belabellissima]

Chapter 2 lets goooo!!!!

✨“If I’m ever going to open my pretty legs, it will be for more than a moldy mattress and a room I can’t even stand up in.” She narrowed her eyes at the male. “I’m paying five,” she said, continuing to stare at him. She imagined that she was dipping an arrowhead into her mind, lacing it with her willpower, before she trained that shot at him. She murmured, almost coaxing, “Isn’t that agreeable?”

💭Two things here because first of all, I can’t wait to get to Rhys propositioning her and her actually saying yes. Like... she’s so right. It WILL be for more than a moldy mattress, it’s going to be for a crown. And the biggest bed his court has to offer. But second!!! she’s doing more daemati stuff!!! I’m obsessed with how she visualizes it as an arrow she can shoot, tying in her being an archer and huntress.

✨Instead, she ran. She didn’t even consider where. She just saw a thin path leading out of the marketplace and she bolted that direction, dodging wandering patrons and vendors carrying trays of freshly baked bread and bouquets of flowers. The crowd was so dense in some places that she needed to elbow her way past.

“Stop, thief!”

💭 *hums One Jump Ahead* 

✨ “Yes,” she said, baring her teeth. “I was just on my way to spend more of your money.”

💭I love how she promised she’d lay low but immediately starts mocking the man who has her trapped. Like girl. please. 😂

✨ There has to be a way out of this. Someone, anyone who can help—

“Leave me alone,” she bit out, louder and angrier than she’d intended. “Get your filthy hands off of me.”

💭Calanmai call-back!!! I love how you’ve reworked that canon scene into this au, it fits wonderfully!!!! 

✨ There was no obvious threat about him, except that he was the most beautiful male she had ever seen.

💭I will never get over this. Every universe, every au, every iteration of their love story, he’s always the most beautiful to her.🥹

✨ His eyes were bright, like violet streaks of lightning in the dark.

💭this phrase is beautiful and gave me such a clear image in my mind of him right here.

✨ The male with violet eyes was staring at her, nostrils flaring, shock flashing across his features at whatever he saw on her face. Feyre stood to her full height. She tipped her chin, not bothering to wipe the trail of blood from her neck. The sailor and his friends were clearly threatened by the male. She wanted him to see what they were about to do to her.

💭oh honey, he knows. And he’s furious they would dare to hurt his mate. And I’m screaming about it

✨ “H-High Lord,” the sailor stumbled out. Feyre froze. “Forgive me. This whore stole twenty marks off of me last night and I was simply getting even.”

💭man is dead and doesn’t even know it yet, just keeps digging his own grave😂

✨ The apology only seemed to rile the High Lord’s anger. His lips curled back from his teeth. Feyre swore the temperature in the air dropped and that even the buildings surrounding them shifted nervously. Steadfast, ancient stone, moving for the first time in centuries to shrink back from the High Lord and the rage that thickened the atmosphere. Feyre could taste it on her tongue, sharp and brutal.

💭Love this!! something about his fury literally moving earth is 🥵🥵🥵

✨“Tell me, Feyre darling,” the High Lord purred, turning his head to look at her again. The murder in his expression softened, just a bit, when their eyes met. “Should I kill him for it?”

He said it like he was hoping she would say yes. Like he was asking for her permission. Surely she was imagining it. A High Lord asking her permission to do anything was absurd, but he was still staring at her, waiting for a response while the sailors behind his back trembled in fear.

💭I just about died when you posted this sneak peak, and seeing it in context???? Even better!!! Rhys is already down bad for her, The whole thing is giving court of nightmares when he puts Feyre on the throne instead of him. Like...She is the most important person, and he needs everyone to know it. He is nothing but her humble, devoted servant, who will do anything she asks the moment she asks it.😌

✨ That won’t do. Get on your knees. Kiss her feet and apologize.

💭Another call back to a canon scene!!!!!! But this time they’re bowing to Feyre!!!!! I’m!!!!!!!!!

✨ Just say it, she wanted to snap. Say you believed them when they called me a whore, and that you want to pay me to be your pretty toy for an evening.

💭like... Rhys definitely heard that. And it’s giving him ideas. 😂 But he was probably also hating that she was afraid of it too, thinking he might be far worse than the sailors. So he lets her go. 😭😭😭

Queen of Thieves - Chapter 2

Summary: A fulfillment of this prompt from @sjmkinkmeme. A Canon AU where half fae, con-artist Feyre makes an ill placed bet.

A contribution to @officialfeysandweek2023 Day 2: Hobbies

Are you guys ready for daddy's big entrance? 👀👀

Read on AO3 ・Masterlist (Coming soon) ・Previous Chapter

-

“I heard you won twenty marks off one of the High Lord’s merchants last night.”

Feyre groaned, slumping further against the wooden table as she rubbed furiously at her temples. She’d woken with a wicked, relentless headache, despite not having a drop to drink the night before.

The tavern keeper was half heartedly sweeping the floor with a stiff broomstick, which was achieving little more than tossing dust into the air that tickled Feyre’s nose.

“You’ll still get your cut of it,” she grumbled, lifting her head to peer towards the heavy wooden door. She contemplated rushing towards it and slipping out of the tavern before the tavern keeper could say another word. She knew what was coming.

“With the way you’re driving off my customers, I expect my cut to be at least half.”

This was an endless conversation between them.

“Five marks for the week,” she said, gritting her teeth against the thudding in her skull to sit up straighter. “That’s our deal.”

The tavern keeper set the broom aside. Feyre wondered why he even bothered, when the tavern looked exactly as filthy as it had been when he started. Feyre was tempted to point out that if he was really so concerned about driving off his customers, he should start with a thorough wipe down of the sticky tables.

“Are you forgetting I charge for these rooms hourly? I could make twice that in a night if I kicked you and your whore sisters out and started renting that room.”

Feyre held back the snarl building in the back of her throat from how carelessly he used that word. It wasn’t a new insult, and there were inklings of truth to it, but never from her sisters.

She glanced towards the other side of the room, where Elain was situated at one of the circular high tables, sipping tea from a chipped mug and staring out a nearby window. Nesta sat beside her and paged through one of her romance books, head propped lazily against her fist. Her sisters tried hard to make an honest living. Elain tended to the gardens of the more well-to-do fae across the Sidra, and Nesta tutored some of the children by the docks. It wasn’t much, and it certainly wasn’t as much as they’d make selling their bodies, but they were steadily saving up enough to move out of the tavern attic. And that was a start.

“Fine,” Feyre snapped. The tavernkeep looked satisfied, until she primly added, “With the money I won last night, I’m sure we can find somewhere else to stay.”

The tavern keeper crossed his arms, scowling at her like she was a stubborn child. “Seven marks. You’re not going to find a better deal than that. Not unless you’re willing to open those pretty legs.”

Red-hot anger ignited in her chest. Feyre slammed her hands onto the table. The old wood creaked in protest, but did not give. From the other side of the room, she heard Elain and Nesta scramble to their feet.

“If I’m ever going to open my pretty legs, it will be for more than a moldy mattress and a room I can’t even stand up in.” She narrowed her eyes at the male. “I’m paying five,” she said, continuing to stare at him. She imagined that she was dipping an arrowhead into her mind, lacing it with her willpower, before she trained that shot at him. She murmured, almost coaxing, “Isn’t that agreeable?”

The shot snapped forward. She could almost see it hit. The way he seemed to leer backwards, unsteady.

“Yes,” he said, dazed. “I think it is.”

“Good,” Feyre crooned, before turning towards the door.

Elain and Nesta immediately fell at her heels, rushing out the door to greet the blistering, too-bright sun.

As Feyre blinked back the sunspots and the splintering pain behind her eyes, Nesta grabbed her arm and hissed, “You need to be careful with those tricks. They’re beginning to attract attention.”

Feyre shook herself out of her sister’s grip. The headache was only exacerbating the leftover anger from the tavern keeper’s words, and she was in no mood for a lecture from Nesta. “The sailor only claimed I cheated because I wounded his pride.”

“And there is nothing more dangerous than a male with wounded pride.”

Elain chimed in, softly, from behind Nesta, “They’re starting to call you a witch, Feyre.”

“I’ve been called much worse.”

In fact, witch almost seemed complimentary compared to the insults that were hurled at her nightly from the leering drunks in the tavern. And it wasn’t far off from the truth.

“Stealing from drunks is one thing,” Nesta said. “But stealing from a merchant who works for the High Lord…”

“What’s he going to do, tattle on me? Gambling is legal in Velaris, last I checked.”

Gambling wasn’t just legal—it was a reputable form of business. Even across the Sidra, in the more refined establishments, the High Fae enjoyed their drinking and gambling and prostitutes. Even the High Lord was rumored to attend the pleasure halls on a regular basis. Feyre sometimes contemplated what it would be like to work in those places. If the conditions were tolerable, and the pay was decent, it seemed like easy money to lay on a bed and let the High Fae enjoy the novelty of bedding a half-human. But the one and only time she’d approached one of the pleasure halls, just to explore if it was an option, she was turned down at the door. Evidently, the High Fae preferred females who were freshly bathed. And even on days where they bathed in the Sidra, the scent of the brine clung to them. Regardless of how furiously they scrubbed themselves with soap.

“The point is that you're pissing off people with powerful friends,” Nesta said, still following Feyre as she turned down a road that led to the center of the city.

The sound of the morning market carried towards them across the river. With the arrival of the merchants, the Palaces were likely abuzz with new wares to trade from the faraway shores. Feyre stepped towards the marble bridge that would take her to the Rainbow, her favorite section of the city, but she was stopped when Nesta pulled violently on her arm.

“Maybe the High Lord is above these sorts of drunken squabbles,” she hissed, “but there’s nothing stopping him from looking the other way if his merchant chooses to retaliate.”

“I made twenty marks off him,” Feyre said, exasperated. “That’s a lot of money to us, but it’s nothing to people like them. Besides, if I kept making that kind of money, we could get out of the tavern. We wouldn’t have to sleep on the floor anymore.”

Over Nesta’s shoulder, Elain shifted her weight back and forth, darting her eyes between them like she was weighing whether or not a fight was about to break out. And whether she would be playing mediator, or bystander.

Nesta let go of Feyre’s arm, huffing under her breath. “I’m just telling you to be careful, Feyre. Maybe lay low until the merchant fleet leaves.”

Lay low meant not going to the market. She could see Nesta’s warning, unspoken and yet still communicated so fiercely in those frozen ocean eyes that were far too much like their mother’s.

“I’ll be careful,” she said, looking away. If only so that Nesta and Elain would turn around and go back towards the docks. She still had every intention of going to the market. It was one of the few sources of joy in her otherwise miserable life, and she wasn’t going to let some disgruntled sailor dissuade her from going.

It was a gentle head nod from Elain that eventually convinced Nesta to let it go. They wandered off together, back towards the tavern, while Feyre followed the scent of grilled meat to the city center. It was a pleasant torture, the way the back of her mouth salivated and the pang in her stomach became nearly unbearable. But it was worth it to wander along the stalls, staring with wide-eyed wonder at all the foreign merchandise, the paints and dyes and spices, all more vibrant in color than the last.

The more friendly vendors would usually chat to her, often sharing stories about each of the products and their origins. Some of the stories were likely embellished, but Feyre liked indulging the little girl who used to hover at the docks while her father’s crew prepared his ship. That girl used to stare out at the horizon, listening to the crew discuss the details of their journey while she tried to paint a picture in her mind of the places they would be visiting. Feyre had attempted to stow away more times than she could count, and when her father found her—as he always did—he used to promise that when she and her sisters were older, he would take all of them to the continent.

But then his ship sank, stranding Feyre, her sisters, and their grieving human mother on the shores of Velaris. And now Feyre was left to savor every story graciously offered to her from the market vendors, slowly filling in more detail on the wide, blank map in her head.

“Is there anything I can help you with?”

This was not one of the friendly vendors, interested in sharing stories. Feyre could tell by the tense draw of her shoulders, the way her eyes flickered warily over Feyre’s clothes, lingering on the hem of her sleeves like she expected Feyre would slip something from the stall and run.

She wouldn’t be the first to make that assumption. And since Feyre promised Nesta she would lay low, she did her best to offer the female a reassuring smile.

“Oh, no. I’m just looking. Thank you.”

The vendor’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, but she said nothing more. Feyre did her best to casually meander to the next stall without arousing any further suspicion, keeping her hands clearly in sight. She even rolled up her sleeves, as if that were truly the problem. But there was nothing she could do to obscure the state of her clothes, or the dainty curve of her ears.

The only problem with rolling up her sleeves—and the reason she usually wore them down—was that it revealed the blue-black whorls that snaked up to her elbow. Not unusual for this Court, but still easily identifiable in a crowd.

“That’s her!”

Feyre snapped her head towards the center of the market square, where a group of men in familiar uniforms had abruptly paused their conversation to turn their heads towards their friend, the sailor who had lost 20 marks to her just last night. Who was now pointing across the square towards Feyre, where she stood innocuously by a stall of handmade jewelry.

And oh. There was violence in the way that he was staring at her.

Feyre didn’t think her reaction through. She had done nothing wrong. It would have been better to stand her ground, to let them confront her in a public setting, where people may still have turned their eyes away, but at least there was the chance that someone would intervene.

Instead, she ran. She didn’t even consider where. She just saw a thin path leading out of the marketplace and she bolted that direction, dodging wandering patrons and vendors carrying trays of freshly baked bread and bouquets of flowers. The crowd was so dense in some places that she needed to elbow her way past.

“Stop, thief!”

Her pursuers were having no such difficulty. Onlookers seemed to part intentionally for them, either assuming that Feyre was guilty of whatever crime they’d decided she committed, or simply not wanting to intervene with the primal male rage that was trailing at her back. She counted at least six pairs of footsteps thundering against the pavement.

At a fork in the pathway, she veered right, hoping she would lose them in the crowd and they wouldn’t see her dart down the narrow alley. Feyre never wished she was capable of winnowing more so than when she was forced to grind to a halt at the end of the alleyway. She peered, desperately, up the stone wall that appeared to belong to a series of apartments. Clotheslines were strung from the windows, hung with tunics and trousers that would hardly provide her much of an advantage against the group of males that turned down the entrance, no longer running now that they could see their prey was trapped.

She considered screaming. Would the residents of the building come out? Or would they simply pop their heads out the windows to watch? The sailor at the front stalked toward Feyre and shoved her roughly by the shoulder. The stone met her back with a harsh thud, dislodging the air from her lungs.

“Going somewhere, little human?”

Feyre twisted her head away and tried to step out of his touch, but he held firm.

“Yes,” she said, baring her teeth. “I was just on my way to spend more of your money.”

He pressed his face close. Over his shoulder, she could see his friends crowding in, using their bodies to block what was happening from any onlookers.

“I’ve been thinking about that little trick you pulled last night.”

“I’m sure you have,” she said, leveling their gazes. You haven’t been able to stop thinking about me. You don’t want to hurt me. You’re just angry because—

Feyre gasped as he yanked on her hair. He wound it around his wrist like a rope, using his grip to angle her chin upwards. She felt a kiss of sharp metal, cool against her hammering pulse.

“No more tricks this time. We’re going to make sure I get my money’s worth.”

Don’t panic, don’t panic. There has to be a way out of this. Someone, anyone who can help—

“Leave me alone,” she bit out, louder and angrier than she’d intended. “Get your filthy hands off of me.”

“Careful—the more you run that pretty mouth, the more I’m tempted to put it to use.”

Feyre snarled, yanking her arms in earnest. The sailor, who was much stronger, rewarded her by pressing the tip of the knife harder, until it drew one single drop of blood that trickled down her throat. Salt and metal twisted in the air and from the fiendish grins staring at her like she was their next meal, Feyre assumed they got off on it.

“What is going on here?”

An interesting spectrum of emotions crossed the sailor’s face in that moment. First it was swaggering, arrogant anger, lips curling back into a snarl that someone would have the audacity to interrupt him. When he turned his head and saw the male who had come up behind them, that anger quickly curbed into awe, then fear.

Pure, unadulterated fear.

There was no obvious threat about him, except that he was the most beautiful male she had ever seen. He was wreathed in shadow, obscuring some of his face. Even in the day, with the sunlight slanting in from the roofs of the buildings overhead, the darkness clung to him. But his eyes. His eyes were bright, like violet streaks of lightning in the dark.

The other males quickly parted for him, all bravado suddenly forgotten. Like the male that had attacked her, their eyes were wide. Nervous. The sailor released his grip on her hair, pocketed the knife.

No one was saying anything. The male with violet eyes was staring at her, nostrils flaring, shock flashing across his features at whatever he saw on her face. Feyre stood to her full height. She tipped her chin, not bothering to wipe the trail of blood from her neck. The sailor and his friends were clearly threatened by the male. She wanted him to see what they were about to do to her.

“I asked a question,” the new arrival said, not looking away from Feyre. He spoke in a low voice. Even so, there was a quality to it that seemed to vibrate through the air, rattling with anger that wasn’t present on his face, but was trembling through the earth beneath them.

“H-High Lord,” the sailor stumbled out. Feyre froze. “Forgive me. This whore stole twenty marks off of me last night and I was simply getting even.”

“He’s lying,” Feyre said, though she doubted the High Lord would care. Like Nesta said, he was above these sorts of squabbles. “He gambled his money, and lost it to me in a fair game of chance.”

“You cheated,” the sailor seethed.

“I’ve heard enough.” They both went rigid at the raw command in the High Lord’s voice, sharp without needing to speak any louder than a whisper. He tipped his chin to Feyre, full lips curling, just slightly, into the makings of a wicked smile. “What’s your name, darling?”

“F-Feyre. Feyre Archeron.”

“Feyre Archeron,” he repeated. Feyre couldn’t explain the shiver that wracked through her body, or how the High Lord noticed, with an unsubtle interest that chased away the shiver with a flood of heat.

The High Lord stepped towards her, turning on his heel to slip a casual arm around her shoulders. He dipped his head low, speaking into her ear in a way that could have been mistaken for intimate, had his voice not been loud enough for the others to hear.

“Well the good news, Feyre darling—” he purred that moniker, a lover’s caress against her cheek— “is that money lost in a fool’s gamble is hardly of any interest. Whereas threatening the safety of a Night Court citizen, that’s an issue of much higher concern to me.” He raised his face from her neck, his expression hardening as he turned to face the sailor. “Tell me, captain, do you not trust me, as your High Lord, to try these issues justly? Who are you to mete punishment on my people? “

“M-my apologies, High Lord.”

The apology only seemed to rile the High Lord’s anger. His lips curled back from his teeth. Feyre swore the temperature in the air dropped and that even the buildings surrounding them shifted nervously. Steadfast, ancient stone, moving for the first time in centuries to shrink back from the High Lord and the rage that thickened the atmosphere. Feyre could taste it on her tongue, sharp and brutal.

“Velaris citizens are under my protection,” he said, his voice quiet and utterly deadly. He stepped forward, removing her from the shelter of his arm. Feyre watched the grown males flinch, some of them stumbling backwards at just that one, singular step. “A threat against them is a threat against me.”

There had been rumors of the things that the High Lord could do, and the face that he wore outside of this city. Feyre had only ever heard kind things from the people who had encountered the High Lord in the streets, but this… this was the face of death incarnate. This was the most powerful High Lord in history, the Illyrian warrior who had ascended the peaks of Ramiel, the cruel lord that presided over the Court of Nightmares.

She could see it on the sailors' faces. The uncertainty of whether or not they were facing their own deaths. Her heart thudded so violently that she could feel it in the back of her throat. Would he truly kill them? Would she want him to?

The High Lord paused when he came to the sailor who had attacked her—the captain. He reached forward, gently brushing the shoulder of the captain’s jacket, as if there had been dirt there he was kindly chasing away. The captain looked moments from bursting into tears.

He whispered to him softly, crooning like a lover, “You weighed Feyre’s life and decided it was worth less than twenty little marks. If you have decided that the value of her life is so insignificant, what is stopping me from treating yours the same, hmm?”

They were all holding their breath. The High Lord’s palm was still braced around the captain’s shoulder, in a way that could have been mistaken for friendliness, if they weren’t all aware that he was perfectly capable of ripping that shoulder from its socket.

“Tell me, Feyre darling,” the High Lord purred, turning his head to look at her again. The murder in his expression softened, just a bit, when their eyes met. “Should I kill him for it?”

He said it like he was hoping she would say yes. Like he was asking for her permission. Surely she was imagining it. A High Lord asking her permission to do anything was absurd, but he was still staring at her, waiting for a response while the sailors behind his back trembled in fear.

“D-don’t kill him,” she said.

He definitely looked disappointed. Feyre almost took her words back.

“Very well. Captain, that means your life is now in her debt.” In a fluid motion, he stepped aside and shoved the male forward. “Say thank you, Feyre.”

The captain met her eyes. She knew that it was purely out of self-preservation, and not any true remorse, that he stuttered out, “Th-thank you, Feyre.”

The High Lord knew it, too. His smile became vicious.

“Now, now,” he tutted, almost playfully. “That won’t do. Get on your knees. Kiss her feet and apologize.” His voice remained coaxing, soft, but she watched the wrath sharpen in his eyes as he added, “Be grateful that her boots aren’t splattered with your blood.”

Like his knees had been tied to great, heavy stones, the captain dropped to the ground and bowed his head to her boots. Even Feyre’s face heated from the second-hand humiliation as the captain placed a kiss on the filthy leather.

“I’d insist on keeping you there,” the High Lord said, “but I wouldn’t want you wasting any more of Feyre’s time.”

In an instant, the motion too fast for Feyre to track, the High Lord hauled the cowering captain to his feet and threw him towards his open-mouthed crew.

“Get out of my city,” he snarled at them. “Now. If I ever see your faces again, I may not have Feyre to convince me to be so forgiving.”

“Wait.”

She didn’t know why she said anything. It was stupid, so stupid, to draw any further attention to herself. Especially with the High Lord as angry as he was.

But the High Lord paused. The sailors, too, though Feyre was only paying attention to those violet eyes as they slowly turned to face her.

His brow was quirked. A smile played on his lips. “Yes, Feyre?”

“The card,” she said, tearing her eyes away to look at the captain. “He has the Cauldron of Fate card. I assumed he stole it from you.”

Intrigued, the High Lord turned back to the captain. “My, and the true thief is revealed.” He held his hand out expectantly. The male scrambled for the deck of cards in his coat pocket. Painted cards slipped from his hands, falling to the ground in his frantic search for the Cauldron of Fate.

Once it was found, he handed it to the High Lord like he expected it might detonate. A soft hum sounded in the back of the High Lord’s throat as he inspected the front and back, holding the paper delicately between two fingers. “I’ve been looking for this card for half a century.” He tossed a glance towards Feyre and smiled. “Thank you for returning it to me, Feyre.”

All it took was a small flick of his wrist.

The card whirred through the air and sliced across the captain’s throat in a single, precise line. He collapsed to the ground, gurgling on his own blood, while the High Lord continued smiling at Feyre.

“Now I suggest you leave,” he said to the others, without even turning his head to acknowledge them. “Before my generosity wears thin.”

They disappeared without any further prompting, not even bothering to take their slowly dying captain, who was laying just behind the High Lord’s feet, staring vacantly at Feyre as he bled out on the stone. Nausea curdled in her stomach.

All of this for twenty marks.

The High Lord was still watching her, and the stare of the captain was a grim reminder that she did not want to earn the High Lord’s ire. She swallowed down her fear. “Thank you… High Lord. For helping me.” She glanced, agitatedly, over his shoulder, towards the market just beyond the alleyway. People passed, blissfully unaware of the carnage that had taken place just around the corner. “I’m sure you have much more important things you should be doing. I don’t want to try your patience any longer, so I’ll just be on my way—”

She took a step, but the High Lord moved to block her, raising a friendly hand. “Don’t be hasty, Feyre.” His voice was a lover’s purr again, caressing every muscle and bone and nerve. Feyre tried not to shiver. She heard him use that same voice moments before killing the captain, though now she swore there was more warmth to it. “Now that I’m finally meeting our resident witch in person, I was hoping to satisfy some of my… curiosities.”

Curiosities. She knew exactly what that was code for, especially if the way his gaze was dipping was any indication. Her eyes flitted, unbidden, back to the body on the ground. Had she traded the sailors for something far, far worse?

“Maybe another time, High Lord,” she said, hoping her voice sounded firm and steadfast, and not at all like the shaky whisper that reached her ears. She took a breath, forcing more steel into her voice. “I need to get back to my sisters.”

“What if I pay you?”

She faltered a bit at that suggestion. “Pay me to… what, exactly?”

“Come back to my town house. Answer some of my questions.”

Cauldron forsake her.

“What kind of questions?” She pressed.

Just say it, she wanted to snap. Say you believed them when they called me a whore, and that you want to pay me to be your pretty toy for an evening.

“Easy questions,” he deflected. He was circling her now. “Just about who you are. I’m curious how you won that money off the captain of my merchant fleet, Cauldron rest his soul,” he said, smirking as his eyes slanted toward the captain’s bloody throat and the lifeless glaze in his eyes. “As well as every other drunk that stumbles across your path. How does a poor, half starving female garner such a reputation for herself?”

Such dangerous questions from such a dangerous male.

“Like I said,” she breathed, “I need to get back to my sisters.”

The High Lord offered a lazy smile. He stepped aside and waved his hand towards the too-bright entrance to the alleyway. She couldn’t imagine facing that sunny marketplace again.

“Another time, then.”

It sounded vaguely like a promise. Feyre hurried out of the alleyway as quickly as she could, not daring to look back at the glowing eyes of the High Lord or the dead male at his feet.

[hiatuswhore]

♕ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʀɪɴᴄᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ʇɐᴚ ʇǝǝɹʇS ǝɥ⊥

♕ A/N: If you cannot see it clearly, the title says, The Prince and The Street Rat. I really enjoyed writing this. No shade to other HOTD writers but all the plots be relatively the same so I tried to shake it up. Feedback pleaseeee.

♕ SUMMARY: The world works in mysterious ways and so does the residents of Kings Landing. One never knows what they find in the alleyways and rooftops. Whores, drunks, knights, thieves, sometimes even Princes.

♕ WORD COUNT: 5K

♕ WARNING: None🕺🏽

previous — Masterlist — next

Kings Landing. Home to the vile, cruel, and everything in between. You fall somewhere in the middle, a gray area—child thief. But where do petty thieves and struggling patrons fall in that spectrum? A child struggling to eat as the Targaryens sit in their fancy castle with more food and resources than necessary. This reality plagues you on the most challenging days and hardens you on the coldest nights.

"Stop that girl!" A man screamed, expertly sliding beneath a merchant table. You duck down an alleyway. Your heart hammering in your chest as you struggle to keep your hood from blocking your eyes. A sea of splintering colors and faces blend into a mix of nothingness, your focus evading the angry voice behind you. As you march forward, you turn a final corner, your eyes over your shoulder.

"Hey, watch it!" You grimace at the blinding pain, stumbling backward. In front of you, a boy groans, rubbing his forehead. His tunic worth more than everything you own, and his boots resembling a pair you stole a few moons back. He carries nothing visible to the eyes, nothing to quick swipe.

"You ran into me," He scoffs. Rolling your eyes, you push past him with your shoulder. In one swift motion dipping your hand in his pocket, nothing. His hand wrapping around your wrist, pulling you back, allowing you to skim his other—still nothing, "Are you thick in the skull, girl?"

"No, I'm in a hurry, so bugger off, would you!" You swing your hand connecting with his cheek, the smack echoing through the busy road. He releases your wrist with wide eyes, ignoring his face; glancing over his shoulder, your eyes widen at the sight of the Gold Cloaks. They carefully scan the road as you duck down a deadend, planting your back against the wall.

Still, the boy watches you curiously, his hood hanging loosely on his head, revealing the rest of his face. He narrows his eyes at you before glancing back toward the Gold Cloaks. You grit your teeth, ignoring his gaze as you listen to the approaching clink of armor.

"Prince Aemond, it is not safe for you to be beyond the gates unattended," Narrowing your eyes the boy grins. He removes his hood with a smug fire in his eyes as you stare at his pure silver hair. You have indeed done it this time. You struck a Prince—a Targaryen Prince. Every part of your brain screams to make a run for it, mentally preparing to scale the wall behind you as the Prince commands the Gold Cloaks to seize you, but none of that happens. Instead, the Prince merely chuckles under the knight's gazes as you stand behind them.

"Of course, Ser Harwin. Will you escort me back?" He says. The knight nods his head, turning toward the way of the castle. Aemond does not move immediately, and the two of you stare at each other. You offer a half nod before turning to the wall, carefully climbing it before disappearing altogether.

That night you laid in your hammock staring up at the stars, the moment still fresh in your mind. You struck the Prince, and he—he helped you? Shaking off the thought sleep found you almost faster than the painfully bright sun the following day. Walking through the market with most of your coils and curls pulled into two tight braids, the coins you stole the day prior ready to purchase today's breakfast.

"Thank you, Daltis. Tell Cayde I said hi," You say, handing him your coins as you turn toward the stairs with bread and a pail of water. The sun beams restlessly as you walk without a care through the streets. An occasional hello to locals who know you and a few choice words between yourself and the patrons you have stolen from. Nearing the closest thing you can call home comes to a halt as the familiar tight grip holds your bicep.

"Oh, come on, Lord Strong. I didn't even do anything today," Your matter-of-fact tone earns a sigh with a pointed stare. He backs you up onto a wall, a soft look in his eyes despite the patronizing finger he points at you.

"Kid, you keep it up, and I will have to deal with you. Here. Stop stealing. Do I make myself clear?" He holds out a pouch to you. Rolling your eyes, you snatch it from his hands.

"You keep doing this, and I keep telling you—I'm not your problem," You fail at pushing past him the strength of a ten-year-old girl, nothing compared to a grown man. A huff leaves your lips as you glare daggers up at him, "You're not my father, okay? Just leave me alone."

Harwin stares down at your small stature; opening his mouth, he closes it as nothing leaves his lips. He takes a step back, unblocking your path. You roll your eyes a final time before marching off. Back at the dead-end alley, you scale the wall, balancing carefully as you run to the next roof. There you plop onto your hammock, closing your eyes and placing your foot on the ground to slow the rocking. The busy chatter of the city melding into one indiscernible mix of movement.

"Ow," You mutter, opening your eyes just as another rock soars through the air—a few feet short of the hammock. Then, as another flies whizzing past your head, you stomp over to the roof's edge. Down below stands the boy—the Prince, his hood covering his hair. "Are you crazy?"

"Says the one who struck a Prince?" He asks, raising an eyebrow as you roll your eyes, muttering touché. You stare down at him, furrowing your eyebrows as he stares back at you.

"Have you come to stalk me in the streets, or do you need something, my prince?" Your mocking tone earns a dry chuckle as he shakes his head.

"Show me how to get up there. I saw you go down the deadend, but I can't figure out how you got up," Aemond says, furrowing your eyebrows. It's now your turn to chuckle.

"And why exactly would I do that?" You ask, watching as he puffs up his chest. So many people in the streets ignore the two of you—just another pair of Kings Landing's bastards.

"Because as your Prince, I command it," He says, his voice cracking as he squares his shoulders. You tilt your head back as a loud laugh leaves your lips, his stiff stature faltering.

"Oh really? You Targaryens are a riot. What's next shall I curtsy and fetch you a cup of wine? Oh, let me apologize before you bring your dragon and melt me from existence," You taunt, resting your chin on your elbow that you prop against the edge. His eyebrows pull as he clenches his jaw, all semblance of amusement leaving him as his eyes sharpen.

"How dare you! You're nothing but a stupid street rat!" He exclaims, scoffing. You spit down at him, narrowing your eyes before returning to your hammock. Mentally scolding yourself for once again disrespecting the Prince of the Seven Kingdoms. You ignore his demands for you to return, despite the possibility of dire consequences.

"Bugger off, you boorish oaf!" You yell. After dodging a few more rocks, he throws up at you, he seemingly gives up. You are fuming at the nerve of him. Even as you sit high above him, he finds a way to look down on you, a stupid street rat.

The pouch of coins Ser Harwin gave you affords new furs, a cheap tent, and a week worth of food. You do your best to ration the remaining funds while looting unsuspecting patrons. It had been a fortnight since the Prince's last visit, and you did your best to not dwell on the unpleasant conversation. A huff leaves your lips as you walk back toward your home with empty pockets. The Gold Cloaks litter the streets leaving you little to no opportunity to make a quick coin. You stop by Mysaria to look for a bounty hunting job, but for the first time in your work with her, she has nothing. Not a single person to hunt down for owed funds, the Gold Cloaks ‘cracking down’ on crime.

“Dammit, Harwin,” You mutter, taking a deep breath as you turn down your road. The clear plan for the next few moons now squandered to mere weeks. Rounding the building into the alley, you pause, eyebrows furrowing as Aemond lifts his head. His face tomato red with his back against the wall as he sits on the ground. You watch as he sniffles before looking back down, hiding within his cloak. Closing your eyes, you whisper royal problems only bring trouble. Repeating it like a mantra in your mind as though you fear it will leave you.

You open your eyes immediately, groaning at the tug in your chest. While the Prince happens to be a douche, you are not. You walk over, begrudgingly joining him on the ground. Neither of you says a word at the other’s side or even looks at the other. Just mindlessly watching people pass by on their daily tasks. The silence setting ease between you, laughing as a woman screams at her husband, as a man fails to flirt with a woman, as Gold Cloaks patrol with an allusive, almost lurking nature. So many moving parts in such a small area.

“Hey, uh—if you want, I can teach you how to climb up—but only if you promise not to tell anyone,” You say, turning to him with a tight-lipped smile. Then, for a second, you both just stare, furrowing your eyebrows in an awkward huff before turning away. A pause ensues before Aemond lifts his fist toward you, “Deal.”

You bump his fist with yours before rising to your feet. At first, you both chuckle nervously as silence dances between you both. Then, you scale the wall, giving him a view of how to do it. Then, you laugh as he insists on being able to do it after just a demonstration alone.

“You know it’s okay—I failed plenty of times befor—“ You say leaning on the wall at his third failed attempt.

“I can do it myself!” He growls, glaring daggers at you. Pinching the bridge of your nose, you huff. Why the hell did I do this? You cross your arms, scowling at the back of his head as he fails a fourth time. He hunches down, hands on his knees, as he pants heavily. Turning his head, he catches your gaze, visibly sinking at the sight.

“I’m sorry for yelling at you. My brother and nephews they—“ He inhales sharply, fiddling with his fingers with sunken eyes. You bite the inside of your cheek, watching him rock on the balls of his feet. A poignant stare in his eyes before his eyebrows pull together, and he scoffs, “They gave me a pig.”

“A what?” You furrow your eyebrows as he avoids your gaze, a look of defeat in his eye.

“My dragon egg didn’t hatch. They said they found a dragon for me, but it was a pig. Pink dread, they called it,” He murmured, staring at the ground, leaving you to sigh heavily. Your own taunts rang in your ears at the sight of him, "They all laughed at me."

“You want to talk about it or learn how to climb the wall?” You ask, chewing on your inner lip. He huffs, biting his lower lip before pushing it into a pout as he gives the wall a look over, “Can you please show me how to climb the wall?”

“Okay,” You nod. Joining Aemond's side, you point to the chipped-in crevice. You use your left foot to boost off and swing your right leg over the wall. He tries again, getting the motion down but not swinging his leg high enough. On his second try, you nearly cheer prematurely as he almost makes it.

“Oh no, no, you’re going to get it. I promise,” You exclaim, folding your hands in front of your face with a nervous smile. Aemond sighs, running up, freezing as his leg goes over, and he sits on the wall. A large smile breaks across your face as his jaw drops. “You did it!”

“Yeah,” He chuckles. You direct him which way to cross before following behind him. At the top, you freeze as he stands in the center of your things, glancing around curiously.

“Uh yeah, this is me—“ You massage the back of your neck with a sheepish grin. Never have you brought anyone into your space, let alone a Prince. He points to your hammock, looking at you. Nodding your head, you watch as he sits staring at you. “The Prince and the Street Rat. We are disgustingly cliché friends. So how does this work?”

“I think we could figure it out,” He says, chuckling as his confidence glimmers through his meek exterior. You join him in the hammock, looking up at the sky.

“I despise your family,” You say. Neither of you turn to the other as he shrugs, “That’s fair.”

“No Royal drama,” You say, turning your head toward him. He meets your gaze nodding vehemently. Placing your foot on the ground, you swing the hammock, “So essentially, you’re saying your family is as awful as I imagine them to be.”

“Not necessarily. Not my mom. My brother and nephews mock me, father ignores me, and Rhaenyra has never seemed to care much for us,” Aemond lists off, his voice wavering as he stares at the waning sun.

“Sometimes us forgotten children have to pave our way on our own,” You shrug your shoulders, watching the sky as he eyes you. “You should start heading home, Aemond. Remember, no royal drama.”

“Of course. I will try to visit you tomorrow,” He says, crouching down to descend the wall. Opening your mouth to warn him of the particular way to go down, a loud grunt stops you.

“You okay?” He immediately responds, leaving you to giggle silently as he scurries away.

Keeping his word, he visits the next day and the day after, almost as if it were a part of his royal duties. He always arrived with something he conveniently non longer needed anymore, so thought you’d want it. The gestures were kind, but an ache raged in your chest.

“Aemond, thank you for everything. Truly but you have to stop bringing me things,” You say softly, taking his hand in your lap.

“Why?” He frowns, and you grit your teeth, speaking slowly, “I feel more like your charity case than your friend, and I detest it.”

“Oh, my apologies, I never meant—I’m sorry,” He says, casting his gaze down as he fiddles with the ends of his tunic.

“Don’t fret over it. You’re my friend and will continue to be so,” You shrug with a lopsided smile as you stare at each other. Your grin grows as he nudges your arm, whining for you to move over. “For what? So you can practice brooding as I relax?”

“I actually brought a book,” You playfully snore as he explains the philosophy text and his interest in the subject matter.

“You will one day wish you taught yourself this,” Aemond says, opening his book, and you lean back, still looking up at him.

“I’m busy learning the art of surviving. I’ll take street smarts every time,” You say matter-of-factly. He scoffs, a grin on his lips as he shakes his head.

“You’re smart. You could do more,” Aemond’s optimism earns a chuckle that does not meet your eyes.

“Don’t be ignorant, Aemond. It is so easy to dream so frivolously when the world was built for you,” He frowns, nodding his head cautiously as your words sink in. The visits rarely deviate from the same pattern, but you both savor each and every one. Even if the entire visit consists of bickering, the next visit carries on as though nothing ever happened.

For a time, this carried on until word spread through the kingdom about the death of Laena Velayron. The Aunt of his nephews, Prince Jacaerys and Lucerys. His presence in Driftmark required him to support his family. As you awaited his return, you continued your usual daily schedule, and without a doubt, it was odd not hearing the short Prince grunting up the wall. Or laughing at his seemingly always disheveled hair.

When word traveled of their return, nothing came for you from Aemond. For a time, you grew bitter, the sting of his absence and the death of Ser Harwin feeding a deep seeded disappointment. Rounding the corner down your street, you falter while approaching your alley. A Gold Cloak stands at the opening as another climbs the wall.

“What the hell!” You mutter as a replacement Harwin stands before you. When he calls your name, you cut back to make a break for it, only to find another Gold Cloak behind you. Your heart hammers in your chest as they lead you through the streets, the sun waning as your mind explores every punishment ever sentenced to thieves.

Worst case scenario, they take a hand, walking through the Red Keep a loud ringing sound in your ears. You wish Ser Harwin would round the corner as he often did and assure his peers he could take it from there. Instead, your breaths are shaky as your eyes sting from dryness and your lips burn from wetting them too much. Through the massive halls, you hold yourself carefully, clearly standing out from others in the corridor. Down a second hall, the Cloak stops at a vast door knocking twice before saying, “Your grace, we’ve come with the girl.”

“Come in,” A woman’s voice calls out, cautiously pushing the door open, you enter at a slow—cautious pace. The Queen stands with furrowed eyebrows at the sight of you, her green dress more expensive than your life. Aemond sits by the fire blocking his face as he stares forward. You glare daggers at the side of his head, the room's coziness doing little to ease the tension in the air.

“You liar! You promised!” You seethe, your face scrunching as the Queen gasps.

“You may not address the Prince like that girl!” Alicent exclaims, her eyes furious as you stare blankly at her.

“No, mother, it is okay. This is her, remember? She’s my friend—the one I told you about,” He says, turning toward you. He offers a weak smile as your face falls. The prominent stitching draws attention to a little over a quarter of his face. “The one I told you I want to help.”

The Queen’s annoyance dissolves as she looks at you, Aemond’s tales of your life plaguing her thoughts. She places her hands on your shoulders, an overbearing expression oozing in a suffocating waft of pity. “There’s a place for you here in the court if you ever decide you want it.”

“I don’t,” You say immediately, keeping your gaze on the floor. Alicent joins your side with a motherly shine in her eyes as she looks at you.

“I know. I just want you to know the offer is always there,” Alicent's words soothing as she excuses herself, leaving you to glare at her son.

“You promised,” You whine, hanging your head. Aemond swallows thickly while you bounce on the balls of your feet.

“I’m sorry. I wanted to see you, but as of late, I always have someone watching me,” Aemond speaks barely above a whisper when he turns to you. For a second time, you take in his sewn-up eye, red and puffy. Then, your glare dissolves, eyebrows furrowing while taking two cautious steps forward.

“What the hell happened?” You ask slowly as a servant stands by the window, avoiding looking at either of you.

“Like you said, my family sucks. That bastard Lucerys took my eye because I gained a dragon,” He says. Your eyes widen at his words, sending a smile across his lips.

“You finally got your dragon. See now, you truly are a pompous Prince,” You curtsy mockingly with a wide smile. In the back of your mind, the defeated, teary-eyed Prince you have befriended now finally getting his heart's only desire. “I’ll forgive you this time, only because you got your dragon. Which one is yours?”

“The biggest one, Vhagar,” He says, grinning as you take his hand, offering a squeeze. You do not stay long, nor do you miss the Queen’s presence by the door. She had been listening.

“(Y/n),” She calls out. Stopping in your tracks, you offer her a terrible curtsy. You bite the inside of your cheek, saying yes, your grace. “To my knowledge, you have made my son very happy. I am more grateful than you know. I understand refraining from the court, but I am Queen. I must ensure my son's safety, and hanging with you on rooftops is not good enough. Your belongings have been moved to the Inn Keep not far from the castle's main gates. Word is already spreading of his mutilation; he will no longer be able to continue venturing deep into the city. So you will be accessible to him outside the main gates. You may show yourself out.”

You frown, watching as she walks down the corridor. At the Inn Keep, the man at the desk bounces around nonstop. He avoids your gaze and chuckles sheepishly into the silence as he scrambles through his things. Upon handing you the key, he bows. Frowning, you leave him without another word. Your room's at the very top floor, and you do a spin taking in the enclosed walls. Comparatively small in regards to the room Aemond sat in.

On the desk sits a pouch and sealed parchment. The Targaryen wax seal staring back at you ominously.

By order of Viserys Targaryen, first of his name. King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the realm.

You stare poignantly at the words of the King—you are sure they were written at the Queen’s behest. Battling the strong urge to be sick in your sweetly decorated cage. The parchment declaring you officially in service to the Prince. You slam the parchment on the desk turning to the tiny fireplace and bed with more furs than necessary staring back at you. A suitable living arrangement, but at what cost?

When Aemond finally musters the courage to arrive outside the gates, you show him the decree. He only shrugs it off, muttering there are worse situations in the world.

“But now I cannot tell you to bugger off as I please,” You say, matching his pace as you both walk through the market.

“You were never allowed to do that. You just lack manners,” Aemond chuckles, pulling his hood down carefully, hiding his face. You walk past the tables in awe of your options. No longer patrolling to steal breakfast but to pay for it.

“What do you have for me today, Daltis?” You say, grinning widely at the old man. He chuckles softly, shaking his head as he disappears inside. “Street knowledge. When it comes to imports and exports, Daltis is your guy for food, clothes, and people. He almost always has a connection if you need something done quickly and quietly.”

“Here you are, little lady, and for your friend. Not certain about the name, but it’s sweet. Just came in from Dorne,” He says, digging through your pouch; you freeze as Aemond hands him more coins than necessary. Daltis’s jaw drops as his eyebrows furrow, but Aemond only shrugs, ducking his head down to avoid the man's gaze. You watch as Daltis thanks him profusely. Aemond turns on his heels biting into the almost fuzzy substance. You follow suit furrowing your eyebrows as the sugary flavor melts on your tongue.

“Prince Aemond Targaryen the generous,” You tease, and he scoffs, the corners of his lips tugging. In the corner of your eye, you note the guard watching you both. You frown, retracing your steps—has he been following us the entire time? Whether Aemond knows remains a toss-up as he gushes about Vhagar. “All that crying like a baby only for you to get the largest beast ever! Do you feel silly now?”

“I was not crying like a baby!” He exclaims. Outside the Inn, you drop to your knee, a sardonic smile on your lips.

“My apologies, my Prince. Please accept the remnants of this Dornish treat as penance for my foolish ways, your grace,” He slaps your hand, scoffing as a laugh bubbles from deep in your stomach. Up in your room, he falls back on your bed, staring up at the ceiling. You join him, watching the unremarkable walls.

"Isn't this highly inappropriate for you to be in here with me alone?" You ask, turning your head to face him. He only chuckles, pointing out that it applies more to you, but you are not a high-born lady, so it does not matter.

“Would it be wrong to say I miss your rooftop?” He asks. You raise an eyebrow reminding him losing the rooftop was his fault. He sharply nudges your arm with his elbow, laughing to yourself, both of you basking in the silence. It stays like this until a knight retrieves him.

The years fly without a hitch between you both. However, you have the singular misfortune of meeting Prince Aegon. About a year after Aemond lost his eye, it became apparent the court was aware of your existence. Aegon laughed giddily at the sight of you, admitting he always thought his brother was lying.

"You never bother her! Ever, do you understand me?" Aemond exclaimed, not caring about being seen in the middle of the markets. Patrons gawking at the sight of the two.

"Relax, little brother, we just exchanged a few words. You see when I bite, she bites back. A sharp-tongued little friend of yours. I am curious to know her other talents," Aegon laughed as he offered you a half nod before disappearing into the city.

Unlike the eventfulness of that day, typically, Aemond teaches you court etiquette and aids in refining your reading skills, while failing to teach you high Valyrian. You keep him humble, reminding him that an entire world exists outside his palace.

Offering the desk man a wave, you rub your eyes while marching up the stairs. In your room Aemond sits by the window, not bothering to turn or acknowledge your arrival. The fireplace you have never touched crackles, warming your entire room. You are certain the desk man has given him a key, but the Prince ignores you each time you inquire about it.

“Do you break into every girl's chamber to brood, or do you honor me, my prince?” You tease, setting down your woven bag on your desk. Unpacking the water, bread, and fruit you purchased from the markets.

“Is it breaking in if I pay for it?” He asks, unmoving from the window. You remind him that the King pays for it, removing your tunic and pants, switching into the only gown you own. You halt at the sight of a box on your bed.

“You know I hate gifts,” You say, ignoring the smirk on his lips as you eye the box.

“You hate lots of things. It's your sixth and tenth name day. Shall I expect suitors at your door?” He asks, a tight-lipped smile on his face. Rolling your eyes and walking to your bed, you run your fingers over the intricate detailing of the box. The Targaryen sigil expertly carved on the top. Inside sits a beautifully sewn green gown. “My gift for your name day is still in preparation. That is from my mother.”

Holding up the gown, your eyes narrow, raising an eyebrow as you meet Aemond's eye, “And what is it that she wants from me?”

“Must there always be a motive with my mother?” He sighs, shamelessly you nod your head.

“She’s your mother, the Queen. So I respect her out of my respect for you and my responsibility as her subject. But I don’t trust her or any royal particularly,” You say, running the dress between your fingers. A silence lingering in the air as he watches you.

“Do you trust me?” His question brings a stillness to the room. Fiddling with the intricate detail in the chest area.

“Would you like the honest answer or the expected one?” He frowns at your words, biting his lower lip into a pout at your question.

“Since when did you differentiate the two?” He asks, shrugging, you take a seat on your bed under his waiting gaze.

“I’m no longer that ten-year-old girl who can get away with such a brutal tongue to those far above my station. I speak to you as I please out of our mutual understanding. I do not share that with your family, but because of our friendship, I must be prepared to address your family. I hope that day never comes but realistically, I must,” You shrug your shoulders, sighing at the chains that appear as a gown—binding you to the Greens. He says nothing for a long while, leaving you to inspect the dress, “There is turmoil in your family, Aemond. You know it, I know it, and so does everyone else. When the King leaves, he will leave behind royal drama. I have only asked two things of you and you already broke one. Please do not break the other. Your mother sending this gown all but confirms my fears. She intends for me to wear this, and I am certain it won’t be for the markets.”

“I’ll speak with my mother,” He rises to his feet, taking commanding strides to the door making your eyebrows furrow. You call out to him, but he does not turn back, saying, ���I’ll be around soon.”

[helaintoloki]

Can a request a Mando x reader where the reader is being very protective of baby Yoda and she ends up beating someone up and Mando is just like “Wow I love her”, I know it’s kind of a weird request but I love your writing :)

a/n: first mando request of the season! i hope you enjoy

A night in another sleazy cantina full of more seedy characters was not what you wanted nor how you wished to spend your evening, but Din had been promised information on the whereabouts of another Mandalorian, and so you found yourself seated in the very back of the room with the Child while he worked. You kept your gaze low and kept to yourself, the baby nestled into your side as he chewed hungrily on the beads of your bracelet.

“No, that’s not food,” you chide gently whilst carefully removing the beads from his mouth. The foundling lets out a whine of protest in response, prompting you to laugh as you carefully settle him into your lap. “Hungry little thing, aren’t you? I think we can fix that.”

Shuffling into the contents of your pack, you produce a portion bread neatly wrapped in cloth. The little one’s nose scrunches in disdain, and you can only let out a sympathetic sigh in response.

“I know it’s not much, but it’ll have to do for now,” you say, but before the little one can so much as reach out for the bread a grimey hand swoops down and snatches the portion from your grasp. “Hey!”

“Thanks for the snack, kid,” the perpetrator laughs, and you watch on in both anger and disgust as the Twi’Lek before you chows down on the only piece of food you had left in your pack. You’re quick to rise from your seat, the child letting out a coo of surprise as he still sits nestled in your grasp.

“That was for the baby,” you hiss through gritted teeth.

“Yeah, well now it’s for me,” he shrugs, turning to walk away only for you to tug him back by the collar of his shirt. Your eyes are fierce and hardened as you glare at the thief.

“Say you’re sorry,” you demand lowly. The Twi’Lek laughs.

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you’re not going to like what happens to you if you don’t,” you warn. The Child, not used to seeing you act in such a manner, burrows himself underneath the fabric of your jacket.

“Listen, little girl, I’m not going to stand here and take threats from someone like you. You don’t belong here, so why don’t you sit back down and mind your own business before I-“

The man doesn’t get to finish his threat as you swiftly deliver a hard blow to his nose. Nearby patrons gasp at the sight before them, some laughing and some watching on with interest, but all seem to enjoy the way you deliver an uppercut blow to the man before following the action with a roundhouse kick that causes your already stumbling opponent to back into and flip over the nearby counter— all accomplished with only one free hand as you held the Child in the other. Drinks and bottles go crashing down with him prompting the bartender to begin angrily shouting at the Twi’Lek in a language you don’t understand. With no more entertainment available to them, the onlookers go back to their previous conversations, leaving a pair of big, brown eyes to slowly peek up at you.

“So much for keeping a low profile,” you say with a huff, blowing away the stray strand of hair that had managed to fall into your face. The Child begins to reach for something behind you, and it’s only then that you notice a silent Din standing right beside you. Though you can’t see his face, you can almost guarantee that there’s a small smirk underneath that Beskar of his. “What?”

“I came to see if you needed any backup, but I guess you had it covered,” he notes, the faintest hint of amusement in his voice. He’s glad you can’t see the way his eyes must be gleaming with pride and admiration at the sight of you. You may be pretty, but it’s the way you always seem to pack a punch that has the Mandalorian swearing he’d give up everything just to have you.

“I know what you’re thinking, but I don’t regret anything,” you state firmly. “No one steals food from a baby, especially not my baby.”

“Your baby?”

“Shut up,” you scowl, face heating up with slight embarrassment as you push past him towards the exit. “I’m going to look for some food.”

Din thinks of telling you to be careful, but he knows he doesn’t have to, not when he knows just how capable you are of protecting yourself and the Child. You’d become rather attached to the kid in the short amount of time you’d spent with them, and though Din had warned you against doing so you had failed to listen just as you always do. Yet, he couldn’t deny how perfectly you seemed to fit into the protective mother role; it was as if taking care of the baby was your calling, and he wouldn’t be surprised if that were the truth.

“That’s some woman,” a man at the bar notes with a swig of his drink. Din remains unmoving with his gaze longingly glued to your retreating figure.

“Tell me about it.”

[echoesofthefall]

In the midst of chaos, He still dances.

But who is He? The Fiddler? The Sorcerer? The Madman? The Initiator? The Intercessor?

Both beast and man, demonic god, great spirit, prime ancestor, full of grace and terror.

He's the goat presiding over the Sabbat, the stag weeping deep in the woods, the black wolf devouring the lamb, the dying crow in the unforgiving city, the black cat who stares at you and sees through your soul, the man sacrificing himself for knowledge, the snake whispering to your ear, the rebel, the king, the beggar, the witch, the magpie, the musician, the scapegoat, the wind, the moon, the storm, the star, the poet.

God? Maybe. Yes. No. It doesn't matter. Dance with Him and listen to His songs. Give yourself up to Him and let Him burn you down to the bones. Eat the fruit, eat the bread, drink the wine. And let Him eat your flesh, your bones, your spirit.

Watch Him fall on Earth, burning like a thousand suns, to teach us how to make weapons, how to make cosmetics, how to use herbs and how to make magic. Watch Him pluck out His own eye, watch Him murder His own brother, watch Him wander and sing and weep. He sows souls and burns down the crops. And we grow and grow and praise Him as He spits on the ground, making it holy. He eats and drinks poisons and dances, mad one, lonely one, and shows us how to do it. Smoking cursed herbs and incense in His bone pipe, grinning and blowing smoke in our faces. Necklaces of skulls, for He is Death. Brambles growing on His horns, for He is Life.

He has many names, or more accurately many epithets. He is One and Many. Mask wearer, slipping through our fingers like the Snake He is. Liar, thief, deceiver, murderer. But He is, before all, a Teacher and a Master, a bringer of knowledge. And He will always be there, laughing in the darkness, drinking blood-red wine from our offerings, inhaling the smoke of our burnt hopes. Patron Saint of the weak, the oppressed, the weird, the queer, the outcasts and the misfits. Smashing His own altar, His own idols and filling the sky with dark clouds. Hear Him laugh within the rumbling thunder. The Great Beast growling through the cosmos, ready to devour our souls.

He is not mad; He is Madness.

[cruger2984]

THE DESCRIPTION OF SAINT ANTHONY OF PADUA The Patron Saint of Lost Items Feast Day: June 13

"He who is the beginning and the end, the ruler of the angels, made Himself obedient to human creatures. The creator of the heavens obeys a carpenter; the God of eternal glory listens to a poor virgin. Has anyone ever witnessed anything comparable to this? Let the philosopher no longer disdain from listening to the common laborer; the wise, to the simple; the educated, to the illiterate; a child of a prince, to a peasant."

St. Anthony of Padua, the patron of lost items, was born Fernando Martins de Bulhões, at Lisbon, Portugal on the Feast of the Assumption of Mary - August 15, 1195. While 15th-century writers state that his parents were Vicente Martins and Teresa Pais Taveira, and that his father was the brother of Pedro Martins de Bulhões, the ancestor of the Bulhão or Bulhões family, Niccolò Dal-Gal views this as less certain. His wealthy and noble family arranged for him to be instructed at the local cathedral school.

At 15, he joined the Augustinian Monks of Coimbra, where in due time he was ordained priest. In 1212, distracted by frequent visits from family and friends, he asked to be transferred to the motherhouse of the congregation, the Monastery of the Holy Cross in Coimbra, then the capital of Portugal.

In 1221, when the relics of Five Franciscan Martyrs were brought from Morocco to Portugal, he conceived an ardent desire to follow in their footsteps. He passed over to the Franciscan Order, and after some time, was sent to Africa to preach to the Muslims. However, he was soon afflicted by a severe illness, and a few months later, he had return to Portugal.

The ship in which he sailed was driven off of its course and landed in Sicily. From there, Anthony went to Assisi, where he met St. Francis. Appointed to a lonely hermitage near Forli, the saint was assigned to wash up dishes. It happened some time later that an ordination was held in Forli for Franciscan and Dominican candidates. Through some misunderstanding none of the Dominicans had come prepared to deliver the homily, and Anthony was told to speak on their behalf. His superiors were amazed by his eloquence, and thereafter sent him to preach throughout Italy and France.

Whenever he went, the crowds flocked to hear him, and many heretics were converted by his gentleness and superior knowledge of the Bible. Anthony was the first Franciscan who was allowed by Francis to teach theology to his brethren, provided. He said: 'That such study does not quench the spirit of prayer and devotion.'

Anthony spent the last years of his life at Padua, where he died on June 13, 1231 at the age of 36. He was canonized the following year, and ever since is known as the wonder-worker for the innumerable miracles attributed to his intercession. Various legends also surround the death of Anthony. One holds that when he died, children cried in the streets and all the church bells rang of their own accord.

He is usually presented with the Holy Infant in his arms, because one time he was seen holding the Child Jesus. He is also represented with a book, symbol of his exceptional knowledge of the Holy Scripture, and a lily, symbol of his purity.

Occasionally, he is accompanied by a mule, which knelt before the Blessed Sacrament upheld in the hands of the Saint, and so converting its owner to believe in the real presence.

St. Anthony of Padua is the patron of the poor, and alms especially given to obtain his intercession are called, 'St. Anthony's Bread.' He is invoked to find lost articles because one day, when a novice ran away carrying off a psalter, the saint prayed for its recovery and the thief was compelled by an apparition to return it.

Noted by his contemporaries for his powerful preaching, expert knowledge of scripture, and undying love and devotion to the poor and the sick, he was one of the most quickly canonized saints in church history. He was proclaimed a Doctor of the Church by Pope Pius XII on January 16, 1946.

[fascination-street-writing]

She Rings Like a Bell Through the Night | Yan!Bruno Bucciarati x Reader

You remind him of a cat - and he has always had a pension for strays.

100 Follower Giveaway 2nd Place Piece

Content Warnings: Not S/F/W Content, Yandere Behaviors, Stalking, Non-Con Elements (Non-Consensual Touching & Dubious Consent), & Homelessness 

You are glad for the distortion of the puddle’s reflection – if instead you had a mirror, you might simply wither in the alley where you stand. It is better this way. Truthfully, you would rather not know how positively filthy you have become since taking to the streets. The space between Il Cestino del Pane and Via dei Libri – a bakery and a bookstore – is your domain. You do not call the covered niche betwixt two dumpsters your home; it is simply the place you happen to come back to every night.

At the lip of the alley, she stands. An entity, you suppose, though she does not speak to you. And yet, you are utterly convinced that she is capable of reading your very mind. She acts without command – she behaves in a way you find deplorable; but, without her, you would starve. You have before you the necessary evils of survival.

You observe the bustle of the market, eyes flicking from patron to patron: a child clutching a doll as her mother argues with a vendor over the price of goods; an elderly woman ushering a greyhound by a worn leash; a man lifting a spoon filled with gelato to the mouth of his partner, who accepts the treat gleefully. No one catches your eye . . . Until a man clad in an open-chest white suit steps out from the bakery and joins the rabble on the street.

His clothing practically flaunts his wealth. His bobbed dark hair, completed with two gold clips, is exquisite, and not a single strand falls out of place. You think that he would make a lovely target – and she agrees.

You are careful to leave a considerable amount of space between yourself and him. You know little of your entity’s capacities; however, the copious amount of times you have used her to steal food, never to be traced back to you, has taught you that she is invisible to everyone.

Everyone except for you, of course.

You do not consider yourself a thief, for it is not your hand slipping into the pocket of the man’s jacket. An accessory to crime, maybe, but never the thief. You rationalize your actions as this: he should have known better than to venture towards this end of Napoli dressed in such a way – one making him stand out amongst the locals. Anyone who comes here knows pickpocketing is a common practice.

You can feel the wallet through her touch – firm leather to your fingertips. She appears before you, dropping the stolen article into your waiting palm. With a grin, you look up to offer a silent gesture of appreciation.

Only to be met with the glare of two sapphire-blue eyes.

You freeze, dumbfounded. Never have you been caught before. The wallet feels like a lead weight, practically scorching your skin. Out of fear? Guilt? You do not dwell on the possibilities pulsing in your racing mind. Instead, you turn on heels covered with a set of mismatched shoes and run. A cold sweat saturates your spine. The clattering of rushed footsteps echo behind you. A crash resonates, followed by the accusatory spats of the vendors. You weave through the crowds with no true destination in mind. Yet, as if coerced by muscle memory, your legs carry you to your shelter.

Somehow, amidst the market congestion, you have lost him. You slink down the alley and hide behind a heap of discarded cardboard boxes. The passage of time is indiscernible, and so you count the steady ticking of waterdrops from the rainspout attached to the bakery. It is only after you reach a hundred do you decide you are finally safe. Standing, you open the wallet to count your prize.

As you dig for loose lira, the brick wall before you separates; a diagonal golden zipper appears seemingly out of nowhere, and the man steps through the black void created by the incision. In your state of confusion, the wallet clammers from your hand. You stumble backwards and trip over a broken trashcan lid. The asphalt meets your hip with bruising force.

The man says nothing to you. He reaches for the wallet, which has earned a newly acquired scuffmark. With no means of escaping the situation, you helplessly watch him check its contents. Wordlessly, he produces a stack of bills and extends it to you. Suspicious of his intent, you do not move to take the money. You scuttle away, whimpering at your newfound pain.

“My name is Bruno,” he says to you. Though you struggle to create a greater space between you two, he does not move to approach you. “Take it.”

You shake your head. He holds the wallet in his opposite hand, emphasizing its presence.

“You wouldn’t have stolen this if you didn’t need the money.”

Bruno is absolutely right. But you do not trust him. After moments of refusal pass, he sets the money on the ground and steps away. It is only once you deduce that he cannot grab you do you snatch the money. You bound off in a hobbled sprint, vacating the alley and leaving him behind. He is unable to tear his gaze away from the shabby heap of boxes you typically dwell beneath. Your apprehensiveness is undeniably disheartening, but nothing to lose sleep over, for he will do whatever it takes to earn your faith in due time. He knows you cannot be blamed for your actions; to Bruno, it is obvious you have been beaten down by the very system that has forced many women into the same circumstances as yourself.

A mound of tattered blankets makes up what he believes is your bed. Cans of half-finished, spoiled foods collect in a heap by the foot of your bedding. You remind him of a cat – and he has always had a pension for strays.

Days later, Bruno returns to the alleyway of Il Cestino del Pane and Via dei Libri carrying a basket filled with fresh bread and softened figs. It is a mere gamble that you might have returned after the incident. Before your shelter, he catches the sight of you hunched over a rusted water pail. You splash water on your face to cleanse the grime from your skin.

He wonders if you stayed because you wanted him to find you.

You know he is there, yet you do not cower. Still, you grow tense in his presence. You allow him to come close enough so he might, for the first time, gaze upon your cleaned face. He realizes just how beautiful of a woman you are – his Medusa, cast from the holy temple by the ones who scorned you; reduced to living on the streets with narcotic addicts and rapists, as if you are one of them.

A woman like you deserves to be loved. You deserve the very worship he is so willing to bestow upon you, in a home shared with you alone.

He opens the basket and bequeaths to you its contents. You salivate at the loaf of bread in your grasp, though you refuse to eat. You will not do so until he is gone. Begrudgingly, he takes his leave, though not before offering you a kind smile.

One day, he reckons, you will return the gesture.

When the sun sets over Napoli, the city transforms into a haven for the less reputable members of society. Men and women of the brothels take to the corners at the behest of their procurers. Cab drivers lie in wait of drunken tourists to scam with overpriced fare. Would-be human traffickers hide in the blackest pools of alleyways until a pretty foreigner is unlucky enough to walk by.

And you have learned how to avoid them all – the prostitutes and the pimps, cab drivers and tourists, human traffickers and foreigners. There is not much a homeless woman such as yourself can offer to any party of the night.

Not for anyone, except Bruno Bucciarati, the young Capo of Passione. From the shadows, he watches as you make your way through the street of shops and send your entity to collect food and other necessities. You carry on until your arms are full. He admires your resilience.

You do not see the division in the sidewalk until you have already fallen to the ground. Your collection of stolen goods scatters across the cobblestone street, lost to the darkness. On your hands and knees, you scramble to gather anything that has not split open or fallen into puddles. A man with a pocketknife in his hand and pock marks on his arms approaches, unbeknownst to you – but very known to the ever-aware Bruno.

It is not an uncommon practice for the homeless of Napoli to prey on each other. The man wielding the knife wants nothing more than a scrap of the food lying before you. To Bruno, however, he is a potential threat to what limited sanctity you might have. The man creeps closer, closer, closer.

And he is gone before you have the chance to turn around. The remnants of a zipper mark the spot where he once stood. You are alone again. Grateful that the night is still young, you send your entity to another vacant market stall to replace what has been lost.

Bruno emerges from the earth like a child born. He brings a white handkerchief to his cheek to wipe away the smudge of blood marring his skin – the evidence of his indiscretion. Carelessly, you wander ahead as if you were not in such a compromising situation only moments ago. But then again, you cannot be blamed for ignorance: how could you have known, if not for Bruno interference?

Grinning faintly, he folds the soiled handkerchief and tucks it into his pocket, beside his wallet – the catalyst and inspiration for his conquest of your affection. He is your protector when you cannot be.

It is a gratification that fills him with unmeasurable delight.

Bruno has lost track of how many times he has visited you; he has made a habit out of bringing you food every day that he can. It does not upset him too terribly much when he fails to find the time in his arduous work schedule to visit you, because he trusts your capabilities of stealing necessities with the aid of your Stand.

However, he cannot deny the nagging feeling blooming in his belly, reminding him that you should not be in the position of scavenging when he is perfectly capable of providing for you – of spoiling you – himself.

Today, he gifts to you cactus pears from Catania and homemade piadina ­– his mother’s recipe, no less. As always, you refuse to eat whilst he gawks at you. You do not notice the way his jaw clenches in utter vexation this time, or how his long, manicured fingers curl into a tight fist. In truth, he has grown frustrated with your antics. Bitterly, he contemplates his options: to whisk you away here and now would be far easier than playing this game any longer.

Finally recognizing his rigid composure, you back away from him. As if struck, Bruno releases his hand and sighs. He could not do such a thing – it is foolish thought. Trust is built upon honesty, and honesty alone. The legitimacy of such a bond cannot be fabricated. Per habit, he leaves you to your meal.

A light drizzle hails from the grey sky. The further he strays from the alleyway, the heavier the rainfall. Bruno supposes that the inclement weather must be the cause for the near vacancy of the market street. Despite the pattering against the sidewalks, he catches the sound of clumsy footsteps behind him. A pair of eyes practically bores into his back.

He stops to turn. Separated only by a narrow row of stone-crested townhouses, you stand there, watching him. You, too, have ventured far from the security of your alleyway. You cower behind a streetlamp, as if it could mask the pleading look in your gaze.

Please, don’t leave me.

Bruno’s mouth falls agape. Perhaps his gattina randagia is ready to come home, after all. 

The water pools around your bare form, concaving to every curve and crevice of your body. Though you graciously allowed Bruno the role of bathing you, you keep your knees bent and taut to your chest, refusing him to look upon your intimate regions. It is a most uncomfortable feeling to expose yourself to someone else; yet, you do not wish to be left alone, for you are beholden to his company.

He shields your eyes with his palm before pouring the basin over your shampooed hair. You practically lean into his touch. He is glad you cannot read his mind; it is a battle within his conscience to contain himself. He maintains his collected façade – despite how badly he wants nothing more than flip you onto your stomach and take you, forcing your body to rim of the bathtub.

The hand on your eyes falls and dips into the water. Bruno pulls his arm back and forth, tracing a figure-eight in the water. His mind has wandered, to be sure. In his other hand, he holds a washcloth, which he has been using to wash your skin. Slowly, he drags it over the backs of your thighs, gingerly scrubbing.

You push his arm away when the cloth ghosts over your slit.

“Give me the soap,” you suddenly demand – the first words you have ever spoken to him, full of malice no less. Bruno frowns. “I can do it myself.”

He grabs the bar of soap; however, he does not pass it to you. Instead, he slathers the washcloth and brings the linen back over your thighs. He wants to take care of you. This time, the hook of his finger brushes against your folds. You lash out and grab his arm, nails biting into his skin, leaving crescent-moon shaped marks as a receipt of the transgression. With far more force than before, you shove his arm away.

“Stop it. Give me the soap.”

Bruno pulls away and slumps against the side of the tub. You hug your knees tighter, expecting an apology from the man who took you in off the streets. Something dark flashes behind his eyes, and you wish you had enough room to scurry away.

“I just want to take care of you, mia gattina,” he insists, his eyes pleading with you. “Won’t you let me do that?”

His words do little to ease you. The third time he touches your folds, you strike him across the face with pruned fingers. In a flurry of black hair, his neck whips to the side. It is only when you attempt to rise from the tub that he snaps out of his stupor and throws his arm against your chest, pinning you down and leaving you with no choice but to expose yourself to him.

The water sloshes as you thrash around. Water collects in the delicate threads of Bruno’s attire, soaking him as you do the faux-marble tiled floors. Nothing seems to faze him. “Please, let me take care of you,” he begs, his grip unrelenting. You whimper, begging him to let you go. He denies you: “No, no. It’s all I want.”

Again, he palms your slit, only now you freeze and accept that you cannot stop him. You grip the edge of the tub to keep your head above the water. The coloring leaves your knuckles. A single tear rolls down your cheek.

“Don’t cry, dolcezza. Sii una brava ragazza per me.”

At once, a finger from the very hand that kept you fed for so long slides into your core with ease. Your walls involuntarily clench around him, and you grimace in pain. Whining, you attempt to buck your hips to dislodge him; he mistakes your defense for eagerness, and with a sigh, he inserts another and curls his fingers inside you.

He works you until a familiar, albeit long forgotten, throbbing sensation claims your womanhood, and incitement builds within you. Eventually, with each stroke of your folds, you relax and release the edge of tub. Your snivels of an insistence for him to stop become mewls, imploring him to continue. It has been far too long since you felt affection like this, and you find yourself melting at Bruno’s touch – as if you are a candle and he the flame.

“Brava ragazza.”

The arm on your chest disappears. Bruno braces it around your shoulders, pulling you into a seated position. When his thumb rubs your hardened nub, you whine and call his name. A prayer for him; he groans, holding you tighter.

Your hands reach out and at once, you pull his face towards your own so that your lips might meet. You allow him to explore the cavern of your mouth, and he swallows every moan blossoming from your throat. He takes your bottom lip between his teeth, swiping his tongue over the swollen blush before breaking away to admire the way you huff at the command of his fingers, your eyes shut tightly. Pleasure or distress, he knows not why – though, he suspects the former.

He reaches the deepest nook of your core. You respond to the intrusion with a breathless cry, and you bury your face into the damp crook of his neck to satiate the noises escaping you, while gripping the silken tendrils of his primp hair.

“Brave ragazza. Brava gattina, il mio amore.”

His words – his praise – send you over the edge with a shudder. The coil in your belly snaps, and you come undone on Bruno’s hand. He lets out a sigh. Slowly, he detaches from your core and moves to embrace you. Exhausted, you veer into his touch, practically buzzing with spent arousal and fervor.

Around you, the bathwater has gone cold, but Bruno’s arms are enough to keep you warm. You allow him to rub his palm against the soft skin of your back. He presses a kiss to the crown of your hair, lingering as if debating whether to do it all again.

Content, you concede and drift away, lulled to sleep by the whispering of praises in your ear.

“Il mia bellissima gattina. Ti amo tanto.”

| 3048 Words |