#third street promenade

[p-redux]

Marina Campbell just followed susie_ev... S's back with his ex?????

Oooh interesting! Sam's good friend, Marina Campbell is now following Sam's rumored date from before, Susie Evans. Susie and Marina are now mutually following each other. 👇

I heard rumors that Sam was in Los Angeles around the time he was in Las Vegas for the Formula 1 race recently. And guess WHO was in L.A. around the same time? Susie, of course. Santa Monica, to be exact. Here's her posting and you can see the sign on the right that says Third Street Promenade, which is a shopping area in Santa Monica. 👇

Then she says she's leaving L.A. back to Texas, where she lives to spend Thanksgiving with her parents. 👇

Well, Marina also lives in L.A., so it seems Marina met Susie when she was in L.A. recently. And the only link between Susie and Marina would be SAM. 🤷‍♀️

Make of it what you will...

[alvajimsblog]

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

In The Gloomy Depths [Chapter 6: Bloodstone]

Series summary: Five years ago, jewel mining tycoon Daemon Targaryen made a promise in order to win your hand in marriage. Now he has broken it and forced you into a voyage across the Atlantic, betraying you in increasingly horrifying ways and using your son as leverage to ensure your cooperation. You have no friends and no allies, except a destitute viola player you can’t seem to get away from…

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), parenthood, dolphins, death and peril, violence (including domestic violence), drinking, smoking, freezing temperatures, murder, if you don’t like Titanic you won’t like this fic!!! 😉

Word count: 6.1k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @nightvyre @mrs-starkgaryen @gemini-mama @ecstaticactus @chattylurker, more in comments 🥰

💎 Only 1 chapter left!!! 💎

You must not have heard him correctly. Down by the bow, third-class passengers are still laughing as they kick pieces of ice back and forth. Children who have been shaken awake are giggling as they dash around in their worn, patched coats. On the Promenade Deck, tycoons and aristocrats are flagging down stewards to fetch them fresh drinks. There is no more humming of the ship’s engines, although no one else seems to have noticed; they have quit and will never work again. In a few hours, they will be resting on the bottom of the North Atlantic Ocean. It’s just barely April 15th, and half the passengers aboard won’t live to see the sunrise.

Kill Daemon??

You’ve never even hit anybody, not unless they struck you first. “I can’t kill someone.”

“Yes you can,” Aegon insists. His tone is urgent; there isn’t much time left. “And you won’t have to do it alone. Like I said, I’ll help you.”

A drop in your stomach, a chill down your spine, wide-eyed primal fear like a prey animal’s. “Even if I wanted to, Daemon can’t be killed.”

“He’s not a monster. He’s just a man. He has blood and organs just like we do. I promise you, if we cut him he’ll bleed.”

“He’ll hurt me,” you whimper. “He’ll know what I’m trying to do and he’ll break my neck or push me overboard. You don’t know him, he’s…he’s…he’s relentless, he’s cunning—”

“We can have what we want,” Aegon says, grabbing your face with his hands, fingertips callused from years of playing viola on streets, in pubs, in small rented rooms, on the decks of ships. “We can leave Titanic together. We can stay with my family for a while in New York, and then we’ll go back to Ireland so you can be with yours, and when my father dies we’ll spend half the year in England and the other half with your parents, and you’ll get to keep Draco, and Daemon will never touch you again. You’ll be free, Petra. And you deserve that. But no one is going to give it to you. You have to fight for it.”

Is it possible? Is it really? You imagine having breakfast with your parents in Lough Cutra Castle, the table full: you, Aegon, Draco, Fern, everyone smiling over plates of fried eggs, bacon, beans, mushrooms, tomatoes, and white pudding, cups of tea breathing steam into the cool morning air. Are you willing to fight for that? Are you willing to murder? At last you say: “Daemon isn’t the only problem.”

“Who else?” Aegon asks, demanding, impatient, though his hands are gentle. “Rhaenyra? And the old woman, right? Draco’s governess. Dagmar.”

“And Daemon’s bodyguard Edward Rushton, we call him Rush. He carries a pistol.”

“Okay.” Aegon nods, his eyes distant, his thoughts whirling like Titanic’s colossal propellers once did and never will again. You know he’s devising a plan. We only have an hour or two.

“Aegon…I have to get Draco into a lifeboat first.”

“Right.” He kisses you, a quick brush across your cheek like a dusting of snow, and you think: I can’t lose him. “Over a thousand passengers are going to die tonight. Let’s make sure four of them are people who deserve it.” Then he takes your hand and together you descend the steps to B-Deck.

~~~~~~~~~~

Scarlet fever is named for the distinctive rash that marks its victims, tiny red dots like blood blisters, so itchy they are soon scratched raw, raised bumps of braille in the shape of ominous omens, corporal constellations of bad stars. Dagmar was reminded of them the first time she ever saw bloodstone, a dark green crystal freckled with red, a pendant that Dameon sent her from across the world where he was opening a new mine in Australia.

Valentin was the first one to get sick. He was the youngest, the only boy, and while perhaps mothers are not supposed to have favorites Dagmar knew in her bones that she did. She held him—three years old, white-blonde hair, loud and wild—as he grew quiet and weak and hot with fever, and then he was gone. After Valentin was Juni, and then Karin, and then Mikele, and finally Gunnar, a lumberman who worked hard and never complained, not even when he was dying of kidney failure. Dagmar was once a woman with four children and a husband, but then she was no one, untethered to the earth, unmoored from everything that had been, and people left adrift in the ocean are likely to drown and spend eternity in the crushing, sunless abyss.

She wandered for a while, too old to fathom a new life, too young to simply wait to die herself, and of course suicide is a sin. To keep from starving she took jobs as a governess; the only thing Dagmar knew how to do was raise children, and she was good at it. With each new household she found herself searching for Valentin’s eyes and hair and spirit, for a child that could make her believe he was alive again. But none of the temperate, blue-blooded little boys or girls of England—where Dagmar had fled to escape the memories of her homeland—came close to filling his footsteps, his handprints, the hemorrhaging puncture wound he left in her chest.

Then one brutally cold winter, Dagmar was referred to the 8th Duke of Beaufort Baelon Targaryen, deep in mourning for his wife Alyssa who had recently perished in childbirth and at a loss to handle his two sons. Viserys, the heir, was already eight years old and too set in his ways to ever see Dagmar as a mother. But Daemon, only four—so much like Val, Dagmar had thought as she lifted him from the floor—was sad and needy and vicious, furious at the world for stealing his mother from him, and this was something Dagmar could understand. She became his new mother. He became her reason for living.

Daemon grew up, as all children do if they are not preserved forever in youth by untimely deaths, and Dagmar drifted away to other castles and mansions, other families, other attempts to silence the ghosts that rattled doors and windows as she slept. But no one could replace Daemon, and each time she received a letter or a gift from him—photographs from his mining expeditions, bracelets and hair combs, taxidermied foreign beasts—Dagmar would write him a thank you note and always include the same postscript: Daemon my dear, my brave rogue prince, it would be the greatest joy of my life to one day help look after your own child. And at last, when Draco was born he summoned her, and little Valentin was alive once again.

Now unlike Daemon, Draco did have a mother, but she was young and easily managed, inexperienced with babies, eager to please her husband. Daemon was so sage and charismatic and renowned, and she faded into his shadow until all her colors were gone and she was black and white like a photograph, never knowing what to do or say, staring inanely from doorways. This was just fine as far as Dagmar was concerned. She could pretend that Daemon’s wife was dead like poor Alyssa Targaryen.

Here on Titanic, the baffling shockwave yanked Draco out of his dreams. He’s crying, soft disoriented whines, and Dagmar soothes him and reads him The Little Mermaid and tells Fern—also awakened by the shudder and now pacing restlessly around the staterooms—to make some tea. Just as Draco is finally dozing off again, there is a loud knock at the front door. Dagmar brings Draco out into the sitting room, leading him by one of his tiny pawlike hands, to find Fern speaking to a steward who will not come inside any farther than the doorway, as if he is in a hurry. Fern, puzzled, is clutching the white lifebelts he has given her.

The steward is explaining: “I’m sure it’s just a precaution, ma’am—”

“It’s not a precaution,” Daemon’s wife says as she sweeps into the room, and for some reason there is a man with her, a blonde man in a black wool coat. Immediately, Dagmar’s blood turns to dark viscid poison. What is she doing? Why can’t she disappear? “Thank you,” Daemon’s wife tells the steward briskly. “I’m sure you have other rooms to visit. You should be on your way.”

The steward is evidently too busy to be offended. He retreats into the hallway and vanishes, and the strange blonde man shuts the door behind him. Dagmar scrutinizes the intruder, and he glares back at her with eyes like deep water, a murky melancholy blue. He’s the same man she saw on the Boat Deck, the one who reminded her so much of Viserys when he was young, that solemn, grieving boy she could not coax into loving her.

Why can’t Daemon’s wife just die? Why should she live when so many have been lost? Why would God judge her more worthy than Valentin, Juni, Karin, Mikele, Gunnar?

“What’s going on?” Fern asks Daemon’s wife, her voice reedy and timid.

Instead of an answer, there is a question in return: “Is anyone else here?”

“No,” Fern says, perplexed. “Why? What’s happened?”

Daemon’s wife holds out an empty hand, not to Fern but to Draco, who Dagmar is still grasping with bony fingers gnarled by arthritis. She says: “Draco, please come with me.”

“Why?” he asks, but he has already taken a step towards her, tiny bare feet. Dagmar does not surrender him. She will not, she cannot. He stops when his arm is fully extended and then looks back to his governess, his surrogate mother, his pale eyes full of doubt.

“We have to go somewhere,” Daemon’s wife says. She is still reaching for him. “Draco, please. I need you to listen to me, we don’t have much time.”

“No,” Dagmar sneers. “You don’t know how to take care of him. You never have.”

“Can I go?” Draco asks softly, and Dagmar pretends she has not heard him.

“Draco,” Daemon’s brainless young wife pleads. Her eyes flick up to Dagmar’s, and there is a moment of terrible understanding between them, as if they are mirror images: neither can try to force him without driving him into the embrace of the other. He is not a child who is easily tamed; he is a wolf, he is a dragon.

“Dagmar?” Draco says, peering up at her, and he’s asking for permission but in another minute he might be stomping his feet and screeching loud enough for the entire hallway to hear.

Dagmar glances at the lifebelts Fern is gripping tightly. What’s wrong with the ship? Is it sinking? But no, Dagmar cannot believe this. Titanic is unsinkable; everybody in the world knows that. She tells the boy: “She’ll take you away from me. She’ll steal you. But she won’t keep you safe and warm and happy like I would.”

“I’m your mother,” Daemon’s wife tells Draco, and now her voice is choked and there are tears glittering in her desperate eyes. The blonde man looks at her like he would carry the weight of her anguish if he could, every last pound. Who is he? Why is he here? “I know it might not feel that way sometimes, but I am. And I love you more than anything. I would never hurt you. I’m trying to protect you. Draco, I need you to come with me right now.”

And horribly, unthinkably, he yanks his little hand out of Dagmar’s. She claws for him and he spins around to face her. “No!” Draco shouts. “I decide! Me! Not you!” She is stunned into silence. She watches him careen across the sitting room, and Daemon’s wife scoops him up as if he belongs to her. She holds him for a while, a minute or more, before she sets him down on the floor and quickly helps Draco get his socks and shoes on. The boy does not complain. Then she lifts him again and—with what appears to be great effort—passes him to Fern, who while bewildered accepts this task, now carrying both the boy and the lifebelts. Daemon’s wife grabs all the coats hanging from the coat rack and piles them into Fern’s already full arms.

“Fern, take him upstairs to the Boat Deck. Get to a lifeboat, do not wait. They will be launching them soon if they haven’t started already.”

“Lifeboats?” Fern repeats, blinking, stymied.

“Yes,” Daemon’s wife says, and she and the maid share a long, silent, meaningful look. Draco gazes worriedly around the room, gnawing on his fingernails. The blonde man watches Dagmar, his expression severe, hateful.

Fern asks: “How much time until Titanic…?”

“An hour or two. You won’t be in the lifeboat for long, a ship called Carpathia is en route. But she’s not close enough.”

“Oh,” the maid exhales numbly. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph…”

“Stay with Draco. Don’t leave him for a second. Get into a lifeboat, keep him warm, wait for Carpathia. I’ll follow you as soon as I can, but…there are some things I have to do first.”

“Like what, ma’am? What could be so important? You shouldn’t wait either.”

Instead of answering, she says, low like a dire warning: “If you happen to see them, do not speak to Daemon, Rhaenyra, or Rush. Don’t tell them what’s going on.”

“Yes ma’am,” Fern replies quietly, and nods like she suddenly understands. She takes Draco and hurries out of the room. Now Dagmar is alone with them: Daemon’s idiotic little girl of a wife, her inexplicable companion.

“This ship can’t sink,” Dagmar says; but is the floor tilting? She has only just noticed it.

“Of course it can,” Daemon’s wife counters. “Any ship can. I kept telling everyone how terrified I was of the voyage and you all treated me like I was insane. But I was right. I wasn’t a coward and I wasn’t stupid. And you can’t make me believe that I am anymore.”

Dagmar is about to reply—something cutting, something cruel—but then her steely Scandinavian eyes snag on the stranger and all at once it hits her like a man’s knuckles. She gasps, shocked, ferocious. Aegon. Viserys’ son. A villain, a traitor, an unworthy beneficiary of a grand inheritance. “I know who you are. How the hell did you get here?”

The man grins menacingly. “Fortune brought me a ticket. Best luck I’ve ever had.”

Dagmar screams, hoping he will hear her: “Daemon?!”

Aegon lunges, catches her around her long thin waist, wrestles her towards the door to the private promenade deck. Dagmar isn’t strong, but she is fierce; she scratches at his eyes and bites his hands when they try to smother her howls. They stumble together through the doorway and out onto the pine planks, knocking over lightweight wicker furniture. When her teeth close around Aegon’s fingers, Dagmar tastes blood like warm copper.

“A window!” Aegon is telling Daemon’s wife, but she’s already there after slamming the door to the sitting room shut, franticly turning the hand crank under the nearest window. The glass opens, and freezing night air pours in.

They’re trying to kill me, Dagmar realizes. They’re going to throw me overboard.

She jabs a bony elbow into Aegon’s throat, and he collapses to the deck, wheezing and helpless.

“Daemon!” Dagmar shrieks again. If he hears me, he’ll save me. My savior, my son. “Help!”

But it’s his wife who arrives instead. She collides with Dagmar, strikes her with two open palms, shoves her through the window. Dagmar’s hipbone cracks against the windowsill, a dry brittle snap, and then she tumbles out into the darkness.

Her last thought as she sees the stars—before she hits the frigid water and is knocked unconscious, then dragged under by the merciless weight of gravity—is that if they were red they would look like the dots on the skin of a child with scarlet fever, like the crimson flecks in a bloodstone.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Oh my God, I…we…” You stare down into the black waves that swallowed her so effortlessly, a flash of her long silver hair as it came undone and then nothing. “She’s gone. She’s really gone. We killed her. We’re murderers.”

In reply, Aegon coughs and gasps for air, still crawling around on the deck. You run to him and help him stand up.

“Thanks,” he croaks.

“Are you alright? What can I do?”

“I’ll be fine,” he rasps. “Just need a minute.”

You look down to see blood dripping from his fingers, thick beads of crimson like teardrop-shaped rubies, like oil paint. You ache for him, you feel his pain as if it is your own. “Your hands, Aegon, your hands…”

“I’m okay,” Aegon assures you, smiling. “The bitch chewed me up, but I’ll live.”

“I want to save your paintings,” you say. “We can’t let them go down with the ship. We’ll take them to the Boat Deck and give Fern your portfolio, make sure she and Draco get safely into a lifeboat, and then…then we’ll…” We’ll finish what must be done. We’ll free you and me and Draco.

Aegon is nodding as he rubs his throat, already bruising. “Any idea where Rush might be? The guy with the gun?”

Before you can answer, you both hear it: the sound of a door swinging open and heavy footsteps inside.

~~~~~~~~~~

He likes that Daemon calls him Rush. It’s better than Eddie, which is who he was when he was a boy being kicked and backhanded by his stepfather, and laughed at by the other kids at school for not having shoes to wear. Now he is someone brand new, and that boy Eddie could be a character in a book or a song, vaguely familiar but not real.

Daemon has never hit Rush, never even threatened him. He has never stolen his laborers’ promised wages or cornered maids to violate them, impregnate them, ruin their lives. He goes into the mines he opens and periodically travels the world to inspect, descending into clouds of dust and chipping gemstones from the walls with his own tools. He is kind to his son Draco. He is brave, he is brilliant, he knows how to have a drink with working men and captivate them with his stories. Rush would do anything for Daemon, who saved him from a life of obscure, powerless poverty. He would overlook any number of sins.

Rush gusts into the bedroom and sets about gathering up valuables and stuffing them into a suitcase: business correspondence, jewelry, sketches of designs, bundles of cash from the safe. Daemon will regret having to leave the taxidermied tiger head, but it’s simply too large and heavy to bring with them. Rush hasn’t located Daemon and Rhaenyra yet, but this isn’t so unusual; they are always sneaking around, evading being found purely for the sake of it, the deception, the thrill, ravaging each other in ever more inventive places. God knows where they were when Titanic struck the iceberg, or if they are aware of the impending sinking. Rush is not panicking yet; there’s still time, though perhaps not too much of it. With each passing minute, the ship lists further towards the starboard side. He is just about to get Daemon’s dagger from the writing desk when he hears the door open to the private promenade deck. Rush turns to see Lady Targaryen peeking in from the threshold, pale blue dress, white coat.

He has never felt any loyalty to her. She is a thoughtless, mollycoddled girl, raised in a castle with parents who loved her, and what would she know of what the world was like for everyone else? Daemon only roughed her up when she deserved it, when there was no other way to make her listen, and never too badly: no split bones, no scars. In Rush’s opinion, it was just enough to give her a taste of adversity.

He sighs. “Well, unless you plan on drowning or freezing to death tonight, you might as well follow me up to the Boat Deck. I’m just here to collect some things. They’re only putting women and children in the lifeboats now, but I’m sure first-class men won’t be far behind.”

She says nothing, only watches him from the doorway. The old witch Dagmar isn’t here; she must have already taken the boy to the highest level of the ship, where affluent passengers are waiting impatiently and still in denial that Titanic will soon disappear beneath the waves, asking stewards to fetch them drinks and cigars, calling out song requests to the string quartet.

“You wouldn’t happen to have seen Daemon or Rhaenyra, I assume?”

“I thought they were with you.”

“No,” Rush says, smirking. “I seem to have lost track of them. They’re not in either of their staterooms. But don’t fear. Daemon is more than capable of looking after himself. He’ll turn up soon enough.” Perhaps I missed them up on the Boat Deck; it was crowded, it was chaos. Perhaps Daemon is already helping Rhaenyra into a lifeboat, his large rough hands steadying hers as she steps inside. He would save her first.

“I’ll help you pack the valuables,” Lady Targaryen says suddenly, and starts towards Daemon’s writing desk.

“Just keep out of the way,” Rush snaps; and then he sees something and stops dead.

A painter’s easel has slid halfway out from beneath the bed as the floor tilts. This is a peculiar enough item, but the paper clipped to it is stranger. The image is of Lady Targaryen, that is certain, but she isn’t alone; there is a man with her, and while nothing is shown below the collarbones, the activity in which they are partaking is unmistakable.

If she’s found a lover, Daemon really will kill her this time.

Rush gapes at the painting for several long seconds and then looks up at Lady Targaryen. “What the fuck is that?”

~~~~~~~~~~

Your hand hovers on the handle of the desk drawer. You can’t open it and take the dagger while Rush is watching. You know that beneath his coat he wears a shoulder holster containing a Colt 1911. Even with a blade, you are outmatched.

Aegon appears in the doorway to the private deck with a wicker chair. He hurls it at Rush as hard as he can, and as Rush curses and fumbles for his pistol, you seize Daemon’s dagger from the drawer and plunge it into Rush’s back, once, twice, three times, many more. You can’t help but scream as you stab him, because it’s horrible beyond description: the resistance of gristle, the muffled popping of organs, kidneys or a liver or a spleen, and Rush is groaning and contorting, dark blood spilling across the slanting floor. Aegon struggles with him for the gun, ultimately wrenching it out of Rush’s weakening, shaking hands. He’s dying, and while you harbor no affection for him and never have, you remember the children your parents lost. Life is not something to take carelessly. It is already so fragile, and each death creates mourners like heads springing from a hydra.

Over a thousand people will die tonight. Is that really possible?

Rush has stopped moving. You are kneeling with the gold hilt of the dagger in your fist. The gemstones are splattered with blood: amethyst, tiger’s eye, black opal, emerald, ruby, bloodstone, sapphire.

“Here,” Aegon says, trying to give you the pistol.

You recoil. “I don’t know how to use that.”

He laughs, a half-hysterical little cackle. There is a smudge of Rush’s blood across his cheek like a stain of lipstick. “I don’t either!”

“Keep the gun. I trust you.” You turn to the easel that has slid out from beneath the ruffled bed skirt—once white, now speckled with red—and realize that stray blooddrops have been flung across the painting, dots of red turning tacky on the thin layer of oil paint. “I ruined it,” you say, soft and mournful.

“No,” Aegon disagrees, smiling. “You just added some more color.”

You use the bedsheets to wipe the worst of the blood off your hands and the dagger. Then you pull Aegon’s leather portfolio out from underneath the bed, open it, and store the new painting safely inside. In the meantime, Aegon rolls Rush’s body into the closet and entombs him in a heap of gowns you’ll never wear again. You stand, pick up the dagger, and catch a glimpse of yourself in the oval-shaped mirror…and instead of looking away, you stay there for a while. The woman in the glass—like silver, like moonlight—has frightened eyes but a glinting blade as well. There are massive maroon splotches on the belly of your ice-blue dress; you button your coat to conceal them. Through the open door to the private deck, frigid night air floods in like the seawater slowly filling Titanic.

What does water that cold feel like? Like knives, like fangs? A thousand people will soon find out.

“Ready?” Aegon asks. He puts the pistol in the pocket of his stolen black coat.

“Almost.” You find your handbag from yesterday, green to match the emerald-colored dress you wore before Aegon painted you, before he uncovered you like a rare gemstone. Within is Aegon’s small aluminum lighter; you tuck the dagger inside as well. You yank out a handkerchief and clean the blood from Aegon’s cheek with it, then peer down at his swollen, bloodied fingers and knuckles, ravaged by Dagmar’s bitemarks. They are trembling. “Are your hands—?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he whispers, pulling you in and kissing you, touching your face and your hair, his lips warm and soft in a haze of copper-scented glacial air. Would you do this again for him? For Draco, for yourself? Yes. I’d do it a hundred times. “We’re halfway done.”

Up on the Boat Deck, people are finally realizing that the ship is in mortal peril. First-class women, shimmering in their gowns and their jewels, are being hastily loaded into lifeboats along with their maids and their children. You spot Fern in one vessel; she is wearing two coats herself, and has bundled Draco in at least four from what you can tell. She holds him on her lap, and Draco is uncharacteristically hushed, compliant, fearful, gawping with startled blue eyes beneath disorderly white-blonde hair. They are seated beside Benjamin Guggenheim’s elegant French mistress, Léontine Aubart. Ben himself is striding back and forth on the deck with a number of companions, all in pristine black suits and puffing on pipes or cigars, assisting the weeping women as they flee to the lifeboats.

“We are prepared to go down as gentlemen!” Ben is trumpeting. Nearby, a string quartet is playing not an Irish song that you have known since childhood but the mellow, merry, please-don’t-panic melody of Samson and Delilah by Camille Saint-Saëns.

“I guess my viola is long gone, huh?” Aegon tells you. “Oh well. I hope the fish enjoy it.”

Ben Guggenheim continues: “Let it be known for all time that we stayed until the end to save the lives of the innocent, our beloved women and children, and that they survived because of us. Our bodies may fail, but our Christian good deeds will last eternally.”

“Hear hear!” other men are shouting drunkenly, raising glasses of brandy. Stewards and officers cast them brief, rather impatient glances. You wonder if any of the aforementioned gentlemen have considered the women and children of the third class, many of whom must have already predeceased them as they were drowned below deck, ignoble, invisible.

You think for the first time: Are they going to let Aegon into a lifeboat?

“Mam!” Draco shouts when he sees you, reaching out with both arms. You sprint to where he is still secured in Fern’s lap and lean over the side of the lifeboat, clasping his cold little hands and kissing the top of his head. Then you give Aegon’s portfolio to Fern.

“Take this with you. Try to make sure it doesn’t get wet.”

“Are you climbing in now, ma’am?” Fern asks hopefully. “There’s room for one more if we squeeze together.” Her eyes dart to Aegon. “Perhaps two.”

“I can’t,” you reply. “Not quite yet. But I’ll be back soon.”

“No, you have to come with us,” Draco says. The ship’s officers are signaling for the vessel to be lowered into the water. You spy other familiar faces aboard: young pregnant Madeleine Astor, the glamorous Countess of Rothes, the newly-wealthy Margaret Brown. Being a first-class passenger will save her life tonight.

“I’ll get in another boat. I promise.”

“No,” Draco says, and now he’s sobbing. He can’t understand the scale of it, but he knows something is terribly wrong. “Mam, we can’t leave without you. There’s room in the boat. Please get in. Please.” And you think: Maybe he does need me after all. Maybe he always did.

“You can go with them,” Aegon murmurs through your hair. “I’ll finish this. I’ll take care of Daemon and Rhaenyra.”

But he might need your help…and you cannot leave him here alone to freeze or drown or be murdered when Daemon discovers his lethal intentions. “You’re safe,” you tell Draco, one last touch of your palm to his hair, one last reassuring smile you hope isn’t a lie. “Stay with Fern. I’ll be in another lifeboat and I’ll see you again when this is over.”

“No, no, no!” Draco cries, still grasping futilely for you; but the lifeboat is lurching down towards the water and he is soon beyond your reach. High above, a flare explodes in the inky night sky, gleaming silver rain to tell any passing ships that Titanic is doomed. The North Atlantic is like black glass, smooth and reflective. Distant constellations are mirrored there, and you remember a passage from a book you gifted Daemon for your second anniversary when you still believed he might one day love you, an ancient tale from India about the beauty of the ocean: Its huge white waves looked like clouds; its gems looked like stars; its crystals looked like the moon; and its long bright serpents bearing gems in their hoods looked like comets, and thus the whole sea looked like the sky.

“Lady Targaryen,” Ben Guggenheim says as he marches over. He is swaying like he might be drunk. If he is, you can’t blame him. The truth is cold, and poison is warm: alcohol, smoke, a lover’s hands, a gush of blood. “Do you require any assistance, my darling?”

“No, thank you,” you reply swiftly before he can inquire further, and Aegon’s arm circles your waist as you hurry towards the entrance of the Grand Staircase together. You clutch your green handbag close to your chest. Where are Daemon and Rhaenyra? When will this be over?

From back by the lifeboats you can hear Ben Guggenheim shouting: “Tell my wife and daughters in New York that I love them! Tell them that I died a hero, and that I shall see them again when one day we are reunited in heaven…pray for my soul…tell the newspapers of our courage tonight…”

You and Aegon escape into the very top level of the Grand Staircase, the dome of glass and wrought iron above, the English oak wood steps winding below. As you enter, a frenzied crowd passes you on their way out to the Boat Deck: shipbuilder Thomas Andrews, J. Bruce Ismay, a number of others. And then, just as you and Aegon are beginning your descent, you see her on the landing below, frozen in place where she gapes up at you from beside the clock. Soon its ticking will fall silent forever. It will live on only in the memories of the survivors.

Rhaenyra is alone on the staircase. She is wearing a red and black gown and a white lifebelt; she is on her way to evacuate the sinking ship. You have intercepted her not a moment too soon. But she is not looking at you. Her Targaryen-blue eyes are fixed on Aegon, incredulous. It is the first time she has truly noticed him since she came aboard, and she remembers his face from photographs, from portraits, from awkward, frosty visits when they were both children.

“Aegon?” she says. “What are you doing here?”

In response, he removes the pistol from his coat pocket. Rhaenyra screams and bolts down the staircase, Aegon right behind her, flying like a phantom, like a shadow in his stolen black wool coat.

You try to follow, but they are faster. You slip on the steps, one of your blue shoes clattering away as you grip the banister to keep from falling. You reclaim your shoe where the staircase meets A-Deck; outside the illustrious Promenade Deck encircles the perimeter of the ship. You steady yourself against the bronze cherub statue as you slide your shoe back on, then resume the chase…but you don’t know where Aegon and Rhaenyra have gone.

Farther down the Grand Staircase? Out onto the Promenade Deck? Into the maze of hallways?

You try to listen for them, but the turmoil outside is growing louder. You hear a gunshot, but you cannot tell from which direction; the sound reverberates through the steel of the ship and melds with the chorus of failing machinery: groaning joints, snapping beams, steam vented from the massive funnels. You pause in the doorway that leads out to the Promenade Deck, black freezing air drawn into your heaving lungs.

Which way?

Now there are footsteps on the Grand Staircase coming up from B-Deck. You race back to the bronze cherub, but it is not Aegon or Rhaenyra who meets you there. It is Daemon, appearing on the landing like a fogbank or a thunderstorm, black suit, glinting deep-set eyes, towering over you; and once again you are a seventeen-year-old girl climbing into the marriage bed with him and hoping he’ll like you, once again you feel yourself to be entirely at his mercy, in terror of him, in awe of him.

Daemon grabs you by your coat and pushes you against the bronze cherub statue, its edges prodding at your spine. You yelp and he chuckles, and he asks, so casually he must know nothing about Aegon or his pursuit of Rhaenyra like a hound after a fox: “And what are your plans for this evening, dear? Dinner and dancing? Or perhaps a nice brisk swim? Good for one’s health, I hear.”

You can’t find your words. Your fingers that grasp your handbag are numb and useless. Daemon is inside you again, not your body this time but your mind, snipping threads and dissolving mirages. How did I ever believe I could kill him?

Slowly, Daemon’s grin dies. He releases you, and then for some reason—a trick?? a trap??—offers you his empty hand. “Come on,” he says, as if relenting. “I’ll help you get to a lifeboat.”

You stare up at him, and the shock must show on your face, the disbelief, the cautious wonder.

“I can’t take you away from Draco,” Daemon says, answering a question you don’t need to ask. He owns all of you; you have no secrets. “He’s so young. And I know what it’s like to lose a mother.”

Draco, you think with abrupt glass-sharp clarity. I’m doing this for him, and Aegon, and me.

You don’t take Daemon’s hand. Instead, you open your handbag and rip out the dagger. You slash at Daemon’s throat, and you almost cut him deep enough, a fraction of an inch from the carotid or the jugular or the windpipe. But Daemon pulls away at the last second and you only wound him, scarlet rivulets spilling down his neck and staining the white shirt beneath his suit jacket, melting rubies, hard soulless gemstones in the sockets of his eyes.

Daemon throws you down the staircase and you hit the oak steps hard, bruising, twisting, rolling, the thoughts jolted out of your skull. The dagger is knocked from your hand and is lost. You fumble blindly for it where you are sprawled on the next landing, halfway to B-Deck. Your vision is blurred by stars like those in the mirror image on the North Atlantic Ocean.

But I need the dagger, I need it, I need it, I can’t kill him without it.

And as you lift your head you see Daemon coming down to meet you, a gemcutter here to break you over and over again, until there is nothing left but glimmering dust, until you have never existed at all.

[gabessquishytum]

Dream is NOT going soft. But when he first meets hob in 1389 he does have a slight fondness for the adventurous, intelligent omega. Most of the rest of the story is as usual. They make their deal. They meet every one hundred years. Hob aggressively loves life.

He also puts on strong mating hormones that Dream ignores.

But Dream does worry about hob. It is a hard world for omegas. After 1689, hob certainly knows it. But in 1789, dream makes a split second decision to tell hob that if he is ever hurt or captured or in danger, just call and dream will hear him.

Sure enough a few decades later, hob calls.

Alarmed, Dream appears ready to defend him. They’re alone in a nice hallway where hob is pacing. He looks very relieved and Dream scans the area but can’t sense an obvious threat. No demons. No Constantine.

Hob twines his arm with Dream’s with a wide apologetic but frantic smile and leads him into the next room where a group of humans wait, including an angry alpha holding flowers.

“This is my alpha,” hob says firmly and squeezes Dream’s arm. “I really am mated. So for the third time, I can’t accept your proposal.”

So yes hob probably shouldn’t be cashing in his favor for a fake mate but this alpha was getting really pushy, and hob is improvising. It has nothing to do with the fact that hob’s been fantasizing about being Dream’s for centuries.

And Dream is not soft. And yet he finds himself unable to deny hob this service. How hard could acting be?

I'm deeply obsessed with the idea of Dream decked out in early 1800s fashion, standing awkwardly in the doorway, holding Hob’s hand in a way that suggests he has quite clearly never held anyone's hand before. He should probably be angry, but instead he finds himself faintly amused by this little scheme that Hob has whipped up. Soon he finds himself suggesting that he ought to appear around town with Hob, if they really want to stop all those pushy alphas from proposing all the time. Hob is only too pleased to accept, and thoroughly enjoys promenading the streets arm and arm with his stoic, silent, slightly eldritch alpha. The gossip about Hob and his mate is rife. And despite the potential danger for Hob that comes with becoming notorious, he finds that he really doesn't mind. After all, Dream has promised to keep him safe.

Of course it makes sense that Dream is also there to help Hob through his heats. And take care of him as he recovers afterwards. And buy him all kinds of nice clothes to show him off in public. And take him to balls and concerts and the theatre. But when he watches Hob happily cooing over their firstborn child together, Dream has to wonder... is he going soft, after all? Well. Maybe a little bit.

[jimblejamblewritings]

love letters and second sons | part 2.

Summary: The princess is finally ready to debut in society. But before she does, she decides to disguise herself and see the true faces of the ton.

Warnings for the Series: light sexism in line with the times, light classism in line with the times, mental health stigma, shitty doctor care, smut, suicide attempt (will get it's own warning when the time comes),

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x princess!reader

Word Count: 4.2k

Previous Part | Series Masterlist

Eloise left to go right across the street while you followed the rest of the family into the dining room. It had been so long since you had a formal sit down breakfast with your family. Your siblings just couldn’t be bothered to come from wherever they were — sometimes in the same house but they still didn’t show. Your father and mother couldn’t make it most of the time. The dining room table could be very lonely sometimes. 

You thanked Colin as he pulled out a chair for you before sitting down. Pouring yourself a cup of coffee, you passed the decorated teapot to Daphne before reaching for the small jug of cream. The Bridgertons were very invested in palace life and wanted to know whatever you were allowed to tell them about. You looked up from your coffee when Eloise came back with Penelope Featherington. 

Smiling at Penelope, you handed her the box so you wouldn’t forget before you left. Her face dropped. 

“What is it?” 

“Oh, I don’t want to burden the princess with frivolous matters. We have an addition to our house. My cousin, Marina Thompson has come to stay for the season. But no matter, she can wear my dress. I have plenty already.” 

You shook your head. “No matter how frivolous they may be, your problems are the Crown’s problems. I will return tomorrow with another dress for Miss Thompson. Besides, each piece has been chosen specifically for each person. How could Miss Thompson possibly look good in a dress meant to make you look good?” 

Penelope smiled. “Is it alright if I open it here?” 

“Of course, Pen,” Anthony said. 

She carefully placed the lid of the box on the ground and ruffled through the pieces until she found the dress with her name pinned on it. She pulled out a dress of emerald green, just emerald green. No patterns insight. The sleeves were flatter than the balloon sleeves normally worn but that was because they were sheer with beading on them. 

“Wow. It is beautiful.” 

“The princess will be glad to hear that you like it. Now, I am very sorry but I have to go now. A midmorning promenade cannot be missed.” 

Everyone stood up when you did. 

“Well, yes, of course,” Violet said. “Will you return for breakfast tomorrow? Or whenever is a good time for you?” 

You weren’t stupid. Either the Dowager Viscountess wanted your fake persona to marry her son — probably the third son, Colin, since you were a valet. Or she wanted the princess to marry her son. In that case it must have been Anthony. You took your cloak from the footman it put it back on. 

“I shall see if I can appear tomor— this weekend. Before the Danbury ball, the family wants to go to the countryside. I shall be back here then.” 

“Lovely.” 

You stepped outside, taking the alleyways back to the palace. Pandora let out a breath when the painting finally moved. You stepped inside. 

“Have you been here the whole time?” 

“Yes, I have. Was your time outside fun?” 

“Absolutely, I will be doing it again later.” 

“What? Princess, please.” 

“Pandora, you don’t understand. It was amazing. One of the best times of my life.” 

“Y/N. What if your illness st—” 

“Then I shall deal with that when it happens. Oh, I met people. The houses in the ton are very nice.” 

“You went to someone’s house?” Pandora’s voice rose three octaves as she tried to stay quiet. 

“Just the Bridgertons. Their mother is very sweet. She invited me to a recurring breakfast whenever I have the time.” 

“Really?” 

“Yes, and the rumors about them are true. The daughters are all beautiful. Their youngest son seems very nice.” 

“And the three eldest boys?” 

“Absolutely handsome. Especially the eldest.” 

The two of you giggled as you kept sharing what they looked like in person while you got ready for your promenade. The gardens were dreadfully boring but you felt better just thinking about going to the Bridgertons house next time. It could have been anyone but you were glad it was a large family and a family friend. Only your first day out and you already became acquainted with two families. That was a success in your book. 

~~~

“Princess! Princess Y/N! Your Highness!” 

You could hear the yelling down the hall. Looking over at your father, you smiled. 

“Thank you for talking with me about the ball, Mr. Jupiter. I think I should let them know I am alive.” 

“Go. I shall still be here.” 

You shimmied out from under the bed, George laughing at you the entire time. The bed wasn’t your favorite place to be but it was your father’s favorite place. You preferred the wardrobe. Swinging open the door, you spotted Brimsley running down the hall. 

“I’m right here!” 

He turned with a quickness. “Oh thank God. The Queen and King are requesting you actually attend breakfast with them instead of in the kitchens or your room.” 

“Father? How could he tell you? He’s right he—” 

“Yes. He usually stays in his wing. He came down earlier this morning.” 

You looked back at your bed. No one was there. George’s feet weren’t sticking out from the end of the bed. You bit your lip and didn’t say anything, choosing just to follow Brimsley to the dining room. If anyone found out you had a fit then there was no hope of your mother letting you go anywhere. It shouldn’t have been a surprise. Whenever you were anxious or stressed, a fit was bound to happen. Maybe you should have been taking your medicine. But it didn’t make you feel good at all. Tomorrow you’d ask for a change in medicine or doctor.

Your father looked better when you reached downstairs, actually cognizant, and your mother seemed happy. None of your other siblings were there. Pulling out your chair you sat down. The conversation went in one ear and out the other. You answered where necessary and that was about it. You needed to be perfect. When there was a lull in the talking, you found the perfect opportunity to speak. 

“Mother, may I go to Lady Danbury’s ball?” 

“No.” 

“I promise I will be on my be—” 

“No.” 

“If I have a fit then I will go stra—” 

“Y/N, do not make me repeat myself.” 

“But I just want to know why? All of my brothers and sisters were allowed to introduce themselves well before this age. Why am I still waiting?” 

“Dear, we’ve been over this.” 

“But Edward and Sophia both have the same illness and they were all—” 

“Because no one is as bad as yours!” Charlotte looked up from her plate when you grew silent. She sighed at the sight of your crestfallen face. “Y/N, dear, you know I didn’t mean it like that. I’m only talking about your illness, not you as a person… give me four months. Four months to prepare everything, then I will let you go, whether an incident happens or not. Just follow the rules and keep yourself safe.” 

“Thank you, Mother. I do have one more question.” 

“Yes?” 

“May I stay at Kew?” 

“Kew?” Both your mother and father said at the same time. 

“I have incidents whether I am here or with Father or by myself. We don’t have strong evidence that anything makes it better or worse. Kew is far enough that I’m not tempted by the city but close enough that I will not miss it. And I can still speak to the people.” 

In reality it’s because your parents never went to Kew. You wanted privacy and to not be under such a watchful eye. And if you could bring your court then absolutely no one would find out that you went into the city. 

Charlotte gave George a look. “Yes, the people do seem to love your letters. Okay, alright. I will allow you to stay at Kew but your father and I and your physician will be coming every Sunday to check on you. Brimsley and Reynolds will be going with you.”  

“Okay.” 

Buckingham wasted no time packing your things and taking them to Kew after the Danbury ball. You flopped onto your bed, happy to be left alone finally. Only half of your court came with you to Kew. The others were “dismissed” for the season — you wouldn’t need them again until you introduced yourself to society. Really you just needed them to stay at Buckingham and report to you what was happening. Naturally, Pandora came to Kew. 

The home looked just the same as when you were younger. The first thing you did was instruct every curtain to be open. The grounds were extensive and private. You weren’t in London but just outside of it. No one could see the place at all so there was no need to hide behind window decorations. 

“I should like dinner outside,” you said as you sat down in the short grassy part of the front lawn. 

“Outside?” 

“Yes. It’s very nice today. I would like to sit outside and eat and plan my new schedule. You and Reynolds can go to the cottage on the grounds. Turn left and you’ll see a bunch of cottages across the stream. Go to the third one. It’s behind a smattering of trees but the hedges there cover everything. You can see people before they see you.” 

“I’m sorry?” Brimsley’s eyes went wide. 

“I’ve known since I was five. I don’t think you two believed that a five year old could be observant but I was.” You turned back to look at him. “Well, I do not care. Brimsley, you should know I couldn’t possibly care about anything like that. With my issues I could never judge someone. Not for what you look like, your class, whoever you choose to pray to which is really none of my business. I don't like to sit in church anyway and much prefer prayer alone in the gazebo. It also doesn't matter who you... share a cottage with."

“Your Highness.” 

“I will keep your secret, Brimsley,” you reassured him. “Besides, when the time comes I will need for you to keep mine.” 

“Secrets? You have secrets? I didn't know... What would I be keeping?” 

“You’ll know it when it happens.” 

“Yes, Your Highness.” 

“Brimsley!” you yelled before he could step inside the house to tell them what you wanted to eat. “About what I said just then.” 

“It is no trouble at all, Your Highness.” 

“No, not my secrets… I would never tell anyone. Whether you kept my secret or not. I promise you that.” 

“Thank you.” 

“I will find a way to make it better.” 

Brimsley gave you a sad smile. “The effort alone is appreciated.” 

You gave him a determined look before returning to making your schedule. You didn’t have a need for full time tutors anymore, having finished formal schooling years ago.

So you put all your special tutors to come on Tuesday and Wednesday, your parents visiting on Sunday, you’d write all your letters on Thursday, and then waste away on Monday, Friday, and Saturday. A schedule your parents greatly approved of as they stated that you needed plenty of days to rest and not overwork yourself before you make the illness worse. Of course you didn’t tell them that those days were for going into the city. 

Monday morning you picked flowers to make a bouquet for the Featheringtons since you had only met one of them in person. Not that you needed it but you opened your book of flowers to see the meanings. You did hope that flower language would catch on more in a few years.

Taking your hand pruning shears, you started cutting both from the garden and the greenhouses. Basil for good wishes. White Carnations to wish a pure love. White Jasmine for amiability. Yellow lilies for happiness. Pink roses also for happiness. Bells of Ireland for good luck. You handed the first set of flowers to Brimsley before starting on individual bouquets for the four young women of the house. 

For Prudence: daisies for innocence, dandelions for faithfulness and happiness, peonies for a happy life and a happy marriage. For Phillippa: dandelions for faithfulness and happiness, fern for sincerity, honeysuckle for bonds of love. For Penelope: lady’s mantle for comfort, lily of the valley for sweetness, wallflower for faithfulness in adversity. For Marina: camellias for affection, lavender roses for enchantment, daffodils for good fortune.

You also collected flowers for the Bridgertons, small individual bouquets. Only two types of flower in each bouquet. For Violet: acacia for friendship and violet for her name.

For Anthony: acalia for temperance and agrimonia for gratitude. For Benedict: balm gentle for pleasantry and bearded crepis for protection. For Colin: chamomile for energy in adversity and coriander for hidden worth. For Daphne: daphne for her name and dandelions for happiness.

For Eloise: elderflower for zealousness and elephant’s ear for good luck. For Francesca: fern leaves for fascination and flower-of-an-hour for delicate beauty. For Gregory: garden chervil for sincerity and geranium, scarlet color, for comfort. For Hyacinth: hawthorn for hope and hyacinth for her name. 

“This should do.” 

“Shall we send them now?” 

“Oh, no, Brimsley. I shall take them with me.” 

“With you?” he squeaked. 

“Yes. I assume now would be a good time as ever to divulge my secret to you and Reynolds. Pandora already knows. I go out to see the ton. I have already done this a few times now.” 

Reynolds and Brimsley looked like they were going to faint. You laughed as you took your cloak from Pandora. You had no concern with anyone finding out since the two men in front were still in the gardens instead of running back to Kew to pen a letter. 

“Please ready the carriage. I’ve already missed breakfast as it is, I don’t want to be any later.” 

The only two things that freaked out your valets even more were entirely your fault as well. Reynolds stuttered through confusion when you refused the mask he was about to hand you. Brimsley actually did faint when you got out of the carriage before reaching the Bridgerton house. You turned around when he came to again. 

“The carriage is too recognizable. Until I get something more plain th—” 

“Just say the princess gave it to you for business affairs!” Brimsely yelled so loudly that you were concerned someone would hear it. 

For a moment you were ready to ignore his plea but then you realized he was right. Plus, you did already set up that poor women and rich women were treated equal in your court — something that was true but you only had three lower class women in your court to begin with. You got back into the carriage, knee bouncing the entire way. 

Peering out the window, you spotted Marshall. He titled his head a bit as you turned around, seemingly scolding someone inside, tilting even more when you walked in the opposite direction of their house. An older woman greeted you at the door of the Featherington home. You repeated the same thing you told Marshall the first time you came to the Bridgerton family. 

“Please come in. They’re in the drawing room, now… Ma’am, a visitor.” 

You curtsied as you entered their drawing room, waving to Penelope. “Hello… Woah, there are a lot of men. I’m sorry I was unaware we had already begun calling.” 

Lady Featherington put on her best smile. “Yes, what is it?” 

“Right. I am the Young Princess’ lady in waiting. She has made bouquets for you all. Well, as well as bouquets for the Bridgertons but rest assured I know exactly which ones belong to you.” 

The Featheringtons looked more than pleased to be receiving flowers after dresses, especially Lady Featherington. All the suitors were looking at them like winning prizes. To be favored by the princess is to have everyone’s hand in your lap and every name on your dance card. You read out what each flower meant and gave them a card that had them written down in case they were to forget. 

“Thank you so much, Miss?” 

“Beckett.”

“Miss Beckett. Please inform the princess that we are forever grateful for such a thoughtful gift. If it is no trouble would you like some biscuits or tea?” 

You decided to stay for a few minutes. Besides, watching suitors fall over their feet to impress women seemed like a very entertaining morning. Thanking the old woman for the tea, you took a sip before setting down the cup when you noticed Colin. He waved to you before making a bored face.

Clearly, he hadn’t been the first one to arrive for calling. You supposed that was the issue with all four of your girls out at once. There was only one drawing room so all of their suitors would have to wait their turn even if they were there for a different girl, at least until Lord Featherington came home and then maybe he could chaperone outside in the garden. You now understood why the Bridgertons were okay with Eloise delaying her debut. Focusing on only one woman is plenty enough.

Daphne had written to you that she had received no callers but none of the other Bridgertons had spoken about calling or the marriage mart at all. You only looked up from the mess of suitors when Eloise arrived, pulling up a chair at the small table you and Penelope were sitting at. Pen tapped your shoulder. 

You looked down at the overgrown rat in her arms. It was your turn to mind the dog that one of the gentlemen calling thought would be appropriate as a gift. Rolling your eyes, you took it anyway and began bouncing it like a child. At least it was a very calm dog. 

Your two friends laughed as you jumped when another gentleman began reciting a poem very loudly. Everyone was starting to fall asleep. His performance was both bad and boring, a combination you were hoping couldn’t be accomplished today. The sound of Lady Featherington’s clapping was the only thing that woke everyone up. She all but pushed the men out, saying the girls had seen enough suitors today. You frowned at her telling the gentlemen to say goodbye to even Penelope. Even? They should just be saying goodbye because she was a lady and in the house. Colin came over to you guys. 

“A most wretched sonnet indeed.” 

You laughed before standing up to leave with him, trying not to eavesdrop on their conversation. The two of them had such a close bond. You were sure that they’d end up with each other. He was probably here for her, waiting for a chance when Marina’s suitors were done. Handing Colin his flowers, you abandoned him for the drawing room of his house — pausing in your tracks when you saw a man you didn’t recognize. 

Violet jumped up along with Hyacinth and Francesca. “Oh, Miss Beckett, hello. We weren’t expecting you after you missed breakfast.” 

“Yes, I was preoccupied with the princess. I’m sorry am I intruding?” 

“No.” Daphne all but ran to meet you. “What do you have with you?”  

“The princess made bouquets.” You leaned in close. “I am very sorry about what Whistledown wrote. You didn’t deserve that. Perhaps flowers can cheer you up?” 

“Thank you so much.” 

“Where are the others? I shall give these to them then promptly return.” 

“Yes, please do,” Daphne said before having to return to her caller. 

Violet took her flowers from you. “Gregory is in the garden or with his brothers. More than likely his brothers. They are either in…” 

“Yes?” 

“Well they are in their rooms but I can’t just let you go in alo— It’s much too dangerous for a woman. The ton wo—” 

“I don’t see why I cannot seeing as I am the princ—” you stopped yourself. “Uh, the princess’ valet. I’m on official business from her and where she can go, I can go.” 

She still seemed unsure. 

“Besides, I am not a lady.” 

At that, Violet let you go upstairs but her face didn’t relax on any of the tension it held. You held onto the wooden railing as you skipped up the steps. You realized that you should have asked Violet which rooms were theirs. But it was too late now. Going back down would just be a matter of inconvenience and take longer in your return to Daphne’s aid. And not to mention, you were a princess. You didn’t need permission to enter anywhere, it was just polite to ask. Opening each door, you sighed in relief when one finally led to a bedchamber with people inside. Anthony looked up, setting down one of his many ledgers. 

“Beckett, what are you doing here?” 

At the sound of your name Gregory, who had been sitting on his older brother’s bed as he engrossed himself in some reading, looked up. “Beckett!”  

You handed them both the bouquets. “Courtesy of the princess, not my doing.” 

They chuckled as they took their bouquets from your arms. You heard the door creak behind you as it opened more. Turning, you came face to face with the second eldest Bridgerton. Benedict smiled. 

“I knew I heard Gregory call for you.” 

“Here. For you.” 

“Thank you. How long will you be staying?” 

“For dinner but then I must leave afterwards. So, what shall we do up here?” 

“Up here?” Anthony raised his eyebrows. “Alone? Miss Beckett, I do not think it… it is improper for us to be alone with you.” 

You scoffed. “Impropriety.”  

“It is true.”

“Firstly, I am not exactly bound by your rules of society. Second, we aren’t alone unless you are insinuating that anything would happen because you either can’t control yourself or are oddly content to share me with your brother.” You enjoyed watching them both stutter through a reply. 

“But if someone were to see us.”

“Does this window face the front of the street?” 

“No.” 

“Can anyone see anything in the back?” 

“No.” 

“Then no one is to see anything. Especially when nothing is happening. And lastly, I am not unchaperoned.”  

“You aren’t?” 

You pointed to the youngest Bridgerton in the room. “Gregory is not a man but a child. Therefore someone who is not an available bachelor is watching and supervising us.” 

He grinned, not even caring that he was called a child. “Yeah. I’m very good at watching.” 

You could do nothing but laugh as you flopped over Anthony’s bed and asked Gregory to hand you a book he was finished with.

Benedict blinked. “I guess I cannot argue with that. I’ll go get my charcoals and come back.” 

“Ah, right, but first let me eavesdrop on Daphne and Nigel. Almost forgot.” 

“Lord Berbrooke?” 

“Don’t make me laugh by giving him a title.”

When you returned, the boys had found their way into a comfortable silence. They barely acknowledged your presence when you sat down. Per Anthony’s request, the door didn’t just stay unlocked or ajar but completely open. Benedict looked away from his paper and at you. 

“What do you mean you aren’t bound by rules of society?” 

“I said your rules.” 

He rolled his eyes. "Okay, then. Our rules."

“The rules of the upper class and the ton. I am bound by royal rules and royal rules only which you’d be surprised to find are very different from the rules of the ton… I should suggest to the princess that she must write about those rules.” 

“And what are royal rules then?” 

“The only one that pertains to you is that it isn’t a crime for a royal or a member of their court to be unchaperoned while around the opposite sex.” 

Violet decided to go upstairs after seeing Lord Berbrooke out their front door, utterly exhausted. She just needed a few moments of rest before going back to Daphne. Passing by her son’s room, she paused. Anthony was at his desk working, Gregory was sitting at the head of the bed reading, you laid flopped across it with several things around you, and Benedict was sitting on the floor leaning against the side of the bed with his art supplies spread out all around. The sight could be considered improper but Violet refused to interrupt. 

“Anthony, come look at Benedict’s work and tell him it is better than he gives himself credit for.” 

Violet watched her son take his ledgers and come sit by Benedict, who had cleared enough of his supplies away for his brother, right underneath where you were laying. Not caring, you rested your chin on top of his head so you wouldn’t lose balance as you pointed to where you liked Benedict’s sketch. You couldn’t help but laugh as Anthony stiffened up for a moment. 

“You’re worse than Brimsley. I already told you that I am not a lady. Calm yourself.” 

“Brimsley?” 

“The Queen’s temporarily former valet. He moved to Kew with us.” 

“The family now stays at Kew?” 

“No, just the princess. It was a gift of sorts as she’s the only child to live there. It is a chance to live alone and like a proper adult before her introduction to society.” 

Gregory became interested once again. “We’ll get to see the princess soon? When?” 

“Roughly four months if all goes well… You know, I must take you all to Kew one day.” 

“That sounds lovely.” 

Violet smiled as she continued heading to her destination. You and Anthony seemed to be headed towards friendship. If you really did take him to Kew then he would get to meet the princess alone.

(part 3)

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PERMANENT TAGLIST:

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[honeysickledream]

'Overgrown' - Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader | Chapter One

(photo credit: me [@honeysickledreams])

warnings | tags: F!reader, no use of Y/N and no physical descriptions of reader, reader is a healer and midwife, this is set in a very vague ‘middle ages’ time, forced/arranged marriage, angst, slow burn (heavy emphasis on slow), miscommunication, there’s no communication at this point honestly, relationship issues, relationship doubts, (mild) hurt with no comfort, no smut this time around but still minors DNI, mild horror/fear element towards the beginning (a nonexistent monster is described in detail + the briefest mentions of animal and possible person-on-person attacks along with it) | that’s everything off the top of my head, lmk if I missed anything!

word count: ~2.6k

synopsis: You had married Simon four months ago, the whole thing some stupid forced arrangement. You had left everything you knew behind to live with Simon in his cabin a few miles out from his hometown. You weren't sure you could classify your relationship as a marriage, or even say truthfully that you lived with him because he wasn't around very often. Some part of you hopes things improve, but you're not unwillingly to do what you can to live the life you'd originally planned for.

Next Part ->

Thin clouds softly colored purple and pink from the sunset drifted overhead. Street lamps burned away at the oil and cloth wicks. The townspeople flooded the rough streets as they went about their evening routines of visiting the markets, going home after a long day or meeting with others. Some mothers were wandering the alleyways where their unruly children wandered after being sent out to play. You did your best to move through the crowds of people, hopping onto the wooden promenades to get around the slower and louder groups so you wouldn’t have to trek home in total darkness. The walk back to the cabin was a few miles out, and after spending four months tending to mothers and their children, you had heard more than your fair share of stories about the shadows in the woods and the spindly-legged beasts that enjoyed gobbling up those who were out too late. Logically you knew those creatures weren’t out there, that the mothers were telling their children such stories to keep them from wandering off into the woods and finding themselves food for wolves and bears. But as you walked alone on the dirt road that cut through the thick of the woods, winding this way and that, with only a few thin paths branching off and leading to well-hidden cabins and cottages, you couldn’t help but feel uneasy. Like something was there behind the trees as it tried to make up its mind on whether you would be a tasty treat. You turned down the third path on the right that you came across, the old wooden sign reading ‘Riley’. The name had been etched into the surface haphazardly—either done by a child ages ago or by someone with shoddy penmanship. Somewhere in the depths of the woods, a branch snapped. Your blood ran cold, your heart racing as you tried to keep yourself from going stock still. The creepy stories from the mothers in town began to fill your mind. Images flashed behind your eyes of lanky creatures with bark-covered antlers that dripped with the blood of their victims, cloaks made from human skin and moss draped over their shoulders, their smiles too wide and full of rows of pointed, thin teeth. Those stories were nonsense, you had to tell yourself with each step you took. If there was something in the woods you needed to fear, it would be the wolves or bears that would charge you before they mauled your defenseless body, or perhaps a person lurking in the woods with whatever foul plans they had brewing in their mind. But the notion to fear those things didn’t enter your mind, they never did when something startled you in the woods. For some reason the fantastical, wicked creatures seemed more terrifying than the real threats. The fear you felt subsided as soon as you saw the heavy door to your cabin, the dark blue paint faded. No candles or lanterns were lit, not that you expected them to be, but a disappointment settled in her heart where the fear had been nonetheless. You unlocked the door slowly, slipped inside and locked the door loudly. Once your boots were off, your cloak hanging from the rack by the door, and your aged medical case in its place by the sword stand that was empty like always, you did a quick search around the cabin, lighting candles in the rooms as you ensured that they were clear. The two bedrooms were empty, undisturbed. Your most recent crochet project was still on the couch in a snarled mess, the furniture still angled the way you liked it. You did a quick sweep of the kitchen, making sure no little critters had managed to find their way into the cabin to sample your loaves of bread or tore into your sacks of sugar or crates of ripening fruits. With everything safe, just the way you’d left it that morning before making your rounds through town, you lit the fire in the parlor before lighting the open hearth in the kitchen.

The front door’s lock unlatched loudly right as your nightgown fell down the rest of your body. Without hesitation you grabbed the dagger you kept under the face-down journal on your nightstand. You knew only one other person had a key to the cabin, but who was to say someone hadn’t gotten a locksmith’s set or perhaps one of those damned creatures from those horrible nighttime stories had managed to slip their thin nails into the locks to trigger the mechanisms.

Knife brandished before you, poised to strike at anything even if it was just to buy a few more seconds of breath before dying, you crept down the hallway. You stuck to the right side because it was the side that never creaked, something you learned a few days into living here. The middle of the hallway seemed to creak only when it was nighttime, while the left side creaked morning, noon or night. There was nothing at the entrance of the hallway, and no one was lingering around the front door to the right or in the parlor which was dead ahead. As you looked left into the kitchen where your pot of stew was still bubbling away, you noticed a broad and tall figure wafting the savory smells towards their face. Their back was towards you, their attire dirty and ratty but it was deep green of their cloak that caught your eye and told you that it was safe to lower your blade. “You’re back,” you whispered as you slowly approached the figure who froze when your voice broke through the silence. You didn't bother to hide the faint disappointment in your tone. The scars of the person’s face glinted in the candle- and hearth-light of the kitchen as their head turned. “’Course I am,” the man rasped, voice tight as if he hadn’t spoken for days. “Been four weeks, told ya I’d be back around now.” You glared at him, not just for being so nonchalant about his arrival. It was night, you were alone, no one around, and he just waltzed in without announcing himself. If you hadn’t noticed the green to his cloak, you could’ve stabbed him which wouldn’t have ended well for anyone. “I take it you’re hungry,” you said under your breath. You didn’t wait for his response, grabbing two bowls from the cupboard and two spoons from the drawer. Luckily you’d made a bit more stew than usual, but you knew you’d be scrambling to find him more food after he scarfed his portion down. You stirred the stew and sighed. It had a little ways to go before it was ready to be eaten. “Go fetch yourself water for a bath and get clean. You smell like a wet dog rolled in a puddle of decay, Simon.” He returned the glare you’d given him moments ago but did as you said and went to the back garden for pails of water. He had bristled when you said his name, rather than referring to him as ‘Ghost’. That happened often after he spent a hefty amount of time with his three friends who only referred to him as ‘Ghost’. Everyone in town did the same, or they used a string of descriptors to refer to him. Simon had told you to not refer to him as ‘Ghost’ while withholding the reason why you were given special license on your wedding day.

Bitterness settled heavy on your tongue, memories of your wedding day suddenly filling your mind. Every muscle seemed to tense and tears brimmed in your eyes. You knew the whole situation was horrible for Simon, too, not just for you, but very little about his life had changed that day. At least to your eyes, he had been able to remain in his hometown, living in his family’s cabin all while you had to move far away from the family that forced you to become a Riley. You had to leave everyone you loved behind, most of your belongings still in your old bedroom hidden under white sheets until your family re-purposed them or sold them off. And the marriage remained as rocky as it had been on day one—and it had been four months since the wedding. When Simon was home, he was gone most of the day, leaving near sun-up and returning near sun-down. Sometimes he was called away with his three friends for a few days, and most recently, they’d been called away to do something for four weeks. The two of you rarely talked when he was around, rarely spent more than an hour in the same room. Oh, and there was no physical intimacy. None. Your sisters wrote to you often asking how married life was (and if you had found yourself to be with child yet, which they made sure to never write out so bluntly, preferring to inquire between the lines) and you had no idea how to politely tell them that they had witnessed your husband barely give you a peck on your awful wedding day to seal the vows, so why would they think the marriage had gotten even remotely physical enough for there to be the possibility of a child? As you stood there stewing over the stew, you weren’t even sure you wanted children with Simon. If it ever did happen, would he be a supportive husband to you through all the pains and changes, the scares and the happy moments, the horror and miracle that was birth? Would he care for the child in such a way that would charm you into wanting to give him a dozen more babies? A bubble popped on the surface of the stew, ripping you from your contemplations and rapidly growing dissatisfaction and anger at everything. You licked the spot on the back of your hand and smiled faintly. You were sure you’d perfected the seasonings this time, as well as the ratio of carrots to celery. It was then that Simon cleared his throat and you looked up at where he leaned against the door frame. He dressed in loose cotton trousers and a sleep shirt, his body cleaned of whatever filth he’d gotten on himself. He’d even trimmed his dark blond hair, which was a shame because the slight length had looked rather charming on him.

Then you realized you’d been in your own head long enough for him to fetch water, heat it, bathe and dress, and for the stew to finish cooking. All the little lines you fed yourself daily about making the best out of this strange and aggravating situation seemed to have done nothing but give you some momentary distraction when you saw happy couples and families loving interacting with each other. “There’s fresh bread in the larder,” you told him as you began to ladle stew into his bowl, making sure to given him most of the venison. You knew that whatever he and his friends did when they were called away left them without hearty meals most of the time. Even just a few days away often left Simon looking a bit leaner, but four weeks away? The hollowness to his scarred cheeks made something twist in your chest to see it. You sat the bowls down on the little table in the corner of the kitchen, then turned to find Simon slicing the loaf—no, loaves…God, you made a mental note to get up early tomorrow to bake more before you left to tend to your patients. He’d also grabbed a jar of apple butter and poured you both a cup of water, which you thanked him for under your breath. The two of you sat at the table, eating in the usual silence, staring off at the usual spots of the wall. Your eyes trained on the cobweb in the left corner of the wall behind him, and his eyes trained on the wall behind you. Your brows furrowed when Simon suddenly made a face that you caught out of the corner of your eye. He picked up the jar of apple butter, examining it, then took another bite of the bread that he’d slathered the mixture on. He made the same face and you sighed. “I bought that stuff a few days ago.” You took it from him when he offered it up. It smelled just fine, it looked just fine, too. No discoloration or signs of something growing. You spread a little bit of it on the corner of your bread and took a bite. Simon snapped his fingers in some sort of triumph when you grimaced, too. Something about the apple butter mixing with the savoriness of the stew, perhaps even with the slight acidity of the bread, made everything taste wrong. Worse than wrong. You took a gulp of water to wash down the horrid taste. Before any more mistakes were made with the apple butter, you closed the container and made your way to the larder. After searching the moderately dusty shelves, you grabbed a jar of pepper preserves that had been gifted to you two weeks ago by one of your patients after helping her deliver her third child and first daughter. You hand it to Ghost who wasted no time in opening it and spreading the contents onto a fresh slice of bread. He took a large bite and his eyes fluttered closed as he chewed slowly. “I’m not sure why you thought apple butter would go well with such a savory stew,” you said under your breath as you resumed eating.

“Thought it’d be tangier,” he muttered around his bite of food. “Stew’s good, though. Not too garlicky like the last time ya made it.” You stared blankly at him. For some reason the idea that he sometimes found your stews too garlicky made something flip in your mind. Maybe it was because it had been a long day and now he was back after so long away, your normal routine disrupted which always managed to put you on edge. You managed to hold you tongue and look back to your food, waiting for Simon to say something else. But he didn’t say anything. He fell back into his usual silence and your frustration grew a little more. You finished eating your stew and a slice of bread with the pepper spread. Since Simon was eating rather slow, you left cleaning the kitchen to him as you put your dishes in the wash basin. You made your way to your bedroom, locking yourself inside. Everything suddenly felt wrong in the cabin, in your body, even in your mind. Like you were sweltering in the summer heat and unable to find a way to cool down and relax, despite it being the middle of autumn and your bedroom was somewhat chilly. For hours, you tossed and turned, pushing your sheets on and off, this way and that. Your mind always wandering to what was hidden under the loose floorboard by the bedroom door. After a while, you managed to fall asleep, but your rest was fitful.

[fafnir19]

Sibling love

Lou shuffled into the dimly lit pub, the familiar scent of stale beer and chatter welcoming him. He greeted his friends with hearty slaps on the back, their laughter mingling with the clinking of glasses. As Lou settled into a worn barstool, nursing a pint of amber liquid, his thoughts drifted to his sister, Shenia.

Her boyfriend, Pierson, was a constant thorn in his side. Lou couldn't fathom what Shenia saw in the pompous man with his perfectly coiffed hair and refined airs. "Oi, Lou, what's got you looking like someone spat in your pint?" Mick, one of Lou's mates, nudged him with a grin. Lou shook his head, a scowl tugging at his lips. "It's that berk, Pierson. Can't stand the sight of him." "Just ignore the posh git, mate. Another round?" Mick gestured to the bartender. As the night wore on, Lou's discontent simmered beneath the surface. He couldn't understand Shenia's fascination with the upper-class lifestyle that Pierson embodied.

To Lou, the simple pleasures of a rowdy football match and a few pints with friends held more appeal than the refined world Pierson inhabited.

Some weeks later …

The salty tang of the ocean breeze mingled with the laughter and chatter of vacationers as Lou strolled down the bustling promenade of the small coastal town with his sister, Shenia. She walked beside him, her fashion-forward presence contrasting with Lou's casual attire. In the distance, Pierson strolled confidently, his curly hair catching the golden light. "I can't believe we're spending a week of vacation with that posh git," Lou muttered under his breath, kicking a pebble in frustration.

Shenia shot him a warning glance. "Be nice, Lou. Pierson is great, and this vacation will be fun." Lou rolled his eyes. "Fun for you, maybe. I'd rather be back at the pub with my mates, not playing third wheel to you two lovebirds." Pierson, overhearing the exchange, raised an eyebrow. "Is there a problem, old chap?" Lou clenched his jaw, barely concealing his disdain. "No problem, just not a fan of being stuck with a pompous investment banker for the week." Pierson's lips curled into a smug smile. "Ah, I see. Can't handle the sophistication, can you?"

Before Lou could retort, Shenia chimed in, trying to diffuse the tension. "Come on, guys, let's not ruin the vacation before it even starts. We're here to relax and have a good time."

Shenia's eyes lit up as she spotted a quaint lingery shop, her excitement palpable. "Ooh, I have to check out this store, guys. Meet you in a bit," Shenia said before disappearing into the shop. Lou let out a grunt, rolling his eyes. Pierson, ever the gentleman, chuckled quietly, his distinguished aura contrasting with Lou's more rugged appearance. As the two men wandered further down the street, they stumbled upon a mysterious curiosity shop, its windows filled with eclectic oddities. Lou's curiosity piqued, he pushed the creaky door open, Pierson following suit with a raised eyebrow. Inside, the air was heavy with the scent of ancient relics and forgotten memories. Lou's eyes darted around the cluttered shelves, his fingers itching to touch the intriguing objects.

Pierson, always poised, observed with a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes. But as inevitable as the tide, an argument erupted between the two. Lou's frustration bubbled over, and he made a move to push Pierson, who sidestepped gracefully. The collision sent Lou stumbling backward, crashing into a shelf of delicate artifacts. The sound of shattered glass shattered the tense silence.

Pierson's face flushed with embarrassment as he surveyed the broken displays. "I'll pay for the damage, I promise," he offered, genuine contrition coloring his voice. The shopkeeper, Jenkins, a mysterious figure with a twinkle in his eye, intervened swiftly. "No need for monetary compensation," he said, his voice carrying a hint of mischief. "You two gentlemen need more than just a lesson in manners." With a flick of his wrist, Jenkins tossed a small glass bottle at their feet, the impact shattering it into a cloud of swirling smoke that enveloped Lou and Pierson in a surreal haze. Amidst the eerie mist, their voices echoed in confusion, blending into a cacophony of disbelief. Lou's rough, incredulous scream clashed with Pierson's cultured gasp. When the haze cleared, the reality of their situation dawned on them. Lou stared in horror at the reflection of Pierson's well-groomed appearance in the mirror, while Pierson's eyes widened in shock at the sight of Lou's younger but rough-hewn features. Jenkins' voice cut through the stunned silence, his words dripping with mystery. "You two now inhabit each other's bodies," he explained cryptically. "For a week, you must live each other's lives. But remember, you cannot reveal this switch to anyone." Lou’s voice trembled with disbelief as he struggled to process the bizarre twist of fate. "This can't be happening," he moaned, his fists clenched in frustration. Pierson's refined laughter, coming from Lou’s mouth, tinkled like a melody in the dusty air of the curiosity shop, a mix of uncertainty and bemusement coloring his tone. "Well, it seems we're in quite a peculiar predicament, old chap," he remarked, a touch of irony lacing his words. As the realization of their predicament sank in, Lou and Pierson braced themselves for a week of navigating each other's vastly different worlds, their lives intertwined in a dizzying dance of fate.

Lou's mind raced as he struggled to adjust to inhabiting Pierson's body. The tailored clothes felt suffocating, and the weight of his upscale upbringing pressed down on him like a heavy burden. The next days he pretended to have a cold, using it as a shield against Shenia's unsettling advances.

The charade of embodying his sister's pompous boyfriend had been a challenging task all week long but Lou managed it rather well and he was relieved that he only need to survive another night. On the final night of the bizarre body swap Lou and Shenia striding back to the hotel room from a lackluster dinner. Shenia's sultry gaze bore into Pierson's body -unaware that Lou was inside-, her usual advances met with indifference and disgust behind Pierson's facade.

Lou began to unbutton his shirt, ready to retire for the night, only to be jolted by a sudden push that sent him tumbling onto the plush bed. Before he could grasp the situation, Shenia, with a predatory gleam in her eyes, swiftly tied his limbs to the bedposts, straddling him with a provocative smirk playing on her lips. "Pierson, rejecting me all week...You know how to make me horny," Shenia purred, her voice laced with desire as she pressed her body against Lou's, a shiver running down his spine at the unnerving intimacy of the moment.

"I...this isn't right, Shenia," Lou stuttered, his voice betraying his inner turmoil. But his feeble protests only seemed to stoke the fire burning in Shenia's eyes. With a devilish grin, she mounted Pierson's body, unknowingly concealing Lou within, like a predator ready to pounce. "I'll ride you like the stallion you are," Shenia purred, her movements fluid and intoxicating. Despite his internal screams of protest, Lou found himself, or rather Pierson’s body, succumbing to the sensations coursing through him, his sister's actions pushing him past the point of no return. "Don't fight it, Pierson. Let yourself go," Shenia whispered, her breath hot against his neck. As Shenia's movements grew more urgent, Lou's attempts to resist became futile. The rhythmic rocking of their bodies set a pace that his traitorous form responded to, despite his best efforts to maintain control. The sensations coursing through him were overwhelming, a tidal wave of conflicting emotions that threatened to consume him whole.  His body moved of its own accord, syncing with hers in a dance of forbidden passion that defied all logic and reason. Pleasure mixed with guilt, desire mingling with shame in a maelstrom of sensations that left him reeling. The dam broke and Lou gave in  to the primal urges with a stifled cry.  A  torrent release of satisfaction washed over him in waves of ecstasy and remorse as he shoot his load into his sister. Exhausted and spent, Lou lay there in the aftermath, his chest heaving with the weight of what had transpired.

Shame and regret hung heavy in the air, casting a pall over the room as he drifted into a fitful sleep, haunted by the echoes of a moment that could never be undone.

As the sun slowly peeked through the curtains, Lou jolted awake in his own bed. Confusion swirled through his mind like a whirlpool of chaos as he stared at his reflection in the mirror. Curls that were foreign to him now adorned his head, giving him an air of sophistication he had never known. Combined with the angular features that stared back at him, he bore a striking resemblance to Pierson.

Heart pounding, Lou wasted no time in rushing to the Curiosity Shop, his mind ablaze with questions. The bell above the door tinkled as he entered, and there stood Jenkins, the enigmatic shop owner, his gaze piercing through Lou like a sharp dagger.  "Please, explain this madness to me," Lou demanded, his voice trembling with a mix of fear and disbelief. Jenkins' eyes bore into Lou's, a somber expression clouding his face. "You have crossed a line that was never meant to be breached," he intoned gravely. "What you did, or rather, with Pierson's body, is forbidden by the ancient magic that governs our world." Lou's breath caught in his throat as he braced himself for whatever revelation was to come. "What do you mean?" he managed to choke out. Jenkins let out a weary sigh, his eyes betraying a hint of sorrow. "The bond of blood runs deep, and the magic cannot abide the mixing of such ties. Your liaison with Shenia, even if through Pierson's vessel, has altered your destiny irrevocably." A wave of realization crashed over Lou, the weight of his actions settling heavily upon his shoulders. "So, what now?" he whispered, a sense of unease creeping into his being. Jenkins' voice was soft yet firm as he spoke, each word carrying the weight of an ancient decree. "You are no longer Lou, the brother of Shenia. You are now Logan, the brother of Pierson." The weight of Jenkins' words crashed down on Logan like a ton of bricks, his mind struggling to comprehend the gravity of Jenkins' words. "But...but how is this possible? How can I become Pierson's brother just because of one night's mistake?" he cried out, his voice laced with a sense of desperation. Jenkins placed a comforting hand on Logan's shoulder, his touch surprisingly warm despite the gravity of the situation. "The magic works in mysterious ways, young Logan. It seeks to right the wrongs and prevent the gravest of sins. Incest is a taboo that cannot be breached, even in the guise of another's body. And so, you have been reborn as Logan, the brother of Pierson, forever tied to his fate." Tears welled up in Logan's eyes, the weight of his actions crashing down upon him with a force he had never known. "So, I'm stuck like this? As Pierson's brother, forever condemned to bear his features and his disgusting posh locks?" Logan's voice wavered, his eyes pleading for a glimmer of hope. "Embrace this new path, young Logan," Jenkins murmured in a voice that was void of any hope. With a heavy heart, Logan turned to leave the Curiosity Shop.

And so Logan, once Lou, once Shenia's brother, now walked an unknown path. The echoes of his past echoed in the chambers of his heart, reminding him of the price he had paid for a night of forbidden passion.

The old brick facade of St. Montgomery's Boarding School loomed imposingly as Logan made his way through the gates, his footsteps echoing against the cobblestones. His attire had shifted from Lou's casual jeans and t-shirts to Pierson's tailored suits and polished brogues, a stark reflection of the transformation he'd undergone and his newfound identity as Pierson's brother. He navigated the halls of the prestigious boarding school with an air of sophistication that mirrored his brother Pierson.

Logan's transformation from a middle-class lad to a distinguished young man was as perplexing as it was enlightening. Among the polished corridors and echoes of privilege, Logan found solace in embracing his newfound identity. The once familiar faces of his friends seemed to slide away like shadows under a sunlit canopy, replaced by the eager smiles of his new acquaintances. They chatted animatedly about field hockey matches, regattas, and upcoming operatic performances, topics that were foreign to the former Lou but now resonated with Logan.

Walking with a confident stride, Logan couldn't shake off the feeling that he was drifting further away from his roots. The boy who once relished in the thrill of a football match now found solace in the refined elegance of water sports and the exhilaration of a well-played hockey game.

As he adjusted his blazer, a subtle touch of arrogance seeped into his demeanor, mirroring the polished exterior of Pierson. One day, as he sat in the campus library engrossed in his studies, the image of Shenia, his former sister, crept into his mind. His thoughts lingered on her, and for a moment, he compared her to the elegant ladies of the elite circles he now frequented. A flicker of disdain crossed his features as he thought of her simplicity, her lack of refinement compared to the refined women he now socialized with. Realizing the direction his thoughts were taking, Logan shook his head, banishing the comparison between Shenia and his newfound acquaintances. Despite the changes that had consumed him, Shenia, in her essence, was still his sister. He couldn't allow himself to view her through the jaded lens of privilege and sophistication that now colored his world.

The summer holidays came and Logan traveled to the small coastal town like the previous year. As he wandered through the quaint streets of the seaside town, an unsettling feeling gnawed at the depths of his consciousness. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but something felt off, as if a vital piece of himself had been spirited away by the mischievous shopkeeper. Lost in his swirling thoughts, Logan meandered through the cobblestone alleys until he stumbled upon the very curiosity shop that had launched him into this bewildering journey. Hesitant but resolute, he pushed open the creaking door, the bell above tinkling faintly in welcome. Jenkins, the enigmatic shopkeeper, regarded him with a sly smile, his eyes twinkling with a knowing glint. "Back again, I see. My, my, haven't you settled into your new self quite splendidly, Logan," Jenkins crooned with an air of satisfaction, thoroughly reveling in the disconcerting turn of events.

Logan squared his shoulders, a glimmer of defiance flickering within him. "This isn't who I am! I'm still Lou, deep down," he protested, his brows furrowing in desperation. The shopkeeper's condescending laughter echoed through the dimly lit store. "Oh, it's easy to fix that," he stated, unperturbed. With a snap of his fingers, an eerie energy filled the air, sending shivers down Logan's spine. He felt a sensation rush through him, making his member throb and stiff. "Whwhat...what are you doing?" Logan stammered, panic creeping into his voice.

His eyes widened in horror as the shopkeeper revealed his cruel ultimatum. "All you need to do is to cum, bask in the sweet release of your desires, and poof! Goodbye, Lou, farewell to the memories that tether you to your former life," Jenkins cooed, his voice an unsettling blend of persuasion and menace. Panic gripped Logan's chest, his heart pounding in his ears as he struggled against the insidious command. The shop owner took a step closer, his demeanor exuding an unsettling mix of authority and insidious glee. Without warning, his hand delved into Logan's pants, closing around his stiffening member. "Come on, Logan," the shopkeeper coaxed, his tone laced with manipulation. "Be a good boy and cum in my hand." Logan's eyes widened in horror as he grappled with a tidal wave of conflicting emotions. No matter how hard he fought, he found himself losing control, succumbing to the overpowering force of the shopkeeper's manipulative touch. With a breathless gasp, Logan relinquished his will, spilling his cum into the shopkeeper's waiting palm. As the last droplets disappeared, his memories of Lou faded into an abyss of oblivion, leaving behind a void where his former self had once resided. Exhaling a freed sigh, Logan staggered from the shop and a pleasant emptiness seeping into his fractured psyche.

Unbeknownst to him, Jenkins bottled the milky essence of memories and thrust them onto an inconspicuous shelf, murmuring a sinister monologue to the quiescent air. "I could never stand that chav Lou," Jenkins mused, reveling in his sinister triumph. "But preserved within this vessel, his essence remains, a testament to the power I wield. A tantalizing prospect, for with Lou's residual memories, who knows the potent transformations I could orchestrate. Perhaps, someday, with Lou's lingering shades, I shall shape someone into the very embodiment of a chav. Oh, the possibilities..."

Logan brushed his hand over his forehead as a disorienting fog clouded his mind. He wandered through the seaside town and his thoughts started to coalesced around one singular idea. He harbored a fervent desire to persuade his beloved brother and role model, Pierson, to dump the vulgar Shenia. Meanwhile the lingering traces of Lou's essence danced silently in the confines of a miniature vial, and Logan was supposed to be lost in the beckoning posh world of sophistication and arrogance.

[chic-a-gigot]

The Delineator, no. 4, Vol. XLVIII. Autumn Number. October 1896. Published by the Butterick Publishing Co. London & New York. Colored Plate 19. Figures D41 and D42. Autumn Toilettes. Internet Archive, uploaded by Albert R. Mann Library

Figure D 41. — LADIES’ PROMENADE COSTUME.

Figure D 41. — This illustrates a Ladies’ costume. The pattern, which is No. 8631 and costs 1s. 8d. or 40 cents, is in thirteen sizes for ladies from twenty-eight to forty-six inches, bust measure, and may be seen in three views on page 418.

Rich myrtle-green broadcloth and silk are combined in this elegant costume, with lace edging for the jabot and iridescent spangled trimming and narrow lace edging for decoration. The basque adjustment is made by single bust darts and the usual seams and the closing is concealed by a double jabot of lace edging. A frill of narrow lace edging falls over the stand¬ ing collar, giving a soft and dainty touch. Bolero jacket-fronts are a pleasing feature of the costume ; they present a rounding outline and are reversed above the bust and extended to form a deep round collar at the back. Between them the jabot of lace appears fluffily, the edges of the lace falling softly on the boleros. The end of the jabot droops over a pretty crush belt of silk that is gathered at the ends and crosses the front under the jacket-fronts. Pointed epaulettes bordered with spangled trimming stand out stylishly over the one-seam leg-o’-mutton sleeves, which flare in puff effect at the top and fit the arm closely below. The back of the waist is lengthened by a peplum that ripples gracefully.

The three-piece skirt consists of a front-gore and two circular portions that meet in a seam at the center of the back, where the skirt is gathered at the top. At the sides and back the skirt falls in stylish rippling folds and at the front it flares in the approved fashion.

The revival of broadcloth invites refined and artistic dress for the street and marked individuality may assert itself in the selection of colors and decoration. Warm, rich tints of broadcloth in such shades as garnet, dahlia, mulberry, chestnut and wood-brown are liked, as well as green, blue and black. For decoration, bands of passementerie, spangled trimming, fur, etc., are commended and a soft jabot of yellow lace is becoming and rich with any shade of cloth. Aside from broadcloth, there is an infinite variety of materials suitable for Autumn and Winter wear, serge, Scotch cheviot, camel’s-hair and novelty wool goods being all available. With any of these materials velvet or satin may be associated in a costume like this, the decorative fabric being employed for the boleros, girdle and epaulettes; or a third fabric may be used for the girdle. The effect is always enhanced by trimming, which, however, should not be tawdry.

The hat has a soft velvet crown and is trimmed with lace and flowers.

Figure D 42. — LADIES’ VISITING TOILETTE.

Figure D 42. — This consists of a Ladies’ basque-waist and skirt. The basque-waist pattern, which is No. 8659 and costs 1s. 3d. or 30 cents, is in thirteen sizes for ladies from twenty-eight to forty-six inches, bust measure, and may be seen in three views on page 440. The skirt pattern, which is No. 8599 and costs 1s. 3d. or 30 cents, is in nine sizes for ladies from twenty to thirty-six inches, waist measure, and is shown on its accompanying label.

The basque-waist is pictured made of salmon silk and decorated with velvet ribbon and lace edging. The lining over which the waist is arranged is adjusted by double bust darts and the usual seams and is closed in front. The square front-yoke is closed on the left shoulder and the full front fastens at the center. The front has its fulness drawn well to the center by gathers at the top and bottom and puffs out stylishly; the seamless back has two backward-turning plaits at each side of the center flaring toward the shoulders. The one-seam sleeves flare in leg-o’-mutton puffs at the top and fit closely below, and a frill of lace edging droops from the wrist edge over the hand. The yoke is trimmed with two frills of lace edging arranged to follow the square outline, each frill being headed by a row of inch-wide velvet ribbon, and the standing collar is encircled by a softly twisted stock of Avide velvet ribbon, a pretty fan of lace edging drooping over the stock at each side. A soft twist of the wide velvet ribbon surrounds the waist.

The skirt of dahlia crépon, known as the new bell skirt, is circular at the front and sides and in two gores at the back; it may be dart-fitted or gathered in front and presents the rippling folds at the sides and back now fashionable.

A very artistic toilette may be composed with this basque-waist and skirt, if becoming colors and stylish materials are selected. Silk will be most appropriate for the basque-waist and broadcloth, serge, crépon, wool canvas or novelty wool goods are commended for the skirt. Lace edging, spangled trimming, passementerie, velvet ribbon, etc., are popular garnitures.

The hat is stylishly trimmed with fancy plumage, ribbon and a jewelled ornament.

[revasserium]

scorpio rising

elbert; 1,087 words; elbert takes you dancing. i blame @aquagirl1978 for showing me his teaser pv. this one's for u.

he has always been hungry.

from the first day he meets you, he has hungered for your touch, for your smile, for a sliver of your forever — it is not promised. but he does not care. and there’s beauty in this madness — he has always known it — beauty in the mortified longing threatening to grind his bones to dust.

i want…

it’s a selfish thing, he knows, to want like this, to want so hard that it threatens to consume his very soul. he wants — he wants.

“stay close,” he says, because the night is dark and full of terrors but to him the darkness has always been kind.

he feels your presence at his back, emanating warmth like a hearthstone pulled from the dancing flames. he wants.

“el…bert? where are you taking me?”

your curiosity is cool and crisp, slicing through the heat of his own internal frenzy. he wills the tension from his shoulders as he tries to cast you a small, reassuring smile.

“you’ll see.”

at this hour, vauxhall is a cynosure of bacchic revelry, with fireworks and masked dancers, jugglers and magicians and drunken vendors hawking their wares to laughing, unwitting attendees. a hundred thousand tiny lamps glitter among the branches of trees like so many fallen stars, and the raucous sound of street musicians plays backdrop to it all — the air itself thrums with life and vitality, the earth beneath your feet soaked with the remnants.

“wh-what is going on?”

elbert almost laughs at your clear confusion, but he tugs a pair of masks from the inside of his jacket and offers it to you.

“come… dance with me.”

you slip on the mask, still too bewildered to refuse, and feel elbert slip his fingers between yours, tugging you gently towards him and into a pool of flickering lamplight. the music swells and the world spins around you.

there is beauty in this madness — elbert has always known it — beauty in the way a body might tremble and shake when faced with something it cannot control, but this at least, elbert knows. this at least, he can take into the palms of his own hands and hold it close.

this dance — you.

he watches as a brilliant smile blossoms across your lips, your cheeks flushing high with color. it is beautiful, watching you as you fall into a peel of unexpected laughter as he spins you out and pulls you back in, you chest heaving with the exertion of the song.

he wonders if he’s holding onto your hands too tight and then he knows that he is.

but you’re clutching back at him just as tightly as the music ends and everyone around you cheers. he feels the weight of a million pairs of eyes on him and yet still, he only has eyes for you. when you pull up from your curtsey and meet his eyes, he finds himself transfixed by your gaze so warm and soft and full of an unbridled happiness the likes of which he has never tasted himself.

but with you — he thinks he just might.

the mask affords him the brief veil of anonymity, but even with it, he can feel people’s eyes lingering, their heads turning for a second look, a third. he doesn’t have much time.

“elbert, that was so much fun!”

he allows himself a soft laugh as he pulls you into one of the many shaded promenades, pressing himself back into the thickly cut foliage. you stumble into his chest, letting out a squeak as you pull back but he lifts up a hand to stop you.

“please… let me have one more minute…” he says, and he feels you go still in his arms.

he threads his fingers through your spidersilk hair, letting the tangle carelessly against his skin. like this, he smells the soft, fresh fragrance of your bathing soap, and he leans in ever so slightly to take in another breath. your skin is warm and soft, your lashes a darkened frame to the night sky of your eyes.

“elbert…?”

he purses his lips. he lets you go.

“sorry… i just… wanted a moment…”

you smile, shaking your head. several strands of your hair get caught in his fingers and he has to force himself to let them go.

“i had… a really good time tonight, elbert… thanks for taking me here.”

you walk next to him as the pair of you exit the gardens, you tugging off your mask but he hesitates in taking off his own. he traces the edge with a delicate finger as you watch.

“if… it makes you feel better, you can keep it on while we walk back,” you say, letting your fingers lace behind your back.

elbert smiles as he nods, letting the silence stretch thin and smooth between you. in the distance, big ben tolls in midnight, and the pair of you make your leisurely way back to the castle beneath the full blood-moon. you exchange few words and even fewer glances, but elbert find himself willfully lingering half a step behind you just to watch the way your hair sways, to see the glint of moonlight in your eyes as you turn to grace him with a smile.

“thanks again for taking me out…”

elbert slips off his mask as the castle doors close behind you.

“i thought you might’ve wanted… a chance of pace…”

“yeah, it was really fun!”

you smile up at him, radiant and flushed with joy and he briefly wonders if this might be what ellis is always going on about — the happiest moment in a person’s life. seeing you smile like that, he wonders then if this is his.

at least, it would be a worthy candidate.

“good… we should… do it again sometime.”

you nod, enthusiasm pouring from you like milk from a spilling jug.

elbert licks his lips.

“yes! it’ll be a date!” you say.

he can only nod, letting the sound of your voice ring in his mind like the tolling of bells.

a date.

he wants, he wants, he wants.

“a date… yes, certainly, it will be… if that’s what you wish.”

he feels his heart stuttering his chest as you bob your head once more.

“yep, it’s a date then.”

he feels his lips tug into smile, tastes the familiar greed on this tongue.

he wants. he wants. he wants.

“it’s a date.”

[prapasara]

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Best places to live in Cyprus

Nicosia

Limassol District

Limassol villages

Larnaca

Paphos

Peyia and Tala

Ayia Napa and Protaras

Paralimni

Nicosia

Divided in two by the Green Line, Nicosia is a vibrant and quite sophisticated city that offers a perfect blend of urban life and relaxation.

Nicosia lies inland; therefore, it can get hotter than the seaside in summer. However, the bliss of it is that as a consequence tourists don’t think much of the place, instead preferring the seaside resorts and towns. This not only keeps the place from becoming overcrowded but helps to preserve a true Cypriot feel and character of the place.

Nicosia is the business and financial centre of the Republic of Cyprus, as well as the administrative heart. The city offers great entertainment, vibrant nightlife, excellent shopping and a choice of leisure activities.

Although the main language is Greek, you will find that around 90 percent of the population speak some English, and fluency is common amongst the younger generations.

Cyprus might be the third biggest Mediterranean island, but it’s not really huge. And when you live in Nicosia, everything is no more than an hour away by car, be it wonderful beaches, gorgeous mountains, hiking trails or historic sights.

As in any city, there are enough districts and types of property to choose from in Nicosia. The choice depends on whether you want to live in an apartment or a modern villa, in the quiet outskirts or in a luxurious part of the city near all the major embassies where the properties are superb, both in style and price.

Living in the south-east, for example, gives you easy access to Athalassa National Forest Park, which is 840 hectares of greenery. Its network of trails – covering 20 kilometres – makes it a popular place for cycling, walking, dog walking and picnics.

As to what you can consider drawbacks, the summers are very hot in Nicosia, hotter than in the seaside locations. There’s also the issue of a very unreliable public transportation system; as a result almost everyone over 21 owns a car.

In short, Nicosia is one of the best places to live in the Republic of Cyprus: diverse cuisines, cultures, rich history, great nightlife, almost the best weather possible, great nature and sightseeings and all the amenities you need for normal day-to-day living. What you won’t find in Nicosia is the seaside.

Limassol District

Limassol, a city on the southern coast of Cyprus, has a very modern, cosmopolitan feel to it. It is a loved destination by expats from all over the world.

The Neapolis area of Limassol is considered the centre of the town, yet is also residential and has all the necessary amenities close to hand. It is close to Anexartisias – the main shopping district of Limassol, and within walking distance of the beach too.

Right in the centre of the city, near the Castle and Limassol Marina, there is a beautiful promenade called Molos, which offers great walks along the beachfront. If you like a seaside stroll, Molos will be your favourite place.

Molos is flanked by busy streets packed with restaurants, cafes, English style pubs, vibrant nightclubs, and a wide range of shops selling almost everything, including souvenirs and traditional sweets and delicacies.

Not a big fan of city beaches and prefer something more intimate? There are beautiful beaches 15 minutes drive away from the city, such as Kourion Beach.

This particular beach is located under the ancient city of Kourion where you can visit the ancient site and also attend evening performances at the ancient theatre.

Limassol is also the city with the highest mountain peak on the island, Troodos (Olympus). During the winter between January and April, you can go skiing. The Cyprus Ski Club, based on Mount Olympus, has four ski lifts and eight alpine ski runs of various levels.

The city is perfect for supporting an active healthy lifestyle. It offers limitless possibilities for all kinds of sports and activities including golf, go-karting, skiing, cycling and horse riding. There are beautiful walking trails and an abundance of nature trails. Bicycles are available on rent all over the place and are an ideal way of exploring the city and its interior.

Limassol villages

Just 12 minutes drive from Limassol there is the lovely village of Erimi. It takes you just far enough from the hustle and bustle of Limassol to give you a nice relaxing atmosphere but is still close enough to the city for you to still use its facilities.

The same feeling of tranquillity can be found in the village of Kolossi on the outskirts of the city of Limassol. The village is close to the imposing Kolossi Castle, which dates back to the 13th century. The vineyards of Kolossi are famous for the sweet dessert wine of Commandaria, which is one of the oldest wines in the world.

Some 8 miles from Limassol on the Limassol-Troodos road is the pretty village of Alassa. The village is built next to the Kouris Dam. A few minutes drive away is Episcopi – a village lying partly in the Limassol district of Cyprus and partly in the British Overseas Territory of Akrotiri and Dhekelia.

There is a good supermarket, doctor, police station etc. It has quite a few expats but is not very touristy.

Larnaca

Larnaca is compact, easily accessible and offers easy access to other regions on the island.

Larnaca is where Cyprus adventures start for most new arrivals, as it is where the most popular Cyprus airport is located.

Phinikoudes is a very pretty town and is particularly pleasant for a stroll in the evening. There is a long beach alongside the Phinikoudes promenade, the waters there are always calm and quite shallow, so you have to wade for quite a distance before it is swimmable.

The Makenzie stretch is more remote, easily accessible by car and has many fish restaurants lining the strip. It’s full of bars and cafés, where locals and expat freelancers come together to co-work. However, it’s very close to the airport, and although spending a day out there is fine, living there constantly means putting up with noise and pollution.

The prevalent communities in Larnaca are Greek, British, Russians and Germans and they mostly use English as means of international communication. However, move away from the expat communities towards outlying villages, and a bit of Greek will come really handy if you want to integrate and build local friendships.

The town offers all the amenities and facilities necessary for a comfortable life, but as with any tourist place, it gets very quiet in winter and really crowded in summer.

In general, Larnaca is more relaxed, easy-going and comfortable, and a bit cheaper compared to Limassol or Nicosia. You get the beach and the places for cycling, and it is only a 30 minutes drive from both Limassol and Nicosia. The intercity bus will take you to the capital if you don’t like driving, however public transport is not very reliable in Cyprus, so you might want to consider a car.

There are a few lovely villages on the outskirts of Larnaca. Oroklini is just outside the town and very popular with Brits. The village stretches from Larnaca Bay up to Oroklini hill and has a nice sandy beach.

It takes 10 minutes to get from Oroklini to central Larnaca. The Larnaca-Ayia Napa motorway runs through the outskirts of Oroklini and leads onto the Larnaca-Nicosia motorway.

Paphos

Paphos is a lovely coastal city in the southwest of Cyprus and, as legends say, the birthplace of Aphrodite.

The town has good infrastructure and amenities – from shopping malls and shops to modern hospitals and decent road connections. Paphos International Airport is just 15 minutes drive from the town centre and a modern highway links the Paphos district to the whole of Cyprus.

The great thing about Paphos District is that you’ve got the sea and great beaches with hills, forests and mountains inland. The Akamas is a delight if you like the unspoilt countryside.

Paphos city is a popular tourist resort. It is also famous for its charming fishing harbour. The main residential district in Paphos is Ktima.

Kato Paphos, built by the sea around the medieval port, is where most of the luxury hotels and the entertainment infrastructure of the city is located.

There’s a lot going on in Paphos itself to sustain life there. It’s also only 45 minutes along the motorway to Limassol.

Peyia and Tala

Paphos district has quite a few lovely towns and villages dotted around. Lots of Brits live there, especially in places like Peyia and Tala. That means no language problems. If you venture further into the hills, a few words of Greek will be very helpful to get by.

Peyia and Tala are very popular for full time living among expats. There are plenty of restaurants and tavernas in both places, and they are close to Coral Bay.

Peyia is a bit overbuilt. The nice areas of Peyia can mostly be found on the outskirts. It’s also quite a drive to Paphos. Tala is closer to Paphos but has fewer facilities.

If you want to be fairly close to town and live somewhere within walking distance to a decent supermarket, pharmacy, doctor, butcher etc., Chloraka is possibly a good place to consider as it is just 3 km north of Paphos.

Ayia Napa and Protaras

In the eastern part of Cyprus, just south of Famagusta, lies the lively and vibrant town of Ayia Napa. It is a favourite international seaside resort with all the paraphernalia and amenities that come with that. It is crowded, dynamic, loud, full of entertainment and typical tourist activities such as water-skiing, windsurfing, canoeing, scuba diving and speed boating.

Ayia Napa has 14 beaches, and all of them have been awarded the Blue Flag status.

Nissi, a beach on Nissi Avenue, gets really crowded in summer; it has a fantastic beach bar, which plays music throughout the day and offers events such as foam parties and games if that’s what you’re looking for!

If you want to be close enough to Ayia Napa to enjoy the life it offers, but still be far away enough to be able to have relaxing moments, you might want to look at Protaras.

About 5 miles away from Ayia Napa, Protaras, although being rapidly developed, still manages to remain low-key, and is preferred by locals and expats for its more family-friendly feel. It is still touristy and gets very busy in summer, while the winters are usually quiet and the place looks a bit deserted.

Paralimni

If the seasonal hustle and bustle of both Ayia Napa and Protaras are too much for you, but you still want to be close enough to both places, then probably the best solution will be to look at Paralimni.

Paralimni is close enough to both Ayia Napa and Protaras but is not attractive to tourists. It is a nice residential town with modern houses being built on the outskirts. There is a shopping centre, a number of cafes and bars and supermarkets there – all the amenities you need to live comfortably without paying over the top, as one commonly does in tourist towns.

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Best places to live in Cyprus

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[spicykaraage]

Tenipuri Complete Character Profile - Ryoma Echizen

[PROFILE]

Birthday: December 24th (Capricorn)

Blood Type: O

Birthplace: Los Angeles

Relatives: Father (Nanjirou Echizen), mother (Rinko Echizen), cousin (Nanako Meino), cat (Karupin)

Father’s Occupation: Temple priest (local)

Elementary School: Los Angeles Saint Youth Elementary School

Middle School: Seishun Academy Junior High School

Grade & Class: First Year | Class 1-2 | Seat 3

Club: Tennis Club (regular)

Committee: Library Committee

Strong Subjects: English, chemistry

Weak Subjects: Science experiments, Japanese

Most Visited Spot at School: Under the big tree behind the school building

World Cup Team: U-17 World Cup USA Representatives ➜ U-17 World Cup Japanese Representatives

Favorite Motto: “All or Nothing.”

Daily Routines: Playing with Karupin

Hobbies: Bathing with bath salts from Japan’s famous hot springs ➜ Clearing games he’s borrowed, watching cat videos [23.5]

Favorite Color: Silver

Favorite Music: J-Pop

Favorite Movie: Any kind of Hollywood film

Favorite Book: Monthly Pro Tennis ➜ TENNIS LIFE (an American tennis magazine) [23.5]

Favorite Food: Grilled fish (with little bones), chawanmushi, local confections [23.5], shrimp senbei (plum and kimchi flavor) [removed]

Favorite Anniversary: Any day he can play tennis

Preferred Type: A girl that looks good with a ponytail

Ideal Date Spot: Santa Montica Third Street Promenade ➜ Santa Monica Pier Pacific Park [23.5]

His Gift for a Special Person: “Just tell me what you want.”

Where He Wants to Travel: A snow-viewing hot spring

What He Wants Most Right Now: Nintendo DS ➜ Nintendo 3DS [10.5 II] ➜ A smart watch [23.5]

Dislikes: Waking up early, cleaning the temple floors [removed], paparazzi [23.5]

Skills Outside of Tennis: Animals take a liking to him for some reason, can cleanly peel fruit [23.5], horseback riding(?) [TP]

Spends Allowance On: Fanta/Ponta

Routine During the World Cup: Soaking in an open-air bath

[DATA]

Height: 151cm | 4’11” ➜ 152.5cm | 5’0” [23.5]

Weight: 50kg | 110 lbs ➜ 47kg | 103 lbs [23.5]

Shoe Size: 24cm

Dominant Arm: Left

Vision: 1.5 Left & Right

Play Style: All-Rounder

Signature Moves: Twist Serve, Drive A, Drive B, Drive C, Drive D, Cool Drive, Selfless State, Pinnacle of Perfection, Samurai Drive, Hope [23.5]

Number of Times His Friends Visited Him in the US: 7.8 times a month

Equipment Brands:

Hats: FILA

Clothing: FILA

Racket: BRIDGESTONE (DYNABEAM GRANDEA)

Shoes: FILA (Mark Philippoussis Mid)

Fitness Test Results:

Side Steps: 71

Shuttle Run: 119

Back Strength: 102kg

Grip Strength: 42.3kg (left)

Backbend: 59.5cm

Seated Forward Bend: 39cm

50m Run: 6.1 seconds

Standing Long Jump: 237cm

Handball Throw: 28m

Endurance Run (1500m): 4:46

Overall Rating: Speed: 4 / Power: 3 / Stamina: 4 / Mental: 5 / Technique: 5 / Total: 21

Kurobe Memo: “Even though many areas already have a high degree of perfection, I suspect it’s highly likely he’ll continue to grow and improve. I would like to see him work on building his body without sacrificing balance.” <Official Description>

[POSSESSIONS]

What’s in His Bedroom [10.5]:

Trophies from past competitions: They’re randomly placed on top of his dresser since he doesn’t really care for them

Alarm clock on his bed: The alarm doesn’t necessarily wake him up…

TV and game consoles: He has several types of game consoles but keeps the one he uses the most (Nintendo 64) connected to the TV

Closet: Where his school uniforms are stored. His mother will put them away if they’re left out

His pajamas he had left out: Left strewn on his bed. He’s always in a rush when he gets ready for school

Karupin’s favorite cat toy: A fluffy cat tail toy

What’s in His Bag [10.5]:

A beginner’s guide to doubles: A guide he bought after playing doubles with Momoshiro. He forgot it was still in there…

Notebook: His math notebook that he forgot to take out

Photos of Karupin: He insists that he didn’t put them in there

Notepad: He’s written down emergency phone numbers since he’s always late

Pen case: His pen case he always uses for school. He left it in his bag

Game Boy Advance: Bought for him as a starting school gift, he plays it during his free time

Senbei: He likes drinking Fanta/Ponta when eating senbei

What’s in His Locker at the U-17 Training Camp [10.5 II]:

Game console: A PlayStation PSP. He’s absorbed in video games when he’s not playing tennis and was seen playing a tennis game before practice

Photo of Karupin: One of his favorite photos of Karupin that’s been framed. He takes it with him on trips and expeditions

Fanta/Ponta: Grape flavor, his favorite

Senbei: His favorite snack. Having Fanta and senbei together is a must for him

What’s in His Travel Bag [23.5]:

Shio senbei from Okinawa: Gifted to him by Tanishi to celebrate his return to team Japan

[TRIVIA]

The Prince of Tennis 10.5 Fanbook | Publication Date: 11/02/2001

Although he’s lived in the USA, he still prefers Japanese food and isn’t fond of Western food

People tend to be aggravated by him due to his abrasive personality, but he means no ill-intent by it

He gained his arrogant and abrasive personality from growing up in the USA

He will speak his mind regardless of how it sounds as he believes it’s a way of being kind

His first name is written in katakana rather than kanji. It’s alluded that it may be due to his mother being another nationality besides Japanese

Konomi had Ryoma wear a hat since he thought it was cool, and wanted people to associate his FILA hat with him

He is called “Shorty” by Kikumaru but does not mind it since he states height doesn’t matter in tennis

He likes grape-flavored Fanta/Ponta

He keeps everything he needs for school in his tennis bag, hence why he gets confused when some items are still in it

He is described as pessimistic, but shy, gentle, and always striving for improvement

Konomi originally did not intend for him to be the protagonist. The role was originally going to be given to Kintarou, with Ryoma being his rival. He initially thought Ryoma would be difficult to portray as a protagonist, be better as a side character, and that making him the protagonist would dampen the mood of the series. He eventually decided on Ryoma and built the other characters around him

Konomi describes him as a “bad guy,” and that him defeating people who are even worse is a focal point of the series

The Prince of Tennis 20.5 Fanbook | Publication Date: 12/04/2003

He is described to easily get engaged in a single subject and then excel in that area

When he concentrates, he will become so absorbed in what he’s doing that he will not pay attention to his surroundings

He is described to be suited for professions that require special skills, such as a pilot or astronaut

He is very susceptible to change and has an insatiable desire to become stronger

One of his favorite subjects is chemistry since the science behind the substances changing, combining, and gaining different properties reminds him of tennis

He does not remember when he started playing tennis, and states he thinks he’s been playing it since he was born

His secondary sport would be soccer

The Prince of Tennis 40.5 Fanbook | Publication Date: 12/04/2007

He is described to be sociable and lively, but doesn’t get too involved in his personal relationships and tends to be reserved

His friends and schoolmates often visited his house when he lived in the US

He did not know what “Old Maid” was until he played it at the joint training camp with Rokkaku

In Genius 305, when he had won his match against Atobe and everyone huddled around him, someone had quietly handed him the shaver, but it’s a mystery on who it was

He considers Kintarou to be quite strong, and wouldn’t mind having an official match with him someday

He is the character Konomi states he has the least in common with, the second being Tezuka

The Prince of Tennis II Official Character Guide: PairPuri Vol. 1 | Publication Date: 11/04/2009

He, Krauser, Atobe, and Yagyuu were heard having a conversation together in English

The Prince of Tennis II Official Character Guide: PairPuri Vol. 2 | Publication Date: 12/04/2009

He takes naps around the training camp along with Jirou

The Prince of Tennis II Official Character Guide: PairPuri Vol. 4 | Publication Date: 02/04/2010

He had gotten his hat mixed up with Sanada’s

The Prince of Tennis II Official Character Guide: PairPuri Vol. 5 | Publication Date: 03/04/2010

He likes his grilled fish with not many bones and finds removing them to be annoying

The person he currently dislikes the most is his father

If he had a long vacation, he would go play tennis on the western side of Japan since he states they have strong opponents

He wants to win all four major world tennis championships

When asked what kind of plant or animal he is like, he replies with a cat since they’re free-spirited

When asked what his current goals are, he replies that he wants to fight more stronger opponents and win against them

He is named after Ooka Echizen, also known as Ooka Tadasuke

Konomi came up with his “Selfless State” technique since he wanted to write a story where the main character’s dormant power would awaken when faced against an unbeatable enemy. And since Ryoma was a returnee, he had him speak in English to surprise the audience and give his scenes a fantasy-like feel

Konomi corrects his statement that Ryoma didn’t win national USA junior tournaments four years in a row, he had meant that when Ryoma started tennis, he had competed and won in regular USA junior tournaments four times in a row

Konomi states he has tried drawing Ryoma more mature as the series progresses and draws Ryoma’s shoes and racket bigger to make him appear smaller

One of His School Days:

6:30am - Woken up by his cousin

6:45am - Eats breakfast while half-asleep, then goes to school

7:30am - Late for morning practice, does thirty laps

8:40am - 1st Period: Math, half-asleep and dozing off

9:40am - 2nd Period: English (grammar), is half-asleep and dozing off)

11:00am - 3rd Period: PE (bar exercises)

12:00pm - 4th Period: Geography (quiz)

12:50pm - Lunch, buys bread at the school store after eating

1:10pm - Gives in, buys and drinks milk

1:20pm - 5th Period: Science I (physics), is sleepy from eating

2:20pm - 6th Period: Japanese (classic literature), thinks of ideas for volleys

3:20pm - Library committee meeting, wasn’t listening

4:00pm - Club activities, earnestly practices volleys

5:30pm - Stops by Momoshiro and a CD shop, then returns home

6:00pm - Dinner, bathes (with bath salts from Beppu Onsen)

6:30pm - Rallies with his father

10:30pm - Plays with Karupin while listening to music

11:00pm - Falls asleep while playing games on his bed

The Prince of Tennis II Official Character Guide: PairPuri Vol. 9 | Publication Date: 09/02/2011

Mifune’s eagles are shown to be fond and gentle towards him

The Prince of Tennis II 10.5 Fanbook | Publication Date: 09/04/2013

He texts his mother everyday asking her to send him pictures of Karupin

He quickly became friends with the dogs at the training camp

The Prince of Tennis II 23.5 Fanbook | Publication Date: 05/02/2018

When he and Ryoga were younger, they went out to play and had gotten lost for three days. They eventually managed to hitchhike home

Konomi had originally intended to show him being anxious about joining team USA, and then being helped by them to join team Japan again

Konomi states he may continue Ryoma and Fuji’s match in the rain

The items Horio had brought to the camp for him were Fanta/Ponta

The Prince of Tennis 20th Anniversary Book: Tenipuri Party | Publication Date: 08/02/2019

He did not mind playing for team USA and states the country doesn’t matter as long as he can play tennis

He did not care about being on the same team as Ryoga and had actually wanted to play against him

He states he felt some changes when viewing team Japan from an outside perspective

He returned to team Japan because he had thought of the people who made him stronger and wanted to fight alongside them

[thehobbitsonbikes]

Day 12 - Goooooodbyyyyyyye Vietnam!

Well, today we made the move to Cambodia. It was an afternoon flight, so we had a free morning for a last bit of exploring in Saigon. We, as usual, were up for breakfast early and then went out for a walk before the others were up - just a 45min walk around a different area around the hotel we hadn’t been to before. We aimed for a park, which was very popular with local Saigonittes doing Tai Chi and other forms of exercise (including dancing!). The traffic was, of course chaotic and with all the street vendors occupying the footpaths, there was a fair bit of walking on the road as motor scooters whizzed by a foot from you. At one intersection, I noticed a memorial sculpture which seemed to be of a person sitting cross legged, with stylised flames wreathing their body. The name of the person it was a memorial to was Thich Quang Du, and he lived from 1897 to 1963. That struck a chord with me and I realised it was a memorial to the monk who famously and tragically set himself on fire at this very intersection in 1963. The photograph of this act won a Pulitzer Prize. We were at the very intersection where this had all occurred.

Back to the hotel to check out, leave our luggage and meet the others. The Carlyles and The Hobbits set off for a walk and first stopped at a coffee shop Phil had found online. It was very funky - it was on the third floor and you had to walk down a wide dimly lit hall with plenty of motor scooters parked on the left and up and old staircase past closed little businesses. We were thinking this didn’t look too promising, when the top floor was reached and we entered modern cafe that seemed to have been inserted into the old French era building it was located in - and it was packed! After this, we walked down to the Saigon River, risked our lives crossing 8 lanes of traffic, and promenaded down the riverside paths in the heat and humidity and, oddly enough, had the whole place to ourselves. After this, it was off to the 58th floor of the Saigon Skydeck building for a panoramic view of the city. Then, back to the hotel for a 2.00pm pickup to the airport and onwards to Cambodia where a particularly fantastic hotel awaited us - quite a change from the slightly run down Saigon hotel we had been domiciled in.

The funky stair in the funky building where the Phil found the funky ‘Workshop’ coffee house.

[nyxelestia]

Around then, he adds, the lease for the gargantuan Barnes & Noble space came up for renegotiation, and the owners of the building sought to double the rent. “Barnes & Noble was like, ‘We can’t sell that many books, and in that case we’re going to leave,’” Brock says. After the bookstore chain vacated its anchor multi-story space on the promenade, the building’s owners weren’t able to lease it right away. The darkened building felt like a crater on the once bustling block. Eventually, the landlords were able to reach a new lease agreement with WeWork … until the co-working startup imploded and they pulled out too.

[scotianostra]

Happy Birthday Scottish artist Jack Vettriano.

Born Jack Hoggan 1951 in St. Andrews, I think many of us will identify with Jack’s upbringing in the industrial seaside town of Methil, in Fife.

The family lived in a spartan miner’s cottage, sharing a bed with his brother and wearing hand-me-down clothes. From the age of 10, his father sent him out delivering papers and milk, cleaning windows and picking potatoes — any job that would earn money, he took half his earning from the youngster.

At 16, like so many in the Fife area he went into the pits, as a mining engineer, he also spent sometime as a bingo caller at the Beachcomber Amusements on Leven Promenade.

For his 21st birthday, his then girlfriend gave him a set of watercolour paints, from there he taught himself to paint. His first attempts at painting were copies of impressionist paintings such as Poppy Fields by Claude Monet. His early influences also included works displayed in the Kirkcaldy Museum and Art Gallery. He moved to Edinburgh in 1987 and adopted the last name of Vettriano, his mother’s maiden name. Jack applied to study Fine Art at the University of Edinburgh, but his portfolio was rejected.

A year later he submitted two paintings for sale to the Royal Scottish Academy. He sold both paintings, and galleries began approaching him to sell his work. Vettriano successfully exhibited his work in many cities, including Edinburgh, Hong Kong, London, and New York. Vettriano’s paintings typically sell for between £48,000 and £195,000, and his total income from royalties is £500,000 per year.

The Royal Academy rejected The Singing Butler for its 1992 summer exhibition, but it sold for £744,500 in 2004, and I say good on him, I suspect their refusal was more to do with snobbery than anything else.

Jack went on to create a series of seven paintings in 1996 that commemorated Sir Malcolm Campbell’s land-speed records at the Bonneville Salt Flats. The most expensive painting in this series was Bluebird at Bonneville, which sold for £468,000 in 2007.

It’s not all about pocketing his earnings though, Bethany Christian Trust, Maggie’s Cancer Caring Centres, Quarriers and Teenage Cancer Trust are just a few of the charities to have benefitted from the sale of some of his paintings.

Vettriano collaborated with Sir Jackie Stewart in 2008 to create Tension, Timing, Triumph – Monaco 1971, a triptych that commemorated Stewart’s overall victory of the 1971 Formula One racing season The Weight is Vettriano’s self-portrait, which has been displayed in the Scottish National Portrait Gallery since 2011.

He likes to gamble on horses, but only bets what he can afford to lose, which I think would mean every day!!!

Jack has set up the Vettriano Trust, and plans to leave his money in the trust “to do good work”

His work rarely fails at auction - he points out that a recent oil painting of his sold for £35,000, well above the estimate. Reproductions of the painting remain the best selling art print in the UK.

But while Vettriano is loved, he's also loathed.

His work has been variously described as "brainless erotica", "just colouring in" "mere wallpaper" and "crass male fantasy ". But another artist David Mach says: "If he was a fashion designer Jack would be right up there. It's all just art world snobbery." Just as I said earlier.

Now 70, he still has his demons, and still rails against the establishments which continue to shut him out. But after two postponements and nearly three years of waiting, he recently said he's delighted his exhibition in Kirkcaldy finally opened to the public earlier this year

One of my favourites by Vettriano is “Dr Connolly I Presume” –which Glasgow street artist Rogue One reproduced in a giant mural outside Hootenanny Bar at Dixon Street, but it is danger of being destroyed as there are plans for a new building to go up there.

Meanwhile Fife Council are trying to raise funds for a statue of his Singing Butler,as seen in the third pic, at least he is being recognised there as I still see a lot of snobbery in the art world towards him, at least in Scotland.

You can check out more from this talented Fifer on his own web site below, and while some of his work is described as erotic, it really is very tame, naughty but nice I would say.

https://www.jackvettriano.com/

[kawaii-angelanne]

TW/CW: none!

KEY TAGS: second pov, gender-neutral reader, best friends to lovers, spoiler-free, fluff, love language is teasing and physical touch!

WORD COUNT: 1165

CROSS POST: ao3

OPENING NOTE: thanks for clicking on this! please do not repost, copy, modify, or overall plagiarize this work anywhere else please. plagiarism is never acceptable, both in mla 8 format and in fanfiction! for translations, message me, and we can talk about it! reblogs, comments, and likes are super appreciated :>

SUMMARY: "This had to have been the fifth couple you saw today, and, surprise, surprise, they’re exactly like the previous four you’ve come across: holding hands, interlocking arms, promenading around the city, too absorbed with each other to notice anything around them."

Or where you complain about the stench of love in the air, and Suna Rintaro decides to do something about it.

“Jesus, what’s in the air today?”

This had to have been the fifth couple you saw today, and, surprise, surprise, they’re exactly like the previous four you’ve come across: holding hands, interlocking arms, promenading around the city, too absorbed with each other to notice anything around them.

“Well, it’s Valentine’s Day soon,” your Chipotle Companion, Suna Rintaro, points out while easing his way through the pedestrians and tourists despite obsessively tapping on his phone. 

“Yeah, soon. I don’t want to even imagine what it’s going to be like on Valentine’s Day,” you huff and stop at the crosswalk as the cars zoom past, coincidentally right behind the aforementioned pair of lovers, “I think I’m just going to hole myself up at home and watch some Ghibli movies. Treat myself to some takeout while I'm at it.” 

Right after you said that, feminine laughter pierces the air, and your head whips right around to target the source. What you find is worse than someone snickering at your pitiful plans for good ol’ V-Day. No, it’s this girl’s eyes crinkling as she giggles at whatever her boyfriend just whispered in her ear. The fact that he’s holding shopping bags with a stuffed animal and a rose peeking out from the inside makes it all the more worse.

Yep, this is your last straw. Your final nail in the coffin. Your ninth circle of hell, the third ring. 

So, you turn your back to them, finding the looming office building much more appealing. 

“What’re you doing?” Suna asks you, probably not even looking up from his phone.

“The wind is blowing too harshly in my face, so I am simply facing the other way, that’s all.” 

Just as you say that, a harsh gust of wind slaps you right in the face. You wince at the bitter cold while you can hear Suna holding back chortles of laughter with the palm of his hand.  

“You were saying?” the blatancy in his comeback makes you want to strangle him, “Unless you intend on walking backwards like Michael Jackson, it’s time to cross the street. Also, they’re gone now.” 

With his clearance, you turn around and catch Suna filming you on his phone. Your hand rushes to cover the camera. 

“Suna!” he pockets his phone before you can reach it; you don’t want to even know what the video looks like. 

“What? It was fun seeing you like a child facing the wall in timeout after throwing a tiny tantrum,” he throws in a nudge so forceful that you almost collapse to the ground, “What’s gotten you so upset at seeing all these lovey dovey couples, anyways? Jealous?”

“And if I am?” you scowl at the sight of another one walking in front of you, “Another year, another valentine’s day spent alone. I swear, with how many guys we have in our grade, you’d think there would be at least one, but nope! Not at all! Zilch! Zero!”

While Suna always seemed to have a lot to say, his retort never comes, and so the two of you walk in tandem to the next destination on your day out. 

Finally, he breaks the silence, “I'll come over, what time?” 

You’re caught off guard at his question and stammer for an answer, “I-I mean, my last class is at 3, so 4? 4:30? But, I want to spend Valentine's Day with my boyfriend, Suna, not you.” 

Lies, but anyways. 

“Exactly, so I’ll come over,” he simply says, and you almost freeze up at how nonchalant he’s being. 

Your heart soars in your chest, and you swallow hard to keep it down there. 

Clearing your throat to stop your brain from short-circuiting, you continue, “Suna, are you deaf? I said, ‘Boyfriend.’”

“And I heard you loud and clear.”

You search his expression for any sign that he’s joking, that he’s just messing with you like he always does. But, no, he has that same deadpan fac–Oh, wait. Wait…on his cheeks…is that…? 

“Suna, are you…blushing?” your lips curve into an impish grin; you thought you would never live to see the day Stoic Suna blushes! 

You whip your phone out to snap a picture, like how he always does with you when your mouth is too full or when your face was a little too red watching 50 Shades of Grey with him (all for the memes, of course). But, before you can even aim it properly, he pushes it down with his hand immediately.

The pink spreads to the tips of his ears, and he can’t even look at you, choosing now to start the wonderful, enlightening hobby of cloud watching, “Never mind, just forget it.”

“Uh, no, I won’t ‘just forget it!’” you can hardly contain the excitement in your voice, “You just confessed to me! Ain’t ever letting you live this down. Man, you’re down bad, confessing first and all.”

“Okay, I get it now, you don’t have to keep on making jokes–Wait, first?” he suddenly stops walking, the people behind you two quickly maneuvering to move past and not crash into him.  

“I cannot wait to tell the twins and everyone else that you confessed first,” laughter now, after bubbling up inside like fizzy soda, freely flows out, “I mean, I never did think you liked me back, so I was never planning on telling you. But, yep, I like you too, Suna! Hehe, wow, it’s so much easier saying it now that you said it first.” 

In the blink of an eye, his arm slings across your shoulders to bring you closer into his side. Looking up, you see mischief and unbridled excitement sparkling right back. 

“If I had known you had feelings for me, I should have just teased you until you couldn’t take it anymore and confessed your little heart out,” he smirks while gazing down at you, and, consequently, your heart speeds up, “And, judging by how fast it’s beating right now, it wouldn’t have been long before you did.” 

“Oh, please,” you playfully push him away, “I've waited for the past year. I definitely could have waited another.” 

“Try three,” he grabs your hand and pulls you in once again. 

“Three? But I've known you for three years, and…” you start walking slowly with him as the dots start connecting like the stars in the sky. 

“Call it love at first sight then.”

You gag at the cliché line from all the stupid rom-coms you’ve seen together, “Then for me, it would have been…gee, the 102nd time? I don't know, I guess that face of yours just grew on me.” 

“Yeah, I suppose I have that effect on people,” he adjusts his grip on your hand, interlacing your fingers with his for a more secure grasp. 

“So…” you didn’t think this was going to happen, so, even though you may have had a fantasy or two about this, you have no idea on how to proceed, “Is this our first date?” 

“Well, I was planning on telling you on Valentine’s Day at your place, but someone was insistent on only hanging out with their boyfriend, so,” he shrugs, “I guess this is our first date.”

“Okay, perfect, so you can pay for my meal!” you stick your tongue out at him, “thanks for footing the bill, Suna!”

“Well, only on one condition: no more ‘Suna this’ or ‘Suna that,’” you both turn right, only one block away from the Chipotle. 

You blanch at that, “…What else am I supposed to call you then?” 

Honey? Babe? Sweetheart? All of those want to make you gag. 

“Did you forget I have a first name?” 

“Oh, shit, wait, you’re right, I get first name privileges!” you cheer a little now that you’re one of the very few people to be able to call him by his first name, “Please buy me food…Rintaro!” 

He falls dead silent, and, after a cough behind his hand, he merely utters one word, “A-again.” 

Oh, you’re totally going to use this; the power you have over him is nothing to scoff at, and you’re enjoying every second of it!

“Rintaro! Ooo, or, better yet: Rinnie! Rin! Wait, how about Taro? Your name is so multifunctional, I love it!” 

As you ramble on all the possible nicknames you can come up with for him, you’re tugged into the Chipotle without even realizing it. When you notice how red his face is, you almost feel bad.

Almost. 

As he falls in line with you in tow, he smiles softly at you, not paying attention to anything else around him as if they weren’t even there. He bends down to whisper in your ear.  

“Keep on saying my name like that, and I'll buy you all the food you want.” 

When Rintaro comes back with two bags of Chipotle, your hand shakes from how tightly you’re holding your phone. 

“Whoa, someone looks upset,” he saddles up in a stool right next to you, leaning in to see what’s on your phone, “What’re you watching?” 

You, at a loss for words, show him the short video he recently added to his story. It's him showing the couple the two of you saw at the stoplight and then switching the angle to show you with your back turned to them like a pouty child. There's also a caption that says, “pov: you can’t go on the swings because someone else got to it first.”  

“Aw, you look adorable when you’re jealous like that!” he unwraps the bowls from the bag, gently placing yours in front of you, “But, don’t worry, you don’t have to be jealous anymore now that you got me!” 

As the video loops back to the beginning, you stare blankly at the phone and then him, “Maybe I do.” 

He freezes mid-bite, spoon in mouth, with panic flashing in his eyes, “What’s that supposed to mean?!” 

ENDING NOTE: so uh this was an impulse write at 1am based off of seeing all these couples when i was out with my friend in the city yesterday! yes, i am the one who turned away; yes, my friend is the one who filmed me; but, no she is not suna <//3

anyways, i hope everyone has a great valentine's day!! whether you're with someone or by yourself, treat yourself because you deserve it <333 till next time!

[aaronburrdaily]

August 20, 1809

Couche at 11. Lev. 1/2 p. 4. To the fontaine.¹ To the landing; no sloop going before to-morrow. Begin to be impatient to be off. Whilst I was dressing about 6 o'clock the maid, without knocking, a la suedoise,² brought in a stranger who addressed me in very good English; apologized for the liberty; that he had a great desire to know me, having read much about me in the newspapers. He gave me his address. Mr. Lars Clever, Huset No. 36 nast Råintmästarehuset vid Skepsbron;³ en trappur upp.⁴ I give it as a sample of the pretty little names of streets in Stockholm, as another, that in which is my lodgings, is called Malmskildnadsgatan. The gentleman tendered me civilities and said he should be in Stockholm on the 24th. It was not till yesterday that I learnt that I have been a subject of newspaper discussion for several weeks. What is said about me I have neither heard nor inquired. At 9 came in my amiable Prussian acquaintance, Barth, on his return from his Northern tour. He took charge of a letter for me for Hosack. At 12 called again at A.E. Afzelius; no one at home. Went on to the landing; no sloop going till to-morrow evening. Shall I wait so long or take a post-horse this evening to Sigtuna? The Directeur⁵ Afzelius enters; how charmingly he hates the ———, in which we agree, and we curse them by the hour together. He gave me a letter to Baron Hermelin, Nora, where I propose to stay to-night. 2 P.M. All my plans renversèd.⁶ A.E. Afzelius has been here and proposes to go with me to Stockholm by way of Sigtuna (the ancient and first capital of the country; dit the residence of Odin⁷) and Sköklaster if I will wait till Wednesday morning. The further inducements to wait are: First, that I am invited to pass the day to-morrow at the Landshofdingen’s,⁸ where I shall see les belles Baronnes;⁹ second, to attend the territorial court, to be held here to-morrow; third, to assist at the installment of a knight newly erected who, finding it inconvenient to go to Stockholm to be monted¹⁰ by the King in person, his Majesty has been graciously pleased to authorize his Excellency the Landshöfdingen to perform the cerimony¹¹ in his name and stead. After the cerimony,¹¹ a dinner. Now, I’m thinking that you'll not scold at this delay because I shall have something to tell you. Remember to ask me to relate to you the history of Baron Hermelin, M’Lean, and Baron Silver. To the Haradshöfding’s at 4 to talk law. Reste¹² to tea. Madame bien belle; had been extremely fortunate in her head-dress. Sang a great deal. Y une jeu. dam. divorcee;¹³ la souer et mere de Madame Afzelius. Off at 7. Promen.¹⁴ one hour with the Haradsbofding and home.

1  Fountain. 2  In the Swedish fashion. 3  Mr. Lars Clever, house at No. 36 next to (näst) the treasury (Räntmästarehuset) by Skepsbron (i.e., the wharf, quay). 4  For en trappa upp. Up one flight. 5  Director. 6  A hybrid perfect participle made from the French verb renverser, to turn upside down; hence, upset. 7  The chief of the Norse gods, the same as Wodan in German mythology. 8  The Landshöfding is a provincial governor, a lord-lieutenant. 9  The handsome baronesses. 10  Probably a hybrid verb from French monter, to raise; here, to raise to knighthood. 11  So in the MS. 12  Remain. 13  For Y une jeune dame divorcée, etc. There was there a young divorced lady, etc. 14  For promenade. Same meaning as in English.