#AU: A Hearth & Home Port

[pininghermit]

Weird Alucard Mermaid AU

AN: @queenondeezmatatas I am sorry but my brain is not functioning and I cannot properly write a mermaid au for Alucard but I tried...its a little crackhead. (P.S. I have been listening to the same song for past week, my adhd is at its peak)

Summary: “when I asked for a souvenir I meant something smaller…”

“It was your first time on a boat and you brought back a mermaid?”

“Technically it’s a merman,” 

“Bitch you can’t even swim-” Aril paused with a comical expression on his face. “Listen,” he gently held your shoulders and spoke in an exasperated tone, “when I asked for a souvenir I meant something smaller…”

Uncaring of your brother who was minutes away from a break down you could not help but admire your find. “Isn’t he pretty,” you tucked away the disarrayed strands of slumbering merman’s hair. Pretty golden hair that complimented his glimmering black tail.

“Do you think we should cover him with a blanket or would that be weird for his skin textu-”

“Y/N this isn’t the time to think about skin texture!” Aril finally exploded with his booming voice. He motioned his hand to where the merman lay, “We have a Merman in our house. On my bed. 50 miles away from the shore.” Whenever Aril got mad his face turned red. Tomato red. It was comical. “He could die, for all I know we could be killed by this creature.”

“Just why did you do it?”

“I couldn’t leave him to die Aril,” you met the merman on the shores of the busy port city. A place where many wandered yet, none cared to look at the injured creature by the water. Maybe none had seen him. But he was there, motionless and pale in the waters that seem to bleed red with his injured tail.

So abandoning the hard-earned boat ride that you had bought, you covered the merman in your cloak and carried him on your back. You did take a carriage ride but that isn’t dramatic enough to be mentioned.

Maybe you could have been smarter and left the merman in the coastal town, where he would be closer to his home but you could not bring yourself to do it. Not when the town with brimming merchants is also a hub for illegal slaves. 

The wounds on his tail and the marks on his wrists were enough signs to not let him suffer any more confinement. And if it is the sea, he desired, then you would give him that. You would take him back wherever he desired.

“Whoever you are,” you took the merman’s hand in yours. His much colder than yours. “I promise you that I will not bind you to this place and I promise you the warmth of this hearth, even though you might not like that so…more like the water of our lake?” You smile at your own little joke. Too bad the merman does not get to listen to your excellent innuendoes yet.

But something told you that he would soon. Maybe it was the deepening frown between his eyebrows.

Blood, crashing relentless waves, coarse sand of the seabed on his tail, nails scratching his skin until it gave away to blood. Screams surrounded him. They were after him. They want him dead just like they killed his mother. 

They killed his mother. Ha…Alucard felt an unbearable pressure on his chest. His mother was dead…and his father was gone in grief. Lost to the world as his mother was. Only one left was him. 

Not for long though. He would join them. Maybe his pursuers would grant him the mercy of joining his mother. 

A big chunk of his tail had been ripped apart by claws. It bled into the sea. Vanishing into the depths of storming waves. 

Rippling pain continued to pulse through him. Even in the dark of his unconscious mind, it stayed. Ever present. Until it settled onto his every pore. A grating sensation.

Alucard’s eyes flew open and what welcomed him was not the comforting dark of the sea but something different…it was wood. Was he on a ship? He could not feel the waves, nor could he sense the existence of other sea creatures.

“I told you blanket was not a right choice for slimy mermen,” Alucard very much wanted to protest that he was not a slimy merman. But before he could another voice replied “Jeez forgive me Y/N that I am not a mermaid, expert and that I didn’t plan for our little guest that you brought.”

First of all, Alucard was not little. “Mer…merman,” he tried to interject his capturers who had entrapped him under a formidable net, likes of which he had never seen.

“Yeah I told you he’s a merman- wait what?” a note of surprise rang in the voice of one named Y/N, “shit…you’re awake!” 

“Aril you got the pan?” Is he going to be cooked? He heard the tales from others of his kind. Humans loved to devour almost anything edible. 

Alucard's heart pounded in his chest as he struggled to make sense of the situation. He was trapped, captured by these humans, and his fate seemed uncertain. The memories of his mother's death and the relentless pursuit by his attackers still haunted him, and now he found himself in an entirely different danger.

The wood above him, the lack of crashing waves, and the absence of other sea creatures made it evident that he was no longer in the sea. There was no easy escape from land…had he been on a ship it would be easier.

The voices of his captors, Y/N and Aril, continued to echo around him, their words both confusing and alarming. Y/N seemed to be surprised by something, perhaps his ability to communicate, while Aril seemed preoccupied with something called a "pan."

"Aril, maybe we should think this through. He seems aware, and he's not attacking us."

Aril grumbled in response, his tone still cautious. "Aware or not, he's still a merman, and we can't just ignore the risks. What if he lures others of his kind to attack us?"

"Hey," Alucard looked at the owner of the hesitant voice, which belonged to you—the woman with the brightest voice and a staggering intellect. You returned his gaze with a blinding smile. "You okay?" you asked, your concern evident as you pointedly stared at the sheet covering him.

Your words, though familiar in their cadence, were foreign to Alucard. He struggled to focus on what you were saying, his head pounding with a thudding ache. His tail was his only connection to the sea, and without water, it felt foreign and uncomfortable. The air seemed to cling to him, grating against his exposed skin.

Desperate to free himself from the constraining cloth, Alucard tried to pry it off. The fabric stuck to him, unlike the seamless flow of water through his fingers. The air seemed ruthless and his hands flapped awkwardly. Despite his efforts, the cloth persisted, trapping him like the nets that humans used to ensnare sea creatures. "Let me help ," you spoke again, your fingers inching towards him.

As your hands neared him, Alucard couldn't shake the memory of the claw marks on his back, inflicted by his own people. The pain was still fresh, and he couldn't trust these humans, even though you seemed to want to help.

He bared his teeth in a defensive growl, a warning to keep your distance. Uncertainty clouded his mind, unsure of your intentions and whether he could trust you. The memory of his mother's death at the hands of humans haunted him, and he couldn't risk facing a similar fate.

You paused, sensing his fear and apprehension. Your eyes softened with understanding, and you slowly withdrew your hand

You encounter a stalemate, as you watch a wriggling merman who won’t let you help him. Behind you, you can feel Aril with a pan in his grasp. Your own defenses had sprung up at the sight of menacing fangs that the mer possessed. 

Yet, it is not just fear that welcomes you but also a longing tug. You can see the wounds on the mer’s back. A story imprinted on his body. But even in his clumsy movements there is a desperation. A need to save himself. It would be easy to help him and free him or maybe knock him out and release him back into the seas that he comes from. But the forming tears in his eyes stop you.  And maybe that is the reason that you step back and allow the creature to fight his battle with your bedsheet. You allow him the freedom of his struggle.

And as you do so, you yank a hesitant Aril out of the house. “Get some Kingfoil for him,” your brother rightfully glares at you. He is afterall, smarter than you in most situations. “What? You want me to get herbs?” You exaggeratedly point at yourself. “You want the fish inside to die…don’t tell me you want to grill it into our next dinner,” Aril does not entertain your shenanigans. “He doesn’t look that appetizing but…”

“I’ll go but you keep this,” your brother very responsibly hands you his trusted pan. “Aim for his head if he is a menace.” He expectantly looks at you. You grace him with a firm salute which he does not appreciate enough and walks away towards the woods.

By the time you return the mer, seems to have won the battle with your sheet and pants on your brother’s bed with fervor of an exhausted lover. 

“Well well, looks like you won,” your clever remark goes very much unanswered. At this point you contemplate signing your words when the mer replies in a hoarse voice, “water,” which very much should not be considered a reply but you do not ponder on that issue as you see the said merman daintily faint back into oblivion. 

“Time for a second trip,” you push up your sleeves and stare at the pan that your brother bestowed upon you…no you aren’t going to cook him. You were better than that.

Kingsfoil will have to wait. 

Your afternoon is spent repackaging your merman into a less suspicious form which unfortunately involves putting the sheet back on. For the second time you crack your back at you prepare to carry the huge guy on it. 

The beginnings of the lake right by your house start to show up. “I hope you like it big guy.” With a splash, the giant fish falls into the water and you do not cringe at the sound it makes or the amount of water it sprays on your abused back. 

Adrian felt the rush of water around him as he swam, his senses attuned to this unfamiliar aquatic environment. The water was gentle and cool, a far cry from the hot summer sea of his home. His eyes flew open, taking in the swaying waves of the water body, though it lacked the vastness of the ocean and the familiar taste of brine he grew up with.

The water here felt lighter, and he could sense the curious whispers of the fish surrounding him. It was as if they were welcoming him to this new realm. The soothing water worked wonders on his wounded body, and he felt the relief of being free from the strange cloth that had trapped him earlier.

As he swam further, he saw your back turned to him, standing near the edge of the water. Without realizing it, his actions led him closer to you, and before he knew it, his hand tugged at your heel. You let out a screech as you fell into the water, but Adrian couldn't stop himself. Fear, anger, and a sense of betrayal filled him as he watched you struggle to keep afloat.

Instinctively, his tail wrapped around you, holding you in place as he pinned you to the edge. Your eyes widened in shock, and you tried to pry your hands away from him. A whirlwind of questions filled his mind. Who are you? Why did you bring me here? What do you want from me?

But before he could voice any of these questions, he noticed your eyes closing shut, and your limbs losing their force. Panic surged through him as he tried to understand what was happening. Just as confusion gripped him, a force pushed into him.

#castlevania #alucard x reader #alucard #adrian tepes x reader #mermaid au #mermaid alucard #crack enough to be a self insert for author

[arleniansdoodles]

I thought I’d work on some portraits for the Roman gods who appear in my post-Ragnarok AU! I don’t know if y’all are interested in seeing these, but they were lots of fun to draw, so I’m going to share them anyway :DDD

At the top is Vesta, goddess of the hearth, home, and family (Greek equivalent is Hestia). Next is Mercury, god of translations and interpreters, and messenger for all other gods (Greek equivalent is Hermes). And last is Portunus, god of ports and gateways (usually conflated with the Greek god Palaemon)!

I know my designs are pretty tame, I just can’t bring myself to go wild and do something like the Greek era games ^^;; I wanted mine to at least look cohesive and kinda Roman (plus it’s easier for me to draw loll). In any case, feel free to share your thoughts, if you want! Which ones do you think will become Atreus and Calliope’s allies/enemies? XDDD

#i like vesta's background the best #cuz i knew what i wanted to do for it right away #whereas i just improvised for the others loll #art #my art #roman mythology #god of war #god of war ragnarok #au #mercury #vesta #portunus #roman gods #atreus #calliope #does this count as fanart loll #portraits #god of war fanart #character design #character concept #i have another three portraits waiting to be coloured #i'm hoping to get those done soon!

[thehistoriangirl]

The Tides Have Veiled [Fourteen]

This chapter is calmer than usually :3 is that suspicious? I wouldn't know...

Viktor x Fem!Reader---/Gothic AU/Haunted Sea---3.4K---SFW

> MASTERLIST <- Previous // Next ->

Synopsis:  Piltover the Old has an old lighthouse that looms over an abandoned port. From the house in the wailing cliff’s edge, the lighthouse owner watches that the beacon is being lighten up each time darkness arrives, so that monsters wouldn't dare to crawl inland, or so legends say. Both buildings are haunted, maybe even the man himself, by both past and present ghosts. Surprisingly, the keeper’s work is beyond turning on the beacon every night— but the rest is on you to discover.

Chapter Summary: Just when you're about to confront one of your fears, Viktor's there to confess.

Tags: Strangers to Lovers | Ghosts | Slow Burn | Dark Magic(?) | Some Lore | Fluff (!!!!) | Some kithing :3 |

Taglist: @lunar-monster @local-mr-frog @bittercyder @blissfulip @ihopeinevergetsoberr

Fourteen: A Ghost Roaming the Coast

It was almost dusk when you gathered your petty bravery, watching the sky bleed and the waves shine with the last glimpses of sunlight.

 Calculating against the clock hung on the wall and the keeping log, you had around forty minutes until the sun died down for good today, finally overshadowed by the beacon.

Your steps echoed against the wood of the lighthouse’s staircase, hands eager to gather the raincoat perfectly folded over the table and the pair of boots tucked against a side of the hearth so they could get warm enough against the upcoming winter currents.

You observed the flames, Viktor’s words resonating inside your brain in between the crackling fire, allowing your mind to get lost in their dance though your jaw tightening didn’t pass unperceived.

I believe you hit your head with a rock when you were walking along the beach.

“Yes, sure,” you seethed. How would you end up on the opposite side of the bay if that were the case? You should be dead if your head would have hit any of the sharp rocks at the foot of the cliff where you sought refuge last night.

And the woman—the ghost—it hadn’t been the first encounter. Even if you tried to delude yourself into thinking of it as a poor excuse of a slip of imagination, like the force that was about to push you to the edge of insanity; you knew better.

Sadly so. As much as ignorance would’ve been a blessing.

Even then, knowledge perhaps will be the only thing to keep you alive. Once you understood everything, you would be able to know what to do now you knew that there was no solace in the city for you.

Not with whatever had poisoned your blood with salt water.

That was the only thought while you fished your keys from the depths of your oversized wool sweater, securing them with a cord in your pants’ hem.

The cave was real, you felt it in your being, in the way your fingers still seemed to vibrate while remembering the touch of the faint purple glow on its walls. How the song resonated in your bones as if they were hollow, filling you with homesickness you didn't know it was there until the melody made it overflow.

How someone could feel such a thing when one has never known a home anyway?

What a twisted life this seemed to be.

But before settling a foot outside, a flash of the ghostly tail made your hand brush along the table’s surface to grab the handle of the kitchen knife.

It wouldn't be much, especially if you were correct about what you believed that creature was; though you didn’t wish to be so exposed and hopeless again. It was enough that for a considerable portion of your life, you’d been sheltered and tucked away as an old doll—you didn’t wish your end to be like that, too.

You were a keeper now, away from the shabby hut by the coast, now instead watching the whole landscape from your tower, maintaining the light on against the darkness, the mist, and the restless things roaming in the night. You were different.

You probably hit your head against a rock.

Voices mixed in a cacophony that pounded your head. Your mother went out of her mind after having you. That's why she left you.

You can’t run away from your blood.

No, you weren’t your faceless mother. You wouldn’t let the sea claim you too. And yet… you kept walking toward the exit, toward the waves. Tempting life and destiny only to soothe your mind once the cave stood, materialized, and real in front of you again.

Would Viktor care if the next evening he’d find the beacon still on, his keeper gone?

Would you care if he didn’t?

Hairs prickled your eyes when you shook your head in a violent attempt of denial, albeit the thoughts kept flowing like currents, so many your mind had gone murky, limbs led by instinct alone.

Open door. Close door. Walk. Fetch key. Open do—

A flap of cold wind hit your face like the slash of a dagger; the dark, grey sky quickly being covered by the view of a long, black coat. The wind carried the familiar essence like an invisible embrace.

“Where are you going at this time of day? It’s almost nighttime.”

You jumped away, a scream getting caught up in your throat as your mind scrambled to act. Get away. Grab the knife. Why does the voice sound so familiar?

Looking up, you conjured another ghost trying to haunt you, grabbing the knife from the pocket of your raincoat so forcefully your knuckles were white. Instead of hollow sockets, you saw a pair of golden stars still visible despite the cloudy night.

You opened your eyes, heat pooling up your face. “I was going to look for you,” you said, hoping to craft an acceptable lie with the nonsensical words spilling out of your mouth.

Viktor arched an eyebrow. “With a… knife?”

Your lips pressed in a thin line. Silence dragged, and Viktor leaned against the rusty threshold of the lighthouse’s gate, giving you all the damned time in the world to explain.

"We're not on so good terms, I suppose,” you answered begrudgingly, wishing to imbue a more amused and sarcastic tone instead of the hollow, plain tone that got out. Gaze averted and your free hand playing with your hair, you were a terrible liar, which wouldn’t explain why Viktor didn’t believe in what you told him this morning besides being pure reticence.

The screams of the cliff started creeping up the rock, toward the open lighthouse, and perhaps it was your imagination, but you felt a gentle trembling movement of the hill beneath your feet.

Your hands enveloped his wrist, pulling him inside the little garden and closing the gate behind him with a slam. Standing face to face, you could see his breathing spiraling up to the sky between the drizzle starting to compose a rhythmical dance over your coat.

“I regret talking to you like that. It was unprompted and uncalled for," Viktor said, eyes gentle and ever-present, boring into yours in seek of something you couldn't quite place yet. “I came to apologize.”

It couldn’t be so easy—you knew it wasn’t just forgiveness. It couldn’t be.

"You don't have to say things you don't mean only to appease me. I know you said it on a whim, which must’ve let you slip a thing or two decorum wouldn’t allow you to say in other circumstances.”

“And whims are all built in poor wording.” He sighed. “I don’t regret marrying you. I regret what this marriage has put you through.”

Your brain took much longer than needed for his words to seep in. “… what do you mean by that?”

Viktor's eyes settled on yours, and this time you gathered your courage to keep them on him, between the little mole under his eyes to the bridge of his nose. You saw browns and yellows on the irises, molted gold casting shadows behind its wake.

He brushed your shoulder ever so slightly. “My cursed wife. Don’t believe I haven’t noticed.”

A childish part of you fluttered when he called you ‘his wife’, perhaps hoping that all these steps you had walked together meant something more than just a clause in a job application. Though anger still bubbled up your belly for his words that were so heavy the wind couldn’t carry them away just like enough blood couldn’t become invisible while diluted in water.

You crossed your arms, as if he could see your heart hammering against your chest.

“I’m not yours.”

“I know. Albeit that’s not what everyone thinks about us.”

And what do you think about us? You wished to be brave enough to ask him.

“Curses are hereditary,” Viktor continued, his voice soft in a mutter while his gaze was lost in something over your shoulder, though when you looked back, you could only see the flicking shadows of the empty staircase. “They do not fade away with time as everything else tends to do because the ones that impose them are outside its reign. It persists in blood.”

He didn’t need to tell you what he was referring to. Ghosts. Witches. Spirits. The house and this lighthouse. You felt a shiver down your spine, cold sweat gluing the hairs of your nape. A gaze that penetrated over the rock of the tower and into your back. A gaze belonging to a woman's empty sockets.

“Are you trying to scare me?” You hugged yourself, hoping he wouldn’t notice your shiver. This time it was working.

“Let’s get you inside,” Viktor replied, taking his cane from its place propelled against the wall and pointing the handle toward the door. “You’re getting wet and I don’t want you to get sick.”

“Do you believe me?” You sounded childishly hopeful when you should’ve been surprised, not minding his cold palm sliding into yours to guide you down a more than familiar path.

“I don’t think there’s a purpose for you to invent something like that.” Viktor raised a hand when you were about to protest, your eyes deeply crinkled in a frown. "I know there are… strange happenings in this town. Of course, I believe you."

"I thought I had fallen and hit my head?" You huffed, the gentle crackling of the fire enveloping your cold bones once Viktor closed the door and helped you out of your humid coat, taking the knife and settling it on the table.

“There are certain things it’s better not to say out loud on land,” Viktor replied, almost embarrassed with the way his cheeks and ears were tinted pink, though all you saw could be a product of his closeness to the fire.

“And it’s good to talk about them now?” you said, looking up toward the beacon room and catching a glimpse of the golden light flicking through the stairs.

“No. But I didn’t want you to remain angry with me.” Shyly, he took your hands in his and gave them a light squeeze. “I care about you, and I couldn’t let a day pass by and know that I’ve hurt you. I’m sorry.”

You looked up at him, the flames making his eyes twinkle—and it would’ve been a mischievous way if it weren’t for the gentleness of his touch, fingers surrounding your wrists, a slight arch of his eyebrows created by worry.

The gentle mutter of your name slipped through his ajar lips.

Your hands slid around his torso, taking in the essence of his clothes, like orange and salt and books. He was solid, warm, and real, his lithe muscles shifting under your touch, cheek settled just above his chest.

His indecisive gasp reverberated deep inside your bones, hotness climbing up your neck once he hugged you back, his hands moving from their place on your arms down your waist. The movement made his unbuttoned coat open to envelop you whole, chest flush against his dress shirt.

For a long time, the only thing that existed was Viktor's heartbeats complementing yours, breaths mixed in a slow rhythm turned a soothing dance once he started swaying you side to side.

His cane’s handle poked your side, spell broken when your mind cleared enough to realize what you were doing, that you were too close, that perhaps his movements originated from exhaustion from coming down the house toward the lighthouse. That this was still just a façade. You pushed your hands over his chest to break the hug, only to find his hands still grabbing the soft curves of your hips.

“Viktor…” you said, looking at his chest now that locking eyes with him was so difficult, your mind running in circles over the memories of the wedding, the softest friction of his lips over yours.

The fake wedding, your brain tried to add, unsuccessfully.

“I don’t want to lose you.” He nodded, deep in thought as his right hand ran up from your waist up to cup up your cheek. “I promise I’ll do my best to keep you safe. I promise you.”

You smiled, the movement making his thumb brush across your skin in slow, gentle circles, a view so intense he might want to paint you to behold in his memory forever.

Viktor leaned closer, the rebel locks around his forehead almost hiding his intense expression. Your hands grasped his arms, thinking your knees would fall at any moment. His nose skimmed against yours before his lips landed atop yours in a motion so fleeting you might’ve been imagining if it weren’t for the gentle motion of his lips opening, accompanied by a squeeze on your left hip.

You sighed, wanting to move one of your hands atop his heart.

“I—I’m sorry,” Viktor jumped backward, almost tripping with the leg of the table. “I don’t know what I’m doing… I… I overstepped.”

You held his hand before he could pull away. “No, you didn’t,” you muttered, looking at the ground. “I’m your wife after all.”

Viktor’s sheepish smile left you breathless, looking between the yellow hues of the fire the bright red of his cheeks reaching his ears, even.

“This is so unprofessional. Come on,” he told you, reaching for the metal pole you used to extinguish the logs inside the hearth. Using your oil lamp to move around, Viktor approached the staircase with confident steps even as he hooked his cane in the crook of his elbow and started ascending using the handrail, a path so familiar maybe he could even crawl it in the darkness. “I want to keep watch with you tonight.”

It was your turn to frown with concern. “Aren’t you tired? You just returned from the city.”

“I’ve had many things around my head to even think about sleeping. There will be time—that is, of course, if you want me here. I’ll understand if you’d prefer to be alone.”

“I don’t want to be alone,” you replied almost immediately. Viktor turned once he reached the top, extending his arm to let the shine of the lamp illuminate your way up.

“You won’t be. Not if I can avoid it.”

Your head tilted to the side, looking over his shoulder to see the messy room you used every night; with the old logbooks open over the table and half the window still sealed with wood boards, pens scattered over the yellowish pages of the unfinished diaries you’d been scribbling on to avoid Viktor’s curiosity when you asked for another notebook.

Would Viktor see you as another delusional keeper if he got a better look at your writings?

“A worker will come to replace the glass on Thursday,” Viktor said, his steps never faltering while approaching the table. If he read the old keeper’s words mixed with your deliriums, he didn’t show any different emotion as he walked toward the closed door at the far end of the room. “The wood covers the view of the sea.”

“I prefer it this way,” you couldn’t stop from saying. This way you wouldn’t see the woman.

“I can’t say I blame you,” Viktor sighed, his steps getting further away as he entered the machine’s room, all his silhouette embraced by the comforting darkness inside. “Both haunting and beautiful.” Walking toward him, you heard the crackle of the couch give in under his weight. You closed the door with a gentle click now you were sure everything was for the night already tinting the horizon navy blue. Viktor hadn’t brought the lamp, and neither did you, remembering that day when the storm raged outside and yet you were warm and safe between his arms. You wouldn’t need the light if he was there. “Like you.”

You chuckled, ignoring the way your heart started pounding relentlessly against your ribcage. “Am I haunting?”

He hummed, grasping your hand to guide you toward the couch until your legs were against each other caged inside the tiny space. “Haunting does not always mean something frightening; but something special and unforgettable.”

Unforgettable… “Will you remember me once you go work as a teacher full time?” your voice was barely audible over the purring of the motor in the control panel, it was a miracle that Viktor could hear it, just as it was a miracle being so close to him tonight.

The pause that followed you allowed you to sense the cool of the night starting to crawl over your feet and fingers from under the metallic door, and you couldn't stop thinking how you had survived last night soaked in freezing water without catching hypothermia.

“I’m not planning to leave you alone in this town,” he muttered. “I can arrange another bedroom in my apartment.”

You recollected the horrible dream, how your lungs pleaded for mercy once the living room was flooded, tears mixed in with salt water as if they had always belonged there. His disappearance toward the bathroom almost all night. And the stain of crimson diluted into the water.

“I don’t think I will survive outside this town, Viktor. And I’m terrified of figuring out.”

“I’m here with you,” he said, patting your knee. “There’s always a way.”

“I hope you’re right. I don't want to be trapped in here for the rest of my life, whatever short or long it may be…” You sighed, feeling the breaking of your voice even before you uttered another word. “I want to escape my family’s fortune, though I think one may never be too far away from their blood.” I don’t want to keep feeling like I'm drowning near the coast and away from the sea. “I’m just… so tired of being… me…”

You heard the rustle of his hand patting your head. “I understand. One might think I should know it by now—the cursed owner of the haunted house by the cliff. But there’s always hope as long as there’s life. And I must… confess, that my world would be dull without you in it.” He exhaled. “I was so scared of finding you by the coast this morning. I… I thought…”

A chill ran through your spine, and you sought his warmth, leaning your head against his shoulder. “What haunts you, Viktor?" you whispered in a reckless attempt that no other spirit but him could hear it.

You felt him tremble slightly under your cold touch. “What always haunts everyone—the past.” He shifted to accommodate you better, hearing the muffled clank of his cane against the wall as he rotated himself to allow you to set yourself between his open legs, your back flush against his chest as if he were a cocoon. “And what haunts you?”

So many things, you were just like a small, naïve child. The screams of the cliff. The ghostly woman. That following sensation of being watched inside Viktor’s house. Of one day waking up in the hut by your aunt’s screams, the lighthouse and him all but a fantasy. “Knowing that everything I see and hear at night is a lie. And knowing that it’s not.”

Viktor posed his chin atop your head. “I believe you,” he said after a while, his breath drawing goosebumps against your ear. “I believe you.” There was a pause where you heard the palpitations of your heart picking up just like the rain outside.

“You shouldn’t walk by the beach at night,” he muttered, settling his head in the crook of your neck to whisper against your ear. “That’s why fishermen go to open waters and don’t come back until the sun is up again.”

“I was… I was returning from my uncle’s funeral. I…” you swallowed the lump in your throat. “I saw him first. And then the woman. M-my mom…”

He hugged you, his hands around your waist. “I don’t think that was your mother,” he said, soothing you with his reassuring touch and his closeness, tucked away from the world. "Why don’t you rest for a while? I’m going to need you alert and awake tomorrow afternoon.”

“Why?”

“I’m going to show you the open ocean.” He cleared his throat. “I mean… I’m researching about mareel, luminescence in algae that floats on the sea at night. I… it would be my pleasure to show you. If you’d like to come with me.”

“Oh! Well… I’d love to.” You smiled even though he couldn’t see it in the darkness. “Viktor…” you called, neck crooned toward him. “Can you kiss me again?”

You heard his faint chuckle, his head moving toward yours in the dark, hands cupping your jawline and neck as his thumb brushed along your bottom lip. You parted your mouth open, hot breath hitting against his fingerpad before his breath met yours in an eager sigh once you pressed yourself against him.

In that room there was no time nor hurry, embraced in the cold wind and sheltered by the rain tapping against the roof; so you allowed your mind and body to lose yourself in him. If only for tonight.

#viktor x reader #arcane viktor x reader #arcane viktor #viktor arcane #viktor arcane x reader #arcane fanfic #viktor fanfic #viktor arcane x you #arcane viktor x you #viktor arcane x fem! reader #arcane x female reader

[potionpeddlerpatchy]

So uh.... for a while I've been creating this world and story for a Royal AU (one that @melodramaticmatter knows quite a bit about) and even wrote a small portion of said AU and world with A Stroll Through the Gardens

I doubt I will ever come to write it, or share much of it because... it's very indulgent and will be very long and there will be plenty of doubts that come from it but I digress. I did figure it would be a good idea to just share the world, backstory, and the simple plot setup I had created for said AU. I did spend plenty of time creating it, and I know I would not be happy with myself if I just let it sit and rot without someone else looking at it.

So, if you wish to indulge me and venture into this please continue reading onward; I know I would appreciate it greatly 💛💛💛

The Main Kingdoms:

In the North: Kingdom of Dorthonion - home of House Todoroki

A foreboding fortress in the north, but what is to be expected when the land is covered in ice and snow, surrounded by mountains. Only the strong may survive here, those that are meant for the unstable weathers; as many an elf is. Through the unease, plenty of gifts can be found within these lands; from soft pelted furs, to strong oak and steel, to even gifts of magic from the silver hidden in their mountains - stoic and calculating it is best to stay a collaborator or face their frigid fury.

forged in fire and set in ice, our duality makes us unbreakable.

Current Regent - King Enji and Queen Rei Heir - Prince Shoto Head Knight: Iida Tenya Royal Advisor: Midoriya Izuku Archmage: Ochaco Uraraka

To the South: Kingdom of Deira, home of House Bakugou

The shining jewel of the south, where the dragon born live. Strong and fierce this kingdom is known for its brutality and explosive nature, as it protects the smaller sister kingdoms that stand behind them. With this strong loyalty and blazing demeanor, the South overflows with the abundance of jewels from their mines, spices from their fiery hearth, crystals to help heal any wound, and goods from the beasts they are named after - they have proven to be either a wealthy ally or a volatile foe.

fury in the scales and claws, we will never bow or falter. 

Current Regent - King Masaru and Queen Mitsuki Heir - Prince Bakugou Head Knight: Sero Hanta Royal Advisor: Kirishima Ejirou Archmage: Kaminari Denki

To the East: Kingdom of Edhellond, home of House Blumenthal 

A brawny empire along the coasts of the east, where people and merfolk live in harmony. Much like the salted breeze, it can either bring a traveler serenity or fear; only those that wish to bring unity are welcomed in these ports. If one does, you will be given fish to fill your belly, pottery to eat off of, oil to light your lamps, and ivory to adorn on your neck; keeping you safe from those that lurk below the surface - sing a melody among this fishermen or face a watery demise.

like waters, both shallow and deep, serene and deadly we are.

Heir - (an OC) Head Knight: Inasa Yoarashi Royal Advisor: Yaoyorozu Momo Archmage: Asui Tsuyu  Prince Monoma is heir to a smaller sister kingdom

And in the West: Kingdom of Amon Lac, home of House Van Amstel 

The welcoming realm of the west, how joyous they are to have you here. Kind and gentle the avians will be as they guide you through the vast land; handing to you flowers to wear upon your crown, fruits and vegetables to stave off your hunger, wheat and grain to fill your bags, sugar to sweeten your view, and if lucky, a potion or two brewed by witches that dwell within the dense woods; but only if your hands do not stray - give as much as you receive or face the starvation greed brings.

plentiful are our harvests, and trees of fruit, that is what tethers our roots.

Royal - <reader insert for their viewpoint and storyline> *called Dove by the main character and friend, they are the youngest and therefore not heir* Head Knight: Takami Keigo  Royal Advisor: Shigaraki Tomura Magic Wielder: Ibara Shiozaki

Towards the North West: Kingdom of Cashmerask - home of House Aguillard

A quaint domain that separates the northern elves from the western fairies. A place of reprieve of creatures both fantastical and frightening, only humble humans reside here.

And though humble, they still are craftsmen that have mastered their skills who will be eager to teach and sell you their wares. From the cloth on your back, to cotton in your bed, to wool in your socks, you will find them all made with care here; with golden thread to mark your ware as authentic -  be willing to pay for luxury or shiver in the cold.

like the thread that binds, though small, it is mighty. 

Royal - <main reader insert> *nicknamed Patchwork Princess by other nobility as a cruel joke: and yes, what started as a sweet joke between Gracie and I turned into all this* Head Knight: <unsure, another reader insert possibly?> Royal Advisor: Tamaki Amajiki Archmage: Shinsou Hitoshi

Kingdom of Cashmerask History:

As stated, there are four main kingdoms, to the North, South, East, and West. These kingdoms not only are ruled by strong and lasting bloodlines but are important to the overall balance of the land as a whole; they are the largest and most powerful in each section. Casherask was a sister kingdom, one of the smaller ones within the land of the west that was to support and be protected by Amon Lanc - much like the many other sister kingdoms within the land. Smaller royalty with less power and money.

A few generations ago, the Aguillard family realized that they were the only ones able to maintain and produce a very large amount of textiles and decided to use that to gain more power, wealth, and respect. That if no one was willing to pay the price for their items, they would shiver in the cold without them; or go to other merchants who could create similar items but of less quality - with many finding these merchants were unable to make things as beautifully, sturdy, or able to last many seasons. 

So with that foothold, Cashmerask’s kingdom and wealth grew to that of the main four. And though they are somewhat respected for obtaining such an impossible goal, many monarchs and royal families still look down on them - they see them more as simple folk unworthy of their position of power. Despite having a seat at the table, they were never regarded or truly able to speak.

House Aguillard Backstory:

So with this burden of being looked down upon, the family had always tried to be strategic in how they operate and whom they marry; to ensure they cannot be overthrown so easily. The King and Queen had four children, all of whom had an important role to play to ensure their stability.

Eldest Son - The Tapestry: though third born, a son and first in line to the throne. Prepared accordingly with his schooling and training to take the place and wear the crown once the time is ready. He is the shining star, the grand tapestry, of Cashmerask and will continue on a strong bloodline.

Eldest Daughter - The Golden Thread: firstborn and second in line for the throne. Their duty, to which they have been prepared through extensive schooling, is to marry off to a royal in another land. To ensure a bloodline and connections that reach further out than their own. For extra security and aid, the golden thread will bind more power to the crown.

Middle Daughter - The Silver Needle: secondborn and third in line for the throne. Their duty is similar in nature to that of the first daughter, with the same extensive schooling to match theirs. They are meant to marry into a royal family of the already existing kingdoms, with the main four being the best possible outcome. They are the needle to help create beautiful works with the golden thread already laid in place.

Youngest Daughter - The Bronze Thimble: last born and last in line for the throne. Their duty and position are not seen as high or important to that of the crown to gain more power. Instead, they are the people’s princess, to bring forth a sense of community and inner strength amongst them. To give them a sense of ease and security from the sharpness the world may bring them.

Reader's Backstory and Story Beats:

Again, youngest and a girl not much was expected of her. Her schooling was not as involved or extensive of that of her siblings, as a more simple life was destined to her. With all that free time, she was encouraged to learn the craft of her people. And so she did, fulfilling her duty of being the people’s princess and becoming herself quite the artist with a needle.

At a young age, was introduced to Amon Lac’s youngest princess, and through their shared situations, a strong friendship formed that lasted throughout the years. Another formed through similar circumstances with the son of a royal advisor (Tamaki). And once more another formed, through her father’s ire, when she became close with a child of a merchant who wanted to become a knight.

When time came for her debut on her 18th birthday, things started to go awry. A war, in a nearby land, broke out and much of the kingdom's time was spent in aid and suppression of it; with her own brother going off to fight. Once the dust had settled a couple of years, and all was clear once again, the foundation that was set up and enforced had been destroyed - if not by the war than by her sibling's strong sense of manifest destiny.

Her brother went to marry a princess in the land he fought for, leaving his throne empty and a tapestry to hang on another wall. The eldest daughter married a man below her station, upsetting the other kingdoms as a man not fit for the crown would wear one instead of the few set in place to be chosen, her golden thread no longer reaching out to bind. And the middle daughter, with a needle meant to create, instead broke the skin to bleed and was labeled unsuited for any throne,

And now, that little bonze thimble was being asked to be a tapestry, and golden thread, and a needle; with no understanding how, and no one ever wanting her, to be one. She is now urged by her parents, after her 24th birthday, to be engaged to a crown prince of any of the major kingdoms before she is to reach 25. To undo and try to fix the wrongs her siblings had created. Unprepared and struggling with identity, she at least has her party she is close to guide her and her best friend to go along with her - as she is in need of a suitor herself.

thanks for taking the time to read, perhaps I shall make something out of this

#part of the reason that it's holding me back is that like #I wanna make from three people's perspectives as each has their own storyline/romances/endings #but that may be too ambitious especially if I try and make it reader inserts for all three #but like I could make OC for the head knight for Cashmerask #and would possibly have to because I cannot cut them out because of their romance with Bakugou #anyway #again thanks for reading #and perhaps just posting this may kick me in the behind and force me to start writing it #🔮.the peddler brews #🔮.delete later

[poisonhemloc]

im procrastinating working on Gabbro (next step is transfer pattern to Bigger Paper and hoping) and lemur quilt (i hate ironing but! i gotta iron it!) so

this is a very rough map of the taco truck au's city. Boundaries are very rough- like most cities it does just kinda fade out into farm land. The weird blue is the main river/lakes in the area, but there are more on the right side of the map, just, not as Big

1 is Sol, the city center- all of the, courthouse and political stuff and all that jazz is there. It's also a very busy hub cause it's one of the fastest routes to other districts. Yarrow (the mayor) works there.

2 is Timber Hearth district. It's a hub for a lot of farms in the area, and the major concentration of Hearthians in the city. Lots of small businesses and trees. 2.5 is the Attlerock, which isnt the official name but its been called that long enough its unofficially the official name. There's a big skate park called the Crater there, and a lot of hiking and such around it. Outer Wilds Taco and Outer Wilds Mechanics are based there, and the majority of the Hearthian cast lives there.

3 is Ash Twin district, it's the major transportation hub of the area (it might be, crept up a bit more on one side, to have a port on the river, looking at it again but). The train comes into here, trams leave from here, there's some important work (all of the energy plants are in Ash Twin, tucked in a corner) but it's mostly known for transport. 3.5 is Ember Twin, which is a lot quieter; it's one of two major Nomai hubs in the city. Greek Food (the Nomai food trucks Solanum works for) is based out of Ember Twin. Yarrow and Clary live here.

4 is Dark Bramble, once a bustling industrial area, currently kinda. Dead. There's work going on to revive it, but it's a Lot. There is a newish bar called the Interloper in there, but, it's maybe, not totally up to code. 4.5 is Stranger (...which will probably be renamed but) and it's the major Owlk hub in the city. Stranger Sausages are... mostly based out of there, but they're not a handful of distinct trucks, it's a series of different Owlks each owning their own carts. There are (illegal) drag races in the area semi frequently- The Astronaut and Supernova are two of the more well known racers.

5 is Giant's Deep district, home to a lot of parks and lakes. Gabbro (and Granite), Gneiss and Tektite live there. Kaepora runs a float in/drive in movie theater on the lakeside.

6 is Brittle Hollow district, it's the home of the university and it's the other major hub of Nomai in the city. Pye and Poke live here, but overall it is a little quiet.

#poisonhemloc's rambles #outer wilds taco truck au #hello yes listen i. love questions. love to talk. here. discord. whatever. just. if you have questions. i do also. have chunks written of t

[constant-and-immovable]

capella temperance hawkins

“The only thing you have in common with the rest of us is a taste for wine, rum, and whiskey. You poor thing, Ella. You stand out like clam among scallops.”

“That’s not true, and if it was, would you value me less? I might not be a genius, but I’m good enough with numbers to keep our books. I might not be a master, but I can play piano well enough to make guests want to dance. I might not be a writer, but I can tell stories that keep them entertained through dessert. None of you can cook as well as I can. Besides, you’re forgetting something.”

“What?”

“I’m the prettiest.”

#AU: A Hearth & Home Port #ella hawkins #in my head she's also the only one of the kids who looks like both her parents #lyra looks creepily like her mother #cassie is mostly like her father and vega like neither #also the others shrug off their names as weird but capella goes by ella forever bc her parents named her without #knowing that capella means ''baby girl goat'' in greek #and she finds out and gets Upset #and her parents just ''well we didn't know???? we just knew it was a star!'' #cassie is cool with her name because at least cassiopeia can be shortened #lyra likes her name and vega is utterly indifferent #oh and Ella REFUSES to get on a boat unless her oldest sister or one of her parents are at the helm #its mostly in her head but if its not one of those three she gets terribly seasick #regardless of how much she likes the beach and the water

[terrainofheartfelt]

A Moodboard for Dair Appreciation Week, Day 4 - AU theme

(also in honor of AW, I’ve slipped in a new scene (😏) that I wrote after first posting because my brain loved living in this universe. I’ve pasted the bonus scene below the cut some smut is involved)

a Heart in port | part 2 of floating castle dreams

19k words | Rated E | Companion to the Gossip Girl / Little Women AU 

Futile - the winds - To a Heart in port - Done with the Compass - Done with the Chart! (x)

"Dan takes such care with her now, as if to assure her. But she knows how he loves her, she can feel it in all he says and does."

“Dorota?” she asks absentmindedly. 

“Evening, Waldorf.”

A grin spreads over her face, and she  turns in her seat to look at her husband. “How many times do I have to tell you? My name is Humphrey.”

“Oh I don’t know,” he says as he saunters over to where she sits, “A dozen more at least. I’ll never tire of hearing it.”

Blair laughs, warmth spreading through her chest that has nothing to do with the fire in the hearth. When Dan finally reaches her, she springs up into his arms. 

“Welcome home, love,” she says softly into his ear. “Although, I wasn’t expecting you till tomorrow.”

He hums. “I know, but I couldn’t wait to see you.”

She pulls back slightly, still in the circle of his arms. “Aren’t you quite the sentimental?”

“So I’ve been told,” he replies with that smirk that makes her heart quicken. Then, unable to wait any longer, she leans up on her tiptoes to kiss him. “God I missed you,” he murmurs against her lips. 

“And I you,” she answers. 

He ducks down for another kiss. “I am never leaving again.”

Blair laughs. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, dearest.”

His hands flex on the small of her back, making her shiver. “Then I am taking you with me.”

“Now those are much more agreeable terms,” she concludes, curving into him and smoothing her hands over his shoulders. “How’s Jenny faring?”

“Oh, perfectly fine. She’s far too busy and important now to even say goodbye when her elder brother leaves town.” 

“Just as she planned then,” Blair teases, making him laugh. “And what of your meeting?”

Dan’s face lights up, his smile wide. “They want to publish it.”

Her mouth falls open, “They do?”

He nods, eyes twinkling. “There’s still some I’ve left to write, and I want you to look at the papers before I sign them, but,” Dan bites his lip, barely containing his excitement, “Karp wants my book. My book.”

Blair’s smile matches his. “Congratulations,” she whispers, suddenly feeling on the verge of tears. 

“Thank you,” her husband whispers back. “For all of it.”

She exhales, a little half-laugh, half-huff of happiness. “I can’t wait to tell the club. V is like to have a heart attack.”

Dan chuckles, but his face falls a little, growing thoughtful. “I don’t want to say anything just yet. I’d rather wait until there is an actual book to show.”

“As you like, I suppose,” she agrees with a sigh, before pulling him back into another hug. “I’m so proud of you.”

“Surely you must know, it was all for you,” he replies with a kiss to her temple. “You and your bullying.”

She giggles as she pulls away, keeping her arms around his neck, “Then I suppose you had better give me credit.”

“Oh, I intend to,” he says with a crooked grin, before leaning down to kiss her deeply, walking her backwards towards their bed. 

“Wait - Dan, don’t you -” she starts, speaking in between kisses, “Aren’t you exhausted?” Another kiss. “Have you even eaten?”

He shakes his head, his eyes blazing and serious, “I just want you.”

She barely has time to enjoy the shiver of pleasure down her spine before her husband lifts her and playfully tosses her onto their bed. She laughs, but quiets under the intent in his stare as he follows her down. It sends a rush of heat straight between her legs, and Blair pulls him down into a kiss, opening her mouth to his, unable to hold his gaze without doing something about it. 

“Dan,” she struggles to say as he breaks away to leave kisses down her jaw, “you are -” she breaks off with a gasp as his mouth latches on to a spot in the crook of her neck, “entirely overdressed.”

He laughs softly and moves away, but only long enough to rid himself of his clothes. When Dan returns to her arms, Blair hums in satisfaction at feeling nothing but his warm skin under her hands. 

Dan’s own hands slip under her dressing gown, and he moans at the realization that there’s nothing underneath. He scrambles to undo the ties, then pulls the fabric aside, baring her to him. 

“God you’re perfect,” he breathes, his eyes moving over her in awe. Blair feels that now-familiar, heavy tenderness under his gaze, only now their time apart has colored it with impatience (more so than usual). Two weeks was too long, in her opinion, and she desired all of him at once: his mouth, his hands, his cock, and couldn’t bear to tolerate any more waiting. 

Thankfully her Dan doesn’t keep her waiting long. He takes her mouth in a kiss, then moves straight to her chest, kissing her sternum before directing his attentions to her breasts. 

At the first touch of his mouth to her nipple, Blair cries out and pushes him back reflexively, the feeling too sharp, painful rather than pleasurable.

Dan breaks off immediately, looking at her with worry. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” she assures him, shaking her head half in answer, half in confusion. “No, I just…” she cups his face in her hand and runs her thumb over his bottom lip, “I want your lips elsewhere.”

Concern remains in his eyes, but he still smirks up at her. “Is that so?” he asks, nipping at her hand before slipping down and settling between her thighs. Blair had meant for him to come back up and kiss her, but she supposes she’ll allow this development. 

Dan gives one long, slow kiss to her core, then pulls away, running the pads of his fingers over her folds. “Is this what you wanted, sweetheart?” he asks lowly, before leaning back in to part her with his tongue.

“Yes,” she moans, her fingers twisting into his hair, “Dan, yes.” 

She tells him so several more times.

Later, they lie together, both satiated, with sweat-slicked skin and sleepy eyes, Dan’s head pillowed on her stomach. 

“You know,” Blair muses, carding her fingers through his curls, “with a homecoming like that, maybe you should go away more often.”

Dan chuckles, “Oh, bite your tongue, Waldorf.”

********************

#dairaw21 #dair #blair waldorf #dan humphrey #self indulgent au is self indulgent #i have new content for this week i promise adulting is just hard #gossip girl fic #gg fic #liz is a writer i guess #jessica’s second ever mood board #period drama vibes #it wasn’t intentional but this photo selection does say #long haired dan rights #and i love that for me tbh #this fic is E for a reason so #minors dni #jessica makes moodboards 2k21 #* #liz's ficz

[jackidy]

To Star Lake: Chapter 3

Rating: T Pairings: Todoroki Shouto/Sero Hanta Characters: Various Universe: Howls Moving Castle Au

Summary: A day of impossibilities starts with a mystery man, with mismatched eyes and cold hands, rescuing him in a dark alleyway as he attempted to go about his business and the pet name sweetheart being said a little too tenderly. It ends with another stranger cursing him in his own store after telling them to leave.

Things like this don’t happen to people like Sero Hanta.

AO3 Previous Chapter Next Chapter

----

“Stop fucking hovering, Deku.”

“He spent most of the night on that stool, Kacchan! What if he’s too sore to move?”

There’s the sound of something being set down, the crackling of firewood sounding endearingly angry as Sero is reluctantly pulled from sleep. Who or, rather, what was a Deku? His track record of meeting new people recently having been reduced to sentient inanimate objects, mentally running through a list of possibilities only to open his eyes and find not an object but a very, very human face.

Sero isn’t sure why he’s so disappointed by that fact.

It’s no surprise he’s as sore as he was the previous morning, if not more so, knowing he should be more concerned about the deafening crack his back makes as he sits up than he is, the concentrated pain in his spine seeming to bleed out into a more bearable ache that bloomed over his shoulder blades and rib cage. The kid, Deku if Bakugou was to be believed, was there in an instant hovering with his arms open, having absolutely no idea where to place them.

“I’m good.” Sero croaks, dismissing the kid with a wave of his hand, legs mid swing off the bed when someone knocks on the door, watching with humoured curiosity as the green haired boy runs down the stairs, back up them again, draping a cloak over his shoulders and changing his appearance with a pull up of his hood as Bakugou barks out what door it was.

How can it lead to Port Haven when Sero had come in through the wastes?

“Is the great wizard Frostfire present?”

His confusion of the name speaks volumes of how little information on magic had made it to the countryside, Sero pushing himself off of the bed with another grunt, smiling to himself when he notices his walking stick leaning against the arm rest of the sofa he’d previously been sleeping on. How had he gotten onto the sofa anyway? Surely that teenager at best hadn’t carried him over?

“He’s out at the moment, sir, but I’ll be sure to pass on any message.”

The glare of the morning sun makes him wince, rubbing his eyes with the palm of his free hand, blinking rapidly in the aftermath. He’d never seen the ocean before, never really left the small town he’d grown up in, living vicariously through Mina when she would talk so enthusiastically about everywhere she had visited to gather inspiration for the hat shop. He wonders, fondly, how mad they were going to be when he eventually came home and he revealed he’d finally left town, not because of them but because he had a run in with two wizards.

“It has been requested by his Majesty that all witches and wizards are to report to the capitol city at once for service in the war to come.”

How much of this would they believe though? The only reason he was due to the fact he was living it for how often did stories of curses, magic fires and scarecrows, and moving castles turn out to be true?  Not often enough to be true. How many stories of Shouto’s supposed victims had been proven false now? Too many for the concept of him as a heart eater to really have any credibility but not enough to dismiss them entirely.

“Oh, he’s not going to be happy about this.” The kid mutters walking up the steps, carry a scroll he deposits on the table, the form of an old man melting back into him as he pulled the hood down and cloak off. He jumps upon noticing Sero staring at him, Bakugou laughing at the teens expense in a way that was more cackle than anything else. “I forgot to ask! What’s your name? I’m Midoriya Izuku, also how did you get in here? Are you a wizard too? Are you one of Master Shouto’s friends?”

“I’m Sero Ha-”

“KINGSBURY DOOR!” Bakugou yells, cutting off Sero and pushing Midoriya back into a slight panic, yellow cape back on and the old man he had been moments before came back into view. Weren’t they in Port Haven? How were they getting knocks in Kingsbury? Sero leaning over the railing as teenager took a breath and turned the small dial above the handle, the sound of seagulls and the near by port being drowned by the clamour of a busy city, the rumble of cars and the sound of people going about their day.

“Hello, is this the residence of the wizard Iceflame?”

First Frostfire and now Iceflame, how many aliases did Shouto have anyway and why would he even need them? Perhaps he should stop going down that train of thought now, nip it in the bud before it gets out of hand, he has his own issues to deal with without getting caught up in the dramatics of wizards anymore than he already has done. Conversation with the men at the door over, Midoriya closes the door, resting his head against it before changing the small dial again, the vibrance of the city melting away into the dull pallor of the wastes and the gentle sound of rain fall.

“Sero, I walked in, no and no.” He offers in hopes of melting away at least some of the stress off of the other’s face, only for it to be replaced with confusion, the teenager still wearing that face as he walked up the stairs and deposited yet another scroll next to the one he’d been handed not even five minutes ago. Even Bakugou looks on the sceptical side of confusion, making it perfectly clear he didn’t believe a word Sero had just said.

“That doesn’t make sense, most people can’t just walk in here, especially those who aren’t friends with Shouto.” Midoriya stated firmly, a determined look on his face, Sero half concerned he was going to challenge him to a fight despite any assertion Sero may give that he was right and that he did not know who Shouto was, just the rumours that followed him everywhere.

“I’ve never met the guy.” Sero states flatly, earning another strange reaction from Midoriya, this time one of confused surprise, and an oddly smug look from Bakugou. Was he missing something here that he should know, the old man sighing before moving to inspect the cluttered counters around them, frowning at the sight of potions mixed with food, parchments filled with recipes draped over crockery that were perhaps beyond the point of saving.

How anyone lived like this was beyond him, knowing full well he wasn’t the tidiest but he’d never let his messes get to this point, wondering vaguely which side of the line between too busy to clean and too lazy to try the occupants of this house fell under. It’s why its so surprising when Sero finally manages to find food, still fresh and edible, hidden partially beneath a cloche, eyeing the bacon and eggs hungrily before looking up and checking for other ingredients.

Carbs. He was missing carbs, bread being the best suited for what he had in mind but he would take any at this point in order add some bulk to the meal. Vegetables he’d given up on looking for, the only splash of greenery coming from the patches of mould attached to what was once food residue. How was Midoriya an image of health in conditions like this, he was feeling ill just thinking about what layer in the deeper layers of mess.

“What are you doing?”

“Making breakfast.” He replies like it’s obvious, gently extracting the basket of meat and eggs from the side, wincing at the clatter of plates as they fell into the gap left behind, hooking it into his elbow and grinning as he finally spotted a loaf of bread on the table, still fresh and, with any luck, not entirely stale. “Do we have anything to make tea with?”

“Yes, we have a teapot but Kacchan doesn’t listen to anyone bar Shouto and even then, its reluctantly!” the panic in his voice is palpable, Sero only acknowledging his statement with a click of his tongue, setting the food down on a stool by the fire demon, turning his attention instead to the collection of pans hung against the wall. The second from the left is his best option, Sero thinks, big enough for two portions, maybe even three at a push, eyeing the irritated fire and wondering if it even ate.

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll listen.” Sero grins, perking up the way he always did when he was about to get Kaminari in trouble with Mina or vice versa, turning he cast iron frying pan in his hand. It’s a comfortable weight, pleasantly surprised that even with the aches and pains ridiculing his body he was able to hold it this easily, moving back over to the hearth, smile widening with every step as Bakugou started to look more and more like a pissed off cat. “Won’t you Bakugou?”

“Fuck off.” The crackle of fire wood and the floating specs of flame is more comforting than intimidating, Sero feeling more like he was in the presence of a friend than personified fire. “I aint doing shit for you.”

“I guess I’m telling Shouto of our deal then.” Sero smirks, voice dropping to a low whisper so Midoriya could not hear them, taking small joy from the way the fire seemed to still, looking away from the fire to the pan as he turned it in his hands again. He had become more daring with age, it seemed, knowing full well he’d have at least given it a second thought before speaking so brazenly with Bakugou. “Do I look like a man with much left to get fucked up by a wizard?”

The sound of steam, a billow of smoke, fire tempering down to a blue concentrated flame as Sero brings the pan down, flames kissing blackened iron and his hand hovering over metal to check how the pan was heating up. “Then have this curse from me, may all your food burn, bastard.” It doesn’t sting, no anger behind the words masquerading as a curse, Sero noting that the other seemed almost impressed again, electing to not comment on it.

There’s an awed whisper somewhere behind him of ‘Kacchan is doing what he says’, Sero shaking his hand as he moved it from the frying pan, finally hot enough, to the slices of bacon thick enough to be belly pork. Two or three? Two or three? He settles on three, unsure of if it was an apology slice to Bakugou or an extra one for Midoriya, a level of concern in him over the way the teenager stood shorter than him despite Sero having shrunk with age. Maybe this is why his friends referred to him as their dad jokingly.

Sero barely notices the creak of an opening door, the tap of footsteps on stairs, Sero too focused on the sizzling fat and inward lamentation at the lack of seasoning to give the new distraction his attention. “Master Shouto! You’re back early, you received summons from the palace as both aliases, what do we...” The teenager trails off before brightening again, Sero freezing as something cold radiates beside him.

Before a burning fire demon and yet it felt like all the warm had been sucked away, a shiver running down his spine as he looked up at the source of the drop in temperature and he feels himself freeze further.

Apparently, he had met Shouto after all.

It was the man from the alley way, the man who swept him off his feet and into the air, had let him float onto a balcony, kissed his knuckles and called him his. He’d not only met Shouto, he’d also been haunted by the man for the past thirty six hours, the curiosity over what it had all meant dying on his tongue as he remembered his bitterness from yesterday. It was Shouto’s fault he was in this predicament, Sero having only made the mistake of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“Obedience isn’t like you.” A quiet quip, a light laugh in his voice as the sound of a gas stove seems to increasing in volume, Sero throwing himself further into cooking so he didn’t become lost in that voice all over again. Flip the bacon? Check. Add the eggs? Check. Empty shells lay on the edge of the hearth, the sizzle of opaquing whites an all too welcome distraction as the wizard spoke again, this time addressing Sero. “And you are?”

“Oh! That’s Sero.” Midoriya chirps in, Sero thankful for the teenager’s interruption, still not entirely sure of what he wanted to say to the wizard. ‘Thank you for saving me, by the way, I appreciate that the price of not being mugged was being a pensioner’ was too angry, too antagonistic for this time in the morning, smiling at the memory of his grandmother telling him that aggression should not be spoken before breakfast, least they sour the food.

“Here let me-”

“No.” His voice is firm, the silence in the kitchen stifling, as Sero looks up at the wizard, look as set as his tone, tightening his grip on the panhandle, challenging the other to try and take it from him. “I don’t trust people who let their kitchen be this messy to cook for me.” Maybe his new found age had made him too bold, watching shock overtake Shouto’s face before he’s laughing behind his hand again.

“Okay, that’s fair.” He leaves Sero’s side then, scooping up the eggshells and moving them closer to Bakugou, turning on his heel to busy himself with something behind the old man. A clatter of ceramic, the whistle of a boiling kettle and the awed curiosity from Midoriya that spilled from his lips like a waterfall, Shouto answering every single one with patience.

Maybe the rumours were incorrect after all, Sero surmises, turning to the table, pan in hand, to find a corner haphazardly cleared, for how many Casanovas spent their time answering a multitude of questions on the properties of rosehip tea from a teenager that was made of curiosity and wonder. He’s barely taken three steps when Shouto is by his side again, strangely reminiscent of the alleyway only this time the cold hand is on his shoulder, not his waist, the warm hand brushing over his own holding the pan before gripping it just above the towel.

Why wasn’t that burning his hand? “Here, let me.”  It’s difficult to not listen to what that voice, kitchen towel falling to the floor with a dull thump, hand slipping from his shoulder to the middle of his back to give an encouraging push forward. Midoriya is in the middle of pouring tea when he takes his seat, eyebrows raising in mild disbelief at the small bowl he is given in place of a cup, noting that the makeshift cups for both Shouto and Deku seem to be in a similar state of not being remotely cup or mug shaped.

Plate of food slide towards him, Sero nearly drops his head into his hands as Midoriya offers him a selection of two spoons and a fork, commenting a little awkwardly that he could only have one as ‘the rest are dirty’, Sero taking the fork, making sure to wipe it on his shirt before trusting it enough near his food. He’d been through the wastes and slept in this shirt yet he still trusted it more than this kitchen area.

“So, is there a reason why you’re in my kitchen, Sero?” His voice isn’t accusatory, just a gentle curiosity that takes Sero by surprise and renders him off guard. Shouldn’t he be more annoyed by this? Was a random man that much of a common occurrence in his home that he found no need to question it or was it something else? He daren’t entertain the idea that Shouto not only knew he was cursed but could see him as he actually was.

“I’m your new house keeper, Bakugou hired me.” There’s a choked noise from the hearth, Sero once again questioning where this boldness came from, focusing on looking at the cooling eggs as opposed to giving Shouto any form of visual acknowledgement. He’s going to end up in more trouble, the wave of confidence that came in the form of believing things couldn’t get worse seeming to have dried out already.

Things could get worse. There was still so much he could lose.

“It would be nice to have a more organised kitchen.” It’s Midoriya that speaks now, contemplative, Sero biting back a laugh at the offended noise from Shouto, feeling more at ease. He’s not sure what it is, something about the green haired boy is putting him at ease, the tension that was slowly building in his shoulders slipping away just as easily as it came. “Would probably stop customers commenting on everything.”

The younger pair slip into easy conversation, mostly one sided as Midoriya talked of practicalities within their art of magic, Shouto only offering the odd word here and there in either agreement of dismissal, Sero tuning out the conversation easily enough. Where would he even begin with a place like this? Eyes flicking from the pile of books and parchment before him, to the dire state of the sideboards, looking past Shouto to look at the hearth, grimacing. He hasn’t known Bakugou long but he already knows cleaning the mountains of ash and charcoal from the hearth was going to be an endeavour in and of itself. Maybe he should save that for last.

“Sero?” He jumps at his name, looking back to the magical pair and finding them both looking at him, Sero blinking owlishly under the mix of concerned and humoured looks. Why did Shouto look like that? What had he missed? “I asked you what was in your pocket.”

His pocket?

Wrinkled hands pat trouser pockets, bemusement clear as day when something crinkles under his touch, slipping his hand into his pocket to find a note. How long had that been there? These had been fresh out of the drawer when he’d put them on, his only handling of paper when he left the note for Mina and Uraraka, eyeing the purple note warily before placing it in Shouto’s extended, expectant hand.

Paper touches skin. Paper explodes into blue flame and ash, hands recoiling at the flash of heat as intricate details scorch themselves into the table, Sero quickly checking his hand for any burns before looking to Shouto, no longer weird in his welcome but aggravated, a tension building in his shoulders, something about the expression seeming weirdly familiar but Sero couldn’t place why.

The silence stretches as a pale hand presses against the table, the smell of acrid, burnt flesh filling the air as blue fire sparked to life around Shouto’s hand. Sighing deeply, Shout stands, the mark on the table gone and the hand that had been on the table now cradled to his chest, the remainder of his tea downed, his half eaten plate of food dumped into Bakugou’s flames.

“Move the castle seventy miles north, I’ll be needing hot water too.”

It’s Midoriya who first breaks the silence at the table, Bakugou cursing up a storm towards Shouto in the background as he turned to Sero, a set look on his face that the teenager was failing to not show as threatening. “Are you working for Dabi?” His voice is low, Sero growing more confusion at the sudden tension. He hadn’t known who Shouto was until about ten minutes ago, how was he supposed to know who this Dabi was?

“Kid I have no idea who Da-”

“Pass that on to little Shouto, would you.”

Something snaps in him then. A white boiling rage that was so out of character for him that it threatened to suffocate him. Dabi. Dabi was the man following Shouto. Dabi was the bastard who had done this to him. Slamming his hand on the table, he barely feels the pain from the impact, Midoriya jumping back from him and even Bakugou stops his tirade against Shouto.

“I do not work for Dabi.” He spat his name out like it was poison. “He’s the reason I-”

His lips seal, a pain developing in his vocal cords as he tried to speak of the curse, tried to tell the increasingly panicked looking teenager about how he wasn’t in his seventies but twenty four, how he’d been cursed for just being seen with his master. Sero’s attempts to speak of his predicament end with an angry sob, coughs wracking his sore throat, a warm hand rubbing his back as another cup of tea was slid towards him, the comfort Midoriya offered welcome but doing little to ease his mood.

“I don’t work for Dabi.” He repeated softly, the floral tea providing another performative sense of comfort, warming his old bones and easing the physical aches and pains that plagued him.

“I know, I’m sorry I asked.”

#todosero #seroroki #sero hanta #todoroki shouto #midoriya izuku #bakugou katsuki #bnha #bnha howls moving castle au #to star lake

[iamaweretoad]

For Eska! #1 for each Past, Present, and Future!

1 (past). Briefly describe the way their parents grew up, and how it affected the way they raised them.

Bahar was raised by her mother and grandmother, both formidable women in their own distinct ways, hardworking and fiercely warm. She grew up in one if Kile’s port cities, more at home on boats and in the water than she was on land, and as a child she got work ferrying travellers around the city’s floating market. Her childhood was steeped in sea shanties and worksongs, folk tales and sailors’ yarns. It was not an easy life, but for much of it she was not unhappy. 

She cannot give Eskander the childhood she had. She cannot give him safety or open affection. Tenderness is relegated to furtive, stolen moments or when she is certain her husband is away hunting. What she can give to him are stories, and songs, and secret whispered words in another tongue, the first drops of a drink scattered upon the earth. Pieces of herself, of her home, a birthright woven of words spoken around hearth fires and the hope that they might impart to him the sense of belonging denied him by his father. 

She teaches him, and Shadi too, about the stars, and about the sea, bits and pieces of lessons dressed up as games and stories, preparing them for the day when she will take them and leave this place for good. 

1 (present). How do they fit into their story? Give a brief summary of the effect they have on the events around them.

I think one of facets of his story is that he doesn’t fit. The Veiled Woman’s miscalculation broke him as an emissary just as Sirius’ death broke him as a person.The Order tries to make him fit, tries to file down his square edges to fit into their perfect, round hole. But he never truly becomes ‘The Prophet’ in anything but name, both because he is unwilling and because he *can’t*, because he’s missing some of the fundamental pieces/abilities of that role. He exists in the broader story as a misprint on an otherwise tidy ledger page, scraped off but still visible as a blemish. 

1 (future). Briefly describe their life in the future, regardless of how far into the future this is.

Still figuring out the details of the immediate aftermath of Enderal, but I do know that I’m going with the Train Problem headcanon that the blast from the beacon couldn’t have been as large as the Black Guardian predicted and “only” destroyed a large portion of the Heartland and the Farmer’s Coast (and Ark, obv). Jespar and Calia escape on the myrad and Tharaêl, who had left the city several days earlier on a personal mission, is safely in the Frostcliffs (Letho’s still looking out for you, buddy). No idea how Eska survives yet, except ghost!Sirius is involved somehow. 

Tharaêl and Eska eventually leave and head to Qyra (with the help of the black myrad), and spend an amount of years travelling and taking jobs for food/shelter in both Qyra and Arazeal. Burnout happens eventually and they settle in Qyra, with (very unexpected) help from the contacts/friends they’ve made. The shelter was never a plan, it just sort of happens, one person at a time, and they do their best by it. Eventually it turns into a successful commune of sorts -- which has far more to do with the other people involved than it does with Eska or Tharaêl who have never had a physical home before. I think the other adults view them as older, slightly feral children (possibly raised by wolves) who need a lot of patience and help.

The black myrad is still around! (when it’s not soaring around the deserts being majestic af) And Eska sometimes takes it on long distance courier/escort runs to the other countries to earn money (and to keep himself from getting restless). 

I have so many thoughts and they’re all a mess and half of them are just vibes or images. But one of these days I will iron this out into a proper AU. 

#thank you!! :D

[justthehiddleswrites]

Silken Sails Masterlist  | OFC x Multiple Marvel Characters | Pirate AU | Chapter 1 | A Life More Ordinary

Summary:  Charlotte Liddell dreams of a life of adventure on the high seas.  She sets sail for the Caribbean which ends up entangling her with the hunt for the lost Spanish ship Viuda Negra and untold Spanish treasures.  Along the way, she crosses paths with British Navy Officer Steve Rogers and famed French pirate Loki Laufeyson.  Will she keep her wits about her?

Warnings: violence, death of characters, sexual harassment, smut (sex), mentions of pregnancy, pirate typical violence

-

“Child, come away from the window!” Charlotte's mother’s voice rang off the walls of the small kitchen.

Rebecca Liddell was a woman made of hard work and no time for frivolity. There was a tavern and inn to run. She needed her sixteen-year-old daughter manning the fire, not staring at the window breathing in the sea air and daydreaming.

Charlotte stepped away from the window and back to the reality of her life. Her father owned the Captain’s Quarter, which meant he was often away, leaving his wife Rebecca in charge.

“Sorry, Mother.” she turned her attention to the large pot over the fire.

Her younger brother, William, stoked the flames of the hearth’s fire as she stirred the stew which would serve as the inn’s fare for the evening.

“Honestly, child…” she tutted as she set about with the business of getting ready for the dinner rush. “… I don’t understand where your head is sometimes.”

“Why can’t I go with Papa? To buy from the merchants? I’m good with numbers.” she whined.

“Charlotte Liddell!” her mother slammed the bowl against the table. “That is no way for a proper lady to speak. If anyone were to accompany your father, it would be William.”

William groaned, and Charlotte hung her head. Every week she questioned why she had to stay behind. And every week her Mother muttered about how Charlotte was such an impertinent child. Her mother worried Charlotte would never find a suitable husband, what with all the blathering on about adventures of the high sea.

Charlotte shuffled out to the public dining area to find it already bustling. For the rest of the evening, she had no moment’s rest. It was well into the evening when her mother and William fell asleep. She grabbed her cloak and slipped out the window, leaving it open for her return.

She walked with purpose to the docks at the edge of the town. Her soft shoes padded against the well-worn roads until she could hear the lapping of water against wood in the distance.

Her pace quickened until the cool sea air hit her cheeks. She inhaled the salt, and her heart raced. This is where I belong, she reflected as she closed her eyes and sat down on the wooden planks of the docks.

Charlotte rocked back and forth to rhythmic thuds of the ships moored. It soothed her better than any lullaby.

“Who goes there?” a deep voice echoed through the night air as Charlotte noticed heavy boots approaching her at a heavy clip.

She rose and smoothed out her skirt as she hustled to meet the man. It was Mr. Allen, the man in charge of the docks.

“You again,” he sneered. “How many times have you been told not to loiter about here?”

“I… I…” Charlotte searched for a plausible lie when a strong hand fell upon her shoulder.

“She came to deliver me a message.” the male voice answered. Charlotte turned to see her rescuer.

The man wore his dark blonde hair short and his clothes were simple but well made.

“And you would be?” Mr. Allen narrowed his eyes at the two of them.

“Clint Barton. From the Hawk.” Mr. Barton squared his shoulders to Mr. Allen.

The dockmaster took a step back. “My apologies, Mr. Barton.”

“It’s all right, Mr…” Mr. Barton raised an eyebrow.

“… Allen.” He puffed his chest. “I’ve been the dockmaster round these parts for 15 years. And I have been catching this one…” Mr. Allen jabbed a figure at Charlotte, who ducked behind Clint. “… sneaking around for almost as long.”

Clint chuckled. “You are a true watchman, Mr. Allen. Now if you don’t mind, I shall escort the girl home before she is missed.”

Mr. Allen nodded as he stepped aside to allow them passage into town. He glared as Charlotte walked by, her eyes never leaving the ground.

They made their way through town until they came to the darkened front of the inn and tavern.

“Thank you, sir. I owe you a debt for your kindness.” She didn’t dare look up.

“Nonsense, dear. Just save me an extra helping of the delicious stew tomorrow and consider the debt repaid.”

She nodded her head and snuck around the back to the window. Her nerves so frayed, she forgot to close it upon her return.

-

Rebecca woke up to a chill in the air and a sore throat.

“Who left this window open?!” she exclaimed as she latched it tight.

Charlotte wandered in to find her mother scowling. “I must have forgotten last night.”

She swatted at Charlotte. “You careless child! Are you trying to have all of us catch the death?!”

Charlotte covered her head from the blows of the rag in her mother’s hand. “I’m sorry, Mother!”

William came in coughing. Her mother glared, and she hurried out of sight to get ready for the day’s work.

As the day wore on, Rebecca and William grew more and more sick. William’s cough deepened, and soon his mother sent him to bed. Which meant the preparations took twice as long.

“Charlotte, child,” her mother beckoned her from the stove. A thin layer of sweat covered her mother’s pallor complexion. “I am not going to make it through tonight.”

Charlotte paled. She realized what that meant. And it was her fault.

“Yes, Mama. I can handle it tonight.”

Rebecca pressed a hot kiss to her daughter’s forehead. “Thank you dear.”

Charlotte nodded and smoothed out her skirts as she walked to begin the long night.

-

The night moved as a blur of serving, cleaning, and collecting payment. Charlotte didn’t get to rest until right before closing. The door opened, and a young man walked in.

“What can I get for you?” she asked.

She considered that the frail boy could use a fattening up. But it wasn’t her place to comment.

“A good meal, if you please.” he asked with a smile.

“Yes, mister.” Charlotte shuffled to the kitchen and heaved a large serving of the night’s stew, scrounging up some dark bread for him. She placed the food in front of him.

He tucked in, moaning at the taste. “Thanks, miss. This might be the last good meal I have for a while.”

Charlotte tilted her head in confusion.

“Midshipman Steven Rogers, reporting for duty tomorrow with the Royal Navy.”

Charlotte smiled. “I wish you well. Hopefully the meal will remind you what your service protects.”

Steve smiled, and Charlotte left him to eat. She cleaned up for the evening as the patrons filtered out. Steve waved as he left with a full belly, and Charlotte returned the wave. She gathered the dirty dishes for washing, forgetting to latch the door.

She heard the door open and turned. “Sorry, we are—”

“But you promised to save me some stew this evening.”

Charlotte smiled at the voice of Clint. “Of course, Mr. Barton.” She wiped her hands and entered the kitchen. She spooned the last of the stew and cut a thick slab of bread.

“Thank you.” Clint smiled. “Could you pour me an ale?”

Charlotte nodded and shuffled off to pour one. “Here you go, Mr. Barton.”

“Please call me Clint, Ms…”

“Charlotte Liddell.” she cast her eyes downward.

“Charlotte.” His lips curved into a smile. “The mistress of the docks.” Charlotte blushed. “Why was a young lady like yourself wandering the docks at night?”

“I enjoy listening to the sound of the oceans. The ships knocking against the docks.”

“You dream of adventure.” Clint commented into his ale. “Or would prefer the life of marriage and having children?”

Charlotte wrinkled her nose. “It would be improper to discuss.”

Clint took a large swig of ale, finishing it. “Pardon me for overstepping. It is unusual to find a young lady looking for more than a husband. You remind me of my wife.”

“Is she back at your home?”

Clint’s face fell, and she realized her mistake.

“There was a hurricane this past year in Port Royal. Took out half my crop. My wife and son didn’t make it.” He sniffled.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” She turned to walk away, but Clint gestured for her to stop and sit.

“You wouldn’t. I don’t speak of them much. I had hoped to find a new wife on my travels here, but we sail in tomorrow evening and I believe my luck has run short.”

Charlotte swallowed hard. This may be her ticket out, she thought. “I wish you well on your journey.”

Clint rose and wiped his hands on his pants. “To you as well. If you think about it, the Hawk sails at dusk tomorrow. Perhaps I will see you again before we sail.” He gave a small wink as the door clicked behind him.

Charlotte latched the door and leaned against it, her head thudding on the wood. She finished the evening chores distracted. She wasn’t certain what Clint was proposing. A marriage? Adventure? The prospect of something else was enticing. Charlotte drifted off to sleep that night dreaming of the Caribbean.

-

“Where is your head, girl!” Rebecca yelled as Charlotte bobbled a large bowl, it shattering on the floor.

“Sorry, Mama.” Charlotte apologized as she gathered the large pieces of the now broken bowl.

“I don’t know how you expect to find a husband being so clumsy.” Rebecca tsked.

“What if I don’t wish to marry?” Charlotte commented in a quiet voice.

Her mother slammed the spoon down on the table. “Not marry!? Have you gone mad, Charlotte Liddell? How do you expect to make your way in this world without a husband?”

“Well, I thought—”

“Exactly the problem. Thinking too much. Listening to the stories of the sailors coming into the tavern.”

“But Mama—”

“Not buts, child. That was my best bowl. Go to see Mrs. Miller has one we can use. Perhaps the walk will clear your head.”

Rebecca shuttled Charlotte out the door. Ms. Miller lived across the town, and she soon passed the docks. Charlotte wandered down to where the Hawk was moored.

“Can I help you, miss?” a gruff voice called from the deck.

“I wanted to inquire as to how much passage would cost to Port Royal?”

“And who might be asking?”

“I’m asking for myself.” Charlotte stood a little straighter.

“I’m not having any single woman traveling on my boat.” the man exclaimed. “It is bad luck.”

“I would ask you to take care how you speak to my bride.” a familiar voice rang out.

Charlotte smiled as she saw Clint coming up the dock.

“Apologies Mr. Barton. I didn’t know.” the man on deck groveled.

Clint’s arm slid around Charlotte’s waist protectively.

“Thank you, sir. Now can you answer the ladies’ question?”

The man muttered a number. Charlotte turned to leave. “I owe you once again, Mr.—Clint.”

“I am at your service, Charlotte. I hoped I would see you again.”

“Now if you excuse me. I have matters to attend to.” She hurried away before Clint could ask another question.

She hurried to Ms. Miller’s and got the bowl. Charlotte ran home, careful to not break this bowl. Her mother snatched it from her hands.

“Why did you take so long?”

“I wasn’t feeling well.” she lied.

Rebecca placed the back of her hand on Charlotte’s forehead.

“You are a touch warm. Finish up the cooking and cleaning and then have a lie down.”

Charlotte nodded and set to work. She moved slowly, not wanting to finish until the evening rush started. Charlotte headed to her bed before long. Instead curling up on the bed, she grabbed a small bag and packed up a few changes of clothes along with a small pouch filled with coins to pay for her passage. The sun threatened to set at any moment and she had no time to waste.

As she pushed the window open, she heard a noise behind her.

“Mama wants to know—” William asked, stopping as he saw her bag. “Where are you going?”

“Away.” She pulled him into a quick hug. “I must hurry. Tell Mama I am still not well.”

“But—” She hugged him again.

“I will miss you, brother.” She pushed her bag out the window and soon followed, walking away from the only life she knew.

Charlotte walked at a casual pace at first, not wanting to arouse suspicion from the passing people on the streets. But as the docks came into view, she took off at a run, fearful she was too late.

The Hawk came into view, silhouetted by the setting sun. The men on deck readied the ship for departure. She clambered up the ramp, and her feet hit the deck with a soft thump.

“I thought you had decided for a life more ordinary.” Clint commented as he took her bag. “I’m glad you didn’t.” He smiled.

Charlotte’s stomach flipped. Her mind raced. Jump off the ship? Or stay and change her life forever? The decision was made for her as the ship unmoored and drifted away from the dock. She remained glued to the railing until Bristol was just a dot on the horizon.

“Welcome to my ship, the Hawk.” Clint commented as he came behind her.

Charlotte’s mouth dropped open. “I thought it was the captain’s ship?”

Clint chuckled. “The captain runs to ship when it is at sea but I own the ship, just as I own my plantation and everything else.” His hand gripped her shoulder possessively.

“I was not aware.”

“Let’s discuss that and a great many other things.” Clint led her away from the railing and the view of everything she knew and towards her future, whatever that may be.

#loki #steve rogers #clint barton #loki fanfiction #loki fanfic #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers fanfic #clint barton fanfic #clint barton fanfiction #loki x ofc #steve rogers x ofc #clint barton x ofc #pirate AU

[rayearthdudette]

Buddy I really love the latest updates with the blueshiftermage!au of yours!!!! Ko can imagine Regis occasionally asks for both of them to give him some manicures a la Cardi B styles just to spite the council for shits and giggles. And can I ask if Titus's mothers are still alive? Cause they would be stoked if they found out about being grandmothers. Also, what are the funniest moments they had when they found out of each pregnancies? Sorry, I am rambling too much, take your time to answer them.

Thank you! i am so happy ppl like my ramblings im almost vibrating out of my seat!

Also fun fact; you would have gotten a response two days ago but tumbles decided to chuck all of my writing into the void when I was one (1) second away from posting and I hadn’t backed anything up.

So, uh, I had to take a breather, cry a bit, and get my emotions under control before coming back and attempting this again.

---------

I absolutely LOVE the mental image of Regis coming to his son to get sick ass nails for shiggles. He’d own that so hard.

“Councilmembers, I don’t see the issue. They are still Lucis Caelum blue. Oh, is it because my middle fingers have gold on them?”

Cue sputterings. Regis don’t care. He’s the godsdamned king!

Clarus just sighs.

---------

As for Titus’s mums.. in Not Stupid they are definitely still alive and thriving, though I want to keep that on the back burner and under spoilers for now. (Just gotta WRITE the thing damnit)

In bluemage.. unfortunately not.

It’s heavily implied in canon (or maybe outright stated??) that when Mors pulled back the Wall, Titus’s home was one of the hardest hit. Which may have led to canon!Titus hating the Lucis Caelum line. And well..

Who says that his moms didn’t fight tooth and nail for their home?

Who says that they didn’t task their son with helping evacuate (desperately plea with him to not stand and fight, not our son please, not our baby boy), in an attempt to keep him as far away from the line of fire as possible?

Who says that they didn’t use themselves as bait and a distraction, so their son could slip away into the night?

Who says that they didn’t rain Hellfire and Ruin and FURY on the invading Niflheim army?

They may have anchored at port for years now, but they are still the spitfires that brought their special brand of chaos wherever they sailed in Eos. Astrals help these invaders, who dared.

They didn’t wish to leave their son they way they did, but he’ll live to see another dawn. And that is more precious to them than anything else.

(Titus understands why they did it, he does, but it does nothing to take away the agony of his grief.)

(And if he seeks out the only family he has left, even if-even if his Sire had barely stayed in contact, sending sporadic letters and gifts through the years, he’s still family, right?)

(Erasmus never expected to see the child born of an old agreement standing at his doorstep with guilt and anger and all encompassing grief tearing him down.)

(He didn’t need to ask, to know that the Bonded who approached him so many years ago, were gone.)

(He didn’t hesitate, not once, to offer his home, his hearth, to the son he sired.)

#ffxv #Not Stupid verse #bluemageshifter!au #titus drautos #titus's moms #I really need to sit down #and give them names #and plot out their backstory #lol

[yourarmynoona]

The Warrior & The Warlock || Chapter 2

Description:  [Fantasy!AU] You have lost your home, your family, your tribe, and are wanted by a rival tribe for the murder of their general. On the run and seeking vengeance for the destruction of your people in the form of a Sacred Rune, you make an unlikely ally in the form of a wandering Warlock with his own secrets to hide. Your fates intertwine as you journey across to mysterious lands in search of the rune but when destiny has other plans, your journey becomes much bigger than you could have imagined.

Rating: M

Reader x Namjoon

Themes: Fantasy, Smut (eventual), Adventure, Murder, Mystery

Notes: If you haven’t already figured it out, this Fantasy!AU is a D&D!AU following a campaign I’m actually currently on. Yeah, yeah my nerd is showing but I’m hoping to update regularly as we go through our own journey! 

Notes 2: This chapter goes out to @kpopluvwriter because well, she deserves to have a good week and it’s the best I can do! (And she does amazing reactions fyi)

Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

The last 24 hours had been a hell of a lucid nightmare for you. You were drugged, nearly abducted and sold into slavery, and now you were bruised and imprisoned for the unintentional destruction of a bar after a handsy bar patron thought it was a bright idea to touch you. Your head was aching, your face was bruise, your ankles were growing irritated with the dirty iron shackles you were currently walking in, and you were hungry and hungover. A winning combination you remarked to yourself sarcastically. Namjoon and yourself had been fetched from the cell you shared and walked to a large room with a single dark wooded table before a hearth and several bookshelves lined with an assortment of tomes, scrolls, and books. Your eyes scanned the room and Namjoon seemed to mumble something about the vast number tomes he has yet to see in the room. You were standing before the large table, your hands bound behind your back and the sound of your chains dragging across the floor as you settled into a comfortable stance while the jail guard stood behind the both of you.

“What do you think they want with us?” you whispered, leaning over to Namjoon at your left who was wearing a serious look. He leaned over slightly stating “No idea” before returning to his standing position.

“Ah, dey look positively fit for de job!” a voice behind the both of you announced. Namjoon and you turned your heads to a man in a brightly patterned caftan and covered in golden chain necklaces, rings, and bracelets. You raised an eyebrow. He was tall and somewhat plump, his round cheeks high into a searingly white smile that was a stark contrast to his dark skin and hair. You could tell he was a Turami like many other of the natives of Port Nyanzaru.

“Please, let dem out of deir cuffs. Dat is no way to treat guests!” he commanded the guard behind you, his hands expressively waving in the air as if batting something invisible away. With a clang, the iron cuffs were removed from your wrists and ankles, and you rotated a sore foot bare on the stone flooring of the room while Namjoon shook his hands out and squatted down to rub his own sore ankles. You scoffed and glared in the direction of the guard who was gathering the chains into his arms. If only you had your axe you would have massacred him by now.

“I am Wakonga, de purveyor of dis place and masta merchant for all of de port. I am sure you are aware by now dat you have done much damage to one of my many establishments. Not only did you destroy property, you started a war in dat tavern and it took a dozen of my men to get it under control.”

You were staring at him as he paced back and forth across the floor in front of you, his hands and face expressively detailing the incident to which you had barely any recollection. “De damage was so great, I had to shut down de place for repairs. Do you know how much dat costs me?” he did a quarter turn to Namjoon and yourself, waving his finger aggressively. You were about to speak when Namjoon cleared his throat, telling you to remain silent. Wakonga again spoke, his voice rising “It costs me more dan you would make in a yeah! So as you can see, de events of last night have affected my bottom line and as a man of business, I cannot just let that slide.” Wakonga walked slowly over to you, his footsteps echoing in the room against the adobe and mud dap walls. He looked straight at you, one of his hands to your face, the cold of his gold rings hard under your chin. You stared into his eyes as he evaluated you, your expression unperturbed.

“I have use for you, barbarian. And you, half-elf.” You could see Namjoon cringe out of the corner of your eye as he let your chin go during that statement and walked over to him. Wakonga stood before Namjoon assessing his clothing and his features before Namjoon spoke.

“I deeply apologize for our actions in your tavern,” he bowed deeply as he continued to speak, “It was not our intent to cause chaos or harm to anyone, much less damage your establishment. In what way can we repay you?”

Wakonga scoffed.

“You cannot repay me in coin, but I have use for your talents. You see, I have a friend from fa away that is sick…very sick. She has asked me to lend my services to her aid but my men are ill-equipped for such a venture. Dere is a plague, a death plague, where anyone who is touched by it will meet a true death. After dey are raised, deir body will slowly rot, waste, and dey will die. You cannot resurrect dem anymore. My friend, she is near de end and she wants to put and end to dis cursed wasting plague. With her magic she has sent two heroes from Baldur’s Gate on de Sword Coast. If you accompany dem an tour dem around de city, I will forgive your debt.”

Namjoon and you looked at one another. He must have been thinking the same thing as you; there was a catch.

“Say we did do this and act as their guides, would you really forgive the debt we have caused?” Namjoon spoke, an eyebrow arched in suspicion. Wakonga placed his hands up in mock surrender and stated with a playful smile “Yes, all will be forgiven and you may go on your way.”

You grimaced. Your brow furrowed before you inquired further “And if we do not comply?”

Wakonga frowned and shrugged nonchalantly before stating matter-of-factly “You will stay in here and rot or be sentenced to hard labor.”

Your frown deepened and you let your shoulders slump with a defeated sigh. It looked like you were going to have to comply with what he was saying. So much for getting the rune you needed and getting out of there.

“We’ll do it.” Namjoon spoke up before you had a chance to answer, his posture firm and his expression serious. Wakonga clapped his hands together excitedly, his chains and bracelets rattling. “Wonderful!” he exclaimed, his cheeks bunching up to his eyes, “I will see to it dat your contract is drafted by dis afternoon. Until den, gather your tings and meet back here at high noon. We will discuss de matter further.”

Wakonga walked around you and Namjoon and as he entered the doorway he stopped suddenly and turned around.

“Oh and barbarian, don’t break anymore of my tings.”

 The jail guards had gathered up your materials left in the jail cell as well as handed back your shoes, coin purse, and axe.  You made sure to check that they had not robbed you of coin and you let out a relieved sigh as all of your money was still accounted for. Namjoon sat beside you on a wooden bench in what would appear to be a moderately sized lobby area with two desks, a receptionist, and guardsman walking about on duty.

“So I guess we’re stuck together for a while.” He stated playfully as he slipped on his jacket and secured the buttons on his shirt sleeve beneath.

“I suppose so,” you said wistfully as you glided a hand across the face of your axe, inspecting it for undue damage from the previous night.

You both agreed to go about your business and meet back in an hour, gathering what material possessions would be needed for the day and so that Namjoon could gather some research from the library on exactly what you were facing off against. As you walked through the streets back to the inn to which you were staying, your mind began to wander. Though you had just met him, you knew you could trust him. He had saved you from being sold into slavery or worse and had upheld a warriors honor. In your culture, such an act of selflessness is to be repaid with servitude. As you imagined in what way you could best serve Namjoon to repay the debt for him saving your life not once, but what could be considered twice, you blushed.

You had begun to imagine his handsome face and warm smile which had somehow morphed into you imagining how his plush lips would feel on yours and if he would accept your body as payment for a life saved. This idea shook you to your core, forcing you to suddenly stop in the streets of the Red Bazaar as you quelled your racing heart and heated face. “What the heck am I thinking?! Of course someone like him wouldn’t do that!” you fought an inner monologue after your sudden stop, continuing to walk straight down the avenue filled with merchants and tourists.

It was not unusual that barbarians would offer a life of servitude to a master if they had been saved by someone of higher blood but it was also not unusual that barbarian women tended to offer themselves in payment for a debt to another warrior. You started to imagine how his caring hands would feel on the exposed part of your thigh, how he would look at you as you removed your breastplate and left yourself bare for him to see. Your mind was out of control and you hastened your pace, picking up speed through the bazaar and attempting to avoid people caught in the crosspath. Faster and faster you walked until your walk became a sprint through the crowd, dodging carts and shoppers. You thought you were in the clear until, BAM! You collided with a solid piece of metal, knocking you, and the metal to the ground with a giant timbre.

“PELANA!!” you yelled in your native tongue, your butt sore from hitting the ground and your bruised cheek throbbing from the impact. You glanced upwards to see what you had collided with and it was a young man with doe-like eyes and an elegant silver suit of armor graced with spirals of gold. His helmet was in hand and he seemed amused as to what had just happened. Just as you began to apologize he smiled and laughed heartily before reaching down to help you up.

“Are you okay? You ran into me pretty hard” he said, his eyes scrunching into crescent shapes. He was very handsome indeed with a moderate build that you could see, brown messy locks upon his forehead, a prominent nose, and large eyes that you could see were full of mirth.

“Yes, I apologize! I should have been watching where I was going!” you nodded apologetically.

“Don’t worry about it, you looked like you were in a rush. Besides, I’m pretty well protected!” he exclaimed, knocking a metal fist into his breastplate where it rang out loudly. “Just be safe and get where you need to, okay? See you around.” And with that, he continued on his way with a wave leaving you to contemplate how it was you were in the port for 3 weeks and all of a sudden, you’re just now meeting people.

After gathering your materials and paying your inn fee, you were feeling quite famished and had grabbed two kebabs and some fruit from a food cart near the inn. As you continued to meet back near the jail with Namjoon, you were giving one of your last looks to the city. Your time in this place was coming to an end and after this, you had decided you were going to travel up river into the jungle to Madukka, the Rainy City and see if they had any information on the Lost Runes.

Walking through the bustling streets you saw children playing with a rubber ball and small Thunder Lizards pulling merchant carts filled with goods through the streets and towards the docks. It was something you always found fascinating. The people of Chult relied on Thunder Lizards, reptiles of all sizes, for transportation and hunting. You had only ever seen them in Chult and you remember the first time you entered Port Nyanzaru from the ship, you almost attacked a small stray Thunder Lizard that was eating fish from a nearby fishing ship on the docks. When you had asked locals about it, it apparently was commonplace but you still could not wrap your mind around the fact they had tamed such incredible beasts.

When you had finally arrived and finished up your meal, Namjoon was waiting with a side pouch and what appeared to be a scroll in hand. His quarter staff was strapped to his side opposite his daggers and his frilled jacket laid out on top of his pouch, leaving him in a loose white shirt and patterned vest. He looked almost regal looking about the crowds. You waved out to him and he smiled, walking over to meet you halfway.

“___! Did you get everything you needed?”

“Yeah, I travel pretty light these days. What’s that scroll your holding?”

Namjoon looked to what you were pointing at and nodded for you to follow him to the outside of a nearby cafe that was near the jail. It was a large establishment that had an enclosed patio area filled with lounging cushions, smoking towers, and covered by fabric awnings and fairy lacrima hanging above the iron fence. He ushered you into a corner of the outdoor portion of the café and you both sat down on some large plush pillows before settling in. A waitress came over and offered a special tea, to which you and Namjoon accepted to quench your thirst in the thick midday heat. Taking a large sip of his tea, he released the scroll from his grasp and rolled it out on the floor before you. It was old and tattered and in a language you couldn’t quite understand but had symbols and drawings you recognized instantly.

They were Runes.

“___, I did some quick digging through our archives at the Academy and found something really interesting. This wasting disease….it isn’t the first time something like this has happened. There have been isolated incidents throughout history and most contributed to failed attempts at Necromancy or weak magic. But no, the things Wakonga was saying and the things this scroll said match up. I think the Wasting disease is related to these Runes right here,” Namjoon pointed at the familiar symbols “The scroll is damaged in some parts so I’m not exactly sure, but there is a tomb in the jungle here that may hold Runes that can stop the curse.”

You looked up at him in surprise. Namjoon wasn’t only good looking, he was highly intelligent, and apparently spoke and read multiple languages.

But he was out of his mind.

“You’re thinking of accompanying our visitors and going into the jungle instead of just being tour guides because….?”

“Because the Runes in this temple have great power. They can right wrongs, grant incredible powers, heal people, cure sickness, make them whole again, and….they can bring back the dead.” His last words were somber and sullen.

You gazed at him sorrowfully but with the realization that he too knows loss.

“Can I ask who you’ve lost?” you settled into the cushion, leaning a slight bit closer to him as if seeking to comfort him. His shoulders were down in defeat and his hands loose in his lap. You were sincere in your words, knowing that maybe you could help him here as part of your servitude. Slowly he looked up, his eyes were somewhat glossy.

“My mother and sister. They…there was war. I was away in the capital studying to become a great scholar and wizard. I wanted to make them proud.”

You frowned in concern.

“What about your father?”

“He...he left many years ago. It isn’t safe for Moon Elves to be near humans for too long. Humans can be vile and selfish, not to say elves cannot, but things are different for them. Elves live for many years longer than humans and live cloistered lives in cities hidden by magic. Their laws are different and life is spent in scholarly ventures and bettering society. Since elves live such long lives, most may take many lovers in their lifetime and have many children until they meet someone whom they wish to bond with until death. This is like human marriage but so much more sacred because of how long it lasts. Elves are prefer to choose mates of nobility or of high blood purity close to royalty. They call this Sacred Bone. Hence, it is frowned upon to marry a human and even more frowned upon to breed with humans because they value this blood purity.”

Your brow furrowed and you could feel the sadness in his voice. From what you knew, half-elves resembled their elven cousins but their lifespans were considerably shorter and they were not accepted by humans nor their elven blood because their existence is a taboo. You recall visiting the Western Highlands and seeing many half-elves be shunned by humans in their villages and by their elven brethren, hearing things like “mutt” and “half-breed” yelled openly. Slowly, you reached your hand over to his that was lying on the map in an empathetic gesture.

“When was the last time you saw him?” you asked softly.

He hesitated in response.

“I…I think it would have been about 23 or 24 years ago?”

You looked up quizzically. Namjoon couldn’t have been more than 24 or 25 so how did he remember his father at such a young age? Taking a sip of tea, you were trying to do the math on just how old he was. As if sensing your confusion Namjoon interjected “I was still young but I think it was when I was about 22 or 23.”

You choked on your drink, a small dribble of tea falling from your lips and onto your chin.

“H-how old are you?!” you stuttered out in shock, wiping the tea from your chin, only for Namjoon to look at you in surprise.

“____ I’m 46?”

You were in shock. When you did the math that means Namjoon’s father disappeared from his life when he was about 21 and you were barely a toddler. Trying to put your shock behind you and act like he wasn’t a 46 year-old man that looked like he was 20-something was difficulty for you to comprehend as you stared at his physical appearance. “If I can ask…when did you lose your mother and sister?” you asked carefully.

“Less than a year ago. My sister was only a couple of years younger than me. I miss them every day.”

Namjoon was looking downwards with a sad smile playing on his lips as he looked on at the map. “What do you say we pack up and go see about a contract?” he said with a heavy breath. With that, you both got up and paid your server and adjusted what equipment you were currently carrying. Straightening out your pelt skirt and ensuring your axe was secured, you wondered how he had been so open with you when he had endured so much loss. You wish you could have told him you know how he felt because you too had lost your family, but you yourself had yet to come to terms with it as well. Perhaps one day you could tell Namjoon that he wasn’t alone. For now, you were content offering whatever servitude you could.

As you entered the jail once more, the pair of you were escorted to the back room where you had first met Wakonga. The air was cooler inside but had a dank and musty smell inside, your nose scrunching in displeasure as you took a whiff of what smelled like day-old dirty, wet fabric and moldy wood. A guard ushered you towards the table to which you and Namjoon were formerly shackled before and on it you saw the contract that had been drafted up. Namjoon went over to take a look and was reading the detailed portion at an alarmingly fast rate when Wakonga made his appearance.

“Ah, my friends! So glad you are back. I see you have read de terms of de contract. Do you have any questions?” he walked around the table, his golden chains clanking as he walked. You looked towards Namjoon for some sense of confirmation. Unfortunately, you couldn’t read Common as much as you could speak it making the words of the contract beyond your comprehension. His brow was stern and focused as his eyes rapidly skimmed through the papers before looking towards you.

“It looks okay to me however, we are at the mercy of our patrons. Are you okay with that ____?”

You nodded in agreement.

“Okay Wakonga, we’ll sign it.” Namjoon stated firmly, being handed a quill and signing Kim Namjoon on the line. You thought it was odd in the manner he signed but realized that Shou and Mulan often put their surnames first. After he signed, he handed you the quill pen and gave you a confident nod. You signed your name in Common before setting the quill back in the ink pot. Wakonga clapped his hands happily before stating “Ah wonderful! Now let me introduce you to de heroes sent here by my colleague, Syndra.”

Just then, you heard a pair of rather footsteps walking across the stone floor and into the room. When you turned around you saw first, a very tall young man of about your age, fluffy blonde locks and light grey eyes wearing a rather unusual silk garment that was colored cream and a dark purple. The top hung loosely from his tall frame and was tucked into loose pants that were held up by a leather belt that had various pouches, small loops with viles attached to it, and what looked like a schmitar. He smiled a boxy smile as he turned to wave at the pair of you, a long silver earring swinging too and fro from his left ear and a charm hanging from the staff in his hand jingling lightly. You simply nodded in return before someone walking in behind him caught your eye. It was the guy in the suit of armor you ran head first in to earlier in the market! The stranger stood tall with his helmet in his hand before clearing his throat.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance. I’m Jungkook and this is my partner Taehyung. We’re looking forwards to  seeing the city with you.”

#kwriterskollection #btsprotectnet #bts #bts army #bts fanfic #bts fanfiction #bts smut #bts imagine #bts imagines #bts react #bts reactions #rm x reader #namjoon x reader #bts x reader #yourarmynoonawrites #yourarmynoona #TW&TW #jin #seokjin #taehyung #bts v #jhope #hobi #hoseok #namjoon #suga #yoongi #jungkook #jimin

[punk-in-docs]

You Were Always Mine, Chapter 25

AU Tom Hiddleston - Romantic, Historical Romance, set 1909. Edwardian Fic. Based off the imagine; ‘Thomas spying on you after your divorce and doing anything to get you back. Including threatening your new beau.’ Prompt found on ​this blog. Link to the imagine(s) that inspired it, here, and here….   Chapter number: Chapter 25 Author: punk-in-docs (Here is my Masterlist for more chapters… Don’t laugh at me cause it’ s so, ridiculously tiny) but do take a look if you feel so inclined… Triggers/warnings: Fluff in this one. Tiny bit of smut. But mostly fluff

Arriving home that night after her day of paying calls and other such labours, Vianne noticed, for the first time - in what felt like an awfully long time - that as the cab pulled up to the familiar stretch of grey pavement outside her house, that she actually felt pleased - giddy even - to be coming back here.

Her heart brimming with golden, sunshine coloured joy, on seeing the merry candlelight filling the windows, as opposed to a dark, silent house. She liked beyond words that there would be a fire in the hearth, crackling away. The rich scent of a wonderful dinner permeating the air from the kitchens below. She found herself idly wondering if Thomas would have the gramophone scratch and softly crooning a warbled melody of some husky voiced songstress. Caressing the air of the parlour like audible silk. She’d walk in, and find him sat, facing away from her, so she could admire the strong profile, and that roguishly long inky hair. He’d be sprawled on the settee like a resting panther, a whiskey night cap already in his clutch, as he flicked idly through a book, waiting upon her return.

Her thoughts drifting evermore over visions of her lover, her small family, her children, as she clambered down from the cab with a stupid grin on her face. She was eager to go and kiss her beautiful children goodnight, stroke the silk of their hair. Watch the rosiness of their cheeks as they settled abed to their dreams. She could almost smell the warm, clean scent of their youthful skin as she would press kisses to each of their foreheads. She realised as she mounted the pavement and sprung up the steps to the front door, that she was smiling like she’d lost her senses. Shuffling her nurses bag into her left, she twisted the doorknob with her right. Stepping into the warm ambience of the warmly lit foyer.

She still found that though her meditations had albeit briefly drifted over her children, her two little menaces, and the one yet to come, in the dark of night, she recognised this now as hers and her ex-husbands time together. With their twins put to bed, Jeanie retired for the night, that the night shifted into being theirs.

Sharing intimacies, touches, sipping port or whiskey in the front parlour, lounging into one another, relaxing. She’d pull off her pinching boots, and unbutton her suffocating collar. Thomas would do the same, propriety was shed, and two lovers fondly relaxed in one another’s presence, watching the fire blaze, and talking. Telling the other about their day. Or saying nothing whatsoever, because they simply didn’t need to. Some nights, more often than not, the torment of being apart all day grew to be too unbearable for her lover, and more than once she found herself ushered into the foyer, greeted with a yearning kiss, as her coat was stripped from her, by hot, greedy hands of his, and before she could speak words of greeting, she was sharply tugged into his arms and whisked away upstairs to bed, as if they were newlyweds making love for the first time. Urgent greediness led them into each other’s arms, and lust and pleasure followed very shortly after.

One night last week, she’d practically been thrown over his shoulder and led merrily away so he could entomb them in their bedchamber and reunite his lips between her thighs before she’d even set foot across the threshold.

She remembered it, vividly. Pressed against the cool wall of her bedroom, he was on his knees before her before she could register it, mouthing greedily up her thighs and taking her hips in his hands, his lips attaching themselves skilfully to her sex. He hooked her ample thigh over his shoulder, and she tangles her hand in strands of that soft, onyx mane. Unable to watch the whites of his eyes glimmer up at her in the dark of the bedroom as he watched her throw her head back to moan his name.

He’d suckled small kisses, love bites, to the silk of her sensitive inner thighs, alternating between sucking her beautiful labia into his mouth, parting down the centre of her sex with his strong tongue, flicking and lapping at her clit, and softly nuzzling her thighs, wet from his mouth. She feels him smile as she stutters for breath. He offered a crude whisper between her legs that seeing her in her nurses uniform always did do things to his ardour. She found herself chuckling before he resumed his ministrations, and all laughter died as was replaced with much lust.

Later, much later on in the evening, as she had been so swiftly gravitated straight from the foyer, into bed, she awoke much later to a groaning gurgling stomach, so loud was it, in fact, that it woke her slumbering bed mate too. There was only one thing for it. Thomas surmised with a sidewards smirk. They threw on their dressing gowns, and snuck down to the kitchens like wayward children wary of getting caught being rowdy past their curfew.

They sat in the parlour that night, drinking wine by candlelight, and eating a midnight feast of cold meats bread, fruit, chutney and cheeses. Drunk, not off the wine, but at the giddiness of being absolutely childish and ridiculously greedy with one another. They fed each other bits of their delightful meal off one another fingers. She felt sure to melt at how he teasingly held her hand up to his mouth, taking the sweet, plump fig between his teeth, licking her fingers with a most salacious wink. Her cheeks flushed up to her hairline, she was sure. She took note of his flirtations, as he held out a plump strawberry to her. She tilted her head. Slowly leaning up and devouring it. Chewing slowly, she mentioned how delicious it was. Watching his eyes darken and he looked like the devil himself the way he smirked. The sickeningly-in-love fools they were, after they ate, they danced, barefoot, in moonlight, on the antique rug, bathed in starlight from the open window.

Swaying to an invisible waltz. Thomas nuzzled his face into his wife’s bare neck, kissing the pools of moonlight that collected in the dip between her clavicle and her shoulder, pulling her nightdress out of his way. He’d have no obstacle standing between his lips and her silken skin. She held the back of his head. Folding a loving hand up under his arm, stroking across his shoulder blade as she lets herself hold onto this man. Her man. The one she couldn’t wait to wake up and see each morning, snoozing on the pillow opposite her own. Thomas breathed in deep the scent of her at her neck. Her perfume, her skin. The essence of her drove him mad with longing. And the fact she was carrying his third child, made him smile like a giddy fool. And this time, he’d part heaven and earth to be by her side. Because he had let her know, as his penance, there was no second of her blossoming motherhood that he would miss, this time.

Tonight, as she steps inside her home, it is not the longing grasp of a lusting lover that greets her. But the gentle greeting of her maid, Jeanie. With stacks of linen folded in her arms. Which she places down on the middle hallway table, to help her Mistress. As Vianne unbuttoned and shrugged off her coat off her shoulders. Jeanie moved to help her. Noticing how tired she looked. But was too polite to say so.

“Busy day, Ma’am?” She asks. Vianne smiled, gently resting her eyes. Jeanie’s soft, north Yorkshire accent was such a calming sound to her. It soothes her, she realised. Her maid folded her coat over her arm, and took her hat. Vianne audibly sighed with relief, sliding the hat pin out from her thick hair. Which was starting to ache with a dull pain at the roots, from being twisted up and off her face so harshly, and for so long.

“Not too. Jeanie.” She smiles. Her maid can see how this makes the bags under eyes lessen a little with the force of her bone weary smile.

She had been on the district round today. Traipsing hither and dither across London, palpating stiff limbs, administering ointment, and changing dressings. Visiting a spectrum of patients, from a stuffy Duke, sat alone, in an absolutely echoing townhouse recovering from knee surgery, to a lowly docker, wounded in an accident at work, requiring dressing changes, and living in poverty and filth, ensconced in a room with five other families, all sharing the same, grubby air. No wonder disease was rife where poverty thrived.

She narrowly missed placing her heel down on a scurrying rat as she left. Unfortunately, she’d seen the like before. Children no more older than her own, batting rats off their younger siblings as they slept. It sometimes astounded her that she could travel so seamlessly between two very different worlds. One, where everything was polished, ordered, and dripping elegance and decorum. And having less than three footmen was seen as the end of the world, and the next thing, she’d be crammed in some room that barely out measured a cupboard, treating someone who belonged to a family of twelve, dosing their children with gin so they didn’t cry out in hunger as they struggled to make ends meet. It amazed her that she kept sane some days. Returning home was her tonic. Stripping herself of her uniform and washing away her day was to put her grievances of her job aside, and to focus solely on those who had missed her all day long.

She peered through to the dining room, seeing the walnut table polished, gleaming. Empty. As was the parlour she peered into. She let herself smile, the gramophone did indeed coo a sultry melody into the air. And on the end table there was a half nursed glass of liquor left unattended. But no sign of her inky hair lover anywhere in sight. Seeing her mistress search, Jeanie put her mind at ease…

“He’s upstairs. M’am. Insisted himself on bath duty and then reading a bedtime story to Master Arthur and Miss Julia.” She explained, hanging up her coat, and hat. And placing her medical bag upon the side table.

Vianne smiled. Every spare moment Thomas could snatch with his children he clamoured for. He couldn’t get enough. He was a besotted man. She rubbed over her eyes, summoning the last fragments in her weary body to go upstairs and kiss her children and their father. She pointed to the linens on the table.

“Allow me, I’m going up. You get yourself off the bed Jeanie. We can manage..” Vianne smiled. Jeanie looked ready to protest as she slowly handed across the stack of freshly laundered bedsheets. Vianne wore her sharpest look. And her maid subsequently offered her thanks’ and bid her a good evening. A waft of clean, warm soap and sun bleached whites wafted over Vianne’s nose as she began her ascent above stairs.

She padded softly along the landing, placed the sheets away, pausing only to let down her hair, so it tumbled down her back, toeing off her impossibly pinching boots, and letting her dress fall undone to her sternum, stripping away the strict formality of her uniform, here, it was unnecessary and unneeded. In her home, she was a mother, and a lover. She then made a beeline straight for the nursery. Coming closer to the door, she could hear no noise come from within, save for the tinkling, twinkling lull of their music box twirling the melody ‘lavenders blue’ to jangle through the air. She pushed open the ajar door, stepping into the unusually tidy space of her children’s nursery. Her feet making no noise, swallowed up into the thick carpets. The scent of clean, bathed skin lingering in the air along with the lullaby music, as a ballerina twirled in place in the wooden music box her lover had made for the both of them, and gifted them with, just yesterday. The walls were a buttercup yellow made softer by the two bedside lamps that cast honey gold pools up each wall, brightening the cosy space. She saw that Jeanie’s influence as a nursemaid was in the way each doll, teddy and game sat dutifully on the top of their toyboxes, at the end of each small bed, as if awaiting further instruction.

Her children weren’t, as she expected to find them, huddled under their eiderdowns, as little snoozing lumps. Merrily warm, ensconced snug, in their little beds, but rather her smile tugged wide, her heart lurching in love as she saw where they were instead. The reason the room was so quiet, was all because the three inhabitants were sleeping peacefully, all heaped into the same rocking chair.

The lean, long, tall body of her lover looked so comically stretched out, legs kicked out, resting, his head tilted all the way to the side, arms clutching his twins. Thomas’s head lolled onto the head of his son, who bore the exact same shade of inky hair, tucked, snoozing softly under his father’s protective arm. Curled onto his lap, his little chubby knees blanketed by the book that they had obviously been enjoying before sleep gently took them all.

Whilst Arthur was cuddled to Thomas’s left arm, clad in his pearly white nightclothes. Julia was snuggled into his right side, she too, fast asleep in her little nightie. Sucking on her thumb, her ginger hair mussed, pushed up against Thomas’s waistcoat, her favourite blue blanket draped between her legs, nuzzled into the shape of her fathers chest. She savours the sight of her small little family for a moment, snoring gently in one sleeping heap. Silently, her stockinged feet pad softly across the small room, and she reached for the forgotten novel of Beatrix Potter’s Peter Rabbit which sat slanted across Thomas’s lap. She gently seized it, placed the bookmark on their discarded page. And placing it back on the dresser. And seeing still, no one had so much as stirred.

Unable to help herself, enchanted with the pale, sleeping face of him. His closed lid casting a spidery shadow down his carved cheek. His hair flopping down his forehead. She reaches a hand across, and gently touches his cheek, cupping it, her hand was cool compared to the hot silk of his unshaven cheek. She lowers her lashes, looking at his lips, before she leans forwards and softly kisses him. There is a second, just a second, of unresponsiveness, before she feels his breath stutter to skip through his chest, and he awakes, grumbling a soft moan into her lips. When she opens her eyes and pulls back, she sees his lip twitch into a sleepy smile, and his eyes, hooded, spring open to see her.

“You’re home…” He mumbles sleepily. His tone warm and pleased. His eyes and smile both loving as they rested on her face. Drinking her in. He moved to take her in his arms, but found them encumbered by his two sleeping toddlers. Then he remembers how he’d been halfway through Peter escaping Mr McGregor’s garden when he’d dozed off.

She smiled at his attempts to move. Wordlessly she helps him. Gently, so as not to wake him, she prizes Arthur from his father’s embrace, feeling him shift, she settled him onto her hip. Kisses his hair. Smelling the warm, pink aroma of his clean, freshly bathed head. He gurgles sleepily, curling into his mother, His fingers tangling in a coil of her hair. Vianne holds him for a second. Closing her eyes, hugging her beautiful son. Before she whispers a soft, ‘sweet dreams my darling’ onto his head. As if her words would sink in, and become true. She lowers him into the cocoon of his bed, seeing that he cuddled at once up to his toy rabbit. Huddled into a little, snoring ball. Snuffling in his sleep. She pulls up his covers to keep him warm, smoothed away any creases in the patchwork blanket at the bottom of his bed. And switches off the light by his head. Throwing his half of the room into soft, gentle darkness, lit from outside by a warming streetlamp. It was smoggy tonight, the moon couldn’t be seen.

She turned back to him, watching him come to his full height, his limbs clicking and stretching back into place. He cradles his gorgeous daughter gently, as if she was made of porcelain, liable to shatter. He pecks a long kiss into her hair, before he too settles her into her own bed, across the room from her twin. Vianne watches Julia’s eyes flutter sleepily open, watching her father as he tucked her into bed. He made sure her blanket that she was never without was tucked into her hold. As he pulled the covers over her.

Her eyes blinked shut again, half her face hidden, nuzzling into her second favourite teddy as she went wordlessly back to sleep. Thomas lingered for a second, sat on the very edge of her bed, his eyes fondly watching her, two long fingers stroking the soft hair back on her head in a repeated motion that Vianne recognised was the same he’d do to her when she couldn’t sleep. Softly stroke over her forehead with those calloused fingers until she stopped thinking, and succumbed to sleep.

She crossed, and kissed her daughter, ushering a sweet goodnight, as she turned off the second bedside light. Plunging the room completely now into comfortable darkness. The only light now coming from the hall outside on the landing. Thomas’s hand found her hip through her dress, and silently, both mother and father crept from the nursery, leaving the lullaby to twinkle away to nothing and leave their treasures to their dreams. Thomas exits first, and Vianne pulls the door almost closed behind her. Thomas insisted most seriously on not shutting them in their room, she knew why, and always ensured she left the door ajar for them. For him too.

Stepping out into the half-light, half dark of the landing, she turns to speak to Thomas, but finds herself – not so rudely – cut off as she is pressed back into the wall by the nursery door and kissed so strongly, she has to clutch onto his arms for support. She wraps herself around him as he does her, revelling in his lover being in his arms after a long day of being parted from her. When he feels her bust press softly into him, something like a growl escapes his lips, swallowed into her mouth as he cups her face. She holds him back just as passionately, frowning, breaking the kiss when her hands find his front, where his waistcoat was soggy in patches, to the touch. She smiles, which makes it difficult for him to continue kissing her. He pulls away, pressing his forehead against her own, arcing down over her.

“Why are you all wet?” She asks in a breathy laugh as his clever fingers rubs her neck. Stealing some of the aching tiredness from her body. His fingers felt magical. Where they touched, leaving nothing but pleasure and tingling skin in his wake. Her palm fell flat to his hard, muscular sternum, feeling the heat from his skin burn through his clothes to her touch. He raised a single, dark brow, arcing it at her.

“I was on bath time duty. And evidently, not content to let me miss out on it, Julia finds it rather hilarious to render me sopping wet also.” He explains. She bit her lip and smiled at the visual of Thomas letting his two years old drench him with bathwater. He’d wear that expression of genteel glare. Water dripping from that elegant scarred face as Julia shrieked with laughter at his ploy. His eyes narrowing as his smile grew. Now, He tilts his head, his hand slinking up to tangle in her hair and his fingers flexed and scraped through her scalp, easing her the aching tip of her roots. It was as if she came with a set of instructions, and he had read them, and she had not, so he could know her by heart. He knew exactly where to touch to ease her aches and pains after a gruelling day. It was uncanny. He head fell back to the wall as she groaned in bliss.

“Night cap?” He asks her wearily, before his eyes grow all the darker, filling with lust, and he lifts her skirts and makes love to her, right here. Rutting against the wall like a primal animal. On the landing three feet away from his sleeping children.

Before he does that, he helps lead her downstairs. Ignoring the clamouring’s of his ardour to take her. When he led her past her open bedroom door, his arousal twinges, wanting to guide her in there throw her to the bed, and deliver upon them both an orgasm that would have them falling sodden, sweaty and exhausted straight to sleep after they reached completion. As they walk down the stairs, his big hand paws at her rounded belly, seven weeks gone now and no one could even tell she was carrying his third.

Only close intimates had the pleasure of knowing she was in the family way once more. It was mad, how he reacted whenever he remembered she was, in time, going to grow curvier, softer, lovelier, with his next baby. She assured him that her body in pregnancy wasn’t quite the rose-tinted, happy, glowing example of motherhood that he may have been led to believe. From what she could remember, past pains and experience aside, it left her sick as a pup and bone weary most days in the first trimester. Thomas had merely smiled meekly and said he’d be there for her every second. Holding the sick bucket if needs be. She was learning quick that he meant it. He took days off work, as he’d never done before, simply to stay with her and read every book on motherhood he could lay his hands on. She had to drag the book out of his hands come some nights, for he was too engrossed in worry, sat up reading til the small hours, bleating at her the worst examples and remedies from over fluffed textbooks. One night she pulled it from his hands and rolled onto him, kissing him just to get him to be quiet with his damned fussing. She couldn’t blame him overmuch, he was doing his best to be involved, with a hands on approach. She could never begrudge him that. Not ever again.

They stumbled into the parlour, Thomas groaning as he heaved himself onto the settee. Flopping back into it, moaning gratefully as he palpated his neck. Having grown stiff, unsupported, from his slumber upstairs in the twins hard rocking chair. Vianne crossed to the side table and poured herself a small glass of weak sherry from the decanter.

Erik had informed her a small tipple every now and then would do no harm to the babe. She was sure as this child was of hers and Thomas’s siring, then it was sure to be made of pretty stern stuff, such stern stuff, that no meagre sip of weak sherry could cause much harm. She sipped it, and it set a merry, buzzing fire down in her weary bones.

Thomas opened his legs, and tugged her down to thump inelegantly down, pressing her back into his chest. Wrapping an arm around her, kissing her neck. His nose landing in the nest of her coppery hair. He wrapped her close, folding her body into his own. They stared into the dwindling flames of the fire, sipping their beverages, and relaxing in the aura of their shared tiredness. The only sounds coming to permeate their loving silence, was the sound of London nightlife chattering and rumbling by on the street outside, and the dripping, drizzling rain that had begun to knife slanted droplets of water down the windowpanes. Thomas necked his drink back in one gulp, wet his lips, and then said the thing that had been lingering on his tongue for a couple of weeks now.

“I’ve been thinking..” He groaned. As Vianne murmured her assent. Sipping her tipple. Feeling his hands come stroking up her neck, gathering her hair, and draping it to the side, so he could better see her pale, sculpted neck. His fingers dancing a stroking, relaxing massage onto her skin as she laid her head back to meet his chest, listening to his heart thump away in his ribs, his hand skimmed over the curve of her shoulder as he continued to speak.

“What would you say to the idea of us, moving away from London?” He began slowly. When he finished speaking she let the words hang for a second in the air, tasting them.

“I’d say, what about your job, the foundry, what about my helping Erik…” She said enquiring as to his answer, testing the waters.

“Surely, Vianne, you’ll be taking maternity leave once this little one grows bigger?” He asks her. When speaking of their third, his hand cupped the rounded swell of her tummy under her clothes.

“Of course.” She stated. The Twins birth had been so painfully traumatic, that as far as was possible, she wanted this one to be as carefree and as relaxed as could be

She’d be flogged by matron were she caught being in the family way, and trying to maintain her meagre assistants role to help Erik. Davis would say she was ‘infecting the young innocence of probationers and nurses. Firstly for being involved with a man, and secondly for living in sin, with said man, and carrying his child,’ Why. She’d be chased from the London with torches and pitchforks for such a heinous misdeed. She’d never gain as much a kind word of a reference, let alone a letter, she’d be dismissed without favour, and would never find work as a nurse whilst she lived and breathed on this earth again. She cursed to the heavens that nurses were strictly to be seen as virginal paragons of virtue. One whiff of flirtation with a man and they were toppled from the pedestal their profession placed on them. She’d first hand seen probationers dismissed for less.

She’d kept her history from her colleagues, save for Erik. So far as they knew, she was a single woman. She had intended to take leave from her position, claiming going abroad to ‘do the continent’ as was deemed fashionable. Returning six months later as if nothing had changed. Except everything would have. They weren’t to know she was going home to a secret lover, and three children. Spending her nights in bed, finding pleasure in the arms of a man, and spending her days off taking her children to the park to play. And she intended to keep it that way. She was wary of Thomas’s reaction to her plan, worried that her keeping him in the dark would offend him in some manner. As if she was ashamed of him. But he understood. Her profession was sacred to her, and he would not rob her of the pleasures of it – as another, certain man, would have done. Keeping her at home instead as a broodmare. No more than a vessel for his heir, and a piggy bank for his black desires to bed half the vain heiresses in London. His mind did flutter to thoughts of him every once in a while. Somewhere rotten in him that had never died, somewhere dark, where he never went, he found himself thinking, of how he ended up. What became of him. But he pushed the revolting thought away. Locking back in the dark place where it had dwelled from. That man didn’t deserve his consideration, not when he had treated Vianne so.

“I don’t want you working like a pack-horse up to your sixth month, my darling. You’ll place undue stress on yourself, and the baby. And I cannot and will not sit idly by allow you to be ordered here and there across London in going into unseemly living conditions.” He warns. She told him about the surroundings of poverty her job took her too. The other week, she told him the story about the rats swarming around a baby’s cot until she shooed them away, and he paled notably. She twists about in his arms. Turning onto her right side, pressing a kiss to his cheek. Curling up into his lean chest. Feeling the hard, hotness of his musculature underneath her cheek.

“I’ve no desire to be traipsing round London in my sixth month. By then I’ll be a waddling, tired old wretch, with aching feet, puffy ankles and mood swings.” She assures him. With a smile, raking a hand through his hair as he lazily looked at her with love.

“Good.” Thomas groans. His arm stroking up over her hip, pressing her body close to his. “Because I’ll want you, at home, feet up. Watching our devious children run rings about their poor, dear, tired father.” He mumbles sleepily. Though he sounded so very happy. She chuckled at him. He couldn’t deny, having her body pressed down onto him was making him want to groan in other ways, too.

“You mentioned moving away..” She brought up. “What did you have in mind, Mr Sharpe?” She asks nicely, shutting her eyes, one hand splayed flat against his sternum. His fingers twined through hers, and he leaned back. One elbow behind his head. He too feeling sleep, and the stupors of a drink making his blood feel hot and lazy as it sluggishly thudded around his body.

“A big, red brick house, covered in wisteria and roses. Surrounded by green, open fields. With a big garden, with tall trees for our little imps to climb up. An orangery for the rainy days where you can hear it patter on the roof. A big garden so I can buy Julia a dog, or a cat, or pony, or that dragon, she’s asked me so doggedly get for her Christmas present. A shed where I can tinker away in until my lovely children drag me outside to play in the evening sunshine. And most importantly, a big fireplace we can all gather round at night, and have a real Christmas tree at Christmas..” He rambled on. His eyelids were shutting as he imagined his perfect family house that he’d share with her, and their beautiful children. And little no-name to come..

Vianne smiled, feeling the warmth from the fireplace dully caress the side of her face. And then, his warm fingers did. Slipping up her cheek, mapping out the soft silk of her cheek. His hooded eyes cracked open, watching her smile in her sleep.

“…and before I forget, a really big, huge, bedroom, with a big soft bed, I can throw you down onto at night, pull your nightdress up, see you perfectly naked, and li-“ He began, but she swiftly cut him off. Though he thought her asleep. She was tempted to clap a hand over his mouth to stop his filthy words tumbling out.

“Thomas!” She grumbles, though he could see her cheeks pinken, so he knows she didn’t truly mind. He smirks that lopsided smile that made her breath skip.

“Big green, open fields…” She repeats dreamily. Away from rats, and tenements, and poverty. Away from dust and smog. Away from the house she never really, truly saw as home. Home, for her, wasn’t a place. Her home was wherever he was. She could almost imagine herself tasting the fresh, untarnished air. Smell the green grass, feel the sun bleach her skin of the impurities that the smog strewn city caused her skin and lungs. She can’t deny the prospect was thrilling.

“Could we afford it?” She asks. And he smiles at her.

“I could afford Buckingham palace for you, ten times over Vianne. And that’s without dipping into a penny of your fortune…” He made clear. She twisted her head and nuzzled her nose into his chest. Smelling the faint tang of old metal, engine oil and essence of peppermint on his clothes. Aswell as soap that was no doubt pelted at him as he bathed their mischievous two year old.

“I can’t deny the appeal of the notion…” She dreamed. “To be out in clean air. Raising the children in the countryside. Surrounded by green and nature in summer. And snow in winter…” she smiles.

“What about our jobs?” She enquires. Thomas smoothed a hand down her upper arm. Loving that this was a dream they could both share.

“The foundry can manage me running it from a distance…” He explains. “Though I know I can’t ask you to so easily give up your patients. And Erik, he’s been a saviour for the both of us…” He explains. She thinks about leaving the London, and though she knows it would sadden her, When she thought about all they had now. She wasn’t a spinster, stood crying in her foyer, at the sight of a dark empty house anymore. She had people who’d missed her when she returned home.

“Though, you must know, I wouldn’t dream of putting you through such upheaval in the midst of a pregnancy.” He informs her. Hugging her close, squeezing her delectable body into him.

“Let’s keep it on our horizons for now…” Vianne asked lovingly. Kissing his chest again. “It can be our something to dream over…” She adds. His eyes slide shut. And he smiles. Picturing that fantasy house behind his eyelids. The green lawn. Vianne strolling in the garden with their new-born in her arms.

“Ours.” He smiles. Holding his love in his arms. Tasting that word, that one small word, that sounded very nice to him, indeed.

~

@frenchfrostpudding @echantedbytwh @heavymist @totallynotasmutblog

#tom hiddleston #historical fiction #romance #historical romance #couples #home #dreams #future #children #MORE CHILDREN #futures #mushy stuff #fluffy #big fluff #bedtime #stories

[midnight-circus]

drama queen

no matter the AU rené loves a fuckin party

There is no sense, it has been said, in acquiring vast amounts of wealth without also acquiring the means to enjoy it.

The Château d'Emeraude stands as testament to this pledge. Nestled neatly in too many acres to count, it sparkles jewel-like in the embrace of its sculptured gardens, its windows glowing amber in the soft blue twilight. Across the rolling lawns and through the twisting maze of roses and peonies, the echoes of chamber music layers itself softly under the purr of water-fountains and the quiet rumble of voices and laughter; bodies drift across the lawn, walking, dancing, embracing in the dark, wandering in and out of the open veranda doors.

Open doors are a policy here. Even when closed, it’s always worth a knock.

Champagne flows freely in the ballroom, filling outstretched crystal glasses like water, slicking the Venetian tiles like oil. Decorum has very little place at Emeraude – one does not come here to stand on ceremony. One does not come here to be witnessed. The discretion of the host is well-known and well-trusted, if only for the simple reason that he behaves just as badly himself. Daggers at each other’s back nevertheless maintains a sense of ill-gotten trust, one way or another.

He can be found, as he can always be found, in the centre of the room – centre of the room, centre of attention, centre of the world, holding court as though he belongs there (which of course, he does), his smile bright, his voice loud. Marquis René Chevalier, with his dark, dishevelled curls and disarming good looks, has a knack for drawing the eye – he swans through the ballroom as though on a cloud, pouring wine, pouring compliments, stroking arms and hair and egos in equal measure. He laughs with one group, commiserates with another; denounces the royal family and then turns around to exalt them, ever charming, ever smiling. He kisses the hand of a handsome newblood noble, and shakes the hand of his pretty wife – they are enamoured by his eccentricity, and he holds them both to him as he circles the room, one in each arm. He will not sleep with them tonight, but he will allow them to think that he might, and when his name next shows up on the commendations list at the palace they will remember his charm, his efficacy.

He has been climbing the social ladder since the day he realised there was one to climb, and he is so close now – so close to the top. Emeraude is his reward, certainly, and he is devoted to it – it is a glittering testament to his success – but at the same time it is a tantalising reminder of his proximity to the palace.

He is limitless. He will stop at nothing to taste it.

***

“Ambassador! I ask you.”

Downstairs, the festivities roll on into the night. They are still in their youth – the clock struck two only a little while ago – and it will be many hours yet until they begin to die down. René has excused himself, spilling self-depreciating apologies, pleading forgiveness against the mock-anger of his current companions who saw him off with affection. They will discuss him for the next hour, at least – that he has made quite sure of. Now he lounges in an upstairs parlour, settled in a well-padded wingback. He sits sideways, his legs slung over the leather arm, his cravat loose around his throat; his maroon waistcoat has been dropped in front of the carved hearth, where the firelight catches on the skeins of gold threading through the silk like veins. He may go back down; he may not. Either way, he doesn’t intend to button himself back up again tonight. Visitors to Emeraude have all seen him far more debauched than this.

“You heard that, didn’t you?” He goes on, waving a glass of port that threatens to spill down his shirt if he flourishes it any more vigorously. “It wasn’t just me?”

“I w-wasn’t there.” The man in the room with him is doing a very good job of pretending to rearrange the bookshelves. He watches René warily, like one might watch an unfamiliar dog who has been introduced as ‘very friendly, most of the time’.

“Oh, that’s right. Of course you weren’t.” He brings the glass to his lips, draining the last of it, and immediately fills it up again from the decanter on the sidetable beside him. It flows into the glass as thick and sweet as mulberry syrup. “Although, Quill, you know you’re perfectly welcome to hang off my arm whenever you like.”

The man, Quill, doesn’t reply, because he can’t really think of anything worse. Not because it’s René – there is very little he wouldn’t do if René smiled at him and asked – but because the party downstairs is a singular example of his idea of Hell. A small, quiet man with nerves as frail as Iberian glass, he can envisage no more terrible fate than being thrown to the wolves that are the Gaullian nobility. Particularly when none of them understand a word he says.

“Y-you were sss-saying?” He says quietly, hoping to move swiftly on from his lacking presence at René’s frequent revelries. “S-ss-something ab-b-bout an am…amm-mbass-s-sador?”

He dearly hopes the word will not come up in conversation again. It would take him as long to say it as it would for himself to become it.

“Oh, yes, of course.” René stands up smoothly. There is no evidence in his behaviour that he is quite spectacularly drunk. “No, I was talking politics with Raphael Dejardins earlier – you know he’s a vicomte? You never would have guessed, not from the state he’s in downstairs – that’s certainly not his wife’s skirt he’s got his hand inside. Anyway, the rumour-mill is hard at work on the grist – there’s an ambassadorial role at stake at the next soirée, and it would appear I’ve been put forward. It would appear, in fact, that I’m the only name on the list.”

“Oh,” says Quill, rather pointlessly. “Is … is that g-g-good?”

“Mon cher, of course it’s not good.” He swallows the rest of his second glass and abruptly opens his hand, dropping it onto the hearth. It explodes into dust, scattering microscopic shards across the flagstones. Quill takes a hasty step towards the door. “It’s the last thing I need. What I need is to be here – to remain here, where I can assure that my face and presence is going to be remembered.”

Quill is holding a book tight to his chest; he relaxes his arms slightly and glances at the title. Les Liaisons Dangereuses. He wonders if someone up there is playing a trick on him.

“I-it’s a step up, though, is-sn’t it?” He asks, as if he knows what that entails. Realistically, he understands approximately only 60% of what René is talking about at any given time, but it’s easier to pretend otherwise. “It’s t-t-trustworthy. They t-take you suh-s-ssseriously.”

René doesn’t seem to hear him which, again, is not uncommon.

“And Albion, of all places,” the marquis continues with a curl to his lip (as though the word itself sits bitter and heavy on his tongue), glaring into the flames; it sparks some colour into his eyes, which are among the darkest Quill has ever seen, dark enough to be almost black. In the firelight, they flicker a disconcerting gold. “Not that I have an innate dislike for the people, of course, but one can only guess how awful -”

And then, all at once, a smile steals it way slowly onto his face. He turns away from the fireplace and looks at Quill, and Quill is not sure he likes the look of that smile at all.

“Mon coeur,” René purrs. “Mon cher, mon amour, pick an epithet, any one you like – how would you like to go home?”

#FAverse1 #rene1 #drabbles1 #feat. quill

[blackholeofprocrastination]

We’d Up And Fly If We Had Wings For Flying 1/?

Originally written for the @jonxsansaremix Summary: Another bastard finds a home within the halls of Winterfell. Canon Divergent. A Robin Hood AU.

So @sansapotter reminded me that I started this little nugget for last year’s Remix. In true Emmy form, it is incomplete...but dagnabbit I will finish it one of these days! In the meantime, here’s the first chapter.

Before they set out from the Gates of the Moon, father gifts her with a fine new cloak.

It is a pretty thing, lined thick with sable, and fastened together with a silver broach inlaid with moonstones. She thinks it too fine for a bastard girl, no matter how beloved, but Alayne accepts it with a smile and an obedient kiss to father’s whiskered cheek.

She dons it over her riding clothes the morning they are to leave, desperately trying to quiet the secret part of her heart that calls for another cloak, the one that was promised to her.

“They will love their Young Falcon…and when they come together for his wedding, and you come out with your long auburn hair, clad in a maiden’s cloak of white and grey with a direwolf emblazoned on the back” father had said. “Why, every knight in the Vale will pledge his sword to win you back your birthright.”

But in the end, father has no need of Harold Hardyng or the sword of any Vale knight. All he needs do is wait.

Wait for the Boltons and Stannis Baratheon to destroy each other on some lonely field outside Winterfell. Wait for the Tyrells and Martells to put aside past grievances and rally behind the Stormland’s Mummer Dragon. Wait for the Iron Fleet to fill Blackwater Bay. Wait for Queen Cersei to be desperate enough for Littlefinger’s aid that she would reward him with his heart’s desire.

Winterfell.

Father placates her with talk of setting things right in time, of restoring her to her birthright, but it is Littlefinger who says the words, not father or Lord Petyr, and Littlefinger is not to be trusted.

“Harrenhal and Winterfell both,” she overhears Ser Albar scoff over his ale one night. “The queen has honored our lord Littlefinger with two ruins.” Those around him laugh at the jape. There are few in the Vale who will mourn the loss of their Lord Protector.

Still, there are some that will be sorry to see Alayne go.

Myranda Royce with her teasing and bawdy jests. Dear Mya Stone, dressed in leathers with straw in her hair. Alayne’s lord, her Harry. Though he is not hers, she reminds herself. Not anymore.

And Sweetrobin. Sweetrobin, she knows, will miss her most of all.

Alayne is alarmed when she first learns father intends to leave the boy with Lord Royce. She did not think he would be willing to part with Sweetrobin after fighting to remain his guardian. Father only smiles at her protests, gently insisting that Lord Arryn’s rightful place is in the Vale.

The Lords Declarent are pleased by this turn in their favor, but as Alayne watches Sweetrobin fiercely embrace his stepfather in farewell, tears running down his pallid little face, she wonders if they truly have reason to be happy. Sweetrobin holds a great affection for Alayne and her father both. Lord Royce may have succeeded in separating his liege lord from Lord Baelish’s control, but the boy he takes to Runestone now will be harder to sway than the one he sought to foster after Lady Arryn’s death.

Love is poison, she remembers. And the loyalties that spring forth from love are more poisonous still.

Alayne wants to weep when they first ride through Winterfell’s gates.

From the Kingsroad the outer walls stand solidly against the snows, but the keep within is nothing more than a burned shell. Broken stone and charred wood lay everywhere blanketed by thick drifts of snow and ice tinged grey with ash.

Alayne recalls another Winterfell, one crafted from snow and memory in a garden above the clouds. It too was a ruin now, crushed beneath Sweetrobin’s heel in a fit of temper.

Few of the rooms in the Great Keep are truly habitable, but father offers her the pick of them. She chooses a small cell tucked off of the spiral stair that leads to the long corridor of family rooms. It is a humble place that can boast a hearth and a narrow bed, but little else. Father balks at her choice but she insists the room will suit. After all, it has housed a bastard of Winterfell once before.

The Boltons had started on improvements to the keep. A new roof was raised over the Great Hall, and rows of barracks were erected near the armory. Most else remains in ill repair, the Boltons’ efforts halted from lack of coin and men. Father has plenty of both.

He wastes no time, setting immediately to finishing what the Boltons had begun. Each day great sledges bearing timber felled in the Wolfswood are pulled through the Hunter’s Gate to be fashioned into beams and rails and shingles. The fires in the forge burn warm against the chill as the smith father brought all the way from Gulltown hammers together hinges and supports.

A fire is kept blazing in the Great Hall at all hours. The serving women of father’s household gather there, weaving fresh rushes and bundling straw for thatching. Alayne sits with them most days with a basket of mending at her feet.

She misses Mya and Myranda and her life at the Gates desperately, but she is not so alone here, surrounded by the women’s gossip and laughter. The serving girls are much too timid to make a friend of her but they let her sit amongst them easily enough.

“...fifty or more they found,” says Pale Meg, as they gather close to the fire one afternoon. She is the boldest of the kitchen girls, a girl of seven-and-ten with hair the color of straw. “Some were missing eyes, others fingers, but all had the skin flayed clean from their back.” She pauses a moment, and the others press closer to hang on her words with morbid fascination. Alayne listens too, her needle stilled in her hand. “They weren’t nothing pretty to look upon and the Lady Bolton was the worst of the lot. The dogs had been at her.”

“Stop tellin’ tales!” one of the other girls scolds her face gone sickly white.

“It’s the truth!” Meg insists. “Tom told me hisself! He were there when they found ‘em. His lordship had the bodies burned. But you can still see the blood,” she confides, her voice dropping to a salacious whisper. “It’s stained the flagstones, thick and dark as pitch. No amount of scrubbing’ll lift it. There’s a dark curse upon it.”

A titter of anxious whispers break among the group, their work momentarily forgotten. Alayne is quiet. She grips the pair of hose she mends so tightly she tears the seam.

That night she dreams of blood.

It pours in thick rivets down the spiral stair of the Great Keep. It drips from arrow slits and merlons onto the yard below. It fills the Great Hall and trickles under the thick oak doors. It floods her humble cell, rising and rising until it covers her in her bed. It stains her bed linens and her nightrail, creeping closer like crimson fingers set to choke the breath from her throat.

She leaves the keep just as first light crests over the outer walls. Her dream hangs about her, heavier than the bearskin mantle she pulled over her shoulders when she fled from her bed. She makes for the godswood on silent feet.

Alayne is a stranger to these gods. She was raised in a Motherhouse. Born into the light of the Seven. Still, she does not fear this place. She is content as she weaves through the ash and hawthorn and soldier pines, the path familiar. She reaches the hearttree and her heart sings to find the carved face unchanged.

The Boltons did not destroy this at least.

She seats herself at the base of the weirwood in the same place Eddard Stark had often sat in prayer. Above her the bone white branches sag heavily under the weight of a hundred dark shadows.

Maester Luwin’s ravens.

Alayne had overheard Maester Medrick despair of it to father. The rookery is naught but ash and the birds will not be coaxed from their perch.

They can sense the evil that lingers here, Alayne thinks, remembering Pale Meg’s talk of curses.

She draws a hand to the face of the hearttree. Her fingers touch the red sap, so similar to the blood that haunted her sleep.

“Sansa!”

She snatches her hand back, her heart seizing in her chest. For a moment it sounded as if…

Bran.

But it cannot be. Brandon Stark is dead. Killed by the turncloak Theon Greyjoy. Another ghost to walk the halls of Winterfell.

She places a tentative hand upon the bark, willing to hear the voice again but the only sound is the creak of branches and the restless flutter of wings overhead.

On their journey North, their ship had made port in White Harbor.

Lord Manderly feasted the new Warden of the North and his company upon their arrival.

Alayne was seated well below the salt, as was proper, but even from her vantage point she could see Lord Wyman had looked worn and sickly. He’d suffered injury when he was last called to Winterfell. Freys, it was said, were at fault. An anger that did not belong to her welled in Alayne’s breast and she scowled when she heard one of her father’s men make jests about ‘Lord Too-Fat-To-Sit-A-Horse’.

Father had hoped to find a kinship with the Manderlys. They were the most Southron of the Northern houses, with their knights and septons. The most likely to welcome a Southroner as their leal lord.

Father was to be disappointed.

Lord Wyman was not so great a fool to openly challenge father’s claim to the North, but when the time came for toast-making the effusive mentions to the memory of House Stark quickly dampened any overtures of friendship father made. Still, for all their pretty speeches, the Manderlys were not so loyal to the Starks as to refuse father’s coin when offered.

A deal was struck. Father would be allowed to freely make use of their port, in exchange he would grant them a portion of the Bolton holdings. Lord Manderly even provided an escort of knights to accompany their party to Winterfell as a show of good faith.

Alayne knows that father does not trust the Manderlys after all that had passed at the Merman’s Court.

“But they are too weakened by that folly with Stannis to be a danger,” he assures her, reaching across the wheelhouse to squeeze her hand. “So long as I dangle the Dreadfort within his grasp and my ship’s tariffs line his pocket, Lord Wyman will play my game.”

Alayne is not so certain.

They have been at Winterfell nearly two moons when the first of the wagons arrive.

Alayne watches eagerly as crates of apples, sacks of barley and oats, casks of wine, and all manner of things are unloaded into the main courtyard. After a poor harvest and two sieges, the keep is poorly provisioned. Father sent his fastest ship South for this bounty.

It is not enough, Alayne thinks grimly, watching as the barrels and crates are added to their meager stores. Father is a kinder castellan than the Ironborn or the Boltons but they are not prepared for the hardships ahead.

Winter is coming.

Already smallfolk flock to the Winter Town. Hastily cobbled hovels of sod and straw and sticks sprout around the outskirts of the village daily as more souls seek the protection of the keep.

Alayne does what she can, finding places for kitchen boys and scullery maids in her father’s service. There are many who are orphaned and alone from the wars. She hires as many as she dares, but there are not positions enough at Winterfell to take in every hungry mouth that comes to their gates.

Once, over a private supper in his solar, she suggests father rebuild the glass gardens.

“I think not, sweetling.” He frowns, wiping his hands clean on a cloth. “Good quality glass is worth more than gold, and the men who craft it even more so. There are far better uses for my coin at present, hmm?”

He chucks her under the chin affectionately, the matter closed.

Stone by stone the castle is restored to its former glory. Soon it is nearly identical to the Winterfell of her memories...save for the mockingbird banners that fill the keep.

They fly over the parapets and against the outer walls. They line the corridors and the head of the Great Hall. A flock of fifty or more, each stitched by a hand other than her own.

Alayne tries to avoid looking at them, tries to stifle the treacherous voice within her that cries out “They do not belong here!”

She holds her tongue. She is a good daughter. The prettiest bird in her father’s keeping.

Father likes to keep her pretty. Along with the wagons of grain and stores come bolts of silk and lace, baubles and trinkets of every kind. She keeps theses fine things ferreted away in her room, out of sight. None in the North have yet to see past the layers of Alayne. She’d rather not draw any undue notice if she can help it.

One night, Father bids her to wear some of her gifted finery. He chooses the gown and jewels himself, selecting a dress cut of dark blue velvet and chain studded with onyx and pearl.

Alayne soon finds the reason. There are guests in the keep. Lord Robett Glover and his ward, the newly named Lord Hornwood.

A modest feast is held in the Great Hall. Alayne sits below the high table, but close enough that she can observe their visitors easily.

She absently sips from her cup of mulled wine and watches Lord Robett speak with her father. He is a hard looking man, his hair streaked generously with grey and his eyes sharp as flint chips. He is courteous enough with father, but he never smiles.

His ward is less guarded in his displeasure. A reedy lad nearing four-and-ten, Larence Hornwood pokes sullenly at his pease and venison, speaking little and ignoring the pointed glares from his guardian every time he asks for his wine cup to be refilled.

Alayne had the truth of it from the serving girl who was sent to help her with her hair before the feast. The boy was Halys Hornwood’s bastard get, raised up by King Tommen as his heir. It was her father’s doing, though from the way the young lordling looks at Lord Baelish, she wonders if he is at all grateful for the act.

At her father’s suggestion, Lord Hornwood sulkily rises to ask for her hand when the dancing starts. Alayne accepts with her most winning smile. She has played this game before.

It is not until they take their places on the floor that she sees the apprehension that lies behind the lordling’s scowls.

“I’ve never been very good at this,” he confesses when he steps on her toes a second time.

“Fear not, my lord,” Alayne says cheerily, a teasing twist to her lips. “I’ll see to it we both finish the dance upright and untrodden.”

He stares at her a moment, startled out of his sulk. Alayne begins to fear she’s caused insult when the lad chuckles.

“See that you do, lady.”

Lord Hornwood appears as sullen as ever when he returns to his seat, but Alayne does not miss the shy glances he casts her way from time to time.

Nearly a sennight after the Glover party departs for Hornwood, Alayne is roused from her bed by the sound of mail and boots on the spiral stair outside her door. Donning a robe, she quietly follows the direction of the footsteps to the door of her father’s solar. She hesitates, uncertain whether to knock or return to her chamber. She’s decided to tread back to the warmth of her own bed when the sound of raised voices from within stops her in her tracks.

“And Manderly’s men?” her father demands. Alayne has seldom heard him sound so cross.

“The Manderly escort only went as far as the fork in the White Knife.” Alayne recognizes the answering voice Ser Lothor Brune, father’s captain of the guard. “My lord, you don’t suppose…”

Father laughs sharply.

“I suspect our Lord Wyman is capable of a great deal, but I do not think even he would stoop to highway robbery. Besides, what purpose would it serve? If he wanted steal from me, why not seize the goods the moment they came into the harbor? Why go to the mummery of providing an escort only set upon them on the Kingsroad?”

“As you say, my lord.” Ser Lothor pauses a moment. “And what of the other matter? The bastard?”

Alayne strains to hear, her pulse quickening. Surely they did not think Lord Hornwood involved in such a scheme?

“The North has been improperly governed for too long,” Father says, his voice more measured than before. “I dare say we shall see more of these outlaws and their ilk. They will be dealt with accordingly.”

“And Jon Snow?”

The name sends Alayne’s heart hammering in her ears so loudly she nearly misses father’s terse reply.

“As I said, he will be dealt with accordingly.”

To be continued…

#jon x sansa #eventually #robin hood au #my edits #emmy writes #i'd forgotten about this #i will finish it someday #i love writing sansa as alayne #plus i promised mere some jxs treehouse smut...and i mean to deliver on it #maid marian-ish sansa + outlaw jon...it's a thing ok...bear with me

[constant-and-immovable]

cassiopeia mercy hawkins

“I don’t think you’re ‘some sailor,’ no. There were warnings posted to the dock authorities, a lady highway thief on the road to Bristol.”

“You think I’m a criminal?”

“I think you’re a pirate, and a pirate’s daughter.” The captain opens a drawer below his desk, and withdraws a folded bolt of faded silk. “This was found in your belongings this morning.”

Cassie lifts the black, the prize her father presented to her, to her mother with when they were both still bloody. I’ll kill you for taking this.

“Tell me, Cas Silver: are you here for my ship?”

#cassie hawkins #AU: A Hearth & Home Port #An AU in Hell