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written-in-flowers · 6 months

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Be the Light: Pt. 4 (SeongjoongxFem!reader)

Pairing: Hongjoong x Seonghwa x Fem!reader | Side pairing(s): Ateez x Fem!reader.

Word Count: 8k

Genre: angst, fluff, smut

AU: historical!au, arranged marriage!au, royalty!au

Summary: YN has spent her entire life in service of Han Sookmyung, Queen of Hanseong. She never dreamed above her station, or that she'd ever be in reach of Sookmyung's concubines, 'The Golden Ones'. But, when secrets are brought to life, her world is turned upside-down.

Warnings: graphic descriptions of violence, heavily referenced torture (briefly), heavily referenced abuse (briefly), heavily referenced sexual abuse (briefly), enslavement, slight gaslighting, lost sibling, political drama, historical drama, joseon!au, concubine!ateez, nsfw content, virgin!reader, polyamory, polygamous, throuple, threesome m/m/f, oral sex (m. and f. receiving/giving), cunnlingus, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, virgin sex, virginity discussed.

Taglist: @scarfac3 @tunaasan @lelaleleb @sevngmin148 @meljoongiee @puppyminnnie @sunasmoke22 @kyourixr @yoongiigolden @lynnsqueendom @atinycafe @soocore @ethereally-lyann @blackbutterfly133 @ddaeing @pearltinyy @iweirdthingsblog @huachengsbestie01 @glintneon123

And a huge, huge thanks to my beta @daesukiii !!! Without them, this wouldn't be as good lol

Part 3 <; | > Part 5

***

A large crowd gathered at the pavilion in the middle of the lake. A man-made island, the tall white and red structure was usually the site for banquets, where the ruling monarch entertained guests. The only way on or off was the bridge crossing over the lake around the island, which fit three to four people abreast. Sookmyung’s palanquin barely fit through it, which meant you trailed behind the footmen carrying her across. Several nobles dressed in their finery turned their heads as their queen approached. Nobody cared about the handmaiden coming up behind her.

"Announcing," the herald cried as his men drummed and blew their horns, "Han Sookmyung, Queen of Hanseong, Duchess of Gyeonggi-do, and Protector of Korea."

The people bowed to her as she reached the pavilion steps, smiling proudly at them. You hurried to fix her long red and gold train before she noticed the wrinkles, and then followed a few feet away. All eyes remained on her until she reached the place of honor at a long table. Usually the royal advisors would be attending a function like this, hoping to put forward their own sons as suitors for the young queen. Yet, when you looked around, you saw not a single one in attendance. You supposed they may come later in the evening; they had important work to do. You did not see Queen Jisoo either, which you found odd considering she arranged this gathering. Sookmyung took her place amongst fellow ladies of the court, and you began serving her a small plate of food.

"I'm not hungry," she told you right when you set it in front of her. "Bring me wine. I'm parched."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

It was the sort of royal gathering you expected: lords and ladies enjoying a rich spread of food and drinks, listening to musicians play and catching glances of the fish and birds around the scenic lake. You stood in the shadows behind Sookmyung most of the time, only approaching when she called for you. Seeing the other ladies in their silk and satin hanboks, their hair done up in expensive adornments and wearing fine jewelry on their wrists and fingers, you imagined yourself amongst them. You could sip fine wine while talking to other court ladies about who is courting who. You can flirt and dance with handsome lords all vying for your attention. But, that can only be a dream.

You're nobody. You're a servant, a slave. You are not meant to have dreams at all.

"It seems the old woman was right after all."

You felt a presence shift on your left and you turned to see a man dressed in black and gold standing nearby. You knew by his high voice and long hair that it was Hongjoong. Butterflies fluttered around in your stomach at the sight of him so close to you. Out of all her flowers, Hongjoong is the one you’re forbidden to speak with. Immediately, you turned away from him. You knew better than to talk to her flowers. If she caught you, she'd lock you in her dungeon for sure. You remembered Lady Seulgi, and shuddered. Yet, Hongjoong did not leave your side.

"Don't worry, I convinced one of the ladies to keep her occupied," he told you. You did not respond to him, too afraid your voice may carry to Sookmyung a few feet away. "You truly are frightened of her, aren't you?"

You still did not speak, despite the urge to engage in the conversation. Hongjoong radiated a security and comfort not very common in people. Yet, Sookmyung’s presence kept your lips sealed together. What if there's a change in songs and she hears a whisper of conversation? What if she happens to turn around to see you? You tried thinking of a way to leave, but nothing came to mind.

"You shouldn't be here," you muttered to him under the wave of music and chatter. "She is meant to be searching for a husband. If you’re here, she will be too distracted." And if she does not choose a husband by the end, Jisoo shall choose for her and that can only end badly. "I suggest you scurry off before she sees you."

"But why would I leave a party I was invited to?" He asked amusedly.

"You were invited?"

"Yes, by Jisoo."

"Why would she invite you? That defeats the purpose of this entire thing then," you thought out loud.

"Perhaps The Queen Mother wanted us to entertain someone else," he grinned playfully.

The tips of your ears burned at the grin. "Us?"

"The others came too."

"They didn't announce your arrival. You're supposed to arrive after her."

"I doubt she will complain about it," he said. "She hasn't even noticed we're here yet."

"She will if you keep standing there," you imagined what awful thing she'd do if she caught them here, "You all should leave before she sees you. It'll end badly for you if she does."

"YN," he said fondly, "Always thinking of others and never about yourself."

You turned to look at him, "Your meaning?"

"That you should worry about yourself a bit more," he explained simply. "She might favor you above most at court, or anywhere as a matter of fact, but you're not exempt from the dungeons."

"That's partly the reason I'm telling you to leave," you hissed. "If she sees us speaking, she'll assume the worst and throw us both in there."

"'Partly'," he repeated. "Well, I have no intention of leaving, and neither do the others. We've been promised an exciting night."

Another cryptic response. "Do not say you weren't warned. Enjoy the party."

You left his side to refill Sookmyung’s plate. You hoped distracting her with food gave him time to leave, and when you turned to check, he'd gone.

"YN, tell the singers I hate this song," she told you over her shoulder. "Tell them I want them to play something more jovial, upbeat."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

You moved deftly through the crowd towards the musicians in the corner of the pavilion. That was when you noticed the guards. At most functions, you saw at least three or four, especially at an intimate gathering. Yet, as you walked, you spotted more than four. You saw several: two by the entrance, a man at each corner of the pavilion, three more patrolling the island area and four patrolling the outer banks. They stalked the grounds with swords sheathed on their belts. It unsettled you. Everything about the queen’s banquet seemed off. First, no advisors. Secondly, no Jisoo. Thirdly, concubines and lastly, a strong guard presence. You sensed a disturbance underneath the surface, watching and waiting to strike, and you didn’t know where it’d come from first.

You reached the band of musicians, and told them Sookmyung’s request, which they obeyed immediately. When you turned around, you saw Wooyoung, San and Yeosang crowded together. Since anyone who values their life won’t speak to them, the three concubines talked to one another instead with drink cups in their hands. Hongjoong mentioned them being promised an exciting night. You wondered what it might be as you made your way back over to Sookmyung. Pleased at the change in song, she continued enjoying the company of the other ladies while you stood behind her. You stood by one of the pillars, your stomach growling from hunger and wishing Sookmyung let you leave. Then the herald called out in a booming voice, more drums and horns drowning out the musicians.

"Announcing, Han Jisoo, Queen Mother of Hanseong."

People stepped aside and bowed as the queen moved through the crowd. You saw your mother pushing her from behind, neither speaking or smiling. However, Jisoo beamed and nodded at people she made eye contact with. Jisoo glowed with a kindness her daughter never inherited. You saw her in her olive green and white hanbok, her hair in a bun with a floral hairpin. She looked like a true queen, particularly when she was in front of Sookmyung, who tried hiding her hateful scowl.

"Mother," Sookmyung stood, but did not bow, "I am so glad you managed to make it this evening. I thought your health might keep you."

"I wanted to be here to support my lovely daughter,” she said, being wheeled around to a place beside Sookmyung. “This is a very important night for her.”

“If it’s so important,” Sookmyung began when they both sat down, “Then why aren’t the old men here? I thought they’d want to see all their sons and nephews put themselves forward.”

“Don’t fret over them, love,” her mother replied, being served food by Chaewon. “They will be here soon.” She turned her head to see you nearby, and you bowed your head to her. Jisoo gave a look of concern, “YN, you look peckish. When was the last time you ate?”

“This morning, Your Majesty.”

“But it’s been hours since then,” she said. “Come and eat, child. You’ll pass out if you don’t.”

Sookmyung snorted, “I remember the harvest festival when we were little. YN fainted in front of everybody and fell into a puddle of mud.”

“A queen doesn’t laugh at the misfortune of others,” Jisoo scolded. “YN, come sit by me and eat.”

“She’s a servant,” Sookmyung argued, “She isn’t supposed to sit here with us.”

“She can because I said so.”

“I am the queen,” she retorted, “And YN listens to only me. YN, you stay where you are. I might have need of you.”

“And I am the Queen Mother,” Jisoo told you, “Come now.”

You looked between the two queens, and then to your mother worriedly. If you disobeyed Sookmyung, you’d receive a harsh scolding later. If you disobeyed Jisoo, you’d be hurting her feelings. Jisoo always seemed to favor you over the other palace servants. She went out of her way to make sure you’re properly cared for; she always offered you space in her home. You stepped forward carefully, and stood at the chair beside Jisoo. Your eyes flitted up to Sookmyung, who stared daggers into your face. By the amount of wine she’ll be having, perhaps she’ll be too drunk to properly punish you. She may even forget this moment if she finds a man she truly likes. Taking the seat, your mother serving you a hefty plate, you knew your hopes were too high.

"I am sorry you had to witness that argument," Jisoo told you. "It will be the last time you do, I promise."

"It is nothing I am not accustomed to," you told her. You ate a bit of rice with savory meat and chewed quietly. "Sookmyung is very against the idea of marriage. She will not make it easy for you."

"And what about you, YN?"

"Your Majesty?"

"Sookmyung made a fair point, in her own twisted way," she began. "You are a beautiful young woman. You would have your pick of any man you wanted, yet you show no interest in it."

"I am far too busy to think about such things," you said. "The Queen takes up a good amount of my time."

'Sookmyung will never let me marry unless she chose them herself.'

"That's preposterous," she scoffed. She took a sip of tea your mother poured for her, and said, “Sookmyung has plenty of other handmaidens. Surely, she can tolerate them long enough for you to pursue any interests you may have.” She then gave a sly smirk, “You might even find someone favorable tonight.”

“Your Majesty, please,” you giggled with hot cheeks, “These are all men of nobility. Their families would never accept it even if a man did want me.”

You didn’t dare mention they’ll likely take you as a concubine rather than a wife.

“That may change after tonight.” Her eyes lit up when she spotted someone in the crowd, “Hongjoong looks particularly handsome tonight, don’t you think?”

“What?” You searched the crowd around to find him standing with Seonghwa and Yunho, the three men in deep discussion together. “Um, well, I suppose he does.”

“You suppose?” she furrowed her brow. “Put aside your fears for a moment, YN, and tell me what you truly think of him.”

Your eyes finally met hers, seeing the sincerity in them, and you looked back at Hongjoong. While you both rarely spoke directly, he still showed care for you. Yesterday, he’d occupied Sookmyung for the day so you may spend time with your mother. He’d taken your place in the torture chambers, so you can sleep free of nightmares. Hongjoong might fear Sookmyung’s wrath like anyone else, but that seemed to fade in your presence. You knew the face underneath that veil: the short narrow nose, the prominence of his cheeks and soft lips. He’d been a prince once, and he still looked the part even now. He must’ve felt your stare, because his eyes glanced over to you and the room suddenly became warm. Seeing him there, you wished you could speak to him again.

“He is everything a prince should be,” you whispered, not concerned if she heard you or not. “He is the sort of man you hear about in stories and songs: a chivalrous, courageous prince who comes to save the day. Even if we don’t speak, he shows his concern and care in different ways.”

“If we speak technically, he is a king,” she noted. “His father is dead. His family is dead. Anyone with a claim to Wonju’s throne is deceased apart from himself.”

“Which is the precise reason Sookmyung covets him so much. She will never release him.”

“Let us not speak of the future as a fact,” she ate a few vegetables from her stew, and said. “The future can change in a single minute.”

“You speak as if you know something I do not,” you didn’t realize how accusatory that sounded until you’d said it. “Forgive me-”

“-Perhaps I do, little YN,” she smiled serenely, “Perhaps I do.”

Drums sounded from the pavilion entrance, and the herald called out, “Chief Senior Advisor Choi Wonshik, with Advisors Kim Heechul, Park Taeyong, Do Daewook, and Jung Junhan.”

All five of Sookmyung’s advisors walked into the pavilion to more head bowing. Wonshik walked ahead of them to Sookmyung’s table, and gave her a bow.

“Senior Advisor,” Sookmyung said, “I am glad to see you.”

“I wish I could say the same, Your Majesty.”

The people sitting at Sookmyung’s table fell silent at once, even with the music continuing to play onwards. She kept her eyes directly on the elder, that familiar dislike showing on her face. You feared what might happen next.

“What did you say?” she drawled, hands slowly curling into fists.

“The council and I have been in discussion for some time,” he informed her. You saw the other advisors' stiff lips and stern faces. “We have argued back and forth and back and forth on this issue for several days, and finally we have all come to an agreement.”

“This is not the place to discuss politics, Advisor,” she said. “I am in the middle of a banquet, if you have not noticed.”

“I’m afraid this news cannot wait any longer. Han Sookmyung, by power invested in us by the people of Korea and The Crown, the Royal Council and I have declared you unfit to rule and have decided to strip you of your titles and crown.”

Sookmyung immediately shot up from her seat. Now, they had the full attention of everyone in the room. Every nerve in your body froze, and you braced yourself for what would happen next.

“You cannot do that!” she howled. “I am the queen-”

“-Any fool who has to keep saying she is the queen is not a true queen,” Wonshik continued, unbothered by her temper. “As Master of Law, I will give Advisor Do the floor-”

“-You old bastards! I am part of the monarchy. I am a queen. You cannot arrest or depose me without just cause-”

“-According to paragraph three in section C3 of the Bill of Laws,” Advisor Do spoke, fixing the spectacles on his nose, “A monarch may be incarcerated if there is sufficient evidence that said monarch has committed crimes against the people. During your conquest across Korea, there are witness testimonies and hard evidence to prove Your Majesty committed several war crimes-”

“-You have no proof-”

“-These war crimes include,” he withdrew a scroll and he read out loud, “Intentional destruction and appropriation of property not justified by military necessity and carried out unlawfully. Intentional attacks against civilian populations. The torture and subsequent murder of prisoners of war; the taking of and enslavement of hostages. The murder of combatants who’d laid down their arms or have no means of further defense-”

“-These don’t apply to me! I am the ruler! I decide-”

“-The penalty for these crimes is the immediate removal from office, as well as stripped of all lands and titles-”

“-I decide what laws go into place! I decided who is charged and who isn’t-”

“-The Royal Council decides which laws are passed,” Wonshik intervened. “Your grandfather put this into practice before you were born, and it still stands today. Your Majesty was always welcome to take her place on the council and come to terms with us, but you felt that beneath you. Due to the crimes Advisor Do has just read, Her Majesty, Queen Sookmyung, shall be placed under arrest-”

“-What?!-”

“-Until such time as she is tried in a court of law and properly sentenced-”

The guards you’d seen before came forward to Sookmyung’s seat. She looked at Wonshik, unafraid of the men coming her way, “I am the queen. I am King Siwon’s only heir. Who could you possibly replace me with?”

“That is easily resolved.” It was Jisoo who spoke, and Sookmyung rounded on her.

“How? What, you will sit on my throne? You are the King’s widow. You have no right or claim to my throne.”

“I might not, but your sister does.”

“My sister?” she asked in disbelief, “What sister? I have no sister!”

Chaewon turned Jisoo to face her daughter, “Yes, you do. Your father and I kept this information from court to avoid a succession crisis upon his death. But, seeing what you’ve become and the violence and destruction you’ve dealt out, I think it was a mistake to keep her hidden this entire time.”

“Who is she?” she glared at Jisoo, and you worried she might hit her. “Where is she? I’ll run her through!” She grabbed a knife from the table, and held it out at Jisoo. Sookmyung began looking about the room as if she expected this secret heir to appear from the shadows. “Who is she? Who?!” The guards drew out their own swords, ready to fight if she resisted. You remembered all those years in the training yard. Sookmyung is far too good with weapons for one’s liking. Jisoo, however, was not afraid of the blade in front of her. “Where is she, you snake?!”

“She’s right behind me,” Jisoo shrugged.

A gasp escaped your throat, and Sookmyung turned to you. Nervously, you searched for anyone behind you but you quickly realized she meant you. You looked over to your mother.

“Mother?”

“YN?” Sookmyung spoke before your mother, and said, “That’s ridiculous! YN is a lowly servant’s daughter. She’s not a princess, let alone a queen. If she was my twin sister, she’d look like me.”

“You’re fraternal twins,” Jisoo explained.

“Fraternal…” she breathed out the word, her eyes landing on you. “Why…Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t know!” you squeaked. “I swear, Your Majesty, I didn’t know! I am as surprised as you!”

And equally embarrassed. All eyes landed on you once the words were spoken, and you wanted to run and hide. Everyone stood in complete shock and awe. You saw some people whispering behind their hands, and others awkwardly looking away from you.

“Liar!”

“Guards!”

Sookmyung lunged for you, knife raised in the air, before a guard stood in her way. Her eyes never left yours. Nothing but scorching hate burned within her brown eyes, that primal need to unleash her fury making her more and more desperate to reach you. Your heart thumped loudly in your ears, and you couldn’t stop your feet from taking you backwards. You’d walk all the way to the city and beyond if nobody stopped you.

“YN…”

His voice, low and deep, reached you right as your back bumped into his front. Seonghwa. You knew from the voice alone. Warm hands squeeze your biceps tenderly to keep you in place.

“You little bitch!” Sookmyung screeched, “I will get you! I will get all of you! You will rue the day you tried taking my crown from me!”

Two guards took her by the arms, but they did not act quickly enough. Sookmyung pushed one of them away, and unsheathed the dagger from his belt. Stabbing it into his chest, panic went throughout the room as Sookmyung shoved him to the floor and turned on his comrade. Seonghwa stood in front of you, so you only heard the commotion going on several feet away from you.

“Seonghwa, get YN out of here,” Jisoo ordered.

“Come, YN.”

He took your arm and started leading you away. You looked over your shoulder to see Sookmyung’s wig casted onto the floor and the overcoat of her hanbok discarded onto the ground. In the distance, you saw Sookmyung fighting off guards with a stolen sword. You’d never seen her in battle, but you’d seen her in the training yard in her youth. Sookmyung cut through men easily, using her hands and feet to keep them back. Then, you realized some of the guards did not fight her, but rather aided her. Soldiers fought as Sookmyung made her way out of the pavilion. When a lord tried stopping her, one of the guards cut him down to give her a clear path. As you ran across the bridge leading to the south, Sookmyung ran to the one leading towards the north where she fought men guarding the lake side. Seonghwa lifted you up onto a horse awaiting you by the bridge, and Sookmyung had the same idea on the opposite side. You gasped audibly when she stabbed the rider and took his steade.

As you began riding with Seonghwa, you worried Sookmyung might chase after you. Everything in your body turned numb, and the only thing you felt was fear. You listened for more clopping hooves, and faint threats carrying through the air. You expected her to pull up beside you, sword in her hand, and the blade swishing at you and Seonghwa. Yet, as you crossed over another bridge to the southern part of the palace grounds, you realized she must’ve retreated.

“We’ve been betrayed,” you heard Seonghwa curse to himself. “They said they’d be on our side.”

“Seonghwa, what’s going on?” you asked him.

He didn’t answer you, but instead rode towards the concubine residency. No guards stood at their posts nor any servants lingering nearby. Seonghwa dismounted first, then helped you off the horse before leading you into the house. Once you both entered the main room of the house, it felt as if the world was shut out. You walked into the middle of the room, replaying the events in your head.

You’re a princess? Impossible. King Siwon could not be your father. Park Hyungshik had been your father. He’d been a stablemaster, handling the King’s horses for him. He’d died from pestilence when you were twelve, the sickness nearly taking your life as well before you recovered. Queen Jisoo could not be your real mother. Park Chaewon was. She’d nursed you in infancy, cared for you and loved you unconditionally. It sounded insane. If you were a princess, then you would’ve worn crowns and worn pretty dresses and danced with handsome lords. Not standing by Sookmyung’s side as she tortured and murdered people.

“YN?” Seonghwa’s voice couldn’t pull you from your thoughts.

King Siwon separated you to avoid a succession dispute? Why would there be one? If you and Sookmyung were twins, surely the council would have chosen the elder over the younger. Then, you remembered the crimes the council charged Sookmyung with and understood.

You studied the law and judicial system more than Sookmyung did. Everything Advisor Choi and Advisor Do said was true. The council had the power to remove the current monarch if they had just cause, and in Sookmyung’s case, they certainly had one. Hearing her crimes be listed out loud brought them into perspective for you. She’d raped, tortured, and killed so many people. She’d put entire villages to the torch, spreading fear and oppression throughout the kingdom. She continued to harm her subjects through her high taxation on the poor, causing many of them to go hungry or turn to unsavory means to avoid it. You’d hoped one day she may be stopped, but you never imagined yourself taking her place.

“YN,” Seonghwa called to you again, coming up behind you, “Are you alright?”

“No,” you answered. Sookmyung will not let this ‘betrayal’ stand. She will come for you and anyone else involved in this coupe. “Where did she go? Did you see where she went?”

“She was running towards the northern gates,” he said. “I imagine she plans to escape that way, and if what I suspect is true, she’ll manage to get out of the city by the morning.”

You looked out a nearby window to see the sun already setting. Footmen already lit the braziers around the grounds, and you saw lights inside the various buildings being lit. You did not have a view of the pavilion from the garden house, but you saw floods of lords and ladies being escorted by their retainers off the premises. Several palace guards moved quickly throughout the grounds, hands on their swords as they searched for the runaway queen. No doubt they’ll set up groups of men to go into the city soon. That won’t stop Sookmyung. She’ll find her way back into the palace, and if she had help, she’d find you for sure.

“She’ll find me,” you said, keeping the trembling out of your voice. “She’ll find me, torture me and then kill me.”

“No, she won’t,” he assured you, putting his hands on your shoulders. “I wouldn’t let her.”

“As if that would stop her,” you rolled your eyes. Watching men moving past the house, you pictured her lying in wait in the bushes. You saw her waiting until dark to sneak into your bedroom, and plunge a knife in your throat. “She’ll never give up. Never. When she manages to get her throne back, she’ll punish every single person she deems responsible for this. It is stupid. It is foolish and in vain.”

“I won’t let that happen,” he said. Gingerly, he turned you to face him and you tensed in his embrace. Thoughts of Sookmyung’s fury made you step away from his touch. “She is not the queen anymore,” he told you, sensing your hesitancy, “She holds no power.”

“Yes, she does,” you told him. “Just because the council has dethroned her does not mean the people outside these walls know of this. It will take days to inform the dukes of the other cities, and by then, Sookmyung will have likely sought refuge with one of them. There may even be a simple farming family who shelters her because they’re under the impression she is queen.” You envisioned the very scenario, and it only ended with blood and tears. “Nobody is going to accept a new queen, especially one who was the former queen’s handmaiden. I mean..” you took a deep breath, “I am no queen. I am not royalty. I am a small, simple woman who walks next to palanquins and serves other people and takes care of everyone and everything and-”

“-You may not have been raised as a royal, but you are one,” Seonghwa interrupted you. “Word will spread after tonight. It is why the council confronted her in front of the entire court instead of somewhere private. People like to talk, and they’ll talk about how Sookmyung was deposed and her handmaiden is actually her secret sister.”

“And they will say that I am not a queen and will likely try to put someone else in my place.”

“The only people who can truly make that decision are the advisors,” he said, “Nobody else.”

He stepped forward again, his hand sliding across your jaw and cupping it. Sookmyung would’ve flogged you both for such a gesture. When you tried moving away, he kept you still.

“The people may not know you, but I do,” he began. “You are a kind, generous, compassionate person. You sympathize and empathize with others. You always try to do what is right and protect as many people as you can.”

“I cannot protect anyone.”

“You’ve tried, and that counts. The other servants used to talk about how you maneuvered Sookmyung’s anger to keep her from harming others-”

“-I wasn’t always successful,” you admitted sheepishly. “She could be hard to handle when she is seriously upset.”

“But you managed. Also, it isn’t as if you’re a complete fool. You can read, write and do arithmetic. You know the politics, the law, and culture.” He gave a soft smile, “You should not doubt yourself so much. You are capable of great things, YN, and you’ll have people there to guide you along the way.”

You shook your head and moved away from him and the window. “No, no, this is insane,” you kept shaking your head, “There’s no way. This must be a trick or a joke.”

“Why would it be a trick?”

“Sookmyung likes to play games. This would just be another elaborate game for her to play on me,” you nervously wiped your palms on your skirt, “She’ll come back, laugh at me for reacting this way, and then tell me that ever dreaming of being more than what I am is pointless. It is the sort of thing she’d do. Yes, and being one of her ‘flowers’, you’d be forced to be in on the game.”

“YN, this is not a trick or a game. You truly are Jisoo and Siwon’s child; you are an heir to the Han dynasty-”

“-No, I’m not. No. I’m not falling for it,” you crossed your arms and plopped down onto a sofa. “I’ll sit here and wait for her to come and laugh at me like she always does.”

“YN-”

“-YN!”

Your mother came rushing into the house, her footsteps thumping lightly until she reached the beaded curtain. She saw you sitting on the sofa and gave a sigh of relief.

“YN, there you are!”

She knelt in front of you, cradling your face and checking for any injuries. You looked at her. You truly looked at her now. You tried finding a scrap of yourself in her face; you thought about your father’s face and did not find resemblance there either. Not in the nose, eyes, lips, ears, cheeks, neck, or body. Nothing.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you asked her softly. “Why didn’t you tell me that Queen Jisoo was my real mother and not you?”

Chaewon’s eyes filled with guilt. Her shoulders sagged and she stopped touching you. You saw the conflict going on in her mind, a struggle between honesty and lies. She sat beside you on the sofa, and held your hand gently.

“I think that is a conversation for later,” she told you. “A lot of things have happened very quickly, and you must be very confused right now.”

“Exactly, so please explain the first part to me: how can I be a daughter of King Siwon, and not know it until this very day?” you demanded.

Chaewon looked over at Seonghwa, the discomfort clear on her face. She stayed silent for a moment before she said, “Because we didn’t want anyone to know.”

“Who is ‘we’?”

“The Queen and I,” she answered. “Well, us two, Siwon, and Wonshik. Like what Jisoo said, Siwon had seen kingdoms be torn apart by a dispute over succession and he knew having two twin daughters may cause that. He’d planned to send you far away into the countryside where nobody would see you, but Jisoo pleaded for you to stay in the palace.”

“Why?”

“She didn’t want to be away from you. She wanted to see her daughters grow up together.”

“Why did she pick you?”

“Because she and I have been together since our girlhood in Daegu,” she explained. “We both suffered from similar fertility issues after our marriages: she had a delicate womb; Hyungshik did not produce enough sperm for a pregnancy. When you and Sookmyung were born, and Siwon declared there can only be one, she offered you to me.” Your mother smiled warmly, taking both your hands in hers, “And Hyungshik and I loved you as if you were ours all along. The moment I held you in my arms, YN, I felt as if you were meant to be mine. It was as if the gods intended on giving you to me."

"You could have told me at any time."

"And what good would it have done then?"

"That perhaps we might not be in this situation at all," you reasoned. "The king and queen both saw what kind of person Sookmyung was; they saw her viciousness and callousness and still allowed her to be queen.”

“They believed she may grow out of it-”

“-Grow out of it?” you huffed. “What could possibly make them think that? Sookmyung used to chase around the palace cats and hang them from trees. She used to start fires in the stables and tormented her nurse. She only started paying attention in studies when she was told she’d be the queen one day. Do you know why she wanted to train in the yard with the men? Hm, do you?” you couldn’t keep the anger from rising in your voice. “Because then she’d learn how to kill people. She’d learn how to hurt people in the most efficient way. It did not occur to them then that perhaps their eldest child is not fit for rule? All this pain and torture and murder could have been prevented if her parents stepped out of their delusion and saw her as she truly was.”

You pictured every person Sookmyung ever tortured. Their faces haunted your dreams and kept you awake some nights. The stench of blood, bile, and other fluids clung to your nose even when outside the dungeons. They did not know. Her family never knew her true nature. Queen Jisoo might’ve suspected or been told by others, but she’d never seen it. You’d seen everything. You shut your eyes as visions of men being impaled on pikes across a battlefield came to you.

“No parent ever wants to admit their child’s faults,” your mother told you gently. “It was not until she came into rule that Queen Jisoo saw her daughter for who she is.”

“Someone should have said something,” you said, “Someone should have told me.”

“To tell you would be telling Sookmyung,” she soothed you, running your braid through her hands delicately. “You saw what she did to the other claimants. I never thought…YN, you must believe me, I never thought this day would come.”

“Did you ever plan on telling me? Ever?”

“Your father wanted to tell you,” she admitted, “When he was dying. We both thought you’d join him, so he wanted you to know the truth, but I disagreed. I feared telling you the truth would worsen your condition at the time.”

“I feel it now regardless of my health.”

“I know, and I do not expect you to forgive me right away. I only want you to know that I did this for your safety. Even if they did not want to admit it, I knew Sookmyung as well. If she learned you were her sister, she would’ve tried killing you at some point, and she proved that today.”

Because she believed you’d betrayed her. The room felt hot. You realized then Seonghwa still stood nearby, listening even if he pretended otherwise.

“Please, you must understand,” your mother pleaded. “We did what we thought was best at the time. None of us knew what Sookmyung would turn out to be later on in life, but we knew if Siwon died and had two heirs instead of one, things could be ugly very quickly.”

“Obviously it would have been Sookmyung. She was the elder of the two of us.”

“But anyone who saw her grow up would’ve petitioned to have you take her place,” she said. “Purists would say Sookmyung is the rightful heir, and Realists would say you are the appropriate heir. It would’ve caused chaos and uncertainty. It’d been during a very tremulous time in the kingdom: we’d recently gotten out of a war with a nearby nation, and were recovering from the financial losses. Siwon did not want to see his kingdom plunged into war.”

“And look how that turned out,” you said, playing with the red threaded ornament attached to your hanbok. On the red loop was a golden medallion with a crane etched into it. Sookmyung gifted it to you after her first victory. “It led to Sookmyung creating her own war in an attempt to seize control of the entire country; power and control she already had as the ruling monarch. It left us in a country depleted of hope and peace led by a madwoman who pulled out fingernails for fun.”

“We admit that we made a mistake,” Chaewon answered, “You’re right. We should never have lied to you. It is something we both deeply regret.”

“Yes, particularly in light of recent events.”

Your mother put her hand on yours, grasping the ornament. “We know it will take time for you to fully soak all of this in, so we do not expect immediate forgiveness from you. But, I want you to know that even if I didn’t carry you myself,” her hands went around yours, “I still love you as if I did. The moment you opened your eyes, YN, I knew you were mine.”

“Would you have told me?”

“If circumstances had been different, I would have.”

You had difficulty believing her. If she lied about this, what else is she lying about?

“YN, are you alright?”

It was Jisoo, followed by Wonshik and the other advisors, all of them concerned. You turned from your hiding space to see them all standing by the door, watching you from afar. When you saw Jisoo, you couldn’t see her being your mother either. The only traces captured in her features was Sookmyung, her trueborn daughter. Then, you thought back to King Siwon. He’d stood lean and broad even in his old age. Thinking back to the warm, wrinkled face that always smiled at you, you saw yourself. You saw bits and pieces of yourself in that face.

“I look more like him,” you said without thinking.

She nodded, “Yes, you do. I used to tell him that whenever I saw you both together.” She wheeled herself closer to you, “Forgive me, YN. I did not want to keep this from you, but my husband forbade it. You must understand we did this to prevent war and-”

“-Sookmyung brought war and devastation on us,” you argued with her. “I don’t see how keeping my birth a secret prevented anything. If anything, it has made things worse.”

“Yes, we see our mistakes now,” she faltered. “I’d seen it for a long time, but not Siwon. He had trouble admitting that he’d made a mistake in separating you both. I wanted to tell you, YN. We should have told you, and dealt with the consequences afterwards. This is the time to correct those mistakes.”

“You told Hongjoong and I that the other dukes would be on our side,” Seonghwa stepped in, looking at Wonshik. “I am not sure if you noticed, a few of them took up arms against us instead of with us.”

“Yes, it appears we’d been betrayed,” Wonshik nodded. “Sookmyung might’ve already known a coupe would be staged, but the shock of YN being her sister distracted her long enough for us to act.”

“Do we know who went over?”

“The Dukes of Daegu, Gongju, and Ulleungdo, as well as their bannermen,” Advisor Jung, a stern looking man with a balding head and long mustache and beard, spoke up. “I told Wonshik that trusting Daegu and Gongju would be a mistake. They benefited the most when Sookmyung took power, and know their continued wealth counts on her being on the throne. Ulleungdo was a surprise, though. They typically stay out of wars.”

“The son of Ulleungdo recently married the duchess of Daegu,” Jisoo told him. “They will need a proper fleet, and Ulleungdo has dozens of longships.”

“How did they find out?” exclaimed Advisor Heechul, a rotund man with salt-and-pepper hair.

“Why don’t we discuss this tomorrow, gentlemen?” Jisoo intervened. “Her Majesty has learned far too much too quickly. She needs time to process these new changes.”

“It is important to act now, Your Majesty…”

‘Her Majesty’. They meant you when they said this. Not Sookmyung. Despite all the little fantasies you had, you never believed it would happen. You couldn’t possibly be a real princess, but the longer you sat there amongst these people, it sounded more plausible. It explained why the king and queen treated you so well. You saw the other servant girls learning practical skills such as cooking, sewing, cleaning and washing. You sat beside Sookmyung learning languages, geography, arithmetic, philosophy, and culture. You’d never cooked anything before or needed to sew. It was the other household servants who did that; you merely managed them. King Siwon showed particular interest in you. He even called you affectionate pet names.

‘How is our little blossom today?’

‘Don’t wander too deep into the forest, okay sunshine? We don’t want you and Sookmyung getting lost.’

Queen Jisoo showed you nothing but kindness and concern. She appeared happier when she saw you in comparison to when she saw Sookmyung. You must be special to them, and what other reason do they have outside of being their child? You felt yourself stand up from the sofa, and begin walking away. They want to make you a queen. Your feet carried you throughout the harem, bypassing bedrooms and sitting rooms until you reached the outdoor veranda over the garden pond. Night time came over the garden fully, with the lit lanterns resembling stars amongst the dark trees and bushes.

You spent your whole life believing Chaewon and Hyungshik were your parents. If you’d learned you’d been adopted from an orphanage or given to them by relatives, you might understand it better. You may not feel so bad. But learning your birth parents are a king and queen, and you are a princess worsened the shock. You gripped the wooden railing tightly, your fingers pressing into the painted wood as you imagined Sookmyung learning of this. It stunned her, and angered her like most surprises had done. You knew Jisoo and your mother were right: if you’d grown up as sisters, you wouldn’t be standing here. But, then you’d have grown up prepared to ascend the throne.

“YN?” you recognized Seonghwa’s voice again, but felt nothing for it.

You did not know the first thing about being a monarch. Yes, you might have come up with solutions to problems you heard from citizens, but you had no power to carry them out. You didn’t understand politics or diplomacy or sword fighting like Sookmyung did. You are a servant, a follower of people higher than you; you’re not a queen. You’re not a leader.

“YN,” he took light steps over towards you, “I know this is far too much to take in at the moment. You must be so confused. I’ll admit, I felt the same when the Queen Mother and Advisor Wonshik told me of their plan.”

“Why would they tell you?”

“Well, I suspect they hoped I’d be of some use to them,” he stood beside you and looked out over the water. “My father was Park Jiwoon. He was the Senior Advisor to The Duke of Haeju for years. Before Sookmyung killed the ruling family and installed loyal lackeys to the seat, my father counseled the duke in all manner of politics. My father was brilliant. It’d been him who’d suggested that it be a council that makes the laws alongside the duke, instead of giving the monarch ultimate power."

He saw your worried expression. Your eyes fell closed when he gently touched your cheek, and made you look at him. He's beautiful. Undeniably beautiful. Round eyes gazed into yours lovingly, glancing down to your lips before looking back up. He was Sookmyung's, you thought. He's hers. Not yours. None of them could ever truly be yours. Especially not Seonghwa or Hongjoong. His thumb brushed your cheekbone, and he stood closer to you before the sound of wheels running over wood broke you apart.

Jisoo appeared with your mother. They both stopped when they saw you and Seonghwa alone. Neither woman said anything, and Seonghwa bowed his head.

"I must go speak with the advisors," he said. He gave you one more fleeting look, "Goodnight, Your Majesty."

It was when he'd gone out of earshot that you said, "I've only been a monarch for less than an hour and I already hate that. I'm not a queen."

"This is our chance to make things right," Jisoo said, continuing your conversation from inside. "The people need a leader who is compassionate, generous and caring. They need someone who understands their struggles, and would do their best to relieve them. You are that someone, YN, whether you believe it or not. There is a reason I ordered you to be tutored alongside Sookmyung.”

“I hardly remember any of those lessons now," you scoffed. "They weren’t important to me-”

“-Name the five major clans of Korea.”

“What?” you finally looked over at her.

“Name the five major clans,” she repeated. “There is the royal family, the Han clan. Who are the other four?”

“Kim, Park, Choi and Jung,” you answered.

“Han controls the middle plain region,” she said, coming up beside you, “Who controls the west, east, north, and south?”

“Kim controls the west, Choi controls the east, Park controls the south, and Jung is in the north.”

“What are their principal exports?”

“Clan Kim is famous for their gem and gold mines, as well as their silk and cloth fields,” you said. “Clan Choi are known for their expansive seafood industry, while Clan Park send spices and wines from their vineyards and fields in the south. Jung sends lumber, paper and stone blocks for building.”

“Sookmyung did not know that.”

“Of course she did.”

“She pretended to know,” Jisoo informed you. “I knew that because she never attended council meetings. Sookmyung only went to meetings when it concerned her money or her power. She did not know how to bring peace to people, or how to maintain it. I think you can do it.”

“I know you can do it,” your mother said, coming up beside you at the railing. When you did not reply, she continued, “You do not need to make a decision tonight-”

“-Chaewon-” Jisoo said incredulously, but your mother ignored her.

“-Take your time with this. It is a big decision and there are more to come.” She put her arm around your shoulders and hugged you, “Let us take this one day at a time, hm?”

“I’d like that.”

You allowed her arms to comfort you as they’d done your entire life. Basking in the warmth and scent of her, you could not find it in you to think anymore. Jisoo decided you’d stay in the harem where there’d be plenty of people to watch over you until Sookmyung is apprehended. You couldn’t find it in you to care. Seonghwa offered you his chambers for the night, but you politely declined. You took the spare room, which was oddly untouched by anyone else. You undressed yourself, thinking about what you would be doing now if nothing happened. You’d be undressing Sookmyung instead, and leaving her in a warm bath while you turned down her bed. After applying creams and salves to her body, you’d help her into bed and make sure the room remained warm through the night.

Instead, you stripped to your undergarments and took up the black silk robe left on a chair. Sookmyung’s robe. You recalled every time you slipped it over her shoulders, and tied it because she could not be bothered to dress herself. Tossing it aside, you slid into the bed amongst the soft sheets. Sleep likely will not come, but you’d force it to. If you slept, perhaps when you woke up tomorrow it'd have been a dream.

An awful, confusing dream.

***

A/N: oooh the drama!! Thanks so much for the support and love you're giving this fic <3 it's my baby lol thanks also for being so patient with these chapters. I'm not going through the best time, but I wanted to put out something for you guys <3 hope you like this one

#ateez #ateez fanfic #ateez fanfiction #kim hongjoong #park seonghwa #ateez hongjoong #ateez seonghwa #ateez x reader #hongjoong x reader #seonghwa x reader #seongjoong x reader #matz x reader #pirateeznet

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historiaxvanserra · 2 months

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Every Exquisite Thing | A Regency AU

Summary: The first of the season brings with it so many things; new friends, new enemies, a masquerade ball, and a rakish young gentleman with eyes like burnished gold.

Pairing: Eris Vanserra x Archeron!Reader (Regency AU)

Word Count: 3.1k

This is the first part of a series that had been consuming my thoughs day and night for about two weeks. We don't meet Eris yet but we get glimpses and I like what I see 👀 I just wanted to give a feel for the regency vibe and see if we're feeling it or not! Next chapter well get Eris in all his regency glory and I promise you, he's worth the wait.

The townhouse that your family occupies on the main street of the Ton is unusually quiet this morning, you think. The first of the season typically brings with it an air of frivolity; the ladies in their Spring colors, gentlemen riding horse-drawn carriages through the cobblestone streets and the hum of the city beyond. A myriad of color -- lilacs and honeysuckle, dappled with the greenery that climbs along the facades of the townhouses -- a colorful oasis from the bleak gray and green of a Winter spent in the country.

However, today, the main square, where Pryhtian’s most ancient and noble families convalesce during the fairer months, is blanketed in an oppressive palette of indigo and gray as the last of the Winter’s storms ravages the world beyond Crescent House.

The sound of the howling wind as it rages like a great tempest through the streets rouses you from your perch on the chaise near the dying hearth.

The street below the parlor is veiled in the shadowed hues of the storm and not a soul in town has dared brave the wrath of the elements since the dourpour began. Hail patters dismally against the window panes of your families townhouse and an ice-kissed wind crawls its way along the exposed planes of your shoulders and collarbones and in the distance you hear the distinctive draw of a carriage along the main square, near Forest House. As you near the window you observe the hail as it falls like pearls from the darkening sky onto wet, cobbled streets.

From the oppressive darkness a carriage emerges; a considerable vehicle of polished wood, lacquered with dark emerald paint, the trim and doors are framed with delicate golden embellishments and the doors and rear bear a family crest, obscured by the gloom of the afternoon. The cart itself is drawn by four bay stallions with long, dark manes, sodden with the downpour. From the cabin steps a shadowy figure of a man, once obscured by the oppressive darkness, now illuminated by the lamplight; he’s all dressed in black, save for the white collar of a linen shirt and his long hair, curls away from his face in tousled, auburn waves. He burns most ardent against the bleak afternoon, even in the din of the oil lamps, he looks like something out of one of Feyre’s paintings. Or perhaps the formidable and brooding romantic lead of the romance novels Nesta so adores. Either way he cuts an intimidating figure in the dark streets of the main square. Tall and broad-shouldered, and rather rakish as he stalks up the steps of the townhouse opposite yours.

From your perch overlooking the street you see him turn outward; admiring the graceful planes of his face, the aquiline nose and high-cheekbones falling to the slender cut of his waist and hips and the broad spread of his shoulders and sculpted arms.

It occurs to you then that you have been all too obvious in your voyeurism.

You are watching him.

And he is watching you in return.

The very thought elicits something in you; something dark and sentimental and terribly anxious. It is a cruel, coiling thing, in the pit of your stomach. Some ill-fated omen. A harbinger of your own downfall. The ghost at the feast, or a raven in the night that spells your undoing. Whatever it is, there is a deep sense of foreboding in you at the prospect of what this dark figure might herald in with him.

The tolling of the city bells brings with it a flurry of movement on the street and your eyes meet his strange amber gaze across the way and he scowls. A deep furrow of a brow; the firm set of his jaw, the flex of a pale hand, before retreating into the house.

“Come away from the window girl,” Your mother chastises in her usual cutting tone as she eyes you from her place in front of the hearth. Her gloved hand inspects the fine silk fabric of the dresses the modiste had sent to her. She holds the fabric between those fine-boned fingers and drapes each swatch over the pale skin of her slender arm with a rehearsed ease as she takes the time to scrutinize every hand-sewn seam and embroidered adornment.

“Yes mama.” You say absentmindedly, casting one last longing glance towards the dark facade of the townhouse across the street, where the orange flicker of candlelight illuminates the window..

Your mother is an austere woman with a cutting sort of beauty rather unlike your own. Her eyes are cold and grey and her features, angular; feline in a way that is almost unnerving to look at. Though even in her age, she bares fine, high cheekbones, unblemished skin, and her long golden hair falls over the delicate slope of her shoulder in coiffed ringlets. She had been quite a remarkable beauty in her youth, it had been said. Now all that remains of her lost youth is an oil painting hung above the hearth-- the paint, yellowed and cracked with age-- and the legacy of her ancient and most-noble lineage.

Her piercing gaze falls onto you again as you take a turn about the room, perching on the cushioned bench in front of the pianoforte. You run a hand over the untuned keys and in your wake dust mites filter through the stagnant air.

That piano had once been the beating heart of this room; a symphony of high arching notes that rang through the halls of this house.

It has not been touched since Nesta left.

“You look drawn, my dear,” She says simply, her eyes cruel and unyielding as she looks over you and the fine silk draped over her arm, “green does so very little for your complexion.”

She considers you for a moment longer before turning to the modiste with a quirked brow. The seamstress at least, has the good grace to look apologetically between you and your youngest sister before nodding in agreement to your mother. She murmurs that a deeper shade of green would suit you better, though your mother ignores her entirely.

“Perhaps an emerald tone would suit better” she muses to no one in particular.

“It would make you look more…tempting” The modiste decides with a sly smile to you when your mother looses a shrill gasp. Your mother hums her disapproval once more from her spot in the armchair before turning her attention towards Feyre on the modiste’s podium as the slender woman takes her measurements for the last alterations to her gown.

“You look beautiful Fey,” You say lightly, pulling at your own faded sage gown as you regard your youngest sister, “the silver looks exquisite on you.” Feyre smiles brightly at you from her place on the podium and pulls a few strands of her long, golden hair to frame her face. She looks as though she is wreathed in starlight in the silver gown; the high bust lays perfectly over her chest and the cuffed sleeves are trimmed with silver thread and sheer lace and accentuate the slope of her strong shoulders, the skirts fall in a swathe of silk and chiffon and the pearls and opal sewn into the skirts catch like moonglow in the blue light. She smooths the skirts with a flair of her gloved hand and admires the matching slippers that peek out from the long hem.

“Hmm,” Your mother murmurs lowly, bringing a slender hand to her painted mouth as she assesses the garment carefully, “Yes - the silver favors you, my darling.” Your mother purses her lips once more and nods decisively at the modiste who offers a courteous bow in response.

“I have hopes that the Lady of Autumn might name you her ‘incomparable’, afterall.” Your mother’s voice is frightfully wistful as she casts a look up to her portrait hung above the dying fire. Beside it, on the mantle Nesta’s painted face stares back impassively at you and you feel anxiety twisting within you again. Feyre laughs. A small, disbelieving thing as she thanks the modiste and exits the parlor in favor of her sketchbook.

“She did so love Nesta when she was first presented,” You mother recalls, her eyes glassy as she sips at her cold tea with a grimace, “and your sister does so remind me of her.”

You smile fondly at the thought of your eldest sister; painfully absent for the last few years but missed dearly. Nesta had always bore the brunt of your mother’s cruelty -- until she could bare it no more -- and then you took her place.

“Yes mama, she will do very well at court.” You say genuinely, though your mother can’t bring herself to acknowledge you. You bite down the bitter taste of jealousy when her eyes linger on the portrait of Nesta hung along the mantel. The way her brows dip in a moment of fleeting grief for her favorite daughter.

When she looks at you again you get the sense that looking at you now -- in the pallid light of the storm -- is like looking in a mirror.

It is a mother’s curse you think.

A daughter’s burden.

Breathing deeply as the modiste pins the hem of the dress you find yourself thinking of the happy recollections of your childhood; you think perhaps your mother is reminiscing on those times too.

She had been the only daughter of an Earl somewhere on the continent once. Beautiful and graceful. Green and foolhardy. Named the incomparable of her own social season; she had dreams of an idyllic life in the countryside, summers shaded in the laughter of her many sons, and measured in the unyielding smiles of a good husband.

Of course, as was the way of things, her girlhood ideations had been nought but that-- dreams. Dashed and divided like stardust in a vast twilight abyss.

A series of scandals and bad investments led her to Pryhtian as the sole heir to an old name. A lamb to the slaughter by her own mother, to be the docile wife of some dull Lord, almost two decades her senior

In time, she did the same to her own daughters.

Time is a cruel mistress; and the woman she is now is one tarnished by the years. Imposing and cynical; demanding in a way that it was impossible to please her. In your youth you recall her endless cruelty towards you all, though none more than Nesta.

Her prodigy.

Her pride and joy.

It was that ceaseless need for perfection that drove Nesta away in the end.

So with the wave of her hand she gestures to you to take to the podium.

An ill-fated replacement for the daughter she lost.

Her perpetual disappointment.

The modiste is a young woman, who hails from the continent with beautiful dark hair that fell in coiled ringlets over her shoulders, she speaks to you in a low, velvet tenor and has a thick accent that distinguishes her to the natives of this land. She is favored by many of the young ladies of the Ton for her exquisite garments; each made with richly adorned and embroidered fabrics imported from her homeland. You watch impassively as she records your measurements and swatches a few scraps of fabric against your skin. The woman quickly discards the silver that Feyre had worn and opts instead for gold and offers your mother a few other options for your dresses this season; sapphire and cerulean, emerald and ruby, topaz and onyx.

Then selects a beautiful emerald gown, trimmed with jade and adorned with matching beads and crystals that shine with the glittering darkness of some forgotten forest when the light of the storm outside refacts in their many surfaces. The modiste admires the garment as she holds it up to you; her keen eyes finding yours and smiling brightly and nodding deliberately.

“This is the one,” She says, her accent so thick with delight that it is difficult to fully understand the words, “perhaps the Lady of Autumn might name you her favorite in your sisters place” She offers it jovially, almost in jest but your mother’s face twists nonetheless.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Your mother laughs cruelly as she regards you in the beautiful garment. You think perhaps that in you she sees all the things she hates about herself. Your mother takes a moment to scrutinize you; her eyes reap over every curve and divot of the skirts as they fall against you, every minute details to find fault where she can.

It is a mothers’s curse, not to know a daughter’s pain.

You imagine it is also a mercy too when she looks at you like you are her own reflection.

Her perpetual disappointment.

After another silent moment she nods her head to the modiste and rises to her feet. The tea cup rattles and rings viscously through icy air as she sets it down and wanders towards the doors.

“Oh Feyre darling, you look exquisite!” Your mothers voice is shrill and dripping with pride that elicits a strange sort of jealousy and you swallow down its bitter taste. In the foyer your sister glides down the marble staircase dressed in all her finery.

Feyre has the type of beauty reminiscent of a falling star; all pale skin, that looks like porcelain, dappled with the iridescent stardust that falls from the sky around her birthday each year. Her dress is one of flowing indigo and complemented by intricate silver embroidery along the cuffs and bust, the long line of her neck is adorned with pearls and diamonds that refract in the light of the chandelier; dashed and divided like a million stars in the night sky.

She smiles brightly and her laugh echoes like birdsong around the hall as your mother takes her hand. And almost like an afterthought, your mother regards you with thinly veiled horror at the garment that clings to you like a plate of armor.

A deep merlot gown, inlaid with rubies and pearls; that cast a bloody halo as you step into the light of the chandelier. The skirts bleed into a train made of gossamer thin spidersilk that has a metallic quality to it that makes you feel as though you are some ancient Goddess of love and war.

Aphrodite perhaps, as deadly as she is beautiful.

Your hands, though they tremble, bare many gold rings, each polished to the heavens so that she sees her face distorted in their many unblemished surfaces. There is a part of you that hopes craves your mothers love more than you long to insight her ire.

But that part of you died the day Nesta went away.

“How do you suppose you’re going to tempt a man into marrying you dressed like that,” She chastices, pulling at the skirts of your wine red dress, “you look like a common whore.”

“At least a whore is paid to abide the insipid company of boring men.” you counter under your breath as your mother strides out into the street. You catch Feyre’s eye and she smiles at you like a feral cat.

The rest of the carriage ride is spent in solemn silence as the facade of The town hall draws ever closer. You mother’s idle gossip about one Lord of the other hardly seems the rouse you from though as you watch the world beyond this cart pass you by.

The storm had broken sometime around midday and the tempest gave way to sunlight; soft ochre and gold as it filtered through the open windows of your father’s library, where you had spent the afternoon. Nestled into the worn armchair favored by your father and a quiet comfort when he is away. There, in the confines of your father’s study, you allow yourself to dream; of debauched gentlemen and tortured artists. Stories painted with the vivid imaginings of Gothic heroines and vast and sweeping landscapes. Of temptation and sacrifice.

It is a hobby inherited from your sister and one much discouraged by your mother.

But as afternoon bled into night you were called away from the pages of manuscripts written in some foreign tongue. For, the Lady of Autumn’s masquerade ball marks the true commencement of the social season each year. It is a night of mystery and secrets; of dark romance and all things fanciful.

It is the one night a year that you allow yourself to be swept up in the excitement of the season and tonight every eligible Lord and Lady will don their finery for a night of high-arching orchestral music and sweeping dances that herald in the social season.

It is tonight of all nights where the Lady of Autumn will name the incomparable of the season; a young woman both fair and accomplished that will inspire awe and ire in equal measure. For her troubles she might hope to tempt an eligible gentleman into marriage by summer’s end. And as your mother gives Feyre one more adoring look you know that she is hoping that your sister will insight that awe tonight.

The carriage draws to a tumultuous halt outside the doors of the grand town hall and you hear the distant laughter of courtiers. The chatter of the ladies distracts you momentarily and you catch their idle chatter; something about the new Duke and his wicked beauty. A beauty as cruel as he is, they say. Their chatter dies when they meet your eyes and they devolve into mean-spirited whispers about the poor Archeron girls and their absent sister.

“Quickly girls, we mustn't be late.” Your mother instructs and steps from the carriage turning expectantly as you disembark from the vehicle with all the grace you can manage. Your stomach twists in knots and the anxiety is so consuming that it addles your mind. So much so that any intelligent thought you might have had seems to abandon you.

The gardens of the town hallare saturated in the light of the last shadowed sunbeams as they are obliterated by the rapidly falling night; veins of indigo and amethyst that streak across the black. The air is heady and thick with the smell of wildflowers and wine and every now and again you catch the scent of half-burned oak and bergamot’s on the evening breeze.

The first of the season is in full swing and the courtiers look like a jewel toned fire in their finery; swathes of ruby and topaz, dappled with emerald and carnelian. You had felt the shift in the air when the sun had begun to set in the sky; that anticipation so palpable you could taste it. It tastes like wood and wildflowers, undercut with something darker.

You abandon yourself to the thought of it; what he might taste like.

Hedonism; earthy and dangerous as you swallow it back.

In an hour or two, when the stars materialize like a million quarts against the velvet abyss, the Ladies will retreat into the mazes, in twos or threes and their Lords, like hungry wolves will begin the hunt.

A hunt that will last the season

#acotar #acotar x reader #acotar fanfiction #eris vanserra #eris x reader #eris x you #eris vanserra x reader #eris vanserra x you #eris acotar #eris vandaddy

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nevertheless-moving · 9 days

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I have a handful of aus that involve bridge four becoming either briefly or unshakably convinced that kaladin is actually a herald (either one who lost his memory, or secretly, as a test for the lighteyes (they're not doing well)). Actually there's probably at least one guy in canon in WOK who has this as his only half joking pet theory and a couple others who are willing to hear him out for laughs. When the Tower run second ideal happens he's just like I TOLD YOU GUYS I STORMING TOLD YOU.

Anyway Bridge Four Shenanigans such as:

swearing by different heralds names extra loudly to see if kaladin turns around at one

One guy around a corner burning glyph wards dedicated to specific heralds at timed intervals while you watch kaladin carefully to see when he twitches

Saying blatantly wrong things about heraldic legends to see if kaladin will correct you. this one actually works sometimes!!

Eventually teft (assuming its not a time travel scenario where teft is also pretty sure radiants shouldn't just know per-recreance things) or kaladin realizes what's going on and exasperatedly explains his Actual Whole Deal. The guys still keep the bit going, 95% because they've learned it really annoys Kaladin, 5% because he might still be a herald that's testing them only he has a new name (its a very multicultural group of men. What's one more name for Jezrian/Yaezir/Yaysi). And if he is a herald testing them then that's a dick move to pull on your own bridge crew so he deserves to be mocked for it.

Bridge Four being Assholes:

Very satisfying to angrily snap "Kaladin's hands!" to his face when he assigns you night watch for the second week in a row.

Or even just doing a normal herald swear and then immediately following it up with "SORRY CAPTAIN NO OFFENSE." The more panic you fake the better. He sighs so hard, it's great.

a genuinely aggrieved "CAPTAIN'S TITS" got such hard laughs after Lopen stubbed his toe that Moash almost threw up

but unfortunately. as we all know. if you do something ironically enough times. it eventually becomes an actual habit.

And now some of the other bridgecrews have picked up on it and the Captain might actually send the guys who trained them on a one way trip to the tranquiline halls. Skar tripped in front of Prince Adolin and cursed without thinking about it and now the Brightlord is asking. a LOT of questions. Couple of pissed off ardents might get involved. It's messy.

#stormlight archive #kaladin stormblessed #bridge four #words of radiance #way of kings #stormlight au no 23 #stormlight au no 8 #stormlight au no 24 #stormlight au no 27B #stormlight au no 33 #my au #nevertheless cosmere

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slexenskee · 9 months

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The Continuation of Satoru Supremacy

Am I just going to slot this poor boy into every fandom? Signs are pointing to yes at this point lol. Ok so I've had either a JJK/HOTD and JJK/GOT crossover rumbling around my brain for ages now and its gotten to a boiling point lol. The JJK/GOT would probably be Satoru/Robb Stark and the JJK/HOTD probably Satoru/Aegon II. I have them pretty fleshed out in my head ngl.

THE PROBLEM is that I love his name, Satoru, and it literally makes no sense to have him reincarnate into ASOIAF works and somehow end up with that name, which means I would need to change it, and I don't know wtf to change it to.

Literally grasping at straws rn lol. I lowkey like Soren since it sounds Valyrian enough and also I feel like Satoru would be over the moon about it because he'd share a name with one of his favorite Fire Emblem characters.

Anyway the HOTD one would be a isekai/reincarnation AU with Satoru as Daemon and Rheanyra's surprise brothel baby that Rheanyra had to get shotgun-wedding'd to Leanor for 😅 so yeah Satoru is once again causing chaos and problems for other people just by existing... this time before he was even born! He's also called the Radiant Prince and also still the Honored One because he's basically a god and everyone in HOTD is going to damn well know it.

WIP:

In this life, as in his last, his birth was heralded with reverence and veneration, and wrought with untenable legacy.

He was the firstborn son of the Realm’s Delight, lovely and fair and every bit as preternaturally beautiful as his mother. He was said to have his grandmother’s Arryn blue eyes, the king’s tousled white curls, his mother’s smile, and the very birthright of his great Valyrian heritage etched into his very existence; from his heavenly features, to his dragon, to the very name bestowed upon him.

For days on end the whole realm celebrated his birth as a magnificent affair; bells tolled long into the night, nobles spilled from the four corners of Westeros bearing gifts of abundance and splendor, the smallfolk celebrated en masse along the streets of King’s Landing.

They called him a blessed child, a perfect child, a glorious new heir for the throne.

Upon his very birth the Princess Rheanys was said to have looked into his heavenly eyes and pronounced him a gift from the gods of old Valyria. Those same eyes, a precious, celestial blue resembling the late Queen Aemma, were said to have reduced his grandfather the King to tears from the moment he opened them. Lord Velaryon had named them a mark of the gods’ favor; such a curious, mystifying color, never settling no matter the lighting, as mercurial as a tempest sea.

Just the mere sight of such a marvelous child, a mortal so obviously marked by the gods, so destined for greatness, could easily quell the rumors beginning long before his birth.

Such derelict hearsay would never grace the ears of such a divine prince, of course. But he heard it anyway.

They rushed the wedding, they said.

The princess was meant to start her royal procession to select her prince consort, but instead was married to the Velaryon heir within a moon’s turn. (The King had to appease the Velaryon’s somehow, after the way he snubbed their pure Valyrian heiress for his Hightower bride.)

The babe came early— so suspiciously early. (The Princess Rheanyra was so young, of course she would have difficulty carrying to term. Didn’t you see him? The babe was born so small!)

And he looks every bit a Targaryen, not a speck of Velaryon to be seen on him. (But of course the blood of Aegon the Conqueror would run strong within the royal line— and the Princess Rheanys is his paternal grandmother, such features run on both sides. Why, look at Queen Alicent's children! Do they look Hightower to you?)

The Rogue Prince dotes on him, shockingly so. He perhaps even reconciled with his brother just to remain near the young prince. (The Rogue Prince has always remained stoutly devoted to his family, no matter his unsavory reputation, his loyalty to the throne is unquestioned. That he is just as devoted to his brother’s heir as he is to his brother is merely filial piety.)

No matter the rumors swirling around him, it only took a single glance from his blessed blue eyes to halt the whispers in their tracks.

His divine beauty and grace, his mystical eyes, his magnificent dragon— such pedestrian slander seemed silly and absurd in the face of them.

To question the legitimacy of the Radiant Prince, the Honored One… no mere mortal could possibly be capable of uttering such blasphemy.

#fic WIP #Gojo Satoru once again reincarnated against his will into other fandoms #Casually over powered Gojo strikes again #Gojo Satoru as a targaryen

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fushipurro · 4 months

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Red Lights Red Flags

Chapter 5 - Gold

<- Previous Chapter | Masterlist | Next Chapter ->

☆ Content: 18+ MDNI, f!reader, ronin!toji, courtesan!reader, jjk historical au, mentions of death/alcohol/abuse, past non-con, pet names, past trauma, angst, hurt/comfort, little smutty, dry humping, biting/scratching, nipple foreplay

☆ Word Count: 2.7k

New Year’s Eve is one of – if not – the busiest days of years, and that goes for the brothel. Some folks choose to spend the holiday with their family, paying homage to higher powers. Others choose to spend it by partaking in a false sense of love masked in decadence.

The streets of the district are packed with patrons coming and going. Many are barely able to keep themselves standing on their own two legs given the sheer amount of alcohol coursing through their system like it’s their lifeline.

Rumors of the murders have evolved into many taking sides thanks to previous victims of the four coming out to honor the assailant. That side tends to lean more into the women, specifically other courtesans or unlucky girls as opposed to those with more hidden, but similar values to the deceased.

The Zenin Clan went forward with their plans, posting the bounty through their military network. Their appearances in the brothel have been becoming more common as of late according to Shion. It’s mostly in attempts to scour the public in search of Toji, hoping to use his habits against him. No such luck so far as he remains three steps ahead of their every move.

You’ve done your best to keep a low profile, diligently working on your tasks and staying close to Shion’s side. Toji sneaking in through your window just before dawn to see you has become your thing, like some forbidden love. Daybreak has since become the time of day you most look forward to, with the sun peeking through, lighting up the darkness as it heralds in his return.

He stays by your side as long as he can until you fall asleep, admiring your performances, wanting to hear about your day, and all the little things in between. So long as he can leave having made you smile or laugh, then that’s enough for now.

Toji tells you of his own stories too. Now that his samurai title as been stripped, he’s now become something of a boogeyman to the populace. A stray Oni, disguised as a ronin, that wanders the historic city.

As you bided your time with chores, you’re alerted by your coworker to a guest waiting in your room. A tray of food is passed to you, and you make your way up to whomever awaits.

You take a deep breath before announcing yourself. It’s the most you can do to pump yourself up for whatever sort of client is on the other side of the doors. You enter as calmly as you can, keeping your head low in a bow, but your expression is stripped away when an all too familiar voice calls your name.

In that moment, the air is taken from your lungs and your skins gone clammy and cold.

No… it can’t be? Why here? Why now!?

You raise your head, ready to confirm it with your own fearful eyes.

“…Dad?”

This feels like a sick dream. So much so that the nausea is already bubbling up yet… you’re awake, no doubt about that.

“It’s good to see you again,” he starts off calm, like nothing the past two years happened. “You look good.” And it’s as though every emotion you could possibly feel comes crashing down you with the force of a tidal wave.

Here before you is a man who you were supposed to be able to trust with your entire being. The man half responsible for bringing you into this world to teach you the ways of life and love. Instead, he became a coward; tormenting you until finally abandoning you to your demise all for a bottle of sake.

Which speaking of, this is the first you’ve seen him in so long not holding one. Even the tray in your shaky hands is lacking that foul liquid. He looks to you with a smile nearly forgotten from your memories, so different from the grief-stricken anger you’ve come to know hauntingly well.

What do you even say in this situation? “Hi dad, it’s so nice to see you again, how have you been? Oh yeah no I’ve been perfect, I love getting beaten and fucked against my will!” Excellent conversation!

Before any coherent response comes out of your mouth, your eyes have long since glossed over in tears. The sensation of one droplet landing on your cold skin is enough to pull you from your head as you tighten your fist around the fabric of your kimono.

“W-what do you want?”

“It’s been a while,” He’s silent for a moment, ultimately sighing, “I just wanted to see how you’re doing, and… to apologize. For everything.”

Now that’s rich.

“You can’t possibly expect me to forgive you now,” you spit venom, fueled by the fiery emotions you’ve worked hard to keep at bay.

You feel a knot of thorns constricting your heart with every passing moment spent in this room. What was once a source of happiness was now just a cesspool of poison, so toxic and vile to breathe in.

“I know, and I don’t expect you to,” he says with your name punctuating the sentence. The pang you feel in your chest hearing it from him hurts from all the lost love. “I’m trying to get better and make things right.” He looks down to his knees with a sullen expression. “I’m sorry. I truly am.”

Now what do you do? Can you even believe him?

Part of you wants to break down and sob, wishing that he can experience a fraction of what you’ve suffered. The other half of you wants to forgive him in an effort to restore the family you once had that brought so much joy and purpose to your life.

You don’t do anything just yet, just staring between him and the walls with such bittersweet feelings conveyed in your gaze. The more he smiles, the more you can almost see your mother by his side alive and well, smiling at you like everything’s okay. That everything can go back to normal if you let it.

But she’s not there ─ she can’t be ─ no, not when she’s buried six feet under.

The only thing now to tether you to this Earth is the one hope you have left. A man equally as scarred as you who always has his head held high no matter what he’s up against. If he’s able to do against all odds, then that’s all the more reason for you to try and do the same.

Just as you had done before entering this godforsaken room, you take a deep, grounding breath.

“I cannot forgive you. Not now, not after everything you’ve done.” You continue to hold the fabric tight in your hands, knuckles white from the pressure. With a stern voice, you tell him, “I am however willing to listen to what you have to say.”

Your father sighs with relief, still giving you that gentle smile of old. “Thank you, that’s all I ask.”

“Don’t be mistaken. I’m not doing this for you.”

All is quiet again in your room after your father leaves.

You walk over to the window, propping it open to take in the cold, crisp air. A nice bit of relief after the turmoil you just went through. The first blush of dawn was still a bit off. Stars dotted the breaks in the clouds, meshing with the falling snow. You blink, and suddenly that view is obstructed with the sly grin of Toji himself.

“Hey princess.”

“Toji!” You shoot up from the ground, reaching for his free hand to welcome him in. His other hand grips the framing of the window as he steps inside, onto the tatami.

“Too many fuckin’ people out there tonight,” he scoffs.

“Well it is the new year after all. We’ve been pretty busy ourselves.”

“Yeah?” He settles onto a floor cushion with a resounding huff. “Any assholes bother you today? Seen too many of ‘em outside on my way here.”

His demeanor doesn’t go unnoticed by you, and you can just tell something’s bothering him. Crowds are one thing; it hasn’t made him act like this so that’s not it. You put your worries aside for now, sitting down at his side.

“Thankfully not, but–“

“But?”

You look down and away, “My dad showed up.”

Toji stays quiet, looking to you for any reaction with darkened eyes. He knows of your past, and more importantly the abuse committed by the father in question. He can only imagine why he’d want to show up now.

“He apologized to me,” you tell him. “Told me how he’s trying to quit drinking, taking better care of himself. Even mentioned to me how all my siblings are doing which was nice to hear.”

Toji can just feel his blood boiling. He doesn’t like this feeling nagging at him one bit.

“It almost felt like old times again when…” your voice trails off as tears begin to fall from your eyes. “…we were happy.”

He clasps your side, ushering you into lap in a warm embrace. Not a care in the world as always to how soaked his robes were quickly becoming with your sorrows.

“Did you forgive him?” he says through gritted teeth.

You shake your head against his chest. “No… I don’t think I’ll ever be able to trust him again. But I still want to hear him out.” He sighs, one hand smoothing over your back. “I thought of you though.”

“Oh?” He raises an eyebrow. “Should I be worried?”

“No, no, not at all,” you laugh, relieving him even more. “You’re always so brave no matter what… so I tried to do the same.” You pull back from his body, wiping your tears. “Guess I’m not quite there yet.”

Toji raises his hand to clean any missed spots with a calloused touch, gently fixing your hair on the sides. “You’re doin’ just fine, sweetheart.”

He notices the moonlight reflecting off the dewy look on your face, eyes moving downwards to your lips that are all too close, pulling him into their orbit.

One kiss is all it takes to send warm shivers down your spine, butterflies swarming in your core. His breath ghosts your lips after, jade eyes looking to you for approval.

You nod your head, letting himself return to your plush with desperate pulls and nips. His hand settles in the small of your back, pressing you against him once more with a firm grip. Your fingers reach around his neck, finding purchase with his raven locks, allowing the two of your bodies to unite as one.

Even in the height of winter, all the warmth you needed is right here holding you, refusing to let you go cold without him. His kisses are unrelenting, breaking your mouth with a whine from your own as he moves across your jaw and over your neck.

Your robe slips away from your shoulder with a turn of your head, granting the starved man access to more and more, letting him mark you up at his. Short gasps of pleasure escape from your throat, earning a groan from the man.

Toji’s other hand settles over your hip with his thumb dutifully rubbing circles over your thigh. In between your legs, a pool of warmth fills you like never before. There’s a pressure ─ undoubtably from Toji ─ that builds, threatening the confines of his clothes. It urges you to rock and forth, desperate for some friction.

His lips leave your skin with a pop, a trail of saliva still connecting him to you. “Fuck–“ he grunts, involuntarily jerking his hips upwards. “You feel so damn good.”

In the process of him pulling back, your kimono completely slips off your body, revealing your bare chest to him in all its glory. A salacious grin befalls his face, enraptured by your beauty when you take his hand and place it right over one of your breasts.

A jolt of electricity sparks you when his calloused thumb meets the bulb of your chest, sending a higher pitched moan straight out of your lips. Toji’s head falls to breast unoccupied by his hand, flicking your nipple with his tongue just to hear you mewl again.

Your fingers move from his head to his shoulders, gripping like the talons wielded by a bird of prey. Stars begin to dot your eyes, coming ever closer to a climax from the nipple stimulation alone.

And to Toji, it felt good.

He wants more than anything to lose himself to you right now. To make you happier than anyone ever could because he knows he can. If only you knew just how much you truly meant to him. But as quick as these feelings come, his thoughts are just as fast to remind him of his conversation with Yuki.

Even with you giving him full consent, it doesn’t stop it from feeling wrong to claim you when you’re not fully free just yet.

So, he finds the resolve to push you back just slightly by your shoulders, a scowl over his face over his disappointment with himself.

You say his name breathlessly, that oncoming high dissipating from your body. A slight look of panic came over your eyes at the suddenness, easily enough for Toji to see as he wraps you tightly in his arms.

“’m sorry,” he murmurs alongside your name.

“Did… did I do something wrong?”

“No,” he replies without missing a beat, firm as could be in his tone. “You did nothing wrong.”

You allow silence to take over, relaxing into his vice grip of comfort. His heart hums in your ear like a lullaby of sorts, slowing down as time goes on. His head falls deeper into the crook of your neck, sighing heavily.

“Are you okay?”

“…Yeah.” He pauses, pressing his nose to your neck, inhaling that sweet, comforting smell of you. “Just not the right moment to do this together.”

A gentle light begins to fill the room through the window, the shadow of Toji consuming you as the warmth hits his back. He clicks his tongue, unready to leave just yet despite his best wishes.

“Our first sunrise together,” you softly speak, raising your head to meet his eyes. “Happy New Year, Toji.”

His face lightens up at your smile, shamelessly staring back into your eyes. He decides right then and there they’re his favorite color. For a final time this night (morning), Toji plants a kiss right on your lips, feeling you smile against him as you return the favor lovingly.

You can still feel some lingering tension from the man, so you figure now is as good as any to ask, “What’s troubling you? Not a fan of the holiday?”

His voice rumbles in his throat, “Never had a good reason to celebrate it.”

“Well now you do,” you tell him while tapping his cheeks. “I for one look forward to another year of getting to see you, hopefully.”

“Hopefully?” He raises an eyebrow, lifting you from his lap. “You aren’t getting rid of me that easily, princess. Who do you think I am?” The corners of his mouth upturn into a smirk, one that you’re happy to see dancing across his face again.

“Good, I wouldn’t want to. These meetings are what make me want to celebrate another year of living, much more now than I did before I met you.”

Toji’s hand comes down on the crown of your head, rustling your hair until it looks like you just crawled out of bed after a twelve-hour nap. You open your eyes as he steps away towards the window.

He looks over his shoulder as he steps up onto the frame. “Thanks for the gift, sweetheart.” He winks.

“Gift?” you question, walking after him. “What are you talking about?”

“It was my birthday yesterday,” he answers, dropping out of sight to the ground below.

“Excuse me? Wait– Toji!” You stick your upper half out the window, finding his form looking up at you with a wolfish grin. “You should’ve told me sooner, happy birthday!” you shout, watching as he fades into the alleyways. “You better come back soon; you hear me!?”

While not visible to you, Toji’s face is beaming with joy, just for you ─ because of you. You’re his sacred treasure, glimmering like gold, making the price it takes to live worth it in the end.

☆ Notes: happy birthday my pookie bear <333 my turn to be oiled up and wrapped in a bow for my babygirl jiji to unwrap and enjoy

☆ Taglist: @fandomtrash5092 @catmania-choco

#jjk #toji fushiguro #jujutsu kaisen #jjk toji #jjk au #toji x female reader #toji fushiguro x reader #toji x reader #toji zenin #toji x you #ronin!toji #courtesan!reader

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ainyan · 1 year

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Questions to Provoke Thought

I like being asked questions about my OCs. I like being given prompts for flash fiction. They help me think and help me grow and they help me share something I’m passionate about - the stories and characters I’ve created. This post is to compile a list of the different prompts and questions I’ve come across, and I will update it as I find more. Feel free to ask me anything or borrow them for yourself. I’ve tried to link to the original (as far as I can tell) to make sure that the maker gets the credit. :)

This list is frequently updated. Check here to see if you have the latest!

Prompts and Sentence Starters

Humorous Writing Prompts

Fun Trope Combos

Kiss Roulette

Assorted Question Prompts

Twenty-Four Touches

Another Kiss Prompt

Prompts for Lavish Balls, Parties, and Secrets

Gentleness Actions Prompts

Prompts for Commands and Demands

Bad Morning Prompts

Friends Prompt Challenge

Soulmate AU Prompts

Prompts for Sharing a Bed

Kiss and Tell Prompts

Two-Word Prompts

Cuddle and Snuggle Prompts

Difficult Recovery Prompts

*Don’t Starters

Hurt/Comfort Prompts

Flirty Training/Sparring/Injury Prompts

Non-Verbal Love Writing Prompts

‘Broken Iris’ Sentence Starters

Love Language Prompts

Touching Tenderly Prompts

Written Notes Prompts

Touching Prompts

Touch Prompts

Question Prompts

One-Word Prompts

Outcast/Runaway Sentence Starters

Tol and Smol Prompts

Micro-Story Prompts

Compliment Sentence Starters

First Meeting Sentence Starters

Do Revenge

Kiss Prompts

OT3 Prompts

December Prompts

Variety of Writing Prompts

One Word Prompt & Genre

Non-Sexual Forms of Intimacy

Relationship/Friendship/SFW Sex Specific Ask Memes

OTP Questions

Polyamorous Ship Asks

Vanilla Sunday Asks

OC Questions on Friendships and Companionship

Couple Questions

Ship Opinion Bingo

Friendship Shipping Meme

Ship Ask Game - The Basics

Valentine’s Day Questions for Relationships

OC Questions on the 7 forms of Love

Ask About Family

Ship Questions Redux

Not-so-SFW OC Asks/Prompts

Sinday Sunday Asks

Sinday Asks

Smut Dialogue Prompts

OC Ask Memes

Choose Violence Ask Game

In-Depth Headcanon Questions

Misc. Ask Meme

Little OC Creation Ask List

Edgy OC Ask Meme

FFXIV Culture and Geography Asks

Studio Ghibli Ask Game

Pride Themed OC Ask Game

30 Totally Random Get to Know You Character Asks

100 Random Character Development Asks

Stat Attribute Asks

Flowery OC Asks

Resident Evil Themed Asks

Tarot-Card OC Asks

Colorful Interview Questions

If Your OC was an NPC Asks

SW:TOR Character Ask Meme

Cocktail OC Asks

Basic OC Asks

Battery Percentage Meme

OC Asks

Random Headcanon Meme

Yet Another OC Ask Game

Pink-Themed Asks

Vanilla Sunday Meme

Wholesome OC Ask Memes

Send a Playing Card

Headcanon Memes, Comfort Character Edition

Super Detailed Asks

OC vs. Villain Asks

Character Design Asks

Character Development: Hard Mode

Odd OC Asks

People My Muse Knows

OC Emoji Asks

Weirdly Specific Questions

Uncommon OC Asks

Random OC Asks

OC/WoL Interview Asks

Piping Hot OC Asks

Headcanon by Number

Starlight Celebration Asks

Misc. Ask Meme

FFXIV Ask Memes [WoL]

Heraldic OC Questions

Childhood Asks

Emoji Character Asks

Some Character Questions

Capital Virtues OC Asks

OC Question Generator

FFXIV Deity Asks

FFXIV Screenshot Meme

SFW Alphabet Ask Meme

Headcanon Meme

Headcanon: Send me a Symbol

OTP Asks

More OTP Asks

Games and Single-Question Memes

Ship Opinion Bingo

Send △ and Ask An Invasive OC Question

Sinday Rumors (potentially NSFW)

Music Playlist Minific Game

Sinday Asks/Prompts

Friendship Ask Game

Friend or No?

Send Me 🔥 For an Unpopular Opinion

Author Ask Memes

25 Questions for the Writer

Let’s Get Real Fiction Writer Asks

Questions for Fic Writers

Gemstone-themed Writeblr Asks

Ask Game for Fanfic Writers

Colorful Writeblr Asks

Fanfiction Writing Asks

Ask a Writer: Fanfic Edition

(Note: I always reblog a meme first - I only add it to this list after it’s made it on my dash at least once. No stealing for me!)

Please let me know if you find any broken links - I will fix them!

#ask memes #master list #ask and ye shall receive #please borrow!

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kivaember · 9 hours

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Michigan's Emblem

well a passing observation had me going down a rabbit hole SO JOIN ME ON MY JOURNEY

At a glance, the emblem looks pretty cool alright? But there are some things that leap out at me:

why does ur liger have five legs, michigan

the heraldic style of the liger

the odd placement of the blade for a heraldic style

the liger's positioning

So the leg thing is interesting to me, because in heraldic style, there are three ways that an animal can be positioned: rampant, passant and statant.

(Okay actually I lie there's more than three ways, there's like eight but there's three that's the most common)

Rampant is the one people usually think of first when it comes to heraldry: the animal is standing on its hindlegs, forelegs raised in a clawing motion or reaching out.

Passant and statant, however, is when the animal is on all fours. Passant is when a front leg is held up (much like how Ligertail's fifth leg is), and statant is when all four paws/hooves/whatever are touching the ground. Examples below:

Rampant

Passant

Statant

Now Ligertail is in both Passant and Statant thanks to its five legs. This is interesting because of two things:

Statant postures are more frequent as crests than on charges on shields, which refers to their positioning on the heraldry. So, uh, crest is on the top, and charge is on the middle rightish.

A lion in passant may be called a leopard, because way back when the general rule (for English heralds) was that a passant lion was termed a leopard and a rampant lion was termed a lion.

Actually I'll be a bit more detailed: a lion in passant guardant, that is, its head facing towards the observer, is called a leopard. A lion in passant where its head is facing forwards is called a lion-leopard. (Looks at Liger... Lion-Tiger...)

In an old manuscript called de harudrie, a leopard was considered "borne of an adulterous union between a lioness and a pard" and like a mule incapable of reproducing. So a leopard was considered an appropriate charge for a person either born of adultery or someone that's forbidden to reproduce (like someone who's sworn a vow of chastity). Meanwhile lions traditionally symbolises courage, nobility, strength and valour.

OKAY so we have that quick and dirty and very simplified heraldry info out of the way (for those of you who are more au fait with heraldry feel free to chime in if i got anything wildly wrong), what does this mean for Michigan's five-legged heraldic liger?

Firstly, that it's in both passant and statant comes across as if Michigan is caught between two states, esp combined with Liger which is a Lion-Tiger hybrid. Statant is a posture usually used on crests, and a statant lion is still acknowledged as a lion, but a passant lion ends up being launched into that ambiguous realm of 'leopard' - and the whole implication of being a bastard or chaste. I wouldn't be surprised if it's Michigan making a joke. Maybe he's well-known as a bastard son of someone important, but his Hero of Jupiter title has him vaunted as a respectable figure (thus Crest) and so it's one of those 'widely known secrets no one talks about or acknowledges'.

There probably is some clever heraldic thing that the five legged liger caught between statant and passant means... let the theories flow...

Anyway, there's one other thing too: Ligertail's, er, tail. The way the tail forks and the end tapers into a sword, curled over Liger's back, sort of gives me scorpion vibes. Is it intentional? Who knows. Maybe he wanted to match with the other bug boys, or maybe he thought it looked cool. Anyways, I'm looking at that scorpion-esque tail and going hmmm.

Anyway, this was a fun deep dive. Maybe the fifth leg was just an accident and Michigan kept it because well, lol, it's funny. Or maybe there really is a deep meaning to it all hidden behing obscure heraldry rules..... or even if there isn't, I'm thinking there is one now and no one can stop me.

#armored core #armored core 6 #g1 michigan #i love being insane about something bc i can just overthink these things #is it that deep? probably not #but i have a shovel and im going to turn this puddle into a lake by god

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bleachification · 1 year

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all that glitters is not gold

pairing: dazai osamu x reader (fantasy au)

warnings: none (for now)

summary: an inescapable fate bound by the vows of arranged marriage. a cataclysmic war that paints the plains red. a pair of royals, once friends, now bitter enemies. dazai osamu is the last person you want across from you at the end of the aisle, but the universe has other plans. as war, deception, and conflict rages on, you may find that he is your only hope of making it through this alive... even if it means putting revenge for his betrayal on the backburner.

authors note(s): this is the prologue of a long, multi-chapter fic i am currently working on. i will be uploading chapters periodically <3

fic playlist: ♫

ch. one: dissonance

ch. two: trojan horse

ch. three: in reverence

ch. four: a painting’s ire

ch. five: all men are equal

PROLOGUE

Heavy is the head of the one who wears the crown.

It sits on a velvet cushion atop a crystal podium, a glittering structure of gems and woven silver bestowed upon the Imperial heir, heralded as some divine artifact despite its classically human origins. The accessory is beyond extravagant. Well suited to the blue-blooded, as your father likes to say.

You beg to differ.

While others may view the crown as a symbol of royalty, prestige, and all the superficial qualities that make up the Imperial bloodline, it is something entirely different to you. It masks itself behind shining diamonds and intricate design when its true nature is nothing more than a pair of iron manacles.

It’s painfully ironic. The “sun of the Empire” shackled by the very thing that is supposed to bring about glory. The reason why is simple enough: the act of bearing the crown means surrendering to the throne and, with it, all freedom.

You swallow, heart pounding, as the glass dome is lifted, and a pair of gloved hands carefully extracts the headpiece from its idle seat.

The world slows to a crawl as a ray of sunlight catches on the crown’s stones and reflects onto you. The crowd, elites and nobles from all over the nation, fades into the background until nothing is left in your sight other than the crown, your father who holds it, and the man standing to his right.

Dazai Osamu. The very cause of your distress and contempt… as well as your future husband.

His eyes meet yours—clever things that betray no hint of emotion other than a clinical curiosity that has him silently surveying you like a scientist dissecting a confounding subject. Dazai Osamu picks you apart piece by piece, down to the very molecules of your being. Any other person would think themselves scrutinized, but you know better. He would have to care to take you under scrutiny—and Dazai genuinely couldn't care any less of you. You would find more affection for a crawling ant underneath his shoe than he could have for you. You are simply an object for him to rest his eyes on while boredom perseveres.

You, on the other hand, choose to face his gaze head-on and convey your feelings by glaring at him with a pure, visceral hatred. He may not feel anything towards you anymore, but your anger runs deep and wide, and it hungers for revenge.

Revenge against the man you are to wed;

the Prince of the enemy kingdom;

the one who betrayed you;

and once upon a time, the boy you had loved more than any other.

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monsoon-of-art · 1 year

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mer au idea, the four heralds are all eels.

I think the easiest answer is to just keep them as is! The Mythical and Legendary pokemon don't really need changing, because they're not natural animals! Manaphy and Phione can stay, Shaymin can stay, etc!

I might turn them into their animal forms though because I hate their genie forms, but thats a personal preference.

#pkm mer au

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britcision · 11 months

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Okay it’s time for the primer for the Four Heralds AU cuz I’ve got so much to post and some of it only involves the heralds tangentially so other people might read it.

SO!

As the title suggests, there are four heralds of Andraste:

Tavi Adaar - a qunari mage woman, she/her pronouns, bisexual, mostly blind (late stage retinitis pigmentosa), 23

Corin Cadash - a nonbinary dwarf warrior and blacksmith, they/them pronouns, sex positive asexual, ADHD and arthritic as hell, 42

Lluciano Lavellan - an elf rogue, he/him pronouns, femboy, omnisexual twink, seizures both of the motor and absence variety, AuDHD cranked up to eleven, 25

Séamus Trevelyan - a human warrior, trans man, he/him pronouns, gay as hell, chronic insomnia and hard of hearing (binaural, moderately severe), 37

Only Séamus was actually supposed to be at the Conclave, but Lavellan is our game protagonist and victim of most major plot events

(A different group from Adaar’s mercenary troupe were supposed to be sent, but got waylaid on the road so Adaar’s group subbed in since they had the shortest travel time

Lavellan was actually specifically told to stay as far away from the Conclave as possible with his scouting, walked over a single hill, and said “hmm where was I not supposed to go again oh well can’t be important” and went to check out the Conclave

(He was hiding from the other actual Lavellan spy when he came across Justinia and Corypheus)

And Cadash is a menace to society, entirely stealth free, chronic pain bitch who is about as subtle as a sledgehammer, but an unforeseen flu ravaged the local branch of the Carta and since dwarves very rarely get sick, none of them knew what to do about it

Corin, being a blacksmith, at least had a semilogical reason to be carting a large load of lyrium, and no one who talked to them for five minutes would believe they were capable of being a spy, which was close enough at the last minute

Trevelyan is the oldest son of the Trevelyan family in the Free Marches, who hoped he would eventually become a templar right up until this whole “rebellion” thing made it a bit unsexy

He’s a knight instead, and actually prefers living and training with the knights to being at home so he did get himself one whole non-nepotism promotion

Most of his friends and all of his subordinates went to the Conclave with him to keep the peace and be a bit more impartial. Oops.)

This whole thing mainly started with me looking at Cole and going “you know what would be funny and extremely counterproductive? An Inquisitor with ADHD hanging out with Cole”

So now we have four beautiful, disabled, queer heralds because why stop at one?

(Tavi has also been fucking around with time magic, mostly around Slow spells, and it got weird with what Corypheus was doing and accidentally replicated the anchor they were all playing Keep Away with

Lluciano got hit in the face with at least one, he didn’t used to have the green face tattoos but so many Dalish do that no one has asked and he hasn’t noticed yet

None of them are at full power, but they’re not quite even quarters and can combine when focusing on the same rift to speed things up

Corypheus only needs one)

The full herald rundown will be linked here when it exists!

Fic (by me) and art (by @ekwolfwood) will be added in reblogs

Lluciano and Corin are staring in most of it so far, by dint of Luci being the main character and Corin being A Problem On Purpose slightly harder than the other heralds

#the four heralds au #four heralds au #four heralds master post #dragon age inquisition #dai #dai spoilers

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buttertheflame · 6 months

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Open Call for Feedback 🔎

Hi Jonerys lovers, I’m a fic writer who’s been on hiatus for a few years and I’m back. Check out the prose. Does it drone on? I’m in the editing phase…

A Normal Family

4k words, Jon x Dany, Dany POV, post-ADWD, TWOW-speculation

(excerpt from chapter 1 of a 5-part au fic, sequel to A Long Way Home)

Castle Black

Present: 302 AC

Winter

She knew it was a dream when she felt the heat, for in Volantis, the air was hot and dewey—the evening almost as sweltering as the day. At first, Daenerys thought she was breathing fire—it was such a beautiful thing—as the oily Black Walls of eastern Volantis’s old blood gained a vermilion glow in the night. Within, a labyrinth of palaces, cloisters and temples burst into flame. Then out of the ashes came waves of slaves of every designation, crying, The Princess Who Was Promised! There were dozens. The dark eye has begun to lift from her! There were hundreds. The minions of the night will lose their temples of deceit! Then there were thousands. She will bring an endless Summer, and those who die fighting her cause shall be reborn! And tens of thousands. She is Azor Ahai reborn! Wait! Wait for the return of the blazing comet! Lord of Light, herald her coming!

“Yes!” she cried in ecstasy, carried by their fervor. “Yes!”

Daenerys could not even search for her sense of shame, for her Lord would not allow it. Not even when the great river westward then rushed to meet her, and took her through valleys at the feet of countless mountains. Far ahead, the Rhoyne broke into three different tributaries, causing the air to cool with them. Below, a field of poppies dotted the earth. It is the Trident, she realized, and settled herself further in the saddle upon Drogon’s back. She remembered. Her foes would appear, armored in ice, and she would burn them all.

Instead, a lone rider came upon a hill. The red helm of a two-headed dragon took shape, dotted with four rubies for eyes. The black visor was lifted. Daenerys did not wish to see her beautiful brother die again, so she opened her mouth to warn him, but she would not be heeded. Rhaegar turned to face the antlered yellow and black rider who had trailed behind him, thus revealing an infant in his free arm. She startled as the babe, held tight to his black gleaming breastplate, gazed at him in wonder. His buoyant laughter mingled with Rhaegar’s soothing voice. The father’s lips pressed to the soft infant crown, from which sad and sweet notes rose.

“He fixed himself wholly

And laid in the earth.

Then fashioned his crown

From a field of dirks.”

Daenerys mustered up a sob so strong it caused her to wake.

After a choked beat, she found Jon Snow next to her, his back also flat to the feather bed of their private room, his face turned to train dark eyes upon her, in the gloom of the very late night or very early morning. She had not wanted to look too closely at the red priests of Essos who had called her this promised prince. It was a legacy she did not want. When his fine hands reached her face, Daenerys’s mind grew desperate. I must pursue the Iron Throne. Jon wiped away her fresh tears then drew her into his arms.

“I’m here,” he whispered. “I’m here.”

She nodded against his chest, but failed to shake the tension from her belly and limbs. Her heart quivered with guilt for keeping this from Jon, and fear, over what he had revealed to her last night. I could have become one of them, he had told her, a week ago back in Winterfell. As she wondered why hadn’t he become one of those vicious wights when his body had lain cold for two days, the guilt that followed and her grief for Viserion stayed her tongue. Then he’d promised to give her the realm and afterward settle them on Dragonstone, once the wars were won. She couldn’t help but hold onto his promise.

A family and the realm. Surely, they could have both? But given the fresh news, she wondered…could hers and Jon’s children be safe with him? Could their line be safe with him? Could she and her royal consort truly achieve this goal? A family and the realm.

She thought of the cautious, wise and bold Ser Barristan Selmy, the Commander of her Queensguard who had lost his life half a world away fighting the reignited war against the Essosi slave cities. No more than a hundred days prior, it had been in a moment of relative peace, while the killings and slayings of her people were still going on: as she considered marrying the snake zo Loraq to broker peace, Ser Barristan had cautioned against marrying for political gain only, but to also consider love. He said that her grandsire Jaeherys had commanded his children to wed, for a woodswitch long favored by her grandmother had visited the Red Keep to prophesy that the prince was promised would be born of their line.

Daenerys jerked, then pulled away from Jon.

If this prince is what Jon said it meant…perhaps he had been born to die. The thought incensed her. Did Rhaegar really do this? Could he and Lyanna Stark have been so cruel?

Moreover, if the followers of R'hllor thought Daenerys was this promised prince…had she, too, been born to die?

Another sob rose…and the contents of her half-digested dinner followed. It stunk the frigid air, but her disgust wasn’t great enough to cause her to stop; her muscles took command, demanding that she retch until there was nothing left. It took her to the edge of the bed, where she groped blindly until she found a metal sheet and brought it forth. She was dimly aware of Jon moving to stand on the stone floor. He ran a soothing hand along her back and stopped to catch her hair, as she retched into the bedpan.

“Leave me!” she gasped, mortified. “Jon, please.”

He hushed her. “Daenerys, please do not be ashamed! I’m here. Do not ask me to leave. I’m here.”

He moved the hand on her back faster and focused on the span between her shoulders, trying to coax the tension out of her muscles. Chagrined, she took his other hand, which he squeezed. It was bone dry and warm, a solid comfort she was distantly aware of, and no more.

Jon passed a hand through her hair one last time, pulling her from her haunted musings. She huffed, licked the acidic grit from her teeth, and then pulled herself back up to lay down on her side. When Jon pushed the bedpan aside to kneel on the floor, a realization came. Words are wind, she had thought, for so long, especially the prophecies among them. Yet so much had happened since the maegi tricked her in the Plains of the Lhazarene. Now that she was here beside her lover, pondering all they meant to the greater world, it was so clear to her now. There was something to Ser Barristan’s words that he and I could not have foreseen. Does everything happen the way it must? Some called it fate. Her wheezes were the only sounds as the sickness left her in a slow drip. They eventually slowed to a halt and her breaths returned to normal.

The outlines of Jon’s handsome face came into view, his dark brows pulled and lips pouting with worry as he seemed to search her eyes. She cupped his cheek weakly, and smoothed her thumb along his stubbled jaw. Weary though she was, she would not be able to return to sleep.

Leaning forward to press his lips to her forehead, Jon whispered, “That’s good. You’re alright. It’s alright, now, Dany.”

He swept the hair from her face, stroked her neck, brushed her shoulders then eventually palmed her waist. She shivered, delighting in his much needed closeness. Then he kissed her forehead again. He climbed into bed again and gently drew her into his arms, encouraging her to tilt her head back to rest on his shoulder. He rubbed light, soothing circles on her belly for many long, peaceful moments. She felt like a rock tumbling in the flow of a river’s current—unable to see yet unable to distrust its strength. What was this? Undeserved peace?

When she followed its source, she found herself musing once more.

Many ran to and fro to search for the one who was promised. Somehow, in all the Known World, the two bearing the designation had met and were in this bed, at this Wall. The Lord of Light had called upon Jon to continue his fight and gave him renewed life. Of course, of the stories she’d heard, none who had been given the kiss had been half as worthy as Jon…but perhaps His grace covered all of mankind. For, when asking R'hllor to give them a glimpse of His chosen, the red priests had seen her and him—their deeds and the shadows they cast—in the flames.

What, then? Was He faithful? Had he held her life in His hands the way a hen huddles chicks beneath her wings? Had he watched her all this time, patiently waiting for her to acknowledge Him? Was He as good as His word?

Her soul had quieted some, enough for her to sense an answer…

A whisper upon the wind.

____________________

Jon had sent for the maester. Once he returned, he helped her to finish building a fire in the hearth, with good humor and quips that no queen should ever tend to such a task. Much needed light and warmth filled the air and brought her once more into his arms. In a quiet voice, he suggested they speak as little of Samwell Tarly as possible, for it was likely that he would send word back to the Citadel about him, the novice who had fled with stolen items of knowledge. Though Archmaester Theobold had no proof, he certainly suspected Samwell. Daenerys was certain that the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch would be furious with the ordeal. He did not strike her as one who enjoyed dealing with the unexpected. In some moments, neither did she. Especially today, it would seem.

“Your assessment of Dolorous Edd is correct,” Jon chuckled. “But why should he enjoy it?”

“He seems quite good at it, to have lasted longer at his post than you,” she teased. “We should all enjoy what we are good at.”

“We should. But we don’t.” He did not jest as she thought he might; instead, a frown had taken his features. “Our Sworn Brothers once called him Sam the Slayer. He was training under Maester Aemon as a steward; I sent him to the Citadel to forge a link or three, not to become a stealer. But I suppose Euron Greyjoy’s threat to Oldtown convinced him to return quickly. This matter…it is something the Lord Commander will have to deal with.”

“With your help, I am sure. Those letters of yours must be invaluable to him.”

His frown deepened, brought on by some aggravation unknown to her. Did he still feel guilty for giving counsel on the Night’s Watch operations? Perhaps his discomfort was prudent. He allowed her to part from him with some reluctance. She could feel his gaze upon her back as she moved to the small table near the lone glass window, musing. In Winterfell, Samwell had told her that her great uncle Aemon Targaryen had loved her, that he had wanted to help her, but he died once their party had docked at Braavos. With her chin in hand, tears blurred her view of the dark courtyard far, far below. Would this great uncle of mine have known Rhaegar? Did they somehow discover his prophecy together? Did he approve of his designs on the realm? What even were they? It was still early enough that dawn light was still hours away. At its appearance, their task to march their army of two-thousand men to fortify their designated castles on the Wall, would come too soon.

“My love…I have never seen you so ill! Did last night’s turnip stew somehow disagree with you? I know you prefer simple dishes.”

Jon knew she desired some space. He had moved to the desk on the other side of the room and leaned against it. Despite the brief respite of earlier, her mood had soured with the taste of bile in her mouth. She raised one shoulder in answer. “It was simple enough.”

“Your dream. Do you want to tell me about it?” Growing irritable, she sighed again.“What I said last night, of my mother’s line…it upset you, didn’t it?” She startled at his accuracy, and his voice rose again, now tremulous. “Was it a dragon dream you had?”

“I…” The babe in Rhaegar’s arm flashed before her eyes. Her heart quickened. “I don’t know.”

The silence that followed was just as painful.

“I am so sorry, Daenerys. I will be more careful.”

“No,” she said quickly. “No, Jon. Don’t be sorry for anything. I need you. Don’t hold anything back from me.”

Not again, she thought. Never again.

“Sweet Daenerys, don’t be afraid. You have me. I’m yours.” He tracked slowly toward her. “I just…I cannot hurt you again. I will not do that again. I would rather die.”

The sudden knock at the great door announced the arrival of Buford of House Belmore. Jon reached her, and passed a soothing hand down her back, then casted pained looks at her even once they turned to scour through their chests to make certain their clothing was decent enough for company: Daenerys in an ankle-length undersilk below a wrapped woolen shift which she tied at the waist, Jon in an undertunic and leather breeches. Once their boots were on, she soothed his pain with a kiss on his cheek and enjoyed his small smile. Then he opened the door and allowed the maester of Castle Black to enter. The other man was overly tall and not yet aged, with light brown hair turning gray at his temples, thin locks cut neatly across his forehead and around his large ears. Eight chains formed a rather tight link around his neck and brown rough spun robes, but they did not weigh him down. Carrying his medicines in a hide, he tucked it under his shoulder then bowed to the Dragon Queen and her royal consort, the King in the North. A steward training under the maester came behind him with a contraption that folded out into a table. As the maester rested his hide and rolled it out on the table, the steward asked for the location of the bedpan. Once he had it in hand, he exited the room and closed the door. Maester Buford thanked King Jon for sending for him so quickly, then sat down to work.

It was a stilted conversation—not much was said, for which she was pleased. Daenerys wanted to get through his examination without any more shame than she was already feeling. He felt below her jaws to test her glands, then asked her to open her mouth of which he looked inside with a small candle, finishing with a check to her pulse at the wrists, then testing the tension of her belly. The maester did not know them, so after concluding that all was well initially, he spent the next few minutes choosing an herbal potion for her to drink over the next fortnight. Once the small vial of purple liquid was in her palm and she was chewing a piece of sourleaf to cleanse her mouth, he looked between the young rulers and folded his palms in his lap.

“If I may ask, your grace…when did your moon blood last come?”

She could not answer the question directly. “It comes in fits and starts.” But he merely blinked at her. “My cycle is not regular.”

“Has it always been this way?” When she would not respond, he said, “Forgive me, Queen Daenerys, but I have heard the story of your previous pregnancy, some years ago, in Essos.”

“My son is not here with us, is he?” she snapped. “Forget those stories—I tell you now, he was not viable. That is what the healers said. He could not be carried to term.”

“I…see.” He trembled, as if afraid. “I am truly sorry, Queen Daenerys.”

Jon shifted on his feet, but said nothing. He squeezed Daenerys’s fingers.

“Forgive me, Maester Buford.” She swallowed the remains of the bitter leaf. “Already, it has been a long morning. And the blood of the dragon runs hot. You see, I often wish my son could have come into this world to experience it for himself.”

Jon sucked in a wet breath and snuck a hand into the nape of her hair; something far too intimate for their guest to see.

But his touch was grounding, and preceded a memory that followed on the heels of her shaky gratitude. It was like standing on the shifting grains of Dragonstone’s cold beach. There, many weeks before they had discovered the island’s northern caves, she had shared with Jon the tale of her dragons’ births upon Drogo’s funeral pyre, as the red comet had passed from west to east. His quizzical requests for more details made her overcome with grief, and so with sympathetic lines around his eyes, he had beseeched her. Say anything about your past, and I will not turn away. Tell me everything, and I will not turn away. The salty Autumn air had filled her tongue, as Rhaego’s name lingered among the virulent waves. She could almost see Jon’s stunned features, sense the comforting strength of his arms around her, and catch the scent of his borrowed furs. It was the first time she had cried in front of him.

Now, she covered her hand with his, when it found rest on her shoulder.

“I understand, your grace,” the maester replied. “It is a great shame. But from what I can see, you have done well to carry on, for which we who aim to fight the dead are grateful. Perhaps the Gods will grace you once more.” He passed a glance over to Jon, and then gave her a small smile that almost reached his eyes. For all intents and purposes, the examination of this maester was not as cold as she had feared.

Curiously she asked, “Do you have any gods, Maester Buford?”

“I follow the Old Gods, your grace. Like my father before me, and his father before him.”

“The Vale is your home,” Jon said, speaking for the first time. “Your brother Lord Benedar holds Strongsong…and has stayed in Winterfell to support my sister Sansa for many moons, now.”

“Aye. But I must correct you, King Jon. I have no brothers but those in black.”

Jon paused, and then he chuckled.

The maester continued. “Perhaps Benedar would have left me as castellan instead of our cousin, but I am already a maester, and I am quite comfortable here at Castle Black. It is the lot that life has cast for second sons and such. But you, King Jon, have risen above all odds.”

Daenerys understood why this maester thought such a notion would be appreciated by Jon, but she knew it was another matter he must worry about. She gestured for him to make himself comfortable, but he gently refused and continued standing at her side.

“All odds.” Jon seemed to weigh the words. “I didn’t do it on my own, ser. Neither did I seek it. If any of our—your brothers ask, please relay that message to them.”

A wrinkled brow relayed the question, Why should it matter? But the maester was wise not to speak so insolently. Ponderously, he shifted his hands on the makeshift table. He could sense that he was being dismissed.

“Very well, your grace. Queen Daenerys, you should eat smaller meals with greater frequency, if the sickness returns on the morrow.”

She eyed him warily. Did he, too, think she was with child? Could he sense that she wasn’t yet certain if she wanted to be?

He moved to his feet, then inclined his head to her. “Only if. In any matter, the vial should be consumed once daily for a fortnight, as I have said. It was a pleasure to have your private audience. I look forward to serving you both in this Great War.”

Somehow, Daenerys doubted that. He did not seem as single-minded as Jon and Samwell’s stories of Maester Aemon. If anything, he seemed to be all talk with little bite. Perhaps it was the least one could hope for, to make one a good maester. As she mused with an absent frown, Buford Belmore rolled the hide holding his vials and instruments closed, then bowed to them both. Daenerys thanked him with as much sincerity as she presently could, as fear slowly snaked around her heart.

Once he neared the door, Jon called after him. “Maester Buford, as you are aware, Queen Daenerys and I are not here to take a tour of the Wall. I hope that when our army has finished its task, we will meet with you again, and discuss other matters with Lord Commander Tollett. Until then, I wish you good fortune in the wars to come.”

Though Buford Belmore’s brows rose to his neat fringe, he obeyed at once, bowing again to them. At the opened door, the steward fetched the table, folded it up and then followed him out. Once the door shut, the crackling fire in the hearth resumed its prominence.

“Why did you say that?” Daenerys asked, craning to meet Jon’s eyes.

“He should know that I will be thinking of him. I do not want him to be the cause of Samwell’s downfall. What will we do if the Citadel found it within them to track Sam down and try him?” He shook his head. It was growing light outside; light enough that his black curls looked less like one mass, and revealed their individual beauty. “I am always thinking of you, as well. Do you really think you could be with child, Daenerys?”

Her gaze turned even softer, eyes tracking the hope and fear lining his face. She had once bared her shame to him and watched with tearful awe as it fell into his hands. What would he say now, that he was called to share this burden once more? She pulled him close by the waist, then tilted her head back until he kissed her. Relief loosened her tongue.

“I hope,” she whispered against his mouth. “And yet I do not hope. I do not think I would deserve something so beautiful.”

“Deserve?” He pulled away, with gentle fingers at her chin. “You are the most deserving! You are the most patient, the most kind. You have never tried to stop understanding me.”

“It is easier than you think, Jon Snow.”

“So you say.” Ignoring her evasion, he gave her a tremulous smile. “My brother and sisters say I am a pain. But you…are a rare, unearthly thing.”

She turned her profile toward him, yet he followed on shifting feet; beautifully quiet, always quiet and thinking. She tried to brace for what would come next, but when he spoke softly, as if to avoid spooking her, she was caught away again.

“Daenerys, what do you think Rhaego would have wanted from you? He would have not wanted you to be ashamed. You were tricked into losing him.” A sob came up her throat, just as wet as the one that had preceded her episode. Unperturbed, Jon drew his arms around her. “I know it is hard, and you have been so brave to have come so far. But I believe you will have to become braver, to bring a child into this world.”

“Bravery has nothing to do with it.” She hesitated once the words were out, although she couldn’t quite call it a snap, weary as she was. Jon did not take offense, nor did he judge. In fact, the preserverant brightness in his eyes carried her gently down that river.

“Forgiveness, then. Rhaego would have wanted you to forgive yourself.”

“He…” Daenerys hiccuped.

“He would have wanted you to be happy. Isn’t that so, my love?”

After a beat, she nodded against his chest, for the second time that morning. It was absurd. Despite being so unceasingly vulnerable on the morning of a march, this was too important to dismiss, delay or bury. Jon knew it well. Now, it was he who hesitated.

“I should have told you this long ago. If you would like…he could be as much mine as he is yours. My sweet Daenerys…” He brushed her silver-pale hair behind her shoulders, trailing the fingertips there as he went. He whispered in her ear, stirring her aching heart further up and up. “He should not be mourned alone, nor remembered alone. I can bear this pain with you. Please, let me.”

It was madness. Although there had been the recent loss of her dearest child Viserion, Daenerys had all she wanted. Across Essos, hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions, of people whose chains had been broken; their cries of freedom reached the ears of each and every god, as they worked with each other to keep it so. A place to vie for in the hearts of the men, women and children of Westeros; and in that place was a war to fight and people to bring peace to. In Jon Snow, a friend, family, a lover—and at his side, home. She had leaned on the certainty of these things for so long…had made herself content with them for so long…that the slim possibility of bearing a living child for him—while Mirri Maz Durr’s impossible prophecy echoed in her ears—caused Daenerys to snap shut upon herself like a timid creature in a shell. It was a misguided try at protection. It was not her nature, for she was blood of the dragon. In fact, she knew she was hurting herself, hurting them. But he was wrong. Her cursed womb was still barren, and was not his burden. Nothing had happened to not make it so.

“Jon, what if…what if there is nothing but pain in store for us? Nothing but grief and blood and smoke?”

He surprised her again, and immediately calmed the tempest.

“Then I will ask you now, of myself.” His sudden smile was brilliant. “Who could love a dragon?” Her wide eyes gave answer enough. He understood her, then. Of the two of them, it was hard to say who had doomed their line more. “Daenerys, even if there is only you and me…then every moment with you is one I will cherish.”

“Even now?” she asked quickly, greedy. That too, she would need to hear again.

“Especially now.”

It was a vow. Even if her bout of illness was a fluke, or if she couldn’t bear a living child, or if they failed to ensure Winter gave way to Spring… They could still be happy. At her stunned silence, he squeezed her once more, then gently pulled away, to trail his hands down her waist and land at her hips. Her softly trembling arms came around his shoulders and she felt utterly safe. Through the lone window, dawn light cut across the floor and landed at their feet. Time slipped away more quickly, as they shuffled to their feet. The fullness of their dancing hearts could not be contained, and so they touched foreheads, swaying in the incandescent beam.

“It is something to think on, while we are separated. I will wait for your answer,” he murmured, then smiled again when she kissed his cheek as a prelude, lips lingering on his stubble, hands finding purchase on his arms. “This, you should also know before we march. After we left the outlaws in the Ice Cells yesterday, I spoke with Edd. I am not yet certain our men will be safe with the Watch.”

She swallowed thickly. Indeed, his long-standing discomfort was prudent.

“What is this about, Jon?”

His face grew long and sullen, and he worked his mouth - as if holding back a scream brought on by a haunting specter. Peace, her lover had found, yet rest, he had not.

“Me.”

to be continued

If you’ve read this far, thank you. You don’t have to have read the first fic, A Long Way Home, to give an opinion on the prose. The prose in that fic was more succinct. Now my muse is calling me to meander through Dany’s introspection, since there’s extremely personal stuff going on…on the morning of a military march. I worry that the inner monologues drone on for too long. Thoughts?

#books #asoiaf #asoiaf fanfic #jonerys fanfic #jonerys #daenerys targeryan #jon snow #otp: we could live together #my writing #writing stuff #*#this is a draft #I’d like to edit it a few more times #but I need direction #from fellow jonerys lovers #gimme gimme #your thoughts

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ohmrmulletman · 3 months

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FIC REC:

if you're a fan of subversion of tropes, incredibly well thought out and nuanced world building, political intrigue, forbidden love, incredible characterisation, and beautiful writing, I really recommend You must have hesitated (for you lingered a good two steps) by ghosttamer on ao3.

It's so glorious, I adore castiel with all my heart in it. The parallels the fic draws with canon are SO fun and juicy, the way canon is woven into the world building and the references and nods to the show or certain destiel moments is so fun to read but the way it's still very much unique and its own thing is so deftly done. Anyway, I just think everyone should be reading it. It's still a wip but don't let that stop you!! And I don't often read soulmate aus but this is SUCH an interesting look at the trope, in the way its incorporated into the culture of the world in the fic but also taking a trope and subverting expectations and exploring non normative stories about it.

Most importantly it has insane destiel who are not normal about each other. And also it has castiel pov and well.... I not immune to the gay angel yk

You must have hesitated (for you lingered a good two steps) by ghosttamer

Summary:

It was heralded, once upon a time, that unity resided in four small symbols etched in the skin of the newborn princes.

This was, of course, a poorly made translation,

Or,

Dean and Castiel as Guinevere and Lancelot to Michael's Arthur.

Relationships:

Castiel/Dean Winchester, Minor or Background Relationship(s)

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Historical, Royalty, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Prince Dean Winchester, Knight Castiel (Supernatural), Arranged Marriage, Castiel and Dean Winchester are Not Soulmates, but they still end up together, Infidelity Outside of Castiel/Dean Winchester, Courtly Love, Happy Ending, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Canon-Typical Violence

#i just think its neat <3 #destiel #fic rec #fic #destiel fic #knight au #I AM NORMAL ABOUT THIS FIC. PROMMY #youll have fun. (mrs doyle from father ted voice) ah go on go on go on

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nevertheless-moving · 2 months

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stormlight au number 27. Elhokar and Kaladin time travel from Oathbringer to Way of Kings.

IMPORTANT: kaladin and elhokar develop weird unhealthy codependent situationship.

(MAJOR Oathbringer spoilers below)

...

Kaladin isn't pulled away by Adolin when he has his meltdown over Elhokar's death, over not being able to Save Everyone, and instead clings to Elhokar's dying body as a symbol of his failures. When Kaladin is killed in the confusion, something - the universe/ sja anat/ tattered pieces of honor and odium / hey maybe even adolnesium themselves who knows is like - errr. What. nope. Not my special boy! Go back, Try Again.

Kaladin wakes up in Way Of Kings, maybe a highstorm or two before the Tower. Kaladin is just like ah i see eternal damnation. Eternal damnation for my failures. Takes a little time before even considering the idea of time travel. Fortunately his attitude and response to thinking he's been consigned to everlasting ironic torment is remarkably similar to his response to the events of the first book, so a few days go by before the bridgecrew notices he's more fucked up than usual.

Elhokar wakes up and (i enjoy the idea of THE COSMERE ITSELF SAVING KALADIN STORMBLESSED! and also Elhokar is there!) has no idea what to do. Testy with both thadeus and dalinar. Figures out some lightweaving. Maybe passes an order that the bridgemen should all have shields, in case Kaladin doesn't remember the future either, as a little goodwill present. After a couple more days he sneaks out to thadeus's bridgemen barracks to ask the hero for help, since none of the other kholins are responding to his leading mention of things he saw in 'dreams'.

Obviously he's not going to show his actual face when the guy who murdered him is in the room.

Dark amorphous blob with glowing blue eyes entering the barracks: Greetings Stormbles - do you all just sleep on the floor? And what is that smell? Heralds, this is depressing. Bridge four: WHAT THE - VOIDBRINGER! VOID- Kaladin : calm down, men, that's not what a voidbringer looks like. I think...its an unmade? Are there unmades in damnation? Only - that voice...do i...know you... Dark amorphous blob with glowing blue eyes: well, looking around, i suppose i can see why you would think this is braize, but come on, we're not actually dead and the almighty sent us ...here... for a reason. I need you to do your hero thing, huphup. Kaladin: ...shallan? Dark amorphous blob with glowing blue eyes: I suppose I am glad for the memory confirmation, but do i look - ugh - okay for hopefully obvious reasons i'm not going to put my true face on, so don't be an idiot and blurt out my real name, but i can probably wear the, ah, outfit she picked for me in Kholinar [Amorphous dark blob turns into pretty light eyed woman]: tada! Bridgefour: uh Teft: storms...you're one of them too...i think... Skar: does anyone else feel like we're in more danger now? Like better we were found with a voidbringer in our quarters than a brightlady? Drehy: no, i agree Hobber: shh! We're finally getting the captain's mysterious backstory ! Bissig: i TOLD you guys he must have got involved with a brightlady Leyten: and i bet on voidbringers which we all agreed was 10 to 1 so i'm pretty sure i'm winning Kaladin: Kaladin: [starting to tear up] Brightlady: uh Kaladin: [grabbing brightlady and audibly sobbing] Brightlady: UH Teft: storms you really broke him Brighlady: what! I have no idea whats happening! He doesn't even like me! You all must have done something to him! Kaladin: i thought...i failed you...that I cohldnt save you...i saw you get stab ed Brightlady: oh...huh. you really take that 'protect everyone' thing seriously. Do you do this every time someone you're guarding gets hurt? Moash: yeah... he's pretty much always like this Bridge four: [general nods of agreement] Brightlady: [awkwardly patting kaladin on the back]: well. The good news is i'm much more stab resilient now! Aha. Still would prefer not to... Kaladin: [weeping] Brightlady: come on bridgeman, there's a desolation coming remember? Saving the world and all that? Rest of bridge four:

Anyway Elhokar somewhat intentionally leads the non Kaladin members of bridge four to believe that the actual Elhokar is dead, and that he (she? No, he, i think. Maybe they? Just - just go by what face i'm wearing!) has taken the king's place through dark magics. He assumes that the bridgemen will like him better if they think he's some sort of unholy kingkilling blood sorcerer, as opposed to the actual elhokar kholin.

Depressingly, he's right.

Unhealthy situationship! They both see each other as a Symbol. Elokhar is the Chance to Save Everyone. Kaladin is the True Hero and Leader. Kaladin starts tutoring elohkar on how to be a good person and leader, blaming his death on not doing so earlier.

Kaladin's ability to do so is somewhat hindered by his deep unwillingness to see elhokar in danger, and his extreme tendency to take control when he sees something wrong. He objectively recognizes that this was also dalinars problem, but still shakes like a chihuahua sometimes to avoid grabbing elhokhar by the scruff of the neck when he does something stupid. Definitely questionable how qualified kaladin is for teaching, but like. There is progress.

Elhokar uses kaladin ruthlessly as a glowing flying tool to instill fear in his highprinces, which makes kaladins skin crawl a little, but it is helping enforce a lot of social changes protecting darkeyes that he never dreamed could happen.

Elhokar at somepoint offers to lightweave kaladin and make him king elokhar instead.

Kaladin doesn't even know where to start unpacking that.

Intriguingly, the whole not seeing the man for the symbol thing, while being Not Great, is also the source of a bit of solid common ground for each other. A few dizzy moments in private where they connect uniquely on what it is to have no friends who are not followers. Of never being allowed to be just a man.

Also some incredibly specific trauma bonding of living through the actual apocalypse. Both have some serious issues regarding dying in the absolute shitshow that was that the unmade palace. Mutual extreme distress when elokhar accidentally lightweaves a flashback. Please imagine a servant walking in on King Elhokar and Lord Stormblessed clinging to one another and shaking on the ceiling while a nightmareish orgy of death takes place beneath them. Paid off extremely well to never discuss what she saw, not that she'd be able to explain it.

Hard to completely cover up because she ran away screaming. Couple people assume the two men were fucking, but honestly most assume by her genuine distress, i mean jokes aside, those are two very good looking men and she was, you know, screaming in terror, so almost definitely not that. Some sort of vision from the almighty? Maybe a voidbringer??

Bridgefour, under the impression that 'elhokars' 'true form' is closer to the shadowy nightmare blob they initially saw (do you know how hard it is to lightweave invisibility? It was a rough draft, alright?), are largely convinced that she walked in on that. And maybe them fucking, uncertain about that part. They are initially supportive of their captain's potential monsterfucking (the man deserves to relax) but grow increasingly concerned about some of the red flags in their relationship.

Anyway, needless to say, dalinar and kaladins dynamic is weird in this one. Still a fair amount of instant mututal respect. But now elhokar is cribbing shamelessly from dalinars hero journey and calling him out on his tendency to seize power, undermining elokhar. So dalinar feels a lot more wobbly about his place.

Apparently not even the visions from god are special, elhokar and his secret radiant (a real radiant!) had been receiving some too? Better, more useful ones even?

And the radiant is taking his place in elhokars trust, and calling him out even MORE for not teaching elhokhar how to be a leader when he was younger, stormfather, did you want him to fail? how did it get this bad? Fortunately, Dalinar is willing to get humble and Grow. Honestly, dalinar and kaladin are probably in a better place. More mutual trust. Less constant exchange of unpayable debts. Kaladins rank is really confusing, but theyre closer to equals than they were in canon.

Teft: lad we need to talk about you and the Uh. Lightweaver. shapeshifter? Kaladin : what? I thought you guys were warming up to eachother Lopen: gancho they're the best unholy creature i've ever met. Proper respect for herdassian women. Skar: lopen does not agree with this intervention but the rest of us are...concerned. Rock: is how he looks at you that we are worried. Like starving man looks at beloved pet axehound. Kaladin: Kaldin: what? Moash: you know i'm fond of the guy, it's like Skar said, we're a little...concerned. That he wants to, you know, kill and eat you so he can take your place. Kaladin: he wouldn't - he definitely wouldn't eat me. Teft: see, the fact that you didn't immediately argue with the 'murder you to take your place' part of that is concerning. Kaladin: he's just going through a lot. Rock: yes, but way you circle one another...again, like axehound and man, only you change places Kaladin: hes my king! and im secretly tutoring him on how to be a leader! of course our dynamic is going to be odd! Teft: look its - he's not a normal person. He doesn't know how to...be a human, i don't think. Kaladin: yeah, sure, I'll give you that. but he's getting better! You saw how he said thank you to sigzil the other day! Moash: kal... Kaladin: i can fix him Moash: kal

Sure hope dalinar never overhears bridgefour and elhokar talking about how glad they are that his nephew is dead and that new elhokar took his place! He definitely wouldn't go into a murderous rage and do something regrettable if he believed that were true!

#Stormlight archive #Oathbringer #Stormlight fanfic #Elhokar kholin #kaladin stormblessed #My au #Stormlight au no 27 #Oathbringer spoilers #cosmere #nevertheless cosmere

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