#her ladyship's garden

[casuallivi]

Yellow Carnations

I’ll admit elriel is more of a background here, since this is part of my Her Ladyship's Garden collection, where I tell little stories about Elain. Set post ACOSF. Word count: 2016

For Elriel Month 2023. Prompt 3: Happy Solstice @elriel-month

The High Lord confident steps halted as he passed by them, a frown marring his face.

“You are here.”

Elain lifted her eyes from the tome she was reading, dark circles in her pale face, her freckles less prominent now that she spent less time under the sun.

“Am I not aloud anymore?”

“Don’t be silly,” he recovered quickly, “I’m surprised to see you home, that’s all.” Too late. The oddness of his initial tone sent her alert.

Elain watched Rhysand like a hawk. She could now interpret all the subtle changes in his posture, the quirk in his lips when he came across information he found relevant, the twitch in his left ear when his attention was actually settle in a different conversation than the one he was having, the slight grind of his molars when the information was not to his liking, the unguarded rub off his chin when he found something amusing. Amren was right. Translation was a game of patient, its own brand of art. Observe a language for long enough, and you'll find the patterns. Observe a male for long enough, and you'll find his weaknesses.

“Early day?”

“Late night.” Amren corrected.

The night began in the opulent dinner table, where they had more space to work. As the hours went by and their eyes grow tired, they moved to the sofa, seeking a bit of comfort, later sitting on the rug, cushion spread all over the place. Now the sun was high in the sky.

Amren slouched back on her hand, sipping wine from her enchanted gold goblet that never emptied. Her latest gift from Varian. “Sunshine here, is surprisingly good with languages. I’m thinking of keeping her.”

Cunning violet eyes scanned the mess spread on the center table, crinkling the smallest bit at the corner while he exchanged a silent conversation with Amren. Elain pretend not go notice the use of his daemanti powers.

“Is that so. Had I known that earlier I’d not have let you move out. It's good to have reliable people close by." He grinned at her, joking. Elain had no doubt he was trying to mask the truth with pleasantry.

Rhysand was not happy with her decision to leave. Not when he and Feyre went above and beyond to build her a room that could rival a small house. It was certainly bigger than the cabin they lived in. A cage was still a cage, no matter how big the antechamber was. She smiled at him.

“A lady never tells.”

“Is that another of your human costumes?”

“No. A feminine one.” She could not help but notice how his smile did not reach his eyes.

“Well, best of luck, ladies. Don’t let Amren drink on an empty stomach. She gets cranky.” He waved them goodbye.

Amren squinted at Elain, as if daring her to take her goblet. Elain only rolled her eyes. The people in this household had a level of love and tolerance for alcohol that she could not understand. More than once she witnessed Cassian downing entire barrels, by himself, and still remember vivid details of the night. It was mesmerizing and worrisome.

Their books were staked in high piles in a vain attempt to gain space. It was no use. The surface was covered with a variety of tomes written in a dead tongue, accompanied by dictionaries and encyclopedias. Although her fingers were cramping from the long hours spend writing, Elain used the piles to her advantage, the books creating a makeshift hideout. With the help of her acute fae-sight, Elain caught a view to Rhysand's map room, Cassian and Azriel already inside, their back to her, waiting on their High Lord.

Azriel.

Her heart ache at the sight of him. Sleep hardly came by these days, her mind too busy in replaying the moment he rejected her. Elain did not even had the luxury of remaining his friend, for Azriel made his presence scarce, shutting her down completely. No more walks along the Sidra, no more sitting by the garden, no more exquisite seeds left in the shed, no more tiny trinkets from his trips, no more shopping at Rainbow, no more breakfasts at the breaking of the day, no more sage carefully applied to the cuts in her hands. Azriel was gone.

Yet, he had come to see her father.

Every month Elain visited her father’s grave. Taking her time to tend to his tombstone, pluck the weed that insisted in climbing the stone, replacing his flowers with fresh one, gently polishing the jaded letters forming his name while murmuring new memories made by her and her sisters. Sometimes they went with her – Feyre more than Nesta – whether they choose to go or not, there was someone who never failed to accompany her, standing with his hands clasped behind his back, wings tucked tight, keeping a respectful distance at the foot of the hill. The first time she voiced her wish to visit her father, back when her family was still careful of her mood swings, Feyre volunteered to take her. To their surprise, Azriel was waiting for them outside, implying his High Lady flying skills were not good enough to carry others. Feyre gasped at the audacity, threatening to punish him with frontier duty, and Elain thought it was endearing how he hide his smile behind her tresses.

When the following month came, Elain descended the stairs to find him waiting in the foyer, a placid smile in place. They exchanged no words as he took her basket, safekeeping it in a pocket of shadows, and off they went. Another ritual was born of silent agreement, as all the ones created before it, because that’s how they worked, inexplicably attuned to each other.

Or so she thought.

The solstice mistake haunted her all day long, Elain returning to her sleepless nights, mind running a thousand miles, recreating every interaction she ever shared with Azriel, cataloging all the touches and glances and suggestions of something else. Something more. No matter how hard she thought, the conclusion was the same: Azriel felt for her as she did for him. Then why, why, reject her? Elain rubbed a hand under her breast, caressing her ribs, disappointment settling over her very bones. It saddened her that she was used to people validating her bond more than her, but to have Azriel doing the same was like having her heart ripped out of her chest. Again. She tossed and turned in her bed. Maybe it was for the best. If she was just another woman, they would have freedom to explore their relationship, but she wasn't, and things were complicated. Elain was tired of complications. Perhaps she could use this event to distance herself as well, easier to bury her feeling. As Nesta's romance books said; out of sight, out of mind.

The problem was Azriel didn't get the memo, reappearing when she finally settled her mind in forgetting him, therefore ruining her plan.

To see Azriel standing outside the River House, waiting for her, after the solstice fiasco, was a bucket of cold water putting out the fire of her resolution. Damn him. No, she would not go with him. He had been avoiding her like the plague, forgone their friendship as if she was nothing, disappeared from her life without giving her a proper reason, a goodbye. Elain had more self-respect than giving him a free pass after all he had done. She’d rather walk all the way to the mountain than submitting herself to be in the company of a man who called her a mistake.

That's what she told herself as she looped her arms around his neck, Azriel taking up to the sky seconds later. Elain was a fool for love. Elain was a fool for Azriel. She could barely focus on cleaning the grave, apologizing to her father and promising to come another day to talk properly. Contrary to her other visits, the was no placid smile waiting for her downhill. His silence was different now, tense, guarded, as if he was stopping himself from spilling words. It made her jittery. When he brought her home, Elain could swear he tightened his hold on her, burring his nose in her hair before settling her back on her feet. Her heart thundered the entire time.

Her stare meet the one of her brothers-in-law, Rhysand noticing her watching. He winked at her, the door closing with a hit of night-kissed power.

A powerful, heavy, slap hit the back of her head, jerking her body forward, her breast hitting the corner of the center table.

“Focus.” Elain straighten herself, rubbing her aching tits. Her eyes remained fixed at the door. The scent of jasmine thickened, burning the oxygen in the air.

“Amren.”

“No talking.”

"Listen,"

“Girl, I do not care for how cauldron-blessed you are, if you do not concentrate, I'll smack you with that book.”

The threat did not detained Elain. She had long learned to identify the humors of the small female sitting beside her. Despite her words, Amren was calm and relaxed, carefully translating the parchment in front of her with her dubious calligraphy. Elain’s expression was a block of stone, showing nothing of the havoc in her mind, a swirling of thoughts she had avoided for a long time taking a hold of her tongue, obliging her to ask a question she had never dared to voice out loud.

“What if his mate comes?” The scribbling stopped, the metal tip of Amren’s feather pen piercing the pager.

Goddamn tears rimmed her eyes again, and Elain couldn’t know if they were from anger or frustration. Or sadness. Elain was so tired of crying. She rubbed them off.

“What if she comes for him. For Varian.”

The pen broke under the strength of her hold, dark blue ink smearing the translation. The hairs in Elain's arm stood up, her senses getting alert to the scent of danger spreading in the air. Then it was gone, masked with perfection. Amren scrunched the paper carelessly, throwing it over her shoulder.

“It won’t happen.” she said with conviction.

“It can happen.”

“It won’t.”

Elain shook her head, placing her book down. She knew denial when she saw it; had learned to identify it in the mirror.

“You don’t know that. She can be out there, and at some point, they might meet,”

The slam of a fist cut her words, shaking the table, splintered wood forming veins in the dark wood. Grey eyes smoldered, a snarl escaping the ferocious female. Amren snapped her head towards Elain, her grin savage, her words hushed and deadly.

“Then be my guest and try me.” Another fae would have flinched, instinct urging then to cower in front of the great predator snarling at their face. Elain did not balk, did not blink, she faced the other female head on, cunning brown eyes tracking the passionate possessivity hiding behind the maddening outburst. “Do I look like I give a fuck about some fae-made mystical rope of destiny? I’m not from this world, girl. Where I come from, you want something, you take it. I wanted this world, I wanted this body, and I want that male. Varian is mine, and mine alone. Mine. If someone, anyone, thinks they can steal him from me, they are welcome to try.”

She slammed the book into Elain’s chest.

“Stop spouting nonsense and finish this shit.”

In her heart of heart, Elain had always thought that being made gave them a sort of comradery, but seeing the ferocity in Amren’s eyes today proved they shared more similarities than the middle Archeron imagined. She took a deep breath, purging all the other scents lingering in the house to focus in one and one alone, when she found it, Elain breathed it in, holding it down in her lungs the longest she could, exhaling it slowly.

You want something, you take it.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Elain returned to her book. Amren’s words ringing in her ears. Maybe the former angel of death was put in the seer’s way to teach her more than dead languages.

#elriel #elriel fanfic #elrielmonth23 #elain archeron #azriel shadowsinger #elain #azriel #elain archeron fanfic #elriel fanfiction #amren #rhysand #yellow carnations #her ladyship's garden #my writting #eeeeh #yeah #that was not so happy #it had solstice tho #🤭🤭🤭🤭🤭🤭🤭😅🥰 #yellow carnations are for rejection and disappointment #yeah... #az my man #you have some groveling to do... #better get some kneepads #happy elriel month! #lividoesem23

[lorcandidlucienwill]

This is your daily reminder that Elain does not want to “tend to her little garden forever,” she was made for greater things, aka High Ladyship. And who’s a future High Lord? Lucien.

#ima do one of these every day i think #elain archeron #pro elain archeron #elucien #pro elucien #high lord lucien #lucien vanserra

[celandeline]

Summer of Like // Farleigh Start x OC (27)

I watch Venetia pour herself another glass of wine with a shaking hand. 

It’s lunch, and it isn’t at the same time. We are scattered around the table in complete silence - only James and Elspeth eat. I didn’t understand what people meant when they said ‘the cold-hearted English’ before, but I do now, watching as they all pretend that nothing has happened, even when their son’s body is still in the backyard. I look down at the untouched slice of shepherd's pie on my plate. I need to get out of this house. I need to throw up. 

The quiet click of shoes on the wood signals Duncan’s arrival. 

Elspeth pats her napkin around her lips. “What is it, Duncan?”

Duncan’s voice is pained. “It's the police, Your Ladyship. They are...er...having trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?” Elspeth asks. 

A brief moment of silence lingers before Duncan speaks again. “They keep getting lost in the maze.”

Another moment of silence permeates the room, until Farleigh laughs, sharp and sad. It echoes around the dining room, even after James shoots an icy glare in his direction. James’s attention turns to Duncan. “And?”

“May I send one of the gardeners to assist them?” Duncan looks straight ahead, never meeting James’s eyes. 

James turns his attention back to his plate. “Fine.”

Duncan disappears, shoes clicking back down the hall. For a moment the table is silent, only the sounds of James and Elspeth’s forks scraping against their plates echoing around the room. Venetia drains her glass of wine. Next to me, Farleigh sits stock still in his seat. I know that if I look at either of them I’ll start crying, so I don’t.

At the end of the table, Elspeth forces a smile. “Oliver, darling. Why don't you tell us about last night?” 

Across the table, Oliver looks up from his plate. “Last night?”

Elspeth stills smiles. “Mmmm. Did you have a lovely time?”

“Yeah.” Oliver says. “It was wonderful. Thank you.”

Wonderful? Felix died. I watch in amazement and horror as half the table pretends that nothing happened - that there isn’t a dead body in the backyard. 

“Oh good!” Elspeth presses on. “I think it was a hit, don't you darling?”

“Oh yes.” James agrees. “A triumph.”

A triumph. Bile rises in the back of my throat, and I feel like I might vomit right here at the table, spilling my guts across the patterned tablecloth. 

“Yes, the house looked good.” Elspeth says. 

“Beautiful.” James chimes in. 

Oliver perks up again. “And that cake was-”

“Oh did you like it?” Elspeth cuts him off, tittering. “I never had any in the end. That’s always the way, isn’t it? You end up running around so much you miss the actual party.”

The click of shoes on the wood signals Duncan’s arrival again. 

James doesn’t even look at him, his voice tight. “What now?”

Duncan leans down, close to James ear - but the room is so quiet I can hear him anyway. “May I be permitted to close the curtains, sir? The coroner is outside and may need to pass the window-”

James interrupts him. “Yes. Thank you. Close them.”

Duncan stands up, and walks to the window as Oliver continues. “I don't normally like chocolate cake.”

Elspeth nods. “Yes it can be cloying, can't it?”

“But last night it was so light!” Oliver says. 

“Yes Lynn has always been an expert with cakes.” Elspeth says. “Yes, cold hands apparently. You have to have cold hands.”

Oliver nods. “I’ve heard that. So the butter doesn't melt.”

The room begins to darken, the red curtains casting a wash of deep burgundy over the room. I watch as the fabric catches in the track, and Duncan tugs at it, trying to work it loose. 

Elspeth is in a world of her own, “Although I would think that applies more to pastry than it does to cake-” 

James cuts her off. “Duncan, just get them closed, for Christ's sake!” 

Duncan pulls at the curtain almost frantically. “Yes, I am trying sir, I can’t-”

One of the footmen rushes over, and the curtains finally close. The dining room is bathed in blood, and the sound of the gurney rolling by filters through the room. James plugs his ears, shaking his head. Elspeth almost chokes, bringing her napkin up to her mouth. I don’t notice the wine spilling out of Venetia’s glass until it seeps over to my plate, staining the tablecloth the same color as the curtains. 

As soon as the squeaking of the gurney wheels fades into the distance, Farleigh rises from his seat, voice shaking. “Oh my god... May I be excused, please?”

James' voice is harsh. “No. We haven’t finished lunch?”

Farleigh is almost in tears, pacing. “The lunch is cold! You want me to just eat it like nothing is happening?”

Elspeth looks at Farleigh, with the first glimmer of sadness I’ve seen from her since the body was found. “What else is there to do, darling?”

Farleigh sobs. “Anything! Anything-”

A loud bang shocks through the room as James slams his fist on the table. Farleigh freezes - I flinch on instinct. 

“Farleigh!” James roars. “Will you be quiet?! Sit down, and eat the bloody pie! Just eat it! Eat it and shut up! Eat the bloody pie!”

Farleigh drops back into his seat, almost shaking - from tears or fear, I don’t know. 

James takes a breath, and then continues. “You're not the only person here with feelings. None of us wants your bloody American feelings!”

A silence stretches over the table. I watch Farleigh try to eat, and fail, crying too hard to choke anything down. I don’t even try - between stumbling upon Felix’s dead body, and the sharp pit of resentment that’s settled in my gut from James’ yelling, I’m not eating anything for a while. I need to leave. I need to go home-

Oliver’s quiet voice breaks the silence. “I think it’s delicious.”

Farleigh explodes. “What the fuck are you still doing here?”

Oliver turns his icy blue eyes on Farleigh, and a shiver runs up my spine. Just being in the periphery of his stare is enough to make me uncomfortable. It’s unsettling, how normal he’s acting. Like his best friend didn’t just die. 

“Wait, does no one else find it weird?” Farleigh continues. “No one else finds that weird?”

Oliver’s tone is unnaturally level. “I wouldn’t throw stones if I was you, Farleigh.”

“Excuse me?” Farleigh almost laughs. 

On my other side, Venetia mutters, sounding tired. “Please stop.”

James’ eyes turn to Farleigh. “What is he saying?”

“I have no idea.” Farleigh says, still focused on Oliver. 

“What I'm saying is that I'd feel guilty too…” Oliver shrugs. 

“Guilty?” Farleigh asks. 

There’s a glint in Oliver’s eye as he finishes his sentence. “If I was the one racking up lines the night someone died.”

This time, the silence that descends is one of shock. A cold streak runs down my spine, and I turn to look at Farleigh. His gaze is stony, focused on Oliver. 

“Fuck you.” He spits. 

Oliver only blinks, glancing at James. “That’s not a denial.”

James is pale with fury - even more than when he shouted earlier. “Is that true?” He nods to Duncan. “Search Farleigh’s room.”

All the fire in Farleigh dissipates at once, and he begins to cry again. “No…”

But it's too late - Duncan nods sharply, and backs out of the room. Emotions rush through me all at once - panic, anger, despair. Farleigh crumples back into his chair, utterly defeated. I need to leave-

“Get out.” James is unflinching, staring at Farleigh. 

“No, wait-” Farleigh sniffles. 

Elspeth finally tunes into the conversation. “What’s happening?”

Farleigh turns to her. “Aunt Elspeth… Elspeth..?”

James is almost yelling again. “Don’t you dare look at her!” He rages. “Get out! I won't mention this to the police. That's all you get. Nothing more. Ever again. I-”

Whatever he’s about to say is interrupted by the scrape of my chair against the hardwood floor. I rise quickly, before I even really know that I’m going to do it. All the eyes in the room shift to me, but I say nothing, simply grabbing Farleigh by the arm and hauling him out of his seat. My heart is pounding like I’ve just run a marathon. 

I walk out of the room, pulling Farleigh with me. 

< previous post | next post >

#farleigh start x oc #farleigh start x reader #saltburn #farleigh start #farleigh x reader #saltburn x reader

[liviavanrouge]

Baby Pictures

Ollie: You have pictures of Livia as a baby?

Lilia: You wish to see them?

Aura: YES!

Oz: GIVE ME A REASON TO TEASE HER! SHOW US!!!

Lilia: *Beams and runs off*

Livia: PAPA NO!!!!

Silver: At least it isn't me....

Kuro: Me neither...the others got lucky as well..

~~~~

Lilia: *Beams* This was when Livia first crawled!! She kept rolling over onto her back and side! It was so precious!

Oz: HAHAHA! Look at that cute bonnet! Liv, who knew you were such a cute and small baby!

Lilia: This was when she tried fruit for the first time! The way her eyes lit up when she tasted a strawberry!

Lilia: Oh and this one was from the first time she went outside to her mother's garden!

Aura: Oh, look at the smudge of dirt on her cheek

Ollie: Awwww!

Sebek: Her ladyship looks so adorable!!

Livia: *Trembles covering her face* This is so embarrassing....

Silver: Better you than us

Kuro: Yeah!

Lilia: These two are from when she turned two and went swimming for the first time! Aren't her swimsuits adorable!

Oz: *Laughs* She was still so small!

Malleus: *Smiles as Aura passed him the photo next* Cute...

Lilia: Oh look at this one! When she was a baby she'd cuddle up with her blanky!

Livia: *Looks up her face turning bright red* PAPAAAAAAAAAA!!!

#twst livia #twst oc #disney twst #livia vanrouge #twst lilia #disney twisted wonderland #twst silver #twisted wonderland #twst malleus #twst disney #lilia vanrouge #lilia #lilia twst #twst lilia vanrouge #twisted wonderland lilia #lilia twisted wonderland #malleus draconia #malleus #malleus twisted wonderland #malleus twst #twisted wonderland malleus #twst malleus draconia #silver #silver twisted wonderland #silver twst #silver vanrouge #twisted wonderland silver #twisted wonderland sebek #sebek zigvolt #twst sebek

[xgummibearx]

Fatgum x (F) Reader, Fantasy AU (pt. 4)

A continuation of Part 3, Taishiro learns a new fear as he struggles to rescue you from a strange unknown creature.

((I was going to post part 3 and 4 as one big fic but....I went 4000 characters over the limit))

(x) walked slower now, stepping into a clearing. She could see the familiar gate to the gardens down the path up ahead, but she found herself trembling and not from the cold. Her heart was racing, her feet now frozen in place. She had ran, all through the woods. Her lungs ached in protest as she stopped to catch her breath. Her ears were met with strange cries in the woods, human screams mixed with the howling of beasts that set her very teeth on edge. She had seen it, but it moved so fast it seemed only a shadow that ran through the trees, and she heard still it’s nearing steps that sounded off like a steady drumbeat that seemed to be matching the beating of her heart; as if to catch up with it’s rhythm to snuff it out. Then just like that, it’s footsteps stopped, a low croaking growl filled the clearing that reminded her of the creaking of bones as she backed into a tree. There, across from her, it emerged. It’s bulging eyes were misshapen and poorly matched, it’s limbs moved unnaturally as if someone had haphazardly sewn the poor creature together with naught but ill intentions and suffering for inspiration. It stared, then charged immediately. It moved with such speed and ferocity, she screamed, tears immediately escaping her as she dove out of the way. It’s arms stretched like vines with fingers akin to gnarled tree branches as It grabbed at her, the monster reeked of rotting burned flesh, it’s eyes and mouth reminded her of dying coals as it pinned her to the ground to scream into her face. She sobbed, desperately crying out for help. The name of her love, to any God that may hear, she begged, screaming madly as her pleas collided with the bone chilling howls of the beast; and he heard. Of course, he would hear her. In a maelstrom that would strip wood from the very bow of a ship, he would hear. If all the hounds of hell were crying out at once and she but only whispered his name, Taishiro would hear her.

He broke through the trees with the force of a wildfire, his men following in pursuit with the vengeance of a pack of wolves as they circled the monster before them. The rage and fear in his eyes as he brandished his sword she swore could have made the very snow melt. The beast roared, tossing (x) aside as if she were only a doll. She couldn’t hear Taishiro’s words but she could see his face contort with a scream of rage. They all heard the crack of her skull against stone, her blood crimson against the pure white snow. Immediately, his men rode to her aid; but their mysterious beast was not alone. Two more came through the trees, charging at the knights with gnashing teeth.

They barred the way to their ladyship’s side. Taishiro had never known a rage like this, the anger that festered within him like a thorn made his voice seem inhuman as he roared with rage, charging headfirst at one of the creatures. “You will rue this day!” He swore, an oath of suffering like nothing these creatures could imagine as his blade masterfully struck one in the eye. Another struck his horse. Taishiro collided with the snow as he watched in horror; the body of his steed cleaved in two. He stood, on shaky legs with his sword looking dull and cold against the light cast by the stormy skies. The winds were picking up as the snow fell even more heavily. The rest of his knights had already began the assault, their cries coalesced with the roars of the strange beasts. Such grotesque beings he had never seen before. They seemed neither living nor dead.

He took a deep breath, closing his eyes as his sword began to glow with an ethereal golden light. It burned like a star in the distance as the monsters turned their attention to him; they didn’t even have a moment to gnarl their disgusting their teeth as the light faded from their eyes. Black blood stained the ground and showered him like a cloud of death as he took deep breaths that billowed into the air; steam rising off him as sweat rolled down his face. His eyes were fixed on her.

Snow clung to her hair and skin like pale hands that seemed to be desperately trying to pull her to the world of the living. The cold was making her face pale and grey like everything else around them. Taishiro dropped his sword and ran, his vision tunneling as the knights gathered the corpses of the beasts. “No! No Please! My love please…” His hands were shaking as he lifted her, cradling her against him. Taishiro brought his ear to her chest and he heard her heartbeat; strong and relaxed. He felt her breathing against his neck that was as reassuring as her touch. He smiled; tears of relief filled his eyes as he held her close. “You’re going to be alright…I’ve got you…” He pressed a kiss to her temple, trying to steady his shaking breaths.

Never had he known a fear such as this, never had fear so quickly stilled his heart. “Take the carcasses back to the stronghold, I will send for the high council personally to inspect them…these creatures, were not born or bred by natural means…” He narrowed his eyes, they were still twitching; some of them partially alive and screaming in agony as their blood spilled down into the snow. “What kind of sorcery is this…” He hissed, his hold tightening on (x) as Tamaki approached with his horse.

“My Lord, you may use my horse if you like.” He offered. “I will oversee the transport of the beasts remains…you have more important matters to attend to.” His eyes fell on her ladyship. She was beginning to stir, her head felt like it was pounding as she tucked her face into his chest. Cold, she felt cold. The cold wind that was blowing, the ice cold steel of his armour as he held her. Her eyes slowly opened, her gaze meeting his.

“Taishiro…my love what happened I…” He hushed her softly, his smile gentle as he thanked Tamaki.

“That beast threw you against a rock…” Taishiro explained, getting her on the horse then climbing up behind her. “I’m taking you back to the castle, we are blessed to have skilled healers here.” He added. The wound on the side of her head was not deep, but his heart ached at the sight of it. “Whatever devilry conjured these demons will be begging for something as sweet as pain before I finish with them…” He vowed silently, trying to guide the horse back to the stronghold as swiftly as possible.

Upon arrival they were met with the roaring fire of the stronghold's fireplace as he brought her to the sick bay. (x)’s hand maidens ran to meet him, helping him get her into a soft bed with clean white sheets. The warmth of the stronghold felt like a hot bath. Taishiro thanked the two young ladies, “I can see to her from here…please watched for the healers and bring them in straight away when they arrive.” The two girls promptly bowed, running off the castle entrance. He stood over his precious one, carefully removing her boots as she opened her eyes.

                “I can do that…I’m alright.” She started, sitting up slowly. He turned his face towards her sharply.

“No, you will do no such thing!” His voice was stern, but his eyes were kind. “Please…” His voice softened, “let me take care of you there is no shame in it.” Taishiro begged, cupping her face in his hand. His eyes, that rivaled the dawn…when he looked at her like she had no choice but to allow him to help, only sitting up to hand him her winter cloak. He was gently washing the wound with hot water when the healers were brought in. She recognized their faces,  the sweet elderly women that had all greeted her upon arrival. The three of them wore thick grey cloaks with dark yellow hoods. They inspected her, with warm eyes and gentle hands.

                “She has some bruising…and my what a terrible hit to the head, you are indeed lucky your Ladyship!” One of them marvelled. “Thankfully we arrived when we did, but it doesn’t look like it’s infected.”

Another of them was shooing out Taishiro, “Taishiro we cannot work with you lumbering over us! Go wash yourself of that rancid blood, it isn’t as though she were upon deaths door!” Taishiro looked over (x), trying to think of some kind of protest. She smiled, the colour had returned to her face, and her eyes were sparkling again.

                “I’ll be fine, go tend to yourself and..” She winced a little as the third of the women began tending to the wound. “If it would make you feel better I am hungry…we can have our picnic indoors.” His heart swelled with relief at the sight of her, and her laugh as the old woman shoved him out of the roon made him feel as giddy as he had felt that morning. She was alright, she was safe and hadn’t been taken from him. Taishiro removed his armour with some difficulty without Tamaki, but he made sure to leave it in organized pieces on his workbench so that it could be properly cleaned and maintenanced.

                The bath, though he did not want to admit it was indeed what he needed. He scrubbed away the drying black blood and rinsed out his soft golden locks. Too long he thought, it had already been too long away from her. “I just want to hold her…chase away any fears that remain.” His face burned in embarrassment. He sensed that perhaps there were more fears clinging to him than to her, but she had always been better than him at hiding away those sorts of uncomfortable feelings. Taishiro put on another fresh tunic and some loose pants before making his way to the kitchen. By the time he returned with steaming bowls of soup and fresh bread that was still warm the three healers had finished their work. Taishiro, leaning over to offer his thanks as they all pinched his cheeks and ruffled his hair as doting as any  grandmother would be before heading out.

                Her head was bandaged, but her sweet voice that drew him near, and her touch on his hand as he sat by her side. It was all he needed to feel the dark fears that gripped so tight finally loosen their hold as she pressed her forehead into his. “I am so sorry…” He whispered. “I shouldn’t have sent you out alone, you were so scared...” She shook her head, still smiling as she closed her eyes, feeling his touch and listening to his ragged breaths. His heart was still racing.

                “I was…but as soon as I saw you, it chased those fears away like a candle to shadows.” She kissed his cheek, her lips lingering as she rubbed his back. “You don’t need to worry, or be afraid my love…I’m here, I am still here…” She wrapped her arms around him as he pulled her close, tears rolling down his cheeks as he drank in her presence, taking her touch to memory as he silently wept.

#fatgum #mha #taishiro toyomitsu #bnha #fatgum x reader #fanfic #anime #bnha fanfiction #fanfiction #writer #mha fantasy au

[bethanydelleman]

Northanger Abbey Readthrough Ch 22

Well the manuscript is a washing bill. (The Thing About Austen podcast has a great episode about this btw).

She felt humbled to the dust. Could not the adventure of the chest have taught her wisdom? A corner of it, catching her eye as she lay, seemed to rise up in judgment against her. Nothing could now be clearer than the absurdity of her recent fancies. To suppose that a manuscript of many generations back could have remained undiscovered in a room such as that, so modern, so habitable!—Or that she should be the first to possess the skill of unlocking a cabinet, the key of which was open to all!

Catherine also deduces that she had so much trouble with the lock because she was the one who locked it, it was left open for guests to use. She is mortified and doesn't want Henry to find out what she's been doing. So she smoothly transitions into... loving hyacinths.

it is well to have as many holds upon happiness as possible

Who said this book has bad writing, there are so many quotable lines! So much to dwell on. I love Henry saying it will help Catherine go out of doors and she's like, "Pft, you can't get me inside." Also asking if Eleanor has a pleasant mode of instruction is totally a callback to Catherine comparing learning to torment!

The General talks about needing to purchase a new tea set soon and Catherine was probably the only one of the party who did not understand him. ✈️✈️✈️ Then Catherine asks about Woodston and the General does that thing again where he pretends to defer to Eleanor, but then actually just steamrolls over her and answers himself. Grrrr

So then the General gaslights Catherine so hard she thinks she is disappointing him by going on a walk. I hate this man. He clearly wants to go for a walk but pretends that it is her idea which leaves Catherine super confused. Catherine did not exactly know how this was to be understood. He's selfish and regimented, Catherine., that's the whole mystery.

The general listened with assenting gratitude; and it seemed as if his own estimation of Northanger had waited unfixed till that hour.

He is kind of funny though...

General Tilney demanding praise reminds me of Mr. Collins:

The general was flattered by her looks of surprise, which told him almost as plainly, as he soon forced her to tell him in words, that she had never seen any gardens at all equal to them before

Here, leading the way through every walk and cross walk, and scarcely allowing them an interval to utter the praises he asked for, every view was pointed out with a minuteness which left beauty entirely behind... (this is his own grounds) Elizabeth was called on by her cousin to give her opinion of all that she had seen at Rosings, which, for Charlotte’s sake, she made more favourable than it really was. But her commendation, though costing her some trouble, could by no means satisfy Mr. Collins, and he was very soon obliged to take her Ladyship’s praise into his own hands. Pride & Prejudice

Also, it's a tiny line, but the fact that General Tilney is growing greenhouse pineapples is apparently a huge indicator of his wealth. For those who don't know, pineapples take about 2 years per fruit and each plant only grows 1. In England, you would need year-round heated greenhouses, and just an insane amount of wealth. Especially if he's just eating them himself and not selling them, this would be so expensive I can't even.

Catherine cannot resist a Gothic looking path, struck by its gloomy aspect, and eager to enter it, but the General will not join them. This is the beginning of Catherine's ill founded suspicions that General Tilney did not love his wife and also... murdered her. Or locked her up! Every word Eleanor says only seems to confirm her notions!

I love this: She had often read of such characters, characters which Mr. Allen had been used to call unnatural and overdrawn; but here was proof positive of the contrary. Listen to wise Mr. Allen, Catherine!

Now, at some point I have to address the elephant in the room that is Catherine letting her imagination get the best of her and believing that General Tilney is either a wife murderer or... Edward Rochester 30 years too early. I think it has a lot to do with things like this:

Catherine was shocked to find how much her spirits were relieved by the separation. (from General Tilney)

Catherine's confusion is between mundane evil (verbally abusive towards his children, overbearing) and dramatic evil. General Tilney is not a good person, Catherine's final conclusion way at the end is that she didn't actually get him wrong in character, but she erred in the expression of that character. Which is probably why Henry is pretty quick to forgive her, it's not like his father is a super nice person and he knows it.

It is clear that Catherine is picking up on something real. General Tilney does have an explosive temper, his children are afraid of him, he was cruel to his wife (if he treated her anything like Eleanor that couldn't have been fun), and his kindness feels oppressive because it is ultimately false. Not knowing anyone like the General, Catherine defaults to the evil she does know, which is in her dramatic horrid novels.

Anyway, the point is, General Tilney is still the worst even if he didn't murder his wife and Catherine wasn't totally insane to think of it.

Oh, also her confusion about the tour of the house. What Catherine is not picking up on is the General's deep desire to brag about his house.

#northanger abbey month #northanger abbey readthrough #northanger abbey #general tilney #catherine morland #learning to love a hyacinth

[partystoragechest]

A story of romance, drama, and politics which neither Trevelyan nor Cullen wish to be in.

Canon divergent fic in which Josephine solves the matter of post-Wicked Hearts attention by inviting invites four noblewomen to compete for Cullen's affections. In this chapter, Lady Samient plays with the Commander.

(Masterpost. Beginning. Previous entry. Next entry. Words: 2,200. Rating: all audiences.)

Chapter 34: Lady Samient's Gambit (Reprise)

“And then, he offered to invite my dear Lady Orroat himself!” sang Lady Erridge, of her encounter with the Commander. “It was so terribly kind—not at all what I had expected.”

Lady Samient stirred her tea in silence; the Baroness shot her a look.

Neither woman wished to tell Lady Erridge that she had been a fool, and that the Commander had played her, because it was not Lady Erridge’s fault.

It was, as far as Lady Samient was concerned, the Commander’s. And that was a grave error indeed.

She was quite sick of the Commander, at this point. It was not as if she cared for whatever injury he might have caused her, but that which he had caused to her friends was unforgivable. And though Lady Montilyet’s attempt to fall on the sword had been admirable indeed, Samient was not to be swayed. This was badly done, and by none other than him.

Lady Samient knew quite what to do, however. The very next day, she went to the garden. As birds sang, and flowers bloomed, she prepared to mete out his punishment.

The chess table was secured; Samient laid out the pieces. A runner was borrowed, and sent to the Commander, to tell him of urgent business. From who? The Ambassador, in the garden. She’d be waiting.

Not really. It was Samient who waited. But not for long.

The Commander strode out of the Great Hall, eyes searching. He saw no Ambassador, of course, amongst the various chanters and visiting nobles who dotted the place. Not amongst the bushes or shrubbery. Not amongst the columns and brickwork.

But he did see, sat by a chess table, one Lady Samient.

She met his gaze, and raised a hand that beckoned. The Commander heeded the summon. She asked, upon his approach:

“Urgent business, Commander?”

He nodded, as an understanding of the situation seemed to settle upon him. “Good morning, your Ladyship.”

“Always chasing work, aren’t you? Why not sit, hm? Why not relax? Why not play?”

She gestured to the board, and the empty seat opposite. He glanced at both, then back to her. It was clear by his face that he knew this was not quite a genuine invitation, but she had not intended to hide that fact. He was welcome to doubt. He was welcome to fear.

But being the brave, brave boy that he was, he took the seat she offered, and pulled in to the table. “Shall you start or I?” he wondered.

“I shall.”

Samient sent forth a cavalry piece, and waited. The Commander pushed one of his own up front.

Usually, such moves were made to open the back line, and allow more powerful pieces their freedom to attack. Yet, Samient ignored them. She moved another cavalry to the fore.

The Commander took note of this, sliding out his chanter, but stopping short of performing a capture. Samient pushed her cavalry another step forward.

“How would you describe your playstyle?” she asked, as the Commander tried to divine hers. “Callous? Brutish? Unfeeling?”

The Commander introduced a Knight-Templar to the fray, and looked to her. “Is that how you would describe it?”

“No. That is how I would describe you.”

Without leaving his gaze, eyes steeled against the contact, she moved. Her cavalry. Another hex up. The piece abutted the Commander’s own.

“I see,” said the Commander. His chanter retreated. “I don’t blame you.”

An interesting response. Samient took his cavalry; hers now put him in check. “So you are aware of your own flaws?”

The Commander captured her encroaching piece with ease. “Inescapably.”

“And yet you think yourself deserving of my friend?”

“I never said I was.”

He did not have to say anything. Samient had seen enough of his behaviour around Lady Trevelyan to know that the man had designs on her, and was clearly not making them for the sake of failure.

Her eyes returned to the board. Her favoured piece now captured, Samient moved a different cavalry off the line.

The Commander paused, as if there were anything in this game to think about. And yet, all his deliberations seemed to result in was the movement of his own cavalry.

“Why aren’t you playing properly?” he asked.

Samient smiled, and sent her next sacrifice to his waiting forces. “Because you never did for us.”

The Commander nodded. “Very well.”

Same as he had just done, same as she had just done, he pushed the cavalry he had previously pushed one more meagre hex up. It came face-to-face with Samient’s. Neither could move.

Samient simply resorted to the next cavalry along. He did the same. She moved it forward. He did the same. She repeated the motion. He did the same.

Samient huffed. “Why aren’t you playing properly?”

“You say I never did.”

He continued his charade. She rolled her eyes. Instead of simply admitting his sins, he would rely upon petulance? Samient clarified:

“Why aren’t you playing properly now?”

He countered: “You started it.”

Really! The board shuddered and pieces trembled as Samient thudded down her next. “How childish,” she muttered.

The Commander smiled. “As I say”—he took another poor move—“you started it.”

Such arrogance, for a man who did not deserve to think so highly of himself. He would not have the satisfaction. Despite his taunts, Samient continued what she had ‘started’. Another cavalry marched.

The Commander did not mirror her, this time, but selected his chanter, and slid it across the board. Ha. He had fatigued, then, and decided to play at last. Samient took her banal turn.

And then the Commander moved his chanter back from whence it had come.

Samient scoffed. She continued her cavalry’s forward plod. In response, the Commander moved a castle, capturing nothing. His next go, he moved it back.

“Ridiculous,” Samient commented.

“I agree,” said the Commander. He leant back in his chair, and regarded her with intensity. “So why bother with this? The Ambassador says you’re an honest woman, Lady Samient. Can’t you simply tell me why you hate me, and spare us both this farce?”

Samient met his stare, and returned it with contempt. “Very well. I hate you because you are selfish, unfeeling, and you ruined the happiness of my friend,” she told him. “Was that not apparent enough, Commander? Did you really need it explaining?”

“No. But I believe you needed to say it.”

He finally moved his Knight-Templar, and took a cavalry. Samient shifted to defend.

“So you think you are doing me a kindness, do you?” she asked, spitefully. “How heroic you are, Commander.”

“I am sorry, Lady Samient, for what I’ve done,” he said, regardless. “I never wished to hurt y—I was ignorant, of how my actions would affect you all.”

“Why apologise to me? It’s not as if I care.”

He took another of her pieces. “Then why are we playing?”

Oh! How delightful—he actually thought she gave two shits about who he was and what he did! Lady Samient laughed, in the devastatingly haunting way only an Orlesian noble could. This was going to be exhilarating!

“No, no—you misunderstand me, Commander,” she sneered. “I only care about what you did to my friend. I do not care about what you did to me—and I certainly do not care about you.”

He brought out his empress. “I see.”

She took a Knight-Templar with her chanter. “In fact, if you wish me to be honest, then know this: I never cared about you. I was never interested. Nor was my father, who sent me here. This was punishment for me, Commander, as much as it has been for you.”

He took a castle, his eyes flicking from the board, to her. “What kind of punishment?”

“A mocking one. You are a man of ill breeding, intended as nothing more than a temporary diversion, to cure an apparent inclination towards low-born men.” Samient revealed a Knight-Templar, from her back line. “Though I never had any intention of burdening myself with you, Commander, for I am already engaged.”

The Commander stopped, mid-turn. “What?”

Samient smiled at herself. She’d hid it from Lady Trevelyan, because Lady Trevelyan knew enough pain already. Yet the Commander knew nothing, and to see his shock and insult was so, so satisfying.

“I have been for some months,” she said, as if it were obvious. “To a ‘inferior’ man, whom my father wishes me to forget in your all-consuming presence. I suppose I did try to seduce you, at first—but, Maker, you are so terribly pathetic that you did not even realise what I was attempting!”

The Commander’s face flashed, between surprise, then confusion, then hurt. Yet, it seemed, the wound that Samient cut did not end embedded within him:

“Why would you flirt with a man when you are already engaged?” he asked.

The answer was simple. The answer was the reason she hadn’t told Lady Trevelyan. “Because my betrothed is good as dead. My father sent him to the frontlines, when he found out. Try to wound me, Commander. There is no pain I could feel anymore.”

The Commander finally finished his turn, bringing his empress closer to her back line. “I recall a report regarding Duke Samient sending troops...” he muttered. “But he did so after the truce had been called. I am certain.”

“And?”

“The Inquisition has overseen the cessation of all fighting, and ensured that it has remained so. I have had no soldier reported dead in combat since.”

Samient glanced away. No. She could not let herself hope again. Her only choice, to be able to live, to be able to go on, was to assume the worst. That she would never see Vichy again.

“I have long given in,” she admitted. She pushed her chanter lazily from one hex to the next. “All I care for is to return home.”

She drew back her hair, and revealed her ears. There was little purpose in concealing it, now. He already knew everything else.

The Commander took in the sight, then returned his attention to the board. His finger hovered above his empress. “If that is all”—he stopped, and knocked over his emperor, instead—“then you ought to have just asked.”

Samient shook her head. “Ask what?”

“For help.”

She scoffed. “Is that how you will return to your favourite’s good opinion, hm? By helping me?”

The Commander shrugged. “I hadn’t thought. But no. I want to help you because that is our purpose—the Inquisition’s purpose.”

“Really? And for nothing in exchange? When doing so would attract the ire of my father?”

The Commander smiled. “Lady Samient, if I may be honest?”

She allowed it.

“I never had any intention of impressing your father.”

Samient could not help herself from chuckling. There was little she would believe coming from his mouth at this moment, but that—that she could believe. Had she only known it earlier, they might have gotten along better!

He leant forward, and told her across the board: “If you wish to be with your betrothed and return to your clan, the Inquisition can help.”

The game was over, yet Samient moved a piece. It can’t have been that easy. Lady Trevelyan couldn’t have been right. This—this wasn’t…

“To which clan do you belong?” he asked.

Samient said it before she’d even finished registering the question: “Sumara.”

The Commander nodded. “They were in the Free Marches, last I recall.”

“Yes, Lady Trevelyan said—”

He hummed. “That’s why she’d asked about it. I see. I can find their exact location. Our Dalish agent, Loranil, could travel with you, to aid you in establishing contact.”

He was speaking too fast. Or, perhaps, she was processing it all too slowly. Her mind, like the board, was a mess. So much a mess, in fact, that she spoke the next two words without even thinking:

“And Vichy?”

“Vichy?”

“My betrothed,” she said.

The Commander nodded, the concentration on his face betraying the mechanisms of his mind: “I’ll have Josephine pull strings in Orlais,” he told her. “We can conscript him to the Inqusition, then send him on with a retinue to Jader. You can meet there, before crossing to the Free Marches.”

Moving pieces; avoiding capture; protecting those who needed it. The Commander seemed to thrive upon it all.

Was this real? Samient glanced about, to the garden, to the arcade. People talked, birds sang, the sun broke free of a cloud to shine a little brighter. Signs of life, that she had not seen for months. This was real.

The Commander stood. “I can set things in motion now, if you allow me.”

Samient shot to her feet. “Yes. Please.”

“Very well. I’ll see to it—”

“Commander,” she said, before he could turn away, “I am sorry. That I attempted to manipulate you, when we met. I should have asked... long ago. Very long ago.”

The Commander shook his head. “It’s all right. If anyone should have been honest from the beginning… it’s me.”

Samient would not deny that.

“I should be going,” he told her, before adding with a smile: “I have urgent business.”

#*spice girls plays in the distance* #unwanted #unwanted fic #cullen rutherford

[otomesakura20]

Her Ladyship and His Lordship

It’s been a while since I’ve drawn Inuyasha and Harumi in their royal attire. I also haven’t done a project with their castle in a while either. I’ve mostly done the inside interior or garden but hardly the whole castle. I’m thankful I already had it drawn out before and I could just take it from that project. They don’t always wear these outfits in their castle just on occasions and just wear their every day outfits. One of my friends told me Harumi should be considered a Disney princess and I’m actually flattered lol. I guess she could be considered one given she has the princesses traits to qualify as one.😊❤️

#inuyasha #inuyasha oc #inuyashaoc #inuyasha x oc #oc x canon #oc x character #犬夜叉

[onevolon]

my love for you is infinite - part16

Santiago Garcia x afab!reader(Darcy)

note: pride and prejudice (2005) but with triple frontier boys because why not lol

word count: 1496

warnings: the end!

you can also read it on ao3.

part15 - masterlist

Francisco and Santiago lie in bed.

“Can you die of happiness? You know, he was totally ignorant of my being in town last spring!”

“How did he account for it?”

“He thought me indifferent!”

“Unfathomable.”

“No doubt poisoned by his pernicious sister.”

“Bravo! That is the most unforgiving speech you've ever made.”

“Oh Santiago, if I could but see you so happy. If there were such another person for you!”

There is a noise outside.

“Perhaps Mr. Collins has a cousin. It's no less than I deserve. What is that?”

More noise, it sounds like a carriage, then aloud banging on the door downstairs. The boys look at each other.

***

Mr. Bennet, Mrs. Bennet and the girls lit by only candles have gathered. The door bangs again.

“Maybe he's changed his mind.” says Tom.

Timidly, Mr. Bennet opens the door revealing a baleful looking Lady Catherine de Bourgh. Everyone gasps.

“Lady Catherine!”

Lady Catherine does not acknowledge, but comes in uninvited, inspecting the assembled company of aghast Bennets. She waves a dismissive hand towards the boys.

“The rest of your offspring, I presume.”

“All but one, the youngest has been lately married your ladyship. And my eldest was only proposed to yesterday afternoon.” Says Mrs. Bennet.

“You have a very small garden, madam.”

“Could I offer you a cup of tea perhaps, your Ladyship?”

“Absolutely not! I must speak to Mr. Santiago alone, as a matter of urgency.”

The Bennets all look at each other, bewildered by this strange turn of events.

***

Santiago leads the way into the drawing room - holding a candle. Lady Catherine walks in. The door closes behind them. Santiago puts the candle down on a small table. They sit, facing each other.

“You can be at no loss, Mr. Santiago, to understand why I am here.”

Lit only by the oil lamp Lady Catherine resembles a flickering ghoul.

“Indeed, you are mistaken. I cannot account for this honor at all.”

“Mr. Santiago, I warn you, I am not to be trifled with. A report of a most alarming nature has reached me that you intend to be united with my niece, Miss Darcy.”

Santiago stares at her, amazed.

“I know this to be a scandalous falsehood, though not wishing to injure her by supposing it possible, I instantly set off to make my sentiments known.”

Santiago's spirit rises within him.

“If you believed it impossible, I wonder you took the trouble of coming so far.”

“To hear it contradicted, Mr. Santiago.”

“You coming here will be rather a confirmation, surely, if indeed such a report exists. “

“If? Do you then pretend to be ignorant of it? Has it not been industriously circulated by yourself?”

“I have never heard of it.”

“And can you declare there is no foundation for it?”

“I do not pretend to possess equal frankness with your ladyship. You may ask the questions, which I may not choose to answer.”

“This is not to be borne. Has my niece made you an offer of marriage?”

“Your Ladyship declared it to be impossible.”

“Let me be understood. Miss Darcy is engaged to my daughter. Now what have you to say?”

“Only this - if that is the case you can have no reason to suppose she will make an offer to me.”

“Oh, obstinate boy! This union has been planned since their infancy. Do you think it can be prevented by a young man of inferior birth and whose own brother's elopement resulted in the scandalously patched-up marriage, only achieved at the expense of your uncle? Heaven and earth, are the shades of Pemberley to be thus polluted? Now tell me once and for all, are you engaged to him?

“I am not.”

“And will you promise never to enter into such an engagement?”

“I will not. And I certainly never shall. You have insulted me in every possible way and can now have nothing further to say. I must ask you to leave immediately. Good night.”

Santiago throws open the door, revealing the family outside.

“I have never been thus treated in my entire life.”

Lady Catherine storms past the family and out into the night. Santiago is standing shaking with the excitement of having stood so firmly up for himself.

“Santiago, what on earth is going on?” Mr. Bennet asks.

“Just a small misunderstanding.”

He walks past them to bed.

“Santiago!” Mrs. Bennet yells after him.

“For once in your life. Just leave me alone.”

Everyone looks shocked by Santiago's reaction.

***

Francisco is fast asleep, Santiago more awake than he's ever been. He quietly climbs out of bed and creeps out of the room.

***

Santiago creeps out into the garden and wanders through the early morning mist, as the sun starts to rise.

He has lost track of himself and is walking beyond the Longbourn grounds. The mist is starting to evaporate and through the departing strands she sees a figure emerging. He stops, suddenly conscious of herself and frightened. Then he realizes it is Darcy - red-eyed, slightly wild looking - but still Darcy.

They both stop and stare at each other for a second.

“I couldn't sleep”

“Nor I. My aunt?”

She stops, looking wretched.

“Yes. She was here.”

“How can I ever make amends for such behavior?”

“After what you have done for Ben and for all I know, for Francisco also, it is I who should be making amends.”

Darcy looks at him for one deep moment.

“You must know - surely you must know, that it was all for you.”

Santiago is still as stone.

“You are too generous to trifle with me. I believe you spoke with my aunt last night, and it has taught me to hope as I had scarcely allowed myself before. If your feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. My affections and wishes are unchanged, but one word from you will silence me forever.”

Santiago is silent.

“If, however, your feelings have changed...”

Darcy looks at him. Something in Santiagos eyes gives her confidence.

“I could, I would have to tell you, you have bewitched me body and soul and I love and love and love you. And never wish to be parted from you from this day on.”

Santiago looks at her very serious, very simple.

“Well, then.”

Darcy takes a step towards him, one hand stretched out. Santiago takes hold of her fingers.

“You’re cold.”

He kisses her thumb. He sweeps her into his arms on a sound that's half a laugh, half a sob.

***

The place is in an uproar. Francisco, Tom, William, Mr. and Mrs. Bennet are all gathered, fretting terribly about Santiago's whereabouts. Through a window we see Santiago lead Darcy along the duck board plank across the moat. Santiago enters the house, everybody starts.

“Santiago, where have you been? We thought something had happened to you.”

Darcy follows Santiago in.

“Miss Darcy! What on earth are you doing here?”

Santiago takes Miss Darcy's hand.

“Miss Darcy has come to speak with Papa.”

Everyone is stunned.

***

Santiago paces outside the door of the library, waiting. After a while Darcy emerges, she gives Santiago the briefest of smiles and leaves the door open. Santiago walks in. His father is in a state of shock.

“Santiago, are you out of your senses? I thought you hated the woman.”

“No, Papa.”

“She is rich, to be sure, and you will have more fine carriages than Francisco. But will that make you happy?”

“Have you no other objection than your belief in my indifference?”

“None at all. We all know him to be a proud, unpleasant sort of fellow, but this would be nothing if you really liked her.”

“I do like her! I love her! She's not proud. I was wrong, entirely wrong about her. You don't know her, Papa... if I told you what she's really like. What she's done.

“What has she done?”

***

Santiago's hair caught up in the collar of the coat as he turns to Darcy with a heart-stopping smile. She’s at his side, in night-shirt and breeches, both of them looking as though they've just flung themselves out of bed... which is precisely the case.

“And how are you today, my dear?”

“Very well, only I wish you would not call me my dear.”

“Why?”

“It’s what my father always calls my mother when he's cross about something.”

“What endearments am I allowed?”

“Let me think. Santiago for every day. My Pearl for Sundays and God Divine - but only on special occasions.”

“And what shall I call you when I'm cross? Mr. Darcy?

“Oh no. You can only call me Mr. Darcy when you are entirely and perfectly and incandescently happy.”

She takes his face between her hands.

“And how are you this morning Mr. Darcy?”

Santiago smiles as she kisses every inch of his face and in between each kiss, murmurs "Mr. Darcy".

#santiago garcia #triple frontier #ben miller #frankie morales #onevolon fic #santiago garcia x reader #tom davis #oscar isaac characters #oscar isaac fic #oscar isaac fanfiction #oscar isaac hernandez estrada #oscar isaac

[draconic-ichor]

Spinning Gold

Part 12

Morgott/female tarnished fic

Warnings: strong language, sexual themes, talks of pregnancy, blood, brief mentions of sexual assault, pregnancy trauma, brief mentions of violence against infants

Summary: The Lady attempts to find out more information about omen pregnancies…

Feedback appreciated, 18+

“There must be some account…” the tarnished pressed, worry beginning to knot her brow.

The physician made a sound, slowly walking along the length of the bookcase, searching. His thin fingers traced over a few tomes, lips silently mouthing the each title. Finally, he pulled one free, taking it to the table to thumb through it.

“There is…” he concluded, voice low, “An account of an omen laborer in the Weeping Peninsula….” He read further, “Forced the self onto a serving girl to the same hold….hmm.”

“And?”

The man’s lips deepened into a frown, tone mimicking the concern. “The resulting pregnancy did produce an omen child.” He concluded, eyes still scanning the page.

“Was the baby healthy?” The tarnished padded closer, stomach twisting as her eyes caught the bloody illustration upon the page.

“…it does not say.” The physician sighed, following her gaze, “People’s concerns were not with the babe…I’m afraid.”

The page depicted the infant’s fate: a newborn omen, horns excised to weeping stumps, heavy chain already adorning the small throat.

The Lady swallowed, hand drifting to her stomach. The physician flipped the page, hiding the image away. He looked back to her, “Omen have strong constitutions as a species, my concerns more lie in how the more….abnormal…traits will affect my Ladyship.”

Voice void of its usual mirth, it replaced with a solemn cloud, she asked, “And what does your books say about these abnormal traits.”

“Mostly how to remove them.” He admitted, defeatedly, adding, “The care of inhuman species quite a new notion in the fields I frequent, I’m afraid.”

She nodded, looking lost.

“We may consult a perfumer?” He offered, “Their guild has been known to service omen throughout the shattering.”

“Is it not also their guild that the Omenkiller’s are born?” She asked through tight jaw.

“Do not Damn the masses for the actions of the few.” The physician hummed, adding when he got a withering look, “I would be sure to only consult trusted individuals.”

“…if it is all that can be done.” She sighed, defeated.

Elsewhere in the castle Morgott walked slowly through the hall, this wing less opulent and the ceilings built much lower. He had to bend forward to keep his horns free from bumping any of the woodwork, bringing his ears much closer to the open doors he’s passed.

Normally he would just go about his way, this section the shortcut to his personal part of the gardens. But something caught his ear: voices spoken much louder than their gossiping words would usually brook. His steps faulted, listening to the maids.

Ease dropping on the staff wasn’t a hobby of the king’s, especially in such a place of security for them….yet this conversation.

Morgott, as quietly as he could manage, leaned closer to the cracked door. A gaggle of maids, some handmaidens to boot, were washing linens together.

“The Lady went to the physician again.” One spoke, “D-Do you think she’s worried about the babe?”

“O’course she’s worried about the babe!” Another scoffed, “What new mother isn’t?!”

“N…no. Think the babe will be…?”

“An omen?”

Morgott felt his breath catch in his throat.

“It’s…likely?” A handmaiden sighed, “They say the curse takes your whole bloodline. It must be true, right?”

A few little voice chirped in agreement before an older voice broke out. It was from a senior maid, hardened from years of hard work.

“As if it will be the kings!” The old woman scoffed, never stopping her scrubbing.

“What do you mean?” The handmaiden almost sounded offended on the tarnished behalf.

“We all know no one would choose to lie with such a beast.”

A quite fell over the others, only the sound of soapy water and soppy linen filled the room for many moment. With a grunt, the old woman picked up a basket of freshly washed clothes, adding sharply, “Mark my words. That baby will be born perfectly human.”

A maid hissed under her breath to that, “You don’t wash their sheets…”

Morgott’s heart twisted in his chest as he burst through the garden doors, quickly making his way into his personal greenhouse. His eye stung terribly, but the smell of earth soothed him a bit. As the glass door closed he was hidden from the outside, finally breaking down. Sitting heavily on the stone floor, tail thumping beside him, he rubbed his face, all the emotions of the last weeks threatening to drown him.

His gut was a storm, part of him hopeful that the baby would truly be human…even if that meant he didn’t father the scrap. But something deeper, more primal, wanted it to be an omen. An unshakable symbol of his claim.

He shook his head. Never should have even think such thoughts. His is a curse, a stain. It would be cruel to wish that on a child.

His breath escaped in a ragged huff, willing emotion to quell.

It would be kinder…safer…for the people to think the baby isn’t his…

He thought darkly. The idea cementing a heavy block in his stomach.

I will do my part in that charade…

He concluded.

~

It took almost a month to organize the meeting with a perfumer, the Lady’s seclude overloaded.

A table was set for tea in the Lady’s private sunroom, small cakes and pastries decorated fine porcelain plates. Everything was just as if a visiting dignitary was to arrive, the Lady wishing this meeting to go smoothly.

She blew on her own cup of tea, nerves already beginning to fray. Morgott had withdrew into himself with the recent weeks, leaving the Lady quiet alone on her conquest for answers…not that she would pry him much on the matter anyways but that was a different story. She almost didn’t hear the doors to the sunroom opening, the small procession to follow. It wasn’t until the guest was announced that she hastily sat her cup down to greet them.

“I am the new guild master of the Capital’s sect of perfumers, my Lady.” The woman bowed, “You may call me Noda.”

“Welcome, please sit.” The lady gestured to the free chair.

“Thank you.” The perfumer sat down her heavy bag before carefully sitting as well, moving about her long robes as she did so.

“If it is agreeable with you, Miss Noda, I would like to get straight to my reasonings for calling upon your guild.” The tarnished began, as a handmaiden poured a second cup of tea.

“My all means, my Lady.” The other agreed.

The Lady nodded thankfully, sitting for a moment to collect herself before explaining, “I’m sure you’ve heard of the potential this pregnancy has to produce an omen, given that the King is one himself…” she signed, “But unfortunately the information on such topics is at best very limited and and worst barbaric. Iv combed through all the books our physician keeps and found their contents lacking. My hope for this meeting, is that your guild may have a more thorough and unclouded account?”

“I understand.” She agreed, “Common healers avoid such topics.”

“With the new order, my hope is for such information to be more widely taught…but that hope doesn’t quite help my case currently, however.”

“I am very intrigued by your very special circumstance.” Noda smiled beneath her mask, “I am excited to study the pregnancy.”

The Lady put her cup down, commenting, “This can not be the first case of an omen pregnancy you’ve encountered?”

“Not that.” Noda shook her head, eyes widening with wonder as she went on, “Not only do you carry an omen…this is the first child produced from a God and a Demigod in our histories! This is…well this is groundbreaking.”

“I-I never thought of that.” The Lady paled a bit as she words sunk in.

Unaware of the other’s discomfort, she added, “This has the potential to progress medicine and everything we know of demigods.”

“So is there nothing you can tell me that can help my current situations?” She asked, voice soft.

“Oh, there’s plenty!” The woman smiled, reaching into her large bag. She pulled free a tome. It was thick and made of a worn green leather, no words etched into its cover or spine. Sitting it gingerly down between them, the perfumer explained, “This is one of the guild’s tomes on omen, it’s everything we know of them…for this opportunity we thought it better in your hands.” With a tilt of her head she added more softly, “Take it as a peace offering of sorts, if you will.”

The Lady swallowed, leaning forward to take the book inhand. Deep curiosity bloomed over her features, fingers itching to crack open the yellowed pages.

“So we have a deal?” Noda smiled.

The tarnished nodded before finding her words, “We do.”

“Good!” The perfumer stood, reaching out to take the Lady’s hand, “I look forward our next meeting!”

The farewells and reschedules felt far away and blurred, the Lady’s mind in swirling knots.

Since Morgott’s self imposed reclusion the Lady had begun sleeping in her own quarters once more. Half of her bed was piled high with pillows and blankets in an attempt to make it seem lest vast…an attempt that wasn’t quite working.

She gingerly got into bed, holding the little swell of her belly and huffing once she was all in. It was getting harder every day.

Eagerly she scooped up the tome from the bedside table, the anticipation to read through it eating her up throughout the rest of her busy day. Finally alone she cracked open the yellowed pages.

It was fascinating.

Every page was filled with intricate details pertaining to omen: their biology for the most part, but also seen social structures, psychology, and how their bodies reacted to medications. Nothing was hidden for fear of blasphemy, it was simple honesty from the only ones that took the time to learn.

Her exploration faltered on the section of infants, the inked sketches wholly and utterly different than any other depictions she’d seen. Babies with downy feathers or fur, and chubby cheeks, but unlike the others these were serene, drawn in a rare moment of peace. Her fingers softly traced over the lines of one….a rare spark of hope alighting in her chest.

#spinning gold #morgott/tarnished #morgott the omen king #elden ring fic

[casuallivi]

Yellow Chamomile

(Elain Archeron Week 2022. Day 2. Hobbies.)

Feyre can’t sleep. Not while Nyx is screaming from the top of his lungs night after night. Rhys paces beside her. He tried to take Nyx twice, his screams increasing terribly, small wings trashing on his back, the door panels rattling beside her. Rhys let Feyre take him back, violet eyes filled with pain and concern, desperate to find another way to sooth his son. There isn’t any. Nyx is cramping, and only his momma's lap is good enough to tone his crying down a notch, but not enough to calm him completely. He cries himself to sleep, her sister ehxausted on the armchair. Rhys carefully lifting the baby from her arms, placing him in the soft cradle.

“Go to bed, darling.”

“I can't sleep. I can’t stop worrying about him.”

Elain watches from the doorway, similar black circles under her eyes. Nyx's cry is not the only one plaging her nights, the women scream louder them him, bagging in their cells, trapped in their suits of feathers. She pads back to her room, changing from her night clothes, grabbing the reliable leather journal from her bedside table.

While Feyre fills canvas with images, Elain fills pages with words.

She lost count of how many jornauls she filled, page after page overflowing with words. Snippets of turbulent dreams, notes taken sideways to add on a recipe, names of medicinal plants, mixes of poisonous leaves she hopes never having to use, translations of old antidotes, terms and people to research for later, his preferred sweets, his disliked dishes. The contents vary with the same speed as they do in her mind; no clear pattern; no topic untouched. She aims for the backyard, flicking through the texts with easy, vaguely aware of were the brew might be scribbled.Its an ambitious combination. Each plant favors a different season and needs different amounts of time to sprout and ripe. Such details mattered not in the hands of Elain. Her goal was set, they would bloom for her.

The mighty starry sky of Night Court iluminates the garden perfectly, as if it was expecting her to come here, the bright full moon shinning amongst the twinkling colorful dots. Watching her. Pleased. The owl sits in the brach of the neast tree, perfectly white feathers and pitch black eyes, cooing in Elain's direction. The owl is coming so often Elain is thinking about naming it.

Elain planted the chamomiles that night. Twenty-three days of careful tending, her green thumb speding the process with an efficience never seen by her. The lavender bloomed faster, other ingredients maturing with similar speed. Elain plucked every leaf and bud with her bare hands, choosing the healthiest candidates one by one –they looked different in her eyes, the scent stronger, the color vibrant, covered in midnight sparks, softly coaxing her.

Pick me.

Choose me.

She did. Elain hummed blessing each one before setting them in a drying rack. Not that anyone would ever know that. Not that she knew that.

Feeling satisfied with the dried brachs, she separeted them, crushing the ingredients with the help of a wood pestle, mixing it all in a cylindrical shaped glass container, a cork serving as lid. A par of intricated whorls flashed in her mind, she dips one of Feyre's old brushes under current water, trying to replicate the coils on the bottom of the glass in a way that would dry and fade in seconds, a faint gild following each trace, obscured from other eyes. After days of dedication, Elain held the fruit of her love in her hands.

The perfect concoction.

That night Elain used the mix to brew her sister tea, Feyre ingesting the fragrant drink before breastfeeding. When Rhys picked his son up to burp he didn't cry for leaving his mother; he farted. Nyx farted so loud the three adults startled, the tiny baby could not care less about their reaction, stretching on his father's chests, letting out everything that was bothering him. Feyre, Rhys and Elain starred at each other for a moment, laughter bursting in the previously tense room.

It's amazing how a creature so tiny had a hold so strong in all of them.

Nyx wasn't the only one affected by the tea, Feyre was feeling more relaxed, her constant alert state finally setting down watching her baby dosing peacefully. That night, she and Nyx slept in Elain's bed, the precious baby slumbering between the sisters, their hands meeting over his cute bum. Feyre eyed Elain, her brown eyes glued to her son, nothing but love shining in them. She squeezed her hand.

"I'm so glad you're here, Lana." Elain's attention slid from the beautiful baby to her little sister, a content smile on her face, sleep urging her blue eyes to shut down. "I love you," she whispers. Elain feels like crying, she can't help but stretch over her nephew and kiss her little sister's hair.

"I love you too Fey. Go to sleep."

Feyre lets out a long breath, burring her head deeper in her pillow. They sleep together as they did so many times in the past, their connection stronger than ever, their love the little man sleeping between them tangible in the air. It's her first dreamless night in weeks.

#elainarcheronweek2022 #day two hobbies #elaiarcheronweek #elain archeron #feyre archeron #nyx archeron #Rhys #elain fanfic #witch lain is my favorite lain #the archeron sisters #her ladyship's garden #yellow chamomile #my writing

[danjaley]

15 questions for 15 mutuals

Thanks for the tag, @descendantdragfi and @nocturnalazure

Tagging @cloudberry-sims @shainachantake2 @nornities @pudding-parade @echoweaver @windermeresimblr @annies-simblr @declaration-of-dramas @schokokokatze @wannabecatwriter

Are you named after anyone? Johanna Spyri. 2. When was the last time you cried? This morning. (Complete impossibility of getting along with my mother.) 3. Do you have kids? No. 4. Do you use sarcasm a lot? Sometimes. 5. What sports do you play/have you played? I like walking but I wouldn't call that playing. Walking is serious business and ball-games I hate with a passion (except maybe watching football).

6. What’s the first thing you notice about other people? Their general style/haircut. If they are teenagers on the tram: The noise they're making. On tumblr it's the username. :P 7. Scary movies or happy endings? It doesn't always have to be the perfect Happy Ending but I never got why people pay money to be scared. Real life is scary enough. 8. Any special talents? Storytelling. Finding stuff in archives and reading 19th century handwriting. 9. Where were you born? Gräfelfing, but I haven't actually lived there. There's a place called Gräfelfing on one end of Munich and one called Grafing on the other. Both means 'Grey Wolf'. I imagine that long ago a branch of the Grey Wolf Clan wanted to stay in the area, but move far enough away to be safe from their mothers-in-law. Today they are connected by an S-Bahn line. I named the Visigoth clan in Wild Hunt after them. 10. What are your hobbies? Sims-storytelling. Some windowsill-gardening. Walking. Embroidery. 11. Do you have any pets? Her Ladyship Ursel. (Just to put this into perspective, none of our previous dogs were allowed to sit on the furniture.)

12. How tall are you? 1.70 13. Fave subject in school? Art, History, German, English. 14. Dream job? I'm working in my dream-job as an art-historian/librarian, but it wouldn't hurt to be properly paid for it :/ 15. Eye colour? Brown.

#tagged #nonsims

[safely-in-vhagars-belly]

I got inspired by both @esmeray-greenleaf and @jamespotterismydaddy (Dark Aemond x handmaiden reader (Es) and Lessons in the garden (James) respectively and I was very caught between:

Do not let them know you exist. Do you want them to suffer that fate. Do you. DO YOU

And do let them know because they inspired you and you do not want to be named a thief now do you. Do you? do you?! (I might be insane) ((our fics are very different as well I don't know why I even bother you!!!) ((Sucks being insecure (that's me I am the insecure one lol)

Anyway yeah I had this idea a while now and I changed it up a lot and never got quite happy with it as I am never truly happy with anything I write but here it is enjoy♡

Snippet

Very short.

Reader x Aemond and Aegon

Plot: Redacted handmaid mc to aegon.

(I do not want to ruin the surprise.

Warnings dementia killing my horrible writing and more shit and also like awkward mc and murder dark aegon and powerabuse and me sucking at writing and warning making in general its very bad do not read

Gifs not mine

Your new employer walks you through the halls of the red keep. You listen to a very boring monologue about the first Targaryen king. You do not remember his name. Something with an A. Apparently, this castle was not even made when his ass sat the throne. You do not understand how he is even relevant to this day. The woman introducing you to your life in the castle is named Blaer and has an impressive stamina as she walks hours in the castle at a terrifying speed for a woman that small. You realise she does not only care for the job because she is paid, but when she tells you who the royal family members are, her eyes sparkle. She cares very much about them as well.

A woman with a stunning green expensive gown interrupts your conversation. Blaer bows for her, and you do the same. You realise who this woman is. The Queen herself. You smile at her. She waits for something. You realise she wants you to curtsy. So you do so, quickly muttering an apology. 'Is the new girl for Aegon?' Ah. That was that name. You remember thinking it sounded a lot like the word egg. So silly.

Blaer nods. 'Yes, your grace. This is the girl. She is here from the reach. Her former employer had died.' She says it like it's some sort of scandalous secret. It is if they realised it all. But they do not. Not until it's too late.

There is a small brief silence between the three of you as the Queen looks you up and down, and you see her worry increase. 'I will walk her to his chambers myself. Go do something else.' She tells no commands the maid that helped you. Blaer curtsys before leaving her queen with a respectful your grace.

You follow the Queen, adjusting your tall legs to match her pace.

She pays it no mind and walks you to her son's chambers. 'You'll see that my son has a... horrible habit. He likes to touch things that aren't his.' She tells you. You blink. Touch things that aren't his?

She continues as you realise you are with the big fishes now. 'If he ever lays a hand on you, you'll come to me. Not to the guards, not to any servant, me directly. I am his mother and he will answer to me. Am I clear?' You want to ask her more. Did he do this before? Is this custom? What is implied with touching, and what will happen if you are touched by him?

Yet you fake a smile hiding your worries. 'As crystal, your grace.'

She seems pleased with that.

'Good.'

'Now, your former employer wrote a stunning recommendation. May I ask what your tasks were at her house?' You halt and think of the day your parents were murdered. Tears sting your eyes.

You make your eyes soft and kind, and your voice breaks nearly on its own. 'O, my ladyship was a kind but an old lady. It was quite sad, my Queen. She would want me to host balls for her family members that are no longer...here, your grace.' You say as respectful as possible.

'Did they move?' Bless this women's innocent mind. You shake your head.

'They are deceased, my queen. Several wars claimed all her sons. Her husband ended his own life when he found out. He tried to kill her as well, but she fought back. She doesn't remember that. She would ask me daily when he would return.'

You wonder if it's all a bit too much, but she buys it, and she buys the entire store. 'Gods...' she mutters to herself, clutching her necklace of a seven pointed star.

'And you?' She asks.

You tell her what you did around your former employer. 'I hosted the balls. I invited trustworthy people to pretend to be her relatives. She was so happy and I knew if I told her it would be only a matter of time before she forgot again.' You say. 'The people were starving, so they behaved.' You do not tell her of the thief.

There is something with his foot. You quickly fake a smile and curtsy to him as well. 'This is our new worker. She is Aegon's new maid.' She says.

'This is my closest friend and advisor, Larys Strong.' You understand he holds a position at court as well.

'It is a pleasure to meet you, Lord Strong.' It is not. He gives you the creeps.

'Likewise, my lady. I hope you stick around longer than our former maid.' He smiles when leaning on his cane. You eye the Queen.

'Why what happened to her?' The Queen glares at you. She does not answer. You already know.

---

The prince's chambers are a mess to clean. There are clothes everywhere, along with several cups of wine all half full and spoiled. You also notice ants marching around an abandoned plate of pancakes and decide to delicately, murder them all.

A voice suddenly shrieks behind you and rushes to the killed ants before bursting into tears. 'No, my ant friends! What did you do?!' A silver haired girl yells at you. Like some thieves learn to fear the colour gold because of the Cloaks, you fear the colour silver because of the insane family that runs this castle. You realise you are in trouble. You killed her pet friends.

You feel bad and quickly drop the plate breaking it as well. You quickly kneel and start collecting the pieces. 'I am so sorry, your highness. I thought they were enemies, not friends.' You say.

She ignores your apology. 'You are Aegon's new maid.' She says. You nod. 'You poor thing. Kill as many things as you like. I know I would. If I could. But I can't.' She sighs and rubs her arms.

You feel horrible. The girl lives miserable and alone, and you killed her only friends and joy. 'Your Highness, again, I am so sorry. Is there anything I can do to help you feel better?' You ask.

The princess instantly stops crying and you realise it was a trap all along. 'You can help me find new friends.' Oh no. You do not like bugs. You do not like the outdoors, and you are here for Aegon.

'Of course, your highness-' you are interrupted.

There is a beautiful smile on her lips. 'I despise that word. Call me Helaena.' You tell her your name but you do not expect her to remember it to be honest. You are just a maid.

By the time you and Helaena are done, night has fallen. She clinges to you, her ankle swollen and at the very least bruised. You are still dripping with the disgusting swamp water that you jumped into. It was an eventful day.

A guard on the walls watches you two approach the castle and nearly drops his spywatch. You both must look like wild rats.

The gates are opened, and the guards are all relieved that their princsss has returned. You are barely glanced at. 'Did you really have to jump in after me? I was handling myself fine.' Helaena takes your hand into her own.

'To be fair, I did not know you could swim. I thought you would drown.' You tell her. 'I suppose I owned you from saving me from that snake.' You jest with a little smirk.

Helaena chuckles, remembering how hard you screamed. 'For the last time, that was a worm. He has name, he is called Hendrix, and he is harmless.' She even takes Hendrix out of the box and pushes him in your face so you can see him again. She puts him back in his box.

You suppose he is, quite harmless. You still do not like bugs, but you do not hate the bug as much as you did. You pass multiple guards and have no idea where you are going, but luckily, Helaena knows the way quite well.

The door of a room is opened, and Helaena goes in. A moment later, she comes back out and drags you with her. She proudly takes out Hendrix and Calypso, another bug she caught. Calypose is the bitch that you are just convinced that laughed when you both tumbled into the swamp to capture it.

The Queen directly stands up and rushes over to her daughter. 'Did you go into the swamp again? How many times must I tell you?' She shakes her daughter, not caring how dirty her hands get.

There are four men with her, and three of them have silver hair. Great. The first one is an old man who has seen better days. He wears a crown, and you gulp. Helaena takes out Hendrix eagerly and shows him off to everyone but him.

Another man with an eyepatch takes interest in the bug and smiles. 'a new one. Did you name this one already?' He asks.

'Yes! He is named Hendrix. Me and my friend found her in the swamp. She did, actually.' She smiles at you, full of pride. You beam.

Until you see the man shoot you a very subtle but hate filled glare. Even the Queen gives you one. Only the king seems to be happy. 'Well, that's lovely, darling. I am glad you found a friend.'

The other final man also speaks.

'I suppose this is why I had to fend for myself? You were out bug hunting?' That's Aegon, you realise. Aegon has short silver hair and looks as if he has not bathed in three days.

You open your mouth to defend yourself, but Helaena is faster. 'She killed my friends and she felt bad so she went with me.' You sigh and can already hear the axe swing as your head leaves your body. Now they all think you killed her friends. Great.

Alicent raises from her chair.

'You killed someone on your first day working here?!' She screams at you.

You scream back, panicked as a grumpy guard takes you away from the princess. 'Ants! Ants!' What is even happening?

The oldest prince finds this all very amusing and laughs. You wish you could slap him. You calm down. 'There was a pancake on a plate with ants, and I killed the ants. That is all there is to it!'

'You are in trouble on your very first day. You have endangered my daughter, neglected your duties, and you are also now have risen your voice against me, the Queen of the seven kingdoms.' Shit.

'B-but...' it came from your good heart. But that does not matter. Your intentions were pure, but you understand that this could have ended with Helaena dead or worse. You understand that yelling at your queen is a crime. 'I know, your grace. I am sorry. I lost control of myself for a moment there. I thought you might have me killed if I didn't explain that it was about ants.' You don't think you ever said that word as much as today.

She sighs and accepts your apology. 'I see.'

Helaena comes to your rescue once more. 'She saved me. I nearly drowned. She jumped in and helped me. We bonded. Please. I like her mother. Can she stay with us?'

'She has one final chance to prove herself. If she fails, we'll send her away.' The Queen sighs before she is hugged by her daughter, and her dress is ruined.

You and Helaena grin before hugging each other, not caring about your dirty clothes and swamp hair. 'It is best if you both take a bath.' The Queen adds with a sigh.

After your bath you take care of the bugs of the princess. You feed them a bit of leaves she keeps in a jar and make sure to wish all of them goodnight.

You leave the rooms. Helaena is asleep. As you leave her chambers, you bump into her other brother. The one-eyed one. He had a funny name too, but you can't remember. You only remember his hateful glare at you and his displeasure when they announced you would stay.

'You,' you say like an idiot.

He raises a brow at that unforgiven and horrible greeting.

'I mean, hello. I mean, my Prince. Hello. My prince.' You curtsy, but you still haven't gotten the hang of It. It's not elegant or ladylike. You instead bow.

He scoffs. You quickly walk away from him. 'Did I say you could leave?' You shake your head.

He grabs your arm and pins you against the wall. You make a soft whimper. He leans in close and his hot breath tickles your skin. 'Eh-'

You gather your courage.

'Do you need something, or can I leave?' You glare at him. He seems surprised by that. He lets go of you.

He pushes you away suddenly, scowling. 'Go keep yourself busy with Aegon. He is bathing, and he needs a hand.'

---

You enter the room where the prince is bathing. You knock on the door, and he turns around. You see, he is enjoying himself and has a few bottles of wine next to him. He grins at you like a predator. You smile back. 'I am here. Your brother told me you needed me?'

'O, Aemond is such a considerate fool.' You aren't sure to agree with that. He is his brother, but he called him the fool first. Do you need to agree with him, or do you need to ignore that?

You smile instead. 'What does my prince need help with?' You ignore the Queen's warning when he touches your hands.

He leans back and smirks when drinking the wine.

'Bathe me.' He says it as if he is challenging you. You never backed down from a challenge before.

You are used to washing pigs anyway. 'Of course.' You reach over to grab the soap bar from him, but he drops it on purpose in the hot water.

'Oops, how clumsy of me.' He says his voice dripping with sarcasm. You smile, but your eyes glare at him. 'You need to work on your face if you want to stay here. I can just tell you plan on murdering me.' He chuckles.

You roll your eyes and go with your hand in the bath, searching for the damn soap bar. Your legs are tall, as are your arms and fingers. You touch something, but by judging his smirk, it's part of his body and not a soapbar. You let go of it, hiding your blush and discomfort as you try to find the soapbar.

You get annoyed and lean over, trying to find the bar. The prince has played this trick before. You are helpless as he kisses you full on your mouth with a smirk. 'I hope you do not mind. You are my little toy, and I should get to know you better.'

'The bar, wench.' He will suffer for that.

You finally spot it and take it out of the water. You grab hold of Aegon and start washing his face roughly scrubbing as you take out your aggression on him. He chuckles before grabbing both your arms. You easily free yourself. 'Do you need help with bathing or do you just want to touch me?' You Growl at him. He sighs.

'Leave. I grew bored of you already.' Hopefully that's not a bad thing.

----

You roll your hips against Aegons and moan in his ear when softly nibbling on his neck. He groans when thrusting himself deep inside of you. You sigh delighted when he finishes way too early.

The next day, you are brushing Helaena's hair for her. Aegon is still asleep after what you did with him. Good. His wife tells you more about her ant friends, and you both make plans to catch more bugs, but this time closer to home. Helaena stops your brushing suddenly and takes your hand. 'Can you tell me one more time what your name is? I won't forget, I promise.'

You nod. You lay down the brush and tell her one last time how your parents named you. 'Daemyra.'

'Do you know what happened to the maid that attended Aegon before?' You ask casually. She shakes her head. You sigh but accept that she does not know either. The Queen does know.

And she is going to tell you what happened to your sister, Dyana. You already won the trust of one child of hers. It will be a matter of time before the other two eat out of your hand as well.

//a/n

Thats gotta be the worst spy I ever heard of.

Ever.

#house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #dark aemond targaryen #house of the dragon fanfiction #aegon ii targaryen #dark aemond targaryen x oc #dark aemond targaryen x reader #dark aegon ii targaryen #dark aegon ii targaryen x reader #dark! #head the warnings #dubcon #possible triggering content #She/her reader #AFAB Reader #DarkFantasy #Possible noncon #Possible gore #Old work

[tacroyy]

the forest (on ao3) by tacroy, discworld, sybil ramkin & havelock vetinari, rated g, 1,405 words

=

When she was young—actually, well into her late teens, but nobody else had to know that—she had a hard time with a particular idiom that she heard occasionally: can’t see the forest for the trees. “Sybil, I don’t understand you, sometimes,” her mother would say. “You know etiquette like the back of your hand, your penmanship would put an engraver out of work, and your Quirmian m'émeut aux larmes… but sometimes, you can’t see the forest for the trees.”

“What do you mean?” Sybil had asked, hoping for a key to understanding the phrase, but her mother would go on to say something like, “Lord d’Eath does not appreciate being reminded of his family’s Delicate Financial Situation,” or “One does not eat an entire roast duck in one sitting,” or “Her ladyship does not want to hear about microbial scale rot during the soup and salad courses at the Annual Assassin’s Kindness Kills Charity Dinner,” rather than actually explaining. So she internalized everything her mother told her in the hopes that, one day, one of her pieces of advice would fit into the puzzle of the saying and reveal its secrets.

The thing was that forests were made up of trees. That was the point of forests. Sybil puzzled over this for years. What on the disc were people trying to say? To see a forest, you had to look at trees. It made no sense. Was her mother trying to tell her that she needed to look at the big picture, the gestalt? She did. When she told Lord d’Eath that she found spending on family torturers to be a waste of money anyway, she was looking at the finances of The Estate As A Whole, as she’d learned on her father’s knee. When she ate an entire roast duck in one sitting, well—that was practically the definition of frying the biggest fish. When she described microbial scale rot during the early courses of the charity dinner to Lady Haxwell, it was because Lady Haxwell had just told Sybil about her gardener’s eczema, and Sybil had taken the vivid picture Lady Haxwell had painted of the angry sores and scaly dermatitis on the man’s inner arms and elbows as interest in the progression of dermal diseases. That wasn’t missing the forest at all. That was just showing someone how one tree was like another tree, and that way they could look at the forest together.

One day, when Havelock was upside down on the chaise lounge reading about palatal consonants and Sybil was wiring up a dragon skeleton, she said, “Havelock. Tell me about idioms.”

Havelock had just about fallen off of the chair in excitement; that is, he had looked up (or rather, down), snapped his book shut, and practically levitated into what Sybil thought of as his Lecturing Position Type C* (*Without A Desk, Seated). “Idioms,” said Havelock, “are a group of words established by usage as having a meaning not deducible from those of the individual words. For example, if you are nervous, you do not truly have butterflies in your stomach, unless you do and you also happen to be nervous, in which case a doctor should be called. You are simply nervous. But the commonly accepted phrase that we use to poetically name the concept of nervousness is to have butterflies in one’s stomach. Now, try to translate that to Quirmian—a literal translation, not conveying the sense. Say to a Quirmian, ‘Pardonnez-moi, j'ai des papillons dans le ventre,’ and they will offer you an emetic rather than an anti-emetic.”

He went on for a while, describing a number of idioms Sybil had never heard before and found delightful, like “a mouse’s tit” for something miniscule in one of the Agetean dialects and “like shitting it all out in one without even needing to wipe” for something that went extremely well in Hublandish and a term in Mithosian that, literally translated, meant “when the cervical mucus is the precise stretchy, stringy consistency best for successful procreation,” and idiomatically translated meant, “exactly ready.”

Sybil simply basked in this. Havelock was perfect for these sorts of masterfully organized mini-courses. Occasionally she would ask about a topic that Havelock did not already contain comprehensive knowledge of, like the history of opera or a review of rodent social behavior, and what followed was merely a delay of six to forty-eight hours (depending not on the complexity of the topic, but the physical location of relevant texts) before an exhaustive summary was presented to her like an offering to a sovereign.

Results had already come in. Sybil had always loved the opera, which Havelock had, previously, accepted as a Known Fact about her and left alone, much as one would gaze gently but disinterestedly upon the infant of one’s distant relative. But after his research date with operatic history, Havelock embraced music wholeheartedly. He still refused to attend the opera but would now discuss arioso and arias and could just as often be found reading scores as treatises on ligaments and lexicography.

Sybil said, “And what do you think the saying ‘can’t see the forest for the trees’ means?”

Havelock eyed her. “Are you asking because you want to know my perspective or because you want to know the linguistic perspective?”

“Both.”

“I think it refers to becoming distracted by or obsessed with the study of individual problems or forms rather than acknowledging the overarching issue. Linguists and laymen think that it refers to someone who gets caught up in details and therefore misses the opportunity to affect change.”

Sybil digested this for a while while Havelock tested out the difference between the voiceless palatal plosive and the voiced palatal plosive.

“So,” she said at last, “you think that there’s a difference between being distracted and obsessed, and getting caught up in something.”

“Of course,” said Havelock, as if this were obvious. “The common man often uses distraction and obsession pejoratively. This is inaccurate, of course. A distraction is merely an automatic reaction to something interesting—an animal impulse which can be controlled with training. And obsession is never applied correctly. You have noticed this, I’m sure. Someone is called ‘obsessed’ when they know the outs and ins and downs and ups of a subject to the extent that the someone calling them ‘obsessed’ becomes uncomfortable—a burden which ought to be on the one with the discomfort, not the one with the so-called obsession.”

Havelock paused to retrieve his notebook and pen. He kept talking while he wrote.

“Getting caught up, though, is the same as being swept along or—hm, this is a stretch, but be patient—or even the boiling toad. One can resist getting caught up or being swept along, but it is difficult to notice, as things have changed slowly, or are exciting—you don’t have time to think, or you haven’t had a chance to pay attention. Even so, it is your moral obligation to avoid getting caught up in details, as getting caught up in details does indeed prevent you from affecting change.”

Havelock pushed the notebook towards Sybil and finished: “Distractions and obsessions should not be negative. Getting caught up in details can be negative. The common man would consider this entire conversation a clear example of inability to see the forest for the trees. He would be wrong, as he is burdened with incorrect definitions of key terms.”

On his notebook, Havelock had drawn a broad sketch of a swamp dragon clearly suffering from spinus mizerablis.

“Oh,” said Sybil immediately. “Because spinus mizerablis is systemic and iatrogenic. Well, caused by human hair splinters after a scale fluff. Which is why reputable breeders don’t practice scale fluffing and haven’t since that Pancrea Lobulatto put out that paper in the Year of the Sprightly Oyster.”

“Precisely,” said Havelock. “It’s all very simple, really.”

“A weight off my mind, that is,” Sybil said. “Now then. Where’s that bin of coccygeal vertebrae got to?”

“Oh, sorry,” said Havelock, producing them out of his pocket. “I wanted to see if I could string them together into something that could reach around corners. Ought to have asked.”

“No worries,” said Sybil cheerfully. “Rodney, Lord Nardenwright keeled over yesterday of lump sprinkle and I’m about to go pull his bones out of the acid bath. Want the tail?”

Havelock’s eyes widened.

“Could I have the rest of the spine, too?”

=

#this was a delight to write #here’s how I tagged it on ao3 #here they are. Sybil ramkin and havelock vetinari #hanging out as teens #having the most nerd ass autistic conversation #sigh. I love them #fun fact this is based on me not understanding this idiom until my mid 20s #dw tag #original flavor

[inuharu27]

Her Ladyship and His Lordship

It’s been a while since I’ve drawn Inuyasha and Harumi in their royal attire. I also haven’t done a project with their castle in a while either. I’ve mostly done the inside interior or garden but hardly the whole castle. I’m thankful I already had it drawn out before and I could just take it from that project. They don’t always wear these outfits in their castle just on occasions and just wear their every day outfits. One of my friends told me Harumi should be considered a Disney princess and I’m actually flattered lol. I guess she could be considered one given she has the princesses traits to qualify as one.😊❤️

#inuyasha #inuyasha oc #inuyashaoc #inuyasha x oc #oc x canon #oc x character #oc x cc #犬夜叉

[ohifonlyx33]

Chapter 16 of The Scarlet Pimpernel had me nearly swooning in a public laundromat. Alas, the plot twist is spoilt for me, but nevertheless... it's all so delicious. The yearning is impeccable. The dynamic being captured is magnificence itself. The little details are delightful. An absolutely captivating moment.

“Sir Percy!”

He already had one foot on the lowest of the terrace steps, but at her voice he started, and paused, then looked searchingly into the shadows whence she had called to him.

She came forward quickly into the moonlight, and, as soon as he saw her, he said, with that air of consummate gallantry he always wore when speaking to her,—

“At your service, Madame!”

But his foot was still on the step, and in his whole attitude there was a remote suggestion, distinctly visible to her, that he wished to go, and had no desire for a midnight interview.

“The air is deliciously cool,” she said, “the moonlight peaceful and poetic, and the garden inviting. Will you not stay in it awhile; the hour is not yet late, or is my company so distasteful to you, that you are in a hurry to rid yourself of it?”

“Nay, Madame,” he rejoined placidly, “but ’tis on the other foot the shoe happens to be, and I’ll warrant you’ll find the midnight air more poetic without my company: no doubt the sooner I remove the obstruction the better your ladyship will like it.”

He turned once more to go.

“I protest you mistake me, Sir Percy,” she said hurriedly, and drawing a little closer to him; “the estrangement, which, alas! has arisen between us, was none of my making, remember.”

“Begad! you must pardon me there, Madame!” he protested coldly, “my memory was always of the shortest.”

------

Once again he attempted to go, once more her voice, sweet, childlike, almost tender, called him back.

“Sir Percy.”

“Your servant, Madame.”

“Is it possible that love can die?” she said with sudden, unreasoning vehemence. “Methought that the passion which you once felt for me would outlast the span of human life. Is there nothing left of that love, Percy . . . which might help you . . . to bridge over that sad estrangement?”

His massive figure seemed, while she spoke thus to him, to stiffen still more, the strong mouth hardened, a look of relentless obstinacy crept into the habitually lazy blue eyes.

------

“Percy! I entreat you!” she whispered, “can we not bury the past?”

“Pardon me, Madame, but I understood you to say that your desire was to dwell in it.”

“Nay! I spoke not of that past, Percy!” she said, while a tone of tenderness crept into her voice. “Rather did I speak of the time when you loved me still! and I . . . oh! I was vain and frivolous; your wealth and position allured me: I married you, hoping in my heart that your great love for me would beget in me a love for you . . . but, alas! . . .”

------

“Twenty-four hours after our marriage, Madame, the Marquis de St. Cyr and all his family perished on the guillotine, and the popular rumour reached me that it was the wife of Sir Percy Blakeney who helped to send them there.”

“Nay! I myself told you the truth of that odious tale.”

“Not till after it had been recounted to me by strangers, with all its horrible details.”

“And you believed them then and there,” she said with great vehemence, “without a proof or question—you believed that I, whom you vowed you loved more than life, whom you professed you worshipped, that I could do a thing so base as these strangers chose to recount. You thought I meant to deceive you about it all—that I ought to have spoken before I married you: yet, had you listened, I would have told you that up to the very morning on which St. Cyr went to the guillotine, I was straining every nerve, using every influence I possessed, to save him and his family. But my pride sealed my lips, when your love seemed to perish, as if under the knife of that same guillotine. Yet I would have told you how I was duped! Aye! I, whom that same popular rumour had endowed with the sharpest wits in France! I was tricked into doing this thing, by men who knew how to play upon my love for an only brother, and my desire for revenge. Was it unnatural?”

------

Marguerite Blakeney was, above all, a woman, with all a woman’s fascinating foibles, all a woman’s most lovable sins. She knew in a moment that for the past few months she had been mistaken: that this man who stood here before her, cold as a statue, when her musical voice struck upon his ear, loved her, as he had loved her a year ago: that his passion might have been dormant, but that it was there, as strong, as intense, as overwhelming, as when first her lips met his in one long, maddening kiss.

Pride had kept him from her, and, woman-like, she meant to win back that conquest which had been hers before. Suddenly it seemed to her that the only happiness life could ever hold for her again would be in feeling that man’s kiss once more upon her lips.

------

“And to probe that love, you demanded that I should forfeit mine honour,” he said, whilst gradually his impassiveness seemed to leave him, his rigidity to relax; “that I should accept without murmur or question, as a dumb and submissive slave, every action of my mistress. My heart overflowing with love and passion, I asked for no explanation—I waited for one, not doubting—only hoping. Had you spoken but one word, from you I would have accepted any explanation and believed it. But you left me without a word, beyond a bald confession of the actual horrible facts; proudly you returned to your brother’s house, and left me alone . . . for weeks . . . not knowing, now, in whom to believe, since the shrine, which contained my one illusion, lay shattered to earth at my feet.”

She need not complain now that he was cold and impassive; his very voice shook with an intensity of passion, which he was making superhuman efforts to keep in check.

“Aye! the madness of my pride!” she said sadly. “Hardly had I gone, already I had repented. But when I returned, I found you, oh, so altered! wearing already that mask of somnolent indifference which you have never laid aside until . . . until now.”

She was so close to him that her soft, loose hair was wafted against his cheek; her eyes, glowing with tears, maddened him, the music in her voice sent fire through his veins. But he would not yield to the magic charm of this woman whom he had so deeply loved, and at whose hands his pride had suffered so bitterly. He closed his eyes to shut out the dainty vision of that sweet face, of that snow-white neck and graceful figure, round which the faint rosy light of dawn was just beginning to hover playfully.

“Nay, Madame, it is no mask,” he said icily; “I swore to you . . . once, that my life was yours. For months now it has been your plaything . . . it has served its purpose.”

But now she knew that that very coldness was a mask. The trouble, the sorrow she had gone through last night, suddenly came back to her mind, but no longer with bitterness, rather with a feeling that this man who loved her, would help her to bear the burden.

------

Tears now refused to be held back. All her trouble, her struggles, the awful uncertainty of Armand’s fate overwhelmed her. She tottered, ready to fall, and leaning against the stone balustrade, she buried her face in her hands and sobbed bitterly.

At first mention of Armand St. Just’s name and of the peril in which he stood, Sir Percy’s face had become a shade more pale; and the look of determination and obstinacy appeared more marked than ever between his eyes. However, he said nothing for the moment, but watched her, as her delicate frame was shaken with sobs, watched her until unconsciously his face softened, and what looked almost like tears seemed to glisten in his eyes.

“And so,” he said with bitter sarcasm, “the murderous dog of the revolution is turning upon the very hands that fed it? . . . Begad, Madame,” he added very gently, as Marguerite continued to sob hysterically, “will you dry your tears? . . . I never could bear to see a pretty woman cry, and I . . .”

Instinctively, with sudden, overmastering passion, at sight of her helplessness and of her grief, he stretched out his arms, and the next, would have seized her and held her to him, protected from every evil with his very life, his very heart’s blood. . . . But pride had the better of it in this struggle once again; he restrained himself with a tremendous effort of will, and said coldly, though still very gently,—

“Will you not turn to me, Madame, and tell me in what way I may have the honour to serve you?”

She made a violent effort to control herself, and turning her tear-stained face to him, she once more held out her hand, which he kissed with the same punctilious gallantry; but Marguerite’s fingers, this time, lingered in his hand for a second or two longer than was absolutely necessary, and this was because she had felt that his hand trembled perceptibly and was burning hot, whilst his lips felt as cold as marble.

------

Perhaps he divined what was passing in her mind. His whole attitude was one of intense longing—a veritable prayer for that confidence, which her foolish pride withheld from him. When she remained silent he sighed, and said with marked coldness—

“Faith, Madame, since it distresses you, we will not speak of it. . . . As for Armand, I pray you have no fear. I pledge you my word that he shall be safe. Now, have I your permission to go? The hour is getting late, and . . .”

“You will at least accept my gratitude?” she said, as she drew quite close to him, and speaking with real tenderness.

With a quick, almost involuntary effort he would have taken her then in his arms, for her eyes were swimming in tears, which he longed to kiss away; but she had lured him once, just like this, then cast him aside like an ill-fitting glove. He thought this was but a mood, a caprice, and he was too proud to lend himself to it once again.

“It is too soon, Madame!” he said quietly; “I have done nothing as yet. The hour is late, and you must be fatigued. Your women will be waiting for you upstairs.”

------

Hot tears again surged to her eyes, and as she would not let him see them, she turned quickly within, and ran as fast as she could up to her own rooms.

Had she but turned back then, and looked out once more on to the rose-lit garden, she would have seen that which would have made her own sufferings seem but light and easy to bear—a strong man, overwhelmed with his own passion and his own despair. Pride had given way at last, obstinacy was gone: the will was powerless. He was but a man madly, blindly, passionately in love, and as soon as her light footsteps had died away within the house, he knelt down upon the terrace steps, and in the very madness of his love he kissed one by one the places where her small foot had trodden, and the stone balustrade there, where her tiny hand had rested last.

#the scarlet pimpernel #baroness orczy #sir percy blakeney