#and both of them would rather not be here

[simpjaes]

Okay but literally drunk jake begging to eat you out and being all whiney about it because he just wants to taste you :((

wc: 412 warning: drunk pussy eating, weird uber driver lol

~ Seeing one of you is usually enough for him to want it, but now...seeing two of you?

You'd argue with him if he wasn't so cute like this, clammy hands clinging to you as he puckers cutely, like he's just joking, like he's not about to cum in his pants right here, right now, if you so much as let him smell between your legs.

The uber driver keeps staring through the rearview though, so you do your best to tame him, despite knowing the man up front can hear Jake too well.

"Please baby, he won't know-" Jake whines, pulling at your clothes, trying to clumsily get them off. "Just one lick?"

You shake your head at him with a fond smile, biting your lip at him because fuck, it's so so hard to tell him no. If the driver wasn't such a fucking creep perhaps you'd feel those glistening, alcohol flavored lips right where you need them.

"j-just a few more minutes." You try to push his kissing mouth away, and it works. His dazed eyes look at you in disappointment, but you know it won't last for too long. Truly, you won't have to feel so guilty if this fucking driver would at least go the speed limit. Eventually, you make it home. Kind of. You make it in the door, rather. Jake is so quick to tumble inside and pin you to the floor in a drunken hold. You could escape if you wanted to, but his dead weight is too much. Plus, you don't really want to. It's actually insanely arousing watching him like this, sniffing, licking, and biting against your shorts as if they're not there. Dampening them before you can do it yourself as he moans and groans about how annoying it is that your shorts hadn't just disappeared on command. You do him the favor of removing them, finally feeling that wet and sweet tongue lap away instantly with a sigh from the both of you. He's in his own little world down there, truly, as you look at him with near crossed eyes as he seemingly passionately makes out with your clit, only to dip down and fuck his tongue in. You do note the shoulder movement though, and can't help but cross your eyes more at the way he jerks himself off through it, devouring you whole, moaning at the taste, and seemingly getting everything he could ever want at this moment.

[tpwk-formula1]

hello! please may i order thick crust, alfredo sauce, artichokes, broccoli and argula with water and aftercare please served by lando🩵

Lee-Lee's Pizzeria Menu

thick crust sugar daddy alfredo sweet sex artichokes "Imagine your father saw you now. On your knees like a proper trained slut for me to use" broccoli "Made just for me huh?" arugula "I love stretching this pussy out" water breeding kink dessert yes served by Lando Norris

Lando x Sugar Baby! reader

TW - Size kink conversations, terrible representation of a sugar daddy/baby relationship, oral (both receiving), unprotected sex, talks of filling reader up with cum

WC 1800+

AN - I am so sorry this one took me forever! A few of the first few requests got lost amongst the rest and I just found them and will be out within the next couple of hours <3

Y/N POV

"I'm ready to go home," I tell Lando softly while pulling his hand towards the exit of the Monaco shopping center we had spent the last hour in.

We came here with the intention of Lando purchasing some things I had set my eyes on but as soon as we got here we kept getting stopped by fans. I loved watching the joy spread across Lando's face when a different fan would approach him but after a while, I was starting to get overwhelmed.

"You only got one thing, baby," Lando tells me softly but I just shake my head pulling Lando closer to the valet wanting to get into the car as soon as possible.

"We can get it online," I say sharply still making our way to the valet when Lando's car was parked out front. When we hand them the ticket Lando opens the door for me before shutting it softly and climbing into the driver's seat.

"Didn't know you wanted to fuck me that bad," Lando says with a smirk making me scoff and roll my eyes softly at him before cracking a slight smile.

"I don't know how you handle all the people talking to you in public. I'm not even the one they're taking pictures and I was overwhelmed," I tell Lando softly pulling the hand he had resting on my thigh into my hand so I could play with his rings.

"You know you're a terrible sugar baby right?" Lando questions me with a smirk making me throw my head back with a soft groan.

Lando and I had known each other for years and have been close for the past few years, and one drunk night decided to come up with some stupid idea where we hook up whenever we can and in exchange Lando will take care of some of my fiances.

"You pay my rent still," I tell him softly making me laugh a little.

"You basically live in my bed, why the hell would I make you pay rent for a place you're rarely in," Lando says with a light laugh making me laugh a little with him.

"I don't Lando, it's a strange situation. I mean I use your card occasionally," I tell him with a soft smile.

"Baby, you've had access to my credit card for almost a year and I kid you not I've made three payments of less than a thousand dollars each time," Lando says making me scrug. I think this whole Sugar Daddy and Sugar Baby situation was our weird way of covering up the truth of us wanting to be together.

"Would you rather me max it out every month?" I question softly making Lando laugh a little.

"I mean it would make me feel better after the way I destroy your pussy every chance possible," Lando says smirking making my jaw drop slightly at his crude words. Lando just laughs when he sees my face before pulling into the parking garage of his complex and reverse parking into his spot making my thighs clench together slightly from how hot he looked when he was driving.

When we get into his apartment I make my way into his room where I instantly strip down into nothing but my bra and panties before grabbing one of Lando's shirts and throwing it on just wanting to be comfortable.

"Fuck, I love seeing you in my clothes," Lando says from the door making me turn around towards him flashing a bright smile before walking towards him and pulling him in for a soft kiss.

"Nuh-uh, you have some online shopping to do," Lando says while pulling away making me whine.

"After," I beg making Lando shake his head, before climbing into his bed and patting the spot next to him before pulling his laptop out of his nightstand and handing it to me.

We spent the next hour buying all kinds of things such as new kitchen utensils for Lando's apartment so I could stop bringing stuff from my apartment, new clothes, and Lando's personal favorite was the two grand he insisted he dropped on lingerie that he will surely have me model for him when it arrives.

"No more," I mumble pushing away the computer when I saw that his card went through on the lingerie boutique.

"Are you sure baby?" Lando questions making me nod my head.

"Yes, can you please fuck me now," I ask softly giving him my best puppy dog eyes making me laugh yet he still pulled me in for a heated kiss.

I climb into Lando's lap grinding down on his jeans making both of us moan at the pleasure. I could feel Lando starting to get hard which and me shuffling between his legs so I was on my knees for Lando but still in the bed. I watch as Lando pulls his shirt off as I unbutton his pants and slip his cock through the top of his boxers before I take a small lick at the precum dripping from his tip making him hiss at the stimulation.

"Imagine your father saw you now. On your knees like a proper trained slut for me to use," Lando says with a smirk making me lean down to his thigh and taking a soft bite at it.

"Ya but you trained me to be your slut," I say with a smirk before finally pulling Lando's pants all the way off with his help. He also shuffled his briefs down leaving him bare while I was still in his shirt so I slipped it off leaving me in my matching set. I lean back down and pull Lando back into my mouth while I used my free hand to play with my clit making me moan softly around Lando's cock sending vibrations straight to his tip.

" Fuck you were made just for me huh?" Lando groans out the question when I start deep-throating his cock.

I could tell Lando was getting close which had him pushing me back softly and positioning me on my back before he climbed between my legs and started kissing me.

Lando makes quick work of unclipping my bra and discarding it across the room before trailing soft kisses down my neck and chest before giving a quick soft suck on each nipple before he kisses down my stomach where he pulls my panties down and wastes no time in pulling my clit into his mouth and sucking on it.

"Fuck, Lando," I whine wiggling my hips a bit making Lando grip onto my thighs with his arms and continue licking and sucking on my clit.

"So good," I mumble out making Lando speed up his actions and unwrap one of his arms from my thighs before slipping two fingers into my soaked pussy where he found my G-spot with not trouble and starts teasing it and bringing me close to an orgasm.

When Lando realized how close I was he pulls away making me whine at the lost but quickly shuts me up when he pulls me in for a kiss while slowly pushing his large cock into my pussy.

"Oh my God," I moan loudly when I feel Lando's cock graze my G-spot before he hit my cervix once he was all the way seated into my pussy.

"Lando, too big," I gasp when I feel Lando rocking his hips slightly to stretch me out. Lando and I had issues the first time we slept together cause I couldn't relax myself enough to take him without pain, we quickly learned a few soft circles against my clit will do the job if needed.

"I love stretching this pussy out," Lando groans while staring at the way my pussy was stretching to accommodate his size.

When Lando feels he's stretched me out enough he stops his rocking and instead starts softly thrusting making me gasp when he starts hitting my G-spot each time.

"So good," Im mumble trying to keep my volume down slightly. Lando just picks up his thrusting when he realizes I was holding back slightly.

"Fuck," I moan loudly when he starts hitting my G-spot with a bit more force than before.

"You gonna let me cum in you baby?" Lando questions making me nod my head.

"Please, I need your cum in my," I gasp when Lando starts speeding up his thrusts into a perfect pace.

"Ya? You love feeling my cum fill this pretty pussy up," Lando says while bringing two fingers down to my clit where he rubs soft circles on it bringing me closer to the edge.

"You gonna cum for me pretty girl?" Lando questioned while speeding up his fingers on my clit knowing I was gonna need more than just some soft circles.

"Please, cum with me," I beg before pulling Lando's neck down to my face so I could keep his lips on mine throwing both of us over the edge.

"Fuck baby, I can feel you cumming on my cock," Lando groans into my mouth while still rocking his hips to make sure to ride our orgasms out.

I can feel the way his cum is splashing against the tight walls of my pussy making me gasp. I could tell he was unloading a large load that was sure to leak out of my pussy the rest of the day.

Once Lando and I have both calmed down from our orgasms he slowly slips his cock out of my pussy before laying down next to me and pulling me into his chest.

"Lando, can I ask you something?" I question softly making Lando pick his head up to give me his full attention.

"So I've been thinking, I don't really want to keep this dynamic," I tell him softly making Lando tense next to me.

"I want more," I continue trying to ease Lando's anxiety. I instantly feel his body relax against mine making me relax slightly too.

"I want more too," Lando tells me softly making a smile spread across my face.

"I mean, truthfully we've been more than sex and money this whole time. I mean at least for me. I haven't even looked at another girl the same since you gave me a taste of that pussy," Lando tells me making me laugh at his last comment.

"Well, good thing I haven't looked at another guy since you kinda destroyed me anyways," I joke making a smug smirk spread across Lando's face.

"Ya, I stretched that pussy just for my cock. No one will ever be able to make you cum again," Lando says casually as if it was a normal thing to be proud of.

"You're ridiculous," I laugh before cuddling further into Lando's side.

"So it's official?" Lando questions softly with hope laced in his voice.

"You gonna buy me dinner first?" I joke before nodding my head in agreeance.

"I just dropped 2k to watch you parade around in lingerie, I think that beats dinner. But yes of course I'm gonna take you to dinner and much more," Lando tells me softly making me smile.

[bunnys-kisses]

Your writing is so good! I hope this request is okay.

Could I please order some chocolate cake and shortbread squares please with some juice for Carlos sainz. Maybe friendly rivals. :))))

bakery menu

want to submit your own order? then hit up the menu! there's tons of things to order from it! i really enjoy making these and i love what ya'll have prompted me! so thank you! and for this lovely anon i hope that you love this story!

chocolate cake ("do you feel that? that's what happens when i think about you all day.") + shortbread squares ("you're just mad that that my cock fits perfectly in you now. must be a blow to the ego that we're a perfect match.") + juice (cockwarming) served by carlos sainz jr (formula one)!!

cw: smut/pwp, cockwarming, (friendly) rivals, driver's room sex, semi-public sex, secret relationship, a lot of kissing

"you drive me crazy, mi amor." carlos said as he started to unzip his driving suit, your hands were on him in return. your lips were dangerously close together.

"please." you replied, "i don't think this is the hottest you've ran." you leaned in to seal the deal as he got the driving suit off of his shoulders. his lips tasted like heaven, he even used the lip balm that you suggested.

you and carlos were like thunder and lightning on the track. he had the speed while you had the power. and together you made quite the storm. some would call you rivals, but when it was the two of you alone in the driver's room long after everyone went home, you were more like lovers.

it was late into the evening, most had gone home. and you two were supposed to be in your respected motor homes for the night. but george and charles were doing you both favors while you two had some alone time in carlos' driver's room.

"i think he went out to dinner." charles shrugged when an assistant asked where carlos went.

and george's excuse was the tried and true method, "you know how she always walks for miles when she's on the phone with your mother." followed by a laugh. you owed both of these men so much.

the door to the driver's room was locked and you slowly got out of your driving clothes and could feel carlos' gaze on your body. you knew he loved the site of you, your curves that you had. you could easily drive him wild.

"don't look like a dog, sainz. have a little respect."

he shifted in his seat on the couch and palmed through his briefs. he licked his lips. he leaned a little bit and asked, "do you see that? that's what happens when i think about you all day."

you watched him get his cock out of his briefs and relaxed further against the couch. his smile hung and you felt a stutter in your heart. you hated how he could read you inside out and backwards. damn, sainz. but yet you were enticed to come closer and eventually got onto his lap. the both of you near naked, at least your bottom halves were.

you even got yourself out of the printed socks you wore today. you were still in your sports bra while he was shirtless. you looked into his dark eyes and smiled at him, "see what happens when i think about you all day?" then smiled.

carlos palmed our breasts and pressed his face between them. he looked up at you with those doe eyes that could put deer to shame. he replied, "i can hear your heartbeat."

you combed your fingers through his hair as you rubbed your bare pussy against his cock. you swallowed, "i thought about you all day." you held his face and looked down at him, "i have to be honest. you make racing fun, my red rider." then with a little help you sank down onto his cock. your toes curled.

"shit."

"fuck."

"come here." you said as you pulled him in for anther heated kiss. you didn't ride him. due to the hour of the day (or rather night), you two could go slower. you could cockwarm him while your lips got familiar with his. you held his face once more and he wrapped his arms around you tightly. he gazed up at you almost with love and you smiled before you kissed once more.

you hated to admit it but, you liked cockwarming him. and if you could've been in the motor home together tonight without having to worry about being too loud for your teammates, you would've happily had the comfort of a shared bed.

at least there was the off-season. you had, without the prying eyes of the press, moved some of your belongings to his home. it was a spare lip gloss here, your spare retainer, there were a few more mercedes shirts in the closet. even a stuffed animal that carlos got you after you won your second gran prix (winning twice meant it wasn't a fluke).

"you feel good against me." he said with a smile.

"oh shut up, sainz." you arched your back a little bit as his cock nudged against one of your sweet spots and it made you feel hot all over.

he chuckled, warmth in his voice as he said, "you're just mad that that my cock fits perfectly in you now. must be a blow to the ego that we're a perfect match."

you looked down at him and held onto his face a little tighter, "oh, i've seen your cock compared to some of the others. i think that maybe danny or max will suit me just fine." you moved your hips a little and watched carlos melt a little, "if i want something that doesn't bruise my cervix, maybe your teammate charles will a work.. or maybe my own teammate."

carlos made a face, "you better not be running off into george's arms. if you know what's good for you." then shuddered when you started to move a little more. he groaned against you. he knew that you'd have to cockwarm him again and sometime soon.

you two kissed while you continued to move against him. he held onto you tightly while you rode his cock. the kisses became messier the more you moved against him. it was hot and left a fire in your gut.

you both didn't last long, carlos' dirty words in your mouth as you rode him on the couch. he said to you, "next time. next time i'm keeping you on me all night. sleep together like that. i want to wake up and feel you." he said as he groped your breasts. you could feel your heartbeat in your chest as you reached your climax.

your toes curled once more as you panted heavily. you pulled him into another hot kiss. you whimpered into the kiss while he held onto you, meeting you staggered pace. he groaned into the kiss as he finished inside of you.

you both slowed down and you rested against him for a moment as you tried to catch your breath. he kissed the side of your head with love. you held onto his shoulders and composed yourself.

"next time, sainz." you said as you patted his chest, "we're doing this all night. and it'll be after i beat you on the track." that rival streak was coming out of you as you gazed at him.

he chuckled and looked at you, "sure, mi amor. now why don't we get dressed before someone tries to find us. our lie can't work forever." then kissed up your chest.

"yeah, george and charles have done enough for us tonight." you knew you'd get an earful from your teammate, but at that moment when you watched carlos redress. it was worth it. <3

[foldingfittedsheets]

A basic human skill that people usually lock down around the age of three or four is impulse control. To conceptualize an action and it’s consequences before taking it. Maybe considering how that action affects other people. We then refine it through most of our childhood.

When I was a teenager my hold on this ability became… tenuous. I became a volatile and dangerous creature.

It’s probably not unique to me, but I had a perfect storm in terms of mental upsets. I had just mastered enough basic social skills, so I finally had a strong group of friends when my dad suddenly needed to move for work. Ripped away from my support network, blooming with hormones, I was dragged to Arizona. I was always a child of forests and mist and suddenly everything was hot, dry, and extremely pointy and aggressive.

Additionally to being abruptly transplanted I found myself an object of affection in a way I’d never been before. Lonely and desperate to make friends the only people who wanted to spend time with me had romantic designs. I just wanted to figure out my shit but I had a baby lesbian flirting with increasing aggression in art, a soft boy making heart eyes at me in biology, a senior nerd asking if I wanted to play Halo at his house and could he hold my hand?

Reader, I snapped. I didn’t want this romantic attention but I also didn’t want to be alone. My brain coped the only way it knew how, by simply cutting out decision making. Any action was the right action to take.

It started with the boy in biology. I’d stolen his pencil out of mischief and to my overwhelming fury instead of trying to steal it back he just softened his eyes and chucked me gently under my chin, a gesture so overtly sweet and romantic that I saw red.

I stabbed him with his own pencil.

I honestly and truly have no memory of it. It happened as fast as a snake striking and I was instantly filled with terrified remorse. Unfortunately that manifested as psychotic giggling.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t- I don’t know why- I’m so sorry!” I said, while hysterically laughing. I ended up having lodged some graphite in his palm and had to tweeze it out with my nails while apologizing furiously. (It’s very important to note here that he forgave me and we’re still friends)

That was weird, I thought. Why didn’t I think before I stabbed someone?

The next event was equally catastrophic, and I had even less reason to do it. In gym with two girls I was tentatively befriending, we were warming up running laps. I started racing one of them. At breakneck speed we were sprinting around the gym.

This time, there was a blip of thought before I fucked up. I should get the other girl! I have no idea why or what the plan was but I turned on a swivel and body checked the other girl. We both fell down in immense pain. I think that’s the moment I broke my tailbone. Her knees were horribly bruised and she looked at me in bewildered pain. “Why did you do that?!”

I had no idea. I apologized and helped her up, both of us hobbling like newborn horses, bruised and hurting.

By this time there’d been enough social upheavals that I was reduced to spending time with some girls I had nothing in common with and low key disliked. Sat at a table listening to this girl talk about how she wanted to be a stripper when she grew up I thought, You’d better put the cap on before you throw it.

I then chucked my empty water bottle directly at her face. It bounced off her forehead with a bop! that would have made a sound mixer weep at its perfection.

All eyes turned to me is startlement. I stared back at her, stunned by my own action, just as confused as everyone else at the table as to why I’d done that. One of the girls to my right said, “Were you trying to hit that fly?”

“Yes!” I lied, “I’m sorry, I thought I could hit the fly!”

Everyone laughed at my antics and I joined in rather than admit I had just chucked something at her for no reason.

Things did start to improve after that. I solidified a friendship with the girl I’d raced (who I developed a massive crush on and ten years later would go on to date). My outbursts turned more whimsical rather than aggressive. Like accosting a girl leaving the cafeteria to look deeply into her eyes and say with great compassion, “It’s going to be alright.”

My new friend and I snuck into the van that delivered our cafeterias baked goods and lay giggling in the back. When I’d impulsively hopped in she’d joined me and made it a game.

After a year in Arizona I broke down crying to my mother, an act of great desperation, and we ended up moving back home. My impulse control returned to normal teenage levels and life resumed in a happier state of mind.

[lilacstro]

★ruler of 3rd through houses: your highschool years★

long time no see!! I have recently started an instagram account, you can check it out if you please. I would post more exclusive things in the soon to be started group on Instagram :) lmk if you are sending a request since I do not want scammers or people with malicious intents on there :)

Send post suggestions if you like !! I really do not know why have I not started with Vedic astrology series yet but the thing is, I find it soooo vast that putting it into readable posts becomes so hard idk and I can't come up with topics. I wanted to start with dasha systems and divisional charts but I could not fathom where to start honestly idk. Maybe I have gone more used to making posts through the tropical system.

Paid readings open!!

Today we will see your highschool years through astrology and this may explain why you *were* or *are* a certain way. The planets in your 3rd do add an extra infulence without doubt, but to keep this post more inclusive I would not go over that. However, lmk if you want to see that and I may edit this post. PS: Though there can indicators of things like bullying and being bullied and all other that kinda stuff, I wont be mentioning that here :)) take it as a light post :) and if someone has incidents from school they would love to write, would love it too!!

☆Ruler of 3rd in 1st: Ah very likely to be the "popular" kid, or someone I may say who was heavily involved and present in school. Maybe school was big on playing a major role to your personality development and you had some life altering events in school. You could have drawn attention to yourself as well, or maybe you wanted to be seen. Very easily could have taken the roles of monitors and club leaders etc.

☆Ruler of 3rd in 2nd: Very possible that you were the kind of person who was not very withdrawn yet not quite present. Maybe you were quite reserved in who you talked to during school, but not that you were a loner. You could very well be someone who people found talented in some specific area, especially in things like debate or arts and singing. People could have secretly wanted to befriend you. Very possible that you "seemed" rich or were focused on earning money and it showed in school. Often seen people could admire you from afar, or maybe even crush on you and all that stuff.

☆Ruler of 3rd in 3rd: School could have been an important for you again. Very possible that you and your siblings went to the same school. Apart from this, you again could be someone who is rather smart and studious or is considered smart at the very least. Could have been really outgoing and talkative. Now it is indeed 200% possible that you could be introverted, but as you could grow in comfort, you could become someone who would speak and get along with most people.

☆Ruler of 3rd in 4th: Could have been homeschooled or maybe even your mother taught at the same school, or maybe you did not change too many schools as such and even possible that you studied in a place where you were born or near your home. Now, the ruling planet here actually decides how you could have acted here, which is usually a mix of both extrovertedness and introvertedness. It is possible that school was either very comfortable to you, or maybe you never felt comfortable in school at all, no in between. Not a big friend group, but probably a few real friends that you could have connected to even after school.

☆Ruler of 3rd in 5th: Could be someone who was very involved in extra curriculars and stuff. Great possibility of having dated people in school or appearing attractive to others, them having crushes on you or maybe both honestly. You could actually be someone who very well flunked or I may say rather did not take their classes as seriously. Could be someone who people reminisce about when they look back to their time in high school. A good possibility of being popular or seemingly charming! You could have enjoyed your time in school.

☆Ruler of 3rd in 6th: You could very well be someone who probably faced some difficulties to attend school I feel. Apart from this, you could be someone who no matter what they really do, are hardworking and took school seriously. Hard working, reliable kind of person. It is possible that people in your school asked you for help or favors and stuff quite often. Very possible to have had a mundane school life for many many reasons, maybe nothing too "exciting" and maybe school really did not cater too much excitement, stories or spice in your life.

☆Ruler of 3rd in 7th: The kind of person who talks to everyone, or atleast "knows" everyone and vice versa. People could often come up to you, and you could strike conversations just like that. The kind of person who would always be found in some kind of friend group, and friends with everyone, a large friend group. Some of you could even have found your spouse from school!! No matter if you were extroverted or introverted, you could have had good social skills regardless. Your teachers could actually know you or like you.

☆Ruler of 3rd in 8th: Could be someone who saw breaks and interruptions and hardships to have continues their education. Aloof, introverted and maybe a desire to hide, and not really be seen. The people who are wise beyond their age in school and try to avoid people, especially the ones who do not align with them truly. To be honest, your flairs and attitude and experience in and towards school could see a lot of shifts, maybe you were extroverted and then you became introverted and then extroverted again. Maybe you were someone who had no friends but then had too many friends etc. The end time of school could be important. Not hanging out in big groups at being by yourself mostly.

☆Ruler of 3rd in 9th: Could be someone who attended high school abroad or exchange programs etc or desired to go to college abroad. Probably very aware and serious about moving to university after school. Good at studying and smart, even if you may not intentionally spend time studying, you could be very very good at acing your school comparatively. Someone who was wise, and friendly and had a pleasant time in school, and a good and happy learning experience overall. Friendly, and could have had different kind of friends I must say.

☆Ruler of 3rd in 10th: Ah, outgoing people. Someone who is seen and known by people in school, well liked by most. Even if you are introverted as such, which is unlikely, people could notice you and maybe heard about you or seen you atleast once sometime. Could be someone who hangs out in big groups. Someone whose presence is known by most and many people in school for whatever reasons that may be. Popular people. Teachers could be important, maybe they noticed you, or maybe you pay great attention to them or the relationship is sour all together. The kind of people who are assigned roles and leads in clubs and events, etc. despite of not being the responsible person for that job.

☆Ruler of 3rd in 11th: Friends were important and you made quite a few friends in school yourself. Even if you were not a social person, you still could have found friends, and friend groups. People could feel easy around you, someone who is non judgemental and is friends with everyone, even the seemingly new kids. Always busy with some kind of event or activity or hanging out with friends probably even after school. Someone who probably made others aware about the drama and tea going on, or discussing internet, controversies etc.

☆Ruler of 3rd in 12th: Very possible that you completed your education overseas or you were homeschooled or may be you did not attend school too much. Someone who probably is uncomfortable with attention on themselves, and likes to seemingly merge into the background somehow, even if they may desire to have a complete experience of their surroundings. Zoning out in school often, being aloof by nature or choice, in your own world. Probably despising school or waiting for it to end. On a good note, whatever relationships you formed in school or experiences you had, could have helped you evolve, and grow out of your comfort zone and the bubble you could have kept yourself in, for maybe reasons like "I can't fit in".

take care, xoxo~

[after-witch]

How a Minute Spends Now [Yandere Platonic L Lawliet x Sibling Reader]

Title: How a Minute Spends Now [Yandere Platonic L x Sibling Reader]

Synopsis: Your brother is dead. What pieces are there left to pick up?

Word count: 3800ish

notes: yandere, abusive sibling dynamic, grief and death mentions

Your brother is dead.

And oh, it’s clear now: whoever said death was an inevitable cold hard fact was a liar. Or stupid. Or both. Because this fact is not cold or hard; it’s warm, oozing, feeling like so much black sludge running between your fingers. 

You’ll never get it off--the death, yes, and the awful, sinking realization--

Your brother is dead and their first priority was not to tell you. 

They don’t bring you into a quiet room and ask you to sit down, before explaining in sympathetic, gentle tones that something bad has happened. That the brother who carried you through hell as a child, who kept you safe (and locked away) well into your thoroughly stunted adulthood, will never be coming back again. That you’ll never hear his voice or see his face or feel his touch. 

No. They don’t bother with you, first.

Their first priority is to gather together two of those damned groomed successors--Near and Mello, of course--and take them into a quiet room and explain, softly but succinctly, that L was dead.

That’s how you hear the news. You’d followed along, hackles raised when they were gathered up, and padded silently into the next room with a sourness in your stomach. And that’s how you hear it. With your ear pressed against the wall of the room next door, gleaning snatches of the conversation afterward through a horrible ringing in your ears.

(And aren’t you an awful thing? That you didn’t know until that moment? That you weren’t struck numb the moment he died thousands of miles away, that some guttural psychic primal instinct inside you didn’t say: Something is wrong and my brother is dead. Aren’t you a shitty person, that you didn’t somehow know without the muffled words through the wall?)

Mello is loudest. He cuts through that awful, disbelieving buzz that courses through you. 

“Who did he pick--”  And you don’t have to hear the rest to know what he’s asking. Did L pick him--or Near--as a replacement? As if he could be replaced. As if someone could simply step into his shadow and wear his skin.

“He didn’t have time,” answers Roger, and you puke a little bit of breakfast back into your mouth. 

What a thought--that L had been snuffed out without warning. Without time to think about it. Without time to regret, to come to terms--to call you. 

What was he thinking about, as he died? Was he thinking at all? Was there even the quickest of thoughts about you or your parents (distant, foggy beings that they were) or something else, something you would never know because your brother always kept some parts of him out of reach?

The wallpaper scratches underneath your fingernails, and a dim part of you wonders if they can hear it beyond the wall. Maybe you want them to hear you, hear the way your fingers dig into the paper and drag down as you slide onto the floor.

Your brother is dead, and you’re alone, and what the fuck was any of it for, if he was just going to get himself killed?

--

They do get you, eventually. Or rather, they find you, quiet and curled up in the corner of the room next door, a room you ought never to have been in. 

You don’t respond to the quiet calls of your name. You don’t respond when they step inside and Roger crouches down beside you, asking if--and he doesn’t finish the question, because he knows that asking someone “Are you all right?” when they are in a tight fetal position after clearly hearing news of their brother’s death through an orphanage wall is a stupid fucking question.

So all Roger does is put a hand on your shoulder and squeeze. It means nothing, and you get no comfort from it. No one here could comfort you. No one alive. 

“L left a letter for you,” Roger says, and it’s only now that you turn your head to look up at him. “Before he left for the Kira case.”

Kira. If only everyone who uttered that name had their tongue turned to ashes. 

“Give it to me,” you whisper.

--

It is his handwriting. Not a typed letter, which could be a forgery. No, this was written by his hand, his distinct scrawl. But what sealed the authenticity was that it was written in invisible ink, revealed through a solution only you had access to; L made it himself. Because he was smart--and a pompous asshole. 

But that’s how you know in the end that it’s not a fake, but a real letter. The last letter you’ll ever get from him. 

You bring the paper to your nose and sniff; it doesn’t smell like him. Maybe it did, at first, before whatever filing cabinet they’d stowed it in leached away the scent. Or maybe it smelled like him before you poured the solution on, and your anticipation to read what he said destroyed your last chance at remembering what he smelled like. 

It doesn’t matter.

The letter is simple and your hand trembles and the first words on the page hurt--tears drip down stupidly and turn blue when they hit the chemical solution on the paper. 

He’d make fun of you for crying, before wiping your tears with his shirt, so you’d call him gross and smile and feel a bit better. He would do that, if he were alive. But he can’t, because, as the letter says--

If you are reading this, I am dead. Kira has killed me. 

I was aware that this was a possibility--

Oh, fuck him. Fuck. Him. 

There is the urge to crumple the paper now. To find a fireplace and make someone light it and watch the paper burn, chemicals sparking, with satisfaction. How dare he. How dare he chase after this case, knowing it was a possibility, knowing that you might end up staring at this letter. Knowing that you’d be so utterly fucking alone. 

Breath coming in shallow pants, you keep going. 

I was aware that this was a possibility and I’ve prepared for it, as such. You don’t need to worry about money. It’s taken care of. You don’t need to worry about a place to live. It’s taken care of. 

You realize, dimly, that one of your hands has begun to pound against the wall. Who-cares-who-cares-who-cares. You don’t want to know that there’s money and a place to stay. 

What you want is your brother. 

You want him here so you can grab his shirt and tug him close and tell him he’s a massive asshole and you love him. You want him to tentatively wrap his arm around you, to give you a pat, to murmur something about being too clingy. 

You want him to suddenly pull your hair so you can stomp on his foot. You want to curl up in bed, like you used to, and wait for him to stroke your back to sleep while you asked him questions about anything and everything. His voice would be soft and dull, walking that fine line between patience and annoyance. You’d fall asleep while he told you something especially important, and he’d debate flicking your head to wake you up, a 50/50 chance that he’d do it.

But he can’t do any of these things. Not now. Not ever again. He has no voice to speak with, no body to touch. He has no more life in him at all. 

You couldn’t even visit his grave, assuming he had one. 

The tears are hot against your eyes as they drip-drop and stain the page now. It’s not fair, none of this. The death and the letter and the gray future ahead of you.

But you have to keep reading. Every word is precious, the last ones you’ll read from his hand. And maybe--this is awful, isn’t it--maybe this letter is where he finally has to admit that he’s been selfish. To keep you locked away, to put his need for control over your need to live a real life, to stay away as much as he does--as much as he did.

Maybe this letter is where he admits his faults as a brother, so you can cry over something other than the feeling of a gutted cave inside your chest. 

Maybe this is when he admits he’s kept you wrapped in a useless bubble, and that was wrong, and now you’ll get to--

I have given instructions that my successor will care for you like a brother.

The pounding on the wall stops. Thoughts come quick, snapping, punctuated by a red hot stings of electric hate. The bastard--how could he--why would he--the words don’t even seem to make sense, so you read them over and over and over, trying to understand. 

I have given instructions that my successor will care for you like a brother. I have given instructions that my successor will care for you like a brother. I have given instructions that my successor will care for you like a brother. I have given instructions that my successor will care for you like a brother.

But no matter how many times you read them, the words don’t register as anything but a jumble of phrases put together. He couldn’t have written that. But he did. Yet the very thought that someone else would care for you like a brother--

No. Your brother is dead, and no one can replace him. Not as the best detective in the world, not as your brother, not as anything. How could he, why would he, there’s no answer that comes so you let the questions singe the air instead. 

There’s a woozy, hazy fuzz that descends on your head like a net, and you lean against the wall. Red-hot anger simmers, bubbled with a hazy grief, as you force yourself to continue. 

I have left them detailed instructions on how to care for you. 

The words drop into your stomach hard, with no reprieve. He left instructions for your care, like you were a pet being looked after on a vacation. Fucker. You try to determine if it was a joke, or an intentional slight meant to irritate you, or not something he put any spite into at all. Was he being sincere? 

Because--well.

Is it entirely wrong? You and the figurative pampered dog both leapt to attention whenever your owners--whenever your brother--deigned to come home from vacation. From solving crimes. Both whined when he left. Both circled and moped, staring out the window, hoping for their return.

Not that there would be any return for L.

You will be safe and protected, as you were under me.

A hand goes to your mouth, covering a smile that no one else is here to see. Safe and protected, sure. Like a princess in a fairy tale, like some maiden kept under lock and key in a dragon-guarded keep. Only the dragon never breathed fire--only familiar platitudes and a comforting sameness that chained you down as well as the actual locks on the doors, the security cameras, the strict instructions for the security guard at the gate.

But you were safe, and you were protected. And here you are, now, wet tears on your cheeks, anger in your stomach and a smile on your face, because your brother apparently put you in his will like some sort of inheritance for whoever takes up his mantle. 

Please don’t do anything foolish now that I’m gone. Not that it stopped you, before.

A flash in your mind, the image of your brother’s smirk, curling up at the ends. A thumb in his mouth to soften it. 

It aches and it doesn’t, this image, the clear sense of L in these words. Why can’t he be here? Why this pain, this gouged sense of reality that makes you feel like screaming until there’s no more air in your lungs? 

Your hand finds the wall again, scratching at the paper with as much force as you can, rippled scratches following in their wake. 

Better the paper than your skin--your skin will heal. They’ll have to replace the wallpaper if they want to fix the jagged scratches. Let them replace it. Let them replace it like they want to replace your brother, and see where it gets them. You’ll be there in either case. 

There’s nothing more on the paper. You’re not sure if you expected there to be; you can’t imagine him writing soft, sweet words of comfort. He never said them, not exactly, so why write them now? No “I love you,” no “You’ll be fine without me.”

But, ah. There’s more to that, isn’t there? L would never write “You’ll be fine without me,” because he didn’t like to lie. 

And who is the successor that will receive these so-called instructions? He hasn’t chosen anyone. Roger, you’d heard, suggested Mello and Near work together. Fat chance. Like they would--like they could. 

They couldn’t, and they can’t, and they don’t. It isn’t long before Mello leaves and there’s one less orphan in the building, and Near steps in.

To be trained, to be raised, to study the Kira case--to take care of you, so says your dead brother in his last letter. 

But Near isn’t L. 

And you’re alone.

--

It is not terribly long after you become brotherless--and rudderless--that you walk into your room to find Near sitting on the floor, stacking rows of gray, pattern blocks that resemble a cityscape in the center of your private little space.

The sight of him is wrong. He looks--not like L, not in that way. But the posture. The outfit. If you squint--and you do--you can blur him into something like a younger version of your brother. Different hair, of course, but didn’t he sometimes sit like that when he played? When he refused to share his blocks, and made you watch him play, and occasionally deigned to let you place a piece or two as long as you put it exactly where he told you?

And you always did, little fingers trembling, because you wanted him to think you were good enough to listen. Good enough to do what he says, because he was older, and smarter, and you should listen to him. 

There’s a lump in your throat before you realize it.

”Why are you here?” Your own voice is a croak, rusted from ill-use. Crying. Shouting. Not talking for hours until you had to.

It’s not like you had too many people to talk to, anyway; but if you get him to talk, then this blurry vision will vanish. Near might look a bit like your brother, might have the same penchant for picking things apart, but he wasn’t L. Never would be, not really.

He doesn’t look up when you speak. Thank God for small mercies. Instead, he takes one finger and pushes it in the center of a block tower, creating a window. 

“Roger said you were upset.”

The temptation to blur vanishes with the sound of his young and decidedly not-L voice, and it’s easier to cross your arms, to put up the defenses. 

“Obviously.” A little less dry now. A little more sarcastic. And a little more alive than you’ve sounded in weeks, or months, or however long it’s been since your brother ceased existing and your life at Wammy’s became all the more bleak. “My brother died.” 

Near’s eyes finally flick up to you before they dart back down to the blocks. He carefully slips a block figure--a bland smiling thing--into the window. 

He speaks softly, with little intonation. You hate how familiar it is. 

“That is, upset about me.” 

The sound of your stupid little intake breath in the quiet room is a little too much to bear, and you try to focus on the sound of the blocks instead. The small shift of the pieces as he slides them here and there, the clacking sound as they stack together. 

Click. Clack. 

What does Roger know, anyway? 

“Not about you… in particular,” you admit. It’s the most you’ve admitted to Near in--well. Ever. It’s not like you were eager to talk to many of the children at Wammy’s, especially when you outgrew them. Yet unlike the orphaned faces that faded from memory in time, you weren’t adopted, weren’t eased into some other life outside these walls; instead, L kept you here, guarded, safe, and completely stuck. 

And you are stuck. You’re an adult. You could’ve stormed out the doors the minute L died, you’re sure, legally speaking (before that--even--before that you could’ve left); started walking and taken up a job at some shitty diner and rented a room in a seedy motel until you were on your feet. 

It’s something that you’d threatened in L’s face from time to time, and he didn’t even deign to take you seriously, and it’s only now that he’s dead that you understand why.

He knew you wouldn’t leave. Couldn’t leave? Maybe it’s the same thing. Because he was right. There’s no life for you out there; no life for you in here, except for what L left you, which includes--somehow--this boy in front of you, stacking blocks, who is supposed to take up the position of older brother. In capturing Kira and everything else.

“I’m going to take care of you,” he says, all matter-of-fact. “L left instructions.” 

Your chest squeezes. Those fucking instructions. You had asked--stormed up in a huff, demanded, in a tantrum--Roger to read them, and he refused. Said L indicated the letter was for his successor’s eyes only. 

So all you had was your imagination; did L write down a list of things you liked, things you didn’t like? Did he rattle off your favorite foods, what time you were supposed to go to bed, what to do if you had a meltdown and began to cry over your social isolation? Or did he--the thought was tempting, however improbable it was--write something more sentimental? 

Logic and bitterness win out, and you imagine Near reading the details of the letter meticulously, probably looking for the words-within-the-words, all while flying an airplane with his other hand. 

“I’m not a dog.” Your eyes dart over the blocks, over the memory of all the toys you’ve seen Near playing with; there’s something painful in that image, for too many reasons. “Or a toy.”

“Yes, I know.”

Near doesn’t look up again. Instead, he flicks his hand, and knocks over the tower with the window, with the smiling person inside, who topples to your carpeted floor. Something about it makes you want to laugh; makes you want to get on the floor and ask if you can push over the next one. Tears prick at the edge of your eyes. 

Instead of swooping onto the floor, you weave around the circular city he’s created in your room without permission, and climb onto your bed. The book you were reading this morning is still there, ragged bookmark jutting out of it. Your bed is unmade, otherwise. Sheets rumpled and unwashed. You haven’t bothered with the bed since L died. Haven’t bothered with a lot of things, besides. 

It was an older book. A philosophical treatise from the 1930s, when Europe was on the cusp of war; translated into English and shuffled around the hands of starving artists and avant garde thinkers until, decades later, it landed, battered, onto the shelves of the orphanage for gifted children. Gifted children and you, L’s leftover baggage.

Well. If Near is going to barge into your room without permission, you won’t let it impact your day. Roger said if you didn’t start eating again, you couldn’t borrow books; that’s where you’d been, before you came back. Grabbing something to eat under his watchful eye and eating it with deliberately pointed chewing motions, as if it bothered him.  

So you’ve eaten. Now you can read. 

“What are you reading?” He asks, like he didn’t already see the title of the book. He probably saw it on your bed whenever he first came into your room. Probably knows exactly where it rests in the Wammy library when it’s not checked out, and who else has read it besides you.

But he’s asking anyway and something empty in you clings to that question, as you curl up on your side--body and soul aching for the physical curled-up nest of your brother that doesn’t exist anymore.

You hold up the cover and shrug, hiding the need, pushing down the urge to bury your face in your pillow and have an imaginary conversation with your dead brother.  It wouldn’t be the first one you’ve had this week.

Near’s eyes flick to the book, before he works on creating another tower. 

“Do you like it?”

Your heart clenches. You’re reading into it, the way it reminds you of L. The way the question is open and you can’t tell if it’s asked because he thinks the book is pointless trash and will find you silly if you like it, or because he genuinely wants to know. 

It’s not a book you’d read again, that’s certain. Not because you think it’s awful, but because none of it really makes sense to you. You’d grabbed it because the thought of reading a novel you’d been eager to read while your brother’s corpse was buried thousands of miles away made you want to vomit. So a random philosophy book was the better option. 

You don’t want to tell Near all of this; because of his age, because he’s little more than someone you know, and because like your brother, you want to keep some things secret. 

“I don’t understand most of it,” you admit, finally, the words sticking to your mouth a little. A bit of truth would be okay, in the end. “I just wanted to occupy my time, I guess.” Reading words from someone who furiously pushed them out on his typewriter almost a hundred years ago was better than thinking about who wasn’t in the room. 

Near smiles, a little, not looking away from the blocks. 

“Do you want to help?”

He doesn’t stop what he’s doing, picking up each piece carefully and stacking it just-so. He leaves the toppled tower, figure and all, where it is. 

You’re not sure how long you wait before deciding.  All you know is that in your isolated room at Wammy’s, with only a window to the outside world you’ve barely known to give you any inkling of the passing of days, you slide onto the floor and tentatively pick up one of the toppled blocks.

Near doesn’t tell you to leave those where they are, and that’s okay.

He doesn’t tell you where to put it, either, as L would have certainly done--and somehow, that’s okay, too. 

[johnbrand]

Catch! (βΓΦ)

Have you ever taken a moment to consider how fraternities are still alive these days? We have seen them featured in movies, television, and more recently across social media, but what do they even stand for? Originally, they were built around the concept of brotherhood among younger men entering adulthood, inspiring “fraternal” bonds that could remain strong throughout their lifetimes. Now however, they seem to be constantly embroiled in controversy. Whether it pertains issues of hazing, rapid partying, or the classic sexual harassment, fraternities should be on their way out.

But somehow, they are still sticking around. And worse yet, they appear to be stronger than ever. Young men from around the country are flocking to these institutions–and with no common reason either. Everyone wants to find parties, but you can do that anywhere on a college campus. Everyone wants to make new adult friends, so why not join an extracurricular? Or hit up a peer in your class? There seems to be no valid excuse for all these students to be flocking towards an organized brotherhood. So that raises the question again, how are fraternities still around?

One may guess it is in the marketing. The rampant partying, the buff shirtless men, the fraternal bonds; all of these are enticing to the viewer. And to be granted all three in a package together is even more appealing. But it is much simpler than that. Thanks to modern technology–and fraternities' centuries-old bank accounts–brothers are able to recruit faster and easier than ever. Even if the public is hankering down on initiation rites, fraternities have grown past the point of lengthy periods. Their new members can join in under a minute.

Let us draw out an example. A few of fraternities sponsor a trip out to a private beach. They provide drinks, snacks, and entertainment. It is a common event, showcasing to new students some of the best aspects of being a brother. One of the fraternal brothers, Clay, is holding a football and searching for his next recipient.

A member of Beta Gamma Phi (βΓΦ), Clay is tall, buff, and hairy, a perfect image of masculinity. From his chiseled jaw and strong stance, one can tell he has it all (like every fraternal brother does). Eventually, he spots his target: a junior specializing in mathematics.

“Catch!”

It is a simple command, and quickly the football is flying through the air. The pigskin itself appears rather ordinary, but as was mentioned before, technological and hefty financial advancements have made it anything but. Once activated by a brother’s touch, the leather absorbs the genetic print, the internal system downloading an almost identical copy. Of course, that copy cannot be completely accurate, otherwise fraternities would be running around with a bunch of clones (although some argue they already do). The imprint is just a base code, enough to replace the recipient’s genetic mainframe. The fine details are then adjusted accordingly by utilizing and recycling the remaining DNA.

Anyway, returning back to the scene, the enhanced initiation object flies toward the lonely junior. Christopher had only come here because his friend had begged him too, stating there was no reason not to partake in the festivities. A smaller-than-average lad lacking a strong will, he could often be a pushover, both in physical and social regards. So when he heard the strapping brother’s command, he did not think twice about turning around. And to his own shock, Christopher was able to catch the football, surprising himself as the leather made contact with his skin.

Once the contact is made, the fate is sealed: Beta Gamma Phi has secured its next brother. Clay’s genetic code is then rapidly installed into Christopher’s mainframe, his biological firewalls useless against the technology. Over the span of seconds, Clay is able to watch as his program is rescripted for Christopher’s body. The junior’s height soars up, easily passing the pseudo-mandatory "six feet and over" rule that all brothers silently abide by. Once that is secure, the muscles begin to inflate.

Firm pectorals, sculpted abdominals, arms that appeared engraved into stone. Christopher’s hands bloat around the football as his bare feet bloat out into the sand. Thick calves, beefy thighs, a plumper pouch and plumper rear. As Clay gets closer, he can visibly examine the flurries of hair that arise across Christopher’s previously-naked skin. Wider neck to support a deeper register, wider jaw to support a more masculine facial structure. Even Christopher’s hair, although a blonder brown compared to Clay’s almost-black, gels up into Clay’s signature hairstyle (although it was often hidden beneath a backwards baseball cap, as it was currently).

By the time Clay approaches βΓΦ’s newest brother, his genetic print had successfully completed installation. Christopher, or Chris as he would now insist to go by, held a near-identical copy of Clay’s mainframe. He displayed Clay’s musculature and masculinity, just in his own genetic font. And his mindset, values, and goals now mimicked the fraternal brother’s too. Chris would find his new purpose relishing in sports, sex, bonding with his brothers, and continuing this pattern through a career in exercise sciences. 

With a broad, pearly white smile and the football still in his right hand, Chris would then accept Clay’s invitation to join Beta Gamma Phi. Thanks to the technology, Chris would never know that he had had not once dreamed of becoming a fraternal brother, that his whole life had not been dedicated to upholding traditional masculinity. And eventually, it would be Chris and his fellow brothers’ turn to keep the fraternities alive by financing any options that would help them gain new members.

[em1989ts]

𝒂𝒄𝒓𝒐𝒔𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒖𝒏𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒆 - 𝒑𝒕. 2

five hargreeves x reader

word count: 1.7k

part one. part two.

summary: after you discovered a deli full of alternate versions of your cheating husband, you realize they would never hurt you the way he did. once he finds you getting comfortable with another version of him, you'll have to work together to figure out how to save the world.

authors note: thank you so much for all the notes on part one! i appreciate it so much since i thought no one would ever see it. here's the highly requested part two, enjoy!

You could tell it was him right away. Your Five had burst into the deli like he was crashing a wedding. When you walked in, every Five had a look of awe displayed across his face, but now that look was replaced with anger and disappointment. 

You could tell Five had shrunk a bit under the gaze of his counterparts yet he firmly walked over to the booth where you were sitting with the new Five that you had been talking to. He had a shameful look in his eye yet held a stoic visage. Glancing down at your gentle hands still firmly held in the palms of the other Five, his eyebrows furrowed as he looked between the two of you.

“What- what is this?” He scoffed in an annoyed manner, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing yet somehow he knew exactly what was happening. 

The Five across from you gently released your hands as his eye twitched and he stood up and faced your Five. Even though they were both exactly the same height, you could tell they were challenging each other by standing up a little straighter, your Five standing slightly on his toes.

 New Five had an angry clench in his jaw yet held a slight smirk. He addressed your Five in a low tone, “You must be a fluke if you think you can just apologize and win her back because there’s not a single Five in this room that would hurt her the way you did.” 

You looked up at the two of them from your seat in the booth. You hadn’t mentioned how your Five had hurt you, what he’d done to lose you. How could this Five have known? Still however, you appreciated his defense. You had always thought it’d be pathetic to see two guys fight over you, but to see two versions of the same man, one who has hurt and wronged you and the other who holds an unconditional and undying love for you, it ignited a spark in you that you thought you’d never feel again in your existence. 

Existence. 

Once the new Five finished his sentence you could see the offense on your Five’s face as he prepared a rebuttal but you shut that down quickly. 

“Enough,” you held a hand out as if to break the aggressive tension between them, “this is irrelevant. We need to discuss a plan.” 

Your Five took this as an opportunity to occupy the seat next to you in the booth but new Five beat him to it by pulling him back by the arm and sliding in next to you, as well as placing a hand on your thigh. 

Your Five was taken aback by the action yet quickly regained his composure as he settled into the seat across from the two of you. 

Waiter Five stopped by once again to drop off another mug of coffee for your Five as well as to top of your mug and Five’s. You thanked him and took a sip as he waltzed away with a wink. You watched as your Five took a sip from his mug which he immediately spit back out. The deli of Fives erupted in laughter as both you and your Five looked around confused. 

The Five sitting next to you whispered an explanation in your ear, stating that Waiter Five had poured a couple of salt packets into his coffee rather than sugar. You grinned and hid your laugh in the shoulder of the Five next to you, him still facing you, your foreheads nearly touching. Your Five watched with a heartache as he dabbed his mouth with a napkin and set it back down on the table. 

The laughter had mostly died down, excluding a very sloshed and disheveled looking Five who continued to chuckle and hiccup while leaning against a door. 

You were still leaning slightly onto the Five next to you as he spoke, “So I take it you figured out the subway system by now” 

“Alternate versions of the same moment in time?” Five asked.

“Correct,” the other Five responded, “We’re all you from alternate timelines. Most of us here have given up on trying to fix the broken timeline.” 

Your Five listened with a befuddled look on his face and before he could question the words of the Five before him, you piped up an explanation, “It’s us who shattered the original timeline.” 

“Thank you, dear,” said the Five next to you as he brought an arm around your shoulder. You couldn’t tell if he was being this affectionate because he really missed his y/n or because he could see how badly it was ticking your Five off but either way you wanted to play along, leaning into his affection. 

He broke your gentle eye contact to once again address the Five glaring at you both.

“The timeline was shattered the moment we came into existence, leaving us with an infinite number of alternate timelines in an infinite loop of trying to save the world,” he said in a tired voice. 

You took a moment to really look at him, he looked so exhausted. 

So did your timeline’s Five.

So did Drunk Five, Waiter Five, and Brisket Five. 

Sure they looked content in the deli, as it was their place to escape, but the tired looks in their eyes really showed how hard they had tried and how worn out it made them. 

You didn’t realize it but you were staring so deeply into the eyes of your timeline’s Five. With such a soft look he thought would never come his way again. You felt sorry for him. You really did but there is nothing that could excuse everything he did. Nothing could excuse the betrayal and heartbreak he caused you. That was his fault and he would have to deal with every ounce of guilt and shame that accompanied him in his downfall. 

His eyes met yours, the green shining with sorrow as he attempted to convey all his feelings through his irises. You both knew your relationship would never be the same, even if you survived the Cleanse. There was just too much that couldn’t be undone. 

You broke the connection first, turning away to look at the tiled floor of the deli instead. 

Your Five continued to look at you. 

Your eyes. Your hair. 

He never could’ve loved Lila like he loved you, how could he have thrown you away so easily? 

His love for you was what kept his fire burning all these years. His love for you ignited his passion for saving the world,  just so you could live safely. 

Just so you could live without surviving on cockroaches or the roof of a crumbling library. 

Just so you could live without having to kill in fear of being killed. 

Just so you could live a happy and comfortable life, even if it no longer meant a life with him. 

You clenched your jaw in thought before turning to the Five next to you, “What can we do? I mean, there has to be a way out of this.” 

He looked at you with an answer he was sure you wouldn’t like, “The only way this cycle will end is if you cease to exist. You have to let the marigold combine with the durango in the Cleanse.” 

You raised a brow, “Just the marigold?” 

Five looked at you confused, “Yes, the marigold infected our mothers the moment the timeline was shattered.” 

“So it’s not actually us that’s the problem?” You waved your finger in a circle, gesturing to yourself, Five, and his absent siblings. 

“Technically not,” Five confirmed. 

You leaned back into the seat as Five returned his arm to his side. You bit your lip as you tried to remember anything that might help you come up with a plan, then it hit you. 

Viktor. 

You remember how he told everyone that when he lived on the farm back in Dallas, he saved Harlan, the little boy who drowned in the lake, by giving him some of his marigold. 

You also remembered that he was able to take away the marigold in the barn, and whatever was left back at Hotel Obsidian. 

You lifted your head, your eyes bright as the idea swirled in your mind. 

You brought your hands onto the table, finding that you explain best with random hand motions, “What about Viktor, he could absorb our marigolds and transfer out his own into the Cleanse. That way the marigold and durango meet but we won’t have to die, we just won’t have our powers again.” 

Both Fives were silent for a moment as they contemplated your plan. The Five next to you was the first to react by holding your face in his palms and planting a kiss between your brows. “Darling,” he admired, “You’re an absolute genius.” 

Your timeline’s Five frowned in disagreement and jealousy, “What about Ben? If we combine our marigold with the Cleanse then he’ll die in there.” 

“That Ben was an asshole anyway,” you shrugged, honestly not caring since he was the reason you were in this dilemma in the first place. 

He hummed in agreement, not able to argue with you on that. He stood up and so did the other Five so he could let you out of the booth. 

Your Five didn’t want to hang around for goodbyes, you had come up with a plan and that was that. He grabbed your arm and tugged you towards the door. The other Five quickly grabbed your other arm to hold you in place. 

“Once this is all over, don’t go back to him. There are plenty of Fives here who will treat you so much better,” he winked at you as cheers of agreement ensued across the deli. 

A blush came across your face as you looked around at the hopeful smiles of every Five in the room. 

Maybe you didn’t have to stop loving Five.

You just had to let go of one. 

You slightly nodded and winked back at Five as he let go of your arm, letting your Five tug you back towards the subway with an upset stomp. Looking back with a little wave, you walked out as Drunk Five yelled, “Auf wiedersehen!” 

authors note: hopefully you guys enjoy! originally i didn't plan on making a part two but i'm glad you guys liked it so much. my inbox is open for any requests and please let me know your thoughts in the comments!

taglist: @madscamp02 @buttermilkpetals @leitor-sonolento @ren-ren23 @alavit @tofueater78 @buzzbuzzlilbee @clownwritesfanfic @beanzwritez @pholuvre

(hopefully i did this right??)

[save-the-villainous-cat]

Heyo!!!!✨️✨️✨️

You write Hero x Villain so well and I was wondering if you'd be willing to write about a Hero that was kidnapped by the Villain, and Hero is expecting harsh treatment, but they instead wake up in a lavish bedroom, restrained to the bed of course but it's a very nice bed. It turns out Hero had been overworking themselves and Villain was worried about them and had had enough. Maybe Hero tries to argue that they haven't been overworking and Villain goes ballistic.

It was a joke.

It had to be.

The hero looked at the handcuffs (which were their own) and then back at the villain.

"You're kidding." The hero was seldom in the mood for jokes. Most of the time, they didn't understand the references their friends made or ended up explaining jokes which people - apparently - did not like. It was quite hard for them to find anything funny. A cat was funny. A sound could be funny.

But a practical joke? Not so much.

"Honestly, I wish I was. Do you know how heavy you are? I would have never dragged you up here for a joke," the villain said. They were sitting on a luxuriant chair across the room, one thigh on the other. Their foot was dangling in the air happily and they looked well rested as they drank from a coffee cup.

"What time is it?"

"It's ten in the morning." The hero smiled to themselves. "On a Monday."

"What? No. Shit. Shit. Fuck-" The hero was already late to work. They were always 30 minutes early. They couldn't be late. They started struggling against the restraints, tossed and turned, tried to pull and free themselves. But it didn't work, no matter how much forced they conjured.

In the end, their wrists were sore, nothing more.

"Relax," the villain purred. "For some strange reason - which I am not associated with - your workplace has been shut down. Water damage."

"What did you-?"

"Purely coincidental," the villain lied. They shrugged and finished their coffee, setting the cup down on the tiny table next to them. They stood up and once they were in front of the villain, they leaned over them. "You look very good in my bed, by the way."

"Am I your hostage? Is that it?" the hero asked.

"Hostage? My god, do you know how much planning and energy that requires? Too much work, really." The villain tapped the tip of the hero's nose with their index finger. "My love, do you remember when I broke your leg a while ago?"

"Still hurts like shit when I work out."

"Hm." The villain almost looked like they were sorry. "Well...that was a rather harsh method, I have to admit. But a very effective one. Until you started working again, harder this time. I didn't see that coming."

The hero stared at the villain. Initially, they had thought the villain would understand what it was like to sacrifice themselves for their beliefs. The hero was, in many forms, very dedicated to both their jobs. The one in the office and the one outside of it as a hero. No task was too much, no overtime was too long.

Of course, the hero heard the whispers about themselves, they heard how their family made fun of them for working long hours and how they judged them for never finding time to meet up. After a while, the hero had stopped getting into arguments with their parents. You wanted me to have a steady job or my work is important to me were not good enough explanations for them. So, the hero had given up on that.

But they had genuinely thought the villain would know what that felt like. To be invested, to be motivated.

"Is being determined such a crime?"

"Determination and obsession are two different things, my love," the villain said.

"What do you care anyway?" the hero hissed. They were sick of people getting into their business and telling them how to live their life. It was more than exhausting.

The villain was quiet. They studied the hero's face and eventually sat down on the edge of the bed. Their lower back was touching the hero's side.

The hero did not pull away.

"Your hand has been shaking for two weeks now," the villain said. "Do you think I am willing to fight a weak enemy? That is below me. My equal is supposed to match me in combat. Not only attractiveness."

The hero didn't say anything to that right away. They knew they had had...struggled with fighting these past few weeks. But they had not wanted it to be due to their work. It was clearly a coincidence. Some harmless infection or illness.

"Listen...I am fine. I have a good job and I have a duty to fulfill."

"When you go home after work, do you feel like you have accomplished anything?" the villain asked and the hero, despite how sure they were of themselves and their work ethic, knew that the villain was digging into a wound with dirty fingers here.

Because, no, the hero did not feel satisfied, they barely felt relieved.

"Do you feel happy?" The villain's eyes were boring into the hero's. Curious, brilliant eyes.

The villain was quite provocative but this was right out a punch to the gut.

"You are asking unfair questions."

"You don't like them because the answer hurts. You are miserable. What you are doing right now is devouring you. And once that is done, what am I left with? Another one of those broken heroes who dies in their twenties because it's all too much?"

The hero looked at them, tears burning in their eyes. It was their job. It was their chance to prove themselves.

The hero was worth something. They were useful, they were smart. They were good at work. What would be left for them if that was being taken away?

What was the hero without it, anyway?

"Right now," they said, "I dislike you very much."

"Our relationship goes beyond simple fights," the villain explained. They let their fingertips dance over the hero's throat, even let their hand cup it carefully. Goosebumps spread all over the hero's back. The villain could have choked them anytime. But they didn't. "It's a vicious cycle. You and I. We cannot escape. And that is your duty. That is your priority. The objective which demands all your attention. Stopping me is a lot of work and you need to focus on that. If I get too powerful, you know what happens. I want power. I want power over you, over the city."

"So instead of working the usual way, you want me to work because of you?" The hero was quick to blink the tears out of their eyes.

This was simply ludicrous. The villain was wrong. They were lying, manipulating.

"No. I want your attention, I want your dedication. The healthy amount." The villain leaned over them, their lips brushing the hero's ear. "I can be nastier if I want. Right now I could break any bones of yours to force you to rest."

Their fingers glided up the hero's forearm until they found the hero's hand. The villain took it.

"But I saw how much pain that caused. And how disappointing the results were. So. Last chance, my love. Tune it down. Or all of us will suffer."

They pressed a kiss to the hero's temple.

However, the villain had to kidnap the hero three more times until the hero decided to start taking care of themselves.

[n0tamused]

Could I request Aventurine's s/o just making and giving him a bunch of random gifts? From simple things like cupcakes and plushies to more lavish gifts like a multi-purpose gun and tricked-out sunglasses.

A/n: A little drabble for this idea, hope you enjoy

Contents: Aventurine x GN!Reader, fluff, not proofread

“My, my, what do we have here? And who are you bringing this to?” Aventurine inquired after he glimpsed the little pile of gifts stacked on the coffee table. There are boxes wrapped in pretty and colorful papers and decorated with bows on top, and there are desert boxes next to them, ones he could see the contents of due to their translucent lids. 

You startled at the sudden voice, too immersed in wrapping up another gift in pretty green wrapping paper. Turning your head to look at him you beam with mirth, eyes gleaming as you notice the genuine confusion in his eyes. Had you not known him as best as you do, you would have thought him dull-witted for not already noticing these were for no one else but him.

“Take a wild guess, why don’t you? I might give you a reward if you get it right on the first try” you tell him, feeling rather proud of yourself with the assortment of gifts you managed to snag on the planet that was new to you both. There were local delicacies and deserts in the boxes on the table, but also wrapped goodies that would be of daily use to him, 

Aventurine feigns skepticism, although he now recognizes his momentary error and chuckles for not already having guessed. “Might it be.. hmm, hmm..” he hums and coos, dragging the moment out as he prowls around your sitting form and trying to get a glimpse at what you were wrapping up, but the box was already enveloped in the pretty glimmering paper. “Could it be me?” he asks at long last, tilting his head down at you when you look up to meet his colorful gaze.

Judging by your smile spreading further, crinkling the corners of your eyes, he was right on the dot.

“Took you long enough, but you got it right. Would you like to open these now.. or perhaps when we’re back home? I thought I had more time to hide these away - I wanted it to be a surprise, but alas, you always had such amazing timing” you tell him, clearly in jest.

“What would you prefer? I don’t wish to trash your plans any further... I may have caught you off guard with this, but now you have me rather speechless, I must praise you for that” he responded, your smile spreading to his lips like a disease as he lets his eyes wander over to the other presents once more. You rise from your seat, leaving behind the box and go to meet him in an embrace. He accepts it, a bit stiff at first but it is like your warmth melts that unease away from him, and soon after he is wrapping his arms around you. “Missed me already?” he coos at you, his tone now mellow as if his usual tone would hurt you at such close proximity.

“I have” you state simply, looking up at him as you pull away, melting into the view of the pretty blonde man.  “And I’d rather show it all to you now. We have time until this ship lands again, might as well indulge in some sweets, right?”

His gloved fingers brush against the line of your jaw, slightly tilting your head to the side and he mirrors the motion. “That is right.. I am desperately craving something sweet right now. You mentioning it is only making me more hungry for a taste” he says, and you notice the slight flush that comes over his cheeks. You beam at it, but it is him that leans in and catches your lips in a chaste kiss.

You chase his lips before he can fully part, finding yourself in a craving as well, in need of another kiss. It felt as if days had separated you until now and not just a few hours. You feel his huff against your skin, the corners of his mouth twisting upward. Once you pulled apart, you notice his grip on your arms, keeping you steady as your own hand keep him steady in return. He blinks at you, his eyes half lidded and full of warmth that was only reserved in quieter moments like these. 

“Come.. let me show you what I’ve gotten for you” 

He obliges, your voice snapping him out of his fuzzy thoughts. He doubts he’ll ever get used to your kindness and gifts, they’re too sweet to him, and he doubts he has earned them, but he is not the one to decline your invitations or offers - that’d be too mean.

Ⓒ n0tamused. Do not repost, translate, edit, and/or copy any of my works. Likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated.

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

To clarify,I don't believe in porn makes you evil and I don't believe in like fantasies are evil. I'm pulling this quote off Scarleteen "“If we aren’t both careful and creative we can get stuck in fantasies that don’t mature and politicize with us."" I'm also new to being about to vote, so I'm trying to be careful about what I consume and what stereotypes media perpetuate. Like I'm not moralizing about kink or anything, and my ask was how can I get aroused with media wo my kinks or wo media

hi anon, welcome back! I'm genuinely very glad to hear some follow up.

for anybody who doesn't stay vigorously up to date with all of my anons, this ask is a continuation of this one.

so I went and checked out the Scarleteen articles you mentioned in your first message, or at least I tried to. How to Approach Sexual Fantasies and Desire on Your Own Terms is here, and while I couldn't find anything with the exact title 50 Shades of Abuse, we do have 50 Shades of BS - How to Tell the Difference Between Kink and Abuse as well as 50 Shades Crappier: On Selling Abuse for Valentine's Day, both of which cover how the 50 Shades series isn't a great model of real, responsibly-practiced BDSM.

now, here's what I didn't see in any of these articles: an assertion that anybody needs to, as you've decided to do, avoid any work that depicts anything less than perfectly healthy sexual practices.

the closest we get to that is the quote by adrienne maree brown from How to Approach Sexual Fantasies, which you mention above. now, here's the thing: first of all, I actually disagree pretty substantially with brown's assertions that one's sexual fantasies need to "politicize." I know what my politics are; the fiction that I enjoy can't change that, because I don't have the moral backbone of a chocolate eclair. I actually just talked about that earlier today in another ask.

(also, and this may be an unpopular opinion, but adrienne maree brown is kind of a dork who doesn't really say much of anything in Pleasure Activism that Audre Lorde didn't already say better and more succinctly, and I personally lost interest in Pleasure Activism pretty much the moment she casually dropped that she practices reiki healing because that's a pseudoscientific alternative medicine that doesn't do shit or fuck. but I digress.)

listen, I'm not trying to peer pressure or bully you into watching anything you don't want to watch. your porn consumption is up to you. but what you're doing here is absolutely moralizing, I think maybe because of an underlying assumption that media that involves sex is just, like, innately different than any other type of media, which is in itself an idea that stems from sex negativity!

I don't know, let's just try to play out a little thought exercise here. like, would you consider it reasonable if somebody told you that they've decided not to read or watch anything that depicts problematic behavior because they don't want to normalize it. like, first of all, they're never watching anything but Bluey again. except actually not even Bluey because I just remembered about Bluey in the genocide, which actually makes for a great illustration of how nonsensical and impossible it is to try to only engage with media that is 100% ideologically pure.

and again: that's fine! that's literally fine! it is 100% okay to watch or read or play things with morals that don't totally 100% align with yours. it's okay to enjoy them, even. it's a lot healthier than trying to avoid upsetting or incongruous things entirely, because that gives you the chance to actually think about it rather than trying to shut it out entirely! that article actually provides an entire list of questions you can run through with yourself to critically analyze the things you watch if you feel so inclined! that's a much better skill to practice than avoidance!

I get that when you're new to sex, as you said in the previous ask, this might seem daunting, but your brain isn't just a sponge that will uncritically soak up and adopt anything you expose it to. you very clearly have the ability to research, differentiate between fiction and real life, and form your own opinions! and it is absolutely fine if you want to just watch porn with your kinks!

like, listen, I see what the question is, and the easiest answer is just. do whatever gets you off.

[loveandleases]

(Kinda NSFW)

I'm sleep deprived, so if you find any English mistakes, I'm sorry.

How would the ROs react if after a slow burn romance with an MC recovering from trust and self-esteem issues that they acquired after Chris, both of them finally reach the boiling point where they can't hold it anymore and reveal their love for each other along with a night of passion and in the end, already exhausted, the RO looks at the MC, noticing that even though their eyes demand that MC close their eyes to finally sleep, the MC refuses, and when the RO ask why they answer "I'm scared... I don't want to wake up tomorrow and end up finding out that this is all a dream."

Sure thing nonie , the rest are under the cut!

❤️ Cam - "How about we make a deal? I'm going to pinch myself, and if we're both still here after then you have to go to sleep. Alright?" Cam pinches his cheeks with more force than necessary. "I'm still here, so go to sleep. I'll be right beside you when you wake up. Promise." He'll leave you no choice, either those eyes close or he's going to be reminiscing about some dumb things the two of you did when you were young. When you are finally asleep, Cam will just watch you. Because no matter how much he hate's to admit it, you spread a little seed of doubt. What if this is a dream? What if the thing he has longed to happen for so long vanishes when he wakes up?

💙 G - They want to say something logical, but logic tends to go out the window when the two of you are together. They allow their fingertips to rub along the lines of your face until they reach your eyes, using the soft pressure of the pads of their fingers to guide your eyelids down. "If it's just a dream, mind you the best dream of my life. Promise me, that if I'm not here when you wake up you'll find me. So that this can become real. I'd find you a hundred times over. Just to be with you again."

💚 Kara - She pulls you closer, allowing her head to rest on your chest as she studies you. "You'd dream of me?" she asks, with every intention of tiring you out. Talking until you have to no choice but to drift off. Reassuring you that she's here, and when she decides to be with someone, she means it. She will be there with her gold hair tangles in knots and old makeup clinging to her face. She'll be there to wake you, to remind you that tonight like the night before she'll spend it with you. Until you're no longer scared that it's a dream.

💛 M - "Would you rather stay up and let me tell you how I would make it a reality if it were?" M leaves a feather light kiss on your cheek. Burying their face into the crook of your shoulder. "I'd like to think I could write a character as amazing you, even with all the things that has happened that got you here. But I couldn't do you justice, not even in a dream." M would cradle you close, allow you to feel their heartbeat. Something real and tangible. There's no dream that could sum up the feelings between you, the way your very face lights up their own.

💜 Isaac - "It's ironic, you're worried this is a dream, and I'm worried it's real." Isaac shares the pain of losing someone, of losing a relationship held so dear that it could break you if you let it. They don't say it to worry you, they say it because they want to be honest for once. To let you see how messed up and scared you make them. "You scare me. This," they motion to the both of you, "scares the hell out of me. Because I didn't think I could feel for someone again. I don't want to lose you, to lose us. So if it's a dream, let me dream it." "And if it's real?"

"If it's real, promise to love me through the dumb things I'm going to do until I realize you actually want to be with me."

🖤 Ardent - He places a hand on your hip pulling you tight so that your bodies can slight together, your shared warmth radiating throughout your bodies. An all too familiar crooked grin falls on his lips, "You mean to tell me, out of everyone, you dreamt me up" Ardent laughs, rubbing your back with his palm to ensure he means no harm.

He stares at you, those eyes looking for reassurance, and his smile fades into something more sincere. "If this were a dream, I'd be the luckiest man." He kisses your forehead, allowing his deep voice to soothe you.

His nose nudges your own, as those dark brown eyes latch onto yours. "You know a dream could never be this real," he allows his fingers to trail along your bare arm causing goosebumps. "A dream could never capture my affection for you. How much I want to hold you like this, it would never allow me to make love to you like we did. Go to sleep, and I promise when you wake up I'll prove to you all over again this is real."

[yazthebookish]

Maybe I'll spoil you guys and talk about Gwynriel and ACOTAR5 and anything related to it overall. I recently finished my HOFAS reread and have some fresh thoughts. I'll let my thoughts guide me and some of these points I've already addressed in my insta stories yesterday. I just rather share a lengthy post here since I'll only tag under #gwynriel.

I often see arguments about how Gwyn and Azriel can't move the plot forward because the series is centered on the Archeron sisters.

First, that's not true because Sarah is following what she called "a traditional romance route". She's following the same patterns of Nalini Singh, Kresley Cole, and Lisa Kleypas where they publish multiple books in the same series following different couples.

This is fitting for a series like ACOTAR because it's romance-centered. And Sarah have already said that each couple is getting one book and there will likely be more books beyond ACOTAR6.

Saying that doesn't dismiss the importance of the sisters to the story, Feyre already has a trilogy centered on her. The spin-off just follows different characters including the sisters.

I won't try hard to convince people on this because I've already posted almost everything Sarah said about the spin-off series and what's it's about. So if the next book is not centered on an Archeron sister, that's for Sarah to bamboozle the fandom with.

One thing that stuck out to me is when I compared the ending of ACOSF with the scene of Bryce giving Nesta Gwydion and seeming like she left Nesta with a new quest.

First, this is what the text says, and this is Chapter 80, the very last chapter in ACOSF:

Succeeding in the Blood Rite didn't mean the training stopped. No, after she and her friends told Cassian and Azriel most of the details of their ordeal, the two commanders had compiled a long list of mistakes that the three of them had made that needed to be corrected, and the others wanted to learn from them, too. So they would keep training, until they were all well and truly Valkyries. Gwyn, despite the Rite, had returned to living in the library.

1. The Valkyries are not yet a unit.

2. SJM only and specifically highlighted that Gwyn, despite the Rite, returned to living in the library. It was like "hey, remember all the talk Gwyn did about wanting to leave the library after two years? Yeah that's on hold a bit but keep that in mind". She didnt even add Emerie or the other priestesses to that sentence.

With Nesta being left with Gwydion to find out why the 8-pointed star was tattooed on her, I don't think the next book will start with "hey Elain take this sword and deal with it". Who are Nesta's main companions now? Gwyn and Emerie.

I'll be back to the Valkyries but let's just talk about Azriel for a bit.

It is so painfully obvious to me that Azriel is being handed the Illyrian plot on a golden platter. How big or small of a plot it is depends on SJM, but it's important based on the fact that she fleshed out the Illyrian's origins and tied them to the crossover AND making Truth-teller the knife of Enalius.

That is a big deal for an Illyrian like Azriel.

And I quote my friend Lacie on this, it is very poetic for Azriel to be the owner of the knife that originally belonged to the person who freed his own people from the Daglan's clutches, perhaps because he saw his people are more than just slaves to the Daglan—how powerful would it be for Azriel, who loathes his own people, to parallel Enalius.

And for years some people were against Azriel dealing with this plot because he shouldn't make peace with his "abusers", its true his own family and some Illyrians failed him but he is condemning an entire population. Good people like Emerie and Balthazar. Even Rhys's mother, who had valid reasons to hate her people especially as a female, still made sure to make Rhysand connect with his Illyrian heritage and he even goes on to say that his mother didn't forget what they did to her but still loved her people.

If both Cassian and Rhysand (and by extension the author) continue to flag Azriel's hatred of the Illyrians as an issue—then it is a damn big issue for it to be addressed repeatedly.

Okay so to address my final point about Gwyn and Azriel and how they can move the plot forward.

Now I didn't detail out much about what the next book will deal with because that's another post (and I already have a post on that).

All of our theories and predictions are based on information that is available to us. Saying Azriel and Gwyn cannot move the plot forward does not make any sense because the central plot is tied to multiple characters, Archeron or not.

If SJM wants to make a character move the next book's plot forward, she can do it because she's in control of the story. She's in control of the narrative. She's in control of the characters.

The characters are puppets and this is an unfinished story. If some characters would add more value and make for a more interesting story before the others, she can decide on that. If she wants to make Eris the protagonist of the next book, she can easily do that whether the fandom wants it or not.

Let me give you an example of minor characters that pushed the plot forward and became main characters: Yrene Towers and the Hind. These kind of arguments could've been used for them in HOEAB or HOSAB and Pre-TOD. Before HOSAB/HOFAS and TOD, could we have predicted that they would have played a crucial role before those books? Not likely because they had minimal appearances and were not part of the main cast. This is what I'm talking about.

You can't know how a character will contribute to a story until you see how it all unfolds. We can make guesses on the information we have which is why I believe three characters are likely to join the main cast: Gwyn, Emerie, and Eris.

Why is it so easy to accept that Emerie might be sharing a book with an original character like Mor but it's hard to comprehend the fact that Gwyn could also share a book with Azriel? Because Emerie showed up in ACOFAS? To me that's not really a strong argument based on Sarah's writing and what we have in the books, she doesn't really pick based on who showed up the earliest. Here's a good example: Hypaxia, who showed up earlier, didn't even get her own chapters but the Hind did.

And there's one argument I recall about how I need to rely on Nesta to have a plot focused on Gwyn or the Valkyries in the next book. Nesta's arc is clearly not over based on HOFAS, but does that mean she's getting a POV? Not necessarily. I don't think she is. Gwyn is the perfect candidate for us to see what's going on with Nesta post-HOFAS and how they all deal with the Valkyries and whatever Sarah will set up with them.

There is this whole Valkyrie/Illyrian conflict that could be triggered as a result of the Blood Rite, with Ramiel definitely being an important location to explore in the next book, we also have the Pegasi and the Prison and the implications of the crossover. It makes sense to have an Illyrian and a Valkyrie POV to deal with some plots in the next book.

"Gwyn contributes to nothing" we can't know until the book is out. How sure are we that maybe SJM won't connect her to the crossover by making her mysterious father a Worldwalker? Or Prince of Hel? Or an Asteri? Maybe I'm right maybe I'm wrong.

"But Koschei! And the Human Queens!" Koschei will always be a background player pulling on the strings until the final book as it's obvious he is the big bad in the series, unless someone even worse is revealed. But no one is dismissing Koschei or the Human Queens messing around.

Literally what's the point of the story or the fun elements of surprises or plot twists if you need Sarah to list down everything that the next books will deal with. That's not how a story develops to me. I don't need to know everything in advance to just know how it will go. That's like knowing spoilers early on and checking off with each book what happened and what didn't happen. I feel like it's close to how a lot of readers were disappointed with not having enough ACOTAR in HOFAS, because Sarah implied half of the book would be set in Prythian. So by the time the book came out and it wasn't that, people were vocal about it.

In my opinion, SJM set a good foundation for Gwyn's arc to build up on in ACOSF and her arc is not over. We won't get mentions of her still carrying the guilt of her sister's death or not leaving the library after she said she's sick of being there for two years without us seeing resolution for that. She wouldn't be in Azriel's bonus chapter if she is not involved with him.

To conclude, my reread still affirms to me that the next book with an Azriel/Gwyn book. Azriel is clearly being set in the forefront.

[syndrossi]

And now for a continuation of what I'm calling the Rescue AU aka "what if Ser Thoren successfully extracted the boys from the Gates of the Moon?" Part 1 and premise can be found here. It ended pretty abruptly, and so we pick up pretty abruptly! This one has a more proper "end" to it, though it's not finished.

x~x~x

“May we go to the market on River Row?” Rhaegar asked. He seemed to pick up on Daemon’s surprise at the request, adding, “Laenor mentioned it before. He said they have all manner of wares from within the realm, and even from across the Narrow Sea.”

“We may,” Daemon said, warmed by the pleased smile he received in response. “Do you seek anything in particular?”

He had presented them with gifts for three of their name days thus far, but that still left five. And some of his other planned gifts would not be ready for months. Any insight into what his children enjoyed was sorely welcome. They spent so little time at play, too serious about their studies.

“Princess Rhaenyra said that your name day is in less than three moons,” Rhaegar said, smile turning stern. “So you must not look if we choose something for you.”

Daemon had not celebrated his name day in nearly a decade, other than alone with Caraxes and one of the few barrels of good wine that made it on occasion to the Stepstones by way of Driftmark. His last true celebration had been a pleasant supper with Viserys, Aemma, and Rhaenyra, followed by a drunken night of debauchery in Flea Bottom that had earned his brother’s disapproval in the morning upon hearing of it.

It had been only two moons after Viserys had quietly taken him aside and “suggested” that he take Lord Beesbury as an advisor in his yet-new position of master of coin. Daemon had known the true source of the suggestion: Otto Hightower. Daemon had been only three moons in the office and still learning its scope; bringing in the former master of coin to all but do his job for him had been clearly intended to undermine him by implying he could not manage on his own.

That was the one office Daemon had resigned from before his brother could directly dismiss him, as he made a habit of. That had been before he’d realized just how short his leash would be for any office while Otto Hightower whispered in his ear simultaneously of Daemon’s immaturity and ambition.

A hand squeezed his, jolting him from his thoughts. “Father?” It was Rhaegar’s voice, gentle with concern, rather than stilted as it could sometimes be when addressing him.

Daemon smoothed wisps of light hair from his son’s forehead, then rested his hands on either cheek, heart a jumbled mess between the sentiment and the barest trace of wariness that lurked in his eyes whenever Daemon behaved in a way he did not expect. He kissed his brow, vowing that one day Rhaegar would come to expect only love at the hands of family, rather than the cold indifference—or worse—he had suffered under the Royce household.

“You can give me no greater gift than your company that day,” he said, transferring a hand to Jon’s cheek as well.

Jon gave a solemn nod. “But if I wrap Rhaegar to leave outside your door, who will wrap me?”

Daemon nearly choked on his laugh, the humor entirely unexpected. His eldest was quite sneaky in that regard, though both had a similarly clever wit. He feared for whoever might earn their wrath once they reached adolescence.

“Would you like a small purse apiece for the market, then?” he asked. “So that you are spared solving such a riddle?”

“There is no need,” Rhaegar said, revealing a bulging purse beneath his jacket. “Uncle Viserys gave us an allowance for it.”

“That was very generous of him,” Daemon said, smiling to mask a sudden flood of resentment at the reminder that nothing that he had to offer them was his own. It was all through Viserys and the royal treasury. He had no holding of his own to build an income, nor would he.

Curious stares followed them through the streets, news of the strange circumstances of his sons’ birth having traveled beyond the court. Laenor had informed him with great enthusiasm that a troupe of mummers were at work on a new play with a working title of “The Hidden Princes and the Witch of Runestone.”

If his sons were uneasy with the attention, they did not show it, more fascinated by the sights and sounds of the city. I should have taken them out sooner, Daemon thought fondly. There was a minstrel at one corner, playing the lute outside of a tavern to lure travelers in, and Rhaegar’s head tilted a moment, listening, before his eyes brightened. He hurried over, Daemon and Jon a few steps behind, and joined the minstrel in his song, his higher pitch shifting into an effortless harmony.

The minstrel looked startled by the sudden accompaniment, and even perhaps dismayed to find himself outperformed by a small child, but his eyes took in Daemon as he approached, and the princely attire his sons were wearing—as well as the growing crowd, drawn by the unusual spectacle as well as the sweetness of the song—and the man seemed to then accept the situation as one of good fortune.

Daemon smiled as he watched Rhaegar, enjoying his son’s obvious joy at an excuse to sing. The song was familiar to him, one of a wandering hedge knight in search of a maiden he had spied bathing in the moonlight and fallen in love with, but rendered nearly haunting with the addition of Rhaegar’s voice, which made it into a duet of man and maiden.

At the final verse, the minstrel made as though to bow, only for Rhaegar to continue on alone for another four, and the tale went from one of happy reunion to bittersweet loss as the maiden revealed the true reason she had evaded the hedge knight’s pursuit: the waters had told her that when she found love at last, they would have but a year before death claimed them.

There were very few dry eyes in the crowd at the song’s conclusion, and there was a light ache in his own throat, but the ending seemed to upset Jon in particular, so Daemon wrapped him up in his arms. “It is only a song.”

“If he had not gone after her, they both would have lived,” Jon said into his abdomen.

“Perhaps so,” Daemon murmured, stroking fingers through his hair as he pondered why the song had touched him so. Elys and Corwyn had died two years after the twins’ birth, and his sons had thought them their parents most of their lives. Rhea’s death was still fresh for them as well, he supposed. “But the life of a hedge knight is not without peril. Perhaps he would have found death another way.”

Jon frowned, not liking that response, and Daemon sighed, releasing him. “Come, let us collect your brother from his admirers.”

The minstrel was splitting his attention between collecting the shower of coin that had fallen at the song’s conclusion and interrogating his son on where he had heard the additional verses.

“From a harpist who wandered through the Gates of the Moon,” Rhaegar said, beginning to look uncomfortable.

Daemon quickly moved into the man’s view, fixing him with a look that halted further questioning.

“My prince,” the minstrel said, bowing with a flourish. “What an honor to have the privilege of sharing a song with your son.”

“Indeed,” Daemon said, beckoning Rhaegar back to his side. “I suggest you content yourself with your good fortune.”

“I am sorry,” Rhaegar said once they were away from the gathered crowd, flicking anxious glances in Daemon’s direction. “I did not mean to—”

“Nonsense,” Daemon said firmly. “You may sing whenever you like. You upstaged that minstrel and he knew it.”

Rhaegar moved to walk at Jon’s side, whispering something quiet to him—another apology, perhaps? Jon shrugged, the motion stiff, but he summoned a small smile in response. Fortunately, the distraction of River Row seemed to take their minds off the matter. The street stank of fish, and was awash in colorful stalls loudly peddling their goods.

They were not even at the market square yet, and he had to corral them back within reach several times with stern warnings of pickpockets and unsavory characters who grew in number as Aegon’s Hill grew more distant.

The chaos was nigh unmanageable by the time they reached the market. They still drew glances, Daemon’s hair and attire—and Dark Sister at his side—making his identity plain. But the people in the market were here for one of two purposes: to sell or be sold to. They kept their gawking to sideways glances for the most part, aside from one very bold hand that curiously reached for his hair before being swatted aside.

The strong scent of cooked meat and vegetables from the side of the market that served tempting dishes that could be held in one’s hand to eat while walking covered up the worst of the encroaching smell of raw fish and nearby sewage. There were sweeter fares as well, including a stall that spun sugar into elaborate shapes to cool and be sold.

The peddlers’ calls grew particularly loud whenever they were noticed, to the point where Jon was beginning to look overwhelmed. Daemon was not without his own tension. Every voice that carried an accent from the Free Cities, and especially the occasional spoken Valyrian, transported him back to the crush and throng of the Stepstones.

They eventually reached a portion of the market that was less frantic, where he was no longer touching four different bodies at once, and Daemon slowly relaxed. The boys went from stall to stall with Daemon looking on a few steps back, moving with them. Occasionally they would lean in for hushed discussion, dark hair against light, then turn to him in unison with appraising eyes before resuming their conversation.

Daemon had no idea what they would decide upon for gifts, but he was greatly looking forward to finding out what they had deemed worthy. They had found something at the present stall, which seemed to be an assortment of leather goods ranging from cow’s hide to more exotic sources.

Jon looked back toward him. “Turn around,” he ordered. “She has to finish making it and then wrapping it.”

Daemon gamely turned away. “Tell me when it is safe to look.”

He contented himself with scanning the rest of the current extension of the market, occasionally meeting the quickly averted gaze of an onlooker startled to be caught. That was nothing he wasn’t accustomed to when walking about openly, though years ago in Flea Bottom, the denizens had come to view his frequent presence among them as something to be expected. When he truly wished to walk about without fuss, he went cloaked and hooded.

A startled cry rang out back toward the portion of the market they had just left, and Daemon glanced that way to see that one of the food stalls had caught flame. He could make out the shouts for water, and a few nearby peddlers flapped with cloth at the fire, seeking to smother it. It seemed to only inflame it somehow, the fire almost dancing from one stall to another, which then caught.

Daemon recognized in the louder murmurs of the crowd the sound of unease yielding to panic, his own alarm growing with it. Panic was unpredictable, and the crowd would seek whatever outlet they thought offered safety, willing to trample whoever got in their way.

He turned back to the stall, ready to sweep his children up and leave before the chaos reached them, only to find the stall empty and his sons nowhere in view. His mind blanked with incomprehension for a moment, breath catching in his throat, and he closed the distance to the stall in an instant, looking around wildly. His sons were nowhere to be seen, but there was a woman’s body in rapidly pooling blood slumped at the other side of the stall.

No. Daemon’s hand closed around Dark Sister’s hilt, an icy fear flooding his veins. He took a deep breath to call for them, only to freeze at the sudden prick of something sharp and metal against his back.

“Quiet,” a voice said behind him, soft and unaccented. “Do you wish to see your sons?”

“Where are they?” Daemon asked, holding perfectly still. He might be quick enough to move before the man behind him sunk his blade in, but he did not know if there were more. There must be, to have taken his sons away. “What do you want?”

“If you do as I say, I shall take you to them. Fight, and you will never see them again.” The man waited, as though to see if he intended to put up a struggle. “Remove your hand from your blade.”

Daemon stared forward, paralyzed by indecision. He could mean to kill me anyway. This may be intended to buy time so that they may take the boys further out of reach.

But what could he—or they—even want? If it was ransom they sought, then the more captives, the better. If it was revenge, they would have killed his sons, and Daemon after.

“That dragon blood of yours is worth a great deal,” the voice said with a hint of impatience. “But only balanced against the trouble you might cause. Remove your hand.”

Ransom, then. Daemon clutched that hope to his chest and released his grip on Dark Sister. His hand was grabbed and twisted behind his back, firmly but not painfully so, and he was guided between stalls, out of view. Then, something smooth and rounded was pressed into his hand.

“Drink this.”

The shouts in the market square had grown louder, and the wind was beginning to blow smoke in their direction. Daemon had spotted the occasional gold cloak earlier, but there were none to be seen now, the men likely moving to seek control of the fire or the crowd. There were far more pressing things for the people milling about the market to pay attention to than a prince tucked just out of view, a blade to his back.

“What is it?” Daemon asked, though he could guess. If it was not poison, then it was something intended to dull the senses and render him easy to move without struggle.

“Drink,” the man repeated. “Or I spill that royal blood onto the cobblestone, which would be a shameful waste.”

Daemon brought the bottle into view, its milky glass obscuring its contents save for a faintly darker line where the liquid within sloshed. A tiny cork served as a stopper.

I cannot see them again if I am sliced open in River Row.

Ransom could be paid. Daemon knew that Viserys would not hesitate on his behalf or his sons’, whatever objections Otto might raise.

He brought the cork to his teeth, and pulled it loose, then tipped the liquid back. He held it in his mouth for a few seconds, debating whether he could feign swallowing, but a hand closed over his lips and pinched his nostrils shut until he swallowed, at which point it moved to grip his right arm again. The man made no move to lead him anywhere, seeming content to wait for the potion to take its effect.

“You have not hurt them?” Daemon asked, unable to keep the desperation from his voice.

“They are not harmed,” the man said with a hint of amusement. “Though I cannot say the same for some of the others. I did warn them about Jon.”

A dizziness rolled over Daemon, followed by a heaviness that came in waves that settled deeper each time. At last he was prodded forward, and it took all his concentration to put one foot ahead of the other. Then another. Then—

[ysmtttty]

ACOWAR but it’s Azris that sneak into each other’s tent during the war with Hybern, knowing very well it could be the last time they see each other.

It’s Azriel hiding in his shadows until every Autumn court soldier disappears from the sight so he could sneak into their general’s tent. It’s Eris who knew he would come so he already gave an order to not disturb him at any circumstance.

It’s them kissing desperately, with underlying panic and fear that they would never show to each other. It’s Eris telling Azriel that he would cut his wings himself if this stupid bat dies during the next battle. It’s Azriel taunting him that he acts like he cares and for the first time Eris doesn’t deny that, which falters Azriel’s mocking grin.

It’s Azriel feeling both grateful and frightened when Autumn forces joined their side for the first time, knowing Eris as their general would lead the legions. Him knowing they are at constant risk of being slaughtered. Him thinking that he would rather die here because of lack of forces instead of having Eris at risk, no matter how selfish did it sound.

It’s Eris thanking every possible god that Azriel wasn’t among the Illyrian legion that was hit by Cauldron’s blast. Him almost screaming when it happened because he didn’t know was Azriel dead or not. Him trying to keep fighting even when every fiber of his soul shouts to winnow, to check Azriel, to make sure he is okay.

It’s them still hiding even in the middle of the war. It’s them forcing feelings far, far away. It’s them examining each other’s bodies for the new scars and wounds after every battle at night, grunting at each other for being stupid enough to get stabbed.

It’s Azriel constantly calling for Eris in his head to make sure he is alive. It’s Eris calling him paranoid, even though he would do absolutely the same if he had daemati power.

It’s Eris asking Azriel to stay longer with him before the last battle and Azriel not wanting to go in the dawn, risking them being caught.

It’s them spending long long nights in Eris’s cabin after the war, just talking, sharing nightmares and reminding each other they survived. They survived and they’re still there, and that’s all that matters.

[stiltonbasket]

emperor!lwj au - I feel so bad for the staff, seeing this random young woman come into the emperor's quarters, call him by a pet name a bunch of times, and be very familiar with him. Also she's happily cuddling the prince and giving him a bath? the staff are (•ิ_•ิ)?

This ask made me laugh for a very long time, and since the fic is entirely from Wei Wuxian's POV, here's a short snippet from the staff's point of view!

--

"Steward Ling," a nervous young manservant from the Emperor's palace says one afternoon. "This one requests entry to the storeroom where Zeming zhang-gongzhu keeps the late Empress's belongings."

Ling Jun—the second chief steward of the present dynasty, and the son of the head of staff who served Emperor Qingheng upon his accession to the throne—glances up from his account-book to find two boys in their middle teens wringing their hands at the door to his office.

He sighs. His Majesty's servants are difficult to bear with—not because of any of them are overbearing, but rather because any extended span of time spent in the young Emperor's company seems to rob the boys of their wits.

"What for?" Ling Jun asks. "Huangshang and her Highness are both busy with the selection today, and Her Majesty's things are not due to be aired out until next month."

The elder of the two serving-boys shakes his head.

"Huangshang did not go to the selection," he whispers. "He is still in his room, with the little highness—and a woman. He asked us to fetch the cloak the late Emperor gifted to Her Majesty, so that he could give it to the lady."

Ling Jun nearly faints away on the spot.

The cloak that Xiao Yun is speaking of—a splendid garment made of thick wool, weighted down with pearls and shining silver beads sewn along the borders—was made for Empress Haoxian shortly after the young emperor was born. It delighted the late Emperor to see her in it, especially when the little taizi dianxia was with her; and after she passed away, the staff assumed that the cloak would be given to Grand Princess Zeming. But Zeming zhang-gongzhu laid the cloak away with the rest of her mother's things, insisting that it should be held in storage for his Majesty.

Since she would not wear it, Ling Jun expected that Empress Haoxian's cloak would never be worn again—and then, when it was made known to him that her Highness had given it to the young emperor, that it might be worn by the future Empress.

And if he was asking for it today, that meant—

"Who—who is the lady?" Ling Jun asks, bewildered. "The last I heard, the bridal candidates were waiting to be presented in an antechamber in the outer palace. Huangshang ought to have seen them by now, and if he is still in his quarters—is he with one of the maids?"

That would mean trouble in court, to be sure, but the nobles who sent their daughters to the selection would simply have to bear it. After all, Lan Wangji is only the second emperor of his line; and before Emperor Qingheng took the throne, his forefathers were known for disregarding all matters concerning rank when they wed. The late Emperor's own mother had been brought into the Lan estate as a nursemaid to one of his older cousins, and his father had stumbled upon her playing with the child in the Cloud Recesses' famed magnolia garden and fallen in love at first sight.

Perhaps it is one of Zeming zhang-gongzhu's maidservants, Ling Jun thinks hopefully. The Grand Princess's maids are sensible girls, and most of them have known his Majesty since they were children themselves: and though it might cause some difficulty if her Highness were to be suddenly outranked by one of her servants, such a girl ought to do well as Lan Wangji's Empress if she were properly educated for the role before her wedding.

"N-No, Lord Steward," mumbles the younger of his Majesty's serving-boys. "From what Xiao Tong overheard, the maiden is one of the xiunu from the selection. But she ran away and met Huangshang in his quarters instead of waiting to see him in the reception hall."

Ling Jun's vision blurs. "What?"

Xiao Tong nods furiously. "He called her Wei-guniang, so she must be a lady of rank. And—and Huangshang has her calling him by his birth name, just like Huanghou-niangniang used to! No one else has called him so since she died—even her Highness calls him by his courtesy name! He told me to fetch luncheon for her, and he wants to give her the mantle that the late Emperor gave her Majesty: so that must mean that she is the bride he has chosen."

"Wei?" There are no families of note called Wei living in the capital. "Whose daughter is she?"

At this juncture, one of the maids materializes on the threshold with a wild grin on her face. "Have you heard already?" she whispers, delighted. "About the girl in Huangshang's private quarters?"

"Gossip is forbidden, Xia Ye," Ling Jun snaps. "Do you have any proper business here?"

Xia Ye rolls her eyes at him. "He ordered her a fish clay-pot and braised zhusun with bamboo shoots," she says conspiratorially, before turning to Xiao Tong. "Guess what she's doing now, Tong'er! She's giving his little highness a bath!"

At this, Ling Jun nearly swallows his own tongue. His little highness—that is, his Majesty's ward, and a cousin of his on the late Empress's side—is a good child, with only one fault: a terrible fear of water, whether warm or cold. He suffers no one but his imperial father to bathe him, much to his nurse's distress—and if he had permitted a stranger to give him a bath less than an hour after meeting her, Huangshang might as well put the palace staff out of their misery and marry the girl tomorrow.

"And what's more, I know who she is," Xia Ye declares, before making a smug face at Ling Jun. "She's Jiang Fengmian's yang daughter. The older daughter is already married to Lord Jin's di son, so she couldn't attend the selection—but I heard that the yang daughter fits every one of the requirements Huangshang insisted on when he gave up trying to delay his marriage. She's older than Huangshang, I think—twenty-four or twenty-five, at the least—but Xie Li's mother is a cook at the girls' academy in the city, and she says that Wei Wuxian is the most brilliant scholar that the Grandmaster has ever taught."

All this means little to Ling Jun. The only noblewoman he has more than passing knowledge of is the Grand Princess, Lan Xichen; and his late Majesty thought it meet to educate her in everything from the six classical arts to swordsmanship and military history. Certainly the court found it absurd that Huangshang wanted a wife who was at least as well-learned as the scholars beginning their last years of study for the imperial examinations, but Ling Jun merely found it rather sensible.

"Then do you think he truly means to marry Young Mistress Wei?" he asks warily. "I suppose he must, or the lady would object to spending time with him without a chaperone."

"I don't know about that," Xia Ye says, shrugging. "He hasn't asked for Wei-guniang's hand, so who can say how matters will go?"

Ling Jun frowns. "What do you mean? She was invited here as a bridal candidate, and Huangshang clearly likes her better than all the rest, so—"

"Huangshang is currently pretending to be one of his little highness's attendants," Xia Ye informs him. "Wei-guniang doesn't know that he's the Emperor, and we're not supposed to tell her so."

"His—his attendant? Wei-guniang thinks that his Majesty is a servant?"

"Yes. And until he sees fit, nobody is to tell Wei-guniang otherwise."

With that, Xia Ye tosses her braids back over her shoulder and flounces out of Ling Jun's office, looking more gleeful than ever.

Ling Jun reaches into his desk with trembling hands and pulls out the key to the storehouse devoted to the late Empress's belongings.

"Here," he says hoarsely, handing the key to Xiao Tong. "Fetch the cloak and bring it to Huangshang. And mind how you speak to Young Mistress Wei; with any luck, she will be the new Empress before the year is out, and the first thing she will do after her wedding is choose which of the servants attending the inner palace are permitted to remain there."

"I wouldn't mind being dismissed, to be honest," Xiao Tong mumbles. "Huangshang looks just as much in love with her as the late emperor was with Empress Haoxian, and they've only just met. I don't fancy getting caught mistaking any of Wei-guniang's orders after she's married."

"Bite your tongue!" scolds Ling Jun. "Now deliver the cloak, and be quick about it. If there is so much as a speck of dust on it by the time it reaches Young Mistress Wei, I'll send you off to the laundry bureau before the madam has the chance to say a word about it."

Xiao Tong yelps and disappears, taking his hapless friend with him; and Ling Jun leans back in his chair with his eyes tightly shut, wondering if Wei Wuxian will change at all after she becomes the Empress.

"I am too old to serve such a spirited Empress," he mutters to himself. "Perhaps it is time for Ling Yan to take my place."

But it will be many months before Ling Jun's son can succeed him as the head steward. A change as great as that must wait until after Huangshang's wedding, and then for the new Empress to grow accustomed to her role as master of the inner palace; and all told, Ling Yan cannot hope to take Ling Jun's place before this time next year.

And if Ling Yun must remain until then, well...

"I suppose I might as well stay," he grumbles. "And by then, perhaps I will decide that there is no need to leave."

(Little did Ling Jun know that he would decide nothing of the kind. By the following summer, he would be driven half out of his wits by the newly-wed Wei Wuxian. But Ling Yan would have resigned his post and retired to the countryside under the duress of serving such a mistress; and as such, Ling Jun was forced—not too unhappily, for Wei Wuxian was as kind as she was flighty—to remain in his position as chief steward.

Xia Ye, on the other hand, would be swiftly elevated to the position of Wei Wuxian's chief maidservant: but the less said about that, the better.)