#oc: ruby scarlet spring

[gamergirlbonestaskforce141riot]

''In another world, we would have been friends''

Captain Ruby 'Scarlet' Spring belongs to the lovely @rubyspring <3

[artforsis]

Art by mightbebobbie on instagram

[magicalgames]

My Descendants oc's - Vk's

My list of Descendants vk oc's and the ages they'll be at the start of my descendants rewrite (if I ever get around to writing it) and their other parent if I have an idea of who it is. I'm headcanoning that D1 starts in early September 2014 & the country of Auradon is in a very tropical zone - which is why it seems like it's always summer or spring there. Also, the country is called the United Kingdoms of Auradon, because it makes more sense to me. & was formed June-August 1994. August is when they revived & shipped the villains off and when the anniversary of the Isle happens. (nothing's celebrated that day, it's just noted.)

Maleficent Fae: Mal, 15, other parent is Hades.

She's pretty much the same as in the movies. I'll be honest, I don't fully like the idea of Hades being her father, but I also got no other ideas.

Hades: Mal, 15, other parent is Maleficent. Hadie, 9, Persephone.

For Hades, I'm headcanoning that he isn't actually trapped on the isle because the other gods need him running the underworld since they don't want to do it. So, to appease Belle & Adam, they told Hades to go hang out on the isle, and he has a backdoor entrance in the cave to go back to the underworld to run it occasionally. He sees staying on the isle as a sort of vacation. Also, Olympus in my view is only allied with Auradon, not part of it.

Cruella: Carlos DeVil, 14, other parent is Clayton.

I think he maybe doesn't know his other parent for certain, but Cruella always said that it was one of the adult hunters of the isle (Ratcliffe, Gaston, and Clayton) and Ratcliffe's and Gaston's kids all look somewhat like their respective father, and he doesn't look like either, whereas Claytons kids don't look too much like him. Also - everyone on the isle knows Gaston wouldn't let one of his sons be raised by someone else.

Carlos's cousins - Diego, 17. Ivy, 20. Hunter, 19. I've never watched the movie that these three appear in, so I don't know how old they are supposed to be, but I like the idea of them, and I know Diego at least is mentioned in the books.

Evil Queen: Evelina "Evie" Grimhilde, 15.

Like in the movies, her mom put a heavy emphasis on her looking pretty and like a princess. Her father is one of the card soldiers, but a different one than one of the 4 that fathered the Queen of Hearts' kids.

Anastasia Tremaine: Anthony, 18. Eleanor, 16. Alfred, 15. Ambrosine, 10.

Father of all four is Edgar Balthazar. Anthony's father can't be the Baker because in my headcanon, the oldest isle kids were born 1 year after the barrier was put up.

Drizella Tremaine: Delphine, 16. Dominique, 14. Dezirae "Dizzy", 11. Daxton, 9. Devereaux, 6. Dixie, 2 1/2.

Their fathers are 1 of 2 of the male colonizers that came over with Ratcliffe. Lady Tremaine counts both her daughters kids together, and has them raised the way she wants.

She accepts the boys, but didn't want them (because she thinks they're harder to control) so she pays more attention to the girls and is (slightly) nicer to them.

Queen of Hearts: Red, Vermillion, and Ruby are 16. Carmine, Cherry, and Amaranth are 15. Burgundy, Fuchsia, and Scarlet are 14. Crimson, Maroon, and Chili pepper are 13.

She decided to name all her kids after different shades of red, and stopped having kids because she ran out of name ideas (also why she named one of her youngest kids chili pepper). Fathers are each a different card soldier.

Madam mim's grandkids: Maeve, Mabel, Millie, Maddy, Maverick, Meredith, Maddox, Minna, and Hans Jr.

Hans Jr's dad is Hans and was raised by him because mim wanted him less than the other boys. Like Lady Tremaine, she much prefers the girls over the boys. The father of the rest is unknown as well as ages, except Maddy & Hans Jr, they're both 16.

Ursula & Facilier: Uma, 15. Freda "Freddie", 14. Celia, 11.

Ursula and Facilier never lived together because they both had different business interests.

The kids all know about each other, Uma stayed with Ursula because she had clearly inherited her mother's powers while Freddie & Celia had both clearly inherited their father's, so they were sent to live with him. I'll explain in another post, but they are allowed in each other's territories because they are siblings.

John Ratcliffe - Rory, 17. Richard "Rick", 15. Jackson, 13. Jeremiah, 15.

I headcanon that 7 colonizers were sent to the isle with Ratcliffe - 4 men and 3 women. The women's names are Mary, Abigail, and Rebecca. Mary is Rick and Jackson's mom, Abigail is Rory and Jeremiah's.

Will Clayton - Clarence "Clay", 14. Carlos DeVil, 14. Caden, 12. Cadell, 8. Clay, Caden, and Cadell have the same mom.

Gaston Legume- Gaston "Junior" the second & Gaston "Bronze" the third, 18 year old twins. Gil, 15. Isabelle, 14. Azure, 12. Cordelia, 9.

Junior & Third's mom is Laurette, Gil's & Isabelle's mom is Claudette. Azure's mom is Redd the red-headed pirate and Cordelia's mom is Angelica Teach.

Gaston claimed Isabelle, but not his other two because Claudette allowed her daughter to be raised how he wanted - doing all the house chores. She has her mom & aunt's help with these chores though, and Gil does sew & repair clothes for the family - repairing his sister's clothes after she's worn them out is common for him.

Azure & Cordelia both live on the ships with their mom's. Neither of their moms let Gaston take them to raise them how he wanted, so obviously he has decided to disown them. Like I said with Carlos, if they had been boys, he might have fought harder to keep them.

I headcanon that Gaston wouldn't refuse to acknowledge his daughters because he thinks only women can do any of the housework - cleaning, cooking, sewing, etc. So he would acknowledge them so that they could do those things in his house (cabin), tavern, and in Duels without Rules.

Honestly, any daughters of his might be better off not being acknowledged by him - I just personally don't see him doing it.

Yzma: Zevon, 15 & Yzla, 12. Both potion makers.

Mother Gothel: Ginevra "Ginny", 18, Father is John Silver from the Caribbean. Hayley, 10, her father is Hans.

She was mostly raised by him because Gothel decided that an 8 year gap between kids was too soon to be raising another one.

However, she does occasionally go visit Hayley to give her lessons on manipulation.

Hayley is one of the major pranksters/jokesters of the isle. She can get a little mean with pranks, but that's mostly because her father encourages it - she'll chill with them with some time in Auradon.

Hans Westergaard: Hans Elliott Jr, 15. Hayley, 10.

Hans Jr's nickname around the isle is Helliot - a play on his first and middle name - because he looks and acts exactly like his father. He has also been called variations of Hellspawn.

He is one of the few kids that should never get off the isle, and is the only kid to have been banned from both Jafar's junk shop as well as Gaston's Tavern & shop.

(It was because he said that if the villains got out & took over, he was going to take one of their thrones and kill whoever's it was)

He also said something similar to Evie once, which got him banned from a lot more territories and excluded from hanging out with a majority of the isle kids

Jafar: Jay, 15 and Jasmine, 12. Layla, almost 2.

I like to headcanon that Jay is actually Aladdin & Jasmine's kid, and I decided to give him a sister who was stolen at the same time. Their real names are Ali & Esme - ages are the same.

Layla is actually his kid. Her mom is one of the female colonizers (Rebecca) & gave birth to her in Jafar's house because she didn't want her. She was kicked out within an hour or so of giving birth, then died from bleeding out because a 10 year old girl was made to help the baby come out. Jasi takes care of her mostly, but the other isle kids help out, especially Jay. And Harriet & Uma since they are kind of the moms of the isle kids.

Jasmine goes by Jasi or Jasima around the Isle because the name Jasmine is too princessy/prissy for her. Jafar and Jay are the only ones who are allowed to call her Jasmine - everyone else gets punished for that.

Jasi does most of the chores at home, but Jafar will occasionally cook when he's not running his shop and Jay helps with cleaning and laundry sometimes.

She was raised to act and look like Princess Jasmine - except quieter (but sometimes he wanted her to talk exactly like Jasmine). Spoiler - making her be quiet did not work because this is the isle where a ton of the women and girls are loud, strong, and independent and/or in charge in some way. Also - Jay.

She was also named heir of the isle at some point as well. And has gotten many etiquette lessons.

Jay, like in canon, was raised to be a street rat. He is also a great older brother.

Jafar mostly just ignored the two unless he was teaching them something. He never physically abused them, but he did threaten to. They are mostly ignored because he didn't want them, but kept them around once they were there because they were convenient workers for his shop & apartment.

Soon after the kidnapping is found out, Genie & Dalia will adopt Layla because they will be able to help her with any magic she got.

The adults of the isle either know or suspect that Jay & Jasi are not Jafar's. They either don't care or kept thinking that Auradon would search the isle eventually. (They never did or thought about it even) (Auradon only recently found out there were kids on the isle)

Nasira: Jade, 15. Don't know her dad. Gets along well with all the Agrabah kids on the isle. All the Agrabah kids on the isle get along, and they’ll all get along with Jordan and Aziz once they go to Auradon as well.

Captain James Hook: Harriet, 18. Harry, 15. CJ, 13.

Captain Hook is frequently called James Hook by the Vk's because Harriet is also a Captain hook, and they prefer her being a captain.

Their mom is one of the pirates on one of the adult pirate's crews.

Mr. Smee: Samuel "Sammy", 18. Simon "Squeaky", 11. Sergio "Squirmy", 11.

Former astronomer of Agrabah (Adnan): Reza, 14

One of Jafar's soldiers (name I decided is Sahila): Zaryan, 14 (I changed Zaryan's parentage to a different dad & had him live with his mom.)

Jafar picked & trained his allies and soldiers well, which is why only 2 of them are on the isle with him.

Lefou: Louis "Lefou deux", 14. His mom is someone who was hanging out around the tavern one day.

Claude Frollo: Claudine, 16. Her mom is Abigail, one of the colonizers

Claudine snapped one time and killed someone. (It was her father)

Claudine, Isabelle, and Jasi are also best friends close allies. They bond over teaching each other their native languages & complaining about their fathers.

Claudine and Isabelle both end up living on Harriet & Uma's pirate ships at some point and both get sent between them frequently.

Also, I'm using @panthera-tigris-venenata's headcanon about how Claude Frollo died in my rewrite.

More kids & parents: Desiree - Shan Yu & Calypso. Jonas - Barbossa. Gonzo - someone from James hook's crew. Bonnie - a random Hun & Calypso. There is also definitely a pirate VK named Peter somewhere.

[howdoyoudothedew]

omegaverse au scents

Qrow smells like a storm- like wind blowing into a tornado

Raven smells like a spring thunder storm

Taiyang smells like honeysuckle

Summer smells like apples and caramel

Yang smells like sunshine and apples

Ruby smells like honeysuckle and chocolate chip cookies and damp dirt

Ghira smells like dark fur that's absorbed the sun

Kali smells like chai tea and dark chocolate

Blake smells like violets and chai

Jaques smells like fresh clean laundry

Willow smells like peppermint and winter icicles/crystal

Winter smells like falling winter snow and warm coffee

Weiss smells like the first frost of winter

Whitley smells like vanilla icecream and crisp winter air

Jaune smells like burning, like fire, like ozone

Nora smells like electricity, like lightning and pavement and burning wood

Ren smells like water lotus and burning wood

Pyrrha smells like fallen leaves and an autumn mist and gunmetal

Cardin smells like summer nights and old books

Russel smells like baking, specifically blueberry muffins

Dove smells like gunpowder and allspice plants

Sun smells like banana bread and lemonade and a hot summer afternoon

Sky smells like mint and crisp, cold air

Scarlet smells like coconut and salt water/the ocean

Sage smells like cinnamon and oak

Neptune smells like ink on old paper and ocean rain

Velvet smells like brown sugar and chocolate

Ilia smells like cupcake frosting

Ironwood smells like coffee and pine

Penny smells like copper and pine trees

Oscar smells like oranges/citrus and pine trees

Salem smells like french toast and lavender

Ozpin smells like decay

ocs

Áine smells like a soft summer rain and dirt and the mushrooms that grow afterward

Cherry smells like cherry blossoms and winter bonfires

Amaranthe smells like fresh printed paper and warm, fresh cut summer grass and smoke

Lotus smells like lotus and wildfire

[q-gorgeous]

Crayon Asks

in honor of my love for crayons and my need for ask games i made my own ask game using the 152 box of crayons that i have and theyre on a color spectrum of some sort sdgvyj

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Purple mountains majesty: what mythical creature would you want to exist?

Deep space sparkle: how do you feel about SPACE?

Purple heart: who's your best friend?

Blue violet: have you ever dyed your hair?

Glitter purple 1: favorite gemstone?

Eggplant: do u like eggplant?

Royal purple: are you a queen?

Cyber grape: are you tech savvy?

Violet (purple): how are ya?

Glitter purple 2: how do you feel about glitter?

Vivid violet: red or green grapes?

Plum: are you plumtastic?

Razzmic berry: strawberries or raspberries?

Wisteria: do you think magic exists?

White: ghost?

Glitter white 1: how old are you?

Glitter white 2: do you have immense power?

Black: are you an eldritch being?

Shadow: are you afraid of the dark?

Gray: have you ever done a warrior cats roleplay?

Sonic silver: gotta go fast?

Timberwolf: have you ever done a wolf pack roleplay?

Silver: favorite song?

Manatee: favorite animal?

Cadet blue: do you paint your nails?

Wild blue yonder: do you yearn to run into the wild and never return?

Periwinkle: favorite flower?

Sky blue: do you go cloud gazing?

Glitter blue 1: do you take lots of pictures?

Cornflower: do you like baking?

Blue bell: do you like cows?

Cerulean: do you like to sing?

Glitter blue 2: what did you want to be when you were younger?

Glitter blue 3: do you like to draw?

Blue: what's your favorite word?

Glitter blue 4: do you like makeup?

Denim: jeans or khakis/whatever aren’t jeans?

Outer space: favorite planet?

Navy blue: do you like boats?

Indigo: are you a morning or a night person?

Midnight blue: what's your aesthetic?

Pacific blue: can you swim?

Blue green: do you like to read?

Steel blue: do you have nerves of steel?

Turquoise blue: what's your favorite tv show?

Aquamarine: have you been to the ocean?

Metallic seaweed: do you like sushi?

Robin’s blue egg: have you ever had a pet bird?

Illuminating emerald: what's the first fandom you were in?

Caribbean green: have you ever been on a plane? Where to?

Sea green: favorite oc?

Jungle green: do you ever go exploring in the woods?

Shamrock: lucky number?

Glitter green 1: favorite food?

Pine green: favorite kind of tree?

Tropical rain forest: earliest childhood memory?

Asparagus: do you like vegetables?

Green: feelings about grass?

Mountain meadow: have you ever been in the mountains?

Forest green: where have you always wanted to go?

Granny smith apple: favorite kind of apple?

Sheen green: are you squeamish?

Screamin’ green: do you need to scream?

Yellow green: favorite holiday?

Fern: do you like the person you've grown into?

Glitter green 2: cooked or uncooked vegetables?

Electric lime: do you drink energy drinks?

Inchworm: do you like bugs?

Glitter yellow 1: do you sunburn easily?

Green yellow: do you like the rain?

Spring green: favorite thing about springtime?

Olive green: is there anything that you regret?

Gold fusion: do you watch steven universe?

Gold: best brand of peanut butter?

Goldenrod: What's an animal that you've always wanted?

Metallic sunburst: do you like knick knacks?

Laser lemon: do you like lemonade?

Canary: favorite kind of bird?

Yellow: here comes the sun?

Almond: do you collect things?

Dandelion: are they weeds?

Banana melon: tell us what you're thinking of right now

Unmellow yellow: how chill are you?

Sunglow: what's your favorite time of day?

Macaroni and cheese: favorite restaurant? 

Atomic tangerine: do you like soda?

Yellow orange: how long is your longest friendship?

Neon carrot: do you have laser vision?

Orange: are you a creative person?

Vivid tangerine: is there anyone that you miss?

Outrageous orange: what's the most outrageous thing you've ever done?

Mango tango: do you like to dance?

Sunset orange: favorite part of the sunset? 

Red orange: cats or dogs?

Scarlet: the most badass thing you’ve ever done?

Shimmering blush: last embarrassing thing you did?

Bittersweet shimmer: do you know what you're doing?

Razzmatazz: jazz hands?

Glitter red 1: hand holding or hugs?

Red: Do you have a crush?

Big dip o’ ruby: how big is your crush on your crush?

Brick red: when did you start liking your crush?

Maroon: dream date?

Cerise: is your crush the coolest?

Glitter red 2: how does your crush make you feel?

Glitter red violet 1: something you are looking forward to?

Red violet: can I hold your hand?

Fuchsia: what do you want to do right now?

Jazzberry jam: strawberry or grape jelly?

Purple pizzazz: pizzazz is close to pizza, pineapple on pizza?

Magenta: Am I real?

Hot magenta: fear level?

Violet red: most romantic thing you've ever done?

Wild strawberry: who was your first crush?

Pink sherbert: favorite ice cream flavor?

Radical red: have you ever surfed before?

Wild watermelon: send me your own question about my crush!

Salmon: what's your favorite kind of pet fish?

shocking pink: do you think your crush likes you back?

Carnation pink: what's the longest relationship you've ever been in?

Glitter pink 1: are you still friends with your exs?

Tickle me pink: how ticklish are you?

Razzle dazzle rose: will you confess to your crush?

Cotton candy: how do you plan to confess to your crush?

Pink flamingo: do you like live action or animated shows/movies better?

Blush: what makes you happy?

Orchid: gender?

Glitter pink 2: sexuality?

Mauvelous: are you marvelous?

Lavender: what about yourself do you like?

Piggy pink: do you have a piggy bank? Do you use it?

Melon: are you worried about anything right now?

Apricot: what do you want to do for a career?

Peach: what's one goal you have?

Glitter tan 1: do you have long or short hair?

Alloy orange: favorite time of year?

Burnt orange: if there's one thing you could change about yourself what would it be?

Tan: favorite color?

Bittersweet: favorite memory?

Mahogany: do you like to write?

Chestnut: roasting on an open fire?

Fuzzy wuzzy: do you sleep with a stuffed animal?

Burnt sienna: what's the last thing you ate?

Brown: are you procrastinating on anything right now?

Sepia: send a sneak peek of whatever you're working on!

Beaver: do you have good teeth?

Raw sienna: do you like to paint?

Blast off bronze: would you ever want to go to space?

Antique brass: do you have any pets?

Copper: SLEEP!

Desert sand: do you play minecraft?

Tumbleweed: have you ever been to the desert?

[punkandsnacks]

Between Wolves & Doves, Chapter One; Lifeblood.

Author: @punk-in-docs​ and @adamsnackdriver​

Also on AO3

Trigger warnings; This is a slow burn story. NSFW comes later, but there is gory descriptive violence in this later on- I’ll tag the chapters with warnings-

Synopsis: Vampire!Kylo x OC love story. Inspired by BBC’s Dracula. Also inspired by Austen’s Pride & Prejudice.

He’s been stalking this earth long since civilisations can possibly fathom. Before records even began. He sneers at the fact that this pitiful young world has only just begun to see his reign of it. 

He’s dined with moguls, emperors, princes. He’s consorted with bloodthirsty ruthless Queens in their courts, and whispered into the ears of powerful King’s, whose names still echo through millennia. 

In his myriad of centuries gifted to his immortal self he’s been many many things. He’s been a lowly pauper. A crusading knight. An assassin. A sell sword. A soldier. A wanderer. A simpering suitor and a voracious unyielding lover. Aimlessly lost in time- besieging this earth. Ripping it apart and drinking what’s left.

He was made in the hinterland between snow and dirt and pine trees. Crusted with ash and blood and gouged from battle. Born anew. Sired from the hell-mouth of war. He was made in 789 AD.He’ll come undone, one bitter winter night, in England, in 1816.

   ~  ~  🥀 ~  ~  

 Hampshire, England. 1816.

Winters here were always of the bitterest kind.

Everything hardened by frost. All of nature slaughtered and gnarled and made ugly by it. Everything deadened and driven away until yellow spring sunshine butters it all up. The ground wintry solid and as unyielding as the bite of stinging chill in the air.

Every loud footstep from under her cracked boots crackled and crushed with ice-crusted mud. Her treads echo off about her in the oppressive silence of the air.

Iris Ashton walked along the lonely pale road. The path ahead scattered with linen-white snow, thick like cloth, settling down in ghostly sprinkles - like fluttering ash.

Snow comes from a sky as thick and as soft as a eiderdown. Graphite grey smeared all over the horizon signaling the worst yet to come. Sky is heavy and blotted with it. Flecks already kiss and cling at her hair and her blue wool coat collar.

She can feel them land and melt on her cold numbed lips. Feels her raspy silver breath run them away.

The trees in the dark wood surrounding her on either side of the ribboning track and the pallid ground; stand majestic and strong. Like a darkly Prussian-blue swathed army standing silent attention. Frost crawls determined up their sturdy trunks. The horizon peeping through the trees is white, like a puff of spilt flour. The craggy black tips of the regimented trees scrape at the thick churning sky.

One hand laden with her heavy wicker basket. Hanging solidly down by her thigh. Handle creaking so under her glove from it’s heavy contents. Her elbow is locked straight and aching fully from the strain of it.

Mother had sent her off on one of her errands; paying calls to give some wrapped linen food parcels to the church. Cold meats and half-loaves of day old bread to give to the poor and needy. And on the way back she’d stopped and called for tea with her doddery great Aunt Lavinia. A more belligerent old dragon never drew breath.

Iris was her favourite of all the Ashton girls. All three of them. Unfortunately the lot of being the eldest and families general paragon of hope, fell onto Iris. Next was her sister Flora who is fifteen, and then there was Posy, at sixteen.

A whole compliment - a bouquet - of Ashton ladies. As the gossip columns always so proudly and wittily declared.

Iris was the level-headed, sensible elder sister at three and twenty. The one who was seen and never heard. The one with unremarkable grey eyes and fair skin. Her teeth were supportable, and her conversation was, well, fine, really.

She didn’t have dazzling honey blonde hair or a sultry head of brunette curls. Her hair was brown. Not chestnut. Not sizzling auburn blaze. Just. Brown. Like mud. Like bark. Like flat Turkish coffee.

The sensible Ashton girl, with eyes as dull as dust, and hair the colour of twigs.

She was pale, with a oval face and a stout figure that was passably pleasing. She had a fine bosom that some men liked to gawp at, and mother insisted she had a touch of child bearing hips. Which would strongly come into her favour when she’s married. As she had once said;

“Your future husband will be much delighted with such a valuable commodity, Iris.” Her Mother remarked once when she was a young girl and she was tugging and yanking her long hair into a plait ready for bed.

Iris can remember how badly she wanted to do something out of spite purely to ruin that chance. But really she couldn’t alter the shape of her skeleton with much ease.

Maybe she wasn’t a diamond of the first water. She’ll never be one of those girls who glide elegantly through a ballroom like a bevy of silk swathed swans. Preening, poised and primly perfect.

To her own mind and credit she was just - plain. Tolerable.

Adequate.

She is sometimes remarked to be too acerbic with her tongue, or her remarks. She’s certainly got a backbone and another quality that stumped men of the ton - a mind of her own making. She doesn’t suffer fools and she likes to venture that she is a blue stocking with a decent and level understanding of this world.

She’s sufficient- she supposed. Simply that and nothing more. She’ll never have poems written about her, or have a man declare he fell wildly in passionate love with her with one glance.

It suits her well enough. The fact that she looked like a dusty dull unrefined ornament next to her polished preening sisters. She’d rather fade into the wallpaper than be a dazzling spectacle of ridiculousness, like that of her two siblings.

Her simpering, inane sisters. Who flirt with any man donning a scarlet coat in the Militia. Flora and Posy, who worry obsessively about ribbons, and seek to pay no mind to anything, of any real consequence.

Iris is never one for fits of jealousy, but she is sometimes envious of their light-hearted puerile, worries. About making up their bonnets or, the next ball, or the most unbecoming stain on their new pelisse.

Aunt Lavinia greatly despised the merest sight and intimation of the younger Ashton ladies too. Iris is usually requested to go to tea with her Great Aunt, alone.

“Silly chit of a girl. The pair of them.” Was her relative’s most favoured and overused phrase.

She’d cackle it as one of her clawed elderly hands - talons - gripped her teacup. And she wouldn’t be happy until she’d griped and moaned and complained about every beast and man put on this earth. For they’ve all been put there with the sole purpose of vexing her greatly -Naturally.

Tea today was no different to any other occasion she pays a visit.

Iris sits with the sniping old matron in her freezing-cold front parlour with a piffling fire barely going. Her Aunt is always bedecked in enough black muslin to cover all of Hampshire.

A black lace matron cap staunchly on her head. Black fichu covering at her shoulders. An inky shawl on her arms and on each of her skeletal fingers sit glimmering gleaming rings which clackclackclack and scrape when she moves and points that every disapproving finger. Big fat stones of amber and ruby and topaz weighting down her frail claws.

Iris always teeters politely on the most uncomfortably hard settee opposite her. Cradling the hot spode bone-china cup of tea that her Aunt shoves in her hands. Sugar staining sickly saccharine on her lips - she never let her guests have unsugared tea.

Quite why she is the favourite Ashton, Iris has no clue. She is always interrogated by the woman as she barks nosy question after nosy question at her.

“Yes, Aunt. No, Aunt. I don’t believe so, Aunt.” As the harridan gripes about beef or sugar or candle taxes, or the local Reverend, or the gaudy new fabric on display in dressmakers window.

A whole ream of grudges being spewed out that wrinkled puckered mouth. Face pale, craggy and screwed up with lines like a sheet of crumpled parchment paper.

Her dark eyes shine forth like raisins sunk deep into scones. Glittering black and always always always dissatisfied with the whole world, and determined to find fault with everyone in it.

Iris brings her the ointment her Aunt asked for. She was suffering a hacking cough that worsened in the winter. Lavinia insists its a damp affliction brought on by unclean air.

Iris bought the woman a bottle of liniment rub, spiced with rosemary oil, camphor and spirit of wine. Her Aunt harrumphed at her offering. Stabs her walking cane into carpet in disfavour. Shoves the bottle away and insists Willow bark tea is what will cure her ailment.

Next she’ll be insisting on leeches and blood letting to balance out the humours-

Iris doesn’t fight her stubbornness - it’s a battlefield over which she will never win or hoist a flag of victory.

She drinks down three more cups of the cloying tea, interrupts the interrogation and insists rather bravely that she must be on her way - for Lord and Lady Hearst are throwing a ball this evening. On their vast estate. And she needs to scurry home to ready for it. That earns her another harrumph in response. Lavinia detested balls.

“Breeding ground for senile men and stupid women. And all that inane leaping about they now call dancing...” She grimaces.

The whole county is in uproar for this ball - little else to recommend or appreciate in this bleak dull midwinter. Whispers flourishing around town seemed inclined to favour that a mysterious Lord from the continent is in attendance tonight...

A Lord. From Bavaria no less. Apparently he owned a vast castle high up in the snowy forest smothered mountains.

Quite why he’s bothered to travel the length of Europe to this savage spit of society in the Hampshire countryside, she cannot fathom. If she was lucky enough to live in a castle, she’d never be seen again.

She recounts that scrap of gossip about the prospective Lord to her Aunt. Who thunks her cane loudly on the floor and scoffs in derision;

“Foreigners are always a grave source of disappointment - and they are so riddled with lice and ill bred manners.” So wisely declares Aunt Lavinia.

She says that about anything to do with anything and anyone not born or formed on good british soil.

She had said the very same thing last week about the pews at Church-

She leaves the little bustling hamlet. Shuts her Great Aunt’s warped cottage door. The wood shuddered, catching on the doorstep. Her arm shot through with needles of pain. Aches slipping up her back, her neck and sparking her shoulders. She hooks the heavy basket onto the crook of her elbow and sighs as she plods homeward.

Away from the small tudor, mouldy mustard walls of Lavinia’s cottage. A pretty little house. Always cold. Formed of thick stone walls and mahogany creaking stairs. Austere bare furniture sparsely filled every room. Wedged into a street with crossed glass windows and a petticoat brown tiled roof.

It was a meagre six miles from here to home. And she appreciates the walk. Or atleast she might be more inclined to favour it, were her coat more substantial.

As it is the blue wool thing is possibly a might too small for her now. It tugs and pinches so across the shoulders. And the hem ends right up her calves. Pebble-grey Kidskin gloves on her fingers, knuckles knotted stiff and her fingertips are tingling with cold.

The hem of her plain cotton voile dress, is dark with damp from the snow. The bluebell cobalt of it leeched darker at her hem. She’s shivering because her stockings aren’t the warmest wool. Her legs are trembling cold and she only wore her lightest chemise. However she is glad she bothered with the scarf.

She hadn’t put on a bonnet today. She can’t stand the fuss of one. Ribbons flapping at her ears. It was uncommon - but she went without.

Simply tied her hair back into a low coiffured bun secured with a snip of wheaten muslin. By now and with lugging this basket across all of the Hampshire countryside, some straggles of hair have come loose. Flopping uselessly to her shoulders.

She ducks her chin into her scarf to escape the exposure of a battering bitter gale, and continues trudging on with wearied, aching determination. She always trudges on. She has too. Is always the one who must endeavour to continue, no matter how bleak she feels.

It gets tiring, carrying great tonne boulders of expectations on her shoulders. She likes to think she bears the task nobly.

As her Mother takes great pains and lengths to always endlessly remind her; she is the vessel in which all hopes for the survival of the Ashton family, are stored.

She will make a good marriage match; to a gentleman of high rank or fortune - preferably both. She will save the estate from destitution. Her sisters from ruin. And her father from debtors prison. She will be the one to keep her family in the moneyed style to which they are accustomed. They will not lose Westwell to the bailiffs.

They have risen far within the ranks of society. And they will not lose their clutch or their pride. Or their respected place among it. Her fathers estate is not a vast one; but it is more than his father before him had. A meagre merchant selling spices and furs out of Putney during the Restoration.

Now the Ashtons are country gentry. With a modest dwelling of an estate, abutting a working farm. Westwell. A manor house of not much splendour and merely thirteen rooms.

Built of gold cotswold stone with huge white windows looking out onto a self-effacing garden of some prettiness. There was a pond where swans flocked in summer. Enclosed wilderness all around. A plank of wood swing hanging off one big oak chestnut that stooped over the front of the house. To the back the garden is walled, full of sculpted beds and privets and the wide green lawn is rather uninspiring in this decimating winter

They had one gardener. Two maids. A cook and a Housekeeper. They live comfortably and hardly ever exceed their income.

Her mother hopes to change that this calendar year. She wants her eldest daughter promised to someone upstanding and rich.

Iris thinks her shrew of a mother would settle with wedding her to any man . So long as he looks pleasing in a cravat, and still has all his own teeth.

She treks on through the snow. Hoping. Dreaming. Dreaming for so many unattainable things.

Wishing her basket was lighter. Wishing her parents had sired a son. So that this evening she wouldn’t have to be bound into a pinching dress, and paraded around the Hearst’s ballroom as if she’s some prized slaughter pig at a county fair.

Wishing that she could instead stay home in her untrimmed, plain nightgown. No laced stays crushing her ribs. With a hot brick at her feet. A dog-eared Swift novel in her hands. Cracked open to the good passages. She’d read by tapered candlelight and be perfectly contented, poised to encounter spinsterhood.

Instead, a painful evening of savage society awaited her.

Poison filled smiles from nasty debutantes or their matronly mama’s. Sniping at her dress or her hair or her pale skin, or her lack of fortune. Crushed mangled toes from dancing with some portly red-faced Lord-whoever-from-wherever. One who stank of port, had bad breath, and tried to pinch her bottom with fat lecherous sausage fingers, when he thought no one was looking their way.

She has no aspirations for marriage or love. She’s not a fool. She doesn’t have her head swimming with fancies from novels. No rapturous desires of tall, sable-haired men, with chiseled marble bodies seducing her astray. No cloaked villain sweeping her away in the dead of night to send her to ruin, to then have her dashing savior ride in on horseback to rescue her.

If she’s one thing at all - it is sensible. She doesn’t like to reflect on the proposition of marrying some stranger simply to arrange the business of money and bearing him heirs. She’s not a broodmare-

She’s a woman. She has a thumping proud heart and a strong-working brain and she hopes there’s more measure to her life, than submitting her body and weak will over to be governed and quieted by a future, faceless husband.

She’s sure many girls of three and twenty have felt this way. She’s sure many generations upon generations of them will continue to do so, until women cease to be sold like chattel - or like cattle at market.

Sold solely to men for the priceless untarnished commodity that lay between their thighs. And based and viewed purely on that frail scrap of fleshed dignity, alone.

She wraps her coat tighter around herself. Distinctly feeling a sense of dread starting to slither sickly cool up her spine from the prospect of the evening ahead.

Mother will wrangle her into her finest restrictively crushing silk gown. Have the maid tug and pull her hair and wrench it into a pleasing style. Jabbing hair pins in her head. Mother will see to it that she splash plenty of Yardley’s water of jasmine blossom, orange and lavender on the pulses at her wrists, and at her neck.

Then, she’ll be practically shoved into the chest of every single eligible gentleman in the room tonight in the hope they deign her to be pleasing. She’ll be pushed and prodded and maneuvered and pummeled-

And she’s exhausted. She only hopes she finds the strength to endure such torture-

She kicks through the frosted ground. Pebbles scatter and skit in her wake. She nudges the sparkling white stones with the toe of her cracked brown boots. Her feet were slowly growing numb. Toes stinging with cold. She should have worn some thicker stockings. Then again, money was not exactly a moderate opulence at home. They had to husband their resources as a family very carefully- which meant Iris couldn’t have some new leather half-boots for romping about the wilds of the countryside.

But she could have as many new hair combs, fans, or gloves and embellished stockings as she wanted. Anything that might help snare a man into visions of matrimony. Not wasted on such a thing as a new wool coat to help keep her warm in winter; or boots that didn’t let the muddy puddles seep in.

For appearances sake, the Ashton’s wealth went solely into ballgowns, perfume and finery for their girls. Some household money of course went into sensibilities like candles, meat, flour and soap. Iris was taught that she should be hugely grateful for everything that was lavished upon her.

Flora so often griped at her that she was so lucky to have such amounts spent on her. She got new gowns of printed cottons and muslin and silks and whatever she wanted. Where her and Posy had to make do with alterations and hand-me-downs to their dresses and bonnets.

Flora was so blinded by jealousy and immaturity that she didn’t quite look - really look at her sister - and realize that Iris didn’t really want any of those things-

She ruminated on all tonight might bring her. She wondered what kind of state her silly sisters would both be in when she gets home. Already donning their paper curls, lacing each other into their stays and chemises already. Arguing over who wore the best pair of silk slippers they had between them.

Mother will be in one of her bitter moods. Trying to determinedly order all her girls ready for tonight.

Moods sour with each other already and they’d be seething and spitting nasty fury at Iris. She had new things especially for this ball tonight. New pair of satin gloves and a printed silk dress. They did not. They never did.

Iris would lend Flora her old reticule - the one Mother had bought for her from Bond street. And she’d give Posy her pearl hair comb to slide into her auburn coiffure. A little balm to both of them to gently encourage some sisterly affection. She didn’t want to be at war with them all night.

She’s halfway down the narrow pale road, kicking snowy stones, when an almighty sound kicks up over the horizon, barreling in her direction. She turns her head back and hears the distant rhythmic rumbling of hooves hitting track and the clack and creak of enormous coach wheels.

Hardly surprising when this is the biggest road leading back to Pembleton, her little village.

She sees through the fog of snow, a huge black shape dominates the road. Moving fast. She lifts her skirts and steps onto the crunching grass so that the raring coach might pass her safely by. At the tremendous speed it’s going she reckons she didn’t have long before it caught up to where she’s walking.

She hears it gaining, closer and closer. Wood and hooves and snorting horses eating up the distance of the road. She dares a glance at the impossibly loud and fast carriage.

It’s a beastly thing. All looming black wood. A black liveried driver in grey wool coat. Two footmen clad the same, on the back stand. Black sturdy luggage safely stowed on the roof. Two hulking beasts of shimmering onyx shire horses are stamping and galloping and heaving the great thing along with no difficulty. Silvery wisps of air pour from their nostrils and the dripping whites of their eyes look nearly devilish past their full cupped blinders. The tack of black leather lost on their gleaming coal coats.

The noise is deafening now. It’s almost passing her. Kicking snow and frosty gritted mud out from under the churn of the hungry wheels.

She’s curious as to who could possibly be residing in such an opulent coach. No one from these parts, she’s certain of it. The richest Lord from here was two villages over on a vast estate. Lord Hexham. Who was one and eighty and had a hunched back. And he was a doddery old recluse. He hardly went raring around town in such an imposing manner.

When it draws level with her she dares a vertiginous glance up at the small arch of the door. A crest is splashed there in gold and scarlet. Like a splash of blood on a gold sword scabbard. Or a healing wound.

It’s no shock that the crest there is unfamiliar to her. It’s entwined with wolves and scarlet banners, and a shield crossed with swords. Some monstrous carnivorous coat of arms perhaps? Maybe this person’s ancestor’s had won victory in some ancient bloody battle dating back to the Normandy landings.

She looks up from the door and to her very great shock, she glimpses a man’s face.

It was a dark carriage, drawn to privacy with scarlet velvet curtains covering at the windows. But the one this side closest to her is peeled back.

Her heart thumps loud in her neck and her chest claws with slight panic and embarrassment having caught this gentleman’s eyes.

Such savage, unyielding eyes.

Bitterly black. Slicing outwards from an alabaster pale face. She barely made out features of a full proud face. A blunt roman nose, full pouting lips, and raven sable hair. Length; rakish.

It makes her inhale a sharp breath. Quickly averting her gaze. Embarrassed. Lowering her eyes.

Gawping openly at the upper echelons was never a good idea. They probably held her in the same standing as that of the mud on the bottom of their very polished boots.

He was probably some uppity Duke or Earl who didn’t wish to be gazing at the common stock. She looks to her feet. Feels the wind whip at the tendrils of her hair. Unfolds them from her scarf and whips them back over her face. Baring her neck. Snow lands on her skin. Flecks of it melt ripping like bee stings onto her hot throat.

Pale, corded, thrumming throat. Bared to the wind and the snow and the cold-

He can hear her pulse and it’s like a sweet sirens call.

She feels the strangest sensation then; no one was looking at her. But it feels like they did. It feels as if eyes are pinning her down. Raking over her skin and assessing her.

When she looks back up, dazed, the rattling loud coach is past her now. Off into the distance, into the snow.

Foggy white and smeared and blurring into the horizon. Roaring away up the track road. Away from her sight. She blinks after it’s wake. Snow tangling into her lashes. She’s shivering now if she wasn’t before, and she can’t fathom why.

She switches the basket into her other arm. Let’s it take the painful strain of the still heavy thing. Items within clunk and thump around. She steps off the crusted grass and back onto the stony pave of the hard road.

She continues on; winding homeward. She thinks about her silk gown, and new pearl earrings. And then of darker things; like devilish horses, and eyes. Eyes darker than inky shadows and deeper rich, like charcoal.

As the coach thunders off into the snow. Rutting and cracking over every bump on the road, Kylo shifted back on the scarlet bench seat. He lifts the curtain on the back window with a suave flick of his fingers, and set his black gaze once more back down the track road.

Looks back upon the lone girl in the blue coat who was walking there.

The scent of her still cloyed up in his throat - Oh, and in all the best ways.

He scented her from a mile down the road. Lavender, clary sage and sharp heat of bursting peppermint on salty skin.

The musk of her made him pant and his chest ragged. His arousal and bloodlust stirred in his chest. The drooling gnashing hell hounds of his appetite waking up and baying to be fed.

He watches her hair sway over her neck. A big gust of frosty wind blew her flavour right into his path.

His eyes rolled back in his head as he savoured her.

It made his mouth water. He’d all but outright moaned. It’s been a few moons since he last fed. His nails dig into the upholstered scarlet bench. Muscles strained. Veins corded tight in his body. Pulled taut.

His butler, Jomar. Speaks up from where he is sat opposite.

Blue silk Dastar covering his silver hair. His goatee beard was arrowhead shaped and always neatly trimmed. It stood out all the more from his bronze skin. His Punjabi cadence Kylo always thought was like cinnamon dashed in milk. He had a comforting warm voice.

“I wonder, shall you like the society hereabouts, your lordship?” He seeks curiously. Melting walnut eyes finding Kylos over his gold half moon spectacles, and looking past the small red leather backed Voltaire, open in his hands.

Lord Ren smirks. His eyes glimmer. Cool and hungry. Silver black like daggers.

“Absolutely.” He wets his lips. “The local cuisine looks delicious.”

     ~  ~  🥀 ~  ~  

[omgrachwrites]

May Queen (Loki Laufeyson)

Pairing: Loki Laufeyson x OC

Summary: Astrid, the princess of Vanaheimr relocates to Asgard to seal a betrothal to the youngest prince and an attempt to escape unforeseen forces. She soon finds happiness and a multitude of new friends. Unfortunately treachery and deceit lie in the court of Asgard in unlikely places, and she learns that true love never dies.

Warnings: fluffy fluff, tiny bit of angst

Words: 2138

A/N: Hope you guys enjoy this part! Please let me know what you think and let me know if you would like to be tagged! I love you all very much! xxx

Part Nine -  The Garden

The early afternoon in Asgard was beautiful and wondrous, the sunlight was blazing out through the stained glass of the windows, casting the gardens in a wash of rainbow light. Loki looked up from his book from where he was sitting in the tree, he grinned as he saw her through the window of her chambers, long brown hair elegantly curling down her back. She had done well in Asgard over the past couple of weeks, this foreign princess and Loki was proud to call her his future wife, he hoped those deep feelings of passion would come within him soon. Though, he couldn’t deny that she was very beautiful.

He saw her face light up with happiness as she read his letter and lifted the rose with the green ribbon tied around the stem out of the folds of the thick parchment. Astrid’s face glowed with wonder and amazement when she touched a single delicate petal and the rose changed from its ruby red colour to an ice cold blue. The prince smiled, that little bit of magic was a little complicated and he thought that that particular shade of blue would bring out the colour in her eyes.

Loki had spoken with Sif – one of Asgard’s best warriors – and Sif had agreed to train Astrid, the fair maiden wanted to be a warrior just like her father. The letter contained arrangements for her to be fitted with suitable armour and weapons later on that afternoon. She was due for her first training session the following day.

Loki closed his book and stood up, intending to see his mother and father, Astrid had shown an interest in the old wing of the palace which was shut up behind a locked door and she was curious as to what was inside. She noticed it when Loki was showing her around the palace. Loki wanted to know what was in there as well since the story around the palace was that the old wing had been closed before he was even born. He knew that Odin and Frigga must have the key, his father probably wouldn’t allow him to have it but he was confident that his mother would talk his father round.

As he strode up to the golden doors of the throne room he lowered his raised fist when he saw that the door was open just a crack. The King and Queen seemed to be quarrelling inside, Loki couldn’t remember the last time his parents quarrelled, it must have been when he was a child.

“Please my love, they’ve been growing fond of each other over the span of a couple of months! Don’t you want our son to know his future wide a little before they marry?” Frigga sounded distressed. Loki wanted to go in and help her but he was curious as to what his father would respond with.

“If they’re growing fond of each other then that’s all the more reason to keep them in separate chambers. If he gets her pregnant,” his father sighed and trailed off.

“Well, they’re going to marry in less than a year so if he does get her pregnant it makes no matter,” there was a long silence before Frigga spoke up again, “ah, I see, you only want to hold onto this alliance if it’s absolutely the last option!”

Loki had never heard his mother sound so cold. Was his father planning to marry him off to somebody else? He didn’t understand.

“Remember how this alliance was born Odin, it was born from your tyranny! We cannot go back on it.”

Loki decided that he’d heard enough, shaking his head, he pushed open the door. His parents stopped talking immediately and looked at him. Odin looked angry and Frigga looked worried.

“Loki sweetheart, is everything alright?” Frigga smiled as she descended the steps that led up to the throne of Asgard and combed her gentle fingers through Loki’s hair, “have you been showing Astrid around the palace?”

“Yes mother, that’s partly while I’m here,” he hesitated as he looked past his mother at his father who was eyeing him suspiciously, “I wanted to show her the entirety of the palace,” Frigga nodded for him to continue, “I came to ask whether I could have the key to the old wing. We want to discover what’s inside.”

Frigga chewed her lip; her eyes were soft as she parted her mouth to say something before his father interrupted, “no! That wing has been closed for over 20 years; do you really think that I’d open it just for you?”

Loki glared at his father, “please father, I,” he was cut off by Odin.

“It’s nothing but dust and stone, it’s dangerous. It’s closed for good reason,” Loki sighed, knowing there was no way he could change his father’s mind.

“Come on sweetling, I’ve got something to give you,” Frigga smiled as she led her son out of the throne room, “I know that look Loki, I’m sorry but your father is right. There is nothing but rubble and danger in that wing.”

They entered Frigga’s chambers that Loki hadn’t been in since he was a boy; it was just as pretty as he remembered.

“Mother, why didn’t father marry off Astrid to Thor? He is the future King and she’s a future Queen,” Loki asked, he wouldn’t change anything but it had been gnawing at his mind for quite some time now.

Frigga looked at him with the most unreadable expression before quickly turning away, “your father wanted to but Astrid’s father disagreed. Terrible things can happen to future Kings, Loki,” the explanation seemed loose but he didn’t want to argue with his mother.

“Ah, here it is,” Frigga smiled and turned back around from her writing desk and dropped a silver key on a golden chain into Loki’s hand. Loki stared at it for a second before raising his eyebrow; he had no idea what this was for.

“It’s the key to the garden, my garden. The one that’s hidden beneath the ivy, your father constructed it for me when we married. Unfortunately, it’s fallen into disrepair due to my duties here, it is now Astrid’s, I hear she has a green thumb. It will be a good place for your children to play in.”

Loki flushed a pretty shade of scarlet as his mother mentioned children, he tried to imagine himself as a father, and he made a vow to himself that he’d be a better father than Odin. He’d actually spend time with his children and make it perfectly clear to them that he loved them as was proud of them. The prince smiled as he closed his hand over the small key, “thank you mother,” he grinned, kissing his mother’s powdered cheek, “if you’ll excuse me.”

Frigga nodded and bowed her head, “of course my son, I hope that Astrid likes the garden,” Loki smiled and left his mother’s chambers.

Right about now Astrid would be on her way to get her armour and weapons fitted but there was somebody that he needed to apologise to. Then his conscience would finally be clear. He found Mara walking down the hallway with Sif; she was wearing the flower crown that Astrid had made for her from the spring flowers. With Mara’s kind face, long white blonde hair and big blue eyes that you could drown in she seemed to be the picture of innocence. After all this time it seemed like she could be in fact innocent.

“Mara?” he called out and the two ladies looked at him expectantly, “may I have a word with you?” he asked, glancing at Sif, “privately,” he added.

Mara nodded and smiled at Sif before walking to Loki’s side, “can I just tell you first that you’ve made Astrid the happiest I’ve ever seen her.”

Loki chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck, “I’m sure it’s not just down to me. I wanted to apologise for accusing you of trying to kill Astrid but really you can’t blame me. All that unmistakable evidence pointed to Arna. I’ve still got my eye on you though.”

Mara smiled, “Loki, you don’t need to worry, I saw how upset everybody was when Arna tried to poison her, I don’t want to cause that kind of pain, especially not for you.”

“What about getting back to your family? I thought you had to kill a princess in order to get back to them?”

Mara shrugged, “I’ve been with Astrid for so long that she has become my family. I was foolish to not see it before.”

Loki wondered what it was that had caused Mara’s sudden change of heart, maybe it was how she said, she had sounded sincere. He was still going to keep his guard up, he had met extraordinary liars before, himself included, and “very well, I believe you. Could you do me a favour and ask Astrid to meet me by the wall of ivy round the back of the palace? Alone?”

“Yes Loki, I will. Good day to you,” Mara nodded as she walked back down the hallway to join Sif again.

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Astrid giggled as she closed her eyes and put her hand in Loki’s, she heard the rustle of leaves being pushed aside and a heavy key turned in the lock. It was when she heard the creak of a door that she really started to get impatient.

“Loki,” she whined in a way that was very unbecoming of a princess, Loki laughed and moved a hand to her waist, leading her further and further.

“You can open your eyes soon, I promise, I just wanted this to be a surprise,” Astrid felt a kiss on her cheek and she flushed pink at his gentle touch. She walked a little farther and it felt like she was wading through oceans of long grass, “okay, you can open your eyes now.”

Astrid grinned and opened her eyes, gasping in awe as she did so; she was in what looked to be an overgrown jungle. On closer inspection it was a garden, complete with a stone marquee and a swing. Even though it looked like the garden hadn’t been touched in many years Astrid could still smell the faint scent of the wild flowers. In the centre of the garden there was a statue of a handsome prince and a beautiful princess dancing together. It seemed to be a very romantic place, just like a story and Astrid loved it.

“What is this place? It’s so beautiful,” she smiled, sitting on the stone step of the marquee.

“My father had it constructed for my mother when they married,” Loki gestured at the statue of the prince and princess, “she wants you to have it and so do I. I think it’s an early wedding present,” he chuckled.

Astrid gasped in delight, “really?” she looked around the garden and she could see exactly where she would plant the roses and forget me nots. She could just imagine the number of animals that would be attracted to the garden.

“Really,” Loki grinned, his hand coming up to rest on her cheek, he bowed his head at the same time that Astrid stood on her tiptoes. They shared their kiss in the garden that had been empty for so long and would soon be brimming with life again.

Astrid felt the gentle kiss of the snowflakes on her nose and she thought it odd that it was snowing in spring. She opened her eyes and saw that it was a large room shrouded in ice and snow. She heard her name whispered through the snow like a soft breath, she followed the voice and it led to a man in shackles that had icicles all over his face.

When he grasped her hand he was so cold that it turned her hand blue and she couldn’t feel her fingers, the man spoke in a hoarse whisper, “don’t drink the wine. Don’t drink the wine at the celebration, whatever you do.”

“Get away from me,” she cried, suddenly very afraid as she tried to pull her hand out of his grasp, “leave me alone!”

She bolted up in bed with a shrill scream and screamed once more when she saw Loki standing in the doorway, “what’s the matter?! You were crying and screaming.”

“I had a bad dream,” she said, suddenly feeling embarrassed, “will you stay with me? Please?” she asked in a small voice, moving over to make room for him.

Loki nodded with a smile, sliding in next to her and when he wrapped her up in his arms the dream didn’t seem so terrible after all. It was a strange one though and she wouldn’t be forgetting it anytime soon.

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@theonelittleone​ @void-imaginations​

[goldenornstein]

Muse as a Deity.

Rules : Think carefully about your character and their development through their journey (canon or oc) within their story. Fill out the chart and tag whoever you want! Repost, do not reblog.

Deity of : The synergistic duality of ruthless strength (of body and mind) and sublime beauty.

Associated with : War strategy, martial arts, fine arts and all awe-inspiring beauty, intelligence, will-power, success through merit. The worship of nature as both; the greatest and most beautiful work of divine art, as well as the ultimate battlefield of unforgiving survival and evolution.  

Sacred Plants : Red roses, dandelions, sage, laurel, oaks.

Sacred Stones / Gems : fire opal, golden obsidian, carnelian, citrine, ruby, tourmaline (particularly liddicoatite), garnet.

Sacred Animals : Lions and songbirds.

Colors : Gold, crimson, scarlet, coral, white.

Food :  Roasted wild boar seasoned with hot-spices, aromatic fine wine, fresh spring water.

Scents : Roses, burning amber, Dragon’s Blood incense, fresh blood.

Accepted Offerings / Ways to Honor : victory in battle through superior strategy and martial skill, creating a masterpiece of any form of art, following a strict routine of holistic self-strengthening (exercise for the body and study for the mind), appreciation and defence of nature and wildlife, overcoming hardship and succeeding when all seems lost.

Ways to Offend / Earn their Wrath : Sloth and passive behaviour of any kind, lack of discipline, petty and/or vulgar boasting about one’s feats, skill or beauty, disregard for art or destruction of artwork, pointless destruction of nature or abuse of natural resources, pointless destruction of useful and/or beautiful things/places, destruction of knowledge sources.

[nate-the-content-creator]

Muse list

I’ll be sorting this by fandom, and they’ll really be in no particular order.

Note: Any characters with an * next to their name will NOT be paired up with members of the opposite sex. //OC’s will be in bold, and will be under the fandom they were originally meant for under the cannon characters//

RWBY

Ruby

Yang

Weiss

Blake

Pyrrha

Nora

Jaune

Ren

Sun

Coco*

Velvet

Winter

Willow

Team NDGO

Neon

Arslan

Malachite Twins

Glynda

Cinder

Neo

Emerald 

Salem (Human/Grimm)

Raven

Vernal

Kali

Ryder Argent

Wynona Argent

Rouge Crimson

Eton Violetta*

Willow Wisp

Wicker Dileon

Rodderick Stark

Aryn Stark

Brent Stark

Jennifer Mikru

Sable Lowel

Alani Baronne

Flora Sinclair

Rodderick Hale

Aren Freya

Ava

Raam (Grimm)

Alpha (Grimm)

Ouka (Alpha Beowulf)

99% of all of @jace-the-smutt-guy‘s OC’s

Bleach

Ichigo Kurosaki

Rukia Kuchiki

Orihime Inoue 

Rangiku Matsumoto

Isane Kotetsu

Kyone Kotetsu

Retsu Unohana

Nanao Isse

Soi-Fon

Yoruichi Shihoin

Tier/Tia Harribell

Apacce

Sun Sun

Mila-Rose

Neliel

Naruto

Hinata Hyuuga

Hanabi Hyuuga (Shippuden)

Sakura Haruno

Ino Yamanaka

Tsunade

Shizune

Mei Terumi

Anko Mitarashi

Hana Inuzuka

Temari

Kurenai Yuhi

Fairy Tail

Erza Scarlet

Lucy Heartfeliea

Miragine Strauss

Juvia

Hellsing

Sir Integra

Seras Victoria

Yu-Gi-Oh/GX

Tea Gardner

Mai Valentine

Alexis Rhodes

Jasmine

Mindy

Yuki Hyoudou

Borderlands

Lilith

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Moze

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Jenny Springs*

Avatar

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Mai

Ty Lee

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Asami

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Videl

Android 18/Future 18

Android 21/Majin 21

Future Trunks

Super Buu

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Robin M/F

Corrin M/F

FE7 Tactician 

Lyndis

Tharja

Cordelia 

Sumia

Camilla

Edelgard

Dorothea

Final Fantasy

Tifa Lockart

Aerith Gainsborough

Yuffie Kisaragi

Ashelia B’Nargin Dalmasca

Fran

Mjrn

Jote

Street Fighter

Chun-Li

Juri Han

Cammy

Panty and Stocking

Anarchy Panty 

Anarchy Stocking

Brief Rock

Akuma Scanty

Akuma Kneesocks

Anarchy Cloak

Akuma Lace

Pokemon

Main character trainers (Red, Gold, ect)

Hex Maniac

Misty

Erika

Sabrina

Whitney

Flannery

Maylene

Jessee

Jasmine

Cynthia

Anthea

Wickie

Olivia

My Hero Academia

Izuku Midoriya

Kirisima

Ochako Uraraka

Tsuyu Asui

Momo Yayorozu

Jirou

Invisible girl

Mina Ashido

Midnight

Mitsuki Bakugo

Mt. Lady

Overloard

Albedo

Overwatch

Mercy

D.va

Sombra

Phara

Tracer*

Marvel

Spider Man

Spider-Gwen

Felicia Hardy/Black Cat

Mantis

Nebula

Gamora 

Venom/She Venom

DC

Wonder Woman

Harley Quinn

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Black Cannary

Talia Al Gul

Nyssa Al Gul

Starfire

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Robin

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High-School DXD

Issie Hyodou

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Akeno Himejina

Elder Scrolls

Aela the Huntress

Mjoll the Lioness

Lydia

Serana

Ryu/Ryuka

Zero No Tsukaima

Kirche Zerbst

Henrietta De Tristain

Monmorency 

Siesta

Tiffania Westwood

Dark Knight Ingrid

Ingrid

Murasaki

Tamamin Asagi

Asagi

Sakrua

Murasaki (same person from the fandom above)

Oboro

Wtich Slayer Annerose

Annerose

[gamergirlbonestaskforce141riot]

A little sweater delivery. 🤭

Happy holidays, sweetie. ❤️ Love u.

Thank you so much <3 love you too!!!

[alphairest-blog]

And thus with a kiss--

“Shall I believe that unsubstantial death is amorous, and that [he] keeps thee here in dark to be his paramour?”

- Romeo & Juliet, Act V, Scene 3

Notes: Sin Paris Hades/Romeo V. Cupid. @soapallo, I am grateful you continue to refrain from hunting me down with torches and pitchforks for borrowing your OCs. Hopefully not too OOC, but since I took a stab at the dynamic anyways...  ~1.5k words.

He pulls him down, down into the earth, into the valleys and caves that cling closest to a home even further below.

He has not his father’s chariot; he has not the horses’ speed to ease his way, and the son of Hades clips cherub-wings still fighting-- feathers coming away scorched with the flames of Hell itself as he pushes him down unto the dirt. That face of his love is almost unbearably pretty, then, his Cupid’s-bow lip split open bleeding and, too, smeared with the blood of Hades’ own fists.

Romeo will be even prettier caged, he thinks.

But even the loveliest of roses has its thorns, and in the next moment Romeo swings out with a blow that nearly knocks all the sense from P. Hades’ head, his spiked bracelets cutting into a dark cheek, his fist momentarily dazing as it forcibly jars his skull.

If he were mortal, he’d be concussed-- Romeo tells him as much, though perhaps not in so many words.

He knows P. Hades understands the message behind his left hook, the whiplash crack it makes as it impacts his jaw. So too can he read into the way a raised arm, as if anticipating the next blow reflexively, comes up to block the vicious jab that comes next, by far the most brutal in Romeo’s preferred progression.

There’s a familiarity to it, the way they know each others’ moves, can sense the flow of battle. Romeo sweeps his legs out from under him, even a few moments of freedom from beneath Hades’ palm enough time to push himself to his knees, enough space that he has a chance to block his next blow.

P. Hades curses himself. He falls for it every time.

“If you were mortal,” he grinds out, gritting his teeth as he catches Romeo’s arms mid-grapple. “That would have hit.”

“If we were mortal,” Romeo spits back, jaw tight with exertion. “You would be dead.”

(It’s not a past they like to delve into, and they tighten their grips over each others’ arms hard enough that even the sons of gods bruise.)

With a snarl, P. Hades dives for Romeo’s throat, snapping his jaws at the vein there exposed, as if with lips and fangs he could tear open his neck, “There’s more than one way to get to the Underworld, if that’s what you’re offering, Romeo.”

Romeo can only wedge his elbow between them, his eyes ablaze with hate and passion and the bitter, bitter ashes of what might once have been love.

“No thanks,” he hisses, burying the agony of teeth breaking skin. “Mortality’s for chumps.”

And with a whip of his wrist, he slices open Sin Paris’ lips with barbed bracelets and a bloody fist, his wings flicking out in the midst of that deadly dance. Distance has always been Romeo’s ally-- he could spend years running away, flying ever-further; it could be years before he catches him again.

Hades guesses that he has maybe fifteen minutes before his wings heal properly, before the burned-away feathers come back full-grown. Fifteen minutes left to an encounter he spent years ripping the world apart at its seams in search; years spent traversing the realms with the thought of Romeo at the end of it all. Fifteen minutes. It’s not enough time for him.

It’s never enough time.

Anger boils beneath his skin, hot and stinging as it condenses in his eyes, and before his foolish tears can betray him, he rushes forth with flames at his wrists, flames at his feet, flames burning like the sun within his gaze. He can’t let him escape again; he cannot-- for when Romeo is not in his reach, the world is cold and barren to him, the world is without heat.

Romeo’s never quite been the gentle shift of spring, but Sin Hades prefers wildfires, anyway.

They make impact with the stone walls of that cavern, jewel-quartz coming away scarlet red as it shatters beneath the force of Hades’ fists, Romeo’s spine. He can read it like a book, the ferocity written across such a pretty face, the fight that’s still within him. 

“Surrender,” growls Sin Paris. He almost manages to persuade himself that this isn’t a plea for Romeo to come back with him, down deep into the Underworld where he is prince.

“I don’t take orders, sweetheart,” Romeo smirks, his busted, gorgeous mouth mending itself even as he speaks. “Or has it been so long that you’ve forgotten even that much?”

Those words dig like knives into his gut, testing what little patience he possesses. He can’t stand Romeo, in that moment, even dear as he holds him yet, and o! Hades loathes himself for wanting it still.

His lips’ Cupid’s-bow mends itself, healing with the powers of the gods right before P. Hades’ own eyes-- it drives him mad, it drives him insane. It’s just one more mark of their encounter that will be gone, soon, gone with all the bruises that gods do not keep, gone with the sprains and cracked bones and feathers scorched away.

“Fuck you,” Sin Paris replies, and throws his fist knuckles-first into Romeo’s face, if only to spill his blood again, to shut up that gorgeoustemptingpretty foolish mouth of his.

Romeo outright laughs, spitting a fallen tooth in Hades’ face.

“Why, Hades, babe, I didn’t know you still wanted me like that,” he croons, even as he clears from his mouth the blood from his own wound. It glistens in the dim light as he speaks, dribbling over a pale chin, a sculpted jaw, the curve of his Adam’s apple.

Sin Paris can’t help but think of how dearly he wants to kiss that deep, deep red away; to pin Romeo beneath him and push him into the realm of Hades, to claim his life below the earth forevermore. He wants to kill him, wants to hate him and desire him for eternity, and he throws his second punch too-angry, too-wild. Too desperate.

That’s his failing, then, the opening that lets Romeo knee him in the gut.

He dodges the next time Romeo swings his legs, arching in a brutal roundhouse, fighting the way his stomach still swims with nausea and agony. Part of him wonders if this is what he’s heard the mortals call having butterflies-- yes, he thinks, butterfly stitches. Anyone but a god would surely require sutures after such a blow.

Hades ducks; he smashes his fist into Romeo’s side where he knows an earlier wound still bothers him, festers beneath the boning of his corset-bonds, and it is vengeance that rises with joy in his chest as the air falls out of Romeo’s lungs. 

And that’s all the opportunity he needs to flick a dagger from its holster, gleaming silver with every movement as he bursts forward, intent on driving it into Romeo’s heart, for there is more than one way to Hell and this is the quickest.

He doesn’t expect Romeo to lift his bare hand, to catch the blade within it, gripping tightly as he presses back against that force. The weapon is tossed to the side in the next moment, clattering onto the dirt, the ruby of Romeo’s blood blooming like flowers where it lands.

“Nice try,” Romeo grits out, clenching his wounded fist as if to draw out his pain. It’s a diversion, and Hades narrowly twists to the side as Romeo’s other hand lashes out with a dagger of its own, slicing long, jagged line over his collarbone.

They are close, now, too close-- and Hades takes what opportunity he can to draw his spare. Their other weapons have long been lost earlier in the altercation, or have run out of ammunition otherwise, and now, blade-to-blade with Romeo in breath’s reach, he finds himself more lethal than ever.

They clash brazenly against each other, sparks clashing was sliver meets gold, and Hades wants perhaps more than he has ever wanted in all two-thousand years of his existence. Rage and betrayal and lost-found love broil viciously beneath his breast, and Romeo is beauty itself, for there is fire within him, yes, and death, and death--

He breathes him in like he is air, and their battle collides no longer between blades but between tongues and teeth. They bite hard (they always have), but even this is a more pleasurable sort of pain than the other kind of weapons their bodies can form.

It’s agony when Romeo pulls away, that familiar smirk of his devastating in its smugness. It is within itself an attack-- an insult that cannot go unanswered.

Sin Paris strikes next with his mouth, sucks a ruined lip between his own. He tastes pomegranate in lieu of blood, like a pact. 

(And someday, he swears, he will make Romeo his Prosperine.)

[valscodblog]

HUHHHH? THIS IS SO COOL!?!?!

(not me having an OC named Ruby and feeling the primal urge to change it now)

''In another world, we would have been friends''

Captain Ruby 'Scarlet' Spring belongs to the lovely @rubyspring <3