#odds needlework

[pwlanier]

FRANC MACONNERIE:

Apron with Masonic symbols and medal.

Interencheres

[yanderenightmare]

idk if you write for naoya but i have an idea...maybe darling is like maki but actually weak and naoya bullies and takes advantage of them?

love your work btw!! <3

JJK ! IMAGINE

Zenin Naoya x maid ! darling

TW: yandere, mentions of abuse, bullying

Proposal Gift

Sharp hazel eyes follow you in your innocence, narrowing while he judges – concluding once again, as he’d done before, that there really isn’t a single cursed bone in you – only a humble body of warm squeezable flesh and a heart he bets is all too easy to break.

You’ve always been like that. Quick to smile and quick to cry. A bundle of emotions unfit to be raised in such a ruthless clan.

He’s a few years older than you and remembers well what a weak constitution you’ve always had. Anyone could see it, and everyone knew it from the moment you were born – you were never going to amount to much.

He used to find your weakness quite disgusting – used to push your face into the gravel until snot and tears would wet the dirt in a pitiful puddle – with his foot pressed down between your shoulder blades – sometimes until hearing a pop and shriek loud enough to echo off the walls. With words cutting even deeper – telling you what a curse you were, born so weak and so useless – a stain on the great Zenin name.

But now that you’ve grown up, he bites his tongue – silently watching with a strange type of lusty entitlement forming in his gut…

He’s only been away on a mission for a handful of months – who’d have known he’d come back to see you grown into something so… precious.

You’re the prettiest out of the maids – the cutest one too, and undoubtedly the sweetest as well. Walking about the garden where you have most of your chores – watering plants in the sun and picking herbs for healing. You’re quiet and graceful, taking slow steps in your plank shoes that knock softly on the tiles where you peacefully wade through the maze in a pretty flower-patterned yukata.

You look nothing like the snot-nosed brat he’d left in the dirt. You have a swell of breasts now and a feminine face wiped clean of soot – painted with pretty red on your lips and fresh blue on your eyes.

You’re a lady now.

And while your weakness used to disgust him, he’s now realizing what a blessing it is instead. Smirking the more he glares at you – now sitting on a bench in the shade doing some hand stitching, knowing no ill will – he understands he’s quite lucky you turned out such a fragile little thing.

“Naoya-sama-” You spluttered, eyes widening into big round glass orbs.

Jumping to your feet, you nearly threw your needlework down on the bench before folding your fingers together and bowing – much lower than necessary – with a rush that could only be excused with fear.

You hadn’t known he was back yet and felt the surprise like a vice grip wrapped tight around your throat.

Swallowing thickly, you made your excuse while maintaining your bow, praying he’d show you mercy. “Pardon my lack of awareness- I was absorbed in my chores, you see- please forgive me-”

He folded his hands within his pants and raised his chin with a smirk at your spluttering, licking his teeth in enjoyment at your pretty display of courtesy. Eyeing you for a long moment before speaking, mainly to watch you begin to tremble in the wait – cutely dreading the bite of his punishment.

But punishing you wasn't what he was interested in at the moment.

“You’re not in maid robes.” He said instead, ignoring your previous stuttering. His face, jaded with a tone just as callous, aided by that weighty air of authority he always has surrounding him – the one that never fails to make your skin feel raw in the cold.

“Oh-” You fumbled, halting at his lack of anger – wary of the unexpected behavior as it was pretty odd for him not to jump at the opportunity to punish someone like you if and when the chance presented itself.

Though, it wasn’t yet decided he wouldn’t do just that – the way his steely and strangling presence nearly knocked you over with its vicious intensity alone �� staring you down sharply with that otherwise smooth hazel.

In return, you had your doe-eyes yielding and down-cast, eying your fabrics with a bite to your lip – trying to keep your voice from shivering while uttering the next line, heat in your cheeks while at it. “These are- uhm- proposal gifts I’ve been asked to wear.”

He snorted at that, and you flinched at the abrasive sound – eyes shifty while eyeing the ground, lowering your head some more, looking down at the paint on your toenails instead.

“From whom?” He asked a beat later.

Your brows pinched at his curiosity and how awfully unlike him it was. Naoya-sama had never struck you as the type to make trivial conversation, especially with the likes of you. 

“I’m- uhm- not exactly sure…” You confessed, twiddling your fingers. “You see, Father doesn’t want to confuse me- after all… it’ll be his decision in the end, anyway.” 

You kept your head bowed while explaining, feeling awkward before him. Trying to think of a time when he’d paid any type of regard to you or your life – remembering none.

“B- but my marital status must be of no interest to you, Naoya-sama.” You blurted then, finding it to be a rather strange matter to discuss with him of all people.

But all the man responded with was a slight hum, keeping his gaze on you and the way you timidly glanced up at him only to look away when seeing him stare back. 

Ears burning, you chewed and sucked your lip under his glare, thinking of how badly you’d witness him beating other maids – having needed to treat many a cut and gash and bruise and broken bone he’d left on bodies much smaller than himself – not to mention the ones on your own frail self he’d given you in your youth. 

“Please excuse my arrogance-” Your memory prompted you to gush. “Doing anything but welcome you home from your mission is rude of me- I heard you lead our clan into many victories- you must be very proud.”

You decided to try you r luck charming him instead, hoping it could sway him from the urge to hurt you.

“Or maybe it doesn’t come as a surprise anymore. You’ve always been rather strong, after all.” You continued but choked on it only a second later – spurring with yet another apology on your lips. “That was thoughtless of me to say- you should feel proud either way- please forgive me for my stupid words, Naoya-sama- I fear the heat has gone to my head and made a complete airhead out of me…”

But despite the obvious hints of regret and panic in your draining face, the man gave no indication of even having heard what you’d said until offering your ramble another rather unusually relaxed response.

“It’s true.” He agreed – much to your surprise, where you’d braced your face for a backhand and your stomach for a gut punch. “It’s become boring.” 

You dared glance up at him through the lashes of your bow – only to see his face still as expressionless as always – a type of stone-cold that made the hairs at your nape rise.

“Still… you must be tired from the trip, if not the mission” You softly started in spite of it – hoping to end the conversation soon. “You shouldn’t stay out here in the sun for too long…” You tried, praying he couldn’t see straight through your intentions. “And- uhm- I should really hurry along- help prep supper for you and your soldiers with the other maids.” You excused, once again bowing your head, waiting for his nod of dismissal – ever relieved when he gave it.

You swallowed your tremors, feeling lightheaded and dizzy while offering up whatever type of smile you could muster.

“It was good seeing you, Naoya-sama.” You lied. “Welcome home.”

You bowed yet again, dismissing yourself before turning and leaving him.

He kept his eyes fixed on you despite it. Observing the distressed spring in your step and how it disturbed the former peace you walked the gardens with earlier. 

A smile inched up his face watching it.

You look very nice in his proposal gift.

He looks forward to having you in his bed.

tip-jar: Kofi

[sonder-paradise]

heyy i see your requests open, and i would like to request something. can i have hcs of diluc, thoma and childe with an s/o who bites them? like you know how i just like to nom nom? it’s not exactly biting harshly, just a nom as a form of affection

𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐏! — 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧 𝐈𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐜𝐭

◊ ft. diluc, thoma, childe, gn!reader

◊ genre. fluff

◊ a/n. i’m a proud sponsor of love bites

— 𝐃𝐢𝐥𝐮𝐜 𝐑𝐚𝐠𝐧𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐫

the first time it happened he wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. i mean, what would you make of a comfortable evening in with your lover, cuddled up nicely on the couch together. only to be startled by a loving bite directly on the neck.

he blinks, then raises a hand to access where you bit. there’s an indentation where your teeth met skin but other than that it wasn’t particularly painful. you smile fondly at him before going back to whatever you were doing.

diluc just sits there stunned before demanding some sort of explanation?? if there even is a valid reason to bite him??

“darling, may i ask about… whatever this is?” he makes an vague gesture to the bite mark on his neck.

“it’s a love bite,” you say simply.

diluc has no choice but to accept the explanation. i mean, that is technically what it is and he can’t say anything more.

once he gets used to your random nibbles and bites, he finds them rather amusing. he no longer questions them but does have a bit of trouble explaining when someone notices a mark on his neck or forearm.

“oh? is the great diluc ragnvindr finally getting some action?” kaeya teases, motioning to the odd mark on diluc’s collarbone.

the man reddens, adjusting the collar on his shirt before mumbling a small, “shut up..”

— 𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐚

was absolutely flabbergasted the first time you did it. stun-locked and frozen to the ground. how could he even react properly when he feels your mouth gently chomp onto his skin whilst cuddling with you?

he rubs the spot, staring at you wide-eyed and red in the face. he stutters out some fragments of questions but truly he’s unsure what to even ask. eventually he just sighs and quickly realizes it’s something he must get used to.

with time he grows used to them. i like to think he’s a bit more ticklish than the other two so when you do bite his neck or collarbone he sort of retracts into himself.

thoma smiles, laughing softly when you take a nice nom of his hand or his neck. then he promptly shoos you away so he can work or focus on his needlework.

“s-sto.. pfft, haha! stop that! i need to w-work on this!” he says through sweet laughs.

“and i need to bite your arm, hold still!”

if anyone were to ask about it, he sort of blushes and covers the mark up with a smile, saying some form of an excuse that sounds decently believable. they don’t believe him of course. not when you’re standing around the corner grinning like a cat.

— 𝐂𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐞

he bites you back obviously. and he got it almost instantly after you did it the first time too. when you popped in for a moment and took a nice bite outta his shoulder he looked at you for half a second before taking a chomp outta your cheek.

it was your turn to squint at him now. the two of you obviously daring the other to try and bite them again. eventually it simmers down but now it’s just turned into a competition.

it’s not particularly a romantic or even sexual gesture either. it’s just the two of you trying to bite the other lovingly.

childe doesn’t particularly hide the fact the two of you bite each other either. all the other harbingers just have no choice but to listen to your silly antics with one another.

“tartaglia, what in the world is that mark on your neck?”

“oh, y/n did it. i gotta get them back this afternoon or they win for today.”

who even knows what childe’s on about anymore. but you certainly seem to cause the second he gets home you got a whole plan devised to nom on that man’s poor arm.

but childe finds it fun. it’s a lighthearted competition the two of you have some how put together and he enjoys the mess of laughs and giggles it puts you two in afterwards.

Taglist: @xo-cuteplosion-xo @planetxiao @nonsense-corner @ireallylikehamsters @eccedentesiast-sapphic @rebeccka @the-lost-anime-dad @lettucecabbage-kun @irethepotato @kageyama-i-want-tobiors @niverine @hoshikechi @plinkuro @shizunxie @kiraisastay

Wanna join my taglist? Comment under this post!!

[wilteddreamsofbaldursgate]

Starlit Skirts

Astarion x fem!ElfTav|| ao3 || Masterlist

Rating: T Word Count: +2.5k A little smile stole onto Tav’s lips. “I would’ve married you in the half-hour between having my back blown out and breakfast this morning, if you’d let me. Or yesterday. Or the day before. Better yet—the day before that. A lifetime ago…” By the way his lips tenderly began to mirror her own, she could tell that it was decided. Astarion would be her husband by morning.

a/n: Valentine's Gift Exchange for @marcynomercy ; happy early Valentine's Day! ♡

Tav was growing bored, positively so. 

The early Autumn sun had pleasantly warmed her back when Astarion had first helped her onto the wooden step stool. Now, the chamber was bathed in the scattering light of late afternoons, the sun’s weakening sunrays crawling past the useless cheval glass in front of Tav.

Suppressing a yawn, her gaze wandered over the thick cotton sheet that was draped over the mirror, and—for the lack of anything better to do—she began to count the loose threats standing out from the tightly woven fabric one more time.

“I’m bored,” she declared when her eyes started to strain but a moment later.

Silence.

Tav rolled her eyes. Sometimes, it was rather irritating that Astarion only shut up when he was engrossed in his needlework—or when his mouth was otherwise occupied.

“You could at least entertain me a little,” she tried again, her voice light as she swallowed yet another yawn. “Since you’re keeping me on my toes like this all day...” 

It was no use. As if he hadn’t heard her, Astarion continued to kneel at her feet, rearranging her skirts every once in a while to have them fall in a specific way Tav wasn’t privy to.

Astarion had been working on her wedding dress for months now, and although she’d donned the dress for a number of fittings, she’d yet to see the actual gown. 

Astarion was adamant about keeping the look of the finished dress —his wedding gift to her— a secret, covering every reflective surface in the room, having her blindfolded if the need arose; working well into the night when their Elven eyes could only see in scales of grey.   

So, all Tav knew about her wedding dress was that it was quite heavy, which was at odds with the cool gossamer fabric that felt so wonderfully soft against her skin, mimicking her lover’s sweet embrace… 

Tav wasn’t able to suppress a third yawn. Not only was she bored, no, she was exhausted. 

It was the second day in a row that Astarion had her stand in front of him for hours on end, and her body was becoming increasingly stiff. She wasn’t used to feeling this drained by doing absolutely nothing, but she supposed it couldn’t be helped.

“Don’t move,” Astarion muttered all of a sudden, pearl head pins secured between his teeth as he grabbed Tav’s wrist to keep her left arm from moving.

He’d pinned the dress’ knee-length sleeves to its skirt some time ago, insisting that he needed to see where they would overlay with…well, he wouldn’t tell her with what exactly. 

Tav, frowning at his sharp command, hadn’t even noticed that she’d tried to roll back her shoulders, instinctively wanting to ease the dull ache in her joints. 

“And no peeking.” 

How had Astarion even known that she was glancing down at his silver locks when he was still re-pinning and inspecting the hem of her sleeve?

“Sorry,” Tav said, a tad too meekly to be considered honest as she ironed out her slouching shoulders.

Astarion acknowledged her with a huff, but that was more than enough for Tav. Wherever the Vampire’s mind had been wandering for the past hours, he was now back in the same room with her. 

She would not let him go again.

“How much longer must I suffer, heart of my heart? My feet are getting so, so tired,” Tav pouted, accentuating her misery with a deep sigh. “I don’t think I can stand like this for another moment.”

It only took a heartbeat for Astarion’s busy hands to pause in their movement.

Tav allowed herself a triumphant, albeit small grin. If there was one thing Astarion couldn’t endure these days, it was her discomfort.

“Another moment is all I need, love. Promised.” 

“I would so love to believe that, but you said the same thing at least three moments ago, you big old liar.”

Astarion scoffed, although Tav could hear a small grin of his own in his voice.

“Darling, it’s not my fault that I have to alter this dress every other damn week.”

Now, Tav let out a peeved laugh. The nerve of this man! 

“It is, though!”

“Well, kind of,” Astarion admitted sheepishly. “Maybe?” 

“Surely! Half of it is, at the very least.”

Astarion’s hands began picking at her skirts again. “Haven’t we already established that that was an accident?” 

“You really are shameless, Astarion, truly,” Tav shook her head, the grin on her face widening. 

How she wished she could see his face now! She could almost picture the way his eyebrows were knitted together, trying to hide his embarrassment behind a mask of concentration. 

The dull ache in her spine was all she needed to decide that she’d earned herself that very sight of him. A look wouldn’t hurt, would it?

Slowly, Tav lowered her eyes, glancing down at Astarion through her eyelashes. 

The bodice of her dress was ivory, she couldn’t help but notice entirely against her will; or a gentle cream. Maybe a very pale grey? It was already hard to tell in the growing half-light… 

Tav bit her lip. She hadn’t meant to peek at the dress, really; she just couldn’t help it. And it wasn’t her fault that she could see past the crown of Astarion’s curly head. Or that she noticed the golden thread he pulled through her skirts, sewing on…a pearl? A crystal? It was something shiny for sure, but what? 

Tav craned her neck, trying to get a better look at—

“Eyes up, damn you!” Astarion cried as he tilted his head back, catching her in the very act of gawking at as much of her dress as she could catch. “I swear I’ll have you blindfolded again.” 

Tav’s eyes darted back up, pointing obediently towards the useless mirror as if they’d never left it to begin with.

“Oh, don’t you threaten me with a good time, darling,” Tav sighed dramatically, trying to make light of the way her heart raced. 

“Let’s see if you’re this cheeky later tonight, shall we, pet?” 

“That could be arranged—if you’re on your knees like this again…”

“Tempting. Very tempting indeed,” Astarion purred, his hand vanishing under her skirts without warning. 

His nimble fingers trailed up from her ankle towards her knee, splaying out across the back of her thigh as he gently tugged her leg against his chest. 

Tav gasped. 

She didn’t dare another peek at him but was sure he was still looking up at her, face half buried in her skirts. The image inside her head expelled any lingering sense of her earlier fatigue. 

“But let’s finish this first, alright? It really won’t be long now—you think you can endure your plight for a bit longer, you poor thing?”

Tav swallowed. This time, it was her turn to hide her embarrassment as she tried to look absorbed in the little dust particles floating through the day’s fading light. 

“I suppose I can. But only because it’s you.” 

“Good girl,” Astarion nodded approvingly against her shin before he withdrew, his hands taking up their work outside her skirts anew. 

As it turned out, Astarion did keep his word this time. 

It didn’t take very much longer until Tav could feel one final tug at her sleeve. A moment later, Astarion shook out her skirts one final time before he rose to his full height in front of her. 

He unfastened the pincushion from around his wrist as he considered Tav from head to toe, circling her to examine his work.

“That should do,” he announced, coming to a halt behind her. “Close your eyes, love.”

Just like he always did, Astarion made to unfasten the lacing of Tav’s bodice. 

Unlike the other times, though, she turned around before his fingers could hook under the lacing on her back; her arms came up to protectively wrap around her middle. 

Astarion raised an eyebrow at her.

“What is it?” 

“I want to see it.”

A deep frown settled between Astarion’s eyes as he slowly stepped behind her once again.

As if it were a dance, Tav turned to face him once more. 

Astarion ran his hand through his hair, his crimson eyes searching hers as he tried to make sense of her silly game.

“You know why it’s called a wedding dress, my sweet? Because it’s worn on your wedding day— and that’s the day you’re going to see it.” 

“Well, I’m wearing it right now,” Tav established with a shrug, earning herself a puzzled look from her lover.

Fiancé. 

“What?” asked Tav. “We could be wed in a moment. Or three, considering you haven’t done your hair yet. The courthouse is right around the corner.” 

Astarion, clearly surprised by her sudden proposal, opened his mouth, exposing his fangs for but a second before he pressed his lips into a thin line. 

“All these months of wedding planning just to get it over with in one short moment?” He asked calmly. There was no bite in his voice, just honest curiosity. 

A little smile stole onto Tav’s lips.

“I would’ve married you in the half-hour between having my back blown out and breakfast this morning, if you’d let me. Or yesterday. Or the day before. Better yet—the day before that. A lifetime ago…” 

By the way his lips tenderly began to mirror her own, she could tell that it was decided. 

Astarion would be her husband by morning. 

But the pale elf was nothing if not a tease.

Taking a step towards Tav, his hand came up to her low neckline, fiddling with a detail Tav didn’t dare peek at—not under his intense crimson gaze.  

“Why so impatient all of a sudden, dearest?” 

Even while standing on the little step stool Tav had to raise her eyes to admire his beautiful face—the same face she wanted to look upon until the end of her days. 

“I’m exhausted, Astarion. And maybe I’m even scared that time’s running out,” Tav murmured, putting into words what had troubled her for the past weeks as her hand reached for his. In an instant, his fingers intertwined with hers. “And I really don’t want to labour through another dress fitting, now that it’s getting all serious…” 

Astarion pretended to look wounded as his thumb brushed over the back of her hand.

“Darling, and here I was thinking that we were already quite serious before our little accident.” 

It was true—Tav had already put a ring on the Vampire’s finger a good decade ago, allowing them to not only spend their nights but days together. 

There’d never been any need to rush to get married until now.

The Sunwalker’s Gift caught the fleeting daylight as Astarion raised his other hand to cup her cheek. 

He considered her for a moment as she leaned into his touch.

“Are you sure?”

Tav only nodded once.

“Always been,” she whispered without any hesitation before she pressed a kiss to the palm of his hand. “And my feet are literally killing me. My spine, too. And, gods, my shoulders—”

Tav’s moaning was interrupted by a quick peck on her lips. The tip of Astarion’s nose brushed against hers as he pulled back just enough to look at the blush on her face. 

“We can’t have that, can we?” 

“Absolutely not.”

Astarion nodded understandingly, his hand moving from her cheek down her shoulders, along the long sleeves of her dress. Wrapping an arm around her waist, he lifted her off the little stool, hugging Tav against him for a moment longer than necessary. 

“Time for your wedding gift, then,” he whispered in her ear before he set her gently down on her feet in front of the mirror. 

“Will you close your eyes one last time, love?”

Tav let out a delighted little laugh as she squeezed her eyes shut—this time she really wouldn’t sneak a look. 

The heavy cotton sheet that had covered the tall mirror for months fell to the floor with a thud. 

“You may look now,” Astarion said, his hand still lingering —trembling?— on her hip.

Tav’s wedding gown was unlike anything she’d ever seen.

Not knowing where to look first, she gaped at the tiny crystals sewn along her neckline as they caught the light of the golden hour fading into shades of blue. 

Brilliant embroidery shot down her batwing sleeves like silver linings, naturally guiding her gaze down to her skirts.

“Oh,” Tav breathed, watching the lonely form in the mirror brushing her fingertips over the starlit skirts cascading down her swollen belly like water.

Golden threads brought pearls and crystals together in the most breathtaking constellations, making Tav think of the few fleeting moments between night and daybreak when the sky is at its softest periwinkle, kissed by the gentle fingers of the morning sun. 

“Well,” Astarion cleared his throat. “I wanted it to be unforgettable, but since you’d other plans…”

Dumbstruck, Tav could only tear her eyes from her reflection because she needed to see the man who had created all of this. What would she give right then to watch him stand next to her in the mirror?

“Astarion—” was all she could get out before the first tears began streaming down her face. “It is—it really is unforgettable!” 

Astarions pulled her back against his chest, his chin resting atop her head as he urged Tav to look back in the mirror.

“Oh, don’t mention it,” he purred against her dark hair. “It’s just some fabric wrapped around my entire world.” 

Tav hiccuped up a laugh, leaning back into Astarion. Maybe it was the tears, or the standing up all day, the babe growing inside her or just the dizzying feeling of profound happiness, but she didn’t quite trust her balance.

“Would you look at my swooning little bride,” Astarion grinned as he turned her to take her in, his hand unwilling to stray from her waist.

“Do you like it?”

Tav nodded vehemently, accentuating the truth of it with more tears.

“But I don’t have your gift ready yet, I’m afraid,” she pouted as Astarion tugged some loose strands of hair behind her pointy ears.

“No hurry, my heart,” he said, wishing with all his undead heart that he could see himself standing beside his bride in the mirror, caressing her ever-growing belly that had been so tedious to work with. Maybe one day he would. “Unlike you, I’m patience incarnate; I can wait a moment longer. Or however many more moments that little accident of ours may need.” Tav dared to stand up on her toes and pressed a lingering kiss against Astarion’s lips. “Let’s go show off this masterpiece of a dress in the meantime?” Astarion grinned as he beheld Tav lifting her skirts so that she could get a better look at a section of embroidery he’d laboured over for weeks. He wouldn’t tell her that her happy smile was the very thing that made her dress shine—that knowledge was his selfish little present to himself. “Why, darling, that’s a gift I'll gladly accept for now.”

[nyoomiin]

roommates: part three.

your new roommate is... odd, and recently, so are your dreams. still, despite the secrecy, the mystery, and his ice cold exterior, you have the feeling you'd waltz right into love with him. (maybe you already have before.)

pairing. scaramouche x gn!reader

tags. no warnings, slice of life, fluff, slowburn, friends to lovers, reincarnation au, post irminsul erasure

prev. masterlist. next.

“Me?” the boy asks hesitantly, glancing toward his companion for help.

Niwa — right, that was his name — laughs, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder and pushing him forward. “You're scaring him, my dear.”

You roll your eyes at your friend, then give the boy another cursory once-over. You were right. He'd be perfect for the garment you were designing. Beckoning him over, you grin at him as you lead him into your fitting room. “I have just the thing for you! Let me take your measurements first, then I'll tailor the clothes to fit. Niwa, I'll give you a discount only because you brought this angel here.”

“Hah! You're the best.”

Shaking your head with a fond smile, you turn toward the boy. He looked nervous, fiddling with the hem of his sleeves, but no matter — it was time to get to work.

You blink, rubbing at your eyes in an attempt to clear your mind, trying to recall the dream you just had. Yet try as you might, it slips from your grasp, the faint trace of nostalgia slipping away with the breeze.

It was blue, you think.

And that's when inspiration struck.

"It's perfect,” you murmur, holding up the finished product in your hands.

A soft, silky shawl of blues and teals, dusted with a faint shimmer — an olive branch for your roommate, so to speak. Honestly, you were getting pretty tired of him wearing the same outfit almost daily, and what better gift than one handmade?

He'd look positively angelic in it, you think. You only hope he doesn't slam the door in your face before you could give it to him. You huff. He had better like it. You hadn't rushed your commission and put all that effort into the shawl for nothing. Not to mention, the materials you used were nothing but the highest of quality. Hmph.

“What do you want?” comes his gruff response to your knock on his door.

At the very least, he wasn't outright ignoring you like he used to do a week ago. You grin, even if he can't see it. "I have something for you! It's handmade. Come and take a look at it at least. Pretty please?”

It's silent.

A minute passes, then two.

You sigh, turning away in defeat. Another day, then. Though at this rate, that day might never come at all… Well, you hadn't put in all that effort just to give up now.

"I'll leave it here by the door,” you call. Just for good measure, you give the door another rap to be sure you still had his attention. "I don't care what you do with it as long as it's not still here by tomorrow morning. Have a good night!”

You turn away to leave, but this time, it's with a petty, stubborn resolve. One way or another, he would be your friend. He had to.

(His hands ghost over the shawl, fingers trembling.

It's soft, he notes, and every thread carefully woven. The design embroidered on its edges is undeniably Sumerian, but he can tell its maker is undeniably you.

And his heart thrums, loud in his ears and suffocating in his chest. It's infuriating.

This version of you is not the same as the version of the past he had known — that he cannot refute. Yet from your smile to your needlework, down to the way you'd leave him a warm bowl of soup — how could you not be one and the same?

He sets the shawl back down into the box it had come in, only to notice a piece of paper at its bottom.

This is for you, it reads. I think we got off on the wrong start that day, so I made this for you to make up for it. I hope you like it.

He scoffs, amused at your attempts to befriend him. It had worked on him then, when he had been clueless and naive and far too trusting, but fat chance it would work on him now. You don’t even remember him, for fuck's sake.

Still, he thinks, perhaps he should indulge you just the once. For old time's sake.)

taglist. (send an ask to be added.)

@franaby @dragontammerz @ainnofinway @sketcheeee @briluvspnk @bunniicantsleep @featuredtofu @tragedy-of-commons @parkjayssi

[sallysavestheday]

Caranthir Appreciation Days!*

*Not an actual event, just a mood...

I am very fond of the sexy, cantankerous, middle-child accountant and needleworker who founded the most stable and profitable kingdom in Beleriand and (I maintain) Was Happy There for a pretty long time. I'm generally a yes on Halenthir but appreciative of other options, as well. Your headcanons may vary, etc., etc., but if you are ALSO fond of him, have a few little bites of my Carnistir:

What We Make, Makes Us (G: 700 words). It's hard to be the middle son of Feanor. Caranthir makes his peace, sort of, with his father, his place, and himself.

Falling/Rising (G: 850 words) Caranthir manages Maedhros' recovery.

This Rough Friendship (G: 650 words). Caranthir and Celeborn forge an odd relationship.

Knit Me Up That Raveled Sleeve (T: 500 words). Caranthir learns how to dream, courtesy of Haleth.

Caranthir Regrets Everything (G: 128 words). What it says on the label (Haleth-specific).

I Sang (G: 500 words). Caranthir remembers Haleth.

Some of my particular Caranthir-focused favorites by others are:

Half Past Ten in the Rose Garden and related works by @grey-gazania

ask the sky to rain a new name for everything by marvelruinedmyspirit

The Peril (and Potential) of Unleashing Lightning in a Fishbowl and its companion in series The Sandglass Runs by @dawnfelagund

Age Before Beauty

The Hopes and Fears of All the Years by @verecunda

easily sever what never was one by @arrivisting

next to you, little moon by InfiniteCalm

what this darkness cannot swallow, it must spit out by @dialux

Call It What It Is (Whatever It Might Be) by Drag0nst0rm

on gold, and the wearing of red by @batshape

and @willowwhistles marvelous art here and here.

If you feel so moved, please share your own marvelous Morifinwes! I'd love to read/see more.

Enjoy!

[honeybeezgobzzzzz]

🗡️ Something Dread, Something Red: Chapter Eight

Something Dread, Something Red: Stuck in a proposal to a Marine Commodore, you escape minutes before your wedding in one last ditch effort to avoid getting married to a tyrant. Barely making it to the port of your town, you stumble across a ship just starting to leave and beg for passage off the island. You fail to notice that the people you beg for help, are pirates.

Warnings: None.

To Note: “Red Haired” Shanks x FemReader

Word Count: ~2.5k

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It was the last day the crew would be spending on the island and the men had left you in the bar while they got the supplies loaded onto the ship. You didn’t mind as you were mending some torn clothes of theirs while chatting with the woman who owned the bar. Her name was Cerise and she was well informed on the Red Haired Pirates. At least that is what you had surmised, she and the crew were on good terms and joked with each other. The Red Force had stopped on this island before and their faces were well known in these parts.

Setting Yasopp’s now mended sash, he’d torn it while getting into a scuffle with some vagabond down at the docks he’d told you, you moved on to Lucky’s favorite striped shirt. The cook owned many striped shirts as you had found out doing the laundry, but how he’d chosen this one to be his favorite was beyond you. Perhaps it was because of the stain at the bottom. None of his other shirts had a stain like it, or perhaps it was the most worn in and felt nice upon his skin. You couldn’t figure it out, no matter how long you pondered on such topic and simply deduced it to be a male thing.

Or perhaps a pirate thing?

“Certainly not in my repertoire,” You softly said, reaching for a string color in the set you’d been provided that best matched the stripes. Lucky Roux was lucky that his shirt had ripped at the edge of one of the stripes, you could easily hide the repair with your skill set. At least your mother’s intensive needlework lessons were finally coming in handy. Something about repairing clothings was far more therapeutic for you than mindlessly stitching on a circle loom in some fancy design that would never see the light of day. You liked feeling useful around the ship, it made you feel less guilty about being there in the first place. “I told them I only needed passage, not a place to live on board their ship.”

“Oh they’d never give passage to a woman in distress and then just drop her off at the nearest port,” Cerise commented, walking over while drying her hands with a towel. “I’ve known those boys for twenty some odd years. Shanks isn’t setting you go free because he knows you still need help.”

You paused in your mending, lowering your hands to your lap while contemplating her words. She had a point, Shanks was an honorable man and wouldn’t just ditch you the moment he’d completed what you had asked of him. He hadn’t even wanted to take your pendant as payment! Yes, he’d taken you on board and had kept you with him and his crew for three weeks without asking for a single thing.

“I feel like I can take care of myself,” You stated, your eyebrows pinching ever so slightly. “I am not well versed in living by myself but I am not an invalid nor am I entirely naive to how our world works. All I needed from them was safe passage off Kuri Island, nothing more.”

“You are under the assumption that you have to do everything yourself, Aria,” Cerise wisely informed you, observing you sitting regally on a barstool. Your posture stood out and clearly marked you as someone who didn’t belong in her bar. “Do you want some advice from an old woman who’s seen a thing or two.”

“I would be honored,” You replied, giving her your full attention. If anything, you knew that Cerise’s words were both law and religion to be heeded by everyone in Ingles. When she spoke you listened.

“The Red Haired Pirates are pirates at heart, the sea is their calling and they will never be tied down by anything or anyone.” Cerise started in a frank tone. “They’re fully capable of taking care of themselves, cleaning up after their messes, and mending their own clothing.” Her chin nodded to the shirt in your lap. “The only reason why they’re lettin’ you clean up and take care of them is because they want you to feel comfortable on the ship, and if that means you’re doin’ their laundry and mending their clothes so be it.”

“They’re… letting me…?” You repeated, trying to control your tone and voice so you didn’t show off how upset you were to know this. You wanted to pull your weight on the ship! Not do things because they let you!! Cerise could see the way your eyes flashed in anger and teeth ground together. You were quite good at controlling your emotions but she had decades to read people. Leaning against the bar, she pat your hand gripping your water glass.

“Don’t take that the wrong way, missy. They might be pirates but they are gentlemen and no woman is going to be cleaning up after them because it’s a societal expectation.” You pursed your lips and breathed out through your nose, reigning in your temper.

“I’m essentially freeloading abroad their ship, eating and drinking their supplies, using their facilities and bed… and the only reason why I think I’m pulling some of my weight is because they are allowing me to do so?” Your face was painfully hot and mind was seething. It wasn’t quite betrayal material to you, but your heart was very much injured by this knowledge. Was there anything in your life that you were doing because you wanted to and not because someone else was allowing you to do it?

“Now don’t be getting upset that the gentlemen want to be gentlemen,” Cerise tutted at you sternly. “Besides, it won’t do to have you jump right into an independent life. You’ll get overwhelmed and get yourself into trouble. Sea Lord knows you’ve got the beauty for it.  They’re easing you into your knew life in a responsible way. You’re lucky to have encountered as honorable men as they are.”

“I just wanted to be treated like every other person,” You said dejectedly, dropping your head into your hand and pushing your nails into your scalp. Cerise hummed at you and went back to cutting up slices of lime and lemon for the night rush.

“Oh dear, they are,” She stated. “They treat everyone with the respect that is expected and earned. It is nothing personal to you and your situation. Let them help you, and sneak in things to help them. Just don’t get caught.” You eyed the older woman at her last comment.

“Are you telling me to sneak behind their backs?” Cerise shrugged and waved her paring knife around.

“They’re men, not always the brightest in situations and can be too stupid to take care of themselves at times.” You could agree with that statement. You had watched Hongo argue with Lucky Roux over a cut he’d gotten trying to juggle knives. It’d taken three days before the cook had finally relented to putting a simple bandage on it so it didn’t get infected. “It’s also our job as woman to mother them, make them remember that they aren’t invincible and having someone take care of them is just as rewarding as it is for them to take care of us. Give and take, girl, no one has to do everything by themself.”

“You have a point, but the most I can do is sew.” Your skills with sewing were actually pretty well honed… but where did sewing have a place on a ship besides mending clothing? “I don’t even know how to cook.”

“Well that’s a place to start, learning to feed yourself,” Cerise mused, eyes flickering to the faded oak clock hanging above the bar. It’d seen its fair share of drunk bar fights and revelry. Had even weathered through being knocked off the wall a time or too. “Tell yea what, Aria,” Cerise started, head tilted to the side in contemplation. “Dinner rush isn’t for another two hours, you come back with me and I’ll put you through my mothers ringer,”

“Your mother’s ringer?” You repeated in confusion.

“Aye, culinary boot camp.”

Tears were streaming down your face, welling from your eyes and dripping down your cheeks as you struggled to continue with your lesson. But your eyes were stinging so bad! You were fairly certain at this point that what Cerise had you doing could be utilized for torture, not cooking purposes. Who knew simply cutting this root vegetable would cause so much pain and tears?

“Ow,” You weakly muttered, rubbing your watery eye for the thousandth time with the back of your hand. Even with your eyes watering so heavily that it looked like you had been sobbing, you were still persistent in finishing cutting up the onions Cerise had planted in front of you and ordered to chop.

They all had to be cut a certain way, she had told you. Showing you the basic knife skill with the first onion of your lesson. It hadn’t looked hard, you actually felt comfortable holding the knife, that is until the sting in your eyes bloomed and the tears came. Oh how it burned and oh the look Cerise had given you when you paused in your chopping. A strict teacher she was.

“The faster you cut, the quicker the tears will leave,” She had told you, standing across the table from you and chopping vegetable after vegetable without so much as a stutter. You were in awe at how fast she could chop vegetables, barely even glancing at the produce she was cutting. On the bar menu tonight was an Ingles town soup made from vegetables and lamp, the staple meat on the island. According to the Bar Mistress, a large batch was made and once it was gone, it was gone.

It was quite the popular soup among the regulars, meaning the bar was going to be packed and the drinks flowing. So you were going to continue cutting these damn onions until you had no tears left in your body, and then continue cutting. She might be teaching you how to cook, but you were eager to contribute and pull your weight for once… and that apparently meant cutting an endless amount of onions. You’d get good at cutting onions by the end of this at least.

Additionally you could learn to wield a blade by learning how to cook you wouldn’t be entirely defenseless before you learned how to defend yourself. Not exactly a sword but a knife was better than a hair pin. Blinking several more tears away from your eyes, you focused back on the onion you were currently chopping. Chop. Peel. Slice. You had to constantly remind yourself to focus where your blade was going. The three nicks you had on your fingers were proof of that.

Shifting your grip on the knife, you finished chopping the onion and gathered the slices to drop into the large bowl next to you. Grabbing the next onion, because Cerise happily dumped another basket of onions next to you, you repeated the same process as you had before.

“Not to be rude, but how is this teaching me how to cook?” You asked, your head tilting to the side as you peeled the halved onion in front of you. Cerise chuckled at your words and lifted a large bowl full of cut vegetables to dump it in an even larger pot.

“Chopping vegetables is a large part of cooking easy meals on ships.” Cerise explained. “Get you comfortable with knives and that’s one hurdle that won’t hold you back. Prepping ingredients is also a good idea, keeps your kitchen clean and saves time. I’ve got a soup and stew book I’ll give you. I taught you every thing you need to know to cook the recipes in the book earlier and I’m sure that by watching Lucky Roux, you can pick up more skills.”

“Well I think I can manage to cook scrambled eggs,” You admitted, wondering how many eggs you had cracked by now. At least you’d gotten good at doing that. “Lucky lets me crack the eggs in the morning before Shanks is up, sometimes let me cook the pre cooked breakfast sausage. I burned myself on the cooktop once and he forbade me from going within three paces for a week after that.”

“Aye, told yea the men were protective. You just have to be firm with them and they’ll eventually see reason.” Cerise said while lighting the giant stove beneath the equally giant pot. The kitchen was soon filled with the soft crackles of vegetables sautéing. While the older woman fussed over the cooking vegetables, you finally cut up the rest of the onions without further incident, much to the relief of your fingers and eyes. You carried the bowl of onions over the large pot and dropped the sliced onions into the pot to be cooked as well.

“So I understand everything you’ve taught me about soups and stews, and you’re going to give me a few books to read… but seasoning is a large part of cooking and I don’t even know what half the spices are in Lucky’s cabinet.” Your nose wrinkled at the picture of Lucky’s spice cabinet. He kept it meticulously organized and alphabetized. That was helpful when learning but it didn’t help you in using such spices. “Do I just taste them raw and see what goes well flavor wise?”

“If yea like bad flavor,” She answered dryly before turning to face you. “In your case, I’d suggest following recipes, note what spices are in it to develop the flavor profile. Then, when you are comfortable, you can start dabbling. Like mint goes well with artichoke, and cumin with chicken. It’s about what you like, what did you like to eat growing up?” Your brain froze for a moment.

Freedom of food choice was still a novel idea to you. You didn’t know what you liked or disliked because your mother fed you what she decided. You had a few food items that you positively loathed due to your mother, but you’d never had the luxury of deciding to eat or not eat something based on flavor and like alone.

“I… don’t really know,” You admitted with a soft shrug of your shoulders. “My mother controlled my diet until I left three weeks past. I don’t have many memories of foods that I enjoyed eating. It was mostly out of necessity.” Cerise hummed in understanding and paused to think. She had a basic understanding of your situation thanks to a quick word from Shanks, Hongo was trying to ease your stomach into new foods so you didn’t get sick like you had the first week on board the Red Force. But that didn’t mean you couldn’t have small bites here and there.

“I’d suggest that you try bites of food from different dishes to see what you like and don’t like then, Aria. Not big bites mind you, sneaky ones so you don’t get Shanks or Hongo on the up and up… but just enough to taste.” That was actually a good idea. Nodding your head in agreement, you smiled, pleased that you had a plan for once. You felt better about staying on the Red Force now. The idea of leaning on the men for help was still difficult for you, but learning to cook put wind back in your sails.

Date Published: 1/20/24

Last Edit: 1/20/24

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[sea-owl]

I just had an idea. So we know Felicity is supposed to be a talented little artist right? What if she just paints all her family members around the house. Like little snapshots. It's not odd to see Felicity in a random corner of the house painting whatever or whoever is in the room.

She has a portrait of Portia at teatime, and one of Penelope at her writing desk. There's one of Prudence doing needlework, and one of Philippa brushing her hair out for bed. Of course, she has one of her bestie Hyacinth surrounded by her named flower.

She currently has an ongoing series that she dubs The Love Language of Food. She has a completed portrait of her sister Philippa and her husband, Albion Finch, lovingly sharing a plate of cheese. It was sickenly gross. She also has a portrait of that funny time where Prudence was hand feeding her new husband, Harry Dankworth, some grapes. He looked so silly, with that silly smile on his face.

Penelope technically has a portrait Felicity painted for this collection, but also technically it isn't. The person she's with isn't her partner, and Felicity supposed if everything worked out she soon could add an official portrait to this collection should Penelope marry Lord Debling.

Felicity made a face at the thought, her nose scrunched up and her lips pouted. She rather her sister didn't marry Lord Debling. Sure, the man had a love for vegetables, or rather an abhorrence for any meat, but he didn't really fit with the theme of this series. At least in Felicity's opinion.

Felicity looked over at the portrait she's unofficially dubbed as Penelope's. The portrait itself was from a tea time that got a little wild. Felicity and Hyacinth had ganged up on Hyacinth's brother Gregory, pelting him with the scones. He had tried to get them back with some jam but as always Gregory's aim was terrible and ended up hitting one of his older sisters. As there was no proper adult supervision a full on food fight broke out between the Bridgerton siblings and the two Featherington sister.

At one point during the food fight Felicity happened to look over at her sister, who was covered in food, next to her laughing was Colin Bridgerton, who was also covered in food. They were both laughing, and at one point Penelope pulled some sort of frosting out of her hair to lob it against Colin. The image stuck with Felicity and she added it to her snapshot collection.

Maybe Felicity could officially accept this portrait for Penelope's? After all isn't friendship another type of love? Felicity liked to think so. At the very least they looked fond of one another, as they always did in her portraits.

At the very least, if Felicity kept this portrait in, she wouldn't have to add Lord Debling. There's no way he beats Colin's love of food.

[decadentpostnachos-evil-twin]

Let's talk once again about how much of a plothole the whole time in the den/hut in acotar is.

This was supposed to be Feyre's traumatic backstory, I get it. It's still lacking logic.

We're told that Feyre was the only one ever caring for the family, taking any responsibility while their father did quite literally nothing (and that I even believe bc Feyfey has daddy issues bad enough to get with Rice) and Nesta and Elain were the incarnation of Cinderellas evil stepsisters. Because they didn't do anything either. But there are so many problems there.

1. No one can cook? Because Feyre can't as we see in acomaf. So how exactly did they make food if nobody was capable to cook?

2. Staying with the food, the odd piece of wild meat is not a diet that can keep you alive for years. You'd be lacking so many nutrients and vitamins that you'd constantly be sick. And in their circumstances, you'd just be dead very soon. So they must have eaten other stuff, but where did it come from? With what money was it payed?

3. Still the food. It's highly unrealistic that Feyre, a self-taught teenager managed to bring home enough meat to properly feed four people. So again, there must have been other things or they'd have died very soon.

4. Who cleaned? Because seriously, you can't tell me nobody cleaned that hut as good as it was possible. But who, when Feyre was in the woods for the whole day?

5. Who repaired shit? That thing was just short of falling apart at any given time. There must have been several things to fix over the years, seeing as it still stood in acotar. But who did the fixing? Again, Feyre was supposed to be in the woods the whole day.

6. Who fixed their clothing? They didn't have enough to buy new clothing often, so the bit they had needed to hold up for quite a while. But if it was somehow damaged, who'd repair it? Feyre who never learned needlework? Also the washing. Who took care of that?

[purelyfiction]

Irreparable

Benedict Bridgerton x (F) Reader

Summary: After marrying one of the sons of a man your father owes money to, you find yourself finally falling for him nearly a year into your marriage. That is until there is news of a toll to your marriage that might not be salvageable.

Word Count: 2,424 Words

Author’s Note: arranged marriage, notes of women as property, spousal cheating (which unfortunately was not uncommon and rapidly forgiven for men of status)

It’d been nearly a year since you’d legally became Mrs. Bridgerton. The name felt stolen to you, merely because you didn’t know your husband. It had been a wedding of necessity. Your father owed the late Lord Bridgerton a large sum of money and Anthony - as the acting Lord - determined a marriage between you and the next eligible bachelor of the family (Benedict) would be suitable to forgive the large sum that was owed to them. Not that you had a dowry. Nor any of your own wealth to offer. 

The day of your wedding, Benedict had tried to act excited, likely for your sake. He knew that this was not what you nor what most women, would expect of their lives, but your father’s missteps in his finances, you were left with no choice. 

You certainly could do worse for a husband. He was kind, charming and generally good conversation, when you did see one another. You found it easier to stay in your own quarters, apart from each other and out of the way. The only time you joined together was at mealtimes, but even then there would be nights where Benedict would request meals to his studio. 

Visits to his studio on your behalf were infrequent. You did not wish to disturb the peace he’d made there, that would be unfair. It was the equivalent to him pestering you in the gardens or the drawing room when you sat with needlework or a sewing project. Most times the result of your work would end up in the hands of others as gifts. In fact you’d just finished an outfit for the Duchess’ son. That had been a tolling task. To part with the piece you’d grown to love and daydream upon. 

You’d made the mistake of picturing yourself with a tot of your own in the get up, with another on the way. A mother. A role in this house outside of being a resident of it. There was very little hope for such a future.  Benedict never looked at you in that manner, and you were certain that would not be changing anytime soon. 

Though there were days were you were happily proven wrong. One afternoon your husband had invited you to the theater, getting the two of you out of the house. This would become a weekly occurrence, seeing the show and discussing the plot and your own views on it. Many others did not sit and take in the acting performance, but that was not you and Benedict. It was the one thing that seemed to join you - aside from a legally binding contract. 

That led to happier dinners, invitations to walk the gardens, friendly competitions of pall mall, and evenings were Benedict would sit with you and read your stories to you. 

It felt as though you were finally getting close. You sought out his company more and more frequently, finding yourself lingering in his presence probably longer than he’d like. Though, your husband was a gentleman and never said anything of the matter. You’d begun to see the way his face would scrunch up when he was entertained, as well as relishing in his laughter. Recently, you would actively seek out a session with him and find he was not even home. These occurrences were odd to you, but you thought nothing of it. After all, what were you to say? That he was to stay home more often, despite neither of you having any intentions of engaging in the act that you both participated in? No, that would be futile and rather indignant towards the matter. 

It wasn’t until a ball was held at Hastings House, where you and your husband were expected to appear that you made a shocking realization. Benedict had been in the middle of a conversation with his youngest brother, engaging in play that Violet was sure to dismiss the minute she witnessed it. As he chased his brother around you felt your heart flutter. Your view of the man changed in a few blinks. A man you’d never recognized, never cared for more than one cares for a friend, suddenly meant everything to you. 

You’d not confessed this to a single proprietor of the Bridgerton name. It was tucked away in some part of you, hidden and out of sight. You wouldn’t dare admit that when you know your husband did not share a single part of the emotion. 

Tea the next day felt like a walk of shame to you. Not that anyone knew this secret you were harboring, but you were walking on metaphorical hot coals around the crowds of ladies. As though you would shatter like porcelain if you were to speak. 

It did not take you long to notice the looks, the cautious and whispered conversations in the groups around you. Violet, Eloise and Francesca sat with your usual group, the eldest woman on the chaises looks at Violet. A shocked expression as she swats her fan at the woman’s hand as the Viscountess moves for a finger sandwich. “How is it that you believe there is time for such leisuring when your son is introducing slander to your family name?” The matriarch gasps in shock, shaking her head. 

“Veronica, what ever are you speaking about?” The room settles at Violet’s abrupt words. 

“Have you not read the latest Whistledown? Might someone please lend their copy to Lady Bridgerton?” Soon, dozens of hands shoot out towards you and your family, each of you taking your respective copy. 

My Dearest Reader, 

It appears as though the noble Bridgerton family is involved in yet another scandal. Now, as many of you are aware, the name has been heavily printed on my pages as of late, and it seems as though it has yet to cease. 

Upon the previous eve that I write this, Benedict Bridgerton was caught at the Granville house in the most precarious of situations. One that no married man would hope to be caught in. At least not with a woman that is not his wife. 

The pamphlet falls from your hands and to the floor below you. There is no time between finishing the sentence and your swift departure from Mrs. Veronica’s sitting room. 

In short time, you’ve made it from the home, your lungs frozen and your feet carrying you faster than your mind might let you guide them. You’re unsure of where you are going. No where. Anywhere. Anywhere that was far, far from here.

You find yourself at the Bridgerton home, in search of your carriageman. Instead, you spot your very husband with his brother out in the yard, fencing. Colin greets you with a grin. “Mrs. Bridgerton! Are you coming to join our company?” It was not the question that forces the tears from your eyes. Witnessing them, Colin pulls his foil from the air, the elder of the two men mimicking the same actions - dropping his own instead in a clatter of metal as it hits the grass. 

“My wife, what’s wrong? Are you alright?” He approaches and you take a step back, your hand up in a flat manner. 

“Take your leave. Or myself. I do not care in which manner it is, but you are not to be in my presence.” Your voice shakes with each syllable that passes through quivering lips. Benedict falters. He stands, looking at you with such deep sympathy that you wonder if he recognizes the error that’s been unveiled. As you turn toward the house again, your given name leaves his lips, chasing after you as you spot your coachman. Focusing on him as Benedict speaks, you ask him to bring the carriage around. You hear your husband’s voice drone on and turn away from him as he rattles on. 

“I did not realize that my actions had consequences. Please, lend me your ear.” He catches you in your stride, his gloved hand in the crook of your elbow, leading you to freeze to listen to him.  “My friend, I thought that we were in mutual agreement that if we were not finding what we required in one another that we might seek other arrangements-” You sharply turn to face him. 

“My friend?! Is that what you wish to call me? How dare you insinuate such a thing!” Sheer venom seeps from you as you take a step towards him. “I am not your acquaintance. Nor am I your friend. Not your neighbor, not your partner, not your staff or employee. I am your wife, Benedict!! Contentment aside you have a duty to uphold when you wed someone! Love match or not you are meant to protect, that person. Not be the reason they are in sheer agony!” The sound of your voice rattles the chandelier above you in the foyer entry, walls seeming to quake in fear at your anger. 

“I was just trying to-”

“Quite frankly, I do not care what it was that you were attempting to do.” Huffing as you finally catch your breath. As a pause comes to the active deliberations, Violet comes into the house, her breath heavy, clearly having been chasing after you, Eloise and Francesca just behind her. 

“Benedict. Do not disappoint me and say that the accusations that were suggested by Lady Whistledown are founded in truth.” Her tone is filled with warnings, yet Benedict avoids her eyes, looking to his brother behind him before turning back to you. 

“We are able to move past this, I am sure of it. What Lady Whistledown writes-” You’re cutting off your husband once more - if you can even stand to call him that now. 

“What she writes is always deemed as law. You certainly know this.” You hiss, with a fury unknown to most women. At least not one that is presented publicly. Finally, Benedict is firing his own shots towards you. 

“Like there are any consequences! Shall I inform my mother of the realities that we face behind closed doors? How we have not shared a bed and still have yet to do so? How we barely spend time in one another’s presence? Do not pretend that we are exactly enamoured with one another, dear.” The emotion that is painted on his face shows all that your family needs to see. Poor Violet looks as though she might faint, Colin moves to her side to prepare for the worst case, that she actually does. “I am tired of pretending. Saving face and dealing with the actions that my brother played for me.” He slumps in his composure, your face giving a hopeless laugh. 

“I am aware that you are tired, Benedict. I myself am exhausted from the act we have been in.” Your eyes fall to the floor, tears free falling onto marble. “I would move to bet that she gives you the most joyous feeling. That she makes you feel free from the burdens that the ring on your finger ties you to. She probably makes your stomach do somersaults.” You watch as the emotion in Ben’s face moves from annoyance and exhaustion to confusion and concern. 

“My wife...” He speaks cautiously, paired with a step towards you. Your head shoots up in a defensive manner. 

“Mayhaps I were a fool to believe that there was a way for you to feel that for me. So do as you please, Benedict. See her as often as you like. And think of me fondly, when your hands are on her. I hope you’re happy. Because I certainly am not. Not when the man I thought I came to love was hiding away from me, just when I thought things were looking up.” With your peace spoken, you turn on your heels, looking to the doorway, over the group huddled there. Violet is trying to offer you words of comfort, Eloise gripping your arm. Instead you’re pulling from her grasp, hot tears on your face as you see the carriage finally arrive. 

Your name echoes through the foyer and out the front door. Over the marble steps leading up to the house. You’re mere steps from the door, watching as the coachman opens the cabin before arms are wrapping around your shoulders, pulling you to a firm chest, one that moves with rapid breaths in pairing with his jog he’d lept into after you. It is not until he’s pulled you to him, in a tight embrace that you finally begin to fall apart. Sobs begin to leave you as you feel his head dip to your shoulder, adjusting his grip on you as words are mumbled. You cannot register them from over the tangled web of emotions and jagged breaths of air being hauled into your lungs. Eventually, there are some words that sneak through the cries. “Please. Let it be known it was not your fault. I swear to the Heavens that my intentions were not of malice toward you. Had I known-” You’re breaking from his grip slightly, arms still encasing you in a small circle as he tries to keep you close. Your eyes lock on his with contempt. 

“Had you known?? How were you to? You spent countless hours in your study, the stables, somewhere to get away from me!” A fist is lightly coming to meet the edge of his shoulder. 

“Because I thought you wanted nothing to do with me. There’d been no lead up to our nuptials. Your father owed my own, rest his soul, and in an attempt to relieve him of the debts he still had remaining, Anthony thought it best to bring you to us. He thought I would be able to care for you, to provide a life for you. Anything you could want.” A comforting hand comes to the side of your head, looking to you with great care. “That is all I was looking to do. To make you happy. If that were away from me, on your own terms, I wanted you to have that. “

"If it is my happiness that you are after, why have you never bothered to ask me  what it is I want?”

“What do you want, Mrs. Bridgerton?” He looks at you so carefully, voice no heavier than the breeze that surrounds the two of you.

“What if it was you that I wanted?” You ask so quietly, tears still falling. He reaches up to wipe at them, spare handkerchief in hand. 

“Then it is me you shall get.”

-------

Did you enjoy this? Consider buying me a coffee!

[preet-01]

Lewis wasn’t unhappy per se. No, he had no reason to be unhappy. Everything was perfect.

He had the handsome husband with a title. He had four beautiful children, each one perfect and wonderful. He was the Viscountess Wolff and a respected member of society.

Everything was perfect.

His family adored Toto and the children, their friends envied them, the people in the village loved them.

He should be happy, overjoyed, ecstatic. But he wasn’t happy or overjoyed, and he certainly wasn’t ecstatic. But he also wasn’t unhappy. No, he fell somewhere between happy and unhappy. Perhaps content, but even that felt like the wrong word for it.

“Will you be going back to London?” Lewis questions as he puts his nightgown back on. Had it been a few years earlier, he would have never thought to dress himself so quickly after he and Toto enjoyed their marriage bed. His bare body would’ve been pressed to Toto’s bare body as they talked about everything and nothing. Alas it wasn’t like that anymore and it hadn’t been like that for quite some time — not that anyone else would know. No, they kept the picture perfect facade up for the rest of English noble society.

“Yes, there is business in London,” Toto replies, making no move to pull Lewis back into their marriage bed and ravish him like Toto used to do during their early years of marriage.

“Business, of course,” Lewis mumbles. Business was, of course, a twenty some year old opera singer named Georgie that Toto put up in a nice apartment in London where none of their noble friends would go for any good reason. Lewis wasn’t meant to know, or at least he hoped that Toto never intended for him to find out. It would have been wholly unkind if Toto had purposefully orchestrated Lewis finding out about the whore he kept on the side. Toto was many things, but unkind was not one of those.

“I want to see you before I leave tomorrow,” Toto says.

“Hmm?” Lewis hums in question. It was an odd request in recent years. Gone were the days of Lewis pressed up against some piece of furniture because they couldn’t keep their hands off of one another and Toto needed to feel his wife before he had to leave for work in the House of Lords.

“The new footman is arriving tomorrow,” Toto explains.

—————

Servants are notorious gossips. John had learnt that when he was a wee little boy clutching his mother’s skirts.

“The Viscountess and children are the only ones who stay in the house for prolonged periods,” the butler, Marcus, had told him. The Viscount supposedly spends his time in the family’s London townhome and has a whore in the city.

John didn’t believe that someone would stray from their marriage when they had someone like the Viscountess. How could anyone compare, he wondered.

There were not enough words to describe the Viscountess’ beauty. Enchanting brown eyes and dark brown skin wrapped in the finest fabrics that John had seen — all shades of white and silver that John had never thought possible to make clothing out of with the tiniest hints of teal needlework. Diamonds and pearls adorned the Viscountess, glimmering brightly and juxtaposing beautifully against the Viscountess’ skin and dresses.

The Viscountess was ethereal, yes, but also sad. Not always, no, the Viscountess seemed to light up when in the company of his children. Deep brown eyes would sparkle with specks of gold in them when the Viscountess was with his children. But outside of that? There was an ever present emptiness.

He didn’t realize the cause of it fully until he saw the Viscount and Viscountess together. They were a beautiful couple, there was no denying that, but beneath all that beauty was a chasm much too wide.

John is doing his daily tasks when he finds the Viscountess crying in the garden. “Are you okay, my lady?” John asks. The Viscount had left moments ago for London once more and before then, and well everyone had heard the Viscount and Viscountess fighting in the library about missing the little lord’s upcoming birthday.

“Of course, why wouldn’t I be?” The Viscountess asks with a sad smile and tear stains on his cheeks.

John doesn’t dare answer. He’s seen enough to know that one should never contradict the nobility. Instead, he offers his handkerchief to the Viscountess. “Thank you, Sir John,” the Viscountess replies, delicately dabbing at his tear stained cheeks. “Have you been to the village yet?” He inquires.

John doesn’t realize when the Viscountess becomes my lady or when my lady becomes Lewis. But it does happen — though only when the Viscount is off in London for business. But during those moments when the Viscount is away, there are specks of glimmering gold in Lewis’ deep brown eyes and an ever present smile to grace his lips.

What John forgets is that servants are notorious gossips.

—————

Lewis hasn’t been pressed up against a piece of furniture in years. And a man hasn’t been between his legs in even longer.

John is… great, wonderful, perfect and any other number of words that he can’t think of at the moment because John is burrowed between his legs.

Lewis’ dress — one that he’d bought with Toto in mind — is hitched up as the bookcase digs into Lewis’ back. It’s far from uncomfortable. Even when Lewis throws his head back and hits it on the wooden bookshelf that some long dead Viscount Wolff had commissioned decades ago.

“John,” he’s breathless as he says his lover’s name, “I need you. Please.”

“As you wish,” John replies. His face is covered in Lewis’ slick as he stands up and kisses Lewis. His moan turns into a gasp as John thrusts into him with a practiced ease after spending so much time in one another’s company.

What Lewis and John remain unaware to is that there are servants outside of the library who can hear every moan that John elicits from Lewis — their lady, their Viscountess. They can hear every thrust as the bookcases hits the wall. They can hear how their Viscountess moans the name of a man who is not his husband. There is nothing left to the imagination about what goes on in the library.

If the servants hear about it, so does Toto when he finally returns from London to the country estate. The servants don’t explicitly say it to him — most of them do love their Viscountess and had seen how his shine dimmed over the years of marriage — but it does reach his ears.

“How was London?” Lewis asks him when they have dinner together that first night.

“As good as it could be,” Toto replies. “I wish to see you tonight. I have missed you, wife,” he adds, wondering if the ambitious footman had defiled his wife on the table they dine at. Regardless, he’ll have it burned by morning.

“Of course, husband,” Lewis replies.

When Lewis comes to his bedchamber, Toto doesn’t bother gently taking Lewis’ nightgown off. No, he rips it into shreds. “Your courses, they have been regular, yes?” Toto questions as he lays out his wife on their marriage bed — the same bed where he had taken Lewis’ innocence almost 15 years ago. That had been a lovely night by all accounts.

“Of course, why wouldn’t they be?” Lewis answers, not giving any hint of the fact that he had spent the past few months getting fucked by one of their servants like a common whore.

Toto doesn’t say anything about that, instead he presses a kiss to Lewis’ flat belly. “Matilda is almost four years old now, it is time that we start trying for our next child,” he says. “Additionally, my business in London is over and with the exception of the House of Lords meetings, I intend to stay home with you and the children. Until we need to present the girls, of course,” he continues on, watching as realization flickers in Lewis’ eyes. He’d known from their first meeting, that Lewis was smart. It’s why he’d married him after years of avoiding the marriage mart. Smart and beautiful was a rare commodity in high society and, well, Toto always wanted the best — something that no one else could have. Back then, that had been Lewis.

But Lewis won’t say anything of it. No, Lewis had been raised to be a good wife and lady. Instead, Lewis just says, “of course,” and opens his legs wide for Toto.

However, since his wife wants to act like a common whore whilst Toto isn’t home, he’ll treat him like one. “No, no, on your hands and knees, wife,” he orders, flipping Lewis into his desired position.

As the Viscount reminds the Viscountess whose wife he is, the Viscountess’ lover is forced to leave the estate in the dead of the night. Sir John Elkann, a former soldier in the British Royal Army, is sent to the continent as part of a regiment headed to Italy. Uprisings fill the Italian peninsula and threaten peace on the continent. It is a place where no one questions where a bullet originated from or how.

Almost eight months since that night, as the Viscountess gives birth to his fifth child, the letter of Sir John Elkann’s death arrives to the country estate.

Lewis is far from happy in his marriage. But when with his children, he finds joy. His four eldest, all perfect and wonderful. And now his fifth child, with her light brown hair that none of the others had, nor any to come after her will have, is perfect and delightful and beautiful.

His sweet Joanna who Toto couldn’t take away from him like John had been taken away. Toto’s ego and ideals of manhood wouldn’t allow for it to happen. Taking Joanna away from Lewis meant admitting that another man had slept with the perfect Viscountess that Toto loved to parade around as his greatest victory. It meant admitting that he’d been made a cuckold by a servant.

Nothing was perfect, nor would it ever be.

—————

So this definitely took a turn that I wasn’t originally expecting. The ending was much happier before tumblr decided to glitch and not save my draft

The original was loosely inspired by two of the Bridgerton books: To Sir Phillip, With Love and When He Was Wicked. But when I started writing again after the glitch, inspiration took me down a different path

[stitchposts]

i love your trans dragon embroidery!! i don’t know a lot about it yet, but i’ve been looking into techniques to learn and i was wondering if there was a name for the stitch you used to fill the body colours on the dragon? i love how it looks, so nice and flat and even

Hey there! Thank you so much. Sorry in advance this is long, i just really fucking like talking about the topic, and I'm actually really used to helping newbies get started. The fill is entirely 'long and short stitch' throughout the entire piece. It's normally used the most in the technique called 'thread painting' which usually aims for photorealism and involves swapping out a lot of colors to achieve a smooth color transition. I instead do one solid color for my fills, and rely on the thread direction + refraction of light to give it depth. That's a style choice vs it being exactly normal or usual - like any art, embroidery artists develop a recognizable style even when using different stitches or approaches to their work. I mention the above caveats because here's a guide from the Royal School of Needlework showing how long and short stitch is worked. It shows it as it's most normally used - very careful planning of the stitches to achieve closer to lifelike shading, and swapping out colors at junctions. Thread direction still matters even when you use different colors for shading as shown in that guide. The goal no matter what when using mercerized cotton or silk floss for this is to make it as smooth as possible so that it's glossy and reflects light. Back to my art style - without color changes, the animals or fabrics or whatever I'm embroidering long and short on, the end result of controlling the thread direction is that it looks far more lifelike and has depth, such as in this photo from the original post, where you can see how the light hits different twists and turns.

The light reflecting differently on different parts is a key part of my style - it's not a happy accident and that is why it looks as nice as it does, it's the most important part imo, because even if the long and short stitch was done correctly, it might look odd or not be the look I wanted if say, I made all my thread simply point up and down. I had to choose as I went how I wanted the components that make up the dragon to contrast and work with each other, since it is a very smooth and even surface, to provide the visual interest. The wings being entirely smooth and slick with their different color sections, the grip of the claws, the way the muscles work over each other on the legs, the scales being outlined and interrupting the flow - these all build within the composition of the piece to help direct the eye.

My original pattern I used doesn't have instructions on that, it's basically a stencil. However modern patterns aimed at teaching this technique do show where to direct and angle your floss in order to get the correct result: nice and flat and evenly shiny. If you're interested in the photorealism aspect of long and short stitch, check out Michelle Staub, who has a very excellent book that teaches both the stitch techniques and how to blend colors. Stitching animals with fur direction is a good way to get a handle on how rendering fur and muscles works.

[kingofsummer93]

Northern Lights in Our Skies

Summary:

Two years after the war with Hybern, a looming conflict once again threatens Prythian's fragile peace. With the safety of the human lands at risk, Elain jumps at the opportunity to act as emissary to a distant, mysterious realm.

That she will get to expand her horizons along the way is a bonus she'll gladly take.

That she'll have to do so while masquerading as Lucien Vanserra's wife, on the other hand, is something she'll need some getting used to.

Ao3 | Masterlist

Chapter 4

A/N: Let me know if you'd like to be added to or removed from my tag list!

There was something different about the sunshine in the Day Court. Elain couldn’t explain it, but when she woke the next morning with golden rays of early morning sunshine streaming in through the billowy curtains at her windows, the air felt alive with magic. Not in the way that it always was, in Prythian, but like the sun itself held some kind of warming, buzzing power.

The sunken bath on her balcony was now steaming and fragrant with lavender oil, where the night before it had been refreshingly cool. It was early, and the breeze off the ocean held just enough of a bite for the warm bath to be inviting.

After her bath she ignored all the dresses she had brought with her in favor of rifling through the wardrobe in her suite as she had done the night before. The fabrics were light and gauzy, the cuts simple and understated and yet elegant. There were no corsets or petticoats or lacing or any of that cumbersome nonsense that human fashions favored.

How odd, Elain realized, to think of them as human fashions. Odder still to think that just a little over two years ago she had been happily flitting around a ballroom at the height of the season in one of those dresses.

If old Elain could see her now, she would probably faint. Better yet, if her mother could see her now, she’d probably burn directly from the grave.

It was an unkind thought, and not one she would ever have said out loud, but it was true. Her mother had been a strict rule-follower, if nothing else. For Nesta, that had meant endless lessons on the many things that made the difference between being a girl and being a lady: ballroom dancing, needlework, proper posture, just enough literature to not seem obtuse. But most important of all- how to wage war with her words. Nesta had been her mother’s weapon, a weapon that had been honed to a fine point since she had shown the first sign of the inner fire that fueled her.

And if Nesta had been their mother’s weapon, then Elain had been her jewel. The pretty thing to bring out and put on display, the charming, eloquent princess who could move her way through a room and make friends with as little as a smile.

Elain knew her sisters thought her silly, or simple-minded. Or, at best, lacking the kind of ambition and drive that they had in troves. They didn’t realize there was a different kind of power in making people believe you weren’t paying attention. Being a dreamer didn’t mean she wasn’t capable of absorbing the here and now, and wielding it to her advantage when it suited her best.

She shut the wardrobe with a snap. Whatever they said, however they tried to cajole her, she would go to Bharat with Lucien. She’d prove to them that she was worth something to their Court, even if she couldn’t wield weapons like Nesta or magic like Feyre.

Her gaze landed on the yellow gown she had worn the night before. A princess of the Day Court, Lucien had called her. Her cheeks flushed as she remembered the pang of longing she’d felt as she noticed his gaze on her.

It had made her uncomfortable before, just as agonizing as her own senseless attraction to him. But at least now she knew it was simply the mating bond, and perhaps a touch of simple attraction. He might desire her, but he didn’t want her, not in the way that her sisters’ mates couldn’t live without them. He had wanted another, and she had been taken from him. Elain was nothing but a shackle for him, something he had never asked for or wanted.

It might have made her selfish to think so, but it made the thought of him so much more bearable. They could work together, perhaps become friends. Their easy conversation the night before had certainly made it seem like that could be a possibility. And maybe eventually the novelty of their mutual attraction would fade, and they would laugh at how morbidly awkward they had been around each other.

She was just slipping on the yellow dress when there was a polite knock at her door. Elain sighed, but squared her shoulders. She’d have to face her sisters eventually, she supposed.

“Come in!”

The door opened and a head poked into the room. “Hello! Can I come in?”

It wasn’t one of her sisters, but a startlingly beautiful female. Her skin was deep and warm, like Helion’s, and her hair was a cascade of luscious onyx curls. She was grinning at Elain almost conspiratorially, as though they’d met before.

“Oh! Of course.” Elain smiled back warmly, thinking the female must be a servant.

“I’m Sydney,” the female continued. “You must be Elain. Helion sent me to escort you to breakfast.”

Elain’s heart dropped. There it was- the ambush.

“Thank you,” she forced herself to say. It wasn’t this poor girl’s fault she was escorting her to a High Inquisition. “Do you mind helping me with my hair?”

Sydney blinked, her azure blue eyes flashing with the briefest hint of surprise before twinkling with what could only be interpreted as mischief. Elain wondered if she had just made some kind of faux-pas. Did servants here not help ladies get dressed?

“Sure!” Sydney trilled, bounding over to the vanity laid out with an array of cosmetics, combs, and accessories. “What are we thinking?”

“I usually wear it down but I’d like to tie it back. It got so frizzy yesterday with the heat.” Elain eyed Sydney’s own shiny, bouncy curls enviously as the female began running a comb through her hair. “How does your hair stay so smooth?”

Sydney flashed her another easy grin. “Took me about a century to figure it out. Don’t worry, you’re in good hands. Would you like some tea?”

“Oh! Yes, please, that would be lovely.”

Elain expected her to leave, or call another servant, but the female merely snapped her fingers and a tea service appeared on the vanity. She couldn’t help a small gasp of surprise. This was no small bit of magic, even she could recognize that. It seemed even more extraordinary for a simple servant to possess such power.

Sydney poured her a cup, and returned her attention to her hair. The tea was fragrant, slightly sweet, and tinged a bright shade of pink.

“Hibiscus,” Sydney said, as if reading her mind. “A Day Court specialty.”

Elain made a mental note to look for the tea in the Palaces when she returned to Velaris.

“So!” Sydney said cheerfully as she smoothed some type of oil through Elain’s curls, “you’re Lucien Vanserra’s mate, right?”

Elain almost spit her mouthful of tea all over herself. She gulped, choking on the liquid as it slid down her windpipe. Sydney merely grinned at her, her gaze full of wicked humor. She was quite bold, for a servant, Elain decided.

“That’s, um…I mean. Yes.”

“You're one lucky female. I’d watch your back if you go into the city, though. Lucien’s got plenty of friends here who would kill to be in your position.”

“Excuse me?” Elain spluttered. Her cheeks were turning a fierce shade of red, and she was instantly regretting having asked this female to help her with her hair.

Sydney only hummed as she twirled and tucked, jeweled hair pins stuck in her mouth as she frowned in concentration. “Is it true, then?” she asked around her mouthful of pins.

Elain folded her hands in her lap primly, willing her burning cheeks to cool. “Is what true?”

Sydney caught her gaze in the vanity mirror and smirked. She actually smirked. The audacity of this servant-

“Do Autumn Court males fuck like they have fire in their veins?”

Elain was glad she hadn’t taken another sip of tea, or this time it would have sprayed all over the vanity.

“Do…what did you just say?” She was suddenly sweating. What did that even mean? Images flashed through her mind in rapid succession, each more lewd than the last. Mismatched eyes shining with desire and mischief, lips soft on her skin as his hot breath tickled her ear.

“Say it…”

She cleared her throat, shaking her head a little to dispel the lurid memories of those dreams. Dreams that had to be dreams, because the alternative was that they were somehow real.

Sydney chuckled. “Oh dear. I’ve embarrassed you.” She didn’t seem at all repentant about it.

“I’m not-I don’t…I mean.” Elain cleared her throat again.

Sydney was still laughing, clearly amused by her mortification. Elain lifted her chin, even though she wanted nothing more than to slide to the floor and disappear right into the marble tiles. “You mean you’re not one of his many friends?”

The servant howled. Elain tried and failed to keep herself from smiling. There was just something so carefree about the female that was irresistible, even if her line of questioning was absurd.

“Oh, he wished I was,” Sydney quipped. “You should have known him when he was young, he was the worst rogue in all seven courts.”

She tucked a final piece of hair and leaned back to admire her handiwork as Elain squirmed. She didn’t want to know these things about Lucien. And yet- she felt a morbid curiosity to know more.

“There! All done.”

Her hair had somehow been tamed into shiny, undulating waves, shining more golden than brown in the sunshine. Sydney had pinned half of it back in an intricate chignon at the back of her head, with the rest tumbling gently over one shoulder.

“Thank you!” Elain stood, grateful to be able to escape this conversation.

“Any time. If you move here I’m happy to stop by every morning.” Something about that seemed to amuse the female greatly.

Elain had no idea how to answer that. “Um. Would you mind…”

“Of course! Come with me.”

Sydney looped her arm around Elain’s and led her out the door, practically bouncing with every step. As they walked through the sunny palace, guards and courtiers made way for them, inclining their heads towards Sydney in polite nods. How odd, Elain wondered. Perhaps Sydney was favored at the palace? Perhaps…she blushed as something occurred to her. Perhaps she was a different sort of servant?

“I’m serious, you know,” the female said with a grin. “I’m sure Helion would be happy to give you a place at the Day Court, if you wished.”

Elain almost stumbled over her own feet. She thought of those dreams she had, dreams that weren’t dreams, filled with images of the Day Court. White sand beaches, talls swaying palms, a palace made of radiant, sunshine-infused marble.

“Why would he do such a thing?”

Sydney gave her another one of those grins that made Elain feel as if she was missing something. She shrugged. “He has a soft spot for beautiful females.”

It was Elain’s turn to laugh. Normally she would have been affronted at such a comment, but the female’s mirthful tone held no jealousy, or malice.

“Well. We’ll see about that.”

“I hear you and Lucien are going on quite the mission.”

Elain felt herself break into a sweat. How fast did gossip spread here? She remembered what Feyre had said about Thesan’s palace at the Dawn Court, and how even the birds there reported to him. Perhaps there were things other than fae ears reporting secrets to Helion here.

They reached a wide veranda on one of the upper levels, and Sydney opened the door and ushered her inside with a flourish. Her sisters were already seated at a circular table laden with a variety of pastries, fruits, dried meats and cheeses, along with a rainbow of freshly pressed juices and pots of coffee and tea. The sparkling turquoise sea was shimmering in the distance, while the city rose to their left like a wall of sparkling white and blue. Elain thought it was quite possibly the most peaceful place she had ever been.

“Thank you-” she started saying to the servant, but the female had bounded forward and dipped into a quick curtsey.

“High Lady,” she said with a grin. “I’ve heard so much about you. And you must be Nesta,” she added, turning to her older sister.

Her sisters smiled politely, both looking slightly annoyed at the interruption. “Hello,” Feyre said politely as Nyx squirmed in her lap. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”

“Silly me!” the female said as she walked right up to the table and sat in a chair next to Feyre. “I’m Sydney.”

Nesta inhaled deeply in a way that Elain knew meant trouble.

“Spell-Cleaver,” Sydney added, popping a raspberry into her mouth. “I’ve been wanting to meet you for so long. My cousin talks about your family all the damn time.”

Elain’s mouth fell open. Sydney…Spell-Cleaver?

“You’re Helion’s cousin?” she blurted.

Sydney smiled broadly. The humor sparkling in her vivid blue eyes reminded Elain of the sunshine bouncing off the sea in the distance, like a thousand pinpricks of radiant light. “Sure am.”

“But…” Elain was mortified. “I thought you were a servant!” She clapped a hand to her mouth as soon as the words slipped out.

Sydney threw her head back and laughed. “I know! I’m sorry about that, but I couldn’t resist. Helion is going to laugh himself hoarse when I tell him.”

Elain hid her face behind her hands. “Please don’t. Why didn’t you say something?” Oh gods, she had asked the High Lord’s cousin to help her with her hair!

Nesta coughed pointedly as Sydney fixed herself a plate and lounged back in her seat, completely at ease. “It was nice to meet you,” her sister said in a poisonous tone that indicated it had been anything but pleasant. “But we have a private matter we’d like to discuss with our sister.”

Elain sighed and sat at the table, going through the arguments she’d prepared. She hated this. Confrontations of any kind usually left her so frustrated that they brought her to tears, at which point she’d lose track of why she’d been arguing in the first place.

“Ah, of course,” Sydney replied easily. “Elain’s trip to Bharat with her mate, yes?” Elain could have sworn there was a slight emphasis on the word mate, but she might have imagined it.

Feyre’s eyes narrowed. “How did you-”

“Did you think your advisors were the only ones who should know about this?” Sydney asked sweetly. Her blue eyes were still alight with dancing pinpricks of light, though instead of conveying warmth, they suddenly looked alive with threat.

“Lucien is a member of my court,” Feyre started indignantly. Lucien. Of course she’d mention just him, and not Elain as well.

“Is he though?” Sydney asked, tilting her head to the side. “Rumor is he doesn’t spend very much time in Velaris at all.”

“His duties involve a fair bit of travel back and forth, yes-”

“And what about Elain?”

“What about me?” Elain asked defensively, before either of her sisters could say anything.

“Do you get a say in your life, or does that get decided for you, too?”

Elain was too stunned to reply.

“Excuse me?” Feyre stood up and planted her hands on the edge of the table. It was such a Rhysand gesture that Elain almost laughed. “I don’t know what kind of accusations-”

“Within the borders of the Day Court,” Sydney interrupted, “mating bonds are a kind of law onto themselves. But females are given the freedom of choice, and that choice supersedes anything else.”

“What does that mean?” Nesta spat.

“It means that if a female chooses to accept a mating bond, then any marriage or previous engagement is considered void.”

Elain’s heart dropped like a stone as she realized what Sydney was doing. What Helion was doing, likely, by having sent her to have this conversation with her sisters. She didn’t know whether to be excited and grateful for the support, or mortified at standing up to her sisters this way. It was exhilarating and terrifying at the same time.

Feyre opened her mouth, but Sydney held up a hand to silence her. Elain marveled again at the audacity. But then again, if it had taken her a century to figure out how to style her hair, this female was likely hundreds of years old and unintimidated by the twenty-two year old in front of her, High Lady or not.

“And it means that if anyone tries to keep that female away from her mate,” she continued, her voice sweet as honey but vicious as poison, “then that person would be breaking the law.” Silence. Elain’s heart was thundering so loudly in her ears she was shocked nobody had commented on it yet.

“Are you suggesting,” Feyre started quietly, eyes still narrowed upon the female, “that I would somehow force Elain to stay away from Lucien?”

“I’m sorry,” Sydney replied sweetly. “I must be mistaken. Was it not you who locked up your own sister?”

Nesta had gone very still. “Careful.”

Sydney bit into a pasty, momentarily closing her eyes and moaning with bliss. Elain felt a sudden, irresistible urge to laugh.

“I’ll need to go shopping,” Elain declared, clearing her throat. “None of the clothes I brought from home will work for Bharat’s climate, or for traveling.”

Gentle talons slid into her consciousness, and Elain shivered despite herself. It felt like a violation every time Feyre or Rhysand did this, no matter how innocent their intentions.

Elain, her sister’s tone was placating, and Elain was immediately irritated. If you want to spend time with Lucien we can arrange it…

Elain dropped her fork with a clatter. “You can arrange it?” Suddenly she couldn’t care less that there was a stranger at the table with them. “You mean somewhere where you can supervise, because I’m a child and not a grown woman capable of making her own decisions about what I can do and where I can go and who I’d like to spend time with?”

Feyre shot a quick glance at Sydney, her face stricken. Clearly her sister was less than keen on starting a full-on argument in front of this female who would no doubt report back to Helion on everything that was said. Elain almost hoped the female would gossip.

“No,” Feyre said calmly. “That’s not what I think, you know that-“

“I don’t know that, Feyre.” Elain’s throat was constricting, and she fought to keep her composure. This was why she hated confrontation. Anger made her break down into tears as surely as grief. “I’m sorry if that upsets you, but the truth is that you haven’t done anything to make me believe any differently.”

There was a heavy silence, broken only by the faint whispering of the palm fronds swaying in the breeze, and the crashing of the waves below them.

“Lucien is your friend,” she continued, more gently. “He’s a good male, you keep saying so yourself. You’re the one who kept asking me to spend time with him!”

“I didn’t mean on a dangerous mission halfway across the world!”

“Besides,“ Nesta was still looking at her incredulously, “you hate Lucien!”

Elain flushed as Sydney chuckled good-naturedly. “I don’t hate him! I don’t even know him.”

Feyre took a deep breath, no doubt ready to use that particular missive to prove her point, but Elain cut her off. “Feyre, I’ve made my choice. If you forbid me to go you’ll have to do it as my High Lady and not as my sister, and you’ll be forcing me to make a choice I don’t want to make.”

Another heavy silence. Feyre seemed to deflate slightly, looking more like her twenty-two year old sister than a High Lady. There was a loud clattering noise as Sydney dropped her fork and pushed her plate away.

“So!” she declared, rubbing her hands. “Shopping, then?”

---

Lucien had a headache, and it had the exact shape and size as the male seated at the table across from him. There had been no ceremony, but gods be damned, Helion had certainly planned a reception.

A casual dinner between allies to celebrate the end of the summit, is what he had called it. A wedding reception was what it actually resembled.

The assembled guests were more cheerful than Lucien thought was wholly appropriate, and more than a few seemed to find the whole thing thoroughly amusing. None more so than Helion, the maître de ceremonie himself, lounging back in his chair and lifting his glass in absurd toasts every few minutes.

Lucien had to give it to the male, he certainly didn’t spare any expense when it came to parties. The dinner was held on a private section of beach at the base of the palace, with the mirror-calm ocean on one side and the imposing structure of marble and gold on the other. A long table had been bedecked in crisp white linen, what felt like solid gold plates and cutlery, and crystal goblets so fine they glittered in the moonlight.

Swaths of gauzy cloth had been draped overhead in a makeshift pagoda, and bobbing fae lights gave the space an intimate, cozy atmosphere. It would have been a lovely evening, were it not for the complete absurdity of it. And were it not for the fact that in the morning he’d be leaving for a long, potentially dangerous mission with none other than his mate.

Elain looked so breathtaking tonight that he could hardly look at her. He felt queasy every time he did so, wrecked by equal parts shame and uncontrollable longing. She’d let her hair down, a few pieces in front held back by golden pins to expose the delicately pointed tips of her ears. Her dress was once again in the Day Court style, gauzy blush-pink fabric that matched the color of the sky as the sun descended over the horizon.

Helion’s deep voice boomed over the din of clicking cutlery and chatter, followed by a wave of laughter. Lucien’s migraine gave a twinge in response.

“Excuse me,” he muttered, to no one in particular. Not that anybody was listening- slipping away from what was his fake wedding reception was comically easy.

Lucien walked along the beach until the flour-soft sand gave way to a rocky outcropping, the sounds of the feast slowly drifting away to a low buzz. Soon the only sounds were the gentle breaking of the waves onto the shore, and the rustling of palm fronds in the breeze.

He had just slumped on the edge of the water and yanked off his boots when his skin prickled in recognition of a presence behind him, though there had been no noise. An earthy, warm scent mixed with the salt of the ocean, and Lucien tensed mid-motion.

“Impossible to be alone in this court, is it?” he asked, his stiff posture betraying what he knew was an unconvincingly casual tone. He briefly considered the repercussions of simply walking or winnowing away before the male behind him could say anything.

“Interesting complaint from someone with the reputation of being a hedonist.” Helion’s voice held its usual mischief, though to Lucien’s ears it sounded slightly forced. Some petty part of him was glad for the male’s discomfort.

Lucien laughed drily. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. He bit back on the retort before it could get him killed. It suddenly occurred to him how far from the party he’d walked, and how alone they were. Every encounter he’d previously had with Helion had been under the mountain, or in Velaris, surrounded by Feyre’s court. It was unnerving, being alone with him- uncharted territory he wasn’t ready to explore.

Lucien got to his feet reluctantly, taking a few unconscious steps back. His socks were slippery on the damp rock, and for a wild moment he pictured Helion simply pushing him into the waves, his skull cracking open like an egg.

Dead at his own fake wedding. There had never been a better metaphor for his pathetic life.

Helion tracked his movements with a frown. “I’m not your enemy, you know.”

Lucien huffed another laugh, remembering his conversation with Cassian the previous year. I’m not your enemy, you know. It was a foolish statement. They were all playing their own games, the rules of which were unknown to anyone but themselves.

“That’s good to know. I have enough of those as it is.”

Helion crossed his powerful arms, raising a sardonic eyebrow. “And I’m sure that serpentine tongue had nothing to do with earning you any of them.”

“Did you follow me out here to chat about all my deficiencies or was there something else?” Lucien snapped. He bit his tongue as soon as the words were out of his mouth. Truly, would he ever stop with the death wish?

Helion stared at him for a beat, the expression in his amber eyes unreadable. “That temper’s pure Autumn, I’ll give you that.” His gaze flicked around Lucien’s features, as if searching for something. “So is that hair.” Something seemed to shift in his stance, a hairline crack piercing his steely exterior.

Lucien looked away, his gut roiling with dread. There was a reason he’d avoided this truth- as had the male before him, for that matter.

“And the rest?” he asked, clumsily bending down to shove his boots back on. So much for his moment of peace. “Is that not Autumn as well?”

Helion was silent for so long, unmoving, that Lucien had to fight the urge to fidget. “I didn’t know,” he said finally, so quietly Lucien could barely make out his words over the sound of the waves.

A wave of nausea rose so quickly in him he thought he might hurl all over the High Lord’s sandaled feet. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I didn’t know, Lucien!” he said again, his deep voice cracking in anguish. Something about seeing the usually unruffled, jovial male showing such vulnerability made him want to look away.

This was madness. His heart was beating so wildly he was sure Helion could probably hear it. There was a reason he’d never said anything, had simply accepted the truth of his existence without looking at it too closely. Prythian wasn’t the kind of place where a truth like that could live in the light without any repercussions.

“And I don’t know what in the cauldron you’re-”

Lucien’s voice died in his throat as a vice wrapped itself around his throat. In an instant he was no longer on a beach in the Day Court, but hurtled back in time to the stone floor of a throne room, held down by invisible shackles. He fought to quell the rising panic as his legs buckled underneath him, rocks biting into his knees painfully.

“Stop-” His voice came out as a painful rasp as the invisible grip around his throat tightened. The foreign magic in his veins thrummed to life, begging for release. Like calls to like. Even with his lungs struggling for breath, Lucien suddenly felt an absurd urge to laugh.

“Do it yourself,” Helion urged as magic radiated from him in a golden halo. “Or do you still not know what I’m talking about?”

Lucien’s vision was going blurry. He pawed uselessly at his throat, his hands grappling with chains he couldn’t see or grasp. Damn him. Damn this infuriating peacock of a male.

The power exploded out of him in a burst of white light, uncontrolled and wild, like a river breaking free of a dam. The grip on his neck vanished, and he took in shaky lungfuls of air as the magic momentarily blinded him. From somewhere above him Helion let out a sound that was halfway between a gasp and a moan of anguish.

“Was that necessary?” Lucien spat, struggling to his feet, his fists clenched uselessly at his sides.

“I didn’t know!” Helion said for the third time. He ran a hand through his shoulder-length hair, looking so uncharacteristically frazzled that Lucien almost felt bad for him. “Not for certain. If I had-”

“You would have what?!” Lucien was aware his voice was rising, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. “You would have stormed the Autumn Court and started a war? Maybe gotten my mother killed in the process?”

The ground shuddered beneath him. “Careful,” Helion warned. He was still glowing faintly in the glare of the setting sun, but it was nothing like the soft, warm glow that Feyre sometimes emanated. There was something dangerous about this male, and the magic he wielded. The same magic that flowed through Lucien’s veins, he remembered with a nauseating lurch.

“Or maybe you just wish you could have gotten me killed when you had the chance?” he continued, centuries of anguish bursting out of him in a torrent of word vomit. “That way you could have avoided the whole nasty business altogether.”

“Don’t be absurd. You’re lashing out at the wrong person.”

Lucien’s laugh was mirthless. “And who is the right person? Beron? Maybe I should pay my dear father a visit and see what he has to say about this situation?”

Helion flinched at the emphasis on father. For a moment they simply stared at each other like two exhausted cage fighters, both seemingly unwilling to either concede or keep fighting.

“You could have a place here, you know,” Helion said finally, taking a tentative step forward as if to avoid spooking him. “Your place is here.”

Lucien laughed again. It seemed the only thing he was capable of doing anymore. Maybe he was losing his mind after all.

“Now who’s being absurd? How exactly would that look, me living here?” He chose to ignore what else Helion’s words implied. Your place is here. Those words were too complicated to process for someone who hadn’t belonged anywhere in centuries. Or perhaps ever.

“If this thing goes according to plan, your father won’t be anybody’s problem anymore,” Helion replied darkly.

For a moment Lucien could only stare. “What?”

Helion shrugged. “War is messy. Casualties are to be expected. All I’m saying is-” He stopped short and whirled.

“Sorry!” a small voice squeaked.

Lucien’s stomach dropped as he looked around Helion and found Elain standing there, eyes wide.

“Sorry!” she said again, wringing her hands. “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you, it’s a bad habit. That’s what happens when you’re friends with wraiths.” She laughed nervously, her eyes pinging back and forth between him and Helion. “Anyway, sorry for interrupting, I’ll just-”

“Nonsense!” Helion boomed, cutting off her ramblings. He slipped back into his usual persona without so much as a blink. “You’re not interrupting anything. I’ll get out of your hair and leave you two love birds to it, shall I?” He winked lasciviously, and with a flash of light disappeared into the night.

Lucien felt like he’d been punched in the gut. For a moment he wasn’t sure whether he was about to burst into deranged laughter or simply hurl. He settled for slumping to the ground with a decidedly ungraceful huff.

“What was that?” Elain asked quietly. “Are you alright?”

Even mentally drained as he was he still marveled briefly at the fact that his mate had just checked in on his well-being. He glanced at her carefully. “Did you…what exactly did you hear?”

Elain’s cheeks flushed slightly. “Oh! Nothing, really, just…something about your father? I promise I didn’t mean to snoop…”

Lucien sagged a little in relief. “It’s fine, don’t worry about it. Different day, different disaster. Story of my life, really.”

Elain sat carefully on the rocks beside him, smoothing out the gauzy fabric of her dress. In the burning light of the setting sun she was glowing with health, so at odds with the gaunt, lifeless female she’d been when he’d first laid eyes on her.

“You know, all I ever wanted was a quiet life.” He didn’t know what made him say it, but it was true. All he’d truly ever wished for was to escape his family’s backstabbing court and live a simple life with someone he loved. No amount of traveling or running away from his duties had ever brought him closer to finding it.

She shot him a suspicious look. “That’s a bold claim for someone who seems to jump into danger the first chance he gets.” Her chocolate brown eyes were twinkling with humor, and it was an effort not to get lost in them.

“Trouble finds me, I’ll have you know.”

“Sometimes I wish more trouble would find me,” Elain said quietly. “A quiet life is nice and all, until you start talking to your plants out of boredom.”

Lucien blinked in surprise, both at the admission and her apparent willingness to talk to him. He wondered how long it would be until the novelty wore off. If he was honest with himself, he thought the answer was perhaps never.

“Seems we both have things to learn from each other, then,” he said wryly. “I’ll teach you how to find trouble if you teach me how not to jump feet-first into danger.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth he regretted them. It sounded too much like a desperate plea for her to spend time with him.

Elain only laughed. “Sounds like a plan.”

The distant sounds of revelry seemed to intensify, and Elain glanced down the beach with a slight frown.

“I’m sorry about all this,” Lucien blurted. “I know our…connection makes you uncomfortable. I can’t imagine any of this makes it easier.”

To his surprise she waved off his concern. “It’s fine. I know you’re not exactly thrilled about it either.” Lucien opened his mouth to protest but thought better of it. “And, about that...” An embarrassed flush was rising up her neck and cheek, and Lucien forced himself to sit still and not lean towards her eagerly. “I know I haven’t exactly been very kind to you in the past, and I…well, I’m sorry.” Her words came out in a rush, as if she was convincing herself to say them before she lost her nerve.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Lucien said quickly. His heart was pounding, and not for the first time he wished she didn’t have the ability to hear it.

“Maybe…” She bit her lip shyly, and Lucien had to look away. He had to get a grip if he was going to survive being around her. “Maybe we could be…I don’t know, friends?”

She said it so tentatively, as though it was a foreign word whose meaning she didn’t fully understand. A warm, desperate hope suddenly bloomed in his chest, and he prayed to whoever was listening that it wasn’t visible on his face.

“Friends?” he asked with a crooked grin. “I don’t even know you. How do I know you deserve such an honor?”

She grinned back at him and stuck out her hand primly. “Hi, I’m Elain. I love dancing and hosting parties, and I’m pretty good at making things grow.”

He took her hand, swallowing thickly at the sight of her much smaller hand engulfed in his. As soon as their skin made contact his chest tightened, the thread that joined them together coiling tight around his heart.

“Hi, Elain. I’m Lucien. I love books and nature, and I’m pretty good at climbing trees and catching fish with my bare hands.”

Elain’s head cocked to the side, her eyes sparkling with delight. “Really? How? Can you show me?”

Lucien chuckled at her enthusiasm. “Find me a stream on the continent and I’ll teach you. It can be your first lesson in getting into trouble.”

“Deal!”

He let her hand go, his skin still tingling from her touch. They sat in companionable silence until he cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Speaking of the continent. I, uh…bought you something.” He felt his face grow hot, and knew his cheeks must be approaching a color close to his hair.

He reached into his pocket and set a small velvet bag into her palm with a rueful smile. Elain’s eyes widened as she took out a glittering ring. It had a thin gold band, set with a small ruby surrounded by elongated diamonds in a shape that could have been flower petals, or perhaps a sunburst.

“I saw it at the market today,” he said, avoiding her gaze. “I thought you might like it.” This was an understatement. In truth he had spent hours looking into different jewelry shops, looking for something that she would like. Judging by how badly his previous gifts had been received, he’d settle for something that she didn’t hate. “If you don’t like it you don’t need to wear it, of course. We can just get plain rings.”

She was smiling at him shyly, and the sight of it was enough to shut him up. “I love it,” she said quietly. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

Elain slipped the ring onto her left hand, and for a second Lucien couldn’t breathe. Not real, he reminded himself.

Not real.

Taglist: @areyoudreaminof @separatist-apologist @tuzna-pesma-snova @labellefleur-sauvage @corcracrow @autumndreaming7 @octobers-veryown @velidewrites @vulpes-fennec @sunshinebingo @asnowfern @hallway5 @thelovelymadone @princeash @screaming-opposum

[maedhrus]

dear helen if you would like to do so: I am obsessed with your domestic joplittle and would love to hear more abt that au of an au with twins Susan and David, this is totally an invitation to just ramble about it! I love Dadward Little, you have them so right, I can’t stop thinking abt these two as adorable exhausted first time parents

OH i'm so glad to hear that because my brain is absolutely consumed by them!! it's very flattering to hear that someone is obsessed with these kids i forced into being!

the au of an au is really just my excuse to give joplittle kids because i am similarly possessed by the idea of edward and thomas as parents. i vary between an a/b/o setting and simply transing thomas' gender (because genderqueer thomas jopson is so special to ME) but either way, susan and david little are twins born in 1852, susan being older by eight minutes. david's middle name (michael. if yk yk) is just one that edward and thomas liked because there are Too Many male friends and relatives to choose a name from. susan's middle name is jane for edward's sister (who i hc as his twin after reading it in a couple of other fics and falling in love with edward as a twin.)

susan is a Mini Edward except for when's she's angry wherein she is possessed by thomas jopson sensibilities and guard-dog behaviours. david is a mix of both parents, but looks like edward when he frowns and thomas when he laughs. he's also got a bit more of a temper. despite being fraternal twins, they very much look like siblings, sharing dark but wavy hair and pale eyes. they have their parents absolutely besotted from day one.

i usually hc thomas' home life being pretty troubled growing up so he frequently can't believe that he gets to have a stable family unit; he teaches them both needlework but susan takes to it more, partially due to her greater patience. for edward, he can hardly believe that someone wants to marry him never mind have kids with him so he's occasionally struck with disbelief over how incredible his children are, but attributes this mainly to thomas. david absolutely idolises edward and aspires to similarly become a commander in the navy when he grow up (he does join the navy, but eventually becomes disillusioned with it). also Dadward Little is CORRECT he's very good at it!! he carries them on his shoulder and reads them stories! thomas sewed all their baby clothes himself

susan had a really bad bout of pneumonia when she was around ten and the doctors weren't optimistic about her odds. david completely withdrew into himself during this time, not even wanting his parents to hold him. edward and thomas were similarly distraught, with thomas refusing to move from her bedside. luckily, she recovered, but never really seemed to regain her full strength. less traumatically, david was once racing a friend to climb a tree, slipping and breaking his arm. he was more embarrassed than anything.

they live in ashford and are a happy, stable family and i love them all!

(occasionally i do have thomas and susan dying as a result of birth complications but that's mainly to feed my own personal angst enjoyment. in this au, edward is at his saddest and dampest and loves david with everything he can possibly, humanly offer. i do have some stuff written for this au.)

[mysticnightmarewrites]

Gendrya Kinktober 2023 Day 1 - Hair Pulling

Thirty minutes into the driest lecture Dr. Mordane had ever given, Arya Stark was the wettest she’d ever been. It had nothing to do with the discussions of ancient Westerosi needlework or the professor’s stodgy tweed pantsuit and everything to do with the sexy transfer student seated in the row behind her. Gendry Waters. She had repeated that name inside her head so many times since the start of fall term that it now flooded through her unbidden. The man himself was even more beautiful than his name could ever convey, and he had been leaning forward every few minutes to whisper little comments in her ear. It was driving her wild. 

But nothing could have prepared her for the words that came out of his mouth next. “I bet you’re good with a sword.” 

Arya was on the fencing team, sure, and Mordane had just started describing the artistic detailing of ancient weapons, but her jaw still dropped. She picked it up off the floor as quickly as she could and turned to gauge Gendry’s expression. Instead of meeting his icy blue eyes, Arya saw he was looking straight ahead at the images on the projector screen like a serious scholar. 

For the rest of the class period, Mordane might as well have been speaking High Valyrian. There was an entirely different type of sword on Arya’s mind. It wasn’t the first time she’d thought about what it would be like to push Gendry down on a flat surface and have her way with him. Her friends had been yelling at her to just ask him out already for weeks. While Arya had never been one to back down from a challenge, this was different than seeing how many shots she could down in a row or knocking Joffrey Lannister off his high horse. 

“And now, of course, is the moment you’ve all been waiting for,” Mordane’s special announcement voice cut through her thoughts, “it’s time to pick your group project partners!” She finished her sentence with a cheery squeak, as if she expected to meet with a degree of enthusiasm that was unlikely to manifest. 

Looking to her left and to her right, Arya noticed people had already started pairing up, and she’d been left as the odd one out. Before she could feel properly bummed out, she felt a gentle but firm tug on her ponytail, the sensation zinging through her entire body, which was already thrumming with want. 

“Want to be my partner in crime?” Gendry fixed her with an expression that looked anything but studious.

Want to do that again? “Sure!” she managed to get out before packing her things away and following him to the hallway.

Together, they wandered to a secluded corner of the building and watched as the students left the last classes of the day and flooded out into the quad. For the first time since they met, they were alone. 

Gendry pulled out a notebook and pen, and they started going over deadlines and how to share the work. Arya watched Gendry’s hands – the hands of someone who’d worked with them for a living – as he started outlining the project. That was the same hand that just minutes earlier had played her strings like an expert musician, giving her something she hadn’t even known she wanted. Before breaking up with her last boyfriend in freshman year, they’d only gotten as far as missionary, and nothing they’d done had made her feel so dirty and needy as that one simple act. It was the final straw, showing her just how behind she’d gotten. All her friends had been out trying new things with new people and blowing off the steam of tight deadlines and the impending doom of graduation. And here she was, just now discovering she liked getting her hair pulled.

“Do it again,” she demanded, breaking through the silence.

“Do what?” He looked up from his notes, brow furrowed in confusion. It took a moment, but Arya could tell from the look on his face when he realized what she’d meant. “You liked that?” he asked softly, slowly setting down the pen and turning to face her.

Arya nodded.

The side of Gendry’s lips twisted up, the smile shining in his eyes, and he reached that muscular hand over her collarbone to where her hair brushed against the back of her neck.

But he didn’t pull. 

Instead, he dipped his head down toward her. Is he going to kiss me? Arya’s heart thudded in her chest. Closing her eyes, she tipped her chin upward, hope starting to spiral through her. The moment Gendry’s lips covered hers, he gave her ponytail a sharp tug, and he swallowed the moan she couldn’t keep inside. For the first time in her life, she felt like a livewire about to spark a fire. 

“Fuck,” she whispered as he pulled away. “I wish I knew about that sooner.”

“Me too,” Gendry replied, cheekily, picking his pen back up.

Arya caught her breath. “You ever feel like college is passing you by?” 

“All the fucking time. I’m almost 25, getting my first real college experience. I was worried I’d be graduated and out of here before I ever got to hook up with the prettiest girl on campus.”

Blushing, Arya lifted her feet up to the bench she was sitting on and wrapped her arms around her knees. “My friends are out there having threesomes and one-night stands, and it’s been years since I last had sex.”

“Sounds like we’re in the same boat.” His words surprised her, but Arya tried to keep that from showing on her face. “Is there anything particular you’d like to try?”

Picking up the page of notes to try and look casual, Arya cleared her throat. “I dunno. I’ve never really thought about it all that much.” After staring at Gendry’s messy but readable scrawl, a funny idea came to her. “Too bad I don’t have a list like this to work off of,” she laughed, lifting the paper up to the light filtering in through the window.

“We could make one together,” Gendry offered. “You know, cross things off one by one, make the most of our college years. That kind of thing.” 

Arya’s heart caught in her throat. “Like a bucket list?”

“Yeah, but more like a fuck-it list.” 

Arya giggled. “I’m in.” And then Gendry tugged her hair and went in for another kiss.

One by one, Arya scribbled down the kinks they wanted to try, crossing out ones that didn’t get a strong yes from both of them, and soon the page was full. 

“If we’re going to get through all of those by the end of senior year, I think we’ll have to get started right away,” Gendry said, looking over her shoulder.

“That sounds very logical. My dorm is a couple of buildings over.”

“It’s a plan.” Gendry stood up and reached for Arya’s hand to pull her to her feet. “Let’s go.”

Anticipation tingled through her entire body with every step that took them closer to tearing each other’s clothes off. She knocked on the door of her small, two-unit space, thankful when Weasel’s voice didn’t call out from the other side. They’d have the whole place just to themselves.

Quickly, she pushed Gendry through the opening and closed the door behind them. “We’ll have to be quiet. I don’t want to get in trouble with the RA.”

“Don’t worry, I can be quiet,” he said, taking a few steps toward her and wrapping his arms around her smaller frame. “How about you?” In one swift movement, Gendry lifted her off the ground and sat on her bed, pulling her onto his lap.

Arya shrieked but clapped a hand over her mouth to muffle the sound. “Bad boy,” she scolded him in a whisper.

“Let’s save that kink for later,” he said, bending down to kiss her. Arya moaned, grinding down into hardness, loving how eager he was to be with her. 

By the time they’d gotten each other’s clothes off and Arya had rummaged around in her roommate’s drawer for a spare condom, the fact that she was now naked in her dorm room with the guy she’d been crushing on all term fully settled in.

“I know this all happened really fast. If you’re not ready, that’s totally fine. We could wait.” His voice came softly from behind her, and that last little bit of reassurance warmed her heart.

“But I don’t want to,” she pretended to pout as she turned around and pulled the rubber out of the packet. 

“Come ‘ere.” His voice was like a magnet, drawing her back to his lap.

The moment she slid down on his cock, Gendry pulled her hair.

“Just like that,” she whispered, melting into him.

“I’ve got you.”

[highonmarvel]

Gauze.

content warnings here!

Bar On Jax Masterlist

Previous Chapter: Officer

You were tense as James stitched up the cut in your wrist, trying desperately not to cry, now knowing that seemed something that turned that sick fuck on. You were grateful he had at least untied one of your arms as he stitched and bandaged you. Every now and again he hummed gently to himself as he worked, and it made you sick, that this man was taking so much pleasure in fixing you up as if he wasn’t the one who caused it. You couldn’t stop a few winces here and some tears falling there, but you tried to remain silent and avoid eye contact with him, but as he gently placed your hand back in your lap, you could feel him just staring at you, waiting for you to respond.

“Thanks,” you grumbled, not looking down at his work, just trying to enjoy the last few seconds of having your shoulder in its natural place before he pinned it back up to the other.

“Do you want me to leave that arm untied?”

You looked up at him with hopeful eyes, and his soft gaze returned the feeling; you could see the hope this would work out twinkle in his blue eyes, and it made you angry, that he really thought that you could ever care for him after all he’s done to you.

“Yes, please,” you breathed, hoping you weren’t tempting fate here. But he smiled softly and nodded.

“While I pack.”

“Pack?” you repeated, sitting up straighter as he stood.

He glanced at you with an annoyed look, as if to say fucking of course, that’s what I just said, dumb bitch.

“Wait—” you tried to use your free arm to pull your restrained wrist out, but quickly recoiled with a yelp as your cut stretched under James’ needlework.

“It’s only a few things,” he assured, “Because we’re leaving. Now.”

He was crazy and he was lying, he had to be. Where were you gonna go? Where could he go where no one would recognise him? Sure, maybe you could disappear and nothing would change, but Bucky Barnes disappearing would definitely turn heads, and even if, by some odd measure, the general public didn’t care, surely Sam would, or some of the other Avengers, SHIELD, anyone on the inside, really.

James pulled out a duffel bag, and began throwing clothes into it.

“It’s fine. I had a feeling this would happen,” he said, talking more to himself than you, really, “I’ve got the essentials, doll, just taking a few extras.”

He zipped up the bag and looked down at it with a smile, proud of himself.

In the front pocket was something small and cylindrical. He didn’t just put that in; that had had to have been placed there before. Why did he have a vial waiting in a duffel bag? Sure, it could have been a forgotten item from a previous trip, but everything James did felt deliberate, and so that vial may have been too.

“Listen,” his voice was suddenly low, nearly a growl, as he stalked back to your side, “You’re gonna stay in the trunk of the car, because you’re not well-behaved enough to sit with me up-front, baby, and you’re going to stay quiet,” he pulled open a drawer, never breaking eye contact with you, and pulled out a roll of gauze, “And behave. If you can do this on your own, maybe you can walk around in our new place, yeah?”

Gently, his calloused hands untied the arm above and brought it to your injured wrist. He held your wrists in front of you and wrapped and wrapped and wrapped thick gauze around them.

“I don’t want to use anything… harsher,” he said as he watched your burns and stitches slowly be covered by white cloth, “So please just behave,” he almost sounded desperate as he requested your cooperation. You didn’t respond, only watching in horror as you were slowly having your freedom taken away from you, tangibly, and you did nothing to stop it. You could scream, kick, fight until you were worn out, but, physically, he would always have the upper hand, and he would get you tied up in the end. He could overpower you physically, but still, you held on to your mental power, and for now, the best thing to do was play it safe.

You stayed silent, hoping he wouldn’t feel the need to gag you, but as soon as he tied a knot around your wrists, he immediately stuffed some gauze in your mouth, and wrapped it around and around your head, not too tightly, you could be thankful for, but the soft, woolly fabric still clung to your tongue unpleasantly, and there wasn’t anything you could do to rid the sensation.

You didn’t watch him as he worked, you couldn’t, for fear you would be sick, like his sickness in the head would contaminate you physically. He used zip ties to bind your ankles together, and though obviously not the most comfortable, they weren’t the most uncomfortable either.

He left the room with his duffel bag, and returned not too long later without it.

Bucky scooped you up gently, bridal style, specifically. Your head fell back and you looked to the ceiling, but he didn’t make a move to support your neck.

Once outside, he was able to swiftly open the boot with you still in his arms, and that’s when you started wiggling and grunting, trying desperately to fall out of his grasp.

“You’re a criminal, doll; don’t want anyone to see you. The place isn’t too far from here, you’ll be fine,” he cooed, and your eyes snapped to his. Anger was bubbling, he could definitely feel it, in the way you stilled and the way your face was turning red, and surely your mouth would have twisted into a snarl if you had not the stuffing.

He admittedly a bit carelessly dropped you into the boot, and you bounced slightly with a small grunt. You shifted to peer out into the day; it was cold, the weather, but not nearly as cold as James’ icy stare, his blue eyes frozen in sternness and near-impatience; he just wanted to leave, and he just wanted you to,

“Behave.”

With that, he slammed you in. The small space was making you anxious, just by what it represented; being able to do nothing within walls; it was how James was making you feel, taking away your control and so wrapped in delusion he was so certain you would just conform to his expectations, his fantasy of you being his… girlfriend, or whatever the fuck, you didn’t know, it hadn’t even been a week!

The engine started up and the car began to reverse. You were honestly grateful there was no window; you didn’t need to watch your life shrink away, you could feel it; your apartment, your car, your job at the bar which you had held for a while now and… that was it. You honestly had very little, but it was yours all the same, and now it was, your life, being merged into a man you barely knew and who killed the person closest to you and who killed someone you had the potential to be close to.

Angry didn’t even begin to cover it. Where the fuck did he get the audacity? Where the fuck did he get the idea that he had the right to kidnap a woman he barely knows? That thought upset you, that maybe other women had suffered similar fates, maybe even worse, at the flesh hand and metal hand of the lunatic in the driver’s seat.

You were losing concept of time; having played a few songs in your head to get an idea of how many minutes had passed until your head hurt from the noise bouncing in your mind through your own thoughts and the aggressive bumps on the road were getting harder and harder to ignore. You were off-road, definitely, so you could only assume he was taking you somewhere remote, where no one would hear you scream, where you couldn’t escape on foot, impossible.

Hours, minutes, you honestly couldn’t say how long you were in the boot and how long he drove for when all you could do was hope for it to be over, and promise yourself that on the count of ten, this would all be done, and you would be able to breathe properly again as you struggled to breathe through your nose, the oxygen in the boot already poor enough, stained with that car smell. You would count to ten, and the car still wouldn’t stop, and you would sob, until you regained the composure to count to ten, and the car still wouldn’t stop, and you would sob, until you regained the composure to count to ten, and the car still wouldn’t stop.

Nothing would stop; the past few days it had just been one thing after another after another, and, honestly, even if you were to be trapped with him forever, the least you could hope for for now was just a pause, a break to actually process what has happened instead of rushing into surviving the next challenge without having know how you’d survived the first.

The car was slowing down, the car was finally slowing down, but your heart rate was speeding up trying desperately to get your attention, but you stared straight ahead waiting for him to open. First was the sound of a car door, open, close, then another, open, close, and then keys, and a door a bit away open, remain open, and then shoes on gravel, approaching you at a taunting speed; quick enough to keep you in an immediate anticipatory state, but slow enough for you to feel cornered, like a predator taking time with his prey because he knows he’ll always win in the end.

You flinched when light basked down. It was night, but the moon shine was still bright compared to the pitch blackness of the boot.

“Thought you’d be asleep.”

You knew you looked horrible — messy hair, eyes red, cheeks stained and the gauze wet from tears — and you wanted to snap at him for the comment; did he just to think you could just sleep off his abuse?

He pulled you out and let out a blissful sigh as he once again held you in bridal style. Your right arm was trapped against his firm chest and you couldn’t wiggle your arms free to try to bash him over the head. Despite your very careful movements, he picked up on what you were doing and pressed you harshly against you, and you groaned, feeling so close you were sure he was trying to have you dissolve and become one with him.

You were woozy as he took each step; his height gave you slight vertigo worsened by the car sickness; everything was just in motion, everything about your life, and now your body. You suddenly felt you were ascending and snapped your eyes opened, not even realising you had closed them in the first place.

He entered a room, then its en-suite, and set you down on the toilet.

“Ten minutes in here,” he started as he gently took your wrist and undid the knots, “If you try anything I’ll shoot your fucking kneecaps.”

You flinched as he pulled a knife out and twirled it in his virbranium hand. You thought he was going to hurt you, but he just sliced through the zip ties, and you sighed as you felt relief in your joints and relief he didn’t cut you.

Your already uneven breathing hitched at his dangerous words. Then, he gave you a sweet smile, blue eyes twinkling with hope, clearly hope you would give in.

You nodded quickly, at least unbelievably grateful to have a little privacy, a drop of liberty; you never realise how good freedom feels until you’re trapped.

The click of a lock as he left the room coincided with a sigh of relief. You used the toilet and began to run a bath, swinging your arms and stretching as far as you absolutely could, free from any ties for the first time in days, you didn’t realise how stiff you were. There was a single window far above the wall cradling the bathtub. It was way to thin to slip through anyway.

The steam frizzed your hair and you carefully slipped into the water, making sure to leave your injured wrist (that you had been moving too much already) from sinking in the water. You wanted to pull the stitches out just out of defiance, and to prove to him that you didn’t need him to fix you up, especially when he was the cause in the first place, but you didn’t, as the rational part of you knew that would be stupid.

The feeling of the soap on your skin was duller than you remembered; the last time you had felt it was when he drugged you.

Quickly you tumbled out the bath, and for the first time noticed the folded clothes on the edge of the basin; an oversized t-shirt and a pair of panties that fit perfectly. You swallowed your disgust as you pulled on the underwear, shuddering once, and ultimately deciding to push it to the depths of your mind.

“James?” you tapped on the door, and he opened immediately, like he had his hand on the lock waiting for you to say the word.

You stepped past him and into the room you hadn’t had time to take in; it was a smaller than his bedroom, at his first home, you guessed, but still more than comfortable, and you wondered where he got the money from. You expected him to stop you as he walked toward the balcony, but he didn’t. You slid the glass door open to reveal a peaceful neighbourhood, more like a cluster of homes, actually; there were only about three others in sight, and they were pretty far away, almost hidden amongst the greenery; trees were aplenty and you managed to spot a flower garden in someone else’s yard. You were glad you weren’t at least entirely alone, and breathed a sigh of relief at the thought that maybe you could one day at least manage to run off to someone nearby instead of being stranded in a cabin in the woods.

You startled as James stepped up behind you, but he gripped your shoulders to prevent you from jumping forward and held you in place.

“They don’t care,” he leant down to your ear, “About what I do. They don’t care about you, they don’t know you, only I do, doll.”

His firm grasp didn’t even allow you to shudder at his manipulative words. Someone would care, they really would, and you would get out, and one of the neighbours would help, and you could go back to working on the Bar on Jax. Sure, the worst memories of your life plagued that tavern, but it was at least a constant in your life, working at the bar, a paragon of normality.

You swallowed lightly and willed yourself not to cry as a breeze came in and lightly burnt your eyes. James slowly let go, but trailed the back of his hands lightly down your shoulders, your arms, and stopped at your wrists. You immediately winced, even though he hadn’t touched your scar, but he instead wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you back into him. He swayed slightly, and you had no choice but to sway with him, his chin rested atop your head as you continued to stare straight out.

“You did so well,” he mumbled, lips above your ear, “In the car, and you took care of yourself.”

Fucking obviously because I’m an adult, you wanted to snap back, but you didn’t.

“Can I leave you up here for a bit? I’ve gotta take care of something.”

You breathed out a “Yes,” half-afraid it was some kind of test, and he was going to tell you that you’re an idiot for thinking you could survive more than 10 minutes without him.

“Come inside,” he instructed. He stepped away to leave you entry to the doorway back into the bedroom, which had your stomach churning; it was going to be another jail cell, wasn’t it.

You sat on the bed, your hands in your lap as you waited for his next move, expecting him to restrain you again. He sighed and crouched down, one hand on your knee, but you kept your gaze on your hands in your lap.

“I won’t tie you up. Just behave.”

“I will,” you responded, softly.

“Atta girl,” he patted your knee and stood again. You could feel his gaze on you, willing you to look up, but you didn’t, you kept your gaze on your hands in your lap until you heard the click of the door closing and the switch of the lock.

As soon as he left, you stood up, wanting to get something done as quick as possible; the longer you waited, the closer he was to coming back. Even though your first instinct should have been to run, the thought of that vial in his duffel bag just wouldn’t leave your head, nagging, buzzing around your thoughts like an annoying mosquito you could only get rid of by confronting it.

You opened the closet facing the bed, and there was the bag in the bottom compartment. You dropped to your knees and pulled it out, turning the zipper toward you to reveal the front pocket with the outline of a small glass cylinder. For some reason, you were scared to see it, because something in you told you it wouldn’t only be bad just if Bucky caught you. With a deep breath and shaking hands, you reached in and felt around until your fingers wrapped around cool glass. You pulled it out; it was darkly-tinted with a beige label on, scribbled in pen.

F Temple.

You didn’t even have time to gasp let alone time to process the few letters you had just read when the click of a lock sounded again and the door creaked open.

End of Gauze.

✪

Next Chapter: Wait for…

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