#they’re not the real tiaras!!!!

[duchessofostergotlands]

Some random British influencer went to Garrard and wore the British tiaras with the royal family consent. How is this appropriate?? Her name is Lydia elise millen she just posted the video.

This seems like a marketing scam to get me to watch some random annoying woman’s video, which I will not. But anyway, Garrard have replicas. Made out of crystals. They let press and fancy people try them on in the Queen Mary suite, a private suite named after Mary with the royal family’s approval. So that’ll probably be what she’s doing.

[areyouwho-ithinkyouare]

the thing about the Anastasia stage musical is that like…….. as a story it’s a real improvement on the original film. way better construction, stronger characterisation etc etc etc. but…. the same choices that make it technically a better narrative also have really weird knock-on effects on the message.

Replacing rasputin with a communist party officer who’s father was one of the ones who executed the romanov family??? UGH that’s so good that’s so juicy the dynamic between the villain and Anya is SO much more interesting than in the original film. But it leads to scenes like Still/The Neva Flows where it’s like.

“The Romanov’s were given everything and gave back nothing until the russian people rose up and destroyed them!”

*girlboss voice* “All but one. I am my fathers daughter”.

And i’m just… ok but he’s right though. He’s absolutely correct there. Factually he is accurate. But she’s the protagonist and he’s the antagonist so the framing is that she’s the one we should be rooting for here. There’s no point where Anya is like “wow my experiences growing up poor and destitute and orphaned have made me morally uncomfortable with the idea of claiming my place as the daughter of the tsar and that’s going to influence my decisions and actions”. She’s just like. Oh cool i get to be a princess??? neato.

[ghouljams]

Medievall au Konig…

King of a neighboring kingdom, who is declaring war. The king and queen, parents of Ghost’s princess, offer her hand in marriage as a peace offering. inviting him over to shortly court/get to know the princess, but falls in love with her lady in waiting? (or any type of servant/help type worker)

God this is dangerously close to my cursed king König from my novel and I am for REAL holding myself back here. This isn't going to be König's new medieval au, but I wanna see Ghost sweat and I love causing the princess pain. So I’m using my cursed König here, because I love him, and also because he’s just a little fucked up, and also also because he is just... incapable of loving the princess lmao

You hate this.

Your maids have spent all day preparing you to meet a man that could become your husband. A king. You pout as they scrub you with perfumed soaps, rubbing scented oils into your skin and hair until every nook and crevice if you is soft and sweet. It's truly the most extensive bath you've ever had, and all you can think of is how badly you don't want it to end. The same with your makeup and your hair, all the primping and poking takes far longer than you would've liked, and yet far shorter than you need. It's miserable, and your maids are too chatty, too excited. They don't leave you alone long enough to cry.

Your parents, well your mother, have planned a rather elaborate dinner to introduce you and the neighboring King. You desperately want to kick and scream, throw things and make a mess until someone takes notice of your misery and puts a stop to it. Your maids tighten the strings of your dress, fix your necklace until it sits just right on your chest, spritz you with perfume, and tip your tiara until it catches the light with the sparkle of tears in your eyes.

"You look beautiful m'lady," your lady in waiting smiles, squeezing your shoulders tight in an approximation of a hug. It's not a comfort. You feel like a horse being trussed up for the market. You say nothing, you think she gets the idea. She's always been a good friend to you. "Maybe he'll be terribly rude and ugly, and the King will kick him out before the meal is over," she suggests.

"One can only hope," you mumble.

Ghost isn’t waiting for you outside your quarters door. Your eyes dart around the hallway, past the knight that offers you an introduction. He should be here, why isn’t he here? He wouldn’t leave you if something important didn’t come up, something must have happened. You turn to your maid, confusion stealing away your anxiety for the moment. 

“Where’s Ghost?” You ask her. You hardly have a spare moment to feel sorry you’ve ignored this poor knight who you’re sure is his stand-in.

“Orders of the King,” The knight tells you, “I’ll be your guard from now on.”

Your heart falls. They’re really serious about this. You wonder if your mother put up a fight, if she was the one to suggest it. It feels like a betrayal of the highest order to look at this knight and tell him.

“I’ll be in your care.”

When all you want to do is throw a royal fit and tell him to get Ghost or get out. You suppose you could. You could go back into your room and send word you won’t be attending anything. Be a true royal brat. You shudder to think what would become of you if you did. Without Ghost to protect you, there’s no telling how quickly you’d be dragged from your quarters. Placed in front of your royal guest kicking and screaming, what a first impression that would be.

It feels like a funeral procession walking down the hall towards the formal dining room. Your feet hardly want to carry you, but you can’t run with an unfamiliar knight at your heel. For all you know he’d chase you down under your parents orders. That was the one thing you never had to worry about with Ghost, perhaps you took it for granted how loyal he was to you and only you.

You stop in front of the heavy wood doors. You don’t even get a moment to collect yourself, barely get a squeeze of your hand from your lady-in-waiting before the guards on either side open them. Immediately your worry over Ghost is replaced by anxiety for yourself.

The doors open, the guests at the table stand, and you look up, up, up, at the man you assume is your neighbor King. The height of him, the sheer mass of musculature and masculinity frighten you. You thought Ghost was tall, does this fucker come from a land of giants? The King tips his head to you, and you dip into a low curtsy. As well trained as ever.

"König," your father smiles, a ringing rising in your ears as König stares you down, "this is our daughter, Princess-" You wish you could say he at least seems interested in you. He doesn't. His eyes look bored at best and disdainful at worst. You wish you could say more but the lower half of his face is masked. You'd wonder what that was about, if you weren't so terrified that this man was going to take you away, he doesn't even seem to want you.

The man, König, has an air of violence to him, madness almost. An air you find infecting your mind even as you walk to your seat. The proximity to him doesn’t help the feeling that if any man would be the hand in your death it would be him. You can hardly imagine what a marriage to him would entail. How cruel could he be, when you couldn’t even sense a spark of warmth from him.

You knight pulls a chair out for you, and you sit, moving on pure instinct. König's eyes slide off of you to touch your maid as she leans to speak to you. You barely hear her over the ringing in your ears, your breath coming short as you stare at your place setting. Did you leave your heart in your room? It feels like you must have, you hardly think it's beating.

You feel like every muscle in your body is pulled taught, tightening to keep your skeleton from shaking. You can’t think against the rising wave of dread that settles over your mind. Your vision is so fuzzy, and the crown on your head is impossibly heavy. The weight of awful responsibility. An animal raised for slaughter, that’s all you are, all you’ll ever amount to. Another bargaining chip in your parent’s pocket to be thrown on the table in front of any unwed king they find important enough.

This is worse than an interview with a nobel. There’s no need for a formal meeting between you and a king. If he likes the look of you he can take you. There’s nothing more that needs to happen to make you his. A wedding is a formality. You’re sure that giant of a man has never heard ‘no’ in his life, and even if he had you’re sure that no didn’t last long. Where is your gentle knight? Why do you have to be doomed to a nightmare when so many other girls get to be loved?

Someone touches you. No one is supposed to touch you. You jerk away, the world snapping back into focus with a rush of sound and color. You maid crouches next to you, your hand between hers, concern clear in the furrow of her brow. You look around the table, the startled expression of your parents, König's wide eyes. Your lady in waiting swipes her handkerchief over your wet cheeks silently. Are you crying?

"I'm sorry," you smile at the other people seated at the table, "I'm just- just so excited at the prospect of marriage I suppose." Your lady- your friend fixes König with a sour expression, still dabbing at your makeup. You glance at your mother to try and pick up the conversation, maybe salvage this torture. She isn’t looking at you, her eyes set on König. Her expression is placating, her smile as warm as a crocodile’s. Political, just like you are supposed to be.

The air in this room is stifling. Your parents love you, but they care about you only as far as you’re useful to them. Despite your mother’s previous words, a king is too good a deal to pass up. Just like a princess throwing a tantrum in the middle of the night is too disgraceful to mention in the morning. 

“She’s not usually like this,” your mother tells König, her voice sweet, “she must be nervous in the face of a man so…” König raises a brow, despite the full plate of food in front of him, he has yet to remove his mask, “handsome.”

You shove off your maid’s fussing, your skin crawling to be touched by anyone. You’re going to be sick. You hardly mutter an ‘excuse me’ before you’re running from the room.

[creativepromptsforwriting]

Prompt List: Royalty

Masterpost by creativepromptsforwriting

Prompt #103

This marriage was supposed to bring peace to our lands but all it created was awkwardness.

Prompt #106

If we kill the king, they’re just going to put another one on the throne.

Prompt #270

Why can’t the pirate get the princess for once? {Submitted by: daughterofhadez}

Prompt #279

“Stop calling me Princess!” “I apologize, my Queen.”

Prompt #360

“The King is dead! Long live the Queen!”

Prompt #450

“I thought it would be fun to be a real princess in a real castle with real knights, but everything stinks, they really don’t have dragons here and I miss Netflix. Let’s go home.”

Prompt #460

When two people fall in love, empires will fall next.

Prompt #493

“Do me a favour and don’t start a war while I’m gone.”

Prompt #542: Quotes (66)

“Aren’t you a little old for a tiara?” “Tell it to the queen.”

Prompt #566

Every family has their own scandals. But being in the royal family means yours are bigger and a lot better documented.

Prompt #572

“Your place is on the throne.” “No, my place is by your side.”

Prompt #640

Even a king could use a hug from time to time.

Prompt #645

“You are my queen and I will serve you until my death.”

Prompt #708

Their relationship was at any given point only seconds away from causing an international incident and they didn’t want it any other way.

Prompt #717

Probably not a lot of people had ever felt the feeling of true power of having a king kneeling before them.

Prompt #755

“Chin up, princess. You’re a warrior, remember?” {Submitted by: thesaurus-lover}

Prompt #757

To fuel the fire to a feud between two royal dynasties, an enemy queen from a third kingdom secretly sends her twin daughters as spies and conspirators their way. {Submitted by:  thecenturybookworm}

Prompt #815

When people started to kneel in front of him, he thought there had to have been a misunderstanding.

Prompt #821

“Who died and made you king?” “Oh, haven’t you heard the news yet?”

Prompt #853

“Why are you wearing all of your expensive heirloom jewels?” “Because I’m having a crisis!”

Prompt #854

It was one thing to disappoint your parents, it was another to disappoint a whole kingdom.

Prompt #855

He was standing on the balcony, looking down into the faces of his people, who loved him, who trusted him, and he almost couldn’t get the words out.

Prompt #990

“Why are you kneeling in front of me? Stand up, this is awkward.”

More: Royalty Masterpost

[spooklies]

# Fairytale - Yan!Mark Grayson x F!Reader

♡ ... › “Life itself is a most wonderful Fairytale.” - In which she comes to terms with a reality that doesn’t feel real.

── Words - 1.1K

♡ ... › Warning(s) - Graphic depictions of harm. Domestic abuse. Minor character death. Brief mentions of a panic attack.

── A/N - This is based off that version of Mark where he’s evil. No spoilers for that though! Think of this as an au of an au.

She figured the last of her friends were now dead as she watched their hideout burn from outside on the street, her knees bloodied from the concrete she slid on and her shoulder dislocated from the compact. Her friends didn’t scream – they were never given the opportunity to before he rigged the place to blow. 

Opening her trembling fingers revealed a picture of herself from childhood. She stared into her younger counterpart's eyes, already knowing the way they viewed the world differed due to recent events. She lived in an apocalypse while her younger self lived every day as if it were a fairytale and she was the princess the story centered on. Except now there weren’t sparkly dresses or even flashier tiaras. Just death. Every street she walked on was a reminder of the kind of world she lived in with a dead body occupying every other mile. For a while, she was able to tell herself that despite all of this chaos, she still had people to keep her afloat and from drowning in all that grief. 

But because of her, they’re gone now – dead from an explosion caused by her carelessness. They had warned her about going out and the risk she posed on their whole operation being found if she did. But Y/n had insisted she grabbed at least one piece of memorabilia before they hunkered down for an indefinite amount of time. If only she had listened. It wasn’t worth it, they were right. And she’d tell them as much if they were still around to listen. 

She could only hope their deaths were quick and painless. But knowing Mark he would somehow find a way to draw out their ends in the worst way possible if only to prove a point to her. She found it hard to believe that a man she once loved was capable of such cruelty. It was as if a switch had been flipped the moment he and his father had that argument. The Mark she’d fallen in love with had become more rash, not at all caring about the consequences of his actions even if it meant those actions put her in harm's way. His new viewpoint on life was pessimistic whereas it was once optimistic. His trust in her had diminished into nothing and he’d become strict, not letting her do as she pleased if she didn’t have his permission to. He had explained that he’d made more enemies and that going out was dangerous since they most likely knew how much she meant to him. 

After many arguments, she was forced to come to terms that the man she’d fallen in love with was gone. This new sinister version of her boyfriend contrasted too greatly with the sweet and selfless version she’d been in love with. All of the love that once warmed her chest lost its warmth and turned cold. Staring into Mark’s eyes no longer filled her with butterflies and instead made dread coil deep within her gut. Danger. Mark was dangerous, sure, she’d always known what he was capable of once he’d revealed his identity as Invincible. But she never once suspected that he’d use that power for bad – never once believed he’d use that power to make her life as well as others a living hell.

So she ran and never looked back. It had been a good six months since they last saw each other and she knew he’d find her eventually with all of the influence he now holds. She had just hoped he wouldn’t have gone this far and that the Mark she loved was still in there with all of that humanity that made him who he was.

Mark’s yellow uniformed feet landed in her peripherals, an eager skip to his step as he approached her and crouched down, his hand gently placed on top of her head. If she shut her eyes she could delude herself into thinking she wasn’t trapped in a nightmare and instead back to the time when everything was good in her life. When she was treated like a princess from a fairytale by the man who acted as her doting prince.

“Y/n…” He whispered lowly, his actions now mirroring that of an owner disowning their pet when his grip tightened on her hair. She winced, and Mark paid no mind to it. “Look where running got you.” She didn’t respond and Mark took that as his cue to continue speaking. “Aw, don’t be like that. Your friends were lucky to have survived this long, those who are part of the resistance die in worse ways than they did.” At the mention of your friends his tone turned ominous, a clear distaste apparent. 

She tilted her head up so she was looking at Mark, mirth absent in a place where it was once believed to be forever stagnant. He showed no authentic sympathy for everything he’s done, though that should have been something she expected.

“You’re bleeding all over. C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up. I know someone who–” 

She smacked his hand away and backed up as much as she could before her ankle was grabbed in a vice-like grip, Mark’s strength keeping her from moving any further.

“Y/n, you’re not going to make this any more difficult than you already have, are you?” He asked in that same sing-song voice, an obvious threat hidden underneath the tone that did not go unnoticed. She opened and closed her mouth, begging for her mind to get out of her thoughts but ultimately coming up empty. Mark made a noise of disapproval and grabbed onto her leg with both hands. “You’re lucky this is all I’ve done so far, I could have done so much worse by now.”

The crack her leg made when Mark split it in two was booming and was heard over the blood pumping in her ears and soon after she was screaming out in agony. Mark had his hand back over her hair, stroking it in downward motions as he hushed her as if she were throwing a childish tantrum.

“It hurts, doesn’t it?” He said softly. “Now imagine this pain but worse then you’ll know exactly how I’ve felt all this time without you.” If she was frantic before then she was beyond that now. She shook her head back and forth, letting out incoherent words between sobs. Mark watched on with disinterested eyes and then grabbed onto her other leg. Y/n tried to wring her leg out from his grasp before he inevitably broke that one too. But her attempts were all futile. She had passed out from the pain not too soon after her legs were both broken and when she came back into consciousness she was being carried by Mark through the air. The burning sensation that encompassed her thighs down was now a dull throb in the back of her mind as she cried silently in Mark’s arms. The picture that had cost her friends their lives nowhere to be found.

[linderosse]

I LOVE YOUR WIELDERS OF WISDOM COMIC!!!! i think its wonderful and so absolutely necessary (if u will excuse my feminism)... the art style is GORGEOUS and im just so grateful someone is giving love to all the zeldas <33

sorry that this is anon but. i dislike being perceived lmao

Thank you so much!!

And heck yeah on the representation front! I’m doing my best to write a variety of interesting characters that will help me tell the stories I want to tell. To me, the fact that they’re mostly women is both incidental and vitally important at the same time.

Tetra was my first Zelda, and I always loved her pirate captain badassery and no-nonsense attitude. I was a bit of a ‘tomboy’ (used in the non-insulting sense, simply referring to a girl who liked traditionally boyish hobbies/clothing) growing up, so I identified with Tetra real hard <3. Heckin’ loved her practical, forthright nature— and the way the games don’t hesitate to show her wackier side and how her actions sometimes get her in trouble— and how she gets out of it, with or without help.

And of course, girls can also be girly and get things done! Love the more traditionally feminine Zeldas as well; shirking feminine mannerisms definitely isn’t a requirement for a well-written female character. You can have a character wear a tiara, battle in a dress, and still be cool. Heck, you can have ’em don a soft gown, not fight at all, and still be an awesome character: maybe she genuinely wants good for the world, or maybe she controls the board with gentle magic and soft “feminine” persuasion to achieve her goals, turning foes into friends— or her pawns.

And characters don’t always have to succeed! Sometimes persuasion fails. Sometimes they argue with someone they know is right. Sometimes her sword falters. But that’s fine! That’s what makes for a good, realistic, fun character— that’s how humans are.

(continued under the cut)

See, I feel like some popular media is trending towards forcing women to be *exclusively* badass, almost flawless in their physical skill yet boyish in their mannerisms.

Like, as a random example: Peach in the Mario movie. Movie Peach no longer giggles and blows kisses, because that would be too girly. And Movie Peach is a perfect platformer and politician, because female empowerment. Same thing with Galadriel in RoP (and it’s honestly a bit different and way worse with RoP Galadriel, because her mother-name is Nerwen which translates to man-maiden and she is canonically a tomboy, but they write it so badly in RoP that not even the rest of the characters in the show respect her for her over-the-top ‘female badassery.’) And as a huge, longtime fan of both the Mario series and the Silmarillion, it kinda hurt to see those Mary Sue-esque, somewhat shallow depictions of what should be complex characters.

Now, the thing is: one or two perfect characters like that are just fine! The problem lies in the fact that many of these shows have only a few female characters to begin with, and they’re all like that. Peach is kinda alright, but Galadriel’s major flaws are barely even shown because the writing has to try to make her look badass even when she’s making objectively terrible decisions.

Because here’s the thing— depicting only perfect women and minimizing flaws isn’t supporting female empowerment. Girls have flaws too, folks. Popular media relying only on the immaculate femme fatale badass just makes for a more cliche story, and imposes higher standards on young girls who look up to these characters. And the forced boyishness forces standards as well.

Why can’t Peach flutter her eyelashes, giggle, and still knock bad guys on their asses? Or, better yet, why can’t Peach flutter her eyelashes, giggle, knock bad guys on their asses, help Mario out, also get helped by Mario, and maybe admit that it took practice for her to get to where she is now?

That’s how she used to be in the middle Mario era, like Super Mario RPG, Thousand Year Door, and Super Paper Mario. Peach was feminine and still relatable to a young tomboy like myself.

I’ve rambled on for far too long, but anyways, that’s what I’m gonna try to do here with the Wisdomverse: tell stories of a bunch of different types of people, where each of them has their own take on what it means to be Zelda.

I can’t promise I’ll be perfect at writing this either, honestly. Perhaps I’ll fall into some of the same traps— I’m sure it’s hard to avoid them.

And perhaps my thoughts on this will evolve over time as well, and I’ll later have an even better understanding of how to write the characters I want to write.

Either way, I’ll certainly do my best!

Tl;dr: I got really sidetracked, but thank you for the kind message! Glad to hear you’re enjoying Wielders of Wisdom; hope to keep building my characters into interesting and at least somewhat complex women as things progress :)

[sturnsluv]

meddle about pt. 1

pairing: matt sturniolo x fem!reader

summary: when Y/N finds herself falling for her big brothers life-long enemy, will she choose love or family?

warnings: mentions of blood

⭒˚.⋆

3:43 pm

I watched Matt storm off, blood dripping from his nose, and chest heaving like some sort of MMA fighter after a match. My head whipped back towards my brother, who stood there like he was some sort of god, shoulders broad, face solemn, and that same bloody nose leaking wine-looking stains all over his white shirt.

“What the hell Jack!” I shouted. This is all they ever do: fight, fight, and fight. My brother Jack and Matthew Sturniolo have hated each other for as long as I can remember, which I completely understand. Matt’s an insufferable dickhead with an ego the size of the Titanic. Despite my best efforts to avoid him, I always manage to find myself around him, caught in the crossfire of their endless feud.

Matt’s brother Nick has been my best friend since 2nd grade when he punched a boy who made fun of the tiara I wore to school that day. Since then, I have been forced into a house that always consists of Matt. Although my hatred partly came from my loyalty to my big brother, Matt’s attitude had a way of making me hate him all by myself. Like all the times he’s made snide comments about Jack’s ability on the hockey team. Or the way he looks at me like his eyes are bullets piercing into my skin with every remark he makes. 

“What? he was being a dick!” Jack hollered back, his face contorting with a mix of confusion and anger. His short, permed, brunette hair fell messily in front of his eyes, and the back stuck up all which ways. He stood tall like Dad, but his green eyes came from our Mother. 

“Mom is going to kill you Jackson,” I say through gritted teeth, my frustration with their constant fighting boiling over. Mom had explicitly warned Jack that the next fight with Matt would result in him being done with hockey, but it seemed like these two senseless men couldn't keep their hands off each other, no matter the consequences.

Jack only had the energy to roll his eyes at me and stumble away, most likely to go clean up his battered face. I sighed in frustration, feeling the weight of our recurring “Sturniolo” drama settling in once again. Ignoring the turmoil brewing inside me, I reached down to my back pocket and pulled out my phone, immediately clicking on Nick’s contact.

Y/N:

our stupid brothers fought again 🥱

nick😛:

you HAVE to be fucking kidding me.

Y/N:

I wish I were bro

Nick😛: 

at this point I think they’re secretly in love and this is all a cover up

I giggle to myself cause honestly, he’s probably right. Nick always has the perfect way of making me laugh, and he’s one of the only people in my life I never feel judged around. Nick has held me as I cried and laughed with me hours later over the stupid boys who’ve broken my heart. He’s even forced Matt to pick me up after I had been stranded at parties or events. Overall, he’s always been there for me. I have other friends of course, but those friendships have never felt real to me, always one-sided on my part. 

 Looking up I slide my phone back into my pocket and begin the most dreadful trek across the football field. Okay, that was dramatic but looking for Jack isn’t exactly something I'm up for right now. Tonight is going to be restless from the amount of bickering I'm about to hear from him and Mom. The house was already loud enough with Mom and Dad fighting. Ever since I was eight years old, Mom and Dad haven’t gotten along. They’ve tried almost everything to mend their marriage. Even couples counseling, but nothing ever worked, so me and Jack just have to deal with it.

 I sigh to myself as my mind races, and the gentle trudge across the field continues toward the locker room, where I assume I’ll find my brother. But the fighting won't even be the worst part of it all. The worst part will be tomorrow when I'm over at Nick’s house, hearing Matt bitch and moan about Jack. I swear every time I’m around him I have to fight the urge to strangle him. All he talks about is the stupid cheerleaders he’s hooking up with, or lacrosse this, hockey that. His voice is unbearable and it’s genuinely the reason I question if I want to go over every time Nick asks. 

Suddenly I'm broken out of my thoughts when I hear my name called from behind me. I turn around and see the one and only center of my anger. Matt. His voice cuts through the tension-filled air like a knife. His expression is unreadable, but his body language exudes a mix of exhaustion and hesitation.

“What do you want?” I yell back at him. He’s standing about twenty feet away from me with the same bloody face he had about thirty minutes ago. My face drops when he starts to jog towards me and I’m filled with a feeling of ‘please leave me alone.’ 

As Matt gets closer the sound of his sneakers hitting the wet, sloshy turf rises, and so does my frustration. “You have a ride home?” He breathes out, panting lightly. Matt places a hand on his knee to steady himself, while the other scratches the back of his neck. His face is flushed and red. The fight obviously damaged him, and he looked nervous to be standing in front of me.

“That’s seriously all you wanted?” My face gains a snarky scowl and I look him up and down, noticing the way his hand is running through the hairs at the back of his neck and the way he lightly taps his foot on the ground. It's apparent he’s on edge, which I assume is because of the fact he just beat my brother's ass, but I couldn’t care less about either of them right now. I mean I do love my big brother, but not when he’s acting so prideful after doing something so wrong. Even if he wasn’t the one to initiate it. Matt’s loud but unsteady voice cuts off my thoughts.

“Well I just assumed Jack left, and Nick's order is to always look after you, even if I want to kick your face in,” He exclaims as he smiles sarcastically at me. I scoff and look away mumbling a quick ‘I’m good’ under my breath. I hear him start to speak, but I cut him off by turning around and continuing my path toward the locker room. I assume at that moment he turns as well, going off in search of his car.

As I walk away my feet drag against the turf, little beads coming up beneath me and I’m overwhelmed with strange, alluring thoughts of Matt’s bloody face. 

⭒˚.⋆

11:47 pm

God, will they ever shut up? I listen to Mom’s and Jack’s muffled voices from the kitchen. Tossing and turning in my bed, I put my fluffy, pink pillow around my ears to attempt to surround myself in silence. That doesn’t work as the pillow is too thin, and the yelling continues pounding into my eardrums. 

When the school called earlier and told our parents what happened, Mom was pissed immediately. Even though the fight was after school hours, it still took place on “school property” so both Jack and Matt ended up suspended. On any normal occasion, I’d be delighted to hear about Matt’s suspension (as it happens quite frequently), but now that Jack’s involved I think I might go insane. His presence in the chaos only amplifies the tension in our home.

But I keep thinking about Matt, and what he said to me. He’s usually not the type of guy to walk over offering any type of help. He’s one of those mysterious types of guys who always get into trouble, even though you barely see them talk. I think it’s all an egotistical act he does to seem tough. Whenever I’m at Nick’s he’s hidden away in his room playing video games made for children. It’s so out of character of him to even think of me and the more I contemplate, I can’t help but grin. Sitting up on my mattress I slap my face. What the fuck am I thinking? Nothing about Matt Sturniolo should be making me smile. Not the way his hair flops in front of his eyes, or the way his mouth lifts to the side when he smiles. Even the way his arms flex when he wraps his hands around a lacrosse stick. Ew! What am I doing? 

I lay my head back on my pillow, letting the thoughts of Matt drift out of my mind. My brain starts to calm and just as I’m about to fall asleep- Ding! 

“Ugh,” I verbally groan at the sound of my phone snapping me back awake. I reach my hand out and turn it over, and the bright screen practically blinds me. As my eyes start to adjust I’m finally able to see what the message is.

Matt Sturniolo: 

hey I gotta ask you something

⭒˚.⋆

a/n: first chapter lmk what you guys think! 😊 comment to be on my taglist!

[ashlingiswriting]

do i know you? chapter three

[ 3k words ] [ prev chapters: one, two ] [ masterlist ] "it’s an unfamiliar sensation, not being able to completely read him. it skitters over you like static electricity." richie jerimovich x reader, past mikey berzatto x reader, slow burn

you’re on call every day from eight at night to eight in the morning, so by the time richie rolls up, you’ve usually just eaten a late breakfast and he’s heading home after work. there’s a consistency to his late night appearances, a rhythm that becomes comforting.

there’s no pretending and no politeness—what would be the point? they should invent a word for this. maybe childhood-friend-in-law would do, except you had a snowball’s chance in hell of ever marrying michael and you always knew it. that’s the feeling, though. familiarity comes built in. even when he gets truly infuriating, you don’t leave feeling worse than you did. more pissed off, sure, but never worse. it’s a distinction worth noticing. 

some nights are easy. you talk about questionable obscure music in which you really do not overlap or middling mainstream music in which you do, running out of concerts and context. sometimes it’s pure bullshit, gossip or make believe, starting up elaborate jokes too lame to admit to in front of anyone else, then discarding them when they’re outworn. sometimes it’s old stories, sometimes it’s pure speculation.

hand to god, some nights are good.

and then there’s this night.

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.

you’re barely out the front door when richie calls out, hey. where the hell were you?

you got called in real early yesterday, so you missed seeing him last night. but that’s no cause for him to yell, the entitled little jerk. you shoot him a baleful glare. then, as you take in the sight of him, you settle a little.

he’s not truly angry. you’ve spent enough time with him now, you’d know.

with a shrug, you shove your hands deep in your pockets and come stand beside him. 

last night i had to smoke all by myself like a fuckin loser, he says. 

that's your cue to say, you are a fuckin loser, but you don't take it.

he offers you a drag on his own cigarette, and you shake your head. you want it bad, but you can’t. you all but smoked yourself to death between crises yesterday, and you’re trying to convince yourself now that giving it up will somehow fix things. 

but nothing will be fixed, and it’s not your responsibility anyhow. this is not your city. you’ve felt that acutely of late, as each of your last links to it is broken one by one. coke or the cops, what difference does it make? the caruso kid didn’t listen to you, didn’t listen to anyone, and once his infection got bad enough, his wife called an ambulance. it’ll be the cops for him if he survives, and his father after that, the next domino to fall. you yourself are somewhere in that long line, just waiting for your turn. 

work sucks, huh, richie says. 

you look over at him to find that he’s already looking back at you, a little sleepy but not good enough an actor to hide the keenness in his observing eyes. it’s dangerous that he noticed you were gone and it’s dangerous that he’s noticing you now, but it feels really, really fucking good. 

yeah, you say. i thank god every day that i am a woman of leisure.

he laughs. well, i’m just grateful that you allow yourself to associate out with me, you know. me in my rags and you in your pearls and finery. he gestures at your sweatpants and gigantic parka.

once my tiara’s back from the cleaner’s, it’s over for you, you say.

sure, and i’ll be crying my eyes out in a pint of cherry chocolate chip. 

with that, he launches into a long, winding tale about the shenanigans he pulled at the beef today, installment nine hundred and seventeen of his neverending battle with a guy named fak. you’re not following, but you’re not trying to follow particularly hard, either. you’re too tired, and you’ve got other shit on your mind.

that’s the closest richie has gotten to mentioning your job in weeks. 

used to be that he’d poke around with dogged persistence, as though he thought he could needle you into submission. he asked after your boss’s health, your credit score, your childhood high school. he complained he had to take a shit or that it was too cold out to stand around. all that. anything to invade, get inside, get a little more information. 

michael was like that, too. the difference between the two is that michael won. conquered you, most if not all of your secrets, and fell asleep in your bed long before even a month had passed. but richie’s been at it for a few months now and he seems to have given up. he doesn’t know your job, your last name, or your phone number. he could pick you out of a lineup but he could never track you down. and he’s decided to let that go.

it’s just as well. you’ve got leftover dim sum in the minifridge right now, and if he pushed hard enough, you’re pretty sure you’d take him up to share it. siu mai re-steamed and slices of lo bak goh re-fried in hot oil in a pan, savory and delicious, nothing better. you can’t cook, but you’d still feed him well if given half the chance. you’d arrange the table with takeout napkins and your only two sets of matching cutlery, you’d—

the real richie rudely interrupts your thoughts. 

you’re not even listening to me, are you, he says. 

no, i’m not, you admit without an ounce of compunction.

just like everyone else, hey? fan-tastic. there’s a real bite to the way he breaks the word in half.

you look at him, startled and stung. don’t be such a fucking baby.

man, fuck you, he says. real anger, rocketing out from his chest. 

fuck you! you stare at him, legitimately astonished. maybe it’s your fault for not paying attention, but you really have no idea where this is coming from. you’ve been good. maybe your mind strayed for a while tonight, but what about every other night? you’ve always listened, or at least pretended to listen, to the travails of his divorce, his money problems, his insane workplace, his dysfunctional quasi-adopted family. and there’s a hell of a lot of it. you’ve been really fucking good!

apparently, not only has he not noticed this, but he thinks he’s entitled to even more.

you say, what do you expect here when you’re going on for eons like fucking always. do you think this is fun for me?

well, someone has to talk since you won’t say shit about shit with that paranoid secret agent—

oh, fuck. something about the way richie cuts himself off. you dread whatever he’s got to say next.

he says, what’s that supposed to mean, do you think this is fun for me?

jesus christ. you fumble in your coat, only to remember that you threw away your last pack. i don’t speak in fucking riddles, richie, this is not that type of situation.

then what type of, like. his face wrinkles in horror and disgust. am i a charity project? 

this is like having a migraine, but worse. i never said… truly, what the hell is going on? how did you even get here? 

dredging up the last of your energy, the emergency fund, you turn it into bravado, your default response to an unexpectedly angry man. you give it your all cause that’s the only way to do it, turning and facing him head on, putting your shoulders back and standing square over your own two feet. 

what is this, richie? you wanna fight? you really wanna fight?

yeah, i think i do actually, says richie, alarmingly ready. i think i really fuckin do. 

fine, you spit. 

you tilt your chin up so you can look him square in the eye and you give him the worst you got, spiteful already, and then you start trying to anticipate his next move.

there’s a lot of things he could say, as it turns out, a lot of things that only he could say, because he was there for everything. he witnessed the aftermath and attended the funeral. he could have you skinned like a caught rabbit given half the chance, and you just handed it to him on a silver platter. 

besides, he has a right. he loved michael even more than you did.

the realization dawns on you far too late, and then the dread sets in. can he see it in your face? when he opens his mouth, you’re setting your jaw so you don’t flinch. 

forget it, he says flatly. he turns away a little, steps back to lean against the building, and in the shadow of the building all you can see is the shape of him. if you concentrate, you can make out his profile against the gray concrete. 

.

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.

at first, you can’t quite believe it. it’s mercy, after all, and that’s rarely reliable. but after his last cigarette, richie folds his arms tight across his chest and tilts his head back, eyes looking up towards stars that neither of you can see through the city lights.

eventually, you do start to think the mercy is real. you test it.

can i have one? you say.

richie doesn’t even hesitate. he reaches into the left pocket of his tracksuit pants, produces a pack, and hands it over. it turns out to be brand-new box of menthols. 

you look at it for a moment. your throat’s doing that thing again. he really did notice that you weren’t here last night, huh.

i don’t do charity, you say, after a second.

it’s fine, forget it, he says. 

i don’t, though. you don’t know what to say, but you know you can’t leave things there, so you keep pushing, and the words just come out. richie, i’m—i’m really a piece of shit. 

he looks at you directly again, but this time it’s a question. he doesn’t try to negate it with a brainless autoresponse like ‘no you’re not.’ he just listens, plain and simple. for a second, you’re at a loss. 

sudden and frightening as a car crash at the next intersection, the impulse flashes through you: tell him the truth, the whole truth. test him for real, watch that mercy melt away, inevitable as ice on hot pavement. teach him to hate you like he should. it’s like strong hands digging their fingers into your shoulders, the thought, and you’re reeling.

i… you swallow, smash it down, yank the car back onto the road. i hate ice cream and babies and long walks on the beach, i hate old ladies and libraries. you look over at him. i kick dogs every chance i get. 

there it is, at the corners of his mouth.

heartened, you go on, nearly tripping over your words. like, small dogs, richie. puppies. right in the head, i kick them. 

now you’re both smiling, and the relief is so fucking crazy. you’ve fought with him so many times before, but you’ve never gotten scared by it before. this is a first, and you have no idea what to do. all you can do is repeat, i don’t do charity.

okay, he says. okay.

you lean against the wall, and you’re absurdly heartened when he does the same right next to you. something about the symmetry, something about the weight off. you finally light up one of the menthols, and you have the night with richie back again. the breeze brushes by, chilly but not unbearable. it’s perfect.

what happened today? you say.

i thought you’d like it, he says. it was funny. 

go on, then. 

you wonder if richie might try to make you say please, but he doesn’t. he walks you through the whole day of catastrophes, from the broken toilet to the loss of electricity, from the loss of electricity to the fucked-up fridge, from the fucked-up fridge to the outdoor grill—

that’s really cool, you say.

he grins. right? 

whose idea?

from his crooked, exasperated smile, you know it wasn’t his. 

syd’s, he admits.

you raise an eyebrow. so i take it the culinary institute is good for something.

he scoffs. no way they taught her that. that—he points at you—was pure chicago.

oh okay, so we’re giving the credit to the city.

yeah, we are, cause it’s like—

the city, not the woman.

it was very chicago of her! that’s a compliment. don’t make it a feminism thing. his voice matches yours, a near-laugh ribboning through it like fudge in ice cream.

alright, okay. you’re smiling like a fool and you couldn’t care less. so then what?

so turns out fak’s connect isn’t much of a connect, surprise surprise, and it’s gonna cost us fifty-five hundred just to get the fridge back up and running. so he and carmy come to me, all hat in hand, and they’re like—shit. i didn’t tell you about the dealing, did i? you got me all turned around.

didn’t tell me bout the what now?

fak snitched on me earlier, told carmy i was dealing in the alley back behind the beef. i’m not moving much weight, just like. he gestures vaguely. covid, he adds, like that’s an explanation. please don’t have a fit about this, i’ve had all i can take from carmy already.

you shake your head once, thinking hard, processing. the more you think on it, the more it unsettles you. 

i knew he was dealing, obviously, but i didn’t know about you, you say. after a second, you add, richard edgar jerimovich?

jesus, he mutters.

is that right?

and here i thought carmy was going full mom. edgar, jesus fucking christ. richie’s torn between aghast and amused. where’d you get that from?

that’s your middle name?

yeah, but—

you hold up a hand, not rude, just asking him silently to let you finish, and he does. 

richie, you broke your wrist when you were twelve trying to play tackle football with the big boys on asphalt. at some point in your thirties, you started getting a rash every time you ate shellfish, but you still do it anyways, ‘cause fuck it’. and to this day you hate nightmare on elm street cause he convinced you to watch it with him when you were both way too young. 

none of this richie told you himself. it all came straight from michael. 

you say, how do i know all that, but i didn’t know you were dealing? 

richie says nothing, so you look over and find him watching you already. it’s an unfamiliar sensation, not being able to completely read him. it skitters over you like static electricity. 

you got a pretty good memory there, huh, he says.

it’s coke, right?

it’s just coke, yeah. was coke. it’s over now. richie shrugs wearily, turns away, and stubs out his spent cigarette on the concrete wall. mikey and his fucking secrets. i don’t know what to tell you. 

you can say that again. 

richie says nothing for a beat, then: mikey and his fucking secrets, i don’t—

okay, okay. 

he breaks into a small smile as you watch him, and then you keep on looking at him even as the smile subsides. a car goes by, and you look down at the pavement as the headlights sweet over both your faces, only looking back up at him once the car is gone.

the thing is, you really did think you knew him. what a crazy thing to think, when this is a mistake you’ve already made before with michael. you thought you knew him too. 

there could be so much of richie you don’t know, because michael didn’t know—or because michael didn’t tell. and yet richie isn’t a stranger. at any moment you could close your eyes and picture his face, imagine his voice. he’s in you that much, at least.

so here he is, through your own eyes. you’re determined to fix him in your mind, not richie from the stories, but richie as he really is. his hair is dark and close-cut, his beard too. his eyebrows are scant, and there’s a ridge on his forehead as if to make up for it. his nose is straight and straightforward. there are bags under his eyes, because of course there are, but his eyes themselves are as blue as summer, so blue they’re barely believable. that’s him, that’s his face.

then there’s the eternal black leather jacket, oversized and complete with unnecessary shoulder straps for all the bags he’ll never carry. he stinks of kitchen in general and arby’s curly fries in specific. he’s allowing you to stare at him, an indulgence that you can’t question without being a dick. he makes you want to not be a dick. all this is here, all this is real. 

he rubs his nose with the side of his wrist. 

you must be tired, you say quietly.

when he smiles like that, it’s almost like you can look down past a few decades and see the teenager you never got to meet. i’m never tired, he says.

he’s always tired, you realize. of course he would be. you only ever see him after his long-ass shifts. go to bed, richie.

that was too gentle for sure, because he says a little curiously, getting some real weird vibes off you right now.

you take one last drag, then push off the side of the building, gathering yourself to go. you want normal, don’t come to me. 

heard, he says with a chuckle. g’night.

goodnight.

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[ chapter four ] [ masterlist ]

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@garbinge, @narcolini, @drabbles-mc, @beingalive1 — if anyone else wants a tag, let me know.

[separatist-apologist]

Red Earth & Pouring Rain

Remember what we found? No one can ever take that away. Something forever.

Summary: When Feyre's father tries to set her up with one of his high society friends' sons, Feyre does the only thing that makes sense in the moment: she fakes a Scottish fiánce. Writing him letters detailing her escapades, Feyre never expects anyone to read them. But when a mysterious uncle leaves her and her sisters three scattered castles, Feyre's forgotten fiánce appears on her doorstep, determined to make an honest woman of her yet.

Or- that time Rhys fell in love with a stranger writing him letters.

Big thanks to Unhinged Bookclub for help with the moodboard and @the-lonelybarricade for being my UK consultant (which consisted mostly of me asking about swear words)

Part 1/2: I've Got Something Burning, Coursing Through These Cold Veins | Read on AO3

Dear Rhysand Campbell-

Today is my sixteenth birthday, which ought to be cause for celebration. I want to be happy about it, but I’m not and I can’t tell anyone. My sisters already think I’m terribly spoiled and my father probably would, too, if he ever cared enough to notice me. Ugh, that sounded spoiled, too. Maybe they’re right. I don’t suppose you understand.

Of course you don’t. You aren’t real. And I guess there’s no danger in telling you about this miserable birthday party (if you could even call it that) or worrying you’ll think I’m spoiled and a miserable brat (like my older sister accused me of) (don’t worry, I pulled out one of her extensions in front of Tomas Mandray which…in retrospect…maybe proved her right on the miserable brat front. It was pretty funny, though. Even Elain cracked a smile.). 

It all started with my father. He woke up one morning a month ago, looked me straight in the face, and asked me how old I was. I didn’t know what to say (I might have forgotten), so Elain told him I would be sixteen in a month. And he said we should celebrate, which made me so happy. I rattled off a list of things I wanted to do, and I thought he was listening.

I should have known he wasn’t when he put Elain in charge of planning. It’s not that Elain is malicious, she’s just…prim. Perfect, really. The sort of daughter he actually wants, I think because she doesn’t make a lot of fuss and maintains his calendar for him like mother used to (she died when I was nine). 

And I definitely should have known we were NOT going camping when Elain had me measured for a dress. She looked so apologetic and I couldn’t bear to hurt her feelings when I know she’s trying really hard to fill the gap mom left when it comes to me, even if it makes her spineless when it comes to dad. And I could have asked Nesta to ruin it, but I guess I’m a little spineless, too.

So by the time the day arrived, it’s this huge party for all of dads friends, one of whom is running for parliament and needs money. And I look so very stupid in a floor length ball gown and—I am not joking—a jeweled tiara while all these old men in their fifties whore themselves out for cash. There was a cake (five tiers and chocolate, which is my favorite flavor, at least), there was singing, and of course the aforementioned incident in which several of Nesta’s extensions were pulled from her head unceremoniously. 

Some leering prick told me I was a woman now. Well, he said it to my breasts, not really me. What is it about men that makes them think that’s a normal thing to do? Am I supposed to be flattered? Elain whisked me away, a smile plastered on her face and when I asked her how she stands it, she only laughed and said, “Oh Feyre.” Like I was the silliest person in the world. 

She looked like a princess, and I don’t envy her for it. Every man our father is friends with is trying to trick or trap her into marriage. I think she could be a princess like Kate Middleton if she had the interest. 

Anyway. 

Father made some grand speech right before the cake cutting, where he talked about peace and, for some unknown reason, Brexit. He also thanked God for  our monarchs, which, I didn’t realize he was that religious but I guess for this crowd, he is. 

You know what he didn’t do? Say thank you for his daughters? Imagine, blessing Charles but not the daughters who enrich his life. Nesta was gripping a steak knife so tightly I thought she might actually stab him and Elain’s eyes were glassy and sad, even with that plastered smile.

And despite how Nesta thinks I’m a miserable brat, she DID stand up and demand everyone sing me happy birthday. And Elain led everyone in an off-key rendition of the song, which was nice. Serving staff cut the cake, and there were, of course, no candles.

Happy sixteenth birthday to me.

And at the very end of the night, some lord (I think—honestly, I wasn’t even listening at that point, I was just thinking about getting those miserable shoes off my feet) told father that his son was single, and also sixteen. I could see father's interest peak and I can’t be like Elain. She’s always letting those awful boys take her on dates, and they always make her cry. So I blurted out,

“Actually, I have a boyfriend.”

Father asked who, but already he didn’t care. So I said the most made-up, Scottish name I could think of—Rhysand Campbell. Maybe you do exist, somewhere. Actually, there are probably hundreds of you, though who's counting? What’s important is that YOU, Rhysand Campbell, are not real and this address is to a post office in the middle of nowhere Scotland. I expect it’ll be shredded. Perhaps the mail worker will read it and have a laugh at my expense. 

Still.

Thank you for saving me tonight. 

All the best,

Feyre Archeron 

Dearest Rhysand–

I didn’t think I’d write to you again, but I think I have to confess my lies, and you are the only person I know who won’t judge me.

Of course, you’re fake, but in my mind you’ve become a little real. Everyone wants to know how we met, and if you’re curious why they would ever want to know that, well, you are very convenient. You see, most girls my age want to date. And in some ways, so do I. There are some very handsome boys, nice boys, even.

But none of my family approves of. If they found out I slept with Isaac Hale, I think they might actually kill me. He’s a fishmonger, which is a very real job thank you very much. It only sounds fake and like something from an eighteenth century book because of the word monger. Which made me laugh the first time I heard it. Anyway, I thought maybe it was better to just get things over with, and he really was so nice that I just…kept going back.

He has a girlfriend now, and I’m trying to pretend it doesn’t hurt my feelings a little. Even though I know I could never bring him home. Nesta would sneer and call him smelly and Elain…well, Elain would probably be nice but her eyes would be pitying. So maybe it’s for the best.

I’m sidetracked again.

So Isaac has his girlfriend from Milton Keynes, which I am absolutely NOT  jealous of, even if her eyebrows made her look insane. I admit, I was brooding which Elain says is going to give me frown lines around my mouth. And of course father took that moment to stroll in and say he knew just the thing that would cheer me up.

That thing??? A MAN. In what world has a man’s presence ever made a woman feel better? Even Elain turned her head to roll her eyes, thinking no one saw. Nesta was in a mood, though I didn’t ask why—I don’t care, so long as she keeps yelling at father on my behalf. She told him seventeen was too young to worry about marriage, which made him remember that Elain is nineteen and Nesta is twenty-one, so I suppose we’ll all be dealing with that fall out later.

But the Lord of Rose-something-or-other has a son. Tamlin? Timothy? I was not paying attention. What I did say, was, “You know I’m dating someone already. I’ve told you all about him.”

I probably could have gotten away with that if Nesta and Elain weren’t in the room. We talk more frequently and they’ve never once heard me say your name. Of course Elain was fascinated, and Nesta was suspicious. Father is far easier to gaslight. 

“Ah, yes,” he said, that liar. “Remind me, who’s son is he?”

And I said, of course, that you were no one’s son, but just a regular Scottish man.

Nesta, that traitor, narrowed her eyes. He can always tell when I’m lying. “Oh? How did you meet this London-living Scotsman?”

Murdering your sisters is a crime. I’m saying that as a reminder to myself, because if she invented a fake suitor to get father to leave her alone, I would have gone along with it. So I said we met in a tea shop. I made you charming. I said you saw me from across the room and couldn’t help yourself. In this fictional meet-cute, you were enamored at first sight, and I, of course, believed you were the most handsome man I’d ever seen (I did not mention that because I was talking to my father). 

That was important, because NO ONE thinks that about me. They think it about Elain, who is so beautiful it makes my teeth ache, and they might think it about Nesta if her eyes didn’t promise violence all the time. But not me. And I have mostly made my peace with it, but it would be nice if there was one man who didn’t prefer my sisters to me.

Even if I have to make him up in order for that to happen. 

He told me to invite you to dinner. Please, oh please, Rhysand Campbell, will you do me the honor of dining with my dysfunctional family? Father will want to know all about your father, and if your family could be of use to him and his shipping business. And Nesta will hate you on principle alone, while Elain won’t be able to help but like you. 

Of course I like you, if only because you are not real.

It’s a shame you can’t make it because you’re heading back to Edinburgh to take care of a sick relative. You’re so compassionate, so selfless. This is why I like you. 

Thank you (again) for rescuing me. Too bad you’re just me, rescuing myself,

Your beloved,

Ferye Archeron

Darling Rhysand, 

Last names are formality by now, don’t you think? I’ve officially taken things too far. The nice thing about being overlooked is everyone kind of forgets what you’re doing (or that you exist), which means you and I have been happily dating for the last two and a half years. If I go out with someone else, no one questions it because they assume I’m seeing you.

And no one cares that they haven’t met you, because you’re some nobody they assume I’ll eventually tire of. Which would be all well and good if I hadn’t blurted out, in front of god and EVERYONE, that you asked me to marry you. Let me set the scene:

I panicked. 

Okay, I guess I didn’t need to set much at all. It was another party and as you can guess, I was in another stupid dress. Have you ever seen Gone With the Wind? You know those kinds of dresses? That’s how I feel, no matter how sleek and lovely the dress actually is. And I know I look perfectly fine in them, but I feel out of sorts. Like a doll, like someone who LIKES when men stare down my dress despite their wife right beside them, and tell me I’m beautiful.

They never say that when they’re looking at my face.

Anyway, do you remember Tamlin? Well, he’s a baron and his father and an MP, despite having so much money he doesn’t need to work (I suspect he just misses when the nobility could boss around the english populace), and he is quite taken with me. Rhys (can I call you Rhys? I feel like since you proposed I could probably call you that), he’s actually really handsome, too. The first time I saw him, I almost considered breaking things off with you. No hard feelings, of course, it’s just…you’re not real.

But he’s duller than dry paint. BEIGE dry paint. We have nothing to talk about, and believe me, I’ve tried. I thought if I could get him to talk to me for even thirty minutes, we could get naked.

But it’s like pulling my own teeth, dragging answers out of this man.

And, between you and me, he once told me “your hair looks clean” as a compliment. He couldn’t even lie and say I was pretty? So you and I continue our romance, implausible as it is. Tamlin’s father was saying how handsome we’d be, and Tamlin jumped in to ask me on a very public date and I am a coward, I think. 

Because I said, “Rhysand proposed.”

And Nesta burst out laughing, the bint. It was Elain, eyes brimming with hope and pleasure—she so badly wants to see one of us do whatever we like, father be damned—who asked to see the ring.

Of which there isn’t one. So I’ve made you poor, I’m so sorry. I lied and said you didn’t have one, because you were working toward affording something nice and of course I don’t care about it (because I don’t). Father demanded to meet you and Tamlin was humiliated (a silver lining to this whole affair, truly). 

Any reasonable person would have just confessed the whole plot right then and there. But I am not reasonable, my darling fiance. I am, I think, a little crazy because I slipped out the next morning and purchased a ring myself from Boodles, and since I bought it, it was perfect. Nothing terribly fussy—a sapphire cut in the shape of a diamond, with little diamonds haloed overtop, like falling stars. Set on a delicate silver band, it really is quite lovely. 

I showed father, who was rather impressed with it. I lied and said it had belonged to your mother, who was so overjoyed at the thought of getting a daughter that she solved your ring dilemma on the spot.

It doesn’t fix the problem of everyone wanting to meet you, of course. 

Our engagement is going to be short lived, I think—just as soon as I can figure out what to do next. If I’m not careful, I’ll be saying I eloped and then what? 

What then, indeed.

Yours, faithfully,

Ferye 

Rhys,

Well. 

It’s officially over. Why am I so sad? You were never anything more than a figment of my imagination, and yet telling my family you had ended things drew real tears from me. Elain comforted me, and Nesta called you a self-serving asshole, which is her way of assuring me she loves me. Father, of course, just barely remembered you existed despite the ring I’ve been wearing for a full year. I tucked it in a box as a token of how far I’m willing to commit to a lie (and because it was pretty expensive, and I don’t think I can return it). 

Even though you’re fake, I didn’t have the heart to make you an asshole. I said your mother had become gravely ill and you had to care for her. That it was with your deepest regrets you ended things—that you thought I deserved someone who could be in London fully, and you would always regret me. 

Nesta called it “typical male bullshit,” so I suppose she believes me now. Or she’s willing to pretend, given how sad I am. I’m mostly sad that I think I should probably stop writing to you. I’m twenty, now, and I think it’s time to stop indulging in my fantasies and be real. I’m nearly finished with school, and I should devote more time to paintings.

And besides, Elain is practically engaged, which has taken the pressure of marriage off Nesta and I, for now. Lord Graysen Nolan. How I wish you were real, because you would think he was a total twat, too. Nesta begrudgingly tolerates him because Elain is so head over heels, but he is awful. A scourge, a plague upon mankind and CERTAINLY upon my beautiful sister. He’s going to dump her in some ancient country estate, fill her with babies, and crush her into dirt and she can’t even see it. 

He is handsome and charming, though, and he has my sister wrapped around his finger. I think it’s because he doesn’t think she’s beautiful—though, I think he says so in his effort to break her down. She is so used to everyone finding her impossibly lovely that the first man who insults her is worthy of her heart.

I’m rambling again. Anyway, this is my official break-up, fake boyfriend slash fiance. I have loved you, though you never existed. You were the perfect man (because you were fake), and I’m not sure how any others will compare. Maybe I’ll try boring Tamlin again. 

What’s funny is that we could have been together, if you’d been actually real. Some dead uncle gifted my sisters and I three castles—one apiece—and mine is in the Scottish highlands. Isn’t that wild? He was my mothers uncle, so technically an uncle twice removed? I’m not sure how that works, honestly. But in his will, he left us each a castle in need of repair to do with as we like. Elain has dreams of turning hers (of course it’s located in the English countryside) into a charming bed and breakfast while Nesta wants to live in it as, and this is a direct quote, “the local bog witch all the children are afraid of.”

As for me, well…I’m not entirely sure what to do with it. I intend to go visit at the end of the month with my paints to see if inspiration might strike. I admit, I’m curious about a real life castle—maybe I will start a farm and remove myself from society instead. Everyone will ask (no one would, because that would require remembering I exist, but lets pretend they would), “What ever happened to Feyre Archeron?”

And my father would be forced to tell them I own a multitude of cows. All of which are named—and perhaps even treated like my children. Who can say? I am not sure if I’m cut out for livestock, or farming or even castle living. Maybe I’ll make it a museum or something else that requires little effort on my part. 

The caveat seems to be fixing it up. I can do that, I suppose.

This whole letter is rambling. It is supposed to be me telling you goodbye, and putting this whole messy affair behind me. Thank you for being my only friend, which I recognize is pathetic. I hope the postal worker who has been reading these takes pity on my plight, however pathetic it was. 

I will think of you fondly.

Yours, forever, 

Feyre 

Feyre wiped her nose on the back of her hand, breathing rather hard for someone who was in decently good shape. Six months since she’d moved to the highlands, thinking replacing the inner workings of a centuries old castle would be easy. Replace the plumbing and the floors, rework the electric, and fix the broken glass and she’d be done.

If only. Every day there was some new, horrible discovery. Bats in the attic and rodents in the cellar. A crumbling foundation that had to be nearly rebuilt. A leaking roof that flooded water into the great hall, which then ruined all the flooring Feyre had installed, causing it to be ripped up and replaced again. 

It cost a small fortune before the sprawling structure was decent enough to sleep in, let alone live in. And though she had her uncles inheritance to go along with fixing the god forsaken castle. Of course, that money was only for castle repair, and was just barely enough. She’d used her fathers money, too, a paltry sum given just how much of it he had to give away when it was for one of his friends or some do-nothing politician looking to cut taxes in a way that personally benefited her father. 

Feyre also considered she was far luckier than Elain, who’s castle came with a rather surly occupant that swore he also owned the castle—and after a little digging through legal records, was found to be correct. Feyre would have lost it if she had to compromise at all.

Except, now she had a nearly finished castle she had no idea what to do with. As it turned out, Feyre did not have the aptitude for farming like she’d hoped, and rather missed living in the city—though, she didn’t miss London. She missed people, and things to do, but not London itself. 

There were enough rooms to turn it into a hotel, like Elain was considering. Feyre also thought it made a rather nice venue for people looking to host events or get married. The view of the Scottish highlands was breathtaking, and the castle itself was really nice. Stone on the outside, mostly modern on the inside. Full, working plumbing so long as no one shoved too much toilet paper into the drains, claw baths, and big, four poster beds in circular rooms overlooking the hillside. There was a full, working kitchen Ferye had never used, a ballroom, a grand hall, dungeons—anything a person might want, if she could only figure out how to market it. 

It was just a passing idea. For now, Feyre was living in it with a small, paid staff to keep herself fed and the bats from sneaking back in. 

It was pure privilege to spend her days painting, and yet Feyre felt like she’d earned it. Without her father and his obnoxious social circle breathing down her neck, she could run wild like she’d always wanted to. She had a little hammock in the courtyard she frequently fell asleep in, a barbeque she’d spent an exorbitant amount on only to use twice, and was even considering digging out a pool. Why not? Who could stop her? 

No one. 

She’d have to go back eventually—home, that was. Her father’s calls were becoming more frequent and becoming more annoyed. All three of his daughters had just vanished, leaving him to manage his own life for once. Who was he going to build life-long alliances with if he couldn’t move Feyre and Nesta around like pawns. 

Elain was all but sold to the Nolans, if the ugly engagement ring Graysen had given Elain was any indication. Feyre supposed she’d have to come home for that tragedy. Sometimes Feyre wondered if Elain wasn’t dragging out the business with her castle in an attempt to avoid wedding planning.

Maybe that was just wishful thinking. 

Feyre woke that warm, summer morning like she did every day. Breakfast was waiting in the small dining room on the main floor—a simple fare of sausage, beans, and toast. She dressed, braided her hair in a long, french tail, and gathered her art supplies, intending to make her way to the furthest point on the grounds. 

Outside the heavy, rounded doors lay a neat stone path meant to feel old, though it was very modern. She’d watched the workers lay it herself. And standing at the very end of it, dressed in a black shirt and a blue and green plaid kilt, was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. His dark, blue black hair ruffled in the wind, while eyes so blue they seemed nearly violet, stared openly at her.

She saw plenty of Scotsmen, given she was in Scotland. And yet there was something about this man, with his toned shins clad in high, black socks and his tall, powerful body, that gave her pause. She could see the hint of ink just above his knees and the curve of his neck, and when Feyre looked back to his face, his mouth was curved into a sensual smile. 

“Feyre Archeron?” he asked with a rich, dark accent. 

Feyre cleared her throat. “Yes, that’s she—I ah—I mean, that’s me.”

His smile widened. “Aye, ye are, aren’t ye?”

She blinked. “Can I help you with something, Mr…?”

He chuckled, placing a broad hand against his muscular chest. “Ma apologies. I’m Rhysand Campbell.”

A soft scream escaped Feyre’s lips. “Liar.”

He took a step toward her, reaching into the leather sporran hanging from his waist. Feyre couldn’t breathe, watching in horror as he pulled a stack of letters out and offered them to her. 

She didn’t take them, shaking her head back and forth. “Prove it.”

He was still grinning, reaching for his wallet. Feyre’s hands shook when he pulled out a license, proving he was exactly who he said he was.

“How…?”

“Did ye think there was no one in all of Dornoch with the name Campbell? It’s quite common a last name.”

Feyre’s heart was mere seconds from jumping out of her chest. 

“It was luck I happened to be named Rhysand.”

“Luck,” she repeated, looking skyward. “All those years and you never thought to write back/”

He merely shrugged, taking back his license from her shaking fingers. “At first? It was charming. I figured ye’d stop eventually. Ye wrote a lot of things.”

“Oh, I get it,” Ferye said stiffly. Prick. 

“I’m sure ye don’t,” he replied with that insufferable smile.

“No, I do. You got my letters, figured out who my father was, and now you’re here for money. Is that it, Mr. Campbell?”

“Not quite,” he replied, coming closer still. 

“Enlighten me, then.”

“Where’s tae ring, darling?” he all but purred. Ice slithered through Feyre’s veins, her eyes landing back on those letters. She’d spent three years writing to him, pouring out her secrets, venting about her family…and telling him all about their nonexistent romance. At best, Ferye had imagined an elderly postal woman reading those letters with a mixture of pity and amusement before tossing them. Never, in her wildest dreams, did she imagine that an actual man was reading what she wrote. 

“It’s here, isn’t it?” he pressed, those eyes flashing with delight. “Sentimental, lass.”

Feyre shook her head again. “No. Absolutely not. Send father those letters—”

“And Nesta? Or Elain?” he pressed, preventing Feyre from turning on her heel and leaving him standing in the garden looking foolish. “What about them, hm? What do ye think they’d think of yer scathing assessment of them?”

Feyre exhaled. “What is it that you want? A sham engagement?”

“Oh, a wee bit more than that. I’ve come to claim my wife.”

“You don’t even know me,” Feyre protested, wondering if she ought to just call the police. He was blackmailing her—into marriage, for a purpose she couldn’t ascertain. 

“We’re in love,” he said, some of his smile fading just a little. 

“So I’m supposed to, what, exactly? Call up my father and tell him—”

“The engagement is back on,” he interrupted, closer still. She could smell him, then—like citrus and the sea, washing over her with the warm morning breeze. Rhysand blotted out the sun with his large body, peering down at her with enough intensity to make her uncomfortable. “And we’re in love.”

“Lies.”

“Ye should be verra familiar with that, darling,” he replied, an edge to his voice. 

Feyre ran a hand down her face. “For how long?”

He shrugged. “Who could say?”

Prick prick prick! 

“A marriage built upon the foundation of blackmail. You are too charming, Mr. Campbell.”

“Just as ye always imagined,” he replied with a wicked grin. “Now. Are ye going to invite me in? Or do I have to beg?”

“Why not?” Feyre grumbled, eyeing those letters. Rhysand caught her, offering them up again.

“Take them. It’s not like I didnae make copies.”

Still, Feyre snatched them from him all the same, holding them close to her chest. She’d hoped she might undo this mess simply by throwing them away and thus, removing his leverage. In truth, were Rhysand ever to show her father her letters, it would merely force him to pay attention to her. Elain and Nesta would forgive her, with time.

But the idea of her father knowing just how much she loathed him, all while craving his validation and approval, was too much for her pride to handle. It was enough to make her think that, perhaps, this wasn’t such an awful idea. If she could set some hard rules, having a ne’er-do-well for a husband kept her from ever having to get married to someone awful.

Like Tamlin, who still sent the occasional too-formal text inquiring after her help.

And this man was hot. Surely he knew it, too, if that wide smile and the way he kept running his hand down his chest was any indication. How long could he tolerate her? How long before he realized his new wife had no intention of sleeping with him, of showing him any affection? 

He couldn’t blackmail her into sex—even Feyre had her limits and had to assume he did too.

Or hope, anyway. The bar was in hell, even for a man who’d shown up on her doorstep and declared his intention to marry her. 

She forced a smile on her face. “Right this way, Lord Campbell.”

His smile vanished. “I preferred when ye were calling me Rhys. All my friends do. My wife should, too.”

“I’m not your wife yet,” Feyre reminded him. “My sisters are going to be so thrilled. Elain will want to throw an engagement party, and father—”

“Elope,” he said, stepping through the threshold with big, wide eyes. “I’m not going to London for a wedding.”

“Your wife is from London,” Feyre reminded him through gritted teeth. “You’ll have to visit them eventually.”

“Why? Invite them here. Surely there’s space.”

Feyre whirled on her heel, smacking straight into the hard plain of his chest. Rhysand reached for her arms, steadying her with a soft chuckle. “Careful, lass.”

“Let me get this straight. You will make no concessions in this sham marriage? Because, despite what you’ve imagined, blackmailing is a crime and my father has a lot of money.”

“Do ye want to go back to London?” he asked patiently, one perfectly groomed brow arched. As if he already knew the answer to that. As if he knew Feyre would have done anything to stay exactly where she was—far from London, far from her father and his circle of friends. Feyre crossed her arms over her chest, hating how smug he looked.

“It will be an actual wedding. And you will invite yer family—”

“I have none,” he interrupted, a shadow crossing his handsome expression. Feyre faltered.

“Friends?”

A soft smile. “Aye. Friends I do have.”

“Okay. Then friends. And you will keep your hands to yourself the entire time. Separate beds. Separate lives.”

He clenched his jaw for a moment before nodding. “Aye. I can do that. Any other demands ye have?”

“Once we’re married, I want you to burn those letters,” Feyre said, feeling suddenly small and vulnerable. “I’ll—marriages are not so easily undone.”

“And how do I know ye won’t back out tae moment they’re gone?” he asked, cocking his head to the side. 

She considered pleading with him. Was it not enough, she wanted to ask, to make her go through with this? That he knew things about her she’d never wanted anyone to know? He couldn’t let her forget it? Feyre took a deep breath and willed herself not to cry. Not in front of him.

“Very well,” she said, trying her hardest to channel Nesta’s icy disdain. “Let me just—”

She turned, and he caught her by the arm, spinning her around. “Give me a reason to trust ye, lass, and I’ll destroy them.”

“And will you be giving me a reason to trust you?” she asked, wrenching her arm from his grasp. 

“I could have gone straight to ye father. Shown him what ye did, demanded he pay me to keep quiet. I came to ye, instead. I don’t want yer money, Feyre. Just…”

“My home,” she finished with a sigh. 

“Aye,” he agreed solemnly. “A castle that belongs to Scottish blood, not the English.”

“That’s one way to look at it,” she snapped.

“Tae only way,” he murmured, and despite the softness of his tone, it was clear he didn’t care for disagreement. Feyre dug the heel of her hand into her eyes and sighed loudly. 

“Call him,” Rhys said, nodding toward her shorts and the phone outline in the tight fabric. “Tell him the good news.”

“He will never accept you as a son.”

Rhys only shrugged. “As long as his daughter loves me.”

“She doesn’t,” Feyre snapped, but it didn’t matter. She pulled out her phone and dialed.

Took a breath. And then. 

“Dad? It’s me, Feyre.”

-*-

Living with Rhysand was a mixture of insufferable and tolerable in equal measure. The castle was sprawling, big enough that for the first day, she didn’t see him at all. She’d instructed the staff to serve him and slipped that ring back on her finger in order to keep up appearances. Absurd, given any truly happy couple reuniting might have spent that first night locked in bed together, and Feyre had very much shut her bedroom door with the letters Rhysand had given and begun to pour through them.

They were worse than she imagined. Not only had she complained about her family, she’d divulged personal secrets, told him about her hopes, her dreams. She’d sent him sketches, she’d told him about the people in her fathers social circle, along with all the most embarrassing and hilarious gossip. Things that Rhysand could have sent to a trash magazine and humiliated half of London with. 

She’d treated those letters like a diary, never thinking there was a real man on the other end. Feyre couldn’t sleep that first night.

Or the second.

She did sleep the third, but only because Elain had promised to come down that weekend, delighted to meet the man she’d heard so much about. Nesta had sent back only three words.

Are you sure?

If Nesta came, she’d see straight through Feyre, so Feyre supposed she ought to be grateful Nesta was embroiled in some kind of property dispute with her castle and a local reenactor who took to staging battles of Scottish victory over the English on her front lawn with loud enthusiasm. Feyre suspected Elain was rather happy to escape for a bit, and might soften Rhysand ever so slightly.

And maybe if he realized there were more interesting Archerons, he might take to courting Elain instead of insisting with the sham wedding. Not that Elain would ever agree to it, but…men had always gravitated toward her. Feyre thought Rhysand simply wouldn’t be able to help himself. 

On the fourth day, Feyre slipped back through the castle, lugging her art supplies in a canvas bag with her. She expected the grounds to be empty, that Rhysand would be inside lording about her staff like some kind of king.

She heard the sound of wood splitting in the courtyard before she saw him.

Shirtless, in that kilt and the same black socks, rolled halfway down his shins from sweat and exertion. He’d found an ax and with a mighty swing of his powerful biceps, brought it screaming onto a block of wood.

Feyre couldn’t take her eyes off the slick, taut muscles of his stomach, his back, tattooed in dark whorls of ink. Rhysand seemed far too pretty to do any sort of manual labor, which brought Feyre back to the present.

Though, he’d absolutely caught her ogling him. He halted, pushing one booted foot up onto the heavy stump he was using to split wood while using the hem of his kilt to wipe at his forehead. “What are you doing?” she demanded. Didn’t he know she paid someone to bring in firewood? Besides, there was heating the castle—she’d also paid for that.

“Chopping wood,” he replied, his eyes sliding to the neat stack at his feet. His tone was polite, though perhaps annoyed. As if he really wanted to say, what does it look like I’m doing?��

“I pay someone to do that.”

“Of course ye do, lass,” he said with relish. “I don’t see why—I am more than capable of helping.”

Feyre hesitated. “You want to help?”

“Aye.” He frowned. “What did ye think I was gonna do? Sit around waving my hands like some kind of fancy lord?”

“Yes, actually—that’s exactly what I thought.”

“I already told ye. I don’t want yer money.”

Yes, he had said this, hadn’t he? Feyre sniffed. “Fine. You want chores? There are bats in the attic again.”

He offered her a handsome smile. Coupled with the bright sunshine and his warm, brown skin, Feyre’s knees wobbled a little. Why couldn’t he look disgusting? Her traitor body had not gotten the message that they hated him.

“I can do that,” he said. “And anything else ye have for me.”

“I’ll make a list,” she said tartly. 

But later, when Feyre was alone with nothing but her thoughts and her canvas, all she could think about was Rhysand, midswing over that block of wood. She thought of the tight expression on his face and the controlled movements of his body.

And even though she hated herself for it, she reached for a piece of charcoal.

And began to sketch. 

-*-

Elain arrived at the end of the first week of Rhysand’s arrival. True to word, Rhysand had done every chore Feyre had left for him without complaint. He’d cleared out the bats and fixed several burnt light bulbs, digging out a ladder from god only knew where. And when he ran out of things to do, he turned his attention to the dilapidated stables Feyre had never bothered with. In truth, she’d always meant to tear them down.

It seemed Rhysand meant to fix them up.

He was out there when Elain swanned in, tan from a summer outdoors in the English countryside. She grinned the moment she saw Feyre, throwing her arms around her sister's neck.

“It’s so good to see you,” Elain said, squeezing tight enough to make Feyre’s ribs ache. “How are you holding up?”

“Me? How are you holding up?” Feyre asked, pulling away to search her sister's expression. A faint blush bloomed over Elain’s cheeks.

“Well—I’m, well, I’m perfectly lovely, if we’re being honest.”

“Oh?” Feyre asked.

Elain held up her hand, wiggling bare fingers while Feyre just stared. “You got your nails done?”

“You’re so terribly observant. I’ve called off my engagement—just in time for you to be married. I’ve come to see if you want any of the things we put deposits on, so they don’t go to waste.”

“You—what?” Feyre gaped, realizing only then Elain was trying to show her a hand without an engagement ring. “What happened?”

Elain only shrugged, though more pink crept up her neck. “It wasn’t right. I was…I was deluding myself, I think. It doesn’t matter, because I know you hated him, so you don’t have to pretend. I’ve brought pictures so you can see everything, and it would be no trouble to have it all brought here for you. I know how much you hate planning,” Elain added brightly. “I only wish I could be more helpful.”

“This is already too helpful,” Feyre said, pulling her sister through the open hall toward the spiraling stairs that led both to the left and the right. Elain drank it all in as the skirt of her buttery yellow sundress swished around her legs. She looked every inch a princess, and it took no effort at all to imagine her walking these halls four hundred years before while poets and bards sang songs about her beauty. 

“Are you going to introduce me to your husband?” she asked, looping her arm through Feyre’s. “I’ve always wanted to meet him. Nesta used to swear you made him up and I told her you’d never do such a thing. It’s nice to prove her wrong sometimes.”

“Yes,” Feyre agreed. “He’s working on the stables. I’ll take you to him.”

This would be the moment of truth. Rhysand would see her and realize his mistake, just as all men did. He wouldn’t be able to look away—and Elain seemed radiant that morning, glowing like the midafternoon sun beating overhead. Her golden blonde hair was perfectly curled, a cascade over her slim shoulders while a set of pearls graced her ears. She’d put on make-up, which Feyre never did, and had the air of someone both effortless and yet unattainable. 

The same air Rhysand had, if Feyre was being honest. They’d make a smart couple. Why did that thought annoy her so much? 

Feyre led Elain over the grounds slowly, giving her a tour and pointing out all the work she’d done while Elain explained how her bed and breakfast was going. She’d created a tentative peace with the other occupant and owner of her castle—a man with a distinctly French sounding last name and decidedly French first one. Lucien Vanserra. He sounded snooty, and given the difficulty he’d created for Elain, likely some seventy year old man looking to exert his control one last time before his time on earth ended. 

“Oh, he’s not so bad once you get to know him,” Elain said, which was a very Elain sort of thing to say. She could charm a wild bear holding a sword. If the man had eyes, it likely hadn’t been hard to talk him into a small compromise. 

Rhysand was coming out of the stables as Feyre and Elain began to walk in. He didn’t see them approaching as he mopped up the sweat on his brow with the hem of his shirt. Feyre’s breathe caught at the sight of peeking abs, vanished the second he saw Elain. His eyes slid from her sister back to Feyre, some answered question flickering in his gaze.

“Elain, this is Rhysand,” Feyre told Elain just in time for her sister to plant her foot in a wet container of wood stain.

Elain screeched, yanking herself backward. Her lovely white flat was ruined, which was a shame, truly—though Rhysand? wasn’t looking at Elain at all, but Feyre. His expression very much betrayed his annoyance, some shared secret she didn’t quite understand, as if to say oh. I understand now.

“I’m so sorry,” Elain said, looking at the mess pooling around them. 

“No need,” Rhysand replied, though there was some disappointment in his tone. “I was going to do tae floor as well.”

“Of course. Probably not like this, though,” Elain replied with a small laugh. 

Rhysand only nodded, looking back to Feyre for some guidance. But it was Elain who was the conversationalist, and when she realized he didn’t know what to say, pressed forward. “How is your mother?”

Oh, christ. Feyre had forgotten that lie, amid the others. Rhysand became rigid for a moment, haunted by Elain’s ask. “She passed, I’m afraid.”

“Oh,” Elain whispered. Rhysand only nodded, his jaw tight with emotion. So that had been true, in some way. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not yer fault,” Rhysand murmured. “But I miss her.”

Elain nodded. “Well,” she said, wiping her hands on her dress nervously. “We should ah, probably let you get back to…”

“I’ll see ye both at dinner,” he replied, offering up his most charming smile. And that was that. Elain, holding her shoe by the crook of one finger, waited until they were out of earshot before she said, “You really undersold how handsome he was.”

And when Feyre turned to look over her shoulder, she found Rhysand leaning against the wooden door frame, eyes wholly on her. 

It was that night that both Feyre and Rhysand seemed to realize they could not sleep apart in opposite wings of the castle. Elain had made some little quip about how nice it must be to have all this alone time and Rhysand’s fork had clattered to his plate while Feyre’s cheeks burned with embarrassment. 

He’d come to her, at least. Feyre sat up against a sea of pillows when she heard him knock, sucking in a deep breath.

“Come in.”

A moment later, the handle turned and there he was. He’d put on plain black sleep pants and a white t-shirt, and his still damp hair told her she’d just freshly showered. If she’d been smart, Feyre would have dragged a divan up from another room so he could sleep on it. As it stood, there were two little chairs facing a small breakfast table and then her rather large, four-poster bed. 

And Rhys was a tall man. He looked around, drinking in the cream colored rug and the sand and stone walls, illuminated by an overhanging chandelier. A little potted plant sat half dead in the circular window at the far end of the room, while books were stacked on beneath the television stand haphazardly.

“I’m not sleeping on tae floor,” he told her when he realized their predicament.

“I assumed,” she replied, scooting to the far side of the bed. “No touching.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied with a theatrical eye roll. As he padded toward her, he asked, “How long will she be here?”

“The weekend,” Feyre replied, trying—and failing—not to notice how good he smelled. “Why?”

“She’s not what I imagined,” he finally said, dragging a hand through his hair with contemplation.

Feyre immediately felt defensive. “She has that effect on people.”

He frowned. “Oh? And what effect do ye imagine she’s having on me?”

“She’s just very…”

“Verra…” he prompted, waiting for Feyre to spit it out. “Dull?”

“What?” Ferye gaped. “She’s not dull.”

“Proper, then. A real English princess,” he amended. 

It was asking for pain, and still Feyre couldn’t help herself. “Then what does that make me?”

He smiled again, his face blooming with warm affection. “Wild. Free,” he added, thinking to himself for a moment, as if he needed to choose his words carefully lest he insult her. “Ye are far more lovely than her—”

“Don’t,” Feyre snapped, unable to stand the lie. “No one thinks that.”

She turned to her side, angrily fluffing a pillow before turning off the bedside table.

“I think that,” Rhysand murmured defensively. “I saw a picture of tae three of ye, once.”

She half twisted to look at him. “How?”

“We do have the internet here too, lass. It was simple enough to google ye. I wasn’t sure which of ye was which—but I hoped ye were…well…Feyre. I thought ye must be Elain, given how much you talked of her beauty.”

Feyre’s heart pounded. “You’re such a liar, Mr. Campbell.”

“Not when it comes to ye, darling.”

There was a pause of silence between them, hanging thickly as Feyre digested that information. Hoped. She didn’t know what to make of that.

“I’m sorry about your mother.”

“It was one of the things I liked about getting tae letters,” he murmured, settling into the bed. After turning off the lights, it felt easier to peel back some of her defensiveness, to listen to him talk. “My sister died when she was wee, and my mother, well. She never quite recovered from it. When ye wrote that first letter, she was ill again and my father was in one of his rages. And there ye were, in a similar predicament. I thought maybe it was fate.”

“Why didn’t you write back?” she asked, turning fully to her side, her head resting on her elbow.

“Cowardice, I suppose. Ye were a bit younger than me, too. Sixteen, but I was nineteen. It dinae seem right, and truthfully, I didnae want spook ye.”

“Is this your attempt at not spooking me, then? Demanding I marry you for reasons you’ve yet to divulge?” she asked, this time without her usual anger. 

“Aye,” he murmured, twisting so he was facing her, too. “I never said I was a good man, Feyre. Only that yer letters were never funny to me.”

“Will you tell me why all this was necessary? I might be able to help, you know—”

“One day,” he interrupted, his voice firm. “When all this is done and ye aren’t so angry, I will. I want to. Not tonight. Hate me all ye like, but I know ye—you’ll be trying to get out of this marriage if ye think you can solve my problems with money. I don’t want yer money.”

“Yes, so you keep saying and yet once we’re married, you’ll have it, regardless. Surely you’ve considered that.”

Rhysand’s pause betrayed him. So he hadn’t realized he’d become unspeakably wealthy the moment Feyre said I do.

It settled some wild, ugly thing in her. “That’s yers,” he finally said. 

And with nothing left to say, Rhysand turned over and left Feyre to fall asleep.

-*- 

Feyre agreed to take the least offensive things from Elain’s wedding, which, to be fair, were few and far between. The cake was nice, along with the flowers of which Elain would always be the expert. Tables and chairs, and of course, the caterer. Elain had been delighted, in no small part, Feyre suspected, because it meant Graysen wouldn’t be getting his money back. What had he done to her? It wasn’t like Elain to be so petty, but with each thing Feyre said yes to, Elain’s smile grew wider and wider until Feyre wasn’t sure how her sister's smile didn’t split. 

And then, with an exasperated sigh, Elain was gone to check on Mr. Vanserra, who was likely wrecking everything in her absence. Feyre thought she’d be sad to see Elain go, but the minute her sister's car pulled out of the drive, Feyre felt the smallest hint of relief.

Rhysand, too. She caught him peeking around a corner, muddy boots on a rather nice ivory floor runner she’d need to wash later. 

“Is she gone?” he asked, as if Elain were some terrible creature and not just chatty and maybe a little nosy.

“For now,” Feyre agreed. “She’s putting together your dream wedding, you know.”

“Ours,” he amended. 

“No matter how many times you say that, it will never be true.”

He stared her down, straightening to his full height. Feyre’s heart leapt into her throat. “Will ye tell me tae truth about one thing?”

“I doubt it, but you can ask,” she replied primly, wedging her way past his obnoxious body.

“In yer letters, ye said I was tae most beautiful man ye’d ever seen. Is that true?”

Feyre froze. If she turned, he’d see her answer written all over her face. “Everything I imagined about you in my letters was a fiction, Mr. Campbell—”

“For fucks sake, Feyre, call me Rhys,” he snapped. “I cannae stand hearing ye call me Mr. Campbell.”

Feyre forgot she wasn’t supposed to look at him, turning to argue only to find him so close she could smell him. Eyes wide, she backed up only for him to slam his palm against the stone wall behind her, trapping her with his body. 

“Tae truth, lass.”

“Why does it matter?” she whispered, hating herself for wanting him and hating herself for not being able to send him away. 

His fingers brushed her cheek. “It matters.”

“You can’t have it all, Rhys,” she hissed. He winced as she spat his name, saying it as though it were a curse. “You can’t have your secrets, this marriage and my affection.”

“Why not?”

“Because you can’t!” she shouted, shoving him away from her. Rhys let her, though she knew if he’d wanted to keep her where she was, there was little she could have done to stop him. “I’m guessing you’re the kind of man who just snaps his fingers and gets exactly what he wants. You could have asked me on a date! You could have been honest and told me who you were, that you got my letters! I would have said yes, you know. If you’d just asked. And if you told me the truth, I would have helped you. You want your secrets, fine. Here I am, playing along. Whatever else you want from me, though? Forget it. For the rest of your life, just forget it.”

“Feyre!” he called as she stormed off. “Feyre, come back!”

She didn’t turn, her heart pounding so hard in her chest she was certain she was going to explode. Feyre didn’t pay attention to the direction she went, running through the halls as fast as she could, just in case he was following her.

He wasn’t. She heard a door slam somewhere in the distance, and if she had to bet, Feyre would have guessed he was headed to the stables. It slowed her just enough to make a decision. He wanted secrets? Well, Feyre didn’t. She’d been too wrapped up in her own misery that past week to bother thinking rationally, but she’d seen him drag in all his things.

Surely there was some answer to the Rhysand question up in his room. 

Feyre didn’t feel even a little badly flinging open that door. Where she was messy, Rhysand was immaculate. His bed was made for the morning, draped in silken black that was just like him.

He’d tucked his suitcase beneath the bed, and when she opened his drawers to the dresser, everything was neatly folded and in its place. Feyre rifled a bit, feeling like a creep as she shoved aside his underwear and socks. 

The curtains to the windows were pulled open, allowing gloomy gray light to filter through. Outside, she was certain a storm was brewing. If it rained, Rhysand would retreat indoors and she’d have to try again another day. 

She didn’t know what she was looking for when she dropped to her knees, sitting on the plush, circular sand rug she’d put in all the rooms. Feyre pulled out his suitcase, unzipping thinking she’d find a passport with his real name, or maybe a criminal record that would explain this whole thing. And then she could call the police and be free of him.

Her stomach clenched when all she found was a large manilla envelope, unsealed.

Feyre. 

With trembling fingers, Feyre pulled out a stack of letters. They were stapled individually before he’d folded them into quarters. She reached for the one on top, surprised to see it was the very first letter she’d ever sent him, highlighted and starred with a blue pen.

And beneath, was the letter she’d said he should have sent her. 

Dear Feyre Archeron,

Don’t be embarrassed, but I have received your letter. I am curious—do you possess the gift of sight? It seems too much a coincidence that you would mail a letter addressed to Mr. Rhysand Campbell to my home in Dornoch. I’ve decided it’s fate, or at least luck. Tell me, though, this one thing: is your birthday on Christmas? I received this at the new year, and I have been trying to figure out when, exactly, you were born.

I guess it doesn’t matter, though it would be nice to send you a birthday gift next year. If you’re wondering, my birthday is in August. Not that you have to send me a gift. It just seemed fair, since I was asking, to tell you my birthday, too.

And, if it makes you feel better (I’m guessing it won’t, but it did make me feel better), my father also forgot my birthday this year. He was working, and I think he expects my mother to handle those things. I shouldn’t care because I’m an adult, and adults don’t need birthdays (or, that’s what I tell myself at least), but it stings every time he looks me in the eye and asks how old I am. 

I think he thinks I’m disappointing. Maybe I am. 

Anyway. I am happy to be your pretend boyfriend if it keeps you from having to date wankers. If you decide you’d like to write me back, send it to my address in Edinburgh. My mother lives in Dornoch, and I visit when she’s ill (which, to be fair, is pretty often), but I don’t want to miss one. 

That is, assuming you don’t find this horribly creepy. 

Yours in pretend,

Rhysand Campbell 

P.S. I think Nesta deserved to have her hair pulled, just between you and I. 

My silly Feyre,

You keep sending letters (that I devour), but I can’t make myself send one back. I’m starting to suspect I’m a coward, which is a terrible quality in a boyfriend. Maybe you should end things with me and date the beige paint (don’t do that). You’re so honest, and I’m so jealous because without my secrets, who am I? The thought of stripping myself bare makes me feel sick, and so I fold these letters up and pretend you read them and they didn’t disgust you.

In truth, I think you’d stop writing if you knew the truth about me. I’m back in Dornoch and mother is ill and father is working and I am just here. Barely existing, both in Edinburgh where I’m trying to be diligent and finish my education, and in Dornoch, where everyone thinks I’m a good son.

Am I? Can I tell you something? 

My sister died when she was nine. It was no one’s fault—except, I suppose, the man driving the car who hit her. We were out together and Ainsley darted out of reach. Father was closest. He lunged, but he wasn’t fast enough, and by the time mother and I could react, it was all over. 

I was eleven. 

I think we tried to rally together for a while, but the days following Ainsley’s death all blur together. Mother cried all the time and father began yelling. Everyone blamed themselves because we couldn’t blame each other, until we were just festering. Father stayed in Edinburgh, and mother went home and I was in-between. 

It’s like she’s lost in a fog, and I’m so angry sometimes because I needed her, too. I needed them both, and it was like, if they couldn’t have Ainsley they didn’t want me. Or anyone—I think mother wishes she’d died, too. And I think father is too busy punishing himself—and by extension, me—to take care of mother. 

I wonder what will happen to him when she dies. He loved her better than he ever loved either of us. And deep down, I think he’s ashamed he failed her by letting Ainsley die, and it’s better to yell at her, to stay away, to pretend none of it matters to him.

I can’t send this to you, but I like to pretend you’re reading it anyway. That you’d understand, because you feel forgotten, too. That’s how I feel. 

Anyway. Tell Tamlin to stay away. I’m fond of you, pretend girlfriend or not.

Your mess,

Rhysand 

Feyre, my darling,

Engaged? I admit, I laughed out loud when I saw what you’d done. I knew the English were awful, but surely there must be one tolerable man among the lot of them. I’m tempted to drive all the way up there and rescue you, if only to spare you the embarrassment from when this falls apart. I’m also curious to see the ring I got you.

I’d like to have it, if only so I can get on one knee and ask you to marry me myself. It’s strange how much affection I feel for you. How often I think about you, how I miss you without knowing you. I feel as if I do (maybe I’m crazy, too). 

I graduated last week. Father wasn’t there, though he did call in the after to ask me what my plans were. I nearly told him I planned to marry an English lass–but I have no plans for that yet, and no idea how to announce myself to you. It’s been almost three years, and I think I should have been less of a coward back then and just said hello.

I think, sometimes, you would have liked me. More than that other bloke (Ian? I remember his name, but it makes me feel better to pretend I don’t.), at any rate. And maybe my plans wouldn’t seem so far-fetched, and you wouldn’t have to keep lying to your family because I would be asking you to marry me.

For now, things seem possible. I feel like my own man for once, even if I don’t know what I’m doing with myself. Only that whatever it is will bring me closer to you. Of that, I’m certain. I am looking forward to hearing of our fake marriage, though—I hope you tell me exactly how you imagine it, so when we do meet, I can impress you.

Is that charming, or does it make me creepy? It’s a question I keep asking, and I think I’m walking a very fine line when it comes to you. Perhaps this will all be charming to you—or maybe you’ll have me locked up. I look forward to finding out. I’m certain I will never live it down, regardless.

For now, just know that I find you endearing.

Yours,

Rhys 

Feyre,

Your ability to tell the future is unnerving. Our relationship is over because my mother is ill—and though you don’t know it, you were right. I don’t think it would give you solace to hear she finally passed, but in a way, it gave me peace thinking you’d written me to say goodbye. That you understood, even if you didn’t know it, why you and I were just a foolish dream. 

Father and I stood in the rain to bury her. I didn’t think he’d come and it would be just me, watching them set her beside my sister. Reunited, at last, just like she’d always wanted. And for one moment, he and I stood there, shoulder to shoulder, silently weeping for all we’d lost and all the things we’d never have again. Ainsley should be here and so should mother. 

Her heart failed. I didn’t think you could die of a broken heart, and today I think I could, too. I thought I’d prepared myself better for this moment. As I so often am, I was wrong. Father left, and I don’t know if I’ll ever see him again. Or if I even want to. Maybe that moment was enough. Maybe enough passed between us to call it even, to start over.

I think I’ve been trying so hard to forget when I should have been trying to remember. And I think you were just another way to pretend I was someone else, at least for a little while. You don’t know me—you don’t know Rhysand Campbell and neither do I. Not your once betrothed, anyway. That man was a fantasy, someone I wanted so badly to be. 

I would have disappointed you. I’m not a good man, Feyre. I don’t think you would have liked the real Rhysand Campbell, and I would have loved you. That’s the tragedy of us, at least to me. You are witty and funny and charming and I am…I am this. I am not the sort of man you fall in love with, but you. 

Oh, you, Feyre. I don’t know how everyone isn’t in love with you. How you don’t walk onto the street and have everyone at your feet, wishing they knew your name. Begging for a second of your time. And even though I know you’ll never see this, and so it doesn’t matter what I think or what I say, I feel as though I’ve been drowning in endless night, and you were the first bright thing that came along.

It would be wrong to go looking for you, no matter how strong the impulse is. You’ve said goodbye, and I am saying it, too. I need to figure myself out and maybe that will take forever. I know one thing, though. I will always be thinking about you. Always be wondering about you.

It’s your birthday (I think), today. That’s what started this whole thing.

Happy birthday Feyre.

Yours, eternally,

Rhys 

A crack of thunder sent the letters flying from Feyre’s hands. Was she crying? For one wild moment she twisted to look up at the ceiling, certain there must be a leak. Only, no, it was just her, dripping salt onto the elegant penmanship of Rhys’s unsent letters. 

“So,” a dark, masculine voice from the doorway intoned. Feyre’s head snapped to the side, drinking him in. His expression was carefully blank, fingertips holding the frame as he leaned forward. Ferye had been caught, had been so engrossed in the parallel lives they’d been living that she hadn’t realized the rain had started or that he’d retreated indoors.

His wet shirt clung to the contours of his chest, slicking that dark ebony hair to his forehead. 

“So,” she agreed, her voice trembling.

Feyre held his gaze. Waiting for his ire.

“Now you know.”

[bunnymajo]

Did an update design for Tiara B. She's definitely a sporty & adventurous character but I wanted to avoid workout clothes like Tangle's, I so I went for a jumper and did a scrunchie instead of a bow since I think Fiona pretty much owns big yellow bows imo. I also kept the wand because I like it, and decided to make more of a backstory for the giant rock on it & give it a name and explain I guess what she would be doing.

I broke it down into 3 parts & put it under a cut

1 - Harmony Diamond- Treasure of the Boobowski royal family. Only the royal family are able to wield it and the power level varies depending on it’s users state of mind (ie - if depressed or low on energy it’s not as powerful as when they’re determined & confident) It’s main ability is it’s able to heal or restore what’s broken. Including healing the sick. In combat it can absorb & nullify attacks, basically it becomes an OP shield. It’s encased in a scepter that can also be used as a blunt weapon. (I also kind of want it to look like a gymnastics ribbon while in motion. Like a beam of light that whips around whenever the wand moves) Tiara, as the last remaining member of the Boobowski family, is the only one left to wield it.

As a child her father told her to keep its power a secret because he didn’t want others coming for her, despite her protests that it could really help people in need. Gazebo starts to consider finding a way to duplicate the diamond. The real one to keep and the duplicate to try and use more publicly & possibly distribute throughout the world if duplication is successful. In his experiments of trying to convert a chaos emerald into another harmony diamond, this causes an unforeseen reaction and Gazebo suddenly vanishes without any remains. The diamond and emerald are repelled to the opposite sides of the room. Tiara witnesses the incident in horror. She disposes of the emerald and starts carrying the Harmony Diamond and Gazebo’s notes with her at all times in her quest to find him and answers on what exactly happened.

Notes: -Based on the “rings of order” concept from Sonic Xtreme of being opposites of the chaos emeralds. Shiny rocks are just more interesting than rings.

also inspired by the Silver Crystal from Sailor Moon (which culturally are the opposite of Dragon Balls, the inspiration for Chaos Emeralds)

also also tying in some of the original game drafts where Gazebo was trying to make a cure for a disease that Sonic had to transport(?)

2- The Boobowski Royal family & the Castle of Light - located in a northern region (in between Holoska & Spagonia) the Boobowski family had been its ruler for centuries, but in recent history the kingdom’s population & general well being declined. The King at the time had been more frugal with the Diamond’s use and kept its powers secret, when the people revolted to form a democracy, the royal family was cast out and lived among its citizens. The castle became public property as well but it suffered heavy damage from the revolt.

Gazebo is from the 3rd generation after the revolt. Even with the political change the population still dwindled, almost as if it was cursed. The royal family’s history remained a faint memory, and he & Tiara lived in the mountains (like the Mobian Alps) mostly staying outside of the world of politics, Gazebo as a local doctor. Tiara is a “princess” in family heritage only. Gazebo sometimes wonders what it would be like to restore the Castle of Light to its former glory. This is also what motivates him to duplicate the Harmony Diamond, so that he can get a boost of power to heal the castle & the surrounding area. Tiara has no interest in politics or being a pampered princess, but she did enjoy working alongside her father with patients and helping people.

Notes: -Castle of Light has been documented as Sonic Extreme’s hubworld & where Tiara was from so I wanted to utilize it.

Wanted to make the history distinct enough from Satam’s Acorn Kingdom (since Tiara looking for her father is already pretty similar to Sally’s story) and have its conflicts come from internal struggles vs. outside forces like Eggman attacks or whatever the heck was happening in Soleanna.

3 - Tiara’s character- Since Gazebo’s disappearance Tiara has been traveling alone. In her home village she was always wandering off on her own so she’s used to being independent. She puts on a determined face & positive attitude through this whole ordeal but doesn’t let anyone get too close & won't ever admit to anyone that she’s felt lonely & scared. She’s pretty confident in her physical abilities so sometimes she can seem hot-headed, impatient or even arrogant on a bad day. She has short patience for people picking fights in particular (so like, Rough & Tumble she would absolutely yell at & fight them without hesitation)

At the end of the day she won't give up until she finds an answer as to what happened & where her dad went. She doesn’t mind if she has to sacrifice personal relationships for herself to get there. She’s put out missing persons reports in every town she’s visited. She usually stays in town for a week to a month, working odd jobs or helping citizens from badniks. She goes to the gym a lot (into gymnastics, aerobics, rock climbing) and likes following the local sports scene. Big jock energy.

[amyyythestarry]

CHAPTER 109 OF TBHK!

I love how Tsu’s feet is just kicked up, like always. I find it so hilarious because people are calling him fruity💀.

Fruity a** pose.

Him and his brother, omg.

The bestie look, the look of secret telepathy I knew I would see it from them. I really want to see it from the Yugi twins too. Like, twin telepathy, then saying stuff at the same time/doing something in sync, maybe as humans people get them mixed up or they swap for the day. I always imagine them just being silly stereotypical twins.

Yes Teru is pissed.

Also Mirai not being able to read is funny to me.

In an au where they are alive, in my aus where they are all in the Near Shore, she just has dyslexia.

Tsu’s smug smile, enjoying his ambiguity and unknowing-ness. Just a drama king in disguise and wants to mysteriously introduce himself.

Mr. B**ch. Step forward.

Jesus.

They for real called him out. Can’t even claim it’s bs.

I didn’t realize this before, but the fact Tsukasa is surprised is really funny.

Because if you think about it, Hanako has been acting more like how he was as a human, ‘Amane’, than he is as a supernatural, as ‘Hanako’. Being embarrassed for himself.

The Amane Tsukasa knew was not perverted, and if he was then he probably kept that to himself, instead of Hanako, who outwardly acts as a perv.

“Amane, you want to do pervy stuff?” - 🫢

Tsukasa, as the very non-perverted person he is, must actually be shocked that his dear old twin brother would be and want to do such a thing. Maybe not disgusted like Teru and Akane obviously is, but since that’s not a part of Amane he know he will hold this in his memory bank. Now he knows you’re a pervert Amane. He’ll probably never let you ‘live’ this down.

She just a little baby, she can’t even reach over the thing!

Her first time in court she was only 3 years old.

I wonder when she’ll turn back to normal?

I love love love Akanene, I’m sorry y’all.

But c’mon, HE’S DEFENDING HER, STICKING UP FOR HER, WANTING HER TO WIN HER CASE.

Platonic or not, they are the sh**.

In the MangaUp translation it said “Do you really think I’m a sociapath?” ( Or something like that ) He definitely is.

Not Tsu saying he would. Everyone’s reading him like an open book, omg. 😭

Akane has nothing to say.

The way he just smiles silently, looks up to see if his fellow criminals will defend him, even a little. Not even Nene did though.

C’mon Teru, Akane was expecting a message of love. Whatever, they’re the yaoi ever.

Pose of innocence.

Then rats himself out.

He can’t help his brutal honesty.

The word ‘smithereens’ is something I don’t want to hear.

Feed him to the owls is crazy.

I love characters who talk in first person when addressing themselves. Doesn’t Tiara also do that?

Totally random, but Tiara and Mirai would be besties.

And Tsu smiling without concern.

I cannot be the only one who is dissatisfied that something didn’t happen to him?

Like really, we could have seen what the Tsu of TBHK future was, we could have seen him disappear/die. And I love him with all my heart, but you cannot admit that that would not be a plot turner, or exciting to see something bad happen to him.

He just had to use that little sprinkle of hope, the power of what? F**king friendship? Loyalty to carry out his job? From thin air.

He’s still amazing though.

Was he yelling as Amane, the caring big brother, or Hanako, the leader of the mysteries who used his twin powers to predict what Tsu was going to do and knew it was going to lead to something bad? Maybe both.

Also, is this just a general warning, or will this have consequences later?

Signature move I guess.

Jii-san. Says the person who doesn’t care for supernaturals, calling the supernatural that tricked and got him involved with the school mysteries, ‘grandpa’..

Let us just hope Akane will survive the next chapter ok?

I wonder if his body is actually different from his human body though? Does he actually have gears inside of him? Or is Tsu just making assumptions.

But, wasn’t he in Clock Keeper form when he got a hole stabbed in his chest in the severance arc?

Oh god.

Whatever, I’m just gonna place my bets that Tsukasa will somehow be stopped. Probably not by Akane though, he’s the weakest school mystery and can’t even stand a chance against Teru.

Nice chapter, I was honestly expecting jail time.

[lovelyangelbee]

toddler regressor velvette would be silly me thinks

Velvette, my soul, I love herrr!

Little!Velvette Would…

💄She’s more so voluntary than involuntary. But she will get stressed with fashion shows once in a while.

💄Around 2-5 when regressing. Her age depends on her mood. If she’s upset or angry, it’s younger. If she’s just regressing for whatever, it’s normally older.

💄Her main caregivers are the Vee’s. More so Vox than Val though, as Val isn’t really child friendly. He will, however, defend her if need be

💄Vox is more so the caregiver for her. They’re both flips and care for each other, so it’s a pretty sweet friendship.

💄Velvette won’t wear any onesie, sweatshirt, or piece of clothing that she hasn’t dubbed ‘cute’. Don’t even try to put her in one, she’ll have a massive fit.

💄She’s still…very much Velvette. She’s sassy, a bit rude, and has quite the attitude problem. So, a bit of a brat.

💄She needs attention. Like, all the time. She’ll throw a tantrum if she doesn’t get what she wants right then and there.

💄Velvette has one of those my first make up kits, and she uses it all the time on other people, and sometimes even herself

💄While she cares about little to no one’s opinions, she is very sensitive when she thinks a person she cares about is mad. Like, once she pissed Vox off a bit, and she started bawling when he was yelling at her.

💄She loves letting people do her hair. It’s so much fun to have different styles. However, no one’s allowed to touch hers or someone else’s hair that she did (not sure how, as the other Vee’s are bald).

💄 She loves, and I mean LOVES, dress up. More so dressing other people up, like her dolls or caregivers. She loved making Vox wear bright pink dresses and giving Val a tiara.

💄Velvette has a little toy phone when little, as no one trusts her with a real phone. She plays on that thing all the time and pretends it real.

💄She throws tantrums really easily. However, it’s not really her fault as she really, really hates when things don’t work out. Like when she plans an outfit and it doesn’t work? Tantrum for sure.

💄Velvette tends to throw things when she gets upset. However, it’s only really stuffed animals. Vox is still trying to get her out of this habit though.

💄She insists she doesn’t need a pacifier, when she totally does. Like, poor girl can’t go ten whole minutes without starting to teeth on something, no matter what age.

💄She likes a nice cuddle after time out. Velvette won’t admit it, but she needs reassurances that she’s not a bad girl and she’s still very loved.

[sleeplessdreamer14]

in the Sliding Bobs episode where they talk about if Linda had married Hugo, she’s wearing this fancy dress with a tiara to go with her veil, and it seems like they’re in a church.

but in her real wedding photo with Bob, it’s just a simple ivory white dress and a veil, and they’re standing in front of city hall. and I’m pretty sure they didn’t have rings. bob just asked her, she said yes, and they high-fived.

I don’t think you guys understand how important this is to me.

[blade-that-was-broken]

I have a HC that brozone had like stage parents like the kind of parents that only had kids so that they’re kids could do the child star thing and they could live vicariously through their kids success. and also so those kids could make a ton of money that the parents could live off of. Like the parents of the kids on toddlers in tiaras.

We know that JD took on the role of raising his younger brothers and that he saw himself as their main caretaker, but this is contrasted by the fact that his brothers don’t seem to see him as a parental figure and at least in the third movie seem to get annoyed and angry when JD tries to act like an authority figure in there lives. I interpret this as JD raised these kids but the parents were still around they were generally just uninvolved in their kids lives beyond the surface level bare minimum and shirked most of their responsibilities onto JD. In a JD did all the work but the parents took all the credit kind of way that led to JD simultaneously raising Bruce, Floyd and Clay without being a legitimate authority figure to them.

I also think that JD would not get baby branch involved in the band that young if he had a choice in that decision, both as someone who grew up in fame as a child star and knows how stressful and toxic that environment is and as a perfectionist who is very concerned with the bands performances going flawlessly. toddlers are messy and make mistakes and generally I don’t think JD would trust a toddler to perform to his standards and listen to him as a band leader during the performance. JD was stressed about the idea of baby branch being nervous and messing up the performance in the flashback I don’t think he would let him do it at all if it was his choice.

However I think that if brozone had toxic stage parents who decided to make baby branch join the band simply because he’s cute and marketable and would make them money then left all the actual logistics behind that move to JD to figure out that would fit with teenager JDs controlling, protective, and perfectionist character traits. Because people who feel like they truly have control over their lives and actually have the authority to make decisions in their life usually don’t micromanage everything and everyone they delegate. JDs controlling behavior fits more with a teenager who is desperately trying to cling to what little control he has in his life, which is the logistics of managing the band.

Essay over sorry for rambling

No worries! I love a good ramble.

It's not a bad headcanon either. It would make sense.

I don't think I have a specific headcanon for canon Brozone and their parents, probably because I have shifted to aus but it would make sense. Especially with all the dark turns we see when it comes to children stars/actors/singers and their parents.

Kids... don't often see their older siblings as authority figures, even when they are. They don't always recognize that. Don't get me wrong, sometimes they do but often times they don't really. So I can absolutely see John taking on that role and the others never really seeing it, even when they get older. Absolutely I could see that. Their parents doing what they could to keep appearances but all the real stuff landed on him. It is a tough spot to be in when your siblings don't see you as an authority figure that you are trying to be/need to be.

I could see that too. Even though troll aging/maturing seems wildly unpredictable, strange and weird in comparison to human toddlers, I could see, if this concept was the case, John not wanting him to be involved. Not only because of their parents exploiting them but also the perfectionism thing. It's not that he doesn't love Branch, but well, who trusts a toddler for this type of thing?

If there was toxic stage parents (which I think if they had stage parents they would have to be toxic, there is no way that family ended up the way they did without that if this was the case) I think you would be onto something with Branch being involved. We all know that Rosiepuff said Branch's voice was like an angel's so if she thought that, chances were their parents did too.

JD's whole thing when he left was his frustration and that his brothers were a lot of responsibility and considering he can't be that old, I can understand that. Coupling with the fact that he's probably not seen much as an authority figure in this case, as well as the pressure and strain he was under with that set of types of parents... yikes. Talk about a recipe for disaster.

Losing control for someone who struggles with perfectionism and even just being overwhelmed with reasonability is a nightmare. If this was the case, my only surprise is that there wasn't a blowup sooner. Which in that case, the reason it probably went on for so long is because John is protective. He always has been (I will die on this hill cause there is no way after 20 years of radio silence JD picks himself up and hightails it to try and save his brother that he isn't wildly protective)

[rhiannswork]

MILLION DOLLAR MAN 2

🆎 fic

part 1

warnings: a moment of delusion, confrontation, if y’all can think of anything lmk

a/n: i’m truly so sorry for the wait, this is also really bad but i’m trying to improve my writing skills. thank you everybody for supporting:)

you stared at those five words on the screen until the notification left the screen. your eyes filled with salty tears, you began hyperventilating. after a few seconds you became lightheaded, you fell back on the bed with countless thoughts running your mind.

that message wasn’t real right? there’s no way that he’s seeing somebody else. you can’t tell somebody you love them and mean everything to them, then do this.

well, it is possible, but it’s not something austin would do. austin would never cheat. austin wouldn’t waste money on someone he didn’t love. that would make him a psycho.

you left the phone untouched and waited for austin to invite him downstairs. you walked to the bathroom and fixed your hair along with your makeup. you took some breaths to calm yourself. “okay baby come down.” you heard austin’s faint voice coming from the bottom of the stairs.

you headed down to the kitchen with your tiara in your hand, austin smiling at the sight of you. you gave a similar smile, only that you were faking yours. “happy birthday to you…” austin began singing. you made your way to the table whilst placing the tiara on your head. “happy birthday dear y/n… happy birthday to you” he placed a kiss on the side of your face, waiting for you to make a wish. “are you going to make a wish babe?” “mhm… doing it right now.” you closed your eyes and made your wish, you blew out your candles. “you want your presents now?” you nodded.

the only thoughts speculating your mind was the message, the heart at the end of it, ‘tonight’, if she was really the reason why he didn’t stay all night. you didn’t even notice austin placing three presents in front of you.

you opened the first box, you tore through all the tissue paper. it was a brown leather bag, it looked extremely used, worn down. “is there something in the bag?” you nervously laughed. if austin can afford every diamond and pearl, what was the purse about. “i gave this to nadia first, she didn’t want it anymore.” “what?” you furrowed your eyebrows at him, “why would you give this… to me, an-and who’s nadia.” you stared into his eyes while yours became watery. “y/n…” he chuckled.

“y/n… y/n?” austin spoke while waiting for you to open your gifts. “what?” “usually when people get gifts they don’t stare at them.” he chuckled softly. “oh yeah sorry.” you actually opened the box, taking out all the paper, you saw a matching set of necklace, bracelet, and earrings. “they’re beautiful…” somehow, you had forgot all about the message. you stared at the set, the way it shined perfectly with just the right amount of light on it.

“go ahead and open the next one.” he smiled as he watched you toy with the gift. “so… when were you gonna tell me about nadia?” your voice slightly trembled as you looked at austin through your lashes.

“what?” he laughed nervously and made a worried expression on his face. “nadia, who is she? she’s expecting you tonight if you didn’t know.” you placed the box back on top of the gift you were preparing to open. “she’s a co-worker. we’re supposed to be rehearsing, why she wants to do that at night is beyond me.” he sighed rubbing his eyes with the pads of his fingers.

“what happened to you clearing your schedule?” you cleared your voice and made it more firm. “i’ve been busy, i was at work, i rushed home for you. when you told me about how it made you feel, that’s when i decided. i haven’t gotten around to it, i wanted to sort that out after we finished celebrating.”

he’s seems like he wasn’t lying, it doesn’t make sense to rehearse at night, you weren’t letting go that easily, but you did feel a bit better about the situation. “okay.” you whispered so your voice wouldn’t break. you opened the next present, you pulled out a blue prada bag, along with a dress neatly folded underneath.

“now you have something to wear to see the model show up in new york.” he smiled. “i thought you said there weren’t any seats left?” “anything for my girl.” he smirked while he softly closed his eyes.

you couldn’t figure him out, austin butler was a mystery to you. one minute he has you wanting to rip his eyes out of his skull the next he has you at his feet.

“are you gonna go? to rehearse?” you hoped and affirmed that he wouldn’t in your head, knowing austin he just might. “of course not. i saw your face when you asked me who nadia is. i don’t want you to stress out about me and her, there isn’t even a ‘me and her’. it’s you and me alright?” he held your hands that were resting in your lap, a reassuring expression came across his face.

“— i don’t want you worrying about me leaving you, cheating on you, anything like that. i only have eyes for you…” he kissed your hand “do you want me to ask her about the message?” you shook your head. “tomorrow… i just want to have you to myself.” “alright… how ‘bout you show me how well the dress fits hm?”

and just like that, you were at his feet again.

taglist: @homebodybirkin2003 @sh-aniah @madisonafangirl @pennyroyalcreep @cosmorant @bcofl0ve

[ace-and-ink]

since i was a child

before i even understood what it meant to call myself a girl

i was held to a standard i never knew about

to this day i don’t know where it came from or who made it

but if i ever find him (i’m sure they’re a him)

my hands would find his neck

and i’d pass what they would do next

as their “instinct” or “natural order”

but since i was young

before i even knew myself well enough

to know what to call myself

i was told how to look and what to do

i was too young to be teased for having a bit of a tummy

because wasn’t i a child?

weren’t our bodies supposed to be like that?

i was too innocent to be laughed at for the things i said

before i learned to lean into it to prevent the shame, but not the fear

because how could i understand what i was and wasn’t supposed to say?

how was i supposed to know the social stigmata

before i could even spell stigmata?

i had a chest of dress-up things

tucked away in the back of my closet

full of sparkly princess dresses

and glitter-covered plastic heels

with tiaras and crowns

and painful clip-on earrings

because “this is what girls play with”

all the replicas of things from the princess movies

i could never force myself to love

so i used my tooth fairy money

to buy little plastic cars at the dollar store

with wheels that came out of the package sticky on their axle

but then i was always the one out of the loop

playing with toys at my friends’ houses

and no one came to mine

because i never had anything to offer them

that they would truly like

all throughout my youth it seemed

everyone was learning it but me

what to say and what to do

how to look and how to act

in order to be “loved”

my friends became too cruel too quickly

they laughed at me more and more

before i learned to make myself the clown with intention

until eventually they said the real words to my face

i had friends when they needed something

but otherwise i floated

and developed the fear of words behind my back

from faces i knew well

but could not see

the worst thing to happen to youth was the social image

some knew it couldn’t apply to them and that was fine

more knew it couldn’t apply to them and did everything to make it

most knew it couldn’t apply to them and couldn’t make it if they tried

hoodies became girls’ best friends

if diets didn’t

even today the hands of those who’ve lived before me

drag the razor blades over my legs

and under my arms

and across my stomach

my greatest mercy was learning about the l-word

i could finally pin the source of my outcastness on something

i wouldn’t say i ever hated it

but i know it took me time for it to become the home it is to me today

but even then

no one understood it, not where i grew up

so in reality i was ousted further still

some days too nervous to go into the locker room

fearing that my teammates would be scared of me in there

but no one got it better than the women

who used and loved the l-word and the d-word

and i looked up to them more and more

saw myself more and more

i took their looks to my body

i was a walking stereotype

because in my home town

you had to look like you were something

else you were the butt of the joke for other reasons

even worse if you said you were one thing

but never matched the part

i learned that over at least my ten years

even now

when my body and choices are my own

god forbid i add another metal rod through my skin

because then i’ll look like something odd

but i learned about odd from people who used the t-word

and i learned about comfort from those who didn’t use a word at all

i may still act like your token character

but i don’t look like anything in particular anymore

i’m still working on quelling my fear of the voices behind me

but my body is in my own hands and care

and i’ve learned to love her more and more

but not for the reasons the little girl i was might’ve thought

and i keep those other hands far away

from my lip and my chin

i’ll bring the razor there on my own

if only to keep the hair there healthy

— bodily