#ghost house of grand haven

[morallyinept]

Azalea - A Lucien Flores One Shot

Summary: A man from your past shows up at a party and leaves you on the cusp of making a life changing choice. Do you stay, or do you leave with him?

Pairing: Lucien Flores x F!Reader (No name or physical description of reader. It’s you, bub. However Reader has hair long enough to be brushed over their shoulder and wears a dress.)

Word Count: 4.8k

Scoville Smut Rating:🌶️🌶️🌶 “You tell me I’m doing well, and then, you try to kill me”

Check out my Scoville Smut Ratings here.

Warnings/Triggers: Unprotected PIV (wrap up, folks!)/fingering/oral F recieving/mild ass play/kissing/infidelity/mentions of past issues with alcolholism and addiction/toxic relationship traits/unrequited love and longing/Lucien's chains come with their own warning

NSFW. MINORS DNI! OVER 18’s ONLY. YOU ARE SOLELY RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT YOU READ.☝🏻Don’t come at me; you’ve been plenty warned.

I write for me, and I share with you. If this story isn't to your taste, that's fine. Just slip quietly out the back door. No need to make a fuss. It's just a work of fiction.

Author’s Note: I get the sense (from the little clips we've seen of Lucien so far) that he's in love, and probably loves hard, and is messy and complicated with a turbulent past, and isn't a bad guy at all. So here he is, my version. I hope you like him. 😘 (I've used some of his lines from the clips we've seen too.)

MAIN MASTERLIST | LUCIEN FLORES MASTERLIST | FLORA & FAUNA MASTERLIST

Enjoy! 🖤

As guests mingle and laughter fills the air in the grand house, you can’t shake off the heavy feeling of discontent grinding sharply around your teeth.

As you stand invisible amongst the cluster of your braying friends, you can't help but cast a wistful gaze back towards the brown eyes staring at you from across the room, loitering casually with a hand in his pocket and lips wrapped around a cigarette.

It makes your skin itch and pickle that he's here.

How is it that he’s fucking here?

He’s like a ghost haunting the hollows of your bones. A constant white noise that only you can hear.

He looks good, well. Better.

He has colour in the capillaries of his cheeks again, and the way he stands is different, he seems taller somehow, a little more grey and wispy, but still handsome. He’s put on a little weight, a small paunch evidence of that. He appears more foreboding with those squared-off shoulders in their thick broadness.

He smirks at you, he never smiles. Just smirks, crookedly and you look away immediately. Those itches and prickles melting into warm heat that floods down your spine.

Fuck, why is he here?

You turn your attention to Mitch, basking in the spotlight of adulation. His animated gestures and booming laughter echo out through the open windows, mingling with the soft strains of music drifting from within the dining room.

Guests cluster around him, hanging onto his every word; their faces alight with admiration and respect. And it makes you fucking sick.

You slip away unnoticed, carrying a bottle of open and warm champagne, seeking solace amidst the blood red azaleas in the expansive garden.

You’re drinking from the bottle of flattening fizz bitterly, leaving your partner toasting his fortune and parry, and there’s tension swirling around your gut that hasn’t died down since the vicious verbal spat you endured the previous night with him.

Your jaw still aches from clenching it all night.

As the celebration in the house continues, the siren call of the garden seems to provide a contrasting haven for you amidst the vibrant azalea bushes that grow plush and full.

An immediate sense of relief washes over your clammy skin, being away from the pomp and grandeur of the party inside, where Mitch holds court with his characteristic charisma. Mitch is a man of stature, exuding an air of confidence that borders on total arrogance.

Tonight's gathering is, after all, in honour of the recent success of his book - a testament to his hard ambition and callous drive. You have no idea what it’s about. You’ve not read it, tiring of your opinions and input being constantly quashed.

Mitch moves through the crowd with ease, regaling guests with anecdotes of his success and achievements, which doesn’t care to highlight the months of patience and suffering you’ve endured whilst he wrote it; his crackling laughter mingling with the clinking of glasses and the hum of vibrant conversation.

Despite the outward display of celebration, you can't shake off the underlying tautness swirling in your gut, lingering from the fight that still hovers between you both. Mitch's ego often overshadows the relationship, and controls it, leaving your own feelings and desires overlooked and unappreciated.

And as you find welcome loneliness in the garden, a fucking moment to just breathe, you can't help but wonder if Mitch has even noticed your absence amidst the ass-kissing bestowed upon him.

Well, it's all about having the right mindset, you see. I've always been driven by success, and I refuse to settle for anything less than the best...

You roll your eyes at Mitch's self-congratulatory tone that follows out the windows and berates you further. It’s moments like these that remind you of the growing chasm between you, feeling a pang of disconnection, a sense of longing for something more profound than the superficial trappings of hollow success.

You find yourself retreating deeper into the shadows of the garden, seeking pause amidst the fragrant blooms with the champagne bottle as your only companion.

And then, startled by a familiar voice, one that grates on you for completely different reasons, you find yourself vis-a-vis with your ex-boyfriend, Lucien Flores, who’s unabashedly shown up uninvited.

Somehow inserting himself back into your life in blocks of time to taunt you further no doubt. The tension between you is palpable as you exchange awkward looks amidst the blossoming flowers under the moonlit sky.

His molten brown eyes are soft and deep as he smirks in your direction as you cast an aloof glace over your shoulder at him that is anything but. You swig on the bottle like his presence hasn’t jangled your nerves tenfold, but you both know that it has.

You can feel his eyes wandering and burning holes across your body framed in a cascade of vibrant crimson fabric; its rich hue contrasting beautifully against the wild backdrop of the garden. With every step, the hem of the dress brushes against the dew-kissed grass as you turn from him and head further into the darker recesses of the plush oasis.

Lucien follows, checking behind him to make sure you’re both still alone.

Lush greenery envelopes the space, with vibrant bursts of blood colour provided by the clusters of azalea bushes in full bloom, their delicate petals casting a gentle fragrance into the air. He watches as your fingers brush through their leaves and velvety heads as you pass.

Stone pathways wind their way through the verdant landscape, leading to secluded alcoves, where you find yourself now with Lucien’s presence engulfing the small space.

“This isn't really a good time for your bullshit, Lucien." You say, as you drink from the bottle again, feeling a trickle of its nectar within roll down your chin.

“I wanted to see you, amante," (lover) he says, nonchalantly.

You wince at the endearing nickname he used to shower you with, whispers of it keening from a set of explorative lips as they inked the affectionate moniker under your skin.

“Really.” You snort rather ungraciously. “Why are you even here?”

He drags on the last of his cigarette, smoke billowing from pink lips, before flicking it away, its embers dying in the night. “Can we talk?”

You shake your head adamantly. “We never just talk. You know I'm with someone else now."

“Yeah. Mitch.” He nods over to the house, the party still in full swing. “Quite the catch.” He slurs with a strained hiss, then smirks.

“He wants kids,” you scoff.

And Lucien’s face softens. “You’d be a great mom.”

“I don’t want to be a mom.” You confirm and he nods.

“I know. That's why I got the snip.” His eyebrow flexes in sympathy. “Remember that summer in Tuscany?”

You shake your head again. “We never went to Tuscany.”

He thinks for a second through the haze and frowns. “No, that’s right. That was Annabelle.” He corrects with a dip in his cheeks. He simply clicks his tongue at his mistake.

“Right. Annabelle.” You bristle. “How is she these days?” Although you don’t really care.

“We should go.”

“To Tuscany?” You baulk.

“Yeah, let's go. Right now. Slip away.” He suggests with a warm seriousness.

“Lucien-”

“Kiss me.” He steps in gently and you place a palm on his chest; the silk of his shirt like fluid under your touch.

Your eyes trail over the shiny watercolour of it, the way it hangs flimsy and baggy at the hem before you brave yourself to trail upwards over the familiar shape of his chest and exposed collarbone, shiny with sweat in the hollow. A duo of gold chains knotted around one another twinkle at you before your eyes find his own.

“You are so unfair.” You shake your head despondently.

“You’ve wanted to kiss me since you saw me tonight.” Lucien states, casually. You feel him take the bottle from your fingers and he drinks a mouthful of it for himself.

“I thought you were sober.” You frown.

“I am, but I still drink.”

You roll your eyes as he clears his throat and puts the bottle down.

“I don’t even know why you’re here tonight. Who invited you?” You question with a knitted brow. You’re pretty certain he doesn't know anyone here. Except you.

You he knows really well. Too well.

He looks at you for a moment, head dipped and cocked to one side as if taking you all in.

“You’re not happy.” Lucien says, brushing your hair over your shoulder and it lingers there, his fingers in your roots gently massaging.

You turn, your nose brushing the inside of his wrist and inhale the scents there. The sun, the natural salt musk of his skin, cigarettes. You close your eyes just basking in the innocent feel of him. He was always so generous with his touch.

“No, I'm not.” You turn your face up to meet his. You can't lie to him, not when he sees you - really sees you. “But I wasn’t happy with you either.”

“I am sober.” He reassures, dropping his hand. “Eight months. I have control of my life now.”

“Right.” You fold in on yourself. You can’t go there. You refuse to go there.

“I came here to apologise to you.” Lucien says, stepping back and casting his glance down the pathway back at the house and its design.

“Is that what your sponsor suggested you do?” You remark.

“Is it Venetian?” He asks.

From the outside, the house exudes an air of opulence, with its intricate facade adorned with ornate columns and graceful archways reminiscent of palazzos.

You shrug, watching him carefully as he frowns.

“I never knew Mitch had such exquisite taste." Lucien smirks with a sneer.

“He doesn’t. It’s his parent’s second home. We’re renting it for the summer. His stupid book tour.” You mutter.

"Pshoo. Fancy." He shakes his head. “No, my sponsor didn’t tell me to come here to apologise to you.”

He turns back to you, his features soft and moulding into concern at your watery eyes looking back at him.

“You seem... melancholy." You feel his thumbs stroke either side of your face and this time you don’t stop him. Just helplessly letting those rough, calloused pads swipe over the skin under your eyes.

“You’re all glittery and sad,” Lucien says, looking at the metallic shadow brushed delicately over your eyelids.

“Why are you doing this?” You query, deflating. Surrendering.

“Doing what?”

“Torturing me.”

“You think this is torture?” Lucien asks, stroking your cheeks delicately. “It got dark. I wanted to see the sun again.”

Your breath catches in your throat as he presses a long, lingering kiss to your forehead.

A phantom sensation dances across your skin - a gentle caress, feather-light and tender in its hesitation. In that brief, ethereal moment, you feel transported back to a time when what you and Lucien had was untarnished by the shadows of addiction and betrayal - a time when his touch had been a balm to your weary heart.

And you missed the sun too.

He walks with you, guiding you backwards to the craggy, stone wall encased in the curve of the dark. You can still see his eyes as they drop to your lips and you remember the taste of him, choking on the smoke of him as he draws nearer to your face.

A hushed conversation stirs your attention from the other side of the wall. A faint, muffled voice drifts through the thick stone wall, and your heart clenches as you recognize Mitch's unmistakable tone.

Lucien covers your mouth gently with an engulfing, warm hand as he ghosts his nose gently over the skin of your neck.

It's hard to focus as you inhale a faint remant of his heady cologne, but on the other side of the wall you can hear your partner Mitch on the phone; his voice dripping with honeyed affection that he hasn’t used with you for a long time.

Lucien pulls back as you push against his chest, standing straight, his palm flat against the wall above your head as he listens out curiously with you.

I can’t stop thinking about you either, darling…

Lucien’s eyes drop to yours, his smirk dipping. “He’s fucking someone else?” He mouths.

You nod. You’ve suspected it for a while now and are only more confounded as to why you haven’t left him yet.

"Pendejo." (Asshole/idiot) Lucien bites in a growl.

As he’s speaking beyond the wall to his clandestine lover, Lucien pulls back, standing upright and shaking his head.

Your hands clench into fists at your sides, your nails digging into your palms as Mitch waves his infidelity around the garden so casually.

His voice eventually fades out and Lucien takes one of your fists, unkinks your fingers, and brings your palm up to his mouth where he kisses it gently, eyes lancing at you, deep and entracing.

“Fuck him. Come with me to Tuscany.” Lucien drawls.

You wrinkle your nose. “What about Annabelle?”

He shrugs. “It didn’t work out.”

“Why am I not surprised?” You snort.

“Wasn’t the drinking.” He says, shaking his head and cupping your hand in between both of his ginormous ones. “Sober, remember?”

“You just drank from the champagne, I'm not an idiot.”

“Proof.” He says. “Proof that I can control it now.”

“You’ll never be able to control it.”

He nods. “Yeah, not without help. And I have help.”

You sigh and he looks at you earnestly pressing your hands to his chest. You can feel the ribbing of his heartbeat underneath them.

“I ended things with Annabelle ages ago.”

“Why? She was good for you.”

He breaks off with a garbled sigh amd swallows. You watch as he stares intonthe distance, and then he smirks.

“Do you remember when you threw my keys over the fence?”

“Don’t change the subject. Why did you leave her?” You say, fearing the answer.

“She’s not… you.” Lucien kisses your palm again and you can only watch him. Watch, rooted to the spot, heart thudding as he kisses slowly up your wrist and arm.

"I can't be with someone I don't love." He says simply.

You know it’s empty promises and hollow words as he paints this fantasy of a forever with him on your skin with his hot tongue. And it’s an illusion you’ll happily let yourself fall into for a while because it seems almost better than your current reality.

So you kiss him back. Pulling him by the lapels of his thin shirt until his lips are felt against yours, desperately.

He kisses you like the first time, when he was unsure and flighty. Before he became the man who broke your heart and left you walking barefoot on the shards of it.

His hands roam your face, cupping your cheek, thumbs stroking again as you feel his body crush against yours. Hips winding into your belly as he gasps around the taste of your lips.

You both part, panting and wanting, his deep eyes searching you out. He knows you’re in there somewhere, knows you’re better than this life, and also the one he tried - and failed - to give you.

Amidst the confusing turmoil, you can't ignore the unspoken longing lingering between you both, a palpable undercurrent of tension and desire on both parts.

He’s crushed tightly against you, bleeding into the shadows of the stone wall propped up behind you and your skin alike. You can almost feel the thrum of his heartbeat against yours, aquiline nose brushing up the side of your jaw inhaling the sweet scents of you that make his mouth water and his cock stiffen into your gut.

His hand pulls at the silk of your belt and your dress falls open, cascades of rich velvet and silk opening for his hands to roam gently over your naked skin.

You feel a rush of warmth flood your body despite the cool breeze puckering your nipples - warmth at the way Lucien looks at you, marvelling at you.

At the way he touches you, reigniting the sparks that you ensured you snuffed out a long time ago. You shudder at Lucien’s tender touch, the way his fingertips barely glide across your exposed skin, your weak heart fluttering in response to the raw vulnerability you see reflected back in his eyes.

You find yourself leaning into Lucien’s touch, finding solace and comfort in the unspoken connection that has always lingered between you both, despite everything. In that moment, amidst the fragrant blooms and the moonlit shadows, that small nagging thought mutates, that perhaps the love you’d always been searching for had been right here, in his stacked arms all along.

You shake your head, quickly gathering your wits and wrapping the dress around your body.

“We can’t do this.” You croak, trying to convince yourself of it despite all the blood in your veins rushing towards your centre and throbbing like a jungle drum.

“Yes we can.” Lucien assures. “I’ve fucking missed you, amante.”

It stops you in your tracks.

The words hang in the air, sharp and raw, teetering on the edge of a dreamy possibility that you’ve only allowed yourself to relive in the dark corners of your mind in quiet moments of a self-loathing masochism you allow yourself to harbour.

You feel his thick fingers on the tips of yours, a delicate yet invading touch that spreads its poison quickly and renders your resolve to crumble at your feet.

Any thoughts of regret are pushed aside as you wrap your arms around him and kiss him again.

Lucien worships your body as he trails his mouth over your naked breasts, sucking nipples into his mouth as he pushes you back against the wall. You gasp, already squirming and clenching as his lips leave more devastation.

He makes out with your stomach, dipping his tongue lavishly into your belly button as he sinks to his knees. Your fingers knot in his hair, tugging gently as you wind fluffed, messy curls around them.

Lucien turns you with ease in his large hands, gathering your dress to the side, and kisses across your butt, biting the pert cheeks of them softly into his mouth as his hands pry them apart and his tongue makes lewd discoveries that make you gasp into the wall.

He crushes you to him, wrapping his arms around your thighs and forcing his face further in between your cheeks as you reach behind and rake desperately through his hair.

Running his tongue around the tight knot of your skin, and your mind can't help to revisit all the times when he claimed it with his fingers and cock too.

He kisses over the dimples of your thighs, all around them, under them, the backs of your knees - just everywhere and anywhere he can run his scuffed lips against.

Turning you again, he stares at your cunt inches from his nose, that’s soaking through the flimsy, black lace panties you’re wearing.

“He doesn’t fucking deserve you.” Lucien growls, looking up at you. “I don’t fucking deserve you.”

“No, you don’t.” You breathe resolutely. But you pull your panties aside and he gasps as you yank him forward by the back of his head.

He groans out in sweet relief as soon as his tongue makes contact, swiping into your soaked folds.

His hands run up the back of your thighs as he squeezes your ass, pushing your sopping cunt further onto his mouth.

“Yes, Lucien, get in there… get right in there,” you pant as your eyes roll back.

You struggle to stay upright, your body like jelly as you feel yourself slipping against the ragged stone wall against your skin.

He pries you open with his thumbs, licking over the shiny, wet bead of your clit and your thighs shakes uncontrollably. He brutally sucks it, flicking his tongue over and over in his determination to make you unravel.

He won’t stop until you come, you know this. He always was a generous lover in carefree abundance. Far from what you’re used to now - Mitch hasn't touched you in months, and the thought of it makes your skin crawl.

Lucien’s tongue works you up quickly, lapping and gliding expertly as he mouths on you exquisitely. You hear him grunt in hunger and want as he pulls you onto him further; his blunt fingertips pressing bruises into your ass cheeks as he grips tighter onto you, your hips winding into his face.

“Lucien…” you whine as you bubble and brew.

His eyes look up at you, mouth and nose buried into your core as you come; the silvery moon bathing your face in sweet, adoring kisses through its crescent smile as your body heats and your bones shake.

He lets you taste it as he rises up and kisses you, slipping his honey coated tongue back between your lips as you groan.

"Taste so fucking good." He groans.

His fingers attack your pussy, sliding in and pumping fast as you gasp. Clutching onto his shoulders, the silk bunches up around them in knotted waterfalls spilling over your knuckles as you claw and squeeze.

“Come for me again, baby.” Lucien encourages in a low, deep tone. Eyes watching you as the shadows of the alcove play over his ragged face like Rorschach inkblots.

“I’m gonna fuck you right here, amante,” he grunts as you squeeze and contract around his fingers brushing over your spot. “And then I’m gonna take you away from here, away from that piece of shit, and fuck you again. And again.”

“Lucien, please…” you whimper.

“We belong together, baby. I fucking love you.” He mumbles into your lips. “I never stopped. Not once. And I know you didn’t either. And I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, baby... come for me, that's it, let go... come... Fuck, you're so beautiful.”

You cry out as your orgasm floods your body and his fingers. Your body shakes beyond your control, eyes glazed over and lost in a tumble of his sweet ramblings and bewitching ministrations.

“Come here.” Lucien reaches to his fly as he kisses your neck. His heady grunts sound like gravel in your ears, breath warming you with the acrid scent of smoke seeping into your pores.

He hoists your leg up over his thick arm, his hand coming to rest on your face again as you feel him run his cock through your folds. He dips his hips low as he breaks on through inside you.

“You feel that, you feel that all the way?” He asks, as he slides all the way in and out again.

“Lucien!” You gasp, your lips nipping onto his as you feel him pack you out. You never forgot the feel of him, so hard and thick.

"That's it, baby. Back where I belong."

His pants are desperate; puffy little breaths that soon grow into laboured whines of lusty need. Drunk off of you completely, sobriety smashed in an instant.

He vowed to stay away, to let you heal and move on, but he’s selfish. He knows he is. He can’t abstain, can’t ever quit you. It’s why he’s here, fucking another man’s woman because he’s selfish. Sabotaging every relationship he’s had since you, trapped in that cycle.

Basking in the addictive feel of your cunt squeezing around him as you come, watching as your eyes soar into the sky, howling his name into his mouth as he tastes your tongue and sucks on it greedily.

"Fuck, you feel so good." He grunts.

He comes inside you, filing you full, but he still keeps pumping, still keeps himself buried inside of you, fucking deep and slow. Unable to pull himself out of you, unable to be parted from you now that he has you back inside his hands.

You clutch on tighter to him, not wanting this to end; wanting to indulge in this secret shame in the back of the garden you've allowed yourself to wallow freely in.

He feels so good, so warm and thick. He peppers your face with kisses, the silk scruff of his jawline smooth against your cheeks. Your fingers coil in the curls behind his ears and the back of his bronzed neck, damp with sweat.

They tangle in the chains, one that you're pretty certain in your cock-addled haze that was a gift from you that he still wears - you pull him closer to you still.

“Come inside me again, Lucien,” you whisper as he pecks over your face gently.

“I wanna spend forever coming inside of you,” he whispers back, voice breaking.

And you know he means it. He always means what he says, it's just the follow through is often lost in translation. He’s not a bad man, you know this in your heart.

You spent days convincing your reflection in the mirror that he's not a bad man; he was just weak when you needed him to be strong - an unravelling mess. But he was your mess for time.

And now that he’s inside you again like this, so uncouthly unperturbed that anyone could venture down here and see him claiming you, you know a part of you still loves him too.

You believed it when he said he loved you and you suspect he probably hasn’t loved anyone else like he loved you.

It was raw, unfiltered. Intense. You know it because you felt it too. It hurt, viscerally. Consumed you both and spit you out.

A gaping wound that you’ve not been able to stitch up and every day you’re bleeding out. You wanna tell him how much it fucking hurt to watch him willingly drown, inadvertently pulling you under with him.

You want to lash out and scratch at his beautiful face, slap him and bite and bruise him like he bruised you.

But instead you kiss him, you hear him falter and become weak inside your ear and he groans and whimpers your name as he comes once more.

You let him flood you again, feel it dripping down your thighs, thick and warm as he stains your skin with him all over again.

In the afterglow of your post-coital bliss, your hand traces the contours of his weathered face, running lightly through the wiry greys along his jaw.

Lucien nestles into your palm, lips finding the skin to press in a kiss.

You want to believe it, you want to believe he’s changed and grown and learnt. That he's spent time reflecting, healing.

But you're still marred with the splinters of hurt that’ve lacerated your heart.

Looking into the rich, warm browns of melted chocolate, flecked with golden hues that dance like sunlight on water, you allow yourself to remember the days when Lucien was your everything.

When his gruff, nicotine soaked laughter was the sound that filled your days, and his touch chased away any fears you could harbour.

The ways he would fuck you for hours into the night; his sweat soaking into your skin, as you gnawed on his shoulder, like perfume you’d wear for days without showering him away.

You remember the first time you noticed the signs - the subtle scent of hard liquor on his breath, the empty bottles hidden away in the depths of your home in the most unusual of places. At first, you’d dismissed it as stress or a passing phase, but as the weeks turned into months, the truth became impossible to ignore.

You’d watched helplessly as Lucien spiralled further into the grip of his addiction, his once-charming demeanour giving way to bouts of anger and despair that would paint your bathroom in plumes of his vomit. You remember the sleepless nights spent drowning in tears, the ache in your chest that refused to relent, the biting emptiness that hollowed out your soul into a pair of unblinking eyes and a heart cemented over.

You wonder if that’s why you’re with Mitch now. Wonder if perhaps that this is all you deserve; that you’ll never be happy, so what's the point in trying to fight for it?

The nights had become endless cycles of fear and uncertainty, each day a desperate struggle to hold your crumbling world together. You’d become withdrawn, adept at hiding the truth from your friends and family, plastering on a smile to conceal the pain.

But amidst the chaos and despair, there had been moments of hope - fleeting glimpses of the man you had once loved, the man buried beneath the weight of his addiction and trying to swim out of it.

And though you had often questioned your decision to stay as long as you did, you can't deny the flicker of love that still burns within you for him, the belief that perhaps, just perhaps, there’s still a chance for redemption.

And you hate yourself for allowing your mind to go there.

Lucien reaches to the bush and plucks an azalea off the stem and combs it behind your ear.

“Beautiful.” He says with a smile. Not a smirk, a smile.

“I can’t go back to that place, Lucien.” You say, shaking your head.

You stare out at the house and the sounds of music and chatter still tinkle down the pathway towards you both.

“I know,” he says, running a hand through his hair listlessly.

You untangle the flower from your hair and look at it resting in your palm, the velvety petals smoothed out under your thumb as you stroke.

“But you can’t stay here, either.” His voice pulls you from your swampy thoughts.

"No," you agree. You turn to glance back at the house.

“Come with me,” Lucien pleads softly, deep eyes searching yours out. "What's stopping you, baby?"

Fingertips on your chin tilt you towards him. You tuck the flower inside his breast pocket and he looks forlorn as you do, eyes sinking and any trace of a smile vanishing.

You wrap your dress around your waist and he watches you belt it up into a messy bow on your hip. You can still feel him pooling between your legs.

You take in a deep breath, a steadying one that seeks clarity through the confusion, and inhale the familiar, swarming fragrance of the azaleas one last time.

My first time writing for Lucien and I'd love to know your thoughts. I'd appreciate a re-blog too so others can read and enjoy. Thankies! 🖤

MAIN MASTERLIST | LUCIEN FLORES MASTERLIST | FLORA & FAUNA MASTERLIST

Tagging @secretelephanttattoo @rhoorl @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @undercoverpena @linzels-blog @avastrasposts @trulybetty

#pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #lucien flores #the uninvited #lucien flores x reader #lucien flores x you #lucien flores x f!reader #jett's writing

[fallen-gravity]

What inspired you to make Safe Haven? Btw I really love the fanfic not just because I’m Mollie and Ollie fan but it’s also because you have shown how much they have grown in there friendship after everything that has happened to them. Keep up the great work!

And just wondering how would Scratch react when he realizes Ollie was sleeping over in the McGee’s guest room?

aaa, thank you so much for your kind words!!! it really means a lot to me to hear that people love my work 🥺🥺🥺🥺

A lot of the intial inspiration came from a headcanon I've been talking about with friends for months about Ollie sneaking off to the McGee house. Even before he told his parents that he thinks ghosts can be good and compassionate at NecroComicon, he's been struggling knowing that he has such contrasting morals with his parents (and even his own sister before he had a chance to talk to her too) and that really scares him, so I like to believe that sometimes he would sneak out to spend time with Molly and her family because he wants a space where he can autheitcally be himself. There's a queer metaphor in there somewhere about having a closest self and a true self around loved ones you trust the most, and little sprinkled bits and pieces of wherefore art thou Romeo. NecroComicon airing only added fuel to the fire of Ruben and Esther canonically not being accepting of Ollie's differentiating morals, so yeah, of course he's gonna feel extra scared and unsafe, because now they know he's not like them anymore.

Another part of it, the really initimate part of Molly and Ollie comforting each other through gentle touches and whispers, that part comes from personal experience. When I was about 16 or so years old, there was a time where my then-partner and I got talking about life stuff, and not even necessarily about us or our future or anything that was really about our relationship, and we started getting really emotional because yeah, sometimes talking about life is hard. And we were feeling really shy about it, cause we were around other friends too, so the way we went about it was we kind of...squeezed each other in a really tight hug, and we touched foreheads and got all real close and balled up together, and...we cried. We talked about heavy stuff together and wanted to cry together and it felt like a genuinely healing experience. Molly and Ollie are both going through a lot, and, you know, they're both incredibly touchy people in canon, that it just felt to me like that's something they'd benefit from. Have a heavy talk, and then just take a few moments to let the other help ground you. Gently take them by the hand, wind an arm around them, tell them that they're sitting right there and that they don't plan on leaving any time soon. The fact that The Grand Gesture and mollie becoming canon in the very next episode that aired after writing it was insane luck on my end; I genuinely had no idea what the episode was going to be about outside of June and Darryl's plot, so you can only imagine the look on my face rereading Safe Haven after it aired. Holy shit.

As for how Scratch would react knowing Ollie is right there in his house, well...I'm sure Sharon wasn't the only person that Molly woke up when she was running around trying to make sure Ollie was okay, right? 😉 The way I see it, he woke up when she woke up, and he was gonna give both of them an earful about it, but by the time he caught up with them, he'd probably just run into Ollie crying into Molly's shoulder, and even he's not that heartless to kick someone while they're down.

But he is petty enough to wait until morning, ask how Ollie's feeling, and if he responds with oh, thank you for asking, Scratch! I'm feeling a lot better, then he's gonna tear him a new one for waking him up in the middle of the night and worrying Molly sick like that. But of course Ollie's used to it by this point, and knows that probably means he was secretly worried too, so he just responds to all of his griping with a smile.

#asks #safe haven #long post #tgamm #mollie #the ghost and molly mcgee #ollie chen #molly mcgee #scratch mcgee

[gauloiseblue]

Red Grave City Gothic

[DMC horror take]

Every city always has its charms, and Red Grave seems to possess the most extraordinary, yet controversial one. This city has hundreds of architecture that clash with each other. The high, and modern buildings are standing proud beside the neoclassical architectures. And the Victorian era houses refuse to rot away, as they stick out in the middle of modern city like a sore thumb. Although they're stunning in their own way, they don't fit into the neon-lit district. As if they're magenta dots on a baby blue shirt. 

Time doesn't seem to work as it should be when you're in the city. When you walk down the street, you'd feel like the air changes when you're not paying attention. The dispute between two different eras of architecture would disorient you, and a wrong turn could lead you to a completely strange alley. As if you've stepped into a different period of time. By accident. 

Sometimes, the people that you pass on the street can look very… peculiar. Sometimes you see a woman with a dress that belongs in the 18th century, and sometimes you see a man with the attire of an old priest. But when you turn away for a second, they disappear into thin air. You couldn't be sure if you've just seen a ghost, or it's a fragment of your imagination. 

At night, the locals warned you not to walk alone. They said the devil lurks in the darkness, and the shadows seem to be longer than it should. One time, you took a walk in the night and spotted a strange man with big eyes, and a smile with hundreds of needles instead of teeth. You haven't gone out at night since then. 

The city embraces its charm, and the locals believe that supernatural beings exist. They know them intimately, and embrace them like it's their nature. But never ask about it to the locals. Because they will stare at you, and their eyes will burn holes into you as they speak. Then nothing, you won't understand anything they said. 

Do not visit the graveyard alone. Never, in any circumstances, come to the place alone. Bring one or more people with you, the more you bring the better. Only come when it's noon, and leave before your shadow is longer than two feet. Don't come when there's no guardian around, and DO NOT visit when there's a recent burial. Because they can't distinguish between the dead and the living. 

There's a rumor that many gates of hell are scattered around the city. The demons could get in, and if someone's not careful, they can fall into hell. It might sound like a silly rumor—to keep the kids at home—but the police are tight-lipped about the growing case of missing persons. Every so often, you passed a written warning on the wall; 'don't touch the glowing sigil'. 

In the heart of the city, there's a Grand Hotel which you can never afford a room for one night. Il Chiaro Mondo Hotel is a popular choice among the rich, and they seem to always come for a ball. They dress with feathers, fur, and gleaming ornaments on their bodies. Some of them don't bring anything, some of them bring a suitcase, or a child. When you observe the kids, you see the contrast between their expressions and the adults. They're void of any excitement. 

The crime rate in this city is relatively high, even though the politicians always advertise the city as a safe haven. Everyone is aware of the crimes that happened recently, but don't know anything at the same time. You may ask any person you meet about the news, and they'd tell you about an incident. And yet, when you ask the next person about it, they wouldn't have a single clue about it. The only time you got to see the case was when you watched the policemen seal a crime scene. You swore you saw the glimpse of mangled flesh behind the makeshift cover. But the next day, there's nothing about it in the newspaper. No one knew about it except you. 

Everyone knows about the legend of the house on the hill. They told you that a God once fell in love with a human, and they lived there with two sons. But tragedy befell them, as the house caught on fire one day. Everybody knows about the mother's demise, but no one knows about the fate of the sons. Your friend once told you that they're twins, whose names are on the tip of your tongue. 

The subway has become a part of the citizen's life. Everyday, people travel by underground train. And you're no exception. The locals know the routes like it's on the back of their hand, and the stations don't have a board anymore. Even if they have, they're beyond damaged, and the words are illegible. People seem to come and go, and you begin to notice that you rarely see a familiar face. It's not until the train moves, that you catch a sight of your departed relatives on the window. But… you don't know if they're from outside the window, or what you see is the reflection of where you're standing. 

Of course, not every place in this city is dangerous at night. Pawn's Avenue is one of the safest places to be when you can't sleep. The bright billboards and neon light up the city like a Christmas tree, and made the stars shy away from the spotlight. One night, when you're feeling down and unable to sleep, you visited one of the bars around there. By a stroke of luck, you met a man with hair as lucent as silver. He was a charming man, and irresistible. By the end of the night, he gave you his name. You can't remember his name. 

Be careful of what you wish for. Doesn't matter if you say it out loud, or you whisper it with the smallest voice, do not tell the wind. No one will ever know who's listening, and what kind of being they are. Because your wish will come true, but it won't come without a price. If you're lucky, you'll only lose your things, but if you become greedy, you'll lose something unimaginable. Do not say your wish, even when the voices inside your head tempt you to. 

It is said that if you wake up at night, something else's watching you. It's just a myth, you reminded yourself many times. But your eyes would open, and you'd see the exact same hour everyday. 2.01 AM. Sometimes you could sleep back again, but sometimes you woke up drenched in sweat, shaking. It's just a myth, you said it to yourself. But you didn't sleep again that night, as you kept thinking that you'd die if you closed your eyes. 

As the sun rises up, you begin your day with a glass of water. The liquid would taste like a pristine water from the fountain of Gods, and you'd fill the glass for a second time. It's always a mystery why you wake up drained and exhausted. You blame it on the hours you spend on the computer, but it's impossible to cause this kind of fatigue, right…? 

When you're walking into the train station, you lay your eyes on the advertising board. It's relatively empty, as it's not commonly used anymore. You stop and read one of the worn papers. You can only make out a few words; '... Everybody can get what they want… money, women, power, your wildest dream will come true… call us…' It ends there, as the phone number is ripped off. 

Dreams consist of the past recollection in your life. If you dream about a certain person, it means you've seen them somewhere. Lately, you've been dreaming about the peculiar man that you met at the bar. But he was different from what you remember. His coat wasn't red, and his hair was brushed to the back. Sometimes his face was reflected on the window's train, and sometimes he's close enough until you see his brilliant blue irises. He's him, but not him at the same time. Because his name… his name is… 

On your lonely night, you put the music on to fill the silence. It's not wise to play music at night, because some creatures are attracted to the sound. But it always gives you a sense of security, as if you're not alone. Sometimes, you hear a low hum outside your window. As quiet as an owl. And when you listen to the croon, your chest is filled with melancholy that doesn't belong to you. Your friends warned you about the voice outside the window, but you just laughed it off. Maybe… maybe you should've listened to them. 

Oftentimes, for a millisecond between consciousness and oblivion, you remember everything. The moment before you plunge into dreams, you recall the memories you've lost. You recognize his face at the subway, his smell, and his eyes that seem to stick with you all day. And his name, you remember his name. Your lips move involuntarily, and you call him by his name. At that moment, you swear you feel a weight on your bed as you fall asleep. 

#devil may cry #dmc #dmc dante #dmc vergil #gothic #repost from ao3 #headcanon

[bionicparrot]

🍷 or ☕️ for X-Tri and Ghost! Pick your seasonal beverage of choice and let's get fluffy ;) (@masters-menagerie)

It had been so long since Triage had worn anything other than her normal armor. She couldn't help but pick lightly at the edge of the heavy lavender scarf that was tucked into the light brown peacoat jacket she had to convince herself to wear.

She didn't have to keep her guard up around Ghost and that level of trust was a nice change of pace.

It was because of this rare feeling of trust she had invited him to her favorite spots in the city. One that she rarely indulged in out of fear of being spotted by Mavericks or Hunters alike. Which was a shame as she would visit more often if those worries were gone.

There was a bit of excitement that fluttered through her systems when she decided to share the location with Ghost. From the outside it didnt seem like much. A brick building with a black door that simply had 'Lounge' spray painted on its front in paint that used to be white but had greyed over time.

Inside though.

It was a dark and open area. Edison bulbs cast just enough dim, amber light to see those near you while velvet curtains cast long shadows along the outer edge of the room. Small booths with worn leather seats circled a large stage that housed a grand piano. A rare find in a city that had embraced a digital age that humans had rediscovered.

"Youre in for a treat." she whispered while scooting a just a little closer to him as the server poured the warmed glasses of wine.

The fragrance was Christmas incarnate. A berry scent with cinnamon and clove mulled into each glass that warmed the fingertips when held.

The wine wasnt the best part though. At least not for her. It was when the piano started playing familiar songs. Old Christmas carols that were one of the few things that predated the pair of older bots. Carols that were so baked into the customs of humanity that even when most all media was lost during the cataclysm the carols remained.

There was something about hearing live music. It was the closest feeling she'd get to being back on the network again. Thats what made this place a special haven for her. The familiar melody that sang out from the instruments had her closing her eyes and gently lean against him.

#future scars mmx triage #obviously this is set when theyve known each other for awhile

[busterstrouble]

The Presentation -

Keaton Palmerteri, Baron of New Haven, knew this was a big moment in the grand scheme of things. All his life he had avoided such formalities. Being so front and center only lead to society infiltrating his personal business. Keaton was here not only as a participant in the Season but also the long-waited introduction as the Head of House to the royal court. He understood that this moment would determine much of his reception in the days to follow. Of course there were plenty of reasons for this to be stressful; but Keaton was just here and he was going to be himself – whether they liked him or not. When the double doors opened the man stationed with his cane knocked three times on the floor. “The Right Honorable Baron Keaton Palmerteri of New Haven, presented by, The Right Honorable Duke Renard Ambrosius.”

Buster felt the air in the room shift as he entered the room. As if a ghost burst through the door there were slight shocked murmurs from attendants in the crowd. With confidence Keaton walked through the center of the room with a stern yet sly smile on his face. Shifting his eyes over the crowd it was clear that they were shocked to see him but he did notice some familiar faces.

The pomp and circumstance of it all was a bit uptight for Keaton but he would be remiss if he did not play the game he was born to play. In unison Keaton and Ren stopped in front of the Kings and with his right arm across his waist, Keaton bent steadily into a bow. He kept his eyes locked on the kings until he was looking through a furrowed brow; only lowering them in respect at the last possible second.

Keaton held his bow. There were whispers still floating through the room yet he held his position until he heard his name repeated back from the Kings. He could feel the eyes of King Skip burning through him; this was the first time in nearly two decades he was in front of the court. Keaton stood his ground in front of the kings when King Brad leaned to his husband and shared a few whispers. With a smile on his face King Skip lowered his head in a slight nod and Keaton followed suit with a respected nod in return.

For the first time since he entered the room it was silent; the crowed watched the parties interact and were almost sitting on the edge of their seats as Keaton and Ren turned to exit the center of the hall. The expression on his face was still stern through the eyes with a slight smirk on his lips. This was just another day for Keaton – except this might be the cliché start of a whole new life for him.

The slight rush flowing through him like the accomplishment of striking your first stag of the season brushed across the wolf inside. Turning to Ren he said in a low voice; “Well that was easy…”

#srrp #srrppresentation

[svvcrdsman]

inspired by this : ( in order of who he met )

. after drinking alcohol like water, there's more liquor venom in your veins than blood. your tolerance is too fucking high, but you still try to drink to forget. some nights, you'll order two milks-- one for yourself, the other for him. it's a little too sweet, too nice for you. just like how he's a little too warm, too kind towards you. on those nights, you drink to remember the upbeat cadence of his voice, the sunrays sparkling in his eyes, the way he looks at you as if you matter, as if you're worth something. . the grass is green, the ocean is blue, and you always get lost. it's a truth unwavering as laws of science. but you start to learn north, east, south, west, because she draws the simplest, easiest maps just for you. once you find your way back, you realize home isn't just a place. home is where you find her proud smile, one that grows brighter as you arrive with dirt stains and torn clothes, ( because okay, yeah, maybe you went on a detour in the woods ) --and you show her the folded map, still pristine, perfect, cherished. . during boyhood years, you're the child who doesn't feel safe. you grow up to be a man who still doesn't feel safe, but you try protecting yourself with a bloody reputation, invisible fortress walls, and crossed arms in silence. but he talks loudly, passionately with his hands, gestures painting grand tales, so full of life and color. your hand mirrors his, more subtle, quieter, but still more expressive than you've been in years. and one day, your hand even reaches out, resting on his shoulder. the opposite of midas touch. the undoing of medusa. when he laughs, you feel a little more human, you're not poisonous after all. . you mumble " g'morning " half-awake, blinking away last traces sleep. you swear " goddamnit " under your breath, coughing up blood onto the battlefield. moments when you're vulnerable, words slip out in a language you learn by listening. usually in the safe haven of a kitchen where you always offer to do dishes, or hang around under the guise of starting an argument for the hell of it. you're a lonely ghost, drawn towards the daylight that floods your haunted house cage. maybe someday, you won't ruin the syllables. maybe someday you'll be brave and tell him, " thank you. "

--- and after you lose them, you'll still order two milks, downing both even though everything now tastes like corrosive acid rain and heartache. you still know north, east, south, west, but there's no home to go back to, so you'll let yourself get lost, you're a feral, rabid animal in the woods, ripping your wounds wider. when you catch yourself gesturing with your hand, you'll clench it into a fist until nails break skin. you'll bite your tongue until tasting blood when you say " i'm home " in french, only to be answered by silence. they're gone, they're not coming back, and now you're just a decaying graveyard, carrying burn scars of their shadows, alone.

#. aka he loves them deeply and would be devastated if he lost them #* / headcanon #* / the crew

[thekimspoblog]

"Far From Civilized" (One of my crossover fanfics where Kim and Love are frenemies. Also this one is set in AHS Season 6)

The Toyota Camry pulled up the windy dusty road, and slowed to a stop. The volume on the radio dipped and then went completely silent.

“Oh wow!” Love Quinn peeled her sunglasses off of her face as she stepped out of the car. “When they said this place was special, they weren’t lying. Can’t you feel it? The energy is just different around here. The air is charged!” She held her hands out in a phony psychic gesture as she sashayed up the front steps and turned the key in the lock.

Once her ex-husband had joined her in the grand hall, she took him by the hand and beamed at him, “Welcome home!”. Joe craned his head backwards to take in the way the spiraling staircase climbed to the second story of the imposing old farm house, “Where did you say you found this place again?” he asked skeptically.

“My friend, Kim said she was planning to use it as a tax haven, but then the IRS got wise. She sold it to me for $20!”

“I do recall saying something about wanting to move to a cabin in the woods,” said Joe, “but this wasn’t quite what I had been picturing”

Love had left the front doors wide open, and now a second engine could be heard shutting off outside. Love bounded back down the stairs to meet a pick-up truck decorated with confederate flags. Two burly men climbed out of the flatbed, followed by an old woman with long gray hair and a dirty nightgown. For all three of them, dental hygiene seemed to be a foreign concept.

“That must be our neighbors stopping by to greet us”

“The Clampett Family?” Joe continued to carp.

“Don’t be rude!” Love elbowed him hard in the side, “At least I don’t have to worry about you sleeping with any of them”

“You must be Cain Polk,” she extended the first hillbilly a firm handshake, “And you’re Lot Polk, is that right?”

“You made a mistake buying this property” Lot began his grim spiel, “Should’a asked the last five city people who moved here whether it was a good idea first. Only you can’t… ‘cus they’re all dead”

“Ghosts, right?” Love dismissed them, “Don’t worry. I know we don’t look like it, but we can hold our own against butchers. Trust us… we didn’t do well in the suburbs either!”. She surprised the old woman by going in for a hug; “Mama Polk! I heard what the Millers did to your boys. It breaks my heart to hear that; the Millers had what was coming to them. My son was taken away by CPS too, you know. My only consolation is that he’s in a better place now”

“Did you do it in the lake, or did you use a pillow?” Mama Polk asked through a rigid jaw. She wouldn’t admit it, but she was prepared to lower her defenses, if only an inch.

It took Love a moment to realize what Mrs. Polk was asking, but then she laughed, “Oh no! No! He’s with a gay couple who’s raising him. Well anyway, as far as I’m concerned, this is your forest. My fiance and I promise to tread lightly, and I can only hope that with time, the respect will be mutual. We haven’t done any hunting yet, but once we do, I’ll bring you over some fresh bear. There are a few recipes I’ve been meaning to try”

Cain spat on the dirt in front of their house in response, and the Polks climbed back into their truck.

“Honestly, I expected that to go worse,” she sighed. As Love brought the suitcases into the house, she found herself still wondering if Mama Polk had really meant she had found the children which had been put in foster care, only to kill them herself.

The cupboard had been left stocked with the previous owner’s dishes. She retrieved the bottle of Merlot she had brought with her, filled two glasses, tore off the white sheet covering the sofa, and sat down. She watched Joe with intense interest for a few minutes.

“Whatcha thinking about?” she cocked her head playfully.

“Nothing”

“Nothing at all?”

“Ever since Rita put that chip in my head, it’s like she hit the mute button on my internal monologue. And honestly? Ever since she did, I’m happier. It was a burden”

Love wiped away the drool that was pooling at the edge of his mouth with her thumb. “I guess as long as you’re happy. That’s all that matters. I wish we still had Henry, though. This is the kind of place we should have been trying to raise a family all along”

“I was a fool. I set impossible expectations for you, and then blamed you when you couldn’t meet them,” Joe’s apology was monotone and robotic, “I wasted both our times chasing some pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, when I couldn’t see that I already had everything I wanted. Everything I deserved. But now I’ve come home, and I see it so clearly now; we’re soulmates”

“Is that really what you think?” Love pouted. Somehow, hearing him say it wasn’t as satisfying as she had hoped.

“Yes. We’ll do better this time”

His vacant stare still bothered her, but she decided not to dwell on it. She handed him the glass of wine and made a toast, “To… remarriage? Things are always better on the second try, when there are no more skeletons left in the closet. When we can’t say we ended up getting more than we bargained for. Marriages can come apart so easily, unless you’re prepared to work at it. Unless you can say you don’t just love someone in spite of their flaws, but because of them. Unless you decide that there’s still so much good left to have, that you can’t just sit by and not try to salvage it”

Her voice echoed through the caverns of the farmhouse. Joe simply smiled, nodded in agreement, and took a sip. Love threw her head back and defiantly swallowed half the glass in one gulp. Even though the sky was still blue, she could see the outline of the moon rising through the window overlooking the back porch. In autumn, the moon would turn blood red. She’d been warned about the hauntings, but she wasn’t afraid for that time of year. She looked forward to it! She and Joe would beat the ghosts back together, as a team. Fear was for the herbivores of society; bunnies and lambs and deer. For wild animals with sharp teeth like themselves, there was nothing scary about the nights getting longer. Autumn was a time for harvest.

“I mean if Kim Wexler can get a happy ending,” she bitterly asked her empty glass, “then why the hell shouldn’t I?”

#netflix you #love quinn #joe goldberg #crossover fanfiction #ahs season 6 #american horror story #roanoke #back from the dead #tell me this isn't better than what YOU season 4 gave us

[t-utopia-idea]

I have a plan.

Maybe not a plan but I have an idea. I found Jesse Morris in the yellow pages. He was still living in New Jersey to this day. Last time we spoke I said my good byes as my uncles gaurds packed only the essentials and my legal documents. He was my first best friend. All I have is an hour and enough money to hail a cab back.

"Where are you headed Mr?"

I knew once I handed the taxi the address it wasn't going to be the grand reuniting I held on to for so long.

Streets were unmanaged, cracked, and grey. What ones was Little Haven, the small town to be right outside the city, became the boarded up lifeless desert full of poverty. My father told me he moved here for the people but the people are dying. Ghosts of themselves. Lifeless dreams. Even my childhood home took the homeless as refuge. I soon hoped I wouldn't find Jesse. Just down the street I remember biking to his house so that we could beat my little sister and her friends to the playground right as we got home from school. Jesse dad's old Cadillac sat in the driveway. Perfectly intact. Maybe his family had the right connections in order to stay secure. Every knock made me more and more nausea. If he's not here who is?

"Leim? Leim is that you?" A shy voice asked from behind the closed door.

"Y-yeah. Jesse?"

"Get your ass in this house before you get yourself shot and robbed."

Jesse was no longer bright eyed full of imagination. A broken man stood before me pistol in his pocket.

[longmachines]

Mystery house san jose california

#MYSTERY HOUSE SAN JOSE CALIFORNIA MOVIE#

#MYSTERY HOUSE SAN JOSE CALIFORNIA FULL#

#MYSTERY HOUSE SAN JOSE CALIFORNIA FULL#

SOME SAY THE SYMBOLS IN THE HOUSE POINT NOT TO GHOSTS, BUT FRANCIS BACON.Īn alternate theory on the Winchester House's perplexing design declares that Sarah was creating a puzzle full of encryptions inspired by the work of English philosopher Francis Bacon. One mover told American Weekly the Winchester House was a place "where downstairs leads neither to the cellar nor upstairs to the roof." 7. When movers were called in after her death, one lamented its labyrinthine design that includes many winding hallways. So Sarah may be the only person who ever truly knew all of its secrets. She was the sole architect of this extraordinary home, and no master building plan has ever been uncovered. Some say the labyrinth layout was meant to confuse the ghosts, allowing Sarah some peace and a means to escape them. THE HOUSE WAS DESIGNED LIKE A LABYRINTH.īy Library of Congress, Public Domain, Wikimedia Commons She had to be dug out by her staff, as its entrance was blocked off by rubble. As for Sarah, she was safe but stuck in the Daisy Bedroom, named for the floral motif in its windows. That tower-plus several other rooms destroyed in the disaster-were never rebuilt, but cordoned off. A 1900 postcard of the place shows a tower that was later toppled by the natural disaster. In 1906, the great San Francisco Earthquake caused three floors of the then seven-story house to cave in. AN EARTHQUAKE ONCE RATTLED THE HOUSE AND TRAPPED SARAH. There are also doors that open to blank walls, and a dangerous door on the second floor that opens out into nothing-save for an alarming drop to the yard far below. Sarah issued many bizarre demands to her builders, including the building of trap doors, secret passages, a skylight in the floor, spider web windows, and staircases that led to nowhere. THE HOUSE IS FULL OF ARCHITECTURAL ODDITIES. It's said that upon hearing the news of Sarah's death, the carpenters quit so abruptly they left half-hammered nails protruding from walls. The work only stopped on September 5, 1922, because the octogenarian mastermind behind the home died of heart failure in her sleep. She employed a crew of carpenters, who split shifts so construction could go on day and night, seven days a week, 52 weeks a year, for 38 years. In 1886, Sarah purchased an eight-room farmhouse in San Jose, California, and began building. Sarah Winchester's bedroom / Library of Congress, Public Domain, Wikimedia Commons THE HOUSE WAS UNDER CONSTANT CONSTRUCTION FOR 38 YEARS. "If you continue building, you will live,” the medium warned Sarah. There was just one catch: construction on the house could never stop. Sarah was advised to leave their home in New Haven, Connecticut, behind, and move west, where she was to build a grand home for the spirits. In order to protect herself, William said that Sarah must "build a home for and for the spirits who have fallen from this terrible weapon." He warned that vengeful ghosts would seek her out. Through the medium, William told his widow that their tragedies (the couple had only one child, a daughter named Annie, who died at six weeks old) were a result of the blood money the family had made off of the Winchester rifles. While she was presumably looking for solace or closure, she was instead given a chilling warning. Overcome with grief in the wake of her husband's death from tuberculosis in 1881, folklore states that Sarah sought out a spiritualist who could commune with the dead. MANY BELIEVE SARAH BUILT WINCHESTER HOUSE OUT OF FEAR. Construction on the 24,000-square-foot home, which is located at 525 South Winchester Boulevard in San Jose, California, began in 1886. Sarah Lockwood Winchester-the wife of gun magnate William Wirt Winchester, whose family created the Winchester rifle that was heralded as "the gun that won the west”-designed and oversaw the construction of the sprawling Queen Anne-style Victorian mansion that bears her name. THE WINCHESTER HOUSE IS NAMED FOR ITS MISTRESS.

#MYSTERY HOUSE SAN JOSE CALIFORNIA MOVIE#

But before you go to the movie theater, wander through the curious past of one of America's most infamous homes. Naturally, it has inspired a chilling horror movie, Winchester, which opens in theaters today. Despite the Winchester Mystery House's cheerful appearance, this massive California mansion's history is edged with tragedy, mystery.

#Mystery house san jose california

[horror-in-my-veins]

One of my favorite authors was in town doing signings. I had a copy of spiders in Saginaw from when it first came out.... turns out it was a first edition 👌 bought my sister the grand haven one and myself the Texas one *i was born in texas*

#jonathon rand #Michigan chillers #American chillers #horror #scary #books #novels #sinister spiders of Saginaw #ghost house of grand haven #terrible tractors of Texas

[myhauntedsalem]

14 Haunting Facts About the Winchester Mystery House

Despite the Winchester Mystery House’s cheerful appearance, this massive California mansion’s history is edged with tragedy, mystery and maybe some ghosts. Naturally, it has inspired a chilling horror movie, Winchester, which opens in theaters today. But before you go to the movie theater, wander through the curious past of one of America’s most infamous homes.

1. THE WINCHESTER HOUSE IS NAMED FOR ITS MISTRESS.

Sarah Lockwood Winchester—the wife of gun magnate William Wirt Winchester, whose family created the Winchester rifle that was heraldedas “the gun that won the west”—designed and oversaw the construction of the sprawling Queen Anne-style Victorian mansion that bears her name. Construction on the 24,000-square-foot home, which is located at 525 South Winchester Boulevard in San Jose, California, began in 1886.

2. MANY BELIEVE SARAH BUILT WINCHESTER HOUSE OUT OF FEAR.

Overcome with grief in the wake of her husband’s death from tuberculosis in 1881, folklore states that Sarah sought out a spiritualist who could commune with the dead. While she was presumably looking for solace or closure, she was instead given a chilling warning.

Through the medium, William told his widow that their tragedies (the couple had only one child, a daughter named Annie, who died at six weeks old) were a result of the blood money the family had made off of the Winchester rifles. He warned that vengeful ghosts would seek her out. In order to protect herself, William said that Sarah must “build a home for [herself] and for the spirits who have fallen from this terrible weapon.”

Sarah was advised to leave their home in New Haven, Connecticut, behind, and move west, where she was to build a grand home for the spirits. There was just one catch: construction on the house could never stop. “If you continue building, you will live,” the medium warned Sarah. “Stop and you will die.”

3. THE HOUSE WAS UNDER CONSTANT CONSTRUCTION FOR 38 YEARS.

In 1886, Sarah purchased an eight-room farmhouse in San Jose, California, and began building. She employed a crew of carpenters, who split shifts so construction could go on day and night, seven days a week, 52 weeks a year, for 38 years. The work only stopped on September 5, 1922, because the octogenarian mastermind behind the home died of heart failure in her sleep. It’s said that upon hearing the news of Sarah’s death, the carpenters quit so abruptly they left half-hammered nails protruding from walls.

4. THE HOUSE IS FULL OF ARCHITECTURAL ODDITIES.

Sarah issued many bizarre demands to her builders, including the building of trap doors, secret passages, a skylight in the floor, spider web windows, and staircases that led to nowhere. There are also doors that open to blank walls, and a dangerous door on the second floor that opens out into nothing—save for an alarming drop to the yard far below.

5. AN EARTHQUAKE ONCE RATTLED THE HOUSE AND TRAPPED SARAH.

In 1906, the great San Francisco Earthquake caused three floors of the then seven-story house to cave in. A 1900 postcard of the place shows a tower that was later toppled by the natural disaster. That tower—plus several other rooms destroyed in the disaster—were never rebuilt, but cordoned off. As for Sarah, she was safe but stuck in the Daisy Bedroom, named for the floral motif in its windows. She had to be dug out by her staff, as its entrance was blocked off by rubble.

6. THE HOUSE WAS DESIGNED LIKE A LABYRINTH.

Some say the labyrinth layout was meant to confuse the ghosts, allowing Sarah some peace and a means to escape them. She was the sole architect of this extraordinary home, and no master building plan has ever been uncovered. So Sarah may be the only person who ever truly knew all of its secrets. When movers were called in after her death, one lamented its labyrinthine design that includes many winding hallways. One mover told American Weekly the Winchester House was a place “where downstairs leads neither to the cellar nor upstairs to the roof.”

7. SOME SAY THE SYMBOLS IN THE HOUSE POINT NOT TO GHOSTS, BUT FRANCIS BACON.

An alternate theory on the Winchester House’s perplexing design declares that Sarah was creating a puzzle full of encryptions inspired by the work of English philosopher Francis Bacon. There’s speculation that clues to the house’s true meaning are hidden in the ballroom, the Shakespeare windows, and the iron gates. This theory suggests that Sarah was a member of a mystic society like the Rosicrucians, or a secret society like the Freemasons—or possibly both.

8. THERE ARE OTHER THEORIES, INCLUDING THAT SARAH WAS “CRAZY.”

Others speculate Sarah was coping with her grief with a flurry of activity, or that she was simply “crazy.” However, Winchester Mystery House historian Janan Boehme paints a happier picture, imagining that the continual renovations reminded Sarah of the good times when she and William built their New Haven home together.

“I think Sarah was trying to repeat that experience by doing something they both loved,” Boehme told the Los Angeles Times. She also suspects that Sarah was just an ardent—albeit eccentric—philanthropist who used her family fortune to purposefully employ the San Jose community. “She had a social conscience and she did try to give back,” Boehme offered, noting the hospital Sarah built in her husband’s name. “This house, in itself, was her biggest social work of all.”

9. ONCE IN WINCHESTER HOUSE, SARAH WAS RECLUSIVE, BUT NOT ALONE.

There is only one known photo of the widow Winchester, which was taken surreptitiously. Though she was reclusive, she was never alone. She had 18 servants, 18 gardeners, and the ever-present construction team working on the grounds. Every morning, Sarah met with the foreman to discuss the always-evolving building plans. And it’s said that each night, she visited the Séance Room to speak with the spirits, who weighed in on plans for the house’s unusual design.

10. THE HOUSE WAS AS OPULENT AS IT WAS ODD.

The home boasts 950 doors, 10,000 windows, 40 stairways, 52 skylights, 47 fireplaces, six kitchens, plus a trio of elevators, and once-groundbreaking elements like wool insulation, carbide gaslights, electricity, and an indoor shower, complete with a sewage drainage system.

11. NO ONE IS SURE HOW MANY ROOMS THE HOUSE HELD.

Following Sarah’s death, Winchester House was converted into a tourist attraction. But when trying to get a room count, the new owners kept coming up with different numbers. After five years of renovations, they estimated the number of rooms to be about 160, which is the number most often quoted today.

12. SARAH HAD AN OBSESSION WITH THE NUMBER 13.

Among the secrets Sarah took to her grave was why she insisted that so many things relate to the number 13. The Winchester House has many 13-paned windows and 13-paneled ceilings, as well as 13-step stairways. Even her will had 13 parts, and she signed it 13 times. But the pièce de résistance might be the house’s 13th bathroom, which contains 13 windows of its own.

13. IT’S A NATIONAL LANDMARK.

The Winchester Mystery House earned landmark status on August 7, 1974. The fascinating mansion is still owned by the family (families?) who purchased it from the Winchester estate in 1922 for $150,000—however, their identity is another Winchester House mystery. But thanks to them, tourists can now explore 110 of the 160-some rooms Sarah dreamed up. The Winchester Mystery House even boasts special tours on Halloween and Fridays the 13th.

14. IT’S REGULARLY CITED AS ONE OF THE MOST HAUNTED PLACES IN AMERICA.

To this day, Winchester House is a destination for believers who hope to have a paranormal encounter of their own. A popular spot for such activity is the corridors of the third floor, where tour guides have claimed to hear footsteps and disembodied voices whisper their names.

In a Reddit AMA, a Winchester House tour guide confirmed that the house’s third floor—only a portion of which is accessible during house tours—is definitely the spookiest part of the house, “because that’s where the servants lived, so there’s been a lot of reported activity there. Also, when you are on that floor you can never really hear any of the other tours, so you feel pretty isolated.”

#14 Haunting Facts About the Winchester Mystery House #haunted locations #paranormal #ghost and hauntings #ghost and spirits #haunted salem #myhauntedsalem

[wayward-riana]

Soothing Chords | Bucky Barnes

Summary: Bucky's life is poisoned by his constant nightmares but Y/N has the perfect antidote.

Warnings: Brief mentions of anxiety and sadness. Nightmares. Fluff.

Grey clouds loom over the night sky. The trees rustle each time the wind gushes through. The compound is dead silent. Only things that aren't silent are Y/N's heart and Bucky's demons.

Y/N sits on the edge of her bed. Sweat drips down her temples as she presses her hand against her chest. Her heart palpitations have gotten worse. Sometimes she feels like her heart will burst out of her chest. She struggles to catch her breath. She can't bring herself to calm down so she makes her way to her safe haven. Her studio.

Her footsteps are delicate against the cold tiles that lie beneath her feet. A shawl is draped around her shoulders to keep her from being cold. She hugs herself as she walks through the long, extended hallways. As she passes the kitchen, she notices a silhouette. She comes to a stop to see who it is. A glint of metal catches her eye.

It's Bucky.

Y/N and Bucky haven't interacted a lot. They only ever talked when they were introduced for the first time. Bucky was quiet since the first day he arrived. He doesn't really talk to anyone, that much. And Y/N is shy. It takes time for her to come out of her shell. She is open with the others but struggles to be herself around the reserved man.

She clears her throat, startling Bucky. His gaze snaps to her.

"I'm sorry," Y/N apologises. "I didn't mean to startle you."

Bucky nods at her, "It's all right."

She slowly walks towards him where he sits, "Couldn't sleep?"

He shakes his while heaving a sigh.

"Nightmares."

She didn't expect him to answer. She struggled to find the right words to say, not wanting to offend him.

"I don't mean to pry, but do you get nightmares a lot?"

"Every damn night." He states.

"I'm sorry...I wish I could do something to help." She pauses before she's hit with an idea.

"Appreciate the thought." Bucky offers her a small smile before looking down, again.

"Bucky, come with me."

That's all she says before she takes off in long strides. Bucky can't help but follow her. His eyebrows furrow deeper in confusion as he walks behind her.

His blue eyes dart around as he finds himself in an unfamiliar wing of the compound. Y/N stands in front of a pretty door. She takes out a key and unlocks it. Bucky was confused that keys even exist in this place. Usually, everyone in the compound uses passwords or whatnot to open doors. Stupid modern people.

The door opens to reveal a lavish room. The walls are decorated with red wallpaper with gold patterns on it. Multiple acoustic guitars rest on the wall. Some are vintage while some are absolutely new. The electric guitars are stood on the floor against the wall. There's one of each colour. A huge drum set sits at the very corner of the room. There were several violins, too. And finally there was a grand piano, that blends right into the room.

Bucky's jaw was on the floor. He did not expect this.

"I know this is a bit too much. All I wanted was a small room to keep all my instruments, but Tony built me a studio, instead." Y/N sighs.

Of course Tony built a studio for his god-daughter. He would build her another world, if he could.

"Come on in." She steps inside, tugging Bucky along with her.

"Can you play all this stuff?" He asks, jaw still hanging loose.

"No no, I just keep all these instruments to stare at them," She says, sarcasm enveloping each one of her word. "I do play all this stuff."

"That's impressive."

"Thanks, Sergeant."

Y/N walks to the grand piano and nestles herself on the bench. She pats the spot beside her, indicating Bucky to sit. He pauses to look at her for a moment and takes slow steps before finally sitting down.

Y/N's fingers glide effortlessly across the keys. Bucky notices her eyes aren't even on the keys, they are closed. He can't help but be in awe. She looked angelic. The rays from the spotlights engulfed her face. She glowed like a star and Bucky realised, for the first time, just how beautiful she is.

Here I am waking up, still can't sleep on your side

There's your coffee cup, the lipstick stain fades with time

If I could dream long enough, you'd tell me I'll be just fine

It's been decades since Bucky sat down to listen to a song, properly. Back in his days, he's heard a fair share of singers but no voice came close to hers. Her voice was delicate yet powerful. Each note held so much emotion. Bucky felt every word in his heart.

So I drown it out, like I always do

Dancing through our house, with the ghost of you

And I chase it down with this shot of truth

That my feet don't dance, like they did with you

A tear slides down Bucky's cheek as soon as Y/N hits the last note. Neither of them say a word. Silence looms over them like a ghost. Before Bucky eventually breaks it,

"That was beautiful."

******

And from that day, every night, Bucky and Y/N were found inside the studio. Y/N's heart palpitations improved over time but she still chose to wake up every night for Bucky. She sang to him every night so that he could sleep safe and sound.

Steve was so surprised to see his best friend in deep slumber. He might've cried a little but no one needs to know that.

Y/N had created a special bond between Bucky and her. She was very proud of it. They were good friends yet she couldn’t bring herself to tell him that she was utterly in love with him.

She hid her feelings from everyone but Tony could see right through her. He always did. He just wanted his god-daughter to be happy, so he gave her solid advice,

“Look, kiddo. I know you have feelings for Barnes. You gotta tell him not only cause you’re confusing him but you’re letting yourself fall into a deep void. You think I don’t know that you can’t sleep at night? You think I don’t know about how you developed a heart condition because of all that stress? I do. I know everything. And because I love you, I’m telling you to confess.”

Y/N resorts to one of her brilliant ideas, to tell Bucky she loves him through a song. 

*******

“So, naturally I told Sam to fuck off and leave me alone,” Bucky chuckles. “ mean, who does he think he is?”

Y/N smiles at how the beautiful man in front of her can’t contain his laughter. How the corner of his eyes crinkle as he does so. The apple of his cheek flush red when he catches her staring. He clears his throat before composing himself, “What are you going to sing for me tonight, doll?”

He eyes as she fists her trembling right hand. Her shoulders are tense, her left leg is bouncing making the guitar on her lap shake. Maybe she was having a tough night or she was growing tired of his company. 

She inhales loudly and grows still. She stays quiet. She knew she could back out, if she wanted to, but she needed to do this. She needed him. More than anything. 

Her thumb slid down the strings of the guitar filling the room’s silence. Her fingers slowly start to strum a chord progression and she readies herself to lose another person that she loves, 

Loving and fighting

Accusing, denying

I can't imagine a world with you gone

The joy and the chaos, the demons we're made of

I'd be so lost if you left me alone

She maintains eye contact as she sings every word. Her eyes are glossy with tears threatening to spill. The lump in her throat makes her voice strain as she hits every note. Bucky is confused and concerned. He just can’t understand why she was being so distant yet it felt like she was telling him something. He hated seeing her so broken. So anxious.

You locked yourself in the bathroom

Lying on the floor when I break through

I pull you in to feel your heartbeat

Can you hear me screaming "Please don't leave me"

Y/N’s voice cracks as she refrains herself from sobbing, Bucky considers stopping her. HIs heart ached. He considered rushing to her and pulling her into his arms while kissing her hair, letting her know that she’ll be okay.

Hold on, I still want you

Come back, I still need you

Let me take your hand, I'll make it right

Bucky, I swear to love you all my life

Hold on, I still need you

It takes him a solid second to realise what she just said. He doesn’t know if she actually said that she swears to love him all her life or he was just lost in his thought and he didn’t hear her correctly. 

“D-Doll?” He stammers not being able to bring himself to say anything else.

“I love you, Bucky and I have since the day I sang to you for the first time. I kept this in me for so long and it was weighing me down. I couldn’t hold it in, anymore. I had to let you know, even if you left. I had to tell you how I feel.”

Bucky stands up and walks towards her. He kneels in front of her and gently takes the acoustic guitar from her, and sets in on the ground. He rests his flesh hand on her lap, hesitant to do the same with his metal one. 

“Why would I leave?” He whispers in the softest voice.

“Even if you don’t, what if you’re ripped away from me like everybody else?”

“Everybody else?”

“My father sacrificed himself for S.H.I.E.L.D. My mother literally died from a broken heart. My brother...who took care of me died in the battle of New York. I lost everyone. Everyone.”

Bucky has spent so much time with her, but no one ever told her that his favourite girl had been through so much. He couldn’t believe how she still had such a positive energy. She was a literal hero.

“I love you, Y/N. I really do and I didn’t tell you because I’m not good enough for you and because I didn’t know you felt the same way,” He leans forward to press his forehead against hers. “But I’d like you to be my best girl. I want you to be my best girl. I promise, I’ll never leave you and I promise I won’t let anyone rip me away from you. I’ll be here, always. For you. We’ll hold each other through our darkest nights, and you will sing and everything will be better. I love you.”

He strengthens his promise by gently placing his lips on her.

On the other side of the door, Tony wipes the tears from his eyes. His little girl that he had raised is finally happy now and he couldn’t ask for more.

__________________________________________________

Songs mentioned:

Ghost Of You | 5 Seconds Of Summer

Hold On | Chord Overstreet

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #james buchanan barnes #avengers #sebastian stan x reader #bucky barnes imagine #sebastian stan #the winter solider x reader #the winter soldier #tony stark #steve rogers

[she-who-fights-and-writes]

She-who-fights-and-writes Coronacation Book Rec List

I know that a lot of people are stuck at home right now in dire need of entertainment, so I decided I’d put out a book recommendations list of all the books I’m currently reading and all of my must-reads!

(Just a note that a lot of these are Fantasy because I’m a fantasy nerd haha)

Books/Series I am currently reading

1. The Folk of the Air Trilogy by Holly Black (Currently on #2, The Wicked King)

Genre: High Fantasy

Setting: The land of Faerie which is kind of historical, but in the human world it is modern day

Main cast :

Jude Duarte (white, human, cutthroat, if I saw her in a Denny’s Parking Lot at 3am I would RUN)

Cardan Greenbriar (white, faerie, the true embodiment of Bastard)

Vivienne (Jude’s half-sister, lesbian with canon gf, half-human half-faerie, I would totally try to be her friend)

Taryn Duarte (Jude’s twin sister, queen doormat, still, I would take a bullet for her she’s jUST TRYING TO FIT IN)

Rating: 5/5 Stars

These books have been on my “To Read” list for so long now and for some reason I just never got around to reading them! Hands-down, these are some of the best high fantasy books that I’ve read in a long, long while.

I finished the first book, The Cruel Prince, in just two days and rated it 5/5 stars! Even though these books are high fantasy and focus on the traditions and ways of life of faeries, somehow all of the characters seem like I could meet them in real life!

The main character actually has genuine flaws and not just “””“flaws”””” and is a Bad Bitch down with murder, and the plot had me on the edge of my seat from page one!

The summary makes it sound like it’s going to be about their romance, but it’s really mostly about a power struggle and Jude being a badass.

Goodreads summary for The Cruel Prince:

Jude was seven when her parents were murdered and she and her two sisters were stolen away to live in the treacherous High Court of Faerie. Ten years later, Jude wants nothing more than to belong there, despite her mortality. But many of the fey despise humans. Especially Prince Cardan, the youngest and wickedest son of the High King. To win a place at the Court, she must defy him–and face the consequences. As Jude becomes more deeply embroiled in palace intrigues and deceptions, she discovers her own capacity for trickery and bloodshed. But as betrayal threatens to drown the Courts of Faerie in violence, Jude will need to risk her life in a dangerous alliance to save her sisters, and Faerie itself.

2. The Raven Cycle Series by Maggie Stiefvater (Currently on #1, The Raven Boys)

Genre: Present-Day/Realistic Fantasy (?)

Setting: The fictional town of Henrietta, Virginia

I haven’t gotten around to much of the book, so there’s not much I can tell you about the characters and I can’t properly give it a rating yet.

These books were also on my “To Read” list for a while; I was a huge fan of her book The Scorpio Races and have also been looking for something to quench my thirst for “private school/ghosts/magic” that I’ve been dealing with ever since I read The Ninth House by Leigh Bardugo.

I’ve only JUST started The Raven Cycle yesterday, but so far I am hooked! I’m super worried because I’m TERRIBLE at juggling two series at a time but both of these are just so interesting! 

Goodreads Summary for The Raven Boys:

“There are only two reasons a non-seer would see a spirit on St. Mark’s Eve,” Neeve said. “Either you’re his true love . . . or you killed him.” It is freezing in the churchyard, even before the dead arrive. Every year, Blue Sargent stands next to her clairvoyant mother as the soon-to-be dead walk past. Blue herself never sees them—not until this year, when a boy emerges from the dark and speaks directly to her. His name is Gansey, and Blue soon discovers that he is a rich student at Aglionby, the local private school. Blue has a policy of staying away from Aglionby boys. Known as Raven Boys, they can only mean trouble. But Blue is drawn to Gansey, in a way she can’t entirely explain. He has it all—family money, good looks, devoted friends—but he’s looking for much more than that. He is on a quest that has encompassed three other Raven Boys: Adam, the scholarship student who resents all the privilege around him; Ronan, the fierce soul who ranges from anger to despair; and Noah, the taciturn watcher of the four, who notices many things but says very little. For as long as she can remember, Blue has been warned that she will cause her true love to die. She never thought this would be a problem. But now, as her life becomes caught up in the strange and sinister world of the Raven Boys, she’s not so sure anymore.

MY MUST-READ BOOK LIST

1. The Gentleman’s Guide to Vice and Virtue by Mackenzi Lee

Genre: Historical Fiction

Setting: 1700s Europe (England, Paris, Barcelona, Marseilles, Venice)

Main cast (I’ll try my best not to spoil anything because you find out a LOT of different stuff about these characters throughout the book):

Henry “Monty” Montague (white, bi/pansexual, attitude problem)

Percy Newton (mixed race, gay, very sweet boy, definitely got “most likely to bring home to mom” in the yearbook)

Felicity Montague (white, Monty’s little sister, headcanoned as asexual, I love her to death)

Rating: 5/5 Stars

Daring adventure, gay representation, historical setting, hilarious characters!

This book literally has it all! I would consider it one of my favorite books of all time, yet for some reason I’ve never gotten around to reading any of the sequel books! The ending is very satisfying and ties everything together, which I feel is part of the reason why I haven’t gotten around to them yet. 

Therefore, it can serve as a one-shot read or a full series if you want to dive into something good!

The humor made me laugh out loud at points and all of the characters are very real and very, very relatable, not to mention the vivid settings of 1700s Europe!

Goodreads summary:

Henry “Monty” Montague was born and bred to be a gentleman, but he was never one to be tamed. The finest boarding schools in England and the constant disapproval of his father haven’t been able to curb any of his roguish passions—not for gambling halls, late nights spent with a bottle of spirits, or waking up in the arms of women or men. But as Monty embarks on his Grand Tour of Europe, his quest for a life filled with pleasure and vice is in danger of coming to an end. Not only does his father expect him to take over the family’s estate upon his return, but Monty is also nursing an impossible crush on his best friend and traveling companion, Percy. Still it isn’t in Monty’s nature to give up. Even with his younger sister, Felicity, in tow, he vows to make this yearlong escapade one last hedonistic hurrah and flirt with Percy from Paris to Rome. But when one of Monty’s reckless decisions turns their trip abroad into a harrowing manhunt that spans across Europe, it calls into question everything he knows, including his relationship with the boy he adores.

2. The Ninth House By Leigh Bardugo

Genre: Horror, Fantasy 

Setting: Yale University and the town of New Haven, Present Day

Main cast:

Galaxy “Alex” Stern (Hispanic, sees dead people, very scary)

Daniel Arlington “Darlington” (white, rich, an angel who can sometimes be a dick)

Pamela Dawes (tbh I honestly don’t remember what she looks like, only that she’s a tired grad student with big nerd energy)

Detective Alan Turner (Black, takes shit from nobody, husband material)

Rating: 4/5 Stars

(NOTE: THIS IS VERY DARK ADULT FICTION AND CONTAINS MATERIAL THAT MAY BE TRIGGERING FOR SOME PEOPLE, WOULD NOT RECOMMEND FOR PEOPLE UNDER 16)

This book is a great read for someone who’s looking for a disturbing, gritty book with layers upon layers of secrets that you have to peel away as the mystery unfolds. I love the secret societies and the intricate magic systems that the book introduces, and it actually made me hungry for more books like it!

 Alex is a three-dimensional, very real character who also serves as an unreliable narrator who witholds or warps the information that she’s telling you, making the narrative all the more riveting.

The only issues that I have with it are the fact that Leigh Bardugo kind of just dumps you in the middle of it without explaining stuff first, to the point where it kind of feels like you’re reading the second installment of a series rather than the first one, so things can get a bit confusing at first.

The book also can drag and draw things out for a bit too long, but once the plot fully kicks into gear, you will not be able to put it down!

Goodreads summary:

Galaxy “Alex” Stern is the most unlikely member of Yale’s freshman class. Raised in the Los Angeles hinterlands by a hippie mom, Alex dropped out of school early and into a world of shady drug dealer boyfriends, dead-end jobs, and much, much worse. By age twenty, in fact, she is the sole survivor of a horrific, unsolved multiple homicide. Some might say she’s thrown her life away. But at her hospital bed, Alex is offered a second chance: to attend one of the world’s most elite universities on a full ride. What’s the catch, and why her? Still searching for answers to this herself, Alex arrives in New Haven tasked by her mysterious benefactors with monitoring the activities of Yale’s secret societies. These eight windowless “tombs” are well-known to be haunts of the future rich and powerful, from high-ranking politicos to Wall Street and Hollywood’s biggest players. But their occult activities are revealed to be more sinister and more extraordinary than any paranoid imagination might conceive.

3. The Lunar Chronicles by Marissa Meyer

Genre: Sci-Fi/Fantasy

Setting: Earth, Space, The Moon

Main cast :

Linh Cinder (Chinese, based on Cinderella, cyborg, certified badass)

Scarlet Benoit (French, based on Little Red Riding Hood, farmer who is not afraid to shoot you)

Cress Darnel (White, based on Rapunzel, nerd, I will protect her with my life if I have to)

Kaito “Kai” (Chinese, based on Prince Charming, kind of has to run a whole country, a very kind soul, deserves a nap)

Carswell Thorne (White, based off of Rapunzel’s Prince, bastard)

Winter Hayle (Black, based off of Snow White, royalty, has super special powers)

Wolf (Race unspecified, based off of the Big Bad Wolf, charming killing machine, furry????) 

Rating: 5/5 Stars

Do you like fairy tales?

Have you ever wanted to know what fairy tales would be like if they took place in the FUTURE instead of the PAST? 

Do you like an amazing, hilarious cast paired with a super interesting plot? 

These are the books for you!

I haven’t read them in so long, but I remember how much joy I felt while devouring these pages. Definitely something you will not able to put down!

Goodreads Summary for Book #1: Cinder: 

Humans and androids crowd the raucous streets of New Beijing. A deadly plague ravages the population. From space, a ruthless lunar people watch, waiting to make their move. No one knows that Earth's fate hinges on one girl. . . . Cinder, a gifted mechanic, is a cyborg. She's a second-class citizen with a mysterious past, reviled by her stepmother and blamed for her stepsister's illness. But when her life becomes intertwined with the handsome Prince Kai's, she suddenly finds herself at the center of an intergalactic struggle, and a forbidden attraction. Caught between duty and freedom, loyalty and betrayal, she must uncover secrets about her past in order to protect her world's future.

4. The Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller

Genre: Fantasy

Setting: Ancient Greece

Main cast:

Patroclus (Greek, Gay, quiet pining) 

Achilles (Greek, gay, very strong, student athlete energy)

Brisies (Anatolian, clever, literally the only one in this story who has a brain cell)

Rating: 100000/5 stars

This is basically the Iliad but if historians hadn’t completely erased Patroclus and Achilles’ relationship. “Haha yeah these guys were totally bros” they say, even though I have read the Iliad and their relationship isn’t even subtle.

This book made me cry at least ten times. It’s just so beautifully written and has such a distinct vibe to it that whenever I crack it open for another time, it takes me straight back to the vacation that I read it on. (Needless to say, sobbing your eyes out can be less than helpful when you’re on the beach)

If you can only read one book on this list, it should be this one. I could talk all day about it and write novels on just how much of an incredible writer Madeline Miller is, but I feel like you’d get my drift a bit better if you actually read the book.

Goodreads Summary:

Greece in the age of heroes. Patroclus, an awkward young prince, has been exiled to the court of King Peleus and his perfect son Achilles. By all rights their paths should never cross, but Achilles takes the shamed prince as his friend, and as they grow into young men skilled in the arts of war and medicine their bond blossoms into something deeper - despite the displeasure of Achilles' mother Thetis, a cruel sea goddess. But then word comes that Helen of Sparta has been kidnapped. Torn between love and fear for his friend, Patroclus journeys with Achilles to Troy, little knowing that the years that follow will test everything they hold dear. Profoundly moving and breathtakingly original, this rendering of the epic Trojan War is a dazzling feat of the imagination, a devastating love story, and an almighty battle between gods and kings, peace and glory, immortal fame and the human heart.

Hope this list helps you through your coronacation, and please don’t be afraid to reblog or message me to tell me if you’ve read/will read any of these!

#books #book recs #book rec #book reccomendation #book reccomendations #coronacation #corona #coronavirus #covid-19 #book rec list

[paradise-creator]

Okayyyy. Seatbelt on, space cadet! I'm gonna take you on a loooong journey ✨

First of all hello again! I'm here to request for a Haikyuu romantic Haven Box if there's still a spot left. Take your time tho, I'm good at waiting 🙌🏻

here we gooo. so I'm an 159cm pansexual asian girl. I'm a little bit on the chubby side. I got long black wavy hair and I always let it down. People say I look rude and cold so they are afraid to befriend me at first (some even hate me for no reason.) I mean its not my fault that I borned with this resting bih face 😭💔 I love wearing dark colored clothes, high waisted jeans and Sneakers.

I do wear makeup, and my favorite lipstick color is red. Like a really bold red. That's like my trademark.

for personality, I'm an enfp, taurus, gryffindor (big yikes!); I think I'm a pretty openminded person. I'm not afraid to speak up and I will fight (both using words and fists) for what I believe in. People see me as someone confident and to look up to; Tho honestly I'm pretty insecure with myself. Like I find nothing good about me and got depressed easily. Its like I have this happy clown persona everytime I'm outside my house and once I go back to my bedroom by myself its all the sad clown hours haha. ooh- this is getting kinda heavy. 😵 But anyway I care about my family and friends a lot. Their happiness is actually more important than my own. So I'd do anything to help and protect all of them.

My hobbies are sleeping, singing and watching horror movies/true crime documentaries; and yes I got scared after watching those stuff so I ended up searching for some broadway musical 😂😂 I also love to play games; otome games, cause my love life sucks *coughs*

Some facts about me!!

I believe in soulmate. Just the thought that we all have someone created specifically for us is making me happy 🥺❤

I'm a touch starved person. So I like doing skinship and PDA. I just love being spoiled and showered with love I guess 👉🏻👈🏻

I hate spicy foods, cause it really burns my throat. and I also hate lizards. They are gross and weird 😭😭

I believe ghosts are real and I'd definitely want to speak to them someday. Just asking them how does it feel to be a ghost? Is there a way to help em stop being a ghost? (Only with the nice ghost of course) 👻💕

My favorite song is Helpless by Phillipa Soo and if that doesn't show how much of a Hopeless romantic I am then idk 😂😂

I love watching tarot cards reading.

I'm a sucker for enemies to lovers trope and I can't stop this addiction. Like aaaaa its cliche but I love em so much ashdjflgl

Okay thats it! I need to stop talking before my ask give you some real headache 😂 I wish all this information helps you write a little bit and not bother you in one way or another!! Have a great day and stay healthy in this pandemic situation 🙌🏻✨ see yaaaaa~☆

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Hello and Welcome my Starlight!

The Haven box includes:

- Match up

- Sun drop

- Old habits die hard

-  No matter what

───✱*.｡:｡✱*.:｡✧*.｡✰*.:｡✧*.｡:｡*.｡✱ ───

I'd match you up with

Oikawa Tooru, The Grand King

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Sun drops

- Okay, when I read your description Oikawa popped in my head. So on to the great king we go!

- I also had an Oikawa brain rot when I decided to do your request but either way, I still think you two would look cute!

- Oikawa is the most realistic character in Haikyuu and I believe you two would definitely match

- You feel insecure? No worries, Oikawa already saw it coming and is going to give you compliments and gifts

- He may not look like it, but he is really observant

- You can't hide your feelings from this man cause he has been through that

- You both were deemed the power couple of the school

- He would ALWAYS always remind you to take care of yourself

- Both of you seem confident and really out going but in reality, you both are really insecure

- You both would understand each other

───✱*.｡:｡✱*.:｡✧*.｡✰*.:｡✧*.｡:｡*.｡✱ ───

Old habits die hard

- He almost NEVER calls you by common nicknames, except for Queen and princess

- Your nickname can be something weird like my little Alien or smth

- Whenever you watch a game, he alsyws gives you his extra jersey or his jacket

- He would randomly say I love you and if you don't respond, he'll pout

- You gave him a plushie and he named it after you

- Stargazing (Alien hunting) is his favorite type of date

- Study dates almost always ends up with one of you dead asleep before starting anything

───✱*.｡:｡✱*.:｡✧*.｡✰*.:｡✧*.｡:｡*.｡✱ ───

No matter what

Oikawa Tooru is the grand king of Seijoh. He was handsome, smart, and all that. He was very athletic and observant. He gets along with everyone and anyone. He could get any girl to swoon to him but he is only loyal to volleyball and Iwaizumi. And that’s what people thought, but this king has fallen off his throne. He, has fallen in love and doesn’t know what to do. It started with the little things like seeing how she loves skinship or how she hates spicy food. He thought it was normal, he was observant after all. But as time passes, he realized that he might be falling. He tried and tried to avoid it, knowing that it might just hurt him in the end anyway. He knew that he wasn’t going to be able to fulfil what was in her heart because he would always choose volleyball. Oikawa had a girlfriend once, she left him because he wasn’t good enough, and he didn’t give her enough of his time.

Oikawa did not want that to happen again. He didn’t want his heart torn into pieces yet again. But still, he fell deep into the rabbit hole called love. And he hated her for it, becoming her enemy for no reason at all. But, fate seemed to be in his side. Soon enough the “mortal nemesis” relationship faded away and love soon blossomed. It wasn’t as smooth as most people would say but it’s still a beautiful sight to behold. The way Oikawa looks at her with so much love and passion, it’s breathtaking. The way that she would cheer for him no matter what, it’s alluring. A love so pure that it seems surreal and impossible. From then on, the great king knew that she was thee one. He knew that even if he was too busy, she would understand. He knew that she would always be by his side no matter what the cost is.

And he knew that no matter what happens, he would always love her. Volleyball may be his priority, but he will soon get out of it. Slowly but surely, the walls he built was crumbling away. Slowly but surely, his distant exterior grows into an attached and close koala. Oikawa’s train of thought was then shattered as he heard someone calling out to him. “Oi Shittykawa, why the hell is your face like that?” Iwaizumi said as he cringed at the sight. “Geez Iwa-chan, can’t a guy think about his soulmate in peace?” He then responded as he glared at the shorter male. “We have a game to play, Stupidkawa. And if you miss her so bad, why don’t you go to her at the stands and talk to her?” Iwaizumi said as he glared intently at his best friend. “I have a better idea,” Oikawa said as he stood up. His eyes wandered around the bleachers to find his one and only. And soon enough, he was able to see her long black wavy hair and her beautiful eyes. “Princess!” He yelled.

The female then smiled and waved at the player adorning the cyan colors with the number one. “Yes, my prince?” She yelled back. “Oh! My darling Princess! I love you with all my heart and know that no matter what, I’ll still be in love with you,” He yelled. The stadium awed at the interaction. Oikawa now found his one and only, his soulmate. And he would never let go, no matter what.

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Author's note

Hello there! I'm so sorry for doing this quite late. Since exams and school and all that.

I hope you enjoy this matchup nonetheless! And I also made sure that the drabble was a bit different and unique to make up for it. Since I decided to try out a new way of writing.

#☁️matchup #Oikawa Tooru #anime #fanfic #fiction #haikyuu #haikyuu!! #Matchup #anime matchup #haikyuu matchups #hq matchups #hq oikawa #Tooru Oikawa #Drabble #BlackPearl

[epiphany-of-a-madwoman]

The Unexpected Perks of War | Daenerys Targaryen x Fem!OC

Part 1

Summary: Allys Baratheon is the only trueborn daughter of Robert Baratheon and Cersei Lannister. After the explosion of The Sept of Balor and the death of Tommen, Allys grew tired of the ghosts that hung in Kings Landing and set off to Dragonstone, hoping to find a semblance of safety. 

Note: Masterlist for this series here🤍

Gif credit: karenpage

‘I shouldn’t be here. I should not be here,’ repeats in Allys’ head. Two large men carrying curved blades and donning various furs lead her deeper into the old keep. The ancient castle thrums with magic long forgotten, the dragon’s roar from outside echoing in the hall. The ferocity of their roar causes the building to tremor ever so slightly, but the two Dothraki don’t pay it any mind. And with all the anxieties and fears bubbling to the surface, not having to worry about a castle collapsing on her is soothing; a victory Allys will not argue against.

It was a rash decision, the specifics of the plan not methodically thought out. Her mother would berate her. Venomously telling her naivety is how people die in Westeros. It’s what got most of the Starks dead and it’s what’ll eventually get her dead. But she couldn’t stay in that empty keep any longer. The ghosts of all the lives lost haunt the halls, their presence lingering in the corner of Allys’ eyes. It was near suffocating before, but when Cersei Lannister blew up the Sept of Balor, it became impossible to stand. She’d wake up some mornings feeling like a pound of ash has been lodged in her throat, keeping air from reaching her lungs. And in a panic, she’d fling out of bed desperately clawing at her neck praying for release, whether in life or with death.

Some mornings Allys would sit in the large library, finding comfort in the towering shelves stocked with books. It was always quiet here and usually empty. A place hidden from the terrors of the world and the cruel games of politics. But that safe haven was ruined too. Sometimes she’d swear she could hear Tommen; his boyish laughter echoing in the grand library as she nestled up with a book. Sometimes she’d follow the sound, clinging to the hope that her sweet little brother didn’t suffer a tragedy. But she’d never find the source of laughter, instead, the noise would dissipate into a soft breeze. Leaving behind despair and longing to fix past mistakes.

And so Allys left. Left the death and despair behind, hopeful for a new beginning in this desolate war. Her mother had grown mad with power and was no longer the woman she’d known. The woman who bore and raised her, shielding her from the drunken mess her father became as time passed.

But now she was in the castle of Daenerys Targaryen, whose father was undoubtedly worse than her mother. The only thing keeping her from high tailing out of the castle and off this island is her uncle’s presence. As the Hand of the Queen, he wouldn’t let anything happen to his niece, would he? But then again, these are strange times.

The two men stop in front of massive double doors. The stone doors carved with intricate designs of dragons soaring through skies. It was old but held a beauty to it akin to the rest of the castle. Two soldiers donning full plate armor and a spear stand at attention by the door. Behind the helmets, she could only see two sets of eyes staring straight ahead, not even acknowledging the presence of her or the Dothraki. And if it weren’t for the subtle movement of their chest from breathing, they could’ve been made of stone. In perfect sync with the other, they reach over and grasp the metal handles on the door. With no effort, they push it open and the stone moans as it moves, still unfamiliar with use. It seemed Stannis Baratheon abandoned the old castle when he went to war.

A pity.

The two Dothraki begin stepping into the large throne room, not bothering to check if Allys was still coming. Tentatively she follows behind them, the anxious feeling returning tenfold. The room was long and tall, the ceilings vaulted. Braziers lined the wall on both sides, causing the room to be well lit. Their footsteps echo in the otherwise quiet room. She stares at the ground watching one-foot step in front of the other, willing herself to not fall. A soft voice resonating in the room causes her attention to snap up.

“You stand in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen. Rightful heir to the Iron Throne; Rightful Queen of the Andals and the First Men; Protector of the 7 Kingdoms; The Mother of Dragons; The Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea; The Unburnt; The Breaker of Chain.” a woman standing to the right beside the steps leading up to the throne said. She wears a dark dress, with accents of fur and leather. Her skin is dark, clearly, she hails from the East. Allys; gaze moves from her to the left side of the stairs, seeing her Uncle Tyrion standing by them. He wears a similar garb, but styled for a man and with a silver pin on his check signifying his status as Hand of the Queen. He looks anxious, but the soft smile in his eyes express his happiness for his niece’s safety. She smiles at him, small and tight, but enough to convey she’s alright, even if she was exploding from nerves on the inside. And finally, Allys’ gaze moves to the woman herself. Daenerys Targaryen. And boy is she a sight to behold.

Her gold-silver hair is pulled back into an intricate braided hairstyle, small piece framing her face. Her pale skin nearly glows in the room, the natural light from the window behind the throne illuminating her to appear almost celestial. Her bright purple eyes watch Allys carefully, daring her to make a move. The Queen wears a dark dress with a blood-red cloak, a silver chain with a three-headed dragon keeping it in place. The air of authority she exudes from the throne causes Allys’ brain to stutter. And she finds herself lost in the beauty of the Dragon Queen when her stern voice breaks Allys from her reverie.

“And you are?” she questions, raising a single eyebrow at her. Daenerys’ tone is smooth and like ice, causing a shiver to run up Allys’ back.

“Apologies my l - Your Grace -” Allys says, giving a swift bow as she stumbles over her words. “ - Allys of House Baratheon.” she finishes, feeling a flush forming on her cheeks.

“And why are you here? If I remember correctly, your mother and I are at war, are we not?” she asks. Allys’ eyes widen a fraction as her brain kicks into overdrive.

“I - uh yes, uh Your Grace,” she answered pathetically, the embarrassment increasing. For a second, Allys unreasonably thinks she might be thrown in a dungeon or something, but an amused expression lights up Daenerys’ purple eyes. And suddenly the small smile tugging at her lips soothes Allys’ anxieties, if only for a moment.

“I see. Though I am honored by your presence, might I inquire why you are here?” she asks, her tone slightly warmer than before. It appears, in Allys’ case, making a fool of herself has its perks.

“I uh - like dragons…?” she answered, immediately regretting the words as soon as they left her mouth. “And - and I didn’t know where else to…go,” she quickly saves, attempting to not seem like a simple fool. Her thoughts wander back to King’s Landing. To a time when her brothers and sister were still alive, and before her family fell into madness. The safety King’s Landing used to bring is long gone.

Noticing the somber shift in her expression and tone, a sympathetic expression crosses the Dragon Queens face, but before she can say anything further, Tyrion steps forward and faces the Queen.

“Your Grace, if I might make a suggestion. My niece is vastly different from my sister and can be trusted. Please, I beg that you allow her to reside in Dragonstone for safe-keeping,” Tyrion pleads. A warmth fills Allys as she takes a few steps towards him. She reaches out and grasps his hand in her own. He moves his gaze from the Queen to Allys. A large grin paints itself on her face before returning her gaze back to the Queen, who seems to be pondering his request. Her gaze flickers to the woman who’d spoken earlier and then back to them. After a moment, she reaches a decision and breaks her silence, allowing her voice to resonate loudly throughout the room.

“Lady Allys, please feel free to stay in Dragonstone for as long as you’d like as my honored guest.”

________________

After Queen Daenerys declared Allys would be permitted to stay at Dragonstone, Allys was swiftly moved from the room by the same two Dothraki men that escorted her in. Tyrion followed after them, keeping pace with Allys as he caught her up to speed on everything. She asked him about anything and everything - from the Dragon Queen to her dragons. Tyrion took her pestering curiosity with stride and answered each and every one of her questions - no matter how bizarre. It brought her back to simpler times, but she tried to not think about that too much. Often times the past is viewed through rose-colored lenses, and Allys didn’t want to fall into a state of melancholy - not again. So she distracted herself with anything her mind grabbed onto.

When they reached the room she’d be staying in, Tyrion dismissed himself with a promise of returning as soon as his work was done. So she flopped onto her bed in a very unladylike manner and allowed herself a moment to just breathe. She traced the ceiling a million times, imaging different images in the cracks and crevices on the material. She traced the walls with her fingers and flung open the empty wardrobe. She ran to her window, staring in wonder as the dragons flew by, imagining herself on one. She imaged the feeling of the wind soaring through her hair as she went so high up, she could touch the stars. But then her thoughts shifted slightly and instead of Allys flying on a dragon, Daenerys Targaryen was with her, taking the metaphorical reigns has they soared through the Seven Kingdoms.

However, her fantasies were broken by a knock on the door. Softly calling for them to enter, Allys turned to face the door. The door clicks open, not as loud as the main entrance had been, and in steps the Dragon Queen herself. She graces Allys with a warm smile as she steps into the room. Allys’ inside flare with a warm bubbly feeling at the sight, unable to keep the loopy grin off her face. But she quickly remembers her manners and clumsily bows towards Daenerys.

“Your Grace,” she mutters, feeling the familiar flushed feeling arising on her face. A light laugh as melodic as a tinkling bell escapes Daenerys’ mouth as she moves further into the room. Allys’ eyes follow her movements as she fumbles with her hands behind her back.

“Please My Lady, there is no need for our titles in private; you may call me Daenerys,” she said, standing in front of the four-poster bed, turning to face Allys.

“As long as you call me Allys,” Allys replies, feeling pieces of her confidence slowly returning. The tips of her mouth turn upwards, a beaming smile blooming on her face.

“Agreed,” Daenerys replies, turning and taking a seat at the foot of the bed. She pats the space beside her. “Please, if you wouldn’t mind joining me, Allys,” Daenerys said. Allys takes slow and small steps towards Daenerys, feeling more comfortable around the woman as each second passes. After what feels like an hour, Allys reached the bed and took her seat by Daenerys.

“I would like to begin by apologizing, I feel we might’ve started with the wrong impressions of each other. I fear I wasn’t as welcoming as I should’ve been,” Daenerys said, taking Allys’ hands in her own. The Dragon Queen’s hand was soft and warm to the touch, a stark contrast to the chill that seemed permanent on Allys’ own. Allys squeezes Daenerys’ hand in reassurance. Her heart pounds in her chest once more, but not for the same reason it had been in the Throne Room.  

“You have nothing to apologize for. You are at war with my mother, I can’t blame you for being suspicious. Though, I will reassure you by saying you weren’t unwelcoming by any means.” Allys said, meeting Daenery’s gaze. Icy blue locks with amethyst and Allys finds herself unable to look away.

“And for that I am glad,” Daenerys said, her smile mirroring Allys’ expression. “If I’m not being too forward, might I inquire about your marital status. I assume you aren’t married and your uncle has mentioned any possible suitors, but I would like to hear directly from you?” Daenerys asks. Allys’ breathe hitches momentarily at the question Daenerys posed.

‘Could she possibly…?’

“I - I uh - no, no husband or suitors,” Allys answers, memorized by Daenerys’ face. In the throne room, she’d appeared almost celestial, but now up close, Allys is sure that Daenerys Stormborn is otherworldly.

“Not interested?” Daenerys asks.

“Not until recently,” Allys answers, her lips tilting into a sly smirk, a glint mischief in her eyes.  

“Would it cause offense if I confess I would like to get to know you?” Daenerys asks, leaning towards Allys.

“I’d be offended if you didn’t,” Allys teases.

#daenerys targaryen #daenerys targaryen imagine #daenerys targaryen x reader #game of thrones #game of thrones fanfiction #daenerys au

[5lazarus]

White Nights, Ch. 2: The Docks

A year or so after Trespasser, Lavellan takes a brief vacation from mapping weaknesses in the Veil to Val Royeaux, and brings a new lover with her. She steps out to her balcony to enjoy the melancholy night, glances over curiously when a man steps out to the balcony attached to the room next to her, and freezes. It looks like the Dread Wolf had the same idea.

She says, “I won’t tell if you don’t.” Ch. 2, The Docks: They walk, and they keep on talking. CW: Discussion on whether or not Solas "laid with her under false pretenses." Neither comes to a satisfactory conclusion. Read on AO3 here. I made the banner, and yes, it’s from the movie adaptation of the Dostoyevsky novella of the same name. It’s a good watch! I suppose you can call this a Dostoyevsky/Dragon Age crossover :’’’’)  read Ch. 3: The Broadsheet here. read Ch. 1: The Balcony here.

In the dull lamplight Solas is almost unrecognizable, with the gray in his closely-cropped hair, the carefully groomed beard. Still, she recognizes the silhouette, and part of her thrills to see him. She had hoped he would have already left. She draws closer and notices the embroidery of his shirt: a gift from Clan Lavellan. She touches the filigree at the collar and traces the edge of his jaw. His breathing catches. He is also afraid. They are making a mistake, and she knows she will have to hold herself partly culpable for this. “So,” she says, and waits for him to fill in the silence. Instead Solas puts his hands behind his back, and she rolls her eyes. “This is a mistake,” he says tightly. Yet he came anyway. “So you’ve told me, from the beginning,” Lavellan says pleasantly, “one of many horrible little things you did to me. Still, you keep cropping up. Unavoidable, actually. Like a fungus.” A smile ghosts across his face as they both remember Cassandra. “I am sorry. Loving you--” “I wish you wouldn’t apologize,” Lavellan interrupts, “when you are going to repeat what you did, over and over again. Banal’nadas. The Blight is inevitable. We don’t have time to relitigate this.” Solas takes a shaky breath. “No. We don’t.” He lets his arms fall to his sides, relaxing his shoulders. She takes his hand. He looks at her ring ruefully. “You have always liked symbolic gestures. Your vallaslin--” “I want to show you something,” Lavellan stops him. She lifts her chin, makes a face. “To show you what you mean to me.” She squeezes his hand. “Come with me.” Solas winces dramatically. “I suppose it was foolish to hope you would not remember my worse words. Where are you taking me?” She says drily, “Not a swamp.” Solas rubs the back of his neck, embarrassed. “It wasn’t a swamp when I was there last...perhaps two thousand years ago.” “What was it then? A sewer?” Solas thinks for a second then twists his mouth wryly. “I have called it a cesspool before.” He laughs at the face Lavellan makes. “Fine,” she says. “Keep your secrets.” She starts forward, tugging him along, and she both enjoys and hates the slight bounce to his step as he matches her. Walking with him was always like a dance, twisting in and out of each other’s magnetic orbit. “It was my house,” Solas bursts out. “Or at least the place that held my laboratory, when I was still…working with the Halla-Mother. Where I decided to break with the Evanuris and Geldauron’s clique both. I had planned to tell you everything.” She stops so suddenly he stumbles. He looks at her, afraid, and she lets go of his hand and touches the plastered wall of the building at the corner to ground herself, closing her eyes at the sudden rage that has swept her. He waits, awkwardly, as she breathes. They have done this routine before, of course, she has always struggled with her anger. She reminds herself of what she can feel: cobblestone worn smooth below her feet, ocean-cold air on her skin, the metal end of the prosthetic digging into what is left of her arm. The Veil is so thin now, and she does not want what could have been to tear it. Solas says, “I should not have told you that. That I was going to tell you.” “No,” she agrees. That possibility sits between them, and throws its arms around them companionably: there could have been another way. It should not be like this. Lavellan rubs the bridge of her nose, trying to calm herself down. “You are angry,” Solas says warily. “Did you expect applause?” She flexes the fingers of the prosthetic, as if to check if they still work. The middle finger sticks slightly, and she bends it back into a fist. She does not want to look back at him and see the pity and shame cross his face. She has built her life out of the ashes from Haven, and he has not been the worst thing to happen to her. She has survived worse humiliations. She smiles grimly. At least she is still moving. Solas says, “I have always been too rash in matters of the heart, and even after these long years, I have not yet learned moderation. I indulged myself at the wrong moments, and held back too. And for that, I am sorry.” He sounds like his Keeper has made him sit and think about his apology before reciting it aloud. It has the touch of rehearsal--but Solas has always thought themselves in some tragedy. Lavellan had always thought she was the lead of her own play, but it seems she has been upstaged. Lavellan musters herself to look at him. His eyes are pleading. The beard is ridiculous. She touches it, tracing where he has trimmed it along his jawline. He closes his eyes and leans into the touch like a cat. “I am not your Keeper,” she says. “There is no reason to confess. And I don’t forgive you, anyway. As you said. This is yet another one of your mistakes.” Solas does not rise to the bait. He rarely does. “Where are you taking me?” Lavellan does not know. She picks a street and keeps moving, and he matches her stride. His arm brushes against hers. They look in opposite directions, lost in their mutual self-pity. The night itself is liquid, a wet breeze teasing through the narrow streets. Magelight spills onto the cobbes, worn smooth by three hundred years of human occupation. Her great-great-grandfather on her mother’s side had been from Val Royeaux. He had died in yet another failed raid on Halamshiral, long before her mother was born. The streets are as old as history, and she misses her misspent youth, running goods from Orlais to the Free Marches, taking the Minanter through half of Thedas and leaving friends and enemies in her wake. Tomorrow she and Anders will visit some of them, and see what has changed. She has to clean her mother-in-law’s grave, too. She wonders what her late husband would have thought of this, what he would say. He would say something clever about her moving from the slapstick comedy of their smuggling career to epic tragedy. She says casually, “You know I met my husband here. When I was a student, working for Briala. And then when the Carta began paying me better.” Solas has always been amused by her past. He enjoyed the rumors flitting about her wake, and how they twisted him into it. The truth was stranger than the story, and the story served to entertain. He says, “Mahanon? Yes.” They duck into an alleyway that has an unguarded gate into the alienage--an example of Briala’s munificence. Before Solas stole the key, Briala had kept an eluvian there. A sick hatred rises up her throat, and Lavellan swallows as they turn into the elvhen quarter. A statue of Fen’Harel faces outward, away from the Vhenadahl. Solas grimaces and pats its head. She steers them away from the Vhenadahl--he does not deserve it--and towards the docks. Jasmine vines up the ancient buildings that date to the Exalted March, and she breathes in that heady scent with a rush of nostalgia--for whom, for what, she cannot tell. Perhaps herself, before--before all of this, before love. As they pass, Solas plucks a blossom and places it in his pocket. A perishable souvenir, she thinks: quickling memory. How apt. Solas says, “I was surprised to find how effectively you and Briala had seeded the various great ports of Orlais and the Free Marches with your organizers. And you joined the Friends of Red Jenny, did you not? An interesting move, considering their decentralization cripples their coordination. But it does leverage you into the back alleys of Denerim, Antiva City, and the Grand Necropolis. Though the Qunari invasion has stymied their recruitment efforts in Tevinter.” He is wrong, but she will not tell him that. “The Qunari,” she hedges. “They think if they find out your name, they can reveal your true nature and master you.” Solas chuckles. “I was, and always have been, Pride first. Fen’Haril, and then Harel,” he grimaces, and Lavellan cannot help the rush of affection at how he is still affronted over the name, Keeper Deshanna reckoned the vowel shift must have occurred over two thousand years ago, he has been quietly seething over it since before the fall of Arlathan, “--came during the war. And if Mythal could not master her pride, I have no doubt the Qunari will likewise fail.” The street widens as they approach the dock but he bumps into her anyway. She tucks her good arm into his. They can pretend they are old lovers and not political enemies locked in a cold war. They can accept that they are old lovers, currently locked in a tense nonaggression pact. Lavellan’s mouth twists. Leliana will be so horribly pleased with the whole situation. It is all so terribly Orlesian. Lavellan asks, “Who named you?” She does not expect him to answer. They reach the docks, and he turns to her, smiling. “Do you know,” he says, “you are the first person who has bothered to ask me that? Most assume I chose the insult for myself.” “Yes,” she says. “You’re far too proud to laugh at yourself.” He is avoiding the question, but he has still revealed that he has kept a close eye on the Red Jennys, which Sera suspected but could not confirm. “I have you to do that for me. You keep me humble.” “And here I thought it was Cassandra and her Smite that kept you from picking fights. With anyone but Vivienne, Iron Bull, Thom, Sera--didn’t you have a go at Varric once? What did you call Orzammar? Ah, yes. ‘The severed arm of a once-great empire.’ But now I know you were projecting. Is that what you call the Dalish? Twitching to give the appearance of life. Never dreaming,” Lavellan says bitterly. “Left for dead.” Solas looks at her strangely. “Not anymore,” he says quietly. He walks to the edge of the dock and sits down gingerly, avoiding wet spots and fish guts. He leans back, feet dangling above the water, and looks up at the stars. It is a beautiful night in Val Royeaux, and Lavellan’s heart catches. She remembers too much--friends long dead, friends lost, her first husband. She sighs and sits next to him. He shifts closer to her, pressing his leg against hers. He still smells the same. “Tell me about this place,” he requests. “It holds some significance to you.” “It doesn’t matter,” she says. Those stories are not meant for him. In another world, she would tell him about the Portinari boys, about Sylanna and Garta and Briala’s first girlfriend, and maybe she would have even told him how she asked Mahanon to leave Val Royeaux, on a night as cool as this. But, as he himself told her, that world is not this one. It cannot be. She says instead, “You were going to tell me your name.” She rests her head on his shoulder. He nuzzles into her hair and breathes deeply. Such an odd thing, scent: he must miss it too. He puts his arm around her, tentatively at first. When it is clear to both of them she will not pull away, he holds her tighter, and takes her hand. Solas says, “You know my name.” Lavellan says mildly, “You know lying by omission is still a lie.” “No--” Solas draws back, and the wooden pier creaks beneath them. “Careful,” Lavellan says. “Don’t fall in.” Solas stares at her. “I never lied to you. I...may have misled you. My meaning may have been ambiguous. Our language is one of intents, my heart.” Lavellan’s frown deepened. “You know my intent. In that I have always been clear.” He looks at her, afraid, and he braces himself for what she will say next. Lavellan thinks, oh I don’t want to talk about this oh but there’s no going back oh I should’ve stayed with Anders and ignored this white night. Solas says, desperation in his voice, “Our time together may not be kind for either of us--it isn’t. We both know that. But I did not lie to you. I did not lie with you under false pretenses!” Lavellan says slowly, “Is that guilt I hear in your voice?” Her mouth twists, and Solas’ lips thin. “I do think you protest too much, Dread Wolf. Fen’Harel, or Haril --whatever you call yourself.” Solas opens his mouth to interrupt but a furious look from Lavellan silences him. “You know you did wrong by me. You know what your name is, you know what you should have told me. You--dishonored me, you lied to me--do you think I would’ve fucked you if I knew--” “Then why am I here?” Solas demands. “Why are you here? Tell me--why do you keep tormenting --” “Me or your conscience?” Lavellan snaps. “Nosing at the edges of my dreams! You use me to torture yourself, because you’re guilty and you know you’re guilty, but you’re too proud to admit it so you’ll keep wearing me like a hairshirt--” “I did not force you,” Solas hisses. “I asked you to leave. You pulled me back from the door. Every time. Time and again, I warned you. This...connection has been cruel from the beginning.” He puts his head in his hands and breathes deeply. Lavellan is momentarily concerned, but anger is burning below her skin, despite the chill off the ocean. “If that is what you think…” He is at the brink of tears. “If that is what I have done to you.” He swallows hard. Lavellan is unmoved. “I have been nothing but myself, and my worst self, with you. I was Solas first and I have been Solas since. Did you expect me to tell you, when Cassandra held us both prisoner--oh, to keep us on even standing, I am the monster of your people’s mythology.” He laughs bitterly, wiping furiously at his eyes. He smiles at her sardonically. “Do you think I did not rehearse it constantly in my mind? From when I gave Tarasyl’an Telas, to Wisdom’s murder--and what would you have done? Would you have treated me fairly? Would you have given me hearing?” “I don’t know,” Lavellan says. “Did you, for me?” She meets his gaze steadily. He is at the brink of tears, which brings out the almost violent tinge to his gray eyes. She tells herself she is unmoved. She has watched him cry before, in fear and loneliness, when he could not sleep for the nightmares in the Emprise. They had both been haunted by the mines, and he had been particularly upset at the report that the red lyrium had taken root. Now she knows: he understands the rot has sunk into the soil, eating away at the people, and he was despairing. Then she had been worried for him, now she is glad. Finally, Solas looks away, ashamed as he had been in that ridiculous armor. They both enjoy a good costume performance, but she has him as stripped as she feels. Solas says, “Why are we here? To growl at each other like two territorial wolves, and sniff out what the other knows and does not know. Now you know the Blight that is upon us. You know this world have been doomed since Corypheus slaughtered the city of Kirkwall to break open the Black City.” “Before,” Lavellan says. “The Titan. I found your bolthole in the Crossholds. For a man who keeps his secrets close, you do like to dangle half-truth all over your walls.” Solas laughs hollowly. “I paint. That is what I am, before I am called to Mythal’s service.” Lavellan notes the change in tense, but allows it to pass without comment. “So now you know.” “Dread Wolf,” Lavellan says. “Fen’Harel. Fen’Haril. Rebel. At the feet of Mythal. And Pride first, Pride before all. I’ll spare you the pun about the fall.” “Two millennia too late for that,” Solas says. “But you are the only one counting.” She cannot help but smile at that. She stretches her legs and throws herself down to the pier, looking up at the still-visible stars. Solas looks down at her, fondness mixed with sadness. She squints and picks out a familiar pattern to the embroidery of his shirt. “I gave you that,” she says. “My clan sent that to you. I didn’t know you kept it.” She lifts a hand to his collar and examines the filigree. The magic responds, familiar: her aunt Ithilien sewed the pattern, but Deshanna enchanted it. They thought she would bring him home. From his collar, she moves her hand to his neck, traces it down to his collarbone, and contemplates tightening her grip. Solas closes his eyes. “Stop,” he says. She does not remove her hand. His heart beats steadily under her palm. They wait, listening to the waves gently lap against the shore, the planks of the pier creak, the carousing from beyond them, in the alienage cafes. She remembers fucking her first husband down at the docks, both daring in plain view of the moonlight, then more slowly in the shadows, even overturning, laughing, a boat, grabbing at some poor fisherman’s net. She looks up at Solas. She can imagine him grunting, half in pleasure, half in pain, her scrabbling to get him out of his clothes--perhaps someone opening their shutters to see what the noise is about and rolling their eyes at these two horny middle-aged elves. What good would it do, what pleasure would she take from it? She misses sharply the feel of his skin against hers, she misses him holding her hot against him, all those freezing nights. She says, “Do you remember those nights in the Hissing Wastes?” He says, “And those languid days.” He wraps his hand around hers and removes it from his neck. “My heart.” “Melodramatic,” Lavellan says. “Cassandra will love it.” “High intrigue,” he adds. “Devastating to us both.” He lies down next to her and caresses her shoulder. “Varric will pillory me in song. More than he already has.” She snorts. “Truly, he could not have helped Maryden come up with a better rhyme? And the book . That book--is the moonlight still glinting off my ears? Or has the effect changed, since I grew out my hair?” “He misspelled my name,” Lavellan says. “Called me by my matronym. I think he did it on purpose.” “Entertain me,” Solas says. “What ending will Master Tethras write for us? Because I do not know how to leave this gracefully. Though I suppose any ending is better than the last one, when I left with your arm.”

“Don’t make me laugh,” Lavellan says, “you’re not allowed to make me laugh after I’ve made you cry.”

“Rules of engagement,” Solas says. “You do not strangle me, I let any cancers you encounter strangle  you--no laughing, but we can both cry.”

Lavellan presses in closer to him, eyes sparkling. “But only in the moonlight, under a,” she glances up quickly, “waning gibbous moon.”

“Obscure as your wit,” Solas says. “Agreed.” A draft of wind shivers over them, and they pull together. Lavellan feels hollow, exhausted, as emotional as the tides sucking at the Val Royeaux beach. Solas is  watching her. He always is. He says, “We will  not meet again.”

“One hopes,” she says. “Why that inn? Why Val Royeaux?”

“Because I am tired,” he says simply. “Because I like this city. I did not want to stay in the alienage and think  of you, and the hotelier did not sneer and call the guard when he saw my ears. And you?”

She parrots back, “Because I am tired. Because I love this city. Because I cannot bring a human to the  alienage, and the hotelier did not call for the guards when me too.” Solas’ eyes flicker, and he pulls away from her. She thinks, jealous? Good. He thinks of her in Val Royeaux, he thinks of her in the  alienage--just this one, or in general? They stayed in the alienage, when Cassandra brought her to testify to  the Chantry. The four of them had had a good time. “You should go to your lover,” Solas says. “Before he wakes.” Lavellan smiles thinly. He thinks she lied to him--a lie of omission, but a lie nonetheless. “And you to your empty bed?” He snorts. “Empty, and lonely, and ever-desiring what I should not. I have not changed much.” She is flattered despite herself, and triumphant, but then remembers that he has always laid the flattery a little too thick. “Desire?” she says teasingly. “What do you want?” He stares at her. “Life. More life. And not to die alone.”

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