#ought to show it) but oh my LORD do you write them well

[octopusoptimusprime]

slowly working my way thru every single @troybarnesbabygirlconfirmed fic (i’ve read like 10 tonight) and i don’t think i’ll ever be normal again 👍

#mutuals are so talented i love you guys #user troybarnesbabygirlconfirmed i know you Know how much i love your fics (and if you didn’t the amt of ao3 notifs you got today from me #ought to show it) but oh my LORD do you write them well #also i think i have . feelings about abed-in-a-suit now. unrelated ofc #i’m literally a lesbian i need to shut the fuck up but like GOD the way he acts in that one . #trobed #octo talks

[staygoldwriting]

Candy Grams

Summary: Valentine’s Day is coming up, and Eddie isn’t buying into it 

Warnings: fake gagging, pouty Eddie, mentions of Lord of the Rings characters; otherwise, it’s my usual fluff :)

Word count: ~1.5k

A/N: The reader is in high school, a member of Hellfire, and 18! This also avoids the ST4 plotline because we need happiness, haha! I hope you enjoy this fic 🤗

As the cheerleaders and their sporty boyfriends kissed and cuddled with each other in the lunchroom, Eddie made fake gagging noises.

“Valentine’s Day,” he groaned. “The worst day of the year. And it’s not even here yet!” he yelled, spreading his arms. 

“Yeah, if it’s this bad today, think how bad it’ll be on Friday,” Mike tried to add. Eddie glared at him, making Mike double over and concentrate on his sandwich. 

“I know Valentine’s Day is a drag, Eddie, but maybe you’ll be surprised this year!” Dustin tried to encourage. “It’s also a good day to show love to your friends--”

More groans from Eddie.

“Or, subjects?” Dustin shrugged. Eddie chuckled in spite of himself.

“Oh, Henderson, the spell of love truly has a tight grip on you,” he squinted, landing a heavy hand on Dustin’s shoulder. “I feel bad for you.”

“Suzie’s great, and I think one day, you’ll find your Suzie! Just wait!” 

“Ugh, Dustin, why are you talking about Suzie again?” you complained as you arrived at the table. You sat next to him, taking his extra chocolate milk. “This is payment,” you said, waving it in front of him.

“I’ll accept,” he smiled. “And we were just talking about Valentine’s Day and how Eddie’s going to find his own Suzie one day.”

“Eddie, why not celebrate your friends?” you asked, taking a bite of your sandwich. “That’s what I do every year.”

“I don’t have any friends,” Eddie pouted. You reached across Dustin to poke Eddie.

“Hey! I’m your friend,” you said seriously. 

“Yeah yeah,” Eddie sighed. 

He looked in the opposite direction, not wanting to meet your eyes. Your posture sunk, and you poked at your macaroni. Dustin saw you and nudged you a bit, making you smile, but you still felt sad. You always wanted to share your love with others, especially Eddie, but he always pushed you away. You didn’t know why, but it never stopped you before. Maybe it was time you ought to stop.

“I’m gonna go,” you said slowly. “I have to talk to Mrs. Jacobs about something.”

You got up quietly as Dustin opened his mouth to protest, but you held a silent hand up. He cocked his head to the side in sadness as you shook your head, telling him not to worry. Gathering your lunch, you walked towards the cafeteria doors.

“Y/N!”

You looked to see Chrissy Cunningham bob in your direction, a chipper and cheery smile across her face. You stopped, smiling at her.

“Hi, Chrissy. What’s up?”

“Well, I wanted to say hi and ask if you’re okay cuz you kinda look glum,” she said and you nodded, crinkling your nose. She clicked her tongue and gave you a hug, which you accepted. As she pulled away, she reached into her backpack to grab a little clipboard.

“The other thing I wanted to mention is that I’m helping sell candy grams for this year’s student government Valentine’s Day fundraiser. Do you wanna buy any?”

“Um, yeah, sure,” you smiled softly.

“Okay, great! Just let me know who you want to send one to and if you want to add a message. They’re only a dollar.” 

“Sounds good!” you said as you pulled out a ten dollar bill. “I usually buy for the whole Hellfire Club… can you send one to Dustin Henderson, Mike Wheeler, and Lucas Sinclair, freshman class? And then one to Gareth Williams, Sebastian Brown, and Jeff Thompson in senior class, and all of them with the message, ‘Happy Valentine’s Day, my favorite freak’? It’s an inside joke,” you explained as Chrissy laughed awkwardly.

“I understand!” she chirped. “Anyone else?”

“Well, you of course,” you smiled brightly, and Chrissy returned it. 

“Aw, thank you!” she said. 

“Oh! And Nancy Wheeler and Robin Buckley, please. Can you write ‘You’re my favorite Wheeler’ on Nancy’s and ‘I go buck wild for you’ on Robin’s?”

“Haha, sure!” Chrissy giggled. “Looks like you have one dollar left! Do you want one for Eddie?”

You looked over at Eddie, who was still pouting. You looked back at Chrissy, who saw your lovesick look and quietly nodded. She touched your arm lightly.

“Get back to me.”

🖤

Valentine’s Day had finally come, and as you arrived at school, you saw extravagant displays of love (and unfortunately, PDA). Walking through the halls, your eyes were drawn to shiny heart balloons and pink streamers, and the couples who had obviously been waiting for this day forever. 

Classes proceeded as normal. The teachers weren’t big fans of the theatrics, so Valentine exchanges happened only at the beginning of class. No candy could be consumed, and definitely no couples could sit and stare at each other instead of doing their work. As the day dragged on, the couples became sappier, and you were exhausted. You were at least looking forward to lunch with the anti-romantic Eddie. You didn’t want any more frills.

As you walked into the cafeteria, the boys waved you over. Their smiling faces made you feel happy, remembering how much you love celebrating this day with your friends. You sat down between Dustin and Eddie, and the former pulled a little pink bag out of his backpack.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Y/N!” he beamed, handing you the gift.

“Aw, Dustin! Thank you so much,” you said, giving him a hug. You opened the bag to see a handmade card, some fresh cookies, no doubt made by Mrs. Henderson, and a little teddy bear holding a heart with “You’re my bear-st friend!” embroidered on it. 

“I hope you like it,” he said. “My mom made snickerdoodles for everyone.”

“It’s all amazing, thanks again Dustin,” you smiled. 

You looked over at Eddie, who was quietly eating one of his cookies. You nudged him with your elbow. 

“Hey,” you said quietly.

“Hey,” he breathed quickly, bouncing his knee.

“You okay?” you asked, concerned. “Today’s a lot, I know.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” he said, turning away from you. 

The same sinking feeling you had on Monday returned. You were thinking about leaving, but, as if on cue, Chrissy floated in, smiling brightly. She had a gaggle of cheerleaders behind her, all with baskets full of candy grams.

“Candy gram delivery!” she sang, holding up her basket.

The cheerleaders split up and began distributing the candy grams. Most of them went by table, their baskets likely organized by cliques. Chrissy skipped over to your table.

“Hi you guys!” she beamed. “Happy Valentine’s Day!”

All of the boys except Eddie, who just nodded in her general direction, smiled and wished Chrissy a Happy Valentine’s Day. You gave her a small hug and a card you made her.

“Thanks, Y/N! Okay, here we go,” she said, going through her basket. 

“Gareth, here you go, and Lucas you have two! Sebastian and Jeff, here you go, Mike you have five!” she giggled as Mike read a mix of “love, Mom” and “love, Nancy” on his, along with your candy gram. 

“Dustin, you have the record! A Miss Suzie Bingham sent you ten via air mail,” she smiled, dumping a pile in front of him, “and one from Y/N.”

“How did she know?” Dustin asked to no one in particular, then turned to you with a knowing look. You winked at him, and he smiled widely.

“Thanks, Y/N!”

“Of course, you know I believe in love, sometimes,” you chuckled, hugging him.

“Y/N, you have four,” Chrissy said, handing you a candy gram from herself, Robin, Nancy, and Lucas, all with sweet messages. 

“Thanks, Lucas,” you smiled, which he returned. “Thanks, Chrissy!” 

Chrissy giggled. “Thank you for mine! Oh! Wait a minute!” she said, reaching into her basket. “Looks like you have one more,” she smirked. 

She handed you the last candy gram.

To Y/N, the Arwen to my Aragorn.

Your breath hitched as Chrissy looked in her basket again, handing one last candy gram to Eddie. As she turned to walk away, she winked dramatically and flipped her hair, traveling to the next table.

Eddie shoved the candy gram into his bag, face reddening.

“Aren’t you going to look to see who it’s from?” Mike asked.

“I know it’s from Y/N,” he grumbled. “Same message as the rest of yours,” he sighed, pushing his tray away.

“It’s not,” you said quietly, making him look at you. 

“You didn’t send me a candy gram?”

“No, I did. It’s not the same message though,” you said, looking into his eyes. “Read it. Please.”

He reached back in and grabbed the candy gram, looking at the message. 

To Eddie, my Evenstar.

He touched the message lightly with his fingers and breathed deeply. You felt your heartbeat quicken. He set it down and reached for your hand, but then hesitated, reaching for your face instead and cupping your cheek, kissing you softly on the lips. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, now looking sad. “I… I didn’t think you felt the same way. That’s why I was so bitter. Chrissy wasn’t even supposed to give you the candy gram, I told her to scrap it. Now I guess I know why she didn’t,” he chuckled. You smiled and leaned in to kiss him again.

“I’m glad she did. Will you be my Valentine?”

“Absolutely, my queen.”

✨ I hope you enjoyed this little story!

Taglist: @alphashadows @tillkummer @mlle-ayka @fanficfanatic204 @gttrgrrl @klaine-92 @aurumbelis @onlyangel-444 @beep-beep-sherlock @morishitoshi @onceuponathreetwoone @toomanybandstocare @underthebatcape @steves-robin @zeldaknight @fieldofsecretss @prettyinpunk85​ @igotbasicdrag @gothicfaires @thatonecurlygirl​ @luvthatlovestolove @loliakeoghan23 @dearelliewrites @mslunawinchester​ @efvyqrs​ @simonsbluee​ @inkedaztec​ @dumplinshee​

#staygoldwriting #eddie munson #eddie munson x female reader #stranger things eddie #eddie munson x reader #eddiemunson #eddie stranger things #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson fluff #stranger things season four #eddie munson stranger things #eddie munson st4

[nxrthmizu]

Crash and Burn

fandom | miraculous ladybug

genre | salt, lila salt

pairing | n/a

w.c | 3.2k

author's note | hey remember that lila salt fic i promised? this isn't it but this is something i made today so yep. please accept this as an apology for yknow. me promising to write and. not doing it.

Enough was enough.

“Marinette, stop accusing Lila! She just wants to make friends!”

“Take the high road.”

“Be a good model student, Marinette.”

Enough. Was. Enough.

Marinette had the connections, the power, the choice to make Lila’s entire world crumble apart. The only thing that stood between the liar’s demise was the tiniest pinch of morality and self-restraint— And no, that self-restraint did not come in the form of Tikki. Even the kwami, who had to be an aggregation of all the good and nice things in the world, was fed up and ready to retaliate.

“What a joke.” Lila cackled, tossing a chunk of her sausage hair over her shoulder flamboyantly. The two girls were in the bathroom, with Lila smirking in front of the sink and Marinette a little distance away from her. “You can make my world crumble? What is this, a threat?”

“A promise.” Marinette corrected. “Stop telling lies. Come clean to every one. No more lying about knowing celebrities left and right, no more making excuses about not being able to take your own notes, no more making up ‘diseases’ just so your life gets a little more convenient. To be frank, I really don’t care what happens to you— But by making these empty promises to introduce my classmates to great ‘celebrities’, you’re ruining their futures. Stop.”

“And what are you going to do if I don’t?” Lila sneered, face twisted into an ugly grin. “You going to cry in front of the class? Try and convince them that I, the one they adore— That I am lying?”

“No.” Marinette’s eyes were clear when she met Lila’s. The clouds of self-doubt that used to hover over the bright, shining star inside her soul had now dissipated, letting the bluenette emit a confident, glowing appearance as she met the liar head on. “I’m just going to keep my promise.”

──────── ⋆⋅❉⋅⋆ ────────

Lila headed off to a modelling shoot after school, pleased at the prospect of spending more time with Adrien. There were a couple tendrils of Marinette’s words hanging behind in her mind— Did the girl mean what she said? Did she actually… Was she actually capable of causing Lila’s downfall? … Surely not. Marinette may have once been the ‘Everyday Ladybug’, but there was no way she was that competent, there was no way the girl was capable of plotting.

The Italian hummed, brushing away thoughts of the annoying bluenette from her mind. She was going on a photoshoot— One that was going cause the rise and burst of her career, the one that was going to make her name a globally-known one. Unfortunately for Lila, her plans were going to be derailed quite soon— In fact, as soon as Gabriel Agreste’s car rolled into the parking lot of the shoot location.

“Explain this, Mlle. Rossi.” Gabriel’s nostrils flared as he pointed to the tabloid article on his tablet. The Italian girl froze, the headlines seared into her eyes, big and black and bold, shooting poison right into the core of her body, paralysing her cell by cell starting from her heart. “What is the meaning of this?”

‘Adrien Agreste Reported To Be Harassed by Fellow Model’— The image under the caption was one that was clearly taken by a hidden photographer. The picture was framed with leafy foliage, which suggested that the camera was tucked up in a tree. Despite the distance, it was quite obvious in the image that Adrien was reeling away, disgusted and uncomfortable as a faceless woman in an orange blazer, back turned to the camera— Invaded his personal space.

The subtitle was the cream on the cupcake.

‘Witnesses State Gabriel Agreste Ignorant of Workplace Harassment’.

──────── ⋆⋅❉⋅⋆ ────────

As if things couldn’t quite go down a worser path, Lila returned home to a fuming mother and an unexpected visitor.

“Lila! You come here right this instant!” The diplomat demanded as soon as the front door opened, her daughter shrinking slightly at the tone and pitch that her mother was using. The last time her mother had been this angry— Well, it was when she got expelled from her last school. “I can’t believe what you’ve done! If it weren’t for your kind classmate, lord knows how long you would’ve continued with this!”

The Italian meekly followed her mother into the living room, eyes widening until they were as large as saucers, mouth agape at the last person she expected to see sitting on the couch.

Marinette smiled kindly, waving at the girl, looking every bit the part of the innocent, pure, kind child that every parent wanted to have. Before Lila could release a torrent of questions about what the hell Marinette Dupain-Cheng was doing in her living room, her mother charged on, beginning to take out her anger on her daughter while a literal angel sat on the sofa, cradling a box of pastries from her family’s bakery.

“Your friend here tells me that you’ve been taking absences from school to go on trips to help humanity!” Mme. Rossi exploded, waving her arms around madly. “She says she’s here to share her notes from the classes you’ve missed! You’ve never left Paris this year! What’s this I hear about flying off to the kingdom of— What was it called again, Marinette dear?”

“Achu.” Provided the bluenette helpfully, the diplomat’s expression instantly softening when she talked to the other teen in the living room.

“Ah, yes. Thank you, dear.” The woman turned back to her daughter, instantly snapping on a mask of anger in a matter of a fraction of a second. “What’s this about flying off to this kingdom of Achu to help homeless orphans with some random prince?”

“Um…” Lila piped up, wriggling as her brain churned at 200 lies per hour, trying to whip up a cover of some sort.

“I’m not done! Your friend here is such a helpful child that she even went as far as to ask her family doctor is there’s a cure for your… Lying disease!” Mme. Rossi practically roared, breathing flames as if she were an intimidating dragon, her daughter flinching away from the heat. “I’ve never heard of anything more ridiculous! And then there’s the fact that you lied to your classmates about having tinnitus?!”

“I actually do have tinnitus!” Lila cut in forcibly, widening her eyes to make herself look more pitiful. “I was just afraid to tell you because I didn’t want you to worry!”

“Bullshit!”

“Um… Sorry to interrupt, Mme. Rossi,” Marinette piped up, the diplomat instantly cooling down as she faced the bluenette, a soft smile tracing the Italian woman’s lips. “But it’s getting rather late and my parents would love me home soon. I also have some tests to revise for tonight, so I think I should get going.”

“Oh, of course, dear.” Mme. Rossi hastily got up to help the bluenette to the door, shooting a warning glare at her daughter— ‘Sit still and don’t you dare go anywhere’, the glare read. “Feel free to come over again anytime you want, dear. I’m not home often, but you are such a sweet child. I’m sure Lila could learn a lot from you.”

“Thanks for having me as well, Mme. Rossi. I really like your home. I left the pastries on the counter— Make sure to warm the curry puffs before you eat them.” Marinette returned the smile, bowing slightly to the older woman as a sign of respect.

“Thank you for the pastries as well, Marinette. I ought to visit your parents’ bakery sometime when I’m free.” Mme. Rossi opened the door kindly for the bluenette, waving the girl off with an affectionate smile. Her parents must be so lucky to have such a sweet little thing like her, Mme. Rossi sighed internally, turning the key so she locked the door. And she seems to be a high-scoring student as well.

──────── ⋆⋅❉⋅⋆ ────────

Lila seethed, having been grounded by her mother. As far as Mme. Rossi was concerned, there was a boarding school not too far away from their current residence, and by the next week, the Italian girl would be transferred over. Lila had never hated Dupain-Cheng as much as she did in that moment.

Still furious, the Italian snapped her laptop open, too angry to bother with the fact she might’ve scratched the surface. Clicking into the web browser, she started to type in the words ‘Ladyblog’— That was, before a news article caught her eye.

‘Jagged Stone Interview Reveals Underage, Obsessed Fan’.

What on Earth…

As soon as Lila clicked into the link, the news footage from the interview immediately begin to play. The date stamp on it showed that it had aired last night— Which meant that she would’ve missed it, since her mother was too busy yelling at her to turn on the television to watch Nadja Chamack’s daily news.

“As soon as I heard this rumour about some underage teenage girl claiming that she had saved my cat on an airport runway, I called Penny and asked her to book a slot for me to clarify this,” Jagged Stone said grimly, dressed in more formal attire as he sat in the comfortable, cushioned chair of the news station, with Nadja nodding equally seriously beside him. “Let me clarify— I’ve never owned a cat. I’m allergic to fur. The only pet I’ve had was Fang, and he’s an al-li-ga-tor. Not a cat. Whatever the girl is claiming, she’s obsessed and making up stories.”

“It’s also kind of bewildering that she saved it on an airport runway,” Nadja continued, shaking her head in disappointment. “That kind of thing only happens in dramas— It’s too dangerous for anyone besides authorised workers to be on airport runways.”

“Right, right!” Jagged agreed instantly. “The whole rumour is just really baffling.”

“M. Jagged, may I ask what kind of effect these rumours have on a celebrities’ career?” Nadja continued, leading the conversation on like a professional.

“Well, rumours that circulate around tend to have really bad effects, and the worse ones can hang around for a long, long time. Tabloids are often spun off from rumours, baseless and with no evidence. Those tabloids will never truly disappear, so they can leave a mark on a celebrity’s reputation as some people will believe anything— Even things they read from un-cited tabloids.”

“That is simply terrible. Have you ever had any cases of rumours created by underaged teens before this?”

“I’ve had quite a number, but none of them really got as big as this one. From what Penny has found from digging around, the teen girl managed to spread the rumour through her school and onto a once-popular blog.” Jagged explained. “Penny has also found out that the same girl has claimed that I’ve written songs for her to thank her for saving my cat! I would never write songs and dedicate them to an underaged girl— Trust me. If I could do such a thing, I’d already have written a dozen in honour of my niece— She’s my favourite designer.”

Nadja smiled at that sentence. “Then—“

The news footage cut off abruptly as Lila slammed her laptop shut, too upset to continue watching.

──────── ⋆⋅❉⋅⋆ ────────

On the other side of Paris, Alya was pacing around her room frantically, wondering why on earth Lila wasn’t picking up on her calls. She’d left at least four dozen messages to the Italian, who was absent from school that day. There had been a couple whispers here and there about why she was missing— Rose had suggested another impromptu trip to Achu.

Lila’s absence wasn’t the weirdest part of the day, however.

That award would go to Marinette, who walked into class with a smile, the slightest sprinkles of delight colouring her bluebell eyes when she spotted Lila’s empty seat.

Growing in frustration, Alya threw herself onto her bed, phone clattering onto the mattress with her. Within the next few minutes, however, her phone suddenly started exploding with notifications. Excited at the prospect of Lila finally texting back, Alya turned on her phone, only to be disappointed by the notifications all clamouring from the class group chat.

Kim had sent a link to the chat— Without hesitation, Alya clicked into it, frowning when she saw Nadja and Jagged appear on the screen. Throughout the interview, the colour on the Ladyblogger’s face only paled by the second until she was as white as a sheet, and if it were halloween at that time, she would’ve won the best costume award for being a ghost.

There must… There must’ve been a mistake.

A notification from Lila’s number made the blogger perk up, instantly clicking into the conversation— But her newfound hope didn’t last very long.

[Lila]

Hi, Alya. This is Lila’s mom. She’s currently grounded right now. Is there anything important you need to tell her?

[Alya]

Oh, nothing much… I just wanted to ask where she was.

[Lila]

She’s at home.

[Alya]

Okay, thanks.

Flopping onto her bed, Alya begin thinking, revising over the past few months like it was an old clip. Lila’s exciting adventures and interactions with celebrities of every kind— Lila going overseas and face timing the entire class— Lila letting her in on the secrets of being Ladybug’s friend…

… Marinette trying to tell them that Lila was lying…

──────── ⋆⋅❉⋅⋆ ────────

The class was awfully silent the next day. Adrien was absent as well— A social worker was looking into his home life as a result of the tabloid that arose. Things for the blonde could either get better or worse from then on, as the matters were still foggy and things hadn’t cleared up yet. The blonde maintained contact with his friends, however, calling and texting them whenever he could.

“Class, settle down.” Mlle. Bustier stepped into the class, looking very tense and uncomfortable. “Today, we will have a guest, so please be on your best behaviours, alright?”

Just as the teacher finished speaking, a tall, regal-looking Italian woman entered the classroom, a cowering principal and a meek-looking Lila in tow. The class brightened slightly at the sight of their friend— But by the way she wasn’t looking into their eyes… Things weren’t going to be good.

“Good morning. I am Mme. Rossi, Lila’s mother.” The woman begin speaking, her firm and no-nonsense tone instantly making every student sit straight, their eyes too afraid to look anywhere else but the Italian diplomat. “It has come to my attention that my daughter has been taking absences from school to do charity work— And I have to clarify that this is a lie. Lila has been doing nothing but holing herself up in her room, lying to me and saying that there are no classes due to akumas.” The Italian diplomat glowered at Damocles. “What’s even more baffling is the fact that neither her homeroom nor the principal bothered to check up with me despite a student having extended periods of absence with no note or email written whatsoever.”

The class was so quiet that they could hear the quiver of Mlle. Bustier’s trembling lip.

“In addition, I’ve been kindly told that Lila has claimed to have a lying disease, which is the most ridiculous thing I’ve heard this week.” It was impossible to miss the way the Italian diplomat was glaring daggers at both Mlle. Bustier and Damocles. “No one bothered to look it up online to see if it’s actual disorder, nor did anyone call me to confirm and ask for a doctor’s note, which is standard procedure.” Chills burst over the room, making every one shiver as the woman hissed out her words.

“Mme. Rossi, we didn’t want to disturb your busy schedule—” Damocles begin, only to be blown backwards from the sheer intensity of Mme. Rossi’s glower.

“M. Damocles, standard procedures exist for a reason. Unless you’d like to tell me about any other things you’ve been letting my daughter get away with?”

“N— No, Mme.”

The Italian diplomat continued on her war path. “My daughter also claimed to have tinnitus, am I correct?”

“Y— Yes, Mme.” Mlle. Bustier answered when it seemed like no one was going to.

“And I heard that the class seating arrangement was shifted to accommodate for that?” The homeroom teacher didn’t dare answer this time, for it seemed like whatever she said would be the incorrect answer. “And apparently, my daughter has also been faking broken wrists and requesting for her classmates to complete her work for her.” Mme. Rossi was practically breathing flames at that point, “And I am incredibly upset at the lack of action from the homeroom teacher.”

No one could breath.

“I have many concerns about the running of this schooling facility, and I expect to discuss this with M. Damocles privately after this. However, there is still something to be done.” Mme. Rossi swept her gaze towards her daughter, who found the floor incredibly interesting at that point of time. “Lila? Something you’d like to say to your classmates?”

“… I’m sorry for lying to you.” Lila mumbled resentfully.

“Louder, Lila. No one can hear you.”

“I’m sorry for lying to you!” Lila swallowed, bursting like an explosion that had finally been triggered, tears in her eyes and fists hatefully curled. “I’m sorry for lying about my diseases and injuries. I’m sorry for making you do my work,” She spat. “Sorry for causing any inconveniences.”

Mme. Rossi raised an eyebrow at her daughter. “Is that all?”

Lila glared at her mother, who was completely unfazed. “Oh, so you want an apology from me? Fine!” She turned to the class, a maniacal glint in her eyes as she sneered at the class, a few gasps puffing from around the room as they caught their first glimpse of the liar that resided in the ‘harmless’ shell of Lila Rossi. “I’m sorry that you are all such idiots that you all fell for everything. I’m sorry that Marinette has such terrible, untrusting classmates that turned their backs on her even though she was still a goody-two shoes till the end, even though she still wanted to help you sorry peasants. I’m sorry that you were all so goddamn gullible! There! Good enough for you?”

Shock was etched into the faces of every human in the classroom— Including Mlle. Bustier, M. Damocles, and Mme. Rossi themselves. Clearly, that part of the apology had not been part of the plan.

“Did I miss something?” Said a sweet voice, followed by the presence of a bluenette, her hair tied in a half-up. A royal blue blazer decorated her lithe form, accompanied by a smart-looking white blouse and a black plaited skirt. Formal had never looked so good on anyone— And if someone didn't know better, they'd think that the bluenette was a young lawyer, emerging victorious from her first successful case.

“Marinette!” Alya exclaimed.

“I’m sorry that you’re such an annoying, little, pest.” Lila bit in the girl’s face, disdain colouring her features as she ignored her mother’s enraged gasp behind her.

The bluenette simply smiled, unaffected by the liar who had crashed and burned like the liar once wished upon her. Marinette Dupain-Cheng stood at her full height, the perfect image of grace and poise as she maintained her composure, quite unlike her nemesis, who thrashed under her mother’s restraining hands.

“And I’m sorry that you didn’t take my promise to heart.”

this can count as adrien redemption depending on you cause ehhh i dont like how passive he is but i havent caught up with the recent episodes, he might have become better. idk.

also where the hell is my miraculous taglist i cant find it so eep. no tagging ppl ig oops

#miraculous ladybug #the tales of ladybug and chat noir #marinette dupain-cheng #lila rossi #lila salt #rossi salt #ml class #ml salt #ml class salt #marinette deserves better #badass marinette #lila rossi lies #lila's lies are exposed #adrien agrete #alya cesaire #cady writesss «

[archibaldcurothers]

Take the Long Way Home, Part Six

Author’s note: Sorry for the super long wait and thank you for your support and patience! I hope you enjoy c:

—————————————————

The sun rose from its slumber, and so too did Sesshomaru’s rag-tag team of strays. Sesshomaru and Jaken were fully alert and ready to depart, but the humans were less eager. Jaken wasted no time chastising (Y/N) and Rin, condemning them as lazy and slothful for their comparatively slow rousing. (Y/N) stood up, annoyed by the small creature’s abrasive nagging, but ignored him as she stretched her tired body; Rin eagerly mimicked the movements. The two girls had slept well on Sesshomaru’s luxurious boa, and (Y/N) carefully gathered it up, brushing off any debris, and brought it over to his Lordship.

“Thank you again, it’s so soft! I think that’s the best sleep I’ve had since I came to your world.”

Sesshomaru showed no expression as he took back the fur. “I’m glad it was of use.”

(Y/N) smiled at him and then turned to go back to Rin and Ah-Un. Sesshomaru watched her, noticing her movement seemed more fluid and relaxed. The small comfort of the boa really did appear to have made a difference. As he wrapped it back around his shoulder, he found himself tensing. The movement of placing it had rustled up the scent of (Y/N) that clung to the fur, causing an aromatic cloud of sweet rain and florals to hang heavily in the air around him. The demon’s breath quickened ever so slightly, his mind adrift in a thick fog, and his slender fingers flexed and curled in a steady rhythm.

“My Lord! My Lord! Can you hear me!”

Jaken’s shrill voice pierced through the veil, and Sesshomaru looked to his servant with a severe gaze. Jaken shrunk away, taking on a meek tone as he pressed on, “Apologies, my Lord! You appeared as though you had been vexed; an impossible thing, to be sure! There is nobody who could possibly take such hold of you! I admit it was a foolish thing for me to have even considered but-”

“Let us go,” Sesshomaru interrupted.

********************

It wasn’t difficult to see that something was amiss about Sesshomaru. He had seemed fine at daybreak, but soon after, his demeanor had become tense. As the group had set off, following his lead, you had noticed him turning his face into the fluff of his boa, only to quickly jerk his head back away from it. You worried that perhaps you hadn’t cleaned it off as well as you ought to have. It had looked pristine, by your estimation, but you supposed a powerful demon would be able to perceive things your silly human senses couldn’t. Throughout the day, Sesshomaru periodically nuzzled into the fur adorning his shoulder, and each time, after a second or two, he would abruptly turn back away from it, as though it electrocuted him. Laying on the fluffy mass had been a treat, but you suspected you wouldn’t be allowed to do it again.

*********************

Night fell once again. (Y/N) and Rin had taken to riding atop Ah-Un as their feet had become sore, and Jaken loudly mocked their weak human constitutions.

“You won’t find Lord Sesshomaru or myself needing such frivolous accommodations! You humans are all the same, soft and weak! Why, before the two of you, Lord Sesshomaru and I could cover three times the ground we do now! You’re lucky Lord Sesshomaru is so merciful as to allow you to ride atop Ah-Un or your enfeebled bodies would be left behind. On top of that-”

“We will rest here tonight.”

“Oh, of course my Lord! What a fine location you have chosen!” Jaken continued to yammer as Sesshomaru walked past him and over to Ah-Un as (Y/N) helped Rin dismount from the great dragon-like beast. In this small window, Sesshomaru caught himself turning his face into his boa, noticing that the scent from the morning was largely gone from the fur.

As soon as (Y/N) set Rin on the ground, the little girl skipped over to Sesshomaru. “I can’t believe we get to camp two nights in a row!” she beamed.

(Y/N) joined Rin and meekly offered her gratitude. “Yes, thank you. It’s very kind of you.”

Sesshomaru showed no emotion, but removed his boa and proffered it to (Y/N).

**************************

You took it hesitantly, unsure why he was giving it to you again considering he had seemed put-off by it all day. Maybe he was telling you to wash it? Before you could get clarification, Jaken exploded with indignation.

“You would just stare at his Lordship when he is so benevolent as to give you his exquisite stole? The ungrateful nature of you humans!”

Sesshomaru stopped the angry gremlin’s tirade by speaking calmly to you, “It seemed that you were more well-rested after sleeping atop it. Use it again, if you like.”

“Thank you, Lord Sesshomaru,” Rin gleefully exclaimed.

“Yes! Yes, thank you, m’lord! This is very kind of you!”

He gave you a small nod and then turned away, walking to a nearby tree to sleep against. Rin helped you arrange the fur beside Ah-Un and the two of you laid down, the young girl cuddling up closely to you. You gave her a hug and she giggled with glee. This life was certainly more difficult than the one you had left behind, but it wasn’t so bad.

The two of you stared up at the night sky; the moon was full and bright. “Did I ever tell you that the people in my time have been to the moon?”

Rin bolted upright and regarded you with mock suspicion. You laughed at her incredulousness and assured her you were telling the truth. The girl had many questions.

***********************

Sesshomaru listened to (Y/N)’s fantastical story that humans had climbed inside a large metal vessel and gone to the heavens to walk on the moon. That there had been a race between two nations to see who could get there first, that only very special humans had gone to the sky like this and they were called “astronauts”, and that (Y/N) was very passionate about the unfair demotion of a celestial body called “Pluto”.

He could hear the pride in her voice as she told Rin all of this; how proud (Y/N) was of the humans in her time and what they had accomplished. He wondered if she resented this time she had stumbled upon. Even the highest-ranking humans of this time were pathetic when compared to the heaven-roaming individuals she spoke about, and, as much as it wounded his pride to admit, even he could not visit the stars. If she couldn’t get back to her own time, was there any way she could possibly be happy in this one?

He silently cursed himself. (Y/N)’s happiness was none of his concern. It wasn’t his responsibility to keep her spirits raised. He put the thought from his mind, focusing instead on the sound of the leaves rustling on the tree. It was none of his concern. None of his concern.

*

*

*

Tag list: @fierysins @blck-bmbi @berryblossum @neeadinghugs @sailor-earth-1 @thefandomzoneisdangerous @afuckingunicornn @grace-writes-shit @rememberourlastkiss @morphituu @samanthaa-leanne @probablyzombiedinosaurs @blacklotussai @poemfreak306 @moonchild2190 @ohjammers @crispygummy @bottled-poet @seohee-hwa @themarblefox09 @dottie-witch @soshitan @nellaphine @skrilltia @florssils @katherine12123-blog-blog @reignofglitter @katialvi @ameonna97 @velveteencurls @jessicarosequinzelfleck @zoilalove213 @scorpios-unite @maixx @lysawayne @tanyeonn @radicalcannoliqueen @viktorian-horror-story

#sesshomaru x reader #sesshomaru fanfic #sesshomaru #inuyasha fanfic #sesshoumaru #sesshoumaru x reader #sesshomaru x y/n #Sesshoumaru x y/n #take the long way home #ttlwh

[flowerpowelltales]

Until You Hate Me (Liam x MC)

PART THREE - THE BEGINNING

A/N: Yes, I do feel ashamed I forgot about this series for TWO years. I also am aware most of you, who have been tagged, dont even remember ever reading this series. If you’d like to be taken off the taglist just let me know because I don’t want to bother anyone. If you want a refresher - it’s the series where Regina pays Riley to be the worst suitor ever so that in two weeks, Liam would have to marry someone Regina picked for him. Previous parts are on my masterlist. Shoutout to the Nonny who motivated me to write this part. Hope y’all enjoy! Characters belong to PB. 

Rating: G

Word count: 1692

Tagging: @gardeningourmet @delightfullypinkglitter @blackcatkita @badchoicesposts @jared2612 @princess-geek @desiree-pow-35-1986​ @emichelle​ @ao719​ @cordoniantrash @kinggliam @needalittlerain @flyawayboo @nazariortega @jlpplays1 @kimmiedoo5 @annekebbphotography​ @ladyangel70​ @eadanga​ @kingliam2019​ @nz1091​ @emceesynonymroll @texaskitten30 @mskaneko​ @custaroonie @drakesensworld​ @janezillow @ritachacha​ @lodberg​ @msjr0119​ @gkittylove99​ @sweatyrysconnoisseur​ @dcbbw​ @potter1-7harry​

“Welcome to Cordonia,” Liam said when the Royal Jet finally landed. He looked at Riley warily as she took in the sights. The flight was a total disaster and made him rethink his whole life. If he hadn’t known better he’d think she wanted to sabotage his mission.

“Looks sick,” she said and Liam sighed.

“Liam, Riley, the car is here. Come before anyone spots us.” Regina nodded towards their driver.

“Whoa, we have our own driver? That’s mad!”

Regina raised an eyebrow in a ‘do-not-overdo-it’ manner but Riley ignored it. For her it was either go hard or go home. Literally, because if she failed she’d go home with no money.

The ride from the private airport to the palace was silent; Riley was admiring the views, Liam was thinking if he made the right choice and Regina was already planning Liam’s wedding to Madeleine.

When they arrived, Regina excused herself and went straight into her office.

“What do you think?” Liam asked politely when they were the only two left.

“It looks so… majestic. Like something I’d expect a palace look like but at the same time like something I wouldn’t expect. It’s gorgeous.”

Liam turned to her stunned by her words. What happened to “sick” and “mad”? Maybe it wouldn’t be that bad, after all.

“Come inside,” he said and extended his hands towards her. She took it and then gasped at the interior.

“It’s so regal and so big and oof—” Riley was almost knocked out by a small, fluffy ball that jumped at her.

“Ah, this is Chance, Maxwell’s dog. He must feel you’re a good person because he is never that happy about strangers.” Liam smiled as he leaned to take her coat. She handed it to him and when Liam walked away to hang it, she bent over to Chance. 

“Hey, buddy! I’m super flattered you like me but can you please bite me or start barking at me so Liam doesn’t think I’m good?” She asked and Chance titled his head in confusion. “You see,” she lowered her voice, “I have a mission to complete.”

When Chace still couldn’t understand, Riley tried to speak his language.

“Woof woof woof woof,” she barked at Chance in low voice.

“Um… is everything okay, lady Riley?” Liam asked, suddenly appearing behind her. Shoot.

“Mhm. Just talking to that cute little muffin. And please, call me Riley. I’m no lady.”

“If you insist. Would you like to see your room?”

“Sure! Does it have a mini fridge? I bet it’s totally dope!”

Liam shook his head in disbelief. Riley changed her mood every few minutes. He couldn’t figure her out. Sometimes she was serious and really fun to talk to but then she changed again and acted like a spoiled teenager.

“Here we are.” Liam motioned the room when they finally reached the guest chamber. “It doesn’t have a mini fridge but you can call any of the staff members to ask for whatever you’d like, anytime.”

“Cool.”

“Ah, Liam! Riley! I am so glad to see you both here!” Regina exclaimed with a smiled on her face. “We have a dinner today with a few of our friends. Liam, please help lady Riley to prepare for it.”

“Of course, Regina. Who are we expecting?” Liam asked.

“Duchess Olivia Nevrakis, Lord Neville, Duchess Adelaide, her daughter and Duke Godfrey, lady Hana Lee and her parents, and a few of the court members.”

Liam nodded politely but started to panic internally. Lord Neville, Godfrey and Adelaide weren’t exactly the first people he wanted Riley to be introduced to. He knew too well how they treated commoners and how awful they could be. He had only about two hours before the dinner to go through the royal protocol, table manners, dress code and how to address who. When he looked up at Riley he noticed she was already studying him.

“Everything’s alright?”

“Yes, it is. I just thought we would have more time before your debut.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that! I was born ready!” she said reassuringly, which, ironically, made Liam even less reassured.

~~~~

“So when I see Hana Lee’s dad I should say ‘ni hao’, right?”

“Correct! And can you please repeat how you would address Duchess Olivia?”

“Your Grace,” Riley replied.

“Exactly. And Lord Neville?”

“…Also your Grace?”

“Yes. How would you address me, then?”

“Your Majesty?”

“No, Majesty is used for Kings and Queens. I’m not a King yet so I ought to be addressed ‘your Highness’.”

“So Regina is her Majesty?” Riley asked.

“Precisely. Now, what is my title?”

“Prince?”

“Full title.”

“Prince Louis of Cordonia.”

“Ye—What? What Louis?”

“Your name isn’t Louis?”

“No,” he shook his head. “It’s Liam.”

“Oh, right! Sorry, I’ve always had a problem with remembering names.”

Liam smiled but wanted to scream. Remembering names was probably one of the most important things Riley had to learn. And she forgot even his.

“Let me get this straight, when I talk to you I always have to use ‘your highness’?”

“When we’re with nobility, yes. It shows respect. When there’s only me and you, or friends and family, you can call me by my name,” he explained.

“Which is Louis!”

“Liam,” he corrected. Again.

“Sorry! Sorry!” Riley apologized. “I’ll just need something to associate you with… Oh! I know! I used to listen to One Direction a lot and Liam was the name of one of the singers! I liked him a lot!”

“Whatever works for you.” Liam smiled, feeling less and less enthusiastic about his mission.

~~~~

Two hours and three braincell losses later, Riley was walking arm in arm with Liam, into the ballroom. She was wearing a very expensive dress, more expensive than everything she owned altogether. She was very stressed and started to regret coming here. Pretending to be the worst suitor in front of Liam was one thing, but pretending to be the worst suitor in front of all Cordonian nobility was a completely different thing.

“Look, there’s Xinghai, he’s coming here,” Liam whispered and Riley nodded as the man approached them. Liam nudged Riley.

Okay. Show time.

“Hey hoe!” She yelled, making everyone freeze.

I hate myself.

“Riley!” Liam hissed, pinching her arm.

“Excuse me?” Xinghai asked as if not believing his ears.

“I think Riley tried to say ‘ni hao’, is that right?” Liam raised his eyebrows and Riley felt sick.

“Yes! Ni hao! I’m so sorry, I’m very bad at languages!”

Xinghai shook his head. “If you say so.”

“Hi, I’m Hana! And this is my mother, Lorelai.” A girl with a very friendly face extended her hand as if she hadn’t noticed that huge faux-pas. Her mom barely smiled at her.

“Nice to meet you.”

“Your Highness.” A man approached them and raised a glass. “I feel deeply honored to be invited here today. Her Majesty mentioned you would bring an American suitor, is this that lovely lady?”

Riley didn’t know who it was but she sure hated him already. She looked at Liam and realized she wasn’t the only one thinking so.

“Lord Neville. I am very happy you could join us. Yes, this is lady Riley, my suitor. Lady Riley, this is Lord Neville.”

“Lord? Like Lord of the Rings? Is that even a real title?” she asked.

“Excuse me?” Neville was confused and Liam embarrassed. From the corner of her eye, Riley could see Regina smiling at the sight.

At least someone is happy with what I’m doing.

“I believe we haven’t met.” A blond woman interrupted them, holding a glass of champagne in one hand and a very unhappy man in the other.

“This is Duchess Adelaide, Duke Godfrey and their daughter, Countess Madeleine. And this lovely woman by my side is lady Riley.”

“Hi y’all! Louis told me so much about you!” She heard Liam sighing.

“Hmph” was all Godfrey said. The rest of the family looked confused.

“Who’s Louis?” Adelaide asked.

“What happened to One Direction association?” Liam whispered to her when the family wasn’t looking.

“I forgot Louis was in the band, too,” she replied.

“If you excuse us,” Liam turned to Adelaide, “but we need to say hello to Duchess Olivia. Thank you for coming.”

He quickly led Riley far from Adelaide and Godfrey, avoiding other court members on the way. He couldn’t do this. At least not today. Riley clearly wasn’t ready.

“Why hello there,” a lady with red hair and a matching dress greeted them.

“Olivia. Hello. How are you?” Liam started a small talk and Riley noticed he was more relaxed talking to her than he was talking to other people. She must be a friend, she thought.

“I’m great. Haven’t been to a party that is as much fun as this one. And it’s all thanks to you. I’m Olivia.”

“Riley. You’re the Ice Queen?” Riley asked remembering Lythikos was a winter wonderland. She hoped Olivia would be offended just like the others but to her surprise the Duchess burst out laughing.

“Ice Queen! I like her already,” she said as she wiped a tear from her eye. “Absolutely loved when she questioned Neville’s title. The man’s pain in the ass.”

“I’m glad you find it funny,” Liam said firmly. Olivia shrugged and turned to take another glass of wine.

“I’m really sorry I embarrassed you, Louis.”

“Liam,” he corrected.

“Liam,” Riley repeated. “I’ve just came to Cordonia and had only two hours to take it all in. I’ll be better in time.” Not sure how better at making you hate me I can get though.

“It’s fine. Listen, it’s me who should be apologizing. As you said, you just came here and within a few hours you had to learn things I learned throughout the years.”

Riley’s eyes widened. She embarrassed him, she humiliated him and he still apologized? She felt awful.

“I still feel bad. I promise I won’t let you down,” she lied and Liam smiled.

“I’m happy to hear that because we’re visiting our apple orchard tomorrow and the press will be there to meet you, too.”

Riley gulped as she smiled at Liam.

That only meant she had to try even harder.

#the royal romance #the royal heir #the royal finale #king liam #playchoices #choices #liam rys #king liam rys #liam x mc #king liam x mc #liam rys x mc #my fics #until you hate me

[a-libra-writes]

Salt & Snow - Chapter 6

Ships: Ned Stark x Reader, Brandon Stark x Reader (?)

Summary: Ned finally returns to his childhood home, to the happiness of his siblings and Y/N ... though she’s also beside herself with nerves. As it turns out, the two of them are awkward teenagers.

Use this chrome extension to replace “Y/N” with a different name :)

“That’s the last of it, milord.” The servant tightened the leather straps on the wooden trunk, ensuring they were secure. Once satisfied, he nodded to the guide that would be taking the young Lord Stark down the mountain. The man was withered, but he expertly steered his mules, or so they said. Ned hadn’t realized how many possessions he’d collected in his years in the Eyrie, and felt bad for making the beasts carry so much.

The old mountain guide said it was fine, and it wouldn’t unbalance them. “You worry about stayin’ on that mule, milord. When’s the last time you descended?”

He thought about it. “Four years, mayhaps more.”

“Aye, it’s much the same. It’s still spring, it will warm quickly as we go down.” The old man guided him to one of the mules, a shaggy, dark brown one with long ears. Ned thought it was cute in an ugly way, and climbed up. He kept his eyes forward, ignoring how the Eyrie hung above them. He remembered the first time he climbed up here, terrified he’d fall the entire way, and then afraid the Eyrie would somehow fall from the sky and plummet to the ground.

I’ll be the one doing the plummeting, if this beast missteps. Ned was mostly, probably confident that wouldn’t happen. He wondered what sort of mule they gave Robert, the beast of a man. He couldn’t imagine his friend sitting quietly for the better part of the day. That thought made him smile a little, and sigh. Robert left a month ago, and now it was his turn. It was a bittersweet goodbye to Robert and then to Lord Arryn. The first month I couldn’t stop thinking about Winterfell, how I wanted to go back. It hurts to leave now.

It hurt, but it was time to go. He wanted to see his family again, to see Winterfell, and the godswood, and Wintertown and the forest surrounding them. He’d smell pines and fresh earth again — gods know the Eyrie sorely lacked in both — and the animals that ran through those woods. He wondered what had changed, what was the same.

Suddenly, Ned recalled a letter where Y/N described the repairs on one of the towers, the old one that was slowly crumbling. That made him remember the last one he sent, and he covered his face with a groan.

“Doing well, milord?” The guide asked, looking back. “Don’t look down.”

Ned merely nodded, glad the guide and the other servants were too busy navigating to notice his stupid face. Why had he written that? Why did he send it? She must be think he was an utter fool. She hadn’t even sent anything back yet.

No, letters are slow to the Eyrie, and I’m leaving, besides — perhaps it was lost.

The thought of Lord Arryn receiving it and sending it back was mortifying, even if the man would never read it. For days Ned’s mind had been racing about Robert’s departure, his own journey, and the stupid words he wrote down. He’d repeated them so many times in his head, hoping he was misremembering.

He groaned and laid his head on the neck of the mule. It smelled awful, but he stayed there. Y/N must have thought him a complete fool, how would he face her once he came home? It would be a long, long journey.

What in the seven hells did he mean by that?

Y/N stared at the words, her eyes running over them, which was a pointless act. She’d memorized these lines in particular, able to recall them in spite of her attempts to keep busy. She hadn’t responded, because how could she? Anytime she sat down and began to dab her quill, the butterflies battered against her stomach. She’d set her quill on the page, watching the ink soak into the paper, but Y/N only managed a few sentences before fumbling, misspelling a word, dripping ink everywhere and just giving up. She’d thrown several pages into the fire already.

I’m being ridiculous, I’m overthinking. Aren’t I? Hasn’t he always said kind things to me? Why is this different?

A week ago, Y/N dug through her box of letters saved over the years, hoping to assure herself. That was a mistake. She read through things she’d forgotten, phrases she remembered, looked over the little drawings he attempted, and her butterflies became relentless. She had to put the letters away and spent the entire day flustered and distracted.

She rubbed at her face and sighed heavily. She put the letter out of sight, knowing it wouldn’t be out of mind for a while. She ought to stop procrastinating, to send something back already; it’d been almost three weeks. Or was it four? She’d been procrastinating with everything imaginable — long boring books, needlework, studying maps, playing music, even riding.

I have to answer eventually. I really am thinking too much. Just write something safe! Something boring!

Instead of doing that, Y/N left her room and looked for something to do. Perhaps if she could talk about her feelings it would help, but she couldn’t. Not even to Lyanna. Her friend had stopped reading the letters, preferring to send her own, and Y/N was sure they weren’t as frequent… That, and she couldn’t imagine letting anyone read what she wrote or drew now.

Is it strange, how often we write? Has anyone noticed?  A little voice nagged at Y/N. She and Ned were well past the age of innocent friendly correspondence. She didn’t speak much about it, secretly worried she’d be told to stop. The idea of getting “caught” wasn’t pleasant, but the idea of stopping was worse. The correspondence had become a comfort, a way to raise her spirits, warmth and confidence in her heart. She understood how some would find that emotion improper.

A servant hurried past Y/N, nearly hitting her and knocking her right out of her thoughts. The boy called an apology and kept running. In the great hall, she saw half a dozen men moving boxes, and one of the elder servants giving them orders. Savory smells came from the kitchen, and peaking inside, Y/N saw the cooks and their girls busy chopping and stewing.

She tried to recall the last time Winterfell was this abuzz. The death of Lady Stark cast a dreary curtain over the castle, and while it was gradually lifting, a feast still felt out of place. Brandon was away again, but there was never a big to-do for his return.

“Found you!” Lyanna called to her, and Y/N jumped. It was absurd how much she’d been lost in her head as of late. She was glad Lyanna didn’t tease her; instead, the girl asked, “Why is everyone so restless today?”

“I was just thinking that. Did you see the kitchens? I can’t imagine why we’d need so much sausage and stew.”

“They’re making dessert, too! I’d ask my father, but I can’t find him anywere.” As they talked, Lyanna and Y/N walked outside to one of the many yards inside Winterfell’s walls. Just like inside, there was a flurry of activity, things being moved and cleaned. Lyanna said half the horses had been taken, perhaps on a hunt for fresh stag. A sudden thought struck her, and she turned on her heels to face Y/N, nearly knocking the girl over in the process. “Y/N, what if… what if my father finally decided—?”

“He didn’t,” Y/N replied instantly. “He would tell you, Lyanna. It won’t be a surprise. Maybe something happened and he’s gathering some bannermen on short notice; maybe it’s about Brandon’s wedding. He has been gone for the better part of a month.”

“That’s all true,” Lyanna said, although she didn’t sound comforted. “Perhaps Father is entertaining some ladies for him. Oh, gods, we’ll have to make smalltalk with them…”

They sat on one of the many carts strewn about the yard, following the activity. Predictably, Y/N’s mind wandered to Ned, and she kept her sigh from escaping. She glanced at Lyanna, half-listening to her friend chatter about a hedge knight that visited months ago. He showed off some jousting in the yard for their amusement, and Lyanna was still enamored. Y/N’s thoughts were wholly preoccupied with the terrifying idea of telling her about the letters, the ones that had gradually become far less proper and more personal.

Suddenly Lyanna asked, “Did you have any plans today?”

“I have a feeling if I did, you’d pull me away.” Y/N said. “Why?”

“Do you still have your old brown cloak?”

Those grey eyes were gleaming with some sort of mischief. Perhaps it was the restlessness of the people around them, or her own anxious thoughts… but rather than steer away from trouble, Y/N turned toward it.

There were small collections of cottages directly outside the walls of Winterfell, mostly farmers and butchers who directly served the castle, and offered board to travelers during the large feasts. But if someone really wanted to find something interesting, they’d go to Wintertown. These were the more prosperous smallfolk, the merchants, innkeeps, blacksmiths, and so on. There was even a small sept, although most Northern townspeople had little use for it. Y/N had come here only a dozen times; to go, she and Lyanna would need an escort, and Brandon wasn’t eager to follow two silly girls around.

As far as they were concerned, the matter of an escort was silly now that they were women. Lyanna had no fear as she put on an old cotton dress and her grey cloak, while Y/N wore her brown and black dress she saved for riding and a deep blue cloak. Y/N tucked her pearl and jewelry away, and Lyanna pulled her own dark brown hair out of its braid until it was all around her shoulders, wild and free. The girls snuck quietly out into the yard, avoiding servants and guards, then drew their hoods up once they reached the gates. They waited, then Y/N pointed. Three sworn guards were distracted with a complaining merchant, and they slipped past the gate.

Once outside, they kept their hoods up, but giggled to one another. After walking a mile, they came across a farmer on the way to Wintertown, and asked if they could ride in his cart. The old man squinted at them, trying to focus his gaze.

“Are ye girls the swineherder’s daughters? Jeyne and … Milly, was it?”

“That’s our names. Can you take us to town?” Lyanna asked, putting on a false voice. When the old man agreed, she grinned so broadly, Y/N had to nudge her and give her a warning look. They hopped into the back of the cart and chatted while it swayed and hobbled along. The last time, it was an hour of walking before a cart passed by.

It’s good to see her like this, happy again. Y/N thought, glancing to her friend as Lyanna chatted. It’s been a dreary six moons. Or has it been longer?

Lyanna hadn’t been herself the whole time. Since her mother died, everything was bleaker. For the first moon, she just wanted to stay inside. After that she’d go out riding for hours at a time, and for once, Lord Stark didn’t scold her for it. Sometimes she’d rage, pick fights with Brandon or a guardman’s boy. Sometimes she’d just stay in bed. Those days were always the bad ones, Y/N knew, and she’d stay with her, writing or drawing or doing needlework while Lyanna laid there.

They’d get far worse than a scolding if they were caught at this game, but she just wanted Lyanna to be happy again. Wintertown was in sight, and they thanked the old man and hopped off his cart, too excited to wait for his mules to take them any farther. Y/N took Lyanna’s arm so they’d at least stay together, and they were off.

Just like the last time they visited, the town was buzzing. Thoughts of Ned’s words and Lyanna’s sadness quickly faded in the back of Y/N’s mind as they followed whatever interested them. A girl half their height was herding a group of sheep through the middle of a wide street, a woman was selling bolts of impossibly colorful fabric and thread, a blacksmith was loudly working on a sword. The girls watched all of it.

“Wait!” Y/N patted Lyanna’s arm excitedly, distracting her from the molten-hot red sword and the hammer that was beating down on it. “Do you see that?” She pointed.

Lyanna squinted. “That stall over there?”

“Yes, let’s hurry! Maybe he still has some!”

“What are you talking about?” Lyanna laughed, but followed along. She quickly realized why Y/N was so excited: There was a variety of colorful, fresh vegetables, but more importantly… fruit.

“You buying?” The man asked warily, mistaking them for the lowborn girls they were dressed as. Back in their bedchamber, Y/N had to remind Lyanna to tuck away her direwolf pin. “I’m selling, not giving. You girls got coin?”

Y/N ignored his tone and asked, “Are these from White Harbor? My father worked the docks.”

“That so? He on one of the merman’s ships, or the ray’s?”

“The manta ray, at the Whitetide docks.”

The man grinned, showing some missing teeth. He nodded his head like he was familiar with this mystery sailor. “Aye, with Lord Caspian’s fleet? His ships are good ones. These fruit come all the way from Dorne and the Arbor, but they’re still fresh.”

Y/N could see that. Her heart was racing at the sight of peaches, oranges, limes, figs… of course, Lyanna’s eyes went straight to the lemons. She giggled and shook her head. “They’re better when they’re baked in cakes. Have you had an orange before?”

“Never. Let’s get some. Four, if we could?” Lyanna asked the man, and he handed them over. Four was all he had, and Y/N paid, feeling a little sorry for taking so many. She wondered if the common folk could afford fruits. This cold preserved them well.

They walked around the market idly, more interested in the treats they just acquired. Y/N taught Lyanna how to peel the orange and the wolf-girl was delighted with how sweet and juicy they were. “This is wonderful! Why aren’t we baking these into cakes?”

“I suppose someone tried, and it didn’t work out well,” Y/N mused. “My mother liked to squeeze them into her water, or she’d just drink the juice itself. When you preserve the peels and dry them, you can scatter them amongst your things to make them smell good.” She thought about her mother’s hugs, and her favorite parlor, and the strong smell of citrus and exotic flowers that permeated both. She was a Northern woman, but took to the wonders of Dorne and Essos and the Reach, little treasures brought in on her husband’s ships. It was how her father courted her: With baskets of fruit, tropical flowers, strings of pearls and giant conch shells. Y/N smiled, remembering how her mother lit up when she told her about it.

“I can promise you, my little pearl, one day you will have such kindnesses paid by someone who truly adores you.”

“You know so many things. All I know is passable dancing, and horses.” Lyanna said, breaking Y/N’s reverie, of which she was grateful for. The Stark girl rubbed at her chin where some juices at dribbled, and Y/N handed her a handkerchief.

“You know swords and lances well.”

“Aye, but I’m not allowed to use them.” Lyanna frowned, but it didn’t look like her mood was lowering. She eagerly bit into a second orange instead. Y/N sighed and put the handkerchief back into her reticule.

“Can I have the peels?” She asked.

“Are you going to put them into my riding boots?”

“Gods, I’d need a bushel to mask that scent.”

Lyanna didn’t want to throw her precious orange, so she settled for lunging and chasing Y/N instead. Y/N shrieked and ran, glad for the headstart: Lyanna had to chew and swallow her orange pieces properly before tearing after her. Lyanna’s old dress was short enough that she didn’t have to pull up the skirts, but Y/N had the lighter cloak. She shrieked again as Lyanna grasped for it, but missed. “I’ll get you for that!” The girl hollered. “Come back, Y/N!”

They laughed and chased each other around the town like children, and no one cared. Some older women noticed and scowled, and a few children laughed and followed for a while, but no one stopped them. No one grabbed their ears and admonished them for the messy hair, dirty clothes and sticky orange-flavored fingers. They were little girls again, not proper ladies of five and ten, daughters of Stark and Caspian.

Y/N stopped suddenly, then yelped as Lyanna tackled her to the ground. She squirmed and coughed. “Lyanna! You’ll kill me!”

“Don’t start fights you can’t finish!” Lyanna responded. She realized Y/N was still winded and moved off her. “Oh, are you hurt?”

“No,” Y/N sat up and blinked the dust out of her eyes. Satisfied, Lyanna flicked an orange peel at her. Y/N picked it off her lap and ate it. Lyanna made a face, like Y/N just ate the peel of a lemon — then she remembered she saw her friend do that, too.

“Do you hear that?” Y/N asked. It was the entire reason she stopped. Both girls kept still and listened. They were on the edge of Wintertown, their game taking them to the very end of it. Out here was a few modest homes and small gardens, a crumbling wall, and the road leading to Winterfell.

“Horses,” Lyanna said. She listened. “Several of them, moving at once. It’s probably a retinue.”

“Is it Brandon? I can’t recall when he was supposed to come home.”

“It would be bad for Brandon to find us like this and tell father,” Lyanna said, but she laughed. She was like her old self today. Suddenly, she said, “Oh. We should have saved an orange for Ben.”

“But not Brandon?”

“His Lordliness can get fruit whenever he wants. He can ride to the Reach and pick it himself.” Lyanna scoffed. She stood up, pulled Y/N to her feet and they both dusted their dresses and cloaks off. The horses were closer now, easy to hear without them staying quiet. It had to be Brandon, or a nearby lord. It was too much commotion for farmers bringing food.

The girls walked to the crumbling wall and crouched down, eager to peek at the banners. They weren’t foolish enough to openly stare, even if this was Wintertown, they weren’t entirely safe. Y/N had a vague thought that Lyanna might have a dagger in her boot, but that wasn’t real protection. She kicked herself for not bringing something of her own, even if she had no idea how to use it.

“They’re taking their time,” Lyanna muttered. “Has to be a lord. A lordling wouldn’t bring so many wagons, and a merchant wouldn’t be so slow. If it is Brandon, let’s throw rocks.”

“Let’s not.”

“Fine, a single rock. I won’t hit his horse, she deserves better. It could always be Ser Roderick, or the Pooles. Maybe even Cerwyn —”

Y/N pulled her back, lower against the stone wall. “Shh.”

Two horses passed, carrying modestly protected Northern guards. Then four more guards followed, dressed in different leather and armor. Y/N squinted, not recognizing the arms on their surcoats. It wasn’t anyone sworn to House Stark. Then, what they wanted: The banners.

One man held a direwolf, and another one held a blue falcon. Lyanna shot up, and Y/N stumbled, as she was still holding onto her.

Then she looked up, and jumped to her feet just as Lyanna had. They both stared.

It was Brandon, as they guessed, and someone else. They rode ahead, followed by a few more men, one of them a fully-armored knight who wore the crest of a sky-blue and white falcon.

“Ned!!”

Lyanna was gone. She tore across a small field to the road, and the guards stopped all at once, their hands flying to their hips. That action snapped Y/N to attention, but she could only stand and stare. She watched the boy — no, young man — beside Brandon turn in his saddle, and his grey eyes lit up with surprise and happiness.

Y/N thought someone was sitting on her chest, then something was trying to get out of it. She was choked up, the world was spinning, and she could barely hear the words Lyanna, Ned and Brandon were all saying. Lyanna nearly jumped up on the horse, but Ned swiftly dismounted. He only had a moment before he was being strangled in a hug.

Brandon got down from his horse and said something to the guards. The horses shook their heads at the commotion but Lyanna shouted again, and two of the knights laughed, and Y/N was still.

Then Ned looked up over his sister’s head, and met eyes with her. Y/N took a step forward, then another. She forgot she was wearing an old dress, a cloak that was now dirty from running about, that her hair was out of a normally tamed and styled braid. Ned held out his hand, as though she was close and not ten or fifteen feet away.

Y/N shyly walked down the field to the road, trying not to look at the guards, or Brandon. Lyanna pulled away from Ned and grabbed her arm, pulling her the last two feet. “What are you doing, Y/N? Come over here!”

She was pushed in front of him. He was different in some ways, but not many. Brandon towered above him and Lyanna was just a little shorter. Y/N smiled at that, but quickly looked to her hands, which smelled of oranges and still had a little stickiness on them.

“It’s good to see you again,” Y/N could only say. She thought of all the clever and interesting words she sent before, and how they were failing her horribly now. Her mind scrambled for something to say, something she had written before, something good, but it was all jumbled.

She didn’t look at Ned as he replied, “It’s good to see you too, Y/N.”

It was quiet, like they were the only ones, but that was quickly interrupted. Brandon was beside them, loudly teasing, “It’s Lady Y/N, brother. I thought the South was supposed to teach you all those stuffy manners.”

“She’s always been Y/N to us,” Lyanna rolled her eyes. “More importantly, were you and father keeping this a secret?”

Her brother replied with a small smile. “Yes, it… it was supposed to be a surprise. I never imagined we’d meet you here.”

“And why are you two here?” Brandon crossed his arms. His good humor quickly left, as if he just took in their location and their clothes. He looked at Lyanna, then Y/N, and kept his attention on the latter. “Did you sneak out without a guard? Do you know how dangerous that can be? And why are you dressed like that?”

Y/N self-consciously pulled at her cloak as he questioned them, remembering the state she was in. Brandon’s words didn’t bother her, it was the realization that Ned hadn’t seen her in years, and this is what he saw as soon as he came back. Didn’t I have silly daydreams of him seeing me in the gown I made, or a new one? Why am I even thinking about that?

She was glad Lyanna and Brandon got into a little spat, to hide her embarrassment. She stepped behind Lyanna, half to shield herself, half to put some distance between her and Ned. She was steadily being overcome with an urge to hug him — wouldn’t that be natural? He was home now, but … it wasn’t that simple. So, she kept at Lyanna’s side, redirecting her attention on calming her friend.

“When I tell father about this, he’ll have words to say, especially since tonight he wants to hold a feast —”

“— If you tell him, I’ll tell about all that extra time you spend at the Rills!”

“It’s my job as heir to visit our bannermen and listen to their grievances!”

“Oh, yes, the pretty Ryswell daughters have much to say, I’m sure —”

Brandon went red and was ready to retort hotly, when Ned cleared his throat. He inclined his head to the men around them, all visibly impatient. Ned himself had some of that energy as he said, “Let’s go home.”

The way he said it, how could anyone continue to argue? Brandon stopped at once, knowing it had been years since his little brother had seen Winterfell properly. He patted him affectionately on the back, and Lyanna beamed. Y/N met eyes with Ned again, and they both turned away.

Brandon took his horse’s bridle. “Whose riding with whomst?”

“I’ll ride with Ned!” Lyanna blurted excitedly, and disappointment shot through Y/N so quickly, she felt a little sick. Don’t be stupid. That’s her brother, and she’ll just quarrel with Brandon, besides.

Brandon offered her a hand and easily swept her up on his horse. He asked if she was comfortable before swinging up himself, settling in like it was as easy as sitting in a chair. The problem is he put her in front, so his arms were loosely around her as he gathered his reins. Nervous as she was around these beasts, Y/N almost preferred riding behind him, although that was not always considered proper for a lady. Y/N had to hold onto him, especially with how far up she was. Brandon had a fine old destrier, once a great warhorse, still mighty and tall in her old age. She was perfect for taking him around the North, but Y/N thought she was entirely too big.

Lyanna happily settled in behind Ned instead of in front of him. Again, Y/N met his eyes. He had expressions that said so much, especially since he himself said little. She couldn’t read this one, though. Brandon called out, “Move on!” and the small escort went on the road. Y/N was thankful for the easy pace, and the steady gait of the destrier.

Her nervousness slowly settled as the four of them made conversation, with the Vale knight occasionally speaking up. Before long, the walls of Winterfell appeared before them, the proud white banners flying above. Ned looked up at the direwolf, and Y/N could swear some fatigue just melted right off him. The gates opened, and the guards keeping their station happily called to the boys, not noticing the state Lord Stark’s daughter and his ward were in. By the time their escort entered the yard, several servants, men-at-arms and children had come to see Ned come home.

Benjen pushed through all of them, eagerly running at his older brother. There was no shortage of hugs as Lyanna, Benjen and Ned reunited, while Brandon helped Y/N off the horse. Unlike his oldest brother, Benjen hadn’t developed an avoidance to his sister and her companion. He was only two years younger than them, and looked hurt as he said, “You all met him without me!”

“It was supposed to be a surprise,” Ned said again. “I crossed Brandon on the road by chance, and then these two—”

“Isn’t it a wonderful coincidence?” Lyanna grinned. She was still standing close to Ned, all but hanging off him. Y/N allowed Benjen to squeeze past her to get to Ned.

While the three chattered, Y/N asked Brandon, “You truly didn’t know? Where were you coming from?”

“Returning from the Karstarks. Father didn’t tell me a thing.”

Lyanna and Benjen began dragging Ned to the great hall, and now servants and guards started gathering, having realized who he was and all were eager to see him. Y/N smiled, pleased he was so missed… and only slightly glad he was moving further from her. She was anxious of what would happen if they were in a small group again, or worse, alone. She almost wanted to stay behind, but Brandon called to her, lingering back so she could catch up.

Being alone happened far sooner than Y/N anticipated.

The next morning, she stepped carefully through the snow, watching for roots just slightly sticking out. The sun was beginning to peak over the stone walls, helping her navigate the quiet yard. This route wasn’t yet familiar to her. She’d only made it recently, and often without Lyanna. Her friend wanted to mourn in quiet.

Y/N descended into the crypts. She shuddered instantly, feeling a far stronger cold take hold of her. Her footsteps echoed off the stone and she walked steadily toward her destination, passing statues of long dead Lord Starks and their sons.

Lady Lyarra did not have a sculpted sepulcher, but she had a beautiful tomb and marker for her bones. Y/N held her reticule close, bringing it to her nose so she could smell the crisp, dried oranges and give herself peace of mind. She hadn’t even visited her own family’s crypt.

She gasped as the shadows shuddered, nearly dropping the dried peels. The torches were scattered about, some not lit, making the shadows grow and recede with every second. She heard something just a few feet away.

Y/N bit down a curse as Ned came into view, the shadows circling around him. He blinked at her, his grey eyes almost looking black in the limited light.

“Y/N?”

“Y-You scared me,” She shuddered. “I didn’t — I didn’t think there would be anyone here.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I…” Y/N paused. She couldn’t seem to steady her heart, not with Ned looking directly at her. He was so much taller than before. She turned away. “I wanted to pay my respects. To give a gift.”

He didn’t respond right away. Y/N thought of the letters, of the reassurances, the kindnesses she sent him when he finally heard the news of his mother’s passing.

Why was it failing her now? She squeezed the fabric bag between her fingers.

“You brought something for her?” Ned asked quietly. “Could I see?”

Y/N nodded. She stepped closer, but not enough to feel any warmth from him. The cold of the crypt was cooling her nerves. “Orange peels. I dried them. They… they smell nice.”

She felt foolish, but he smiled. It was slight, but it was there.

“This way.” He said. He took a torch off the wall and led her deeper in. Y/N forgot how far it truly was. The Starks had been dying for centuries, and soon they would have to dig deeper into the cave to make space for the future generations. Lyarra was buried next to her parents, neither of who had a statue either.

There were fresh blue roses on the grave, and older, smaller blossoms that had begun to dry and decay. Y/N recalled Benjen brought those. She arranged the orange peels neatly, happy with the fragrance they gave off in addition to the roses. Ned must have brought those.

She quietly prayed, and Ned kept quiet beside her, perhaps joining her, perhaps not. When she finished, her hands fell to her side. Her cold, bare fingers brushed with Ned’s, and she felt the soft wool of his gloves. His finger hooked around one of her’s, and she curled it.

“Ned, I don’t presume to know your feelings, but I can only imagine how much you must hurt. If I could only help — if you were only right here, instead of far away —”

“When I home come, I want to see you, and do all the things we said we would do. I want to watch you paint, and dance, and maybe ride a horse — because I know Lyanna will make us — but most of all, I want to hear your voice.”

Y/N felt her throat was dry, but she stayed put, wondering if her heartbeat could be heard bouncing off the walls. She knew if she looked at him, even with a glance, she’d lose all composure and just run away.

She almost did that, when a loud noise made them both jump nearly two feet apart. Ned instantly took her hand back to push her behind him, then touched his sword. He grasped the hilt and lifted it just an inch out of the scabbard.

“Gods!” Y/N let out a hard breath. The skinny orange cat that knocked the unlit brazier over. It didn’t have coal in it, but it still made a terrible racket. The cat hissed and ran back into the shadows.

“I see he’s still here,” Ned mumbled. He set his sword back, and his shoulders were still tight. “Damned creature.”

“He gets lost down here so often. If he were kinder, I’d carry him out.”

“If it’s the same orange cat from when I was a boy, he’d rather freeze to death than be touched for even a moment.”

Silly smiles graced their faces, in spite of where they were, in spite of why they came in the first place. Ned nervously touched the hilt of his sword. “Shall we return?”

As they stepped out of the crypt, Y/N had to lift her skirts to climb the stairs easier. Ned offered his hand, and she took it for the last few steps. He didn’t immediately let go, and she didn’t comment on it. Instead she asked, “Did they make you learn those manners in the South?”

“There’s all sorts of manners and noble bearing they expect. It’s exhausting,” Ned admitted with a shy expression, and Y/N couldn’t help but imagine him trying some sort of silly, formal dance she’d heard about.

“Give me an example.”

He stared at their connected hands, his ears and cheeks slowly growing redder. Y/N didn’t pull away, even if her own body was threatening to explode with nerves and heat.

She expected him to kiss her hand, like she’d hear the other girls gossip about. She felt his warm lips against her fingers, through her thin gloves, and it made her jolt. Some of his brown hair brushed against her arm. I might well and truly die now.

Ned coughed and hastily turned away from her, utterly embarrassed at his own behavior. “Th-that’s what Lord Arryn… what Lord Arryn said to do when … when meeting a lady…”

“Are you kissing other ladies?” She couldn’t help it. She giggled, the warmth in her chest bubbling up to her lips. Her hand felt like it was on fire. “Should I be jealous, Ned?”

Ned covered his face with his hands, and she laughed. She covered her own face to settle her silly, foolish giddiness. “Of course not,” He grumbled. “You’re the only one I ever spoke to, besides.”

“Oh, you must have talked to some in the Eyrie.”

“Some.” Ned’s grey eyes glanced to her. She met his gaze, and they held it as he continued, “Though I kept wishing you were there.”

Y/N had to look away again. She couldn’t giggle, her throat was stuck, her chest hurt and she hated how tongue-tied she was. She never imagined it would be this hard — whatever this was —

“What in the seven hells are you both doing?”

Looking through her fingers, Y/N watched Brandon saunter up to them. The older Stark tilted his head to his brother.

Ned could only manage to suspiciously avoid looking at him. Brandon glanced between them, and Y/N felt like she had done something wrong. She quickly said, “We were visiting the crypt to pay our respects.”

Brandon’s face fell, and he said little else. Y/N understood it would be time for breakfast soon, and the morning sun had long broken over the tall stone walls. The three of them walked back to the keep together, Brandon pointedly putting himself between Y/N and Ned.

#ned stark x reader #game of thrones x reader #got x reader #salt & snow #libra fics

[to00ch]

Hello! I love what you write! HC for Dorm Leaders with a reader who is a gentle and calm lioness who hates fighting, but is a descendant of the Nemean Lion from Greek mythology? (I think it's a priority that you shouldn't mess with her lolololol patience has limits and she wouldn't be against scaring the idiots with threats and putting them in their places hahahaha)

I just blasted my way through this cause hey! why not? Just listened to a podcast on Nemean Lion before I wrote this, its a pretty sad story— hera is the such a bij all the time but honestly if it weren’t for zeus, none of that wouldve happened lol

Anyway, I hope your request is granted love

Tags: nemean lion descent f!s/o x dorm leaders, fluff headcanons [that’s all I do mostly so far :’^)]

Characters: Riddle Rosehearts, Leona Kingscholar, Azul Ashengrotto, Kalim Al-Asim, Vil Schoenheit, Idia Shroud & Malleus Draconia

Riddle Rosehearts

“You better not come across Grimm, Ace and Deuce whenever they’re on each other’s throats,” he advised

He really couldn’t imagine how s/o would be if she ever got angry,,,,cause she’s always so,,,calm

Whenever he’s mad, extremely mad to the point where his face is red; he’d always go to s/o to rant

But it just from hearing her ask “Hey, what’s wrong?” gently, he started to soften up and regulate his breathing slowly in order to control his anger before he’d start talking to her about his day

He knows that s/o is a descendant of the oh so famous Nemean Lion, and honestly if it weren’t for how majestic and pretty she looked from the inherited features she got from the beast, he wouldn’t believe it; he wouldn’t want to make her angry at all

Once he was reading on the beast and said “The legendary Nemean Lion, is....her ancestor?......That can’t be right,” he’d be so skeptical and convince that maybe its not a direct ancestor

There was a time someone tried to mess with s/o, and she told Riddle that ‘it would be nice if I sent them a threat that I would rip off their heads like my ancestor did to a whole village once,’ she said that with a smile that sent chills down his spine

Leona Kingscholar

Leona should know best to never, ever, mess with a descent of the Nemean Lion

In fact, whenever s/o is around, his ego is well, lowered a little? That Leona? Lowering his ego?

He treats her with respect, and made sure no one from Savanaclaw messed with her, not that she would mind it, since she’s so patient after all; but he knew that patience has its limits

He’d still call his s/o kitten at times, and he loves napping with her on his side cause it helps him sleep easier than usual and in peace cause of the vibe she exudes

When he first found out that she’s a descent, he lowered his head in respect and said “My Queen,”

He loves how soothing and gentle her touch is, he really can’t wrap it around his head how delicate her movements are

When s/o said him what if she tore the throats of those who bothered her casually with a laugh, he’d clear his throat and sweat

Azul Ashengrotto

Even non-land creatures knew to never mess with a descent of the great lion regardless of their patience level

Azul felt that people with the highest level of patience are the scariest

He loved how s/o is always speaking in such a decent manner, so calm and even the words she chose elaborated on how majestic and beautiful her whole existence is

He’d hate it if anyone ever bothered her, it didn’t matter if she cared or not cause he cares

Sometimes Azul would show his vulnerable side to s/o, and talk about his insecurities with her and she’d give him a warm hug and stroke his head gently

“There’s something about you, I can’t pin out what exactly, but you make me tell things I can’t say out loud,”

His reaction to s/o saying she might threaten the people who messed with her is that he’d clean his glasses and tell her that she ought to not do so for he will get things done and he will

Kalim Al-Asim

Both Kalim and s/o are no-anger people dear lord everyone wonders how they’re able to manage that

“You’re a descent of the legendary Nemean Lion? That’s so cool! I wouldn’t want to make you mad at all,” he beamed at s/o

People wouldn’t feel like bothering the both of them at all cause they are just so happy people just back off ~positive vibe check~

Kalim gives her headpats, lots of em! He spoils her a lot and treats her like a queen

“Why I’m treating you like this you ask? Cause you’re my queen! You deserve to be treated like one,” he’d grin and say when s/o asks him why he spoils her sm

Kalim is her ult babbey, she dislikes fighting but if anyone were to fight Kalim bro, they’re dead; not literally btw, her glare and growl is enough to chase em out

Vil Schoenheit

When s/o wakes up, she’d have really bad bed hair, like a lion’s mane

Vil would go in first thing and comb her hair, he loves doing so cause she had rlly rlly nice hair; its the gene she inherited from the beautiful Nemean Lion’s golden fur

Vil’s facial sessions become more therapeutic with her around, so he often makes her do facial with him

“It’d be a waste for a being as pretty as you, to not take care of your appearance,” he paused “well, you’re still not as beautiful as I am though,” he’d clear his throat and look away

He envies how she don’t get angry at all?? Like okay sis no wrinkles to worry about?

He absolutely loves her graceful demeanor in literally everything she does? Its so eye pleasing! He loves watching it almost as much as he loves looking at himself in the mirror

If s/o is about to send threats he’d say that its a waste of her beauty so he prevents her from doing so

Idia Shroud

“A descent of the N-n-nemean L-lion? Why do people of status keep on coming here,” he shivered when he found out at first cause yay! more intimidating people!

When s/o first introduced herself she was definitely not what he’d imagine, he felt less intimidated but still,,,had troubles cause,,,communication

He’d try to avoid her at first but she really do be wanting to be friends with him, so he reluctantly just warmed up to her

But he loves how she doesn’t get into his space! She’s so considerate and understanding. She’s so gentle too, so it makes him feel more comfortable? Maybe?

Idia has a hard time leaving his room, but with s/o’s gentle words and voice, he’d eventually give in somehow

Also he has a strong urge to play with her lion ears cause,,,,they’re so cute,,,,

He knows that she would probably be a very, very scary person if she’s mad, ‘probably as strong as those OP boss charas’ he’d say to her, which she chuckled and poked the tip of his nose, saying that he’s exaggerating

Malleus Draconia

“A descent of the Nemean Lion huh? But you’re oddly so cool headed, ah, not to be stereotypical, I just find it interesting,” he’d smile at s/o and nod his head

He appreciates how she never forgot to include him in things! Sometimes she’d also join for his strolls, he doesn’t mind it of course. It’s good company

S/o always mentioned how she’d prolly be offended if she kept on being forgotten like Malleus

“You? Offended? I doubt so,” he chuckled “I think you could handle the situation better than I could, you are well, a person full of patience,”

Malleus acknowledges s/o’s lineage and knows very well that she is strong, even if he is one of the top mages

Also gives s/o headpats, which, she loves very much

One time s/o scared away some people cause they were messing around with her too much, and Malleus found it adorable, ‘even she can get mad huh’ he’d think to himself with a smile

#twisted wonderland #twst headcanons #twst x reader #twst scenarios #riddle rosehearts #heartslabyul #leona kingscholar #savanaclaw #azul ashengrotto #octavinelle #kalim al asim #scarabia #vil schoenheit #pomefiore #idia shroud #ignihyde #malleus draconia #diasomnia #azul ashengrotto x reader #kalim al asim x reader #malleus x reader #riddle rosehearts x reader #idia x reader #vil schoenheit x reader #leona kingscholar x reader

[dannypuro]

Hi! In the last chapter and the 'Combeferre finds out that the idiots got their act together' bit you wrote recently, you mention that Combeferre picks Enjy up when hugging. First of all, that it adorable and I love it. Secondly, what was Enjy's reaction the first time that he did that? Also 'ferre repeatedly bullying bakers to make strawberry cakes for Enjy is perfect. Overall, something telling is awesome! Thank you so much for writing it!

(Hello! This is Something Telling verse (aka time-zapped, 1830s Enjolras, modern-era), and takes place somewhere between chapters 6 and 7. this ask has been sitting in my inbox for months, but i..... forgot that i had the draft sitting in my documents 😬. oops. anyways, thank you for sending it!!!!! here is the first Big Hug and best friends time. also.... exr pining, because it’s something telling and that’s the way it goes. but my asks are always open!!!! i accept all forms of questions and prompts!!!!!!)

“Combeferre’s coming back home tomorrow.”

Enjolras looks up from his book. He would not truly say that he had been reading it, per se, not since Grantaire returned from a morning of boxing with Bahorel in naught but a- a tank top, Enjolras believes he had called it, but the name of it is, in his opinion, much less significant than the way in which it clings to his back with lingering sweat, the way in which he can see the edge of his collarbone, the curve of his shoulders, the way-

Well. He had certainly been looking at his book. For the most part.

He clears his throat. “Pardon?” He manages.

Grantaire, thank the Lord, does not seem to notice his momentary… distraction. He sets his phone down. “Combeferre’s gonna be back from Morocco tomorrow. Joly says his flight comes in at four.”

Enjolras does what he can to parse that--even still, after weeks in this time, he cannot shake the semblance of strangeness, of unfamiliarity, that coats the words of everyone he meets. Even Grantaire, especially Grantaire, sounds, at times, as though he is speaking an unfamiliar tongue. (He wishes--God above, he wishes--to know it as he knows his own. To know Grantaire’s words, to know Grantaire, without the boundary of concentration required, without having to ask questions that must sound hopelessly stupid to everyone else in the world. To Grantaire. But-) “His… flight?” 

Granaire grimaces. Enjolras nearly wishes that he had not asked at all, aside from the fact that he does not understand. “Um. Okay. So.” He looks about himself, swears. Enjolras fights the urge to shrink in on himself, to tell Grantaire that it does not matter, to bury his nose back in his book. Only, then Grantaire sits down beside him upon the sofa, so. Perhaps he will not withdraw his question. “Um. Wait. Okay.” He draws in a breath. “Fuck.”

He flushes hot. “You need not explain if it is troublesome,” he mutters. 

Grantaire swears again. Enjolras fidgets with a loose thread on the hem of his shirt. “Um. So like. You know a boat?”

“A boat.” Surely, Grantaire is not asking if-

He nods, eyes wide and genuine and- and fucking caring. His shoulders are rather close to Enjolras’s own. He is still wearing no sleeves. 

He forces himself to breathe in, then out. “Yes,” he says, “I know of boats.” He does what he can to keep the ice from his tone--he cannot say for sure whether or not he succeeds.

Grantaire winces. “Oh. Yeah. Fuck. Obviously, sorry, I- Anyways, it’s like a boat that’s in the sky?”

Enjolras clears his throat. “You have lost me,” he admits. He does not feel guilty for doing so, for he is fairly certain that the fault does not fall upon him, in this rare instance. 

He scrubs a hand over his face. “Okay. Um. Picture, like, a giant metal tube?” That means nothing. Enjolras nods, anyways. “RIght, and then imagine that, like, a bunch of people go into it and then it flies to somewhere else in the world really, really fast. And then you get out of the tube.”

And-

Ah. Of course. Grantaire is making some sort of joke, some mockery at Enjolras’s expense. He scowls. “I do not appreciate it when you make light of the fact that I do not understand your time, Grantaire. You know this.”

Grantaire sputters. He looks- not guilty, not truly, but regretful enough that Enjolras cannot help but to regret a bit of the harshness in his words. 

He sighs. “It is not- It is fine. Only- I haven’t really any other way to learn these things, but to ask you, and so I do not-” He shakes his head. “It is fine.”

“No!” It is sudden, just a mite louder than Enjolras had been expecting--he startles, despite his efforts. Grantaire curses, then curses again, but softer, and then says, “Enj, no, I wouldn’t, I’m not, just-” he fumbles for his phone, prods at it for a few moments, then holds it out to Enjolras. “I wouldn’t,” he says, again.

Enjolras squints down at the phone. The glass is illuminated, showing- Well, it does seem to be a large tube, as Grantaire had said, but he still does not-

The vessel in the video lifts off of the ground. He turns to Grantaire with a start. “There- There are people within?”

He nods. “It’s a plane. An airplane. Lots of people take them.”

Enjolras feels rather as though he is going to be ill. He cannot tear his eyes from the phone. “And Combeferre shall be… inside of one? As it flies?” His hands have taken to shaking; try as he might, he cannot seem to still them. He hands the phone back to Grantaire, instead, presses his palms to the cushions of the sofa. 

Grantaire nods again, and keeps talking, but Enjolras cannot- he cannot quite manage to pay mind to what he says, for-

Oh, but he does not fancy that idea at all, of a man being- being propelled through the air, as such. Particularly if the man in question is Combeferre, for Enjolras has only just met him, has only just managed to befriend him, and Combeferre is terribly kind and frightfully intelligent and funny in a way that makes Courfeyrac groan but that Enjolras quite likes, actually, and-

“Enjolras?”

“I-” his voice cracks; he tries again. “I feel I must voice my concern.”

Grantaire pauses, frowns. Enjolras feels somewhat as though he has said something foolish--but then, he often feels such, and this is too important for him to rescind, even if Grantaire does think him a fool, and- “Because of the plane?”

He nods. “I only think that-” he swallows, starts again. “It only seems as though it would be rather- rather hazardous, would it not be simpler for him to travel by ship? Surely- Surely there is much less risk of-” he breaks off, manages a jerky shrug.

There is a pause.

“Oh,” Grantaire says, soft.

He shrugs again, though he is fairly certain that it is not particularly convincing.

Grantaire is looking at him… oddly. Something squirms beneath his skin. “I mean- Enjolras, hey, he’ll be okay,” he says, but-

“You cannot know that,” Enjolras snaps, and he regrets it, as soon as he has, but he cannot seem to make himself stop, just yet, either. “I was not aware that you were an expert in- in aired plains.”

Annoyingly, relievingly, predictably, Grantaire does not even flinch, he just looks a little sadder. Damn it all. (He also presses a little closer, his arm bared against Enjolras’s own, damn it, damn it.) “People fly all the time,” he reasons.

“Foolish people,” he spits out. “Fools and- and geese, only, would elect to do such a thing.” He is being ridiculous, he knows it, but oh, he does not like this one bit, not at all. “Men are not pigeons.”

“Men aren’t fish, either,” Grantaire jostles him, gently. Enjolras fights the urge to lean into it. “We still have boats, though, dude. Continual progress, and all that?”

“And yet, if a boat sinks, its passengers do not find themselves plummeting to the earth, dude.”

Grantaire snorts a laugh.

“I do not find it humorous, Grantaire!” 

“Sorry.” Grantaire draws in a breath, scrubs a hand over his face. “Sorry, yeah, I know. I’m sorry.”

He huffs.

Grantaire hesitates, and then settles an arm about his shoulders. As though Enjolras would ever deny him that--as though he could ever quell that selfish, poorly-hidden bit inside of him that relishes in the warmth, the closeness, the impropriety of the act. “Want me to call him?” he offers, and again, Enjolras is selfish, and he nearly-

Nearly agrees, nearly jumps on the offer like he knows he shouldn’t, for he- he misses Combeferre, and he does not like the idea of him hurtling about through the sky, and yet-

“No,” he says, “You needn’t.” He swallows. “You needn’t bother Combeferre, when he is surely quite busy with his family. I would not wish to impose.” This is the polite thing to do, he reassures himself, Combeferre will be fine, and simply because he is one of Enjolras’s dearest friends does not mean that he does, or ought, hold similar ground in Combeferre’s heart, and it is fine.

It is fine.

Grantaire looks… sad, almost; it makes something ache deep beneath Enjolras’s ribs. “Enjolras-” he begins-

“It is fine.”

“Enj-”

Enjolras opens his book rather pointedly. Grantaire stops talking, but he doesn’t- he doesn’t actually remove his arm from Enjolras’s shoulders. 

And.

Well.

Enjolras certainly shan’t be the one to remind him that it isn’t quite proper.

.

Enjolras is poor company the following morning, he is aware of this. 

Being aware of it does not, however, quite mean that he is able to bring himself to do anything to correct his comportement. Rather, he leans his cheek upon his hand and picks at a whorl in the tabletop and does what he can not to flinch at the sound of a truck being unloaded outside the window, at the spray of grapeshot which fits so seamlessly into each echo that he cannot quite manage to convince himself that it is not real. (It was real, is real, in a way, but he cannot- he cannot think on that, not now, not when he already has so much to think on.)

Grantaire-

Grantaire is speaking to him, he realizes, from the kitchen, but he does not notice it until it is too late, until he can catch no more than “-up to you, really,” and then, because Enjolras has taken too long to speak, taken too long to parse what he would even be talking about, “Enjolras?” He pokes his head out of the doorway. (He is sleep-rumpled, soft, concerned.)

Damn it, damn it.

He clears his throat. “I apologize,” he manages. “I’m afraid that I was not quite listening.”

At times, he wishes- he wishes that Grantaire would just grow tired of him, of his horrid behavior, instead of being so endlessly kind; that, at least, Enjolras would know what to do with. (At times, Enjolras is so afraid that it will happen that he thinks he would give anything not to ever think of it again.) As it is, Grantaire frowns. “I just- I just wanted to know what you want for breakfast, I don’t- Enj, are you okay?”

Oh. He must look rather poorly. He had not, after all, gotten much sleep at all the night before; he supposes that he had been hoping that it would not show on his face. (It is a vain thought, as well, which is vaguely infuriating. Before he met Grantaire, he so rarely thought about things so inconsequential as exhaustion.) “You may cook what you choose. It matters not.”

Grantaire crosses his arms. His shirt is very thin. 

Enjolras presses his wrists to the table to stop his hands from shaking as he glares back. It nearly works.

Grantaire, infuriatingly, says nothing.

He grits his teeth, then sighs. “I slept poorly. This is all.”

Grantaire pauses, at that. Enjolras takes a moment to wonder as to whether he has had any coffee, this morning--likely not. He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it. “This is about Combeferre,” he says, at last, once he has collected himself.

Damn it.

Enjolras should have elected to become enamored by somebody who is less perceptive. 

Not that-

Not that he is enamored, of course. 

He forces a quiet laugh, hopes that it is convincing enough to draw the furrow from Grantaire’s brow. It is not. “I- I am being foolish,” he admits, eventually. “As you said, Combeferre will be fine.” It does not sound particularly convincing, even from his own mouth. Especially from his own mouth. Part of him wishes that Grantaire would say it again, instead.

His hands are still shaking. Perhaps, he finds himself thinking, they will carry on this way forever; it is difficult to imagine that he could ever fire a rifle straight, anymore.

No matter.

Grantaire makes an odd noise at the back of his throat. 

“It is fine,” Enjolras reminds him, for if he does not stop looking so very wretched Enjolras may- not cry, likely, but- but it stings, in any case. “I simply. Well. Combeferre is a good man, and I- Well. Ah. You see, he- He has told me that I am his friend, and I haven’t terribly many friends, aside from you, and I know that you trust these- these aired plains, but I cannot seem to bring myself to do so, and so I- I am simply rather anxious. It is nothing serious.” (Enjolras thinks of a young man, a boy, far younger than Combeferre, at his feet with his jaw shot off and his hand wrapped like a vise around his ankle, of blood soaking into the seams of his boots, of the spray of grapeshot against brick and against bone, and-) 

Grantaire looks, if anything, more distressed than before. Heavens, but Enjolras is poor at this. “I should call Combeferre,” he says, resolutely. He fumbles for his phone. “Yeah, I should-”

“I would not have you do so.” It comes out just on the side of too sharp, but Grantaire does not startle, he simply winces, as though pained. “There is no need to disturb him by imposing, as such. So kindly do not.”

He returns his phone to his pocket. “Okay. Um.” He does not return to the kitchen; rather, he continues to linger, uncertain in a way in which Enjolras is not accustomed to seeing him. “Do you want anything for breakfast? Like, anything specific?”

And, well, in the spirit of absolute frankness, Enjolras does not--he is not particularly hungry at all, but-

But he is beginning to get to know Grantaire a little better, now, and he is beginning to guess that cookery means a bit more to him than it does to most others, and perhaps, perhaps, this is something that he needs to be able to do for Enjolras, right now.

Enjolras may be selfish, may be too cruel in ways that he cannot avoid, but he can give Grantaire this. He thinks on it, but he does not truly- 

Ah.

Well, perhaps- Perhaps he is not completely without cravings. “Have we any more of the lamb sausage which you purchased at the market the other day?” he hazards.

Grantaire beams. (Enjolras’s heart flutters like a small, helpless bird.) “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, man, totally.”

He returns to the kitchen to make Enjolras breakfast. Enjolras tries very, very hard not to think of the way in which the soft, strong set to Combeferre’s jaw so resembles that of the boy whose hand he still feels around his ankle, before it got shot off. It nearly works.

.

It is not until mid-afternoon that he- that he truly cannot stand it, cannot calm his heart where it hammers out a stuttering rhythm in his chest; cannot still his hands from shaking, even for a moment; cannot bring himself to read, to write, to sit calmly; cannot manage to drive his mind from thoughts of fire and of life lost and of the sharp spray of grapeshot and of horrible, ridiculous contraptions plummeting to the earth, and-

“I would have you call Combeferre now, I believe,” he blurts out, when Grantaire has looked up from his phone to note him standing in the doorway of the parlor. “I- I believe that I- I cannot quite- I-” He forces himself to draw in a breath, but it catches in his lungs, freezes there- “I- that is, I-” He looks to Grantaire helplessly. 

He had not been expecting for Grantaire’s face to drop, so. Or for him to curse, and scrub a hand over his face, and say, “Oh, Enj, I don’t-”

Enjolras does not understand what he has done wrong, but it- it is clearly something, but he does not-

Grantaire curses again. “Fuck, I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking, I should’ve- I should’ve told you earlier, but I can’t- Fuck. You can’t call somebody when they’re on an airplane, the call won’t go through. Everybody has to turn their phones off when they’re in the air, and Combeferre’s flight would have taken off an hour ago.”

He does not understand.

“So I… cannot call him,” he begins, for it is easier to start with something that he knows and work backwards, “That- Why?” It makes no sense. What is the use of such- such foolish devices, if one cannot even contact one’s friends when it is necessary?

Grantaire grimaces. “It’s something to do with the networks, I think? Like, the signal from the phone tower messes with the instruments and the navigation and shit. Or, like, maybe it’s too high up to get a signal, or something, but I don’t really know about…” He fades off.

Enjolras feels, oddly, as though he may cry. 

“Enjolras,” Grantaire says, so softly that he does not know what to do with himself, and then Grantaire is on his feet in an instant, and Enjolras finds himself being pulled into an embrace that is warm and gut-wrenchingly close and better than anything he has ever deserved.

He draws in a deep, shuddering breath and lets Grantaire tug him in closer still, presses his nose to the curve of Grantaire’s neck and cannot even manage to think of the impropriety, not when Grantaire’s arms are so warm around his back, his shoulders.

He would apologize, but Grantaire always seems a little bit sadder, whenever he does so, so he figures that it would be rather counterintuitive, all things considered. 

“He’s gonna be alright, you know,” Grantaire murmurs against his hair. “I know you don’t- I know I can’t really do anything to make you believe that, right now, but I promise he is. Planes are safer than cars.”

What a horrifying thought. Enjolras is quite glad that Grantaire cannot drive a car. He does not mention this; instead, he allows himself to wrap his arms around Grantaire in return, to clutch at the back of his shirt and be held closer still. “Okay,” he manages.

Grantaire hums; Enjolras can feel it, deep in his chest. “Wanna watch a documentary?”

“Okay,” says Enjolras, though he does not think that he can bear to do anything, aside from to stay here, like this, with Grantaire’s arm’s around him.

“Cool,” says Grantaire, but he does not move to let him go for a long, long time.

.

They watch a documentary. 

Or. Well. Grantaire watches a documentary. Enjolras sits beside him and leans his head on his shoulder and does what he can to focus on the weight of his arm around his shoulders instead of the weight in his chest. It does very little to calm the way in which his heart races, but it serves, at the very least, as a distraction, as something by which he can mark the hours that slog by.

He would feel guilty for imposing, as such, were it not for the fact that Grantaire holds him so closely that it does not seem possible that it is for Enjolras’s benefit alone.

It helps, he thinks.

There is a crash outside, all metal and glass; there is the jolt of a carbine under his hand and the spray of gunshot against brick, against bone, and he is staring down the barrel of his rifle at a young man with soft features who is staring back at him down the barrel of a cannon, and he can feel the ticking of a pocket watch deep in his palm, and-

There is another sound, sharp and odd, and it takes Enjolras just an instant too long to realize that it has come from Grantaire’s phone. He startles; Grantaire, mystifyingly, takes the moment to run his fingers through Enjolras’s hair, as though gentling a particularly skittish horse, or perhaps a feral barn-cat. He would be rather insulted, he figures, were it not for the fact that it seems to still something frantic beneath his ribs.

“Combeferre’s flight just landed.” It is soft, blurred at the edges, as though Grantaire had been drifting off to sleep over the course of the moving. Perhaps he had--perhaps that would account for the way in which he had settled so comfortably against Enjolras. (Enjolras is not accustomed to people being comfortable around him; he finds he- he likes it. Particularly when it is Grantaire.)

He clears his throat. “Ah,” he says.

Grantaire hums.

“And- And all is well?” he hazards, and he- he does not even know how he would begin to ask more, what he would even say in a demand for more information, but he- 

He-

“Huh?” Grantaire scrubs a hand over his face. (Enjolras becomes more convinced of the fact that he had been half-asleep, only moments before. His heart stutters, uneven, in his chest.) “Oh, yeah, dude, totally normal flight. Everything went fine.”

“Good.” He tries, then, to exhale, to relax, but cannot quite manage it. Damn this new  constitution of his, damn that it never lets him fucking rest, damn that it does not ever leave him be. (Damn that he- that he seems to have lost, somewhere along the way, any shred of the dignity which he used to be able to hold so easily, damn it, damn it. He shall have to work on it, somehow. He shall have to, if he is to keep living alongside Grantaire, and if his heart is to continue to beat such a frantic pace in his chest at his touch.)

Grantaire opens his mouth to speak; Enjolras knows what he will say, what he will offer, before he says anything at all, and- and yes, he wants it, all of it, for he is selfish, and he wishes for Grantaire to call Combeferre, and for Grantaire to embrace him again, and for Combeferre to go out of his way to visit he and Grantaire’s apartment instead of returning to his own, and absolutely none of it is his to ask. “Do you want-” begins Grantaire, and Enjolras pulls himself to his feet despite his every impulse resisting to do so.

“I believe that I shall go read for a time in my own chambers,” he blurts out, before Grantaire can protest, and then he goes to do so. 

He wants for Grantaire to follow him, too, to persuade him back to the sitting room, to call Combeferre anyways, but does not, of course he does not. 

Damn it.

.

And then-

Enjolras makes it three more hours of his heart hammering away in his chest, of gritting his teeth against the feel of a hand on his ankle, of hearing flashes of grapeshot in the rumble of the vehicles below his window. It is a very admirable length of time, in his opinion; his hands have been shaking so hard throughout it that his forearms have taken to aching. 

He ought to wait. He ought simply call on Combeferre tomorrow. There is no need for him to visit unannounced, particularly when he has been traveling, and when Grantaire has assured him that Combeferre has arrived safely, and when there is no reason for concern but for the fact that he seems to have thoroughly lost all sense of rationality, somewhere between the window and the cobblestone, back in June, and-

He sets his book down on the side-table and reaches for his jacket--he was not truly reading it; it is not truly cold. But he- he is frightened, and he is not used to this fucking century, with its- its aired plains, and its bared arms, and he understands none of it at all and he--he tugs on his shoes, does not bother to undo and retie the laces--he is tired, and he would like to see his friend, and-

“Hey, were you reading with the lights off, again?” Grantaire asks, hopelessly concerned, when Enjolras leaves his chambers--and it is jarring, sudden, and he is frozen in place in the hall, for a moment, as he runs the words over in his mind- “Wait, where are you-”

There is a knock at the door.

That-

That is odd.

On the sofa, Grantaire frowns. “Were you expecting-”

Enjolras shakes his head.

“Weird,” says Grantaire.

It is weird. Enjolras goes to answer the door, unlocks it, and-

“Hi,” says Combeferre, who is beaming and who is there, in the doorway, and who is fine, and safe, and-

“Hello,” says Enjolras, and he finds himself unable to keep the sheer relief from his voice, nor a watery smile from rising to his cheeks, and then he is being pulled into an embrace that is so tight his ribs ache.

“I missed you,” Combeferre says, presses against his temple, and then he finds himself being lifted off of the ground, feet dangling, as Combeferre holds him tight. He-

He has never been held, as such, before.

Enjolras’s heart stutters; he swallows down something thick in his throat. “I-” He swallows again. 

Combeferre, then, seems to realize that he has been holding Enjolras some distance from the ground. He sets him down somewhat sheepishly. “Sorry,” he says, “I wasn’t-”

“I have missed you as well,” he blurts out, somewhat too loud, somewhat too brusque. He fidgets with the hem of his jacket, fingers twitching. “Very much so, I-” He looks to Combeferre, wills him to- to understand, to-

Combeferre pulls him into another embrace, and Enjolras presses his face to his shoulder and holds him in return. 

“How fares your family?” He asks, after a long moment.

Combeferre musses his hair as he lets him go. “Good. Numerous. I’ll show you a picture of my sister’s kid, she just started walking, and it’s- Actually, have you eaten? My mom made me take some pastilla back with me on the plane and I didn’t know what to do with it, so I brought it over here with me.”

He… He has not eaten, he realizes, and he shakes his head. Grantaire must not have wished to disturb him. Which- “Did Grantaire request you visit?”

Combeferre herds him into the kitchen. “No? Should he have?” He pulls a container made of square glass from his satchel; Enjolras fetches three plates, though he does not know if Grantaire has eaten. (He has not, most likely--he has come to realize that Grantaire tends to wait, now, tends not to cook unless it is for the both of them. He does not know what to think of that.)

He shrugs. “I was… concerned,” he admits. “Because of the aired plain. I thought that perhaps Grantaire informed you.”

He frowns. “No, I-” His eyes dip to look Enjolras over, then- “You were totally on your way out the door when I arrived, weren’t you?” It is not a question. 

“It is not of your affairs,” he tries, “Perhaps I was simply on my way to the convenience store. You do not know.”

“You were.” Combeferre is no longer frowning. Instead, a grin has risen to his face; Enjolras has only this as warning before he grabs for him, pulls him into a rough embrace before Enjolras can evade his grasp. “You were, you missed me. Admit it.”

Enjolras feigns struggle, hides his own smile against Combeferre’s arm. “Leave me. Release me at once.” 

“Admit it, admit you missed me.” Combeferre holds him tighter, musses his hair further. “Admit it and I’ll let you go.”

“Absolutely not,” Enjolras says. He struggles a bit more, though mostly only so that he is in a more comfortable position for Combeferre to continue to hold him close. 

“You’ve done this to yourself,” says Combeferre. Enjolras simply rests his forehead against his shoulder and shuts his eyes. Only for a moment. They shall eat Combeferre’s mother’s pastilla in a moment. He can hear Grantaire watching television in the other room; Combeferre’s arms around him are warm and comforting. Just-

A moment.

#something telling #exr #les miserables #enjoltaire #enjolras #grantaire #combeferre #les mis #exr fanfiction #enjoltaire fanfiction #writing #les miserables fanfiction #Anonymous

[fandom-puff]

Exhaustion

Pairing: Jon Snow x reader

Requested by: anon

Summary: you’ve been up for well over a day, helping Queen Sansa with returning winterfell to its former glory. Jon, back from the Wall now that Greyworm has ventured to Naath grows increasingly concerned for your health as you wear yourself to the bone

AN: so yeah this is totally a season 8 fix it bc we all got incredibly screwed over :) can you tell I’m not too fond of Danaerys after about... season 1? Anyways I love writing for game of thrones lol! Gif creds, as always, to the owner <3 ALSO: YNN= your nickname

Warnings: sleep exhaustion, season 8 spoilers

“There is damage to the wall, my queen, the entrance to the castle as well. The stables were burnt by dragon fire, the armoury... well, most of it is gone. The statues of the direwolves are also destroyed, more so than when the Bolton’s were here,”

Sansa nodded slowly, her hands grasping the ornate wood carvings of the arms of her throne. She looked sideways to you, her closest friend and most loyal advisor, a lady from a lesser house in the north. You turned to the fellow Northman in front of you and surveyed him for a moment.

“For now, we have little need of an armoury. For any horses who survived the dragon fire, we will source wood to build a temporary stable so they may sleep out of the cold,” you said.

“Lord Bronson, please see that the horses are kept sheltered and that any builders hired are paid adequately for their time,” the queen addressed her newly appointed master of coin. “As for the damage to the wall of the castle, we need stone and men to rebuild it. Scope around for volunteers in the keep, they too will be paid for their extra work,” the man nodded and bowed to his queen. “As for the statues... have the Smithy melt down any damaged weapons and use the steel to remodel the Direwolves,” the master of coin scribbled down the funds and nodded.

“That is all, my queen,” the man said.

“And what of the Northmen? Those nearer the wall will have been hit hard by winter and the night king. The harvests were poor, the livestock is weak. We have an excess in our own kitchens. I want hearty food and good ingredients delivered to the villagers to ensure they survive until a more permanent solution is found,”

“Your highness, perhaps we should send a raven to your brother in the south? Out of loyalty to you and his ally, the North, arrangements can be made between the Crownlands and their ports and the fertile grounds of the Reach? Just because the North is now independent does not mean we ought to sever trade links entirely,” you said slowly, your hands clasped in your lap.

Sansa was quiet for a moment. You could see the internal struggle between wanting to do everything herself without help from the south, and wanting to keep the people fed and strong. She turned to you slowly. “Have a message sent to Bran,” she said firmly, nodding slowly to show she trusted you. “Surely there are resources we can trade with Kings Landing. Have another sent to Highgarden, I believe the Reach was relatively unscathed by the Mad Queen,” you bit back a smirk at that nickname. “They have always been fond of our embroidery,” you nodded. “Thank you for your report,” Sansa turned again to the man in front of her. “We will set to work as soon as possible. You are dismissed. Go and see to your wife, my Lord, I believe she is reaching the end of her pregnancy,” she smiled kindly, and with a low bow, the man left the hall.

With no one in the room but herself, you and the master of coin, Sansa sagged into her throne.

“You’re doing wonderfully, your highness,” you said gently, smiling softly at her. “Winterfell is almost restored and I have never seen a ruler show such compassion and sensibility to her subjects. The King of the South will help us- he probably knows already. And if need be, I will tell my brother that I’m staying at winterfell a while longer, should you need me. I trust him not to run my House’s keep to the ground while I’m gone,”

Sansa smiled at you with appreciation, and she soon gave you leave while she went to visit her Maester. As you were reaching the door, she called out. “YN! I’ve had word from Castle Black. Jon is returning to Winterfell. He should be here tonight,” you tried to hide your excited smile, and couldve sworn you saw a sly smirk tugging at Sansa’s lips as you bowed slightly and hurried off to your chamber.

Jon was coming back! You had been furious when the unsullied had him banished to the wall for killing the Mad Dragon Queen. From the moment you saw Danaerys, you did not trust her in the slightest, having heard the stories from across the Narrow Sea. In your eyes she was a glorified tyrant, as mad as her father and as deceptive as Queen Cersei. You knew she was almost nothing without her dragons, which caused more harm than good. Breaker of chains, she had called herself, when in reality she forged chains of her own- bend the knee or die was not a free choice, it was a threat, and had Danaerys Targaryen taken the throne as she was adamant she deserved it, you would’ve been slaughtered for your loyalty to the North, to the Old Gods, to your family, your friends, and not to a glamorous tyrant who would surely burn Westeros to the ground just as her father had planned.

Once returned to the north, you and Sansa had spoken of Jon a few times, and Sansa always got a mischievous glint in her eyes when you did. She must have planned his return, as he had no real need to stay beyond the wall after the Unsullied left for Naath. Smiling to yourself, you set to preparing yourself for dinner, asking a few passing maids to help you draw a bath. Unlike most nobles, you helped the maids, rather than watch them, and spoke kindly as you heated the water for your bath. Once there was enough water, you thanked them and allowed them to leave as you bathed, washing your hair and scrubbing your skin. Once towelled dry, you rubbed sweet smelling oils into your skin, before slipping into your smallclothes and a simple, yet beautiful, dark green gown, discretely embroidered with your house’s sigil at the trim of the neckline and up from the wrists of your long sleeves. Lacing the dress up at the side, you sat in front of your mirror and set about sorting out your hair, towelling it dry and braiding it around your head. Finally, you fastened a simple silver chain around your neck, your sigil hanging over your heart.

Smiling to yourself, you stood, leaving your chamber and walking to the Great Hall where dinner was normally held. When you slipped through the door, however, the room was empty, only a few candles lit. Frowning, you turned, hearing the sound of two sets of footsteps as Sansa and Jon rounded the corner. Sansa trailed off from what she had been saying and smirked slightly as she pushed Jon towards you.

“Er... Lady YLN,” he spoke in his thick, northern burr. You repressed a shiver and have him a bright smile.

“Jon! Just YN, remember?” You said, slowly walking towards him. Gladly, he accepted your embrace, and you buried your face into the thick furs at his shoulder, not caring about the flecks of snow. You pulled away and beamed at eachother, before Sansa cleared her throat.

“I thought we’d take dinner in my chambers,” she said. “The three of us reunited,” you both nodded and followed your queen. “Jon, I’ve had a room prepared for you, there should be a fire to warm you and new clothes there too,”

“But, your majesty, I... I took the black. I’m in exile,” he said lowly, frowning.

Sansa merely smiled and carried on walking. “No. You were in exile, therefore unable to take an oath of any sort. That, however, was when the unsullied insisted on ‘justice’. The unsullied are settled in Naath, and furthermore, you are a Northman. The north is an independent kingdom. Therefore, you are released from your exile,”

You shook your head fondly at your friend as you entered her chambers, were a maid was laying out the table. She turned when she heard the door and sunk into a low curtsey. “Thank you Amya,” Sansa said. “This looks wonderful,”

“Yes m’lady,” the young girl said, smiling proudly as she was dismissed.

Once fed and watered, the three of you retired to Sansa’s personal chamber, drinking wine and sharing anecdotes. Already smiling serenely from the wine at dinner, having more was making you feel a little floaty. You stifled a yawn as you fiddled with your necklace as you listened to Jon. “YN... you look exhausted,” he said softly, tipping your chin up to face him properly. The flickering light of the hearth highlighted the growing bags under your eyes and how glazed over your eyes were.

“‘M alright,” you mumbled, resting your head on his shoulder. “Can stay up a bit longer. Finish your story,” you insisted, but your eyes were already fluttering shut.

Sansa pursed her lips. “YN... after last night’s small council meeting, did you even go to sleep?” She asked gently. “And today... we’ve had about 15 lords and 12 smallfolk coming in for audiences, all of which you attended...”

You smiled slightly. “Was in the library last night, Sansa...” you mumbled. “Needed to look up the logistics and the finances,”

“Oh, YNN, we have a Maester and master of coin to do that,” she said gently, reaching over to place her hand over yours. “What about when the maester called for a break?”

“I went to start on the letters to my brother and the King in the South,” you mumbled. “And Highgarden...” you let Sansa hold your hand and give it a firm squeeze, still nuzzling you’re face into Jon’s furs as the last two days finally caught up with you. “Nodded off at my desk, though, so I’ll have to start the letter to King Bran again,”

Sansa frowned. “YNN, you’re working too hard. I appreciate it immensely, but I cannot expect you to help me if you aren’t taking care of yourself. Tonight you will rest, and when morning comes you may rest some more. You are allowed to care for yourself, alright? You must. Because without you by my side, I question everything I do. I need you by my side. The north needs you in excellent condition. And so does Jon,” you nodded slowly in understanding, but her soothing words and gentle tone were lulling you to sleep. “I want to make you my hand, YN. But first, you need to sleep,” you nodded again and let out a mumbled ‘yes, my queen’ as you finally turned your head fully into Jon’s furs and let exhaustion take you.

What felt like an eternity later, you were jostled awake. You let out a small noise of complaint and nuzzled you’re face further into the soft thick furs in front of you, your fingertips brushing a lock of curled hair...

“Jon?” You whispered, barely audible.

“Shhh, I’m here. Gotta get you to bed, YN. no arguing, now. Queen’s orders,” you nodded, and mumbled ‘alright’ as he carried you to your chamber. He found your bed already turned down, and gently lowered you into it, letting you wriggle out of your dress. He averted his eyes as you tugged the covers over yourself, despite it being dark. You settled into the pillows, already drifting deeper into your slumber, when you heard the door creak open.

“Jon?” You murmured, reaching an arm out for him.

“Yeah?”

“Stay?”

Your eyes were shut and you were practically asleep, but you heard the door shut and lock and the sound of heavy leathers and cloaks hit the ground. Best of all, you soon felt the safe warmth of Jon pressed against your side.

Tag List: @diksy1112 @zodiyack @soleil-dor @sleepylunarwolf

#jon snow x you #jon snow imagine #jon snow x reader #jon snow #game of thrones reader insert #got #game of thrones imagine #game of thrones #request #fluff #game of thrones season 8 fix-it #anti daenerys #pro sansa stark

[fio-renze]

October 10 Day 22: Court/Taboo

“Well, I heard that it was Lord Sovei’ver that snuck the mana wyrms into Lady Cindervale’s gardens to eat her prized blue arcane roses. Dreadful business, really, though it doesn’t explain the Amani beetles that decimated Lord Azureveil’s ornamental hedges,” Lady Aurilene Ila’rovel intoned conspiratorially before having a sip of her tea.

One of those names was unfamiliar; a true rarity in this Court. “Lord Sovei’ver?” Fiorenze sipped her own tea and kept her expression carefully neutral.

“Oh, right, you were away in the Shadowlands on Magistry business — congratulations again on your promotion! — he’s nouveau riche to use a Nightborne term. Granted titles for paying into the Kingdom coffers and then changed his name to be even more pretentious. It was Senna Sunsworn, now it’s Lord Senna Sovei’ver,” Aurilene rolled her eyes and shook her head, her frustration at the direction the Kingdom was going clear on her face.

Lord Malin Il’dral leaned over in his own seat to keep their gossip among like company, “What’s worse, Lady Tel’vaiel, is that the prevailing rumor involves you. It would seem that Mister Sunsworn has heard of your past triumphs in the annual gardens contests and would see you win again. My niece heard that he’s keen to settle his legitimacy with a wife from a more established family.”

That did make her roll her eyes, “I was going to win again anyway, you’ve both seen my orangerie and have enjoyed the extensive flora that I’ve cultivated. That is terrible to hear about Lady Cindervale’s garden, though, I’ll have to send her some of my own. She doesn’t think I had anything to do with this, does she?”

“No, certainly not. She told me that she knows you have too much honor to do anything of the sort and that you wouldn’t ruin your husband’s memory by marrying someone so low-born,” Aurilene shook her head.

“Speaking of low-born, though, Lady Tel’vaiel,” Malin eyed her over, “Your companion from Ms. Ana’diel’s Gallery show, my wife rather enjoyed him and her birthday is coming up. I’d rather like to buy his time.”

Aurilene looked scandalized, “The war criminal?”

“Who isn’t, these days,” Malin waved a hand dismissively.

Fiorenze considered, for a second, hurling a fireball right at the Lord Il’dral’s face. Instead she smiled kindly and turned her teacup in her hand, “It’s up to him to decide his appointments, Lord Il’dral. Your wife may still have his calling card, I would use that or go through his Madame at the Red Moon. Anyway, Lady Ila’rovel, if you’d like some of the powder I’ve come up with for keeping Arathi beetles out of my garden I’d be happy to share it with you. It works rather well.”

“Would you? You’re too kind, dear. To turn things back to business matters, where do we stand on the new taxes that were proposed today? Surely the Regency is willing to move on them, we’ve been wrung dry with higher percentages every year; Has the Grand Magister implied anything? You’re his new Seneschal, after all,” Aurilene’s glance over the rim of her teacup was sharp enough.

This was going to be the rest of their conversation, she could feel it. Lord Il’dral had sat up a little straighter as the tone shifted. They were all from some of the oldest families still left living in the Kingdom and the balance of the Court was starting to shift as more military and merchant families were offered titles for service — whether monetary or otherwise. “He hasn’t, unfortunately. You know him, though. We ought to propose higher taxes on the new blood, I think we could get the majority of us to rally around that at the very least.”

She sipped her tea as that kicked Malin and Aurilene into a new debate. The Grand Magister would certainly like to hear some of it.

@xylaes / @daily-writing-challenge

#dwc 2021 #day 22 dwc #daily writing challenge

[tendertenebrosity]

Illiam and Helis on the road! Close sequel to here and here.  Masterpost for these characters is here. Mostly just some conversation and worldbuilding today; stay tuned for part 2!

Taglist:  @castielamigos-whump-side-blog, @doglover82; @top-hat-aye; @burtlederp; @just-a-raccoon-with-wifi   @thesleepysnapdragon @whump-cravings

Helis knew, from the conversations they had overheard at Illiam’s heel, that today they would pass into the south of Rosdan, the part the Toraldan army hadn’t taken yet. If they hadn’t, they probably wouldn’t have been able to guess; the countryside was the same as it had been for the past few days. Heavily forested hills, a dirt road that wound side-to-side between their peaks like the track made by a snake. The ground was rocky, any snow long since trodden into black sludge peppered liberally with gravel. Helis had an impressive bruise on the underside of their foot from trying to make their way through it, and the little downy feathers on their ankles hadn’t been either white or downy in days.  

“We have quite a large ravine to cross next,”  Illiam commented. “The town is just over the bridge; we should be able to see both once we’re around this next bend in the road.”

Helis made a wordless hum of acknowledgment. They wouldn’t be stopping for the night in this town; they might pause so that people could mill about, make a mess and maybe have another urgent, terse meeting. Or they might not. Helis supposed they’d be glad for a chance to stretch their legs.

The thick pine forest on some of these hills was a lot like the country that they’d spent a few weeks camping in with Reed. Had it been this tiring, going up and down the hills? Not for Helis, but maybe for Reed it had been. He’d never complained.

“I built some bridges, you know,” Illiam remarked.  

Helis blinked, roused from their reverie. “What?”

“Bridges. You know, big structures, usually made of wood or stone, they allow you to get over bodies of water… ”

Helis hunched their shoulders. Yes, very funny. “You… built bridges? Why?” It wasn’t something they’d ever considered him doing. It seemed… beneath him, or at least that he ought to think it was beneath him. They didn’t remember him ever showing the slightest interest in that kind of thing before.

“It’s the kind of thing I’ve been working on, the last few years,” Illiam explained. “Not just bridges, but… large engineering work. Repairing dams, roads. You usually do that with magic in Crestmead, don’t you?”

“Sometimes,” Helis said. Their friend Diamand had taken a job in that direction; another scholarship student, like them, he’d chosen to go into government service in construction. “It’s usually done with teams of mages…”

“It’s not been used much here,” Illiam said. “Most things like that in the North are built the old-fashioned way. Bricks and mortar and a lot of peasants with shovels. It can be difficult and dangerous work, not to mention slow. I had seen a lot of… interesting things done in the South, and I wanted to try and replicate them. Not just structures, either - I still wonder if I could get some of your irrigation and wind shelter techniques to work with our farms.” He paused. “You came from a farm, didn’t you?”

“Yeees…” Helis wasn’t sure whether to be surprised he remembered, or brace themself for him to say something derogatory. “We didn’t use any magic, though. I think you’re talking about bigger places than ours…”

He barely seemed to be listening. “I imagine the climate to the south is better, so you probably didn’t need much help. The land to the west of our holdings is harsh, and crop failures are common. It would make a big difference if I could increase yield even a little bit.” He sighed. “Bridges proved easier, at least to start with. Of course, I was somewhat hampered by the fact that, as you say, I don’t have a trained team. I only have myself. So a lot of the techniques needed… adjusting.”

Despite themselves, Helis found themself a little interested. “That’s a bit more than just an ‘adjustment’,” they said. “You’re trying to do the work of, what - four to six people by yourself?”

“Mm,” he said, dismissive.

“That sounds… dangerous,” Helis said. They’d had to design the kind of spells Illiam was talking about as part of their course; they couldn’t imagine trying to handle that much magic, in that many different moving parts, at once. It was overambitious to the point of being irresponsible.

Then again, in light of his current project, they shouldn’t be surprised.

“Oh, maybe if you don’t know what you’re doing,” Illiam said, airily. They could practically picture the smug tilt of his chin as he said it. “I had it down pretty well by the third attempt. Besides, it was unavoidable. Even if I’d managed to get four or five mages together, there’s no guarantee they’d have been able to work together in that way. It’s not a common skill here.”

Helis’ brow wrinkled. “But… I’ve seen other mages here, in the army ranks.” Mostly men, a scattering of women, their uniform marked out with a red scarf or sash or hat. The common soldiers deferred to them, but nowhere near as much as they did to Illiam. Helis had seem them performing heat spells, wind spells, stick-fast spells - the kinds of minor workings any large group of people needed.  Are they mages or not? they wanted to ask. Why ‘if’ you get four or five people? Aren’t they trained properly?

He hummed thoughtfully. “Yes, but the… culture, I suppose you’d say… amongst mages is different here. Much less collaborative. Much less standardised. A Northern sorceror works alone, or maybe with an apprentice or two if they’re inclined to that sort of thing.”

“Oh.”

“There’s nothing like the Academy here, or even the sort of smaller schools that teach people to read and write in Crestmead,” Illiam explained. “I learned my Northern magic from my master, Karlin, who learned it from his, and so on. I started when I was nine - that’s pretty normal. He didn’t have a second apprentice while teaching me, but I understand he often did. Some masters can get a bit… stingy, paranoid. They don’t like to share their knowledge too freely. Karlin was never like that.”

“Oh. You… always did seem like you knew a bit already, in the first semester,” Helis admitted.

Illiam was silent, just a beat longer than usual. “You could say that,” he said. “You know, I - ”

He cut himself off - the hands that had been fairly slack on the reins in front of Helis were suddenly moving, pulling the horse up to a sudden stop.

They had just rounded the curve of the hillside. As Illiam had said, they could look down and see the bridge - miles ahead of them yet, a squat and sturdy structure made from the same grey stone as the cliffs it straddled. The riverbed was a long way down.

They couldn’t see much of the town, though, because it and the forest to the east were obscured by a thick dark plume of smoke.

The soldiers in front of them were clogging the road, the whole unit that had been ahead of Illiam’s horse, pulled to an unplanned halt. Raised voices and curses reached Helis’ ears; people were pointing at the smoke, barking orders, shoving the people ahead or behind them.

“This town was supposed to be secured!” someone was insisting, harsh and strident. “Lord Garnier sent - ”

As the army milled, disorganised, there was a sharp whistle, thinned out by distance and followed by a crack. The light that flashed in the forest beyond the town was tinged pale blue, obviously magical in origin. People in the army flinched and swore as more clouds of dust and smoke rose up. As they watched, aghast, a wedge of stone split away from the cliff face and tumbled down into the ravine with a crash.

Illiam hissed wordlessly under his breath, and tapped Helis - more of a shove, really - on the shoulder.

"You’re getting off,” he said abruptly.

“What?”

“Get off the horse, lackwit, move!”

Helis let go of their grip on the saddle and drew their knees up slightly, uncertain of what to do next. Illiam lifted them unceremoniously around the waist, and they swung their leg awkwardly over the horse’s neck. They made it to the ground in an awkward, flapping fall, their legs nearly giving way under them.

The horse stamped and sidled back and forth, rolling one dark eye as Helis stumbled back. Illiam gathered up his reins. He didn’t even look down at Helis.

“Go back and wait with the rest of the camp followers,” he said, his voice raised over the commotion. “Do not come and find me. Do not cause problems.”

He kicked the horse into motion. Helis shielded their eyes from the dirt he threw up; they could hear him yelling something at the soldiers down the slope. By the time they had collected themself, the crowd of soldiers had parted to allow Illiam and his horse to canter down the hill in the direction of the smoking town.

“Well, now what?” Helis asked aloud, to nobody in particular. They watched the figure of Illiam and his horse, dramatic black cloak flapping, until it was out of sight. Helis didn’t know much about war magic. But they had a hazy, uneasy idea how much damage a single magic-user could wreak against an undefended force. Was he going to fight? Or did he think the battle needed him in command? It still seemed unbelievable to Helis, that men twice their age, generals and leaders, actually took orders from Illiam, who wasn’t any older than Helis themself.

The crowd of soldiers was forming up into some kind of order in his wake, the person who’d been yelling about Lord Garnier unloading a series of profanities and insults on everybody in earshot.

The wagons and the rest of the army had been following Illiam and the advance party, much slower on the hilly ground. Helis had no idea how far away they might be.

They sighed, picked a rock out from between their toes, and set off back the way they’d come.

#Illiam #Helis #war and military stuff #riding double #not much to tag today or maybe my brain just isn't working that well haha #winged OC #environmental whump

[writteninsunshine]

I Wonder What Your Basis For Comparison Is - Kyle Broflovski/Eric Cartman - SFWish

Title: I Wonder What Your Basis For Comparison Is

Author: Keith

Fandom: South Park

Setting: Throneroom, Elven Kingdom of Larnion

Pairing: Kyle Broflovski/Eric Cartman

Characters: Kyle Broflovski, Eric Cartman, Chris Donnely

Genre: Action/Romance

Rating: T

Chapters: 1/1?

Word Count: 1066

Type Of Work: One-shot, Part of the Word Of The Day Prompts

Status: Complete?

Warnings: Pre-Slash, AU - Stick of Truth, Butters mentioned, Clyde mentioned, South Park Vampire Society Mentioned, Canon Compliant Racism, Canon Compliant Antisemitism, Swearing (but this is South Park so you should expect that), Kyle does Eric an Arousal but nothing explicit (yet), Adult Ages, Fat Shaming, Eric’s a Brat on Purpose

Disclaimer: I don’t own anything.

Summary: Just because the Wizard King had something to say, it didn't mean the High Jew Elf King had to listen.

AN: Hey guys, it’s me again! Just thought I ought to say, if you want vague updates and to talk to me more, I have a writing Tumblr, too! Twitter is Sunshinecackle, and Tumblr is Writteninsunshine! I also have a writing Discord that is currently pretty dead. xD If you want it, please contact me on Twitter!

Welp, I’m doing a Word Of The Day prompt on my writing server, and I decided today was the one to start it! So, I used the bot to get the word, and it fit for more Kyman stuff, so here we have an AU for SoT. Clyde’s back at his bullshit and it’s some years down the road, I don’t know exactly when. I just wanted to toy with it.

If you guys want to see more of this, let me know! I’d be willing to at least turn it into a small series!

South Park Fic Masterlist

I Wonder What Your Basis For Comparison Is

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The Grand Wizard had made a bad habit out of poking his nose around where it didn’t belong, and Kyle had just about had it. He’d arrived like some kind of damn unwanted angel, with all of his prying eyes and uncomfortable smiles, too many hands, and loud, booming voice. Intruding, snooping, and prodding into and at everything he could in the gargantuan, ancient tree that housed the throne of the drow elves, Eric had touched almost everything available with his grubby little hands.

Kyle’s patience with him was wearing thinner than usual, and in such a small handful of minutes.

“Did you even come here for anything, or did you just want to touch all my stuff?” Kyle finally asked, crossing his arms tightly over his chest. Eric perked up from where he’d been toying with some new growth on the inside of the tree, some sort of fungus that almost giggled when he jabbed at it with his pudgy finger, turning his head with both eyebrows raised. A grin split his lips as he straightened up, 

“Oh, I came with good news, naturally, Kiall.” That tone always burned the Elf’s blood, and his eyelids twitched a little as he pursed his lips. He didn’t want to say anything out loud, nothing that would threaten their already tenuous truce, but damn was it hard. Why did he always have to be the mature one here? Couldn’t Eric pull his own damn weight on this for once?

“And what is that, Fa–” The look that Eric shot him as he began to speak slowed his words, and he thought better of it at the last second, “Wizard King?” Kyle could almost hear Stan’s voice in his head Nice save, dude.

“Mm,” Eric’s chuckle sent a wince of disgust to Kyle’s face, and a spike of interest down his spine that made him cringe visibly; Unsurprisingly, that didn’t seem to be stopping the Wizard at all, “Well, I think we’ve finally figured out how to stop the Dark Lord. After a long deliberation, and hours poured into this plan and what it entails,” Eric always loved to show off with using big, tough words in Kyle’s presence like he couldn’t live without them. Kyle always figured he was posturing, one way or another, “We hit him where it hurts.”

“In the balls?” Kyle asked, raising both brows and tipping his head, his voice was blasé; He couldn’t have been more completely unimpressed. For a second, the wizard sputtered and choked on his own saliva, telling Kyle that his protests of ‘no!’ were absolute bullshit. “We have to think smarter than childish tactics, you know. We aren’t children, we’re men, now.” More or less. He regarded Eric as a toddler with a 5’9” wingspan, “We’re going to have to go underneath him. The vampires have aligned with him once more.”

“Goddammit, Clyde.” Eric whispered under his breath, shaking his head and pinching the bridge of his nose, before turning back to Kyle and shaking his head more erratically, “The vampires? Fangfags are the least of our worries! Pah, that’s the worst idea I’ve ever heard.” Eric couldn’t help the tongue poking out of his mouth slightly, resting on his bottom teeth, arms crossed and chin over his shoulder. He couldn’t even look at Kyle right now, his eyes closed as he made an even stupider face, and that told the Elf everything he needed to know. 

“I don’t think I fucking asked you, did I?” That dark, commanding tone had Eric’s eyes popping open wide, and he slowly turned his head to take in the redhead as he stood from his throne, wooden crown just slightly off-kilter. Gulping a little, the wizard began backpedaling, stammering out half-garbled words for a moment before he finally offered a pout and a shrug. Honestly, they were all adults here, there was no need to behave like this.

“Don’t have to be such a bitch about it, Kiall. Get the sand out of your fucking vagina.”

“I don’t have a fucking vagina, Cartman!” Kyle snapped, and for a moment he was a young prince again, dealing with Eric and his stupid playground insults. He hated that.

Even still, acting like a schoolyard bully was something that Kyle had come to not only expect out of Eric but to even admire in him. He was always going to be a child, bearded chin or no. It honestly infuriated him how much it got to him. Slamming down his hands on the armrests of his throne, he raised his voice once more as he stood to leave.

“Now, if you will excuse me,” He wasn’t asking, words seeping through his clenched teeth. He could only take this for so much longer,, “I need to retire for the night. I’m sure Chris can show you to a room for the night. You came alone… Didn’t you?” That had been the request, but Eric rarely cared to listen when Kyle spoke.

“Butters–”

“Butters.” The name was said flatly, and Kyle found himself breathing in what was meant to be a calming breath through his nose. It did little to actually calm his temper, and he bit out his next words, dripping venom, “Of fucking course. Okay, fine. You’ll both have rooms, and your horses a stable for the night.”

Kyle turned, starting for his exit, before glancing back over his shoulder, green eyes narrowed and a finger pointing at Eric’s head.

“Tomorrow, you’ll be taking your orders.” He promised, “I will hear none of your protests. You’re going to listen to me for once in your Elders-damned life, and I will not tolerate your insolence in my own damn house.”

Once more, Eric stumbled over his protests, trying to pick his jaw up off the floor as he was escorted from the throne room by his arm, the blond Elf deemed his babysitter for the night heaving a put upon sigh through his nose. Chris didn’t know what he’d done to deserve such a double-sided sword, but the trust that the king placed in him was enough to have his pride inflated enough to go actually through with it. He’d keep an eye on both the wizard and the paladin, to make sure that nothing would go wrong, and maybe he would receive a due reward. 

After all, he was ever the loyal warrior, wasn’t he?

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

AN: Hmmm… I’m thinking this might be part of something? I’m not totally sure, yet, but if you guys think this sounds like a good first chapter, let me know? I actually had a lot of fun playing with this. I love me some angry Kyle, but I guess who doesn’t? Anyway, let me know what you thought!

Prompt: Counsellorship - The Position Of Counselor.

#South Park Fanfic #South Park Fanfiction #South Park Kyman #SP Kyman #Kyman #Kyman Fanfic #Kyman Fanfiction #AU - Stick of Truth #AU - Fighters of Zaron #cw racism #cw antisemitism #cw fat shaming #November Sierra Foxtrot Whiskey

[faintingheroine]

A Little Princess - Chapter 3

“On that first morning, when Sara sat at Miss Minchin's side, aware that the whole schoolroom was devoting itself to observing her, she had noticed very soon one little girl, about her own age, who looked at her very hard with a pair of light, rather dull, blue eyes. She was a fat child who did not look as if she were in the least clever, but she had a good-naturedly pouting mouth.”

Why is fatness always associated with not being clever in children’s books? The only exception I am familiar with is Piggy from Lord of the Flies.

And of course we see here something we see a lot in older children’s novels. Someone’s character being obvious from the face they make or their features.

“Upon which Miss St. John gave another jump, and when Lavinia and Jessie tittered she became redder than ever—so red, indeed, that she almost looked as if tears were coming into her poor, dull, childish eyes; and Sara saw her and was so sorry for her that she began rather to like her and want to be her friend. It was a way of hers always to want to spring into any fray in which someone was made uncomfortable or unhappy.

"If Sara had been a boy and lived a few centuries ago," her father used to say, "she would have gone about the country with her sword drawn, rescuing and defending everyone in distress. She always wants to fight when she sees people in trouble."”

And here we have the first instance of Sara being a truly idealized character. So far she has only been odd and intelligent and unnecessarily polite which only added to her weirdness. But starting with this instance she is portrayed as a fairly heroic idealized character, I will admit to that. But I am not too troubled with this, because she is still an original character with a particular personality and not the cardboard cutout of how the author thinks little girls should behave.

“So she took rather a fancy to fat, slow, little Miss St. John, and kept glancing toward her through the morning. She saw that lessons were no easy matter to her, and that there was no danger of her ever being spoiled by being treated as a show pupil. Her French lesson was a pathetic thing. Her pronunciation made even Monsieur Dufarge smile in spite of himself, and Lavinia and Jessie and the more fortunate girls either giggled or looked at her in wondering disdain. But Sara did not laugh. She tried to look as if she did not hear when Miss St. John called "le bon pain," "lee bong pang." She had a fine, hot little temper of her own, and it made her feel rather savage when she heard the titters and saw the poor, stupid, distressed child's face.

"It isn't funny, really," she said between her teeth, as she bent over her book. "They ought not to laugh."”

The book, having been published in 1905, hits you over the head with how “stupid” Ermengarde is. I remembered her as exceptionally stupid, though this might have something to do with her later naïveté in not understanding Sara’s new condition. Based on this chapter alone, she isn’t “stupid”, she is just a seven-year-old who is not particularly academically talented and has anxiety because of the expectations of her father.

We again see Sara’s heroic streak.

“When lessons were over and the pupils gathered together in groups to talk, Sara looked for Miss St. John, and finding her bundled rather disconsolately in a window-seat, she walked over to her and spoke. She only said the kind of thing little girls always say to each other by way of beginning an acquaintance, but there was something friendly about Sara, and people always felt it.

"What is your name?" she said.”

I really like how randomly children can become friends.

How friendly Sara is is something that is always recognized by others. Is this the same Sara that thought she didn’t care much for other little girls and was only interested in her books in Chapter 1? Perhaps by “friendliness”, it means “goodness” and “kindness”, after all in this chapter Sara befriends Ermengarde partially because she pities her, not really because she is desperate for a friend.

“To explain Miss St. John's amazement one must recall that a new pupil is, for a short time, a somewhat uncertain thing; and of this new pupil the entire school had talked the night before until it fell asleep quite exhausted by excitement and contradictory stories. A new pupil with a carriage and a pony and a maid, and a voyage from India to discuss, was not an ordinary acquaintance.”

Sara being defined by her riches is important, because the story is about whether she can stay polite and a “princess” when she loses all of it.

“"My name's Ermengarde St. John," she answered.

"Mine is Sara Crewe," said Sara. "Yours is very pretty. It sounds like a story book."

"Do you like it?" fluttered Ermengarde. "I—I like yours."

Miss St. John's chief trouble in life was that she had a clever father. Sometimes this seemed to her a dreadful calamity. If you have a father who knows everything, who speaks seven or eight languages, and has thousands of volumes which he has apparently learned by heart, he frequently expects you to be familiar with the contents of your lesson books at least; and it is not improbable that he will feel you ought to be able to remember a few incidents of history and to write a French exercise. Ermengarde was a severe trial to Mr. St. John. He could not understand how a child of his could be a notably and unmistakably dull creature who never shone in anything.

"Good heavens!" he had said more than once, as he stared at her, "there are times when I think she is as stupid as her Aunt Eliza!"

If her Aunt Eliza had been slow to learn and quick to forget a thing entirely when she had learned it, Ermengarde was strikingly like her. She was the monumental dunce of the school, and it could not be denied.

"She must be MADE to learn," her father said to Miss Minchin.”

Ermengarde’s father is well characterized. He is an intellectual who picked a pretentious ancient Germanic name for his daughter; one which the similarly bookish Sara is charmed by. He is openly insulting to his daughter and his sister/sister-in-law. His high hopes for his daughter and insisting her to be what she isn’t probably contributes to Ermengarde’s anxiety in the classroom. She is seven years old and he is already disappointed in her. He is a jerk.

“"You can speak French, can't you?" she said respectfully.

Sara got on to the window-seat, which was a big, deep one, and, tucking up her feet, sat with her hands clasped round her knees.

"I can speak it because I have heard it all my life," she answered. "You could speak it if you had always heard it."

"Oh, no, I couldn't," said Ermengarde. "I NEVER could speak it!"

"Why?" inquired Sara, curiously.”

I like that Sara knows French so well not because she is a super-genius but because she was raised bilingual.

(Sara is talking about why she was given her own sitting room). “”Yes," Sara answered. "Papa asked Miss Minchin to let me have one, because—well, it was because when I play I make up stories and tell them to myself, and I don't like people to hear me. It spoils it if I think people listen."”

I relate to Sara here.

"Oh, she got back to her seat before we could see her!" Sara explained. "Of course they always do. They are as quick as lightning."

Ermengarde looked from her to the doll and back again.

"Can she—walk?" she asked breathlessly.

"Yes," answered Sara. "At least I believe she can. At least I PRETEND I believe she can. And that makes it seem as if it were true. Have you never pretended things?"

"No," said Ermengarde. "Never. I—tell me about it."”

Ermengarde is amazed by what Sara is doing, but what she is doing is an ability which is on some level common to all children and which we unfortunately mostly lose as we grow up: That is the ability to play pretend knowing that it is pretend and still get absorbed in it without needing to tell anyone about it. Actually on some level Sara is less childish about her game of pretend than most children are, she clearly feels the need to tell others about it as if she is a storyteller rather than a little girl simply playing, and she actually is a storyteller. Her daydreams and games aren’t simply left as just that, they are also recounted.

“She was so bewitched by this odd, new companion that she actually stared at Sara instead of at Emily—notwithstanding that Emily was the most attractive doll person she had ever seen.”

I have lost the count of how many times Sara is described as “odd” or “queer”.

I like that Ermengarde calls Emily “doll person”.

“Sara sat upon the hearth-rug and told her strange things. She sat rather huddled up, and her green eyes shone and her cheeks flushed. She told stories of the voyage, and stories of India; but what fascinated Ermengarde the most was her fancy about the dolls who walked and talked, and who could do anything they chose when the human beings were out of the room, but who must keep their powers a secret and so flew back to their places "like lightning" when people returned to the room.”

Ermengarde is fascinated because she didn’t grow up with Toy Story.

(Sara and Ermengarde are talking about Sara’s father and how she misses him) “I love mine more than all the world ten times over," Sara said. "That is what my pain is. He has gone away."

She put her head quietly down on her little, huddled-up knees, and sat very still for a few minutes.

"She's going to cry out loud," thought Ermengarde, fearfully.

But she did not. Her short, black locks tumbled about her ears, and she sat still. Then she spoke without lifting her head.

"I promised him I would bear it," she said. "And I will. You have to bear things. Think what soldiers bear! Papa is a soldier. If there was a war he would have to bear marching and thirstiness and, perhaps, deep wounds. And he would never say a word—not one word."

This is clearly foreshadowing of how Sara will behave when faced with serious hardship.

“Presently, she lifted her face and shook back her black locks, with a queer little smile.

"If I go on talking and talking," she said, "and telling you things about pretending, I shall bear it better. You don't forget, but you bear it better."

This again foreshows how Sara will survive through the novel.

“Ermengarde did not know why a lump came into her throat and her eyes felt as if tears were in them.

"Lavinia and Jessie are 'best friends,'" she said rather huskily. "I wish we could be 'best friends.' Would you have me for yours? You're clever, and I'm the stupidest child in the school, but I—oh, I do so like you!"

"I'm glad of that," said Sara. "It makes you thankful when you are liked. Yes. We will be friends. And I'll tell you what"—a sudden gleam lighting her face—"I can help you with your French lessons."”

I love how as children you can be frank about wanting to be someone’s best friend.

*This book is too fun to make it into homework so I am not going to continue with these chapter by chapter posts. I will write a post about it if I have anything particular to say, but I am not going to do separate posts on chapters. I will definitely write a retrospective and my final thoughts when I finish the audiobook though.

#a little princess #a little princess reread

[thefactsofthematter]

“don’t you think you’ve done enough?” and “how do you sleep at night?” seem like a fun pair. you know what to do ma’am- serve me some javid in a fun au. ily >:) -fizz

@jack-kellys ohohohoho now these were some sinister prompts but i very much appreciate them. since apparently i’m no longer capable of writing concisely, this got a little long, but i don’t think that’s really a bad thing! here’s an ao3 link for anyone who would rather read it there :)

javid; 4.8k; historical au!! set in 1860s rural new york, where davey is obscenely wealthy and jack works for the jacobs family; cw: homophobia, (sort of) child abuse; slight nsfw themes for a bit; and a generally toxic relationship

- 

1867.

"I could get lost in your eyes, David."

They're blue, but not a blue that Jack has ever seen in anyone else's eyes. They're not pale, like the sky on a cloud-free day— they're a deep blue, almost reminiscent of the bottom of the ocean. Jack supposes he could swim right into them and never return, lost in the depths of the unknown.

They get a little brighter when Davey smiles, and he does just that. They're laying on his bed, their faces so close together that Jack can feel every one of Davey's exhales on his lips. Jack wants to kiss him, but he'd like to savour this moment first.

"Stare a little harder, why don't you?" Davey laughs. His voice is gentle, and a bit deeper now that they're older, a rumble in his chest that Jack can nearly feel in his own when they're pressed together like this. "You ought to finally paint me, it might last longer."

Jack silently thanks the lord that his tan skin doesn't blush easily, especially now, when the heat of the summer over the past couple months has deepened his skin colour even further. He can feel a flush rise to his cheeks, but he's sure Davey won't see it, since they're only illuminated by moonlight through the window.

"Is it wrong to adore you?" Jack asks, raising a hand to stroke Davey's cheek. "I'd stare at you all day if I could."

"I already stare at you all day," Davey replies. "So I suppose we're square."

It's half-true— the study where Davey is tutored in the afternoons has several grand windows overlooking the main garden that Jack usually tends. He'll often look up to see Davey staring down at him, having abandoned whatever studies he was meant to be focusing on.

Davey abandoning his studies is how they met, in fact. They were twelve or so, and it was Jack's first week of work in the gardens of the Jacobs family's summer home— he was still apprenticing under Miss Medda, learning how to prune the flower bushes to perfection and care for each and every plant on the massive estate, when Davey all but ran right into him.

-

1862.

"Hello there."

Jack startles, looking up from where he's been meticulously trimming the bottom leaves of a rosebush, to see a boy his own age standing over him.

"Hello," Jack replies. Any of the other kids he's met here have been employees or children thereof— the Jacobs seem willing to provide work with decent wages for any poor child that needs it, which is awfully nice of them— so he extends his hand to shake without thinking much of it. "I'm Jack."

The boy smiles and shakes Jack's hand, with an oddly formal air to how he moves. His posture is upright and his handshake is firm, almost like a miniature adult.

"I'm David." He looks around, as if to be sure no one else is nearby, and then he crouches down next to Jack with a mischievous grin. "Do you mind if I hide here for a bit?"

Jack smiles right back, confused and amused.

"That's fine by me, but can I ask who's chasing you? Should I be running too?"

David laughs.

"Oh, don't worry, I promise I won't get you in trouble. I'm just... not where I'm supposed to be right now. No matter who finds me, I'm sure they'll give me heck, but I just couldn't stay inside any longer."

Jack isn't sure what to think of David, but he just shrugs and laughs along, turning back to the task that Medda had set him up with. He's sure she'll be proud of him if he gets it all done without getting too distracted and making silly mistakes.

"Alright then," he says, and he takes the tiny gardening shears to the leaves again, making sure the edges of the bush are completely even. "I'll try not to blow your cover."

They both giggle softly, and then there's a moment of quiet, during which Jack can feel that he's being watched rather closely. David finally breaks the silence.

"Do you work here?"

Jack snorts out a laugh before he can help it.

"Well, it'd be awfully strange of me to go around trimming the bushes if I didn't," he replies, which manages to fluster David, making him flush a little pink with embarrassment. "I only just started this week, so maybe that's why we haven't met. I've been busy— there's sure a lot of plants to take care of."

David's expression is unreadable for a moment, in a way that Jack can tell is well-trained. Someone must've taught him that wearing your thoughts on your face is impolite, because he's obviously making some sort of judgement, but it's a mystery as to what.

"Do you like working here?"

Jack, in the opposite of David's composed politeness, shoots him an inquisitive look as he shrugs.

"You ask a lot of questions," he says, before actually getting to his answer. "It's alright, I suppose. Work is work, and this is leagues better than a factory. I can't complain about a fair wage and somewhere safe to sleep."

David's face remains frustratingly neutral as he nods. He's still watching Jack closely, which is uncomfortable to say the least.

"You're awfully young to have a job," he finally says. "Shouldn't you be in school?"

Jack laughs, more confused than anything— this kid certainly asks odd questions.

"You're no older than I am," he retorts, not wanting to get into the long-winded story of how he ended up here— his father going off to fight with the Union army and leaving him in a children's home that was really just a rotten workhouse, running away from there, and eventually finding Medda, who offered to get him a solid job. "I could ask you the same thing."

"Ah— well, you see..." David's face falls into an awkward grimace. "That's what I'm hiding from. I'm on the run from my tutor— he's the most boring man I've ever met, and if he makes me read any longer, I think my eyes will go crossed. I was hoping that coming out to the summer home would mean I get to play outside, but I've been cooped up in the library every day!"

Suddenly, and sharply, it dawns on Jack— David doesn't work here, he lives here. He's one of the Jacobs! Jack had known they had children, but the only run-in he's had with any member of the family until now was briefly meeting Esther on his first day of work— he hadn't even known what her children would look like, nor did he know their names, so how could he have realized that David was one of them?

Before Jack can even say anything, they're interrupted by a shout from elsewhere in the garden.

"Davey! Mom's going to kill you!"

David's eyes go wide.

"Oh no, they've sent my sister after me," he whispers, in a rush. "I have to go. It was lovely to meet you, Jack."

And then he's off like a bullet, running out of the garden to hide somewhere else. Jack thinks about him for the rest of the day.

-

1867.

"What are you thinking about, mon cœur?"

They're still laying in bed together, still pressed up so close that Jack can feel Davey's words. Davey speaks so many languages that Jack has no clue what pet name he's just been called— all he knows is that it sounded pretty rolling off Davey's tongue.

"You," Jack replies. "How lovely you are, and how lucky I am to have known you for so long."

Davey's nose scrunches, embarrassed.

"You flatter me far too much, darling. I'm afraid you'll make my head so big it falls right off my shoulders."

Jack kisses him to shut him up. Davey hates compliments, but Jack loves to give them to him, so sometimes a distraction has to be employed to keep him from whining too much about it.

"Don't you think it's hot in here?" Jack asks once they pull away for breath, willing to acquiesce and change the topic if it means moving on to not talking at all. He slides his hands up Davey's shirt, fondling his lean torso and hinting for him to undress.

Davey laughs, tossing his head back against his pillows and rolling onto his back, pulling Jack along with him to sit on top and straddle his hips. His hands find their way to Jack's waist, pushing up the hem of his shirt just like Jack had been doing to him.

"Oh, I agree," Davey says, grinning up at Jack. "Terribly hot. You'll have to take this off, won't you?"

Jack is quick to oblige. He forsakes even unbuttoning it, simply pulling his shirt off over his head and tossing it aside. His clothes aren't nearly as nice as Davey's, most of them used and secondhand, so he's not too worried about being careful with them, especially not in a moment like this.

"It's only fair if yours comes off too," he says, leaning down to whisper it against Davey's mouth. "I'm not just here to give you a show."

Davey smiles and pulls Jack in for another kiss. It's hot and fervent, and it makes Jack think of how different things are from last summer. Last year was the first time they kissed, the first time they thought of being anything more than best friends— they were only fifteen, and everything was tentative. Call him naive, but Jack hadn't even realized that boys could kiss other boys until he saw Racetrack, who minds the horses, kissing a delivery boy behind the stables. Kissing Davey was entirely new and sort of terrifying, back then.

This summer, Davey had come back to the country home for the season several inches taller and having gained a broadness and muscularity reminiscent of a young man— Jack hasn't gotten quite as tall, but he supposes he must have filled out in a similar way. They're each more confident now, and it's translated into everything they do, especially into the way they've started to explore all the things their bodies can do together.

"Be a dear and help me with the buttons, why don't you?" Davey runs a hand through Jack's hair to mess it up, their faces still close together, and he smiles in that particularly charming way that he only does when they're in a heated moment like this.

"Too lazy to do it yourself, huh?" Jack teases, but he listens anyways and starts to unbutton Davey's shirt. He kisses down his jaw and neck as he does so, revelling in the little gasps of pleasure and hitches in Davey's breath that this coaxes out. They have to be quiet— as big as this house is, there's always a chance of someone walking by— but Jack adores the near-silent noises Davey makes for him. "Does that feel good, darling?"

"God, Jack..." Davey whispers, almost desperately. "You're so beautiful."

The shirt is fully unbuttoned, and Jack is slowly moving his attention further down Davey's torso. He's just about to start working on the button of his trousers, pausing first to move back up and kiss Davey's lips yet again, smiling into it, and—

"David? Are you awake?"

The bedroom door swings open, without so much as a knock.

Jack's stomach drops to his toes. It was supposed to be locked. Davey always locks it, so that if someone comes by Jack at least as time to hurry back out the window, the way he came in. He must have forgotten tonight.

"What the hell is going on here?"

It's Mayer. Oh god, it's Davey's father. They're fucked.

Jack pulls away from Davey immediately, and they lock eyes for a brief moment, utterly panicked. Without wasting any time, Jack fumbles to grab his shirt and then takes off, climbing out the window that they'd left propped open and following his familiar path down the side of the balcony to land on the dew-soaked grass below.

"David Isaac Jacobs!" Mayer shouts, from inside. Jack finds himself backing up against the wall of the house, directly under the balcony, so that he won't be spotted if Mayer looks out the window. He claps a hand over his mouth to try and keep his heavy breathing from giving him away. "What on God's green earth did I just walk in on!?"

"Dad," Davey's desperate, terrified voice hardly carries out the window for Jack to hear. "It was nothing, I swear. We were just... fighting! Um, he came onto me, and I didn't know what to do, I-"

"Bullshit!" Mayer snaps. "Don't you dare lie to me, young man. It was that no-good gardener boy that you're always spending so much time with, wasn't it? The pair of you are a couple of queers."

"No!" Davey shouts. "That's crazy! It's not— it's not like that at all!"

Davey has never been any good at lying. Mayer slaps him so hard that the crack of it echoes out the window, making Jack immediately feel sick with guilt. He's hiding out here like a coward while Davey is punished for what they did together. He could have stayed and defended him, taken the consequences like a man.

"Watch your attitude, boy."

"Please, Dad," Davey all but sobs. "I'm sorry-"

"You're sorry you got caught. Jesus, I don't even remember what I came in here for— it doesn't matter anyways. Go to sleep and I'll deal with you in the morning."

The quiet once he's stormed off is eery, and Jack waits beneath the balcony a moment longer to make sure he's actually in the clear. He considers climbing back up to see if Davey is alright, but then the window slams shut above him and the lock clicks into place.

It seems like he'll have to go sleep in his own bed for once.

-

Selfishly, Jack avoids working anywhere near the actual house throughout the next day.

He's a little worried that if he runs into Mayer he'll be fired on the spot, so he does his best to stay out of sight and out of mind— he works on the trees that surround the perimeter of the property, and then spends a good while bothering Race in the stables. He supposes that if Davey wants to see him, he'll come looking.

He doesn't come. In fact, for a couple of days, Davey is nowhere to be seen. Jack doesn't yet have the courage to return to his bedroom window at night, for fear of being caught, but he keeps an eye out for him around the grounds all day. Even as he's watering the main gardens, finally forced to go near the house again, he doesn't notice Davey in his usual spot by the library windows. He's practically dropped off the face of the earth.

The first of the Jacobs family that Jack actually speaks to is, surprisingly, Les.

"Jack!" The eight year-old is charging at him through the rows of carefully tended flowers, the same way a much younger Davey used to run from his governess and tutor. "There you are!"

Jack forces himself to smile as he sets down the watering can, giving his tired arms a much-needed break.

"Hey kiddo," he laughs, making a show of stumbling a few steps backwards with the force of Les' running hug. "Woah, you're awful strong. You'll knock me right over one of these days, if you're not careful."

Jack adores Les, he really does. The kid is fascinated by everything Jack says or does, which is entirely adorable, and he often comes seeking him out in the garden if he tires of playing by himself while his siblings are busy.

"I've been looking for you," Les sighs, dramatically. "You weren't in the garden yesterday, or even this morning! I'm not supposed to go running too far from the house, so I couldn't even go find you, wherever you were. I thought you were gone for good!"

"Aw, buddy," Jack chuckles, ruffling his hair. "I was just working on some of the big trees around the edges of the yard. They needed someone tall to go reach the high branches. I'm back to my usual job now, though."

Les frowns.

"You're not that tall. David is taller."

"I suppose you're right." Jack picks the watering can back up to keep working away while he chats with Les. "He could probably reach even higher branches than I could— maybe he should have come out and helped me."

Les huffs and folds his arms over his chest.

"He hasn't left his room in days. He won't even come to dinner— Mama just takes his food and leaves it outside his door. I knocked and he wouldn't even talk to me"

That's... unsettling. Either Davey is too upset to leave his room, or he's in so much trouble that he's not allowed to— Jack isn't sure which option is worse. He might have to risk paying a visit tonight.

"Well, isn't that odd," Jack replies, doing his best not to externalize how worried he is. "Maybe he's sick. Or, you know, teenagers just get moody sometimes— maybe he's upset about something. I wouldn't worry too much."

Les seems satisfied with this answer, so he nods and drops the subject, happy to follow Jack around and chatter about whatever comes to mind for the rest of the afternoon.

-

When he's absolutely sure that it's dark enough for no one to see him, Jack darts across the lawn towards the house.

He's done this a million times before, but tonight feels different. The run from the stables— where he typically shares the attic with Race, Albert and Crutchie as a bedroom of sorts— feels ridiculously long, and the twisting ball of nervousness in his stomach is nearly making him sick. He doesn't usually get scared while climbing the balcony, but tonight he's got a horrible inkling of dread telling him he might slip.

He makes it up, though, and he's face to face with Davey's closed window. It's dark, but he can see a hunched over figure sitting on the bed. He taps gently on the glass.

Davey glances up, and they make eye contact for a moment, but then he simply frowns and looks away. Jack isn't willing to give up that easy, though, so on a whim, he tries lifting the window open. To his surprise, it slides right up.

"Don't even think about it, Jack." Davey whips around immediately, looking angrier than Jack's ever seen him. "We can't do this. You have to leave."

Jack raises his hands in surrender, only leaning his top half into Davey's room, not climbing all the way through.

"I only want to talk," he says. "Les told me you were upset, so I thought I'd come see if there's anything I can do."

Davey scoffs, rolling his eyes like a petulant child.

"Don't you think you've done enough?"

Jack frowns, confused.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you've done enough damage," Davey snaps. "My father hates me now. He won't even speak to me. He's locked me in my room, and now he's sending me to boarding school come autumn, and it's all because of you." There are tears welling in his eyes, but he huffs and wipes them away. "Go away, and don't come see me again. My life is ruined and it's your fault."

For a moment, Jack is speechless. What the hell? First of all, it's not as if Davey didn't invite him right into his bed in the first place— and he was the one who forgot to lock the door! Really, Jack is innocent here. The only one Davey ought to be mad at is Mayer. Secondly, he's simply astounded by how obnoxiously privileged Davey is. Now, Jack Kelly is slow to anger most of the time— he can't even recall a moment, at least since he's been employed by the Jacobs, that he's ever lost his temper. He certainly has a lot to be angry about, given the rotten hand he's been dealt in life, but it rarely ever gets to him.

In this moment, however... he feels as if he's about to snap.

"Ruined?" Jack asks, surprising himself by matching Davey's angry tone. "This is your idea of your life in ruins? Good lord, are you even hearing yourself?"

Davey's jaw drops.

"You can't speak to me like that! I told you to leave— go away right now."

His words feel like a punch to the stomach. It's a cruel reminder that even after everything they've shared, Jack is nothing more than a servant who ought to know his place. How dare he treat Davey as an equal, right?

If he knew what was good for him, he'd walk away, but Jack is so horribly furious that the words come rushing out before he can stop them, years of pent-up frustration finally spilling over.

"No, listen to me," he snaps. "Put yourself in my shoes for one god damn second, and think about what you just said. Your parents— which you have, by the way— are sending you to some fancy, expensive school, and that's the greatest hardship you've ever faced? Do you know how many people would kill for that chance!? You could write letters to tell me how horrible boarding school is, but I wouldn't even know how to fucking read them, because I've never even been to school! How do you expect me to feel sorry for you?"

"I don't!" Davey replies, all cross and defensive. "I don't care if you feel sorry for me or not, because you wouldn't understand! It's not my fault that you're poor. My family has been so good to you— in fact, you ought to be thanking me for convincing my father not to fire you, after what happened the other night. It'd do you well to be a little more grateful for-"

"Shut up!" Jack yells, losing his patience entirely. "You're so goddamn selfish, I owe you nothing! Everything you have is built on the backs of people like me, who don't have a choice but to work because we've got nothing else— how do you sleep at night!? You'd be nothing without us poor folk, and you're no better than me just 'cause you've got money and a family. You're a naive, spoiled brat, David, and I can't believe I ever fell for you."

Davey isn't so quick to respond this time. The silence that follows is horribly loud, hanging heavy between them with words that probably would've been better left unsaid. Davey's cold expression has crumpled into something hurt and vulnerable, and it almost makes Jack feel bad about being so harsh— his red-hot anger has rushed away like a receding tide, and now he simply feels stunned that he even lost his temper like that.

"I'm sorry," Jack finally says, once the silence has dragged on for too long. "I didn't mean to get so angry." He pauses. "I should go. I'll stay out of your way from now on."

Davey sniffles and wipes quickly at his eyes, as if he's trying to hide that he's tearing up. Jack's stomach sinks with guilt at the realization that he's made him cry.

"I promised my father I'd never talk to you again," he mumbles, his voice wet and choked up. "You have to leave before someone catches us."

Jack nods. He can see that it's not him that Davey is really angry with— it just makes it easier to push him away if he blames him for everything. It hurts, but he understands.

"Okay," he sighs, and he finds himself swallowing tears of his own. "I'll always love you, Davey. I mean that."

And then he can't bear to watch Davey cry any longer, so he leaves. He climbs down the balcony for the last time and runs back across the lawn to the stables, hoping the wind hitting his face will be a good enough excuse for the tears in his eyes.

-

1868.

It's Davey's first day back at the summer home, and he's been wandering the grounds by himself all day.

The new boarding school wasn't so bad, really, and he's honestly rather excited to go back for his senior year in the fall. It's a lot harder than his old school, a private academy near their other home in Manhattan that he'd attended with Sarah for years, but he sort of enjoys the challenge. He's even made some friends, which he was worried he wouldn't be able to do without his sister by his side.

He owes Jack an apology. He's grown a lot this year, and he can finally see that everything Jack said was true— he's been selfish and naive for too long, and he needed the rude awakening. He's ready to try again, and perhaps do a better job of keeping their secret rendezvous an actual secret, if only Jack will have him. He's got an open heart, and if Jack can forgive him, he'd love to let him back in.

The problem he's facing right now is that Jack is nowhere to be seen. He's walked in loops around the property and has yet to run into him— so he eventually finds himself wandering into the stables, hoping that maybe someone here might have a clue as to where Jack is at.

"Hey," he interrupts a boy about his own age who's shovelling straw into one of the stalls. "Have you seen Jack around at all today?"

The boy looks up with a confused frown.

"Jack Kelly?"

"That's the one. I need to talk to him— I've been looking all over."

The boy still looks confused, and lets out a nervous laugh.

"Oh, um... I'm sorry, sir, but Jack hasn't worked here for months. He quit in November and I haven't heard from him since."

Davey's heart sinks.

No. That's not how this was supposed to go. Davey was going to come back and Jack would be here, just like every summer. They were going to talk it out— Davey was ready to beg for forgiveness if he had to— and they'd be okay. They'd be in love, just like they were before. Jack wasn't supposed to leave— where would he even have gone?

"Do you know where he went?" Davey asks, desperate enough to startle the poor stable boy a bit. "Did he say, before he left?"

Maybe he can find him. Maybe he's not far, just working somewhere in the nearby town he'd grown up in.

"He took a train out west, as far as I know," the kid says, which only manages to crush Davey's heart even further. "He'd been wanting to go for ages, and I guess he finally had enough savings for a ticket. I figure he's probably in California or New Mexico these days."

Davey can hardly breathe. This can't be happening. He's not sure he's ever felt heartbreak before, but this is certainly as close as he's ever come. He's completely and utterly shattered.

"Oh... thank you for telling me," he says, forcing himself to keep his composure. "I'll get out of your way, then."

He doesn't wait for an answer, simply takes off back towards the house. He runs straight to his bedroom, ignoring Les's calls to come play with him and his mother shouting that he knows better than to run in the halls— he simply slams his door behind him and throws himself onto his bed. He grabs a pillow to hide his face, and he screams.

This isn't fair. He is selfish, just like Jack said, because all he wants is for that stupid boy that he loves so much to be here with him. Jack was supposed to stay and wait for him and forgive him— he had it all planned out in his head. They were going to be happy, but now Jack doesn't want him anymore and everything is ruined.

Seven months, Jack has been gone— Davey probably doesn't even cross his mind these days. He's probably brushed it all off as some failed teenage romance and found someone new to love instead. It's like he didn't even care that Davey would miss him.

He throws his pillow at the wall, and splays out on his back to stare at the ceiling.

"I hate you!" he shouts into the air, as if Jack can hear him, thousands of miles away. "I love you so much, Jack Kelly, and I hate you for it! I hope you never fall in love with anyone ever again!"

And then he throws his arms over his face and sobs, utterly broken. Everything he's read about first loves in stupid romance books must be true, because he's never, ever going to love anyone the way he's loved Jack.

#my writing #javid #jack kelly #davey jacobs #newsies fic #also!!!! theres an alternate ending that i didn't end up using but i am willing to share if there's interest!!! #it's even sadder lmao

[doomstypewriter]

abt the last ask: u dont have to include it ofc (if u write it at all) but i thought id let u know that its based on the mental image i suddenly had of j climbing up to pats window, knocking on the shutters, pat pulling him in by his lapels and immediately kissing him (if you can even call it that with how hard theyre smiling) & then sometime later pat hearing like his dads footsteps coming toward his room as theyre making out so pat scrambles off his bf & shoves him in his closet (the irony)

Anon, finally, here you have it, but with a twist. This got completely out of hand, as per usual when I write anything. Since you were so nice (/li) to send me your request in two parts, I will actually break your prompt into two parts, otherwise, it’s never going to end. I hope you’re pleased by the first part, also, I am answering to this first because it matches the content of the first part. 

Thank you so much for your lovely prompt! Hope you enjoy! 

If anyone wants to be tagged for this let me know in a comment!

AO3

Chapter 2 >>

We call it an affair because it’s a forbidden romance

Summary:  An encounter in the dark. The disdain of society. A forbidden romance. Royalty is involved and a title is at stake. Will an aspiring count, Patton Morandi and his rogue lover Janus overcome the barriers laid in front of them?

(We're in it for the drama)

---

“So long away and what I least expect is not you saving my life, but finding myself having missed your nonsense”.

“Is it nonsense when I make you smile like this?”

Word count: 3848

Pairings: Moceit, future Prinxiety.

TW:  Homophobia, internalised homophobia, deadnaming a trans person, misogyny, mentions of religion, hopelessness, ideological things you would expect from the period (I'm not sure if there's anything else, but please tell me).

Chapter 1 of 2: 

Balcony kiss

How the moonlight shone in its quiet dance with the nightly air. It was a mostly clear summer evening, the second day of the week-long festival. The sounds of music and colourful lights could be heard and seen from the distance, but gradually decreased as a certain thief made its way across the gardens of Villa Morandi. For certain, the head of the family would not be excessively happy about the entire ordeal, but no disgruntlement could come out of those things of which one has no knowledge of, and Janus surely intended to keep his entanglement a secret. 

He crossed the bushes and jumped over marble balustrades expertly, careful to avoid the lights of the servant quarters, where their residents were reading themselves for departure. 

“Signor Morandi seems to be in good spirits lately, it is fortunate that most of us can leave for the festival”. 

Any news about the man was something worth listening to, given his situation, so he decided to stay and see if they mentioned something useful. Also, he, admittedly, enjoyed gossip. 

“Loretta! Don’t be such a bragger in front of us!”

“Why? I’d say the only one lamenting not being able to go is you. You should be ashamed for dragging poor Virginia in with you to make yourself sound less self-centred”. 

Janus silently nodded. 

“That is not true! I am merely trying to make the newcomer feel welcome! And here you are making her feel excluded, who is now in the wrong?” 

Weak retort, wannabe-partygoer, he thought. 

“Va, va…” the other maid answered dismissively “Quit holding her like that! Don’t you see she’s uncomfortable?! Povera bambina”. 

“Come on Virginia, don’t you think it’s a waste for such a wrinkly woman to be let out instead of us?” 

“Who are you calling old?!” 

“You did, but now that you so kindly brought it up, you are old! Turning wrinklier by the second!” 

Alright, at this point, Janus could not help but be rooting for Loretta, going for the old card was the low-hanging fruit. 

“I may be your senior, but I promise you that regardless of that nonsense about wrinkles you’re babbling I’m ten times more fair looking!”

“Ah!” she exclaimed with feigned indignation. “Can you believe her? She’s delusional!”

“Well then, the delusional one will not search for a man at the festival, such a pity I will not be introducing anyone to you this week!”

He smiled at the comeback. Way to go, Loretta. 

“Loretta! Just because you had the luck to get engaged doesn’t give you the right to rob others of their chances. Don’t be so mean, I’ll apologise if I must”. 

“Alright, but never dare call me wrinkly again, for you will owe this old woman when I find you a husband. Virginia, I can help you too if you want it, I know plenty of young lads who would love to…” 

“Oh, no, I’m not really interested”. 

At this point Janus had quenched his thirst for amusement and begun to lose his interest, having more pressing matters to attend to. But, one new comment made him reconsider the usefulness of his eavesdropping for longer on the ladies’ conversation. 

“That’s right, Loretta, don’t you see she’s here on official duty. To suggest for her to slack off with men… ts, ts… “

“Oh, you shut up! Don’t fret, Virginia, dear, I should have remembered you were sent for an urgent matter”. 

“True, true! Tell us if you can, is it as they say? Was her ladyship done in by pirates?” 

“Elda! Such crude language, you dare call yourself a lady, how can you say something so insensitive?”

“What? You want to know as badly as I do, besides, if it is true, then there is no changing it, and if it’s not then it’s fine, as her ladyship is still alive”. 

“I’m so sorry, Virginia, just ignore her”. 

“Don’t worry. As far as I’m willing to say, her ladyship still lives but I cannot disclose any further information”. 

Oh. 

No. 

When one spies on others, bad news exists as a possibility, but, usually, in the form of getting caught. This happened to be worse. Being spotted? That he could deal with. Having his heart ripped out after one stellar month? Not so much. 

He ran. 

Not from his problems. More or less towards them. 

The marble balcony seemed as unreachable as ever. A sense of dread loomed over his thoughts, while a mix of feelings, now turned into urgency, settled in his heart. 

Raising a hand Janus willed his trustworthy companion to fall from the nightly skies. Meanwhile, he began to climb the walls of the manor. There was an undeserved elegance in his motions, not becoming of such an honourless goal, and, nevertheless, fitting for a thief like him. 

The hawk swept inside the room from a window and cast the doors to the balcony open. 

Janus promptly grabbed onto the bass of the marble balustrade. One month ago he had received news of something that would simplify his life. He knew he should not care, it was going to end poorly no matter what. But, rereading two months worth of love letters and hoping for an uncertain future, he could not help but feel happy. That made his resolve to return in time for the festival. 

From the room came a sound of rushing footsteps. 

Three months of yearning to see a face again. 

That image made Janus more desperate, and, in his haste, he committed one fatal mistake. His grip on the marble slipped. At a thirty feet height, the ground beckoned him. 

But, just when his doom seemed so certain, he was caught by the front of his cape and safely gathered against a pair of lips. 

With such smiles stretching their faces, it could barely be called a kiss. But, the intensity of the affections behind it rendered the notion meaningless. 

“My love”, Janus muttered as they parted ever so slightly. 

“You scared me, silly. I miss you for three months and when you’re returned to me I almost lose you for good”. 

“Let’s be happy you were there to catch me”. 

“Thank the Lord, and if He wills it, I will always be”. 

“I ought to be grateful to you, my dear, not the ones above” he answered while stepping to the safe side of the balcony. 

“Well, our poor feathery friend can’t be too happy about that” Patton laughed dismissively, gazing at Janus’ hawk. 

“You’re right. I neglect to show my gratitude, perhaps you could give me somewhere to start?”

“Oh, but how can I hand you my room, my sweet, the stones of the house are too heavy!” 

“So long away and what I least expect is not you saving my life, but finding myself having missed your nonsense”. 

“Is it nonsense when I make you smile like this?” 

Janus laughed in delight. 

“Let me make you smile in turn, then”, he said, whilst extending his hand. 

The touch of Patton’s palm felt like a warm pressure through the barrier of his leather gloves. Perhaps all of his interactions were as imperfect as their naked hands not being able to meet. Janus’ fake gallantry, their hopes, may be short-lived in the face of change. But, for now, he would rather enjoy pretending. 

He pulled Patton to the inside of the alcove. 

“Are you refined now?” Patton laughed. 

“Of course, I have always been. Whatever could lead you to ask such a question? If I were to be a thief, which I am not, I would be the most honourable”. 

There was a certain amount of delight to be found in catching his lover in the midst of changing into his night robes, judging by those being laid out onto the bed’s ostentatious covers. Despite such a degree of luxury surrounding Patton, he still refused to task any servant to dress him. What was there not to love about the man? 

Patton made a motion as if to hold his hands, only to surprise him by pulling his gloves off. Any other person, and it would have been a display of sensuality, coming from him, it was like movement turned into honey, perhaps a mixture of both. Indeed, there was everything to love about him. 

Maybe not all. Janus dreaded to admit how deep in he had allowed himself to be for this man. 

A fool for a good man. 

His hands felt the light night coldness in their grip on the linen shirt. Janus almost wanted to chastise himself as the thought of kissing away the kiss of the midnight breeze came to mind. He hid in the curve of Patton’s neck, sliding his lips along it, feeling like a coward whispering a lie. Countless lies. Telling himself this was enough, that he could bear the thought of this man taken away from him by a woman, that the thrill in this forbidden form of vice was not his worry taking yet another disguise. 

“Oh, you’re a thief alright”. 

“Is there something of yours I happen to have taken?” Janus retorted with a vague tone of amusement. 

Patton cradled his left cheek in a firm request to see his face. Who was Janus to deny him? 

“You know all too well you have”. 

Oh. 

“Well, that would make two of us”. 

Patton’s expression melted into more honey. It always made Janus unsure as to whether he had made a mistake, no matter how unfounded the doubt was. 

“Thank you” the words rebounded in proximity against the other’s lips. Janus didn’t know Patton could also be cruel. 

“A little sincerity never hurt anyone”. 

“You are not anyone” he smiled softly. 

“Then make the pain up to me”.  

Both their lips made contact like a wax seal on a letter. Janus pushed Patton against a low piece of furniture. From how the other fumbled, he could tell a corner was pressing against him. Despite the sting, Patton still committed himself to their affections. If that wasn’t a metaphor for their relationship Janus didn’t know what it was. Janus knew Patton would disagree, of course. 

It seemed that exchanging one piece of furniture for another, the bed, would not be possible. Someone was knocking on the door. 

“Janus…” Patton panicked in a hushed voice.

“Not a problem, my dear, this is my speciality” he smiled at him. 

Janus’ feet almost flew over the carpet, muffled by the Persian fibres and his expertise on avoiding the parts of the floor that creaked. He turned the key of Patton’s wardrobe without the distinctive noise most people couldn’t avoid. Luckily for them, he wasn’t most people. The door mysteriously closed itself from the inside. Janus could swear to hear Patton draw a breath in wonder as to how he had done it. 

“My son, let me in!” a voice came from the corridor. 

“On my way, father”. 

The mule-like bray of the alcove’s door hinges Janus detested preceded the sound of a set of footsteps he knew and loathed just as well, if not more.

“Were you reading yourself for bed? Ah, do not answer, I can already see your night robes over there. How many times need I tell you, call the servants to dress you, it is unbecoming that you do not. Moreso with the status you are to acquire”. 

Janus almost scoffed upon hearing it.

It wasn’t that Janus outright looked down on Signor Morandi. He certainly held an admirable reputation and an even more admirable wealth. He contributed to the church, upheld his honour, was a patron to a few talented artists and did everything expected from someone of his status. By societal definition, he was an outstanding man. But, he could never understand Patton. Yes, Patton’s behaviour in public also stood to scrutiny. He was a young man to be admired, for sure. Yet, it somehow mismatched any other person’s strive for reputability. Patton lacked this performative quality, eagerness, if you will, that he found time and time again in people. 

At first, Janus struggled to comprehend it. Everyone had desires outside of the strictly polite, they either pretended they didn’t or tried to hide it, that’s why they paid the church, after all. Janus didn’t believe people made an effort to actively align with the global canon for morality, just to look like it or deceive themselves. This theory on society made it so when he met Patton he simply dismissed him as a try-hard, later to relabel him as self-deceiving. Maybe he was a victim of his own biased cynicism. 

As they grew closer, he started to get the whole picture. To his surprise, Patton tried to get his desires to align with what he perceived as morally correct, sometimes failing miserably. Janus’ presence in his room didn’t qualify as a success by society’s criteria... Patton’s effort to be ‘good’ did not come from a place of wishing to be perceived as such. Patton didn’t want to look good, he needed to be good. A good man. The realisation was hard to process but true. 

Once he understood that, Janus could not let go. It stands to reason that, if that kind of person were to earn his affection, someone like his father would awaken his spite. Signor Morandi had simply never made an effort to understand his son’s motivations, unlike Janus. If he was a cynic, Patton was a victim to his own good intentions. 

“I do not understand”. 

“Lady Renata Regio is alive”. 

“Oh”. 

“Yes, it is most fortunate, you will no longer have to stay inside and miss the festival”. 

“Well, father, I am not sure if that is appropriate, her ladyship must be feeling poorly after such a horrid experience. Perhaps it is best if I stay in and promptly send a letter to help soothe her”. 

“Patton, it honours you to be willing to put the weak’s suffering before yours, but it is not needed in this case. You do not have to concern yourself with her. I am afraid that she is safe and sound on the account of having planned her own kidnapping. Lady Renata Regio has joined the pirates bringing disgrace upon her family, the wretched woman”. 

Yes! Janus thought. Neither the wardrobe nor the entire room could contain his joy at hearing it. 

“That is most unfortunate, should I reassure her family that I do not hold any resentment towards them?” 

“It would be no good, there is going to be a scandal!” Signor Morandi sounded too happy. 

Janus could not help but to smile a little.

“Are we going to pursue any retaliation?” Janus almost saw Patton shudder in the tone he used. “I do not think it necessary, it is a matter of marriage, although important, there are many other options that--” 

“Yes, there are many other women to pursue, that is the spirit! In said spirits, I must inform you of the most wonderful news I have just received”. 

What? 

“Today a trusted servant from the Regio estate arrived at our home”. 

“Yes, Virginia Fusco”, of course, Patton knew her name. “I personally received her, she refused to tell me exactly why she was sent here, also insisted to wait to talk to you”. 

“Precisely, well, it turns out she is the personal servant of Lady Romina Regio”. 

“The eldest of the twin daughters of the Regio?” 

“Indeed. Let me be frank with you son, the Regio know they cannot keep the true actions of their lesser daughter hidden forever, a rumour is meant to surface eventually. This is very unfortunate for them, I have heard they were planning to match Lady Romina with a higher member of the nobility. Her sister’s actions have ruined her chances, it is unlikely that whoever was to marry her will accept such a union. My son, you know I always have your best interests in mind, Lady Renata Regio was a fine choice to provide you with connections to nobility. In turn, her family would have got access to our wealth, which, after their losses in the war, they need”. 

Oh no. 

“This being the circumstances, they have to choose how to align themselves in the future and what would be more advantageous to the family”. 

“Shit” Janus said under his breath. 

“We are about to reach an agreement for a marriage between Lady Romina Regio and you. I need you to understand that, if you are to accept, you will have to face some troubles, at least initially. The rumours about Lady Renata’s motivations may taint your reputation for a short while and the Regio’s rush to marry off Lady Romina will raise more rumours”. 

“What choice would please you the most?” 

“Oh, Patton, you idiot”. 

“The union could make your child a count, you could potentially obtain a title depending on how we negotiate with the family. It is my wish that you accept this marriage”. 

“Will this bring honour to our family?” 

“Certainly”. 

“Then…” an air of doubt went through Patton’s voice. 

Janus was debating whether or not to burst out of the closet, either to tell him to refuse or to scold him for not accepting immediately what was probably the best opportunity of his life. 

“Of course I will accept”. 

“You make me very happy and proud, my son. I will meet with the servant girl to send her back with a letter requesting to meet with Lord Regio”. 

The words were spoken carelessly. Signor Morandi often did that around his son, not knowing how many times he had been overheard by him. He may be a great man by society’s standards, but he could never be a good man. 

Janus slumped against the back of the wardrobe, surrounded by pieces of clothing he could never afford. There was a world in which Patton had refused. But Patton hadn’t been left a real choice, so he could find some comfort in knowing this thing between the two had to end due to him being backed into a corner. Better than having Patton’s morals come between them. That, he would never reconcile with. 

This was better than before. Being cast away for something as mundane as marriage, no matter the useful connections involved, was one thing, being left for a countess, well, if that’s what it took to refuse him he wouldn’t complain too much. 

He would have preferred a marchioness or a duchess. 

He would have preferred to be the only thing standing in between Patton and kingship and still win. 

He would definitely prefer it if Signor Morandi was to accidentally fall down a flight of stairs on his way to writing his pesky letter. 

There was nothing like a fire to persuade someone, even a countess… 

But Patton would be upset. 

His hawk screeched from the roofs above. Then footsteps rushed to his side, followed by candlelight flooding the inside of the closet. 

Patton had no right to look so humble yet so marvellous. Not even the warmth of the flame could rival with that of his gaze. A gaze that was his’, not of any countess. But, still, a gaze that deserved to become a count. 

“Janus…” 

Honey clogging up his ears, that was the shape of a whisper. 

“I suppose”, he shook off the dust of his cape and held his head up with dignity, “this is when we part. I’d love to say it’s a pity, but we saw it coming. Guess it was nice to enjoy it while it lasted. I’m always a letter away, my dear, that countess of yours wouldn’t ever find out”.

This was the bitter taste of selflessness. He never understood how Patton enjoyed it. 

Janus turned around, ready to make his merry way out of Villa Morandi or fall off the balcony properly this time. Suddenly, Patton’s armed chained the two of them to their spot in the room. Patton’s chest heaved pitifully in a mockery of a hiccup. 

“I’m sorry. What was I supposed to do? There was no other choice. I didn’t wish to upset you. Please--” 

“What do you think you’re doing?” 

He promptly let him go. 

“I…”

Janus turned back to face him.

“You think crying will make this easier? Do you seriously think I enjoy this? I would gladly rob you of everything and have you entirely to myself. It is taking so much self-restraint to not get your father into a tragic accident, my dear. If anything, you’re making it worse by crying. I am doing this for you. Don’t you dare ruin the one honourable thing I will do in my life”. 

“How can I pretend to be happy when you’re leaving?” 

There were sparks of light encased in his tears. Something about their ironic beauty left him even more heart-broken. 

“What am I going to do, then? I can be selfish to an extent, but I cannot take the rest of your life too. You’re being offered a title and a wife, all the things someone at your level could wish for. Don’t be more of an imbecile, keep it. It is already inappropriate for you to be seen with the likes of me, and it’s even worse with me being a man”. 

“You’ve never cared about that”. 

“But you do! Let resume, dear”, he tried to say in his most condescending voice. It didn’t sound even remotely like it. “You go to church each Sunday, you have five bibles just in this room and the most sincere good-samaritan complex I have ever seen. I know you can’t bear to live in sin”. 

“I can’t bear to live without you either!”

Oh, Patton, you fool, silly, ridiculous man…

  “What…” he felt as if he was going crazy. 

A chuckle escaped through the spaces in between his teeth. Janus looked downwards and whispered. 

“What are you saying?” 

This self-consciousness, he had never felt anything like it before. Was he blushing? 

“I love you… I know it’s wrong, so why doesn’t it feel like it?” 

More honey. What a way for his plan to backfire.

“This is ridiculous, you should be concerning yourself with more important--” 

Patton placed the back of his hand under his jaw to raise his head with such gentleness... stupid. 

“Is it ridiculous when it’s making you cry like this?”

A compassionate man’s tears were not worth his. He had never been as sure as now that this was a mistake. Yet he longed for him more than ever. 

“Of course not” he wiped away his tears feigning some kind of dignity. 

As quickly as ever, he also pretended to regain his composure. 

“Do you have any sort of plan for what you’re going to do next? Under pressure, you’re a terrible improviser, my love”.  

“Well...I can’t let you go. I know as much. I should, for my family, father, my honour. But I will not. You’ve shown me that acting selfishly doesn’t make someone evil. I will find a way to fulfil my duty without giving you up, you have my word”.

#moceit #moceit au #background prinxiety #renaissance au #renaissance!Janus #renaissance!Patton #ts janus #Janus Sanders #sympathetic janus #ts patton #patton sanders #moceit fanfic #deceit sanders #ts deceit #tumblr ask #ask prompt #doomywrites #doomstypewriter #fem!virgil #fem!roman

[gringolet]

hi why do you ship gawain with lancelot? not trying to start shit im just curious

God so this is a true fact but I’ve been thinking about them since sophomore year of high school (i'm a college sophomore now) so this is going to be lengthy and involved. But i think Lancelot and Gawain have a really interesting dynamic as well as a lot of support in text which i think makes them compelling.

    In a lot of ways they are equals in a way neither of them is with anyone else-- they are, in the vulgate at least, the two best knights in the world, the two arthur trusts most and who are famous even among other good knights. Its almost isolating, that level of renown, and you see that Lancelot in particular is uncomfortable with it, though they both at times have stories of trying to escape their own names. Of course they would understand each other in a way no one else could.

    Despite the fact that Lancelot quite literally steals his place as number one, gawain is never resentful of this, never upset to lose to lancelot. In fact he seems very happy to sing his praises to anyone he meets, like in Lancelot and the Hart with the White Foot, where he says of lancelot that “He is the best knight alive in the entire world, and moreover the most handsome.”

    In the stanzaic morte, he tells elaine of shallot that 

“Such a leman as thou hast one,

 In all this world ne be no mo.

There is no lady of flesh ne bone

In this worlde so thrive or thro,

Though her herte were steel or stone,

That might her love holde him fro.”

Or, translated,

Such a love as you have, 

there’s no better in the world.

There is no lady of flesh or bone,

In this world so lucky or stubborn

Though her heart were steel or stone,

She could stop it  from loving him.’

In the vulgate hes constantly running after lancelot, happy to play sidekick as long as it means lancelot's company. He pretty infamously says this about lancelot:

Then Sir Gawain thought a little, like a man who believed he would never be well again. “If God were to grant me my health,” he said, “I’d immediately wish to be the most beautiful maiden in the world, happy and healthy, on condition that he would love me above all others, all his life and mine.”

I think this is really interesting because its not a devotion gawain shows to anyone else outside of his family. Hes oddly protective of lancelot, considering he can very well fend for himself usually. In the dutch hart, he literally tracks down and kills a man who hurt lancelot, before tying his body to his horse and dragging it around like achilles. He also rescues and heals him in morien, gets the whole court in a tizzy looking for him after a battle with galehaut where he spends a year searching, drags lancelots poor cousins all over looking for him after a tournament, freaks out when he goes missing in the hart (: “He lamented more grievously than anyone ever will, or had ever done before, because he thought he had lost Lancelot, the daring knight.”) like jesus gawain calm down.

He explicitly forsakes his devotion and duty to the country in favour of lancelot; in morien, hes called to take his place as king because arthur is gone, and he refuses in favour of, you guessed it, running after lancelot.  In chretien it is said that 

“Now I will tell you the truth, and you must not think I lie, that Gawain would not wish to be chosen king, unless he had Lancelot with him. “

And he lies to arthurs face multiple times in the vulgate and morte to hide lancelot's various crimes.

Speaking of crimes, theyre both uh, well. Literal serial killers. And you know its good to have hobbies in common in a relationship. No but seriously they represent a lot of the darker parts of knighthood. From lancelots bit with the proud knight in kotc to gawains… what can be only described as massacres in the dutch texts. They both have very odd relationships with death, with gawain so familiar with it by being surrounded by violence from a young age that it no longer affects him, while lancelot is almost the opposite-- its very distant to him. 

I think thats another reason i like them; theyre similar in a lot of ways but in just as many they are opposites. Gawains whole deal is being charming, manipulative, educated and good with words. Lancelot is in contrast, especially in chretien and the vulgate, at his most inept in social situations. You note that in the hart, its gawain that has to talk him out of the marriage he accidentally agreed to (“ But he does not at this time wish to marry you-- you must understand...”) etc.  while gawain is centered at court in a web of political alliances, lancelot is a fair unknown, who can and does disappear for years and generally avoid court when he can. I think they work well as a team because of this.

Lancelot certainly think so, at least in the morien: Quoth Sir Lancelot: "By the Lord who made me, and who shall be Doom's-man at the last day, come what may thereof, since Sir Gawain rideth hence 'tis not I will bide behind!”

He isnt as quotable outside of one specific scene ill get to later, and most of what he does say is in aside to himself, like the lengthy speech he gives in knight of the cart while debating to himself why gawain has failed to rescue him, and if this means gawain doesn’t love him (“He ought indeed to receive your aid whom you used to love so devotedly! For my part I may truly say that there is no lodging place or retreat on either side of the sea, where I would not have searched for you at least seven or ten years before finding you, if I knew you to be in prison. But why do I thus torment myself? You do not care for me even enough to take this trouble.”) trust me it goes on like this for quite a while. 

On a side note, i think its a bit reminiscent of a scene from the vulgate where gawain thinks that lancelot is in  love with elaine of shallot--

 “That night he thought a lot about Lancelot and said to himself that he would not have thought that Lancelot would have aspired to leave his heart in any place that was not nobler and more honourable than all others. ‘And yet,’ he said, ‘I cannot really blame him if he loves this girl… (he goes on in debate with himself)...

    That night Sir Gawain slept very little, because he was thinking of the girl and Lancelot,”

the morte specifically calls gawain the man lancelot loves most in the world, according to a prophecy of merlins. Then, the kicker: he kills gawains brothers on accident, gawain swears to kill him in revenge, and lancelot…. Refuses to kill gawain, or even to renounce love for him. When asked about the fight, he says:

 “I do not know what the outcome will be, but I do know that if I were the winner and ought to cut off his head, I should not be able to kill him for all the world, because I think he is too noble. Moreover, he is the man, out of all those in the world that have meant anything to me, that I have most loved, and still do,”

Gawain forgives him on his deathbed and writes a letter, the entirety of which i implore you to read. He begs lancelot’s forgiveness and for him to return from france and see gawains tomb, “for all the love that was betwixt us”

I think you could interpret this as a very passionate friendship, certainly, but i am gay and so i think they are too. Not only because of the texts but because of the fact that their dynamic is fun and interesting and they work well together.

Oh, and if anyone was wondering why i call them remarkable, here is another quote from the vulgate, following the first fight with gawain:

‘It is certainly remarkable of you,’ said King Bors, ‘to love him so deeply when he hates you mortally.’

‘Find it remarkable if you wish,’ replied Lancelot, ‘but he will never be able to hate me so much that I stop loving him.’

#arthuriana #gawain #lancelot #remarkable #long post #sorry i went insane on this ask #i just think.i just. i just. #Anonymous