#an array of light carriages
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forget me not — knight!satosugu x male reader
warning: mdni, porn w/ plot, royalty au, prince!reader, knight!satosugu, historical inaccuracies, two ( 2 ) smut scenes: brat!reader, spanking, dirty talk, light feminization, praise / degradation, backshots, possessiveness, jealousy, breeding, overstim, dp, oral, rimming, snowballing, eiffel tower position, mocking, unprotected sex, creampie, arranged marriage ( ment ), full nelson, sub!bottom!reader
w.c: 8.1k
.˚｡♡୨୧ ꒰ sonny says…: this took sooo long t’write but m’actually very happy with the result, hehe !! hope you guys like it too!!
There’s been a disturbance in the force. A rude, sudden awakening plastered on village bulletin boards and hammered into the story-seeking minds of money hungry journalists. The Baron’s son has gone missing.
They say it happened in the midst of the day, unexpected and all too sudden. He was left under the care of Kento Nanami— whom you’ve met a few times, and if you’re being honest. . . You wouldn’t mind taking up the man’s services while the Baron’s son is still missing.
It has nothing to do with you, frankly, seeing as you’ve never been kidnapped. You’re certainly not the Baron’s son— oh, you have much more authority than that— and you’re nowhere near as reckless as he is. Was? In fact, had you been as reckless as to take up the hobby of carriage riding, you’d have taken a butler or two with you. Not that you doubt your abilities in combat— sure, you’ve never thrown an actual punch in your life— but it shouldn’t be too hard. Whatever the status of his stolen life, it has nothing to do with you.
Until it does.
“Satoru Gojo, at your service!” The words are stolen from your mouth before they can even rise, and your hands are being enveloped in the warmth of long, pale palms. His grip is firm, albeit bouncy with vigor as he jolts your hand up and down, nearly snapping your arm clean off.
Satoru. . . Is very pretty. It’s apparent before you even take in his features. It shows in his voice, rich and sweet— you can hear the lopsided smile in it. It shows in his stature: playful yet confident, as if he’s done this a million times before. He doesn’t need good posture to tower over the masses, but he has it anyway. His blazing white hair…Now that’s an anomaly.
Taking note of your strain to wiggle free, he huffs dramatically, swatting your hand away as if it was him who wanted free. He taps a clean fingernail against his bottom lip once, then twice, and leans over to place his face directly in front of your own— increasingly taller by the second. With zero comprehension of personal space, he tilts his gaze up from your hand to your lips. His breath smells faintly of custard tarts, but it’s the smell of his expensive cologne that curves your judgment. For a moment, you consider what it’d be like— being wrapped up in his honey-smooth scent. His voice lowers to a whisper as he tilts his head, “The pleasure’s all mine.”
“You look a mess.” The voice behind him is just as smooth, rich and deep and accompanied by inky, dark hair that you’re sure is against the knightley regime. But you don’t mind it— it’s hard to, especially when it’s attached to someone so. . . beautiful. His eyes match his hair, sleek and sharp dark pools that you’re sure have maidens swooning. His earlobes are stretched, something not as common amongst those of a lower royal status, but it suits him. He’s Suguru Geto, you’ve learned— as Gojo introduces him without a thought, like they’ve known each other for years.
It’s quite evident they do, with the way the white-haired male swings a playful arm over his shoulders and a smile spreads across the brunette’s handsome face. It makes something in your stomach twist, and you’ve decided— just upon feeling it— that you don’t like it.
“He meant to say the pleasure’s ours.”
The garden is peaceful. Full of peonies and orchids, arrays of pink hues and periwinkle petals that dance in the breeze. Leaving little to the imagination sits green leaves of shrubs and berry bushes, lined up along the perimeter of the outstandingly large green-room. Gravel trails of small rocks and shiny pebbles leave a great walkway through the center of every row, bleeding into the rich soil that holds blush roses. You’d spent many sleepless nights here, bare feet digging into the pellets as you’d danced to the celebratory music of the crickets, joining fireflies in their soirée. Kissed by the setting sun, its glowing, orange-yellow rays beam down into the crisp air. You breathe in, deep and full, lungs expanding with rose seeds and baby’s breath. Running your fingertips along the dainty petals, droplets of rainwater tickle your skin. You wish you were a flower, self reliant and free. Devastatingly beautiful under every eye.
Smacked dead center of the garden is a large fountain, sculpted cherubs with gold leaking through the crevices of their wings. Baby cupid follows just behind, a smaller stream of water flowing from his bow and arrow. An extravagant spectacle that was much too flashy for your liking, but gorgeous nonetheless.
There are remnants of your childhood here, large overgrown trees that reach for the skyline holding a wooden swing, sole and lonely, worn down from the years. An unmistakably human dent in the freshly watered roses that fit you perfectly— have fit you perfectly. . . It’s yours.
Or, at least, it is now. After your mother died, you’d taken after her horticulturist nature. It was the last thing you had of her— her trees, her flowers, her soil. She planted the seeds and you nurtured the roots— just as she’d done for you. You used to imagine your life without her when she was around, so much so your throat would tighten and your vision would blur. But it never could’ve amounted to how it’d feel when it actually happened. When she was gone forever, in the midst of the night. Like she’d dissipated into thin air. She left you.
Your knees dig into the soil, a freshly installed pound of mulch to regulate the heat of the roots bound to the ground, scraped up and burning the further you kneel on its surface. You’re sure the fresh smell of grass and dirt will cling to the baby blue silk of your pajamas— especially the shorts— but you have only half the mind to care, shifting your weight ever so often as you spill your family secrets to the peonies. They’re great listeners.
The ground crackles beneath your knees, pebbles leaving behind thick remnants of dust as they’re kicked to the side beneath heavy shoes. It’s not hard to guess who it is, not when you’ve been around the same two idiots for the past several months, or so. There’s a bounce in his step, much bouncier than the other— so you know it’s Gojo.
“You’re so hard to find,” Exasperated and faintly out of breath, the high ranking knight pretends to gasp behind you. “Seriously! Like some kind of.. slippery.. snake.”
“Ugh,” You hear yourself groan, nearly planting your face into the roses to save yourself from facing the knight. “That was the point.”
The white-haired man hums, mumbling something akin to ‘pretty!’ under his breath as he crouches down on one knee beside you. The gesture makes your blood boil as much as your heart flutters, fast and hard as your shoulders inch closer and closer to your ears. Getting on his knees to face you like this. . . You’re a grown man! . . . Albeit on your knees.
Gojo sits the luminescent lantern down, appreciating the quiet sound it makes as it sinks into the gravel path. So dramatic, the moon has barely begun to show, and yet, he’s carrying around a damned lantern!
“Well,” His voice is soft and quiet, as if he’s trying not to wake the tulips. Gojo’s hand, long and thin, pushes down the strain of your shoulders and smooths them out until they’re lax and rested. “It’s time for bed! And I have to make sure you get to bed safe. You know that.”
“The sun hasn’t set yet,” You stand your ground, planting your knees further into the soil despite the jolt of pain shooting straight through them. It’s childish, really. The garden isn’t going anywhere, it’ll be here tomorrow morning, and the morning after that, and after that, and so on and so forth. But it’s your safespace, if you could sleep here you would. “What’s my schedule like tomorrow?”
You’re buying time. Satoru knows he can’t object to answering your questions, he’s legally bound to you— legally bound to answer to you. And if that wasn’t enough, he was bound by an oath of blood.
“Between you and me,” Satoru leans forward, resting his hand atop his knee. His breath tickles the shell of your ear, and smells faintly of sugar cane. “Same thing as always. I don’t know how you do it! I mean, I went to school to be appointed knight. . .”
You’d meant to distract him, but really, you ended up distracting yourself. The knight’s voice is just so smooth, warm and buttery. So you listen as he explains your schedule— breakfast, fencing lessons, fitting for a new set of outerwear, more fencing lessons, lunch— it’s all the same. It’s the small peek into his life that leaves you interested, the implication that his family was wealthy enough to send him to school. That he chose the life of chivalry.
“. .I met Suguru . .We were the strongest in our division, y’know. . .”
“Satoru?” You don’t mean to cut him off, but his recurrent rambling slowly weighs down your eyelids. You turn to sit properly, gritting your teeth as you rest on your backside and dust off your scraped knees. Dirt clings anyway.
It’s clear the knight notices, but he doesn’t make an effort to say anything. Instead, he chirps in acknowledgment to your upcoming question, raising his pale hands to lightly dust away the remaining soil. He’ll have to inform someone of the infirmary division about it after you're safely asleep in bed.
“Can we— I want to sleep here tonight.” His face noticeably contorts, dimples creasing his pale, but still rosy, cheeks as he furrows his eyebrows in thought.
“Knew you’d say that,” You nearly crash straight forward into the pale man’s chest, surprise etched across your features as Suguru’s voice rings behind you. How long had he been there? The trail crunches beneath his feet, slowly growing quiet as he stops adjacent to you and Gojo. He’s holding a quilt in his hands, sturdy and warm and large, accompanied by one of your expensive silk pillows in contrast to their strung together, straw cushions. “You took my lantern, Satoru.”
“Guilty!” The other responds, as if it were a question and not a proclamation of war— courtesy of Suguru.
If the three of you end up sleeping under the stars tonight, you only have half the heart to complain.
Tomorrow comes easy.
Though you suppose, that makes it today. You were left to your own devices, having clothed and groomed yourself accordingly. Your fencing uniform wasn’t entirely traditional, though it wasn’t as if you were doing traditional fencing in the first place. Satoru and Suguru preferred swordsmanship, the art of wielding and yielding a sword against their opponent. And, sure, fighting one against two wasn’t exactly fair, but it was realistic.
Or that’s what you tell yourself to get through it.
Satoru is relentless. The man looks like he’d fall apart after being struck with a particularly heavy gust of wind, but he’s sturdier than he looks. His lean nature only adds to his agility, and going against him is like learning to walk on your feet for the first time all over again.
“Don't think I’ll go easy on you just because you’re my favorite student.” You’re his only student, you want to add, but you’re too busy dodging his sparkling blade.
You haven’t been given the pleasure of using a real one, not like Geto and Gojo do, you’re stuck with a pathetic excuse of a wooden sword. It’s kiddie and cheap in your hand, almost as if you’re holding some sort of toy, but the two insist it’s for your safety. The two are masters at their craft, nothing but the best for the prince—you suppose—they have yet to knick you with their blades.
“Or because you’re the handsomest,” His smile is smug, watching your eyes widen by the centimeter. “Isn’t that right?” It’s accompanied by a grunt, whether it’s frustration or flustered, it certainly has you wound up enough to send a wooden jab straight to his abdomen.
“Atta boy!” He chirps, charging forward to knock you over with a strong, hearty embrace. He’s warm, much thicker and plush than his training garments let on. Suguru pushes him away with a blunt elbow to the ribs, a chuckle parting his pink lips when the man scrambles to shield his side.
“Speak to me like I’m some sort of pet again and my father will have your head.” You grunt, though it’d be idiotic to say you don’t miss the warmth of his body.
That gets an unrestrained laugh out of Suguru, but it dies down before you can truly appreciate it, “My turn.” The air thickens with intensity, and suddenly the wooden sword in your hand is a brick.
“Aw, c’mon! But I’m so hungry,” Gojo’s back just as fast as he leaves, jumping on the two of you with the entirety of his mass. “Don’t tell me you want to pass up soba!”
The weight of Satoru’s body has all three of you toppling over, limbs wrapped around each other as you tumble down the small hill. Blades of grass tickle your back, through your clothing, but your face is protected by the cushiony warmth of Suguru’s chest. He cradles your head the whole way down with one hand, the other wrapped around Satoru’s waist.
You’re sandwiched between them, one heart beat for each ear as your eyes slowly crack open. Their cheeks are dusted a rosy shade of pink, featherlight and sweet as it seeps into the apples of their cheeks and travels up their cheekbones, and back to their lips. Kissable, biteable, your lips can’t help but part as you gaze at them.
There are warm palms pressing into your wrists besides your lack of resistance, and you can’t argue until it’s too late. Warm, your face prickles as a pair of lips press into the fleshiness of your cheeks. Soft like pillows and smooth like silk, it’s a tender kiss to both cheeks that you can barely register. It must look silly, you’re certain, being pinned to another while both press a ginger, heat-of-the-moment kiss to your cheeks.
(It’s scandalous to be caught kissing before marriage, let alone with your knights. But you’re to be crowned soon, and you never liked listening to your father anyway.)
So you can’t help but smile, lips upturned as a hearty, genuine laugh floats into the air and bursts like a freshly blown bubble. Just as transparent— you’re truly happy. This is yours.
They are yours.
You feel cold just from hearing it. The cool breeze of spring beating against the glass door separating your bedroom from your balcony. Large, sculpted and plated in gold handles that glint under your bedside lampshade. Rubbing the sleep from your eyes with balled up fists, you’re quick to scramble out of bed. You slip off your thick blankets in favor of your robe, slipping your arms through the thin material that, really, doesn’t do much to aid your skin from the bitter cold that comes hand in hand with the midnight sky. You venture onward nonetheless, dragging the sheer, lace material behind you as you open the double doors with a quiet grunt.
“C’mon, don’t listen to him!” It’s Gojo, you can tell, the nervous smile in his voice is apparent. It echoes against the tall walls, loud and clear in comparison to the singing crickets and cicadas.
The silky tremor of his voice makes your shoulders relax in an instant, and you can’t help but peek over the sculpted balcony. The flooring is cement but the railings are cold metal, bent into flowery shapes and spiraling coils. You press your palms into the metal, leaning forward until the cold railing is pressed against your stomach.
Satoru stuffs his hands into his pockets, visibly deflating as he shakes his head. It’s hard to see his face from the angle you’re at, but you can tell his glossy lips are pulled into a tight lipped frown.
“I’m the Prince’s personal knight, all have you know!” He raises an accusatory finger toward the balcony at which you stand, and you nearly fall over when he lifts his blue-eyed gaze to meet your own. “Look! Look!”
You feel yourself leaning forward, chasing after Gojo’s dimpled smile until you’re falling fast and hard, but there’s a firm hand gripping the nape of your neck to prevent you from doing so. You nearly jump out of your skin, balling your hands into tight fists in preparation to swing, but the large hand is familiar. Warm, inviting, stern.
Suguru.
His long hair flows with the wind, blending into the inky black sky as he looks down at you through the bridge of his nose. Suguru is the scariest of the two, albeit just as goofy and sugar packed as Satoru, with narrowed eyes and knowing smirk. He’s always first to set things straight, and it’s as simple as a disapproving hum or shake of his head.
“Warn me next time,” Your voice crackles with disuse, but you swat away his guiding hand to emphasize your seriousness. Geto raises an eyebrow, his lips curling into a smile. “I wasn’t scared.”
“Yeah?” He doesn’t sound all that convinced.
“Not of you anyway. For you,” You clear your throat, watching Geto stalk over to the edge of the railing. “. . .Since I’ve been training. I could’ve…Y’know, really knocked you out.”
You neglect to acknowledge that you’ve been training with him and Satoru, that they’re the reason why you know what you do.
“Right.” The stifled laugh in his voice is evident, but Suguru doesn’t bother arguing with the statement. His eyes have traveled to the box in Satoru’s pretty hands, wrapped in silky paper and tied together with a bow. Small enough to fit in his pocket, he must have fished for it when you weren’t looking. You don’t get to inspect it for long, as he’s being ushered back in before your eyes can really make-out the shape of whatever’s packaged inside.
When you see Satoru again, inside the castle this time— in your very own bedroom, he looks just as good as the day he’d left you. Though his expression is twisted— confusion (toward you) and agitation (toward Geto)—he continues to get you into your actual pajamas, laughing away the embarrassment of stripping you of your garments.
While he discards your shirt, Geto undoes your shorts from behind, eyes dancing down your thighs, your legs, your ankles, to the floor. Where your robe sits, pooling around your feet. Your back is caged against Suguru’s front, his chest pressing up against you as he leans down to press his chin into your shoulder. Warm and big, his arms snake around your waist as Satoru’s long, skinny fingers trail down your bare shoulders, your chest, your navel. . . back up.
Squirming in his hold, Satoru’s fingers circle around your nipples, watching as they harden and stiffen. Cute, soft sounds leave your lips and your head falls forward, lashes fluttering as your back slightly arches.
“I’m to be married next month,” You blurt it out before you can catch yourself, swallowing the lump in your throat as the air chills with silence. It’s thick, frozen like ice and prickles at your skin. “There’s— We’ll be holding a ball for it, and you two will come with me for my suit-fitting.” Suguru’s grip around your waist tightens, and Satoru finds himself rolling and pinching your sensitive buds with more aggression.
“Why?” It falls flat on Gojo’s heavy tongue, and Geto seems too busy burying his face in your neck to ask further questions.
“Guaranteed protection,” Your shoulders stiffen, Suguru pressing his thickening cock against your ass with a grunt of disapproval. Satoru’s face darkens, in a way that’s reserved and scary, like you’ve insulted him and his entire bloodline. “You two are. . . unfit.”
“Unfit.” It’s spoken in unison, steely and hard in a way that has your knees wobbling. You’re lucky to be between them, leaning against them for support as Suguru’s teeth sink into your shoulder. His gaze flickers upward, straight to Satoru, and before you know it, they’re pushing you into your soft bed.
“Ow!” You hiss, hands shooting to cover the area Suguru’s palm crashes against. “The fuck are you doing?!” Heat blooms beneath your fingers, but you’re not able to cover your ass for long, because Satoru’s pulling at your wrists and properly positioning your backside upward. His grip is strong, nearly bruising, as he manhandles you over both their laps and pushes your underwear to the side, fully exposing your ass.
“What your father couldn’t,” Is all you get in return, squirming and thrashing in their strong grip as Geto’s big hand strikes your ass. Your hips twitch and jolt, grinding against a hard knee that has whimpers rising in your throat. You can’t help it, they sound so good when they’re angry, so deep and gravelly. It makes you want to present, to spread your legs and stick out your tongue for their use. “It’s about time you learned some actual manners, boy.”
Satoru’s thumb rubs circles into your cheek as he coos, pretty lips parted and wet— eyelids heavy and his gaze dark as he smiles, “Goin’ floaty on us already?”
You feel your eyebrows furrow, a simple and sweet ‘shut up’ dying out on your tongue and cut short when Suguru spreads the globes of your ass with his fingertips, watching the plush skin spill and swell between his fingers. Your hole is so small, pretty and sweet as it twitches in contact with the cold air. He wants to run his tongue along it, feel it clench and pulse around his tongue until you’re crying on it, rocking your hips and pulling at his hair to feel it deeper.
“C’mere,” It’s not a request, not with the way you’re being dragged closer to the brunette. His nails dig into your soft skin, squeezing and groping until it starts to hurt, but in a way that has your voice squeaky and shaky. Satoru’s there the whole time, his hand wandering down to your throat. “ ‘Getting married’…’unfit’. . .Tch, that’s funny.”
Your breath catches in your throat, eyes widening as Gojo’s hand tightens around your throat, emphasizing Geto’s words. Your moans are strangled and tight, vision hazy around the edges as the sides of your neck are squeezed. He keeps contact with you the entire time, cerulean eyes intense and deep. You can’t help but rut your hips, pressing your front against the surface of Suguru’s thigh again and again as he lets out a series of smacks against each cheek of your ass.
“You’re not—” You whine, rolling your hips as Suguru’s fingers tap at your hole in warning, watching the cute muscle twitch. Cute, winking back at him and slick with spit. It sticks to his fingers, wet and sloppy “You’re not the boss of me!”
“Waah, waah, ‘you’re not the boss of me!’,” Satoru laughs, tacking on a nasally, prissy voice that rings in your ears and has heat pooling in your stomach. It’s hard to hide the embarrassment in your face, the twitch of your brows as you grit your teeth and roll your eyes— but it’s not like you can keep up the facade. Suguru delivers a particularly harsh slap to your sitspots, enough to make your breath stutter as tears well in your eyes.
“Geto—”
“Suguru.”
“Suguru, stop…!” You kick your legs, scrambling under their strong grip until they share a growl, rumbly and deep and demanding. It’s Gojo’s turn to paw at your ass now, squeezing the flesh as it spills between each finger and circling a slick (when did he grab lube?) digit over the sensitive, winking muscle of your rim.
His fingers slip into the mushy, warm heat with little resistance, and your face lights ablaze when the two groan at the sight, “Don’t tell me you’ve been givin’ our greedy hole attention without us?”
Theirs. Yes— you suppose— in a way it’s theirs. Strictly theirs, with the sleepless nights they’ve spent burying the thickness of their cocks deep inside, pumping one load after another deep inside so it’d really stick. Enough to feel them for days, leaking down your thighs when your needy fingers don’t stuff you a full.
You don’t have time to answer, gurgling over the moans caught in your throat as Gojo’s long fingers twist and stretch you out. You're wrapped up between them, the thickness of their bodies pressing against you as you buck your hips into nothing in particular. Satoru's long fingers feel slick with spit, only moistening as he drools down your crack. Spit falls from his tongue, slow and thick, pooling around your rim before he rubs it deeper in with his knuckles. It’s too much, tears spilling from your eyes as you whine, “S’deep, ‘Toru, go slow—”
“Oh, my prince, are you alright?” Suguru sounds almost smug, muscles in his forearm rippling as he readjusts himself in bed. His thick legs spread wide, clearly comfortable and relaxed. He has an obvious dickprint through his pants, almost shameless as your eyes pan up and down his body. “Do you need saving?”
You sniffle, wet and pathetic as you shake your head, wriggling so rest your face against your pillows, silky smooth as you soothe the burning in your cheeks. There’s a shared tutt behind you, not at all frustrated, but it has you blinking away the tears nonetheless. It goes in vain, peeking back from your shoulder you can see the two knights inching closer, their breaths fanning over your throbbing, aching hole until they share a fat lick, pink tongue lapping up at the lube and spit keeping you slick.
“I think he does, Suguru.”
Your cock leaps.
“It’s too bad we’re deemed unfit, Satoru.”
You’re greedy— and you know it. But once you’ve had both you can’t go back, not when their tongues fight to inch deeper and deeper inside your slutty hole, slick and wet and warm, impossibly deep in a way that has your toes curling and back arching. They eat you out like they’re starving, moaning vibratos through your skin until you're sobbing into your pillow. Even from here, you can feel drool and spit dripping from your sopping hole, past their chins and onto the silk sheets.
Your hands find themselves in their hair, curling into fists around soft bundles of locks as you push their faces in deeper, mewling. You can feel hot, open-mouthed kisses between each swirl and lick of their tongues, and it’s enough to make you squeal.
“M’gonna cum, gonna cum, wait—”
“No. This dick doesn’t get t’fuckin’ come unless it’s on our cocks, you hear me, Princey?” You can’t tell who’s talking— your brain is full of cotton and fog. Just like you can’t tell if you’re nodding or shaking your head, too busy focusing on the emptiness of your hole and tightening of your balls.
“No!” You hiss, trying your best to kick your feet despite the strong grip holding your thighs still. And, fuck, if you’re not a whitney mess. It’s just so good, the lewd sounds of them slurping at your hole and moaning into it, the messy sounds of their mouths on “It’s— M’so. . . achy, wanna cum! Please, Sugu? ‘Toru?”
“Alright.” It’s Gojo speaking, you can tell, because he’s got this saccharine lilt to his voice that makes your lashes flutter and heart skip. He’s moving— or moved, rather— seeing as he’s back to cupping your face with his big, pale hands. You let out a sigh of relief, shoulders drooping as you shimmy to palm at your cock, slick and weeping with pre. You’re sure your sheets are ruined.
“Aht, aht, aht!” Satoru chirps, and your heart plummets as your hand flinches away from your needy, dripping cock. He doesn’t look much better, pink fanning his cheeks as he looks down at you with heavy lids, lips shiny with spit that dribbles down his chin. From his angle his cock presses against your cheek, thick and throbbing as a patch of wetness grows through the fabric of his pants. Saliva pools in your mouth.
“We said you can cum,” It’s Suguru now, with a throaty voice that’s muffled as he keeps his tongue nestled in your warmth. He could sit there for hours. “Not when or how.”
Fuck. Them. Your whines are open-mouthed and pathetic, the perfect opportunity for Gojo to slip his pretty cock into your mouth and down the tight heat of your throat. Yeah, it’s tight, bulging around his cock as drool and spit spills from the seams of your lips and bubbles and froths around his balls and shaft. It’s tighter when he buries his cock to the hilt, pressing your nose into his crystal white pubes until you’re gagging for it.
There’s a particular vein by the underside of his shaft, pulsing and throbbing on your sloppy, wet tongue the more he uses your mouth, fast and rough like you’re nothing but a toy, just with extra steps and a few snarky remarks. He’s really shut you up now, his long cock leaving a bulge behind in your throat as he fills it with salty, bitter precum. His cock is heavy.
“Fuck,” Behind you shifts Geto, who frees his cock with the zip of his fly and the pop! of a bottle. They must’ve swapped before moving, you can hear the slick squelch of warm lube sliding along the length of his pretty dick, wet and loud as he eagerly thumbs his slit. You wish you could really see it, the veins in his hands pulsing as he squeezes his shaft, obscenely pulsing and weeping in his palm. “You’re so soft and warm. Gonna fuck this cute little hole full, till your sweet boycunt’s fucked stupid.”
You and your knights share a groan, loud and obscene as Suguru’s cock stretches your hole open. He’s so big, fucking you full until you feel it in your tummy. Your toes curl deliciously, vision hazy and white as you blink back tears. His fingers, his tongue, his spit, his cock. . . It’s all too good, too skilled and perfect as it angles just right into that special, sensitive bundle of nerves. He’s so deep, sliding in with ease as your puffy hole swallows him in full.
“Look at that,” He’s rambling now, slamming his balls against your thighs as he watches his cock disappear inside. Your hole clamps down around him, convulsing and spasming along his shaft just enough to make wet, sticky sounds. “Took me in so easy, so messy. . . Sure you’re not better suited to be free-use stress relief for the people than their prince? Take what we give you and say thank you, Princey.”
“Thmmph. . .” You can’t speak with a mouthful of cock, and your eyes roll back, stuffed to the brim from both sides. Suguru’s thrusts bounce you forward, whereas Satoru’s pulls you back. You can’t think like this, full and fucked stupid as you hollow out your cheeks with hot pants and wiggle your hips. You really are easy.
“S’a good boy, sugar. Don’t think, just keep fuckin’ yourself full of cock. Muuuuch sweeter this way.” It’s the vibrations that send Gojo over the edge, his head falling forward as he whines high in his throat. His balls clench and pulse against your chin, smearing more pre and spit along your face until he’s cumming, hard and without warning. It’s thick and hot, bitter and salty, as his dick throbs in your throat and slides along your tongue, like he’s milking himself with your mouth. The white-haired man uses you like a toy, keeping you still with a hand at the back of your head as he ruts and grinds his hips, moaning with each sloppy, sticky sound of your mixed fluids getting bullied by his dick.
Your nod is mindless, completely thought free as Satoru pops the pretty head of his cock in and out your wet mouth, “M’a good boy, ‘Toru.”
You can feel Suguru’s cock twitch inside you.
“That’s right! Now say ahh!” He makes an effort to stick out his tongue, slipping free from your mouth as his cum leaks around his cock and leaves behind a trail of white. It’s mostly decorating your tongue, though, thick and creamy ropes resting on the muscle and slowly cooling.
“Ah! Ahhh!” You can’t imagine how stupid you must look, staring up at Satoru with your mouth full of his cum and threatening to dribble down your chin. With the way you bounce with each deep, heavy thrust of Geto’s fat, girthy cock. But he kisses you anyway, slow and sensual as his tongue swirls the cum around in your mouth, keeping it warm and wet.
“That’s it, good boy, princeling,” Suguru moans, hips stuttering and pupils blown wide as he watches cum froth between your lips. He can’t wait anymore, snaking his arm around your waist to grip your cock and run his slick fist along it with feverish strokes, fast enough to have you wailing. His other hand grabs Satoru by the hair, white tufts in his fist as he pulls him forward and swaps his saliva for cum, still warm. “Cum on my cock, fuck it into that pretty hole while I taste ‘Toru’. Fuckin’ earn it.”
For once in your life, you don’t have to be told twice.
You take initiative, bouncing back on the long length of Suguru’s dick with tiny gasps and moans, eyes fluttering shut as he works your cock with the twist of his fist. You’re drooling, dribbling down your neck and chin and mixing with the tears rolling down your handsome face, “Pleaseplease, give it t’me!”
“Right there? Yeah? Rolling your hips, you’re a natural.” It doesn’t take much, not when Geto’s angling his hips just right and slamming into your prostate. Not when you’re watching the two kiss, swapping your spit and Satoru’s cum around like a sweet treat. Not when you’re being fucked deep, deeper than your fingers or any other toy could reach. Not when they pause for air and take the opportunity to ramble filth into your ears.
When Geto pulls out you can’t help but wail, pushing your ass back against his shaft. Though you can’t tell if it’s because you’re close or because you’re empty, but you do know thick, sticky ropes are starting to paint the expanse of your back and ass.
You’re marked territory.
The ballroom. . . Is packed, to say the least. It’s hard to see under your mask, the eye cutouts just barely cutting off into your porcelain mask before your pupils. There’s a distinct flash of gowns, all in many different shades— periwinkle, mauve, violet, ice—glittering and gleaming beneath the candle lit chandeliers. You suppose you look no different, the material of your intricately sewn and handcrafted suit looks jaw dropping in the limelight. Golden stitches and embroidery along the pattern of your suit, draped in lace ruffles to keep you warm. Though you’re already burning from the inside out, blazing with nervousness as your trembling legs carry you into the hall.
There’s a long, intricate table that holds just as intricate gifts and snacks— custards, cookies, cakes— chocolate covered strawberries. They remind you of your knights in a way, they’ve always tasted similar. Though you suppose it’s because they’ve shared more than a couple kisses in their lifetime. Whatever the matter, you expect them to have been gone by now, with Satoru’s sweet tooth and Suguru’s unpredictable appetite.
Everyone knows who you are, but it’s hard for you to pinpoint the others in the room. Your father sits on his throne, ridiculously large and cushiony as he oversees the ballroom. It’s gorgeous, admittedly, flashy and beaming with wealth and pride. Your nervous eyes wander, scouring over the smiling, lipstick stained faces until your eyes settle on your knights, who remain glued to the exits with only half a mask covering their faces. Their suits almost match yours, less intricate and not nearly as vibrant or high quality, but the implication that you’re sharing something is enough.
Suguru stands with his arms crossed, looking intimidatingly sharp as ever, eyes narrowed and lips pulled into a flat line. His hair is in a bun, and when he turns you can see the diamonds adorning the clip holding it all in place. Handsome as always, you’re turning on your heels to face him before you know it.
Satoru is all legs, standing absurdly tall in his fitted suit. His tie is a striking shade of blue, just like his eyes, and you remember having picked it out specially for him. You can’t help but smile, floating in his general direction as soon as your eyes land on him, but. . .
“His Highness,” Your vision is obstructed for the millionth time tonight, and you can’t help the growl threatening to rip through your throat. “Could I introduce you to my daughter? Really, she’s a sweetheart, and—”
“Sorry to cut this short,” The agitation leaves your body, and glancing back up to where your knights once resided, you find the spots empty. They’re behind you, stealthy as ever, and you can’t help the smile etching away at your features. “We have very. . . important matters to discuss with our prince.”
Subtle as ever, Suguru.
You’re sure he’s glaring daggers into the women in front of you, arms crossed and biceps bulging as he pulls them apart with his eyes— dissects them to their bare essentials, leaves them feeling uncomfortable in their own skin.
There’s a hand atop yours that doesn’t belong to your knights, instead it’s much smaller and not nearly as warm. Your fingers twitch, and your smile falters just slightly as the woman’s daughter presses onward. Nearly tripping over his glass heels, her face swims through your vision until you’re backing up into the solid chest of— Satoru? It must be, it’s still soft despite the solidity, and you can see Suguru’s inky black hair in your peripherals.
“My Majesty—”
“That’s enough,” It’s straight venom, and the choice of tone reminds you of that fateful night your knights spent making sure you knew just who owned you. “Hands off.”
Their arms loop around your own, strong and firm as they pull you away. You’re thankful for the loud music, symphonies and harps dancing in the air that cover the sound of slamming doors and frantic, high pitched apologies. Your damned knights, so possessive and jealous. They know what this ball was meant for, and yet. . .
And yet they’re stripping you naked, ripping the mask free from their faces as they corners you against a wall. The party is almost as loud as it’d be had you stood in the center of the ballroom, just muffled by the locked doors Suguru kept secured with the sheath of his sword. You don’t have much time, and for once the two are happy you’d spent the previous night fucking yourself silly on your fingers, because they’ve got one goal in mind.
Marking their territory.
You’re not sure what this position is— but it makes you feel full and properly owned. Gojo's strong arms looped around the back of your knees as he holds you open on display. Suguru looks ravenous. eyes dark and steely as he watches Gojo’s cock pulse and twitch against your hole.
“S’is our fuckhole,” Satoru smiles down at you, feral and manic as he buries himself to the hilt inside you, his balls slapping against the curve of your ass. He doesn’t seem eager to stop, lifting you off his cock and chasing that feeling of you clamping down on him— even when you’re almost too sensitive to take it. Even when you’ve barely adjusted to the stretch of his fat dick, fluttering and wailing around his pretty, veiny shaft. “Our job. . . our job, takin’ care of our boy’s pussy.”
“Think about this, boy,” Suguru groans, deep and rumbly in his throat as you’re made to watch him fist his slippery, squelching cock. “Whenever someone tries to court you. You’re owned. Your holes are owned.” He grips his cock tight, thumbing the slit and smearing precum all over the head as your own bounces along your tummy. Precum dribbles along the lace embroidery of your unbuttoned undershirt, ruining the bunched up fabric. He can’t help but jerk off watching the two of you, heavy pants leaving his lips as he fucks up into his fist, twisting his fist the closer it gets to the gland of his cock, slipping and sliding as he uses his own hand. Yours are much softer, less calloused, but you’re preoccupied. You’d have to use both hands anyway, struggling to wrap them around his cock.
“Whose are you?” And, oh, that’s an easy question. Gojo’s voice is so loud in your ear, even as you eagerly bounce on and off his cock like a sex doll.
“Yours, m’yours, belong t’you!” He makes a pleased sound in the back of his throat, groans and pants joining your moans when he speeds up, his slow and deep strokes becoming fast and hollow, pounding that sensitive spot deep inside you over and over and over. You’re fucked-out and borderline crosseyed as he pounds his dick into you, keeps you steady with his fingers locked behind your head. A string of precum connects you together, pooling at your ass and Satoru’s balls, and his hips crash down, yours convulsing upward to meet him halfway.
“Again.”
“M’yours, m’yours! ‘Toru, Sugu, m’yours! My mouth, my cock, my holes. S’yours.”
“That’s it, let me in,” He blows air out through his mouth, hot and warm as he sinks into your heat. Still tight, as if you haven’t been thoroughly fucked full of Satoru’s cock. His head falls forward, long hair falling from its bun and framing his handsome face. Your gummy walls are unmatched, and he swears he’ll blow his load if you keep squeezing down on him like this. “I know, it’s so big, just keep moaning for me, and I’ll keep pounding this hole, s’all your pretty little head can tell you to do, huh princeling?”
“Uh. . . Uh huh!”
Your crying sounds so cute, and for a moment they forget you’re a prince— not a slut. It’s pitchy in your throat and dragged out as your pretty hole eagerly takes in cock, clamping around it and sucking him deeper into your velvety walls. So good, you can’t help but rock back against it, shameless and devoid of any other thoughts as Satoru keeps his arms looped around your knees. There’s a chant of cockcockcock blaring in your head, Gojo’s cock pressed against your ass and dripping. He’d left behind thick ropes of cum, and as Suguru’s dick reaches deep inside you can hear it froth between the tiny rim of your hole and his shaft.
Your crown tips off your head, threatening to fall as you watch Satoru’s cock join alongside Suguru’s. You’ve never felt more full in your life, stretched and achy— when one pulls out the other pushes in, and you’ve got nowhere to go. The white-haired male behind you manages to grab it before it can fall, lifting your knees higher up for just a moment, and places it atop his head. You can’t protest, all you can do is drool and whine, eyes fluttering shut and hole spasming as the two take turns wearing your crown.
In a way, it’s theirs too.
“S’your favorite part, pretty!” Gojo purrs, shifting to lift your ass to and fro with each respective thrust, groaning as his shaft slides along Suguru’s veins pulsing and head weeping. He keens, high in his throat as his balls tighten for the second time tonight. You’re just too good, who’s gonna sue him for breeding you? “You get to feel our cum shoot deeeep inside! You want that, honey? To be full n’ claimed? Maybe we should walk out and show everyone how slutty you are. Those poor princesses, they have no idea the man they want likes his wet holes fucked too.”
Fuck.
“Jesus. . . Fuck, ‘Toru,” Geto groans, his balls tightening against your own as your cock spurts out rope after rope of cum, sticky and thick as it sprays along your face and unbuttoned shirt. “Never know when to shut up. Look— nngh—look at what you did.”
Satoru pulls out sloooow, and their cum gushes right out your creamy hole. They moan in unison, shaky and unstable, and the tight fit of your small hole has them both following soon after with choked up groans and whines, “Good boy, gooood boy. You take it so well.”
Your thighs shake and your throat finally gives out, your voice hoarse and tired as you squeal. You can feel each rope shoot deep inside you, thick, creamy pooling around their cocks and seeping out your puffy, used hole. Your knights huff, panting into your damp skin with sick, satisfied smiles. You’ve made a real mess of yourself— they’ve made a real mess out of you, and when you walk back into the ballroom they’re sure the smell of sex will cling to your skin. You’re claimed, thoroughly. Inside and out, and they’ll fuck you as many times as they need for others to realize it.
Satoru lets you down slowly, Suguru’s hands on your waist keeping you stable on your wobbly, jelly-like legs. Blinking away unshed tears, the two free you of your soiled garments in favor of something else, conveniently placed clothing that just happens to fit you perfectly. Had you the energy, you’d roll your eyes— they’ve planned this, in one way or another. But you don’t have the energy, not when your eyelids are heavy and drooping as you cling to their strong biceps and allow them to wipe you clean with their own sleeves.
Chivalrous as ever.
“I notified the King, my liege,” Satoru says, satirically proper as Suguru chokes on a laugh beside you. “Before leaving. Of your. . .”
“Predicament,” Suguru chimes in, the smile in his voice audible. You make an extra effort to shimmy free of their hold, face souring as they pretend they didn’t just ruin you from the inside-out. Your chest floods with warmth when they jolt forward, palms hovering over your sweaty body to catch you— just in case, “Looks like you’ll be stuck with us for the rest of the night.”
“But there’s one more thing!” Satoru scrambles to correctly zip up his pants, buttoning them back up with nimble fingers. Then, he fishes into his pockets, pulling out a small box— the one you’d seen quite some time ago— the one you’d forgotten about. Still as pristine as ever, like he’d kept it somewhere safe, he gingerly drops it into your hand.
“We got something for you,” Your eyebrows furrow. They don’t technically make money— sure, enough to keep their pockets open, but they have no need to spend it. They live with you, after all, and will continue to do so once you’re appointed king. Satoru urges you with a “shush!” before you can even speak, but you take the hint. You’re not dumb. “We couldn’t— it's not exactly a ring, but. . .”
Opening the gift— it flips open, you don’t need to unravel the bow at all— it’s a necklace. A thin, gold plated necklace with a small charm dangling from its center. The charm. . . Their coat of arms, shiny and intricate despite its small size. It glimmers in the light, sparkly like a diamond, and there are letters engraved on the flat underside of the pendant, curvy and cursive with hearts for periods. Your thumb traces the initials, the loops and curls of the letters until its shape is indented into the pad of your finger. It’s more than initials to you, it’s officiality, they are yours and you are theirs. You have the necklace to prove it, now.
‘S.G.’
If your mother were here to see this now, you’re sure she’d be jumping for joy. Happy her only child has finally found his match, has finally found something of his own. Happy her only child is marrying for love. Your father will just have to deal with it, you’ve never felt safer in your life. You don’t need a princess, you don’t need a stronger monarchy. You need your knights.
“We thought it’d suit you.” Geto finishes for his white-haired counterpart, a rosy hue painting the height of his cheeks.
It does.
#₊˚⊹♡ 𝒻𝒶𝓃𝓉𝒶𝓈𝓎 𝒶𝒷𝑜𝓊𝓉 𝓎𝑜𝓊'𝓈 𝓁𝒾𝓀𝑒 𝒶 𝑔𝑜𝓁𝒹 𝓂𝒾𝓃𝑒#jjk x y/n#jjk x male reader#jjk x reader#gojou satoru x reader#gojo satoru x reader#gojo satoru x male reader#gojo smut#gojo satoru smut#gojo satoru x you#gojo imagine#getou suguru smut#getou suguru x you#geto x reader#geto smut#getou suguru x y/n#satosugu x reader#geto x male reader#geto suguru x reader#geto suguru x y/n#geto suguru x you#getou suguru x reader#x male reader smut#x male y/n#anime x reader#anime x male reader#x bottom male reader#bottom male reader#x sub male reader#sub male reader
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Young at Heart: The Prince (Benedict Bridgerton x Reader)
Benedict Bridgerton x fem!Reader
Rated: G, the fluffiest fluff that ever fluffed
Word count: 1.6k
Masterpost
Summary: A bedtime story for the children takes an unexpected turn.
Author's Note: This beautiful idea came from none other than @angels17324 who knew exactly how Benedict would charm a lady under the guise of entertaining children. I had a lot of fun with this. 💙 Enjoy!
As punishment for their prank in the hallway, the boys were sent straight to bed after dinner and denied their usual bedtime story. They fussed and groaned as you tucked them into their small beds, closely arranged in parallel. Even though they had heeded your advice and insisted they were only following their uncle’s orders (much to Benedict’s horror, their parents’ chagrin, and everyone else’s amusement), they were being disciplined for failing to know better than to disturb the Viscount.
Thus, the following night they were clamoring for a story, bouncing in their beds until you agreed to act out one of their favorite tales. Neddy pointed you to a well-loved volume of fairy stories and you allowed the boys to push their beds together, the three of them snuggling amidst a fortress of blankets and pillows until they resembled a nest of blinking baby owls. The atmosphere was ripe for magic, with the light of a full moon bathing the room in soft shadows. Your mind was drawn to thoughts of a midnight ball and a shimmering evening of dreams come true. With a candle at your side, you settled into a chair opposite the eager faces and knew precisely which story to turn to.
The children listened with rapt attention as you relayed to them the sad origins of Ella, a kind heroine forced into a life of servitude by her wicked step family. They giggled as you adopted the whining inflection of the ugly stepsisters, and cheered as you described the array of woodland creatures who sang and danced to help Ella through her chores. Their mouths hung open as you described the transformation of a pumpkin into a carriage, mice into footmen, and rags into a sparkling gown. Performing all the characters’ voices and heightening all of the dramatic action, you led them through the story, feeling a growing sense of pride as their heads slowly began to droop and they burrowed deeper into their blankets. The shadows in the room had grown long and each boy was fighting to keep his eyes open when you reached the final scene.
“From house to house went the Prince. One young woman after another tried to put her foot into the glass slipper, but none could fit. And so the Prince moved on. At last, he came to Cinderella’s house. The first step-sister tried to place her foot in the glass slipper. She tried with all her might, but it simply would not fit. The second step-sister tried to place it on her foot but failed too. ‘Are there no other young women in the house?’ asked the Prince. That is when Cinderella stepped into the room.”
You reverted to the shrill rasp you had devised for the evil stepmother, “‘None who matter!’ hissed the stepmother.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
Startled, you nearly dropped the book as you spun to see the source of the unexpected voice from the doorway. The tall figure stepped forward and the moonlit illuminated Benedict, walking toward you with a playful smirk on his face.
As you sat frozen in confusion, he began narrating the story for you. “‘Come here,’ said the Prince, and Cinderella moved to him, sitting in a chair.” He reached your side. Even with the dark and his height, you could see the cheeky points of light in his eyes. You cast a look back at the boys to find their interest mildly piqued by the appearance of their uncle, but they were undeniably hovering on the brink of sleep, reclining back on their pillows.
“The Prince got down on one knee,” Benedict continued, his tone steady. You held your breath as he knelt to a knee beside you. He was playing the part, acting out the roles as you had.
“And he tried the glass slipper on her foot.” He raised his brow in a gentle request for permission, which you granted him with a breathless nod. Lifting your skirt just an inch, his long fingers wrapped around your ankle and he held it lightly, miming slipping a shoe over the one you already wore. He beamed up at you with that lopsided grin that made you feel knotted inside. “It fit perfectly.”
When you realized the silence between you was growing unnaturally, perhaps inappropriately long, you cleared your throat, remembering yourself. You glanced quickly down at the book in your hands. “Then, from her pocket, Cinderella took out the other glass slipper.”
Benedict never broke your gaze, his hand still warm on your ankle. “‘I knew it,’ he cried. ‘You are the one.’”
He was quiet enough that you weren’t sure if the children could hear him. But you also found that you were no longer concerned about the quality of your performance. All your mind could process was the tethering feeling of his soft grip, and the dance of light in his eyes which refused to leave yours.
Some rote part of your memory continued through with the story, though you ceased any attempt to adopt voices. “‘This cannot be!’ yelled the stepmother.”
Still grinning, Benedict concluded the tale. “But it was too late. The Prince knew that Cinderella was the one. He looked into her eyes, and he did not see the cinders in her hair or the ashes on her face. He had found the woman he loved, and they lived happily ever after.”
The silence that followed was so complete, you could hear your heart pounding in your ears. His smile, his eyes, the ease infusing everything about him, it held you under a spell. Thank goodness for Barney’s small but dramatic yawn which snapped both of your attention back to the children. Benedict carefully placed your foot on the floor. The boys were all fast asleep, limbs sprawled over one another and blankets kicked aside. With a chuckle between you, Benedict held the candle overhead while you gingerly rearranged the children as best you could without waking them, tucking them each beneath their own blanket.
When you were satisfied that they would sleep undisturbed, you led Benedict back out into the hall.
“Mr. Bridgerton,” you whispered, unsure of precisely what to say. “Thank you for your help with the story. Were you listening the whole time?” You felt yourself start to blush and hoped the dim light would hide it.
“Long enough,” he shrugged. “You have been untruthful with me.”
Bewildered, you shook your head. “I beg your pardon?”
He crossed his arms and leaned a shoulder against the wall. “You said you weren’t an actress, but I just witnessed an exceptional performance.” His quirked brow and unfailing smile clued you in. There seemed to be no limit to this man’s cheekiness, or perhaps it was charm.
You chose to demure. You already felt odd enough, flustered by the lingering memory of his fingers pressing through your stocking. You would be friendly, but not engage in blatant flirtation. “It’s easy once the story is already written,” you explained. “I’m sure someone read to you like that when you were small.”
He softened. “My father did, yes. Once upon a time.” His smile broadened, coaxing one from you.
“He must have made quite an impression for you to memorize the story. I’d wager not many gentlemen could recite Cinderella if called upon.”
His smirk finally faltered. “I memorized it later. I read it constantly to my sisters when…well, when he passed. From that very book as a matter of fact.”
You bit your tongue. You didn’t know the precise details of the Bridgerton family history, but knew that the former Viscount had died too young and that Neddy was his namesake. To imagine he had left behind children still young enough to need bedtime stories, and to picture Benedict tending to them while managing his own grief, it seized something in your heart. You were ashamed at bringing up such memories and turned your eyes to the floor. “I’m sorry.”
“You don’t need to apologize.” The kindness in his tone drew your gaze back up to find him grinning thoughtfully. “Look how useful it is now that the house is full of children again.” Then he squared himself in front of you. “And now that I have found my stage partner, I believe we shall have to combine our theatrical prowess if we’re to keep those miscreants occupied tomorrow. A repeat performance at the puppet theater.”
Your heart climbed into your throat. His proposal made you equal parts terrified and excited. You had never ventured behind the nursery’s puppet theater yourself, but couldn’t deny how appealing it sounded to find yourself crowded into the tight space with him. You tried to keep your voice steady. You shouldn’t be imagining such things. “Mr. Bridgerton. I told you, I cannot improvise.”
He shrugged again, always airy with his demeanor. “Then we shall plan the story ahead of time. What is your schedule for the day?”
“Their parents are taking them to the lake actually, and then they will be mine in the afternoon.” You didn’t have much of an excuse to give him. In fact, some extra hands to help you entertain the children would be a welcome relief.
He was glowing, creases etched around his eyes from his easy smile. “Perfect. We’ll rehearse and then surprise them.”
You arched a brow. “But if I’m in the theater, who will be minding the children?”
“Colin,” he said dismissively. “It’ll give him something useful to do.”
You wavered, chewing on your lip. There was no reason to refuse his plan other than the fluttering feeling he elicited every time he looked in your direction and your fear of enabling it. He clearly sensed your hesitation and dropped his swaggering stance, gently offering you the choice. “Only if you want to, Miss y/l/n. Perhaps it would be nice to break up your routine.”
You probably should have declined, but your heart spurred on your tongue before your mind could interfere. “Alright. I’ll meet you in the nursery after tea.”
Tagging: @angels17324 @bridgertontess @broooookiecrisp @desert-fern @fiction-is-life @kpopstanthot
#bridgerton#bridgerton fanfiction#benedict bridgerton#benedict bridgerton fanfiction#benedict bridgerton x reader#benedict bridgerton x you#benedict bridgerton x y/n#benedict bridgerton imagine#bridgerton x reader#bridgerton x you#bridgerton x y/n#bridgerton imagine#cinderella#female reader#fluff#regency era
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Hi I love your blog i was wodering if you could do number 15 with Undertaker,thank you in advance💓🥰
hi! i recognize your url haha, i’d love to do number 15 with undertaker for you 💕
prompt: watching their oblivious s/o lovingly
character: undertaker (kuroshitsuji)
words: 1900+
content warning: reader’s family was killed in an accident and has some survivors guilt, i put a little more “plot” in this than i originally intended so i hope you don’t mind lol, sorry if this is sad.
♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡
The funeral home is bathed in shimmering, golden light as wisps of sunset stream in through the latticed windows, sun dust dancing in the beams that cast a buttery veil over the surface of shiny caskets strewn about the floor and catching in the bright glint of the glass bottles and jars lined up along the shelves.
A few of the candles are already lit, tiny flames flickering as they hover on the end of charred wicks, rivulets of thick wax making their slow descent towards the silver basins they’re perched in below.
You’ve come to love this place— a place that, at one point in time, had filled you with dread, reminded you of your own fragile mortality— as it now brought you peace.
Maybe it was because you’d become so acquainted with death yourself, had felt its lips ghost over yours with a near-fatal kiss when you’d been on the verge of leaving the living world.
You’d been the lucky one, they’d all told you, because you’d survived.
However, the rest of your family— both your parents and your two other siblings— hadn’t been as fortunate when the carriage had crashed over the cliff side, tumbling down the steep hill into the sea of pine below.
You still wondered why you’d survived while they’d all been claimed by whatever was waiting on the other side of life, but at least there had been one saving grace through all that hell.
Because, if you hadn’t had reason to seek out mortuary services all on your own, you would’ve never met him.
“Undertaker” was the only name he’d given you, still refused to tell you anything other than that title whenever you tried to press him, so, even though his insisted mystery at something as simple as a name sometimes irked you, you’d more or less accepted it.
In the beginning, you’d been wary of him, unable to look him in the face and carful to keep your distance.
But as time went on, as you grieved, as you recovered, and, at last, once your family was put to rest six feet under the ground, you’d found you’d warmed up to him.
Because it hadn’t just been the singular occasion of seeking out his business’s services that had pulled you into his orbit, or the inevitable return after the funeral to pay him what was due and thank him for all his hard work and consideration.
Undertaker had seen your pain plain as day from the very second you stepped through those doors and into his grim domain. He’d seen the fear and the loneliness and the mourning. The guilt and regret one often wears when they can’t help but think, if only I hadn’t made this one decision on that particular day, everything would’ve turned out differently.
So he’d comforted you. He’d helped you feel not so alone and, unlike the other more familiar faces that seemed to pop up to surround you at every turn, offering rehearsed condolences that were so sickly sweet they bordered on condescending, bringing an endless array of casseroles and roasts and all kinds of other deep-dished dinners that most nights had just ended up in the trash because you could barely bring yourself to eat in those first few months after your loss…
Unlike all the others who said what they thought you wanted to hear, did what they thought would help you instead of asking what it was you actually needed, Undertaker had treated you like he understood perfectly right from the start.
You figured he knew the intricate, silent language of death and mourning better than anyone, given that his day to day for who knew how many decades had revolved around it. But you’d expected him to be emotionally uninvested and purely professional when you’d first prepared to speak with a funeral director. So it very much caught you off guard when he’d been the complete opposite.
He’d treated you with compassion, patience, and, above all else, respect. He didn’t pity you, and gave no coddling words about how your deceased family was “in a better place now” or calculated coos making promises that you could ask him for “anything you might need, at any time” like the others who’d learned of your loss when you knew they had their own busy lives to jump right back into once they’d filed out of the funeral and the babbling brook of black clothes and tear-streaked cheeks had dispersed.
It made you wonder who he’d lost in his life, though you were never brave enough to ask.
So you’d found yourself returning to him, drawn back into his somber chamber of half-constructed coffins and gleaming silver instruments strewn about. You’d accepted his invitation to stay for tea and biscuits and felt grateful when he just let you talk about what had happened and how you felt, not feeling the need to interject or give you advice on the proper way to grieve.
Undertaker had sat across from you, secretly studying the distinct features of your face and your innate little mannerisms from behind his curtain of silver fringe, the scar cutting across his face just barely peeking through, and listened.
It was less than any of your other friends or family would’ve considered they’d done for you, but that simple gesture meant more than anything back then.
So when he’d offered you a position as his assistant, promising fair wages and adequate training, though you felt some apprehension at such a serious and, as you could imagine, having been on the other side of it, sorrowful task, you’d ultimately agreed without much hesitation.
Because there was something about being around him that had helped— was still helping— to heal you.
It certainly helped that, the more you two had gotten to know each other, the more comfortable he’d gotten about cracking jokes or making humorous little comments here or there.
Undertaker had a strange sense of humor, a dark one for sure, but as time went on you found that so did you.
You’d since lost count of how many times you’d both ended up laughing so hard you were practically wheezing, arms wrapped around your middle as you clutched the stitch in your side, entire body shaking with the kind of carefree joy that only comes from a good, hearty, unexpected laugh.
“Laughter is the best medicine,” he’d once told you, after you’d suddenly burst into tears after enjoying such a jovial moment, reminded how you’d never get to laugh like that with your family ever again. “Even in the darkest of times, just allowing yourself to experience small joys can help cure what ails you, even if only for a moment.”
You remembered his words often, whenever you were missing your lost loved ones. Undertaker had taught you to laugh more often even if for the sole purpose that they couldn’t anymore, and sometimes that fact alone was enough for you to at least smile.
“Because life is for the living,” he’d also taught you. “You must experience the things that they won’t get to and know that they would’ve wanted you to have a full life.”
So now, as you finished cleaning up and organizing everything in the shop for the day, humming a melancholy little tune quietly to yourself as you moved about, Undertaker leaned in the doorway and silently watched you, his silhouette a tall, billowy shadow as his dark robes draped over his svelte form.
His brilliant chartreuse eyes broke through the cracks in that curtain of silver meant to hide them, and he couldn’t help but grin to himself as he thought how lucky he was— after so many years of solitude— to finally have someone who brought real joy to his life.
Even sweeping the concrete floors, the dusty skirts of your dress swaying about your feet in rhythmic, graceful motions, Undertaker found you beautiful, his delicate, earnest little human.
You were careful around the one coffin he’d strictly told you never to open or disturb, doing a half-turned dance to maneuver the currently cramped space with all that littered the floor, but to Undertaker, you appeared as elegant as if you were the belle of a ball, slowly waltzing about the macabre dancehall.
He’d found new purpose in the life-after-his-afterlife in having you learn from him, in teaching you his trade, witnessing you succeed and fail and succeed again.
You were going to make one hell of an undertaker yourself one day, if and when his jig was finally up and he had to flee this place tucked into the darkest, dingiest corner of London.
Sometimes he thought you didn’t belong here only for the fact that, as he’d half flirted, half joked to you on your very first encounter, “Someone so pretty doesn’t belong somewhere so grim.”
Still though, he was glad you’d chosen to stay on your own accord. Glad that you had a reason to return to him every day, allowing him to bask in your presence, the only ray of light amidst his world of shadows and decay.
When you finally turned and looked over, you jolted a bit as Undertaker’s unexpected appearance startled you, and after letting out a gentle yelp and clutching your heart you found yourself smiling at him.
“What are you still doing here?” you asked, abandoning your broom as you migrated closer to where he leaned in the doorway. “I thought you went home already. I told you I’d close up.”
Humming out a lilting, fleeting note, Undertaker carefully reached a pale, slender hand over to brush some stray, flyaway strands of hair that had come loose from your braid throughout the day back behind your ear, delighting in the fact that you still blushed a little at the gesture even after he’d done it so many times by now.
“I got caught up with something in the back,” he informed you, his voice low and tender, nearly a murmur in the stillness of the room. “I thought I’d stay and walk you home. Make sure you got back safely.”
Undertaker was usually at the shop until long after sundown, sometimes so late you swore he must sleep here sometimes, only resting for a couple of hours before morning peeked above the horizon and tolled the bell on a new day, more work always to be done. (The phrase “you can rest when you’re dead” had taken on a slightly different, more morbid meaning now). In fact, you knew he’d often pull all-nighters, though if he had any bags under his eyes to tell of it you didn’t know. That part of him was still mostly a mystery to you, other than the few times you’d caught accidental glances of such iridescent emerald while you two were working in close proximity.
He’d offered to walk you home a few times before, but you’d usually refused, assuring him it wasn’t far and you could always call for a carriage along the way if you wished. He never pressed you or insisted too much, but tonight, perhaps it was because you were catching a glimpse of those unearthly eyes of his again, reading what you could swear was complete devotion in them, you accepted his invitation to escort you back.
The walk was mostly silent, though you took it more for the fact that the two of you had been working tirelessly these past few days than anything else. However, Undertaker used the window of comfortable quiet as yet another opportunity to gaze upon you.
Oh, how he’d miss you terribly when he finally had to go, and it hurt him even more so to know there was a possibility it would be without warning if he was found out before he could catch onto it.
But he’d spent too much time running from the past and trying to predict the future. All he really needed right now was to allow himself to enjoy the present he shared with you.
♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡
from this prompt list. requests are now closed, thank you to everyone who participated 💕
#undertaker#undertaker x reader#undertaker x you#undertaker x y/n#black butler#kuroshitsuji#black butler x reader#black butler x you#black butler x y/n#kuroshitsuji x reader#kuroshitsuji x you#kuroshitsuji x y/n#black butler undertaker#kuroshitsuji undertaker#black butler fanfiction#undertaker kuroshitsuji#kuroshitsuji fanfiction#black butler fanfic#kuroshitsuji fanfic#kodis requests
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The Serpents Hold // Chapter Twenty-One
A reimagining of the 'In the Shadow of' storyline with more focus on Ominis and The Gaunt's.
When Sebastian turns to dark magic to cure his sister, Nova and Ominis find themselves reluctantly thrust into a partnership to aid him. Amid the disapproval of Ominis' family, Nova wrestles with her growing feelings for him and also with the nagging suspicion that Ominis knows more about Anne's condition than he's letting on.
AO3 // Masterlist
Nova's nails gouged into the sterilised walls of the hospital ward as she fought to her feet. She shook her head, blinking rapidly, desperately hoping she was hallucinating – it was just a cruel figment of her exhausted mind.
A sharp ringing drilled into her ears as she cast a glance back at the bedridden Gaunt. Dark magic pulsated from his lifeless body in tangible waves, swathing itself around Nova's clothes and sinking into her skin.
She turned on her heels and ran.
Her feet were heaving through quicksand, the ground dragging her under with each despairing stride. She collided with the reception desk, the impact startling the healer behind it. The woman shouted, but her words were incomprehensible as Nova scrambled wildly for parchment and a quill.
Ominis had insisted she send for him immediately following her shift so he could escort her home. As she started to pen the note, it shook loose a realisation. Ever since her impulsive decision to pull him to her lips in the carriage, he hadn't left her side. She'd chalked it up to having missed one another but now saw the ulterior motive.
He was guarding her.
Ominis was afraid. Paranoid. Was he complicit in his father's cursing, or was he the next target?
Where the fuck is St. Mungo's owlry?
Nova made a strangled noise as she shoved the parchment aside—a sound caught between a growl and a sob. Owls were too slow; she needed him now.
Fear tightened its bind on her chest as she bolted down the corridor, shepherded by the guiding signs to the visitors' lounge. Stunned inpatients clutched their chests at the heavy doors crashing against opposing walls as Nova burst through them.
She grasped a handful of floo powder, the fine particles slipping through the cracks in her fist as she cast it into the fireplace.
The witch touched down on the outer edge of a prodigious estate. An emerald flame fought against the wind beneath a crumbling carving of Ignatia Wildsmith.
"Gaunt Manor."
The darkness was oppressive. Her first instinct was to strike up a lumos, but the wind's shrill cries through the undergrowth put her on edge and made her reluctant to reveal her position. Tall spires of a gate stood sentinel to her left; the eroded iron proudly emblazoned with the Gaunt crest.
It grated loudly against the gravel as Nova forced it open and squeezed through the gap.
The mansion's silhouette was just a shadow against the inky expanse of the night sky. The path stretching toward it was flanked on either side by a dense thicket of trees, their gnarled branches reaching out to snatch at wisps of her hair as she ran past. Agony ripped through the muscles in her neck as she tried to advance, but her magic spluttered under her skin as Ominis' wards impeded her every attempt to apparate.
The entrance to the Manor itself was fortified with an excessive array of shields, evidenced by the scorched and blackened ground encircling the perimeter.
An apparition materialised as Nova's foot descended onto the first step of the patio, causing her to stagger back in shock.
"Name?" The house elf asked.
"Nova Fen…."
The creature condensed into a singular point and disapparated with a faint crack.
With a hand pressed against her pounding heart, Nova fought to regain control of her breathing. She tilted her head back, scouring the tall rows of ornate windows for any sign of Ominis, but no hint of life shined through any panes.
After an unbearable delay, a sliver of light sliced across her face as the front door scraped open. Gnarled fingers curled around the edge of the narrow crack as the elf cautiously peered out. Without warning, a net of charms shot from his fingertips—a finite incantatem followed by a slew of polyjuice detection spells.
Satisfied with her identity, he widened the doorway a fraction with a resigned grunt. "Grimkin wasn't informed of visitors."
"I need to speak with Ominis. Is he home?"
"Master was asleep. Getting himselfs fit to be seen."
"No one else is here, are they?" Nova strained to see through the slit in the door, her oesophagus constricting with each passing second Ominis failed to appear in it. "Who are you? Ominis never mentioned a house elf."
"Grimkin has faithfully served the house of Gaunt for a century!" the elf's tone spiked with offence at the contention. "Would have served for many more."
"Would?" Nova repeated, the blood draining from her face. The shadows swallowed her as she instinctively retreated beyond the reach of the light. "What's stopping you?"
Grimkin slowly raised a crooked finger.
The gale whipped at Nova's skin as she shivered helplessly in the shadow of the Manor. The splintered fingernail of the Gaunt's devoted servant pointed accusingly at her panic-stricken face.
"Gaunt business aren't for discussions with filthy blood," he hissed through gritted teeth before firing a spell.
Nova's wand shot up, and a powerful protego blossomed around her.
Grimkin's magic surged towards her, but it dissipated harmlessly into the Manor's protective wards, dismantling the defences and unveiling a clear path for her to enter the household.
"Grimkin is instructed to bring the witch inside and see to it her every request is met."
Nova held steadfast to her shield. "You... you said would," she stammered, hovering at the threshold of the breached wards. "You know something, don't you? About what's happening to Ominis' father?"
"We hold master Gaunt in our thoughts. His family is hopeful for a swift recovery." Grimkin answered, his enunciation jarringly eloquent for an elf.
It was a rehearsed response. Ominis had imparted it when Nova questioned him on the convenient timing of his father's illness. She'd heard him recite it endlessly to well-wishers at the Ministry, each repetition more hollow and insincere than the last.
"Ominis has instructed you to say that, hasn't he?"
"Gaunt matters aren't for discussions with fil—"
"You've been ordered to meet every request I have, Grimkin," Nova snapped, dispelling her protego and levelling her wand at the vexed elf. "I request answers. What have the Gaunt's gotten themselves into?!"
"Not anything," Grimkin spat in outrage, his fists clenching at his sides. "The Gaunt's is having their innocence dragged through the mud. They stand tall, noble, honourable—"
"Then who's behind the cursing? Who's dragging their name?"
"Nasty brat stole master away from his blood, poisoned his mind he did. Cowardly snake slithering in the dark, spreading lies and curses like a plague."
"Stole him away? Are you talking about... Do you mean Sebastian?"
"The trial of Sebastian Sallow," Grimkin snarled the words like they scorched his tongue. "Filthy lies. The downfall of House Gaunt."
"No... no, Sebastian was on trial for the death of Marvolo. I'm talking about the curse that's killing Ominis' father."
“As is Grimkin.”
“Nova?”
A familiar crimson light poured across the porch as the door swung open fully at the hands of Ominis. He held his wand aloft, its blinking tip directing its focus to Nova's defenceless form on the darkened path.
"I told you to send an owl when your shift ended. It would be best if you didn't travel alone," he said with his customary air of dissatisfaction. He had thrown an old Slytherin jumper on over his nightwear, his flashing wand clutched firmly in hand. It was a comforting sight that embodied the word home. "Come inside the wards."
Nova's chest convulsed with a sob, and Ominis blurred into a watery haze as tears flooded her eyes.
Sebastian.
Sebastian was behind this, and Ominis knew it.
"I know who cursed your father."
They festered in an unbearable silence, buffeted by the raging gale that thrashed at their clothes and battered dead leaves against the protective shields they flanked on either side.
There was a subdued crack at Ominis' feet as Grimkin disapparated from his master's side.
"Sebastian has the relic, doesn't he?"
"The relic was destroyed."
"Ominis, I saw it. Your father was bedbound. The tendrils of a dark curse were throbbing under his skin. It was the spitting image of Anne before she—" Nova dropped her eyes and stared at her hands, still stained with blood. "You intentionally kept me from seeing him; you can't stand there and claim you know nothing."
Ominis's knuckles cracked as he tightened his grip on his wand. He hovered on the precipice of the wards before taking a hesitant step beyond them. "You need to lower your voice or come inside, now."
"I'm not stepping foot in there. I don't know where I'm safe anymore."
"You're safe with me. You know I'll do whatever it takes to ensure your protection."
"From who? The Ministry? Your family? Sebastian? You've left me in the dark, Ominis. I have no idea who's out to get me."
"You're safe with me," Ominis repeated, his palm encasing the back of her neck as he pressed his forehead against hers. He was warm, he was so warm, and she was cold. "I was tasked with taking inventory of my brother's... acquisitions... after he passed away. It took me the better part of a year to track down the relic."
"And you destroyed it?"
"The relic was destroyed."
She grasped the implication behind his deliberate choice of words. Ominis would never lie to her but tailor his language to conceal the truth.
"You weren't the one who destroyed it, were you?"
His sightless eyes drifted across Nova's features momentarily before he began to pace around her like a caged animal. "You remember how furious Sebastian was. He was self-destructive, striking out at anyone attempting to offer their hand. How did you put it? He was determined to wipe out my family or die trying?"
"Is he still trying?" Nova's wand bit into her fist as she clenched it tighter. She would bury a million Gaunts to protect Ominis, but the thought of striking down her closest friend tested her resolve.
"My father was playing on Sebastian's outbursts to hinder any progress I made with the authorities. He delayed Sebastian's trials at every opportunity." His voice cracked as his hand painfully clamped around her wrist. "Nova, the things he was demanding I do for him... Keeping Sebastian on tenterhooks was his only leverage to make me do them. He would never release him. I had to make Sebastian work with me; I could only get you both out if he cooperated."
"Ominis, what did you do?"
"I thought... it would provide him closure if he were the one to dispose of the relic..."
Nova felt as though she were one ragged breath away from shattering apart.
Sebastian wasn't vengeful. At the verdict, he had wrapped his arms around Ominis and cried. He was grateful.
"You brought it to him."
"No. Even a Gaunt wouldn't dare to be caught in a ministry facility with something that dark. I buried it in Feldcroft." Now that she had gotten him talking, he couldn't seem to stop. Unbelievable words poured out of him, faster and faster. "When I visited him, it was to arrange an off the record day-release with the warden. I guided Sebastian on where to find the relic, instructed him on the spells necessary to destroy it…"
"Are you out of your mind?! What the hell did you expect to happen—"
"That's not all," Ominis interrupted. The corners of his mouth twitched several times before his admission of guilt spilt out. "I informed him to stay clear of a restaurant in muggle London—The Brasserie Royale—as that's where my father would be conducting business, all day."
The ground tilted under Nova's feet, and she staggered backwards. Her wand slipped from her fingers and clattered to the ground.
Ominis had armed his best friend, stoked his anger, and directed him towards his target.
He might as well have unleashed the curse with his own hands.
"You used him."
"I provided the means for him to mete out justice as he deemed necessary."
"All those years you preached against dark magic…"
"I was expected to wield dark magic daily on innocents just like Anne. This was the only recourse; it was for the greater good." Ominis' fists kept opening and closing as though he were suppressing the urge to break something. "He'd make threats against you too. He would threaten to use Imperius on me, force me into hurting you when I refused to crucio his associate's children. I had to do something."
Nova buried her face in her palms as guilt pierced her heart. If she hadn't been consumed by anger and grief after Ominis' abandonment, she might have understood what he was returning home to. She could have fought to get him out—her mind had shielded her from it.
They'd both made mistakes born from heartache.
"Sebastian broke the cycle," Ominis whispered, dropping his forehead against hers. "He let go of the relic and his thirst for revenge; he saved us."
"The ministry will connect the dots."
"Only a handful knew of Sebastian's release, and those who did have been obliviated."
“Grimkin… He knows...”
"Grimkin is loyal to the Gaunt's. I am the Gaunt's now." Ominis proclaimed, his touch leaving trails of fire along Nova's skin as his fingers cradled her jaw. "It could be us. I want it to be you and me."
Nova croaked out an unintelligible string of syllables as a flush of heat burst through her chest. "What... What are you—"
"That thought was my lifeline. It held me together when I left you. Each vile act I was coerced into, every cruciatus I endured. They were all sacrifices made in the pursuit of being reunited with you. Please, I beg of you, forgive me."
She wanted to tell him she loved him.
She loved him the instant he raised her off the scriptorium floor and soothed her excruciating skin with soft hands and softer words as she shivered blindly against his chest. Her lungs could never draw a full breath without him near. Wherever he was, she needed to be there. She would stand by whoever he became, always.
Even if she could articulate words through the spasms wracking her chest, Ominis wouldn't have heard it.
The brittle snap of branches at the edge of the treeline had his undivided attention. Unlike the previous whispering of the wind in the undergrowth, this one came without a gust of a passing breeze.
"Nova, get inside."
She was frozen. Her eyes locked on the shadow creeping out of the woods.
Ominis positioned himself defensively in front of her.
The figure raised a wand and spoke.
"Avada Kadavra."
#hogwarts legacy#hogwarts legacy ominis#hogwarts oc#hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry#ominis gaunt#ominis x mc#ominis x reader#hogwarts houses#sebastian sallow#sebastian sallow x mc#hogwarts mystery#slytherin#ominis smut#ominis fluff#ominis fic#hogwarts legacy fic#bestfriend Sebastian sallow#the serpents hold#harry potter#ominis#ominis gaunt smut#ominis gaunt fluff#Gaunt manor
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The Sign of Four: In Quest of a Solution
You could find the back issues of most papers just by visiting a local library. Today, the British Newspaper Archive will, for a monthly subscription, allow you to look at a whole slew of vintage papers, including The Illustrated Police News for all your Victorian "true crime" reportage.
As mentioned before, a four-wheeler was a four-wheeled carriage with a driving seat on the top front and a luggage rack on the top; they costed more than the hansoms.
Doyle isn't very good with coming up with convincing Indian names, is he? Singh is the name used by a baptised male Sikh (Kaur is the female equivalent) i.e. a turban-wearing, dagger carrying one. Mahomet is a version of Mohammed.
The gas lights of London weren't hugely bright compared with modern street lights; you'd be able to find your way, but there's probably a decent chance you'd step in horse exhaust if you weren't careful.
The Lyceum Theatre, located on Wellington Street, dates back to 1765, but the current building is from 1834, rebuilt after a fire. It contains a balcony over the dress circle, a unique theatre.
GhostApple on Tumblr pointed out that Bram Stoker was the manager at that theatre at the time SIGN was released. The theatre at the time was run by Henry Irving and Ellen Terry, two of the biggest stars of their days, becoming Sir Henry and Dame Ellen later in life. Stoker based Dracula on Irving, but sadly Irving never actually played the Count on stage.
After a further rebuild, time as a ballroom, a demoliton threat and two closures, the Lyceum reopened in 1996 and is a Grade II* listed building, the second highest grade. Since 1999, it is the London home of The Lion King.
The normal garb of a coachman would be a top hat and a heavy double-breasted overcoat; they would be driving their vehicle in a vast array of weather conditions, sometimes on the same day as anyone who has lived in Britain can tell you.
The coach is going rather fast at this point, possibly dangerously so. The Offences against the Person Act 1861 created an offence of "causing bodily harm by wanton or furious driving"; which could mean that if a horse-drawn vehicle hit another vehicle or a person, the driver could get up to two years in prison. The offence remains on the books, being used against horse-drawn carriage drivers (still a thing, particularly in the Traveller community), motorists when not on a road or public land and cyclists, as the Road Traffic Act 1988 is not available in these cases - it is a Crown Court-only offence. In 2017, a cyclist riding at speed in East London with no front brakes hit and killed a woman; the jury found him not guilty of manslaughter, but convicted him of this offence, with the result he got a 18-month sentence.
Tiger attacks were very common in British India; tigers are known to attack humans when feeling threatened (human encroachment on their territory is a big problem)), injuries prevent them from going after other prey or they mistake a human for something else, or if one is riding a bike, their chase instinct may kick in. 33,247 people were killed by tigers between 1876 and 1912. In 2022, the Indian government recorded 112 tiger-caused deaths, up from 59 in 2021. Some tigers have ended up killing over 100 people before being shot dead.
For those having a go at Watson for shooting at a tiger cub, we don't know how old or how big the tiger cub was. A newborn tiger maybe less than 10 pounds and look adorable, but a ten month male could easily be over 100 pounds and looks rather like a full-grown adult. Especially in the dark.
This said, humans are a good deal worse than tigers. The British cleared vast amounts of their habitat for the timber to build their railways. Hunting tigers for "sport" had been a common practice for the Indian nobility and the British ruling classes liked doing it just as much, bringing modern firearms along. Remember Dr. Sterndale from DEVI? There's a chance Watson might have gone hunting himself, sadly.
The tiger hunting got worse post-independence as improved air travel made it easier for game hunters to get to India. The Indian government banned tiger hunting in 1972 and the Bengal tiger population is slowly recovering. The size of reserves have not kept up with the population and so some tigers have gone into human areas for food, usually livestock but sometimes humans. If a tiger starts killing people and attempts to tranquilise it fail, then lethal force will be authorised. In 2022, T-104, a three-year-old dubbed the "man-eater of Champaran", killed nine people before he was shot dead by the police, who conducted their search riding elephants.
The "Surrey side" refers to the southern bank of the river, the other being the "Middlesex side" referring to the now defunct county. Those terms remain in use for the Boat Races; with the Middlesex side being on the right as the crews row upstream. The two "stations" have various advantages and disadvantages; Middlesex helps at the start end, Surrey in the middle.
Vauxhall Bridge was in rather a bad shape by this point and would be replaced in 1906, five years late due to various construction and design issues. The modern bridge is notable for having the very distinctive headquarters of the Secret Intelligence Service next to its southern end.
"Hindoo" was a contemporary spelling of Hindu, today considered derogatory.
"Sahib" is the Indian equivalent of "sir" or "master"; "Mem-Sahib" is the female version. The Indians used it when speaking to white people (or about them, possibly sarcastically) and the British officers would use it with their Indian counterparts. It is less common now, but still widely used in the Indian Army and about people in positions of power.
"Khitmutgar" was a term for a male butler or underservant who would set the table for dinner etc.; during the Bengal Presidency, these would typically as opposed to Hindus.
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Withering ✤ 4NEMO
A/N: [cough] it's officially here - welcome! withering >:) ready to be thrown into childhood angst? let's go!
✤ "This indicates a dialogue in flashback."
Read: Prelude to Withering - Fleur - Epilogue
Words: 13k
Fairytales, an invitation to a whole other world.
Those collections, stacked and compiled in parchment are what keeps you up at night. It’s a miracle that your eyes haven’t gone bad what with the number of times you’d read them even when the lights are out.
Can you be blamed?
In an orphanage, where a ‘mother’s’ attention cannot linger on a single child for so long, what else is there to accompany you but the fantasies in a book?
For as long as you can remember, the twins have been a part of your growing years. It didn’t start off with a nice footing, but not everything starts off well, doesn’t it?
What matters most is the journey that is shared ahead.
You’re delighted to say that the venture is a one of a kind—a wonderful one.
Oh, if only it stayed that way.
Kaeya is the first one to depart your splendid fairytale, the boy older by a couple of years, the one who had nothing but an array of tricks up his sleeve.
He may be infuriating to be around with and he may often steal your snacks away, but he’s the best older brother figure—the only brother figure—you can ask for.
Ah, woe, for he was as transient as a passing traveler who aided a hero.
Promises entwined by pinkies are left empty, forgotten along with the light of the setting sun as he’s whisked away in a black [carriage] vehicle.
Though he had gotten a brother that day, one with hair and eyes as pretty as fires and rubies, he always said you will be his first ever sibling.
He’s always been sappy, that Kaeya. Sometimes it is too much, but nowadays you wish you can see him again if it establishes the chance to chat in retrospect of long ago.
With his departure, however, comes the arrival of a pair of boys you didn’t expect to be so fond of. It had been a terrible meeting, but you believe that if it didn’t happen, if you weren’t feeling so lonely in the orphanage and thus ran away… you wouldn’t have met them, then.
Enclosed in a world of your own, within the playground you used to frequent with Kaeya ever since you were maybe three, you remember whimpering atop the slide.
You weren’t particularly loud and you were certain that there wasn’t anyone, but all of a sudden you had been pushed off the slide.
A brusque shove that was, one that resulted in scrapped knees and a damaged pride.
Looking back, you can only wince when you recall being reduced to twice the number of tears you’ve been pouring. It had been a vulnerable moment of yours—yet it still ended up being a time that grew to be one of the most memorable, nevertheless.
The noises and shouts were scary, so you rushed to hide in one of the colored tubes in an attempt to salvage what’s left of your dignity. And maybe continue your tears in peace.
But the universe hadn’t planned for that. Not at all.
“I said I was sorry, didn’t I? Stop cry—ow!”
Bearing the same face, eyes, hair—even their voices are the same. They’re identical twins.
So similar.
“That’s no apology!” chided one, “Sorry about him. You can play with us if you want!”
“What?!”
Yet coincidentally different at the same time.
It’s like looking into a crystal pond, or a magical mirror. You have been captured by fascination at first glance that your tears have stopped.
You’ve never seen twins before—how can it be possible, for them to act as though they are one, but are actually split into two?
“What’s a better way to say you’re sorry then, hm?”
They bickered back and forth, adding kindling to an already growing fire, but as young as you were back then—you could tell that they didn’t really hate one another.
Somehow, they resurface the memory of Kaeya and how he’d engage in harmless squabbles with you.
Trembling lips and muffled sniffles took their attention, quick to defuse whatever argument they were having, and started to introduce themselves. One less eager than the other.
“I’m Venti, that’s—hey come on.”
A radiant stare, you’d describe it as sparkly then.
“Zephyrus.” Then came a much more mellow shine, yet brilliant all the same. “Just call me Zeph.”
They weren’t the sun and the moon, those two.
No, they’re both a single star, bedazzling in their own way. One does not and never outshine the other, they attune and coalesce as a singularity with such perfection that sometimes, you forget that there are two of them.
That day, for the first time, you’ve befriended children your age. Those at the orphanage always deemed you too eccentric or mischievous, so ever since Kaeya left, you tend to yourself alone. It isn’t a problem, but you can’t deny the loneliness.
The twins’ arrival eased said lonesomeness, but you don’t see them again after that fateful day. At least not until a year later, when the pages elapsed into a brand new chapter in your little fairytale.
“Congratulations on finally getting adopted, cookie.”
You were seven when he returned, that lopsided smirk still beheld by his visibly older visage. His hair was longer and for some reason, one of his eyes were bandaged, but he was still Kaeya, and he came with a pack of cookies.
The same brand he used to steal under your pillow when you were four.
Try as you may to hold a grudge, it was impossible—not when someone was about to take you in and Kaeya finally appeared after so long.
“You didn’t come visit.”
“Aha, my bad, my bad. It turns out that we live so far from the orphanage,” oh how you wish to relive the feeling of him ruffling your already messy hair. “But hey, I’m here now, aren’t I? Are you sending me off?”
“No.”
What you’d give to see the brother figure who knew and held you at your worst.
“Kaeya,”
“Will I see you again?”
Until the present day, you think of his possible whereabouts, but sometimes people just don’t want to be found.
“Why not, cookie?”
And you eventually learned to accept that.
It was a difficult feat, for Kaeya was such a figure in your childhood, but you managed to pull through. Besides, it wasn’t like he dropped off the face of the earth. A text or two drops in your inbox when you least expect it.
They are filled with the same, empty promises of a reunion, but you learned not to care as much as you initially did—Kaeya had always been like that.
And so came his final leave, never will he show up inked in the pages of your tale again. With the surcease of the first few chapters is the departure of your very first friend.
That’s fine—after all, weren’t some people meant to be deciduous?
They come and go, adding meanings that lasts the entirety of the book’s plot. Perhaps Kaeya is just the same… even if you refused to accept it in the beginning.
But maybe you simply thought of him as such to cope with the fact that not once had he ever appeared again. It was only letters in a screen, it wasn’t him.
And so, you continue to saunter about your tale.
A new chapter, a new premise, a new beginning.
A new family.
And, excitingly enough, a new place to live in!
The house was nothing like the ones you’ve read and seen in picture books. Not in Cinderella’s story nor Rapunzel’s, no, it appeared more like the castles where they got their happily ever afters.
You remembered thinking if you jumped several chapters ahead—surely, you weren’t supposed to live at a pretty castle so quickly, right? Ah, but you were young and were a dreamer.
Fairytales were called as such for they were imageries of a dreaming writer.
You were not a princess-to-be. Or so you thought.
You were just a child who refused the growing straits of the world, locked in a world of her own. Perhaps if you had chosen to wake up earlier from your petty phantasm, reality wouldn’t hurt as much as it does now.
Sure, there had been some cushion to soften the impact of falling into the real world, but your point still stands.
Even when multiple crucibles have befallen when you were a child, you remained an optimistic dreamer.
“Father!”
The idea of having a father—a parental figure that hopefully pays attention—was comforting.
Though there weren’t many descriptions and narrations of parents in the protagonists of the stories, they always end up having someone to rely on in the end.
Maybe, you thought then, the one who adopted you would be that pillar of support?
“No.”
Yes, no.
“No need to call me father.”
You couldn’t understand why he told you that it wasn’t necessary to refer to him as one—after all, wasn’t he your dad?
He looked the part, he even looked like a modern king! Adorned in a navy suit, oh, how you could imagine the crown atop his head and the scepter on the other!
His office would be decorated with elements of antiquity, quill pens, scrolls, banners… and the minty scent will instead be one of woody musk and parchment. Granted, even without imagination, the whole room looked as if it was out of a modern fairytale, you simply could not help but envision everything in an older fashion.
“Are you sure she’s the sharpest tool in the shed?”
“Certainly, sir,” assured a woman at his side, his [page] secretary. “Personally recommended, as well.”
You didn’t know what that saying meant then—you weren’t a tool as far as you were aware, but you did do well in the monthly tests the orphanage hands out.
Golden stars adorned the back of your notebooks and it was something you weren’t shy of showing!
“Alright, then.”
Excitement was meant to be felt.
Weren’t you about to greet the parent you’ve been hoping to have ever since you figured out what the word ‘orphan’ means?
Kaeya was indisputably glad when he saw the family who took him in—and he was smiling when he left. You were the same. You finally fulfilled one of your early dreams! You have a parent.
You have a home.
“Hello there, [Name].” though his smile was genuine, it didn’t reach his eyes. “Welcome home.”
Home—is it truly a home?
It’s more than what an orphan could ask for, that’s for sure.
Although it doesn’t seem like one at all [a home]. You’ve read about this in books, what’s the tale again? The Little Mermaid? No, Cinderella? That sounds more likely.
Ah! But Cinderella lived in a house where she was unwanted, living only to serve as a maid, whereas you were tended to your every whim. With a servant at your beck and call, and sweets to eat whenever you so desire. It needn’t be said that you’ve taken advantage of the latter.
Sweets!
But oh, you realized one day however, as you were eating a cookie in a room that was thrice as big as the one you had in the orphanage. There’s no one to share it with.
But nevertheless, they are good things—blessings, privileges that not all have the luxury to claim.
You’ve been promised leisure, all for a single duty in exchange; to take over the seat of chief executive officer when you’re right of age and to merge with a business partner.
You did not know what that entailed for you weren’t even at the appropriate age to discuss ‘diplomatic affairs’, but someone said that a whole life was planned ahead, jotted in notes and pinned in boards for you to view and embed in your mind.
It sounded magical, for to merge with another business implied the need for marriage.
‘Was it the happy ending those princesses got? Marriage, is that the word?’ Yes.
Contracts were feasible, but for some reason, a ‘tying-the-knot’ sort of action is preferred by current head of both companies.
They’re so old-fashioned. Now, you’re rather perturbed by it, but when you were just a child confined in her faux world, it was heavenly. [And later stifling].
Because marriage… does it not lead to a happy ending… most of the time?
You should be happy. You’ve seen photos of the boy you’ll soon call husband—though you’ve never really met him face to face. He was older, around Kaeya’s age, maybe. Blond with pretty blue eyes, like Cinderella!
In front of the huge mirror in your room, dressed in frills and ribbons that you asked for and received without a moment’s delay, you were a soon-to-be princess. Sometimes a maid would indulge in your play and even place a crown on your head and play tea party.
By the end of the day, that crown would lay askew and would find itself among the rest of the toys you were bought—but sun after sun, it was almost like you could still feel its weight.
It was the weight of responsibility—but such a fact remained unknown years ago.
Yes, perhaps your glorious father—you heard he rules over a kingdom [company]!—may not be as attentive to your whims and everything, but you were vowed an ending in which it would reflect the ones you’ve dreamt of.
In a decade and years’ time, you would be the princess you sought yourself to be.
Oh how you can laugh. It isn’t wrong to dream, per se—for little girls do dream of bejeweled crowns, pretty gowns, and a prince charming.
But if you are to say something to your seven-year-old self, it would be to stop indulging in hopeless fantasies… even if it was difficult to do so. [It was in a child’s nature to think of the impossible].
Truth be told, albeit you were a child, the logistics and intended plan for your whole life made it impossible to remain naïve even if you were trying to.
Affection may not be your father’s strong suit, but he was kind and he never failed to be munificent. That said, he was stern in your upbringing, meticulous down to the tee. He made sure that you were aware of what you were meant to do when the time came.
Who you were meant to be.
And the more you were exposed to these responsibilities- these prides, and sensibilities, no matter the age… the less inclined you were to be in the lull of a fantasy.
That was until you were officially allowed to go to school… and so, your worlds collided for the second time.
“Haaaah!” they were just as surprised as you were and to be honest, you didn’t know if they even remembered you—a solid year or two had passed.
But after your pretty teacher told you to go pick a colored table you liked—there were plenty; red, blue, violet, yellow, and green—one of them was already beckoning you over. Bright, he was still bright and beaming that he put the yellow paint of the table he’s at to shame.
“[Name], here, here, come sit here!”
Ah, so they did remember you.
There were no other children at the mansion of your father—despite him saying that what’s his are yours, you still feel a bit reluctant to do so—which means there was no one to entertain and play with you.
Except for some maids and servants, of course, but it wasn’t like they could just drop their obligations and responsibilities to play dolls with you.
Venti was more than welcoming to your arrival, erupting into excited blabbers about miraculously becoming classmates after having not seen each other in so long. He talked as if you were close—which, in truth, wasn’t really the case.
You had only met once the year prior.
“Fate’s—um, design! Don’t you think?”
Zephyr was pragmatic for his age, scoffing at the fatuous idea of his twin chalking it up to fate that you ended up being a part of their class.
“That sounds silly.” He chided.
Long, long ago, you were offended by what he said—there was nothing wrong with dreaming and choosing to believe in fate, right?
There was something indescribably beautiful in such a concept that eight-year-old you were more than peeved about his answer.
Yet, in the present, you just wish that you could’ve been more realistic like him. Alas.
Those twins may be each other’s parallel—and you may have unexpectedly cut in their life without warning, but the match wasn’t particularly awful. In fact, you got along with them well. Terribly well.
Zephyr may be rough on the edges and was marginally a bully but Venti always was there to keep in check with a giggle and a harmless knock to the head.
The latter always mentioned that the behavior stemmed from their frequent clashes with their cousin who lived in the countryside.
You never met that cousin—not until years later—but if Zephyr’s attitude was told to be almost similar to that relative of theirs, then they’re without a doubt a rowdy bunch.
It wasn’t difficult to overlook the common jibes given that he didn’t mean to be rude, and besides, you three were mere children back then who only knew how to have fun.
There were times when scuffles happen, of course, such as when Venti chose to steal your [c] crayon and you almost cried.
His twin—ever the mischief himself, too—told you to simply do the same, so you did, and stole all of Venti’s crayons, leaving only the ugly brown one in the box. You had a good laugh at the expense of your cheeks being pinched until they were as red as apples.
That, and the secretary of your father had to be called to the principal’s office because that tiny scuffle ended up being a tear-jerking argument.
For some reason, the principal apologized on Venti’s behalf, saying that it wouldn’t have started if the ‘troublemaker simply stayed put’.
You learned something that day after wondering why it was only your guardian who showed up.
The twins’ parents were working overseas, so they were being cared for by a different person—you heard it was their aunt. But she couldn’t go since she was hospitalized.
The principal mentioned that it was the lack of proper ‘guidance’ that led to Venti’s trouble-seeking nature, something that Zephyr thrashed around for in denial. He said it wasn’t true, and that the both of them have always been pesky troubles even before their parents went abroad.
You could tell back then that the principal wasn’t having it, though.
You later understood why; and it was because the pair have pulled a devious prank on said principal. Understandable.
In the end, much to your surprise, the twins weren’t the least bit irked—perhaps a little while ago, but that was in the moment itself—, saying that they were used to the treatment. They tell you about their wonderful aunt, however, and said that she’s a godsent angel for them.
She intrigued you, so it was unfortunate that you couldn’t meet her a lot of times.
The first time you did was at the end of the year during the accepting of certificates for a student’s job well done. She was practically glowing, incapable of wearing a frown and the way she carried herself was so, so much like a—
“Pretty princess!” your guardian could only smile in secondhand embarrassment as that woman stared, pretty eyes blinking in recognition.
Zephyr choked and Venti grinned. He was mirroring your enthusiasm and all but squealed, “I know right!? Auntie Gui is the best!”
How was it possible for someone so perfect to be in this world? She was everything you were striving to be that you found yourself copying most of her mannerisms.
It was only a matter of time until you learn of ‘noble etiquette’ as she certainly did!
Albeit it was a childish thing to do that would annoy most at worst, but for that cherubic woman, she was only flattered.
You couldn’t remember much of her or how she even looked like, but it was her words that struck a chord within; they were nothing short of inspiring. It needn’t be said, too, but it was obvious that the brothers were truly fond of her, as well.
“If you believe and put your heart into it, I’m sure whatever you dream of will come true.”
What if you wished to find happiness? Getting married to a stranger [prince] sounded magical and terrifying at the same time.
You were getting old enough to understand that maybe… maybe, you would not feel that fairytale spark when you meet him for the first time like in those books and movies. What happens then? You would be robbed of a happy tale.
Confined in an ending that was chosen by fate.
All of a sudden, the idea of an arranged marriage was no longer appealing—and you began to show more reluctance.
Of course, you hid it to the best of your abilities. But the fact remains that you were but a child, still [one who has turned nine] and children were translucent like glass.
In the midst of the adults whose experiences have shaped them to be shrewd and discerning, you were no match under their scrutiny.
Mainly, your father’s.
You felt bad. Really.
It wasn’t in your intention to think so heavily of a future yet to come, but ignoring it otherwise was impossible. The moment you arrived in that stellar mansion, your story had already been written and planned ahead.
One should be happy that your life was so carefully arranged. It meant absolutely no worries about which path to take and which option to choose, but for some reason, it was so… stifling.
Were fairytales meant to be like that?
The question stayed in the headspace for a long amount of time, lasting the coming years and creeping in when you lost yourself in a reverie.
If those princesses knew that their lives were planned, would they feel trapped?
One time, you were playing dodgeball with the whole class and you made the mistake of seeing an older pair of students walking together in the path by the courtyard.
Yeah, you were hit by a ball that day and had a rather painful bump since your fall was nothing short of excruciating—but it was nothing too serious.
Funnily enough, it was Zephyr who had hit you and of course, being Zephyr, chided you for daydreaming instead of giving an apology. It only took a good smack at the back from his older brother to get him to say ‘sorry’, though, even when you insisted that it was truly your fault.
They didn’t believe any of it—which was understandable, given you were crying your eyes out from the pain and embarrassment of it all.
It only took a cheeseburger to calm you down, one that Venti could not comprehend why. Apparently, he disliked anything too cheesy, which was hilarious, since he was an avid lover of cheesy lines and flicks but couldn’t stomach cheesy food.
Digressing, ever since then, dodgeball fights consisted of the three of you in the same team, never being split. The twins were known for being utterly merciless with their throws and you could vouch for that any day, any time.
They were, however, merciful enough to graciously pull you to their side of the team—something that the rest of the class said was favoritism! And were they wrong? Nope, not at all.
“[Nickname]’s a very precious friend, that’s why! Bleeeeeh!” Venti reasoned one time as he stuck out his tongue, only to be met with a ball to the face.
A very precious friend.
It was the first time you were referred to as one, let alone ‘very precious’… oh how touched you were—and oh, how touched your face was from the ball that slammed against it, too! What did you say about daydreaming being dangerous?
That was obviously forgotten. Of course, for children were prone to making the same mistakes twice.
Rest assured, though, for you were both avenged by a tunnel-visioned Zephyr, who took out the opposing team without any difficulty. Seriously, he could’ve been a star athlete.
“There you two go again, lost in your heads! You’re lucky your noses didn’t bleed. You know how Tighnari is with his throws!”
A brusque star athlete, but it counts. It’s cliché, but deep down he’s a worrywart, you’ve lost count of the times both his aunt told you that; how what one twin lacks, the other fills in.
They are complementary siblings, though they do butt heads a lot.
They never outgrew their differences and similarities, sticking to what made them each to their own yet still retaining that ‘oh yes I’m definitely this guy’s twin’ vibe.
People around them had incredible difficulty trying to discern who is who, for the pair had a knack for impersonating the other—and they were good—but you never had any complications with it.
That was another thing you could flaunt to your peers, you supposed. Or well, you thought you were good—you didn’t know.
It wasn’t every year that you were their classmate, and it wasn’t always that the twins were in the same class, too. That did not deter the three of you from hanging out, however. Everyone knew that you were all attached to the hip.
There were things you could only disclose to them and vice versa, ergo the continuous bloom of fragile trust. It only grew with age.
And with the development of your ages and mentalities—so came the inevitability called adolescence.
A time of utter frustration in your case, for when you were prepubescent, the unloading of obligation and responsibility increased.
All of a sudden, the stack of fairytale books in your shelves lessened, replaced by tomes and subjects that were for adults; business management, communication—things that an eleven-year-old shouldn’t be studying that early!
The additional tutoring given by your father was spartan. It only ever flourished the seed in your mind, a mix of frustration, dubiety, and anxiousness. Was it possible to ignore? No.
Not when it was revealed that you would be wed at the young and tender age of twenty-five.
Twelve years away—it was twelve years away. [Presently speaking, five.]
If you were still eight, you would be bursting in excitement—because look! The fairytale ending you so desire was set in stone, you only ever need to prepare for it.
But you were no longer eight, but eleven.
Young, a child, still, but one whose eyes were already opened to the sense of duty. It was too fast, you were growing up too fast and you weren’t ready at all.
You were at a bad place at that age, constantly debating with your conscience who was no older than your mind, attempting to reason if your guilt was warranted or not.
Was it bad if you didn’t want your life to be scripted? Was it bad if you wanted to make your own tale and search for your own prince?
It was cringeworthy at worst, but boy, how you feel those questions resonate within.
You never spoke to your father about it—how could you, when he had done and given everything? You gained so many things an orphan could ask for and he only asked for one thing in return; cooperation.
Would you dare then tell him that you didn’t want to follow his plan when he had been nothing but good?
You were helpless. [You are helpless.]
You were torn—and you were trapped.
You shouldn’t be so dramatic over it, heavens above, you should be grateful! But you were only human, you were only a hopeless dreamer, you could not refrain from feeling even if you so tried.
It was only when you were in the presence of the twins that you’d forget the looming responsibility over your head. An invisible crown, resting on tresses of [c] as you once so desired when you were four.
But when you were four, you did not know that the crown was heavy not because of gold.
But because it carried an obligation; a duty to serve.
Maybe you weren’t a ‘princess-to-be’ because you’ve always been a princess all along, a royal with an intransigent future, a dreamer with a crown that could not be removed.
It was heavy and it still is, because at each waking moment you would be reminded of the day your tale will meet its end.
Pre-written, pre-ordained, something out of your control.
The twins were pretty scrupulous for their age then, being able to notice that you were under the weather for most of the time.
You supposed it was only natural for they’ve known you for years—and you liked to imagine that you knew them just as much.
What kind of best friend would you be if you don’t?
Venti was, understandably, the first one to ask you about it one afternoon, but you were much too irate then so you blew off his concern.
It was a terrible thing and although you felt awful and apologized, he brushed it off with his usual laughter, saying that you could just spill your problems when you were ready.
They didn’t pester you about it as the older twin promised—and you didn’t think it was possible to drown in shame and guilt until that very moment. Wasn’t it unfair?
You knew practically everything about the two but they, on the other hand, knew very few things about you in the years that you’ve become friends. Most they were aware of was that you were wealthy and that was it!
But you were scared.
If you told them your problems, won’t they think of you as selfish, too?
The three of you were at the age when you start to become more aware of the notion of morals, what’s right, wrong—what’s good and bad.
If you told them that you were just an orphan taken in by a man who wanted someone capable to take over the company and merge with another, that you didn’t really like the idea of being made to do things… won’t they think ill of you?
What if your friendship ended? What if they said you were a spoiled brat?
It did not help that these intrusive thoughts ate you from the inside out, gnawing without rest even when you were at the safety of the mansion—your home.
There was no one to talk to about it lest they start their critiques and you most certainly couldn’t tell father.
The chances of being returned to the orphanage… being abandoned… you couldn’t risk that.
You finally had a home, you had a family and everything you’ve wished for! All you had to do was suck it up and cooperate as your father wished. Surely, you would not give up everything that you were blessed with.
So, you kept those to yourself, those thoughts that knew nothing but to badger you day in and day out. Continuously beleaguered for the passing years, you persevered—and you thought, really, you thought that you could continue on like it.
Continue pretending that you favor the arrangement written by fate.
Come the age of twelve, you tried to breach the surface, tried to subtly tell your father about it—but his immediate displeasure caused you to refrain from proceeding.
The answer was as clear as day; though he gave you the freedom to choose which to study and what degree you’ll pursue in college, your life was settled.
It’s not like pursuing a different career would affect the plans—you would be reeled back in to take the seat of the head and the hand of a stranger in the end, anyway.
The more you grew, the more you became painstakingly aware of the ticking time. Like the clocktower in Cinderella’s tale, slow and gradual in the arrival of the golden hour, and when it comes, all magic will disperse.
Ah… maybe you should try to be like her, enjoy the time while it lasts.
That was the plan.
Well, until it was time to graduate from middle school, that is, for you had become thirteen, and when you rose to the stage with your father’s secretary, you saw the number of people in the crowd.
It had been a passing comment, innocuous and without any intent to perturb you. But it still did.
“Soon, you will face a crowd like this one. With your husband. Sir will be so proud of you, he will live to see his dream come true… and he’ll get to give you an even more secured life.”
You were wordless as you took your certificate, a simple word stamping in your mind as the teacher shook your hand.
Dream—it was your father’s dream to have a child and shape them to be the perfect heir to continue his legacy and to entwine with another powerful venture. Additionally, he had thought of your life along the way.
It was for his wish and at the same time, for the security of your life.
What was this? An endeavor to bring an orphan happiness?
“The Master grew to be very fond of you, mistress. He could not see you much, but he always asked about you.”
You knew your father wasn’t the most expressive about familial love, still, hearing someone divulge his true thoughts and intentions wrecked you.
Just a few years ago, he stated that it was not necessary to refer to him as ‘dad’, or ‘father’, or anything—but now he looked at you as his daughter. Someone he had learned to cherish and planned to give the best life to.
With those added reasons, how could you even begin to think of going against his wishes?
Guizhong mentioned once that parents plan a good future for their children, who would dislike them, unaware that it was for the best.
Was it not the same case with you?
You would embody the dream of your parent. That was fine.
So, even if you disliked the plan for your life… even if you wanted to write your own tale… you should just endure it. For the best, right?
It was all that could be returned to your parent.
You were in tears that afternoon, hiding away from the secretary and not returning to your seat so you could be alone with your thoughts.
The ceremony was far from being done but you could not risk bursting out into hiccups and sobs in the middle of hundreds of students.
In isolation only would you permit the weight of the invisible crown to drag you to the earth.
In the nearby playground by the swings, you hid. No one would think to look after you there.
And there at the swings, you thought about everything.
It was for you—and it was for your father.
If it was for the greater good and for your future, why must you run away from it? Teachers also did state that best of outcomes could only be attained through hardships and trials, through disdain and perseverance.
Was yours a similar case? Most probably.
Then… would it be possible to still be happy? Of course.
Life leads someone through ups and downs—surely, you would not remain down.
Surely, the invisible crown on your head would eventually be as light as a feather.
There were sacrifices to be made, but they were all for the greater good.
Stomaching that fact was hard… but it wasn’t impossible. If you looked at it in a different angle, it wasn’t so bad.
Who knows? Maybe the person you’ll marry would end up being the prince you’re searching for—maybe you’ll learn to be happy with the arrangement.
It wasn’t a concrete ‘yes’, it was just a ‘maybe’.
But ‘maybe’ is still a chance.
So, okay.
You’ll accept it—you’ll accept that you’re a character planned for a specific purpose. After all, ‘maybe’s still exist.
You still don’t like the arrangement, but you’ll tolerate it.
You’ll have to one way or another, anyway, you were simply resigning to it as early as now. Deep down, you knew you’d still long for the magic of writing your own story, and that was fine.
It wasn’t wrong to be a dreamer—no matter how hopeless one may be.
So there, you wept for the loss of the future you desired, you wept for the possibility of a crestfallen you in the years to come. You wept for the little confined princess within.
Ah.
What would Kaeya say if he was there?
Would he tell you to raise your concern to your dad? It sounds like him, he always had been confrontational and didn’t like beating around the bush.
He’d say that it was fine to feel selfish—he’s pretty selfish himself! Always stealing your cookies and promising to gift you when he visits, but those were empty.
But still—still, you wished he was there. Because even if he was a big bully of a brother figure, he was someone you found comfort in.
That time of twilight, you prayed—you wished for him to come.
It didn’t matter if he’ll tease you for crying, you just wanted to remember the way he’d do silly things to get you to stop crying.
And as if the heavens were listening, someone came.
“[Name]?”
But it was not Kaeya.
Your vision might be blurred from all the tears you had been spilling, but it was clear enough to discern that the blue hair of the brother you had been seeking was different. It was black—a friend’s.
“… Zephyr?”
The younger twin was openly gaping by the time your sight had cleared.
It was an uncharacteristic look on his face and he was pointing at himself—until he was shaking his head and heading to sit next to you.
“What’s wrong? You didn’t go back to your seat. V-“ he almost tripped, though he caught himself a quick moment later and sat on the swing. “Very worried. We were very worried.”
It was a simple question, ‘what’s wrong’. What was wrong?
So many things, so many things were wrong—but mainly, you felt that you were in the wrong the most. If only that selfish desire of yours would leave, then everything would be okay, wouldn’t it?
It was a simple question, but you couldn’t even answer.
“It’s okay,” his voice was surprisingly gentle. “You don’t have to say it.”
Ah they were so, so alike, weren’t they? They truly were twins.
All of a sudden, you were remembering the time you blew up on Venti for asking what was wrong—and your tears were bursting again.
You couldn’t bear to keep silent and confine them in the dark any longer, so as your tears spilled, so did the truths. Not a fraction was left unsaid; from your origin as an orphan, to being adopted and told of your planned life—everything.
Time was not an issue when you revealed all that you previously couldn’t, it was as if the setting sun was holding itself from dipping under the horizon so that the truths could proceed unveiling themselves.
At that moment, you did not care about what he’d think of you next. It was just too much to keep bottled inside.
You’ve overestimated your strength. You were still a child, and children were more vulnerable to breaking apart.
When all had been revealed, it felt as though you have flown into the open skies, unchained. In a way, it was true, for you had decided to break the thread that sewed your lips shut.
What was left now was to await the reaction of your friend. Oh, he’ll hate you for sure—he’ll say you’re asking for too much, that you should be grateful for what you already have, and-
“Eh? That’s constricting, isn’t it?” he grunted, “It sounds awful!”
To top your surprise off, he started going about how he thought of the situation; about it being unfair since it was technically thievery—that you were being robbed of a life.
His words faded in the background as you stared, eyes as wide as an owl’s.
He… doesn’t like it either? It was bizarre.
You didn’t expect such an outward expression from him at all, too—almost as though he feels the same conflicting emotions you’re holding.
With a shake of your head, you stammered out an apology, having lost once more to the enclosure of your thoughts. It must’ve been too silent though, because Zephyr was looking at you with a frown and a raised brow.
“Ah, I didn’t hear you. What were you saying?”
For a moment, it seemed like he was about to scold you—as always—for not speaking properly, but he just shrugged and started swinging back and forth on his seat, waiting for your answer.
He was being more considerate than usual.
Looking down at your twiddling thumbs, you repeated your apologies and chipped in a few of your own opinions. It felt safe to say more—not once has he judged you for speaking out, so…
“I said it plays a little differently from the fairytales I used to read.” You murmured, moving your hands to grip the rope on the swing before kicking off in the air.
“Wasn’t it Cinderella having a spontaneous Prince Charming? Snow White being rescued by a passing Prince? No arrangements, you know? And they get to live their lives however they wanted to.”
Love at first sight, was that what it’s called? It sounded impossible.
A story where it ends with the character gaining control of how they want to live afterward, it’s such a dream.
“It just feels… strange to have your happy ending planned. You get to live, but does it really matter?” the wind caressed your face and carried your whispers as you continued to swing, nearly straying from reality’s hold once more.
There was no response. His silence was prolonged for a while—then he snorted, bouts of stifles evidences of restrained laughter.
“Meaning, you want a stranger to sweep you off your feet or something?”
You spluttered at it.
To be fair, the one you’re to be married remains mysterious, no meetings whatsoever—you wonder why. Technically, that guy was a stranger… so the question was if he could ‘sweep you off your feet’.
You flushed red, digging your feet at the ground to stop the movement of the swing. But now that he puts it that way, doesn’t it sound a little scary?
“No,” you played again with your thumbs, voice small as you puffed your cheeks. “Just… I don’t know..”
Was it too selfish for you to want to search for someone on your own? To discover the mirth of finding someone you want to be with?
You don’t know why you’re worrying over this so much—you’re only thirteen! And you already accepted your fate!
You would carry your dad’s dream and live it out solely because it was his wish and it benefited you too. A life of power and stability. Really, the only thing you would lose along the way would be freedom.
It’s the fairytale book. Argued your conscience. Definitely.
Hah! So, it’s your fault for loving fairytales so much to the point that you are actively seeking it out in real life, something far from being magical? Ah yes, you can see where the fault lies—but still!
“I’ll take you away.”
“Huh?” you whipped your head toward him in astonishment.
The tips of your friend’s ears were red.
It was something thrown haphazardly into the fire. A sudden appearance that neither of you expected to surface.
Were you hearing things? You were, weren’t you?!
“I said I’ll take you away!” he all but exclaimed, kicking harder off the ground so he would be swinging a lot more. You wondered if he did it so you’d be unable to get a proper look on the expression on his face.
“Isn’t that what you want? For- for something spontaneous.”
No, you were not hearing things at all.
“You’re—” a lump was swallowed in your throat, palms starting to get sweaty you began to rub them away at your lap. “Doing it for show, right?”
Zephyr—the one child who loathed the idea of fantasies and was inarguably the sane, level-headed, pragmatic one out of the three of you- actually suggested such a thing?
Though yes, he had times when he indulged—involuntarily—in them, but-
He stopped swinging, giving you a dead set look in the eye that had you zipping your lips.
“It doesn’t have to be. Where’s the magic in that fairytale if it’s fake?”
Thump, thump.
All of a sudden, staring into his turquoise eyes felt suffocating, it felt heavy—surreal, flustering. It held a weight in your chest. You could not believe that he…
“You’d do that?” you whispered, breathless. For me?
“Well, why not? It’s like,” he hummed, “Saving Princess Peach or something.”
.
.
.
Ah.
It was as if the magic had snapped away in that instance.
Did he really just say that?
You were seconds away from laughing but the goofily serious expression he was wearing made you bite on your tongue. He always did carry a stern face but the way he mentioned that…
You didn’t expect… him to propose those things, but…
“You mean it?”
“You think I’m lying?” he countered.
You flinched, eyes widening again. He.. Zephyr… never really lies.
But—this was all still so…
For the second time, you tore your eyes away, head in a frenzy. Your palms were sweating like mad and your heart was racing as if you had just ran!
Was it normal to feel so shy when minutes ago, you were as normal as, well- usual?
A sigh.
“Take your pinky out,”
“Eh?”
He groaned, standing so he could position himself at your front. Then, he reached and yanked your wrist closer so he could align your fingers properly with his own. He kept ignoring your squirms.
“You’re slow.”
Without an ounce of visible hesitance, he linked your pinky with his.
Ah! Your eyes brightened, embarrassment forgotten, replaced by nostalgia and the memory of the similar action you used to do a lot with Kaeya.
A pinky promise… that’s what this was, wasn’t it? One to take to the grave.
“There, it’s a promise,” he gave your fingers a tug before letting go. “Now we’ll just have to wait for like, a decade and some years.”
“…”
Your cheeks started to grow warmer than usual… oh… was this alright?
Staring at the pinky finger that still clung unto the warm vestiges of another, your lips twitched, forming a shy, giddy smile.
It was useless—you know it was, that promise, but you believed in it anyway.
You have already accepted the future to come, you have resigned, even if it wasn’t favored. Nonetheless… the relief that he hadn’t judged you at all and even went out of his usual comfort zone to appease you was nice.
It felt nice.
It felt like you had someone to catch you.
“What promise?” came a voice, alerting the two of you about the newcomer.
“Venti!” he looked confused asyou beamed, hopping away from the swing so you could tell him all that had gone down, failing to register the frantic look that Zephyr wore.
There was nothing to be afraid anymore, you were certain that he’d react similarly—and he did! In one way more than one.
“He promised what?!”
Venti was thunderstruck in his exclamation, gaping widely as he shot a look at you and his twin back and forth. All attempts to construct a coherent sentence were met by failures.
You were too relieved to bother reading between the lines.
The twins were acting odd that day—perhaps they just woke up at the wrong side of the bed or something?
Still, when you parted ways with them, dolor was forgotten, and you met up with your father’s secretary wearing huge smile on your face along with a heart that felt full.
It was amazing how the littlest of comfort and most kiddish of promises could uplift your spirits. Perhaps all you needed was just a tad bit of assurance.
Deep in your bestrewed heart, a seed was planted. One of admiration.
Certainly, that promise stuck with you for days and for nights—you were happier, too.
Two of your best friends were in total support of how you felt and although it wouldn’t really help your future situation, it lessened the weight of your invisible crown.
It was bearable.
The bleak monochrome became less, replaced by heaps of color that spawned vibrancy in a life that you first thought would continue to be in a single bland hue.
Melodies of a waltz music you’ve memorized from hours of listening to—because what else was magical than envisioning a ballroom waltz?—were on an encore in your head.
After that encounter at sunset, the word ‘magical’ was certainly applicable to the prosaic reels of your everyday life.
One afternoon, when you were heading out of the school with a skip to your steps, painting every modern scenery into a grander medieval setting, you overheard the delicate sound of strings.
In a moment, you ludicrously thought that the music in your mind had manifested in reality and who knows? Maybe you have gotten a super power.
But that was much more impossible than your dad saying that your future marriage is called off, so you followed the source of the sounds—and you weren’t dismayed.
“Woah, you guys can play! That’s so cool!” how could you not been aware in all the years you’ve known them?
The music stopped.
Venti eased away from the chinrest of his violin, waving at you with the bow still held in his other hand. On the other hand, Zephyr kept his fingers at rest on the piano keys, expression blank.
“We usually play at some events! Hehe~” informed the older twin as you approached with a smile, one that was quick to dwindle in contrast to the speeding race of your heart.
For some reason, you felt a little shier than usual—was it because of that promise? You were kept awake the first few nights, unable to get some proper sleep because of it. This wasn’t normal at all, wasn’t it!?
“I heard the violin, it was amazing! And you play the piano really well, Zeph!” you grinned, pairing it with a clap. Oh, it felt like your heart was going to—
“Yeah.” He answered.
—… Burst.
Well, that was a bland response.
Your face fell, along with it your smile—he’s… being gruff. Not to find any fault in it since he always had been the personification of austereness, but- it felt like you were maybe hoping for something else.
You didn’t really know what.
A lightbulb flicked into life in your mind.
Oh, could it be that maybe he was thinking twice about what he said about that promise? It had been some time after that… It’s saddening, but you knew not to get your childish hopes up-
“Ow-! I mean, thank you.”
He corrected himself with a harsh pout. He still refused to meet your eyes—he was glaring at a snickering Venti—but even so, the smile was coming back on your visage full force.
Before you were even aware of it, you’re bouncing in place, giggling.
What was there to worry over?
“Why do you both play, though?” you beamed, curiosity genuinely piqued, “A hobby?”
You had heard Venti sing a couple of times in passing but not a time when he took it seriously. Because of it, you always thought that he just liked doing it as a pastime, so his answer caught you off-guard.
“We plan to be singers one day! Up there on a stage!”
He wore the brightest of smiles you’ve seen as he said this and though you were merely thirteen—you could feel it.
The genuine excitement, his adoration for a dream he yearned to achieve.
His twin also shared the same sentiment, though he evidently showed less avidness, there was no mistaking the sheen of eagerness over his eyes. It was sort of enviable, if you were going to be honest.
To have a dream so grand.
You only dreamt of being free and that was that.
“As a pair?” you pressed on.
You’ve heard of musical duos and even trios, so will it just be the two of them? They did operate blisteringly well together, so you wondered if they will stay as is or form some sort of band.
Venti was obviously more open to the notion of working with others, and Zephyr, not so much—however they would work around the possibility of being in a group was still unknown.
Venti shook his head, smile still on his face. “Nope! We have Xi—”
Riiiiiiiiiing!
The sound of the bell drowned and cut him off.
To this, Zephyr stood from his seat, pulling down the fallboard after a split-second skim of his fingers against the keys. “It’s dismissal. Time to go home.”
He was curter than usual—almost as if he was on edge, nervous- or maybe even upset. You didn’t know why, though he had been like so ever since you met up with them at lunch break.
You tried not to let the bad, bad thoughts insist that it was because of what he promised you.
He pushed past Venti, who called out for him to wait—to no avail.
“Um, maybe a cheeseburger will help him?” Guizhong often gave him one whenever he was being under the weather… and a lot said that food is a wonderful remedy to a bad mood!
Venti scrunched his nose at the mention of the food, mulling his thoughts about how his twin could tolerate the sticky, icky cheese.
At first, it was baffling how he—Venti—couldn’t bear to stomach anything cheesy, but now it was simply amusing.
Regardless, he did not set aside your suggestion about the ‘awful’ food, and invited you along in his little mission to brighten his brother’s spirits. You would’ve gone if you didn’t have an agenda after school, which was to take more private lessons according to your father’s orders.
It was sad but understandable.
You had only gone at least seven times at their house.
On the other hand, the times they had gone over to yours couldn’t be quantified even if one tried to.
That day, you parted ways with another seed, now of dismay, rooted in your heart. Try as you did, you could not abate the growing fear in your chest.
It was hard to convince yourself that promises could be taken back and that was fine—Kaeya had done it so many times—and though you were able to, it left a bitter taste in your mouth.
Fortunately, you were already used to those, so, albeit you subtly hoped that the promise would see fruition years from now, you did not continue abiding by the thought of it. It was cataclysmic.
Besides… the marriage was like, a ‘whole decade and some years’ away, so you had all the time in the world to continue being merry.
Well, that was what you thought.
If you can turn back time and tell younger you about the future, you’d warn yourself about the chapters to come. You’d tell yourself to be stronger.
But you were just thirteen then.
You had all but explored the ups and downs of becoming an adolescent with the twins, through the reigning awkwardness and the flustering shenanigans.
It was a journey destined to be embarked by a group of three.
Highschool was even larger venture that you thought would be roamed with your arms linked with theirs, and it was. Albeit, for a short while.
Most friends often deviate come highschool, they said it was a new chapter with new characters, but this failed to be the case with you.
Sure, you were not in the same classes any longer, but it wasn’t like that changed anything.
Only, they were getting more perceptive of the future they wanted, and yours was getting murkier.
Oftentimes, you felt like being left behind. Whilst they were moving forward, prepared like knights atop their horses, you were stuck in a prison cell.
In that dark confinement, you had all the time in the world to think of things—many, many things a thirteen-year-old would stew in. From the faraway future, to pesky puberty, and emotions.
You were growing up with a heart that you wore on your sleeve—and it knew only how to race in the presence of one. The seed of admiration had grown, blooming into a shy bud that seized your heart with its roots and caused it to tighten whenever you’d see him.
When you figured it out, you were deathly afraid, but understood that things such as feelings were one of the least serious factors that could strain your relationship with your friends.
It was a bond that could stand the test of time. You were that confident in it.
Everything may not be as transparent as it was before but it wasn’t like that was a major change.
At the oddest of times, you still would find out interesting things you wouldn’t know about them—like a novel that contained bits of details that one would only catch upon repeated readings.
“What flower is that?”
You asked one time during a festival hosted by the school, a rare occasion when you could leave classes and bond with the pair.
Everyone was in charge over different things, so it was a miracle that you were able to find the time to see them.
Venti was found in the school greenhouse, tending to the plants the gardening club had asked him to bring out.
There were pretty flowers all around—but the one he was trimming the stem of was the loveliest of them all.
A stark white, dipped almost with a shy gradient of viridescent. It appeared to belong in the lily family—you weren’t too sure, you weren’t an avid learner of plants and floras.
Instead, you were growing up to be adept with management and communications, as your father liked. It wasn’t bad, you sort of liked it, though you were influenced by the twins’ love for art.
The flower put a halt in your steps, bringing about an extra sense of awareness; specifically, the blooming flower of adoration that had started to grow in your chest.
It wasn’t something you expected to have nurtured over time.
You couldn’t even begin to recall how you grew to be so fond of him.
“A cecilia! Isn’t it pretty?” Venti looked up at you before he stood, aligning the flower to your ear with a grin. “Yup yup! My favorite, indeed.”
You chuckled, agreeing with a nod as you took the flora from his hand and giving it a look over. It really was pretty.
“Does Zeph have a favorite flower?” Venti shifted his stare from you to the patch of cecilias planted in their respective pots. Hands on his hips, he smiled a wistful smile.
“He likes these, too.”
Nothing to be surprised over.
Though you did wonder about the other’s whereabouts, they were usually together. You didn’t question it, but it seemed as though your friend was aware of the stewing question in your head.
“He’s busy running an errand for the student council so he wouldn’t be here until later.”
Ah, you nodded. I see.
Venti nudged your side, winking. “The festival doesn’t really start until four, I can come accompany you later after I finish these? You should go get some lunch. It’s midday.”
Ever the worrywart, this twin.
You appreciated his thoughtfulness, though. He probably saw you scampering around the hallway a while ago during recess with nothing but an apple in hand.
As if on cue, your stomach growled and you flushed, smacking your friend’s arm when he burst out laughing.
“Shut up! I’m going, I’m going.” You spun on your heel with a snort, “I’ll see you later!”
“Uhuh!”
You hadn’t seen Zephyr that day—not even the morning earlier. But that was fine, the three of you did agree to spend the festival together.
It was one of the few events that could be spent together in the school, an opportunity not to be missed.
You didn’t worry much.
But oh, you wish you did.
Come the strike of four in the afternoon, you were seated outside on a bench, reading a book that a good friend had suggested.
Almost avid in his quest to read all the materials in the library, Xingqiu had bestowed a very good book with the theme you were all over the moon for.
It wasn’t until later when Venti showed up, plopping onto the bench and throwing his head back with a sigh—almost as if he was out of breath. It was honestly funny.
The greenhouse wasn’t too far and he was that tired already?
You ought to tease him about it, but you were too engrossed in reading that a different question popped up instead.
“What do you think of fairytales?”
Without a wasted breath, he answered. “They sound stupid..”
Your head shot up, not expecting the answer at all. His head was still thrown back as he rose his hand and did a series of stiff motions, adding, “And by that, I meant stupidly romantic, you know what I’m saying? Hehe!”
Voice turning mellow, he sighed. “It sounds impossible to happen, but it still does, anyway. It may be cliché and all, but I guess that’s where the magic is… I think?”
You blinked—once, then twice.
It’s true—that magic can be found in incessant clichés, but that’s what makes them lovable… desirable.
Digressing, you had known that Venti was the sappy one out of the twobut not to this extent. It was admirable as it was funny.
That could only mean that he was serious about serenades being his form of future courting, emphasis on future.
“… Pfft- ahaha!” You playfully punched his arm, to which he yelped and straightened up to display a vexed pout. “What’s with you today and being so strangely gloomy all of a sudden? Are you still hung up over that brown crayon?”
He scoffed, though it couldn’t hide the lifting curves of the lips on his face. “Yeah! It was so uncool of you.”
It had been a running joke for years now to bring up the topic of the stolen crayon whenever either of you was under the weather.
It was definitely a naïve topic to reminisce, Zephyr would’ve lost his eyes from rolling them time and time again whenever it was brought up.
“It wouldn’t have happened if you didn’t take my [c]!” you stuck your tongue out only to shriek at the unexpected assault that came afterward.
���You deserved it!”
Venti ruffled your hair with a grin, ignoring your shriek and flailing limbs as he continued messing up your hairdo—which wasn’t anything fancy, but still!
It was a hectic day and it was a miracle in itself that your hair wasn’t sticking on ends… until now.
Other students’ eyes were naturally drawn to the both of you, a pair of chaos incarnates that huddled at a bench, but no one bothered, far too occupied with their duties for the afternoon.
It wasn’t until a passing teacher had come to scold and tell you to quiet down did you both apologize, sheepish in your mannerisms.
Now facing quietude with only the background noise of seniors and juniors running about the place, you slumped on the bench, glancing at your watch. It was half an hour until four, half an hour until it was time to reform the group of three.
Needless to say, you were both excited and nervous.
A glimpse towards the boy beside you as well as an agitated swallow was all it took to summon the courage to speak up again. You cleared your throat.
“Hey, Ven, I think I’m going to talk about something to Zeph later.”
He chuckled. “Don’t you always talk to him?”
Oh the woes of being a thirteen-year-old. You could do this.
Or not.
Your voice faltered, emitting a barely heard whisper. “I mean…”
That was more than enough for him to turn at you, eyes wide as saucers. With the heat spreading to your cheeks and ears, you didn’t need to look at a mirror to be aware that your face was becoming as red as an apple.
The twiddling of your fingers was another evident factor that spoke of your nervousness.
“… Oh.” He answered, just as silent.
He knew of what you thought of his brother because, as dumb looking as he may be, he was truthfully rather discerning. In fact, Venti was the one who was able to spell out how you felt with only a couple of questions.
When he first found out, he was excited.
“What do you think?” you asked, concerned.
So why was he acting off now?
He blinked, eyebrows furrowing in bewilderment. “What do you mean by that?”
What did you mean?
Perhaps you were looking for some moral support? The same one he had expressed come the initial revelation? Or… you didn’t know.
But it felt like you were going to burst the more you kept it inside—you cared not about the answer you would receive, you just needed to let it out.
“Well…” you looked down at your hands, “I think…“
How were you going to say that?
For someone who was taught rigorously in communications and management, your tongue sure loved to twist itself when it came to sentimental stuff. Dear heavens, was this another setback of puberty or something?
You’re just making up excuses now.
With a sharp exhale, you turned your head to look at him again, only, he was beating you to it with a troubled sigh. Fingers ran through his messier than usual tresses, giving them a firm tug as he gnawed on his lip. He looked more nervous than you were.
“Listen, [Name]-“
The ring of his phone startled the two of you into jumping, to which he curtly apologized before taking a peek at it.
It was concerning—how you saw his pupils dilate and his lips part open- until the colors were draining from his face.
Then came another ring—and another ‘till he was being spammed with calls that he was yet to pick up. His head and phone were angled away at the slightest, but you could see the panic rising to his face.
You rose a tentative hand to his arm.
“Venti?”
As though your voice was a wake-up call, he jerked upright, slotting his device in the pockets of his jeans before you could take a look at it.
His fingers were shaking as he regarded you with the palest face you’ve seen him wear.
“I—have to go.”
Already? What about the festival? It’s only a few minutes away from starting-?
Your visage must’ve already been showing the questions that were just about to roll from your lips, because he was already backing away—afraid, panicked, you didn’t know how to describe his retreat.
You hadn’t seen him looked so white.
“I’m sorry, it’s an emergency!” he called before sprinting, leaving you alone at the bench.
That afternoon, you may had felt worried, but it wasn’t too much.
Whatever the occasion, either of the twins never failed to let you in an update. Yes, the festival wasn’t that festive anymore because they both weren’t there with you… but that was fine.
It wasn’t.
You went home when the clock read seven and you were certain that neither were going to show up. That was the time you began to worry. Such a delayed response, but it was better to fret than never.
Not one of them picked up the calls, so you assumed that they were handling it well… hopefully.
They weren’t.
Even when the moon was already high up in the sky, there were zero replies.
It was then, that you truly began to be concerned. It was not normal, this duration of no contact, you weren’t used to it at all. You needed to know what happened.
You should’ve chased after him a while ago—but what if it was personal? No, it was okay, they would understand- right?
Sleep evaded your consciousness.
As you tossed and turned on your bed, gazing at the dark sky littered with tiny specks of white, you endeavored to bring yourself to a magical dreamscape—but it was an otiose try.
Not even reading the bunch of fairytales and storybooks in your shelves could allay the twist of trepidation in your chest.
You wished to receive a sign—a good one, or anything!
And lo, receive you did.
Your phone lit up on the bedside table before it started to ring, not like it mattered, for you were already swiping it to answer in a span of a second. Pressed against your ear, you called out the name displayed on the screen.
Breathlessly, anxiously.
“Venti?”
Nothing—just the distant sound of repetitive beeps and labored breaths.
It was a night to remember.
“[Name],”
And it wasn’t because it was good.
You can remember the way he responded to your second call of his name, so frail—so lost.
He’s crying.
He hadn’t said anything yet, but as if the organ keeping you alive was in tune with his, your eyes were already watering. The coldness of your room was becoming too much.
“I, he-“ a choked sob. “Zeph.”
You forced yourself to choke out an agitated, “Yeah?”
The quietude was deafening, the constant zoning out, the ceaseless beeping in the background- you were going to go insane in the darkness of your prison cell.
You debated saying his name again lest your words would tumble in with his, but he wasn’t saying anything and you were getting frustrated by the minute.
The tight grip you had on your duvet hadn’t even been registered until you felt a subtle stab of pain digging into your palms and you released it with a disgruntled, shaky exhale.
The roots of the flower you’ve nurtured within grasped away at your chest, seizing traces of air that you had trouble trying to wring in.
“Venti?” you try again.
And again.
And again—over and over and over until it was enough to snap him out of whatever had held him captive and-
“[Name], he—”
.
.
The world slowly began to still along with your freezing heart. Something slammed and the sound was loud, thundering in the ears like a judgement had befallen for all to hear.
So destructive, when in truth, it was only your phone that had rolled out of your grasp.
But it’s the same phone that heralded the terrible news—news you wished should be false, but alas. It wasn’t.
The tale you called life was warping into a nightmare.
It was his turn to say your name, reverberating in the walls of your room. But, just like he had been a while ago, you were too stunned to speak.
Far too gone, you were, that you didn’t bother to catch the phone that eventually slipped out of your bed.
Thud!
It’s cold.
“Hello, miss?” you blink with a shiver, turning to the voice with a confused look.
An old woman is handing you your—ah! Your phone!
“You dropped this.”
You take it from her aged hands and quickly placed it in your bag, a much safer location than your jean’s pocket. “Thank you…”
How long have you been standing out here?
You’ve arrived at your destination with a newly purchased flower and a semblance of fortitude to go along with it, but not even a step further and you are already gone.
Away, in the tides of a time irretrievable.
Goodness, here you go again, getting lost in your head… if Venti is here, he would’ve already started another motherly sermon.
He isn’t, however, so there is only your subconsciousness to tell you off for being an airhead.
“Are you alright, dear? It looks like you’ve come from a nightmare.” And you’ve forgotten that there’s still someone in front of you.
Resisting the impulse to slam a hand to your face, you wring up a strained smile, one that is swift to sway come the understanding of what was mentioned.
A nightmare?
You fight down the urge to laugh and admit that—yes, in some way, you did just resurface from a nightmarish memory. She isn’t wrong at all. Far from it, actually!
For the sake of preserving whatever mettle you have remaining, however—you like to think you’ve grown some resistance in reminiscing the bitter past—you chose not to reveal your true sentiments. Instead, you laugh it away.
As you learned to do over the years.
“I’m fine, granny, but thank you.” You grin, “It’s appreciated.”
The old woman coos, caressing your hand and giving it a firm shake, as though aware that you are lying—for her sake or yours, she doesn’t know. You don’t know either. “Dear girl, whatever it is, do not worry.”
Her wrinkled visage presents a knowing smile, olden with wisdom and experience that one can’t possibly forget. Before she departs down the white halls of the building, she presses faintly on your knuckles.
“When dream ends, so do nightmares. You’ve awoken from one, and you will for so many to come.”
Her words resonate in your mind, bouncing off memories in an endeavor to get it to stick—maybe even to console the conscience of your younger self. One that is mislaid in the oscillating enclosure of a bogey known as history.
Ah, but she has mentioned that you have awoken from that now—and, though still hurting, you daresay that you have in fact, woken from it.
Awake from a fairytale-deemed-reality, for now you are older and not younger.
Accepting, for now you are mature and no longer naïve; the moment you’ve decided to open your eyes, you have emerged past the pages of your storybook.
She’s right, you sigh, entering a room and shutting the door as silently as possible. I’ve awoken.
For it’s just as she said.
Your dreams have ended—and so have your nightmares. What lays before you now are nothing but the afterthought, the one that lingers, never to leave. You’ve awoken… but deep down you still wish to succumb to that slumber, to that pleasant wonderland where there are only pleasant dreams and nothing more.
The steady sound of a beeping machine stings your eyes as you place down a single cecilia on the vase, taking the old one out.
Oh, how you still wish for fairytales, for don’t they reach happy endings? Alas.
There is no time to hope for magic.
Ginger with your mannerism, you feel the petals under the pad of your finger, trembling lips tugging down to a frown.
It’s soft, despite nearing its death.
Beep
A long time ago, with the entrance of twin stars in your fairytale, comes the planting of a seed. Born of a promise you’ve held onto, but eventually let go.
Beep
A long, long time ago, you nurtured a flower, too—it grew with your heart, grew with your emotions.
It has blossomed into a beautiful one, never closing back into a bud. It knew not rain nor shine, for whatever the weather, it still kept its petals open, dancing to the presence of one.
The journey of it blooming. The dread of falling. The beauty of loving…
Beep
And the acceptance of withering.
A natural cycle, yet one you dreaded all the same.
Weakened, you fall to the nearby chair, feeling the twists and turns of your heart as you drop the wilted cecilia onto your lap.
In the end, deep down, although you’ve woken up, you are still the child yearning for an impossible fairytale.
Beep
Is it selfish for you to want to see it be fulfilled? That naïve wish? That childish promise?
Hand on the white sheets, near unmoving fingers, you sigh. With the last reserves of your strength, you bring your eyes to gaze upon someone’s profile. So strikingly similar, a mirror to a friend. Peaceful and undisturbed.
Beep
Your eyes are stinging—it’s impossible to keep them from hurting.
“When, just when,”
Your laugh comes out bittersweet, though it begins to form into restrained sobs.
Beep
“When will you stop dreaming, Zeph?”
The monitor proceeds to show and sound out the timid beat of a sleeping heart, as it has been doing for the past couple of years. It’s yet to show a sign of change, yet to show the sign of a hopeful awakening.
It drowns out the quiet weeping, lost in the coldness and the whiteness of the hospital room. A space stuck in the stasis of time.
Beep
It makes you look away at the face of a dear friend—
Beep
—Unable to see the stray tear that rolls down his cheek.
a/n: so :))) [passive smiling intensifies] we have a sleeping beauty~ at long last, namelessbard (zephyr) is finally- officially introduced! LORE! HOORAY! and the angst! ..not so yay?
@cherryflushz @e7t3 @scarlet-halos @lordbugs @nebulaera @annoying-and-upset @hanniejji @applepi1415 @tjjjrsj @azirajane @hey-comrade-hold-stil @limelightsuperhero @chloeloe @loptido @windyventi @nejibot @ganyuqrt @justrinnn @yasunamilk @alana5021 @coco-goat-milk @uwu-dreams @nomnom21 @milksnake-tea @layla240 @normalisthenewnorm @abbynxisys @ghostlystudentvoidbat @meinoballs @lost-in-alula @aryllechan @xiaosalmondtaro @yetchann @rayskyee @lunavixia @estelwrld @nightfloweruponahill @o0soup0o @little-fiinch @blueberrysauce @iineikoo @aestherin @hakobuns @monicahar @sirinxei @mundanenights @minitao @randomweebly @bluebeomz @emperatris-rinaka @durptwit @shioriryke @crapimahuman @cianalikesbeans @feverish-dove @sassyglassesbunny @m1chijou @galacticmei @dollpoetwriting @yamtwt
#m-fleur#venti x reader#venti angst#nameless bard x reader#genshin x reader#genshin angst#female reader#i apparently like to test tumblr's limits#i reached the max amount of blocks per post- 1000#tumblr can you maybe please up that number JHDAJHDSAJD#so i can- yakno.. add more spaces between paragraphs for dramatic suspense KJSHDJASDHA
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Chapter 3
Chapter warnings:// none
Chapter summary:// the ball is here! and tension are on the rise as you bring tamaki as your date.
As the chilly air nipped at your nose, you took Tamaki's hands, grateful for his assistance as you disembarked from the carriage. The Todoroki mansion glowed with the warm light emanating from various areas, instantly triggering memories of a time when you were once a playmate in this very place. Running around with the future crown prince and the slightly older Tamaki, you recalled the bittersweet moments of your childhood. Tears were shed when Tamaki was taken away for princely training, until the gates closed following the disappearance of the first-born prince. Despite the twists and turns in your stomach, the happy memories associated with the mansion provided a comforting warmth as you made your entrance.
"Now entering the future crown princess and future duchess to the L/N estate, accompanied by the future count of the Amijiki estate," the announcer's voice sounds surprised, and the crowd, too, is taken aback as the person by your side is not your betrothed. Ignoring their reactions, you proceed down the long steps, feeling engulfed by the crowd, only realizing minutes into the conversation that Tamaki is nowhere to be found. Excusing yourself to go outside for some fresh air, you step into the cold night, letting the brisk air wash over your face, enjoying the tranquility until the music grows louder for a brief moment before the door clicks open.
"Lady Y/N, do you have a moment?" The voice of the man you've been ignoring all evening prompts an eye roll from you. "I suppose, but only for a moment, as I'm sure Sir Tamaki is wondering where I've gone." You turn around, leaning against the ledge. "Ah, yes, you were always close to Sir Amijiki. I remember you two always playing together." Izuku's voice coughs lightly, and you respond, "Yes, he is precious to me. That's why I came tonight with him." You can hear Izuku attempting to justify his actions, mentioning that he was only dancing with Lady Uraraka as friends. Frustrated, you retort, "How is it acceptable for you to come with a friend, but I cannot?" He counters, "It's unseemly for a lady to come with another man, Lady Y/N. Don't you understand the rumors that follow your newly acquired title and how it reflects on me?" Fed up, you retort, "Ah, yes, there it is, how it reflects on you. You have no concern for me; you only wish to preserve your image. Please, continue enjoying your evening with Lady Ochako. Good day, Prince." Dismissing him, you left the terrace, embarking on a night stroll, unaware of someone who had overheard the entirety of your exchange. On the walk you had discovered the mansion the ball was being held in by itself was tremendous. The ball alone was breathtaking, with glistening crystals and elegantly dressed individuals, resembling a scene from a fairy tale. However, if someone were to inquire about your whereabouts, you would confidently say you were in the garden. Filled with an array of flowers, it reminded you of the times you would pick them for your father during playdates at the Todoroki estate. But among all the blossoms, it was the blue roses that illuminated under the moonlight that captured your attention. As you walked through the garden, gently touching the dew-covered petals, you arrived at a bridge with a grand gazebo in the center. Standing near a pillar was a man with striking red and white hair - Shoto Todoroki, the reason for the celebration and your childhood playmate. Approaching him, you witnessed a longing gaze from his eyes, directed towards the other side of the gazebo where the glowing roses reflected on the ocean, and the moonlight accentuated his features.
"You don't have to hesitate, Y/N. Please, come stand by my side," he spoke aloud, acknowledging your presence. He turned towards you, extending his hand for you to take. His grip was gentle and tender as he led you to his side. Both of you embraced the tranquility of the moment, accompanied by the melodious chirping of crickets and the soothing sound of fish splashing in the distance. "You are a dear friend, despite the passing years since we last played together."
"How I've missed sharing this space with someone," you thought to yourself, silently agreeing that the past three weeks of adjusting to an unfamiliar place, with no one to confide in, had been exhausting. Recognizing that Shoto, known for his few words, had something on his mind, you remained quiet, allowing him the space to express himself. "You know, it can be suffocating at times, all of this," he began, holding one arm behind his back. You offered an agreeable hum, indicating your willingness to listen, as he continued, "Sometimes I feel as if I'm drowning whenever I try to find a way out. It's not always the same person holding me down. Sometimes it's my mother, and even Fuyumi, with their attempts to mold me into the perfect prince for the king's kingdom. Rarely Natsuo, but most of all, it's my father, and strangely enough... myself. I've lived solely as this machine, meant to fulfill my father's vision of the perfect prince, but its facade is slowly crumbling. Every day, I miss Touya more, not for him to replace me, but for the moments when he would sneak me out to the marketplace, granting me a taste of the freedom he possessed. I don't mean to overstep my boundaries, but may I ask why you had such a heated conversation with Prince Midoriya earlier?"
You turned your gaze towards him, and in that moment, both of you understood the shared struggle you were facing.
"You wonder why I show hostility towards Izuku," you sighed, guiding him towards the swing on the veranda. Feeling that he wouldn't judge you, you decided to reveal the truth. "You might think I'm crazy, Shoto, but... this isn't my first life." Although his face didn't portray his shock and confusion, you could sense a shift in his demeanor, as if he was trying to comprehend the weight of your words.
In the past, Izuku had crossed paths with Ochako. The exact circumstances are unknown to me, but she was quite the talk of high society, so naturally, I had heard of her. I even attempted to befriend her, but it seemed that her attention was solely fixed on Izuku. He, in turn, reciprocated those feelings. Soon, strange situations began to arise. It started with minor incidents, such as accusations of me tripping her or sending her the wrong invitations. At first, Midoriya believed it wasn't me," your voice cracks slightly, "but then it all escalated. Suddenly, it emerged that my father was involved in money fraud."
"That's impossible. Your father was always wise with his finances. He even played a part in our kingdom's prosperity," Shoto interjects.
"I know, but he's ill...someone, I don't know who, framed him. They stole from him, but that's just the beginning. Ochako would mysteriously find her jewelry in my pockets or my room. That's when Midoriya started to distance himself. That's when they began growing closer behind my back, falling for each other while he knew my heart still belonged to him," tears well up in your eyes, and Shoto pulls you into a comforting hug. "What pushed me into prison was sudden evidence that showed me supposedly leaking secrets to the barbarian king of the Almighty Kingdom. I told them I had never met him, that I had only heard rumors of his battles, but they didn't believe me. They painted me as this evil person, this vile villainess. I didn't even get to say goodbye to my father when they took my life away."
As you both sat there, Shoto's gentle touch wiped away your tears, his hands caressing your cheeks with tenderness. The intensity of your gazes locked once again, his mesmerizing heterochromatic eyes searching every depth of your soul. The air crackled with an electric energy as you inched closer, feeling the warmth of his breath against your skin, until your foreheads gently touched. In that moment, time seemed to stand still, the world narrowing down to just the two of you, lost in the depths of your emotions.
And then, as if guided by an invisible force, your lips met in a soft, passionate, and soul-stirring kiss. It was a brief yet profound connection, filled with the unspoken words and unyielding emotions that had been building between you. In that single touch, the weight of your shared burdens and past hardships melted away, leaving only the overwhelming sensation of love and comfort.
"Shoto... I-I think we should return to the ball," you whispered, your voice trembling with a mixture of vulnerability and longing.
He tenderly caressed your cheek, his touch sending shivers down your spine as he leaned in closer, his warm breath caressing your lips. "Yes,I believe we should. let us go back before they come searching for us."
Your foreheads still pressed together, neither of you were in a hurry to break the intimate connection. With a gentle squeeze of your hand, Shoto led you out of the enchanting garden, his touch creating a sense of security and reassurance. Before leaving, he paused, his eyes drawn to the beautiful blue roses that adorned the surroundings. With a delicate touch, he plucked one of those exquisite blooms, its vibrant color captivating against the night sky. With utmost care and affection, he placed the rose behind your ear, a symbol of his adoration for you.
"Lady (Y/n)," he spoke softly, his hand gently cradling one side of your face, "I firmly believe the opposite of what they have accused you of. You are not a villainess, but rather a thorny flower, both graceful and delicate, yet fiercely protective of yourself. You are willing to defend yourself against anyone who dares to harm you. If Prince Midoriya fails to see this, then I am grateful to have the privilege of witnessing your strength for myself."
A rare smile graced his lips, illuminating his face as his pearly white teeth flashed. It was a sight that made your own laughter bubble forth, an echo of joy in response to his genuine expression.
As you walked back together, there was no trace of awkwardness. It felt as if you were children again, returning from a playful adventure and eagerly anticipating snacks. However, the carefree atmosphere was abruptly shattered when a wet Ochako slapped your face upon entering the ballroom. The sound of others' conversations ceased, their attention drawn to the scene unfolding before them - Shoto holding you protectively, his touch gentle against your cheek.
"What reason do you have to strike her?" Shoto seethed through clenched teeth, his voice laced with anger. Ochako smirked, displaying the damp clothing she wore.
"She pushed me into the fountain outside. She claimed to be jealous of me dancing with Zuzu," Ochako retorted, her tone filled with spite.
In that moment, the ballroom was engulfed in a hushed silence, the tension palpable. Shoto's eyes narrowed, his protective instincts flaring. He released your hand, stepping forward to confront Ochako, his voice firm and unwavering.
The mention of the name "Zuzu" caused your gaze to shift towards the green-haired male who had been silently observing the scene. "Zuzu? Really?" Anger seethed within you, your words laced with frustration and betrayal. "I can't even hold hands with Tamaki, an old childhood friend, and yet you allow this harlot to give you a pet name? You let her slap me? Fuck you, Midoriya." The intensity of your emotions radiated off you, leaving others in the room gasping at your outburst. Izuku, however, remained silent, refusing to acknowledge your innocence.
"I couldn't have pushed her into that damn fountain because I was having a conversation with Shoto in the garden," you continued, determined to defend yourself.
Ochako visibly paled at this revelation, and Shoto nodded in confirmation. "She was with me for the majority of the evening. Accusing her is not only unsightly but also unfounded. Such baseless accusations make the accuser appear no better than filth on the streets," Shoto's icy stare pierced through Ochako, his disapproval evident.
"It had to be her! I clearly saw her dre--" Ochako's words were swiftly cut off as Shoto unsheathed his sword, positioning it at the side of her neck. "You dare defy a prince's word and go as far as to commit blasphemy by calling me a lowly liar?" his voice dripped with authority and menace.
"Prince Todoroki, lower your sword," Izuku demanded, pulling Ochako into his side. Your eyes rolled at his actions, but you swiftly intervened, guiding Shoto's hand away from the vulnerable girl. "When my name is being dragged through the mud, you remain silent. But when she puts herself in danger with her own words, you speak up?" you faced Izuku, staring directly into his green eyes, your disappointment evident.
Without hesitation, you delivered a resounding slap across Izuku's face, the force behind it surpassing anything Ochako had done. The impact also struck Ochako, a clear sign of your determination to end the facade of your engagement. "Take this as my declaration of ending this charade. I no longer want you near me, and I will personally inform King All Might of my decision."
As if on cue, Tamaki rushed into the room, his heaving form catching everyone's attention. " (Y/n), we must leave. Your--your father has worsened. Aizawa wants us home immediately," he gasped out between breaths.
You turned to Shoto, who gave you a curt nod, signaling his support. "I promise to write you, Shoto," you assured him, swiftly picking up your ballroom gown from the floor. With determination in your steps, you ran as fast as you could, the sound of your heels echoing into the night.
That night marked your first taste of victory, and you held onto the hope that more triumphs would soon follow.
Previous// masterlist// next
An//: KISSING ON THE FIRST TALK??? SHOTO YOU DAWG.
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Random worldbuilding question #9!
re:
What aesthetics are considered “advanced” or “futuristic” in your world - canvas wings, shiny chrome, smooth plastic? How has this changed over time?
Okay so realizing after the fact that I’ve got at least three different relatively thought out settings each of which have multiple cultures/groups who probably have different answers for most of these questions, so! Lets pick semi-randomly and then lose track of the question and write seven hundred words of vaguely related free verse.
In most of Abhari, to be ‘advanced’ is to be similar to the latest fashions of the Sublime Commonwealth – the Committee on Industry and Progress is almost universally considered the most important body of state below the Grand Secretariat itself, after all. To be advanced means to be godless, the harvests and tides governed by mesmerisingly complex arrays of mirrored bronze directing aether in accordance to the dictates of Universal Reason. It means rectangular fields and ubiquitous canals, and government by sexless bureaucrats in grey coats and red hats, without family name or native tongue. Schoolhouses and conscription, and architecture that’s long on geometric patterns and short on portraits or idols.
‘Futuristic’ goes a bit beyond that, and the palette to draw with is clockwork and light. Pocketwatches and orreries and everything in between, automota doing the work of couriers and carriages on immaculate city streets, or self-propelled artillery crawling along mountain passes on spidery legs. Grand, illuminated libraries where the secrets and histories of the entire world have been transcribed into a single comprehensible tongue for any member of the public to peruse. Mirrors and lamplight and eyeglasses, and endless, endless reams of paper; every page full of facts and figures, or carefully transcribed reports.
Outsider the Commonwealth, there’s more variance. The artificers and guildmasters of the Holy Illyrin Empire and its sprawling array of vassals and dependencies would, as a rule, take being called ‘futuristic’ as a grave insult, to imply that their work is in some way distinct from their august predecessors is very nearly the same thing as calling them a fraud. Every worthwhile secret of craft and artifice was discovered by ancient masters centuries ago, even if it has perhaps only been unearthed and put to use quite recently by an appropriately respectful modern disciple. To be advanced in the positive sense in to be similar to the Imperial Court, and when the seasons change aristocratic fashion filters out across the land with some delay but enough force to make up for it.
The most impressive and famous workings are full of pomp and ceremony, ancient ritual and treasured heirlooms. The fashion at the moment leans towards ostentatious luxury – floor length cloaks and gowns, proudly displayed tokens of divine favour or noble patronage, cloth of gold and magnificent jewellery, a whole language of gems and patterns to advertise how ones sabre or necklace is enchanted. The most glorious are waited upon by called and bound devils, the right to command the labour of a condemned spirit and set the terms of its parole proof of their honour and lineage.
Conversely, no genius or savant of the Free Cities would object to having their work called futuristic – the heroic figure wresting some world-changing secret from an ancient tomb or the mind of a demon or the depths of their own imagination and winning fame and fortune for it is exactly what all of them are aspiring to be. If a well-read traveller’s image of a ‘city of the future’ isn’t one of the Commonwealth’s idealized and efficient geometric grids, it is surely Celmy or Khasal, sprawling and three-dimensional, full of unmapable paths that cut across each other at nonexistant angles to create impossible shortcuts.
To be advanced is to be rich, to sit at the heart of a globe-spanning trading empire whose markets are full of spices and textiles from continents away, to live in a city that others fight for the chance to visit, where the mere fact of citizenship is enough for magnates to woo you with feasts and festivals for your support in the Assembly. Little distinction is made between a novelty unearthed in a foreign land and brought home and one invented in a workshop down the street – the fact of something being an exotic novelty makes its presence as futuristic as any truly new innovation, and as worth showing off. The aesthetic is spectacle without much thought for restraint or modesty – silver and flame, strongmen and fleshweavers, ecstatic communion or sadistic demonbinding, monumental architecture or a more efficient mill; anything at all that demonstrates a personal surpassing of ones natural state.
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pale in a liminal moon 🌙 chapter one
Pairing: Grian/Scar
Tags: selkie AU, steampunk AU, enemies to lovers, slow burn
Summary: Scar is a businessman, first and foremost. He's an expert in the games he has to play to maintain his power and wealth, and isn't afraid to use methods that most would abhor. However, things begin to change when he's approached with an unusual offer. He's gifted the skin of a selkie to study, opening an entire array of potential scientific advancements. It's the kind of opportunity any good businessman would dream of. There's just one problem - what to do with the captive selkie that comes with it?
Words: 3,065
next chapter
ao3 link || masterpost
The hardest thing about being a businessman was the loneliness. Rather – the hardest thing for Scar was the loneliness. Most of his associates seemed just fine. He had certainly heard enough about their families through many, many boring conversations. No, the issue of loneliness clearly had something to do with him.
The obvious solution was to settle down. Find a wife. There were plenty of people who pressured him to do so. The socialite circles he ran through whispered, his drinking buddies always joked about setting him up. Even Cub had once wryly commented that Scar wasn’t getting any younger.
The thing was, even if he did find someone he liked, he wasn’t sure that would solve the issue. It didn’t stem from lack of connection. He had plenty of people in his life – part of what had got him his empire was his ability to connect with someone, see what made them tick. No, he struggled with something… else. Something he couldn’t quite articulate.
When Scar looked in the mirror, his eyes met a stranger’s. He knew that he was Scar, of course. He just… wasn’t sure who exactly Scar was. All the different sides of him – his amicability, his silver tongue, his ruthlessness – they didn’t fit together quite right. He could see the cracks in the mirror even when there were none.
So that was the problem – an unspeakable question with an unknowable answer. But that was alright with Scar. Most things worked out for him eventually. He would just have to be patient.
_-🌙-_
The night that Scar first met his answer was a miserable one. The sky had been blotted out with heavy clouds, pregnant with their promise of a coming storm. The wind was already whipping through the tall buildings, strong enough to rattle the windows and cause debris to dance through the streets.
Scar sighed, shifting in his carriage seat. He hated weather like this. Wind always caused the sockets of the metal exoskeleton around his legs to sink, making it harder to move around. Also, he just didn’t like being cold.
He wouldn’t have agreed to come at all if this meeting weren’t so important.
The light from the gas streetlamps flickered across his hands as the carriage moved quickly through the empty streets. If Scar were being honest, he was actually somewhat nervous.
Doc had an… unusual reputation. Virtually unknown to the general public, he was a mogul in the manufacturing industry. He was constantly spearheading new technology, achieving feats previously thought to be impossible.
But there was another side to him. Scar had heard rumors about some of his “hobbies”. Mad experiments, world-destroying machines, tears in the fabric of the universe itself – anything dreamed of in science fiction, Doc had probably tried.
Normally this kind of person had “liability” written all over them, but when he had received a telegram from Doc calling him here, there was no way he could refuse. After all, if he had learned anything from having Cub as a partner, it helped to have a mad scientist on the payroll.
The carriage slowed to a stop. Scar peered out the window – it had taken him to what looked to be an abandoned apartment complex. It was only a few stories tall, with a crumbling brick façade. Most of the windows were boarded up, and those that weren’t looked dark and dusty.
Almost more concerning was the fact that he hadn’t seen a single pedestrian in the past ten minutes or so. If their meeting went very, very sideways, he wasn’t sure there would be anyone around to help.
“Are you sure this is the right place?” He asked his carriage. It jingled in response. He let out a dramatic sigh. Leave it to the hermit to pick a location like this, he supposed. “Alright carriage, open up.”
At his words, the door slid open, a small metal staircase unfurling to the street below. As soon as he stepped outside, the cold winds buffeted his form, cutting right through his silk suit. He grimaced – if he had known the meeting was going to be in a broken-down building, he would have worn something warmer.
As he approached the front doors, the carriage once again jingled as it peeled off to find somewhere safe to park. Scar almost wished he had asked it to stay, but he supposed if he was in a position where he needed to make a quick getaway, it was already too late.
Not that he would ever be caught unprepared. He gripped his cane a little bit tighter.
The doors before him were surprisingly solid considering the state of the building. Hesitating for just a moment, Scar steeled himself and rapped his knuckles against the dark wood.
He jumped at the sound of whirring metal, nearly stumbling backwards. Flicking his eyes around frantically for a sign of a trap, his gaze finally settled back on the door. A small panel had slid open, revealing what appeared to be a glass hand scanner. Ah. So this place wasn’t as abandoned as it looked.
Scar reached out, tentatively placing his palm against the cool glass. He had barely touched it when a low chime resounded, and the door swung open.
Scar resolved to think about how Doc had gotten his handprint later.
As soon as he crossed the threshold, the door shut behind him. Scar barely had a chance to contemplate how ominous that was before the room lit up in a blaze of electric glory.
He let out a low whistle, ambling into the room to get a better look at the architecture. It certainly was beautiful. The floor was made of deepslate, patterns etched into the stone at regular intervals. Chandeliers above him illuminated the room in a blue-tinted glow, casting dancing lights through the room. A soft cyan carpet cut through the center of the room, leading to the back wall, where a glass elevator sat with its doors open. An invitation to enter, he presumed.
Best of all, it was very warm. Scar was glad he went with the silk suit after all.
He entered the elevator, and after another low chime, it began to descend. Strangely, the elevator didn’t have any lights, so when it passed beyond the threshold of the floor, the tiny space was completely enshrouded with darkness.
Just as his eyes started to adjust, Scar was once again blinded, but this time with the sudden appearance of light. After blinking the stars out of his eyes, Scar let out a gasp. Beyond the doors, he could see something spectacular – a gigantic machine was laid out before him, the complexity of its design leaving him baffled as to what its purpose could possibly be. It had no casing, so Scar could see the byzantine twining of wires and cogs, gleaming sharply in the electric light.
If Cub was here, he might’ve been able to identify it, but Doc had asked for him specifically. All Scar could do was marvel.
After passing by it, the elevator seemed to speed up, descending further into the earth. Soon another floor passed, and another; as far as Scar could tell, each floor was like the first. Giant machines stored in underground warehouses, their purpose and design a mystery to Scar. If Doc wanted to show off, Scar supposed he had succeeded.
After a concerningly long period, the elevator finally began to slow once again, coming to a stop with the same low chime. The glass doors slid open, and after a pause, yet another set of doors opened as well, letting the same electric blue light spill into the hall. Scar took a deep breath, put on his best smile, and strode in.
The first thing he noticed was that there were two people in the room.
One he immediately recognized as Doc. He had never met the man before or even seen pictures, but he had heard enough – the cybernetic eye and arm glinting sharply in the low light was a dead giveaway. He was wearing a fine suit and lounging resplendently on a soft-looking couch, appraising Scar with a wide grin.
The other person? Scar wasn’t sure. He had figured Doc was more of a lone-wolf type of guy, so seeing someone else here was disconcerting. Scar supposed he could be a servant or assistant, but… he didn’t look like one.
He was perched awkwardly in a chair at the far end of the room, like he didn’t know how to sit. He was dressed in finery, dark blue suit tailored nicely to his form. And yet, Scar could see he had carelessly kicked off his dress shoes. His hair, too, was wild – so wild that it seemed someone had tried to slick it down but had been thwarted, leaving the dusty blond fringe to stick up in comical spikes.
Despite his disheveled appearance, what Scar found most entrancing was his gaze. Even from across the room, Scar could see how dark his eyes were. It was the kind of dark that pulled you in. The kind of dark that made you feel like you were drowning if you looked too long.
“Scar!” Doc called, snapping him out of his contemplation. “I’m glad you made it. Please, have a seat.”
Doc gestured grandly to a loveseat in front of him. The room was laid out in a lounge style, comfortable-looking chairs surrounding a low coffee table. An interesting choice.
Scar smiled, graciously settling into the offered seat. He kept a hand resting on his cane.
“Doc, I presume?”
“Of course!” He chuckled, mostly to himself. “I’m glad to have met you. But oh, before business – coffee, tea?”
“I think I’ll have to pass. Too much caffeine this late… I’ll be up for hours.”
Doc nodded serendipitously. He leaned over to pour himself a cup of coffee, not bothering to add any cream or sugar before taking a deep swig.
Scar cleared his throat. “Y’know Doc, if you had wanted to meet with me, I do have a secretary. I’m sure I could’ve made accommodations in my schedule for someone of your… reputation.”
“Ah, Scar, but I felt like our meeting was special!” Doc set down the cup, and Scar could see a glimmer of excitement in his face that hadn’t been there before. “You see, I’m not the only one with a reputation.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. If you don’t mind me getting right to it, I’d be happy to explain. See, ConCorp is very… ah, what’s the saying – has many pies?” Doc waved his hand dismissively. “It’s involved in many things. Lots of influence. Lots of money. And that is due in large part to Cub’s genius. But Scar… you’ve always been someone who can see the big picture. You’re willing to do what needs to be done. And I feel as though you, personally, are willing to invest in projects that most might see as too… strange.”
“Strange how?”
Doc’s smile grew even wider. “Tell me Scar, do you believe in fairy tales?”
The room was silent for a long moment. The figure in the back shifted, the slight rustle of fabric almost deafening.
Scar finally broke the quiet with a chuckle. “Fairy tales? Like… nursery rhymes? Did you find the goose that laid the golden egg?”
“Not quite.” Doc took a sip of his coffee, and Scar began to wonder if this whole thing was some kind of elaborate prank. “I have a vested interest in collecting… unusual things. Things that might change how we see the world. See reality.
“Conspiracy theories, legends, fairy tales – I’ve investigated a great deal of them. Most seem completely fake, and people have even tried to scam me before.” Doc flashed him a sharp grin. “Tried. But sometimes, these stories will have a grain of truth to them. And Scar, I have found things that you would not believe.”
Doc leaned forward, and Scar found himself mirroring the movement. “I’ve seen things that indicate the existence of other dimensions. Of creatures that were thought impossible, but have simply been lost to time. Or even creatures that are just… good at hiding.”
Scar sat back in his seat, eyes once again turning to the mysterious figure in the corner. His dark eyes glittered in the low light, and Scar was reminded of the night sky reflected on the ocean waves.
For the first time, Doc followed his gaze, turning to look back at the figure. “Very perceptive. Grian, would you like to introduce yourself?”
The figure – Grian – didn’t react at all. Doc seemed unfazed, just letting out a low chuckle.
“Grian is one of my… assets. Quite a valuable one, I might add. It’s not every day that I manage to find an anomaly alive.”
“Anomaly?” Scar parroted, unable to tear his eyes away from Grian. He wondered if he could understand them.
“It’s what I call anything that doesn’t fit our current understanding of the world. They’re quite varied in nature, you see. Most are just things – objects that defy physics, broken pieces of ancient contraptions. But sometimes I get a live one. And luckily for us, Grian is not only alive, he’s young and healthy. There’s a lot we could learn from him.”
At that, Scar finally looked away from Grian. The excited gleam in Doc’s eyes had turned to something almost mad. “We?”
“Yes, Scar, we. This is why I called you here. This is why I wanted you!” Doc gestured wildly, knocking over his cup of coffee. The dark liquid splattered across the glass table, some of it spilling onto the cyan carpet. Doc didn’t seem to notice. “I know this kind of thing is… unpleasant business. Live experiments are not, ah, popular. But I know that you are willing to do whatever it takes to turn a profit.
“I will not pretend that money is my main motive. But I truly believe that with your backing, Scar, we will be able to discover great things, things that are eons ahead of the competition.” Doc grinned. “Perhaps even things that you can use in that little war of yours. I’m sure both ‘clients’ would pay royally to get a piece of what we could create.”
Scar held up his hand, and Doc quieted. “That’s a lot of big promises,” he said coolly, “but you still haven’t even told me what you’ve found. Not really.”
Doc nodded almost absently, and Scar could tell his mind was still racing with possibilities. “I’ve found many things, Scar, and I will tell you about all of them in due time. But if you’re wondering about Grian…” he chuckled. “Scar, do you know what selkies are?”
Scar cocked his head. “Sockies?”
“No, no, sel-kies. They are…” he paused for a moment, considering. “They are shapeshifters, from the water. Seal folk, they are sometimes called.”
“Seals?” Scar asked, amused. “Aw, those little fluffy guys?” He glanced over at Grian, who met his stare unwaveringly. He didn’t seem very seal-like.
“Ah, yes, I suppose. Selkies can transform into seals by donning a sealskin, and transform back by taking it off. They have some sort of… innate connection to the skin. They can’t be too far from it for long, or it begins to get uncomfortable. I’m assuming that’s why Grian here is in such a disagreeable mood.”
Now that Doc had brought it up, Scar could see sweat beading at Grian’s forehead, and the cloth of the chair was pulled taut under his fingers. His expression, though, remained steely.
Doc steepled his fingers. “I’m hoping to find out what makes him tick, but I’m not sure I have the kind of… facility that I would need. Which is where you would come in.”
Scar exhaled slowly. “So, you want money.” Despite the strangeness of the proposition, this is where most of his business meetings led in the end.
“Well, yes.” Doc coughed awkwardly. “And believe me, I know how this must sound. So I wanted to give you something in return.”
“Oh?” Scar asked, curiosity piqued. “And what would that be?”
“Besides a split of whatever profits we make – and we can negotiate the exact percentages later, I am very open – I wanted you to have a… personal investment in this project. To let you know that I am serious, and that my evidence is legitimate.” Doc leaned in. “I want to give you Grian.”
“What?” Scar exclaimed, reeling back. Doc’s expression didn’t waver.
“I want to give you my best asset. I know you usually want collateral with major deals like this, so I think it’s a perfect arrangement. You take Grian, you run whatever tests you want so that you see this project is real, and then we can begin construction on the facility. I would ask you to please keep him alive and as uninjured as you can – I am serious about him being my best asset, and I would hate to lose him before I got a chance to study him properly.”
Scar looked over at Grian. He didn’t seem frightened, though it was hard to read his unmoving expression. If Scar had to guess, he would’ve said Grian looked resigned, as though his life being bartered away was something he had already given in to.
He bit his lip. It was true that Scar was no stranger to live experiments. ConCorp had to work very hard to keep their live weapons testing under wraps so they wouldn’t come under public scrutiny. Hosting experiments on humans, however, was not something that Scar had considered before. Well… not seriously considered, anyway.
Although… if what Doc was saying was true, Grian wasn’t actually a human, was he? He was a creature, some kind of mystical being. This could truly be a once in a lifetime opportunity.
“I will wait as long as it takes, Scar.” Doc said slowly. “You can answer a day or a year from now. But I feel that you already know what you want. You just need to take that first step.”
Scar stared into Grian’s dark eyes. For once, he was barely even thinking about the money. He could be looking at a legitimately magical creature. His heart was thundering in a way he hadn’t felt for a long time.
In defiance of all logic and misgivings, Scar was pretty sure he knew his answer too.
#scarian#hermitshipping#hermitshipblr#hermitcraft fanfic#my art#my writing#pale in a liminal moon#pialm
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Memories of Christmas - Sariel Noir - Chapter 1
Sariel's Christmas event story, in his POV.
Chapter 1 Part 1
—
Among the snowy, Christmas-themes streets vivid with decoration, a memory occurred to me.
-flashback-
A metallic smell… A pile of corpses… And the sight of vivid crimson splattered across pure white snow.
Blond Boy: …
Although it was a near-daily occurrence for the prince that lingered in the remains of that violent spectacle, it was oh-so twisted.
-end flashback-
I brought the carriage to a stop and stepped out onto the pure white snow with a crunch.
(She should be done at the store at any second.)
I gazed at the light shining from inside the store and smiled slightly. At the same time, the front door opened.
Sure enough, MC emerged, not yet noticing me.
She looked up at the sky and held out her hand, feeling for the snowflakes that fell.
Shortly thereafter, she noticed me standing next to the carriage.
MC: Sariel? What brings you here?
Sariel: I was simply on my way home from running an errand.
Sariel: Seeing as I have the carriage, I thought I might as well make the most of it. I’d hate for you to slip on the ice in the dark.
The smile she gave me was like a strong, singular flower blooming even among sheets of icy-white snow.
MC: Thank you.
…
MC: It wasn’t snowing at all this morning. Imagine my surprise when I opened the door after work to see the whole world had turned white!
Even inside the carriage, our breaths steamed in response to the cold.
And yet, MC’s smile was so warm, it evoked the image of a lamp burning in a cozy bedroom.
Chapter 1 Part 2
—
My heart seemed to thaw looking at her, and my numbed fingertips began to tingle with warmth.
Sariel: How has it been going with your assistance at the store?
MC: Great, actually! I have to thank you again for giving me permission to work with them.
Usually, the bookstore was mostly deserted, but Christmas was the one time of year that it was undoubtedly packed.
Books were expensive items for the average citizen to buy on a regular basis, but that was exactly why they were favored as gifts.
From parent to child, lover to lover… Books were an in-demand choice of present to demonstrate one’s love for another.
As such, MC had been making frequent trips into town to help at the store for a little while now.
MC: I thought we’d be inundated by requests right up until Christmas Day, but by the looks of things, we might finish a little early.
Her gaze suddenly shifted to me, now tinted with a certain sympathy.
MC: You seem really busy too, Sariel.
Sariel: It’s only to be expected at this time of year.
At a time of holidays and festivals, the bustling atmosphere of the palace only grew busier in response.
As MC had guessed, there were several causes for concern that were troubling me to no end.
(To think that such a dizzying array of problems would arise… I have my work cut out for me.)
…
MC: Oh, wow. It’s so beautiful.
We alighted the carriage to be met with the facade of the palace, the gardens, and fountain all covered in a thick coat of snow.
Chapter 1 Part 3
—
MC: Of course, the palace has always been beautiful, but… the snow makes it feel even more magical. Like we’ve wandered into a picture book.
She laughed, her breath coming out in pale clouds. Her smile seemed to shine even in the lack of good light.
(I don’t think I ever looked upon snow with such fond feelings until coming to the palace.)
If I put myself in my past self’s shoes…
Snow was simply a cruel threat in life–something that caused pain with its frostbite-inducing cold, or even took the lives of the weak.
(And then, after becoming the devil of the palace…)
I looked up at the sky, putting a firm lid on the memory that threatened to cross my mind.
(If these icy crystals are beautiful in MC’s eyes, then beautiful they shall be.)
Sariel: I know it’s a little cold, but would you like to take a stroll?
MC: Is that okay? I’d love to, but I’m sure you’re busy.
Sariel: A short walk will hardly take too much time out of my day. I was just thinking I’d like to stretch my legs after so many tedious carriage journeys.
It was the truth.
MC gave an understanding smile as she took a step towards the snow-covered gardens, gesturing for me to come along.
That was the unexpected beginning of a night alone together.
Our footsteps left prints in the snow side-by-side as we walked.
Wandering around in the tranquil calm of the garden, I noticed something.
(Is that…?)
Chapter 1 Part 4
—
That was the unexpected beginning of a night alone together.
Our footsteps left prints in the snow side-by-side as we walked.
Wandering around in the tranquil calm of the garden, I noticed something.
(Is that… the musical ensemble rehearsing for the Christmas party?)
If I strained my ears, I could just about make out the faint sound of music. At the same time, MC turned around with concern in her eyes.
MC: Sariel, have you always been this busy at Christmas?
MC: It must be even more work with a party and a festival being held at the palace.
Sariel: Well, yes…
This time of year was busy in an official sense as well as behind the scenes.
(But when I think of Christmas…)
That memory crossed my mind again–the one that refused to be suppressed, no matter how hard I tried.
(It really must have made an impression on me.)
(How long ago was that, now?)
I had lost count of how many Christmases had passed since the king first summoned me to the palace.
-flashback-
The blond-haired boy swiftly shook the blood from his red-stained sword before sliding it back into its sheath.
The unspoiled snow was sullied with the enormous amount of blood that was spilled there.
And in the middle of the tragic scene… stood the Brutal Beast.
-end flashback-
(That’s hardly the sort of Christmas memory MC would want to hear from me.)
A bitter frown contorted my lips as I picked a topic more fitting of the conversation.
Sariel: The palace comes alive with Christmas spirit every year.
Sariel: Some of the women invited to the party tend to quarrel amongst themselves while the princes aren't there…
Sariel: And it’s become somewhat of a tradition for the hellc– I mean, Prince Clavis’s ‘presents’ to cause pandemonium in the palace.
Chapter 1 Part 5
—
Sariel: And it’s become somewhat of a tradition for the hellc– I mean, Prince Clavis’s ‘presents’ to cause pandemonium in the palace.
Sariel: One that particularly sticks in my memory is a huge tree decorated with mischievously engineered ornaments. That was a few years ago now.
Sariel: I ended up turning the thing into firewood for the hearth. Heheh.
Perhaps recalling the usual ruckus at the palace, her eyebrows knitted together sympathetically.
MC: That certainly sounds busy, but… not quite in the way I imagined.
MC: It sounds more dangerous than lively.
Sariel: Indeed. I recommend that you also keep your wits about you at this time.
…
After completing a trip around the snowy garden, we made our way to the entrance hall.
MC bowed her head politely to me.
MC: Thank you for giving me a ride back to the palace, by the way. And, of course, for accompanying me on that walk.
MC: Make sure you warm up now, okay?
Sariel: Very well. I ask that you do the same.
When we parted ways, I came to a stop when I noticed her heading in the opposite direction to her room.
Sariel: MC, where are you going?
MC: I just need to drop a book off at Prince Chevalier’s room.
MC: He asked me to get it for him earlier.
Sariel: Ah.
(Prince Chevalier…)
I stepped forward again, truly intending to leave her to it this time. However…
MC: Sariel, wait!
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#luna.script#ikemen prince#ikepri#ikemen prince sariel#ikepri sariel#sariel noir#story event: memories of christmas
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Cabin
Deep in the lush green forests of Ravenvale there stands a dilapidated log cabin dripping in vines and moss. Much of the dark wood is covered in lichen and tree fungus. Sun-bleached roof tiles that look like they may have once been red contrast with the dark of the green trees at the edge of the clearing. A path of cracked, grey stones leads to a weather-worn door with a dull brass knob and bell. In the alcove by the door sit dirty plant pots and glass jars filled with dirt; rotted plant holders sway in time with a pair of wind chimes by the door. A set of lanterns hang on chains and hooks in the alcove, their glass walls cracked and sooty.
Tall grass wraps around a carriage that looks like it may have once been expensive, but now is little more than torn fabric and warped wood. Thistles add pops of colour to the seas of green and brown. What once was a group of raised garden beds is now just rotten wood and weeds. A large spruce tree stands proud in the center of the clearing, offering shade to any who sit under it. When the wind blows through its branches a sound like laughing children rings out, even when there is not a child in sight.
A large pond glitters in the sun. The white sand of its shore is warm and soft, the cold water glints blue and reveals the only clean area of the clearing. Along one side of the pond grows pond grass and reeds that sway in time with the trees.
Few have seen the cabin during the day, and even fewer have seen it at night. No one has seen it during both day and night, leading many to believe that there must be two cabins, for how else could the stories be so different? The Day Cabin is old and falling apart, and the Night Cabin is lively and well taken care of.
The Night Cabin is covered I moonflowers and wisteria. Clean wooden walls with glowing windows cast light over the clearing. Shadows dance and play in the windows, children and adults mingling. Outside, the clearing is filled with raucous laughter and smiling faces.
The dark wood of the house looks new, the roofing tiles a vibrant red-orange, none of the pathstones are cracked. The door’s intricate designs are no longer cracked and warped. Brass gleams in the lantern light, shiny and new. The mismatched plant pots and glasses all contain a variety of flowers and ferns, and the chimes sing merrily in the brisk night breeze.
The grass of the clearing reaches no higher than a child's ankles and is dotted with a colourful array of flowers. The carriage sits I the clearing, sleek wood covered with shiny black fabric. A spruce tree is being climbed by a group of children who laugh and taunt each other.
The pond water glints sapphire in the moonlight, endlessly deep and smooth. Occasionally, a pair of lovers will be spotted on the beach, embracing in the moonlight.
If someone goes missing from the village, usually a child or one of the elderly, the next time the Night Cabin is spotted, so are they. They wave their final goodbye, then turn and join the rest of the people there, disappearing from view. The village elders say it is the final resting place of the wistful and innocent, and that all in the village will one day join the people of the cabin.
#writing#atmosperic#cabin#fantasy#I genuinely got this idea from a kids writing promt omg#art#digital art#digital artist#art and writing#The art was an experiment#i dont like it#But it sort of connects so hey
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Epilogue
Summary: Beauxbaton’s biggest prankster has finally been expelled from the French boarding school. Having limited choices, Iris Evans is sent to join her sister at Hogwarts. As she adjusts to the new scenery, Lily’s twin makes new friends with a different array of people. Though there was no doubt that she would become friends with the Marauders.
Word Count: 1327
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THE REST OF THE YEAR WAS UNEVENTFUL when compared to the trouble that Iris had gotten herself into earlier. There were no more threats made upon her or people stalking her or watching her every move. Well… Except for Sirius. That boy had not let Iris out of his sight for even fifteen minutes at a time.
The protective aura that surrounded him whenever he was around Iris and he made sure to keep at least one arm around her at all times. Whenever she did end up having to go somewhere without him or he had to go somewhere she couldn't, he made sure that she was safe with a friend. It was obvious that he wanted to avoid a repeat of what happened this year.
Of course, because he was always with her, and she was always with him... their relationship had obviously blossomed even more. Dates were a common occurrence for the two of them on the weekends and even on weekdays. Pleasant walks along the Black Lake or a trip to Hogsmeade were always enjoyable for the two of them. They may have not said anything officially, but it was obvious to everyone that they were a thing. There was no need for them to publicly go to their friends or acquaintances and say that they were dating. Besides, neither of them liked having labels like 'boyfriend and girlfriend'.
The school year was over now, however. Students rejoiced in that fact they wouldn't have to stress over McGonagall rigorous exams or sit through Binns boring lectures. It was summertime now!
Currently, Iris was packing up her trunk along with her best friends in their dorm. They shared laughs and jokes with each other as the tense atmosphere that came with the school year melted away. Nearly three whole months of blissful laziness. That was certainly something that Iris was looking forward to.
They trotted down the stairs and into the common room where many other students were finishing up getting their things ready. The journey home was going to be bittersweet. The seven years had graduated and wouldn't be coming back next year which put a damper mood on some people, like Iris.
Iris has a few friends who are seven years and would miss them quite a bit but she was more than happy to see this year over with. Being the new girl was fun and all, but being the plaything of a pair of Slytherin boys was not an ideal situation. The end of her year made up for the things that Regulus and Lucius had done to her. Her friends made sure to keep her in high spirits, which worked.
Lucius was graduating which meant that Iris would never have to see that boy ever again. Thank Merlin for that. Regulus was another case. He was younger than them and won't be leaving the school. Despite what they had done, they were only let off with light punishments. There was no doubt that their parents pulled a few strings and got them easy ways out. Though Iris wouldn't let that bring down her mood. Three months with no Slytherins to deal with is a blessing. It was unfair to see such vile people get away without any sort of consequences yet that's the world nowadays. Iris wished it wasn't that way, but it's not like she could do much.
The platform was bustling with students getting onto the train and saying goodbye to each other before they headed home. As the girls climbed out of their self pulling carriage, they were greeted by the Marauders who had headed down to the train before them.
"Ladies," Sirius said as he walked over to Iris and slung his arm around her, "excited to be going home?"
Iris chuckled, "is that even a question?"
He shrugged his shoulders, "I guess I shouldn't have asked. Now, shall we?"
The group of friends headed onto the train and got into their compartments. Despite everything, Lily still did not want to share a compartment with James Potter. Yes, their relationship was better and included a decrease in Lily calling him names and such. However, she still wanted to keep her distance for the most part. Of course, Iris has her own hypothesis on why, but she'll keep that to herself at the moment. Lest things spiral into chaos because she insinuated something that Lily would outright deny.
The train ride was normal and fun. Iris sat with the boys for the most part and was tucked under Sirius' arm most of the time. They joked and laughed and had a phenomenal time. It didn't really feel like Iris was going away from them. It was only for a short time, but it was insignificant. She'd see them soon, that was for sure.
Iris found herself in the girls' compartment as the train came to a slow stop at platform 9 3/4. Students poured out of the red express and grabbed their belongings. They were reunited with their families before bidding their friends one last goodbye and heading home.
The first of their group to leave was Peter who squeaked out a goodbye to them and scurried to his parents. Wendy was next to go when her father appeared and introduced himself to their friend group before leaving. After they left, Marlene was able to find her family and gave them all tight hugs before going. Remus' parents showed up and swept him away. James bid his fare Lily a warm goodbye that earned him a light scowl. Iris gave him a hug before he sauntered off. Sirius was last to leave. He really didn't want to, however.
"I'll visit you," he promised Iris.
Iris smiled brightly at him and tugged him down for a quick peck on the lips. "I look forward to it, darling."
He smirked and started to walk away from her, "bye, love."
Soon enough the Evans showed up and came to pick up the twins. They grabbed their trunks and walked away from the train. Craig and Evans gave Iris and Lily tight hugs which took their breaths away. Of course, Petunia wasn't with them which Iris was pretty okay with.
They headed off the platform and towards the muggle world to actually head home. They made idle chat while loading their trunks into their car and getting in it.
"How was your year, girls?" Craig asked as he pulled the car away from the curb to head home.
Iris and Lily shared a look in the back seats that displayed that they had the same thoughts. There was no way that they were going to tell their parents about what had happened. There was no doubt in their minds that their parents would try to pull Iris out of Hogwarts after finding out what happened to her. Obviously the letter about what had happened hadn't gotten to them yet, which seems impossible yet slightly understandable.
The conclusion of the "case" that had been brought up against the boys had been finalized only recently. Really only a few weeks ago. So a letter explaining everything would most likely end up being sent to them in a few days. Even though it was bad, the girls were not going to tell their parents. They would certainly try to hide that letter from their parents. It was an understandable fear for the girls because they don't want to be separated again. Their parents would, no doubt, pull both of them out of that school for this. Even if there was another school for them to go to or not.
"Our year?" Lily asked and shared one final glance with Iris.
The short-haired girl just nodded her head, "it was good. Really interesting."
Yeah, the year certainly was interesting. Though she could only hope that the next few years at school would be normal. Well, as normal as a wizarding school can be.
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#harry potter fic#harry potter#harry potter fanfiction#harry potter oc#male oc#ocs#multiple ocs#female!oc#female oc#male!oc#marauders fanfiction#fanfiction#fanfic#marauders#the marauders#the animagus chronicles#animagus#sirius x oc#sirius black x oc#sirius black#oc
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Eddy and Daniel found themselves comfortably seated on the Harrington couch, the warm glow of the fireplace casting a flickering light across the room. They were eager to discuss their latest venture, their faces reflecting a mix of anticipation and pride.
Daniel's eyes gleamed with excitement as he declared, "Eddy, my dear friend, it is nigh complete!" His hands shot up in the air, emphasizing his enthusiasm and drawing Eddy's undivided attention. With Eddy's curiosity piqued he responded "Is that so?"
Daniel took a swift draw from his cigar, relishing the flavor of the tobacco. "Indeed, my good friend, after months of toil and perseverance, our railway project is edging towards its culmination. The tracks we've laid extend all the way to Brindleton Bay, and presently, our sights are set on linking them together, thus broadening the scope of trade within this very region."
With a puff of smoke from his cigar, Daniel's voice trailed off as he enumerated the array of destinations. "Moonwood, Newcrest, Britechester, Granite Falls..."
Eddy watched Daniel proudly boasting, a familiar sight whenever they met. While Eddy genuinely shared in his friend's accomplishments, he couldn't quite fathom the same level of enthusiasm. In fact, he carried reservations about the repercussions this progress would bring upon their community.
Eddy let his shoulders loosen, his voice tinged with concern as he shared his thoughts. "I'm truly happy for ya, Daniel. You've worked hard, and it shows. But ain't ya concerned 'bout what this'll mean for our community? I fear it might just be a mighty waste of resources. Henford is a vast place with its own small communities, and I doubt folks would flock here for a visit. And even if they did, I can't say I'm fond of the notion of our towns gettin' too crowded. I've always been more at home in the open countryside, not amidst the bustle of a city."
Daniel shook his head, unable to grasp Eddy's perspective. "Edward, I daresay you have difficulty envisioning the transformative potential of this system in dismantling the barriers that confine communities like Finchwick to their small homes. It extends beyond the realm of international trade; it facilitates familial connections, enabling loved ones to traverse distances with greater ease and efficiency."
"No more sluggish steeds dragging wheezing carriages, my good Edward. Picture this: you step onto a grand locomotive, its iron muscles ready to propel you towards your destination. In just a matter of days, you'll find yourself comfortably reunited with your Family, traversing the miles that separate you, all for a mere $2. Remember the joy Brindleton brought you? Well, now's your chance to relive those moments!
Eddy's gaze grew distant as he fell into a moment of contemplation, his mind drifting back to the days of yore, to the cherished memories of his childhood home in Brindleton. Images of the sturdy lighthouse and the rolling waves where he once cast his fishing line danced before his eyes. Yet, as those nostalgic thoughts enveloped him, a bittersweet tide swept over his heart, carrying with it the painful weight of loss, a reminder of what had slipped through his fingers like sand.
"Nah… I reckon not," Eddy responded, his voice carrying a hint of reluctance. "I got too much on my plate right here. And young Silas, bless his heart, he's takin' care of the farm just fine. I reckon it's high time I start puttin' my mind to it and plan another house on this land, so when the boy finds his own love, he'll have a place to call his own."
Daniel reclined in his seat, accepting Eddy's stance with a nod. A brief silence lingered, carrying the weight of their divergent perspectives. While Daniel and Eddy seldom engaged in heated disputes, their contrasting views often clashed. Daniel, an optimist, saw the emergence of industrialization as a beacon of hope, while Eddy approached it cautiously, aware of its potential pitfalls.
"Indeed, I shall put it to good use," Daniel affirmed. "As Jackson matures, I am making preparations for him to engage in on-site employment in Britechester. The cost of transportation by rail is considerably lower than hiring a stagecoach, and it diminishes the likelihood of any untoward incidents, such as robbery, during the journey."
Lost in his thoughts, Eddy gazed briefly out the window. The world appeared so different from his childhood days, evolving with every passing year through technological advancements. It filled him with a sense of unease. Everything he had known since his boyhood seemed to be changing rapidly.
"Indeed, there shall be a magnificent unveiling this coming Saturday, and it would be a pleasure to have you and your family in attendance," Daniel proudly announced.
As Eddy absorbed Daniel's words, his mind wandered, his gaze fixated on the world beyond the window. The landscape before him seemed foreign, transformed by the relentless march of progress and technological marvels. It stirred a disquiet within him, a sense of unease as he witnessed the familiar giving way to the unfamiliar. Everything he had held dear since his boyhood days appeared to be changing at an alarming pace.
"Of course, we shall gladly witness your remarkable achievements, my friend," Eddy responded, his voice trailing off, his thoughts lost in the whirlwind of uncertainties.
#ts4#decades challenge#decade challenge#decades legacy#ts4 historical#doyle legacy#eddy harrington#edward harrington#Daniel coombes#party event#decade: 1890s#decade: 1890#decade story#legacy story
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At Bombarda's
Volume 1: Fantine; Book 3: In The Year 1817; Chapter 5: At Bombarda's
The Russian mountains having been exhausted, they began to think about dinner; and the radiant party of eight, somewhat weary at last, became stranded in Bombarda’s public house, a branch establishment which had been set up in the Champs-Élysées by that famous restaurant-keeper, Bombarda, whose sign could then be seen in the Rue de Rivoli, near Delorme Alley.
A large but ugly room, with an alcove and a bed at the end (they had been obliged to put up with this accommodation in view of the Sunday crowd); two windows whence they could survey beyond the elms, the quay and the river; a magnificent August sunlight lightly touching the panes; two tables; upon one of them a triumphant mountain of bouquets, mingled with the hats of men and women; at the other the four couples seated round a merry confusion of platters, dishes, glasses, and bottles; jugs of beer mingled with flasks of wine; very little order on the table, some disorder beneath it;
“They made beneath the table
A noise, a clatter of the feet that was abominable,”
says Molière.
This was the state which the shepherd idyl, begun at five o’clock in the morning, had reached at half-past four in the afternoon. The sun was setting; their appetites were satisfied.
The Champs-Élysées, filled with sunshine and with people, were nothing but light and dust, the two things of which glory is composed. The horses of Marly, those neighing marbles, were prancing in a cloud of gold. Carriages were going and coming. A squadron of magnificent body-guards, with their clarions at their head, were descending the Avenue de Neuilly; the white flag, showing faintly rosy in the setting sun, floated over the dome of the Tuileries. The Place de la Concorde, which had become the Place Louis XV. once more, was choked with happy promenaders. Many wore the silver fleur-de-lys suspended from the white-watered ribbon, which had not yet wholly disappeared from button-holes in the year 1817. Here and there choruses of little girls threw to the winds, amid the passers-by, who formed into circles and applauded, the then celebrated Bourbon air, which was destined to strike the Hundred Days with lightning, and which had for its refrain:—
“Rendez-nous notre père de Gand,
Rendez-nous notre père.”
“Give us back our father from Ghent,
Give us back our father.”
Groups of dwellers in the suburbs, in Sunday array, sometimes even decorated with the fleur-de-lys, like the bourgeois, scattered over the large square and the Marigny square, were playing at rings and revolving on the wooden horses; others were engaged in drinking; some journeyman printers had on paper caps; their laughter was audible. Everything was radiant. It was a time of undisputed peace and profound royalist security; it was the epoch when a special and private report of Chief of Police Anglès to the King, on the subject of the suburbs of Paris, terminated with these lines:—
“Taking all things into consideration, Sire, there is nothing to be feared from these people. They are as heedless and as indolent as cats. The populace is restless in the provinces; it is not in Paris. These are very pretty men, Sire. It would take all of two of them to make one of your grenadiers. There is nothing to be feared on the part of the populace of Paris the capital. It is remarkable that the stature of this population should have diminished in the last fifty years; and the populace of the suburbs is still more puny than at the time of the Revolution. It is not dangerous. In short, it is an amiable rabble.
Prefects of the police do not deem it possible that a cat can transform itself into a lion; that does happen, however, and in that lies the miracle wrought by the populace of Paris. Moreover, the cat so despised by Count Anglès possessed the esteem of the republics of old. In their eyes it was liberty incarnate; and as though to serve as pendant to the Minerva Aptera of the Piræus, there stood on the public square in Corinth the colossal bronze figure of a cat. The ingenuous police of the Restoration beheld the populace of Paris in too “rose-colored” a light; it is not so much of “an amiable rabble” as it is thought. The Parisian is to the Frenchman what the Athenian was to the Greek: no one sleeps more soundly than he, no one is more frankly frivolous and lazy than he, no one can better assume the air of forgetfulness; let him not be trusted nevertheless; he is ready for any sort of cool deed; but when there is glory at the end of it, he is worthy of admiration in every sort of fury. Give him a pike, he will produce the 10th of August; give him a gun, you will have Austerlitz. He is Napoleon’s stay and Danton’s resource. Is it a question of country, he enlists; is it a question of liberty, he tears up the pavements. Beware! his hair filled with wrath, is epic; his blouse drapes itself like the folds of a chlamys. Take care! he will make of the first Rue Grenétat which comes to hand Caudine Forks. When the hour strikes, this man of the faubourgs will grow in stature; this little man will arise, and his gaze will be terrible, and his breath will become a tempest, and there will issue forth from that slender chest enough wind to disarrange the folds of the Alps. It is, thanks to the suburban man of Paris, that the Revolution, mixed with arms, conquers Europe. He sings; it is his delight. Proportion his song to his nature, and you will see! As long as he has for refrain nothing but la Carmagnole, he only overthrows Louis XVI.; make him sing the Marseillaise, and he will free the world.
This note jotted down on the margin of Anglès’ report, we will return to our four couples. The dinner, as we have said, was drawing to its close.
#les mis#les mis letters#volume 1: fantine#book 3: in the year 1817#chapter 5#sorry this ones late i thought id already posted it here lol
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The Grey Woman, by Elizabeth Gaskell, chapter 1
There is a mill by the Neckar-side, to which many people resort for coffee, according to the fashion which is almost national in Germany. There is nothing particularly attractive in the situation of this mill; it is on the Mannheim (the flat and unromantic) side of Heidelberg. The river turns the mill-wheel with a plenteous gushing sound; the out-buildings and the dwelling-house of the miller form a well-kept dusty quadrangle. Again, further from the river, there is a garden full of willows, and arbours, and flower-beds not well kept, but very profuse in flowers and luxuriant creepers, knotting and looping the arbours together. In each of these arbours is a stationary table of white painted wood, and light moveable chairs of the same colour and material.
I went to drink coffee there with some friends in 184-. The stately old miller came out to greet us, as some of the party were known to him of old. He was of a grand build of a man, and his loud musical voice, with its tone friendly and familiar, his rolling laugh of welcome, went well with the keen bright eye, the fine cloth of his coat, and the general look of substance about the place. Poultry of all kinds abounded in the mill-yard, where there were ample means of livelihood for them strewed on the ground; but not content with this, the miller took out handfuls of corn from the sacks, and threw liberally to the cocks and hens that ran almost under his feet in their eagerness. And all the time he was doing this, as it were habitually, he was talking to us, and ever and anon calling to his daughter and the serving-maids, to bid them hasten the coffee we had ordered. He followed us to an arbour, and saw us served to his satisfaction with the best of everything we could ask for; and then left us to go round to the different arbours and see that each party was properly attended to; and, as he went, this great, prosperous, happy-looking man whistled softly one of the most plaintive airs I ever heard.
'His family have held this mill ever since the old Palatinate days; or rather, I should say, have possessed the ground ever since then, for two successive mills of theirs have been burnt down by the French. If you want to see Scherer in a passion, just talk to him of the possibility of a French invasion.'
But at this moment, still whistling that mournful air, we saw the miller going down the steps that led from the somewhat raised garden into the mill-yard; and so I seemed to have lost my chance of putting him in a passion.
We had nearly finished our coffee, and our Kuchen, and our cinnamon cake, when heavy splashes fell on our thick leafy covering; quicker and quicker they came, coming through the tender leaves as if they were tearing them asunder; all the people in the garden were hurrying under shelter, or seeking for their carriages standing outside. Up the steps the miller came hastening, with a crimson umbrella, fit to cover everyone left in the garden, and followed by his daughter, and one or two maidens, each bearing an umbrella.
'Come into the house - come in, I say. It is a summer-storm, and will flood the place for an hour or two, till the river carries it away. Here, here.'
And we followed him back into his own house. We went into the kitchen first. Such an array of bright copper and tin vessels I never saw; and all the wooden things were as thoroughly scoured. The red tile floor was spotless when we went in, but in two minutes it was all over slop and dirt with the tread of many feet; for the kitchen was filled, and still the worthy miller kept bringing in more people under his great crimson umbrella. He even called the dogs in, and made them lie down under the tables.
His daughter said something to him in German, and he shook his head merrily at her. Everybody laughed.
'What did she say?' I asked.
'She told him to bring the ducks in next; but indeed if more people come we shall be suffocated. What with the thundery weather, and the stove, and all these steaming clothes, I really think we must ask leave to pass on. Perhaps we might go in and see Frau Scherer.'
My friend asked the daughter of the house for permission to go into an inner chamber and see her mother. It was granted, and we went into a sort of saloon, overlooking the Neckar; very small, very bright, and very close. The floor was slippery with polish; long narrow pieces of looking-glass against the walls reflected the perpetual motion of the river opposite; a white porcelain stove, with some old-fashioned ornaments of brass about it; a sofa, covered with Utrecht velvet, a table before it, and a piece of worsted-worked carpet under it; a vase of artificial flowers; and, lastly, an alcove with a bed in it, on which lay the paralysed wife of the good miller, knitting busily, formed the furniture. I spoke as if this was all that was to be seen in the room; but, sitting quietly, while my friend kept up a brisk conversation in a language which I but half understood, my eye was caught by a picture in a dark corner of the room, and I got up to examine it more nearly.
It was that of a young girl of extreme beauty; evidently of middle rank. There was a sensitive refinement in her face, as if she almost shrank from the gaze which, of necessity, the painter must have fixed upon her. It was not over-well painted, but I felt that it must have been a good likeness, from this strong impress of peculiar character which I have tried to describe. From the dress, I should guess it to have been painted in the latter half of the last century. And I afterwards heard that I was right.
There was a little pause in the conversation.
'Will you ask Frau Scherer who this is?'
My friend repeated my question, and received a long reply in German. Then she turned round and translated it to me.
'It is the likeness of a great-aunt of her husband's.' (My friend was standing by me, and looking at the picture with sympathetic curiosity.) 'See! here is the name on the open page of this Bible, "Anna Scherer, 1778" Frau Scherer says there is a tradition in the family that this pretty girl, with her complexion of lilies and roses, lost her colour so entirely through fright, that she was known by the name of the Grey Woman. She speaks as if this Anna Scherer lived in some state of life-long terror. But she does not know details; refers me to her husband for them. She thinks he has some papers which were written by the original of that picture for her daughter, who died in this very house not long after our friend there was married. We can ask Herr Scherer for the whole story if you like.'
'Oh yes, pray do!' said I. And, as our host came in at this moment to ask how we were faring, and to tell us that he had sent to Heidelberg for carriages to convey us home, seeing no chance of the heavy rain abating, my friend, after thanking him, passed on to my request.
'Ah!' said he, his face changing, 'the aunt Anna had a sad history. It was all owing to one of those hellish Frenchmen; and her daughter suffered for it - the cousin Ursula, as we all called her when I was a child. To be sure, the good cousin Ursula was his child as well. The sins of the fathers are visited on their children. The lady would like to know all about it, would she? Well, there are papers - a kind of apology the aunt Anna wrote for putting an end to her daughter's engagement - or rather facts which she revealed, that prevented cousin Ursula from marrying the man she loved; and so she would never have any other good fellow, else I have heard say my father would have been thankful to have made her his wife.' All this time he was rummaging in the drawer of an old-fashioned bureau, and now he turned round, with a bundle of yellow MSS in his hand, which he gave to my friend, saying, 'Take it home, take it home, and if you care to make out our crabbed German writing, you may keep it as long as you like, and read it at your leisure. Only I must have it back again when you have done with it, that's all.'
And so we became possessed of the manuscript of the following letter, which it was our employment, during many a long evening that ensuing winter, to translate, and in some parts to abbreviate. The letter began with some reference to the pain which she had already inflicted upon her daughter by some unexplained opposition to a project of marriage; but I doubt if, without the clue with which the good miller had furnished us, we could have made out even this much from the passionate, broken sentences that made us fancy that some scene between the mother and daughter - and possibly a third person - had occurred just before the mother had begun to write. �
* * *
'Thou dost not love thy child, mother! Thou dost not care if her heart is broken!' Ah, God! and these words of my heart-beloved Ursula ring in my ears as if the sound of them would fill them when I lie a-dying. And her poor tear-stained face comes between me and everything else. Child! hearts do not break; life is very tough as well as very terrible. But I will not decide for thee. I will tell thee all; and thou shalt bear the burden of choice. I may be wrong; I have little wit left, and never had much, I think; but an instinct serves me in place of judgment, and that instinct tells me that thou and thy Henri must never be married. Yet I may be in error. I would fain make my child happy. Lay this paper before the good priest Schriesheim; if, after reading it, thou hast doubts which make thee uncertain. Only I will tell thee all now, on condition that no spoken word ever passes between us on the subject. It would kill me to be questioned. I should have to see all present again.
My father held, as thou knowest, the mill on the Neckar, where thy new-found uncle, Scherer, now lives. Thou rememberest the surprise with which we were received there last vintage twelvemonth. How thy uncle disbelieved me when I said that I was his sister Anna, whom he had long believed to be dead, and how I had to lead thee underneath the picture, painted of me long ago, and point out, feature by feature, the likeness between it and thee; and how, as I spoke, I recalled first to my own mind, and then by speech to his, the details of the time when it was painted; the merry words that passed between us then, a happy boy and girl; the position of the articles of furniture in the room; our father's habits; the cherry-tree, now cut down, that shaded the window of my bedroom, through which my brother was wont to squeeze himself, in order to spring on to the topmost bough that would bear his weight; and thence would pass me back his cap laden with fruit to where I sat on the window-sill, too sick with fright for him to care much for eating the cherries.
And at length Fritz gave way, and believed me to be his sister Anna, even as though I were risen from the dead. And thou rememberest how he fetched in his wife, and told her that I was not dead, but was come back to the old home once more, changed as I was. And she would scarce believe him, and scanned me with a cold, distrustful eye, till at length - for I knew her of old as Babette Müller - I said that I was well-to-do, and needed not to seek out friends for what they had to give. And then she asked - not me, but her husband - why I had kept silent so long, leading all - father, brother, everyone that loved me in my own dear home - to esteem me dead. And then thine uncle (thou rememberest?) said he cared not to know more than I cared to tell; that I was his Anna, found again, to be a blessing to him in his old age, as I had been in his boyhood. I thanked him in my heart for his trust; for were the need for telling all less than it seems to me now I could not speak of my past life. But she, who was my sister-in-law still, held back her welcome, and, for want of that, I did not go to live in Heidelberg as I had planned beforehand, in order to be near my brother Fritz, but contented myself with his promise to be a father to my Ursula when I should die and leave this weary world.
That Babette Müller was, as I may say, the cause of all my life's suffering. She was a baker's daughter in Heidelberg - a great beauty, as people said, and, indeed, as I could see for myself. I, too - thou sawest my picture - was reckoned a beauty, and I believe I was so. Babette Müller looked upon me as a rival. She liked to be admired, and had no one much to love her. I had several people to love me - thy grandfather Fritz, the old servant Kätchen, Karl, the head apprentice at the mill - and I feared admiration and notice, and the being stared at as the Schöne Müllerin, whenever I went to make my purchases in Heidelberg.
Those were happy, peaceful days. I had Kätchen to help me in the housework, and whatever we did pleased my brave old father, who was always gentle and indulgent towards us women, though he was stern enough with the apprentices in the mill. Karl, the oldest of these, was his favourite; and I can see now that my father wished him to marry me, and that Karl himself was desirous to do so. But Karl was rough-spoken, and passionate - not with me, but with the others - and I shrank from him in a way which, I fear, gave him pain. And then came thy uncle Fritz's marriage; and Babette was brought to the mill to be its mistress. Not that I cared much for giving up my post, for, in spite of my father's great kindness, I always feared that I did not manage well for so large a family (with the men, and a girl under Kätchen, we sat down eleven each night to supper). But when Babette began to find fault with Kätchen, I was unhappy at the blame that fell on faithful servants; and by-and-by I began to see that Babette was egging on Karl to make more open love to me, and, as she once said, to get done with it, and take me off to a home of my own. My father was growing old, and did not perceive all my daily discomfort. The more Karl advanced, the more I disliked him. He was good in the main, but I had no notion of being married, and could not bear anyone who talked to me about it.
Things were in this way when I had an invitation to go to Karlsruhe to visit a schoolfellow, of whom I had been very fond. Babette was all for my going; I don't think I wanted to leave home, and yet I had been very fond of Sophie Rupprecht. But I was always shy among strangers. Somehow the affair was settled for me, but not until both Fritz and my father had made inquiries as to the character and position of the Rupprechts. They learned that the father had held some kind of inferior position about the Grand-duke's court, and was now dead, leaving a widow, a noble lady, and two daughters, the elder of whom was Sophie, my friend. Madame Rupprecht was not rich, but more than respectable - genteel. When this was ascertained, my father made no opposition to my going; Babette forwarded it by all the means in her power, and even my dear Fritz had his word to say in its favour. Only Kätchen was against it - Kätchen and Karl. The opposition of Karl did more to send me to Karlsruhe than anything. For I could have objected to go; but when he took upon himself to ask what was the good of going a-gadding, visiting strangers of whom no one knew anything, I yielded to circumstances - to the pulling of Sophie and the pushing of Babette. I was silently vexed, I remember, at Babette's inspection of my clothes; at the way in which she settled that this gown was too old-fashioned, or that too common, to go with me on my visit to a noble lady; and at the way in which she took upon herself to spend the money my father had given me to buy what was requisite for the occasion. And yet I blamed myself, for everyone else thought her so kind for doing all this; and she herself meant kindly, too.
At last I quitted the mill by the Neckar-side. It was a long day's journey, and Fritz went with me to Karlsruhe. The Rupprechts lived on the third floor of a house a little behind one of the principal streets, in a cramped-up court, to which we gained admittance through a doorway in the street. I remember how pinched their rooms looked after the large space we had at the mill, and yet they had an air of grandeur about them which was new to me, and which gave me pleasure, faded as some of it was. Madame Rupprecht was too formal a lady for me; I was never at my ease with her; but Sophie was all that I had recollected her at school: kind, affectionate, and only rather too ready with her expressions of admiration and regard. The little sister kept out of our way; and that was all we needed, in the first enthusiastic renewal of our early friendship. The one great object of Madame Rupprecht's life was to retain her position in society; and as her means were much diminished since her husband's death, there was not much comfort, though there was a great deal of show, in their way of living; just the opposite of what it was at my father's house. I believe that my coming was not too much desired by Madame Rupprecht, as I brought with me another mouth to be fed; but Sophie had spent a year or more in entreating for permission to invite me, and her mother, having once consented, was too well bred not to give me a stately welcome.
The life in Karlsruhe was very different from what it was at home. The hours were later, the coffee was weaker in the morning, the pottage was weaker, the boiled beef less relieved by other diet, the dresses finer, the evening engagements constant. I did not find these visits pleasant. We might not knit, which would have relieved the tedium a little; but we sat in a circle, talking together, only interrupted occasionally by a gentleman, who, breaking out of the knot of men who stood near the door, talking eagerly together, stole across the room on tiptoe, his hat under his arm, and, bringing his feet together in the position we called the first at the dancing-school, made a low bow to the lady he was going to address. The first time I saw these manners I could not help smiling; but Madame Rupprecht saw me, and spoke to me next morning rather severely, telling me that, of course, in my country breeding I could have seen nothing of court manners, or French fashions, but that that was no reason for my laughing at them. Of course I tried never to smile again in company. This visit to Karlsruhe took place in '89, just when everyone was full of the events taking place at Paris; and yet at Karlsruhe French fashions were more talked of than French politics. Madame Rupprecht, especially, thought a great deal of all French people. And this again was quite different to us at home. Fritz could hardly bear the name of a Frenchman; and it had nearly been an obstacle to my visit to Sophie that her mother preferred being called Madame to her proper title of Frau.
One night I was sitting next to Sophie, and longing for the time when we might have supper and go home, so as to be able to speak together, a thing forbidden by Madame Rupprecht's rules of etiquette, which strictly prohibited any but the most necessary conversation passing between members of the same family when in society. I was sitting, I say, scarcely keeping back my inclination to yawn, when two gentlemen came in, one of whom was evidently a stranger to the whole party, from the formal manner in which the host led him up, and presented him to the hostess. I thought I had never seen anyone so handsome or so elegant. His hair was powdered, of course, but one could see from his complexion that it was fair in its natural state. His features were as delicate as a girl's, and set off by two little mouches, as we called patches in those days, one at the left corner of his mouth, the other prolonging, as it were, the right eye. His dress was blue and silver. I was so lost in admiration of this beautiful young man, that I was as much surprised as if the angel Gabriel had spoken to me, when the lady of the house brought him forward to present him to me. She called him Monsieur de la Tourelle, and he began to speak to me in French; but though I understood him perfectly, I dared not trust myself to reply to him in that language. Then he tried German, speaking it with a kind of soft lisp that I thought charming. But, before the end of the evening, I became a little tired of the affected softness and effeminacy of his manners, and the exaggerated compliments he paid me, which had the effect of making all the company turn round and look at me. Madame Rupprecht was, however, pleased with the precise thing that displeased me. She liked either Sophie or me to create a sensation; of course she would have preferred that it should have been her daughter, but her daughter's friend was next best. As we went away, I heard Madame Rupprecht and Monsieur de la Tourelle reciprocating civil speeches with might and main, from which I found out that the French gentleman was coming to call on us the next day. I do not know whether I was more glad or frightened, for I had been kept upon stilts of good manners all the evening. But still I was flattered when Madame Rupprecht spoke as if she had invited him, because he had shown pleasure in my society, and even more gratified by Sophie's ungrudging delight at the evident interest I had excited in so fine and agreeable a gentleman. Yet, with all this, they had hard work to keep me from running out of the salon the next day, when we heard his voice inquiring at the gate on the stairs for Madame Rupprecht. They had made me put on my Sunday gown, and they themselves were dressed as for a reception.
When he was gone away, Madame Rupprecht congratulated me on the conquest I had made; for, indeed, he had scarcely spoken to any one else, beyond what mere civility required, and had almost invited himself to come in the evening to bring some new song, which was all the fashion in Paris, he said. Madame Rupprecht had been out all morning, as she told me, to glean information about Monsieur de la Tourelle. He was a propriétaire, had a small château on the Vosges mountains; he owned land there, but had a large income from some sources quite independent of this property. Altogether, he was a good match, as she emphatically observed. She never seemed to think that I could refuse him after this account of his wealth, nor do I believe she would have allowed Sophie a choice, even had he been as old and ugly as he was young and handsome. I do not quite know - so many events have come to pass since then, and blurred the clearness of my recollections - if I loved him or not. He was very much devoted to me; he almost frightened me by the excess of his demonstrations of love. And he was very charming to everybody around me, who all spoke of him as the most fascinating of men, and of me as the most fortunate of girls. And yet I never felt quite at my ease with him. I was always relieved when his visits were over, although I missed his presence when he did not come. He prolonged his visit to the friend with whom he was staying at Karlsruhe, on purpose to woo me. He loaded me with presents, which I was unwilling to take, only Madame Rupprecht seemed to consider me an affected prude if I refused them. Many of these presents consisted of articles of valuable old jewellery, evidently belonging to his family; by accepting these I doubled the ties which were formed around me by circumstances even more than by my own consent. In those days we did not write letters to absent friends as frequently as is done now, and I had been unwilling to name him in the few letters that I wrote home. At length, however, I learned from Madame Rupprecht that she had written to my father to announce the splendid conquest I had made, and to request his presence at my betrothal. I started with astonishment. I had not realized that affairs had gone so far as this. But when she asked me, in a stern, offended manner, what I had meant by my conduct if I did not intend to marry Monsieur de la Tourelle - I had received his visits, his presents, all his various advances without showing any unwillingness or repugnance - (and it was all true; I had shown no repugnance, though I did not wish to be married to him, - at least, not so soon) - what could I do but hang my head, and silently consent to the rapid enunciation of the only course which now remained for me if I would not be esteemed a heartless coquette all the rest of my days?
There was some difficulty, which I afterwards learnt that my sister-in-law had obviated, about my betrothal taking place from home. My father, and Fritz especially, were for having me return to the mill, and there be betrothed, and from thence be married. But the Rupprechts and Monsieur de la Tourelle were equally urgent on the other side; and Babette was unwilling to have the trouble of the commotion at the mill; and also, I think, a little disliked the idea of the contrast of my grander marriage with her own.
So my father and Fritz came over to the betrothal. They were to stay at an inn in Karlsruhe for a fortnight, at the end of which time the marriage was to take place. Monsieur de la Tourelle told me he had business at home, which would oblige him to be absent during the interval between the two events; and I was very glad of it, for I did not think that he valued my father and my brother as I could have wished him to do. He was very polite to them; put on all the soft, grand manner, which he had rather dropped with me; and complimented us all round, beginning with my father and Madame Rupprecht, and ending with little Alwina. But he a little scoffed at the old-fashioned church ceremonies which my father insisted on; and I fancy Fritz must have taken some of his compliments as satire, for I saw certain signs of manner by which I knew that my future husband, for all his civil words, had irritated and annoyed my brother. But all the money arrangements were liberal in the extreme, and more than satisfied, almost surprised, my father. Even Fritz lifted up his eyebrows and whistled. I alone did not care about anything. I was bewitched, - in a dream, - a kind of despair. I had got into a net through my own timidity and weakness, and I did not see how to get out of it. I clung to my own home-people that fortnight as I had never done before. Their voices, their ways were all so pleasant and familiar to me, after the constraint in which I had been living. I might speak and do as I liked without being corrected by Madame Rupprecht, or reproved in a delicate, complimentary way by Monsieur de la Tourelle. One day I said to my father that I did not want to be married, that I would rather go back to the dear old mill; but he seemed to feel this speech of mine as a dereliction of duty as great as if I had committed perjury; as if, after the ceremony of betrothal, no one had any right over me but my future husband. And yet he asked me some solemn questions; but my answers were not such as to do me any good.
'Dost thou know any fault or crime in this man that should prevent God's blessing from resting on thy marriage with him? Dost thou feel aversion or repugnance to him in any way?'
And to all this what could I say? I could only stammer out that I did not think I loved him enough; and my poor old father saw in this reluctance only the fancy of a silly girl who did not know her own mind, but who had now gone too far to recede.
So we were married, in the Court chapel, a privilege which Madame Rupprecht had used no end of efforts to obtain for us, and which she must have thought was to secure us all possible happiness, both at the time and in recollection afterwards.
We were married; and after two days spent in festivity at Karlsruhe, among all our new fashionable friends there, I bade good-bye for ever to my dear old father. I had begged my husband to take me by way of Heidelberg to his old castle in the Vosges; but I found an amount of determination, under that effeminate appearance and manner, for which I was not prepared, and he refused my first request so decidedly that I dared not urge it. 'Henceforth, Anna,' said he, 'you will move in a different sphere of life; and though it is possible that you may have the power of showing favour to your relations from time to time, yet much or familiar intercourse will be undesirable, and is what I cannot allow.' I felt almost afraid, after this formal speech, of asking my father and Fritz to come and see me; but, when the agony of bidding them farewell overcame all my prudence, I did beg them to pay me a visit ere long. But they shook their heads, and spoke of business at home, of different kinds of life, of my being a Frenchwoman now. Only my father broke out at last with a blessing, and said, 'If my child is unhappy - which God forbid - let her remember that her father's house is ever open to her.' I was on the point of crying out, 'Oh! take me back then now, my father! oh, my father!' when I felt, rather than saw, my husband present near me. He looked on with a slightly contemptuous air; and, taking my hand in his, he led me weeping away, saying that short farewells were always the best when they were inevitable.
It took us two days to reach his château in the Vosges, for the roads were bad and the way difficult to ascertain. Nothing could be more devoted than he was all the time of the journey. It seemed as if he were trying in every way to make up for the separation which every hour made me feel the more complete between my present and my former life. It seemed as if I were only now wakening up to a full sense of what marriage was, and I dare say I was not a cheerful companion on the tedious journey. At length, jealousy of my regret for my father and brother got the better of M. de la Tourelle, and he became so much displeased with me that I thought my heart would break with the sense of desolation. So it was in no cheerful frame of mind that we approached Les Rochers, and I thought that perhaps it was because I was so unhappy that the place looked so dreary. On one side, the château looked like a raw new building, hastily run up for some immediate purpose, without any growth of trees or underwood near it, only the remains of the stone used for building, not yet cleared away from the immediate neighbourhood, although weeds and lichens had been suffered to grow near and over the heaps of rubbish; on the other, were the great rocks from which the place took its name, and rising close against them, as if almost a natural formation, was the old castle, whose building dated many centuries back.
It was not large nor grand, but it was strong and picturesque, and I used to wish that we lived in it rather than in the smart, half-furnished apartment in the new edifice, which had been hastily got ready for my reception. Incongruous as the two parts were, they were joined into a whole by means of intricate passages and unexpected doors, the exact positions of which I never fully understood. M. de la Tourelle led me to a suite of rooms set apart for me, and formally installed me in them, as in a domain of which I was sovereign. He apologized for the hasty preparation which was all he had been able to make for me, but promised, before I asked, or even thought of complaining, that they should be made as luxurious as heart could wish before many weeks had elapsed. But when, in the gloom of an autumnal evening, I caught my own face and figure reflected in all the mirrors, which showed only a mysterious background in the dim light of the many candles which failed to illuminate the great proportions of the half-furnished salon, I clung to M. de la Tourelle, and begged to be taken to the rooms he had occupied before his marriage, he seemed angry with me, although he affected to laugh, and so decidedly put aside the notion of my having any other rooms but these, that I trembled in silence at the fantastic figures and shapes which my imagination called up as peopling the background of those gloomy mirrors. There was my boudoir, a little less dreary - my bedroom, with its grand and tarnished furniture, which I commonly made into my sitting-room, locking up the various doors which led into the boudoir, the salon, the passages - all but one, through which M. de la Tourelle always entered from his own apartments in the older part of the castle. But this preference of mine for occupying my bedroom annoyed M. de la Tourelle, I am sure, though he did not care to express his displeasure. He would always allure me back into the salon, which I disliked more and more from its complete separation from the rest of the building by the long passage into which all the doors of my apartment opened. This passage was closed by heavy doors and portières, through which I could not hear a sound from the other parts of the house, and, of course, the servants could not hear any movement or cry of mine unless expressly summoned. To a girl brought up as I had been in a household where every individual lived all day in the sight of every other member of the family, never wanted either cheerful words or the sense of silent companionship, this grand isolation of mine was very formidable; and the more so, because M. de la Tourelle, as landed proprietor, sportsman, and what not, was generally out of doors the greater part of every day, and sometimes for two or three days at a time. I had no pride to keep me from associating with the domestics; it would have been natural to me in many ways to have sought them out for a word of sympathy in those dreary days when I was left so entirely to myself, had they been like our kindly German servants. But I disliked them, one and all. I could not tell why. Some were civil, but there was a familiarity in their civility which repelled me; others were rude, and treated me more as if I were an intruder than their master's chosen wife; and yet of the two sets I liked these last the best.
The principal male servant belonged to this latter class. I was very much afraid of him, he had such an air of suspicious surliness about him in all he did for me; and yet M. de la Tourelle spoke of him as most valuable and faithful. Indeed, it sometimes struck me that Lefebvre ruled his master in some things; and this I could not make out. For, while M. de la Tourelle behaved towards me as if I were some precious toy or idol, to be cherished, and fostered, and petted, and indulged, I soon found out how little I, or, apparently, anyone else, could bend the terrible will of the man who had on first acquaintance appeared to me too effeminate and languid to exert his will in the slightest particular. I had learnt to know his face better now; and to see that some vehement depth of feeling, the cause of which I could not fathom, made his grey eye glitter with pale light, and his lips contract, and his delicate cheek whiten on certain occasions. But all had been so open and above board at home, that I had no experience to help me to unravel any mysteries among those who lived under the same roof. I understood that I had made what Madame Rupprecht and her set would have called a great marriage, because I lived in a château with many servants, bound ostensibly to obey me as a mistress. I understood that M. de la Tourelle was fond enough of me in his way - proud of my beauty, I dare say (for he often enough spoke about it to me) - but he was also jealous, and suspicious, and uninfluenced by my wishes, unless they tallied with his own. I felt at this time as if I could have been fond of him too, if he would have let me; but I was timid from my childhood, and before long my dread of his displeasure (coming down like thunder into the midst of his love, for such slight causes as a hesitation in reply, a wrong word, or a sigh for my father), conquered my humorous inclination to love one who was so handsome, so accomplished, so indulgent and devoted. But if I could not please him when indeed I loved him, you may imagine how often I did wrong when I was so much afraid of him as to quietly avoid his company for fear of his outbursts of passion. One thing I remember noticing, that the more M. de la Tourelle was displeased with me, the more Lefebvre seemed to chuckle; and when I was restored to favour, sometimes on as sudden an impulse as that which occasioned my disgrace, Lefebvre would look askance at me with his cold, malicious eyes, and once or twice at such times he spoke most disrespectfully to M. de la Tourelle.
I have almost forgotten to say that, in the early days of my life at Les Rochers, M. de la Tourelle, in contemptuous indulgent pity at my weakness in disliking the dreary grandeur of the salon, wrote up to the milliner in Paris from whom my corbeille de mariage had come, to desire her to look out for me a maid of middle age, experienced in the toilette, and with so much refinement that she might on occasion serve as companion to me.
#Elizabeth Gaskell#spooktober#gothic#gothic stories#gothic tales#gothic literature#historical literature#books and libraries
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7KPP Week ~Festival~
Next up for @fyeah7kpp week is a flashback for my first and main girl Jei
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Jeiana surveyed her appearance in the mirror one last time, fisgeting with the wide, decorative sash of her hanfu. Her outfit was a compromise--fancier than she would have chosen, simpler than the one her mother wanted. Jei had reminded her this was a festival, essentially an outdoor party, and whatever standard of decorum she wanted to hold, ease of movement needed to be a heavily weighted factor.
She tugged one lock of her brown hair free from the creative updo, twisting it around her finger for some curl as she let it hang against her face. There. Everyone always said how well her hair complemented her eyes.
“Jeiana, are you ready to go?” Mother paused in the doorway, waiting for her answer.
“Mm-hm, just checking one last time.” Jei turned to present herself for approval.
Mother smiled. “Very lovely. The blue goes with your hair so well.” She smoothed back the loose curl and kissed Jei’s forehead. “Your father is waiting.”
“Then let’s go,” Jei said with aa grin. Even if the dress wasn’t her first choice, this would still be fun. She was eager to attend, as she was every year.
Mother headed down to their waiting carriage and Jei freed the curl again as she followed.
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Any decorum or restraint Jei maintain at her mother’s behest vanished within seconds of reaching the festival grounds and spotting Jiya. The two girls whisked away from their parents with promises to stick together and mind their manners.
“Where shall we go first?” Jiya asked, linking her arm through Jei and sweeping the other hand toward the array of colorfully-canopied stalls.
Jei laughed, her stomach rumbling as a familiar aroma caught her senses, and turned Jiya slightly to the left. “You should know me well enough to guess the answer to that.”
“Hmm, I suppose I do.” Jiya winked and they stepped in tandem toward the counter selling food. It was not a long wait before they departed with purses a few coins lighter and fried, sugary dough twists in hand. Still warm, Jei noted as she bit into hers with a delighted groan. Jiya laughed at the sugar smearing her face, but was in much the same state after her first bite. They ate as they walked, admiring street performers, marveling at the light arrangements--new every year, perusing the wares of the artisans and craftsfolk given permits to set up along the fringes.
It was almost an accident rejoining their parents. Traditionally, they did sit together for the main performance ceremony. But neither Jei nor Jiya had been looking for them specifically; they just happened to find each other on the girls’ second--or was it third?--circuit of the festival. Jei didn’t protest when her parents insisted it was time to find their seats, to ensure they were good ones. Her face hurt from smiling, her stomach was full of sweets, and she and Jiya sported matching woven-silver bracelets. She was content to settle in with her parents as they watched the dancers file onstage, prepared to enjoy this as the end to a very good day.
#my fic#jeiana of jiyel#7kpp week 2022#my internet's being uncooperative hence the later posting#hopefully it cooperates to get the other one i have written up >.>
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