Timezone Reblog - Tumblr Posts
#timezone reblog
Alright I haven’t posted here in forever but lately I’ve been playing a new game in the wonderful Brindleton save that @pixelplayground made and I have gotten really attached to the 3 families I made there lol This lot is a modified version of @simmerberlin‘s awesome Poppy Park, which was perfect for a romantic fall wedding. Poses are by @clumsyalienn, @tatibunnymoon and @briengirl Womens clothes by @coloresurbanos and @plumbobteasociety and I cannot remember who made the mens suits, comment below if you know haha >_>
Long ass character backstory under the cut.
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A few shots from the house I built for the Vatores in my game. I wish I was good at taking in home shots. I need practice ;_;
Finally finished the bottom level of my hospital-turned-theater-turned-cafe. (ignore the buildmode nature of these pics lol)
Anyone want to collab and do the top 2 levels as living quarters? D: lol I want to play this as a live in cafe so badly but have run out of energy to finish the actual home part haha.
DUN NA NA NA NA NAAAAAAAAAAAA
“Welcome to Entertainment Some Nights! I’m Diane Norback, here with my co-host Michael Scarn. Tonight we’re covering the 150th annual MET gala! All the stars, all the fashion, all the SCANDAL.” We’ve got Jessica Candy on the red carpet, interacting with the celebs as they arrive. Looks like she managed to snag Charlie Harrell, wild child heiress and influencer, most recently known for her scandal involving her fathers pharmacuetical company We caught up with her about her look, the mysterious woman on her arm, and motherhood!?
“Charlie, you look incredible! The MET is always a chance for designers to push boundaries, can you tell us about your look?” “Of course Jessica, I’d love to! fake titter Time is a concept that I’ve often felt personally betrayed by, but after talking with my designer, I’ve got a whole new outlook.” “Many ancient religions saw time as a circle, a wheel endlessly turning upon itself. A powerful symbol of womanhood associated with that was the triple goddess, the maiden, the mother, and the crone. Today I’ve chosen to represent the crone, a powerful figure representing female wisdom and the slowing down of life. She was often used as a sign of winter, when the world slept.” “Wow, powerful message, and I can safely say I’d never think of you as a crone! deep guffaws at her own wit. Speaking of maidens, who is the lovely lady here with you tonight?”
“Jessica, this is my gorgeous partner Samira Mahboub, who is representing the maiden. The maiden is the spring, the bursting forth of life and fertility. She is what becomes of the crone after the long sleep of winter.” “What a female power couple you two make! Do you think we will be seeing the Mother anytime soon?” Everyone in hearing range is overcome with a grotesque grimace reminiscent of a smile. “Samira, what’s it like dating the resident bad girl of simstagram?
Genuine nervous laugh “Before I met Charlie I’d heard all the awful things about her, but when I finally met her face to face I couldn’t believe she was the same person everyone was talking about. I feel so lucky to know her and be with her, and see the amazing, funny person she is inside. As for the Mother, I think it will be some time before she’s represented!” More laughter “Oh and I have to give credit to our amazing designers and their teams, @mmsims and @mablystore, as well as support from @erschsims and others! None of this would be possible without them. We’re really hoping for their sake to win best dressed.” “Well thank you two for speaking with us, I see your assistant waving you over to another reporter, so I’ll let you go! That was Charlie Harrell and her partner Samira Mahboub. Back to you Diane!”
EXCLUSIVE!
We have exclusive pictures of the MET Ball after Ball! For all your celeb insider scoops, follow simcelebsecrets.com. Charlie Harrell and her new lady love appeared relaxed and casual at the after party. Samira had lost the lavender wig and traded it in for a close cut lavender jumpsuit. Paired with vibrant green stilettos and earrings, her look managed to be clean and fresh. Charlie was abnormally subdued in a strapping black number with glitter accents. Both ladies appeared to have fun laughing and flirting the night away. For more coverage of the MET gala and the Ball after the Ball, follow us at @voguesims4
Make Believe: Part 4 [Roger Taylor x Reader]
Pairing: Roger Taylor x Reader [FAKE DATING AU]
Summary: You’re a famous rockstar. Roger Taylor has an image problem. Both of your management teams thought it would be a great idea for you two to fake date. Problem is: you guys hate each other’s guts.
Word count: ~3.1k
Contains: language and slut-shaming (not from Roger though!)
A/N: I AM BACK. Here is part 4, I don’t how many people still want to read it, so if you’re on the taglist, and no longer want to be on it, please message me (I will not be offended). And vice versa, if you want to be on the taglist but you aren’t on it, just shoot me a message! I hope you guys enjoy this part and thank you for sticking with me! Love you guys.
PART ONE || PART TWO || PART THREE
Previously…
“I’m really tired of fighting. Can we call a truce until this whole thing is over?” he says after he blows out the smoke. You let out a laugh that sounds more like an exhale.
“Truce,” you say, handing him the bottle of scotch.
“Okay, well, now that we’re not enemies anymore, we should get to know each other better,” he says after he takes a swig.
“Okay, shoot,” you ask.
“What’s your favorite color?”
“Really?”
“That’s basic question!”
“Fine, pink. You?”
“Yellow.”
“Ok. I wanna ask a question, why are you always wearing those sunglasses? It’s night and we’re––we were––indoors.”
“These sunglasses are sexy, and you know it,” he says with a nudge of his shoulder to yours.
And so, you two spend most of the night there––forgetting about the party raging below. Passing the bottle back and forth to one another, you both share stories of childhood memories, being on tour, and everything in between. You talk about your crazy university stories and the time you not so accidentally threw up on a douchebag at a bar.
Roger talks about the time he got into a bar fight over a pack of peanuts.
“Did you win?”
“Oh god no, I was absolutely shit-faced, and I think he was a former boxer.”
You tilt your head back and laugh, and he looks at you with a small smile playing at his lips, a weird feeling warming his chest.
–––––
After that night, you and Roger have been trying slowly to create a somewhat functional friendship.
“Can I get an iced latte with vanilla and two packets of sweetener please?” you ask the waiter taking your order. Roger pulls a face, and you cross your arms.
“What? I like sweets Mister Plain Black Coffee.” He rolls his eyes and flicks your nose. You swat his hand out of the way but laugh nonetheless.
Maybe that smile in that picture the paparazzi caught of you and him wasn’t entirely faked.
And maybe after you guys pay for the check and are walking towards the car, Roger leaves his hand wrapped around yours a moment longer than he has to even after you both get are out of the camera’s spotlight.
–––––
You sigh as you look around the room. Another night, another party, another evening spending time around drunken fools.
You stiffen when you hear a voice that makes your skin crawl. Oh no. Looking over, you spot your ex standing by the bar with his arm around another girl’s waist. Roger notices the way your shoulders tense, and he opens his mouth, but he doesn’t get to say anything because before he can turn around, you grab his hand and drag him into the nearest bedroom.
Shutting the door behind you, you look at a very confused Roger.
“Give me a love bite.” You’re not thinking this through. Jealousy and pride clouding your logic, but you don’t care.
He blinks. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Give me a love bite.”
You almost giggle at how clueless and flustered Roger looks right now, so unlike his usual cocky self. He opens his mouth.
“Please? I think it’ll really sell our relationship!” He narrows his eyes at you. An inner conflict seems to be resolved when he exhales.
“Okay…” He walks over carefully, almost as if he’s worried that he’s walking into a trap.
Thus explains the reason why you’re currently straddling Roger’s lap in the first available bedroom you guys could find in the house. He carefully pushes the front of your dress to the side, the silk easily gliding away with his touch. Goosebumps erupt onto your skin when you feel his rough, calloused fingers graze your collarbones.
“You sure about this?” he asks you, and you nod.
Keep reading
i wanna slow dance if you’re feelin’ me now
if we don’t hold hands, you’ll be killin’ me now
i need a romance, one chance,
i just wanna know
will you slow dance?
hey look I did an animate :)
Junebug Paperwing and her kite
Mariposa
Bruno Madrigal x OC (Jimena Montoya)
Synopsis: One summer day, while chasing butterflies, Jimena comes across a lonely looking boy.
The story of how Bruno and Jimena first met.
A/N: Hi! This story takes place before the movie, when both Bruno and Jimena are 8. This is my first story for Encanto, and feedback is highly appreciated.
gif by @lovewillthaw-j
Jimena had always loved the river.
She relished the feel of the cool water flowing between her fingers, playing in the mud despite knowing how angry her mother would get if she ruined her dress, picking the wild flowers that grew just about the riverbank and wearing them in her hair.
Most of all, Jimena loved the butterflies. It seemed as if there were a thousand of them that lived there, fluttering and flying as she watched.
This one day, after Jimena had finished helping her parents at the bakery, she ran off to the river, her eyes wide with wonder as she saw a pair of beautiful long wings, blue with pink spots, resting on top of a flower. She inched closer, looking at the butterfly intently, when a loud thumping sound made it fly away.
Angrily, she turned around, ready to scold whoever scared the butterfly away, when she heard little sniffing sounds from behind the bush. With the same care she had employed with the butterfly, Jimena approached the bush, taking a peek.
A boy, the same age as her, was sitting on the ground, his knees against his chest. Jimena tilted her head, trying to remember where she had seen him before.
"Bruno Madrigal?" she asked, her face lighting up in recognition. "What are you doing here?"
Bruno looked up at her, green eyes wide with fear. Frantically, he beckoned Jimena, pointing to the spot next to him. Curiosity getting the better of her, Jimena jumped over the bush and sat down beside him.
“I am Jimena, by the way. Jimena Montoya. Now, why are we behind a bush?”
"I am hiding," Bruno said in a hushed voice, looking around to check if anybody else was around, "from Carlos Hernández." Jimena gagged on hearing his name.
"I hate Carlos Hernández." Her mamá always said that hate is a strong word, one she should not use so easily, but it was true. She hated him. "Why are you hiding from him?" Jimena asked.
Bruno shrugged. "He didn't like the vision I showed him, so he is going to beat me up"
Jimena cocked her head to the side. Everyone knew about the Madrigals and their gifts, but Jimena wasn't sure about the exact derails. Could Julieta's food cure any illness? Did Pepa's cloud follow her around all the time? There was another one, one she found herself asking Bruno.
"Can you control what you see in the vision?"
"No!" Bruno said quickly, sounding almost desperate. “No, your future is set. Nothing can change it. I only tell them what's bound to happen,”
“Well then,” Jimena began decidedly, as if announcing some divine judgement, “Carlos Hernández is stupid.” Bruno let out a surprised laugh. “He can’t just beat you for something that’s not your fault,” she continued, before pausing for a moment, considering thoughtfully. “I think we should flour him,” she finally declared.
“Huh?” Bruno asked blankly.
“Oh, Carlos always bothers my sister, even when she tells him to stop. So, one day I took a bag of flour and hung it from his door. When he opened it, poof!” she gestured with her hands. “It fell all over him. He looked hilarious.” The imagery of the tall, domineering Carlos Hernández covered head to toe with flour was indeed hilarious, and Bruno giggled despite himself.
“Mamá was furious when she found out,” Jimena cautioned warily. “But if we are really, very careful, we might get away with it.”
“Oh, no,” Bruno said, “We can’t flour him. Mamá and Julieta will be so very disappointed if they find out.”
“Not Pepa?” Jimena asked curiously.
“No, Pepa might help if we tell her,” Bruno smiled as Jimena laughed. “But it's not just Carlos,” he continued, more soberly .”I usually see bad things in my visions, you see, so most people get angry with me.”
“Oh,” Jimena said, sighing regrettably. “I don’t suppose we can flour the entire town, can we?”
“We will run out of flour halfway through,” Bruno said with a sad smile.
Jimena nodded, and lifted herself, dusting off her skirt. “Well then, I suppose you’ll need to come to a friend to cheer you up whenever someone is being a jerk to you again.”
Bruno looked down, crestfallen. “I don’t have any friends,” he said miserably. No one wants to play with me, except for my sisters, but they are busy with their gifts most of the time.”
“I can be your friend!” Jimena said enthusiastically.
Bruno shook his head nervously. “Oh, you don’t want to be friends with me. I am a handful.”
“I have two hands!” she said excitedly. As if to prove her point, Jimena stretched out her arms and helped Bruno up on his feet.
“Bruno Madrigal, will you be my friend?”
“Jimena Montoya,” Bruno said giddily, “I will be your friend.”
A butterfly flew over, landing on the bush. Vaguely, Jimena realised it was the same one she had been looking at moments before, before she met the little boy behind the bush.
oh, how easy one burns
Summary:
Aemond’s hand tightened on your shoulder, and he spun you to face him. “You should not have danced with him.” The panic once coursing through you spiked into a furious rage, licking and scorching your spine. Rage at Lorent, for betraying your friendship so easily. Rage at Aemond, however unwarranted, for not coming to your rescue sooner, for behaving as though it pained him to sit by your side for longer than but a moment.
Rating: M, just to be safe. minors I am in your walls. begone.
Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Lannister!Reader
Word Count: 4.3k
(x OC over on AO3, for those who prefer that). Either way, no use of (y/n).
Warnings: Canon typical sexism/gender roles. A guy (not Aemond) get's pushy and a lil' rough. Threat of violence. Reader, though described as a Lannister and shorter than Aemond, has no other distinguishing features. Let me know if I missed anything!
A/N: Thanks to everyone who gave me input on my last post regarding whether or not to use y/n!!! It was kinda 50/50 on the matter, so I decided to do reader insert here and an oc over on AO3. So if that's more your speed, check that one out :)
As the young Lady Lannister, you had long known where your place was in the world, what your duty was to your family. It had been drilled into you since you were young; first by your mother and then by your Septa, later in life. Your mother had never once lied to you about what your life would entail. You would marry some noble lord, an heir to a Great House if you were lucky, or perhaps one of your father’s more powerful bannermen to strengthen alliances. You would give your husband heirs and run his household, just as you’d been taught, and if you were lucky, then just maybe you’d love your husband as your mother had grown to love your father.
Never did you think you’d marry a prince. You had thought to marry Lorent Tyrell, the heir to Highgarden, and you’d told your father as much when he inquired as to your thoughts on the matter of your betrothal. You’d met Ser Lorent on several occasions and knew him to be brave and kind. A friend, even, and you realized you’d be luckier than most ladies to at the very least be familiar with your betrothed, prior to the arrangement.
But to hear that an offer for your hand came from Queen Alicent herself, for Prince Aemond, no less? You’d been over the moon. You’d wasted no time in rushing to your rooms to sort through your gowns with your ladies to determine which were suitable for the Red Keep and which would need to be left behind.
Your mother hadn’t been as astounded as you thought she might have been. Or even proud. Instead, upon hearing the news, your mother had grasped your face in her hands and said, “you’re a lion of the Rock. Never forget that. You are worthy of princes, kings, and beyond. When your father asked, you might have put forth the idea yourself. Don't ever temper your ambitions in such a way.”
(Later, you would learn it was your elder half-brother Ser Tyland, the King’s Master of Ships, who arranged for the betrothal. And much later than that, you would curse your brother for making you an unwitting pawn in his games.)
Aemond might have been a second son, but a royal match was nothing to turn one’s nose up at. To marry a prince. He may not be the heir and you might never rule by his side, but your children might sit the throne one day, or their children’s children. And to be a Princess of House Targaryen? No wife of a Lord Paramount had that type of power or influence. No, you would not be Queen, nor would your husband sit on the Iron Throne, but your mother and father had taught you the game well. The Lannister name is powerful, and if anyone has forgotten I will remind them of such.
Not a moon’s turn after your father agreed to the betrothal, you set off to King’s Landing with your mother and father in tow. You spent the entire journey from Casterly Rock envisioning what Prince Aemond might be like, if you could grow to love him, or him you. Will he be like King Viserys? Good natured and humble? Or perhaps like the Old King, Jaehaerys, stern but with a deft hand for politics. The day you were to arrive you put on your best dress, gifted to you by your mother, and let your mother brush and braid your hair as she so often had when you were a child.
You’d stepped out of the carriage and squinted against the bright sun of midday. You could still remember the heat of the sun, and how you thought you might burst into flames. When your eyes adjusted, you smiled upon spotting your half-brother’s Tyland and Jason awaiting you, but your reunion would have to wait. Queen Alicent stood amongst those gathered to greet you and your family, and you’d curtsied low to the Queen.
Queen Alicent’s welcome had been warm, and your stomach had been coiled into knots as you turned to face those gathered. Your eyes eagerly searched the crowd, but none stood out to you as Prince Aemond. He should be recognizable, yes? He had one eye, after all. Alicent introduced the Princess Helaena, Prince Aegon, the Hand and her father, Ser Otto, but no Aemond.
The nervous, tight knots in your stomach slithered loose and were replaced by bitter shame and fury. If you thought about it too hard, searched deep enough, the humiliation could still be felt. How could I have already displeased him? Did he deem you so unimportant as to spurn you upon your arrival? I am a Lannister of the Rock. Not some common house cat. Queen Alicent must have noticed the disappointment on your face, for she was quick to offer an excuse as to Aemond’s absence, which you did not care to remember.
You would not meet your betrothed until later that night at dinner, an affair that you wanted more than anything to forget. Cold and terse, Aemond was nothing like the kind King Viserys, or the much lauded, late King Jaehaerys. He barely said a word to you, but he watched you. The entire meal you’d felt his eye burning into your skin, right to the bone and your very being. He always watched you, Aemond did. You struggled to puzzle out whether it was in distaste or annoyance.
Before long, a full moon had passed since your arrival, and you felt you hardly knew anything of your betrothed. You shared strolls through the gardens, at Queen Alicent’s behest you were almost certain, and he’d even invited you to share a meal or two. He maintained his chilly and reticent demeanor throughout your interactions, and at first you’d tried to keep the conversations from falling into an uncomfortable lull. He is not like this with Helaena, or even Aegon. Now you let them fall. You wouldn't sully herself by chasing a man who had no interest in you. Prince or not. Even if it condemned you to a cold marriage.
Perhaps that is unfair. You had made some amount of progress with Aemond. He’d shared with you the story of how he claimed Vhagar, though that was followed with nearly two days of remarkably stony silence. And if nothing else, he was unfailingly polite, no matter his reluctance to share anything deeper with you than common platitudes. He kissed your hand upon greeting you, insisted you call him Aemond rather than my prince, and whenever you walked beside one another, kept your hand tucked into the crook of his arm. Still, he failed to respond to your probing questions with any matter of depth and seemed much more content to watch you with his one eye.
It infuriated you. Everything about your betrothed infuriated you deep to your core, for despite your best efforts, you found herself utterly besotted with him. How could you not be? You did not wish for a cold marriage, least of all with Aemond. Much to your shame, there was something about him that lit a fire deep in your belly. The graceful way he danced around Ser Criston on the training yard sent a thrill down your spine, and the way he towered over you set your heart aflutter. His quiet intensity, the sharp cut of his jaw, his broad shoulders and lithe muscles, everything about him drew you in. You longed to know what it would feel like to run your fingers through his hair, to feel his arms wrapped tight around you.
This night, it would seem, would be one of brooding and careful distance from your betrothed. Queen Alicent assured you that your dear, beloved betrothed had never been one for tourneys or feasts. The tourney and feast organized to celebrate the birth of Prince Helaena and Prince Aegon’s twins would apparently be no exception to this aversion.
The Great Hall of the Red Keep had been finely decorated, with hundreds upon hundreds of candles, setting the room awash in a warm glow. Tall shadows flickered and waved upon the grand pillars lining the hall, and someone had strung garlands and other greenery between them. A small group of musicians played from a cleared space to the right of the Iron Throne, and servants flitted about refilling goblets and presenting new courses. Tables had been arranged to provide room for dancing, and even though the meal was far from over, already dancers flocked to the floor.
You sighed and rested your chin in your hand and watched those dancing with longing. Aemond had graced you with a half-hearted dance before returning you to your seat, where you remained. A pity, for Aemond was an exceptional dancer, and he looked particularly handsome that evening. He wore black, as he was wont to do, and his hair shone brilliantly in the candlelight. The shadows played against the sharp lines of his face as he leaned against a pillar in conversation with Ser Criston. When Aemond caught you staring you refused to look away, and he spared you only a brief scowl.
Am I to remain here by myself the whole feast? Any other feast, and you might have contended yourself with Helaena’s company. You’d grown rather fond of the princess, even if her adoration of bugs churned your stomach. But Princess Helaena had retired early that night, still weary from the birth of the twins. You had no desire to follow suit and depart early. You’d loved feasts back home, and never grew tired of dancing. Tyland or Jason might dance with me. You scanned the hall for your brothers from where you sat, and when you found no sign of them you huffed.
Across the table, Alicent gave you a tight, thin-lipped smile of pity. For all your betrothed was reserved, his mother was genial and welcoming. The Queen had been nothing but polite since you arrived, and you much appreciated her efforts to get to know you and even enjoyed the weekly, midday meals Alicent invited you to. You might have struck up a conversation with Alicent but she sat beside her father, deep in conversation, and there was something about the Hand which you misliked. She’s like to follow after Helaena before long, anyhow.
A throat clearing behind you startled you, and you peered over your shoulder to find none other than Ser Lorent Tyrell, the heir to Highgarden who you had once thought to marry, grinning down at you.
“Ser Lorent! I hadn’t thought you to be in attendance!” You returned his grin with a shy smile and offered your hand. Ever courteous and polite, Ser Lorent kissed it.
“The grandest tournament of the year? Certainly you know me well enough by now to know I wouldn’t miss it, my lady.” You laughed, and insisted Ser Lorent call you by your name, for you were friends, were you not? “I hear congratulations are in order. Where is your betrothed?” Lorent craned his neck and glanced around the hall.
“Elsewhere. He isn’t overly fond of dancing,” you said. You glanced around the hall but found no sight of Aemond. Has he left me here alone?
“A pity. You’ll have to dance with me, then.” Lorent held out his hand expectantly, but you faltered. The dutiful thing to do would be to wait for Aemond to return, but another survey of the hall failed to reveal him. I will not sit here and languish.
“I would love to,” you said, and took his hand and followed him to the floor. You allowed yourself to study your dance partner. Ser Lorent was far from homely with his honey brown curls, which had been neatly swept back, or warm, golden eyes. He’d been blessed with his father’s sharp jaw and aquiline nose, and in another life you might have been content to marry him. He is no Aemond, though. While Lorent did love tourneys, his father had no doubt sent him to take part with the hope he might find a bride. She’ll be lucky, whoever she might be.
“You look lovely my lady, as always.” Warmth flushed through you at the compliment. Your dress was one of Lannister crimson, and if it was prideful and vain to think that it suited you wonderfully, then so be it.
As they danced, he asked you of your father and mother, of your brothers and your time spent in King’s Landing thus far. You were so wrapped up in dancing and laughing as he spun you around and around that you didn’t notice how close he’d drawn you, or how his hand had wandered lower and lower on your back.
“I saw your father, earlier today talking to my father. Though I don’t see him now.” He lifted you in the air along with everyone else, and you let out a peal of laughter.
“He despises crowds like this. He and my mother left shortly after they finished their meal.”
“Pity. I had hoped to speak with him, it will have to wait I suppose.” He spun you out and around again and you frowned.
When they faced each other once more, you asked, “what about?” What could be so important that he speak to your father in person, rather than by letter?
“I plan to approach him on the morrow. You shouldn’t marry Aemond, he won’t make you happy.” You froze, and it felt as though someone had tied bricks to your ankles. Lorent pulled you along, guiding you through the dance as though nothing was amiss, as if he’d simply commented on the roast boar that had been the main course.
Your father had signed the agreement upon your arrival. He can’t mean to have my father break it? “Lorent–”
“You know me. You know nothing of him,” Lorent’s words sat queerly in your belly. Aemond hadn’t spoken to you much, but you saw. You saw the way he treated Helaena with a sweet gentleness, the way he treated his mother with respect and love. And Vhagar. His whole being had come alight when you asked him about the dragon, and even a blind fool could have heard the pride and reverence in his words when he spoke of her. He was fierce and cautious, loyal and prideful and dangerous with a sword. And I thought I knew little of him. No, you’d learned much more than you thought.
“Lorent, what are you saying?” You knew precisely what he was saying, but you hoped, prayed, that you’d taken leave of your senses and were horribly mistaken.
“It should be me you’re marrying, we both know it. Your father told mine you’d chosen me before Queen Alicent wrote him. It isn’t too late.” The warmth in his eyes had grown to a raging inferno, and you increased the distance between you. Or tried to, anyway. You became acutely aware of the vice grip he had on your waist.
“Lorent please, I’m happy to marry Aemond. It wouldn’t be right to break the betrothal.” You tried to step back, and his hand fell to wrap tightly around your wrist. You frantically looked around, but no one had noticed anything was amiss. I can’t break away, without causing a scene. You didn’t want to cause a scene, Alicent had worked so hard to put the feast together. You could hear your mother’s stern voice in your head, telling you to keep your composure, to comport herself as a lady should, to avoid embarrassing your family before the King, in such a manner.
“Aemond’s a fool. You’re far too beautiful to be treated in such a way. You know it isn’t right, I can offer you so much more. Highgarden is to be mine, it should be yours as well. It’s meant to be yours alongside me, I’ve always intended it to be so. Ever since your father hosted that tourney all those years ago, and we danced together. Don’t you remember? I said I’d make you my lady if you wished.” You scrutinized your friend’s face, but found nothing of the man you knew. His hair had fallen forward and hung in his eyes, and he’d tugged you close enough to where you could smell sour ale on his breath.
“We were children, Lorent, I wish to marry Aemond. My father will never break the agreement, it’s been signed, Lorent.” Panic constricted your throat and clouded your brain. They still danced, but to your horror he had slowly worked them towards the back of the hall.
“You wouldn’t have told your father my name if you wished to marry Aemond. It’s okay if you don’t understand now, my lady, you will in time. We can force your father’s hand, if he won’t see reason. He’ll have to break it if your virtue is in question.” He maneuvered them closer and closer towards the back of the hall and the exit. Your heart shuddered and nausea overwhelmed your senses at what he implied.
You didn’t want to marry Lorent, or be the Lady of Highgarden. You wanted Aemond, with his stormy silences and rough hands and quiet, careful consideration. You subtly attempted to yank your arm free again but his grip tightened, and his other hand skirted even lower than it already was. The flush that flared through your blood now wasn’t one of flattery, as it had been earlier. Bitter dread slithered down your spine. “Lorent please let me go, this is hardly—”
“If you wouldn’t mind, Ser Lorent, I’d very much like to dance with my betrothed.” Aemond’s voice was low and dangerous, and Lorent was quick to release you. Relief coursed through you and you all but leapt backwards towards Aemond. He set a steadying hand on your shoulder.
Ser Lorent shifted his gaze between you and Aemond, and whatever he opened his mouth to say he must have thought better of, as he only nodded and thanked you for the dance before striding away.
Aemond’s hand tightened on your shoulder, and he spun you to face him. “You should not have danced with him.” The panic once coursing through you spiked into a furious rage, licking and scorching your spine. Rage at Lorent, for betraying your friendship so easily. Rage at Aemond, however unwarranted, for not coming to your rescue sooner, for behaving as though it pained him to sit by your side for longer than but a moment.
That he would presume to tell me such a thing, after I tried so hard to free myself from Lorent. “You weren’t there. I don’t belong to you, I can dance with whomever I wish.”
Aemond hummed low and stared at you a moment, before sharply grabbing your arm and dragging you from the hall. You stumbled to keep space with him as he weaved through the halls of the Red Keep, up one staircase and left around a corner, before turning right down another. Your demands to know just what he thought he was doing fell on deaf ears until he halted and sent you crashing into him.
You might have fallen if not for Aemond. He clutched your shoulders and crowded you against a wall. You looked around nervously but there was no one to be found, and no one to overhear. Aemond had brought them to a quiet alcove, far from the feast and drunken revelers.
“Let me go,” you demanded. You made to step around him but he blocked your path and stepped closer to you. “Why do you care who I dance or speak with? You’ve taken no interest in me, I’m inclined to think you have no wish to marry me at all. It should overjoy you that someone desires to take me off your hands.”
His jaw shifted, and he stepped closer still. “He wishes to marry you? What did he say to you?”
“Try not to sound so eager, my prince,” you sneered. “There are plenty who would be glad to take me off your hands, to free you from the burden that is my presence.” You didn’t know where this sudden bravery or impertinence came from, nor why you taunted him so. Perhaps you wished to provoke him, to earn some kind of reaction from him other than his usual, stoic countenance. Whatever it was, you made no efforts to quell it.
Your back hit the wall as Aemond took a last step towards you. His chest brushed hers, and a large hand gripped your chin. It was entirely improper, and there would be hell to pay, if any caught them in such a position. His eye roamed your face and his lip curled in vicious mockery. “You would like that, wouldn’t you? Are you really so ashamed of me?”
“Ashamed? It is you who are ashamed! Would it truly be such a hardship to spend more than a fleeting moment with me? Am I so terrible?”
“Why? So you can cower in disgust at my eye like everyone else? Or so I can watch you lust after my brother and the throne, like everyone else?”
“I do not wish to marry Aegon,” you spat. You thought of how he dishonored Helaena, how he openly lusted after other ladies of the court. Poor Helaena, how I would hate to be shackled to such a rake. “And how can I cower in disgust when you’ve never removed the cover?”
As if to prove a point, Aemond tore the eye patch from his head and let it fall to the floor. The sapphire was a brilliant blue, a spot of beauty amidst an old, ugly wound. The scar was raised and jagged but still; you did not waver. You tentatively raised a hand to gently brush the scar, though when he flinched you withdrew. “I am sorry that happened to you,” you whispered
For a moment, his scowl softened. He frowned down at you before his face hardened once more. “And Ser Lorent? You do not wish to marry him?” His mocking tone returned, but your anger towards Aemond’s presumptions had simmered away. All that was left was humiliation at the way Lorent had grabbed you, and anger towards him for being so cruel.
“I do not wish to marry Ser Lorent.” Your voice was soft, and all the vitriol swallowed. You studied the collar of his doublet and the fine, subtle embroidery which adorned it. “I only wished to dance with him, I didn’t think he’d be so… terrible. I did not think he’d grab me in such a way, I hadn’t known him to be a cruel man. I tried to pull away. Did you not see?”
“I did not.” The grip he had on your chin remained, but lessened to something more tender and soothing. He nudged your chin until you met his eye. “You’re to be my wife. I would know what he said to upset you so.”
You hesitated, but never had you seen such an earnest, guileless expression from Aemond directed at you. It struck you then that he was being sincere. You inhaled deep; a fortifying breath. “He intends to go to my father and try to convince him to break our betrothal. I did not want him to touch me in that way, Aemond. I told him I didn’t want any of it, but he wouldn’t listen.”
The fire in his eye returned with a vengeance, but this time not directed at you. “Is that all?” When you shifted away from his prying gaze, he gently turned you to face him again. “Tell me.”
“He made mention of my virtue. He said that if it were in question— that we could use it to force my father’s hand. I don’t wish for that, Aemond. I swear it.” Something he said earlier itched at your mind. “I am not ashamed of you.”
Aemond placed both hands firmly on either side of your face, forcing you to meet his eye head on. “I will take his hands for hurting you. And his tongue, for suggesting such a thing, if you wish.”
The cold intensity of his eye belayed any thought you might have had that he was jesting. You settled your hands at his wrists, keeping him from moving. “You needn’t do that, Aemond. It’s not worth the trouble.”
Aemond grunted and leaned closer, his nose brushing hers. “It would be. You’re to be my wife, not his. Mine.” And just as swiftly as he’d dragged you from the hall, his lips were on hers. His hand grasped your head, and the other fell to your waist, pressing you to him.
It was nothing like the sweet, shy kisses you’d shared with the young squires in your youth at Casterly Rock, behind the stables. It was all fire and fury. His teeth scraped her’s and his tongue traced your bottom lip, drawing you deeper into him. He pulled away and your lips chased after him and your hands clenched into his doublet.
You panted, trying to catch your breath and make sense of the shift in his attentions. “I did not think you wished to marry me,” you sheepishly admitted. “Or that you held any affection towards me at all.”
He brushed feather-light fingers across your swollen lips. He swallowed hard. “I do not think you horrible, or terrible. It frightens me is all, to have something so precious which might be taken from me just as easily as it’s given.” There is more to it than that. There must be. You resolved to not push the issue tonight. What is he so fearful of, truly?
This time when he kissed you it was slow and languid, yet still anything but sweet. He stepped back and you whined and pulled him back to you, close enough for his lips to brush hers when he said, “if he thinks to approach you again I’ll have his head. See if I won’t.”
You see? It’s all in the canon, folks...
(Kids - always ask a responsible adult to help you with escapology. Just don’t annoy that responsible adult before you get in the box.)
“Mrs Hudson, while I sympathise entirely with the urge to leave Holmes locked up in a box, you should probably let him out now.”
“Can we have a cup of tea first?”
“… I don’t see why not.”
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OH NO THERE ARE MORE WORDS.
In which there are some shady goings-on at a London university, and a motley crew of suspicious sorts.
(A lot of scene-setting in this one - but after this it’s the Holmes and Wiggins show, I promise…)
Nope, no punchline today, just these two adorable best pals.
I hope, if you are having a rainy kind of day, that you have a Watson to help you out too.
“Come on, Holmes - Mycroft even persuaded the Prime Minister to sign the petition to make you get rid of that goatee. It’s practically an act of treason if you don’t shave.”
“I will shave when you admit that my facial hair is better than your facial hair.”
“It’s an abomination and I refuse to congratulate you on it!”
“Oh, for goodness sake, Doctor - just tell him what he wants to hear! It’s putting me off my knitting, looking at that thing…”
This week, I am obsessed with Holmes’ ‘horrible goatee’ in His Last Bow. I’m pretty sure he must have inflicted it on the world before then…
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(I forgot to add that we would be very grateful for prayers to any and all deities and/or with bribes to the Meteorological Office, re: the weather on Sunday, because SE England has been SOGGY these last few days…)
Quick Life Update...
I get married THIS SUNDAY. Wowzers.
Because of this, while the next episode of The Adventures of Mrs Hudson will go out as usual next Tuesday, there’ll be a slightly longer gap of three weeks until the next one. But that does mean that it will also tie in nicely with the first anniversary of these silly doodles, so we can all pretend that I planned it that way :)
(I honestly thought I’d be able to get next week’s and the one after that drawn up, queued and ready to go before we head off on honeymoon, but apparently in the week before your wedding (when you’re also frantically trying to tie things off during one of the busiest times of year at work) there’s really quite a lot to do. Who knew?!)
TL;DR: I’m getting married and am super busy - so while the next Mrs H will arrive on time next Tuesday, the one after that will be delayed.
“It’s like all of those things rolled in to one!”
“This is much worse than the cricket.”
“Hey!”
(Someone should tell the artist about how perspective works - oh, wait, that’s me…)
Mrs Hudson returns in three weeks’ time!
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In which Holmes ruins the Baker Street Irregulars’ treasure hunt.
(I missed Mrs Hudson’s first anniversary earlier this month due to Unexpected Hiatus, booooo! I’ll just have to make sure that her second anniversary is extra special.)
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“You know, Watson, it’s really most gratifying - my monograph has been flying off the shelves!”
“Oh yes, well, I’ve been recommending it to all of my patients … especially the ones with insomnia.”
“What was that?”
“Hmm? Oh, nothing…”
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On the twelfth day of Christmas my true love gave to me:
Twelve games a-footing,
Eleven pipes for smoking,
Ten puzzled policemen,
Nine stick men dancing,
Eight murderers murd’ring,
Seven bad disguises,
Six smashed Napoleons,
FIVE - ORANGE - PIIIIIIIIIPS!
Four hansom cabs,
Three Garridebs,
Two racing horses,
And a goose that lays something shiny!
Have a colour-me-in Mrs Hudson Christmas card! Useful for keeping the kids quiet for five minutes this holiday, or, if you’re like me, as a panic I’m-sorry-I-didn’t-get-you-anything offering…
(And of course, if you do actually colour it in - send me the results! :D)
A very, very happy Christmas and holidays to all of you. I hope it’s full of love and warmth and Holmesian goodness.
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We all know what happened the last time Holmes went to a party.
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