Lucy.

marmorpalais / mayfair

[lucyofedinburgh]

Meet Lucy.

Goodness, LUCY HERZOG has arrived in London. SHE is 29, of the EDINBURGH NEEDHAMS. Though they are RETURNED to the Season, we can only describe them as IMPISH and QUICK-WITTED, dear reader. Accompanied by HER HUSBAND AND AN ASTONISHING AMOUNT OF HOUSE PLANTS AND DOGS, they have settled in and are accepting social calls. But be warned: they are known for their SHARP TONGUE.

Lucy Needham is the sole heiress of Needham Textile Limited, a forerunner in common textile manufacturing, simple goods production, and silk imports. 

They own factories in London, Birmingham, and Edinburgh, and are heavily involved in the oceanic trade. Lucy is distant from this: the business was founded by her great-grandfather, and has been operating independently with a layer of middle management as long as she has known it. Still, she enjoys the profits.

Her parents died some time ago. She rarely speaks about it.

She was raised by her Aunt, the Lady Gow, and learned etiquette, painting, dancing, and the like from her. Of these, Lucy is an avid painter preferring watercolor as her medium. (This year, she is undertaking secret a portrait series of everyone in the Ton.)

Lucy debuted in 1795 to some acclaim, though she has a nasty habit of evading proposals. She is charming and light on her feet, but also quick to disappear, often without explanation. Catching her interest is half the battle -- keeping it is the rest.

As a returning member of The Season, Lucy is a familiar face to some and largely unknown to others. She has never been engaged, though she was caught out three Seasons ago when she played two of the prettiest girls of the Season against each other. In that incident, she did not show remorse.

She is whip-smart, and it is clear that the rigid rules of the London Season chafe against her.

Last season, contrary to her plans and all of her sense, she fell head first for the visiting prince, Sebastian. She is deeply enamored with her new husband. She is also, admittedly, a reluctant Prinzessin.

The reasons for their return to London -- and participation in the season -- are manifold, but Lucy’s homesickness played a considerable part.

----------

Hi, I’m Annie! I’m so excited that everyone is here and was interested in joining my strange idea for a game. :) I wanted to make a character that could cause some Good Trouble™, while not always being in direct competition for a match (though... down the line... who’s to say!). I’m up for any and all plots, and would love some pre-Season relationships for Lucy, whether you love her, hate her, or have had a dalliance with her. 🌸

[lucyofedinburgh]

sebastianofprussia​:

He could not assist with the mural, nor did Lucy seem to need his help. So in the study, he gathered the palace staff to go over final orders for baby clothes and shoes, and for one of the clocks from the main castle to be brought in. Once the last servant left the room and Velten was assured that nothing else was needed, Sebastian picked up his violin. He brought it with him on the short trip from his study to the nursery. After a pause to inspect Lucy’s progress, he stationed himself near a window and began to play.

After a few scrapes of the bow it was clear to him the instrument needed to be tuned. He began to do so with painstaking care, one string at a time.

Sebastian!

He moved much quicker than his thoughts, half-dropping, half-setting the violin and bow on the nearest chair he passed on the way across the room to Lucy.

“Lucy,” he said, his voice hoarse from the sudden worry that gripped him, and he laughed as she steadied herself on his shoulder. He reached for her waist, his other hand rested on her stomach, and he looked up at her. “Do not scare me like this.”

—

30 november, 1800 early evening

Sebastian hadn’t stepped away from the door from the sitting room to the antechamber between him and Lucy’s bedroom. The sounds of his wife in labor were dampened by the distance and the solid stone and wooden doors, to be sure, but each one that he detected caused a visible flinch. He kept pacing the small space in front of the door, pausing only to stare out of the window without really seeing anything.

“Eure Hoheit,” Velten said quietly from the door. “His Majesty wishes to see you.”

“I will not leave until my son is born,” Sebastian snapped with unfettered annoyance, not even looking at his valet. “If he will not listen to you then I will shout down the hallway to him myself.”

“Eure H–”

Velten had to move as the king was abruptly carried into the room in a chair. It seemed uncomfortable for him to be sitting up, but he looked every bit the dignified ghost Sebastian came to recognize.

“Well,” said the king, “how is she?”

“In labor,” Sebastian said venomously, forgetting himself in his fear and worry, and allowing himself to cut at his father even if it was only with his voice. His wounds had healed, the scar across his face a constant reminder how he failed his king and his country. He would not turn away from the window. The sounds from the other room continued.

Father considered him in silence for so long Sebastian hoped he’d fallen asleep. “I worried for your mother, too. Every time.”

Sebastian looked back at him, his eyes narrowed. “I love my wife, and Mother, and these are sentiments you will never understand yourself. It is not worry that plagues me but fear.”

“Your fear is not…” Father trailed off and seemed to reconsider what he was about to say. “I see. You are not accustomed to being left out of your affairs. But I can assure you, you do not wish to see your wife in such a state, if the sounds of labor alone cause you this distress. Sit down, Sebastian.”

So he did, with reluctance, in the closest armchair to the door.

It was not the pain that surprised her, but the persistence.

Lucy had never been an active child. She had never raced ahead to explore the beaches along the loch, had never dashed through fields or climbed whole trees. She dawdled, looking at seashells, or foam between her toes. Found toadstools and made little circles in the wildflowers -- or, best yet -- stayed inside.

She had not, often, known what it was to be out of breath. But god did she then.

Six pushes, each promised to be the final one. It was not the most severe pain she had felt in her life, but it had long-since rendered her exhausted.

Sounds ceased to reach her, the white noise of her own breath clouding out whatever wet or shrieking or meddling piano filled the room. It was all fission, disparate, until the cry.

Lucy heard the world in full color, the sound blooming in her chest.

Oh.

She thought, breathless.

I understand now.

---

Later, but not by much.

Slowly, the motion subsided. It rang to a peak along with the cries, a flurry of people, here and there, pulling at her legs, pushing next. Holding the baby and then pressing it into her arms, Lucy cradling the warm blanket against her chest. 

The room cleared over time. It was late, crisp and cold. The heat must have flushed her face worrisomely, for someone opened the drapes along the way and let the faintest wisp of December air come into the room.

They exchanged the flowers. The bedsheets. Her nightdress -- twice. Lucy watched as though disconnected, the blood-stained linens disappearing from the room, until it was all fresh. The piano played merrily.

Lucy’s throat was so dry it ached, but another ache persisted.

“Sebastian.”

“In time, prinzessin,” said Olivia. Lucy shook her head. The queen looked surprised. “You do not want him to see you like this,” she instructed.

“I must see him,” she said, exhausted. “It is all I want.”

---

The room emptied, until only Isla, knitting by the fire, remained. They washed the baby’s head, and wiped Lucy’s brow, and most importantly, left them alone.

She looked up as the door opened, though her cheek remained, resting, atop a tiny head.

“Basti.”

Sebastian felt insufficient. My love could not convey.

The fire glowed, and Lucy too, alight at the sight of him.

“We have a son.”

[lucyofedinburgh]

sebastianofprussia​:

Lucy looked at him in that same, endearing way she always did, as if she had known him much longer than the beginning of last season. She could see him, truly see him, better than anyone.

And so when her gaze flickered over the obvious scabbed over gash on his face, he braced himself for the inevitable disgust, or worse, disappointment–lamenting the days when he had once been her handsome husband.

But his distraction missed the reach for his hair until her fingers tangled in it, long and unkempt from sleep, and her lips found his once more, unafraid of his unshaven scruff.

The smallest sigh of relief, his body relaxed into hers, and he kissed her back with everything about her he missed.

—

Marmorpalais Dining Room

A last minute spread was prepared, all manner of cured breakfast meats, pastries, poached eggs, and fruit were brought out and placed. Of course the prince was looking forward to dining with the family all together again, but for at least breakfast (if not the next few days) he wanted only to make up for lost time with his wife.

After a bath, it was time to shave, and Sebastian was surprised Velten held his tongue about his excitement to do so.

Sebastian arrived first to the dining room and sat, pouring coffee while he waited. When Lucy arrived, he looked up to greet her as he always did, except when he saw her–the swell of her stomach so much more pronounced than he remembered–his excitement overtook him. He stood and went to her, cupping her face.

“You look,” he could not find the words. “Du siehst umwerfend aus. Ach, come, let us eat, and then we shall look at the nursery.”

There were not words for what Lucy felt, the storm that had swelled and crested inside of her for months finally breaking. She felt the distance too, her steps quickening when she saw him. Even the space of a hall remained too far apart.

The callous on his hand burned with familiarity as it slotted against her cheek. Lucy stared, gaze soft. She had ached for him, and it reverberated through her like a bell.

---

“Sebastian!”

The exclamation rang through the room, the high ceilings of the nursery not yet cushioned with curtains. Lucy gasped, and caught herself on the chair.

Glancing downward, she peered at the oil paints on her palette, checking her smock for good measure. Only a drop of yellow ochre to mark the misbalance, though the thundering of her heart said otherwise.

As she reached down, her hand felt his shoulder and she laughed softly, out of breath.

“I am sorry,” she managed. The mural before her loomed tall, her brush strokes not able to reach the highest points by a wide margin. They would be finished, she had agreed, by another. It did not mean she had to like it. “I reached too far and lost my balance.”

[lucyofedinburgh]

sebastianofprussia​:

The room was cast in shadowy grays and blues, his vision clouded with mist. “Lucy.”

He shifted closer, a strained gasp of air filling his lungs as his arms encircled her. She was unfamiliar in a way that both saddened and excited him, the roundness of her stomach was prominent against his own. With his face lifted from the pillow, he remembered what he looked like, and could not bear to see her reaction, so he closed his eyes and pressed his lips into her hair.

He felt stagnant and wasted away holed up in the palace. Built to his own particular tastes with no forethought to a future living there, not alone, but married. Sharing such a grand palace with Lucy was one of the many things that brought him joy in marriage. Without her, the marble floors felt not frigid, the halls empty, the rooms lonely.

Lucy was incredibly warm in his arms. Memories, as vivid as they were, could not compare to her. She traveled long, and far, and he was sure he’d hear of it–all the while, he languished in his own misery, ineffectual and dull as most of his recent endeavors had been.

I will never leave you again, he wanted to say so, wanted to swear it and keep his promise like an oath.

“We are together again,” he said, his hand coming to rest on the side of her stomach. His breaths came both fast and slow, and he smiled against the tightened scar tissue.

“I am overjoyed, and yet I cannot–I cannot be without you, ever again, no matter the reason.”

It was the soft slope of his neck, and the scent of him there that swept her under. Pulled close, Lucy folded into Sebastian, her hand falling to his shoulder, the other flat against his chest. His heart raced against her palm. She smiled. Her own raced, too.

Longing was a strange drink, bitter and earnest all in one gulp. She wore it well at first, dancing with the prolonged excitement. Lucy did not mind being a little tortured, if reprieve would soon follow. It was when it did not, when days cast to weeks, to months, to seasons, that longing lost its shine. When she no longer wished for something delectable, dark and tempting, but instead for the weight of his head against her chest, the callouses of his fingers as they brushed against her own. The missing of it became languish. 

She could hear the cant of his breath between his words, could feel the race of his heart beneath her hand. Lucy held him, eyes shut as she rested her head against his shoulder, overflowing with missing -- and relief.

“So we will not be,” she said, unable to keep her smile away from her words. Her lips turned into his neck, pressing a kiss against the flutter of his throat. She lifted her head, looking at him in the pale dawn light.

He was perfect. Golden like the sun, his smile brighter than any June. Lucy could not help but smile too, giddiness pulling her forward. Her hand lifted, tangling in his hair.

The scar was new and angry across his skin, redness hidden in soft shadow. Lucy was a good wife, attentive to the small changes about him. It did not escape her notice.

Nor did it stop her, then, from leaning in to kiss him.

Words seemed a waste when she could use her lips for better things.

[lucyofedinburgh]

sebastianofprussia​:

The pain and bruises faded with each passing day, but the scars would remain. Each glance in the mirror was a stark reminder of the taste of blood and dirt and defeat. Self-prescribed loneliness for the sake of duty had not rewarded him with the glory of victory, or even progress, and had instead caused a stark regression to melancholy–and worse, malaise.

Sebastian spent his days in his quarters, between his bedroom and the study. He took his dinners alone or with Velten, sometimes with his brothers and Aster if he was feeling up to it. Father’s illness kept him bedridden. Sebastian did not ask to be seen, nor was he asked to visit.

Dear Lucy, he wrote, every day, Dear Lucy, I am overcome with loneliness. Dear Lucy, I miss you. Dear Lucy, I cannot go on like this. Parchment tore and crumpled and tossed into the fire.

I should leave, he thought. In the dark of night, the throne be damned, but he would lose his nerve, knowing Father was likely on his death bed.

The physician compounded a salve for the wounds on his face. It smelled of herbs and piss and lard. Sebastian laid staring at the canopy of his bed smelling himself in disgust until he fell asleep.

—

With the curtains drawn closed, he no longer woke with the sun, but rather when his body willed him to. Slowly, he blinked awake, felt the warmth and present so dearly missed at his side, and did not have to focus to know who it was. Except he could not fathom it.

“Lucy?” he whispered, weak. “Am I dreaming?”

She slept. Dreamless, serene, with her body finally coddled by a mattress meant for her, Lucy slept like she had not in weeks. She was tired down to her very bones, to the curve of her ankle, the knots in her neck. She slept without moving, without sighing, without pain.

Only her grip had held through the night, slotting his hand securely beneath her chin. She ached to touch him, to weave their legs together, to draw her fingers through his hair. Ached more to rest.

Lucy.

She liked her name best when it was upon his lips. No one had ever said it just so. The sound of it chased into her sleep, a small smile teasing at her lips.

Blink. Blue eyes greeted her, the line between them quizzical and confused. A question lay unanswered in the air, though she could not recall what it was.

Her heart thought it might twist into shreds at the sight of him, her fingers curled around the side of his hand, holding him tight. 

“I had to,” she said, fervent. The heave and sigh of his chest was unmistakable, echoed in her own. Her lips, rosy when they parted, grew pale with longing. Lucy swallowed. “I cannot be without you.”

[lucyofedinburgh]

lucyofedinburgh​:

Late September, 1800 En route to Berlin

Lucy’s focus had retreated to a singular point, a single point of light amidst the turmoil of waves, of horses, of strange beds. The boat rocked as she slept, waking her in the utter blackness of her berth, and the light remained. Singular and bright, held only in her mind. Her hand fell to her swollen stomach, palm flat against a kick. Home. 

She would believe it so much that it came true.

—

Frances was different, but less different than Lucy expected.

Marriage had felt like a rebirth to her, a baptism separating her life before and her life after. She was no longer Lucy Needham of Edinburgh, but instead Princess Lucy of Potsdam. It felt, occasionally, as though she were slipping into a life crafted for a mirror image, a woman with her same measurements, similar tastes, but not her.

Lucy watched the new couple from across the small dining room. Olivia was a pleasant dining partner, she did not expect to be entertained. It left Lucy open to watch, mindlessly placing roast chicken on her tongue.

She was still Frances, to the tips of her fingers. Not for the first time, Lucy wondered how she did it.

—

The only time she felt at home was with Sebastian.

Lucy exhaled as they stepped off the boat, wincing as the earth stubbornly insisted upon swaying. It was a cruelty, arriving back to solid ground to find it mutable and transient. With a heavy swallow, she crossed the dock and accepted help into the waiting carriage.

As the horses kicked into motion, nausea swept over her. The road became uneven within minutes.

Focus, said the quiet voice in her mind. White light drowned out the trees.

— tbc!

Days blurred. Lucy had never once, not even by accident, considered herself a submissive sort. The loss of her autonomy worried her when she lingered on the thought for too long. But she was submissive then: she stayed with Isla, or Frances, or the physician, and she ate her meals with vegetables first and not so much meat as to imbalance her.

Her companions felt transient, figures that she spoke to through glass. Frances, especially, though Lucy did not feel a tinge of sadness at the thought. She enjoyed watching her, blonde and lithe and imperious. They were foils more than they were similar. Marriage wore well upon Frances, and that made Lucy smile.

She found herself talking to her only true companion as the day stretched long over the carriage. Light came into it, slanted. Isla dozed. She spoke as though she had some authority, narrating to her baby where they were, and what it looked like, and what it meant for her -- for the baby -- for them. They were in Prussia, now. Their country.

--

Rain delayed their progress by two days, and slowed it by four.

--

The last night held them less than ten miles outside Berlin, Olivia demanding a stop. Lucy woke from a light dream to find her carriage halted.

“No.”

The rain pelted the top of her carriage, Lucy poking her head out the flap in the door. Just beyond, oil lamps burned brightly, beckoning her in. Olivia’s face was in shadow.

“It is late,” said the Queen. “It would be better for us--” there was a hardness in her eyes, a silent reminder of their agreement. Lucy had promised. “--to rest.”

The princess set her jaw, determination within her.

“It is two hours.”

“It is four.”

She felt her heart twist in ache, the thought of another night alone more than she could bear.

“No,” Lucy said, softly.

She had been relentless, refusing all else, even her own preferences in the hope of getting home. It was within reach. Rain was only water, and the weather had not turned bitter. The wind swept, and promised a change.

A long moment passed, the two locked in a conversation neither sound nor light could catch.

The door to Lucy’s carriage swung open, rain pelting her skirt. The Queen climbed inside.

---

Marmorpalais, at last.

The lamps were low, staff scattered at the arrival. The rain had only worsened as they drove closer, until it torrented, gusting sideways as the carriage pulled to a stop. A man was halfway up the curved staircase before Lucy’s feet hit the ground.

“Wait.” She said. “Do not--” Sebastian was here. Here, within her own measure to reach. “Do not wake him.”

---

Isla pulled a sponge over Lucy’s skin, washing away nights of half-sleep, days in a carriage, forever on the road. Her hair fell down, past her shoulders, auburn waves unbraided. She undressed, dressed again. Somewhere in the middle, her hands began to shake.

---

The bedroom was dark, rain hitting the windows in a waterfall.

Lucy stopped just past the threshold, the door pulled shut behind her. Even in the darkness, he was golden, peaceful, perfect.

Tears coated her cheeks like rain to the cobblestones. Lucy could not say how long she stood, staring.

The mattress was soft, and accepted her with ease. His hand was warm between her own. She could not wake him, could not find the words to do it, the thing to say.

So instead, she slipped between the quilt, tugged an untouched pillow beneath her head. His ring drew a glimmer of light as she drew his hand to her chest, tucking it beneath her chin.

Home. She thought. The baby did not kick, but turned, pressure changing against her abdomen. We are home.

@sebastianofprussia​

[lucyofedinburgh]

Late September, 1800 En route to Berlin

Lucy’s focus had retreated to a singular point, a single point of light amidst the turmoil of waves, of horses, of strange beds. The boat rocked as she slept, waking her in the utter blackness of her berth, and the light remained. Singular and bright, held only in her mind. Her hand fell to her swollen stomach, palm flat against a kick. Home. 

She would believe it so much that it came true.

---

Frances was different, but less different than Lucy expected.

Marriage had felt like a rebirth to her, a baptism separating her life before and her life after. She was no longer Lucy Needham of Edinburgh, but instead Princess Lucy of Potsdam. It felt, occasionally, as though she were slipping into a life crafted for a mirror image, a woman with her same measurements, similar tastes, but not her.

Lucy watched the new couple from across the small dining room. Olivia was a pleasant dining partner, she did not expect to be entertained. It left Lucy open to watch, mindlessly placing roast chicken on her tongue.

She was still Frances, to the tips of her fingers. Not for the first time, Lucy wondered how she did it.

---

The only time she felt at home was with Sebastian.

Lucy exhaled as they stepped off the boat, wincing as the earth stubbornly insisted upon swaying. It was a cruelty, arriving back to solid ground to find it mutable and transient. With a heavy swallow, she crossed the dock and accepted help into the waiting carriage.

As the horses kicked into motion, nausea swept over her. The road became uneven within minutes.

Focus, said the quiet voice in her mind. White light drowned out the trees.

--- tbc!

[lucyofedinburgh]

sebastianofprussia​:

continued from here and here

After the sun set on a night like this, time seemed to cease to exist. His phone was abandoned in his jacket pocket which had been thrown over a hook by the door and forgotten about. He had to give credit where credit was due: Frances did know how to throw a party, and not a single person in attendance seemed unworthy of his attention.

It was simply a matter of who captured his attention, and that had already been decided.

Sebastian accepted a glass of scotch on the rocks from Howard, reluctant to forget the taste of sweet cherry lingering on his lips. The game of spin the bottle, childish as it was, had him at a loss for how to proceed. This was not the sort of party for getting too involved, and yet the pair of blue eyes peering at him as her hand stopped the bottle had clearly captured his attention. And imagination.

Should he approach her? Lucy. He spun the ice in his glass and finally forced himself to take a sip. To what end would he pursue this Lucy?

The answer came in the form of the hostess herself, bodily dragging him from the safety of the indoors through a window frame and out into the chilled night air. When he saw who Frances brought him to, and after being sure to acknowledge her dig at him with a massive eye roll, his mind brought her, Lucy, into singular focus. Frances’s voice grew distant and all he could hear was the rustle of fabric of the cardigan in question, the sound her lips made as she opened her mouth to speak, even the flutter of eyelashes when she blinked.

I like strawberries.

The spell of being transfixed by her was broken when Frances appeared in his periphery, kissing Lucy on the cheek, and then doing the same to him. He breathed again, realized he hadn’t done so in several seconds, and smelled cigarette smoke.

“Also,” he tried, unaware he had ceased speaking English for that word, and then he was suddenly conscious of every hard consonant of his accent, “we have been introduced. Do you like–sushi?”

He was nervous. Did she make him so? The flutter in her chest felt like lightning, the percolating build of anticipation, the unknowing of when it would crest. String lights twinkled in perfect diagonal lines overhead; a fire flickered in the gas pit.

“We only ever have sashimi on Thursday night.” Lucy answered.

Were they playing a game?

(Was he in it?)

Water collected on the edge of his glass, melted into his fingers. Lucy’s thoughts were wicked. She might like to be water.

Her phone remained in her hand, the same one now holding  Château Branaire-Ducru Cabernet Franc. It left trails of residue along the bowl of the glass. Lucy took another sip.

Frances was a glimmer, golden hair, sharp teeth. She caught Lucy’s interest over his shoulder, staring at her through the balcony door.

Her gaze flickered back to Sebastian. He had pressed his lips and returned them, red and flushed. Did he do it on purpose?

(Could he do it again, but slower?)

Something sprung in her chest, a text flickered the blue screen of her phone to life. Lucy ignored it, her gaze falling back to the blonde.

“Are you pining?” Lucy asked.

Had Frances lay claim or laid him off?

Her chest tightened again, the air that slipped beneath the cardigan pulling her ribs like a vice.

(Are you with her?)

[lucyofedinburgh]

🐦 for how our muses met (the Frances/Basti/Lucy introduction edition!)

Moments after this and a bit after this

The balcony had better music, exchanging the fluted synth of ELIO for the pulled and played strings of Andrew Bird. Pulaski at Night. Night-blooming jasmine and the glowing ends of cigarettes.

Slick. The window opened, a blonde head appeared -- though Lucy felt her, rather than saw her, felt amber and sandalwood, felt the touch of cool velvet skin, the pull of muscle bound in sinew.

Inside glowed white, all clean carpets and stark walls and gleaming surfaces.

Lucy's gaze dragged up slowly, a flicker of her pink tongue to wet her lips as Frances spoke. She did that nervous tic again. Her fringe needed no adjustment.

It was him, of course. Inevitable, like the single drip of milk that tumbled off the edge of a perfectly-poured coffee. Like the ripple following a stone in the lake. Like the wind in October, chasing through the streets. Lucy's smile caught her lips last, letting the moment stretch and wrap itself around her.

Frances left. Lucy took a step closer.

Sebastian, she'd said. And she winked, in that awkward way that Frances attempted any affection.

"I like strawberries," she said, resting the edge of the wine glass against her lower lip.

Thoughts collected and dispersed, like frisson, like particulate scattering on grainy film.

Frances.

His hair, golden amidst a room bare of color.

Frances again, and the clack-clatter of her bracelet. Was it nerves or longing?

She wavered on the spot, the edges of her figure unable to settle.

The soft sigh that caught on his lips right before she kissed him and--

Frances.

His hands.

Frances.

Lucy blinked. Her lips were berry red, eyes dark. They were close enough that she could see the faint lines along his brow. With a flick, she looked up.

"What happens now?"

@francesackerley @sebastianofprussia

[lucyofedinburgh]

send ✉ for a 2am text [Archie!]

[lucyofedinburgh]

send ✆ for a morning text (Basti)

[lucyofedinburgh]

✺ for a sassy text (Tony)

[lucyofedinburgh]

send ✉ for a 2am text

[theseasonhq]

Welcome to Meme Friday at The Season! 🧣  Each Friday, we’ll post one or two memes for characters to reblog on their accounts. Reblogging the meme indicates that you are accepting asks from it, and that you’re also sending asks out to others. Feel free to reblog and answer memes until end of day Sunday. After that, save what’s left over in your inbox for the next Meme Friday. Enjoy!

TEXT MEMES! Send a symbol + the prompt for texts from my muse!

send ✆ for a morning text send ♔ for an angry text send  ♠ for a drunk text send ☏ for a vague text send ✉ for a 2am text send ⁇ for a worried text send ❤ for a lusty/loving/affectionate message send ♣ for a text not meant for you send ✺ for a sassy text send √ for a long-winded confession text send ☠ for a misguided advice text send ☢ for a desperate text send ☼ for a congratulatory text send ✘ for a text that should never have been sent

[theseasonhq]

Welcome to Meme Friday at The Season! 🧣  Each Friday, we’ll post one or two memes for characters to reblog on their accounts. Reblogging the meme indicates that you are accepting asks from it, and that you’re also sending asks out to others. Feel free to reblog and answer memes until end of day Sunday. After that, save what’s left over in your inbox for the next Meme Friday. Enjoy!

University AU drabble prompts: REDUX! Send a symbol + the prompt for a drabble!

🍺 to buy my muse a drink at the bar 🎤 to sing karaoke together (bonus if you send a song too!) 🕺 to convince my muse to go out dancing (on a school night!) 🥏 to challenge my muse to a game (billiards, frisbee, sender’s choice - please specify!) 🙏 to both reach for the last available copy of a book 😦 for my muse to realize they’re in the wrong class 🤒 to tend to my muse while they’re sick or injured 🎟 to see my muse at a school sporting event 🧪 to be lab partners and you’re the last ones to finish the experiment 😼 to help my muse sneak into a class building at night 💦 to go skinny dipping 🏖 to take a weekend trip to the beach 🙋‍♂️ to join my muse’s study group ❄️ to run into my muse leaving campus for winter break

[lucyofedinburgh]

hermajesty-charlotte​:

29 August 1800 The pedestal at the rose garden luncheon

While the garden is usually full of benches, perhaps a small stand for a musician, today it has been transformed to a dining room befitting a queen. Specifically, this queen.

Charlotte adjourned the luncheon a few minutes before the rest, leading her trailing court away from the trays of petit-fours and to a room dazzled in soft petal pink and rich blue. She returns, now, and is seated upon a low pedestal at the southern end of the rose garden.

The courtiers behind her are flush with chatter, whispers and secrets spreading like brushfire. Every so often, one bends to entice Queen Charlotte in their merriment, and she laughed. It is at that moment that a name is announced, and a couple steps forward.

—

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“We must.”

The grumbling came either from Victoria or Lucy’s own mind, though she rose with some measure of grace and managed to drape the train of her gown becomingly on the grass. It was impossible to shake the fear that Her Majesty instilled in Lucy, no matter how time nor wealth nor titles changed, Lucy felt like little more than a small child before the queen.

She sighed, turning to her companion. “She is of... some relation to me, now. And you are a Countess.”

Of a husband in disfavor, came the quiet, knowing voice.

“Your pretty presence might--” Lucy cast her gaze around, looking for the words. “Improve your husband’s station.”

Crossing the grass, Lucy waited nearby -- not in line, certainly, for she was a princess consort, and that would be unfitting of her station -- and stepped forward when asked.

A curtsey, albeit shallow. Her center of gravity allowed for little less.

“Your Majesty,” Lucy greeted. “Have you met my dear friend, the Countess Effingham?”

[ Roll: 14 ]

@halestcrm​

[lucyofedinburgh]

🕰 for our muses hanging out after midnight

[ As a prequel to this. ]

The bass felt like a heartbeat, pulsing and throbbing through the floorboards. Light scattered and eclipsed, the walls as dark as her own fingernails. All was black-black-black.

Lucy loved to dance. Wine exchanged for clear liquors exchanged for nothing at all, glitter painted along her forearms, her calves, the porcelain curves of her neck. She caught a stranger's hands and placed them upon her waist, released them and lost herself to music.

It was freedom, to be unknown. Like a coin in a well, Lucy threw herself into it, catching the beat with her steps, laughing with fleeting friends beneath the lights as they turned winter blue.

Minutes later. Seconds after. Perhaps hours, really. After time, Lucy found herself closer to the wall, closer to the bar. Amaretto sour. Double. Two cherries -- no, three.

She popped one in her mouth as she darted beneath lavender strobes, catching the hand of a lavender-haired beauty.

"Dance with me."

Frances' hands were always cold.

Pushing the drink into her other, Lucy draped her arms over her shoulders, pulling her into the shadow of the stage. Frances was an anchor, smelled like lilac and amber and faintly, pine trees. Lucy danced, holding the other woman against her. She could catch her gaze in scattered moments, the frown on her lips, the moment when she tossed her head back and laughed.

"I love you," she said, through the heat and thunder.

Lucy finished the drink by eating the last cherry, by pulling her closer, until the light hit neither of them.

Frances was cold hands, lace and silk, mascara and rose-balm gloss.

And Lucy kissed her.