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[zillifurniture]

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[tejuskumar13]

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[homelivingthings]

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[chiropteracupola]

"Sleepers in the Peat," 2022.

two years ago I wrote a short story. finally got around to posting it.

The water was bitter here.  Beneath thick layers of branching sphagnum moss, it rose from the earth in drips and drenches, pooling in little reed-ringed ponds and lying smooth as glass.  A faint curtain of mist drifted across the bogland, obscuring the far-off tree-line and rendering the world somewhat distant from the clear light of the morning.  

It was beside one of these little wells of peaty water that she crouched, clipboard and pencil in hand, the raincoat drawn over her broad shoulders a green only a shade less saturated than the moss.  Her name, scribed in graphite across the top of her sheet of notes, was Theo-short-for-Theodora, a fact that she had had to explain nearly every time she introduced herself.  She had shaped it better to fit herself, although out in the silence of the marshes, there was very little need for such a thing as a name.

Kneeling now, Theo dipped a gloved hand into the water, pressed the acid-tangy water to her lips.  She breathed in, and breathed in bitterness.  Fibers of moss crept into her nostrils, taking root in her lungs like branching alveoli.  This, then, was the culmination of all her work, all her study, the taste of it at last on her tongue.

The faces of the ancient dead had always fascinated her.  Their empty eyes, skin smoothed by ice or desert to touch the contours of the skull, lips drawn back from ground-down teeth.  It was not the frozen explorers with their eyes still wide and dove-blue that captivated her, nor the ancient kings with their desiccated, dead-lizard hands, nor yet the strange distorted faces of those preserved beneath honey until even their bones took on a sweetness.  Theo, young, had traced the crisply-printed pictures set on slick photo-paper in the centers of her books, memorizing the images of those gone down and buried in the peat.  She became something of an expert in names that her schoolmates did not recognize, Tollund and Lindow, Windeby and Old-Croghan.   They lay still in black-and-white against their backgrounds of sand, so unlike the living people that walked just beyond her windows, and Theo, in her way, preferred that stillness.

Still, she watched the living move all the same.  There was a casual grace to them that fascinated Theo, the way in which hips shifted as the feet fell one in front of the other, how hands settled in close at the waist.  She herself stood with her hands apart, her thumbs tucked into the loops of a belt.  

Just as other children had run in gleeful circles on the blacktop while she stayed inside, book in hand, they kissed and laughed now in dizzy blue-dawn hours.  Theo preferred to sleep instead, lazing curled in bed while the world spun by outdoors.  Dressed in pajama trousers with torn-out knees and rolled-up hems, she drew layer after layer of blanket over herself, sinking deeper into the quiet dark.  In those solitary nights, though, she sought nonetheless, and dreamed of moss beneath her fingers, of the strange faces of the mire-mummified dead.  She would see them sure and true one day, Theo knew, and know the taste of the same tannin that so preserved them.

The North, that was where they were to be found, where ancient peat tracked patchily across Europe and left the dead preserved in its wake.  Her grandmother had called that place homeland, and Theo had scoffed behind her hand.  What connection had she, really, to that place?  Without invitation, she could not walk on that soil with the sort of fierce pride that her grandmother held onto so tightly.

“You’ll see one day, Theodora,” her grandmother said, and nudged back the crooked postcards of green, green hills that had slipped slightly from their places on the refrigerator.  The words sat sourly around Theo’s shoulders, and with time, refused to rot away.  

They clung, sticky and leaden, and Theo would have liked to scream at the feeling of them.  What did her grandmother know, she with her good marriage to her good man, her ticking, soap-sweet house, her fine bed in the back bedroom where she slept as contentedly as a cat?  Her grandmother’s hair was short in the fashion of old women, cut so that it hid how pale and thin it had become.  Theo’s own hair was just as short, cropped by hand in a dim mirror with a sort of ferocity intended to put the viewer in mind of steel-toed boots and hard-wearing canvas.  No use putting them back to back and calling them the same.  And so, Theo shut her mouth, dragged her hand down the side of her face as if to tie shut her jaw.  For all that she railed against those words, the postcards pinned against the refrigerator door were green, green, green.

Try as she might, Theo never slept well in her grandmother’s house.  The air was hot and resolutely mint-sweet, the blankets thin against the heaviness of summer.  Time was just as heavy there, a clock always ticking away beside the cabinets in the kitchen, machinery humming uselessly within the walls.  

Theo crept from the house and settled in the still-warm chair on her grandmother’s far-too-neat lawn.  It had been cut to within an inch of its life just that morning, the first of those two precise twice-a-week rounds of mower and rake and clippers that kept the street-facing yard perfect.  All the same, in the warm night, Theo’s skin stuck, sweaty, to the plastic slats of the chair, and the heat of it felt far too alive for her liking.  She peeled her arms away from it, drew her knees to her chest, sat folded up in herself like an Andean king of old.  Behind her eyes, all was green, the green of hollow hills and deep water.  

So she thought on it, and so she laid her plans.  She did her work with a tired slowness, her motions static and mechanical even as the tasks, somehow, managed to get done.  The grinding stasis of daily life dragged forward, every sample of moss and spreadsheet of data creeping closer to the proper work in the field she sought.  And then, all in a maze of mist, there she was in the North of the world, the treads of her boots sinking into wet sedge as the fog drew itself in close around her.

There were other sorts of bogs than the sort that made a face into such a bitter ambrotype as those that so fascinated her.  Theo had seen the ones where cranberries were grown before, red as all love in the dark water, crisscrossed with boards to serve as footpaths.  This was not such a bog, and made no such deceptions about its helpfulness or its safety.  This was peat all the way down, heavy and wet and certain.  In another thousand thousands of years, pressure would render that peat down to coal, and in another circling of time, perhaps diamond.  All carbon, just as she was, and no light.  Cool, static, stable, deep, the water still as it filtered slow and soft through the moss.  Not so kind, no, but all the same it might hold her gently in the wide green palm of its hand.  

So she knelt down into it, uncaring of the stains it would leave on the knees of her trousers, twined her fingers in among the curls of sphagnum.  Pulling it away in fraying chunks, as perhaps the ancestors her grandmother had spoken of had done, Theo dug, watching water rise, grey and changeable as the sky, to fill the opening she had made in the peat.  Down below, she knew she would find what she had searched for for so long.  And oh — her hand met slick solidity, not peat at all.

The girl in the bog was unchangeable, frozen in amber.  She was no body behind museum-glass, lying in state as if to be awoken by a kiss, but sleeping fast in untouchable earth.  Her face, leathery and smooth, was unwrinkled despite the years.  She could have been born the very same day as Theo, for all that the centuries showed upon her skin.  Her hair, falling wispy about her face, had been reddened by hundreds of years of tannins.  The sun caught upon it and turned it to the gold of autumn-dried acorns, sharp as straw.  There would be grit in her mouth, dust from the rough millstone that had ground down grain, hardly noticeable behind the rich green smell of the bog.

Gloved hands scraped away wet threads of moss, smoothing over skin with as light a touch as Theo could manage.  Under her fingers, the girl shifted, drawing up her shoulders as she yawned.  Her eyes stayed closed, but all the same, Theo felt that she was seen.  

The girl raised herself up languidly on one elbow, water sloughing off in trickles and streams from every seam and crevice of her body.  Her ribs stood out in perfect parallel, still wrapped tightly by the skin of her sides.

“Hello,” said Theo, not knowing what else to say.  The girl in the bog smiled at her with crooked, blackened teeth, and reached out to her.  Her hands were small, round, doll-like, but still soft as burnished leather, the fingernails as neatly trimmed as if she had cut them the day before the peat closed over her.  

She stroked the buzzed-short ends of the hair at the back of Theo’s neck as she leant closer, drifts of wet soil sloughing from her skin, and frowned.

“Why did they cut your hair?”

“I cut it myself.  I liked it better that way — it felt right to do it before I came here.”  Then, pausing, seeing the wind flick at her rust-red, blunt-hacked locks, “Did you—“

“They cut it before they sent me here.  But it fits, doesn’t it?  It was you that made yourself ready for me.”

“I suppose it was,” said Theo, and meant it.  There was a rightness to it, a reason that she had not put words to before.

“Come down with me,” she said, and Theo could not help but follow.  Half-laughing, she thought of the promises of the red-haired rusalki she’d read of in her books of tales.  To walk down into the sweet water and meet a maiden there, and hear her speak words just as sweet of eternal youth in her kingdom down beneath the riverbed, was an old story, and one that she might find herself believing now.  But the water of a peat bog is bitter, as are all things that keep memories safe, and it wasn’t youth, but eternity only, that the girl in the bog had promised her.

To be preserved, young arms entwined with ones that centuries ago were young, was all that she’d receive.  But what more had she desired to begin with?  The choice had been made long before she had ever set foot there.  Theo extended a hand, stripped off its pale blue latex glove like a snake shedding its skin.  Placing it atop her clipboard, she set aside the plastic barrier as if laying out an altar’s worth of grave-goods.  She shucked the green raincoat and heavy backpack from her shoulders — she’d have another coat of that same verdant color where she was going, once the moss had closed over the both of them.  Then, lowering herself feet-first into the open space amid the moss, Theo leaned down and met the girl’s mouth with her own.

The kiss was thick with pollen, and Theo inhaled it without any of the fear she had previously associated with such things.  There was a sweetness to it, a choking flavor of juniper and sap as it poured like sand into her throat.  Theo wondered, a little, that she could breathe through it, but it was no longer a time for wondering.  Instead, her eyes slid softly shut, and the cool, deep darkness was all that remained.  It was not the iron-red dark of closed eyes in sunlight, but a bitter and at the same time refreshing green-dark, a soft sort of shadow that spoke of nothing at all but the faintest edges of dreams.

Drawing the peat back over them, the girl curled herself fast around Theo’s back, cradling her in earth as if in the palm of a hand.  Twining together beneath the moss, the water crept up over them both one more.  As Theo sank, her eyelids slipped closed, and her head drifted downwards all the while.  It twisted sideways on Theo’s neck, slipping bonelessly forwards, and down with it she went into dreamless sleep, bog water growing ever sweeter in her mouth.

[aphroditelovesu]

Kinktober Day Ten — Voyeurism

❝ — 💜 lady l: day ten of kinktober! I hope you like it, dear!!

❝💜pairing: yandere!taehyung x female!reader.

❝warnings: smut, NSFW, female and male masturbation, voyeurism, bad writing.

❝💜word count: 900.

Within an intimate space, a bedroom reveals a woman's unique personality. Dark tones dominate the room, creating a sophisticated and welcoming atmosphere. The walls are covered in an elegant charcoal gray, which serves as a canvas for a contemporary art collection. A large window, framed by black velvet curtains, lets in a soft filter of city light.

The centerpiece of this retreat is a king-size bed, with a luxurious midnight blue velvet duvet and silver satin pillows. To your right, a minimalist dark wood bedside table holds a lamp with a soft light for evenings reading. On the other side, a wall shelf displays a collection of contemporary literature books and pieces of art.

The floor is covered in a plush, graphite-colored carpet, inviting bare feet. A large full-length mirror, framed by wrought iron, reflects the splendor of the space and adds a feeling of spaciousness. Next to the window, a designer armchair with emerald green velvet upholstery offers a place to contemplate and gaze at the cityscape.

An integrated closet with mirrored doors reveals an arsenal of modern clothes and accessories, meticulously organized. Dimmable recessed lighting creates the perfect atmosphere for any occasion, from relaxing to getting ready for the evening.

In these rooms, dark tones combine with the elegance and personal style of the woman who inhabits it, creating a luxurious and welcoming retreat in the heart of the city of Seoul. This room was her refuge, the only place she felt comfortable and truly relaxed.

And it was her favorite place to relax and do something therapeutic and healthy for herself.

You were sprawled out on her bed, your head resting on your soft pillow, your eyes closed and your hands played with your breasts under the bra you were wearing.

You bit your lip and moved a little on the bed and placed your hands behind your back and unclasped your bra, exposing your breasts.

His fingers squeezed and massaged her sore breasts from spending so much time in a bra. You bit your lower lip and took your fingers to the waistband of your pants and played with the buttons until finally deciding to unbutton them. You lowered your pants and removed them, leaving you in just a pair of red, lacy panties.

When you were down to your underwear, a deep breath came from your closet. Someone, without your knowledge, was watching you and taking great advantage of it.

Taehyung knew what he was doing was wrong.

He knew it was wrong to spy on people, to break into their homes and hide in their closet when they weren't looking.

He knew all this but he didn't care.

Not when he had the privileged view of her practically naked body. You only wore a pair of red panties that he was sure you picked out for him. Such a naughty girl.

You really liked teasing him, didn't you? Always so naughty and desperate to be touched and fucked by him.

He licked his lips. Just a little longer, you just needed to wait a little longer.

His breathing became strained as you slid your index finger over your underwear, towards your slit. You let out a low, sly moan at the contact.

Taehyung couldn't move because otherwise he was sure he would be seen and he didn't want you to know about the love he felt for you like that. Without him noticing, his right hand went to his pants and squeezed the bulge that had formed due to his excitement.

He took a deep breath, biting back a groan when you reached inside your panties and started rubbing your clit. He followed your movements and slipped his hand inside the pants he was wearing, going through his underwear and feeling his cock.

You slid your panties off and got rid of them, finally exposing your beautiful pussy to him. The way he was, Taehyung could see your entire pussy and he salivated, his movements on his cock intensifying when you slipped a finger inside your cunt, moaning softly to yourself. He could clearly see your pussy greedily swallowing your finger and Taehyung regretted that it wasn't his cock being swallowed.

''Oh...'' You moaned as you inserted a second finger into your pussy and your thumb slowly rubbed against your clit. You groped your right breast with your free hand, moaning at the pleasure you felt.

''Fuck!'' Taehyung moaned softly as he touched himself harder, knowing he wouldn't take long to cum. He just hoped you wouldn't be long. The movements of his hand intensified as you fucked yourself with your fingers. You moaned loudly as your pleasure increased and your thumb rubbed your clit hard as your fingers were penetrated into your pussy.

You closed your eyes and fucked yourself harder, feeling incredibly turned on. Your mouth opened and you moaned loudly as you squirted, staining the sheets with your liquid, you continued rubbing yourself for a few more minutes until it became too much.

The moment you came, Taehyung released himself into his own hand, not taking his eyes off your body for even a minute, he moaned your name like a prayer as he came and breathed heavily.

He clenched his fists.

He couldn't wait any longer.

[queencharlott]

To Those We Hold Tight

Also available on ao3!

Summary: With three boys so far, the King and Queen hope for a daughter.

Pairings: Queen Charlotte/King George III, King George III & his daughter, The Princess Royal Charlotte (Charlotte Augusta Matilda Queen of Württemberg)

Characters: Queen Charlotte, King George, George IV of the United KingdomFrederick Duke of York and Albany, William IV of the United Kingdom, Charlotte Augusta Matilda Queen of Württemberg

Words: 3000

Status: Complete!

~~~~~~~~~

September 1766

Charlotte embroiders in the quiet comfort of her husband’s bedchamber. George loves to watch her delicate hands find their way in and out of the fabric, painting with thread. When she is in the room, he finds it difficult to focus on anything. 

The light of the fireplace envelops the royal couple in a soft, flickering orange glow. It is there in his room they can strip the formality of their everyday lives, to become George and Charlotte– no other titles necessary. The room is quiet save for the crackle of the fireplace and the soft scratches of graphite on paper. Both steal glances of the other when they are not looking.

Her King sits across from her, legs crossed in the armchair, planning his garden plots. His face betrays nothing but pure concentration. He will meet up with the gardeners at Kew to discuss his ideas, but for now he is lost in thought.

“I hope you do not think me terrible for saying I wish this one a girl,” says Charlotte, stopping mid-needlework to look at her husband sheepishly. From underneath her nightgown, there is no hiding how big she is. Charlotte feels she is nearly about to burst.

George looks up from his work and sets his paper down on the table beside him. He moves to take his place beside his wife on the settee, having been reminded how long it has been since he had last kissed her.

“No,” he says honestly. “I do not.”

“In fact, I say I feel similarly,” he says with a twinkle in his eye. He kisses her lips first, before gently making his way down to her neck. The tension she was holding in her shoulders melts away and she is swept away by his touch. Each stroke, kiss, caress, and touch is a word in a language only they know. He writes love letters on her skin.

The baby stirs. She places his hand on her stomach, inviting him to feel. She is used to this strange sensation, the feeling of life within her, and thinks back to her original comment. The coin has been flipped. Whichever he or she shall be, they do not know yet. Of course she will love any of George’s children, but that does not make her desire for a daughter abate.

The pair love their sons dearly, but three rambunctious toddlers have left them both longing for something different. Their situation is unusual: many might wish only for sons and nothing less. They had secured the heir, a spare, and a spare for the spare in due course. Perhaps they believe a girl will be easier to raise. Or perhaps they know, as do most of the aristocracy, a girl is often easier to control.

—

When the Princess Royal Charlotte is born, her exhausted parents breathe a sigh of relief. 

The King and Queen present their daughter to their sons. The eldest, Georgie, is not yet four, the youngest, William, just barely over a year. They gaze upon her, a baby with jet black hair wrapped in their mother’s arms, unsure of what to do with the thing. 

When the boys are sent to bed, George takes the bundle from his wife and cradles her in his arms. Each child different than the next in his arms, each one undoubtedly eliciting pride and joy as he gazes down at what they’ve created. The Queen beams at them both, exhausted, before slipping into a deep sleep. George leaves with the baby, attendants shutting the door quietly behind him, and the infant Charlotte is nothing but epitome of perfection. She snoozes peacefully, blissfully unaware of her new life on this earth or her place in the palace. 

 

June 1772

A man in a nearly see-through linen shirt left little to the imagination, especially when that man was her husband.

King George is Farmer George today, dressed in a common man’s breeches and shirt, strutting about the gardens with a fierce sense of purpose. It is those days he feels most himself, most connected to the earth and to his place in it. He is a humble speck in the universe. Not a king, not chosen, simply George. He tends to his gardens like an Everyman. 

The Farmer King is freshly thirty-two. For all the pomp and grandeur that accompanied a royal’s birthday, he did not feel much comforted by the passage of time. The Americas were becoming more and more a disfiguring pockmark on his reign, a question without an answer. Whatever he chose to do or not do felt like entirely the wrong answer. He was a silly king who had never been taught how to properly come into his role. To fail on all fronts seemed to have been prophesied, and who was George to trifle with God about such matters. The only thing he could venture to do to retain what was left of his sanity was to shut the world out, to occupy fully the role of father and of scientist.

Often, Charlotte would make her way into the garden too (save if it was too hot or she too pregnant), Reynolds always by her side, holding a parasol as she watched her husband diligently. She could remember that moment years ago when she had watched him from the window, unable to comprehend why a man like him wanted to farm.

Even on the long summer days when the sun shines brightly in the sky and when the heat of the eager sun threatens to bring her inside, still she watches. There are times when he is so enraptured with his work even her presence can not break his concentration. Charlotte likes those moments most, when she can peer into his mind as a gentle observer, watching as he enjoys the peace and prosperity he deserves in every second of his life. When the fantasy is gone and when royal duties demand attention, Farmer George transforms before her eyes into King George. She loves them both fiercely, but most of all the man underneath both costumes, the Just George who plays both roles.

Their boys burst from the french doors like cannons, chasing each other with wooden swords. They’re dressed in a variation of George’s farming outfit, with loose linen shirts and breeches, an innovation of their father in the aftermath of some very expensive fabrics being torn and muddied beyond recognition. If he was to have a common man’s outfit, so too should his sons.

Today, Charlotte is not overly pregnant and the weather is agreeable. As to the first point, she is not quite sure if she is with child, though her courses have come late and eight times of prior experience leaves little doubt. Perhaps she will tell George tonight, or save it for another evening when he needs cheering up. It would be such a disappointment to bring both their hopes up only to have a doctor shoot their dreams down. 

She watches from a bench in quiet consideration, book in hand, her young boys growing taller and taller by the day, soon to be young men. Georgie is eleven now, three inches taller than his younger brother Frederick and unafraid to let him know it. William is not nearly seven yet, but tags behind his brothers anyways, hoping that their duo could one day be a trio. She is too far away to hear what her husband says to their children, but she knows George delights in his children’s presence.

George looks up when the boys come bounding outside. Sometimes he was apt to chase them, to excite their energies even further (and hopefully, when it came time for bed, to make the experience easier after a long day playing in the sun). William comes running at his father full tilt, and George obliges by crouching down to pick the young boy up. Soon he has a posse of his sons encircling him, all catching their breath.

“Georgie, play nice,” George says to his eldest son. “You too, Frederick.” He gives them a not-quite-pointed glance, before grinning. 

“And you,” he says to the child in his arms, “You go show them who's boss.”

William beams at his father and nods, before being set back down. The trio bolts, only one heeding their father’s advice, to play in a fantasy world of their own making. Perhaps they’ll imagine themselves as princes in their new world, or perhaps, like their father, they will go where royal expectations cannot touch them.

With great delight George realizes his eldest daughter has come to pay him a visit. The five-year-old is adorably dressed in a white cotton frock with a pale blue sash, running with delight towards her father before he picks her up and throws her into the air. She shrieks in delight as he catches her and he cannot help but laugh. 

It was difficult not to play favorites when it came to the younger Charlotte. The Princess Royal was, thankfully, a spitting image of her mother, with bright brown eyes and a head of tender black curls. Out of all eight children the royal couple had produced, none other than Charlotte had the most fitting name.

“What did you learn today?” asks George, tucking a stubborn tendril back behind her ear. It was a customary question, one which the five-year-old Princess was eager to answer.

“Letters,” she said proudly. George grins.

“Letters?” he asks animatedly, as though each word she said to him was the most interesting thing in the world. Which it is.

Charlotte nods. “All of them.”

“All of them?!” 

The girl laughs and nods again, trying to convey to her clearly daft papa that they did indeed work on letters today.

“Well,” George says, “then you will soon be reading like your mama. Do you see her?”

George turns around, the Princess Charlotte on his hip, and waves at his wife from afar. Their daughter joins in, and the Queen acquiesces, giving a hearty wave back. She is glad of the vignette of her Farmer George and their children. She will covet the memory closely to her heart, escaping to the good memories when the world seemed to crash down upon them both.

Queen Charlotte retreats to the palace where her mind is preoccupied with royal duties, from arranging invitations, scheduling visits, replying to various correspondence, and a whole barrage of other things that seem silly to waste one’s precious 24 hours in this life on. She often felt at odds with the world, distant from her children when the royal duties beckoned her back to the inescapable title of Queen. She was either Queen Charlotte or she was Mama, never truly both at the same time. George could somehow be everything all at once.

George sets his daughter down on the pathway, taking the hand that’s nearly a quarter the size of his own in his, leading her towards the Orangery. 

“Do you like your tutors?” he asks. Perhaps it was unusual for a King royal to bring so much care and attention to the education of his children, but George had been determined to break and bend the traditions of his Hanoverian past. The Hanovers had a long history of cheating on their wives and hating their sons. Only his father had broken the tradition of the latter, but he had left this world by the time George was thirteen. The first true born and bred English King was not going to follow in the footsteps of his ancestors.

“Oh yes,” says his little girl with gusto. “I have fun.” She thinks a minute before adding, “Sometimes.”

“And français?”

She nods. He raises his eyebrows at her. 

“Oui,” she giggles, catching on.

“Très bien,” he says, nodding approvingly. “And Deutsch? ”

“Ja!” answers the little voice. “Mama helped.”

“Oh?” Queen Charlotte was apt to guide her children’s education. George is unsurprised to hear it, and rather quite proud. If there was anything that her children were going to learn, it was her mother tongue. He is glad to hear it. 

Charlotte stops mid-walk to give him the eyes of a beggar. It was a cheap trick and they both knew it, but the King was eager to oblige. Perhaps a stronger willed father would not humor her, telling his daughter that she was five years old and could walk perfectly well with her big girl legs. But he cannot. He will let his children be children for as long as they want. He had not been afforded that simple luxury himself.

He picks up the delighted child once more and his heart melts as she nuzzles herself into his shoulder. He can forget the world at this moment. The bickering in Parliament, the disquiet in the Americas, the ever-present mental illness that loomed over his every action. He isn’t a Farmer, he isn’t a King, he isn’t sick. He is a father. Her father.

They reach the Orangery, a stunning white brick and stucco building that bears the arms of George’s mother and father. Seven large, arresting arched windows frame the front of the building. From afar he can see the red-brick facade of the palace, sitting in stark contrast to the bright white of the Orangery. He wonders if that’s where his Queen has retreated.

Attendants open the stately doors to let the pair inside. He almost objects, but he is for once glad of the chance to keep both his hands free to keep his daughter tight to him. The Princess gasps in delight at the wide array of plump citrus in front of her. George lets her pick out her favorite one, which she pulls off of the great tree in front of her.

He smiles to himself, knowing that her mother had once done the same. Such a small act of defiance and autonomy, but she had done it nonetheless.  

The ceiling in there is high, the branches and leaves stretching to the very top. The citrus trees eagerly soak up sunshine from the grand windows. It is an explosion of greenery with spots of orange and the two royals are delighted. 

“Your grandmother had this built, did you know?” says George, melancholy lining the edges of his voice. Charlotte shakes her head, the memories of her grandmother more of a mist, soon to be forgotten in time. 

The Princess Dowager Augusta had died that year, not four months prior. She and her son had a deeply complicated relationship, where often duty was confused with love or something similar to the feeling, but now that she was gone there seemed to be few he could rely on. Maybe her sharp edges might have been dulled if his father had remained alive, if he had taken on the mantle of king instead of George himself. He can (and has) spent days mulling over the what ifs, though its effect on reality was negligible. There is only the here and now. 

“Grab one for your mama,” he whispers. Charlotte obeys dutifully, grabbing another off the branch and handing it to George. He tucks it away safely in his pocket.

As they exit, the young princes nearly come crashing into them. Seems he was right about wanting a daughter , he thinks with sardonic amusement. 

They look at their father, wide-eyed, unsure what he’s going to say next. George is not in the mood to be mad, and the look on their faces is apology enough. 

“Oh go on,” he says, and ushers them away. “Go grab an orange and go back to the palace. Afternoon lessons will be starting soon, will they not?”

“Yes, sir,” says Georgie quickly.

The band of brothers release a breath of air, tucking their swords away and bounding into the Orangery. George and Charlotte take their leave, but are outpaced by her brothers within fifteen paces. There was nowhere the young princes would not go without sprinting.

When they return to the palace, clothes will be changed and roles will be carefully put back on. Royal titles and duties will resume. There will be people to meet, places to go, decisions to make.

When George returns he is dressed in a fine silken navy blue waistcoat and matching breeches. Gold embroidered flowers paint the edges of his jacket, a showy reminder that he is no longer a common man and never was. George finds his wife at a desk, scribbling away. Her robe à la français , the navy blue gown which she’d been wearing all day, now seemed to be part of a matching set. 

Charlotte turns around at the sound of his footsteps. She knows him. Even when he is down the hallway or outside, she knows the pace and weight of his feet on the ground. 

“I have a surprise for you,” says George in the doorway. From behind his legs, Charlotte can see the outline of her daughter. The Queen grins. George steps aside and the Princess Royal runs to her mother, brandishing her orange. There he is again: the man who is her husband, her King, and the father of her children, all at once.

“For me?” she says with delight as the little girl nods heartily. “It is lovely, thank you.”

“She picked it herself,” says George. “Just like her mother.” Charlotte stares into her husband’s eyes and she cannot imagine a more perfect man.

The Princess runs out the room to her governess, who takes the young child away and back to her lessons. 

“I have a surprise for you as well,” says Charlotte, turning over the fresh fruit in her palms. She does not need to say any more, for they have done this song and dance eight times. Each time, though, he finds himself forever surprised. 

“Oh my darling,” says George, inviting her to stand up from her chair. His hands find her hips and his lips find hers. 

“You are the brightest star on this earth.”

[interioatitsbeast]

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[we-are-inevitable]

DUDE YOUR KATH/JACK/DAVEY STUFF IS THE BEST AND LEMME JUST SAY AS A POLY PERSON IT MAKES ME SO SO HAPPY!!! <3

Pls if you do not mind: picnic date hcs for the throuple? They’re just like my favourite things ever

((You are seriously so cool I wish every minor convenience on you I hope all the lights are green when you drive and the internet to be fast wherever you go))

1) THANK YOU SO MUCH !!! as a poly person it makes ME so so happy too !!! i seriously don't write them enough

2) this is a god tier ask and i am excited so !! let's get into it

i adore the idea of this being just,, a spur of the moment kind of idea.

it's a lazy day and they're all relaxing and ignoring responsibilities taking a day off just to recharge. maybe all three of them are curled up on the couch, quiet and sleepy on their third movie of the day, and when that one ends, kath just kind of sits up and says, "let's go on a picnic."

they don't have anything remotely "picnic"-y, like a basket for food or a checkered blanket like you see in all of the movies, but they DO have a few tote bags and some extra king size sheets, so they all head down to the nearest bodega for some food. they get exclusively junk food and candy (bc they're responsible adults, god damn it) and make their way to central park.

i feel the need to say that this is a VERY casual event. like. sweatpants and hoodies, kath with a messy bun and a sports bra under one of davey's thrifted flannels, jack already having taken out his contacts so he's wearing those glasses that make him look like a dweeb, davey's hair being really messy bc it's a lazy day and he hasn't given it any thought ,,

they're all just in a good mood!! happy happy happy

they find a little secluded area in the park and spend hours just eating shitty food and staring at the clouds. jack, being the extra bitch he is, brought a sketchbook and some graphite pencils, so he sketches davey and kath while they talk.

also i feel like davey would be one of those guys to bring a guitar to the park, so him and kath sing together for a little bit; they're not professional, obviously, and they're being pretty quiet, but jack thinks they're the most beautiful people in the world.

the boys take turns letting kath mess with their hair. jack's is long enough to kind of braid it, so she fusses with it for a while until davey lays his head in her lap and she just. fluffs his hair up

it's just such a soft n domestic little date !! lots of cuddles and kisses. they stay out until the sun goes down and, even thought they're all dressed like they just rolled out of bed, they take tons of pictures during golden hour and take some nice leisurely strolls down the streets of new york.

also bc i believe it's important: jack's candy of choice is Reese's Cups or . katherine's candy of choice is sour patch kids but specifically the watermelon ones, OR the strawberry nut m&ms they had out for a while (even tho they're hard as shit to find). davey is a Sour Guy and his candy of choice is definitely the mini chewy sweetarts or sour skittles.

also bc it's important: kath would kill a man for some lemonade, jack definitely drinks dr. pepper, and davey spends an absurd amount of money on those bottled frappes from starbucks (and otherwise just gets water)

thank u so much for this !!! i miss doing these little headcanon posts AHA thank you !! (also if you're reading this: my asks are always open for headcanon prompts like these!!)

[starcrossedkaiju]

Kingslayer AU: Chapter Eight

I don’t know what to say other than I like this one. Rendog enjoyers come get your free angst!

Scott filled the pages of his sketchbook gradually at first. He sat at his window and drew what he saw, focusing on putting shapes on the paper. Many times he was unhappy with the finished product, almost ripping out and throwing away his limited space.

He had to learn to be okay with it. The next time it would be a bit better, and a bit better, until the tree he’d been slaving over didn’t look half bad.

Soon his interests turned to drawing his friends. Their faces would pop up on his pages, drowned in eraser smudges at first. Then it became easy. Like second nature, he could memorize Grian’s knowing grin, Jimmy’s downturned eyes, Martyn’s slightly crooked nose.

He drew the way he saw Ren’s piercing yellow eyes that night, the way they were shadowed by his brow.

It felt better. To have a place where his memories could stay exactly the way he saw them. Scott even pinned some up on the wall of his room.

Soon his supply of paper started dwindling, Martyn told him if he needed more drawing paper to come back and ask him for some. So he did, after Jimmy went to bed and the world was quiet under the snow.

Scott made a trip to the Renchanting base, entering through the tunnel hidden under the mountain. It took him right to the storage area. Which was dark and deserted. Only a clock ticked on the wall, everyone else must have been in the sleeping quarters or back at their bases to fend off the Phantoms.

He took a torch from the “stuff chest” and started making rounds, looking at each storage container. Food, Armor, ores, wood, stone, and redstone. Until there was a wall of chests with people’s names on them.

Everyone in the Red Army had a chest, from left to right there was Ren, Martyn, Etho, Skiz, Impulse, Tango, Joel, and then Scott.

The last chest on the right side, Scott’s name was carved on top. It hadn’t been there before. He placed his hand on the lock, wondering if he should even bother opening it. Someone had cared enough to dedicate a space for him to put things. Under the roof of Dogwarts no less.

His torch flickered and Scott decided he’d spent too long lurking around, so he flipped the lock up and quietly opened the chest. Slowly so it wouldn’t creek.

Inside there was a single stack of drawing paper. Hand-sewn like the one Martyn had given him.

Scott placed the torch down and retrieved the paper. He knew it must have been Martyn. A smile found its way onto his face, and he let it stay there. This time, when nobody was looking.

Blowing out the torch and closing the chest, Scott gathered the sketchbook and decided to just leave through the front. It was almost midnight anyways.

Up the stairs and to the double doors of the enchanting room. The book on the table rose from its position and opened towards him as he walked past. Scott still had his hand on the doorknob when he opened it and stepped out into the frigid night.

Of course he didn’t expect to see anything, so when he did see something he froze in place.

In the spot that Martyn would typically occupy, on the very top of the walls sat Ren. His grey cape was bundled around himself to keep out the cold and his pointed ears were pressed low on his head. He was facing away from Scott.

Huddled on the perch, Ren’s shoulders were shaking. Silently, he cried.

Scott stood in the doorway motionless. He couldn’t believe the scene in front of him. Ren wasn’t one to cry. He was calculating and smart, rarely loosing his temper to even the worst of setbacks. A humorous man in charge of an Army of vagabonds, he never cried. He never expressed so much as a single weakness, he couldn’t afford that.

So it really shouldn’t have been a surprise, not really, that the Red King would save his sorrow for when nobody should be looking. Under the loneliest arm of the Milky Way, coldly gazing down on him. The weight of every star in the sky on his shoulders.

It made him look small.

Scott backed away from the door and ran back to the tunnel he came from, the kind of running you do when you are convinced your worst nightmare is snapping at your heels; and maybe for Scott it was.

He sprinted home without looking back. Trying to shove the image of Ren out the back of his mind.

That night he crept quietly back into bed, doing his best not to disturb Jimmy. Who stirred momentarily before simply turning over.

Scott stared at the arm of the Milky Way through the window until he fell into a dreamless sleep.

Days pressed by, Scott slithered too and from the walls of Dogwarts under the noses of his allies and between Spy Ring meetings. The first page of his new sketchbook lay empty, because whenever his pencil hovered above that damn page all he could see was a man huddled up under a galaxy of stars that would never return his wishes.

So when he was called out on night watch to the Renchanting base, Scott snuck out with his empty sketchbook held close to his chest. He arrived to a sleeping base, aware that his shift would be over in an hour and he would get to go home when the next guard showed up.

He yawned and stared out the window, at the stars above the wall. A pencil came to his hand and he started drawing what he saw. The shape of the wall against the glowing sky. He drew it, but it wasn’t right. The image in his mind came back to the front.

A weeping man holding a million stars on his shaking shoulders, the end of his frayed cape flaring out when the breeze kicked up. Tiny compared to the infinite sky. Scott’s fingers and palm turned black with graphite as he crafted the cosmos onto that paper.

His scribbling and smudging consumed all his thoughts as he focused on making the scene perfect, the pencil dulled and threatened to snap under the pressure.

“Major,” a stern voice came from right behind him.

Scott seized up in his chair, a feeling of terror so pure exploded in his chest that his vision left him for a few seconds. He gasped and turned around with his jaw on the floor.

Behind him was Ren. Clad in his winter jacket, a hand on the back of Scott’s chair. He stared directly into the other’s eyes from behind the dark lenses of his aviators. All the color had gone from his face.

Hoping the Red King hadn’t seen what he was drawing, Scott moved his hand to close the book.

It was too late. Ren had been watching him draw for long enough to know.

“You saw me?” Ren asked, but it was phrased more like a fact. It was.

Scott’s hesitation was enough of an answer. He stared up into Ren’s glasses, reminded of a familiar time. This time was different though, and this time Scott wished he could see behind the lenses.

He nodded and tore his eyes away, it felt intrusive to be staring.

“Ren,” Scott said to the floor, but was dismissed.

“No. Just go home. Now,” the other man ordered with a wavering voice.

Scott didn’t nod, he didn’t look at Ren. He gathered the sketchbook and slammed it shut within five seconds.

He didn’t say goodbye as he fled the walls. Scott ran from Ren, and this time he felt bad about it.

Scott didn’t return to Dogwarts for a week after that. Nobody called him to the night shift, nobody asked him to run any supplies. Maybe he was grateful for that, in the sense that he wouldn’t have to look Ren in the eyes again.

Until one night he couldn’t sleep. The clouds cast a dark blanket over the sky. Scott huffed and crawled out of bed, not bothering to change out of his pajamas. He pulled his boots on and took his coat off the hanger.

A walk is what he told himself he was going on, but really he knew where he was going. He didn’t know why, but for some reason Scott had a feeling he wasn’t the only one that couldn’t sleep.

This time instead of entering Dogwarts through the underground he rounded the front, cresting the hill right in front of Big B’s house. Scott scanned the top of the wall and saw what he was looking for. He shoved his hands in his pockets and entered Dogwarts through the front door.

Scott climbed the ladder and balanced himself as he walked over to Ren, who was sitting with his legs dangling over the side of the wall. His jacket was pulled tightly around him. Scott didn’t greet him when he sat down, Ren had seen him coming a mile away.

Ren didn’t look at him, he breathed in heavily, then sighed out a burst of vapor into the cold air.

“You couldn’t sleep?” Scott started the conversation this time.

“Wouldn’t matter if I could. I’m on night watch,” Ren said after a beat of silence.

Scott nodded, turning his head to the dark sky, “it’d be nicer with some stars, hm?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Ren trailed off. He stared at his shoes.

“Okay I’m sorry, I’ll just-“ Scott made to get up and leave but Ren interrupted him.

“No, wait, you can stay,” Ren pulled on the sleeve of Scott’s elbow.

Scott nodded and pulled his knees closer to his chest. A pocket of clouds had moved, creating a window that let the moon gaze upon the Earth.

“Do you stargaze a lot?” Ren asked, this time he looked at Scott.

He wasn’t wearing his sunglasses.

“I try,” Scott replied, “there’s this huge book I found uh, In a village library a while ago. It has everything you can possibly see from down here in it,” he mused.

“Have you ever read one?” Scott asked.

“Uh, an astronomy book?” Ren’s eyes flicked to the left in thought, “I mean I’ve seen them. I haven’t read them. You like astronomy?” he asked.

Scott nodded, then pointed north, into the cloud cover, “you can’t see it now, but Ursa Major would be right over there,” he said.

Ren looked over like he was trying to imagine it, “you like Ursa Major?”

“Easiest to remember,” Scott said plainly.

“I’ll bet. S’ like a namesake,” Ren rested his chin on his palm, “I wish I had a constellation with my name,” his ear twitched on his head.

Scott’s metaphorical ears perked up, “Oh well, there’s one kind of like that,” he said. Ren’s actual ears perked up.

“It’s called Canis Major. It means Great Dog, or Big Dog,” Scott pointed south, “it will always be easy to see on a clear day. One of its stars is called Sirius,” he explained.

Ren nodded, “I’m familiar. Brightest in the sky, right?”

“Yeah. That’s right,” Scott replied.

“Canis Major huh?” Ren repeated. Scott nodded.

“Canis Major, and,” he looked over at Scott, “Scott Major,” Ren nudged the other on the shoulder.

“Right,” Scott said, and suddenly the sky didn’t feel so heavy anymore.

Not when you have a friend to share it with.

[zillifurniture]

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[drkineildwicks]

More Big Hero 6~

More Don’t Starve~

Yet another one of those traditional sketch dumps I’m often good for—they spark joy. :D

So, starting from the top left and including the bit immediately beneath…I have a few headcanons for Don’t Starve, including how using shadow magic and being on the Nightmare Throne affected him physically, which also leads into why he always wears gloves.  Waking him up at 3AM was just a bonus. X’D

To the right of that is Momakase quoting a Tumblr post—found a stack of ones attached to Avatar the Last Airbender and ended up drawing a bunch of them with Momakase. Obake has concerns about graphene blades being swung around so cavalierly, especially right next to him.

On the right of that and going down is Maxwell meeting Baymax.  Baymax would survive the Constant, I’m guessing.

In the middle there is some practice drawing the Mayoi and Mini-Max teaming up with one.  This should end well….

Below that is another Momakase textpost meme and also something I am 1000% certain she’s said at least once.

To the left of that is a sketch of Hiro the Night Fury from my BH6/HTTYD fanfic Ghost’s Fury. Been working on it on and off all summer and I think we’re past the halfway mark with it—gonna try to get updates going again this fall and maybe finish it this year (alongside Safe in Brother’s Wings I’VE GOT ONE CHAPTER LEFT TO WRITE GUYS—).

Below that…randomly I had a dream of bird-people versions of the characters from The Owl House, which resulted me rolling out of bed going I must draw this.  So there’s Luz as a standard bird-person with her patterning based on a Grey-Throated Chat, Eda as a griffin-bird-person based on a barn owl (and her monster form)…and then King as a fuzzy baby bird-person.  You will fear him.

And then finally, in the bottom right-hand corner, is a color sketch of Wilson Percival Higgsbury, gentleman scientist, in some colorful clothes complete with ascot and cheaters. Wanted to draw him with glasses like that, and the watch is based on the in-game clock. XD

 As always, did a little touching up in Photoshop because dust specks are evil and always sneak in. Hope y’all enjoy! :D

Find it on Eclipse here, remember to be kind and reblog not repost! Thank you! :D

 Big Hero 6 © Disney

How to Train Your Dragon © DreamWorks

Don’t Starve © 2013 Klei Entertainment

The Owl House © 2020 Disney

Done in graphite.

[sumuraj]

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[obeymeaskme]

Obey Me: Human and Demon Hearts!

A/N: You can find all the chapters pinned on my profile!

Chapter Three: Bonds mending (1/3)

Word Count: 1,563

Rating: 18+

“The best way to prevent this is to not back down. Don't give anyone else the ability to scare you, or get what they want.”

Satan's words reverberated in Noelle's head throughout the rest of the morning, quickly letting her settle down back into her normal happy-go-lucky persona. She gave herself the motivation to sit at the dinner table for breakfast. Though she didn't make eye contact with Lucifer, or Levi, she could feel the tension from that morning's situation rise. Everyone else around the table seemed to realize it as well, as no one talked. The only sounds that played in the silence was Beel's loud chewing, and the occasional clatter of cutlery. But Noelle's drama wasn't the only thing stirring up the atmosphere. Ever since the argument between Satan and Lucifer, there was a silent humming. It slowly got louder and it would usually go unnoticed in the household, but due to the silence, the humming could be written off as an almost low growl.

Lucifer had taken the final sip of his coffee before clearing his throat, and leaning back in his chair. He turned to the girls and began to converse with them.

“I'm inclined to ask you two about how you're both adjusting to Devildom, and your academics.”

Bella, having missed the earlier encounter, looked up with enthusiasm, happy to help change the uncomfortable silence she didn't quite understand.

“I think we're doing good. I mean, neither of us are failing our classes. I have more time to do other things when I'm in my room thanks to my study halls at RAD!”

The growling grew slightly louder as Lucifer turned to Noelle, his eyes demanding an answer from her as well. She could feel her confidence waiver, even after her talk with Satan. Something inside of her still managed to cling onto her confidence. Taking a quick glance at Satan she realized he wasn't at all interested in her response.

“Well... I can agree with Bella on that much. I'm not failing any classes... yet...”

As soon as Lucifer gave a disappointing scoff, the dead silence was replaced with an audible gnarl. Noelle and Bella had to follow the brother's faces as they all whipped their heads towards Satan. It became glaringly obvious that a verbal fight was about to breakout. There were silent pleas on everyone's faces. Mammon had even attempted to redirect the attention by telling Noelle she 'Just needed a more positive attitude'. Yet that didn't stop the second lower rumble mixing with Satan's growls. There was an unspoken argument between Wrath, and Pride and the air became physically warm, and humid. Lucifer was first to break the silence, startling everyone avoiding his glower.

“Is something the matter Satan? Perhaps you have more insight on just how 'well' you think Miss.V-”

He was cut off by a sparingly calm reply by the addressed.

“It seems that I, for once, do happen to know more than you. Scary isn't it?”

Noelle had started to calm down, the focus now off of her. Still she shook her head, wondering why this frayed her nerves in the first place. If only she was a tad bit stronger like Satan. Maybe then she could face Lucifer and his threats. That's when an idea popped into her head, and she took the conversation into her own hands. A Deathwish at her doorstep.

“It's nothing too important to you Lucifer. After all, what would a demon of your stature want with my own well being?”

The remark caught everyone off guard. A few coughs and a gasp or so tried to fill the in between. Lucifer looked back at her. Noelle's eyes and face seemed almost playful. He took a second to compose himself before answering.

“It's not me who wants to know. This is the fourth year the Devildom held it's student exchange program. Lord Diavolo wishes to keep close tabs on the students, so I will ask the questions and then create a report for him to examine”.

Noelle nodded in thought. Then another idea developed in her head, and she gave a rather large smile.

“Well, since you're not all that interested... I guess I could tell Lord Di-dia-”

A few chuckles were shared as she struggled to get Diavolo's name right before ultimately giving up on it.

“-The Demon Prince myself. You shouldn't have to stress out over me so much. I have no problems giving him a report if that's something he wants. After all it's the least I can do for you.”

Everyone's eyes widened as Noelle stood up from the table, ready to partake in getting the hell out of the room. But it seemed Lucifer wasn't quite done as he called out to her. Standing up and straightening out his jacket.

“Are you implying that I am incapable?”

Noelle gave a sheepish shrug, but voiced her disagreement.

“No. Why would I? I'm just saying, as the Avatar of Pride, and the future Demon King's right hand man, I can imagine you're up to your eyes in other paperwork. Paperwork that is much more important than writing some report on how well a human exchange student is doing. Especially so early in the week? I think Both me, and Bella can handle that so you can impress Lord- Ya' know, with your more complex work. The Prince must get terribly bored with academics he's probably the master of already. Then again it's just a thought.”

Stunning Lucifer with her speech gave the others a chance to pick up their empty plates with their own excuses to leave the room. Bella had given Belphie a look before they left, and he just shrugged in response.

A handful of minutes passed and Noelle was already far into unpacking the rest of her belongings in her room. She had ordered a bed and couch to fill some empty space as she sketched out floor plans for her room. A knock was heard and a groan was given in return.

“Come in, but only if you dare~”

Satan could be heard chuckling as he just about waltz in. After tripping over a few boxes, he recovered his saunter and stood by her side at a small artist table in the corner. He had come to ask her about how she handled the situation, but was quickly distracted by the delicate drawings that scattered her desk, and decorated her walls. She had looked up at him as he silently asked to pick them up and look. She nodded in return. He lightly traced over the graphite lines, and dried colored water of morbid monsters, and cute creatures. The blaring contrast intrigued him. They spent the next few hours bonding over the arts, and her own creations. They were all but done talking as someone out in the hall walked by. Taken aback by a rather loud laugh given by Satan at another one of Noelle's inside jokes.

Lucifer had actually wanted to make his way to his study to work on paperwork, ironically enough. He'd never heard the fourth born brother laugh in that way. Listening in through the door he caught a glimpse of Noelle's true personality. It was young, sometimes barely innocent, but knowledgeable. Satan had taken to her like it was nothing. Though it left a searing pain in his head to admit it, he had come to the realization that he was in fact wrong about her. He made false accusations based on her interactions with the brothers. And up until then they weren't the most uplifting. It dawned on him further as to why. She had foolishly chosen Leviathan as her guide through the program. Lucifer silently scolded himself knowing full well that Levi had a hard enough time socializing let alone with anyone he deemed as being normal.

Mammon and Asmo had seemed to avoid her this whole time, and the only time Belphegor and Beelzebub had interacted with her was when the two girls wanted to hangout. It seemed that Belphegor and Noelle barely got along, and Beel seemed to not pay much attention. Lucifer dragged himself away from Noelle's door and made his way to his destination. Even behind his large desk that he felt the most peaceful at, his mind was still boggled. He knew logically that she was bright. Her grades showed it, and the more he thought about it he found no true reason to dislike her so much.

Her display at breakfast was proof that even though he had threatened her that morning, she was planning on killing him with kindness. Satan was correct. Noelle's survival in Devildom was going to be based on how tough she was. However, she was too soft and emotional for the demon world, and Bella had no problem with it due to her constant interactions with the twins. Lucifer soon realized that if Noelle were to make it in their world, he'd need to change his mocking attitude. She needed to become more confident, and more willing to listen to him and his brothers. So how could he make that happen if they were all so cold to her. At least for now she had Satan. That in itself was dangerous but for now it was something.