#He would be over heels for Ermine

[koreanbibliophilegirl]

Thinking about the various Technoblade designs in my fics

DSMP superpower AU: strawberry pink, lightly wavy hair that cascades down his back. Usually wears his hair loose or in a bun, braids his hair for vigilante work. Cherry red eyes. Wears glasses. Lots of bulky muscles, very tall. Often described as a giant.

Bedrock Bros Superpower AU: pink hair, usually long but he's sold his hair before, which meant some periods of short hair. Winter blue eyes, same as Tommy, but when he activates his power they turn blood red. Well-built physique, pretty tall, but wears heeled boots as a villain to look even taller.

Oshi No Ko But Happier AU: brown curly hair & brown eyes, later grows out/dyes hair pink. (Also on a meta level, if I ever get to draw some concept art, he will have a six-pointed star in each eye.) Wears glasses. Tall and a bit lanky like Wilbur, but he does martial arts, so he has way more muscle than his twin.

Writer's Isekai AU: originally, wavy brown hair that reaches down to his shoulders, often hanging over his face, brown eyes. Wears glasses. Tall but shoulders are slightly hunched all the time, well muscled due to martial arts. Post-isekai, long bright pink hair that reaches his waist, bright red eyes, and some disembodied eyes floating around his head along with a faint dark red mist(yes they're visible, though they're not too conspicuous). Tall and bulky.

Temporal Transcendence: long icy white hair, usually worn in a braid, ruby red eyes. Later gains pink hair from getting turned into a statue of thulite. Well-toned muscles from tending to his garden & building things. When he has to fight, the Blood God(a.k.a. Dave) transforms him into his "Battle Form", which is a longer, more intricate braid that reaches his knees, royal-looking clothes & a red cape lined with ermine, and a golden thorn crown with a little blood seeping from it(it's not Techno's, don't worry, and the blood never trickles down, that would hinder his vision).

[chibichibisha]

I present you... Deumine

[ben-the-hyena]

Something funny I never noticed until this years in a Kind of Magic is how abnormally tall Willow is

I mean yes she IS already tall for human standards. Her husband Gregor is canonically 2.74 meters (8.98 feet) tall, and with high heels on she reaches his shoulders, so she must be around 6.95 or 7 feet tall without them (unpictured because there is a Tumblr limitation but I did use an online simulation). She may not be as tall as an ogre, she still often towers over humans

And it's true that she was VERY precocious since THIS is what she looked like when she was 10, and we see she would still look that way when reaching Cindy's age. She already had hips and all. She must have had a hella big hormone spurt or something for it to start this early end evolve into being nearly 7 feet tall (SHE IS ERMINE'S SIZE MY OC IN THE WR FANDOM FOR GOD'S SAKE)

HOWEVER...

THIS is how tall all the other adult fairies are in the show

Either as tall, taller or smaller than Tom, a 10 years old human-looking ogre-fairy hybrid. The taller being in Willow's family (as we see with her parents, her sister Ferocia who even if she is officially a witch is a fairy by birth, and bunny-clad cousin Mildred in these example pictures) meaning that they already are tall for fairy standards, instead of being doll-sized like the others who are not of the family are. Yet Willow is human-sized, TALL-human sized out of of the blue and the ONLY fairy in the whole show to be so

Either she had one fucked up hormones problem making her abnormally precocious and tall, or she has human genes somewhere. After all, her grandfather is NEVER called a fairy but a wizard. Maybe he is a human wizard and those were the human genes coming out in Willow's case which favored Cindy and Tom looking human. Sure he is small, but either she took from someone else in his family, or indeed she has human genes AND hormone problems combined, or it's the cartoony way to show he shrunk with age

Which means 4 things

1) Tom and Cindy may have had human blood from the start and since they so want to fit in the Real World they couldn't be happier

2) the fact Willow's parents' house is human-sized becomes hilarious when you thinl that they must have done it all for her or she would have been compressed and destroyed every stool she would have sat on prior

3) the fairies in Willow, Ferocia and Edwin's family are tall for fairy standards without counting Willow

4) it means that the WHOLE TIME I had been describing Ferocia and Edwin as tiny when in truth sure they are tiny for human standards BUT ARE ACTUALLY HUGE FOR FAIRIES

[une-nuit-pour-se-souvenir]

rickon <3

After them came the children. Little Rickon first, managing the long walk with all the dignity a three-year-old could muster.

Robb and Sansa and Bran and even little Rickon all took after the Tullys, with easy smiles and fire in their hair. 

little Rickon called his Shaggydog, which Bran thought was a pretty stupid name for a direwolf. 

"Rickon needs you," Robb said sharply. "He's only three, he doesn't understand what's happening. He thinks everyone has deserted him, so he follows me around all day, clutching my leg and crying. I don't know what to do with him."

little Rickon, bright eyes shining as he begged for a sweet 

Wherever the boy went, Grey Wind was there first, loping ahead to cut him off, until Rickon saw him, screamed in delight, and went pelting off in another direction. Shaggydog ran at his heels, spinning and snapping if the other wolves came too close.

Whenever he was away more than a day, Rickon would cry and ask Bran if Robb was ever coming back.

She remembered her own baby, three-year-old Rickon, half the age of this boy and five times as fierce.

The memory still gave him bad dreams. He had been as helpless as a baby, no more able to defend himself than Rickon would have been. Less, even … Rickon would have kicked them, at the least.

His baby brother had been wild as a winter storm since he learned Robb was riding off to war, weeping and angry by turns. He'd refused to eat, cried and screamed for most of a night, even punched Old Nan when she tried to sing him to sleep, and the next day he'd vanished. Robb had set half the castle searching for him, and when at last they'd found him down in the crypts, Rickon had slashed at them with a rusted iron sword he'd snatched from a dead king's hand, and Shaggydog had come slavering out of the darkness like a green-eyed demon. The wolf was near as wild as Rickon; he'd bitten Gage on the arm and torn a chunk of flesh from Mikken's thigh. It had taken Robb himself and Grey Wind to bring him to bay. Farlen had the black wolf chained up in the kennels now, and Rickon cried all the more for being without him.

Rickon had refused to come down. He was up in his chamber, red-eyed and defiant. "No!" he'd screamed when Bran had asked if he didn't want to say farewell to Robb. "NO farewell!" "I told him," Bran said. "He says no one ever comes back."

"Shaggy," a small voice called. When Bran looked up, his little brother was standing in the mouth of Father's tomb. With one final snap at Summer's face, Shaggydog broke off and bounded to Rickon's side. "You let my father be," Rickon warned Luwin. "You let him be." "Rickon," Bran said softly. "Father's not here." "Yes he is. I saw him." Tears glistened on Rickon's face. "I saw him last night." "In your dream …?" Rickon nodded. "You leave him. You leave him be. He's coming home now, like he promised. He's coming home."

"Rickon," Bran said, "would you like to come with me?" "No. I like it here."

"I want one too," Rickon said. "I want four. I'm four."

A raven landed on the grey stone sill, opened its beak, and gave a harsh, raucous rattle of distress. Rickon began to cry. His arrowheads fell from his hand one by one and clattered on the floor. Bran pulled him close and hugged him.

When the Walders had arrived from the Twins, it had been Rickon who wanted them gone. A baby of four, he had screamed that he wanted Mother and Father and Robb, not these strangers.

Both of them were called Walder Frey. Big Walder said there were bunches of Walders at the Twins, all named after the boys' grandfather, Lord Walder Frey. "We have our own names at Winterfell," Rickon told them haughtily when he heard that.

Rickon yelled, "Me! Me now! I want to play!" Little Walder beckoned him on, and Shaggydog started to follow. "No, Shaggy," his brother commanded. "Wolves can't play. You stay with Bran." And he did . .  . . . until Little Walder had smacked Rickon with the stick, square across his belly. Before Bran could blink, the black wolf was flying over the plank, there was blood in the water, the Walders were shrieking red murder, Rickon sat in the mud laughing, and Hodor came lumbering in shouting "Hodor! Hodor! Hodor!" After that, oddly, Rickon decided he liked the Walders.

With Rickon by their side, the Walders plundered the kitchens for pies and honeycombs, raced round the walls, tossed bones to the pups in the kennels, and trained with wooden swords under Ser Rodrik's sharp eye.

Rickon was to his right, his mop of shaggy auburn hair grown so long that it brushed his ermine mantle. He had refused to let anyone cut it since their mother had gone. The last girl to try had been bitten for her efforts. "I wanted to ride too," he said as Hodor led Dancer away. "I ride better than you."

Ser Rodrik talked with Maester Luwin above Beth's curly head, while Rickon screamed happily at the Walders.

“Where are the direwolves?" "In the godswood," Rickon answered. "Shaggy was bad."

Rickon tugged at the maester's robe. "Is Robb coming home?"

"Tell Robb I want him to come home," said Rickon. "He can bring his wolf home too, and Mother and Father." Though he knew Lord Eddard was dead, sometimes Rickon forgot . . . willfully, Bran suspected.

Theon Greyjoy was seated in the high seat of the Starks. He had taken off his cloak. Over a shirt of fine mail he wore a black surcoat emblazoned with the golden kraken of his House. His hands rested on the wolves' heads carved at the ends of the wide stone arms. "Theon's sitting in Robb's chair," Rickon said.

"Are we going home?" Rickon asked excitedly. "I want my horse. And I want applecakes and butter and honey, and Shaggy. Are we going where Shaggydog is?"

"Take me home!" Rickon demanded. "I want to be home!"

"No use," said Luwin. "I'm dying, woman." "You can't," said Rickon angrily. "No you can't." Beside him, Shaggydog bared his teeth and growled. The maester smiled. "Hush now, child, I'm much older than you. I can . . . die as I please."

Outside, they made their farewells. Rickon sobbed and clung to Hodor's leg until Osha gave him a smack with the butt end of her spear. Then he followed her quick enough. Shaggydog stalked after them. The last Bran saw of them was the direwolf's tail as it vanished behind the broken tower.

[metoo-desu]

whatever it takes 

shinobu x fem!reader - soulmate au

contains spoilers

approx. 4,500 words sheesh

Two small figures trudged down the mountain side-by-side in silence, admiring the quiet night after slaying a rather strong demon that terrorized a town below. They stopped at a clearing to rest for awhile and to take care of each other’s injuries.

“Isn’t the moon beautiful?” Shinobu hummed, watching her partner slather a salve over a gash on her pale leg. She smiled at the gentleness of y/n’s touch— the Light Pillar had always been so caring and gentle towards her after they had acknowledged their feelings for each other. 

No reply, instead the h/c-haired slayer asked for a roll of bandages and then getting back to tending Shinobu’s wounds. After she finished up, y/n turned her back to her, removing her white and black-spotted haori and unbuttoning her uniform to reveal her bare and bloodied back to Shinobu, who let out a disapproving sound. It was Shinobu’s reckless move that had y/n receive such a nasty wound. Shinobu failed to see that the demon performed a Blood Demon Art towards her instead of y/n, who acted quickly and jumped in and took the hit. 

With how silent her partner was and the hesitation she heard behind her, y/n knew that Shinobu was looking back into the fight and blaming herself for what happened. The Light Pillar lifted her head, her white fur headpiece tickling her cheeks from the movement. E/c eyes searched the sky for the moon that Shinobu mentioned earlier, but only saw twinkling stars. 

“Liar. The moon isn’t even out,” y/n spoke softly to snap Shinobu out of her guilty conscience. She looked over her shoulder, giving her a gentle smile. “And don’t blame yourself.”

“If I had just paid attention, you wouldn’t have been hurt.” 

Shinobu started to tend y/n’s wound with a frown as she popped a cork off of a small gourd and began pouring the contents on her wound to wash the blood away. It was such a deep gash, the Insect Pillar would have to stitch it up. Pulling out her stitching kit, she immediately began the procedure. 

“If I was fast enough, I would’ve been able to turn to deflect the attack. I lacked speed that moment— my fault, not yours,” y/n argued. 

“Y/n..”

“How about we were both at fault? Yeah? It was tough fight after all. We should be ashamed it took two Pillars to defeat a Lower Moon.”

Shinobu chuckled, shaking her head. “You’re right, let’s agree to disagree.” 

From then on, the ladies continued their descent after their rest. Shinobu stayed quiet the whole time, occupied with her thoughts, concerning y/n. The Light Pillar stopped in her tracks and took Shinobu’s hand. 

“What’s the matter?” 

Y/n‘s eyes bore into Shinobu’s violets, “I should be asking you that, silly. Are you still blaming yourself?” 

“What? I was just thinking about..,” Shinobu trailed off, her eyebrows furrowed as she thought deeply. “I was wondering who could it be. It seems that your rose is almost at full bloom.” 

Shinobu meant y/n’s soulmate mark. A delicate rose tattoo at the front of her left shoulder, that blooms until she would meet her star-fated lover. Y/n honestly forgot about the mark, too busy with work and her feelings for Shinobu. 

“Is it now?” Y/n mumbled, placing her hand over her uniform that covered her mark. “That’s unfortunate. That would mean my time with you may be nearing its end. Or not.” She wiggles her eyebrows at Shinobu with the last comment, hinting that she would continue their affair despite meeting her soulmate. 

“Don’t. I’ve heard cases that soulmates share pain whether it’s physical or emotional. A betrayal towards the other will cause both to go through an excruciating pain for trying to defy the stars. They can die from it.”

Y/n looked up at the sky for the second time again, “Well, curse the stars. I’d go through any type of pain just to be with you. Whatever it takes. If it’s the only way, I’ll go through it.”

“I don’t want to see you in such state,” Shinobu huffed out. “We’ve agreed not to be together because of our work. And because it’s considered scandalous and immoral.”

“We’ve agreed, but did it stop our growing feelings for each other? Because where I see it, the more it grows, the more painful it will be to be with my soulmate.”

Shinobu retracted her hand and walked away, y/n right at her heels. “Exactly, we’re already in too deep. We have to put a stop to this.”

Y/n chose not to continue the argument. There was no way to change Shinobu’s mind. Either way, it’s going to be painful for her, whether she chooses to be with her soulmate or Shinobu because both endings will just lead her to losing the Insect Pillar. 

Unless if she makes it in time. 

“The moon is beautiful,” she finally replied to Shinobu’s words. 

But the stars aren’t. 

✧˳✧ ˳✧ ˳✧ ˳✧ ˳✧

“Hey, moth girl! You good?” 

Inosuke shouted over his shoulder as he dealt with the wave of demons that seemed never-ending. Y/n scoffed at the use of the nickname the pretty boy assigned her during their current situation. Just because her outfit resembled of the white ermine moth and her Light Breathing Style, didn’t mean she wanted to be called that. He knew her name, why does he keep using ‘Moth girl’?

“Did Muzan bring the whole demon population in this freaky fortress because it seems like it!” Y/n growled, skillfully taking down thirteen demons in a short amount of time. “Come on! We have to get to the others fast so we can take down that son of a bitch!”

The boar-headed slayer killed the last demon and caught up with y/n. “Who is this Moron anyways?” he asked, mispronouncing the world’s very first demon’s name.

Well technically, he wasn’t wrong.

“The man that plagued us with demons! Damn it, there’s so many turns! What kind of fortress is this? It seems impossible to reunite with everyone! There’s no way that Muzan would have a shortcut to anywhere!”

“Ha! I can make a shortcut to anybody!” Inosuke puffed out his chest and laughed rather cockily. 

He stabbed the wooden floor with his katanas and held his arms out. Y/n didn’t question his actions and just took down the demons that charged towards them before they could disturb Inosuke’s form. The boy jumped up on his feet and grabbed his katanas before sprinting down the hall without a word to y/n. 

“The hell, Inosuke!” The Light Pillar quickly decapitated the demon she held off, wanting no time to be wasted, she ignored the rest of them to run after the boy. They were stopped at a dead end and y/n stared at the back of the boar mask in annoyance. “Well so much for finding a shortcut.”

“I didn’t say I can find a shortcut, I said I can make one! Behind this wall is a demon slayer, I betcha!” 

And then he began striking the wall with his katanas with all of his strength. Y/n groaned, turning around, ready to slay the last of the demons she left once they catch up to them. As their footsteps neared, she tightly gripped the hilt of her sword. 

“Sixth Form: Blinding Light.”

The moment the demons turned the corner, she swung her sword twice. First, at their eyes and the second to decapitate them while on their dazed state. 

“GRRRRAAAAH!” Inosuke finally broke through the wall, the two jumping into action and joining whoever was in the room. “Out of the sky, Lord Inosuke comin’ in!” Inosuke announced. Seeing the suspicious flying petals, he quickly performed Fifth Fang: Mad Cleave. 

Once the area cleared of the petals, the two landed safely beside Kanao, the Light Pillar checking up on the girl as the Inosuke eyed the demon before them, identifying him as the Upper Moon Two. 

Inosuke finally noticed Kanao’s presence and began scolding her about being beat up. “Shinobu’ll get really mad at you! And she gets really angry!” 

The Light Pillar brushed past Inosuke, staring at the two katanas beside the Upper Moon before her eyes met with the demon’s numbered, rainbow ones. The owner of the familiar and unique katana was nowhere to be seen. 

“Is Shinobu...dead?” Y/n heard Inosuke ask Kanao. 

There was ringing in her ears as she felt her heart break in two and a wave of strong emotions crashing down on her like a tsunami. Tears pricked at her eyes as she remembered all the moments she had with Shinobu, the woman she loves. 

✧˳✧ ˳✧ ˳✧ ˳✧ ˳✧

It was a laughable situation to y/n. The first time she was taken to the Butterfly Estate, she mocked the name of it. The reason why she was taken there was because of her grave injuries after battling a strong Lower Moon. 

Even in her state, she managed to laugh at the name but when the master of the estate walked into the room, she immediately shut her mouth. 

Maybe the reason of the estate’s name was because of the butterflies that fluttered in her stomach, caused by the insane beauty of this lady. 

“Hi, you must be l/n y/n! I heard you recently became a Pillar after a scary fight against a Lower Moon. Congratulations!”

“Is that how you normally greet your patients?” Y/n nervously swallowed, afraid that an actual butterfly might fly out of her throat with how strong the feeling of the butterflies in her stomach. 

The purple-haired beauty sat beside the bed after setting her medical equipments down on the bedside table. “I’m Kochou Shinobu, the Insect Pillar. I’m excited to be the first of the Pillars to welcome the newest addition! Now let’s take a look at your injuries, sure it won’t be that bad seeing that you can manage to sit upright!”

“Actually,” y/n panted, unable to keep up with her Total Breath Concentration, “I think I’m dying..”

She fainted right there and then. 

“Oh my.”

*.*.*.*.*.*

“Are you confessing your love to me?” 

Y/n turned to Shinobu with a grin plastered on her face. The two sat at the engawa, gazing at the stars as they drank tea when Shinobu shared a phrase with a hidden meaning. What the Insect Pillar didn’t know, y/n was a lover of poems and literature, so she knew of the beautifully hidden message. 

“Whatever do you mean, y/n?” Shinobu blushed, embarrassed that the Light Pillar caught her. “I was just saying the moon was beautiful.”

“I don’t think so,” y/n deadpanned, watching the slightest downward twitch at the corners of her lips as Shinobu mistook her answer as a rejection.

Y/n purposely let a moment of silence before she spoke again. “I don’t think you meant it literally but poetically. Just so you know, I’m quite aware of the hidden message,” she teased, leaning closer to Shinobu, watching her uncharacteristically get flustered under her gaze. 

“Feeling the butterflies yet?” Y/n asked her, seeing how uneven Shinobu’s breathing was as pink tainted her cheeks adorably. “That’s payback for when we first met.”

Shinobu tried so hard to keep her cool, but seeing that y/n’s gaze was now on her lips, she just couldn’t. How embarrassing that she had caught onto the phrase so quickly, but now knowing that y/n had good tastes in literature, she was even more attracted to her. The Insect Pillar was also rather speechless at the forwardness of y/n. 

“Also, it’s a new moon tonight,” y/n whispered, their noses were nearly touching. She waited to see if Shinobu would push her away, but she saw that she inched closer as well.

“But it is quite beautiful.”

Slender fingers reached up to the sides of y/n face before Shinobu closed the distance between them and crashed her lips with hers. 

*.*.*.*.*.*

Y/n looked up at Shinobu, who straddled her, both lacking of their uniform and undergarments. As beautiful as she was in y/n’s eyes in their current circumstance, her breath was caught in her throat by the tears that suddenly streamed down Shinobu’s face. She reached up and wiped them away, y/n’s voice trembled as she attempted to comfort her love. 

“I’m sorry. If I could rewrite the stars, I would.” 

Shinobu covered y/n’s hand and leaned into her touch. She whimpered, “It’s not fair. It seems like the world is taking away everyone I love from me. My family. And now you?”

The Insect Pillar has finally learned of y/n’s soulmate mark. 

“The world isn’t fair. The stars aren’t either.” This time, it was y/n’s turn to cry. 

Y/n never really believed in soulmates, she had completely cut off the idea of any kind of love after her whole family had been killed by a demon. She didn’t want to get attached to people, scared she might lose them in any way. 

That is until she met Shinobu. Her love for the lady was unexpected. She never thought she would be attracted to someone of her own gender. But their love was the type that was looked down upon in the society, considered it immoral for two females to love each other romantically. 

Their line of work, the society, and y/n’s soulmate mark kept the two ladies from going further into their relationship, having to keep their affair a secret. 

It was hard for both of them. 

“I’m here, Shinobu. I’m still here. I’ll always be. For you.” 

That night, their sounds from their love was unheard by the world but seen by the unfair stars and the beautiful moon. 

✧˳✧ ˳✧ ˳✧ ˳✧ ˳✧

It was like something had blown the flames out and ripped the wings off a moth that admired the beauty of the flame. 

Shinobu was gone. 

Y/n was too late to stop Shinobu from pulling through with her plan to poison the demon that killed Kanae. Now this demon that stood before her, smiled while he claimed that Shinobu was very much alive but just inside of him, off to a happy place. 

What a sick man. 

Inosuke acted out first, charging at the man angrily. “I’m gonna chew you up, you scum!”

“Don’t breathe the cold air he spreads!” Kanao warned him. 

Y/n controlled her breathing to calm herself down. She knew it was useless to act out of pure rage, Shinobu would have scolded her if she did so. It seemed Kanao knew more, not just because of her previous fight, but what Shinobu might have told her. Then not a moment later, Inosuke returned to them and handed Kanao her katana. 

“Don’t let him take it again,” he grumbled. “But what the hell are you doing, y/n?”

The Light Pillar looked down at him, making him freeze from the aura she gave off. Of course, other than Kanao, y/n was the closest to Shinobu. He often wondered what was going on between the two Pillars, then he realized he didn’t care. But with the death of Shinobu, he bet that it affected y/n the most out of the three of them. He can literally feel the rage coming from her.

“Nothing yet. I’ll let you tire Douma out, if that’s cool with you.” She put on a little façade, breaking her serious expression with a smirk. “Go crazy, Inosuke. I won’t let him kill y—“

Y/n gasped, taking a step and kicking the Upper Moon away when he almost closed in on them, disregarding the pain that erupted in her stomach. “Tire me out? I don’t think I lost a single ounce of energy even before you got here. Maybe because of that Shinobu girl? I don’t know, but I’m feeling real good right now!” Douma laughed airily, spreading his arms out.

She almost laughed. How long till it starts kicking in, she wondered. He won’t be feeling so good then. 

Inosuke charged at Douma once again, using a move that dislocated all his joints in his arms to get a longer range. When she said for him to go crazy, she didn’t really think he’d pull off a stunt like that. He managed to get a hit, though which was impressive. The boy returned, standing before them protectively.

“We’re gonna do whatever it takes to kill this man.”

“He’s fast. It’s going to be difficult to take him on with the range of his attacks,” Kanao told y/n, eyebrows furrowed. “It’s hard to get near him.”

“I can totally get near him,” Inosuke scoffed.

Y/n nodded. “We’ll keep attacking for now and at our own discretion, but if we’re ever stuck in a situation, follow my orders.”

They both watched cautiously, assessing Douma’s every move when Inosuke went after the upper demon after he stole his mask, waiting to see even just the slightest sign of the poison’s effects. 

The fight rolled out into a more personal matter about Inosuke’s mother. Finding out that this very demon was also involved with the loss of someone so important to Inosuke, something within her snapped. Y/n won’t let him take any more loved ones away! No way in hell was this bastard going to walk out of this room. 

While Kanao and Inosuke fought off his ice doll, she chased after Douma, swiftly dodging the vines and petals that were in her way. Y/n launched herself off from a vine as quick as she landed on it to avoid being frozen, her arms up high and katana in the air. 

“Second Form. Incandescent Strike.” 

Douma turned his head towards her right before she cut off his left arm along with his shoulder. Backing away would be a mistake as he would try to create more distance with his blood art. So she performed every form of her Breath of Light, the demon managing to block off all of the attacks with his fan even after he sent out more of his ice dolls to the teenagers. 

“Wow! You’re strong! Form after form after form!” The demon gushed in excitement, never having a demon slayer cut off one of his limbs. It was strange though. Usually, he would only feel a pinch from such a wound but why did it hurt? 

He tilted his head and looked down at her katana in curiosity. “How odd. There’s no trace of Wisteria poison on your blade. Even so, it wouldn’t have hurt.”

Y/n stifled a cry when she felt an unbearable pain on her left shoulder. Douma didn’t manage to land a single strike on her. Her eyes trailed down to his regenerating arm, a familiar tattoo slowly inking on his pale skin. 

A fully-bloomed rose. 

Douma followed her line of sight, and it was clear that the man rarely paid attention to the mark. “The last time I checked this weird mark was almost a hundred years ago. It was a barely a bud. Now it’s fully bloomed, I wonder what it means.”

“I know what it means, that cursed mark,” y/n whispered, a thousand thoughts running through her head. That explained the stomach pain she felt after she kicked him. 

The pillar didn’t react when Douma grabbed hold of her uniform and asked her to enlighten him, genuinely curious. Y/n must have imagined the slight fearful tone in his voice. She couldn’t blame him, she was afraid the moment she got it. Afraid of what would happen once it fully bloomed, and who she was assigned to be with her whole life. 

Once afraid, now enraged, y/n cursed the stars for the millionth time. Of all people, her soulmate had to be the demon that devoured her one true love. 

Douma clawed at her back, ripping through uniform and digging his nails into her skin to urge this pretty nobody to explain the meaning of the claimed cursed mark. The pain he inflicted on y/n was shared with him, feeling the same intense pain across his back.

“What is this?” 

“The mark of soulmates.”

It was all too much for y/n to handle. Everything came at her all at once— the death of Oyakata-sama, his wife and two daughters, and Muzan’s appearance. She lost Shinobu, then met her soulmate. The overwhelming emotions and pain took over her, making her fall limp in Douma’s hold. 

What is the point? She lost everything.

He grabbed a fistful of her hair and made her look up at him. “Answer me. I don’t get it. Why are we fighting? Aren’t you supposed to be my lover?” 

Tears streamed down y/n’s eyes, Douma taken aback at the sight of how truly pretty she was. He felt a foreign feeling bubble up inside him. Was this love? How could this be? They’ve never even met. 

Her lips trembled as she spoke, “Forever.”

Until they die. 

Until they die.

Her vision turned black. Where Douma was supposed to be, there stood Shinobu. In all her beauty. She stared at her with sadness in her eyes. 

Did she watch everything from the heavens?  

Does she know?

“I could’ve stopped you, but I was too slow. Too late,” y/n immediately caved in to her, letting all her feelings out. “I could have saved you, Shinobu!”

Shinobu shook her head sadly, “I’m sorry.”

“I should be sorry! Not you! I’m sorry that I wasn’t there. I’m sorry that it had to be him!” 

The Light Pillar sobbed into her hands. She felt a ghost of a touch on top of her head and around her body, feeling the familiar warmth of Shinobu’s embrace. 

“I’ve hurt you and made you go through such pain. I can’t ever forgive myself for it, but it was something I had to do,” Shinobu spoke softly, tears staining her cheeks. “The stars wrote you a destiny you truly do not deserve. You lost me, but that doesn’t mean you have nothing left to lose. Those who still have, are stronger than the ones that don’t.”

Y/n wrapped her arms tightly around Shinobu and cried into her chest. “Don’t leave me. Please.”

“Don’t let those children die.”

The images of Inosuke and Kanao flooded y/n’s mind. The bond they formed back in the Pillar training came to her, making her realize that these two literally forced themselves a spot in her heart from Inosuke’s constant nagging and Kanao’s silent stalking when Shinobu was busy. 

These children were still out there, fighting for their lives. 

Inosuke was right earlier. What the hell is she doing?

Y/n came back to her senses, finding herself latched onto Douma, her arms wrapped around his frame tightly. It surprised her that he hadn’t devoured her yet. Did time pass by during that vision? 

She heard Inosuke and Kanao cry out for her while they fought even harder to try to save her. The demon before her stood stock still, slowly processing the idea of soulmates. He heard her whisper, “To have someone to love by my side forever? Until we die?”

Y/n adjusted her hold on the katana, careful not to make any suspicious movements that would alarm Douma. She gripped onto the blade instead. Their distance from each other was too close for her to cut his head. Any other attacks would be futile with his regeneration, and their shared mark would just weaken her. There was only one way, and Kanao and Inosuke would have to finish it. 

Droplets of blood that didn’t belong to her landed on her as she pointed the blade toward his back. The lady smiled. The poison was finally taking effect. 

“Feeling the butterflies yet?” Y/n asked. She hugged him tighter, using all her strength not to drop the katana. 

Douma hummed, “Hm, is this how love feels?”

All y/n could think of was Shinobu. 

“Yes.” 

It’s painful. It’s going to be even more painful for him. 

Y/n squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to make her final blow. There was no time for hesitation as it was the only time he’ll be weak. With quick movements, she reached for the hilt of her katana and pulled it towards her with all her strength, feeling the sun-kissed blade pierce through her.

At the same time, Douma quite literally melted into her ‘embrace’. Y/n tightly held onto sword with her bloodied hands to hold the demon down while he screamed out in pain from Shinobu’s poison and y/n’s betrayal. The ice dolls Kanao and Inosuke battled, shattered into pieces from Douma’s weakened state. 

“Y/n!” Both of them ran towards their senior after realizing this was it, their only moment to kill Douma.

Before they could close in on Douma, the upper moon performed a massive blood demon art to protect himself from the two. He tried to push y/n off of him, but the smallest movement of the blade caused another flare of the soulmate’s curse. 

“Forever until we die isn’t really forever, now is it?” y/n weakly chuckled.

Douma controlled himself from hurting y/n to avoid a new wave of pain. He growled into her ear, “Curse you, you wench.”

“No. Curse the stars.” 

Her eyes met with Kanao’s and Inosuke’s equally tearful ones, seeing the hesitation in their eyes. She gave them a warm smile and mouthed her orders. 

‘Do it.’ 

Whatever it takes. If it’s the only way, I’ll go through it.

✧˳✧ ˳✧ ˳✧ ˳✧ ˳✧

Y/n looked up at the night sky in silence, feeling another one’s presence behind her yet she didn’t turn to look as she was mesmerized with how pretty the sky looked. But the stars seemed to look down on her almost tauntingly because of how stupid of a lady she was to defy them and the destiny they wrote for her.

She didn’t care since the full moon was present. If she stared at it long enough, the stars would disappear. 

“I think it’s my turn to ask.” The silence broken when y/n spoke. She turned to the figure, taking their hand in hers. “The moon is beautiful, isn’t it?” 

The solemn expression on Shinobu’s face was replaced by a smile. For the first time, both of them shed tears of happiness. Nothing was in their way, they could finally love each other without any worries. No soulmate. No demons. 

Both of them were strong till the end, and will still continue to be in their new beginning because this time, they will write their own destinies. Forget about what the world thinks of their love for each other.

The moon witnessed how true their love was and they’re together now. That’s all that mattered.

“Yes. It is beautiful.” 

[ningyotsu]

Connections + Junko

       “I DON’T KNOW how to put it, really, Kamukura-san....” 

       Interest-filled versus interest-waned; that was the state of things between her and Kamukura Izuru. The only solidarity she can have with the somber, quiet young man sitting silently on the bed within his holding cell is the fact that she can be both, just like how he is right now. The accumulation of interest that becomes talent, and the waning of interest that becomes boredom; a travesty indeed to those who seek and seek until suddenly, everything becomes clearer than water, and then it becomes transparently tasteless. Upon being asked about her relationship with Enoshima, Touko hums; that’s almost like asking her to describe her relationships with nearly everyone she knows, for nothing is what it seems with multiple heads darting in all directions all at once.

       “I’m not sure if you can understand,” and no offense intended; she truly isn’t sure whether Kamukura would understand her train of thought, as complicatedly morbid yet hopeful it may seem, “but I really do admire the cesspit that is Enoshima. I truly love that about her, you know?” A pause, and then Touko quickly mouths an ‘excuse me’ as she steals a sip from Kamukura’s glass of water - it’s so easy to get parched in such a cold, dry cell, and once her throat isn’t so scratchy, she continues. “In many ways, we are alike, and in many ways, we can understand each other. The trouble is, we’re so much alike that of course, there’s ought to be a difference between the both of us that makes us stand out and apart, yes?” 

       There is, and she surmises that Kamukura knows the answer anyways, but she confirms it for him either way. “There’s almost no way that I can ever join Enoshima no matter how much I wish for it. She’s wonderfully brilliant; truly, even if she wasn’t a supermodel, I’m head-over-heels for that mind of hers!” A laugh, a clap of her hands, before she goes back to being serious for a spell. “Yet, though we both know the truest depths of despair, this is where our differences begin; despair is her form of love, but despair is the ermine mantle that I wear throughout my journey. Despair is my crown; the heavier it is, the higher I rise. And with it, comes what Enoshima detests the most; endless hope.”

       There’s no such thing as giving into despair for Touko, for she had already given herself to it time and time again, and she has lost far too much to even bat an eye at anything else she may lose. The video merely reminded her of what she had already lost, of the countless sacrifices she had made in her pursuit for the best, and while she has grown to love despair to the point where she wouldn’t mind tasting it again, even more hope would bubble from it like a spouting fountain! Touko sighs, scratching the back of her head in mock-sheepishness; it’s gotten far too serious now, hasn’t it? “Aaah, don’t tell Enoshima this though! She’d hate me, that’s for sure. And if she does, who else can I match wits with around here? It’d be so lonely, don’t you think?”

@bxredxmbrxke​  || connections ( accepting ) .

[lemonietrinket]

King and Lionheart ||| King!Jungwoo x RoyalKnight!Reader

Part One

Genres: Fantasy, some Fluff, Angst but has a happy ending! Word Count: 2533 Warnings: Grisly ideas with a lot of death but no severe descriptions of it Theme Song: King and Lionheart - Of Monsters and Men

AN: Based kind of closely to the lyrics of the song? It’s really good! And I didn’t intend for this to be a two-parter, but yeah it turned out that way and I’m really sorry. Hopefully, it won’t be too long until Part Two is up. Thanks for reading!

~~~

The sky was an oil painting, vast brushstrokes of emerald steadily cloaking the azure-tinted clouds that graced the night. Stars speckled the deep blue silk as if a thousand ghosts were peering down at the horror that had unfurled at the foot of the fear-stacked mountains—thistle hued rock gashes in the snow.

The streets were crowded with translucent spirits, their bodies chained in silver to their spots. Their eyes were piercing, staring into the souls of those still attached to the mortal plane, filled with sorrow and the ferocity of dry anger.

But though it should have been, their fury was not aimed at you.

The two of you picked your way through the street. Jungwoo stumbled, his eyes meeting those of the lost, the slow tears refusing to halt. A neverending cascade, striking trails across his mottled cheeks. Trembling lips were silent, the only exception being his hushed breaths that collided with the air and froze.

You watched him carefully as you stepped over rubble from the ceremonial grounds, eyes never leaving his wavering features. Golden flags were torn and muddied with charred remains at his feet, as he came to a stop at a mother’s spirit hovering at the lengths of her restraints. A fragile, swallowed whimper left his body. It felt as if it carried his whole body behind it, yet was so quiet you almost missed it.

You took to his side, standing between him and the wayward figure. Your hand cradled his shoulder, leading him away from the remnants and into the middle of the abandoned street.

You had aimed only to talk to him, but he broke, pressing his head into the furs at your neck and crying openly.  His sobs remained to be the worst sound you had heard, and you had heard many things.

Creatures built like towers made of scales fashioned of the carcasses they feasted upon, whose screams grasped at the depths of your heart. Abominations crafted of salt that tore at their own injuries as they battled, forcing bloodcurdling roars so grating that you could not believe they could emanate from something that was once human.  The guttural clicks from the bone crusted maws of a beast you never did fully lay eyes upon, and you praise the deities above that made that so, daily.

None of it compared to the wound his sadness inflicted. 

And there he was, his eyes as warm as summer nights where a blanket was no longer needed, his voice as sweet and smooth as butternut, his smile as bright and beautiful as the moon... he was the kindest soul. He greeted magpies no matter their number, and left food grown in the royal gardens for the deer of the forest. 

He was your King, and you were his lionheart. You’d fight whatever came his way—and it wasn’t simply because of the job anymore, it had moved beyond that level a long time ago—and you’d protect him no matter the cost.

.

You held is larger frame in your arms, a thick glove easing his hood rimmed with ermine, pure and speckled with onyx, over his light hair. As he trembled, you felt your heart twist.

None of this was his fault. If you had not opened the gate, after hearing his ‘voice’, had thought rationally about the logistics of the height of the wall and how, in the spontaneous game, he could have gotten over to the other side to call your name, everything would have been fine.

You had a hand in the disaster, meanwhile, he played no part. And yet he blamed himself.

“Don’t look at them, Woo,” you whispered reassuringly, “they may be angry, but it is not aimed at you—it never will be.”

He whined, clutching at your padded coat as he clung even closer to you.

It was a lie. It was aimed at him. Though not rightly.

.

He’d inherited a tumultuous throne that he hadn’t been raised for, had faced three onslaughts and the threat of war at least once, all of which caused by bad decisions on the behalf of his predecessor, his childless, wreckless cousin. The people were angry before the fourth invasion arrived, though they had mostly kept it to themselves.

It wouldn’t have a chance to outpour, at least when they were alive. Now their spirits inhabited the streets linked to their chains, and they had the chance to show their anger in their cursed form of the afterlife. 

It wasn’t his fault.

Even a country with the strongest army and all the resources of the world and preparation time leaking into months could not have withstood what had massacred the city.

They called themselves the Jotun but it was foul play to call themselves by that name, as even a true Jotun would not have been able to do what they did. Their attacks left people in pain long after death, as they stole everything, including the bodies of the people left unguarded.

It was fair to say there were no survivors, besides the two of you.

Just the King and Lionheart, heading south to seek help.

.

.

.

Your eyes scoured the busy streets, every stall, every face, every shadow, every crevice. You saw no danger, but you could not find him anywhere. You jumped in a poor attempt to see over the heads of the masses. But his bunny smile and his long white coat were nowhere to be seen.

You’d left for the best part of an hour, waiting to see the King of the realm of Aldworth. After attempting to be granted an audience with the three previous dominions that you had passed through to no avail, the King—a lady nearly as tall as the doors she had built with her own hands—had given you the opportunity to speak.

Your King had been left outside. You knew it would have been better for him to be the one that performed the speech—the plea for aid and forces to relinquish his kingdom from the control of the Jotun—but as soon as the words had come to your lips you recognised the dimmed glow his eyes and changed your mind.

The King had let you leave as she worked with her advisors to decide, but now, yours was missing. 

Crowds of people scurried from left and right, then round and round and back again. Their bodies melded and waned, shades of brown to black, like the warm earth of ice-moult. Their lungs made weak clouds, that amalgamated into one thin mist, their voices carrying like the war cry of a long-slumbered deity of thunder, and their smiles narrowed into deceit.

And then a weight smashed into your back, very nearly knocking you off-guard.

Your hand flicked upwards out of instinct, to find no hilt. 

It was then you realised that the arms at your neck were not malicious, and fit snugly at your collarbones, as a certain pair had always done.

“I’m sorry!” the man exclaimed, but there was the familiar lilt of mischief in his voice. 

You gazed back, feeling your back unfurl and tendons relax, to see a huge grin on his face. “Jungwoo! Where were—? What did you do?”

“Nothing!” he cried, just as he always did whenever he had something to hide. 

You sighed. “Your Majesty, I’ve known you since we were children, I think I know when you’re lying to me. Now—”

He suddenly let go, swinging round to look at you, face to face. 

That was something you could never quite face confidently, his intense stare. Deep irises of earth, when the ice-melt had washed away and left the ground umber in the place of pristine. Everything else you showed no fear, but with him, you felt your iron shell melt. He’d gotten them from his mother. 

“I hid, because I wondered what you would do if I didn’t turn up,” he admitted, rocking back and forth on his heels with his hands entwined behind his back, “but then I felt too bad, and I was scared you’d throw a man into the ocean again, so I came straight back.”

“Is that all?” You frowned, ignoring the subtle dig.

He nodded enthusiastically, whispering an apology in a tone a thread away from serious.

You rolled your eyes, exhaling. “Honestly, Your Majesty—”

“Woo! You always call me Woo, why aren’t you calling me Woo now?” he interjected, forcing his lip to quiver.

You pursed your own. “Because we are in public and it is not etiquette to refer to a monarch by nickname, and you know that, Your Majesty, now please—”

“But I like being called Woo!” he exclaimed. A few merchants sent the two of you a few unnerved glances as they passed. You responded with a glare, and it had the desired effect, as they scuttled off towards the docks.

Jungwoo seemed to go into deep thought for a brief moment, eyes wandering about somewhat vacantly before he managed to reach a conclusion. “Wait! If I order you to call me Woo, doesn’t that mean you have to?”

You opened your mouth to begin, before you halted yourself. Though it was an unexpected conclusion, Jungwoo wasn’t exactly wrong. And with his beautiful eyes glittering in the knowledge that he’d won, you had half a mind to give in. Luckily rationality kicked in, and you swiftly decided it was safer to attempt to move on. 

“As I was saying, Your Majesty, I expected so much worse than you merely hiding, and so please refrain from minor tricks—”

“Oh!”

You huffed. Being held by hierarchical convention really did take the pinch of salt sometimes.

Jungwoo smiled that radiant grin that rivalled the sun as he continued. “And I bought this with the savings money!” 

You were about to request as calmly as you could manage to let you finish when he unclasped his hands from behind his back to reveal a hulking great sword gripped feebly between his fingers.

It had a hilt made of what looked to be pure gold, engraved with a series of runes and pictographs, telling something of a great hero slaying an ineffable beast from the oceans. Its edge was so clear and gleaming that even you had no idea what it was fashioned of—only that it could perhaps cleave bone in two, and that it had the appearance of costing the entire lot of your savings.

Words tumbled from your tongue, quivering and broken. “What is—? Jungwoo?!”

“Look it’s alright! You needed a new one after your old one broke and this one is pretty and the seller said it was magic so—”

“Jungwoo!”

“Y/N!” he said mock-sternly, though his expression seemed to be tinted with a seriousness you rarely got to see. “You are my holy, royal, sacred, personal knight! I can’t allow you to be under-resourced. That would make me a bad king, right?” He paused, and you originally expected that it was in an effort to await your affirmation. However, it dawned on you quickly that it was worse than that. His face fell, the smile that had the power to turn even the strongest hearts to putty dissipating on his features, until you were left with only an expression of emptiness before you. 

“Who am I kidding, Y/N... I’m already a bad king,” he sighed, swallowing thickly as he tried to hold the threads of his voice together, “and not giving you a sword to help you do your job—the job that I gave you, that you didn’t ask for... that would make me the worst king known.”

His words left you stunned, a condition you hadn’t felt in so long that you couldn’t place the last time you had experienced the loss of words, the swimming of your thoughts, the lack of clarity and solutions. 

When you remained unbudged, lips agape and eyes wide and concerned, he continued, “You’ve gotten me through so much, Y/N. You’re my best advisor, my oldest and closest friend, my... my only friend... you’re the last survivor of my kingdom, besides myself. You deserve much more than this, but... this is all I can give you.”

You felt your throat tighten, breath staggered. You knew you should accept the sword, but your hands stuck by your side.

The wind slowly picked up, toying with the crimson flags of the street as the people of the marketplace seemed to fade into alleyways and nowhere.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice nearly so low the breeze almost carried it away, his lip trembling as his gentle face crumpled.

It was at his unnecessary words that something snapped in your brain.

“No apologies,” you stated bluntly, swinging into gear after buffering and taking the sword swiftly in one hand, “not to me at least. We will get the kingdom back, your people back, we’ll get everything back—no matter the cost.” You weighed the weapon in your palms, scarred from numerous grapples and close encounters with the old acquaintance of Death, and raised the blade where you could see the reflections of the sky, watery and pale. “When this sword and I are done, there will not be a single Jotun left.”

“Promise me...” he began.

You lowered the sword, to meet the gaze of his watery eyes, only to find his head still bowed. “Your Majesty?”

There was a wavering exhale, as he worked up the effort to speak rather carefully, “Promise me that the cost will not be you.”

You paused. Even if you’d known him for as long as your memory allowed you to know, this man was always full of surprises. Or perhaps your ignorance had stunted your awareness to see this one coming. 

“Is that what you would prefer?” you enquired clearly, turning your head to try and get a better view of his expression. “Over your sacred duties to the throne and the guilt of losing the people?”

Jungwoo didn’t move. He remained still for the longest time, beyond the point that you began to worry. You could almost hear the thoughts, whistling through his mind at the speeds of a gale, crashing like an avalanche through a village against the walls of his mind.

You were about to call his name when he finally lifted his head. His features were stone, firm-set yet saddened.

He nodded once, and you were left stunned.

“Even if the cost of my life was the only way to bring them all...?” 

He nodded again, with more clarity, a determination in his eyes that you knew would not fade, no matter the words you spent. You’d only seen it once before, on the day that he asked you to be his knight, his guard for his life. You had been completely unable to turn his words down then too, if you had even wanted to.

“Well,” you cleared your throat, “you are my King, Woo.” You divulged in a final glance of your reflection in the blade, before adjusting the old sheath that had remained upon your back. “And so, your word shall be done.”

The sword slotted into the leather as if it destiny was made in those pure seconds alone. 

~~~

Part Two - coming soon

Masterlist

[edited: 2/04/2020] 

[boneandfur]

Rosemary Lane [1]

Summary: // Words: 3858 // Rating: Mature (eventual N*FW) // Notes: I couldn't wait any longer to post it... I just couldn't. This is a canon-divergence. I can't say more without spoiling it, but it takes place in 1822 and is also a slight crossover. It has two special MCs from a giveaway I did ages ago, @debramcg1106's Ava and @breaumonts ‘s Lisette are in here as well. // Thanks to @indiacater @lizeboredom and everyone else who has read snippets and listened to me talk about this fic for ages!

••

CHAPTER ONE

1822.

— "I wish I had feathers, a fine sweeping gown,

And a delicate face, and could strut about Town!" —

"My dear — a raw country girl, such as you be,

Cannot quite expect that. You ain't Ruined," said she. ~ The Ruined Maid, Thomas Hardy.

"Welcome back to Edgewater, sir and madam. How was the journey from London?" As Arthur Woods takes Briar's fine, fur lined cloak, she gazes about the great hall in wonder. "It looks much changed above stairs, does it not?" he whispers in a tone so low she must strain to hear it. Briar shoots a glance at Marlcaster, but he gives no indication he has heard them.

It does look different above stairs, and Briar drinks her fill. Despite her position, this is one of the few great houses she has been allowed access to. Most ladies will not allow her past the gate. But, then, most ladies are not her former best friend, risen so high above everyone else now that it does not matter what people whisper about her, The Bastard Duchess, The Natural Daughter, Locusta...

From the high vaulted ceilings of the rotunda, to every candle in the chandelier that sways, laden with wax; everywhere Briar turns there is some new marvel to gape at. Outside the fine, thin glass of the windowpane, she can see the groom leading their carriage away, and the rolling lawns that stretch nearly all the way to the low hills. She traces a finger along the wallpaper, gold vine and green leaves, with iridescent parrots peeking through -- and if Briar closes her eyes, she can imagine herself a bird of paradise in some deep jungle, a proper Cyprian, and not just...

There is a whistle on the air, the snippet of a song, and she strains to hear the music of it. It reminds her of something, a ballad she heard sung, long ago --

(Now if it’s a boy, he’ll fight for the King/And if it’s a girl she’ll wear a gold ring/She’ll wear a gold ring and a dress all aflame/And remember my service in Rosemary Lane.)

-- but Woods closes the window with an abrupt step forward, cutting the song off mid-note.

"Miss Daly?" Mr Woods clears his throat, holding out an arm for her cloak, and Briar steps back, feeling wounded and not quite knowing why.

Meanwhile, the ermine tails drip snow steadily onto the floor, leaving a puddle that would have made the old Briar twitch. She looks down at her hands, soft now, no longer used to honest toil, and gives a start as she feels Marlcaster's fingertips rest for a moment on her lower back, anchoring her to the present.

"Very good, Woods, thank you." But his voice is far away, distracted. She wonders if he is thinking that all this might have been his, after all, it belonged once to his half-brother. But Edmund Marlcaster no longer shares bedroom confidences with Briar Daly, no, if he shares pillow talk with anyone it is certainly not she. He has not touched me since... But she pushes the thought away.

"Oh, Mr Woods, you do not have to bow and scrape to me!" Briar claps her hands together, startling Woods. A deep, rosy blush stains his fair cheek, and she wonders if he still thinks of the girl that kissed him in London, the girl who would have thrown over a noble lover for him if he had but said the word. If... She throws a saucy wink at Marlcaster, hand on one hip, his eyes everywhere but upon her. "What do you think, sir?"

Her former patron straightens his cravat. "Quite so." A ghost of a smile quirks the side of his mouth, but it passes, and Briar thinks, for a long, stricken moment, that perhaps she has imagined it. "Is the company in the library?" At Woods' sudden step forward, Marlcaster holds up a hand. "No, no, I shall show myself upstairs."

"Edmund--" Briar plucks at his sleeve as he turns to mount the stairs, and the look on his face makes her stomach swoop in a dreadful manner. "Mr Marlcaster." She drops her eyes. We must use second names when we are in polite company, Miss Daly, how often must I remind you... "I should like to rest before dinner, of course."

"That is probably for the best." He chucks her under the chin, as though there still remains some affection between them, but the fire that once burned so bright between them is like the ash from the May Day fires, already strewn across a fallow field. "After all, you cannot present yourself to the Duchess with the stink of travel still upon you." Marlcaster seems to have no such scruples. He smells of horseflesh and leather and sweat, and yet he bounds up the first few steps like a young buck, as if he had not complained for half the journey that his old injury was bothering him.

"Mr Marlcaster, sir." Briar digs her nails into her palms, swallowing hard, and he turns around only long enough for her to see the irritation on his face. She knows it is a kind gesture, bringing her to this house party after they are already quit of each other, and yet she cannot help but feel a pang of sadness. "Give the duchess my love."

"Well, you shall see her yourself at dinner, you can give it to her then." Marlcaster shrugs, and then continues up the steps.

Briar wants to run after him, but she holds herself very still, willing her face to remain calm. It would not to do show emotion like one of the lower orders, she must remain perfectly poised, and appear to be a lady.

"Miss Daly?" Mr Woods' gentle tone of concern nearly undoes her on the spot, and when Briar looks up at him, she is sure he can see the wetness on her cheeks. Yet he says nothing, discretely passing her a handkerchief and allowing her to compose herself before he speaks again. "If you wish to rest before dinner, Her Grace has put you in the red room, I believe."

The red room. This is a dig at her reputation, she is sure of it. The old Rosamund was never one for subterfuge -- But as soon as she found out she was the daughter of an Earl, everything began to change…

When she looks back at him, her dark eyes are sparkling, unnaturally bright. "I must ask for a girl to attend me and do my hair before dinner. I should not like to look countryfied in front of the esteemed company tonight."

"Esteemed?" A rosy blush tints his fair cheeks. It seems she is still able to make his voice falter, after all this time, but the knowledge brings her no joy. "Yes. Esteemed." A gentle smile touches his lips. "The duchess pays me to be discreet, as you know, Miss Daly. I'll say no more on the matter. Very well, I shall send a girl, inasmuch as it matters."

"Arthur, wait." At her use of his given name, Woods turns on his heel in enquiry. "Do not." Look at me as if, as if... She hates the plaintive tone that has entered her voice, like a child.

"Do not what?" he looks down at her fingers on his sleeve, as though he will shake her off. But he knows. He must.

"Look at me with such... Never mind." There it is again. That softening in his eyes. As though the past six years have been swept away, and they are standing beside the side of the road in Grovershire again, a boy and a girl, smiling at one another. Before she ever tasted his lips. Before Mr Marlcaster ever took her maidenhead. Before... "I shall go downstairs with you, and conduct the interview myself."

“No, Briar.” The firm refusal wounds her to the quick. “You are…” his mouth works, keeping the words unspoken. “A--”

Strumpet. Trollop. Whore.. Rosamund had screamed it when she found out about Briar and Edmund, and then she had wept inconsolably, as though she were the one whose heart was breaking, as if she had gone to the marriage bed pure as snow.

“I know what I am, Mr Woods,” Briar says, a little stiffly. “But that does not mean I still do not need help with my hair and -- my woman’s things, Mr Woods.”

Woods tugs on his collar. His color is up again, and she marvels that he can yet be a bachelor, that no girl has snapped him up. He is quite the catch for any serving maid. The thought makes her drop her eyes. But he is not for you, Briar Daly. “I know that I am Ruined…” Briar brushes past Woods, and his fingers trail along her arm, one catching just at the spray of lace at her wrist, as though he would stop her. “But you must know I would never corrupt the household.”

As she passes, she thinks she hears him whisper, “It is too late,” -- but perhaps that is only the sound of her heart, knocking against her ribs like a wild bird in a cage.

•••

Long ago, she thought this world a wondrous thing. It was a world within a world: upstairs, lived Rosamund with her long-lost father, grandmother and step-family, and below stairs... The smell of rosemary and roast quail hits her first, and she freezes upon the stair. And I suppose you'll be her lady’s maid, come up from Grovershire? The housekeeper had inspected Briar from head to toe with a sniff. If it were a test, Briar knew she had been found wanting. Yes, I'm Lady Rosamund’s best friend. Shocked, she took a step back as the woman rubbed the material of her sleeve between her fingers and gave a sniff. Uppity little thing, aren't you? Well, we'll have none of that here, Miss. if you think you're too good for the lot of us downstairs... You'd better come along, then. Look sharp. I'm Mrs Fox, she'd thrown over her shoulder. And you're of a size with the cook's helper, you can borrow one of her dresses until we can have one made for you. The kitchen smelled of rosemary and roast venison, and Briar's stomach had growled. There, at the long counter, a skinny black haired girl with a streak of flour on her cheek laughed at something a footman said, flicking flour at him as she rolled out the pastry dough. As Briar stepped through the doorway to the kitchen with Mrs Fox, the girl looked up, and a hush fell over the kitchen.

"Briar Daly?"

Ava goes rigid, staring at Briar from across the room. Her hands are braced on the board, frozen in the act of rolling out pastry dough. All talk in the kitchen ceases as the servants turn to stare at Briar, who is frozen to the spot, suddenly feeling out of place in her fashionable gown.

Ava blows a wisp of dark hair from her face, and hands the roller to the girl next to her, a skinny little pullet of a thing with pale curls like winter sunlight. An eerie hush has fallen over the company, and their faces, once dear and familiar, are passing strange with the weight of the years. Briar cannot move.

This is Briar. She's come from Grovershire with Lady Rosamund, to be her lady’s maid. She’ll borrow your dress and apron. Show her where she’ll sleep, and you may have the afternoon, if Cook doesn't need you.

I'll need her in an hour, Mrs Fox. The cook had shaken her head with a smile, passing Briar a bread heel with drippings. When you come back, you can tell us all about Lady Rosamund!

Yes, ma’m. Ava looked Briar up and down, head cocked to one side like a cat. Come on, then.

After a long moment, Ava dusts her floury hands on her apron and nods to the kitchen maid, and conversation starts up again, but hushed, as the servants try to catch every snippet of her words.

"You shouldn't be here, Briar -- Miss Daly." Ava crosses her arms. Though never a big woman, the skin and bones orphan from the poorhouse has grown into a woman with green, snapping eyes, dark hair framing her face from under a starched mobcap. "And it's Mrs Walker, now."

Briar swallows. She had feared disdain, but her former friend's pity is worse. "So you married him, then? Your blacksmith?"

Ava's expression softens. "Drake? Aye, and we've a snug cottage, and a wee bairn, haven't we now, Mr Woods?"

Briar has not seen Woods come up behind her, and she jumps a little in surprise.

"Aye, Cook, and a right little terror she is, too! Miss ’Melia is the spitting image of her mama," Arthur turns to Briar with a smile, "and never fails to get her way in the kitchens."

"Oh... You have a child, Ava -- Cook?" The words are like broken glass in her mouth, and Briar can feel her heart twist painfully over. If the baby had lived... If I, if he... But she cannot think of the dank shadows of Red Moon Lane without her guts in a tangle.

Ava and Woods share a look. "Briar, what are you doing down here?" Ava's tone says quite plainly what she thinks, and she pulls on Briar's arm, yanking her into the larder, hung with a brace of pheasants and a haunch of venison that gives off a wild, gamy smell. "What is this really about?"

As Briar looks at her former friend, she feels the gulf open and yawn between them, as though they are standing on either side of the fens, calling out to one another in the shifting mists. She does not belong here, that is plain. This is no longer my world. "I would like to hire one of the girls to be my maid for the next few days." Briar twists her plait in her hands. The truth is, she needs to look the part, if she wants to catch the eye.

A new patron.

The thought makes it hard to breathe for a moment, and she wonders what happened to that bold, saucy girl, back in Grovershire, all those years ago.

She grew up.

•••

"Lady Rosamund." Edmund Marlcaster sweeps a bow before her, and the lady sets down her book. She is all rose and gold and lace, the very picture of an English lady (though no well bred English miss ever had such bold eyes, or such an impudent manner). Marlcaster cannot hide the smile that breaks out upon his face when he sees the gold leaf title on the little red spine. Moll Flanders. "By God, I hope you never change."

Rosamund sticks out her tongue, laying a ribbon between the pages and setting her tiny feet on the floor with a great yawn. "Hello to you too, Ned. How was the road?" Rosamund stands to press her lips against his cheek, she smells of violet water and snow, and he wonders, if he tasted her, if she would melt into him like a snowflake, leaving the pattern of her heart stamped upon his, where no one else can see.

"Rosamund." Marlcaster picks up her hand, his lips ghosting across her inner wrist, his eyes never leaving hers. "You have never looked so fine."

"Flatterer." Rosamund taps him on the chest with her fan. "But I agree, to speak of the weather is so dratted dull. I do hope all of the guests make it." She takes a step back, turning her face to the window as she stares out at the swirling flakes.

I do not. The thought gives him pause. "I saw the Prince in Town, he was looking quite well."

Rosamund smirks. "Oh? I suppose he may very well be. I had a letter from him just last week, delivered by Mr Konevi. He speaks of nothing but the pretty little birds he has seen on his travels, and the way the light looks in the high mountains, beyond the citadel." She sighs, resting her chin for a moment on her fist, and then turns back to him, an impish smile playing on her full lips. "Come and warm your feet by the fire, then, and tell me the news of Town."

Rosamund lays a hand on his arm, and he can feel her touch burning him as though they are flesh to flesh, through all the layers of cotton and twill. She gives him a little tug and he feels his boots moving as he trails after her, his body going where she wants it to go, just as his body did her bidding all those years ago, before she ever wed the Duke, before he ever knew she could undo him with just one look, the embers smoldering in those dark, fine eyes.

"I hope you did not start the party without me." Hamid sweeps into the room without so much as a by-your-leave, and Marlcaster feels a spurt of irrational anger, Rosamund's attention already diverted from him.

"Your Highness!" With a cry of delight, Rosamund allows herself to be pulled into the prince's embrace, and the two make air kisses at one another's cheeks, causing a burning chain to wrap around Marlcaster's innards. "Well met!"

"How was the journey? Did you see any more beautiful birds on your travels?" Rosamund gasps in delight as the prince pulls two shimmering feathers from his cloak, and drops to one knee, presenting them with a theatrical flourish. "My word! Oh, Ned, have you ever seen aught so lovely?"

Marlcaster is prevented from answering by the Prince's deep rumble of amusement, and the rope tightens around his neck, threatening to choke him. He can feel heat racing through his veins, and he busies himself with pouring the wine for the assembled company, Mr Woods appearing with a tray and a look of sympathy.

"None so lovely as you, your grace. Is she not the loveliest songbird you have ever seen, Mr Marlcaster?"

Hamid's booming laugh causes Marlcaster's hand to tighten on the wine glass stem for a moment, and he breathes deeply through his nose, sweet woodruff and wild strawberries. The scent of summer. Unbidden, an image springs to his mind, of chasing a forest lass through a dappled greenwood (far before she was ever called Lady), flowers in her hair, drunk on honey mead and moonlight.

"The loveliest," Edmund manages, turning with a careful smile, trying hard not to focus on the rise of her breasts or the gold flecks in her eyes; especially not when she brushes against him, golden hair falling in her face as she holds the feathers up to the pale light, turning them this way and that.

"I shall wear them tonight, at dinner." Rosamund is still absorbed in the iridescent play of colors, and completely misses the look the men share over her head. "Mrs Sinclaire will be beside herself over these. What bird did you say they came from?"

Hamid steps in smoothly, his hand touching Rosamund's shoulder, lingering as he bends his head to hers. "The ibis, Lady Rosamund. It is a sacred bird. The Ancient Egyptians believed that the ibis represented the god of wisdom, Djehuty, who composed every branch of... knowledge." Hamid's hand moves down, to rest just at the curve of her waist.

Rosamund lets out a little breath, eyes widening as she stares up at Hamid. "Oh!" Her cheeks go quite pink, and Marlcaster's composure slips. The glass breaks in his hand, spilling wine all over his riding jacket. "Ned! Oh dear!" A beat, and then Rosamund is at his side. "I shall ring for a servant, wait --"

"No, I am quite all right." Despite himself, Marlcaster feels a rich sense of satisfaction as all her attention is on him, blotting ineffectually at the wine stain spreading over his shirt. "Lady Rosamund, it is nothing to concern yourself with." He lays a finger under her chin, raising it up, and the flash in her dark eyes makes his head swim. "I will bear it until the time comes to dress for dinner."

"Oh, but your poor hand!" She wraps the handkerchief around his hand, pressing her lips together disapprovingly, and knots it. "There. It will suffice, you damnably stubborn man."

Not without a kiss. But he does not say it. After all, they are not alone, and he would not go so far without a sign from her. Yet, she is still staring up at him, waiting for something.

Hamid claps a hand on his shoulder. "Just a scratch, eh, Marlcaster? We men are hardier creatures than fragile womenfolk, Lady Rosamund. But if you feel faint, Mr Marlcaster, perhaps you should have a lie down, and no one here would fault you."

Marlcaster presses his lips together. "It is nothing." Yet it stings, the same way his heart stung that morning in the church, when she wed the Duke and he watched his mother lead her to the bridal chamber, a veil covering her face, pale and resolute as Death.

"...In fact," Hamid continues, a smile on his face that does not quite reach his eyes, "I shall be having a lie-down before dinner as well. Lady Rosamund?"

The lady in question bites her bottom lip, worrying it between her teeth. "Yes, full dinner dress tonight, at nine on the gong."

"I shall await your pleasure, your grace." Hamid bends over her hand, turning it over and pressing a kiss upon her palm, and she looks at Marlcaster from under her lashes, as though in challenge.

When Hamid has gone, Marlcaster nods, turning to leave. "Your grace."

"What, no courtly gesture?" she teases him gently. Her tongue darts out, wetting her lower lip, and he lifts her hand to his mouth, brushing his lips over her knuckles. Her eyes go wide, pupils expanding, and she steps forward. He leans in, lips a mere hairsbreadth away from hers. "Ned." Rosamund fists her hands in his shirt, closing the distance between their bodies. "I have missed you." She looks up at him from under her lashes, and he knows in an instant that he is going to take her on the floor, right here, right now.

He brushes his thumb over her bottom lip, leaning down. "My Rose-of-the-World." Their lips are nearly touching, and when he breathes in her breath, it makes him feel drunk with desire for the woman in front of him, who he once tumbled in the greenwood, before either of them ever knew the price they would pay for youth's passion.

"Marlcaster! A word?" Hamid pokes his head back through the door, and Marlcaster sees Briar standing there beside the prince, and feels the temperature in the room drop by at least twenty degrees, his ardor cooling.

What else can he do, but make a leg? "Adieu, Rosamund."

Rosamund lifts his hand, and presses a kiss upon the bandage, the white cotton dark with his blood, as though it is the damned spot that will never come out. "Until tonight, Ned."

Somehow, from Rosamund's lips, it sounds like a vow.

••• 

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[monstersandmaw]

White ermine mothman x female reader (sfw)

Edit which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me.

This is a commission for @thekingsrock who asked for a super fluffy story with a female reader and an equally fluffy monster. I asked if they were ok with a mothman, and we went from there! I hope you enjoy!

___

You rolled your head, trying to ease some of the stiffness from your neck as you stood in line, waiting to order the smoothie you’d been craving for the last four hours at work. You needed something refreshing, delicious, and as packed full of neat antioxidants as you could get.

The folk in front of you were umm-ing and ahh-ing at the counter, the barista was getting super impatient but trying his hardest not to show it, and had been a hundred million degrees outside that day, only now beginning to cool off. You drew in a deep breath, trying to calm brain that was going a little ragged at the edges, and make the most of the cafe’s wonderful air-conditioning after a day in an office with AC units so ancient they might have been prototypes designed by Hephaestus himself…

As you stood there, closing your eyes for a moment, you became aware of the couple behind you talking about the ‘monsters’ who had recently begun integrating more into human society.

“I mean,” the woman said, sounding scandalised. “In my day, of course we knew about them, but you didn’t have some dirty great bat living next door! It just didn’t happen! They had the decency to take themselves off to the woods or wherever they belong, and they stayed there.”

“I know,” the man – presumably her husband – replied with equally offended gravity. “And that vile slime creature is living above us! Who knows what will ooze through the ceiling into our apartment. I don’t even want to think about it.”

“Can I help you?” the barista said, and you snapped back to the moment, realising the dithering party in front of you had finally made up their mind and ordered.

“I’m sorry,” you said. “I was miles away.”

“I’m sure it’s the heat,” he smiled. “And sorry to keep you waiting.”

You eyed the group waiting at the end of the counter for their drinks and looked back up at him. “It wasn’t your fault…” you said and he smiled. “I’ll have the ‘summer special’ smoothie to go please.”

“Anything extra with that?”

You shook your head. “Just the fruit please. I need it neat after today,” you grinned.

“Go easy on the hard stuff,” he laughed back as he put the order through. “It really packs a punch, or so I’m told.”

“I’m counting on it.” You paid, collected your fresh fruit smoothie that was really more of a work of art than a drink, and headed reluctantly back out into the evening.

It was still warm, though the sun was beginning to dip below the skyscrapers of the city. Taking a longer route home than usual, feeling the need to stretch your legs, you took a right and crossed the street, scuffing your heels and occasionally sipping on the smoothie. It was delicious but you really wanted to save it for when you were back home, and could curl up on the sofa and watch something trashy and mindless for a bit.

Emerging from the cut-through onto the street which bordered the city park, you saw a figure standing on the other side who was most definitely not human.

At first you thought it was a tall person wearing a white cape, dotted here and there with black spots, but then you noticed the thick ruffle at the neck, and the fact that there were two sets of arms reaching up to pluck ripe peaches from a tree in the park.

You had already begun crossing the deserted road when they looked around, and your lips parted in a soft gasp surprise when you saw the enormous, tapering, black eyes staring back at you. The long, dark, fluffy looking antennae twitched and those stunning wings fluttered. They shifted nervously and you saw that they had the most delicate feet imaginable; they hardly looked like they’d support the rest of the body at all.

“Hi,” you said as you approached.

The antenna gave another shiver, and then they opened their mouth to speak. “Hello,” they said shyly, voice soft and warm.

“You know,” you said, eyeing the tree, “I’ve walked along this road at least once a week for the last four years, and I’ve never noticed there’s a peach tree here.”

“Really?” they asked, antennae going stiff and the wings too. “I mean, haven’t you ever smelled it?”

You shook your head. “Nope.”

“Oh, you have to try one – here, let me get you one.”

With the delicacy of a surgeon, the moth reached up and plucked a ripe peach from a branch well out of your reach, and handed it down to you. Their hands were black, and only had two fingers and a thumb each, but as your fingers brushed their palm, you felt just how soft their skin was. The backs of their hands were covered in the same white, fluffy fur that covered the rest of their arms, shoulders, legs, and face. Their abdomen was fluffy too, but ribbed in ochre and black and white.

“There.”

“Thank you,” you said, biting into it. Juice ran down your chin and you giggled, reaching into your pocket for a tissue. “Wow, gosh, it’s delicious!”

“I’m Niall, by the way,” he said, holding out one of the lower of his two sets of hands for you to shake.

You stuck out your free hand – the one that didn’t have peach juice running down to your elbow – and shook it, managing to say your own name successfully around a mouthful of peach.

“Miss, could… could I ask you why you came over to talk to me?” he asked, his long, black antennae drooping slightly.

“Do you mind?” you asked, suddenly worried you’d intruded.

“No! Not at all!” he said, holding up all four hands and waving them anxiously. “No, I’m sorry. I just… I wondered why, that’s all.”

You laughed softly. “Honestly, I heard this older couple talking in the café just now about how in ‘their day’ non-humans wouldn’t have ‘dared show their faces’ in the city or some such bullshit, and then I saw you on my way home, and I got curious. I guess I wanted to meet someone who wasn’t human and make up my own mind. Does that make sense?”

He smiled sweetly and relaxed. “Yes,” he said. “It does. You know what?” he said, fluffing himself up slightly in a way that made you want to make a little noise; it was so cute. “I think this is the first conversation I’ve ever had with a human.” His antennae pricked up and he shuffled his wings again, making a little purring noise and immediately clamping a hand over his little mouth. “Excuse me,” he added, fidgeting his wings.

“Same for me, but the other way around,” you smiled, doing your best to ignore the unfathomably adorable noises he made. “I’m glad I did. Do you live in the city?”

He nodded. “A little garret room that’s perfect for me. Easy access to outside, with nice, cosy, warm corners to curl up in inside…”

“Sounds idyllic.” The sun finally dropped below the horizon and you yawned. “It’s been a long day. I’m going to head home through the park I think, but I’m glad I met you. Maybe I’ll spot some more things I’ve never noticed before…?”

He seemed to droop a bit again. “Would you like me to walk with you? I understand if it’s too presumptuous, but –”

“ – I’d love that,” you grinned.

He gathered up his small basket of peaches and held it in the crook of his lower elbow, and looked down at you. “May I offer you my arm?” he asked bashfully.

“You sound like you’ve been reading too many 19th century novels, Niall,” you laughed.

His wings fluttered. “Well… I don’t have much chance to talk to humans, and I do rather like literature. Forgive me if I’m… a little… out of touch…”

“You’re fine,” you giggled. “Just ease up on the Mr. Bingley act…?”

“You like Pride and Prejudice?” he chirruped as you slipped your hand into the deep fur of his arm.

“Yeah, I’ve read it,” you chuckled.

The two of you walked along the outer railing of the park for a while until you reached the entrance, and wound your way together through the gathering dusk.

You talked of this and that as you walked, and you found yourself warming more and more to the sweet figure beside you. He was tall, around six foot, and every time you passed a street light, he would pause his conversation and look up at it in fascination.

“You like the lights,” you commented as you passed a pond and the lights of the city reflected in its surface. His delicate feet stalled and he sighed wistfully at the glimmering points of light on the water.

His antennae flattened themselves to his head and he sighed. “Cliché much?” he sighed, wrenching his gaze away and letting it fall briefly on you.

“Maybe,” you said, “But you don’t have to be embarrassed about being enchanted by the lights. I like fairy lights myself – my apartment is full of them.”

“Really?” he asked. “I should like to see that. I mean –” he added, looking bashful again, “I’m not inviting myself in, I’m just… oh dear…”

“It’s alright,” you chuckled.

You left the park, and he walked you to your door. “Listen, would you like to come up?”

“I don’t want to intrude,” he said, letting go of you and stepping back gracefully.  

You held up the hardly-touched smoothie in one hand. “I was going to make some inroads into this,” you said invitingly. “Want to help me out?”

He turned his face to the smoothie cup and the very tip of his long tongue darted out, tasting the air. His antennae pricked up, his fur collar fluffed and his wings fluttered. “Is that… strawberry?”

You nodded.

“Oh gosh,” he said. “I have a horribly sweet tooth, especially for fruit…” He held up the basket of peaches as proof.

“Come on in then,” you said.

“Really?”

“Sure? Why not?”

“We just met!” he said. “I don’t want to sound ungrateful, but… Most humans are terrified of us. They definitely don’t invite us non-humans into their homes!”

You shoved the key into the lock and stepped inside, holding the door open. “Yeah, well, maybe I’m not like the humans you’ve met so far. Remember, I’ve got fairy lights…”

He laughed. “Perhaps I should be the one worrying about my safety if you’re so keen to get me inside.”

“But you’re so big!” you laughed. “I couldn’t take you down even if I tried! Look at me!”

He chuckled and fluttered his wings. “I can be intimidating if I need to, but if there’s smoothie and fairy lights, well…”

You showed him up, and he gasped as you flicked on the lights for him. Dazzled, mesmerised, he stood there, his wings slightly open, his antennae waving softly about, his hands hanging limp at his sides. Tiny fairy lights were trailed around every window-frame, glowing softly, and in a tall, ceramic vase on the floor in one corner, you’d wrapped some around some tall, straight twigs to make a display of them.

“It’s beautiful,” he smiled, turning to meet your gaze. “Truly.”

“Thanks,” you grinned. “Make yourself at home, and here,” you said as you handed him the smoothie cup. “I’ll grab you a straw.”

He paused, his long tongue a heartbeat away from dipping into the drink, and he looked at you, coiling it up again. “Of course, I’m sorry.”

You laughed again, and he looked away, embarrassed.

You shared the drink and sat on the sofa, asking about being a non-human in the city now, and where he lived, and what he did for a living – he was a painter of all things and had a gallery in the downtown area.

You yawned, discovering it was much later than you’d realised, and a second later, you nodded off, tipping sideways and landing against his soft chest. “Oh,” you gasped, jerking awake again. “I’m so sorry.”

“That’s alright,” he smiled. “You can stay there if you want. I’m nocturnal mostly, but you humans aren’t. You should sleep. You’ve had a long day.”

“I…” you started, but he hugged you close with both his right arms, and started to rake his fingers through your hair with his upper left hand.

His coat was so soft, his chest so warm and fluffy, that you snuck your arm around his slim, ochre torso, and held him tight.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this with a complete stranger,” you murmured.

“Well,” he said, leaning down and you felt something soft brush your face.

You cracked your eyes open a little and found his antennae gently searching out the contours of your face. “Well what?” you asked.

“Well, if you let me see you again, and we talk some more, then maybe I won’t be a complete stranger…”

“I’d like that,” you said as you dozed off, slipping under the barrier between waking and dreaming without another thought.

When you woke, the light of morning crept under your curtains and you blinked yourself awake. The throw that you usually kept over the armchair had been draped over you, and Niall was nowhere to be seen.

You sighed, sitting upright. Despite having slept on the sofa, that was probably the best night’s sleep you’d ever had.

You went through the motions of the morning, showering, brushing teeth, breakfasting, etc. and as you opened the door to go to work, you found a small basket of fresh peaches sitting on the threshold, along with a handmade note card.

On it was a hand-painted peach, and on the inside you read, ‘Thank you for our conversation last night. I would very much like to meet you again. If you’d like that as well, will you meet me tonight again at the peach tree? Yours, Niall.’

The end of the working day couldn’t come around quickly enough, and when you clocked off at 16.59, you raced out of the door and pelted to the corner of the park where you found a familiar, tall creature, dressed in elegant white fur, beaming at you.

“You came!” he cried, wings jittering. “I’m so glad.”

___________________________

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[lets-talk-story]

Pied Piper of Hamelin

Hamelin town's in Brunswick, By famous Hanover city; The River Weser, deep and wide, Washes its wall on the southern side; A pleasanter spot you never spied; But, when begins my ditty, Almost five hundred years ago, To see townsfolk suffer so From vermin, was a pity.

Rats! They fought the dogs, and killed the cats, And bit the babies in the cradles, And ate the cheeses out of the vats, And licked the soup from the cook's own ladles, Split open the kegs of salted sprats, Made nests inside men's Sunday hats, And even spoiled the women's chats, By drowning their speaking With shrieking and squeaking In fifty different sharps and flats.

At last the people in a body To the Town Hall came flocking: "'Tis clear," cried they, "our Mayor's a noddy; And as for our Corporation -- shocking To think we buy gowns lined with ermine For dolts that can't or won't determine What's best to rid us of our vermin! You hope, because you're old and obese, To find in the furry civic robe ease? Rouse up, sirs! Give your brains a racking To find the remedy we're lacking, Or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing!" At this the Mayor and Corporation Quaked with a mighty consternation.

An hour they sate in council, At length the Mayor broke silence: "For a guilder I'd my ermine gown sell, I wish I were a mile hence! It's easy to bid one rack one's brain -- I'm sure my poor head aches again I've scratched it so, and all in vain. Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap!" Just as he said this, what should hap At the chamber-door but a gentle tap? "Bless us," cried the Mayor, "What's that?" (With the Corporation as he sat, Looking little though wondrous fat; Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister Than a too-long-opened oyster, Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous For a plate of turtle, green and glutinous.) "Only a scraping of shoes on the mat? Anything like the sound of a rat Makes my heart go pit-a-pat!"

"Come in!" -- the Mayor cried, looking bigger: And in did come the strangest figure! His queer long coat from heel to head Was half of yellow and half of red; And he himself was tall and thin, With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin, And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin, No tuft on cheek nor beard on chin, But lips where smiles went out and in -- There was no guessing his kith and kin! And nobody could enough admire The tall man and his quaint attire. Quoth one: "It's as my great-grandsire, Starting up at the Trump of Doom's tone, Had walked this way from his painted tombstone!"

He advanced to the council-table: And, "Please your honors," said he, "I'm able, By means of a secret charm, to draw All creatures living beneath the sun, That creep, or swim, or fly, or run, After me so as you never saw! And I chiefly use my charm On creatures that do people harm, The mole, and toad, and newt, and viper; And people call me the Pied Piper." (And here they noticed round his neck A scarf of red and yellow stripe, To match with his coat of selfsame cheque; And at the scarf's end hung a pipe; And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying As if impatient to be playing Upon this pipe, as low it dangled Over his vesture, so old-fangled.) "Yet," said he "poor piper as I am, In Tartary I freed the Cham, Last June, from his huge swarms of gnats; I eased in Asia the Nizam Of a monstrous brood of vampire-bats: And, as for what your brain bewilders, If I can rid your town of rats Will you give me a thousand guilders?" "One? fifty thousand!" -- was the exclamation Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation.

Into the street the Piper stept, Smiling first a little smile, As if he knew what magic slept In his quiet pipe the while; Then, like a musical adept, To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled, And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled Like a candle flame where salt is sprinkled; And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered, You heard as if an army muttered; And the muttering grew to a grumbling; And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling; And out of the houses the rats came tumbling: Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats, Brown rats, black rats, grey rats, tawny rats, Grave old plodders, gay young friskers, Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, Cocking tails and pricking whiskers, Families by tens and dozens, Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives -- Followed the Piper for their lives. From street to street he piped, advancing, And step for step, they followed, dancing, Until they came to the river Weser Wherein all plunged and perished -- Save one who, stout as Julius Caesar, Swam across and lived to carry (As he the manuscript he cherished) To Rat-land home his commentary: Which was, "At the first shrill notes of the pipe, I heard a sound as of scraping tripe, And putting apples, wondrous ripe, Into a cider press's gripe: And a moving away of pickle-tub-boards, And a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards, And the drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks, And a breaking the hoops of butter-casks; And it seemed as if a voice (Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery Is breathed) called out, Oh rats, rejoice! The world is grown to one vast drysaltery! So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon, Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon! And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon, All ready staved, like a great sun shone Glorious scarce an inch before me, Just as methought it said, 'Come, bore me!' -- I found the Weser rolling o'er me."

You should have heard the Hamelin people Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple. "Go," cried the Mayor, "and get long poles! Poke out the nests and block up the holes! Consult with carpenters and builders, And leave in our town not even a trace Of the rats!" -- when suddenly up the face Of the Piper perked in the market-place, With a, "First, if you please, my thousand guilders!"

A thousand guilders! The Mayor looked blue; So did the Corporation, too. For council dinners made rare havoc With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock; And half the money would replenish Their cellar's biggest butt with Rhenish. To pay this sum to a wandering fellow With a gypsy coat of red and yellow! "Beside," quoth the Mayor, with a knowing wink, "Our business was done at the river's brink; We saw with our eyes the vermin sink, And what's dead can't come to life, I think. So, friend, we're not the folks to shrink From the duty of giving you something for drink, And a matter of money to put in your poke; But, as for the guilders, what we spoke Of them, as you very well know, was in joke. Beside, our losses have made us thrifty: A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty!"

The Piper's face fell, and he cried, "No trifling! I can't wait, beside! I've promised to visit, by dinner-time Bagdat, and accept the prime Of the Head Cook's pottage, all he's rich in, For having left, in the Caliph's kitchen, Of a nest of scorpions no survivor: With him I proved no bargain-driver, With you, don't think I'll bait a stiver! And folks who put me in a passion May find me pipe to another fashion."

"How?" cried the Mayor, "d'ye think I brook Being worse treated than a cook? Insulted by a lazy ribald With idle pipe and vesture piebald? You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst, Blow your pipe there till you burst!"

Once more he stept into the street; And to his lips again Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane; And ere he blew three notes (such sweet Soft notes as yet musician's cunning Never gave the enraptured air) There was a rustling, that seemed like a bustling Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling, Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering, Little hands clapping, and little tongues chattering, And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scattering, Out came the children running. All the little boys and girls, With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls, And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls, Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after The wonderful music with shouting and laughter.

The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood As if they were changed into blocks of wood, Unable to move a step, or cry To the children merrily skipping by, -- Could only follow with the eye That joyous crowd at the Piper's back. But how the Mayor was on the rack, And the wretched Council's bosoms beat, As the Piper turned from the High Street To where the Weser rolled its waters Right in the way of their sons and daughters! However he turned from South to West, And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed, And after him the children pressed; Great was the joy in every breast. "He never can cross that mighty top! He's forced to let the piping drop, And we shall see our children stop!" When, lo! as they reached the mountain-side, A wondrous portal opened wide, As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed; And the Piper advanced and the children followed, And when all were in to the very last, The door in the mountain-side shut fast. Did I say, all? No! One was lame, And could not dance the whole of the way; And in after years, if you would blame His sadness, he was used to say, -- "It's dull in our town since my playmates left! I can't forget that I'm bereft Of all the pleasant sights they see, Which the Piper also promised me; For he led us, he said, to a joyous land, Joining the town and just at hand, Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew, And flowers put forth a fairer hue, And everything was strange and new; The sparrows were brighter than the peacocks here, And their dogs outran our fallow deer, And honey-bees had lost their stings, And horses were born with eagles' wings; And just as I became assured My lame foot would be speedily cured, The music stopped and I stood still, And found myself outside the hill, Left alone against my will, To go now limping as before, And never hear of that country more!"

Alas, alas for Hamelin! There came into many a burgher's pate A text which says, that heaven's Gate Opes to the rich at as easy rate As the needle's eye takes a camel in! The Mayor sent East, West, North, and South To offer the Piper by word of mouth, Wherever it was men's lot to find him, Silver and gold to his heart's content, If he'd only return the way he went, And bring the children behind him. But when they saw 'twas a lost endeavor, And Piper and dancers were gone forever, They made a decree that lawyers never Should think their records dated duly If, after the day of the month and year, These words did not as well appear, "And so long after what happened here On the Twenty-second of July, Thirteen hundred and Seventy-six;" And the better in memory to fix The place of the children's last retreat, They called it, the Pied Piper's Street -- Where any one playing on pipe or tabor Was sure for the future to lose his labor. Nor suffered they hostelry or tavern To shock with mirth a street so solemn; But opposite the place of the cavern They wrote the story on a column, And on the great church-window painted The same, to make the world acquainted How their children were stolen away, And there it stands to this very day. And I must not omit to say That in Transylvania there's a tribe Of alien people that ascribe The outlandish ways and dress On which their neighbors lay such stress, To their fathers and mothers having risen Out of some subterraneous prison Into which they were trepanned Long time ago in a mighty band Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land, But how or why, they don't understand.

So, Willy, let you and me be wipers Of scores out with all men -- especially pipers; And, whether they pipe us free from rats or from mice, If we've promised them aught, let us keep our promise.

[sabraeal]

Desert & Reward: Chapter 6

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5

Obiyuki Week, Day 1: Pragma Practical love, founded on reason or duty

Obi is buzzing when he steps back into that darkened room, every nerve prickling under his skin like the air before lightning strikes. Not even velvet and down can muffle the feeling; it’s worse when he feels it settle against it his back, when he stares up at the ceiling and his body remembers a night just like this, a conversation so different from this one --

He worried then, how he would bear it. How he’d live with a heart in his chest. Ha. Ha.

In three days time, he’ll be married. To Miss. Unimaginable to that boy in a bed three sizes too large for him, to that boy in the biggest bed he’d ever had.

Until he became a lord. His head aches. How did he even let himself get here, how did he get himself tied in so tight with all these princes and titles and intrigues?

He rolls to his side, letting his eyes drift shut. In three days time, he’ll be married --

But he’ll never be a husband.

Against all expectation, Obi sleeps.

Sleeps. Not a fitful doze, woken up every hour by some noise, a lump in his lump-less mattress, or an intrusive thought but -- an actual full night of rest, the sun sitting high outside his window when he finally wakes to the soft sounds of drawers and doors opening and closing, of cloth being pulled out and then hurriedly put away.

Obi blinks, lets out a four-letter groan, and mutters, “Is it after ten?”

“We’re at court,” Yori tells him in his entirely unnecessary way. He putters about, industriously picking out something for him to disagree with before breakfast. “Mr Morel said I was to have you keep city hours, though he begs that you do not get used to it.”

The idea of “getting used” to regular sleep would have him on the ground, if this bed wasn’t so damn comfortable. Instead, he rolls himself upright, feet dangling over the carpet. The pattern marks it as Watese; just as out of place here as he is. “Morel would rather keel over from an aneurysm than beg anything from me.”

Yori clucks, affecting the sort of shock that reminds him of a softer, more lined face. That he's homesick for any part of the south surprises him, but that fact that it’s Mrs Carre at least takes the sting out of it. “You are his lord. Mr Morel is ready to accommodate your every whim.”

Hilarious. Amazing that the kid could say it with a straight face. “Like you?”

“Of course, my lord.”

“Well, in that case...” He plucks the cravat laid so neatly on the bed, and tosses it. It flutters, like a bird with a broken wing, before crumpling on the floor. “I won’t be wearing that.”

Yori stares at it as if one of the barn cats has brought in a less-than-lively gift. “Well,” he says, so mild, “I can’t allow my lord to embarrass himself either.”

He can’t help the way his lips spread, the way his teeth bare, the way even muscle of him coils like he’s spoiling for a fight.

“Which is it, Yori?” he presses, waggling his eyebrows in challenge. “You can’t have both.”

“--And that is all they were able to come up with.” His Majesty settles back in his chair, head tilted back, long fingers pinching at the bridge of his nose. “A list of encryption that it cannot be.”

Obi pulls at his cravat, tied punishingly tight. He should know better than to antagonize domestics -- they always win. “Well, knowing where not to look is almost as good as knowing where to look.”

“Almost,” His Majesty agrees. “But not quite.”

The king has always seemed young to Obi, especially when he’s always next to lords and councilors that could have been his father, but the way his shoulders round in as he sits, the way small lines crinkle at the edge of his eyes --

He looks his age. Older maybe.

It’s almost too intimate seeing him like this, seeing him frustrated, and Obi drags his gaze down, staring at the list in his lap. Nearly two dozen clerks working for months, and all that they’ve made is a list of things they don’t know.

“I am sorry though.”

He blinks up from the list, head tilted. “Sorry?”

From beneath lidded eyes, midnight blue stares back at him, fixed. “Of course. I hate to be wasting your time when you have such a happy occasion to prepare for.”

Only His Majesty could make it sound like an accusation, a challenge. Obi shifts in his seat, glad that he wore the stupid cravat -- now, at least, the king wouldn’t see the guilty flush working its way up his neck. “No trouble at all, Elder Highness. I’ve been told it’s all well in hand, so --”

“But surely you have some preparations of you own to make.” His Majesty slides a pointed gaze over his jacket, his trousers. “Fittings for your new clothes, at least.”

Obi stares. “My what?”

A smile curls dangerously on his mouth. “Oh my. It seems there’s some work to do yet, Lord Obi.”

The thing is: he has clothes. Nice ones, trunks full of them, all made from fabrics he can hardly pronounce and animals he’s only vaguely aware of. Damask. Jacquard. Ermine. Vulcana. There can’t be a need for more.

“It’s not about having clothes, my lord.” Yori speaks with the sort of impatient patience that implies that sainthood is certain from this conversation alone. “It’s about having the right clothes.”

He has more clothes in those trunks than he’s had the whole rest of his life put together, even as Master’s aide. “I have a dozen types of pants.”

“Trousers,” Yori corrects, weary. “And none of these are meant for a wedding, let alone your own.”

Life was easier when any fancy party just required him to wear dress blacks. “Then what are they for?”

“Oh I don’t know,” his valet drawls, flicking pointedly through endless black. “Perhaps a funeral?”

Obi pulls his mouth thin, trying to stretch his spine, to gain a few imperious inches. Yori remains unimpressed. “I doubt His Majesty has to put up with this from his valet.”

“His Majesty owns a pair of pantaloons,” Yori claps back flatly. “And knows about colors outside of a monochromatic scale. Yesterday, I saw his pocket square was scarlet.”

Obi refuses to believe that he might have a point.

“Black,” he starts, “is always in fashion --”

“Fine,” Yori concedes with a sigh, eyeing the mess of finery littered across the room. Every flat surface has been press-ganged into service, waistcoats and jackets and all conceivable level of pants and hosiery have been strewn over them, a gallery of unworn clothes his new life has acquired without his knowing.

Any of his old clothes -- his black pants, the filmy black shirts, his good boots -- are suspiciously absent. Obi doubts it’s an accident.

“I’ll grant you the black suit.” Yori’s tone implies it would be easier to give up his first child than this. “But only if you will have a colored waistcoat.”

Obi lets a sharp smile pull at his lips. “If you insist --”

“Not including the brown wool,” he amends quickly, casting a dubious look at the thing. “No wool at all. And a real color. Watered silk or finer.”

Victory has never tasted so sweet. “Then I think we’ve come to a harmonious --”

The door knocks so hard it rattles.

Yori’s eyes dart to his, ask him a question he doesn’t know how to answer. No, he doesn’t know who this is; yes, it could very well bee a majesty or a highness or a your grace.

Somehow, when he hadn’t been watching, that became his life.

Reluctant, Yori turns toward the door, moving jerky, slow, like broken clockwork. “I...suppose I’ll get that, my lord.”

Obi bites down, caging the no, please behind his teeth. It wouldn’t do him any good; he’s served Wistal for far too long to think he can avoid what’s on the other side of that door by keeping it shut.

It opens, revealing dark hair, a casual lean, and a rugged scar right across an equally rough nose. He knew he should have kept that door closed.

“Good, you’re already halfway to naked,” Shidnote drawls smugly, sauntering into the room like he owns it, casting an appreciative eye over the tornado of finery that litters the room. “Saves us some time.”

Yori casts an anxious look between them. “Should I--? Are you --?”

“It’s Sir Shidnote.” His Majesty’s me. Obi bites back a grimace. “His Majesty’s aide.”

The looks shifts from anxious to accusatory; his valet far too well trained to blurt it out now, but Obi can see that he had perhaps -- perhaps -- been remiss in relaying his exact position at court.

“Well, we can’t all parley our connections to a title,” Shidnote notes, as if he isn’t a count of somewhere, like his use of sir isn’t just considered an eccentric affectation of some country noble at this point. “In any case, are you coming, Sir Obi?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Just where am I supposed to be going?”

“His Majesty said you needed new clothes, didn’t he?” His mouth twitches at the corners, ominously. “Well, in his infinite generosity, he asked a personal favor of his most favorite tailor, and now you have an appointment to be prodded with the same pins that touch his royal ass.”

Shidnote is enjoying this far too much.

He gives a mocking bob, holding out a hand toward the door, his grin so wide it crinkles his scar. “Now, I’m sure you’d just love to come this way, my lord.”

“I couldn’t possibly,” Obi hems, giving the man’s hands a wide berth. “The wedding -- it’s hardly two days away, and --”

“Oh, don’t you worry about that, Sir Obi,” Shidnote drawls, arm hooking around his shoulders like a vice. “His Majesty’s got is so everything will be ready in a real hurry. Practically shutting down the shop to dress you.”

Obi just manages a, “How…thoughtful.”

“Oh yeah,” Shidnote says, in something just more subdued than a crow. “Izana’s got a whole lot of those.

He expects Yori to be there – after all, he is Obi’s valet, and he gives him a token amount of control over his sartorial choices, even if he tends to nix three-quarters of them. What he does not expect, not at all, is –

“Well,” Kiki hums, steam curling off her tea, legs crossed, “I don’t think even the maestro will be able to fit you with all those clothes on.”

He spins on his heel, the door barely a meter away but Zakura catches him, using those few extra inches to keep him firmly planted on the carpet.

“Come on now, Sir Obi,” he grunts, the both of them struggling at the door. “Take your fittings like a man.”

“You get undressed with a peanut gallery,” Obi growls back, straining against their deadlock. “I’m sure I have something frilly enough in a trunk somewhere.”

“You don’t,” Kiki deadpans, “unless you want to make a wedding suit entirely out of shoulder capes, so I’m told.”

Obi glares at his traitorous valet, but Yori remains unrepentant – even if he does angle Miss Kiki and her seat between them. “They’re dashing.”

“Is that what Shirayuki says?” Kiki inquires mildly, eyebrows twitching above her teacup. “Come on, it’s bad enough it’s last minute, and there’s so much to do.”

Obi relents, stalking over to where the dais lurks, unassuming. He knows better; people with pins and opinions use these things. “It’s just a wedding suit.”

Three pairs of eyes settle on him, a mix of pity and incredulity.

“Oh no,” Kiki says, setting down her cup. “You don’t just need a wedding suit.”

“But I have clothes,” Obi insists as the racks are wheeled out, endless trousers and waistcoats and cravats surrounding him. “Even things for parties –“

“You need new ones,” Kiki tells him, firm. “Ones that aren’t entirely black.”

“I have waistcoats –“

“Of watered silk in solid colors,” she finished, unenthused. “I’ve heard. Not enough.”

Obi huffs, shoulders rounding. “I just don’t see why I need one for lunch and for the wedding and for breakfast –“

“Oh, that’s just to start,” Kiki says, “wait until you hear about your honeymoon wardrobe.”

“My --?” He turns, fixing Shidnote with a glare. “Just what are you doing?”

The man’s dropped his hulking form down into a chair, looking for all the world like he’s just stumbled into a dramatic, personal duel. “Oh, just taking in the show. Don’t mind me.”

“I don’t --”

“Don’t worry, Sir Zakura,” Kiki drawls, corner of her lips twitching, “I’m used to ignoring useless commentary.”

He’s given a reprieve around the time that food should be coming into the picture – which of course is another thing people want to discuss with him, though that at least sounds pleasant. Being plied with a hundred hors d’oeuvres while the maestro and his team frantically stitch together the first of his clothes sounds like the sort of break he can get behind, even if he is under strict instructions not to gain weight – not a single pound, sir, the Maestro had impressed up him, it might ruin the lay of your trousers.

A great pity, Miss Kiki sympathizes, entirely too amused.

Obi picks at his shoulder, certain there’s still pins trapped there, feeling them prick wherever his shirt brushes against his skin.

“Must you be so dramatic?” Kiki sighs as they take the corner, scowling as his shoulder twitch, trying to dislodge any wayward pins.

“I can feel them,” he insists. “They’re right --”

And that, of course, is when Her Majesty turns the corner, her gaggle of young maids bobbing behind her like ducklings trailing their mother. He tenses, taking in the pleased curl of her smile, the way her eyes light when she makes him at the other end of the hall, and he can’t understand why, not until –

Not until her ladies part, just so, and he catches red flash between their finery, and those wide, familiar eyes --

“Obi!” A small hand darts out, grasping at his arm, just below the elbow – “Ow!”

“Oh, Miss! I --” He watches her pluck one of those wicked pins from his sleeve. “From the fittings. I think they’re all over. I’m a very handsome trap, I know.”

She giggles, ducking her head. “Me too. I think --”

“Lady Shirayuki, it’s about time --”

“Obi, we’re on a schedule --”

He meets her eyes with a grin. He leans in, muttering, “I heard the groom wasn’t supposed to see the bride before the wedding, but this is ridiculous.”

She flushes red, but smiles back, leaning in –

Her Majesty comes up behind her, guiding her forward with a firm hand about her waist, only moments before Kiki does the same, just – less gentle.

“You’ll have plenty of time to see each other,” the queen promises with an arch smile. “…On your wedding night.”

He stumbles at that, and by the time he’s recovered, Miss has been firmly swept away, only close enough to meet his gaze before they turn the next corner.

“Come on,” Kiki grunts, shoving him. “We don’t have time for this.”

“I should be about to see my fiancée alone,” he grouses, “let alone with a half dozen chaperones in a hallway.”

“Nope.” Kiki pushes him along, towards the delicious aromas wafting down the hall. “You’re a disaster.”

“What, afraid we’d find some way to cancel it?” he taunts, pulling himself to his full height so he can properly loom. “Two of us alone together, there’s nothing we can’t –“

“No,” she sighs, rolling her eyes. “If we leave you alone, Shirayuki will find some way to get you to elope.”

“I think the fit is wrong on the trousers,” Kiki drawls, holding out her cup for one of the assistants to fill. “Do you have a cut that’s tighter?”

“Tighter?” Obi yelps. “What, do you want them to paint them on?”

“If they must,” she informs him mildly. “Anyway, maestro – tighter?”

“Of course, my lady,” the man says, scurrying off.

“You’re indecent,” Obi accuses, only half joking.

She lifts her brows, pointed. “I’m fashionable. And if you have the thighs to pull it off, I’m not quite sure why you’re complaining.”

His mouth pulls thin. “I have a valet, you know. I can dress myself.”

“I was under the distinct impression having a valet meant you didn’t dress yourself.” She sets down her cup. “Besides, he’s paid to agree with you.”

Funny, how that has never come up in his time with his. “Yori, what do you think?”

Yori looks like he might faint from the attention. “Whatever pleases you, my lord, I’m sure will be --”

“You don’t need to impress me with obedience, sir,” Kiki informs him. “I’ve already seen him dress himself for four years.”

“Hey –“

“Oh, in that case.” Yori’s eyes narrow, taking in the roominess of the trouser. “Tighter, definitely.”

The luncheon is billed as an informal affair, but Obi’s been in Wistal long enough to know what that means: look as fancy as you can, but don’t look like you’re trying. He’d tried to pitch his normal trousers, loose and comfort, but he’d hardly gotten a word in before Kiki had said, buckskins, and now here he is, in a pair that was cut to please everyone but him.

Miss’s hand burns even through his coat, and when she squeezes it, reassuring, he’s sure his knees wobble, just the slightest bit.

“You look very nice,” she murmurs, body swaying into his as they take their seat at the head table, just the two of them. He’d worried that she wouldn’t be able to do this, play the pleased, loving fiancee, but in the palest pink silk and lace, her eyes gazing up at him so wide and earnest --

He almost forgets that this is all just an -- an arrangement.

“Isn’t that supposed to be my line?” he teases, sliding in her chair. “It’s my job to tell you how pretty you look first.”

She flushes, ducking her head to hide it. “I thought it might be nice for you to hear it for once.”

His hands clench on his thighs, slick. “Miss is too kind. I’ll get spoiled if you keep up like this.”

Her hand tangles with his beneath the linens. “Good.”

“Shirayuki!”

They startle apart, glancing up to see who calls out --

“Garrack.” Miss goggles, cheeks flushed. “I didn’t know you were invited.”

Garrack is hardly dressed much different than normal, save the lack of a white coat. True to form, she took the invitation at face value, and is wearing the sort of smug expression that says she knows exactly how much it’s annoying the glittering crowd behind her.

“I may be lacking the heap of titles that usually is a prerequisite to these things, but I have one that matters.” She grins, all teeth. “It seems these nobles are a superstitious lot. They treat Chief Pharmacist like it means Head Evil Fairy and invite me to everything, just in case. I usually do them the courtesy of declining, but --” her eyes run knowingly over the both of them -- “how could I miss the luncheon of my favorite student?”

Miss demures, flushing all the way to the tips of her ears, and Obi can’t help himself -- “Higata will be heartbroken.”

“Oh, he knows where he stands,” Garrack says, nonchalant. “I hope you don’t mind, Shirayuki, but I know you won’t have much time the next few days, so if we could...?”

“Oh!” Miss gives him an apologetic look. “Do you mind? I didn’t have time to send a report before I left Wilant.”

His chest tightens, thinking about the hurry she had left in to make it here before him, how she must have left the lab in complete disarray -- “Don’t worry,” he manages with a warm smile. “I’ll hold down the fort.”

He watches her go, swaying through the crowd as Garrack leads her onto the balcony, the only place where it’s possible for them to have privacy.

“I suppose I’m obliged to congratulate you on your happy nuptials.”

He drags his gaze away, letting them fix on black hair and bird-blue eyes. Kihal looks as comfortable in her dress as he does in his trousers. “Though I hope you know, Shirayuki’s a saint to take you.”

“You know, I’m a bit vague on the whole…peerage bit. But marquis does outrank countess doesn’t it?” His widens his eyes, so innocent. “Why, am I your liege lord?”

“Thankfully not,” she bites out, “gods forbid. And to think, you’ll kiss Shirayuki with that mouth.”

He won’t, but there’s no need for her to know that. “Jealous?”

“You wish.” Her smile turns sly as she gives the balcony a pointed perusal. “Or maybe not.”

He doesn’t deign to give an answer, not when they both know it so well.

“I suspect you must recognize the room,” Kihal begins, in a completely different tone.

“Not even slightly,” he admits. “This was all arranged by your soon-to-be beloved brother. I could put names to faces if I tried, but...”

“Is that so?” He voice is deceptively light. “It seems like half the south is here. Not the Forenzos, of course, they never come to anything, but everyone else...”

Obi looks out over the room -- Count Luigis there, half the coast over there --

“They must be quite pleased,” she remarks, “after all, a margravine? From Tanbarun? What opportunities that will open up.”

“There you are.” Master steps up beside her, hand solicitously at her back. Kihal leans back into it, just slightly; it’s not a conscious move, but one that shows their ease with one another. Obi cannot help but wonder just what Master has been doing with these years in Wistal. “I see you’ve rushed to give Obi your congratulations.”

Kihal’s mouth twitches, fighting the urge to scowl. “Something like that.”

“I’ve been trying to make my way over for the past quarter of an hour,” Zen admits, “but my brother keeps throwing people at me.”

“Funny,” Obi drawls, gaze fixed on him. “Been a lot of that, lately. Must run in the family.”

Zen stares at him, cheeks flushed. “Obi--”

“You boys can talk later,” Kihal sighs, tugging at Zen. “Let’s go give our congratulations to Shirayuki now.”

“I want to see the green again,” Kiki says, head balanced on two fingers. “And maybe that gold. And the scarlet, there on that rack, with the white.”

“My lady,” Yori interjects nervously. “My lord prefers darker –“

“Your lord’s entire wardrobe is black,” she drawls, flipping through the rack that been rolled over to her. “His opinion is invalid.”

“He’s still standing here,” Obi reminds her.

“And he’s going to try on the scarlet damask with the white suit.” Her eyebrows tilt in challenge. “Isn’t he?”

Obi deflates. “Yes.”

Yori stares at Kiki like she’s revealed herself to be superhuman, and angel in human guise. “I think the gold, my lady.”

Kiki considers the suggestion. “And definitely the gold as well.”

It’s only meal service that brings Miss back to his side; once she leaves her impromptu meeting with Garrack, she barely makes it more than five steps total, completely overrun with well-wishers and old acquaintances. Obi makes more than one attempt to reach her -- after all, if they’re going to sell this whole happy couple thing, they might try being within arm’s reach -- but he’s ambushed by his own parade of speculative mamas and young bucks eager for tonight.

“My, my.” It takes everything not to jump at the words, spoke too close. His Majesty emerges from behind him, champagne bubbling in his flute and smile curling one edge of his lips. “You’ve been quite busy, haven’t you?”

“From what I’ve been hearing, I’ll be busier tonight.” Obi takes a moment to sip at his own drink. “Is there some wedding tradition I’m missing?”

“Why, I thought you of all people would know.” His Majesty looks uncomfortably close to gleeful. “Isn’t it considered common for young grooms to go out before their wedding night, drink unlikely amounts of alcohol --?”

“A stag night?” he yelps. “This is -- they’re talking about my stag night?”

And eyebrow lifts, challenging. “Surely you didn’t think my brother would be remiss in his duties.”

“No...” He’d just thought it would be a think only commoners did, something Master only knew about from slumming with the guardsmen, not --

Not some grand soiree, inviting every nobleman old enough to hold his liquor and young enough to enjoy it. He’d expected Master and Mister and maybe even Miss Kiki, but this --

“Why, even I have to admit I’m eager to see what he’s come up with,” His Majesty drawls.

Obi stares. “You...you’re....to...?”

“Of course.” He steps closer, expression shuttering to something far more serious. “Though we’ll have some far more pressing business to take care of before then.”

“What else could there be?”

His mouth pulls flat, expression guarded. “Why, the marriage contract, of course.” His Majesty fixes him with a meaningful look. “Tanbarun will be....eager to see it, when all this comes out.”

[decadentrpg-blog]

WELCOME BECKY, YOU’VE BEEN ACCEPTED FOR THE ROLE OF PROSERPINA BLACK

Admins Note: The Queen of master manipulation has arrived and I couldn’t be more excited! I absolutely adored the power and ambition that your Proserpina exudes. But as high and mighty as she is, every queen has their weakness too. She speaks sharply, glistens like a diamond and commands attention as any Black could. I can’t wait to see the schemes she creates and the strings she threads across all who fall for her ploys. Your faceclaim request for Vittoria Ceretti has been approved. Congratulations on your acceptance again, please make sure to head your way to the checklist and submit your account within the next 24 hours!

OUT OF CHARACTER.

Name / Alias: Becky

Pronouns: she/her

Age: 21

Timezone: PST

IN CHARACTER APPLICATION.

Full Name:

PROSERPINA. In actuality, is there a more suitable moniker for her than Proserpina? A woman in two parts: sweet Spring, the perfume of roses blooming from the heart of her, wildflower honey tone, and cruel Winter, the carmine of her lips turning morbid with fanged smile, poison steeped words cocked and primed. An ode to a goddess who is all cycles and rebirth, manipulating herself to be everyone’s dream of spring, only to reveal a heart of desolate winter; she wears both flowers and sin equally well.

EVE. God’s beloved creation, the world’s first woman, crafted from flesh and bone of man — by man’s account, a woman who had it all: paradise, the love of a God, the adoration of a husband — and the first to gamble it all for knowledge. By any and all means, Proserpina can relate: what good is having it all without the fear of losing it all? Sugar tastes all the sweeter after acid, as victory is to loss. She embraces the implications of her middle name with pride — if it were her in Eve’s place, she’d have eaten the apple whole. And so, she is what she is called: temptation’s mistress, creation divine, agony’s sweet kiss.

BLACK. The most noble and ancient House of Black. Toujours Pur. Always pure. It’s a mantra that’s been repeated over and over, all but branded into every recess of her brain. She is very much the pinnacle of her house’s ideal — dark hair and romantic features, sharp in all the wrong ways and beautiful in all the right ones. Beautiful, empty beasts, does the House of Black raise, and she is no exception.

Sexuality: “Bisexual” — She hardly likes to define such things as pleasure, which to her, is without boundaries: and as Oscar Wilde once wrote: “To define is to limit.” She doesn’t mind men, both in that she won’t begrudge them their presence, and that she barely heeds them past a certain point, all at once — but she does enjoy toying with everyone and anyone. Simply put, she enjoys cutting her teeth on the fractured egos of men, and enjoys lavishing her attention and affection on the lovelier things in life, namely, women.

Gender/Pronouns: cis, she/her

Hogwarts House: Slytherin ( expounded upon in headcanons. )

Head canons:

KNOWLEDGE IS POWER. A firm believer in the idea that if you have the information, you hold the cards, she was a little bit of a dilemma for the hat during her sorting. Despite the very firm and sure Slytherin she eventually got, the hat debated the merits of sorting her into Ravenclaw — purely for the half-starved approach she takes to all things learnable, gorging herself on knowledge, insatiably learning. She was always near top if not top of her classes in Hogwarts, but her quest for knowledge hardly stopped at classroom limits; any tidbit about anyone was considered useful and interesting, and stored away for further examination. After all, you can’t be a mastermind if you’ve no mind of your own.

POWER IS POWER. And yet, ultimately, she was sorted into Slytherin. Knowledge is nothing if you don’t know how to convert it, how to wield it, weaponize it. She may share traits with Ravenclaw in her pursuit of knowledge, but rarely, if ever, is she satisfied with leaving her knowledge in theory, in abstract — no, knowledge in practice is what delights her most. A well uttered spell, or a difficult non-verbal cast, or even the right whisper in the right ear — knowledge is nothing but a whimsical theory if not put to use.

It’s this inborn cunning and ambition that surely sees her into Slytherin.

HEIR UNAPPARENT. The elder sister to a single brother, she hardly is slated to inherit much more than the Black name, although she is privy to the deep wallets it comes with, until, at least, she’s married off into some other pure-blooded family. And yet, it was soon apparent to her as it was to her parents that her brother could barely hold a candle to her own mantle of manipulation and conquest. And so the deal was struck after her graduation, perhaps to both her father’s dismay and begrudging pride: he would turn a blind eye to how she conducted affairs and who she consorted with, and she would manage the Black empire from the shadow of her younger brother, ever watchful, and ever-present to insure that their fortune never diminished, even as he ruled in name. It barely bothered her; the shadows were where she best operated — far less scrutiny. After all, what was one more puppet to her collection? Aelius would appreciate the company, she was sure.

She’s been sent to New York to scope out the possibility of expanding business over to the Americas, and it’s a rush, gambling with the family name and fortune. After winning for so long, she imagines failure must taste sweet — the only flavor she’s never quite sampled, only knowledge she’s not quite accrued — and that subsequent victories would be even more so.

GRACE OF BIRTH. Proserpina was born on May 22nd, making her a Gemini. Gemini’s are witty, charming and resourceful, but commonly reviled for being two-faced. Known for fun wordplay, Proserpina takes that trait to another level, subtle barbs laced across the flat of her tongue, sharp enough to flay the flesh off any unsuspecting person who gets too close. She incites and thus is insightful; she wields words as one might a sword or a wand.

The twins Castor and Pollux rule over Gemini, and so represents the inherent duality of her — both serpent and flower, both spring and winter. Intelligent and adaptable, Proserpina can read the room and anybody in her line of sight like no other. Listen closely, and people will tell you how to conquer them.

STYLE, NOT FASHION. Proserpina rarely cleaves to society’s fashion standards; this is to say she is not fashionable, no, never one to be influenced when she can be the one influencing, but also to say she is never out of style. Expensive cuts of jewelry are commonly found tastefully adorning her figure, as are luxurious cuts of mink and ermine, and dark swathes of silk and velvet cling lovingly to her like a second shadow.

WANDLORE. Yew wood, dragon heartstring, 12 ½ inches, pliable — an unusual wand by all means: deceptively dainty, elegant, light in coloration, but a powerhouse when it comes to spellwork.

Yew — a rare wood, with a rumored predilection for the dark, and a notorious dislike for mediocrity and timid owners, hewn from a tree that is all at once long-lived and life-sapping with its toxins. It’s a contradiction wrapped in shadows, perfect for her, by any stretch of the imagination. That said, Proserpina tries to minimize usage of her poisonous wand, powerful though it may be.

Dragon Heartstring —  known for being a particularly strong and flamboyant core, it’s quick to learn, much like its owner. And much like her, the wand derives its power from the core, able to master spells quickly and executing them without hesitance.

Pliable — wands are known to be extensions of their owners, and whilst stubborn and inflexible in her ideals, Proserpina is undoubtedly adaptable, always landing on her feet, no matter the situation. Such is the life of the eternal victor.

HIGHEST HEIGHTS, DEEPEST DEPTHS. Proserpina’s patronus is a fox: naturally cunning and brilliantly charismatic. People with foxes as their patronus are known to be observant, ambitious, and manipulative. Silver tongued, and willing to use other such skills to their own benefit, the fox often gets their way. It’s fitting for her, is it not? People watch as the fleet footed vixen erupts from the tip of her wand, wiling around the crowd, curling around her heels.

Her boggart happens to be herself — her, but different in several subtle ways, almost imperceptible to any but herself. She sees the wear and tear on her clothes, the hollow of her cheeks, the fear in her own eyes. Her boggart is herself, but ruined. A foolish woman fears nothing, a cowardly woman everything, and a wise woman, herself — secure in the knowledge that nothing will ruin her more than herself.

CONNECTIONS.

FOND // FAWNED. She remembers her first impression of the girl: a little fawn, wide-eyed and on tenuous legs, walking as if she was haunting the halls, quiet as a mouse. It was something endearing, to watch as she grew into the loveliness bequeathed to her. Back then, she was wildly off limits — purely something to keep a keen eye over, a budding flower in the greenhouse that needed the pests swatted away, needed space to grow — but recently, her little doe’s found a voice and a blooming bit of courage, and has come to play. And who is she to deny pretty girls that which they desire?

KINGMAKER. Some people are socially adept, good at reading any room they walk into, good at reading people — and others, not so much. Those who don’t know how to rule shouldn’t, in her honest opinion, but if he wants so badly to play king, then she’ll let him — so long as he never forgets who’s granted him the throne. She plays by chess’ rules: kings are the weakest pieces on the board, mere figureheads. Everyone knows queens are much more valuable — but if he wants to take the flak for the decisions she makes, who is she to turn away a blank check?

HEARTBREAKER. Every connection that Proserpina has ever made serves a purpose, be it for social advancement, business connections, or even simply for pleasure, there is always an underlying motive that serves in her best interest. Her relationship with Genevieve was no different — another bridge to cross or burn, and she thought she was prepared. Not only prepared, but scared to proceed without burning: the closer the relationship got to not purely serving her best interest, the more control seemed to flee from her grasps. So she broke it off, expecting never to look back, and yet as Orpheus could not tear his eyes from Eurydice, a backwards glance was all it took to doom her once more: confirmation that she wouldn’t be able to help herself should the opportunity present itself.

In Character Paragraph:

She sighs when she lands in the fireplace, brushing nonexistent floo powder off her coat, stepping out into the familiar sitting room, looking for any signs of movement, searching for wards. There is neither scurry nor spell to be found, so she continues out on her way, heels clicking ostensibly loud against the marble tiling of the floor; usually, that’s the way she likes it — to be heralded before her arrival — but she so enjoys catching people off guard, at their truest, if one will, when she has business to attend to, so she slips the heels off and makes her way down the halls of the manor to the study on silent feet. The floor is shockingly cold against the pads of her feet, but it bothers her not — not when she’s single-minded in following the dark hallways of the house to the only point of illumination.

The study door is cracked open slightly, and she pushes in, meticulously careless, letting the door swing out and ricochet off the adjacent wall, eyes on the figure pacing the study. The crashing of the door startles him, and he whips around, blue hex warming the tip of his wand and then slamming into the doorframe next to her head; she turns to see the miniature crater blasted into the expensive wooden frame, and it sends her heart flying with adrenaline, even as she turns back to the man. She could easily repair the damage done with a wave of her fingers, so simple is the spell, but she hardly wants to afford the man any measure of convenience.

“You missed,” she notes instead, stalking closer to him, hips swaying, smile cocked; she, the predator, he, her unwitting prey.

“Merlin, Proserpina,” he swears crossly. “You can’t come sneaking into my house in the dead of night— this isn’t a joke. If a hex hits you, it will hurt.”

“Do you promise it will?” she asks archly, craning forward as he leans back.

He doesn’t dignify her with a response, just turns from her.

“Fine,” she dismisses with a sigh, waving a hand vaguely, moving once more to perch on top of his desk, errantly pushing stacks of scrolls and tomes to clear a spot for herself, uncaring of the mess she makes. “I’m here for business anyway, not pleasure.”

“Then you should have owled,” he says coldly, his back insistently to her, as if in hopes of dissuading her stay. He peers at the spines of all the books lining the shelves, eyes flicking over each worn title with a nervous celerity that tells her he’s not actually looking at them.

She takes advantage of this lapse in attention, shuffles through the papers on his desk; this prompts his concern, and he turns around. He starts with long strides over to her, a warning on his lips, a frown brewing in the purse of his lips — but not before she finds what she’s looking for. She holds the envelope between her index and middle finger, displaying the wax seal of her family, tilting her head to the right, unimpressed. “I did,” she drawls, impressing her point further most unnecessarily. “I don’t take well to being ignored.”

He moves to grab the letter, and she jerks it away from his grasp, raising her eyebrows in reproach.

“No, no, darling,” she coos, all sucrose condescension. “This letter was a limited time sort of offer, and I’m afraid my patience has quite expired since.”

Silence swells, stifling, between them, as she holds his gaze, and he hers. He doesn’t want to back down, that much is evident — and yet, it becomes increasingly apparent who has the upper hand, and it’s with a sigh that he relents. “So now…?” He asks, swallowing concealed distress.

“Now,” she purrs, contented. “You take what comes. If I say jump, you ask—“

“—I ask how high,” he finishes, disgusted.

“Don’t interrupt me,” she snaps, a voice of poison, honey, and ice, before amending herself with a smile.

“And if I say no?” He hedges, cautious, watching her measuredly.

“Oh!” She exclaims, before dissolving into delighted laughter. “Did I say this letter was an offer?” She asks, revlon red lips bursting with faux-incredulity. “How absentminded of me. I should have said this letter prompted an offer from you, if you’d read and responded in timely fashion, of course — but then at least you could’ve had the reins on making the offer, no? Well, tell you what: why don’t you take a look for yourself, my dear?”

He takes the envelope slowly, gingerly, watching her like he thinks she’ll jerk it away again — she lets it slip from her fingers easily. He reads the first line in alarm, eyes flashing to her face, and she winks. He reads the rest voraciously, before peering at the included photos, a subtle sneer on his lips as his own movements taunt him from the frame; she waits, humming lightly, slipping her heels back on — she can tell he won’t last much longer.

“Still want to say no? I can assure you, I’ve been very instrumental in keeping this from the police and the press.”

“I wouldn’t dare dream of it,” he answers, a forced smile put upon his lips. “What do you need from me?”

“Oh, I don’t need anything from you,” she says in turn, tapping a finger against her smile contemplatively. “Yet. No, today’s little drop in is just to make sure that when I do call, you’ll be ready to respond. You will be, won’t you?”

“As if I had a choice,” he says through his teeth — half grimace, half smile.

“Honey,” she says in mock sympathy, hand wrapping around his bicep, bottom lip jutting out in a pout, before it melts into patronization, baring her teeth in a half-hearted approximation of a grin. “We always have a choice.”

She slides off his desk, landing with a neat click of her heels on marble, already sauntering away, already uninterested in the defeated man left in ruins behind her. “No need to see me out,” she calls over the clicking of her heels, not even bothering to turn to address him, conquest grin on her lips for no one but the dark in front of her to see. “I know my way.”

Extras: I didn’t have the time for any extras, my apologies!

[truthofherdreams]

soulmates playing the hot/cold game and they kEEP MISSING EACH OTHER

It’s warm in the palace.

Dmitry doesn’t think too much of it; he’s used to the biting winds of Russian winters, to the cold slipping under your clothes and into your bones. But fires are lit in every rooms of the palace, shadows dancing on the walls until everything looks like molten lava, and Dmitry’s cheeks redden a little. He rubs his fingers against his trousers, licks his lips. He wasn’t meant to be here tonight but Nikita, who works at the restaurant with him, got sick and begged him to replace him instead. It’s easy money. It’s the promise of one night not sleeping under a bridge.

He grabs a tray full of champagne cups and makes his way around the crowd of rich aristocrats. If his father could see him, dressed in a ridiculous suit, playing the help for the Tsar. But a job is a job, and Dmitry’s empty stomach wins over his political convictions. It’s been three entire days of starving himself. He would put his ideologies to the side for less, at this point.

A woman with a ermine scarf glares at him when he gives her a drink; a man bumps into him and Dmitry almost drops the entire tray; a child screams happily to his left. He feels dizzy, his fingers are tingling – it would be so easy, to snatch a watch, a ring, a bracelet. They wouldn’t notice. They probably wouldn’t even care, and he could live like a king for an entire week.

A girl brush against him, the skirt of her dress tangled in his legs, and his entire word turns to fire.

…

 Anastasia startles. Looks away. Only the crowd of people, minding their own business, chatting, whispering, plotting. Nobody to look back at her with wide eyes, nobody to call after her, nobody at all. She ignores the disappointment falling like a brick in her stomach, when her heart had been in her throat only a second ago. She looks around her once more, just for a moment, just in case. But still nothing.

Tatiana must notice her crestfallen face, for she is next to her a heartbeat later, her cold fingers against Anastasia’s elbow. “What is it, Malenkaya?”

“I thought…” she starts, before choking on the words. She shakes her head. “My mind is playing tricks on me.”

She grabs a cup from a nearby waiter and downs it in two large gulp, much to her older sister’s disapproval. But Anastasia is nineteen now, old enough for champagne and wine, old enough to ignore Tatiana’s scolding – it looks too much like their mother’s, a fact that Tatiana uses to her advance more often than not.

When Anastasia turns around, it is to see Maria dancing around, changing partner every ten steps. She turns and dances and laughs, hand brushing against that of every suitor coming close to her. Anastasia knows her game – Maria’s way of assessing a crowd of would-be husbands, touching their hands and finding them cold. She is yet to find her soulmate, but it doesn’t stop her from looking – and from enjoying herself as she does so, if the way she moves into one Duke’s personal space is anything to go by. Maria doesn’t mind a bit of fun with other men until she finds the one. Anastasia envies her this carefree spirit.

There isn’t much Anastasia takes seriously in life, but that she does. It must be Olga’s romantic inclinations rubbing on her, or those novels she stole from Aunt Xena – the ones where warmth is not just something shared by soulmate, but also sets your body on fire for reasons that have Anastasia blushing like the innocent maiden she is.

“Nastya…” Tatiana tries again.

“I need some air,” she replies, hastily. “I will be in the garden, if anyone is looking for me.”

Tatiana offers her one last worrying glance as Anastasia grabs the pans of her skirts and walks toward the back of the ballroom. Thankfully for her, everyone else is too busy with the ball to stop her, and the guards know better than to try. The cold air against her cheeks when she steps outside is a relief. For a moment, she fancies herself walking around the park and make her way back to the Alexander Palace, but she knows her mother will be upset at her if she finds her way to her bed before the evening is over. So instead she walks toward the Greek Gallery, walks up the stairs to admire the ancient statues lining up inside.

Despite the moon hanging high in the sky and the soft wind, Anastasia isn’t cold. No shiver wrecks her body, no goosebump raises on her bare arms. It is, actually and surprisingly, quite warm for a spring night. Especially to Russian standards. It makes for a nice change, after the stuffiness of inside, bodies close to each other until you can barely move.

Anastasia moves around slowly, admiring the statues she’s known since she was a little girl. Maître Pierre would sometimes bring her here for a lesson, talking of tales older than life itself, of gods and sirens and centaurs. Those were her favourite lessons – myths are so much more interesting than French grammar, or stuffy, boring philosophers.

So lost in her own thoughts that she doesn’t notice she is not alone, until she turns on her heels and lets out a yelp of surprise at the dark shadow in the corner. She presses a hand to her own heart with a heavy sigh when the man turns around, his face lit by the burning end of his cigarette, red shadows dancing mysteriously against his handsome features.

 …

 Dmitry startles at the unexpected scream.

He didn’t expect to be found here – ran off to take his one and only break the moment he could find an empty table where to put his tray. He knows he is a coward, running away. But what else is there to be done? The entire palace is full of members of the royal family, people who will never look twice at him – people who didn’t even notice he exists when he was walking around them and doing his job. What does he really would happen, once he finds his soulmate? That she will welcome him into her life with open arms, him the street rat, him the anarchist’s son?

No, Dmitry know better than to believe in fairy tales.

The Zorya are not looking over him from the stars.

So he didn’t expect to be found there, hiding from his soulmate; he didn’t expect to be found there, by Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanova herself. She seems as surprised as he does, mouth slightly opened, delicate hand against her heart. Even now, with her parents dead and her brother made Tsar, she wears one of those white dresses the sisters are famous for. It falls all the way to the ground, and shows a tasteful amount of shoulder. Dmitry’s eyes linger, perhaps for too long, before he remembers his manners.

“Excuse me, Your Highness,” he starts, and hopes it’s the right title. He has no idea. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

She blinks at him, once, twice, before she shakes her head a little bit and schools her features into a less startled expression. An easy smile blossoms on her lips, beautiful yet unexpected. “Don’t worry. My fault entirely, I didn’t look where I was going, let alone if anyone else was around.” She looks back at the statues behind her. “Those ones make for good company, don’t you think?”

It takes a moment for Dmitry to understand she is making a joke – she is joking with a stranger, and smiling at him, on a secret garden in the middle of the night, away from a ball. Dmitry’s cheeks set themselves on fire, and he looks down at his shoes.

Perhaps it his mistake.

Because he does not see her taking a step toward him, and so does not immediately understand why the air is suddenly so much hotter than it was only second ago. He frowns, and looks up; the Grand Duchess has a puzzled look on her face as she looks back at him. She takes a small, tentative step forward, and Dmitry’s body is on fire. She steps back; he breathes again. She moves closer, and his blood turns to molten lava, slow yet burning under his sky as the warm spreads from his heart, down his limbs, down down until all he can feel is the warmth of her into his own soul.

She stops, moves back a tiny bit, the temperature lowering just so. Despite his muddles brain, his heart beating so fast in his throat he feels like throwing up, Dmitry is the one to finally close the distance between them. Heat is not something he particularly likes – his Russian bloods longs for the cold of winter, after all – but the scorching warmth of her soul meeting his is something else, entirely. Like going inside after a day in the snow, warm air biting at your cheeks even when your skin is so numb you can’t feel it anymore. Like the first sip of green tea, burning down your throat until it settles comfortably in your stomach. Like warming yourself in the biggest blanket you own, cocooned away from the outside word.

Like coming home.

She is so close, he can see the green around the blue of her eyes, the soft freckles on her nose. So close her breath fans on his mouth, so close he just has to move his hand the slightest bit to brush his fingers against the fabric of her dress. So close, he would only need to lean forward and–

“What’s your name?” she asks in a whisper, as if afraid to break this moment between them.

For a moment, Dmitry’s mind is empty of any thoughts – her voice is as soft and delicate as her body, and he forgets everything, even his own name, stammering on the sounds like a young boy enamoured for the first time. Which he might as well be, at this point.

“Dmitry Konstantinovich Sudayev,” he manages to say, after way too long.

 …

 Oh what would her poor mother say, if she were here today, if she knew Anastasia’s soulmate is nothing but a waiter, nothing but the help. Olga’s was a soldier, met during the Great War. Middle class, yet a hero of war. Tanya’s is a handsome Greek Archduke, a good title, good family, and above all good fortune.

Nastya’s is a poor waiter with hollowed cheeks and broad shoulders, with pride in the angle of his jaw and gentleness in his eyes. Nastya’s soulmate is a prince of the gutters, handsome and tall and, oh, the things her heart does. She steps closer to him, tilting her chin up so she can look him in the eyes. There is red high on his cheeks, and it makes him look younger – innocent, almost. Kind.

“Hello, Dima,” she whispers into the wind. Nothing but the night around them, nothing but the echoes of music from inside and the loud beating of her heart. “I’m Nastya, nice to meet you.”

Her hand rises to play with the ridiculous white bowtie around his neck. She understands Maria all of a sudden, when her brain pictures nothing but her fingers pulling at the tie until it comes undone, ripping the buttons of his shirt to leave his collarbones bare. She’s never experienced such things before – pure want, unadultered lust. Dmitry’s eyes seem darker, and she dares think he shares her thoughts.

When she finally pulls at the bowtie, it is to bring him down and crash her lips against him – there is nothing but warmth, and fire; an entire sun of their own, lightening then entire world, melting even the snows of Siberia. When she kisses him, it is hot and scorching and absolutely perfect, her body pressed into his, her hands in his hair. So she kisses him, and kisses him, and knows she will never be cold again.

[chuckling-chemist]

Tailored Bits

((Now with 100% more Careen! 2/2))

((<==Back to Dontoc))

“How does it feel?”

Careen inhaled slowly, feeling her chest press against the red corset tightly. It hugged the contours of her body, and combined with the white ruffles along the sweetheart neckline, she wouldn’t even need to accentuate her natural curves. The dress flared just past around her hips, not much, only enough that it just went wider than her shoulders. From there, a sheer, white train outlined in fur starting down at her skirt trailed behind her. The only pieces missing were her long white gloves and white platform shoes, accented with small pink roses nearby the straps. It wasn’t her typical style, but as she gazed at herself in her stylist’s full sized mirror, she couldn’t help but see the allure such a dress gave herself. She could only hope her matesprit could match her own perfection. Otherwise, they’d just look silly together.

“The corset feels tight,” Careen said. “But that’s good, isn't’ it?”

“The corset should feel tight!” Kordof exclaimed. Kordof was Careen’s personal stylist, a rather short seadweller, not standing much taller than Careen even without her heels on, dressed in a pale button-up shirt and lavender shorts with a tape measure draped around his neck. His horns were similarly short, following the back of his head like a wave. The only larger feature prominent on him were his fins, large and seemingly translucent with a light shimmer. Sindarian, true to the end: indicative of his skill and title as the best Alternia could offer her. Careen deserved the best. “That is the point of a corset! But the rest of it? Twirl for me, let me see how it moves.”

He stepped back, giving her room to twirl. The fabric of the dress lifted just enough to make a small circle around her. The train followed the sentiment, moving like a ghost of the red. “It needs sparkles,” she said. “It doesn’t sparkle enough.”

“My dear, my darling, you don’t need sparkle when you wear this gown,” he said. Kordof gently took a hold of the back of the train, examining the fur. “Though, certainly we could make a matching scarf. Would fox suffice?”

“Fox!” Careen gasped, a delicate hand going over her mouth. “Would you truly give the Heiress something as plain as fox? Kordof, you jokester!”

“Then perhaps ermine? A grand winter creature, dying in honor to give you perfect aesthetic.” He clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Ah, I can see it now. Your matesprit had his own white scarf last sweep didn’t he? You two shall match!”

Careen’s expression soured. She remembered the scarf. More importantly, she remembered a notable thorn in her side shoving a wrapped box into his chest before the two set off to the hotel, the way he quietly opened it up on the boat, and how Dontoc’s hands seemed naturally drawn to it when he didn’t know what to do with his hands. “He did, yes. I advised against him wearing it, but he’s just so stubborn. I couldn’t stop him. Frankly, he looked ridiculous in the thing.”

Kordof’s small face scrunched in thought. “Do you wish to match with your prince?” he asked.

“He’s getting his design from Mayola’s stylist. Aisral. Do you think I’ll even be allowed to see what it looks like to even try and match?” She crossed her arms as she pouted. “Can you believe someone like Mayola snagged a stylist? At all?”

“In the sense she is a fuschiablood and some would compete just to work with an Heiress, no matter how lacking in justification it is,” Kordof said. He circled around her, checking the dress for any errors as he spoke. “Does the stylist have a Chittr? Prongle? Grype? I shall get in contact with her for you. Certainly how impressive could this Aisral be? I haven’t heard of her!”

He laughed brightly, a sound so pleasing Careen couldn’t help but join in. “There is no need to lower yourself Kordof. She’s merely a tealblood. You know how they are.”

“Oh yes, I’ve had my fair share of unpleasantries from the midcastes. Thinking just because they don’t share a color with wasted metals they stand on par with our - no, your - excellence. And teals!” He sighed irritably and made his way to the back of the room, towards his accessory wall. “They’re just jades with the mere illusion of freedom.”

“I know! I can’t believe I tried putting up with one for as long as I did.” Her fins fanned out at the thought. The number of times she’s kindly extended a hand and graciously allowed Pallia into her hive, only for her to either ignore the invitation or storm out in a graceless huff. And Aisral? Aisral was worse. At least Pallia had the ability to pretend to be nice if others were present, even if only to make herself look like the innocent party. Aisral couldn’t even bother to do that much. She rejected all invitations, and when Careen approached her to have a dress made, what did she do? Completely refuse, only to being designing for Mayola, the bastard of an heiress whose inability to control the natural bloodlust fuchsias had for each other worried Careen. Why Niehea, a rather unrefined, yet acceptable Heiress in the scheme of things, chose to associate herself with the cretin was beyond her. “And my matesprit of all trolls choses to hang around them! You know, he invited her to his hive. In Sindaria! Certainly, I suppose I was busy during the same week already, but you don’t just do that! Especially for some witch who deems the height of dining to be some 24 hour diner serving ice cream.”

When Kordof returned, he placed a black shrug onto Careen’s shoulders, tsking into her ear. “If I didn’t know any better, I would say you hold black feelings of the deepest pitch.”

To most anyone on the outside, it was obvious she grew increasingly obsessed with Pallia. Even Careen had to admit her what was once a careful eye on a consistent problem turned into a need bordering on fetishistic to deliver her punishment in the recent perigees as it became apparent to her where Dontoc’s true loyalties stood. But pitch? Careen felt no pitch feelings for her. That would require feelings aside from pure vitriol at the sight of her face.

“Please,” Careen huffed. “She’s a nuisance I can’t get rid of. I try to help her, show her how to be a proper highblooded lady, something any midblood in her position would break down my door for, and what does she do? Refuse my assistance, make more of a mess for herself and get herself barred from her ordeals. She ruined my credibility in this trash heap of a city I’ve been stuck to live at, instead of some place glamorous, ruined several of my parties, ruined my fanfiction and will end up ruining my storybook relationship if this continues. Don’t I get something for myself, just this once, without my niceness blowing up in my face?”

“You have this gorgeous dress. And you shall have this night! Certainly this troll cannot take those away from you.”

Careen smiled. He not only had a point, he had a good point. Despite her own mixed reputation in Sandyhorn, Pallia still would rather join in festivities there than go to an actual ball. Careen knew why she would never go - a gala like this basically required a romantic partner, and Pallia’s hyper-intellectual personality and plain dressing style only appealed to the most stereotypical of mustardbloods. “You’re right. She can’t. She won’t be there. It will just be me and my matesprit, my darling Dontoc, together for a concupiscent holiday weekend. No matter what happens, I’ll fight to make sure we have the happy ending we deserve.”

Kordof chuckled. “I believe in you, my Heiress. Let nothing stop you!” He turned her so the two faced each other. “That being said, would you like me to stomp down this Aisral’s door and force her to reveal your prince’s piece, or shall we do something else?”

“Oh let’s just get some matching corsages and make me look like a set with Pereon,” she said airily. “No reason to require you to talk to Aisral. You’d just infuriate yourself.”

“Very well, my Heiress.” Kordof gave her a short bow. “Now, let us get you out of this and into your next dress!”

Careen's smile widened. With his help, she would shine and sparkle where others wouldn’t.

Just what she expected.

[terminallydepraved]

Persistence (Lucio/Thraish)

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Got another Arcana fic! It’s a sort of prequel to And to the Victor Goes... with these two, explaining more of how their relationship was before Lucio’s death and Thraish’s memory loss. I hope you guys enjoy it!

 It began in much the way Lucio always was: loudly, and with great insistence.

 “Thraish!” the Count called out, tearing the witch from his study. “There you are. Hiding from me, are you?”

 Thraish looked up from his book, smothering his sigh with a smile he wasn’t quite sure felt genuine. The Count stood just at the entrance to the library, paying no heed to the other patrons studying within, or the looks he was attracting. And he was attracting looks. How could he not? Dressed as he was in his ermine and silks, his appearance styled as laboriously as if he were in wait for a gala, he looked as impressive as his portraits, if perhaps harder to ignore.

 At times like these, it was a bit hard to believe he was afflicted with any sort of illness besides vanity.

 “I wouldn’t dream of hiding from your Lordship,” Thraish said, marking his place in the book he already knew he wouldn’t be finishing any time soon. Lucio was steadily approaching, the decisive click of his heels against the stone floor echoing like cracks of thunder. “Is there something I can help you with?”

 “I should say so,” the Count said, brow raised as if Thraish already knew what he sought and was being coy by asking anyway. “It’s rather rude of you to make me hunt you down like this, you know.”

 Thraish could count the number of times he had been alone with the Count on one hand. Lucio wasn’t in the habit of associating with those invited to the palace for the search for the cure. At least, not willingly from what Thraish had paid witness to. He preferred to let Nadia take care of the riff raff, and to see him here, in the library at the height of studying hours– well, suffice to say Thraish was confused and intrigued in equal measure.  

 But, unfortunately for the Count, confused and intrigued would only get him so far. Thraish wasn’t in the habit of entertaining nobility, be in it politeness or patience. He rolled his eyes and gave the Count an expectant look, shrugging lazily. “You’ll have to be more specific as to what you need of me, Milord,” he said, savoring the look of consternation taking root on Lucio’s handsome face. “Powerful as they say me to be, I have yet to master the skill of reading minds.”

 A muscle twitched in Lucio’s jaw. He smiled through it, bending at the waist to put himself at eye level with Thraish. “You needn’t read my mind to know that I’ve sent numerous requests to have you for dinner, Thraish,” he recited, the blood red of his eyes more than piercing at this close a distance. “Why, I’ve just come from meeting with my servant who informed me that you’ve refused yet again. I had hoped that coming in person might…      entice    you to change your mind. I would certainly hate to dine alone tonight.”

 Something in Thraish balked. His smile turned nervous, but his heart pounded with something like excitement. Or was it dread? The two had a tendency to mix in a bad way where Lucio was concerned, and that more than anything could prove hazardous to Thraish’s safety and sanity alike. “Really?” he stalled, tapping his fingers atop the book cover. It was true he had been refusing the invitations. Of course, he had thought them to be general invitations, ones extended to all in the palace.

 But they weren’t. The Count had asked him again and again to dine with him, and Thraish had refused him every time.

 Thraish cleared his throat. “Whatever for?”

 Lucio had the audacity, or was it the snobbery? To laugh at Thraish for that question. “Whatever for? Surely even you witches eat?” he jested, leaning over the table too much like a predator to put Thraish at ease. “You’re working so hard for me. Wouldn’t it behoove me to repay you with the privilege of dining at my private table?”

 It might it Thraish knew Lucio to have offered this to any of the other scores of witches and doctors currently working much harder than Thraish right now. He shifted in his seat, biting his bottom lip as Lucio smiled winsomely. Winsome. It wasn’t a good look on Lucio. Or well, perhaps it was. Most looks looked good on Lucio. It wasn’t a      sincere     look, though. In fact, it looked much the same as a beast might look whilst playing with something small and weak and ultimately dinner in the making.

 Perhaps that was why Lucio so longed to dine with him.

 Thraish swallowed at the thought, pushing it aside before the Count could see him sweat. Whatever this was, whatever the sudden fascination with him meant, Thraish knew better than to entertain it. Handsome as the Count might be, Thraish hardly needed to consult the cards to know how and why      that     would be a bad idea.

 So, he tried for humor to defuse whatever situation in the making this was. He smiled, his cheeks aching a bit from disuse, and met the man’s eye. “Now, surely you jest, Milord,” Thraish said, smile going tight when Lucio merely came closer. “I’m certain your appetite would vanish in a flash should someone like me sit at your table. My manners are better suited for taverns than for the company of royalty.”

 Lucio raised a brow in disbelief. His charming smile stayed put, or perhaps it grew in intensity? Thraish couldn’t quite tell. “You do yourself a disservice, saying such blatant falsehoods so easily.” The Count dipped down, resting his hands on the desk to bring their faces closer together. “Any meal shared with you could only be…      sublime.     The dessert after, why, I can only imagine how sweet it might be.”

 The words hung heavily in the air, and Thraish choked on something like understanding. Was… Was the Count trying to      court    him? Or, given the nature of the Count’s wording, was Lucio trying to proposition him?

 Thraish wasn’t sure how to feel as realization hit him somewhere in the gut. Horrified? Flattered? Embarrassed that of all places, Lucio had decided to try this here, where everyone could hear and see Thraish scramble for something to say? He swallowed and shifted in his seat, overly aware of how terrible he must look after spending all day at this desk. Lucio grinned wider, resting his hip on the edge of the table.

 “So, really now. What do you say?” he asked, lifting his golden hand to toy with the messy end of Thraish’s slate grey braid. It always got so raggedy and disheveled after a day of nothing but frustrating dead ends, but Lucio hardly seemed to mind. He tugged gently and twirled it around his fingers errantly like a child at play. “I’d be most pleased if you’d say yes.”

 And Thraish would be most pleased if any of this made an ounce of sense. Instead, he had to deal with it in the moment, with the Count playing with his hair as all of his peers watched from behind poorly propped up books.

 Clearing his throat, Thraish put on a smile. “What an honor it is to be invited by you in person,” he said, flushing despite himself when Lucio bent himself at the waist to kiss the loose braid in his hand. “But I really must decline as I did before. I’ve a lot of work to see to, Milord. I’m afraid your health depends on it.” And Thraish’s sanity as well, but that hardly needed vocalized.

 “Your presence would do my health more good than anything you might find in one of these dusty old books.” Lucio’s tone was jovial, but it held an edge that more than emphasized his displeasure. The hand holding Thraish’s braid tightened a bit. Thraish’s breath hitched, but he forced himself to work through it.

 “I really am sorry, Milord,” he said, carefully tugging his hair back over his shoulder where it belonged. “Perhaps another evening.” Or, Thraish added silently, perhaps never.

 Silent as it had been, Lucio read the unspoken words clearly. His eyes narrowed, and his lips curled into a frown. He stared at Thraish for a moment as if hoping he might change his mind, but after a minute or so, his expression softened into a smile. For some reason, that more than anything worried Thraish.

 “Of course,” the Count recited demurely, bowing his head as he pulled away from the table and Thraish alike. “The work you do here is most important, because what could be more important than prioritizing my health and longevity? Stay here, then, Thraish. See to your work.” His smile held far too many teeth to read as benign. “I’ll be sure to call on you soon.”

 Thraish managed to bob his head before Lucio snatched up his hand and kissed his knuckles, his blood red eyes laughing at whatever they saw on Thraish’s face.

 “Take care, witch,” he murmured, warmth breath a tease all its own.

 Before Thraish could manage to breathe, let alone speak, Lucio was turning on his heel. The Count left as quickly as he arrived, glaring all the while at the curious readers no doubt listening to every word. Thraish turned woodenly, lifting up his book as if able to go back to it easily after an interaction like that. It would be impossible, he knew, but there was no better way to avoid the eyes when they settled on him the moment Lucio left the library than to bury his face behind the book and pretend. If he had intended on keeping a low profile here, he could kiss that dream goodbye.

 Oh well, he thought, turning the page he hadn’t read. The cards had said he was due for something confusing today, and they always seemed to deliver in spades when he least expected them to deliver at all.

 The strange behavior didn’t end there, though by the time it presented itself again, Thraish had all but put the solitary incident from his mind. And why wouldn’t he have? There was a cure to find, tomes to consult, and other practitioners to argue with over the merits of this or that, the benefits of one herb over another. Thraish spent his days in a rush of activity, dodging questions of his credentials amidst intensifying pressure to generate results.

 The Count was in a mood, it seemed, and wouldn’t wait much longer for his cure.

 It was just a shame he seemed dead set on tearing Thraish from his work right as he felt onto something.

 He was pouring over his latest find in the library when Lucio came for him again. The late afternoon sun was steadily bleeding away, taking its light with it. Thraish read as quickly as he could, scanning the page for the idea just on the tip of his tongue. He had a feeling, a nagging little voice in the back of his head telling him he was nearing a breakthrough. All he had to do was follow it–

 The door to the library banged open, startling the book right out of Thraish’s hands. It fumbled through the air, smacking him on the foot in the next instant. Thraish swore lustily and looked up just in time to see the Count in all his glory glaring at everyone in the library but Thraish.

 “Out!” he shouted, jolting the other few doctors and magicians from their study. There was a split second of inactivity before they nearly sprinted out the door, unwilling to test the Count in one of his infamous tantrums.

 Thraish, however, knew not to follow them out. He sighed and leaned down to pick up the book, thumbing through it for the page he had lost just like the voice now gone from his mind. What was this about now?

 “For someone who professes to want a cure, you certainly don’t seem keen on providing an environment conducive to finding one,” Thrasih muttered, making sure it was loud enough for the Count to hear while he occupied himself with the book.

 Lucio laughed. “I want what I want, witch,” he said, still lingering by the door. “I’m not in the habit of waiting to get it.”

 Thraish heard the sound of a door closing, and on the wall in front of him, he saw the shadow of the Count grow larger as he approached.      Click click click    went his boots. Thraish held his breath, letting it out when large, heavy hands settled on his waist. He glanced down at the gold one. It glimmered dully in the waning light, strong and as unbreakable as anything.

 Slowly, he put the book back into its place. Something told him he wouldn’t be permitted to read while sharing the Count’s company.

 “And what did you want of me, Milord? Since you don’t seem to care about prioritizing your cure,” Thraish asked, cheeks flushing when he felt the Count’s warm breath ghost along the back of his neck. The flesh hand left his hip to brush aside his braid, Lucio’s grinning lips teasing the skin beneath. Thraish shivered despite himself. The question really was moot. The lips alone told him what the Count had come here to do.

 “The same thing I always want, Thraish,” Lucio answered anyway, kissing the tip of Thraish’s ear. “To enjoy you the way only I could.”

 This again… On most levels, Thraish knew. On others, on the ones where he tried to be optimistic and ignorant of the complexities this life thrust upon him, he had wished it to be anything else. He let out a sigh and covered the gold hand with his own, prying it gently from his hip so he could turn and face the man behind him.

 He immediately wanted to turn back around. Lucio was… unfortunately handsome. Woefully, even, and paired with his overwhelming confidence, Thraish felt entirely too weak for this sort of conversation. “I’ve told you before,” he said, bringing his hands to Lucio’s chest to keep him from backing him up against the bookshelf. “You’re ill, Milord, and I’m not here to tend to that part of you.”

 Lucio raised an expressive brow, wrapping his hands around Thraish’s wrists to hold him in place. “But it would make me feel so much better,” he crooned, tugging Thraish’s hands away until they stood chest to chest.

 “B-Be that as it may…” Thraish tugged at his wrists only to find Lucio’s grip as absolute and unshakable as the man himself. “I think you’ve more proactive steps you could take if you wish to be conscientious of your health.”

 Wrinkling his nose, the Count sneered. “You sound just like that damned doctor,” he complained, leaning closer, his warm breath near enough to tickle Thraish’s cheek. “Always berating me to lay down, to drink this, leech that; you’d think the man believed me an invalid.”

 Thraish swallowed the urge to say that just because Lucio wasn’t one yet didn’t mean he wouldn’t progress to that state should he carry on the way he had been. The sickness came in stages, and the afflicted were prevalent enough for them to have an idea of how it affected a person. It manifested first in the eyes, bleeding the sclera red. After that came the exhaustion, the gauntness. Lucio had always been trim, by no means a bulky, over-large man, but even now Thraish could see that the gauntness was coming. Lucio’s cheeks were too sharp now, the shadows beneath his eyes a visible marker of the rest he wasn’t getting.

 “Don’t begrudge him his concern, or mine for that matter,” Thraish murmured, meeting Lucio’s gaze. “You’ve won a lot of fights with your persistence. Don’t think you’ll be able to oust your illness the same way.”

 “Why, that almost sounded like a compliment,” Lucio said, brow raised, grin lascivious. “Coming from you, that was all but one. Do you think me strong? Brave? Do you think you’ll fall to my      persistence    ?”

 The hands on his wrists weren’t likely to budge, and Thraish found it hard to meet Lucio’s eye. He should have forced himself to do it anyway, since it merely proved Lucio’s accusations true. “I think I’ll fall to something,” he muttered, lifting his chin to stop hiding. “Whether or not it’ll be to you has yet to–”

 Thraish never got to finish, since Lucio had already taken it upon himself to finish the thought for him. Over-warm lips covered Thraish’s, swallowing the words on his tongue. Rational thought vanished in a plume of smoke, leaving nothing behind but heat, embarrassment, and the pervading sense of doom that only came from kissing someone you really shouldn’t be kissing, and enjoying it all the same.

 And it was hard to hate any part of it, Thraish found. Lucio kissed much as he lived: with intensity, showmanship, and a decided ferocity that overwhelmed just as much as it unbalanced. Thraish let out a muffled yelp, parting his lips in a grunt as his back met the shelf with a thump. The Count pressed deeper, pressing his advantage the moment he could. His thigh settled between Thraish’s legs, and his hands pinned Thraish’s on either side of his head. Thraish felt as immobile as a butterfly tacked to a board, and as hot as a forest fire caught in an updraft.

 He should turn away, he thought, closing his eyes to the kiss. He should push Lucio off, move, leave,      anything     to stop things before it went where Lucio wanted so very much to take it. A needy sound filled the air, and with cloying shame, Thraish realized it had come from him. What was he doing? This was… All of this was just…

 “L-Lucio, please,” Thraish gasped, tearing his mouth from the Count’s. He sagged against the wall, needing its support to stay upright. “We can’t.”

 Lucio wouldn’t–      couldn’t    be deterred. With Thraish’s lips out of range, he settled for his throat instead, nipping and biting and sucking as hungrily as a beast still starving after a winter of nothing. “We can,” he growled, his grip on Thraish’s wrists tightening. “God, you’re so sweet. Would you like it if I made you mine? Sharing the bed of a Count, it’s such an      honor    , isn’t it? And you’d be so good for me, I’d hazard. Obedient and skittish like you are now. Glorious laid out on my sheets, looking at me with those eyes of yours. The things I want to do to you.”

 Thraish didn’t need to try hard to see what the future might hold should he let Lucio make good on those desires. They rolled unbidden behind his eyes, cycling through one by one, each more lewd than the last. Sweat collected in the small of Thraish’s back, and then on his brow. He had to bite his bottom lip to keep from groaning. It’d been so long since he’d been touched like this. Too long, really, to give him any sort of defense against a handsome Count and his talented mouth.

 He had to smile though. The smile turned into a short laugh, soft but loud enough to tear Lucio from his whispering and into meeting Thraish’s gaze.

 “What is it?” the Count asked, nearly demanded, his thigh pressing firmly between Thraish’s legs, rocking like a promise he was more than willing to give. “What’s got you laughing?”

 Thraish rested his hand on the open sliver of skin exposed by Lucio’s partially buttoned shirt. It was only marginally easier to think like this. Lucio’s mouth was a good distraction, but when it wasn’t on his skin or whispering in his ear, its power was halved, just like that. “Just what you were saying,” Thraish answered when Lucio gave an impatient little grunt. The smile curling Thraish’s lips was growing. “How you think me to be. Obedient? Skittish? How you think I might be should I let you get your way.”

 Lucio raised a brow, his frown a full-body expression. It just made Thraish laugh again, his forehead falling to the Count’s shoulder.

 “That you might think me some blushing virgin,” Thraish went on, snickering to the point of tears. He fisted his hands in Lucio’s shirt, overcome. He made himself look up, taking in Lucio’s unamused pout. “I’m sorry to ruin your fantasy, Milord, but I am anything but.”

 If there was one thing Lucio hated, it was being made fun of. He bared his teeth and let out a low growl, pinning Thraish more firmly to the shelf. The rigid spines of yellowed books dug into Thraish’s spine, but it served as another reminder of where they were, and what they certainly shouldn’t be doing. “A virgin?” he repeated blandly, stifling Thraish’s laughter with a pointed move of his thigh. “You think I want a virgin in my bed? Some inexperienced doll afraid of me breaking them?”

 Thraish shivered when Lucio laughed cruelly in his ear. Heat rushed to his cheeks, and for a moment he was glad Lucio stood so close. It meant the Count couldn’t see just how pervasive he truly was.

 “No, I don’t desire you a virgin, Thraish,” Lucio corrected. “I’d rather you      crave    me breaking you.”

 This was too much. Entirely too much, and Thraish clenched his eyes shut and pushed Lucio away before he grew weak enough to want what the Count offered. There was no time for this. Thraish was here for a reason, and he’d been away from his studies for too long as it was. Far too long at any rate to entertain such bad ideas.

 “Imagination costs you nothing, Milord,” Thraish breathed, fumbling for the book behind his back. It wasn’t a good shield, but it served its purpose as he moved himself away from Lucio’s touch to rest his hand on the far door. It was so much colder now, and though Lucio’s hands didn’t chase him, the heat of their touch lingered yet. “But perhaps you should consider leaving it at that.”

 Lucio crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, the unintended challenge wrought plainly in the jaunt of his jaw. “Oh, but I’m      persistent    ,” he said, rolling the word like a filthy act on his tongue. “Cost means nothing to me.”

 Thraish swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. He opened the door and tried not to stumble on his way out. The burning red gaze followed him out, and if Thraish were the sort to be paranoid, for the rest of the day and night after.

 But it didn’t stop there. The thoughts, the temptation, and certainly not the chase– it didn’t end like Thraish intended. Lucio was fickle, but not about this. Thraish realized as much the next time he caught himself alone with the Count just a few days later, stopped in the hall on his way to the gardens.

 He hadn’t been doing much, all things considered. Thraish’s presence at the palace was for a specific goal, a much needed service; a plague was ravaging the city. People were dying. But when up against an unknown disease, an unknowable foe, Thraish found it best to take things slow. Nothing good would come from bashing his head against the wall in frustration, or expending massive quantities of energy on spells that more than likely wouldn’t see success. He was considered a skilled practitioner, but only Thraish seemed to know the truth. Listening to the errant voices inside ones head had less to do with skill and more to do with luck than most wanted to consider.

 Someone in the palace may yet discover the cure; Thraish had no illusions that it might be him.

 So when Lucio found him, it was just as well. Thraish had just taken a step past the staircase that led upwards to the Count’s private wing. The dogs were absent as were any guards. The portraits alone paid witness to Thraish’s messy surprise.

 Well, the portraits and their subject, Thraish supposed.

 “Just the witch I was looking for,” the ill Count said by way of greeting. His shiny golden hand was wrapped completely around Thraish’s bicep, holding him in place easily despite the fever heat coloring Lucio’s normally pale cheeks. He was finally beginning to show symptoms past his blood red eyes. The palace had been abuzz with worry, with fear of what might come next.

 Thraish swallowed, knowing what would come next for him. He knew, and he didn’t even need to consult the cards to know it. He put on a smile, one he hoped wouldn’t encourage Lucio’s particular brand of overwhelming. “What can I help you with, Milord?” he asked, unable to meet the Count’s eyes. “Shouldn’t you be resting?”

 Lucio rolled his eyes. “I’m beginning to grow tired of being asked that,” he said tersely.

 “It must bear repeating if I’m not the only one asking it,” Thraish murmured, but it came as no surprise when Lucio ignored him entirely.

 “I am very glad to stumble across you,” Lucio went on, gesturing at the empty hall despite the fact that he looked weaker than he had ever looked before. “You’re just the one I wanted to see.”

 Thraish raised a brow. “I seem to be the recipient of most of your attention these days,” he said, earning himself a toothy grin. “What did you need of me? I must say that I was on my way to see to something myself, so–”

 “Come,” Lucio ordered, lifting his hand for Thraish to take, cutting him off before he could finish saying his thin excuse. “I’ve a pressing need to see to that only you can help me with. Or would you prefer it that I wander around out of bed, exerting myself while I search for another?”

 Thraish frowned. He knew what would await him if he followed. The past week was proof enough that this was merely an excuse to get him alone, to see him that much closer to Lucio’s bed. It would be in Thraish’s best interest to politely decline and be on his way. He could do it too; he could cite some excuse, or some pressing need awaiting him in some other part of the palace. If he wanted to, he could easily say no to the promises and intent lurking within Lucio’s vermillion eyes.

 Thraish swallowed, took the Count’s hand, and nodded his head.

     You’re such an idiot    , a voice within sighed. Not the voice he normally listened to when staring at the tarot cards, or when he looked a problem in the eye and waited for the answer to come to him as it always did. No, this voice was nothing like that voice. This one was judgemental, pitying, and entirely sourced from the part of him with common sense in need of serious consideration. Perhaps someday he’d give it its due attention, but today was not that day.

 Lucio held tight to his hand, keeping him from being able to go back on it either way.

 They ascended the steps quickly, Lucio possessing vigor aplenty despite his pallid complexion. Thraish resolutely didn’t think about what he was walking into. Instead, he took in the part of the palace he had never had opportunity to see. Lucio’s wing was as impressive as the man himself as it rightly should have been given the walls of the hallway they walked were veritably plastered with portraits of the Count. Regalia, uniform, and smile perfect, Lucio stood as strong as he had the day he became Count of Vesuvia.

 Looking up at Lucio now, Thraish had to swallow. Compared to the portraits, Lucio’s progressing sickliness was only brought to even starker relief.

 Just as he opened his mouth to make an excuse on why he needed to go, Lucio stopped in front of an ornate door. The look he shot Thraish out of the corner of his eye dried up the words on Thraish’s tongue.

 “After you,” the Count said, opening the door and gesturing Thraish inside.

 At least he had the excuse of curiosity as to why he went along with all of this. Thraish bit his lip and gaped a little at the interior of Lucio’s private bedroom, because of course this was the door to his bedroom. It was just as ostentatious as Thraish might have imagined it to be if he ever let himself think about Lucio’s bedroom. The walls were a vibrant red, and the space was dominated by an enormous bed that boasted a canopy. Portraits littered the walls even here. Thraish began to sweat under the scrutiny of more red eyes.

 He took a few more steps inside, hearing the door close behind him. “What did you need me for?” he asked quietly, wrapping his arms around himself as he waited for the inevitable to come. The bed was unmade, so at least Lucio had been resting some before he got it in his head to seek him out.

 “Just to talk,” came the low reply, far closer than Thraish expected it to be to his ear. He turned around and found Lucio only inches away, the heat of his fever burning the air between them. The Count smiled at him hungrily, resting his hand on Thraish’s chest. “You look so nervous,” he teased. “Why so nervous with me?”

 “I’m… not nervous,” Thraish said, taking an instinctive step back when Lucio inched closer.

 “Good,” he replied, and it served as the only warning Thraish got as the hand on his chest pushed him back.

 Thraish tumbled onto the bed, too shocked to spring back up and far too weak to do much more than stare as Lucio cast off his shirt. His face burned, and try as he might, he couldn’t turn away from the sight of the Count’s strong chest. Realistically Thraish had known that Lucio was built, that he was quite the specimen. The paintings on the walls proclaimed it freely enough, and even Thraish knew that Lucio was far too vain to ever let a portrait be painted without him as the sitting model, but… seeing it in person, seeing it on display with the intent for him alone…

 Thraish swallowed, knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that this was a bad idea, and that he was a colossal idiot.

 It was just too bad that Lucio was already there, climbing into the bed with eyes that burned like rubies.

 “I thought you wanted to talk,” Thraish rushed to say, forcing himself to look at anything but the Count’s bare skin. He urged himself to move, to get out of the bed, to leave, but… but he was weak. The mattress dipped; the silk sheets whispered. “This isn’t… I doubt we need to sit so close to talk, Milord.”

 A firm wall of heat pressed itself along the line of Thraish’s spine. “We don’t need much in this life, Thraish,” the Count crooned, “but want? Oh, want is such a different beast entirely.” Lucio was good at this. Exceedingly good. His smile burned against the crook of Thraish’s neck, his hand even hotter as it stroked a path along his thigh. “Isn’t this better, though?” he asked, taking one of Thraish’s dangling earrings between his teeth to tug. “Bed rest for the sick, yes?”

 “You’re in bed, but what you want isn’t restful,” Thraish whispered, shying away from Lucio’s lips. He lifted his hand to push Lucio away, but when his fingers hesitated an inch from bare skin, Lucio took him by the wrist and closed the distance for him. Cheeks burning, Thraish met the Count’s eyes. “You can’t just      have    me, Milord.”

 The grin that answered him was ravenous. “I can’t?” the Count purred, pressing closer, so much closer, matching every inch as Thraish tried to edge away. “And why not?”

 “For a lot of reasons,” Thraish began, looking off towards the wall, the portraits, the fancy trappings of a room meant only for nobility. Lucio toyed with his braid, brushing it aside to nuzzle his neck. “You’re sick, though you don’t seem to care about that fact, and you’re married.” As he spoke, the golden hand stroked along his arm, squeezing and fondling, tugging at his shaw as if conspiring to bare him with a few well-timed passes. “I know you and Nadia don’t get on well, but that has to mean something still…”

 Thraish went stiff when Lucio sealed his lips to a sliver of newly bared skin, pinching with his teeth in a way that would definitely leave a mark on his neck if he didn’t end this now. He shivered, cheeks flushing, heart pounding. He turned, taking Lucio’s wrists in his hands, holding them away from his body. The Count smirked at his efforts and simply leaned closer, giving Thraish his hands for the moment.

 “I’ve never felt better in my life,” Lucio murmured, breath hot and humid as he worked his way higher, lapping at Thraish’s ear. “And why worry about my marriage? It doesn’t bother me, and it’s not as if you’re taken.”

 Lucio drew even closer. His gaze was piercing, victorious.

 “You aren’t taken, are you?”

 There was no need to answer when Lucio already knew the truth.

 For the second time that day, Thraish found himself pinned by the Count. This time, it felt a bit more dangerous with the addition of the bed beneath him, and though they were of a similar height, Thraish felt anything but big when Lucio settled on top of him, all naked skin and hungry intent. If anything, he felt an inch tall. He just wished he could lie convincingly enough to believe it when he told himself he hated it.

 Thankfully, if he could even be thankful for anything at this point, Lucio didn’t bother giving him time to lie at all. Thraish’s eyes went wide when another kiss was stolen from him, the Count as decisive as he ever was. His firm, muscled body rolled against Thraish’s front with unmistakable intent, his hands breaking the grip holding him in place easily. Lucio had been a soldier, once upon a time. It showed in how easy he made all of this look. With a grip as strong as the metal of his prosthetic arm, he locked his fingers around Thraish’s wrists in a maneuver that was beginning to feel familiar.

 Perhaps Thraish should be thankful that Lucio seemed to know what he wanted without hearing Thraish say it, because he welcomed the kiss for the excuse it gave him to give in. Lucio made it deep and Thraish accepted it greedily, going limp beneath the body holding him in place. Gods, Lucio was good at this. Even sick, even afflicted with a plague with no foreseeable cure, he still devastated as if on the field of battle.

 It would… It would be so easy to give in to it and surrender to the one who held him. Thraish shivered at the thought, at the utter temptation before him, and he wondered if he wasn’t strong-willed, if he wasn’t just a weak, pleasure-seeking creature made wanton by a handsome Count. Who could blame him if he gave in? Who would fare better?

 Lucio smiled against Thraish’s lips as if he knew, and Thraish whined deep in his throat, ashamed of himself for wanting more. How long had it been since he’d last been this close to another? How long since he last      wanted    someone this much? Thraish couldn’t even remember. He couldn’t remember, and that more than anything made him invite the Count deeper.

 To his surprise and dismay, Lucio only humored him for a moment more. He broke the kiss but stayed close, growling lowly in Thraish’s ear. “Just look at you whimper,” he teased, eyes narrowed as he took in the picture Thraish made in his bed. “You look just as good as I knew you would.”

 Thraish closed his eyes, turning his face away in a pointless bid to hide. “Don’t gloat,” he breathed, voice so weak.

 “But I must,” Lucio purred, kissing him again. He pulled back, grinning when Thraish chased his lips. “You’re finally mine.”

 The way he said it, so confident and sure, made something in Thraish lock up like a gear in winter. He avoided the next kiss by turning his head, letting Lucio content himself with his cheek instead. “I-It’s not… It’s–” He closed his eyes tightly, tugging at his wrists in hopes of taking back some measure of control. “Let go of me, Lucio,” he said, meeting the Count’s gaze. “We… We shouldn’t be doing this.”

 “What?” Lucio demanded, eyes narrowed, lips still flushed and slick with their shared saliva. “What is it? What could keep you from wanting me the way I want you?”

 Nothing. Nothing was keeping Thraish from that, but from acting on it… There was so much between them. Too much to traverse so haphazardly, and far too much to disregard for just a moment of fervent instinct. He met Lucio’s burning red gaze carefully, shuddering out a breath. “It’s not the time for this,” he heard himself say. “It’s not the time for us.”

 Lucio’s lips curled into a frown. The grip he had on Thraish’s wrists tightened for a moment, and then loosened as he pushed himself away entirely.

 “I’m not in the habit of being rejected,” he said through clenched teeth.

 Thraish swallowed, wrapping his shawl around his shoulders tighter. “I’m sorry,” he managed, inching away until he reached the edge of the bed. “You should rest, Milord. Not tire yourself out with fantasies of me.”

 There came a scoff behind him, and when Thraish looked back, he saw the Count glaring at the spot he had just vacated. “Not likely, witch,” he murmured, his gaze burning when he looked up. “Persistence is in my nature, after all.”

 When Thraish swallowed again, his mouth tasted of Lucio. He tore his eyes away and forced himself to his feet before he did something even more stupid than coming here.

 That persistence might prove dangerous for them both, that voice in his head whispered.

 Even so… Even knowing that… Thraish steeled himself, knowing that even if he wanted to turn back, now was not the time for it. He’d come to this place for a reason. He had work to do, a cure to find. A cure for Lucio, and a cure for the kingdom. Perhaps once those were found, Thraish would find the cure for the pit forming in his stomach too.

 “I want you, Thraish,” Lucio called out behind him. “And I always get what I want.”

 Thraish paused at the door. He bit his lip. He clenched his hands into fists at his sides.

 They had time. They would have all the time for that later, after the cure had been found and everything went back to normal. Thraish repeated it in his head, cold comfort in the wake of Lucio’s turned back, in the aftermath of the burning, stolen kisses and the lonely walk he had ahead of him back to the library. A shiver of something cut through him, and he made himself take the first steps away.

 “I know you will,” he answered, leaving it at that.

 Disquiet filled him, but it would pass.

 He just wished the voice in his head agreed.

[jutetower8-blog]

The Merwin, Hulbert Building - 26 West 23rd Street

The 27-foot wide residence erected by William P. Earle at No. 26 East 23rd Street in 1853 was intended for a wealthy family.   It would sit among the mansions of millionaires like Benjamin Nathan, William Schermerhorn, James Constable and Charles A. Baudouine.  It is unclear if Earle, who was both an architect and a builder, lived in the new house.  It was one of many properties his family would own for decades. Whoever moved in, they came to an amicable parting of ways with one servant soon after.  She placed an advertisement in The New York Herald on April 3, 1854 that read: "Wanted--By a respectable young woman, a situation as a seamstress, in a private family.  She understands perfectly all kinds of plain sewing and is very handy with her needle.  Can be seen for two days at her present employer's, No. 26 West Twenty-third street." The decade following the end of the Civil War saw significant change along West 23rd Street.  One-by-one the ground floors of once lavish homes were being converted to commercial spaces.  In 1875 the upper floors of No. 26 were being operated as a boarding house.  An advertisement in The New York Herald on September 10 that year offered "A suit of elegant rooms.  Also single rooms to let, at No. 26 West Twenty third street, with first class Board, to families and gentlemen." The following year W. H. Lee was running his furniture store from the English basement level.  Before the decade ended a cast iron facade would replace the brownstone, completely disguising the fact that the property had once been an upscale home. In January 1887 William P. Earle modernized the structure by hiring N. Le Brun & Son to do interior renovations, including installing a shaft for a new elevator.  Three months later, on April 1, Merwin, Hulbert & Co. signed a lease for "the entire store, building and premises known and distinguished as No. 26 West Twenty-third Street."  The annual rent reflected the bustling commercial thoroughfare that West 23rd Street had become.  The $11,500 per year rent would top $300,000 today. The firm was formed in 1876 by Joseph Merwin and William and Milan Hulbert.  It designed and manufactured firearms as well as importing firearms and related goods.  By the time the company moved into the 23rd Street building, it had diversified into sporting goods--like the rabidly-popular bicycle.

The firm not only marketed guns, but sporting goods like Indian Clubs and Boxing Gloves.

Joseph Merwin died in 1888, only months after signing the lease.  On January 1, 1892 the company name was changed to Hulbert Brothers & Company.   The bicycling craze, known as wheeling, swept the nation.  Club of "wheelmen" were organized and wheelers of both sexes filled the paths and drives of city parks.

from the collection of the New York Public Library

On August 3, 1888 Merwin, Hulbert & Co. took out a full-page ad in The Wheel and Cycling Trade Review announcing that a representative of Gormully & Jeffrey Mfg. Co. of Chicago, "the largest Cycle Manufacturers in this Country" would be in its showrooms for the next two weeks.  The purpose of his visit was "to illustrate practically to all wheelmen who will call, the Great Superiority of the 'American Cycles' over all others."  The announcement urged "Wheelmen, give us a call while Mr. Schaaf is here"

Bicycling was not an inexpensive hobby.  This "Roadster" cost the equivalent of nearly $2,400 today.  Good Roads magazine, July 1893, (copyright expired)

By the spring of 1896 Hulbert Brothers & Co. had branched out into sports apparel as well.  An advertisement in the Corland Evening Standard on March 7 that year not only marketed the Mesinger Rattan Saddle ("correct for stead riding resting or scorching") and the Hulbert Pneumatic Brake, but the Hulbert Bicycle Skirt.  The ad promised that the innovative apparel could "change from riding to walking length in a second." The diversification may have had to do with shaky business.  The Financial Panic of 1893 had caused the failure of banks and businesses nationwide.  In 1894 Hulbert Brothers had declared bankruptcy and in 1896 closed its doors. The store now became home to society stationers Dempsey & Carroll.  The company provided high-end calling cards, menus, dinner cards (the beautifully-inscribed table tents or cards which announced which guests sat where), invitations and other indispensable paper goods to Manhattan socialites.  On May 8, 1900 the New-York Tribune commented "For the rush of June weddings which New-Yorkers will witness this year Dempsey & Carroll, the well known artistic stationers have prepared several new forms of fashionable invitation cards."

The Evening Telegram, October 13, 1900 (copyright expired)

In fact, the following year, on October 13, 1901, the newspaper said "to many readers of The Tribune 'marriage' has come to be associated with the firm of Dempsey & Carroll...Few persons have any idea of the scope and magnitude of this business or of the many stage through which, for instance, a simple order for a visiting card goes, and the care given at every point to its artistic execution." That year Dempsey & Carroll published an illustrated booklet that guided the novice through the intricacies of social etiquette related to cards and stationery.  It included "the correct forms for marriage invitations, card and announcements, [with] examples beautifully engraved being given from the immense number prepared every season." A rather unusual tenant upstairs at the time was Woodbury, who seems to have cautiously avoided the title "doctor."  His advertisement in The Evening Telegram on October 13, 1900 assured the reader that he had "studied the skin for 30 years."  His expertise was not only the curing "pimples, blackheads and eruptions" (which were "a sure sign of wrong living"), but the patient's inherit personality flaws.   "A pug nose means a pert, saucy nature--one quick to take offence; suppose Woodbury changes the pug to a prepossessing aquiline?  A mole on the right foot indicates wisdom.  If Woodbury removes the mole will you know less?" In August 1902 the estate of William P. Earle leased the building "for a long term of years" at annual rent of $25,000--or around $735,000 today.   The tenant was the Hyde Exploring Expedition company, marketers of Native American crafts. The buying agents for the Hyde Exploring Expedition Indian Goods store negotiated with Native Americans, like the Louisana Chitimacha tribe, which produced baskets sold in the 23rd Street store.   The firm also published The Papoose here, a magazine that not only advertised its products, but ran articles about Native American life, culture and arts.

While, arguably, The Hyde Exploring Expedition exploited the Native American craftsmen, most notably the women who wove the textiles and baskets; The Papoose lobbied for their better treatment.  And yet the inherent racism of the early 20th century seeped into even those laudable efforts.  In the April 1903 issue, for instance, and article entitled "Am I My Brother's Keeper?" said in part: The negro was here of our own bringing.  What of the Indian?  His was the broad land by right of ownership, and the coming of the white man wrested the land from his grasp by right or might.  Our great and good government takes care of the negro, appoints him to office, places him in high positions, gives to him authority over his onetime masters.  What of the Indian?  What return is given his for the rights wrested from him?...He is subjected to the humiliation of receiving alms at the hands of his captors. Prices for authentic Native American goods were not cheap.  Navajo blankets in 1903 were priced at as much as $50; more than $1,400 today.  Baskets were more affordable, going for about $5.

Moccasins were marketed as "The Ideal House Slipper."  The Papoose, May 1903 (copyright expired)

The Hyde Exploring Expedition would remain in the building until 1907 when the Earle estate leased it to Ferrin & Co.  Run by Louis V. Ferrin and Louis A. Doullet, they sublet spaces to several tenants, such as the Van Orden Corset Co. and the Perrin Glove Store.

New-York Tribune, October 13 1907 (copyright expired)

The Perrin Glove Store provided ladies with the various types of gloves necessary for different social events.  In the summer of 1908 a pair of "20-button silk gloves" were priced at $2.25 (nearly $62 today); while 16-button gloves were slightly less expensive at $1.75.   The store also offered stockings: "Women's fine thread Silk black, tan and colors, double sole, heel and toe" for $2.25. Both women's and men's winter wardrobes required furs and in 1910 the Hudson Bay Importing Co. moved in.   Founded in 1890, the company proclaimed "We sell furs and furs only."   Because of that, the selling season for Hudson Bay Importing Company ran from about September through January.  As the selling season drew to an end in its new home, the firm announced its "clearance sale" on January 15, 1911.  "Everything must go and will go, and is sure to go.  We carry no furs over; $500,000 of the finest furs at clearance sale prices." Included in the sale were "minks, sables, fishers, raccoon, ermine, fox, silver fox, &c., &c."  Still left in stock to be liquidated were a few Caracul Coats, "52-inch garments--the latest Parisian models--lined with heavy brocade; jewelled buttons" and Black Fox Sets, described as the "most magnificent shawl or animal scarf and beautiful pillow muff."  The coats had been priced earlier at $150 (about $4,000 today) and were now half price. The store was restocked for the coming season by the end of summer.  A Hudson Bay Company ad in The Evening Telegram on September 24 announced "An Exhibition of Furs (new models) at their New Building 26 West 23d Street." The firm remained here until December 1918 when it, like so many high-end retailers, moved northward along Fifth Avenue.  Its advertisement in The Evening Telegram that month announced its entire $650,000 stock would be sold for $325,000 in a three-day sale. The building's owners, now Daby & Co., Inc., hired architect Harry Hurwitz to completely remodel the architecturally dated structure.  His plans called for "addition of one story, mezzanine balcony and general alterations."  The "general alterations" included an entire new front. Completed in 1920, the $20,000 in renovations resulted in a clean, white terra cotta facade, now six stories tall.  Vast expanses of glass flooded the interior spaces.  Hurwitz gave the building a neo-Tudor touch with a crenellated parapet and heraldic terra cotta shield. New tenants included the French Merchandise Company, which took the third floor in May 1920, and James M. Shaw, pottery, glass and china dealer.  Shaw's was typical of the stores along the block which had become the center of the china and glass district.  Next door, at No. 18, for instance, Charles Hall, Inc. took over the entire building the same year for his "china, glassware and general household goods," store. Among the best known of these firms was Theodore Haviland & Co.  Founded by American importer David Haviland in the 1830's, it expanded into manufacturing when David moved to France in 1842.  The American set up his factory in Limoges, turning out high-end porcelain products which he shipped back to American to be sold by his brothers. In 1891 Charles Edward Haviland and his brother, Theodore, had parted ways.  Two years later Theodore Haviland began his own firm, known as Theodore Haviland, Limoges.  The siblings and their respective companies were bitter rivals until Charles's death in 1921. Theodore Haviland & Co. was in No. 26 at least by 1926 and would remain here for decades catering to the carriage trade, even while other china stores moved up Fifth Avenue.  Finally, in 1951, it too relocated.

The "H" in the shield was most likely added after Haviland moved into the building.

The 23rd street block was no longer a fashionable shopping area, as reflected in the new tenant at No. 26.  On February 23, 1952 Billboard magazine announced "Mills Sales Company, after 26 years, has decided to move uptown to the heart of the novelty and toy district.  Their new home will be located at 26 West 23d Street (fourth floor) where they will occupy larger quarters."   Mills Sales Company dealt in cheap "novelties, gifts, sundries, toys and housewares."  It would remain here for several years, advertising in Billboard on June 23, 1956 as "Cut Rate Wholesalers since 1916."  That ad touted "magic rain bonnets in plastic pouch."  A dozen would cost the buyer $1.50.

A renovation completed in 1986 resulted in offices above the ground floor store.  Whatever Harry Hurwitz's store front was in his 1920 re-do, there is nothing left of it today.  Nevertheless, the surprising and romantic terra cotta commercial building survives essentially intact since then. photographs by the author

Source: http://daytoninmanhattan.blogspot.com/2019/04/the-merwin-hulbert-building-26-west.html