#Scone Palace | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

archangeldyke-all · 1 year ago

Note

Ever thought about knight!sevika x reader princess that she has to protect and sevika get feelings for her

eeeeeeek!!!

men and minors dni

you could kill your mom you're so angry. if it wouldn't get you hung for treason, you would.

"you can't be serious!" you shout. your mother rolls her eyes from where she sits at the head of the breakfast table. she's trying to assign you a personal guard-- another one. "mom, i'm not even next in line for the throne! i'm fifth! i barely ever leave the palace walls and i never get into trouble-- what was the point of all those fencing lessons you made me take if you won't even let me defend myself?"

"darling, i told you if you scared off the last one that i'd just get you a new one. you knew this would happen." she says. "it's what happens every time."

it's true. you've had countless personal guards since you turned 18. now that you're eligible for marriage your mother thinks it's imperative that you're constantly protected, lest you're kidnapped and married off to the prince of a rival kingdom. you wouldn't have such a problem with it if your mother stopped picking total assholes to fill the roll. you've endured man after man after man, all assigned to protect you, all complete idiots. some of them are unassigned from you for falling in love with you, some of them you caught sneaking glances at you while you change, the perverts. some of them are intimidated by you, angry that a woman can outwit them or unwilling to work for a woman with more intelligence than them. (which is ironic, considering they've sworn away their lives to serve your mother.)

after you got rid of the last one, sir samuel, you'd had a lovely month long break from having someone constantly following you around, and you figured your mother had given up her efforts. apparently, you were wrong.

"this is bullshit." you grumble. behind your mother, one of the fully armed faceless steel figures' shoulders shake in silent laughter.

"i think you'll like this one, darling, i took some time to find you the perfect match." your mother says with a smirk. you scoff.

"i can't believe this." you mumble. your mother raises her hand, beckoning one of her knights toward her. the tallest, the one who had been laughing, steps forward.

"sir sevika, this is my daughter. darling, sevika." your mother introduces. you roll your eyes.

"what kinda man is named se--" you trail off as the knight removes his steel helmet. "oh shit." you whisper. her steel helmet. it's a woman, chuckling at your shocked face. she's got a little gap between her front teeth, her lips and eyes painted black. her brown skin is clear besides the scars littering the left side of her face, and her silver eyes are sparkling. she's... pretty. you gulp.

"it's an honor to be serving you, princess." the woman speaks. you blink at her and nod.

"yes, well..." you trail off as your eyes dart across the knight's face. your mother chuckles, and shoots you a knowing look from across the table. you groan and sink into your seat.

sevika's the best personal guard you've ever had. she's only been assigned to you for three months, but in that short time she's quickly become your best friend.

she's the first thing you see each morning, lightly shaking you awake with a gentle smile and a cup of tea. the two of you chat as you get dressed, sevika sometimes helping you pick out your outfits, zipping dresses and tightening corsets for you. of course, you don't need the help, you've been dressing yourself for years (the royal esquires of dress are reserved only for your mother and oldest brother) but you prefer sevika's gentle touch to your own.

sevika's smart, well versed in history and politics. you enjoy taking breakfast on your balcony with her, picking her brain about current events as you share scones and fruit. in the presence of others sevika is silent and stoic, and when she's required to talk she keeps her answers brief and curt. but when it's just the two of you, sevika lets her gruff guard down, joking and playing and constantly chatting with you. she's gotten you in trouble several times, leaning down to whisper scathing comments about various nobles into your ear at balls and galas, causing you to unattractively snort and giggle and then elbow her when your mother shoots you a glare from across the dinner table.

sevika's the first of your personal guards to ever agree to spar with you. the rest refused-- too scared to injure a princess, or convinced that a woman would never be able to hold her own against a royal knight. sevika's better than you by a mile, but she tones down her skill to scrimmage with you, teaching you as she goes, smiling brightly each time you manage to catch her off guard and get a good jab in.

on rainy days, you spend your afternoons in the royal library, reading to sevika or having her read to you by the roaring fire. one or both of you always falls asleep against each other, waking up when a servant finds you for dinner.

in the evenings, sevika 'guards' you as you bathe, her back turned to you, her face toward the door. you always laugh and tell her it's completely unnecessary-- both the guarding and the modesty-- but she insists.

she leaves you in your room each night with a gentle bow and a 'sweet dreams, princess,' and every night you asleep looking forward to the next morning, when you'll get to see your friend's face again.

you're in love with sevika. it's obvious to everyone except her. your mother teases you for it relentlessly; how you fell for the first woman she put on your guard, how you look at your knight with lovesick puppy eyes, the way you sulk on sevika's days off when a replacement guard takes her place.

"she'd be a good addition to the family." your mother whispers to you one evening as you dance together in the ballroom. you try to bite back the smile the words cause to form on your lips. your mother chuckles as she spins you.

"i don't think she feels that way about me." you admit. your mother scoffs. "what?" you ask.

"you were able to clock sir henry's crush on you before he could even complete his first week as your guard. where's that discernment, dear?" she asks. you chuckle.

"sir henry kept 'accidentally' walking in on me naked. sevika won't even look at me when i'm in the bath, covered in bubbles." you say. your mother rolls her eyes.

"sevika is a gentlewoman. you're a princess. sir henry came from a family of nobles, he was a presumptuous, power hungry boy. sevika's different, you know that." she says. you sigh, resting your forehead against your mother's shoulder as she sways the two of you around the ballroom.

she's right. sevika is different. you know this. sevika's parents were peasants, and she worked her way up the ranks with countless sacrifices and patience. she'd given her arm to protect your kingdom, to protect your mother. she was a genuine, loyal, knight, not some pretentious asshole playing dress up on his daddy's dime.

"still." you say. "she hasn't shown any interest in me." your mother laughs. you frown at her. "what?" you ask.

"you're a princess dear! she works for you. she's sworn her life away to protect you, to make you happy, to make all of your wishes come true. she's not going to show interest until you make it abundantly clear that you want her to show interest." she says. "your father was so scared approaching me when we were young that he--"

"i know. he spent years painting you before he even spoke a word to you." you say. you've heard the story countless times. your father was the royal artist, deeply in love with your mother when she was still a princess.

"but do you know what gave him the courage to finally speak to me?" your mom asks.

"no." you say. she grins.

"i kissed him. he'd just finished a portrait of me, it was so beautiful and detailed, and he had that proud look about him, his adorable shy smile, his beautiful sparkling eyes-- i just had to kiss him. and once i did, he came to life. not a day has passed since then where he hasn't made it abundantly clear how much he loves me."

you sigh. you suppose she's right. sevika would never do something to betray her duties or risk her position-- at least not without a bit of a push first. you bite your lip. "you're sure she feels the same?" you ask. the last thing you want to do is make a fool of yourself trying to seduce your personal guard and lose your best friend because of it. your mother laughs a loud bellowing laugh that echoes throughout the ballroom. you smile. even though she's laughing at you, it's good to hear her laugh.

"oh darling." she says as she brushes a few tears away from her eyes and catches her breath. "i needed that. whew. thank you." she says, pressing a kiss to your cheek. you chuckle and roll your eyes.

"whatever."

"i'm certain, darling. and, on the off chance i'm wrong, i'll hang her for breaking my baby's heart." she says. you laugh, and kiss your mother's cheek.

sevika is tall and handsome and charming and suave. she's courageous and composed-- she could have anyone she wants.

and yet she's speechless and flustered each time you flirt with her.

it's adorable. it gives you butterflies, seeing her react so strongly to your gentle touches and longing gazes.

the first time it happened was the morning after your chat with your mom. that night, after sevika had left your chambers with her usual bow, you quickly changed out of the cozy night gown you were dressed in, dawning a sheer, short sleep dress and giggling as you climbed in bed. you tossed and turned that night, eager for the sun to rise and for sevika to come wake you up. eventually, you fell asleep.

you awoke to a crash and a curse. snapping up in bed, you gawked at the scene you found on the floor beside you. sevika was flat on her back on the floor, the teacup that had been in her hands is in pieces on the floor, and sevika's eyes were wide, her mouth open, gawking at you. you giggled and pushed your covers away, carefully avoiding the shards of porcelain as you helped sevika to her feet.

a blush crept up her cheeks as her eyes darted down to look at your naked body, clearly visible under the thin lace fabric of your pajamas. "you okay?" you asked. she choked, her eyes snapping back up to yours.

"y-yeah. tripped." she stuttered out.

oh, this is gonna be fun. you thought with a chuckle.

since then, you've been laying it on thick. holding sevika's hand as the two of you walk down the winding halls of the palace, letting her tackle you to the ground during your fencing practices to sling your hands around her shoulders and blink up at her, kissing her cheek each night before she leaves your chambers.

sevika's been reacting the same, blushing, stuttering and gulping, before nervously laughing and shaking her head. it's killing you. as adorable as it is, you're dying for her to just fucking do something about it already. you don't know what else you can do besides throwing yourself at her.

you sigh, sinking into the couch. you're in the library, hoping that the smell of books and dust can calm your sexual frustrations. it's not working, of course, because sevika's sitting beside you, a furrow in her brow as her eyes scan a scroll. you bite your lip. she's so fucking pretty it drives you crazy. you reach your hand up to start playing with her hair, twirling the short soft strands around your fingers. sevika's body stiffens next to you. you sigh again.

"you're so pretty." you whisper. sevika blinks down at the scroll, then, she shyly looks over at you. you smile.

"so are you." she says, her voice just as quiet. you chuckle.

"you think so?" you ask. sevika nods. you sigh.

"what?" she asks. you shrug.

"i dunno. there's someone i've been trying to court and they don't seem to be interested." you say. sevika sputters beside you.

"who!?" she demands. you chuckle.

"why would i tell you that?"

"so i can beat some sense into them!" she says. you grin.

"i don't think that would work. she's pretty clueless." you say. your choice in pronoun doesn't go unnoticed. sevika freezes beside you.

"she?" she asks.

"...is that a problem?" you ask. sevika gulps and shakes her head.

"no! i just-- i didn't know."

"you didn't know!?" you exclaim. sevika shrugs. you burst into laughter. sevika huffs beside you.

"it's not that funny."

"it's hilarious!" you giggle. "everything makes sense now!" you say.

"what-- what are you talking about?" sevika asks. you roll your eyes.

"what do you think i've been doing, sev? you think i just like sleeping in lingerie for no reason?" you ask as you slowly scoot closer to her on the couch. "or that i kiss all my friends goodnight?"

"i thought-- what are you saying?" sevika asks, her eyes wide, her knuckles white where she's clutching the cushion beneath her.

"take a guess." you whisper, your face inches from hers.

sevika bites her lip, her eyes darting from your lips to your eyes and back again, her breaths are shaky. "princess, i don't--"

"oh, for fuck's sake, sevika." you groan as you pull her forward and press your lips to hers.

sevika's stiff at first, inhaling a shaky surprised breath through her nose, before she melts against the couch and lets out the sweetest little moan against you. you giggle against her lips, and her arms wrap around your waist, pulling you into her lap as she parts her lips to kiss you deeper. you bury one hand into her hair, the other clutching her bicep as your tongues meet and you moan against each other. sevika's grip on your hips is bruising, and it's making you light headed. you whimper, and sevika pulls away with the brightest smile you've ever seen her wear. you grin.

"oh." she says. "it's me?" she asks, her eyes dreamy and her smile disbelieving. you giggle and kiss her again.

"yeah. is that okay?" you ask. sevika gulps and nods.

"yeah. yes. very okay." she says. "i--" she pauses. you raise your eyebrow at her and she takes a deep breath. slowly, her hands run up your waist, until they're cupping your jaw. sevika brings your face forward until your foreheads are pressed together, her thumbs rubbing across your cheeks in gentle sweeps. "i was ready to kill whoever was fuckin' with your heart." she says. you chuckle against her.

"please don't. i'm kinda obsessed with you." you say. sevika smirks.

"your mom won't mind?"

"she's the one who told me to go for it. i think she was playing matchmaker when she was lookin' for sir samuel's replacement." you admit. sevika giggles.

"that explains all the weird questions she asked me. what side of the bed i sleep on and whether or not i was single." she says. after a moment of shared laughter, sevika frowns. you can feel her brow furrow against yours, and you dart forward to kiss the pout off her lips.

"what?" you ask. sevika sighs.

"i don't-- i don't know how the whole royal courting thing goes." she admits. you laugh.

"i'll help you through it."

"i know, but can i do something out of order now?" she asks. you smirk.

"depends on what it is. i feel like my bed might be more comfortable than this cou--"

"no!" she interrupts, scandalized. "i mean yes, please, obviously, but that's not--" you cut her off with another kiss, and she sighs against you. "i'm in love with you, your highness." she whispers. "i have been since i first laid eyes on you. i remember it so clearly, you were bitching at your mom and begging her not to assign you a new guard and i thought this'll be a breeze. i'd happily lay down my life for a woman like her."

the butterflies in your stomach soar, and tears well up in your eyes. you take a shaky breath and smile. "my knight in shining armor." you whisper. "i love you too."

taglist!

@lesbeaniegreenie @fyeahnix @sapphicsgirl @half-of-a-gay @ellabslut @thesevi0lentdelights @sexysapphicshopowner @shimtarofstupidity @love-sugarr @chuucanchuucan @222danielaa

#sevika #sevika imagine #sevika arcane #sevika x reader #sevika x you #soft sevika #this was so fun i love these fantasy aus haha

358 notes · View notes

thepastisalreadywritten · 8 months ago

Text

Inside William’s Next Act: Tatler’s May issue goes behind the scenes as the Prince of Wales is rising above the noise — and playing the long game

The burden of leadership is falling upon Prince William, but as former BBC Royal Correspondent, Wesley Kerr OBE, explains in Tatler’s May cover story, the future king is taking charge

By Wesley Kerr OBE

21 March 2024

When I first met Prince William in 2009, he asked me if I could tell him how he could win the National Lottery.

It was a jokey quip from someone who has since become the Prince of Wales, the holder of three dukedoms, three earldoms, two baronies and two knighthoods, and heir to the most prestigious throne on earth.

He was, of course, being relatable; I was representing the organisation that had allocated Lottery funding towards the Whitechapel Gallery and he wanted to put me at ease.

William is grand but different, royal but real.

At 6ft 3in, he has the bearing and looks great in uniform after a distinguished, gallant military career.

He will be one of the tallest of Britain’s kings since Edward Longshanks in the 14th century and should one day be crowned sitting above the Stone of Scone that Edward ‘borrowed.’

William, by contrast, has a deep affinity with Scotland and Wales, having lived in both nations and gained solace from the Scottish landscape after his mother died.

He’s popular in America and understands that the Crown’s relationship to the Commonwealth must evolve.

The Prince of Wales has long believed that ‘the Royal Family has to modernise and develop as it goes along, and it has to stay relevant’, as he once said in an interview.

He seeks his own way of being relatable, of benefitting everybody, in the context of an ancient institution undergoing significant challenge and upheaval, as the head of a nation divided by hard times, conflicts abroad, and social and political uncertainty.

We might recognise Shakespeare’s powerful line spoken by Claudius in Hamlet: ‘When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions.’

With the triple announcement in January and February of the Princess of Wales’s abdominal surgery and long convalescence, of King Charles’s prostate procedure and then of his cancer diagnosis, the burden of leadership has fallen on 76-year-old Queen Camilla and, crucially, on William.

The Prince of Wales’s time has come to step up; and so he has deftly done.

In recent months, we have seen a fully-fledged deputy head of state putting into practice his long-held ideas, speaking out on the most contentious issue of the day and taking direct action on homelessness.

Last June, he unveiled the multi-agency Homewards initiative with the huge aspiration of ending homelessness, backed with £3 million from his Foundation to spearhead action across the UK.

He is consolidating Heads Together, the long-standing campaign on mental health, and fundraises for charities like London’s Air Ambulance Charity.

He was, of course, once a pilot for the East Anglian Air Ambulance services – a profession that had its downside: seeing people in extremis or at death’s door, he found himself ‘taking home people’s trauma, people’s sadness.’

Tom Cruise was a guest at the recent London’s Air Ambulance Charity fundraiser, William’s first gala event after Kate’s operation.

And more stardust followed when William showed that, even without his wife by his side, he could outclass any movie star at the Baftas.

There’s also his immense aim of helping to ‘repair the planet’ itself with his Earthshot Prize: five annual awards of £1 million for transformative environmental projects with worldwide application.

This project has a laser focus on biodiversity, better air quality, cleaner seas, reducing waste and combating climate change. Similar aims to his father; different means to achieve the goal.

On the issue which has caused huge convulsions – the Middle East conflict – William’s 20 February statement from Kensington Palace grabbed attention.

He said he was ‘deeply concerned about the terrible human cost of the conflict since the Hamas terrorist attack on 7 October. Too many have been killed.’

There were criticisms – along the lines of ‘the late Queen would have never spoken out like this’ or ‘what right does he have to meddle in politics?’ – but it was hard to disagree with his carefully calibrated words.

His call for peace, the ‘desperate need’ for humanitarian aid, the return of the hostages.

The statement was approved by His Majesty’s Government, likely cleared with the King himself at Sandringham the previous weekend and also backed by the chief rabbi of Great Britain, Sir Ephraim Mirvis.

Indeed, William and Catherine had immediately spoken out on the horrors of 7 October.

William followed up the week after his Kensington Palace statement by visiting a synagogue and sending a ‘powerful message’, according to the chief rabbi, by meeting a Holocaust survivor and condemning anti-Semitism.

This is rooted in deep personal conviction following William’s 2018 visit to Israel and the West Bank, says Valentine Low, the distinguished author of Courtiers and The Times’s royal correspondent of 15 years, who was on that 2018 trip.

‘William was so moved by his visit to Israel and the West Bank, he found it very affecting, and he was not going to drop this issue – he was going to pay attention to it for the rest of his life,’ says Low.

‘He must feel that… not to say something on the most important issue in the world [at that moment] would be a bit odd if you feel so strongly about it.’

There was concern from some commentators about politicising the monarchy, but this rose above the particulars of party politics.

As Prince of Wales, like his father before him, there is perhaps space to speak out sparingly on carefully chosen issues.

On this occasion, his views were in line with majority public opinion.

On homelessness, news came that same week that William was planning to build 24 homes for the homeless on his Duchy of Cornwall estate.

‘William’s impact is very personal,’ says Mick Clarke, chief executive of The Passage, a charity providing emergency accommodation for London’s homeless.

‘Two weeks before Christmas, the prince came to our Resource Centre in Victoria for a Christmas lunch for 150 people.

He was scheduled to stay for an hour, to help serve, wash up, and talk to people.

He ended up staying for two and a quarter hours, during which time he went from table to table and spoke to every single person.’

Clarke continues:

‘William has an ability to listen, talk and to put people at ease. During the November 2020 lockdown, he came on three separate occasions to help.

It gave the team a boost that he took the time; it was his way of saying: “I support you; you’re doing a great job.”’

Seyi Obakin, chief executive of Centrepoint, one of the prince’s best-known causes, adds:

‘People associate his patronage with the big moments like the time he and I slept under Blackfriars Bridge.

The things that stick with me are smaller in scale and the more profound for it – in quieter moments, away from the cameras, where he has volunteered his time.’

It is a different approach from the King’s.

As Prince of Wales, he was involved in the minutiae of dozens of issues at any one time, working into the night to follow up on emails, crafting his speeches, writing or dictating notes.

Add to that much nationwide touring over 40 years (after he left active military service in 1976), fitting in multiple engagements, often being greeted formally by lord lieutenants.

This is not William’s style. He has commended his father’s model, but he does things his own way.

Although patronages are under review, William has up till now far fewer than either his father or his grandparents.

Charles is sympathetic to William’s approach and his desire to make time with his young family sacrosanct.

They are confidantes, attested by the night of Queen Elizabeth’s death.

They were both at Birkhall with Camilla, reviewing funeral arrangements while the rest of the grieving family were nearby at Balmoral, hosted by the Princess Royal.

Charles has had almost six decades in public life and is the senior statesman of our time, with even longer in the spotlight than Joe Biden.

After Eton and St Andrew’s University, where he met Catherine, William served in three branches of the military between 2006 and 2013, finishing as a seasoned and skilled helicopter rescue pilot.

His later employment as an air ambulance pilot stopped in 2017, when he became a full-time working royal.

At that time, not so long ago – with Harry unmarried, Andrew undisgraced, and Philip and Elizabeth still active – William shared the spotlight.

Now, after the King, he’s the key man.

He can look back on the success of his first big campaign initially launched with his wife and brother in 2016: Heads Together.

‘We are delighted that Prince William should have become such a positive and sympathetic advocate for mental health through his Heads Together initiative and now well-established text service, Shout, among other projects,’ says the longtime CEO and founder of Sane, the remarkable Marjorie Wallace CBE.

‘It is not always known that he follows in the footsteps of his father, the King, whose inspiration and vision were vital in the creation of our mental health charity Sane.

As founding patron, he was instrumental in establishing our 365-days-a-year helpline and was a remarkable and selfless support to me in setting up the Prince of Wales International Centre for Sane Research.’

'Indeed,' says Wallace, 'this is where Prince William echoes the work of his father, showing the same ‘understanding and compassion for people struggling through dark and difficult times of their lives and has done much to raise awareness and encourage those affected to speak out and seek help.

We owe a huge debt to His Majesty and the Prince of Wales for their involvement in this still-neglected area.’

Just as I saw all those years ago at that early solo engagement in Whitechapel, William still approaches his public duties with humour and fun.

‘He defuses the formality with jocularity,’ says Valentine Low, citing two public events in 2023 that he witnessed.

In April last year, while on a visit to Birmingham, William randomly answered the phone in an Indian restaurant he was being shown around and took a table booking from a customer – an endearing act of spontaneity.

On his arrival later that day, the unsuspecting diner was surprised to be told exactly whom he had been talking to.

In October, Low reported, William ‘unleashed his inner flirt as he hugged his way through a visit with Caribbean elders [in Cardiff] to mark Black History Month.

As he gave one woman a hug – for longer than she expected – he joked: “I draw the line at kissing.”

And while posing for a group photograph, he prompted gales of laughter when he quipped: “Who is pinching my bottom?”’

Low believes that when William eventually becomes king, he will be more ‘radical’ than his father but wonders if people will respond to ‘call me William’ when ‘the whole point of the Royal Family is mystique and being different.’

However, William has thought deeply about his current role and is prepared for whatever his future holds.

For now, there is a decision to be made on Prince George’s secondary schooling. It’s said that five public schools are being considered, all fee-paying.

Eton is single-sex and boarding but close to home. Marlborough (Catherine’s alma mater) is co-ed and full boarding. And Oundle, St Edward’s Oxford and Bradfield College (close to Kate’s parents) are co-ed with a mix of boarding and day.

As parents, William and Catherine aspire to raise their children ‘as good people with the idea of service and duty to others as very important’, William said in an interview with the BBC in 2016.

‘Within our family unit, we are a normal family.’ Which may be one reason why he is so resistant to their privacy being compromised either by the media or close family members.

The 19th-century author Walter Bagehot wrote:

‘A family on the throne is an interesting idea also. It brings down the pride of sovereignty to the level of petty life… a princely marriage is the brilliant edition of a universal fact, and, as such, it rivets mankind.’

If hereditary monarchy is to survive, it must beguile us but also demonstrate its utility, that it is a force for good.

William said in that 2016 interview, ‘I’m going to get plenty of criticism over my lifetime,’ echoing Queen Elizabeth II’s famous Guildhall speech in 1992 ‘that criticism is good for people and institutions that are part of public life. No institution – city, monarchy, whatever – should expect to be free from the scrutiny of those who give it their loyalty and support, not to mention those who don’t.’

William saw close up his mother’s ability to bring public focus and her own personal magnetism to any subject or cause she focused on.

He admires his father’s work ethic, the way he ‘really digs down,’ sometimes literally (I understand that gardening is giving the King solace during his cancer treatment).

But the biggest influence for William was Her late Majesty, as he said on her 90th birthday.

As an Eton schoolboy, William made weekend visits to the big house on the hill, being mentored by Granny rather as she had been tutored in the Second World War by the then vice-provost of Eton, Sir Henry Marten.

William said in 2016:

‘In the Queen, I have an extraordinary example of somebody who’s done an enormous amount of good and she’s probably the best role model I could have.’

That said, his aim was ‘finding your own path but with very good examples and guidance around you to support you.'

Queen Elizabeth II had a brilliant way of rising above the fray and usually being either a step ahead of public opinion or in tune with it.

If you are at the helm of affairs in a privileged hereditary position, your duty is to serve and use your pulpit for the benefit of others.

In a democracy, monarchy is accountable.

The scrutiny is intense, with an army of commentators paid for wisdom and hot air about each no-show, parsing each announcement, interpreting each image.

William takes the long view. He has ‘wide horizons,’ says Mick Clarke.

‘There are so many causes that are more palatable and easier to achieve than ending homelessness, but his commitment and drive are 100 per cent.’

The prince seeks a different way of being royal in an ancient institution that must move with the times. His task? To develop something modern in an ever-changing world.

He faces all sorts of new issues – or old issues in new guises.

Noises off from within the family don’t help – Andrew’s difficulties, or the suggestions of prejudice from Montecito a couple of years ago (now seemingly withdrawn), which prompted William’s most vehement soundbite: ‘We’re very much not a racist family.’

William is maybe a new kind of leader who can keep the monarchy relevant and resonant in the coming decades.

Queen Elizabeth II is a powerful exemplar and memory, but she was of her time. William is his own man.

He must overcome and think beyond ‘the unforgiving minute.’

Indeed, he could seek inspiration in Rudyard Kipling’s poem, If.

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

To serve your turn long after they are gone,

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,

Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch[…]

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,

And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

This article was first published in the May 2024 issue, on sale Thursday, 28 March.

148 notes · View notes

pad-wubbo · 3 months ago

Text

All AAI2 official English character and case names rated based on whether I think they're better or worse than the fan translation equivalents:

Di-Jun Huang > Di-Jun Wang - It's the same.

Horace Knightley > Bronco Knight - Worse.

Ethan Rooke > Bastian Rook - Worse.

Nicole Swift > Tabby Lloyd - Much better.

Raymond Shields > Eddie Fender - Slightly worse.

Jay Elbird > Rocco Carcerato - Much better.

Simon Keyes > Simeon Saint - Slightly worse.

Sebastian Debeste > Eustace Winner - Sounds worse, fits better.

Justine Courtney > Verity Gavèlle - Much better.

Sirhan Dogen > Bodhidharma Kanis - Much better.

Patricia Roland > Fifi Laguarde - Much better, they've already done "patrol" twice.

Jeff Master > Samson Tangaroa - More unique, less punny. Not sure.

Katherine Hall > Judy Bound - Slightly worse because no food pun.

Isaac Dover > Artie Frost - References his nature as an artist, better.

Pierre Hoquet > Paul Halique - Same as Japanese name, no longer parrot.

Dane Gustavia > Carmelo Gusto - Worse, doesn't sound as awesome.

Delicia Scones > Delicia Scone - It's the same.

Karin Jenson > Florence Niedler - Much better. Florence Nightingale and needles.

Bonnie Young > Hilda Hertz - Better, because alliterative.

Jill Crane > Rosie Ringer - Better, alliterative. Different nursery rhyme.

Blaise Debeste > Excelsius Winner - The absolute Winner among these names. It's so pompous, contains "celsius" and "excel" and just sounds like he went to Oxford.

John Marsh > Shaun Fenn - It's the same. Shaun means John and fen means marsh.

Amy Marsh > Amelie Fenn - It's the same.

Dai-Long Lang > Da-Long Lang - It's the same.

Jack Cameron > Alf Aldown - Better, only because it's a Deid Mann tier awful name rather than a boring realistic name.

Turnabout Target > Turnabout Trigger - Better, sounds more like a presidential assassination attempt.

The Imprisoned Turnabout > The Captive Turnabout - Better, less long-winded.

The Inherited Turnabout > Turnabout Legacy - Better for same reason as above.

The Forgotten Turnabout > A Turnabout Forsaken - Sounds more pretentious, but probably better because less confusion with The Lost Turnabout, where Phoenix forgets.

The Grand Turnabout > Turnabout for the Ages - Worse, I think. It sounds cooler, but doesn't have any chess connotations. They should have called it "The Grandmaster's Turnabout" or "Turnabout Checkmate", I think.

Also, have updated case cards to help you get used to the new names.

EDIT;

Some extra things:

* iFly Airlines in AAI1 has been reverted to its Japanese name of "GoYou". This was probably done because iFly is the name of a real Russian airline with global sanctions against it since 2022.

* As a result, Hugo Ifly is now Ugo Hughes and the tanuki called Mr. Ifly is now Captain Ugo.

* Moozilla is now Taurusaurus, which I think is a better name.

* The Grand Tower is now the Bigg Building, suggesting that Big is not merely its size, but a Mr. Bigg is its proprietor.

* The Zodiac Hall galleries are now referred to as seasonal "Wings" rather than "Palaces". Makes more sense.

* Edgeworth Law Offices is now referred to as Edgeworth and Co. Law Offices, the Co. being Eddie Fender (aka Ray Shields). Again, makes more sense.

* Rocky the bear is now Teddy, since his owner is now already Rocco as a Rocky reference.

* Anubis the hunting dog is now Helmut, a lame pun on "hell mutt".

* Astique the elephant is now Azea, like an "Asian" elephant.

* Ally the alligator is still the same. Regina Berry is not very good at naming animals.

#ace attorney investigations #ace attorney #aai2 #aai2 spoilers #miles edgeworth #localization #taurusaurus #excelsius winner

91 notes · View notes

thebadgerclan · 1 year ago

Text

My Venus

Pairing: King George III x reader

Requested by Anonymous

Summary: You are his Venus...

It was nearly impossible to quell your panic when you received the summons. If Princess Augusta called for you, it was seldom for a good reason, and you had no reason to believe she was summoning you for anything less than a scolding. So, you were quite surprised when the Princess invited you into her sitting room, poured you tea, and offered you a scone.

“Lady Y/N,” she began. “I have heard you are quite adept in the art of herbal remedies. Is this true?” You cocked your head. “Indeed it is, Your Royal Highness.” “How skilled would you say you are? Akin to a licensed apothecary?” You set your teacup down. “Might I inquire as to why you are asking, ma’am?” Augusta sighed, waving the servants out of the room.

“Very well, I shall be blunt. My son, His Majesty, is not….he is not well. I was hoping that perhaps you could be of assistance.” You did your best to hide the shock on your face. “Not well? How so, ma’am?” “That is not relevant,” the Princess snapped. “Can you help him or not?” The dowager clearly did not want to discuss the issue in depth, but how could you assist if you did not know what the issue was?

“As it stands, no, ma’am, I cannot.” “Whyever not?” “I do not know what ails His Majesty,” you explained. “A sore throat is treated quite differently than a headache. If I do not know what the problem is, then I cannot help.” Princess Augusta sighed, pinching her brow. “I am afraid I do not know how to describe the issue.” “Then there is little I can do. Unless I might speak to His Majesty…” “Out of the question.” You stood, folding your hands before you. “Then I am afraid there is nothing I can do. Good day, Your Highness.”

You were nearly to the door when she called out to you. “Fine! I will…speak to Georgie.” Smiling, you dipped into a curtsey. “Thank you, Your Royal Highness,” you said. “I look forward to meeting His Majesty.”

***

A mere two days later, you were seen to King George III’s personal study. “Presenting the Lady Y/N L/N!” You dropped into a deep curtsey when you entered, waiting for the King to acknowledge you. “Please,” the King said. “Have a seat, my lady.” You rose and did as you were bade. “It is an honor, Your Majesty,” you said, folding your hands atop your lap to keep from fidgeting. “I assume your royal mother has informed you as to why I am here?”

“Indeed she has,” the King said. “Though I am afraid your time may be wasted. Doctors from across the continent have tried and failed to cure me.” You nodded, unused to seeing your sovereign in such a vulnerable state. “Your Majesty, might you describe your troubles to me? So I might ascertain how best to help?” Again, the King sighed. “It is as if my mind separates from my body,” he began. “I begin to tremble, usually in my hands, my speech becomes disorganized, my neck twitches. I talk nonsense, you see, and there have been times…” George paused, taking a few deep breaths. “There have been times when I have eloped from the palace grounds. Many times baring myself to the elements in the process.”

You only nodded. “I see. Is there anything that appears to precede an…episode? Something that might trigger these bouts?” The King nodded. “Stressors seem to be the common thread. Frankly, I believe it may be a way for my mind to escape uncomfortable situations.” “It very well could be,” you agreed. “I can concoct a syrup of lavender and chamomile that may help to calm you. And..if I may ask something of Your Majesty?”

George nodded. “Please, do.” “If I could observe one of you…episodes, I may be able to see if there is anything further I can do.” For a moment, the King thought, before nodding again. “I can have my Man call for you. Though I must warn you, it will not be pleasant to witness.” “I care not if it is pleasant,” you replied. “I care for Your Majesty’s wellness.”

The King had been anticipating this conversation to be a difficult one, something that might trigger a panic as soon as you left the room, but quite the opposite had happened. George found your presence soothing and calming; the moment you began speaking, the tremor in his hands had ceased. Perhaps you could aid him in more ways that he had thought.

*** Sure enough, Reynolds called for you when the King had his next episode. It was jarring, to be sure. He was nude in the gardens, calling for Venus to speak to him. You had only heard stories of people acting in such manners, usually insane patients in asylums. But not the King, never the King. How was this the same man you had spoken to only a day ago?

Then, the King had turned his attention to you. His eerie smile grew even wider, and he moved towards you in quick strides. Reynolds had told you that the King was never violent during his episodes, but you still felt fear building in you. “Y/N,” he said, reaching out for you. “It is Y/N!” Cautiously, you took a step forward. “Yes, George, it is Y/N. I am here.”

The King let out a gleeful laugh and threw himself into your arms. “Y/N! Oh, the beautiful Y/N!” You wrapped your arms around him, supporting his weight. “George, it is quite cool tonight,” you said. “We ought to return indoors, don’t you think? We could get you some lavender-chamomile tea to warm up?”

“Would you stay with me?” he asked, and you nodded. “Of course, George. Now come.” To yours and Reynolds’ complete shock, the King followed you inside, letting himself be cleaned up and a cup of tea pressed into his hands. As you were leaving, Reynolds pulled you aside. “I have never seen him come out of it so fast,” he said. “There is something about you.”

***

The following day, you were once more summoned to Princess Augusta. “I heard what happened last night,” she said, though there was no accusation in her voice. “What you did for my son has never happened. Therefore, I want you to be his companion from now on.” “Wh- Your Highness?” “You calm him,” she went on. “I am not suggesting it is a cure, but something about your presence soothes the King. Therefore, I want you to be at his side.”

“I…it would be my pleasure, Your Royal Highness.” “Indeed it will be,” she said, and with a wave of her hand, you were dismissed. George was slightly hesitant about your new relationship, but he adjusted rather quickly. You did indeed have a calming effect on him, and after a week, he saw you more as a friend than someone meant to keep him in check.

And soon after, the King felt his feelings growing further. You were a rare beauty, you were kind, funny, demure, well read, and you defended him to those who questioned him. George realized it late one night as he was pouring over his star charts: he had fallen in love with you. Little did he know your feelings had blossomed in the same manner.

The King was devastatingly handsome, but he was shockingly sweet too. He was quick with a joke when the situation called for one, he was strong; in the physical sense as much as the emotional one. He cared for his people, he genuinely cared, and he seemed to enjoy your company. You had quickly become the King’s friend, but now, you knew that your heart was his, completely and irrevocably.

***

One afternoon, King George had asked you to accompany him to his observatory on the grounds of Kew palace. Again, you were shocked by the King’s intelligence and the passion he had for astrology. “There is little to see in the daylight,” he said, rummaging through stacks of parchment. “But this…I wanted you to see this.”

It was a drawing of a woman, a beautiful woman, and you looked at George quizzically. “It is Venus,” he elaborated. “The Roman goddess. It is after her that the celestial body is named.” “How lovely,” you said, unsure of what else you could say. “She is the goddess of love and beauty, did you know that?” “I did not.”

George reached out and took your hand. “I must ask your forgiveness if I am too bold, but you are striking, Y/N. Your beauty knows no bounds, your kindness and compassion is endless. When I am in my fits, I speak of Venus. Something about her soothes me, somehow brings me back. But you, Y/N, you have become my Venus. And I…I want you to be my Venus.”

His hands had begun to shake, and you took them in yours. “George,” you said. “Are you asking me…” “Might I call upon you?” he asked. “Might I court you? For I believe I have fallen in love, Y/N. I need you, I need my Venus.” You felt a smile take over your face, and you brought his hands to your lips, kissing them sweetly. “Then you shall have your Venus.”

#king george iii x reader #bridgerton fanfiction #king george x reader #bridgerton reader insert

821 notes · View notes

fangsandfracturedhearts · 8 months ago

Text

Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Chapter 13: The Fallacy of Power

Summary: After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.

Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.

In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.

Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?

Word Count: 6.5k

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn

Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]

Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm. Mentions of in-game content. Completely fabricated camp events. Mentions of Astarion's Trauma.

If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know

Rating: Explicit 18+ - [Meant For Mature Audience]

TW: Astarion's past abuse under Cazador is mentioned/visited in this chapter.

She has been cold and withdrawn since their discussion when he refused to say what she wanted to hear. She avoids him if possible and ignores him unless he directly speaks to her. When she walks around the manor, she is like a phantom gliding, lifeless and vacant, the ghost of a ship long ago wrecked at sea that still wanders the waters wayward with no purpose. So far, he’s left her alone in her misery. Should he be trying to cheer her up? His heart tells him he should, but his head tells him it’s unbecoming of the Vampire Ascendant to postulate himself in such a way. He should not have to seek her attention. She should give it to him willingly. If she wishes to wallow in her desolation, so be it.

He’s missed her in their bed, against his skin, and on his lips. Her silence is as deep as demise and simultaneously deafening. He misses her laughter, happy giggles, and his name on her tongue in her sweet, musical voice. Hells, he would even take a scolding from her right now as long as she’s speaking and more expressive than this wall of dysphoria. He will take anything but this pale apparition of surrender and hopelessness. He’s tried to goad her into arguments if only to get a rise from her, but she does as he requests without question, challenge, or emotion.

She wants a real relationship, but what does that mean to him? What kind of relationship is he capable of giving her? That presence in his head bids him to control, claim, and make her belong to him with or without her consent. It encourages him to give the command to make it so. The Vampire Ascendant does not request love - he simply fucking takes it because he is entitled to it. He is entitled to have anything and everything he wants, including her.

No.

There his thoughts go again, getting away from him, towing him down like quicksand. He must be careful not to let himself be cast down that ungodly rabbit hole. He may not get the chance to surface. Astarion’s hands rack over his face and through his hair. He needs the physical sensation that often interrupts the slow descent into madness.

Astarion. He reminds himself. I am Astarion.

She does not acknowledge his presence when he enters the library. Her sullen eyes are moored to the book lying in her lap, and she flips the pages idly. She did not even bother to light any of the candles, scones or oil lamps. She sits in the shadows like a lone lily, white and fair, against a pond reflecting dusk.

He clears his throat to get her attention, “I need you to attend my business meeting with me today. It may put you in a position where you are… uncomfortable, but I will be there to protect and stop you if needed.”

She closes the book, staring straight vacantly, not bothering to look at him. Her voice is as whisper quiet as a catatonic echo, “You’re taking me to a business meeting?”

“Yes,” he replies softly, making his voice as warm as a summer day as if he could warm her with it. “I need my consort by my side.”

“I am not your consort, Astarion,” she shakes her head with a despondent expression. She is so cold it makes him shiver. He’s used to flames veritably leaping off her tongue when she speaks. This... He has never witnessed this in her, but he recognizes it. This is how he was when he all but gave up after a few lashings, “I will go with you if you need me, but I am not your consort.”

Please, don’t give up on me... just yet.

“If you do not like the word consort, that is fine,” he crouches and takes her hand. It remains limp, and she still does not look at him. Astarion gently cradles her cheek and walks her eyes to him. They seem to look through him instead of at him, and his heart seizes in his chest. “Tell me what you would prefer. Partner? Girlfriend? Soulmate? Bride? Hells, wife? Just tell me what you want me to say. Please.”

The words scour his tongue like steel wool. Can his spawn truly be his partner, girlfriend or… Good Gods, he said wife, didn’t he? Where in the Hells did that come from, and why does the notion fill him with genuine joy? Will he be able to see her as an equal? He is the Vampire Ascendant… No one is his equal, and no one could ever be. But he is also Astarion. Which him does he want to be? Does he even have a choice?

He stares at her, trying to discern how he views her. When he looks at her, does he see an equal? Or does he see his spawn, his puppet, his favourite little toy to play with? He views both versions in parallel spaces of his mind. He cannot ascertain which one is him and which is the Vampire Ascendant.

“Consort. Partner. Girlfriend. Soulmate. Bride. Wife,” she repeats hollowly as if she’s saying the words without thinking about them, just a recording being played back, “None of them because we are none of those.”

“Perhaps not yet,” he retorts with a plea clinging to his voice. “You said you want something real, and I agreed to try and give you just that. Let me try.”

“Are you capable of love,” she whispers, eyes drifting down to the floor.

“I… don’t know,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re view of what love is may differ from mine, but perhaps we can meet in the middle?”

“When do we leave?” She asks dryly and slips her hand out of his, “And what do I wear?”

“I had something made for you,” he smirks. “It’s in your room. Wear it or don’t. The choice is yours.”

“You’re giving me a choice?”

"Darling," he drawls in an unemotional infection, “I admittedly do not know much about relationships, but I don’t think forcing you to wear something would be very… nice. You are free to dress yourself in whatever you wish.”

“What if I decide I wish to wear a burlap sack?”

“Well…” he cringes. Gods. He would not put it past her doing just that to prove a point. Would he let her do that? Could he? His skin crawls just thinking about it. “You would look very foolish, but if anyone can pull it off, it’s you.”

Hells below, he hopes she does not wear a sack.

Truthfully, he does want to control what she wears, where she goes, and even how she does her hair and makeup, but he does not understand why he is so drawn to it. He does not recall feeling the need to be so controlling when he was a spawn. He must quell those desires and untoward thoughts if he has any hope of showing her that he can be what she wants and needs.

Because he needs her…

He’s almost afraid to look when she walks down the hall, scared she’s going to see if he truly means what he said, but he’s elated to see she decided to wear the ensemble he had fashioned. An extravagant, high-necked navy-blue robe with delicate golden lace sleeves and a bodice embellished with dragon wings with gleaming rose-gold scales to match hers.

His coat is very close, except it is raven black, inlaid with deep purple and golden embroidered dragons revolving around his arms. His chest is embellished with dragon wings expanding across the breast.

“Dragons?” Her hand glides down the breast of his coat, “I thought you were fonder of bats.”

“It seems I have become rather smitten with dragons as of late,” he winks. He feigns puzzlement, bringing his finger to his lips, “I wonder why.”

She gives him some semblance of a smile. It’s the first time he’s seen any emotion in days. It fades quickly, and her face is once again a smooth plane of vacancy.

“What do you mean I will be uncomfortable?” She mutters, eyes fixed straight ahead as if looking at him pains her like staring directly at the sun. “You promised you would not put me in a situation I cannot handle.”

“And I won’t. You have my word.” He bows slightly, “There will be people around. If you need to leave, you say the word, and we will go. You know I could compel you not to feel that hunger…”

She scowls at him and hisses, “Do it, and I will walk out that door. I will not return.”

Well, even anger is better than emptiness.

“It is just an offer,” he nods curtly with his hands up. “I would not do it without your expressed permission. Shall we go?”

You follow Astarion, twisting down alleys and paths in the Lower City. You refuse to hold his hand and are attempting to use pure willpower to ignore all the tasty citizens scurrying about. They smell good, and it’s making your mouth water. No matter how much you eat, bloodlust is insatiable, unquenchable and never fully slumbers. There’s always this stitch in your side and a dryness to your throat that will not ebb. When you smell blood, you are immediately starved, and your stomach pinches in your belly. It could easily send you into hysterics. Astarion always keeps a close eye, sticking by your side and matching your pace instead of his usual elongated strides.

You recognize the alley with the guards and the secret door, “The guild?”

“The very one,” he nods with a cunning smirk.

“Lord Ancunin,” the guard bows low and stiff. “I see you have brought a guest.”

“Lady Ancunin,” Astarion drawls, confident and poised. If your heart was beating, it would surely have skipped beats and possibly stopped. “She is to be treated with the same respect as I. You are to follow her orders as you would follow mine. Is that clear?”

“So you command, so shall it be,” the guard bows low before you. “Lady Ancunin.”

You stare detached past the guard, barely noticing the reverent display before you. A welcome numbness has incorporated itself into your psyche. You felt so much, and now you feel nothing. You’re not sure which is worse.

“Come,” Astarion gestures to the stairs.

The Guildhall has been rebuilt with more extravagance. The walkways are now properly constructed and far less shabby looking with richly coloured wood. It is organized, not the haphazard mess you remember. There are so many hearts beating the chant of life. Their blood smells like Elysian fields teeming with ichor blossoms. Pressing your eyes shut, you try to tune out the thump, thump, thump assaulting your ears. You clutch Astarion’s hand and squeeze as hard as you can.

Yes, this will be a challenge.

Astarion senses your apprehension and squeezes your hand reassuringly, “We can leave whenever you want. I do not have to be here long.”

“You operate the Guild now?”

“Yes and no,” he grins, devilish and handsome enough to make you melt despite your discomfort. “Nine Fingers still handles the mundane day-to-day. You know I have never been a details person.”

“How did this come about?”

“Simple,” he smiles wolfish and sly. His eyes glint mischievously. “If you know the right people to coerce, anything can be taken. Grease a few palms here, blackmail some merchants there. You know how it is.”

“Coerce or kill?”

“Well, negotiations don’t always go as planned,” he chuckles with a cavalier shrug. “But I do not go around killing everyone, just those who need killing anyway. Gods. What do you think of me? I’ve been manipulating people for 200 years. This was hardly a challenge.”

“Ah, Lord Ancunin,” Nine Fingers strides up with a tight look as if she’s working hard not to frown. “How nice of you to bless us with your presence. I do not believe we have a meeting scheduled for today.”

“I’m here to make sure you’re running my,” Astarion accentuates the word with a low, threatening growl, “Guild befittingly. I received reports of your idiot pickpockets getting caught by the authorities and inconsistent yields. Do I need to appoint someone more suitable for such a role?”

“Lord Ancunin,” Nine Fingers snickers, and you wonder how he hasn’t killed this one yet. She was always snarky. “The pickpockets have been dealt with. They did not even make it to prison. As for the yields, I’m looking into it. You will not find anyone more proficient at running your guild than I.”

Astarion and Nine Fingers continue to talk business. Boring. You walk away, down the stairs and watch the people flitting about, ledgers in hand, counting shipments of what looks like silk from Cormyr and imported liquor. Others with clearly stolen pieces of art and other antiquities. The bottom of that cesspool pit has been cleaned up, and it appears new tunnels have been put in place, with more still being constructed.

You catch bits and pieces of a conversation between a short, rotund man in a burgundy coat speaking about a shipment being lost or damaged. Leaning on a railing, you watch the conversation play out with a shrewd eye for a while before you make your way over there. The closer you get to people, the harder it is to control yourself, but you’re getting better.

You sit close to the conversation so you can listen and watch. Nine Fingers sits beside you, “I remember you. Jaheria’s friend, right?” she gives you a scrutinizing once over and then her eyes finally settle on yours. “I remember you being much more… alive the last time you were here. The lords doing, I presume.”

“I wanted it,” you growl through your clenched jaw. “There is nothing further to discuss on it.”

“I’ve seen his little compulsion trick,” she says sourly. “It’s not a stretch to believe-“

You cut her off by grabbing her by the neck and pushing her up against a support beam. The rhythmical pulsing of her vein is felt on the pads of your fingers. Good Gods, you are tempted to take a nibble. Just a little sip...

No. You throw her away from you before you lose your precarious control.

“Watch your tongue,” you snarl, baring your teeth. “I am just as deadly as the lord.”

“Deadlier even.” Astarion chuckles, leaning close to your ear, “Are you okay?”

“I’m managing…” you whisper. Raising your voice, you point to the man, “Who is that?”

“A local merchant. He caters to the aristocracy.” Astarion arches a brow, “Why?”

“You were talking about inconsistent yields,” you watch the man circumspective, who now stares at you wide-eyed. “I think you will find he is the reason for some or all of your inconsistencies.” You sneer at the little fleshy liar, “Won’t we?"

“No,” Nine Fingers interjects. “That can’t be. He’s been working with the Guild for many years and is well-known and respected by the patriars. He’s an invaluable asset.”

“Silence!” Astarion orders brusquely, making her flinch. “Your superiors are having a discussion.” Astarion’s fingers come to his chin. “Go on, darling. How do you know?”

“His speech pattern is all over the place. He does not make direct eye contact. He’s fidgeting nervously. I can hear his heartbeat kick up from here every time he has to alter his story, and he’s sweating like a pig,” you smirk. You are good at this, and it feels natural. You give the man a grin as you virtually hear his heart sink, “You are a terrible liar. I think you’ve picked the wrong business.”

“Well,” Astarion cocks his head while watching the man as sweat rains down his face, “Let’s find out, shall we?” He points at the rotund traitor, “You. Come here.”

“Y-yes, Lord Ancunin.”

Astarion hauls the man into the air by his coat with an eerily cordial smile, “You’ve been stealing from me. Come clean now, and I will consider allowing you to keep your pathetic life.”

You expected to hear the anger in Astarion’s voice, but it’s matter-of-fact and impassive.

“My lord,” the man’s eyes widen, and his feet kick uselessly in the air. “I would never dream of it. Honest!”

Astarion’s eyes glow that wicked crimson of compulsion, and he brings the man close to his face, “You will tell me the truth. How long have you been stealing?”

The man’s eyes become glossy as the red tendrils of compulsion twist around him and into his mind. His body becomes limp. “I will tell the truth.” He repeats hollowly. “I have been skimming off the top for years. I misconstrue reported earnings and inventory, record shipments as lost or damaged and keep them for myself.”

The man continues spewing his transgressions, and you can see the rage start building in Astarion.

“That wasn’t so hard. Was it?” Astarion smiles manically. His eyes start to flash as he draws his dagger.

You put your hand on his shoulder, “Astarion…” You soothe and request the connection with his mind. You do not want to undermine him, but you need him to stay in control. He opens it, and you wince at the pain that splits through your head. It feels as if your skull has been cracked open. You push through it and roll your thoughts over the bridge, “His death will not gain you anything, Astarion. Hold onto yourself.”

His muscles strain under your fingers, and sweat starts to sheen his skin, but he answers in your thoughts, “His death would serve as a reminder to these insolent fucks that no one betrays the Vampire Ascendant and lives.”

“Astarion, please.”

“I am the Vampire Ascendant!” He bellows in your head so hard you wonder if your ears are bleeding, leaking your brain matter.

“Is that all you are? Is that your entire identity?”

He growls viciously aloud, snarling and turning his head to look at you with violence humming in his flickering eyes. With a pained grunt, Astarion throws the man on the ground and hisses, “Leave. If I ever see you in my city again, I will kill you and your family.”

Astarion whirls, taking your chin roughly in his fingers, bringing his mouth to yours, savage and hungry, with enough force to split and bruise your lips. You can hear that tittering in his head, straining against his control, trying to claim him. It bites like a serrated blade at your mind, and Astarion tries to close the connection to save you from that pain, but you rue against it.

“Don’t,” you think. “I can be your light. I can help you, but you have to let me.”

His fingers curl into your hair, and his tongue laps at the blood smeared across your lips, sucking on the cut gently. Your fingers caress the back of his neck. You’re not exactly sure how you do it, but as if on instinct, you flood Astarion with every iota of your love, light and fire into his psyche, upending the darkness and silencing his demons.

His body relaxes. His fingers no longer grip aggressively but embrace, and he breaks the kiss, resting his forehead on yours as he pants. As your senses return to you, so does the angelic chorus of beating hearts and the enticing smell of blood, and you clench your jaw as your stomach does cartwheels in your abdomen. Your fingernails incise your palm.

“I’ve got you, my treasure.” Astarion interlocks his fingers with yours to stop you. “Hold onto me.”

Astarion turns to Nine Fingers. She’s staring at you with a speculatively arched brow, “We will be taking our leave now. I expect to see improved totals on your subsequent report, or we will have a very unpleasant discussion, and if any more pickpockets get caught, you will not be calling yourself Nine Fingers any longer. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Lord Ancunin,” she nods curtly with a twisted mouth and narrowed eyes. “Do bring your spawn along more often. She is incredibly useful, it seems.”

Astarion roars, slamming Nine Fingers against a wooden column, splitting it. He bellows when he speaks, making sure everyone can hear him, “No one is to call her “spawn.” If I hear anyone utter that word in reference to her, I will hang them from the rafters by their intestines while they still draw breath.” Astarion looks around with a frightening scowl, verifying everyone is paying attention, “She is my right hand, and you will treat her with due respect. Any orders from her should be treated as if they are coming from me directly.”

“Astarion,” you whimper, scratching lacerations into the top of your hand to keep yourself grounded. “I need to go.”

He releases Nine Fingers, spins and grabs your hand. He keeps a tight hold on you until you’re back in the alley. He orders the guards to stand further away. You sprint to the dead end and grip a fence as hard as you can, taking in large gasps of air to try and quiet the bloodlust ravaging your mind, bullying you into mania. Astarion’s hands come to the rail on either side of you, caging you in with his chest pressed against your back.

“You did well in there,” he purrs. “Controlling the bloodlust.”

“You could have warned me that I would want to eat everyone with a beating heart,” you groan, leaning into him.

“I suppose I could have been a tad more forthcoming,” he chuckles, kissing the top of your head. “To be fair, I was a young spawn centuries ago. It’s not exactly fresh in my mind.”

“How did you learn to control it?” you sigh. You’re falling into him again, slipping into that blissful completeness that melts that icy numbness keeping you sane.

There’s a quiver of torment that dithers across the harmony. “Cazador…” he starts, spoken with a desolate undertone. He folds his arms around you, holding you close, and he trembles, “Cazador would starve me and then have people stand in the kennels while I was chained or caged. He would cut them, small at first, but gradually worse. They would get progressively closer. If I made a move or lost control in any way, I would be punished. Severely.” He pauses with a sigh, and his brows turn down at the sides. “I lost control a lot.”

By the Gods. You would not have been able to understand how torturous that would be without being a vampire yourself. Bloodlust hurts, a physical pain that progressively gets steadily worse until you are nothing but a writhing, rabid animal with no semblance of sentience.

“Astarion…” you turn to him, wrapping your arms around him. “That’s… Gods, there are no words. I’m so sorry.”

“Come,” he clears his throat, uncomfortable with the emotion as if he does not believe he deserves your empathy. “Let’s go home.”

“Thank you for telling me.” You murmur, hoping you’re not overstepping, “About… him. I know you don’t like to talk about it.”

“Partners talk about this type of stuff openly, yes?”

“I…” you balk at the question. It seems so out of character for him. You expected him to ignore you or scold you for bringing it up further. “I suppose they do, but-“

“Yes,” he cuts you off. “I know what we aren’t. You keep reminding me every chance you get. You requested real and real you shall have. I never wanted you to see that side of me.” Astarion sighs and looks at the setting sun reverently, his face softening, a glimpse of his former self, “Cazador is no longer an off-limits topic for you.”

What?

Can you trust him not to fly into a blind rage when you speak of his former self, the pathetic spawn he is so genuinely disgusted with? Perhaps this is not the time to test the limits of this newfound freedom.

“Lady Ancunin?” You quirk a brow at him. “That’s not my name.”

“Not as of yet, it’s not,” his arm wraps around your waist, and a smile flashes over his face like wintry sunshine. He whispers, “You bear my name beautifully, my love.”

Your eyelashes flutter open, and you’re shocked to be in the familiar halls of the Crimson Palace, but it does not appear as you remember it. Everything is washed in a drab sepia tone, and you blink, trying to clear your vision. The walls and floors appear to wave as if they are an illusion. Servants blink in and out of existence as they flit around. You try to walk in the way of them, waving your arms to get their attention, but they pay you no heed, blinking out and reappearing behind you.

A scream you would recognize anywhere reverberates through the ghostly halls, shrill and bone-chilling.

Astarion…

You sprint toward the sound, descending the dark staircase two or three steps at a time that appears to end in a black well of nothingness. You’re trying to grip the weave and call on your magic, but when you reach for it, you find nothing but a yawning void where it should be. Staring at your palm, you shake it, confused, as you burst into the hall leading to the spawn quarters. Another cry echoes. You forget about your lack of magic as horror grips your heart, and you sprint around the corner and halt dead in your tracks.

Astarion stands in the hallway. He’s hunched over with hands pressed against the doorframe as he stares distantly into the room before him - the kennels. He is the only thing in undulled, vivid colour. It’s a stark contrast to the atmosphere of mousy undertones.

“Astarion?”

He jolts, whirling and staring at you with a disoriented tangle of sorrow and perplexity. His jaw tightens, and his eyes shift quickly from side to side, “No,” he mutters, shaking his head, “No, this isn’t right. You would not have been here.”

“What’s going on?” You sputter, voice breaking. “I don’t understand.”

Another strident shriek. You are stirred into action, dashing down the hall at full speed. Astarion’s eyes widen as he gauges your target, and he takes long steps to cut you off. His arm wraps around your waist, hauling you backward from the open doorway.

“No, darling,” he coos, trying to swath his voice in velvet. “You don’t want to go in there. Please, trust me on this.”

“What?” You’re panicked, clawing at him, trying to push his arms away. “I can’t just stand here! Let me go!”

“You can’t help him… Me. You can’t help me.” Astarion rasps. His eyes are sad, but he tries to smile. “This is long over and done. It’s a memory - my memory.”

Anguished wailing reverberates, making the walls appear to shudder. You can’t take it, you can’t fucking take it, and you push out of Astarion’s arms and charge into the kennels.

The scene that greets you makes tears instantly flow down your cheeks, and you can’t help but dry heave as your stomach shoots into your throat.

“That’s right, my boy.” Cazador snickers, compulsion glowing in his eyes, tendrils stirring the air. “Sing those sweet, sweet cries for me.”

You try to grab Cazador, screaming in anguish, but your hand swishes straight through the apparition. Arms come around your waist, hauling you up and out of the room while you reach and clamber, trying to do something. Anything.

Astarion sets you down, folding his arms around you, “Shhh, little love,” he purrs. “It will be alright.”

“Astarion,” you sob, knees quaking. Astarion braces you against himself, “What in the Hells is happening?”

“I’m not entirely sure. We are tranced, in the manor, I think. This... it already happened long ago. So long, I cannot even recall the colours anymore.”

His thumb clears the rivulets of tears storming down your cheeks so sweetly, like the whisper of a fairy dream. His eyes, so intensely crimson, are doting, inviting you to get lost in them.

Another soul-crushing outcry discharges from the room, and you can’t help but scream with him. Astarion firmly but gently places his hands over your ears, trying to provide you amnesty from the howling cries.

You lean into him and beg, tugging on his clothes, “Make it stop, Astarion. Good Gods. Make it stop. Please. I can’t… I can’t… Wake us up.”

“I’m trying,” he breathes faintly, pressing harder on your ears as another jarring yowl rolls over you, and you start slipping to the floor in a puddle of sorrow.

Everything dissolves around you, turning black and silent, and you’re pitched into a bottomless void that makes your stomach lurch.

You thrash in your bed, convulsing so violently that you throw yourself to your hands and knees on the floor with a discordant shriek. Your bedsheets and clothes are soddened with sweat, the delicate fabric clinging to your body, and you tremble so turbulently that you can barely push yourself to your feet.

You blink rapidly, trying to see through the distortion caused by unshed tears. Your chest heaves in quick, rapid breaths as you sprint into the hallway. Astarion is already running toward you, and you slam into his arms as your legs give way.

“It’s okay,” he comforts you with a soft, deep baritone, a salve to your pain. “Everything is alright.”

Your mind sees that gruesome vision, a ghostly layer veiling the man before you. Your stomach twists and knots. Saliva floods your mouth. Pushing out of his hold, you scramble away as far as you can, and your liquid dinner is a sanguine spill spreading across the floor. Astarion holds your hair back and rubs your back as you continue to dry heave between your rapid breaths.

“I’m sorry,” you choke out between sobs.

“It is I who should be sorry,” he sits on the chaise, beckoning you into his arms. You curl up in his lap once the wave of nausea eases, desperate to be close to him. Astarion strokes your arm, “I left the connection open. I did not know you could get transported into my dreams. I will not make that mistake again.”

You look up, cupping his cheek in your palm and searching his eyes. That beautiful face is calm and carpeted with earnest affection but otherwise unfazed while he sweeps strands of your hair behind your ear, “Are you okay?”

“My sweet, sweet girl,” he kisses your palm. “I have relived many of my memories hundreds of times over. There are only a few that truly disturb me anymore. Thank you for asking, but I am fine.”

“Okay...” you breathe deeply, unsure if your mind can accept how undaunted he is. The last remnants of your weeping shudder through your body, “I’ll clean that up.”

Pushing yourself away from him is a monumental task. He is warm like sunshine and comforting like darkness. You hate him a little for being so… him.

“Will you come to bed?” Astarion looks at you longingly. “ Our bed, I mean.”

“No.”

“When are you going to stop punishing me?” He laments, following you while you grab a rag and bucket of soapy water from the rarely used kitchen.

“I’m not punishing you for anything, Astarion.”

“Bullshit.” He exclaims sourly. “Do not think me blind. You’ve been ignoring and avoiding me purposefully. I- I miss you.” Astarion’s arms fall limp at this side, “Tell me how to make it right.”

You hand Astarion a cup, “Break this.”

His brows pinch as he turns the cup over and over. He looks at you, confused, but throws it to the floor, shattering it. “What was the point of that?”

“Now, fix it.”

“I have many mind-blowing abilities,” he stares at the shattered pieces strewn across the floor, brows pinched. “Fixing broken goblets is not one of them.”

“Because not everything can be fixed."

You start wiping up your sick in the tense muteness between you and Astarion. He sits on the chaise, just watching with a grief-stricken expression that makes you want to weep.

“I can run up walls, walk upside down on ceilings, turn into a bat and mist, among other things. All this power…” A low laugh rumbles in his chest, crestfallen and mournful. “All this fucking power,” he clenches his fists, craning his head to look up at the ceiling, “and I still cannot have the one thing in the world I want most.” He sighs, shaking his head. Astarion cocks his head to look at you and smiles bleakly, “Sleep tight, my love.”

Astarion disappears into his room, and you bite your tongue to stifle your crying. After you’ve finished cleaning up and are back in your bed, you toss restlessly. How long will this harrowing purgatory go on? You take deep breaths, but it does not even begin to fill the void in your chest. You are fragmented without him in your head or against your skin. As if you’re soul has deformed, warped and splintered into a mangled husk.

This is why you’ve been avoiding Astarion. His words tear your heart open, dissect it, and then you must stitch yourself up anew. How many times can your chest be torn open and your heart ripped to pieces before the scarps are too small to glue back together?

I don’t care.

Who the fuck am I kidding?

In the hall, you jump at the sight of Astarion halfway up the long corridor. He halts, and you stare at each other in reticence. His hair is a disarrayed jumble of soft silver curls. The moonlight streaming in from the windows brilliantly sets the ivory skin of his bared chest aglow. His shoulders are slumped in a disconsolate stature you’re not used to seeing on him. The iron countenance and steely confidence he oozes are absent.

“Love,” he whispers wearily. “Lay with me tonight.” Astarion gestures toward himself, splaying his hand on his bare chest. Desperation clings to his voice, “Be with me. We can workshop the details as we go.”

“Tell me you love me,” you say, moon-eyed, lips quivering.

“I-I,” he pauses. Anticipation clenches your heart in your chest. Please, you think, please just fucking say it so we can stop playing this game. You think he just might until he grimaces. “I can’t.”

“No. Of course, you can’t,” you mewl. You wrap yourself in your comfortable cloak of numbness to preserve your sanity, “Because how could you love a lowly spawn like my good self?”

He does not answer, and that is answer enough.

You’re crouched low in a dark alley, skulking around in the shadows in the Lower City. Astarion went out to deal with some business you were not invited to, so you’ve taken the chance to survey the tavern you last saw that purple-haired bitch at - Elowyn. Your intuition tells you she has something to do with the Gur attacks, regardless of Astarion’s assurances that she’s harmless. The earth-shatteringly handsome man can be blinded by his overconfidence at times.

You’re not sure what Astarion will do if he gets home and you’re nowhere to be found, but you left him a note saying you went for a walk. He probably won’t tear the city apart looking for you. You’re not a caged bird. You can come and go as you please.

... Right?

You’re about to give up for the night when you see her. She glances out the tavern doors, askant, surveying her surroundings before pulling up her hood and slinking down the street. Elowyn takes an oddly winding route, up and down dark alleys and paths, often doubling back. She strolls confidently but takes acute notice of her surroundings. She is practiced and methodical in the way she observes. You should have eaten her when she cornered you with her singsong voice and dainty little face, spewing filth and lies. Maybe you should eat her now…

No, no. You can eat her after you figure out what she’s up to. You smile sadistically at the promise to yourself, licking your lips. You will eat her when you’ve ascertained how she means to harm your master.

Gods. Where did that thought come from?

Elowyn turns abruptly down a side street. Casting Misty Step, you appear on a roof, crouch at the edge and watch her intently. She walks up and down the pathway, looking in all directions except up, much to your delight.

Hardly anyone looks up.

She leans down and opens the entrance to the sewers, climbing down and replacing the cover. The sewers… You fucking hate the sewers. It’s the last place you want to follow her, but nothing can deter you.

This place is a maze of tunnels and run-offs. It’s an arduous task to track her with any degree of certainty. The rayless, glum passageways look similar, but you glimpse her here and there. Her course is consistent with the streets above as she makes arbitrary turns left and right, retracing her steps before continuing. It makes you question if she spotted you and is just taking you on a wild goose chase for shits and giggles, but it’s doubtful. There is purpose in Elowyn’s steps, even if you’re not quite able to understand it yet.

Elowyn steps onto the wooden platform, pulls the lever, and floats up the nauseating river of excrement and contamination. You recognize the area she is going to by smell alone. She’s heading into the lowest floors of the ruined temple under the Crimson Palace. You frown. You’ve been all through those lower, ravaged corridors.

You used to try and hide from Astarion down there, but he always found you. You shudder at the memories of playing some sick, twisted version of hide and seek, where the consequences were more dire than being tagged “it.”

What could be down there that’s of any interest to her? Does Astarion know? Is that where he set the Drow up to do her assessments? Unlikely. He would not want Araj that close to home.

There’s a barely perceptible shift in the atmosphere. The chilled air starts to warm unnaturally, embers floating around. Your skin prickles as the hair on the back of your neck and arms rises. You smell the smoky stench and pollution of sulphur crawling through the air. It stings your nostrils, twisting in the back of your nose and down your throat, choking you. A liquid black maw opens in the stone before your feet, and the inky, viscid silhouette emerges from the gaping orifice, taking shape and wings stretching with a boastful flare.

You jump backward, filling yourself with the Weave, heating your palms and skin with spells dancing on your fingertips and primed on your tongue.

“Darling,” a toothy grin greets you. “Now, now, Sorceress. Put those spells of yours to rest. Is that any way to greet an old friend?”

“Mizora.”

Big thank you for everyone who takes the time to read/reblog/comment, and all the other magnificent things. As always, I hope you enjoy this, darlings!

AO3 [Crossposted]

Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts

If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past

Small Notes:

It's never a good sign when Mizora shows up. We are getting into the thick of it now :)

#ascended astarion #astarion fanfic #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 #bg3 astarion #astarion x you #astarion x reader #astarion x tav #astarion #astarion smut #fangs and fractured hearts

117 notes · View notes

silly-little-gooses · 7 months ago

Text

the inheritance games royalty au headcanons/story ideas!

I made a post about this a little bit ago and many seemed to like the idea of tig taking place in a royalty au so here are some headcanons or perhaps story prompts! :)

recently, the wealthy king of their kingdom (tobias hawthorne) passed away under mysterious circumstances. instead of one of his children or grandchildren receiving his inheritance, it goes to a peasant named avery grambs who lives in a small cottage on the edge of the kingdom.

the royal family is shocked when they find his hand-written will in the kings old office but they cannot let the news get out to the public. citizens would riot! so avery was summoned to the palace for a formal talk.

grayson was raised all his life to become king. instead of ‘heir apparent’, he was the royal successor. he still has his iconic blonde hair and cold gray eyes, but his suits are adorned with royal badges and pins to flaunt his status. he doesn’t care for citizens much, but avery may change his mind…

jameson was the prince that all the girls in the village would fawn over, like in the original tig universe. he was charming, clever, cocky, and didn’t care much for being a prince. he has a history of dancing with numerous ladies at balls and drinking a few too many glasses of champagne.

nash is the oldest grandson, but rejected the throne from an early age. he always preferred casual clothing over royal dress and practically raised himself. he’s tired of the fortune and fancy class that is royalty, so he’s especially curious when a certain goth catches his eye…

xander is a goofball, loved by his people. he’s imperfect, not sure which spoon goes with which dish. but he’s kind, intelligent, and charming. scones? try crumpets.

libby loves to bake and dreams of becoming a baker but following the storyline of tig, she is struck with poverty and abuse. when avery must live in the palace for a year, libby is happy to join her. she always wears gorgeous gothic dresses. she soon finds her prince charming in nash, and they live happily ever after.

alisa is a royal advisor for the king when he dies and then begins work as avery’s royal advisor. a few years ago, she was engaged to prince nash before a sudden break up. even if she cannot be queen, she will find a way to make a change in her kingdom.

oren is avery's personal bodyguard ofc! he’s basically the same guy from the series, but make it a bit fancier.

avery is legally not old enough to be queen and all of the complications with the will would still happen in this universe.

instead of meeting on a balcony, jameson and avery meet at a welcoming ball for avery where jameson is very drunk on champagne and is stumbling around the empty hallways of the palace. avery needs some peace and quiet and to just be away from it all when she finds him. he asks her the same riddle as always.

emily was the daughter of a wealthy duchess who was close with the royal family. rebecca, jameson, and grayson still have their trauma with emily’s death.

skye and zara and toby are the children of the late king. princess skye is furious that she doesn’t have the crown which is what turns her evil ig.

this deserves its own freaking fanfic or headcanon list or something but the royal balls at the palace are wild. instead of the blackwood shooting taking place in the actual forest, I imagine it takes place in the royal gardens.

imagine a scene where avery is struggling to get on her corset for an event of sorts and asks jameson to help her. the tension? it would be so good.

overall, I think this au is SO COOL and I definitely want to see some work done with it! if you have any requests, I will be happy to take them! byeee! <3

#the inheritance games #jennifer lynn barnes #avery grambs #booktok #jameson hawthorne #averyjameson #royal au

64 notes · View notes

trivia-polls-daily · 4 months ago

Text

No cheating, please! Answer the trivia question to the best of your ability, then check below the cut! Please do not give away answers in comments or tags!

Answer below:

On Christmas Day 1950, Westminster Abbey was broken into by a group of Scottish students, who then removed the Stone of Scone and returned it to Scotland.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stone_of_Scone

#polls #trivia #trivia polls #history #history poll #the 1950s #london

22 notes · View notes

scotianostra · 4 months ago

Text

The Salutation Hotel.

Another must see in Perth, the plaque in the third pic tells us that Charles Edward Stuart (Bonnie Prince Charlie) visited the hotel on the towns' South Street during his stay in Perth in 1745 on his way south to Edinburgh during the Uprising.

It is thought Charlie planned his campaign in room 20 which the hotel will delight in saying it is still in use.

The original building from the 1600's was the town house of the Murrays of Scone Palace. It was converted to a coaching inn in 1699.

My trip north today was about saving money for Edinburgh Festival Fringe, so I never paid a visit inside for a libation, but they do a two course meal for a tenner, which I was more tempted to enjoy rather than the Unicorn exhibition at Perth Museum where I asked about concessions, they offered 20% off I argued I only had the use of one eye so should be a 50% discount, she smiled and shook her head saying sorry....... Winking doesn't really work when you wear an eye patch....... oh well.

#scotland #scottish #history #Perth #The Fair City #My pics #Phone pics

21 notes · View notes

thefamousbeininn · 11 months ago

Text

Deluxe Hotel Rooms near Scone Palace in Perthshire, Scotland

The Famous BEIN INN is more than just a luxury hotel in central Scottish region; offering experience in opulence, dining, and relaxation. From the moment of your arrival, you are enveloped in a world of elegance and comfort. With its deluxe hotel room Perthshire, refined lounge bar, and two exceptional restaurants, the Famous BEIN INN offers a level of hospitality that is truly unmatched in the picturesque Perthshire, Scotland. Whether you are a traveler seeking shooting experience or family looking mountain escape or an event planner in search of the perfect venue, BEIN INN awaits to exceed your expectations and leave you with cherished memories of your stay in Scotland. Whether you choose a deluxe, double, king luxury, or twin room, you will find that the Famous BEIN INN offers the perfect accommodations to suit your need. The rooms are elegantly decorated with a blend of traditional Scottish charm and modern amenities, ensuring a restful night's sleep.

Perthshire with its breathtaking landscapes offer a warm and welcoming escape for travelers seeking serenity and comfort. Among hotels near Scone Palace Scotland,the Famous BEIN INN is nestled in the village of Glenfarg, is a hidden gem that promises an unforgettable stay, one of the best refuge with historic Scottish charm. With cozy rooms, 2 restaurants, lounge bar, and a rich history dating back to the 18th century, this hotel is the perfect venue for those looking to experience the essence of the central Scottish history, the hotel's restaurant and bar offer a delightful gastronomic experience that celebrates rich Scottish culinary traditions. The hotels friendly staff is committed to making guests stay as comfortable as possible. The warm Scottish welcome is just the beginning of the exceptional hospitality that awaits you during your visit.

One of the most captivating aspects of the Famous BEIN INN Hotel is its stunning natural surroundings, is a gateway to the lush landscapes, rolling hills, and tranquil lochs that Scotland is renowned for. For shooting enthusiasts & nature lovers unwind nearby Perthshire hills a scenic escape, embark on hikes, or simply enjoy a leisurely stroll along the picturesque pathways that surround the hotel. Indulge in locally sourced ingredients and classic Scottish dishes prepared with a contemporary twist. The Famous BEIN INN stands as a beacon of luxury and refinement. With its exquisite hotel rooms & lounge bar include sophistication, and not one but two world-class restaurants, the establishment sets the standard for opulence in this idyllic Scottish setting. Whether, its wedding celebration, reunion, or vacation escape, The Famous BEIN INN is an ideal selection in term of amenities, services, privacy, and proximity with several outdoor recreational sites.

#hotels near Scone Palace Scotland #deluxe hotel room Perthshire

0 notes

astarionfixation · 8 months ago

Text

Chapter 8: "Show me, and I’ll follow you"

Part of "Am I Fu**ing Insane !?!" A multi chapter adventure in Astarion’s mind

Rating: Mature for mentions of sex and blood

CW: mentions of parental abuse, childhood abuse, forced prostitution, implied rape

Word count count: 2.5k

Pairings: Astarion X OFC Tav

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54356776/chapters/139337191

I have a quite serious praise kink. Which also means compliments in the forms of tags and/or comments might very well spur me to write and post more

** Thoughts "" Dialogue - - Remarks ++ Quotes / Memories

The mornings after he feeds on her he has taken the habit to sneak out of bed as she’s about to wake up. Not for any nefarious reason other than finding sustenance to bring back to her, so she can replenish her strength as soon as she awakes.

*She lets me feed off of her in bed, seems only fair I extend the same courtesy*

This time his loot features a freshly baked cheese scone, still warm, and even a cup of coffee. Much like a small feline bringing food gifts to his human who clearly cannot be trusted to hunt and feed themselves properly.

His elegant movements devoid of any sound allow him to keep everything quiet enough so that hopefully they won’t be disturbed by anyone waking up at this ungodsly hour and with any luck, he will still have time to look forward to that morning, time he can just keep her all to himself.

His back pushes into the door of their chamber so he doesn’t immediately see, until he turns around and the cup of coffee almost falls through his long, delicate fingers.

She’s fully awake *disappointedly fully dressed* sitting against the headboard of their bed, her long luscious hair falling inordinately over her shoulders, the neck of her shirt falling down her arm leaving one of her shoulders temporarily naked. Though what makes him swallow in a panic has nothing to do with her tempting looks and everything to do with a shiny little tome, open, in her lap, as she is intently taking notes on it.

The same little shiny book he first thought held the secret to freedom, maybe a clever way to control rather than destroy the wriggling worms in their heads and that would have let him keep his renewed free will and sunbathing inclination, along with his own life.

The same insignificant little book that, once purloined by his deftly fingers, revealed her eye had been set upon him in ways he could have never suspected from her demeanour.

The same precious little book that he perused over hours, that night that feels so long ago now, after leaving her, intoxicated, in her bed, despite her plea for him to stay, which in hindsight revealed to him for the first time the way she felt about him.

The same vexing little book that revealed something through the way she skipped around words. Something eerily akin to his own tragic loss of ownership over his very own body that must have happened to her as well.

Despite the naive way she smiled, denying she had anything but a comfortable and happy life thus far to justify her longing for eternity.

Despite the smile never reaching her eyes.

She knew he had read it. At least that latter part, because in that one moment of anger, when for a brief instant he thought she would have denied him her body, her blood, he had to use something, anything to hurt her. And her trauma and abuse seemed the perfect place to hit because he knew how it would have felt if anyone reminded him of every time he had to bend his will and his body, sinuously, to every request of his master, and every desire of the simpletons he had to convince, one way or another, to walk happily towards their demise by following him back to Cazador’s Palace.

His mind is running faster through scenarios and considering the very real possibility of just sneaking away the way he came, disappearing until she goes to find him and hopefully, enough time will have passed by then that they can both ignore this uncomfortable moment. He’s about to swiftly move the heel of his foot through the door to slink away when her voice, still deep from her sleep, announces ineluctably that it’s too late for an escape

“Good morning Astarion”

She sounds… sweet? As always…

*Is she not mad? Is she not going to bring up my theft? Is she going to pretend nothing ever happened?*

He might be lost examining possible outcomes for a moment too long because when he doesn’t reply she continues

“What? It’s nothing you haven’t seen before anyway”

*Ouch!*

He can try to ignore what she clearly refers to, he can try to focus on his concern for her health which is true anyway…

“I see you’re full of energy this morning darling, maybe I can persuade you to come with me, have a full plate then to break your fast? I’ve got you these meanwhile…”

He resigns himself and closes the door behind him, while circling around the bed and leaving the coffee and scone on the bedside table next to her. He keeps his eyes on the food until she pats the edge of the bed in a silent invitation for him to sit down next to her. And the darn little book is still open on her lap.

“Thank you”

He can feel her eyes on him following her sweet voice, even as he’s trying to avoid her gaze but when the tips of her tapered fingers reach for his cheek he can’t evade it any longer

“Astarion? Is everything alright?”

Her tone is starting to sound almost concerned and so…

*Fine, there’s no need to make things sound worse than they are. If she isn’t mad yet there is nothing to worry about, nothing to fear… right?*

He’s never going to have as good a chance as this one to finally ask, to understand how her mind actually works

“You never wrote a single line about who I… what I really was… why?”

In truth what he wants to ask is why could she wax lyrical about him -as if she was almost in love!- in her book, while she’d never let anyone suspect -not even him as he holds her every night!- anything of the sorts. But that is as good a start as any to get there…

“Exactly because someone could have gotten hold of it”

*Touché*

But it doesn’t sound like the accusation it should be, and it leaves the door open for more of his prying

“Yet there's so much of your vulnerabilities there, perfectly mapped to strike best. Wasn’t that something to avoid putting down too if you ever thought someone could have…”

He can’t spell it out, of course he’d done it, he stole the book, but the shame catches in his throat. The fear still lingering, ready to have him spring the moment this vulnerable conversation becomes the rightful attack on him it should be.

“That was my hit to take, not yours. I wouldn't put you in jeopardy just because I understood. I can afford a hit myself, but not you.”

She was protecting him way before he ever thought he needed her to be on his side. Even whilst pouring out her mind she had put up enough premunitions just in case his own secrets needed safeguarding.

“That was incredibly… kind of you, sweet thing… I hope I can… somehow return your kindness, some day…”

His gaze finally rises to meet hers and she is just softly smiling at him, her head giving a slight nod towards the food he went to find for her before she replies:

“You already do”

And then it’s like even without the tadpole powers she can read his mind because the reassurance is confirmed by her words as well and she continues:

“Is there anything else you'd like to ask me about it?”

This time his own hand reaches for hers, both resting on the open page she was writing on just before this surreal conversation started.

*What if we could finally talk? Actually talk and learn, truly learn how similar our stories might just be?*

He had those glimpses from her diary to suggest so after all. A part of his mind is already screaming at him to turn it all around in a joke and get as far away as possible from that dangerous subject, but his concern, his need to understand and possibly finding slivers of himself in her is impossible to push away.

“What happened to you… before?”

She lets his words linger for a moment, and he’s left wondering if there was any other way, any clearer yet kind way to ask about something he knows will be painful if remotely akin to his own experience. Her voice comes out calmly as her hand holds his so that the other one can close the book and set it aside.

“You mean the men I had to sleep with?”

He can feel the grimace that’s taking hold of his own features, while she seems as calm and ethereal as always, no different from when she bid him good morning just moments before. But he knows, or he thinks he does? He must! It must be close to what he has gone through! And that is a way as good as any to begin tracing this sad parallel of theirs

“Would it help if I said I certainly had to sleep with more?”

She shakes her head, a sad smile taking hold of her delicate features

“I am sorry you had to go through that too… for me it was my mother. I don’t remember when it started… but every time she’d let one of them stay in my room… the farm got better equipment, I was getting small knick knacks and little gifts, so it was as good a way as any to think it was bearable.”

His other hand had come to reach out for hers, now both covering, cradling hers. Every fibre in his body wants to hug her, to hold her, to promise her nothing even remotely similar will ever happen to her again. To either of them. At the back of his mind a part of him is tearing and devouring innards and flesh of the horrible excuse for a parent that did this to her, distracted by the idea of how many minuscule pieces he could mince her into, until absolutely nothing resembling a living thing would remain of her so called mother. He knows he has to weight his words so everything gets pushed back while he only allows himself to share:

“I am so sorry my sweet”

He’s not used to hearing his voice being that strained, as if something is threatening to strangle his throat from the inside. When she speaks her next words he realises the corners of his eyes are getting weirdly moist

“Truly, don’t worry Astarion, it was a long time ago… and I ran away as soon as I could manage anyway. It’s in the past. I am as far from that as you are from your mortal life, trust me.”

*The irony of being two broken pieces accidentally fitting against each other.*

His silence and traitor expression must give away more than he meant to because she continues her explanation of her own volition

“That’s why I asked you… I told you we couldn’t kiss. I needed a boundary that was… mine. I know it sounds silly to you but because you didn’t push that… I know I am safe with you.”

Suddenly the pieces are beginning to form a meaningful picture in his head and her behaviour, her rules, her need for him she seemed to deny herself, they all make perfect sense, coming together in a mix of conflicting feelings and desires she never had a chance to explore safely.

“I am not that naive, I know what we do… what we share… it’s more… and believe me, I want more… still you never tried to break that one rule and… well… no one ever showed me such consideration before…”

His mind has gone blank

*What did she just confess to!? What is this???*

His mouth must have fallen open because he finds himself in need of swallowing, yet no words, no ideas as to how to reply to that revelation come through. His hands are still resting over hers and suddenly he realises her fingers are pressing harder against his own, interlacing them with his. Her gaze falls to their intertwined fingers, her voice is low and barely a whisper now

“They always just took from me”

*They always just wanted me to give more*

His eyes are transfixed on their hands, holding onto each other so intensely he's worried she will bruise. Her voice comes out more hesitant and trembling now

“I was never asked… I don’t think I know what I actually… want… like”

*I was always demanded to do… and I don’t think I know how to give up that control, that’s all I latched onto…*

Her heartbeat resonates like a drum in her chest and he can see the blood blossoming in her cheeks, her voice trembles and she stumbles upon words but her thoughts coming out of her lips persistently, as if she has kept so much behind that she needs to get out now

“The way you look at me at times makes me feel like I can walk a little bit taller, head a little bit higher. I was trained to accept them… taking from me… as the only compliment… but with you…”

He can see the effort it’s taking for her eyes to raise again to look into his, the warmth emanating from her rosy skin just another herald of her determination despite the toll this seems to be taking on her

“I see something going on behind your eyes, I know you wouldn't do anything I did not ask you to, and that is more than I've ever been tamed to accept…”

*I want to kill everyone who ever laid a finger on you… my poor, sweet, precious love*

Her words seem to catch in her throat, she keeps taking breaths and then releasing them without words until finally the silence he holds for her seems to be enough for her to fill

“I have never been given the chance to… explore… I don’t know how to… ask… how I want… what I want… but I do know I want… you.”

He thought rushes of emotions were exclusive to the moments he could sink his fangs into her but he was sorely unprepared for… this.

*Did I actually hear her say that she wants me?!?*

All of a sudden all his centuries of expertise and understanding as a consummate lover come rushing to the front of his mind to show their silver lining.

Because he cannot relinquish control, even to his own pleasure, but maybe the saving grace of two centuries going through the motions is that he can do this for her? With her…

“You have me my sweet… If I could show you how… would you want me to?”

It feels so bittersweet to think of centuries servicing others being what built his professional knowledge of physical pleasure. That might be where his teeth clenching comes from for a second, but what about hers?

*Is that… fear??? Why?*

It lasts until the moment she nods

“Please Astarion…. show me, and I’ll follow you”

23 notes · View notes

tinycheesecakedetective · 8 months ago

Text

The Night of Bitter Despair: A Fading Letters Story

Pt. 1

The Night of the Witches. An event that happens once every millennia, where witches from all across the world gather to exchange recipes and secrets with each other. Such an event had never been witnessed by any cookie before... And yet, here Pure Vanilla stood. Worn from days of travel and dwindling supplies, he looked up at the entrance to the witch's kitchen. The hard part was finally over. The answers he sought were beyond those doors. All that was left to do was walk inside. Pure Vanilla quickly gathered himself and quickly ran through the door, the heavy iron slamming behind him. The kitchen seemed dim, vague shadows littering the halls. That was, until, light flooded the room, illuminating everything in various hues and patterns.

"Oh my goodness... It's unlike anything I've ever seen before..." His eyes widened at the sight. Sugar work adorned the table as it looped endlessly into the sky, reflecting onto the table like a kaleidoscope. Palaces made with fondant and marzipan littered the table as a set of hands placed down a fountain spewing an endless amount of dark chocolate. A chortle echoed across the room as the witch's hand swept across the area, forcing the healer to hide behind one of the marzipan creations. As he peaked out from his hiding spot, more and more things were added and removed as the witch saw fit. He saw a whisk being snatched away as a tray of scones was meticulously planted to his right. Pieces of candy were spread like breadcrumbs on a forest trail. Piping bags were constantly in motion as the finishing touches were added. Just in time, too. The witch's endless decorating finally stopped as the doors burst out, slamming against her home.

"FILOMENAAA!!!"

A particularly shrill voice rang out, causing Pure Vanilla to cover his ears. Were the witches always this loud? The witch known as Filomena turned her head before giddily embracing her friends. "WINIFRED!!! BASTINDA!!! It's been a thousand long years! Glad to see y'all!" "HAH! A MILLENIA IS NOTHING IF IT MEANS SPENDING TIME WITH YOU. YOU ALWAYS THREW THE BEST PARTIES!" Bastinda huffed before haphazardly dropping her treats at the table, a flagrant grin appearing. "AND THIS TIME I CAME PREPARED! I'VE HAD PLENTY OF TIME TO COME UP WITH NEW RECIPES."

"...humph. ...even with all your effort, your sweets still look stale..." The third witch, Winifred, sulked behind before placing her items on the table, taking the time to wipe off any smudges. "...unlike you, I've been perfecting my handiwork."

Bastinda couldn't help but roll her eyes, mocking the mopey looking witch with a giant yawn. "look at me... I'm Winnie-Fred... and I make the same old desserts over and over-OH PLEASE, YOU COULDN'T PERFECT A SWISS ROLL FROM A TOOTSIE ROLL!"

"HEY. Settle down, will you?" Filomena huffed before pushing the two to their seats. "It's not a competition! Look at these! They look stunning!" The other two begrudgingly looked at each other before muttering a half baked truce. "There, was that so bad-" She was soon interrupted by a loud bell ringing from across the room. "Oh, what good timing! The main course is finished! Please, enjoy the appetizers while I go put the finishing touches!"

Pure Vanilla removed his hands from his ears, bemoaning the awkward state he was in. But he was grateful because now two witches were just sitting there, eating and talking. He could just ask them right then and there! He picked up his staff and moved from his hiding spot before-

"They're REAAADY!!!" Crumbs.

The other witch had returned, wearing a pair of oven mitts and placing down several plates of cookies. Huh. Pure Vanilla assumed she was going to grab... Well, anything else. She mentioned a main course, so why..? "PHEW! I baked a TON of cookies!" Filomena took one before shoving it in Bastinda's face. "Here, try one! You're gonna LOVE IT!" Before he even realized it, his confusion had turned to horror. Bastinda took the cookie and beheaded it in a single sickening crunch.

"W-what...? What... is this...?!" Pure Vanilla's face paled immensely. A trickle of sweat ran down his face as he froze with fear. His weak dough trembled, instinctively clutching his staff as Bastinda's face lit up with excitement. She clapped her hands with childlike glee before grabbing a fistful of cookies and shoving them into her mouth. The drool and crumbs splattered onto the table while she kept reaching out for more. "...save some for the rest of us, you glutton..." Winifred sneered before sneaking away a few of her own. "OH, YOU KNOW I CAN'T HELP IT! THEY'RE JUST SOO... DELICIOUS!!!" It was disgusting. It was cruelty. Pure Vanilla had to resist the urge to vomit as more crumbs fell from their hands. Soon, all three began to take part in this savagery. What was he doing-?! Why was he just standing there as innocent cookies were being mauled right in front of him? He had a soul gem! Pure Vanilla could save them!

Adrenaline began to run through his dough as he ran to one of the abandoned plates, casting a healing spell over those that were spared in the culling. "PLEASE-!! You must get up!! You have to help me save the others!!" But there was no response. As he took a closer look, Pure Vanilla saw those injured... smiling. They were being eaten, and they were smiling, as if they hadn't a care in the world. He didn't have time to take it in, as one of the hands came back to finish the job. He quickly ran to another plate where he tried again, trying to pull one of the cookies away, but to no avail. What was worse, these cookies were smiling as well. "Why..?" His hurt and confusion rose until it couldn't be contained any further. "Why are you SMILING AT ME?!"

SLAM.

Winifred's hand landed with a hideous thud. The plate shattered on contact, shrapnel dashing across the table as the remaining cookies broke against the wall. "...what's thiiiis? I don't remember making this cookie..!" Her head turned to Filomena, who squinted at the sight. "Well obviously, I must've made it earlier. You can have it as a treat!" Pure Vanilla began to hyperventilate. In a few seconds a target had been placed on his back. He need to leave. He didn't care how or when, he just had to. Immediately his body began to move on it's own, sprinting towards the only exit he was aware of.

"Aaah... this one's a runner."

Spoons began slamming down onto the wood. The knives that once sat idle for decoration were now soaring across the room. The constant thumping made him lose his balance constantly, but he couldn't afford to stop now. Fists came crashing down, shattering one of the plates. Run. A fork almost pierced his neck, tearing the tablecloth underneath him. Just keep running. His only instinct was to just keep going, for as long as it took. "You're so close", he kept telling himself. "You can't stop here or you will die!" So when he began flying, he was almost relieved. At least until he understood what had happened.

"...I got it."

It was so quick, and yet it felt like everything was moving in slow motion. Winifred's hand had finally caught up to him, striking him from behind and sending his tired body into a freefall. He felt his soul jam on his neck begin to loosen and slip. His staff had snapped from the force as he saw moments of his life flash before him.

"...Why..?" He finally managed to croak out. He hadn't realized his throat was so sore already. "Why would... you do this? Why would you deceive us...?"

All Pure Vanilla was met with was silence. Tears began to fall, and soon he was weeping bitterly. Deep in his dough, the answer he searched for was answered.

Cookies were made to be eaten.

Why would they ever entertain the questions of something so insignificant if they had always planned to eat him? Had his life mattered at all? He was born with a will and a soul, wasn't that enough to be acknowledged? He had friends and family. He had someone he loved so much he would walk to the ends of Earthbread for her. But to the witches... none of it mattered.

None of it mattered...

All they cared about was that they caught him.

"OOH, RIGHT INTO THE ULTIMATE DOUGH! I DIDN'T KNOW YOU HAD IT IN YOU, YA OLD BAT!" The all too familiar voice of Bastinda cackled as her bulging eyes stared at the cauldron in the back. "Oh, it's been a while since I used that old thing!" Filomena crooned, her gnarled hand tracing the rims of the giant bowl. "...y'know... I always wondered what might happen... if a cookie was baked into it again..." Winifred's eyes lowered, a malicious looking smirk plastered onto her face.

A thought came to them. A truly horrible thought. You could feel their collective gears begin to turn as they all stopped to look at the cauldron. They could, surely they could. What was stopping them? Bastinda's toothy grin curled up before her body trembled in excitement. "ENOUGH STALLING," she giddily gripped the table from sheer excitement, "LET'S DO IT, WINNIE!! LET'S SEE WHAT FORTUNA HAS IN STORE!!"

In unison, the three witches plunged their hands into the dough before lifting up the healer and dropping him onto a spare tray. The oven's heat had begun to spread across the room as Winifred took the honor of shoving him inside, sealing his fate once and for all. The only thing left to do was wait.

This was how Pure Vanilla Cookie was going to die; alone. His determination was greatly rewarded with indifference and malice. Weak to the wills of the creators he once revered, his body would burn to a sad, pathetic lump and be thrown out as the remnants of a failed experiment. His soul began to ache as the fire around him grew in size.

He could almost see what would happen next. Golden Cheese would be wondering where he went. She'd be the first to notice, of course, and she'd be the first to tell everyone. Hollyberry and Dark Cacao would form a search party, desperately looking in his favorite places, places that he would never visit again. He imagined them standing in front of his gravestone after it ended in failure. Hollyberry would bawl her eyes out and Dark Cacao would try and hold back his devastation in a failed attempt to remain steadfast for her. And White Lily... White Lily would never read another letter from him again. She would never know how much he loved her. He would never see her smile again. He would never hear her laugh. He'd never see the way she fiddled with her hair or the way the sun shone down on her eyes or how the world lit up when she was near.

It was a future where everything would stop in it's tracks. It was a future where everything he loved dear would come crumbling.

It was a future he could not accept.

#cookie run kingdom #crk au #pure vanilla cookie #fadinglettersau

28 notes · View notes