#garden benches oak

[classicmemorialbenches]

How do i organise a memorial bench

Organizing a memorial bench can be a meaningful way to remember a loved one or honor a significant person or event. Here are some steps you can take to organize a memorial bench: Find a suitable location Contact the appropriate authorities Choose a wood memorial benches Determine the cost Arrange installation Dedicate the bench Classic benches are big heavy items and are fully assembled here at our workshop.

[jaderoberts]

Pick premium oak outdoor dining furniture to turn your patio into a next-level alfresco dining experience.✨

[demyxix]

Traditional Landscape Tampa This is an illustration of a small formal gravel backyard traditional shade garden.

[minkdelovely]

love and power

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prelude

“ask for forgiveness,

never permission.”

Alastor x Fem!Reader ; MDNI 18+ ; [y/n] used sparingly ; Alias in Hell is Sylvie

tags: acid rain wound, cannibals living their best lives in cannibal town, slow burn eventual: smut, violence, toxic themes

word count: 1.7k

hello world! i currently have alastor brain rot and felt compelled to jump back into writing fan fiction. i’m a little rusty and i’m not sure how many parts there will be; i won’t deny that this is purely self-indulgent but i hope you enjoy all the same :)

prelude ; chapter one ; chapter two ; chapter three ; chapter four ; chapter five ; chapter six ; chapter seven ; chapter eight ; chapter nine ; chapter ten: part one ; chapter ten: part two

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Hell wasn’t what you had expected it to be. It was worse.

Thoughts of your grandmother rose to your mind, despite how desperately you tried to push them down. “Hell is the absence of God,” she would always say after one of her famous rants. A warning you perhaps would have heeded, had it been coming from a place of love instead of moral superiority. 

You had seen her on the streets of Hell a few times now, always sure to avoid catching her attention. The warm pleasure that bloomed in your chest was too precious to give up, despite knowing how good it would feel to rub her fate in her face. A lot of good all those Sunday mornings had done her, haughty bitch! You wondered how often your grandmother laid awake at night, desperate to know how she had ended up here. A wicked grin spread across your lips, revealing milky-pink fangs.

It was hard not to imagine the look your father would have given you if you could tell him she was here. He would definitely have scolded you, but you knew a small part of him would be amused. If calling her a bad grandmother was putting it lightly, she was an even worse mother-in-law. Hopefully you would never get the chance to tell him; Mother was waiting for him in Heaven, after all. And things should be much easier for him now, all things considered. Leaving him alone hadn’t been part of the plan, so all you could do was tell yourself that it had been worth it. Someday you would believe it.

Grandmother was right though, loathe as you were to admit it, and the feeling of loss burned through you every morning when you awoke. Every night, you dreamed of rain; the sound of it, the smell of it, the feeling of it coming down on you in the middle of the family garden. Oh, how you missed the garden. The dark, wet dirt. Blue puffs of hydrangea against stark-white azaleas, your mother’s coveted yellow roses. The Spanish Moss hanging like phantom sails off the branches of the huge oak tree in the corner, where your father had placed a bench and made a small pond. You would sit under that tree for hours lost in a book, listening to the sounds of the garden.

The fire and brimstone you could endure. It was the way everything else was twisted here that was grueling. As if feeling your lament, a drop of acid rain hit your window, quickly morphing into a full-blown storm. A frustrated growl erupted from you and you rolled onto your stomach, burying your head under your pillow and said a silent prayer to whatever force would grant mercy on your roof. You couldn’t afford to get it fixed again. The prayer had been answered just a moment after the rain stopped, when a drop of it fell from the ceiling and onto your pale, unsuspecting calf, your mattress absorbing the scream of pain that tore through your chest.

As the acid made its way through your leg, and eventually your mattress, all you could do was sob. Eternity… This was eternity. 

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If this morning had been good, the day could only now be considered grand.

There was really nothing quite like a post-rain stroll through Cannibal Town, witnessing the misfortune of partially-dissolved sinners who had been caught in the deluge being consumed on the streets by the lively, ever-hungry inhabitants. Alastor would never tire of this jovial bunch that called this part of the Pentagram home, reveling in the sound of screams, the crunching of bone, the almost-lewd and animalistic grunts of feasting.

Were Rosie not expecting him for tea, he might have allowed himself to join in on the fun. Alas, his only solace was that Rosie never served anything less than superb, being the excellent hostess that she is.

He was quite intrigued by her invitation to join her alone, which meant that this likely wasn’t anything to do with donating a small army of cannibals to aid in the fight against the Angels. Indeed, Charlie’s presence would be required once it was time to cash that favor in.

Not that he didn’t enjoy a casual visit (as casual a visit between Overlords could be), he couldn’t help but wonder. Thinking a few steps ahead was a must if one was going to thrive in Hell, and well, it was no secret that Alastor was doing a pretty fine job at that, all things considered. He began to whistle, earning a few gory smiles from cannibals who stopped mid-meal to enjoy the tune. A true honor.

Rosie opened the door for him before he even had the chance to knock, the “Closed for Rain” sign clattering against the glass as she cooed. “Alastorrr! Come in, come in, before it starts raining again.”

As if on queue, a roll of thunder tore through the clouds, drawing a cheer from the denizens of Cannibal Town in anticipation for round two. 

“Rosie, my dear, always an honor and a privilege to be deemed worthy of your company,” Alastor said, bowing his head as Rosie feigned a blush, leading him to the parlor where they would be taking their tea.

The usual pleasantries were exchanged between sips of tea, coffee, and candied organs, which Alastor forced himself to consume through sheer courtesy. It was all part of the art of visiting, one he quite enjoyed, and he would never shame his mother’s memory with bad manners. They had just finished a plate of finger sandwiches when Rosie leaned in slightly, the conspiring grin on her face letting him know that it was, at last, time for business.

“You’re always so good to indulge me, Alastor. It doesn’t go unnoticed,” she said, grinning as she motioned to a maid to come grab their empty plates. “I’m sure you’ve been dying to know why I asked you over here this afternoon.”

“Oh, Rosie, it’s purely selfish! You know how hard it is to find good company in this godforsaken place. I’m more than grateful to receive your hospitality,” he said with a trademark smile and flick of the wrist, leaning back in his chair as the maid cleared the table.

She had just turned to leave with their plates when the smile on his face nearly faltered. Was that… almond he smelled? It had been so long, but he was fairly certain it was. There was an underlying trace of blood, though that was common enough around here. But almond? It was too pleasant for Hell.

Rosie’s eyes darkened to match her grin, not missing the twitch of Alastor’s mouth. She knew he’d have been able to smell it. It seemed that so far only Hellborn could pick it up, but what would be the fun in letting him know that? 

“Divine, isn’t she? A walking pastry, but not much of a talker. I like to bring her around whenever a room needs some pizzazz! She would’ve been eaten alive had I not taken her in,” Rosie whispered cheekily, as the maid returned with a fresh kettle and a gelatin mold for dessert. Rosie, not missing a beat once the tray had been set down, turned to her with a smile. “Thank you dear, you can leave now. I’ll ring the bell if we need anything else.”

The maid gave a silent curtsy and left the room as instructed, her sweet scent clinging to the air. Since coming to Hell, he took pleasure in the taste of bloody iron, the bite of black coffee. But in life… Memories of marzipan and frangipane tarts swam in his mind. And hadn’t Mother used almonds in her cherry pie crust? It took Alastor all he had not to drool, unsettled by the sudden rush of saliva in his mouth. Ages had passed since he last thought of such sweet things. He cleared his throat with as much grace as he could muster. Rosie only grinned.

“Well, she’s certainly new, so I suppose it’s not surprising she doesn’t talk much. It’s quite easy to tell when a sinner is… adjusting. So morose! You’re very gracious to have taken her on.” Alastor took a sip of coffee, desperate to get that almond smell out of his nostrils. 

“We both seem to be rather gracious these days, don’t you think?”

And there it was.

Rosie sat back in her chair and crossed her legs as she continued. “I was actually wondering if perhaps she might fare better in that hotel you’re running. Don’t get me wrong, she smells incredible, but fuck does she suck the air out of a room once the novelty wears off. She was scaring away clients, and you know it’s pretty bad if cannibals are uneasy around you for Christ’s sake, which is why I had her start working back here, but…”

Alastor had to resist gripping his knee, putting all his effort into maintaining a pleasant face. He had expected to be asked for a favor of sorts, but never did he imagine that Rosie wanted him to take on an employee. She’s had sinners sign contracts for little less than a new parasol, let alone a job. There was something more to this.

And beyond being an air freshener, what good was she for, really? He could deal with quiet, but to have to put up with yet another sulky face! What he had done to deserve it, he didn’t know.

But he knew there wasn’t really a choice other than to take the poor creature into his charge. Rosie was an alley he deeply cherished, and he was already in her debt for the help she had provided just weeks ago. This was no doubt the first part of paying that debt back, a sign of goodwill. Not every deal was beneficial from the start; still, Alastor wouldn’t outright accept the offer. That was part of the fun.

“Well we already have a maid,” Alastor said gently, “but after the recent renovation, we are anticipating more sinners to check in. Not that I doubt Niffty’s abilities, but I suppose she could do with some help when business picks up. How long were you thinking of lending her to our cause?”

Rosie waved her hand. “Lend? Oh, honey, if you’re willing to take her, she’s yours. I’ve got plenty of helping hands, but it does me no good to have such a wet blanket hanging around. There’s just the matter of…,” Rosie trailed off as she reached into her purse, retrieving what Alastor already knew she had been grabbing for, “…her contract.”

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[basset-babe]

five times: the second.

pairing: benedict bridgerton x fem!reader

warnings: unsolicited sexual advances

word count: 3.7k+

a/n: apologies for the late update! i've been sleeping in so bad lately lmao also, please do know that my writing isn't abided by the series' consecutive timeline bcs i just tend take away scenes and themes through s1 to s3 where it would make sense with the fic idea in my head, but all still well within the bridgerton series (S3 SPOILER! also i do not hold any grudge towards lady tilley arnold tho she is the rendezvous love interest of ben in s3, just made sense for me to add her here in this context) but nonetheless, please enjoy the 2nd! ciao belle!

five times series: the first. the one point five. the second. the third. the three point five. the fourth. at last.

spring divider from @thyming and, again, pattern banner from @cafekitsune thank you!

second time.

As the noon sun cast a bright glow over the sprawling estate gardens, Miss Y/N and Benedict strolled along the cobblestone path lined with vibrant blossoms and verdant foliage. The sweet fragrance of blooming flowers mingled with the earthy scent of freshly turned soil, creating an intoxicating bouquet that filled the air. Birds chirped melodiously from their perches in the ancient oaks, their songs adding a gentle soundtrack to the tranquil scene.

Miss Y/N paused by a bed of delicate gardenias, her fingers brushing lightly over the soft petals as she turned to Benedict with a teasing smile. "Have you no other plans than to spend your time watching me procure my plants, Benedict?" she asked, her tone light but her eyes sparkling with curiosity.

Benedict, standing a few paces away with his hands casually tucked into his pockets, returned her smile with a warm, earnest expression. "Actually, I find great pleasure in keeping you company and wandering through your beautiful gardens," he replied, his gaze taking in the lush greenery and the kaleidoscope of flowers surrounding them. In truth, his heart swelled with affection for her, every moment spent in her presence a cherished gift.

A few steps behind, the chaperone lingered near a stone bench, her attention seemingly focused on the distant horizon. Although out of earshot, her presence was a reminder of propriety and decorum.

Miss Y/N sighed softly, her playful demeanor tinged with a hint of exasperation. "We are chaperoned! I mean, probably out of earshot but still," she said, shaking her head slightly as a wry smile curved her lips. "You and your subtle art of flirting."

Benedict chuckled, the sound low and pleasant. "Ah, but where's the harm in a little harmless flirtation amidst such beauty?" he replied, gesturing to the surrounding garden. "Besides, your company is far more captivating than anything." His words carried the weight of his burgeoning love, though he struggled to fully express the depth of his feelings.

As they continued their leisurely walk, the leaves rustled softly in the gentle breeze, and the world seemed to slow, allowing them a few precious moments of stolen intimacy amidst the natural splendor.

"My subtle art of flirting," he murmured, stepping closer and carefully looming over a bed of blooming roses. "Or perhaps it’s not so subtle after all."

She glanced up at him, a playful smile tugging at her lips. "I would say it’s as subtle as a peacock in a library."

"Ah, so it’s quite effective, then," he said, leaning in just enough to catch the gardenia’s sweet scent.

"You are impossible," she said, shaking her head but unable to hide her smile. "Even when you called on me, you've brought a grafted rose to plant, of all things!" She laughed fondly.

"Well, I thought it suited you," he said as his voice softened, casting her a glance full of admiration. "A growing thing of beauty, requiring patience, care, and attention." His heart pounded in his chest, the metaphor echoing his own feelings for her.

The sun glowed warm through the greenhouse window pane. Peering from the vines, the sunlight dawned and cascaded over Y/N, rendering her breathtaking in Benedict's eyes. The golden light danced on her hair, casting a halo-like aura that made her appear almost ethereal.

Her cheeks flushed a delicate shade of pink at his words. "For an artist, you do have a way with words, Benedict," she murmured, a soft smile playing at her lips as she averted her gaze.

Benedict, unable to resist the magnetic pull of the moment, reached out and gently touched a gardenia bloom, his fingers brushing against hers. The brief contact sent a subtle thrill through him, a spark of connection that felt both profound and delicate. "And I mean every one of them, you know," he said softly, his voice carrying the weight of sincerity and unspoken affection as their eyes met.

Y/N's breath caught slightly, her heart quickening in response. Her gloved hand now in his as he gently held it. The intensity of his gaze made her heart flutter, and for a moment, the world around them seemed to fade away. Her lady's maid, the estate, the very garden itself—all blurred into a distant background against the magnetic pull between them.

A gentle breeze stirred, carrying the intoxicating scent of gardenias and roses. Y/N's eyes widened slightly at the depth of emotion she saw in Benedict's eyes, a mixture of admiration and something deeper, something she dared not name yet. Her fingers, still intertwined with his, felt warm and comforting, a silent promise held in the delicate touch.

Her voice, barely above a whisper, broke the silence. "Benedict, do you ever, um, find yourself feeling, well, the same way I do in moments like these, when we're together?" Her eyes, tinged with vulnerability, flicked up to meet his, silently seeking a connection that transcended mere words.

Benedict's smile softened, his thumb lightly caressing the back of her hand as he leaned nearer to whisper, "Every moment with you, Your Grace," he said, his voice filled with a gentle ardor. "Your presence, Y/N, for if I revere you a dream, then I no longer wish to wake from my slumber."

Y/N's heart raced at his words, her cheeks flushing an even deeper shade of pink. She felt a rush of emotions, a blend of excitement and a tender vulnerability she had never experienced before. Her eyes widening in awe, "You speak as if I am something unattainable, a fragment of your mind," she said, a touch of playful skepticism in her tone.

Benedict's expression softened, nearing her as his gaze full of adoration. "Y/N," he murmured, his voice tender yet earnest, "you are not a fragment of my mind, nor are you unattainable. You are the very essence of my heart's desires, a beacon of light in a world of darkness." He reached out to gently cup her cheek, his touch conveying a depth of emotion beyond words. "To me, you are not just a dream, but the reality I never dared hope for. And I will spend every moment proving that to you, if you'll let me."

Meanwhile, the subtle clearing of her lady's maid's throat, positioned at a respectable distance, acted as a genteel nudge to observe the proprieties of their setting.

"Um, I, uh, apologize, Your Grace," Benedict murmured, his cheeks tinted with a shy flush as he took a small, hesitant step back, seemingly unsure of where to place his hands. "I… erm, it seems I, uh, forgot to, um, maintain my distance. Please forgive me," he added softly, his voice trailing off with a hint of uncertainty. "I, um, really didn't mean to, uh, make you uncomfortable." His eyes, a mix of nervousness and sincerity, briefly met hers before darting away, as if seeking refuge in the nearby foliage. "I'm, um, deeply sorry if I, you know, overstepped," he continued, his tone laced with a sheepish awkwardness as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, unable to find a comfortable stance. "I… I suppose I just, er, got a bit carried away in the moment."

Y/N's cheeks flushed deeper as she felt a rush of embarrassment mingled with amusement at Benedict's sheepish apology. She averted her gaze momentarily, suppressing a nervous giggle before meeting his eyes, she reached out to gently place a hand on his arm. "Oh, Benedict," she began, her voice soft with a hint of laughter, "there's no need to apologize. I… I must admit, I too got carried away in the moment." She glanced around, half-panicked that someone might have witnessed their closeness, but finding the situation more humorous than anything. "It seems we both found ourselves swept up in the enchantment of the garden," she added with a playful wink, her laughter bubbling forth despite her attempts to compose herself.

Benedict let out a sigh of relief, his shoulders relaxing as he returned to a more respectable distance from Y/N. He couldn't help but smile at her laughter, finding solace in her lighthearted response. "Indeed, it appears the garden has a way of enchanting us both," he agreed with a soft chuckle, his gaze lingering on her with fondness. "I guess we ought to keep a closer eye on decorum," he mused with a rueful grin, a playful glint dancing in his eyes.

Benedict entered his studio at the esteemed art academy with a purposeful stride, the faint aroma of charcoal and linseed oil pervading his senses as he stepped within. The grand wooden door emitted a gentle creak as he pushed it open, revealing a space that, while seemingly cluttered, held a unique order characteristic of an artist's domain. It's been days since Mr. Bridgerton had paid visit to Miss Y/N; days since his apparent confession unreturned with an answer, hoping of the most favored "yes".

The studio was suffused with the soft, diffused light of late afternoon, filtering through tall, dust-laden windows. Easels stood in solemn ranks, each bearing sketches and paintings in various stages of completion. The floor was a canvas in itself, adorned with a mosaic of paint splatters and crumpled sheets of paper, silent testament to his countless hours of diligent work.

His gaze was inexorably drawn to the central easel, where his latest sketches of Miss Y/N awaited his discerning eye. Countless hours had been devoted to capturing her likeness, her features indelibly etched into his memory and transposed onto the canvas from myriad angles. The delicate curve of her jawline, the subtle arch of her brows, the enigmatic depths of her eyes—each sketch narrated a different story, a moment either observed or conjured from his imagination.

Benedict set down his leather satchel upon a nearby stool, extracting a well-worn sketchbook and a selection of fine graphite pencils. He approached the easel with a sense of reverence, as one might approach a sanctified space. The quietude of the studio enveloped him, disrupted only by the distant murmur of the academy's other activities.

As he perched upon the high stool before the easel, he paused momentarily, allowing his thoughts to drift back to his latest sitting with Miss Y/N. He recalled the play of light upon her hair, the subtle shifts in her expression as her thoughts wandered. With a deep, steadying breath, he took up a pencil, its familiar weight a comfort in his hand, and resumed his sketching. He became immersed once more in the intricate dance of lines and shadows, bringing her presence to vivid life upon the paper.

As he worked, Benedict would lose himself in the intricacies of her likeness, his mind consumed by the challenge of translating her beauty onto paper. Every stroke of his pencil would be deliberate, every line a reflection of his perception of her essence.

In this intimate space, surrounded by the tangible evidence of his devotion, Benedict would pour his heart and soul into each etch, striving to capture the true spirit of Miss Y/N with every stroke of his pencil.

"Someone seems smitten, don't you think, brother?" Anthony's teasing voice broke through Benedict's intent stare as he drew, jolting him out of his reverie. A faint blush tinged Benedict's cheeks as he glanced up, his hand pausing mid-stroke.

Benedict's older brother stood in the doorway, a playful smirk playing on his lips as he observed the tableau before him. Benedict chuckled softly, the sound carrying a hint of embarrassment. "I'm merely capturing her likeness as an artist," he protested, though the affection in his gaze betrayed his true feelings.

Anthony's grin widened, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. "Of course, dear brother," he replied, his tone dripping with amusement. "But one might argue that your portraits of Miss Y/N are a tad... shall we say, inspired?"

Benedict rolled his eyes good-naturedly, a fond smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Perhaps," he conceded, returning his attention to the paper before him. "But can you blame me? She's quite the muse."

With a knowing laugh, Anthony stepped further into the studio, his presence injecting a sense of levity into the room. "Indeed she is," he agreed, his gaze drifting to the scattered sketches of Miss Y/N that adorned the walls. "But do try not to get too lost in your musings, brother. The real Miss Y/N might start to wonder what's keeping you so occupied."

Benedict nodded, a wry smile playing on his lips. "Point taken," he said, his focus returning to his work. But as he etched his pencil into the paper once more, his thoughts inevitably drifted back to the enigmatic woman who had captured his imagination—and his heart.

"Oh, and a letter arrived. It's for you," Anthony handed as sealed letter, "from a Lady Tilley Arnold. Seems urgent." Benedict stopped as he looked at his older brother whose held a knowing look. "I am not one to pry for I am one with your contentment, brother, but it seems you have unfinished business?"

"It is not what you are implying, brother. We are done. Lady Arnold had bid me done then. It is probably purely audience." Benedict replied focusing back to his work.

"Then I shall leave you to it, brother." Anthony left the letter on the stool and stepped out the studio closing the door, leaving his brother with his thoughts.

After his brother's departure, Benedict found himself unable to shake the lingering thoughts about why Lady Arnold had sought his audience. Their relationship had long evolved beyond the realms of a passionate love affair, and any such intimacies had faded into the past. Instead, he now saw himself as a respectable bachelor, poised to fulfill his societal obligations and perhaps find a suitable wife.

Despite this unexpected shift in their dynamics, the unexpected summons from Lady Arnold had stirred a curious blend of nostalgia and apprehension within him, prompting him to ponder the nature of their current connection.

As Benedict retired to his townhouse for the evening, his mind buzzed with conflicting thoughts about the impending meeting with Lady Arnold. While he harbored no romantic, nor amorous, feelings for her, the prospect of their encounter tomorrow left him feeling decidedly uneasy. After all, he had been actively courting Miss Y/N, and the mere notion of being seen with Lady Arnold had the potential to ignite scandalous gossip.

But then a knock sounded. In the dimly lit parlor of Benedict's townhouse, a cloaked woman stood before him, an air of melancholy clinging to the elegant form. "Lady Arnold, good evening! Do come in." He moved aside as the women entered. "To what do I owe--" He was cut off as Lady Tilley spoke, her expression tinged with a mix of determination and vulnerability. "Benedict, I sought you out because I'm leaving London soon. I wanted to bid you farewell before I go."

Benedict nodded politely, though a flicker of curiosity danced in his eyes. "Of course, Lady Arnold. It's kind of you to say goodbye."

But as their conversation unfolded, Benedict couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to Lady Arnold's visit than a simple farewell. Her demeanor seemed to betray an underlying tension, a sense of urgency that belied the pleasantries of their exchange.

"Lady Arnold," Benedict began, his voice laced with a hint of concern, "is everything alright? You seem... troubled."

Lady Arnold hesitated for a moment, her gaze flickering uncertainly before she squared her shoulders, as if steeling herself for what was to come. "Benedict, there's something I need to tell you," she confessed, her tone serious. "Something I've been meaning to say for quite some time." Taking a deep breath, she forged ahead, her words measured yet tinged with emotion. "I... I've realized that I can't bear the thought of leaving without expressing how I truly feel."

Benedict's eyes widened in surprise, his mind racing to comprehend the implications of her confession. "How you feel?" he echoed, his voice barely above a whisper.

Lady Arnold nodded, her gaze unwavering as she held his gaze. "Yes, Benedict. I know the risks of me being seen here in your residence but it seems that you have not responded to my correspondence... I have come here to say that I've been thinking about us, about our past, and... I can't deny that I still feel something between us."

Benedict's mind flew to the letter he placed on his desk earlier the night he reached his townhouse. He didn't even want to open it knowing what it could contain. A rakish past he, quite possibly, no longer wants to open. Benedict, then, felt a wave of nostalgia wash over him, memories of their shared history flooding back with startling clarity. Yet, beneath the surface, a sense of unease gnawed at him, a silent reminder of the boundaries he had vowed to uphold.

"Tilley," he began tentatively, his words hesitant as he struggled to find the right response. "I… I'm not sure what you mean. Our past is just that, the past."

But Lady Arnold was undeterred, her resolve unwavering as she leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "But what if it doesn't have to be? What if we could recapture the passion we once shared?"

Benedict's heart quickened at her words, torn between the allure of nostalgia and the reality of his present circumstances. "I... I don't know, Tilley," he admitted, his voice tinged with uncertainty. "Things have changed. I've changed."

Undeterred, Lady Arnold reached out to touch his hand, her touch soft and pleading. "Benedict, please. Don't you remember how good it used to be? Just one last time, before I leave."

Benedict felt a surge of conflicting emotions welling up inside him, his mind spinning with indecision. "I… I can't," he finally answered removing his hand from hers, his voice heavy with his conscience. "It wouldn't be right, just like you decided."

Lady Arnold's eyes gleamed with a mixture of longing and sorrow as she looked at Benedict. "Do you remember, Benedict," she began, her voice soft yet laden with emotion, "those nights we shared? How the world seemed to disappear when we were together? Every stolen moment, every secret touch… it was as if time stood still just for us." She took a step closer, her gaze never wavering. "The way we used to laugh, our whispers filling the darkness with promises only we understood. We explored each other's souls and bodies with such intensity, such reckless abandon. Every touch was a symphony, every kiss a sonnet. Our passion burned so bright, like a flame that could never be extinguished."

Her voice faltered slightly, a wistful smile playing on her lips. "We were invincible then, weren’t we? Bound by nothing but our own desires. It was a love that consumed us, left us breathless and wanting more. Even now, I can feel the echoes of those nights, the way your touch could ignite something deep within me, a fire that no one else could ever hope to spark."

She spoke of memories shared, of passion ignited long ago, and hinted at desires yet unfulfilled. Despite his best efforts to maintain composure, Benedict found himself ensnared by her magnetic presence, a faint echo of their past intimacy stirring within him as she caressed his jaw.

As the tension between them reached its zenith, Lady Arnold's advances became bolder, her fingers trailing lightly along the curve of Benedict's jawline as she leaned in for a kiss. For a fleeting moment, their lips met in a passionate embrace, igniting a spark of longing that threatened to engulf them both.

But as quickly as it began, Benedict pulled away, a confused expression clouding his features. "I am afraid it has ended," he murmured, his voice thick with regret. "This... it no longer feels right." His words hung heavy in the air.

Lady Arnold's expression softened, a hint of sadness clouding her eyes. "I know things have changed, Benedict. We have changed. But those memories... they still linger. A testament to what we once shared, a rendezvous that defied everything and everyone."

She reached out, her fingers grazing his hand. "Tell me you remember, Benedict. Tell me that those moments meant as much to you as they did to me."

Benedict felt a lump form in his throat as Lady Arnold's words washed over him. Her memories mirrored his own, a testament to the bond they had once shared. He swallowed hard, trying to find the right words to respond.

"Of course I remember," he admitted, his voice thick with emotion. "Those moments were among the most exhilarating experiences of my life. We had an affair, some rendezvous that was."

Lady Arnold's eyes softened at his confession, a flicker of hope igniting within them. "Then why can't we have it again, Benedict? Just one last time, before I leave. Let me carry that memory with me."

Benedict sighed, "Because things are different now," he said gently. "Our lives have moved on. What we had was rousing, but it's part of a past that no longer exists."

Lady Arnold's expression crumpled slightly, her hope waning. "But why?" she whispered, her voice trembling. "Why can't we hold onto it, just for a little while longer?"

Benedict took her hand in his, his touch both firm and tender. "Because it wouldn't be fair to either of us," he replied softly. "I can't give you whatever temporary high you want, not when my heart belongs to someone else now. It would be a lie, a betrayal of what we both deserve."

Tears shimmered in Lady Arnold's eyes as she listened to his words. "I understand," she said finally, her voice barely audible. "I just... I had to try."

Benedict squeezed her hand gently before letting go. "I know," he said. "And I'm grateful for what we shared, Tilley, truly. But we both need to move forward, to find happiness in the lives we've chosen. You know it, this cannot be."

Lady Arnold nodded, her shoulders sagging with resignation. "I suppose this is goodbye then," she murmured, a wistful smile tugging at her lips.

"Yes," Benedict agreed, his voice tender. "Goodbye, Lady Arnold. I wish you all the best."

With a final, lingering glance, Lady Arnold turned and walked away, leaving Benedict standing alone in the dimly lit parlor. As the door closed behind her, he felt a profound sense of closure, mingled with the bittersweet pang of lost love. He knew he had made the right decision, but the echoes of their past would remain with him, a poignant reminder of a passion that had once burned so brightly.

taglist: @novausstuff // @pussyslayerhd // @amoosarte // @jupitervenusearthmars

again, please do send me a message or comment down if you would like to be added on the succeeding taglists for the five times series!

[cassieuncaged]

Batstarion (Astarion x Reader)

Summary: You share some time with a certain Ascended Vampire in bat form.

TW: none :)

WC: 1 K

A/N: just a fluffy oneshot inspired by Pani-artz Batstarion series, that’s all :)

Long, leathery wings stretch across the tufted cushion, a flurry of squeaks escaping before you whisper an evocation.

“Amicus animalis,” your fingers trace his tiny body, getting lost in the snowy coat that covers him. “You may speak now, love.”

“Lord,” he corrects in that buttery voice you delight in so much, though it’s difficult to take anything serious when Astarion lounges about in bat form. White pinpricks appear from behind an upturned snout, his menace evaporated as beady eyes muster any intimidation. “I am your lord and you will regard me as such.”

“Oh?” You bring a finger up to one fang, releasing a droplet that’s offered to the bat. A tiny pink tongue laps at it lazily. “It’s I who sits upon your throne; shan’t I be your lord?”

“Do not mock me, pet,” he seethes, though that pink noses nuzzles against your finger before sharply latching. He sips though it feels more like a tickle when he’s in this form, “I’m ghastly.”

“You’re adorable.” You coo, scratching beneath a fuzzy chin as he likes. When you stop, you noticed his batty expression has softened, tiny features relaxed. “Enjoying yourself?”

“Immensely,” he sighs, wings twitching against either of your thighs, cartilaginous sinews loosening as his claws dig into your breeches. “Turn me."

“Isn’t my lovely face enough?” You jest though some truth is hidden in that; after all, it’s been almost a year since you’ve last seen your own reflection. Now you chat with the bat form of your lover and closest confidant. Were you finally losing what was left of your mind?

“Don’t be naïve,” he tsks, sinking into the tufted velvet. “I’d like to look upon the audience.”

“The hall is empty, my love,” your eyes fall on the empty benches as wings threaten to flap. “Patience, I’ve got you.”

One hand slid beneath his warm belly, enjoying the heat you no longer wrought. Then he was carefully scooped and turned so that beady little gaze to see the ornate room that often clamored for the attention of the lord regally displayed upon the dais. Then a content chirp echoed through the vaulted ceilings as his body spasmed.

“Imagine if all the citizens of Baldur’s Gate saw you now, my lov…, my lord.” One finger began stroking from between tiny coned ears to the root of a wiry tail. His fur was so luscious and soft, not unlike the curls so carefully manicured atop his head, “Commanding with such ferocity propped upon the lap of your consort.”

“I suppose it would be quite the sight,” he chuckled, making her shiver like it always did. “Baldur’s Mouth would have quite the story. ‘Decrees heralded by rodent’; I think it’s silly enough to make the front page.”

“Think yourself popular, do you?” you teased, enjoying the moments he was seemingly relaxed and docile; they were so far few and between these days.

“Darling, I know I am.” He wriggled playfully against the cushion before pinkish hued wings began to flap. It was always mesmerizing to watch him float, expecting him to morph back into himself with a cloud of smoke. But he remained as he was, eyeing you expectantly. “The sun has long set; let’s peruse the palace gardens.”

The velveteen cushion was tucked upon the seat of the gilded throne as he began to glide to the far end of the hall, leaving you practically sprinting to catch up. Boots clacked against the marble floor, robes swishing around sure legs as you raced down the aisle. He paused, wings flapping in place as your place was taken beside him.

“Do keep up, dear,” he chided, little teeth clicking as he gracefully dove through the opened oak doors and down the decadently decorated hallway. “We haven’t all night. Oh, wait; we do don’t we?”

Your chuckle mingled with his, allowing the flamboyant bat dart to through the ornate glass doors that servants obediently wrenched open. It was a treat to watch him dive through the hedged archways, dipping down to bury his nose in a budding rose that practically glowed beneath the full moon.

“Pick one,” he encouraged, “Put it behind your ear.”

Doing as asked, two red pinpricks watched diligently as the petals hung over the shell of your ear. Then, it finally happened, fluffy white bat dissipating into a black mist before Astarion stretched out in front you, gently tipping your chin upwards.

“Beautiful.” He cooed before pressing a kiss to the tip of your nose. “Just beautiful.”

“Would ‘Batstarion’ agree?” you giggled, enjoying the quiet moments before the hammer inevitably dropped. He was so rarely this tender and you missed it terribly. Gently, he pulled your hand into his before drifting to the edge of the gardens.

“He loves flowers, that’s true.” He grins, wiping residual pollen from his own nose, “Though I’m unable to hold you with those bloody wings. Not to mention the language barrier.”

“I love the chirps,” you argued, enjoying the arm that instinctually wrapped around your waist, possessively. “It’s very cute.”

“I’m meant to be menacing,” he growls and you’re reminded of his other form, back elongating, jaw distending. You shivered at the thought. So you allow your fingers to dance across a strong cheekbone as his gaze fell upon the lights twinkling lights in the Lower City below. “How will I ever rule The Sword Coast if I’m not?”

“In due time, my love.” You reassured him, enjoying the caress of his cold breath against your ear. “This will all be ours. They’ll pledge fealty and you can rest upon as many velvet pillows as you please. I’ll even rub your little furry belly.”

“Will you?” then, when you expected his teeth to plunge into your neck but nuzzled against you again. A welcome change. “That’d be strangely comforting.”

[vampiriiiia]

Waiting. Seething. Blooming

(Ch.2)

Summary: An orphaned bastard of House Tyrell is welcomed in Kings Landing as Princess Healanas lady in waiting. In her attempts to navigate the ways of court and gain the favour of powerful men she manages to involve herself with the web of the royal family’s affairs.

word count: 3.8k

Since the day where you shared with the princess your knowledge of flowers,

and in extension, insects and such, your walks in the garden became a daily occurrence. Everyday, a bit before midday, and during the evenings as well, you and Princess Helaena would stroll around the gardens, deep in conversation. On some days, such as this, hers and Prince Aegon’s children, Prince Jaegerys and sweet Princess Jaehera would come with you. On such evenings, you sit in a marble bench that was adorned with ivys.

In front of you lied a moss covered path, amidst the enchanting whispers of the Keeps garden, where the gnarled limbs of towering oaks twist and turn like vigilant sentinels. This path, gently beckons you towards the heart of the grove. Here, in this secluded haven, stands a statue carved in alabaster. For a moment, it seemed to glow with a light all its own. The statue is poised gracefully upon a pedestal entwined with ivy. Surrounding this spectral guardian are blooms of purple and pink hydrangeas, their petals nodding in the breeze like petals like the paintings for a book your mother had showed you, a time long ago. Shadows of children dance under the enchanting boughs, where light seldom intrudes, adding to the mystique of this sanctuary. It is a place where the divide between past and present blurs, and where the whispers of history seem louder than the songs of birds around you and your unusually quiet company.

You carefully watched the children for a while, before turning your attention to the Princess, who despite her earlier excitement to visit the gardens, now stood silent and stoic, like the elegant statue in front of you, examining a dark creature perched upon her hand. Its eight legs, sharp and angled like blades, moved with a dreadful grace. Its body, a shadowy armour of intricate patterns. It’s eyes almost looked a bit sinister as they seemed to pierce through the very essence of your facade, as though the spider itself held dominion over fear and shadows. You had no problem with insects and such, even holding some of them when the Princesses hands had been too full, but you dreaded spiders. You dreaded them more than anything. As you watched her handle the creature with grace, a sense of numbing terror spread across your chest, and despite being seated, you felt your legs crumble also. It wasn’t the spiders appearance that frightened you per se, more the fact that they could be anywhere, and you wouldn’t know. They seemed to know every whisper that had been whispered in the Keep, maybe even the realm, maybe even Highgarden. Most likely Highgarden. They knew too many things, they could weave the most appropriate net for you, trapping you for as long as they pleased, and you wouldn't even see it. Thankfully, your size did not allow that but unfortunately, you were not as big as you’d like, for you were far smaller than the nets life sized spiders created.

Eventually you turned your attention back to the children running around each other, seemingly playing a game of tag. You sat there, quietly with the Princess for a while, till a sudden appearance had the both of you jolting.

Queen Alicent Hightower has always been a politely imposing figure. She had lengthy copper curls and big brown eyes that seemed to be aware of your every move. She had been wearing an emerald green dress, perched with the symbol of the seven on her waist, creating a belt like necklace around her lower waist. Other than the softness of the fabric with a few golden details, she had been dressed simply for the day, as the Princess had told you, no court meeting for the day was to be held. She inspected you closely, carefully, the way you sat and how straight your back was, where you put your hands, and when she was seemingly satisfied, she turned her attention to her daughter. Her eyes softened as she said “ Helaena, would you happen to know where your grandsire would be?” “No mother, I do not. (Y/N) and I have been here for some time, he has not appeared around these parts of the garden”. The Princess had gained a habit of referring to you by your first name as of late, she never corrected herself, but you never took the liberty of using her first name as well.

The Queen looked perplexed at that, “He had told me he’d be with you today.” “Well, he is not”. She sighted, letting out a long batted breath, obviously not very pleased with the outcome of her search. She seemed to be searching for him quite often these days, surely the castle couldn’t be so big. Besides, Lord Otto Hightower was of old age, he couldn’t be running around the castle, avoiding his daughter of all people. That thought seemed amusing, but it was certainly untrue, since most days Queen Alicent was the one doing the running. She rigidly sat down, in the middle of you and Helaena on the bench, “I suppose I’ll wait here then. Your grandsire is most likely to appear at these parts of the garden”. That was not true, this wing of the garden has always been quiet, so quiet you could hear the rose petals flowing under the evening breeze. You highly doubted the Hand had been one for romantic adventures through quiet parts of the castle such as this.

Queen Alicents presence stiffened the atmosphere. While before her arrival there was a silent air of understanding surrounding you and Princess Helaena, now it was filled with awkward small conversation about court matters such as the starvation of smallfolk in the southern part of Kings Landing. That was the one thing that stuck to you the most “And what is the next move to solve that matter? Have you reached a conclusion yet?” you surprised yourself by speaking but the Queen’s response is what truly caught you off guard “It’s truly unfortunate but we have not yet began to attend to that matter, in the city of Braavos, the Iron Bank, not half a year ago had lended a large amount of money to the throne to built that large well down in Rivers Row and unfortunately it has not been finished and they’re demanding that number of money back” did a well really take so much money to be built? why couldn’t they use the saving of the throne itself? “We of course will tend as soon as we can to the starving smallfolk but there’s other matters to be tended to first. You see Lady Flower, the throne is always busy and filled with responsibilities” the Queen added hastily, sensing your scepticism about her response, diverting the conversation to other matters the throne had to quickly attend to. You tried your best to keep your back straight, never slouching and your hands never leaving your lap.

——

“They want to make my brother king” the Princess abruptly broke the silence after arriving to her chambers. The uncomfortable conversation with Queen Alicent had thankfully ended as it began to darken outside. Now at the comfort of her quarters, soundly rocking Jaeherys crib while you did the same for Jaehera, her commnet caught you by suprise. “Why would you think that Helaena?” you knew exactly why. Since the moment you arrived in the castle you quickly understood what opinions Queen Alicents side of the family held for Princess Rhaenyra. Prince Aegon made jokes about the legitimacy of her sons, The hand liked to act like she did not exist but was in fact a distant family member at best, and not the actual heir to the throne. Princess Helaena never spoke of her, but also never participated in debates about her with the rest of her family. You were not sure if the latter one was a direct request from the Queen. You only heard Prince Aemond speak of her once, and the causality which he spoke so hatefully about her had you momentarily freeze in your place.

On the other hand, you heard Queen Alicent speak so often about her step-daughter that you were not sure if it sounded more like envy or like something else. Or both.

Queen Alicent spoke of Rhaenyra in public with a veneer of civility and disdain. She would often criticize the Princesses rebellions and lack of propriety. The Queen made a show of disapproving of her behaviour, playing up the role of a concerned stepmother trying to rein in a wayward daughter.

"She is willful and defiant," Alicent would say, her voice laced with irritation. "Ignoring her duties and causing trouble at every turn. It’s a shame, really. She could be so much more if she would just learn to act like a proper princess." the Queen would continue in a frenzy. It took you by suprise how often you’d catch her in such position, speaking in such way, to Ser Criston Cole, of all people. Although, he never once opened his mouth to agree or disagree with her, displaying a serious and nonchalant stance to what the Queen was saying. It was a smart move on his part, but at the same time it made it look like it happened more often than not.

Queen Alicent reminded you of how you spoke of the gods when you were younger, innocent and more hopeful. When your mother was still alive, albeit sick, and you still belivied. You’d speak in an irritated manner about them, when despite your prayers, they didn’t bend to your will. You’d never stop believing and praying though, always secretly hoping that they’d see your devotion and finally grand you one wish. In your case, you asked for your mothers health. You did not know, not truly, what Queen Alicent wanted from Princess Rhaenyra. You weren’t sure if she quite knew herself.

Your inner turmoil was put at pause when Princess Jaehera whined a little, then went back to her sleep. You looked at the Princess, who had now placed her son in his crib, rocking him gently, with a faraway look in her lavender blue eyes. Princess Helena’s wasn’t much older than you, yet she had her twins at the same age you lost your mother. You knew that at that age, you weren’t mentally or physically prepared to host another person inside you, much less twins. The Princess helped feed them, bath them, made sure they went to their high Valyrian lessons, rocked them to sleep every night and was always with them, day and night, overlooking their other activities with your help. But as you watched her tend to them, you weren’t really sure if she quite realised they were hers. You once heard some maids comment about the Princesses standoffishness, which increased after she got married to her brother and had children.

You reached the conclusion that despite those day dreams always being a part of the Princess, their increase is both a form of escapism. Deep down, she knew that the children were hers. But the weight of motherhood, its duties, it must be very overwhelming. In her mind, they were not her children, they were her siblings. It must be more comfortable pretending she was their older sister, which wasn’t a stretch considering how young the queen was when she had Prince Aegon. Retreating into her mind was easier than truly grasping the fact that she birthed those children when she was one herself.

The Princess didn’t reply to your question, she tucked her son in, as you did for her daughter, and asked for your help with undoing her hair and gown. When she got in her night wear, you started unbraiding her hair. “Has Prince Aegon yet to return?” you asked “As usual he has not. I don't except him to. He himself must prefer where his currently sleeping, or rather who” you learned quickly enough that the Princess preferred much more as well that he did not return to their shared chambers. Her relationship with her brother, despite being married and having twins, never really changed, no romantic love blossomed between them as it had for their great-grandsire and his sister wife, the good Queen Alyssane.

——

Sleep for once had come easy last night, which was unusual. You quickly dressed yourself in a light blue dress with puffy sleeves and fixed your hair accordingly. You walked to the sept, not too fast and not too slow, as you smiled carefully and politely greeted other members of court. The sept was cold, filled with the chilly air of the morning, but the candles as you lit them quickly warmed you up. One for your mother, your father, your grandparents. You sat on your knees and silently moved your lips as you recited the correct prayers. You felt a heavy presence move next to you and start praying as well. You did not feel particularly happy about that, knowing you couldn’t sit in the sept as long as you usually do with another observing you. You prayed for a few more minutes, then started to recite all the other prayers you knew, eager to wait out the presences departure. It did not come, you felt the person move and stand up, giving you a brief moment of hope, till you realised they weren’t leaving, seemingly waiting for you to finish. You finished your last known prayer and blowed out the candles you previously lit, carefully standing up and dusting off nonexistent filth. You turned around to be met face to face with Prince Aemond. It was for the best really, you reasoned, Prince Aemond was unmarried still, you could attempt to secure a match for yourself with a second son, bastard or not, you were still the oldest and one of the only surviving members of House Tyrell. Although, Prince Aemond never wanted you to forget your illegitimacy, “Lady Flower” he started, always putting an emphasis on your last name. “I was beginning to wonder you were avoiding me with how much you were praying” he continued. He was easily dislikable. You smiled politely “Of course not, my Prince, House Tyrell sadly has lots of deceased members” a half truth. The l Prince examined you with his icy gaze, it was clear he did not like you at all, nor made an attempt to hide his disdain for bastards, even if their standing was in Highgarden, the same House his mothers family had sworn to.

“I have a personal request for you” he spoke after a beat of silence.

You held your breath, hoping it was something that was easily completed and would not question your honour, more than it already was since your birth. “Ser Criston, my mothers and your Queens, royal guard has been sent for business on my grandfathers command down in Kings Landing, the western part. I was ought to come with him but my duties do not allow me time to do so. I was hoping you’d be of help.” “But the Princess—” “The Princess has already been informed that you have matters to attend to for today. You post will be filled with some other lady.” He has already planned this out. His words gave you little room to think of anything else. “Of course my Prince” he did not smile or thank you, just started to walk. You took that as your cue to follow him.

After a few, albeit long and nerve filled minutes, you found yourself in the company of Ser Criston and Prince Aemond. Ser Criston was not wearing his usual armour, but instead he wore a dark grey cloak and a hat to match it, trying to cover his appearance. He handed you a dark blue and dusty cloak and despite your initial disgust, you wore it with not one complain and put on the attached hood. They spoke quietly amongst themselves, then looked back at you, then back at each other. You smiled politely, but not for two long, so they wouldn’t deem you as stupid. You were pretty sure the Prince would think so anyway, despite your best efforts.

After a few minutes of exchanging quiet conversation and a few hissed whispers at each other, Ser Criston started to walk outside, nodding for you to follow him. Prince Aemond send you a warning glance before you left. You quickly followed Ser Criston outside, it had been your first time outside the walls of the castle, so you didn’t know how dangerous it could be. But it must have been dangerous enough, for he still kept his sword on him, gripping it as you walked side by side. After a while, you found the courage to ask “Is there a specific reason why I was asked to join you today?” Ser Criston replied without looking at you, with a stern expression staring ahead “You will see for yourself soon enough.” It was unfair to drag you out of your daily responsibilities and to not even inform you why, withholding information from the quest they sent you to, you thought in bitter annoyance.

“Whatever you see today, I do not want you to inform the Queen.”

What. “What?”

“I have been given stern instructions not to inform her by the Hand himself. You will follow them as well. Is that understood?”

You spoke after a moment, unable to move from your suprise at his words “….Yes.”

You walked in silence for some time, passing men, women and children alike most of them skinny, thin, bony actually. So thin you could reach and touch them and you’d feel their bones more than their skin. They looked as if the only thing separating their bones from the outside world was a thin dirty sheet, that hugged their body tightly. A few were laying on the cold dirt ground, most likely dead, judging by the smell. You hoped you’d leave that smell in the past. The stench of death hung heavy in the air. Rotting flesh mingled with the acrid smoke of burning bodies, creating a nauseating odor that clawed at the senses. The sickly sweet smell of decay was like a miasma, shrouding everything in a pall of despair. The back gate of the castle had been at the southeast part of the city, which meant you were seeing first hand the consequences of starvation. There were so many dead bodies, rotting unattended to, that the risk of a disease breaking out pretty soon seemed the only logical outcome. They weren’t burning fast enough, there were more dead laying on the ground than healthy men that were able to stand on their feet to continue this task.

Some were cussing King Viserys, who having been so many years bedridden had cast his curse on the city, to have everyone slowly die like he was. Others cussed Princess Rhaenyra for leaving and not taking the throne to protect the realm. Others cussed Queen Alicent and her court of men, who chose to cut the food supply from Highgarden for whatever reason. To you horror, as you walked to the western part of the city, you realised the wave of starvation had affected not only the south, but the east and a part of the west as well. You speculated the north was also highly affected too. As you thought some more, you finally began to l piece a few things together. The amount of money the Iron Bank lended to the throne had not been just for that damn well, as you were pretty sure the court wouldn’t sacrifice the entire population of Kings Landing just for that. Who would pay taxes in that case? You also knew that the castle had more than enough money to never need a loan from the Iron Bank, but they didn’t want to use the money from there for whatever they were truly using the loan for. If they used the thrones savings for anything, they always had to keep it in account and they didn’t want any physical evidence. The well was being used as a means to launder off money in a way. Your father had explained you long ago what that meant. You didn't want to think of him now.

Instead, you wondered if the Queen actually knew. You weren’t sure if she knew truly what the loan was used for, or the true state Kings Landing was in, judging at least from the instructions Ser Criston was given from the Hand. Oh. The Hand. You should’ve realised so sooner. It seems the Queen was kept in the dark for some time regarding matters such as this. As the Queen you weren’t sure how much she knew and how much she chose to believe certain things were true. How she believed her fathers word on a scale. It must be a combination of trust and of wanting her consciousness at peace. What you knew became your responsibility as well, after all. You couldn’t judge the Hand for doing so, after all the reason you were here was because you acted in a similar manner towards your younger brother. Although you’d never put at risk so many innocent people to keep a lie believable. You liked to think a certain amount of the self-sacrifice they taught ladies like you was still left, or at least some morality.

You looked at Ser Criston, his eyes betrayed no disgust, sadness or anger at the image in front of him. His brows were slightly forrowed but that could be from the smell. Out of all the people in court, except a few middle born ladies, you shared the most similarities with Ser Criston. You both came from low-born mothers after all and knew the struggles that came with. He seemed to forget his roots, though. You walked and walked till you stopped in front of a whore house, deep in the centre of Kings Landing, far away from sickness, pain and grief, here the people still danced and drank despite it only being mid-day. Ser Criston turned to you “I’ll need to you to go inside, and fetch Prince Aegon in the calmest manner you can master. Don’t attract much attention. Quickly.” Before you could answer, Ser Criston knocked on the door and a woman in frizzy blonde curls and pink underwear opened the door and looked at both of you expectingly. She seemed annoyed you noted. Ser Criston looked at you, motioning for you to speak.

“We have direct orders from the castle to bring Prince Aegon back. There are urgent matters he needs to attend to.” You looked at yo it partner for a moment, wanting to see if your words were up to his expectations. He nodded at you silently and you looked back at the woman you with a grunt showed you the way inside. Ser Criston stayed outside and the door close with a loud thud. You were glad for once that the cloak that had been given to you had a hood and that the whore house had colourful curtains covering the windows.

[sirenmoth]

Monster Mash - Satyr

CW: Outdoor sex, Gentle sex, voyerism, thigh grinding, thigh riding, spanking, hand job, cum as lube

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The garden at the far end of the property was beautiful, different flowers grew wind and luscious of different sizes and colours combined with various trees where the birds liked to nest. It's a sanctuary for the Satyr, who usually spent his time here away from the chaos of the manor, sometime you would join him in this bliss. In a small wooden cabin that was barely big enough for two, hidden under a large oak tree and some forget-me-not flowers.

You always say it looks like a fairytale cottage. A place in a dream.

The collections of flowers, both wild and planted, laid in large and small mismatch patches around the garden, creating a natural feel, mixed with the trees of various types, both big and tall and small and wide, casts shadows in all the right places for a midday nap. A moon-gate archway sat at the entrance of the garden, giving it the final tough of a whimsical fairytale dream. Sitting to watch the birds and butterflies, the early morning insects or the nighttime fireflies is always your favourite pastime, a break from being tossed around like a toy between your monster lovers, not that you minded the life you live.

The manor sat in the middle of the large property, to the north of the large patch of land is a wide open pasture, the Centaur has his own barn and stable combo to go with the field he can run around in, and to the south was a massive lake-ocean for your Siren and Merman, the cool saltwater body complete with a sand beach and underwater caves and caverns. To the east is the Naga's burrow, made of rock and mud and sand, despite that it was still warm and homely, the Satry's cabin and garden was to the west, a border separating the four sections as a mutual resect for each other's territory.

The both of you at on the porch, on a wooden bench that overlooked the wild overgrowth, your partner played his panpipes all while occasionally tapping one of his hooves to the rhythm he was creating.

It was peaceful, calm, tranquil, Everything you could've asked for, relaxing in the rays of the sun, listening to the birds above in the trees sing and chip their songs in tune with the creature next to you was emitting. You felt at peace, tugging the oversized woollen blanket tighter around your shoulders, wearing liminal or no clothing was the better option when you never know when you're going to be bent over and stuffed next, plus most of your lover wore liminal or no clothing.

Closing your eyes, leaning back onto the woven cushions that decorates the bench, resting your head on the Satyrs left shoulder carefully as to not disturb his melody, a short sounding like heaven right now.

The music from the pipes stop, followed by a soft chuckle, "Not falling asleep on my, are you?" the creature next to you laughs, setting the pipes down on the table in front of him and pulling you into his lap, facing him and forcing you to rest your head on his chest.

"No, I'm just resting my eyes." You mutter, moving your arms up and around his neck, allowing him into your blanket cocoon. The wool blanket was enormous and dwarfed you, dragging along the ground and trailing behind you every time it draped it over you, it drowns you in its softened fabric that was hand-woven together with such care and was a gift from your orc from one of his many travels. You feel the Satyrs' hands hold your waist, leisurely stroking your skin in feather-like touches. Nuzzling into his neck, playing with the baby hairs at the nape of his neck, you move to straddle his left thigh, feeling his plush yet coarse fur underneath you. The Satry locks his arms around your waist and interlocking his fingers together behind your back to keep you in place, the two of you sit and enjoy the last of the birdsongs and late-day warmth.

His hands disconnect and move to your ass, slowly kneading the flesh in his hands in slow movements. Flinching after a practically hard squeeze, rock your exposed clit against his thigh you're straddling, the fur catches your bundle of nerves. Burrowing your face into the Satyrs neck as he continues to squeeze and knead the globes of your asschecks, his blunt nails leaving crescent marks in their wake as you whimper from the combined sensations of his hands and fur bumping against you.

"You like this? Grinding against my leg, getting my fur all wet with your slick?" He teases, landing a hard slap to your right butt cheek, rubbing over the now redden mark left behind where the Satyrs hand made contact. Moving your head down, still keeping your forehead pressed against his skin, arms still around his neck, you spot an appearing damp patch of now clumping fur from where you've been sitting, the sight alone makes you moan out loud softly. The woollen blanket slips down a bit from your shoulders, pooling around your waist and his thighs, the ends still held tight in your hands. The Satyr laughs, roughly squeezing the flesh in his hands at your hip and rear, guiding you to grind gently against him, forcing you back and forth and down onto the wet clutch of fur over and over and over.

Tangling your fingers though his hair, the Satyr bends his neck forward to leave butterfly kisses on your neck as his nails dig deeper into your skin. A sudden breeze of cold air rushes through the garden, rustling the tree leaves and sending shivers down your spine, causing you to remember how exposed you are for all to see. The wind didn't seem to bother the goat-hoofed man, simply returning the sheet of coloured strands of woven wool back onto your shoulders and securing it in place, neatly smoothing down the fabric before returning his hands back under the cloth to return them to their previous places.

"Can't have my sweet songbird getting cold now, can I?" The Satyr whispers in your ear, "Not before I've had my fun with you." The leg you're currently straddling starts to lightly bounce, causing you to gentle rock forward and back. His hoof tapping a hollow rhythm agasint the wooden planks of the porch decking, possiblely denting the wood. Running a hand down his torso and midsection, tracing the happy trail and following it down towards his sheth hidden amonsgt the short hair, rubbing a hand over it in time with your movments

The Satry buries his head further in the crook to your neck, muffling his groans as you play with his balls, massaging them in your hand, keeping on his shoulder for leaverge, toying with his emerging cock. Stroking up and down, thumbing over the leaking tip and smearing his warm pre-cum over your hands and down his dick, using it as lube to speed up your movemnts. You both move in tandem, each time you rock your hips, you move you hand up, dragging your thumb over the tip every few stroke to collect the fresh white fluid spilling out before moving your hand back down, occasilny playing with the Satrys hanging sack.

The Satyr dig his fingernails in further into your skin, fresh bruises and deep crescent marks appering that are sure to cause a few bets and competitons between your monster lovers that will last for weeks. You moan after he bounces his leg faster, the wood under his tapping hoof creaks and groans at the pressure of the Satry exsecntric movments, the thoughts of a dent in the boards is now proven right when you hear a faint crack. An abrupt, sharp thrust forward and the stinging feeling of a hand coming in sharp content with flesh, making you jump and thighs to tighten around his in pleasure.

Another and another and another.

One right after the other, forcing you to flinch and squirm against his hold, the imprint of his fingers darkening the more they dig in to keep you still. The Satyr moves his head from your neck to lock his lips with yours, tongue dancing with yours as you moan and groan and whimper, exploring deep inside your oral cavity, sloppily, as you both let yourselves get lost in the waves of pleasure and each others embrace, the sounds of the birds and wildlife bleeding into the background of your little bubble, the noise ringing in your ears as your blood roars in your ears, mixing with your raging heartbeat in your chest.

Your orgasm creeps up on you, thighs clamping around his furry thighs as you shake, soaking the Satyrs hair further as you detach your spit-covered lips from his, head thrown back and mouth open in a silent scream, hand still working along his cock until he joins you in pure orgasmic bliss, shooting his load over where his skin meet his fur and your hand, that's still slowly pumping his dick until he's shooting blanks. Both sitting, basking in the late-day sun just peeking over the horizon bleeding oranges and pinks and reds along the sky that makes your skin glow, the Satyr moves his hands around your waist again to re-interlock his fingers behind your back, pulling you closer towards him, not caring about the mess on his torso or on his thigh.

Wrapping your arms around his neck, one hand still slightyl covered in his cum, the woolen blankent cocooning you again from the chill of the early night air. The Satry humming a gentle lullaby to soothe you into a peacful sleep, to which you happily accept, safe in his arms and in your shared sanctury.

[doodle-pops]

˚₊‧꒰აWhen You Dodge Their Kisses໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Headcanon: Amras, Argon, Aegnor, Rog, Thingol

˚₊‧꒰ა Amras ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Amras had been in high spirits that afternoon, the sun casting a golden glow over the gardens of Himlad. You were lounging on a plush bench beneath the shade of an ancient oak, enjoying the serenity of the moment. He had taken a seat beside you, his usual serious demeanour softened by a playful glint in his green eyes.

As the conversation meandered from topics of hunting to lighthearted banter, Amras leaned in, his lips curved into a teasing smile, clearly intent on stealing a kiss. With a mischievous glint in your eye, you leaned slightly away just as he approached. His lips met the air where your cheek had been moments before.

Amras raised an eyebrow, pretending to be oblivious as he leaned in again, this time aiming for the other cheek. You giggled and tilted your head, dodging his kiss once more, leading him to pout dramatically. “So you want to play a game now?” he asked, his voice a playful tease.

You continued to evade his attempts, each dodge accompanied by a burst of laughter from you. Amras’s initial amusement gave way to a charming pout, his lower lip jutting out as he tried to hide his disappointment behind a mask of feigned seriousness. “When I catch you, you’ll be sorry, arimelda,” he said, his voice tinged with playful frustration.

However, he came to regret those words when you dragged out his attempts for much longer than he anticipated. The sounds of his grumbling and mutterings were far too loud, only fuelling you to frustrate him further by dancing out of his grasp and sticking your tongue out at him. “Ready to give up, or you’re not that much of a sore loser?”

“You may regret those words when I get my hands on you, love,” he exhaled before missing the opportunity to grab your arm. “I want my kiss, so you best come here.”

Fortunately, after a few more failed attempts and your laughter echoing in the garden, you relented—feeling rather pitiful for him—and leaned in, letting him plant a soft, lingering kiss on your cheek. So easily did his pout melt into a satisfied smile, his eyes twinkling with affection. “There,” he said, his voice soft and content. “Caught you. I win.”

“Because I let you, otherwise you were going to cry,” you teased.

˚₊‧꒰ა Argon ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

The day in Tirion was crisp and clear, with the gentle breeze rustling through the leaves as you and Argon strolled along a quiet path. His conversation was animated, full of stories from his recent scouting trips, but his eyes kept darting to you with an unmistakable glimmer of mischief.

As Argon spoke, he leaned in, his lips poised for a kiss. You, with a grin playing on your lips, deftly leaned away, causing his kiss to miss its mark. His expression shifted from playful to a feigned look of hurt. “Are you challenging me?” he teased, his eyes sparkling with playful challenge.

Undeterred, Argon tried again, this time attempting to catch you off guard by leaning in from the other side. You shifted subtly, avoiding his kiss once more, and he let out a dramatic sigh. “Hey, quit being difficult,” he said, his tone a mix of amusement and mock frustration.

Each time he leaned in, you managed to dodge, and Argon’s pout grew more pronounced. His usually confident demeanour softened as he pretended to be hurt by your playful rejection. “Hold still for a moment,” he said, his voice dropping to a mock-serious tone. “Or I’ll bite you alongside all those kisses.”

“Oh, what a dreadful threat,” you mocked with your hands to your face. “I feel terror in my bones.”

“Don’t,” he strained as he missed you by an inch and nearly crashed into the bird’s fountain, “tempt me, you little rascal.”

Finally, with one last playful dodge, you relented after feeling sorry for his out of breath status, allowing him to catch you in a sweet, tender kiss. His pout immediately transformed into a radiant smile, and he pulled you into a warm embrace. “See! That wasn’t so very hard you little cretin,” he murmured, his voice filled with genuine affection. His arms wrapped around you, holding you close to prevent you from running off if you had any more bright ideas.

“Only because you looked like you were out of breath.”

˚₊‧꒰ა Aegnor ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Aegnor’s sea-green eyes sparkled with mischief as he leaned in to kiss you, his lips curving into that charming smile that always made your heart skip a beat. But just as he was about to close the distance, you turned your head to the side, pretending to admire the landscape of Dorthonion. Blinking, momentarily taken aback, he chuckled softly.

“Admiring the view, are we?” he teased, his voice low and melodic, but you kept your gaze on the trees, feigning innocence.

He tried again, leaning in with a bit more determination, but you stepped away, pretending to adjust your hair. Aegnor’s smile faltered, and a small pout formed on his lips. He wasn’t used to being dodged like this, and you could see the wheels turning in his mind as he tried to figure out what you were up to.

For the third attempt, Aegnor placed a gentle hand on your waist, drawing you closer. “Now, where were we?” he murmured, his voice carrying a playful edge. But just as he leaned in, you suddenly found something fascinating on the ground—a very interesting leaf that needed immediate inspection.

Aegnor groaned softly, his pout deepening. “Are you doing this on purpose?” he asked, sounding adorably exasperated. His brows furrowed, and he crossed his arms over his chest, looking every bit like a sulking child.

You finally turned to face him, barely suppressing your laughter as you took in his pouty expression. "Whatever do you mean?" you asked, your voice full of feigned innocence.

He narrowed his eyes at you, clearly not buying your act. “You’re too clever for your own good,” he muttered, but his lips twitched, unable to stay serious for long.

Before he could protest further, you reached up and cupped his face, leaning in to press a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. Aegnor’s eyes fluttered shut, and when you pulled back, his pout had completely disappeared, replaced by a look of pure contentment.

“You’re so annoying,” he murmured against your lips, wrapping his arms around you and holding you close. But there was no real frustration in his voice, just a warm affection that made your heart melt.

“Only for you,” you whispered, smiling up at him. Aegnor grinned, his earlier sulkiness forgotten as he kissed you again, this time with no interruptions.

˚₊‧꒰ა Rog ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Rog, ever the patient one, had tried to kiss you at least three times that day, each time met with you deftly dodging his advances. The first time, you’d leaned back just as his lips were about to brush against yours, claiming you needed to stretch. The second time, you’d suddenly turned your head, pretending to notice something interesting in the distance. By the third attempt, Rog was beginning to catch on.

He leaned in again, slowly, as if giving you time to prepare for the kiss. But just as his lips were about to meet yours, you moved away, this time bending down to tie your already perfectly tied shoe. When you glanced up, Rog’s expression was a mixture of confusion and the slightest hint of a pout.

“Is there something more interesting than me?” he asked, his deep voice tinged with mock seriousness. He wasn’t one to get easily flustered, but there was a glint of playful challenge in his eyes.

You stood up, shrugging nonchalantly. “What you’re talking about?" you innocently pouted, biting back a grin as you avoided his gaze once more.

Rog huffed softly, crossing his arms over his broad chest, his pout becoming more pronounced. “You’re avoiding me,” he accused, though the twinkle in his eyes betrayed his amusement.

You laughed lightly, pretending to be offended. “Me?! Avoid you? Never!”

He stepped closer, towering over you, and leaned in again, this time with a determined look. “Let’s try this one more time then,” he said, his voice a low rumble. But as he closed the distance, you quickly turned your head, causing him to kiss the air. Rog groaned, throwing his hands up in playful defeat.

“Alright, I surrender,” he grumbled, though there was a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He sat down on a nearby bench, looking up at you with the most exaggerated, adorable pout you’d ever seen.

Your heart melted at the sight of this usually stoic warrior looking so adorably disgruntled. Finally, deciding you’d teased him enough, you walked over and sat beside him, gently taking his face in your hands. “Okay, okay, no more teasing,” you said softly before leaning in and kissing him tenderly.

Rog let out a soft sigh of contentment, his hands coming up to rest on your waist as he deepened the kiss, savoring the moment. When you finally pulled away, he smiled at you, all traces of his pout gone.

“You know, you’re lucky you’re so charming,” he murmured, pressing another kiss to your forehead.

˚₊‧꒰ა Thingol ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

You had been seated beside Thingol, engrossed in a discussion about the latest festival preparations. His silver hair shimmered in the golden light, and his deep eyes were fixed on you with an affectionate gleam. With a gentle smile, Thingol leaned in, clearly intent on stealing a kiss.

A soft huff of frustration escaped him as he straightened up, his usually regal demeanour slipping as he pouted, just a little. You bit back a smile, enjoying how this mighty King of the Sindar, tall and majestic, could look so endearing when denied something as simple as a kiss.

“Have I done something, beloved?” he asked, his deep voice laced with playful suspicion. There was a twinkle of mischief in your eyes, but you shook your head innocently.

“I don’t know. Did you do something wrong?” you replied, keeping the twinkling of mischief brilliant in your eyes as you glanced up at him.

Thingol narrowed his eyes slightly, clearly unconvinced, but his pout deepened when you didn’t immediately lean in to kiss him back. He was starting to look more like an annoyed child than a dignified king, and it was impossible not to find it utterly charming.

He tried once more, this time determined to catch you off guard. He leaned in quickly, but you dodged him again, your laughter bubbling up at his exasperated sigh. He crossed his arms over his chest, looking every bit the sulking ruler who wasn’t getting his way. A little bit again, he stomped his feet.

With a soft smile, as you suppressed your laughter, you leaned closer to him, craning your neck to press a gentle kiss to his lips. Immediately, Thingol’s pout vanished, replaced by a pleased, almost smug expression as he wrapped his arms around you, holding you close.

“Now you’re the one who’s out here doing wrong things. You’re being cruel,” he murmured, his voice tinged with playful reproach. His eyes, however, betrayed the fondness he held for you, even as you continued to tease him.

Falling into a wheeze, you tossed your head backwards at his mini tantrum. “You look as though you’re about to cry about it?”

“What if I did?”

“See, that wasn’t so hard,” he whispered against your lips, but the affection in his voice was undeniable. You laughed softly, resting your head against his chest as he finally got the kiss he had been so eagerly seeking.

Masterlist

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[starryjuicebox]

Sucrose

Pairing: Ascended!Astarion x F!Reader

Word Count: 1.7k

Warning: 18+, Explicit. Cunnilingus. PiV. Creampie.

Summary: Astarion has several surprises for you on this Valentine's Day.

The soft grass is a soothing balm for your tired feet as you stroll across the flower garden. Curling your fingers around your lover’s arm, you lean your head against his shoulder and close your eyes briefly. The little meadow he built just for you far away from the hustle and bustle of Baldur’s Gate is always a welcome respite. 

Astarion guides you to a white oak bench with lush green ivy snaking around the elegant silver armrests. He sits down and pulls you into his lap. Snuggling into his chest instinctively, you gaze up at him. 

“Your feet seemed like they could use a rest,” he answers your unasked question. 

“Thank you!” You beamed at him. It was quite nice to be able to rest after a long day of walking and tending to the plants. While Astarion had always told you that someone else could “do all the dirty work”, there was something about growing the greenery yourself that made it special. It did involve a lot of physical labor though, and so you are grateful to be able to relax for the rest of the night.  

Life with him was quite easy, after all. While the mansion was being refurbished, you two had gone on all sorts of travels, from the Moonshae Isles to Cormyr, enjoying all the pleasures the Sword Coast had to offer. 

But even traveling could get tiring after a while, and so you were overjoyed when Astarion told you he had purchased a plot of land distant from any large city. That was when you had decided to start your ever-growing garden. 

Your first endeavor was planting berry bushes to help feed some of the local wildlife. It was a delight to see deer, birds, and other adorable woodland animals stop by every morning. Astarion had made commentary about feeding the wildlife to the Spawn servants, but never lifted a finger to stop you from growing the shrubs or to shoo the creatures away. 

He chuckles a little, before pressing his lips to your forehead and snapping you out of your reverie. “So, little love, today is Valentine’s Day. A day for lovers to celebrate their unions. And we have quite a lot to celebrate, don’t we?” 

Of course, your calendar had long since been marked, and you already had something special prepared. Reaching into your pockets, you giggle and take out a handful of heart-shaped dark chocolates. While not your own preferred treat, you were not blind to Astarion’s indulgences when he thought nobody was watching. Pressing one up to his lips, you grin and say,“Open wide~” 

Astarion obliges you, surprise clear on his features, and he closes his mouth around the chocolate…as well as your finger. A smirk dances across his face as he finishes the candy with a sensual lick.  

“I see you were ready, darling.” Astarion holds up a peach—your favorite fruit—and then pulls out a dagger. You blink just once, and the once-whole peach is now five evenly cut pieces. 

He teases your lips with one slice, a small smirk decorating his features. “Now, it’s my turn to treat you.” 

You laugh and bite down into the fruit, sweet juices dripping down your chin. 

“Tut, tut, such a messy girl,” he chides gently, dipping his head to lick the nectar from your face. 

“That tickles!” You tell him with a giggle, pushing him playfully. 

The only response you receive is a dark chuckle as he continues to feed you the peach. 

After you finish feeding each other, he leans back with a content hum. “I have another surprise for you. After all, you have been very good to me, my love.” 

Excitement courses through you as you smile. “You’ve been very good to me, too.”

Sweeping his arms beneath you in a princess carry, Astarion stands up and you instinctively wrap your arms around his neck. He brings you deeper into the woods, where you had not ventured before. Your breath hitches in trepidation. 

“Where are we going?” you ask, but receive no reply as he simply continues onward. 

Your question is quickly answered when he stops beneath a cluster of giant Sequoia trees and points upwards. “A gift for you.” 

Lifting your gaze, your jaw drops. Nested in the treetops is an enormous log cabin, built into the forest itself. An elegant terrace wrapped in ivy overlooks the rest of the forest and far beyond. The house is so far up that it would be impossible to reach for an ordinary person. 

“A special sanctuary, just for the two of us,” he whispers into your ear as he sets you back down onto your feet. With a spin and flourish, the Vampire Ascendant becomes a tiny black bat. 

You will your own form to shift and change into a crow, flying after him towards the beautiful cabin. 

Landing on the terrace and transforming back, a gasp leaves you as you see the home is already decorated. Different types of Aeonium, Echeveria, and Graptopetalum hybrids sit in little colorful clay pots beneath large bay windows. Coupled with french doors leading from the balcony into the interior, the house is set up to allow for plenty of sunlight as well.

Astarion opens the doors for you with a bow, seeming very pleased with himself. 

The inside was a blend of copper and soft pink hues. It had clearly been expertly staged with your taste in mind. Rose quartz countertops play host to tiny pewter statuettes of cats and crows. Daggerroot, autumncrocus, belladonna and other alchemical ingredients decorate herb hangers dangling from the ceiling.

It’s perfect; everything you had imagined a little home away from home would look like. Astarion let you have some say in the decor of the renovated palace, but this space was clearly entirely engineered with you in mind. 

“Thank you, Astarion,” you say softly, stepping forward to give him a hug.

He immediately stiffens under your touch. No matter how often you embrace him, it seems, he still hasn’t gotten used to your affection being given so freely. After a second, his warm arms wrap around you, and you can hear his heartbeat—a soothing, steady rhythm.

“Of course, my treasure. Anything for you,” he replies quietly, before smirking once more. “You haven’t even seen the best part yet.” 

Taking your hand, he leads you to the bedroom, which is decorated in a similar fashion to the common area. Dense ivy hugs the walls, and small mushroom-shaped lamps give off a soft, warm glow. Beside them is a crystal vase filled with red roses. Your heart swells at the sight. 

A massive bed takes up an unreasonable amount of space, covered in a downy duvet. Ethically harvested, he assures you. 

“Now, for the final treat of the night…” 

Astarion moves towards you like a predator stalking prey. Though your heart no longer beats, you feel the rush of excitement as your lover walks you to the edge of the bed, until the back of your knees hits the frame. He continues to lean forward, causing you to fall onto your back atop the plush mattress. 

Lean arms cage your body as Astarion tilts his face to yours and captures your lips in a searing kiss. His tongue swipes your lower lip, and darts in as you part them. 

As you spread  your legs for him instinctively, he rubs your lower halves together. “Eager, are we?” he drawls, grinding against your heated core. 

Your clothing suddenly feels restrictive and itchy on your feverish skin. As if on cue, Astarion swipes a claw downwards, rending your thin sundress in two. You pout at him, because you really liked that dress, but he kisses your stomach in apology. As his lips trail downwards, your ire is lost when his tongue flattens against your slick folds, sending a shock of pleasure through you.  

He continues his ministrations fucking your entrance with his tongue lazily, before swirling around your clit and then sucking hard. The sudden shift in intensity elicits a moan from you as he continues to feast on your cunt. 

Just when you feel yourself beginning to reach the peak, he pulls away, your juices glistening on his chin. You whine at the loss, although the sound quickly turns into a sigh as he buries himself to the hilt within you in one smooth thrust, without warning.  

“You take me so well, don’t you? Good girl,” he murmurs, rolling your stiff nipples in between his warm fingers. Astarion has set a slow, steady rhythm to start; every languid roll of his hips brings another small jolt to your system. 

It isn’t fair that he seems so composed while you are coming undone beneath him. Pursing your lips, you use your body weight to roll yourself forward, flipping your positions so that you are now riding him. 

Astarion doesn’t seem to protest this, just letting out a throaty chuckle as the new position sinks him even deeper into you, forcing out another sound of ecstasy from your lips. You feel his cock twitch inside of you, signaling his own pleasure. 

You feel yourself getting closer to the edge, increasing the pace to a desperate frenzy, and from the sound of his own sighs, Astarion isn’t too far off himself. 

“That’s it, my treasure. Come for me.” 

Clenching around him, you shatter at his words. Grabbing your wrist and sinking his fangs into it, he follows and you feel a wave of thick cum spilling into you. 

Happy and sated, you beam down at him. “Happy Valentine’s Day.” 

“Happy Valentine’s Day, my love.” 

As he pulls out, he scoops out the cum that dribbles out of your puffy slit and shoves it back in with his fingers. “We can’t have anything go to waste, can we now?” 

You nod sleepily, as he wipes you clean with a soft cloth. As you snuggle up to his warm embrace, he pulls the cover over your bodies.    

The next morning, you are awoken by the fresh scent of apples. A brand new sunrise in the eternity you will share together. 

[fallenxobsessed]

|When Grumpy Meets Color | Scott x Reader|

It was cloudy with sunshine shining through the grey clouds, Scott and his partner Y/N stood side by side, eyeing their task for the day: building and outdoor bench for their little garden nook. This task had Scott initially seem enthusiastic about it, but now he was his normal grumpy-yet-charming demeanor.

"Are you absolutely sure that this bench is going to fit right there?" Scott asked with his brows furrowed, pointing to the shady part under the oak tree.

Y/N laughed, nudging him with their shoulder. "Yes, Scott, I promise you that it will fit perfectly. You just got to trust my measurements."

Scott huffed as his arms crossed his muscular chest. "Last time you said that, we ended up with a damn lopsided shelf."

"Hey! That shelf has character damn it!" They retorted smiling big and wide.

Scott chuckled, as his grumpiness began to fade slowly with the sun beginning to shine brighter slowly. "The sooner it's done, the sooner we can go out and get drinks."

As the bench began to take it's shape Scott couldn't help as he finally smiled. It was all coming together.

"See? I told you this would be fun!" They said all excited.

Scott snorted as he rolled his eyes. "Y/N fun is a strong word. But maybe it's not funis the word. But I guess I enjoy it." He shrugged.

"Coming from you that you 'enjoy it' that's a high praise!" They teased.

They began painting in before not too long paint splatters started flying, and before long, Scott had a streak of blue across his cheek."Hey, watch it!" he said, laughing as he swiped at their arm, leaving a splash of green.

Y/N grinned and retaliated, flicking paint onto Scott’s shirt. "The offical paint wars have officially begun."

Scott laughed, trying to dodge the next splatter, but his partner was quicker. They leaned closer, paintbrushes moving in chaos, until they were both covered in a patchwork of colors.

They took a step back to admire their work, paint dripping from their hands. Their eyes met, and Scott’s grumpy facade softened. "You know," he said, taking a deep breath, "this might be definitely better than the shelf."

Y/N tilted their head, wiping a streak of paint from Scott’s cheek. "Yeah, it’s been pretty amazing. Especially with you, of course. Plus, you aren't so grumpy this time."

Scott's expression turned tender, and he reached out, pulling them into a gentle embrace. "You make everything better, you know that?"

They rested their head on his shoulder, smiling. "And you make all the mess worth it."

[classicmemorialbenches]

Techniques we use to depicting images on memorial bench designs

At Classic we have a number of techniques we use to depict images on our memorial bench designs and one of our favourite things to do is the colour resin inlay. There are several techniques that can be used. Here are,

✅Preparing the artwork

✅Carving the shapes into the wood

✅Pouring all of the colours

✅Skimming off the excess glue

✅clamped

[cambion-companion]

matey. I have this cute soft idea if you're interested in writing it ofc. basically fem reader where she's a lady of noble blood and knows aemond since they were kids. but there was always this awkwardness around them which slowly turned into disgust (lol bish why you lying, why you always lying) one day she's with helaena or lady friends and they ask her who she would marry from court if she had to choose which she replies with "I would marry aemond in a heartbeat" forgetting that she said that out loud with aemond overhearing it somewhere hiding behind a pillar or something lol. and the next day she keeps questioning herself why aemond is suddenly wearing his nice clothes, helping her with something? and then when she wants to bid him goodnight he replies with a sneaky "I would marry you too in a heartbeat" which ends with her all flustered or something lol. idk what this is honestly, It just popped into my head.

Hi dearest! I'd love to write a lil something based on this lovely prompt!

Aemond x reader | fluff | Aemond being as discreet as a car backfiring

Laughter surrounded you, the ladies you sat with in the fragrant gardens tittering to each other, blushes upon their dimpled cheeks. You set aside your book of Old Valyrian poems and leaned in conspiratorially. "Okay Rosaline, your turn. Who would you marry?"

Rosaline, a lovely curvy girl around your age with russet curls and a freckled face, laughed harder. "I cannot say, lady Y/N. Though lord Jason Lannister is rather easy on the eyes is he not?"

You shrugged. "If you go for that sort of pomposity, I suppose."

"Well, who do you fancy, Y/N?" Rosaline asked, huffing at you with slightly narrowed brown eyes.

You hesitated, all eyes now upon you, growing more curious with each second of silence.

"Well? Now you have to tell us!" A girl with straight brown hair piped up, her doe eyes mischievous. "You were so eager to hear our own secrets!"

"I...I've always. Well. Prince Aemond if you must know." Your fingers clasped together upon your lap, so tight your knuckles went white.

There was a beat of stunned silence, then the girls lapsed into another fit of giggles.

"Prince Aemond?" Rosaline choked.

"Haven't you been friends since you were children?"

"I thought they went for their siblings?"

"He doesn't have an eye, Y/N! How could you possibly think he's a suitable match?"

"Excuse me." You said rather flatly. "When any of you ride the largest dragon in Westeros, then you can talk."

"He is rather easy on the eyes." A Tyrell girl spoke in a thin voice. "Though I've heard rumors circulating he is rather callous and keeps to himself."

"He's not callous." You defended. "Though we do have our disagreements."

"Oh yes!" Rosaline tittered again. You fought the urge to smack her. "I've heard you two have been at odds the past few weeks. Lover's quarrel?"

"I-we are not-where did you hear...you know what it doesn't matter." You rose abruptly, forgetting the book beside you on the bench. "Aemond alone is worth a hundred times more than all of you put together. I would marry him in a heartbeat."

"What's under that horrid eyepatch he wears?" A sneering Lannister lady sniggered.

"Something far more interesting than what's under your garish skirts!" You shot back, a shocked silence following your impetuous outburst.

You cast one last scorching look over the gathered women, before gathering your dress and taking your leave of them, face burning.

You retired to your chambers, skipping the dinner feast, not wishing to see those girls again that day. You were still fuming. It was true, you and Aemond had not spoken since a heated argument a few weeks prior. However, this was not the first time you two had been at odds. Nor would it be the last, you reckoned.

A soft knock at your door roused you from your contemplation beside the fire. You rose from the sofa, crossing the carpeted floor and swinging the heavy oak door open to reveal Aemond standing in the doorway.

"Oh!" You said, too surprised to come up with anything witty.

"Walk with me?" Aemond held out his arm for you to take. His hair looked like it was freshly brushed, shining silver in the torchlight as he guided you down the hall into a deserted courtyard.

The evening air was alive with birdsong, the sky above a shock of orange and red as the sun made its western descent.

"I came to apologize." Aemond said as the two of you meandered out into the gardens you had spent your afternoon in.

"Apologize? You? Be still my heart!"

"Don't make me regret it, Y/N." The prince groaned, releasing your arm and turning to you, the vista of the city's red roofs and the sparkling sea framed behind him. "I behaved...rather appallingly and I regret not coming to you sooner."

"You were a bit of an ass, tis true." You smiled impishly at the way he fought down a grimace at your words.

"As if you were any better."

"I was right." You folded your arms across your chest.

Aemond clasped his hands tightly behind his straight back. "It is a matter of opinion whether Dorne is more progressive than us."

"No, Aemond. I'm afraid that's a fact."

Aemond breathed hard through his nostrils; you watched with interest as he collected himself. "I came to apologize not to argue further."

He opened his jacket and pulled out a small box from a pocket within. "And to give you this as a sign of my...remorse."

You squinted at him. "Did your mother tell you to say that?"

Aemond didn't answer, his brow raising at you as he gestured for you to take his gift. You lifted the box from his palm, undoing the string and opening it. A silver brooch lay within, bearing the insignia of your house. Small finely crafted letters spelled out your house words below the image.

"It's quite lovely, my prince." Your face softened as you took it out and fasted the piece to your bodice. "I will wear it with pride. Thank you."

Aemond graced you with a genuine smile, his eye lingering upon the pin now secured above your heart. You tracked his gaze with interest as it roved across your curves before snapping guiltily back up to your face.

"See something you like?" You teased, flashing a grin at him.

Aemond didn't answer, though he held your gaze as you stepped closer, noting how the breath caught in his throat at your sudden proximity. Your brow furrowed as you looked at the odd expression on his face, nothing you had seen there before.

"Are you well, Aemond?"

"No." Aemond shook his head. "Let us continue our walk."

The two of you walked side by side around the gardens, the deepening twilight enveloping you, stars unveiling one by one in the dusky sky. Your knuckles brushed against Aemond's, you extended your pinky, hooking it around his. Heat rose to your face as Aemond's fingers slid to tangle with your own, your hands intertwined as you strode along the path back to the Keep.

He did not break his grip on you, even as you stood again before your chamber door.

"This is where I bid you a good night, Y/N." He spoke softly.

"Yes, it is." You sounded breathless, not pulling away as he turned to face you directly, leaning down as he brushed his lips to the back of your hand.

"Y/N?"

"Yes, Aemond?"

"I would also marry you in a heartbeat."

You stopped breathing. He had overheard the whole exchange in the gardens. Blood rushed in your ears as, wide eyed, you watched as Aemond lingered long enough to take in your expression before he turned on a booted heel and strode down the hallway.

Gathering your wits once more, you shouted after him just as he reached the corner. "Aemond!" He halted, looking back at you with ill-concealed amusement. "Get back here or so help me..." You pointed to the ground in front of your door.

"We can continue this discussion tomorr-"

"No. No, you don't get to say something like that and just walk away." You hissed, leaving your chamber open as you stomped down the hallway to where he stood waiting, his lilac eye sparkling with delight.

Aemond took your forearms in his hands when you reached for him, pulling you in so quickly you stumbled, falling against his chest. "You overheard me today?" You asked, looking up at his angular face as his fingers traced your jaw.

"Mmm. I did indeed. You're quite the sight in your anger." His eye glittered. "Even more enchanting when it's on my behalf."

"They were wrong to say such things." You breathed, your voice only a whisper as the distance between your faces slowly closed.

"I rest easy knowing I have a champion in you, to defend my honor." Aemond chuckled, his breath tickling your lips.

You weren't sure who moved first, or if it was simultaneous, but you felt the press of his mouth against yours, your eyes fluttering closed as your hands buried themselves in his silken hair.

He moved against you, backing you up until you hit the wall, a gasp at the impact opening your mouth to him as he began exploring you with his slick tongue. The scent of him surrounding you, the feel of him caging you in, pressing his knee between your thighs, drew a soft whimper from your lips that he drank down with relish.

"Do that again." He murmured, tugging your hair until you exposed your throat to his touches.

"Make me." You smirked at the arched ceiling, quickly losing what little composure you had won back as he took your challenge to heart.

Aemond made you emit many more sounds of pleasure throughout the course of that night. Stifling your cries with his large hand at one point so as to not alert any nearby guard patrols. With the promises of a lifetime together to come he claimed you as his own, swearing in return to be yours until his dying day.

[slytherin-pen]

a quickie post-Eris week ( i’m never on time)

word count: 1.7k

warnings: slight angst moment but mostly fluff

all ACOTAR credit belongs to SJM

The grand ballroom of the Forest House was alive with dancing, chatter, and sparkling glasses clinking. Lords and Ladies, adorned in rich, deep-toned garments, mingled with traveling merchant lords who had come to witness the Autumn Court’s splendor. You stood at the center of it all, beside Eris Vanserra, your mate and the High Lord of the Autumn Court.

Eris had been courting you for months, and though you had not yet been anointed High Lady, your importance in the court was undeniable. Your presence commanded respect, and every eye was drawn to you as you moved gracefully through the ballroom.

Eris had led you onto the dance floor early in the evening, his hand firm around your waist as the music swelled. The two of you moved together as if you were one, your bodies in perfect harmony, captivating the attention of everyone around. You could feel the admiration and envy in their gazes, but you only had eyes for Eris. His auburn hair caught the light as you spun in his arms, his amber eyes never leaving yours.

The dance ended in applause, and Eris leaned in to whisper in your ear, his breath warm against your skin. "You’re stunning tonight," he murmured, his voice laced with pride and something deeper, more intimate. Your heart fluttered at his words, and you smiled, your hand squeezing his.

“And you look dashing as ever,” you whispered.

As the night wore on, you and Eris made your way around the room, conversing with various lords and merchants. His hand never left your waist, a silent declaration of his claim on you, and a warning to anyone who might think of approaching you with anything less than respect. You were more than just his mate; you were his equal, his partner in every way.

Eventually, Eris returned to his throne on the dais, his presence commanding as he took his seat. You leaned in to speak to him, your voice soft so only he could hear. "I need a moment outside, just to get some fresh air."

He nodded, his eyes filled with understanding. "Take one of the smokehounds with you," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "I’ll be here if you need me."

You smiled and kissed his cheek before turning to leave, one of the smokehounds falling in step beside you as you made your way through the grand double doors and into the cool night air.

The gardens were quiet, the only sounds were the rustling of leaves in the gentle breeze and the distant murmur of the party continuing inside. You found a bench beneath one of the towering oak trees and sat down, closing your eyes as you breathed in the fresh air. It was a relief to escape the intensity of the ballroom, even if only for a moment. The alcohol you had consumed earlier was starting to catch up with you now that you had a moment of reprieve, and you leaned back, feeling a slight dizziness.

The smokehound lay at your feet, its large, black body a comforting presence. You reached down to scratch behind his ears, smiling as he leaned into your touch. The creature had been a loyal companion since Eris had introduced you to the pack, and you trusted each of them implicitly.

But the tranquility of the moment was shattered when the smokehound suddenly stiffened, a low growl rumbling in his throat. You opened your eyes, instantly on alert. The hound’s growling grew louder, and he rose to his feet, staring into the shadows beyond the garden path.

A figure emerged from the darkness, stumbling and inebriated. You recognized him as one of the merchants who had been in the ballroom earlier, his steps unsteady as he made his way toward you. You stood quickly, your heart racing as you realized the danger. This was no harmless drunk; there was something malevolent in the way he moved, in the slurred words that tumbled from his lips as he approached.

“Hello, little lady,” he slurred. “What’s a doll like you doing out here alone?”

"None of your concern," you said, your voice firm despite the fear creeping up your spine. “I think it’s time for you to go back inside.” The smokehound snarled, stepping in front of you protectively.

But the man didn’t listen. Instead, he lunged at you, his hand wrapping around your bicep with a bruising grip. You cried out as he yanked you toward him, the force of his pull tearing your dress on the branches of the nearby shrubs. The smokehound barked viciously, the sound echoing through the garden as it leaped at the man, his teeth bared.

You struggled against the man’s grip, your fear turning to panic as he mumbled incoherently, trying to drag you away. "Let me go!" you demanded, your voice trembling. But the man only tightened his hold, his eyes glazed and unfocused.

“I think I’ll take you home with me,” he said, seemingly unbothered by the force of which you were thrashing.

The smokehound’s barks grew louder, more frantic, and you heard the answering howls of the other hounds from various locations around the Forest House property. The night was suddenly filled with the sound of paws pounding in the dirt, their fierce growls signaling that they were closing in on your location.

The man’s grip on you faltered as the first of the hounds arrived, their large forms circling him, their teeth snapping at his legs and the arm that wasn’t holding you. The hounds growled and barked, their maws open, sharp teeth on full display as they lunged at the man, forcing him to release you in an attempt to protect himself.

You stumbled back, fear and adrenaline coursing through your veins. It was dark, the moonlight filtering through the trees casting eerie shadows across the scene. You were alone with a drunk stranger, surrounded by bloodthirsty hounds that were trained to protect you but could easily tear this man apart if he continued to resist. Anything could happen in a fight like this, and the thought terrified you.

But then, through the chaos, you saw him—Eris, followed by a handful of guards with their weapons drawn. He was striding toward you, the rage rolling off him in waves, palpable even from a distance. Flames licked at his fingertips and the ends of his hair, his eyes glowing with fury as he took in the scene before him.

The smokehounds parted to let him through, their snarling mouths snapping shut as they sensed their master’s approach. Eris reached you in an instant, his hands gentle as he took you into his arms. The merchant was too far gone to resist as the guards grabbed him, dragging him off to the dungeons where he would no doubt face Eris’ wrath later.

Eris pulled back enough to look at your face, his anger fading into concern as he took in your trembling form. "You’re okay," he murmured, cradling the back of your head as he drew you to his chest. "You’re safe now."

His embrace was strong and warm, and you clung to him, the terror of the last few minutes finally catching up with you. Your body shook as the adrenaline ebbed, leaving you dazed and disoriented. Eris’ hand stroked your hair, his voice a soothing murmur as he reassured you over and over that you were safe.

Without another word, he lifted you into his arms, carrying you bridal style as he made quick strides back to the Forest House. You buried your face in his neck, breathing in his familiar scent, grounding yourself in the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

He carried you up the grand staircase and into your shared bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him. The room was dimly lit, the fire in the hearth crackling softly, casting a warm glow across the walls. Eris set you down on the edge of the bed and knelt before you, his hands gently cupping your face.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, his voice laced with worry as he inspected you for any injuries.

You shook your head, though your voice wavered as you replied. "No, just...shaken."

Eris nodded, his thumb brushing over your cheek in a soothing gesture. "I’m so sorry," he said, his voice filled with guilt. "I should have been there. I should have—"

You placed a finger on his lips, silencing him. "You came as soon as you could," you whispered, your voice soft but firm. "You saved me."

His eyes searched yours, and after a moment, he nodded, pulling you into his arms again. "Let me take care of you," he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through your chest.

He helped you out of your torn dress, his movements gentle and careful, before guiding you to the large bathtub that was already filled with steaming water. The scent of lavender and vanilla filled the room as he lowered you into the bath, the warm water soothing your frayed nerves.

Eris knelt beside the tub, his fingers trailing through your hair as he washed away the remnants of the night. His touch was tender, his movements slow and deliberate, as if he was trying to erase the memory of what had happened with every stroke.

Once you were clean and relaxed, he lifted you from the bath and wrapped you in a soft towel, drying you off with a snap of his fingers. He dressed you in one of his shirts, the fabric soft and comforting against your skin, before carrying you to the bed.

Eris settled beside you, guiding your head to lay on his chest as he wrapped his arms around you. His body was warm against yours, his heartbeat a steady, reassuring rhythm beneath your ear. You snuggled closer to him, the events of the night already starting to fade as exhaustion took over.

"Thank you," you murmured, your voice drowsy as sleep began to claim you.

Eris pressed a kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering for a moment before he whispered, "I’ll always protect you, my love. Always."

With those words, you finally allowed yourself to relax completely, knowing that you were safe in his arms. And as you drifted off to sleep, you knew that no matter what happened, Eris would always be there to keep you safe, his love for you burning as brightly as the flames that danced at his fingertips.

[quietblueriver]

**Update: now 1k longer, edited, and with two additional nights' worth of obsessive CR thoughts. Much like how to hit post/publish without going back to change a million things, I have yet to figure out the line between rb and "so different it deserves a new post" and maybe never will!

Also now on AO3.

----

Three cheers for the surprisingly lengthy, emotionally complex conversation in Ep. 96. Still thinking about that devastating rooftop moment, and never not thinking about Imogen Temult, so here's this, in which Imogen visits her favorite place without her favorite person, gets a surprise visitor, and has some thoughts about Laudna and their future. Some light spoilers for Ep. 96.

-

There was a cool breeze ruffling the fabric of her skirt against the skin of her leg, and Imogen took a moment to bask, eyes closed, face turned up to the warmth of the sun. When she blinked open her eyes, she found exactly what she expected: the old oak that took up a corner of the sprawling yard, a faded-white bench swing hanging from one sturdy branch; the little shelter for firewood, empty at the moment, a green wheelbarrow parked just beside it; the raised garden beds bursting with color that framed a pathway to the porch steps where she sat. The most familiar place she had never been. 

Home. 

“Of course,” she breathed out. Her mind’s decision to bring her here was at once almost unbearably cruel and a kindness she was surprised she could grant herself, and tears burned at the back of her eyes as she ran her palms over the smooth, dark-stained wood of the step next to her hip.

The sound of her own voice made her realize exactly how quiet the world around her was–no birds chirping, empty hitching posts, bees gone from the thriving patch of wildflowers. The house behind her waited still and free of the whistle of the kettle and shuffle of stockinged feet, missing the absent-minded humming and chorus of mundane thoughts that made Imogen feel most at home.  

 “Of course,” she said again, a little louder and a lot more resigned. 

It didn’t seem right, that the chasm in Imogen’s stomach, already bottomless, could somehow grow deeper, but that was what was happening, her mind returning to Laudna’s skin under her lips on that rooftop, Laudna’s body wrapped in blankets and shifting quietly away from Imogen. 

She felt like a coward, letting her go again, flying back through that window, turning her own body into itself in bed. She could’ve stayed, should’ve stayed, should’ve pushed. But then, it was Laudna’s choice. That was the whole point, wasn’t it? Giving Laudna the choice, the control, the autonomy she’d had taken from her for so long? 

This wasn’t the first time she’d prepared herself to lose Laudna. She had watched FCG, well-intentioned, try to force her back to them at Whitestone. She had understood, even as she’d wanted to kill them a little. But when it was her turn, Imogen made sure Laudna knew it was her choice and that Imogen would never try to take that from her. It was still true. Imogen loved Laudna far too much to try to force her hand. 

Now, though. Now there was the green ghost of Delilah Briarwood, sharp voice chasing Laudna’s like a wolf after its prey. Closer and closer and closer. 

It felt less and less like giving Laudna a choice and more and more like leaving her to be eaten. Imogen worried, always, about what that bitch was saying to Laudna, what she was doing to Laudna. She worried about how much influence she had and about whether Laudna could see it. 

But then Laudna had been the one to say that she didn’t know if there was much point in distinguishing between them anymore. 

That was it for Imogen. It was one thing if Laudna couldn’t see Delilah, couldn’t understand that her choices might not be fully her own. But Laudna knew. Laudna knew she wasn’t alone, knew Delilah was more than just a passenger, and Imogen had done all she could to be clear about Delilah’s lies and Laudna’s own power, to offer Laudna perspective on who she was to Imogen without Delilah. 

And with all of that, she had made her choice. Imogen didn’t understand. She didn’t understand how Laudna could see Delilah for what she was, for what she wanted, and still believe she could control her, still choose to try. Then again, of course she didn’t. It was so fucking messy and it had been for longer than Imogen had been alive, and anyway, it didn’t matter. It wasn’t her choice to understand; it was her choice to respect.

She could do that. It had broken her, was still breaking her, but she would always, always respect what Laudna chose for herself. She had nodded, cracked open on that rooftop. She had accepted what she heard and what it meant, for Laudna and for her and for the future she had thought they both wanted. 

I’m going to miss our little cottage, though.

She hadn’t meant it as a shot. It was grief over something she thought, hoped, Laudna might be grieving, too. It’s not like Imogen thought Laudna’s decision had been easy. 

Still, she hadn’t expected the look she received in return, the surprised, broken stare, the shaking sob and flood of ichor that Laudna tried to stem. It was like Laudna hadn’t realized that their future was there to lose. Maybe she hadn’t. Laudna never did seem to understand how much Imogen loved her, no matter how clear Imogen tried to make it. Maybe she’d heard Imogen’s very real dreams as passing thoughts. Maybe Imogen’s concession of their future had been the first time Laudna had seen it clearly. 

Or maybe things were right fucked up, and Laudna needed to cry about it. 

Either way, Imogen wasn’t fool enough to expect that Laudna’s possible moment of comprehension would change anything. Sure, she’d sounded different with the Hells, less like she was expecting death, a dead end, and more like she wanted to take back control, but Laudna also knew the rest of the Hells were less likely to respect her choices than Imogen, that any hint of her willingness to let Delilah take control, even on a suicide mission, might lead them to push Laudna away. Imogen had no doubt that Laudna loved her, had no doubt, really, that if she was right about Laudna’s realization that it meant something, but Imogen wasn’t hanging her hope on that. 

Laudna had made her choice.

“So,” she said aloud, voice soft as she took in the green grass stretched before her, the fence line separating their cottage from the forest, Laudna’s thriving tomatoes and okra, supported in their little cages. “Just me then.” 

And wasn’t that a dangerous realization. 

Because Imogen’s whole life was about control. Her mind, her body, her emotions, she knew all of them needed to be held tightly, that letting go meant danger for anyone around her. But here, now, all alone? The small, steady voice of reason inside of her lost to the reality of her isolation. “Just me,” she whispered, and in a snap, her scars burned, light flashing under and around her skin, tears falling hot down her cheeks. A storm of fear and anger and desperation and hurt let loose. The bursts of lightning that crackled around her did not set the house on fire. She might be alone, but she could never, would never, hurt what was theirs.

Instead, she stood, still burning, and walked to the top of the stairs, staring at the post that ran from the tin roof through the floor of the porch. She considered, watched little bolts strike out harmlessly at the porch and the railing. 

She’d been six years old the first time she wrecked the cleaning station in the barn, tiny, furious body pushing buckets and tack and brushes, flipping the table in a show of strength that followed her for years through drunken stories from the other stable hands. At her daddy’s hard order, she had stomped her way to her room, slamming the door with tears streaming down her face.

Imogen’s daddy hadn’t understood a lot of things about her, but he’d understood her that night. Relvin, who had all of her anger and none of her magic, had come to get her from her room and taken her to the back of the old storage barn, where he’d used a rafter to hang a densely packed sack of hay at her height. He’d taken her hand, still small enough to fit fully in his, and shown her how to make a fist. 

Now, just like he’d taught her, she curled her scarred fingers and folded her thumb across the outside, squared up to a cut of wood that was absolutely going to win this fight, and swung as hard as she could. Sure enough, with a grunt and a flash of pain, Imogen pulled back to find her knuckles bloodied and the wood smeared with dark red but as solid as ever. She contemplated her unblemished right hand, and it was only the sound of rustling grass that stopped her from another round. 

Her head shot up and toward the corner of the house and the source of the noise. She was in her own mind, her own dream, but that didn’t mean shit, really. She wiped at her eyes, hissing at the pain and glad for it and for the blood now surely on her cheeks, and she let the heat crackle the air around her. She was ready and out of patience for any bullshit. No matter the evidence of her weakness now marring the wood next to her, this place was sacred, and she was going to be pissed if somebody had come here to fight. 

Imogen relaxed, air cooling, as she took in the figure that loped toward her. He was horrifying, a mass of patchy dark hair and exposed bone, dripping ichor and torn flesh. His eyes glowed and his deadly teeth showed through his half-torn jaw. As Imogen walked down the steps to wait, she felt deep fondness at the wagging tail and lolling tongue that felt so incongruous to the rest of the hellbeast. Fun scary. 

“Hey, baby boy,” she said affectionately as he got closer, and his tail wagged harder at her voice. She leaned forward when he made it to her, cupping his face to scratch behind his jaw, wincing at the pain in her hand. His fur was mostly intact under her fingers, although the jaw itself was a blend of bone and ichor and random thin patches of hair against Imogen’s palms. “What’re you doin’ here?” 

As if in answer, he pulled back and whined, licked at her cuts and the forming bruise, the familiar sticky, black liquid cooling and covering the split skin. 

“I’m okay,” she reassured, aware that even beyond the evidence of violence, the intermittent purple static around her body probably wasn’t particularly convincing. She was right, it seemed–the tilt of his head was skeptical, and he huffed at her loudly, but his eyes were fond. Imogen saw Laudna in him so clearly in that moment that she lost her breath for a second. 

“Fuck.” 

Another whine, another lick, and Imogen conceded the point. “Yeah. Yeah. Okay. Maybe I’m not doin’ so good. You come all this way just to check up on me?”

He moved forward and pressed his head into her thighs, and she scratched at the parts of his back and ribs that she could, stopping when she noticed the pain in her hand was gone. Flexing, she pulled it back to look more closely, wiping the blood and ichor off carelessly on her shorts. Sure enough, the skin was healed, and Caviar was staring at her, tongue hanging from the open side of his mouth. 

She could’ve healed it herself. This was her mind, after all, and it wasn’t one of those dreams where she felt like a passenger. She could’ve stopped the pain entirely, stopped it before it ever started. She hadn’t.

Not as herself, anyway.

It wasn’t a surprise, really. It only made sense that the kindest, gentlest parts of herself would manifest this way. It had been Laudna who taught her how to love herself, and it was Laudna she wanted with her now. 

Big eyes blinked up at her, and just like the cottage, just like her knuckles, Caviar’s presence was a welcome wound, and one she’d inflicted on herself. 

Imogen fought a sob, only half successfully, and Caviar whined again. “Kinda fucked up, sweet thing,” she rasped. A drop of ichor fell from his tongue to the packed dirt in front of the stairs. She wiped her eyes again and sighed, reaching down to smooth the hair between his eyes with her thumb. “How about a little walk in the garden, yeah? And then maybe a snack?”

-

It took a minute to pull off her boots, toss them a little carelessly on the uncharacteristically empty shelf inside the door. She had nothing to hang on the shiny, empty brass hooks that waited above it, and she didn’t dwell, following Caviar through the living room to the little kitchen in the back. The kettle rested on the stove, and she filled it and set it to boil before moving to the shelves on the opposite wall. 

“Okay, Cavvy. Let’s see what we’ve got, hmm?”

There was a glass jar filled with cookies that Imogen knew were for Cav; they were fresh, and they smelled like pumpkin and cinnamon. He scarfed down two happily while she found the tea leaves. She turned to the shelves near the window where she knew her favorite mug was waiting for her next to Laudna’s. Her hand fell back to her side as she took them in, her mug and Laudna’s and the small collection of others, all in a neat and tidy line with their rims up. Imogen stared until the water boiled and the kettle whistled, stared until Caviar bumped her leg.

She put a hand absently on his head, felt bone under her ring and pinky fingers. “Your mama did that,” she said evenly, blinking and looking down at him. “This is our house.” He pressed up into her hand, and she scratched obligingly. “This is our house.” 

She ignored her own mug and pulled Laudna’s down, setting it on the table and filling the strainer in the yellow ceramic teapot. She poured the water and waited for the leaves to steep and then sipped her tea in silence as Caviar settled by her feet. A blue tea towel embroidered with a small white oleander in the corner rested over the top of one chair, smudged with orange-tinted batter and smelling of cinnamon. 

Imogen never had been a very good baker. 

-

“I think Orym was lyin’ to her.” 

Caviar’s head rested on Imogen’s thigh, just above her knee, as she lay with her arms spread wide on the worn blue and gray rug in their living room. He lifted it slightly at her words, and she brought a hand down to finger the tip of his good ear, the one without a chunk missing, the way that he liked. 

“I know he loves her,” she assured, and Caviar pushed himself up on his massive paws and shifted so that his body was pressed into hers, Imogen’s arm resting on his surprisingly dry, largely exposed ribs. “I don’t mean that. I just,” she traced bone with her index finger, staring at the wicker basket full of yarn beside the chair that Laudna favored, a cousin to the one at Zhudanna’s, “I heard them talkin’ about her, about trust, and I think Orym…He knows Delilah won’t let him close if she doesn’t trust him. He knows she’s listnin’ whenever she can. It’s about Delilah. Always fuckin’ Delilah.” 

She rolled onto her side, moving her arm so she could rest her head on her bicep and curling the other across Cav’s body. He huffed out a sigh, breath a harsher reminder of death than his mother’s, decomposition to her sweet decay. Imogen didn’t mind it. 

“He doesn’t wanna hurt Laudna.” Goosebumps formed where his cold body made contact with the exposed skin of her legs. “But he will.”

A low growl started in Caviar’s chest and Imogen made a soothing noise, noticed a stray sock under Laudna’s chair. “I know, baby. You’re a good boy.”

He was a good boy. He’d come as Delilah gained a better foothold, Imogen knew, a manifestation of Laudna’s anger and fear and hurt and power, her desire to protect.

And maybe Laudna saw him as further evidence of Delilah’s power and usefulness but Imogen knew better. Delilah would protect them only as much as it benefitted her, and it was a complicated balance when weighed against the need for Laudna to give her as little trouble as possible, sure, but one that definitely would’ve left at least a few of the Hells dead and buried several times over.

There was no calculation for Laudna. Caviar sprang readily, her body literally tearing itself open to be of use, and he snarled and snapped for the people Laudna loved. He was Laudna’s beast. 

His hackles now were built from Imogen, from love and a desire to protect that Laudna did not often extend to herself. She liked the look of it on him. The growl continued, a comforting rumble, as Imogen spelled Laudna’s name against his fur. “We’ll keep an eye on it.” 

-

She hadn’t wanted to go upstairs, but Caviar made the decision for her, interrupting her carpet brooding and disappearing around the corner to the staircase after a pointed look back at her. She followed, resigned, but stopped halfway there, eyes stuck on the pair of boots next to her own and the one now-occupied brass hook. She knew them, boots black and worn and scarf maroon and soft, big enough to use as a shawl if she wanted, Laudna’s frame so small it wrapped around her easily. She took a half-step toward them but at the impatient bark from upstairs, she tore herself away and started to climb.

He was waiting for her by Laudna’s bedside table, which was exactly as it should be–a paperback novel, spine bent so many times the title was hardly legible between the yellowed cracks, sat waiting next to another wicker basket, this one containing an embroidery hoop and some fabric. A small pin cushion peeked out of the top, clearly custom-made, the glinting metal protruding from the stuffed rat skull making Pate look even more disturbing than usual.

A white quilt with an intricate pattern of overlapping rings covered the bed, the green and gold and blue and purple striking but not garish. She sat on her side, smoothed a hand over the fabric, felt the dips and ridges of the stitches in the pattern. Caviar’s deadly claws clicked against the wood as he made his way to her, and she bit her lip for a minute before scooting over onto Laudna’s side, breathing in the smell of her on the pillow and patting the bed next to her. With menacing grace, Caviar joined her and spun once before settling, nose tucked under his tail, the curve of his spine just touching Imogen’s torso. 

She watched the rise and fall of his body, eyes moving across the ragged realities of him. A hound of ill omen, and he looked like one. He was fierce and violent, a weapon, but Laudna, who knew what it was to be used and feared, who didn’t seem to be able to see him fully as herself, had given him a name, opened her chest for him and fussed over him and, at one point, asked Imogen whether putting him in a sweater would be “undignified.” 

“Your mama’s ridiculous,” she said quietly, gratified when he remained still and unbothered. “I’m very in love with her.” A beat, her palm scrunching the quilt at her side. “I thought she knew, y’know? I thought she heard me when I…” 

She flattened the fabric again, traced one of the rings with two fingers and thought again of Laudna’s face on that rooftop. What had she thought Imogen meant all those times? What had she meant when she said Imogen could have this? That they could have this? 

She turned her head, ear against Laudna’s pillow, and stared at her own bedside table. It didn’t have anything on it aside from a small lantern, but it wouldn’t, would it? Laudna would hand her the book, and Imogen would read aloud as she worked on whatever project or rested her head on Imogen’s stomach. 

The chasm widened this time, maybe finally out of depth to reach, and its growth brought along the urge to reach over and shatter the lantern. Instead she turned her head to the other side, took in Laudna’s dresser pushed under the window, the pitcher and glasses, the glazed speckled bowl full of feathers and small bones, and a lonely sock waiting for its pair forgotten under Laudna’s wingback. 

“Real subtle,” she said to herself, less quiet than she had been with the annoyance seeping in, because what the fuck was she supposed to do about it anyway? Caviar remained undisturbed. 

Rolling her eyes, Imogen took a few deep breaths and took stock. She very well might wreck herself again, thinking about how she couldn’t have this, trying to understand why. On the other hand, she was laying in an imaginary bed in an imaginary cottage next to an imaginary version of the monster that sometimes jumped out of her girlfriend’s chest, and if she was honest with herself, she didn’t want to leave this place or the little pieces of Laudna in it, so it seemed more likely than not that the wreck had never actually stopped. 

She did not fight the turn from that thought back to Laudna on the roof. 

I’m a dead end. Laudna had said that phrase several times in the last few weeks, and Imogen hated it, scoffed at it every time, but she should’ve understood sooner that nobody calling herself a dead end really believed she had choices. Not real ones, anyway.

The only thing that was certain for Laudna was Delilah, and at the root of it all, she believed her choice was Delilah or nothing. 

And Imogen had been clear about how she felt about Delilah.

You told me once that you hate the idea of her watching you, watching us. I’m guessing that hasn’t changed?

She hadn’t heard that question for what it was: Can you really love me this way?  

Imogen shifted on the bed, hot and anxious, and Caviar whined lowly, displeased at the movement. She ran a hand through the fur at his shoulder and then stood, pacing the space between the bed and dresser.

Laudna, shaking and unable to believe that Delilah had chosen her for a reason. Laudna, crying slow, black tears as Imogen told her she hated that Delilah was there, watching them, when just a few minutes before Laudna had admitted she wasn’t sure how to separate herself from Delilah any longer.

Imogen had let this go because she thought Laudna had made her choice, had all the information and chose her own path, and Imogen didn’t want to try to take that, but she also should’ve known that for Laudna it hadn’t felt like a real choice.

“It’s not takin’ her choice to help her understand that she has one.” Her voice was an agitated murmur, and she heard the shift of Caviar’s body on the bed, saw that he had uncurled and was watching her, still mostly relaxed but attentive. 

Fuck. Fuck. Of course Laudna couldn’t imagine their future, because she couldn’t imagine herself without Delilah, and Imogen hated her, openly and vocally and with all her heart. Delilah, who was there all the time, who had been there for thirty years, and for most of that had been Laudna’s only constant, her only company, her only protector. Delilah, who’d had all the time in the world to convince Laudna that she should be grateful to have her, that she was alive only because Delilah let her be, that she was walking around purely on the luck of the draw. 

Of course she thought her value was Delilah, thought the best she could do would be to try to take as much of Delilah’s power in service to her friends, to Imogen, as she could, even if it meant she herself would disappear. Imogen knew Delilah must love that, must love Laudna’s thoughts about self-sacrifice. The bitch.

A growl issued from the bed, and Imogen turned again to the hound, whose eyes were on her, his body now in a rigid, ready line and his lip raised in a snarl. Sighing, Imogen sat, offering her hand for him to sniff.

“I know. I know. I hate it, too.” The growling slowed although he remained tense, ready, teeth glinting. “I don’t think this is somethin’ we can fix on our own, baby. We can’t scare her away from your mama.”

But she had to go. Or, they had to give Laudna the option, a real option, to live without her, so that she felt like the choices in front of her were more than just smoke and mirrors to Delilah’s stone.

“But we’ve got help, don’t we?” She kept her voice gentle and flipped her hand slowly until his cold nose was moving along her palm. “Lots of people who love your mama. And lots of people who hate that woman.”

No matter Orym’s fears, Imogen knew Fearne had spoken for all of them when she said they’d kill Delilah as many times as it took. They just had to figure out how.

Imogen could work on that.

Well.

There were some things they had to do first, but if they survived Predathos, surely the Tempest, surely all of those people at Whitestone who hated Delilah so much, would jump at the chance to help get rid of her for good. Lord Percival was kind of a dick, but Lady Vex’ahlia seemed to have him under control, and if they couldn't help, they had to know people. Someone could help, and Imogen would absolutely fucking leverage Ruidus and Predathos and everything the Bells had done and sacrificed to get what they needed. 

They could make a plan, and Laudna could decide how she wanted to live her life. Yeah, it would hurt badly for Laudna to choose Delilah again, but at least then she and Laudna could both be sure it was a real choice. Laudna was worth the risk. Always. 

In the meantime, Imogen could hold onto this for the both of them. She wanted this, and she was ready to fight for it if Laudna wanted it, too. The spark of hope she'd tried to snuff out earlier flared back to life, and she let herself start to believe that Laudna did want it, would want it, would fight right beside her if she believed it could be real. Maybe she just needed a little hope too. Imogen could share.

Caviar licked at her, and she let him, moving to lie back down as he moved away from the edge of the bed and relaxed a little.

She put a hand on one of his front paws, and he raised it up, laying it over her arm, the rough pads scraping her skin. “We’re gonna try this again, okay? I’m gonna try this again.” Hard bone and wet sinew pressed against the inside of her elbow as he lay his head and neck over her, a comforting weight. “For Laudna.”

A bird chirped happily outside their window, and Imogen closed her eyes. 

She woke in their bed, still facing away, still curled into herself, and she turned immediately, reached out to Laudna as she stared at the sharp point of her shoulder and the plane of her back. 

Laudna? 

The response was immediate, concerned. Imogen? Are you alright? 

I love you.  

Laudna turned, and Imogen watched her eyes take her in, her teeth worrying at her bottom lip in a way that made Imogen itch to reach out and soothe her.

When their eyes met, Imogen put a hand between them. 

I love you so much. No matter what. Even if she’s with you forever, with us forever, I don’t care. I want you, okay? If you want that, want me, I’m yours. 

She was crying, dark stains moving down pale cheeks, and she was still bundled into herself, small and in her own blankets. Imogen eyed her hand between them and thought about choice. 

I…I’d like to hold your hand, if that’s something you want.

Nearly immediately, Laudna’s hand was out of her blankets and on Imogen's, cold and perfect. 

It is. It is. I…I thought you would want space. After…

Imogen shifted so that their fingers laced, traced her thumb over the skin at Laudna's wrist. 

I don’t want space from you, darlin’. I want…

She stopped because it wasn’t the time for a full conversation, but she shifted closer, lifted their hands to press a kiss to the back of Laudna’s, did it again when she heard Laudna’s small sound of relief. She laced their fingers again, thumb over knuckles this time, and moved closer still, until their feet were nearly touching, sighed happily when a cold ankle moved to rest on hers. 

Caviar came to visit in my dream. 

Oh? Laudna lifted her eyes from where they’d been fixed on their joined hands. Tell me about it?  

We went explorin’, she offered, and started with Laudna’s garden.

[fantasyescapes17]

Wings (Part 2)

Your debut in society was as spectacular as one could be, but nobody had prepared you for what came afterward. When you find yourself overwhelmed during your very first season and unable to keep up with the rat race to secure yourself an eligible husband, a curious mentor appears- in the form of notorious flirt and self-proclaimed rake, Mr. Kim Mingyu.

Genre: Mingyu x Female!reader. Regency!AU .You are Jeonghan's sibling so your last name is Yoon but the reader has no other physical characteristics.

Warnings: Discussions of social anxiety, smoking (don't smoke kids, the characters in this story are from a time when they didn't know how bad it was for their health)

Word Count: 5k+

Part 1 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

Series Masterlist [You WILL need to read Patience, the earlier installment in this series first in order to understand the character dynamics in this story. Reading Candle before this is also strongly recommended.]

Your mother's habit of playing cards at Mrs. Patty's home multiple afternoons per week provided a convenient opportunity for Mr. Kim to call on you and impart his wisdom.

Despite your ankle not being fully recovered, you were in dire need of some fresh air. Mr. Kim was kind enough to lend you an arm so that you could hobble down into the garden and sit down at a bench for your first mentoring session. 

Your sister-in-law the watchful chaperone, sat underneath an oak tree not far away, just out of earshot and with a book in her hands. 

"Well, Miss Yoon," Mr. Kim began. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a single rose attached to a long stem. "In celebration of our new courtship, I thought perhaps you might like one of these."

Your eyes widened as he handed you the flower. 

"O-oh," you said shyly, taking it from him. "Thank you."

"Of course, a mere rose is nothing compared to your famed beauty, but I suppose we must give the rose some credit for trying," he continued smoothly.

Your cheeks turned hot at his bold words. Mr. Kim had a playful smile on his face but you turned your gaze away from him, unable to meet his twinkling eyes. 

He chuckled and leaned back on the bench.

"I see we have a long way to go," Mr. Kim noted. He spread his arm out on the benchrest behind you. "Allow me to begin today's first lesson. Flirtation is nothing but a game, Miss Yoon, and the sooner you see it that way, the sooner you will be able to master the game and not allow it to overwhelm you."

You swallowed and nodded. "I see."

"This game,” he continued, "is lost the moment you allow your opponent to render you genuinely flustered- as you are now. Do you consider yourself to be more beautiful than a rose?"

You blinked in surprise at the sudden question. "No, no, of course not-"

"Well, you should. Before entering into a conversation with a gentleman, you must first consider yourself to be the most beautiful, precious, magnificent creature that walks this earth. Your vanity must be so enormous that nothing the gentleman says can truly flatter or embarrass you."

You stared at him in disbelief. "Mr. Kim, that sounds very strange and rude. Young ladies are supposed to be humble."

Mingyu tsk-ed. "And how has humility helped you thus far?"

"Not well," you admitted quietly. "But vanity does not seem a much better option."

"Doesn't it?" he challenged you. "I want you to say out loud I am more beautiful than a rose."

"I cannot possibly-"

"Humour me, Miss Yoon. I am more beautiful than a rose," he repeated. "Say it."

You took a deep breath. This felt rather nonsensical, and you were beginning to doubt whether Mr. Kim Mingyu was entirely right in the head. But your sister-in-law was sitting not far away and if she trusted him, then you would try to do what he asked. 

"I am more beautiful than a rose," you mumbled. 

"Louder."

"I am more beautiful than a rose," you repeated, with a little more volume. Your hands were fidgeting in your lap and you were avoiding Mr. Kim's gaze. 

"Once more."

"I am more beautiful than a rose."

"Look at me when you say it." 

You forced yourself to look into Mr. Kim's dark, twinkling eyes. He seemed to be delighting in your discomfort. There was a hint of annoyance in your tone when you repeated the phrase again- it was empty words coming out of your mouth now, and seemed to be losing its meaning. 

"I am more beautiful than a rose!" you said firmly. 

Mr. Kim nodded. He leaned a little closer to you, his dark eyes never wavering from yours. 

"Miss Yoon," he said softly. "You are more beautiful than a rose."

You did not even blink. 

He leaned back and grinned triumphantly. "See! You were not flustered or shy when I said it this time! You could perhaps have looked a little less irritated, but we will address that problem separately. The point remains- I paid you a flirtatious compliment and you were not embarrassed.”

"That is not because I believed it to be true!" you protested hotly. "It is only because you made me say it so many times that it was less surprising!"

"Repetition breeds familiarity," Mingyu explained to you simply, "and with time, familiarity can blend in with the hard truth."

You blinked at him. "By which you mean to tell me that I should repeat this strange compliment to myself until I grow confused enough to believe it."

"Precisely."

You sighed and looked up at the handsome gentleman sitting beside you. He was onto something, certainly, but you were still not convinced that this would solve your problem. 

"Your methods are rather strange, Mr. Kim," you mumbled. 

Mr. Kim did not seem offended. He merely smiled and flashed his perfect teeth at you once more. His easy-going and playful nature made it much easier for you to be more open in the way you spoke to him. 

"You will understand in time, Miss Yoon. You only need to trust me. Allow me to give you another example. Your dress is blue."

You raised an eyebrow at Mr. Kim and looked down at your gown- indeed, you were wearing a pastel blue summer gown. You looked back up at him and nodded. 

"Yes," you said warily. "I suppose it is."

"The blue in your dress makes you shine brighter than the sun," he continued with a teasing smile. You were well aware that Mr. Kim was trying to elicit a reaction from you this time- but you could not help it. The flirtatious words said in his deep voice caused you to break eye contact with him and avert your eyes shyly. 

"I-thank you," you said quickly, but you knew it was too late. You had lost. 

Mr. Kim raised an eyebrow. "It is your turn to tell me why one of those statements elicited a different response from you than the other."

You sighed. 

"Because the first one was something I already knew to be true, and the second was something that I didn't really believe," you admitted. 

Mr. Kim beamed. "Excellent!"

"I think I understand the point you are trying to make," you told him patiently. "In order to not be flustered or caught off guard by compliments I must indulge my vanity and consider them to be true. Then I will be able to receive the compliment more calmly."

"Correct. In short, I want you to be more confident," Mr. Kim affirmed. He stretched his arms out in front of him lazily and leaned further back in his seat. "Enough of that. Now- tell me what went wrong on the night of the Duchess of Graham's ball."

You bit your lip. "I would rather not relive that nightmare."

"You must if we are to assess how to prevent it from happening again," he pressed gently. "Perhaps you should take some time to think about what triggered your anxiety that evening. But I will not overwhelm you with too many lessons in a single sitting. Once your ankle is healed, will you join me for afternoon tea at the teahouse near the assembly rooms?"

You nodded, relieved that he was not pushing you further. "Yes- I should be glad to."

"Then I shall leave you with an assignment to complete in the meantime," Mr. Kim said with a smile. He reached into his inner coat pocket and pulled out a small sheet of paper. "Stand in front of the mirror and read each of these out ten times before you go to bed."

You took the paper and unfolded it. It contained a list of flirtatious sentences- ranging from simple, realistic ones such as You are the most beautiful woman in the room this evening to more bold and outrageous ones such as The light in your eyes is brighter than the twinkling of all the stars in the night sky.

You stared at him in disbelief. "Mr. Kim! You cannot be serious!'

"Repetition breeds familiarity," he reminded you. "What you hold there is my most precious collection. I do not give it to you lightly- many bachelors of the ton would kill for a glimpse at that sheet. I hope you will keep it safe."

You frowned and tucked the paper away. "I assure you; your collection of rehearsed compliments is quite safe with me."

"Then we shall meet soon. At the teahouse."

Mr. Kim bid his goodbyes and left before your sister-in-law approached you. Her book was abandoned on the grass and her eyes looked a little drowsy; you had a sudden feeling that perhaps she had been napping under the tree instead of reading. 

"Well?" she asked. "How was your first lesson with Mr. Kim?"

"I cannot tell if he is brilliant or mad."

She laughed. 

"A common problem with men," she said as she took your arm to help you back indoors. "But I am sure everything will reveal itself in time."

—------------------------------------------------------------

You dutifully completed the assignment Mr. Kim had given you. You stood in front of your mirror once the rest of the household had gone to bed, and recited the compliments on his list. It felt silly at first, but you were surprised by how quickly you grew used to them. 

Mr. Kim Mingyu was a strange man indeed, but he was right about one thing- repetition caused familiarity which made you more comfortable, and less nervous, with the idea of a gentleman saying these words to you. You began to daydream of a handsome, faceless gentleman whispering these sweet compliments in your ear….

But of course. 

There were other problems to surmount. 

"Mr. Kim Mingyu?" your mother demanded with a displeased frown. "He has asked you to have tea with him at the teahouse, you say? What do we know about this young man?"

"I have heard he is an only son," you said anxiously. "And that he has a very large estate near where the Chois live."

Your mother huffed. She turned to your sister-in-law, who was sitting at a table nearby and silently writing a letter. "And you?" your mother asked her accusingly. "What do you think of him?"

Your sister-in-law looked up and blinked. "I have heard that Mr. Kim is a rake and has a bit of a gambling problem."

Your eyes widened. Her plan had been to encourage this fake courtship with Mr. Kim, not give your mother a reason to oppose it! But you discovered moments later that your sister-in-law was far cleverer than you. 

"Nonsense," your mother said. Her pride would not allow her to agree with your sister-in-law on any matter. "Perhaps he has simply not found a woman captivating enough to retain his attention- and what young man does not play a little cards for entertainment? I think it is perfectly acceptable for you to meet him at the teahouse this afternoon."

"Thank you, mother-"

"But I will chaperone," your mother said firmly. "You may sit at a different table but I will be keeping my eyes on this Mr. Kim."

You sighed. "Yes, mother."

Your ankle was fully healed but still a little stiff when you finally made your way down to the teahouse with your mother. Mr. Kim was waiting by the entrance and he made a grand gesture of kissing your gloved hand. 

"You look quite radiant this afternoon, Miss Yoon," Mr. Kim greeted you with a handsome smile. The phrase was one of the lines from his sheet, and you were more amused than embarrassed at the sound of the familiar words.

"Thank you, Mr. Kim," you replied politely. 

"And Mrs. Yoon- of course, madam, you must permit me to say that it is very evident where your daughter gets her unrivalled beauty," Mr. Kim flattered her. Your mother was highly susceptible to flattery of this nature. She giggled. 

"How very kind, Mr. Kim. I see you are quite the polite young gentleman!"

"Thank you, Mrs. Yoon. May I seek your permission to have a cup of tea with your daughter?" Mr. Kim asked. 

"Of course- you may both find a table for yourselves. I shall be nearby, I see Mrs. Grisham and Mrs. Hessington over there…"

Your mother left to join some older women at their table and Mr. Kim led you to another table near the wall; it was still within sight of your mother, but well out of earshot. He gracefully pulled out your chair for you. 

"You received my compliment well," he noted with a grin. 

You raised an eyebrow at him. "I had heard it so many times before. It was on your sheet. I am sure you knew perfectly well that it would not affect me."

"I was merely testing to see if you completed my assignment," he replied lightly. He sat down across from you- Mr. Kim was almost too tall to fit in the dainty little chairs and miniature tea tables at the teahouse. His long legs were forced to stretch out awkwardly to the side. You held back a giggle as he poured you a cup of tea. 

"Something amusing?" he asked. 

"Not at all."

He opened his mouth to question you further, but he was interrupted by a sudden commotion from the nearby table of older woman. There was a loud exclamation from your mother and the women seemed to be discussing something with great excitement. 

"I wonder what that is about…" you mumbled. 

Mr. Kim placed your teacup in front of you calmly. "I would not be too concerned. I imagine they have just discovered the news of the Duchess of Graham's engagement to Mr. Kwon Soonyoung."

You blinked. "Mr. Kwon Soonyoung? I have never heard of him."

"Neither have they. That is what makes it so shocking," Mr. Kim told you with a chuckle. "But we have more important things to discuss. Have you thought more about what went wrong at the Duchess' ball? I heard that you were dancing with Mr. Lee Seokmin when you stumbled and injured yourself."

You shifted uncomfortably in your seat. "It was not Mr. Lee's fault."

"Then tell me what happened. Let us try to understand it together."

You took a deep breath. You had been thinking about it for the past few days, as unpleasant as the memory was to you, and had come up with a few conclusions. 

"I think I was overwhelmed by the grandeur of it all," you admitted shyly. "It was so magnificent and the other young ladies all looked so beautiful. I began to worry that I should make a mistake, or make a fool of myself, and then what should happen to my sister-"

Mr. Kim interrupted you. "Your sister?" he asked in surprise. "I should have imagined you would fear your mother far more."

"I do fear my mother," you whispered. "But with my sister, it is…"

Mr. Kim waited silently for your response. 

You took a deep breath and sighed. "My sister has put her marriage with Mr. Choi on hold for my benefit. Everything she has ever done has been to ensure my happiness, and it distressed me to think that she should have to suffer any longer than necessary. If I do not find a husband this season, then my sister will not be able to marry Mr. Choi."

Mr. Kim took a sip of his tea and nodded for you to continue. 

"And… and I had always thought it was simply a matter of having a successful debut and choosing the most eligible man that would have me. But when it came to actually standing in the room, surrounded by so many fashionable people and all the grandeur and all the eyes watching me I began to realise it was not going to be as easy as I had thought. And that led to the worry that perhaps I would embarrass myself and be unable to make a match, and what that would mean for my poor sister…” 

Mr. Kim cut you off. “It seems to me that all your spiralling anxious thoughts escalate with the fear of disappointing your sister.” 

You nodded reluctantly. “That may be true.” 

“Then the solution before us is simple,” he replied. “Or, at least, as simple as a solution can be without considering the complexities of executing it. We must prevent you from thinking of your sister while in public.” 

You stared at Mr. Kim as he picked up a large slice of lemon cake and took a generous bite from it. He silently offered to put another slice on your plate but you shook your head. 

“How can I not think of my sister?” you demanded. “She is the entire reason I am here!” 

“That manner of thinking is what is causing your anxiety to spiral out of control," Mr. Kim told you matter-of-factly. "You need to live in the moment. Stop tracing every small action back to your sister and your fear of disappointing her."

"How do I do that?'

"Think smaller," he replied. "For example- why am I here?"

You raised an eyebrow. "Here… in this teahouse?"

"Yes."

"To help me practise interacting with gentlemen so that I can find a husband by the end of the season?" you guessed. 

Mr. Kim sighed. "Correct, but no. The purpose is to think smaller. I am here because I like the lemon cakes they serve here," he informed you simply before taking another bite. "Delicious."

"That is…"

"Think small."

"But I cannot always control my thoughts!" you protested. "They often go off on a tangent of their own. How long can thoughts of things I do not care about like lemon cakes ward off the looming dread that comes from thinking about failing my sister?"

Mr. Kim rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He leaned back in his seat and you watched him for a long moment, having nothing to do except sip your tea and admire his handsome form while he contemplated a solution to your problem. 

"What if…" Mr. Kim began slowly. "We found a backup thought- a safety net of sorts? Something pleasant that you could force yourself to think of whenever you find yourself spiralling into anxiety-inducing thoughts of your sister?"

You bit your lip. "Such as?"

"You have to find that for yourself. Look for a memory; something that makes you happy. Preferably one that does not involve your sister," Mr. Kim added. 

You took a deep breath and thought hard. You'd had a sheltered childhood and spent most of your time at the Yoons' countryside estate with your parents and siblings. It had been a quiet upbringing and you could not think of a single moment that brought any immense happiness. 

"When I was nine," you said finally after much thought. "My Father bought me my first pony. I named her Chocolate."

Mr. Kim burst into laughter. 

"Chocolate the pony is what you came up with after so much thought?" he demanded with another loud laugh. Your cheeks suddenly felt hot and you stiffened from embarrassment. 

"I-I could only-"

"I presume Chocolate was a brown pony?" he continued to chuckle. 

The embarrassment was too much to take. Your entire face had now turned hot and your lower lip trembled as you stood up from your seat with a frown. "If you are going to laugh at my expense, Mr. Kim, then I will not sit here."

His smile fell. Mr. Kim hurried to jump to his own feet- it took him a moment since his long limbs were tangled under the tiny tea table. He took your hand and gently guided you back to your seat. 

"No- of course not. I am extremely sorry, Miss Yoon. I did not mean to laugh at you."

You stiffened. "But you did laugh."

"I am extremely sorry."

His expression was genuine. You cleared your throat and sat down again, as Mr. Kim hurried to refill your teacup from the pot and handed you a plate with a slice of lemon cake. You accepted it silently and he gave you a small smile. 

"I see you do have a sense of pride," he commented lightly. 

"I will not be ridiculed."

"I am glad to hear it," he promised solemnly. "Let us come back to the topic at hand. If Chocolate the pony is a thought that makes you happy, then so be it. Whenever you are in danger of feeling overwhelmed, I want you to close your eyes and picture the moment your father presented you with this pony. The pony will be your happy thought."

You nodded. "I… can do that."

"We will test this the next time you are stressed," Mr. Kim suggested. He leaned back and sipped his tea, noticing that you were not eating. "Do you dislike lemon cakes?"

You looked down at them disinterestedly. "Not particularly," you said. "I am not hungry at all. My ankle feels rather stiff in this position. I wish it was possible to walk around instead of sitting still."

Mr. Kim nodded. "We could walk up the street- the weather is pleasant today. But your mother would have to permit you."

"I will ask her."

You went up to your mother's table- the older women were still deeply engaged in gossip about the Duchess of Graham and you had to tap your mother's arm a few times before she would even notice you. 

"What?" she demanded irritably. "Can you not see that I am in the middle of a conversation?"

"I was only wondering if I might go for a stroll outside with Mr. Kim-"

"Yes, yes, don't go too far," she said dismissively before turning back to the conversation. Mrs. Patty was loudly making an emphatic point about how it was a terrible mistake to grant daughters their own titles. You turned to Mr. Kim and waved at him to signal that you had obtained her consent. 

Mr. Kim opened the door to the teahouse and offered his arm to you. You both began to stroll slowly down the busy London street. 

"So," Mr. Kim continued. "Is there anything else that went wrong at the Duchess of Graham's ball?"

You nodded thoughtfully. "Yes. While I was dancing with Mr. Lee, there was a lull in the conversation. I could not think of anything to say to him so I made a foolish faux pas- I asked him if he had any siblings although I already knew he was the Viscountess' brother."

Mr. Kim smiled. "Ah- yes. The art of polite conversation. How to speak constantly and yet say nothing valuable. That is an entire lesson of its own and I am afraid even I cannot impart that skill to you in a single day."

You pouted at him. "Then you condemn me to pass my dances at every social event in silence."

"Conversation is an art, Miss Yoon. But you are fortunate that it is not always necessary to converse in order to communicate. Humans were communicating long before the invention of spoken language."

You frowned up at him. "What does that mean? Must I gesture at my dance partners as though I am speaking to an animal?"

Mr. Kim laughed. "No. Instead of the art of conversation, you will have a much easier time if you learn the art of silence."

"Silence?"

"As long as you do not look anxious or panicked," Mr. Kim explained patiently. "Silence can be a very useful tool. Most gentlemen love to speak. You simply need to prompt them to lead the conversation. A few one-liners such as That was terribly interesting, do tell me more! or I am very interested to learn more about you and the average gentlemen will be happy to take the burden of speaking off your hands."

You nodded thoughtfully. "You must write down some of these one-liners for me."

Mr. Kim chuckled. "All right, I shall prepare a list for you to study. And, if all else fails, you may resort to the golden three."

"The golden three?"

He lifted three fingers. "Hunting, horse-riding and croquet. I have never met a gentleman who did not enjoy conversing extensively on at least one of these subjects."

You nodded. "That is helpful."

"My purpose is to serve," Mr. Kim replied playfully. You had both reached the end of the street. Mr. Kim reached into his coat pocket to extract a small notepad and make a note of your discussion- when you saw something peeking out of his coat. 

"Are those cigars?" you asked. 

He looked down at his pocket and nodded. "Oh-yes. I was going to go down to the gentlemen's club for a smoke later."

You looked up at him with a curious glance; could you count on Mr. Kim's discretion? After all, he was in a fake courtship with you and clearly your sister-in-law trusted him enough to keep that secret. He had made you comfortable enough to open up to him about your deepest thoughts. 

Surely one more secret couldn't hurt?

"Can I have one?" you asked hesitantly. 

Mr. Kim looked down at you in confusion. "A cigar?"

You nodded. 

"Whatever for?"

"To smoke, naturally."

Mr. Kim glanced furtively around the street and then lowered his voice. He seemed mildly concerned, but also amused. "Miss Yoon, I am sure you do not require me to inform you that young ladies do not smoke in public- and they certainly do not smoke cigars."

You turned away from him with a sigh. "If you do not want to give it to me-"

Mr. Kim looked torn. He glanced up and down the street once more to make sure nobody was looking at you both before taking your arm and steering you towards a narrow, deserted alleyway. Your eyes widened. 

"Mr. Kim!" you hissed. "We shall be caught if we leave the main street. Or do you wish to end up in a scandal like Mr. Jeon and Miss Hong-"

He brushed your concerns away lightly. "Mr. Jeon is a good friend of mine but his inexperience was his downfall. I am not quite so careless- you are safe with me," he promised. Once you were both alone in the deserted alleyway, out of the view of the main street, he took the cigar out of his pocket. 

"Are you sure?" Mr. Kim asked you. 

You nodded. 

He carefully lit the cigar and held it up. "It is not at easy as it looks," he told you firmly. "Place it to your lips like so and take a deep breath through your teeth. You will almost certainly cough the first time-"

You snatched the cigar from him and placed it expertly between your lips. You took a long, satisfying drag and held the smoke in your lungs for a moment before smoothly exhaling. 

Mr. Kim stared at you for a long moment before the corner of his lips turned up and he let out a small, disbelieving chuckle. 

"That," he said with a grin, "was not your first cigar."

"I never said it was."

"You must forgive me if I am surprised, Miss Yoon, that a young lady who claims her happiest memory is Chocolate the pony knows how to smoke a cigar designed for gentlemen," he said, sounding almost impressed. Mr. Kim folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the wall of the alleyway as he watched you take another drag. 

You exhaled before frowning up at him. "You will not laugh at Chocolate."

"I am not laughing at all."

The tobacco relaxed your nerves and you quickly stepped away from the smoke before putting out the cigar. Mr. Kim was watching you curiously and you felt self-conscious under his gaze. You could almost read the questions in his dark eyes. 

"My father used to leave his cigars lying around," you explained, your cheeks warm. "One of the stable boys taught me how to smoke them."

Mr. Kim's eyes widened in absolute delight. "A stableboy?" he gasped, pretending to look absolutely scandalised. "Miss Yoon!"

You flushed deeply. "That is not-"

"Is that why Chocolate the pony is such a pleasant memory for you? Because of the stableboy?" he laughed. His eyes sparkled playfully as he watched you compose yourself. 

You frowned. "You will tell no-one. Once we step back onto the main street you will never mention Chocolate, cigars or a stableboy ever again," you ordered. "Especially not to my brother or sister-in-law."

Mr. Kim beamed. "I am sworn to secrecy, my lady."

"Good."

You both slipped back onto the main street and turned back towards the teahouse. Mr. Kim kept glancing at you out of the corners of his eyes- he seemed to be unable to take his gaze off you, and you suddenly began to feel rather flustered from the attention. 

You noticed a large, modern building coming up on the opposite side of the street that had large sheets covering the entrance. 

"Whatever is that?" you wondered. 

Mr. Kim tore his eyes away from you and turned to look at the building. The corner of his lips curved up in a smile. 

"Interesting that you should notice that," he said lightly. "That building belongs to me."

"Does it really?"

He nodded. "Indeed. It is an art gallery that I decided to fund not long ago. It should be open to the public  in a few weeks' time."

You looked at him in interest. "An art gallery? I did not know you had artistic inclinations, Mr. Kim."

"I consider myself a… patron of the arts, so to speak. I would be delighted to invite you to the grand opening of the gallery once we have announced it."

"I would be delighted to attend," you replied. Then you paused. "Provided, of course, we are able to resolve my crippling anxiety and fear of social events in the meantime."

Mr. Kim grinned as you both arrived back at the teahouse. Your mother was waiting for you inside. 

"I think it is time we put some of your lessons into action," he said. "The Hessingtons' ball is on Saturday; I intend to see you there. You may reserve the first dance for me."

You nodded. "I should be glad to."

Mr. Kim reached for your gloved hand and lifted it slowly to his lips as his dark eyes rose to meet yours. You saw his usual playfulness and a hint of something far darker behind those eyes. He kissed your hand and his lips lingered for a moment longer than necessary before allowing it to fall. 

Your breath hitched in your throat. 

No wonder they called this man a rake. 

"Goodbye for now, Miss Yoon," he said quietly before turning away down the street and leaving you in a foggy, confused and flustered state. 

—--------------------------------------------------