#yellow rose ladies art

[yellow-rose-lady]

It’s kinda simple but I was in the mood soooooo, here is another picture set at dusk:)

I like to imagine that this is a day or so after they were all caught pranking each other. I imagine that this is kinda after a reconciliation of sorts (maybe they had an argument over the prank war? Or perhaps it’s something different?? *Wink wink*) so yeah.

Sisters for life<3

Edit under cut:

I forgot to add this, I’m so sorry 😢

[perfectvoidofnothing]

Roses, Roses… They Scatter in Beauty.”

Wow if it isn’t Utena’s ancestor /j

Did you know how long did this take me to finish? I mean yeah, it was mostly because of procrastination but whatever.

Oscar’s hair is so big that it was a pain to render smh

[sophie-looks-at-stuff]

Hi love! I hope you are doing well ☺️

If possible could I request a Aemond X reader? Maybe something where he takes notice of a hobby reader likes and surprises them with something related to it?

Piece de Resistance

Pairing: Aemond x Wife Reader

Summary: Aemond stumbles upon your love for the arts, painting, drawing, sketching, and the like. <3

Warnings: none I don't think, Aemond being a cute and supportive husband. a good moment of domesticity :)

AN: Hello! I absolutely love this request! I hope I did it justice haha. Thank you so much for submitting it! The picture is from Pinterest! It's St Augustine by Philippe de Champaigne.

It wasn’t often you got a moment to yourself nowadays. With your husband acting as Prince Regent in his brother’s absence, you and he both were kept rather busy. Him with the Small Council and issues of the realm, you with the petty social gossipings and happenings of the Court. So rare moments of peace and quiet like this were highly coveted.

Your marital chambers echoed with emptiness as you entered and looked around. The curtains you had chosen fluttered in the breeze. Aemond had not wanted them, but ultimately he conceded, never being able to say no to you. 

He must be in a Small Council meeting, you thought. Or perhaps training with Ser Criston, letting off some steam. Your husband seemed to have an ever-constant knot of stress in his shoulders and neck. You’d tried to massage it out many a time, but it never seemed to budge, or it ended in a much different sort of activity –

Under your armoire, lay a dusty, maroon-red box. You bent down, moving to pull it out of its little hiding spot. You had snuck it under there after you had moved into Aemond’s chambers. The day after your wedding. Aemond had insisted that you move to his quarters as soon as possible. He didn’t like being separated from you more than necessary. If he could, he would have you seated on his lap in Small Council meetings or even when he sat on the Iron Throne. But alas, that was a touch too far, and people would talk. As they always do –

Your husband was kind and dotting, if not overprotective and possessive of you. You had known one another since you were children. Your house and family coming to visit the Court, your mother and the dowager Queen had been friends since their youth. They had hoped that you and Aemond would get along well, and you did, famously so. When he had lost his eye, you had come to the Red Keep, to offer him comfort and company. You had never left after that. 

Your fingertips graze over the top of the box, as you rest it on top of your bed sheets. Leaving an empty trail in their wake. The lock lay rusted and golden on the front, pulling a small key from the pocket of your skirt, you unlock it. A small, soft resounding click bounced off the walls. As you gingerly opened the lid, the stale smell of linseed oil filled your nostrils. Small metal tubes of colorful paint lay untouched in the box. Clean bristles and dirty brush handles scattered about, small rolls of blank canvas. All of which lay, unmoved, unbothered, from the last time you had used them. 

When you were little, you had complained to your mother once about the bore of your lessons. For your tenth name day, she had brought in a painter from Highgarden to tutor you. He had taught you how to mix colors and paint the prettiest flowers. As you grew older, he taught you more complicated things, like ladies in bushy skirts, and golden dragons in the sky. An odd prophecy of your future.

Taking some basic colors, red, blue, yellow, and white, some brushes, and a small roll of canvas, you set up shop at your dressing table. For the time being, altering it into a makeshift desk. Deciding to paint what you knew best, you began to sketch out a dragon among roses, with some charcoal that you had borrowed from Aemond.

He wouldn’t miss it, you thought. He had a small goblet full of charcoal and quills, hiding amongst the piles of books and scrolls on the table. Which he used to plot his war games, or occasionally take dinner with you. When you both grew tired of his family and their bickering. 

The dragon began to take form on the canvas, it looked slightly like Vhagar, large, old, and wrinkly. Her age showing in her face and eyes. Around her, you drew roses, peonies, daffodils, lavender, a great colorful bouquet. Once you had begun mixing the paints, on a makeshift pallet made of spare parchment paper. The other sounds of the world seemed to fade away, the monotony of the act being therapeutic. A much-desired mindless activity in the middle of the war you all found yourself in. You would never voice this to anyone, but it was silly to you. The hubris and hypocrisy of your husband's family was vast and great, and deadly at the worst. The blood of the dragon ran thick and hot, volatile and dangerous. 

You had become so absorbed in your work that you hadn’t heard the door open, the faint call of your name. Lost on the wind perhaps. Aemond stood, leaning a shoulder against the door frame, a small smile playing at his lips, watching you, intently. He knew and had seen you become absorbed like this in a book or some piece of writing, but he had never seen you do this before. Paint.

The colorful oils stain your fingertips and wedge themselves beneath your nails. The same stale smell of the linseed oil met his nostrils.

 An odd sort of smell, he thought. He crept a bit closer, as close as possible not yet wanting you to know he was there. He silently rested his sword on the bed, the sheets muffling any noise it may have made. You were humming softly to yourself. An old hymn your mother used to sing to you. 

As he crept closer, Aemond could make out the picture you were working on. The colors came to life before his eyes, the eyes of his dragon staring back at him. 

“Gevie (beautiful)” He muttered, under his breath.

Startled, you jumped a bit, smudging one of the petals on the peony you were working on. “Shit” you breathed out.

“Aemond, Husband, I had not heard you come in!” You stand, turning to face him, stepping in front of your work as if to hide it.

Aemond chuckled a bit, noticing the pink tinge to your cheeks, embarrassed at being caught. He lifted an eyebrow, and gestured to the painting behind you, 

“May I see it?” He asked, his gaze meeting your own. After a slight pause, you stepped aside. Aemond walked past you, placing a loving hand on your waist, holding you to him slightly. Aemond has developed a habit of always having a hand on you, as if scared you were going to be snatched away, stolen from him. 

Again, he muttered a “Gevie” under his breath. He turned to look at you, your face twisted in anticipation of what he may think. You had hidden the hobby from him not out of malice, but rather out of embarrassment. Other ladies and some lords of the court had mentioned that painting was a poor man's job and that someone of “noble blood” needn’t concern themselves with such silly things. You had been worried that he would have agreed with them, not liking it. 

“I didn’t know you painted. This is lovely,” The hand on your waist moved to tuck a stray tendril of hair behind your ear, it had fallen loose from your braids. 

“I was afraid you would disapprove –” 

“Why on earth would I disapprove my love? This is beautiful, you have a talent”. Your cheeks turned impossibly more pink at his praise and approval. 

“Actually, I would like it very much if you were to paint something on my sword. Vhagar perhaps –” He trailed off thinking, “Or maybe the seas or those flowers are quite lovely too–” You had placed a finger over his lips, laughing. Aemond stopped talking, kissing the digit instead. 

“Yes husband, I would love nothing more,” Your smile matched Aemond’s from before. 

“I would like to show it off–” He murmured against your finger, kissing it again. You moved your hand to his cheek, cupping it lovingly. This small moment of domestic bliss was needed, for the both of you. 

“Well then, go and fetch it, and I shall get to work,” With the excitement of a little boy, your husband retrieved his sword from the bed, unsheathing it, placing it on the desk in front of you. The previous painting moved to the windowsill, to dry. Aemond pulled up a chair, sitting beside you. 

He rested his elbow on the corner of the table, chin in palm. The only free spot on the table, not littered with paints and brushes. You began to work, and he watched you, with nothing but love and admiration in his eye. He could sit here, happily, forever, watching you work, with the setting sun twinkling on the ocean water outside of the windows. Your delicate hands painted the hard metal of his sword. He would let you paint the whole damn keep if it made you happy. And now, with the conqueror's crown resting upon his brow, maybe he would –

Tag List:

@helaenaluvr  @anukulee   @stuckinaf4nfiction

@darylandbethfanforever9

[igot-the-juice]

Blood of A Rose - Part 1 (Art the Clown x Fem!Reader)

Summary - (Y/n) is an aspiring artist, but rather than mainstream, she captures what she considers to be the beauty of death. She has been fighting with the industry and local art museums to publicize her work. Reaching negative publicity, a particular clown takes an interest.

Masterlist

Notes - I see a lot of smut with little plot to build up to it so decided to write it myself. He’s always portrayed as aggressive and hasty with it, but I took a different take on it since he’s always so methodical and takes his time with what he does and I feel like that would stay the same in the bedroom or wherever else with his wild ass. Slow and torturous smut, ladies. Let me know if you’d like a continuation of this!

Word Count - 5,602

Warning(s) - Gore, depictions of graphic art, morally ambiguous reader, smut/sexual themes, no harm to reader

Song Inspiration -

IAMX - Bernadette

Ice Nine Kills - A Work of Art

The brush stroked gracefully along the canvas, a symphony of strings playing in the background as she worked. A multitude of shades of red took precedence over the piece, hints of yellow and skin tones sprinkled in where she thought was necessary. 

She cleaned off her brush and took a step back, admiring her newest work, eyeing it for flaws or hints of emptiness. When she found none she smiled to herself, untying her apron and leaving to enter the house to wash herself clean of any unwanted paint that caught her skin. 

She turned on the faucet, pumping soap into her hands and began to scrub. She watched as the red began to drain down the sink, sighing in delight at the sight of it. 

(Y/n) had always been captivated by the concept of death. Not in the way people feared or avoided it, but in the way she saw its eerie elegance. Growing up in a household that celebrated perfection and the beauty of life, her fascination with decay and the passage of time was met with silence, sometimes disgust. 

As a child, she’d spend hours sketching wilted flowers or photographing the abandoned cemetery near their house. Sometimes she found dead animals which was always a treat for her. She found beauty where others saw only ruin and death. Her parents had tried to correct her, and her teachers had labeled her work disturbing. But (y/n) remained drawn to the delicate balance between life and death.

As she grew older, the fascination deepened, and she poured it into her art. Her paintings had always included blood in one way or another, whether it was an aging object, haunted landscapes, or human forms twisted in the stillness of death. On the other hand, her photographs captured the fleeting beauty of nature’s quiet end. The decay of a flower, the pale tranquility of a body. 

However, the world around her wasn’t ready for her vision. Critics were quick to brand her work as grotesque, calling it an abomination, and galleries refused to showcase her art. News articles labeled her as disturbed, questioning her mental health rather than her talent.

But for (y/n), it was never about horror. She saw beauty in the inevitability of death, in the idea that all things must come to an end. To her, it was a reminder of the fragility of existence and the raw, unfiltered truth of the world. Yet, each harsh critique was another nail in the coffin of her confidence, driving her further into herself. 

She became more reserved, speaking less in public, avoiding eye contact at exhibitions - if she even attended. She longed to defend her work, but the voices of her critics echoed in her mind, silencing her before she could even begin.

Despite the noise, (y/n) still clung to her vision, working tirelessly in the small, dimly lit studio that was the garage of the small house she currently rented. Surrounded by the eerie stillness of her creations. 

She began to change into something more fitting for the colder October weather, slipping on a coat to bury her hands in and walking into the crisp autumn air. As her feet tapped through the night’s atmosphere, she closed her eyes for a moment, the smell of the dying trees and asphalt sending a pleasant shiver down her spine. 

She didn’t live far from the heart of Miles County, quickly reaching it and taking joy in the quietness of it all compared to the usual bustling energy during the day that she preferred to avoid. 

She passed a display lined and stacked with TVs, some of them turned on and broadcasting different channels. 

“- another piece was released just days ago with another overwhelming amount of negativity -“ 

She stopped promptly, turning her head towards one of the TVs closest to her and seeing a portrait of herself display. 

“Be advised, the image is disturbing.” 

Her last work was then shown. She admired it, not from an egotistical standpoint, but more from the genuine beauty of the concept. 

A flower pot, chipped and cracked. An elongated and decaying finger was the stem of the flower in the pot, bloodied thorns sticking out of it every which way. Ears made up the petals, an eyeball at the center in place of a typical pistil. A radiant glow shone from behind the flower, its rays of light praising its beauty in all of its wretched glory. 

Her eyes began to water as they threw out carefully constructed insults, indirect but still noticeable enough to catch. 

However, what (y/n) didn’t notice was the tall, slim monochromatic figure standing behind her just feet away. Gripping the overfilled black trash bag hanging over his shoulder, he curiously watched the same TV, head tilted slightly in fascination.

She brought a balled hand up to below her nose, keeping it from running as a tear fell. Too caught up in the screen before her, she failed to notice the man that now stood next to her, watching the TV from next to her rather than behind, his bag now on the sidewalk.

Having had enough of their cruel remarks, she turned to walk back home, but gasped when she nearly collided with the strange man. 

Her eyes slowly trailed up his form, landing on his white painted face, accented by the black paint around his eyes and mouth. She took in his features with curiosity and fascination, taking note of his exaggerated hooked nose, cheekbones and pointed chin. 

“I’m sorry,” she sniffed and quickly wiped at her tears. “I didn’t notice you there.” 

His head slowly turned towards her and his mouth widened into a dramatic smile, flashing his black-coated teeth. It suddenly turned to surprise, shaking where he stood with excitement and pointing to the TV. 

“You… Do you like it?” She asked, unbelieving. He nodded enthusiastically and pointed to her, then the TV, then back to her. She caught on. “Oh, um… Yeah - yeah that’s me.” 

His hands shook with another wave of excitement, his hands representing the beat of his heart, then giving a chef’s kiss. 

“Well, thank you,” She sniffed again. “That means a lot to me, actually.” She gave a small giggle of amusement at his mannerisms. 

He then stopped suddenly, putting his hands on his hips with a disapproving look. He ran a finger down his cheek to simulate a fake tear, then pointed to her, then the TV. 

“Oh, it’s nothing. I’m used to it by now.” (Y/n) waved off, but the mime knew better. 

He held up a finger, his mouth forming an ‘o’ with eyebrows raised, then turned to rummage through his bag. She watched curiously, wondering how this was even happening. He suddenly turned back around, presenting a rose to her with a large smile. 

Again, she couldn’t help but giggle and grew bashful, her cheeks tinting red as her fingers lightly grazed his own to take the flower from him. She brought it up to her nose to smell it, a smile gracing her lips. She then felt something drip down her hand and looked down at the flower again, seeing as a drop of blood made its way down over her fingers. 

“Nice touch. Thank you.” She complimented and her smile widened. 

He folded his hands in front of himself, swaying as if to show he himself was bashful. 

“Are you mute?” She asked curiously out of the blue. 

Nodded and she smiled in understanding. 

“Well, I think you’re quite charming regardless.” She spoke softly and he waved a hand at her, then raised it to his cheek as if he was blushing. Her giggles turned into laughter. “What’s your name, if you don’t mind me asking?” 

(Y/n) watched as he looked up in thought, tapping his chin. He then stuck a finger up to show he had an idea and dipped a finger into the blood of the rose, turning to the glass pane with the TVs and began to write. 

“Art?” She asked and he nodded eagerly, making her laugh once more. “It suits you.” He shrugged dramatically in response. (Y/n) sighed, looking at her watch reading 10:34. “As much as I love this interaction, I should head back home.” She looked back up at him and he pouted and looked down, then shot up with another idea. 

He made a walking motion with his fingers, pointed to himself, then to her and pointed in the direction she came from. 

“You want to walk me home?” He nodded. 

She stood in thought for a moment, wondering if she should really trust the monochromatic clown. He seemed sweet enough, and it wasn’t a lie when she said he was charming. She couldn’t deny that there was something oddly attractive about his facial features, either. 

Against her better judgment, she looked back up at him and gave a shy smile. “Okay.” Art clapped with glee and picked up his bag, slinging it over his shoulder and motioning for her to lead the way. 

The walk was quiet, save for (y/n) making casual conversation every now and then. It wasn’t an awkward silence when she didn’t speak, and Art seemed to be just as content as he happily walked alongside her. She couldn’t help but sneak looks at him along the way, and though he seemed blissfully oblivious he caught every glance. 

She felt a pang of pity when they reached the smaller house, walking up to the door and turning to him to see him pouting once more. “Thank you for walking me. It gets lonely sometimes, to be honest.” 

He looked down, swinging with sadness at the end of their walk. 

“Well,” She sighed in thought. “I mean, I suppose you know where I live now. Maybe you could visit some time? I never really have company, anyways.” 

His excitement reappeared, making herself happy in the process. He nodded vigorously and she laughed for the umpteenth time. 

“Be safe out there, okay?” He nodded again and waved at her as she opened the door to go inside. “Goodnight, Art.” The door closed and she leaned against it, wondering what the hell just happened. 

Of all people, she befriended a clown. But it was nothing against him. She supposed she just attracted the oddballs of the world given that she was deemed one herself by society. 

She mindlessly prepared for bed, running through her interaction with the man over and over repeatedly. It was the only thing she could think about. No amount of distraction would keep him from her head. (Y/n) sighed as she stared up at the ceiling, hands folded over her abdomen.  

When she woke up the next morning, preparing breakfast in the kitchen as the TV hummed in the background, her ears caught something rather peculiar. 

“- found dead in their home just last night after neighbors reported screaming to the police.  We were told photographs of the scene are too graphic to broadcast and were not provided.”

(Y/n) walked over to the TV, seeing a picture of the news anchor who insulted her work the night before, along with his family. As much as she pitied them, she couldn’t help the tsk of her tongue when they refused to provide the photographs. She had recently been relying on such photos as inspiration for her pieces, and she couldn’t do much but grow more and more curious about them. 

After eating her breakfast and freshening up, she went to her desktop computer and powered it on. Having made note of the name of the news anchor, she began to search the case in hopes that they posted the photos online and came across an image that baffled her. In the middle of the article was a sketch of the suspect. 

The clown she had encountered. 

She stopped reading and sat back against her chair, taking a deep breath to calm her nerves. He knew where she lived, and she invited him to visit. Granted, she figured if he wished her harm, he would just bust through a window or the door itself regardless of invitations. 

But then she couldn’t shake his goofy mannerisms, how he showed her more kindness in one night than anyone had in all of her (y/age) years. How he showed her how much he loved her art, giving her the rose to cheer her up. 

Then she remembered. Art was with her when the news anchor was insulting her work. Now he and his family are dead. 

Could he have…?

Coincidence. (Y/n) shook her head. 

(Y/n) stood and made her way to the garage, checking if her latest work had dried up. To her delight, it did, and she removed it from the easel to prop against the wall holding her countless other works. 

The rest of the day was wasted away, filled with cat naps, snacking and binging shows. She thought of going out and doing something for herself, but the thought of being surrounded by people immediately put her off. So she decided on lounging until the sun set and could truly be in her element. 

Time seemed to mock her, dragging on and on enough to make her think that it froze altogether. But alas, the hues outside grew darker and she began to prepare for her night out. 

Throwing on a sweater dress, pantyhose and her shoes, she picked up her digital camera that sat on a nearby table, hanging it around her neck before making her way outside. When she turned to face the street, she jumped at the sight of Art standing nearly directly in front of her with the same oversized bag and wide grin. 

(Y/n) froze, wondering if things should change between them after finding out what he did. What he could do. 

She figured it was already too late if he indeed wished her harm. He knew where she lived and could easily find her. So why should she give him further incentive? And he hadn’t done anything to her personally to be rudely snubbed. The memories of the night before ran through her head, an innocent and friendly encounter. 

So she indulged herself until fate decided the outcome. 

“Hey, Art.” She greeted him with a gentle smile. He waved excitedly at her, then pointed at the camera around her neck with a questioning expression. “Oh, I’m just going on a walk. Trying to see if there’s anything interesting to photograph for my next piece.” 

He tapped his chin and looked off, thinking. He perked up with a finger, eagerly motioning for her to follow him. Unable to contain her curiosity, she walked up to him and began to follow. 

“You know a place I could find something?” He grinned mischievously at her, a silent ‘yes’. 

After some walking, they came upon an older building. The walls actively rotted away, windows broken and some boarded up. He stopped with her when she paused at the front, looking up at the building in awe. 

Perfection.

She reached for her camera, but his hand quickly came over hers to stop her and heat rushed up to her face. He pulled away and motioned to the building, then placed his hand over his heart endearingly. “Is this your home?” He nodded. “Oh! I’m sorry, I won’t take pictures.” 

He patted her shoulder as a thank you and motioned for her to follow once more, leading her into the building. 

The smell was horrid to anyone else, but to (y/n) it was just another day of work. With the countless rotting animals and even occasional mutilated body she’s encountered, she had no choice but to grow used to it. By now, the smell reminded her of her work and provided a sense of comfort in a twisted way. 

However, standing in what was the killer’s home, it also struck her like a bolt of lightning. The familiar smell of blood and rot was in his home, which could only mean one thing. 

“You wanted to show me something in here, didn’t you?” 

Art’s smile grew impossibly wide, pointing at her to show he was impressed that she caught on quickly. He dropped his bag and held out his hand in an exaggerated gentlemanly fashion, leg kicked out and foot up on its heel, holding the same sadistic smile when she met his eyes. (Y/n) delicately placed her hand in his, his own only grasping onto her fingers with a surprising gentleness as he led her through the dark building to a separate room. 

The smell grew stronger the closer they drew to the room as more and more of the all too familiar red hues began to reveal themselves. 

When they finally entered, she gasped at the sight before her. Art presented his own ‘masterpiece’ to her with excitement, taking in her every reaction. 

Sat on a chair in the center of the room was the remnants of a decapitated man, chest cavity wide open. Blood covered the body from neck to toe, stains coating the walls and floor around it. 

At first she was frightened, but as he presented it to her she realized something. She realized that they shared the same fascination. Granted, he had a more methodical way of showing it, but artists always vary in accordance to what mediums they used, right? 

“You did this?” 

Art nodded eagerly, practically vibrating where he stood as he impatiently awaited for a verbal response. As she took in the sight before her shamelessly, he urged her with his hands to spit out what she was thinking. 

“It’s beautiful…” She whispered breathlessly. And it was the truth. It felt as if she was staring at a blank canvas for her to mold and create into something new, with his permission of course. The possibilities were endless as they ran through her head, too many to keep track of. 

Ever observant, he took notice of the turmoil and his almost innocent excitement turned into something more wicked. Something clicked in his brain as he practically watched a butterfly emerge from its cocoon before his very eyes. 

He motioned to (y/n), then to the body, then with widespread arms he motioned at them together. 

“You want me to create something?” She wondered if he ever suffered whiplash from nodding so aggressively, at least with her. “May I walk around to see what you have that I could use?” Another nod. 

(Y/n) looked around the room, finding it completely empty besides the chair and body. She then left to wander, Art following her like a lost puppy, eager to watch her work. After searching through three other rooms, she finally found a flower pot. It had a chunk missing from the back, but she could easily turn it to where it wasn’t visible. 

She turned to Art. “Do you have a cup or something to fill it with dirt?” He thought for a moment, then gave her a sign to wait before disappearing. 

Her eyes wandered around what she assumed used to be a bedroom. An old mattress in the corner with an equally rotting dresser, nightstand and standing mirror. 

When he reappeared, he held out a tin can to her and she gladly took it, making their way outside with the pot to fill it. He watched as she did so, taking note of the way she avoided getting herself dirty. He silently laughed to himself, pointing at her as her dainty hands refused to muddle with the soil. “What?” She questioned with her own chuckle. 

He mimicked her avoiding the dirt and grime as he continued to laugh and she rolled her eyes. 

“The work I showcase does not reflect my behavior. You’d be surprised how much I hate getting dirty.” (Y/n) giggled as she finished filling the pot, mindful of the missing chunk so as to not let any dirt spill. “Where did you get the rose from yesterday? Was it around here?” 

He motioned for her to follow, looking back at her every now and then as he led her around the building to the back. A single rose bush was planted with only a few fully-bloomed flowers left intact. He offered to cut one of them off, and doing so he held it delicately to himself. 

“Could you hold this for a second?” She held out the pot to him and he nodded. “Careful of the back, I don’t want anything to spill.” He nodded again and watched as she wandered, looking around for other plants to add to the pot. She settled on a few weeds, picking a handful of petals off of the other roses on the bush before heading back to the room with Art. 

He softly set the items down in the corner as she cradled the petals in her hand, looking at the body with a tilted head. Art stood next to her, mimicking her mannerisms as he tried to understand what she was thinking of. He watched as her mouth moved to speak, but nothing followed until a few seconds after. 

“Um…” She pointed to the body, looking at it for a few more seconds before turning her head to him. “Could you, um…” She took a deep breath. “Do you think you could do a couple more things to it for me?” 

His face twisted into mischief, as if to say ‘I thought you’d never ask’. His palms pressed against each other, fingers twiddling as he waited for what she wanted. 

“Could you flatten the top and remove the um…” She motioned to the abdomen. “What’s inside…?” His mouth made an ‘o’ in a surprised expression before shifting into the same smile, booping her nose before leaving the room, she assumed to grab supplies. 

He soon returned with a hacksaw and scissors, making his way to the body to do what she asked. Her stomach grew queasy once he began and she averted her gaze out of habit. 

The noise suddenly stopped and she looked back to see him standing upright with a frown. She felt a pang of fear and dare she say guilt, thinking he was offended. 

“I-I’m sorry, I love the end result, but I just get squeamish with the process, is all…” She whispered almost pitifully. 

He watched as her face paled and she was left baffled when he made his way over to her, saw still in hand. However, he simply pushed her out of the room into a wide open area that was further away, holding up a finger to tell her to wait before he disappeared to finish.  

Her face grew hot at the gesture, stomach fluttering as a bashful smile reached her lips. When (y/n) turned, she was met with a workbench, worn stool sat in front of it. She wandered over with curiosity, eyeing the rusted tools, nails and screws that sat on top of it. 

A few jars were scattered along the back of it against the wall, reading the labels. Most of them were some form of acid, others she refused to guess the result of the compound mixture. 

(y/n)’s eyes lit up when she found small circular candles akin to what would be put in a pumpkin, grabbing a couple along with a match from a box sat next to them and put them in her pocket. 

She jumped when the sound of metal clattering to the floor invaded her ears and she whipped around to find Art standing there, saw next to his comically large shoes. He waggled his fingers at her in a wave, motioning for her to head back to the room to which she obeyed. She passed him with the same bashful smile, remembering his kindness from earlier.

When she entered, she saw that he did indeed do as she asked and turned to Art with a wider smile. “Thank you.” The clown tipped his hat and she giggled. “Could you hold these please?” She asked of the petals and he held out his cupped hands for her to place them in. 

Eyes following her like a cat, he watched as she knelt by the pot, planting the rose in the center of it followed by the other plants she picked along the way, standing and making her way to the body. She placed it in the now empty cavity of the abdomen, then turned to take the petals back from Art. She sprinkled them over the body, some inside where the pot was. 

She then pulled out the candles, placing them methodically inside the abdomen, making a point to avoid touching the body itself. Igniting the match, she lit the candles and stood, looking for the light switch to turn off the overhead lights. Art caught on and immediately turned them off somehow. (Y/n) looked at him with a confused expression to which he just shrugged with a wide grin. 

She shook her head and giggled, lifting the camera from around her neck, checking the settings before testing different angles through the lens, snapping photos when she came upon the ones that satisfied her. (Y/n) made her way next to Art who shook his hands with excitement.

He stood against her with their closeness, practically his entire side brushing against her from behind as he looked down at the photos she clicked through. The beat of her heart picked up, blood rushing to her ears at the realization. 

“Which one do you think is best?” She asked softly, turning to look up at him to see him already looking at her. 

The candlight shone ominously against his features, pale eyes piercing through her own, her smile dropping as his nose nearly touched her own. His eyebrows quickly rose and dropped, head turning as his eyes squinted with his smile. His hand slowly rose, carefully prying the camera from her hands and setting it down. As he stood back to his full height, she craned her neck to look up at him, their bodies slowly turning to face each other until he took a step towards her, (y/n) taking a step back. 

Taking his time, he walked her back until her body was pressed against the wall and his figure was the only thing in her field of view. Her breath shook as his bloodied fingertips reached up to caress her jaw, settling delicately under her chin to hold her gaze. 

He leaned closer, tilting his head as his nose tickled her face. The hand under her chin then moved down to her neck, his feather-like touch changing pressure as it wrapped itself around her, increasing just enough to make her gasp and he finally closed the gap between them. 

The kiss was surprisingly tame for how brutal he was, her eyes closed as she gave in to the intoxicating feeling and the only thing she could think of or feel was the man that held her. As for him, his eyes remained open, taking in and savoring her every expression. 

The expressions of the same twisted mind that complimented his own work, turning it into breathtaking beauty that was beyond comparison. His mannerisms grew more eager, more desperate at the thought of whatever else they could create together, his free hand finding her waist and squeezing enough to release air from her lungs audibly, a plea for more. 

His tongue slid against her teeth and she welcomed the invasion, parting her mouth to take him in as his hand ran over the hump of her arse, fingers digging into the fat and muscle enough to bruise. His wanton thoughts grew to become an obsession, anger rising at the thought of her parting from his life. 

Their breath mingled, his mouth moving down to her jaw, then to her pulse point where he bit down just enough to release a trickle of blood and she cried out, hand squeezing his forearm of the hand still wrapped around her neck. As he sucked at the blood, the hand moved from her neck down to her breast, kneading and toying with it as her head leaned back, swaying at the pleasure. 

Her leg lifted as his other hand slid from her arse down her thigh, hugging it close to him as he shifted his leg to apply pressure at her core. He pulled away from her neck, teeth still bared in its grin but his eyes clouded with lust and greed as he took her in. Her lips were parted with need, vulnerable and exposed before him in a gamble of trust and fate. 

She felt his leg shift and she whined, a shiver running down her spine once she finally opened her eyes to look up at him. The sight before her sent a pulse to her center, clit throbbing as his hand slid down from her breast to her hip, her eyes following as he slowly dropped to his knees before her. 

The thigh he previously held was now over his shoulder, hands sliding the skirt of her dress up to her hips to bury his nose into her clothed pussy. She sighed at the feeling, hands moving to hold the skirt for him. Suddenly, she heard a rip, cold air hitting her core as he tore her pantyhose open to reach her. 

(Y/n) watched as he looked up at her with a mischievous grin and wiggled his eyebrows, disappearing back under her skirt when she felt his warm muscle drag along her leaking center. She felt his breath fan over her, his nose tickling her bud as his tongue dipped into her, teasing her entrance before plunging into it. 

The woman gasped and her back arched as he toyed with her, her hand coming down to grip one of his own that squeezed at her thighs. He shook his head eagerly as he continued his feast and she moaned at the action, rolling her hips against him. His tongue then removed itself, moving to settle on her clit and she trembled at the sensitivity. 

His free hand inched towards where his tongue had been, playing with her lower lips and providing a tickling sensation before he dipped a finger in, pushing to the knuckle. His finger began to move in rhythm with his tongue, practically digging into the spongy area that drove her mad with desperation. 

She let go of his hand when she felt him move it, followed by the sound of a zipper coming undone as he pulled out his hardened member, continuing to chase her high and begging to himself to hear her scream. 

She felt the coil begin to build and tense up, her heart racing as her skin grew hot in anticipation. The two of them locked eyes and his own squinted, encouraging her to fall over the edge. His gaze alone was enough, her chest heaving as she leaned her head back against the wall with a cry. 

She struggled to catch her breath, panting and watching Art with a fucked-out expression as he rose to his feet with a deep hunger in his eyes. Her eyes flicked down to his erection, then back up at him with brows knit in anticipation. He slipped an arm behind her, pulling her in to press her against him. 

Holding her gaze, he teased his member against her entrance, brow twitching as she tried to move against his strength. His smile suddenly dropped as he impaled her with his length, mouth open as he mocked her expression with great pleasure. His grin returned as she gripped onto his shoulder, one of her legs moving to hook around his waist. 

He snatched her chin when her eyes began to close, forcing her to watch him as he began to set an agonizingly slow pace. He wanted to hear her beg. Needed to hear her beg. His cock twitched at the thought of it and she moaned. 

“Art…” She called breathlessly and he tilted his head to listen. “Please…” The word shook as it left her lips. The leg hooked behind him pulled him in closer and his mouth twitched as she pleaded him once more. 

He lifted her other leg to wrap around him, carrying her as if she was weightless, his display of strength only deepening her arousal and need as both of her hands settled behind his neck. He suddenly began to plunge into her repeatedly, a feral noise escaping from her throat as he watched on with animalistic desire. 

He angled their bodies effortlessly, paying attention to her every expression and vocal flux in order to throw her over the edge for a second time. Her moans heightened their pitch, growing louder as her grip on him tightened and his eyes somehow darkened further, thrusting harder and harder with an inhuman amount of strength and stamina.

“Art -“ He gave a single nod with a sadistic grin as (y/n)’s hands shifted to his shoulders, nails digging into the satin of his suit before she crossed over into her orgasm. One of his hands snatched her jaw, slightly squeezing at her cheeks as their noses touched. He practically stared into her soul as he soon found his own release, baring his teeth as she felt his warm stream of seed fill her. 

She sighed in exhaustion as Art silently huffed to himself. He then brought his head next to hers, licking the shell of her ear.

His mind was made up. Her fate was sealed.

[shadowdaddies]

Living In Color

Azriel x Reader

based on this ask

Summary: After losing everything in the war, you struggle to find the joy in life - until you start having dreams of scarred hands that inspire you to pursue art again.

Warnings: mentions of war, death, trauma/depression

Days blurred together, the dim sunlight that dared to show through the cracks in your window curtains the only sign that time was passing in the outside world. The faelights never turned on in your apartment, food turning stale as you willed your body to shut down, just as your mind had ever since the war. 

Everyone was gone. Your mother, father, brother, friends. All were lost to battle - innocent people, gone from this world, and you were left alone to pick up the pieces. 

You were once an artist, your favorite subjects to paint being your family and friends. The paintings of their joyful faces surrounded you in your home before you tore them all down, hiding them away in the dark as you did yourself. 

You stared at your hands. Hands that were once consistently covered in the bright colors of your paints, now dry and cracked from lack of care. Hands that once created beautiful art and brought joy to yourself and others, now withering away with your heart.

Tears soaked your pillow as you cried yourself to sleep, as you had every night for months. You braced yourself for your usual dreams, the nightmares that haunted you of your mother’s lifeless eyes, your brother’s last words - but they didn’t come. 

That night, you dreamt of hands. They were damaged hands, like your own, but they were covered in scars. You didn’t see who they belonged to, but the hands held yours in their own, a soft, gentle touch despite their appearance.

It was the first night you had slept through in weeks, and you managed that day to take a bath. You looked at your own hands in the tub, holding one in the other as gently as the ones from your dreams held you. It was shocking, to feel that you were still capable of such tenderness. That night, you found oils to rub on your hands, soothing the dry cracks before you fell asleep.

Your dreams were, again, filled with those beautiful scarred hands. Tonight, they offered you a flower - a bright yellow daffodil, vibrant like your favorite sweater. 

The dreams continued - those hands sometimes bringing you flowers, holding your hands, brushing softly against your cheek. One night, they handed you a paint brush. You jerked awake, tears streaming down your face as you ran through your apartment, turning on every faelight as you opened the door to your closet. You pulled out every painting, the bright faces of people you loved and missed smiling at you through your memories of them. 

Something snapped inside of you as you looked at the picture of your mother. You had missed her face so dearly, having only seen it through your nightmares. By hiding the joyful moments, you had only remembered those that haunted you. 

As the sun rose that day, you opened up the curtains and let the light in. Pulling on your favorite yellow sweater, you set off towards the art studio that had opened down the road, ready to live in color.

Thanking the woman at the front counter, you borrowed paints and took a spot at an easel. As you stared at the blank canvas, it occurred to you that the idea of painting the people you missed was much easier in thought. You stared down at your yellow sweater, tears threatening to spill as you felt more and more like an imposter. Someone trying to be who you once were, and as much as you wished to be that person again, you knew you never could. Letting out a shaky sigh, you looked for your bag, ready to leave the studio when a voice interrupted your spiraling thoughts.

“Having trouble with inspiration?” a sweet voice, like silver bells sounded from behind you. You turned over your shoulder to see the High Lady of the Night Court behind you. Eyes wide, you fumbled for an answer while she smiled softly at you. “My name is Feyre,” she greeted, a tattooed hand reaching for yours. 

You took her hand, feeling its softness against your own as you introduced yourself, and it clicked. “Actually, I think I’ve just found my inspiration.”

You eagerly reached for your paints, mixing the colors together in a vibrant yellow, a golden brown, cobalt blue - and painted the hand that gave you the daffodil. 

You returned to the studio, day after day painting the hands from your dreams. Your inspiration. The hands that brought color back into your life. These were hands that were scarred, the hands of someone who had been hurt like you had, yet still reached out, still brought light and softness to the world.

Slowly, you began feeling like yourself again. You saw the bright colors of the rainbow, the twinkle of the stars against the night sky. When a child accidentally flicked paint on your favorite blue dress while you painted, you laughed for the first time in ages. 

The small boy apologized, his tiny wings tucking in behind him as he gaped at the paint that covered your dress. Feyre ran up behind him, swooping the little tike into her arms as she took in your appearance. “Oh gods, I am so sorry. Nyx, did you apologize to the nice lady?”

You waved her off, giggling as you stood and twirled in your dress. “Actually, Nyx, I think this dress looks even more beautiful now with this extra splash of color.” 

The boy giggled, his mother ruffling his onyx locks as she set him down to run back to his painting station. “I really am sorry. I can fix that for you, or replace the dress,” Feyre insisted. 

You smiled at her, a true smile at her kindness - something you hadn’t realized how desperately you needed. Adjusting the ribbon in your hair, you shook your head. “Really, I like the splash of purple against the blue. I could use more color in my life,” you promised. 

Feyre seemed genuinely surprised and pleased by your reaction, her gaze flicking to your easel, where the latest portrait of those scarred hands rested. She looked around your station, taking in all of the paintings. Dozens of them were set around, and you suddenly found yourself bashful.

“May I ask about your paintings? They’re beautiful. You seem quite inspired by hands.” She spoke in a casual tone, but you had the sense that there was something more to her question. 

Nervously tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, you shifted your weight from one foot to another. “I struggled, for a long time... after the war.” You swallowed, a pregnant pause filling the air as she waited for you to continue. “I used to paint a lot, but I couldn’t bring myself to for a long time. Until a few weeks ago, I started dreaming of these hands.” 

Your gaze flicked to Feyre’s expecting confusion or judgment, but her gray-blue eyes sparkled as she nodded in understanding. You smiled slightly, continuing. “I felt as though I was too damaged to create like I used to, but these hands... It felt like a message from the Mother, or some other force, maybe. That even though I’ve experienced such darkness, I can still create light. That my darkness might even make my colors brighter.”

A small yelp escaped your lips as the High Lady pulled you in for a hug. “Thank you for sharing your story with me,” she murmured, her head dipped into your shoulder. Shakily, you dared your hands to move, reciprocating Feyre’s hug, and a weight was lifted off your shoulders. “How would you like to join me for some tea?”

You nodded, willing back the tears that threatened at the simple kindness. Feyre led the way out of the studio, Nyx taking your hand as he tugged you towards the tea shop, babbling about the hot chocolate he wanted. You giggled at the little boy, a loose curl falling in your eyes as he pulled you into a chair outside the cafe. “Uncle Azzy!” the child shouted, and you brushed the hair out of your eyes to find the most striking hazel ones staring back at you.

Something tightened in your chest at the sight of the striking Illyrian male in front of you, his golden-brown skin and dark features somehow familiar to you. His eyes fluttered for a moment, seemingly shocked by something before he caught his breath. 

“Um, pleased to meet you. I’m Azriel,” the name spilling like a song as he reached out to you in greeting. You looked down at the outstretched hand, a spark flaring in your chest at the sight of his scars. 

You gasped, grabbing his hand like a lifeline as you flipped it over, running your fingertips along the beautiful scars. Azriel was frozen in shock, unmoving as you gaped at his beauty, never releasing his hand as a tear fell down your cheek. Your eyes locked with his as you whispered, “you are so beautiful.”

Azriel swallowed thickly, an adorable blush creeping over his cheeks at your comment. A bell sounded from the side, drawing the two of you out of your moment. Eyes flicked to the door where Feyre stood with your drinks, a smirk on her face as she handed Nyx his hot chocolate. 

“I thought you two might hit it off,” the High Lady said through a bright smile. “Here, Az. I got you a tea too. Oh, and I forgot - Nyx, we have to go home. But the two of you should enjoy your drinks together!” With that, Feyre winnowed away and left you with the literal male of your dreams in front of you.

Letting out a soft chuckle, Azriel ran a hand through his wavy black hair as he looked down at your bright, paint-splattered dress. “So, you paint?” 

You laughed, that golden thread between you pulled taught at the sound. “I used to a lot more.” Glancing down at his hands, you smiled. “I’m just getting back into it.”

No, you would never be the person you were before. But as you stared at the shadows that swirled your mate - the darkness who brought you back to the light - you were proud of the person you were becoming.

[beautyofaphrodite]

Venus Verticordia

As you may know, I’ve been making posts with deep dives into artistic depictions of Lady Aphrodite (or technically Lady Venus). I’ve already covered The Birth of Venus by Botticelli and Cabanel, Venus Victrix by Canova and Venus Anadyomene by Titian. Today’s artwork is Venus Verticordia by Rossetti.

Dante Gabriel Rossetti

Dante Gabriel Rossetti was an English poet, illustrator, painter, and translator born on May 12, 1828 in London and died April 9, 1882 in Kent. His work was characterised by its sensuality and its medieval revivalism and was a major precursor of the Aesthetic movement. He tended to create his artwork based off of his poetry.

Description of the Painting + Symbolism

Venus, depicted pale, with dark red hair is shown nude surrounded by roses and honeysuckles. She holds a golden apple (alluding to the judgement of Paris) and a gold-tipped arrow. She has a halo and is surrounded by yellow butterflies.

The roses and honeysuckle represent sexual passion, and the arrow is Venus’ son Cupid’s arrow, and the fact that it’s pointed towards her heart represents “uncontrollable desire”. While partially a reference to Eris’ Apple of Discord in the Judgement of Paris, the golden apple also symbolizes forbidden fruit in the story of Eve in the Garden of Eden, showing temptation. Venus is shown with a halo, which represents holiness and purity. The butterflies may represent Venus’ soul, her attendants, or the involvement of the soul as well as the body in love and desire.

Poem

This poem was written by Rossetti to accompany the painting.

“She hath the apple in her hand for thee,

Yet almost in her heart would hold it back;

She muses, with her eyes upon the track

Of that which in thy spirit they can see.

Haply, ‘Behold, he is at peace,’ saith she;

‘Alas! the apple for his lips,—the dart

That follows its brief sweetness to his heart,—

The wandering of his feet perpetually!’

A little space her glance is still and coy;

But if she give the fruit that works her spell,

Those eyes shall flame as for her Phrygian boy.

Then shall her bird's strained throat the woe foretell,

And her far seas moan as a single shell,

And through her dark grove strike the light of Troy.”

About the Painting

Venus Verticordia was commissioned by Patron John Mitchell of Bradford in 1863, and Rossetti worked on it from 1864 to 1868. The painting moved to the Russell-Cotes Art Gallery & Museum collection in 1945 where it is still displayed. The dimensions of this painting are 98.1 cm × 69.9 cm (38.6 in × 27.5 in).

Fun Facts

- The model for this painting was originally “a remarkably handsome cook whom he met in the street” but was later changed to resemble Alexa Wilding, one of his favorite muses.

- Verticordia means Changer of the Heart, referring to “Venus's ability to turn women's hearts towards virtue”

- During the time in which this was created, Flower Language was a big thing, and this is shown in the symbolism of the flowers surrounding Venus

- This is Rossetti’s only nude oil painting

I hope you learned something, I certainly did! As always, if there’s any artistic depictions of Lady Aphrodite or Lady Venus (whether painting, statue, etc) you particularly like or want me to cover, please let me know! Love y’all 🫶

[thecreaturecodex]

Briarpatch

"Rose" © Sandra Duchiewicz, accessed at her deviantArt here

[It's been a long while since I posted a unique monster intended for the Age of Monsters campaign. And clearly there's still interest--my precis for that campaign, and the article about how the Mythos deities fit into it, are still getting likes.

Briarpatch is a character whose seeds (hah) have been planted in several other entries, such as Dr. Shiny and the Vermilion Mother. My inspirations came from all over the place. The sexy, spooky plant girl art of Sandra Duchiewicz was always something I wanted to incorporate. There's a growing idea in ecological and archeological circles that plants domesticated humans as much as the other way around. And I wanted to make a version of Poison Ivy who is genuinely evil.]

Briarpatch CR 27 NE Plant

This woman is beautiful, but alien, with chlorotic skin like the surface of a diseased leaf, and flower petals in place of hair. A collar of brambles grows from her neck and extends into long, thorny vines. She has piercing yellow eyes and an appraising expression.

The Elder Goddess Shub-Nugganoth has many epithets, but her most famous is “Black Goat with a Thousand Young”. In truth, her spawn number far more than one thousand. The creatures known simply as dark young are the most common of her progeny, but unique individuals are her offspring as well. One of these is Briarpatch, a green woman laden with occult intelligence and a profound disgust for urbanization. It is Briarpatch’s goal to see cities crumble and mortal civilizations reduced to decentralized subsistence farming once more, and she is going to use plants as her tools to achieve this.

Unlike many evil creatures of a druidic nature, Briarpatch does not disdain farming. Far from it; she believes humanity exists to serve plants, and that by distancing themselves from the soil, they have betrayed their roots. As such, she both exalts farming and farmers while simultaneously using domestic plants as weapons. Sometimes this is as elaborate as encouraging farmers to plant crops that will use more water and resources than the environment can support, forcing governments into subsidies and increasingly desperate acts to avoid famine. Sometimes this is as simple as distributing seeds of man-eating plants mixed in with garden plants or birdseed. Briarpatch’s cult includes a number of neutral farm-folk, who see her as salvation to their local communities, even as the nation-states that collect their taxes suffer as a body with a parasite does. Her cult often refers to her as the Pale Lady, especially among outsiders.

Briarpatch’s domain is the Forest of Veils in eastern Ustalav, and she communes and coordinates with the mythos horrors that live there. She is allied with the Vermillion Mother and Diceid as a coven of divinities obsessed with invasive species and reshaping ecosystems. She and the Vermillion Mother have a sexual relationship, and treat Diceid as something like a nephew or son. Briarpatch has an entitled personality and considers herself Shub-Nugganoth’s favorite child. She is convinced that if she does enough to deform society in the Inner Sea region, her mother will favor her with a promotion and transform her into an emissary Great Old One, similar to the relationship between Yog Sothoth and Tamir at’umr. Whether this ambition is achievable or is merely one of the Pale Lady’s delusions is hard to say.

Briarpatch rarely participates directly in combat, but when she does, she is a terror to behold. Due to her occult origins, she has access to a wider array of spells than a typical green man. She uses these to inflict overwhelming euphoria or grotesque physical transformations. Sometimes both simultaneously. If she actually wants to kill, rather than toy with her victims, she combines powerful area of effect spells with her tendrils and thorns. Briarpatch is acutely aware that she can still be slain permanently, and will retreat from a battle that turns against her to recuperate and plan revenge.

Briarpatch CR 27 Variant eruphyte green man XP 3,276,800 NE Medium plant (augmented, shapechanger) Init +16; Senses darkvision 60 ft., greensight 60 ft., lifesense 60 ft, low-light vision, Perception +30, thoughtsense 60 ft.

Defense AC 54, touch 36, flat-footed 41 (+12 Dex, +1 dodge, +13 insight, +12 natural, +6 armor) hp 663 (34d8+510); regeneration 20 (deific or mythic) Fort +34, Ref +23, Will +24 Defensive Abilities wilderness insight; DR 15/epic and slashing; Immune ability damage, ability drain, daze, electricity, petrification, plant traits, stagger; SR 37 Offense Speed 40 ft., climb 40 ft. Melee 2 slams +46 (1d8+21/19–20 plus 1d6 acid and absorb magic), 6 vines +46 (2d6+21 plus grab) Ranged 6 thorns +41 (2d6+21/19-20) Space 5 ft., Reach 5 ft. (30 ft. with vines) Special Attacks absorb magic, constrict (2d6+15), grab (Colossal), thoughtspear (17d8, DC 39) Spell-Like Abilities (CL 26th; concentration +37) Constant—pass without trace, speak with plants At will—plant growth, transport via plants 3/day—summon plants 1/day—awaken Druid Spells Prepared (CL 20th; concentration +33) 9th—antipathy (DC 32), extended control plants (DC 32), foresight, greater siege of trees, rival’s weald (DC 33), telekinetic storm (DC 32) 8th—euphoric tranquility (DC 31), horrid wilting (DC 31), mass cure serious wounds, stormbolts (DC 31), sunburst (DC 31) , vinetrap (DC 31) 7th—quickened cure moderate wounds, heal (DC 30), greater scrying, transmute metal to wood, waves of ecstasy (DC 30), waves of exhaustion 6th—antilife shell, greater dispel magic, green caress (x2, DC 30), mass inflict pain (DC 29), primal regression (DC 29) 5th—baleful polymorph (DC 29), cure critical wounds (DC 28), death ward, quickened ray of enfeeblement (DC 24), synapse overload (DC 28), extended thorn body, wall of thorns 4th—arboreal hammer, command plants (DC 27), confusion (DC 27), dispel magic, explosion of rot (DC 27), freedom of movement, strong jaw 3rd—cure moderate wounds (DC 26), excruciating deformation (DC 27), protection from energy, quench (DC 26), spike growth (DC 26), thorny entanglement (DC 27), vampiric touch 2nd—alter self, barkskin, fog cloud, harvest season, resist energy, warp wood (DC 26), wilderness soldiers 1st—cure light wounds (DC 24), entangle (2, DC 25), faerie fire, longstrider, snowball (x2), touch of the sea 0—create water, detect magic, guidance, light

Statistics Str 44, Dex 35, Con 40, Int 35, Wis 36, Cha 33 Base Atk +25; CMB +42 (+46 grapple, +44 sunder); CMD 85 (87 vs. sunder) Feats Combat Reflexes, Craft Staff, Craft Wondrous Item, Defensive Combat Training, Diehard, Dodge, Endurance, Extend Spell, Greater Spell Penetration, Improved Critical (slam), Improved Initiative, Improved Sunder, Power Attack, Psychic Sensitivity (B), Quicken Spell, Spell Focus (transmutation), Spell Penetration, Stand Still Skills Acrobatics +44 (+48 jumping), Appraise +26, Bluff +40, Climb +54, Disguise +40, Diplomacy +40, Fly +30, Intimidate +43, Knowledge (arcana) +46, Knowledge (geography, history, religion) +41, Knowledge (nature) +46, Linguistics +19, Perception +30, Sense Motive +42, Spellcraft +46, Stealth +44, Survival +42, Swim +35, Use Magic Device +44 Languages Abyssal, Aklo, Common, Daemonic, Druidic, Infernal, Mi-Go, Sylvan, Zern, telepathy 100 ft.; speak with plants SQ bardic knowledge +29, change shape (Colossal or smaller tree [tree shape]), deific, green empathy +45, occult gifts

Ecology Environment any forests Organization unique Treasure staff of heaven and earth, belt of physical perfection +4, headband of mental superiority +4 (Knowledge [arcana], Use Magic Device], amulet of mighty fists +4, wings of flying, bracers of armor +6, ring of the ecclesiarch, ring of mind shielding, rod of empowered spell (normal), deliquescent gloves, 11,000 gp worth of material components and miscellaneous treasure

Special Abilities Absorb Magic (Ex) When Briarpatch strikes a creature with her slam attack, she immediately attempts to absorb one magical effect from the target. Treat this as a targeted dispel magic (CL 20th), with Briarpatch preferring to target effects that prevent his vines’ grapple attempts, like freedom of movement. When Briarpatch absorbs magic in this way, she regains a number of hit points equal to double the level of the spell effect she absorbed. Deific Briarpatch grants divine spells to worshipers. This does not require any specific action on her behalf. Briarpatch grants access to the domains of Evil, Plant, Strength, and Weather and to the subdomains of Decay, Growth, Resolve, and Seasons. Her favored weapon is the sickle. If a druid worshiping Briarpatch chooses to take a domain, the druid must choose the Plant domain, regardless of alignment. Her holy symbol is that of a feminine face made of leaves and rose petals, facing to the left. Green Empathy (Ex) This ability functions as the druid’s wild empathy, save that the green man can only use this ability on plant creatures. A green man’s green empathy check bonus is equal to his HD plus his Charisma modifier (+43 for the typical green man). Occult Gifts (Ex) As the daughter of Shub Nugganoth, Briarpatch has abilities of an occult nature, and blurs the line between plant and aberration. She has the class skills of an aberration, although her total skill ranks are still those of a plant. He gains Psychic Sensitivity as a bonus feat, and adds psychic spells from the Abomination, Pain and Psychedelia psychic disciplines to the list of druid spells she can prepare. Lastly, she gains the benefits of her wilderness insight ability in any environment not subject to a dimensional lock effect, as alien spirits whisper these insights to her as much as natural plant life. In exchange, Briarpatch does not have the green caress aura of a typical green man. Spells Briarpatch can cast spells as a level 20 druid. She does not gain a domain, or other druid abilities such as an animal companion, unless she takes levels in the druid class. Summon Plants (Sp) Three times per day as a swift action, Briarpatch can summon any combination of plant creatures whose total combined CR is 20 or lower. This otherwise works like the summon universal monster rule with a 100% chance of success and counts as a 9th-level spell effect. Thorns (Su) Briarpatch’s thorns are ranged touch attacks with a range increment of 120 feet. A creature damaged by her thorn moves at half speed and can’t take 5-foot steps, fly, or use air walk, either naturally or magically, until the target or another creature pulls out the thorn as a full round action that provokes attacks of opportunity. Thoughtspear (Su) Once per hour as a standard action, Briarpatch can direct a blast of disorienting mental energy at a creature within 120 feet. This attack deals 17d8 points of damage, and the target cannot attempt Knowledge skill checks for 1 minute afterwards. A target that succeeds a DC 39 Will save reduces the damage by half and negates the skill disruption. This is a mind-affecting effect and the save DC is Intelligence based. Vines (Ex) Briarpatch can extend up to six thorny vines from her body to attack foes. These act as primary natural melee attacks that deal bludgeoning and piercing damage and have a reach of 30 feet. Wilderness Insight (Ex) Briarpatch gains an insight bonus to her AC and CMD equal to her Wisdom bonus.

[stalkerofthegods]

Lady Hestia Deep Dive

Lady Hestia is a wonderful goddess, she is always there for everyone, I adore Lady Hestia, I do not worship her personally but I know well that she is Amazing.

Herbs • Chaste trees, Rosemary, Parsley, Basil, Sorrel, vanilla, Cinnamon, coriander, Marjoram, Mint, Lemon balm, cloves, clary sage, Allspice, Angelica, Coriander, poppy seed, chamomile, Angelica, Bay, garlic, mint, peppermint, pepper, marjoram, The lavender, the chaste tree, the datura, the California poppy, the goldenrod, the hollyhock, the yarrow, the purple coneflower, all white flowers, Lavender, White roses, angel’s trumpet, goldenrod, hollyhock, and yarrow, pine, Wildflowers & sunflowers, raspberry leaves, sage, pearly everlasting, yellow rose

Animals• pigs, donkeys, one-year-old cows, a Crane. 

Zodiac & scared number  • unknown, I cannot find out what month she was born on, or the day. But I would associate numbers 1, and 6 because she is the oldest and the youngest (and etc, but who even likes my rambles?)

Colors •Gold, yellow, orange, red,  White, Gold, Lavender, light purple, black, silver, and dark red

Crystal•Carnelian, Garnet, Goldstone, Calcite, Topaz, garnet, amethyst, lapis lazuli, green tourmaline, Vanadinite, Quartz, gold, silver, and brass, Amber colored crystals, citrine, clear quartz, sunstone.

Symbols• a kettle, the hearth (fireplace), torch, candle

Jewelry you can wear in their honor• friendship bracelets 

Diety of• the virgin goddess of the home and hearth fire, cooking of meals, and sacrificial food for feasts, architecture, domesticity, family, and the state, and sacrificial flame

Patron of where the families ate and congregated, hospitality, family.

Offerings• give her prayer beads that remind you of her that are not Christian (or make one, which is better), wooden beads, Oil Lamps, Seven Day Candles (because they burn for 7 days), LED Candles, A Candle that reminds you of home, White or red candles, Apple juice, cider, Wine, Baked goods, keys to the home (preferably not stolen(looking at Hermes devotees))), Small kitchen antiques/objects,  pottery/cups/bowls, artwork of homey things, a meal, your favorite things, poetry, books, items you made, fall-themed stuff, spring-themed stuff, First/last foods & libations from a meal, Candles/flame, Honey, Pork, Cakes or Cookies made to look like one of Her symbols,), Keeping a candle/hearth fire or lamp constantly burning, Pictures of homes you want to live in one day, pictures of homes you have lived in, Pictures of architecture that you like, Teacups, teaspoons, tea towels, Childhood memories (ex- stuffed toys, baby clothes, old photos), Homegrown herbs, Toys or art of donkeys and pigs, Leaves or blooms from a chaste tree, Tea light candles (real or fake), Your favorite poetry or poetry you have written for Her, Your favorite books, Stories you have written, Art of flames, fire, candles, Garmets that you have made such as clothing, blankets, beanies, Homemade lotions, bath bombs, shower gel, bubble bath (You can ask Her to bless them then use them she probably won't say no), Beeswax products, honey, olive oil, pumpkin pie 

Devotional• Pick up rubbish in communal areas, Offer the first or last bites/portions of food your to her, Cooking/baking for yourself or others, Having a candle lit whenever possible (electric or real), playing a video of a fire place, Volunteerring at homeless or DV shelters, donating to homeless or DV shelters,  Setting healthy boundaries with friends and family, reading about Tea/Coffee magick, Getting involved with your local community, Advocating for policies you believe will better the community Allowing yourself to rest,  Do a chore you've been putting off for a long time, organize to hang out with some loved ones, Veil or bind your hair, Wear something red or orange, Make a devotional playlist for her, make a Pinterest board or a mood board for her, Learn about kitchen witchery, Cook a meal in her name, Clean the House, Put together a puzzle, Eat popcorn and watch a movie, do Knitting, read about knitting, donate yarn and

knitting supply’s, prepare food for family, make the table before eating, garden, Harvest berries, pick flowers, Donate to food charity/drives, Support people who lost their homes to natural disasters, Welcoming others into your home, Keeping the peace (especially in the home), Donations of time & money to Habitat for Humanity, Do little (or big) acts of kindness, If you have a fireplace light it for Her or build Her altar around it, Meditate next to a fire, Read poetry or a book, play a playlist for Her and play it while you clean or cooks, Clean your house/room and keep it nice and tidy, Take a cooking or baking class, Collect recipes and keep a recipe book, Host celebrations at your home, Remember your ancestors and learn more about them, Spend time with your pets, Take care of yourself and your mental and physical health (Your body is a home for you),  Take a hot bath, eat some ice cream, chill at home for a day, Pray to Her( ex- for protection, inspiration, happiness, guidance, and help getting rid of negative entities in the home, peace in the home, good food, an abundance of food, independence), help to start/tending to the hearth, work on having strong family bonds, Open your curtains and let the sunlight warm the room, Make a potful of tea and keep it in a large thermos, Watch movies that make you feel nostalgic and cozy, Say goodnight and good morning to her, Get an electric blanket and feel the warmth connect you to her, Cuddle a stuffed animal, Make a blog/journal filled with cozy homely things, Keep a few locally baked goodies nearby for when you need them, String up fairy lights and use them as your only light source, Whisper prayers and devotional pieces before you go to sleep, Use a Himalayan salt lamp to connect to feeling of a fire, Invest in little things (ex- pillowcases, photos, curtains) that make your room feel welcoming and peaceful, Make a little bottle filled with herbs and crystals and other things that remind you of her, Listen to music that makes your soul happy and your heart content, Take care of yourself (ex- Brush your hair, use a wet cloth on your face), Keep a tealight on you, Clean one small area of your house, Savor a hot drink, Do small, unnoticed acts of kindness, Always greet animals (both big and small), Do anything by candlelight,  Wear colors you associate with her, Practice your patience (both external and internal), Be a listening ear or shoulder to cry on for those who need it, Make compromises when it is healthiest for both parties, always have a lighter or matches, Listen to music that reminds you of her, Spend time tending to your body, Leave a big tip the next time you have a chance, Practice kindness in all areas of your life (including driving), Take a hot bath or shower with no time limit, Decorate a space, Build a fire, Compliment people (both strangers and loloved ones), Donate something (ex-clothes, money, or your time), Look at photos and embrace the happy nostalgia, Wear makeup or jewelry that reminds you of her, Wake up early to see the sunrise - or watch the sunset, Watch/read about acts of kindness to be inspired, wear prayer beads that are for her, go to a high school reunion, do a family reunion, do budgeting in her honor, do meal planning, set healthy boundaries, have a household notebook, do seasonal cleaning, try home remedies,As you light your gas stove, say a prayer to Hestia, Spend quiet quality time at home, Gather your family (including your chosen family) for a festive candlelit meal, Commit to spending more time with children and old people.

Ephithets•Äídios - eternal, Aïdius – See Äídios., Basileia - See Vasíleia, Bulaea - See Voulaia., Chloömorphus – See Khlöómorphos, Daughter of lovely-haired Rǽa, Khlöómorphos - verdan, Polýmorphos - multi-formed, Polyolbus – See Polýolvos, Polýolvos - rich in blessings, Potheinotáti - beloved, Prutaneia – See Prytaneia, Prytanei, Vasíleia - queen, Voulaia - of the council, Prytaneia -”of the Prytanis.” 

Equivalents• Vesta (Roman), loki (Norse), Brigid (Celtic), Hathor (Egyptian)

Signs they are reaching out• having a strong urge to Vail in her honor, seeing her animals and symbols in your dreams, and seeing her imagery a lot, everything at home suddenly going well.

Vows/omans• that she “would be a maiden all her days”

Morals• morally light/pure

Courting• None 

Past lovers/crushes• None

Personality• She avoids drama, and is generous, but her temper is volcanic in nature, she is slow to anger, but when she gets angry her rage is a force of nature. She is modest, tranquil, and industrious

Home• Mount Olympus 

Mortal or immortal • immortal 

Fact• Historically she is supposed to be the first deity offered to in a ritual due to being the goddess of fire, she's the oldest Olympian, She is spat out last by Kronos so she is also the youngest, she shares her seat with Diyonisus, she did not give it up, she receives a share of every sacrifice/prayer to the gods, and she is commonly seen alongside with Hermes, I would recommend putting their alters close together.

Element• fire 

Curses• a bad family life, food being burnt, having not enough food, being turned away at restaurants, being homeless, your house catching on fire 

Blessings• all domestic happiness and blessings

Roots• Greek mythology….and she was raised in her father's stomach, and at the first years of theogony era.

Friends• all of the gods, but most notably Hermes, but is not friends with Priapus, she dislikes him (he tried to rape her.) 

Parentage• Cronus and Rhea

Siblings• Zeus, Poseidon, and Hades, Demeter, Hera 

Pet• she has no pets.

Children • she has no children.

Appearance in astral or gen• she was typically represented wearing a veil and robe. In some images, she held a flowering branch or kettle as well.

Festivals • None, at every feast and meal a liberation was made to her name first and last, but I associate Thanksgiving with her, but her Roman counter part Vesta has 1-15 June of each year, an then another festival celebrated on 8-9 July.  Hestia is also mentioned on 8 June. But a neo-pagan sets aside 26 December – 22 January as a month devoted to Hestia.

Status• Virgin theoi goddess.

What disrespects her turning away people at your home (she is a goddess of hospitality and it was seen as disrespectful to her to do so.)

Planet• unknown 

Her Tarot cards• the Temperance, the fourteenth Major Arcana card.

Remind me of• Hot cocoa, and Thanksgiving. 

Scents/Inscene • Lavender, Rose, spring water,  rain, Pumpkin, Apple pie, cinnamon, fall leaves, Chamomile, Myrrh, Frankincense, Iris, Angelica, Peony, Angelica, iris, Sandalwood 

My opinion • I like her, but I'm scared of her too. (what a shocker!) 

Prayers• 

Historical-

Holy Queen of Sanctity, we hymn you, Hestia, whose abiding realm is Olympus and the middle point of earth and the Delphic laurel tree! You dance around Apollo’s towering temple rejoicing both in the tripod’s mantic voices and when Apollo sounds the seven strings of his golden phorminx and, with you, sings the praises of the feasting gods. We salute you, daughter of Kronos and Rhea, who alone brings firelight to the sacred altars of the gods; Hestia, reward our prayer, grant wealth obtained in honesty; then we shall always, dance around your glistening throne.

For the lost -

Blessed Hestia, the first and the last, and the always flame. May your light burn bright and strong, May your prayers be those of respect and love, May you guide the lost, And give to those who have nothing. I give thanks to you, Hestia, for all that you have done And continue to do.

For people with intrusive thoughts -

I ask Hestia, the kind goddess, to help those who feel down. May they find comfort and peace inside of their homes and inside their own minds. Protect them for their destructive thoughts, and be the safe place they need so much

A prayer for homeles—

In Hestia’s name, may you always have a home and a roof over your head. May you always be comfortable and warm with a full belly. May you always be in good spirits and good company, never knowing the pervading loneliness that envelopes the soul.

Morning 

Blessed Hestia, Fill this home with your light and bounty, As the day fills it with golden sunshine.

Evening

Glorious Hestia, Let your hearth fire warm this house, As night draws her shadowed cloak over it now.

Blessings of the kitchen-

Hestia bless my little kitchen, I love it’s every nook And bless me as I do my work, Wash pots and pans and cook. May the meals that I prepare, Be seasoned from above, With thy blessings and thy grace, But most of all thy love

Links/websites/sources •

ts-witchy-archive, constantly-disheveled, saryoak, eldritchhorror06, https://twelfthremedy.tumblr.com/post/625205765818515456/hestia-offerings/amp, https://www.tumblr.com/honeyandhestia/179727039352/offerings-to-hestiahttps://twelfthremedy.tumblr.com/post/625205765818515456/hestia-offerings/amphttps://www.tumblr.com/honeyandhestia/179727039352/offerings-to-hestiahttps://www.learnreligions.com/hestia-greek-goddess-of-the-hearth-2561993#:~:text=Keep%20a%20candle%20dedicated%20to,prayers%2C%20songs%2C%20or%20hymns.https://www.theoi.com/Ouranios/Hestia.html#:~:text=In%20myth%20Hestia%20was%20the,youngest%20of%20the%20six%20Kronides.https://www.theoi.com/Ouranios/Hestia.htmlhttps://greekmythology.fandom.com/wiki/Hestia#google_vignettehttps://greekmythology.fandom.com/wiki/Hestiahttps://greekgodsandgoddesses.net/goddesses/hestia/https://www.hellenicgods.org/festivals-of-hellenismos---eortai https://hestiasservant.wordpress.com/2018/05/27/honoring-hestia-a-festival-every-day/https://www.elissos.com/the-family-goddess-hestia-mother-of-all-gods/#:~:text=The%20birth%20of%20Hestia%20dates,to%20his%20throne%2C%20his%20children.https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rhea_(mythology)#:~:text=According%20to%20Hesiod%2C%20Rhea%20had,and%20Zeus%20in%20that%20order.https://www.reddit.com/r/pagan/comments/14sy8cj/is_hestia_reaching_out_to_me/https://mythopedia.com/topics/hestia

http://persephoneandhecate.blogspot.com/2011/06/exploring-archetypes-hestia.html?m=1https://www.tumblr.com/honeyandhestia/170063420188/bedridden-devotion-to-hestiahttps://honeyandhestia.tumblr.com/post/170063420188/bedridden-devotion-to-hestiahttps://www.tumblr.com/heatherwitch/160613514230/hestiavesta https://constantly-disheveled.tumblr.com/post/156636591525/can-a-hearth-fire-just-be-a-candle-that-you-lighthttps://www.tumblr.com/honeyandhestia/169551188078/devotional-activities-for-hestiahttps://www.tumblr.com/honeyandhestia/167758105763/jar-to-help-me-connect-to-hestia-chamomilehttps://www.tumblr.com/honeyandhestia/171225676313/burn-herbs-and-spices-as-an-offering-to-hestia-i https://www.tumblr.com/honeyandhestia/183383795283/what-kind-of-crystals-would-yall-associate-with https://www.tumblr.com/honeyandhestia/171208375440/a-historical-prayer-to-hestiahttps://www.tumblr.com/honeyandhestia/169394109439/i-ask-hestia-the-kind-goddess-to-help-those-who https://www.tumblr.com/honeyandhestia/166938581678/if-youre-still-doing-prayer-requests-may-you-be https://www.tumblr.com/honeyandhestia/178225408393/lady-hestia-goddess-of-comfort-and-warmth-to https://www.tumblr.com/honeyandhestia/183772520921/a-little-kitchen-prayer-for-hestia https://www.hellenicgods.org/festivals-of-hellenismos---eortai

I use resources, I do not own the info, and most deep dives have UPG (that I use in my work.) And I only take some information from sources. I am 14, this is my hobby, I am learning but I spent many hours and days on this, and I am always open to criticism. I have been doing worship for 5 years. Please know you can use the info, I do not sue, but I will take action if this work is used without permission and not put as a resource if used in any work. without permisson and not put as a resource if used in any work, for the public.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Rook, Ortho: Princess Power

BRUH 💀 Go figure, giving the guy obsessed with beauty two of the least flattering screenshots in his background frames… But hey, his groovy is very different from everyone else’s so far! ^^ Very relaxed and peaceful.

Cbjssbjsjskendb new tidbits about pre-Pomefiore Rook?? He used to cut his own hair with a knife and focused on keeping his bangs out of his line of sight… and he wasn’t as confident about his style (mood). It’s also interesting to know that he started doing ballet on Vil’s recommendation, and that has helped a lot with his posture, working out muscles he doesn’t normally use, and appreciating the art of performances. We love Pomefiore out here breaking gender norms 👊

A Tale as Old as Time.

Rook drew out a longing sigh, gently easing into the quiet of the museum. The soft sound lingered, coiling around his fingers like thread from a spool. It, too, did not wish to part ways with the stunning beauty laid out bare before it.

A fair maiden was framed in shining platinum. Hair black as ebony, lips as red as the rose, and skin as white as snow... Truly, she was the fairest in all the land.

Her graceful frame was folded, kneeling on the forest floor to greet the woodland creatures that had gathered. The pale yellow skirt of her gown spilled out, blue bodice and puff sleeves fitted well by her figure. Her face round and gentle, in spite of the high collar encircling it, crowed by a petite red bow.

Here was pure innocence, a young girl reveling in nature.

“Beauté,” he marveled—to no one in particular, but such beauty warranted verbal acknowledgement.

“It seems that this painting has captured your interest, Rook Hunt-san!” a voice chirped. A neon blue light emanated from the darkness, accompanied by the silver flash of metal.

“Bonjour!” Rook greeted Ortho. "I must confess, I have been enchanted by this particular work of art! The brush strokes, masterful! The composition, immaculate!! The subject—oh, how it makes my heart quiver with nostalgia!! I am a man close to being moved to tears!!”

Ortho curiously glanced at the girl and her animal friends. No strong emotions arose within up from him. Perhaps he did not feel as much, or perhaps Rook felt too much. “Is there a sentimental experience or memory you have related to this painting…?”

“Oui! It is a tale as old as time.” Rook gestured to the snow white young lady. “They say that this maiden was a princess forced to flee from her home country, as a hostile presence threatened her life. She retreated into the woods and found comfort in a humble life there. Her tenacity is most admirable!!”

“Tenacity… That’s the value that Pomefiore was founded on!” Ortho, floating overhead, beamed at Rook. “I understand why you would like that story. It has a good moral that sticks with you.”

“That is the beauty of telling tales! They inspire those who hear of it, ensuring that the spirit of the story is never truly extinguished.” The huntsman’s eyes held a keep glint to them. “Tell me, Ortho-kun. What do you believe makes a princess?”

The boy blinked. A split second, and he had already input the term into an internal search engine, the formal definition loaded up to recite.

“Prin-cess, noun. The daughter of a monarch or wife to a prince. A woman having sovereign power.”

“An efficient, succinct answer!” Rook applauded, his cheer never faltering. “However, my desire is to know your interpretation. In Ortho-kun’s own words, what makes a princess?”

“My own…?” The words stretched, unsure, on his tongue. Ortho hesitated—seeking, processing, and analyzing. Rook’s heartbeat sounded where there was the space for the boy to think.

Then, finally, Ortho spoke.

“From what I’ve observed in movies and books, the princess is a pop culture icon. She’s usually presented as a role model for little girls. Someone who is beautiful, dainty, and composed, wearing a pretty dress and a glittering crown."

A pause. Ortho assessed Rook’s hard-to-read, bright expression.

“… Is that closer to the response you were looking for, Rook Hunt-san?” he asked.

To this, the third year’s lips quirked. “There is no correct or incorrect answer! I was curious to see your perspective. Everyone holds one that differs, lenses of all designs and colors with which to see the world through! You have my most heartfelt thanks for sharing your view with me.”

"Oh, I see! You're collecting data from a variety of sources to compare to a standard." The android (literally) lit up from within. "Let me ask the same back! Rook Hunt-san, what do you think makes a princess?"

"Mon dieu! You've set my own trap upon me," Rook teased.

The Beautiful Queen, the Fair Maiden, Vil, his peers... So many fragments of beauty in his collection. Plucked, collected, hoarded.

He ran a finger along his chin, contemplating. The thoughts assembled like a collage. Ideas taken, cut up, and pasted together into a new, glorious artwork.

"A princess can be many things," Rook declared with certainty. "They are a princess to their very core, even when their power is stripped from them or they are dressed in only ashes and rags. What defines them is not royal heritage or political influence, but the strength of their character, their values and virtues. They are not bound by a singular trait, but are aspirations to all in their own ways."

Ortho's eyes swelled. "Eh...? That's so broad! By your definition, anyone could be a princess—even you or I!”

The huntsman threw his head back and laughed. "Broad it may be, but I am of the opinion that we all have it in us to live up to the title~”

He indicated the woman in the platinum frame. Ortho’s gaze obediently followed. "Even without a kingdom to call her own, she remained kind-hearted rather than turn to cruelty. That is why she was, and always will be, a noble soul. A princess who puts out good into the world.”

“Rook Hunt-san…”

“Ortho-kun!” Rook dramatically extended an arm to him. He was practically sparkling in the dim room. “I, too, endeavor to put out as much beauty as what is gifted to me! That is my one true calling as the Hunter of Love: to not only seek out beauty, but to cultivate and to contribute to it!”

Ortho silently stared. Nii-san did warn me that Rook Hunt-san could be eccentric, but… maybe there’s some meaning to be found in it.

Cutting through the numbers and the formulas that governed him was a fuzzy warmth. Not the familiar jolt of electricity that powered his circuits. It was too wild, too unpredictable.

Something undeniably human.

Ortho let out a giggle. "Hehe. Then you must be a princess too!"

Rook's mouth formed a small "o". Unsubtle surprise—or perhaps purposefully exaggerated. "Me? Whatever makes you think that?"

"Strength of character!" Ortho parroted mischievously. "I've never met someone as uplifting as you are. Rook Hunt-san is the type of person that sees a princess in everyone."

The boy lowered himself to a few centimeters off of the ground, pretending to dip into a curtsey. "Your majesty!"

"Fufufu. You're quite charming yourself, Princess Ortho-kun!" Rook bent into a deep bow. "Most clever in all the land, computing complex problems in the blink of an eye!”

Upon straightening, the third year laid both hands over his heart. He lifted his head toward the painting of the fair maiden in the forest. A serene smile at his lips.

It was as if he was pledging his allegiance, making a vow. A worshipper at the altar to pray.

“May we all live happily ever after,” Rook whispered raptly, “like the princesses of old.”

Forever and ever.

[viktoriaashleyyx]

The High Lord and the Selkie

"Lord long have I loved you, as a selkie on the foam, I would gladly go and wed thee and be lady of your home, but to stay on land past midnight, it would surely be my death."

Tarquin Bonus chapter, can stand alone. Influenced heavily by The Maiden and the Selkie by Heather Dale.

I've been in my Tarquin feels recently, he needs some love. Bonus chapter for A Court Reborn. Also this is Pro Tamlin, he doesn't have a large part, but does show up towards the end.

Word Count: 3085

Tarquin art // Ocean Art // Selkie Art

One cool Summer morning, before the Sun rose fully to heat the land, Tarquin sat out on the private fishing pier at the edge of his estate, pants rolled up to his knees, legs dangling above the clean Sea water. This was his favorite place, he would come here every chance he could get to just sit and watch the Sea. More than half of his life was spent trapped under the mountain, facing disgusting cruelties daily, never able to feel the Sun on his skin, he would not take the sight of the waves rolling in and the smells of the salty air for granted.

As a small child, his mother would take him to this very spot and teach him how to swim. He would run full speed into the water forcing his mother to dive in after him. His heart ached, now all he had left of her were his memories. Her sweet smile, the way her voice always softened when speaking to him, how he never had any doubt that she would protect him, and she did. Until her dying breath. Until Amarantha waved that ugly wrist of hers and stole her from him. Such a small gesture, movement, and his entire world was ripped out from under him.

No. He had to stop himself. The dark thoughts of those days always found a way to creep back in. “Remember your mother as she lived, don't let Amarantha continue to steal your light.” he would tell himself in times like this. He wanted nothing more than to forget that horrid witch.

He continued watching the waves crash into the pier, it was high tide so every now and then the Sea water would splash and kiss his feet gently. He liked to believe that was his mother, reaching out to him to remind him that she will always be with him. As the sun rose above the horizon, the sky was painted in the most beautiful shades of oranges and yellows. Sometimes, he felt like the sea was staring back at him. He felt a strong pull towards the sea, he considered it a side effect of his High Lord powers.

Just below the surface of the water, a selkie watched him longingly. Her seal eyes allowed her to see through the waves, and for months now she would leave the safety of her underwater town and travel close to the surface, just to get a glimpse of the most beautiful male she had ever seen.

Her name was Maive and she was the daughter of a decently well off Seal Lord. Well, would be well off if she wasn’t one of eight girls. She was the fourth born, middle child that no one paid too much attention to. She had grown to cherish the freedom that came with it. She could shed her seal coat and join her friends at parties in Adriata without anyone noticing she was gone. But, if she ever allowed herself to think too hard about it, she would long for someone who would care. Someone to notice when she's had a rough day, or even remember that her favorite color was teal, not pink.

She watched the male intensely, hoping that one day he would shed his clothes and jump in the water, or that she would be able to muster the courage to crawl on land and say something to him, anything. His white loc’d hair hung down to his mid chest and contrasted his dark brown skin beautifully. She dreamed of his gorgeous face, his light blue eyes, wide nose and could only imagine what a smile would look like on those lovely full lips. It was obvious he was a “High Fae” as they called themselves, and she was a “lesser fae.” Lesser. That’s what his people thought of her. Lesser. Even if she ever did get a chance to hear his voice, he would never think of her as more than just a subject. That's what her sisters told her. That's why we stay in the ocean and rarely go ashore.

She had heard different sentiments though. When the Red haired witch's curse was broken, a new High Lord of Summer returned, one who dreamed of bridging the divide between High and Lesser fae. The rumors were spotty and she picked up what she could during her trips, but she was barely 70 years of age, most of her friends didn’t like discussing politics. She had heard enough to scrounge up a little bit of childish hope. Even if that's all it ever became, she would allow herself this fantasy, happiness was happiness, even if it was fleeting.

Maive felt a twinge of sadness as Tarquin rose to leave. She knew he wouldn’t stay out here all day, and she cursed herself for, once again, not having the gall to speak to him. She knew her Fae form was beautiful to the people of Adriata. Her seal coat looked more or less like her sisters, black beady eyes that helped her see through the waves, soft gray skin and a cute belly that kept her warm in the ocean depths. But when she shed her coat and joined her friends on shore, the hair on her head was long, to the backs of her knees, a pale greenish color, her skin a darker shade of green with near black freckles lining her cheeks and nose. She doubted it was enough to win the heart of a High Fae male.

♥♥♥♥♥

A few days later, Maive had snuck off to visit her friend, Marielle, and plan their outfits for the upcoming ball at the Summer castle. High Lord Tarquin had sent out flyers inviting everyone in Adriata to the large party he was throwing at his seaside estate. A celebration for winning the war, and the breaking of the curse. The repairs in the city were finally coming to completion. Maive’s knowledge of Prythian current events was lacking considering she would die if she even tried to stay on land past midnight.

“We have to find the perfect dresses,” Marielle gushed excitedly to Maive, “this party will be High Fae and Lesser Fae, do you understand how big this is? We’ve never been welcome at the castle! Maybe this new High Lord is true to his word.” Marielle was a urisk and always kept Maive informed of everything happening on land. “Your mystery man could be there” She teased with a knowing smile.

“Will you stop it!” Maive giggled, “I’m already nervous enough as it is!” Marielle would tease Maive for her crushes and Maive would tease Marielle for her lack of crushes. Marielle, while she loved the parties and dancing, she had never shown much interest in romance for herself. She was content and happy, living in her little apartment in the city square, all her own. She could do as she pleased, stay up as late as she wanted, and invite over whoever she wanted. She had a healthy amount of platonic friends and that filled her heart.

♥♥♥♥♥

The day of the ball, the girls along with a few more friends, gathered back at Marielles apartment to get ready. Her house was the closest, so it required the least amount of walking to the castle. Maive had picked out a shimmery blue gown that made her dark green skin glow. It had skinny straps and a flowing neckline, just enough to showcase her favorite part of her body, her shoulders and neck, and flared out into a mermaid cut at the knees. Marielle curled her hair and added bright green shimmery eyeshadow to Maive’s eyelids. She felt like royalty.

As the girls entered the castle, excited and giggly, it took mere seconds for Maive to spot him. It's like she was pulled towards him. The entire world stopped and she froze as his eyes shifted towards, and caught on her. He was the High Lord Tarquin.

As Tarquin was entertaining the courtiers and citizens in the ballroom, his attention was abruptly pulled toward the door and whatever he was saying left his mind completely. He saw a beautiful young fae, with dark emerald skin and a cute round face. Her big black eyes shimmered in the lights of the ballroom. “Excuse me,” he said, barely looking back to the people he was just speaking to. He was in a trance, he had to talk to her.

Maive shifted her eyes to Marielle, the anticipation looked like fear at first thought, she expected she would have a bit more time, as the nerves grew she reached out for Marielles hand. “Do you see him?” Marielle knew what was going on, she had assumed Maive would be overwhelmed and chose to stay near. “Him? That's Tarquin.” Marielle exclaimed in an excited whisper, noticing Tarquin making his way toward her she added, “no backing out now, just be yourself, I will be close by. You got this.”

“Excuse me, Lady, may I have this dance?” Tarquin tried to hide his shaking, he felt just as nervous as Maive did. All she could manage was a nod as she carefully took his hand. A lump in her throat, led her to believe her voice would crack if she tried to speak. Their eyes had not left each other. She allowed him to lead her to the middle of the ballroom. All eyes fell to them, but neither noticed. As they began to dance, their nerves melted away.

Maive had never learned how to ballroom dance, but following Tarquins lead was easy. It came naturally to her. Chrisseada saw what was happening and took over Tarquins entertaining duties. Her cousin deserved this, and it made her heart happy seeing him happy.

As the music slowed, Tarquin pulled Maive into his chest, and planted a soft kiss on her forehead. She smiled and rested her head on his chest.

They danced through the night, neither wanting to let go of the other, even for a moment. Until, that is, Marielle cut in. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but it is 11:30,” Marielle whispered to Maive, “you need to be heading out now if you are to make it to the sea in time.”

For the first time in her life, Maive resented her binds to the ocean. She looked at Tarquin with sadness in those big dark eyes, “I’m sorry, I have to go.” The words were hard to speak, but she trusted Marielle was looking out for her. Letting go of his hand was harder.

Tarquin pulled her in close, one last time and whispered in her ear “Do you trust me?” She shook her head ‘yes’ and he winnowed them to the shoreline.

Her head spun as she took in her surroundings and noted the feel of the sand seeping into her sandals. Tarquins arms felt like home to her, not her city underwater. She wanted nothing more than to stay. “I am sorry, I just needed a few more minutes with you.” His voice was like a beautiful melody in her ear, now that she could hear it clearly. “What is your name?” He needed to hear her voice again, too.

“Maive,” she whispered, looking up at him, trying to process the absolute perfection of this evening, not wanting it to end, ever.

“Maive,” He repeated, she had never loved her name more than hearing it on his lips. It dripped graciously from them like honey. He leaned in to kiss her, and her heart began to beat faster, until she had a thought that cut it off before it even happened.

“My coat!!” She cried. You would think she knew to keep better track of it, given it is her life on the line, but she can’t help being aloof at times. She began searching for it frantically, she usually left it under the pier by Marielles apartment, but Tarquin hadn’t winnowed them to the same spot she entered from. Tarquin understood and immediately began helping her look for it.

“Is this what you are looking for?” Tarquin asked innocently, holding up the soft, but heavy, gray coat.

“Put that down. You don’t know what this would mean.” Maive reluctantly cried. For another Fae to return her seal coat to her, they would be wed. It couldn’t happen this way. She wanted him to choose her, not be bound to her by tradition.

He listened and set it on the ground, and took a few steps back. She ran to slip it on, halfway, and Tarquin led her into the water.

Tarquin held her close to his chest, forehead pressed to hers as the moon rose directly above them. “I will find a way. I promise,” he breathed as a tear escaped, running down her cheek. She kissed him deeply, there were no fireworks, no butterflies, she felt safe, calm. It was better than she had ever fantasized.

“Goodbye, Tarquin,” she gave him a soft smile as she dipped under the waves and returned to her seal family.

♥♥♥♥♥

Tarquin had called to meet with the three people whom he trusted and would know the best. He winnowed to the front door of the Spring Court manor just as Sky had done a month prior upon their first meeting. The trellises scaled the building and were covered in red roses, Spring was healing. That sentiment made him happy. During the reign of Amarantha, Tamlin had taken Summer court citizens in, even celebrated the Solstice to provide them some form of comfort in the times Tarquin was trapped under the mountain. Tarquin always believed that Tamlin had a good heart under all of that stone.

“I have a meeting with the High Lord, Tamlin” Tarquin held his head high and spoke confidently, as Crisseada commanded him to. The guards led him through the halls of the manor and he noted how much repair has been done in such a short time. It was only a few months ago that Tarquin had seen the Manor in complete ruin following Hyberns attack. At the time he hadn’t fully understood why Tamlin chose to side with Hybern, but when Tarquin saw him show up to the battlefield, hand around Barons throat to turn the tide, and ultimately win the war for Prythia, he knew Tamlin was smarter than he was given credit for.

He entered the large meeting room with a circular table in the middle. Tamlin, Sky and Lucien were already there waiting on him. Sky gave him a big smile and a tight hug. “Welcome to Spring, High Lord Tarquin,”

Tamlin and Lucien shook his hand and Tarquin was nervous as he sat down. “You seem to be more.. cheerful than the last time we saw you, Tarquin, what’s going on?” Tamlin asked lightly, noticing Tarquins nerves.

Tarquin wasn’t sure how to begin. He suspected Maive to be his mate, but a High Lord mated to a – he stopped himself even in his thoughts, we won't use those terms anymore. She is a Selkie, nothing about her is Lesser. “I have a bit of a predicament, and I thought who better to ask than the three of you. With Skys otherworldly wisdom, Lucien’s knowledge of Prythia due to being a well traveled emissary, and Tamlins.. Shapeshifting, I was hoping the four of us could come up with a way for me… to wed my mate.” The last few words came out cautiously.

Sky gasped and smiled wide, “What is her name? Where did yall meet?? What's keeping you apart?” Her excitement steadily decreased.

“Her name is Maive and she is a Selkie.” Tarquin announced proudly. All three of them immediately understood the predicament, but Lucien flinched. Memories of Jesminda, of when he tried to wed a lower class fae, flooded in. Tarquin wasn't much older than Lucien was when he lost Jesminda. He reassured himself that Tarquins situation is different, for starters, Tarquin doesn’t have Baron breathing down his neck.

“I have never heard of a selkie remaining on land and living to dawning, have you, Sky?” Lucien thought aloud.

“Never,” Sky responded and Tarquin shrank in disappointment. “We could ask Helion? I’m sure there is something in his lib–”

“No.” Lucien snapped, but softened quickly. “If word gets out, the older High Lords will seek to kill her. They do not like those they view as lesser than them marrying into power.”

“I would never let anything happen to her.” Tarquin assumed Lucien was insinuating he was too weak to protect his own people. To protect her. He still held shame for allowing the Night Court to steal from him.

“You might not have the chance, if we erupt into civil war.” Lucien warned. Two completely different wounds clashing. Neither meant harm or disrespect.

“What if you resided in the sea? Instead of her leaving her home behind, you join her?” Tamlin diverted the subject back to the reason for the meeting, noticing the tension. Tamlin knew both Tarquin and Lucien's reasons, but that can be clarified at a different time.

“My powers revolve more around bringing the sea to land, I cannot breathe underwater if that's what you are asking. My beast form can. But I need rage to shift into beast form and when I am around her, all I feel is calm. I have tried all I can think of.” Tarquin clarified.

“What if you could shift without the rage?” Tarquin was confused at Tamlins question, he just told him he couldn’t. Tamlin stretched out his hand to Tarquin and in it, a kernel of his power. Lucien, Sky and Tarquins eyes all widened in shock. “When we revived Feyre, she was able to retain a small amount of each of our powers, who is to say you wouldn't? I’ve done this twice before, I doubt you would need to be dead to accept it. And you are far more deserving than the last prick I gave one to.” Tarquin accepted the kernel and took it in his hand. “You, hopefully, will be able to at least shift yourself some gills. I can help teach you, and I’m sure Sky and Lucien will continue searching for a way for her to stay on land.”

“Are you sure?” Tarquin whispered. Was it really that easy? Just one small kindness from the neighboring High Lord to ease the biggest burden plaguing Tarquin these days. Tarquin pressed the kernel into his chest.

Tag list for main fic: @ladythornofrivia @rcarbo1 @rin-u-pos @knoxic @lilah-asteria @littlefantasylover @julesvanslutta

@theegemini92 also expressed interest ❤️

[thedrdtpokemoncollector]

drdt summer fun day 3: flowers!

DRDT But It’s Flower Meanings!

Teruko

- Butterfly Weed - ‘Leave me,’ ‘You’ve been warned.’

- Marigolds are seen as a sign of death and misfortune by many cultures

- Anemones - mean forsaken and also a sign of fragility

- Bells of Ireland - Good Luck

- Blackthorn - Hope against adversity, Good Fortune, Difficulty

- Catchfly (white) - Betrayed

- Celandine - Deceptive hopes

David

- Mock oranges - mean deceit

- Cyclamens - meaning resignation or goodbye

- Angelicas - meaning inspiration

Eden

- Daisies - Innocence, Loyalty, Love

- Arborvitae - Everlasting friendship

- Aloysia - Forgiveness

- Asters (pink) - Innocence, Love, Affection.

- Violets (purple) - Love between two women

- Freesia - Innocence, Trust

- Hydrangea (Purple) - A desire to deeply understand someone

Xander

- Adder’s Tongue - Deceit

- Hyacinths - Rashness

- Weeping Willow - Mourning

- Purple Hyacinths - 'I am sorry, please forgive me,' sorrow.

- Rue - Regret, Sorrow, Repentance

- Coltsfoot - ‘Justice shall be done.’

Min

- Roses - Love

- Asters (pink) - Innocence, Love, Affection.

- Pink Roses - Perfect happiness, 'please believe me'

- Evening Primrose - Silent Love

- Walnut - Intellect

- Scabius - Unfortunate attachment

Charles

- White Chrysanthemums - Used as a funeral flower or to lay on graves, also meaning 'truth'

- Adonis’ Flower - Painful remembrance

- Buttercups - Memories of childhood

Ace

- Petunias - Resentment, Anger

- Barberry - Sourness of temper

- Basil - Hate

- Lilies (orange) - Hatred, Disdain, Contempt

- Foxglove - Insecurity

- Roses (yellow) - Cowardice

Levi

- White Roses (Dried) - Death is preferable to loss of virtue

- Purple Hyacinths - 'I am sorry, please forgive me,' sorrow.

Hu

- Orchids - Love, Beauty, Refinement, 'Beautiful Lady'

- Wood Sorrel - Maternal Tenderness

- Daylilies - Chinese emblem for 'mother'

- Cinquefoils - Maternal Affection

Whit

- Crocuses - Cheerfulness

- Coreopsis - Always cheerful

- Tulips (yellow) - Hopeless love

- Xeranthemum - Cheerfulness under adversity

- Tulips (orange) - Understanding

Veronika

- Monkshoods - Beware, a deadly foe is here

- Roses (black) - Death, Obsession, Mystery

- Tuberose - Dangerous pleasures

Arturo

- Jonquils - 'Love me,' desire for affection to be returned

- Callas - Beauty

- Narcissus - Self-love, Egotism

- Sweet Sultan - Felicity

J

- Gladioli - 'Give me a break

- Petunias - Resentment

- Roses (yellow) - intense emotion

Rose

- Acanthus - Art

- Forget-Me-Nots - Memories

- Moonwort - Forgetfulness

Nico

- Adder’s Tongue - Deceit

- Borage - Bluntness

- Petunias - Resentment

- Hellebores - Anxiety, 'tranquilise my anxiety'

Arei

- Zinnias (Mixed) - Thinking/In memory of an absent friend

- Laurestine - ‘i die if neglected’

- Arborvitae - Everlasting friendship

- Irises - 'Your friendship means so much to me’

if you wanna add any, feel free to ask! :D

…i spent so long on this thing aaa

[imthepunchlord]

LOVE all of the color-coding talk and comparisons that you do for ML; you’re right that it’s a missed opportunity in the final show, especially compared to the different stages of concept art that have surfaced over the years. For your Bugettes AU, I think I finally arranged all the Parisian teenage ladies into who visually fits which Miraculous the best (BIG shoutout to the one anon who listed them all out and the other anon that listed out the Bugettes!Miraculous colors and symbols) for your use whether you decide to pick yourself or make polls, so hopefully it’s helpful either way!! I prioritized color over symbols for the lists—though they do play a part in placement if someone has both—and left out jeans unless they took up half of the person’s color palette and they only had one dominant color otherwise. For ML’s two majorly pink ladies, I just put them at the bottom of Ladybug since Pink/Magenta is the secondary Calamitous color for Centipede in your AU and Pink can always be darkened to Red if the other options aren’t viable.

Ladybug: Red - Spots/Circles (⚫️)

1. Lila Rossi

2. Kagami Tsurugi

3. Ondine

4. Socqueline Wang

5. Vivica

6. Rose Lavillant

7. Marinette Dupain-Cheng

Firefly: Orange - Rings (⭕️)

1. Alya Césaire

Bee: Yellow - Stripes (🟰)

1. Chloé Bourgeois

2. Zoé Lee

Grasshopper: Green - Ovals/Leaves (⬬)

1. Alix Kubdel

2. Vivica

3. Mylène Haprèle

Dragonfly: Blue - Diamonds (♦️)

1. Sabrina Raincomprix

2. Aurore Beauréal

3. Mireille Caquet

4. Mylène Haprèle

Mantis: Indigo - Four-Pointed Stars (✦)

1. Socqueline Wang

2. Marinette Dupain-Cheng

3. Alya Césaire

Butterfly: Violet - Spirals (🌀)

1. Juleka Couffaine

2. Sabrina Raincomprix

There are some additions, I'd make.

Marinette and Rose could also apply for Butterfly, as as Pink/Magenta is the in between Red and Violet/Purple, and it officially isn't part of the rainbow simply because red and violet don't meet, being on opposite ends of it. And Nooroo at times does appear pink.

He's kinda that fine line between pink and purple. And I think it makes sense for pink coded character to go either way on Red or Violet.

I would also say that Lila could apply for Firefly as well, given that she's a reddish orange in her jacket and not straight up red.

I would also say go ahead and don't count on Vivica as an option.

Vivica is a one of character who literally has nothing outside being into music. Her akuma is introduced and got more focus in contrast to her as a character. She's really not an option for me. Until she was brought up I literally forget she existed.

So Vivica I say we can just cross out on the list.

Anyway, good put together over all. I'll probably do polls at some point as a lot have more than one option, but I'm going to wait until I have powers down, as I feel that should be considered for these options.

[campgender]

“Lady Java’s Tignons” from The Color Pynk: Black Femme Art for Survival by Omise’eke Natasha Tinsley (2022)

image text under the cut

Viewing the world through rose-tinted glasses shaped like butterfly wings, edged in rhinestones, and fringed with hanging beads, Sir Lady Java identifies herself to interviewer Pasqual Bettio in 2016: “We’re called transsexuals, basically, because I’m in a trance about my sex.” Born in New Orleans in 1940, Java—who transitioned with family support at a young age—was a mainstay of Los Angeles’s nightclub scene in the 1960s and ’70s. Billed as the “World’s Loveliest Female Impersonator,” she “appeared in shows all over the West Coast with such personalities as Nancy Wilson, Redd Foxx, Lena Horne, Louis Jordan, James Brown, Isaac Hayes, Joe Tex, Ray Charles, B.B. King, and Quincy Jones,” according to the brochure “Who Is Java?”

As she rose to prominence, she became a target for police harassment. In 1967, the LAPD raided the Redd Foxx Club to arrest her for violating Rule No. 9, an ordinance that prohibited trans women from appear- ing in public with less than three articles of male clothing. But when Java—performing in a bikini, bow tie, slim men’s wristwatch, and tiny socks—proved unarrestable, police threatened to revoke the club’s license or to imprison Foxx himself.

Java understood this police harassment as racialized: “We didn’t know of any establishment that was white that they [the LAPD] were stopping [from employing impersonators], but they were definitely targeting me, because I was queen of the Black ones and they feel that they had more trouble out of the Black ones.” Java responded by picketing the Redd Foxx Club (which dropped her act) and hiring the ACLU to mount a lawsuit against the LAPD.

Lady Java’s stage career continued brilliantly through the ’70s and ’80s, garnering positive press from Jet, Ebony, Sepia, and L.A. Advocate. Her career highlight, she tells Bettio, was performing for Lena Horne at a 1978 birthday party that Horne hosted for her “sister Cancerian, Gertrude Gibson,” where Horne enthused to Jet about her interaction with Java: “I had the feeling I was talking to a friend I had known for a long while... I feel sort of... protective [of Java]. I don’t know, because that’s my sign—Cancer—always trying to be somebody’s mama!”

To impress Ms. Horne, Java wore a spangled bikini and towering beaded headpiece whose curving contours—like many of the dramatically draped cloth, carefully sculpted tulle, and angel-wing feather wraps she crowned herself with—recall the tulip-shaped tignons (cloth turbans) made famous by her sister Louisiana Creoles. In an attempt to curb their social and sexual power, in 1786 Louisiana governor Esteban Miró decreed all women of African descent must cover their hair with knotted cloth and refrain from “excessive attention to dress.” But as Carolyn Long notes, “Instead of being considered a badge of dishonor, the tignon became a fashion statement. The bright reds, blues, and yellows of the scarves, and the imaginative wrapping techniques employed by their wearers, are said to have enhanced the beauty of women of color.” When Java turned her three articles of “male” clothing into high-femme sexiness, she followed in the footsteps of these foremothers’ fashion warfare.

Transforming the accessories meant to shame Black women into sexlessness into pure sexiness, Java declares, she chose “to wear beautiful outfits so a woman can be proud of me when she sees me. I don’t dress for men; I dress for women.”

By the 1990s Java was “enjoying a quieter life, retiring and, sadly, undergoing some serious health challenges,” according to Transas City. These challenges include a stroke from which, Java tells Bettio, “I lost a portion of my brain.” During her 2016 interviews with Bettio, her memories and historical records part ways: sometimes in small ways, as when she remembers performing for Horne at the Memory Lane supper club rather than the Pied Piper; sometimes in more significant ways, as when she proudly recalls winning her lawsuit against the LAPD.

“I went to court on it, and I won LAPD. I won the right for Java to work, meaning other impersonators could work also,” she recounts—though in fact her case was thrown out on a technicality. It would be easy to indulge the incoherence of her memories as post-stroke cognitive impairment. But it would also be easy to honor that incoherence as its own kind of freedom dream—an alternative history that translates the sinuous, undocumentable ways that change can happen.

After the publicity of her case, she reports, “They [other female impersonators] say: We’re able to go to work, and we’re all going [to] work the next day, and we’re going to put on the three male articles [of clothing], and they did the same thing I did: socks and the wristwatch and the bowtie if they wore bikinis . . . little bowties, some of them were jeweled.” Isn’t a flock of jeweled bow ties bouncing light off foremothers’ jeweled tignons another kind of win—another something to celebrate? How do we count and commemorate ways rewired and differently wired Black femme senses make a true story truer, more plentiful, more splendored?

[sailtomarina]

The Artist's Daughter

She was here again.

Draco Lucius Malfoy, First and Only Prince to the kingdom, stayed hidden in the stacks next to a row of tomes dictating the genealogies of the royal families dating back hundreds of years. He had his private tutor to thank for the tiresome task of locating the volume listing the exact ancestor Draco had failed to name correctly in his latest exam. The other day, he’d been here searching for a text that would answer which crops their kingdom specialized in for exports. Ridiculous, really. As if he wouldn’t some day have advisors to do all this research for him.

Then, just like today, he’d seen a girl wandering through the shelves. She hadn’t noticed him, of course. Draco was far too sneaky to be detected by some muggle, which she had to be given her unaware musings as she walked around with her nose buried in a book.

The first time, he’d remained hidden, even going so far as to cast a disillusionment spell on himself. As surprised as he was to see a stranger, he supposed that if they were to wander any of the handful of libraries in the castle, this was the most appropriate one. It was situated on the ground floor not too far from the entrance and ballroom. This is where most of the muggle texts were organized, along with an unfortunate number of historical texts currently pertinent to Draco’s education.

She’d struck him as pretty, albeit in a muggle sort of way. She’d worn a simple lady’s gown in a pale yellow that contrasted with the rich dark curls tumbling down her back. Freckles sprinkled generously across her pale skin, markings his cousins would have glamoured over from birth. If he guessed correctly, they weren’t too far apart in age, perhaps fourteen or fifteen. That was another indicator of her humble breeding—he didn’t recognize her, not from school or from the countless balls and feasts he’d attended growing up. She couldn’t be a noble.

Today, she wore a dress in a lovely sage green with tiny white flowers embroidered along the scoop neckline. Draco imagined her eyes to match the green, or to perhaps blink at him in a hazel hue. He needed to know.

“Who are you?” His voice came out much harsher than intended. 

He’d stepped out in front of her just as she was about to pass, causing her to come to an abrupt stop before crashing into him. Startled eyes, irises dark brown and glinting with a hint of gold, gazed up at him. He’d been wrong about the colors.

“Oh! I didn’t see you there. I’m Hermione Granger. And you are?” She stepped back to an appropriate distance from him, hugging a few books to her chest like armor.

“I’m Draco,” he said simply.

“The prince?” She didn’t sound too surprised, and eyed his unmistakable platinum hair.

“The very same. Why are you here in the library?” He’d finally tempered his tone to a more congenial one. 

“I was told I could read whatever I liked in here. My father is painting your Grand Ballroom.”

Ah. She was the daughter of the painter.

His mother made it a point to elect a new project as soon as the previous one was complete. Previous years had resulted in a reworked Imperial Garden, which boasted rose gardens with every imaginable variety, both magical and non-magical. A formidable greenhouse was added shortly after, and the caretaker they’d employed soon obtained and cultivated the rarest of specimens for use in medicine and potions. 

This year, Queen Narcissa turned her attention to the Grand Ballroom. She and his father adored hosting balls at every opportunity. What better way to display their love for art and beauty than to paint the entire ceiling and all its walls with depictions of magical beasts and figures from history. Circe. Merlin. Rasputin. Titania and Oberon.

Draco had assumed they’d hire a wizard, but he should have known that when it came to art, the king and queen saw no difference between magic or not. They simply wanted the best, and if that happened to be stationary art, then so be it.

“Find anything interesting?” He feigned interest, intent on keeping her talking. She was far more entertaining than pouring over volumes of ancestors alone.

She perked up at his question, and Draco could have sworn sections of her hair floated for just a brief moment.

Certainly not.

“I did! Did you know your castle is situated on top of the most powerful spot in the kingdom? All of the most prominent ley lines converge here underneath our feet!” She stomped one foot in emphasis. He wouldn’t be surprised if she went through several slippers a season if she always beat on them in that manner.

Wait.

Did she say “ley lines”?

“Are you a witch?” he blurted out, once again wincing at the gracelessness of his question. His mother would be mortified if she could hear him.

Hermione looked at him as if he was stupid. “Yes. Why else would your family let me wander around here by myself?”

“I don’t know, maybe because this is the one library of many where muggles are allowed? They do come here occasionally, muggle nobles, to garner favor with us,” he sputtered. He still couldn’t quite believe it. She was a witch. She was an unknown witch of his age. “Why don’t I know you? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before.”

“My parents are muggles. I might have a squib ancestor somewhere, but as far as we know, I’m the only magic user in the Granger family. They sent me abroad for schooling since Hogwarts doesn’t currently accept muggle-borns.” She raised her eyebrows as if challenging him, but Draco couldn’t find it within himself to care about her background.

Hermione didn’t fawn on him like the other girls who had paraded themselves around him at school. She didn’t bat her eyelashes or titter behind a gloved hand. She didn’t wear gloves at all, her slender fingers wrapping around ancient texts as if relishing the touch of the worn covers. She probably thumbed the pages like his instructors told him never to do.

He would have thought that would annoy him, but he instead found himself intrigued in this muggle-born witch who liked reading, wore slippers instead of heels, and forewent glamours.

“Do you want to see the other libraries?”

His words were like a spell, as effective at getting her to brighten as a cheering draught.

“Oh, can I? The king and queen won’t mind?” She nearly vibrated in her excitement.

Her hair was definitely twice the size it was before.

“Not if you’re with me,” Draco said with a smirk, though that was partially a lie. If they’d wanted her in the other libraries, they would have explicitly told her. 

“Well, in that case, what are we waiting for? Let’s go!” She made to dash away, but he caught her shoulder before she could do so.

“Allow me,” he said with a gesture towards the books still clutched to her chest.

“Oh, I can carry these.”

“Please, I insist.” It wouldn’t do if either of his parents not only caught him skiving off lessons with the girl, but allowing her to carry around books like some commoner. When she finally let go of her findings, he cast a featherweight charm and looked at her knowingly. She flushed an adorable shade of pink.

“They really weren’t very heavy, but thank you anyways.”

They spent the remainder of the afternoon exploring, only making it to two additional libraries. Hermione had only added to the pile of books floating behind Draco. He had to refresh the charm multiple times due to the sheer weight.

“You do realize you can’t remove these from the castle, don’t you?” He hoped this wouldn’t be the last time he’d see her, that she’d continue to visit along with her father for as long as there was work. “How long will it take your father to finish the ballroom?”

“To answer your first question, yes, I do understand that I’ll need to reserve these books to read later. I was hoping you could help with that.” He nodded his agreement, even as he inwardly danced with joy at the thought that he now had a reason to continue seeing the girl. “And to answer your second, it could take my father years.”

“Years?” Draco was aghast at the approximation.

“Years,” she repeated. “If you go take a look, you’ll see why. He’s not even working alone—he has an entire team helping with the moldings and scenery.”

Trust his mother to pick a project of such staggering proportions that it required multiple artists. On the bright side, that meant he’d have a long time to get to know Hermione, even if it was only during the holidays.

“It’s a shame you can’t attend Hogwarts.” It wasn’t until she tutted in agreement that he realized he’d said the words aloud. If she’d been like any other girl, she would have pounced on any hint of attachment on his part. She, however, did not.

“Well, if the king’s word is true, then I may soon. In exchange for my father’s work, yours agreed to update Hogwarts’ policies. I love Beauxbatons, but I can’t disagree that staying closer to home would make everything a lot easier on my family.”

“If you do,” Draco said the words slowly, hardly believing they were coming out of his mouth but needing her to know before it was too late, “then you should ask to be sorted into Slytherin.”

His heart sank at the way her nose wrinkled and lips turned downward in a grimace. “Isn’t that house renowned for pureblood ideology? I was leaning more towards Ravenclaw, myself.”

He nodded somewhat agreeably. “Books and cleverness…you could certainly do worse. They’re not a bad lot, if you ignore their tendency to disappear into their studies. Though…” he trailed off, reluctant to give away his feelings again without assistance.

“Though it might mean we don’t see each other? I wouldn’t let that happen outside of exams,” she said offhandedly. “I’ll keep in mind what you said. Snakes can be quite clever, in a sneaky kind of way.” The pointed look she sent Draco reminded him of how he’d approached her in the first place.

“Quite.”

A gentle melody played in the air, noting the top of the hour and finishing with eight long chimes.

“And that’s my cue. Hold on to those for me, would you?” Hermione leaned up onto her toes, laid the palms of her hands atop his shoulders, and pressed a kiss onto one cheek, then the other.

Draco could do nothing but stand still in shock at her forwardness. Then he remembered where she went to school and the strange habits the people of that land practiced. He cleared his throat to cover his awkward silence, but the crooked smirk she wore proved the attempt useless.

“When will I see you next?” He realized how needy that sounded as it came out, and hastily continued,“Just so I know when to have them ready?”

She flitted to the doors and didn’t respond until she was nearly through them, “I’m sure you’ll find me!”

And just like that, she was gone, leaving behind her stack of books, the echoes of her soft lips on his face, and the sweet scent of apple blossoms in the air. Draco wondered if she had perhaps cast some sort of love spell on him. How else could he explain his complete lack of reservation around her, or why her humble origins didn’t matter to him like he thought they should?

Queen Narcissa found him still in contemplation shortly after, and was impressed at the amount of reading material gathered around him.

“My dragon, there you are! Wilfred said he’d sent you to recover texts on our family history ages ago.”

“Mother, did you know the painter has a daughter?”

Narcissa blinked as she processed the odd question. “Master Granger? Of course. Hermione is a lovely, bright little thing. I told her she could read whatever she liked in our First Library. Why do you ask?”

Her son continued to stare at the wall, and she had half a mind to cast a homenum revelio.

“Draco?”

He came to with a shake and gave her one of his rare, full smiles. “No reason. I think we’ll be wonderful friends. You should make sure Hogwarts changes their acceptance rules before school starts again.”

Bewildered and bemused, she stroked a hand over his hair, so like his father’s. “I take it the two of you met?”

“We did. These are all hers.” He gestured towards the books once more.

“And here I thought you’d finally taken an interest in your studies.”

He snorted and she nearly pinched him on the arm for his cheek. She made do instead with a tickle to his side. He ducked away from her with a laugh, holding up his hands in surrender. “Mother, please! That isn’t fair! You know all my weak spots.”

She desisted in her attack with another indulgent smile. “And don’t you forget it. Just be careful with Hermione, dear.”

“What do you mean?” He tilted his head in confusion and she nearly sighed at his naivety. The young could be so oblivious, but she envied them their freedom.

She thought back on her own upbringing. The Blacks were more ancient and arrogant than even the royal family; her marriage to Lucius had been agreed upon at birth and as expected as the fact that clouds brought rain and Blacks were as pure as pure could be. She knew she was his from the beginning, and no amount of pining after others or imagining life in another place with a different name would change her fate.

Narcissa looked at her son, a near perfect replica of her husband aside from the softer grey eyes she’d bestowed upon him and his smile. He’d been so much like her at the start, but over the years he’d become more and more like his father. Now, today, he was like his younger self again.

She didn’t care what Lucius intended for his heir. She just wanted him to find happiness.

“True friends are difficult to come by, particularly for people of our station. I have a feeling that, if you nurture your relationship with Hermione, she’ll be someone worth keeping at your side.”

“What would father say?” he asked, caution and desire battling for domination on his face.

“He prizes power above all else.” This much was true. Lucius just happened to have a bit of a blind spot outside of magical families. “Apply yourself to your studies, help one another, and I’ll take care of Hogwarts and your father.”

Listening to his mother, Draco started to relax and let a bit of his earlier hope trickle back in. He wasn’t sure how Hermione had secured her approval, but she had. Greater deeds had been turned into ballads.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a bit terrifying sometimes?”

Narcissa smirked, immediately reminding Draco of wild curls and a smattering of freckles. The two women looked wildly different, yet they gave off a similar air of confident capability.

“I have been told. Once or twice.”

He made a note to tread carefully around Hermione in the future. If she turned out anything like his mother, he never wanted to be on the opposite end of her ire.

Oh, the feats they would accomplish together.

WC 2606

DHRMonth Prompt: Week 4 - Alternate Universe, September 22 - Royal AU

Cross-posted to AO3

I have half a mind to write a full story in this setting, since it spiraled into something I want to know more about. I didn’t think I used to have a thing for royal AUs, but maybe I do???

[lovebillyhargrove]

***

"I got uh .. I got a gift for you, pretty boy."

Steve thought he'd heard Billy's steps. He was right.

Steve's turning around and there he is, fiery and electric, wrapped in the gold of his hair, tanned cheeks a bit pinkish as if he's .. embarrassed?

Billy's holding something behind his back, eyes cast down.

"Do you want me to guess what it is?"

Billy scoffs

"Never thought that autumn would be so dorky, wishing to play silly games and all."

Billy's drawing lines (or are they hearts?) in the warm dust on the road with his big toe.

"Here. It's the last summer flowers. They'll stop blooming soon."

He's holding out an enormous flower crown made of simple white daisies and little yellow buttercups, timid sky blue, pink and indigo cornflowers, tiny field carnations bringing splashes of bright fuchsia colour into the mix, baby blue eyes shyly peeking through the lush green of leaves and stems and stalks, carefully and neatly interwoven into a summer work of art. Soft and elegant red anemones. A couple of scarlet poppies, bigger than any other flower in size but petals still so tender and fragile. Delicate wild pansies in a palette of colours, sweet heavy clover heads, gentle melancholic bluebells, light-pink cuckoo-flowers, bright blue sprinkles of meadow gentians .. all exuding the subtly intoxicating aroma of hot and sultry summer meadows,

Glowing, as if entwined with the dreamy rays of sunshine.

Bumblebees busily buzzing and humming all around it.

Billy waves his hand a couple of times

"Shoo!"

Bumblebees remain undisturbed.

"Thought you'd look even prettier in it."

Steve's still looking at the heap of flowers, noticing some fragrant white china roses among the other flowers

"Are these also from the meadow?"

Billy's cheeks become even pinkier.

"I uh .. I might've raided that old lady's garden where you always hang out with the birds at the back fence?"

Billy's pausing

"So .. you want it or not?"

"I would love to have it. It is beautiful and such skillful work."

Billy's cheeks are definitely red now, mixed with that tan.

He shoves the flower crown to Steve's hollowed-out chest and runs away.

***

Some time later

Steve grew a small flowerbed of billy buttons.

He invited the summer to come take a look.

"It's nothing fancy. But they look like little suns and remind me of you. And they've got your name."

Harringrove seasons au by the amazingly talented @akioukun which remains the source of inspiration 💖

@dragonflylady77 thank you for your kind help ❤️

[the-fiction-witch]

In The Garden P2

Media - Game Of Thrones Character - Lancel Lannister Couple - Lancel X Reader Reader - Y/n Baratheon (Daughter Of Stannis) Rating - 18 + Word Count - 2001 Warning - Mentions of Rape / Abuse / Sexual Abuse / Forced Pregnancy / Trauma / dark themes / dark subject matter

Lancel walked around the gardens attempting to find Y/n glancing at the many alcoves ladies lingered, and after a while he found her

Y/n sat in a small stone alcove with a bench, surrounded by ivy and roses, she wore a Baratheon yellow dress under a leather corset with stag antlers burnt into the leather, she hummed a gentle song as she embroidered,

Lancel spotted Y/n from a distance, and he felt his heart skip a beat at the sight of her. She was beautiful, no denying that. Perhaps in different circumstances, he might have been more excited at the thought of marrying her. But he was still nervous and uneasy about the entire situation. He took a deep breath and approached the alcove, clearing his throat to announce his presence. "Lady Y/n?" he said quietly, his voice betraying his trepidation.

"hum?" She set down her needle "Oh, Ser Lancel Lannister I presume?" She cooed

"Yes," he replied, his voice a little breathless. "I believe we have been... arranged to be married." He took a few steps closer to her, his heart pounding in his chest. “And uhh… I must say… your… very beautiful in your gown today,”

"awww thank you, I think you look very handsome in your Lannister red tunic today" she cooed

Lancel felt a slight blush form on his cheeks at her compliment. He had never quite mastered the art of flirting or courtship, and he found himself at a loss for words. But he tried his best to maintain his composure. "You are too kind," he mumbled, his eyes wandering over her body before snapping back to her face. “May I?”

“You may Ser Lancel,” She nodded tapping the space beside her,

He nervously went over sitting with her, "I... I must admit, I am a little nervous about this whole situation."

"nervous? Why?" She asked "are you frightened of me?"

Lancel shook his head quickly. "No, no, not frightened," he assured her. "It's just... I've never been in a situation like this before," He looked at her again, his eyes taking in her soft features and curvy figure. He swallowed, trying to keep his thoughts in check.

"neither have I, I suppose it is just the way of things I suppose I've always been of the belief I'd be married off to some lord for politics"

Lancel nodded, understanding her words. But knowing the logic behind it didn't make it any easier to accept. "Yes... I too have always known that my marriage would be for political reasons," he agreed. "It just feels so... strange, for it to be… happening,"

"I can imagine it does, I'm sorry if you are disappointed"

Lancel shook his head, trying to reassure her. "No, no, it's not that," he said quickly. "It's just... I suppose I have always feared the idea of marriage. Of being with someone. A woman." He looked away, his cheeks flushing red.

"Have you never been with a woman Ser Lancel?"

Lancel shook his head once again, feeling slightly embarrassed. The thought of confessing his virginity to his soon-to-be wife was a mortifying one. But he knew he had to be honest with her. "No," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "No, I haven't."

"Oh," she gasped "I must admit I'm surprised" she nodded "but that's alright, we can take things as slowly as you desire"

Lancel's heart leapt at her words, relief coursing through him. He had expected her to laugh at him or find him inadequate, but her understanding and acceptance caught him off guard. "Thank you for saying that," he said, his voice steady despite the tumult of emotions swirling inside him. "I... I would like to take things slowly, if that's alright with you."

"of course, as slow as you need ser Lancel, whatever it takes for you to be happy and comfortable" she cooed

Lancel felt a wave of gratitude wash over him at her words. To have someone, especially his future wife, be so understanding and accommodating to his shyness and inexperience was a pleasant surprise. "You are most kind," he replied, his voice warm and filled with appreciation. "I am not used to such kindness and patience. You... you have my thanks, my lady."

"Your welcome, in sure you shall have similar patience with me... And my... Issues."

Lancel tilted his head, curiosity piqued. "Issues?" he asked, hoping she was not speaking of something detrimental to her health or being. "What kind of... issues do you have, my lady?"

"you do not know?" She asked

Lancel shook his head, his confusion growing. "No, I do not," he admitted. "Is... Is it something serious, my lady? Should I be concerned?"

"My father... Found fascination with a fire priestess from the east. He followed her blindly into turning away his brother's, his advisors, even me. She lead him to a war she convinced him he needed. And... She convinced him one night, near the end of his days, that... Sacrifices had to be made. Kings blood had to be given to her red god she said... And... She..." She trailed off her eyes looking to the distance for a moment he swore he saw fire in her eyes "shs said I was a sacrifice needed to be made or atleast my Maidenhead was, and my father agreed."

Lancel's eyes widened in horror at her words. He listened with a mixture of disbelief and disgust. To think that her own father had wanted to sacrifice her for the sake of a strange religion... it was unconscionable "That's... that's monstrous," he said, his voice thick with revulsion. "Your own father... he was going to let a priestess...?"

"she said kings blood was needed to burn so... She took my Maidenhead but that wasn't enough, so... Forced me to get pregnant from my uncles bastard son. She burned the baby... But still that wasn't enough, she ... She burned my baby sister... And she thought that was enough. The day after my father died, her spell failed. She tried to come for me, she wanted to burn me to bring back my father, but my father's advisor helped me escape and return to storms end"

Lancel felt a wave of nausea wash over him as she recounted her horrors. The thought of a child going through such torment was unimaginable. He clenched his fist, trying to control the rage he felt at the atrocities committed against her. “I… I am so sorry, my lady,” he choked out, his voice barely above a whisper. “I cannot fathom the pain and trauma you have endured. I promise you, you will be safe with me. I will do everything in my power to protect you and make sure you are never harmed again."

"thank you Ser Lancel, I know that you will. I'm sure... We will be gentle with each other for many reasons"

Lancel nodded, his heart racing at her words. Despite the horrors she had endured, she still managed to sound sweet and kind, and it only made him feel more drawn to her. "Yes," he said, his voice a little hoarse. "We will go slow and be careful with each other. We can take our time to get to know one another and... and build a connection.'

"exactly" she nodded "... Honestly I was rather excited when I was told"

Lancel's eyebrows raised in surprise. "Excited? You were excited to be married off to me?"

"mhm" she nodded

Lancel couldn't help but feel a little taken aback by her excitement. It was the most bizarre thing he had heard so far. "May I ask why?" he asked, genuinely curious. "I am not the most charming of men. Or the most handsome for that matter."

she giggled "I had heard many stories about you, how you squired for my uncle, I heard once you were handsome, like a young Jamie lannister they said, I heard of the great fighting you did on rhe front lines od ths battle of Blackwater against my father's forces and given your knighthood for it" she cooed "How is your shoulder Ser Lancel?"

Lancel felt a wave of self-consciousness wash over him at her words. He had never been one to boast or seek praise, but he couldn't deny that it felt good to hear her speak of him in such a way. He shifted in his seat, a little uncomfortable with the attention, and reached a hand gingerly to his shoulder. "My shoulder is... alright," he said gruffly, wincing slightly as he touched it. "The wound healed well enough, but the pain still comes and goes."

"oh you poor thing" she cooed "perhaps I could help?" She offered her hands

Lancel hesitated for a moment, uncertain about allowing her to touch him. But there was something about the way she offered, the look in her eyes, that made it impossible for him to refuse. He took a deep breath, hoping she didn't notice the flush of colour on his cheeks. "If you think you can help," he said, his voice just barely above a whisper. "By all means."

she smiled and shifted a little to rest her hands gently on his shoulders giving him a small tender back rub

Lancel couldn't help the shiver that ran down his spine at her touch. Her hands were firm, yet gentle, and the feel of them rubbing his aching shoulder was almost heavenly. He found himself relaxing under her touch, and his eyes began to flutter closed. "That... that feels very nice," he murmured, his voice huskier than usual.

"I'm glad, I'm more then happy to help whenever you like once we're married" she smiled moving a little firmer

Lancel couldn't help the small moan that escaped his lips as she applied more pressure to his sore shoulder. The tension in his muscles was slowly unravelling under her expert touch, and he almost hated the fact that they were in a public garden. He didn't want her to stop, but he also couldn't bear the thought of someone walking in on them. "You know, you could become my dedicated massage therapist," he joked, opening one eye to look at her. "You're quite good at this."

she giggled "I'd be happy to, after all I have to look after all the places I might feel the need to use" she cooed taking her hands away and softly nuzzling with his shoulder

Lancel let out a low, barely repressed gasp as her face nuzzled his shoulder. The feel of her soft skin on his, the intimate gesture, it all sent a jolt of desire through him, unexpected but undeniably strong. He desperately wanted to reach out and pull her closer, but he fought the urge, worried about scaring her away with the intensity of his feelings. "All the... places you might feel the need to use?" he repeated, his voice a little breathless.

"mhm, I have to make sure your shoulder feels alright, or how else can I lay and cuddle on it"

Lancel felt a rush of heat spread across his cheeks at the thought of her cuddled up against him, resting her head on his shoulder. The image was both soothing and arousing at the same time, and he struggled to keep his composure. "You... You want to cuddle up on it?" he asked, his voice rough with emotion.

she nodded nuzzling her nose into his tunic

Lancel could feel her warm breath through his tunic, and it sent a shiver down his spine. It took everything in him not to scoop her up into his arms and hold her tight. Instead, he took a deep shaky breath and forced himself to respond. "I... I don't have any objections to that," he managed to say, hoping she couldn't hear the tremble in his voice. "In fact, I'd... I'd like that very much."

"as would I" she smiled moving away once more "I'm sure we shall find plenty of time for cuddles and such in storms end"

Lancel felt a pang of disappointment as she moved away, instantly missing her warmth. But he tried to hide his disappointment, not wanting to come across as too eager. "Yes, I'm sure we will," he said, forcing a smile. 

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