#Brown Wood Bead with Silk

[ledyjewels]

https://ledyjewels.co.uk/product-category/necklace/opera-necklace/

[saturnville]

in the dirty south.

pairing: cowboy!coriolanus snow x black fem oc. warnings: old slang, sexual innuendo, flirting, sorta forbidden infatuation if you blink. shy!oc. content: while at a town fair with her family, delilah finds herself heavily infatuated with the new face in town. an: the people have spoken. cowboy!coriolanus is here. definitely called on my grandmother's southern roots for this so be prepared. I don't know who started cowboy!coriolanus, but all respect and credit to the individual who did. please let me know what y'all think of this!

tags: @snowlandsontopp @babyzzlove @hlstead @rosewine-5 @unicornqueen05 @thegabbyh @neeville @fastlikealambo @urfavesim to keep your spot on the tag list, you are expected to interact!

Outside visiters were not a common occurance the city. The town was small and everybody knew everybody. One would be a fool to think anything that occured in their lives wouldn't be common knowledge to the inhabitants of the town. She wished she had the same type of delusion.

Once every few months, the mayor of the town found it suitable to host a fair. Something to ease the growing tensions between the families and to usher in a type of fun no one had seen since the rebellions took place.

She wouldn't say she didn't enjoy the fairs, but she knew there were other ways to spend her time aside from handing out freshly baked slices of poundcake and a cup of milk, courtesy of her mother and grandmother.

"Delilah! It's time to go, baby." Her mother's voice was rough like gravel yet soothing like silk. Everyone called her comparison foolish, as they didn't understand. But, until they felt the way her words calmed their soul like a newborn being rocked by its mother, they never would.

Delilah hollered back, "Comin', mama!" She stood in front of the mirror--dingy and stained from being passed down from her great-great-grandmother, and so short that she had to stand on her toes to see her full outfit. Her hands swiped over the fabric of her dress. It was new; her grandmother spent 3 weeks making it. A corset dress as bright as the dust that left her shoulders exposed to the kisses of the sun. She smiled at her reflection and pushed her hair away from her face. She shoved her feet into her boots and ran down the stairs.

Delilah questioned if they arrived late or if everyone else arrived early in anticipation. She bobbed and weaved through the sea of black and brown with a smile on her face. Small "pardon mes" and "excuse mes" poured from her lips like water as she attempted not to knock anyone over with her basket.

She followed her mother like a lost puppy to their assigned tent. Right next to Uncle Turner's barbeque restauraunt and the bathroom. Perfect, she said to herself. Lucille dropped the basket against the wood table and began plucking out the tablecloth and napkins.

"Lilah, I'm gon' grab some pitchers of water inside Turner's. I'll be back shortly." Mama's lips turned upward with a soft smile. Delilah nodded and continued her setting up the table.

Beads of sweat gathered at her forehead and her brown skin stung under the gaze of a burning sun. God, she hoped they wouldn't be outside for 10 hours like they were the last time. She couldn't sworn she melted like an ice cream cone within an hour.

Delilah hummed a church hymn to herself and tossed the basket behind her. She plopped down on the ragged bench and crossed her legs just as her mother taught her years ago, folded her hands over her lap, and watched as people walked passed.

People watching was one of her favorite pasttimes. To her left was a young girl riding on her wooden rocking horse, squealing with glee. To her right was a group of young boys tackling each other to the ground as their mother hollered for them to quit roughhousing. Delilah giggled.

She raised her eyes and jerked backward when she saw a group of men walking past. Four of them to be exact. Three were familiar faces: Elijah, Malachi, and Ezra. The boys whom she grew up with. They used to sleep in the same bed together when their mothers worked at the restaurant late at night. But, there was another one she'd never seen before.

He was unfamiliar. There were a few white boys sprinkled here and there, but in her town, it wasn't a frequent occurance. He seemed comfortable, too, with a boyish smirk on his face as he made the boys' head fly back with glee.

She could tell his hands were strong by the way they latched around the harness that allowed him to control the beautiful horse he rode upon. She looked around and saw other women eyeing the stranger. Who was he?

The man slid off the horse and tied the harness against a stake, and followed the men as they approached her mother's tent. His eyes were curious as they examined his surroundings. Delilah brushed the loose curls away from her face and smiled. "Hi, boys."

A series of disgruntled greetings came from them as they padded around the bench to engulf Delilah in a hug. The stranger stayed in front of her, eyes narrow.

"Where's Mama?" Elijah asked. His green eyes searched for the middle-aged woman.

"She's in Turner's getting some water. Might as well help her while you're lookin' for her," Delilah suggested with a shrug. She could feel icy eyes on her. "She'll mess around and drop them tryin' to do the most. Go catch up to her."

"Delilah," said Malachi. "This is Coriolanus. We, uh, we go back. Old friends. We're gon' help, Mama, but Lilah, don't scare him off." Delilah met his eyes. "I won't."

The boys shuffled off to the restaurant to find her mother, which left Delilah in the presence of Coriolanus. It was unique. She'd never heard anything like it. It sounded prestigious, elite.

He was handsome. Messy curls underneath his hat. Strong stature covered by a thick long-sleeve shirt and vest. Her gaze dropped to his belt. Brown with a holster that held, what she assumed was, a fully loaded pistol. And his boots, worn, dirty, and scuffed, just like hers. A country boy.

"Delilah. Nice to meet you, Mr. Coriolanus." Delilah extended her hand slowly. Coriolanus turned his head to the side. Her hands were slender and her nailbeds were painted a blood red. His tongue danced over his tooth.

"No need for that, darling. Nice to meet you," he replied, gently shaking her hand. His hand was much bigger in hers. Calloused like he wrestled animals in the wilderness. Strong like they'd hold her body upright with ease. His eye contact was strong and he could feel it melting her chocolate orbs away.

When he spoke, she noticed that his accent was nowhere as thick as her own, but a southern twang was laced in his words. Almost like he'd been taught. "Where are you from?" To keep herself from getting weak in the knees, she decided to start setting out the serving ware for the cake. Coriolanus' eyes followed her every action.

"Up north," he replied shortly. "Got in a bit of a mess. Decided to come down south for a while."

Delilah hummed and pulled the lid off the poundcake. Its glaze glistened underneath the sun. Just like her. Coriolanus chuckled to himself. "Do you like it?" She looked up at him through her eyelids.

She was so beautiful. He'd seen his fair share of pretty women since being placed in a new District. But she, Lord, this Delilah was something different. She was short in stature with strong shoulders and hips that were not well hidden beneath her dress. She had a cute smile that was covered by full, cherry colored lips. And her hair, so coily and full in a bun upon her head.

Coriolanus ran his tongue over his bottom lip and nodded. "I like it a lot."

Delilah detected the tone of his voice and fought the urge to smile. "I'm glad that's the case."

It was difficult for Delilah to keep her eyes off Coriolanus. Where he moved, her eyes followed. When he spoke to another woman and charmed her with his smile and bright eyes, she felt a twing of jealousy hit. Then, she'd call herself foolish for even being the slightest bit possessive over a man she'd only known for five hours.

She did her best to keep herself preoccupied with the poundcake in front of her. It worked for the most part, until the bench wobbled by the weight of another. Delilah turned to her left and found Coriolanus leaned against the side. "Can I join you, pretty?"

Pretty. Delilah's body warmed as she nodded. Coriolanus swung his leg over the side of the bench and took a seat. His clothed thigh brushed against her exposed once, causing her leg to jump slightly. He noticed, but chose not to say anything.

"You enjoying the fair?" Coriolanus asked.

"Yeah. It's always a fun time. Plus the food is great, too." She raised her fork that held a piece of cake on it. "Have you tried the poundcake? My mama makes the best ever."

Coriolanus shook his head. Delilah gathered a piece on the fork and held it out with the intention for him to pluck it off, but she was shocked when his full lips wrapped around the edge of the fork. His eyes were trained on hers. A gasp fell from her lips.

He hummed softly. "Delicious." He prepared to spur her on further, finding amusement in her disheveled state, but was called back by Elijah. "I'm comin'!. Save some for me later, darlin'. I'll see you later, alright?"

Delilah nodded and bit her lip. "Alright."

He threw her a wink and walked away. He was far from done with her.

[bloodlust-1]

The Consort ₊⁺જ⁀➴

NSWF | Explicit 18+ | Angst | Blood | Ascended Astarion | Spawn Tav | Dark | Smut | Trauma | Stockholm Syndrome | Violence

Ascended Astarion x fem Tav

Chapter: 4 | Revengeful Eyes

Summary: In a tumultuous tale of love, power, and betrayal, Tav finds herself entangled in a complex relationship with Astarion, a heartless vampire lord who will stop at nothing to maintain control over his newfound spawn. As Tav witnesses Astarion’s transformation and descent into darkness, their love is put to the ultimate test amidst love triangles, drama, and the pursuit of world domination. Redemption seems like an elusive goal while Tav grapples with the realization of who her lover has truly become.

UPDATED EVERY MONDAY

Notes: Why even listen to myself when the post button exists? Did a poll and here we are now yaay.

AO3 LINK | MASTER LIST

Lovely photo by @aristenfromwarsaw

Astarion and Tav arrived at the grand ball, turning heads as they entered the room. Astarion was dressed in a finely red and black tailored jacket and trousers.

Everything about him was perfect, including his partner.

His eyes scanned the crowd with a confident air. Tav was wearing the red dress that Astarion had made for her, the fitted silk red dress with a slit up one leg and draped sleeves that accentuated her figure.

Tav excitedly clutched Astarion’s arm as they made their way through the crowd of guests. Many of them were nobles or rich families with influence. Some even recognized Tav and gave their respects.

It feels weird to be somewhat of a town celebrity.

Tav wore her hair down and adorned with beads and jewelry. She noticed she didn't look like anyone really. From her wide-set pale eyes to Tav's rounded features, she not only looked different but acted like it too. Of course, the ballroom scene was completely foreign to a girl who grew up in the woods.

Astarion twirled Tav around, eyeing every curve the dress hung off of. He was proud of his work. Both dress and spawn, are crafted so beautifully.

“Over there, see the couple in the corner?” Astarion chimed, nodding towards a noble couple near the throne. “That’s a noble couple from Waterdeep, super rich and political. Word has it they’re quite the swingers, if you catch my drift.”

The gossip was hot, steamy even. Astarion knew so much about people who knew so little about him. It was great.

Tav’s eyes widened in shock, practically breaking her neck to get a glimpse of them. “Really? I had no idea,” she whispered with a gasp.

Astarion chuckled. “There’s a lot you don’t know about these nobles, my dear. But don’t worry, social climbing could get you worthy blackmail information on dirty royalty names.”

"I bet." Tav scrunched her lips to the side, "Have you been making any moves? I know you wanted to grow influence, but I'm not sure if world domination is really worth it...Look what happened to the Netherbrain."

"Tch, it'll be all worth it when we can control everything. Think about it, to live freely with anything at your fingertips. Just say the words and it'll be yours." He then glared down at Tav and halted, "You think people will treat you fairly when they know what we are? Blood-sucking monsters."

A monster. Is this what he thinks I am?

Tav shook her head, "That's not true - we're heroes! They'll accept us."

His voice dripped with sarcasm, "Love, please. You act like you've been a vampire for 200 years. Not everyone is like you, so stop being delusional."

Astarion's arms crossed over his chest, his fingers tapping impatiently against his biceps. He let out a loud, exasperated sigh, "I'm doing this for us. This conversation is now over." He pitied and hated her delusional optimism.

Just then, a woman in a black gown caught Astarion’s eye. She was tall and slender, with brown hair that cascaded down her back in waves. She walked between the couple before presenting herself to Astarion, her eyes filled with intrigue.

The woman faced him with a sly smile, not even acknowledging Tav. “Well, well, well,” she teased. “If it isn’t Astarion himself. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Astarion raised an eyebrow. “Oh really? And what have you heard?”

The woman leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I know who you are, Astarion. And I know what you’re capable of. I have a proposition for you, if you’re interested.”

Astarion’s eyes narrowed. “Go on,” he tilted his head, intrigued.

"Not here." The woman's blue eyes fell on Tav with a dismissive look, "And not in front of her."

Astarion eyes met with Tav's and he nodded, "Amuse yourself, I'll be right back."

Tav furrowed her brows. Why couldn't she be there? What did this woman want and what did she know? "But -"

"I said make yourself amused." Astarion cut her words before excusing himself, walking to the furthest corner they could find.

Tav felt a tinge of jealousy as she watched Astarion walk away with this random attractive woman. She couldn’t help but feel left out, but she knew better than to interfere with Astarion’s propositions.

Tav was standing alone near the spiked punch bowl and it was crowded with fancy-looking people all trying to impress each other. She held her cup out in front of her with uncertainty.

Why would he not allow me to stay? She's really pretty too. What the fuck.

Tav was completely zoned out, frozen, and barely blinking between her rapid thoughts.

Suddenly, she felt a gentle hand on her arm and a warm, confident voice, “Let me help you with that.”

It was a man, tall, fair, with sharp features, and long brown hair. He poured the punch into her cup, his movements steady and confident. Tav listened to the sound of the liquid filling her cup, and then his eyes locked onto hers with a wry look, “Are you here alone tonight?”

Before Tav could answer he had already continued, "If so then what a damn shame. To leave a lady like you alone to fend for herself." He rolled his eyes.

huh?

"To fend for myself...? What the hell are you talking about?"

A questionable look crossed his face, "Aren't you blind?"

Tav’s eyes widened as her lips parted with a shocked scuff. “I’m not blind,” she said with extra emphasis on the 'not'.

Clearly embarrassed, his started stumbling over his words in desperation. “I-I’m soo sorry,”

“I didn’t mean to offend you. It’s just that your eyes… they’re so pale, and I couldn’t help but notice you were spaced out.” Again, his eyes seemed to lock onto Tav's as he brought his face closer, inspecting her white irises. This time, it made her heart race from his prying eyes, this random stranger.

Tav lifted an eyebrow in surprise, feeling her cheeks flush at his sudden attentiveness. “Oh,” she said softly. “Well, thank you.” She took a step back.

Should I even be saying thank you right now?

The man smiled and shook his head, still looking sheepish. “No, I’m the one who should be thanking you. I’m Ross, by the way.” He reached out and took her hand in his, shaking it gently with a warm smile.

Tav glared at him with uncertainty, but she tried to relax a little. “Nice to meet you, Ross,” She could feel the warmth of his hand in hers, and she couldn’t help but notice how handsome he was.

She snapped out of it and pulled away her hand with a tug. Tav stared at Ross one last time before turning a heel and walking away.

"Wait - !" Ross followed Tav and waved his hand, "You never answered my question."

Tav stopped mid-stride and turned her head. He huffed out a breath and smiled at her, again. "Are you here alone tonight?"

Plainly, "I'm not."

"Ah - same. I came here with my sister. She seemly disappeared somewhere in the crowd though." Ross looked in the crowd and then, he saw her.

His face faded from concentration into a smile, "There she is. Over there in the black dress." Ross pointed to a woman.

It was the same woman who had walked away with Astarion.

Okay. Now I'm interested.

"Is that so...Is there a reason why you guys are attending tonight's party?" Tav looked back at the woman and then back to Ross. They resembled each other’s sharp features.

Ross shifted uncomfortably under Tav’s gaze, his cheeks flushing slightly. “No specific reason, like everyone else of course. Just a guy looking for a good time.”

Tav stared at him questionably.

Ross gasped at the realization, "In good company and conversation I mean! N-Nothing else, I promise."

He mumbled under his breath, "Shit, I know that didn't sound right."

Tav chuckled to herself as he crumbled in front of her. Ross seemed like one of those gentle giants, very friendly with a heart on his sleeve.

“I - uh, never got your name?” Ross finally managed to ask.

Casually Tav spoke, "Natavia. But everyone calls me Tav."

“Tav?” Ross’s eyes widened in recognition. “Like the hero of Baldur’s Gate Tav?”

Tav chuckled softly at the comparison. “More or less…”

"Wow - It's a pleasure! I knew something was different about you. I could tell you hold weapons. A bow is it..?"

"How'd you know?" Tav tilted her head, her eyes narrowing in comparison.

"I could feel the calluses on your fingertips, especially your middle finger."

"What! Really?" Tav quickly shot up her hands and stared hard at her fingertips with a flustered face.

Ross was right, there were many little indents between her skin and she looked up at him with a shocked expression. Why have I never noticed this?

"It's not a bad thing. I'm sure you're very skilled at it, killing the netherbrain and all, little hero."

"Little?" Tav scoffed, feeling a little defensive but entertained.

Ross playfully waved his hand from side to side with a chuckle. "Just in height." He joked with Tav as if she were a long-time friend. It was weird but also felt nice. It wasn't often Tav really got to make new friends under Astarion's watch.

Finally, from across the room, Astarion's eyes landed on Tav, who was chuckling with Ross. Astarion’s gaze immediately turned cold and devilish, and Tav noticed the change in his expression. She turned her head to look at him, and their eyes met.

Shit.

Tav’s laughter came to an abrupt halt as she met Astarion’s gaze. She felt a shiver run down her spine as she saw the look on his face. It was as if he was sizing her up, analyzing every inch of her. Tav crossed her arms and huffed in annoyance.

This is so stupid. He couldn't be mad at me when he was the one who left to talk to some random girl.

Ross watched Tav with confusion. He matched Tav's stares with Astarion and he spoke up, “Is everything alright Tav?” he said with a forced chuckle.

Tav rolled her eyes, “It's just my boyfriend, he's being moody.”

Ross’s face fell at Tav’s words. He looked genuinely shocked with wide eyes. He scratched his head nervously and tried to laugh it off. “Oh, I see,” he said weakly, forcing a smile onto his face. “Well, I had no idea..."

Ross began to nervously swallow and wet his lips between exchanged words. Almost as if what Tav said really uneased him.

Strange.

"I take it you're not a local From Waterdeep." Ross's words snapped Tav out of her head and she shook her head 'no.'

"I'm from a remote village way South of here, but I live in Baldur's Gate if that's what you meant...What about you?"

Ross nodded, listening to her smooth voice, "I'm from a tribe, but I've moved on from sheltered woods, my home is in Baldur's Gate too. Me and my sister, Rosaline, been moving around lately."

"Oh, why?"

Ross chuckled, the look in his eyes seemed panicked, but his body language remained relaxed and loose, "Just looking for what sticks…So! If you’re ever looking for someone to talk to back home, I’m always at the Blushing Mermaid. It’s lika second home.”

Astarion’s frown deepened as he watched the exchange between Tav and Ross. But he kept his emotions in check, hiding them behind a cold, impassive mask. He knew that he couldn’t let his feelings get the best of him in public.

He completely left the woman, Rosaline, to herself as he made his way over to Tav.

Astarion pulled Tav close to him, his arm wrapped tightly around her waist. “Tav,” he teased, his voice low and husky, “Let us dance.”

Tav looked up at him, surprised but pleased. “Of course, Astarion,” her eyes crinkled with a wry smile.

Astarion glared coldly at Ross as he led Tav onto the dance floor. Ross returned the glare with a dirty look of his own. But Astarion had no time to worry about Ross now, as he pulled Tav close and rested his hand on her waist.

As they began to waltz around the room, Astarion couldn’t take his eyes off of Tav. He admired her beauty, her grace, and the way she moved with him, apart from Tav's occasional missteps. But even as they danced, Astarion couldn’t shake the feeling that Ross was watching them. And every time he caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of his eye, he felt a twinge of anger and resentment.

Who the fuck is this guy.

I'll give him something to see.

Determined to claim Tav’s attention for himself, Astarion stopped dancing and pulled her into a deep kiss. He bit down on her lower lip, causing it to bleed. When he pulled away, Tav winced as she touched her bottom lip and stared at her bloody fingertips.

Her eyes glossed over from the sharp pain, and she stared at Astarion in disbelief. Why would he do something like this now?

“I’m sorry,” Astarion clicked his tongue, though he didn’t sound sorry at all. “I couldn’t help myself.”

Tav looked at him for a moment, her expression unreadable. She didn't know how to feel - embarrassed, upset, special, or seduced? She wasn't sure...maybe a mix of it all.

Before Tav could reply, he had already sucked the blood off her bottom lip shamelessly to whoever watched.

From the corner of Astarion's eye, he could see Ross in the near distance behind Tav, shaking his head with a disapproving face. He reveled in this moment of dominance, and mentally laughed at this random stranger who seemingly stared at Tav a little too much.

That serves him right.

The night continued and Tav could only smile and wave every time she crossed paths with Ross that night. Though it always felt a bit strange considering his sister, Rosaline was always attached to his hip, arms crossed and eyes that were like she was trying to cipher out a code with each movement they took. It was uncomfortable.

ROSS'S POV

Rosaline nudged Ross’s side with her elbow, “Why do you keep looking at them.” She shot him a questioning glance, her eyes searching for answers.

Ross pulled away from Rosaline, his brows clearly in an annoyed furrow, “Stop it.” He shifted his gaze away, avoiding her stares.

“You’re so annoying.” Rosaline brushed him off with a cold shoulder. “Did you at least get any good information out of her?” She then crossed her arms.

“Does it really matter?” Ross avoided making eye contact with Rosaline.

Tav, this new hero stuck with someone like him. Poor girl.

“Yes. it does fucking matter.” Rosaline’s voice rose slightly. She was just above a whisper with anger seething out her lips.

But Ross stood firm and calm, “Listen, Rosaline…We should really just move on from this.”

He didn't want to cause a scene so publicly or have anyone overhear them arguing.

Rosaline shook her head in disbelief and her eyes glossed over with disappointment, “I can’t even believe you right now.”

She scuffed, “Are you fucking serious - Tell me you’re fucking with me right now...”

Ross's voice went soft slightly as he sighed, “No. There’s innocent people involved in this and they don’t deserve to be.”

“What - the girl? Who cares, some innocents were taken from us!” She continued to lash out at him in an angered whisper. “He stole our brother - He was just a child, we all were! If you feel so damn heartfelt for them then maybe it should’ve been you!” The air hung heavy and her pain was palpable.

“It just feels wrong.” Ross’s voice wavered slightly, uncertainty creeping into his head.

“You have no loyalty, you’re despicable.”

“I do have loyalty.” Ross’s voice hardened, and he finally stared back at his sister with anger in his eyes.

Rosaline had a face of nothing but disgust for her brother, “Then act like it.”

Next part here

Any thoughts? Comment 👇🏼 I love to engage!

CHARACTER SPREAD-SHEET

TAV, ROSS, ROSALINE

I made this with Artbreeder to try and visualize these new characters as I write and wanted to share. These siblings are so gorgeous AHH.

LOOK AT TAV. breathtaking. But I imagine her with locs, which are kinda visible? AI is not perfect but it's a pretty good generalization of her :') Ross reminds me of Flint Rider.

But a little cliffhanger. I wonder what they're talking about? Hmm. See ya next week

[punk-in-docs]

🥀 Traps With Baited Jaws 🥀 Prince Paul x Reader || 14.8k words || Part III

Summary: There’s a snake in the palace garden. Blood spattered on Catherine’s shrubs. Reader learns that Ruling all of Russia comes at a gutting price- (TW so much subby!Paul smut, violence, mentions of gore/death)

Suka - Term mostly used for women, meaning ‘Bitch’

Mudak - Term used for men, it mostly means asshole, pig, basically a derogatory term for a man.

General Abramov was practically pacing long groves, in the parquet floors outside your quarters.

The doors were closed. No signs of life stirred behind them. None. Stone cold dead. Quiet as the grave.

It was a quarter past ten. The Tsarevich was due half an hour ago, to join Minister Panin in negotiations with the Turkish Ambassador. Who famously was of a grizzly temper, and didn’t like to be kept waiting.

Subsequently, the man now had a face like bottled up thunder. Sat across the table tapping his fingers on the wood. His aides were getting twitchy and pissy. Scurrying to his side to whisper more snide discontent in his ears in their mother tongue.

They offered wine and cakes. They offered vodka. They almost offered some agreeable plump-thighed courtesans. But it wouldn’t sway the bastards. Sharp brown eyes scratched glares like arrow tips across the table.

Abramov volunteered to leave the huge echoing room. Snappish. Tensions swimming down tight like a noose on the Russians. He politely said he’d hurry the Prince along. The ambassador gave him a chilly stare. Gaze packed in frost.

You do that.

Find out what’s so important to that insolent Boy Prince, to keep us waiting.

The General bowed jovially in parting. Waddled his portly way the hallways to Paul’s chambers. Sword clattering at his rounded side. He scooted along. Sweat beading under his wigged brow. Matching his red cheeks.

He’d knocked loud enough to wake the hounds of hell. And then he decided enough was enough. He jiggled the handle and it twisted.

He let himself into the private lounge. The rooms where the Prince would dine. A lounge where they’d light the fires. Masculine port reds soak heavily on the walls. Golds and creams layered daintily on the furniture, like whipped cream dolloped on a dark cake.

It goes beyond the General’s notice to spot a wriggled pair of stockings thrown over the back of the settee. Cushions squashed from the previous crush of bodies. A suspicious wet patch sullying the silk. One pair of mauve ladies heels cast across the floor.

Evidence of a salacious night the evening past.

Catherine’s silky miniature greyhounds are in here. The maid let them in. The mutts were thieving the food that hasn’t been yet cleared by the servants. Leftover essences of last nights dinner.

Blue cheese and French bread. A bowl of ripe grapes, apples and oranges. Two used glasses of wine. One knocked over, broken. Crimson blooms into the persian rug. Bleeding expensive Portuguese wine. No one will care.

The dogs are thieving bread crusts, fruit, and leftover bones. Munching on the plushy pink centres of cut open figs and gnawing ham bones. They yip and sprint away licking their spoilt greasy chops when Abramov came storming in.

The pocket doors to the bedchamber are half closed. Pushed up but not shut. The General is walking too angrily and too quickly to stop and devour the noises coming from behind those doors.

The room filled with wet sounds sneaking from the spaces where your bodies vigorously net.

“Your Majesty.” He begins as he determinedly cuts through Paul’s quarters.

When he rounds the open doors and sees what’s happening on the bed, mortification roundhouse punches him in the stomach. His glaring pink cheeks get pinker - eyes blow wide like spode saucers.

You and Paul, not at all covered the twisted cotton sheets laying limp to the mattress.

He’s laying back. And you’re riding him. Winding your hips to slam down on his cock.

Head thrown ceiling bound. Hair wild and kinked down your back. Cheeks red. Body rendered in shimmering sweat. His hands clutch the cradle of your hips. Fingertips digging dips into the meat of your skin.

He’s in the same state. Sweat licked skin. Eyes so dark they’re black tar stuck on the sight of you. Brown curls damp at the brow. Cheeks all rushed red. It spreads down his neck too.

You love when it does that. You drag your nails over the blush. Leave white lines raked through.

General Abramov is a witness to the way you grind your hips, all to make your husband buck and writhe below you.

Paul’s eyes widen just a little at being caught. Too wrapped up in the bliss of your cunt to fully care.

He almost goes to grab the damp sheets. Or move. Or rectify, or-just, something. Yell and tell him to get out, when he can manage to find his churlish tongue.

Because, fuck, your hips were just that good. He’s drunk on you.

You shove a hand flat to his sternum and make him stay down - your breasts jolt as you ride your husbands cock. You don’t care if the General sees you. Even more than he’s already undeservedly glimpsed.

The man flounders on the spot for a moment. Caught in the ragged chafing space between embarrassment and mortification.

You twist, panting and look the General right in the eyes where he stands gawping. Long coils of hair sticky and clinging on your forehead.

Narrow your bladed eyes and cut his skin with a look that’s all displeasure and amusement. Prickly as a pretty rose bush. To be adored, admired, but make no foolish mistake, your thorns will prick out blood.

It’s true what they say about you. You are all slicing knives, coated in bitchiness.

You look displeased. Yet you smile. It’s all manner of brazen. Lips way too red and wet from sucking on your husbands cock before the position you find yourselves in now. You’ve no shame.

“I’m not done with him yet.” You insist.

Ultimate authority in your tone. Purring sultry breathy words like the sex kitten you are.

“Now, fuck off Abramov. You may have him. When I’ve finished.”

Unspoken threat follows sharply after your carefully plucked but nettling words; Kindly fuck the hell off so I can cum.

He stumbles through an apology to your majesties and bolts from the room like his heels are lit on fire. Like hell hounds are snapping at his coat tails too.

You hardly hear the receding footsteps. General Abramov’s bright red face glowing as he chuffed in displeasure and made a hasty retreat. Good. Tubby old letch.

Paul chastised you.

Overlapping his cross chide is the slam of the door that rattled the air. “That mouth.” He growled in fondness.

“The mouth that you had wrapped around you not too long ago. You were saying very different things about it then.” You point out.

You shift your hips and resume your pattern. You had been edging him for nearly an hour now. He’s all blushy and ready to blow. Just a little longer.

He sits up, chest mashed to yours, and shuffled your hips further on him. Hands scooping under your ass and bringing you close as was possible.

And then he doesn’t care at all, cause he’s smothering his mouth over your breasts and your perfectly hard nipples, and they bounce to his lips where you continue to ride him to a full gallop.

Those hips of yours should be outlawed. Fucking divine.

He’s licking your nipples and letting them fall into his open, searching mouth. Moving his head to time with your thrusts on and off his cock. Plucking with lips and tongue.

You get sweet. Soft on him maybe

Decide to lean back and let his hot mouth and seeking lips wander the sweat trails on your skin.

So dirty. This prince of yours had some of the filthiest desires you’d ever known. Debauched. Debased. He’s always ready to lap you clean after a hard fucking. Beg on his knees. Let’s you choke on his cock for hours, if that’s what you so desired. Prostates himself on the altar of your dignity.

You purr moans right now as he licks at your nipples.

Your interruption was paid no heed. He’d deal with it later. Much later. After you’d finished having your wicked delightful way with him.

Your nails are scratching up the nape of his neck. Tugging the brown locks in a mean fist. You bring his head up to watch his reaction when you clench down on him.

“Seeings as you find my behaviour so objectionable. Perhaps I should stop?” You judge.

Thrusting your hips forwards in a silky sway that gets his mouth going slack. Buried between your shoulder and your neck as he hiccuped a sob.

“Would you rather I cease, my prince?” You ask.

Twist of the knife. Salt rubbed in a gaping wound. You ask so sweetly. Yet still you roll your hips.

There’s a little glaze of fiery hatred in his eyes. But he knows if he doesn’t behave he won’t get a single thing.

“Please. Don’t stop. Please. Never stop.” He begs. His voice crawls into that soft broken territory between pleading and desperation. Hands palming your dewy hips as he nudged his nose against your shoulder.

He’s weary and sweaty and rubbing himself all over you like a cat in heat. Sweat licked skin. Desperate pretty boy with his lashes draping a long flick of burnt umber onto his cheeks, as he bites his lips and begs begs begs.

You’d kept up this soft teasing for hours. Especially last night.

At dinner was when you started. Afterwards during the Opera was when you kept it going.

Sat next to him in the red and gold encrusted box and drove him wild.

You started by caressing your fingertips just up his thighs. Over his tight white breeches. Palming his cock over them. Making him close his eyes and whine like a kicked puppy.

You’re a cruel cruel mistress with it. Every time he hummed, or moved, or adjusted, shyly asking for more, with a shove of his hips forwards to your hand, you pulled away.

Diamond bracelets rattling on your wrists. The way you looked so smug. Had his teeth grinding to dust.

Desire spurned with so much love and hatred it could swallow the blazing sun whole. Loathe at first sight and all that-

You watched the stage religiously as the Aria from the Soprano tripped into a stunning high C. Pitching higher and higher as Paul’s hips squirmed to your touch. And then-the horrible awful wretched burn of-

Nothing.

Leaving him to fester in the ache of a punishment. Hand pulled away again.

He had to swallow and bite his knuckles. You could see tears shimmering in his eyes. You wondered if he’d summon that bratty tongue and give you orders soon.

Listening to him breathe unevenly, all choppy, staring at the chalky opera scenery and fucking Greek marble plinths and columns on the foggily lit stage, with his cock pressed hard and painful up against the falls of his breeches.

You fan yourself and know he’s watching your hair swirl in the breeze. Your diamonds blazing in the dull light, linked around your neck.

The way they shift up and down with your every breath. Clasping your collarbones and fuck now he’s envious of a bunch of stones for being able to kiss your skin and he cannot?- torture.

He looks to your amused face for answers. Puppy doe eyes - slipped with tears-melting all genteel at you.

You give him that look. That knowing wifely look of ‘you will not cum until my say so.’

And how he knew it.

Trying to get you to budge would be like trying to move this entire palace over three feet, merely by pushing at the brick walls with your bare hands.

You scrape your nails up his thigh to dig in. A sting. Just a little pain. He could take it.

His adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. Sweet rouge on his cheeks absolutely nothing compared to the real merlot blush underneath.

His jaw was tight, knowing that if he utters so much as one peep of a word, those fingers and that blissful touch of yours would flit away. Back to your own lap.

Poor baby boy prince.

He leaned over and hissed into your ear. Clutching your hand where it laid over his cock.

This opera is going on for far too fucking long.

It’s a German opera my love. It may well last for a week.

He curses in his mother tongue.

When it does finally blunder to a finish? Oh he’s ripping you out that seat and out the box door before the final note even reaches top pitch. Before the velvet curtains slam together.

He practically ran you to his rooms he moved so quickly, so recklessly. Sweaty palm clutched hard and painful on yours. He’s tugging you along and you do let him. Spilling love-drunk into the night

The pair of your shoes clipping harsh on the parquet floors. It snaps to the high moulded ceilings. Along with the smoke that flickers from the flickering candelabras. You laugh when he shoves you into the alcove by by his doors. He kisses you like he wants to win you over.

Again. You let him. You let him devour your mouth like a sloppy teen with a fat clumsy tongue whose never even kissed a girl before.

You grab his cravat. Fist the tied cotton in your nails. Tumbling backwards on horny limbs through the doors to your chambers. Entwined.

Lips joined and roving over hungry plump mouths, passion bruised, burned alive as you bumbled your way, tangled legs, knocking knees, and into his bedchamber.

Your arm hooked around his neck. His took fists of your skirts and hauled you closer. Like a spoilt child clutching at his favourite toy.

“Please, please” He began. Your poor husband was treading softly on eggshells, the slightest kiss or the tease of your body against him giving him a hard-on he couldn’t get rid of. He aches. It hurts- he wants to sob already.

You decide to grant a little clemency in the middle of your fun.

You pull him in and push him onto the settee in your rooms. Shove him back til his legs give way. Making him crash down.

He drank this behaviour in, fucking flourished on this kind of attention.

He’s sprawled out. Cheeks red. You hook your fingers into, and then throw that stupid pompous ceremonial wig on his head across the room. You yank his trouser falls down one handed.

You saw the resulting grin that followed. The dark eyes clutched with lewd lust. He wanted to admonish you for stripping him of his courtly dress. But then you won’t give him what he needs.

Being married to you has been a lesson in biting his tongue. He both loathes and loved it in equal measure. No one can treat him like this but you-

Before he can even try asking and begging again, you’re wrapping your skilful lips and talented flicking tongue around his thick cock. Swirling around the head. Sucking deep. Swallowing him down.

Choking on his girth as his hands twitch to just bury themselves deep in your perfectly arranged, silky-sweep of hair. All coils and pearl pins. Refinement. Elegance.

And yet here you are with his cock buried in your mouth til your gagging. Like some common Parisian whore with smeared rouge.

You let him just clamber to the peak and then, you’re leaving him dry, pulling back with a hum, and a satisfied pop where he slicks out your mouth. Drool stringing down your tongue to his length. Hard cock shiny with your spit.

Watch him drop his head on the puffed up and plump settee cushions with a damn near pitiful, aroused whine. Hips shifting.

“Be good." You warned. You rose up and bit his lower lip in an aggressive kiss. Voice like harsh thunder. He sits up and drinks as much of a kiss out the cup of your mouth as he dared.

You back up to a stand. Pushing up with your hands from the furniture. Paul just looked up at you from his thrown position on the settee, all sprawled crashed limbs and hope worn naked on his face.

Pulling off what of your dress you could manage on your own. Making him watch your crude undressing. Brocade silk cast to the floor.

You lock eyes with him as you strip your clothes. Shoes kicked off. Leaving you in your stays, chemise and stockings. Anything else required more elaborate undressing. And time you simply didn’t have right now.

Every scrappy second was devoted to this man before you. Stood up, peering down on the lovely sight of him

“Are you going to behave for me, my Tsarevich?” You asked him, cupping his chin between a thumb and forefinger.

He’s quick to nod. Head bobbing like a wild lunatic obeying your commands.

“Going to follow my every command?” You check. You slip your hand off his chin.

Again. A nod.

“Knees. Now.” You bark out at him.

“Yes. yes.” He couldn’t twist his clumsy tongue around the words fast enough. He struggles off the settee and his knees crashed to ground - hard. Cock bobbing where he moved.

You take his place. Laying back. Spreading your knees wide. Pulling up your chemise until your slick pussy was exposed.

He swallowed. His pupils blew wide at the sight, enchanted. Tongue wetting his lips. Fingers itching to move.

“Lick-“

He dove into you.

Licked and sucked, nibbled, flicking skilfully against your clit and running the point of his tongue right up and down your slit. 

So enthusiastic, so greedy.

You reached over and soothingly grabbed a handful of his brown hair with a sigh, rocking your hips against his mouth.

He groaned into your folds and took it.

Lolling his head forwards as you ground your clit against his nose and slicked up his chin and all over his cheeks with arousal. 

“Finally putting that bossy mouth to good use, Hmm?” You moaned. Bucking into his searching mouth.

That voice that barked at his army. And often at you. Or scathed at his mother. And here he is being such a good boy with it. Like he was trying to eat you from the inside out.

He slurped at you as best he could. Hazily content to let you use his lips. Chocolate-drop eyes glassy, gazing with sheer dumbed bliss and awe up at you.

Contentment churned with gratitude, that you’re finally letting him get his mouth on this holy grail of your lush pussy. Feeding it to him.

“You getting all thoughtless my sweet?” You cooed, heat pooling in your gut at the sight of his face squished between your doughy thighs.

“Love eating me that much do you?” You murmur.

He hummed his answer into you.

“Mmmhmm.” Long and low, like hot drawling treacle, nodding, fingers bunching your skirts as you rocked against him.

The only thought behind those doe eyes, is that he desperately needs to make you cum.

Drunk on pussy. He’s making those moans. Your favourite kind. Eyes flicked back in his skull. Lost in your taste, and the sensory thrill of puffy wet lips gliding against his tongue.

Sweet submissive little noises endlessly trip out his mouth.

You can feel that low-gathering heat bunching up in your gut. He’s tonguing you into an orgasm so quickly. Sensation like fire sneaking up from your ankles up your thighs. Almost like an agony. Bliss stacking up in your bones ready to tip over.

“Mmm. Paul.” You groan all breathily. Your hand clutched hard in his hair. The other over your head and scratching nails into the settee silk.

A warning. A good kind of warning. One that meant he was pleasing you. He thrummed with bliss, neglected cock throbbing, and he’s licking harder.

Fuck, you were close. So very, very damn close. He got you there quick.

You sway your hips up and down to push against his sloppy lips. “Gonna cum. Right on your tongue. Would you like that, my darling?” You ask. Voice all high.

He nods. Furiously nods. It makes lewd wet sounds squelch out from between your thighs.

You start to pant with the way your orgasm rips through you like a devastation. It starts to uncoil and then it’s unleashed.

A natural storm that swelled and tugged and transformed. Legs shaking around his head. Knocking into his ears. Throwing your head back and crying out one long wail. Wetness of your climax seeped out of you and onto the silk of the settee seat. Smothered his chin and mouth.

“Paul. Oh, Fuuuck. Fuckkk.” You tug on the back of his hair and it must be mashing his face so deep into you, nose into your clit so that he could barely breathe-

He didn’t look the slightest bit bothered about gulping down air. Not when he was busy gulping down you.

You spilled into his mouth and he eagerly lapped you up. He finally took a breath as he rested his cheek against your thigh. Dozy grin on his dopey lips as you came back from your high.

Seeing this man shiny cheeked with your arousal. All blushy and slumped against your thigh, ye gods, it was almost as good as the incendiary sex the two of you have.

The future heir of all Russia. Slumped into you, brainless from eating you out. Will wonders never cease.

“Get me out these fucking stays Paul. And I will make you cum and cum until my legs give out.” Is your next order.

Laying back and purring at him from your resplendent sex-frazzled position.

He very obediently stands up and acquiesces instantly. Tearing your stays laces open. Stockings off and thrown over the settee back. Mouth hungrily sloppy slanted on yours.

Bed. Now. Wife.

He ripped your stays. An unfortunate casualty in the end. You couldn’t even care.

This is where it wound you both up. The morning after. You’re riding his cock and making him late to meet with the Turks.

You smirk when you think what they will ask Abramov on his return, and what his answer will be.

“Now. Be a good Prince. Lay back so I can fuck you properly.”

“This isn’t properly?” He asks with disbelief.

You reel him in and kiss him before you pull back and carelessly shove him down. The way he liked. Hand to sternum. And you shove-

He sprawled back on the mattress with a pretty grin that split his face in two. Hands sliding up your knees.

“Want me to fuck you or not?” You ask.

“God please. Please. I will throw myself on your mercy.” He begs.

“Go ahead. I don’t have much to contend with.” You warn him sharply.

Watching how he moans and drops his head back. Gasping and grasping at the sex mussed sheets. You start to swivel your hips. Figures of eight relentlessly. Cruelly.

“You’re so-“ The words evade him. He can’t decide if he wants to curse your blood or sing your praises.

“Careful. Or I won’t be generous. I’ll pull off. Leave you here to fist yourself in your own hand. Spill over your chest like an adolescent.” You sneer.

“You wouldn’t.” His lip trembles with some real horrific fear that you might leave him aching.

His fingertips seek for your legs. Clamping you onto him. Never leave. Ever.

He can’t even let you sleep in separate beds. Not even when you vex each other and snipe like fishwives over something inconsequential at court. Something you don’t see eye to eye on.

Even then, he goes off to his chamber to take a drink and calm down. Yet, come an hour later, and he’s climbing under your sheets with you. Pasting himself to your back with his face in your neck because-

His pillows smell like roses. Of course. They’re soft as anything in heaven. But what they don’t have, is the smell of your peachy perfume lingering on them. He needs that merely to drift off to sleep.

On nights like those, you tend to hate-fuck the aggression away. Take it out on each other. Bear scratches and bruises and tired half moon eyes the next morning. It’s worth it all to share that secretive dirty smile over a crowded room.

You both can’t forget that this crazy twisted path which ended up leading to love, did start in seething hatred and explosive enemy territory. You vexed him, he shoved you back. You kicked, he clawed, you scratched.

You loathed each other bitterly before you ever considered it could actually be passion, prevailing, blazing between you. Some nights you’re reminded of that fact and in the morning neither of you can walk properly. There’s bliss in it you could never give up. Not for all of Russia.

You run your fingers down his chest. Dig your nails in just a little. Press your fingertips over his taut nipples to get a whiny reaction. You smile when it comes.

“I’m not going anywhere.” You slide back down on him so he can feel how wet you’re getting.

“Your cock feels too good, my Prince.” You slam on him again and let him feel how you crush your walls in a tight squeeze on him. Choking his thick fat cock. Pleasure and pain in equal portions.

He’s laying back. All lip bites, blushy cheeks and stumbly moans. Unable to tear his shining eyes off you.

You give him so little all night, and took and took, and then you heap everything back upon him. Like now; riding him so fast you knew he wouldn’t be able to resist it for long.

You were slamming yourself to his hips and grinding right up against his soaked thatch of curls at the base of his cock. It had him close to tears. Your clit is almost numb with how much sensation you’re grinding out of him.

The wet slapping-slick sounds of your cunt sheathed tight around him echo obscenely in this bed. Crude as hell and so loud. It’s making him shiver to hear it.

You’re so wet he can feel you slurping against his body. Mess dribbled down to the inside of his own thighs.

“My love. Oh my- love my-your cunt is incredible. I can’t do it. I can’t hold off. I- hmmm.“ He blabbered. Pitchy. He can’t even round off his jagged little words. Throat corded and tense and veins wriggle and push up under his skin with the strained effort.

His body is jolting from how hard you’re riding him. You can feel him coiling tighter and tighter under you. His belly tenses. He’s thrusting his hips up to meet you. It batters that spot rooted far inside that makes your whole belly flutter.

You moan with pleasure and he’s eating it all up.

You adore the way the bed is slamming hard, knocking into the wall from the roll and knock of your hips.

“Better break this damn bed frame putting a baby in me.” You order. Dig your nails into his ribs again.

“Going to fill me up, Tsarevich? Hmm? Leave me dripping?” You enquire. Sultrily cooing the words at him. Liquid sex skated on your voice.

That did it.

His nails bite into your legs and he starts to chuff breaths like he simply can’t believe you. Can’t wrap his mind around your indecipherable form. Eyes wide and dazed. You catch them for barely a second before they flip back in his head.

You wreck him. You drive him to ruin. And he offers himself up to you for more. Push him right to the brink of abyss and snatch him back. You’d always snatch him back. He was yours to do so with.

You feel his cock pulse hard inside you. Spurting and blooming that delicious push of warmth low in your belly.

He whines when you won’t stop winding your hips in big wide circles to get every pulse of pleasure out of him. Capture every drop.

He cries for mercy. Throat bared as his head is all the way back to the sweaty mattress.

You eventually decide to give it. But not before succumbing to your pleasure. Throwing your head back and riding hard hard hard. Moaning for anyone to hear and you didn’t care who did.

Then you’re drenching-gushing in his lap when you cum. Gummy walls rippling down on him in a fluttering series of squeezes that make his brain wipe blank.

His hands are sweaty clamps on your waist as he watches in awe. Cup of his sweet pink mouth gaping. Oversensitivity brushing against his cock but, lord, this view of you he gets to have is entirely worth it.

You float down from your high. Sticky skin pasted to his where you flop into his chest. Thighs shivering with the strain. Feeling the warmth of his soft cock inside you. Messy where your bodies meet.

You indulged him in a kiss as he rakes his hands through the sweat dampened hair at the nape of your neck.

“So good for me. Always so good.” You pant against his lips. Biting his lower lip with a tigers proud smile. Heart clashing terrifying beats against the trap of your ribs. Same as his.

He’s quiet. Just gazes at you. Equally terrified and utterly beguiled by the fierceness of this hold you have over him. He doesn’t know what he’d do without you. Every day in this court he treads a knifes edge that something will take you away. Something he can’t stop. Something he’s powerless against.

Then what will become of him-

Bliss is now furring up his tongue and stilling his head. All you can hear is the aggressive ram of your hearts as you lay atop him.

Dipping your fingers into his collarbone. Dragging them in patterns that smear his sweat over his torso. Down his slight pudge of a belly. The soft scratch of his happy trail. Up over every bump of his ribs.

You roll on your side and hiss when you shift up and off his cock. Almost sore from the rough ride you gave but you don’t divulge that. That would be admitting weakness and there’s no soft spots you can expose, not in the rough hyde of your ‘supposed’ scaly dragon skin.

Slick-creamy spend of him spills down your thighs. A ring of it left at the base of his cock. Shining wetly on the thatch of his dark pubes.

You smile with sight of it as you roll on your side and cuddle up close to him. Leg thrown over his hip. Hand a reliable weight resting on his sternum.

Wedding ring shining a bright snatching gold and glimmer of diamonds. Sweat wriggled down your chest and over your nipples and he’s hungry to stick them in his mouth again.

He skates his hands up your leg. Looking at you with a weepy and dazed expression.

You watch him a second. Before shuffling naked to sit up. You reach over and press your thumb into the space between his brows. As if you can rub the creasing frown away.

“Why the face my love?” You ask.

Because of course you eternally have your fingers hovering on the pulses of his every mood and want. The vital string of him deep inside you loved to toy with? You know it better than anyone ever has. It’s infuriating. Yet somehow incredible.

You can feel when something isn’t right. It’s eerie but you just can. Can judge what’s up with one flick of your eyes across his expression.

To you, he’s like those long daunting books you devour in the library. You trawl your diamond tip eyes over every secret line of him, and can easily read when something isn’t right.

Hysteria slams into his chest. Mangles his still throbbing heart that doesn’t, that can’t, calm down. He drapes his hand over yours on his ribs. Turns to meet your eyes.

He loves you. Proper honest to god, biblical, soul-deforming, aching perfect love.

And that frightens the hell out of him.

And he’s not just stumbling to this realisation because you’ve pushed him around into submission, and ridden his cock like an absolute champion. Well, not entirely-

You tilt your head and await his response. So many things unsaid sink into the plush bed of his tongue;

He’s so thankful his conniving draconic mother brought you here. Summoned you from Rostov to entertain him and get him off her back.

He’s so happy for every sneer you give him. Every shared look that sent shivers, cast over a ballroom swimming in good golden candlelight and the other half falling into spots of shadow.

He’s so soothed when he comes back from another argument, locking antlers with his mother, and you’re there in his quarters.

In your exotic plum silk dressing gown, hair down, soft, no angles present, pouring him wine and pulling him in for a plump kiss to chase the sour-sharp words off his tongue.

He doesn’t know how to speak kindly or softly. He’s been raised in the opposite of all those things. In every manner. By the same token, so have you. You’re perfectly matched in that regard. Tongues like sandpaper. Bred with barbs left on your dark souls.

Is there a hole where our hearts are do you reckon.

Yes my love. Black and terrible deep ones.

And it couldn’t be more right.

He leans over and softly lets his lips spill onto yours, and kisses you. Because these feelings just burst out of him, and he needs somewhere to direct them. He cups your face and won’t stop drinking in your lips like he needs them merely to survive.

You smile when he lingers so long kissing you like he’s still aroused. Lips wet and tasting faintly of you. Pushing and taking. When you pull back, your lips are spit wet.

“Aren’t you now terribly late to go and meet this ambassador?” You enquire in a soft voice still laced in giddiness from his kiss. Fingers still splayed on his sweaty skin.

He shakes his head at you with a trace of a flirty smile. “Good thing I don’t entirely care for the Turks.”

“You’re welcome, my liege.” You grin. Looking like a honey eyed vision. Like that sly fox in old fables.

It suits you. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

~

A tea party. Another bloody insipid tea party.

All you seem to do is take tea, or lunch, put on dresses, or a strand of pearls or a diamond clasp. Plan yet another tea party, and lay in wait to hear the latest snippets of gossip. It does grow into tedium, you’ll admit.

But then, that’s what the ladies of the court love to do.

They do remarkably little else.

Aside from fucking, reproducing, and bitching. But, silver lining. With these parties, atleast there’s cake.

Paul remarks that those silly affluent ladies don’t have the brains to do anything else. They do as they’ve always done; as they were taught and raised by their own ridiculous mothers.

Prance daintily around with their fluffy little lapdogs, their silk dresses and their powdered wigs, they wag their tongues like it’s a sport. And their usefulness really does end there.

You sit in Catherine’s spacious rooms. The ones she entertains in. The walls are slaked in deep rich paints. Mossy greens and flower vines twining in opulent golds with jewel coloured petals. Dazzling Prussian blue velvet swallows the light on the furnishings. Dark like her wicked taste in all things.

You’ve got one of her little Italian greyhounds cushioned in your lap. Malvolio. The naughty tempered grey one. He sits there chuffing as you scratch behind his ears.

You watch the Empress cackling with mirth as she points out the window beside Lady Orlova, showing off the pair of peacocks in her gardens that drift through, pecking at the lawn. Feathers skirting fluffy behind their steps like a brides train.

They were a gift from the Emperor of the Mughal Empire. All the way from the Agra Fort.

You’re sat on the rococo settee with Milena. She wore a dress the colour of vivid lemongrass, with a gold and emerald necklace ringing her throat. You saw to her having a good maid - at last. And access to as many jewels and silks as you did. She smelled like rich vanilla soap and damask roses.

You wore your mulberry purple silk dress. Rubies set in squares and icy silver cling to your neck, and drape from your lobes. A single teardrop of a pearl dangles off the necklace. To sit at your clavicle.

Both dressed in your court finery. Heeled feet propped on the low table being very unladylike as you dipped into Earl Grey tea - her into the wine - and scoffed down tiny, pretentious pink cakes. Slathered in too much sugar and fondant icing.

“I cannot believe it is expected of us to do this twice a week.” She griped.

“Here, here.” You mope in agreement.

“That’s cause not a single one of them, save for our glorious Empress, has ever read or touched a fucking book.” Milena explained as she shoved a much too big cake into her mouth.

“Probably wouldn’t know how to open one without instruction.” You jape.

It made her smile around her mouthful. She vulgarly sucked her fingers clean.

“You know, I heard that in Europe, There is a popular movement. It is being called the enlightenment. People meet in coffee houses and read journals and pamphlets. An exchange of ideas and liberation.”

At that precise moment your attention is called across the room to where the Ladies flock like hens to one noble who was proudly showing off how the new snuff box she’d been gifted, had been painted with a miniature of her spaniel. And isn’t that stunningly clever. Have you ever seen anything so ingenious? I declare not.

The Patriarch Archbishop, stood and clapped his hands in wondered awe at the spectacle. How wonderfully Marvellous.

“And then the there’s us-“ You comment drily as you watch the exchange with barely veiled horror.

“Stuck in the dark ages.” Milena agrees.

“Be careful lest we be burned at the stake for that kind of talk.”

Lady Petrova scurried past you, talking shrilly a mile a minute, about her new lilac lace parasol. How wonderful the fabric was. And how she simply must demonstrate it’s perfection right away.

She puffs up her parasol like she’s putting on a show and gets a dainty round of applause. Noises of awe from her companions.

“Fuck this. Have you a pistol?” You murmur in agony.

Milena snorts.

“If I’d have been lucky enough to be carrying right now. Half the idiots in this room would have some extra ventilation in their heads courtesy of me.”

“Start with the Patriarch.” You consider. Smiling all saccharine at the man. He was a horrible old letch. Pious to the most harsh degree.

He unnerved you with his constant toadying towards you and Catherine. When you’ve heard him snipe from corners when her back was turned how German turncoats and sexually liberated women like her, should be horsewhipped.

It makes you wonder at the manner of this frivolous court life. If everyone slaps on a smile that’s purely fake to glide through halls. Then, crept in the dark gaps of bright candlelight the smiles drop and true natures come sneaking free. This place felt like a writhing-seething snake pit on the best of days.

Milena tilts her head at you. “Patriarch is a solid choice.”

His nature was entirely contrived in front of Catherine and Paul. You and Milena received scathing comments from him in moments when no one could overhear. As far as he was concerned she was a sapphic hell-spawn who should rot in hell. He saw you as the royal bitch of a broodmare only fit for breeding. At least you were a true Russian though.

By gods grace that was the one thing he did like about you.

Both your moods plummet to the earths core when he decided to wander your way away from the courtesans and their lace umbrellas and fucking dog painted snuff boxes.

“Tsarevna. You do look well.” He rubs his slimy hands together. Horrible glint in dulled eyes the colour of grey marble stone like the cold walls of church he loves. His voice is chalk dry and grating. A sack full of broken metal that scraped against your ears.

“Patriarch.” You greet. Your smile is stiff.

“Still not with child I see? Are there problems upon the royal marital bed? As a holy leader of this country, I take great interest in the state of our leaders familial prospects.” He raised one thinning brow. Your jaw clamps.

Keep fucking walking. You think.

“Though I hear you’ve no problems with opening your legs for our dear royal Prince. Like a true Voronsky.” He insults with a beam traced on his lips.

Milena turns to you with a sneer. “Bet you wish I had that pistol now.” She starts darkly under her breath.

“Tell your little spies to keep their beaky noses out of my business or my bedchamber. I’m a terrific shot. I’d hate for anything to come to harm. They may get their pretty feathers bloody.” You peck out. Stroking your lapdog.

Milena chuckles. Popping another cake in her mouth. Cackling as she enjoyed it. Not taking any care to be ladylike.

“Lady Dimitrova.” He hissed with his teeth clenching. Milena’s hand curls into a fist.

She narrows her eyes. Smiles sickly. Daydreaming about putting a bullet right through his greasy balding head. It was her soothing lullaby most nights.

“Heavenly Father.” She cooed all flirting.

“Still delighting in your depraved inverted sins?”

“On a daily basis.” She sucks her fingers clean of icing with a too loud suck. Sucking the end of her middle finger, and plainly aiming it right at him.

“Still on your knees praying yourself black and blue? More fool you-“ She sniffs derisively. Running her tongue inside her lower lip. Entirely unbothered.

You can see him bristling to say something else. Jaw clenched. You cut him off.

“I would be very cautious of saying too much more, Patriarch. One day I will be mother to the next heir of Russia. I will have sway in this court and this country will belong to my children, and my husband before that.” You make plain.

He folds his hands behind his black cassock back. Cross swaying heavy and obscene weighty gold on his chest.

“Insult me or my Lady in Waiting any further in any manner, and I will happen to discover that you have vehemently voiced ill-will against the future King of Queen of Russia. Repeatedly. I think that may even border on treason.” You state easily.

A very real fear and loathing is woven into his eyes. Everyone knows what happened to Svenska when she dared threaten you at a soirée one night.

Paul’s devotion to you was laced in ferocity and any words levelled against his Tsarevna would answer harshly to the crime. Pay in blood and pain.

“And you. You pathetic little worm. Will be ground into the mud and left for the birds to rip to pieces. I’ll make sure of it.” You sip your tea. Diamond eyes sharp over the rim of the dainty rose pattern china. Set the cup back into the saucer.

“Such a vision of beauty.” He bows and takes his leave. Eyes throwing pools of acidic scathing at the pair of you.

He stalks away and into the folds of court to stir discontent with the Lords. Black cassock flapping around his feet as he takes his leave.

“I love when you do that.” She chuckles. “Put the dogs back in their place.”

Malvolio shakes his head in your lap. As if he knew he was being discussed. Settles his paws on your knees.

“Soundly whipping them into shape.” You smirk. You pucker a kiss at the Patriarch as he daggers a scratchy glare at you through the crowds.

“Besides. I far prefer being sat here with you. My scary Serbian bitch.”

She’s amused at that. “Mongrel remember. Not an ounce of pedigree blood in this unholy body. Unlike you, you pampered bitch.” She sneers.

You laugh together and she shoves a cake at you. “Come on. You’ll need energy to be a broodmare ready for the stud to hump later on.”

“You’re such a cunt.” You speak through a laugh at her. “And I wouldn’t have you any other way as my Lady in Waiting.” You pat her leg with your hand.

“Stop flirting or I’ll do something to you that will make the Patriatch blush in anger.” She threatens.

“I don’t think it would be wise for us to cross the boundaries between friends to lovers.” You decide with teasing.

She tilts her head. Scans you up and down. “You haven’t seen what I can do with my tongue.” She curls it out at you in a scooping motion.

“Must I have you hosed down? Mongrel?” You ask. Eating the cake she gave you.

You pluck the cherry off the top and bite it- plump sweet red clamped between your teeth. She looks salacious.

“Always ready to do my depraved things to anyone- Oh. For fucks sake.” Milena began. Turning away from you and hissing.

You tittered laughter. She cursed under her breath as Svenska came trotting into the room with her train of even more vapid ladies in tow. Even the stupid tottering click of her heels was somehow annoying.

All ridiculous brushed wigs, and low cut dresses. Svenska with her cleavage bulging out of her dark fern silk dress. A little yippy snuffling dog on a lead. With a flat face, lolling tongue, and bulging eyes. Ugly fat beast of a thing.

“I’m astounded she managed to find the door without help.” Milena bit out.

Her and Svenska famously did not get along. They grated like powder versus lit fuse.

Svenska was all highly-inbred noble stock and entirely no brain.

As the saying goes, if it was raining brains, that woman wouldn’t even get wet.

Milena was the polar opposite. Too many brains for her own good, and plenty more besides. She had no noble silver spoon childhood. Her father was a penniless Baron and her mother was a scullery maid. Quite the scandal to blossom from out under.

She rose, through hard plucky grit and bootstrap enthusiasm, and took her years to rise to become a Lady of Catherine’s court. She earned her place here and married only for gain, and you respected her greatly for it.

Svenska had her cushy comforts slung at her, like everything else in her spoilt life.

You were the same. Most of your life had been handed to you on a plate. You’d been trained for this occupation of marriage. Look at where you’re sitting now because of it.

Lady Svenska and her harpies always seemed determined to needle your friend for the manner of her upbringing. Spiky with the fact she wasn’t raised in these noble circles, like them.

Milena had known strife and penury. Overall you think that makes her far more interesting. She wasn’t bred for court life from the very second of her conception.

Now, Svenska’s distaste, it appears, had spilled on over to you, by mere association.

Good.

The woman was a venomous snake, who had tried on many occasions to slip into Paul’s bed and earn title as his Mistress. Even after you were married.

She was always trying to dig her claws in. Angling herself for a dance. Draping her hand over his elbow if she can snatch him alone, at a ball or one of his mothers soirée’s. Always hovering herself on the edge of his notice.

Your scratchy eyes never missed a thing. You kept them on her. You had your sources around this palace. Keeping you informed.

She makes a beeline for you. Expression dipped in venom. She had to come and bid her greetings to you. You were of rank. It was expected.

“Svenska.” You awarded. You didn’t really wish to engage any more than was necessary.

“Harpies.” Milena greets to them with no hint of shame.

“You should really have that mongrel companion of yours muzzled, Tsarevna.” Svenska trilled all chirpy. Smiling. Hateful bite in her words.

You can feel the air crack with tension. Milena bristles with it. Snarl kept at bay in her throat.

“I tried. But she bit the handler quite viciously.” You explained. Still stroking Malvolio. Self assured smile on your lips. Stroke and smile like a fresh faced daisy.

Milena sipped her wine and thereafter bared her teeth in a grin.

“Man needed his wounds sewn shut.” She widened her eyes. Unflinching eye contact with Svenska.

“Best not get too close. She may be rabid. I haven’t yet had her checked.” You warned. Stroking the dogs silky ears like you hadn’t a care.

“Good day Svenska. Have some cake.” You stretch her a wide smile like heaven was too perfect for you. Angels feathers and clouds.

She bobs a curtsey and departs with a sickly smile that snaps off her face when she turns away at her rude dismissal.

She side eyes Milena who winds her up, making a growling noise and then barked and flashed her teeth.

Makes the woman scurry away all the faster in her dainty heels.

You smile together and clink your glasses. Tipping the rim of your saucer to her wine glass.

“Stuck up prig.” Your friend scoffs into her wine. Watching her back as she departed. Ridiculous pampered dog wadding after her.

“Maybe she wears her hair too tight. Could that be why she’s so unpleasant?” You ponder.

Milena snorts her brusque laughter. “Not like it’s strangling a brain. She doesn’t have one. Maybe it’s the wig? Too heavy perhaps?”

“Ladies.” Comes a harsh hyena bark from in front of you.

It’s very telling that Malvolio yips a whine and zips submissively off your lap at Catherine’s looming appearance.

“Empress.” You both nod at her with due politesse.

“Behaving yourselves I should hope?” She lowers her sharp sherry hawk eyes to burn into your faces. Eye contact always so shrewd.

Milena bites her tongue. Tries to hold back a face of amusement.

“Not even remotely.” Comes your answer.

Catherine gives a dry chuckle. “Would you give us a moment, Lady Dimitrova?”

“Of course, Empress.”

Catherine hefts her saffron orange skirts up. Milena vacates her seat for the Empress to take her place.

“I do so hate to be bossy. But I needed to see you.” She insisted.

Catherine loved being bossy. That was such a blatant mistruth. She craved it.

“You and I fully appreciate, compromise is not your strong suit. It’s not even in your repertoire.”

“Not yours apparently. If the spoiled Turkish ambassador meeting I’ve heard about, is anything to go by.”

She needles you with a look.

You allow yourself the small sneak of a smile.

“May I give you one small piece of advice, petal.” She says with a thinning smile.

“Of course, Empress.”

“All these air-headed idiots may vex you terribly. But it’s good to keep them in agreement. Nettling as they all are.”

“Was my displeasure so evident?” You ask.

Not entirely sorry that it was showing so much. Your face was stale and sour with it. Putting up with the frippery and frivolity.

She rolls those dark-sherry eyes over to you. Tucks her cold bony fingers into yours. Rubies and amber rings on her fingers. Her perfume slides off her skin and slinks across to you. Red pomegranates and lilies. Spicy and vibrant as she is. Harbinger of blood. And how ironic it is that she’s scented won’t the flower that reminds most of death.

She beckons the servant over with two crooked fingers and cradles a glass of wine. Scarlet red.

“It pains me to even say it, but a woman in power needs to occasionally rely on the absolute idiocy that envelopes her at every turn.”

She takes a moment and scans around the room as she sips her wine. Fuck the tea.

“You scare them.” She tells you as she looks across the crowds. Squeezing your hand like she’s proud.

“Because I would rather hunt, ride and shoot. Then sit here and sip tea. To be alongside Paul when he attends his meetings. Not shut out and expected to embroider. To possess a sharp mind and budding intellect. Not some empty headed noble who gets excited over an umbrella in fucking November.” You smile through clenched teeth.

You bite the words out so hard it stings your tongue. You consider that perhaps you opened up too much.

“Exactly my darling.” She answers.

“I should be less- terrifying?” You ask. Really you don’t know any other way to be.

“Heavens, no.” She winks.

“Goddamn right they should be scared of you. You’re the Tsarevna. You live in the shade of my terrible image. That thought should strike fear unto anyone.” She sneers. The jewellery on her wrist rattles where she squeezes your hand harder like a great wrapping boa.

“To be in power in Russia. You must be more than a woman. More than your meagre bones. More, even, than a man. You must be like a God.”

You smirk. “Like a god? Busy elsewhere?”

It makes her laugh. It’s a bright musical sound that doesn’t happen often.

“It’s hard fucking work believe me. And a task few would envy. But you must tread a fine line. With Paul. With the nobles. Don’t be a wet blanket by any stretch. But there are times when you must proceed more softly than I know you’re probably used too.”

You nod. You do see sense in that. Doesn’t mean you agree with it.

“I would be by his side for whatever he wishes. I think he’s perpetually scared I will usurp his rule.“ You inform her.

“I did set a precedence for that.” She beams at you.

“A dangerous one. Sometimes the way he looks at me, like he’s worried I will one day follow in your footsteps. I think I scare him in that way when I’m too forthright.”

“Good. Keep the boy on his toes.” She urges with a sickly grin. “It’s not in my nature to take it easy on any man.”

She pats your knee and rose to her feet. A great waterfall of saffron silk rustling as she stood. The slash of her tulip red lips. She towers tall over you.

“Any word on my heir of yet?”

The warmth is sucked from the sun. Your belly shrivels. She’s good at that. Making you shrink down to about two inches tall.

She can wither anyone to crumpled cinders with those eyes and her words. She roots out any spec of shame and dissects it in front of you.

“No word yet. But you’ll be the first to hear if anything changes.” You insist with as much geniality as you can stroke on your tongue. You hold your jaw firm and set you eyes like the hard diamond tips they can be.

She leans down and kisses your brow.

She lingers with an afterthought on her lips. “By the way. I must warn you, keep your guards close-by. I will be adding three more to your usual watch. There’s been rebellions against us in Omsk. Last week two men tried to break into the palace gardens. Be watchful of your pretty back, my dear.” She urges. Nudges a finger under your chin.

And in a great sweep of silk she’s out the room. Guards on her heel. Flying away back to her cutthroat rule. You’re left sat there with a daunting hole burning it’s way into you gut. Price for being royalty already chalked on your head. Being chided slyly for the fact you weren’t with child yet.

You take a deep breath. It’s not deep enough - it feels too shallow. Milena thumps down back next to you on the settee. Shoehorns a glass of your favourite wine into your slack hand.

“I had a feeling this would be needed after the Dragons visit.”

“My guard watch has been doubled.” You told her. Lifting the glass for a sip.

The taste of it soured on your tongue. Too sharp and spiky. It was so sour, you could barely stand to swallow it down. Your stomach roiled at the taste. Throat left chalky.

Milena’s face fell at your news. “Is that dangerous?”

“Looks as if Catherine has been busy of late.” You suggest flatly. Stirring up her usual amount of rebellions and distaste.

And then you wince. “That wine tasted disgusting. What vintage was that?” You ask in vehemence. The cloy of it sat on your tongue making you feel ill.

She frowned at you. “The Portuguese one you love.”

You handed the glass back.

“Come on. Let’s go have a ride or shoot something. I grow weary of tedium.” You insist. Clutching your skirts and rising gruffly to a stand.

~

Paul was sat leisurely at his escritoire writing his letters. Leafing through sheets and sheets of bureaucracy inked on thick white cloth like paper.

Unawares as to the storm happening in other parts of the palace.

His eyes were store from trying to make out the squiggled hand. Head swimming from the amount of political jargon swirling around his head. Ink stains on his hands. Cramped fingers.

You’d left not half an hour ago. All bathed and powdered. Rouged up and sent off all pretty, smelling of peaches and cashmere wood soap, wrapped in your cream silk dress and a cloak for a walk around the frigid Autumnal gardens with your maid.

You looked so pretty in silks with diamonds shimmering in your ears. It seemed a strange parallel that not half an hour previous, he had you on all fours on his bed ramming his cock into you, until you sobbed.

It was almost unbelievable to equate the two images of you in his mind.

He gets you as the pretty regal Tsarvena in diamonds, in court being perfectly divine by his side. All elegance. Then in private, he gets you as the most debased woman. When you look at him as you’re laying there naked on the bed. Eyes glazed. Beckoning him over with two curled fingers for more-

You glided over to where he was sat writing. Back to the room. You sling yourself around him and kissed the back of his still sweaty neck. Told him you liked it when he was all rumpled and undone. No buttons polished. Shirt untucked. You ran your gloved hand down his chest.

You then squealed as he flipped around and tugged you across his lap on his desk chair. Hands up your waist as he kissed you deep.

Your maid knocked at the door. Too timid to come in. She’d been burned by that before.

He pulled back and rubbed his nose briefly into yours. Laying it alongside yours. Examining those scratchy-diamonds of your eyes he adores. Extending the touch for as long as he could.

Then he hauled you back upright on your feet. Told you to get out of his way and don’t be troublesome. Swatted your ass and watched you smile with it. Lip bite.

“I’m always troublesome.” You insist as you stand near. His kiss worn pressing on your lips.

“Enjoy your promenade. Tsarevna.”

It never dawned on him until later, how those could be the last words he said to you.

You kissed him once more. Softly. White lace gloved hands slipping off him. Flowers and sweet blossoms coating your palms. He watched you slip out the doors. Swathe of pretty silk slipping through his fingers.

Usually it was a walk you reserved for Milena, your lady in waiting. But she was currently in bed hungover and she was too stubborn and grizzly to be contended with this morning.

She’d sent you a note with two short words scrawled on it telling you her answer.

Scurrilous was a word that seemed entirely crafted for your Lady Dimitrova.

He turned to his papers and the morning sun slanted over his desk. Displaying the lateness of the hour. Burning over the walnut wood as he worked. The maid brought him tea. In his working daze, it grew cold.

Time crawled on until something far greater came to disturb.

He could hear her coming. He could hear his mother a mile away. Always.

The tell tale stab of her heels on the wooden floors looming closer. Closing in like a predator on hunt with blood in her nose. Stab-stab-stab. Slaps to listen to her footfalls. Summed her up perfectly.

What wasn’t usual was the drum beat of many many soldiers walking alongside her. He twisted his head to the doors.

She didn’t stand on ceremony. She threw open the doors when she got to them. They slammed the walls. Rattled the floors. Shook the doorcase. Rage filled the room and it’s entirely hers- powerful and terrifying like the way lightning takes up the sky.

The air she feeds into this once calm space feels damned.

He stood from his desk at such an ungodly, not to mention, noisy intrusion.

Catherine’s hawk eyes are scanning his rooms. They narrow to rusty blades at him. Some way relived.

“You’re safe.” She says it like it’s a minor convenience.

“Where is the Tsarevna?” She orders to know.

The guards flanking her file into the room and fill it up. Hands poised over their guns ready to aim and fire. Faces stoic.

Paul feels his gut plummet to his toes. “Walking in the gardens. She left half an hour ago.”

Catherine’s lips purse.

“You are not to leave these rooms. Do you hear me?” She seethes.

Before turning around, and walking her terrifying rage somewhere else. Flicking her sherry coloured eyes all poison-filled, in another direction.

Two of the guards flank the doors. The others trail after her like violent shadows.

“Mother!” He snaps after her. Demanding to know what was so twisted about all that. About why he suddenly felt sheer clammy panic. Shimmering it’s nasty way along under his skin like a vile serpent. It’s gripping onto his bones and he can’t shake it loose.

“What is happening? Explain.” He snapped. His voice clapped harsh off the walls. His throat strained around his shout. Eyes ablaze.

Catherine didn’t even try and temper him. She turned and caught his eyes. Doesn’t mince her words.

“She’s in danger.”

Ice fills his blood. His heart hurts where it beats. Trembling in fear. So much fear fills his face, he looks like a shiny eyed boy again. His lower lip trembles.

“No-“ He says. His voice is a quiet bleeding wound. Born on skipped choppy breath. Not you.

“Paul. Stay. Here.” She threatens. Voice falls as hard as knife blows. She leaves blood weeping behind.

She’s just pulled out his guts out and splayed them twisted at his feet. Stomped on his heart the way one would a weed.

Paul has never wanted to disobey her more.

~

Your Autumnal walks did fill you with such joy.

It was yours and Milena’s time to bitch or laugh away from the always poised ears of the stifling court. Where apparently every corner and nook and cranny had both eyes and ears.

You don’t see why you need a chaperone still. You were married. And your usual guards had swapped shift when you departed the house. The new men coming into duty were General Abramov finest - so he said.

You found them passed out in the company of a naked plump whore with a ratty wig. Empty bottles strewn around the pit of their room. Clearly they didn’t care overmuch about your safety when there was vodka and fucking to be had.

You rolled your eyes. You weren’t waiting on another set of grunting shaved monkeys to ready themselves.

So fuck it. You made the executive decision.

You and Darya strode out into the dark heart of the gardens, alone.

Your maid was much sweeter than your friend. More timid wet bunny than a rabid long-toothed mongrel. She pranced gingerly along beside you, tiptoeing like a nervous baby roe deer.

She didn’t talk much and mostly hung off your words for fear of displeasing you. You never snapped at her. You weren’t that heartless. She worked thoroughly hard. She was a diamond in the coal mine of ladies maids. She was good with hair too. Worth her precious weight in gold.

“Lovely day.” You comment. Hiking up your skirts to step over a squelching patch of mud.

“Indeed it is Tsarevna.” She copies your lead.

“You don’t need to call me by my title every time, Darya. It doesn’t exactly trip off the tongue.”

“Yes, Tsarevna.”

You roll your eyes. Really, she won’t be won over.

“I hope the chef makes apple cakes tomorrow. That, or something with yellow pears. They are my favourite fruit this time of year.”

“Mine too, Tsarevna.”

“With cinnamon and brown sugar?” You add. Determined to coax more out the girl.

“Yes. Tsarevna.”

You sag your shoulders down. She wins. Milena would have told you three salacious sex stories by now. And two shreds of reliable gossip.

You stroll along and you introspectively marvel at the slowly deadening trees. You didn’t actually mind the companionable silence.

Autumn here did remind you of home. In Rostov. Your father and his love of roasting nuts over the fire embers at night. Buttery chestnuts and smoky air lacing together.

The prick of frost on your cold cheeks. The loping mist that accompanies a frigid bitch of a blue dawn morning. The way you and your sisters used to collect apples in the orchard. Rusty rosy flesh. Gather them in your apron pockets. The way you had to warm your toes by the fire before bed some nights.

You were more at home bedecked in furs, and being in horse drawn sleighs over milky frozen lakes. White as a swan feather snow.

You liked this type of cold that was creeping in. You put that down to your entirely slavic blood. Sustained on frostiness.

You like it how it is now. An array of golden toffee leaves being tidied into corners by the gardeners. Scuttling papery things being blown everywhere. Tumbling and sticking across the wet grass. You idly wondered in the back of your head why the guards weren’t at their posts.

That thought didn’t sink into the proper full dawning place it should have.

You skimmed your eyes along the clipped hedges. The way the frost knifed at the copper beach groves was stunning. Spiderwebs it’s clawing ice across each and every one of the leaves. The air is ungovernably sharp with cold. Blue silk drape of a sky with a searing mustard sun.

Breath leaves your mouth as a silver wisp. Each drag inhale burns the walls of your throat. You watch birds dip and swoop in the sky above. Through the frost thinned branches.

You walk with your eyes turned skyward for a second. And when they come glancing back down to earth- your steps come grinding to a halt.

You fist Darya’s cloak. Getting her to come to a sharp halt. You tuck her behind you. Your hand a grating pain on her wrist where you held so tight.

There’s blood spattered on the frosty copper leaves.

You’re just coming to the clearing in the groves. There’s a fountain with a Greek statue decorating the space ahead. You know it well. Deep in the heart of this garden. The water in the mossy stone pit, is thick and glossy still with ice.

The guards lay dead, heaped beside the fountain. Slumped dark shapes of what used to be men. Throats laid open from ear to ear. Crimson ribbon cuts draped over their throats.

Darya splits the air with a scream, muffled through her hands clamped to her mouth, tears shaking from her terrified eyes. You catch on what tore that scream from out her mouth.

One of them isn’t dead yet. But the man who just ripped a knife across his throat from behind, unleashed a vivid spill of red. Like he was a boar on a hunt and not a royal guard.

Wide glassy eyes, choking splutters. That dreadful expression as his own blood fills his throat. Choking.

The men holding the knives are not of nobility. There’s two of them. They wore dirty coats and mud smeared faces. Shaggy stubbled beards, and hands and eyes that have never known finery or riches. They’re smiling as they kill.

Catherine was very well hated after all.

Darya’s screams draw too much attention. You try and silence her lest she ends up the same manner as the guard. But then her eyes flick back and she drops into your side. Dropped like a dead weight. Fainted. Perhaps that was a mercy.

Their eyes swim to you.

Without care you’re kneeling in the mud and checking she’s alright. Calling her name but she just lays there limp. You yank hair out her face. There’s mud on your hands. You don’t mean too, but it smeared across her cheeks.

Breath fell silver from your lips as you rasped her name. You refused to let panic crawl up your throat and thicken your voice.

Suddenly there’s a grubby hand fisted in the back of your neck. Cold steel - bloodied - resting at your throat. You will down your bile.

“Up. Suka.” Comes a sniggering voice from behind you. Laughter.

Charming.

You try to breathe as you rise to your feet. They pull you up fast. Shoving you backwards against the grove. Leaves and frost scratch the back of your neck.

“Pity that small one fainted. We could’ve had one each.” One says, tone pure filth. Rakes his eyes over your heaving tits. Not even fully addressing you.

They’re animals at best. Beasts that dared to crawl upright from the mud. Dirt ringed around their fingernails, blood spatters on their brown coats. Shirts yellowed with sweat. Hands red.

The way they’re both looking at you is like you’re a plate of bleeding lamb chops before a wolf.

One is lanky and still brushed with youth. Short shorn hair. He licks his lips as he looks at you. Eyes so deep they’re black.

The other one is shorter, older. Hair blonder and shaggy. Down to his shoulders. Eyes paler but no less spurned, entirely wrapped up in blood lust- pure hatred.

“I’m Russian you Mudak.” You spit out at them cursing at you thinking you won’t understand your native tongue.

The young one grabs your cloak in a fist. Clenched the fabric. Rips it off to see more you. Silk ribbons slither free and they cast your fine cloak into the mud. Get a better look at your dress and bodice.

“Look at that- fuckin beautiful.”

You blaze with a furious blush as he drags the knife tip under your diamonds pushing up so the gems grew tight around your neck. Choking a little. Choking you on your riches like the pampered bitch you are.

“The diamonds or the tits?”

“Both.” He guffawed back like a hyena.

You bristle. Caused the younger one to prick the slimy knife deeper into your throat. It burned. Grazed skin.

“Behave girlie.”

You can’t keep to silence. You can’t. Your pride is unleashing it’s jagged monsters. You’re snapping your fangs without thought.

“Fuck you.”

The knife pushes in more. You felt the scrape of it pushing at your rage slicked heartbeat.

“Keep your fucking tongue still unless you want it cut out.” The older one slithers a smile at you.

You spit at him. It lands right on his chest. Streaking down his coat.

“You’re going to regret that Suka.”

“Doubt it.” You snap.

Then he gets closer and his filthy hand grabs your chin. Hard. Squeezes your bones.

“Shame that. To leave a pretty girl without a tongue. It’s all you must be good for, Suka.”

You glare. Eyes threaded with steel. Your backbone rigid.

“If you’re going to keep calling me Suka, you better put start putting royal before it, scum.”

The young one fists his hand in the back of your hair and forces you to arch your neck. It burns. His foul breath washes over your face. His lips are chapped. His teeth are twisted black and yellow.

“Who might you be then?” He wonders aloud.

“Too smartly dressed for a maid.” The older one proposes.

“Maybe she’s a Whore. Opens her legs and keeps her cunt wide open for the nobles or the Prince.”

“What whore would have a maid?” The young one asks.

A beat of silence. You swallow

“The Tsarevich’s wife would.” The older one grins. It’s deadly.

Bile fills your neck like acid.

“We’ll go and find your pretty prince when we’re done here with you.” The young one taps your cheek with his fingertip.

“Slit his stupid throat. Leave you gutted open here. Two little presents for that Empress cunt.” The young one keeps his hand in your

Then he chuckles and it’s sick. Looking down your body. “Maybe you’re already carrying the Empresses’ heir huh? That princes babe in your belly.”

He makes a face that you could only describe as coldly flippant.

“Shame.”

You barely register anything else save for the way he swings his arm back and goes to bury the blade in his hand deep in your belly. The older one watches on.

You brace for the hot mean slice. Your hand vices for his wrist. But no pain comes. It didn’t penetrate your skin.

You flick your eyes down and see the blade hasn’t even pricked beyond the whalebone of your stays. Stuck on the thick close fabric of it. It only ripped the silk and left blood that wasn’t yours.

You act so fast you can’t believe it. Your hands are shaking. Time slows to honey.

You twist his wrist hard enough to potentially break it. He screams. Too slow.

You grab the knife and tore it onto his lanky throat. Ripped it across his neck and push him away. You hear his grunts of pain that churn into wet sloppy chokes.

You’re a sight. Red spattered across your cream silk and those fat diamonds. Droplets across your face and cheeks. Dripping off your hair darkly. It’s like there’s red rose petals on your dainty lace gloves.

You sneered at the expression on his face. Eyes glassy wide and blown with disbelief. Shock. Blood sheeting down his grubby clothes as his hands scrabbled for his neck.

The older one comes for you in rage. Which makes him clumsy. He pushes you into the mud and used all his weight to try and choke you with his bare hands. Where he felled you, the knife scattered out your hand.

Greasy blonde hair falling in front of his rage flushed face. Muddy clothes and the horrid weight of rutting man like a stocky boar above you. Spittle wet on his lips.

He’s cursing your name. You’re grunting and trying everything in your gritty scrappy power to overcome.

He gets his meaty hands around your neck. You scrabble your fingernails at his dirty coat. He slaps you to keep you subdued. Cheek stinging. Mind reeling into base animal instinct.

You twist and reach for it. The knife you dropped. Your fingertips barely reach the handle. A desperate stretch. An empty slip to the frosty muddy grass.

Your world starts trickling into punchy static swirled stars. Blood pounds white and black over your eyes. Pulsing with the craving for air.

Not for long.

Where he pushed you and climbed on top of you, your skirts were up around your knees. And with every painful pulse of your brain. You reach for the slither of a dagger you keep in your garter.

You get your slippy fingers around it. They drift off. Blood smeared over your thighs and your breath is starting to wane. Trickling out dry past your lips. Paul’s face flashes in your mind. Last thing you can think of. Those brown eyes and the corner of his pink smile caught in candlelight.

You could sob with the agony of it. You really could. Your lip trembles.

But then something else roundhouse whirls into your chest like a furious storm that can’t handle your bones. Rage. Love.

Tears squeeze out your eyes that feel ready to burst as you gape up at his furious face. Digging his nails and thumbs into the meat of your neck. The burn of blood rose furious in your throat.

You slam your knife down into the soft of his back. Three times. You stab and stab down down hard until pure terror seizes over his face. Until he’s weak enough that you can knee him off you and grab the back of his neck. Fist his dirty collar in your hands and grit your teeth.

“Rot in hell.” You curse at him before you slam the sticky steel knife into his throat too.

Gurgles and frothy pink blood. More red blooming down into your dress. Sour metal in your nose. Too many warm pennies. It’s gummy on your hands. Sticky.

You hate the smell of blood even on a hunt. It cloys on your furs and matted and made you feel sick. You never hated it more than now.

You kick him off you and scramble to your feet. The weight of him off you. You’re upright and legs trembling like they won’t hold you.

Skin too small. Your veins wriggle like flames. Your steps shivered. Body bowing pathetically. Every muscle sore and still pulled taut with adrenaline.

There isn’t enough air and all you can taste is blood. You spit it out your mouth but it doesn’t leave. Bile tries to force its way out but you just breathe. For now. Just try and locate the thin air.

You brace a crimson hand on your stomach. Stained lace. Mud and blood smeared on your dress. You cannot hear the sweet call of birds or the wind rattling it’s whisper through the trees. All you can focus on is the fierce drum of your heart. Lungs swelling in the trap of your ribs.

You stand and stare down the centre of the copper birch groves. Trees lining the way in your vision. Back to that terrible palace. You just stare because everything is still ringing in your ears.

Guards are furiously running in their swathes towards you. So many of them. Rifles aimed. General Abramov in the centre enfold of stocky columns of uniforms that were his men. Barking his orders that you cannot hear. It’s all swirling mute to you.

Paul is there. Surrounded by a cluster of soldiers. In his untucked white shirt, undone jacket. Hair a smushed mess. Pistol locked in his hand.

Your face is oddly stoic.

He stalks towards you- terrified eyes scanning the bodies slumped around you. Your maid. The guards. The blood. The knife still dripping in your hand.

You’re covered in it. He doesn’t know if he’s out his wits with fear, or wanting to get on his knees and pray his thanks to the heavens, til his lips hurt.

Wrap his hands around your hips and kiss your belly. Chide you and love you in the same breath cause you scared him to death.

You barely see him when he comes up to you. Calls your name. Cups your face. Doesn’t care for the mess all over you. He needs the snap of your diamond eyes meeting in his.

He drops his pistol cause his hands are around you. All over you. A scuff of material catches rough on his palm. Grazed jagged silk.

He looks down and sees the knife sized hole that had been stabbed into your stomach. His breath lays in his throat and it’s too thick to reach.

Even in your hard prickly angles, your glassy steel countenance, and they’ve cut through your brambles and laid their hands on you. Hurt you.

You finally say his name. “Paul.” It’s not even above a raspy whisper.

Tears shine in his eyes and you don’t know anything else than how to clutch him and hold onto his hand over your belly. You chuck down your bleeding dagger. Will the blood ever come away.

You wait until he reels you into his chest and cups the back of your neck to cry. Fear finally gets to you. Hands cold and scrabbling for his hair. His warmth. The smell of his shaving soap. Safety.

For now, it’s enough.

~

Night fell swift. Catherine was furious. Seething spitting nails at everyone who crossed her path. Livid at being disobeyed.

She chucked wine glasses. She threw priceless vases at the walls. Shrilled til her throat hurt. Shards of broken things less spiked than her displeasure. The countess could barely calm her down.

She cast her eyes over you as Paul walked you back from the gardens. Soldiers flanking you entirely and the General on your heels.

You stepped inside and she was ready to draw some blood of her own. And then she saw you. Red spattered face and dress. That metal scent living on your skin and you were dying to scrub it away. You wanted that harsh scratch from a hard wooden brush. Bristles on your skin until it barbed to pain.

You meet her eyes. You don’t back down.

She almost had the balls to look impressed. Intimidated even-

“Go get her cleaned up.” She orders gently to the maids.

The first time you’d ever heard anything gentle come out her mouth. Crossed with respect. She nods at you. You feel blessed in some ways.

And here you were. No longer trembling. In the piping hot bath in Paul’s quarters. Water slicked over your skin. The bath water still ran pink even now. Even after they sluiced it off you with cold jugfuls before you got in the tub.

Your throat is stinging. Eyes bloated and sore from salty tears. You weren’t angry. Or sad. It went much deeper than that. Roots clinging. You’re not entirely certain why you spilled tears. Maybe it was that one thing you swore you’d never show;

Fear.

It’s fully matte dark and the room is only licked by flames. The orange of the fire and the spin of the gold from the candle holders. You turn and turn a wedge of soap in your palm until your fingertips were pruned. Your hair sticks down your back. Wet silk that sticks into the water.

Blood still in your mouth no matter how much you swilled with tea or water. The wine still tasted bad. It will be a while before you can stomach swallowing claret.

The maid knocked on the door. A harsh rap that disturbed your silence. It seemed almost too much. Overwhelming. You flinched.

That wasn’t you.

You were at peace with the crack of the flames and logs shifting in the half. The swish of the water around your naked limbs. The smell of your tuberose and cashmere wood soap. That was all you wanted for now.

“A little longer, Tatiana.” You call out. Not unkindly. Dazed maybe. You didn’t have the energy spare to be a sniping viper tonight.

The door opens anyway. You don’t bother to cover yourself. The waterline only just hid your nipples.

When you look up. Paul is stood sideways in the door. “I took the liberty of dismissing your maid.” He tells you.

“Did she say how Darya was.” You ask.

“Awake but she was very shaken. The doctor attended her. Gave her a draft.”

“Poor kid.” You sympathise. Scrubbed the soap bar down your arm.

You feel Paul bristle at that. You just know. When you look over at him the sides of his mouth are taut. Pulled firm with anger.

Catherine does the same. When the lips purse, that’s when you know- run.

“My concern is elsewhere at present.” His voice is stiff. Tamped with stomping brat and anger.

“Do not think to lay the blame at my feet. I went for a fucking walk.” You hold firm. Eyes gazing into his. Too tired to be slinging vitriol back and forth.

But you won’t dare let him forget you have sharp snarling teeth. They may be tucked away. But just because a panther sheathes it’s claws doesn’t mean it’s lost use of them entirely.

“I don’t lay blame at you. I’m just trying to wrestle with the idea that I could have lost you today.” He snaps out louder than he intended. Voice reed thin.

Stood at the end of your bath in his big baggy shirt and breeches. Barefoot and stripped down to nearly nothing. Rubbing his forehead and trying not to let fear bleed into his voice. He failed.

He looks so young. So stricken with fear as you sat there. Watching candles flicker jerky flame across his satin cream cheeks and those wide brown eyes.

You say nothing. “You want to be angry with me.”

“I’m not angry. I’m livid.” He hissed out.

I’m terrified. Is what you hear.

“Those men meant harm. They killed four guards.” He tries to strike fear. You’ve had enough of it today.

“I’m sat right here proving their plans otherwise.” You insist.

“Because you got lucky.” He snips.

“Not really. I’m always armed.” You insist.

He softly uses your first name. He never does that.

“Try and take what I’m saying seriously.” He pleads.

You look at him for a silent beat. He’s lumping all this on you and you’re just trying to sit here and manage to breathe.

“They said they wanted to hurt you.” Another swish of water. Swill of soap over your palms. Chalky and white woody petals.

“They told me. They were going to gut me and leave me in the gardens like a stuck boar. They were going to come and slit your throat. Leave your mother our corpses to find. A present.”

His face falls into distress. He’s spurning with so much anger and sadness it’s starting to rule his expression. His eyes twirl with it.

“So before you sit there and rightfully rip pieces out of me, Paul. I ask you this: What choice did that leave me.” You say it so softly. But your meaning is backed by steel.

He soaks in your words. Drinks them in.

He can’t cross the room fast enough.

In four quick strides he’s on you. Uncaring for the soap suds still on your skin or how your hair is dripping. His face is in your neck. His arms wrapped around you and yanking you to the edge of the tub. You’re dripping spots onto his white cotton sleeves.

His fingers rake through your hair. Wet beading on his fingers. He tilts your face up and just traces his thumb over the stinging welt that animal left.

“I don’t want to be without you.” He whispered softly.

That’s what it comes down too. When everything else is stripped away.

“I’m a bitch with sharp teeth and lots of knives. My Angel. I’m not going anywhere.”

You pat his cheek. Slide into an easy plump-lipped kiss. He pushes his mouth onto yours. Strokes his fingers gently down your naked wet back. Those melty chocolate drop eyes by candlelight you will never get enough of gazing at. Or into.

“Your fierceness today astonished me. I’ve never known you do anything so physically Russian.” Ghost of his smile returns.

You take a breath. Something swims on the tip of your tongue.

“I believe It wasn’t just myself I was being very Russian in defending.” You admit.

His face is thrown into all realms of bewilderment. “My love?”

You tilt your head at him. Smile like you’re the gatekeeper of sacred secrets.

You take his hand and slide it under the bath water to your belly. Fully soaking his sleeve. You press his palm onto your warm flesh.

There you fool.

“You-“ He gasped.

Fell on his knees. Mouth gaping. Doe eyes wide. You stunned him like a deer caught out in the open on a hunt.

“Congratulations. Tsarevich.“ You smile. “And may the Lord fucking help us.”

~

My taglist for the babes; @ceriseheaven @indouloureux @stiegasaw @fujiihime @youaremyfamiliar @captain-tch @ghosttownwherenoonegoes @svenyves @sammararaven @feralgoblinbabe @groupie-love-71 @andromeda-andromeda @starbxcks @morganamoonstone @ramona-thorns @gvtosbith @poppy-metal @munsonswhore86 @munsonlov3r @lunatictardis @shenevertricks1831 @hazzaismyreligion @harrys-tittie @anaisweird @cerinthussulpicia @cinnamoncunt @thincrusttheworks @manicpixiedreamcurl @therosietoesy @fanficappreciationblog @thicksexxualtension @tvserie-s-world @sharp-and-swift @dadsbongos @2clones-1kamino @edsforehead @chcolateeyelver @seven-glass-kids @forever-is-not-for-everyone @creme-bruhlee @bkish @wayward-rose

🥀- lmk if you want to be added or removed. drop a comment to join taglist. This is the most up to date tag list I will be using on all my JQ stories going forwards I don’t wanna miss anyone out ! 🥀

[itwasthereaminuteago]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!! 🍰🎉🎁🎈 and congrats on hitting 1k! Hope you're having an amazing day~

I was browsing some of the promts but you don't have to act on this if you fon't feel like it! But I really liked the "show me what you like" one - I can totally picture Frank in his grey sweatpants, legs spread and palming himself as he's watching Matt touch himself, commiting every small detail to memory 👀

Thank you so much, I did have a great time! 🤘

And hoooooly fuck, thank you for this prompt 🫠 hope it satisfies, I was very distracted trying to write it and not just day dream it!

|| Show Me ||

Matt Murdock x Frank Castle

Tags/warnings: Masturbation, pet names. E.

"Christ Red," Frank roughly adjusts his sweatpants, his cock rapidly filling as he's watching Matt lounging opposite him on the couch, teasing himself with the lightest touch of his fingers over the hard outline of the erection that's straining against his black silk boxers. "d'you know how good you fuckin' look like that?"

Matt huffs out a small moan, fully aware that Frank's eyes are concentrated on every single little movement he makes. He hisses as he brushes the back of his thumb right over the head of his cock, so sensitive now as he's been working himself up to this for a while, so much that there's a damp patch on the fabric from his precum soaking through.

The perfect combination of Frank's growling low drawl and the pet name has Matt jutting his hips up and scrabbling to pull his boxers down and finally feel skin on skin. He hums, closing his eyes and arching his back up off the seat as his fingers curl around the hard and heavy length of his cock.

Frank runs his palm over the large bulge in his own pants at the same slow pace. He can see the clamminess of Matt's forehead and chest in the dim light coming through the window from the street. "Fuck, sweetheart… c'mon, show me."

Frank drinks in everything. Every gasp of his shallow breath as Matt begins to trail his fingers just underneath the head while his other hand cradles his balls. Every twitch of his cock as more beads of slick liquid leak from his tip.

Matt can't help the whine that escapes him as he senses Frank spreading his legs wider in the chair, his hand slipping under the waistband to grip around himself with a grunt.

"Yeah, that's it baby. Show me what you like."

"Frank-" Matt is quickly reaching the point when Frank would usually break and pounce on him, pin him down and mark him up until his skin was blotched with red and purple, rut against him until he couldn't take it anymore and grab both their cocks in his huge hand and bring them off together. "God… please-"

Frank's lip curls as he strokes himself under the fabric. "Shh, shh. Keep goin'."

"Mm, don't you want me?" Matt asks, it's half a question, half a plea.

Frank's deep brown eyes rove over Matt's shirtless torso, halting for a moment to take in the slow movement of his hand, and then back up to see the pretty blush of pink dusting across his cheeks.

Slick, wet sounds underlie the clipped moans Matt makes as he pumps his fist over his length just a touch faster.

"Yeah, I want you, just like this. Wanna watch you gettin' all wound up an pretty f'me."

Frank grips the armrest of the chair with such strength that the wood almost groans along with him.

"S-shit…"

"Attaboy"

"You're a fuckin' dream, Matt." He tells him hoarsely, finally easing his own cock out of the confines of his sweatpants and stroking himself. The petal pink blush across Matt's face deepens to crimson, his breath becoming increasingly shallow as he speeds up. He can't take much more of Frank's teasing.

Matt's head thunks against the back of the couch. He can feel the deep licking burn of pleasure quickly building in his groin, crawling its way up his spine. He's getting close, slows down, adjusting his grip and twisting his hand as it passes over the head of his dick, hearing Frank's pulse thudding along with his own in his ears. He never thought he'd feel this way from being watched, especially not by Frank, but he knows all the right things to say, knows that Matt's keen senses are swamped with the taste, the smell and the sounds he's making. He licks his lips, biting down hard on the bottom one, coaxing what seems like a frustrated groan from the other man.

"God, y'look so fuckin' pretty."

"F-fuck-"

Matt's body answers for him as he almost buckles in half with the force of his release, panting hard, cursing as cum paints his stomach and drips over his fist. It doesn't take long for Frank to follow him, a few quick strokes and a satisfied grunt.

"Yeah, you like when I call you pretty don't ya? Pretty boy."

"You don't play fair." Matt groans, using his shirt to wipe up the mess he's made.

Frank just chuckles, relaxing back in the chair. "When have I ever when it comes to you? You deserve every bit of it, drive me fuckin' crazy."

Matt smiles. "I know."

"Hell, maybe I'll let you get me back one o' these days."

Matt can hear the grin and a promise in Frank's tone. "We'll see."

"Let me? Oh that's cute Frank, real cute."

.

.

*accepting suggestions for a continuation situation...*

[comfortabletextiles]

BG3 Art batts

Astarion: White silk/super fine Merino blend. Also either red locks or, some red beads probably both

Karlach: Red with yellow streaks, and black locks

Lae'zel: green with black silk neps and locks the color of illithid blod (green/petrol???)

Shadowheart: blend of dark violett and black and maybe some silver silk. Black beads

Halsin: some old sheep breed base in different greena and browns, with wood beads in the form of ducks and/or bears. Also maybe some gold silk for the Wildform transformation

Wyll: brown balck and red mix 🤔 and locks in the colors of blue and gold for Mizora

Gale: some nice violett wool base, with different colored mohair locks, also some Angelina for the magic

I mean I visit the wool fair in oktober, I could go totally nuts and buy all these things to make these... someone stop me pls, I don't have the space

[gerardspuppy]

Thoughts on the Valar and Maiar and their styles from someone who knows nothing about fashion beyond "diy everything".

Manwe and Varda - All white, very swoopy very fine fabrics, sometimes translucent, often skin tight with flowy skirts or sleeves. Not the most practical or comfortable looking but beautiful, white corsets and tiaras, lots of white glitter absolutely everywhere, on clothes, makeup, skin, hair, etc. Mostly minimalistic silver jewelry. White feathers appear a lot. (Wearing all white also helps to cover up the presence of bird shit on your clothes but they would never say this out loud).

Aule and Yavanna - Full on hippie look, bright colors and messy patterns, chunky jewelry with various wooden beads or gemstones, patterned headbands, large loose pants and shirts, lots of organic looking designs, goggles with tinted lenses, messy hair, usually done up in Maiar of Aule and loose in Maiar of Yavanna. Maiar of Aule also switch to leather work clothes and metal welding masks in the forges when required.

Orome and Vana - Who needs clothes anyway?? Lots of animal pelts flung hastily on, various pigments (blood) used as war paint like makeup, but otherwise not much in the way of style. Very practical clothing is favored, stuff which is loose, blends in with the forest, and is easy to move around in. They often wear animal masks carved out of wood with designs painted on.

Irmo and Este - Pastel colors, poppies are very popular both as crowns or as designs, dreamy, hazy patterns often depicting moths or owls, thick veils and shawls, long night gown like robes, bare feet or comfortable slippers, iridescent colors, pale pinks and oranges like sunsets, hazy greys, blanket like capes with moths wings on them.

Namo and Vaire - Black so dark you can't make out form, long veils that you can see nothing through, low hoods, no jewellery, no visible faces or hair or skin, dark silk gloves that are incredibly soft and make you want to take their hand, dark slippers that make no sound, the occasional glimpse of smokey breaths from behind the veil, no patterns, utter emptiness. Vaire weaves their clothes out of darkness and death itself.

Nienna - Extremely simple, drab clothing and colors, lots of greys and browns and dark greens, translucent veils which are often the only decorated part of the outfit and have patterns of weeping eyes or bones on them, thick comforting fabrics, often with hoods, the Maiar are always ready to shrug off a layer of their clothes to give to any who need it more.

Tulkas and Nessa - Clothes that lend themselves well to movement, whether that be dancing or fighting. Lots of bright reds and warm colors, often no shirts with loose pants, or close fitted sleeveless shirts. Many belts and loops to hang ribbons or weapons or maybe both from. Armored masks are often seen, in the shape of a deer to honor Nessa. Colorful ribbons and small metal charms for luck are braided into the hair.

Ulmo - Very few clothes but most are made out of dead sea animals. Skin tight suits of seal skin, shiny objects and seabird feathers as jewellery to attract fish, glittery body paint swirled around to mimic the shapes in seashells. Fish scales are sometimes stuck to the body or to clothing. Any fabrics used are rough and stiff to survive prolonged salt and sun exposure, and are thick enough to withstand stings from any sea animals. Sea urchin spines are stuck onto clothes as defense, and the most fierce Maiar have the fins and spines of dead lionfish stuck to their clothes, kept alive and potent through magic (mishaps and accidents happen much more frequently than anyone wants to admit). Extremely bright colors in everything that they wear, often for non everyday wear clothes many colorful frills and tendrils are attached to mimic the looks of certain fish and sea slugs.

Melkor - The original punk rocker of Arda. All black clothes, often form fitting, leather gloves and straps, silver or black jewellery everywhere, especially rings and piercings, teased gothic hair, masks with horrifying blank expressions and horns protruding out of them, heavy gothic or death metal makeup, metal spikes absolutely everywhere, thick heavy duty boots. Very gruesome designs often depicting severed bodyparts, bodies deformed through torture, and rotting bones. Parts of bodies are often mummified and used as accessories, especially hands, eyes, or entire heads.

Bonus third age Sauron because he was practically a Vala in his own right by then and Mordor followed his look - Steampunk, grotesque rotting bodies held together by beautifully polished metal parts, metal armor hammered into the very flesh of soldiers, lots of golds and reds, gold piercings and rings (hah), bodies half split open and their whirring mechanical insides visible through the flesh, steam rising from every surface, elegant, tight fitting black fabrics with red and gold accents.

[violettduchess]

Comte + 11 + angst

A/N: For the Fall Fluff Autumn Angst Content Creator Challenge and one of my best friends @aquagirl1978 🍂 Thanks for the request

Comte x f!reader, angst

Word Count: 1582

There is nothing quite like the Autumn Harvest Festival. A sleepy little town just a few kilometers outside of Paris transforms from rows of tiny white cottages and rolling fields to a bustling marketplace full of bright colors and smells and sounds: the red, gold and orange garlands of fall leaves and wreaths, the smell of cider and pies and warm soup, the voices calling out for visitors to stop by their booths, inspect their wares, buy their vegetables and berries and baked goods.

You squeeze Comte’s hand as you try to take it all in, to allow all the glory of fall on full display to sink into your bones and wrap itself around you. You could live in this tiny bubble, this moment of time, forever, surrounded by incredible color and liveliness, with the love of your life by your side.

You are so enraptured by all that you see that you don’t notice the softness in his golden gaze, the smile that never quite leaves his lips as he watches you. Seeing you so joyful, cheeks slightly pink from the cool breeze and your own excitement, fills him with a warmth that rivals any flame.

“Ohh look at these!” Pulling him by the hand, you stop in front of a booth laid out with ribbons of all sizes and colors. The merchant, a portly woman with eyes as green as shamrocks, offers you a bright smile.

“Welcome, welcome. Feel free to inspect any of them up close. No finer silks, satins, velvets and linens in all of France!”

Her hyperbole makes you smile as you take in the medley of colors and textures laid out before you. They are all so beautiful. You glance over your shoulder at Comte and he offers you an encouraging smile.

“We have plenty of time, ma chérie. Look as long as you like.”

Affection widens your smile as you turn back to the lengths of ribbon, your gaze running over them with an appreciative gleam. And then you spot it. A sumptuous velvet ribbon of deep ochre, trimmed with black lace. The merchant sees where you have stopped and reaches for it, lifting it and offers it to you, eyes twinkling at the anticipation of a sale.

“A beautiful choice indeed, mademoiselle. A fine match for your lovely hair.” 

You take it from her, holding it in your palm as if holding a rare gem. Carefully, you run a finger down its length, marveling at how soft it is. How luxurious it feels to your skin. And the touch of black lace feels like an almost scandalous edition. You touch that too, imagining Comte’s elegant fingers pulling the ribbon free from your hair by touching that provocative trim.

You clear your throat, scattering the sensual thoughts.

"I'll take it!" 

*

After a warm glass of apple cider and fresh apple tart, you stroll with Comte, arm in arm, until you come to the edge of a park you have visited many times when making the trip to this particular village. There is no need for words as you walk in-step together down a smaller dirt path, one that winds a bit away from the main promenade. 

Your boots begin crunching over fallen leaves, beautiful bursts of red and orange and brown crumbling underfoot as you both walk towards the wooden bench you know and love. It isn’t the shiny white of the newer benches along the main, paved paths of the park. This one is old, brittle, just barely seating the two of you. It’s rough wood scratches and pulls at your clothing every time you sit and you’ve been given a souvenir splinter once or twice, but it is your favorite place in the whole park. Something about it feels like it has always been there, as if the surrounding trees themselves are offering it up as a prize to adventurous travelers who dare explore the path less taken.

Settling down next to Comte, you snuggle against his side, reaching into your beaded reticule, your fingers exploring until they feel the soft velvet of the ribbon and you pull it out with a satisfied smile.

He glances down at you, at the way you touch the soft, deep orange length of it, your fingertips skimming over the black lace once again. 

“Shall I put it in your hair, chérie?”

Immediately you straighten up, excitement buoying your spirits like a burst of wind to a kite. You turn your back to him, anticipation walking along the tight line of your shoulders, painting the pale pink flush of your cheek. Comte finds the silver combs currently tucked into your tresses and gently pulls them out, one side then the other. A sigh escapes you, soft as a rustle of silk, when he pushes his gentle fingers into your hair, helping it shake itself free and flow naturally down past your shoulders. It feels familiar and comforting, something he has done for you hundreds of times and yet you never tire of it. You close your eyes, indulging in the finesse of his touch, when it suddenly stops.

Comte leans forward, murmuring to himself in French, his fingers parting strands of your hair until he says with triumph swelling his voice, “Ah ha! I have it.”

You feel a tiny tugging at your scalp and then he is holding the end of a single, soft hair, still attached. He pulls it carefully around, reaching for your hand so you can take it yourself and see what he has discovered.

“White as snow,” he says with a small smile, his eyes warm with amusement.

“A gray hair?” You turn your head to try and get a better look at the offending strand. There it is, a single hair, a thin sliver of moonlight between your fingertips.

“Perhaps I should start calling you ‘Mémé’,” he says with a grin that is full of warm-hearted affection.

Words become stuck in the desert of your throat. Your eyes are unable to look away from the thing caught in your grasp. It is only when it disappears, vanishes behind a wall of blurred autumn colors that you realize you are crying. Angrily, you pull, violently yanking the pale hair from your head. Part of you imagines that you could pull and pull and pull and it would never end, an endless spool of white inside of you, waiting for the right moment to blossom, to grow over your head like some kind of oppressive, blanched ivy climbing a wall, burying whatever is underneath until all you see is white. 

Comte’s arm around your waist tightens as he reaches for you with his other hand, turning your face toward him. Even though his face is half in shadow and swimming behind your tears, the concern there is bright as a journeyman’s flare.

“Chérie?”

You turn, throwing yourself into the safety of his arms, burying your face in the soft folds of his beige coat. 

You want nothing more than to stop the march of time, to stay right here on this uncomfortable wooden bench, under the protection of arboreal guards in their jackets of red and yellow, within the circle of Comte’s embrace. To pretend that time can be ignored, that age isn’t stalking you slowly from the shadows of every passing day and every dream-filled night.

His hand runs down your back, methodical, rhythmic, and you shudder. It reminds you of the steady ticking of clocks. Minutes that are born and die and with each breath push you closer to separation. A single white hair becomes two. Then ten. One wrinkle births many. These first few decades of your life were a river, flowing over rocks and curving around many unforeseen bends. But each year the water moves faster and faster. A river forms rapids and leaves you breathless, holding on for dear life. Life that for him will never end. And for you, has but one inevitable conclusion.

You don’t know how long you sit there, clinging to his strong frame as your body wrings itself of tears. He never forces you to explain. He never stops holding you. He allows you to feel what you are feeling and offers you an unwavering bastion of comfort and support. Eventually the waters calm and the wind inside your aching heart stops roaring. When you finally pull away, the last drops of sunlight are dappling his face. You reach up, cupping that beloved face in your hands, your eyes finding his.

What you find there is a love as luminous as the harvest moon, forcible enough to withstand even the most destructive of storms. A love that transcends something as trivial as seconds and years and centuries. A forever that belongs to you both, no matter if its form is a tender embrace right now under a darkening forest canopy or the warmth of this memory on a cold, autumn night somewhere around the riverbend.

“Let’s go home,” you whisper, your thumbs running over the sharp lines of his cheekbones. 

He reaches out with one hand, running it over the softness of your hair. 

“Of course, chérie.” He leans forward, placing a gentle kiss to the corner of one eye, then the other, and then another on your lips, love sinking into your skin at every point of contact. Standing, he reaches down for your hand and says in a voice steeped in the honeyed tenderness of loving devotion, “Let’s go home.”

🍂

Tagging: @atelieredux @alixennial @queengiuliettafirstlady @rhodolitesroseforclavis @somekidnamedkai @alexxavicry @ikemen-prince-writers-posts @bellerose-arcana @thewitchofbooks @ikehoe @redheadkittys @themysticalbeing @dear-fall-otome @firestar-otomeobsessed @curious-skybunny

[cypriathus]

Here is my version of Merlin from Arthurian legend!

Merdzalonius Eysplumona is a 460-year-old kind and gentle archmage, bard, and advisor, but behind closed doors, he’s melancholic and bitter. He’s able to put up a convincing facade that he’s completely fine, but shows no fear to berate someone if needed. He’s a sadomasochist who derives most of his sexual pleasure from the infliction of physical and psychological pain on others and himself. As a womaniser, he enjoys getting affection from plenty of women, while flexing his charisma and flirtatious expertise. He’s eager to advise and be of service, and able to use past experiences and knowledge in order to make sensible decisions and judgments. Despite his maturity, he’s playfully cunning and has a fondness for bewildering games, quirky disguises, deception, and strange humour. Merdzalonius is hyperactive, delusional, and anxious with concentration troubles, occasional temper tantrums, and inability to handle stress.

He’s a 9’ 11” (302.26 cm) trapezoidal mesomorph with an average musculature, a square chest, and a slightly rounded belly. He has Alice blue skin that’s fairly smooth, a melanzane forked tongue, and cinnabar eyes with slit pupils and dark burgundy sclera. His glistening edgewater hair is a nest of long, tentacled appendages with marble-like old gold and strikemaster patterns. Merdzalonius dons a glossy black goat patch with signs of greying, reaching to the middle of his pectoral muscles. He has razor-sharp claws in a metallic blue and the wings of a rusty blackbird. His lower half is a giant, slithering Babakina anadoni with eighteen tentacles in the front and the shell of a Charonia tritonis.

The tail half of Nikmuvolefja’s hooded seal pelt (it’s eventually replaced with a grey seal pelt) is stretched across a necklace of alternating raven leg bones and rectangular pieces of lavender quartz. He wears three rings on his left hand: a silver claddagh with a golden heart on the ring finger; a pink coral beaded ring on the middle finger; and a grandidierite solitaire on the index finger. His left forearm and hand are covered in a vambrace of jagged, draconic scales and a sharp-fingered gauntlet, which are both made from gilded brass. Merdzalonius wears layered, flowing robes of cloud burst adorned with purple-white and gold stars, and a short-sleeved mulberry wood tunic made from the finest silk. He’s in possession of a drooping, pointed hat that has an oceanic gradient from rosy pink, brilliant red, teal, light blue, and dark navy. The wide brim is decorated with fourteen hanging bronze bells and a yellowish-brown silk ribbon is wrapped around the base. He carries around a gold-plated, wolfskin grimoire with an evil eye in the centre of the front cover and a long, wavy wand of birch.

Merdzalonius can see a few hours into the past and future of his current timeline, and utilise clairvoyance, telekinesis, psychometry, and elemental manipulation. He’s able to transform people into heroes, anti-heroes, anti-villains or villains based on their moral compass and current emotional state. He possesses an indomitably strong lust and the ability to shapeshift into any animal he truly desires. He’s a master of alchemy white and black magic, psychology, pedagogy, escapology, disguises, beast-taming, music, and singing. He can control people to obey his commands and satisfy his desires through a sing-song voice. As a result of his absolute mind, he has god-level intelligence and cognitive proficiency, mentifery, great wisdom, terrifying charisma, superior instinctual awareness and capabilities in adaptability, and an indomitable willpower. Merdzalonius possesses full comprehension of the multiverse and a clear understanding on how others think and fight.

FAMILY:

Unnamed incubus father

Unnamed human mother

Unnamed fairy enchantress (ex-lover)

ALIASES/NICKNAMES:

The Maritime Madness

The little blackbird

Man of Wonder

FUN FACTS/EXTRA INFORMATION:

As an Æylphitus, the different parts of his name have special meanings: Merdzalonius means “sea fortress” and Eysplumona means “moulting songbird in a cage or singing in their own feathers”.

He used to be a cambion

His former physical body is forever sealed up in a tree that resides somewhere near the heart of Brocéliande.

He has two dragon familiars: an ice-breathing dragon and a dragon born with the powers of erupting volcanoes. They’re tasked with guarding his castle tower from invaders and bringing him ingredients and potential specimens.

He has a strong affinity with nature and animals

He often withdraws himself into Avalon to meditate

He laughs a lot

He enjoys working and living in cluttered environments with limited open spaces as they keep him stimulated and preoccupied.

The weight and stickiness of his mollusk body makes him slower than his former self, which can get on his nerves at times.

[joz-yyh]

WIP snippet of Damian and Bigby's first kiss for my fic, “Blighted Hearts.” (You can check out the comic -> HERE!!)

“I was hoping I would find you here,” the flagellant says, his approach as pointed as his smirk, holding something behind his back.

“And why is that,” Bigby asks, his eyebrow cocked in suspicion, knowing his friend was up to something.

“Because I wanted to give you this,” the flagellant says, taking out a modest box, small enough to fit inside his palm, wrapped in a bow of twine.

Whatever enigmatic surprise his mischievous friend had in store for him, the vagrant never expected it to be a present.

“You didn't have to get me anything,” the abomination insists, already refusing the offering.

“I wanted to,” Damian says, letting the gift hang there between them.

“What is it,” Bigby mumbles, wondering if it was something frugal enough that he could accept.

“Suppose you'll just have to open it,” Damian teases.

He finds the werewolf’s shackled wrist, turning it over, depositing the gift box inside his hand before moving to sit beside him.

“A-are you sure,” the lycan asks, letting the four corners rest in his hands, “I didn’t get you anything.”

“Who said you needed to get me anything on your birthday,” the flagellant chuckles.

“My birthday,” he huffs, clearly befuddled.

“You said it was around the springtime so, I put this together for you as quick as I could. Didn’t want to miss it.”

Astonished, the abomination looks at him with wide eyes, in disbelief that the penitent man paid attention to such superficial details that not even he remembered the importance of disclosing.

Bigby decides he should at least see what’s inside, unwinding the delicate twine, pulling the knot loose with careful fingers.

“Do you plan to save the string,” the flagellant teases, “use it to wrap around your finger and mine?”

Bigby jabs his shoulder into him, a recompense for his sharp tongue, but the man only laughs in reception.

Concentrating now, he pries the lid off, finding a rosary of brown beads waiting inside a bed of silk wrapping. He holds it up, watching as the wood catches the light like bright bronze spindles.

“It’s beautiful,” the abomination says, “thank you.”

Damian nods, “Baldwin helped me with the band.”

“He did?”

Damian nods. “He’s better at tying knots, but the wood is petrified, very hard to carve,” he says, holding up his hands, displaying fingers full of small gashes, “I might have bled on them a bit.”

Bigby laughs at the thought of a few stray blood splatters being the reason for his obituary, “how will you survive?”

“Sheer willpower. Do you still have your cross with you?”

“Always.”

“May I see it? I want to show you something.”

The abomination isn’t sure where Damian is going with this, but he takes out the said crucifix from his pocket.

“Watch closely,” the priest says, assuming both trinkets, linking them together in a series of knots.

“Now you will always have it close to your heart,” he concludes, holding the necklace open, waiting.

Bigby takes the hint, drawing closer so that the flagellant can christen it around the column of his neck.

“There, it suits you.”

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t admiring the moment, one hand on the vagrant’s shoulder, the other idly brushing his cheek, styling his hair around it, lingering over his skin.

“I knew it would.”

The werewolf can't help it, he's completely overtaken, magnetized forward. In one swift movement, probably the fastest he’s ever moved in his life, he takes Damian’s face in his hands, connecting their lips in an impulse of feeling.

The flagellant is shocked, so shocked that he doesn't think to respond, so frozen in place by a dream come true that he hardly realizes it’s happening, Bigby grasping at his rigidness, his kiss met with moribund detachment.

“I am sorry,” he pleads, pulling back, recognizing the severity of his mistake, “I-I never should have done that. I misread the signs and – I-I mean why would you want a pathetic, good for nothing monster like m–”

Damian grabs him by the cheeks, cutting off his self-deprecating slander with a second coming of their lips, his kiss lasting and firm, a collision of worlds.

“Mmmm,” Bigby groans, eyebrows arched, their lips molding against each other as he grabs Damian’s face back, holding him there, wanting to capture this moment eternally.

“What was that,” Damian asks, breaking away, panting with the effort, “about you misreading the signs.”

Bigby grins, recalling a similar mishap when they first held hands, “Maybe you should apologize?”

“Only if I can have your lips again," the priest urges, besieged by dewy pink softness.

“Suppose you’ll just have to try," Bigby breathes, drifting closer, waiting for the other to embrace the thinning distance between them.

{End Preview}

[driedmealworms]

Beauty and the beast Diavolo x MC

I’m sorry if this is bad I haven’t wrote fanfiction in like 2 years and this is my first Tumblr post

I also posted this on Wattpad

You immediately knew this man was not human... his presence was big but also terrifying, his teeth Sharp, his eyes Gold, his hair like Flame, you felt your gut sink and it felt like your tongue was swollen making it impossible to mutter a single word as you looked up at him.

"Welcome to the Devildom!"

He said with a toothy grin.

You felt lightheaded and before you knew it everything was dark...

You jolted awake feeling sick, you could barely remember what happened before you fainted... you carefully observe your surroundings. The charcoal walls framed with gold.

the dark cherry wood furniture. You laid on a king sized bed decorated with white and red pillows a burgundy duvet covering the lower half of your body.

You jump at the sound of three knocks on the heavy wood door. "May I come in?" You hear a muffled silk voice.

A handful of seconds pass before the door gently cracks... "Mc... Are you up?" There was a teal haired man with a slender build, he wore a green button up, covered by an apron.

"Are you feeling well? I brought you some breakfast if you are hungry." The man smiles, pulling a cart into the room.

You stare in awe as he starts setting up the breakfast tray. "I figured you may want to eat alone since you were pretty frightened earlier" he laughs

"But you are not prisoner to this room."

"Why am I here?" You say with a weak voice,

He starts pouring a cup of tea before handing it to you.

"First drink this, the air here is deferent from what you are used to.

Humans tend to take awhile to get adjusted but this should speed up the process."

"And to answer your question...

The young master is trying to mend the bridge between the three worlds, you have been chosen to help with his project.

I am afraid that's all the information I can say, if you want more details you'll have to ask his majesty yourself."

He smiles as he puts his stuff back on the cart.

"If you need any assistance whatsoever you can just call for one of the servants we have all been ordered to make you as comfortable as possible!"

He gives you one last smile before making his way out of the room with his cart.

You look down into your cup, the small remnants of tea leaves floating in the light brown liquid, warmth radiating from the cup as you bring it up to your lips

You immediately feel the dryness of your throat go away as you take your first sip.

The tray before you resembled a feast , a variety of deferent fruits you have never seen before along with fresh baked bread, eggs, and something similar to bacon.

You cautiously take your first bite of the eggs, before you know it all that's left of the meal is a few crumbs.

You uncover your body,

sitting up and carrying the tray towards the door.

You poke your head out of the door looking down a lavish hallway, there were shadowy figures with horns sweeping and polishing away.

"Oh. Want me to take those from you madam?" A shadowing figure stops it's work and asks.

"Uhm yeah..." you say handing the tray over to the demon, it turns around and starts walking down the hall "wait! Is it ok if I follow you?" The demon stops looking back at you it's eyes glowing yellow.

"Ofcourse Madam mc,"

                                    X

"And this picture is of the young masters fathers, fathers, father."

The demon explained, you stared into the portrait not knowing how you got into a tour of the castle in the first place.

"Uhm Little D no. 2, Mc, what are you doing... and why are you carrying around that tray?" You looked over at a familiar face

"Oh B-barbatos... we'll you see Mc practically begged me for a tour and I couldn't stand watching them in that state... tearing up and all that so i just had to give them a tour...." Beads of sweat started forming on the shadowy demons forehead.

"Hm is this true Mc?" Barbatos looks at you with his finger resting on his chin.

"Uhm..." you see Little D no. 2s panicked expression in your peripheral.

"Mhm it's true..."

You respond

"Oh... for a second I thought Little D no. 2 just dragged you into a tour to get out of doing his work, it wouldn't be the first time he's done it after all." Barbatos glares at the Little D.

"Speaking of work I really should finish it!

Mind taking these to the kitchen for me? Thanks!" The little D shoves the tray in Barbatos hands before disappearing down the hallway.

"What am I gonna do with him" He sighs,

"Well we can finish this tour later but for now let's take these to the kitchen and get you dressed." Even though he was smiling you could see the slightly visible vein in his forehead.

"Why do I need to get dressed?" You ask making him stop in his tracks.

"My apologies I got distracted and forgot to mention it to you,

The prince has requested you show up to dinner tonight." The butler continues his path.

"Why?" You ask mentally slapping yourself for asking such a stupid question.

"Well to discuss the project Ofcourse..." the butler never moving his gaze from the path.

[marymerchandice]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: NEW Lole Nicky Winter Jacket in Manteau Navy Blue Medium.

[therosespitznogle]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Vintage Chunky Big Bead Necklace Fall Autumn Colors! 1970s Boho Brown & Orange.

[vaaree]

Home Decor Ideas for Living Room Indian Style

Decorating a living room in Indian style involves incorporating rich colors, traditional patterns, and a blend of different textures. Here are some home decor ideas for a living room with an Indian touch:

1. Color Palette:

Opt for warm and earthy tones like deep reds, oranges, browns, and yellows. These colors create a cozy and inviting atmosphere.

2. Furniture:

Choose wooden furniture with intricate carvings and details. Dark woods like teak or rosewood are commonly used in Indian decor.

Low seating arrangements like floor cushions, poufs, or a wooden jhoola (swing) can add an authentic touch.

3. Textiles:

Use vibrant and textured fabrics for upholstery, curtains, and throw pillows. Incorporate traditional Indian textiles like silk, cotton, and jute.

Consider adding a colorful rug with intricate patterns like Persian or traditional Indian motifs.

4. Wall Decor:

Embellish walls with traditional Indian art forms like Madhubani paintings, Tanjore art, or Rajasthani miniature paintings.

Hang a decorative mirror with a carved or brass frame to add a touch of elegance.

5. Lighting:

Choose brass or copper lamps, lanterns, or chandeliers to add a warm glow to the room.

Include floor or table lamps with colorful lampshades or intricate designs for a traditional look.

6. Accessories:

Decorate with brass or copper items such as trays, pots, and figurines.

Incorporate traditional Indian artifacts like statues, bells, or sculptures representing Hindu or other cultural symbols.

7. Curtains and Drapes:

Select curtains with elaborate patterns and bright colors. Sheer curtains with intricate embroidery can also add a touch of elegance.

8. Natural Elements:

Bring in potted plants or flowers to add a natural element to the room. Consider incorporating indoor plants like money plant, ficus, or snake plant.

9. Cushions and Throws:

Use a mix of cushions with different textures, colors, and patterns. Consider adding embroidered or beaded cushions for a luxurious touch.

10. Dividers or Screens:

Introduce wooden screens or room dividers with intricate carvings to add privacy and a touch of traditional charm. Remember, the key to achieving an Indian-style living room is to blend rich colors, traditional patterns, and handcrafted elements. Feel free to mix and match different elements to create a unique and personalized space.

[shopofthemoment]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: BCBGMaxAzria ✿ Silk Blend Sequin Wood Bead Spaghetti Strap Cami Top ✿ Brown ✿ M.

[ourtumbler30things]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: SILPADA 925 Rose Quartz 35” Necklace N1428.