#brocaded future

[lovekia]

[dresshistorynerd]

Sewing mid-16th century Venetian dress in doll scale

My parents moved from my childhood home, so I needed to finally take all my old toys I want to keep to store myself, including my dolls. For a long while I've been thinking it might by fun to sew tiny historical clothing for dolls. I love watching doll customization videos, they are so satisfying, and I just really love it, when there's a normal sized thing and then you make it tiny. Especially if it's still functional and made from correct materials. I can't explain it better than tiny versions of bigger things just make me vibrate on higher level. Now that I have my dolls in my home and a box full of fabric scraps, I have everything I need to just start sewing. So I did. And it was extremely fun. I have already started working on a 1890s doll outfit.

This will show my age (not that it doesn't read in my bio), but my dolls are all mainly My Scenes. I was Team My Scene in the early 2000s Bratz vs. My Scene wars. I did not like the proportions of Bratzes. All my My Scenes are Madison, she was my girl.

Here's all the items I made. I tried to use as much historical methods as was possible on doll scale and hand-sewed everything. I made a shift, hose, dress, necklace, earrings, partlet and shoes. I did almost make detachable sleeves, but I wasn't happy with them and I will need to remake them. It took me so long to finish one sleeve and I was very frustrated when I wasn't happy with the result, so I will need some time to make a second attempt.

Underlayer

I have finer white cotton than linen so I used the cotton for the shift and partlet, even though cotton wasn't really used widely at the time, definitely not in underwear, but it worked better in this scale. I didn't have thin enough wool for the hose, so I used fabric from my old thin stockings. Knitted stockings were not quite yet a thing so that's not very accurate, but that's the best I got. I choose red since red hose seemed to have been pretty common based on Venetian paintings, where the hose are shown. I used tiny beads I had lying around as buttons for the sleeves.

I'm not super happy with the neckline. I couldn't come up with a good way to finish gathered neckline on this scale without making it bulky. In future I will try something else.

Overgarments

Dress

The dress itself is made from the remaining scraps of the lovely Latvian linen I bought many years ago from Riga and have already made several garments from. The skirt is cartridge pleated, though the pleats at places behave a little weirdly due to the scale. I used semi heavy linen as lining and finished the panels separately as was typical in 16th century. I didn't use any boning equivalent, but I use cording to reinforce the laced opening. I of course sewed tiny lacing holes, which was very fun. The cord for the lacing I plaited from heavy thread.

Here's couple of examples from 1550s and 1560s Venice I used as basis for the dress.

Partlet

A Venetian renaissance woman of course needs her boob window partlet. Unfortunately I didn't have any super sheer linen or silk to make the fashionable sheer look.

Shoes

The shoes are chopines, which were very fashionable in Venice at the time. They were platform slippers with wooden base, which were covered with leather or fancy fabrics, like brocade or velvet. I didn't make the heels super tall since I was going for more toned down merchant/artisan class sort of vibe, and the very tall were used by upper class women and courtesans. I carved the heels from soft wood and covered them with sateen.

For reference here's couple of 16th century Venetian chopines.

[nemainofthewater]

I finished making a mamianqun! I think I’ll swear off sewing with brocade for the near future but I’m very pleased with how it turned out!

[zablife]

Lovefool

Tommy x gf reader

Summary: An infatuated Tommy finds his gf in a state of confusion, leading him to question her devotion. Will she say she loves him and not another?

Author's Note: Requested by @runnning-outof-time who asked for a story set in the room pictured above. Image credit goes to K for that lovely image in the center of the moodboard!

The soft glow of the fading afternoon sunlight gave an ethereal quality to your family’s drawing room, the pale ivory walls bathed in swaths of peach and gold that welcomed Tommy in despite his late arrival.

Arms full of flowers and lips overflowing with apologies, he carefully approached the center of the room. As he waited to see how you might receive him, his eager blue eyes roved the intricate scrollwork of the plaster moldings which cascaded from the ceiling and walls like clouds come down from heaven.

The high shine of the polished parquet floors reflected the warmth of the sun’s radiance upon your skin, bringing his gaze back to you and the sight left him enchanted. He stuttered out a quiet breath in appreciation of your angelic form in a white satin gown and matching gloves. But as Tommy moved to place a kiss upon your cheek, you shrunk way from him, an unreadable expression crossing your face.

Bringing the bouquet to your nose, you inhaled their rich perfume deeply, a hint of satisfied contentment settling over you. It was not to last. Tommy watched as your mood soon shifted like the wind, your hands relinquishing the colorful blooms moments later to a nearby table.

With an aching dread growing in his chest, he noted the distance between you as you retreated to the semicircular alcove of tall windows. Without so much as a backward glance, you walked into the light, leaving him far behind.

It was not the welcome to which he'd grown accustomed. The evenings of months past were spent intertwined on the sofa as you read from one of your favorite novels, stopping for him to brush the tendrils from your vision so you might continue or share a bit of gossip with him.

An uncharacteristic air of despondency seemed to take hold now as you looked out into the open space before you. Many moments passed in silence, your arms clutched tightly against your body before you finally proclaimed, “You shouldn’t have come tonight, Tom.”

“Why? Are you expecting someone else?” he asked with a half hearted laugh. A harsh gulp followed your silence, afraid to hear the answer.

“As a matter of fact, I am,” you confirmed, pulling back the heavy brocade curtains. Your eyes scanned the front lawn for movement, sensing only the shadows passing over the hedgerow.

As the sun dipped in the sky, a single beam of sunlight graced the ornate marble fountain. The light danced across the rippling water, twinkling back at you in an array of glittering gold and you smiled to yourself as you thought of the magic this particular hour held. In the days after your introduction to Tommy and his love of horses, you would often stroll the grounds near the stables before dinner. However, your joy was quickly stolen by thoughts of what your father had said at breakfast.

Tommy sighed heavily behind you and you glanced over your shoulder to see him slowly approaching.

“Tommy, please, don’t,” you shook your head softly as he began to reach for you. 

“What’s wrong, eh?” his tone was gentle, but the concern he held was evident by the crease of his brow as he noted your puffy lower lip, swollen from your incessant biting. He’d come to notice it was a nervous habit of yours, albeit one that made you even more attractive. He would have kissed your ruby red lips if you hadn’t looked so distressed.

“Father says I ought to consider my options for the future. I’m afraid that no longer includes you,” you confessed flatly, afraid you’d lose control of your emotions if you didn’t hold tightly to the facade of well-mannered elegance.

Tommy's jaw clenched involuntarily at the thought of your father's duplicitousness, but also chided himself for being so thoroughly distracted by the mess Michael had made of everyone's finances recently. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he attempted a calming breath before asking, “And what of your mother?”

“Mother says I shouldn’t bother with someone who doesn’t deserve me,” you answered without considering how hurtful your declaration sounded. As soon as the words left your mouth, you recoiled slightly at the harshness. Eyes flicking up toward Tommy’s crestfallen face, you added defensively, “You’ve been away for weeks now with so few calls."

“I see,” Tommy uttered on a low breath. It was true the board meetings and paperwork had taken more of his time than he would have liked. “There were things I had to take care of,” Tommy began to explain before you cut him off.

“Yes, I understand, but that doesn't change the fact that mother says you’re not serious about me," you argued.

Fidgeting with your gloves you admitted that your parents had invited a handsome Bostonian named Jack Nelson to dinner one evening. With their blessing he'd taken you to the pictures and then dancing. Soon he was a regular guest at your parents' home, usurping Tommy's place at the table.

Tommy felt all the air leave the room as he recognized the name of the rival gangster. They'd seen one another two weeks earlier in London and exchanged cryptic remarks about his penchant for blue bloods and aspiration which made perfect sense now.

“You’d consider Jack Nelson’s proposal?” Tommy winced as he recalled the unsettling curl of the man's upper lip when he smirked.

“I don't know, I’m lost in confusion,” you cried, eyes brimming with tears. 

Tommy ran a hand through his hair, unable to believe what he’d just heard. Surely you had to know the difference between his love for you and whatever false promises Jack had made.

The sound of tires crunching against the gravel drive signaled an end to your discussion and you quickly dried your tears. Chin raised high, you prepared to take your leave when Tommy reached for your arm.

“Don’t go,” he pleaded.

"But...my parents...they're expecting me" you stuttered, lost in the deep blue pools of his eyes so close to you they now threatened to swallow you.

Tommy's palm caressed your arm, warmth spreading up you like the last ray of sunlight fading from view. You couldn't help leaning into his touch, needing to hear what he would say.

“I'm sorry I wasn't here, but you have to know...I haven’t spent a day without thinking about you,” he confessed, eyes glistening hopefully.

A single tear cascaded down your cheek at his admission, savoring the words you'd longed to hear even though you knew they came too late.

Tommy's heart clenched in his chest at the sight of it, silently willing you to listen a moment longer. "Does he know?"

"Know what?" you whispered.

"That you like simple daisies most? Or that you're allergic to lavender?" he asked in a pinched voice, a lump growing in his throat at the thought of your hand slipping from his and losing you forever.

"Oh, Tommy..." you sighed, realizing he'd recognized your habit of pressing the delicate white flowers into your books when he brought them to you and how you sneezed when you'd passed the rows of purple blooms your mother planted in the garden. "I...I don't think anyone ever thought to notice," you admitted sadly. Your comfort had never been a priority to anyone before.

Tommy brought you in close to his body, stroking your back gently as he spoke. "You're the most precious thing to me in this world. How could I not have noticed?"

With that you began to weep openly and he embraced you tightly, his lips meeting yours in a passionate kiss.

"Everything's going to be fine, darling. I'll speak with your father and make things right. I love you," he swore to you with such earnestness you didn't doubt him for a moment.

“I love you too, Tommy,” you answered breathlessly.

Wiping your tears away with pad of his thumb, Tommy's grin widened and his eyes twinkled with mischief as he added, "Then let's go tell that Nelson bastard to fuck off!"

"Yes, let's!" you agreed with a giggle. And you exited the drawing room hand in hand.

----------------------------

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[siriusleee]

Like Blood on Iron | 3

Historical Executioner AU

Summary: The executioner has always been an enigma to you - drawing you in. His sword drawing a line in the dirt as he made his way to the village center, and leaving back to his cottage on the outskirts of town. However, your curiosity can't stop the future your family has planned for you.

Warnings: mentions of blood, family dynamics, semi-forced marriage mention, implied age gap, future smut, future blood and gore.

Word Count: 3.4k

A/N: This chapter was getting so hefty I had to cut it in half; the next chapter is so drama filled.

chapter 1 chapter 2 chapter 4

"Is this the smallest we can get her waist?"

You grimace as the seamstress pulls harder on the corset lacing, your hands trying to find some purchase underneath the boning to keep some breath in you.

"I think," you gasp out, pulling at the neckline where it digs into your chest, "that if we pull any tighter, I'll faint before I can make it down the aisle."

You intended for the words to come out dripping in irritation, sardonic, and cutting, but instead, they come out breathless. Behind you, the seamstress, an old woman who's probably made every dress in town for the past hundred years, chuckles before sticking a pin at the small of your back. 

"She is a beautiful girl," the seamstress says through a mouthful of pins, "it doesn't matter how small her waist is - it won't cancel the wedding." 

If only . You scowl at yourself in the mirror, skirts billowing out around you. You look ridiculous, your hair haphazardly piled on top of your head, the beginnings of a wedding dress pinned to you. You've been here for hours, stripped and measured, compiled and put back together. The heavy white brocade Mother picked out draped on you this way and that until she and the seamstress found it falling in a way they liked. 

Sweat beads and drips down your neck, the hair that's touching you is drenched. Mother comes behind you and wipes at your chest with a cloth.

"Why are you sweating so much?"

"It's hot underneath all of this fabric," you protest, fanning yourself with your hands. "I'm tired, my feet hurt and this is like torture." 

Mother studies your face, no doubt seeing the dark circles underneath your eyes. You know she's wondering what you're doing at night - if you had left the night before, but she doesn't say anything, her tongue sticks out just faintly from the corner of her mouth; a sign you know is her trying not to say anything.

The seamstress taps the back of your thigh as she stands, her back cracking from the struggle.

"Here you can sit on this stool. Careful - I don't need you sticking yourself and getting blood everywhere."

You lower yourself, knees aching from the scrapes and bruises you'd gotten the night before. You'd seen the way the seamstress and Mother looked at them when you had to strip down, saw the way their eyes cut to each other, and the way they bit their tongue. But you'd gotten them scampering across the new ship Uncle Henry had talked about. It had sailed into the port three days ago unexpectedly. Uncle Henry had been sick, Father said tense from his spot standing behind a dinner table; they'd needed to come back quickly for medical treatment. Maggie and Lily had offered to go see him, to take something to make him feel better but Mother had cut them off. 

The entire conversation had been odd to you - the way Mother had cut off Lily and Maggie's kindness so quickly, the way Father had gone right when he left the house that night, whispering that he was going to check on Uncle Henry when the doctor's house is left. You'd spent two nights in the house, watching for Ghost's figure to appear at the end of the street, a tell-tale sign that he was open to some conversation for the night. Last night you'd gotten tired of waiting to see Ghost and tired of trying to eavesdrop on a conversation between Mother and Father that never seemed to be coming.

Once night had laid across the village, dark and muffled, you'd pulled a pair of father's old paints and a worn-out tunic from underneath your bed - you'd smuggled them both with the pretense of stitching up a hole for Father. It'd been easier to leave since Mother's ultimatum - Lily had been moved into Maggie's room and no one questioned your coming and going. But you knew if anyone caught you in men's clothing, the questions would be too much. So you'd dressed quickly and shoved your hair down the back of the tunic to try to hide its length and crept down the trellis.

You'd expected it to be difficult, to creep onto the ship. But it had been empty, all the usual night watch lanterns extinguished as it rolled lazily in the bay waves. You didn't know much about ships, you'd never paid attention to Father and Uncle's ship talks like Maggie, but you could see the differences Uncle had been talking about. This one was much smaller and sleeker than the ships that were usually docked there. Creeping on had been easier too - it was nearly abandoned. 

You'd been hoping to overhear some drunken conversation, something that could give a hint to what was really going on with Uncle Henry, but no one was there. You'd tripped across a coiled rope, hidden in the deep shadows, and laid there, waiting for someone to hear and come shouting. But no one came. So you'd crept back home with more questions than answers. 

And this morning Father was gone, absent from his usual place of breakfast. In your whole life, you could only count on the days he was gone at sea for him to be absent from breakfast and once he'd started having enough people to sail in his place and could stay home, he'd never missed breakfast. Before you could snoop anymore, Mother had swept you out of the house and to the seamstress. 

While you sit, the seamstress runs a measuring tape down your arms, around your wrist, and elbows. She wraps it gently around your neck - each measurement committed to her memory, iron even in her old age. Finally, after running it down your spine and adding another needle, the sharp metal cold as it touches your skin, she tells you to stand up. Her fingers pull each piece of pinned fabric deftly off of you, the pin's edges barely scraping your skin as she strips you layer by layer until you're nearly naked again. 

Mother hands you your dress - a simple blue one made to easily come off for the seamstress, and you slip it over your head, fingers working at the laces at the front to tie it back together. You're almost finished tying when the church bell tolls, but it's not the hour. The three of you freeze, counting the out-of-time tolls.

One.

Two.

Three.

You hold your breath, waiting to see if it will toll again. Three tolls mean an emergency at the port but - 

Four .

- means a council meeting, an emergency execution. Execution without trial. Mother's hands rest on the door, and before the fourth toll is dissipated in the air, she pushes the door open and rushes out, leaving you in her wake. You thank the seamstress quickly and rush out after Mother. She's running, skirts bunched in her hands - something you've never seen her do. Even in the most tense moments, she's always walked calmly, a believer that overreaction can only make situations worse. The sight of her running towards the house twists something inside of you, and you take off after her, tripping slightly over the rough edge of your skirt, your hair whipping you in the face. 

You slam into the front door of your house, as it swings shut behind Mother - it sends a shockwave through your wrists. Inside it's a frenzy, the dining room looks as if it's exploded. You can just see Maggie holding Lily as men, men you recognize as members of the council scream across the table at each other, Father's booming voice - a voice you only remember hearing like this yelling at sailors who did something dangerous and once at you when he caught you trying to sneak onto his ships - shouts over all of them. But you can't make out what he's saying as you push through their bodies, reaching for Maggie and Lily across the war being waged across the dining table. 

Maggie pushes Lily to you; you grab her wrist and pull her out of the room, Maggie following closely behind. You shove Lily towards the steps, yelling at her to go upstairs. Her skirts sweep the stairs as she runs; you turn your attention to Maggie, her face so pale she looks ill.

"What is happening?" You ask Maggie, pulling her in towards the wall, far enough away from the dining room that the two of you can't be seen by the council but close enough to hear them.

"I don't know. They were all in the yard arguing with Father and when the bell tolled they all came in yelling at each other I don't-"

She's cut off by a roar from Father, finally louder than all the other men in the room.

"You will not come into my house and threaten me!"

You can never remember a time when your father yelled like that in your life. Not when he caught you smuggled away on one of his ships, not when Maggie pushed you from the second story down the stairs, not when you refused a marriage over and over. 

"Come on, we need to go upstairs," Maggie says, voice hoarse as she pushes you towards the staircase. You trip up it, falling up the stairs with Maggie until the two of you are crouched down at the top, peering down at the men in the front. For a moment, you flashback to the two of you being little, laying on your bellies to hear the conversations you were banished from.

Mother pushes past the two of you, not stopping to chastise the two of you for laying down at the top of the stairs. Her skirts fill the stairs as she rushes down; the men push out of the dining room and into the foyer. 

"He is my brother, and if you think I will condemn him to that bastard's sword you are wrong!"

"Bastard's sword?" Maggie whispers, shooting a look to you that you can't decipher. She goes to open her mouth again, but she's cut off by the front door slamming shut, and the tell-tale sound of Father's boots on the bottom of the stairs. Maggie's hands are on your back pushing you into your bedroom. The door shut behind the two of you before Father's steps breach the top of the stairs. 

Maggie whirls to you as the door shuts - eyes wide.

"Uncle Henry is being executed?"

"No," your voice stumbles, thinking of the sword in Ghost's hand, swinging down on Uncle Henry; Uncle Henry who used to pick you up swing you around, Uncle Henry who used to tell you you'd make a wonderful sailor.

"Why would he be being executed?" Your voice shakes in the stillness of the room while you cross the room and push open the window. "What could he have done that could warrant an execution?"

"It has to do with that ship," Maggie says, pacing around the room like a trapped cat. 

"It was empty last night," you admit, watching the men as they file out of your house, sweat beading off of them.

"What do you mean empty?"

"I," you pull back in the window as one of the men looks up at you, "I heard Mother and Father talking strangely about Uncle Henry and I was bored. Anyway, I snuck out to the ship last night and no one was there."

"There had to have been someone there." Maggie contests, hands wringing together.

"No - it was like a ghost ship."

You sink onto the bed, skin erupting in a clammy sweat. The house is silent - more silent than you've ever heard it before.

"You need to ask your friend not to do it."

A sliver of ice runs through your stomach and you freeze, hands pausing where they were picking at a loose thread in your skirt. You wait for just a pause too long before answering, your guilt bleeding through the cracks in the conversation.

"What are you talking about?"

"You know what I'm talking about."

When your eyes meet Maggie's, hers are sharp - sticking you to the bed so that you can't move. 

"I've seen you," she explains, "at night. You think no one can see you because it's dark outside, that no one is looking. But I am."

You rise, eyes never leaving hers, hands gripping the bedpost. Maggie's back is board straight, her hands folded nicely in front of her like she's not speaking about a secret that could ruin your life. 

"Why haven't you said anything yet?" You're breathless, mind already whirring to what you'll do when Mother and Father find out.

"I haven't needed to yet."

The unspoken words cut through the undercurrent: but I will when I need to .

"I can't change anything. He won't listen to me about this."

"He's our uncle ," Maggie pleads with you, crossing the room in two strides. "We have to try something."

A horrible thought flashes across your mind. 

"What could Uncle Henry have done to deserve this?" You wonder out loud. You know, by the way, Maggie looks into your eyes that she's thinking the same thing. Neither of you speaks out loud the horrible thought that he might deserve it.

Father left when the other council members did, and hadn't come home yet. Mother didn't tell any of you to go to bed that night, and you, Lily, and Maggie sat in front of the fireplace as the sunset. You wait until the street is empty before standing; Maggie keeps her attention on the fireplace, watching the way the fire pours across the logs. But Lily snaps to you.

"Where are you going?"

You ignore her as you tie your hair back.

She repeats herself, this time half standing from the chair she'd sat in for hours, but Maggie reaches over to her and presses on her shoulder to force her to sit down.

"I'll be back later Lily. You need to go to bed. It's late."

"I don't want to go to bed, I want-", her voice rises in pitch until Maggie cuts her off.

"Stop Lily. She's right - you need to go to bed."

But Lily doesn't listen. She follows you to the front door where you shrug on your cloak, a heavier one pulled out of the closet for the chill that's started cutting through the nights you spend with Ghost.

You leave her at the door before she can ask you another question.

The way to Ghost's is empty, but you can hear people talking around each corner - no doubt gossiping at the news of Uncle Henry's execution and what he could have done. No one but rapists and thieves had been executed in a long while; it turned your stomach to think of Uncle Henry committing such crimes. 

The dirt path to his house is cut up, fresh dirt turned over from horses coming back and forth all day. You think of Father coming out here today; did he beg Ghost for Uncle Henry's life?

That's the thought that sits with you when you rap on Ghost's door. He opens it before you can knock twice, his body filling the doorframe.

The words die in your throat. The skin around his eyes is sunken, the circles so dark they look black. He's slumped against the doorframe; you can only imagine the exhaustion he feels.

"If you are here to beg for his life you're wasting your breath. Your father already tried. It's done."

His voice is rough, ragged - like he's been yelling and arguing. And facing the pack of men who had been in your house today, he probably has been.

"I-I had been coming here to do that."

Ghost levels a look at you, one you've come to know means he's studying you, trying to think of the words to say back to you. But he doesn't say anything, just pushes himself away from the doorframe and walks back towards the inside. He leaves the door wide open for you, a silent invitation to come in.

So you follow him inside. It's warm, almost too warm, and small. The table sits in the middle of the room, with a fireplace on one side and a small kitchen on the other. There's a door in the back corner, his boots propped beside it. You look down at him and almost smile at the sight of his bare feet on the wooden floor. 

Ghost collapses into one of the chairs surrounding the table, a glass of something dark brown in front of him. You don't hesitate to sit across from him.

"You have to at least tell me what the charges are," you start, pulling the tie of your cloak around your neck, trying to get rid of the feeling of it choking you. "My mother and father refuse to say. They're scared that if they say what the charges are then they have to admit they're true."

Ghost studies the contents of his glass carefully, fingers tracing the rims. You don't want to push him; you've had enough late-night walks with him to know that if you do he'll leave. But your knee bounces all the same. When he finally speaks, the words are slow, measured. 

"Your Uncle got caught by one of the King's ships. They needed supplies, so they boarded your Uncle's ship and when they searched it they found people below deck. Mostly women. Your Uncle intended to take these women to some of our neighbors, and sell them off as slaves."

Your heart quickens - leaning forward you press your hands down on the table, it wobbles beneath you.

"You're lying to me."

"Ask your father about that."

It's like a bolt of lighting runs through you, the implications of his words. Ghost swirls his glass lazily - tired and you wonder if he's wanting you to go away so that he can drink it. 

"My father would know nothing about this." You know your father isn't perfect, but you can't imagine that he would know anything about Uncle Henry using slave ships. 

"And that's why he came here earlier to beg for me to make sure that your Uncle doesn't say anything about your father?" His voice is cutting as he pushes himself away from the table, glass in hand. He turns away from you and you watch as he pulls his mask down just enough to take a drink.

"My father-"

"Knew what your Uncle was doing and doesn't want to be put to death by my hands because that would bring even more shame on your family; it would ruin you and your sister's weddings."

The mask is askew when he turns back, the edge of a jagged scar on his right cheek peeks at you from the edge of the black fabric. Ghost doesn't speak to you as he pulls the curtain back from the window in his kitchen, eyes scanning the edge of the woods.

"You need to go home. No doubt some member of the council will be here again; the last thing your family wants is for you to be caught here with me."

"Ghost I-"

"Go. Home."

For the first time since you'd first caught him staring at you on the beach, a shiver of fear runs down your spine at the roughness in Ghost's voice, at the sharpness in his eyes. He notices the way you tense, the way you pull yourself back in your chair away from him, and his gaze softens. 

"I'm sorry I can't help you. But you need to go home."

He waits for you to move, his fingers poised on the front door, ready to open it for you. On weak knees, you push yourself up; you refuse to look at him as you pass, not wanting him to see the way your eyes water as you walk past. He pushes the door open for you; you feel his warmth as he steps closer to you as you walk through the threshold. 

Your foot hits the ground when Ghost calls your name lightly. You half turn towards him, enough to see the way his hands grip the door frame and you imagine the wood groaning beneath them.

"Yes, Ghost?"

You hear the sharp staccato of him swallowing once. 

"Don't watch tomorrow if you don't have to."

He doesn't wait for you to reply before he lets the door swing shut in your face. 

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[kimbapchan]

Hihi!! I just wanna start off by saying I. LOVE. The designs for your roleswap. You have given me many of The Thoughts. One thing I’m a bit curious about: where exactly does Quan Yizhen stand here? You’d expect him to remain a Heavenly Official, but Yin Yu being in Ling Wen’s spot raises questions.

**SPOILERS AHEAD. RUN NOW FOR ALL YE WHOM STILL READ**

With The Brocade Immortal, It’s likely Ling Wen was no longer the one to ‘create’ the Brocade Immortal, so perhaps that ‘honor’ falls to Yin Yu? But then that begs the question of who is the Brocade Immoral in that case? Would it still be the same person as the main novel or would if be someone else? Who could that someone else be? If my initial gut feeling is right then Quan Yizhen being the Brocade Immortal would be neat. Yin Yu feeling guilty for the loss and trying to bring Quan Yizhen back. (If you already mentioned QYZ at some point… whoops..?)

Also pretty curious about the dynamic between the Ghost Kings (well, the Calamities). We can suspect that Xie Lian, Shi Qingxuan and perhaps Mei Nianqing (if MNQ is present) are all on tolerable terms with each other, which isolates Lang Qianqiu, especially since it’s still incredibly likely that Xie Lian was still his teacher assuming Xie Lian wouldn’t continue on his warpath (this is also assuming Xie Lian remains the Crown Prince. But it seems likely because Mei Nianqing would likely have a certain title for Hua Cheng like cannon Jun Wu had given cannon Xie Lian. Plus: The increasing likelihood of Feng Xin and Mu Qing being ghosts supports the theory because if they both *died* rather than abandoning Xie Lian, I don’t think he would’ve held back…

But this is all just a theory! An AU-I-Read-Too-Far-Into Theory!

~ MC Anon (you don’t need to tag it… I just leave a little signature so that I REMEMBER that I was the one who wrote the ask, lol)

I really REALLY love your theories! thankyou for sharing them with me! I already have a comic drafted with Quan Yizhen actually! He is definitely one of my favorite characters in canon story. He reminds me of a very mellow Binghe hehe. I look forward to showing you guys his design in the AU! <3

Oh and yes, of course I would love to show the calamities/ghost kings interact. We haven't seen much of it yet since every comic I've done so far are sort of on Hua Cheng's POV. I'll hopefully make a comic in the future with Xie Lian's POV!

[fayes-fics]

Portrait: IV

Masterpost

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Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: A session at Benedict's studio is very eventful

Warnings (for this chapter): 18+ smut, minors DNI, loss of virginity, fingering, oral sex (m to f) cunnilingus, vaginal sex, discussion of pregnancy.

Word Count: 5.4k

Authors Note: We all knew it would come to this ;) thanks to @colettebronte and @makaylan for checking over this monster chapter <3

You arrive 11 am the following day at the address Benedict provided—a pleasant brick townhouse on the edge of Mayfair. You told your parents the subsequent two sessions would need to be at his studio and that his sister would act as chaperone. They both seemed happy with the arrangement, implicitly trusting one of the most eminent families in British society. It was, of course, a ruse of your own making; he made no such offer. In fact, you know for sure you will be alone together, and something about it has your stomach aflutter, a frisson over your skin.

His now-familiar valet answers the door shortly after you knock and guides you to a sun-filled studio at the rear of the property. The large picture windows are draped with sheer voile curtains that allow all the light in but obscure the interior from the surrounding properties. There will be no prying eyes here.

The room itself is a jumble of artefacts, art, canvases, paints, sketchbooks and his familiar easel. There is also an oversized dark green velvet chaise and, behind it, a lush forest backdrop; you assume this is the one Benedict wishes to paint you into, and you are delighted by it.

“Miss y/l/n,” his greeting from the doorway is radiance personified and slides down your spine like warm oil.

“Please, call me y/n,” you respond, turning to smile at him demurely.

“Only if you call me Benedict,” he specifies, walking in. He is casual today in a white shirt and black trousers held up with brocade braces; he is even barefoot.

“Will we be resuming the official portrait, Benedict?” you ask, emphasising his name as he draws closer. “Or the other one?” you add on a whisper.

“Which would you prefer, y/n?” he murmurs, drawing closer. His hand captures your wrist, encircling it between his thumb and forefinger. Paintbrush calloused fingertips resting delicately over your pulse point as if he is cataloguing your heartbeat.

“I have never felt more alive than last night,” you answer without artifice, ensuring your eyes are locked onto each other before you add, “being naked for you.”

He smiles dangerously. “And is that all you want? To be naked?” the tone teasing and low, and you know what he is asking.

Unabashed, you place a hand on his chest; it feels warm through his shirt, and his muscles flex slightly under your fingertips.

“I want you to ruin me.”

His sharp inhale and rapidly dilating pupils make your chest fire and your belly flip. 

“But you are promised to another,” he falters. Just like last night, his reminder is chivalrous. Even as you stand with barely a sliver of light between your bodies, his heat radiating to yours through the thin cotton layers that separate you.

“I do not care,” you state fiercely. “I do not wish to enter a loveless marriage without knowing what it is like to lay with someone I desire.”

“You desire me?” he teases as he presses against you.

“Since the moment I saw you,” you confess on an exhale. “And if I must face this awful future, I do not want to do so as a maiden. Without knowing something of true pleasure.”

“How can you be certain I can provide such things?” he is so close now, leaning over so his nose brushes yours. The moment is so charged you can taste the atmosphere between you. 

“No one makes me burn the way you do,” you murmur honestly, grasping his shirt, his lips ghosting over yours and his fingers a circle around your wrist, feeling your pulse pounding. “You would only need to touch me between my legs, and I would burst into flame.”

The needy noise he makes is everything; there is barely a second of hesitation before his lips crash onto yours. And you are instantly drowning. In the rush of chemicals in your bloodstream. In him, as he claims your mouth. His sizeable warm hand cradles your cheek and jaw, directing the movement. So you kiss back, rocking up onto the balls of your feet and pushing hard with your lips. Then it's a frenzy as he parts your lips with his. His tongue teasing yours insistently, obliterating that previous behind-the-greenhouse fumbling from your memory. This is what it is like to kiss. A sensual dance, a tease and a promise delivered—every fibre of your awakened by the experience that is at once exhilarating and so right.

“Oh god,” he gusts as you break apart.

“What?” your hands grabbing his jaw on reflex, not wanting his face to be far from yours.

“I…. I thought I could maybe resist this,” he laments, closing his eyes and leaning his forehead on yours, “but there is not a chance now. Whatever you want from me, I am yours.” his eyes fly open, and there is so much there in those enlarged pupils.

His offer is everything you need, and you mash your lips back to his, needing more hungry all-consuming kisses that he gives willingly.

“Give me everything, Benedict, please,” you say into his open wet mouth, the sound desperate even to your own ears.

“But what of your portrait?” he argues, nipping at your lips.

“You could still paint me after you ruin me?” you suggest with a twisted little smile, moving to suck on his upper lip, loving the tiniest rasp of stubble above it as you close your lips around it. 

“If I attempt to achieve both within an hour, you will not be satisfied with the outcome of either,” he jests with a rich chuckle. 

“Then I will have to stay longer and find a plausible reason when I get home. Perhaps, I have been sitting, waiting here with your sister, and yet you are nowhere to be seen, Mr Bridgerton?” you posit, wrapping your arms around his neck as he lifts you off the ground.

“I am such a scoundrel,” he plays along, hands banding tight around your waist.

“Indeed, and it means my portrait session will not begin until, hmmm, noon at the very earliest,” you declare with mock indignation, eyeing the clock over his shoulder as it shows barely 11:10 am. 

“I will be having strong words with myself about what an irresponsible cad I am,” he smirks, walking with you held tight in his arms, diving in for another kiss.

“Please do,” you concur over a giggle.

You share laughs and feather kisses until you feel the chaise bump the back of your calves.

“Are you certain?” he checks, his mien turning sweetly sincere.

“I have never been more certain,” you state categorically.

And then he is gently lowering you onto the plush chaise and crawling over you. You call his name softly as he nuzzles your neck and drops the lightest kiss there. His clothed body is so warm and all-consuming over yours. His hands taking his weight are either side of your upper arms, and he is looking down at you with a wondrous expression.

“I did as you suggested,” you offer quietly, “I wore nothing but this dress.”

His smile is wolfish as he lowers himself to kiss your collarbone. “Wonderful,” his voice like warm honey. You grab one of his hands, and he watches, fascinated, as you kiss his warm knuckles, then guide his hand to the bow below your right armpit.

He immediately understands what you are asking and holds your gaze intensely as he slowly unties it. The fabric around your body instantly slackens as he slides the two sashes apart.  Then slowly, with the look of someone unwrapping a wondrous gift, he peels the wraparound layer of your dress back over your front. It falls to your other side, and you feel warm air swirl around your nipples as they are exposed—the same with the patch of hair at the apex of your thighs. Your whole torso lying naked under him now.

He sucks in a breath.

“Is there something wrong?” you ask, concerned, wondering if perhaps you are not what he expected this close-up.

“Not in the slightest,” he reassures instantly, but there is a tremor in his hand as he brushes the back of it over your belly. Your stomach ripples under his attention, and goosebumps break out over all of your skin from just that gossamer touch.

“You are so sensitive to touch, my sweet,” he breathes hot over your face as you revel in this new moniker he has assigned you.

“I have never been touched like this before,” you remind, feeling lightheaded.

He hums in understanding and brushes more delicate caresses over your stomach; his warm smile is everything. He spends what feels like ages running the back of his hand over your midriff, calming strokes of his knuckles as you bite your lip and watch his face that concentrates on his movements. Then he flips his wrist, and fingertips trace over your skin. Your whole body pushes up into this new tactile sensation. He smiles knowingly and spiders his fingers up your sternum, intentionally avoiding your breasts, travelling slowly up to your neck with a swirling touch over your cheek to your lips. 

His thumb catches at the corner of your mouth, then sweeps across the bow of your lips, opening under his touch. When the pad brushes your front tooth, your tongue peaks out to lick the charcoal tang there, and he breathes ragged, hooks the top of his thumb into your mouth. You close your lips and suckle on instinct, staring into his dilated eyes. Something so slow and sensual about the moment as you suck more insistently until he withdraws and paints a trail of your saliva down your chin, over your chest until it lands on your nipple, and you gasp loudly as the wetness makes you pucker there. 

He smirks and pinches your nipple gently between his forefinger and wettened thumb. Pleasure shoots out around your being, concentrating between your legs, making your hips cant up into him. There is something warm and hard insisting inside his trousers; you know it must be his ‘member’ you have heard your ladies-maids talking about.

“Sh.. show me what is in your trousers,” you stutter inelegantly as you press up into him again, your mouth engaging words without your brain filtering them, too lost in the sea of novel experiences to censor yourself.

He chuckles at your turn of phrase. “Not yet,” he decides, lowering his lips to your neck, his fingers still on your breast, “but I will, I promise,” he buzzes into your ear.

His mouth then takes the same journey down your neck, little kisses setting your skin on fire until they reach your other nipple, which he sucks insistently, and you see stars, your hands grabbing his biceps to anchor yourself. Your cries of pleasure and surprise are loud even to your own ears, but you don't think to stop yourself, awash with sensation. And he doesn't shush you; in fact, he tilts his head to look up at your face as you stare down at him, and he winks and sucks harder on your pebbled nub—then swaps sides. You feel something akin to hot coals in your chest burning bright. And between your legs is a furnace, too—you long for his touch there.

“Please,” your voice gauzy, “more.”

And he obliges. He surges up to capture your lips again with greedy kisses, rearranging his weight onto one arm and the other sliding back down over your sternum, but this time going lower than your stomach. Pausing to swirl around your belly button, his fingers stray lower…. 

Lower still…. 

Lower…. until they run into the patch of hair at the meeting of your legs. 

He breaks the kiss to stare into your eyes as he slips his fingers between your legs, and your mind blanks. Nothing has prepared you for what it feels like to have another touch you there. Your eyes widen, and your mouth falls slack as his fingers quest into your folds. He hisses at the viscous wet heat he finds there.

“Benedict,” you whisper harshly onto his lips, and he growls lightly.

“My sweet, you are on fire for me,” his voice rough.

You moan and nod as he flexes his fingers on your clit before he kisses you again. Fiercely. Deeper and more desperate than before. You can feel a quake in him like he is holding back for you.

“Do not hold back,” you appeal into his mouth, wanting him to be unbridled—something about this man being wild with passion is an utterly enthralling prospect.

“I must. I need to be gentle, you are a maiden, and I cannot do what my body is aching to. Not just yet,” Benedict explains, his fingers rhythmically moving over your bud, desire coiling tightly inside you at his actions.

“What does it ache to do?” you whisper, having suspicions but wanting to hear the words drip from those kiss-swollen lips.

“To strip naked and plunge into you over and over until you scream my name,” he confesses.

“Do so,” you pant.

“I will, once you are ready.”

“And what of my ache?” you mutter; it feels like a hook is deep inside you, tugging, needing something.

“Where do you ache?” A look of concern flits across his features, and his fingers cease their wonderful movement.

“Inside,” you clarify and place your fingers over his to encourage him to restart his ministrations.

“Inside where?” his timbre falling impossibly low.

“Above your fingers,” you blush, “I am aching, and I need something.”

He groans, resting his nose on your cheek. “Your body needs mine; it is telling you it wants me as much as I want you,” he tutors breathily.

“Make it better, Benedict,” you beseech, touching his face.

He smiles, and the hand between your legs pushes your thighs further apart. Then he is slipping down your torso, sliding his mouth over your contours, pausing again at your breasts before going lower, as his hand did before. You watch, fascinated, as his thick head of hair is all you see, but you feel his lips over your skin, making you quiver in anticipation. You make a noise of surprise when he slinks between your legs and places your thighs over his shoulders.

“What are you…?” you begin, but he hushes you. 

You have never heard your ladies-maids talk of a man kissing between the legs, but that is what he does—he places a soft kiss on your sensitive nub, and you almost hit the ceiling with the new sensation. He hums in amusement, holds your thighs more firmly open, and repeats the action, but this time he lingers and unfurls his tongue all the way over where he had his fingers just before.

“Oh, my g-,” you gasp so loud that he chortles again, this time right into your overheated flesh. You make the most undignified noise, halfway between a moan and a squeak. You want to be mortified at the sound he has wrought from you and what he is doing, but he doesn't let you. He tilts his face to flash his eyes at you, encouraging you to be loud and reckless.

“Don't hold back,” he says silkily, echoing your words from moments ago. “I'm going to make that ache go away, my sweet,” he vows.

You can do nothing but let your eyes flutter shut and let him feast on you, which is precisely what he does. There is nothing gentle about the way he handles you. Taking your flesh into his mouth covetously, the heat and suction making you writhe, pushing your pelvis into his face, greedy for more. His left arm is banded tight around your thigh, holding you open to his attention, his right hand free to tease patterns over your belly, heightening your sensitivity with feathery brushes that make your skin hum.

You flush warm as you feel yourself climbing somewhere invisible. There is a certainty in your mind that nothing should feel quite this good - how on earth does any married lady get anything done if this is a regular occurrence? - but it is tinged with melancholy, knowing that this may be your only time to experience such pleasure. The bittersweet edge makes you more desperate for him, grabbing his hair and directing his attention.

He moans his approval, asks you to look at him as he spears the tip of his tongue into you, and you do. Stare down the length of your body to his eyes, dilated and so intense, you can’t look away. You watch as he opens his mouth wide and draws your swollen bud into his mouth, swirling his tongue gently around the most sensitive spots, varying pressure and speed so you never know what will come next. Unbreakable tension builds up, holding your belly muscles taunt as if in anticipation of something. Then with a raise of an eyebrow and a little soft plea to give it to him, he delicately runs the edge of his front teeth right over your bud, and you scream at the drag of the little jagged edge there. 

Your heartbeat throbs where he touches, and there is a rush of blood in your ears, feeling something almost snap inside. You grab his head forcefully and press him into your flesh as your world contracts, then explodes. Something gushes from inside your channel onto his chin, but you cannot stop it, barely school your own movements, the burning pulsing ache around your clit just relentless and all-consuming.

He pulls up and kisses your belly tenderly as you pant hard, eyes fixed on the ceiling, slowly returning to yourself, to the moment.

“Now you are ready to be painted,” he smirks as you lay sprawled on the chaise, watching in disbelief as he gets up and goes to his easel.

“Benedict?” 

“Your cheeks are so flushed, your lips wine-stained; I need to capture this beauteous glow you have,” he calls as you stare at him slack-jawed. “Just a few details, and then I shall be back with you,” he promises. 

Glancing at your face, he paints delicate tiny strokes. As he works, your eyes fall to his trousers. There is a prominent bulge, and you swallow hard at the sight. You can't wait to explore more. Of him. Of his body.

“Come back to me,” you call, after a few moments, holding your hands out in invitation.

“You know, I shall never complete this painting if you keep distracting me so,” he argues, but the smile as he prowls back towards you reveals how much he does not mind that fact.

“I have faith in your abilities,” you grin as he crawls over you, settling on top of you with more kisses. “Please take off your clothes.” Your request is timid but with an undercurrent of desire that you can’t and don't want to hide.

He chuckles against your cheek and pushes back to sitting, stripping off his shirt. You place your hands on the slight bump of his pectoral muscles. He wears a crooked smile as you slide them over his smooth, warm skin, enjoying the play of lithe, toned muscle under your fingertips. He has barely a dusting of hairs over his chest; it is mostly smooth, with freckles flecking his skin that you want to trace with your nose. Your fingers spider up to his neck to pull him back down over you, wanting to feel his bare chest on yours. His chest drags perfectly over your nipples, and you sigh at all the sensation, banding your arms around his torso, exploring the skin of his back as his lips worry your neck. Your hands sweep down below his waist to the wool of his trousers. Instinctually you slide your hands over the swell of his buttocks and grab both cheeks, pulling him down on top of you, that bulge rocking deliciously over the heat between your legs. He startles at your daring move. 

“More, Benedict,” you plead, always wanting more.

He chuckles, and his hand insinuates between your bodies, undoing the buttons around his waist. You kiss his hair as he looks down at the task in hand, almost too scared to look yourself, intrigued but intimidated. His wrist brushes your thighs as he pushes his trousers away, and you realise from the wave of heat that he wears no underwear. 

He tilts his head up and catches your gaze with a teasing smile. “Do you want to see? You said you wanted to know what is inside my trousers.”

He observes your face as your eyes drop between your bodies and see him, his member. You suck in a breath. It’s a swollen, veiny length of flesh with a red bulbous tip leaking slightly as it stands proud from a patch of hair not dissimilar to that found between your legs.

“Go ahead,” he advocates, “touch it.”

Hesitantly you reach to brush it, and it bobs as you do, your eyes cutting to his face to check all is well.

“It’s alright,” he assures.

It’s warm, contradictory, velvet-smooth skin over a rigid, hard mass. You wrap your hand around it, familiarising yourself with its dimensions and weight. He moans in his throat as you do. 

“Is this right?” 

“More than,” he breathes, sounding winded.

“This will never fit inside me, Benedict,” the concerned words tumbling from your lips as you grip more insistently, and he growls.

“Yes, it will; do not fear. I will need to go very slowly initially, but it will fit perfectly.”

He removes your hand from around him, kissing your knuckles and guiding your hand to his shoulder.

“Hang onto me, my sweet. I will show you,” he murmurs, pulling your thighs wider apart under him and slipping his cock over your clit in teasing strokes so you moan lightly and writhe. So very slick and ready.

Then you hold your breath as you feel blunt pressure around your opening. 

“Relax,” he advises, touching your diaphragm gently, “let out that breath you are holding.” 

You feel your lungs deflate just as another part of your body fills. You cry out in surprise as his tip slips inside your pussy. It is overwhelming, with so much heat and stretch. You feel him groan softly and shift his weight onto his hands on either side of your waist, rocking his hips just a touch to push deeper.

“Be brave for me, my sweet. You may feel a pinch of pain right now. But it will all be over very soon, and it will not hurt again.” he vows, leaning on his hands to kiss you tenderly.

You just nod your confirmation, unable to form words, just as a sharp ache blooms inside, making you stutter a breath.

“Well done,” he compliments. “I promise no more pain from now.” 

You nod and groan as he slides deeper; it feels like you are being invaded. He rearranges your hips, kissing the tip of your nose before pressing on more; every new inch he pushes into you feels like something entirely different. Until he finally bottoms out inside you, stilling his movement.

“There you go, my sweet,” he exhales and cups your jaw reverentially, “are you alright?”

You nod and confirm quietly that all is well.

The experience of him entering you has been novel but not exactly spellbinding; more strangely comforting—as if he belongs inside you somehow. As he remains still, allowing you both to adjust to the sensation, your fleeting thought is wondering what all the fuss is about beyond a feeling of utter fullness. But then he moves… and everything falls into place about why this act is so dangerously addictive. You let out a loud unadulterated moan of sheer pleasure as his slight rocking motion glances a spot inside that makes your eyes roll back, and your mouth falls open.

“Does that feel good?” he murmurs with more than a hint of pride in his tone.

Your approval is mumbled; fingers curl deeper into his flesh, blunt nails leaving crescent marks on his skin.  He rumbles a noise and starts a more pronounced rhythm, building slowly until he thrusts into you like you have imagined him moving with a lover. Deep, languid strokes, putting his whole body into the effort. You moan louder, your brain going offline, leaning into your physical instincts, just pursuing the pleasure of two becoming one, moving in unison.

“That’s it, oh you are doing so well,” his compliments spurring you on, building your confidence.

“It feels just wonderful, Benedict,” you burble, arms locked around his shoulders as your lips meet in open-mouth breathy kisses.

His movements start to speed up, and you cling harder, the pleasurable feeling growing into something hotter, more urgent. A burning hypnotic high that you cannot and do not want to stop. He rumbles encouragements into your ear, making you feel wanted, desired and the focus of all his energy, breathing each other's air—it feels intimate and shared.

“Touch yourself, just like I taught you,” his words velvety and stirring, you want to do everything he asks.

You slide a hand from around him, trailing down to circle your clit in the same way he did for you earlier; the jolt of sensation makes your eyes go wide and your mouth slack. 

“Yes, that's it,” he pants. “Do not stop; keep moving those fingers for me.”

With every thrust, his pelvis brushes the back of your hand, and part of you wants to caress him as well, the skin there warm and almost dewy from exertion now, but most of you just wants to keep going, selfishly chasing your own high. Your chest becomes tight, your muscles tensing; he somehow feels so huge inside you now, every movement an effort. You feel on the verge of a crescendo of some kind, your blood pumping hard. 

“Oh, you are right there,” he grunts with gritted teeth, “I can feel it; god, you are so tight, come on, my sweet, let go, do not fight that feeling,” he instructs, and you stare deep into his eyes and obey. 

Letting the incredible tension snap and erupt out of you, your core convulsing hard around his cock, as every muscle follows suit, almost fighting him. You can’t school the noises you make, crying out nonsense and his name, clinging so hard you know you are leaving marks in his flesh but unable to do anything but ride out the wave engulfing you. All of your senses narrowed, then burst into colours.

Dimly at the edge of your conscience, you feel him pushing harder, his hands vice-like on your waist, loud groans in your ear, singing your praises. Then your core is suddenly bereft, pulsing against nothing, as he rapidly withdraws, and warmth splashes over your belly.

He is panting hard right in your ear when you come back to the room, his body heat and weight almost too much to bear, slumped on top of you as he is.

“Benedict?” you call and tap on his shoulders. Slowly he peels up, your skin tacky in places, clinging as he pulls up onto an arm, the other curling around your neck.

“Was that alright, my sweet?” he checks sincerely as his breath evens.

“It was…. I cannot think of the words,” you whisper honestly, your voice a little hoarse, “in a good way,” you clarify quickly.

His answering smile is dazzling as a little droplet of moisture tracks down his cheek and splashes onto your neck.

“I’m so glad,” he grins, moving in to kiss you.

“What happened at the end, though? You pulled out of me so quickly?” you pout slightly.

“I did not want to impregnate you, my sweet,” he says slowly, looking bemused as your jaw drops.

“This is how a woman comes to be with child?” you gasp.

“Oh my,” he chuckles warmly, dropping a kiss on your forehead, “I assumed you knew.”

“I only had some information about laying with a man from my ladies-maids,” you confess, “I did not know this is how babies are made! No wonder there are so many babies being born!” you exclaim.

He laughs loudly and nuzzles your cheek. “It’s rather addictive, is it not?” his tone honeyed as he reaches for his shirt on the floor and tenderly wipes the residue from your belly. “That is my seed, and if I left it inside you, it would make a baby,” he explains patiently as you watch him clean your skin, fascinated.

“Thank you,” you rush out, and he tilts his head to look at you after throwing the shirt aside, his brow knitted with puzzlement. “For explaining that to me, for not leaving me with child, for what we just did. It was just….  wonderous,” you exhale, your voice going dreamy.

“It is I who should be thanking you,” he answers sincerely, “it is a privilege to be someone’s first, and I’m so pleased you enjoyed it. You may now enter marriage in full knowledge of what awaits,” he adds almost an afterthought, something in his cadence changing.

“I do not wish to dwell on such things,” you frown, shaking your head as you sit together. The idea you might have to do this with your intended makes you nauseated. Such an avenue of thought seems maudlin and too self-indulgent; you want to enjoy the rest of your time with Benedict today. And there is always tomorrow. “Let us focus on more immediate concerns,” you add, forcing your voice light.

“Such as?” he raises an eyebrow suggestively.

“Painting, Mr Bridgerton,” you laugh pointedly, “unless you have something else in mind?” you smirk back.

“I might,” he adds silkily, drawing you into his arms after pulling his trousers back on. “But I may need some time to recover,” he adds with a wink, and you chuckle.

“Perhaps we should concentrate on the official portrait for now?” you propose, re-tying your dress, “and if there is time later, well, there is a second picture that may need more work.” your tone playful as you raise an eyebrow. 

 “Indeed it may,” that crooked smile tugging at his lips that makes your belly flip.

The next hour is spent with stolen glances and shared giggles as he paints your portrait, standing behind his easel shirtless; so very appealing. You would not want to look anywhere else, thoughts of running your tongue over every contour making it hard to do anything but smile coquettishly, and he has to chastise you for not pulling such a tempting face. It doesn’t help that every ten minutes or so, he finds himself drawn to you, sidling up to the chaise and pulling you into sweet distracting kisses that throw you entirely off your pose.

As the clock strikes 1 pm, you have to tear yourself away from this remarkable man before the temptation is to hide with him all day. And night. Your heart wanting to throw caution to the wind, to just stay here and damn the consequences to you, your honour, your reputation, and your family.

“Until tomorrow, y/n,” he lilts as his lips linger over yours by the front door, seemingly just as reluctant as you to part.

“I cannot wait,” you breathe, unable to step outside his embrace.

You feel the curl of his smile next to your cheek. “You should know I have finished painting your dress into the portrait. So if you wish to turn up tomorrow in not a stitch of clothing, there will certainly be no complaints from me,” he teases with a rich tone, lips now hot on yours.

“Maybe I just will,” you volley back, feeling featherweight with happiness, “but I would insist you also be naked. Sir.” You are teasing now, knowing how affected he was when you used that honorific yesterday, goading him, giving him every reason to drag you back to his studio, to his bed.

His breath catches, and his gaze is fiery. “Leave now,” he growls, “before I whisk you away, lock you in a tower, and keep you as mine.”

Before you can respond, sway in his arms and dare him to do it, he wrenches the door open and bundles you outside as if the temptation is too great for him too.

The whiplash of the street noise, hubbub, and the bright midday sun is a shock, so you lean back on the door, still trying to absorb everything. “Do it. Please, god, Benedict. Do it. Take me away from everything. You are all I will ever want,” you plead with eyes closed before taking a deep breath and reluctantly moving away….

….Not realising he is also leaning against it on the other side, wistful—and heard exactly what you said.

Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @angels17324 @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @benedictspaintbrush @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @lilithseve @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory

Portrait-only taglist: @mysticwitchcraftco

[thegoldensanctuary]

4th Version of my updated Grand King's Bedchamber Bed under Louis XV.

This is the summer bed received in 1723 when Louis XV returned to Versailles, the summer furnitures from his predecessor the sun king were missing as they were gifted to the duke of Tresmes at his death in 1715. A new summer set was received and given the number 2200 by the Garde Meuble. It was actually made from some older brocades received in 1688, and given the numbers 123,132,133,134. In 1723 Lallié retouched them and sent them back to the garde meuble under the new number 2200. In this post I won't go into the details about my choices when designing the updated version of that brocade as I will in a future post. I will just focus on the bed which I made sticking as much as possible to the description from the 1723 garde meuble entry.

[frodothefair]

Frodo, pre and post quest.

@autisticgenderworm wanted to know my headcanons about pre and post quest Frodo.

💐 ASK ME about my headcanons about hobbits and the Shire! 💐 Want to know if yours has been answered? Check here.

Let's see, where to start... My fic deals a lot with Frodo's post-quest transformation, so I needed some time to organize my thoughts and decide on what was most important. Most of these changes revolve around the fact that post-quest Frodo has PTSD and chronic pain.

APPEARANCE : Before the quest, Frodo was a jolly, round-cheeked hobbit with the large blue eyes and elfin features whom we all know and love. He was taller than average for a hobbit, and somewhat thin for a hobbit as well. Post-quest, he seems to age a couple decades on fast forward, which is in line with him losing the Ring, which slows down the aging process. As a result, his features become more angular, and he loses the youthful baby fat around his face. In fact, he loses weight as a whole because his PTSD puts him in a constant state of fight or flight, and that makes it hard to eat. His eyes are also more serious, sometimes haunted, as well as bloodshot and dark-rimmed at times because he has a hard time sleeping.

CLOTHING : Before the quest, Frodo was a bit of a dandy, just like Bilbo. He did not have rooms and rooms devoted to clothes, but he did have a decent collection of quality, well-fitting clothes and he got new ones on a regular basis. His wardrobe was well-tended -- no spots or buttons out of place here! -- and he liked his brocades, his damasks, and his velvets. After the quest, however, he hardly ever gets new clothes, and his old ones hang off of him like a rail, but he does not seem to care. He is not planning for the future, nor is he conscious of appearances.

HEALTH : On account of having PTSD and chronic pain, he eats poorly and sleeps ever worse. Before the quest, he enjoyed long, beautiful, engaging dreams, and could fall asleep anytime and anywhere, which helped him early in the journey. Post-quest, however, he repeatedly wakes up in a cold sweat, searching for the Ring in the sheets. He also does not walk nearly as far, and feels unsafe going far from home. He is bothered by bright lights and loud noises, including his tea kettle (which he fancies sounds like a Nazgûl), and imagines people spying at the windows. At times, if particularly stressed, he dissociates or has flashbacks and hallucinations.

INTERACTIONS WITH OTHERS : On account of his illness, Frodo understandably has a hard time engaging in normal activities, including socializing. Before the quest, although he is somewhat odd and bookish, he is nonetheless sociable enough, and he wanders around the Shire, engaging in conversation with everyone he meets. He is also house-proud, and there is always a kettle on in his kitchen for visitors, and he drinks at the local inn along with the rest of the neighborhood. After the quest, however, he becomes decidedly unsociable, and rarely goes out. He has a hard time with large groups of people unless Sam is with him, and unfortunately, being unsociable does not help his case in gaining sympathy for his illness and appreciation for sacrifice.

[gabessquishytum]

Hob Gadling, Queen

Hob just loves Dream, okay. And he doesn't really care if marrying him comes with a title.

But there is something of an issue -- Dream's country has never had anything other than female presenting queens, so all of the traditional garments - that needed to be worn to make their marriage valid in the eyes of Dream's people and confer all the rights of office - were dresses, gowns and feminine crowns.

Dream has assured Hob that he didn't have to wear any of the traditional garments, but Hob respects Dream and his people's traditions and he wants to be the best "queen" for the country. So he'll (happily) wear the dresses and crowns.

And given the way Dream's eyes smolder and shine (coupled with how hard he f*cks Hob), when Hob wears the traditional fertility dress, Hob's pretty sure everything will be fine .... and that he might be developing something of a breeding kink and a slight feminization kink.

This is very pure and sweet but also hot as FUCK. always love thinking about Hob in a dress <33

Hob being a good husband and gladly accepting the traditions of his new culture makes my heart so warm. His goal in life is basically to make Dream happy and he can see that this means a lot to him. And when Hob sees the traditional clothing he can see why! It's beautiful, heavily symbolic, and Hob immediately wants to take part. At first he thinks he'll look a little silly but once the clothes have been altered? Hob is a vision to behold. He looks every inch the queen. And Dream is obviously very VERY into it.

Any reservations he had in wearing the fertility dress (would it be disrespectful, when he's not... designed to conceive?) immediately melt away when he puts it on. It's symbol of the country's continuation and future. But more than that it makes Dream practically salivate. He's got his hand up the elaborate skirts before the ceremonies even finish.

The sex itself is always insane when Dream drops Hob, ceremonial garb and all, onto their marital bed. He'll take the hem of the skirt between his teeth and crawl up Hob’s body, revealing inch after inch of petticoats and stockings beneath. Hob is only able to writhe among the masses of silk and brocade as his king looms over him, looking like he fully intends to fuck a child into Hob’s eager body.

All it takes is a "Good Girl." And Hob is mewling, coming, overwhelmed. He may be a queen these days, but deep down he's still a lovely little whore <3

[imaginepirates]

Marrying James — Femme Edition

For @groovy-lady, to accompany the enby version.

James had been thinking about proposing to you for a while, probably a few months, but he was still horribly nervous to actually do it. He wants things to go smoothly, and wants a little privacy for the occasion, so he'd pull you away somewhere nice while still socially appropriate, like a more secluded area of a garden or a section of Fort Charles with a view. When you actually accept, he'd find himself at a loss. But you can tell through his bright smile how happy he is, and you can't help but feel the same as you get to watch him let his guard down for once. 

The wedding planning is great because he's actually invested in it. He helps you pick out the colors and taste-tests with you, and he has a pretty good sense of what things aesthetically work together. I can certainly see a blue/white/gold theme going, but with lighter tones than the typical navy standard. 

And, when things get overwhelming, the Swanns are there to help. Oh, James wants to take care of it all himself, but Weatherby insists on lending a hand, and you simply can't turn down Elizabeth, who's decisive when you're not and gets things done when you're too exhausted to handle it all. Not to mention, she has impeccable taste, and would help make sure the aesthetics were up to perfection.

You’re probably wearing a dress, given the standards of the times, but whatever you wear is made of gorgeous silk brocade that compliments your husband-to-be’s military uniform. There is, of course, copious amounts of lace, though the accessories likely feature a modest set of pearls. The floral arrangements host a fun variety of native plants like hibiscus and golden poui that capitalize on your life in the Caribbean as opposed to England. 

The service is modest; James doesn't need the whole of Port Royal at the wedding, even if people may be peeking in through the windows. After all, their beloved Commodore is getting married, and they want to be in the know about it. Elizabeth can't always be the one who knows the tea. 

The Navy boys are ecstatic. The group of you are good friends already, of course, because Gillette and Groves couldn’t keep their noses out of James’ personal life (especially Gillette), so they’ve gotten to know you, whether by meeting you “on accident” or later when James finally showed you around Fort Charles. They want to help in any way they can, though they have little experience with wedding planning. But they’re there for moral support, particularly if James gets called away during the process and you’re left to your own devices. 

As the wedding draws nearer, James begins to have his doubts. Not about you, but rather about himself. He thinks back to his own family, how cold his parents could be, how lonely he could get. How, even within the privacy of their own home, his family kept to societal expectations and standards. He never wants you to feel like you can’t talk to him, and he wants your home to be full of warmth. He wants to share his time and space and thoughts and experiences with you, something he didn’t get growing up. He’s so scared that he’ll accidentally recreate a mirror image of the only family he’s ever known, and he couldn’t subject you to a life that depressing. 

You’ll have to get him to calm down, to come to bed, to eat regular meals. He has an unhealthy habit of, when he’s nervous, trying to distract himself with work. This leads to distracting himself from other important things, too. Thankfully, he’s whipped for you, and you can get him to do just about anything pretty easily. A guiding hand on his arm or shoulder and a word of reassurance here or there would go a long ways to James’ getting any proper rest leading up to the wedding. 

James looks at this as foreshadowing into your future; he realizes how easily you can take care of him, a concept he’d never really thought of before, and it melts him. He’s always envisioned himself as the provider, meeting that masculine expectation. On the other side of that, though, he never considers the care he might be receiving. So, as you help him de-stress, it dawns on him that your marriage may truly bring him to bliss. He knows you have his back, that you can be a source of strength for him unlike any he’s ever had. 

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again—James is a crier. He can’t keep himself from tearing up at the wedding, even before he sees you. His men, even Groves, are rather useless at pep-talks, so he just ends up getting excitedly hugged by those closest to him. This is where he first starts to choke up; it occurs to him that everyone present really does care about him, and it only gets worse when he sees you walking down the aisle. 

His mother is there, and while it sets him on his guard a little at first, she’s supportive of the match and pleasant to have around. She couldn’t be prouder of James for finding someone he loves who also befits his station, as she couldn’t, and she couldn’t be more pleased with you. 

The thing about having a wife, in particular, is the potential for children. James would never, ever, actually expect that of you, to carry his children, but if you wanted to, he would be bursting with adoration. He would have you both think on it for a while, of course. Children are a huge commitment, and he doesn't want to influence you toward that decision too quickly. That being said, he wants them desperately. He fears being like his own father—emotionally withdrawn and separate from his family—and it would take some encouragement to actually convince him he'd make a good dad. But he'd try. He'd try so hard and it would make all the difference. 

Alright, alright. Now to the part you really want: the wedding night. 

James doesn’t actually have much experience when it comes to endeavors below the belt, so he’s a bit nervous himself (haha). That being said, he does a good job of not showing it, knowing full well that you have much more reason for anxiety. He starts things slowly, taking your face in his hands and kissing you, giving you some time to relax into his embrace. He’s a consent king, so whenever he moves to do something new he asks if it’s alright. 

James is still a flustered mess as you begin to undress, watching with wide eyes despite trying not to. He’s curious, too, and helps you with your dress and undergarments, getting his lips on every new inch of exposed skin. It’s gentle, though, and relaxed. He wants to explore you, to map you out. He’s shocked when you return the favor, ridding him of his cravat with skilled fingers, carefully loosening buttons and ties he assures you he can do himself. Both of you are surprised to hear him gasp at the kisses you place to his chest and the way his eyes drift shut with the pleasure of it all. He has much the same effect on you, though, and he smirks a little when he manages to get a moan out of you, which you’re desperately embarrassed about. 

Things aren’t perfect—neither of you fully knows what you’re doing—but you’re figuring each other out together, which ends up being an intimate bonding experience. You both have to place a lot of trust in each other, but it pays off. 

And an aesthetic board because I can't help myself...

[nemainofthewater]

Best character surnamed: Luo

Come and vote for the best characters with the same surname!*

What does best mean? It's up to you! Whether you love them, are intrigued by their characters, love to hate them, or they're your '2 second blorbos whose personality you made up wholesale', these are all reasons for you to vote for your favs!

*note, the surnames are not exactly the same in all the cases, as often there will be a different character. I am, however, grouping them all together otherwise things got more complicated.

Propaganda is very welcome! If I’ve forgot anyone, let me know in the notes.

This is part of a larger series of ‘best character with X surname’ polls’. The overview with ongoing polls, winners, and future polls can be found here

[thefinalcinderella]

Tsurune Book 3 Chapter 6 - Genuine (Part 2)

My brain as I was translating this: what is bro yapping about

also please don't ask me to clarify anything that happened in this chapter, i also have no idea. i'm pretty sure only the author knows 😂all i know is that they were definitely doing kyudo.

TW: suicide mention

Glossary here

Full list of translations here

Translation Notes

A saijiki is an almanac of Japanese seasonal terms used for poetry

Asahina's name (朝日奈) contains the characters for morning sun

Adults (成人) and saints (聖人) have the same reading (seijin)

A box-like structure where rain shutters are stored when not in use

Previous | Next

Masa-san, there’s something I want to tell you.

Don’t laugh and just listen to me.

The competitors from both schools met face to face at the prefectural finals. The sky began preparations to show off its triumphant end.

Asahina and Minato faced each other.

“Looks like ‘Minahead’ worked. Thanks.”

“Please don’t make surprise attacks like you did the other day.”

“Hahaha, sorry. The protection around you was strong, so that was the best I could do.”

Eddie pushed up his hair. “We have no need for superstition anymore.”

“That’s right, partner.”

Asahina and Eddie bumped elbows. They were like children who played a secret prank on their parents.

Haneina’s coach, Tsucchi, and Masa-san faced off.

“My archers are in top form. We’re going to win.”

“I don’t know about that. Kazemai can use the wind, after all.”

“I don’t want any funny tricks. Show us what you can do.”

“Go easy on us.”

The archers from both schools entered the shajo with orange and yellow-green headbands tied around their heads.

Haneina High School had Eddie, Matsuda, Kanuma, Igarashi, and Asahina.

Kazemai High School had Kaito, Ryouhei, Seiya, Nanao, and Minato.

They each stepped onto the shooting line and spread their legs.

The oomae of Haneina was Eddie. His golden hair fluttered in the sun. Spreading his white wings, the archangel descended upon the land of the east. The eccentric was an assumed figure, and the truth was revealed.

He objected to the strange land of Japan, where everyone wore matching outfits to find jobs. Who told them to wear black? Was it because it wouldn’t stand out even if they settled down in a graveyard? Those who prepared loyalty tests for the company would have been promoted and given a nice apartment. Ceasing to think for yourself was what politicians wanted you to do. Misguided servility made the conceited even more fattened. If you were going to dance the same dance, then dance in your own colors.

The arrow was aimed at the demon’s heart. But Eddie and Kaito hit the center.

Next was Matsuda on the second target. One day, a house party was held. The servants, who were usually unsmiling, broke out into big smiles as soon as the host appeared in the room. Before he knew it, everyone in the room had smiles pasted onto their faces. “Supporting the disabled is my purpose in life. We are very concerned about you. With this product, you can reduce your anxiety about your future,” they whispered, but the bow made no distinction between the disabled and the able-bodied. The love that asked for nothing in return was always there.

The released arrow shattered the window glass. Ryouhei followed as well.

Kanuma on the third target opened his haiku saijiki. (1) Beautiful phrases that reflected Japan’s weather, astronomy, geography, and human affairs were lined up side by side. The finely honed senses of their ancestors that resided in each phrase hadn’t faded away even now.

Words were twisted, woven, knitted, and tied together. Weaving brocade was the living wisdom and culture of creatures without fur. The clothes we wore revealed our environment and thoughts. Those who could manipulate words and know the hidden power of words could transcend the concept of time and fly to the moment at any time. Right now, Kanuma has composed a song.

Kanuma and Seiya summoned tsurune.

Brain, be deceived. Make a miracle happen.

Taking the sound of the matooto as a signal, Igarashi raised his bow. Anyone could step into his flower garden. Flowers such as bellflowers, gentians, and campanulas were preferred, and the bells rang when the wind blew. Bees and butterflies frolicked amidst the flowers, grass lizards and rainbow-colored lizards lay in the grass, and red-flanked blue tails rested on the branches. He picked the withered flowers and thinned out overcrowded foliage. A garden that took time to grow was a treasure. Igarashi applied that image to his own bow. He slept every night holding his bow, of which only one existed in this world.

As Igarashi and Nanao’s arrows flew, flowers bloomed along the path.

In the stands, Hanazawa, Shiragiku, and Seo gasped. Since there were a lot of hits in quick succession, they braced themselves so they wouldn’t miss the chance to cheer.

“Wow, it’s so beautiful.”

“Both schools are sparkling.”

“This is exactly what ‘brilliance’ is.”

The ochi Asahina, as his name suggested, was the embodiment of the sun. (2) His red hair burned in the twilight.

Fire.

Fire knew what you had done.

It also knew the name and face of your accomplice.

If you wanted to purify yourself, go to the sea. If you wanted power, go to the mountains. Whichever path you chose, he would be a torchbearer and a guide. Heaven watched the deeds of those who lived on earth. Three children were born out of the fire. At any given time, there existed something that recorded the events on earth. Memories that were passed down became stories.

Asahina and Minato released their arrows.

For the second shot, nobody missed.

For the third short, the sound of the matooto didn’t cease.

The wind blew through the kyudojo, where conversation and even breathing were taboo.

Where was the wind going? Who was it bringing with it?

A memory of a day he spent with Masa-san flashed through Minato’s mind.

Yata Forest, where the crescent moon hang in the deep blue sky. The sound of rustling leaves sounded like the trees were welcoming them as the two walked along the white path illuminated by moonlight.

“Masa-san, there’s something I want to tell you. I had a strange experience a long time ago. I haven’t even told Seiya and Ryouhei about it. They’ll probably think I’m crazy or just laugh at me and say I was dreaming. Will you listen to me?”

“I will.”

“You won’t laugh?”

“I won’t.”

Minato took a deep breath.

“I was a bit out of it that day, and when people told me that it was Setsubun today, I was like, ‘Huh?’ It seemed like I got the date wrong by a day, and I had no memory of the day before Setsubun.”

“Hmm.”

“After scattering the beans, I slept like usual, and the next thing I knew, I was paralyzed. My arms and legs were numb, and I couldn’t move my body at all. While I was panicking, I heard three sounds. It kind of sounded like something used in an old sci-fi movie. Then, all of a sudden, a beam of light hit me from right above my head to my feet with a ker-wham. Just as I was thinking Oh crap, what do I do, I heard the three sounds again, and then I was hit on the top of my head with a wham. I still couldn’t move my body, so I was thinking about reciting the Heart Sutra when my dad woke me up. Apparently I was crying out in my sleep.”

Masa-san’s eyes widened. He burst into laughter.

“So you laughed at me after all. I’m a chuunibyou even in my dreams.”

“No, I was laughing at the onomatopoeia. I wasn’t laughing at what you said.”

“Are you telling the truth?”

“I had a similar experience. I never told anyone about it, so it’s a secret.”

Masa-san began speaking.

I’ve told you before that when I was in my third year of high school, I got target panic and my master gave up on me. I’ve also told you that in my first year in university, my father sent me a notification of my brother’s death, but actually, when I was nineteen, I got into an argument with my master. I declared that I will never forgive the person who made my brother disappear and that I will take revenge, but my master just lectured me in the usual way, saying that revenge was a foolish thing and that my anger will burn me to death. I asked him why he had been ignoring it until now, and why is it that you, my own family, didn’t understand me. I showered my master with the hateful words that should have been directed towards my father. That ended up being our final conversation.

When I was twenty, in my second year of university, my master passed away. I overcame my target panic and received invitations from several kyudo schools to join them, but I had lost sight of the significance of drawing the bow. I kept asking myself why I was drawing a bow—and then I realized it. No, I finally admitted it. I wanted to be acknowledged as an archer by my “master Yasaka,” no one else. And that will never come true.

In the spring of my third year, I completed shooting a hundred arrows, but all I felt was a sense of emptiness. My father casually sent us letters, as if he was unaware of the despair and threat he posed to us. Was it okay to just do nothing? Would I have no choice but to take these negative feelings with me to the grave?

As summer approached, I began to deeply regret the last words I spoke to my master. Every time I entered the kyudojo, my body became stiff, and I found it hard to breathe. Before I knew it, I couldn’t sleep soundly, and the doctor’s comforting words and medicine didn’t make me feel better. My mother, unable to just watch, took me to a temple in Shikoku.

The chief priest was a quiet person. He read sutras in the morning and sat in front of the Buddha at noon and night. He would visit me from time to time, and we would talk about casual everyday things before going home. During that time, I remained lying on my bed.

Several choruses of cicadas passed by. Everything that lived was covered in shame, and I longed to disappear, but I couldn’t commit suicide for the sake of the family I would be leaving behind. At night, I closed my eyes, hoping that I would never wake up again. If I could at least forget everything, I could live.

I closed my mouth in the morning and laid down on the ground during the day and night.

Sleepless days. I couldn’t escape the memories that replayed over and over again.

One night, as I was looking back on my life and regretting every detail, I heard a voice coming from the upper left corner of my head. Just a single “Good.”

The two looked at each other and smiled.

It was a strange feeling of empathy with each other.

Ah, that’s right. Someday, when the time was right, I can tell others about this day. When the truth dwells in Minato’s words.

When Masa-san finished, he grinned.

This was a secret between master and disciple.

“Good.”

“Good.”

The sixth voice was heard.

With three scales, arrows of light descended from the heavens and pierced through Minato’s body. His whole body went numb and his head became hazy.

The sounds came again.

When he decided to “come,” the arrows passed through his body and spread from the soles of his feet to the ground.

Meigen. That was the sound of the dawn.

Three sounds and arrows of light fell from the sky.

The arrows of light pierced my body.

The ultimate goal of kyudo was “the true, the good, and the beautiful.” True archery didn’t lie, deceive, or betray.

Truth in archery was proven by the brilliance of the bow, the tsurune, and hitting the target. What was true was beautiful, and what was good was also beautiful. Once you met the genuine article, you would never be confused again.

Hayake—Yips was a state in which the body became warped due to accumulated fatigue and stress, and the brain ends up malfunctioning. That was why beginners didn’t get target panic. It occurred when the brain remembered the experience of failure so strongly that it issued an emergency alert every time those memories replayed. This became a regular occurrence, and if proper treatment wasn’t taken, it would only get worse. In archery, hayake was called “target panic,” and it was an accurate description of this sickness.

The solution was to regulate one’s breathing. It was to get rid of the distortions in one’s body and allow the brain and body to rest.

There were actually very few people who could maintain a natural and comfortable posture. Regulating the autonomic nervous system and improving the functioning of the central nervous system was the key to good health. The autonomic nervous system referred to the nerves that were responsible for unconscious processes such as pulse, breathing, and digestion. The sympathetic nervous system was dominant during the day, and the parasympathetic nervous system was dominant when sleeping at night. The central nervous system were the nerves that acted like a command center, issuing commands to various parts of the body.

Anxiety and fear were a kind of self-protective instinct. Once living things experienced something scary or painful, they tried to avoid it next time. When it was overreacted to, they became stuck in the memories of the past, worried about the future, and unable to take even a step forward.

When you drove a car, you got too scared to drive if you thought about what would happen if you caused an accident. You made sure you were in good physical condition and inspected your vehicle before driving. Even so, if you caused an accident, you would have to pay for it for the rest of your life. If you were willing to accept all of that, everything else would become possible.

Cars run on gasoline or electricity, but what did the human body need to move? Oxygen. Oxygen produced heat. “Breathing” was an important way to obtain oxygen efficiently. Because modern people breathed with their chests, they were unaware that they were about to drown due to the lack of oxygen in their brains.

Let’s slowly take a deep breath.

You could see what you couldn’t see before.

You could touch what you couldn’t touch before.

The days I spent with you.

The days I will spend with you from now on.

Who should I thank for this happiness?

Right now, I’m breathing.

Blessed are the creatures that shed their fur.

They have rented lodgings on earth and eaten many lives.

Now, I offer a moment of silence.

The fourth shot began. The ten’s heartbeats grated.

Gradually, slowly, the surroundings were dyed in green, like vines were creeping around. This place, with its spreading leaves and blooming orange flowers, was just like the earth after humans have left.

Those who gathered in the Land of the Rising Sun. Kaito, who had just been born, let out a single cry. The roar that announced the joy of birth hit right in the middle of the target.

Ryouhei also raised his voice. What beautiful stars, what delightful companions. Now, let’s set off. Let’s row the boat. What kind of place would the new continent be? What kind of encounters await us?

Seiya followed suit. I knew you were worried about me. I was taking advantage of your kindness. Thank you for being by my side. Thank you for getting angry.

Nanao was enjoying himself, happy, and sun—. The place I belong is where I draw my bow. I want it, I want it, I want it. But it didn’t come true. I got an abode that I should have given up sometime ago. Someone whispered to me that it’s okay to stay here, that there’s no need to leave so quickly. When he blew a whistle, the matooto resounded at the azuchi.

Minato was standing on the earth.

We are temporary residents who are renting a part of the earth.

His memory flew back to a few weeks ago, to something Saionji had said with blooming azaleas behind him.

“Narumiya-kun, please try to explain the ‘Heart Sutra’ to me.”

“Yes. The universe is emptiness. If you think something exists, it exists. If you don’t think it exists, it doesn’t exist. You can see it if you try to see it, and you can’t see it if you don’t try. It’s dyed in every color, and it’s not dyed in any color. The mind is emptiness. The mind is the body, and the body is the mind. Although they are considered different things, they used to be one and the same. The ‘box’ that is me contains all the necessary software. Now, recite the password called an incantation and open the box. The box will then start up normally.”

“That’s a bold interpretation. It’s very interesting. Continuing studying in that vein.”

“Thank you very much.”

“It’s not about right or wrong, it’s about how you feel. That is the answer of the current you. Religion was originally meant to be a guidebook to help you live a better life.”

The mind and body were the same person.

The heart was responsible for pumping blood, the stomach was responsible for digesting food, and the brain was responsible for thinking. All were functions of internal organs, and each had a role. It was just that the roles were divided, and it didn’t mean that the brain was the best and the others weren’t. Confusion arose because only the brain was viewed as special.

Humans tended to rely on vision when obtaining information, and were creatures who liked to take things apart before observing them. However, if you were too short-sighted, you would lose sight of the true essence. If you take a step back, you could see the whole thing. Man and woman, good and evil, the surface and below, real and imaginary numbers, joy and anger, sadness and healing, health and illness, life and death, meetings and partings. Dualism was just one classification method, and the classification depended on the time and situation.

The two couldn’t be separated. They were intertwined from the start.

They were one from the beginning.

A spell was a mysterious word that went beyond human comprehension. Although words could be shown to have special power, the basis for the current phenomenon couldn’t be explained. Because it was “power beyond human understanding,” it was difficult for ordinary people to understand, much less put into words. Just because you couldn’t see, hear, or quantify it doesn’t mean that it “didn’t exist.” It was only latent, not yet manifested.

A text that had been simplified by an expert in the field by only extracting the important points was, on the contrary, even more difficult for beginners to understand. Rewording the text into concrete episodes, in other words, accumulating stories, helps to deepen understanding. Stories were the perfect tool to convey something. It was hoped that someday, someone would explain it in an easy-to-understand text.

Minato and Asahina’s arrows pierced their targets.

Ten people. Forty perfect hits.

This was in the exact region of a hundred shots and a hundred hits.

Viewing this amazing scene, there was a standing ovation in the spectators’ seats.

Ren, who was watching in the stands, squeezed his hands. Seiya’s brother Gaku hugged himself.

“It looks cold. How long will this continue?”

“…I hope it doesn’t end like this.”

No winner was decided, so it became a shoot-out. Each archer released a shot, and the school with the most hits won. If it couldn’t be determined in one round, it was repeated until the ranking was decided.

The oomae had begun to raise their bows.

Roaring bows. Arrows that cut through the wind. Summoning thunderclouds, colorful dragons swam through the archery range.

Dizzingly clear paths of light bounce, dance, and splashed. Legendary creatures ran to the end without turning around or stopping. The “insect” contained in the kanji for “wind” and “rainbow” meant dragon, and although they were feared as gods in the East and monsters in the West, they weren’t influenced by human expectations. Each went their own way. Their colors and speeds were different, but they all arrived at one place—somewhere bright.

Once more, everyone hit.

The people watching the ten, who never missed, felt a thirst in their throats. What were they witnessing? Did something like this truly exist? Were they becoming witnesses to history?

Kaito, Ryouhei, Seiya, Nanao, and Minato faced the target.

The five melted into one and returned to that day. They were hearing Greensleeves.

Minato was talking to his mother in a dream.

“This song is about the moment when a disciple told their master the answer to a problem, right? I think the moment the master heard this, they smiled with joy.”

Greensleeves was a “Song of Naru.”

After completing his trials, the boy became an adult.

It was a rite of passage, an initiation.

Farewells and encounters were one and the same. On the winter solstice, the sun died and was reborn. Rather than having two sides, rather than being parallel, it was a chaotic thing that blended and mixed together. Today was like yesterday, and tomorrow was like today. Time didn’t exist there.

“Goodbye” was a magic word. It was devised from the beginning.

The sound of knocking on the door. A ringing sound.

Yearning, chasing, wishing.

Cowering, struggling, being doubted, despised.

Raging, despairing, cursing.

When you repent, mourn, accept death…

And give up.

Bow your head, love, and forgive. The door finally opens.

With a “welcome.”

Love meant forgiving yourself and others.

Could you embrace the person in front of you who you hated so much that you wanted to kill?

Those who cleared this final task were called “adults (saints)”. (3)

Admiration for the opposite sex and affection between parents and children were biological desires based on the perpetuation of descendants, and it wouldn’t be too difficult to love someone who had been kind to you. True friendship was rare and beautiful. Those who walked on the same path, master and disciple and friends. The two would be on a journey that would never end. The only difference was whether one went first or went later.

Even if one, two, three, or even four people finished, the match wasn’t decided.

The fifth, Asahina and Minato, began to raise their bows. They opened their chests wide and stretched their limbs in all directions. Two crosses emerged in the shajo dyed by the sunset. The boys flew into the sky. Migratory birds passed between the clouds, rivers meandering across the land, and cows grazing. A dragonfly rested its wings on the tip of an ear of wheat and flew away, seemingly uninterested in human activity.

A beautiful bow with a length unparalleled in the world. That was a divine implement. The sacred instrument inherited by archers chose its user. It looked for those with clear, unclouded eyes. The sun was a form of unconditional love. An existence that shined on everyone, both good or bad, without distinction. The Japanese called that star Amaterasu Oomikami.

When Minato’s arrow was sucked into its target, Asahina gently brought down his bow.

It was at that moment that Kazemai High School’s victory was decided.

Exclamations and screams arose at the long battle. The applause and cheers were deafening. In the stands, Hanazawa, Shiragiku, Seo, and Gaku were crying.

Kaito and Eddie, Ryouhei and Matsuda, Seiya and Kanuma, Nanao and Igarashi, and Minato and Asahina bumped gloves.

Asahina laughed. “That was so much fun. Let’s do it again.”

“Yeah, I had fun too.”

After they finished leaving the shajo, the first years Kanbayashi and Himuro ran up to them, and the members of Kazemai High School’s kyudo club hugged each other’s shoulders.

Minato and Kaito were screaming.

“Woooooooo!”

“Yeaaaaaah!”

“You don’t have to do your yagoe here. You’re hurting my ears,” Seiya chided them, but made no move to remove their hands from his shoulders. Ryouhei put his weight on them, causing the seven to lose their balance and collapse to the ground.

Nanao’s eyes were wet with emotion. It was not a little frustrating for him to be left out of the lineup in the preliminaries. He didn’t want to admit that he was frustrated, not wanting to show such an uncool part of himself, and unconsciously tried to keep up appearances. The other members all noticed this. They had the same feelings. Kaito, Seiya, Minato, Ryouhei, and even Himuro and Kanbayashi patted Nanao on the head. Nanao did the same thing back to them. Tommy-sensei watched the seven boys with a smile as they seemed to return to their childhood. Masa-san picked Nanao up and walked around with him. “Pick me up too!” Ryouhei badgered him.

The appearance of the Kazemai High School Kyudo Club was deeply etched into people’s memories.

After the awards ceremony, Kazemai prepared to go home. The support group that brought the cars walked ahead, followed by the club members. The championship cup was held by the president, Seiya.

The feeling of elation couldn’t be contained. The scenery they usually saw was more color saturated and lacked a sense of reality. On the stage of the finals, all five of them achieved six shots without missing. This was exactly a dream came true.

As they were leaving the kyudojo, the Kirisaki members came to congratulate them. The Young Prince’s eyes were more melancholic than usual.

Ryouhei put his arms around Kaito and Nanao’s shoulders.

“Ah, I’m still excited. I feel like running.”

“Alright, let’s run home.”

“You guys are gonna get wiped out if you do that,” Kaito said, but he couldn’t remain still either and started walking faster.

Minato, Kanbayashi, and Himuro formed the tail end of the group. After the match, they walked slowly from exhaustion.

“I’ve been inspired. I’m going to become an archer like Narumiya-senpai.”

“You’re making too much of me. I’m not even close to Masa-san or Shuu.”

“All three of you are amazing.”

Himuro nodded wordlessly.

“Kyah, I’m sorry!”

Someone appeared, interrupting Minato and the others’ conversation. A girl passing by bumped into him when he wasn’t looking, it seemed. The contents of the plastic bottle she was holding spilled onto Minato, and he wiped the liquid with his sleeve.

“Your collar got soaked. Do you want to change?”

“Some of it got into my mouth, but it seems to be just water. It’ll dry right away.”

By the time they finished loading their bags into the car, Minato felt sluggish. He felt nauseous, and his whole body was itching. When he looked at the inside of his arm, he saw that a rash had broken out.

“What’s wrong with me? I feel itchy, and kinda sick…”

“Your neck is turning red! Should I call Takehaya-senpai? He might have some medicine.”

“Ah, it’s fine. I’ll wait until we get back.”

But soon, Minato was crouching down in a corner of the parking lot. Seiya, noticing that Minato and the others were acting strange, rushed over. Minato was clutching his throat as he crouched.

“What’s wrong, Minato!?”

“…I don’t know, but I feel sick and lightheaded.”

“Could it be heatstroke? Do you have a fever? How’s your stomach?”

“It’s hard to breathe…my throat…”

His voice was raspy and his breathes came in short gasps. Nanao rubbed Minato’s back, and the other members formed a human barricade to guard him. From Seiya’s perspective, he was experiencing system symptoms such as nausea, sweating, dizziness, rashes, and shivering. What was going on?

Seiya’s brother Gaku, who had gotten into the car earlier, also ran over and put his nose on the back of Minato’s neck.

“Seiya, wait. It’s really faint, but he smells different than usual. …It’s an unpleasant smell. What is this, ginkgo fruit?”

Seiya and Ryouhei looked at each other.

“Minato’s allergic to ginkgo!”

“That’s right. A long time ago, when our families went to pick ginkgo fruits, we were shocked when Minato got a rash even though he never touched them with his bare hands.”

“But there aren’t any ginkgo fruits this time of year,” Gaku murmured. “Are these symptoms of anaphylactic shock?”

Seiya’s expression froze.

Anaphylactic shock was a condition in which an allergic reaction to food or other allergens caused a drop in blood pressure and deterioration of consciousness.

Masa-san pushed through the human barricade and went to Minato. He was lying limp in the laps of Kanbayashi and Himuro. His face was chalk white.

“Sorry about this, Minato.”

Masa-san suddenly lifted up Minato’s hakama and pushed something that looked like a thick pen into his thigh. There was a click sound. Seiya widened his eyes, and Kanbayashi blinked rapidly.

“It’s a self-injection of adrenaline. I’m allergic to wasp poison, so I carry it around with me.”

Gaku got out his phone. “Coach Takigawa, thank goodness. Don’t worry, I’ll get him to the hospital right away.”

The injection seemed to have worked, and after a while Minato was able to sit up on his own. His breathing had settled down, and it seemed that his life was no longer in danger. Minato was escorted to the hospital by the Takehaya brothers.

Afterwards, the dashcam in one of the parents’ cars parked in the parking lot showed the girl who was holding the bottle. Despite repeated appeals that the water in the bottle was suspicious, the case was shelved without much investigation, as it was assumed that Minato had just accidentally ingested food that he was allergic to.

Seiya had a pained expression on his face.

“I know someone whose hobbies include hacking into surveillance camera data and using AI to analyze internet articles. The girl from the dashcam is a Kuon devotee. We also confirmed contact between a detective and a Kuon family servant. Apparently, the detective got their hands on ginkgo fruits from a university lab. It seems like there are all sorts of people at Kuon’s house.”

“Why Minato?” Ryouhei asked.

“It’s probably jealousy. The Young Prince only has one brother disciple. No one can take Minato’s place.”

Hanazawa, Shiragiku, and Seo stamped on the ground in frustration.

“I can’t believe we can’t do anything even though we know that much.”

“It’s frustrating.”

“Yeah, I feel you. But wouldn’t it also be bad if the hacking is discovered?”

Masa-san, who had been listening silently until then, rubbed his cheek.

“We have to punish him hard for this.”

Kuon was spending the weekend at the villa.

“Has that woman’s identity been exposed? How useless. Hmm, no need to bother with a orthopedic surgeon’s son and a bunch of commoners.”

His phone rang, and the screen displayed a certain person’s name.

It was Fujiwara Shuu.

“Kuon Takumi, will you apologize to Minato?”

Perhaps it was because he was calling from somewhere far away, but there was so much noise in the background that it was hard to hear.

“What are you talking about? I’m on vacation right now. Do you mind if I ask you to refrain from calling?”

“He’s heading your way right now. I’m not going to be able to stop him.”

“He?”

Asahina and Eddie had pinpointed Kuon’s location. He was in a richly decorated mansion deep in the mountains. The heavy doors opened.

Masa-san leisurely walked from the central entrance to the front stairwell. A female servant of the mansion, suspicious of the smiling, cheerfully walking stranger, called out to him.

“Excuse me, sir? Are you a guest?”

“Hey there, young lady. I’m glad you seem to be doing well.”

“I’m afraid that I cannot let you through to the next room.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I’m very close to Takumi-kun.”

Masa-san smiled softly, and the servant felt cold air blowing on the back of her neck. Contrary to his words, his quiet anger was something that couldn’t be hidden no matter how hard he tried.

The woman screamed. “Takumi-sama, there’s a suspicious person here! Somebody help!”

Kuon sensed the man’s impending presence and hurried outside.

Masa-san got behind the men guarding Kuon and slammed his fist into the back of his liver. He dodged another man’s kick, and when he fell to the ground with a heavy thud, Masa-san jumped over the stair railing.

All the while, Kuon was running at full speed. His pursuer closed the distance in the blink of an eye, and Kuon, panicking, tripped on the grass and fell. Despite this, he still crawled on the ground, trying to escape, but couldn’t move forward.

Masa-san grabbed Kuon by the nape of his neck.

“Swear that you’ll never lay a finger on Kazemai’s students again.”

“O-Okay. I swear, so let me go first.”

When Masa-san loosened his grip, Kuon raised himself up and faced him directly. Immediately after, he saw the shadow of a muscular man behind Masa-san. Masa-san punched him in the face without looking back.

Kuon clutched at the soil.

“Who the hell are you!? There’s no way an ordinary person can do that!”

“I’m sure you know that I’m Kazemai’s coach. A long time ago, I learned self-defense. You don’t seem to realize what you’ve done.”

“Isn’t it just a little bit of itchiness? A long time ago, I had a classmate who got itchy after eating eggs, but it cleared up after a week. Isn’t this just a child’s adorable prank?”

“Don’t tell me that you’ve done the same thing in the past? Allergies can be life-threatening if you don’t take care of them properly. What you did was equivalent to poisoning him. Lately, I haven’t been able to control myself…whatever will I do?”

Masa-san put his hand in the inside pocket of his jacket. He took out a permanent marker, and after removing the cap, he placed the tip of the pen on Kuon’s cheek.

Approximately ten seconds later, Kuon’s face was covered with the same pattern as the one on the powder container Masa-san had received from his master. Yes, depending on how you looked at it, it looked like a bikini.

The look in Kuon’s eyes changed when he saw Masa-san turn on his phone.

“No way, you’re going to take a photo?”

“A souvenir. I borrowed the pen from Kazemai’s president, and it turned out to be a very tasteful picture, if I do say so myself.”

“You lowly citizen! I’ll call Father!”

“As you requested, I’ve already called him. ‘My foolish son has wronged your friend. Please scold him on my behalf,’ he said and invited me to this villa. Now that I’ve taken some pictures, I think I’ll send them to the Kirisaki twins.”

“Father would never… S-Stop it! Doesn’t Buddhism tell you to not take revenge even when something is done to you? Your real job is being a monk, isn’t it?”

“Everyone keeps calling me a monk, monk, monk. I’m not a monk, I’m a priest!”

As Masa-san’s finger was about to slide across his phone’s screen, the wind created by a helicopter made the leaves and branches of the mountains shake. It was a tremendous amount of dust. When he looked up, the door of the low-flying aircraft opened.

Shuu jumped down. His pale eyelashes were swaying.

“Kuon, if you’re going to use the power of your family, I won’t hesitate to borrow the power of my family as well. Have you forgotten my name?”

“…Fujiwara-senpai.”

Minato also peeked out from the helicopter.

“Masa-san, stop! Don’t do anything more than that! I haven’t learned pro wrestling yet.”

“Good grief, my disciples are always too soft!”

Masa-san and Shuu stood in front of Kuon, who bowed his head in resignation.

Young leaves danced in the sky.

Members of the Kazemai High School Kyudo Club gathered at the Yata no Mori Kyudojo.

A fleeting time of overnight practice. The warm sunlight that poured down upon them made them sleepy.

“Oh, what happened to the boys?” Tommy-sensei asked Hanazawa, Shiragiku, and Seo.

“They went to see the dormouse.”

Masa-san pressed his hand to his forehead. “They got too much power, don’t they? Let’s get started on dinner.”

“Yes.”

Minato and his friends were in the forest. They were standing in front of an old mountain hut.

Nanao pointed to the door of the hut.

“At dawn, I volunteered to go look for Miyama stag beetles. Then, I saw it there.”

“Wow, that early morning walk was all about collecting bugs? I’m glad I didn’t go,” Ryouhei said, patting his chest.

Minato asked him to let him sit on his shoulders and peered through the gaps in the tobukuro.* It was a nostalgic scene for Seiya, who was watching them from the side as he waited for his turn to sit on Ryouhei’s shoulders.

“You guys are way too big to do little kid stuff like this,” Kaito said to Seiya.

“You don’t have to look, Kaito.”

“…I guess it’s fine to take just one look.”

Keyaki and Kanbayashi were searching around for new discoveries, and Himuro was listening to the voice of the forest’s master.

The mountains were shining.

The mountains were singing.

By the time the owl woke up from its sleep, Minato and the others had dinner.

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[partystoragechest]

A story of romance, drama, and politics which neither Trevelyan nor Cullen wish to be in.

Canon divergent fic in which Josephine solves the matter of post-Wicked Hearts attention by inviting invites four noblewomen to compete for Cullen's affections. In this chapter, Trevelyan has someone she'd like to impress.

(Masterpost. Beginning. Previous entry. Next entry. Words: 3,893. Rating: all audiences, bar a few swears.)

Chapter 42: The Ball

“Pre-senting..!”

The stage was set, the Great Hall adorned in its finest. A band played upon the dais, the floor before them awaiting its dancers. Every candle was lit, every banner unfurled—each one proudly displaying the sigil of the Inquisition.

This was their party. People of all ranks were in attendance. Advisors and dignitaries, to soldiers and mages. All, except for four.

The door thundered open. A chamberlain cried their names:

“Lady Erridge of West Coldon, Lady Samient of Samient, Baroness Touledy of Val Misrenne..!”

The Ladies strode in, none finer than they. Lady Erridge wore her pinkest, most ruffliest dress yet; Lady Samient wore her tightest, of dark, snakish leather; the Baroness wore her most glamorous, a gown in passionate red—with mahogany cane to match, of course.

“...and Lady Trevelyan, of Ostwick!”

Trevelyan emerged, last of all. The ballgown she wore? Unrecognisable.

The black brocade was gone, the lace ripped from its seams with wicked delight. All that remained was perfect canvas of purest navy, onto which it could be painted—with shining, silvery thread.

Her mother would’ve fumed at the very idea. But what good was learning embroidery, if one did not use it in defiance?

Each Lady had taken up a quadrant of her own, yet the stitches they sewed were all the same: dozens upon dozens of tiny, shimmering, stars.

Trevelyan sparkled with every step. Diamonds glittered around her neck, lent eagerly by the Baroness. Every candle’s flame glistened upon her.

Even the night sky could not compare.

Were it not for the band, the room would have been stunned to silence. Whispers of admiration made their circuit. Trevelyan joined the other Ladies, all of them frightfully pleased with their handiwork—and quite rightly, too.

“So this is what you were all up to yesterday?” asked the arriving Lady Orroat—herself in fine doublet and breeches—laying her eyes upon the dress for the very first time. “It’s beautiful!”

A look of panic came over Lady Erridge. “I did those ones!” she blurted, her pointing finger at some collection of stars.

The Baroness laughed at such a display. “Yes, Lady Erridge is indeed a fine seamstress.”

“Oh, certainly,” Orroat agreed, placing a kiss upon her seamstress’ hand, quelling her worry in an instant. “Always has been.”

Amused, Lady Samient whispered to Trevelyan: “Seems her Ladyship has reversed her position on your knowing Lady Orroat.”

Trevelyan giggled. “Good. For I could hardly say we should make such as handsome couple as they.”

The Ladies settled, the partygoers returned to business—yet the music that accompanied their conversation furrowed into quiet. Attention was drawn to the dais from whence it had come, as the ever-elegant Lady Montilyet took her place upon it.

“Friends of the Inquisition!” she called. “Thank you for coming. I do not wish to keep you from your pleasures, so this will not be long—but, if you shall indulge me, I would like to say a fond farewell, to some of our departing guests.”

She raised a glass in the direction of the Ladies, and sang their praises each.

Lady Erridge and Lady Orroat were wished all the best, for the wedding that was to come, and for the future of their Coldon, reunited by love. They took each other’s hands, met one another’s doting gaze, and held tight.

The Baroness was sent hope, for a swift victory in Val Misrenne—but also admiration. She had more than proven why she was capable of defying the Chantry so: a steadfast determination, that they should all aspire to. With a smile, the Baroness bowed.

Lady Samient’s message was subtle. A safe journey home, all she was promised—but those who knew, knew what that meant. Absent-minded, the Lady reached for and toyed with the pendant at her neck, a twisting halla’s horn.

“Of course,” Montilyet continued, “one of our guests is to remain. Gathered friends, may I please introduce to you our new Arcanist”—she held her glass high—“Lady Trevelyan of Ostwick!”

Applause went up, echoing off the walls, filling the room with joy. Trevelyan laughed in delight, and caught glimpses of her friends amongst the rabble. Varric’s arms flew up; somewhere, Dorian hollered; even Sera clapped—though none, it seemed, were as enthusiastic as Dagna herself!

“Tonight, we celebrate!” Montilyet declared. “So please, enjoy!”

The band launched into triumphant fanfare; good humour and good company were the orders of the evening. The Ladies, all aflutter, went about these goals with giddiness and verve.

“Won’t you come dance?” asked Lady Erridge, having already roped her fiancee into it.

Trevelyan smiled, but shook her head. “Later,” she told her. “There’s someone I wish to see, first.”

Lady Samient picked up her slack. “Come, Lady Erridge!” she offered, instead. “I’ll dance with you.”

Appeased, Lady Erridge escorted her away. Trevelyan was left to withdraw from the dancefloor, and wander towards the more stationary attendees. Her eyes flitted from person to person, searching for one in particular.

A hand caught her shoulder. The Baroness, apparently having already procured a drink, leant over, and tilted it forward.

“There,” she whispered.

The crowd parted, as if by her will. True to her word, at the other end of the room, was stood precisely the man Trevelyan had been looking for.

Commander.

Maker, he had only become more handsome the longer she had known him. That rough-hewn jaw of his, a dishevelment of stubble upon it; the subtle waves in his hair, hints of his rebellious curls; those dimples upon his cheeks—the thumb-prints of the divine, left where the Maker’s scultping hand had gone astray.

And his weary eyes, whose gentle gaze found her, and drew her closer.

Trevelyan admired, as she approached, the coincidence of the navy blue doublet that Lady Montilyet had undoubtedly advised him to wear. Hm. She liked him better in red. Suited him more, perhaps.

Though truly, it mattered little. There was nothing that could dull the shine of him; true gold, after all, did never rust.

He straightened to greet her, a little smile pulling at his mouth. And he would have greeted her, perhaps warmly, perhaps sweetly—had a scout, uniformed and on duty, not appeared at his side.

Ah, fuck.

They whispered something to him, below the hubbub that came back into focus. Trevelyan crept nearer, but heard nothing of the Commander’s reply. Yet, when the he looked to her again, his smile was gone.

“Arcanist,” he said, with a bow. “I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me. Urgent business.”

Bloody typical.

“Of course,” she told him, magnanimously. “Duty calls.”

“At inconvenient times,” he added.

“No duty is ever convenient.”

That seemed to amuse him, at least. “True. I will try to return soon,” he told her. “I assure you.”

“Yes, Commander.”

She curtsied to him, and allowed him to depart. The scout had lingered by the rotunda door. The Commander followed them through.

Gone.

Trevelyan looked down at her pretty, sparkly skirt, and fluffed it up, pointlessly. Not quite the moment she’d been hoping for.

Oh, well. She would have plenty of time for moments with him in the coming days. If he didn’t get called away by something or other during those, too.

Stowing her frustration, Trevelyan returned to the party. There was plenty more to do, besides.

She watched the Ladies dance, and clapped along. She saw Dagna, who was endlessly excited for the things to come. She met with Lady Montilyet, and spoke of her new quarters (ready tomorrow)! And she found Dorian, who was, as always, terribly good conversation.

Yet still no Commander.

The noise of the band and the chatter and the stomps of the dancing were beginning to blur in her brain. Dorian noted her change in temperament, as she peered out of the door to the garden. No. Too many in attendance; the party had spilled out into it. It was no less busy out there than it was in here.

“Try up there,” Dorian suggested, indicating the mezzanine above. It seemed Sera had been banned from it today, as no there was no skulking to be seen. “It has a balcony, if you need some air.”

“Thank you,” said Trevelyan. She’d had little cause to ever stray up there before—but now seemed as good a reason as any. “I shall see you later.”

Dorian waved, off to see the Baroness. Trevelyan found her way around the dancefloor, and escaped up the stairs.

The moment she reached their peak, already was she calmer. Even mere feet above the maelstrom, the music came quieter, and the conversation mere ambience. Better.

Her attention turned to the mezzanine. It was furnished well for a somewhat hidden space, with a luxurious chaise and portraits of figures Trevelyan did not quite recognise. The candleabrum here were not lit, leaving all illumination to that of the moons, who trickled their glow through a pair of glass doors—beyond which, as promised, was a balcony.

But Trevelyan felt at ease enough to stay inside for now; and indeed, she found the view of the party below to be quite of interest. The dancers, from above, weaved such wonderful patterns. Outfits, in all colours, were arrayed like a painter’s palette. She could watch, as those she knew flitted from one group, to another. An enjoyable pict—

The rotunda door opened, drawing her eye. The Commander. He strode into the party with such determination, it was as if it did not even exist around him. Trevelyan followed his path, as it led him, direct, to the Baroness.

They moved to the side. He whispered something. Urgent business? Oh, no.

But the Baroness smiled. Wider and wider. She asked him something; he nodded. She placed a hand over her heart, and sighed. Trevelyan did the same.

She took a step back, from the barrier. If the news they shared was what she hoped, then she was rather glad she hadn’t kicked up a fuss at his departure. Because if it was what she hoped, then it would be well worth it.

She had to see the Baroness.

And she would have, if not for the feet hurrying up the stairs. The Baroness? No cane. Then—!

The Commander appeared at the landing, startling himself as much as he startled her. Determination abandoning him in an instant, he padded onto the mezzanine, and did his best to bow.

“Arcanist,” he said. “Forgive me, Dorian told me you were here.”

Crafty bastard. Still, she asked, “Is everything all right, Commander? Your urgent business?”

He smiled—such a relieving smile—and nodded. “Yes. The Inquisitor has reported in.” She could hardly believe his next words: “We have victory. Val Misrenne is safe.”

As she’d hoped. Better, even. Trevelyan brought a hand to her mouth, a beaming smile beneath it. She shook her head, out of sheer incredulity. By Andraste. She could not fathom how dear Touledy felt.

“Thank the Maker,” she breathed. “Or, I suppose—thank you, Commander.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I think it is the Inquisitor and the Baroness’ forces who should have the credit of it.”

“Very true. Though your involvement is still very much appreciated.”

Compliments did not seem to sit well within him; he kept his gaze askance, mouth struggling to form a reply. Awkwardness prevailed, ‘til his fortune changed, and his eyes chanced upon the balcony doors.

“Forgive me, I didn’t meant to disturb you—her Ladyship, the Baroness, thought you should know. You were… headed outside?”

Trevelyan followed his gaze. She smiled. “Preferably not alone.”

“Oh. I could—”

Trevelyan stepped for the doors; he followed. They opened—a portal—to the tranquil night beyond.

The stars shone in greeting. Trevelyan curtsied; an acknowledgement of their mutual beauty. She found relaxation upon the finely-carved stone of the balcony balustrade, and felt the Commander’s presence, a warmth in the absence of the sun, as he came to rest beside her.

“It’s... a nice night,” he said.

“Yes,” she replied, “and a lovely view.”

The entire courtyard was laid out before them, from the tavern—as lively as the party they’d left behind—to the stables—quiet, at this time of day. Moonlit stone, punctuated by glowing torchlight. Beautiful, truly.

Yet it seemed the Commander’s focus was elsewhere, for his hand fumbled within his jacket.

“I, ah, have something,” he told her, “that I believe is yours.”

At last, he seemed to locate it, and freed it from its concealment. White cloth, that flashed in the moonlight. Embroidered, with leaves Trevelyan recognised.

It was far cleaner than the last time she’d seen it.

Trevelyan smiled. The little napkin slipped pleasantly from his fingers, and into her own. She noted the warmth of his proximity, still lingering within the weave, and the sweet, earthy scent that had been left by his possession.

“Technically,” she teased, “I believe it is Lady Montilyet’s.”

“I hardly think she’ll miss it.”

“I certainly hope so.” She tucked it away—safe. “Thank you, Commander.”

“Thank you for the use of it,” he said. “Though, speaking of Lady Montilyet, I had hoped to say—you took the offer... to become Arcanist.”

“I did.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

The Commander stammered, “For you—I mean. I mean, I am glad. That—despite how you came to be here—you have found enough reason to stay.”

Trevelyan laughed a little. It seemed as though he had a mountain to climb whenever they spoke. She appreciated his attempt to scale the peak regardless.

“Plenty of reasons,” she told him. “I know that I ought to have left, and truly have started my life afresh… but that would have been dishonest, to what I truly want.”

“May I ask… what is it?”

“What?”

The Commander almost met her eye. “That you… want?”

She bit back the smile that threatened to betray her. The night air wasn’t cold, but she hid goose-bumps upon her skin. “Well… I suppose there is one thing—”

Feet clattered up the stairs. Trevelyan stopped herself, turning just in time to see, stumbling into the doorway, a giddy Lady Erridge.

“Lady Trevelyan!” she called. “Oh, Commander, there you are! I came to see if you wanted to dance!”

The Commander shook his head. “I’m… No, thank you. I don’t really dance.”

Erridge giggled. “I know! I wasn’t asking you, Commander! Come, Lady Trevelyan! The Commander shall have plenty of time to whisper with you when we are gone!”

Though the interruption was not exactly ideal, Trevelyan could not deny the sentiment. She curtsied to the Commander, somewhat apologetically.

“It seems I am summoned away. Urgent business, I believe they call it.”

The corner of his mouth tilted upward; it made her skin tingle. “Another time, then.”

“Of course.”

Trevelyan permitted Lady Erridge to take hold of her hand. The Lady threw a quick farewell to the Commander over her shoulder, and whisked Trevelyan away, tumbling down the stairs. They burst back onto the main floor of the hall, just as the band queued up another jig.

“Come on, come on!” Lady Erridge ordered, pulling Trevelyan into the congregating mass of dancers. Already amongst them were Lady Samient and Lady Orroat, left to partner up by the absent Erridge.

“Over here!” they called, of a little clearing beside them. Trevelyan and Erridge took position, all anticipation. They joined hands—properly now—and waited for the song to start.

And start it did! Strings and wind erupted into a prancing melody of alternating highs and lows. Trevelyan followed her Ladyship’s lead, bouncing around the floor, clapping her hands, kicking her legs into the air. Skirts clashed and flew, an explosion of fabric and colour.

It was a wonder how Lady Samient danced it so well, in a dress so constricting—but dance well she did! As hands parted and partners changed, Trevelyan found herself parading around in the arms of said Lady, each of them smiling up a storm.

As one song ended, so another began. She was to dance with Lady Orroat, too, of course—it was only fair—and then dear Erridge wanted another.

Eventually, quite exhausted, Trevelyan took the next song’s end, and made her exit.

Fortunately, she found the Baroness on the edges of the dancefloor, an audience to their frolicking. She greeted Trevelyan with a smile and an embrace—for which they both knew the reason.

“I am so glad for you,” Trevelyan said, as she recovered her breath. “Are you all right?”

The Baroness nodded. “Relieved. When I leave tomorrow, I know I will be returning to my town at peace. But—this has not come without loss. It is not over, not truly.”

“Of course.”

“But we could have lost so much more. That Val Misrenne and its people still stand is worth celebrating.”

“Absolutely.”

Trevelyan hugged her once more, yet the music’s sudden and effervescent return caused her to jump. With a laugh, she glanced back to the dancers.

“You know, I am surprised Lady Erridge has not called you up for a jig!”

The Baroness chuckled. “No, no, my leg is far too frail for that.”

“Really?” said Trevelyan, glancing to it. “I remember you saying you still dance, once.”

“I do.” She grinned. “But the leg is an excellent excuse.”

Trevelyan caught her meaning. “Lady Erridge’s enthusiasm is quite difficult to match.”

“Indeed. She has the stamina of a demon. Though I’m sure Lady Orroat could find some use for that.”

Trevelyan laughed. “Your Ladyship! Please, I feel so terrible teasing her!”

“Then you should not like to hear what we say about you and him.”

Confused by who ‘him’ was, Trevelyan followed the Baroness’ line of sight, to a nearby throng of guests. Weaving between them, was—she should’ve guessed it—the Commander.

“Oh, Maker…” Trevelyan groaned. “You all have far too—”

She turned back, and realised the Baroness’s mouth was half-open, her cane being raised in the air.

“No, no—!”

“Commander!”

He heard the call. His head whipped round. No stopping it now: he was headed in their direction.

“Baroness!” Trevelyan hissed.

Touledy smiled, gave a suggestive flick of her brow, and said nothing more. Though Trevelyan was almost glad of this—the Commander ought not hear anything she had to say right now.

“Ladies,” he greeted, upon arrival. “Is there something you require?”

“Why, yes,” said Touledy, all too confidently. What was she up to? “Lady Trevelyan here wishes another dance, but I am afraid I am unable to”—she flashed her cane—“would you be able to dance with her Ladyship, in my stead?”

“Oh.” The Commander softened. "Are you all right?”

Trevelyan noted, rather indignantly, that the Commander asked this question with the same sort of gentle voice that he often put on for her. This was a concept which, she suddenly discovered, she did not like. Why, oh why, did she have to make him befriend the other Ladies? Fool.

“Yes, thank you,” the Baroness answered. “But her Ladyship must have a dance.”

Trevelyan rolled her eyes. “But Baroness, the Commander does not like to dance.”

“I could try,” he said.

Trevelyan stared at him. There were a thousand questions she thought of in response to his saying this. But somehow, the only one she could quite manage was:

“What?”

He repeated the sentiment: “If you would like to.”

“Oh.” Well, there was little chance of her saying anything other than: “Yes.”

The Baroness smiled, clearly relishing in the success. “Go on, then,” she said, “enjoy.”

Easier said. At least Trevelyan had done enough jigs with Lady Erridge to know what she was to do with them, now. In her mind, as they walked to the floor, she went over the steps. Left, left, kick, clap. Switch. Then to the right? But—

The music grew in volume. Yet it sounded like no jig she’d ever heard. Trevelyan realised that the band had betrayed her. Not a jig. Not at all.

Sweet, slow strings floated across the hall. A… romantic melody, that had couples approaching the floor. Dear Maker fucking Andraste shitting Void.

People linked hands and put them on waists and Trevelyan realised that she was in the midst of it now, surrounded, and there was no escape, and she would have to do those things herself.

She faced the Commander. Maker, why did he have to look like that and be like this? This sort of thing was far simpler with unimportant suitors that one could so easily discard after, even if one did step on their toes.

He offered a hand. Trevelyan’s shook.

But still, they met.

Her fingers slid into his palm, felt the warmth that emanated beneath the leather of his glove. The feeling of his skin, however rugged or tender, was cruelly left to the imagination. She savoured it regardless.

Her other hand gathered up her skirts, like the rest of the dress-wearers were doing. Almost in position. There was simply one last thing to emulate—

The Commander’s hand moved for her waist, hesitant in its approach. The first touches of his fingertips—gentler even than that of cotton or down—caused her body to tense. She did not know how she was to bear his entire hand.

But his hand stopped short. It instead hovered over the fabric of her dress, as if afraid to press any further.

Disappointing.

Nevertheless—the music began in earnest. The dancers began to move. The Commander took a step, and Trevelyan followed. Her nerves hit a peak.

And then, began to fade.

Because dancing with him was unlike dancing with anyone she had danced with before. It felt different. Better. Warmer. Safer. It almost did not matter if she was dancing well or not. It was only him that mattered.

There was no need for extravagant moves, or flourishes of the hand. This was enough. Sweet, simple, swaying in one another’s arms. More than enough.

“You should dance more often,” she whispered to him. “You do it well.”

He smiled, soft, and simply said, “All right.”

Her words must have bolstered his resolve, for his shoulders relaxed, and his grip around her hand firmed and strengthened. Its pull drew her closer; his other slipped around her back, fitting perfectly into the mold of her body. The gap between them was more indistinct than ever.

Yet in that closeness was comfort. She could have stayed like that for an eternity.

But the music slowly, gradually, dulled away. Other dancers reappeared around them, the party audible once more. It was over.

They came to a standstill. Trevelyan’s hand fell reluctantly from his grasp; his trailed away from her waist. Yet still she smiled, for nothing could take it from her lips.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Of course,” he replied.

“I shan’t make you dance another.”

“That’s… all right.” He rubbed his neck. “Will you, ah, be stargazing tonight?”

She played with her dress. “Most likely.”

“Good.”

She curtsied, he bowed. He left, she stayed. Her feet still wobbled, a little.

But she would have to recover quickly. For she turned to her side, and saw complete what had, until now, been only a disruption in her periphery: the Ladies, gathered together, in keen observance.

Trevelyan shook her head, and, before they could open their mouths, told them firm:

“Not one word.”

[fuckmeyer]

How do you imagine the Cullens and Bella dressing like in your book?

similar style but slight adjustments.

Bella probably goes through the biggest change. she starts off In the Afterlight wearing jeans, band tees, chunky sweaters, & very eclectic pieces (bowling shirt ABSOLUTELY exists). in Come Nightfall she changes - she 1) won't wear anything she stole from Edward (i.e. sweaters and flannels), 2) does so much activity outdoors she's wearing exclusively athletic wear, and 3) is forced to hide her scent later on so objectively dresses WORSE with stained, mismatched thrift-store clothes. doesn't own a khaki skirt. in By Starlight, now that Edward's home, she's back to athletic wear. Edward likes this very, very much.

Edward has the same style with more color. NO sleeveless white button-up because what the FUCK. when he's hunting, he's a jeans and flannel shirt kinda guy - he'll often wear clothes he hates when hunting. (ofc, now that Bella wears his flannel shirts, he's rethinking his tastes.) otherwise, day-to-day, he's a loose slacks, undershirt, & suspenders kinda guy (think 1950s or 20s). nice button-ups and dark fitted sweaters in deep, dark colors like navy, burgundy, phthalo green. extremely lame in a cute way. light spoilers for future chaps, but this man is literally always trying to hide his body.

i picture the Cullens dressing mostly in timeless outfits and styles.

Esme adores dresses and skirts à la Audrey Hepburn. classic, chic, evergreen. she would wear neutrals the most day-to-day but adores flowing prints and polka dots when she feels in the mood :) definitely wears ratty skirts or jeans when gardening.

Rosalie's casual/business casual style has some Princess Di influences with some modern trends mixed in (thanks to Alice). keeps some greasy old jeans and overalls for her mechanic work.

Carlisle really misses wearing embroidered brocaded waistcoats & frilly shirts. thinks modern men's fashion is boring. slacks and button-ups for this man. CARDIGANS ALL DAY. misses wearing ascots, but likes scarves. god, he hates modern men's fashion.

Jasper actually loved his 90s grunge/punk era and never really left it. army boots/doc martins (with the coded laces OFC), ripped jeans, plaid shirts, band tees, beanies, leather jackets with handsewn patches.

Emmett is jeans and tees all day. James Dean kinda guy with the boots, slacks/jeans, nice white tee, bomber jacket.

Alice is a freak. she's following every trend. she says it's to keep the Cullens in the modern world (true - to their dismay, she WILL go through their closets and add/subtract items). but really, it's her way to stay connected to the present day. she has ofc rare commissioned pieces from different designers, beautiful pieces from eras long gone that she can't bear to part with (because ofc everything comes back in style), weird pieces from niche trends... but she absolutely DOES dress like she's straight from a 2000s-era issue of Seventeen. for better or worse.

[randomabiling]

NaNoWriMo Entry #1

Bewitch

October 31, 1890

Though the rooms and halls of Duneagle were as familiar to him as Downton, on this night the shadows unbalanced his senses, and he felt less certain of his footing. Lit only by the tumultuous fires in hearths and the candlesticks flickering in a hundred jack-o-lanterns scattered about in the rooms, the walls seemed to dance, alive with each turn of air. With a glass of punch cooling his hand, Robert entered the drawing room. He squinted into the hazy darkness, the guests near the fireplace illuminated and orange hued, while those in the farther corners were faceless silhouettes, only a glinting of jewels or the outline of satin truly visible. Sighing, he stepped further in, to where a group of bachelors were pairing apples, looking into mirrors to see the ghostly forms of their future wives appear. Robert shook his head, and passed through the press of people, costumed and draped in elaborate pantomime, living out their fantastical interpretations of Susan’s theme. 

The ruffle of his own sleeve, authentic and smart looking hours before as it flounced from the edge of his cuff, was stained with punch and wilting at his wrist. The brocade jacket, with its golden embroidery and many buttons had grown heavy and wearisome as the night wore on. Robert had consumed enough punch to be tired, and his desire to find Cora compounded his growing irritation. He’d always disliked a masquerade, wondering why people couldn’t just be themselves. But Cora had been so excited at the invitation, looking forward to her first British Halloween. 

He’d been unable to say no. 

In the library, Shrimpie was holding the attention of a large group, telling some ghoulish story that seemed to rely heavily on Bronte’s penned musings. If the listeners suspected the hero bore an eerie resemblance to Rochester, they hadn’t let on. Robert inspected each person’s face, their form, their costume, but none were Cora. It unsettled him that it took him a moment to pass from one party goer to another. It seemed he should know instinctually whether he was looking at his wife or not, even through the veil of darkness blanketing the entire castle.

Robert passed from the library into the music room, a lone pianist playing a doleful tune on the instrument. There were several card tables set up, with a crowd of five or six at each. Instead of playing canasta or spades, however, each table held a woman in robes inspecting an elaborate deck of cards. It took only a moment of scrutiny for Robert to see it was a tarot deck and he frowned. Were people really so silly?

As soon as the thought entered his head, he saw her at the far table. If he had been able to think clearer, he would have been pleased with himself, noticing he had known her instinctually as soon as his eyes took her in their vision. He was too taken by her presence to think such thoughts. She looked as fresh as when he’d gone to her bedroom door hours ago, ready to accompany her downstairs for the festivities. Robert stood and stared at her for a few minutes, waiting, and then finally her gaze darted up and around the room, stopping when her eyes met his. Even far away he could see the crinkle of her skin around her mouth and the uplifting of her lips. She spoke lowly to the others at the table before standing. 

The long blue cape that she wore swirled behind her, the fluidity of the velvet like a living thing. And the sight of her again in her dress, the way the white lace of her bodice quivered as she moved, the angles of her delicate curves, made him choke against the restraint of the jabot around his neck. Sometimes when he saw her, he was again taken aback by her beauty, as though seeing it for the first time. 

Cora’s smile widened as she came closer to him, and she stopped only when their noses were close enough to touch. Robert was mesmerized by the glint in her blue eyes, the shine that rivaled the diamond stars on her tiara. Between them, her hand grazed his chest before it settled back against the bone of her corset, covering the shelter of their secret. When he found his voice, it was high and unnatural.

“What were you doing over there?”

Cora’s eyebrows rose, a playful smirk making her features even more lovely. “Listening to my fortune.”

“Oh?” Robert took hold of her gloved hand and led her to the doorway. “Good I hope?”

“Hmm,” Cora’s throat vibrated with the sound. “I don’t believe in that stuff anyway, it’s just for fun.”

It was Robert’s turn to chuckle. “Is the American more sensible than the British when it comes to the supernatural?”

Cora stopped and Robert turned to her. She lifted herself up on her toes, her mouth just below his ear. “I make my own fortune. Shall I show you?”

Robert bit his lip hard. He squeezed her hand harder. “I think it most imperative that you do.”