#not my finest dress design ever but i needed this

[jestroer]

lil sketch of my boys because im too tired to draw something proper but i need. to

i love them

[queenie-avenue]

A Rich Man's World.

💌 ⤻ THE CEO, ADRIAN HOUDE

—> let him spoil you.

⤻ reader is a female (wearing a dress), yandere behaviour, possessive behaviour, thoughts of killing, financial abuse, obsessive behaviour, suggestive themes, age gap, power imbalance (you're an intern, he's the CEO, of course there's bound to be power imbalances)

notes: thank you for being so patient with me while waiting for a new post! classes have been killing me, but I swear ill try and find a good schedule for myself to balance alongside projects and also writing my novel. speaking of which, please follow my tiktok account queenie_avenue

💌 ⤻ archives.

You had no idea why you were here.

Well, technically you did know, you just weren't sure why Adrian Houde — the CEO of your company — had brought you here. You were an intern, someone meant to go under the wing of some of the other designers under the company. But just a few weeks ago, Adrian had become oddly interested in you and your designs.

He found them innovative and it was like he had fallen for your creative soul, even offering to introduce you to a few investors who might like your designs and want to invest in your future fashion brand, should you want to open it.

Of course, Adrian would prefer it if after you graduated you continued to stay under him at his company as a designer. He'd promote you to head creative lead without shame if you wanted to, but he knew you'd prefer to earn that place out of your own merit.

Still, in a few weeks' time, he would keep his promise and show you off to a few investors.

He almost drooled at the idea but he had to keep his obsession under wraps. He was a gentleman, after all. It was unseemly for him to let a lady know of his true inner thoughts. He eyed you in the mirror with an intense gaze, fingers trailing over the documents he held in his hands, his attention on them abandoned long ago since you tried on the first dress.

He had personally driven you to a boutique belonging to the company just so you could get a dress that would look the best on you.

He had offered to ask some designers to make a custom dress but you had fervently opposed the idea, refusing to be in debt to him financially as well as socially now that he was helping you advance your career.

His eyes raked over this dress you had worn. What was this dress, the sixth one? Yet he never got tired of you standing in front of the mirror, your rear facing him. He recited all the words his grandmother told him in his head, to try and restrain himself from pouncing at you like some kind of wild animal.

"Would you mind giving me a twirl, Miss [y/n]?" He asked, his tone as saccharine as ever, hypnotising you to comply with his demands as you twirled. "Hm," He nodded once you did.

The dress was red, the colour of lust. A colour he didn't like on you. He already looked at you with such lust and he did not need a wicked colour like that to remind him of how he wanted you sprawled over his desk like a feast for him. You haunted his dreams and his nights alone with just his hand, he did not need a colour to remind him of what he wanted from you. Not only that, the way the slit slid up to your upper thigh and how exposed your cleavage was.

"I like the fabric... but the design..." He sighed as he rubbed his temples, placing the papers in his hands down with a satisfying slap. "Give me something not in red, it clashes with her skin tone." He told the worker, his eyes still fixed on your exposed skin as he gripped his thigh, trying to keep his eyes from wandering too far and his mind from going too deep down the dirty rabbit hole.

He could just imagine how everyone would look at you if you wore that dress out. He didn't like that thought, it made him want to wrap you in the finest fabrics and hide you away from everyone, suffocate you within it to ensure no one else could ever have you.

After a while of deliberating and you awkwardly standing there as your boss ogled you like you were a piece of meat, the employee finally returned with a blue dress, the exact colour of Adrian's eyes.

He smirked at that and nodded as she closed the curtains and began to dress you.

After a few excruciating minutes of him fantasising and being jealous of the woman who got to help you dress beneath the curtain, the curtain was pulled open to reveal you in that blue dress. Adrian shot up from his seat immediately. "Thank you for your help." He smiled at the employee as she took a step away, leaving you and Adrian alone as he took a few slow and deliberate steps up to meet you; like you were some sort of wounded animal he was trying not to scare off.

"You look beautiful, mon ange." He smiled as he slowly reached for your hand. "May I?" The older man asked as he leaned in close to you, looking at the reflection of yourself in the mirror.

You nodded your head hesitantly. Honestly, how could you ever say no to your boss after this, especially with how he helped you at every turn?

He held your hand delicately, with the softness of a child holding onto a pet. "You're so beautiful. I have just a matching suit like this. We should wear it together for the event." He smiled as he began to overstep his boundaries, hands slipping down to your waist as he watched you from the mirror.

His mantra to be a gentleman always seem threatened whenever you were close.

"I can't wait to see everyone." See everyone know that you're mine. The earlier dress was too revealing but this one was just nice; not too low-cut but still sensual. The earlier red dress had slits and cleavage for days, which he disliked. Though, he would still buy it. Perhaps you would wear it for him once you accepted his love.

For now, he would relish in the fact that everyone would know you were his the moment you stepped foot into the event in this blue dress he would buy for you.

He didn't care how much it cost him, the money would go back to him anyway. Plus, it was worth it to claim his mark on you.

Adrian's eyes lingered on your neck for a moment.

It was the only way he could lay a stake on you, for now, anyway.

[hoshifighting]

seungkwan as your sugar baby!

— WARNINGS: sugar mommy x sugar baby relationship, smut, degradation, getting caught, pussy eating, cock riding, gold digger!seungkwan, meanie!reader. — (Seventeen as Sugar Baby's Series)

you knew the type of boy seungkwan was from the moment he strutted into the tennis club like he owned the place. he wasn’t exactly subtle about it, either—wearing that too-crisp polo, the kind only someone trying too hard would borrow from a rich friend. joshua, maybe? you’d seen them together once, joshua all polite smiles and seungkwan soaking up the attention like a sponge. but today, seungkwan wasn’t here for polite smiles. he was here for you.

“nice serve,” he says, voice smooth as the champagne your friends are sipping in the lounge. you roll your eyes, tossing your racket onto the nearby bench. “thanks,” you say, already expecting the flirtatious tilt to his lips as he closes the distance between you.

“didn’t know tennis was your thing,” he continues, leaning against the bench, too close for it to be casual. you can see the glint of ambition in his eyes. he’s good-looking, no doubt about that, with a smile that could probably get him whatever he wants.

“isn’t my thing,” you shrug, grabbing a water bottle and taking a long sip, letting the cool liquid ease the heat from your last set. “but it is the perfect way to spend a saturday.”

“for sure,” he nods, eyes shamelessly drifting down to your hips, the pleated skirt riding just high enough to keep him interested. “mind if i join you for a drink? or maybe something stronger?”

you laugh, the sound surprising both of you. “you really think that’s all it takes?”

his grin widens, unbothered by your teasing. “i think you know exactly what you’re getting into.”

and maybe you do. you knew it the second you caught him watching you, eyes fixed on your every move, waiting for the right moment to strike. he’s playing a game, just like you are, but you’re not sure who’s winning yet.

“alright,” you say, tossing your empty bottle into the bin, turning to face him fully. “but don’t think i’ll go easy on you.”

seungkwan knew exactly what he was getting into, and fuck, he loved every second of it. the second you handed him that black card, he felt like he’d hit the jackpot. it wasn’t just about the money—though he loved that too—it was the way you looked at him, like he was a prize you’d won, and you were more than happy to show him off.

he could still remember the first time you brought him to one of those high-end boutiques, surrounded by clothes he’d only ever seen in magazines.

“this sweater’s nice,” he’d say, running his fingers over the soft fabric, his tone casual, like he wasn’t already imagining himself wrapped in it, looking every bit the part of someone who belonged in these high-end boutiques. but he wouldn’t linger. no, seungkwan knew better than to show too much interest. he’d walk away, leaving you with a knowing smile on your face as you grabbed the sweater and followed him.

“just put it on my tab,” you’d tell the cashier, watching as seungkwan pretended not to care, but you could see the satisfaction in his eyes when you handed him the bags, another small victory for him.

and when you handed him that card, with your name etched in gold, seungkwan felt a rush that went straight to his head.

he fucking lived for those piles of designer boxes, stacked high in his room. louis vuitton, chanel, dior—it was like christmas every damn day. and he couldn’t get enough of the looks he’d get when he rolled up in your mercedes, sunglasses perched just right on his nose, dressed head to toe in the finest things you could buy him. but the best part? knowing that it was all you. every bit of extravagance, every luxury he wrapped himself in, was because you wanted him to have it.

and seungkwan had his ways of paying it back.

after a long day of shopping, arms heavy with bags filled with things he didn’t even know he needed until you decided he did, you’d barely make it through the door before your hands were in his hair, yanking him down to the floor. “what are you waiting for?” you’d snap, and seungkwan would look up at you with those wide, innocent eyes that he knew drove you fucking crazy.

but it never took long for that shock to fade, for that sweet, naive smile to turn into something darker, nastier. he’d grip the hem of your tennis skirt, yanking it down your legs, not bothering with anything else. and as you pulled his hair harder, he’d bury his face between your thighs, your pussy already wet and waiting for him.

“better make it worth it,” you’d say, voice dripping with that condescending tone you knew he loved. and seungkwan would smirk against you, knowing that he’d give you everything you wanted and more.

because if there was one thing seungkwan knew how to do, it was to pay off his debts. “yes, ma’am,”

seungkwan slurped you up like he was starved, his tongue flicking against your clit with just the right pressure to make your back arch off the wall. every sound that escaped your lips was music to his ears—those moans that dripped with the same wealth that dripped from your fingertips. even in the way you cried out, you sounded fucking expensive, like every breath you took was worth more than what most people made in a year.

he hummed against your pussy, the vibrations sending shockwaves through your body, but it was more than that. it was the way your thighs trembled around his face, the way you rolled your hips, riding his tongue like you owned him—because you did.

“you’re fucking pathetic,” you hissed, your voice sharp and dripping with satisfaction as you looked down at him. “look at you, on your knees like a good little whore. all that designer shit, all those fancy cars, and you’re still just a slut for my pussy, aren’t you?”

he groaned in response, the sound needy and low, his hands gripping your thighs as he held on for dear life. he loved it when you talked down to him, when you reminded him exactly where he stood. or rather, where he kneeled.

“you’re lucky i even let you breathe the same air as me,” you continued, your tone mocking, filled with the same arrogance that made him weak in the knees. “look at you, drooling all over yourself, just for a taste of me. you should be thanking me for even letting you near this, you ungrateful little slut.”

his eyes rolled back, the sting of your words only driving him to worship you harder. he shifted on his knees, trying to find some comfort against the hard floor, but it didn’t matter. he’d kneel on broken glass if it meant keeping you satisfied.

“thank you,” he gasped, voice wrecked, his mouth still buried in you. “thank you for everything, ma’am.”

“damn right,” you muttered, grinding down on his face with renewed vigor, chasing your high with reckless abandon. “you better make me come, or all those fucking gifts are going back. understand?”

“yes, ma’am,” he whimpered, tongue working overtime as he tasted you, every word you threw at him only making him harder, hungrier.

you could see it in his eyes—the way they lit up when you handed him a new ysl bag, the pure joy that came with the luxury. but you also knew there was something else that made his heart race just as much, if not more. and that was fucking you. seungkwan was the kind of boy who thrived on being spoiled, but he was just as addicted to the way you took control, the way you’d grab him by the hair and pull him closer, making him feel like he was both your prize and your plaything.

like that time in the living room, when you were straddling his lap, riding him slow and steady, drawing out every moan, every gasp. the room was bathed in the faint glow of evening light, your bodies moving together in a rhythm that felt like it was made just for the two of you. everything was perfect—until your butler walked in.

the poor man’s eyes went wide as he realized what he’d just walked into, and he hurriedly turned to leave, face flushed with embarrassment. seungkwan’s reaction was immediate, his hands going to your hips, trying to lift you off of him, a panicked look crossing his features. “shit, let’s stop—” he started, but you weren’t having any of it.

instead, you laughed, a rich, wicked sound, and you sank down harder onto his cock, grinding against him harder. “oh no, you don’t,” you teased, loving the way his face contorted with pleasure, with mortification. “don’t act all shy now. you were just loving it a second ago.”

his eyes locked onto yours, and despite the lingering embarrassment, you saw the flicker of that same naughty smile creeping back onto his lips. because as much as he hated the idea of getting caught, he loved that you didn’t care, that you wanted him so badly you wouldn’t even pause for something as trivial as the butler.

and maybe that was the best part for him—the way you made him feel like he was worth the risk, worth the scandal. so he stopped resisting, his hands returning to your hips, guiding you as you rode him harder, faster, until the only thing he could focus on was the feeling of you around him, and the sound of your laughter echoing in his ears.

[boobo13cambridge]

O Re Piya | Kylian Mbappé

Pairing: Kylian Mbappé x f.Reader

Warnings: kissing, fingering.

Summary: It’s the day of your brother’s wedding, and you're running late. The main culprit: your handsy husband who can’t seem to control himself seeing you in a lehenga. 

A/N: Hello, everyone! I’ve been MIA for a few weeks because I was dealing with a lot of personal issues. I wrote this sporadically and I really wanted to finish this for you guys. Please leave me feedback, I would greatly appreciate it. Enjoy, lovelies ❣️

Nazrein bolen duniya bole

(The glances are telling, the world knows)

dil ki zaban haaye dil ki zubaan

(The story of my heart, oh, the story of my heart)

Ishq maange ishq chahe koi toofan

(Love prays, love wishes for a hurricane (to stir the life within))

The sun rose high in the sky, painting the world in a warm and golden glow. The flowers, arranged with care and love, burst into full bloom, their petals as vibrant and colourful as the bride's lehenga. The sun's rays kissed each delicate petal, illuminating their beauty with an ethereal glow.

The gentle breeze danced through the trees, carrying with it the sweet scent of blooming flowers and the delicate rustling of leaves. The birds chirped merrily, their songs adding to the symphony of the day. The sound was a soft and soothing melody, one that filled the air with tranquillity and joy. 

The guests, dressed in their finest attire, basked in the warmth of the sun and the beauty of the day, and the groom’s sister was still hidden from the common eye as she struggled to get ready, the emotional toll of the day a huge weigh on her delicate shoulders. Thankfully, her husband was out helping her family to lessen the burden and give her some breathing room to get ready. 

As the young beauty came out of the bathroom leaving behind a cloud of jasmine and oud, her makeup delicately done to match the pink hues of her lehenga and her long black hair flowing down her back in delicate waves, her eyes were immediately drawn to the soft, delicate hues of her lehenga. A vision in light pink, the fabric flowed like a gentle stream, its folds and creases catching the light of the sun in a breathtaking display.

The intricate embroidery, painstakingly crafted by skilled artisans, was a masterpiece of intricate design, with every stitch and bead radiating its own unique brilliance. The shimmering stones, like sparkling stars in the sky, adorned the hem and neckline of the lehenga, casting a soft and iridescent glow.

She carefully slipped into the choli, the bodice fit her like a glove, accentuating her curves. Next, the young woman delicately dragged on the lehenga, the flowing skirt that trailed behind her seemed to float like a soft cloud, dancing around her legs with each step. She felt like one of those Disney princesses that she used to love as a little girl. 

Her eyes caught the reflection in the mirror, and she gasped at the sight before her. The lehenga had transformed her, turning her into a radiant beauty. She reached for the matching dupatta, draping it over her right shoulder and allowing it to cascade down her back and flow in the front in a soft wave.

As she finished getting ready, spraying the perfume her beloved got her, spreading the rich aroma of amber and jasmine around the room,  her very own prince charming entered the room. His dark eyes widened, and his breath caught in his throat as he beheld her beauty.

"Mon amour," he whispered, his voice filled with wonder and desire, "you are absolutely stunning. How did I ever get so lucky to have you?"

His hands reached out to caress the delicate fabric of her lehenga, his fingers tracing the intricate embroidery with awe. His gaze lingered on the gentle curve of her waistline, the soft curve of her hips, and the delicate tilt of her plump lips.

A warm blush crept up her cheeks as she closed her eyes and basked in the sweet affection of his touch, savouring the feel of his hands on her skin. “Kylian…arrête. We need to be downstairs, they’re waiting for us.”

"Mmm, bébé. Je suis fou de toi," he murmured, his voice low and husky with lust. "You take my breath away, mon amour. You are like a goddess, come to earth to bless me with your beauty."

She felt her cheeks darken as he whispered words of adoration and love into her ear. Her heart swelled with affection and gratitude for this man who made her feel like the most beautiful woman in the world.

Kylian drew her close, his arms wrapping around her waist, pulling her into his embrace. He pressed his lips to the nape of her neck, trailing kisses down her smooth skin each one filled with deep and abiding love that she felt deep in her bones. Her body responded to his touch, her skin igniting with a fire that burned hot and bright. She revelled in the sensation of his hands on her body, leaning into him, his touch igniting her senses and sending her heart racing.

But even as her desire for him grew, she knew they couldn't stay here forever. They needed to join the rest of the family, to celebrate her brother's wedding. People would get suspicious if they didn’t come down, especially as the groom’s older sister, her presence was imperative.

"Kylian, we need to go," she murmured, her voice tinged with reluctance. "Everyone is waiting for us."

The young football star groaned in frustration, his hands tightening around her waist. "Just a few more minutes, ma chérie," he pleaded. "I can't resist you in this lehenga. You look so beautiful."

Despite the minutes ticking away, she smiled at his words, slowly losing the will to push him away. “Kylian, s’il-vous-plaît, we need t-”

Kylian’s lips found hers in a fierce, passionate kiss, cutting her off. The flames of desire and passion that had been building between the two lovers erupted and surrounded them in an inferno. Kylian's hands roamed freely over her body, tracing the curves of her hips and the gentle slope of her breasts. She moaned softly, her body responding to his touch with a fire that burned deep within her. Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer as he kissed her hungrily, his hands trying to reach every part of her body with increasing urgency.

She felt his muscles tense under her fingertips as he lifted her effortlessly, carrying her towards the bed. He lay her down gently, his eyes never leaving her as he hovered over her, his breath hot on her skin. Looking into his eyes, she felt an indescribable emotion pass through her, it was as if every particle in her body was intertwining with her beloved’s. The surge of emotions made her breathless as she gently cradled Kylian’s face in her hands. “Je t’aime si fort, Ky.”

Kylian’s intense gaze softened slightly as he turned slightly to kiss her hand, “Je t’aime, mon coeur. You’re my everything, my complete half. I don’t know what I would do if I didn’t have you in my life.”

His confession brought tears to her eyes. A single drop threatened to fall but he gently wiped it, summarizing in that moment all that he was to her. 

Chalna aahiste ishq naya hai

(Tread carefully as this love is new)

Pehla Yeh Vada Humne Kiya Hai

(This is the first time I've taken a vow)

Uniting their lips in a soft embrace, Kylian gently swiped her bottom lip with his tongue. She obtained her mouth to let him in, as their tongues came together in a passionate dance that sent sparks to her every extremity. As they grew needy, Kylian's hands roamed over her body with an intense hunger, his lips trailing down her neck, pausing to nuzzle against her collarbone. She gasped in pleasure as he continued to explore her body, his touch igniting sparks of pleasure that spread through her like wildfire.

His fingers found their way to the soft curves of her breasts, and he squeezed them gently, eliciting a soft moan from her lips. “Kylian, more.”

His touch was electric, sending waves of desire through her body. She arched her back, pressing herself into him, eager for more of his touch. Kylian's fingers kneaded her breasts with increasing urgency, his touch growing more intense as he sought to pleasure her. He toyed with her nipples, flicking them with his thumb and forefinger, causing her body to tremble with delight. She moaned his name, her breath coming in short gasps as she surrendered to his touch. 

One of his hands trailed down her lehenga lifting it up with urgency so he could explore wet heat between her soft thighs. His breathing grew ragged as his fingers brushed the soaking lacy fabric. 

“Kylian, we can’t. We have to go,” she protested while pushing herself into his fingers for more friction. “Bébé, let me just make you feel good, oui?” 

He pushed her panties to the side and shoved two fingers in her tight eat as she let out a loud moan. Kylian didn't want to silence her wanting to hear her moan her name in that breathless, needy tone. 

He curved his fingers reaching that spot that had her eyes crossing as she clung to his muscled back, desperate whimpers leaving her painted lips. Kylian buried his face in the valley of her breasts, his tongue leaving a wet sheen that gleamed in the sunlight. 

As the knot in her stomach tightened, Kylian increased his pace, his fingers and mouth working in perfect harmony to drive her to the brink of ecstasy. She clung to him desperately, her nails digging into his skin as she surrendered herself to his touch.

“Ky-Kylian, I’m gonna cum. Please, let me cum,” she begged as the pleasure was too much.

“Cum, bébé. Cum for me.”

Searing hot pleasure raced through her body, as she exploded, tightening around Kylian’s fingers which were still thrusting at a steady, helping her through her orgasm.

As she came down, her breathing hard and cheeks high with colour, she opened her eyes to Kylian looking down at her with soft eyes as he placed delicate kisses on her face.

“Hi, mon coeur. Enjoy yourself?” he asked cheekily. Giggling she grabbed his cheeks and bit his nose playfully. “You know I did it, you cheeky brat.”

A loud knock on the door made them both freeze, the moment shattered by the intrusion. "Kylian, Y/N, it's time to go! The baraat* is ready!" called out a voice from outside the door.

“Coming!”, she answered slightly panicked. Pushing her husband off and rushing to the mirror. Her lehenga choli was a little crinkled, and her mascara was smudged under her eyes. “Kylian! You ruined my dress and makeup, merde.” 

Rolling his eyes, Kylian came behind her and gently wrapped his arms around her, leaving a quick kiss on her neck. “T’inquiète, mon amour. I’ll help you, you’ll be fine.”

Shaking her head, she realized at that moment that while her beloved was definitely going to get them in trouble, she wouldn't trade him for anything in the world.

End Note:

*Baraat: a celebratory wedding procession that escorts the groom, who is traditionally on horseback, to the site of the wedding.

[ludi-ling]

Maison Romy

So last summer I was hanging out with @narwhallove in Seattle, and she challenged me to write something that married my love of Romy with my love of historical fashion. She seemed to be really into it, and I was like, nah, it's not possible, but then she started throwing ideas -ahemdemandsahem - at me, and somehow something took hold and started sprouting.

This is as far as I got.

Will it ever be finished? I don't know. It's such a niche interest, I might continue writing it just for me. 😉

______________________________________________________________

               Maison Hoareau was in decline.

               For more than fifty years it had dressed queens and princesses and duchesses and debutantes, and they had done so with flair and panache. Now, in 1910, they still dressed the wealthy and the famous; but their clientele had grown as old and distinguished as they had. Very rarely did a pretty and winsome young lady cross their threshold.

               Across the busy New York city street that separated them was the House of Burford. The House of Burford was only five years old, and had no distinguished lineage at all; but it was there that the pretty and winsome young ladies entered, and left with dainty parcels and smiles on their faces.

               “What do they have that we do not?” Monsieur Hoareau asked from the head of his boardroom table. “We have beauty and taste and the finest fabrics from across the world; and what’s more, we have pedigree! Three generations at the forefront of fashion! How could they possibly compete?”

               There were murmurings of assent around the table.

               Remy LeBeau, however, stood at the window, and looked silently across the street to their rival.

               A pretty young redhead was alighting from a motorcar, dressed in a startingly avantgarde concoction of furs and elegantly-arranged silk drapery. A returning customer – he had seen her before. With the exuberant stride of every fashionable young woman about to shop, she stepped past the very officious doorman and into the as-yet uncharted stronghold of the House of Burford.

               “Young women do not care for pedigree,” he muttered to himself. “They only care to look beautiful, and more beautiful than anyone else around them.”

               “What do you say, LeBeau?” Monsieur Hoareau demanded waspishly. “Speak louder, man!”

               LeBeau turned away from the window.

               “I say that if we want to appeal to young women, we must move with the times.”

               He walked back over to the table, opened his portfolio, and pulled out his latest designs.

               “If we want to expand our clientele again,” he said, handing out the drawings around the table, “we need to be bold, innovative, forward-thinking. But most of all, we need to be unique.”

               There were hmm-ings and hah-ings as they took in his designs; but Monsieur Hoareau was shaking his head, saying:

               “Monsieur LeBeau, this will not do!” He looked at one drawing, then another. “No, indeed, it will not! These are… why, they are tubes! Women do not like to wear tubes! They like tiny waists! And the drape of this one is quite ugly! Women like to show how slender they are! This coat swathes the figure, and does not show it off to advantage at all!”

               LeBeau was used to this. He merely raised an eyebrow.

               “I thought it quite fetching,” he noted. “And modern.”

               Monsieur Hoareau drew his eyebrows together disapprovingly.

               “Monsieur LeBeau,” he began testily, “can you imagine Lady Carruthers wearing such a garment? Or our dear First Lady?”

               LeBeau said nothing. Far better to say nothing, than to confess he could not.

               “Of course, our most esteemed clientele could not bear to be seen in such clothing,” M. Hoareau declared as if to put an end to the matter. “We would lose their custom, and that would be insupportable to Le Maison Hoareau! And so, Monsieur LeBeau, you will go back to the drawing board, and re-design these veritable monstrosities!”

               LeBeau did as he was told, picked up the drawings, and walked back to his studio.

               He sat at his desk, and laid out his designs. He stared at them a very long time.

               Monsieur Hoareau, you see, was a businessman, and not a fashion designer.

               Unlike his father and grandfather before him, he had no interest in the creative aspects of Maison Hoareau. He left that to LeBeau; and LeBeau had willingly and enthusiastically taken on the thankless task of being the creative lead of the world’s foremost fashion house. Thankless, as Monsieur Hoareau the Third had made it his life’s work to thwart every idea LeBeau had to turn the waning fortunes of his employer. Indeed, some of his best work had seen rejection after rejection. Today was no exception.

               With a sigh, he ripped up his designs, one by one, screwed them up into a ball, and pitched them into the nearby wastepaper basket.

               He lounged in his swing chair for a bit and stared at the ceiling, his eyes tracing the graceful Victorian plasterwork, intricate whorls and loops that were now thoroughly out of fashion.

               An idea was forming in his head.

               He got up and walked over to the window.

               Across the road he saw the pretty redhead leaving the House of Burford, a pile of parcels precariously positioned in the arms of her driver, a broad smile on her pink lips. This was rarely a scene one saw at the Maison Hoareau.

               What was their secret, he wondered? What was their magic? It had scarcely been a year since the House of Burford had set up shop across the way, yet the beached whale called Mr. Burford (which was what M. Hoareau insisted on calling him) had managed to exert some sort of magnetic pull on any young woman worth her salt throughout the neighbourhood. And, LeBeau thought with a lop-sided grimace, Mr. Burford was as much a businessman as his dear M. Hoareau was. There was not a creative bone in the man’s body, none at all.

               He was out on the steps now, waving off his latest customer with an avuncular officiousness.

               No – there was certainly no mysterious magic about Mr. Burford. Whatever the source of his house’s mystique, it did not lie in him.

               A little smile crossed LeBeau’s face.

               He walked back to his chair and began to grin.

               Yes.

               A little idea was forming in his head.

-oOo-

               Sometime over the past hundred years or so men’s fashion had become dull, almost utilitarian. Rich fabrics, scintillating colours, and any flamboyance of form, had died under the mighty shadow Beau Brummel had cast. Taste could no longer compel a man to wear frills or ruffles, nor any shade of pink.

               No – female dress had continued to hold the torch of glorious ostentation. Sometimes it seemed that no outrageous look was off limits – from crinolines to bustles, from panniers to the now thoroughly modish hobble skirt – women could indulge without abandon, and men like LeBeau were quite happy to do the service of indulging. Others, like M. Hoareau and his rival, Mr. Burford, were quite happy to make money out of said impulse to indulge. Women played; and men felt fortunate to referee. They could admire, but never wear.

               They were not, however, immune to the desire to look good; and Remy LeBeau was no exception. Unlike most, he had the power to design and tailor his own personal clothing to best effect, and he did not skimp on this fact. Of course, Mr. LeBeau had been known to turn a head or two in his time.

               The motorcar stopped outside Maison Hoareau; and LeBeau, dressed in his sharp grey suit and double-breasted overcoat, clattered down the front steps to meet its occupant. Out stepped a beautiful blonde wearing a vertically striped hobble skirt, and an impossibly wide-brimmed hat festooned with feathers. She, of course, did not shop at Maison Hoareau.

               “Monsieur LeBeau,” she greeted him as he greeted her – with a kiss; one planted, featherlight, on each cheek.

               “Mam’selle Boudreaux,” he replied, with a sparkle in his eye. He offered her his arm and she took it.

               “I got your call. You said you wanted my acting skills,” she said in French, as the car pulled away.

               “That I do,” he responded, also in French, “but only if you don’t mind a little improvisation.”

               Contrary to expectation, he was leading her away from the building, and towards the street. She stopped before they could cross.

               “Well, you do know how I like to hone my skills, mon cher,” she replied, “but you must at least give me something to work with.”

               “Oh, well, that is quite easy,” he smiled complacently. “You are my wife; and I am buying you a suitable gift.”

               He cast his eye at the House of Burford across the road; and, following his gaze, she instantly got an idea of what he had in mind.

               “Monsieur LeBeau, am I to be an accomplice in your corporate espionage?”

               “Ma chere,” he answered breezily, “scruples are not quite your style.”

               “No indeed!” she half-laughed. “But I thought this kind of perfidy rather below you!”

               “Mam’selle,” he said, serious now, “will you play at being my wife? You almost were once, if you remember.”

               “Good grief!” She pushed him slightly away with affectionate ire. “You only say such things because you know I hate arranged marriages as much as you do! Otherwise, your words would have severely wounded me.”

               “Ma chere, Belle,” he murmured gallantly. “You were always my friend before all else. If it doesn’t pain you to pretend at something we almost were, please would you humour me, at least for the hour?”

               She scoffed and pushed him away again – but she was fonder of him than she was bitter at the impromptu dissolution of their betrothal – and so she said:

               “Well, all right. But only for the hour!”

               It was half-past five, and far too late for any shop to be anything but closed; but Mr. Burford could hardly ignore a visit from the beautiful and freshly-feted young actress named Belladonna Boudreaux. The portly fashion designer was thrilled to have such an eminent guest enter his establishment, and took every pain to be exuberantly officious.

               “This is quite the surprise!” he greeted them in the hallway. “If I had known you were coming, I would have arranged a private viewing for you, Mademoiselle Boudreaux. Alas, all but myself and a few of my staff have already gone home for the day.”

               “Oh, please don’t trouble yourself, Mr. Burford,” she waved him off imperiously. “I had only just heard of your glittering reputation from a friend of mine, and I was curious to see for myself what all the fuss is about. But no matter – I can come again another day.”

               LeBeau knew what working with Maison Hoareau had long taught him, and that was that a customer in your doors during inconvenient hours was better than a customer who might never come back – especially one as eminent as a newly-famous actress. It was generally advisable that a man in the business of fashion kept a lady preoccupied with silks and satins and velvets for as long as it took for their spell to be cast upon her, if at all possible.

               “Oh no, no, no,” Mr. Burford insisted firmly. “It is no trouble to give you a quick little tour of our workrooms, Mademoiselle! Your friend is quite in the right – and I would be honoured to prove it to you, if I may. Perhaps there is a bolt of fabric, a fragment of lace, a pretty button that you might fancy for your next ensemble?”

               Belle pretended to think about it a moment.

               “Well, I suppose it couldn’t hurt. We do have an hour before we must arrive at the Goodwin’s; and it would never do to be on time anyhow!” She tugged at LeBeau’s arm. “Come, dearest, let us see whether Mercy is right!”

               For the first time Mr. Burford cast Remy a look – the kind of bemused yet comradely look only a man can pass to another man in the presence of a powerful woman. LeBeau smiled back, faintly, pleased that his former-fiancée’s force of character had bypassed any need for introduction on his part.

               He let himself be led hither and thither throughout the building’s salons, where this or that garment, or bolt of fabric, had been left out for previous clients, and were in the process of being packed away. Where Maison Hoareau’s interior decorations were staid and sedate and imminently dignified, the House of Burford’s were light and fresh and bright – and mirrors were everywhere, mirrors that women of a certain age preferred not to see.

               As for Mr. Burford – well, he was impressive, though not out of the common way for a businessman. The more LeBeau listened to him, the more he felt certain that this was not a man of great creative taste or impulses.

               He picked up a piece of finely-wrought lace from a side table and examined it for a moment or two. Fine work, indeed! Fastidious in execution, if not at all in style. He put it back where he had found it, and noticed that Belle and Mr. Burford had moved on to the next room without him, their animated conversation already trailing behind them.

               Taking this as his cue, LeBeau turned and went back into the hallway. From experience he knew exactly where the workrooms were likely to be, and that was where he went.

               The embroiderer’s workroom was quiet, empty apart from the glow of a single electric light. LeBeau stepped up between the frames, peering down now and then to see what was being worked on. There were no floral sprays or pretty little bows. Arabesque spirals and orientalist clouds unfolded across the fabric with seemingly effortless grace. Here was a little Hokusai; and here a little Greek Geometric; and there a little Alhambra.

               His innate eye for beauty could only appreciate such artistry.

               He turned when he reached the end of the row; and that was when he saw her.

               She was sitting quietly in a corner, engrossed in her embroidery; and as soon as he had become aware of her presence, it seemed that she had become aware of his; and both started and stared, one at the other.

               “Apologies, mam’selle,” he murmured. “I didn’t know you were here.”

               Her eyes were green. They were greener than any woman’s he’d yet seen, than any emerald he’d had the pleasure of handling.

               “No offence taken, sir,” she replied, after a moment. Her accent was at some intersection between New York and the deep South. She dipped her head and turned back to her work.

               He’d often done this – wandered through the workrooms, watching the girls go about the business of bringing his creations to life. It was this force of routine that allowed him to walk so freely to her side, to look over her shoulder to see what she was doing.

               He was unconsciously certain this was a position she had encountered a thousand times before in her daily life; so he was a little surprised when she stiffened slightly, as if acutely aware of his proximity to her, and her to him. Defensiveness oozed from her pores.

               He stared at her a moment, then at her work. She was putting the finishing touches to a cascading border of peacock feathers, her fingers moving deftly back and forth, leaving sparkling gold flourishes in their wake. Her movements held an almost careless rhythm that belied the talent inherent in them.

               “That is very fine work,” he praised her, pitching his tone low and inoffensive, knowing instinctively that she would not tolerate anything more enthusiastic.

               “Thank you,” she said. The words were standoffish.

               She would offer nothing more; and so, he turned away.

               He stopped.

               He was standing before a dress form, on which was mounted a nearly-finished evening dress. Almost translucent white silk shimmered under the lamplight, shot through with tiny beads of teal and turquoise and gold which, by some almost magical sleight of hand, had come together to coalesce into peacock feathers. He held his breath a little at the mastery of it; and he knew this was the work of the little seamstress behind him.

               “Do you like it?” he heard her ask behind him.

               He turned and saw her swivelled in her chair to face him, her fingers now still in her lap.

               “This is all your work?” he asked her, pointing to the embroidery.

               She nodded.

               “Yes, sir.”  

               He looked back at her work, then at her.

               “It’s some of the best work I’ve ever seen.”

               It was no lie.

               The girl gave a modest though pleased little smile. She had the complexion of a redhead, with pale skin and a sprinkling of very unfashionable freckles; and of course, there were those brilliant green eyes of hers. But she was a brunette, her long, wavy locks tied up in a silk kerchief that was chicer than her simple white shirtwaist and plaid skirt implied.  A single lock of pure white hair had come free of the kerchief and had fallen to her shoulder.

               “I didn’t do it all myself,” she admitted, her smile becoming a little more genuine. She picked up the piece she had been working on, and stood. When she moved to join him at the dress form, he was surprised to see that what he had first thought she was wearing was a skirt was actually trousers.

               “This section is for the sleeves,” she explained to him. “Here.” She held up the piece of embroidery to the appropriate place. “I wanted to have it done for tomorrow – it was so close to being finished.”

               She admired her handiwork for a moment, a self-satisfied smile on her face.

               “The cut is very simple,” he noted, half to himself. The waistline was high, and the lines were almost Grecian. He was used to nipped-in waists and structured bodices, the kind of look that was Maison Hoareau’s bread and butter.

               She looked at him a moment, perhaps surprised that a man should know anything about the cut of a woman’s dress.           

               “Yes,” she said at last. “Very simple. And liberating.”

               “Such a cut promotes freedom of movement,” he agreed.

               “And no need for a corset,” she finished. She smiled a little slyly at him. “Do you generally approve of the woman’s right to free and untrammelled movement, sir?”

               There was something a little impish in the question, something that he hadn’t yet had the pleasure of encountering from a woman so below his current social standing. He smiled.

               “Miss, I have a keen eye for things of beauty. If free and untrammelled movement can promote beauty, I can only approve of it.”

               She screwed up her freckled nose, half-amused, half-offended.

               “That is a thought only a man could express!” she declared in a strange blend of Southern and New York. He laughed.

               “Alas! I am but a man. But if you will permit me, Miss? This piece you have embroidered for the sleeves? I think it would also do very well here – coming up from the skirt’s hem, up towards the waist, to draw one’s attention back up the dress.”

               She looked startled at the suggestion, and he realised, stupidly, how much he had given away. He cleared his throat added.

               “But of course, Mr. Burford would not agree to having his design altered, especially not at the suggestion of a stranger whose only qualification is as a connoisseur of beauty.”

               He did not know what she would have said, for at that very moment they were interrupted by Belle and Mr. Burford stepping into the room.

               “There you are, darling,” Belle declared in that flippant way she did so well. “Mr. Burford was worried you’d gotten lost!”

               Burford looked none too pleased that one of his private workshops had been invaded. With an eagle eye he glanced over the place, as if to make certain that nothing was stolen or had been left out of place.

               “My apologies,” LeBeau said with a polite smile. “I became distracted and lost you. I found myself here somehow.” He turned a little, intending to indicate that he had been left in the capable hands of Burford’s seamstress; but she had gone back to her table, and was once again busying herself with her work as if nothing had happened.

               “I am afraid,” Burford was saying in a rather harassed tone, “that it is getting rather late Miss. Boudreaux. My staff should really be leaving. Perhaps, with all the little samples I have given you, you will be tempted to return in the coming days?”

               “But of course,” Belle was all smiles. “Perhaps at the end of the week, when I am not engaged.”

               LeBeau knew when to retreat. He let Belle do the business of thanking their host, and of taking their leave; and when he looked back at the seamstress, he saw her eyeing his beautiful companion out of the corner of her eye; though her fingers were busily working as she did so.

[intothewestwing]

If I Can't Love Her - Ch 15

"Lift your chin up, dear! I need exact measurements if I am going to make you the best-dressed girl in France!"

Madame Delile was quite the character. She almost gave Belle a fright when they'd first met, as she didn't expect a woman to animate from a pile of unseemly scraps of fabric and ribbons.

Since they'd met, Madame had recalled her time as the palace's seamstress, designing only the finest clothes for the highest paying employers across the globe. And to her misfortune, she'd been staying exclusively with the royal family when the curse was set. The tattered cloaks and sparse shirtings The Beast wore were once said to be of the finest tailored garments across kingdoms, all part of an exclusive collection of course.

Belle had practically memorized Madame's stories of her travels, and while she remained kind, she found much more interest in the Queen's diary. Especially after she'd heard the repeat of Madame's stories several times in one day.

The village girl stood in the center of her suite, holding the diary in front of her at such an awkward angle, due to the flurry of ribbons and textiles that flew around her as Madame gathered her measurements.

"Now some sashing here...Oh! And the beaded trim would go here! Oh gold is such your color... And a matching rouge for those cheeks! C'est parfait!"

Once Madame was finished, she collected her ribbons back into her singular form, and Belle noticed a small glint in her buttoned eyes. It must have been a long time since Madame had anyone to design for...

"So? What do we think? I know you requested, uh..." Madame raised a ribboned brow. "'Plaine et ennuyeuse'.... But could I sway you on some beads? A bow? Lace maybe?"

Her voice was so filled with hope...Belle couldn't say no. After all, it had been a long time since she'd had anything nicer to wear. Looking in the mirror, she imagined herself in a gown of silk, with her hair tied and curled. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to try something new.

With a smile, she nodded in agreement.

"Perhaps you're right, Madame. Change is good."

"C'est magnifique!" Madame shook her 'hands' in excitement and pulled the rope along the wall, summoning another servant. "I will have everything ordered for the next shipment!"

Belle's brow furrowed as she slipped on her day dress, a temporary once Madame had lent her. "Shipment?"

"Oui! You didn't think we were cut off from the world completely, did you?"

The young woman had never thought about where their supplies must come from, but what Madame was saying made sense.

"We have shipments delivered once a month. We put in our requests for soaps, spices, meats, books, other necessary things. And by one way or another," Madame shrugged with her 'hands'. "...it appears!"

"Which means that you, my dear friend, will be dressed in only the finest threads from around the globe, just like a proper princesse!"

Belle began to argue, but was interrupted by a male voice.

"That is only if your request is approved by...whoever approves it!"

The head of household, Cogsworth, appeared in the doorway, seemingly uptight and annoyed as ever. This seemed to be his constant state, Belle had remarked. Even through his gears and metal embellishments, his frowning expression was one she saw more often than not.

"Monsieur Cogsworth! You're just in time. I shall draft a list for you to add. I shall require silks, satins, brocades..."

Madame continued with her verbal list, while Cogsworth ushered Belle toward him.

"Lunch is being served in the main dining room, if you're feeling in need of an escape." He motioned toward Madame Delile, who was circling the suite and continuing her rant.

Belle stifled a laugh and quickly grabbed the Queen's diary before heading to the dining room for lunch, giving silent condolences to the head of the royal staff.

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

The Beast had already begun eating when Belle arrived. He and Lumiere had been practicing the arts of 'suave gentility' and 'table manners', and before she had entered, he was confident in his ability to woo her. But once Lumiere opened the doors for her, all of that confidence drained straight into his gut, and he began tasting the finger foods out of fear.

Belle didn't quite know how to feel towards The Beast. On one hand, he seemed genuine and honest, but on the other, his temper was a monster of its own, that she felt she was in constant battle with. She could only hope that The Beast would be on her side today.

She found her place, at the opposite end of the table from The Beast, and surveyed the array of appetizers set out for them, before returning to her chosen read.

Lumiere had suggested that The Beast choose something safe to start with. A simple soup with sides of bread to dip, to which he'd already scarfed down.

From behind Belle's chair, Lumiere motioned toward Belle, urging his master to talk to her.

Beast cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Uh... Good afternoon."

The awkward energy between them practically hurt.

Belle, without looking up, replied. "Good afternoon." She had mastered the art of reading and socializing, as she'd learned it appeared rude to just plain ignore those speaking to her, though she typically preferred to be left alone when reading.

Beast cluelessly looked back up at Lumiere, who was practically snapping himself in two in trying to direct his master.

A scattering of servants brought a few trays out to Belle and set them in front of her. She'd be given her choice of what to eat, as usual, though she usually picked a bit from everything.

He waited for more trays to be brought to him as well, but Beast was surprised to learn that Lumiere had told them to leave him with his soup. They hadn't had time to go over all of the necessary table manner rules, and the footman wasn't about to risk their lives over a leg of meat.

Beast, incredibly awkwardly, attempted to pick up the soup spoon, just like Lumiere had showed him. This would be a sorry attempt, as his sharp claws caused the metal to slip and fall out of his paw and back onto the table.

Accepting defeat, Lumiere left the room.

He tried again, only to drop it in his soup bowl that caused a horrid clattering sound.

Belle looked up from her book at the sound.

"Are you alright?" She asked, worriedly.

Beast rested his arm on the table and leaned back in his chair, nonchalantly, as if he hadn't just completely embarrassed himself.

"Oh, yes of course. You know how it goes... Soup."

If Lumiere had witnessed this exchange, he'd have lit himself on fire.

"Right..." Belle smiled and nodded, before hiding her face behind her book.

Beast's face flushed pink and he hid his face in his paws. This lunchtime interaction was not going as planned.

He peered through his fingers to see if she'd looked up, and that's when he noticed what she was reading. He couldn't quite place it, but it was familiar to him.

"What are you reading?"

This question was definitely the correct one.

Belle sat up and shifted her seating position so it was more comfortable.

"It's a diary I found. This woman, she is incredible. It's her firsthand accounts of adventures, voyages, across this side of the world. She used to travel a lot. Before she married, anyway."

Beast leaned closer to the table as she described the diary, still trying to figure out why it was so familial to him.

Belle took a sip of her wine before continuing.

"How awful would it be? To be in an arranged marriage, that is."

Beast shifted uncomfortably.

"I can't imagine my father promising me to the highest bidder. How demeaning and inhumane."

"That's... That's not always the case!"

Belle tilted her head to finally make eye contact with the distant figure at the end of the table.

"Oh? Is that so?" Her voice was challenging as she begged for the man in the room's opinion on what it was like to be a woman in such a society.

This is when he knew he'd made a mistake.

"I just meant, it's not always like that."

"You sound as though you speak from experience."

"No, no! I..." Beast thought it best to change the subject, before he revealed more than he already had. "Whose diary is that anyway? Where did you get it?"

Belle closed the journal and crossed her arms.

"I found it. From what I've read, it seemed to belong to a queen who'd lived here." She struggled to remember the name. "I believe a Queen-"

"Stop. I need it."

Belle shook her head. "After I'm done, you can read it."

"No, I need it back. Now."

Beast felt the warmth from his cheeks that was once embarrassment rise to anger as he realized she was grasping his late mother's diary. A diary he'd thought had been lost to time.

Belle, however, was not backing down.

"No! I said you can have it when I'm done!"

The servants snuck into the dining room once they began to hear shouting, ready to clean up before things got messy. But by the time they entered, Beast had flung his soup bowl across the room at the wall.

Lumiere approached his master to try and diffuse the situation.

"Sire, why don't you have another drink and we can talk about-"

Beast grabbed Lumiere by his collar, threatening to crush his waxy throat behind it. He felt a wild, animalistic rage behind his actions, and a growl behind his words. He was losing control again.

"Did you give it to her? I told you she wasn't allowed in the archives!"

"Master...Please..." The servant begged. Not so long ago, this was a common occurrence, but he truly hadn't missed being under The Beast's claws.

Belle suddenly grabbed his forearm and attempted to pull the grip loose from Lumiere as The Beast continued to snarl at his prey.

"I'm... the one... who found it!" She continued pulling on his arm, even at his fur until he finally let his servant go.

"He had nothing to do with it! It was hidden in the East Wing." Out of breath, but still fearlessly, she stood a mere inches from The Beast with her hands in the air, as if she were taming a wild animal.

"If you're going to be angry at anyone, be angry with me. Just...don't hurt them."

The Beast's breath began to slow as he calmed down. He watched as Mrs. Potts aided Lumiere and walked him back into the kitchens, while other staff whisked away the broken porcelain of the shattered dishes. His vision wasn't red and hot anymore, and his eyes softened as he met Belle's fearful gaze.

Once again, he'd hurt her. Not physically, but this action, this behavior, was still a wound.

He looked down at his claws and made certain he wasn't gripping onto her.

"I'm... I'm sorry..." He said breathlessly, ever ashamed for his actions once again.

This apology was the last thing Belle expected, and was almost shocked to hear it.

"I... I don't know what came over me." Beast tried to think through his actions, why he got so angry, why that situation was angering in the first place... But it was all blank. He shook his head, trying to remember, but was brought back to reality by Belle slipping her hand into his paw.

"No!" He immediately rejected her touch and pulled his claws away from Belle, afraid to touch her. He kept them close to his chest and backed up from her.

Belle shook her head, confused. Was he... afraid of her? It seemed as much. She didn't quite know what to say or how to diffuse this, as a man had never feared her touch before.

A man.

She caught herself thinking of The Beast as such, and recalled how quickly he could change from monster to a man. He could be a gentleman, the kind that enjoyed her company and left flowers at her door. And other times, well, she'd seen his unforgiving wrath before.

But now... A simple apology, correcting his harmful behaviors... He was changing before her, and her before him, though neither of them wholly recognized it.

"Beast..."

"I-I'll be having dinner in my suite tonight." He said quickly, to no one in particular, before exiting the dining room and retreating to The West Wing for the night.

With a frustrating silence and more unanswered questions, Belle left the diary on the dining room table, hoping it would magically return to its rightful place in the archives.

Its secrets, she thought, would be better left as secrets.

[karatekels]

Fresh Start - Day 7

AHH so much happens here, and it's all over the place, and I hope you all enjoy!

Days 4 & 5 | Day 6 | Future updates posted below!

---

Day 7

You scowl down at your bed, where you have laid out all of the clothes you had brought with you to L.A.. You don’t know why you’re still weighing your options; you know you don’t have anything nice enough to wear tonight. Granted, you don’t think you could wear anything that would make you look the part of someone who knows someone who can afford to rent out an art museum for an evening on a day’s notice.

You didn’t want to embarrass Terry by not dressing for the occasion, and resign yourself to a day of shopping. Terry had texted you the night before to confirm your plans for this evening. You reread your conversation while in your Uber, heading to the shopping district:

Does 8:30 work for you tomorrow evening?

Sounds great! Looking                       forward to it 😊

Would you like to join me for dinner beforehand? I know a great place.

                                    Will you let me pay this time?

Not a chance. My age and values won’t allow it.

                                    What if I say no? :P

Are you always this difficult?

                                    Usually!

                                    Dinner sounds lovely Terry,                                     thank you.

Don’t expect any wine, though. You’re still on probation.

                                    Whatever you say, Terry.

The address to the restaurant was the last thing he sent, and you look over the menu again, trying not to wince at the prices. Clearly money was no object for him, and he seemed to enjoy spending it on people other than himself, but it was still a hard pill for you to swallow. You didn’t like being in situations where you felt like you had nothing to offer, the imbalance throwing you off.

The Uber driver pulls up to the curb, announcing your arrival and keeping you from dwelling on the issues of your relationship with Terry. Thanking him, you hop out and face the designer stores that lined Rodeo Drive. The least you could do was try to look the part for him.

--- Terry’s POV ---

Terry sits in a secluded booth in the restaurant that evening, waiting for your arrival and trying not to fidget. This sense of nervousness was unfamiliar to him, and he doesn’t think he likes it. Twisting his signet ring on his finger absently, he gives himself a mental pep talk.

A grown man pushing seventy did not get butterflies on a date.

This wasn’t a date.

This was him testing the waters, seeing how you would fit into his world.

This was him trying to convince you that being in his world, by his side, was exactly where you wanted to be; no, needed to be.

“Hi, Terry.” Your voice beside him breaks him out of his reverie. Years of etiquette training kicking in, he stands to greet you and gives you a brief hug, pleased when you wrap your arms around him again. Since you had initiated the hugging, he intended to take advantage of it until you indicated otherwise.

“Good evening, Y/N,” he says, his voice slightly huskier than normal. He releases you from his embrace, taking notice of your appearance for the first time this evening.

You take his breath away.

You have truly outdone yourself, in a deep blue chiffon dress. The fabric hugs your body while still being modest, the jewel neckline concealing your chest and the dress cinching in at your waist, the skirt flowing down past your prominent hips to brush the floor. You seem a couple of inches taller, so he assumes you’re wearing heels, and your hair frames your face elegantly, your lovely natural features highlighted with makeup.

You are the most spectacular thing he has ever seen. You must have purchased this outfit and gotten dressed up just for him, and the realization fills him with desire; desire to get you out of this dress, desire to drape you in the finest fabric and jewels money can buy, desire, desire, desire.

“You look incredible, my dear,” he says with a smile that widens as he detects a trace of a blush dusting your cheeks as you take a seat across from him.

“Thank you, Terry,” you reply with a shy smile. “I did my best to be on par with you,” you add cheekily, looking him up and down in a way that brings his nerves back. Perhaps you were closer to his way of thinking than he thought…

---

You both finish the main course and your plates are cleared, leaving just your wine glasses and the half-empty bottle on the table. He had insisted on the wine immediately, though not without several jokes about your ability to handle your alcohol that you took in stride. Terry is pleased with how comfortable you’re becoming around him, and how he feels the same way being in your presence. It had been a long time since he had someone around that was so easy to talk to, especially without them being in his employ.

Over the course of the evening, he’s noticed you picking up on the looks that the two of you are getting from other restaurant patrons, and even members of the staff. Terry hasn’t commented on it, interested in how you would respond, and if you would respond. If he got his way, you would be out in public with him regularly, and he would make it very evident that your relationship was romantic in nature. If you weren’t able to handle people staring at your due to the age difference between you, that would complicate things.

“I wish people wouldn’t do that,” you comment irritably as another couple walks past, glancing between the two of you with dirty looks.

“Do what?” he asks with an innocent smile. You spear him with a glare.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” you grumble, and he raises an inquisitive eyebrow, silently pushing you to elaborate. “People making assumptions about our relationship, like it’s any of their business.”

“Does it upset you, that people think we’re together?” he asks with a smirk and trying to pass the question off as a half-joke. Internally, however, he’s braced himself for your answer.

“Not that we’re together,” you clarify, swirling your wine around your glass as you think of your words, and his spirits soars at this response. “Just that I’m some gold digger, or an escort or something,” you add, wrinkling your nose in a way Terry finds adorable.

“Does it upset you? People judging you based on assumptions like that?” you ask him, and his heart warms at your genuine concern; you look like you’re about to jump out of your seat and smack one of the people staring if he voiced any degree of displeasure about it.

“Not overly. I’ve learned to tune it out over the years,” he replies with a shrug. As much as he would enjoy setting you off – you were so fiery – he couldn’t have you making a scene in a restaurant. And it was true; he’d been glared at and worse practically his entire adult life, either for some scandal at DynaTox or his romantic life, if you could call it that.

“I don’t think I could ever get over it,” you admit, seeming disappointed in yourself. “This is only the second time I’ve been in public with you and I feel like some hated animal in a zoo!”

“A hated animal?” he asks, tilting his head at you and seeking clarification.

“Well… yeah. If people aren’t looking at me like I’m scum for seducing someone for their money, then they’re glaring at me because they’re jealous, like the servers at the café yesterday.”

“Oh, was that why?” he asks, feigning surprise. “I just assumed you had kicked them all on your way in. You were in a foul mood yesterday.” You giggle despite your attempts to scowl at him, and he’s glad you don’t seem too put out by the attention he receives from other women, though he imagines jealousy would be a fun colour to see on you.

“I would never!” you gasp in mock offence, placing your hand over your heart. You drop the act after a moment, frowning slightly as you lean your chin on one palm. “I just wish there was a way to get people to think before they judge people…”

Your server comes by with the bill, leaving to fetch the credit card machine, interrupting your conversation.

“Do you trust me, Terry?” you ask him once you’re alone at the table once more, a mischievous look in your eye that sends a rush of blood below his belt.

“Yes, but I’m a bit afraid to based on that look in your eye,” he replies, and you grin wickedly.

“Does your card have tap?” you ask quietly, and he nods, confused. “Slip it into the book without anyone seeing you and slide it to me.”

Terry Silver had never been one to obey orders from anyone other than John, but he doesn’t hesitate, feeling a thrill go through him as he follows your instructions. Your eyes look over his shoulder, and you snatch the book from his hand, retrieving the credit card and tapping it impatiently against the table as though it was your own as the server returns.

You pay the bill with his card, keeping your eyes on Terry the entire time, drinking him in with your eyes with a slight smirk on your face. He finds himself feeling more than a little hot under the collar under your gaze, and fights to keep himself from blushing, something he didn’t even think he was capable of. Dismissing the waiter without taking your eyes off of him, you stand up, mouthing at him to play along.

“Well, come on.” you cluck your tongue at him impatiently, pitching your voice to carry to the nearby tables. “I still have –” you pretend to check the time on your phone. “– 72 minutes with you, and I plan on making the most of them,” you purr, your voice thick with innuendo.

Terry’s jaw almost falls open. You were treating him like some sort of… gigolo?!

He’d be offended by the potential slight to his reputation if he didn’t find the situation so damn entertaining, watching the other patrons react to the charade of you wining and dining him. He had nothing to prove to this assortment of nobodies, and it was well worth the momentary embarrassment to have you looking at him like you were now, even if it was all an act.

Terry ducks his head shyly, nodding as he quickly stands. He hadn’t played a role in so long…

“Yes, Madam. Anything you say,” he replies obediently, catching your eyes sparkling with amusement before you turn and lead him out of the restaurant, strutting past the tables like a Queen. Terry trails after you, his enthusiasm only partly a character choice.

You both manage to keep up the act until you take your seats in the back of the limo that pulls up beside you. The moment the door closes, you both burst into laughter.

“Sorry, was that too much?” you ask, wiping tears from your eyes. You hold out his credit card to him, and he takes care to brush your fingers with his own as he accepts it, placing it back in his pocket.

“Not at all, though some advance warning would have been nice,” he suggests, smirking down at you, noting with a fierce joy that you’ve chosen to sit right next to him despite the many options available to you. “I wasn’t anticipating you trying to undress me with your eyes.”

Your whole face turns red, and Terry is very amused by how little control you seem to have over your expression when you aren’t playing a character. You compose yourself after a moment, your face still flushed as you burst into another round of giggles.

“It was worth it just to see the looks on their faces!” you cackle, grinning at him maniacally. He enjoys you looking flustered, and you’ve given him plenty more ammunition to tease you with later.

“Maybe the wine was a mistake after all,” he jokes. “You’re absolutely unhinged whenunder the influence.”

You stick your tongue out at him, crossing your arms, and he just smiles back at you, his heart feeling lighter than he could remember it ever being.

“Pull yourself together, Madam,” he purrs the title, watching with enjoyment as your blush returns in full force. “The museum awaits.”

--- Reader’s POV ---

Terry greets the museum owner like an old friend, and you wonder again why this man is single as you look between the two of them. He was the definition of debonair, generous and funny, and he was able to make people comfortable. How could he not have found someone? It didn’t inspire much hope for you or other regular people if a handsome billionaire couldn’t find love.

He looks over to you, beckoning you forward, and introduces you to the curator who then leads you both inside. You notice that Terry keeps pace with you rather than the other woman, and feel a smile spread across your face, appreciating how he prioritizes your comfort.

“Would you like the guided tour, Mr. Silver, or do you still know your way around?” the woman asks, looking over her shoulder at you two. He glances down at you, silently asking if you have a preference, and you incline your head slightly towards him. When had you gotten so good at reading each other?

“I’ll take it from here, Diana, thank you,” he replies with a smile, and the woman nods, excusing herself and leaving the two of you in the foyer.

“You really are my own personal tour guide, huh?” you tease him, walking into the middle of the room and spinning around, hearing your voice echo through the room. He watches you with his hands in his pockets as you take in your surroundings.

“At your service as always, Madam,” he replies, bowing at you. You roll your eyes, grinning at him all the while.

“Don’t make me regret doing that,” you warn, pointing an accusing finger at him. “That was some of my best work, and I’ll be mad if I don’t get to look back at it fondly.”

“Well, we can’t have that. You’re an unholy terror when you’re mildly irritated; I can’t fathom what a temper tantrum would be like,” he mocks, cutting you off as you open your mouth to tell him off. “Alright alright, I’ll stop. Let’s give you the grand tour, shall we?” he says placatingly, gesturing towards a hallway with an arm and inviting you to go first.

“I don’t even think I would have enough money to replace all of this if you tore it down,” you hear him mutter from behind you, though he’s clearly meant for you to overhear.

“What was that?” you turn, glowering at him with your hands on your hips.

“Nothing!” he replies innocently, smiling at you broadly.

“You are on thin ice, Mr. Silver,” you growl, narrowing your eyes at him. He catches up to you, coming to a stop beside you, looking completely unabashed and making it very difficult to keep up the pretense of being upset with him.

“I’d better start making amends then,” he replies sagely, continuing to lead you into the first room of exhibits.

---

Terry is actually quite a good tour guide when he’s behaving himself. He seems knowledgeable about the art and seems to understand how to make things interesting for you, guiding you through the exhibits like a seasoned pro. You don’t know much about the history of art or artists, but you’ve always enjoyed looking at paintings and sculptures and guessing at the stories they’re trying to tell.

You’re in the final room of the museum, the walls covered in a series of landscape paintings. Places you have never been, places you aren’t sure even exist… they’re all here, and you take them in one by one as if they were windows giving you a peek at a world you are still so very unfamiliar with. You take your time with each painting, occasionally discussing something with Terry, but both of you are content to take in the art in silence.

Something about one of the last paintings catches your eye, drawing you closer to it. It’s a fairly simple painting: a mausoleum built into a small, craggy island, dark trees seeming to split it in half. A small boat approaches the island, a man sitting and rowing, a statuesque figure shrouded in white standing at the bow of the boat. It is hauntingly beautiful, and its title, “Island of the Dead” echoes this.

“This isn’t normally here,” Terry informs you, approaching you and the painting. “It’s on loan from the Met.”

“It’s so…so…” you murmur in awe, unable to find the words.

“…Sublime?” Terry finishes for you with a wry grin, and you nod silently in agreement. He’d explained the sublime to your earlier in the evening; art that overwhelms its audience with emotions that can’t be adequately put into words. It summed up this painting perfectly.

Terry leans down to whisper in your ear, his hair softly tickling your cheek. You stifle a giggle, somehow on edge from the feelings the painting has brought out of you.

“Want to know a secret?” he murmurs, his voice almost musical. You’re unsure why you’re being so quiet, seeing as you have the museum to yourselves, but play along, nodding wordlessly in response to his question. “This painting is a replica.”

Well, that hadn’t been what you’d expected him to tell you.

You turn to look up at him inquisitively, but he just gives you a smile. You approach the painting to take a closer look, trying to see if you can figure out what he’s talking about. You give up after a moment; you didn’t know much about art, after all.

“How can you tell?” you ask, looking back to him for the answer.

“The original is in my living room,” he informs you quietly, his eyes twinkling. You laugh quietly at his joke, but stop when he doesn’t join in.

“Are… are you serious?!” you ask, your jaw falling open, and he nods. “How? Why?!”

“I was drawn to it much as you were just now. I had the opportunity to purchase it and I bought it,” he shrugs nonchalantly. You turn back to the painting, your brow creased as you think this over.

“What?” Terry presses after a moment. “Tell me what you’re thinking.” You turn to him, a frown still on your face.

“I guess I just don’t understand the appeal,” you admit. “Of owning an original, I mean.”

“I was fascinated by the story behind it,” he elaborates. “This wasn’t the first time the artist painted this landscape. A wealthy widow saw the partially-completed original and commissioned the artist for a copy for herself, requesting the addition of the shrouded woman and the coffin in the rowboat to symbolize her and her late husband. Böcklin, the artist, accommodated her request, and went back and added the figures to the original painting as well as later versions of the paintings. It was a way for her to join him in death, but also keep him alive, I suppose.” Terry’s soft voice trails off. “Their love transcended death, and made a tangible change in the real world, if only on canvas.”

“That’s such a beautiful story,” you sigh, the painting even more beautiful to you now. “But I still don’t understand why it makes you want to own the original. The stories behind the art or told through the art aren’t limited to the originals, right? What’s the difference?”

“Perhaps I want to own the story as well,” Terry murmurs, giving you a slightly sad look with a sigh. “Or perhaps one of my vices is collecting rare and beautiful things.”

You’re not sure how to respond, but Terry doesn’t give you a chance to, smiling down at you like he’s trying to physically lighten the mood.

“It’s getting late. I would feel better if you would let me drop you off at your hotel rather than you taking an Uber at this time of night. Would you be comfortable with that?”

“Yes, Terry,” you respond immediately, wanting to comfort and reassure him. Something about your conversation about the painting had thrown him off, and you felt bad about it. “I trust you.”

--- Terry’s POV ---

The limo has nearly reached your hotel, the two of you enjoying a quiet yet comfortable ride home. You had started to doze off halfway through the trip home, and as you leaned your head on his shoulder, Terry found himself grateful for the horrible congestion of L.A.’s roads, doing everything in his power to ensure he didn’t jostle you.

Still, he couldn’t let such an opportunity pass him by, taking the time to study your face. You appear far more relaxed in sleep, only a slight crease between your brows visible; he hopes you aren’t plagued with thoughts of tensions back home in your dreams, at least. His fingers itch to brush away the curl of hair that has fallen across your face, but he knows he can’t risk it, settling for watching it flutter slightly as you breathe deeply.

He tries not to think about the fact that your time here is now half over, and that as of yet, no further plans have been made to spend time with you. The primal, possessive part of him wants to message the driver, telling him to change course and drive off into the night so that he could keep you here with him, just like this, forever.

But it was still too early. Sure, a lot of progress had been made this evening, and Terry believes he has garnered quite a bit of your trust, that you were at least partially on the same wavelength. This was when he needed to be the most cautious – if he struck too early, or too hard, you would be overwhelmed by his confession, and he would lose you for good.

He’d have to plan later; for now, he wanted to focus on your soft, warm body against his side and memorize every detail. Closing his eyes, he considers feigning sleep, giving him an excuse to rest his cheek on the top of your head…

The limo hits a pothole, jostling you back into consciousness. Terry tries to appear relaxed, unsure of what reaction to expect as you blink sleepily for a moment, taking in your surroundings.

“OH!” you exclaim, noticing that you’ve snuggled against him and jumping back, your eyes wide and your face reaching a new shade of scarlet. “I’m sorry Terry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep!”

“You seemed comfortable,” he replies casually, deciding how best to play the moment off. “Plus, I was far too scared to wake you; let sleeping dogs lie, and all that,” he teases, your glare losing its potency as you fight back a yawn. He really hopes he’ll wake up with you looking this adorable one day.

“Are you calling me a dog, Terry Silver?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, my dear.”

The limo conveniently pulls up to the curb in front of your hotel. Terry tries to imagine what you’re thinking as you look between him and the door of the limo but still isn’t sure; if tonight had proven anything to him, it’s that you were full of surprises.

“Thank you for everything, Terry. I had a great time, mockery notwithstanding,” you say, managing to strike a balance between gracious and cheeky in the way that only you can, and shyly slide across the seat towards him, wrapping him in a hug.

“It was my pleasure, Y/N,” he croons, his nose subtly taking in the scent of your hair as he returns the embrace. “I do hope I’ll see you again before you leave,” he admits, hoping that his honesty comes off as sweet rather than pathetic.

“Of course you will, Terry,” you respond, seeming surprised by the statement, and his heart skips a beat. “I wouldn’t leave before saying goodbye to my only friend here!”

Your smile is so genuine that it nearly eradicates the slight pain brought on by your use of the word friend to label him, and he smiles back, shooing you with a hand as you step out of the limousine and into the hotel room. The driver pulls away from the curb, heading home, and Terry sighs deeply, a wave of conflicting emotions washing over him.

The sublime has transcended art, Terry thinks to himself, for once unconcerned with being a cliché.

Transcended art and manifested itself in your soul.

---

Days 8 & 9 | Days 10 & 11 | Day 12-A | Day 12-B | Day 13-A | Day 13-B | Day 13-C | Day 14-A | Day 14-B | Day 14-C

[p-artsypants]

Blurb #15

I'm going to try to share 70 blurbs from my WIPs and unfinished fics to celebrate reaching 70 posted fics! To help with this endeavor, please feel free to send me a word or a fandom you know I write for, and I'll share the blurb. IDK if I'll get 70 prompts, but let's try it! Send as many as you want!

New Paris, the jewel of the stars. A luxury ship with only the finest crew for the most regal of clients. After all, not just any star ship could sail through the heavens. It took a Cracker Jack crew, led by an experienced captain to traverse the vast expanse of ever changing space. A hull ornately detailed with rich blue paint and gold leaf molding. Five ivory star-sails, only the most technologically advanced to propel the ship at hyper speeds. And three engines, bolstered with nuclear power that beat the cosmos into submission.

This was the pride of Andre Bourgeois, the ship’s captain.

This was to be Adrien Agreste and his father’s new home for the next six months.

It was daunting, but rarely was change in life not so.

Adrien stood at the dock of the station, staring up at the massive ship with nervous eyes and a quivering stomach.

“Take one last look at that place,” said his father’s cold tone. “It’s likely you will never see it again.”

‘That place’ being home. The colony on which he was born and raised. A beautiful place, with teeming gardens and mountains of crystals that glittered in the duel sunlight. His mother had loved it here in their quiet villa.

But now he was 21, and the rest of his life was beckoning.

Steps thundered down the ramp leading to the ship, coming from two large men and a tiny woman. One man wore a fine blue and gold suit that matched the ship, and a wide brimmed hat with a feather.

The other followed a few steps behind, wearing just a white shirt and trousers, with a red belt around his waist. He had a mustache and kind eyes.

The woman wore a nice black dress with a white apron.

“Welcome welcome!” Said the first man. “Duke Gabriel of Agreste, and Prince Adrien of Agreste, it’s an honor to have you aboard my vessel. I am Captain Andre Bourgeois. You may call me Captain or Andre, whatever you prefer.”

“Thank you, Captain Bourgeois. My son and I are grateful to you and your crew.” Gabriel then gestured to the woman standing with them. “This is my steward, Nathalie Sancoeur. She will also be joining us.”

“The more the merrier.” Said the captain with a smile. “This is Tom Dupain, our chief cook, and his wife Sabine. They are in charge of hospitality aboard the ship. If there’s anything about your living quarters that does not meet your standards, please speak to them.”

Tom said, “I will be taking your bags to your rooms, and then I will be making one last trip to the market before we set sail. Any allergies I need to be aware of?”

“My son is allergic to feathers, and I can’t eat mollusks.”

“No escargot then? No complaints here.” Tom smiled broadly.

“Please,” began the Sabine. “If you will follow me, I’ll show you to your quarters.”

The group climbed the ramp, and surfaced on the deck, where crew were hard at work preparing for launch.

The captain blew a whistle and shouted, “attention!”

The crew hurriedly fell in line by rank, rushing to their designed spots.

Once they were all accounted for, the Captain spoke again, “I will repeat this again for anyone who wasn’t listening the first seven times I briefed the mission.” He gestured to the guests. “His Royal Highness Prince Adrien, and his father Duke Gabriel of Agreste are our esteemed guests for this voyage. We will be escorting them to the settlement of Agreste for the Prince’s coronation. This will be a six month journey, with seven ports of call. During this voyage, I expect you all to treat our guests with as much honor and dignity that a group of spacedogs can muster. Shenanigans and tomfoolery will not be tolerated. All those who break this rule will be locked in the brig and then escorted off the ship at the next port. Do I make myself clear?”

The crew answered in perfect unison. “Sir, yes sir!”

“Then as you were.”

Just as they had assembled, so they departed back to work.

“They are a good group,” the captain assured. “You just have to keep expectations high.”

“Certainly.” The duke agreed.

“Now, I will make brief introductions to my most essential crew, who you may be interacting with during your stay.”

A stout, red headed man with a smaller hat stood hovering nearby, awaiting orders.

“This is my first mate, Roger Raincomprix. If you can’t find me, please consult him with any concerns.”

“I am specifically in charge of the crew. If someone is out of line with you, Your Majesty, please notify me and I will make sure they meet just punishment.”

“Thank you, sir,” Adrien bobbed his head.

“Second Mate Nino Lahiffe is in charge of Navigation. He’s up on the half deck by the wheel. The auburn woman next to him is his wife, Alya, the cartographer.” He pointed to the couple, who were peering at and discussing a star map.

[thescarsilivewith-if]

(I apologize im advance for this since it's going to be long, I also hope you don't mind that I put it directly into your inbox!)

Presenting: Ashyereh the (almost) Mad Monarch

Technically don’t have that much on them yet but bear with me. I’ve decided to combine Ashyereh and the unnamed Monarch who was supposed to have skewed morals and looked to the ROs for moral guidance.

Undecided which RO route, possibly all poly route or Naja/Kaela.

Used to be called Yereh by their siblings

Their father would affectionately call them 'little ashtree' or 'sproutling', which they used to pout at

They used to be more expressive with their face giving most if not all of their emotions away, and had 0 control over it. After slavery, there is very little which shows on their face. Naja coming to save them? A nod of acknowledgement. Ordering Dehjyr’s public execution? Not even a twitch. Having Sahyra placed under house arrest and with guards stationed at the entrance, with their sibling under strict orders not to leave his designated rooms without Ashyereh’s explicit permission? Naja throwing Ashyereh worried glances as they raise the taxes? The servants and employees growing more and more fearful? Rumors about their cruelty? Actually making heartless decisions which will end up making people suffer? Nothing. They don’t even seem to have a conscience anymore, no warmth in their heart, no care. No emotions.

Which they would confirm, if asked, whatever they feel is barred behind a thick fog. Occasionally, some anger slips through or they experience a muted spark of satisfaction. But it’s always fleeting, always weak, it slips through their fingers like sand. 

Unless they are around the ROs. Then there is this weird… spark of elation. Of joy. It’s still muffled but it rings so clear, passes through the fog. And it is oh so addicting. So addicting, in fact, that Ashyereh wants to hide the ROs away. Wants to see them protected and only for the Monarch’s eyes. Whatever emotions the Monarch might have felt, they were snuffed out by what they experienced as a slave. (And they lived through some of humanity's worst depravities. And that’s what they took away from it all: The strong survive. Hurt others before they can hurt you and you control the game. Divest them of their dignity and you hold all the strings. Fear is your greatest ally. No one will ever hurt you again. You needn’t feel anything. Snuff it out.)

But being able to feel something, anything at all? It’s intoxicating. Exhilarating. They would do anything to keep this. 

For the ROs, they would bring other countries to their knees. To see them fed, Ashyereh would see others starve. To have them dressed in the finest clothes, to have them turn to Ashyereh and smile at them while they are handed whatever their hearts desire? Ashyereh would set the world on fire.

Morals are for philosophers. 

At which point, I assume, the ROs would stage the intervention. One last ditch effort to make Ashyereh see reason. To get to the root of it all, to try and see if there is a festering wound in need of care and attention. Or if all is lost.

It wouldn’t be. On the precipice of no return, yes. Impossible to piece back together, the way it was before? Yes.

But still salvageable. 

I kept Ashyereh in my inbox for a while because I love them. Thank you for sending their profile in, learning about your monarchs is one of my absolute favourite thing!

First of all, I applaud your ability to create a simp, sweet and gentle monarch and then a cold and ruthless monarch (also a simp).

Ashyereh is the definition of a possessive monarch, one who wants to keep their ROs out of strangers eyes and exclusively for themselves. They are also the perfect tyrant ruler, a sometimes heartless one, in general someone who was forged by the pain they endured and became... something else.

I love that there is still a small, flickering hope for them, and that the ROs will take it once the occasion arises. They don't want the version of them they were before. They just want the monarch to be at peace.

[mperik]

〈 txt ↳ shadow prince 👑 〉 good morning starshine, the world says hello! 〈txt ↳ shadow prince 👑 〉happy birthday, you cutiepie you! 〈txt ↳ shadow prince 👑 〉i'd send you a bible of text but i have better plans for you (: go look at your door

Carter wasted no time in texting him as soon as morning came and he was more or less sure his best friend was already semi awake, at least. He'd thought things through and after considering all his options, had a black envelope sent to him with a handwritten letter, it would've been serious if it hadn't been for the pokemon doodles along the margins and the obvious playful tone that Carter always used when trying to address Erik formally.

October 28th, 2023

Dearest Erik Elliot,

I hope this letter finds you well and that the beginning of this glorious birthday is as amazing as it should be. You, sir, are the finest gentleman one could be acquainted with and I hereby invite you for a fine dinner (made by yours truly) and present giving at my residence. Please do text me back to know when you're available to come.

If you're tempted to reject my offer, just remember I know too much about you (:

Loves you, always

Carter

Carter, for lack of better words, was the corniest, British-est, sweetest, bestest, most marvellous young man alive on earth.

Erik got himself reminded of that fact the moment his half-opened eyes registered Carter's name on his phone screen that morning. The last message sent his body right up and out of bed, making him dart full speed toward the entrance and flung the door open despite the fact that his hair was a mess and he was still very much half naked.

He could not wait, not having the patience even for the door to fully shut or for himself to get to the couch. And so, Erik flopped right down on the floor, legs folded, took a second to coo at the envelop's design before letting himself dive into Carter's handwritten letter.

Erik bet if anyone watched his face as he was reading the message, they might have a good laugh. Even with just a pen and a piece of paper (and sickeningly cute doodles and beautiful handwriting), Carter effortlessly got on his nerves, in the best of the best way possible.

Holding the envelop and letter close to his heart, Erik dashed back into his bedroom, threw himself onto the cosy bed, reached for his phone, and got frustrated at how his fingers could never keep up with his mind.

[ txt ➢ glowing star king 🌟] wow, didn't realize we're kinda on a full name basis now, sir Carter N. Ardis

[ txt ➢ glowing star king 🌟] guess i had an unusually good night sleep bc my higher self's known this would happen

[ txt ➢ glowing star king 🌟] lemme not saying thank you through texts

[ txt ➢ glowing star king 🌟] bc who tf ungrateful enough to say thank you just through texts? not me

[ txt ➢ glowing star king 🌟] guess it must take a whole big ass idiot to reject such an offer from you, and me is no ever an idiot ;)

[ txt ➢ glowing star king 🌟] unless you want me to be, then i can try ;)

[ txt ➢ glowing star king 🌟] will be all dolled up and presented at your door at 6:30 sharp

[ txt ➢ glowing star king 🌟] means imma start getting ready around 3

[ txt ➢ glowing star king 🌟] need 3 hour of shower, 27 mins of dressing and 3 mins to run to you that's why

[ txt ➢ glowing star king 🌟] have fun getting ready for me, darlin'

[ txt ➢ glowing star king 🌟] is there any words mean 'more than always'? bc i love you, more than always :3

[xasha777]

In the year 2044, Nellis Air Force Base had long been rumored to host not only the most advanced human technology but also clandestine operations that touched the edges of the known universe. Whispers of interdimensional gateways and alliances with extraterrestrial entities were the stuff of conspiracy forums until one unassuming figure stepped into the light, or rather, strutted.

His name was Agent Whiskers. To the untrained eye, he was nothing more than a suave feline, dressed in the finest tailored suit, with sunglasses that reflected the cosmos itself. But Agent Whiskers was no ordinary cat; he was the product of a top-secret bioengineering program known as Project Purr, which sought to merge feline instincts with artificial intelligence.

The project was born out of a need to navigate the increasingly complex web of intergalactic diplomacy. Cats, with their heightened senses and agility, were perfect natural spies, and with a dash of cybernetic enhancement, they could be more. Agent Whiskers had been designed to be the ultimate spy, capable of slipping in and out of dimensions with the grace of his kind.

His first mission was of paramount importance. A rip in the fabric of space-time had opened in a hangar at Nellis, an unintended side effect of experimental propulsion systems tests. Strange reports had started to emerge from the base—equipment going missing, unexplained power surges, and sightings of otherworldly creatures.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows over the Nevada desert, Agent Whiskers slipped through the base's security with ease, his presence merely registered as a passing shadow by the human guards.

He made his way to the hangar, where the rip pulsed like a wound in the world. It was said that this gateway led to a dimension of infinite possibilities, a universe where the laws of physics were mere suggestions. The scientists had dubbed it 'The Nth Dimension.'

Agent Whiskers, however, had a more pressing concern. Intelligence suggested that an entity from the other side was planning to use the gateway to infiltrate Earth. His mission: identify the entity, assess the threat, and neutralize if necessary.

As he approached the gateway, his sunglasses—a fusion of alien technology and quantum computing—scanned the anomaly, deciphering the streams of data that flowed from it. The glasses were not just for show; they allowed him to see between worlds, to understand the language of the cosmos.

Then, it happened. A being emerged from the gateway, its form flickering between shapes, indecipherable. Agent Whiskers stood his ground, his tail flicking in anticipation.

"Who are you?" he transmitted through a device implanted in his vocal cords, designed to communicate across all known languages and several unknown.

The being paused, its form settling into something almost human. "I am a traveler, seeking knowledge and experience. Your world fascinates me," it replied.

The air around them crackled with unspoken tension. Agent Whiskers assessed the entity. Was it a scout for an invasion force, or simply a curious traveler as it claimed?

The cat decided on a gamble. "If it's experience you seek, then join me," he purred. "There's more to this world than you can ever imagine."

So, under the starlit sky of the Nevada desert, Agent Whiskers and the being from The Nth Dimension walked side by side. For that night, the cat was not just a sentinel of Earth but a guide to its wonders, as they spoke of peace, of curiosity, and of the silent language that resonated between all living things.

And somewhere within the secretive halls of Nellis Air Force Base, a new chapter in interdimensional relations began, with a feline leading the way.

[drakenology]

the yakuza wife - yakuzaboss!bakugo x housewife reader - inspired by @hanji-is-life ‘s sexy ass. 

yakuza au

tw: violence, sadism, mentions of blood, smut, cum, cussing, daddy/ddlg kinks undertones, mentions of guns, very much harley quinn and joker only joker actually loves harley in this ya know?

“where the fuck is my money?” bakugo asks this bludgeoned man tied up to a metal chair in some god forsaken warehouse god only knows where. 

“please sir, i’ll get it to you as soon as I can! please stop!” the man pleads, flinching when bakugo raises his fist to land a mean left hook into his jaw with a dark chuckle. 

“you know you shouldn’t borrow from people if you have no intentions in payin’ em back. it’s fuckin’..” he pauses before taking a crowbar and bashing the man in both his knees, blood curdling screams filling the empty space. “rude!”

bakugo smirks as the man begs for mercy, pulling a set of pliers of his pocket and holding them up to the man’s face to tease him, grabbing by his neck to make him meet his intimidating gaze. 

“shoulda thought of that before trying to playing me for a fuckin’ fool.. hey, I wonder how many teeth I can pull outta ya before your weak ass passes out.” he grunts, waving the plier in his face until the sound of his phone ringing stops him from doing anything.

“you’re lucky I gotta take this.” he mumbles, taking a piece of dirty cloth and shoving it into his mouth to keep him quiet.

bakugo turns away and rolls up his sleeve, setting up his tools for torture as he answers the phone. 

“hi baby!” you chime, at the mall having the time of your life with his credit card. 

“hey. ‘m workin’ whaddaya want?” he says, holding up his pliers and sitting them down on the table as his hostage screams in the background. 

“just checking on you, dummy! whatcha want for dinner, hm? i know you haven’t eaten yet.” you say, holding up different dresses to your frame to imagine yourself in them. “hey, pink or powder blue?”

“pink. and ‘m not hungry. you’ve got security with you, right baby?” he asks, kicking the man onto the floor with a loud thud. 

“of course. you won’t let me leave the house without them.” you respond, not even paying attention to the muffled screams you hear in the background. you’ve learned not to ask too many questions when it comes to being a yakuza wife. 

“gotta keep my baby safe, right? listen, princess I gotta go. i’ll be home before 9 okay?” 

you suck your teeth and roll your eyes, “fine. be careful okay?”

“always am. love you baby.” as he hangs up and returns to his task. 

the difference between you and katsuki was night and day. everyone knew you to be so sweet and kind; unbeknownst to them all how you ended up with a cretin like Bakugo. even though Katsuki was immoral in many ways, he knew marrying you was the right thing to do. who else would want to dress his wounds and pick out his suits for the day?

katsuki demanded you quit your job. in fact he came with you to put in your two weeks notice, tough scowl staining his features as your boss signed the approval with shaking hands.

from that day on he ensured you were well taken care of and that marrying him and becoming his housewife came with many perks.

for starters, your husband was loaded. all those years of extorting and money laundering paid off every time you come home with a couple shopping bags from the mall.

katsuki loved lavishing you in the finest of everything, adoring how you look in designer. so much so, he fucks you by the bay window of your luxury penthouse, the Chanel dress he just bought you hiked up over your ass as his calloused fingers make way into your mouth. you’re pinned to the glass, bare breasts pressed against the window as he railed you from behind. and he wonders why you turned out to be a spoiled brat.

your gifts always made you stand out above the rest. many men fawn over you and he knows this. just a small price to pay for having a fine ass wife. but if anyone ever forgot their place, if anyone ever got to close. well. that’d be the last time you’d ever see them. course you have no idea why. but even though katsuki loved you with all his heart, you could be a real pain in the ass. you were so bratty, especially when he was busy. 

one day you came trotting into his office in the middle of some business deal. whatever. your jimmy choos popped and you needed a new pair before the yacht party you were attending started. 

“daddy’s taking care of business right now, okay? go wait outside.”

“no! you promised we’d go shopping! I need new shoes what the fuck am I supposed to do with these?” you whine, pouting like usual to get your way. bakugo’s brow raised, walking towards you and gesturing for the meeting to continue without him. his hand rested on your lower back as he escorted you out.  

he fucked your brains in in the next room for disobeying him, panties around your ankles, your charm anklet jingling as he picked up your legs. 

“spoiled fuckin’ brat. told you to wait didn’t I? hm? or did you make a scene ‘cause you wanted my dick?” your head hangs back as your hips are held down by him, thrusts brutal as you cry for him to slow down, face turned away from his. he grabs your chin and turns you around harshly with his scarred and calloused hands, bruised knuckles turning white with a tight grip. 

“look at me when i’m fuckin’ talkin’ to you.” 

he came inside you when he was done, pulling your panties up for you as it dripped down your leg. 

“now.. back to what I was doin’. tell the driver to take your ass home.” he huffs with a zip of his pants and a shake in his sleeves to fix them. bakugo leaves you on the desk, leaving the door cracked for you to leave when you got yourself together. and when you did you could hardly hold yourself up, holding your high heels in your hand as you limp to the car waiting outside for you. 

having a yakuza boss as a husband was always exciting. something in you liked the danger; the thrill.

you tell this tale to your other socialite girlfriends and they almost never believe you.

you were out with bakugo on a date when work called. to your dismay, he had to get up and leave. you insisted on being brought along, hating being left alone in that big house that was often empty without him. he agreed but only if you promised to be quiet like a good little girl. 

when you arrive at some warehouse (the same one mentioned earlier), a man was already hog tied on the ground, muffled screams behind a piece of duck tape as bakugo ripped it off. you sat by a table, legs folded in annoyance. this interrupted date night? you scoff and fold your arms. 

“ah. good seeing you old friend. remember me?” he asks, taunting him a little with a gun in his hand pressing it against his jaw as the man let out muffled pleas for him not to shoot. 

“you tried stealing from me. fuckin’ idiot. my boys caught you in some hotel with your little girlfriend. did you think you were gonna have a victory fuck after you made off with my money, hm?” bakugo asks, hitting him upside the head with the butt of his pistol.

you jump at the sound of the blow, a small part of you turned on watching your husband beat the crap out of a complete stranger. your pussy starts to ache when you peer over at bakugo’s strong tattooed arms as he flung his jacket aside, rolling his white sleeves up to ensure his expensive suit doesn’t get soiled. 

“oh fuck, where are my manners? this is my lovely wife, y/n. say hi baby.” he coos at you, a switch from rough to gentle when he spoke to you. you smile and wave, the hostage sobbing out a weak greeting when bakugo demands him to. 

“anyways. what’d you do with the money, asswipe? gonna tell me or are you gonna make me fuck you up in front of my pretty wife. god, look at ‘er, ain’t she gorgeous? you know I was about 30 minutes from railing her before you had to go along and ruin our night. I should kill you right here.” bakugo turns his head towards you with a sick look in his eye. 

“whaddaya think, princess? what should I do to this motherfucker, huh?” he asks. 

“smack him again. he ruined date night.” you grumble, folding your arms. 

“he sure did, baby.” bakugo says, punching the hostage in his jaw. he gestured for his men to crowd around him, all of them taking turns kicking and beating him with metal bars. katsuki walks towards you and pulls you into a passionate kiss, a bit of blood on his knuckles as he pulled your hair. god, this whole situation was sick. but why was it so hot?

bakugo carries you away to the car, tells the driver to fuck off somewhere while he rails you in the back seat, knowing his men will take care of the rest of what he started inside the warehouse. you straddle his lap, bouncing up and down on his stiff cock as the car rocked back and forth. the car windows fog up as your body heat commingled throughout the space, your hands pressing against the glass to gain to balance as you rode his fat cock. 

“fuck, daddy. you’re so hot when you’re handling business. ooh, you’re dick’s so hard.” you purr, bakugo’s hand pinching and playing with your breast as his hips thrust upwards. He smirks at you, almost a bit shocked you got as turned on as he did from the pain he inflicted.

“hmm, I know baby. god, you’re sick. getting this wet from watching me beat up some punk. dirty fuckin’ girl.” he huffed into your hair, leaving sloppy kisses on your neck followed by harsh nibbles.

truth is even though you were so sweet and caring, you had a dark side no one knew about. I mean why else would you marry into the yakuza? 

you were both fucking insane. 

[okay-j-hannah]

They Love Your Curves

Preference

Characters: Jack Harkness, Loki, Druig

Warnings: ✨ plus sized reader ✨ From one chubby girl to another... I adore you 🥰

Request: “Preference: Jack Harkness, Loki, Druig being crazy for their chubby girlfriends, please! (I need some love and comfort)” Anon

~~~

Jack

“Hey, doll face!”

The captain entered their campsite, safe on the edge of the alien planet. He ducked under the entrance of the tent, tossing his cap onto their makeshift bed.

(Y/N) had suggested separate camping cots, but of course Jack shut the idea down real quick. He was a cuddler.

Speaking of which, where was (Y/N)?

He began to unbutton his captain jacket, his normally smooth face crinkled with worrying thoughts. “(Y/N), where you at, sweetheart?”

Jack rolled up the sleeves of his undershirt and walked back into the light of the setting sun. She was nowhere in sight.

The wilderness surrounding them seemed to grow – expanding into a field of danger. Danger that his (Y/N) could be lost in.

“(Y/N)?” He cupped his hands around his mouth to shout, “Sweetheart?”

He rounded the tent and tromped twigs beneath the growing panic of his footsteps. He was about to shout again when he came to an abrupt halt.

There she was on the edge of the nearby river. The alien water was glittering a crystal violet in the sun. She seemed agitated as she dipped a rag into the water and scrubbed at the front of her dress.

Jack felt her tension but couldn’t help the easy smile that slipped onto his face. She was all right. She was still there.

“What are you doing?”

She whirled around and caught her breath, eyes wide.

Jack had to take a breath himself. She was absolutely jaw dropping in the new dress. Though there was an obvious stain on the front she was wiping at, she was beautiful. Her hair was wet and natural, dripping onto the sides of her face. Droplets clung to her eyelashes and fell from her chin as she shivered – clearly the river was cold.

But the dress hugged her in a way that made that sly smile warm Jack’s face.

“Hey, beautiful,” he whispered, reaching for her. His arm wound her waist and she immediately attempted to stumble away, stepping into the frigid water.

“I’m all right. I – I slipped and fell in the mud,” her cheeks burned, “And that nice woman from the marketplace gave me this dress to try on. It clearly doesn’t fit and now I’ve gone and ruined it before I can return it.”

Jack stared at her embarrassed flush. “I would disagree,” he muttered, “You are beyond beautiful.”

She looked down at the rag she had begun to wring in her hands. “Always the charmer.”

He took a step into the mud to be right in front of her. He took his time to move his hands to her face and lift her chin. Their eyes met when he barely whispered, “You are the most remarkable woman I’ve ever met. The only gorgeous girl for me.” He gave her the lightest and sweetest kiss on the middle of her forehead.

He then leaned back and spun her around the water, “And return this? Are you insane? I’ve never seen anything more tempting in my life!”

She grinned with laughter, falling into his arms.

Loki

The banquet hall was a glimmer of gold as the party commenced. Flames danced and licked up the sides of the walls, giving the atmosphere a low and intimate feel.

The royalty were seated at the head of the hall, enjoying their own special spread of delicacies. Though visitors on this planet, the representatives of Asgard sat regal with confidence.

That is, except one that shrunk with feelings of being out of place.

She sat beside Loki, dressed in robes of the finest silks and embroidered with impossibly designed silver. She looked the part with her intricate crown dripping jewels onto her head. Holding her shoulders tense made her seem a hardened figure, which was a falsehood back home.

Loki could sense her discomfort and observed her from the corner of his eye. She was tugging at her elegant dress and pushing around her food. She was glancing at the other royals and becoming more downcast.

He could see her belittling herself in comparison. He couldn’t have that.

She was his queen.

Loki reached under the table and held onto her thigh. Her gaze snapped to his.

“Have you found the meal to your liking? Or should I order another?” His voice was unquestionable, but his eyes spoke of comfort. He was asking her if she was all right.

She seemed to visibly relax under his gaze, “I’m not that hungry.” She eyed her large portions and then the petiteness around her. She trailed a hand to her stomach and pinched the fabric.

Loki refrained from clenching his teeth. Instead he moved his hand to hers, holding it gently and leaning over to press a kiss to it. “You haven’t eaten all day,” he muttered against the back of her hand, “Take a few bites and later we can enjoy a midnight picnic on the balcony – just us two.”

She looked around the room at all the prying eyes and felt comforted by the idea of eating with just Loki.

He seemed pleased there was some relief in her anxiety.

“My dear, (Y/N), may I just say…” he snaked an arm around her back and to her waist. He pulled her closer to him, faces inches apart so she could hear his whisperings. “… you look ravishing.”

She smiled for the first time that night.

“Really?” She was still folding an arm around her stomach.

Loki remained close as he moved his hand down her arm, “I would ravage every inch of your body upon this table if not for the present audience.”

“Since when has an audience stopped you?” she giggled, bright red.

He laughed deep in her ear, kissing her hairline. “I cannot wait for this party to be over and have you all to myself.” And they sat there momentarily, Loki tracing tender lines along her hip.

Druig

It had been a long day of tending the gardens and huts of the settlement. (Y/N) had taken charge years ago of the schedules, telling Druig she was a woman of vast intelligence and therefore capable of running the entire compound. It had made him smile.

She would say her intelligence was why he kept her around.

He would say differently.

Presently, (Y/N) was instructing the farmers on seeding technique and newfound fertilizers. Druig made sure they were all compliant, his philosophy of protection his priority. (Y/N)’s was with the dwindling pantry store.

She worked hard, dirt smudging her face and splinters piercing her fingers. She took nothing for granted, believing in the sanctuary that Druig trusted her with.

He was observing her now from his porch, hands behind his back. She was smiling and helping an elderly man with his seedlings. As he made a joking remark, her head flew back with a hearty laugh.

It was genuine and gorgeous.

Druig often kept these thoughts to himself, admiring from afar. Though he couldn’t contain the simple smile that etched his face.

He watched as (Y/N) wiped her hands clean of dirt and stood straight. His eyes roamed her figure longingly, ever silent. But when he reached her gaze he noticed where she was looking.

From across the camp was a couple walking hand in hand. They were close and giggling and entirely focused on one another.

When Druig returned to (Y/N), she was slightly deflated, staring off in the distance.

Something kicked Druig into action and before he knew it he was standing next to her.

She looked at him expectantly, “Good morning, Druig.” Her voice was twinkling in his ears, “Do you need help with something?”

He took a moment to just look at her, relishing in how it made his chest burn. It was also making her cheeks go pink.

“Druig?”

“When was the last time I told you how beautiful you are?”

She seemed taken aback, “I’d say it was the last time you properly kissed me.”

“And when was that?” he asked, closer to her.

She hummed, “Last night.”

He cradled her face in his hands, “Then it is long overdue.” He leaned down and pressed a lingering kiss to her lips, humming himself, “My beautiful, beautiful (Y/N).”

There was that smile.

“You are too good to me.”

He frowned, “I only wish to prove to you how needed you are here. To me. I am simply enamored by you, (Y/N).” He ran his hands down her arms and around her chest, “All of you.” And he swept her into a tight embrace.

She laughed at the feeling, “I’ve never quite understood that.”

He smirked, “It means that the sight of you is irresistible to me.” And he kissed her again.

~~~

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[strangunddurm]

Hydrangeas bloom in June

Masterlist

Pairing: Clyde Logan x fem!reader

Word Count: 4.1k

Warnings: NSFW, fingering, masturbation, age gap (reader is 18+!), voyerism, oral sex (male receiving), virgin reader.

A/N: It's the 30th and summer's over so here's a post as promised! I start my second year of uni today so I don't know how much I'll be able to post, but the goal is once a week.

ALSO, thank you so much for the love shown on my last post (and all the others before it).

The first time you had seen him had been at the grocery store. It had just been a quick glance; a quick once over that was enough for him to become completely ingrained in your mind.

You had been with your mother that day so your gaze couldn’t linger much but he was, without a doubt, a very memorable man. He had been on the other end of the aisle, looking over the store’s selection of cereal and you had almost dropped the packet of sugar that you had been holding at the sight of him.

He was older; tall and wide. The perfect man in your opinion. His hair looked so soft, all you wanted to do was run your fingers through it. You were almost so entranced by it that your hand had started to reach out toward him, wanting – needing - to touch him.

Your mother had called your name and you were pulled away from your distracted mind.

Seeing him that weekend in church must’ve been a blessing. He was joined by another man, much shorter but equally as broad, and a young girl, all three dressed up in their finest Sunday clothes. They looked similar enough for you to assume that they were related in some way or another.

For the first time, you were thankful that your father was the new pastor in town, and everyone was there to introduce themselves to him. You were much more eager to take your designated spot next to your mother and father, waiting for everyone to come up and introduce themselves, waiting for him to come up and introduce himself to you.

He was a tease, left you waiting for so long before he finally made his way over and you got to hear his voice for the first time.

Clyde Logan. His name suited him, and his voice… his voice was the reason why you had to change panties when you got home. The two others that had been with him, Jimmy and Sadie, were his brother and niece. Your mother was the one that had to repeat their names to you once they had left, for you had been too distracted to remember. She had scolded you, of course, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care about how rude it had been of you.

It had been your mother’s idea to invite the Logans over for dinner a couple of weeks later and you couldn’t have been more thankful.

You were wearing your best floral dress, the one that made you look extra innocent but had a bad habit of sliding up your thighs. You could tell that he enjoyed looking at you, you could see him trailing his gaze over you from the corner of your eyes.

They had brought their sister with them this time, Millie. She was a social thing, getting on easily with your parents. You wondered if Clyde had brought her intentionally for that reason because it was as if your parents had forgotten you were even there ever since she had opened her mouth.

‘Darlin’, why don’t you go ahead and show Clyde the garden before it gets dark?’ Your mother asked. He had arrived late, after your mother’s tour of the sprawling gardens which she had given the others. He had apologised profusely, of course, but you just thought it was a positive thing, it meant that you could finally be alone with him.

The garden; your mother’s favourite part of the house. She was proud of it; even though she hadn’t done a lick of work in it, she still showed it off as if she had.

‘Would you like to see the garden, Clyde?’ You looked over at him, smiling, praying to God that he would say yes.

‘Show me the way.’

You walked ahead of him, out through the grand patio doors, leading him down the small winding path that led to the waterfall that centred the backyard. It was a magnificent place, with flowers blooming everywhere and large apple trees in rows.

You snuck a quick glance over your shoulder, seeing his eyes trained on the hem of your dress, entranced by how it swung around your thighs as you walked, and you made sure to sway your hips just a little bit more to entice him.

The two of you walked along making casual conversation until you were far enough away from the house for no one to overhear you.

‘Do you like it?’ You came to a stop at the small pond, sitting down on the bench that gave you a view of the house.

‘’s pretty.’ Clyde nodded appreciatively, sitting down next to you. You started picking at your dress, finger rubbing back and forth over one of the petals embroidered on it.

He was so close. His leg was pressed up against your own; you loved the way his khaki pants felt against your skin as they scratched against it with each little shift of movement.

Your shoulders would be battling for space if it weren’t for the way you were leaning to the side, resting on your hand so that you could get a better look at him. He was still startling tall and towering over you despite your sitting position and you loved how he made you feel so small.

‘How are you enjoying town?’

‘People are very welcoming.’ You said whilst nodding. It was standard for people to be welcoming to the pastor and his family, nobody wanted to risk it, just in case.

You pretended not to notice his hand sliding so painfully slowly over from his own thigh to yours. His touch was feather-light; if you hadn’t been so hyper-aware of his presence you might not even had noticed it just yet.

Your breath was heavy as you looked at him. He was watching you, eyes connected intensely as he looked for any sign of hesitation. He didn’t find any, you were as ready for more as you had ever been, making it easy for him to ignore the rational part of his brain and finally clamped his hand down on your thigh, giving it a soft, but firm, squeeze.

His hand covered so much with how big it was. You could feel yourself clench in excitement as you grew wetter over the anticipation that was building in you.

You didn’t dare say anything. It was completely silent as he just watched the side of your face, and you just watched his hand sit there. Perhaps he was building up his own courage before daring to move again.

‘Tell me, darlin’, have you been touched by anyone here before?’ His breath was shaky as it came out in a puff. His fingers skimmed over your panties lightly as he gazed down at you.

‘No.’ It was just a small whisper that came out of you.

‘Would you like to be?’ You had said yes before Clyde even had the chance to finish his question.

Was it so bad that you wanted him? He was older, yes, but you weren’t a child, hadn’t been for years.

You watched Clyde with wide eyes as he applied just the tiniest pressure to that sweet spot you had, causing your breath to stutter as you exhaled. It was an automatic reflex of how your hand came down to grasp his wrist. He immediately started withdrawing his hand from touching you, but you tightened your hold as you protested.

‘No, no, no, don’t, please. I just wasn’t expecting it to…’ You trailed off.

‘Wasn’t expecting it to what?’

‘To feel so good.’ You whispered shyly.

Clyde let out a low groan at your admittance and you loved the feeling that rushed through you as you heard the evidence of his own arousal. He was surer in his movements this time as he grabbed onto your thigh that was pressed up against his and hoisting it over his thigh, giving him easier access and spreading you wide for him.

His hand moved back to trailing its way back to your panties, by-passing their hem this time and finally caressing your clit without a barrier between his skin and yours. Your breath hitched as he rubbed his fingers in small and torturous circles, tracing invisible lines. You couldn’t help the small whimper of pleasure that slipped past your lips. Clyde halted his movements, looking back up at you with a pleased and crooked smile on his face; he loved seeing the effect he had on you.

‘Ya like that, darlin’?’

You nodded your head frantically with wide eyes in response. You had never felt so good before. Of course, you had touched yourself, chasing pleasure whenever you were alone, but you had never succeeded in feeling quite as good as you did at that moment.

Clyde was far more experienced than you were in flicking his fingers just right, making your toes curl in your open-toed sandals. You didn’t need to bring your own hand down to feel how wet you were; you were practically dripping onto the bench and ground beneath you.

‘Yer so wet already’ he cooed as he ran his fingers through your folds. ‘Yer so desperate to be touched, aren’t you?’

Clyde teased your entrance, making sure his long and thick fingers were well and truly coated with your wetness before slowly pushing one of them into you. It was just the tip that slowly sank in, but it still stretched you in a way you had never been stretched before. It was a strange feeling, laced with small hints of pain but you didn’t want him to stop.

“Yer so tight, darlin’. Never been stretched like this before, have you?’ He whispered in your ear as he pushed in a bit more. You were so caught up in the overwhelming feeling that you couldn’t even begin to formulate an answer.

You didn’t realise that you had been holding your breath until he was all the way in, down to the knuckle in you and a shaky breath was once more exhaled. Clyde was kind, he let you adjust to his finger for a few seconds before slowly withdrawing and pushing in again. Your head rolled back, eyes fluttering closed as you got lost in it all. You couldn’t help the moans that were slipping out between your lips. They were slowly building in volume, becoming louder as the pleasure increased with each wet and sloppy stroke. You were bunching the fabric of his shirt in your hand whilst the other gripped the edge of the bench tightly.

You wanted to cry out as his thumb started rubbing over your clit, your walls clamped down hard around his finger at the new feeling, but he connected his mouth to yours just as it was about to drop open.

Clyde was a great kisser. He wasn’t too rough or too soft, he pressed down onto your lips with just the right pressure that would always leave you wanting more. His tongue slipped slowly past your lips, exploring everything as it went, leaving you breathless.

‘Do you think you can take another one?’ He asked, barely drawing back enough to whisper. You were unsure, not because of the situation or who you were with, but because you felt so full of only one, how could you possibly take another?

It turned out that your body was eager to adapt to anything Clyde would give you for the second finger stretched your walls easily. By now, you were a panting mess with bones made of Jell-O, butterflies in your stomach, and currents racing up and down your spine in spasm. You swallowed the heaviness in your mouth, breathing heavy, getting completely lost in everything.

Clyde had set a quicker pace than the one he had kept previously, feeling braver and being bolder in his actions as he pumped in and out with a wet squelch.

‘Look at you, ready to come from just my fingers’ He huffed out as you trembled, bubbling warmth spreading through each nerve in your body.

Your brain was in a haze, you were unable to focus on anything as that white-hot pleasure built behind your eyelids. You reached your peak quickly, falling over it and into bliss just as your mother called out your name loudly from the house.

You stood up abruptly, blood rushing and heart beating wildly in your ears. You knew she couldn’t see you, but you were still scared of being caught - despite the small thrill from the possibility.

You frantically brushed your hands down your dress, trying to smooth out any creases that might’ve appeared. Clyde was still sitting down, staring up at you with a sort of admiration twinkling in his eyes that made your skin flush with heat.

“I’ll see you later.” You cleared your throat as you hesitated for just a moment before leaning down, pressing a kiss to his cheek, and setting off for the house with your cum coating the inside of your thighs.

-

You didn’t see Clyde for a couple of weeks after that. It was almost as if he was avoiding you and you couldn’t help but feel angry over the possibility. You were angry because you thought it selfish of him. He had completely ruined you. Your own fingers didn’t feel the same anymore; you couldn’t flick them just right or penetrate deep enough to make that coil snap. You were a ticking time-bomb, walking around as frustrated as could be, all hours of the day.

You knew he was avoiding you when you saw him in church again. He p ran away the second his eyes connected with yours, spinning around on his heels and fleeing through the crowd of churchgoers.

You didn’t pause to think about where you were, or who could be watching you as you made a straight beeline after him, abandoning your mother’s side without a word.

His legs were a lot longer than yours, but it was so crowded that it didn’t benefit him that day. You were able to steadily gain on him, the angry scowl on your face only becoming deeper as he would throw a glance over his shoulder now and then to check how close you were.

There were barely any people outside as it was getting closer to the service, only a few stragglers that were stressed enough not to notice the two people rounding the corner of the church in a half sprint.

Thankfully, Clyde hadn’t thought about where he was turning to as the side of the church only led to a dead-end of bushes. The both of you came to a stop at the same time; you were slightly out of breath, chest heaving from the small sprint.

‘Why are you avoiding me?’ Your voice was surprisingly steady, with no sign of your internal turmoil in the tone.

He didn’t turn around to face you immediately, just as he didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he stayed gazing at the tall hydrangea shrubs for so long that you thought he might’ve turned deaf since the last time you saw him. You started walking again with a huff, coming around to his front so that he was forced to look at you.

‘I haven’t been avoided ya.’ He finally said quietly with a defeated look in his eyes.

‘Sure seems like it.’ You sniff, arms coming up to cross in front of you.

He was watching you with narrowed eyes and that look he always had in them whenever he was looking at you. It was like he couldn’t quite figure out what he wanted to do with you; fuck you? yell at you? You weren’t sure.

‘We can’t do this… I-‘ He trailed off, looking somewhat defeated.

‘You what?’ Perhaps he wasn’t quite deserving of the attitude you were giving him, but you couldn’t help it. Not being able to orgasm did a lot to a person.

‘I took advantage of ya.’ Your heart dropped at his admittance over his feelings. Taking advantage was not how you would define what had happened.

‘You didn’t.’

‘Yes, I did and now I have-‘

‘Shut up, please.’ You interrupted him with a raised hand, whilst at the same time taking a step closer. His scent was wafting off him in small waves and it was just as intoxicating as it had been the last time you had been this close to him.

You brought your hand up, trailing your fingertips upward along the buttons of Clyde’s shirt. Both of you were watching them make their journey silently. He didn’t try to stop you as you straightened out the crooked collar. Your fingertips brushed against the skin on his neck lightly and you could hear how his breath hitched from the touch.

‘I liked it.’ You smiled up at him. Your smile wasn’t as infectious as you might’ve hoped; Clyde’s expression stayed solemn.

‘In fact-‘ You let your hands drop to his belt, undoing it quickly with nimble fingers. ‘I liked it so much, I wouldn’t mind doing it again.’

You dropped to your knees, licking your lips over the sight of him. Clyde was practically bursting through the seams already; cock hard from the mere thought of you. You teasingly brought the zipper down at the slowest pace possible, releasing him from his constraints slowly inch by inch. He had gone commando.

Clyde’s eyes were hooded as he watched you. It wasn’t hard to see that he enjoyed the sight in front of him – you on your knees – there was a small bead of sweat collecting at his brow and his pupils were so dilated that his eyes were more black than brown.

He was thick and heavy in your hands, far bigger than you had expected him to be. You had to press your thighs together, seeking some sort of relief for the dampness that was building in between them.

Your confidence wavered slightly as you looked up at him. It had been far less intimidating in your mind as you had fantasised about this moment. Clyde seemed to sense that you needed some sort of guidance at that point, brushing his hand over your chin as he coaxed you to open your mouth with a tap to your chin.

Clyde let out a rumble of a moan as you took him in your mouth, lips wrapping around his tip, moaning at the taste of his salty pre-cum. You tested the waters, taking him further in oh so slowly. You could feel the walls of your throat closing slightly but struggle through it, a small moment of discomfort was worth it for the expression of utter bliss that had taken over Clyde’s face.

‘Relax, darlin’.’ He managed to grunt out. You could tell from the small ruts of his hips that he had a hard time staying still, wanting – or perhaps, needing – to thrust into you.

You slacked your jaw as much as you could, placing your hands on his hips to stabilise yourself as you began building a rhythm, taking as much of his length in your mouth as you could.

‘Fuck.’ Clyde exclaimed silently. You pulled him out with a wet pop, looking up at him with a smile on your face. You loved seeing the effect you had on him, bearing witness to him already falling apart so quickly from your touch made you clench.

You couldn’t stifle the gagging noises as you forced him down further, wanting to please him. It wasn’t uncomfortable for you; the noises were more like an automatic reaction.

Clyde was vocal. He wasn’t scared to release the moans and groans that he did, but the volume of them were low. Far from loud enough to alert any passers-by of what was occurring by the church. They were just loud enough so that you could hear them and caused you to be spurred on to increase your pace, swirling your tongue around the tip each time you were by his head.

You couldn’t take all of him, it was impossible, so your left hand grasped the base, pumping whatever didn’t fit, in rhythm with your mouth. You trace your tongue back up over his throbbing vein until you reached his swollen and leaking tip before hollowing your cheeks and sliding back down his thick cock.

‘Such a good girl.’ He praised, hand gripping the back of your head. He didn’t apply any pressure; didn’t force you to do anything you didn’t want to; it just rested there, encouraging you to do whatever you wanted. ‘Takin’ me so well.’

He came quickly after that, hot ropes of cum spurting into your mouth as he let out a strangled moan. His hips jerked a few more times as he pumped himself into your mouth, making sure you swallowed every single last drop of his salty cum. You couldn’t help licking your lips; to you, it was a dream, you had been wanting him to cum down your throat for what felt like far too long now.

Clyde helped you stand, offering you his hand. But he didn’t release you immediately once you were upright on your shaky legs. Instead, he pulled you close to him, planting a sloppy kiss on your lips with a smile and a hazy look in his eyes.

‘Stand up and face the wall.’ He commanded with a pat on your ass. You did as you were told turning to the side, so you were facing the church. You wiped away the small dribbles of drool that had made their way down your chin with the back of your hand. You were hyper-aware of everything around you; anticipation high, ready for whatever was to come.

‘Pull up your dress.’ You bunched it around your hips and Clyde let out a loud groan as he saw that you, too, had forgone underwear.

‘I was wrong, yer not a good girl, are ya?’ It was a rhetorical question; he didn’t wait for an answer out of you. ‘No, yer not a good girl at all.’ He hummed with a smile clear in his tone. You could almost feel the burn of his gaze as he admired you.

You could feel that Clyde was clearly still hard as he rubbed his wet cock over your exposed ass, tapping it lightly before angling his hips backwards and dragging the tip down, sliding it through your folds. Excitement rushed through your body, and you attempted to press back into him, wanting to feel even more of him.

‘I should take you right here, up against the church - punish you for being so bad.’ He breathed into your ear.

‘Yes.’ You gasped out. ‘Take me, please, Clyde.’ Pleading didn’t do much, Clyde had taken over control, it was he who decided what to do next, and you loved it.

You didn’t care about the fact that it was your first time. You needed Clyde so much that you would take him anywhere and anytime he wanted.

‘I don’t know if you deserve it…’ He trailed off. ‘Or if you deserve something much better.’

Despite trying to convince him by rubbing up against him, Clyde ultimately decided that up against the church was not where he would be popping your cherry as he spun you around, sense and rationality having returned to him after some overstimulation. You would lie if you said you weren’t disappointed, but it was probably for the best. He was leaning over you, hand resting behind you on the church as he looked down at you with a small smile on his lips, just barely showing off those charmingly crooked teeth.

‘Thank ya.’

‘You don’t have to thank me.’ You giggled, letting yourself fall into him as he embraced you with a squeeze. He planted another kiss on your lips before pulling back and tucking himself back into his pants.

‘Ya should get back in there.’ He nodded to the church with his head. You had forgotten all about the ongoing service. Your parents must be wondering where you were at that point, but you couldn’t even begin to care about the scolding you were bound to get when you got home. You were an adult, after all, you didn’t have to go if you didn’t want to, and you had definitely found something more important to do, in your opinion.

[saey707]

Loved the Lux one, thank you very much.

May I ask for another?

Gwen with an SO who makes clothes for her. (I forgot the name of the profession, the people who make clothes and such.)

Like dresses and other outfits, just really enjoys making these gifts for Gwen.

✿ Prompt: You are a tailor and love making Gwen clothes ✿

♡ champion focus: gwen ♡ tw: none! ♡ Gender-neutral reader

Author’s Note: Hey again! I’m really happy that you like the last headcanons, they were fun to write ૮꒰⸝⸝>  ̫ <⸝⸝꒱ა And super cute idea, I hope you enjoy what I have to offer ( ˘͈  ᵕ  ˘͈ ♡)

Gwen always loved to play dress-up. It would simply be an understatement if someone were to say she was a simple doll. If anything, the hallowed seamstress was regal. Her clothes always looked as if they were made of the finest materials, tailored to her length and form down to the perfect inch. Still, her clothes were snug, with enough space for her to dance around and bend beyond her will!

It was easy for her to glamorize herself in new clothes and fashion looks. She seemed to always pull off any look, no matter how ridiculous and outlandish they may be. Not only that, but she was skilled enough to take old fabric and alter them into new ones with so much as a few snips, a needle, and thread. But can the muse always be the tailor?

While Gwen had beyond the average capabilities to make her own clothes, it was always you who guided her in the right direction when it came down to the design. She was your muse, an apprentice even if you will, and you were her tailor.

She always feels like she learns the most from you, always interested in seeing the next amazing outfit you design.

And every single time she is equally as astounded when you offer a copy of the original to her, perfectly copied and tailored down to the perfect stitch to fit her doll-like figure.

"Oh, it's simply beautiful, my love! It charms me that you would give me this... I don't know any way in which I can repay you for your hard work, but I certainly know I will find a way, yes I will!"

You can be sure Gwen always finds a way to repay you, baking the most delicious desserts and pastries to share with you.

"Are you sure we should be eating this many cupcakes? I'll have to adjust the measurements if we keep doing this, Gwenny..." You query playfully to the delighted soul, entranced by the gentle giggle she released. "Always, love! There is nothing wrong with eating for pleasure~ Just like there is nothing wrong with dancing about, despite everyone watching!"

Her proper voice was like ringing bells in your ears, a cheery and delightful tone that always made your heart fill with passion. To know someone like Gwen, who was always delighted with your expressions of love through clothes... It was beyond anything you could ever expect in such a critical field.

You memorized her measurements by heart, always knowing the exact about of fabric you would need to utilize, the second, smaller bust you curated shrunken down to her measurements.

Of all the clothes you make for her, she is always drawn to your dresses; Every little detail you put into them is taken into account, and Gwen can see it with how focused you become. It's as if you put all your love and attention into each and every dress you design and craft.

And in a way, your doll wishes she had that kind of an attention span... You get work done so quickly!

"Another dress for me, darling?" Shocked, she pulled it up from the box, admiring it before excitedly hugging it close to her. "And it's in your favorite color~" "Hallowed blue!" Gwen finishes, happily laughing and yanking you into her arms to offer a tight hug.

Every single time you watch her spin and dance about in your designs, you can't help but love her more and more. While her movements closely resembled a puppet being pulled around on strings, that just added to all the more reason why you couldn't help but adore her.

"May I have this dance, love~?" She asks, holding her hand out to you, delighted with the bright red hue that floods against your cheeks. "You may, my doll..." You muse. And, spinning her into your hold, you would be sure to lead well in your little dance with her.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Hue and Cry VII

Warnings: non-consent sex and rape (series), mentions of previous forced oral, abuse of power, these men ain't shit.

This is dark!medieval!Bucky Barnes x reader and explicit. 18+ only.  Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Synopsis: You face a reckoning for evading your lord.

Note: This wasn't planned but things just turned out this way because my go to is fuck the reader. Oop.

Thanks to everyone and thanks in advance for all your feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

The nights only got harder. It didn't matter if Lord Barnes wanted to touch you or wanted you to touch him, even just laying beside him was torment. You hated what he'd done to you and what he'd made you do. You hated yourself more for how he made you feel.

You decided that day in the carriage during the rainstorm that you hated him. You hated Lord Barnes more than even Lord Rogers. At least the latter was honest in his lechery, he did not try to veil his true desires but Barnes spoke to you sweetly as he forced his needs upon you.

The night before you were due to reach the capital, you did not sleep. You couldn't in the bed next to Barnes. He wanted to be astride as he entered the city and so you were left to ride alone in the carriage. The sway soon had you across the bench in a deep slumber. It was the best sleep you had in weeks.

You only woke as a hammering came at the door and streaks of sunlight were let in as it opened. A footman called you out and helped you down the step into the dirt. You batted your sleepy eyes and marveled at the castle as it came clear. It was getting colder as the autumn wore on, bitter. It was the wrong season for a tournament.

As you trod through the beaten yard of the castle, Lord Barnes clapped off his right hand, the leather glove dusting, and approached you. He’s gaze strayed to Lord Rogers for a moment then back to you. He dropped his shoulders and scrunched his lips.

“I have an audience with the king,” he said glumly, “as much as I’d prefer you attend with me it has been brought to my attention that… the court might not be as accommodating to you as I am. Regardless, I might have a seat arranged for you at the feast and you were surely sit in the rows for the sparring.”

“I… my lord, I am only--”

“I told you,” he interjected, “you are not a maid anymore.”

You held your tongue as you wanted to spit at him. What were you? A courtesan? A whore? Was that better than emptying his pot? You dipped your head and pulled your cape snug, “my lord.”

“See her to my rooms,” Barnes directed the footman at your shoulder, “once the chests are unpacked, she is to be undisturbed. My guard will have the same orders.”

“Yes, my lord,” the footman bowed, “my lady.”

You looked at the footman and slowly followed him away from Barnes. You were eager to be away from him but not eager to be shown your new prison. You entered the castle and followed the torchlit corridors beside the footman.

“I’m not a lady,” you said at last, “I don’t want you to ever call me that again.”

“My apologies, my--” he stuttered, “the lord bid it.”

“He lies to himself and you,” you muttered, “I was born as you, likely lower. My own mother was a laundress and my father a stablehand. Cut from the finest, I am.”

The footman was quiet as he waved you ahead of him up the coiling stairwell. You regretted your harsh words but knew they could never be delivered to their true target. When you reached the chamber designated to your master, you stopped outside. Lester was already at his station by the lord’s doors.

“I am sorry,” you told the footman, “I was unkind. You do not deserve that.”

His lips curved slightly and he hid his amusement, “I know now you are like me,” he said softly, “the nobles, they don’t apologise.”

You chuckled darkly and left him. You passed the servants as they carried in trunks and opened them in a flurry of duty. You went to the bedroom and climbed up on the large feather mattress. That time you had to yourself, even surrounded by the chaos of your arrival, was a relief. You did not know how long you’d get away from Barnes.

🏰

You fell asleep again. This time, you weren’t floating in your dreams, driven wildly by the tides, but you were still, straight as a board in the ground as dirty sprinkled onto you. The cold earth warmed as the layers piled on you. Deeper, deeper, deeper until you couldn’t breathe.

You woke with a start and nearly screamed as a shadow loomed over you. Barnes sat beside you, his legs over the edge of the couch. He played with the lifeless fingers of his artificial hand. Your hood was on the pillow, crumpled and the folds of your dress were bunched awkwardly beneath your body.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” he murmured, “just wanted to sit with you.”

“How long--”

“It is almost time for supper,” he said, “but the feast is not until the morrow. You might remain and rest some more.”

You didn’t move, just looked up at the canopy and laid there. You didn’t say anything more as you folded your arms over the stiff bodice.

“You should sleep… the journey was long. Tiring,” he continued.

You just blinked but didn’t close your eyes. The canopy was a rich green marked with gold. The stitches were woven in the shape of leaves and vines. You thought of the forest and those days you were so scared. You were much more terrified now.

“I wanted to say, and I should now since you are awake,” he began as he leaned on his elbow and his other arm fell limp and heavy, “what occurred with Rogers will not arise again. I made him a promise I regret and it was sorted.”

You held back a shudder as you thought of the salty tasted and the pungent scent of their arousal. You swallowed and hugged yourself tighter.

“If he attempts to reenact the scene, or more, you will inform me, and you have my leave to see that he does not,” Barnes said sternly, “you are still mine. I would not have you confused.”

You rolled onto your side so that your back was to him. He huffed and his hand fell onto your side. He squeezed and the bed shifted. He said your name and every muscle in your body went taut.

“Do you understand?” he asked.

“I’m tired,” you said.

“I want no mistake. You--”

“I belong to you,” you sneered, “you want to use me, you want to own me, you want me to tell you I know I am nothing but the dirt beneath your boot. Let me assure you I am aware--”

“Do not speak to me as such,” he hissed.

You bit back your voice and heaved. You sucked in your cheeks and wriggled away from his reach. “It is understood, my lord. Now as you bid, I would sleep.”

🏰

The only grace allowed you at the feast, rather denied you, was a seat with your lord. As much as Barnes would prefer to have you close he was still bound by the expectations of court. He didn't let on that you were merely a servant but you didn't think anyone could believe otherwise. For his vouching, you were sat among the lower lords and ladies.

You watched as wine was poured for you. You eyed the girl who kept her chin down as the filled the cups and thought of your own time in a similar duty. What did Barnes find so fascinating about you? You had only done what dozens others had done for him before. You couldn't figure you had an outstanding feature or manner that could explain his interest, it could only be your own poor luck.

You ate without tasting, without zeal, slowly as you brought fork to lip and dissolved into the chatter of strangers around you. All those seated at the long tables had a partner or some family with them. You were alone. Your parents were dead and all those you'd ever had a kindred tie to were far away.

"Uncle," a voice perked up across from you and drew your attention as you chewed the spiced rabbit meat, "if I made the lists, surely I can win!"

"My coin got you on those lists," the older man replied, "it is all formality. Should you gace a king or a duke, you would be remiss to claim victory."

"I am to lay down for their title?" The younger scoffed, "I am a man now and I have trained--"

"But you think like a boy," the other rebuked, "a runner up can take a fine purse still and if you feed the ego of a high borne man he will be more willing to show you favour."

You lowered your fork and looked at the two men as they argued. The elder`s hair was sprinkled with grey but the rest the same shade of reddish brown as the youth. You were heartened by their familial banter but saddened at your own solace. You dropped your hands to your lap and looked at your plate.

"Dear," the woman beside you touched your sleeve, "are you well?"

You turned to her startled and nodded. "Yes, my lady," you cleared your throat, "fine indeed."

She peered past you then shared a look with the older man across the table. She was not so grey as him. She smiled and withdrew her hand. "You are alone?"

"Only me, my lady," you answered.

"And overly polite," she chuckled, "a pity. A young girl sent to court without escort. What family could do such a thing? You must be frightened out of your wits."

"I will… persevere," you said.

"Ay but it is the nature of these events to be cordial. I am May Parker, my husband is a baron," she gestured to the older man across from you, "Benjamin, and my nephew, Peter, a viscount in his beloved father's stead," she smiled at the younger man, "and your name?"

You hadn't been told what to say in the circumstance. You hadn't thought of it and surely Barnes hadn't either. You would have to garnish the truth with enough lies to get by. You twined your fingers together. You offered your name, your truth, then conjured your lies as you spoke.

"My father is, er, was, a baron as well," you said, "I am his only child."

"Oh, you sweet thing, if you would be alone for this tournament, you might stay near to us. My nephew hasn't many peers of his age just yet, and my husband is much too weary to keep up with him."

You glanced around, the two men bowed their heads in greeting. You attempted a smile and thanked her.

"Our Peter will be competing in the joust and in the sword contest," she announced, "we did urge him to enter the bow and arrow but he finds it dull."

"Oh," you were uncertain how to address these people, to speak as if you were their equal, "I've never attended a tourney before."

"Best you stay close then," she squeezed your hand gently, "why look at all these people! Even that Duke from the north came, bless him, that one who did lose his arm in the campaigns."

You reached for your wine to hide your discomfort at the mention of him. All you had to do was pretend for the evening and you'd likely not see these people again. As friendly as they were, you couldn't stand to make friends only to lose them.

You listened for the rest of the courses as May and her family did much of the talking. There were moments you forgot your predicament, even that you were born a peasant, but when it returned to you, the food turned to a lump in your stomach and your heart clamoured.

You were roused from the waking dream only as the music plucked up and the plates were cleared by your own ilk. May chuckled and stood as her husband came around to her. She paused as the bodies flooded from the benches onto the boards. She touched your shoulder kindly, "if you would be in want of a partner, our Peter is rather graceful."

You looked to the younger Parker and he lit up. "Only if you like, miss."

"I… would say I am not so," you said evasively.

"It would not bother me, I trained with the old hound that slept in our barn, he slobbered quite heavily," he laughed, "but I would be indebted should you allow me the treat of a true partner."

"I suppose…" you looked to the high table where Barnes scowled at Lord Rogers, entirely unconcerned with you for the first time in a while. Perhaps this was a chance; lose yourself in the crowd and you might find the opening you needed. Or perhaps merely a respite from him at least, "I do warn you however, I would not know where to place my feet."

May and Benjamin swept away as Peter came around to you. He offered his arm and you mimicked the other ladies as you took it.

He lifted his shoulders proudly as he led you to the floor, "only step around my own and I will do my best not to trod on your slippers, lady." He turned you in time with the music, your arms hooked so that you faced in opposing direction, "follow me and do not worry so much. No one is watching us so closely."

You smiled, a real smile that time as the strings and flutes filled your chest. As this kind stranger patiently guided you around the boards. You raised your chin as you did your best to stay on the beat but nearly tripped as your eyes met another pair.

Lord Barnes glared down at you from the high table, the only lord remaining in his seat, and his hand gripped the stem of his goblet tightly. Even at the distance, you felt his chagrin. And as he stood, your sole met Peter's toe but he only snickered and righted you.

"You're doing fine, lady," he assured as he spun and switched arms, you let him lead you dumbly as you watched Barnes descend from the dais, "a natural."