#portrait of a noble woman

[larobeblanche]

Thomas Lawrence (British, English – 1769-1830) • Lady Amelia (Emily) Anne Hobart, Vicountess Castlereagh, Marchioness of Londonderry (1772-1829) • After 1794

[resplendentoutfit]

The outrageous, extravagant, sometimes humorous and often beautiful outfits worn by subjects of old portraits; sometimes captioned, as an attempt at satire; a little history occasionally thrown in the mix.

Jean-Auguste Dominique ingres (French, 1780-1867) • Portrait of Madame de Senonnes, viscountess of Senonnes (1783–1828) (once known as La Trastéverine) • 1816 • Musée d'Arts de Nantes, Nantes, France

This gorgeous dress appears to have been made from sumptuous red velvet, with slashes revealing an underlay of white satin and a fringed white satin belt at the empire waist. The shoulders and chest are likely transparent white silk. A beautiful lace ruff adorns the neck and matching lace decorates the cuffs.

There's some evidence to suggest that Ingres scoffed at painting portraits but accepted this commission because he needed the income. He took great pains to paint Madame de Senonnes in hopes of attracting other commissions.

[artthatgivesmefeelings]

Joseph-Désiré Court (French, 1797 - 1865) Marquise Chasseloup-Laubat (probablement Marie Augustine Antoinette Le Boucher des Fontaines), 1831 Musée des Beaux-Arts de Rouen

[illustratus]

Portrait of a Noblewoman by Cesare Agostino Detti

[ancientorigins]

When one comes across her portraits, the first thing that is assumed is that the woman depicted within had to be a pirate. However, Ana de Mendoza was actually noblewoman and a rebel in a gown.

[leatherandmossprints]

Ring details from ‘Portrait of a Noble Woman’ by Nicolas Neufchatel, c. 1567.

[theostrophywife]

le coup de foudre.

pairing: regulus black x reader.

song inspiration: my love mine all mine by mitski.

author's note: this was a result of me binging dune and call me by your name. whoever fancasted timothee chalamet as regulus deserves a forehead kith cause look at him. he's so boyfriend coded it makes me sick.

Regulus Black did not believe in love at first sight. 

It was a foolish notion. One that contradicted his pragmatic beliefs. At his core, Regulus was a realist. In his world, love was not a luxury one could afford. Regulus was raised with the expectation to marry according to class, wealth, and most importantly, blood status. The noble and most ancient house of Black only took the purest of the pure. 

After all, toujours pur, always pure, has been his family’s motto for centuries. There has never been any doubt in his mind that he’d marry another member of the sacred twenty eight. It wasn’t a matter of if, only a question of when. 

During his sixth year, his mother made her intentions very clear. Walburga Black was adamant that he begin his search for a suitable bride. Leave it to his mother to compose a list of ladies she deemed suitable to become the future Mrs. Black. Regulus was to adhere to the carefully curated roster. They were names that he’d seen a million times before. Greengrass, Prewett, Rosier. Girls he’d grown up with and inadvertently had absolutely no interest in. 

Still, his mother was insistent so Regulus complied. He took the girls out on dates. The formula was rather simple: dinner at the fanciest restaurant in town followed by a walk around the city square in which he offered to buy his date a dessert like the proper gentleman his mother raised him to be. Despite the fact that Regulus had the entire process down to a science, the dates were always unsatisfactory. 

He was polite, of course. Opened the door, pulled out their chair, asked the appropriate level of questions to get to know his counterpart, but by the time the appetizers arrived, Regulus was on the verge of stabbing himself with the butter knife just to rouse himself from boredom. 

Regulus placed no blame on the girls. They were only doing what their families had raised them to do. Sit pretty, chew gracefully, agree with his opinions. All while wearing breakneck heels and a smile to boot. It was all terribly fucked up, but this was the world they lived in. 

The more he went on these dates, the more he realized that he didn’t want some pretty, docile wife. What he truly needed was someone who was willing to challenge him, to call him out on his bullshit, to argue with him when his own stubbornness prevented him from seeing reason. Regulus came to the horrible, earth-shattering realization that he probably wouldn’t find a woman like that on his mother’s list. 

As he walked back from another mind numbing date, Regulus grappled with this newfound dilemma. He didn’t want to endure another one of these disastrous dates. He didn’t want to sit through an entire meal making small talk. He definitely didn’t want to disappoint another girl by not kissing them at the end of the night. 

It wasn’t like any of them liked him anyways. Though they loved the idea of Regulus Black, he was quite certain that they wouldn’t afford the same affections to Reggie—the real and true version of himself. The one that Sirius often said Regulus kept in a neatly locked cage.

He wished he could be more like his brother. Sirius had always been the brave one. It was that infamous Gryffindor boldness that prompted his older brother to rebel against his family’s expectations. Instead of heeding to their mother’s ridiculous list, Sirius chose to date Remus in open defiance to Walburga’s orders. It resulted in him getting kicked out of 12 Grimmauld Place and burned off the family portrait, but Sirius didn’t seem to mind one bit.  

In a lot of ways, Regulus envied his brother. Sirius had the guts to stand up for himself. He wasn’t burdened by the crippling pressure of pleasing their mother. In all honesty, Reggie wondered if such a thing was even achievable. As he brooded, Regulus found himself on the shores of the Black Lake. His body had taken him here on autopilot. It was his only place of refuge in the castle. 

Regulus paced the rickety wooden dock. His mind was working so fast, so many thoughts spinning in his head, that it felt like he might work himself up to a fit. This has always been his problem. Sirius often said that he lived in his head too much. He frowned, trying and failing to get ahold of himself. For once, he wished he could just shut his brain off entirely.

Just then, Regulus felt a drop of water hit his head. He looked up and found dark, gray clouds hovering over the horizon. The stormcloud broke open and unleashed torrential rain all around him. Fucking fantastic. The world truly couldn’t give him a bloody break, could it? 

With a sigh, Regulus began making his way back. The ground was sodden underneath his feet, his boots sinking into the sand and dragging behind his black coat. The waves lapped violently across the shore as the wind lashed against the murky waters. Regulus was almost at the edge of the beach when he spotted you. 

A flash of movement from the corner of his eye. Regulus stopped dead in his tracks. There, at the mouth of the Black Lake, in the middle of the pouring rain, stood a girl with the most breathtaking smile he had ever seen. 

Regulus was fairly certain that you had History of Magic together. He sat behind you in class, passed by you in the halls, even reached for the same book in the forbidden section of the library once, but Reggie had never once seen that smile. The gravity of it threatened to knock the very breath from his lungs. 

There was something carefree about you. The way you spread your arms, tilted your head back, and laughed in the midst of the rain and thunder. Almost like you were welcoming the storm. 

It was only when your eyes locked that Regulus realized he was staring. You cocked your head at him, trailing your gaze from the curls plastered against his cheek to the nice button down and freshly pressed trousers that were now soaked from the rain, down to the shiny leather boots that were now digging into the sand. You seemed amused at the sight of him.

Ever the perfect gentleman, Regulus snapped out of his daze and jogged over to you. Without hesitation, he raised his coat over your head to shield you from the rain even though you were already both drenched. 

“What are you doing out in the rain?” Regulus asked, his voice full of genuine concern. “You’ll catch a cold.” 

You stepped out of the refuge of his expensive looking coat and held your hand out, catching droplets in your palm. “I don’t mind. I just…I just needed to feel the rain on my skin, that’s all.”

You supposed it must’ve seemed strange to him, but the rain always made you feel better. Lately, life had been just a little too overwhelming. There was so much pressure to do well in classes, to hang out with friends while balancing your clubs and sports, as well as making time to write back to your parents. When it all became a bit too much, you tended to come to the Black Lake for some sort of refuge. The rain was just an added bonus. 

If Regulus found your behavior bizarre, he didn’t say. Instead, he just smiled softly. “Well, you got your wish. It’s soaked out here.” 

“I know,” you responded with an enthusiastic nod. “It’s nice, isn’t it?” 

“Standing out in the pouring rain? On a beach where lightning can strike me down at any second? Yes, it’s absolutely splendid.”

Your mouth quirked in amusement. “No one’s telling you to stay out here.” You nodded towards the castle. “You’re more than welcome to take your brooding inside where it’s warm and dry. Not to mention, free of the dangers of lightning strikes, which are extremely rare by the way.” 

“With my luck, I might be the poor one in a million git who gets torched while getting insulted by a pretty girl.” 

“Did I insult you?’ you quipped back. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“You accused me of brooding.” 

“I didn’t accuse, I stated. Even the Wizengamot would have to rule that you were, in fact, brooding.” 

Regulus raised a brow. “What happened to innocent before proven guilty?” 

“Unfortunately, the evidence is overwhelming and the verdict is set. You, Regulus Black, have been sentenced for glaring at the Black Lake so menacingly that even the giant squid refuses to come to shore. Off to Azkaban you go.” 

“Do you promise to write me letters? Update me of how the world’s progressed without my dazzling presence?” 

“It would be my genuine pleasure.” 

Regulus chuckled at your dry humor. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d bantered like this with anyone, much less with a strange not-so-stranger. You sat down on the wet sand and patted the spot beside you with a grin.

“Why don’t you take a seat and tell me all about your troubles.” 

Beyond the bleak horizon, the spires of the castle peeked through the gray clouds. Regulus thought of the common room where his housemates would no doubt be gathered around the ornate fireplace for warmth. Knowing his friends, they’d probably be indulging in spiked hot chocolate and playing some childish drinking game. A few minutes ago, nothing appealed to him more, but now Regulus found himself choosing the violent rain and soggy sand. All because of you, his mystery girl.

You leaned back on your elbows and cocked your head at him. “What ails you, Mr. Black?” 

“That depends. How much do you bill per hour?” 

“Fortunately for you, I’m in a generous mood so I’ll throw in a free session. Consider it my pro-bono work.” 

“How kind of you,” Regulus said with a serious expression. “My brother’s been nagging me to see a mind healer for years. All that childhood trauma, you know.” 

A small smile tugged at your lips, revealing a set of dimples that he found rather charming. “I can’t tell if you’re being serious or not.” 

“My brother is Sirius. I’m Regulus, remember?” 

You snorted in a very unladylike manner, which only made Regulus grin. There was something so unapologetically you in your laugh that was absolutely endearing to him. Regulus smiled and knocked his shoulder against yours. 

You mimicked the action and smiled back at him. “All sarcasm aside, I was being genuine. If you want to talk about it, I’m here to listen.” 

"Do you often offer therapy sessions to complete strangers?"

"Only to surly Slytherins with sad eyes and pretty curls," you quipped back. "And we're not strangers. I sit behind you in potions. We're practically best mates."

"You think my curls are pretty?"

"Like a little cherub's. Are you quite sure you haven't escaped from the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel? You look like one of Michelangelo's angels. Except with way more scowling." Regulus grinned. He got the feeling that you always said whatever you wanted, whenever you wanted. It was refreshing. "There's a smile. See? Our session is already progressing."

"I think you might get more than you bargained for with me, I'm afraid."

You met the challenge in his words head on. "Try me."

“You were right. I’m definitely guilty of brooding.” 

“What happened?” 

Regulus hesitated for a moment. He had never been the type of person to be candid with his feelings, especially not with someone he barely knew. Usually, he just kept his thoughts to himself and ruminated on them in the privacy of his dorm until he drove himself mad by overthinking, but your presence brought him an unexplainable ease. For once in his life, Regulus chose not to question it. 

“I’ve had a long night,” he said, tucking his knees up to his chest. “I just got back from a date.” 

“It didn’t go well?” 

“It was…fine. It’s always fine. But it’s the same thing over and over again, just with a different girl.” 

“I wouldn’t have taken you for a playboy, Regulus Black.”

Regulus chuckled. “I’m not some unscrupulous rake, I assure you.” 

“Yes, that much is obvious from your use of the word unscrupulous.” You tucked your legs underneath you. “So why go on all of these dates if you find them so tedious?” 

“It’s my mother,” Regulus explained. “She has this list.” 

“A list?” 

“Yes, a list of girls that I’m to court. Noble, pureblooded, proper ladies of society that my mother has deemed worthy of marriage.” 

“You’re seventeen years old. Shouldn’t you be worrying about quidditch games and potions exams?” 

Regulus nodded. “Yes, one would think. But my family has always been different. Since my brother left, my parents have been obsessed with grooming me into becoming the perfect heir.” 

“How do you feel about that?” 

He sighed. “Stifled. Exhausted. Smothered. I can feel the weight of their expectations weighing me down every second of every day.” 

“I’m sorry, Regulus. That’s a terrible burden to carry.” 

Regulus shrugged. “Others have it worse.” 

“It doesn’t mean that your problem is any less heavy.” 

To Regulus, the acknowledgement felt oddly validating. Even though you knew nothing of his circumstance, there was wisdom in your words and you delivered it delicately, like you actually cared to hear his troubles. You were devoid of the judgment he'd grown accustomed to and he found that rather freeing.

“It’s just…sometimes I think that I’ll never be the perfect son. My brother, he’s always been the brave one. Classic Gryffindor,” he said with an eye roll. You chuckled, but stayed silent. It was obvious that Regulus had a myriad of thoughts to unpack tonight and you were more than happy to just listen. “Sirius has never cared what anyone thought about him, least of all our parents. I admire that about him, but I just don’t think I’m wired that way. I care too much.” 

“That’s not necessarily a bad thing,” you said softly. “Apathy is so common nowadays, finding someone who can admit that they care is refreshing. Though, I think it’s not without limits. You can’t please everyone. No matter what you do, someone is going to have something to complain about. You might as well be yourself.” 

“That’s exactly the problem,” Regulus pondered. “All of these girls on my mother's list, I think they like the idea of Regulus Black, but he’s an illusion. It isn’t the real me.” 

“Then who is the real you?” 

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I’m just Reggie. I like playing quidditch and reading depressing literature and memorizing obscure history facts. I hate messy rooms and orange juice and anything that crawls.”  

You smiled. “And what kind of girl does Reggie like?” 

“Someone witty. Someone funny. Someone who’ll argue with me. Someone who doesn’t just nod and agree with everything I say."

"So what you're saying is that you don't want a nice girl?"

Regulus shook his head. "No, I think I need someone who challenges me. Who sees me for who I am rather than what I represent. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure the girls on my mother’s list are lovely, but I don’t think they’d actually like me if they knew who I really am.” 

“I don’t know, Reggie seems like a great guy. That Regulus bloke, on the other hand…” you scrunched your nose in disapproval. 

“Hey!” Regulus chided, “I’m pouring my heart out to you. That took a lot of courage, you know.” 

“You’re very brave, Reggie,” you said with a grin. “But you know what would be even braver?” 

Regulus squinted in the rain as you stood to your feet. Lightning crackled over the horizon, illuminating you with an ethereal silver glow. You held out your hand to him. “Come dance with me.” 

“Deathly afraid of being struck by lightning, remember?” 

“Sorry, what?” You asked as you shimmied around him. It wasn’t graceful by any means. It was the goofiest thing he’d ever seen and yet he’d never been so enthralled. You danced without a care in the world and it made him genuinely laugh. “I can’t hear you over all the fun I’m having.” 

"This is ridiculous," he said over the roaring thunder.

You shrugged. "Perhaps. But everyone's allowed to be a little ridiculous sometimes. Besides, I was asking Reggie not Regulus."

“Are you really trying to peer pressure me into dancing with you?” 

“That depends,” you replied with a cheeky smile. “Is it working?” 

Regulus conceded with a sigh and leapt to his feet. The youngest Black brother bowed like a proper gentleman. “May I have this dance, my lady?"

“You may, good sir.” 

You grinned up at him as he took you by the waist and waltzed with you across the sand. Surprisingly, Regulus let you take the lead. He chuckled when you stepped on his toes and laughed even harder when you tried to twirl him. Towering a good foot over you, Regulus had to fully crouch for the maneuver to work. 

Finally, you gave up the formality and just spun around in dizzying circles. There was absolutely no rhyme or rhythm to it. Just two idiots dancing in the rain with the biggest smiles on their faces. 

Your coordination, or lack thereof, caused you to almost faceplant into the sand. Regulus yelped as you took him down with you. By the time you recovered from the laughing fit, the two of you were red-faced, out of breath, and laying side by side along the shore. He turned over to you and brushed a stray strand of hair behind your ear. 

“That was the most fun I’ve had in years.” 

“See? There’s more to life than just being moody and melancholic.” 

“So this mystery girl of mine keeps reminding me,” Regulus said with a smile. “You never told me your name, by the way.” 

“Wow, you don’t even know my name? I’m offended, Reggie. We’ve only been in classes together since fifth year.” 

“I—we’ve never been introduced—” 

You broke out into a smile and giggled. You thought it was cute that Reggie was so easily flustered. “I’m just kidding, Reggie.” 

He sighed in relief as you stuck out your hand. “Y/N. My name is Y/N.” 

Regulus slipped his hand into yours. He cocked his head, studying your eyes and your smile and those cute little dimples. 

Y/N. The last name on his mother’s list. The one he saved for last because he didn’t know who she was. 

The French had a saying—le coup de foudre. The infamous phrase translated to a bolt of lightning or love at first sight. Regulus had long dismissed it as flowery prose, but thanks to his mystery girl, he started to think that maybe the Parisians were onto something because meeting you tonight felt preordained. A date with fate. Like a bolt of lightning streaking through his dark, endless skies.

“It’s nice to meet you, Y/N.” 

You grinned. “It’s nice to meet you, Reggie.” 

Regulus smiled and laced your fingers together. He was frozen, it was raining, and he was fairly certain that you were both probably going to catch a cold, but he didn’t care. In that moment, as he stared up at the sky, blinking back the rain, and intertwining his fingers with yours, Regulus had never felt more content. 

So no, Regulus did not believe in love at first sight, but love at second, third, and even fourth glance? He smiled a little as he gazed back at you, letting his gaze linger as he drank in that infectious laugh and sunny grin. 

You made him think that maybe, just maybe, a girl like you could convert a skeptic like him into a devout believer.

[diejager]

I saw something about Victorian COD so hear me out-

Victorian Price in the fanciest suit

I'm sorry but that man would be so hooooooooooot as a Victorian gentleman, it fits his vibe

p.s. Happy 2024!!!!!!!

I got to this 3 months later… Happy belated new year 😅

Cw: flirting? Price being a gentleman, older man/younger woman, established relationship, tell me if I missed any.

Your father’s business parties had always been boring, they were a chore for you to keep a perfect facade to the public, the frail yet strong lady of the house, donned in ridiculously frilly dresses and thighs corsets. Your mother had fussed over it your entire life, her rough fingers, brought from her commoner background, had made her harsher in every manner to keep her title, for you to keep yours as a noble born into a world of riches. But the upkeep of it was useless when you had no part in it, forced to play a part in something you had no right to be a part of. 

Granted, you had your reservation, understanding that being on the same side as your father had it’s perks, the power his title - soon to be passed down to your older brother once your father passed - and his money. You didn’t necessarily depend on it wholly, you might live in his home, eat from his cooks and call for the maids and butlers he employed, but you had your studio away from home, somewhere in the city where you painted under natural light and sold portraits to people who paid you for a commission. 

It wasn’t as grand as being a merchant, to sell the luxuries most nobles sought - gems, fabrics, gold and silver - but it built you connections, your work passed from mouth to ear, one noble at a time, and one town at a time. You had your clientele and your father had his, you had an image to keep for something you worked so hard for, but to invest an equal amount of face and finesse in a snobbish party was draining. Fortunately, a few of your father’s work affiliates were regular clients at your little studio, sending letters to you months in advance to organise dates for you to paint them, it varied between one and a few months.

Your favourite was a British merchant company, lead by one bear of a man that you knew well, managed by three - a kind-hearted brit with beautiful skin, a boisterous Scot with his unusual haircut, and a broad and rugged man who hid his identity under a fearsome mask - other you were well-acquainted with and advised by a strong headed woman too advanced for your era. John Price was his name, a man a decade older than you, but treated you kinder than any man had before him, a gentleman in a beautiful suit and slacks, a red shirt and waxed shoes. He - coincidentally - matched your attire, your frilly, red chemise with a high and bowed collar, the sleeves long and rumpled in waves of red silk, waist high pants that hugged your body the same way your mother’s corset hugged her form and slick shoes that shone under the high chandeliers. 

“You seem bored, love,” his soft and baritone voice never failed to make you shudder, his hand on your back a reminder than he was with you.

He was always the gentleman, a man who worked his way to nobility, gaining a title and land through blood, sweat and tears. He was known for his trades, selling and shipping a large variety of items that some considered exotic simply because nobles hated interacting with foreigners, a kind of bred racism and xenophobia through generations to fear any uprising from their colonies and other countries. He was as broad as his company was known, every core member of it respected for climbing the echelon of society through hard work. Some purebred nobles might hate him for taking a title without being born into it, but none could object his craft, like an artist couldn’t do hate their canvas. 

“There isn’t much to do, is there, John?” You nodded towards your father, knowing that he was observant enough to see the slightest of movement, “My father is… he loves bathing in luxury, in the popularity his name brings.”

He hummed, a low rumble from his throat, his eyes narrowed almost threateningly, but you knew the amused gleam in his eyes. You had years to get to know him, once an occasional client - a man who stumbled into your studio wanting to let a newly risen artist a chance to paint him, admiring your work for the smooth and confident strokes - who brought his art trade to you, now a trusted friend, someone you were blasphemously closed too for someone your age. 

Your friendship hadn’t lasted long, the constant coaching from Kyle and Johnny, the silent push from Simon and the proud smile from Kate had both of you meeting halfway, throwing you into his open arms and fooling around at the back of your studio until John could take you away to marry.Eloping and always sounded interesting, you weren’t needed at home, your father had an heir and your mother had your younger sister to worry about.

“He flaunts it foolishly, yes,” he agreed, raising the cup to his lips, tipping it until the champagne flowed down the glass rim, “But we have a contract, one I intend to uphold until he complete his end of it. And I met you.”

He turned to you, a tender smile hidden under his beard, his stormy blues softening as he peered down at you, adoration gleaming in his eyes. You wished you could kiss him, to grip him by the collar and pull him down to press your lips against his course ones, to kiss him deeply and show him the love you felt for him. 

“I would, love, but we’re in public,” had you spoken out loud? It seemed you did if John answered you, his chuckles shaking his shoulders, “Would you come home with me once I’ve finished my business?”

“Of course, John.”

Taglist: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @im-making-an-effort @daisychainsinknots @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @danielle143 @tuttifuckinfruttifriday @notspiders @brokenpieces-72 @petwifed @randominstake @cassiecasluciluce @hayleybarnesx @shironasumi @sparky--bunny @bloobewy @infpt-zylith @sweetnanah @aldis-nuts @evolutionarry @kaoyamamegami

[jamespotterismydaddy]

Lord Husband (Chapter 3)

Cregan x reader

A/N: reader is me today

word count: 1,287 words

Last chapter

Series Masterlist

It’s been weeks since the betrothal and your mother hasn’t stopped trying to get you to bond with Cregan, but it has been to no avail. She’s only managed to get you into a room with him a handful of times since the surprise breakfast and you’ve become more cunning in your avoidance of her and your future lord husband. Though, one thing you can’t avoid is a direct summons to the Queen’s chambers. You decide to don her favourite jewels around your neck for the visit in hopes of quelling her, what is likely to be, pure rage.

“Your Grace.” You say respectfully as you enter her solar. She looks at you and you can’t read a single emotion on her face.

“You have a fortnight.” She says simply.

“A fortnight until…?” You look at her, confused.

“A fortnight until you go to Winterfell.” She replies and then takes a sip of her tea like the words weren’t going to shatter your soul.

You look at her, appalled. “You jest.” You say back to her. It isn’t a question.

“I do not. You ought to begin packing your things.”

“But we’ve hardly begun courting!” You try to justify in an attempt to prolong your stay in King’s Landing.

“You’ve been courting near two months.” Rhaenyra says. “And you’ll spend at least a month on the road.”

“On the road?” You ask in disbelief. “I cannot fly there?”

“I’m not sure how much I trust that you will reach the intended destination.”

Silence.

“Why must I?” You ask softly. “I have no need to wed. You have five sons; that is plenty of heirs. What is it that one child stays unmarried?”

“Some traditions must be followed.” She says, her eyes filled with sorrow for her only daughter.

“Then what use is it that you’re the Queen?” You ask, a bite in your words.

“Things are different when you’re a woman. Perhaps if I wasn’t the first queen of Westeros, the rules could be bent a bit more but they cannot. Not with how things are right now.” She speaks tenderly. You understand her meaning and there is an uncomfortable silence as you ponder her words. She walks over and grabs your hands so she can hold them in her own. You tug them away gently.

“Alright.” Is all you can say, just enough for her to see that you understand, that you agree. You curtsey to her. “Your Grace.” You say formally before swiftly walking out of the solar. You don’t greet a single noble as you make your way to your chambers, keeping your head low. You don’t care if they think you’re impolite. You’ll likely only see these people a handful of times after you’re sent away in two weeks to be wedded bedded and bred. 

Ser Steffon Darklyn, your protector, greets you when you get to your door. “Princess.” He bows politely but you just push past him, surprising the man.

You hyperventilate a little bit when you enter the room and you clutch your stomach. You’re upset and nervous but most of all, you’re filled to the brim with boiling hot rage. Rage that you have to be married, rage that you have to move thousands of miles away and, at the pit of your stomach, fear towards the fact that your mother may not be as all powerful as you once thought she was.

You take a glance towards a very expensive looking ornate vase. You don’t think twice as you hurl it across the room and watch it hit a wall before it shatters into a million pieces. Ser Steffon is in the room before you have a chance to blink and is grabbing your arms before you have a chance to destroy a very lovely portrait of Queen Rhaena. You’re glad he stopped you; you adore that painting.

“Get out.” You breathe out the words.

“But princess-”

“I said get out!” You shout at him and this time he obeys you, deciding that you aren’t likely to destroy any more priceless artifacts.

You throw yourself onto your bed and unceremoniously scream into your pillow. You then curl yourself into a ball and begin to sob.

~~~

You spend 30 minutes crying and sulking before you hear a knock at your door.

“I’m unavailable at the moment.” You call out, hoping it is simply a servant with tea or something who will leave right away.

In walks Rhaena. You know at the very least her and Baela heard your meltdown, with their rooms being the closest to yours and all, and you wonder to yourself if they discussed who would be the one to come speak with you. Rhaena is much better at pep talks.

“I could have been dressing.” You say to her.

“We used to swim naked together all the time on Dragonstone.” She replies, a hint of a smile gracing her lips.

“That when then.” You say wistfully.

“That was hardly two years ago.” She says softly as she walks a little closer to you and sits on the edge of your bed. Your sister is seemingly waiting for you to speak up first.

You say nothing.

“It’s good to talk about what ails you.” She reaches out to rub your back. You know she’s right.

“Jacaerys should be married first. He is the heir.” You whisper out.

“I know.”

“That’s it?” You ask incredulously.

“What do you want me to say?”

“Say ‘yes, sister, everything that is happening to you is completely unreasonable and we ought to fly away to Old Valyria and never return’.” She giggles slightly.

“Are you so keen to find out what made Aerea go mad?”

“You know what I mean.” The joking tone is gone from your voice.

“I understand how you’re feeling and you have a right to be upset about it.” Rhaena says softly. “But your situation cannot be changed.”

“I don’t want to be forced into coming to terms with it.” You say sternly. “And you could never understand. You’re marrying Lucerys, who you love, and you’ll live out your days in your mother’s ancestral home. I’m marrying an irritating man who I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about and i’ll live out my days in a frozen wasteland while my dragon slowly deteriorates in the cold.” Your sweet sister looks a bit put off by your words and slightly hurt by your tone but she doesn’t take it personally.

“My only wish is for you to be happy.” She retracts the comforting hand from you. “And you’ll never be happy if you don’t make an effort with your betrothed. Baela and I are lucky to be marrying Jace and Luke but you could also do plenty worse than Cregan Stark.  He is kind and dutiful and, i’d say, plenty handsome. Many girls end up a lot worse off than you.” She grabs your face in her hands. “He’ll care for you.” She wipes a few tears from your eyes and just looks at you for a moment before standing. “Sleep well.” She says before leaving you to your thoughts. She always knows the right time to leave.

She is correct, you suppose. There are plenty worse men than your betrothed. Some would even call you ungrateful for not appreciating him. Those same people would call you dim for squandering your chance to select your own husband and you almost wish now that you could turn back time but it isn’t your fault. You never would have expected that your mother would do to you what her father did to her. You aren’t stupid for hoping she would understand. After all, she was once also just a teenage girl.

taglist (comment to be added): General: @valeskafics @urmomsgirlfriend1 @girlwith-thepearlearring @darylandbethfanforever9 @lovellies @juhdoche @papichulo120627 @watercolorskyy

Lord husband: @feyres-fireheart @possiblyafangirl @hb8301 @marihoneywk @youn-jo @velvet-spider @janelongxox @ninastyless @nyctophilic0vitnir @m-a-s-h-k-a @delicious-xx @weepingfashionwritingplaid @happinessinthebeing @betelrus @joliettes @black-swan-blog27 @mxtokko @valeridarkness

[blackopals-world]

What Nurseries would the fem!AU(Yuus) build

(Look I have baby fever and I'm tired of fighting it)

Vet!FemYuu

Stuffed animals everywhere

Doesn't care if it's a boy or girl they aren't changing it.

Every book will be animal fables

Is praying for the baby to be a beastman but just wants a healthy baby.

Got a bunch of teething toys just in case the kid has their milk teeth come early.

Rainforest noise machine

Once the baby is a few months they are going everywhere in a sling.

The baby will meet all of Yuu's patients and will be constantly covered in fur and feathers.

If the baby becomes interested in fish like their aunt Yuu will cry. She won't let her win!

Marine Biologist!FemYuu

A bit chaotic in decoration

Let's Azul decorate it the first time and cried because it was beige like those weird rich people who only care about aesthetic but have no real sense of style. Like, no color? Babies need color!

Yuu cries while explaining (it's the hormones)

She hates beige

Azul wouldn't argue with a pregnant woman

She wants sushi but doesn't know if she can have it if the baby is half mer.

They installed a tank in the room just encase the baby is a mer

The tweels are banned from holding the baby until the kid can sit up on their own.

Took the baby to swim classes to awaken their natural instincts to swim like all babies even especially fishy babies.

Chef!femYuu

Red and gold for good luck and prosperity.

Pandas for peace and protection.

She wanted everything to be traditional but knows how demanding it will be.

No hot foods, no crab, no lamb, mutton, no sushi, no soft cheese, no soft serve ice cream.

She's dying.

After the baby is born a feast of pig trotters, eggs, cakes, chicken and gelatinous rice is served. She will dye the eggs red.

The baby will get an anti-usog bracelet at birth

She is superstitious so no one will see the baby's clothes before birth.

Noble!FemYuu

Too much? Yeah.

Unfortunately, she insisted due to family tradition. Every child must use this crib first.

The baby has a different crib in every room so it doesn't matter.

Everyone needs to know how precious this baby is. The need to see this crib from space.

More silk! More pillows! More toys! More!More! More!

This baby will have like five names.

This baby will be lorded over the masses as the perfect example of a baby.

Portraits will be painted of this baby that will one day be hung in great halls and later art galleries.

Yuu is way too excited and honestly, even the baby is fed up.

She trying her best.

Special Forces!femYuu

We all know who the father is.

Yep, Rook designed this room

Doesn't matter if it's a boy or girl either.

Yuu was way too tired to stop him and she didn't even try to stop him.

Rook really wants a girl and will try again if it doesn't happen. (he was going to try again anyways)

You'd think he was giving birth with the effort he put in.

Yuu would make him do it if she could. But alas.

The couple was using their pet bunnies as pseudo babies while prepping for the pregnancy. They bunnies weren't happy except for one.

Pistolet the weirdo. Rook's favorite and the dumb one. He was also the future baby's best friend.

Yuu is an iron woman honestly, she shows no pregnancy symptoms while Rook has sympathy pregnancy symptoms.

They eat shaved ice and watch war movies together. Couple goals.

Gardener!FemYuu

A little English cottage nursery

Very whimsical

The baby isn't actually going to use a crib until they are whined because Yuu insisted on co-sleeping despite what the doctor said.(don't do this)

Yuu wanted to deliver the same way as her mother and her mother's mother. In field, by themselves, while harvesting the crops. Have that sucker out in an hour, swaddle it, and back to work.

That didn't happen. They went to a hospital and iron woman over here was put on extended bed rest after giving birth to a big ass baby. Beautiful too.

(???)!Fem?Yuu

They can have kids??

By who?

How?

I mean it's nice but I'm still confused?

Good for them?

You sure that baby isn't a cryptid? That thing has a lot of hair. Looks like that girl from "The Ring". That's alot of hair.

Well, good luck with your hairy baby.

[larobeblanche]

Francisco José de Goya y Lucientes (Spanish, 1746-1828) • Portrait of the Marchioness of Santa Cruz • 1805 • Museo del Prado

[averagewriter-inthedark]

Me & The Devil P.1 🌘| Harry Potter Imagine

Set during Order of the Phoenix to DHP2

Harry Potter Masterlist | Part 2 Here

Characters & Pairings: Black!Sister reader x HP characters (platonic)

Content Warnings: death, violence, profanity, angst, slight cannon divergence, mentions of torture and blood, set during the book timeline of the 1990s | female!reader (she/her) | wc: 6k

Requested 📨 yes/no

Premise: Everyone has light and dark inside them. That’s what Sirius told Harry that night in Grimmauld Place. It was how one chooses to act that sets the stone of who they are as a person. It’s something Harry has to remind himself when he encounters Sirius’s cousin, the youngest of the Black sisters, Y/n. After 14 years in a cold, dark cell, Y/n’s accepted she no longer believes in angels. And the Devil himself wouldn’t want to cross her

Note: this is part 1 to a 2 part imagine where I had the idea that Sirius had another cousin, Bellatrix & Narcissa's youngest sister who has quite the age gap between them and was forced to become a death eater but has no loyalty to either side since both failed her. Part 2 should be out later this week so i hope you enjoy this!

—————————

The floors of 12, Grimmauld Place creaked beneath Harry’s shoes as he entered the room at the end of the staircase he had been following Hermoine and Ron down. What drew his attention in the first place was the wallpaper. A green based mural branching out in the form of a tree. As Harry got closer he made out the portraits embedded into the wall, as were their names, birthdates and date of death if they’d passed. Some areas were black, covering up the picture seated above the name. 

Harry flinched back upon notice of the house elf, Krecher, nestled inside the room. He mumbled something he couldn’t quite make out, then said, “Harry Potter. The boy who stopped the Dark Lord. Friend of mudbloods and blood traitors alike.” Unsure of what to say, Harry just stood looking down at the elf in silence. “My poor mistress--.” A loud voice cut him off.

“Kreacher!” It belonged to Sirius. “That’s enough of your bile.” Waving a finger, he dismissed the elf. “Away with ya!”

Clasping his hands, Krecher lowered his head, “Of course, Master. Kreacher is pleased to serve the Noble House of Black.” He stalked off and away from the two. Passing Sirius on his way out. 

Entering the room, Sirius gave an apologetic look, “Sorry about that. He never was very pleasant--even when I was a boy.” There was a slight pause, “not to me.”

Surprise took over Harry’s face, “Wh-wha-you grew up here?”

“This is my parents' house,” his Godfather explained, “I offered it up to Dumbledore as headquarters for the Order.” A hand trailed the edge of the doorway, “About the only useful thing I’ve been able to do.” Dark eyes landed on the mural, seeing it was the object of Harry’s attention, “This is the Black family tree.”

Sirius couldn’t help but land his gaze on the branches depicting his cousins. Andromeda’s was burnt out, much like his. The only cousin he was still fond of. 

Well…..she wouldn’t have been the only one. 

For Narcissa, under her name was Lucius Malfoy, with a branch leading to their only son, Draco. Sirius’s eyes narrowed on the one beside Andromeda’s.

“My deranged cousin,” Harry picked up on the distaste in his tone. Following Sirius’ gaze where it landed on the portrait of a young woman with wild curly hair and high cheekbones. Bellatrix. Beneath her name was Rodolphus Lestrange. “I hated the lot of them.” 

Looking past the next portrait, though Harry caught his posture stiffen when his eyes glazed over it, Sirius maintained his composure. Focusing back on his hateful family, “My parents with their blood mania.” Raising his hand, his fingers brushed over the blackened spot where his face once laid. Sadness laced his voice, “My mother did that after I ran away. Charming woman,” his arm dropped back to his side. “I was sixteen.”

Part of him wanted to question his Godfather’s reaction to the portrait, but knew it wasn’t the right moment. He was curious. Especially since the name was unlike the other members of the House of Black. Like Narcissa, she wasn’t named after a celestial body or constellation. 

Frowning, feeling the hurt radiate off Sirius, Harry instead asked, “Where did you go?”

“To your dad’s. I was always welcomed at the Potters,” A small smile curled on Sirius’ lips as he glanced over Harry. Kind eyes the boy had grown accustomed to. “I see him so much in you, Harry. You are so very much alike.”

The next few minutes involved Harry confessing to Sirius his connection to Voldemort. Voicing concern of the possibility he was turning into him. Sirius assured Harry he was a good person, who’s had bad things happen to him. Followed by educating the boy on how everyone had their own angels and demons. Light and dark. Good and bad. How the only thing that matters is what part people chose to act on.

The entire time Sirius explained this to Harry, he thought of the portrait behind him. Almost like her painted eyes were boring into the back of his head. Reminding him of how he failed her. Much like everyone else in their family. 

Once good. Turning bad due to the odds against her. 

Maybe there was still some good deep down. Sirius prayed so. But the chances of him ever discovering were about as slim as convincing the Minister Voldermort was back. 

“Sounds like you know from experience,” Harry said aloud, eyes trailing to the portrait behind Sirius. The one he noticed him trying to avoid. Yet managing to show how deeply this relative affected him.

Sighing, the man turned on his heel, staring at the portrait. No longer able to visibly hide his emotion as he read the name Y/n -- 1967.

“My cousin, Y/n,” his tone lacked malice compared to when he spoke of Bellatrix. “The youngest of the Black sisters. My aunt and uncle were shocked to learn they were expecting a fourth child--nearly twelve years after they had Narcissa.” Fingers brushed over her name, smiling softly as memories surfaced in his mind like a film. “Drove her parents wild with her energy. I was eight when she was born, and as I got older she’d follow me around the house. A little shadow if I must say.” Harry heard him chuckle to himself, “one summer I brought her to meet your father and Remus--didn’t tell her mother mind you. I nearly met my end at the hands of Druella’s wand when we returned that night.” It was as clear as if it were yesterday. 

Young 14 year old Sirius with Y/n, aged six at the time, on his hip as they made their way to Diagon Alley to buy sweets she was not allowed to have. She instantly fell in love with James and Remus, as did the boys adore her. She was so different from her older sisters--who had graduated Hogwarts ages ago and were off with their own lives. Meaning the child was alone majority of the time with only the house elves tending to her. Her father worked and her mother did the bare minimum. That’s why Sirius would visit her often. To make sure she was okay. Y/n clinged to Sirius like a puppy. Much like that day where she begged to go with him to meet his friends. She wanted to explore the outside world her parents isolated her from. 

Y/n didn’t display the blood mania her family was known for. And when her parents would preach it, the girl kept her attention on her dolls and drawing pictures with her crayons Sirius had smuggled her. The older cousin prayed she’d never turn out like them. Only he knew with the tensions of a certain Dark Wizard making rounds in London, Sirius feared for Y/n’s safety. And sanity. Especially after overhearing Bellatrix’s plans to begin teaching Y/n the dark arts before she entered Hogwarts.

If only Sirius took her away. Brought her to the safety of the Potters like she wanted. “You can’t leave, Sirius,” she cried, the now eight-year old grasping his pant leg to prevent him from leaving the house. Tears painted her chubby face. It broke his heart to see. “Please don’t leave me here--I-I’m scared of them. P-please, cousin. Take me with you!”

Oh how he wanted to. If he did then he’d save Y/n from her fate. From Bellatrix. From Voldemort. But a kidnapping charge he’d surely receive by taking Y/n Black away from her parents would have Sirius spend the rest of his life in Azkaban.

A reality he’d face years later for a different reason. 

“What happened to her?” Harry’s voice brought him out his thoughts. The man shrugged his shoulders to shake off the tension in his muscles. A frown painted his features.

“She’s serving a life sentence in Azkaban.” It hurt him more to say it out loud. The reality had sunk in. As though it had been a dream the past 14 years. Sirius remembered how his heart dropped when the news spread of Y/n’s imprisonment. Bellatrix’s was no shock. He’d been hoping his deranged cousin would be locked away. 

But his sweet baby cousin who cried when she saw her father yelling at the house elves. That he could’ve never imagined. Even when the headline on the Daily Prophet told him the truth in big, bold letters, ‘Life sentence for 15-year-old Death Eater, Y/n Black. Cousin of notorious mass murderer, Sirius Black and younger sister of Death Eater Bellatrix Lestrange.’  Sirius didn’t believe for a second Y/n acted on her own accord.

“She was never like the rest of them,” He told Harry after a moment of silence. Noticing the boy’s worried look, Sirius softly shook his head. “My cousin is a rare case, Harry. A prime example of becoming everything she hated as a result of the circumstances around her. Not a day goes by where I don’t feel regret by not being there for her. Had I been so…,” he pictured what could’ve been, “She’d likely be here with us. The Order.”

Harry pictured it too. Sirius’s tone gives him indication that Sirius still cared for Y/n. Wishing fate had turned out different for her. For both of them. 

Hermoine appeared moments later to announce they had to leave. Sirius ended the conversation with a promise to Harry that when all was over, they’d be a family again. Living in Grimmauld Place in peace. With a hug goodbye, Harry exited the room, but not before catching his Godfather gave one last glance to Y/n’s portrait. 

Crouched in her cell, hands over her ears like they were most days, Y/n shook from the cold wind. Willing the voices in her head to disappear. A constant battle she faced everyday since the chains were first put on her. Some of them were the distant echo of Azkaban's prisoners below. Others she was sure she kept imagining. 

The first two years Y/n cried every day. By the fifth year she stopped reacting to everything around her. Once the tenth year of her sentence passed, only a shell of her remained. Staring at the wall with her hands covering her ears. The same routine. Everyday.

But today was going to be different. The voices were louder than usual. Causing difficulty to keep them at bay.

Suddenly Y/n winced with a light shriek, a burning sensation erupting along her forearm. Gaze dropping down, the ink of where her dark mark laid bolded. The feeling intensified. Y/n didn’t know how to react. Only experiencing numbness at what it meant.

A loud explosion caught her attention on the left side of her cell. Followed by the maniacal laughter of her sister. Rising from her position, Y/n’s bare feet brushed against rocks and freezing water. Rats scurried past as she walked toward where the window of her cell had been. The wind grew stronger with each step, nearly sweeping her off balance. 

When she breached the area responsible for the explosion, Y/n had a clear image of the sky above her. The ocean’s treacherous waves beneath her. And dementors flying rapidly in the distance. There was no stopping the smirk from painting her chapped lips. Her eyes that were normally empty pits of nothing, suddenly emerged with an emotion unable to contain. 

She was free. 

It was the only thing on his mind when he read the paper that morning. Plaguing his thoughts with a newfound fear. Everywhere he went that day Neville saw the headline, “Mass Breakout From Azkaban.” Following the names of the high security prisoners freed from its confines. On the front page below the headline, moving images of two women were enough to have some of the students shivering. Bellatrix, with her wild curly hair, appeared crazed. While the woman in the image beside her was in a state of despair. Neville shuddered when his eyes locked on hers. Y/n Black. 

She couldn’t have appeared older than he was now. Fifteen. 

Curiosity getting the best of him, Neville turned the page to read up more on the sisters. When he got to Y/n, Neville was shocked to learn the girl had been the youngest prisoner in Azkaban in its entire history. Aged fifteen, in her fifth year of Hogwarts. Juveniles were never sent to the hellish institution. Yet, due to the nature of her crimes and association to Voldermort, the Ministry bent laws to lock her up. 

Reading the summary dedicated to her upbringing, Y/n had been sorted into Slytherin House at Hogwarts, skilled in Charms, and is alleged to be an Occulmens. It’s said she failed to return to Hogwarts during what would have been her fifth year. Not long after it was reported Y/n Black had been part of the group to torture esteemed Aurors Frank and Alice Longbottom to gain information on Voldermort. Alongside her sister, Bellatrix, her brother-in-law, his brother and Barty Crouch Jr. During her arrest and trial, Y/n insisted she’d been forced to use the curse for fear the others would kill her. 

Which was true. Bellatrix made it clear to the young Black what the consequences for stepping out of line would be.

But it wasn’t enough in the Ministry’s eyes. Not when the other Death Eaters, Bellatrix included, testified Y/n had complied with no resistance. And so the first juvenile, the youngest Death Eater, was locked away in Azkaban. The sentence: eternity. 

Now she was free.

Later that day, during DA practice, Neville found himself in front of the mirror showing pictures and news articles relating to their cause. The others saying goodbye and making their way out of the Room of Requirement. Neville, however, remained. His stare on the image of the original Order of the Phoenix. His parents.

Harry came up beside him, neither addressing the other at first. Then, after a moment of silence and confidence, Neville confided in his friend.

“Fourteen years ago, a Death Eater named Bellatrix Lestrange and her sister, Y/n Black, used the Cruciatus Curse on my parents. They tortured them for information, but they never gave in.” Looking down at Harry, Neville added after a pause, “I’m quite proud to be their son, but…I’m not sure I’m ready for everyone to know just yet.”

Harry nodded, understanding what his friend was asking of him. Swearing to secrecy. “We’re gonna make them proud, Neville. That’s a promise.” 

The Hall of Prophecies was dark. Eerie. The only light emitting from the group's wands and orbs lightly glowing in their stands. The group had rushed to the Ministry upon Harry’s vision Sirius had been taken hostage by Voldemort, tortured into telling him where the prophecy was. They were in for a shock when they arrived.

Sirius wasn’t there. Neither was Voldemort. 

It was Neville who alerted the boy of the glass orb dedicated to him. Grasping it in his hand, the voice of Sybil Trelawney echoed through the silence, “The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches. And the Dark Lord shall mark him as his equal but he shall have power the Dark Lord knows not…..and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other  survives….”

“Harry!” he turned to his friends, finding them frozen as they stared at the figure approaching. Harry pushed past, standing in front of the group. The figure was masked by a silver face, cloaked from head to toe. 

A Death Eater.

“Where’s Sirius?” Harry questioned him,his wand raised. 

“You know you really should know how to tell the difference between dreams…..” the man removed his wand from a familiar cane, waving it in front of his face to remove the mask. Revealing none other than Lucius Malfoy. “And reality.” Everyone tensed, anxiety starting to consume them. “You saw only what the Dark Lord wanted you to see. Now hand me the prophecy.” Harry stood his ground.

“You do anything to us I’ll break it.”

Suddenly a maniacal laugh entered the scene. Intensifying their unease. The shadow of someone behind Lucius coming toward the dim lights. “He knows how to play. Itty. Bitty. Baby. Potter.” The group’s eyes landed on the face of one of the women plastered on every front page of the Daily Prophet. Neville was the first to address her.

“Bellatrix Lestrange.”

“Neville Longbottom, is it?” she mocked with a wicked smile, “How’s mom and dad?” Lucius rolled his eyes at her antics. Neville, however, was enraged. 

“Better now that they’re about to be avenged.” In a split second he lifted his want, hoping to cast a spell on the one responsible for his parents torture. Harry was quick to stop him, just as Bellatrix raised her own wand to defend herself. 

“Now let’s…” Lucius slowly held his hands up. “Everybody just calm down. Shall we?” The group lowered their wands slightly, but not completely. “All we want is that prophecy.” 

“Why did Voldermort need me to come get this?”

“You dare speak his name?” Bellatrix’s eyes widened, appalled by the boy’s courage. “You filthy Half-blood!!”

Again, Lucius attempted to de-escalate the scene, “It’s all right, he’s just a curious lad. Aren’t you?”

Before anyone spoke another word, footsteps from the side filled their ears. “You know what they say about curiosity?” her voice was raspy and void of any emotion. Almost robotic. Harry slowly turned his head, mentally preparing himself to face his Godfather’s youngest cousin. Beside him, Neville paled. Unable to comprehend being in the same room as the Black sisters. It was suffocating.

Y/n Black’s expression matched her tone. Numb. An empty shell was the best description. Not even reacting when Harry pointed his wand in her direction. She simply stalked toward them, finishing her riddle, “It killed the cat. But….something tells me you might be the lucky bastard to live to see it, Harry Potter.” 

“Nice of you to finally join us, Y/n,” Lucius narrowed his eyes, watching her move so she was now in between the duo and group. Harry’s wand merely a few centimeters from her chest. The glowing light illuminating her face. 

Comparing her to the portrait on the Black Family Tree, Harry noticed all the striking differences. Of course, nearly 15 years had passed since Y/n was locked away in Azkaban. Her baby fat completely gone, likely due from the malnourishment prison had to offer. However, unlike her sister Bellatrix and Sirius before them, Y/n did not come across as a walking corpse. Much time hadn’t passed since her escape, yet she looked healthy. Teeth white and hair silky. Nails long and painted black. Skin blemish free save for a tiny scar on her lip. She was strikingly beautiful. 

Harry then remembered reading in the paper that Y/n was skilled in charms. Rumored to have created her own during her time at Hogwarts. She probably had one to alter her appearance. And considering Bellatrix looked rather unsettling, either Y/n did not offer her talent or Bellatrix refused. Judging by Y/n’s reaction to her associates, it was the former. 

She ignored Lucius, answering Harry’s question instead, “Prophecies can only be retrieved by those about whom they are made. Which is lucky for you, really.” Her brow raised slightly, “Surely Sirius told you. He’d be foolish not when he knows the Dark Lord desires it.”

Backing away from Harry, Y/n turned on her heel, nudging Lucius with her shoulder causing him to groan. Focusing back on the task at hand, the blonde narrowed his eyes on Harry. “Haven’t you always wondered what was the reason for the connection between you and the Dark Lord?” He moved closer, hands still raised. It was then the group noticed more Death Eaters surrounding them. “Why he was unable to kill you when you were just an infant?”

Bellatrix trailed behind Lucius. Their associates closing in on the students. Meanwhile Y/n stayed behind, not bothering to engage. Harry caught her gaze a few times, noting how disinterested she was by the entire ordeal.

“Don’t you want to know the secret of your scar?” Lucius captured his attention once more. “All the answers are there. In your hand.” Lucius encouraged Harry with a look, “All you have to do is give it to me, and I can show you everything.” 

“I’ve waited fourteen years,” Harry said, aware of the approaching footsteps of the Death Eaters getting louder. Waiting for the perfect moment.

“I know.” 

“I guess I can wait a little longer--Now!!” Simultaneously, the group all shouted, “Stupefy!!” 

After a brief fight against the Death Eaters to escape the Hall of Prophecies, the group found themselves falling to what they thought was their death. At the last second, Hermoine casted Arresto Momentum to slow time for them to safely land, grunting as their bodies met the rock. Scanning their surroundings, Harry spotted an archway with an iridescent glow to it. As he moved closer, voices were heard.  “Voices, can you tell what they're saying?”

Confused, Hermoine replied with what they were all thinking, “There aren’t any voices, Harry. Let’s get out of here.”

“I hear them too,” Luna spoke, staring at the arch in wonder. It was difficult to hear clearly what the voices were saying. But they grew louder with each step.

“Harry,” Hermoine pleaded, “it’s just an empty archway.” In the distance, the group heard the Death Eaters approaching. “Please, Harry.” Harry spun around with his wand raised.

“Get behind me!” They followed his order, ready to confront the oncoming threat. They unfortunately, however, were blindsided when the Death Eaters in their black smokey form attacked from behind. Grunts and gasps left the teens, Harry dropping to the ground, clutching the prophecy in his hand. About 15 seconds passed before he opened his eyes to discover he was alone. 

Dread consumed him, the boy standing to find his friends. He found them several feet away and spaced out. In the hands of Death Eaters. Ginny and Luna to his right, the Weasley girl gripped at the collar by Y/n Black. Neville struggles against Bellatrix Lestrange, Ron and Hermoine manhandled by the Lestrange brothers. A dry chuckle captured Harry’s attention, watching Lucius Malfoy stroll up to where he stood.

“Did you actually believe, or were you truly naive enough to think….children stood a chance against us?” Lucius made eye contact with the wicked smile of Bellatrix, whereas he met Y/n’s vicious glare. Her hold on Ginny wasn’t as tight as the others, almost like she didn’t view the girl as a threat. 

“I’ll make this simple for you, Potter,” Lucius held out his hand. “Give me the prophecy now….or watch your friends die.” Harry looked at his friends, their frightened gazes making his heart fall to his stomach.

“Don’t give it to him, Harry!” Neville shouts, only to be hushed by Bellatrix, who snaps her wand from his head to his neck forcefully. 

The Boy who Lived draws his eyes to the glowing prophecy. As if to be contemplating his choices, but deep down knew what he had to do. His friends were more important. He couldn’t risk their lives over a tiny orb. Slowly, he lifted his hand and placed the object in Lucius’s awaiting one. A satisfied smirk appears on the blonde’s lips. He had succeeded in his mission. 

Or so he thought.

Bright light filled the area, Harry’s eyes widening as he took in the sight of Sirius behind Lucius. Malfoy’s expression turned to one of pure shock, meeting Sirius’s angry one. 

“Get away from my Godson.” And before Lucius could react, he was falling to the ground from the force of Sirius’s right hook. More bright lights entered, members of the Order arriving. Tonks, Lupin, Kingsley, and Mad-Eye. 

In the chaos, the prophecy was thrown from Lucius’ hand, shattering as it hit the ground in a cloud of blue-green smoke. The man was in disbelief, and fear at what consequences awaited him. 

Beyond him, Y/n released her hold on Ginny Weasley, slightly pushing her away causing the girl to stumble off the rocks. At that moment she met Sirius’ eyes for the first time in nearly 20 years. Their last encounter when he ran from home at 16, and Y/n only 8.

She watched the horror appear on his face. Lingering with regret. She could see him fighting with himself on how to react, she too was fighting that battle. Tears threatened to spill from both their eyes, Y/n’s bottom lip quivering. Overwhelmed by the reunion. 

Where they were on opposite sides. 

His expression read, ‘I won’t fight you, cousin,” which was enough for the woman to turn on her heel and drop to the ground. Ignoring Sirius shouting her name, Y/n leaned against the rock, waiting for an opportunity to run. Above her Sirius and Harry were dueling Malfoy and Rabastan Lestrange. Bellatrix was being trailed in the air by their niece, Nymphadora Tonks, her diabolical laugh echoing against the walls. 

A curse flew past her, hitting the rock causing Y/n to spin around where she met Lupin’s startled eyes. “Y/n….” the tone of his voice indicated he was surprised to see her. Likely assuming she’d been someone else. The werewolf always had a soft spot for the young Black. Thinking about the times she tagged along with them in Diagon Alley. Or when Sirius brought her to the Potter house and the two played with her in their animagi form to keep her entertained. 

Now here she was with the enemy. A completely different person plagued with darkness. Lupin sighed, laced with despair, “Oh, love…what’ve they done to you?” Somehow that question was enough to send Y/n into a whirlpool of rage. How dare he say those words to her. When the Order had every opportunity to remove her from the Black household. When they could’ve placed her in hiding like James and Lily. Anything, to prevent the Death Eaters from claiming her.

“What you all failed to save me from.” 

Before they knew it the two were dueling. Flashes of light leaving their wands, dodging those sent by the other. Despite Y/n spending half her life in prison with little combat experience under her belt, she was keeping up with Remus quite well. He noted the woman had yet to send a killing curse his way. Come to think of it, it appeared she was avoiding it all together. Unlike her associates who were not shy to use it. 

“It doesn’t have to be this way, Y/n,” Remus attempted to convince her to yield. Ducking when she shot a curse at his head. 

Scoffing, the woman spat, “Foolish for you to think such, Remus.” Her next attempt to get him away with a curse was more forceful, “I know how this dance between us ends, and I’d rather be sent to hell itself than be chained in Azkaban once more. So either man up and kill me, or turn away so I can get the hell out of here.” 

Remus became conflicted, “You know I can’t do that.” He referred to both options. Not having the strength or heart to kill his best friend's niece whom he once adored. But also not allowing her to escape. 

“Shame then,” she hissed, “I’ll try not to make this hurt.” After much struggle, where Remus had the upper hand in the dool, Y/n managed to send him flying back several feet, taking her chance to run to the nearest doorway. 

“Avada Kedavra!!” Bellatrix’s voice made her feeze, turning around in time to see the green light hit their cousin straight in the chest. 

It was as if time had stopped. All fighting ceased. Y/n heard a loud gasp--a scream, realizing moments later she was the one responsible for it. Hand raising to cover her mouth. Frozen as she watched Sirius fall back into the archway. Disappearing forever.

The silence was then interrupted by Harry’s wails. Held by Remus, he fought against him as though he wanted to join his Godfather. Y/n remained still. Processing what just happened. 

Sirius was dead. Her sister killed him. 

Y/n had to get out of there. No doubt the Aurors were alerted. They’d be arriving any second. 

Witnessing Harry take off after Bellatrix, Y/n met Remus’ eyes. The man silently pleading to her, completely distraught over the death of his best friend. With James and Sirius dead and Peter’s betrayal to Voldemort, he was alone. 

Y/n shook her head, unable to face him any longer. Instead of running into the main lobby of the Department of Ministries, the Death Eater looked up and allowed the black smoke to consume her, flying away from the Order. Her associates followed suit. 

When the Minister and Aurors entered the lobby to the horrifying scene, they understood the future became plagued with an unavoidable truth. 

The night officially marked the beginning of the Second Wizarding War. 

Rain pelted against the ground, falling from the gray clouds painting the sky. Strolling down alleyways of London, three sisters in black were on a mission to locate a certain home. Hiding behind corners whenever cars and people passed by. The one leading the trio was the reason for this side quest. Meanwhile the one falling back voiced opposition. For the youngest in the middle, she was rather bored. Not caring what would come out of this meeting. 

If Y/n were honest, she just hated getting her outfit soaked. 

“Cissy, you can’t do this,” Bellatrix hissed, trailing after her sisters. “He can’t be trusted.”

“The Dark Lord trusts him,” Naricssa rebutted, not sparing her a glance. Y/n simply rolled her eyes.

“The Dark Lord’s mistaken.”

“Shhh,” Y/n interrupted. While she may agree with Bellatrix to some degree, she knew better than to question his judgment aloud. Anyone could be lurking. 

Children’s laughter filled their ears, the sisters leaning against the brick walls until they passed. Once clear, they turned the corner and knocked on the door. Waiting for him to answer. 

Instead of Snape, the trio were greeted by Wormtail--who was visibly surprised to see them on the steps of Snape’s home. Y/n gave one death glare to the man and he immediately opened the door fully to let them inside. Water droplets fell from their coats, Y/n waved her wand to dry herself, feeling satisfied with a low ‘hmm’.

Wormtail escorted them to the library, where Snape sat in a chair reading the Daily Prophet. Folding the paper, the sisters were greeted by his blank stare. “Run along, Wormtail.” With a flick of his wrist Wormtail was pushed out, door slamming in his face. Y/n smirked, overlooking Snape with a raised brow. 

He matched her gaze, the two in silent conversation. Like they each had their secrets the other knew of…

In that moment Y/n thought back to the moment she and Snape reunited after her escape from Azkaban. Neither were fools to the other's facade. Both able to mask it with their talents in both Legilimency and Occlumency. 

“I know your true intentions, Severus. You are not part of his cause anymore and haven’t been for fifteen years. Do not stand there and lie to me, I don’t take kindly to liars.”

“Make no mistake then, Y/n, you also have motives not aligned with the Dark Lord. You do not care who wins this battle, only that your freedom is the outcome. He’d not take kindly to your…..deception.”

“Then I guess this means you and I….have a lot to lose if we are not careful. I’ll say no word. I expect you to do the same.”

“You have yourself a deal.”

Wine was poured, Y/n and Narcissa seated in chairs while Snape and Bellatrix remained standing. The eldest sister pacing along the fireplace. Narcissa was the first to speak, “I-I-I know I am not to be here,” Pausing she shot Y/n a hesitant look, which was ignored. “The Dark Lord, himself, forbade me to speak of this--.”

“If the Dark Lord has forbidden it, you are not to speak--but it down, Bella, we mustn’t touch what isn’t ours,” Annoyed, the woman placed the object back on the mantel. Giving Snape a look of, ‘there, happy?’ He turned back to Narcissa, “As it so happens, I’m aware of your situation, Narcissa.”

“You?” Bellatrix narrowed her eyes, “The Dark Lord told you.”

Snape briefly glanced at Y/n, “Your sister doubts me.” The woman smirked.

“She doubts everyone,” she felt Bellatrix’s glare, paying no mind. “It’s not personal.” 

“Understandable. Over the years I’ve played my part well--so well I’ve deceived one of the greatest wizards of all time.” Y/n sipped her wine to hide the smirk on her face. 

For she knew exactly who he was referring to. 

Unlike Bellatrix who simply snorted. Snape dismissed her remark, “Dumbledore is a great wizard. Only a fool would question it.”

Y/n examined her wine, acting like it was the most curious thing in the room. Rather bored by the conversation and Snape’s persistence of convincing her sisters of his motives. Bellatrix obviously had her suspicions. Narcissa, however, took the bait.

“I don’t doubt you, Severus.”

“You should be honored, Cissy,” Bellatrix told her. “As should Draco.” Of course her deranged self would see it that way. 16 year-old Draco tasked with the difficult mission to assassinate Dumbledore at Hogwarts. Punishment for Lucius for failing Voldemort too many times. The most recent being the damn prophecy he was to fetch. 

Y/n couldn’t help but feel smug at the Malfoys predicament. Lucius deserved all he got. And while Narcissa may have been her sister, Y/n harbored enough anger and resentment to not feel sympathy for her. Draco was the only one innocent in the matter. 

Narcissa’s face fell at Bellatrix’s words, pleading to Snape with her eyes, “He’s just a boy.”

“I cannot change the Dark Lord’s mind,” that was true. Nothing could alter Voldermort’s decision once it was made. Snape did have an idea, “But it might be possible for me to help Draco.” 

That was enough for Narcissa. The woman rising from her seat, “Severus--.” She was cut off by Bellatrix.

“Swear to it. Make the unbreakable vow.” She moved toward them, circling Severus as her tone turned to mockery, “It’s just empty words.” Now Narcissa’s face read she wanted the same. Bellatrix continued, “He’ll give it his best, but when it matters most,” her chin rested on his shoulder, whispering in his ear. “He’ll just slither back into his hole. Coward,” she ended as she passed him. 

Y/n stared at her associate, watching his reaction carefully. It was obvious the insult poked deep in his core. Though Snape did not let it show. 

“Take out your wand.”

The sisters were pleased. Visibly showing this as they looked at each other. Y/n stood from her chair, moving closer as Narcissa and Snape held each other's wrists. Bellatrix withdrew her wand, allowing the glowing strands to encompass their hands.

“Will you, Severus Snape, watch over Draco Malfoy as he attempts to fulfill the Dark Lord’s wishes?”

“I will.”

Water glossed over Narcissa’s eyes, Bellatrix continued, “And will you, to the best of your abilities,” her chin rested this time on Narcissa’s shoulder, the two staring him down like a hawk. Y/n sipped her glass, leaning her head against Narcissa’s other shoulder, smirking slightly at the scene. “Protect him from harm?”

“I will.”

Bellatrix walked so she was directly in front of Snape, “And, if Draco should fail…will you yourself, carry out the deed the Dark Lord has ordered Draco to perform?” The pause was longer, Narcissa practically shaking making Y/n move away. 

Finally, Snape made the last vow, “I will.” 

The glowing strands disappeared, leaving scars on the two. A permanent reminder of the promise made. To protect Draco from harm and finish the job if it came to it. 

Otherwise, the Devil would visit Snape earlier than planned.

[artthatgivesmefeelings]

Thomas Gainsborough (English, 1727-1788) Henrietta Read, later Henrietta Meares, c.1777 Huntington Library, San Marino CA

[ystrike1]

Dear Villainous Husband , the One You’re Obsessed with is Over There - By Menanic (8/10)

Can the most miserable couple of all time be saved by an adaptation with nice art? Maybe. I hate the original novel this comic is based on. The ending isn't worth the trouble, but the webtoon version is more promising.

Angie and Ran.

I will be using their pet names, because yes, these two characters are a couple. Ran is a complete sociopath towards his wife until she manipulates him into keeping her alive. They are a match made in hell.

Ran is supposed to fall obsessively in love with a religious, pure, gorgeous woman named Seraphina. Seraphina is supposed to kill him, and take his country, after he kills her knightly true love.

Ran is the villain.

Angie was supposed to die unloved. Ran was supposed to kill her. When he chose to kidnap the lovely Serephina his legal wife was...ahem...in the way.

Ran killed his own father. He killed his siblings. He was supposed to do it. He leads an evil country. One obsessed with war and power. Even the maids love to fight. It's a military nation to the core. Angie really didn't fit in next to Ran, in the first timeline. She was a weak and whiny woman, who couldn't handle the pressure.

Now Angie knows she was chosen at random. Ran threw a knife at a wall of bridal portraits. That was how she was chosen. She has no more illusions about love...

...

..

And she's a reincarnated Korean lady but I swear it doesn't matter and the story is still enjoyable.

New Angie decides to entertain her husband. She doesn't seek his love. She doesn't want to tame him. She wants him to lust over Serephina. She plans to flee in winter, when that destined meeting happens. She believes Ran won't bother to hunt her down, when he is occupied by love.

Her plan works too well.

She figures out that a Marquis and his mother are against her. Some people are upset because Ran married a foreign woman, instead of a good strong woman of war.

Angie figures them out, and she makes a gamble while she bows before her crazed husband.

She proves herself.

She becomes the crazy, cruel wife he desires. Just to stay alive.

She proposes a human hunt.

She says she will train with a bow, and hunt the Marquis, after he tries to stain her honor. Coincidentally the Marquis wants the king to marry his sister...so he's gotta go. Angie really has no choice, but her will to kill is there under all that pink.

She changes.

She starts to act spoiled around Ran.

He seeks her out for dates...and training.

He wants to watch her kill.

I think molding her into the perfect killer and Empress is kind of his fetish actually. In the original timeline he wanted to ruin Serephina.

He's happy now because Angie wants to be ruined. She has convinced him that she's willing to sacrifice herself to be a good ruler. He doesn't know her ultimate goal is running away.

He's impressed.

He likes her.

He stops choking her, and she no longer has to bow for him.

(Yes, this is a horror story.)

Ran drugs her, to show his adoration.

He builds the perfect hunting ground, where she can practice with her bow.

The drug is a special type of magical steroid. It dulls empathy in the user, and it temporarily makes the body strong.

The Marquis dies in front of his mothers corpse.

Angie did not consent by the way, and she grapples with what she did while drugged for a long time.

But.

It gets her love.

When she kills her enemies she earns the respect she needed. The nobles love her now. They love blood.

Ran loves her too.

He's so ready to have a partner like him.

A sweet villain, who is cruel to everyone else. He actually likes it when she's cute with him, as long as her cruel duties continue to be fulfilled.

She slowly becomes his perfect woman.

When Serephina does appear she doesn't matter.

Angie is the closest thing Ran has to a functional relationship. He doesn’t need a prisoner to obsess over. It kinda seems like he wants to work on his personality to make Angie comfortable too.

It's weird.

He's an actual crazy asshole, but the plot is not boring.

The human hunt???

Nuts. I didn’t even include all the details.

[sophswritingthings]

Hello, I hope you have a lovely day! I just binge read your writings and they are soo well! You are bad doing God's work!

I'm not sure if you would do this but could I please ask you to write something about mizu x painter!reader? Reader is going across various noble people to paint for them and mizu is hired to basically protect her on her journeys back and forth?

Much love <3

pairing: mizu x fem!painter!reader

warning(s): light swearing

a/n: traveling painter who just says the most out of pocket, horny shit to mizu who never notices

word count: 764 words / 4,144 characters

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

you certainly liked her more than other guards, that was sure.

she was quiet, respectful--and actually good at protecting you.

and she was quite cute, so that was a plus. something nice to look at, maybe even paint, someday. she definitely had the patience for it.

you were trudging through the snow capped forest, holding your traveling easel that you had insisted on carrying yourself, even if mizu had offered to do it for you.

you throughly enjoyed having her around. much more pleasant than your last few guards. not that you didn't thank them, they died protecting your ass.

but mizu had managed to do all that and more for you. she would stay up and tend the fire, even if she were tired. you ever wondered if there was another reason for all she did for you.

yet you couldn't see through those stoic, ice cold blue eyes.

"(y/n)," she hisses from behind, grabbing you by your collar and pulling you in-between some bushes. her blue eyes trained carefully on whatever "threat" was approaching. a group of four men, carrying what looked to be the princess of kyoto.

that's where you were headed. kyoto. the princesses father had asked for a painting, and so you traveled from your home in edo to kyoto to meet and paint the man.

you never quite enjoyed painting men. women were always your preferred subject matter, in all forms.

when they had gone, you came out of the bushes, and headed straight for the gates of kyoto. and even though you were a woman, you had a pass. you were here on official business of their leader.

and if they didn't let you in--well, that's what mizu was for.

though you got in without a hitch, heading straight for the kings place. you smile, all the pretty scenery just filled your mind with ideas for paintings..

"mizu?" you call for her, seeing her gaze is rested elsewhere. down the cobbled road. men of shindo dojo, she was looking at. her head snapped up, heading back toward you. your expression softened, "if you have somewhere to be, I'll be fine for a few hours."

she seemed hesitant, to leave you alone.

"I'll be here by nightfall," she said softly, turning down the staircase, "keep your cards close, please. I do not need you to end up dead when I return."

you chuckle at her words, "ill survive a few hours with the brat king."

she sighed, "you better."

and with that, she turned away from you. you too disappeared, into the fortress of what the nobles called home.

you spent your time til nightfall painting the portrait of the king, every brushstroke felt like one tik of the clock.

when you climbed into bed, the door finally fell open.

mizu.

and she was bleeding.

you rushed to her side, holding her shoulder to try and clot the bleeding.

"what.. what in the world happened? where.. did you go, mizu?" you narrow your eyes, pulling off her navy blue overcoat. you tore through the fabric, revealing the deep wound on her shoulder.

"to shindo dojo," she replied, her voice husky.

"why in the world would you go there?" you hiss, cleaning up her wound as gently as you could.

"to collect information," she said blankly, as if you knew what she was talking about.

"for what?! mizu, you're being weird," you yelp, obviously worried out of your mind for her. "tell mm what in hell is going on."

"I have a vow, (y/n), to kill all white men in japan at the time of my birth." she sighs a shaky breath, "I needed to know where heji shindo is. and I know now."

"what does that mean? are you.." your voice trails off, "just going to leave me?"

she adverts her gaze, "I was going to return you to edo and be on my way."

"no," you shake your head. "no."

".. no?" her eyes narrow. "you can't stop me from leaving. I will drag you to edo, if need be."

you chuckle a little, "I mean im not leaving you--and you're not leaving me," you reply, dressing her wound. "you can't go on some weird.. vow, by yourself."

"your work," she whispers. "how will you get that done?"

"well, if im not in edo, I can't exactly receive requests, can I?" you arch an eyebrow, gazing down at her.

"no," she mumbles.

"exactly," you smile softly. "I can make us money by doing paintings, along the way."

"okay," she whispers, her voice soft. "we'll leave tomorrow."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

[drabblesandimagines]

Portrait

Joshua Rosfield x (painter) female reader Commissioned piece, 4,600 words (minor end game spoilers) Thank you so much for the commissioner for commissioning me in the first place and for letting me share here with you all! x

“No, no, no.” You’d swear the woman before you should be stomping her foot along to her words, her mannerisms being similar to those of a petulant child not getting their way.

The Empress of Sanbreque is usually a picture of decorum – carefully composed expression, hands clasped, never a hair out of place nor a wrinkle in her gown – but her façade appears to have cracked for she is scowling at you with clenched fists by her side. “Did you not understand my directions?”

You open your mouth, and quickly shut it again. Your mind is blank on an answer, probably looking foolish as you do so. You look at the portrait you’d unveiled moments ago for her private viewing, trying to see what she’s taken umbrage with, though you’re sure you followed her instructions to the letter.

“Your Grace, I-”

She raises her hand, stopping you before you can even begin a defense.

“It is quite clear that you did not.” Olivier, her three-year-old son and the subject of the portrait, sits at her feet, disturbingly well-behaved for his age, even for one of noble blood and upbringing. His eyes almost seemed lifeless at times – unnervingly so – with a cruel smile that was beyond his years. You’d tried to soften it out, is that what had upset her so?

“His Grace has been most pleased with my previous works.” You’d been brought in under the Empreror’s service first – endless commissions of he and the crown prince to celebrate every momentous occasion over the last few years.   

“His Grace has, yes, but only of Prince Dion.” The way she pronounces Bahamut’s name is as if it leaves a foul taste on her tongue. “But these won’t do at all for my darling Olivier.” She pinches the bridge of her nose in exasperation as she casts her eyes over your work once more. You swallow your pride. After all, it is far better to keep in the Empress’ good books than make an enemy of. “I will start anew-” “No – I’ve seen enough. You are dismissed, without pay. Come, Olivier.”

He grabs her hand obediently, but not without throwing you one last cruel smile.

--

Although you knew it would be difficult to remain in the city, you hadn’t expected a group of soldiers to appear at your door that very evening – armed with swords and spears, one holding a scroll of decree and beginning to read to you the moment after your name was confirmed.

“By decree of Empress Anabella Lesage, you are hereby commanded to leave Orinflamme at once.”

“Leave?” You’d planned to move – you knew her handmaidens would make quick work of spreading the gossip of your dismissal, whispering in certain noble ears to make sure the word spread far and wide – but to be banished altogether?

“Leave.” The captain of the guard confirmed, no sign of emotion on his face. “Refusal to comply will be seen as treason, of which the punishment is execution. You are to be gone by sunrise.”

You look around your small abode, trying to work out what you could possibly pack up and take in such a small timeframe – could you scrape enough gil together to rent a chocobo for the travel?

“Furthermore, all of your possessions are now the property of Empire. You may, however, retain the clothes upon your person.” The way in which he says it makes you think that he believes that is being far too generous.

“Excuse me,” a familiar voice calls and the crowd of guards splits. Prince Dion Lesage, regaled in the armour of the Dragoons and spear at his side, walks forward with purpose.

“My prince, there is no need to trouble yourself with such matters as these.”

“The Emperor himself requested my presence to make sure the Empress’ wishes are fulfilled. If you will excuse us, I assure you I have it handled from here and you may return to your other duties.” He casts a scathing eye over the seven men. “I doubt this task required this many of you either.”

“Yes, my prince.” The captain replies, tersely, with only a slight bow of his head, but none of the men make to move quite yet.

Dion’s hand tightens around the hilt of his spear and you are rendered speechless as he grabs you by the crook of your elbow and pulls you forward, out of your home – not even a chance to glance around and bid it goodbye - past the assembled guards and starts to lead you towards the city gates in long strides.

“I am sorry, my lady,” Dion says, softly, trying to avoid prying ears. You have always been fond of the crown prince – he had always treated you kindly in your interactions during portrait sitting sessions over the last few years. “I tried to speak to the Emperor to overturn the Empress’ command as soon as word reached me, but he would not be swayed.”

Your eyes widen at the idea. “Prince Dion, you shouldn’t have. That is far more kindness than I deserve.”

“Nonsense,” he chides. “I just wish I could do more. I saw the portrait before the Empress commanded it destroyed. I cannot think what has offended her so – it was the spitting image of Olivier.” He drops your elbow at last and retrieves a pouch off his belt, holding it out to you. “It isn’t much – shamefully, I am not adept of carrying gil around on my person – but hopefully it will be enough to see you through your travel.”

“No, your highness,” you shake your head. “I couldn’t possibly accept.”

“You must,” he presses the pouch firmly in your hand. “Do not make me order it so. It will be a long journey ahead - my concern is Northflame is too close to be out of the Empress’ influence.”

“I’ll head to Port Isodole – enough nobles reside there for me to gain employment once more, I’m sure of it.”

--

It was tricky upon your arrival to Port Isodole. You wanted to remain positive that you’d be commissioned on reputation alone by some of the Imperial nobles who resided there. Unfortunately, it soon became clear that the word had already wormed its way into eager ears, and those who sought the Empress Anabella’s favour wouldn’t dare to associate with someone she’d dismissed so blatantly and banished from the city itself.

You’d made do with work as a barmaid, part of your wages taking up with your food and board. Slowly, you’d built up your art supplies over the years and remained positive. Afterall, you could have had much worse luck in life than what you’d faced.

Finally, you decided to take a few of landscape pieces to market, hoping that surely enough time had passed - the Mothercrystal had been felled, Orinflamme abandoned in consequence, so why would the people of Port Isodole still hold such regard for the word of an Empress now stationed so far away?

“My dear, these are truly wonderful.” His voice is boomingly loud, surely drawing the attention of everyone in the vicinity. A tall, stocky, bearded man, dressed in finery looked in awe at your display and you so hoped pockets heavy with gil might be in store. “I feel as if I’m actually there, casting my eyes across the horizon once more.”

“Thank you, sir. Is there anything you’re looking for in particular?” “Mayhaps - do you dabble in portraiture?” “I do… or I did. It’s been a little while.”

“And who is your patron?”

“My… patron?” You hesitate, wary now that this is where Anabella’s tarnishing of your name would lead to your undoing.

“With a talent such as this, you must have one.”

“Well, I-“

“Lord Byron”, a man interrupts, looking scornfully at you and keeping his distance. A beautiful woman is hanging off his arm and looking mortified by the whole thing. “I’d be wary of her. Empress Anabella dismissed her from her services.”

“Oh… Oh, my.” He sets his face in a solemn expression and your heart sinks. “Thank you, my good man.” Byron nods his head, giving the man a hearty pat on the back and begins to walk away with the couple. You feel as if you may cry. Maybe coming here was a mistake, but it was as far as you could’ve gone with the gil Dion had kindly given you. Is Anabella’s scorn going to follow you round forever?

You try and steel your resolve for other potential customers – who would want to purchase anything from a tearful merchant? - though many pass without giving your wares so much as a second glance. A cloaked man strides past, hand scuffing your table as he does. At first you think he meant to swipe something from it, but there is only an addition in the form of a letter.

You lean over the table and pick it up, breaking the wax seal.

My sincerest apologies for how we parted. If you would be so kind, please attend the manor this evening and dine with me. I wish to discuss your talent further and, if I may, commission you, the Empress Anabella be damned. – Lord Byron Rosfield.

--

Lord Byron had heard tale of your portraits, it had turned out, but he still wished to see your work first hand before he would tell you what he truly wanted. A workroom was set up for your disposal, a plethora of supplies that made your eyes water at the potential cost, but he had waved it off, declaring himself a lover of the arts. He’d marveled at your portrait of him and bid you come the next day to see the project in full he wished to discuss. As you entered the workroom, the large table had been covered in rolls of what you thought were parchment, but instead turned out to be precious segments of his dear brother’s portrait – the former Archduke of Rosaria, Elwin.

“I fear it is far beyond repair – I was lucky to salvage enough as I did - but I wondered if you would be up for the challenge of a recreation.”

“I can certainly try. There’s definitely enough of his face to base from. And I have your likeness, my lord, to assist.”

--

“Oh, Uncle,��� Clive has tears in his eyes as he beholds the new addition to Byron’s parlor. “It is just as I remembered – he is just as I remembered. How did you even get hold of this? I thought everything destroyed after the siege.”

“The original was beyond saving, torn and burnt in places, yes. This, my dear boy, I had it commissioned, using parts of the original as a guide. You see, I have taken into my patronage a very talented artist – allow me to fetch her.”

Joshua’s breath had been stolen when he saw the painting of his father. He could swear if he stared long enough, the eyes would blink in return, that he would see his father’s chest rise with breath once more. He couldn’t help but wonder if he’d be proud of the man he’d grown to be, if he had done the Phoenix proud before the Eikons were stripped from the world.

A warm palm rests on his shoulder. “It is like he is the room once more, isn’t it?”

“Indeed, brother. Quite remarkable. I… I worried I had forgotten his face, after all this time, but this…”

Clive squeezes his shoulder then, no more words needed.

The silence is soon interrupted by the heavy footsteps of their uncle as the door is thrown open.

“Lord Bryon,” you protest, trying to step back but his hand on your back remains firm, “My apologies, but I really am in no state to-”

“Nonsense, my girl!” It is too late for you are pushed in front of two of the most handsome men you think you have seen.

You curtsy, clumsily, and Joshua can’t help but grin. He said you were to meet his nephews and, as he was a lord, they deserved the same respect, however Bryon hadn’t even given you chance to wash your hands, nor check your face in the mirror for errant paint streaks before he’d ushered you to the parlor.

“My dearest nephews, allow me to introduce the talented painter behind this masterpiece.”  

Your cheeks feel hot, a little flustered in the way which Byron had pulled you in front of his nephews with no preparation. Joshua thanks the Founder that he was stood where he was, meaning that he gets to make your acquaintance first. Byron introduces you by name and turns to the blonde first, beaming.

“This is my youngest nephew – Joshua.” You offer out your hand but also curtsy again, forgetting yourself in the fluster. The Empress Anabella would not have stood for it. Before you can retreat your hand with an apology, Joshua takes it in his hand and drops to his knee, pressing a kiss across the back of it.

“It is a pleasure to meet the talented woman behind the masterpiece.”

“Oh,” your eyes light up and Joshua delights in it, already thinking of how he can achieve the same rush. “Thank you – that’s very kind. I admired Archduke Elwin very much – it was an honour to pay tribute to his memory.” Joshua slowly gets to his feet and relinquishes your hand.

“I… I served under your mother – the Empress Anabella - for a time.”

“Yes, before she was exiled for a portrait of Oliver Lesage not meeting her standards.”

“Ah. I pray you do not hold that against us.” Clive interrupts.

“Of course she doesn’t, my boy!” Byron booms once more. “This is my eldest nephew, Clive. Quite the rogue.”

“Uncle,” Clive gently admonishes. “I cannot see why our mother would be displeased with your work. This is… I feel like I can reach out and touch him. You’ve captured him remarkably well.”

You duck your head down in embarrassment, not used to receiving such amounts of praise. The Emperor would nod his approval, make no comment on style or substance, so to have the three sing your praises is a little overwhelming.

“Thank you.” You nod at Clive, a small smile across your lips and Joshua feels a twang in his chest at the sight of it – odd.

“And now this one is complete, I dare say we mu-“

The parlor door is swung open with a bang. Gav stands there, panting, hands on his knees to try and catch his breath. “Sorry, like, but we gotta scram. Imperial soldiers heading this way – caught wind of Cid the Outlaw sniffing about.”

Joshua did not see you for another year.

Regrettably, other matters had taken precedence. Ultima at first, a period of recovery for both him and Clive – Dion lost in the fight, and then focus had turned to helping nations adapt to a crystal-free life and the rebuilding of Grand Duchy of Rosaria. Parts of the castle were still under construction, but the capital itself had been rebuilt and ready to usher in the new Archduke.

“Your grace,” a servant called, diverting his attention from the latest pile of missives left at his desk, “Lord Byron Rosfield has arrived.”

“Uncle!” Joshua beamed, descending the stairs from the castle into the courtyard where Byron was emerging from a carriage. “We were not expecting you quite yet.”

“My dear boy,” he pulled his nephew into a firm hug. “I’m afraid I was far too keen to give you your gift to wait any longer.”

“A gift, Uncle? You shouldn’t have.”

His eyes widen as you emerge from the carriage, a hesitant smile on your face as you nod your head in greeting.

“Nonsense! The Archduke needs a portrait to mark this historical day.”

“Your grace.” You begin, cautiously. “I’m not sure you remember me, but-“

“My lady,” he begins, slyly taking your hand and pressing a kiss against your knuckles in greeting. “Of course I do. I assure you I could not forget one of such talent, nor of such beautiful visage.”

“You are too kind, your grace.”

“Joshua – I insist.”

“Joshua.” The word feels precious on your tongue. “Lord Byron is quite keen for me to paint a portrait of you and your brother, though I’m aware that this is probably quite a busy time for you to have long sittings.”

“Nonsense. You are welcome to my time whenever you wish, my lady.”

--

Joshua would never openly admit to it, but he had been somewhat jealous of Clive in their childhood. Not of the distain his mother had shown towards her first-born son, no, but of the freedom that maternal neglect had permitted him. Though Clive had taken the burden of being the First Shield upon his shoulders without a word of complaint, it was not as if Joshua had asked to be the Dominant of the Phoenix, nor that he had a choice in the matter at all. So many people were relying on him, championing him on, but when he was laid up in bed, downing elixirs and tonics made by the castle healers, he didn’t feel as strong as he needed to be.

Clive could go out wherever he wanted, do whatever he wanted without the watchful eye of Anabella or the gaggle of her handmaidens. He could wear whatever he pleased too, practical things, even. Joshua instead had been draped in the finest fabrics, shipped in from Dhalkmekia that he would be scolded over for dirtying even slightly.

He thought he was old enough to no longer experience such a childish notion as jealousy – he could wear what he wanted, go where he wanted, no longer burdened by Ultima in his chest or the Phoenix in his being… But the foul feeling is getting harder to ignore when he is forced to sit there as you grip Clive’s bicep, moving his arm a fraction of an inch to the left, or the way in which you shyly adjust his shirt, claiming it’s important to have the outfit the exact same in order for the shading, but you never show him the same courtesy. He had hoped for more private sittings, to have your company to himself – perhaps sitting shoulder to shoulder with Clive’s muscular form was doing him no favours - but Byron had requested the two men together in a portrait, so the sessions had been arranged for when they were both free so you could at least get the outlines down, as well as some initial colouring.

You tug Clive’s shirt down a little to try and get it to lay flat – face burning with how your hand ghosted across his muscular chest - it had ridden a little and bunched when he sat. Clive stared straight ahead, hands clasped, ever the gentleman, and Joshua found himself shuffling in position, hoping his shirt might misbehave.

The Founder does not bless him so, as you return back behind the canvas.

--

Joshua arrives for his sitting in a good mood for two reasons – one, it is just to be him as Clive is away in Eastpool for a day or so, and two, he had a plan.

He did have a morning and early afternoon of meetings and reports to get through, but he had promised the late afternoon and as much as the evening for his sitting to take place, and that is certainly enough time to put said plan into action.

“Hello,” You smile brightly as he enters, taking his usual position on the chair.  Joshua has his pose down to a fine art, whereas Clive needed more co-ercing to settle. “Are you sure you have time for this today? It might be a rather long one, I’m afraid I have a lot to get through as Lord Byron is keen for it to be ready for the day.”

“As I said, I am all yours for as long as you can stand me, my lady.”

You nod, stepping behind the canvas and pick up from where you left off. He doesn’t make his move for a good while, watching carefully as your eyes flick between the canvas and him and you begin to mix up paints once more, trial and error as usual as you worked diligently to find the right shade.

He makes his move when you turn back to the table to grab a clean brush, tugging the knot on the laces of his shirt clear and then shrugging his shoulder, revealing a little more of his chest than was previously on display.

You turn back round and your gaze flick between Joshua and the canvas once more… only for you to doubletake. He bites back a grin in celebration. It must be the candlelight playing tricks on your eyes because you could’ve sworn Joshua’s shirt laces were most definitely tied a moment ago. Mayhaps you should open a door – are the paint fumes going a little too much to your head after being sequestered in here all day long?

“Is everything all right?”

“Your, erm…” You put down the paint brush. “Your shirt laces have come undone.”

“Oh, have they?” He shrugs again, his top slipping down his shoulder a little more. “Oh, the shading, of course. My apologies.”

“That’s all right.” You wipe your hands clean on a rag, wondering how it had come quite so undone, before walking over to your subject. “May I?”

“By all means.”

You pull his shirt up his shoulder, lining it up with his ear -  a good reference point - and pull the laces taught to tie off once more. You step back, cock your head this way and that, and then forward again to adjust it once more.

“There.”

“Wonderful.”

You return back to the canvas and begin to paint, brow furrowed in concentration, whilst Joshua feels absolutely giddy that his plan had been somewhat successful in achieving your touch.

So much so, that he cannot resist a tug at the laces once more the very next time he sees you turn your back – this time to take a deep drink of water - shrugging his shoulder once more, so it reveals more of his collarbone. He composes his features, he can’t give the game away by grinning like a child.

You turn back after a few moments and this time notice immediately, opening your mouth to say something but not quite knowing what to say. You’re sure you tied the knot firmly enough to stay put.

“What is it, my lady?” He tilts his head in intrigue.

“Your… Your shirt, it’s come undone. Again.”

“No,” he feigns disbelief, looking down at his chest in surprise. “I only stretched, I assure you.”

“Of course – mayhaps I didn’t tie it tight enough.” You wipe your hands clean again on the rag and stride over, a little less cautious this time as you tug his shirt back up, now standing between his spread legs – when did that happen? - lining it up with his ear once again and tighten the laces before securing it in a knot. You nod, more to yourself, as you check over your handiwork and go to step back.

“Thank you.” Joshua catches your hand as you do so, stilling your retreat. “It is very admirable how dedicated you are to your work.”

“I think it is how I get them to seem as realistic as you say they are – the shading is everything.” Your heart is pounding in your chest by how close you are, stood between his thighs. “I should…”

“Of course,” he releases your hand and by the time you’re back behind the canvas, his legs are crossed once more.

You work in silence for a while, getting fully into the flow now that Joshua’s shirt appears to be behaving. He enjoys watching you work – the way sometimes you stick your tongue out when you are concentrating particularly hard on a certain element, how your brow furrows, how tiny smatters of paint begin to decorate your cheeks and your hair as you dab the brush onto the canvas.

As the time passes, he cannot refuse to chase the thrill of your touch one more time this evening. Clive returns tomorrow and maybe this will be his last chance for a while – he couldn’t so boldly unlace his shirt with his brother sat by his side. He waits for another opportune moment for your back to be turned, and tugs at the knot.

It holds firm.

Your back is still turned, so he tugs again.

Nothing.

He raises his other hand to try and help undo the knot, before leaning up in his chair slightly to see if he can see what you’re doing, how much longer you may be as he continues fighting the knot. He thinks you’re having another drink of water, so he risks looking down, finally pulling the knot free and frantically shrugs his shoulders – a little more vigorously than before as he feels his shirt slip down on both.

He looks up in relief, only to see you have turned back whilst he was looking down, your head tilted as you stare at him in confusion.

Joshua feels his face burn as red as his old cowl at being caught in the act.

You walk over to him again, trying to hold in a smile that is rapidly creeping across your face and feeling as bold as brass. “Although I would like to paint you sans shirt, Joshua, I don’t think your uncle would be best pleased.”

“You would?” His voice lilts before he shakes his head, embarrassment and shame overcoming him. “No, I beg your forgiveness, my lady.” He mumbles, tugging his shirt back up on his shoulders. “I have let feelings of jealousy drive my actions and it is most unbecoming of a future Archduke.”

“Jealousy?”

“I… desired your touch, but I understand that Clive is…”

“He’s…?”

“A finer specimen.” He feels entirely foolish and somewhat pathetic for even saying it aloud – his brother’s body had come from years of enforced labor, for Founder’s sake! “Please, my lady, I beg you for-“

You press your lips against his in a chaste kiss, before pulling back with a shy smile, heart pounding, hoping you’ve read the signs and heard him correctly.

“I assure you, Clive is not the one I desire.”

He lifts a hand to caress your cheek for a moment before pulling you back in between his thighs, a steadying hand on your back as your lips meet again once more – a succession of frantic kisses, as if you are both trying to squeeze in as many as you can before the moment is over.

The two of you begin to slow your rhythm as you nestle yourself upon his thigh, feel his tongue swipe across your lips, seeking entrance. You part them slightly and he is quick to divulge with a moan that makes you tingle.

You have to retreat to catch your breath at one point – never in your wildest dreams had you pictured the session ending with you sat on the future Archduke’s lap, his shirt now hanging open around his shoulders again.

“Please do not say you have to get back to the portrait, darling one.” He murmurs into your throat before pressing kisses across your jaw.

“No. Your complexion is too flush for me to continue,” you tease.

“Good. For I have something else in mind for the evening.”

“Oh?”

“A private showing, if you will.” He takes your hand and places it flat against the exposed part of his chest – you can feel his heart pounding through your fingertips.  

“Where would that be?”

“My bed chambers.”

--

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