#Garden Silk Mills | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

merakiui · 3 months

Note

Hello! Could I request flower bouquet from the miscellaneous menu.. And as for the dynamic, I'm quite indecisive on that regard, but I recall you saying it's fine to let you chose? Forgive me if I'm wrong. I'd like to order that with red velvet cupcakes & banana pudding from the midnight menu for Jade Leech, with an AFAB reader. If you are unable to do this, it is completely understandable. I hope your day/night goes well, and may you take care.

yandere!jade leech x (female) reader cw: yandere, nsfw, non-con, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, kidnapping, slight angst, royalty au (princess!reader x butler!jade) note - thank you for checking in, dearest guest! enjoy your order! [lunar love hotel]

It’s well past midnight when Jade finds you in the garden. He spots you milling about aimlessly beneath a stone archway. Greenery twists up the rough surface; vines spotted with tiny flowers drape like fruit from a bough. Moonlight paints you in strokes of silvery magnificence, a breathtaking sight even the most skillful painter could never hope to replicate on a canvas. Even though it’s the middle of summer, there’s a fierce bite to tonight’s temperature. It’s in his nature to protect, a bodyguard and a butler in one, which is precisely why he frets when he notices you’re dressed in a thin nightgown and a silk robe.

You’re stunning regardless of your attire. He’s always thought so. A hopeless observation, for you have never belonged to him and thus those words will remain a scandal under lock and key.

“My lady?” He approaches with even steps, his voice a gentle whisper. Despite his best efforts, you still flinch at his sudden arrival. He bows respectfully, a hand held over his heart. “Forgive me for startling you. I noticed you weren’t in bed when I came to check on you, and so I thought I might find you here.”

“Am I really so predictable?”

“Quite.” He chuckles at the pout that twists on your lips. “Admittedly, my advantage is rather unfair. I’ve known you long enough to commit all of your habits and haunts to memory.”

“You’re too good. It’s not fair…”

“Is everything all right?” Jade moves to shrug his tailcoat off, aiming to drape it across your shoulders for extra layering, but you stop him. “My lady?”

“I’m not cold. Thank you, though.”

Jade nods slowly and slides his arms back into the sleeves. “May I ask what’s keeping you up? It’s unlike you to visit the garden so late.”

“It’s nothing major. Just thinking too much about too many things. If that makes any sense…”

He hums in acknowledgement. You fidget on your bare feet. Some days Jade thinks you’d wander to your death if it weren’t for him. Having suspected this, he made sure to bring your shoes. Guiding you to the marble bench at the end of the pathway, where the space opens into a clearing enclosed with shaped shrubbery, Jade lowers to his knees.

“A princess shouldn’t dirty her feet so carelessly,” he reminds you, taking hold of your foot and gingerly sliding your shoe on.

You frown at him. “Does it matter?”

“In polite society, yes, very much so.”

“Polite society is the worst. How am I meant to frolic in the flowers as the fairy tales intended if I can’t even take my shoes off for such a thing?”

“You may do so in your dreams.”

“It’s not the same.”

Jade gazes at your legs from where he kneels. Should his gaze climb any higher… He snuffs that thought before it can take root. “Perhaps not, but the world within a dream is lenient and lawless. You’re free to break every rule you desire.”

He offers you his arm and you take it. Lifting you from the bench, he walks with you and admires lush blossoms alongside you. Sweet is the night breeze, bringing recollections of a childhood that has long since fled. Watching you, future heir to the throne, from afar, an unimportant butler-in-training… You’ve always been his world—the center of his vision. The single flower in a garden infested with weeds.

What he’d do to pick you and put you in a pot of his own making. To keep you solely because it is the whim of a selfish heart caught up in foolish, one-sided limerence.

“What would you do? In your dreams, I mean. If you could experience any dream, what would it be?”

Jade peers at you, taken aback. “You’re asking me?”

“No, I’m asking the flowers.” Playfully, you reach up to pat his head. He leans down to meet your hand halfway, a smile gracing his features. How fervently he wishes you would touch him with more purpose. If only your individual stations were not so far apart. If only he could become your equal just for tonight and know rapture under your fingertips. “Yes, Jade, I’m asking you.”

It’s not a calculated risk, for he knows the outcome will never be in his favor, but he acts on impulse anyway. He seizes your hand. You flinch away, surprised by this forthright display, but he holds firm. He’s determined to see this through to the end, even if it lands him a heart more shattered than when he began.

“I would become a prince and marry you.”

Much to his chagrin, you laugh. “That’s quite the lofty dream. A funny one, too.”

He squeezes your hand, insistent. “That is the truth.”

“It’s not.” You meet his mismatched stare. “It… It’s not, right? Surely you jest.”

“I have always admired you, my lady.” Testing his limits, he brings your hand to his lips and kisses your knuckles. “Though you may be forever out of my reach and I may be but a mere servant, that does not stop me from loving you any less.”

Your face falls. There is no reciprocation to be found in your gaze. He suspected this from the beginning, but it does nothing to soothe the sting.

He grasps your other hand, hoping to bestow a kiss to it as well, but you jerk away so quickly that you trip over your feet and land in a heap on the grass. He doesn’t make any move to help you up. Not yet, at least. Lying sprawled on your back, you watch him with uncertain eyes.

“How long?”

“The day your father rescued me and brought me in—you offered your hand to me, and you told me I would never know the dangers of the sea again.” Jade stands over you, observing the many emotions flickering on your face, before lowering to your height. He straddles you with ease. “I had never known such kindness until then.”

“Ah, right… I remember that day. You were injured so severely they put you on bedrest. You had to learn how to walk all over again.”

“In spite of everything they told you about me, you visited me regardless. Every day, at every hour, to bring snacks and toys. To cheer me up. To wish for my swift recovery. To act as my crutch. For that, I am forever grateful.” His hands slide your nightgown up, and he feasts on the sight of your panties—on the way you draw your thighs together to hide from him. “I have always stood dutifully by your side, hoping to repay you for all that you’ve done for me.”

You look delicate in the grass, your robe slipping from your shoulders. Like a pinned butterfly or an angel having just fallen from the sky, you’re a sugared fantasy brought to life.

“Jade.” You grab at his shoulders and push back weakly; he doesn’t budge. “We… We shouldn’t. I can’t. If someone were to see—”

“They won’t.”

“Yes, but I—” you turn away from him, worrying your lip between your teeth— “I can’t, Jade… I’m betrothed. F-Furthermore, it’s not safe without…protection. You can’t.”

He smiles fondly, so sickly, stupidly enchanted. With the moon just behind his head, framing it like a hazy halo, you might mistake him for an angel. His actions suggest he’s anything but.

Lifting his index finger to his lips, he shushes you. “In that case, let’s play pretend for tonight—just as we used to—and trap ourselves in a dream.”

Your refusal falls on deaf ears.

Hands crawl along the expanse of your body, feeling everything within reach. He’s overjoyed to behold you, to press down on the space between your legs and savor your staggered breaths. You plead with him all throughout it, begging him to cease now and he’ll be spared. But Jade can’t. If it kills him, he wants to have died knowing he was on cloud nine.

This has always been his dream.

For tonight, he is neither prince nor butler. For tonight, he is simply a monster—the same monster your maids warned you against when you were little: “That cursed child is no good. He will bring ruin to your father—to you, Your Highness. You must keep away, for a child of the sea is a child of destruction and agony.”

The same monster who looked on with a single golden eye, lying in wait like the perfect predator and wearing the skin of a human to hide his true identity. The same monster who took to training as if it were second nature, honing his skills as a butler and a bodyguard. Hardening a heart that has never had the capacity to care for anything other than himself and the ones who have since departed.

The same monster who loves the human he ought to hate, for it is your kind who hunt the waters he was conceived in. Who spear merfolk with harpoons and feast on their flesh and eggs like it’s a sacred delicacy. Who arrange their skeletons in aureate frames. Who mount their taxidermied tails to the wall.

The same monster who, in some distant fairy tale, could have been a king if not for the devastation of his family tree.

Dewy grass sticks to your skin. The scent of moist earth envelops you in its verdant embrace. Jade sinks in slowly, holding you down by your hips. You squirm and cry, but he persists. He could be cruel and callous, rut into you like an animal instead of a lover, but he refrains. He loves you too much, and that hurts more than any pain he could inflict on you.

You dig your nails into his shoulders. If they were sharper, you might have been able to tear through his uniform. Sweet, soft moans spill from pretty, plush lips. He kisses you, adoring the hold your walls have on him when he rolls his hips to fill you deeper.

“Jade… Jade, please,” you ramble, breathing hot and heavy in his ears. It’s musical, the way you sing for him through your tears. “Oh, please pull out. I—aah—can’t… We can’t. Please, Jade.”

Perhaps it would have been easier to hate you and your father—detest the kingdom who has rendered his home an aquatic graveyard. Surrounded in a garden of exotic blooms, Jade thinks that’s impossible. Love born from hate is thorny, impossible to quell once it’s come to fruition. It’s dug its roots into his heart and given way to the most fearsome flower.

He should have killed you. He should have held that pillow over your face all those years ago when he snuck into your bedroom, silent as a shadow. He should have, but he didn’t—couldn’t. And now he’s here, towering over you without the pillow. His hands stray towards your throat, but instead of an execution he drags you against his chest. He can’t.

Years later and he still can’t fulfill his one and only childhood dream.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers, his eyes glittering. “How I wish you were as ugly as your heart…”

Raindrops spatter your face, a quiet downpour spilling from heterochromatic hues.

You fall apart beneath him, ruined in ways polite society would deem grossly impure.

Now we’re the same, Jade thinks, bowing his head when he reaches his peak. He groans lowly, his eyes squeezed shut. Monsters without homes.

Come morning, the palace is in a panic. The princess has vanished, seemingly whisked away into the night, and the only one who may have any information on her whereabouts has gone with her. Jade doesn’t worry.

No one will find you at the bottom of the sea, unrecognizable as a mermaid in an abandoned coral kingdom.

On his empty throne, he knows of no better place.

#yandere twst #yandere twisted wonderland #yandere twst x reader #yandere twisted wonderland x reader #yandere jade leech #yandere jade leech x reader #yandere jade x reader #yandere jade #n/sfw #tw: noncon #lunar love hotel 2023

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idksmtms · 4 months

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The Prettiest Trophy - Capitol Elite!Aegon II Targaryen x Games Winner!reader (Hunger Games AU)

Summary: You never thought you would make it out of the hunger games, but now you have another fight ahead of you. What do you do when one of the most powerful citizens of the capitol has chosen you to be his?

Word count: 3.5k

Trigger Warnings: 18+, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, profanity, innuendo, Dub-con due to power imbalance, coercion too ig (???), some angst (reader talks about survivor’s guilt from the games), p in v s*x, unprotected s*x, oral f receiving, degradation (constantly referring to lesser status of districts), objectification and ownership, (please let me know if I missed any)

Rating: 18+, MDNI

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood characters. I do not claim to own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood characters. I do not own any pictures used nor do I claim to do so.

Always appreciate comments, likes, and reblogs :)

AN: Aaaaa my first fic finally! Didn't mean to make it this long but I got a bit carried away! I hope you enjoy! (Side note: I was imagining his hair as the style in the black and white pic, just with Targaryen white, Side note 2: I def realise the references to the way Gollum talks about the ring, IT WAS ON PURPOSE)

You never thought you would leave the arena. Every second could have been your last and you still didn’t quite believe you had made it out, that you were standing outside the President’s mansion at a lavish party, dressed in silks and jewels. No one told you how to live after the games were over. It had taken you three days just to be able to get out of bed and move around again after leaving the arena. Being at this party? It felt like a betrayal to all the people who had died so you could live. You sipped from the sickly sweet drink that almost seemed to glow in the night, and looked around the garden.

Most people had finally left you alone thankfully, though you could still see eyes turning your way, whispers and conversations pointed toward your presence in the garden. At least no one was trying to force you into a picture like some capitol celebrity anymore.

People in the most lavish costumes customary of the capitol milled about, talking, whispering, cackling like witches in their modified bodies with their modified voices. It was a horror show. The gardens had been decorated with delicate yellow fairy lights strung up in the trees and over poles around the tables. You assumed they wanted to give it a warm and welcoming look with the yellow lighting but it only cast grotesque shadows on the building that was not only the backdrop to this party, but to all your nightmares. There were tables set up with stark white tablecloths draped over them, an area cleared away for a dance floor, and more noise coming from the entrance to the mansion. Avoxes walked around carrying trays of food and drink between their hands, heads bent low, and shame began to rise inside you. What were you doing here? Why were you forced to be here?

There was someone behind you. You didn’t know when you had become so aware of any presence, probably somewhere between fending off humans and wildlife alike in the arena, and you could distinctly feel someone behind you. A slight shadow fell over your shoulders. A small touch rustled the train of your dress. Someone cleared their throat. You turned around, hands quivering, and looked at the man smirking broadly at you. Your first thought, shamefully: was he even real?

His hair was so blond it was white, cut short and combed back so perfectly he could be no less than an aristocrat. He wore a suit of dark grey over a black shirt, one of the less eccentrically dressed people at the party. But his shoes were lavish. Black and shinier than anything you had ever seen, embroidered with gold thread, gold jewellery dangling from the laces and gems stamped into the fabric. Surely this man was of the richest of the rich, because even in the capitol people were wont to have shoes so lavish. You stared at his shoes for a good minute, whole body frozen, when he cleared his throat once more. You looked at his eyes. You couldn’t tell if they were more blue or grey, like ice had formed over a stormy ocean.

“And who might you be?” He asked, mouth still smiling, before he brought his glass up to his lips and took a drink while waiting for your answer.

“You don’t know who I am?” You asked, almost taking a step back. That couldn’t be true. Viewing was mandatory, your face had been plastered across every screen in Panem for weeks, it couldn’t be true that he didn’t know you. And yet… for a moment… it felt so good not to be recognised. You were just some other girl, lost in the crowd at a party, who hadn’t gone through what you had gone through.

“Well, I may know of you, but I don’t know you know you,” his smile had softened and he stepped closer until his elbow lightly brushed yours and you were both looking out at the party.

“I suppose that’s true,” you answered quietly, still watching his face. His skin was almost as dangerously pale as his hair, and sallow, like he was never quite in the best of health. Though you couldn’t deny the truth, he was a handsome man regardless of his slightly ragged appearance.

“Aegon Targaryen the second,” he held out his hand, running his eyes over your face like he hadn’t gathered enough of it the first time, “and you?”

“Y/n L/n,” you breathed out, reaching out an unsteady hand to limply shake his own. He gently clasped your fingers and brought your hand to his mouth, pressing his lips to your knuckles before releasing your hand. It was such an odd sensation, his hot breath brushing over the back of your hand, his fingertips slightly rough - but not enough to suggest any sort of manual labour - clasping the skin of your palm. Your cheeks went hot, the tips of your ears tingling, and you continued staring at this enigma.

“How has the capitol been treating you?” He asked, chugging the rest of his drink and depositing it on the tray of an Avox as they passed by like some well-practised dance. You didn’t want to reply. “Well, I suppose you haven’t had the time to truly enjoy it. At least, not the truly fun bits anyway,” he shrugged, tilting his head and looking at you like it was a particularly amusing thing he just said.

You couldn’t understand this at all. Who was this man? What was this interaction? What did he want with you? Why was he acting so mundane, like this was normal?! None of this was normal.

Noticing the look on your face, Aegon chuckled and reached forward to push some hair over your shoulder. It took everything within you to hold in your shiver.

“Ah, you must be confused about who I am! I shouldn’t have assumed you would understand the name Targaryen. We may be famous in the capitol but who knows what goes on in the districts,” you swallowed hard and nodded, trying not to flinch at the dig. “Our family works in all sorts of sectors, for example, my uncle Daemon is responsible for manufacturing arms for the state, my younger brother Aemond works under the president in some position or other - god knows he never shuts up about it - and my father currently runs the peacekeeper program. Of course I’m expected to step up to that eventually but- I won’t bore you with the details.”

You didn’t really consider that work. You had seen the way your parents toiled in the factory every day, had seen the way every member of your family slowly became a hunchback from their work. But you weren’t going to say anything to him.

“What does your family do?” He asked, and again you almost moved out of surprise. His face seemed so sincere as he watched you, waiting for an answer.

“I’m from District 8, so my parents work the looms,” you answered slowly. You almost sounded condescending, like you were talking to someone who couldn’t quite understand your words, but Aegon understood it was the shock of him speaking to you. After all, it had only been a week since you had left the arena, he understood how difficult it would be to gain your confidence. It didn’t mean he wouldn’t try. And Aegon was a firm believer that flattery could get you anywhere, especially a girl’s bed. So he decided to change course.

“Do you see that man over there?” He pointed discreetly to a spot just to your right and you shuffled back so you could look over without being noticed. You sipped from your glass as you noticed the man, an older gentleman wearing a full fursuit topped with a lion’s mane going around his head. Even his face had been painted with fur and whiskers to resemble a lion with the body of a human. You nodded to Aegon, turning away from the man. Something about that picture made you uncomfortable in a way you had never been before. “Well, rumour has it that he wears that entire get up, face paint and all mind you, every time he fucks.” You gasped, staring at Aegon with eyes so wide they started to hurt.

“You can’t be serious,” you whispered sharply.

“I am the most serious, dearest. Why would I lie to you?” He smirked, leaning closer once more. He draped his arm over your shoulder and you stiffened for a moment before continuing to listen to his next story.

You were slowly beginning to relax in Aegon’s company as he continued to chatter to you. He no longer asked questions or expected you to speak, just pointed out people in the crowd and made colourful commentary that had you hiding your face in his shoulder and giggling against the fabric of his suit. He gazed at you with sparkling eyes full of mirth and shared his ever-full glass of whatever drink they were serving at the time. You couldn’t help but be charmed. Maybe, just maybe, not everyone in the capitol was as bad as they seemed.

“D’you wanna go somewhere quieter?” He finally asked after completely relieving another stranger of their dignity. You took a moment to catch your breath and looked at him, at the sudden darkening of his eyes and the way his tongue poked out to lick his lips. He watched you like a tiger readying to pounce. You nodded without a second thought. Though he had made the party bearable, anywhere would be better than here. He smiled and reached down, sliding his fingers over your inner wrist, then your palm, then grasping your hand in his own. “Come on.”

Aegon led you into the house and up the stairs, nodding at random people (who sometimes you could barely recognise as people), skilfully dodging attempts at conversation. Up and up the lavish stairs you went before walking down a large hallway and stopping in front of a wall. Aegon pushed at the wall and it gave way, revealing a spiral staircase in the dark that led up into an abyss.

“Um, are you sure you know where you’re going?” You asked, pausing at the entrance to the rather dingy looking chamber.

“There are some perks to having been at the president’s mansion practically since I was born. One of those being secret access to the roof, now come on!” He dragged you into the dark and shut the door behind him, before ushering you up the first steps.

The staircase really wasn’t all that tall. In fact, you could see the top and light bled down from the opening. Your heels clanked against each step and you almost toppled back into Aegon more than once. Then you were at the top. Then you could see the whole Capitol. Oh it was breathtaking! The whole city, laid out before you like a miniature scene to play with. There were lights glimmering in houses and cars on the roads and life! There were signs of life everywhere. Oh you couldn’t believe it. You almost believed you could see to the very edges of Panem.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Aegon asked, and you turned to meet his eyes. Both of you had moved right to the edge of the rooftop so you could look out over the party, and he moved to stand directly behind you. You could feel his chest press into your back. The fabric of his shirt rubbed against the skin of your back and he was a solid pressure behind you, like the comfort of a wall at your back when you slept. “Hm?” He asked again, bending his head down to run his nose up your neck. You shivered, the light graze was just ticklish enough to start a spark inside of you.

“Yes,” you breathed out, clenching your hands on the concrete to stop yourself from leaning back into him. You didn’t know him. You didn’t really know him. You didn’t know him at all.

“You know,” he began slowly, hands going to your shoulders and turning you around to face him. “When I first saw you on the television, the day of the reaping, I knew you would win.” Your breath caught in your throat. Your mouth was so dry. You wished you hadn’t discarded that sweet drink so quickly. “And look at you now,” he leaned in closer, cupping your face to force your eyes to meet his, “you’re the winner, the greatest person in Panem, to come out of the districts anyway.” He gently kissed your right cheek, warm lips on plush skin, and when he pulled away the breeze cooled the hint of saliva he had left behind. “You’re the greatest treasure one could possess, you know?” He kissed your other cheek, firmer this time, like he was trying to leave the imprint of his lips on your skin. “Everyone knows the winner of the Hunger Games, and to say you own them? To parade them on your arm for everyone to see, saying you own the very concept of survival?” He seemed to groan in pleasure, and then everything was moving.

His lips were on yours, slightly wet and forceful. His tongue was delving into your mouth, tasting like sugar, too much sugar, and you wanted to pull back because it was so overwhelming and everything he had just said and and and… and it felt so good too. It was warm, and desperate, like no one had ever been for you before.

A hand moved into your hair and grasped the strands at the back of your head tight, pulling slightly to tilt your head back so you had to look up at him. He was almost leaning over you so your spine bent over the edge of the roof, and the skin of your back scratched against the unpainted concrete. He huffed against your mouth then pulled back, his other hand coming up to trace your mouth with his thumb. You stared into his eyes but he wasn’t looking back at you, not really anyway. He was watching his prize, the reward that no one but him deserved.

You whimpered, a small and pathetic sound that only seemed to make his skin hotter, and he let go of your hair to begin pulling the straps of your dress down your arms. It was a heavy thing, and it felt good to finally be rid of the weight, but you were keenly aware of the cold night and the party in full swing just underneath you. If someone in the garden decided to look up, they would surely see you bent over the edge.

“Wait-” you began to protest, but Aegon was past listening, past caring. He just shoved the dress under your breasts and down your legs, before grabbing your face and bringing your mouth to his own again. His hands travelled over your neck, then caressed your shoulders. He gently pressed the red indents the straps of the dress had left and you sighed into his mouth, leaning onto his chest. Your nipples rubbed against the fabric of his shirt and you gasped into the kiss before moving your chest slightly. The warm little tingles travelled all the way through your torso and you clung to his arms.

Aegon kissed sloppily over your cheeks, your neck, pausing to bite into it until you grunted with pain and pushed at his shoulder. He licked all the way down to your chest, his tongue warm and wet, then the slick trail of spit suddenly cold. Your legs felt unsteady, and you leaned back against the barrier as he began mouthing at your breasts, little circles of warmth formed everywhere he kissed, and then his mouth closed over your nipple and you clenched. It was so… weird. A wet suction formed over your nipple and it seemed to make the inside of your breast spark, your stomach jolt, and the space between your thighs tingle and turn to mush.

“Come on precious,” he mumbled against your skin, “you can be louder,” and he bit the flesh. It really was a live wire attached to your skin, so easy to spark, so easy to create a fire that spread all throughout your body.

Aegon was quicker with the other nipple, licking over it like a dog with a bowl of water, before making his way down to the apex of your thighs. He seemed to be in a hurry with the way he dove his face between your legs. A cry left your lips, loud and shriek-like, at the overwhelming activity. His nose slipped between your lips and pressed to your clit, his tongue out and flat and lapping against the sticky slick that covered the puffy folds that hid your hole. He was ravenous, pressing his face in in in until you stood on your tiptoes and half your weight was balanced against his face. The contours of his face pressed at your hole, his nose rubbed at your clit, and he moved his face back and forth so his tongue could poke inside of you then slip back into his mouth. He began speaking into you, rumbling words you couldn’t understand over the rushing in your head.

“Come on, cum on my face,” he huffed, grabbing your thighs and licking at your clit until it was puffy and swollen. “I wan’ you to cum on my face, give me what I want.” He pressed his tongue inside you. In. Out. He licked your clit. In. Out. He sucked it into his mouth, and your legs shook so much that you would’ve fallen onto the floor if you weren’t practically laying on the barrier already. It was a release. That’s all it could be called. Every muscle clenched then released. Even your mind felt like it had slowly been clenching and now it had been unravelled and was slowly dripping out of your skull.

“Fuck, that’s right,” Aegon mumbled as he pulled away, standing to full height and pulling your hips against his own. His hair had fallen forward into his eyes and his mouth and nose glistened in the low light, but he didn’t seem to care one bit. He had leaned over your body again, pressing his face into your neck. The slick on his chin stuck to your skin and squished whenever he moved. He humped into you a few times, grunting and groaning, before hurriedly reaching down and fumbling with his belt and zipper. You could hear the clanking of metal, the rustle of fabric, and then something warm pressing to your thigh.

There was no waiting with Aegon. His body simply didn’t contain the patience for it, and really why would you wait when the prize you had so long coveted lay bare before you, just ripe for the taking? A shift here, a push there, and he caught at your entrance. He finally pulled away from your neck and looked into your eyes. He caressed your cheek, and you could tell all he saw was a trophy he had just won.

Then Aegon pressed into you, and his veins rubbed at your slick insides, pressing against your walls and sliding against your own textured flesh and you were leaning back to moan into the night sky, chest heaving. He kissed your breasts and pushed into you again, his lower stomach pressing your clit. Again, he moved into you and the sparks flashed and you clenched around him, onto him, and he moaned against your ear, hot breath fanning the shell.

“Fuck yes, you’re my precious little thing aren’t you? Huh? You’re my special little prize?” His hips slapped against yours and the sound echoed over the roof. His mouth biting into your neck sent sparks through you. Back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and oh god it was too much! You clenched onto him and screamed into his neck, open mouth pressed to the sweaty skin. You clenched and unclenched onto him as waves passed through you, melting your flesh and your bones. It was over too soon yet it lasted too long. He pushed once more, twice more, and you could feel him quiver against you, even as you tried to push him away from the pulsing flesh of your insides. You could feel the spurts inside you, hot and gushing. You felt it trickle out of you, slide down your thighs in warm rivulets and you shuddered.

Aegon still lay on top of you, huffing heavily into your neck. You didn’t know what to do, so you stayed still, waiting for guidance, waiting for the other shoe to fall. He slowly pushed up on his arms so his face hovered above yours, and he smiled a dazed and delirious smile. Was it always there, or had it just appeared, that insanity in his eyes?

“Oh my precious,” he sighed, cupping your cheek, “we have so much ahead.”

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ganymede-princess · 7 months

Text

The Crimson King | Rhaegar Targaryen

ship: rhaegar targeryen x fem!oc

warnings: I really don't think there is any? jaime is a little scary i guess. OH and cannon divergence. Big ol' TW for that.

summary: a young crannogman girl meets the crowned prince on a very special occasion.

word count: 3298

a/n: phew! this was a long time coming. I hope you like it! (and if you don't fuck with the romance, there's a more interesting scene at the end!) There will be a part 2, just by the way ;)

written by @ganymede-princess

The thick, hot air in the royal ballroom carried the scent of a thousand perfumed bodies. Long tables lined the room, piled high with foods from across the Seven Kingdoms. Among the dishes Frida spied fat frogs legs and water lily syrup from her home in the Neck, next to crabs and succulent fried fish from Lannisport, sweet pastries made from the honey of Highgarden, and bowls of flakey pink rock salt from Dragonstone. Despite the sight of countless exotic delicacies, her stomach churned.

Hundreds of highborn folk all milled around, laughing, dancing, talking, each one dressed more lavishly than the last. Frida had never seen so much silk in one place. Bewitched as she was with the nightlife of King's Landing, she found herself growing into the wall like an unsightly mushroom. She was acutely aware that she did not blend in with the royal aesthetics. Her unruly hair could only be half tamed and her mauve linen gown looked miserly next to the lavish satins and velvets that garbed the ruling class. Frida could feel a hundred sets of eyes boring into her, though when she glanced around, there were none there to meet. She thought there must be hearths burning somewhere. If there were no hearths, why did the air feel so heavy?

Frida searched the room for the face of her brother to no avail. Ewyn had no struggles with making friends in spite of his Crannogman roots and noticeable limp. Frida guessed he would be engaged by the end of the night. With no respite in sight and her breath coming shallower by the second, she made a hasty escape. She slipped around the edge of the ballroom, narrowly avoiding several dancing couples, at least three stray cats, and a drunken septon, before emerging onto a small rampart with stairs at either end. Frida thought it wise to take a quick turn around the rose garden below to calm herself, but once she reached a shadowed corner she could contain her exhaustion no longer and fell to her knees between two sweet smelling bushes. She did not cry, just breathed deeply, content in the knowledge that she was far away from prying eyes. Until she heard a sniffle from behind the rosebush to her left.

"Hello?" Frida's voice caught in her throat. There came no answer, just another quieter sniffle. "Who's there?"

"Nobody." Said the invisible man in a voice thick with sorrow. "Leave me."

"What's the matter?" The leaves rustled gently as Frida shifted awkwardly, trying her best to see through the thick bushes.

"Worry not."

"But you're crying."

"No." His voice cracked. "I am the- I am a man."

"What's that got to do with it?" Frida corrected. "My brother cries all the time, and he's already one and twenty."

There was a brief rustling in the bush and the clearing of a throat.

"What brings him to cry?" The voice seemed to settle a little.

"Oh everything!" Frida murmured. "Books, flowers, pretty sunsets. He cries almost every time he rides a horse. He has an injury to one of his legs, you see. A lizard-lion took his knee in its jaws and damn near tore his leg off! He used to love running, so riding is a real joy for him."

"A lizard-lion? You are from the Neck?"

Fuck. Frida thought. The voice carried the accent of King's Landing and she knew very well that folk from the capital were the most prejudiced against Crannogmen out of anywhere in the Seven Kingdoms. He was sure to send her away now, or worse.

"Yes."

"Tell me, what is it like there?"

"Oh- um. Wet." She babbled. "Very wet and slippery."

"I hear that beautiful flowers grow there." The man mused, his mild voice easing Frida's apprehension slightly.

"Yes. Ghost orchids, swamp arums, blue-eyed Bessies that grow on the trunks of trees; all of them beautiful." In a hushed voice she added, "But, do you know which is the most beautiful flower of all?"

"No, tell me."

"Black water lilies. My house has bred them to perfection."

"Your house?"

"I belong to House Fenn, Ser."

"Ah." There was a moment of surprisingly comfortable silence between them. "What brings you to the garden, my lady?"

"You take me for a lady?" Frida giggled.

"Are you not?" She could hear the smile return to his voice. "You take me for a Knight."

"Are you not?"

"I am, yes, but there is more to me than a knighthood."

"Such as?"

The man paused for a moment.

"You didn't answer my question."

Frida hesitated, searching for a way to put it lightly.

"The feast is full of beautiful people. I worried that my being there would ruin things."

"Why?"

"Well... I am ugly, Ser."

"Ugly?" His voice was curt with indignation. "Who led you to believe this?"

"My mother always told me that other folks look down on Crannogmen and that they find us ugly." In the anonymity of darkness, words tumbled out of her. "Though she also said I am ugly for a Crannogman."

A thick silence stood between them.

"How could a mother say such a thing to her child?"

"She's very sick, she doesn't think-"

"She's well enough that you believe her." The truth silenced Frida. "Come here so that I might see you for myself."

"You won't like it." She warned him and prepared herself to move, though she was unsure in which direction.

Frida heard the tink tink of flint against flint, then a warm glow began to shine through the rose bush. Her ears roared with the pounding of her heart, but she knew she had to show herself. She had to see the face of the man with the handsome voice, and more so she had to know what he thought of her. Trembling, she revealed herself. A black hood shrouded his face in shadow, but Frida could see his deep blue eyes widen, almost purple in the firelight.

"My lady-" His voice came in an urgent, breathy whisper.

"Don't."

She turned away from him, already humiliated, until she felt a hand gently guide her face back to him. She resisted, gripping his forearm.

"Please, look at me." Though his voice cracked in desperation, it was commanding enough that she turned to him again. The light caught his arrow-straight nose, and the soft pillow of his lips. Frida's breath hitched.

"I must take your mother for a liar, my lady."

"She said... people like you would think I look like a toad."

"No." He smiled. "But if you did, you would be a very beautiful toad indeed."

"Thank you." She blushed, somewhat sceptical. "Let me see you too."

"I can't, my-"

"Your Grace!" A tall, golden-haired man wearing a glittering white cloak and armour came careening around the corner of the hedge. "Gods, I thought I'd lost you. Avast, wench! Rise in the name of your king!"

The kingsguard drew his ornate longsword and pointed the sharp tip at Frida's face. Aghast, she cringed away from him and crawled a few paces back with him keeping pace.

"Enough, Jaime!" The shadowed man leapt to his feet and lunged forward to push the blade away, toppling over the lantern. "Can't you see she's harmless?"

"Kingslayer." The word was out of her mouth before Frida knew what she was saying. Jaime Lannister swung the sword back around to her.

"It's treason to disrespect a Kingsguard." The young man's eyes glittered with rage. "Say it once more and I'll cut the head from your shoulders, girl."

"Enough!" The shadowed man commanded, and grimacing, the Whitecloak stayed his blade. "Leave us."

"But, Your Grace-"

"Leave us. Alert Ser Barriston that the ceremony will take place as we discussed."

"Your Grace, I cannot leave you undefended."

"I have a sword on my hip and the skill to wield it. Leave us. You will not defy me again."

"Your Grace." Ser Jaime stalked off in a huff, his white cloak billowing behind him.

"Please," The shadowed man looked down at Frida, face creased with embarrassment. "Ser Jaime prefers the title The White Lion."

Frida gaped, wide eyed; knowing the truth but not believing it. As he picked up the lantern with his ungloved hand, Frida thought he would burn his fingers to the bone, but he simply dusted them on his coat, stamped out the fire in the grass with a black leather boot, and shed his hood to reveal a mop of hair that glimmered like spun silver. His eyes were wide and glassy, and Frida saw then that they truly were as purple as morning glory. He held out his hand, and for a moment all Frida could do was stare at it.

"My king." Frida could not keep the astonishment from her voice. "I'm sorry."

"For what reason?"

"I've spoken ill and disrespected you." She looked away. "I'm sure I have."

"I have heard no disrespect from you, lady, I am not so easily wounded. Please, take my hand." He pressed closer, a smile taking over his tear-streaked face when she let him pull her to her feet. "I appreciate your honest words, please do not dull your voice for the sake of my title. Besides, I ought to apologise for the behaviour of my protector. Please forgive him, he is young and still has much to learn."

"My king." Frida found herself without words.

"Go back to the feast, lady." The young dragon sighed and pressed a kiss against her palm. "I must prepare in my chambers. Thank you... for your kindness."

Without the wit to respond, Frida curtseyed clumsily and hurried back to the hall. Her head and heart were reeling with the urge to tell The Bloodmaid, her favourite weirwood from home, and she felt suddenly and starkly alone without the comfort of her red timber eyes. As she tumbled back into the ballroom, her gaze fell on her brother who leaned on a giant stone pillar, surrounded with a number of laughing Riverlander knights. Heart sinking, Frida took a steadying breath and marched up to the group.

"Ewyn, brother," Frida took him by the upper arm, silence falling on the group. "May I have a word, just for a moment?"

"Frida," Ewyn stumbled over his words. "Don't you see I'm busy?"

"Come, have a word with us, fair lady." Grinned a young man with red hair and a speckled face. "There is wine enough for another."

"Ed," Ewyn turned on him, scowling viciously. "Mind you don't drown in it, will you? Come on, Frida, let's talk."

He took her by the hand and limped away with impressive speed. When the pair were out of earshot, he frowned down at her.

"What is it?" Frida could smell the beer on his breath as he spoke.

"You're not going to believe me." She scratched her wrist, the sleeves on her dress suddenly feeling too close to her skin.

"I always believe you." Ewyn cocked an eyebrow, leaning against his mangrove cane.

"Well..." Frida chewed her fingers.

"You've been in the grass." He tutted derisively, green eyes alight with amusement.

She noticed that green stains marred her hem, along with her knees, and she assumed her buttocks too.

"Shit!" She muttered.

"Tsk tsk tsk, is that any way for a lady of the court to be speaking?"

"Oh, sod off." She aimed a half-hearted smack at his arm. "I'll have you know, it wasn't my fault. A Kingsguard knocked me over."

"A Kingsguard? Well, I suppose this is the place for it."

"Well... he was guarding the king."

Ewyn narrowed his eyes.

"What did you do? Spit on him?"

"No!" Frida pressed a hand against her cheek, trying to stave off the heat. "I just spoke to him, is all."

"You- you spoke to him?" His eyes were round as lily pads. "The king?"

"I didn't know it was him to start with. He was behind a bush with a cloak on, he could have been anybody."

"Yes, but-" He squinted, baffled. "He really spoke to you?"

"Yes-"

The trill of a lone trumpeter silenced them, and they turned to see a herald on the mezzanine above the ballroom.

"Make way to the Throne Room!" Though the herald was tall enough to be a man, his voice rang out high and clear as a child's. "The ceremony will begin presently!"

As the Goldcloaks pulled open the huge doors at the far end of the ballroom, Frida and Ewyn exchanged a glance, silently agreeing to discuss things later. They followed the snaking crowd down the long hallway until it opened into the cavernous throne room which was already teeming with smallfolk. A pair of enormous candelabras were suspended over the crowd, washing the blood red walls in firelight. Frida wondered how they kept the wax from dripping down on the folk below.

As they passed by the jostling throng of peasants and workers to take their places in front of the ornate barrier, she felt ashamed to be separated from them. Since childhood she had felt the earth on bare feet and worked hard to sustain her House; to be dressed in any kind of finery and placed above the common people felt farcical. Goldcloaks lined the edges of the passageway through the crowd, and Frida noticed they stood two abreast in the peasants' section at the back, and single file from the vassal and cadet houses, all the way to the lords and ladies of the great houses at the very front.

"What was he like?" Ewyn whispered.

"Sad." Frida sighed.

"Sad?" He raised an eyebrow, then nodded wisely. "It's the only way to feel in his position."

"Very lovely, though." She admitted. "He'll be a good king."

Her brother's eyes crinkled in amusement, then he jumped as the heralds rang out a triumphant cry from the back of the room. Silence fell over the crowd as every man, woman, and child turned at once. Frida peered through the crowd, barely able to see a thing. She could see a Targaryen flag bobbing over the crowd, sending an odd lump into her throat as it came closer, and closer. The entire room was silent except for the footsteps growing ever closer. No cheering or jeering, no coughing. Then, through the gap between the two Goldcloaks by her side she saw Ser Barristan Selmy stride through, holding a long staff with a red dragon flag of black silk, glorious in his white armour. Next was the crown prince himself, dressed in mournful black velvet finery and a heavy black cloak that dragged along the ground behind him. The sadness on his face seemed carved into stone, but he held his back straight and walked with the grace and strength of a king. Behind him, his remaining two Kingsguard marched beside each other, their heads held high in pride. Ser Jaime supported the tawny Dornishman Lewyn Martell, who limped along with one leg in a splint, their arms around each other in solidarity. Once the tiny party climbed all the way up the steps to the Iron Throne, Frida caught a glimpse of four men in white who stood a little ways down the steps, new blood waiting to be sworn into the Kingsguard: three fresh faced young warriors, and a grizzled man of middle age with deep auburn hair streaked with grey.

Selmy, Lannister, and Martell took their places beside their soon-to-be brothers, while Rhaegar stood before the Iron Throne, its silver blades forming rippling shadows on the massive horned dragon skull behind them. Frida imagined hundreds of fallen soldiers watching down on the man they had died for, using Balerion's great hollow eyes to see. If their loss weighed him down, he did not show it, standing strong as a giant on the steps where his father's blood once formed a crimson tide. The High Septon stood beside him, hands clasped in solemnity beneath dagged sleeves, heavy with jewels; and beside him stood the little prince Viserys, milk white curls almost to his waist, dutifully clutching a red lacquer box. Rhaegar's eyes swept across the crowd, burning with pride, grief... perhaps even fear; then he knelt, his black velvet cloak folding around his frame like a pair of wings.

"By the light of the Seven, we gather this night to welcome a new king. Let us pray." Every faithful soul in the crowd placed hand over heart at the septon's words. Even for Frida, who's gods were cold and wild, it was hard not to be moved. "May the Warrior lend him the courage of his ancestors, that he might lead us with a bold heart through the harshest of winters; and may the Smith guide him to mend the divisions of our realm. May the Maiden warm his bed with a fitting bride and many sons; and the Crone bless him with wisdom to pass on to his heirs. May the Father Above guide him to justice, and the Mother protect him from harm. And the Stranger- when he must come- may he take him kindly."

The Septon turned, and Little Viserys fumbled to open the box. Frida heart swelled when she spotted an encouraging smile on Rhaegar's face, which seemed to grant the toddler enough strength to get the lid off. He tottered forward and held it up above his head, and the Septon took out a plain gold circlet and nestled it into the King's pale curls.

"Under seven sets of watchful eyes, I name King Rhaegar of House Targaryen, the first of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm. Long may he reign."

"Long may he reign." The crowd echoed as one.

Rhaegar rose to face them, and as he did, Frida saw that his crown was adorned with a single glimmering ruby that sat just above his eyes on a fine gold chain. He thrust his fist to the sky, and the room filled with the thunder of cheers and feet drumming on the stone floor. He seemed to drink in the praise, determination steeling his gaze. He dropped his fist to his side, silencing the crowd.

"From childhood, I knew the day my reign began would be marred with grief, but I could never have dreamt of the loss the realm has suffered for my coronation. I know that every soul in the Seven Kingdoms grieves for someone lost to this bloody rebellion, or my father's madness. King Aerys saw enemies in every shadow, and would have razed this city to the ground just to flood it with light and annihilate his mummer's adversaries. I saw smallfolk treated worse than dogs; children whipped by Goldcloaks in the street. How could a man see such tyranny and not rebel? Robert Baratheon's courage was admirable, and in another life I might have fought beside him and called him 'brother;' but his war was not the answer, and now we are left with the consequence. As I stand here now with you as my witnesses, I promise to usher in a new age of the Targaryen dynasty. An age of peace and unity, of prosperity and change. The House of the Dragon will reforge, and the realm along with it."

He stood in silence a moment, eyes ablaze. Then as the crowd erupted once more, he turned, his cloak billowing a red dragon on black, and stepped up to the Iron Throne on a stair forged from a giant warhammer. The heralds blared, Frida applauded until her hands burned with the effort and her heart hammered in her chest, and when she was done she felt her face wet with tears.

#asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #game of thrones #house of the dragon #rhaegar targaryen #rhaegar targaryen x reader #toby regbo #francis valois #francis de valois #reign

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isnovelman · 1 year

Text

Isn’t Being A Wicked Woman Much Better? Novel Side Story Chapter 2

“It may not be as good as Seymour, but the garden here is also carefully maintained.”

Isidor, who had been rubbing my ear, took my hand again and spoke kindly. On the snow-covered garden path as thin as silk, the footprints of me and his feet were stamped side by side.

“But there are no trees in the vicinity.”

“Ah, I left the flower garden and glass greenhouse to make a new one. When spring comes, I will call a gardener and actively decorate it.”

"What flower garden all of a sudden?"

“I heard that the princess likes to see flowers.”

“I don’t need to plant a new one just because of my flower viewing… .”

“Well, there is no need for that. All I have to do is look in the mirror every morning.”

“Hmm?”

“ princess is a thousand times more dazzling than a flower.”

“Am!”

At the end of the day, as I overcame my embarrassment and squeezed his hand, he bit his mouth.

“...hurt?”

“No. I was too affected to speak. I feel my powers are getting stronger, so I will have a longer and healthier life with me.”

Isidor, who said something serious or joking, naturally escorted her into the townhouse.

“There are very few people today.”

“They went on vacation with a minimum number of people left. It's the end of the year... I don't want to be disturbed because I have so many fans... .”

As he took the snowy shawl, he added something small.

“By the way, when do you rest?”

“I'm going to take a long vacation at the beginning of the year. How about hanging out with me after talking?”

“Okay.”

As he smiled and took off his fur gloves, Isidor's cheeks gradually turned red and he tilted his head.

“Why?”

“The ring, I didn’t know you were wearing it.”

It's cute to see him smirking like that before and rubbing the reddened nape of his neck, not knowing what to do with just one ring.

“Hmm! Come this way.”

“okay.”

He took the lead with a red face that did not go away.

As I walked through the hall decorated with all kinds of treasure swords and arrived at the drawing room with a large sofa, something clattered and ran in front of me.

I held the cookie hanging from my skirt in my arms and gently stroked mis hair.

“long time no see.”

“hm, That's my place.”

Isidor tapped Cookie's pink nose lightly.

“Princess, would you like some tea? Or juice?”

“I want to drink juice.”

I sat down on the comfy sofa and looked around the room, stroking the sloppy cookie.

Because it was winter, the floor was covered with thick carpets and the large fireplace was full of firewood, giving it a year-end atmosphere. And there were things that stood out because of the quality.

“Isidor, are you studying geography these days? In fact, it could come in handy during enlisted training.”

I said, pointing to the map of the capital where the red line was checked.

Isidor put down his teacup and opened his mouth.

“I use it when making a date course.”

“ah…”

“ha…”

He cut out a mille-feuille and held it to his bewildered lips.

"uh? This is really delicious.”

“I come here often to play. I'll prepare a lot of delicious things for you.”

“Yeah.”

“How is the room temperature? Isn't it cold?”

“It’s fine.”

Every time he took care of it meticulously, I felt sick to my stomach and embarrassed.

It's not the first time we've been alone like this, but he came close to me and leaned his head on my shoulder, I inhaled and swallowed my breath.

“… are you uncomfortable?”

“It’s not…”

”then?”

“Actually, I’m a little nervous. Maybe it’s because it’s been a long time since we’ve seen only the two of us like this.”

Or maybe it's because every time I see Isidore's face, it's new.

“really? You look calm.”

Although there are many advantages of a without tension face that does not show well even when surprised or excited, Isidor did not believe it at all, so it was a little unfair.

“look. My heart is beating so fast”

I pulled his hand to my heart.

“Right!?”

“… yes.”

As soon as he removed his hand from my chest, he ruffled his hair with a hint of nervousness somewhere.

“Hair, messy.”

“Then clean it up.”

Cookie looks startled at me stroking his master's head like a puppy, then goes down to the floor.

Isidor, who quickly took the empty arms, hugged me tightly and smiled slightly.

“I like it.”

“Me too”

“It’s really good. So, see you often.”

As he spoke in a voice that came from deep inside his heart, I laughed heartily without realizing it.

***

“I am not satisfied”

“no?”

“It means that greed keeps increasing.”

Isidor pressed his temple firmly. Every moment of returning her princess to her Seymour was getting harder and harder.

Spending time with her was calm and warm at the same time, and at the same time exhilarated him without a break.

When she gave me her warm body temperature and saw her soft eyes and smile, my heart ached and melted.

Isidor, who had not been able to communicate sincerely with others, first learned about such sweet, painful, and lovely sensations through Deborah.

At first, it was good just to have feelings for each other, but I thought I was going to lose my mind because I was happy just that she accepted my heart.

After I got engaged, my desire to live together suddenly grew and I became impatient.

“wedding hall… Shall we find that?”

Miguel's eyes widened at Isidor's bombshell remarks.

“Are you in agreement with Duke Seymour? I thought he wouldn't allow it until she graduated from the academy, but I was surprised... .”

“There is nothing wrong with preparing in advance. Of course, you have to do it secretly.”

“If you get caught, what are you going to do next?”

“… It's a joke. Joke.”

“Don't joke like that, my lord. You know the Seymour bloodline personality because you have experienced it.”

To be honest, Miguel still couldn't believe that Princess Deborah, the blood of a cold snake, was the embodiment of a saint. And there were times when the master, who had to deal with the reckless snakes behind the princess, was sometimes naughty.

“my father’s personality is not like a knife.”

“Have you already decided to call him Father? "

Cancel the word sweet.

If anyone hears it, they'll think they've been married for 10 years, not just getting engaged.

“It’s not yet a mutually agreed-upon title, but it will be soon.”

“Ah, yes...”

“I will have to go see my father with a New Year’s present. When the new year comes, I know that I will be taking vacations for a week from the 1st to the 7th.”

'So you've been up all night like a madman.'

“Yes, my lord!”

Your boss's vacation is your own. Even a full week!

My favorability towards the hostess I will serve in the future has risen once more.

'By the way, you've been alone with the Duke of Seymour since the new year. '

Miguel shook his head, feeling that the seat next to the saint was not something anyone could afford.

***

[Good morning, Duke Seymour... (omitted) When the new year comes, I will meet you and say hello.]

“Ugh. It is said that they come from the first day of the new year… ”

Duke Seymour looked at Isidore's letter and scratched his chin several times.

In fact, the first week of the New Year for the people of the Asteria Empire was like a holiday to spend with family around the fireplace.

However, the nobles, especially Seymour's immediate family, had no reason to sit around in a fuss because they lived in a private annex, and they each spent their New Year's Eve, preoccupied with their own work. In particular, Duke Seymour was even more busy at the beginning of the year as he had to review the management plan for the tower and the family budget.

'I've spent such a long time doing nothing but work...'

It wasn't a big deal at this time, but when Isidor sent a letter to see him in the new year, Duke Seymour felt complicated again.

'Ummm.... .'

To be honest, it wasn't a bad feeling.

It must be said that Isidor, who already cares about this place as if it were a family member, is as special as a bean. If you come, you won't hear good things, but it seems that the way he takes care of adults from the new year is quite buoyant.

'Actually, other than him, there is no good alternative.'

He's handsome for his face, but even so, I can't stand having a poor guy standing next to my daughter.

Perhaps it was because they had gone through the turmoil together, Duke Seymour was accepting Isidore as if his clothes were wet in the drizzle, and on the other hand, he was unfamiliar with himself.

“…. First, let's prepare dinner. You have to welcome guests. ”

“Yes, Duke. How many meals will you prepare?”

When asked how many servings to prepare, Duke Seymour paused.

“Ask my boys, They have time tomorrow evening?”

Everyone's busy anyway, so it's better not to ask.

When the new year came, the eldest son was not very close to the house because he was making connections at various social parties.

The second son, the artifact developer, must be hesitant to write a plan in order to receive the newly formed horse tower budget. Still, the youngest will have plenty of time because the tight tutoring schedule has been drastically reduced.

“It’s winter, but it would be better to take out the strawberries in advance.”

Said Duke Seymour, recalling Enrique, who was the last to eat strawberries on the whipped cream cake.

“And, find out… .”

“yes? What is it?”

“Let’s find out what Enrique wants to eat other than strawberries.”

A blunt and clumsy father, he added with a bit of embarrassment.

#isn't being a wicked woman much better side chapter 2 #isn't being a wicked woman much better completed #isn't being a wicked woman much better? novel #novel #light novel #isn't being a wicked woman much better novel chapter

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rotworld · 8 months

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7: Metamorphosis

(previous)

the girl goes home. you visit an old friend.

->sexually suggestive. contains mild gore, ear penetration, terato, mentions of drugging, mentions of child trafficking and child abuse.

The last leg of the journey is always a thing of wonder. You unfold your crumpled, egg-stained map and marvel at the neatness of the reality, the momentary certainty of things. This is the understanding you carved out in a corner of the world. This is how far you’ve come. The Drift is mercurial. It won’t last. These cities will have scattered again, these roads you thought you knew winding in strange, new ways. But for now, for just a moment, you bask in a sense of wearied accomplishment. You are still here, despite everything.

There were tears this morning. Albie drew a map of his own depicting his family’s corner of Verlinda, landmarks painstakingly rendered in colored pencils scribbles and labeled with shaky letters. A little cottage in the forest, surrounded by trees, bordered by a stream and many smiling animals, is labeled “MY HOUSE.” He wanted to make sure the girl would be able to find her way back someday. She has it on her lap, neatly folded, clutched in her small hands.

“It’s close,” you tell her.

She watches the scenery with rapt attention, memorizing every detail. “Close,” she agrees, glancing at you in surprise. “How know?”

“See the dirt? It’s kind of a reddish color. And that spicy-sweet smell is from the mulberry gardens.” The sign is just over the hill, exactly as you remember it; a metal slab suspended between old wooden posts, bearing elegant lettering and a curling ribbon design. “Welcome to Compass Hill,” it says, and your heart beats faster in recognition, anticipation and dread. “I grew up here,” you add softly.

[NOW PLAYING ON THE RADIO: HOW YOU REMEMBER BY AZURE RAY]

Roads into Compass Hill are long, decorated promenades of flattened cobblestone and stately scenery. Here is the visitor’s center, glass-paneled and flower-filled like a Victorian greenhouse. There is a lakeside sculpture garden with abstract figures and lanterns dotting the winding footpath. In the distance, the city’s crown jewel, a sprawling campus of red brick cathedrals—the head office and processing factory of Compass Hill Textiles.

“This used to be an awful place,” you say. “Someone might tell you the story later. Not to scare you, but because you should know. People would bring children of the road here because the company would pay them for it.”

You slow as you drive past the textiles building. They’ve kept it maintained, you notice, maybe to avoid suspicion. The lawn is trimmed, the hedges bordering the path up to the front steps neatly manicured. There’s a water fountain with an angel perched on top. The plaque set into the stone commemorates an ancient patriarch of the Dewitt family, a name emblazoned all over town. It was the Dewitts who built the mill, after all, a dynasty of textile magnates made wealthy by the harvest and refinement of exquisite silks.

You point to the factory. “I used to live there. It looks nice from outside, but most of the space is for machinery. Rows and rows of rattling, whirring things that took up whole rooms. The kids who couldn’t weave slept in the cramped, overheated basement, right under all the noise. Eventually, we’d get our license and start delivering silk.” The girl studies the building with a small frown. “It’s different now,” you assure her. “The factory’s closed. Nobody has to sleep on a concrete floor anymore.”

There’s a gate just beyond the factory. Curling wrought iron arches form symmetrical shapes where they meet, an insectoid body with large, sweeping wings. You can hear something just faintly; a buzzing hum. A faraway melody. The gates pull apart with a loud metallic clattering, welcoming you inside. In your rearview mirror, you see a large shape on the roof of the old textile factory. It crouches, spreads its wings, and flits away. The girl sits up sharply, startled and curious.

“Probably went to tell everyone we’re here,” you say.

“Everyone?” she asks. Something catches her eye and she turns back towards the window, her eyes widening.

“Everyone. You’re home.”

Beyond the gate is the true, new Compass Hill, built on the bones of the old. Structures are soft and rounded rather than angular, wispy, cloud-like material woven across the city skyline. Gossamer threads sparkle in dazzling neon shades and subdued earth tones alike. The schoolhouse is a powdery blue dome with rocks and flowers woven around the entrance, while the open air marketplace is adorned with rippling canopy shades and decorative arches. Everything is silk as only Compass Hill knows it, exquisite color and unbelievably versatile texture.

But the girl isn’t looking at the buildings. She’s looking at the people. Peering through honeycomb windows and ambling into the street, a crowd gathers, curiously chittering, all around your car. You stop in the middle of the road to let them see her, and for her to see them. Scaled skin and shimmering carapaces, wings and claws and softly clicking mandibles, bristle-thin hairs and thick, curly manes. The people of Compass Hill are as varied as the silk they spin. A child with slender vespid wings and gangly, striped arms comes right up to the window and the girl stares back at her with tears filling her four eyes.

“Home!” she wails. “Home! Home!” You unlock the door and she tumbles into the waiting arms of family she has only dreamed of. A woman, pale pink and violet with a mantis’ tapered abdomen and sharp, hooked fingers, gently works the knots from the girl’s hair. The hum rises, louder now, a gentle, rolling melody of a thousand voices harmonizing. It’s the Song, welcoming you both. When you step out of the car, you’re swarmed with gentle touches and fond nuzzling.

“You’re back.” There’s a pleased purring beside your ear as four soft, lightly furred arms encircle you from behind. You recognize her quiet, higher-pitched notes before you see her. Chiffon is one of the oldest weavers in Compass Hill, her great wings as thick and heavy as a blanket. She slips in front of you, taking each of your hands in hers, the other two free to cup your face. Her four eyes arch in worry. “Where have you been? And where are you going?”

“I’ll have to show you my map. It’s been a long trip,” you say. Chiffon chitters with laughter, a sound echoed all the way down the street as she passes the joke through the Song. “And I don’t know where I’m going yet. I was in a hurry to get here before the next shift.”

“Your hand…” She’s gentle with it, fingers worrying the skin all around your bandages. “I’ll have a look at this later. You’ll stay the night. Rest. He’ll be so happy to see you.” Your smile wanes. Chiffon squeezes your hands, reassuring but also pleading. “Please,” she sings softer. “Please go see him.”

You hear a delighted warble, the melody rising. The girl looks startled, clutching a wad of fresh, glistening silk in her hand, small string still connected to her mouth. The color is like a sunrise, a blue ombre glinting with strands of gold. One of the old weavers bends down and shows her how to braid it, tying off the ends so it doesn’t fray. “That’s hopesilk,” he says, pausing his singing so she can understand him. “Very strong, and very pretty. Someone believes in you very much.”

You wipe at your eyes and nod at Chiffon. The crowd parts for the two of you as a slow, undulating note enters the Song, a bittersweet melody. They’ve missed you. They wish you’d stay.

The Dewitt estate is at the very edge of town. Similar grand manors and luxurious homes dot the hills but the others are old, fallen into disrepair. The fences have crumbled, the stately brickwork has eroded, and mulberry branches snake out of the broken windows. They are Verlinda’s by right but remain, dilapidated and unoccupied, out of respect for the children of Compass Hill and everything they have endured.

It is only the Dewitt estate, all the way at the top of the hill, that is still maintained. Someone cuts the grass and trims the hedges. Someone fixes the roof when it leaks. Someone leaves food at the door. As you get closer, you hear a piercing scream from somewhere inside. “How is he?” you ask.

Chiffon feels your worry. She chirps a Song of one, fluttering and bird-like. “He’s…better, I think. He spends less and less time here.” She stops when you reach the front porch of the manor. Her wings are drooping, the larger ones folded around her like a shawl. “But he’s still…well. It’s rather shocking inside.”

You march up the steps before you can lose your nerve. There’s another scream—fearful, but also furious. You thought it was just mindless shrieking before but now you can make out words, “wretched” and “ungrateful” and “horrible, abominable thing.” The door is cracked open. The foyer is a mess of broken glass and overturned furniture, old blood stains crusted into the carpet and stuck to the wallpaper. A silver platter has been flung against the wall, shattering a plate and splattering mashed potatoes and a chunk of cooked meat.

There is a man standing in the middle of the foyer, chest heaving and red in the face, screaming at something in the corner. You recognize Mr. Dewitt. He looks more sickly than you recall, sweat shining on his gaunt face. You’ve caught him in the middle of a tirade not unlike the ones you remember from childhood. He was always short-tempered, liable to fly into a rage at the slightest inconvenience. “I want to see my son! You can’t keep him from me! Just you wait, just you wait until they hear about this down at the factory!”

He whirls around at the sound of your footsteps and his wide, bloodshot eyes brighten. “Oh! Oh, it’s you!” he calls, grinning deliriously. His eyes are hazy and he’s not quite looking at you. He wobbles forward, looking inebriated. “You’ve come at the perfect time! I need to get a message down to the factory. Good practice for a courier, hm? Some incompetent let one of the weavers cocoon itself and now we’re stuck with this.” He gestures to the corner, the thing looming there silently. “It’s making demands. Can you tell them to send someone?”

You hesitate just a second too long and he’s screaming again, berating you, calling you a stupid, useless road-mongrel. The thing in the corner lunges forward then, faster than you can see it move. There’s a rush of air and a flash of movement. It lands heavily on top of the man, slamming his head into the floor. It’s your friend, the boy who grew up in this awful place with you. Older now, much bigger, casting a wide shadow with his wings outstretched. You see him tangle his claws in the man’s thinning hair, yanking his head higher. You see him lean in, proboscis unfurling.

“Hello,” he sings. Four eyes peer at you beneath stark white fringe. In adulthood, the silver ones have also turned deep, inky black. “Hello again. I was just thinking of you.”

His proboscis plunges forward like a needle and there’s a sickening crunch and a spurt of blood as it pierces Dewitt’s ear. He shakes and flails uncontrollably, mouth stretched open in a horrified, silent scream, but your friend holds him still; one hand on his head, one on his shoulder, the others easily keeping him pinned beneath the weight of his enormous body. Your friend, the Singer of Compass Hill, vibrates with a welcoming melody, his wings flapping in contentment. His proboscis goes taut and there’s a sick, slurping sound, another gush of blood dribbling down Dewitt’s face and neck.

“Why…is he…?” You swallow your revulsion. The Singer tilts his head slightly, the change in angle churning and squishing wetly against something in Dewitt’s head. The vibration of the song drones just louder than the gurgling screams Dewitt makes.

“He’s drugged. Not certain where or when he is. It’s the same thing he used to give me and all the others.” The Singer’s primary eyes are focused on feeding, but the smaller secondary ones rotate, fixed on you. “You don’t feel bad for him, do you?”

“I’m worried about you.”

The Singer drops Dewitt, proboscis yanking loose with a wet, ripping sound and slithering back into his mouth. He came out of his cocoon differently than all the others. No one else has emerged quite so large. His frilled antenna scrape the high ceiling, his legs bend strangely, and he has six long arms. A ring of thick, white fur circles his neck and drapes over his shoulders. There’s similar patches of fuzz all the way down his body, thinning out across his belly and limbs. His fingers are long and dexterous, warm when they reach out and graze your cheek.

His eyes have changed the least. There are mandibles on either side of his jaw, pearl-white and flexible, a proboscis curled up inside his mouth, but you’ll always recognize his eyes, no matter the color.

“Is he dead?” you say quietly, staring at the body lying limp and face-down on the carpet.

“No. I won’t let him die yet.” The Singer takes your hand in three of his. He turns it over, letting out a low hum in concern at the sight of bandages, the missing finger. “I’ll keep him here, just like I was kept. Except he has the luxury of a house when all I had was that cramped cell in the mountage wing of the factory, a bedroom shaped like a coffin. I’ll use him as he used me, without remorse. He can die when I have nothing to gain from him anymore.”

You tug on his arm, pulling him down to kneel in front of you, and embrace him. The Singer rests his chin and mandibles on your shoulders. His hands all knead the front of your shirt, just like when he was a boy. “I came here to complete a delivery,” you admit. “It’s a child. This is her home.”

The Singer hums appreciatively, nuzzling against your neck. “Yes. Good. I heard the Song. She’ll be safe here. She’ll decide what to do with her own silk. No one will keep her from cocooning and growing up.” His proboscis darts out, tasting the sweat on your throat. “Hope…savory. She grazed on this. You fed her well. There’s more hope here, as much as she could ever want.”

You rub his mandibles and he purrs. “You can have some, if you want. Hope, and whatever else I have.” You feel the vibration of the Song gone slow and deep with interest. He flicks one of his mandibles against your lips, tempted. “You have to eat something other than grudges,” you say gently.

“I can’t stomach much else. But…” He crouches further, pulling you into his lap. You’re settled on one of his thighs, half-turned away from him. He brushes your hair out of the way and caresses the shell of your ear, stroking the lobe with his thumb. “I’ll go very slow. Very gentle. It’s been a long time.”

Now that you’re actually here, clutching the fur on his upper chest, your stomach is flipping nervously. He’s right, it has been a long time. You haven’t fed him since you were both younger, shortly after the change came—he, young and clumsy and still figuring out his new, enormous body, and you, just old enough to drive the Drift. One more time, you’d agreed, before you left town. He couldn’t make silk anymore but it didn’t matter. He just needed to remember how you tasted.

“Hold onto me,” he sings gently. “It’s alright. Hold on tight. You won’t hurt me.” You don’t want to pull on his fur but he pushes your hands more firmly against his chest, encouraging you to dig your fingers in. He clutches your shoulders, your waist, your hips—his grip firm but not bruising. He tries to relax you. He nuzzles against you, splays his mandibles and leaves little kisses along your chin and cheek. His proboscis darts out and flicks against your lips, teasing. He trails higher, following the curve of your jaw.

Your breath hitches when he reaches your ear. He kisses it. His proboscis traces the shell, explores its shallow dips and grooves. Slowly, he lick his way closer to the hole and you let out an involuntary shiver. His hands squeeze all at once in reassurance and hold you still.

“Will you give me something sweet? Something light and airy?” One of the hands on your hip moves inward. Long, graceful fingers slip into your pants and settle on your heated sex. He traces one fingertip slowly up and down, faint and featherlight. Your hips chase the friction. That’s the moment he’s waiting for. You feel his proboscis, cold and smooth, slip easily into your ear canal.

True to his word, he’s slow and gentle. The penetration is a gradual slide, navigating impossibly small spaces to lap at something not entirely physical, nestled at the intersection of thought, feeling and memory. You feel it like the wet slide of a tongue against some place sensitive and you stiffen, eyes rolling back in your head. It’s too much—too much something. Not quite pain or pleasure, not quite anything you can name. But it’s too much. Explosive heat and sandpaper on your nerves, an avalanche of overstimulation.

The hand between your legs barely moves. It’s just two fingers, slender and nimble, rubbing so, so slowly. Up and down. Up and down. Your underwear is damp with your own want and he collects it on his fingertips, uses it to lubricate his steady rhythm. He strokes you right to the edge of madness, crooning softly. You feel the Song behind your eyes, in your brain. You feel all the love it carries.

Your hips jolt and your flinch violently in his grasp. You gasp, or maybe you scream. Your throat is raw when you drift back down into awareness, feeling his proboscis snaking back out and exit with a faint, wet pop. Soothing liquid dribbles out of your ear in his wake, something to numb soreness. You sag against him and catch your breath. He trills, smoothing his palms up and down your body. The hand between your legs comes out of your clothes glistening and sticky.

“What was it?” you asked. Your words are slurred, your tongue still clumsy. “Wh—what’d you taste?”

He wipes the excess fluid from your chin, pressing one last kiss to your ear. It’s starting to tingle. “Nostalgia. Exhaustion. Hope. And…” He pauses, turning your face towards him. “You’ve been having nightmares.”

He lets you avoid the subject and bury your face in his fur. He Sings, swaying gently. You shut your eyes and left your mind drift. Tomorrow, you’ll be leaving. Maybe you can deliver silk, just like the old days—but this silk will be better than Dewitt’s ever was. Made by children who are happy, woven by adults who care about them. Tomorrow, you and the girl will have to say your goodbyes, and you know she’ll ask you about home because she’s kind. And you will smile and lie or maybe say nothing at all, happy for her but stinging with agonizing envy.

“You could stay,” goes the Song, every time you hear it. “Make this home.”

You don’t answer. You never do. The Singer holds you while he still has the chance.

(next)

#rotpeach writes #goretober #the drift #ive had a couple anons mention theyre reading or rereading ritsukas pictures lately #im so glad youre enjoying it!! ;v; that story has a special place in my heart

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saintsenara · 11 months

Text

scylla and charybdis - a snippet

severus snape/lord voldemort explicit | graphic depictions of violence | major character death

here's a little look at what to expect in chapter three of scylla and charybdis. this one's titled shipmates - why? because the seventeen-year-old snape's easter stay with the malfoys has him feeling like he's finally found a group of people he truly belongs with.

i can't imagine that will go wrong.

Malfoy Manor is a magnificent building.

Even Severus, who’d never been the sort of pretentious toff who could be sent to half-mast by the finer points of Jacobean architecture (unlike - he suspected - Lucius), had to admit that. And it only took two days after he arrived to spend the Easter holidays for him to become convinced of the fact.

Of course, it was absurd - mad, really - to think such things about a pureblood’s fancy country pile, when he was supposed to loathe the posh, with their glittering vaults and easy movement through the world but he felt as though it was almost appropriate to describe his surroundings as beautiful. There was a brown-sugar glitter to the stone of the walls and an emerald sparkle -

[‘Look at me.’]

- to the immaculate parkland. There were gardens bursting with the flouncy blooms of silk-pink roses and bedrooms decked out in snow-white satin sheets. He woke up every morning not to frost on the inside of the dirty windows of his parents’ frigid little terrace, a feeble approximation of warmth coughing its way out of a dodgy two-bar heater his dad had acquired from a bloke in a pub - and not to an ominous medievalism, a vast roaring fire in a huge stone grate, doing its best to chase away the dampness of the lake, either - but to a sensible conflagration beneath an elegant marble mantel. When he rose, he could drift down to the airy dining room - the champagne-coloured April light glittering through the French windows - and find his hosts tucking into breakfast, silver platters of bacon and eggs laid enticingly on the sideboard. When the meal was done, and Abraxas slithered off to attend to some vague business in his office, and Lucius went off to meet with creditors and condescend to tenant farmers, he could take himself off to the library and work his way through any book he desired, never having to worry - like he had to constantly at school - that some greasy little do-gooder (Pettigrew, probably; the other Marauders may have been cunts but at least they were cunts with an intolerance for the rules, Pettigrew was just a narc) would be lurking in the stacks to spy on him and run off to tattle to McGonagall about his interest in dark magic.

[‘He has lately taken to listening at doors, I don’t know what he means by it.’]

[‘That, Severus, is why I have sent him to spend the summer with you.’]

When evening came and dinner was done, he could sip a brandy and play chess with Lucius. Like he was a proper man, no matter his accent and his secondhand robes. He seemed to have become sophisticated - that was the way he saw it - just from having been welcomed into the manor through the front door. He seemed to have become correct - to have taken his rightful place in the order of things - just from having been apparated by Lucius directly from Hogsmeade Station on the last day of term, which Avery and Mulciber had been impressed by, to Severus’ malevolent glee He seemed to have shed the grease that Black was so fond of pointing out always clung to him, which only confirmed what he’d always thought - that filth which didn’t really belong there had been laid upon him by his mother’s willingness to forget the dignity of her magic and spend her days hunched over the chip pan, in service of a Muggle brute who was sitting in a string vest in front of It’s A Knockout, fogging up the front room with a haze of cheap ale and putrid sweat.

He’d been rescued. That’s what it felt like. He’d been adopted, whirled out of the grubby mill town he’d had to drag himself around for seventeen years - with its crumbling rows of two-up-two-down houses and its mouse-infested chip shops - and saved. He’d been welcomed - a little late, but Lucius had always struck him as too rich to appreciate how time worked for anyone other than himself - into a world where he was equal in dignity to the thoroughbred blondes who minced around the place in their furs and damasks, and his dad’s woodbines and tennent’s and his mum’s decision to embarrass herself by letting a Muggle drunkard knock her up and knock her about had ceased to matter, and nobody cared that he wore his father’s face and had his father’s name.

For once in his life, he was on the right side of the smug aura which shimmered out through the Malfoys’ mullioned windows. A stranger - the sort of cringing half-blood who came to tug his forelock in the hope of receiving a handout from Abraxas - would think the elegant mask of the house looked like a sneer. To a welcome guest, the snooty haze which enveloped the whole place was a marvellous inside joke.

And he was a welcome guest, no matter what Lily or his mum would have said about these sort of rich purebloods never giving a solitary fuck about people like them, people from the slums and the margins. There was no more standing like a lump on the kitchen threshold and being quickly sent away, lest poverty flake like dust from his clothes and turn the elves into raging trade unionists. He was permitted to sit with Lucius and his father after dinner and chat with Abraxas - who had a keen interest in alchemy and was, he had to be honest, considerably cleverer than his son - like they were members of the same club.

Which, he supposed, they were now. Now that he had met the Dark Lord.

Which he supposed meant that he didn’t need to worry himself about who it was that made his food or cleaned his bedroom or swept the grates.

Or who it was that had threatened the Malfoys into being so nice to him.

#asenora fics #writing snippet #snapemort #severus snape #tom riddle #lord voldemort #scylla and charybdis

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justaduckarts · 1 year

Note

What if ideas for a story!

Sun didn't get possessed by Afton or drop the star

Eclipse wasn't blamed for Luna's death and exiled

Pluto didn't go all crazy on Moon

Lunar's family & village didn't die of lead poisoning

Solaris was proud of both of his sons

Luna died naturally

Star Holder was raised in Eclipse's temple.

We never became the Star Holder....

Hello!

Sorry for the delay <3

I must confess, I've been planning a story where we get adopted by Moon instead of going to Sun's temple, and some of your story ideas will be involved in that alternate timeline (I can't say which ones because that'd spoil the fun).

So I will choose one that DOESN'T coincide with this future story...

That being said:

What if we never became the Star Holder?

Birdsong carried across the fields. A cool breeze rushed across the seemingly endless sea of red poppies, sending their sweet smell rushing over you. Smiling, you adjusted the sack on your shoulder and carried on along the long dirt path that cut through the countryside.

Spring was in full swing. As you passed, you saw your neighbors out hanging sheets to dry or working in their gardens. Planting seeds that would become fruits and vegetables to be harvested in the fall.

Once more, you checked the list your mother had given you. Even though you were nearly twenty-five now, you were still living with her. Mostly to look after her health. Your brother had remained at home, too, taking to tending the farm to support the household. Though your sister had kindled a flame and left your village to marry the woman she'd fallen for while away for school.

Life was peaceful. Warm.

But sometimes, you felt... as if you should be elsewhere. Doing something important. What that thing might be, you couldn't imagine.

Still, the feeling nagged at you. You had these strange dreams of another life. One where you served at the sides of the gods and experienced all kinds of marvelous things. Cosmic entities. Magics. Strange creatures. Demons, even.

So, you'd become an artist. Painting all the things that plagued your subconscious onto canvas. Your works were pretty popular, too! Especially your depictions of the gods. Once, you'd even been commissioned to paint a piece for a temple. Your mother was so proud!

Life was good.

Finally, you could see the bazaar in the distance. The outdoor market was pleasantly uncrowded this early in the day. Vendors milled about, arranging their displays and preparing for the likely busy afternoon ahead. Usually, you'd be right alongside them, paintings on display while you worked on your latest piece.

Today, however, was your brother's birthday. And you and your mother had conspired to surprise him for all his hard work.

As you were approaching a table with a large scale and bags of grain all around, you noticed a pair strolling through the bazaar. Tall, dressed in elegant silks.

Your mouth fell open as you recognized them.

The gods. Here?

Why?

"Excuse me," Sun approached one of the vendors. A baker. She immediately perked.

"Oh, hello, your graces! It's an honor. What may I do for you?" The baker bowed her head.

"There's usually a painter here, isn't there?" Sun's smile was nearly as bright as the star he was named for.

"Ah, yes," the baker nodded, your name rolling off her tongue, "but I don't think they're coming today, I heard- Oh. There you are!" She spotted you behind the two towering gods and waved energetically.

Sun and Moon turned immediately.

You felt an overwhelming urge to turn and flee. A quiet war started in your head over leaving or staying. But as the two approached, you found your legs unwilling to cooperate with you.

"Good afternoon," you bowed your head, "your graces."

"Afternoon? You're mistaken, it's barely after sunrise," Moon tilted his head. Sun chuckled, patting his dear friend on the shoulder.

"Oh, Moon," he shook his head, "they're just nervous. Right?" He looked back at you. You nodded, unconsciously fiddling with your tunic.

"How may I help you?" You fidgeted. "Uh, your grace."

"There's no need to be so tense! You aren't in trouble!" Sun's milky eyes shone in the morning light, "I recently visited a temple nearby and saw the most beautiful painting. The priest there tells me you were the one to make it!"

Oh.

Relief washed over you.

"It was so lovely," Sun sighed, "Moon and I thought you'd be the perfect person to paint something for us."

"Truly?" Your eyes widened, "it'd be an honor!" You couldn't help the smile on your face.

"Wonderful!" Sun clapped, "I'm sure you'll make a lovely portrait of the Star Holder. Ordina will look so lovely, don't you think, Moon?"

"Oh, yes," Moon nodded, "if you're the one to paint it, I think it will look incredible."

"You wish for me to paint the Star Holder?" You felt a little stunned. Something inside you stirred, just saying those words out loud. And hearing Sun say them... It made you feel uneasy.

You'd heard of Star Holder Ordina. The woman chosen to protect the star from those who would use it for wrong. Hand-chosen by the gods.

You couldn't imagine how her life must be.

"But of course!" Sun nodded eagerly.

Well. Who were you to pass up the opportunity to work for actual gods? It... felt right, in some ways. And wrong, in others.

But this time, it was your choice. And maybe that's what mattered.

"I'd be honored," you nodded.

"Wonderful!" Sun practically bounced with excitement. He was so... different from how you'd imagined him. Bouncy, happy, warm. For some reason, you'd always imagined him being more reserved and distant.

"Walk with us," Moon smiled shyly, "we'll sort the details." He gestured you forward. Smiling in turn, you followed the gods further into the marketplace.

Life was good.

#justaduckarts answers #star holder au #what if you didn't have the star #surprise you end up working for the gods anyway lol #but under much happier circumstances #also sun is much less stressed did you notice #wonder how come #and theres no war either whoa #hmmm #interesting

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thecrazyworldbuilder · 2 years

Text

A way of using Vulgarlang for creating fast dictionaries for conlangs

Go to vulgarlang.com and follow these instructions:

Open two tabs of Vulgarlang. In both, click Phonology and enable Word Structure. Note: not Advanced Word Structure.

See those languages listed below? Click any. Let's go with English for starters.

What we need to do is copy some of those groups of letters and paste them into the Tab 2.

Now hit Generate on top of the page in Tab 2.

In this case we have a combo of English initials, Finnish medials, Hungarian finals and Korean vowels.

a /a/ v. gain, earn, reap

appa /ˈapːa/ n. note

bad /bad/ n. cotton, cloth, fabric, textile

béé /bɛː/ n. net

bizt /bizt/ n. skin, crust, leather

blee /bleː/ n. climate, temperature

bloobb /bloːbb/ v. vomit

blǔǔ /blɯː/ n. silk, thread

břaa /bɹaː/ conj. while

břirsh /bɹirʃ/ n. assassin

břǔ /bɹɯ/ v. wonder

bǔkkeb /ˈbɯkːeb/ n. air, breeze

cha /ʧa/ n. health

che /ʧe/ n. interview

chiish /ʧiːʃ/ v. catch

chu /ʧu/ n. craft

chúú /ˈʧʌʌ/ n. moisture

daansh /daːnʃ/ v. complain

danni /ˈdanːi/ n. goat

deerka /ˈdeːrka/ n. wolf

dhaaǰ /ðaːɟ/ n. item

dhék /ðɛk/ prep. including

dhizt wǔg /ðizt wɯg/ n. geography

dhonhǔ /ˈðonhɯ/ n. cat

dhǔlléǰ /ˈðɯlːɛɟ/ v. report, notify, inform

dillúshú /ˈdilːʌʃʌ/ n. truth

dot /dot/ n. toy

dřasht /dɹaʃt/ adj. real, authentic

dři /dɹi/ n. condition (requirement, stipulation)

dřoog /dɹoːg/ v. open

dřuuz /dɹuːz/ v. tear, rip

dúll /dʌll/ n. plot

dǔǔsh /dɯːʃ/ adv. not

e /e/ adj. big, great (very large), huge, massive, enormous

eǰ /eɟ/ n. crystal, prism

fahdéétoo wopsúnsh /ˈfahdɛːtoː ˈwopsʌnʃ/ n. barbecue

fez /fez/ v. miss (not hit)

flalv̌o /ˈflalʋo/ n. rod, shaft, bar, axle

flish /fliʃ/ n. potion, elixir

fo /fo/ n. tea

forto /ˈforto/ n. altitude

fřee /fɹeː/ n. store, shop, business

fřom /fɹom/ n. harbor, port

fřúlǰalt /ˈfɹʌlɟalt/ v. recognize

fud /fud/ n. style, fashion

fuumarts /ˈfuːmarʦ/ adj. smart, intelligent, clever

gag /gag/ n. dirt

gééshsh /gɛːʃʃ/ n. key

gi /gi/ v. like

glaa /glaː/ adv. ever

gli /gli/ num. thousand

glov̌uv̌o /ˈgloʋuʋo/ adj. tall

glup /glup/ n. acid

gooz ward /goːz ward/ n. cafe

gřalduǰ /ˈgɹalduɟ/ n. worker, employee

gřeent /gɹeːnt/ v. bake

gřilv̌ǔ /ˈgɹilʋɯ/ n. chance, odds, luck

gřoo /gɹoː/ v. dream

gřún /gɹʌn/ prep. before

gřǔǔ /gɹɯː/ n. dog

gú /gʌ/ n. friend

halt /halt/ n. meal, feast

héú /ˈhɛʌ/ n. fun

hooo /ˈhooː/ n. perception

hǔl /hɯl/ n. factory, mill, laboratory

hwansh /ʍanʃ/ n. shit

hwom /ʍom/ n. shape, structure, system

hwǔǔbb /ʍɯːbb/ n. pepper

jat /ʤat/ n. anxiety

ji /ʤi/ n. table, counter (flat, elevated surface), plateau

jú /ʤʌ/ n. planet

ka /ka/ n. fat (bodily substance)

kapsét /ˈkapsɛt/ n. map, menu

ke /ke/ n. change

kera /ˈkera/ adj. sad

kigoo /ˈkigoː/ n. behavior

kiryoog /ˈkirjoːg/ n. seed, grain, cereal

klants /klanʦ/ n. guess

klesu /ˈklesu/ v. flirt

klú /klʌ/ v. watch, look, monitor, peer, study, examine

kom /kom/ n. mass

křaay /kɹaːj/ n. game

křil /kɹil/ n. needle

křǔnts /kɹɯnʦ/ n. row

kúhtu /ˈkʌhtu/ n. support

kutt juny /kutt ʤuɲ/ n. souvenir

kǔǔrt /kɯːrt/ adj. aroused (sexually)

kwalch /kwalʧ/ v. meet

kwo /kwo/ n. muscle

kwútt /kwʌtt/ prep. with (accompanied by)

lap /lap/ n. valley

léryo /ˈlɛrjo/ adj. good, appropriate, hot (attractive), nice, moral

lolméé /ˈlolmɛː/ n. harmony

loongoo /ˈloːngoː/ n. protection

lǔǔ /lɯː/ n. chest

mal /mal/ v. shock, startle, stun, surprise

mé /mɛ/ n. stitch

méttuǰ /ˈmɛttuɟ/ n. lawyer

moorhaa /ˈmoːrhaː/ n. parcel, package, bundle

munt /munt/ v. follow

mǔǔtúrts /ˈmɯːtʌrʦ/ adj. possible

nantúk /ˈnantʌk/ v. listen

né /nɛ/ n. rate

nerduǰ /ˈnerduɟ/ n. gardener

noo /noː/ n. mud, cement

nualt /ˈnualt/ v. record

nuuz /nuːz/ n. sport

ot /ot/ v. cure

pak /pak/ n. train

pimistany /ˈpimistaɲ/ v. keep (store), store

plall /plall/ v. serve

plég /plɛg/ prep. to, towards

plǔ /plɯ/ n. cup, mug

pot /pot/ n. strategy (plan), tactic

přéy /pɹɛj/ v. drive, ride, steer

přoǰ /pɹoɟ/ n. visit

přunts /pɹunʦ/ adj. empty, vacant, naked, nude, tired (needing rest)

puǰ /puɟ/ n. vendor

pǔǔ /pɯː/ v. might

řaa /ɹaː/ n. corpse, carcass

řéé /ɹɛː/ v. grab, clutch, grip

řiilla /ˈɹiːlːa/ adj. best

řimppi /ˈɹimpːi/ v. chase

řitú /ˈɹitʌ/ n. difference

řoooo /ˈɹoːoː/ n. victory

řun /ɹun/ v. improve

sa /sa/ pron. nothing

sap /sap/ v. hang, dangle

seemmoolǰ /ˈseːmːoːlɟ/ adj. plain

shaa /ʃaː/ n. cell (room in a prison)

she /ʃe/ v. remember

sheposko /ˈʃeposko/ n. daughter

short /ʃort/ prep. down

shřezoo /ˈʃɹezoː/ n. discovery

shřo dřa /ʃɹo dɹa/ n. dagger

shřuu /ʃɹuː/ n. alcohol, liquor

shuu /ʃuː/ adj. light (weight), fragile

skaa /skaː/ n. dress, costume

skéétt /skɛːtt/ n. wife

skovoov̌ú /ˈskovoːʋʌ/ adj. broken

skřo /skɹo/ v. smell (emit odor), stink

skúmmo /ˈskʌmːo/ n. uncle

skwat /skwat/ det. every, each

skwoosh /skwoːʃ/ n. bill, check

sléélǰ /slɛːlɟ/ n. letter (of an alphabet)

slony /sloɲ/ v. doubt

slúppu /ˈslʌpːu/ n. hint

sméé kwú /smɛː kwʌ/ n. candle

sminch /sminʧ/ num. six

smú /smʌ/ n. party

sna thaab /sna θaːb/ n. drought

snee /sneː/ v. bend, fold

snont /snont/ n. doll

snuu /snuː/ n. committee

sony /soɲ/ n. crime

sot /sot/ n. dialect

spe /spe/ v. lie

spild /spild/ n. money, wage

splanaǰ /ˈsplanaɟ/ adj. personal

splu /splu/ n. crown

spřaǰ /spɹaɟ/ adj. cultural

spřoo /spɹoː/ n. ass

spú /spʌ/ n. test

ste /ste/ v. steal, rob, snatch

steshshod /ˈsteʃʃod/ adv. usually

sto /sto/ prep. like

střad /stɹad/ adv. well

střilch /stɹilʧ/ v. drop

střǔ /stɹɯ/ v. rise

stuyt /stujt/ adj. quiet, silent, subtle, elusive

sǔn /sɯn/ n. message, note

sǔǔl /sɯːl/ conj. than

súyt /sʌjt/ n. sheep

swi /swi/ n. belly

swúǰ /swʌɟ/ adj. economic

taa /taː/ v. miss (long for)

tash /taʃ/ n. bug

téyt /tɛjt/ adj. awful, terrible

thall /thall/ n. ash

thay /thaj/ n. orgasm

théyt /thɛjt/ adj. famous

thish /θiʃ/ n. sign, signal, symptom

thoo kuy /thoː kuj/ n. middle class

thřét /θɹɛt/ v. deserve

thřooskoo /ˈθɹoːskoː/ n. bottle

thul /θul/ n. trunk (large box)

tii /tiː/ n. east

toosht /toːʃt/ n. vagina

třapuu /ˈtɹapuː/ v. stop, halt

třilan /ˈtɹilan/ n. security

třooalt /ˈtɹoːalt/ v. lose

tu /tu/ n. will

tushsh /tuʃʃ/ n. strap

twaasúl /ˈtwaːsʌl/ n. machine

twe /twe/ adv. also, as well

twǔ /twɯ/ conj. either

ǔny /ɯɲ/ num. nine

uushsh /uːʃʃ/ n. victim

vartoov̌úod /ˈvartoːˌʋʌod/ adv. finally

viipunoo /ˈviːpunoː/ adj. skilled

voor /voːr/ n. success, benefit, profit

vǔrt /vɯrt/ v. drown, drench, suffocate

wanuu /ˈwanuː/ n. effort

wi /wi/ adv. maybe, perhaps

wishǔrsh /ˈwiʃɯrʃ/ n. library

woo /woː/ pron. everybody

wǔguǰ /ˈwɯguɟ/ n. scientist

wuult /wuːlt/ n. fool

yeed /jeːd/ n. prostitute

yolch /jolʧ/ adj. available

yuudúz /ˈjuːdʌz/ v. leave (let remain), let

Definetly not like English - already good for a foreign language if you ask me.

Now, let's transfer those rules to Awkwords.

Open an alphabetic text sorter. Set custom separator to "/"

Put all of the categories (initials, medials, finals and vowels) through the sorter and paste the results (separately) into the Awkwords site.

Set the syllable structure to (C)V(KV)(N), enable duplicate filter and press Generate.

You can then sort all of this alphabetically, again, with the separation being linebreaks

And honestly? If you already know IPA, you can read all of these rather easily. Here you go, boom - a dictionary. Not speaking of the one we already generated on Vulgarlang.

Afterwards if you wanna get spicy, take your output and go to the Procedural Name Generator site.

Paste your output into the Current Data field.

In result, you get words that are following the rules of your protoconlang and thus can be used further later. Though the unneeded capitalization might be annoying, you can always visit the Convertcase site.

#conlang #conlanging #writing #constructed language #worldbuilding #creative writing #natlang #artlang #worldbuilding tips #tutorial

33 notes · View notes

foxgloveblue · 1 year

Text

pale in a liminal moon 🌙 chapter 20

Pairing: Grian/Scar

Tags: selkie AU, steampunk AU, enemies to lovers, slow burn

Summary: Scar has twenty-two minutes to find Grian.

Words: 4,768

previous chapter || next chapter

ao3 link || masterpost

The crowd felt alive.

The people themselves were obviously alive, but that wasn’t what he meant. The hundreds of guests milling about and chatting were each their own being – each an individual with their own life, own motivations for being there.

Normally, Scar reveled in these differences. It was almost like a game to him. With a few observations and careful words, could he dissect their life story? Could he connect with them, find a mutual understanding? Could he gain advantages, use their own nature against them?

Such thoughts, usually the crux of his galas, were now nonexistent. He couldn’t help but view each person as just another feature of the landscape – jewels, silks, bustles, tailcoats, all as uninteresting as an individual cobble of a road.

And yet that cobble was alive. Shifting, pressing, bumping. Talking to each other, talking to him. The party wasn’t even close to the height of revelry that Scar had seen before. People were still relatively sober. No untoward scandals had yet occurred. Nether, the dancing hadn’t even begun. And yet, the chatter of voices was somehow more deafening than Scar had ever heard before. Searching for Grian felt less like wandering through a crowded room and more like being swallowed whole.

It wasn’t just that people were in his way. Some were actively reaching for him – sometimes with words, sometimes even with their hands, grasping his shoulders, his arms. One even had the audacity to grasp his hand where he held his cane, as if physically trying to prevent him from walking away. He had wasted valuable moments wrenching free and barking out something quite curt, wishing he had the time to take an aside with his guards and have her escorted out.

Time. Time, time, time – that was really the crux of it. He had no time at all.

He checked his watch, something he had surely done more in the past precious few minutes more than the entire week beforehand. Only seventeen minutes left. Less when he considered that he had agreed to meet with Mumbo five minutes before his speech if he didn’t manage to find Grian himself.

The worst part, however, was the uncertainty. With every mask he glanced over, every turn of his eye, he worried that he had just… passed Grian over. It would be so easy, wouldn’t it? He had no idea what his mask was, and even if he did, the constant swell and shift of people made every glance fleeting.

And that wasn’t even considering the very real possibility that Grian wasn’t here at all. That he was hiding away in some other room, swimming in the garden pool, sequestered away with Jellie or Grumbot, waiting for this entire foolish affair to pass. Even though Scar would be shocked at Grian’s willingness to throw away his freedom, it wouldn’t… it wouldn’t be the first time that Grian surprised him.

Scar cursed under his breath. He was getting too lost in thought. He could talk it out with Grian after he found him.

There was a soft tug at his sleeve. Scar instinctively yanked his hand away, turning on his heel to chew out whoever had the gall to touch him this time.

He came to face a heavyset, dark-haired man, slightly shorter than himself. His mask was some kind of… blue imp? It was frustratingly familiar, but Scar couldn’t seem to place it.

“Sorry, sir, but I’m in a hurry.” Scar barked out, already pushing past the man.

This time, the man’s grip was more forceful. “Scar.”

Scar froze. Oh, shit.

He turned back, actually looking. “Cub?”

Cub let out a sigh, folding his arms. “I can’t believe you ‘sir’ed me.”

Scar scratched the back of his neck. “I… I didn’t recognize you.” It was more that he just couldn’t believe Cub had actually come. They hadn’t spoken since their little outing – Scar had figured his appearance at Joe and Cleo’s was, well… an excuse to talk to him.

“Clearly. I don’t think you’ve ever been so simultaneously respectful and rude.”

Scar laughed at that, some of the tension draining away. “Sorry, sorry. I honestly figured you weren’t coming.”

“I promised, didn’t I?”

“I… suppose you did.” Scar couldn’t help it – he checked his watch. Fifteen minutes. “Listen, Cub, I really am happy to see you; but I actually do have to go. We can catch up after my speech, I promise.”

“I actually have some rather urgent business with you.”

Scar blinked. “You… you do?”

“Yep. There’s someone I want you to talk to.”

Someone…? Cub wouldn’t be so insistent about a business proposition – or so mysterious. The only explanation that Scar could think of was that Cub was, well… involved with someone.

It was almost enough to make Scar laugh, but he stopped himself. Not so long ago, he had trouble picturing himself with any romantic involvements. Was the idea of Cub finding someone really so strange?

Of course, that might not be it at all. It didn’t help that Cub was hard to read on the best of days, let alone when he was wearing a mask.

Regardless of what it was, Scar still had the same answer for him.

“Whoever they are, they’ll have to wait.”

“Scar…”

“I promise I’ll come talk to them later!” Scar called out, already rushing through the crowd.

Cub moved as if to stop him again, but this time Scar was too quick, managing to slip into the crowd. Even that was odd – Cub wasn’t one to push like that. Not him, anyway.

Scar shook his head. He couldn’t worry about it right now. Whatever was going on with Cub could wait – it had to wait.

As if summoned by that thought, he heard a voice call out – “Scar?”

He tried to duck away – just another person to avoid. “Hey! SCAR! Get your sorry butt over here!”

For the second time that night, he froze with sudden recognition. Whirling on his heel, he scanned the crowd for any sign of his friend.

His eyes landed on a rather short figure, clad in a lovely green velvet cloak that looked almost like moss, and a truly horrific mask. He grimaced as Bdubs approached.

“Did you have to wear that mask? Again?” he complained as soon as Bdubs was close enough to speak at a normal tone.

“I like the mask!” Bdubs huffed, adjusting it so he could peer up at Scar. If Scar were forced to describe it, he would say that it was similar to the prototypical comedy theater mask, except far more grotesque. It was made of solid brass, but the mask somehow looked alive. The smile was stretched to the limits of the face. Patina patterning the metal so that it ironically looked like there were tear tracks cutting across the mask’s visage. Worst of all, however, were the eyes – rather than a mirthful upturn, the eyes were just wide and staring, repulsive in its mismatch.

Scar hated it. He had always hated it, and Bdubs’ insistence on continuing to wear it had not lessened his hatred in the slightest.

He, however, currently had more important things to worry about.

“Have you seen Grian?” he asked, not quite managing to keep the desperation out of his voice.

Bdubs cocked his head. “As a matter of fact, I have.”

Scar’s heart soared. Unable to contain himself, he grasped Bdubs firmly by the shoulders, practically shaking him in his excitement. “Where? Where is he?”

“Jeez, Scar, chill out!” Bdubs huffed in annoyance. “Saw him by the wet bar, nursing a glass of… something. ‘S why I wanted to talk to you, actually. Looked pretty down.”

As soon as his good mood had come, it evaporated. Grian getting drunk easily was an endearing trait when they had been on vacation – now that Scar wanted to have an honest, very serious conversation with him, it was a recipe for disaster.

Not to mention the fact that Grian had to give a speech in front of hundreds and hundreds of people.

“I need to talk to him.”

“Uh, duh.” Bdubs laughed, though he didn’t sound very amused. “I was worried that you already had, and it had gone awfully.”

“No, no. I haven’t said anything to him. But I clearly need to.” Scar instinctively straightened his back, fiddling with his cravat. “What’s he wearing?”

“You don’t know?” Bdubs tsked. “Dark red cloak. Seal mask. I’d say he’s impossible to miss, but… well, he has a lot of competition.”

A seal. It seemed obvious, but Scar hadn’t wanted to assume. Grian so often surprised him. He had been ready for him to be wearing… a macaw mask or something, just to throw him off.

Though maybe it was comforting in some way – just for tonight, he could be a seal again.

He shook himself out of the thought. “Thank you, thank you so much.” He exclaimed, giving Bdubs a cursory handshake before pushing past him.

“You still owe me that paycheck!” Bdubs called after him, though he was quickly swallowed by the fray. Scar made a mental note to double what he had been planning on giving him.

The wet bar wasn’t too far from here. He checked his watch. Eleven minutes. Not enough time for a proper conversation, but certainly enough time to reassure him that he was ready to talk, to apologize, to make it right. Enough to soothe Scar’s frayed emotions.

Tilting his head up, he could see the dark wood of the wet bar, art nouveau frame curving as it grew into the wall. He was so close, surely only seconds away from seeing Grian –

His sightline was suddenly cut off by a tall, long-haired man, standing resolutely between him and the wet bar. He was about to ask – not so politely – for the man to move when a second figure stepped in front of him as well.

The appearance of this second figure was so surprising that for a moment, the words died in his throat. She was a short woman, dark brown hair tied up in a fashionable, elaborate hairdo that even had fresh-cut flowers tucked into the whorls and braids. There were even real flowers on her dress, pinned between bunches of pale pink silk.

Her dress was much wider and more elaborate than most of his guests – a sure sign that she wasn’t from Cambria, where the dresses had been getting sleeker and more modest. Vindouxian, no doubt, which spelled trouble.

That little revelation was far from the most notable thing, however. Scar’s skin crawled as his eyes were naturally drawn to her mask. In a horrific contrast to the rest of her outfit, her mask was a snarling monster, too-many teeth bared in a gut-churning grin, features somewhere between human and… not.

Its horns, however, were decorated in green ribbon and pretty flowers. That was a nice touch.

“Mr. Scar,” the woman said in a heavy Vindouxian accent, confirming Scar’s suspicions. “May I have a moment of your precious time?”

If only she knew how precious that time was. Scar had to resist the urge to check his watch again.

Instead he bowed slightly. “May I speak to the madame after my speech? I have some urgent business to attend to.”

“Ah, but Mr. Scar, I’m afraid I insist. It is the contents of this speech that concern me – no, concern all of Vindoux.”

Scar’s heart sank. “Are you the wife of the diplomat?” Truth be told, he was a little surprised. The diplomat was a rude and cantankerous man. Despite his prestige and power, Scar had difficulty imagining any woman actually settling down with him, but if anyone were to… this woman certainly exuded some powerful air of control.

She cocked her head. “The monsieur is unfortunately feeling rather unwell tonight, so I came in his stead. I am his eventual successor – I’m rather surprised that you haven’t heard of me. The lady diplomat of Vindoux is quite the cause for chatter in this country.”

Scar was very grateful that his mask was full-faced – his cheeks were definitely burning. He had always thought of himself as rather progressive, but he supposed old biases died hard.

He bowed again, ducking his chin. “Forgive my rude assumption, madame .”

She tittered, producing a fan from… somewhere, fluttering the delicate, lacy contraption in front of her face. “You’re forgiven. Not everyone reacts as gracefully as you.”

She then turned, glancing back at the man who Scar now presumed to be her bodyguard. “ Ma chérie , leave us for a moment – I wish to speak with him alone.”

He hesitated. “But madame… ”

Oh. Not ‘he’ at all. At this point, Scar felt about ready to crawl into a hole. At least this time he hadn’t managed to put his foot in his mouth.

Though honestly, he could be forgiven for his assumption. She was certainly dressed like a man. Her long, blonde hair was tucked back in a no-nonsense bun, more suited for a working woman than a fancy party. More damning was, of course, her suit. The only times he had seen women wearing pants were the few militaries that allowed female soldiers, and even then, they usually had long coats that looked almost like a pseudo-dress.

Even her mask was, well, masculine. It was clearly a bald eagle, each feather meticulously sculpted as if to be as sharp and off-putting as possible, beak gleaming gold in the light; though Scar supposed it didn’t hold a candle to her companion’s mask in terms of fear factor.

“I insist,” the diplomat said, snapping Scar out of his momentary distraction. “I want to have an honest conversation. No intimidation.”

She lovingly ribbed her companion, who still seemed hesitant. Nevertheless, after a moment, the tall woman bowed. “Of course, madame. I will be waiting for you.”

With that proclamation, she disappeared into the crowd, melting away as easily as a shadow.

“Now then.” The diplomat said, snapping her fan closed. “To business. What was this I heard about your Solvan fiancé?”

“Husband.” Scar automatically corrected, then flinched. Void, his husband. The man he very desperately needed to talk to; the task he was rapidly running out of time for.

She made a noise. “Husband, then. Mr. Scar, do I need to remind you of your neutrality agreement?”

She did not. It was one of the reasons he so very desperately needed to give a speech.

At the beginning of ConCorp’s involvement in the war, Scar had signed an agreement to sell weapons to both sides of the conflict, with no exclusivity promises – other than, of course, the exclusivity that came with selling to the highest bidder. It was an arrangement that often benefitted Vindoux. It was simply a wealthier country.

No doubt she was scared to lose that edge.

“ Madame, all of this will be addressed in my speech. If you are really so worried about it, then let me assure you right now, my marriage was purely for love. There is no business about it.”

“You say that, but how can you promise it?” There was an inescapable edge to her voice, a driving, demanding force. “Even if it was truly for love and love only, can you really say that your husband’s country means nothing to you?”

“It doesn’t.” Scar said flatly, then froze.

His vision had melted away. No longer was he gazing down at the cross diplomat of Vindoux. Instead, he saw beauty.

A stark, craggy mountain range, dusted in snow. A thick forest in autumn, red and gold leaves turning the light rich and otherworldly. An entire ocean turned to ice, each crack an opportunity for fishing, for living . Solhav.

But the vision didn’t end there. A cold north gave way to a mellow south. Grand moors, dotted with flowers and cut open by trenches of white chalk. Beaches not so dissimilar from the one below Scar’s manor, water pale but holding secrets of great beauty. Cambria.

He even saw rows of vineyards and orchards, felt the wonderful crush of sweet juice in his mouth as he swiped plums off of trees. Vindoux.

And just as he had that thought –

The orchards were on fire. Acres of trees, turned to jagged black skeletons, fingers reaching desperately for a reprieve that would not come. The ruins of buildings, of entire towns – hundreds of years extinguished in the matter of seconds. The cold water of a ocean, far from here, littered with the ruins of boats and bodies, the desperation with which his lover clung onto life –

Scar gasped, shaking his head as the visions faded away. What… what had just happened?

More memories. There was no other explanation – he had experienced another foray into Grian’s mind. But why? What triggered it? It felt almost like karmic retribution, a rebuttal to his callousness.

But even still, why Vindoux? He had no idea Grian had even been there. Surely if he was being punished for not caring for Solhav, he wouldn’t be shown its enemy.

“Mr. Scar?” the diplomat called uncertainly, snapping him out of his haze. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, sorry, just – just got lost in thought.” He took a grounding breath, rubbing his finger over the smooth metal of his pocket watch. He could worry about… whatever that was some other time.

“Look, madame, the neutrality agreement is already in ink. I can’t give much stronger of a promise than being legally bound to follow my word, and certainly not at a party. All I can offer you is this; I have no plans to go back on my agreement, and if you’re still not satisfied, you can take it up with ConCorp’s lawyers. They’ll tell you the same thing.”

She hummed, clearly not thrilled by his answer – and yet she didn’t press further.

“Now, I really must take my leave. Perhaps I will see madame and her chérie later tonight over hors d'oeuvres ?”

She opened her fan with another clat – this time, the flutters had a distinctly embarrassed edge to them. “Perhaps. Though don’t think you’re off the hook yet.”

“Noted.” Scar said, bowing his head.

As he straightened, finally walking past her and towards his destination, his mind couldn’t help but wander back to his vision. Had he been reaching out inadvertently? Or maybe it had been Grian, opening himself up for the first time in days.

That was almost certainly just wishful thinking; the bond had been horribly still for days. Cut off from each other, from themselves. Not surprising, but… it still felt terrible.

It should’ve just been a return to normal – after all, Scar had lived the first thirty-two years of his life without experiencing anything like it. And yet… that bond, that connection between them, was so sweet, so unforgettable, that its absence was all the more torturous.

If Grian had opened himself up, even just a little… maybe there was still hope.

Scar checked his pocket watch, cursing under his breath. Four minutes. Not enough time for a conversation. Nether, it probably wasn’t even enough time to get to the stage – as the hour drew nearer, the excitement was palpable, making it even more difficult to get through the crowd.

But even just seeing him beforehand, reassuring him that he wanted to reach out, to make some amends…

Scar stopped.

There weren’t many people at the wet bar. A couple sitting at the edge, chatting away. A man already slumped over, head in hands. The bartender, cleaning a glass.

None of them wore a red cloak. None of them were Grian.

Scar’s heart plummeted.

He made his way to the bar as if in a dream, not even feeling the plush velvet beneath him as he sat at one of the stools. He just stared, unseeing, at the dark whorls of the wooden bar.

He had been too late. And now it was all for nothing.

He wouldn’t be able to save his reputation – not without Grian. The rumors would just continue, compounding into greater, more lascivious lies.

And yet… Scar couldn’t manage to muster up any kind of feelings about that other than a dull apathy. The worry that had been haunting him for weeks – no. Had been haunting him for years.

He tried to really picture it, picture the consequences. Scandal, dissolution of ConCorp, going completely broke, losing everything. It all barely registered.

All he cared about was Grian.

“Mr. Scar?” Oh. The bartender.

He managed to drag his gaze up. The bartender had his head cocked as he gazed down at Scar, concerned expression plain behind his small blue half-mask.

Right. He knew this bartender, didn’t he? He had certainly been hiring the same person for every gala – much easier that way.

“Keralis.” he finally managed to reply, digging the name out of the recesses of his mind after an awkward few seconds.

“My, my.” Keralis clicked his tongue. “You are the second-saddest fishie I’ve seen tonight.”

“Axolo’ls aren’ fish.” A voice beside him slurred. Startled, Scar turned towards its source, and was even more surprised to see that he now recognized the man as Xisuma.

He was wearing a startlingly pink suit, complete with a strange mask that appeared to have some kind of… fronds sticking out of the side. Scar supposed that he was supposed to be an ‘axolo’l’, though he had no idea what that was.

It certainly didn’t help that Xisuma’s natural north Cambrian accent was out in full force, making him even harder to understand. He usually repressed it for fear of looking uncultured, but Scar supposed being drunk unlocked all sorts of things.

“Orcas aren’t fish either.” Scar ran his finger morosely over the fine wooden grain of the bar. “They’re not even whales. Isn’t that funny? They’re called ‘killer whales’, but scientists say they’re dolphins. Guess ‘killer dolphin’ doesn’t have the same ring to it.”

Keralis put his hands on his hips. “Well, aren’t you just a pair of smarty-pants. Fine then. You’re the saddest killer dolphin I’ve seen tonight.”

Scar managed to laugh at that.

“M’kay. So, what’ll it be?”

Scar sighed. What he needed was to bite the bullet, get up off this bar stool, and go give his speech. Instead, he just said “Whiskey neat. Whatever you have is fine.”

Keralis laughed. “My my, Mr. Scar. It’s like you’ve forgotten that you have the entire world at your fingertips.”

Xisuma cocked his head. “Don’ listen to him. He jus’ wants to make a frui’y cocktail.”

“Oh, hush up, Shashwammy.” Keralis tutted. Nevertheless, within a moment, Keralis had poured a plain glass of whiskey, sliding it to Scar with a flourish.

Scar reached behind his head, undoing the ribbons that held his mask in place. After a moment, it fell away from his face, and Scar placed it in his lap. The orca stared back at him, teeth still gleaming.

Scar brought the whiskey up to his lips, and despite it undoubtedly being a rather fine liquor, he could barely taste it. Just felt the fire going down.

“Mm. Very sad indeed.” Keralis said thoughtfully. “What has you so down, Mr. Scar?”

Scar swirled the contents of his glass. “Have you seen Grian? Wearing a seal mask, red cloak?”

Keralis cocked his head. “Sure. Was here just a few minutes ago. Went off with a woman.”

Oh.

A woman. Scar shouldn’t be surprised – they weren’t even in a relationship, let alone an exclusive one. It was completely within Grian’s right to enjoy some company at a party.

Didn’t make him feel any better about it.

Scar hadn’t realized it was possible to feel worse than he had, but tonight was apparently a time of new lows.

“Who is he, anyway?” Keralis asked, genuine curiosity in his tone. “Talked to me in Solvan. Interesting fella.”

“He’s my husband.” Scar said mournfully, staring at his drink.

“Oh… I’m sorry, Mr. Scar.” Keralis replied, sounding genuinely remorseful.

“‘S okay.” Scar managed. “Our relationship is complicated. I was just… I don’t know. I was hoping to talk to him.”

“Well, you still can.” Keralis encouraged. “He almost certainly hasn’t gone far.”

“No point. Had to talk to him before my speech in…” Scar pulled out his watch. “Two minutes ago.”

“Mr. Scar!” Keralis admonished. “You need to get going! There are journalists who are waiting for you!”

Scar groaned, dropping his head into his hands. “I know. Believe me, I know.”

“Stage fright?”

Scar managed a derisive snort. “Hardly. I’ve faced those vultures many, many times before. I just… I can’t bring myself to care.”

A sudden banging noise startled him, and he whipped around to face the source. Xisuma had slammed his pint glass against the table, some of the ale inside sloshing onto the surface of the bar table.

“Sashwammy…” Keralis started, a clear tone of warning in his voice.

Xisuma ignored him. “Mr. Scar… how can you say tha’?”

Scar blinked in shock. Was Xisuma… angry? Was he getting angry? At him?

When Scar didn’t respond, X just barreled on. “How could you say that? After all of this – after all of the last minu’e changes, the nether you put me an’ my team through, the funding you pulled – how could you say you don’t care?”

Scar just blinked stupidly. He had never seen Xisuma like this. He had seen him drunk before, certainly. Nether, X seemed to get drunk at most HEP galas. Something about being glad it was finally over. But this… this was something else entirely. Some facet of his personality that Scar had seemingly dragged into the light.

“Are all the things they say true?” there was an edge of desperation to his words now. “That you founded HEP as a vani’y project? That you only care about your reputation? What’s the truth, Scar? What is it?”

“I…” Scar started. He swallowed thickly. “I… I did care. I do care. About HEP, I mean. The environment. All of it. I just… I lost focus of what was really important.”

“If you care, then go up there!” Xisuma swung his arms wildly. “Go beg from donations from your rich friends. Do wha’ good you can.”

Scar ducked his head. He really had screwed X over – taking over what should be his ball, forcing donations to go towards his selfish project rather than raising any money for actual conservation.

It was too late to change any of that now. But it wasn’t too late for the truth.

“It… it doesn’t matter.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean… the donations don’t matter. This whole ball – no. The project itself. It doesn’t matter. Not the way you want it to. The marine research facility, when completed and utilized as planned, would have… maybe twenty percent of its operations dedicated to discovery and conservation. The rest would go towards weapon development.”

Xisuma was silent for a moment. “Why… why are you telling me this?”

Scar shrugged, shaking his head. “You asked for the truth. Maybe I wanted to try telling it for once.”

There was a long beat of silence. Xisuma took a deep, deep swig of his ale. “You’re no’ gonna have me killed or somethin’, right?”

“I’ll be honest, X, I have bigger fish to fry.”

“Not a fish.” Keralis corrected, startling Scar – he had somehow forgotten the man was even there.

He was once again surprised, this time by Xisuma bursting into too-loud laughter. Harsh cackles that shook his entire frame, which rapidly dissolved into awful sobs.

“Oh, Sashwammy…” Keralis sighed, leaning over to pat the man on the shoulder, who was inconsolably wailing into his mug.

Void. He must’ve lost his edge – giving concessions to diplomats, working up previously loyal employees to the point of tears, not even managing to gain an audience with his own damn husband.

At this point, Scar wanted nothing more than to crawl back to his room and sleep the rest of the night off.

But he had made promises, hadn’t he? Promises to the diplomat – void, he hadn’t even caught her name – promises to his friends, promises to himself.

He knocked back the rest of his whiskey, nearly choking on the fiery liquid as it ran down his throat. The clink of his glass felt like a death knell.

He went to put his mask back on, but something stopped him. Instead, he just placed it on the bar’s surface, the empty eyes of the orca staring back at him.

He was out of time. Had been out of time for a while. Whether he liked it or not, the only way out was through.

#scarian #hermitshipping #hermitshipblr #hermitcraft fanfic #pialm #my art #my writing

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abookishdreamer · 9 months

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Character Intro: Neicus (Kingdom of Ichor)

Nickname- The Blond Brain by Dione

Age- 35 (immortal)

Location- Skyline district, New Olympus

Personality- He's intellectual, cool, & suave, viewing debate as one of the greatest intellectual arts. He's single.

He has the standard abilities of a god except shapeshifting. As the god of debate & appeal his other powers/abilities include speech manipulation, dispute inducement, vocal projection, and seductive magnetism.

Some members of his family includes his younger sister Dimósia (goddess of debate) & niece Peitho (goddess of persuasion & sensuality). His relationship with his sister is good despite their busy schedules, but he hasn't been around his niece much.

Neicus shares a condo in the Skyline neighborhood of New Olympus. He lives in The Parthenos Plaza with his best friend Favian (god of philosophy). Neicus gets around in a sleek silver sports car & has been thinking about possibly getting a pet griffin!

He takes great pride in his appearance and physicality. Neicus has a whole skincare routine & keeps his facial hair neatly trimmed. He often frequents the medical office of Paean (goddess of physicians) at the royal palace on Mt. Olympus for teeth whitening, the plaza's gym for a high cardio workout, and the Gold Rays tanning studio for a healthy looking golden bronze glow. Neicus describes his personal style as "sophisticated casual." He opts for quality over quantity when it comes to his wardrobe- pressed silk shirts, khakis, as well as fine leather shoes, sneakers, & sandals going upward of 500 drachmas a pop! He also has his suits expertly tailored.

A go-to drink for him is a white russian. He also likes dry martinis, scotch on the rocks, pinot grigio, champagne, negronis, rum & cokes, and beer. His usual from The Roasted Bean is a large decaf espresso.

His go-to thing to eat for breakfast is the chipotle chicken, scrambled egg, & avacado sandwich on ciabatta bread from The Bread Box. He'll also order hash browns, sweet potato home fries, and turkey sausage patties from The Hearthside Diner.

Neicus' bond with Favian is deep. They like to think of themselves as brothers. They even got matching friendship tattoos on the inside of their wrists.

A guilty pleasure for him are buffalo wings! He opts for a 20 piece whenever he goes to Olympic Chef.

Neicus' main source of income comes from being the head of the communications department at New Olympus University. He personally teaches the new media communications class. Neicus is also an esteemed speechwriter, even writing the speech that King Zeus delivered on the country's millennial anniversary celebration! For other means of income he models for/endorses Platinum Alchemy, Cerulean Stone, Ouránio Théama, & Thunderstruck (Zeus' underwear brand). Neicus is also a frequent political commentator on The Agnostic Network. With his personal ventures, he's trying to step into the world of professional boxing.

His favorite dessert is the mille-feuille from Salon du Sucre, the patisserie owned by Aphrodite (goddess of love & beauty).

In the pantheon Neicus is friends with Pathos (god of emotion), Litismós (goddess of culture), Sophia (goddess of thought); his best friend's sister, Porus (god of resourcefulness), Eikono (goddess of iconography & literature), Nomos (god of laws), Horkos (god of oaths), Kéfi (goddess of mirth), Aion (god of time, eternity, & the zodiacs), Aplistos (god of avarice), Dione, Momus (god of mockery, satire, & ridicule), Amphictyonis (Amy) (goddess of diplomacy), Hydros (god of water), several river gods including Achelous (god of freshwater), Priapus (god of fertility, vegetable gardens, livestock, sexuality, & masculinity), Rhapso (goddess of sewing), and Chiron (the immortal centaur).

As for his love life, Neicus is enjoying not being tied down in a relationship. A new development has been him & Rhapso getting more flirtatious and familiar with each other, including a situation that happened in her dressing room where Neicus gave her a foot massage after she was complaining about her stiletto heels. Despite finding her incredibly attractive, he hasn't made a real move for fear of ruining their friendship. Neicus shared a kiss with Apheleia (goddess of simplicity) at an induction ceremony & has dated Nymphe (goddess of self-care). He's currently seeing a theater actress, a mortal woman named Petroula Aetos.

His all time favorite food are king crab sushi rolls.

In his free time Neicus enjoys reading, writing, playing video games, football (soccer), swimming, golf, sunbathing, basketball, poker, tennis, bike riding, playing pool, and surfing.

"You don't win a debate by suppressing discussion. You win it with a better argument."

#my oc #original character #my original oc #oc character #my character #my oc character #oc intro #character intro #oc introduction #character introduction #modern greek mythology #modern greek gods #greek myth retellings #greek gods #greek mythology #greek pantheon

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gingerhotelsindia · 10 months

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Unwind in Style: Discover the Finest Accommodation in CIDCO Aurangabad

Welcome to the magnificent "City of Gates" - Aurangabad, a city that invites you to embark on a captivating journey through its rich history and vibrant culture. Tucked away in the heart of Maharashtra, this enchanting destination is renowned for its splendid heritage, mouth-watering cuisine, and warm hospitality. Aurangabad is a city that tells its own fascinating tale, with roots that stretch back to ancient times. Throughout its storied past, it has witnessed the rise and fall of numerous empires, from the Mauryas and Satavahanas to the Mughals. These historical influences have left an indelible mark on the city's architecture, art, and cultural fabric, creating a captivating blend that sets it apart. As you traverse the bustling streets of Aurangabad, you'll be greeted by a city that never sleeps. The tantalizing aroma of street food wafts through the air, enticing you to indulge in a culinary adventure. The vibrant energy of bustling bazaars invites you to partake in retail therapy, as you navigate through a treasure trove of traditional handicrafts and exquisite fabrics. Yet, amidst the vibrant chaos, you'll find moments of tranquility and serenity in the city's ancient monuments and lush gardens. Let us unveil some of the must-visit attractions in Aurangabad: Ajanta and Ellora Caves: These UNESCO World Heritage Sites are a testament to the incredible artistry and spiritual devotion of ancient civilizations. Marvel at the intricate rock-cut caves, adorned with stunning sculptures and vibrant frescoes, as you step back in time and immerse yourself in the ancient Buddhist, Hindu, and Jain traditions. Bibi Ka Maqbara: Known as the "Taj of the Deccan," this magnificent mausoleum, built by Aurangzeb in the 17th century, is a splendid architectural masterpiece. Adorned with intricate carvings and surrounded by beautiful gardens, it stands as a testament to eternal love and a captivating sight to behold. Daulatabad Fort: Just a short distance from Aurangabad, this ancient fortification boasts impressive defenses and offers panoramic views of the surrounding countryside from its pinnacle. Ascend its formidable ramparts, soak in the breathtaking vistas, and immerse yourself in the history that permeates its walls. Panchakki: Step back in time at this unique 17th-century water mill, which harnesses the power of water to operate machinery. Explore the serene gardens surrounding the mill, and marvel at the historic tombs that grace its premises, showcasing the city's rich cultural heritage. Jama Masjid: Located in the heart of Aurangabad, this grand mosque showcases exquisite Mughal architecture. Discover its beautiful courtyard, marvel at the intricate domes, and immerse yourself in the serene ambiance that permeates this sacred place of worship. Aurangabad Caves: Venture just outside the city to witness the awe-inspiring rock-cut Buddhist caves that date back to the 6th and 7th centuries CE. Admire the intricate carvings and sculptures that adorn these ancient sanctuaries, as you delve into the spiritual aura that envelops them. Grishneshwar Temple: Pay homage to Lord Shiva at this ancient Hindu temple, which is one of the 12 Jyotirlingas in India. Be captivated by its architectural splendor and immerse yourself in the spiritual atmosphere that surrounds this sacred site. Lonar Crater Lake: Nature enthusiasts will be enthralled by this unique natural wonder, formed by a meteorite impact. Explore the lush greenery and wildlife that surround this tranquil lake, located about 140 kilometers from Aurangabad, and witness the harmonious coexistence of nature and history. Paithan: Embark on a journey to this historic town, renowned for its exquisite silk sarees and ancient temples. Meander through its narrow streets, immerse yourself in the vibrant local bazaars, and marvel at the architectural gems that grace its temples, offering a glimpse into the rich cultural tapestry of the region. Bhadra Maruti Temple: Set on the outskirts of Aurangabad, this ancient temple dedicated to Lord Hanuman exudes a serene aura. Wander through its beautiful gardens, seek blessings from the striking statue of Lord Hanuman, and find solace in the spiritual ambiance that permeates the surroundings. Whether you are a history aficionado, a nature lover, or simply seeking to immerse yourself in the local culture, Aurangabad and its surroundings offer a plethora of captivating sights and experiences that will leave an indelible impression on your journey. Now, when it comes to finding the perfect lodging option that combines comfort and affordability, look no further than Ginger Aurangabad. As one of the best budget hotel in Cidco Aurangabad, Ginger Aurangabad offers exceptional value without compromising on quality, ensuring a memorable stay for every guest. With a range of well-appointed rooms available in Twin and King Bed configurations, Ginger Aurangabad provides a smart and comfortable sanctuary. Each room is thoughtfully designed to cater to your needs, equipped with modern amenities such as Wi-Fi, air conditioning, LCD/LED TV with satellite channels, a tea/coffee maker, and a mini-refrigerator. Indulge in delectable dishes from the hotel's multi-cuisine restaurant, offering a delightful dining experience right within the comfort of your room. Convenience is key at Ginger Aurangabad, as the hotel's strategic location near the Aurangabad railway station ensures easy access for travelers. Moreover, it provides proximity to major tourist attractions in and around Aurangabad, eliminating the hassle of long commutes and maximizing your exploration time. Whether you are embarking on a historical journey or conducting business in the city, Ginger Aurangabad caters to all your needs, making it an ideal choice for both leisure and business travelers. All in all, if you are seeking exceptional accommodation in CIDCO Aurangabad, such as a budget hotel in Cidco Aurangabad, Ginger Aurangabad is definitely the perfect choice. With its well-furnished rooms, convenient location, and top-notch amenities, it stands as a beacon of comfort and affordability in the city. Book your stay now and embark on a captivating journey through the historic city of Maharashtra!

#Hotels near Cidco Airport Aurangabad #hotel in Cidco aurangabad near bus stand #hotels in Cidco aurangabad near airport #hotels in Cidco aurangabad city #Hotels in CIDCO Aurangabad #Hotels near Cidco Bus Stand Aurangabad

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