#garden bench oak

[classicmemorialbenches]

Techniques we use to depicting images on memorial bench designs

At Classic we have a number of techniques we use to depict images on our memorial bench designs and one of our favourite things to do is the colour resin inlay. There are several techniques that can be used. Here are,

✅Preparing the artwork

✅Carving the shapes into the wood

✅Pouring all of the colours

✅Skimming off the excess glue

✅clamped

#Wooden Benches Uk #Remembrance Bench #Oak Garden Bench Uk #Platinum Jubilee Bench #Settle Bench #Oak Benches for Sale #Bench Plaques #Benches Uk #Brass Plaques for Benches #Plaques for Benches #Memorial Benches Scotland #How much is a Memorial Bench Uk #Memorial Bench Plaques #Bench Memorials #Rocking Bench #Memorial Decorative Benches #Bench Plaques Engraved #Garden Bench Oak #Memorial Plaques for Benches #Benches Near Me #Oak Garden Benches Uk #Stone Memorial Bench #Garden Bench Plaque #Bench Memorial #Memorial Bench Ideas #Jubilee Bench #Memorial Garden Benches #woodsman #Bench Engraved Plaque #Memorial Bench Flower Holder

[jaderoberts]

Pick premium oak outdoor dining furniture to turn your patio into a next-level alfresco dining experience.✨

#backyard #furniture #garden #outdoors #outdoor dining furniture #oak furniture #lounge chair #bench #dining set #coffee table

[demyxix]

Traditional Landscape Tampa This is an illustration of a small formal gravel backyard traditional shade garden.

#ilex #bench #landscape #gravel #garden accessories #oak trees

[cassieuncaged]

Batstarion (Astarion x Reader)

Summary: You share some time with a certain Ascended Vampire in bat form.

TW: none :)

WC: 1 K

A/N: just a fluffy oneshot inspired by Pani-artz Batstarion series, that’s all :)

Long, leathery wings stretch across the tufted cushion, a flurry of squeaks escaping before you whisper an evocation.

“Amicus animalis,” your fingers trace his tiny body, getting lost in the snowy coat that covers him. “You may speak now, love.”

“Lord,” he corrects in that buttery voice you delight in so much, though it’s difficult to take anything serious when Astarion lounges about in bat form. White pinpricks appear from behind an upturned snout, his menace evaporated as beady eyes muster any intimidation. “I am your lord and you will regard me as such.”

“Oh?” You bring a finger up to one fang, releasing a droplet that’s offered to the bat. A tiny pink tongue laps at it lazily. “It’s I who sits upon your throne; shan’t I be your lord?”

“Do not mock me, pet,” he seethes, though that pink noses nuzzles against your finger before sharply latching. He sips though it feels more like a tickle when he’s in this form, “I’m ghastly.”

“You’re adorable.” You coo, scratching beneath a fuzzy chin as he likes. When you stop, you noticed his batty expression has softened, tiny features relaxed. “Enjoying yourself?”

“Immensely,” he sighs, wings twitching against either of your thighs, cartilaginous sinews loosening as his claws dig into your breeches. “Turn me."

“Isn’t my lovely face enough?” You jest though some truth is hidden in that; after all, it’s been almost a year since you’ve last seen your own reflection. Now you chat with the bat form of your lover and closest confidant. Were you finally losing what was left of your mind?

“Don’t be naïve,” he tsks, sinking into the tufted velvet. “I’d like to look upon the audience.”

“The hall is empty, my love,” your eyes fall on the empty benches as wings threaten to flap. “Patience, I’ve got you.”

One hand slid beneath his warm belly, enjoying the heat you no longer wrought. Then he was carefully scooped and turned so that beady little gaze to see the ornate room that often clamored for the attention of the lord regally displayed upon the dais. Then a content chirp echoed through the vaulted ceilings as his body spasmed.

“Imagine if all the citizens of Baldur’s Gate saw you now, my lov…, my lord.” One finger began stroking from between tiny coned ears to the root of a wiry tail. His fur was so luscious and soft, not unlike the curls so carefully manicured atop his head, “Commanding with such ferocity propped upon the lap of your consort.”

“I suppose it would be quite the sight,” he chuckled, making her shiver like it always did. “Baldur’s Mouth would have quite the story. ‘Decrees heralded by rodent’; I think it’s silly enough to make the front page.”

“Think yourself popular, do you?” you teased, enjoying the moments he was seemingly relaxed and docile; they were so far few and between these days.

“Darling, I know I am.” He wriggled playfully against the cushion before pinkish hued wings began to flap. It was always mesmerizing to watch him float, expecting him to morph back into himself with a cloud of smoke. But he remained as he was, eyeing you expectantly. “The sun has long set; let’s peruse the palace gardens.”

The velveteen cushion was tucked upon the seat of the gilded throne as he began to glide to the far end of the hall, leaving you practically sprinting to catch up. Boots clacked against the marble floor, robes swishing around sure legs as you raced down the aisle. He paused, wings flapping in place as your place was taken beside him.

“Do keep up, dear,” he chided, little teeth clicking as he gracefully dove through the opened oak doors and down the decadently decorated hallway. “We haven’t all night. Oh, wait; we do don’t we?”

Your chuckle mingled with his, allowing the flamboyant bat dart to through the ornate glass doors that servants obediently wrenched open. It was a treat to watch him dive through the hedged archways, dipping down to bury his nose in a budding rose that practically glowed beneath the full moon.

“Pick one,” he encouraged, “Put it behind your ear.”

Doing as asked, two red pinpricks watched diligently as the petals hung over the shell of your ear. Then, it finally happened, fluffy white bat dissipating into a black mist before Astarion stretched out in front you, gently tipping your chin upwards.

“Beautiful.” He cooed before pressing a kiss to the tip of your nose. “Just beautiful.”

“Would ‘Batstarion’ agree?” you giggled, enjoying the quiet moments before the hammer inevitably dropped. He was so rarely this tender and you missed it terribly. Gently, he pulled your hand into his before drifting to the edge of the gardens.

“He loves flowers, that’s true.” He grins, wiping residual pollen from his own nose, “Though I’m unable to hold you with those bloody wings. Not to mention the language barrier.”

“I love the chirps,” you argued, enjoying the arm that instinctually wrapped around your waist, possessively. “It’s very cute.”

“I’m meant to be menacing,” he growls and you’re reminded of his other form, back elongating, jaw distending. You shivered at the thought. So you allow your fingers to dance across a strong cheekbone as his gaze fell upon the lights twinkling lights in the Lower City below. “How will I ever rule The Sword Coast if I’m not?”

“In due time, my love.” You reassured him, enjoying the caress of his cold breath against your ear. “This will all be ours. They’ll pledge fealty and you can rest upon as many velvet pillows as you please. I’ll even rub your little furry belly.”

“Will you?” then, when you expected his teeth to plunge into your neck but nuzzled against you again. A welcome change. “That’d be strangely comforting.”

#astarion x you #astarion x reader #astarion x ofc #astarion x tav #astarion #oneshot #fluff #batstarion #reader insert #female reader

[minkdelovely]

love and power

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prelude

“ask for forgiveness,

never permission.”

Alastor x Fem!Reader ; MDNI 18+ ; [y/n] used sparingly ; Alias in Hell is Sylvie

tags: acid rain wound, cannibals living their best lives in cannibal town, slow burn eventual: smut, violence, toxic themes

word count: 1.7k

hello world! i currently have alastor brain rot and felt compelled to jump back into writing fan fiction. i’m a little rusty and i’m not sure how many parts there will be; i won’t deny that this is purely self-indulgent but i hope you enjoy all the same :)

prelude ; chapter one ; chapter two ; chapter three ; chapter four ; chapter five ; chapter six ; chapter seven ; chapter eight ; chapter nine

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Hell wasn’t what you had expected it to be. It was worse.

Thoughts of your grandmother rose to your mind, despite how desperately you tried to push them down. “Hell is the absence of God,” she would always say after one of her famous rants. A warning you perhaps would have heeded, had it been coming from a place of love instead of moral superiority. 

You had seen her on the streets of Hell a few times now, always sure to avoid catching her attention. The warm pleasure that bloomed in your chest was too precious to give up, despite knowing how good it would feel to rub her fate in her face. A lot of good all those Sunday mornings had done her, haughty bitch! You wondered how often your grandmother laid awake at night, desperate to know how she had ended up here. A wicked grin spread across your lips, revealing milky-pink fangs.

It was hard not to imagine the look your father would have given you if you could tell him she was here. He would definitely have scolded you, but you knew a small part of him would be amused. If calling her a bad grandmother was putting it lightly, she was an even worse mother-in-law. Hopefully you would never get the chance to tell him; Mother was waiting for him in Heaven, after all. And things should be much easier for him now, all things considered. Leaving him alone hadn’t been part of the plan, so all you could do was tell yourself that it had been worth it. Someday you would believe it.

Grandmother was right though, loathe as you were to admit it, and the feeling of loss burned through you every morning when you awoke. Every night, you dreamed of rain; the sound of it, the smell of it, the feeling of it coming down on you in the middle of the family garden. Oh, how you missed the garden. The dark, wet dirt. Blue puffs of hydrangea against stark-white azaleas, your mother’s coveted yellow roses. The Spanish Moss hanging like phantom sails off the branches of the huge oak tree in the corner, where your father had placed a bench and made a small pond. You would sit under that tree for hours lost in a book, listening to the sounds of the garden.

The fire and brimstone you could endure. It was the way everything else was twisted here that was grueling. As if feeling your lament, a drop of acid rain hit your window, quickly morphing into a full-blown storm. A frustrated growl erupted from you and you rolled onto your stomach, burying your head under your pillow and said a silent prayer to whatever force would grant mercy on your roof. You couldn’t afford to get it fixed again. The prayer had been answered just a moment after the rain stopped, when a drop of it fell from the ceiling and onto your pale, unsuspecting calf, your mattress absorbing the scream of pain that tore through your chest.

As the acid made its way through your leg, and eventually your mattress, all you could do was sob. Eternity… This was eternity. 

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

If this morning had been good, the day could only now be considered grand.

There was really nothing quite like a post-rain stroll through Cannibal Town, witnessing the misfortune of partially-dissolved sinners who had been caught in the deluge being consumed on the streets by the lively, ever-hungry inhabitants. Alastor would never tire of this jovial bunch that called this part of the Pentagram home, reveling in the sound of screams, the crunching of bone, the almost-lewd and animalistic grunts of feasting.

Were Rosie not expecting him for tea, he might have allowed himself to join in on the fun. Alas, his only solace was that Rosie never served anything less than superb, being the excellent hostess that she is.

He was quite intrigued by her invitation to join her alone, which meant that this likely wasn’t anything to do with donating a small army of cannibals to aid in the fight against the Angels. Indeed, Charlie’s presence would be required once it was time to cash that favor in.

Not that he didn’t enjoy a casual visit (as casual a visit between Overlords could be), he couldn’t help but wonder. Thinking a few steps ahead was a must if one was going to thrive in Hell, and well, it was no secret that Alastor was doing a pretty fine job at that, all things considered. He began to whistle, earning a few gory smiles from cannibals who stopped mid-meal to enjoy the tune. A true honor.

Rosie opened the door for him before he even had the chance to knock, the “Closed for Rain” sign clattering against the glass as she cooed. “Alastorrr! Come in, come in, before it starts raining again.”

As if on queue, a roll of thunder tore through the clouds, drawing a cheer from the denizens of Cannibal Town in anticipation for round two. 

“Rosie, my dear, always an honor and a privilege to be deemed worthy of your company,” Alastor said, bowing his head as Rosie feigned a blush, leading him to the parlor where they would be taking their tea.

The usual pleasantries were exchanged between sips of tea, coffee, and candied organs, which Alastor forced himself to consume through sheer courtesy. It was all part of the art of visiting, one he quite enjoyed, and he would never shame his mother’s memory with bad manners. They had just finished a plate of finger sandwiches when Rosie leaned in slightly, the conspiring grin on her face letting him know that it was, at last, time for business.

“You’re always so good to indulge me, Alastor. It doesn’t go unnoticed,” she said, grinning as she motioned to a maid to come grab their empty plates. “I’m sure you’ve been dying to know why I asked you over here this afternoon.”

“Oh, Rosie, it’s purely selfish! You know how hard it is to find good company in this godforsaken place. I’m more than grateful to receive your hospitality,” he said with a trademark smile and flick of the wrist, leaning back in his chair as the maid cleared the table.

She had just turned to leave with their plates when the smile on his face nearly faltered. Was that… almond he smelled? It had been so long, but he was fairly certain it was. There was an underlying trace of blood, though that was common enough around here. But almond? It was too pleasant for Hell.

Rosie’s eyes darkened to match her grin, not missing the twitch of Alastor’s mouth. She knew he’d have been able to smell it. It seemed that so far only Hellborn could pick it up, but what would be the fun in letting him know that? 

“Divine, isn’t she? A walking pastry, but not much of a talker. I like to bring her around whenever a room needs some pizzazz! She would’ve been eaten alive had I not taken her in,” Rosie whispered cheekily, as the maid returned with a fresh kettle and a gelatin mold for dessert. Rosie, not missing a beat once the tray had been set down, turned to her with a smile. “Thank you dear, you can leave now. I’ll ring the bell if we need anything else.”

The maid gave a silent curtsy and left the room as instructed, her sweet scent clinging to the air. Since coming to Hell, he took pleasure in the taste of bloody iron, the bite of black coffee. But in life… Memories of marzipan and frangipane tarts swam in his mind. And hadn’t Mother used almonds in her cherry pie crust? It took Alastor all he had not to drool, unsettled by the sudden rush of saliva in his mouth. Ages had passed since he last thought of such sweet things. He cleared his throat with as much grace as he could muster. Rosie only grinned.

“Well, she’s certainly new, so I suppose it’s not surprising she doesn’t talk much. It’s quite easy to tell when a sinner is… adjusting. So morose! You’re very gracious to have taken her on.” Alastor took a sip of coffee, desperate to get that almond smell out of his nostrils. 

“We both seem to be rather gracious these days, don’t you think?”

And there it was.

Rosie sat back in her chair and crossed her legs as she continued. “I was actually wondering if perhaps she might fare better in that hotel you’re running. Don’t get me wrong, she smells incredible, but fuck does she suck the air out of a room once the novelty wears off. She was scaring away clients, and you know it’s pretty bad if cannibals are uneasy around you for Christ’s sake, which is why I had her start working back here, but…”

Alastor had to resist gripping his knee, putting all his effort into maintaining a pleasant face. He had expected to be asked for a favor of sorts, but never did he imagine that Rosie wanted him to take on an employee. She’s had sinners sign contracts for little less than a new parasol, let alone a job. There was something more to this.

And beyond being an air freshener, what good was she for, really? He could deal with quiet, but to have to put up with yet another sulky face! What he had done to deserve it, he didn’t know.

But he knew there wasn’t really a choice other than to take the poor creature into his charge. Rosie was an alley he deeply cherished, and he was already in her debt for the help she had provided just weeks ago. This was no doubt the first part of paying that debt back, a sign of goodwill. Not every deal was beneficial from the start; still, Alastor wouldn’t outright accept the offer. That was part of the fun.

“Well we already have a maid,” Alastor said gently, “but after the recent renovation, we are anticipating more sinners to check in. Not that I doubt Niffty’s abilities, but I suppose she could do with some help when business picks up. How long were you thinking of lending her to our cause?”

Rosie waved her hand. “Lend? Oh, honey, if you’re willing to take her, she’s yours. I’ve got plenty of helping hands, but it does me no good to have such a wet blanket hanging around. There’s just the matter of…,” Rosie trailed off as she reached into her purse, retrieving what Alastor already knew she had been grabbing for, “…her contract.”

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#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel fan fiction #alastor hazbin hotel #alastor the radio demon #alastor x reader #alastor x female reader #alastor smut #hazbin hotel smut #song fic #if i can’t have love i want power #love and power #x reader #slow burn #the radio demon #hazbin hotel slow burn

[starryjuicebox]

Sucrose

Pairing: Ascended!Astarion x F!Reader

Word Count: 1.7k

Warning: 18+, Explicit. Cunnilingus. PiV. Creampie.

Summary: Astarion has several surprises for you on this Valentine's Day.

The soft grass is a soothing balm for your tired feet as you stroll across the flower garden. Curling your fingers around your lover’s arm, you lean your head against his shoulder and close your eyes briefly. The little meadow he built just for you far away from the hustle and bustle of Baldur’s Gate is always a welcome respite. 

Astarion guides you to a white oak bench with lush green ivy snaking around the elegant silver armrests. He sits down and pulls you into his lap. Snuggling into his chest instinctively, you gaze up at him. 

“Your feet seemed like they could use a rest,” he answers your unasked question. 

“Thank you!” You beamed at him. It was quite nice to be able to rest after a long day of walking and tending to the plants. While Astarion had always told you that someone else could “do all the dirty work”, there was something about growing the greenery yourself that made it special. It did involve a lot of physical labor though, and so you are grateful to be able to relax for the rest of the night.  

Life with him was quite easy, after all. While the mansion was being refurbished, you two had gone on all sorts of travels, from the Moonshae Isles to Cormyr, enjoying all the pleasures the Sword Coast had to offer. 

But even traveling could get tiring after a while, and so you were overjoyed when Astarion told you he had purchased a plot of land distant from any large city. That was when you had decided to start your ever-growing garden. 

Your first endeavor was planting berry bushes to help feed some of the local wildlife. It was a delight to see deer, birds, and other adorable woodland animals stop by every morning. Astarion had made commentary about feeding the wildlife to the Spawn servants, but never lifted a finger to stop you from growing the shrubs or to shoo the creatures away. 

He chuckles a little, before pressing his lips to your forehead and snapping you out of your reverie. “So, little love, today is Valentine’s Day. A day for lovers to celebrate their unions. And we have quite a lot to celebrate, don’t we?” 

Of course, your calendar had long since been marked, and you already had something special prepared. Reaching into your pockets, you giggle and take out a handful of heart-shaped dark chocolates. While not your own preferred treat, you were not blind to Astarion’s indulgences when he thought nobody was watching. Pressing one up to his lips, you grin and say,“Open wide~” 

Astarion obliges you, surprise clear on his features, and he closes his mouth around the chocolate…as well as your finger. A smirk dances across his face as he finishes the candy with a sensual lick.  

“I see you were ready, darling.” Astarion holds up a peach—your favorite fruit—and then pulls out a dagger. You blink just once, and the once-whole peach is now five evenly cut pieces. 

He teases your lips with one slice, a small smirk decorating his features. “Now, it’s my turn to treat you.” 

You laugh and bite down into the fruit, sweet juices dripping down your chin. 

“Tut, tut, such a messy girl,” he chides gently, dipping his head to lick the nectar from your face. 

“That tickles!” You tell him with a giggle, pushing him playfully. 

The only response you receive is a dark chuckle as he continues to feed you the peach. 

After you finish feeding each other, he leans back with a content hum. “I have another surprise for you. After all, you have been very good to me, my love.” 

Excitement courses through you as you smile. “You’ve been very good to me, too.”

Sweeping his arms beneath you in a princess carry, Astarion stands up and you instinctively wrap your arms around his neck. He brings you deeper into the woods, where you had not ventured before. Your breath hitches in trepidation. 

“Where are we going?” you ask, but receive no reply as he simply continues onward. 

Your question is quickly answered when he stops beneath a cluster of giant Sequoia trees and points upwards. “A gift for you.” 

Lifting your gaze, your jaw drops. Nested in the treetops is an enormous log cabin, built into the forest itself. An elegant terrace wrapped in ivy overlooks the rest of the forest and far beyond. The house is so far up that it would be impossible to reach for an ordinary person. 

“A special sanctuary, just for the two of us,” he whispers into your ear as he sets you back down onto your feet. With a spin and flourish, the Vampire Ascendant becomes a tiny black bat. 

You will your own form to shift and change into a crow, flying after him towards the beautiful cabin. 

Landing on the terrace and transforming back, a gasp leaves you as you see the home is already decorated. Different types of Aeonium, Echeveria, and Graptopetalum hybrids sit in little colorful clay pots beneath large bay windows. Coupled with french doors leading from the balcony into the interior, the house is set up to allow for plenty of sunlight as well.

Astarion opens the doors for you with a bow, seeming very pleased with himself. 

The inside was a blend of copper and soft pink hues. It had clearly been expertly staged with your taste in mind. Rose quartz countertops play host to tiny pewter statuettes of cats and crows. Daggerroot, autumncrocus, belladonna and other alchemical ingredients decorate herb hangers dangling from the ceiling.

It’s perfect; everything you had imagined a little home away from home would look like. Astarion let you have some say in the decor of the renovated palace, but this space was clearly entirely engineered with you in mind. 

“Thank you, Astarion,” you say softly, stepping forward to give him a hug.

He immediately stiffens under your touch. No matter how often you embrace him, it seems, he still hasn’t gotten used to your affection being given so freely. After a second, his warm arms wrap around you, and you can hear his heartbeat—a soothing, steady rhythm.

“Of course, my treasure. Anything for you,” he replies quietly, before smirking once more. “You haven’t even seen the best part yet.” 

Taking your hand, he leads you to the bedroom, which is decorated in a similar fashion to the common area. Dense ivy hugs the walls, and small mushroom-shaped lamps give off a soft, warm glow. Beside them is a crystal vase filled with red roses. Your heart swells at the sight. 

A massive bed takes up an unreasonable amount of space, covered in a downy duvet. Ethically harvested, he assures you. 

“Now, for the final treat of the night…” 

Astarion moves towards you like a predator stalking prey. Though your heart no longer beats, you feel the rush of excitement as your lover walks you to the edge of the bed, until the back of your knees hits the frame. He continues to lean forward, causing you to fall onto your back atop the plush mattress. 

Lean arms cage your body as Astarion tilts his face to yours and captures your lips in a searing kiss. His tongue swipes your lower lip, and darts in as you part them. 

As you spread  your legs for him instinctively, he rubs your lower halves together. “Eager, are we?” he drawls, grinding against your heated core. 

Your clothing suddenly feels restrictive and itchy on your feverish skin. As if on cue, Astarion swipes a claw downwards, rending your thin sundress in two. You pout at him, because you really liked that dress, but he kisses your stomach in apology. As his lips trail downwards, your ire is lost when his tongue flattens against your slick folds, sending a shock of pleasure through you.  

He continues his ministrations fucking your entrance with his tongue lazily, before swirling around your clit and then sucking hard. The sudden shift in intensity elicits a moan from you as he continues to feast on your cunt. 

Just when you feel yourself beginning to reach the peak, he pulls away, your juices glistening on his chin. You whine at the loss, although the sound quickly turns into a sigh as he buries himself to the hilt within you in one smooth thrust, without warning.  

“You take me so well, don’t you? Good girl,” he murmurs, rolling your stiff nipples in between his warm fingers. Astarion has set a slow, steady rhythm to start; every languid roll of his hips brings another small jolt to your system. 

It isn’t fair that he seems so composed while you are coming undone beneath him. Pursing your lips, you use your body weight to roll yourself forward, flipping your positions so that you are now riding him. 

Astarion doesn’t seem to protest this, just letting out a throaty chuckle as the new position sinks him even deeper into you, forcing out another sound of ecstasy from your lips. You feel his cock twitch inside of you, signaling his own pleasure. 

You feel yourself getting closer to the edge, increasing the pace to a desperate frenzy, and from the sound of his own sighs, Astarion isn’t too far off himself. 

“That’s it, my treasure. Come for me.” 

Clenching around him, you shatter at his words. Grabbing your wrist and sinking his fangs into it, he follows and you feel a wave of thick cum spilling into you. 

Happy and sated, you beam down at him. “Happy Valentine’s Day.” 

“Happy Valentine’s Day, my love.” 

As he pulls out, he scoops out the cum that dribbles out of your puffy slit and shoves it back in with his fingers. “We can’t have anything go to waste, can we now?” 

You nod sleepily, as he wipes you clean with a soft cloth. As you snuggle up to his warm embrace, he pulls the cover over your bodies.    

The next morning, you are awoken by the fresh scent of apples. A brand new sunrise in the eternity you will share together. 

#astarion fic #astarion x reader #astarion x you #fluff #astarion smut #ascended astarion x tav #ascended!astarion #ascended astarion #ascended astarion x reader #astarion romance #astarion fluff #bg3 astarion #astarion ancunin

[cambion-companion]

matey. I have this cute soft idea if you're interested in writing it ofc. basically fem reader where she's a lady of noble blood and knows aemond since they were kids. but there was always this awkwardness around them which slowly turned into disgust (lol bish why you lying, why you always lying) one day she's with helaena or lady friends and they ask her who she would marry from court if she had to choose which she replies with "I would marry aemond in a heartbeat" forgetting that she said that out loud with aemond overhearing it somewhere hiding behind a pillar or something lol. and the next day she keeps questioning herself why aemond is suddenly wearing his nice clothes, helping her with something? and then when she wants to bid him goodnight he replies with a sneaky "I would marry you too in a heartbeat" which ends with her all flustered or something lol. idk what this is honestly, It just popped into my head.

Hi dearest! I'd love to write a lil something based on this lovely prompt!

Aemond x reader | fluff | Aemond being as discreet as a car backfiring

Laughter surrounded you, the ladies you sat with in the fragrant gardens tittering to each other, blushes upon their dimpled cheeks. You set aside your book of Old Valyrian poems and leaned in conspiratorially. "Okay Rosaline, your turn. Who would you marry?"

Rosaline, a lovely curvy girl around your age with russet curls and a freckled face, laughed harder. "I cannot say, lady Y/N. Though lord Jason Lannister is rather easy on the eyes is he not?"

You shrugged. "If you go for that sort of pomposity, I suppose."

"Well, who do you fancy, Y/N?" Rosaline asked, huffing at you with slightly narrowed brown eyes.

You hesitated, all eyes now upon you, growing more curious with each second of silence.

"Well? Now you have to tell us!" A girl with straight brown hair piped up, her doe eyes mischievous. "You were so eager to hear our own secrets!"

"I...I've always. Well. Prince Aemond if you must know." Your fingers clasped together upon your lap, so tight your knuckles went white.

There was a beat of stunned silence, then the girls lapsed into another fit of giggles.

"Prince Aemond?" Rosaline choked.

"Haven't you been friends since you were children?"

"I thought they went for their siblings?"

"He doesn't have an eye, Y/N! How could you possibly think he's a suitable match?"

"Excuse me." You said rather flatly. "When any of you ride the largest dragon in Westeros, then you can talk."

"He is rather easy on the eyes." A Tyrell girl spoke in a thin voice. "Though I've heard rumors circulating he is rather callous and keeps to himself."

"He's not callous." You defended. "Though we do have our disagreements."

"Oh yes!" Rosaline tittered again. You fought the urge to smack her. "I've heard you two have been at odds the past few weeks. Lover's quarrel?"

"I-we are not-where did you hear...you know what it doesn't matter." You rose abruptly, forgetting the book beside you on the bench. "Aemond alone is worth a hundred times more than all of you put together. I would marry him in a heartbeat."

"What's under that horrid eyepatch he wears?" A sneering Lannister lady sniggered.

"Something far more interesting than what's under your garish skirts!" You shot back, a shocked silence following your impetuous outburst.

You cast one last scorching look over the gathered women, before gathering your dress and taking your leave of them, face burning.

You retired to your chambers, skipping the dinner feast, not wishing to see those girls again that day. You were still fuming. It was true, you and Aemond had not spoken since a heated argument a few weeks prior. However, this was not the first time you two had been at odds. Nor would it be the last, you reckoned.

A soft knock at your door roused you from your contemplation beside the fire. You rose from the sofa, crossing the carpeted floor and swinging the heavy oak door open to reveal Aemond standing in the doorway.

"Oh!" You said, too surprised to come up with anything witty.

"Walk with me?" Aemond held out his arm for you to take. His hair looked like it was freshly brushed, shining silver in the torchlight as he guided you down the hall into a deserted courtyard.

The evening air was alive with birdsong, the sky above a shock of orange and red as the sun made its western descent.

"I came to apologize." Aemond said as the two of you meandered out into the gardens you had spent your afternoon in.

"Apologize? You? Be still my heart!"

"Don't make me regret it, Y/N." The prince groaned, releasing your arm and turning to you, the vista of the city's red roofs and the sparkling sea framed behind him. "I behaved...rather appallingly and I regret not coming to you sooner."

"You were a bit of an ass, tis true." You smiled impishly at the way he fought down a grimace at your words.

"As if you were any better."

"I was right." You folded your arms across your chest.

Aemond clasped his hands tightly behind his straight back. "It is a matter of opinion whether Dorne is more progressive than us."

"No, Aemond. I'm afraid that's a fact."

Aemond breathed hard through his nostrils; you watched with interest as he collected himself. "I came to apologize not to argue further."

He opened his jacket and pulled out a small box from a pocket within. "And to give you this as a sign of my...remorse."

You squinted at him. "Did your mother tell you to say that?"

Aemond didn't answer, his brow raising at you as he gestured for you to take his gift. You lifted the box from his palm, undoing the string and opening it. A silver brooch lay within, bearing the insignia of your house. Small finely crafted letters spelled out your house words below the image.

"It's quite lovely, my prince." Your face softened as you took it out and fasted the piece to your bodice. "I will wear it with pride. Thank you."

Aemond graced you with a genuine smile, his eye lingering upon the pin now secured above your heart. You tracked his gaze with interest as it roved across your curves before snapping guiltily back up to your face.

"See something you like?" You teased, flashing a grin at him.

Aemond didn't answer, though he held your gaze as you stepped closer, noting how the breath caught in his throat at your sudden proximity. Your brow furrowed as you looked at the odd expression on his face, nothing you had seen there before.

"Are you well, Aemond?"

"No." Aemond shook his head. "Let us continue our walk."

The two of you walked side by side around the gardens, the deepening twilight enveloping you, stars unveiling one by one in the dusky sky. Your knuckles brushed against Aemond's, you extended your pinky, hooking it around his. Heat rose to your face as Aemond's fingers slid to tangle with your own, your hands intertwined as you strode along the path back to the Keep.

He did not break his grip on you, even as you stood again before your chamber door.

"This is where I bid you a good night, Y/N." He spoke softly.

"Yes, it is." You sounded breathless, not pulling away as he turned to face you directly, leaning down as he brushed his lips to the back of your hand.

"Y/N?"

"Yes, Aemond?"

"I would also marry you in a heartbeat."

You stopped breathing. He had overheard the whole exchange in the gardens. Blood rushed in your ears as, wide eyed, you watched as Aemond lingered long enough to take in your expression before he turned on a booted heel and strode down the hallway.

Gathering your wits once more, you shouted after him just as he reached the corner. "Aemond!" He halted, looking back at you with ill-concealed amusement. "Get back here or so help me..." You pointed to the ground in front of your door.

"We can continue this discussion tomorr-"

"No. No, you don't get to say something like that and just walk away." You hissed, leaving your chamber open as you stomped down the hallway to where he stood waiting, his lilac eye sparkling with delight.

Aemond took your forearms in his hands when you reached for him, pulling you in so quickly you stumbled, falling against his chest. "You overheard me today?" You asked, looking up at his angular face as his fingers traced your jaw.

"Mmm. I did indeed. You're quite the sight in your anger." His eye glittered. "Even more enchanting when it's on my behalf."

"They were wrong to say such things." You breathed, your voice only a whisper as the distance between your faces slowly closed.

"I rest easy knowing I have a champion in you, to defend my honor." Aemond chuckled, his breath tickling your lips.

You weren't sure who moved first, or if it was simultaneous, but you felt the press of his mouth against yours, your eyes fluttering closed as your hands buried themselves in his silken hair.

He moved against you, backing you up until you hit the wall, a gasp at the impact opening your mouth to him as he began exploring you with his slick tongue. The scent of him surrounding you, the feel of him caging you in, pressing his knee between your thighs, drew a soft whimper from your lips that he drank down with relish.

"Do that again." He murmured, tugging your hair until you exposed your throat to his touches.

"Make me." You smirked at the arched ceiling, quickly losing what little composure you had won back as he took your challenge to heart.

Aemond made you emit many more sounds of pleasure throughout the course of that night. Stifling your cries with his large hand at one point so as to not alert any nearby guard patrols. With the promises of a lifetime together to come he claimed you as his own, swearing in return to be yours until his dying day.

#aemond x you #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond fic #aemond x y/n #prince aemond x reader #aemond smut #aemond imagine #aemond drabble #aemond oneshot #hotd x reader #hotd x you #aemond fluff #aemond fanfic #aemond stannies #aemond one eye x reader #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen scenarios #hotd aemond #hotd aemond x reader #hotd smut #aemond one eye #hotd fanfic #aemond fanfiction #aemond #aemond hotd #aemond the kinslayer

[quietblueriver]

Three cheers for the surprisingly lengthy, emotionally complex conversation in Ep. 96. Still thinking about that devastating rooftop moment, and never not thinking about Imogen Temult, so here's this, in which Imogen visits her favorite place without her favorite person and gets a surprise visitor, too. Some light spoilers for Ep. 96.

-

There was a cool breeze ruffling the fabric of her skirt against the skin of her leg, and Imogen took a moment to bask, eyes closed, face turned up to the warmth of the sun. When she blinked open her eyes, she found exactly what she expected: the old oak that took up a corner of the sprawling yard, a faded-white bench swing hanging from one sturdy branch; the little shelter for firewood, empty at the moment, a green wheelbarrow parked just beside it; the raised garden beds bursting with color that framed a pathway to the porch steps where she sat. The most familiar place she had never been. 

Home. 

“Of course,” she breathed out. Her mind’s decision to bring her here was at once almost unbearably cruel and a kindness she was surprised she could grant herself, and tears burned at the back of her eyes as she ran her palms over the smooth, dark-stained wood of the step next to her hip.

The sound of her own voice made her realize exactly how quiet it was–no birds chirping, empty hitching posts, bees gone from the thriving patch of wildflowers. The house behind her waited still and free of the whistle of the kettle and shuffle of stockinged feet, missing the absent-minded humming and chorus of mundane thoughts that made Imogen feel most at home.  

 “Of course,” she said again, a little louder and a lot more resigned. 

It didn’t seem right, that the chasm in Imogen’s stomach, already bottomless, could somehow grow deeper, but that was what was happening, her mind returning to Laudna’s skin under her lips on that rooftop, Laudna’s body wrapped in blankets and shifting quietly away from Imogen. 

She felt like a coward, letting her go again, walking back through that window, turning her own body into itself in bed. She could’ve stayed, should’ve stayed, should’ve pushed. But then, it was Laudna’s choice. That was the whole point, wasn’t it? Giving Laudna the choice, the control, the autonomy she’d had taken from her for so long? 

She had held fast to that belief through their friendship and into their relationship. Even as she held Laudna’s dead body, she was resolute that it was Laudna’s choice whether to take the hand offered and come back to them. Admitting that Laudna was her tether came closer than Imogen really wanted to a plea. Because Imogen wanted it to be clear that her love and desire were unconditional gifts, that she wanted their relationship to feel like a source of strength and not a chain. Laudna deserved to be loved as herself, for herself and to know that she could make her own choices and not lose that love. 

Now, though. Now there was the green ghost of Delilah Briarwood, sharp voice chasing Laudna’s like a wolf after its prey. Closer and closer and closer. 

It felt less and less like giving Laudna a choice and more and more like leaving her to be eaten. But Laudna had been clear about what she wanted from Delilah, even as she’d said she didn’t know if there was much point in distinguishing between them anymore. And that was it for Imogen. Because it was one thing if Laudna couldn’t see Delilah, couldn’t understand that her choices might not be fully her own. But Laudna knew. Laudna knew she wasn’t alone, knew Delilah was more than just a passenger, and she heard all Imogen had to say about Delilah’s lies and Laudna’s own power. Knowing all of that, she had made her choice. And it had broken Imogen, but she would always, always respect what Laudna chose for herself. 

So, cracked open, she had accepted what she heard and what it meant, and she had nodded but let herself be honest about the loss she felt: “I’m going to miss our little cottage, though.” 

She hadn’t expected the look she received in return, the surprised, broken stare. Maybe she should have. Laudna never did seem to understand how much Imogen loved her, no matter how clear Imogen tried to make it. Maybe she’d heard Imogen’s very real dreams as passing thoughts. Maybe Imogen’s concession of their future had been the first time Laudna had seen it clearly. 

Still, Imogen wasn’t fool enough to expect Laudna’s possible moment of comprehension meant anything would change. Sure, she’d sounded different with the Hells, less like she was expecting death, a dead end, and more like she wanted to take back control, but Laudna also knew the rest of the Hells were less likely to respect her choices than Imogen, that any hint of her willingness to let Delilah take control, even on a suicide mission, might lead them to push Laudna away. Imogen had no doubt that Laudna loved her, had no doubt, really, that if she was right about Laudna’s realization that it meant something, but letting go of the dream once had been hard enough. Letting herself take it back only to lose it again would be too much. 

Laudna had made her choice.

“So,” she said aloud, voice soft as she took in the green grass stretched before her, the fence line separating their cottage from the forest, Laudna’s thriving tomatoes and okra, supported in their little cages. “Just me then.” 

And wasn’t that a dangerous realization. 

Because Imogen’s whole life was about control. Her mind, her body, her emotions, she knew all of them needed to be held tightly, that letting go meant danger for anyone around her. But here, now, all alone? The small, steady voice of reason inside of her lost to the reality of her isolation. “Just me,” she whispered, and suddenly, her scars burned, light flashing under and around her skin, tears falling hot down her cheeks. A storm of fear and anger and desperation and hurt let loose. The bursts of lightning that crackled around her did not set the house on fire. She might be alone, but she could never, would never, hurt what was theirs.

Instead, she stood, still burning, and walked to the top of the stairs, staring at the post that ran from the tin roof through the floor of the porch. She considered, watched little bolts strike out harmlessly at the porch and the railing. 

She’d been six years old the first time she wrecked the cleaning station in the barn, tiny, furious body pushing buckets and tack and brushes, flipping the table in a show of strength that followed her for years through drunken stories from the other stable hands. At her daddy’s hard order, she had stomped her way to her room, slamming the door with tears streaming down her face.

Imogen’s daddy hadn’t understood a lot of things about her, but he’d understood her that night. Relvin, who had all of her anger and none of her magic, had come to get her from her room and taken her to the back of the old storage barn, where he’d used a rafter to hang a densely packed sack of hay at her height. He’d taken her hand, still small enough to fit fully in his, and shown her how to make a fist. 

Now, just like he’d taught her, she curled her scarred fingers and folded her thumb across the outside, squared up to a cut of wood that was absolutely going to win this fight, and swung as hard as she could. Sure enough, with a grunt and a flash of pain, Imogen pulled back to find her knuckles bloodied and the wood smeared with dark red but as solid as ever. She contemplated her unblemished right hand, and it was only the sound of rustling grass that stopped her from another round. 

Her head shot up and toward the corner of the house and the source of the noise. She was in her own mind, her own dream, but that didn’t mean shit, really. She wiped at her eyes, hissing at the pain and glad for it and for the blood now surely on her cheeks, and she let the heat crackle the air around her. She was ready and out of patience for any bullshit. No matter the evidence of her weakness now marring the wood next to her, this place was sacred, and she was going to be pissed if somebody had come here to fight. 

Imogen relaxed, air cooling, as she took in the figure that loped toward her. He was horrifying, a mass of patchy dark hair and exposed bone, dripping ichor and torn flesh. His eyes glowed and his deadly teeth showed through his half-torn jaw. As Imogen walked down the steps to wait, she felt deep fondness at the wagging tail and lolling tongue that felt so incongruous to the rest of the hellbeast. Fun scary. 

“Hey, baby boy,” she said affectionately as he got closer, and his tail wagged harder at her voice. She leaned forward when he made it to her, cupping his face to scratch behind his jaw, wincing at the pain in her hand. His fur was mostly intact under her fingers, although the jaw itself was a blend of bone and ichor and random thin patches of hair against Imogen’s palms. “How you doin’?” 

He pulled back and whined, licked at her cuts and the forming bruise, the familiar sticky, black liquid cooling and covering the split skin. 

“I’m okay,” she reassured, aware that even beyond the evidence of violence, the intermittent purple static around her body probably wasn’t particularly convincing. 

As anticipated, the tilt of his head was skeptical, but his eyes were fond. Imogen saw Laudna in him so clearly in that moment that she lost her breath for a second. 

“Fuck.” 

Another whine, another lick, and Imogen conceded the point. “Yeah. Yeah. Okay. Maybe I’m not doin’ so good.” 

He moved forward and pressed his head into her thighs, and she scratched at the parts of his back and ribs that she could, stopping when she noticed the pain in her hand was gone. Flexing, she pulled it back to look more closely, wiping the blood and ichor off carelessly on her shorts. Sure enough, the skin was healed, and Caviar was staring at her, tongue hanging from the open side of his mouth. 

She could’ve healed it herself. This was her mind, after all, and it wasn’t one of those dreams where she felt like a passenger. She could’ve stopped the pain entirely, stopped it before it ever started. She hadn’t. Big eyes blinked up at her, and just like the cottage, just like her knuckles, Caviar’s presence was a welcome wound. 

Imogen fought a sob, only half successfully, and Caviar whined again. “Kinda fucked up, sweet thing,” she rasped. A drop of ichor fell from his tongue to the packed dirt in front of the stairs. She wiped her eyes again and sighed, reaching down to smooth the hair between his eyes with her thumb. “How about a snack?”

It took a minute to pull off her boots, toss them a little carelessly on the uncharacteristically empty shelf inside the door. She had nothing to hang on the shiny, empty brass hooks that waited above it, and she didn’t dwell, following Caviar through the living room to the little kitchen in the back. The kettle rested on the stove, and she filled it and set it to boil before moving to the shelves on the opposite wall. 

“Okay, Cavvy. Let’s see what we’ve got, hmm?”

There was a glass jar filled with cookies that Imogen knew were for Cav; they smelled like pumpkin and cinnamon and he scarfed down two happily while she found the tea leaves. She turned to the shelves near the window where her favorite mug was waiting for her next to Laudna’s, rim up. All of the mugs sat neat and tidy, all rim up. Imogen stared and stared. Stared until the water boiled and the kettle whistled. Stared until Caviar bumped her leg.

She put a hand absently on his head, felt bone under her ring and pinky fingers. “Your mama did that,” she said evenly, blinking and looking down at him. “This is our house.” He pressed up into her hand, and she scratched obligingly. “This is our house.” 

She ignored her own mug and pulled Laudna’s down, setting it on the table and filling the strainer in the yellow ceramic teapot. She poured the water and waited for the leaves to steep and then sipped her tea in silence as Caviar settled by her feet. A blue kitchen towel embroidered with a small white oleander in the corner rested over the top of one chair, smudged with orange-tinted batter and smelling of cinnamon. 

“I think Orym was lyin’ to her.” Caviar’s head rested on Imogen’s thigh, just above her knee, as she lay with her arms spread wide on the worn blue and gray rug in their living room. He lifted it slightly at her words, and she brought a hand down to finger the tip of his good ear, the one without a chunk missing, the way that he liked. “I know he loves her,” she assured, and Caviar pushed himself up on his massive paws and shifted so that his body was pressed into hers, Imogen’s arm resting on his surprisingly dry, largely exposed ribs. “I don’t mean that. I just,” she traced bone with her index finger, staring at the wicker basket full of yarn beside the chair that Laudna favored, a cousin to the one at Zhudanna’s, “I heard them talkin’ about her, about trust, and I think Orym…He knows Delilah won’t let him close if she doesn’t trust him. He knows she’s list’nin’ whenever she can. It’s about Delilah. Always fuckin’ Delilah.” 

She rolled onto her side, moving her arm so she could rest her head on her bicep and curling the other across Cav’s body. He huffed out a sigh, breath a harsher reminder of death than his mother’s, decomposition to her sweet decay. Imogen didn’t mind it. 

“He doesn’t wanna hurt Laudna.” Goosebumps formed where his cold body made contact with the exposed skin of her legs. “But he will.” A low growl started in Caviar’s chest and Imogen made a soothing noise, noticed a stray sock under Laudna’s chair. “I know, baby. You’re a good boy.” The growl continued, a comforting rumble, as Imogen spelled Laudna’s name against his fur. 

She hadn’t wanted to go upstairs, but Caviar made the decision for her, interrupting her carpet brooding and disappearing around the corner to the staircase after a pointed look back at her. She followed, resigned, but stopped halfway there, eyes stuck on the pair of boots next to her own and the one now-occupied brass hook. She knew them, boots black and worn and scarf maroon, soft and big enough to use as a shawl if she wanted, Laudna’s frame so small it wrapped around her easily. She took a half-step toward them but at the impatient bark from upstairs, she tore herself away and started to climb.

He was waiting for her by Laudna’s bedside table, which was exactly as it should be–a paperback novel, spine bent so many times the title was hardly legible between the yellowed cracks, sat waiting next to a small basket containing an embroidery hoop and some fabric, a small pin cushion shaped like Pate peeking out of the top, the glinting metal protruding from his skull making him look even more disturbing than usual.

A black quilt with an intricate pattern of overlapping rings covered the bed, the green and gold and blue and purple striking but not garish. She sat on her side, smoothed a hand over the fabric, felt the dips and ridges of the stitches in the pattern. Caviar’s deadly claws clicked against the wood as he made his way to her, and she bit her lip for a minute before scooting over onto Laudna’s side, breathing in the smell of her on the pillow and patting the bed next to her. With menacing grace, Caviar joined her and spun once before settling, nose tucked under his tail, the curve of his spine just touching Imogen’s torso. 

She watched the rise and fall of his body, eyes moving across the ragged realities of him. A hound of ill omen, and he looked like one. He’d come as Delilah gained a better foothold, if she understood it right, a manifestation of Laudna’s anger and fear and hurt, her desire to protect. He was fierce and violent, a weapon, but Laudna had given him a name, opened her chest for him and fussed over him and, at one point, asked Imogen whether putting him in a sweater would be “undignified.”

“Your mama’s ridiculous,” she said quietly, gratified when he remained still and unbothered. “I’m very in love with her.” A beat, her palm scrunching the quilt at her side. “I thought she knew, y’know? I thought she heard me when I…” 

She flattened the fabric again, traced one of the rings with two fingers and thought again of Laudna’s face on that rooftop, the surprise and heartbreak.

What had she thought Imogen meant all those times? I’m a dead end. Laudna had said it over and over, and Imogen hated it, scoffed at it every time, but she should’ve understood sooner that nobody calling herself a dead end really believed she had choices. Not real ones, anyway.

Laudna had Delilah, and at the root of it all, she believed her choice was Delilah or nothing. 

And Imogen had been clear about she felt about Delilah.

You told me once that you hate the idea of her watching you, watching us. I’m guessing that hasn’t changed?

She hadn’t heard it for what it was: Can you really love me this way? 

Imogen shifted on the bed, hot and anxious, and Caviar whined lowly, displeased at the movement. She ran a hand through the fur at his shoulder and then stood, pacing the small space beside the bed.

Laudna, shaking and unable to believe that Delilah had chosen her for a reason. Laudna, crying slow, black tears as Imogen told her she hated that Delilah was there, watching them, when just a few minutes before Laudna had admitted she wasn’t sure how to separate herself from Delilah any longer.

Imogen had let it go, had let this go, because she thought Laudna had made her choice, had all the information and chose her own path. And Imogen didn’t want to take that from her, but she also should’ve known that for Laudna it hadn’t felt like a real choice.

“It’s not takin’ her choice to help her understand that she has one.” Her voice was an agitated murmur.

Fuck. Fuck. Of course Laudna couldn’t imagine their future, because she couldn’t imagine herself without Delilah, and Imogen hated her, openly and vocally and with all her heart. Delilah, who was there all the time, who had been there for thirty years, and for most of that had been Laudna’s only constant, her only company, her only protector. Delilah, who’d had all the time in the world to convince Laudna that she was lucky to have her, that she was alive only because Delilah let her be, that she was walking around purely on the luck of the draw. 

Of course she thought her value was Delilah, thought the best she could do would be to try to take as much of Delilah’s power in service to her friends as she could, even if it meant she herself would disappear. Imogen knew Delilah must love that, must love Laudna’s thoughts about self-sacrifice. The bitch.

A growl issued from the bed, and Imogen turned to the hound, whose eyes were on her, his body now in a rigid, ready line and his lip raised in a snarl. Imogen sighed and sat, offering her hand for him to sniff.

“I know. I know. I hate it, too.” The growling slowed although he remained tense, ready, teeth glinting. “I don’t think this is somethin’ we can fix on our own, baby. We can’t scare her away from your mama.”

But she had to go. Or, they had to give Laudna the option, a real option, to live without her, so that she felt like the choices in front of her were more than just smoke and mirrors to Delilah’s stone.

“But we’ve got help, don’t we?” She kept her voice gentle and flipped her hand slowly until his cold nose was moving along her palm. “Lots of people who love your mama. And lots of people who hate that woman.”

No matter Orym’s fears, Imogen knew Fearne had spoken for all of them when she said they’d kill Delilah as many times as it took. They just had to figure out how.

Imogen could work on that. Well. There were some things they had to do first, but if they survived Predathos, surely the Tempest, surely all of those people at Whitestone who hated Delilah so much, would jump at the chance to help get rid of her for good. Lord Percival was a dick, but Lady Vex’ahlia seemed to have him under control, so. 

They could make a plan.

And in the meantime, Imogen could hold onto this for the both of them. She didn’t want to miss this anyway. It would hurt, badly, for Laudna to choose Delilah again, but at least she could be sure it was a real choice, and anyway, Laudna was worth the risk. Always.

Caviar licked at her, and she let him, moving to lie back down when he settled again, not curled like before but still relaxed.

She put a hand on one of his front paws, and he raised it up, laying it over her arm, the rough pads scraping her skin. “We’re gonna try this again, okay? I’m gonna try this again.” Hard bone and wet sinew pressed against the inside of her elbow as he lay his head and neck over her.

A bird chirped happily outside their window, and Imogen closed her eyes. 

When she woke, she turned to face Laudna’s back, reached out. 

Laudna? 

The response was immediate, concerned. Imogen? Are you alright? 

I love you. 

Laudna turned, and Imogen watched her eyes take her in, her teeth worrying at her bottom lip in a way that made Imogen itch to reach out and soothe her.

When their eyes met, Imogen put a hand between them, an offering to match her words. 

I love you so much. No matter what. Even if she’s with you forever, with us forever, I don’t care. I want you, okay? If you want that, want me, I’m yours. 

There was ichor visible on her cheeks, and her hand was on Imogen’s, cold and perfect. 

I love you, too. I do want you, dearest.

Imogen waited, but Laudna seemed unable to continue, so she moved a little closer, closer still at Laudna’s nod. 

We can figure it out, okay? We can figure it out. 

She brought Laudna’s hand to her lips, a promise, and settled back into bed, their fingers laced. 

Caviar came to visit in my dream. 

Oh? Laudna lifted her eyes from where they’d been fixed on their joined hands. Tell me about it? 

Imogen scooted until their feet nearly touched, let Laudna close the last of the gap and exhaled when an ankle crossed hers. We went explorin’, she offered, and started with Laudna’s garden.

#imodna #imodna fic #imogen temult #southerngothic

[fantasyescapes17]

Wings (Part 2)

Your debut in society was as spectacular as one could be, but nobody had prepared you for what came afterward. When you find yourself overwhelmed during your very first season and unable to keep up with the rat race to secure yourself an eligible husband, a curious mentor appears- in the form of notorious flirt and self-proclaimed rake, Mr. Kim Mingyu.

Genre: Mingyu x Female!reader. Regency!AU .You are Jeonghan's sibling so your last name is Yoon but the reader has no other physical characteristics.

Warnings: Discussions of social anxiety, smoking (don't smoke kids, the characters in this story are from a time when they didn't know how bad it was for their health)

Word Count: 5k+

Part 1 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

Series Masterlist [You WILL need to read Patience, the earlier installment in this series first in order to understand the character dynamics in this story. Reading Candle before this is also strongly recommended.]

Your mother's habit of playing cards at Mrs. Patty's home multiple afternoons per week provided a convenient opportunity for Mr. Kim to call on you and impart his wisdom.

Despite your ankle not being fully recovered, you were in dire need of some fresh air. Mr. Kim was kind enough to lend you an arm so that you could hobble down into the garden and sit down at a bench for your first mentoring session. 

Your sister-in-law the watchful chaperone, sat underneath an oak tree not far away, just out of earshot and with a book in her hands. 

"Well, Miss Yoon," Mr. Kim began. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a single rose attached to a long stem. "In celebration of our new courtship, I thought perhaps you might like one of these."

Your eyes widened as he handed you the flower. 

"O-oh," you said shyly, taking it from him. "Thank you."

"Of course, a mere rose is nothing compared to your famed beauty, but I suppose we must give the rose some credit for trying," he continued smoothly.

Your cheeks turned hot at his bold words. Mr. Kim had a playful smile on his face but you turned your gaze away from him, unable to meet his twinkling eyes. 

He chuckled and leaned back on the bench.

"I see we have a long way to go," Mr. Kim noted. He spread his arm out on the benchrest behind you. "Allow me to begin today's first lesson. Flirtation is nothing but a game, Miss Yoon, and the sooner you see it that way, the sooner you will be able to master the game and not allow it to overwhelm you."

You swallowed and nodded. "I see."

"This game,” he continued, "is lost the moment you allow your opponent to render you genuinely flustered- as you are now. Do you consider yourself to be more beautiful than a rose?"

You blinked in surprise at the sudden question. "No, no, of course not-"

"Well, you should. Before entering into a conversation with a gentleman, you must first consider yourself to be the most beautiful, precious, magnificent creature that walks this earth. Your vanity must be so enormous that nothing the gentleman says can truly flatter or embarrass you."

You stared at him in disbelief. "Mr. Kim, that sounds very strange and rude. Young ladies are supposed to be humble."

Mingyu tsk-ed. "And how has humility helped you thus far?"

"Not well," you admitted quietly. "But vanity does not seem a much better option."

"Doesn't it?" he challenged you. "I want you to say out loud I am more beautiful than a rose."

"I cannot possibly-"

"Humour me, Miss Yoon. I am more beautiful than a rose," he repeated. "Say it."

You took a deep breath. This felt rather nonsensical, and you were beginning to doubt whether Mr. Kim Mingyu was entirely right in the head. But your sister-in-law was sitting not far away and if she trusted him, then you would try to do what he asked. 

"I am more beautiful than a rose," you mumbled. 

"Louder."

"I am more beautiful than a rose," you repeated, with a little more volume. Your hands were fidgeting in your lap and you were avoiding Mr. Kim's gaze. 

"Once more."

"I am more beautiful than a rose."

"Look at me when you say it." 

You forced yourself to look into Mr. Kim's dark, twinkling eyes. He seemed to be delighting in your discomfort. There was a hint of annoyance in your tone when you repeated the phrase again- it was empty words coming out of your mouth now, and seemed to be losing its meaning. 

"I am more beautiful than a rose!" you said firmly. 

Mr. Kim nodded. He leaned a little closer to you, his dark eyes never wavering from yours. 

"Miss Yoon," he said softly. "You are more beautiful than a rose."

You did not even blink. 

He leaned back and grinned triumphantly. "See! You were not flustered or shy when I said it this time! You could perhaps have looked a little less irritated, but we will address that problem separately. The point remains- I paid you a flirtatious compliment and you were not embarrassed.”

"That is not because I believed it to be true!" you protested hotly. "It is only because you made me say it so many times that it was less surprising!"

"Repetition breeds familiarity," Mingyu explained to you simply, "and with time, familiarity can blend in with the hard truth."

You blinked at him. "By which you mean to tell me that I should repeat this strange compliment to myself until I grow confused enough to believe it."

"Precisely."

You sighed and looked up at the handsome gentleman sitting beside you. He was onto something, certainly, but you were still not convinced that this would solve your problem. 

"Your methods are rather strange, Mr. Kim," you mumbled. 

Mr. Kim did not seem offended. He merely smiled and flashed his perfect teeth at you once more. His easy-going and playful nature made it much easier for you to be more open in the way you spoke to him. 

"You will understand in time, Miss Yoon. You only need to trust me. Allow me to give you another example. Your dress is blue."

You raised an eyebrow at Mr. Kim and looked down at your gown- indeed, you were wearing a pastel blue summer gown. You looked back up at him and nodded. 

"Yes," you said warily. "I suppose it is."

"The blue in your dress makes you shine brighter than the sun," he continued with a teasing smile. You were well aware that Mr. Kim was trying to elicit a reaction from you this time- but you could not help it. The flirtatious words said in his deep voice caused you to break eye contact with him and avert your eyes shyly. 

"I-thank you," you said quickly, but you knew it was too late. You had lost. 

Mr. Kim raised an eyebrow. "It is your turn to tell me why one of those statements elicited a different response from you than the other."

You sighed. 

"Because the first one was something I already knew to be true, and the second was something that I didn't really believe," you admitted. 

Mr. Kim beamed. "Excellent!"

"I think I understand the point you are trying to make," you told him patiently. "In order to not be flustered or caught off guard by compliments I must indulge my vanity and consider them to be true. Then I will be able to receive the compliment more calmly."

"Correct. In short, I want you to be more confident," Mr. Kim affirmed. He stretched his arms out in front of him lazily and leaned further back in his seat. "Enough of that. Now- tell me what went wrong on the night of the Duchess of Graham's ball."

You bit your lip. "I would rather not relive that nightmare."

"You must if we are to assess how to prevent it from happening again," he pressed gently. "Perhaps you should take some time to think about what triggered your anxiety that evening. But I will not overwhelm you with too many lessons in a single sitting. Once your ankle is healed, will you join me for afternoon tea at the teahouse near the assembly rooms?"

You nodded, relieved that he was not pushing you further. "Yes- I should be glad to."

"Then I shall leave you with an assignment to complete in the meantime," Mr. Kim said with a smile. He reached into his inner coat pocket and pulled out a small sheet of paper. "Stand in front of the mirror and read each of these out ten times before you go to bed."

You took the paper and unfolded it. It contained a list of flirtatious sentences- ranging from simple, realistic ones such as You are the most beautiful woman in the room this evening to more bold and outrageous ones such as The light in your eyes is brighter than the twinkling of all the stars in the night sky.

You stared at him in disbelief. "Mr. Kim! You cannot be serious!'

"Repetition breeds familiarity," he reminded you. "What you hold there is my most precious collection. I do not give it to you lightly- many bachelors of the ton would kill for a glimpse at that sheet. I hope you will keep it safe."

You frowned and tucked the paper away. "I assure you; your collection of rehearsed compliments is quite safe with me."

"Then we shall meet soon. At the teahouse."

Mr. Kim bid his goodbyes and left before your sister-in-law approached you. Her book was abandoned on the grass and her eyes looked a little drowsy; you had a sudden feeling that perhaps she had been napping under the tree instead of reading. 

"Well?" she asked. "How was your first lesson with Mr. Kim?"

"I cannot tell if he is brilliant or mad."

She laughed. 

"A common problem with men," she said as she took your arm to help you back indoors. "But I am sure everything will reveal itself in time."

—------------------------------------------------------------

You dutifully completed the assignment Mr. Kim had given you. You stood in front of your mirror once the rest of the household had gone to bed, and recited the compliments on his list. It felt silly at first, but you were surprised by how quickly you grew used to them. 

Mr. Kim Mingyu was a strange man indeed, but he was right about one thing- repetition caused familiarity which made you more comfortable, and less nervous, with the idea of a gentleman saying these words to you. You began to daydream of a handsome, faceless gentleman whispering these sweet compliments in your ear….

But of course. 

There were other problems to surmount. 

"Mr. Kim Mingyu?" your mother demanded with a displeased frown. "He has asked you to have tea with him at the teahouse, you say? What do we know about this young man?"

"I have heard he is an only son," you said anxiously. "And that he has a very large estate near where the Chois live."

Your mother huffed. She turned to your sister-in-law, who was sitting at a table nearby and silently writing a letter. "And you?" your mother asked her accusingly. "What do you think of him?"

Your sister-in-law looked up and blinked. "I have heard that Mr. Kim is a rake and has a bit of a gambling problem."

Your eyes widened. Her plan had been to encourage this fake courtship with Mr. Kim, not give your mother a reason to oppose it! But you discovered moments later that your sister-in-law was far cleverer than you. 

"Nonsense," your mother said. Her pride would not allow her to agree with your sister-in-law on any matter. "Perhaps he has simply not found a woman captivating enough to retain his attention- and what young man does not play a little cards for entertainment? I think it is perfectly acceptable for you to meet him at the teahouse this afternoon."

"Thank you, mother-"

"But I will chaperone," your mother said firmly. "You may sit at a different table but I will be keeping my eyes on this Mr. Kim."

You sighed. "Yes, mother."

Your ankle was fully healed but still a little stiff when you finally made your way down to the teahouse with your mother. Mr. Kim was waiting by the entrance and he made a grand gesture of kissing your gloved hand. 

"You look quite radiant this afternoon, Miss Yoon," Mr. Kim greeted you with a handsome smile. The phrase was one of the lines from his sheet, and you were more amused than embarrassed at the sound of the familiar words.

"Thank you, Mr. Kim," you replied politely. 

"And Mrs. Yoon- of course, madam, you must permit me to say that it is very evident where your daughter gets her unrivalled beauty," Mr. Kim flattered her. Your mother was highly susceptible to flattery of this nature. She giggled. 

"How very kind, Mr. Kim. I see you are quite the polite young gentleman!"

"Thank you, Mrs. Yoon. May I seek your permission to have a cup of tea with your daughter?" Mr. Kim asked. 

"Of course- you may both find a table for yourselves. I shall be nearby, I see Mrs. Grisham and Mrs. Hessington over there…"

Your mother left to join some older women at their table and Mr. Kim led you to another table near the wall; it was still within sight of your mother, but well out of earshot. He gracefully pulled out your chair for you. 

"You received my compliment well," he noted with a grin. 

You raised an eyebrow at him. "I had heard it so many times before. It was on your sheet. I am sure you knew perfectly well that it would not affect me."

"I was merely testing to see if you completed my assignment," he replied lightly. He sat down across from you- Mr. Kim was almost too tall to fit in the dainty little chairs and miniature tea tables at the teahouse. His long legs were forced to stretch out awkwardly to the side. You held back a giggle as he poured you a cup of tea. 

"Something amusing?" he asked. 

"Not at all."

He opened his mouth to question you further, but he was interrupted by a sudden commotion from the nearby table of older woman. There was a loud exclamation from your mother and the women seemed to be discussing something with great excitement. 

"I wonder what that is about…" you mumbled. 

Mr. Kim placed your teacup in front of you calmly. "I would not be too concerned. I imagine they have just discovered the news of the Duchess of Graham's engagement to Mr. Kwon Soonyoung."

You blinked. "Mr. Kwon Soonyoung? I have never heard of him."

"Neither have they. That is what makes it so shocking," Mr. Kim told you with a chuckle. "But we have more important things to discuss. Have you thought more about what went wrong at the Duchess' ball? I heard that you were dancing with Mr. Lee Seokmin when you stumbled and injured yourself."

You shifted uncomfortably in your seat. "It was not Mr. Lee's fault."

"Then tell me what happened. Let us try to understand it together."

You took a deep breath. You had been thinking about it for the past few days, as unpleasant as the memory was to you, and had come up with a few conclusions. 

"I think I was overwhelmed by the grandeur of it all," you admitted shyly. "It was so magnificent and the other young ladies all looked so beautiful. I began to worry that I should make a mistake, or make a fool of myself, and then what should happen to my sister-"

Mr. Kim interrupted you. "Your sister?" he asked in surprise. "I should have imagined you would fear your mother far more."

"I do fear my mother," you whispered. "But with my sister, it is…"

Mr. Kim waited silently for your response. 

You took a deep breath and sighed. "My sister has put her marriage with Mr. Choi on hold for my benefit. Everything she has ever done has been to ensure my happiness, and it distressed me to think that she should have to suffer any longer than necessary. If I do not find a husband this season, then my sister will not be able to marry Mr. Choi."

Mr. Kim took a sip of his tea and nodded for you to continue. 

"And… and I had always thought it was simply a matter of having a successful debut and choosing the most eligible man that would have me. But when it came to actually standing in the room, surrounded by so many fashionable people and all the grandeur and all the eyes watching me I began to realise it was not going to be as easy as I had thought. And that led to the worry that perhaps I would embarrass myself and be unable to make a match, and what that would mean for my poor sister…” 

Mr. Kim cut you off. “It seems to me that all your spiralling anxious thoughts escalate with the fear of disappointing your sister.” 

You nodded reluctantly. “That may be true.” 

“Then the solution before us is simple,” he replied. “Or, at least, as simple as a solution can be without considering the complexities of executing it. We must prevent you from thinking of your sister while in public.” 

You stared at Mr. Kim as he picked up a large slice of lemon cake and took a generous bite from it. He silently offered to put another slice on your plate but you shook your head. 

“How can I not think of my sister?” you demanded. “She is the entire reason I am here!” 

“That manner of thinking is what is causing your anxiety to spiral out of control," Mr. Kim told you matter-of-factly. "You need to live in the moment. Stop tracing every small action back to your sister and your fear of disappointing her."

"How do I do that?'

"Think smaller," he replied. "For example- why am I here?"

You raised an eyebrow. "Here… in this teahouse?"

"Yes."

"To help me practise interacting with gentlemen so that I can find a husband by the end of the season?" you guessed. 

Mr. Kim sighed. "Correct, but no. The purpose is to think smaller. I am here because I like the lemon cakes they serve here," he informed you simply before taking another bite. "Delicious."

"That is…"

"Think small."

"But I cannot always control my thoughts!" you protested. "They often go off on a tangent of their own. How long can thoughts of things I do not care about like lemon cakes ward off the looming dread that comes from thinking about failing my sister?"

Mr. Kim rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He leaned back in his seat and you watched him for a long moment, having nothing to do except sip your tea and admire his handsome form while he contemplated a solution to your problem. 

"What if…" Mr. Kim began slowly. "We found a backup thought- a safety net of sorts? Something pleasant that you could force yourself to think of whenever you find yourself spiralling into anxiety-inducing thoughts of your sister?"

You bit your lip. "Such as?"

"You have to find that for yourself. Look for a memory; something that makes you happy. Preferably one that does not involve your sister," Mr. Kim added. 

You took a deep breath and thought hard. You'd had a sheltered childhood and spent most of your time at the Yoons' countryside estate with your parents and siblings. It had been a quiet upbringing and you could not think of a single moment that brought any immense happiness. 

"When I was nine," you said finally after much thought. "My Father bought me my first pony. I named her Chocolate."

Mr. Kim burst into laughter. 

"Chocolate the pony is what you came up with after so much thought?" he demanded with another loud laugh. Your cheeks suddenly felt hot and you stiffened from embarrassment. 

"I-I could only-"

"I presume Chocolate was a brown pony?" he continued to chuckle. 

The embarrassment was too much to take. Your entire face had now turned hot and your lower lip trembled as you stood up from your seat with a frown. "If you are going to laugh at my expense, Mr. Kim, then I will not sit here."

His smile fell. Mr. Kim hurried to jump to his own feet- it took him a moment since his long limbs were tangled under the tiny tea table. He took your hand and gently guided you back to your seat. 

"No- of course not. I am extremely sorry, Miss Yoon. I did not mean to laugh at you."

You stiffened. "But you did laugh."

"I am extremely sorry."

His expression was genuine. You cleared your throat and sat down again, as Mr. Kim hurried to refill your teacup from the pot and handed you a plate with a slice of lemon cake. You accepted it silently and he gave you a small smile. 

"I see you do have a sense of pride," he commented lightly. 

"I will not be ridiculed."

"I am glad to hear it," he promised solemnly. "Let us come back to the topic at hand. If Chocolate the pony is a thought that makes you happy, then so be it. Whenever you are in danger of feeling overwhelmed, I want you to close your eyes and picture the moment your father presented you with this pony. The pony will be your happy thought."

You nodded. "I… can do that."

"We will test this the next time you are stressed," Mr. Kim suggested. He leaned back and sipped his tea, noticing that you were not eating. "Do you dislike lemon cakes?"

You looked down at them disinterestedly. "Not particularly," you said. "I am not hungry at all. My ankle feels rather stiff in this position. I wish it was possible to walk around instead of sitting still."

Mr. Kim nodded. "We could walk up the street- the weather is pleasant today. But your mother would have to permit you."

"I will ask her."

You went up to your mother's table- the older women were still deeply engaged in gossip about the Duchess of Graham and you had to tap your mother's arm a few times before she would even notice you. 

"What?" she demanded irritably. "Can you not see that I am in the middle of a conversation?"

"I was only wondering if I might go for a stroll outside with Mr. Kim-"

"Yes, yes, don't go too far," she said dismissively before turning back to the conversation. Mrs. Patty was loudly making an emphatic point about how it was a terrible mistake to grant daughters their own titles. You turned to Mr. Kim and waved at him to signal that you had obtained her consent. 

Mr. Kim opened the door to the teahouse and offered his arm to you. You both began to stroll slowly down the busy London street. 

"So," Mr. Kim continued. "Is there anything else that went wrong at the Duchess of Graham's ball?"

You nodded thoughtfully. "Yes. While I was dancing with Mr. Lee, there was a lull in the conversation. I could not think of anything to say to him so I made a foolish faux pas- I asked him if he had any siblings although I already knew he was the Viscountess' brother."

Mr. Kim smiled. "Ah- yes. The art of polite conversation. How to speak constantly and yet say nothing valuable. That is an entire lesson of its own and I am afraid even I cannot impart that skill to you in a single day."

You pouted at him. "Then you condemn me to pass my dances at every social event in silence."

"Conversation is an art, Miss Yoon. But you are fortunate that it is not always necessary to converse in order to communicate. Humans were communicating long before the invention of spoken language."

You frowned up at him. "What does that mean? Must I gesture at my dance partners as though I am speaking to an animal?"

Mr. Kim laughed. "No. Instead of the art of conversation, you will have a much easier time if you learn the art of silence."

"Silence?"

"As long as you do not look anxious or panicked," Mr. Kim explained patiently. "Silence can be a very useful tool. Most gentlemen love to speak. You simply need to prompt them to lead the conversation. A few one-liners such as That was terribly interesting, do tell me more! or I am very interested to learn more about you and the average gentlemen will be happy to take the burden of speaking off your hands."

You nodded thoughtfully. "You must write down some of these one-liners for me."

Mr. Kim chuckled. "All right, I shall prepare a list for you to study. And, if all else fails, you may resort to the golden three."

"The golden three?"

He lifted three fingers. "Hunting, horse-riding and croquet. I have never met a gentleman who did not enjoy conversing extensively on at least one of these subjects."

You nodded. "That is helpful."

"My purpose is to serve," Mr. Kim replied playfully. You had both reached the end of the street. Mr. Kim reached into his coat pocket to extract a small notepad and make a note of your discussion- when you saw something peeking out of his coat. 

"Are those cigars?" you asked. 

He looked down at his pocket and nodded. "Oh-yes. I was going to go down to the gentlemen's club for a smoke later."

You looked up at him with a curious glance; could you count on Mr. Kim's discretion? After all, he was in a fake courtship with you and clearly your sister-in-law trusted him enough to keep that secret. He had made you comfortable enough to open up to him about your deepest thoughts. 

Surely one more secret couldn't hurt?

"Can I have one?" you asked hesitantly. 

Mr. Kim looked down at you in confusion. "A cigar?"

You nodded. 

"Whatever for?"

"To smoke, naturally."

Mr. Kim glanced furtively around the street and then lowered his voice. He seemed mildly concerned, but also amused. "Miss Yoon, I am sure you do not require me to inform you that young ladies do not smoke in public- and they certainly do not smoke cigars."

You turned away from him with a sigh. "If you do not want to give it to me-"

Mr. Kim looked torn. He glanced up and down the street once more to make sure nobody was looking at you both before taking your arm and steering you towards a narrow, deserted alleyway. Your eyes widened. 

"Mr. Kim!" you hissed. "We shall be caught if we leave the main street. Or do you wish to end up in a scandal like Mr. Jeon and Miss Hong-"

He brushed your concerns away lightly. "Mr. Jeon is a good friend of mine but his inexperience was his downfall. I am not quite so careless- you are safe with me," he promised. Once you were both alone in the deserted alleyway, out of the view of the main street, he took the cigar out of his pocket. 

"Are you sure?" Mr. Kim asked you. 

You nodded. 

He carefully lit the cigar and held it up. "It is not at easy as it looks," he told you firmly. "Place it to your lips like so and take a deep breath through your teeth. You will almost certainly cough the first time-"

You snatched the cigar from him and placed it expertly between your lips. You took a long, satisfying drag and held the smoke in your lungs for a moment before smoothly exhaling. 

Mr. Kim stared at you for a long moment before the corner of his lips turned up and he let out a small, disbelieving chuckle. 

"That," he said with a grin, "was not your first cigar."

"I never said it was."

"You must forgive me if I am surprised, Miss Yoon, that a young lady who claims her happiest memory is Chocolate the pony knows how to smoke a cigar designed for gentlemen," he said, sounding almost impressed. Mr. Kim folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the wall of the alleyway as he watched you take another drag. 

You exhaled before frowning up at him. "You will not laugh at Chocolate."

"I am not laughing at all."

The tobacco relaxed your nerves and you quickly stepped away from the smoke before putting out the cigar. Mr. Kim was watching you curiously and you felt self-conscious under his gaze. You could almost read the questions in his dark eyes. 

"My father used to leave his cigars lying around," you explained, your cheeks warm. "One of the stable boys taught me how to smoke them."

Mr. Kim's eyes widened in absolute delight. "A stableboy?" he gasped, pretending to look absolutely scandalised. "Miss Yoon!"

You flushed deeply. "That is not-"

"Is that why Chocolate the pony is such a pleasant memory for you? Because of the stableboy?" he laughed. His eyes sparkled playfully as he watched you compose yourself. 

You frowned. "You will tell no-one. Once we step back onto the main street you will never mention Chocolate, cigars or a stableboy ever again," you ordered. "Especially not to my brother or sister-in-law."

Mr. Kim beamed. "I am sworn to secrecy, my lady."

"Good."

You both slipped back onto the main street and turned back towards the teahouse. Mr. Kim kept glancing at you out of the corners of his eyes- he seemed to be unable to take his gaze off you, and you suddenly began to feel rather flustered from the attention. 

You noticed a large, modern building coming up on the opposite side of the street that had large sheets covering the entrance. 

"Whatever is that?" you wondered. 

Mr. Kim tore his eyes away from you and turned to look at the building. The corner of his lips curved up in a smile. 

"Interesting that you should notice that," he said lightly. "That building belongs to me."

"Does it really?"

He nodded. "Indeed. It is an art gallery that I decided to fund not long ago. It should be open to the public  in a few weeks' time."

You looked at him in interest. "An art gallery? I did not know you had artistic inclinations, Mr. Kim."

"I consider myself a… patron of the arts, so to speak. I would be delighted to invite you to the grand opening of the gallery once we have announced it."

"I would be delighted to attend," you replied. Then you paused. "Provided, of course, we are able to resolve my crippling anxiety and fear of social events in the meantime."

Mr. Kim grinned as you both arrived back at the teahouse. Your mother was waiting for you inside. 

"I think it is time we put some of your lessons into action," he said. "The Hessingtons' ball is on Saturday; I intend to see you there. You may reserve the first dance for me."

You nodded. "I should be glad to."

Mr. Kim reached for your gloved hand and lifted it slowly to his lips as his dark eyes rose to meet yours. You saw his usual playfulness and a hint of something far darker behind those eyes. He kissed your hand and his lips lingered for a moment longer than necessary before allowing it to fall. 

Your breath hitched in your throat. 

No wonder they called this man a rake. 

"Goodbye for now, Miss Yoon," he said quietly before turning away down the street and leaving you in a foggy, confused and flustered state. 

—--------------------------------------------------

#mingyu scenarios #seventeen scenarios #seventeen x reader #mingyu x reader #mingyu fluff #seventeen fluff #regency!au #seventeen fanfiction #seventeen angst #seventeen imagines #mingyu fanfiction #mingyu x you

[ms0milk]

𝟏𝟓 | 𝐋𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐐𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐌𝐨𝐨𝐧

ー✧ prince!bakugou x royal guard!reader

"Two warriors with nowhere to let their adrenaline– two Alderans melting like beeswax and forgetting not to touch. Two of you, just the two of you, breathing."

slight cw drunken antics + slurred speech. shoestring patience. you are the only sober two left and carrying your friends to bed requires teamwork. remembering how to speak and pretending not to stare even though exhaustion makes Alderan eyes prettier. the first laughs– warm and uncontrollable. a quiet realization at the foot of the bed where your bodies keep curling closer 3.9k

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The Great Hall vibrates the entire castle tonight. The celebration is obscene. The king is home.

You do not eat in the Hall, you never do, but you stand guard– sit guard from the grand staircase outside just in case. Music rolls through the closed Hall doors up to the entryway's silver constellations. The observatory is finished. The king is home. He does not attend his own banquet tonight and so you do not worry for your company inside. How did he never occur to you? He who built the garden prison for his wife and made it so that there is nowhere to properly hide in Takoba. It’s probably because you’re Alderan that you don’t think much about kings.

If only just until you are found, you will sit on these frosty steps, obscured by their size, and watch the stars twinkle through the widow behind them. It is as tall as they are. This view must be older than this family is because someone built it with love. Because there is nothing behind this part of the castle except for glass and stars and sea.

You smile and long for your oak tree and then smile softer. The muscles in your back ache with overuse, your shoulders too. Sparring with the prince is like dancing.

“Y/n.”

Your head snaps up at the voice from where it had started to slouch with sleep and like a dream your prince is standing at the foot of the staircase. He’s in fine Alderan gold. Did he come through the Hall? How could you doze through the sound of that door opening? Bakugou cocks his head which shakes his ash hair right over his eyes and sends a long red earring to rest soft across his jaw. All you have is moonlight to see him glow.

He hesitates before speaking again, “Is this where you like to hide?”

“You’re one to talk about hiding,” you tease because you are sleepy and lacking basic judgment, and his flinch is hardly hidden, even in the absence of candlelight.

“I need your help.”

If you weren’t awake before you are now, judgment back squarely in place as you skip steps in your hurry to be beside him. Bakugou pulls the air with his temples to lead you to the Hall, boots clicking, hands stiff. Laughter and music vibrates from inside.

“Wait here,” he grumbles and pushes open the Hall door enough to slip through and enough for you to wince at the fat wave of alcohol. The sound pushes you physically backward a step and your eyes can’t adjust fast enough to stop from squinting, but you can’t help watching even half blind and only mostly awake. It’s only been a few hours but people are standing together on tables in their beautiful frilly clothes, screaming the words to a song no one seems to know. A sea of crowds cheer them on from below, equally as drunk, and the scene stretches on from wall to wall. Line dancing between benches, liquor across the floors and a whole room of joy– Sero is linked arm in arm with two waitstaff at the back of the room, kicking their legs and laughing together at their lack of coordination.

You chuckle before you can think to be weary of so many people crammed together. Uraraka, ten feet off the ground, mimes riding a great stallion around the room with a glass of ale in her fist much to the joy of the soldiers sat below her doubled over with laughter. Shinsou’s not far off, surely to keep her from embarrassing the garrison, but his scowling hands are full of Kaminari who can’t quite stand right without the guard’s hand around his waist. You lean in a bit farther. Just a step. At the front of the room, the Todoroki siblings sit bunched at a clean table, quiet but still talking and drinking like the rest. They are delicate and beautiful and you would lament having a father like theirs if you hadn’t just caught sight of your prince at the table beside them.

He needs help– did something happen? He disappeared this afternoon after the mess in the soldiers’ quarters, is he injured? Is someone else?

Bakugou is grumpy on the best of days, tonight he is fuming. Mina is limp over his shoulder, squealing, and something’s dragging on the floor behind him. You can’t see anything beneath his hips in this crowd.

“What’re ya laughing at?” He hollers over the lively sea and catches you in a stare on his march back to the doors. Were you laughing?

Bakugou holds the stare like he’s got something to say all the way back to your side. A band somewhere under the chaos tunes their strings for another round.

“Alderans can’t hold their liquor,” he growls over the threshold, “like a fucking disease.” It’s Kirishima dragging on the floor behind him. The prince has his Champion in a chokehold by the back of the collar. He leans over to drop Mina on the floor, “They’re gone. Can’t go a second without tryin to eat each other’s faces off.”

You wide-eye him but nod and Mina shrieks when she’s plopped to the floor.

He rolls his eyes when he gestures to the pile of drunkards at your feet, “I can’t carry them both upstairs.” Then runs one hand through his hair and flexes the other on his hip to assess the situation. Kirishima drools.

“Miss Mina,” you whisper and crouch in front of her, “can you hold onto me?”

She blinks one eye at a time and grins, “an’thing fr’ pretty lady.”

Kirishima is less lucky, slung across the prince’s shoulders like a training dummy. At least he’s docile. Mina giggles and reels backward every chance she gets from her spot on your back. She squeezes your waist with her thighs and the pressure keeps making you wheeze.

“Ticklish?” Bakugou grunts under the deadweight of his Champion. Something catches in his throat and you struggle to keep your head on the hallway ahead instead of checking what kind of face he might be making. He is framed by stars in every window. He glows at the edges in the moonlight. You are ticklish, he knows that.

It’s the four of you trudging through the castle, getting your hair pulled at odd intervals and trying to breathe in the opposite direction of your inebriated company. Kirishima keeps stretching out of his fireman’s hold and with a crackling bark from your prince, ends up halfway down his back. He narrowly catches you when Mina tries to lean back on a staircase, your hands tight under her thighs and the front of your tunic tight in Bakugou’s fist. You would like to laugh. You’re not sure you don’t, but Bakugou doesn’t pause to revel in stupidity with you.

He stays frustrated and silent and you remember dusk bedtimes at camp. Time passed frowning on carriages. Trying as hard as he is now not to look at you. It is easy to hate him.

You might have lost your fury, but your job isn’t lost to you. You haven’t forgotten your responsibility to your kingdom. Protect her son and serve the Queen and keep your place in the castle. Don’t kill the King of Takoba. Mina doesn’t weigh much and she keeps the cold away, one foot in front of the other. Bakugou’s golden hair rustles with each step beside you and his biceps, frustrated, flex around Kirishima’s legs. It’s easy, so easy, so much safer to hate him and you just can’t remember how. 

Your drowsiness vanished with adrenaline and when adrenaline vanished there wasn’t anything left in its place, it would be awfully easy for something to slip inside.

“She didn’t understand,” you murmur hardly loud enough to hear. Mina twirls your hair.

Even for all his stoicism tonight, the prince still rumbles an, “eh?” into the corridor. Maybe he rolls his eyes? Regardless, he doesn’t stop marching with his barely-conscious cargo.

You murmur again, “Shuzenji.” And he stumbles a bit. His Champion is too heavy. “When I thanked her for the room.”

Something inside him shifts beside you– you can hear it, just there under his ribs– like the crumbling of a campfire. He’s looking at you now so you remind yourself not to turn and stare. You smile. It’s getting easier.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t bother.”

“For saving me.”

It’s the two of you walking side by side, failing impossibly. Trying hard not to watch one another.

“Repaying a debt.”

Blood bursts gently under the skin. And you can no longer speak without the smile, no matter how hard you try to tuck your chin into the bundle of Mina’s fingers at your collarbones.

Jeanist and your oak tree, Mitsuki at midnight, how many people can you say fill you with ease?

Bakugou is holding his breath but being here is still easy. Walking is easy. Mina is slipping a bit to the side. Standing close to him is warm, not arson. Sparring with him has made the air too thin and if you’re not careful you’ll touch him again. He’s buckling under the weight of something and you think maybe one of you needs to be tense for the other to know peace–

A clap explodes through the chill of the nighttime castle and your heart pops, a quiet overflow, at the immediate need to account for one thousand things, surroundings, threat, variables, full arms, Bakugou, a pantry staircase, the dark, and when you jolt to fix Mina back upright, she resists. Her hand is planted firmly on the meat of your prince’s ass, where she made good on a t-up to slap him as hard as you’ve ever heard anything hit. He’s frozen. You spit. There’s nothing for it.

As you sink to your knees, her palm leaves a grip in the crease of his trousers and you can barely keep her attached to you with one hand, the other muffling your laughter.

“Attaboy,” Mina groans across your shoulder.

It happens so much faster than you’d expect. But of course he must love them this much for a reason– Bakugou’s lips burst apart in a puff and one rich chuckle breaks the surface. He doesn’t hide it this time. It is flint and tinder. You turn up to him with startled eyes and his smile might be the sun; it’s hardly there and he can’t hide it, doesn’t– he can’t and he doesn’t even try. Yours hasn’t fallen and you don’t think you could force it down for anything.

“dn’t tell kiri.”

Mina’s last words come before either of you try to look away from the other, and modesty evaporates. Bakugou’s grin erupts across his face and you disintegrate fully in hysterics on the rug. He tips his head back and roars.

His laugh is a bonfire, you can hardly hope to hear it and ever calm down, you will laugh together like this until you die surely. He stumbles in his giddiness and backs against the walls to support Kirishima’s weight– Kirishima who wheezes between the chill of the marble and the body of his friend. Tears shine in four Alderan eyes. Mina growls at your jostling. Your hands are stuck firmly to the ground to keep you both from falling over but, surrendering, she lets her fingers slip limp from your neck and tips right over sideways, sprawled.

“– wait Mina, fuck, gods–”

All it takes it one fuck to have Bakugou sliding down the wall like a ragdoll, a hand trying to stitch his gut back together. He’s wheezing now too, exhausted. His ears are red. The veins in the back of his fist threaten to spill from how hard he clenches in laughter.

One second of eye contact and you’re both inconsolable again on the ground. He and Kirishima hunched against the wall, you trembling over your lost cargo, “Mina come back,” you urge through gasps and giggles. Every time you look over to Bakugou, another bout of something bubbles up from your heart. It comes out with the laughter you can’t keep down, but they aren’t the same. They can’t be. One is rich and warm, and the other burns like sugar. Like breathing fire.

A foot soldier is not thrilled to find the four of you enjoying yourselves all over her post and doesn’t appear overly excited at the prospect of corralling Alderans to bed. 

“Up,” someone grunts, so much softer than anyone you know. Prince Bakugou has steadied himself on his feet and Kirishima again on his back, and leans over where you’re trying to coax Mina’s arms over your shoulders. He tries to suppress it, but his canines poke sharp out of the corner of a grin. He looms close. Close enough to cast his shadow over you in the moonlight and waft caramel through your hair, “C’mon.”

You would have complied without an argument, if anything failed to contain a chuckle or two, but he doesn’t give you time. Bakugou loops one arm around Mina’s back and your chest and lifts both of you up in an effortless hoist. You rush to grab onto her in the seconds he lets you dangle a few good inches off the ground before setting you firmly down again. He rolls his eyes at the Takoban guard, “Dead on my fucking feet,” and reaches for you to follow. He’s blinking at you like he didn’t just toss three full-grown Alderans around like kittens and you’re focusing hard to blink back. Your ears itch with an awful heat.

“Captain,” he looks between the guard– antsy and relieved– and you, and smirks with confusion, “let’s go.”

You hop twice to situate Mina and nod as politely to the guard as you can manage before falling in line beside your prince. Your shoulders bump in the rush. Not-looking was easier before you knew what his smile sounded like.

Mina’s room is in the guest wing, where they house drunk ball guests and foreign diplomats. It’s entirely plain. You ignore a pang of satisfaction at your new bedroom in the highest tower and knock the door open with your hip, boys close behind.

Bakugou hardly waits a second before he dumps Kirishima over his shoulder hard onto a white sofa. The both wheeze, Kirishima more of a subdued misery compared to his prince’s relief and the next sound is a creak not a breath because Bakugou’s feet are heavy on the floorboards when he walks away. Your friends aren’t lords, but you’re still a soldier. You’ll be gentle. In the dark, you sit at the edge of Mina’s bed and lower her backward into the blankets where she lays, snoring, before you roll her onto her side. It’s pitch black with the curtains drawn, but you know from the silence the prince is long gone.

With a few pillows lined up behind Mina, you rise and make your way to the poor Champion in a lump on a sofa much too small for him. You’ll need light for this. The curtains take two hands to tie back; they’re thick for winter weather but when you do, moonlight drowns the room and everyone inside begins to glow. Why are beautiful things here so cold? Your stomach aches from the laughter and you try to be thankful instead of anything else that the prince has gone to bed. This is your job after all. You can’t smell the sea with the windows closed and so it’s almost like being home, dead alone like always.

“What’re you doing?”

Your forehead cracks against the glass in surprise and you turn with both hands pressed hard to your head like you weren’t just falling asleep against the windowpane.

Bakugou raises an eyebrow behind a tall candle and shuts the door behind him. “You know you’re not actually talkin when you stare like that, right?” His grin more sarcastic than before but no less warm. You gather yourself as the prince sets his candle in a slot beside the door and surveys his company. “Go to bed,” he clucks after a moment of thought. He crosses the room and inspects three more fat candles melted together on a table in front of the sofa. Kirishima groans. Bakugou pinches a wick. Pink and white burst from under his fingernails and purple crackles under the light his sparks make. Red is next. Pinching, pinching, popping in the dark, until each candle has been lit by the smell of caramel.

He crosses again and lowers himself onto a pile of blankets at the foot of the bed as you watch and remember to speak, “Go.”

“I can’t leave them.” 

“They’re fine.”

“I won’t.”

After weeks of defiance, why does he choose now to smile like that? “You’re a nightmare.” 

“I can’t. If they aspirate–”

“They’ll deserve it.”

“Highness–”

“You think I can’t keep two drunk babies from dying in their sleep?” Bakugou rolls his eyes and finally scoops his chin up to look at you.

Weeks, months– years, of vitriol– and in three nights you’ve forgotten how his lips curl when he stares at something that he hates. How could you think of anything but home when he watches you with all his attention and the warmth of earthenware eyes? How does your heart hold its seams closed?

He will watch over his friends without sleep, he will suffer their boredom in a matchbox carriage so that they can see this ocean he hates so much. He will fight Takobans and diplomats and royalty to keep his party safe, he’ll sit in the kitchens and pluck your splinters instead of attending a feast in his honor and he will throw himself into the sea.

“Y/n.”

“I won’t leave you.”

His flinch would be bright enough to see on a starless night– in the blacks of shadows. You kneel beside the soft spot he’s made for himself at the foot of Mina’s bed and try to remember how easy it was to laugh with him now that the closeness makes your skin prickle from the hair. He clears his throat instead of teasing.

Two warriors with nowhere to let their adrenaline– two Alderans melting like beeswax and forgetting not to touch. Two of you, just the two of you, breathing.

His voice comes and you turn to look because you are incorrigible. His lips are the first thing that catches the light of the stars in the window beyond you. They’re crooked with attitude. He wets them when he’s thinking and they purse to the left as he speaks.

“I,” The sound is gravel underfoot, “I want..”

You hum, confused– exhausted– and he blinks once slowly, something between frustration and thought and the lull of bed, before turning to meet you. This isn’t the closest you’ve ever been. That helps you see him better. A scar you’ve never noticed catches the moonlight and shines in his hairline and you can count the sleep starting to gather in his pretty eyes.

“Yesterday– earlier I,” a shake of his head kills the thought. It’s hard to hear so you’re much too close and when your pinky presses his from how near you are leaning he turns away and frames himself again in starlight like a ruffled hen. “Earlier,” growling now, “Why unarmed?”

“Unarmed what?”

His jaw catches candlelight when he looks to you again so quickly, exasperated but seemingly entertained, “Combat, you oaf.”

“In the soldiers’ quarters?”

Where did the hatred go? There are mosquitoes you haven’t forgiven– is that what this is? Forgiveness. Sitting on your knees like a proper soldier but letting sleep take all other reason away? Pressing closer than you need to hear him because it is winter and fire radiates from his chest– a longing Alderan fire you lost somewhere in the sea.

Bakugou rolls amused eyes but nods at the question. Forgiveness isn’t right but you can’t move away, you will never be free of him. You will never want to be.

“It’s,” you start, distracted by weariness and the rhythm of Mina’s breathing– footsteps in the castle and a blue tinge on the windows edge like frost– he bumps your shoulder with his. Warmth finally bleeds into you. He watches just as close as you do because you’re both whispering hardly-awake, but his attention is firmly yours. Red flicks from your neck to an ear, and back again. From your eyes to your lips and back again.

“It’s harder to hold back with a weapon.”

He jerks back instead of spitting on you because his laughter comes faster than he can keep it down, but Kirishima groans and candles flicker and you close your eyes to eat the sound of his joy. You’re slipping. You curl towards him and rest your head on the curve of the bed as he regains the parts of himself that will help him sit up, but when he faces you again he’s lost his shield and spear. The iron that clenched his jaw and furrowed his brows and slit his eyes and lace his scowl with hatred. All that’s left is lionheart laughter and a fascination with your smile.

Two Alderans melting. Your legs are sliding out from under that proper kneel and his hands are slipping from the fists he tried to knot them in. Bakugou mirrors you when he rests his head on the edge of the mattress because his bonfire is burning down. Mina snores once loudly and startles herself.

“What does aspiration sound like?”

Prince Bakugou Katsuki is his mother’s son smiling with a pale moon cheek smushed into the bedding that supports him. Always looking at you. Close enough to hold.

“Like someone choking on vomit.”

He laughs with everything he has left and rolls his face flat into the duvet. Everything he has left isn’t much, maybe just a candle. It’s enough that you’re smiling again in the pool of wax.

He peeks an eye out from the blanket, “Think we’re in the clear?”

He will roar, he will kill for his people and speak to strangers like ants. He will scare children and end wars and infuriate his dressmaker. He will glare. He will let his mages tease him because it makes them happy and he will watch over them when they’re too drunk to stand. He might laugh. Gods please laugh again. He will close every window and throw you a peach and he will make magic because he knows that you love it.

Suddenly it’s easy, not forgiveness, something new. You, spear and shield of the king. Something like devotion.

It’s a horrible thing to sleep on the floor and Bakugou wakes up first, facing the sunrise with your weight on his arm. You, the fierce and deadly dragon. Your cheek is pressed to his shoulder and the pressure forces a pout. Your lips tremble with breath.

He’ll watch your chest rise. He’ll let your fingers curl around his like ivy when he dares to move and he’ll close his eyes for a moment instead of thinking too hard about hunger or the pink scar that pokes out from under the neck of your tunic. You will wake up slightly later than dawn drooling, alone, blankets wrapped warmly around you.

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#what happens when you realize your previously sworn enemy has stronger morals than god #what happens when it's kinda hot #thank you for all this support as always! i am spoiled by my readers <3 im so so happy you enjoy these two weirdos #a hymn to black water #bakugou x reader #bakugo x reader #bnha fantasy au #mha fantasy au #bnha #mha #fantasy bakugou #fantasy bakugo #fantasy bakugou x reader #fantasy bakugo x reader

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[bleachification]

⸻ CHAPTER FIVE; ALL MEN ARE EQUAL

pairing: dazai x f!reader (fantasy au)

warnings: mentions/themes of depression

chapter list: this is CHAPTER FIVE of a multi-chapter fic series. PLEASE read the chapters below (in order) before this one or you will be very lost!!

prologue

one

two

three

four

word count: 3.5k

+ + + + + + + + + + + + +

Back in your homeland, at the Imperial Palace, the largest constructed facilities are ones of sport and training. Sharpened swords and polished armour take the place of bookshelves on bedroom walls, and the practice of scripture is seldom found. Higher education, though no less important than warfare, is strictly limited to scriveners, court officials, and the professional erudites of your father’s choosing. In the face of current conflicts, most of your father’s people are far more absorbed in military affairs and bureaucracy than arithmetics, the sciences and the humanities.

Although, when it came to you, it was like a switch went off and all those sentiments were turned upside down. 

By a certain age, your tutelage switched from scholarly knowledge to that of etiquette and what he referred to as ‘womanly affairs’. Those usually consisted of things like sewing, music, and art classes. The only one you ever enjoyed was the horseback lessons. 

But thankfully, your father’s one track mind meant you were never discovered for—or suspected of—possessing further-education books and studying politics, diplomacy, and military tactics on the days general schooling lessons were cancelled. It is why you find yourself in the royal library, hours before you are due to meet Dazai for dinner. 

Hundreds, if not thousands, of marble shelves line the walls from floor to ceiling. Each one is stacked, end-to-end, with leather bound tomes and tea-stained manuscripts. There is a fireplace in the right corner, carved from blackened stone and crackling with warmth. Around it sits a pair of dark-green, thickly-cushioned armchairs, along with a matching sofa that is wide enough to fit at least four people. 

You walk further in and are greeted with four arched windows spanning the length and height of the space, each one clear as the summer sea. You squint, momentarily blinded by a sudden passing ray of sunlight. Birds are chirping underneath the morning sky, and branches of a looming willow tree sway in front of the left-most window. You take in the sprawling garden view; a labyrinthine maze of hedges take up the centre, and a large assortment of decorations speckle the grounds. Smaller fountains, rainbow flower beds, and iron-wrought benches are only a few of what you can see. 

You look around a bit more, noting the study tables anchored to the floor and the winding staircase that leads to the open-plan second floor. The library is well-kept, as shown by the pots holding blooming flowers along the window sills, but the dust lining the shelves indicates that no one has used the archives in a long time. You wonder why—it is the first and only comforting place that you have found in the cold, lonely palace. 

You make your way down the stacks before a section catches your eye.

A Comprehensive Guide on Abilities and a Meta Analysis on their Structural Archetypes; 

The Scholar’s Circle’s Codex on Yokohama’s Political Affairs;

North vs. South: A Dynastic Tale of Continental History. 

You grab all three and almost lose your balance from the weight of each text. More and more books are added to the pile in your arms until you can no longer see straight ahead. 

With a huff, you drop the mountain of pending research onto an oak-stained study table and quickly get to work. 

Hours pass, the concept of time long faded as you lose yourself in the world of preternatural powers, warring states, and the cluttered institutions that make up the Kingdom in its most present form. 

The striking differences between Yokohama and the Northern Empire are more vast than you had ever imagined. It's a stark contrast—governance, industry, arts, religion and everything else you've come across so far. Not a single commonality to be found.

“How has…? But wouldn’t the roots originate from the dark ages? Let’s see…” you mumble, talking to no one in particular. 

“Have you found a specially interesting read?” A particular person asks. 

You fall out of your seat in surprise. 

“General!” You squeak, reeling from his sudden appearance. 

The mild-mannered Fukuzawa gives you a gentle smile and moves to help you up. He hooks two large arms under your own and lifts you back onto your chair. The scene reminds you of a mother cat picking its kitten up by the scruff of its neck.

You drop your head onto the table in embarrassment, refusing to make eye contact until, hopefully, a meteor comes falling onto earth and crushes you to death. 

“Good morning, General,” you mutter. 

“Hmm.”

You peek up at him with one eye. “What?”

“It is five in the evening,” he replies, bemused. 

“What?!” You bolt up, shame long forgotten. 

It takes you a second to realize how orange the library is, cast in the hues from the setting sun. 

You drag a hand over your face, rubbing the fatigue from your eyes. “Shit, I didn’t realize how late it had gotten.”

Fukuzawa raises a brow. 

“What? You’ve never heard a noble cuss before?” 

He taps his chin. “I can’t say I have. You truly are a breath of fresh air, Your Highness.”

You grin. “As are you, General. And please…”

He listens, head tilting in curiosity. 

“It is [name]. We are friends, are we not?” Your false sincerity coats your words like a second skin.  

The sun dips far below the horizon, robbing the world of its light. You take in the storm clouds in the distance, absentmindedly wondering if the Empire would experience the same downpour later in the night. 

Fukuzawa ponders your question for a moment longer before answering. “We are, but I am also your subordinate, so I am afraid I must decline.”

“And if it is an order?”

Fukuzawa’s eyes sparkle. “Then I am under aristocratic obligation to comply.”

In a tone laced with authority and bemusement, you proclaim: “I, acting Monarch of Yokohama, hereby order General Yukichi Fukuzawa to act beyond propriety and address me by given name only. No titles, no fancy designations. Just [name].” 

“As long as you are willing to grant me that same honor, [name].”

You grin. “See? Isn’t that so much better, Yukichi?”

The General only laughs and turns to take a seat across from you. The armour he dons makes a clanging noise as he settles himself. Patches of dirt litter the surface of the metal while other areas sport minor indents—likely from the force of a blade's flat or hilt. 

“Did that hurt?” You nod towards the largest dip in the steel. 

He looks down at his left side, around the area between his upper ribs. “Couldn’t even feel it.”

“Of course not,” you wave, returning your attention back to the pages. 

“I see you are interested in…” Fukuzawa leans over the table, peering at the emboldened titles of each tome. “Yokohama politics, history, and culture?”

“The pen is mightier than the sword, as they say,” you muse. “And a bright mind is far mightier than those stumbling blind in the darkness of their own ignorance.”

“I do wish more members of the court shared that sentiment. It would certainly make my migraines less frequent.” 

You faintly recall the term from a book you finished earlier. “The… inner court?”

“The very same. A parliamentary round table of aristocrats and representatives, headed by the Four Noble Houses.”

“The Four Noble Houses? You mean…” You cringe, an unpleasant memory resurfacing. 

Fukuzawa’s eyes gleam with amusement. “Ah, yes. I recall a certain purple-faced duke drenched in the colours of His Majesty’s most favoured cabernet sauvignon.”

You smile sheepishly. “I messed up, didn’t I?”

“Formally? Yes.”

You groan and drop your head in your hands.

Fukuzawa lays a palm on your shoulder and gives you a gentle pat. 

“But reasonably? Absolutely not. He deserved ten times worse than what he got.”

“Someone needed to stand up to him,” you point out. 

“Sadly, there are not many people who can.”

You sigh at that and go back to your research. The moment you set your eyes back on the book, the pages in front of you begin to blur and mesh into a whirlpool of ink. 

“Maybe it is time for a break…” you murmur. 

Fukuzawa leans forward and studies your fatigued expression. 

“What have you learned so far?”

You snort. “You mean other than our sordid history? The decades of hatred and conflict brewing between our countries?”

“Ah, yes. Besides that fun little facet of our politics.”

You run through the miles of information you had just absorbed, each little bit coming together piece by piece to paint a very clear picture of the modern world—one where mystic abilities, gods of old, and monsters coexist in disharmony. 

‘Abilities’ as you have come to know them, are practically non-existent among the lower caste in the Northern Empire. The only ones who wield them are of noble blood, aside from the rare few commoners—unfortunate individuals who would be executed for merely holding power outside of their status. Even then, barely anyone manifests one. In recent years, the only ability-user you know of is Chuuya.  

In Yokohama, these powers are respected, admired, and much more plentiful. In your textual observations, it is noted that the military and governing leaders are chosen for their abilities. 

“Hm… what is yours?”

 You are curious. What sort of fate-bending, death-defying power could this seasoned warrior have?

“Mine?”

“Your ability. You must have one, being the head of such an elite corps.”

“My ability…” he pauses. 

You raised a teasing brow. “What? You’re not going to tell me?”

“Just considering the risks of doing so. You have proven yourself to be both smart and deceitful. A deadly combination.”

“Are you saying you don’t trust me?” You place a hand on your chest in mock offence, scoffing in indignation. 

Fukuzawa laughs—that familiar smooth rumble that you have come to find placating. “Would I be wise to?”

“Of course not.” You wave a dismissive hand. “But you should tell me anyway because I am curious and stubborn and will likely find out on my own regardless.”

The general’s gaze is filled with a kind of warmth that is unknown to you, only interrupted by a flicker of a melancholy that twists his expression momentarily." It happens so fast you almost mistake it for a trick of the light.

“You remind me so much of her…” He mumbles under his breath so softly you pass it off as a whisper of the wind. “Very well. I will tell you.”

The sun has all but disappeared from the horizon, the shimmering moon slipping in its place. The dark, glittering night falls onto Fukuzawa’s features beautifully, making  him seem a little more weathered and a little less mundane as he explains his decidedly non-mundane powers. 

“It allows me to control my soldiers’ own abilities. I am able to manipulate their capabilities, help navigate their potential, and expand the boundaries of what they can do. That is my ability,” he explains. 

You mull over Fukuzawa’s words, a bit surprised at the nature of it all. The powerfully built military veteran looks at you like he knows what you are thinking—knows that you are confused on why someone with his battle prowess has such a passive skill. 

“You forget, Your Highness, that before I am a warrior, I am first and foremost a leader. Without my men, I am nothing, and without me, many of those men would not have survived until now,” he states. He says it like a fact, and perhaps in some ways, it is. It makes more sense the longer you think on it, his ability is almost perfectly suited to his position. You wonder what yours would be if you manifested one. What about Dazai? Would his ability reflect bloodthirst and coldness? Or would it be the opposite of what you know him as?

You make a mental note to come back to that question later, and direct your attention back to the conversation at hand. 

“[Name],” you correct.

Fukuzawa blinks. “Sorry?”

“You called me ‘Your Highness’ just now.”

“I apologize. Force of habit,” he drops his head in a slight bow and the moonlight streaming through the open windows reflects off his gray hair, transforming it into a silver mane. 

Fukuzawa apologizes to you a lot, like a father fumbling for words in front of his newborn, careful not to be anything but kind. If anything, you find it endearing. As well as a little… disappointing. 

“General.”

Fukuzawa’s smile drops at your change in tone. The worry in his eyes is clear. “Is something wrong?”

You give him a small smile, a tad tense. “No. Not really. Though, I would like to ask you something. Would you humour me?”

“Of course. I will answer anything within reason,” he reassures. 

You rest your cheek against your palm, curiosity and wariness burning bright. 

“Why are you so kind to me? I know how this country views the Empire—views me. I am not blind to the scornful glances nor hidden insults thrown around. I am numb to them. But you… Kunikida… that peculiar doctor as well, you are all much too cordial with a sworn enemy. Is it pity? Some misplaced sense of duty? Or perhaps it is all fake and you are all laughing behind my back as we speak.”

Silence spreads through the empty library, the only noises are the crackling of the fireplace and the gentle swishes of the willow branch behind you. The only thing you hear is your pulse thrumming against your skull.

If Fukuzawa is taken aback by your bluntness, he does not show it. Despite only knowing you for this short period of time, he is probably already used to your brusque manner of speech. He folds his hands in front of him and leans backward, taking some time to come up with a suitable answer. You can practically see the gears turning in that head of his. 

A few moments pass before he finally speaks in a serious, yet gentle, voice.

“Do you think yourself undeserving of our respect?”

You shake your head and answer: “Not at all. I am only surprised you would willingly impart it to me.”

“I cannot speak on Sir Kunikida or Dr. Yosano’s behalf—although, I imagine they share the same thoughts—but I am kind to you because it is common sense. I am kind to you because I am honoured to serve under your reign,” Fukuzawa assures. His expression softens. “I am truly sorry about the harassment you have had to endure. I will do my best to keep them in check, but if it happens again, do not be afraid to use your status. You are their ruler. Do not let them forget it.”

A lump forms in your throat and you force yourself to swallow it down. The support eases your heart, but the anxiety does not fully disappear, nor does the cold tingle of resentment in your chest. They probably never will. For now, you will accept his words, but with caution, as you are still very much in enemy territory. You will need to lead with your mind to survive, not your heart.  

And Fukuzawa? The gentle general is merely a stepping stone, not a friend. 

“I… am grateful. Tha—”

“General Fukuzawa!” In a very familiar fashion, the doors to the library burst open to reveal a man, effectively cutting you off. 

Kunikida stands beneath the frame, face alarmingly red and breaths coming out in short, laboured puffs. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Fukuzawa grimacing. 

“What. Are. You. Doing. Here?.” The minister spits out each word with barely contained anger—more accusation than actual question. 

“Chief Minister.” Fukuzawa bows and slowly inches himself towards the door, closer and closer to the fuming blonde. “I see you are… upset.”

Kunikida’s eye twitches. “Upset? Upset?!” His voice hits an impressive octave and you briefly wonder if he’s ever considered a career in opera. He certainly has the knack for it. 

“I—” 

“The outdoor arena is on fire.”

The general clears his throat. 

“Right. I did tell them not to try out those new techniques without me around, though His Majesty’s soldiers were never ones to adhere to the rules.”

“A black hole opened up in the ceiling and swallowed three stable boys. They were… fully nude when they fell out an hour later.”

Fukuzawa blinks. 

“That’s… new.”

“You have five seconds,” Kunikida says flatly. 

“Well. Duty calls. I shall have to put out some fires… er… literally.” Fukuzawa makes his way to the open doors and is about to leave when he adds: “Have a wonderful  night, [name].”

“Good luck,” you laugh. 

He gives you a small wave before disappearing down the hall. 

You turn your attention to Kunikida who is now slightly less red, though still glowing a nice shade of pink. 

“Good evening, Chief Minister. To what do I owe the pleasure?” You ask. 

“I am here to bring you to dinner service. Perhaps you have forgotten? You seem to be engrossed in our literary offerings,” he answers plainly. 

Kunikida stays standing, but has walked further into the room, hands clasped behind him as he studies the books you chose with furrowed eyebrows. 

“I enjoy reading. Is that such a crime?”

“I am only surprised you were able to find this place. After His Majesty banned entry, most just ignore it as they pass by.”

You cock your head to the right. “I was curious about that. Why? It is a beautiful library—a sunlit treasure trove of knowledge. I would imagine most people would be clawing at the doors for just a glance, yet it is as barren and untravelled as the deserts in the West,” you muse.

 Your curiosity is only a mild interest until Kunikida’s gaze sharply turns away from yours, blatantly avoiding your poking and prodding. His averted eyes cause what little inquisitiveness you had just felt to balloon into a wave of eager investigation. 

“Kunikida.”

He adjusts his glasses and nervously glances at his timepiece. “We are going to be late if—”

“Kunikida.”

He sighs, relenting. 

“If nobody uses this place, why is it so well kept? There are no dirt patches or cobwebs, but the dust between pages suggests that no one has opened them for many years. ”

“If I were to make an educated guess…” Kunikida stops for a moment to think. “I would wager that His Majesty misses what it used to be, and is only trying to preserve the last of that magic. Though the memories here are much too vivid and much too painful for him to come back to.”

What it used to be… 

A flicker of something… a fleeting feeling… No. A memory. At the very back of your mind—

“But I do not think he will continue to do so.”

It vanishes, and you fall back to reality, grasping at nothing and nowhere. 

You shake yourself out of your daze, a bit peeved at the interruption, but curious all the same. 

“Do what? Preserve this place? You believe he will let it just… crumble to ruins?”

Kunikida takes a seat and folds his gloved hands together. The lines on his forehead appear as he tenses, preparing his next words with careful precision. He works his jaw, tension releasing and forming with each movement, as if he is warring internally, fighting to either let the words out or keep it in. 

You hope he chooses the former. The more information, the better. 

His expression settles and a stern look replaces his calm visage. Whatever he has to say must be serious.

You catch yourself tapping the side of your thigh anxiously under the table and clamp your fingers down on your leg… hard. Your father did always say that a royal must be poised and perfect, and he made it extremely clear that such emotions were to be erased and forgotten. 

And if they weren’t… 

A chill runs down your spine at the memories.

“I am well aware that you are, and pardon my candor, untrustworthy.”

You almost snort. Not the first time you’ve heard that and it certainly won’t be the last.

Kunikida continues. “But I believe it is only right to tell you as His Majesty’s spouse. King Dazai is… he is…” Kunikida pauses as he fumbles for the right word. 

A clock ticks. Kunikida settles on a phrase. 

“Unwell. A disease of the mind and heart that has stolen his will. He is here only to serve a purpose and that purpose is not to live out the rest of his life. He exists, but for years now he has not been… here. Almost as if one wrong move and the line His Majesty balances upon disappears and takes him with it.”

Time slows. The air thickens. Are you breathing?

“Slowly but surely, he is fading away,” Kunikida pauses and swallows as he tries to work out his next words. 

“Some days I believe he is better. Most days I do not allow myself to indulge in such a lie.”

—

˚ · . tags: @zjarrmiii @aiizenn @emyyy007 @letsliveagaintoday @bejeweledgirl @nat-the-gayass-down-bad-mf

#x reader #bsd #dazai osamu #angst #bungou stray dogs #dazai fic #dazai angst #dazai x reader #bungou stray dogs x reader #bsd fanfic #bsd x reader #fantasy au #bungou stray dogs kunikida #kunikida #bsd fukuzawa #dad fukuzawa #enemies to lovers #lovers to enemies #bungou stray dogs fic #dazai au #dazai x you #dazai x y/n #dazai osamu x reader

[skinwalker-bratz]

The slendermanor headcannons

(based on my experience shifting there)

- the manor is almost an entity with its own consciousness, it can communicate with the residents through noises and clicks, sometimes even in dreams, but hardly anyone notices because they think the manor is just a place with supernatural properties.

- and of course when talking about the manor you can't help but mention its supernatural properties.

- some of which are:

- corridors and rooms can change at random moments.

- doors can appear and disappear.

- new rooms can appear.

- on the outside it's the normal size of an ordinary manor, but inside it's absurdly huge, up to 3x the size of an ordinary shopping mall.

- only the residents can see the manor, which is why no law enforcement agency or researcher has found this place.

- most people call it "Slendermansion" but it does have a name, at least on the day I went it did shifted there, and it was "Manor of the Cursed Woods" but apparently no resident cares much about the name. They even call it Slenderman's zoo or Slender's ark as a kind of joke because there are so many "animals" inside.

- To live there, you must not only have the Slenderman's trust or interest, but also be able to perform services for him in return, which can range from missions to domestic chores.

- "people" and creatures choose to live there because it's a great place to hide since no one who doesn't live there can see and find the manor, it's the safest place for creepypastas.

- and yes, it really is safe, there's not much chance of you, being considered a "creepypasta", ending up being attacked or killed by another one, because there are rules there, and if you don't comply with one of them, depending on what it is, you'll be punished with anything from temporary detention in the dungeon, to torture, loss of privileges, and expulsion.

- the rules are as follows:

- always maintain a positive relationship with the other residents, no matter how difficult it may be.

- keep the mansion clean. (There are some who seem to have extreme difficulty complying with this rule 💀)

- avoid fights and arguments.

- help a resident who is in serious condition if you spot them.

- never, under any circumstances, talk about the manor or mention it to non-residents.

- respect the proxies and obey them in any circumstance. (this rule has already gotten very bad)

- always be prepared and available for any call or mission.

- avoid making any kind of noise during sleep hours.

- no one is responsible for the loss of your belongings or clothes, so take care of them.

- you are responsible for any being or animal brought into the manor.

- it has a garden at the back, which is quite nice for a place like this, with some flowers that vary in color, birds and a broken fountain in the center. There is also a bench under an oak tree, where you can find residents sitting from time to time.

- it has up to four floors and a basement of two.

- the first floor is where you'll find the entrance hall, living room, dining room, kitchen, bathrooms, training room and storeroom, as well as other random rooms that appear from one moment to the next.

- the second floor is where the library is, the room where the residents store quest items and objects lost around the mansion, the bathroom, and a room where people put pet items such as food, feed pots and litter boxes.

- the second floor is where the first bedrooms are.

- The third floor is also just bedrooms.

- on the fourth floor is another library, but this one has restricted access and contains files containing information that only Slenderman and his proxies have access to. There's an attic full of boxes storing God-only-knows-what and a lot of rats, and there's another warehouse containing dangerous objects.

- on the second floor of the basement, there's a nurse office, an operating room, a pharmacy and a mini hospital, a laboratory, a torture room, and a room with the belongings of kidnapped people.

- on the bottom floor of the basement is the dungeon, which has restricted access. There is a torture room for the residents, cells, and a room where the "guards" and inmates' belongings are usually kept.

- As far as technology goes, it's pretty up-to-date and has sockets and switches, but they vary a lot, sometimes there are sockets that are very old and you can't plug anything into them.

- there is a kind of "wi-fi" there, which was installed by the residents, this wi-fi probably only exists in the mansion and has its own IP address that can't be traced.

- Speaking of which, there's also the mansion's own network, which only the residents have access to and no one from outside can get in. (I don't know much about technology, I'm just trying to explain what I saw in the dr)

#creepypasta #slenderman #slender mansion #slendermanor #creepypasta headcannon #creepypasta fandom #reality shifting #shifting #headcannons #hcs #creepypasta hcs

[upinteriors]

Renovation House V by Hans Verstuyft Architecten

A typical add construction, dark and cold, a not so clever intervention from the past to expand a classical house, was the starting point. Where extra surface area is usually regarded as luxury, the opposite was the way of thinking here. By exchanging living space for outdoor space, a larger garden was created with a kind of garden room. Moreover, the daylight could penetrate more deeply into the house. The outside room is a nice covered area with a bench and a fireplace. The “living” kitchen is now on full width. A characterless skylight was masked with small wooden beams, outside these function as a sunblind. The interior is simple and sober: an off-white colour palette, natural stone, oak. Concrete and Corten steel weather naturally outside.

Design: Hans Verstuyft Architecten Location: Antwerp, Belgium Year: 2017 Photography: The Fresh Light

#belgian houses #fireplaces #garden rooms #belgium #hans verstuyft architecten #the fresh light #interior design

[haveyouseenthisskeleton]

I'd love to hear about what type of pets that each skeleton would own, what the skeletons would name their pets, and if they chose between adopting from a humane society or buying from a pet breeder.

Undertale Sans - A parrot or a cockatiel! He loves birds and will teach them to ruin the life of everyone in the house. If he ever adopts one, it will be from a humane society. He would probably give it a pun name.

Undertale Papyrus - He kinda adopted the annoying dog on the Surface, now walking him in the street and all. Sure, he is embarrassed when the dog simply absorbs a public bench in public, but he is kinda attached now??? His name is just Dog. Not very inventive, but it seems it's the only name the dog answers???

Underswap Sans - He's not a big fan of classic pets. He would much rather have a snake or a spider. He's more a breeder type, as he wants very specific animals. He gives them sweet ridiculous names like Cookie or Cupcake.

Underswap Papyrus - He adopted three labrador dogs on the surface and he is always with them. In the house, there's more chance falling on him hugging his dogs than his S/O lol, and he's one of the most cuddly skeleton. He found them in the streets, it was a litter, and he never gave them back. Their names are Ramon, Dapper and Pomme.

Underfell Sans - He's not the animal type, but if he ever finds a stray cat or dog, he will end up keeping it because he is way more soft than he thinks he is. Like Sans, the poor baby would end with a pun name.

Underfell Papyrus - He has two cats. Doomfanger, who he adopted Underground as a baby, after she fell from the Surface and Stormbringer, a kitten he adopted in a humane society he was working for. Edge is also a foster parent for orphan kitten and very old cats.

Horrortale Sans and Papyrus - They have a farm, so quite a lot of animals, added to random stray cats or dogs Oak brings home and decides they're his. They all have a name, but it's usually common names, like Carrot for a rabbit or Nugget for a chicken...

Horrorswap Sans - He has a service dog, Harper, who helps him in the everyday life with his missing leg.

Horrorswap Papyrus - He has a service and emotionnal service dog as well, he named her Antoinette, that helps him to prevent panic attacks and calm him down when something triggers him so much he loses sense of reality.

Horrorfell Sans - Nah, not the type to have animals. He's fine on his own, he doesn't want anyone to ever depend on him ever again.

Horrorfell Papyrus - He still has his Doomfanger, who is an old lady now. He is fostering feral cats in his garden as well, feeding and neutering them, and assuring their protection.

Swapfell Sans - He is kinda the second family of the neighbour's cat, he named Karen bis. Nox is not supposed to feed it, but man, those eyes... He can't refrain himself, and yes, maybe, he let the cat spend the night in his house one or twice... Or more.

Swapfell Papyrus - He has a goat, Spencer. He won her as a price in a contest, as a baby, and he raised her. He made her a little shed in the garden and he's walking her like a dog.

Fellswap Gold Sans - NOPE. No pets allowed at home.

Fellswap Gold Papyrus - He tried to sneak different animals in, but Wine always find them and asks him to give them back :(

Outertale Sans - He has a parrot, King, who sings crude songs and says bad words. His old owner taught him to do that and no one wanted him to the humane society because of that. Moon thinks it's funny.

Outertale Papyrus - He has stick bugs to entertain the kiddos he's keeping at home. It's not moving much, it's silent, best choice possible. They don't really have names though. There are so many and they all look similar.

Dancetale Sans - Nah, he's too busy to take care of an animal properly. Maybe in his old days when he retreats.

Dancetale Papyrus - Same than his brother. He loves to pet the neighbours dogs and sneak them in his garden when they're not here though.

Dancefell Sans - He has a german sheperd, Cerise. That's her baby, he dresses her like a princess all the time. He finds her in the streets.

Dancefell Papyrus - He has a border collie, Socrate, who is part of his dance show. The dog is very receptive to all sorts of tricks so Tango taught him how to dance. They're entering contests every year as well. He bought the dog to a breeder.

Farmtale Sans and Papyrus - Well obviously, they have a lot of farm animals, and three barn dogs who are living with the sheeps. Their names are Stitch, Lilo and Simba. They're mostly Ben's dogs.

Mafiatale Sans - He has coi karps in a huge tank in his basement. He loves to watch them instead of working. They don't have names though.

Mafiatale Papyrus - He has a fox, Bleach, which he found in the forest one day and raised by hands. No one knows he has one and he's not supposed too, but who's going to tell a member of the mafia it's wrong?

Mafiafell Sans - Fang has lots of dogs, staffs and pit bulls who are working dogs mainly, but he's living with them at home and loves them all. They are all girls, and they all have a little name: Princess, Love, Sweetie, Mary, Snow, ... He is a breeder.

Mafiafell Papyrus - He has a persan cat, Hellbringer (which he also nicknames "My sweet little baby princess"), he adopts to a breeder. She is her sweet baby and he would die for her if she asks it. It can be surprising to see the boss of the mafia talking with a stupid voice to the cat.

Ink - Nah, his memory is too bad anyway, he would forget it somewhere.

Error - He has two goldfishes, they don't have names. He found them in an empty universe and kept them for some reason. They're entertaining. Their name are Blank and Space.

Disbelief Papyrus - He has a small pug named Aurora. He saved her from a neighbour who was abusing her. He was not supposed to keep her, but he got too attached.

Dustale Sans - A pack of wolves adopted him in the forest thinking he's a kind of weird looking dog.

Killer Sans - He has two rats, Baghera and Baloo, and he's walking them in his pockets all the time.

#undertale #underswap #underfell #horrortale #horrorswap #horrorfell #swapfell #fellswap gold #outertale #dancetale #dancefell #farmtale #mafiatale #mafiafell #ink sans #error sans #disbelief papyrus #dustale sans #killer sans #undertale ask blog #undertale asks #undertale imagines #undertale headcanons

[stuffymcstuffsworld]

The garden

It had started as a reminder. Nothing big or flashy, nothing noticeable. Just a small reminder to yourself that you came from somewhere far away. A single Acorn that you found in your pocket.

You couldn't remember where it came from or why you had it with you. Yet, it brought you comfort. You had planted it. Not really thinking much about it at first. Heck, you didn't even know if it would grow.

It did, though. It grew well and strong. A large oak in the corner of the garden. While it certainly wasn't as impressive as the Sakura tree that iruma had managed, you loved it all the same. Although you couldn't help but think it looked a little lonely.

So you started adding more. Not much, really just flowers you could find in both hell and earth. Balam had been fascinated when you stated that some species were the same. But still, it looked more cheerful now.

Opera had even placed a beautiful bench underneath your tree so that you could sit down and enjoy the space. Somehow, it was your little getaway. For when you just needed some time to yourself. Which was a lot harder to do when you had 13 children admittedly.

So imagine your surprise when a demon like Kalego is found in your spot. Reading comfortably in the shade. At first, you simply observed how peaceful he looked. It wasn't a look he held often what with the stress of work and the children.

Then you figured since he was in your spot, you would give him the pleasure of your company. Walking over without a word, you sat beside the one person bench. Lazily picking, forget-me-nots from the ground to make a flower crown.

The silence was rather peaceful as you continued like this. Soon, Kalego rested his hand on your head and began petting your hair. A rare moment of affection from him. You leaned your head against his knees as you finished up. Giving him better access to play with the strands of your hair.

Once your crown was completed, you stood up. Letting the dark demons hand trail away. You both gazed at each other for a moment. Eyes locked into place.

It was amazing how so much could be said in silence. You carefully placed the crown on his head, making sure it didn't bother his horns. As you fixed it he simply gave you a balent look.

One that seemed to say. 'You must be joking.' But you only smiled in return. The blue petals contrasting with his dark purple locks rather nicely. 'How lovely.' You thought to yourself watching him scoff at you.

He returned to his book, and you sat back down your back resting against his legs. Both of you enjoy the silence of the garden for just a bit longer. Just a little longer.

#mairimashita! iruma kun #welcome to demon school iruma kun #reader #kalego sensei #naberius kalego #peace #flower crown #no dialogue