#OR bederin

[sabraeal]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Let’s spread the self-love ❤️

As I said on my first fic rec post, I have written very many fics and I love almost all of them, so I can't pick FAVORITES so much as CATEGORIES, and this category is going to be "Fics Joanna Made Me Write Outside My Comfort Zone Because It's Good For Me Or Something"

Whenever I view the moon on the battlefield This was the FIRST fic I wrote outside of ANS fandom, and if that was not already out of my usual groove enough, it's also from the POV of one of the minor characters in Hakuouki, Shimada Kai. The concept was originally conceived while I was streaming a playthrough for the obiyuki discord-- Yamazaki (our best boy) and Shimada are both spies and spend quite a bit of time off screen, so we kept running into scenes and being like "how AWKWARD is it for those two to be watching this right now?" And so when it finally came time for me to throw my hat into the yamachi ring...Joanna asked for THIS to be the fic. You know. Instead of one where Yamazaki and Chizuru actually kiss or whatever. Sigh.

The Most Perverse Creature in the World Listen. I know there are people out there who LOVE xReader fics. I'm happy for you, truly. I am not one of them. But after answering the fandom fuck/marry/kill game (otherwise known as only one bed/slow burn/enemies to lovers) with small littler blurbs about the kind of story I would write for the older gentlemen in ANS (Shidan, Lata & Haruka), SOME PEOPLE got very invested in Haruka's little enemies-to-lovers blurb. Some people made puppy eyes. Some people made puppy eyes and then got very sick after, and I AM A GOOD FRIEND and wrote ONE CHAPTER and have never known a day of peace since. Six years later it's up to thirteen chapters, has a very complicated plot involving the politics of taxing oral sex, and I've learned how to effectively write in 2nd person.

don't speak boyshit I cannot properly explain how absolutely in our heads the Maria/Kamitani pairing is, but like. It's good okay?? Joanna did not so much force me to write this one so much as like...emphatically encourage its existence, to the point where I have a very complicated outline and she routinely reminds me I'll finish it when i'm like. 50. But this is certainly the gateway fic to the OTHER fics for this pairing she DOES want to twist my arm over, SO ON THE LIST IT GOES. I am one of TWO authors in this ship tag, and also one of TWO fics...and yet this is one of my most popular non-ANS fics 🤣

If the Mind Is Willing This is a fic Joanna will HAPPILY admit to being the main driver for, since, as she puts it, "there is no one else who could possibly ever write this fic." Taking TWO very niche concepts (LARP and a SURPRISE FOR LATER) and a very niche pairing (yamachi) would perhaps not have been MY first choice...but Joanna asked for the first chapter as a birthday gift a few years back and here I am, learning a whole new tabletop system and really giving my FBI agent something to talk about at the watercooler.

He Who Studies Evil Of all the niche fics Joanna has convinced me to put to paper (or at least, word document), this is probably takes the top spot. A prequel to my obiyuki Star Trek AU, this covers events about 10 years previous, with Haruka taking over DS9 and immediately being thrown into a political nightmare when he is informed that the Cardassians are in possession of a missing human child. This took...an INORDINATE amount of time to research and write-- I hadn't seen DS9 since I was in high school, and I watched through nearly half a season just to get the timeline right-- but I still REALLY love how it came out. Which is good, because it is definitely one of my least read fics 🤣

#asks #fic rec meme #fic recs #self rec #hakuouki #yamachi #gakuen babysitters #inokami #akagami no shirayukihime #listen we all know that like half of WFB would be here too including just about all of M&B #but like this is not about giving joanna credit for the FUN ones #but the ones i had to work hard on okay #the ones i complain about every time i gotta write a new chapter #because i KNOW i'm gonna have to do so much work #and typically reap an obscene amount of reward for the size of niche they fill #i still cannot believe don't speak boyshit took off #OR bederin #now i have die hard fans and chapters that sometimes give me more comments than my biggest obiyuki fics #SIGH. must you all prove her right???

[theheartofmuses]

En basitinden 80lerde bile genele yayılan bi bolluk vardı. En azından altın günü vs yapabiliyodu insanlar mahallelik, kasabalık vs. Tarım bitirilmemiş fln.

Kim kalkıcak da emine bederin tariflerini yapıcak şimdi swhh

[444names]

welsh and american names

Adkin Aelwens Alen Alfreene Alinez Almes Alstoni Alvia Amelian Anard Ander Andicky Angwyne Anton Aphughn Apricia Apsims Arancia Arddus Arta Athanson Austie Aye Bairwise Bakerr Bald Bank Barberts Bards Barth Bassey Bederin Belton Bent Bentle Bert Beth Bett Billam Billps Bish Bith Biver Blan Blanklin Bled Bledward Bobbins Bon Bow Bowelly Bra Brada Bradoc Bran Breen Brew Bridd Broa Broke Burne Burran Burto Cadie Cadwen Callen Cames Card Carona Cath Cathews Ceirian Ceriddle Cerien Chamber Channie Chara Chez Christen Christon Clainez Clairez Clarris Claugh Collarry Comb Conles Contes Conwe Cord Curlie Cynandez Dall Danie Danies Danna Dard Dary Daugh Deinley Delice Delona Denix Denna Dia Dianwy Donovane Dor Downloan Downs Dows Dra Dunca Dura Duranwen Dwing Dyla Eatrings Edmon Edmontry Edwardo Edwen Ela Elaethan Ell Erince Ess Esween Euges Eugess Evanson Evens Ewis Fer Ffionwen Fin Fish Flemona Fole Francia Frandre Franod Frey Frosa Fulline Gailey Galexis Gar Garney Garr Garronwy Gavis Georgan Georged Georgiad Georgio Ger Giley Gilla Gilmora Gitte Glender Glynne Gofan Gonzaler Grahan Gregins Griff Griffan Grovey Gruffman Guez Guth Gwillah Hamire Hammon Harl Harne Harristy Her Hew Hilia Hodgers Holcox Holey Hollie Hollwen Holton Hoperry Huben Huffyd Hughs Hultz Hwyer Hyden Ionwy Isa Ivanson Jami Jeaneda Jeannon Jeffen Jeffredo Jenner Jeres Jeron Jessell Jodyn Jonald Jord Josephs Joses Kariall Kathias Katricks Kaylan Keithews Kene Kentes Kiddler Know Kris Land Laney Leanner Lefin Leodom Levin Lewise Lilly Lleula Llewelle Llock Llywelly Lon Lope Lore Loresa Louglad Low Luel Madden Maggina Mald Marawn Marger Margia Marguez Maries Marios Marke Mas Mass Mather Mathian Matti Mcbrieth Mcdanie Mcleon Mcmilton Mcphell Mcpherry Meador Medith Medwalls Meil Melia Melina Melvia Menee Mennette Ments Meremy Meren Merma Merrell Merry Merson Michmona Michoa Middley Mine Modri Moll Monia Mood Moodyn Moone Mor Morald More Morridge Morush Morwell Morwen Mull Mullouis Myfanner Myrich Myrtley Nam Nather Nathews Nathis Navaren Navarez Nell Nery Nichanne Nie Nield Ning Nor One Ortine Othy Owennie Owin Parry Patrina Paulio Pearcia Pent Per Pericks Perra Pie Polins Pomfredo Popela Portis Powen Prichen Privan Racy Ram Rancey Randa Randra Raque Raulkner Reeze Regins Reynol Rhia Rhianan Rhodges Rhodro Rhony Rhuffydd Rhydia Riggings Ril Ritchad Rited Ritte Rivacy Riven Robartha Robernam Rochella Rodge Rolly Rutley Ryabbie Salands Samuel Samuelyn San Sancent Sand Santina Santu Sargan Saria Schno Scurlott Searcer Serg Serry Shanett Sheron Shop Sionall Skinne Skins Skinson Son Sophen Stall Stane State Ster Sters Stewarry Ston Sullo Susick Swena Tabitte Ter Terrelle Terrina Thompton Thonya Timonds Timonton Ton Tranog Travena Tudore Tyre Unlessie Upris Van Vans Vanson Ver Vick Vicks Wadett Walle Wallies Walterek Waltney Warty Watt Weet Weis Wheese Whynn Willis Willock Winn Winnion Wis Writt Yance Yatte Yeardo Yorkman Youent Zimmie

#444 names #444names

[kudrinikulina]

Изображение из красного кирпича на углу здания детского сада "Якорек" (№105). ​ул. Карла Маркса, 78а. ⠀ Это однозначно сказочные персонажи, только вот не пойму, рядом с зайцем лиса или волк? 🙄 Как считаете? ⠀ Спасибо за фото Alex Bederin! ⠀ #УголкиСтарогоКургана #Курган #ИнтересныйКурган #краснокирпичноетворчество #ДетскиеСадыКургана #детскийсадкурган @i.am.est.83 (at Kurgan) https://www.instagram.com/p/B_P3N9Qqeqv/?igshid=fxlfjqbkbju4

#уголкистарогокургана #курган #интересныйкурган #краснокирпичноетворчество #детскиесадыкургана #детскийсадкурган

[sabraeal]

The Most Perverse Creature in the World, Chapter 13

[Read on AO3]

Written for @bubblesthemonsterartist, who one first place in the 500 Follower raffle MANY years ago, and enjoys using her golden tickets to torture me. SHE STILL HAS THREE MORE AFTER THIS

Mayu might well be a bird for how much she flits about your chambers, fussing at the tattered corners of your patience. The kind that flies in through an open window and then struggles to find its way back out.

“I did not expect you back so soon, my lady.” There’s so much clanking and clinking and clucking over at the sideboard that you despair of getting any actual refreshment. “When you’re in session, most times you don’t come back ‘till after dark!”

A lady does not glower, but so many months hidden behind lace has made your careful curation of expression lax. Your mouth thins before you catch yourself-- or rather, a glimpse of your veil, crumpled at the corner of the desk-- smoothing it to a neutral smile. “I am afraid there was not much to say today.”

Nothing for the ears of a young woman such as your maid, at least. Quite a lot had been said, at length, and you--

“There.” Steam curls up from the cup settled before you, sitting just askew on its saucer. “Are you satisfied then, my lady?”

“Satisfied?” The word claws its way out, but you hardly mark the pain. “Surrounded by a council full incompetents, all of them bent on taking their pleasure and leaving me with--”

No words fit for company, at least. Perhaps if you too had been born to your seat with a half dozen forefathers left to warm it, their generous bottoms wearing down the unforgiving wood until it cradled yours as comfortably as a womb, you might plow ahead, unheeding of propriety or good sense. But instead your teeth snap around the sentiment, leaving it to be swallowed down with your other indignities. And oh, what a feast these men have made for you this evening.

“Ah, I only meant...?” Her eyelashes flutter, hands uncertain where they hang above the desk. “The tea...?”

“Oh, Mayu!” Ill-temper streams from you like steam from a kettle, the heat of it lost in one great sigh. “My apologies. I’m afraid I’m not good company tonight.”

“Nothing to be sorry for, ma’am,” she says, firm. “If my service isn’t pleasing, then it’s only right you be cross--”

“I’m hardly cross with you, my dear.” Her hands are cold between your palms, trembling and small. “I’m cross with...a great number of people tonight, but I promise none of them are in this room.”

“Oh,” the wind hums through the windows. “That so?”

It is only reflex that saves your tea, honed from a dozen summers of rescuing tablecloths from the sort of shenanigans only a growing boy could conjure. By the cat’s grin stretched across your sill-- and the endless expanse of legs that accompany it-- he expected no less. “That’s a relief.”

“You.” You set the cup clattering against the saucer, sweeping skirts up to standing. With one finger brandished in his direction, Obi flinches. “Has no one ever made you wear a bell?”

His palms fly up, the face framed between them the very picture of innocence. “It’s been discussed. Hey, didn’t you say you weren’t mad at anyone--?”

“That’s before I knew you were here.” Your hand drops, disappearing into the folds of your skirt, and he relaxes. “Though, to be quite honest, it’s not you I have quarrel with.”

“Oh?” A corner of his mouth curls into a smirk. “Who could it be? Maybe mister--?”

A huff escapes you, hands hooking around your hips. “As if Sir Mitsuhide were anything but a pleasure.”

That only makes his satisfaction all the slyer. “That’s certainly the opinion of quite a few professionals...”

To respond, even to admonish, would only serve to encourage him. “If you must know, it is your master who plays at my last nerve.”

“Ah, Master...” One of those long arms reaches behind his head, scrubbing at the bristle. “C’mon, my lady, you aren’t still sour about that business this morning, are you?”

I don’t make the rules. The boy’s scowl stretches across your memory, his hands useless where they lay on his desk. I merely uphold them.

“No.” The denial sounds like an affirmation from your lips, but there is no point in retraction. “If I am so sour, it is because despite his claims of being my ally, week after week I am left to defend myself against those dogs alone.”

“Ah.” Your shadow grimaces. “I take it that the meeting didn’t go well?”

There is a torrent of words that rushes to your mouth, a deluge of indignities that you could lay at His Highness’s feet. Whatever else one might say about His Highness-- and oh, you have quite a bit waiting to drip from the tip of your tongue, the sort of things that would make your governess clap her hands around your ears and hers in equal measure-- you can at least say this: he keeps his promise. To disappoint you, at least. “It would be a kindness to call it a disaster.”

Obi snorts. “That good, huh?”

“It has been made clear to me that since I consort with courtesans and whores--” your nails dig sharp crescents into your palm, and oh, how you wish it were not impolite to make them bleed-- “that my words are little better than their own. Lord Hiroki called for a vote upon a minor issue, one of his pet amendments, and I...”

I merely said nay. The fear grips you even now, safe in your chambers. I said nay, and they all fell upon me like hounds on a vixen.

Anger opens your mouth, but shame shapes the words into, “It did not go well.”

“Ah.” Obi’s long fingers casually curl, cracking as they dig into the meat of his shoulder. “I see.”

“I could canvas every brothel in Wistal, I could write a painstaking proposal for tax law that addressed every issue inherent in our current policy, but none of it matters if I do not have allies. Strong allies,” you press, pacing across the room. “Ones who bother to come to council meetings.”

Weariness washes over you, your head falling heavily into your hands. “I cannot do this alone. I must make a show of friends in high places, and fast. Even if there were a single man who agreed with me in that room, he would not risk speaking out against the rest. Why, I had to wait for Arluleon bother to speak for me, and even so it was only to say--”

Might I remind you that the lady here is of gentle birth?  His pompous tone echoes enough to make your ears ache even now, hours later. It is unbecoming to speak before her in such a fashion.

Your teeth grit, his words like sand between them, wearing your control down to nubs. “Well, it was not to remind them that I was a colleague deserving of respect.”

Obi is a boy of quick reflexes and even quicker wit, but when you pivot on your heel, prepared to pace across the pile you’ve already worn a runnel in, he’s quiet. Thoughtful, if you had to put a word to it. “Ah, lady, I was wondering...he’s met you before, hasn’t he? Before you came here.”

You work your way back through his question, trying to find what possible subject he could saddle that pronoun with, and finally ask, “Who?”

“His Grace, the Marquis.” He stares at you as if you are the incomprehensible one. “Haruka.”

“Arluleon?” Your husband had never sent for you while the council was in session-- nothing is more boring for a woman than to be married during the Season, he laughed the first time you asked, still too young to wonder, give it a decade or two, and then you can bring our daughters-- but he’d had visitors in the country. Friends though, not rivals, spending the long summers planning their coups for the next year. “He came to the funeral--”

“No, no. I mean before the whole--” his hand grimly sweeps in front of his face-- “business.”

You blink, lost. “Why do you ask?”

“Er...no reason. I just was thinking, seeing you two on the stair, that maybe...” It is impossible to discern which of his whims made him sail down this particular route of inquiry, but whatever it is, he changes tack. “Just curiosity, my lady.”

It’s a curious question indeed, but your suppose it’s harmless to entertain it. “Once, I believe. He attended the wedding. But that must have been...fifteen years past now, and clearly of no consequence to him.”

Obi hums, far too interested in such a dull matter. “What makes you say that, my lady?”

“He met me at the castle gates the day I arrived in Wistal, and if he recognized my name more than my title, it would be a great surprise to me,” you sniff. “He had been much more concerned about whether I would properly submit to protocol, should he only apply the right pressure. I doubt he even recalls whether the bride he met all those years ago was a girl in the flush of her first season, or a spinster being rescued from the shelf, let alone any detail of my face.”

Despite his love for the sport, your father had never allowed you on his hunts, not even when other ladies arrived trim and stylish in their habits, riding beside their husbands. It had not been until you had been a woman grown, married a year and some and eager to show your husband just what fun you could be, that you saw your first fox caught, ruthlessly cornered by the same hounds you fend scraps from the table. An unearthly sound tore from its throat as the teeth clamped clamped down, strangled and hopeless--

And mirrored now by your shadow, a hand pressed over his eyes.

“Are you quite all right?” It’s impossible that he could have hurt himself, not when he hasn’t moved from your sill, but still, you squint at him, attempting to assess the damage. “Is something the matter?”

“No, no,” he groans, hand flapping between you. “It’s nothing. I just...put something together. That I can’t really unknow.” A laugh gasps out of him, more pain than amusement. “Well, that will be interesting.”

You stare at him, brows knitted. “Why would you want to--?”

The doors to your study swing open, Mayu breathless between them. “Ah, my lady!”

Curious. You could have sworn she’d been over at the sideboard, fussing with yet another cup of tea. Perhaps she’ll make an admirable domestic after all. “Mayu, what are you--?”

“You have a visitor!” she gasps, color high on her cheeks. “At the door.”

“The door?” Your fingers idly pluck at where your veil lays crumpled, tossed aside in your fit of pique. There are few at court who you would name friend enough to visit, and fewer still who would call upon a widow still deep in mourning. “Will wonders never cease. Did they leave a card?”

“N-no.” Her eyes widen, guilty, and ah, the poor thing never thought to ask. “He’s, ah, waiting, my lady. In the parlor.”

“He?” Obi’s mouth curls with a slyness you’re quite sure you mislike. “Sounds like you’ve got some tenacious suitor, my lady.”

“What it sounds like is that some Wisteria has seen fit to take root on my settee,” you murmur, pinning your veil in place. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that would you?”

“Me?” One hand presses to his chest, every inch of his raised brows professing his innocence. “Do I look like the sort of messenger that would spring a prince on you--?”

“Almost certainly,” you inform him. “And you’d stick around to watch.”

“You wound me, my lady, I would--”

“It’s not His Highness,” Mayu blurts out. “Either of them.”

“No?” It is a short list of men at court who would think to darken a window’s doorway, and to walk into your parlor, sure of their welcome-- or perhaps, uncaring of it--?

Your hands stiffen on the final pin, shoving it in clumsily enough the point drags over your scalp. “You don’t mean to tell me that Arluleon--?”

“No ma’am,” she pipes, her mouth twitching toward something close to a smile. “The opposite!”

Mayu’s assessment had not quite been...politique, but even you must admit that when your eyes fall upon the young man lounging in your parlor, cleaned and pressed and grin running parallel to the scar carved across his nose, the girl is not precisely wrong.

“Sir Zakura.” You incline your head the barest degree, enough imply regard without suggesting deference. Peer he might be, but baron hardly outranked a sitting countess. “Are you on your way to dinner?”

“Countess.” His mouth spreads wide on the title, a detail you hardly miss as he bows just a hair too deep for your station. “I thought you might be in need of an escort.”

Your steps stutter on the carpet, only for a moment, hidden beneath the weight of your skirts. “Sir,” you manage, your smile stiff on your lips. “It is kind of you to think of me. But surely you know I must decline.”

“Must you?” His head cocks, same as his smile, curious and too confident by a half. “Can’t say I see a reason why. Unless you already ate.”

“I haven’t,” you say before you can think better of it, and by Shidnote’s smile, he knows it. “But it would hardly be appropriate.”

“C’mon now, my lady.” He slouches against your mantel, rumpling the crisp lines of his coat. “Surely everyone knows you eat.”

“The problem is not with eating, sir.” It would be helpful if you could summon a chill to your words the way your great aunt had always done, leaving all who spoke with her in the cold. Perhaps that might cool the warmth in Sir Zakura’s smile when you tell him, “It is that I am in mourning still.”

His eyebrows are already the proper bent for incredulity, but the effect is heightened when he lifts them, one a hair higher than the other. “So you don’t eat dinner?”

“I am not supposed to keep company.” It is impossible for His Majesty’s aide to not know what propriety demands of you, but still, he only smiles when you protest, as if you were but a child refusing to eat their vegetables. “The thought is kind, sir, but I am certain my presence would put a damper on the evening.”

“As charming a woman as you?” He shakes his head. “I doubt it.”

You scoff. “A widow is hardly charming. Everyone might pity her, but few would welcome a reminder of their own mortality. Perhaps when it is lighter, I--”

“And when is that?” He shrugs, a sinuous movement even with shoulders as broad as his. “A month? A few weeks? I’m sure no one would mind if the rules were bent, just this once.”

Your mouth gives a rueful twist, one he cannot see. “Widows are not allowed much bending, I’m afraid.”

His grin stretches far too wide. “Now that’s not true. I’ve known several very flexible widows in my time.”

“Sir.” It is a mercy that lace hides you; your flush would only encourage him to outrageousness. “It would be inappropriate in the extreme for me to step out while I am so deep in mourning. I appreciate that you thought of me, but I’m sure one of the young debutantes this season would be must more to your like--”

“Not at all.” That mouth of his is utterly brazen when he tells you, “I like a mature woman.”

Your own pulls flat. “Then I must disappoint you. If the castle records are correct, I’m afraid that my own birth was quite a few months after your own.”

That grin of his sharpens down to a point. “Age had nothing to do with maturity, my lady. His Majesty tells me that one all the time.”

His Majesty. The title pricks at you. Sir Zakura might play at flirtation, but he hardly needs to impress you with his connections, not when the king has already asked you--

Ah. So that’s what this is. Shidnote might plead pleasure all he likes, but this...this is business.

“All right,” you concede, your hands clenching in your skirts. “I suppose one dinner could hardly hurt.”

#haruka x reader #akagami no shirayukihime #snow white with the red hair #my fic #ans #i was hoping to get to some real plot and politics this chapter but it MUST WAIT #expect more zakura and perhaps even more of haruka #there should actually be quite a lot of haruka over the next few chapters #gonna finally get into the beginning of this romance #while obi suffers knowing that haruka doesn't know bederin is hot

[sabraeal]

Hi!

I hope you are well. thank you for sharing your talent. I always enjoy your work. I was wondering if you had any sneak peaks or behind-the-scenes for The Most Perverse Creature in the World? I was working this weekend on unrelated things and I started thinking about Countess Bederin and her unexpected dinner invite from Zakura. so I reread the whole thing instead of working lol No pressure, I just thought to ask. Thank you again and take care!

I actually do have quite a bit for sneak peeks, though it's all first draft material 😅 Last chapter got broken in half due to size, but in the 1st draft I got all the way through their arrival to dinner. A small sneak peek:

“This feels foolish,” you admit, your crape rustling with each step. “How am I to eat with this veil? I cannot simply push it back.”

“I will hold it for you,” Shindote offers, quite amused. “Perhaps take glimpses of what’s underneath.”

You frown. “Don’t be absurd.”

(You can tell this is a first draft because I hadn't quite decided how she would refer to Zakura-- first name alone was straight out, and "Sir Shidnote" is the wrong form, so I just settled for Shidnote to write faster.)

In terms of long range-spoilers, I can say:

Someone will not appreciate the impropriety of a widow at a public dinner

A new character will appear from Bederin's past

Someone is going to have to be a distraction

#asks #bederin #nothing surprises me more than when i am asked about this fic #because in my head i am like. i is me and my 5 friends who love to torture me that like this #i do enjoy writing it but i always feel like it's niche #despite the numbers it actually does #ans

[sabraeal]

The Most Perverse Creature in the World, Chapter 12

[Read on AO3]

It is, in the end, the curtains that bother you most. Not the color, per se, or even the gauze, meant to give as much privacy as the girl’s lingerie, but rather...

In those years that spanned endlessly from your wedding night, wound and tangled around every disappointment, you had thought a hundred-- no, a thousand times about how you might decorate the nursery, when it came time. First for a boy, then for a girl, and then as the years wore on, anything that might be happy and healthy, a child your husband could be proud of. Anyone whom could one day bear the heavy burden of Bederin’s best interests. You had loved Atoshi as a mother did, and yet--

He was not yours. It had not mattered overmuch to you that you had not bore him, but at the end of the summer, no matter what fun you had or how like your child he felt, it would be to his own parents that he returned. And you-- you were left in that empty house, waiting for a husband who so rarely did.

A boy’s room might first be your purview, but soon enough it would cede to your husband, all your sea blues and bottle greens shoved aside for more stately hues. The sort that would convey that a Young Master lived within these walls, that he was but the larval form of the lords that came before him. Even if his cheeks were round and his limbs chubby, he should be treated as such.

But a girl-- oh, how you would have delighted in a girl. Curtains of the most delicate rose, woods painted only the most pristine of whites, carpets plush and hardware shined to a glimmering gold. The sort of room even a princess might envy, should the Wisteria line ever deign to make one.

And last night, you saw its mirror. Only within the bed was not a precious daughter but...

Your eyes clench shut, as if that would ward off your thoughts. Your father’s stubborn insistence to keep any guests from touring the nursery had been a joke between you and your brother-- Father can’t let them know how messy we are behind closed doors-- but now it takes on a far more sinister edge. One you’re afraid you won’t soon forget.

“My lady.” The guard at the door bows, blond head bobbing nervously as he brings himself upright. “His Highness will see you now.”

Your teeth grit into the seeming of a smile. “Then let us not keep him waiting.”

It is no great surprise to see Sir Lowen seated inside-- he is, after all, the prince’s foremost aide; one can hardly hear of Prince Zen without hearing of the great giant at his shoulder, as mild-mannered as he is mountainous. As a guard, your mind could make sense of it; there were few men who would look at Lowen and make the decision to harry him. But to see him here, tucked beneath the desk like a clerk, busying himself with paperwork--

It’s absurd. Delightfully so.

“My lady,” he says, standing-- no, towering over his ridiculous desk. “It is a pleasure to see you again.”

Rarely have you been glad of your veil, but you must admit, it is a luxury that you do not have to smother yet another smile in its cradle. “No, Sir Lowen, it is all mine.”

“All ours, considering what Sir’s contributing to this conversation,” Obi crows from his sill, curled up as tight as a cat on a cushion. Another anticipated presence, some familiar good humor to greet you, but--

But it is not his grin that greets you as your gaze lifts, oh no, but a grimace. He’s not so much curled as cramped, his fingers gripping the casement, white as the wallpaper itself, the only thing keeping him anchored to this room. Not a cat lazing in luxury, but one braced above the bath, terrified of falling in.

“So you keep promising,” drawls a voice, cultured and feminine-- and also wholly unexpected. “I’d hate to be disappointed.”

It had been quite the scandal nearly five years past-- Earl Seiran’s daughter setting aside her dancing shoes for a duelist’s gloves, taking up the position of the second prince’s aide. The society pages had been filled with tales of disappointed young men, doing the sort of dramatic play only those with money and position can afford. Your husband recounted the whole of it to you as you lay beneath the covers, and you had laughed, wondering what young lady would spurn such a charmed life as the one meant for Kiki Seiran.

Ah, but time had shown which one of you had played her hand best. It was an inevitability that you would meet, given your acquaintance with His Highness. And yet still, you are unprepared.

There is a second desk in the room, positioned parallel from Sir Lowen’s own,  but it’s not behind it that she sits, oh no, but perched upon the prince’s. He shows no sign of noticing, merely looking on with a weariness that speaks of long conversations and even longer hours, as if a young woman with the face of a doll and a sword at her hip seating herself on the same surfaces as edicts and amendments were signed was but an every day occurrence. As if it were nothing for a lady to hold herself with all the coiled threat of a whip.

But of course, for him it must be. It had never occurred to you that Seiran’s heir would do more than simply balance the royal ledger, but nothing of Lady Kiki’s posture spoke of an unfamiliarity with her blade. No, she might as well have been born holding it, for all that she marks it.

You should be scandalized; only months ago you would have been. But now, now-- there is a part of you that is jealous. Your brothers’ lessons in the yard had bored you to tears, but perhaps if you had stayed--

“My lady.” The second prince does not yet have the commanding presence of his brother, but his voice is stern enough to bring your thoughts to heel. With a sweep of his hand, he draws your attention to the chair across from him. “I’m eager to hear about your mission.”

“Aw, Master,” Obi whines pitifully from his post. “Haven’t I already told you all about--?”

“What I’d like to hear is the truth,” His Highness grouses as you sweep into your seat, finding it a perfectly passable place to bide. Not precisely comfortable, but then, you would not trust one that was, not with a Wisteria in your sight. “ And between you and L-- Countess Bederin, I know who’s more likely to give it.”

“I, for one, like your version of events,” Lady Kiki drawls, never once moving her gaze from you. Seiran’s crest might be a great tree, but she is less the stately oak and more the lion in its branches. “I hope they turn out to be true.”

Sir Lowen groans, beleaguered. “Kiki.”

Ah, you had not known how to approach such a delicate topic as your doings last night, not in a room with a lady as well as a prince royal, but it seems Obi had already beaten you to the broad strokes. Or perhaps, a very detailed portrait of at least one part of their night.

“It all went as planned, Your Highness.” Obi sits still in the window, still poised to throw himself out it at any moment. “Your messenger proved himself quite resourceful. Sir Mitsuhide was hardly step into the hall before Obi stole him away to the right room, and with no one the wiser.”

“And Sir spent the night with four of the most expensive women in the city.” Obi leans over the sash, hand cupped around a whisper that hardly earns the name. “One of them even offered to give the money back.”

“It’s not what it sounds like.” Sir Lowen’s gaze darts to where Lady Kiki sits, her mouth curled in the barest hint of amusement. “No one ever--”

The knight hauls himself up short, reining in the protest before it can get much further from his lips. “I mean,” he mutters, wearily. “Nothing happened.”

“Our young women did vouch that Sir Mitsuhide was the very image of a gentleman.” You refrain from commenting on their audible disappointment in the fact. “The evening as a whole was above board.”

As Himawari allowed it to be. Another detail you will not be appending to your report, out of deference to Sir Lowen’s peace of mind.

“Really?” The second prince fixes on his aide, eyes too wide, lean a shade to acute to be anything but morbid interest in the goings-on behind red doors. Typical of his age; Atoshi had gone through much the same, despite yours-- and your husband’s-- lectures on the topic. Though in retrospect, perhaps only yours were heartfelt. “Nothing?”

Obi snorts. “Nothing but finding out what scintillating topics young ladies like to read about these days.”

The prince blinks. “You asked them about books.”

“I don’t see why not.” Sir Lowen pulls his spine Sereg-straight, tugging at the bottom of his jacket. “Miss Kikyo gave me a very good recommendation for--”

“Aw, don’t bore him with that one.” Obi’s mouth parts into a grin so honed it could cut. “Tell ‘em about the one Himawari showed you.”

It’s strange to see so delicate a blush on so large a man, especially one who so emphatically stated that he had prior history with bawd houses, no matter how tame. It would certainly make for an entertaining mystery to unravel, if he did not dart his gaze to the young lady across the room, nerves so openly displayed His Highness could charge admission.

“No,” Sir Lowen manages, the flush twining its way around his ears. “I don’t think I will.”

Lady Kiki hums, curling her nails for inspection. It is the studied sort of disinterest most ladies could only dream of achieving, especially in front of a suitor so earnest as hers. “That seems like a waste of the countess’s generosity.”

Ah, so Wisteria’s penchant for cruelty did breed true in Seiran’s line. “Kiki--”

“Your Highness.” Your voice lifts above the din, and for the first time, quiets it. The silence left in its wake is not scandalized but...anticipatory, as if words you speak have weight. No, that they are worth waiting for. “I must ask you something.”

You had never thought you would see eyes this particular shade so guileless. “Anything, my-- countess. You are always free to speak your mind.”

“Oh, you say that, Master,” Obi grouses from his sill, all for show. “But when I say--”

“You--” the prince twists in his seat, patience wearing thin-- “can never seem to remember how to behave in polite company--”

“--well, maybe if everyone was nicer, then I’d think it was--”

You cannot hold your thoughts behind your teeth any longer. “Were you aware that there are children in these houses, Your Highness?”

There is a stillness in the wake of your words; not the way the air lacks a breeze but the way a body lacks a breath, as if you had stolen them from their lungs. Not a single muscle moves, not until the prince ventures, “Excuse me. Did you say...children?”

Sir Lowen turns to you first, his brow drawn with a confounded concern. “Do mean the children of the, er...ladies? They’re often kept in the back rooms when their mother are...working.”

Lady Kiki snorts. “You seem to know quite a bit about it.”

You expect him to flush, to stumble under the weight of her attention-- and disbelief-- but instead he is fixed on you. Hardly a surprise; it was he with whom you switched rooms with last night.

“No,” you reply, so even, despite the way you want to tear into those striped curtains, to rip the innocence off those walls. “I mean working.”

It is Lady Kiki who straightens now, gaze resting as heavy as a hand on your shoulder. “Girls before their bleeding?”

“No.” It is as generous an answer as you can allow yourself. “I gather that they are only debuted once their first cycle has run its course.”

The prince is pale when he replies, “Then by law they are no longer children. it states quite clearly: sixteen, or at a woman’s first flowering--”

“The one I saw could not have been much over thirteen, perhaps fourteen, if I were of the mind to be generous.” Your tone implies quite clearly that you are not, and you hope that you never will be on such a front. “Do you mean to tell me that she is a woman?”

His mouth works, but still only manages a weak, “By law--”

You may have never birthed a child from your own body, but you have raised a boy to manhood, and with all the authority that you can summon, you inform the second prince of Clarines, “You cannot hide behind a law and claim you serve your people, Your Highness.”

His jaw clenches, the way you remember his father’s had at your debut, tight and unkind. But unlike the old king, it eases within a breath, thought the gaze he fixes on you is still hard. “I am not my brother, countess. I don’t make the rules, I merely uphold them.”

“An easy thing to say when you are above them.” The words fly from you before you think to catch them, and once said, they sit heavy between you, a strain on your brief acquaintance. “Your Highness--”

The bells ring, marking the end of morning, and the beginning of--

“The council meeting,” you yelp, sweeping from your seat. “It was to start--” you press a hand to your face-- “ah, but I’ll be late.”

“Please, countess.” The second prince waves his hand, every motion weary, heavy. “Do not let us keep you. We can...speak of all this another time.”

You know courtspeak too well to believe this is anything but a politely-worded never. “Of course, Your Highness. Shall I wait for you, or...?”

He shakes his head, baby-fine hair sliding across his forehead. “No, no. I have...things to handle here. But do tell me when you’re giving your next report to the council.” He tries a smile that hardly deserves the name. “I want to keep up with your progress.”

And allow the lords to tear you to pieces when you do. Your mouth pulls thin, but you keep your thoughts to yourself. A miracle with how hard they fight to fly from your lips. “Of course, Your Highness. I will let you know.”

Despite your boldness, it seems you have not fallen so far from His Highness’s favor; he sends Obi as your escort even though the council chamber is only a few halls away.

“Poor Mister.” Obi’s fast on your heels, more a shadow than he’s ever been. “He was sweating bullets having to talk about his night with those ladies. Especially in front of Miss Kiki.”

Or perhaps Prince Zen considered his messenger’s presence punishment enough. More the fool him; ten years ago his pranks might have sent your nerves into a tizzy, but now you only sigh, shaking you head as you remind him, “You were the one so keen to mention it.”

“Well, sure,” he wheedles, “but that’s my job, my lady, I keep the mood light.”

“Perhaps that’s the problem.” The rustle of your crape echoes after you as you bustle down the hall, ire egging on your steps. “It is all light moods in that room, and not enough thought.”

“Aw, now, my lady...” The sounds he makes are pitiful, but you will not be moved. “Master will come around. He makes a good show of being married to the rules, but he always finds a way around them if you give him enough time. You’ll see.”

“That’s all well and fine for him, but while he tangles himself up looking for loopholes, it is girls like Sumire who pay the price.” It galls you that there is no recourse, nothing that you can do besides apply pressure to the right places and hope. “Surely there’s some crime to be had in this. Where do they find these girls, for one? If they are taken off the street, stolen from their beds--”

Obi grates out a laugh, harsh and humorless. “Oh no. They do not have to look that far at all...”

The great stair looms before you, but your feet still before the first step, turning you back instead. “So you have some idea then, I take it?”

“Me?” He presses a hand to his chest, but you doubt even as child he looked innocent. “No, my lady, only...”

Your brows raise. “Only...?”

“Do you really not know, my lady?” he says, incredulous. “They find them right in the arms of their mothers.”

You cannot make sense of it. “The women themselves? But those are their own babes, surely...”

Obi clucks his tongue. “Everyone in a whorehouse is for sale, even the children.”

You know only the barest hints of your shadow’s past, of who he was before the second prince scooped him up and polished him into a royal messenger. But beneath that sheen of respectability, sometimes you wonder--

“Bederin.”

Obi flinches back, looking as if he would prefer to become a shadow in truth rather that face the man at the top of the stair. You, however, hardly have the luxury-- you instead turn to face him head on, Arluleon’s disapproval radiating palpably from his grave countenance.

“Your Grace,” you grate out, hardly gracious. “What a surprise to see you. I thought you would be in the council chambers already.”

“I came to find you.” He deigns to descend a stair as you begin your foray up. “Perhaps if you cannot find it within your schedule to attend, you might consider finding another to sit in your stead.”

“What a polite way to tell me to leave business to you men,” you laugh, your banked anger from last night flaring to the fore. “I assume you think my nephew would make a much more obliging occupant.”

“No,” he says steadily, meeting you at halfway. “Just a more punctual one.”

“Perhaps if more of the council involved themselves in the affairs they voted on with such unconcern, they would find themselves likewise engaged,” you suggest, pausing only when you have ascended to a height that puts you even with his eyes. “But until then, I will do my business as I like, and you will all have to excuse me if I am but a few moments late for your social hour.”

Above his ridiculous facial hair, Arluleon has gone a particularly becoming shade of crimson. “Social hour--”

“You better hurry, Your Grace,” you hum sweetly. “It would be a pity if you missed the cocktails.”

He stares at you, so intense it is like a touch, like he has reached out and put his hand upon your throat, his thumb settling in the dip of your clavicle before he--

“Fine.” His thrusts out his arm, more like a man expecting a snake’s bite instead of a lady’s hands. “Come then.”

How foolish he must think you, to believe you might come as he called, as if you were no more than a bitch in his kennel, eager for his praise. “I must thank you for the honor, Your Grace, but I am afraid I already have an escort.”

He blinks, brows drawing heavy with confusion before he follows your gaze, straight to where Obi stands. “You.”

“Ah!” Your shadow jumps, eyes darting toward the nearest exit. “Your Grace, I--”

“You have to be joking,” Arluleon rumbles, halfway to a roar. “That man is hardly fit to shine shoes, let alone--”

“And yet I find his company more pleasant than yours.” You smile, though you know he can not see it, a simper and a mockery all in one. “It seems that for all your fine airs, you still cannot breed an agreeable personality. Obi?”

You call, but your shadow shrinks. “Ah, now, that’s fine enough, my lady. I think if the-- er, Marquis Haruka takes you the rest of the way, Master will consider my job well done.”

You frown. “But Obi--”

“Really.” He casts a thoughtful glance between the two of you, eyes white around the edges. “I’ll see you later, my lady.”

Arluleon huffs as Obi slips away, shaking his head. “I see why Zen’s set that boy on you now. He certainly has more sense.”

His arm hovers before you, rising as he does to stand beside you, your high ground lost. Your palm itches, anticipating the cloth of his coat, of the way it will burn when you touch.

You turn away instead.

“I have found, Your Grace,” you say, taking yet another step above him. “That I do not need an escort. It seems my legs work just fine without a man to support them.”

#haruka x reader #akagami no shirayukihime #snow white with the red hair #my fic #ans #poor obi #first has to sit through brothel talk #and then he's gotta watch bederin and haruka flirt #in the weirdest way

[sabraeal]

1000 Followers Celebration, Part 9

January:

Week 1: The Man of Progress [melvik] Week 2: to all the ghosts still standing in this room [soolili] Week 3: Gojo/Marin [My Dress Up Darling] Week 4: Nanami Kento/Bakery Girl [Jujutsu Kaisen]

February

Week 1: Desert & Reward Week 2: Get Up Eight Week 3: Come to Heel [Izanayuki]

We are down to one last week and therefore one last poll! We need one more non-obiyuki AnS pairing to round out the month

Additionally, it is time to reveal the last little part of this celebration! Just as I did with 500 Followers, I will be having a raffle for fic requests! I will randomly select 3 followers to win 1 update request from me. Each like & reblog on these celebration posts will count as 1 entry each!

#1000 followers #see i said that liking and reblogging would have benefits later 🤣 #this only lasts for as long as the polls are open on that post #so please don't go back and try to spam like & reblog old posts #you can focus your attentions on this one #within reason #please don't spam reblog this either 😂 #this is to be fun not to be obnoxious

[sabraeal]

1000 Followers Celebration, Part 8!

After a close battle for the last 24 hours, we have finally names our bonus chapter fic: Desert & Reward!

Now we're closing in on the last two weeks of our celebration, which will focus on updating non-obiyuki AnS pairs! This poll will be full of pairs that currently have unfinished fics, so choose the ones you most want to see!

January:

Week 1: The Man of Progress [melvik] Week 2: to all the ghosts still standing in this room [soolili] Week 3: Gojo/Marin [My Dress Up Darling] Week 4: Nanami Kento/Bakery Girl [Jujutsu Kaisen]

February

Week 1: Desert & Reward Week 2: Get Up Eight

#1000 Followers #sorry my suzuri fans but aside from WFB stuff i don't have any fics for them open currently #otherwise i would have been happy to put them on #but also they win every year i offer rare pairs so this time I'm giving other pairings a chance to win 🤣 #i had so little time to dedicate to my rare pairs this year so hopefully this will be able to tide people over #as i get my whole house together writing-wise in the new year

[sabraeal]

38, 10 for A Slip of the Tongue, and 7? (Thank you!)

7. What story/headcanons do you feel the proudest of?

Oh, Mad King Kain, hands down. It was a group effort to get it to where it is today, but truly, that is a fav. Plus the Ryuu Wisteria addendum.

I also fully enjoyed doing A Color By Any Other Name, since that was a headcanon we've been bandying about since like...2017? And so finally getting it down and have everyone going like YES, COLORBLIND OBI IS BEST has been a gratifying experience

10. What is the line you’re proudest of from A Slip of the Tongue?

I don't know if I could pick a line (though "he's not meant for this level of social responsibility" comes close) but the dinner scene where Obi and Shirayuki are bragging about his stand off with one of the university chairs is probably one of my favorite bits. A nice little encapsulation of why he has those parental-type feels for them, even if they're really more in the big bro/big sis age range.

38. What story of yours are you surprised that people liked as much as they did?

I think...A Man's Duty? I remember posting the first chapter and being like, no one is going to care about this fic that's carried entirely by a non-canon character, but I think it's dumb and cute. And now people tell me it's one of their favorites and that they love Hiro and I'm like, okay well who wouldn't love Hiro, he's a cinnamon bun, but also, REALLY?

Probably also The Most Perverse Creature in the World, though I know a good half of the enjoyment from that stems from everyone knowing how mortifying writing and xReader fic is.

#asks #meme #writing meme #YES YES I KNOW BEDERIN IS INTERESTING IN HER OWN RIGHT #but let us not pretend that those of you that read it aren't sitting there like >:3c jen suffered for this #but in a FUN way >:3c #i at least tell myself as I write it that one day I can just file the serial numbers off and make it a romance novel or something #lol 'file the serial numbers off' i say like i wouldn't rewrite that whole sucker with LORE coming out the seams

[sabraeal]

NaNo Check-In, Day 9

Word Count:

Best Work:

“Then ask. I shall be happy to confirm or deny your findings.”

“Excellent.” Konstantijn licked his lips, and Nox noticed the strange gleam in his eye -- greed, perhaps, or maybe desperation. There were worse things, he supposed, than a thirst for knowledge. “The rift, it was caused by the war between Meridor and Anterca, was it not?”

“Yes. It is officially unknown who released the contamination into the desert.” Nox hesitated before adding. “Though plenty have their suspicions.”

“Anterca, of course.” The scholar hardly hesitated. “The helezon never knew the limitations of magic. Never believed in it. Meridor relied on valor and swords to get their point across. Like two backstreet bullies who have turned their attention onto each other; neither of them knew how to stop until they were picked up up by the scruff and separated. Permanently.”

Nox stared down at the older man. “That seems like quite a personal observation for a historian.”

“Ah, well.” The man offered him a bright smile. “It ended the war, did it not? Hard to skirmish over borders when you have cast a blight over them. Not without bringing navies into the equation.”

“The seas are not safe,” Nox remarked.

“No,” Konstantijn agreed distantly. “No, they are not.”

#original fiction #nanomay19 #i finally managed to do 2K this week #and if i can keep that up I'll be a WHOLE DAY ahead #plus i finished the draft for bederin #and that means my break fics today will be editing it #editing D&R #and then starting in on a new fic entirely #also today i discovered a whole bunch of meta knowledge for a subplot in this book #that probably nothing will happen with in this series #BUT AT LEAST *I* KNOW #i was trying to explain it to husband and i'm pretty sure #that it was some dizzying logic

[sabraeal]

The Most Perverse Creature in the World, Chapter 8

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7

Though your father had been a country count, unimportant to the machinations of Wistal’s court, you had never lacked for companionship.  What your father had lacked in political clout, he had made up for in varied acquaintance: knights’ daughters, a neighboring baron’s young granddaughter, your own cousins-- all of them had made up your coterie of ladies, giggling beneath covers in childhood and over fans when you made your debut.

They had cooed when you had told them of your husband’s proposal, teasing you over his age, over his equally distant holdings, but when you had married in your father’s lavish gardens, taking your husband’s hand as you made your first steps toward Bederin--

They had wept.

You wonder sometimes what has become of them. Whether they married well, whether the pretty knight’s daughter caught a peer after all. Perhaps you sit on the council with their husbands, and they--

They ignore the receipts as well. Just another entry made in the ledger, written in their neat hand at the same time it is thoroughly unseen.

Perhaps they think of you, too. The news of your husband’s death, at least, must have brought them pause over their needlepoint, remembering their younger, less complicated years. Their condolences could have been one of the hundreds you received and blindly answered, too deeply entrenched in your mourning to think of anything more than a few lines of thanks.

They might even think of you now, wondering if you nephew took care of you as he ought as the new count, or if you had been sent to the house of your brother, living as a spectral albatross about his neck.

Ah, whatever they think, it would pale to the truth of it.

“I only mean to say, if we’re to be taxed for acts, then what’s the incentive for us to do more than give ‘em a quick rub and send ‘em on their way?” Himawari folds her arms right under her chest, mouth set in a belligerent pout. “What next? Are they going to take for duration too? For how many little deaths we fake?”

At least, you hope your friends would not be able to guess at this. “I am not sure of the lords’ plans for future taxation, but as it currently stands, you would be changed more for a, ah, rub than you would be for something more...traditional.”

Himawari’s brows draw sharply over her blade of a nose. “Traditional.”

“What her ladyship is trying to imply,” Kikyo interjects smoothly, “is that they mean to tax us for what they call lewd acts, which doesn’t include fucking. Unless you do it any way but on your back.”

Himawari snorts, stretching out to her full, impressive length. Before tonight you thought few men wanted a woman who could look them in the eye, but it’s taken you weeks to find an opening in Himawari’s schedule. Aside from Tsubaki, she’s the most popular girl in the house.

“Well, that makes no sense. It’s quicker and cleaner to just use a hand, and I--”

“Plenty of your other companions feel the same,” you explain quickly. If you have learned anything in your meetings with the ladies of this house, it is that you do not give them time to expound upon...personal experiences. Or rather, specific personal experiences. It only leaves you wondering which of your fellow councilmen might have been the ‘rude gent that wanted a spank’ before he inevitably got down to business.

(Though you do have a few ideas on that one. And the lord who asked for a glass of port during a specific act you will not allow yourself to recount.)

Himawari frowns, somehow forbidding even in her gossamer negligee. “Then what’s to be done about it? It’s the lords what decide our fate. Are we to deny them custom? Starve ourselves while they go elsewhere?”

“That is why I am here.” You smooth your notebook across your lap, taking comfort in the paper beneath your palms. “His Majesty has task me with finding an alternate proposal.”

“She’s been asking all of us our thoughts,” Kikyo explains, “in an attempt to make one that’s more fair to us, instead of the lords.”

Himawari raises a skeptical brow. “And how’s that been coming?”

“Ah...” Your notes are a mess; you ask one girl what she wants, and it confounds another’s. You put forth this contradictory piece, and suddenly you are in a debate with no experience to draw from, only what you have gleaned from your interviews and trolling through the Big House’s archives. “I am...approaching an idea...”

“Yeah, that none of us want the same thing,” she laughs, shaking her head. “There’s some girls here who don’t to much but lie on their backs. And some of us that have made a name filling different sorts of appetites. And have you talked to the boys?”

“Boys?” You blink, shuffling through your notes. “The doormen--”

“They’re for sale too.” Her mouth hooks, wry. “I’m sure they’d have plenty to say about getting taxed up the--”

“We take your point,” Kikyo interjects smoothly, “but there’s not much to be done. Not without suspicion.”

You nod. “I’ve gleaned that your madam wouldn’t like the idea of you girls bargaining a better position.”

“Not unless it made her a pretty penny,” Himawari spat, “which it might well do, since she’s so keep on pinching from our pockets.”

You swallow a sigh, shifting in your seat. “It would be nice to have all of you in a room at once, if only to make some sense of it all. But your madam--”

“Would never allow it,” Kikyo confirms. “She’d think it was cutting into profits.”

“Even if I paid?” You would be far from the first peer to rent out a house of ill repute for an evening. “I could--”

“My lady, it would only be a pretense.” Kikyo sends you one of her soft, sly smiles. “She hardly likes two of us in a room at once, let alone all of us.”

“And agreeing,” Himawari huffs. “Might give us ideas about who should really be running the house.”

Your mouth hooks into a smirk. “Sounds like you all have ideas on that too.”

“Don’t we just.” Himarwari’s teeth bare in a tiger’s smile. “Mainly seeing our current one out of it.”

Her words slap you as hard as a thunder clap. “Would that be possible?”

Kikyo’s eyes widen. “My lady?”

“I do not mean permanently.” Yet. “But for a night. Is there a way to get her from the house?”

The two women exchange glances.

“She hardly ever leaves,” Himawari admits. “Unless...”

“Unless she has custom,” Kikyo finishes, thoughtful. “But she considers her services very...elite.”

“What she means is: the madam won’t go out for anyone but the choicest lords.” Himawari grins. “Which don’t happen too often, considering how they all like young things that aren’t too big for their britches.”

More likely they prefer young things who are impressed by their power and will do anything to please them. You bite down on the thought; as true as it may be, your job here is not to denigrate the reputation of the other councilmen.

After all, they do such a fine job of it themselves.

“Not that it would solve much,” Himawari scoffs, “Sumire would still be here.”

Sumire. You’ve heard the name before, once or twice, as girls passed meaningful looks. “Is that...?”

“The Madam’s spy?” Himawari snaps. “Yes.”

Kikyo’s glance is laden with censure as she says, “Sumire is the Madam’s freshest flower.”

“Freshest flower?” you ask, already fearing the explanation, but-- you are here to learn. There is no point in helping them if you choose to turn away from what they cannot.

“She debuted last year,” Kikyo explains with a hesitation that sets your teeth on edge. “To much anticipation.”

Himawari snorts. “She paraded the girl around for a year, letting everyone look and never touch, and then sold the right to the highest bidder.”

“An auction.” Kikyo gives her a quelling glare. “Only the most promising receive one. There’s no point, after all, if one’s debut won’t pay for the party itself.”

“You mean that her...” You flounder for the words, and Himawari smirks. “Her maiden’s head was...?”

“Sold, yes.” You stifle a squirm, but Himawari’s grin says you have done a poor job of it. “To some lord, who kept her until he tired of her.”

“That isn’t what happened,” Kikyo snaps. “You know that well enough.”

“It hardly matters in any case.” The tall woman shrugs, careless. “Only the fanciest lords are allowed to have her now.”

Your mouth pulls thin. “I take it that the Madam has something to do with that?”

“Of course.” Himawari’s grin is sharp. “Why accept less than the opening bid?”

“The Madam gives her the choicest clients,” Kikyo clarifies, “and as such, Sumire is loyal to her. Like a child to a mother.”

It is on the tip of your tongue: a mother would never sell her child. But it is an easy thing for you to say, a woman who never had one, a child who never wanted despite it. But when a child is yet another open mouth to feed, and there’s not enough food to hand-- who knows what might be done to make up the lack.

You stare at your hands, still covered in lace, the weight of your wedding ring heavy on your finger, and--

And maybe it is not only those hungry for bread that sell their daughters.

You nod, briskly, to organize your thoughts. “Then we will table such an idea for now. But as for your thoughts...”

You close the door behind you, leaving the woman to whatever preparations they make to conceive the illusion of your visit being a profitable one. For your own peace of mind, you’ve never quite asked what that entails.

Those thoughts are not the ones that occupy you in any case. Your mind races, as it always does, filled with half-written laws that sag in the middle, or are only held together by a thin chain of ellipses as you search for the words you need to bind them. The other councilors might joke about your knotty problem, but if it is one, its loops conceal a hopeless tangle beneath, the whole of it always hidden from your view. You may pull at what you see, hoping to find an end, but you suspect all of those efforts have only made it worse, not better.

Still, you probe at it, mind tugging at its coils. If only you could drag every last bit of it into the light--

You press your lips together, teeth biting at your cheeks. There is a way to do it, if only you could figure out the logistics of it.

Hah, but is that not what you were trained to do? They may not have wanted you to be a countess in your own right, but the perfect count’s wife, able to organize a luncheon--

Now that, that you have been trained to do.

“Obi.”

He glances up from where he leans against the wall, all impossibly long limbs, the way hounds were just after they grew out of being puppies.

“May I help you?” he asks, gaze darting to the door behind you. “Is my lady ready to leave?”

You blink. “Yes?”

His brow arches, every feature of his face curved into polite curiosity. It takes you aback for a moment, he looks younger like this, hardly more than a boy without the guarded suspicion marring his face. “Will you get her?”

“Get her?” You stare at him, brows drawn in confusion. “I’m here.”

“You’re--?” His eyes widen, jaw going slack. “My lady. I didn’t-- I didn’t recognize you without--”

Words fail him, and he gestures vaguely toward his face. For a moment, you stand stymied, but then you raise your hands, the smooth round of your cheek squishing beneath the lace of your fingers.

“My veil,” you breathe, reaching for your reticule. “I must have-- I didn’t--”

His hands come to still yours, lifting the fall of lace from your boneless fingers. “Please, my lady, allow me.”

He sets it over you gently, lowering the blusher of your veil until it falls over your chest, obscuring the world beneath a black cage.

“There, that’s...” His lips press together. “Normal.”

“Normal,” you sigh, fussing with the edge. “Yes. I suppose.”

Obi opens his mouth only to close it again. “You were going to ask me something else, my lady?”

“Yes.” Your hands drop down to your side, laying flat against the crape. “There’s a girl I want you to secure a meeting with. Her name is Sumire.”

#haruka x reader #akagami no shirayukihime #snow white with the red hair #my fic #ans #sadly there is no haruka in this chapter #but this is pretty much a lead up to the deeper plot #so...he'll be in the next one #instead please enjoy Obi being a Good Boy

[sabraeal]

The Most Perverse Creature in the World, Chapter 7

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6

It is in your nature to wait.

Your childhood was by the sea, soaked in salt and sand, hair a tangle and hems always muddied, a few steps behind your brothers. That was how it always was: your brothers forging ahead on their own, and you the tag-along, trying to catch them. Though only a few years separated your births, it was you who stood at the door, rocking on your heels, waiting for a chaperone. The shore is too dangerous to walk alone, your governess would say, brushing the briny knots from your hair.

Funny, it was never too treacherous for your brothers, allowed to walk at high and low and every tide between, day or night. Shoes laid shucked by the stairs, clothing discarded like selkie skin, a constant companion in your younger years, but you could not even traipse out to meet them, lest the water creep up drag you away.

Safety, they said, and you, so obedient, whiled away the hours of your childhood, waiting for eyes to meet yours.

You were nineteen when you wed, hardly out of the schoolroom, sent from the home of your birth straight to the marriage bed. Those first years were the happiest, when your husband could barely stand to be separated from you and spared Wistal only half a week, if he must. But after, when years passed and still no heir evidenced itself upon you --

Many hours of your girlhood had been whiled away by the widow of your parlor, watching the road that lead to Bederin, hoping that he might return. That the receipts you had received for payment were gowns and baubles for you, not...elsewhere.

But you are not that girl now; you are Countess Bederin, and you will wait for no man, not any longer.

Just as soon as you can divine when the prince’s messenger has gone.

“You might try the Big House, my lady,” Mayu offers, watching you pace with worried eyes.

“The...Big House?” You blink, brows drawing tight. It would not surprise you, had Obi done something to merit cooling his heels behind bars, but still --

“Ah, it’s where the messengers receive their assignments,” she explains, “the big room, with all the clerks.”

“Oh, I’ve been there.” Still had records to return, in fact, sitting on a table near the door. For as busy as you’ve been, you have never quite found an excuse to take you that way, and every one to pull you away. “I just have never heard its...colloquial name, I suppose.”

Mayu has the grace to blush. “If he isn’t there, my lady, they might at least know where he is.”

You sigh, brushing the creases out of your bombazine. “It’s as good a plan as any.” You cast a wary glare to your letter table. “And it is far past time for me to return those.”

“I hope the head clerk is not as strict as the librarian,” Mayu says worriedly. “He is still upset about the book I returned with the tiniest disfiguration.”

Your eyebrow raises. “Disfiguration?”

“I tore out a page” Your young maid waves her hand with feigned carelessness. “Nothing to get so upset about! It was years ago!”

“Dare I ask?” you say, trying for forbidding and missing the mark. Ah, if only you could remember your great aunt clearer, perhaps you would be able to mimic her severity. How useful such a thing would be in a room full of men who still feared the specters of their mothers. “What was on the page?”

Mayu coughs, finding anywhere else in the room to look at. “Oh, ah, nothing.”

You wait.

“A recipe for a love potion!” she blurts out. “But it didn’t work.”

Never have you been so glad to have your face hidden, though your shoulders must shake.

“Ah,” you manage, swallowing down a giggle. Oh, how you miss such concerns of youth; how a single smile could send you and your friend into swoons, sending you spilling into the kitchen for folk remedies for a broken heart. “You don’t say.”

What you wouldn’t give to relive those days, to feel that spark ignite in your breast once more. You stare down at your gloves, skin barely visible through the lace.

But all your romance is past now, and before you --

Your lips thin. You have much more important work to do.

Your hands scoop up the record. “I will be back shortly, Mayu.”

With folio in hand, you follow the twists and turns of Wistal’s corridors, so long and square it reminds you of wandering a city’s streets.

Your feet stutter beneath you, suddenly daunted. The last time you had been allowed to do such a thing had been when you were little more than a girl, brought to court for your coming out, presented to the king and queen themselves.

The city had seemed so large then, so grand. You had barely walked the length of the merchant quarter -- or at least the part had been deemed appropriate for a young lady of your caliber -- before blisters had welled up in your slippers, leaving you limping in your dancing shoes. That is, until another a lady had taken you aside, had shown you how to soak you feet in warm water and Epsom salts to draw the fluid out. She’d taught you how to bandage them as well, discreetly so that the cotton would not show outside your fine shoes. It was as she had wrapped your foot, still stinging from the salts, and held you so gently that you finally felt the your own lack, keen as a blade.

Governesses you had aplenty, but a mother -- never. Only the vague memory of wide skirts pressed to your cheeks, and the scent of lilac.

You have walked this path before, but the enormity of it rolls over you: this palace is a city in itself, and you walk its streets every day on your own two feet. There was a folktale your nurse would tell you, about a girl whose every step felt like walking on glass, how she knew no relief until she returned to the sea. Your husband had loved that story.

Ah, but of course he had; he had married you, had he not? The girl who could not take two steps on her own without needing a hand to hold her.

And now here you are. Returned to the sea.

It had only taken his death to do it.

“My lady Bederin!” a familiar voice pipes with surprise. You look up, correction fresh on your lips, but already His Highness is shaking his head. “I mean, Countess. I didn’t expect to see you here.”

He is not alone; it takes you a moment to place his companion, tall and hair like an ink spill, an old scar, healed poorly, bisecting his nose. Sir Zakura, aide to His Majesty, a lord in his own right now. A common man lifted up by royal hands.

Your gaze flits between them, and you hope Prince Zen learns well from his brother’s example.

“I didn’t expect to be here, Your Highness,” you admit, giving him the barest of curtsies. Your governess would have been shocked at your lack of propriety -- in front of a prince royal, no less -- but after a man has snuck into your room in the dead of night, the right degree of obeisance seems...ridiculous.

You hold out the record, and it is not until you have smiled sheepishly that you realize there is no need to feign such a thing when he cannot possibly see it. “I have been quite remiss in returning what I have borrowed, you see.”

“Ah.” The prince favors you with a warm smile, and oh, if you had been a younger girl, how that would have sent your heart aflutter. What a surprise that some enterprising young noblewoman hasn’t managed to snap him up. “Then I will save you the head clerk’s wrath, my lady. I was just about to head in.”

“Oh.” Your hand hangs, boneless, as he slips the folio from you fingers, as well as your alibi. “You don’t not have to, Your Highness.”

“And that is what makes it such a pleasure.” He winks at you, which earns you a speculative glance from his companion. Oh, if that isn’t that last thing you need. “Besides, it’s spare you a scolding you won’t soon forget.”

“I wouldn’t want you to --”

“Countess, please.” The grin he gives you is almost rakish, and it’s a struggle not to laugh. You had been married not long after his naming, and yet he tries to charm you with the sort of confidence only young men possess. It’s almost endearing. “A clerk will not scold a prince.”

“Ah.” You cannot fault that logic. “It is only -- I had other business, as well.”

This time, it is Sir Zakura who answers, “Other business? In the Big House?”

“I was looking for Obi,” you admit, gaze skittering between them. “I had asked him to take care of a certain business for me, but I have not spoken to him about when it might be done.”

Prince Zen blinked. “Oh, he’s probably in the gardens. Should I send someone --?”

“Oh, no, you are already doing me a favor.” You cast a speculative look at the knight beside him, but you cannot tell by his thoughtful expression whether he is an ally or no. Circumspection, then, would be the order of the day. “I can find him myself.”

“Of course, my lady.” The prince offers you a conspiratorial smile. “I wish you luck in you endeavors, Countess.”

You nod. “Thank you, Your Highness.”

You offer him one last curtsy and a simple bow of the head to the knight before turning, feet already set on your path --

“Countess.”

It is not the prince’s voice that calls you.

“Sir Zakura?” you ask, unable to hide the quizzical tone in your voice.

“This time of day I’d try the west courtyard,” he says simply, but with a gaze that held -- meaning. “Good day.”

There is nothing of the palace that reminds you of your girlhood home -- not when Wistal has been endlessly remolded by kings and consorts, pulling down walls and constructing elaborate cloisters with the sort of breathless aplomb only those who live upon the wealth of a kingdom could enjoy -- but there is something about walking the arcades that makes you feel as a girl again, ever about to break into a run if only to feel the wind on your cheeks.

You take a step, quicker than your last, tempted, but it is not the wind that caresses you, only the lace of your veil. Your gait falters at that grim reminder; you are no child, but a women wed and widowed, denied even the simple pleasure of sunlight on your skin. To every eye that sees you, you are the testament to your husband’s life, proof that he is missed and mourned.

Whether you miss and mourn him is of no matter at all. Only that you perform your duty in reminding all who knew him that he was important enough for the utmost propriety to be met. Atoshi had suggested to you, before the seal of your husband’s will had been broken and his presumed birthright squandered upon a mere widow, that you wear your weeds for not only for the customary year, but an entire second beyond that, as a demonstration of your husband’s greatness. You know now that it was not for any great love of his uncle, but for the love of the power that it would bring him -- a man so beloved by his wife that she mourned twice that of another woman. A paragon of family and virtue.

Ah, and you -- you had nearly done it, nearly nodded you head and agreed, despite what your ledgers had told you, despite the receipts you received every month during his prolonged stays in Wistal.

So strange, what will fortune can grant you. That woman is years gone in your own mind, not mere months.

You take the last turn to the west courtyard, its well-groomed, ornamental trees resolving in your sight. Your neck stretches past comfort, trying to catch a glimpse over conical tops, and --

Ah, there he is. A bristled head bobbing along the stone-paved paths. You hurry your steps, raising a hand to call out as you come to the garden’s edge, and --

And you notice, sharply, that Obi is not alone. That he is, in fact, walking with an intent expression beside a girl with hair the most scintillating red you have ever seen. She could rival blooms in the royal gardens themselves, with that color.

Even still, you nearly speak -- after all, your business will be quick, and you are nothing if not discreet these days -- but then you catch how his body curves toward hers, how hers so subtly curves back towards his --

You slip behind a pillar, smothering a giggle. Strange, how it had never occurred to you that your shadow might have a -- a paramour. It always seemed as if he existed only in the moments in which you witnessed him, and then slipped away as your gaze did, an ephemeral creature.

You hazard another glance, lips curling up at the edges. Ah, but she is sweet; a colorful counterpoint to the darkness of your shadow. A good match, if they might ever close those last inches between them.

“I see,” a voice rumble behind you, spinning you right into Arluleon’s broad chest, “your companion has begun to rub off on you.”

“Uh,” you reply eloquently, caught off-guard by the closeness of his disappointed expression, of the bare hint of amusement you’re certain you see in it before he steps away.

“I mean with the skulking,” he clarifies, and there it is, that twitch of humor at the edge of his brow -- “and the spying.”

“I’m not spying.” You must admit, this is not your most inspired argument. “It’s only eavesdropping.”

“Ah.” Oh, how you wish you could make a single syllable speak such volumes. No wonder your husband held Arluleon as such a formidable rival.

“I mean,” you sally, refuting to be routed, “that I have only just come upon them.”

You cannot help sparing a glance over your shoulder, watching as Obi’s lady companion bends over a hydrangea, and he looks on as if he wishes she would give him such a tender touch. “They are sweet, are they not?”

Arluleon grunts, surprised. “Are they?”

“Of course they are.” It surprises you not at all that even in this, he would be joyless. “Young love always is.”

“Ah.” It is not shock, not disagreement, but the sound of a man being hit. A sound of resignation. “Is that what it is.”

You mislike his tone, mislike the way he seems so thoughtful. You round on his with a single finger waggling in the direction of his chest. “You will not meddle with this, my lord. Leave these two to the happiness they are meant to find.”

“Me? Meddle with that?” He has the gall to sound surprised at the accusation. “I--”

He stops, breath halting in his chest, but he only shakes his great mane, expression settling into its usual gravity. “I did not come here to discuss -- children.”

Strange, you just bite back, for you are ever trying to talk to me of the men who are not your sons --

“There have been rumors.” He grimaces, as if it pains him to admit he might listen to such things. You have no inkling as to what sort he might think you care about, as if such shallow things could even move you now.

“Am I--?”

“About a veiled woman,” he tells you, stepping close, his nearness stemming the flow of your words. “One who spends time in the district of red lamps.”

“A veil may hide any face,” you venture, though you know it is a weak shield. “And it is well known that I am to take a census --”

“Only by the council.” His mouth pulls flat, grim. “Only by men who would not approve of you, whether you consorted with -- with women of ill-repute or not.”

“Is that to scare me, my lord?” He may loom, but you lean, the lace of your veil brushing his chest. “Is this what passes for a threat in this pit of vipers?”

“A threat?” He stares at you as if you are being particularly dense. “My lady, it is a warning. Your reputation--”

“My husband did enough damage to that for us both,” you remind him, sharply. “And it is nothing to me. It is not as if I am getting invited to luncheon, as it is.”

“For reasons of propriety!” He puts a large hand on the pillar behind you, disconcertingly close. “That will pass in months, but this -- a thing such as this would put you beyond the pale, my lady.”

“Countess,” you ground out, “and you must excuse me if I am underwhelmed at your sudden paternalistic concern, Lord Haruka. I do not need to be patronized by a man only--”

“Patronized,” he seethes, dark eyes flashing. “I am old enough to be--”

His words stutter to a halt, and you see his gaze pass over you, hem to gloves to veil, not a strip of your skin showing, and it strikes you -- he does not know how old you are.

“Oh, there you are, my -- woah!” Your shadow skids to a stop in the arcade, catching sight of the man that looms over you. Even from where you stand, you can see his eyes dart toward an exit. “Sorry, didn’t realize you were, ah, having a conversation already! I’ll just --”

“Obi!” You duck under Arluleon’s arm, glad he cannot see the way you flush, nor feel the way your breath comes short. “Just the company I was looking for!”

This, if anything, makes the messenger more nervous, but he stands his ground, letting you take his arm. “I’m so...pleased to hear it, my lady.”

“Come.” You do not look back as you pull him away from where you stood. “We have much to talk about, you and I.”

#haruka x reader #akagami no shirayukihime #snow white with the red hair #my fic #ans #here is a nice little romp with some canon characters #before we go into the UNLIMITED OC WORKS that is the plot of this story #though you can bet this particular...thread...will be coming up often enough #>:3c

[sabraeal]

The Most Perverse Creature in the World, Chapter 6

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5

In the whole of your life, you have only ever entered Wistal from the Poet’s Gate.

It is the gate for lords, your father had told you. The palace might have other entrances, but they were beneath someone of your birth, made for servants and servicemen.

And spies, your husband had whispered against your skin in the night. Your father always leaves out the most interesting parts.

At least, you think, sweeping out into Starlight’s courtyard, that was better than leaving out the truthful ones.

The prince’s coach awaits you just beyond the stair -- or rather, you should say, no one’s coach, since it is scrupulously unmarked. You shudder to think what chatter the wastrels of the royal court would invent if they saw a wrongful countess, still in her widow’s weeds, alighting into the carriage of the prince of the realm. And if they knew its destination  -- well, your next conversation with His Majesty would probably have a much different tone than the last.

You hiss, glancing down at your hand. No matter how you fuss, the lace of your glove will not sit right, itching along the seams in a way that drives you to madness. There’s nothing for it but to take it off, to begin again. You slip it off your hand, trying to shake out the fabric --

“Lady Bederin.”

That rumble is all-too familiar, and it is by rote that you reply, whip-fast, “Countess.”

Arluleon hums as he steps up beside you, eyeing the too-fine carriage. You brace yourself; if anyone would be able to spot a royal carriage, even incognito, it would be the duke. A man would have to be a fool of a father to not recognize the hands of his son in such business -- and you know well enough that Arluleon is no fool.

“I see you are still indulging in this foolishness.”

“As long as the lords are still wallowing in theirs,” you snap back with a lift of your chin, “I see no reason I should cease in my own.”

You will not be cowed in this, not when you know you are right.

His nostrils flare, doubtlessly biting back the stream of censure he wants to lay upon you. Instead he says, a long moment later, “There is no need for this, my lady. You have proven your point.”

You blink, glad your surprise is well-concealed behind your veil. “I have?”

“You are able to string together a coherent argument worth hearing,” he allows, as if he is being eminently gracious admitting that much. “Even when the topic is utter nonsense. You may quit yourself of this now, and let the lords pass their laws.” The look he fixes upon you is dry, impatient. “They will not discount your words easily the next time you speak. There’s no need to make yourself ridiculous now.”

Your hand clenches around the lace of your glove. “I am in no way making myself ridiculous,” you seethe, flush blooming up your neck, on your cheeks. It is not from shame. “What is ridiculous is how you men think to legislate the price of a woman’s body in your favor. It is -- is -- exploitation!”

Arluleon rears back a step, jaw slack. “Madame. I would thank you to not include me in the company of men who would seek such companionship.”

Satisfaction sings through you as you catch him on the retreat; your father had taught your brother that an honorable man lets an enemy quit the field of battle, but you --

You may not have been a great student of history, but you know enough to know: honor means nothing in war, only victory.

“Oh?” You round on him, advancing a step while he retreats, just as it should be. “I am to exclude you, a man in his prime with no wife to speak of? I am to think that should you choose to take a girl, you would come to your marriage bed untouched? Do you think me simple, my lord?”

Arluleon is practically breathing smoke. “My lady --”

“Hey, my lady,” pipes your shadow, bouncing down the stairs like an over-excited child. “Are you ready to -- wuh-oh!”

He jerks to a stop as Arluleon turns, throwing up his lanky arms, as if it might obscure his identity, as if there were other aides in this castle who walked around with their uniforms half unbuttoned.

“Ah,” the duke breathes, face as set as stone. “I see you have a...chaperone.”

A guard, you want to tell him, but --

But Obi is not looking particularly...guard-like right now, with the way he’s clearly looking for an exit.

Arluleon takes a step toward him, and Obi goes still, goes tense. Gone is the nervous expression, the ceaseless motion, and in it’s place -- a disturbing blankness, his hands hovering just above his back.

“I should have known you would be involved in this.” There is not much menace to Haruka’s words, but instead, disappointment. Or perhaps resignation.

Obi bridles, his mouth pulling thin, but to your surprise, he offers no witty rejoinder, no subtle insult. Instead he straightens, hands dropping to his side, and glares.

Arluleon ignores him, turning back to you with a polite, if stern, mask. He holds out his hand, and for a long moment you stare at it, wondering at how a man with such a title could have such ruddy and broad hands, as if he were no more than a common laborer.

He clears his throat, pointed, and lets his gaze travel from you to the coach. Ah, he is -- he is offering you a hand up, like a proper gentleman.

Let no one say you are ingracious, for you take his offer, slipping your hand into his, and --

Ah, you have -- you have forgotten your glove. It is still clenched tightly in your other hand, and this one, this one --

Is pressed palm to palm with Arluleon’s. Skin-to-skin, no soft cotton to mute the sensation. You can feel the callus at the mount of his forefinger, at the base of his thumb, rough against the silk of your hand. So often, the duke is credited with passing his icy demeanor onto the king, but now --

Now, beneath your touch, he is warm. Heat simmers where your palms lay atop one another, and for a moment you cannot catch your breath, cannot move with your knees so weak.

It passes.

You step up into the carriage, and his touch falls away, though the feel of it lingers on your palm. Not even the practiced motion of wrangling the bombazine of your skirts quells the sensation.

“My lady.”

Your chin jerks up, and when you meet his eyes, they are not so forbidding as you expect. “Enjoy your...excursion.”

Your mouth thins. Excursion, as if you were merely to picnic in the countryside.

“Do not worry, my lord,” you assure him brightly, as the footman closes the door. “I always find pleasure in being right.”

There is something about the second prince’s aide that implies constant motion, the sort of speed that might set one’s teeth jittering in their mouths. Right now it is constrained to a ceaseless bounce of his knee, hand tapping out a rhythm that does not belong to any song in your repertoire. You suspect if your heard it, the lyrics might not be fit for your ears.

Ah, well, those considerations are long behind you. Especially considering the destination of this carriage.

“How do you expect us to gain access to the girls?” you ask, if only for some conversation to fill this empty, expectant space between you. “From our last inquiries, I did not receive the impression that the madams would appreciate us talking to their...employees about distribution of wealth.”

The carriage’s windows are curtained -- partly for discretion, you are sure, but also an acquiescence to your period of mourning -- and his teeth flash white in the dim.

“Not to worry, my lady.” His legs unfurl, stretching over to your bench. You will never be sure of how he fits all his limbs in here at once. “There’s ways around that.”

The moment you cross the boudoir’s threshold, a shiver wracks your spine, and a cold certainty grips your heart: your father is spinning in his grave.

The house at least is a more high-end establishment; even being hurried through the servants’ entrance, you gather that the decor is tasteful, if trending toward...gauzy, and were you no so aware of the occupation of its occupants, you might think your were visiting the home of a well-to-do man in trade, albeit with a penchant for the exotic.

The idea halts you in your steps. You saw firsthand how much dill these establishments report making in the censors; how much different was there truly between a man who made his business in trade and one of these women? And yet, if they lobbied the council hall as much as the merchant guild did, they would be seen as ridiculous, as interlopers, a distraction.

“Oh my,” purred a voice as the door shuts itself behind you. “A veiled lady. How mysterious.”

“Oh.” It strikes you, suddenly, that you are not to be alone in this room. That you are, in fact, here for the express purpose of not being alone with this...obscenely large, curtained bed. “Oh.”

“Come here, my lady,” says another, “let us help you get more comfortable.”

The curtains are violet, made of sumptuous silks, and they part as neatly as water when a slender hand slips out. A pretty girl leans out beneath it, her smile coy and come-hither.

“Tsubaki,” admonishes the girl yet inside. “The anticipation is the sweetest pleasure.”

The girl at the curtain pouts; you assume this is part of her charm regardless, as she has a mouth made for it. “But Kikyo, I’m so impatient. I don’t often have a lady.”

You grimace behind your veil; knowing what men would say about lips like hers. It surprises you not at all that she would be popular among them.

“All the better.” The second girl crawls out, eyes a vivid, arresting violet. “Ladies are able to enjoy themselves so much longer.”

“I...” Your mouth is far too dry, and words have deserted you. Of course, this is what your shadow had planned for you. He must be having a grand old time, knowing how he’s left you to twist. “I think there has been a miscommunication about my, ah, business.”

The second girl -- Kikyo -- leans at the edge of the bed just so, her breasts straining at the confines of her scandalously thin chemise. “Are we not to your liking, my lady?”

“No! You’re both lovely, I’m sure!” you soothe, holding your hands up as if placating a particularly wary hound. “It is only that I -- I am not here for those sorts of...services.”

“Is that so?” Gone is the sweet seductive purr. Kikyo draws herself up, angling her body so that it obscures the younger girl’s. “What are you here for then? Are you some harridan come to tell us off about her cheating husband?”

“No!” It had never occurred to you that -- that something like that might be the done thing. Despite your own sheltered upbringing, even you did not expect fidelity. Hoped for it, yes, but expected? A sure way to meet disappointment and ensure marital strife.

The younger girl -- Tsubaki -- ducks under Kikyo’s arm, face the very picture of confusion. “Come to preach salvation at us, then?”

You blink. “No, I -- definitely not.”

Until your husband passed so swiftly, so suddenly, you hadn’t even been to a temple since your wedding. There was no reason for you to play at piety now. It wasn’t even fashionable.

“Perhaps I should --” force Obi to explain this entire debacle -- “Get my man?”

Not missing a beat, Kikyo tells you, “That will cost more.”

You are utterly thankful that nothing of your skin can be seen under your veil, otherwise you would cede all semblance of authority with one single flush. “That is -- is not what I meant.” 

Tsubaki’s eyes narrow in confusion. “Does she want to watch, you think?”

Kikyo’s head takes a thoughtful cant. “Does he want to watch?”

“Mercy,” you breathe, hands fluttering uselessly in front of you. “I’ve already said I’m not -- I’m only here to talk.”

Both girls eye you with the deepest skepticism.

“Ah, yes, silly us,” Kikyo deadpans. “We should have figured, what with our reputation as stimulating conversationalists.”

“I mean,” you begin, hoping that starting afresh might alleviate some of this miscommunication, “that I wish to talk to you about taxes.”

They stare. It is not a friendly look for either of them.

“You’ll still be paid!” you offer, with a smile no one can see.

“Oh!” The tension leaves Tsubaki on a sigh. “You should have said!”

Kikyo eyes you warily, mouth pursed in doubt. “Forgive me, my lady, but I make it a point not to trust anyone what covers their face when they speak.”

She might as well have shoved you, for how much you stumble. Your back bumps into the door, and you hear your shadow call out, “My lady?”

For a single perverse moment, you consider keeping silent, letting him twist a little.

“I’m fine,” you call back. Your hands fidget at the edge of your veil, running the lace between your fingers.

It is not as if you wear it always, as if you wear only your widow’s weeds even when you are in bed, but --

But no one -- not even Mayu, despite how early she comes to tend you -- has ever seen you without. You’ve look forward to the day you could remove it, the day you could lessen your mourning to grays and deep violets and let the air kiss your skin again but --

But you are unused to being seen now. At Bederin, it had all been superfluous, all pageantry, but here, in this nest of vipers, it is a shield, it is armor. To remove it would leave all your intentions bare.

You look at the girls, practically naked in their chemises, kneeling on a bed made to be used, made for them to be used upon it and --

And you lift it, albeit slowly, reluctantly. You are a woman grown with sense to spare, but still, still, in those few moments between when you are exposed and when the girls react, you worry that -- that something has gone wrong, that perhaps you are shriveled beneath it, or warty, or -- or --

Ugly. It should not matter, but still, your pride aches that you might have lost what youthful charm your husband found in you. Had found in you, once upon a time.

“Oh!” Kikyo says, eyes wide. “Well then.”

Tsubaki stares at you, jaw slack. “You sure you don’t want to do nothing, my lady?”

“N-no!” You walk stiffly to the bed, perching at the end, plenty of space between you and where the girls lounge. “Now let us talk about the lords’ council.”

The veil settles over you like a well-worn glove as you step into the hall, your shadow’s eyes darting over as if he thinks he might get a peak underneath.

You fix him with a glare he can’t see, but certainly feels from the way he squirms. “I hope you had a good laugh.”

“My lady,” he drawls, too innocent. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Hm,” you huff. “I’m sure.”

His playful expression drops into concern, or rather, interest. “Did your little chat go well, my lady?”

You hesitate. “Yes. But I’ll need to talk to more girls.” You tilt your head, inquiring. “Do you think you can set that up?”

Obi keeps silent pace beside you, mouth thin.

“That will cost a lot of money,” he says, after too long a time.

You glance at him, serious. “I have plenty. Can you make it happen?”

He is silent so long you stop, looking back to where he lingers on the stairs. In the dim, you cannot make out his expression, just the slouch of his shoulders. One hand reaches up, massaging at his neck.

“Yeah,” he says, almost too quiet. “Yeah, I can do that.”

#haruka x reader #akagami no shirayukihime #snow white with the red hair #my fic #ans #i guess we're getting into the plot now??? #perhaps???? #i certainly don't know #but welcome to what will certainly be unlimited OC works

[sabraeal]

The Most Perverse Creature in the World, Chapter 5

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

A carriage waits for you outside the palace; lacquered black, entirely unmarked, and not your own. Oh no, this coach is far, far nicer than anything Bederin’s coffers could provide you.

Your girlish heart leaps as you are conveyed with ease over the cobbles of the city, hardly rocked by a single stone; you may be training yourself to be a Countess, unfazed by the attentions of powerful men, but for longer still were you trained to be a lady, told by every governess your father employed that the pinnacle of achievement was to be noticed by a prince, no matter the number of his birth. The second prince may be nearly ten years your younger, but his regard would be a coup for a country count’s daughter, a cause for celebration even if he only spoke to you to ask about the canapes at a banquet.

You doubt they would be so pleased at the cause of his attentions now. To be quite honest, you are beginning to question the wisdom it yourself.

It is not that you do not grasp what a windfall his interest is in your cause; His Majesty might give you sly smiles and tacit approval, perhaps even an oblique push, but he’s much too canny to throw his favor behind an untried councilor, especially as one as contentious as a widow, but Prince Zen is his opposite, driven by an earnest sort of righteousness that would have made your eyes go starry were you half your age.

But you are not, and thus you spend most of your ride contemplating what, precisely, garnered you the privilege of this particular escort.

A contrast in stillness and motion, His Highness’s aide sprawls by the window, the very picture of languid calm. Or he would be, were you not used to young men, to the way their bodies betray them when their words will not. The way he keeps his head twisted to look out the window, the way he’s so carefully place so as to not brush your skirts, the way he clutches his shoulder -- he is not comfortable with this assignment, with you.

Obi can help you, His Highness had said, gesturing to the lanky man. He’s -- experienced in this...area.

You’re not some untouched maid to miss that insinuation, to miss that sly exchange of looks between them, the twitch of the taller man’s lips. What good some...connoisseur of companionship the second prince thinks will do you, you cannot fathom.

Still, he does seem to know where to take you.

The carriage lurches to a halt, and finally he looks at you, golden eyes flashing in the dim of the cab, meeting yours as if there were no veil between you. His lips quirk, just slightly, as his hand falls away.

“Here we are, my lady,” he says, almost studiously polite, so much so you suspect it might be mocking. “The beginning of your grand tour.”

That is meant to be cutting. His hand is on the door, eager to fling himself out onto the street, to leave your company.

Your voice is not accustomed to command, not meant to be anything but a honeyed balm for the ears of your husband, but -- this country used to have a queen, used to answer to a woman. You can try. “Hold.”

You’re not sure you like the uneasy way authority sits in your voice, but it does make him stop, does make his swivel his head to look at you with those wide, coin-gold eyes.

“We should discuss what this will...look like.” You don’t know how to put words like these together, how to say what you want -- or even know what that is, for this. “Am I to follow you?”

His eyes pulse wider, that mouth rucking up into a smirk. “My lady, follow me?”

The looks he gives you is answer enough, eyes dubiously running over the crape of your dress, over the swirling lace of your veil. There is nothing about you that is not conspicuous, that does not say well-bred widow. You are not...familiar with the fiscal workings of such a business -- that is, after all, what you are here to learn -- you cannot believe such an obvious visit would be beneficial, either to their custom or your reputation.

“Then you think you will conduct the interviews?” Your veil may obscure the brows you raise, but your voice conveys your skepticism well enough. “I have not even given you questions to ask. And I doubt that they would tell you --”

“My lady!” He lets out a laugh. “I’ll be bringing the madam out to you.”

“Oh.” You squirm, just slightly, beneath your mountain of crape and lace. “That will be -- sufficient.”

“Great,” he says with a sigh, throwing the door open. “I’ll have the driver pull around to the side. We’ll only be a moment.”

You’re not certain what you expected from these interviews, but it was certainly not -- not this.

“They want to tax me dill because a man wants to play ‘come into my castle’ and use the back gate?” one huffs, her cheeks painted a vibrant rouge. “What I want to know is when they’ll do something about mine girls and their little...side jobs. Thinking they can steal from the till so long as they aren’t flat on their backs where I can see ‘em.”

“I already got culls who won’t pay,” another grouses. “Thinks they own the place, they do. A girl tells ‘em no, and they go take her anyway, and don’t leave anything behind for the trouble of it. And now they want to steal more money from my coffers? The gall.”

“I cloth these girls, I feed them, I keep a roof over their heads.” This bawd leans forward, conspiratorial. “And here they are, asking for a wage. As if all that costs nothing! When will the king do something about that?”

It’s endless, the complaints; every one is different, about the conditions of the houses, about the girls in them, about the behavior of their custom, but --

But none of them will talk to you about the cost of this tax, of the way they regulate their...business, of anything besides the pettier matters.

“Another, my lady?” your escort asks, leaping up into the cab.

“No,” you sigh, rubbing at your brow. Your book is full of notes, but there is no visible thread to connect them, to make this into a story easily sold.

It is your father’s voice that comes to you now, his large body perched behind his desk in your mind. A man knows when to cut his losses, he told your brother as you played with dolls behind him. The most important thing is not knowing, but knowing what it is you must know.

“No, I think...” You worry at your lip, doubt gnawing at your decision, even as it crystallizes in your mind. “I think it’s time to regroup.”

“Lady Bederin!” Prince Zen leaps from his seat as you enter, eyes darting to the darkening horizon, to the clock up on his mantel. He grimaces, gaining a sense of urgency as he gestures to the chair across from him. “I mean, Countess. I hadn’t realized it was so late.”

A thousand polite nothings spring into your mouth, all meant to be a balm to his pride, to assure him such things happen to all powerful men –

But they curdle in your mouth. You are not some maiden, some lord’s wife to smooth over conversation, not anymore. You cannot be, if you wish to be taken seriously.

“It is strange,” you supply, after a moment, “how hours seem to follow each other in such a regular fashion.”

Your shadow, so silent, chokes.

Unlike his brother, the second prince does not have dominion over every follicle on his face, and his flush is as pretty as a maiden’s, staining the tips of his ears and the apples of his cheeks in that painted porcelain doll way most ladies of this court would die for.

“I have time for this, of course,” he manages, only belatedly remembering to take a seat after you do. His gaze flicks back, over your shoulder, and his face hardens as he says, “You’ll be staying for this, Obi.”

“Master,” his aide admonishes, in a tone few would dare with the heir to Clarines. “If you’re going to be discussing the finer points of companionship, you certainly wouldn’t want me to pass those on to M--”

“Don’t be disgusting.” The prince eyes his man warily. “I want your opinion.”

“Oh, Master --”

“On Countess Bederin’s thoughts!” You can’t help but wonder if this is the reason Prince Zen has given toward the fashion of high-necked tunics. Old-fashioned as it may be, it certainly would conceal more of the crimson you spy creeping up his neck than the stylish cravats his brother favors. “Now you’re just trying to be perverse.”

“Me?” the man gasps. “Perish the thought.”

The prince’s mouth pulls flat, but he drags his gaze away, settling it on you. There’s little of him to remind you of his brother -- between the two of them, it has always been the late King the youngest favors -- but those eyes are so similar it unnerves you for a moment to be under them. “Did it help? Your inquiries?”

The difference, of course, is the lack of guile in them.

“Hardly,” you admit, though it pains you. You bring out your notes, smoothing the pages on the desk. “The madams have complaints -- endless complaints -- but in terms of the tax, or any sort of regulation...”

You spread your hands, helpless.

“There must have been something, though,” His Highness presses, his gaze flicking over your shoulder, to where you know his man leans against the shelves. “A small thing? Something to put in front of the council.”

“Nothing,” you sigh, “unless you think they’ll be moved my madams complaining about girls who work on the side, or custom not...taking no.”

His skin turns a telling shade of scarlet. “But that -- the last one --”

“I think you’ll find, Master,” his aide drawls, amused, “that men who are used to getting their way won’t find anything wrong with taking it.”

“T-that...” His skin flushes darker. “That’s can’t be the case.”

“I think maybe the issue is the madams,” you offer, not willing to belabor the point. “I thought they would have the most sense of business, but they’re really...a middleman between the girls and...custom.”

“You’d want to talk to visitors, then?” His Highness asks, too innocent. “I don’t know who would admit to it in front of a lady, but --”

“Absolutely not.” He means well, you know, but -- honestly. “I think I need to be able to talk to the...the girls themselves.”

“Oh!” His Highness very studiously does not look at you, eyes bouncing around his study until they land on his aide. “I’m sure that’s something Obi can arrange.”

You turn, meeting those cat-gold eyes. He stares at you a moment, assessing.

“Sure,” he says finally, sitting back like he’s decided something. “I can see what I can do.”

Long shadows stripe the hall when you emerge from the prince’s study, the evening far more progressed than you would have thought, tucked away in that office. Still, the sun is blinding on this side of the palace, the west drinking the last of the light down to its dregs, and even with your veil you find yourself squinting against the glare, glad the stiff fall of your skirts obscures how unsteady your steps are –

So, of course, you must stumble into someone headlong, grabbing at their lapels to keep upright. Your forehead itches where it rubs the wool of the tunic beneath it, but you cannot bring yourself to look at your savior, not yet, even with your face veiled. Ah, where had all that grace your younger self had prided herself on?

Gone, you realize. Or rusty from disuse, like the swords in Bederin’s armory. You had not needed it, slinking around halls you never quite felt were yours.

“Are you all right?” a deep, familiar voice rumbles, and oh, of course it would be Arluleon who you nearly trip over.

You jerk back, hands firm on the planes of his chest, eager to put space between you, to recover the remove you like to speak from. He must have been as blind as you in the hall; his expression is all polite concern until his eyes catch on the lace of your veil, the unfashionable cut of your gown.

“Bederin.” His voice is flat, displeased, even as his hand curls tighter around your elbow to steady you. “What are you doing here?”

“I was with the prince.”

You did not know a face could turn so forbidding. You’ve seen mountains that intimidate you less.

“Talking,” you blurt out, unbidden. You don’t owe this man any explanation, but – it’s as if you cannot help yourself, as if you must if only so he may know what a formidable enemy he has made. “We are working together on a…project. For the council.”

You doubt any of those words have helped. He looks at you more like a disapproving father than an adversary, his mouth pulled thin in displeasure.

“I trust it has nothing to do with the charge His Majesty gave you.”

You may despise him, but gods, how you wish you could sound like this, like the world would not dare to defy you on so petty a concern. You wish, too, that you had his intuition, for even without the benefit of your guilty expression, he sighs, disappointed.

“Zen is very young,” he tells you, as if the prince were just coming out of the schoolroom, and not nearly twenty. “Sensitive. It’s not a thing he should be exposed to.”

“He’s a man,” you snap back, cheeks flushed beneath lace. “Old enough to have partaken in such things, never mind know about them.”

Arluleon turns crimson. “Zen would never --”

“He is nineteen,” you remind him. “Far more than a man grown. And am I to believe he’s so innocent?”

You step closer, closer than you truly should dare. His hand on your arm burns. “Isn’t that what you lords do with your sons? To make them real men?”

You have seen storms with less thunder in them than this. If Arluleon were less well-bred a man, if you were not a lady, you would have been struck, as quick as lightning to a tree in a field. His face says it so clearly that you are glad of your veil, glad that he can not see the smug lift of your lips.

You sweep by him, drinking in his ire, reveling in the way his glare follows your back. For once, you are the one who has made a palpable hit. How proud your husband would be.

“Bederin.” His voice arrests you, makes you turn back to him. There is something dark in his face, something like a warning. “I would take care with what accusations you see fit to hurl at a man’s feet.”

You hesitate, your tongue edged and prepared to cut, but --

But it is your husband’s voice that stills you. In Wistal, my love, words are life and death.

Fingernails dig into your palms, but --

But you walk away. You do not need to waste yourself on men like this, not anymore.

#haruka x reader #akagami no shirayukihime #my fic #ans #as if I could have suffered going into my haitus #KNOWING the ball was in my court

[sabraeal]

The Most Perverse Creature in the World, Chapter 4

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

ANS Week, Day 6: Wood Balance | Endurance | Transformation | Rigid

The rail bites into your palm, your one lifeline to this world while you castigate yourself in the next. Your aim had been to be noticed, to make your own wake instead of being caught in the undertow of another, and you --

And you have certainly accomplished that. The king himself wants to hear your arguments.

It is only that you have made it about -- about whores. Whores. Gods, what a pot you have put yourself in.

If no one has taught you to be a Countess, then they have certainly not taught to you be this -- be someone who is listened to, who has a well-informed opinion not just based on gut-feeling and common sense. That you even have one was your governess’s greatest shame; before she left, sent away after you were no longer in the school room and preferred companions your own age, she had confessed she thought your needlepoint had suffered for it.

The carved wood chews deeper, and you release the clench of your hand, just slightly. You have no where to turn, no allies to call upon -- for certainly, if you even knew the names of your husband’s, they would not help you, not when they had expected Atoshi in your place -- and worst of all, you have no idea where to start.

“I must say...”

The deep rumble startles you, makes your chin jerk up to meet dark eyes, only just lighter than the oppressive wood paneling of the council chamber itself. You nearly wither from shame on the spot. Of course, it is Arluleon who must see you in your distress, of course.

“...I had not thought it would be a person in that chair who would protest the tax.” His eyebrows raise, just slightly, in something that treads dangerously close to amusement. Or maybe, you think as you meet his gaze, it is something like challenge.

You lift your chin, rising from your husband’s seat. Your seat. You may not be a lord, raised to the art of war, but only a fool would squander higher ground. “From what I have seen, there is not a man in this room who anticipated me at all.”

At one corner, his mouth twitches. “Perhaps. But that is not what I meant, my lady.”

“Countess,” you correct. My lady may be polite, may be what a lord’s wife will cede to, but you will be damned if you let a single man in this council forget you are his equal. Especially this one.

“Countess,” he concedes, like every letter pulls teeth. “Though I must also admit, I am...interested in the arguments you will make next session.”

So are you, but you know better than to show your belly, to admit defeat is crushing you like a wave.

“Though I suspect you will wish to give up this foolhardy course,” he continues, already turning his back to you, tired of your conversation. “A few nights spent squinting over law books and censuses are sure to leave their mark. And I am told ladies are concerned over...unseemly lines.”

You blood boils beneath your skin, nearly makes you fly down the steps to show him how a man might be concerned with a few unseemly lines himself, but by the time you release the banister, the door has already closed behind him.

Gods, but his device should be a boar rather than a lion.

Nails bite into your palms, but you breathe into the pain, into the loosening of your knuckles. He has said --

Law books. Censuses.

Beneath your veil, you smile. Pig though he may be, he has given you a place to start.

Such tomes as these are not meant to leave the sanctum of the library’s walls, but one look at your crape and your veil has the attendant scurrying to accommodate you. For once, you are glad of superstition; the chairs here are stiff and uncomfortable seeming, almost certain to wreak havoc on the starch of your skirts. Women of your ilk are not meant to be here.

Mayu brews you hot water with lemon -- your brothers’ tutor had always told you it was the best for a clear mind -- and tucked into the yielding plush of your chair, you slowly drive yourself mad.

Gods above, but that ass was not joking about the squinting.

You can hardly make heads or tails of these books; the census are all names and numbers and addresses you cannot place, and the law books might as well be written in Samese for all that they make sense to you.

“Trouble, my lady?” Mayu asks when she comes to refresh your cup. She peers over your shoulder, inquisitive as always, and you let her. Gods know how you’d like a pair of fresh eyes, even if it’s just the chambermaid.

“I hardly know what I’m looking for,” you admit, though it tears at you. “It should be apparent, shouldn’t it? Something -- something wrong should be glaring, not buried in...minutiae.”

The girl laughs, shaking her head. “That’s where you’re wrong, my lady. If something is wrong in Wistal, it’d be nothing but details.”

“Glorious,” you sigh, settling back into the cushion. You have little more than two days to sift through laws never meant to be looked at. “What a task I’ve given myself.”

Mayu settles back on her heels. “What are you looking for, my lady?”

“Laws pertaining to the regulation and taxation of...houses of ill repute.” You drum your fingers on the census pages, at a loss. “And -- some sort of...of count of houses in the capital, at least. And the number of...employees.”

You scrub a hand down you face, blessedly bare in your private quarters. “I just need something to make this real. An issue. They act as though there are ten whores in the whole of Fortissia, and no one is inconvenienced by adding yet another tax on.”

“There should be a registry, shouldn’t there?” Mayu offers. “There’s a whole clerical wing in the north of the palace, where all the taxes are accounted for. And all legal businesses have to register before they can operate.”

You bolt upright. “And who would know the laws better than the men who have to rifle through the taxes?”

It takes moments for the clerical wing to become you favorite part of the palace.

In a room full of young men, not a single one balks at your request for the registries, nor for walking you through the finer points of tax law. They do hesitate when you ask about those pertaining to bawd houses and brothels, but only for a moment and having little to do with you, if the blushes that ride high on their cheeks are any indication.

Unfortunately, it all comes to one drastic conclusion.

“In order to get the measure of how to properly tax such an establishment, given the...startling number of them in the capital alone, the council must actually...” You hesitate, restraining the sigh that lingers in your chest. “...Must actually send a panel of members to speak with the proprietors of said establishments, if not...the employees themselves.”

The laughter is not a surprise, but oh, how you wish it was. Instead you weather it, chin lifted high and glad that your veil and gown cover all the skin that flushes painfully red. The humiliation is only made worse by who doesn’t laugh: Arluleon, of course, for at his birth his humor did not come with him; the king himself, and --

And the second prince, who you quite remember attending the christening of. Why on earth the king thought this an appropriate conversation to have in front of him -- he could only be what? Eighteen? Nineteen? A child -- you cannot say, but it does not change the fact that he is there, and that unlike you he does not have gauze and crape to cover the blotchy way his face reddens.

“You want men of the peerage to what? Take the council of whores?” Toshikazu wheezes, hardly able to control himself long enough to get the words out.

You’ve, quite honestly, had enough. “If men in this room were not already, then I doubt we would be talking about these laws at all.”

That sobers the room. You do not need to see every councilor’s face to know that guilt suffuses them, and that anger will soon follow. Just as you had predicted.

You plow forward, taking advantage of the silence. “The number of...comfort women in the capital is enough to make up a single percent of our population.”

There are furrowed brows at that, the sound of a dozen bodies shifting in their seats. You can feel their incredulity, their ambivalence. Why should men of their stature care about what a percent of the country thinks, when they are only accustomed to caring for less, for their own?

“That may seem small, but it is of no little consequence,” you assure them, voice stronger than the quiver in your knees. “And we cannot just choose to make them bear the burden when we offer them so few protections, as we expect of no other business.”

“But they are just --”

You will not let the words be said again in your presence. “Women, who are part of the lands granted to this kingdom and this council to protect.”

“Who would even volunteer for such an effort?” Norihide scoffs. “It’s a waste of time.”

No hand raises, no voice shouts aye. You knew this as well.

“I will,” you say, wishing you felt as firm as your words. “Since it seem that men fear in the daylight what they take so freely in the dark.”

You are weary, after the council. Mayu helps you out of your robes and into your nightgown, your favorite housecoat left for you in your chambers. Laying yourself on the bed, you let your eyes close, let your mind wander. When the knock comes, you assume it is Mayu, bringing you hot water and lemon.

It is not until the balcony creeks open that you realize -- it did not come from your salon.

You rise, meeting night-dark eyes across the parquet of your floor. In the moonlight, his hair shimmers like waves on the water.

“Lady Bederin,” the second prince says, “I think we have much to talk about.”

You grip the bedpost, trying hard not to think of how you are in your nightgown. The heir to the country itself is in your room, and you have only a housecoat to keep your modesty.

For the first time, you long for your veil.

“Countess,” you manage, finally. “It’s Countess Bederin.”

#answeek2018 #day 6 #akagami no shirayukihime #haruka x reader #my fic #ans #second person #enemies to lovers #world's slowest burn #one day i will have to answer for this fic #but that day is not today #enjoy your political intrigue reader fic #also you know what this means bubbles #*holds out grabby hands*