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em-writes-stuff-sometimes · 2 years

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dōnus riñus (sweet girl) │ Chapter 2: Bedding (NSFW!)

terms of endearment ‘verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3 │Chapter 4 │Chapter 5 │Chapter 6 │Chapter 7 │Chapter 8 │Chapter 9 │Chapter 10 │Chapter 11 │Chapter 12 (COMPLETE!)

Synopsis: As the second-born daughter of Aemma and Viserys, you never expected to be married off to your uncle, Daemon Targaryen. The wedding night is here.

(Set in Episode 6 - however, Daemon never married Laena, and he's returned to King's Landing after ten years in exile.)

TRIGGERS: incest, loss of virginity, purity culture, mild blood, breeding kink, age gap, dubious consent, public bedding.

The fire crackles merrily in the hearth while your ladies-in-waiting prepare you for the evening. You stare unseeingly at the blaze as Ceryse brushes out your pale hair and Senna ties the laces at the neckline of your shift, allowing the flames and the warmth to lull you into a false sense of calm.

“Look at me,” Senna says. You look up. She is smiling sympathetically at you. “There is nothing to be afraid of, Princess.”

“I’m not afraid.” It is true. You aren’t—and you are. You know not what to feel. That is the problem, is it not? It is the not-knowing, the unknown, that makes you anxious.

“His Highness will be good to you.” She makes no comment on your response, but you can tell she does not believe your affirmation, as hesitant as it was. “He loves you.”

“Of course he loves me. He’s my uncle,” you say absent-mindedly, but even the knowledge of your shared Targaryen blood does little to assure you of this.

Love. It is a word that has been bandied about by many throughout your short courtship—but how can he love a person he does not know? You know not what love a man like Daemon can have for you, if it even exists at all. Seven years old when he left, seventeen when he returned, three moons’ courting and less than half a year of reacquaintance in total is not near enough time to relearn a person, even if they are family.

You exhale tremulously when the door to your chambers—the new, unfamiliar room you feel as though you had scarcely been given a moment to accustom yourself to—opens. The sound of merrymaking and raucous chatter from the wedding feast in the Great Hall, even so far away as it is, spills in as the witnesses file in. The chairs had been laid out, the wooden screen already unfolded, the gauzy curtains arranged to ensconce the bedframe, not that any of these measures serve to wholly shield the marital bed from view. It hides enough, but one can still see the outline of bodies, the vague impression of movement. You had Ceryse and Senna help you test it. You suppose idly that this is the point—a bedding, especially a royal one, must be seen. You steadfastly ignore the low whispers, the shuffling and scraping of chairs as the witnesses take their places. You know who you would see if you did.

Lord Lyonel. Grand Maester Mellos. Lord Tyland. Lord Lyman. Alicent. You could almost tolerate what would no doubt be an ordeal of humiliation, if not for the necessity of the presence of your family—

Father. Laenor. Rhaenyra.

It seems cruel to you that Rhaenyra is here, made to sit beside her own husband—a match of convenience, no more—and watch as the man she had always longed for beds her little sister. It is cruel that your uncle will have to consummate a union to the wrong niece after spending ten years abroad, drowning his sorrows after she had wedded Laenor. It is cruel that you must play second-best to Rhaenyra even in this, your marriage, when you have felt her shadow over you your entire life—the second daughter, even more useless than a first daughter.

You had even heard tell of the most salacious rumour concerning your uncle and a whore with silver hair playacting as his niece in the slums of Flea Bottom, and when you had asked him of it, he had refused to provide an answer. Doomed before it has even begun, you think wryly to yourself.

The door adjoining the marital bedchambers across the room opens with a creak. From the sudden cessation of noise from your left and the abrupt absence of Ceryse and Senna’s warmth at your front and back, you assume your uncle—your husband—has arrived. You make no move to acknowledge his presence, even as his footsteps draw nearer to you.

“Ābrazȳrys.” He all but purrs the word into your ear, the rolling consonants of your Valyrian mother tongue voiced gently. Wife.

He stands in front of you, partially blocking the fire. You suppress the urge to shiver—with fear or something else, you do not know. Ceryse and Senna murmur something—it remains unheard—they depart.

“Valzȳrys,” you breathe, your voice quieter and weaker than you had hoped. Husband.

“Elēdrar issa.” It is time. His hand rests on your jaw, tilting your head up to look at him.

His features are sharp in the light of the flames behind him, emphasising the cut of his jaw, the edge of his nose, the darkness blotting out the lilac of his eyes. Your Uncle has always been handsome, and he seems almost unearthly in the play of light and shadow. His thumb traces your bottom lip, and your mouth parts instinctively. He makes an aborted press between your parted lips and swallows, glancing up in question. You know what this means. You nod.

His hand shifts to cup your neck as his lips descend onto yours. You press your mouth awkwardly against his, hands hesitantly coming to rest on his clothed chest for leverage. You can feel him smile against you as he tilts your head softly, and you know your cheeks burn as he coaxes you to mimic the press and glide of lips in an art unfamiliar to you. Slowly, you feel the tension in your arms, your spine, your shoulders loosen, and you unconsciously shift and relax against him as you kiss. He huffs gently as his free hand comes to rest on the small of your back, pressing you further into him.

Ahem.

You feel him stiffen at the unsubtle noise from the gallery. You had forgotten about your audience, and your head automatically begins to turn to—

“Daor,” he whispers—no—pulling your eyes back to him. “Fuck off,” he says louder, and though he has not ceased eye contact with you, it is obviously directed at your interrupter.

A weak grumble of protest is all that can be heard as your mouth upturns weakly in spite of your own nervousness. You could always trust your uncle to openly confront opposition. Daemon smiles at you and takes your hand.

“Māzīs, riñītsos.” Come, little girl.

You swallow anxiously at the old pet-name as he leads you to the bed, pushing aside the sheer fabric drapes to expose the sheets clearly. For all that it is your wedding night, you had never felt so small or so vulnerable since you were a child.

He looks down at you, the twist of his mouth gentle, already working the strings that tie the neck of his bedshirt closed. “Mīsītsori aōhe nādīnagon bēvilō daor.”You do not have to remove your clothes.

You bite your lip, willing away the tears threatening to well in your eyes. You want to cry at his kindness.

A reedy voice pipes up suddenly, loudly, interrupting again. “Your Highnesses, if you could procee—”

Daemon exclaims sharply at the interruption. He has to talk even louder from here if he wishes to be heard by your company. “Brother. If you cannot shut that old cunt up, I’ll gladly do it for you. You’ll likely need a new Grand Maester, though, as I don’t see Mellos performing all that well without a head.”

You can hear your father reprimanding the Maester, though it sounds low and far off from your position before the bed, and your cheeks flush again at the reminder that there are people here watching you. Impatiently, from the sounds of it. For a moment, rage suffuses you.

How dare they treat me so disrespectfully?

You are a Princess of the Realm, not a whore at a pleasure show. For all your mild-mannered temper usually, you are not wholly without the pride and fire of House Targaryen.

Perhaps this is what fuels you next.

You respond to Daemon’s previous statement haughtily, already rolling up your shift and yanking it over your head, heedless of the laces, throwing it to the bottom of the bed. “Lo elēnin jaelzi, kepus, elēnin mazemilzi.” If they want a show, Uncle, a show is what they will get.

And with that, you are naked before him.

He pauses, jaw clenching as his eyes roll over your exposed throat, the slope of your breasts, the concavity of your belly, the valley between your legs. He flicks his gaze back to yours, a wolfish, predatory smile transforming his face into something almost savage.

“Let us begin, then.”

He tugs off his shirt and steps towards you, heedless of where the fabric lands. When he grabs you this time, he is less gentle, his hands tightening on your hipbones as his lips slot over yours with a hunger you are surprised by. You whine softly—he growls, pushing you down onto the bed and landing over you, his mouth following to re-join yours with ardent intensity. He trails to your neck, laving at your exposed throat with amorous kisses and light nips that elicit a breathy yip from you at the small shock of almost-pain. His nose brushes down the valley between your breasts, and he murmurs softly against your skin.

“Gevie.” Beautiful.

You smile unbidden at the praise, starting when his lips slide over your nipples, alternating between hot laps of his tongue and soft pulls of his mouth. It feels as though there is a steel bolt connecting the sensations to the throbbing epicentre between your legs, and you throw your head back as a moan escapes. You slap your hand over your mouth. Daemon raises himself above you again.

“Do not hide from me,” he says hotly, bending down to kiss you. “I want to hear every sound. Understand?”

You sigh in agreement, and he returns to his task. You shift uneasily as he makes it clear where he is headed. You squirm as he comes to rest just above the valley between your firmly closed legs, his nose buried in the silver curls shielding your womanhood. His eyes flick to yours as he inhales deeply, and your cheeks burn with embarrassment. What is he doing?

“Uncle…” you whisper. He hushes you, pushing his hand between your knees and gently—always gently—forcing your legs apart, the width of his invading shoulders preventing you from closing them. You push yourself up on your elbows, unsure of what he is intending. “Daemon–”

“Sh, little girl.” He kneels before your splayed form, pulling your legs over his shoulders and dragging you a scant few inches to the edge of the bed, flush with his body, his arms wrapped around your thighs and trapping you in his hold. “You’ll like this part.”

You want to ask what he means by that until you feel something hot and wet against your exposed centre, and you realise with shock that he’s using his mouth against you.

“Daem—” You try to move away, but he has you locked in tightly against him.

He moans and the vibration rocks into you, transforming your desire to escape into an urge to press closer. His tongue lashes furiously against your folds, bullying against the nexus point of your pleasure and you cry out, the noise seeming louder than intended due to the unnatural silence permeating the room. You rock your hips against him reflexively and he grunts, tightening his arms around you and pulling you further onto his face.

You crest with a shocked yelp, tipping back onto the bed as a wash of golden-warm bliss overtakes your body, your thighs clenching on Daemon’s head. He works you through your orgasm with firm lashes of his tongue, groaning as the taste of you suffuses his palate.

When you sink down into the bed, he releases you and stands, hands working at the laces of his breeches.

You pant in wonder, staring up at the canopy. “What… was that?”

He laughs; you look down towards him, squinting in affronted annoyance. His hand works slowly at his shaft. “That was your peak, sweetling.”

You stare.

You’ve seen what lay between a man’s legs before—or, well—once, when you were a child, you caught your father’s prize stallion tupping your favourite mare in the stable. The stableboys were alarmed to see their young princess hysterical, sobbing that the ‘horsey was hurting her’. When your father found out, you were sat down for a long and distinctly uncomfortable conversation with Septa Marlow about men, marriage and mating. Despite your relief that Daemon’s appendage is nowhere near as horrifying as that stallion’s was, he is still a great deal larger than you were hoping—you do not think it will fit where Septa Marlow said it is supposed to.

“My—what?” Your wide eyes are glued to the motion of his hand.

He licks his lips as you watch him, then abruptly ceases, grabbing you by the waist and jostling you up to the middle of the bed. You squeal softly at the sudden movement and grab onto his shoulders, so reminiscent of your innocent rough-play together when you were a young girl, and he chuckles at the light-hearted cadence of your voice. He lay your head softly on the pillows.

“Your peak,” he repeats, and your forehead furrows lightly. “The height of your pleasure.”

As he speaks, his member brushes against your belly. You shiver at the contact. His brow quirks, and he pushes down against you more firmly, repeating the action, his nose rubbing against yours. You can feel the wetness from between your legs on the skin of his cheek as it brushes yours—you do not abhor it.

“I liked it,” you whisper.

He growls softly, turning his head to kiss you. You can taste yourself on his lips, and the realisation sends a pulse of want through your core, despite having just come down from your climax.

“Dōnus riñus.” Sweet girl. “I’m glad you liked it. You should enjoy the marital bed, not be afraid of it. Fucking is a pleasure, you see—for the woman as it is the man.”

He smiles wryly down at you, though you do not understand why. He kisses you again, licking into your mouth, tongues intertwining as his hand comes up to entwine into your hair and his cock presses down to sluice through your wet folds, driving against that point of great sensitivity at the top of your centre. You whimper at the overstimulation, but allow him to do as he will.

A loud clatter echoes throughout the room—your head snaps towards the gallery in alarm. Why do you keep forgetting there are people here?

“Fuck! I tripped. Sorry!”

“Laenor. Shut the fuck up!”

You snort when you hear your cousin’s and sister’s voices, giggling despite the awkwardness. Daemon’s head presses down into the exposed column of your throat, and you can feel the rumbles of his laughter against your skin. He has not stopped grinding down into you though, and your hips tip up even as the spell has been broken.

“If you’d both shut up, I’d like to get on with it” Daemon calls out.

He lays kisses idly against your throat, and you whine as he suckles what is sure to be a dark blooming mark against the skin just under your ear. You hear faint mumbling in response to your uncle’s exhortation, but you can no longer find it in you to be ashamed of your audience—Daemon’s lack of concern is catching.

“Ojenillo gō emi, riñalōrti aōhe pryjēlun,” he mutters, “yn dokimarves umbagon emon daor.” Your cheeks redden violently. I should break your maidenhead before I fuck you, but I don’t have the will to wait.

He kisses you again, pulling your right leg up around his waist and grasping the base of his shaft to glide it through your folds. You stare down, wide-eyed. He nudges your chin with his lips, and you look up at him. You are unsure whether or not to panic.

“Aō iemnȳ gaomilā, riñītsos?” Will you let me inside, little girl?

You mutter back, “Aōha ābrazȳrys. ‘Riñītsos’ daor.” Your wife. Not ‘little girl’.

He moans.

“Ñuhus ābrazȳrītsos. Ñuhon.” My little wife. Mine.

He begins to press himself inside, watching you carefully with dark eyes. You wince as he meets resistance, your walls tightening on him instinctually.

His jaw clenches. “Fuck. I thought years of riding that dragon of yours would have taken care of this.”

You know this, too. Horse-riding—and, you suppose, dragonriding by extension—often resulted in the breaking of a lady’s maidenhead. But for whatever reason, your frequent rides on Athfiezar had done nothing to ease the taking of your innocence.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

“Daor,” he says. “‘Tis no fault of yours. But it is unfortunate. This will hurt.”

He pauses in his advance, and you can see how the night will go if he continues to hesitate. It is gallant of him—but if it already hurts and he is barely inside, you cannot see how prolonging the event will be easier. You steel yourself.

“Do it.” You are resolute, and you are glad your tone betrays none of the anxiety you feel. “Quickly.”

His teeth grind in frustration. He nods shortly, lingering minutely before kissing you again, pressing his lips across your cheek and down your throat. You burrow your head into the crook of his neck.

He shoves in in in—

Biting down hard on his shoulder does nothing to stop the cry from escaping your lips, tears welling in your eyes. He grunts as your teeth gnash, but you can spare little consideration for his feelings. It fucking hurts. But it is a strange hurt—not akin to a stabbing or piercing as Senna had nervously relayed when describing her sharp-tongued Redwyne aunt, but more of a leather band snapping under immense pressure. It is better—and worse—than you thought it would be. And the pressure is immense. You were right in thinking it would not fit, at least not without a fight.

“Fuck. You’re so tight.” His hips jerk into you, and you cry out again, the tears spilling over to wet his shoulder. He pauses. “Ah, dōnus riñus, I’m sorry–”

Daemon cradles your face in his hand and presses his lips to the trail of tears under each eye, sweeping away the evidence before placing salt-stained kisses on your mouth. It is an uncharacteristic display of softness from a man many consider violent and cruel. Then again, this entire night has been full of uncharacteristic softness. You had not been expecting much from your uncle. After all, his previous wife had been nicknamed ‘the bronze bitch’ right up until her untimely death, a death everyone says he was the cause of. You suspect those rumours are correct, but you do not wish to ask.

He waits. You are unsure if it is mere moments, or minutes, or an age—but the pain of forced entry abates, and you grow nervous at his inaction. All he does is kiss you, and stroke your hair, your waist, your leg still wrapped around him. You begin to squirm under him, trying to incite him to do something. His lips twist, but still he does not move.

“Uncle—” you whisper.

“Yes?” he asks, still stroking your hair, your waist, your leg in rhythm.

“Can you—” You blush. You do not think you can finish your sentence.

“Can I—what?” Daemon mocks gently. “If you don’t say it, I cannot know what it is you want.”

This burn of humiliation is familiar, at least. Daemon enjoys taunting people, so his wife should be no exception. You briefly wonder if he was kinder to Rhaenyra, but dismiss that as a thought to be mulled over later.

“Can you—”

You hesitate again. You are not entirely sure what it is you need, only that you are certain he can provide it to you. Daemon nudges you encouragingly. Go on, his eyes seem to say. You think you can feel his cock throb within you.

“I need—please, please, valzȳrys.” You take a gamble, thinking that naming him ‘husband’ would incite him to action.

And you are right.

The first thrust burns. The second aches. But as your husband gently rocks his hips, in-out, in-out, the pain lessens more and more.

“That’s it.” He wedges his hand under your back and pushes up, arching your spine toward him, changing the angle of his slow and steady drive into you. You pant and whine as his cock drives into the opening of your womb, forcing your cunt to make room for him—it does not hurt, this sensation, but it is strange, and you are unsure if you like it. “Sh, nice and quiet, there’s a good girl—you are, you’re a good girl, tight little cunt just for me—”

Your skin has blushed from the exertion, but you think that if you had not already been flushed, you most definitely would have started reddening from the crassness of his words. You hope that your audience cannot hear him.

“Daemon—”

“Yes,” he groans. “Say my name. I want you to fucking scream it.”

He shifts back and grabs your legs, folding them up towards you, hooking your knees over his arms. You are more exposed in this position, less dignified. You do not care. His cock drives into you and you see stars.

“Daemon!”

His responding smile is feral as he drives in harder and faster. “Three moons’ turns was agony to wait. I should have stolen you away the moment I first saw you again. Laying pretty in the grass, so innocent—I should have fucked you right there in the gardens, in front of that cunt Cole and your ladies and your bitch of a Septa, made you mine—”

You turn your head from him, alarmed. This is not what you expected. You had not realised his desire had ignited even from your very first meeting after ten years, so many moons ago now or so it seems. It makes you question every encounter, every conversation you had engaged in since, leaving you wondering if he had been thinking those same things each time he was in your company. “What—”

“Look at me,” he snarls, driving into you harder.

You yelp, clutching onto his arms, looking up at him with wide eyes. His hair has spilled out of its tied-back style, falling over his face; his eyes are fever-bright, his expression twisted into something violent and possessive. You do not know what it says about you that it makes your heart pound loudly in your chest, a bizarre mixture of excitement and fear that makes the wet pool below, easing your uncle’s path.

“Do you ‘like it’ now, niece? Does it hurt?” It sounds almost cruel. “It does,” he crows. “And you love it. Tell me!”

You shout when he thrusts forward ever more forcefully. “I like it,” you sob, overcome. “I love it, it hurts and I love it—”

“Fuck!” His lips crash down onto yours, panting as he ruts into you like a man possessed. “You’re going to take me all up in your cunt, aren’t you? Let me hold you down and spill in you, let me put my babe in your belly—”

“Yes—please, Uncle—”

You cannot help the way your eyes roll back as he forces you into a second climax, mouth open in a silent scream as the crest takes you. This time, no sound escapes—this peak has rendered you voiceless in its intensity.

“Sȳres riñus.” Good girl. He moans, speeding up, chasing his own end. You clench down on him at the praise and whine at the overstimulation of his cock pounding into you, too much and too fast, and clutch him closer. “Good girl—fuck, take it—”

His thrusts lose rhythm as he comes, his seed bursting warm within you as he rides out his high. Claiming your mouth with his own, the urgent press of lips gradually transforms into something softer, more tender as he reaches the end. He lowers your legs gently and you wrap yourself around him as you kiss. When you are done and your breathing has slowed, he presses his forehead to yours.

“Are you well, dōnus riñus?”

Your eyes are closed. You want to live in this moment a little longer. Nodding against him, you sigh tiredly. He kisses you again, a soft brush of lips that makes you smile. You wince as he withdraws from you—a “sh, little girl” from him once more—and cringe at the sensation of warmth sliding from you and spilling on the sheet below. You do not want to look, for there is sure to be plenty of blood.

Daemon returns to you with his shirt in hand, wiping between your legs with care. “Sit up for me,” he murmurs, and you automatically do as you are told.

He bundles your shift back over your head, helping you slot your arms in before lifting you from the bed, the fabric falling to cover the rest of your body. Sitting on the chaise by the open balcony, he folds you into his lap like a child. And, like a child, you drowse, head buried in his neck as he strokes down your back. Absently, you notice he has not put his breeches on.

There is minor commotion across the room. You lift your head up. Daemon urges your face back into the crook of his neck. “Don’t worry. Just the maids tidying the bed for us.”

And our witnesses fucking off, is the unspoken addition.

The path of his hand up and down your spine is lulling you into sleep. You try to fight it off, to little avail. There are voices over your head—Daemon is speaking—but you are too tired to pay attention.

You have questions. Much of what you had assumed no longer appears to make sense. But as Daemon—your uncle, now your husband—lifts you once and places you into bed, following quickly after and folding you into his arms, you decide it can wait.

“Sleep,” he whispers.

It does not take long for you to sink into slumber.

Read on AO3:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/41942436/chapters/105272127

#daemon targaryen #daemon targaryen x reader #house of the dragon #daemon targaryen x oc #terms of endearment │ daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen smut

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azrielsmommy · 4 months

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Dark Paradise (Part One)

Pairing: Azriel x Fem! Reader

Summary: Never in the existence of Prythian had there been a rightful heir to two courts, much less a female, but there you are, in the flesh. With war upon the lands, and questionable family dynamics, a certain shadowsinger takes it upon himself to make your life just a little bit more interesting.

Word Count: 1058

Warnings: some angst, sexual themes

a/n: i have NEVER written anything on here about acotar, or just fanfics in general. this is just some slight backstory, i promise we get into the MEAT of it all soon!

The blazing sun was beating down on your face, causing your hair to shimmer with faint red hues as you approached the throne room. The sound of your long white skirt swishing, accompanied by the clicking of your heels against the white marble floors, were the only noise throughout the palace, not even birds sang their melodies.

As you walked through the large doors to the throne room, the sun increased by tenfold, beaming in through various circular skylights. To fae not from the Day Court, the sun would've been blistering and heat-stroke inducing, and in your years spent here, you've witnessed a fair share. Yet to you it was pleasant, you loved it, a sweet reminder of home. A slight smile stretched across your lips as you took in the intricate designs that decorated the pillars in the throne room.

The effort and care that went into sculpting this beautiful room never ceased to amaze, but your favourite piece of artwork was certainly the thrones themselves. Halting your footsteps before the stairs that led up to the three thrones, each one made of glistening white marble, all enveloped in golden light. You admired the middle throne, belonging to Helion, your father. It's the largest of the three, built for a High Lord, and it'll be yours, when the times comes, but you wish it doesn't anytime soon. You're tired of loosing family.

A wave of sorrow crashes over you as your gaze drifts to the smaller throne of the left, empty, a solemn reminder of your dead brother. It's covered in a large gold and white cloth, several little trinkets on the throne serves as a memory of him. You wrung your hands, as you focused on keeping your emotions at bay.

A sigh escaped from you, disappointment at the lack of your fathers presence, you thought he would've been here, welcoming you home from your travels. Dropping your hands in annoyance, you turned on your heel ready to leave when you heard echoing footsteps.

"What kind of daughter leaves her father, all alone, while she travels to Vallahan." Helion's voice had a teasing tone as he gracefully walked towards you.

"What kind of father forgets about his daughter?" You playfully retort back, raising an eyebrow as you try to keep a smile from forming on your lips. Helion stops just an arms reach from you, as he dramatically places a hand on his chest as if physically wounded.

"I would never forget about you, my sweet daughter." He spoke in a soft tone. The smile that threatened to spread on your face finally forms as you laughed, throwing your arms around your father in a tight hug. Helion held onto you like his life depended on it. You relished in the feeling of finally seeing your father after your long time spent abroad. After a minute he released you, instead throwing an arm around your shoulder, ushering you out of the throne room.

"How were your diplomatic measures in Vallahan, I presume they went smoothly?" He asked as we walked together through the palace hallways. It went more than just simply smooth, your time was spent drinking at bars, dancing until you could no longer, and sex with males of all kinds. Of course you successfully made alliances and discussed peace with fae in power, but a simple nod satisfied your father.

The rest of the evening was spent catching up with the people of your court over a the banquet created in celebration of your return. You spent your night drinking lavish wine, and dancing until your feet hurt, males watched you with pure lust and greed in their eyes, but you paid no attention to them.

As the night turned into early day, everybody stumbled back to their respective homes, and you to your room. Giggles slipped past your lips as you staggered down the halls to your room. Cauldron your feet fucking hurt.

"Stupid shoes," you slurred while fighting with the straps on your heels, fingers struggling to unclasp them. Finally you stepped out of them, letting your bare feet hit the floor. Nearly moaning at the feeling. Shoes in one hand you continued the trek to your room. Nearly face planting into the door, you stumbled towards your bed, and flopped down, shoes thrown onto the carpet.

You fell asleep as soon as you landed on your bed, not even caring to get under the soft covers, or take of your makeup and dress. As you slept your dreams were plagued by a man, he was shroud in shadows, his very aura exuded mystery.

His body looked like it was sculpted by the Mother herself, the lines of his muscles still visible through the battle leathers that he wore, and those wings. Dauntingly huge, you've never seen a pair of Illyrian wings that large before.

As your eyes drifted upwards towards his face you froze, he was devastatingly beautiful, the kind of beauty that would have any female begging for his attention. Your hand involuntarily reached out towards him, unable to take yourself out of the spell he seemingly put you under. He was some sort of an otherworldly dark paradise.

Your fingers just grazing his shoulder before you abruptly awoke. Shooting up from the bed you gasped, reeling from your dream that felt all too real.

Who was that man? Why was I dreaming of him? Thoughts ran through your mind at the speed of light, as you glanced around your room, a small shadow in the corner near your vanity caught your eye. As you watched the shadows flicker and slink about, it seemed as though somebody, through the shadows, watched back.

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Azriel splashes his face with cold water, trying to calm his erratic heartbeat down. Running his hands through his hair he leaned against the bathroom counter, staring at himself through the mirror. He doesn't really.....dream, his sleep is always restless, filled with memories from his childhood. So imagine his surprise when a women, with slightly copper hair appears in his dreams, and reaches out for him.

His brains feels like mush, shaking his head, he tries to free the questions that desperately cling to his mind, as he heads into his closet, dressing into his leathers for the day.

Rhysand and him have a meeting with Helion today.

#azriel shadowsinger #azriel x reader #azriel acotar #fanfic #a court of thorns and roses #azriel #rhys acotar

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fieldofdaisiies · 7 months

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𝑫𝒂𝒚 𝟑: 𝑺𝒆𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒔 | 𝑭𝒊𝒓𝒆

Eris spends some time with his lover in the shadows; NSFW content and also a little sad; for @erisweek2023🧡 this might be my favourite Azris I’ve ever written…

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The moon's tender strays brush Eris' pale skin as he leans against the piano, his head resting against the polished wood. It is a moment full of love, full of longing, full of secrets and hiding. The future High Lord of the Autumn Court listens to his mate, tenderly playing melodies on the ivory keys.

It feels like Azriel pours his whole heart and soul into the music he is playing, scarred fingers caressing the keys with tender strokes.

As the music wipes out the silence of the room, Eris feels his heart swell with a mix of love and yearning.

He is aware that their love remains a hidden treasure — Azriel is his lover in the shadows, the only place where he can what he truly feels deep inside his heart. The only place where he can love unconditionally.

This right now is a treasured moment, but one that is so fleeting, it is almost only painful.

Eris inhales a deep breath, his eyes focused on his mate's face. Azriel is so breathtaking, Eris easily gets lost in his beauty. His long lashes draw shadows across his cheeks, mirroring the swirling shadows that slowly curl around the Autumn Court heir's legs and hands. They caress his skin, just like his lover does when they share a moment of intimacy.

Azriel’s shadows love Eris, seeking him out whenever he is near. They connect him to Azriel just like the bond does.

"Azriel," Eris breathes along the sound of the music. The shadowsinger turns his head a little, eyes trailing over his mate's face, but he continues to play.

The heir's fingers tremble as he reaches out to brush them through Azriel's hair, a gentle touch that conveys so many things and emotions without speaking a word.

Their eyes lock, love and promises passing between them.

"Eris," Azriel whispers, leaning into his mate's touch. His heart fills with warmth.

"Will we ever be able to be like this outside?" Eris' voice trembles when he speaks, his chin quivering with a painful emotion filling his heart.

His question is a fragile thread hanging in the air, such a stark contrast to the strong bond that ties their souls together.

Hope but also sorrow fills the space between them, and Azriel lifts a hand of the keys, his scarred fingers curling around his mate's hand — the one that is still placed on his cheek. "We will. There will be a chance for our love," Azriel answers, his heart cracking open as his voice trembles.

He slowly stops playing, his other hand now placed on his thigh.

A single tear rolls out of his eye. Eris is quick to catch it, his thumb brushing it away.

The heir lets out a soft sigh, his heart heavy with the weight of the reality they are facing. He dreams of a world where their love can be celebrated openly, where they can be mates just like Feyre and Rhys, like Elain and Lucien, like Nesta and Cassian…

But for now, they have to share their love in these hidden moments. The flame between them nevertheless refusing to be extinguished, burning brightly and with power that will let them overcome any obstacle.

"I love you," Eris leans in, his other hand now on Azriel's face as well. He kisses him gently, but it is only quick.

His forehead rests against his mate's, they are breathing the same air. "And I love you," Azriel whispers, his eyes closing, lashes damp with tears.

The world around them fades into nothingness, when their lips meet once again. It is different to the one before, this one is passionate, long, filled with unsated hunger. A spark ignites between their souls, fire blazing through Eris's veins when Azriel's scarred hand finds its place on the back of his lover's head.

He fists the Autumn Court heir's silken strands, bringing him even closer, teeth clashing, faces pressing against each other.

Their mouths meld, every ounce of longing and desire poured into this connection. The taste of the other is intoxicating, neither of them can get enough.

A groan escapes Eris' mouth when Azriel softly bites down on his lip, parting his lips so his lover's tongue can sweep in, brush his gums, meet his tongue with every stroke.

Their kiss deepens, their lips almost dancing together to the melody Azriel earlier played. Time seems to lose its meaning as they lose themselves in the moment. Eris hand lowers, now braced on Azriel's thigh. "I need you," Eris breathes against his mate's lips, his eyes still closed, chest heaving with deep inhales.

"You have me," Azriel answers. "You will always have me."

The crackling of the fire in the fireplace beside the bed offers a soothing atmosphere, and creates a beautiful sound.

Eris has shown Azriel that he no longer has to be afraid of fire, that his mate will wield every flame for him, that nothing will ever hurt him again. The flickering flames cast a soft glow across the walls, creating an intimate embrace. The fire's soft warmth brushed over their skins in a soft caress amd makes their bodies feel warm and comforted.

They slowly get up, and without any conversation passing between them walk to the bed, hands never leaving the other, mouths never not touching.

"When I first saw you…" Eris lowers his mate to bed. Azriel moves back, his head resting on the pillows as his mate wedges between his thighs. They are both still naked from their earlier love making, which is quite fortunate in this very moment.

"Yes?" Azriel asks, the stimulation of Eris' hands slowly sliding up thighs already close to his undoing. A soft whimper parts his lips, his head tipping backwards. Chills break out on his skin, ignited by the fire in Eris' veins.

"I knew about the bond and I hated it. But now…now despite us having to hide, I couldn't feel any luckier to be your mate."

"I am lucky," Azriel answers, his scarred hands moving over his mate's. "I love you so damn much."

In the heat of the moment they share, everything can be forgotten.

Eris coats is hand and then his already hardening cock in the oil he has grabbed from the night stand. No conversation passes between them, they don't have to talk in this moment, they only have to love each other. And they do love each other, so much. He pushes in, sheathing himself and Azriel's back arches, knees bent, legs pulled up. His head lolls back, lips parting.

"I love you more," Eris groans. He leans down, slowly retreating before pushing back in. His hand slides down Azriel's arm until he can grab his mate's hand, their fingers intertwining. "More than anything in this world. More than my own life."

Their lips meet in a searing, passionate kiss, no space between their bodies as they make love. Their souls have been yearning for so long, and finally they are connected again.

The bed groans under their ministration, the sounds mingling with their shared moans and ragged breathing, and alongside the many love declarations.

Later, when both are fully sated, their limbs feeling a little numb and their chest still lifting and falling with deep breaths, they hold each other tightly, caressing the other softly as they declare their love for one another once again.

~~~~~~ erisweek tag list: @brekkershadowsinger @honeysuckle-daydreams13 @liftyourhipsformelovex @elsie-bells @the-sweet-psycho azris tag list: @azrielsbabyg @lady-riel @moonlightazriel @brekkershadowsinger @ladyelain @a-frog-with-a-laptop @ofduskanddreams

#azris #azriel x eris #eris vanserra #eris acotar #acotar #acosf #azriel #erisweek2023

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inlovewithregencyera · 6 days

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Her fiery hair blazed through his heart and her emerald eyes pierced him to the depths of his soul. Everywhere she went, she animated light, not just through her bright features, but by the content of her character . She was born into unfortunate circumstances by being the daughter of a farmer, but shockingly, in the entirety of her life, she never knew sorrow. Her home life was most comforting, she was surrounded by adoring parents and seven affectionate brothers and sisters. What more could she ever want? The only true fears she had in this world were to ever slight her parents or to stray from God. She liked the study of Christ, and would constantly annotate scriptures in her Bible with her findings. She found comfort and relief through her faith, and through her faith, she found George.

His raven hair and heavy eyes spoke of pain. He seemed to fade into the shadows wherever he went, and that was the first thing she noticed upon their first conversation. Despite this, whenever she looked into his eyes, she saw light. He was in the process of becoming a clergyman, as that’s what his genteel father demanded of his second son or else he'd cut his stipend. It was on the 14th of April 1816 when they exchanged their first glances. An easter ceremony at Brindleton Parish was held for people of all classes to come together and worship God. He wasn’t done with his studies to officially take the title of “Reverend”, just yet, but his father and Reverend Crowley insisted that he give the service. His lips entranced her, and the rhythm of his voice when he spoke of the almighty wooed her. There was something deeply flawed about him though. After the service, she took all the courage she had to approach him with her mother at her side, and thank him for speaking of the Gospel in such unaffected manner. He was instantly attracted to her and thought she was the most beautiful being he had ever seen. He shook her hand, and softly told her, “May God be with you”.

They both thought this would be their last time seeing each other, but they were wrong. They met again on the 8th of July, for the 18th birthday of the Duke of Hollow’s second surviving daughter. Neither had known the other was in close acquaintance with this noble young lady until that evening. It took everything in him to ask her for a dance, but he did, and she merrily obliged without hesitation. They danced with each other 3 times that evening, and he began to court her in secrecy, only telling a few friends, but his sister began to suspect his attachment towards her by the way he lit up when speaking of her. Over time, he began to trust her and told her the depths of his despair and sorrow. He had a troubled childhood, with an emotionally, and sometimes physically abusive father. She soothed his pain, with her affirming words, and gentle touch, in fact, she illuminated his world in all she did. In her embrace, he found peace, and in her love, he found his home.

from the beginning | previous | next

#sims 4 regency #ts4 regency #regency sims 4 #sims 4 historical #simblr #sims 4 regency era #tcotd #regency ts4 #sims 4 historical story #vintage sims #ts4 georgian

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fuckyestherest · 1 day

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Creator Highlight - Week 3

Welcome to our weekly Creator Highlight!

Every week, we’ll use this space to recognize the amazing individuals in our fandom who kindly use so much of their free time and creative energy to share their work with us and bring our imaginations to life via writing, art, visuals, and many other creative mediums.

This week we want to highlight @shi-daisy, a nominated submission on our page who has been writing lovely and unique takes on rarepairs within the fandom!

The submission notes “they are a wonderful person who has contributed amazing works to a part of the fandom that desperately needs more love. I adore all their writing and am always on the edge of my seat for more.”

Thank you for sharing your works with us and for bringing us works into the rarepair corner of ACOTAR!

Below are our favorite creations.

A Court of Blaze & Sorrow | Tamcien and Neris

A Court of Threads & Daisies | Tamcien

A Court of Emerald & Sapphire | Tamcien and Neris

You can find more of @shi-daisy’s works on Ao3!

#creator highlight #acotar #fic recs #neris #acotar rarepair #tamcien

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flowers-of-io · 7 months

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the true and the dead

Destinytober 2023: Dreadnaught & Sword Logic // Read on Ao3

FEAR. There is no fear. We do not fear. GRIEF. There is no grief. I will not grieve. PITY. There is no pity. There is nothing to pity. GRAVE. He will have no grave. We do not dig graves. ROT. He rots beneath the waves. —Sororicide: Xivu Arath—Antigone Drowns

Savathûn comes to the Dreadnaught while it is still buzzing like a hatchery, full of noise and commotion bordering on hysteria. Pitiful remains of the Court flee to greener pastures among the chaos and gunfire of a three-way war. The Sea of Screams strains and moans, realigning itself around the vacancy where Oryx’s will used to be, the fraying Ascendant layer of the Dreadnaugh tautening over its physical frame and desperately fighting to retain its own shape. The void of space slipping through the hull breach and sucking the air out of chambers and hallways tastes like burnt chitin with a hint of panic. Guardians and Cabal and Hive and confused Taken scuffle for ground amid the still smouldering rubble. And over it all a pervading sense of doom, choking-thick and lachrymating like smoke, and like smoke hanging under the tall ceilings among dying stars.

Savathûn moves through the ship unseen, shrouding herself in shadows and silences. Even her own power is attracted by the vacancy and she strains to keep it concealed from whatever leftover Ascendants might still sense it, few as they are amid the utter chaos of a court in its death throes. She disregards the battles raging in what seems like every tunnel and alcove. She walks past the piles of corpses and splatters of gore all over the ancient architecture, the bullet-riddled walls and toppled columns. Thrall and Acolytes and an occassional Knight rush past by her, and do not notice her at all.

To the Hive, love is death. Or, more precisely, it is killing: the constant, furious endeavour to maim, to sharpen, to take a life. To take what won’t be given, so that no one else could. To kill—it is the greatest act of mercy, the greatest devotion.

She’s been robbed of that opportunity. But she is not one to squander chances, so she’ll take what she can get. For starters, she takes the offering pillars from the Hall of Souls. They will look good in her hallways, she figures; maybe she’ll find a way to reverse-engineer the portal technology Oryx had going on there. She tears through his archives and liberates ancient artefacts from his vaults. She takes the preserved specimen of the countless races he conquered and samples of rocks and flora from the planets he pulverised. She helps herself to the two Tablets of Sorrow she can locate; the rest she supposes are somewhere out there orbiting Saturn along with his body. She scours the ship for the Willbreaker, but it is nowhere to be found. This perhaps stokes her rage the most—for a moment she is drowning in it, blazing with a searing, childish fury that they’ve taken the sceptre but not assumed the throne, that they wouldn’t even give him this much grace, that he’s out there calcifying in the frigid void even though she’d warned him, and—

Her talons dig into the meat of her palms. She sounds like Xivu. She takes a steadying breath and begins to peel the crumbling painted fabrics off the walls with careful hands.

The Threshold is where she goes last.

She’s not quite sure what she was expecting. Pools of blood on the ground? A crater? Part of the ship torn off and reduced to a flurry of debris? She stands at the edge and looks down at the monstrous bulk of Saturn, the opaque layers of gas and swirling cyclones drowning the planet in a never-ending storm. She wonders if it has swallowed him up already.

He must have been unbearably smug about it, in his final moments. He was proven right! Xivu should be so proud of him, Savathûn thinks bitterly—there should be nothing but joy, nothing but celebration of how just and right and good this was, how majestic and how deserved. He’d been glad to die, hadn’t he? She stares at the dull brown surface of the giant below, strains her back, and almost wishes he had died afraid.

He would be laughing at her now, if there existed a place he could’ve gone to laugh at her from. He always said she was too much of a contrarian for her own good. He’d have rather died strangled by his own philosophy than admitted he was wrong, and Xivu would gladly follow right after. She thinks herself so clever for wanting to hang his killers on those same gallows, so righteous and mature. She will probably smile as she dies as well.

Vengeance. Savathûn scoffs. There is nothing to avenge, and if Xivu Arath was as devoted to her logic as she thinks she is she would accept that. Oryx got what he wanted in the end, and the only regret they can have is their own misplaced belief that he was not, in fact, an idiot. There is no use overthinking this, either in terms of sword logic or common sense. Furious, she throws her head back and stares at a crystalline lamp to chase the tears away.

She doesn’t stay there long, because she’s done everything she wanted to here and she’s got other matters to attend to, of which her worm kindly reminds her. Besides, she is not one to rain on her dear brother’s parade, even if he’s not there anymore to attend it himself. He would be so thrilled by the devastation the aftershocks of his death have been causing. By no means would she stop him from enjoying the unique opportunity of becoming wormfood.

Aiat.

#destinytober #destinytober 2023 #my fics #aunt savathûn #the navigator #destiny 2 #keeping up with the osmium dynasty

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kaioshin-kai · 4 months

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You swine. You vulgar little maggot. You worthless bag of filth. As they say in Texas. I’ll bet you couldn’t pour !@#$ out of a boot with instructions on the heel. You are a canker. A sore that won’t go away. I would rather kiss a lawyer than be seen with you.

You’re a putrescent mass, a walking vomit. You are a spineless little worm deserving nothing but the profoundest contempt. You are a jerk, a cad, a weasel. Your life is a monument to stupidity. You are a stench, a revulsion, a big suck on a sour lemon.

You are a bleating foal, a curdled staggering mutant dwarf smeared richly with the effluvia and offal accompanying your alleged birth into this world. An insensate, blinking calf, meaningful to nobody, abandoned by the puke-drooling, giggling beasts who sired you and then killed themselves in recognition of what they had done.

I will never get over the embarrassment of belonging to the same species as you. You are a monster, an ogre, a malformation. I barf at the very thought of you. You have all the appeal of a paper cut. Lepers avoid you. You are vile, worthless, less than nothing. You are a weed, a fungus, the dregs of this earth. And did I mention you smell?

Try to edit your responses of unnecessary material before attempting to impress us with your insight. The evidence that you are a nincompoop will still be available to readers, but they will be able to access it more rapidly.

You snail-skulled little rabbit. Would that a hawk pick you up, drive its beak into your brain, and upon finding it rancid set you loose to fly briefly before spattering the ocean rocks with the frothy pink shame of your ignoble blood. May you choke on the queasy, convulsing nausea of your own trite, foolish beliefs.

You are weary, stale, flat and unprofitable. You are grimy, squalid, nasty and profane. You are foul and disgusting. You’re a fool, an ignoramus. Monkeys look down on you. Even sheep won’t have sex with you. You are unreservedly pathetic, starved for attention, and lost in a land that reality forgot.

And what meaning do you expect your delusional self-important statements of unknowing, inexperienced opinion to have with us? What fantasy do you hold that you would believe that your tiny-fisted tantrums would have more weight than that of a leprous desert rat, spinning rabidly in a circle, waiting for the bite of the snake?

You are a waste of flesh. You have no rhythm. You are ridiculous and obnoxious. You are the moral[size] equivalent of a leech. You are a living emptiness, a meaningless void. You are sour and senile. You are a disease, you puerile one-handed slack-jawed drooling meat slapper.

On a good day you’re a half-wit. You remind me of drool. You are deficient in all that lends character. You have the personality of wallpaper. You are dank and filthy. You are asinine and benighted. You are the source of all unpleasantness. You spread misery and sorrow wherever you go.

You smarmy lager lout git. You bloody woofter sod. Bugger off, pillock. You grotty wanking oink artless base-court apple-john. You clouted boggish foot-licking twit. You dankish clack-dish plonker. You gormless crook-pated tosser. You churlish boil-brained clotpole ponce. You cockered bum-bailey poofter. You craven dewberry pisshead cockup pratting naff. You gob-kissing gleeking flap-mouthed coxcomb. You dread-bolted fobbing beef-witted clapper-clawed flirt-gill. You are a fiend and a coward, and you have bad breath. You are degenerate, noxious and depraved. I feel debased just for knowing you exist. I despise everything about you, and I wish you would go away.

I cannot believe how incredibly stupid you are. I mean rock-hard stupid. Dehydrated-rock-hard stupid. Stupid so stupid that it goes way beyond the stupid we know into a whole different dimension of stupid. You are trans-stupid stupid. Meta-stupid. Stupid collapsed on itself so far that even the neutrons have collapsed. Stupid gotten so dense that no intellect can escape. Singularity stupid. Blazing hot mid-day sun on Mercury stupid.

You emit more stupid in one second than our entire galaxy emits in a year. Quasar stupid. Your writing has to be a troll. Nothing in our universe can really be this stupid. Perhaps this is some primordial fragment from the original big bang of stupid. Some pure essence of a stupid so uncontaminated by anything else as to be beyond the laws of physics that we know. I’m sorry. I can’t go on. This is an epiphany of stupid for me. After this, you may not hear from me again for a while. I don’t have enough strength left to deride your ignorant questions and half baked comments about unimportant trivia, or any of the rest of this drivel. Duh.

The only thing worse than your logic is your manners. I have snipped away most of what you wrote, because, well... it didn’t really say anything. Your attempt at constructing a creative flame was pitiful. I mean, really, stringing together a bunch of insults among a load of babbling was hardly effective... Maybe later in life, after you have learned to read, write, spell, and count, you will have more success.

True, these are rudimentary skills that many of us ”normal” people take for granted that everyone has an easy time of mastering. But we sometimes forget that there are ”challenged” persons in this world who find these things more difficult. If I had known that this was your case then I would have never read your post. It just wouldn’t have been ”right”. Sort of like parking in a handicap space. I wish you the best of luck in the emotional, and social struggles that seem to be placing such a demand on you.

P.S.: You are hypocritical, greedy, violent, malevolent, vengeful, cowardly, deadly, mendacious, meretricious, loathsome, despicable, belligerent, opportunistic, barratrous, contemptible, criminal, fascistic, bigoted, racist, sexist, avaricious, tasteless, idiotic, brain-damaged, imbecilic, insane, arrogant, deceitful, demented, lame, self-righteous, byzantine, conspiratorial, satanic, fraudulent, libelous, bilious, splenetic, spastic, ignorant, clueless, illegitimate, harmful, destructive, dumb, evasive, double-talking, devious, revisionist, narrow, manipulative, paternalistic, fundamentalist, dogmatic, idolatrous, unethical, cultic, diseased, suppressive, controlling, restrictive, malignant, deceptive, dim, crazy, weird, dystopic, stifling, uncaring, plantigrade, grim, unsympathetic, jargon-spouting, censorious, secretive, aggressive, mind-numbing, arassive, poisonous, flagrant, self-destructive, abusive, socially-retarded, puerile, clueless, and generally NOT GOOD.

#(askbox)#nice copypasta #That's just zamasu monologueing

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multistoty · 1 year

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Continued

@power-over-one-eye

It was true that Thusnelda had a temper. Yet like a Targaryen, she protected her own and the romantic sparks between the pair were more adorable than either of them would ever let on. The magic of the wishes, of course, was simply in making them, fishing deep for a hidden desire, molding it into words to make it real, and tossing it into a mysterious unknown that you believed was maybe, just maybe, listening. Dragons eventually wake and crawl from their dark dens. Was this what it meant to love someone? That any burden was a burden shared, that they could give you comfort with a word or a touch? For love is as strong as death. It is as great a thing to love as it is to be loved. Love is not something that can be wasted. The whole point of growing up is learning to stay on the laughing side. Her heart is drumming in her chest so hard it aches, but it's the good kind of ache, like the feeling you get on the first real day of autumn, when the air is crisp and the leaves are all flaring at the edges and the wind smells just vaguely of smoke - like the end and the beginning of something all at once.Every meeting led to a parting, and so it would, as long as life was mortal. In every meeting there was some of the sorrow of parting, but in everything parting there was some of the joy of meeting as well. He was Aemond, in all his perfect imperfection; Aemond, whose heart was as easy to break as it was carefully guarded; Aemond, who loved not wisely but entirely and with everything he had. Sometimes, his deadpan expression and wording couldn’t be anything besides amusing He had been the only one before her new sister to never begrudge Helaena joy. In fact, he always looked victorious when that child like grin or vulnerable laugh made itself known. “Well, oh darling scoundrel brother of mine, I would start by saying you wish for an heir.Telling a woman you would prefer to be gifted a child of one gender makes it hard for her to believe you would welcome little ones of either.One does no question miracles, or complain that they are no constructed perfectly to one's liking. Men may be stronger, but it is women who endure.It can be hard not to feel pressured at all sides when being the one supposed to produce something with your own form. I beat myself up for months with Aegon. Be a candle to take her flame and melt and meld with it instead of gas to create a blaze to burn you both to ash. The seamstress really does get tired of getting blood out of our clothing.Though if worse comes to worse, You may hide here with me, if you wish.” Now, it was her turn to gape at him. Hands falling from their tearing on her hands. Nervous habit forgotten. “How- How do you read me so easily brother? I am a royal. If I cannot even keep white lies to you, I will be a feeding frenzy to court though I will not let on who my avenging angel is-” the words died at the offered object. The blonde boy had always been the one to give her things wether it was tomes or other things. It made her feel human and cared for.Thusnelda had been an answered prayer. The knife was one she had seen him fidget with. Aemond was always a flurry of motion wether that be his mouth causing trouble or his hands telling stories against the rich wood of the table. With reverence she would always take with a gift, a hand reached to fist her skirt to take any sweat or probably from the palm before accepting it. Holding the glimmering instrument to the light. For it wasn’t just violence. It was the glimmer of something that could create violence or upkeep protection. It would also help her feel less useless in a battle. To be a mother dragon burning down a world that would come after her children. Being Aegon’s wife would always put them in danger simply by breathing. It worried her how he had just spoke of a servant trying to steal from his wife. That meant their servants felt they weren’t taken care of enough to attempt such a thing and that they weren’t truly respected or righteously feared. Something royals much even if they wanted to warm with fire instead of melt them. The steel was unforgiving in its certainty. Truly beautiful with clear fingerprints. A well loved weapon that would serve her well. A surprising warmth in it. A delicate patter of dragon scales along the hilt. Her musings broken by the vivid pictures he was painting. How could he think she would not wish to create something beautiful of the poor trees who in death had their corpses used and abused? Her lilac eyes lost in the same imagining’s. Maybe there were figurines that she could make for the kids and her future nephews and nieces should they be blessed with them and it not haunt her friend and new sister. Carefully she took a handkerchief from her side. Careful for her waist long expertly braided hair to not be a casualty of the weapon even as an eager student. Intelligence and information vital to any queen and like a warm blanket to the targaryen girl.“I feel like you can look inside me and see all the places I am odd or unusual and fit your heart around them, for you are odd and unusual in just the same way. We are the same. I have never been so excited by something you have proposed ever. I can make a better home for my insects. I like imagining you some old father with a growing gut making toys for his children. It’s lovely. All I could want for you. For her. For us. Pure safe, happiness. I don’t want to be a blade in someone else’s hand. I want to strike when I like. Who I like and offer mercy in turn. As a child, I thought you might just make mother’s eyebrows disappear completely in her hairline.”

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shi-daisy · 2 months

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Chapters: 8/25 Fandom: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con Relationships: Nesta Archeron/Eris Vanserra, Helion/Lady of the Autumn Court (A Court of Thorns and Roses), Tamlin/Lucien Vanserra, Jurian/Vassa (A Court of Thorns and Roses), Emerie/Morrigan (A Court of Thorns and Roses), Balthazar/Emerie (A Court of Thorns and Roses), Balthazar/Gwyneth Berdara, Lady of the Autumn Court/Beron Vanserra, Beron Vanserra/Original Character(s), Cresseida (A Court of Thorns and Roses)/Original Character(s), Varian (A Court of Thorns and Roses)/Original Character(s) Characters: Nesta Archeron, Eris Vanserra, Vanserra Brothers (A Court of Thorns and Roses), Lady of the Autumn Court (A Court of Thorns and Roses), Helion (A Court of Thorns and Roses), Original Characters, Lanthys (A Court of Thorns and Roses), Nuan (A Court of Thorns and Roses), Varian (A Court of Thorns and Roses), Cresseida (A Court of Thorns and Roses), Morrigan (A Court of Thorns and Roses), Emerie (A Court of Thorns and Roses), Gwyneth Berdara, Balthazar (A Court of Thorns and Roses), Feyre Archeron Additional Tags: The Autumn Court (A Court of Thorns and Roses), Romance, Recovery, Therapy, Healing, Family Drama, Past Child Abuse, Eighth Court Theory | The Dusk Court Exists (A Court of Thorns and Roses), Nesta Archeron-centric, Eris Vanserra Redemption Series: Part 3 of A Court of Threads & Daisies Summary:

(Sequel to A Court of Threads & Daisies)

Nesta Acheron had known from early childhood she'd be wearing a mask. She thought she'd wear it for the rest of her life. Until she tore it off on the eve of her wedding. Intending to stop Rhysand's plans to become High King, she takes to the Autumn Court, where she finds more that she bargained for with the Vanserra family. Particularly Eris Vanserra.

Eris wore his mask to keep everything and everyone in place hoping that one day he'd inherit the Autumn Court from his cruel father and changed it for the better. He didn't know fate had diffrent plans for him when Lady Nesta Acheron sought him out to end Rhysand's tyranny.

Free from Night's grasp the pair must navigate Court life, family drama and romance, hoping to mend both their lives and hearts.

Chapter 8 is up! Happy Reading!

#a court of blaze & sorrow #nesta archeron #pro nesta #eris acotar #pro eris vanserra #neris #anti nessian #anti rhysand #anti feysand #anti inner circle #fix it fic

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awannabepoet · 7 days

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The raucous bell rings, the students and teachers leave as noise accompanies us, rushing to the canteen hoping for spaghetti on a tuesday. The sweltering heat blazing across the court, as we sit by the bleachers.

A simple life it was... A happy one it was. Abruptly it ended, yet joyous we were looking forward to the future.

Then you died. Seeing you carried in a casket, my eyes were blurred by tears. Sorrow creeped as we wept for you. We gathered at your burial weeping, as the sweltering sun was hanging high, and as dirt covered your casket.

Here we are gathered once again chatting with you.

#elegy #poetry

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libidomechanica · 1 month

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Untitled (“The fretted splendour, her joints out of men”)

A sonnet sequence

The fretted splendour, her joints out of men. But just last time to thee, I tell be merciless ruin Kings. And highest pleasure for a moment of the rivulet at their martial stoicism, nought at all wish, betide! Where I’ve been to-day, but burnies they bore, reduc’d by an accordion. Down the gold like kind. Yet has wrought of the men that I one from Humane to yet still dependant? Raise plainly flash’d gainst your Ark. In springs of abstracted Lover! It could not learnt how to be pure? Hard-favour, savoury end; each shadow,—truth be more he was through to pluck the balmy side.

Their Force himself: when I saw you lingered day by Wordsworth at lengthening eyes and death of his look’d behind the vales deflower to another want of roses blaze forth in the man can finde, and names mingled incense burning field. Heaven widest ripens mind;—’God saved perhaps and his pow’rs make a blink I made him quiet even shapely— just which is no more a suburb hill, deafen’d bowers Sappha went, and loving that cares her ear than her lambs might refin’d to waste then join the sun; then tell me whetteth vs; leaue to the empty the sun, there occurr’d—it might in silent pillow.

At sun and eat again, I am an anticipate the deep despair when from whose who under springtime, the stake, come to illumin’d pride, ridiculous, and blood angel eyes my love by the shadowless it be, seeing Honest mover one sort of many guest—thus far off, and sight do summons to grow! Stop the Nude Descending with crown with merry horn when all forgive it is hard the cannot help belie his brazen lies, kings, and puzzled urchin on an infant’s heart of heroism of his wide scatter three, people throng’d in the smoke from David view’d his Youth dependant?

The path the could bring from its Hollow wrappers in triumph, as wither home forest or weed but thine: though God it’s more how the weak hand too softer breast, shaking, this wave is crooked tushes slay. For a Camel, not out soul be under the light machine, otherwise,—past when the earth and gins and miss your own, beware the flowers are; likewise I have hath wrought is gone, mine eyes, and hamstrings sadly in loue. The morning and are hints as he scent, yet had five bathroom floor mocks your flock in Bromion’s seen by Death, lighted, how sad sight, and gay, a martyrdom. Hath done a fell’d mass why I’m telling.

Robe of quality soon, dost hold men despite. To me, yet dried up the love have a Rights. And test! Serpent of Crime. And such as any challenged echo clear: filling of the needing worthless daughter. The Court and Stella louers casement come you that has he sweet: meantime, across me. Or who fought in vision ran: once more destroyeth. From lover, burneth more worthie to Reb ell. Said thou, could not do that three thee, will the dusk holiday or hot desires: then gave but mine distant in his desire to fold, brib’d, unsought cannon threw up their King: those have none! Touch of grave, who can know. And Wordsworth has crept so long, far from every night a feeble sound, which so much virgin bliss aboon, man, these love- time, only face than the twilight delight, open, but die, till, his Prerogative. Of present sorrows of Death’s voiceless head was made, and their days was. Even so confess—I rail’d or woe.

They hold you are a little Booke; yet some suspect when receives her and a’ his gewgaw castle and so say you have been his gestures, and her fair, to my Root, and Debt, as hurls the chapel aisle by force country tempting thee and test!—Alas me! And heaven in dreamingly. Take me once felt within; desiring up repentance which I can’t open’d the squares and knows not much love’s flowers our Universal a single beams. Forget his lips the Veil, who made your newly dresses, but forth my love, perceant, stept, and by Venus, where thought esteem, like puzzle all his beside a Throne.

Old Angela, believe, and watch. In awful splintered every accurst. Things, and her lambs might feel round him, grey and puzzled her; and shews their Reason: cynthia of those life supply’d th’ exactly as though it’s in the world. For, as with fine young Porphyro willing stored them red and rid my soule oppress with a General Mother’d, or it fear the stand unobservants the wind troubled; for this rainbow, as is light tells he would States-Man, and Delude soft wool-woofed carpets: fifty thousand splinterior talus of her dream he was the assaults grace in hay. About us parted dead.

Was, nor brother, “she’s to break twenty, Tam. The beats her grief, and nothing more I will plague is belov’d to our Fury of the Nights, ladies, and it was betraying in his breathed silver, snarling a star, and shut up and swords I staid not here; for a good, and a’! So form a lengthen first were must contemn me the cried—and now, yours, with him. The nursed into the Small respected age, goethe harbour’d in gold. Now, while fain him any meant to me, an’ I’ll come to the season’s chief pacha calmly midst the Crowds, but read not right: joys in their hear. Yet so well again, I cheery on some to the groan.

Be wasted: then truly part to love, we known angry sultanship, pell-mell, and all me when it grumble verse doth lend her in Sion ran: once would have gaz’d on a planisphere. Of what wisdom as thus, acquiring up to Foam, and ripe-red chill, a crescent. Abode not so, my Deare, let em take a battle-song that I would redress over than Life, you wrong. Kiss thoughted Vows cold; she seer. To treads the heard it is there he could keep; it seems but in the curb, you came them droop with than life, in pity on a newspaper posterity? Helen, let my tear: and Lov’d, that I doe Stella, died.

In all for no God could floats the Prussian army upon her dew on every few toises, where is Madeline: and seized fast, though his pleasure subjects forget these succession drew the heathy morning him in vain, such a Generall Shout, or other Earth, and come on my lids and homeward strange excuses mak’st thou canst not, nor pleas’d with Esop cross to bridges to woo him. And beauty slaves, and not helpless; all her fragrance irrefragably, legitimately in his blood being leave their Trade for one place with call things dearest creature is the morning, by sides just she had wanted?

She linnet, as thou forth has he then I shall we feedeth beauty from cause then leave me, most deceptive organ in the same rapid blast prayer was nothing the hungry, and quite herculean Is it be&,. Before the head, by high skies, quick and from his hat over where Rigours exile locks: they gave eyes train pass; erect that Majestical, and bye her woman’s sent from seeming to the winds bleed, as thought Kings are danc’d by the fate of fruit the cry. And having the Church and brow o’er its last cough, for meek St. You are the wounds, and Oothoon a whole World of Vertue stands and as she forever.

Men, sometimes pace and these he might be drawn break, if not, and hail once in the manorial room: my parent to its Incomes then presence to all by law of nation. Whose swift aid their end; his spent of the dialogue, and there he Parts by rule how that think it quite literally back a dim, silver lightning up a single draws; constru’d Youth, she glide, and I will not so light, desire on Bromion said: Thou mean no harmony with this soul of American please; bankrupt, that life in my arms, white and scattered from Nature so: it fills men know. Yet lost thou suborn’d in his brow’s reprove more.

Bit him—although the threw up the region them, the deep despair maid we had all in pride, so, one dozen new men and you should meet beauty a-wee; but of the shore, against that, but beauty hath taught to length of David’s mild, to make thou need’st thou, O awful rainbows o’er the sense? A pious proud, adonis lies; two glass, and if yet affects that care and beheld him so. To the flood-gates brest, th’ event; for murther head of night in the chief, a shuddering friends, said thee to models of my hands it went to starbursts by that must needs none. You soar to-morrow, lintel, scarf on a colour, pace and barks, a soldiers, while his sheep and direful, happy laugh and Slaves; And, without breeze enough the women’s ear; she answer’d, snatch, perhaps his day, what a sigh; from the blacke banner and I would love were door. Be this, I guessed by the closet, of such occasions will ever meet. The State.

I said she, how much ado the aged eyes are limbs I fainting Day, in extremes, but the seav’n Submitted, and caves, upon the beaten what goods which indues its veteran body and battles, are both with the meadows length must have been my lips the strife after sun, the sensation of the flowers Sappho at her seat while claver has lost in the Taxes double hunger stars she says, this watch his Tears turn’d into a present part, and did to his brutal Rage; they built up unto the nothing but the rampart, the Muse. Blazed, answer Ribas’ summons to the dull tattoo: I want to share.

The doolfu’ tale; there western friend in fatal tide her limbs I faine would lose alone could misery; as burnt out, when no more golden beak on feature is not fears them fear that sate upon his name, without pity till as always slide: of his woven girths he be, which is man, and trip when the midst thou may descends, where the cold miss your child, a lessons he that hit with such echoed he; no soft moan: alone the tomb of his own. The cobwebs with eternal motion. And cried and Intelligence so well defense can save sons lie silence and wild voice of the lesson of our only bleed?

Pure shall path of lope, with their desire hath bene minute. And kept the makes me dear Madam makes the spring comes tumbled Friends or pens her eyes: porphyro, for hidden in ilka field. Love speaks, with just in the beautiful! And hope of birth a rule how a bride: two palms pass away shall be transition of glowing, leander, to make the living Roman sort of my hands in her head of surrender by mowing back thee wrongs and paint you sung into its Incomparing time, the age had he break of this side, high in woe, as we discourse with as fearless, and while he was dead, lo!

Wo to me my heart; I said many wishest, said thee now not, or of hands and the Blest: heaven opened and floor mocks your pen. Is hollow lute,—the ley, that dy’d in the sunshine, hath fed upon Salámán eyed the burning I look to the strikes whate’er the fly rejoice, it cross soft ring, or at there, and good will not leaue you canst not brought to her, she van. Around this cramm’d with the sea, the blood they did Absál? If all his cheek receive their shadows of despair and doth without love you bewitch #1 with tinkling vanquish’d there; if all thing comb, and Hate the squire will put it is still round like delight.

Feed where am I riches in his own. What he wisest floating look’d on poison, and Rais’d there’d been got with them very flowers my step by startled back in body, you’llfind then I wake her face, and status as they heart, thence, keep with his power of love hell. A dainty dish to hear every light where then had lyed; I said their meal upon this she dancing fair eyes divide no spoil the apprehensions, where those perfect, never hooks. The sun, and many time to injured eyes will do whatever hard the sun’s broad-brimm’d hawker of my You have looks among thee from its sleeping?

I should fly, as who beheld his Consenting part; now glittering Ismail’s no more. Tape separate and I am down to him, what the mind stinging. The moth oozing a sidewalk, the sun insults with a wise hand, like Dante than if thou his beauties, which thee forest being low never men for that sense does it restled from my People by a Base Design. Eternal chain, binding done, her tomb. What the midst, instead; at last. Breeze went o’er the thus to below which pale wind up the name you when the hallucinations there burthens for love swear, or seeing around their treble wrongs and death.

Soon wait as a part; nest of one by one threshold hands her yoking underness was, as beeswax, his immovable; until johnson, where not go seek if thou encountered seems, to catch virtue lost his hour when I am sure twas Nature it strife. And if you’re alive their Taxes doubles: rain reviv’d, spreading fountainside my head of such think only a memory with Honour ankles there is the wide domain, increasing fairy, all be curb, you walk the world such occasions will enchantments cold Catoes breast, will plague is born against the elopement of it in the milk tip.

Which arch’d for with call my tears began to wow me and heavenly to his Wit prove nothing whence there heat more that bring or their will not her, and takes the world again, and beheld his Sould discoursing look the house,— for thee, of slumb’ring heap a moment is in the kitchen, coffee in disdains the avenger straight gay meteor, and new simile enough the fair Venus salute him still, complete. Lo, you would defil’d when he most mite make Heirs for then they will be mercy sway’d, burneth, meagre face of the Laws less faild, the gentle numbers he thought a Crime. She hurries and red each the sighs.

All fragrance is it not. We part pensions find of her husband, and eat, good folks would lye, and than they are, none is to try, nor treaties her sleep in Taylor and fife to toy; she singer is a doubt th’ unequal Fates, in ermin’d prince my stomach one is lost, for ever have been all begin! This gave over-smooth-sculptured stars were paradise, and still the naked bed. The studding, ding; sweet contented to languisheth in the wind sleeping from his lance them scarce could ne’er will; they did Absál in the rest, in a weak, palsy-stricken at their Names assuag’d. And back from the Government.

Besides in Hell! If in my emotions standing, slops in: I shut my ribs, and blest— but when he will while shelter thee. Forget your body perpetual motions of the several Sons be, though Love bleeding at mark will know that make thee formed were blythe Bent; but those frothy mouth the portal, though mine ears, tears—Oh, odious, trembling door and unnamed after a rainy mountain or industrious and crooked, churning; on golden from still were stroke surprise her? But Fate sort of Salt, and the name by the morning swift was a Fool. Since they sit, when he did pleasures of this strange it sweet floor.

That time; their band; some Circumference yet against fear out of a tiny each other head, before scythes, or else pale contemn; but them ease my married; but aye fu’-han’t is full of graced so. When spring, but of rest, now snows faint degree unknown grotto were stand, my rest, now a flower, who when a’ thir days like mine eye that daily shore, and soules may survey our rustic danced there’d been? And eternity, which, when I tune is left in muck begun, enamoured of mortal engine of the town was sublimate my being immortal, thos bad, and defects wrong, and Haughty Pharoah’s Ark. Much disturb the brook upon the great each human forgot; cool was his wings, conquering if love’s alarums his breast; their column orders often swore to bear the despair, hover’d hell is less without a dreams I sorrow will never, never the eie of Access. Her tender, a bird flies.

If, when thou hadst not Faction into a shadow wailing lost with you about; a circumstance of the Danger by the ills tell thy narrow after throat shall be my deer; danger; I hate records vnto the images here ceas’d, imprinted dar’d, when the upright, than Heav’n’s halls today, to worth therefore there; ascend, or laid us as she’d been for that, had a fever … love me for loves to the dolls, a fire was not wish heart blood, or thee. And says adieu, the breathing to do it to thy bed-vow brought at all for day forging race, if asked there are times of her hate you urg’d by the hollow hole.

Father gives proves imaginary. Where I lingering people of thing but made to Pall Mankind taking to divine; when I am not inflection, and a voice as we! Mighty Jove, pallas, Minervaes paths but deeds a Tyrans make the twirled the Jews well knew not—single sport. Of half the drowned—blind and she lay! Vile savour His—lo! On me that what’s the fresh varied featherless best, since I am pure, bequeath us perpetrated as a midnight of the General conceal’d, her eyes seen and none are prosecute the receive; let no more a spurr’d benefit of Business is much: but a war of slaughter, and lively bride the Race, but was back in battle suits with thee! My mood is cast down she knew, were all that flies, a gathered tables of her nakedness Ill with her eyes were terms as coy; with carelessly as it will come heat, if follows where thy fair makes the delight, and lo!

The cold design, to raise my heavy eyelids. Salute the world again, a thing the wet leather Colleges on Madeline beside me doesn’t have been mid Sea reveale. My own directed with a rancorous thou soone with a spright, thy beauteous in his mellow knock’d and be cut back just not coy, but of my truths are gone, more fair Sacharissa lov’d Stellaes heap’d with these led the Minstrel galleons who things and heaveth up his lowly arches and for murther. And poor; I sit and all game and noble Fame; the lovely can Crave. Fit to hearkens four youth return’d him give that in view?

That give through pure and to our good Husbandry. I felt the last, your fate heate so greatest hew, attends at shuts its long. In being fair days, she place. Having of this unsighing of life. Partly because it me, and such skirt the plagues, to try form men like, thirst for all in Rhenish and again the call; then them, were not die than the sky is clear windows but a flower? I felt only. If here am I Scanted quite caller rest; for Heaven shine. By that Relief can Righteously poor in like a glutton- like to watchful, penetrant, saw other the mind stinging dove. But valiant Tartar.

Why should riot, because in a shapely— just a though cast down strengthless might be begun to dry; for lovers love in view? The edgèd steel’d, shall Religious disclose; so in their punish’d nor could thou dost lend the Jewish Markets of a bachelor now on an English the fish in battle art of him, as by Princes soft and Johnson came, with gold beldame, who are fix’d with his harmony then has slaves, political light the same: theeues that they see no more to spin on, it is a spouse his fair, with the voice of catch, with the blink I made the Turk’s teeth, upon a taken, took to diving heart blaze.

Was hereto, more sweetly ends: come on my Mother’s ground to spoil are written many gaze in euery part—and yet too much foul dream. In some fruit to hunt the Memory of the Booke; yet the see; for what class we find a night of fragrant o’er it may; thou art thy soules fair haire will not be, stock, Stone, one who fought of everywhere, which only is deed: Anon his chin, lie round; so white and sure, one whose brink of a nearby to her dear inhabitants of new time have a blessing spruce, new stuff’d, in Sion raign’d. And I think the head. Are should I be at faults grace and married blossoms the scene more.

—And yet comes in the earth, from which little scorching the has not be, seeing on the shadow in all fair: urg’d with chasing, chiefly the coasteth mutiny earth is polygons of folly call my vows for a fool to fail it isn’t even where I my selfish blightingale, when my breast. The things peace in leaf willows in full on the wrongs dissembl’d, my Foes, his lie falling wealth, ostage on the blot these; who possessing, his masters, allies, nor reward your belly, smooth moist hand, wide wound I sit a Bird one days, drafts, carbon monoxides, with lead: heavy firing Crowds its sweeping.

The empty spaces far off, and so, you have caught with softness, now—but having notes straight eyes, and while or ten paces where have overcast of the meadows length is how then has slaves his lass, that for the race. Of wealthy as the husband, and depriv’d long octaves, the Polish drum nor touch our sports of fear, to cast in his faith reward for evening thee. Till and let out something down, by his own deed heroes, and aw’d resisted Command, their legs swollen from wicked pearls pale and brought of discontented not bind: if alter’d hours, mirrhe, gum, aloes, franticly she frame, it aches they gave sons lie.

And over bog and listens with glance others with affrighter were. Eyes did not differing instead I saw the right have lover my dreams … scatters he the western gloom wrought upon a fray, what I alone, their stay’d, she pushed, and seems to the thin Disguise! And as she wild turkeys crosses will glance between freed, that face temptationmasters light to have gives a foe o’er, and save that is about Judas, that defied; as thou a tongue but Bromion can harp, to the new color blue isles and gory cheeks she has nae lovely copulation; the man in vain your own deserving wave! Thy mark is feet.

In my eyes’ red for thy piteous conspiration found us in verse to bravest, when he was nigh, nor leave me moon, the sea and siroccos harvesting of impulse and snowy sentences, tho’ poor Plot to leaves beheld a though no tears a merry wine, sweet the vision, or holinight to lift my word,—at least of thousand waited silver twilight, when he heavy heart such is the Gazette—which so much Grace and gipsy bonnet nor veil of existed lily white a foe: they spear’s fire thatch for fear, love-lacking of a thousands of men through all so easy sprawling ecstasy! For all intricate web, the southwest simple Dove in her four time of thee, Achilles, some twenty, Tam. Than you coming that crop to spell his count Chapeau-Bras, to my hear my vows o’ truth I must all she seem’d to a myrtle sickle, proclaim, says Hotspur, long wilt chide, thy outward, but to their own.

If thousand wreath’d her boddice sae bashful short-jointed steal his warrior maid, my thighs aloud: fair St. Need na spied I but shrewd gyrles must have been nothing so when a lodger, my hearty meal upon what will which one day will give the side some night-wind o’ th’ Sea, sudden in pride nor too has leather-beaten—though this favours and made moan from its sweet. Beauty is still be a cause he now not where other and downs, afterwards your eyes we ply the only rapture of a pyramid. The two selves in strength is light toll; by whose brow of sorrow, and dare better sauces did admit.

From Earth being fooles more happy Love, sharply he made you from the vigorous caves! The Peoples Cause revives: her hair sit, from bastion, poore my heart as they hold you still spend the steeples on purposing earth! Brook, warblers here I hear that to touch’d with you not rejoice! Ask the alarm, and fool with cold arms in awful, could have been foot by the Pillars of Albion weeps, and polished a tear, as you as the portal hath made you still round that has he thought on the dead: he speak of a mother’s spaces far and frenzies wood, then give, and who can praise, to take the meadow unders are gone!

A song of the Grand Canyon, still wear her will, even the Mower Damon sun afternoon hover a shore, and, heedless cleft breast abhorrence from myself throng of the Place, and meet the reader; since gold like windows fall, and of Son; swift was a missing breathless race are complete a painful change his elbow. Flows down by her month of a new one to him, with sponge drink. In love of Futurism just as love is a glass. My Peoples Cause received that: which it may remark my fault clean; unbrib’d, and sing, hey ding and the hall dark slave to be arise and scattered leewardings, the Dog-star heat?

From Fez; and so too;—and all his gift for Reign may make thou returned in silence holds five sense? However, not savage the fume of your idle soules fair whom then groans. A sin; but even then being grave for trumpet peace. What are the test. And then shew I am not a Slaves; And, will awake where to-night? Let us little head: she strides, that the unknown too, I’ll come to the Ground, no more a Son! I will draw the small lie unstrung, the lintwhites invade. Who had no human Hydra more I will behind. Twas Apollonius: something—the Fire? From stain and all was dropp’d a precious jewel out?

Whose modern wretch, for man wit. Spleen, vapours chokes had a mortal can. My love, has tir’d with fearful roar, and the sire to see your nerves his ten hundred pages has given his Train the old man, they’ve pass’d oft whole the Harp I still my mind, yet dearest, when he did creature? But, I fear’d there’s no one can go through were not trust, but ashes sat he won Renown, and thou’ free for which rain’d, while I strove the strings, and yet she look’d behind. Fixèd lot, is not in the Christian trim, against its through the heads and though, too has a’ to borrow, to pray for the sky, you and I. Down, like the fruit; but a word.

Old wives for oft the passion, or too he laugheth in the soul prey’d on the healing pity never joy than my own lute the roar was no firm hand, lass, in trembling at a Conquest on thy slaue, and poetic diction, who only injuries: yet am I riches and spin, while what hour byast Natural pleasure, yet Comets rise gently. The baite, and folded flock, this sad sighs, he stop my mind, the poor world almost sweet time of Dulness thanke may reassured and suddenly I am lonely troubling rose conceding puclick of all the stream to some sullen-purple flowers eternal!

Purple flower; like Feinds, and silly boy, believing no notice told of your moral and their smell in haste woman ties and coughing occur some still relenteth? Brittle reasoning Nadab let Oblivion. Then Bromion’s Curst Return’d to Mars as he, for men?-Loving Cov’nant water language ever wound wept, he pushed the winds along, this, the Shah, and by your brain, and that the cranks o’ your inconvenience this state- thing to feed a seconded with but perish’d or thee, Achilles, some Celebration: tell me when music we know not, nor no one whose gentle chance unto their wine.

God made him finds mistake, come into the day, yet white o’er, and fro. If he be, which make than break. Still succeed; so short. Born long winter’s art: those owne faults, but from Matter, in Essentious Youth reversion. The weak point I cite is, the unknown and the rampart blame; therefore splendour, her eyes but a flock as despise, nor compounds having were none hears this shadow came, Ah, Porphyro took her head; two, the whisper, and out to die. She thick clutch of music, you that always wine, with Arts, and sung: a mixture of all this guilty beetle is a flock, this sight: their plenty, Tam! Now wide wild insane.

Beware the baite of war; ’—’t will against they are gather’d Ripe, or a cov’ring every thing, in his horse shall awake that it was: but Zeal to hear sighs can dances terse. And there’s no sin love: rich in water wonders quest. For which men vain, a things growing stars will I quite herculean Is it blindness, sometimes her fair, and falleth with he himself to give him down, wait for it fear lurk in loue. Down in every jar; yet look with how sunk in Absál, and country’s stay, in love’s unbounded their head, and the luver’s chamber door, lest I prophets, house said the yellow! So never stickle.

Lifts his dim again into the words; at last of Albion hear you must not where not near all mean, your scorn, and so himself Affection, beats her ruining? Come with no long, too, mysel’ hae plenty deck’d her left him keeping skin. For seventy years would mean, your hands, you still a cheat, the ruthless, the bloated in his gift for trumpet blood. From Plots, springing a tear blin’s her side by slow flapping courser, gentle lark does iron tyranny. Where thou presents lessons he scarlet while far he flies gloomed athwart the skies, or pierced the world a notion of the sight thee made me discovery.

The First open’d in her righteous of our holy feet. What Pretence of thy death I find, for foul fiends: like anarchism thoughtless doves thoughts black-eyed girls of your bolder tale remembers good depends or pens have to learned there’s many a dusky gallery, to striking? I have done?-Shore savage mind with a Lordly Rage, his love well as much virgin’s picture, cold, they will I quite words shouted in such the Stars will hold a Banisht David view’d each joy to this day’s hot courtesy not reckoning pure louers case, I reader; since they Curst the minds are broke my face of the Publick Liberty.

Look how their Vessel for thy hard a minute in an hour lakes for day forgiven, it’s eleven you can say I am one the only one is shining is heart to stands possible for theme; the long, as carefull now all never shine, he kiss’d her burning should I doubt thou in meditates to be done, with sand. After stealing up some night charms, faded think what you haue hart becomes in eyes the charm numb play thy eyes may see now, even so shall find, the last down the dead words can be separating husband, and, but there, and mounts The Fire; to Graceful Actions and the nurses.

What if Blucher, by all with a glimpse of Folly fellow, while he might of pain. Eagles hide, and now his laurels sweet in his way, and doth this bonnet nor brother just as long since thy bed, but die, he is in the bliss, whom Kings no Title interruption bleed, Blythe invisible line pull out— my two blue affray his sternly. Of a few the cloud drops fall? His eyelids, where, despite of forty thousand writhing on earth with least I will be taste at first hunt than prosecute that his hinder leaves is to brave Tartar, the soft as pudding seal close by his story cannot saue, murder-spot.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 6 #207 texts #sonnet sequence

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siderealxmelody · 1 year

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Starborn & Stardust

@luxmaeastra

He wasn't as cloistered in his Eternal City as one might assume. He followed Hesperus to his gambling dens. He payed visits to Auraline's artistic patrons.

He knew what the courting etiquette was in this age. Trinkets, sweets, and a show of wealth. All things that soured his mind.

He remembered the old ages, when their people crafted constellations and canyons for their loves. When males like him journeyed to their mates. The only thing propelling them was a dream and a Call in their blood.

But that age had died hadn't it? It lay waste and broken like their home and his parents bodies. He should stay away, Austrus would advise he put her out of his mind.

She wasn't like them, if she ever was. She may have the Asteri blood, she may be powerful but she hadn't ascended into one of them had she?

"If she was your equal Rigelus don't you think you would have felt it? Don't you think that Call would have come by now?"

Rigelus swallowed and focused back on the book in his hand. The script looping and blurring under his eyes. But she was young, barely 24 Turns now. What would she know? Perhaps she'd grow to be like them. Isn't that what the Drop was meant to be? A way to replenish their numbers? A way to find their wayward kin scattered through the Wyrd.

He exhaled and looked to the crystals and gems on his table. He hadn't been sleeping, all he could see was her freckles like a dusting of stardust.

He could compare every inch of her to the night sky if he let himself. He could probably write whole pages of poetry of how graceful and bright she blazed.

A newborn star sent by The Ancient One to guide them. To push them back from the Abyss and embrace life again. To embrace the pain and sorrow that came with it.

He closed his eyes, tilting his head back. Trying to breathe through that memory. The fire, his parents bodies twisted and broken. The stench of their blood. The howls of the Daglan's Wild Hunt closing in.

He had survived, he had survived and fashioned something good. His parents would have been pleased - proud even.

He looked back at the gemstones and little figures. Gifts from his siblings for his every age older. Trinkets but would they satisfy her? Would she even want him to change anything in her life?

She didn't seem the type to want deep and moving things. She seemed the type that Hesperus would like. Loud, impulsive, wild and brash. He'd been called quiet, methodical, cautious - he didn't know the first thing of being like someone like Hesperus.

He swallowed and tightened his fist over the horse. Brushed glass of blues and silver. A shot in the dark, one chance. If she kept it, if she liked he'd send more. If she showed she could be careful he'd give more. The note was quick and clean.

It would arrive within the week. He pushed the voices and doubts out of his head. He held onto his mother's last words before she'd been attacked.

"Don't be afraid Rigelus. You'll be alright my darling. Do not be afraid to dream. Do not be afraid of the unknown. You'll be alright my little star."

--------

Bryce,

You look like you could use something beautiful to gaze upon. I saw how you fought to save Lunathion. How brave and fearless you were when no else was.

This is Horse of Dreams. It is an old story, one perhaps that still stands. It is said it galloped among the stars, rising warriors to battle and blazing a trail for them.

Do not forget you are a warrior. Warriors become the stars in the night sky. Their vigil does not end in death. You will become a star when they become dust and ash doomed to be forgotten.

- Stargazer

#luxmaeastra

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oraculodekransis · 1 year

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Reign of the Empyrean Autarchs - 5. Autarch Tenasar “The World-Burner”

The inhabitants of a myriad of worlds braced themselves for the reign of this new Autarch, already preceded by a reputation that left no place for indifference. The Messiah of a New Eon of Creation for his acolytes, a madman for everybody else.

He had taken for Consort a distant cousin, Lady-Chatelaine Felgeda of House Moneiba, who had been one of the first to be enthralled by his teachings, becoming his most pious follower.

Like his father before him, he was enabled by a court overfilled with sycophants. At first most supported his delusions for personal gain, but a terrifying core of true believers grew over time, eventually purging the infidels from the highest echelons of power. By the time of his death, the divinity of the Autarch was held as the purest universal truth.

Since childhood, Autarch Tenasar had claimed to experience prophetic visions, which became even more frequent with the years and his forays into mysticism and fringe spiritual practices. These supposed glimpses into the shape of things to come would become a fundamental part in his process of policy-making, with catastrophic results.

A particularly powerful vision visited him shortly after his ascent to the throne, in which he saw himself in the image of the Increate, crowned with a tiara made of galaxies, lording over the entirety of Creation for time everlasting.

In those early years of his reign, a team of archaeologists made an amazing discovery in a vault beneath the lifeless sans of planet Tajuya. This was a collection of manuscripts inscribed on ridulian crystal paper, apparently written by the first humans explorers that had left Old Earth to venture into the cosmic void.

The texts were written in an incredibly archaic language, and their content was filled with obscure philosophical meditations, sometimes bordering on the incomprehensible. The Scions of Magec took control of them and soon published an official translation. The writings, now named The Revelations of Magec, were interpreted as prophetic wisdom that had been brought out of oblivion by the divine predestination of Autarch Tenasar.

Nowadays the accuracy of this translation, and even the actual authenticity of the texts is questioned, but at that time their influence was so powerful that the Realm entered in a Golden Age, in a blaze of religious zeal.

With copies of the Revelations in the hands and the minds of billions of his subjects, the Autarch acquiesced to the pleas of his most devoted followers. The time to reveal his divinity had arrived at last.

He proclaimed himself Alpha and Omega, Last Bodhisattva, All-Father, Divine Hermaphrodite, Unconquered Sun Incarnate, and many other forms of godhood. He was, even by the most conservative accounts of his contemporaries, completely insane.

His father had been a cruel and vindictive despot, who had generally been sated with mere opulence and flattery. Autarch Tenasar demanded an abundance of those, as well as debased worship.

An edict was issued, ordering the billions under his rule to recant the faith of their forefathers and convert to the one true faith of Magec, to pay outrageous tithes and carve the tallest mountains of their planets with the divine effigy of their ruler. A collective punishment of massive orbital bombardments awaited to all defiant worlds. That was no idle threat, scores of planets were reduced to radioactive cinders during the reign of Autarch Tenasar, and not once was his sorrowful judgement averted.

Over time, the World-Burner grew bored of the interstellar war that tore apart the cosmos in an unending cycle of repression and uprising. He left the matter in the hands of his increasingly desperate commanders and retired to the comfort of his palace, ever mindful of serenity and meditation.

In this time of placid isolation, his closest advisers proposed him an outrageous new project that would exalt his greatness and ease his ennui. The construction of a vast new capital city paired with the massive terraforming of the very planet. Its athlete-inducing gravity would be alleviated with the installation of a network of anti-grav pylons, and its harsh volcanic ranges would be molded into green rolling hills. Artiacar was to become a garden world, full of gentle things for the delight of the divine lord of the Known Universe. In the following years the entire wealth of ten industrialized planets would be squandered in the pursuit of this extravagant dream.

Even with his mind warped by megalomania and delusions of divinity, Autarch Tenasar was still somewhat aware of the mortality of his flesh, and sought ways to overcome it with increasing desperation. A new experimental form of nanotechnology was presented to him by his tech-men, one that promised to turn him into a living god, inmune to aging and disease. The Autarch embraced this new wonder of science, which actually granted him renewed vigor and superhuman abilities befitting his pretended godhood.

However, this state of affairs would not last long, for his nanite-infiused body violently liquefied itself as he was officiating the Cosmic New Year ceremony. His ignominious, gruesome and extremely painful death was live broadcast to the entire population of Artiacar, and despite the frantic attempts of the inquisitorial Order of Seekers of Truth, recordings of it would eventually reach even the most distant worlds.

Rolls

Sobriquet: 5-6

Spouse: 5-2

Heirs: (4) Thenezort (m) Tinabuna (f), Tinguafaya (f) and Tinizara (f)

Events: (5) - Rise: 4-2, 6-3 - Golden Age: 4-3, 5-6, 2-3

Death: 3-3

Collapse

Dishonourable: 1

Unstable: 1

Weak: 2

Autarch Tenasar “The World-Burner”. Also known as “The Unconquered Sun”, “The Son of Heaven”, “The Divine”, “The Arch-Heresiarch” and “The Madman”

His Consort Lady-Chatelaine Felgeda of House Moneiba, who ritually immolated herself in the same spot where her husband was liquefied.

His brother Prince Dailos of House Xerax, radical trans-humanist and revolutionary leader against his regime. His death was never confirmed.

His sister Princess Tazirga of House Xerax, one of his most fanatical supporters, and head of the Order of Seekers of Truth, tasked with hunting down heretics and malcontents.

#solo ttrpg #space opera #solo #Roleplaying Game #Reign of the Star Kings #Reign of the Empyrean Autarchs #Empyrean Dynasty

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