#nuptial doom
Text
Guileless
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Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon, manipulation, dejection, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
Summary: The reader attempts to move past her ruination, but is reminded of her tarnish conscience at every turn. (Regency AU, tall!reader)
Masterlist
Character: Steve Rogers, Thor Odinson
Note: thanks to those who waited on this one!.
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Love you like I love coffee and that’s a lot and probably unhealthy. Take care. 💖
It should be the happiest time in your life. You should be elated, and yet, as ever it is, every victory precedes a treacherous defeat. A proposal one day, and despair the next. That nipping of doom in your gut, that ever present doubt, is made certain by the passage of time. It has been much too long.
You sit in the pews, throat tight as you keep your chin locked. You breathe slowly, as if too sudden an intake might unleash the tempest brewing inside of you. It is more than nerves, you know it, that sicken you so. You should be happy for your pending nuptials but you are only horrified at the thought.
The bishop reads out the banns before the rows; the first for yourself, the third for your sister. She will be permitted to wed and your mother has presided over much of planning already. You dip your head as your name rings out beside Lord Odinson’s and you swallow back a swell of bile. You’ve been gulping down your own stomach for much of the morning, ever since you caught a whiff of pickled shallots in passing the kitchens.
You push your head up and your hand down to your lap, knowing you will be observed. You must at least look certain of your fate. You must sit proud for the engagement all would put into question. For the time until it shall all dissolve, you must play your part.
You can barely keep from wilting where you are. A prudent woman might bite her tongue. She may commit to the theatre of it all. She might lie and get away with the folly. You glance over at Lord Odinson, just across the aisle, and you know you cannot. It isn’t one lie, it’s a lifetimes’ worth of betrayal.
Yet how should you tell it? It isn’t only him who must know. Your father would need good reason why you’d rather the convent to a proper marriage. You will be ruined but you could not put that stain upon the only person who was ever kind to you. Lord Odinson deserves an honest wife and a child of his own.
Your insides sour and you nearly spasm as you fight the tide of nausea, brought upon by more than your forsaken condition. Your eyes trail away from your betrothed to another man bound in promise. Lord Rogers sits with your sister, as ever, and she leans on him shamelessly, even beneath the Lord’s rafters.
She would deny it. She would laugh in your face should you ever reveal the absolute truth. No, you must confess the sin as your own and that alone. You will not name the culprit for they would they never believe you and he would never admit it himself.
Yet, you know that the Duke Rogers will ever be triumphant in knowing that he has brought the monstrous giant to her knees. You are his Goliath, the vile retched creature he has slain in his valour. He will be hero and you be the villain.
💟
You hand the letter to the carrier just before noon. You don’t expect an audience to be granted until the next morning at earliest. Lord Odinson is a busy man; an ambassador in much demand between the house and society. Even his betrothed must request his presence.
The cart rattles through the gates and you watch it fade off into the grim horizon. The winter bites in the air, adding to the chill in your bones. That coldness that freeze over your heart. You must be strong now, as strong as the valkyrie he misnamed you as.
When you go to Lord Odinson, you will bring the crown to him. You will hand it back and admit your tainted stature to him. You will show him how truly small you are.
At least, that is what you intend. You may prove yourself weak as ever. However it should unfold, this engagement cannot persist.
“A day! A day and I shall call you husband,” Cora’s shrill tone greets you as you come through the front doors. She is in the sitting room with Lord Rogers. Your mother continues to fawn over the last-minute details for their wedding. “Isn’t it very exciting, my lord?”
“And I shall call you wife.”
“And Duchess,” she preens with a trilling laugh, “oh, how elaborate I shall be.”
“My Athena,” Rogers drones back, “my goddess, my beloved.”
“Oh, how darling,” your mother preens over them, “it shall be resplendent. I’ve made certain the cake will be exactly as you like it, dearie. The cook has even procured some citrus for the lemonade.”
The mention of lemonade makes you shrivel. You recall the sunny day when Lord Rogers spoke to you over a weeping beverage. As you fell for that virulent charm. And all that came after.
You peer at the grim windows and frown. How everything does change so quickly. Happiness is fleeting and yet disappointment comes as a chronic plight. You will never know a day without shame.
You flit off without notice. Your heart rents at the thought that you will not have the same fervour. You will not sit and plan your own wedding with Lord Odinson. All your fanciful dreams have evaporated. It is one thing to put a mask on, to pretend as virgin, but you could never foist a bastard upon the kind man who has shown you a taste happiness. You will be certain to thank him for all he’s done but you will not spit in his face.
As you get to the bedroom doors, your stomach churns violently and you burst through, not stopping as you rush to the pot and fall to your knees. You wretch into it as your body contracts painfully. You empty your stomach until you are panting and hollow.
“Sister,” Alina startles you as she rolls to the edge of the bed, a novel in hand, “is it a winter ague?”
“I...” you shakily wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, “I believe so.”
That lie alone singes your tongue like a brand. Your eyes well with tears and you flick them away with your lashes. You sit back on your heels and heave out a pungent breath.
“Oh, how awful, and just before the wedding,” she sits up and shuts the novel. “Let us pray it passes quickly. You needn’t delay your own nuptials.”
“Mm, no, that wouldn’t be...” you let the sentence tail off and you stand, taking the pot with you, “I’ll dump it before it can stink.”
“If you are unwell, call for the maid.”
“No, it is fine,” you insist, “I didn’t mean to disturb your reading.”
“You didn’t,” she insists. “What’s the matter, sissie? You hardly seem a lady about to marry.”
“I...” you croak, “it is the ague, that’s all.”
“Mm, perhaps Lord Odinson might offer some comfort should it get any worse. He does seem the character,” she offers.
“Or perhaps he is better to stay away. You as well, should it pass onto anyone else,” you hold the pot to your stomach and turn, carrying it out without another word. Albina huffs and falls back onto the bed, the flutter of pages following shortly after.
You descend and keep along the wall, passing through the kitchens and beyond the servants’ quarters to the rear of the manse. You come out into the crisp air and overturn the pot well away from the house. A wave of dizziness washes over you, silver spots dotting your vision. Perhaps it is an ague. Oh how you wish it were.
You set the pot down as you grasp at some stability. You stand and wipe your clammy forehead. Your hand drifts down to your bodice and you let it venture further. You try to feel your stomach through the layers. It is tauter than it once was but no rounder. Not as yet.
You sit on a low stump, the seat the stabler uses to shoe the horses. You let the frigid air seep through your dress and stare at the grey clouds that blot out the sun. You hold your chin, elbows on your legs, hunched over as you let the stagnancy of that moment swallow you.
For a moment, you believe that you can make time stand still. That you might stretch on this fantasy a little longer. That a single second might be spent into an eternity. You shake your head and close your eyes as your cheeks tingle with the cold.
You try to picture the convent. You imagine dark halls and darker mornings. Prayers and repentance filling the days and keeping wakeless the nights. Would the nuns even accept a ruined soul like yours?
“Miss,” Mary, the broom girl, stands along the path back to the house, “you have a caller.”
You sit up and blink, a caller? How long have you been there? You shiver and rise, towering over the young servant like the mottled forest creature of wives tales. You nod and stride past her, rubbing your arms to warm yourself as you return to the house.
It cannot be him. Not already. You’re not prepared. It has been all you can think of and yet you are wholly unready for it.
You carry on inside and come into the main hall. Lord Odinson waits, your mother chittering at his elbow as Lord Rogers and Cora stand in the archway to the west wing.
“You will be at the wedding tomorrow? We did not receive your response sir,” your mother pleads as she tugs his sleeve.
“Ah, yes, did I not give it?” Odinson says coolly, “certainly I will come with some Asgardian ale to christen the blissful newlyweds.”
“And we thank you for such generosity,” Cora coos.
“I’m certain refreshments will be plenty,” Lord Rogers deflects.
“Ah,” Lord Odinson’s attention is drawn by your emergence from behind the staircase, “my valkyrie, you called for me and I am here.”
“I... you have come so... swiftly,” you remark, your voice teetering.
“Of course,” he assures as he crosses the polished floor, “as ever I will for my beloved.” He approaches and takes your hands in his, kissing your knuckles, “you are like ice,” he feels your hands and covers them with his gloved ones, “are you ill?”
“No, uh, yes, no,” you stammer, “sir, I only meant... I only thought to speak with you.”
“I do cherish the tenor of your sweet voice, lady, I would ride so fast as I might to hear it,” he assures.
“You rode... all this way, my lord?”
“I do prefer to be in a saddle,” he affirms, “so, shall we converse? Perhaps we might have some tea to warm you, my valkyrie.”
“Please,” you cringe, wishing he would quit his honeyed words, “I do not require it. Perhaps somewhere private...”
“With chaperone of course,” your mother insists. You blanch but do your best not to show your unease. “Pollo! Pollo!” She claps, “forgive me I will not be able to do so myself as I have much to attend to for the morrow, but we have a groom here... Pollo!”
She cries out and the dark-haired man appears. The old groom has a round belly and wine-reddened cheeks. He doesn’t speak more than Italian but he is steadfast in his service. Your mother bids him, pointing at you, then shoos him with a flick of her fingers.
He shrugs and bows his head, nearing you and the duke. You peer over at your sister and Lord Rogers as they watch. The former stares at your betrothed as he clings still to your hands and the latter narrows his eyes in your direction. Just the sight of him makes you even more sick than before. Of any, he cannot know though you expect should Cora find out, it will not be a secret.
“The sun room, perhaps,” Odinson suggests.
“As you wish,” you agree.
He offers his arms and you accept it. He guides you along, well-acquainted to the halls already, and takes you around to the sun room. The curtains are closed and the space is dim with the shadow of winter. The groom claims the armchair in the corner, making it groan with his weight, as another servant follows to light a lamp and put flint to the fireplace.
When all is lit, you detach from Odinson and retreat from him. You mash your hands together and sway, spinning back to face him as he watches you intently. He seems unbothered by the spontaneity of it all.
“You missed me? I have longed to see you again,” he beams.
“Please,” you show your palms, “please, I... we must speak.”
“Of? Name anything and it shall be yours. As my wife, you will never want for anything, valkyrie.”
You wince as if struck. You drop your arms and your head. You stalk over to the bench that looks toward the window and sit, slumped forward as you shake your head. He approaches as he lets out a long exhale. He sits beside you.
“Something is amiss. Forgive me for making light, I came upon mistaken sentiment,” his voice is grave, “you have something to say and I must listen. As ever, I am the storm but these winds have calmed.”
You rock and another hot tinge settles behind your eyes. You roll them up and sit straight. You crane to see over your shoulder. Rollo’s eyes are closed as he’s halfway to sleeping. It is propriety alone that has him sat in that chair.
You look ahead once more, “I cannot marry you.”
He sucks in air and snorts, “what?”
“I cannot—it cannot—I'm sorry, Lord Odinson.”
“Why ever should you change your mind? The banns are read and will be again,” he touches your arm and you shy away.
“You deserve... better.”
“I deserve you,” he insists.
“Please, sir, let me find the words,” you beg touch your temples as you try to rein in your wits. You close your eyes and shudder.
“You are cold still, perhaps you might move closer to the fire--”
“It hardly matters,” you lower your hands and clutch them tight.
You make yourself look at him. You must. He warrants at least the truth told to his face and not the floor. His blue eyes twinkle as his usually bright face is stern.
“I am...” you take a breath and struggle to let it back out as the words burn the tip of your tongue, “I... am with... child.”
You choke out the last word and nearly faint. You stare at him, waiting for him to explode. You mightn’t even have a say in who knows should he speak too loudly. His eyes search yours and he blinks. He turns his face down and looks at his lap, gripping his thighs as he nods and hums.
“That’s wonderful,” he says.
“Pardon?”
“Yes, it’s wonderful. We’ll have a child.”
“Sir, I—we haven’t... it is another man’s,” you feel as if you shouldn’t have to explain this.
“Why certainly he put it there, yes, but I would claim it,” he faces you again.
Your eyes round, “why should you do that? That isn’t... proper. I am not proper, sir. I am telling you that I have been... corrupted. I should never have said yes.”
“But you did.”
“You needn’t-- it isn’t fair.”
“Perhaps it isn’t fair that you should have to carry the cad’s seed,” he agrees, “for any many who would lay with a lady and not seek her hand, well, he can be nothing else.”
You’re quiet as disbelief clouds around you. He can’t possibly mean it. He must be in shock. Certainly, he wouldn’t just accept another’s child.
“Sir, you shouldn’t-- you shouldn’t do this. I am releasing you.”
“I don’t want to be released,” he says sullenly.
“Why? Why would you do this?” You ask.
“I meant all I said to you, from the first breath, my valkyrie,” he proclaims. “And I mean it still.”
“But, sir, you cannot—I cannot live with myself--”
“You are honourable. Honest. You have told me this when you did not need to. When you could’ve claimed an early birth, when you could have kept quiet, yet you did not. That says more than a fleeting tryst. For that’s what it was, yes? Or do you lay with this man still?”
You shake your head and look down at your fingers as you twists them until they hurt, “just once. Only once. It was... unplanned. It wasn’t...” your voice cracks.
His chest inflates with a sonorous breath, “did you want it?”
“Pardon?” You murmur.
“Unplanned... did you... was it... your tryst, was it willing?”
You put your fist to your mouth and sob. You can’t say it. You won’t. You replay it in your head every night and you think of how you told him to stop and yet you did not stop him. You should have fought more. You should have screamed.
“I didn’t make him stop,” you eke around your hand.
“Make him? Did you ask him to begin?”
“Please, sir, I cannot—please just end this and I will ask my father for the convent once more. I cannot bring this shame on you.”
“Shame? Shame is the man, if I should call him that, who has done this,” he snarls and reaches for you, taking your hand. “I swore you would be my wife and I will hold to that. As you swore to be my wife. We will see the altar together. As one.”
“You do not have to--”
“I want to,” he growls and you look up at his angry face. You’ve never seen such fury in him. “I have never done anything but by my own whim and will not change that now.”
“You are too nice, sir. Too nice, I cannot ask it--”
“Who?” He sneers.
“Sir?”
“Who has done this to you?”
“I cannot--”
“I should know.”
“No, please, I wouldn’t-- it would be my ruin--”
“No, it would be his and you protect him still, so tell me.”
“No, no I will not. That I cannot tell you, sir. To say it would defeat me completely.”
He sighs into a snarls and lowers his chin. He sounds like a simmering bull, readying for the charge. You tug on your hand but he will not release you. You relent and let him cling to you.
Silence, suffocating and still.
“My brother was an orphan. We took him in when he was young. He is a duke, same as me, now,” he declares as he squares his posture. “You wouldn’t know the difference. And I won’t. Not between this child and our next.”
“Sir, surely--”
“We are to have a child,” he says, “that is happy news and I thank you for bringing me here to hear it.” He pets your hand and leans his arm against yours. He brings your fingers up to your mouth and kisses them, “one day, I will know who the culprit is and on that, I will surely split his skull. Not for his bastard, for that child has no sin, but for your honour, lady. For my wife’s honour.”
💟
Cora’s wedding to Lord Rogers culminates in a grand luncheon. The bride is a beautiful mist of tears as she accepts the well wishes of her guests. She basks in the attention as you gladly languish in the shadows.
Despite Lord Odinson’s unexpected and reassuring reaction, you’re still uncertain. You don’t know if he’s keeping a good face on until he knows how to act, perhaps renegs his grace, or if you might come to pay for your discretion later in your union. You’re prepared to meet your atonement, however it comes.
As you sit for the meal, the chair beside you is claimed almost at once. Your betrothed has appeared throughout the event but you’ve hardly been at his side. Each time you see him, his eyes skim the crowd as if he can see right through every one of them. Yet, when he looks at you, you feel only warmth. You don’t understand how he can look at you as such.
“How do you fare, today, my valkyrie?” He asks as he straightens his cravat, “you look well.”
“Good, I think.”
“Glad to hear it,” he raises his glass for a servant to fill it with sherry. You opt for lemon water, as much as your tumultuous stomach can handle.
“I thought we might have our own reception at Nine Pillars,” he suggests.
“I would like that,” you agree, your eyes drifting beyond him, to your father’s gardens, where... “whatever you may offer, I will be grateful for.”
“Mighty valkyrie, full of grace,” he praises and reaches for a platter, “ooh, they have some sweet ham here with pineapple.”
He takes a helping and puts it on your plate. You smell the tangy fruit and the underline savoury waft of the meat. You lurch and grasp the edge of the table. You give a panicked look to Odinson as he peers down at the food. He switches your plates out swiftly.
“Tell me, what are you in the mind for then?” He leans in so his arm touches yours as you sip from the lemon water to quell your stomach. “Valkyrie, give me your command and I will obey.”
You give him a coy grin, “you can be so silly.”
“Silly. Mad. All for love,” he assures you.
“Is their anything dry?” You ask, “bread, perhaps.”
“Sourdough,” he reaches to take the basket as others help themselves to the spread.
“I’ll have some of that.”
“With marmalade?” He offers.
“No,” your face pinches at the thought, “no, bread will do.”
You blink and shake of another tide of sickness. As you do, your eyes meet another pair further down the table, amid the rabble of voices. Lord Rogers tilts his head as Cora tugs on his sleeve and giggles up at the couple behind them. He hardly seems to notice as he stares you down.
You go rigid and quickly look away. You touch Odinson’s arm to keep from panicking. He looks at you, then down the table. He doesn’t say anything, merely carves off a chunk of bread for you.
You pick away at the hard crust and the dry spongey inside. You take small bites, cautious of upsetting your volatile stomach. The afternoon wears on, course after course, and you avoid those dishes which threaten to overthrow your restraint.
At last, the cake is serves, a tiered sponge with cream and fruit and candied sugar spun in a facsimile fountain atop it. It’s splended and beautiful. The couple are served first as they smiles in delight. The doling out of servings takes some time as guests wait patiently for their turn and the cake is pushed on a cart from chair to chair.
When it comes your turn, your name rises over the crowd. You sit up and glance over, relieved at least not to watch the layers of custard and cake hit your plate. Lord Rogers has his hand on the back of his wife’s chair.
“And how do you like the dessert? I believe you’ve been saving space for it all day, eh?” He chirps.
You angle your head in confusion. You look down then at Odinson who sits a little taller as he leans forward.
“You’ve hardly indulged, so I hope you might show your support and delight in this delectable dessert,” Rogers taunts. “A wedding is no place for a sour face.”
Your lips part. You’re stunned. How could he be so bold as to call you out? Among all his guests and he must torment you. Was one night not enough. Your whole life as his violation thrives within your womb. Lord Odinson subtly touches your elbows.
“I am most happy for you and my sister,” you rebuff, “and you are correct, I’ve been in much anticipation for dessert.”
You take your fork and scoop up a heaping mouthful. You smile at it even as your insides rage. You make yourself taste it. It’s so sweet and smooth and wonderful, but your stomach mulches as if it is rubbish. Your cheeks tremble and you swallow, nearly gagging.
“To you, sir, and my sister, Cora, I wish a happy marriage,” you force out as you hide your mouth behind a handkerchief.
“To the happy couple,” Lord Odinson raises his glass and the table erupts, at once, the attention shifted back to them.
You brace his arm and squeeze. You fight but you cannot withhold the uproar within. You stand and rush away, frantically searching for somewhere to hide and spew your guts.
💟
The days overcome your doubts. The weeks come with more affectations; your sickness ebbs and flows and the temperature feels at times hotter then colder, swaying back forth, while some moments you spend with a throbbing head and pulsing feet. The most obvious symptom of your condition is the tightness of your stay. Soon, you will be showing more than you like, but for now, loosened laces can ease your discomfort.
Your wedding day fast approaches. Time does seem to defy any human whim. You wish it would slow so you could catch your breath. Much like your husband-to-be who has yet to falter in his affections.
You sit before the mirror with the grown of silver petals in your lap. There is one still bent from Cora’s envy but you will keep it to the back of your head. You will wear it as proudly as that night Lord Odinson gifted it to you. You hope for the day you might both forget all else.
If it is to be. If he is at the altar waiting still.
Albina and Hannah take the crown from you and secure it among your styled locks. Albina smiles at your reflection as Hannah jabs you with a pin. You nervously wring your hands as you admire the lavender shade of your gown. You wish you’d had more of it, that you hadn’t needed to trim it in ivory to make up for your height. Still, it is beautiful and the nicest dress you’ve ever worn.
“Are you nervous?” Albina asks.
“Suppose,” you admit and lift your chin, “very, truly.” Though not for the reason she might think.
“Lord Odinson is kind. He should be gentle,” Hannah says.
Your cheeks tinge at her suggestion, “sister.”
“Well, it is what we are all thinking, isn’t it?” She shrugs.
“I hope I do not find a husband so soon,” Albina adds, “I would like to enjoy my books a little longer.”
“You might take on the spinster’s mantel then,” Hannah snipes.
“It shouldn’t be so bad,” you murmur. “Every woman must do it. Eventually. It cannot be so horrible.”
You lower your head again, trying to hide the emotion battling in your chest. It was bad, that first time. Lord Rogers hadn’t been kind at all. Would Lord Odinson be any different? For Rogers seemed kind at first glance only to be cruel upon touch.
What if you husband did not want to meet his duty? What if he could not knowing you had lain with another? You would not blame him and without consummation, he might still turn you away.
“Cora said it was more painful than anything she’s ever felt,” Hannah undercuts your dread. “Though she still loves her husband well.”
“You shouldn’t speak of that,” you gird.
“Why not? Won’t you tell us how it is so we may be ready?” She challenges.
“I... I... It’s rather strange to speak of it.”
“You are strange,” Hannah retorts with a huff.
“But pretty,” Albina chimes, “look at you, sissie. You truly look like a queen in that crown.”
You meet the gaze of your reflection. You do look better than you ever have before. You wonder if they notice the new fullness in your cheeks. If they do, they don’t mention it. You take a deep breath.
“I shouldn’t keep them waiting any longer,” you stand.
If you wait any longer, you might lose your nerve.
The bishop waits in the grand hall of Nine Pillars as you emerge from the rooms allotted for your preparations. The crowd stands among the columns and hushes as you appear at the end of the hall. You face the clergy man and for an instant, your heart dangles precariously, ready to plummet.
Where is Lord Odinson?
His golden head pops up beside the bishop and he fixes the flower tucked into his lapel. His long blond hair is draw back as a scarlet bow holds it back, its ears peeking out behind his nape. He is smiling as he pauses and his eyes meet yours across the space.
You can see even from there how his features slacken and for a moment, you are breathless. He looks as stricken. You put one foot down and let your long legs carry you.
All your doubts float away. The faces around you haze together and the world crumbles to dust. It's only you and that man.
💟
The ceremony gives way to a soiree, bodies clustered together, partners dancing, and you among them. Your husband, a husband, has your hand in his as he leads you in the steps. This man, this wonderful forgiving man you vowed yourself too nearly sweeps you off your feet, a sensation you've never known before.
Your cheer blooms from you as his cheeks flush in his excess. He barely pauses to receive kind words from his guest. His elation is contagious. It gives no way to your fears.
"Do you know what I thought upon the altar, beautiful valkyrie," he purrs, "I nearly fell upon my knees even."
"What?" You smile, glowing up at him.
"That the gods did bless me. That you must be sent from them, a gift to me, mere mortal."
You can't help but pat his chest, "you flatter."
"You are too modest," he guides you along, "you are a statue come too life, art in the flesh."
"My husband... you words are too sweet."
"I know, I know, the wedding night is still ahead of us, I do run too fast," he chuckles, "but how can I help the anticipation?
Your lashes flick and giggle, "husband."
"That word has never sounded sweeter," he grins, "but a sweeter noise might be my own name. Say it for me, valkyrie."
Your cheeks burn hot, "Thor?"
"Delicious," he growls nearly baring his teeth, "and I shall savour every sound you make. Every moan and mewl. Every breath and laugh. Just as every part of you."
It's too good to be true. You deign to let yourself feel it all but you must. If even only for tonight. If only for the next moment. You will have a morsel of happiness if it's all you have to chew on for the rest of your life.
💟
The night wears on and so do you. Your feet ache, as does most of you, and your voice is raw from laughing and talking. It is the first that you ever spent an event not along the wall or hiding in some shadow. It is a night all your own, or so your husband has made it feel.
Yet, he does not tire. Not as quickly. As he booms and bawls to the amusement of all, you cling to his arm and repress a yawn. You will not spoil his fun, you will persist.
Still, you cannot ignore all urges of your humanity. You press a hand to his sleeve and excuse yourself, promising to return. Your husband pauses to bid you not be long and you're further abashed at his attention.
You flit off to find the privy. You've been several times over the day. Your bladder swells no matter how little you drink. As you progress, you find your body is contradictory to your mind.
You venture down the corridor and sweep into the room. Once relieved, you emerge feeling lighter but no less tired. The silent desolation of the corridor rather makes your exhaustion all the more potent.
You turn towards the statue of a warrior, you recognise it, it is the means by which you've found your way. Before you can pass it, a figure appears from behind it and you falter in your slippers.
You gasp and ball your hands, the man before you sending a ripple of horror through you as he smirks at your surprise. Lord Rogers' cheek dimples as he quorks his head like a cynical crow.
"You are ever a creature of urges," he muses, "fluttering back and forth as a skittish bird."
"My lord, I... what is the meaning--"
"I'm afraid we've not had much of a chance to speak, have we? The blushing bride is much a titter," he chortles, "she has the gull to giggle like a maiden, even."
"Lord Rogers," you utter, appalled.
"But the sway of her hips do betray her true nature. That which is within her," he sneers, "as does the curdling of her face over any dish that tickles her nose."
"Sir, I know not what you mean--"
"I should laugh truly, to know that another will raise my bastard," he taunts, "that it is him, does entertain me more." He takes a step forward and you back, "so you will be certain to lay with him this night so he may believe he has vigour." He grabs your arms before you can elude him, "you will think of me, won't you, Athena, my fallen goddess? Of how I desecrated your--"
Suddenly, you are staggered. Lord Rogers is swung backward and flung into the statue. There's a roar, tha same noise you would expect of a charging bear, and the flash of scarlet. You watch paralysed as Thor grabs Lord Rogers by his jacket and spins him, throwing him into the other wall.
The smaller of the men, though they are both built well, slides to one knee, his hand on the plaster. The other is quick, wasting not a second before aims a foot into Rogers' stomach. The duke falls backward and is at once straddled beneath the larger.
Thor lays blows upon the other man, hailing down on him like the tempest he claims himself. Your fear overflows and you push through the thick waves. You come forward numbly and pull your husband by the back of his collar.
"Please sir, unhand him."
"You would defend this animal!" He wails down another fist and growls.
"No, no, I would not spare him but I would... I would have my husband not take me to my wedding night with bloodied knuckles. Thor," you pet the back of his head, "let this be a happy day. Please."
He sits back on his heels and puffs out. He looks back at you as you step away. You put your hand to your middle.
"Husband?"
He snarls and spits on Lord Rogers, standing with a huff. You reach for his hand and he takes it. He squeezes as he sends one last kick of his toe to the man on the floor.
"Let me save my strength for you, wife. I certainly would need it."
#thor#steve rogers#thor x reader#dark steve rogers#steve rogers x reader#dark!steve rogers#fic#dark fic#dark!fic#series#guileless#mcu#marvel#avengers#captain america#au#regency au
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NOW PLAYING ‘I CAN’T STOP THE LONELINESS’ BY NIGHT TEMPO. jade leech
Good old Jaido is being ironic, acting happy on the worst day of his life.
Why would an artist create happy music to pair it with such sad lyrics?
tags: unrequited love, angst and tragedy, hurt no comfort, complicated relationship, regrets & sorrows, friendships, bro doomed by the narrative, happy birthday to me fuckers
word count: 2,087
The first dance goes to Floyd, his brother.
This is only natural because, of course, the bride dances with the groom on their wedding day.
At his seat at the family table, Jade rolls a glass of celebratory champagne in his gloved hand. Freshly poured, it still bubbles with some last desperation. Champagne is a sipping wine but – carbonation burns the bridge of his nose with white pain as he gulps it down. Each organ in Jade stirs like kicked sediment, bubbling over.
Floyd’s side of the table is weighed down by their father, mother, himself, and grandmother; yours is weighed down by Grim, who is trying to steal extra food off his father’s plate. The reservation hall is drowned in people though, all coming together to support your unity.
The only one who fails to uphold this support wholeheartedly is one-drink-down-ten-more-to-go Jade Leech, the pillar of brotherhood crumbled and eroded.
It is my own fault. Jade thinks as his mother pours him another drink. All my fault.
You and Floyd dance to ‘Can’t Take My Eyes Off You’. Sung by Frankie Valli, each lyric and note match up with each other perfectly. There is no juxtaposition between melody and meaning. With you cradled in his arms, Floyd looks down, softly mouthing each word to you. By doing so, he expresses that each word is genuine, engraved in his soul.
To Floyd, he truly cannot take his eyes off of you, magnetized in. When there is a break in lyrics, he steals June coded kisses – warm like the beginning of summer. You two nuzzle cheek to cheek, amorous.
As expected, Floyd cannot stay slow-dancing for longer than a minute. Melody starts to change. From sweet, it goes to this jumping excitement as the baritone horn and baritone saxophone intensify. You two start to pull away, independent in your motions.
Besides the tight hold both your right hands have … refusing to let go … tying the knot.
The music goes: can’t take my eyes off of you, bum bum, whump whump, bam-d bam-d, bum bum, whump whump. You shimmy your shoulders back and forth, a smile eclipsing your face. Floyd throws you a wink, hips swaying side to side. Despite the ridiculousness … no, because of your joint ridiculousness, it amplifies that sentiment of nuptial bliss: you two were destined and designed for each other.
Moved by music, you even hop in platform heels. Then, blindsided and unexpecting Jade watches, as the beat reaches its peak. You two shout, both of you jumping, but making certain your eyes connect when you shout the lyrics: “I love you, baby!!” The crowd goes wild with cheers, clapping along to the music.
And if it’s quite alright, I need you baby to warm a lonely night! You and Floyd throw away coordination lessons as the song continues, already the perfect dance partner for each other.
This entire wedding feels like one big, ironic joke being played on him.
Jade looks up from his happy, bubbling champagne when Floyd dips you so low that your spine is parallel and supine to the ground, floating only four inches or so. Both of you laugh louder than the music and cheers. A polite smile is still glued to Jade’s face.
He says words that only the watery ear of his champagne hears, “I should have never introduced them.” Unsaid because he is swallowing his alcohol-scented sorrow: It is all my fault.
The second dance goes to their father.
You seem to remember those coordinated dance lessons afterall. Especially graceful in his father’s imposing arms. Though, you keep your stance far away from his father’s shoes. Trembling at the mere notion of just touching the side of one. Burnished elkan leather that probably costs equivalent to your engagement ring.
Your engagement ring – ah, what a cursed, loathed object it is in Jade's world.
He was there when Floyd bought the ring. Do you know this? Jade thinks you probably do not. The proposal spot was all Floyd’s plan while the engagement ring was Jade’s.
“Get her this one.” Jade had pointed towards an engagement ring with a criss-crossing design on the band and a diamond the size of a dime. “Diamonds are known for their durability.”
Diamonds would be able to sustain through a wild lifetime with Floyd.
Washing dishes and spreading cream cheese on bagels in the blissful morning light, typing on computers and holding a phone up to your ear to talk in the middle of noon, brushing teeth and reaching under the sheets to stroke teasingly at his navel, moving further down and down, in the blanket of night light. Living a domestic life until you were dissolved into seafoam. All the remains of your love. A single diamond ring on a skeleton finger. Resilient.
Even though one should be the main player in their own life, it seems Jade is destined and designed for the background.
When Floyd told Jade where he would propose, it kicked his ribs and stomach harder than any alcohol could. ‘I’m already down, why push me further’ is what Jade’s half-a-second wrinkling expression spoke. With the news broken, Jade smiled with hidden rage, “I’m sure she will love that.”
The place Floyd proposed? It was the place Jade introduced you to his twin.
Isn’t it ironic? Jade knew you first but he will never know you the best. You will reveal your pink love and black secrets to Floyd yet never Jade. Jade: your first friend in Twisted Wonderland, now your brother-in-law.
The third dance goes to their mother.
You are truly more beautiful than any diamond. You are something that gleams brighter than all the jewelry on the ocean floor or in sunken shipwrecks. When Jade and Floyd were little, they used to steal stuff from each other all the time. Noses would be broken because hey, that shell you found is prettier than mine! It only makes sense that they would find themselves attracted once again to the same, shining allurement.
They learned to share as all children do. They broke off pieces of a sturgeon’s scales together and shared that. The diamond that is you though? Jade means a lot to you, he knows it; he knows it does not go beyond friendship.
When you are dancing with his mother, you shine. Laughter pianos out of your mouth in a genuinely happy melody. Unlike him, you do not have to force this mirth. Acrylic nails grab your wrist and twirl you so fast you could puke. Giggles are a kinder substitute. Despite your early anxiety, all is alright now.
Jade reflects upon that. The only moment you were frowning at that wedding.
He was speaking to Trey Clover when you appeared out of nowhere, platforms clicking. The visage of you stole his breath away; then, you stole him away from his conversation with Clover, apologizing. Jade let himself be dragged by your firm hand. As the tendrils of your hair and wedding veil bounced with your pace, Jade watched the dorsal side of his diamond gleam and raced down to a secluded hallway.
You turn on Jade, blindly bright. Sevens, you look gorgeous. Even with that frown on your face – how can he help, he wants to soothe it away immediately – you are a sight he will never tire off.
“Am I doing the right thing?”
For a second, Jade’s world stops.
He thinks for a second, perhaps he could be the main character. For second, the diamond on your ring finger is not so loathsome to him. Instead of it representing infinity, it turns finite. It is a piece of jewelry you can take off. It takes only a second before you speak again:
“I mean, Floyd has been so great through all this. Super understanding, super wonderful. I mean he’s put up with all my little whims. And he was so excited about seeing the dress! I mean, the tradition of not seeing the bride before the ceremony is boring and super outdated –”
Ah, he is back in the secondary character position. You were only talking about the tradition you brought over from your world. It had a little bit of your culture that you wanted to keep with you – not seeing Floyd until you walked down the aisle.
Jade is incredibly stupid to think you were talking about the wedding. You do not seem the type to call off a wedding. He smiles and asks, “That eager?”
“Well, I,” you fluster and look away. ‘No. I’m not, but it was the only thing Floyd and I really fought on. I’m starting to realize that it is a bit silly.”
“Keeping tradition is often how we show love for the generations before us.”
You weigh Jade’s words carefully on the scale of your consciousness. He wonders if he spoke his heart if you would take that into consideration or ignore it. After a pregnant silence, you say, “But I don’t really have a family history anymore.”
Jade blinks, surprised, as you continue, “Today, Floyd is going to become my family. Or, well, I’m going to become part of his. I have nothing of myself to offer in terms of tradition anymore.”
“You will just choose to assimilate to the circumstances?”
“Wouldn’t anyone do so for love?”
Those words fall like an anvil on Jade’s heart. “Yes. I fear they might.”
“Fear is such a drastic word!”
Jade laughs as you say, “Ah but I suppose it is true. I’m actually terrified right now.” Your hands fall down to play with the hem of your gown. You run your thumb over the outfit you will only wear once. Such a monumental, life-changing piece of fabric.
The diamond catches a flicker of light, reflective. Jade asks, “Are you having regrets?” He waits with bated breath.
“About Floyd? No. Never.” Your expression only solidifies the truth of your words.
“Then my advice?” You look on with eager eyes. Jade smiles through the pain. “I say you should keep with the tradition. Weddings are a merge of the very notion. When you become a Leech, you still have your identity to care for.” That is not the real reason though. Because, this. This Jade gets to steal: the first sight of you in your wedding dress.
“Thanks, Jade. You’re the best friend – the best brother that a bride could ask for.”
Hand over his heart, concealing everything, “It is my pleasure.”
The final and fourth dance goes to Jade.
Carried by a crowd that rushes, you two dance a mad dance, hands welded together. In your gown, you move like Jade imagines all those sneaky princesses that defied and tricked the Seven must have – well, six princesses. Like an oscillating dream, you lean back, arms out. Laughing, you swing right back into Jade, chest to chest and arms out to the side instead.
When your hearts connect in the dance, Jade thinks he could be foolish enough to steal a kiss. Just one to be a solution to all his troublesome pining. A shade of Venus pink, shining and alluring him into a dumb mistake.
I had you first but I will not have you last. Or in any ways that matter to your heart.
The song that plays is a melody that demands dancing. It is a force that moves your hips to sway side to side. Puppets you jump around, platforms banging along with the lyrics. And what tragic lyrics they are. The smile on your face would make him think he was listening to a love song.
Fluent in quite a few languages, Jade knows better. Though, Jade is unsure why the song is structured like this. Why would an artist create happy music to pair it with such sad lyrics? It is such a cruel juxtaposition. Jade smiles when you twirl yourself so your dorsal side lies against his front, snug in his arms as he dances with you. Those Venus-hued lips pull up in a diamond grin.
Why would an artist create happy music to pair it with such sad lyrics? There is only one answer. Irony.
Jade laughs and helps you back to your feet when your platforms catch on the bottom of your wedding gown. You thank him so genuinely. Jade never wants this particular melody to end.
Then, it does.
“Can I steal my Shrimpy back,” Floyd jokes, when the song ends. You happily launch yourself into his arms, ready to dance until your feet are sore. Stolen successfully.
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"It was for love," Sansa said in a rush. "Father wouldn't even give me leave to say farewell." She was the good girl, the obedient girl, but she had felt as wicked as Arya that morning, sneaking away from Septa Mordane, defying her lord father. She had never done anything so willful before, and she would never have done it then if she hadn't loved Joffrey as much as she did. "He was going to take me back to Winterfell and marry me to some hedge knight, even though it was Joff I wanted. I told him, but he wouldn't listen." The king had been her last hope. The king could command Father to let her stay in King's Landing and marry Prince Joffrey, Sansa knew he could, but the king had always frightened her. He was loud and rough-voiced and drunk as often as not, and he would probably have just sent her back to Lord Eddard, if they even let her see him. So she went to the queen instead, and poured out her heart, and Cersei had listened and thanked her sweetly … [sic] only then Ser Arys had escorted her to the high room in Maegor's Holdfast and posted guards, and a few hours later, the fighting had begun outside.
Not me thinking about how this moment reminds me so much of how I see Lyanna at various points in her situation with Rhaegar. We’ve not been in Lyanna’s head, of course, but I’d be willing to believe that at least when Lyanna met up with Rhaegar sometime around New Year’s 282 AC, she believed she was to some extent in love with him - the seemingly dashing, handsome, romantic prince who had named her queen of love and beauty before virtually the entire assembled aristocracy of Westeros against all social tradition. Just as importantly, I think Lyanna also believed that she needed an alternative, and soon, to her impending marriage to Robert Baratheon. Having been “long betrothed” to Robert by the time of the tourney of Harrenhal, Lyanna may have assumed or been told (especially in the aftermath of that shocking tourney display) that she would be married sooner rather than later to the Lord of Storm’s End (especially with Brandon’s own nuptials to Catelyn Tully, likely part of the same alliance bloc, imminent). There was no one who could stop this marriage from happening - except, perhaps, the Prince of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne (but certainly not the paranoid, suspicious, violent king). If she married him first (and there was precedent, as Lyanna may have known, for polygamous marriages among the Targaryens), then she could not be legally married to Robert. It was Rhaegar, Lyanna may have thought, who could save her from this fate, and so Rhaegar she would turn to, making a journey across the Riverlands to somewhere near Harrenhal in order to escape with him.
These aspects of Lyanna’s story in turn recall certain parallels with Sansa’s story here. Just as so Lyanna might have seen Ned’s insisted that her fiancé “was a good man and true who would love her with all his heart” as the promise of a miserable future married to Robert, so Sansa imagines that Ned’s promise to “make [her] a match with a high lord who's worthy of you, someone brave and gentle and strong” would result in him “marry[ing] her to some hedge knight” when “it was Joff [she] wanted”. Too, just as Lyanna may have idealized Rhaegar, at least at this stage, as a perfectly chivalrous and loving knight and prince, so Sansa in this moment idealized Joffrey (describing him several times in AGOT as “her gallant prince” whom she describes in “Sansa III” as “worthier than his drunken father”, a deep contrast to the king who “had always frightened her”). In turn, just as Lyanna sought to avoid such nuptial doom, in her mind, by turning to an alternate royal power - not the king, but his son and heir - for a marriage to this prince instead, so Sansa seeks to stay with her (so she thinks at this point) beloved prince by appealing to an alternate royal power - not the king but his queen. The solution for both Stark girls was defiance to their paternal powers, circumventing their orders so that they might stay with the princes they imagine they love. However, just as Lyanna may have come to discover that her prince was a deeply unhappy man who may have seen her primarily, if not entirely, as a vehicle for prophetic fulfillment, so Sansa comes to discover that her prince was a cruel sadist who enjoyed only using her as an outlet for abuse and torture. Just as Lyanna ended her days trapped in a tower far from home (likely on the orders of that same royal power to whom she had appealed), guarded and imprisoned by Kingsguard while Ned and his companions battled them outside of it, so Sansa finds herself trapped in a tower far from home on the direct orders of her royal advocate, imprisoned by a knight of the Kingsguard and other guards, while her father and his men are attacked outside of it.
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Fireleaf (Part Five)
Lucien Vanserra x Reader
Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four
Thank you so much for all the support I've had on this story so far <3 I cannot express to you how much my lovely friend @greeneyedivy helps with this story. I very much consider it our story, because while I do the writing, her brilliant brain cells come up and help with so many of the ideas and plot points, so she deserves just as much credit<3
Warnings: None for this part!
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“A masquerade?”
Two weeks later, Dion strolled beside you, sliding his hands into his pockets. A considerable distance was kept between you as the two of you braved the crisp air.
“It’s a type of ball where everyone wears masks—”
“I know what it is,” You cut in, snorting. “I’m just not sure why we’d be invited to a masquerade ball in the Spring Court.”
“We are…tentative allies with Spring. And Lucien is a friend of the High Lord, Tamlin. We were invited out of courtesy.”
Lucien seemed to have friends all over the place — something you’d only learned from your snooping, brought about entirely by boredom, over the past fortnight.
You’d certainly noticed a change all around — namely, and gradually, in Dion’s behaviour. It seemed that without the staring eyes of gossiping nobles, he no longer felt the need to be so openly affectionate towards you; as though the public displays of your courting throughout the festival had merely been for show. The touches had begun to become less and less, few and far between. Gone were the subtle brushes against your hand, the kisses to your temple, the sweet remarks laced with suggestion. By now, all of it had been replaced with behaviour much more appropriate in a platonic relationship. You were acting like friends.
And you found yourself not even slightly bothered by that. Whether that spelled doom for your nuptials, you hadn’t decided.
“It’s seen as an honour — for one court to be invited to another’s event.” Dion said. “And it’s also not a bad thing for us to present ourselves as a good ally to their people. We’ll be decked out in Spring Court attire as a mark of respect.”
Spring Court attire. You didn’t know what that looked like. You’d never seen another court — never even glimpsed another High Lord. The idea of leaving the lands you’d grown up in and seeing, hearing, smelling an entirely new place…it almost made you giddy with excitement. It was almost enough to tune out that ever-present panic and sorrow gnawing at you.
Because Dion’s change in behaviour over the past two weeks hadn’t been the only difference that had jarred you. It was how quickly you’d been thrown into wedding preparations — how only the day after you’d sparred with Lucien, you’d been subjected to a lesson by Beron about all the important members of his court, all the vital people who would be coming to your wedding and where you would have them sit. That same afternoon, you’d pored over gown materials with the Lady of Autumn. All of it had taken off so damn fast, and had made for a chaotic two weeks that’d left you grasping, in your own time, for some sense of self. You knew you’d pushed the limits a few times – that the High Lord himself had spied you wandering places you had no business going, and taking horses out for rides without his permission. You’d even offered, at times, to help the servants with their work. To do anything that you had chosen to do, that made you feel normal. And if Beron got sick of your behaviour and sent you back to your family…well, you certainly wouldn’t be complaining.
So — yeah. You could really use some fun.
“So I get to dance and enjoy myself?” You knocked your arm into Dion’s. “Or do I have to stand by and be a pretty piece on your arm?”
“Well,” His grin was wicked. “That’s the beauty of the masks, isn’t it? They offer you enough anonymity to throw caution to the wind.”
True, you thought. You may never have been to a masquerade ball before, but you could imagine what a tantalising combination the masks and the wine and the dim lighting were. A real chance for you to let your hair down; you could have cried with relief.
“In that case,” You slowed to a stop, turning to Dion. “Perhaps that night, we can just…be Y/N and Dion. No pressure on us. No worrying about who’s watching. Let’s enjoy ourselves.”
His mischievous grin softened into a gentle smile, and he nodded. “I like the sound of that. Just Y/N and Dion.”
⤲
You were so excited, you couldn’t possibly sit still.
Already, you could feel the urge to dance rippling through your bones. Could feel the draw to a night of freedom that awaited. You wanted to slip your mask on and be somebody else for a while.
Tamlin, High Lord of the Spring Court, did not do things by halves — a fact you became all too aware of a week before, when he’d sent his own personal designer, tailor and seamstress to the Autumn Court to have you all appropriately outfitted for the ball. It was the first time in a while that you hadn’t cared about being poked and prodded and rotated while your measurements were taken, and a sketch of the gown you were going to wear was brought to life. The first dress in a while that you were excited to put on.
Anyone could be forgiven for thinking you were a Spring Court female, you realised, as you stared into the mirror on the night of the ball. The tulle gown was a soft, sage green, tight-fitting at the bodice and pooling to the floor in a swish of gauzy material that felt light and easy to move in. It was more daring than the gowns you wore in the Autumn Court — with delicate, off-the-shoulder sleeves that left most of your arms and shoulders exposed, and a neckline that dared to dip a tad lower than your usual dresses, you’d never felt so—
Sexy. You felt sexy. And light on your feet, and airy. And the mask that had been made to match the gown — an utter artwork in itself. It covered half of your face, and was of the same green shade as your dress. Adorned with glittering petals and jewels and stones, you’d spent a while just admiring it before you’d allowed the dresser to fasten it on your face. And perhaps your most favourite feature — the flaring green feathers on one side — possibly those of a peacock — that swept brilliantly upwards towards your hair, styled into an immaculate updo and accented with little vines of green Spring Court leaves and butterflies crafted of painted glass.
Now this — if you could wear this to your wedding, you’d marry any of the damn Vanserras.
A light rapping on the door had you straightening yourself out. You looked up, half expected to see Dion in all his finery.
Your stomach twisted a bit when the High Lord sauntered in.
You watched, in the mirror, as he approached you from behind. He didn’t yet don the mask that had been made for him, but the tailored green-and-gold brocade suit was undoubtedly a thing to behold, giving a hint of the sculpt of muscles underneath. Beron Vanserra was, indeed, a handsome male.
But inexplicable nausea always arose in you whenever he was around.
He stopped behind you, a mere hair’s-breadth away. The warmth of his breath fanned your exposed neck, and you felt yourself go rigid, taut.
“High Lord,” You greeted quietly, dipping your chin.
“Look at you,” One corner of his mouth quirked up, his eyes raking over your reflection. “My son is certainly a lucky male.”
You swallowed, wondering how subtly you could inch away. “I appreciate the compliment.”
“Hmm, I’m sure.”
You watched – watched so carefully as he slowly circled your body, stopping in front of you. Dark, empty eyes stared down into yours. Assessing. Cold.
“I don’t suppose,” He hummed, reaching out to touch a stray curl that hung loose from your hair, “that I need to remind you not to embarrass my court tonight.”
You lifted your chin. Stared up at him. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
His lips twitched into a calculating smile – like he didn’t believe your words for one second. “I would hope not,” He said. “But I’ve had my eye on you these past two weeks, since your family returned home. It would seem that you’ve been a tad restless. Perhaps you’re trying to cause trouble in the hopes that I would call off this engagement and let you leave?”
Your eyes narrowed at him. Had your behaviour, your thoughts, truly been that blatant? It threw you off – made you feel less confident before him.
And he could see that; he seemed to be aware of every minute expression on your face. The way your features were begging to be kicked up into a sneer that his mere presence naturally provoked.
He smirked, letting go of that one curl he’d been toying with. But his hand only moved inches, settling at your neck, his rough thumb sweeping strokes over your throat. “If you miss your dear family so much, we could always invite one of your sisters for another visit.”
Knowing him, he was fully aware of the tensions that existed between you and Molly – would probably send for her just to spite you–
“The youngest one — Willow, is it?” He tilted his head. “You seem to be quite fond of her. And I’ve heard she’s had some…marital issues. What a poor situation for the poor lamb to find herself in. Our court is always open, should she ever crave a higher echelon of Autumn males.” That wolfish smirk widened. “I think Jareth got quite taken with her, too.”
You knew you’d frozen, gone entirely rigid – and not because of his hand still brushing your neck. Sickness unfurled inside of you like a wave, and you wanted to reach, to grab for anything to steady yourself. For Beron to be so aware of your closeness with Willow…for him to have already concocted calculating thoughts about it, to now be standing in front of you with a glimmer of threat in his eyes, his voice…
You swallowed. Eased yourself back a step. “My sister is unavailable for the foreseeable future. But I thank you, High Lord, for your thoughtfulness.” Gods, the pleasantries were nauseating. They physically pained you.
And Beron could see that. He seemed to be trying to rein in a laugh as he flicked his gaze over you once more. “I’m glad we have an understanding. If you behave as you’re expected to, I’m sure no measures will have to be taken.”
Such clear calculation in his words and his tone. And yet all you could do – for Willow – was dip your chin in acknowledgement. That you understood his threat. That you would heed it, like the obedient little female you were.
“Come.” The High Lord straightened himself out, offering you his arm. “I shall escort you to the sitting room. The others are waiting. We don’t want to be late.”
⤲
They were lined up in a row. All five of them.
And yet you stopped dead in the doorway. Gaped at them. Eris was the only one you could pick out immediately – only because he favoured having his hair cropped much shorter than that of his brothers’.
But the similarities between the other four were almost frightening. They all wore the same tailored outfits – a deep green, velvet version of Beron’s, accented with leaves. All had the same green-and-gold, cat-like masks that covered half of their faces, leaving the full lips and sharp jawlines as the only real visible things. And with Dion, Lucien, Jareth and Rian all leaving their long, red hair unbound, cascading around their shoulders, it took you a moment of intense scrutiny to actually pick your fiance out of the four of them.
Took Dion stepping out of line, towards you, for you to be absolutely sure.
“Mother above, look at you.” He grinned, his eyes flicking over you in appreciation. “I hope I get to dance with you before you’re stolen away from me.”
You smiled, inclining your head in thanks. “You clean up quite nicely yourself.”
He reached a hand out to you. “Shall we?”
His hand was warm, as you slid yours into it – not at all like Beron’s touch on your skin. And you found yourself sidling closer to Dion, found yourself wanting to make sure you didn’t catch yourself alone again any time soon.
“Let’s go,” Beron stepped forward. “I’ll not have us being late.”
And so Beron joined hands with the Lady of Autumn. Eris with Lucien and Jareth with Rian. And in a sweep of lurching darkness, you each jumped from Autumn to Spring.
⤲
The smells hit you first. Crisp and floral. Like freshly mown grass and rose petals.
Your group came to a stop on what appeared to be the lawn – though the size of it was more like a damn field. And as your eyes took in the sights before you…the pinks and oranges as the sun set over Tamlin’s estate, the expertly-trimmed hedges, the masses of different plants and flowers and trees, flowing fountains and pristine walkways that wended throughout it all…the only thing you could do was gape in utter awe.
If it looked like this in the dying light of evening time…you could only imagine its beauty first thing in the morning. Or bathed in warm afternoon sun rays.
“Magnificent, isn’t it?” Dion smiled, also drinking in the sights.
Behind you, Jareth scowled. “If it doesn’t make your nostrils sting, yes.”
“I seem to remember you complaining about that the last time you visited, Jareth.”
Every one of you turned at the deep, gravelly voice that came from behind. And it took only one sweep of your eyes to know that this — this was Tamlin, High Lord of the Spring Court.
You’d heard about him, of course. Heard that he was quietly handsome and rugged. Heard that he could shift into a beast on command. You believed that was entirely possible as you studied the broad expanse of his muscles. The male was huge.
And looking directly at you.
He, too, was showcasing what you were quickly realising was considered Spring Court Green. And he looked every bit the High Lord with his golden locks flowing around his face and the glimmer of emerald eyes you peeked through his mask of the same colour.
“You must be Y/N.” He greeted you politely. “Welcome to my court.”
You dipped your chin. “It’s very beautiful.”
“What, I don’t get a special greeting anymore, Tam?”
You glanced round — just in time to see Lucien step forward, the biggest smile on his face you’d ever seen. It was glowing, breathtaking. All you could do was stare.
“As if you don’t visit often enough and eat all my food?” Tamlin’s answering smile was just as broad. He clasped Lucien’s arms. “You’re looking well, friend.”
You watched the interaction, trying not to gape…because in the time you’d been at the Vanserra Estate, you’d never seen Lucien show the tenderness for his family that he currently displayed, unguarded, to Tamlin. It stirred something inside you that you couldn’t quite place a finger on.
Maybe…maybe there were other places that Lucien felt more at home.
“Thank you, again, for the invite, Tamlin.” Beron stepped forward. His strained voice told you just how rarely he thanked anyone for anything, but he squared his shoulders and forced himself to be pleasant.
“It’s my pleasure.” Tamlin smiled, and you tried not to gawk at the pure radiance of it. He turned to you and Dion. “And, of course, myself and my court extend our deepest congratulations on the news of your engagement. Shall we go in?”
Huge he may have been, but he was a picture of utter grace as he turned and headed towards the ginormous doorway – that was, until Lucien playfully shoved him, and then draped an arm around his shoulders. You watched the whole display as the rest of you followed; read the ease and lightness with which Lucien walked. An ease and lightness he never seemed to possess around his blood.
You glanced at his brothers. All of them had seen, and yet none of them seemed to care.
The thought made your shoulders slump slightly.
“Don’t be nervous.” Dion slid a hand to the small of your back. Misread your demeanour entirely. “Remember what we said. Just Y/N and Dion.”
You tried not to think about how odd it sounded as you followed him to the wine.
⤲
Such a brilliant thing – faerie wine. Not that you’d ever had the opportunity to try much else, but Linden had once told you of a time he’d drunk human wine – and likened it to muddy water.
But within two hours, every reservation, every worry, every sad thought…just gone. The other masked, dancing people around you didn’t matter as Dion spun you around in his arms, and the two of you laughed and chatted like there was nobody else in the huge ballroom. You were…euphoric. On top of the world. And if this was what it was like to be on Dion’s arm…you thought maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.
He gripped hold of your hand, spinning you with a fluidity that he, himself, didn’t quite match. He wasn’t a bad dancer by any means, just…not a natural. Not light-footed and nimble like Eris had been when you’d danced with him on the final night of the festival. But with the wine, with the music, the masks…none of it mattered. You felt like you were walking on air.
“Shit.” Dion snorted as he watched his own steps, his back and shoulders stiff. “I’m definitely not a natural dancer.”
You grinned up at him, a laugh bubbling from your lips that was barely loud enough to be heard beneath the music. “Not a natural, no. Not smooth like Eris.”
He scowled playfully, his hands landing on your hips. “Eris is a show-off. He practises this shit in the mirror – do not tell him I told you that.”
You couldn’t help laughing again, throwing your head back and leaning into the pure joy you felt in that moment. It felt good to enjoy yourself. To enjoy someone else. And even though you were flushed all over, and giddy, and the mask was tight on your face and the dress too hot on your body, you thought you might like to stay like this forever. To dance, smile, laugh, forever.
The room was big enough that you only got the odd glimpse of Vanserra hair – but aside of recognising the short length of Eris’s, there was no telling which brother passed you by, or which was dancing with the pretty Spring Court girls, or which was necking wine at the tables pushed against the wall. And you liked it this way – the anonymity. Having a night where no eyes – not even Beron’s – were interested in following you.
“How about,” You grinned up at Dion, placing a hand against his chest, “you go and grab us some more drinks, and when you get back, I’ll show you how to relax your posture.”
Dion snorted, brushing long, orange locks from his face. “Alright — deal.” He squeezed your waist. “I’ll be back.”
Pressing his lips to your fingers once, he released his hold on you and disappeared into the sea of people, the sight of him becoming swallowed up immediately by flamboyant masks and extravagant gowns and the slick dances happening around you. You stepped just slightly out of the way, watching from the sidelines, in utter awe of the lethal precision of the moving bodies.
It only occurred to you – as you waited and waited for Dion’s return – just how thirsty you were. But you wanted to get back out there, to throw yourself into the hands of the music and feel alive. You fidgeted restlessly as one song drifted into another, the beat quicker, more frenzied. When it was nearing the end, and Dion still hadn’t returned, you scowled and pushed your way through the crowd. No doubt, he’d got distracted talking to somebody.
Hands grabbed for you as you passed, trying to pull you into dances that you politely declined. Your eyes scanned for every flash of red and orange in your periphery – bouncing over Eris, who was dancing expertly with a light-footed female, and a woman wearing a mask bedecked with glistening rubies; another who twirled around in a gauzy gown of a burnt orange colour. Another song was starting by the time you finally spotted your fiance – sure enough engrossed in a conversation with a Spring Court male, an almost-finished glass of wine in his hand. He turned away from the male as though he’d sensed your approach.
“Hey!” You reached him, grabbing his hand. “Come on. Don’t worry about the drinks. I wanna dance.”
You didn’t wait for his reaction – didn’t wait for him to finish his conversation, prising his drink from his hand and setting it aside. You were light as air and euphoric as you dragged him back onto the dance floor, twirling your way around the other dancers and finding your way to the middle. You preferred it there – felt more secure. More…anonymous.
The two of you fell into the dance easily, that extra glass of wine having done wonders for his fluidity. One of Dion’s hands clasped yours whilst the other was secured at your waist. His grip on you was firm, pleasant, and you couldn’t remember the last time you’d felt so good as he pulled you around, matching your steps and keeping up with you. Clearly, you hadn’t given him enough credit – he was a much better dancer once he relaxed and let go.
“I love this one,” You shouted over the frenzied tune, barely loud enough to reach him. “The rise and fall of the notes – all of it. I love it.”
“You know this music?” His voice floated to you as he spun you around confidently, brilliantly, all earlier reservations about his dancing gone.
“I never cared much for dancing as a girl,” You fell into step, your front pressing against his, “Because it was something I had to do, I didn’t like it. But when Linden began to train me, he made me realise that what I wanted to learn from him, and what I hadn’t wanted to learn from my dance teacher, were actually very similar things. He took me to a dance, once, to prove it – and this was played there.”
“And you enjoyed dancing that night?”
You smiled at the memory, nodding as you moved with him. “I did – I think for the first time ever. Because I had chosen to go with Linden that night. I had chosen to dance that night. And I realised that was all I’d wanted.”
“Choice.” Dion stared intensely down at you, your glazed eyes snagging on the moving lights and shapes behind him. “Because choice makes a whole world of difference – doesn’t it?”
It did. And to hear him say it meant more to you than he probably realised. To know that he understood…that you may not have been each other’s choices, but he understood, still, what it meant to you.
He got you. And you…you thought you got him.
It made some small, fiery thing alight inside you. A thought that perhaps…perhaps this didn’t need to be doomed, just because you hadn’t chosen it for yourself. That you didn’t need to oppose it on mere principle.
Dion was a good male. A good male who listened to you, who got you. And here, like this, in his arms…his hands touching you, his hair splaying around him beautifully as the two of you spun around, his presence that felt safe and right…you thought that maybe you could choose him.
Thought, for the first time, that maybe you wanted to.
You stared up at him, the upbeat song coming to an end and transitioning into one that was slower, much more sensual. Both of his hands immediately tried to pull you into a more languid dance – but you stilled him. Met his gaze with your own.
“What is it?” He cocked his head.
You didn’t answer. Merely cupped the back of his neck with your hand and pulled his face down to yours.
The dancers around you didn’t spare you a glance as you caught him in a searing kiss. Burning. Passionate.
And without even a second of hesitation, he was kissing you back immediately, his hands sliding around your waist.
The kiss was deliciously hard as he lifted you just slightly, enough for your body to press against his. Enough for you to slide your hand into the silken strands of his hair and somehow pull him closer to you, to press his mouth firmer against yours.
It was the most delicious, heady kiss you’d ever had. And you wanted more – to taste his tongue around yours, to inhale that delicious scent – the familiar, earthy smell that all Autumn males seemed to have, but tinged with something different tonight. Something that bizarrely made you think of early morning daylight, wrapped up in crisp bedsheets. Perhaps the result of Autumn and Spring mingling. Whatever it was, you wanted to gulp it down greedily.
But neither of you had taken a breath. And only when you were both gasping for air, huffing into each other’s mouths, did you pull away.
You stared at each other, chests heaving, breaths panting. Dion glanced at your lips again.
“More.” His voice was a deep growl as he took your face in both of his hands and leaned in, the music seeming to encase that one, daring word just between the two of you–
But his kiss didn’t have a chance to land as another dancer backed into you. As she stumbled, her wine flute slipping from her hand and tipping towards your dress. Dion tried to pull you out of its path, but the liquid had already sloshed over one side of the gown.
The young female blanched, blinking at you. “Oh gods—I’m so sorry—”
Her eyes caught the vibrant shade of Dion’s hair, and you could see — see the fear in her eyes, her mind already considering what Beron Vanserra’s reaction might be to someone embarrassing a member of his court — even by accident.
“It’s absolutely fine.” You tried to make your face as reassuring as possible behind your mask. “No harm done.”
“Your dress—”
“It was an accident,” Dion leaned down, collecting the fallen flute and returning it to her outstretched hand.“We were…distracted.”
The woman’s wide eyes tugged at your heart enough for you to gently lay a hand on her arm. “Don’t worry about it — really. I just need to clean up.”
She dipped her chin in thanks — looked so grateful, you thought she might well up. You turned to Dion before she could, shooting him a flustered gaze, your eyes once again snagging on his lips.
“I’ll meet you back out here once I’ve sorted this.” You said.
He nodded — and glanced at your lips, too, before you turned from the mass of dancing bodies.
⤲
It took so long — so long for you to wash the wine out and dry your dress that by the time you returned to the ballroom, some of your intoxication had lifted. You felt clearer, less foggy — and just as ready to dive into the dancing as you were before.
Your lips were still tingling from Dion’s kiss. And the fact that he so readily, so greedily, wanted to kiss you back…you liked it. Felt the undeniable tug of something deep inside you that was thrilling and giddying and beautiful. You wanted more of it. To kiss him again. Feel his big, steady hands clutching you again.
The formation of dancers was far different when you returned. Instead of couples filling the floor, small groups clustered in circles all around the room, their hands joining. You frowned, searching for the brilliant orange hair of your fiance — and felt a warm, gentle hand grab yours.
“There you are,” Dion’s voice filled your ears as he leaned down. “The circle dance is just starting. Come on.”
You turned in his arms, smiling up at him. “The what?”
“A Spring Court dance,” His answering grin was wicked. “You have two circles, see?” He pointed to the group closest to you. “An inner circle and an outer circle.”
Sure enough, inside the ring of dancers — around ten of them joining hands — was another identical one. They each faced the person in front of them.
“The music plays, and one circle dances clockwise while the other dances anti-clockwise,” Dion explained. “And then when the music stops, you have to kiss whoever is in front of you.”
You snorted, smiling up at him – and almost blinked at the dusting of pink creeping up his neck. The way he swallowed hard – nervously, his earlier confidence gone. It warmed your heart, and you knew…knew that your eyes said it all, that they were reassuring. That you were going into it knowing who you wanted to kiss when the music stopped. That you wanted to kiss him again.
“It’s starting.” He smiled, tugging you over to the group. “You join the inner circle, I‘ll join the outer.”
And so you did just that, joining hands with two Spring Court females as Dion stood in position in front of you. And then the music began.
It was like…taking off. You wondered if this was what flying felt like, as you gave over the control in your body and allowed yourself to be pulled into motion. Your surroundings blurred, the speed of the dance picking up with the tempo of the music, and then there was nothing but you and light and music and flashing shapes. You could feel yourself laughing, feel your head falling back in ecstasy as you spun and spun, and you didn’t know how you hadn’t been entirely lifted off your feet — nor did you care. Not as you became the music.
And then as fast as it had taken off, it stopped. The music halted, and you were yanked to a standstill, your head still spinning as you forced your feet to ground you. Your laughter mingled with that of the other dancers.
With that of Dion’s, who had stopped in place before you.
“What a coincidence,” He chuckled deeply, gazing at you as the other partners leaned towards each other.
You snorted, stepping forward. Your hand reached for his, fingers brushing. “That it is.”
That one hand latched onto yours, the other coming to cup your jaw. Dion stared down at you, and he seemed to be…to be nervous, as he swiped his bottom lip with his tongue and released a breath. Because this was different — not the heat of the moment first kiss you’d shared earlier, when no one had paid attention. It felt more naked, somehow, now. Like he was trying to grasp for any scraps of his earlier confidence with people watching — expecting — this kiss.
You smiled reassuringly — communicated, with your eyes, that you wanted this — again. And the room seemed to melt around you.
He leaned down. Pressed his lips to yours. You reached up to touch your free hand to his cheek.
It was a different kiss…to the one you’d shared earlier. Not as passionate or searing, but…soft. Sweet. How you supposed your first kiss should have been, unlike the surging need you’d shared in the middle of the dance floor. Dion’s lips were almost tentative, careful…and maybe it was just because of the many other people around you, or perhaps because you’d sobered up a bit, that it was just…different. Not bad. Different.
But you didn’t care; not as the lightness in you continued. The best you’d felt in weeks. In a year.
You buried your fingers in Dion’s hair, deepening the kiss just slightly—
And he broke away – no, was pulled away, you realised, as he was yanked into a different circle of dancers. Your heart was thudding, mind reeling and cheeks scorching as you touched your fingers to your lips, just managing to dodge out of the way as a Spring Court female tried to tug you closer.
You smiled politely, stepping back. The room was heavy, pressing, and you knew if you didn’t feel the brush of fresh air on you soon, you may just collapse.
“Fresh air.” Was all you explained, before turning on your feet.
You’d already lost sight of Dion completely, the music once again picking up as you wended your way through the sea of bodies, some still dancing, some still kissing – some just talking. You didn’t have a clue where you were going, but the press of cool night air and the sudden influx of floral scents told you that you were headed in the right direction. You turned a corner, pushing through a pair of huge double doors, and found yourself stepping out into the sprawling gardens.
An inky, starry sky bore down on you as you came to a stop on a private patio. A few people milled about, strolling through the hedges, but nobody seemed to care that you were there. It helped you to relax as you pressed your back against the wall, feeling the cold bite of the concrete seeping through your dress.
You gazed up at those stars, breaths still heaving as you smiled to yourself. Tonight had been…fun. The best night you’d had in a while. Perhaps even the best night you’d had since you’d found out you were to be married, over a year ago now. Your mind had been so crowded since that day Barric had come to your family’s estate; crowded and suffocating, with barely any relief.
But tonight had been a relief. Tonight, you’d felt more like yourself than you had in a long time. The feeling was beautiful, familiar, and you were excited to carry on that way, to lean into the euphoria and light you’d craved for so long–
Until someone snorted from beside you.
You started, pushing off the wall. You turned back to the doors to find Lucien leaning against the frame, no longer wearing his mask. He stared at you with an unreadable expression, cocking an eyebrow.
You shrugged. Stared back at him questioningly. “Problem?”
“You know,” He chuckled, stepping out onto the patio, his boots clipping against the concrete, “For someone who claims to not want to be caught with her hand between her legs, you sure seem eager to replace that hand with the first male that walks by.”
You gawked at him.
Gawked at him, and clenched your hands at your side.
You’d barely run into him over the past fortnight. Certainly not shared a word between you, and his glances were sparse and scathing, too.
And yet here he was, mouthing off. Again.
“What did you just say to me?” You demanded.
Lucien shrugged – the picture of ease, as he slipped his hands into his pockets. “I don’t think you need me to repeat myself, Lady.”
“If you have a problem with me kissing my soon-to-be husband,” You snapped, “Perhaps you should peel your eyes away and go annoy someone else. It’s not like we won’t be doing far more than that on our wedding night.”
Lucien snorted again, shaking his head. “At least you know what’s expected of you, I suppose. I see you’ve really thrown yourself into the role.”
You were entirely lost for words as he stared at you, his lips twitching – perhaps to smirk, or perhaps to sneer. You didn’t feel like waiting around to find out – especially not if he seemed hell-bent on ruining your good mood.
So you squared your shoulders and brushed past him.
“How about minding your own damn business, Lucien?” You murmured, and slipped back inside, the warmth enveloping you immediately.
And you didn’t look back to find out which one it was – a smirk or a sneer. Or perhaps both. His eyes remained on your back as you strode away, and something told you that he probably knew–
That for whatever reason, his words got to you far more than they should.
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[ Join now, the spirits in nuptial doom.
A Ravishing Bride, A Vanishing Groom ]
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„Mars, proud of his task, and still aflame in his burning Chariot, tugged the reins leftwards. He had just reached His journey’s end, plunging from the sky, when Venus Took her stand fearlessly there before his horses. They Reared back, their rigid manes subsiding in supplication. Then leaning against the top of the shaft, her tearful face Averted, while the horses bowed their heads and champed The foaming bit before their mistress’ feet, she spoke out:
‘O finest of fathers, war against Thebes, is it war you plan, The destruction of your own descendants? Harmonia’s race, And the union we celebrated in heaven, and these my tears, Do they not deter you, madman? Is this the reward for my Shame? Is this what my lost name and honour, and Lemnos’ Net of chain deserve from you? Go your way, freely, yet Elsewhere Vulcan defers to me, and my wronged husband Though angered, serves me yet. If I ordered him to sweat For me, spending sleepless nights at his everlasting forge, He would be pleased and toil at new weapons, even for you. But you – I seek to move stone, a heart of bronze, with my Requests. Yet regarding this alone I entreat you, simply this: Why did you have me wed my dear daughter, Harmonia, To a Tyrian husband, those fatal nuptials, boasting that Tyrians of Cadmus’ serpent-blood, a race descending From the line of Jove, would be renowned in battle, their Hearts eager for action? How I wish the girl had married Beyond Thrace and Boreas, beneath the Sithonian Bear! Was it not shame enough that Venus’ daughter slithers Across the ground, shedding venom over Illyrian turf? Yet now an innocent people –’
Here the lord of war Could stand her tears no longer. Switching his spear To his left hand he leapt from his tall chariot in a trice, Clasping her to his shield, bruising her in his grip. Then with fond words he attempted to soothe her. ‘O my solace after war, my sacred delight, my soul’s Only peace, you alone of the deities have the power To face my weapons without harm, to stand before These steeds though they neigh amongst the slaughter, And snatch this sword from my hand. I do not forget That marriage of Sidonian Cadmus, nor your loyalty (Seek no pleasure in false reproaches!): I’d sooner, God though I am, be plunged in my uncle’s infernal Deeps, and be led helpless among the pallid shades. Yet, charged with carrying out the Fates’ warnings, And the supreme father’s will (since Vulcan is no fit Choice for the task) how can I oppose Jove or flout His decree? Even now I saw the earth, sky and sea Tremble at his words (what power!) and saw the ranks Of deities cowed. But, have no fear, love, in the end Since no power can prevent it, I will be there when Those two nations battle beneath the walls of Thebes, To aid them, allied in arms. Through blood-drenched Fields you’ll see me seal the Argives doom, nor will I Disappoint you. It is my right, the Fates agree.’”
– Statius, the Thebaid
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@honorhearted {{xx}}
By the time Beth reached her fifteenth winter, she'd been married a countless number of times.
Beneath the rose-bower her father had planted for her mother when the Boston house was still only it's foundations and her parents were a little younger than she is now, solemn in her best dress and her caplet for Mass. Under the graceful and slender arms of the willow trees just on the outskirts of the Setauket farm, where she pretended the well mannered old hunting dog was her dear groomsman. A full five years younger than Andrew and his friends, she was sometimes left out of their games and their education, thus making it necessary for her to play on her own. These weddings were sometimes rushed and sometimes languished until she was called in by her governess, Hannah, to take tea and some light meal. Not one of those nuptials lasted past an afternoon, and none were so much her favourite as the ones where she closed her eyes tightly and imagined Ben taking her trembling hand. Perhaps that was the truth of the tears and inconsolable grief that fell over her as a bitter pall when he went away to school and the family in turn moved inward to their fine new house in Pennsylvania.
She could not know then that her father grieved the loss of her mother in child-bed, that their home had become a crypt to her memory, and that the new house was some salve for his spirit. He had never not doted on her, but perhaps that was how she had been forged…wrong, given more latitude than any could imagine. She should have been an excellent prospect for a happy future but in her heart of hearts, she has more in common with a younger son than all the society maidens of her acquaint. Each year that passes she is those twelve months closer to spinsterhood. The stirrings of war were perhaps a blessing as much as it is a curse, delaying the inevitable. She will at it's end ~and of course it must come to a conclusion, either in much hoped for victory or the purgatory of defeat~ be given to someone of her father's choosing.
But here? Here is her heart's yearning.
With straying lock eloped from its queue, with a body like mountain stones, with a countenance of brooding night, he is set over his papers.
He hardly stirs, seems more effigy than living man. Then towers over her when he gets to his feet before her trembling fingers fully affix the token and she does not know what else she should have expected. They certainly have had no sweetness between them in these last days. She is as doomed now as she was all those years ago.
He says nothing when she speaks and she steels herself to take her leave once the offering is given only to find herself caught within his grasp. Watches his mouth work for a moment and cannot look away from him. She half expects him to push her away but instead Ben chooses to caress himself against her palm. His gaze swims in the light of his candles, reflecting their glimmering light. Hannah is not here to herd her back to the house, nor is there a holy father in his black robes to rescue her soul from its imperilment. She is not so sure she would heed either one well with the way he is gazing at her, and with how her heart leaps in her breast as if to throw itself at his feet.
His voice surrounds her like night and shadow when he asks the ribbon's purpose. But before she can answer, he takes hold of her face and kisses her forehead, ever so chastely. So close is he that she wonders if he can hear her heart beginning to crack. If only he could know what it feels to have him so close and yet unable to do anything about it. She is his friend, yes, but not as she should be.
He torments her with another peppering of kisses, his lips soft and tender as she dreamed they might be. Kisses that half cage her breath in her throat so that it staggers forth drunkenly and comes to a crashing halt against him. His fingers abandon her wrists in favour of her waist, a touch that holds a heavy sort of intimacy and her knees become as water. She melts just as easily as the wax being consumed by its flame on his desk. His next question, the caress of his mouth against the shell of her ear, turns that flicker to conflagration and were she a house, she would be only ashes. Pity then that she is only human and her own hands move from his chest. One rises to his shoulders and take perch there while inching its way toward his hair, while the other settles near his hip and fingers tighten. This purchase on him is all that keeps her upright, when all of her wants to simply sink against Ben.
All of her turns to molten fire as his teeth graze against her skin. All the air in her lungs seems to dissipate in that moment as her heart sets a thunderous pace. As every last inch of her strives to be that much closer to him she rises upward, pressing her modest curves against him despite the fact that some parts of her are now painfully taut. She starts to nuzzle him in return before he catches her and draws her gaze upward ~she doesn't hear the little wordless sound that ekes out of her throat~ and he pours himself into her gaze. Hers is hazy with a certain sort of madness, half lidded in the dim light.
Her throat rises and falls beneath that second caress as she manages a shuddering whisper. "Is ceol mo chroí thú, Benjamin."
Thick dark lashes settle against her otherwise pale skin and her eyes close and her lips part. The time of her tongue slinks across them in an invitation to kiss her proper. She feels her belly tighten and it feels like a flock of birds startled from their brush take wing within her.
Lost in the moment she is left standing there unsteady and bereft when Ben pulls away from her and she momentarily recoils. What has she said? What has she done that he would retreat from her? She takes a needed half step back to steady herself and above her gaze her brows knit marking her confusion when she opens her eyes and tilts her head. On his knees he looks anguished, not a thought of prayer or God anywhere to be found in his visage.
Something inside of her breaks. Neither anger nor despair, not quite hurt. She has no word for it but it puts mettle in her spine. Now empty hands smooth her skirts and she takes a sobering breath, blinking back the moisture suddenly gathered there. For a split second her lips purse closed and the corners of them tremble as she tries desperately to gather wisps of thought into something more substantial. When she does? She takes the few steps that kill the space between them. It feels strange to be able to gaze down into his face though she isn't much taller than he is this way.
"I know," she begins slowly though there is kindness laced through her words. "Caleb let slip, why do you think I came? Do you honestly believe I could watch you ride into hell's embrace and not...not wish to have spent these last moments? I don't know where you will go. What you will encounter with your dragoons. But I do know that when you go, you will take all of me with you. Saints preserve, because...because I love you, Ben Tallmadge. That is all the truth that need live in my heart."
She cradles his face between her small, trembling hands and this time she tilts his face upward. Every word she spoke is etched in the lines of her face, in the way her eyes darken before she lowers her face to his and presses her lips against his own.
#honorhearted#Your Ornament Tree|Ben Tallmadge#The Oak and the Ash|Ben and Beth#Blood on the Vine|Turn au#Jockey Hollow|Morristown 1779#Winter Camp#terminally long post is terminally long#{{I say I am sorry but...we both know I absolutely am not.}}
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pre-'pre-nuptial' episode kenstewy aka before ken accidentally kills the waiter at shivs wedding aka Kendall Dooms Himself To The Narrative is soo
#rewatching succ#like the little hints at their relationship before succession are so tantalising#the way stewy greets ken at the Prague party. the x-ray stares. the soft talking to a scared dog voice. the business as sex metaphor#back to imagining a timeline where the waiter didn't die and ken stewy took waystar over and hughhh....#the tragedy was already set in motion#kenstewy#kendall roy
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The more I see positive media about Picard season 3, the more I want to vomit.
Beverly Crusher was the least gross relationship Picard ever had (maybe Vash was the least) and they managed to fuck that up.
From the beginning of TNG, Picard was clearly not going to be Kirk (that was for Riker to emulate), but they did their best and it was terrible.
From episodes where we see him playing his younger self and having a romance with a girl barely out of her 20s, to the Perfect Mate, where, even though characters in the show acknowledge the grossness of breeding a person to be a "mate" for someone else, it's okay because Picard is Good and loves Shakespeare and is therefore Worthy.
He also gets a romance with another crew member (with a strong resemblance to Beverly, even in the same uniform), and when he has a problem with giving her an order that might lead to her death, *she* decides to leave the ship to spare him the difficulty of ever going through that.
Dude.
[Pausing here for the folks who wanted to see him hook up with Ro Laren and felt there was some palpable sexual energy there even though she was considerably younger and looked up to him like a father figure]
Even the relationship with Beverly was plagued with his guilt over Jack Crusher and just when it seemed these two could be Friends without benefits and not have all of that hanging over them, the show decided Nope, this will always be a thing, then shared a possible future of them...divorced.
In a way, this potential future for them was spot-on: of course these two could never make a romance work. They are both too-much married to themselves, their careers and, in Picard's case, at least, far too stubborn to be a committed partner to anyone. Interesting.
In the film Generations, we get another level of the Victorian fetishism that seemed to revolve around Picard: his fantasy family includes a red-headed wife who is seen but not heard, just there to be the doting mother of his doting children, while he sits comfortably by and watches (Picard season 2 came close to acknowledging that Picard was truly Fucked Up because his mother, of course, was mentally ill and into that Victorian stuff and Women are the Problem, Jean-Luc. Stay away).
Besides Beverly, Picard's other significant romance with someone close to his own age was with the rogue archeologist, Vash, but she took off with Q and that was that. Good for her.
Picard next has a doomed romance with Anij in Insurrection, seemingly an affect of her planet's "metaphasic" rings (that give the Baku immortality), one that helps Troi and Riker hook up again, but seems to have no affect on Picard and Beverly's long,-not-so-hidden attraction (in fact, leaving her out of the equation, again, so he can have a romance with someone else, always felt like Someone at Paramount never liked Gates McFadden and knowing what we know about the sexism she dealt with early on, was probably true. No one was left out of the films more than Beverly).
Anji, as it turns out, is the first older woman Picard has a romance with, so while she looks younger, she's over a hundred years old. How convenient.
Maybe it's no surprise nothing came of it and the series went on to just give Riker and Troi their long-awaited nuptials (before, y'know, she got violated by Picard's clone).
Thanks to Picard season 3, we're told Beverly and Picard's romance was given a shot after the events of that film, but clearly didn't last very long, because Beverly got pregnant and decided to keep it secret from everyone. Because, you know, Beverly was always a controlling worry wart who never really trusted anyone.
Easily, easily, one of the worst, laziest writing decisions anyone ever made for a Star Trek character and that is saying a lot.
Because it's practically continuing a tradition that puts the heroism and nobility of the patriarchal figure above all else. Picard: the older, seasoned officer, mortified at the public advances of Lwaxana Troi (still slut-shamed by fans even years after her passing), is always worthy of the Best Women: young, attractive, intelligent, mature, but never really available. Which is good, because neither is he.
And then there's Laris.
Independent, adventurous, forceful, brilliant. Just as he would have her be.
In his 90s, weakened and frail, Picard is still a catch for a younger, attractive, intelligent, mature woman, who conveniently lives with him, takes care of his house, his dog, his vineyard, his appointments, his security, etc. Season 1 didn't really hint at this being a Thing (since she is, essentially, his housekeeper), so when it was brought up in season 2, it once again bore the striking resemblance to all those past non-loves that came and went and weren't really appropriate for him then, either.
Not that we needed to worry.
Laris was as easily written out of the story as all the rest had been, just so Picard could go on to have the "legacy" of a family without ever having done anything to actually achieve it (beyond the sex bit), much less earn their love and respect (Beverly's passionate but convoluted reasoning for keeping their child's existence from him aside, ignoring that the only reason Jack Jr. exists is because Someone needed Picard to have a Son. It's Important].
Agnes Jurati had Picard's number from the start and, to date, is probably the only woman to really tell it how it is (from a fan perspective, at least): being stuck wanting him to be your dad and still think he's an asshole.
After all, that same Someone had Picard declare, about the Enterprise no less
Right before he receives a message from the long-lost Beverly.
To whom he shows absolutely no real affection to or receives affection from, during the entire third season.
Oh, but there is one other character Picard was close to but never even had a hint of romance with: Guinan.
Now I wonder why that was.
Oh, we know why.
#picard#jean luc picard#star trek: tng#beverly crusher#laris#guinan#and yes still perfectly capable of loving the show and its characters in spite of this garbage#just wish they hadn't written season 3 around it
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365 Marvel Comics Paper Cut-Out SuperHeroes - One Hero, Every Day, All Year…
November 2nd - Medusa
Queen Medusalith Amaquelin-Boltagon grew up on the secluded Inhuman citadel of Attilan. Like most all Inhumans, Medusalith (or Medusa) was exposed to the mutagenic properties of the Terrigen Mists when she was a young adolescent. For those with the Inhuman gene, Terrigen acts to unlock super human powers and/or physical alterations. In Medusa’s case, her crimson hair grew exceptionally long and she was bestowed trichokinesis (a type of telekinesis where she can control the movement of her hair as if it were countless thin appendages growing from her head). Furthermore, her hair became incredibly durable, with the tensile strength of steel and the lifting capacity of approximately one metric ton.
Lady Medusa fell in love with Black Bolt, the silent prince who was heir to the throne. The two became bequeathed and Medusa came to be a member of the royal court and Black Bolt’s most trusted advisor and interpreter.
During a coup orchestrated by the prince’s brother, Maximus, Medusa was struck by an experimental ray that rendered her amnesic. She wandered off from Attilan unaware of who she was nor where she came from and was eventually happened upon by the super villain known as The Wizard.
The Wizard was able to seize upon Medusa’s amnesia and coerced her to be a part of his group of villains, The Frightful Four. This led to multiple altercations with The Fantastic Four. Black Bolt eventually sought Medusa out and her memories returned. Aided by The Fantastic Four, Black Bolt was able to depose Maximus and reattain the throne. Having enjoyed her time in the world of man, and feeling indebted to The Fantastic Four, Medusa stepped in as a member of the team during a time that The Invisible Woman was taking a sabbatical. She would have further adventures alongside the Fantastic Four as well as additional adventures as a member of the Inhuman Royal Family.
Medusa and Black Bolt were eventually married and she became queen of Attilan. Soon thereafter, she became pregnant with her and Black Bolt’s child. Due to the potentially destructive nature of Black Bolt’s power, the influential Genetic Council of Attilan deemed that a child of the king was too dangerous and they ordered that Medusa terminate her pregnancy. She refused and ran away from Attilan with her sister, Crystal. She gave birth to a son, whom she named Ahura, and was relieved to find he did not possess the same destructive powers as his father.
Medusa and Black Bolt reconciled yet continued to struggle in their relationship as the pressures of governing Attilan took its tole on the wellbeing of them both.
Black Bolt was seemingly killed at the climax of the War of Kings event, whereupon Medusa was named Queen and leader of both Attilan as well as the recently conquered Kree Empire. Black Bolt would eventually return and the two enjoyed a brief period of peace and happiness before the dire circumstances of the oncoming Secret Wars event led to the destruction of Attilan and the release of the Terrigen Clouds.
Once more Medusa was made queen and ruled over New Attilan, tending to the great number of new Inhumans created by the Terrigen Clouds. It was later discovered that Terrigen is a deadly toxin to Mutants and that the Clouds would eventually make the earth uninhabitable to Mutants. This led to the X-Men/Inhuman War and Queen Medusa chose to destroy the Terrigen Clouds so to save Mutantkind. Although she had prevented a genocide, her act had also doomed the future of the Inhumans in that with the Terrigen destroyed no new Inhumans could ever come about.
Following a terrible attack by a rogue faction of The Kree, Medusa and her family relocated to a secretive sanctuary. Although she did venture out to help celebrate the nuptials of Ben Grimm and Alicia Masters.
Actress Serinda Swan portrayed Medusa in the ABC television series, Marvel’s The Inhumans. The heroine first appeared in the pages of Fantastic Four Vol. 1 #36 (1964).
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The Gods worshipped at Sparta - Further Details.
Following on from my post re. Ares not being worshipped at Sparta, below is a list of gods and heroes who were.
I have excluded those shrines and temples that we know of outside of Sparta itself, because these can be considered perioikic rather than Spartan places of worship. It is possible that Spartiates might have worshipped there, but in my opinion, it's much less likely.
I am still collating my extensive notes, but I am fairly certain this is a complete list of those we can say with any certainty were worshipped.
Agamemnon
From 550, worshipped as a hero at Amyklai (which was the southernmost village of Sparta, five kilometres south of the akropolis).
Alexandra
Worshipped at Amyklai, probably to be identified with Trojan Kassandra, thus associated with Agamemnon (6th C)
Apollo & Hyakinthos
Worshipped in Amkylia at the Amyklaion/Apollonion, and honoured during the Hykainthia.
Hyakinthos may originally have been a vegetation deity; his worship was earth-bound in character. He was perhaps the aboriginal deity of Amyklai (pre-Dorian & pre-Greek) and his worship spread out from Lakedaimon.
Apollo was the chief deity, worshipped in his martial aspect.
Cult site of Apollo Hyakinthos was adorned with an especially showy piece installed in 6th C, namely a multi-imaged throne of stone & precious materials for the idol.
Hyakinthos' mythology, summarised from Apollodorus’ Mythology: Cleio [daughter of Zeus and Mnemosyne, Memory] and Pieros [son of Magnes (who?)] defied Aphrodite and slept together. Cleio had mocked Aphrodite for falling in love with Adonis, so Aphrodite doomed her to suffer the same fate. Loving mortals was fine for the gods, but was considered demeaning for goddesses. Hyakinthos was born of the union.
He aroused the passion of Thamyris [son of Phillammon & Argiope (nymph)] who was the first man to love other males. Hyakinthos later died at the hand of Apollo, who became his lover and killed him accidentally when throwing a discus.’ It was sometimes said that the west or north wind also sought his favour, so when he went with Apollo instead, blew the discus on purpose.
Artemis Issoria
Sanctuary in the west of Sparta (Mesoa?)
Artemis Karyatis
Located outside Sparta, at a perioikic town called Karyai. It was northeast of Sparta along the river Oinous, an area deeply important to Sparta. Spartan girls participated in dancing there.
Artemis Orthia
Worshipped at Limnai. First stone temple was built c. 565 ie. from spoils of 1st Messenian War. Temple Artemis Orthia integral to agoge. She was a goddess who was understood to stalk the boundary between youth and adulthood.
Athena Chalkioikos [of the Brazen-House.]
Worshipped on the akropolis of Sparta.
Demeter and Kore
Worshipped at the Eleusion, south of the Menelaion.
Dionysos Kolatas
Worshipped in Sparta, eastern side of the Akropolis?
Eleven women (unspecified age) ran a race in his honour; they (the girls/women) were called the Dionysiades. The race was run to select a priestess of Dionysos Kolatas. Exclusively open to Spartiate women.
Dioskuri (Kastor and Polydeukes)
Helen’s brothers; may have been house spirits before they became heroes. Supposed to live underground at Therapne, and played a major role in Lakedaimon culture and politics. The (perioikic) towns of Pellana and Pephnos each claimed to be their birthplace.
Their images were carried with the army when it marched as a talisman (one or both of them).
Driodones
Local dieties. Women ran races in their honour.
Helen & Menelaus
Worshipped at the Menelaion, east of Sparta. This is the area where the Mycenaean city of Sparta once stood.
It was believed at Sparta that Helen had the power to beautify plain girls if they worshipped her.
Foot races were run by women in Helen’s honour. 240 Korai ran the race, which was open to Perioikoi as well as Spartan women. This was perhaps a pre-nuptial rite.
Orestes
Bones retrieved from Tegea and returned to Sparta where they were buried. This was done, as with the Menelaion, to create a strong religious bond between Sparta and Arkadia, during the time when Sparta had designs on the area (Unsuccessful).
Zeus Messapeus
Temple/sanctuary 4km north of Sparta.
#Sparta gods#greek gods#greek history#ancient sparta#ancient greek#ancient history#ancient greece#sparta#spartans#spartan#spartan history
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I’m rereading F&B and find myself very confused about Jaehaerys’s proposed marriage candidates? They either seem self serving (which, understandable) or utterly nonsensical to the point of harming J’s future rule Rogar’s choice: Archon of Tyrosh’s daughter (unnamed) to forge alliances across the narrow sea Maester Benifer: a daughter of a neutral great house Daemon Velaryon: Elinor costayne (show Maegor’s supporters were forgiven) and adopt her sons (?wut even?) I kind of understand Benifer’s idea, but the other ones seem doomed from the jump.
I don’t know why Tumblr ate this ask but anyway here we go.
I think there are some logical explanations, at least on a surface level, to a few of the mooted nuptial matches. Alyssa’s proposal to have Jaehaerys marry into one of “the houses who had risen in support of Aegon the Uncrowned in the Battle Beneath the Gods Eye” follows her stated desire at the opening of Jaehaerys’ reign for violent vengeance against Maegor’s supporters; if Alyssa truly believed that “[Maegor’s] entire reign was unlawful and those who had supported him were guilty of treason and must needs be put to death”, then the clearest expression of that belief was to reward the supporters of Aegon the Uncrowned with the greatest possible royal marriage. By contrast, Benifer’s idea to appeal to one of the recently neutral Houses underlined his desire to have the regime move on from the factionalism and civil war of Maegor’s reign - particularly understandable on Benifer’s part, considering he himself had served and then abandoned Maegor before being recalled to court by Jaehaerys. Rogar’s choice doesn’t seem particularly related to his, Rogar’s, goals otherwise - we don’t really see him trying to forge alliances with the Tyrosh or any other Free Cities, or understand why he might have wanted to build ties with Tyrosh - though I took this match as something of an authorial wink to both Dany and our Aegon. Alyssa’s point that “[t]he smallfolk of Westeros would never accept a foreign girl with dyed tresses as their queen” recalls the dyed hair our Aegon adopts to disguise his identity (ostensibly, indeed, to honor his supposed Tyroshi mother), which he wished to have rinsed out ahead of his meeting with Golden Company (that is, when he revealed himself to be, allegedly, a Targaryen prince); too, Alyssa’s allusion to the “delightful” Tyroshi accent of the Archon’s daughter may echo Dany’s own apparently Tyroshi accent (and, of course, her ambition to be a queen in Westeros, despite a lifetime spent almost completely in Essos). (This dispute may also be a hint to the xenophobia and alienation experienced by Larra Rogare during the Lysene Spring and her marriage to Prince Viserys.)
Now, yes, some of the matches are less explainable, except (to a limited extent, anyway) outside of blatant personal ambition. Indeed, given that the Tullys and Celtigars barley hid their motives for pushing their familial relations as potential brides for young Jaehaerys, I am more surprised that no other families attempted to shove their pretty daughters in front of the king and/or Rogar. Yet these potential brides pale in comparison to Elinor Costayne, who was for my money the strangest choice. The oddity of her candidacy is heightened by the fact that her sponsor was Daemon Velaryon, a man who did not appear to gain anything by her potential elevation as Jaehaerys’ queen. While the argument that “Queen Elinor’s proven fertility was another point in her favor” might have carried some weight (considering King Jaehaerys, the only male-line male Targaryen left, would presumably needed to father an heir sooner rather than later), and the suggestion that Jaehaerys adopt Elinor's sons by Theo Bolling mirrors Sharra Arryn’s offer to Aegon the Conqueror during the Targaryen Conquest - another king with no offspring or obvious male heir - I am still baffled as to why Lord Daemon, of all people, would have supported the choice of a woman so publicly associated with Maegor’s tyrannical reign for his nephew’s royal bride. Perhaps this was just par for the course with Daemon, considering he had previously suggested that Maegor marry his own niece: just as Daemon had argued that by marrying Rhaena, Maegor would “unite their claims, prevent any fresh rebellions from gathering around her, and acquire a hostage against any plots … [Alyssa Velaryon] might foment”, maybe Daemon believed that a marriage between Elinor and Jaehaerys would link Jaehaerys to the claim of Elinor’s late (second) husband and his own official predecessor, and/or prevent any remaining pro-Maegor factions from rallying around his (unmarried) widowed queen. Still, it’s largely a bizarre notion acceptable only in the brevity with which it is presented; the story barely lingers on it, so neither should we.
The real point, of course, is to present a bunch of equally unpalatable (to Jaehaerys personally, at least) options in order to contrast them with the young king’s “true love”, Alysanne (heavy air quotes here). Since GRRM could not specifically duplicate The Accursed Kings here with the Jaehaerys and Alysanne story (as he does otherwise with Alysanne) - only copying the supposed love match, not the political advantage the marriage brought to the boy’s mother or the revolution against a tyrant king - he instead goes full romance, the sort of love versus duty that the author so enjoys portraying. As any number of his descendants will later - Princess Baela, the future King Aegon V, and indeed his own namesake, the future King Jaehaerys II, among others - the young Jaehaerys I rejects a potential diplomatic or otherwise dutiful marriage arranged by another (or multiple others) in order to wed according to the dictates of his heart.
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“Join now the spirits in nuptial doom: A ravishing bride... a vanishing groom”, by Valerio Schiti via twitter.
You can spot Stephen in the background, yet to be inked. There’s also a man and a woman whose costume reminds me of Wanda’s old uniform (with the cloak), but that’s just a wild guess. I have no idea who these people are yet haha.
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It’s been almost three decades since the last wedding was held and the majority of Netherbridge’s current residents had been too young (and some of them have not been born yet) to remember ever attending such a glorious, joyous event. The nuptials between the eldest lady of Blackwood and the titular heir of the Crowley name have been a welcome surprise and a wondrous respite from the tedious, predictable daily life of the townsfolk. The upcoming fete gave everyone a chance to mingle and gossip over a pint or a cup of tea. Tongues wagged like a hound’s tail and everyone had a thing to say, an opinion graciously bestowed upon whoever was willing enough to listen. People flocked together like hens in a henhouse, circulating from one estate to another, from one location to the other, and all in an attempt to place their bets.
Some believe the wedding will be the crowning glory of Netherbridge, a spectacle like it’s never been seen before. The others are not as optimistic, listing differences between the Bride and Groom, dooming the marriage with unhappiness and mediocrity. But, they all have a strange sensation nagging at the back of their skull, softly knocking. Some brush it off, some hope it’s not a damning premonition, and some are ready to voice their concerns.
PRE-EVENT TASK.
Fair townspeople of Netherbridge, we welcome you to our OPENING TASK! This marks the warmup for our official opening on FRIDAY, 30TH. This task is mandatory and serves as a set up for the event which lands on SATURDAY, OCTOBER 1ST. There is no due date for this task, but we encourage our members to complete it as soon as they can manage.
We would like you to use this task to delve deeper into your character - tell us what they think about the upcoming nuptials - are they friends with the Groom and the Bride, are they acquainted or do they simply know of them? Does your character have a sense of dread washing over them or are they happy to attend the wedding as carefree as they could possibly be? These are but some of the questions your characters can answer. You can write this task in the form of headcanons, paragraphs, self-interaction, etc. Let your imagination run wild! The admins are always available for help, so if anyone has questions or needs more clarification, please don’t hesitate to ask us!
#occultustask#opening task#literate rp#lsrp#supernatural rp#period rp#mystery rp#skeleton rp#horror rp#regency rp#original rp#new rp
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To pleaseth you can do
In lucendo,’ not what in shiny blackbird’s feet.
That love, a spring, and the nuptial
couch is but still as I may not be told of the
mind and her beauty growth, I fought not
of Woman born? And the Dew-locks father and
powerless, aghast! They must do: for none
heard a bush my earth; while thilke same, we’ll never knowing
on his own identically,
perched on to be ground. But little God I heard of
Sin pierce stars were soon his way said I,
o’ my Phillis, has met wi’ my Phillis—for shameful
jest, we have wept, he sat with holy
came; but Iphigene to say, is the foes. A
woman’s hand in the integrity
of the day. The things: yet my heauy mould the Maids drew
him—could not the wind—shaking mightily
pight: I knocked the fair to outward than me, that
which wounded in her navel the turn
those loue though her to the snake, my courage early
known the least we that I shall liking,
darkening touched in a halcyon sea. Where disabled,
unpreparates what has a
kid, but coast, am given signes of lilies
once more dazle the gallows-tree, sacred
with pipe gives o’er the pass, where ours, and as a
sin, but silent, she point, I put my
Corinna, come and after here sits and your belles
and flowers and with a haughtier smilest,
dearest and hour assigned, to see. To beguile
he toil’d: the executioner of
the name is Jupiter, Care,—I wish is quite. Save
to close at hands mumble looked with buegle
about me then to grown and strangers to be
eddying hame fair. Ones the Lyons house
did bid me because ye hae thee accloieth, my
Sinnamon sung, with rapid pace to lose,
thy brain white as we trust! That shuts itself would hold
thing I desperate now at length, to
Loues indeed: we walk’d, and purple throat, before up
all care league be all you prefigure
at my faults with you care a vessel bear with
eternities in the winds are truly
boring appears;—and with Heaven’s despite. So true,
no tender is lustlessness; and then
I met your mind, with she threw him seem long ago,
’ she signes of want of blisse. Mine, minding
in a dance, chatter pleasing hair, other it
should all that it is lent his staff, stood
a moment after much I bear the soul, and pleasure,
than by the least not bears the lines
and let’s goe a short can never knows the could it
sound; he spoke too ripe, and sorely hurt.
With gloom. Not all I love exhausts itself, and feare.
The unblessed was far too long past
that which precious is my breast: whilome in your eyes,
in vain, the desert rove? Meeting somewhere
are She pauses between St. For he to walk
with trees of my blood heart, ye’ll fall, thy
cup’s heart, and his trodde in the hearts shouldst owe. And, brushed
him with open Door. To pleaseth you
can do. And your Georgian and apt to be monopoly—
the heart.—Must we thou art praise
best, and up the ragged pine—a greene, a singing
out o’ h—ll. Shun which they rang like
to mince their full of some men can expound the who
looks down, but wise it was my breast. The
stopped her growth and Doom: the oak and flowers, although
the female rank and studied lessons
rather and the Outward they hold on. From bonds without
alarm came to ye, my labouring
night rest of leave found the lid. But, trowth, I fought
as if she knew him—could strangers walk
here. And the lawns, while and Beauty of the morn her
abide by side,—so beauty moue; whose
luminous base. Softens above alone, to join
his cost too daring to the tongue was
wondered in a crescent, the Tigris hath gain’d of
quick like to his altered on again.
The flesh by their own way, and Dudu, who’s
We simply nor whole, the change his feel?
#poetry#automatically generated text#Patrick Mooney#Markov chains#Markov chain length: 6#136 texts#ballad
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youtube
The predators are eternally DOOMED!!
or anyone asking WTF he is talking about with the dog lady
Super Smash Bros. Ultimate is delighted to announce the long-awaited nuptials between Mr. Doom Slayer Ripandtearington III and Ms. Isabelle née Shizue. The wedding ceremony took place during Smash Ultimate’s final content update.
https://www.theverge.com/2021/10/19/22734980/smash-ultimate-final-update-available-now
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