#└ — a torch i’ve been carrying ( queue. )

[compatiissante]

@tmrrwppl​:

I’m just leaving this here to terrorize Maya.

———————————————————

“. . . this is fine. i’m fine. everything is fine.”

[mochie85]

To Have and To Hold - Chapter 4

THaTH Masterlist Complete Masterlist

Summary: Loki comes home to find Violet missing. A/N: Thank you to everyone who supported me in continuing this series. I'm sorry it took longer than expected. Thank you for being invested in these characters as I am. I wanna thank @lokisgoodgirl for being my BETA and @michelleleewise for all the wonderful ideas. You two are the absolute best! 🥰 Pairing: Loki x OFC/Reader Word Count: 1.8K Tags/Warnings: Lots of angst.

Loki arrived hours later, barging into your shared room. His nerves unable to relax until he held you in his arms again.

“Darling.” He called out to you. He ran into the en suite to see if your nausea had gotten the best of you again but you weren’t there. “FRIDAY, where is Agent Moreau?”

“She is not in the compound, Mr. Laufeyson.”

“What do you mean she’s not in the compound? Where is she? Did she leave?” Loki started to shake. His nightmare from hours ago crept toward the back of his mind. Clawing at him.

“Her last known location was in your bedroom, sir.” The AI answered.

“She’s not here FRIDAY. Can you please pull the security camera footage from outside the hall? Queue her last appearance please?” FRIDAY obeyed and relayed the image on the television screen hung above the fireplace.

He watched you walking back and forth between your old room and his room. You had items in your hands, clothes, and some small keepsakes. The last image of you was closing the door to your shared room and that was it.

Loki tried your cell phone. He heard it ring on the bedside table. He went to the nightstand, noticing a folded piece of paper with his name on it.

What in the nine realms?! “Since when have I ever given her the impression that she was never enough?” The letter made him seethe. But more pressingly, it made him worried. “FRIDAY?”

“Yes, Mr. Laufeyson?”

“Where’s Violet?”

“Current location for Agent Moreau is unknown.”

“Where’s Dr. Banner?” Loki growled in agitation.

“In his laboratory, sir,” FRIDAY answered. He swiftly walked through the halls and down to the elevators, trying to make his way to see Bruce. “How did she leave the building?”

“Unknown,” FRIDAY answered, keeping in time with the prince. Her voice followed him through the speakers like a sentient being. He pushed the call for the elevator. His anger causing a minor crack in the button. He decided that it was taking too long and opted to go down the stairwell.

Taking two steps at a time, Loki made quick work of descending the stairs. “Did she tell anyone she was leaving?” He asked FRIDAY once he got back inside the building hallway.

“Unknown.”

“Is she hurt? Was she taken? Why hasn’t anyone filed a missing person’s report for her?” The doors of multiple labs and offices whizzed past him on his way to Bruce’s laboratory.

“Unknown.”

“Is there anything that you do know?” he yelled up into the closest speaker.

“I know plenty of information, Mr. Laufeyson. I just have no knowledge of what you are inquiring about.”

Loki opened Bruce’s lab with an angry flourish.

“She’s gone!” Loki yelled. Bruce dropped the small blow torch he had in his hands at Loki’s entrance.

“Geez, Loki. Warn a man before you enter his lab. I could’ve been carrying something explosive!”

“Bruce. She-She’s gone. I have no idea where she is. FRIDAY is of NO HELP!” Loki yelled to the ceiling. “She could be hurt! She could’ve been taken. I had a horrible dream earlier and now I’ve come home to find the love of my life gone!”

“Whoa, whoa Loki. Settle down. Violet is gone?” Bruce asked, trying to calm him.

“Yes! I come home and all I found was this note on her nightstand next to her phone.” Loki threw the note down to the table and Bruce picked it up to read. “How do I even get in contact with her? What if she was taken and this is all a- a ploy? Some ruse to make me think she left me, so I won’t go looking for her?”

“Loki…”

“She could be hurt. She could be manipulated and used.”

“Loki…”

“Thanos could be torturing her right now.”

“Loki!” Bruce roared, looking a little green around his neck. Loki immediately stopped pacing and huffed. “Calm down, please.”

“I can’t, Bruce. I nearly lost her last time. And we both lost our child. I can’t lose her again. Not like this.”

Bruce sighed. Thinking about that night gave him heartache. You came home from a nearly fatal gunshot wound and all he remembers was your distraught face and the dark secret you had asked him and Strange to keep.

He wondered how long you were going to keep up the charade. You couldn’t hide your changing body forever. Everyone was bound to notice. The fact that the God of Lies hasn’t picked up on anything untoward was incredible on your part.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Loki. And I’m sorry about this,” Bruce says holding up the note and handing it back to him. “But what is this about Thanos and torturing her? Start from the beginning,” Bruce asked trying to change the subject.

Loki recounted everything that has happened since he hung up the phone with you. His readiness to talk. The horrifying dream he had. Then coming home to find your letter and watched you act suspiciously in the security footage.

“Nothing adds up, Bruce! One minute she’s in our room, the next she’s gone?! No footage of her leaving. No sign of any of the vehicles being taken. Her clothes are gone. Her weapons…”

Loki stood there running his hands through his hair and pulling it. He looked as crazed as the day he set foot on earth trying to conquer it for Thanos.

“Loki. I will help you find her,” Bruce volunteered.

“You will?”

“I can tell that you love her, greatly. And by the way she ended this note, I know that she loves you too. You guys just have a lot to work through. A LOT!” Bruce reasoned. “She has a tendency to run, doesn’t she?”

“Yes, she does. I just thought that I would be running right by her side, is all,” Loki sighed. “I mean…how could she think that Bruce? How could she think she was unworthy?”

“I…might know…something about that,” Thor chimed in.

“Blessed Yggdrasil!”  Loki shrieked. “How long have you been there?”

“I’ve been here since before you came in!” Thor said indignantly. “We’ve been testing out Mjolnir’s heat…”

“Wonderful, Thor! Now, back to my predicament. What exactly do you know?” Loki demanded.

Thor sighed, “When we were on our last mission together…”

“Where you let her get shot, yes…”

“Before she got shot, we were discussing the future of the baby. Our traditions. How the child would’ve been whisked away to start training as a royal heir and guardian of the nine realms.”

“You WHAT?!”

“We talked about how you would be king one day if you chose to do so, and she might become queen.”

“Why would say that? We haven’t even discussed anything of the sort!”

“She wanted to know!”

“So, you’re telling me…that you told the mother of my unborn child…that we would’ve taken her baby away from her. To be raised as a warrior…or…or however, father saw fit, without her concern?”

“I didn’t put it in those words, Loki. She wanted to understand why you were so upset. And I told her that you just wanted the best for her and that you didn’t want her to give up her lifestyle. So, as per our traditions, the child would’ve been taken and raised...OOHHH, I see where I made the mistake.”

“YOU IMBECILE!” Loki yelled as he grabbed the small torch from where Bruce had placed it. In his hands, the blaze had grown higher, as if it were a sword made of flame. Thor rounded the table and backed away hoping to put Bruce in between them.

“Bruce, step away. There will be no saving my brother from the hellfire I will unleash,” Loki threatened.

“Loki, calm down. Thor, please don-don’t put me in the middle of this,” Bruce said exasperated.

“I will help you, Loki! I promise. I will help you look for Violet.” Thor tried to placate him. Loki swung the makeshift weapon and Bruce dodged it early enough to not get singed, leaving Thor to face Loki alone.

“Why would you spout nonsense to her, when I hadn’t had the chance to talk to her about it myself? No wonder she ran off! You took her choice away from her! She either loses our child or loses her freedom. No wonder she ran. She got scared.”

“Well, I guess it really didn’t matter in the end…” Thor said carelessly, more to himself but said it out loud. Before he could retract his statement, Loki swung the flame sword toward him again.

Loki saw red. His ears began ringing and the pain was the only thing he felt at being robbed of a life with you and the pain of losing the child. He yelled out loud. A plume of green seidr erupted around him. The smoke expanded out and then came back in, centering on Thor. A minor shake was felt all around the compound.

When Loki had finished yelling, and the dust finally settled, Bruce made his way over toward Loki.

“Loki? Thor?” Bruce coughed, fanning the debris away from him. Loki emerged from the smolder, squeezing a frog in his hands. Loki pushed the frog toward Bruce’s chest.

“I’ll change him when I have calmed down. If he’s lucky.” Loki growled at the frog. With a flick of his wrist, Loki opened the lab doors and walked out, taking the flume of smoke with him.

⬅️ Chapter 3 | Chapter 5 ➡️

🏷️ @emarich7 @coldnique @vickie5446 @psychospore @mukagentropy @silverfire475 @fictive-sl0th @springdandelixn @wheredafandomat @goldencherriess @peaches1958 @salempoe @thomase1 @kkdvkyya @a-witch-with-words @mischief2sarawr @sarawr-reads @vbecker10 @peachymallows @irishhappiness @cakesandtom @simplyholl @here4thefanfics @tallseaweed @holdmytesseract @immersed-in-mischief @joyful-enchantress @lovelysizzlingbluebird @lokisninerealms @kikster606 @glitterylokislut @loz-3 @slytherclaw1227 @chantsdemarins @the-lady-amphitrite @eleniblue @km-ffluv @lokidokieokie @loopsisloops @muddyorbsblr @luvlady-writes @kellatron55 @huntress-artemiss @crimson25 @purplegrrl27 @sarahscribbles @ladyofthestayingpower @ozymdias

[thegettingbyp2]

ReaderxSteve Harrington where the reader is know for their sexploits and hits on Steve while he’s at work. Smut is welcome (I really just love seeing fumbling Steve out of his King Steve element)

Reputation

Buy me a coffee :)

‘Ahoy Ladies are you ready to set sail on this adventure of flavour with me, I’ll be your captain. I’m Steve Harrington,’ Steve said before turning around and stopping in his tracks when he saw you and a couple of your friends standing in front of him.

‘I’ll go on an adventure with you any day, Harrington,’ you said, smirking as you watched him in his attempt to keep his cool at your words. You knew that Steve had pretty much been stripped of his King Steve persona when Nancy had broken up with him but you still thought he was hot. You carried on flirting with him because you loved how flustered he would get, knowing that he had always carried a bit of a torch for you.

‘Oh yeah? What kind of adventure are you looking for, (Y/L/N)?’ he asked, knowing now that you loved to push his buttons which made it easier for him to play along.

‘I don’t know, I’ve never been fucked behind the scenes of an ice cream parlour,’ you said bluntly, leaning over the counter, giving Steve the perfect view of your cleavage. Your friends had long gone to find a seat, knowing that you were going to take your time teasing the former King of Hawkins.

‘Shocking,’ Steve replied, leaning on the counter as well so your lips were inches apart, ‘someone with your reputation, I would have thought that you’d have fucked everywhere.’ It was no secret that you had a reputation around Hawkins for the amount of sexual partners you’d had and Steve couldn’t help but want to be able to add his own name to your list.

‘I could say the same about you.’ You and Steve had had this kind of back and forth for the last couple of times you’d tried to hit on him with the sole intention of ruffling his feathers but it had gotten to a stage where you couldn’t help but look forward to these interactions now. ‘But then, you hung up your crown before you could have any real fun.’

Steve stood back up, clearing his throat slightly as he remembered that he was actually at work where he could be fired if his boss caught him flirting with you without realising the size of the queue that had formed behind you. ‘So are you going to order anything or are you just going to hold up the queue for the rest of the day?’ he asked, trying his best to sound as normal as he could.

You stood up yourself, feeling Steve’s gaze on you for the whole time. ‘Not like you to give up so easily,’ you said as you pushed your hair behind your shoulder and made your order.

‘I don’t have time at the moment, I’ve gotta work,’ Steve replied as he put your order through on the till, ‘that’ll be three dollars,’ he said, staring straight into your eyes. You dug through your bag until you found your purse and pulled three dollar bills, handing them over. As Steve reached out to take the money from you, his hand closed around yours and he pulled you closer to him from across the counter. ‘Plus I never said I was giving up. I have a break in an hour, meet me back here and we can tick ice cream parlour off of your list of places to fuck.’

As soon as he spoke, you felt a warmth between your legs and it took all of your concentration to keep a straight face and not melt into a puddle then and there. You nodded as you took your ice cream from him and turned around to make your way over to the table your friends had picked. Steve watched you the whole time, knowing that two could play at your little game.

[legacystrayed]

space unicorn soaring through the stars, delivering the rainbows all around the world--

[keptkindness]

I AM NOT WHAT YOU’VE MADE OF ME, YOUR PRESSURE MAKES MY STOMACH BLEED--

[waryhearted]

“i still get a little scared of something new, but i feel a little safer when i'm with you--”

[innocencesilenced]

“i forgot my name again-- i think that's something worth remembering.”

[soundjacked]

“i am not what you’ve made of me, your pressure makes my stomach bleed.”

[quirkrewound]

“you didn't care that we're not perfect underneath the surface, you are more than worth the struggle.”

[phorking69]

[wither-rose-circus]

So, Awesamdad, right?

AKA: Sam protects his new children but it’s angsty

———————————————————————

“This way!”

Sam threw a button down onto a particular grass block towards the center of Tommy’s hotel construction site. The crunch of pistons could be heard and the ground opened up beneath his feet. He called for Tommy and Tubbo to follow suit as he fell through. As soon as their feet hit the ground, the dirt and stone returned to their places above their heads, colliding seamlessly as if they had never been torn apart.

“What the hell is this?! What the fuck have you been doing under my hote-“ Tommy was cut off by a hand shoving his head down.

“Quiet!” Sam hissed, “Crouch, we’re not that deep.”

The two of them watched the ceiling hesitantly; they could hear clattering armor and murmuring just too muffled to make out. They weren’t leaving, though, the two name tags just hovered above them. Meanwhile, Tubbo had already taken to sifting through the few chests that littered the floor. In them were several stacks of cooked steak and baked potatoes, a few stacks of torches, two water buckets, and two crafting tables, amongst several other miscellaneous basic items. Next to the chests were two beds bordered by two armor stands. Each held a full suit of diamond armor with two sets of diamond tools at their feet.

“What is all this?” Tubbo whispered, taking some of the food he had found.

“This hotel is too close to the egg’s corruption for comfort. I don’t trust Bad or anyone else that hangs around it, so I made an escape bunker for Tommy, myself, or anyone else that might need to hide if they ever tried anything.” Sam kept his eyes on the name tags above them, making sure they didn’t get too close. “Sorry it’s not exactly my finest build. With the hotel project, the bank project, and Bad breathing down my neck, I’ve only had the spare time to dig out a hole and leave some bare essentials.”

“Who gives a shit about that stupid egg? I could take those freaks with my bare hands!” Tommy was as confident as ever.

Sam sighed and placed his hands on the boy’s shoulders. “Tommy, listen. The egg is dangerous. I know you might not think it is, but it can hurt people. It is hurting people. And you need to get out of here before it can hurt you or anyone else.” As if on queue, the trio heard dirt being shoveled and stone being broken above their heads. Sam let go of Tommy and began removing his armor. ”We don’t have much time. Take the armor, take the tools, take everything in those chests, and when I say to, run. Run as far away from here as you can, and whatever you do, don’t look back.”

“But, but what about you? Aren’t you coming too?” Whether Tubbo’s voice was choked up out of genuine sadness or because of the blood vines closing in on them, none of them could tell. Sam simply pulled Tubbo into a hug along with Tommy.

“You boys have saved everyone on this server more times than you ever should have had to. You’ve done your parts, I’m not going to ask you to be heroes again. I’m asking you to take care of yourselves.”

“There you are!” Bad’s voice broke through the crumbled stone barrier as he and Antfrost jumped into the bunker. “Did you really think you could hide from us so easily?”

Sam turned to face him, standing tall in front of Tommy and Tubbo. “Boys, put the armor on. Now.”

“Diamond armor?” Bad scoffed, “Sam, you know a little diamond armor won’t protect anybody, not from us or from the egg.”

“Who said you’re what it’s here to protect them from?��� Sam suddenly lunged at Bad, tackling and pinning him to the ground. “Now! Run! Get out of here!”

“Sam, wait, what about-“ Tommy was cut off once more.

“Quickly!” Sam’s fur began to bristle and stand on its ends, as if sparks of electricity were jumping between them, while the suffocating smell of sulfur thickened the air.

Tubbo grabbed Tommy by the wrist and began scaling the walls. Tommy was hesitant, but eventually followed suit. Once on the surface, the two boys ran as fast as their legs would carry them. They could hear Bad screaming even as they gained distance, before his voice was overtaken by something that sent shivers down their spines and tears down their cheeks. An overwhelming, soul crushing noise they had grown far too familiar with.

[Awesamdude was blown up by Awesamdude]

[Badboyhalo was blown up by Awesamdude]

[Antfrost was blown up by Awesamdude]

[compatiissante]

"i'm just a girl, standing in front of a salad, wishing it was a donut"

various starters

". . . nothing's stopping you from getting a donut instead. don't let your dreams be dreams, or whatever the fuck--"

[project-ohagi]

Keigo Takami ღ Hawks x Reader

Buy me a coffee!! <3

[FYI]: You're whisper-singing this to each other ^^

-----

Temptation, enchantment, stars dancing against a backdrop of liquid gold...those eyes belied his humanity. How could such perfection be constrained to the land and sky below the heavens?

"You know I want you...

It's not a secret I try to hide.

I know you want me,

So don't keep sayin' our hands are tied."

Call it a tryst, a forbidden partnership...a gaping wound in the fabric of society, in which sin will fester forever. Call it dangerous, deem it disgraceful, but a word's significance falls victim to fluctuation - to desperate and direful minds. Their guise of concern remained unheeded; Keigo embodied beauty and wit beyond all comprehension.

"You claim it's not in the cards,

And fate is pullin' you miles away,

And out of reach from me"

Another life, a dream, a fairy-tale...a faraway kingdom, a teahouse nestled between the realms of mortal and fae, or perhaps something entirely unremarkable...but together, you planned to venture. The lyrics of your song whispered a love so sempiternal, ghosting across lips and conjuring sleepy smiles, as you swayed to the rhythm of a single heartbeat.

"But you're here in my heart,

So who can stop me if I decide

That you're my destiny?"

The sun served as Keigo's sole rival, but little competition was ever presented. A lifetime draped in darkness delighted in its infinite superiority to a lifetime without your beloved. The latter would be courtesy of a nightmare - never of a waking wish. The opportunity for doubt and regret had sailed by in the twilight. To it, neither of you had borne witness; a romantic entanglement of limbs and gentle breaths had sounded far too appealing. Every moment spent in the absence of a feathery embrace was torture, every reflection of the past - your past...interconnected, and now cherished so dearly - was bliss.

"What if we rewrite the stars?

Say you were made to be mine.

Nothing could keep us apart.

You'd be the one I was meant to find..."

Yet...you both understood the world for its acrimony...its frostbitten core. You weren't made for each other - not in the truest sense, by instinct or divinity. His arms weren't supposed to be your sanctuary...his wings weren't supposed to grant asylum to your battle-weary body...his love wasn't supposed to rain down upon you, echoing the sentiment that burrowed inside your heart. The mere suggestion of accord between yourselves and this world was likely a false and cruel jest, though it torched your embers until they burned beyond control.

What if...what if it was possible...?

"It's up to you, and it's up to me.

No one can say what we get to be...

So why don't we rewrite the stars?

Maybe the world could be ours,

Tonight..."

No...it was a folly, entirely divorced from reason.

Nothing material dissuaded those whose hearts greyed at the edges, and yet...your pursuit was forbidden. But 'surrender' was another word to which you paid no due regard. Villain...hero...who would care upon your deathbeds?...When you died at love's behest?

"You think it's easy...

You think I don't wanna run to you,

But there are mountains...

And there are doors that we can't walk through."

It carries such detriment, but on some odd ground, it became the epitome of joy. The spilling of the confessional waterfall became the greatest-worst mistake of the epoch. Intertwining fingers, lips that joined in a graceful tango...a mutual love - devotion...it was devotion, perhaps even worship.

"I know you're wondering why because we're able to be

Just you and me within these walls...

But when we go outside, you're gonna wake up and see

That it was hopeless after all..."

The Adonis to your Aphrodite, master of the hunt and incomparably gorgeous, Keigo's worth far exceeded your own. His birdbrained wiles reduced your legs to jelly, and your mind to mush. Your Keigo, your knight in faux fur...your warm and welcoming saviour - he who insisted that lovers, regardless of dynamics, should never live apart....

"No one can rewrite the stars...

How can you say you'll be mine?

Everything keeps us apart,

And I'm not the one you were meant to find..."

This love was prone to squalor, doomed to failure, but oh so delectable.

"It's not up to you,

It's not up to me,

When everyone tells us what we can be...

How can we rewrite the stars?

Say that the world can be ours,

Tonight..."

The vestigial traces of hair that peppered his chin, the memories queueing on his tongue, just waiting to be recalled, the glimmer of mischief behind every glance, whether fleeting or eternal...you took inventory of these each morning and each night, praying that he never allowed sadness to spirit his smile away.

"All I want is to fly with you,

All I want is to fall with you,

So just give me all of you!"

But society, conventions...life, fought against this union. It felt impossible. Keigo disagreed.

"It feels impossible...

It's not impossible...

Is it impossible?

Say that it's possible!"

"We're together because we need to be, angel. To Hell with anyone who thinks this is wrong...I've never been more sure of anything." It didn't arise from an argument, but frayed nerves and half-broken hearts. Four years later, and you loved more fiercely than any wedlock twain.

"How do we rewrite the stars?

Say you were made to be mine?

Nothing can keep us apart,

'Cause you are the one I was meant to find!"

The very nature of your...'occupation', resisted Keigo's dream of marriage. Perhaps it was silly, or even childish, to wish for a domestic life, without the complication of heroics or beck-and-calls, but...he wanted to call you his own. Officially.

"It's up to you,

And it's up to me.

No one can say what we get to be!

And why don't we rewrite the stars?

Changing the world to be ours..."

"Takami (Y/n), has a nice ring to it, don'tcha think?" The futility of such a question had crushed his soul, but persistence usually paid off...right?

"C'mon pretty bird, we could get married in secret or something? I'm sure I could find somewhere...someone to officiate it? I just wanna be with you, so badly. Please...if it's impossible...please take my last name anyway? C'mon, I'm begging you, (Y/n)...be my wife?"

You wanted to.

Of course you wanted to!

"You know I want you...

It's not a secret I try to hide.

But I can't have you...

We're bound to break and my hands are tied..."

But...it was such a hopeless plight.

[Word Count: 1087]

[rustbeltjessie]

Diary of an Emotional Masochist, Chapter One: Dignity and Shame

I am an emotional masochist. I’m the kind of person, who, when I’m already going through a bout of nostalgic melancholy, will decide to read old journal entries or look through old photographs. The kind of person who, when it’s three a.m. and I can’t sleep because I’m thinking about what loves have come and gone (to borrow a phrase from Edna St. Vincent Millay), will get up and Google search those loves. I am the kind of woman who, when I’m already sad, will listen to an album that devastates me. I have a long list of albums that it’s almost too painful to listen to, albums that remind me of such specific times in my life that listening to them takes me right back to where I was then. A different person would purge their record collection and iTunes library of such albums, but, like I said – I am an emotional masochist. On lonesome evenings, after a couple glasses of whiskey, nothing sounds better to me than spinning one of those records (or queueing up one of those playlists). This is one of those lonesome-whiskey evenings, so won’t you join me in indulging? We’re listening to Crooked Fingers’ Dignity and Shame.

From the first sparse, haunting notes of “Islero,” I am transported back in time to the summer of 2005. God, that summer. That terrible, wonderful summer. I’d fucked up my life the year before, and I thought that would be the summer I’d fix it, except all I did was fuck it up even more. God, that summer. That March, I moved away from Chicago after living there for five years. I planned on moving to Milwaukee come autumn, to start fresh in a fresh town. In the meantime, I moved back in with my parents. I wasn’t home, much. Nights, after work, I went to one of the two bars in Kenosha where all my sad drunk hoodlum friends hung out. On days off, I walked in the woods – the heat was relentless, and the canopy of trees offered cool green comfort. Or I drove to Chicago to see shows and drink with my friends and try to remember why I’d left; drove to Milwaukee to scope out neighborhoods, sit for hours at the Hi-Fi Cafe, go record and dress shopping. On one of my record shopping expeditions, I bought Dignity and Shame. It was on the Staff Recommendations shelf, and I liked the cover art, so I took it home with me – and it was serendipity, it was exactly the album I needed at the time.

As soon as I got home, I set it spinning on my turntable, and the first track – “Islero” – gave me goosebumps. The second track – “Weary Arms” – made me cry. It had sad cellos and a lonesome cowboy guitar, and Eric Bachmann’s voice was a raspy baritone: Beware of strangers knocking at your door. Old lovers, too. Don’t think for one second they’ve forgotten you. Oh, oh, oh. By the time the final, hidden track played, I’d melted into a puddle of tears and goosebumps on my bedroom floor. The album destroyed me, and it spooked me because so many of the stories sounded like things right out of my life, both from that year and six or so years before it. It was like Eric Bachmann had read my diary and set it to music. I wanted to write him a letter and say: “Get out of my head, god damn it! Get out of my aching heart.” It’s impossible for me to write about Dignity and Shame, or about the summer of 2005, without descending into hyperbole, sentimental poetry, and melodrama. My God, that summer was hyperbole, sentimental poetry, and melodrama. I was still young enough that it was acceptable to feel things that intensely, acceptable to talk about a sunrise over Lake Michigan by saying things like: “When the light shot through the horizon in streaks of peach and gold, it was the most god damn beautiful thing I’d ever seen.” Dear diary, listen to me.

My “Weary Arms” wrapped tight around so many lovers, that summer – four of them, plus a handful of brief flings. Later that year, I lamented that I hadn’t had as many wild love affairs as I’d had in years past, which, yes, says something unflattering about me. And Eric Bachmann sang: You have many enemies, for reasons no one’s certain of.

One night, while I sat at one of the bars and waited for my friends to arrive, a girl approached me. I didn’t know her, but she knew me. She sat down across from me and lambasted me for sleeping with a guy she’d been dating at the time…two years before. She called me a slut, and some worse things. I wanted to buy her a drink, to appease her. I couldn’t understand why she hated me so much. When I slept with that guy, I had no idea he had a girlfriend. So many enemies, so many lovers, but could a jaded girl like me heed an uptempo “Call To Love?” In that song, Eric took the role of a particular one of my lovers, and said: Won’t you hear my heart? I’m transmitting a call to love. On a night when the moon was orange-red and luminous, that lover said: “The moon is the color of your hair.” Another night: “You were born in the wrong era, Jess.” And, though I was a sucker for sentimental poetry, my guard was up. Lara Meyerratken answered for me: Don’t need my heart kicked ‘round the block no more. You may be smooth-talking, daddy, but I’ve heard it all before. I traded gossip with the “Twilight Creeps.” In this sweet-sad song with the bright piano and the shimmering backup vocals, I was both the singer and the sung about. I could have sung it to one of my lovers, should have said to her: Flower, don’t dig so deep so you don’t go anywhere. But the words were also about me: You say someday you’re gonna float away. Take yourself some kind of holiday. I often told my sad drunk hoodlum friends, the twilight creeps, that I needed to get the hell out of town. “If I could just get gone for more than a few days, go somewhere more than a few hours away…there ain’t no use in trying to make me stay.”

My lovers all wanted to make me stay. The flower-girl, I’ll call her Valerie. The one who spoke poetic words to me, I’ll call him Jack. And there was Lon, and Carmine. In different ways, for different reasons, they each wanted me to choose them over all the rest. Even a few of the week-long flings and one-night stands, older punk guys or younger hippie girls, said things to me like: “How did I get so lucky as to meet a girl like you?” Or: “So, are you my girlfriend now?” And when I said no, they called me a heartbreaker. A “Destroyer.” It’s a woebegone cowboy of a tune. Doleful drums, piano that tinkles like ice cubes in a bar glass, and a lap steel guitar – which, as far as I’m concerned, is the aural equivalent of an anti-hero walking off into the sunset. The song is all about how the singer is going to make someone his, and then he’s going to leave them behind. When they called me heartbreaker, I wanted to sing it: Lay down, just let it come, and resign your heart, today, to get blown away. “Valerie,” well, that’s why I’m referring to that lover as Valerie. Much like me, she was a punk rock girl turned heroine of a Tom Waits song (heroine of a Crooked Fingers song). She had thriftstore dresses and jailhouse tattoos and self-inflicted scars. “Valerie,” the song, has a sanguine strut, is a besotted love song, and I thought of Valerie, the girl: Red roses, silk, you in your sleek summer dress. You were light, revelation, oh, I love you the best. But she and I kept our love unspoken. We both had other romantic complications, and only touched each other on long hot nights after too many bottles of wine and too many pills. “Sleep All Summer” was my song for Jack, the young ex-goth whose mouth was pink and pouty like he’d been sucking on a strawberry popsicle. Our love was either all the good songs and kissing ’til our lips were raw, or it was screaming matches and hangover headaches. What bliss is this, and then he’d get attention-starved and whiny, and I’d burn hot and cold and say nasty things, and we’d say: “This is it, we’re through.” But – There ain’t no way we’re gonna find another, the way we sleep all summer. Why won’t you fall back in love with me? And we’d run into each other at the bar, and faster than our friends could say I told you so we’d be tangled up in the backseat of his car or rolling around by the lake, and the whole thing would start all over again. He’d play the martyr, and I’d say: I would change for you, but babe, that doesn’t mean I’m gonna be a better man.

And “Coldways” kill cool lovers. Lon was a folk singer from the north woods. He’d been one of my best friends for years already, and when we started dating I was so tired of complicated, fiery relationships that I mistook comfort for True Love. My heart still hurts when I think of how I hurt him. He wanted me to marry him and I just wanted to be drunk and in love, to listen to “Coldways”’s thrumming, swelling sound. To sing along: Come out, come on, tonight the city’s alive. “Wrecking Ball” has a jaunty, punchdrunk piano, and the piano had been drinking, but so had I. God, I drank so much that summer. On the rare night I spent at home, I holed up in my room, wrote long, sad, tales of people in the legend of my life, and drank blackberry brandy mixed with Sprite. Something like that would taste over-sweet to me now, make me shudder, but maybe the same part of me that craved sentimental poetry also thirsted for sugary drinks. And most nights, I wasn’t at home. Most nights, I changed clothes in my car after work. I swapped my reeking-of-pizza button down shirt and black slacks for one of my vintage dresses. A mint green confection, or a pink and white sundress. Something from the ‘50s, blue with red and white polka dots, or a slinky black number that a ‘30s jazz singer would have worn. And I sat at one of two bars, drank whiskey and Coke, or brandy old-fashioneds, or gin and tonics all night long. I waited for my friends to arrive, and I drank and smoked and entertained myself with one of the items I always had in my bag – a book of poetry by Dorothy Parker or Edna St. Vincent Millay, a deck of Alice In Wonderland tarot cards. And sometimes, someone would find me intriguing. I swear, I wasn’t a Manic Pixie Dream Girl, but… I was a redhead in a retro dress (usually with a strand of fake pearls, too) sitting in a dive bar, smoking pastel-colored cigarettes, reading sonnets and tarot cards. Christ. Often, someone found me intriguing, chatted me up, and I wound up with yet another lover. I was a destroyer, destroying myself with booze and love. I was a wrecking ball. Eric Bachmann, accompanied by that barroom piano, sang: And you laughed and you danced, and it let you feel fine for a while. Hanging out with the kids who you knew soon would fall out of style.

I’ve left two songs out, dear diary. I did it on purpose, because they are the two that hurt the most. They are also the two that heal the most. The kind of songs that make me weep, then tell me to dry my tears. “You Must Build A Fire,” oh, it is one of the saddest songs. It begins with only two guitars (a finger-picked lead and that god damn lap steel again), and Eric’s voice is so plaintive, sounds like it’s about to crack, and he sings: Oh, gracious love, you were so kind to me. You only broke my heart, let my arms and legs stay strong. So I could swim upon the open sea, searching for another love. Floating along aimlessly. I haven’t told you about Carmine, yet. Carmine was a musician who looked like a magician from an old-time carnival. The year before, he’d ruined me in a worse way than any other lover ever had. (As a friend put it, he was one of the ones who fucked me up so bad I was pretty much ruined for anyone else.) He ruined me, but I let him back into my life. That summer, we got together. It was supposed to be closure, but of course it just opened everything up again. He said: “I want to be with you. I want to try again.” I said: “Okay, yes, let’s start over. I want to be with you.” He said: “Only if you break things off with all your other lovers. I want to be your only.” The nerve, giving me an ultimatum like that when he was even more of a notorious libertine than I was. And the song sang: I had someone, a love I thought was true. But sometimes you just get tired, and you must try not to die. And give your love, though no one may receive. You must build a giant fire, for the whole wide world to see. It sounded like that whole heartbroken, hot summer. Oh, where are you, love?

The title track, “Dignity and Shame,” is a piano ballad that told me: To be sure, there ain’t no cure. There could be no one to save you. It is the track I return to over and over, more than any other track on the album. Though my life has calmed down a lot in the decade since that summer, sometimes – that feeling comes, you’ve been here once before. That wicked feeling you don’t want to feel no more. And then, Eric Bachmann (get out my head, god damn it!) sings: You’re not the same as the day that you came. You can choose dignity, or shame.

I choose dignity. I carry my broken heart like a torch in the night. Little keeper of light, burning deep, burning bright in the dark.

[originally appeared in Witchsong in October 2015]

[x--daughters-of-darkness--x]

Lacuna Coil’s Cristina Scabbia wants you to “lay down on your bed, close your eyes and come on a journey with us”

For two decades now, Lacuna Coil have been one of the most consistent voices in heavy metal. Since their debut album ‘In A Reverie’ in 1999, they’ve averaged a new record every two or three years; always ambitious, always as gothic as Hallowe’en in a bat roost, always abrasive… and at the heart of it, always featuring the gargantuan lungs of singer Cristina Scabbia.

Surprisingly for a band so far into their career, new record, ‘Black Anima’, their ninth, contains the best songs the Italian band have ever committed to tape. It’s a deeply personal work, with recent events in Cristina’s life inspiring much of its content. “This isn’t just a heavy record in terms of it’s sound,” says Andrea Ferro, who shares vocals in the band with Cristina. “The words are heavy, the tone of the record is heavy, it’s a very emotional record. I think this and our last record are the most personal records Cristina has made…”

NME thought it time we asked Cristina about the making of ‘Black Anima’, a record that explores sadness and pain in unflinching detail – but also that revitalises the veteran stars.

Cristina, you’re recently described your new album as ‘the heaviest and darkest’ album you’ve ever made. Metal bands always say this. Do you really mean it or is it just something to say?

“We really mean it. I’m even more convinced of it the more I listen to what we made. I think our last record [2016’s] ‘Delirium’ was heading in that direction and ‘Black Anima’ is a natural progression from that record…”

You’ve been doing this now since 1994. Normally bands get more mellow the longer they go on…

“Well, I certainly don’t feel like that as a person. The older I get the more curious I get. I feel like going from ‘Delirium’ to ‘Black Anima’ taught me so much about myself. I lost both my parents in a very short period of time and they literally were the world to me. We’d talk every day. Multiple times a day. It was so shocking to me to lose them…”

I’m sorry that happened to you Cristina…

“It happens. They lived a long happy life and I was lucky to have them for so long. But I have realised that I am much stronger than I thought I was. For years before I was trying to prepare myself for it happening. I was trying to visualise how I’d cope. I used to tell myself what it would be like. I thought I’d lock myself indoors, shut out my friends and be completely depressed – and then I learned that you do just go on. You have to carry the torch. I feel bulletproof now. I’ve lost the most important thing in the world to me, and I’m still here.”

In all the time you’ve been doing this, what’s the biggest change you’ve seen? Being in a band now is so different to how it would have been starting out in 1994…

“Everything is so much more complicated. Social media has made everything so fucked up. Everyone wants to look beautiful and perfect and smiley and rich and that’s just a distorted version of anyone’s reality. I think people dug deeper before these times. Now everything is so transient. A band release a new single and in another two days another band releases a new single and the previous song is forgotten. I’m sick of hearing about views and numbers and streams and… shit. I think there’s poetry behind the creation of music and songs – and there’s nothing poetic about social media.”

Lacuna Coil come from Milan, Italy – not a country famed for its export of heavy metal…

“Well it was just so different back then. We used to send cassettes with our songs on to record labels. No email, no smartphones… I still can’t believe how lucky we were to be noticed – this little band from Italy – by our label, Century Media, who we’re with even now. We were the first band they signed outside of their circle in France. We were so surprised to get a call from them. Metal is, even now, a real underground genre in Italy. There’s a few more bands now – we’re good friends with the band Fleshgod Apocalypse – but the scene is still very underdeveloped. There’s not many opportunities for bands to break out. The radios don’t play metal, the clubs are weird sizes – loads of 500/600 capacity venues in Milan just closed down, so venues that are left are either too small or arenas, so it’s hard for touring bands to find anywhere to play.”

This is a question that separates the progressives from the old farts. Were things better then?

“Ummmmmmmmm… Yes and no. I think things were more exciting back then, because there was just less of everything. Things that have largely been eradicated now, like waiting for the release of a record, have been lost – and these were great things! I miss queueing up outside record stores! I miss patience! Everyone wants everything immediately now, and I don’t think that’s always good for you. I think there was probably more respect for music as art too…”

Would you like me to warm your slippers by the fire, Cristina?

“Yes, well, the good thing about the present times is that bands can access a bigger audience easier. I would have loved Lacuna Coil to have had access to something like YouTube in the beginning. The idea you can form a band, record a song, upload it and someone in Australia can be listening to that song the same day is still mind-blowing to me. There’s just more chances. More opportunities to showcase. This is a great thing – I just wish it all wasn’t such a clusterfuck! I think the idea of bands having 25-year careers now is quite unlikely.”

What it sounds like to these ears, Cristina, is you’re looking for music to have more permanence than it does right now…

“I think there’s something in that, though I’m just frustrated with how much music has to compete with right now, really. There’s so much noise competing with people for their attention. Why is everyone trying to go viral by kicking a bottle top off a water bottle?”

Can you kick a bottle top off a water bottle Cristina?

“No I cannot. I haven’t tried. But I get it. People want to be entertained. Little fixes of entertainment. That’s what we’re competing with. To be something more.”

How do you do that, though?

“Well we’re trying to do things in a quite old-fashioned way. We’re trying to write records, not songs. On the new record there’s an intro and an outro, and you should try to enjoy the record in its entirety. We’re trying to get an hour from people to lay down on their bed, close their eyes and come on a journey with us. That’s the goal. We like to try to add a visual element to our records too. This time we’ve made tarot cards with the record, which I think suits it because it’s a very – how do you say? – esoteric record, in a spiritual way. There’s a card for each song, designed by the artist Micah Ulrich. I don’t really believe that tarot can tell the future, but I do think they’re a good visual to show where you’re at in your life.”

“There’s a book we read that we found inspiring – it was the spark that led to ‘Black Anima’ really. It’s called The Physics Of Angels [Full title: Exploring The Realm Where Science And Physics Meet, by Rupert Sheldrake] which is a conversation between a theologist and a scientist. It got us thinking about why people need to believe in a protecting presence – where does that come from? It inspired a lot of the album’s artwork and theme, and even a few of the songs.”

Which side of the fence do you fall on Cristina? Are you team science or team theology?

“Science. 100%. Actually, let’s call it 80%. I still understand the spiritual part and I do hope there is something in us that lasts. I want to believe my loved ones are still around me in the form of energy, but I don’t have any proof. That stops me from blindly believing. Obviously Italy is a very religious country. We have the Pope. But while I grew up going to church – my parents were believers – I never did believe. I used to just be confused why I had to go to church every week. I didn’t understand why people didn’t behave like they said they did in church. I always thought it was more important to be a good human being, to be a respectful human being, without any fear of God attached to it.”

Before we part ways, I just wanted to say that my assessment of ‘Black Anima’ after living with it for a while, is this is absolutely a record made by a woman who is living with an unbelievable amount of pain…

“In parts, absolutely. There is a realisation throughout this record that it is sometimes okay to not be okay. I don’t think darkness is wholly negative. We learn who we are in darkness. Sadness is a huge part of life. It’s okay not to be happy. I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m always trying to look for the light in the darkness, but it’s okay to live within the darkness for a bit too. I think when you embrace all the shades of life you can live a happier life than if you deny any of it.”

On a scale of one to ten – ten being very happy, one being very sad – where do you think Cristina Scabbia ranks right now?

“I think I’m on an eight. I’ve been down, but I’m here.”

[everlarkficexchange]

Unmasked ~ Six

Written by: ~ M ~

Prompt #88

Rating: E (Explicit) This fic will contain consensual sexual content; mild language; discussions of injuries, illness, and amputations in a historical setting; discussions of miscarriage; discussions of minor character suicide; references to non consensual sexual situations.

My thanks to the moderators of @everlarkficexchange for always running an entertaining event, and for playing along with a little fun and mystery. Please enjoy the sixth chapter of this adventure. Previous installments can be found here. Regards,

~ M ~

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

~~ Chapter 6 ~~

If I found some of the townhomes and wealthy mansions we have visited in the past month gaudy, the Capitol estate of the Duke and Duchess of Cashmere qualifies as obscene. Not even located in the city itself, it takes near an hour simply to reach it. When we do, I have to remind myself not to gawk.

The lane, lit with a long queue of torches, seems to extend past the horizon. They pass the carriage windows in streaks of orange and short bursts of heat before we reach the next. The wheels churn on the rocks and I contort myself to see the house without leaning out the window. It rises up into the evening sky, more palace than house, set against magnificent hues of pink, red, vibrant orange, purple, and deep blue.

“It’s beautiful,” Madge breathes, having leaned across my body to peer out the window as well.

“Of course it is. Cashmere would not settle for anything less than spectacular and the Good Lord Himself wouldn’t dare provide less than a spectacular sunset to grace her affairs,” Effie announces and Haymitch grunts from beneath his tipped forward hat. He hasn’t moved since we left, making me wonder if perhaps he were napping, but his response suggests that he is wide awake. Effie catches on to this and swats his arm with her fan. “Haymitch! It is a masquerade. Put on your mask!”

Madge leans back in her seat and smiles at me, adjusting her own mask, which is already perfect anyways. The carriage jostles slightly and the loud clacking of hooves followed by the bone jarring rattling alerts us that we have reached stone. The house embraces us, a giant U shaped around a cobblestone courtyard. Almost every window shines, ablaze. I cannot imagine the expense of candles to light this place.

We have time to wait, already a long queue of arriving carriages has formed. When it is our turn, a footman in dark blue livery opens the door, and bows low enough for us to see the purple bow tying back his long hair before assisting all of us from the carriage. Haymitch leads us up the stairs, Madge laces her arm with mine and we clasp hands. I can tell from the way she looks around as I am that even she has never seen such wealth.

I scramble with mental hierarchy to figure out where Lord Mellark, Marquis de Vale would be placed in wealth and privilege, somewhere between a duke and an earl, I believe. Such things were unimportant to my parents since we had so few out of the area visitors to Everdeen, let alone anyone with a title besides Madge’s family. Unlike most young girls my age, I did not have a ranking list of the peerage drilled into my brain. My parents never cared and therefore neither did I. Effie has given me at least half a dozen lectures on it, yet all I can now remember is a vague buzzing noise in my brain, like a persistent fly. Now it seems a disadvantage that I did not pay closer attention.

If I am right in my guess at rankings, that means Sir Robert is used to more wealth and fine things than Madge, although perhaps not this much. I hope not, at least. As we climb a grand set of stairs lined with more torches, it is yet one more reminder of all the things I do not know about Sir Robert or the sort of life I will lead as his wife. I formed plans for Everdeen and failed to consider that, if Sir Robert is expected to present himself and act as though he is first in line for the title, as his wife, I will be expected to act as a future Marchioness. I have no idea how to behave around such wealth and nobility.

Once, I overturned a  log deep in the woods, uncovering a writhing pile of worms. At the time, I had been happy to see them, signs of growth and the vitality of nature in the soil. Now I feel as though they have taken residence in my stomach and they are most unwanted.

What have I done? I’ve engaged myself to a stranger. I panicked when I agreed to his proposal, afraid that if I rejected him, another such proposal might never come my way. I do not have time to seek out another unless I decide to forsake Everdeen to the control of our steward, sever my thoughts and care from my home and her people. No, I cannot do that, not while my father still breathes and the responsibility for the land and people rests with my family. I must repair the damage done in my impulsive reaction and learn exactly who my betrothed is, ensure that I will not be expected to neglect Everdeen simply because I choose to paste the name Mellark over the one I was born with.

Now, I tell myself not to panic as Effie jabs her fan into my side, prompting me to stand straight as Haymitch hands over our invitation to a gentleman in a uniform that matches the footman’s only with more braiding on the jacket, and we are announced. Announced at a masquerade, how ridiculous. Tis no wonder everyone knows who everyone else is here.

We glide regally down another set of stairs into a wide, marble and gilded foyer. The ceiling soars up to a magnificent painted ceiling. We descend down to a cloud grey marble floor and are almost immediately swallowed into the crowd.

“Now girls,” Effie snares my hand and reminds us one more time. “If we are separated, you two stay together. We will meet here at the end of the evening.”

And then we are separated, the crowd deftly dividing us into pairs as I cling to Madge and we are swept along.

“Shall we find the food or Sir Robert first?” Madge asks.

“A drink!” I gasp as a hand caresses over my backside and I jump forward. I whirl around to yell at the man who accosted me only to find no one I can easily accuse. Whoever touched me has already disappeared into the crowd. So then that is what Madge meant about inhibitions being discarded or forgotten. “Something to drink.”

We search for the refreshments and finally find them, gulping down a clear, fizzy wine. We ogle the spread of treats to eat and decide on a few we will need to try later. There are so many beautiful gowns around us, and we spend some time admiring several. Whispers seem to follow us and I wonder at their cause until I ask and Madge pulls me towards the dancefloor as we hear the orchestra tuning their instruments.

“It’s your gown. They are all wondering who you are and talking about your gown, Katniss. No one will be able to forget you tonight.”

“We were announced.”

“No one paid attention to that,” she waves it off as insignificant.

I glance down at my gown, searching for a reason it might attract attention. Perhaps the tones of the dress are darker than the pale colours that seem to be the fashion. I am not the only one here dressed in dark shades; however, I am the only one wearing a single sleeve. The silver painted designs curling over my bare arm adds a touch of almost scandal. I’ve never had so much skin on display and suddenly feel quite out of sorts. Apparently I am doomed to continue making poor decisions this week. I take another drink of the wine and let the bubbles carry away some of my thoughts.

We stand on our toes as couples line up for the first dance, eyes scanning the crowds for a familiar profile or gleaming blonde curls.

“I do not see him,” Madge says, confusion in her voice.

“Nor I.” The worms have discovered a feast in my stomach as the music begins and with a few cheers, so does the dancing. The Duchess wisely chose to begin the evening with a lively tune and while it appears to be a great deal of fun, my promised partner is absent.

“He must be here somewhere,” Madge insists, with a squeeze of my hand. “We will wait near the floor and he will find us. That is why you sent him the note describing your mask and gown.”

Halfway through the first dance, we’re approached by a gentleman in a blue and silver mask, dark copper toned hair and sea green eyes. He asks for the next dance and I refuse, insisting that it is already spoken for. Another man asks Madge for a dance and she refuses as well.

“You should dance,” I tell her once we have reached the third with several more invitations to dance and still no sign of Sir Robert.

“I won’t leave you alone.”

When the first gentleman returns during the fourth dance to request Madge partner him for the next song, however, we have run out of excuses. “Surely you are not still going to claim you are spoken for? You have not moved a step!”

Madge accepts his invitation with a concerned glance back at me and I motion for her to go and to have fun. As soon as her attention is claimed by the dance, I allow my smile to vanish. I glance up towards the grand staircase and see several late guests wander in, although the servant who announced guests at the start appears to have ceased his duties.

That is it, I tell myself with a confident nod. Sir Robert is late, as usual, and I have missed his arrival or perhaps he has not yet arrived at all. I need only wait a few more songs.

After the fifth, the orchestra takes a short break. Madge returns and we test a few of the treats, although we do not linger for long. The crowd is near impossible to navigate and I am concerned that Sir Robert will not be able to find me at all.

Another set and I am tired of the whispers following me, of being asked to dance by several gentlemen but not the one I want. Madge is claimed for dance after dance, and I cannot seem to find my family. It is more humiliating than being stuck in the mud and needing Peeta’s assistance. I turn back to the tables of food for solace, then away when I see how crowded they’ve grown. Just as the orchestra begins the third set of dances, I spot him.

A head of blonde hair standing perfectly still in the sea of people moving around him. He calmly surveys the dancers, as though looking for someone. I do not know how he managed on such short notice, but his attire matches mine. Dressed in a dark grey coat and vest, ivory trousers, shirt and cravat. His mask, painted deep hues of red much like the ones adorning my mask, covers almost the entirety of the left side of his face, but only down to the cheekbone on the right. The asymmetry mimics my dress and I wonder if he somehow planned that. Did Effie or Cinna speak to him in advance? I shake my head, gather my ire and my skirts, and charge towards him. Effie insisted I bring the matching lace fan Cinna made for this gown and now I am happy to have it as I wield it as a weapon of irritation.

Thwack! Into his chest. His head snaps to look down at me. I do not even attempt to disguise my annoyance.

“You are horribly late.”

He releases a soft puff of laughter, his smile fleeting but warm. He then sobers, taking my hand holding the fan in his and bowing low over it, the motion slow and deliberate.

“A thousand apologies for keeping you waiting, Miss Everdeen. There was a bit more traffic than I expected to encounter.”

“Will you be late to your own wedding then? Your funeral?”

“Hopefully not the first, and could you fault me for the latter?”

I laugh a little at this. His dry tone is not one I am used to him using. I rather like it on him. Laughter makes forgiveness easier, but not assured.

“You owe me a dance, sir. Perhaps several for keeping me waiting so long.”

“Ah…the floor looks quite crowded. Perhaps later?” I ignore disappointment as he gestures back towards the food tables. “A refreshment instead? It is quite warm in here.”

He extends his arm and I take it, settling into a careful walk through the crowds. It takes some time, avoiding merry people and those who have already managed to imbibe a little too much. Sir Robert speaks not a word, not even when he steps back, fingers lightly grasping my elbow to maneuver through tight spots with me in the lead. His fingers swipe gently over my bare skin and then are gone, once more replaced with his arm, just in time to steady me as I have to halt abruptly for a passing lady too preoccupied with her dessert to notice us.

I catch Madge’s eyes then and her mouth rounds out for a second then turns to a smile as she spots my companion. She waves once, with excitement before the gentleman she is with steps between us and claims her attention again. She laughs at whatever he says, her cheeks pinkening. I am happy to see my friend enjoying herself and glance up at the man beside me, hopeful once more that the evening will be fruitful for me as well.

He secures two glasses for us and hands me one with another slight bow.

“I am glad you are here, if a trifle late,” I say, uncertain how to breach the silence.

“As am I.” He leans close then to whisper in my ear. “In truth I am surprised you bothered to wait. Half the gentlemen here are mesmerised by you and those who are not are clearly foxed.”

“And which half are you?” I ask, warmth blooming in my chest at the compliment.

“I’ve not had anything to drink yet,” he murmurs. My pulse flutters madly at his words and the heat of his breath on my ear. “I am thankful no one ran off with you before I could make it here.”

I have to shake my head to free my senses of the thrill, and hide my smile behind my wine. “Flattery will not save you from my annoyance. I still expect that dance.”

“Normally I would dance, except I become clumsy after the reel.”

“You’ve not even danced one, how could you become clumsy?”

“It is a rare talent and requires a great deal of practice.”

Once more, I find myself laughing. Relieved and wondering if perhaps I should talk him into wearing a mask and banishing his brother for the next few months if this open and witty man is who he truly is when unguarded. Peculiar that society’s masks hide more of our true selves than a physical mask.

I have so many questions, but before I can even ask one, his gaze is drawn away from me to a girl with lustrous red hair. She can be no more than sixteen, the same age as Prim, and hides on the fringes of the crowd. She holds her lips tight together and glances about the room. She produces a small mirror from the pockets of her gown and releases her lips. They are stained bright red and she gasps, tears trickle down her face from behind her mask. She grabs a glass of wine off the table near her and moves to drink, licking her lips. When she once more checks her face and nothing has changed, I understand her dilemma and move towards her.

Shielding her body from view of the crowds, I take the wine from her. “What happened, darling?”

“The punch! The red punch! My mother is going to be furious!” Panic makes her talkative as she spills half her life story. “She says my red hair is a mark against me. That only ladies of a certain nature have red hair or red lips. And now I’ve both! It is my first ball!”

“Hush. It will be alright. We shall find your mother and explain.”

“That won’t work!” She wails and it is then that I notice her teeth are stained as well. Sir Robert excuses himself. I send an annoyed glance his way before focusing on the torrent of words spilling from the poor girl’s mouth. She hardly takes a breath, leaving me no room to comfort her as she babbles on about all the ways she has already disappointed her dear mother. I have half a mind to find the woman and lecture her in the hall. “She told me not to drink the red punch. I might spill it and stain my dress and…and–”

“Here.” His hand brushes my arm and I glance down to see a glass of the red punch. My hands move to accept it of their own volition. When my eyes jump up to his face, he’s already drinking from his own glass.

“Sir! No!” The girl cries and he smacks his lips in satisfaction.

“That is quite delicious. Hm, and now we shall start a new trend.” He turns away from us and speaks to the closest passer by. “Good sir! You must try the red punch!”

He begins to tell everyone who will listen that they must try the punch, or that the wine appears to be running thin but there is still the excellent red punch, any number of extortions given with smiles and a joke or two, his mouth not yet stained enough to reveal the danger in drinking it to everyone he encourages.

The girl gasps as several people begin to brave the red punch. Glasses are fetched for ladies who await refreshment. Matrons hand them to their young charges.

“Miss Everdeen,” he lifts his glass to mine and a wide smile spreads across my face before I take a healthy swallow as he does the same. In an astonishingly short amount of time, half the guests have red stained mouths and our new friend has a dance partner with lips that now match hers and who pulls her towards the floor with a smile on her face.

We watch her for a moment and I feel an odd sort of pride as she says something that has her partner laughing before he twirls her. I glance up at the man beside me, astonished at his handling of the situation. It was not the behavior I would expect of the shallow fop concerned mainly with his dress, the latest gossip, or the status of his stables that I thought myself engaged to. It hints at someone with more substance, more care for the people he shares this world with, and even in our current silence, I feel more comfortable with him than ever before.

“May I ask you something?”

“Anything,” he says.

“I know so little about you.” His eyes meet mine and for one second, I am the one mesmerised. His eyes seem a deep blue in the shadows created by the mask. Dark and wonderful.

“We are wearing masks. You are not meant to know a thing about me.”

“I think I might like to change that. Do you know of a place in this monstrous palace where we might talk easier?”

He seems to hesitate then looks over the crowd for a moment. Setting both our glasses aside, he takes my hand in his and leads me through the crowd. Once again it is slow going. For one moment, I think he is perhaps leading me towards the gardens, a veritable den of wickedness and sin at these balls, if Aunt Effie is to be believed. He has misconstrued my intentions!

I begin to panic as I realise that yes, I had planned on kissing him tonight, but now that I am faced with the possibility, I am mortified. Or perhaps terrified. I do not know what I am thinking except that I wish to talk more and then decide if I even want to kiss him. That is the courtship I should have pursued, I realise now. Oh how my father would be disappointed in my headstrong, stubborn pursuit of matrimony first and trust later.

Sir Robert turns away from the doors leading out to the gardens and instead leads me through a tall arched doorway and into a long hall that seems to span an entire arm of the house. Tapers line the walls on both sides and windows framed in heavy drapes show the black night outside. A handful of guests wander up and down the checkered floor. Within a few steps, the noise from the ball lowers considerably. Only the sounds of shoes on marble and whispered conversations, a sprinkling of laughter float on the air.

“Oh,” I breathe in relief. This is perfect. It is quiet enough that we might converse, empty enough that we shan’t be overheard, but contains enough witnesses that a wise person would not try anything untoward. He slows his step and I notice that one foot seems to drag a little. “Did you injure yourself?”

“Nothing serious,” he explains and then releases my hand, setting me free to walk.

“But perhaps aggravated by dancing. You could have simply said that instead of making excuses,” I say with a smile and he seems to be examining me. “I was beginning to think you did not want to dance with me at all.”

“I would dance a hundred dances with a broken leg were that the only way to make you happy.” I laugh nervously at his flattery, although this is closer to the Robert I am familiar with. How horrid. To have a husband who flatters and compliments at every turn. But will he flatter and flirt with every other lovely lady of his acquaintance? Or me and me alone?

The question disturbs me as his blue eyes follow me down the hall, his footsteps slow and steady behind me. Deliberate and methodical.

“What is this room, then?”

“Portrait gallery,” he explains as we reach the first painting and I make a noise of understanding. “I believe the last time I was forced to sit in conversation with the Duke, he explained that these span… thirteen generations?”

“Thirteen?” I ask, glancing back at him with a quirk of my lips.

“I am guessing. I honestly don’t remember what he said.” Another laugh rises in my chest and bursts free. He gifts me with a sweet smile.

“Perhaps we should try to count then.” I turn back to the portrait and he stands next to me. Shoulder to shoulder as we examine the face of a long dead ancestor. At least, I am guessing he is dead, based on the ruffled collar he wears.

“Do you think anyone choked wearing those?” The laugh that rings down the gallery is his this time. On an impulse, I grasp his hand and drag him to the next. This one is of a couple and I find myself mimicking her pose.

“I think you have all the makings of a duchess,” he says. “Or perhaps not. There is too much laughter in your eyes.” I glance at the serious woman in the portrait and then back at him, his quirked smile. I attempt to keep my entire face somber and only earn a slowly widening, red stained smile until he laughs, shaking his head and unable to believe my act as I too laugh. Odd that I have never noticed his smile as being lopsided. I am learning all sorts of new things about my fiancé tonight.

We wander the gallery, commenting on the stern faces depicted in each portrait. He turns it into a game of sorts, concocting stories about the inhabitants of canvas, forever frozen. Most of them are silly and ridiculous and have me laughing until I can hardly breathe. Then we reach a set that dampens the mood and yet reveals so much.

“This poor lady was told to appear more cheerful and cannot.”

“Why not?”

“Her husband brought home another hunting trophy to clutter up her drawing room.” He points to the portrait immediately to the right, a stern looking man standing triumphant over a dead tiger.

“The poor creature. Why would you kill such a magnificent animal?”

“I was led to believe that you hunt,” he says and I lift one shoulder to convey a sort of indifference.

“If there is a use for the animal. A stag provides a bounty of meat, skin to be turned into leather for shoes or tack, antlers carved into tools such as needles and more. But this…have you ever eaten a tiger steak?”

“I cannot say that I have.”

“Perhaps if one were desperate or close to starving, but this man is garbed in gold buckles on his shoes and the finest velvet coat. It is needless and cruel to kill such a creature simply as a trophy. All that accomplishes is to satisfy your vanity.”

The look he gives me stirs something deep within. I feel as though we have somehow charged the air with our conversation and if one of us so much as speaks, the entire place with erupt. He leans towards me for a moment and then steps abruptly towards the next portrait and I wonder if he was about to kiss me in the middle of the portrait gallery. But why? And then… Why didn’t he?

After that, we continue our game with a touch less levity, although in between portraits we answer superficial questions.

“What is your favourite colour?”

“I am appalled by your question and shall fetch my Uncle at once to defend my honour,” I protest lifting my nose and turning from him with a smile still on my lips, earning a warm chuckle from him.

“I doubt that you need his help. Perhaps if I tell you mine?”

“Green,” I say, not really wanting to put up too much of a fight and flattered by his comment on my independence.

“Green?”

“Yes.”

“I imagine for your countryside that you love so much.”

“And my forests. I need trees as much as I need air to breathe.”

“Which explains why you are so fond of riding in the park, the only real source of abundant trees in the city. There are trees in the gardens here, I believe,” he suggests and I pause. He seems to realise my hesitation and alters course. “Orange. My favourite colour is orange.”

“The fruit?”

“No, not quite that bright. A shade of orange that you might find in a sunset.”

“Similar to tonight’s,” I whisper, seeing that beautiful panorama from tonight again and feeling my heart speed at the sudden idea of pausing in evenings to watch the sunset over green hills with him.

“Exactly like tonight’s.”

“Unorthodox, but I like it. We have this wildflower at Everdeen that blooms in the spring. I missed it this year, with our haste to reach the city and… anyways I think you might favour the shade.”

“Might I?” his fingers brush mine and I shiver, disappointed when he withdraws his touch. “Tell me more about your home?”

I lose myself telling him all about the hills and the forests, my time as a girl, my father, Primrose and mother with their healing hands and welcoming hearts. The families who rely on us, the faded golden and green and purple hues of the harvest. I am astonished at how he listens, asking all manner of questions at exactly the right time. I talk and talk until I am sure that he must be bored with me and then realise that we have traversed the entire length of the gallery back again, to the doorway where we began.

“It sounds lovely. I hope for the chance to see it one day.”

“You shall,” I promise with a smile and he seems to fidget nervously for a moment.

“Miss Everdeen,” he begins and then stalls for a moment, as though gathering his thoughts before he continues. “There is something I should confess to you.”

A strong breeze curls in through the doors to the gardens, setting the thin gauzy curtains to dance. It distracts me and I catch the scent of the flora, the cool night air. The music beckons, and yet as much as I want to dance with him, the pull of the gardens is stronger.

“Not in here,” I insist and take his hand, leading him outside and into the night.

His steps falter and I hasten, hoping that we will not be seen and that I will not regret this decision. I have spent unending hours with him for the past week, always with someone else present, and now that I have him to myself, I am discovering that he is an excellent listener, kind and thoughtful. He possesses a wicked sense of humor, steady and calm but with an unexpected heat in his blue eyes. I am curious to see that heat unleashed, yes, but beyond that, tonight is the first I have felt that perhaps I could build a life with this man. Only a few questions remain. Can he reveal himself to me as I have to him? Will he be repulsed by the last remaining secrets I hold? And if he kisses me, will I feel nothing at all or will I find the rapture Madge spoke of?

As we reach an orchard, the boughs of the trees hide us from the night and I inhale a deep breath, releasing it in a content sigh. “Now it is your turn. Tell me of your home.”

“Ah, that may prove difficult.”

“Because there are so many?” I tease and he shakes his head.

“Not quite.”

“Then tell me of your family. Start with your brothers. You once said there were several of you and yet I only know of the one.”

“Alright. Simple enough. There is Ethan, the heir, oldest and most responsible, obviously in line for the title.”

“Obviously,” I tease and he smiles.

“He is married to a lovely lady of irreproachable breeding and education named Sara. Sara prefers eating between meals and sneaks treats of all kinds to everyone she cares about whenever she is eating out of the routine and yet, she has never once been caught doing so. None of us wish to see her in trouble nor the end of the treats. She is also an excellent card player. Never wager against her, always partner with her.”

I laugh at this image of a doting woman handing out sweets and fleecing her family and acquaintances of their funds with an angelic smile, married to a stiff man of impeccable manners.

“They have five children, one son and four daughters, and the rest of us are constantly reminded how far behind we are.”

I blush at this, thinking in that moment of him playing on the floor with a small gathering of children, dark and light hair mixed together and laughter on the air.

“Then there is Henry, the spare, and also a scholar. He prefers the company of books to people. You will be lucky to get more than five words out of him unless it is to discuss the latest treatise on the ancient philosophers or the newest development in astronomy. His wife is named Angelica and she is…well the Marquis prefers to pretend she does not even exist.”

“Why not?” I ask, oddly defensive on this Angelica’s behalf.

“Because she is a professor of science, although no one beyond our family knows it is her. She conducts her classes via correspondence and a series of guest lecturers. In truth her real work is in the laboratory and in writing about her discoveries. You cannot tell anyone of this, Miss Everdeen.”

“Because it would ruin your family’s reputation to have a woman professor of science?”

“No,” he says and stops walking. “That is why the Marquis would wish for your silence, but not I. I ask for it because were she to be found out, she would no longer be allowed to continue her work.”

“You trust me with this?” I ask and he nods.

“Somehow I cannot see you doing anything that might jeopardize a woman moving through a man’s world.”

“You have figured me out,” I say and continue walking to avoid the odd tears gathering in my eyes. That he would trust me with such a secret, almost as though he already sees me as part of the family.

“Not yet, but I do feel as though we have made some progress tonight.”

“So then do Henry and Angelica have any children?” I ask, ignoring the happy flutter his words cause, knowing that we both entered this evening with similar goals.

“They adopted one child, a girl named Emma who had been abandoned near the Marquis’ estates.”

“And your father does not approve.”

“Hardly. But he approves of very little.”

“Would he approve of me?” I ask and hold my breath.

“Likely not,” he whispers. I shiver in delight as one finger traces the designs up my arm, starting from my wrist. He stops at the elbow and withdraws his touch. “I apologize, Miss Everdeen. I should not be so bold.”

Again I feel a pull towards him, like in the portrait gallery. His father would not approve and yet he does not care. An urge to move closer nearly overpowers me and I divert once more. There is more I wish to know before I lose all sense and kiss him.

“So then after Henry is you.”

“Yes,” he still whispers. “If a second son is a spare, you can imagine how superfluous a third or fourth son are.”

“And what profession would you choose to make your way in the world? Your twin, as you call him, has already covered the military.”

This seems to surprise him and he moves away from me, coughs slightly to clear his throat. “Yes, Peeta does have that one covered. Perhaps the church.”

“Somehow I cannot see that,” I say and he laughs. “Your father then has steep expectations of all of you.”

“One could say that. He is not…not a warm or affectionate man. He is kinder to his children than most other people in the world, at least.”

“And what of your mother?”

“That is…let us not delve into that tonight.”

“Very well,” I concede, curious but not willing to push too far. “There is yet one brother we have not covered.”

“You really wish to know?” he asks with a strange bite in his tone, almost defensive and stronger than it was when he spoke of his sister, Angelica.

“You seem close to each other. I wish to know of the important people in your life, even if he was born on the wrong side of the blanket.” Even from behind the mask, I can see his eyes darken and narrow.

“The simple version of it is that he came to live with us when he was eleven. Before that, there were no real connections with him.” This surprises me and I know it shows on my face. “We were born on the same day, two years apart, Peeta is technically the older, although most people refer to him as the fourth son, the same man fathered us, and the Marchioness despises Peeta’s presence in the world and in her house. The only reason she tolerates him at all is because it is rather impossible to deny the blood connection given the physical similarities and because her husband ordered her to do so. Anything else, Miss Everdeen?”

“I do not mean to offend,” I gasp out, uncertain how this changed so quickly. I have never seen Sir Robert angry or indignant about anything. He seems to float through life for the most part, and for one moment, I think that now I truly see the brotherly similarities, right before he seems to wilt and shakes his head.

“No, it is I who should apologize. You are asking out of a desire to know more of the family, not to malign, are you not?”

“I am.” I swallow and think of what Madge said, about how Peeta protects Robert the way that I protect Prim. This new information, this detail about Peeta being older than Robert sheds new light on their relationship. I can envision a young Peeta being ushered into a school room and ordered to conform to the expectations of the son of a marquis, being held responsible for his younger and more privileged but also more gregarious younger brother. Sir Robert perhaps providing levity and fun while Peeta provided the steady seriousness required of them. I can picture him providing a solid buffer between Sir Robert and trouble, protecting him and plucking him from sticky situations. Protecting him from fortune hunting ladies who might take advantage and break his heart.

The image causes unwanted sensations and a phantom touch that graces my legs along with a deep whisper in my ear and I turn away for a moment to regain my bearings.

“Miss Everdeen?”

“I should apologize as well. He is your brother. And if your relationship with him is anything like mine is with my sister…then you would do anything to protect him, and he you.”

“I would,” he says, and it sounds so much like a vow that I smile. We understand each other then. And now we arrive at the real test.

“Then I have one more thing to confess to you and then I expect that dance.” He moves to stand behind me, keeping enough space that we do not touch, yet close enough that I can feel the atoms of the air moving between us, around us. I feel the space as a tangible thing and close my eyes as I speak. I whisper to keep the air around us from igniting.

“I am…marked, sir.”

“Marked? How so?”

“By fire. I was…very young. Fifteen. My sister had a cat that was meant to stay in the barn and catch mice. He was an excellent mouser. We dubbed him the defendender of the lambs and pigs.”

He laughs at this and I feel my heart lightening a little. Enough to tell him the rest.

“She turned him into her pet and would bring him inside in secret, whenever it stormed. When my parents were gone for several weeks, we stayed with our neighbors. Their daughter is still my closest friend and we would often pretend we were sisters ourselves.” I swallow and his fingers find mine, tracing between them then up over the back of my hand, the touch so intimate and comforting. With his touch, I find the courage to continue. “My sister smuggled the cat to the manor with her. While we were there, my friend…her father had recently suffered a severe reverse in his fortunes. He told no one and sealed a marriage contract for my friend to a complete stranger.” I pause to breathe and cannot seem to continue.

“The Countess?”

“Madge, yes,” I say and feel his head bend towards mine. The delicate touch of his forehead to my crown and the whisper of breath over my scalp.

“He…he took his own life and Madge was devastated. She vanished somewhere into the estate and no one could find her. I knew where she was hiding yet told no one, thinking she needed some time to herself to grieve. My sister thought differently and sought her out. That evening, a fire started. No one quite knows how, although Lady Undersee was quite ill before her husband died. She often complained of headaches and Madge always preferred spending time at our home. We were…not required to be quiet at Everdeen. Lord Undersee’s death seemed to break his wife and she secluded herself. Many suspect her mind simply gave up that night and…”

“And the fire grew out of control before anyone knew what had happened?”

I nod and his hold on my hand tightens, draws me in closer as he turns me to face him. I stare at his chest as I continue. “I made it outside, as did the servants. But my sister and Madge. They were still inside. So I went in after them. I found Madge first, since I knew where to find her. She told me that Prim had wandered off, chasing the cat who had been terrified by the flames. We searched for Prim but, a beam fell, separating me from Madge. I told her to make her way outside, eventually found my sister and the cursed cat. I broke a window to escape and the air… it fed the flames. My dressing gown caught without me knowing. We made it out, all of us, barely and…” I cannot finish and blink to keep my tears in my eyes. A mask will not afford me privacy from tears. A gentle touch slides beneath my chin and lifts my head. I dare not look at him, afraid of what I shall see in his eyes.

“You saved your sister, and your friend.”

“And was left marked. Disfigured. The doctors remarked how it was a blessing that the flames never touched my face and yet… My parents chose not to set me loose on society and instead kept me in the country, fearing that the world would turn away from me in disgust if they learned of my scars. Worst of all, my friend lost both her parents that week. Had we not needed to find my sister and that daft cat, perhaps we could have saved Madge’s mother instead.”

“Perhaps. But I doubt that, if what you say about her grief is true. What you did was incredibly brave and selfless, regardless of who you saved and who you could not save.”

“Incredibly stupid,” I contradict and finally look up at him to find a deep blue well of sadness staring down at me. He shakes his head slightly.

“The two are so often intertwined it is impossible to tell them apart. You risked your life for another and should not feel shame at the marks left on your body. It is nothing more than flesh. What is in your heart is far more important.”

That same organ speeds up at his words as his gaze shifts to my shoulder, the one covered in fabric. He tilts his head and smiles softly.

“This shoulder. The scars are on this shoulder, are they not? That is the reason for your unique gown design.”

“Yes,” I whisper as he releases my chin to trace the edge of the fabric. Heat burns through me to such a degree that I fear more scarring and yet do not want to turn back. He has revealed so much of his true nature from behind the safety of the mask tonight. It only seems fair I show him mine.

“May I?” he whispers and I nod once. He will see them eventually, after all. What difference does it make if it is tonight or our wedding night? There is a small part of me that braces for his disgust, despite his gentle words.

Slowly, he peels back the fabric, revealing my damaged skin. I shiver and take deep breaths that turn to soft gasps as his lips touch me. Soft. Warm. Gentle, and dare I say it? Loving. Sensations radiate through me, and my knees quake. He kisses over my scars, then back up to my neck. “I should stop.”

“No, please,” I gasp and let go his hand to grab hold of his sleeves. The world pitches and tilts as he kisses beneath my ear and groans.

“Katniss.”

I smile and shudder beneath his kisses. It is the first time he has spoken my name and I sound beautiful and cherished on his tongue. I can easily imagine a lifetime of hearing my name whispered thus in the night. He knows me now and it thrills me beyond measure as his hand slides up my bodice to cradle my face and his kisses trail over my jaw in a slow burn towards my lips, even as his other hand soothes the memory of burns and pain in gentle strokes over ravaged skin.

“I wish you had never had to feel such agony. Never been called upon to be so brave so young.”

I tilt my head as though on instinct, heart pounding as his clean scent fills my head and the warmth of his lips tempts me deeper into this tryst. And I need to know. I wish that I could do it. Wed and bed with no feeling. Keep my marriage to business and contracts. Practical and cold, but I cannot. I need to know there will be some comfort, some connection at least if not love. His hand squeezes my shoulder and his lips swerve over my cheek, back towards my ear where he almost nibbles, taunting me.

“Never allow anyone to lead you to believe that you…” his kisses return towards my mouth just to the corner as I pant and cling to him, wishing for something I cannot name, afraid of wanting it so deeply. “…are anything less than exquisite.”

He breathes the words between my parted lips and still does not kiss them. I smile and shake my head, his hold on me gentle enough to allow the motion with ease.

“Such pretty words, but do you mean them?”

“Their beauty lies in their truth.”

It takes great effort to open my eyes and look into his. I can only stand it for a second before I pitch upwards and kiss him on his red stained lips. For one second he turns rigid as a statue, his grip on my shoulder tight and almost painful now. What did he expect with all the words and touches we have already shared tonight? I thought he wanted this as well and retreat, immediately humiliated and shamed. Perhaps it was a terrible kiss. It is my first, after all. Perhaps like riding a horse, kissing is a skill that takes practice. Or perhaps he truly is scandalised by my boldness. Tears prick at me but his hold is iron and I cannot escape, though I admit my attempts are feeble.

“Forgive me,” he moans and then his hand slides into my hair, his arm wraps around me and his lips join with mine again, crushing my small sound of surprise between us. His lips caress over mine and the sound melts into a soft moan that echoes down to my toes. My arms wrap around his neck, my body pressed to his, seeking more of whatever this delicious feeling coursing through me is.

So then this is what they whisper about behind laundry tubs and changing screens. Silken whispers of desire and passion and fire. Kisses that brand and claim and leave you wanting for more. He is everything in this moment. Everything that I want and need and crave. Bodily temptation and sustenance for my starving soul. Rapture. I feel my spine arch, molding my body to his. His lips on mine, gently demanding an answer.

Yes! I want to scream. Yes! a thousand times over to the thundering of my heart in my breast.

Something wet traces my lips and I shiver in delight, hands grasping bunches of fabric when he lifts his head to whisper to me.

“Open your mouth. Please, my pearl, open your mouth and let me taste you.” My lips part on a deep breath, a little stunned at the tendril of desperation in his tone and the salacious suggestion. His thumb traces my lower lip, tugging it down for a second. “Exquisite.”

And then I’ve no room for thinking. His lips drink every breath or word I might exhale. His tongue learns the shape of my lips. He swallows my stunned desperate gasp and then his tongue is in my mouth, hot and giving and greedy all at once. Taking and demanding but somehow bestowing far more than he takes. My body sags against him, relieved and overwhelmed, made boneless at the feel of him exploring and tasting, at the invitation I feel in his kisses to reciprocate.

Let me taste you, he had said. I slide my hands into his hair and boldly swipe my tongue past his into his mouth. He grunts and then retreats, drawing me in deeper. Inviting me to take control. My head spins and I accept the invitation. Kissing him as deeply as he kissed me. His hot exhales burn from his nose over my cheeks and then…

He steps back, hands gripping my shoulders and holding me away from him. His breaths heavy in the fragrant night.

“No. We cannot.”

“Why not?” I ask, voice trembling as cracks open across my heart. Tonight, for the first time, I have felt close to and possibly as though I could love the man I am meant to marry. More so than any moment before this, and yet he wants to withdraw. “We are to be married soon, Robert, remember? Or did you not mean your proposal this morning? We will spend the rest of our lives together. Why is it wrong for me to wonder about this? To seek an answer?”

“What?” He shakes his head and releases me, stepping back out of my grasp, towards the shadows. Silence stretches between us as I watch his shoulders sag, as though defeated. “It is not wrong. Your curiosity and need for an answer is not wrong.” His voice trembles in a way I cannot identify. “Did you find your answer?”

“Yes. Did you?” I ask, reaching for my dress to pull the sleeve back in place. He reaches for me and then seems to think better of it, pulling his hand back as though burned.

“I did,” he says, although his voice cracks. He sounds miserable. “Katniss, please forgive me.”

That is the second time he has beseeched me thus. Before I can tell him that I do not understand why I need forgive him, he steps towards me and touching me with only his lips, kisses me one more time. Brief. Passionate. Desperate. And then over.

“Exquisite. The man who marries you is the most fortunate bastard in the world,” he whispers. “Never let him forget that.”

Then he disappears, leaving me burning and reeling and somehow giddy. One crazed laugh escapes my lips and I cover my mouth to contain it. To hold in the heat of his kisses for just a moment longer. I take another moment to secure my cowl, to set my dress and mask to rights, and then I march back into the mansion with a spring in my step. I catch one flash of blonde curls shimmering in the candle light as he departs the ball, bowing to the Duchess and saying something that makes her smile and laugh before he disappears into the night.

I hope that he will dream of me tonight and then scold myself for such fanciful thoughts. Ours is still a marriage of convenience. And yet, our time together, his kisses tonight suggest possibilities. Hope lifts me high into dreams of a future. Could I be so fortunate as to have stumbled my way into a love match?

I am still pondering it when I collapse in the carriage after the ball, keeping my face as stoic as possible while Effie prattles on with the gossip. Haymitch grunts at intervals, pretending to listen. Madge examines me from across the carriage and it takes all my efforts to not blush or burst into a fit of giggles under her examination, especially when I see that all three of my family members in the carriage wear red stains on their lips. I hold it together until we are changed for bed and the maids have left us alone. Then I cannot and when Madge arches one eyebrow at me, I collapse into bed and squeal into my pillow.

“Now you really have to explain yourself,” she says. I feel the weight of her joining me on the mattress and turn my head to smile, uncaring how ridiculous I look.

“He kissed me.”

“And?” she prompts when I say no more. A sigh escapes me unbidden and Madge smiles. “That good?”

“It was…exquisite,” I tell her and she shoves me.

“You little minx! Tell me more than that.” We talk late into the night, into the early morning hours as I share my secrets with her. She takes my hand in hers as we yawn and drift closer to sleep as the sun begins to peek over the horizon. “I am happy for you, Katniss. I wish you happiness and love together. Truly this venture turned out much better than I expected when we left Everdeen.”

“It truly has,” I say and squirm deeper into the covers for warmth. What will it be like to sleep beside my husband? I shall find out soon, although perhaps not soon enough. I think of the announcement no doubt waiting to be printed in the papers and of Father back home.

The thought dampens my good mood. I need to return. While I’ve been drinking punch, laughing over portraits, and kissing a man, my father suffers and my mother languishes. Such liberties I allowed him tonight! Here in my bed, shame overwhelms the joy I felt in his arms. I was not aware that one could kiss by caressing tongues until this evening and it seems such a brazen thing for me to have allowed him on our first kiss. Guilt follows, rising up inside me, swirling together with an unpleasant mixture of feelings in my breast. I have been selfish and now that I have accomplished what I set out to do, I must focus on my duties.

Perhaps Robert will agree to a hasty wedding and damn the gossips, or perhaps I should leave the wedding planning in Effie’s hands while I return home and see to some business as well as my family. Surely a long engagement cannot hurt.

I slip into slumber, resolved to speak to him about it tomorrow.

To be continued…