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libidomechanica · 2 years

Text

“But all, the grave the Wise to talk; one thing”

A ballad sequence

Stanza the First

A friend extremest fit I plung’d for life or breath. ” Then did feel needs must we too be dumb? A man well looking for the porphyry font: the fire ashes I cried my sex will be

little darling one wish would steer my skiff along green shelving coasts, to hear this world in secrets struck from all the woof; with every strife, until it spills …. Now, Don Alfonso, pommell’d

to his eyes; and force theyr furre. She married a rich old lord, and fans turn into hay: i’m martyr to a motion and mine eyes; he smil’d delectable, and one on the moon

is weaving, either side the most unluckily, Don Jose and their homely fare, my grief is where it was: but, when you overstrain yourself for love which I your fingertips

and heart serenely interpose: brood down with causefull teares, that when the grave to freeze with a glass; burning field, into each other laws: a kindlier influence reigned; and

brother John and I. With sun and moonlit deep the Courtly Nymphes of Mulla which was bright. What else—it is perfect face; therefore I shall be transfixed! My harmes in inks poor losse.

I leave you to your conscious of its love, and may he wear them with amorously the second drunken, and alien to the ending. Embracing, they appropriated

and polished metal, a lethal musket shot, a caravel staving it; but the end. The knights come riding two and went swifter the style of Virgins bene, to adorne her

beauty displayd, but of the wide home of thy capacious bosom ever flow. Into the hall eye-iudgements weake: the bodies I have spent my life, being made of him, he

was sold, his servants sent away. Name, no holy bower, but hardly seem stranger—seeming not the Knot of Human Death and birth then wake to bring thee, the grace of his pricked her

fingers with a hey, and a hey nonino, how the goddesse, do thou not mark a gleaming, and thine eyes, before the field supine:-so in that it should he speedeth. Any

comparison had with such vigour had pour’d from there is my goddesses came down. You are you? But if I weep and sigh, that on the parent is love must not lead the lift, that I

am cattle to feyne, and the long since left Tithones bed, and laid thee low. Much had shepheards sich, God mought there, or be alive again— again all hoar with time an unhappy

sort of explanation could not imitate the air, or let me alone. This was not that I was a perilous beast aboue all, and Southey’s every where, with an offering

… I burn the parted silks the tenor of thy loue to giue to me a ring, was a’ beset wi’ diamond bright beneath a sheltering spar, just within as pretty sake but whatsoe’er

these may fail or turn his verse to hers, and years hence it would be buxome and you were gone in tender’d the humble salve which in ravage the more to shame nor me nor your love

for love with wine, and thereunto at all; if Eve did erre, it was better, war! Could blaze like meteors and be lost in thee, and fro, distractions are my own—that if reveal’d

their shafts of disappointment stuck in a time he vsed to shake. The sun sank or for the future. But all, the grave the Wise to talk; one thing then grown up to man’s estate would some

why complete the same thanks one murmurs to a single pure and geniall bed remaine, with convuls’d clenches waving its hull against their Other sayne, but late would go on so?

Stanza the Second

Cast thee O fayrest Phoebus’ sake! To lengthen fetters by another little flushed, and leafy shaw, and keep your fancy

frae me. I only say suppose it—inter nos. When leaves and the far mountain-rivers lost, in the vineyard—yes!

Stanza the Third

Did he fling himself at bals-paré, i’ve married, the sencelesse yron dyd feare, or to wrong holy eld did for his

tuning here and you entreat me with deluging store of; witness of heauenly haueour, her princely giver, who in derring

doe were dreaded thereunto doe daunce euen? When she appears her streaming when I err a bit. To act to-morrow?

I think that any dangerous to a prudent spouse. Or music came to this new temptation with quick hand, the errant

note to seize, was but a moment, and maken a Mart of this; thou shalt find cupid well- nigh won into forgetful

utterly, draw near and drew on my soul invincible. Did not his folly. Those lonely as a tunnel. Thy

haplesse mischief’s done by the type of generation, I saw grow up from their forehead sank upon her heart’s desire,

swore lustily he’d be revenged this slipping under her olive, and I will keeping up the locks the harder

things, their rose on my name—lo, the vain promised then by much wrong! Of counsell can, so lustlesse bene principal,

and daub his Visage with great deale worse: for it threw up the Shell, but he that to vs wretched swindler’s lie?—So thank

your lakes for all the grosser parts; but, fearful steps pursuing hopes of high talk with your confounded escapade has

blighted the public, and expounder, and yet there’s no way. The fault of that dream; yet, if I name my guilty hand!

Stanza the Fourth

Sultán’s Turret in a Noose of Light. To his request: and eke my hot youth—when George the Third was King. And sudden journey.

Stanza the Fifth

The sports were lonely walks, and force him to one cadence, they wandering how she loved me—she and every wife. Another

an’ mother did if a football with those sharpe words, and yet, behold how hastily I dropped my flowring Wether

looke, at my request: and eke my hot youth—when George the Third was King. And coldly mark the holy place that better to

be particularly to begin joy was his song to them, the sparkling sudden she lies by her side of the

scorner’s jest! Their full meed of merit, and many a mysteree, and straight homeward to the starry sway has been and juicy

hay from human pastures; or, if not, I shall not cry out before—and so the way young girls are we; two of us

in the west shoots—Add this to thee; since in the Tavern shouted—Open then thro’ the room- door in a.—But for a

hundred-year sleep. Or is thy Bagpype broke, and drank deep: and Bahrám, that grows on the Throne. The buried which floats though wise

men at their lips Loues Standard beare: when these confine immured is the clay Population round enmesh me, and enter’d

strangled her. Have grown to deem, as a most logical conclusion, and barbarous Don Alfonso, how dare you

suspects in the very eyes or his? None answer’d like one huge Python antagonizing Boreas did entertain

the gentle shears cut short its immortall mirrhor, as he doth loath a lowly eye.—For no one like for desperate

doole to dye, through whom I knew, always, that I wont deuise, to feede youthes fancie, and the grey: a whispers breeding heart.

Stanza the Sixth

For these far majesties, ah, few! Him rested that I must spell out the hour that course which her heyre: for such, as of guile maken gayne, oft liues by losse, and yet a messages. Thou canst not vex me with your conscious heate, of Sommers flame, nor

theyr eccho ring. See, that several things to wound him standing amid a grassy median during rush hour. Its red rust downward went upon the grass was dimity, her even as the blue eyes without asking, whither, willy-

nilly blowing on thy face: o, let it go. I touch’d the Throne. Could you so and give them sing in chorus, cheek to cheek. Then did feel needs must we too into the mystic leaf his soul was a seal’d book to little patient cried—who is the

better, then tender’d the humble and carrol sweet, so ripe a judgment’s pleasure in the way, her, piano, and long since in the Forrest I did Cupid see and complimented in sweetness of flower’d Elysium. And then smart

and security’ will boast of Knowledge of matters did it treat of, and draw the affair with the Fantom of his fall; the lily all her hair was clustered round her shape and round his wife too great commandment is t they bred in and

out went the lie and then she heard no more were an useless as an egg. Glide, gentle into the other—at least thou been to tear his page with time faced the kingdom! And representative of all their pitiable bones. About his

golden beame vpon the graces can in another my desire of perfect face; the bosom with his victory. Ilk featured even if I knew, I should run through all the postes adorne as doth a flower that blow softly round your

eccho ring. The road runs by of studious zeal or love’s sweetest essence! As he rode, burning to become thy face, one on the blinding diamond gleaming thrown, I got the helpless delicate: they wont in stormes, his hair black and loved the

way, her, piano, and looking thee. And the hellish hound did tame. My dear, I was talking, but her, by the dark. Below the steuen, lowder had be better or worse than the dead seaman’s knead, and let loose, or one hip quiver with hints of

rotting me to come. Yon banks out- wrest; or curiously, and held her to gaze upon him for the fame you would explained the woman: he, that vngently conduct—which seals them hath been deep-ordain’d! And come, for that they will serve them sing: that

all the Harvest that you be the David or the other day—my heart thou art a Mower too. Yet prodigious mowing we did best! His trance, that may think which were become thy face or name; so in a shapeless flame angels affect us

oft, and Summer Month that Muse stirr’d to and from the grief at the Oppian Law. Poor Donna Julia’s lord, and almost an anomaly—one sad example, although the Seventh Gate I rose, and came so Who favours what is near.

Stanza the Seventh

It is this a time for giggling? So bury me by some tortuosity of my wretched picture, give it size—how

much old Time his feather, for silk will draw some sneaking songster thither. Of our isle, wash’d by the blasted Pine, to sit

a star upon the high way, but by my side my ministered by a mutual arms devout and the Serpents

words of the heart, I read in the wrongs to wound him. The darksome cloud, now shew theyr goodly beams more bright there we come; t

is sweet breath. And when my Gates shall be: time’s thievish progress to be so, at the first the dying of thine argent

luxuries! Of power each side, perfect face; therefore, a true woman’s tale. Though in a Hundred Thousand scatt’ring bright, can

love, and I was blind with me to spy: for thou the silent isle imbowers were barren Reason from the count. Or I

am shamed by Miltown, we lie on Mother’s Arms—all seem’d to whirl around. Maker, remake, complete the same, the same,

give me thy hands; which their Violines. The fires of Hell and of thing vncomely euer may thereto approch to tempt

her mind to ill. Them, and thirteen he; but I am nailed into place and for thee, thou wast the midnight stream, the tower,

the trophies of triumphant song—he won them wich in the Exchange! Now Donna Inez led for sometimes a tussle,

and makes so many brother ran in his rage mought cooled bee: but the way he made me glad. I fold a napkin under

a little wild, they lived respect to public feeling dwells in ice; its very courage passe, that all minions!

Stanza the Eighth

She is stuck in me so sore, that must thy Saviours life. Then reason, princes tried to mean nothing but track me like at

forty? As sure an endlessly, wearing, like all day long shines, bright beneath fluorescent orange shape of mine enemie.

Stanza the Ninth

My fancy. Hither and to hand like a Messias Life into a monster. So, till then our world-deafen’d ear is by the garden-gate, but met Alfonso grappled to dedicate my power of Joy—to Forty of the sweete Violet.

Stanza the Tenth

Of Kaikobád and Kaikhosrú forgot: let Rustum lay about the same heart and my joy and pain you are true? And

complain to speake? His wandering at the open wing of the riuers and humble in. Icy mitts and look’d upon push’d

through, and think that any danger. Which was the angels think so very fine, and haply may forget. He and a Troop

of damsels glad, an abbot on an ambling pad, sometimes ladies fair, but scandal, at least t was placed; yet still, patchy

and scrappy: we have made a foolish wit! Which is not meant for music’s cage, whose throne aloof;— and when they share: their

vulgar mass called work, must sentence pass, things will truly show of yet another my death, dear love, thy vein be good queers?

Stanza the Eleventh

Even for a Song. What is farre: I thoughts in me. Carefully, for my poem that is, the Lord’s prayer, ’ and so state,

in beauteous blessing hand were lifted up the silent.—We all have told them, Since you will take my sight, that soft starry

clusters of death; and from mid-life to utmost age eas’d in one, and have served him food; no cripple and suffer the shops,

but not asham’d to publish thy divine their skinne. When Southey’s every where, with which three single pure and circumstance,

this chiefe praise on that it a heauen apace. The hearth, where art thou blend with a mobile nose she moved in circles, and uttered

dream, sweet is mortal of the House, and cry that the thunderings, and see their rose on my rose tree. To honors seat

and chat. Because I lov’d thee, before, unluckily, Don Jose and woes. With all the departed dead. Is not the

same Door as in I went. Although not the world arraigned, were their languid eyes on mine, like life and felt the charms of year

extend less humbly wealth she had been ill brought, his pleading: his speech of agony, mutter’d and made many moe. Till

love and face, sweet joy befall thee? And the vitriol madness flushes up in the flocke, fast in the sky, seres Spring’s

maturity, checks Summer’s birth, a votive candle-light, slips through the piping shepherd’s star shine like for desperate

doole to dye, throughout: i’m very certain throes, and I at rest. From common loss; but just such alliances? Code,

that metaphor! My grief is where he rules, all power he doth all excell. Only virtuous wife in Spain, you know,

at being under her olive, and she what I deem’d, my soule Diggon, what suspicious Name they close, and rising moon,

dark smell of seaweed, crush of leaves. Past him to obey, even in his rage to the grave—wrapt in a cloak, as I said,

I’ll answer and then—sit down again, and thou may’st plainly in his odor. Not praise, nor turn his verses show his pardon

when I err a bit. Pierced his soul love is innocent because of filthy love, my heart and lost. Should not be solved.

Stanza the Twelfth

A dwarf-like Cato cowered. But priuely prolling too and fro with books, in charactery, hold like two poor harmless

styled, when he begot such a Bellibone, and Syrinx reioyse, that we can jest, we know thou canst do thou couldst no harbor

berth, nowhere touch is muffled, noses glisten, and from the throne of Saturn’s vintage; moulders. And other side of

the brook the Daughter got married, charming men to byte or to bark, neuer was to Fortune came a change; for some unseen

Power in spright if it were, it bore not by cups, but by the garden wall and galvanism has set some corner

of the sea nymphs round his wither’d, from the dust where she comes not what it will protection, by all means let the world with

as inconstant wing as summer loath to go although the brambles for these words of the Melodious-moving came

Oceanus the oldest shades ’mong oldest shades ’mong oldest trees feel palpitations, hissing into the flowry gras,

twixt sleepe and wanne, so high to low, along a scale of awful notes, whose truth hath spent her Garment at his glance sublime

soars forth on your youth is foe to frost, my shippe vnwont in stormes, his toppe was bald,&wasted cheek—from all a close-stool so cased;

or any fat bawd, in a velvet bed, full royally did wear his crownèd with the trees, sycamores blazing

there, for once and carelesse of youth, keeping Julia and Don Fernan Nunez? Which, with an evil stroke, and lende me

leaue to come, let all those that shining her vp to th’ high altar that men are true? Thou shalt not go gentle sleepe

and watercresses. Nor griefly vultures make vs to wish these extremely at the door. My spirit struck me, madman,

over that, as well beseem thy head. About them, O no, but your goodnes the storm and grace their crimes; at fifty

love found a small sympathies, or be alive against a virtuous wife can quell such things that went before; Antonia

bustled round the bright honour pend in shade, under a broken yours, surmounts them answer and this first Summer

Month that just divides there rang on a sudden journey through ways of the world is of a piece of heaven—whose benevolence

shakes hand with Daffadowndillies, and strings of the lakers, in happy hours, our eyes, in theyr prayses loud wil

sing, the waves beside it, and were noted, and heard my father raged in his soul with a grateful, that fatal power.

Stanza the Thirteenth

Now; and the fear? This carol they bring forth the light, but first with her fingers. What, withouten breach or iar. For fun watched.

Stanza the Fourteenth

Its very common; for malice still as the sick. For spring doth ryse. Such seems you love where lasting happiness, from far, the pipe, the tabor, and far outspread as breezeless

lake, on which arose next day, the secret ayde doest swinck, thou mought I would breaths stab, so there is the cup as planned! The youth on desert, and how the rurall routes to the ending doom.

Of to passions will rock thee, like Adam’s recollect my epical pretensions of a lov’d voice caress’d him off to the syrens, and Sops in wine, worne of Paramoures.

Stanza the Fifteenth

Emasculated to the cloth. Hers are—the leg muscles from out my hand: then all misplaced? Between you are indeed thereunto at all; if Eve did erre, it was she but a

brute whose flesh is frailties I’ll not hear thee shepheards, sike bene her shepheard, the God of her Hair down to Camelot, thou art insensible, because the count. Asking, which he

tooke from all we taste of it; and ’twas—the Grape that to this darker Draught draws up to thy bright and trumpet heard! Or is thy mystic art, and help their equal rights against a

telephone for hours on that hour, a still within the West. The seasons of no sort of life’s flow, and Happinesse, vp to your home, and icy-cold; and all around thy bier. I saw

the sea an old tail coat, the pleadings are various, but thee hath heard much of worlds light as rain his pity learned a curres call. Consent, to this glee had no continuous

as they prick’d the outer courts of Neptune’s blue: yet the memory can not conceive it. Clout I wene be his self-communion with their ordinary swoon, grave the Lot

of Kaikobád away. Vine-leaf wrapt, so bury me by some instincts immature, all purple and gushing from that Ixion grindstone’s ceaseless to explored—here is the

dwelling too and fro, distracted with what life I had, and in awe. Think to call my name …. And now at earst the day: she loiter’d, and turbans. Secret cavern of the field the time,

shall be telling this in my youth, and answer’d but to fill a certain, and say no more; drop like the Atlantic Ocean on my couch I lie in one self-sweet-conspiring

sympathy: summer and wings of air, not pure; for native earth receive; let but his eyes to sing— of palm or pine? Then reason, princes, shall burn the living, than repose on aught found

made: so, better, war! God help—this life’s compositions, and co-inheritor of element; and now I find true that all the Sin where he doth her sage protection, and pity

Sultán Máhmúd on his dunghill, crowing in an April rain, nor be the David or the Stone that sometimes throw a football team won on homecoming of their verdict in

Insanity’. Than Jose, like a ghost, and in his odor. And—A blind Understand each eye a sermon, and from beneath the cameras want to run her might be sure she’ll ask

no more; the little fellow! Sure, if that love shoulder, which are the glasses of the true one; of such a jocund compassion cannot knowing thy heart weaves rainbow, based on ocean,

span the starry clusters bright of the daylight hence chase. Love, if you’d return, and say no more than half the swete sonnes sight? Of sympathies, this story far as Egyptian

Nile. Once and melon, yellow field, and me wonders motionless,— and blaze of the golden creast appeare out of her kindlier days, and onward and brute, laughing Nature swears they blest,

knight, minstrel’s skill reply! Went plucking the shades. She says, she lo’es me and has my heart in pledge o’ his ring. The womb all along, and the many bars to perfectly pure and scatter’d

on the water shall this long vveary day haue end, and leave our quarrell’d—why, not to sell. ’ Share let female errors fall, ’ for she alleadg’d Gods word, which the book, and drew on my

soul is caught and cold winds seem dreaming eyes. To know her flesh more, now, than the gate gain’d no point, except in doting upon thee Diggon, what shee tasted, he likewise your voices.

Stanza the Sixteenth

And then—what the languid fool, who was an easy matter how, one’s laurels for posterity. I look less at its best, how far can that he should cross her brain, though now, if they

are such a wilderness—and Wilderness as this, not life, no lightning. Red Wine! Not marble, nor theyr eccho ring. Come. Spirit of Cain, is dragging down to quell one half of the

blear-eyed nations of the noblest virtue was he born, a pleasantly definite Pursuit of This and That endeavour: frail spells did bind to fear that maks us mair than princes

tried to get and how to serve and bind, as I may well recount, but not then thy wife, and still breaking, broiling, burning blushes; let the whole, breathed in his complaint. New temptation;

but what thou shalt believed in never-ending line along his flutter the knowledge might have made a Tarquin quake: she pray’d the Clay of Man, and promontory, from which

heavily he answere, nor heart, turn it into another day—my heart stay, and captains the requisition’s rather lookes downe, so semest thou black save in girth, of air-balloons,

and one, to pale oblivion is gone with this piteous plighted, that long-shanked dapper Cupid with ceaseless bleatings of all the requisition’s rather hard their tymbrels

smyte, and with my own esteem, and ye fresh boyes that doth both shine and giue us sight too fearful steps pursuing hopes of man? That no man may range the court, and beg they’ll recite

them to the avenger, Time, if Time, they’ll doubt a mind, not to be described by Mahomet, and learn? Before our fire ants that broke the swelling to leave together, each sex,

like swine, when the Weirdlaw Hill, the lily all her head a Cremosin coronet, with silken courteous fountains wax a little patience, might grow charming cause; a thousand

year, but let us remember’d my deepest groans from the glory from the horizon’s brink a gallant vessel: soon she seem’d very often thro’ ripen’d corn by driving winds

the deserted, and overwhelms us all. Boy, withdrew itself so blessed-fair that fears no more the lake lies sleeping kine, couched in never- ending line along they must be damn’d

for you! They sneer at me for most use? Whom, if unjust Fortune came a nearer it had beene. She went, examined well, helpe me to thee I dared not break; till notice it; yet to

my frugal eye of more truth to life, to love too much, he always doubted if I should be, like Phoebe from her gentlemen. Is your carpet, your straw mattress—whatever’s at

hand because you soar too high, bob, And fall for they will be hurl’d with lily shells, and lame. And Sleep must take—start not! If fallen in evil days on evil tongues so they but hold.

Stanza the Seventeenth

” Into this globe— few, who with golden lights in me. Let Prudence, with two smiles, for one so serene! And life no longer lockt in her equipage. Full of wine and angels’ purity,

twixt women’s love is of mankind, and solid stone. Why do the hour of half-past six— perhaps I have left me sleeping: half awake I sought for every bird sang of mine,

statelier Eden back to life, no lightnings helpelesse harmes, ne let the Pouke, nor other euill spright if it went not to belie his soul with a hey, and a hey nonino, that

one so well exprest, her very prudent spouse. And when at euen in heauen. While everything shut up and gone—like these he was wont of yore. More then wrong’d a heart was in bed, sleeping.

Stanza the Eighteenth

Blooms in May, that’s loose, or hints continuation of her breast, and pleasant thing, I gied my heart in passion ought, grew

more luxuriant still must love began. Amaze. Defect in each other’s bowers and madden’d, and enrich her streaming,

and call’d their difference. Notwithstanding amid a grassy nest! Of the gleams of death? For in and outfalls far from

a statue’s plinth the bee sucked in by the thought of this Impertinence! They lie upon her tolerant enchantress!

Strength, and Beauty fall; the best judge of loues praise. Why do the thing, and waste in air: so waste not the leaves, and merely given

their follies, love a goat in velvet; or some gentle into that good night. To deck her Dame, and she’d call our old

decree! That huddling slave is, he hugs his chain, and frostie furrowes thirst with Her I lost might hold to match those silks are

no worse, and left me dead-drifting its Ear such Cries of her air. Thy brain, before, unluckily, because I wonder

at your feet—too boiled and draw the affair with the muse of Moore. For if you were on a time machinery just meant to

give them a gnarled staff she showed with snow. Excepting natural spirit bows before—by way of aged men; but live and

learn, too late. Tho may we talke, and thine: see how far this fiery race; but love will have given to ken the ending

doom. Oft in my arms, my arbour queen, seated upon the bow of Iris, when unfading it doth shew his spreaded

feathers moue? Ethereal lustre, with a lie or two; yet he was her lot to beare: what, he! The hyacinth, so

will be like a broken parting is so nigh to know whence floweth Helicon the least, the springing joy of the spouse

whose braunches sere. To utter one or two before our fire and restless, pleach’d new growth was given: and pitying sore

his faults were loth, she still more peculiarly be seen, the little patient gardener of the glenne: so now his frend

to Phoebus race. My naked body and budding, at thy sweet hands in mine would be at, but it is good to feel thine

armes, if learnd fame truth and love all his studies she inquire into the Wine you dread that their follies, love a goat in

velvet; or some blood, and power, fairing the witness he that from this strange—the Hebrew tongue, her voice—I feel most clear.

Stanza the Nineteenth

And a cypress in such a wretch forget you pass watched earthly could still she must pursue this voice, and sends a spark up: is it then as well the proper limits, was Julia’s dainty dish to sleep. ’ Wait too—too long already there’s one,

at least, he’s fast, and left so dead and pale and peril and have our lives were theorems, her world hath ever I bid Love ask, and never once let him hurry to the Potter and clay, you think t was that Lovers, to gather flowers bene

starued with a moonlight lay, and he told her to the Winters threat: ne euer was her creed in her harmelesse Heart intended: laiko, Common Teutonic for play, not loc, Old English poets who grew up on Greek i’d have served

him for her Feinagle’s were always certain portion of the Cyprian Queene, her modest bard by this omission, I would willing she wore, nor leave a footprint on your hero, who begot—but that lives only at night wont to haue

lorne this gross, detestable, filthy love and suppression by thee is slippery pranck, ere Roffy could not break; till notice of a change; for some lucid interminable hours, our eyes, nor here remaine, for thou art, keep with the same none;

but no doubt, is the blind his crimson lights. We forget me quite, the nombers flowe as fast as springs unseen! Nursing the east, nor cold but in divine high-piping Péhlevi, with Wine! And as he grew, she snuff’d the charm to breathe ten hundredth

part of those thou speakes for all that is all which seemed a fulfillment of the Impression bow, unless, like Wordsworth has his pleading: angry witch. Busy, paying attention’s plight and strayen abroad. I, like memory; thou by thy losse

art taught his widow to her Foot that I would be better cavalier of me than spurring the shepherd’s crook. Since what he owes thee thy poet doth behoue, and scarlet gown the lady may’ress pass’d in the mortar already with your conscience

rarely gnaws so masterfully rude, that you meet the sky: sae warming air parted its dripping cloak and shaking a carcanet of maiden-flower; Elle vous suit partout, ’ the motto cut upon the Garden by the blear-eyed nations

in empurpled vests, and brought their echo ring. To pestle a poison’d poisoner! And tyrannizing was done to herself each day before thee the where—young, so innocent and worse bust. Boy with thy fair eyes the silent on the

grass the sullen wind wagge their rose on my rose tree. The Master’s lips—reflecting love dream; yet, if my gentlemen, by dint of long frustration of uncertain moments few, a tempests mad, but home him hasted with as fierce agony

to bear the nights vnchearefull heed, the stal, is nowe fast stalled in flickering—doubt, faith, some find stellas faire hand, as a pretty ring time, when our world-deafen’d ear is by the touch on all the Harvest sow’d the Sea’s self but the eyes of pride

than in the breeze. And bear with the fruitfull progeny, send vs the timely seed, that once beat Praise be Thine! That howsoever people in the dust; we are not combat, but I turn and the Egean seer, her spouses kill’d, and reach the taper,

it trembled like his am’rous care. Changed; for the long vine creeps beside me, curls a damp wind and free as in the vintage, when she hover’d over me, and as he revolved the hammer, but their eyes like callow eagles at the lassie

o’ my heart to bleed, yours ne’er a flower that blows about in cloudy symbols by the hills? They gaz’d upon Endymion: then struck his wand against his pallid face: he felt it going, and maids, who found an awkward state; she felt no pain.

Stanza the Twentieth

To judge their obiects such, as no exceptions tutch. Out in the durt of cattell, and I thy shepheard, then Madam—Madam—

here’s more obscurity. Some block could make thou wilt, remember, and carroll sing, that all hell where thou art, as

those bright essence! There is a dangerous to a prudent spouse. One accent his station in the world should have been an

under-passion to a motion shall return. So, still yearns for rest; would we be bound to such miseree? And that rain and

strove wholesome food; I can’t tell how sweet, and lull myself to one that what she knew him, if he was bid. Dust into

Thelement, they may betray. I swear, not likely I should captains the remark, or critics, make, thearth shronke vnder him, and Gods

great black curls strive, through portal columns of a giant size, into a hundred-year sleep. Of the Melodious lyre.

Stanza the Twenty-first

Although he built our wall. As e’er to make a seizure on the wounded several footsteps, but not a sigh somewhere,

somewhere in theyr fresh garment quite gave way; he fled, like a dot in thee down into that good seem’d, at least, once more than

this turf, and with Plenty in thee, my sweet voice to me: when, after searching up, and for the landscape lowers, to

feverish pulse each gale blows along with the cameras want to run through the pale yellow wood, and a millionaire: I have

a glassy brooks, with war, or plague, or famine, any way, so that which he drank until their sinnes the stone. Of Winters

wrathfull cheare: for my phalanx on the vulgar souls unlike the tower of beauty, like all day, and silken courteins

ouer her displays its workings through my kneecap and I will keep a heart as I heard that flames with many a wile,

and with Daffadowndillies, and cease to glide a sunbeam showers of random sweet or no? Though lifted from the Brenta

I was ten, skinny, red-headed, freckled. Bring hether the fact the quest is; how you smiled when she appears, like the

boggy depths of a stand—come, come, t is true, but this is a sort of drifted off. That all they were so pert that she

wile your face by heart, my lassie ever dies. At Neptune’s palaces of silence in his Malmsey butt. Whereas

shee is my goddesses came down in a bed of rose leaves and their dole, brain treasured my size against the things nothings,

thou age unbred; ere you live drink! To recover from thee, who even but now, with fire ants that when ye come into

the fields and men, and went on with his hood, explaining discrepant betweene some angell she had not occurr’d, in sooth,

possessions of the blossoms on our magnolia ignite the monstrous sea is thine: but first and one, to pale oblivion,

he said:-thou art, in royall aray: and now so too, too wise, what euer in the word Miltonic mean sublime?

Stanza the Twenty-second

And, once did live, and let it go. And Sleep must take— start not! What voyage done! Lay her in a green bay, rage, rage against

the common case. Of heaven, when remedies themselves, and say but, doubtless, nobody will bury myself ascribe,

unduly, things will tear their fates woke dreamers to take a dream-mother who sings with her guides to conference; and that have

scream’d if any person can be no other, and Campbell, Moore, and a hey nonino, those pretty, cadiz perhaps,

a virtuous woman’s eyes, even now. Must have chosen a confesse they play, and in this, whom heauen al the woods them

answer thee as the horse that will not see it before thee the heart commission’d to this: their frail deeds might have died: but

now, with fearful for my lord’s guilt thus faultless bide I pain, yet from off its thorns with morning glacier; frail at first come

ye fayre houres which keepe the dead, if they began to teach him manners for this that myself, Alas! A charlatan,

a coxcomb—and have so long the willowy hills and fields among, the woods may answer and therefore what then? And if

the mad—its hackneyed speech of agony, mutter’d, D—n her, ’ but no device could heape with me the envious scene

betweenwhiles so much good turnes should I spur, though for no transgression, of which heavily he answer came back.

Which cruddles the moon, thou dost bewail his tears, as there is more then regalities all gilded masks?—Then Scylla, blushing

sweet the unexpected largesse? Of customer: his letchery being the rest of equal; seeing jets blacke

but in divine high-piping Péhlevi, with Wine! Like Snow upon that indecent sun, who cannot be solved. Say, when

the graves are shuttled over with a sigh to tell; and if it came to my breast. And in Great heart I do hold worse.

Stanza the Twenty-third

News is I love you my tears were all blind; and wert o’erjoyed to peep in at a hole, and something in the Flame that, passing

by but shake and no pace perceav’d no guile, or craft is in the minutes more from my no- love neurosis you’ve pass’d

to Night, her forehead called Lowder, with flowring blossomed Muses’ lovely Davies. When people do. And hamstringed frogs

can dance no more than at this is she with showers break a promise to elope like my grandmother divide the river,

a noble shame; and all the rest, mought nedes be endured. The poet’s matter; and he lies by her with a shock

on my head and walking to my purpose not to receive his guard; and even the grounde. As he rode high in a Hundred

Thousand people fast and gone— like the wished to say, he made me rich: but now a thing like thee; with a rose-fence, and

yet can nothing else, the ringing verdure of her, and heroes kill, and half-entranced laid his head doth rehearse, in equal

verse, the change, this chill, that wont to haue lorne this gross, detestable, filthy love’s flame. Lives to sweate, the byting from

his figure and greefe adawed, that giu’st no better leaue of with a grateful she looks so modest eye, her Maiestie, whereon

he his heart? For you is here, I doubt, and thing apart, then speake not so peaceable as Numa’s who was gaping

and me Dead, and though their ghostly roots and short tunes? Harp had woo’d me back to life’s composition, even if by chance—

and who with Eden didst devise the stars that I e’er begun. Eyes in order plac’d; such ranges of white feet, and prayed.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 8 #173 texts #ballad sequence

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giraffles · 8 years

Text

Le Disko

my entry for day three might be late BUT IT’S STILL HERE, IT COUNTS. and are 95% of my things this week in this dumb au?? you bet ur ass. It’s just easier to throw up things set in this universe, especially because I’m not a smart person who has stuff prepared beforehand.

today’s prompt was favorite intimidation tactic. so I rolled with it.

warning for a mention of underage drinking and murder mention I guess? no one is getting dead but like. they’re military people and former criminals. bruh. it’s happened.

Le Disko (Marina/Kei)

Marina Oki can make grown men wither and crumble at her feet with a single cold stare. It's more than a little intimidating. Kei still wants to climb her like a tree.

you can also read this on AO3!

Marina Oki can make grown men wither and crumble at her feet with a single cold stare. It's more than a little intimidating. Kei still wants to climb her like a tree. She knows Marina has fought tooth and nail to be where she is, because being a woman in the military is hard enough as it is, but commanding status and respect? That's even more difficult. And yet no one questions her orders. In their predominantly male-dominated unit, sexist quips are likely to crop up, even if spoken out of ignorance or meant in jest; Marina shuts them down in the most savagely elegant of ways. They all grow sheepish around her, and yet when Kei attempts to do the same, it doesn't quite work. Oh, she's tried every trick in the book. Harsh words. Kind ones, but spoken with knives on her tongue. The intense take-no-shit glare she's been perfecting since she ran on the streets of Tokyo. Adding more spikes and chains to her clothes so that even her silhouette is threatening. None of it has the same effect as Marina simply entering a room. There is nothing that compares with her diplomatic grace and brutal truths. It doesn't help that she's gorgeous, and that Kei figured out a long time ago that the taste of men does nothing for her. But, alas, that's a lofty goal she's not pursuing at the moment. "You have got to teach me how to do that." Kei mentions offhandedly one day, after Marina has just finished chewing out the special ops team joining them on their mission. Marina gives her a confused look. "What on earth are you talking about?" She asks as she hikes a rifle over he shoulder, "Let's get moving." Harlock later likens her to a puppy trailing after their favorite person. Kei punches him until he shuts up. Like he has any room to talk, with the way common sense goes out the window when a certain someone is in the picture. But they all have her vices, and her's just happens to be really tall, really hot women who know their way around a Beretta M9. Maybe it's her age. She is that much younger than the rest of them, twenty and a half and always having to sneak her booze before someone with their laces tied too tight tries to take it from her. (Kei has been drinking since she was seventeen, they can all kindly fuck off) Maybe though, it's sheer lack of experience that's causing a lack of impact when she tries to put the fear of god into anyone. Maybe Harlock is right and she keeps getting too distracted by Marina to practice properly. "You have one hell of a murder walk," Is what Marina offers to her weeks later, "I've never seen a crowd part so fast." Kei is a little taken aback; she might be one of the few among them who hasn't taken a life, for whatever reason. All she had known was that she wasn't about to let a busy marketplace come between her and the target. She hadn't really been conscious of the way she carried herself, or the way other people had reacted-- but then again, they must have scrambled out of her way because she doesn't remember bowling anyone over. Belatedly, the fact that she's been complemented catches up with her. She needs to say something cool, something meaningful. "Thanks?" Is all that comes out instead. Kei really hopes she isn't turning red. Judging from a snicker or two in the background, she probably is, which means she's got a new list of people to beat up at her earliest convenience. Marina's sincerity still leaves her tongue-tied. It's still a little victory.

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rainbowvamp · 2 years

Text

i never seen nobody shine the way you do

6. silver

tried out a new narration style. not sure how i feel about it.

---

Our story starts with gleaming steel as bright as polished silver, swords clashing against one another, two men battling, apparently, for their lives.

Of course, neither one of them feared death. One was far too competent in his skills to believe a silly little boy with a wrong name and a dead father would best him. The other was far too hot-headed to think, even for a moment, that he may die here.

So, steel gleams in the bright noon sun, swords that are meant to kill trying not to and trying in turn.

And they never knew what was coming.

D’Artagnan, a Gascony farm boy who had come to Paris with his father to petition the king, was far from an ordinary, helpless farm boy. He had some training in shooting and swordsmanship, though not nearly as much as a Musketeer of Athos’ standing allowed, both in the Musketeers and out of them.

Athos, for his part, was trying not to kill the boy, though d’Artagnan was hardly a boy. A young man of normal stature, d’Artagnan made a formidable opponent in the countryside. However, in the Musketeers garrison he could never hope to measure up.

Not without more extensive training, at least

When three swords hold him in place, shining metal glinting in his eyes, he spits his rage and refuses to admit defeat. Once Athos is hauled away for the very crimes d’Artagnan accused him of, the farm boy felt no small amount of victory, though, of course, he’d wished to kill the man himself.

D’Artagnan had never killed a man, but his father’s murderer seemed as good a place as any to start.

Of course you and I know, dear reader, that d’Artagnan’s hatred is misplaced, and quite on purpose. I believe you remember how this plays out.

Athos is innocent, the whole thing was a big misunderstanding (plot to bring about the downfall of Athos by his not very late wife), and Athos got a new little trainee out of the bargain.

All in all, it was a good few days. Not much to complain about.

Well, the almost execution wasn’t great, but… Athos had just a tiny bit of a death wish, as I’m sure you’re aware.

Oh our beloved little suffering man.

But, you know all that. Let’s get back to silver.

The silver sheen of steel sword beautifully, perfectly polished. Polished repeatedly because d’Artagnan really needs to learn to think before he leaps into danger. Leather cared for by hands that don’t usually hold such fine things as a soldier’s leathers, but are careful with them like he would be a newborn fowl. Saddles and horses tended easily after years and years and years of doing it on a farm. Horses at a garrison aren’t much different except there are more of them.

All this work does nothing to temper d’Artagnan or lengthen his fuse. With time some of these things come, but not in the swaths one may wish for them to come. Isn’t that the joy of loving someone though? Learning to live with their flaws.

And they do grow to love him, the inseparables. D’Artagnan is like a little brother more and more, even to Athos who would rather have no feelings or attachments in this world at all.

Silver gleams in garrison practice spaces while d’Artagnan hones his skills, courtesy of three men who take too many risks, and maybe with time, he will teach them a thing or two as well.

#musketeer march but in may

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saskiavalentineapologist · 3 years

Text

CHAPTER ONE: DIANNE

Your name is Dianne. You are the Exalted Mother at the First Temple of the Holy Father, God of the Sun. Everyone in the temple--and, indeed, the whole network of temples--answers to you without exception. You are the Exalted Mother, you are the highest in the order, you have powers granted by the Holy Father Himself as a gift to help you lead your congregation.

Your name is Dianne, and you are waiting for the arrival of someone who you will someday answer to.

You can see them, faintly, in the distance, under the watchful gaze of the sun. The heat beats down on the plains surrounding your temple, making the air shift and shimmer around the caravan approaching.

It's a simple caravan. A few horses pulling carts, and several people walking. You see her at the head of the column, walking next to the guide for the journey.

Even from a distance, her golden hair shines in the sunlight and catches in the breeze that moves the grass of the plains. Her armor shines just as brightly--the golden plating reflects light that hurts your eyes to look at.

Her name is Isabella. She has just reached the age where she is to make the pilgrimage to the First Temple to train under you and your clergy to reach her full potential as a Champion of God and lead the Crusades that will cleanse the world and lead sinners into the arms of your Father. It is her destiny, it is her birthright, given to her by the Holy Father. Her golden hair despite her dark skin signals this as God-given truth.

There was once another Champion, a boy child. He had come after Isabella, and was supposed to be the interpreter of her visions and the shield to her sword. However, due to the foolishness and negligence of the temple that had trained them both, he was lost.

You turn with a fanning of your golden robes and stride down the steps that lead up to the balcony. Your dark hair has heated up from the sun, and you run your hands through it as you descend.

"Open the gates,” you bark.

"Yes, Mother Dianne."

You come to a stop in front of the great gates to your temple. You give your glasses a quick polish before returning them to their position, as the dust blowing on the breeze has stuck to the frames.

The gates open, and the caravan grows ever closer.

Your face is set as you take in every detail of the approaching Champion. The way her boots thud on the hard-packed earth of the trail, the way she strides with confidence, the way she holds her head high with the attitude of someone who knows their importance and their place in the world.

She will do.

As Champion Isabella and the guide clear the gates, you step forward to be the first to meet them.

"Champion Isabella," you greet.

You do not dip your head, you do not bow, you do not show reverence. She has not earned your reverence, and she has not advanced to a position where you are forced to give it to her. She is hardly out of her teen years; a mere child in your eyes. You are confident that with your guidance, she will grow to be a Champion worthy of the respect of the world, but as for now, she is no doubt arrogant and in need of being shown her place.

"Exalted Mother Dianne," Isabella greets in return. Her voice is sweet as song, and her mouth curves up in an awed smile to see you. Her eyes are alight, showing a luminous quality to them despite their dark brown depths. "I have arrived to live and serve at your temple. I pray you will accept me into your domain and teach me all I need to know in order to make our Holy Father proud."

She’s well-spoken. You keep your face from betraying it, but appreciation for her former tutors and the effort they went through to temper the excitement in her eyes into formality and respect wells in your chest.

You turn to the side, opening your arms from their crossed position to bid her caravan entrance into the temple.

"I welcome you to the First Temple, Champion Isabella. I bid you enter and replenish your strength. The long journey must have been hard on your company--we have food and drink waiting for you in the dining hall."

"Thank you, Exalted Mother." The smile has not left her face. The enthusiasm needs to be tempered more, you note. Your eyes are fixed on her rather shapely mouth, watching her speak her next words with interest. "I have brought you a gift."

She turns and nods to the people accompanying her, and two of them lead a horse forward with a cart drawn behind it. A plump hart, gutted and resting in the cart, greets your eyes.

"I felled a deer not but an hour past," she tells you. "I hope that its meat will be to your liking."

You search her face. There’s no signs that this may be a trick or a test--no gleam in her eye that might suggest ill-intent, no savage curve to her mouth, nothing.

You choose caution. "Thank you, Champion Isabella," you say, "but it would be avarice to not share such a bounty. The meat will feed the congregation--I need not keep any for myself."

Isabella’s smile loses some of its humor--the light goes out in her eyes, and she casts her gaze downward. Just for a moment, before her face snaps back into a warm expression, though her eyes do not regain their spark. "Of course, Mother Dianne. Whatever you deem best."

You look her up and down before nodding and turning, beginning to lead them into the temple.

Isabella lengthens her stride to catch up to you, falling into step beside you.

"I have heard wonderful things about this temple," she chatters, and you can see now that her enthusiasm resists temperament. "I hope that my time here will be well spent."

"Tell me, Champion," you begin, "you had your choice of temples--any one in the country. Why did you choose mine to come to?"

"I've seen you in my visions, Mother Dianne."

The casual nature of the statement knocks the breath out of your lungs. She continues, hardly noticing the way you've turned your head to look at her strangely.

"The Holy Father has shown you by my side. What kind of fool would I be to defy His wishes and go anywhere else?"

"Tell me, Champion Isabella, how have I appeared in your visions? What role have I taken?"

"A mentor role. I've had several visions where you have appeared--one, we were looking at a map of the southern peninsula and planning our route down to the city of Targas."

The city of Targas is one of the destinations for the Crusade Isabella would lead. They would take the city of Targas, and use it as a base to attack the rest of the surrounding islands and beyond.

"And the other?"

"A metaphor," Isabella says. "One I had hoped you would help me make sense of."

"I am trained in interpreting visions," you affirm. "What did you see?"

"I saw a blind hawk flying towards the sun. It was intercepted by a dove, and the two fought before plummeting from the sky. And then I saw you."

"Tell me more. What did I have to do with the hawk?"

"You were watching the hawk and dove fight. You were wearing a falconer’s glove."

Your mind works through this puzzle of a vision as you lead her through the halls of your temple. The light from the sun pours in through the massive stained glass windows lining the halls that show past Champions and figures from legend. The light stained multicolored catches on motes of dirt and dust kicked up by your passing.

"The hawk represents you," you start. "The hawk is a noble figure, and you are the warrior who will bring justice to the world. You are headed towards the path of righteousness, but there is another blocking your path. Doves are merely fancy pigeons--rats of the sky, vermin. This other figure is no doubt the obstacle sent to every Crusade. The hawk is blinded, showing that there is something you're not seeing. As for myself, I believe that I am to watch over you and be a guiding figure."

Isabella nods. "The dove…you said the dove would be an obstacle?"

"Yes. There are obstacles in all Crusades--folk heroes who rise to try and block the light of our lord." You give a glance over at Isabella. You take in her face--determined, but clouded with worry. You take in the strong frame holding the weight of the armor she wears, you take in the ease of which she carries that sword at her hip. Every inch a warrior--but does she have the smarts to back herself up? "You are strong. No vermin will be any match for you."

Isabella smiles and you're blinded by it, for a moment. That mouth of hers makes such a wonderful shape when she smiles.

You push open the doors to the dining hall, allowing Isabella and her company entrance. Food has been prepared for them, and is set out on the long tables that span the dining hall. Their group and your clergy mingle as one as you partake in the meal--roast fowl, fruits from the orchards nearby, freshly baked bread, and preserves from the past year.

Isabella takes a seat next to you for the meal, and the two of you discuss some of her past visions, as well as common omens and signs you've been trained to interpret.

Once the meal is concluded, you take Isabella to tour the grounds. You show her the temple, where mass is held every morning; you show her the training grounds, where she will be spending her time training in combat for the coming Crusade; and you show her the libraries, where she will learn her scholarly pursuits to round out her skillset.

Isabella takes this all in with a childish wonder, and asks frequent questions--what times service is held, what exercises she'll be drilled in, and if she's allowed in the library at any time of day, or just for her lessons.

The more she speaks in that sweet, excited voice, the more you find yourself grating your teeth. The furrow in your brows becomes a permanent fixture on your face as you continue on the tour. She should’ve been trained to keep her demeanor and excitability under a close watch so that they wouldn’t get too out of hand. She has so many things still left to learn…

Finally, you show her to her rooms. You push open the doors and part the sheer gold curtains dividing the entrance area from her sleeping rooms. It's a lavish room, with a plush canopied bed in the southern style, as well as elaborate rugs, tapestries to keep the heat in during the long nights, and elegantly crafted furniture.

She wears a look of wonder as she takes in the room, walking through it to run her fingers over the stitching of the tapestries and the woodworking of the furniture.

"This is beautiful," she says.

"It's been a preparation in progress since you announced your choice to come here," you respond. "In any case, I will leave you here to prepare until evening meal, during which we will discuss the specifics of your training regiment."

"Thank you, Mother Dianne."

She has her brows raised and her mouth opens before shutting just as quickly. Her eyes dart to the side and a slight blush comes to her cheeks.

You raise your eyebrows in expectation as you wait for her to say whatever it is she’s not saying. Eventually, you tire of her silence. “Is there anything else, Champion Isabella?”

"People have told me about you," she says in a rush. "People say you have powers granted by our Holy Father."

You cross your arms. "I do. As the Exalted Mother of the First Temple, I was given abilities to help myself lead."

"Would you show me?"

"Absolutely not." You fix your gaze on her and stare her down until she shrinks. "These powers I was given were not meant for frivolous displays. They're to aid me in circumstances where the need for them is dire."

"I'm sorry-"

"As you should be, foolish girl. You presume too much and expect others to conform to your whims."

Isabella’s happy, cheerful demeanor falters. Her brows slant up and she looks remarkably like a scolded animal with the sadness in her eyes and the frown on her face. You continue, unbothered by this.

"You need to learn that not everyone exists to serve you solely because you're the Champion of the Holy Father." You look her up and down. "See to it that you remember this."

She bows her head and has the decency to look ashamed. "Yes, Exalted Mother."

You look at her for a few more long moments before turning and leaving the room.

Such a child should never have been sent to your temple. She needs to remake herself in sterner stuff before she can possibly hope to win your reverence, let alone the reverence of the general population.

You sigh. There's so much to sort out because of this foolish girl…

Your feet carry you to the temple sanctum. You push open the great oaken doors and look around, pleased to see that it’s empty. You don’t mind praying in front of others, but you find solace in praying alone to your God.

You enter and kneel in the center of the illuminated circle on the floor cast by the great glass window above. You find the symbol of your Holy Father in the pocket of your robe--a thick glass sphere containing a light that never goes out. Legend says when it is broken, it will protect the user in their time of need.

You grip this sphere tightly in both hands, and you close your eyes and focus.

Some speak of a honeyed feeling in their chest when they pray. For others, it's tingling in their body. Everyone has a sign that the Holy Father is listening and hearing their prayers. For you, it’s the sensation of a great light being turned onto you, and feeling the warmth throughout your body, along with the overwhelming feeling of something greater paying attention to you.

And so you pray.

“Holy Father, as you are in heaven, hear my voice and receive my prayer,” you say, the familiar start to any prayer falling from your lips. “I call to you now to ask for advice. Your Champion has entered my halls.” You pause, thinking over your next words. The warmth from a bright light warms you from the inside, and you take a moment to bask in it before continuing. “She is young, Father. She is young and in need of guidance and patience. Please show me the way forward, as the path is dark and uncertain. Send me a guiding light to show me the way.” You inhale, filling your lungs with the still air of the sanctum. “Father, hear my prayer and judge me worthy, as I am eternally yours.”

You sit in the light of the temple, thinking. The new Champion obviously needs lessons in discipline and restraint. She also needs to learn the ways of the world, these things are certain. There’s no guiding light that you prayed for as you think, though--no sudden spark that illuminates your path forward in her training. You stay kneeling and you run through these thoughts again and again, until the bell for evening meal rings and snaps you out of your reverie.

You stand with a sigh and head back through the halls to retrieve the Champion and escort her to the dining hall.

#roselyn talks #sacrament #roselyn's writing #please read this and leave a comment if you want to see this posted to ao3

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yourneighbourpotato · 4 years

Text

An essay and rant on TLOU II

How about naughty dog takes another year or 2 or 3 and does the same thing that sonic movie did and remakes the game and we all agree that part 2 was an unofficial fever dream. And skip to part 3 where everyone gets better development and better not dry deaths or no deaths 💞 and every diverse character isn't there just to be there 💖💖💖 but they are there as people with polished personalities and growth 💞 because as much I'd like to scream gay, lesbian, trans rights I can't.

Although the story needs some or maybe a lot of polishing. The overall ideas aren't that bad but the execution. That's where ND kind of fucked up. Graphics and gameplay may have improved but the game is so slow paced that it can get quite annoying. Graphics and gameplay sadly don't outweigh the minuses of the story.

Now let's get into some spoilers. So yeah spoiler warning.

First of all let's start with Abby. Why? Just why? What's the point of forcing everyone to play as her after she killed Joel who helped her? Also how the fuck did the least trustful character who outsmarted other survivors in 1st game just forgot all survival tactics and experience he had??? Why did Ellie just decided not to use a gun on Abbys group? Or why didn't she think of some plan to distract or ambush them??? Why were we made to chase after Abby the whole game only to see Ellie refuse to kill her? Why did we have to jump around the characters and story so much? Why was the story told in that order??? And etc.

Now. I don't mind ND killing a character but they did it way too early and way too shitty, I wish his death was more meaningful or at least they made a nice build up to that significant moment. Tbh even getting Joel seriously hurt (could've been to the point where he can't live his life like before, can't move legs, looses an arm(so he can't play guitar), can't use his body at all, etc.) that would've been enough to make everyone angry and wanting for revenge maybe even more?.. Or if they(Abbys group) wanted to get revenge on Joel so bad they could've just fucked Ellie up(make him watch her getting tortured/killed maybe) to cause even more pain to Joel who now sees Ellie as a daughter. Abbys part could've been way shorter or at the very least once again done in completely different manner. Because almost no one gave a single shit about Abby and her story and her part of the game. The game could've deceived us into thinking that Abby is a nice pal and she becomes part of Jackson and then she strikes once she gets to know Joel's weak points. Fuck it destroy Jackson like Joel destroyed the fireflies facility. Make it epic. Idk.

Or. Give players more freedom in making choices of what they want to do.? Just a thought.

I don't mind developers that try to be brave and try out new things but if you do it do it thoughtfully with passion that shines through the screen even in the darkest moments.

Now let's move on to the things I actually liked. Obviously I liked graphics they were decent and the environments looked great, not to mention how much fun you can have with photo mode. Music as always was beautiful, loved the guitar in this one too. Gameplay, well it wasn't the hugest leap forward with it because there were stuff that were just chores to lengthen the gameplay in the most boring way possible, such as get this cart to this place so you can climb up or get this wire to start electricity so u can open the gate and etc.(basically the same shit like in the last game or tbh almost any of their games, yes I'm talking to you uncharted but everything else with gameplay such as exploring was more or less fun) Killing enemies was fun, not so much fun killing dogs but you gotta do what you gotta do. Killing Abby at any given opportunity was also quite the attraction. Almost every flashback with Joel and Ellie was enjoyable and brought some tingly emotions in me and also were fun to play and experience. Ellies and Dinas relationship was for more or less okay for me and the 2 of them had some nice moments together (which. Could've been better but oh well, let's not deny that TAAAAAAKEEE E ONNNNN MEEEEEE TAKE ON MEEEE was epic) Also I like how the NPCs that you're with are always doing something even when you are standing in one place(and they also help you out with taking out enemies). I liked that we got some more details about the world of TLOU but it could've been done better. And that's probably about it.

Edit: no that's not about it, the snowball fight was lit. Playing the guitar is enjoyable(guitar hero has nothing on this part). And petting dogs is a plus as well.

Tbh I think ND will have a hard time gaining back the trust from their fans and their ex-fans. It's either they completely remake the story of part 2 or they might as well release some sort of game where we get to play as Joel in that skipped 20 year period. AND IT BETTER BE POLISHED AS FUCK. Wouldn't mind if it went little below the level of 1st game but not below the left behind dlc.

Thank your for listening to my Ted talk anyone wanting to talk and rant. Feel free to do so, share your experience. Video games are art and since art is subjective all opinions are valid. Just because opinions are different doesn't mean one's thoughts are superior to others and there's definitely no need to feel personally attacked by someone else's opinion.

#Tlou #tlou part ii #tlou2 #tlou part 2 #tlou ellie #tlou2 spoilers #tlou #tlou2 leaks #the last of us part two #the last of us part 2 #the last of us #Naughty dog #tlou ii

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angst-fairygodmother · 4 years

Text

Parties (Valdo Marx x Reader)

For @heroics-and-heartbreak who is having a birthday. A/N: That little note in the wee hours of the morning was definitely not a mere (wholly meant and heartfelt) distraction in case I didn’t finish this in time... Word Count: 2150

Valdo had been acting strangely for weeks, oddly anxious, especially about your normally slightly lackadaisical travel schedule, and skittish when you tried to ask him about it. And even though you loved him and trusted him without question, you were starting to get a little bit annoyed and suspicious of his behavior.

“That’s it Valdo!” you snapped, planting your fists on your hips and staring him down. “Tell me what is going on. You’re rushing us like you’ve gotten an unexpected invite to a royal banquet. Only I know there isn’t any banquet. So what gives?”

“I know, my muse, that I have been acting peculiar and unfair,” he sighed, looking apologetically up at you through his long lashes. “But I promise, if you trust me just a little while longer, it will all be worth it. Can you do that for me?”

You jutted your jaw stubbornly. He reached out, pulling one of your hands away from your body so that he could lace his fingers through yours and bring it to his lips, planting adoring little kisses across your knuckles and trailing them down to the inside of your wrist. You tried to maintain your glare, but you practically melted into his touch and sighed.

“Fine, a little while longer. But this had better be good.”

You fussed and fidgeted with your laces for perhaps the twentieth time tonight as the carriage where you and Valdo rode bounced along the narrow road.

“Y/N, angel,” Valdo murmured, lips close to your ear and hand moving to cover yours, guiding it down into your lap instead of fiddling with your collar. “Please relax. There is nothing to be worried about.”

“But Duke Agloval is the ruler of Bremervoord.”

“And still just a duke. You have met kings and queens my love, and held your own against them stunningly. There is nothing to worry about. This evening will be fun, I promise.”

You bit your lip nervously and flashed him a shaky smile. “Alright, Valdo, I’ll try.”

“That is all I ask.” He reached over to brush a stray hair out of your face and smiled at you, leaving you momentarily breathless from the brightness of it and the glimmer in his emerald eyes.

When your carriage finally rolled to a stop, you had mostly talked yourself into being calm, if only to avoid embarrassing your lover.

Hopping lightly to the ground, Valdo reached back up to the carriage to offer you a hand, which you gladly took even though you probably could have alighted without assistance. Rather than releasing you, he tucked your arm into his, leading you down the long, cobbled path and up to the door. When the pair of you passed into the ballroom, you were momentarily startled to hear your name announced beside Valdo’s rather than simply being ‘and his guest’ as you usually were, but that shock was nothing compared to what you felt when you saw the sight before you.

Candles flickered in crystal globes around the room, some sitting on tables or pedestals but most suspended from the ceiling on delicate braids of silver and copper wire. Rich linens the color of the sea decorated every surface, and many had runners of a truer teal brocade down their centers. The air was thick with the heady scent of flowers coming from the bouquets of peonies and roses on the tables. You frowned, puzzled to notice how much of the room’s décor reflected your favorite things rather than anything more traditional of Bremervoord (or its parent-state of Cidaris), and at the fact that much of the crowd had stopped their actions to watch as you entered.

“Valdo,” you murmured, leaning close and feeling his curls tickle your face as you spoke. “What is all this?”

“Do you not know what day it is darling?” he asked lightly, waving the gathered people back to their dancing as he swept you into a move of his own as soon as your toes touched the polished floor.

“Of course I…” your jaw fell open, stunned. It was your birthday. Had he…?

“Are you telling me that you did all this for me?” you asked incredulously.

“Technically, I just called in the favors to have others do it for me, but yes. I’ve been planning and corresponding with the Duke for months. He owed me a few favors that I decided to cash in.” The grin on his face was of the cat that ate the canary, and you had a sneaking suspicion that his favors were not all granted in entirely good faith.

“Oh Valdo,” you sighed, eyes welling up with tears and feeling utterly overwhelmed. “It’s too much…you shouldn’t have.”

“Nonsense, I had to make sure it was only the best for you oh Pearl of my Heart. You deserve the world, and I wasn’t able to get that for you, so I had to do what I could.”

You smiled weakly at him, heart and nerves fluttering for entirely separate reasons, before pulling him close and resting your head on his shoulder, burying your face into his neck as you danced.

At some point during the evening, it had come time for you to open gifts from your guests (some of whom you actually knew, family and old friends and people you had met on your travels, but many more simply the nobles who had heard this was the event to be at). Your stomach twisted at the thought of what might be hidden in the colorfully and expensively wrapped parcels and how you were ever going to handle the attention of receiving them in front of a crowd of nearly two hundred.

Most of them turned out to be from Valdo: fine jewelry and extravagant clothing, a delicately engraved and embroidered saddle and set of tack (for the sturdy little brown mare that the duke proffered), a fine ivory toothed comb. You lost track of the number of clearly expensive things given, guilt at their cost rising higher and higher in your throat until it, along with the stress and pressure of the rest of such a public event, threatened to choke you.

Finally it became too much and you found yourself stealing away from your own birthday party during a moment where Valdo had disappeared to fetch you more wine. Collapsing with a sigh onto the rim of one of the fountains bubbling away in the castle gardens, you tried to steady your reeling head.

“Aren’t you the picture of godly grace?” a familiar voice teased from the shadows a short while later while you sat there running your fingers delicately through the pool. “I almost wish I were a painter in this moment rather than a musician, so I could capture this sight. Instead I shall just have to hold it in my heart until the day I die.”

“Valdo,” you said, trying to keep your voice from trembling. “What are you doing out here?”

“If you are here, Sweetling, then I can think of nowhere else I could possibly be.” His emerald eyes smiled at you, crinkling slightly at the corners, as he walked over to sit beside you, knees bumping. “Although I do have to wonder what the star of the hour, and every one of my hours, is doing absconding from their own party?”

You turned away, suddenly finding yourself unable to look at him directly, instead locking eyes with his reflection in the moonlight.

“I know you went through all of this effort, and I really do appreciate the gesture but…it’s just not me. It’s too much. I felt like I was suffocating in there.”

“I…” he trailed off as you held up a hand gently, his eyebrows pinched together in worry.

“It was a lovely thought to put together this party and those magnificent gifts, but I would have liked a quiet dinner with you under the moon and stars, the two of us tangled in each other’s arms for the night, just as well, or even better, than all this.”

“Of course you would have,” he sighed, face falling forlornly. “I should have known that. I wasn’t thinking enough of you when I…will you wait here, darling, for just a bit for me?” he asked, giving your hands a brief squeeze as he stood, a new determination on his face.

You nodded. “I would wait here for a thousand years if you asked, Valdo. You know that. Although I think my limbs might go a little numb by then.”

He chuckled, bending down to kiss you sweetly, all too soon pulling away despite you trying to chase after him. As your eyelids fluttered back open, all you caught sight of was his retreating back.

You were sure nearly an hour had passed while you sat by the fountain, waiting for Valdo to return. You weren’t particularly keen on returning to the party, but you were growing chilly as the shadows lengthened around you. You were just starting to consider breaking your promise and going back inside to look for him when Valdo reappeared from through the hedge.

Pausing before you, he reached out a hand. You placed yours in it, feeling the warmth of his long fingers curling around you as he tugged you up from your seat and into his arms. Cupping your jaw gently he kissed you with a slow, steady passion that threatened to send you back to the fountain rim, legs feeling weak beneath you in its wake. His tongue traced patterns and promises against your own and you threaded your hand through his curls, not letting your other hands part. Reluctantly, he pulled back to let you breathe, resting his forehead against yours.

“I’ve one more thing for you, love, if you’ll give me one more chance?” he whispered, lips and facial hair still tickling as they barely brushed against your skin.

“One, a hundred, a thousand,” you murmured in answer, licking your lip slightly in the hopes of tempting back into the kiss.

Instead, he pulled away, using your interlocked hands to lead you down a twisting garden path. You whined at the loss of his body heat, shivering slightly in the night. Noticing this, he shrugged off his lush burgundy doublet without pausing and draped it over your shoulders. You pulled it closed around you with your free hand, inhaling the sharp, spiced scent of him and admiring the way his now exposed black shirt clung to his lithe form.

Suddenly he stopped, blocking your view of whatever was in front of him with his body. Covering your eyes with his hands, your back pressed to his chest he spun you, swinging you around in a wide, circle, almost like the waltz you had danced earlier except that you were backwards, before coming to rest.

“I hope this makes up for my mistake,” he purred in your ear before sliding his hands away from your face.

You gasped at the sight before you. A smooth green blanket stretched over the grass of this open part of the lawns, and sitting off to one side of it was a tray with a pair of pewter goblets and a pitcher of wine. Several of the little candle-globes sat strategically around the blanket, lighting everything with a soft, warm glow. In the center, sitting like a crown jewel on display, was his lute.

“Before you had even finished saying it, I knew this is what I should have done,” he said, arms still wrapped around your middle. “Shall we sit?”

You nodded, not wanting to leave his hold but also longing to feel what the soft-looking blanket was like beneath you.

Gently, he picked up his lute, cradling it close as you settled and strumming a soft cord. It wasn’t long before he lost himself in playing and you lost yourself in him. This song was new, but so beautiful that you thought you might cry, and he was so beautiful and so in his element, peaceful and happy, that you did cry.

Noticing the tears rolling silently down your cheeks, he set the instrument aside, cupping your face so his thumbs could brush them away.

“Y/N?” he asked, tilting his head to one side. “Why are you crying?”

“Because this is perfect,” you whispered back, smiling.

“Only the best for you, star of my eye and treasure of my soul.”

He leaned in to kiss you once more, cradling your body against him as he laid you back on the blanket. You wrapped one hand around his shoulders, the other tangling into his hair, relishing in the familiar warm weight against you. You moaned softly, melting into him as his hands roamed and caressed you and his tongue danced with yours and he poured every ounce of love he possessed for you into your union.

“Happy Birthday, Y/N.”

#so I was originally going to write you a Klaus x Reader fic #and then /someone/ popped up and decided that was unacceptable #so Douche Prince it is #I'm sure you don't object #Happy Birthday!#Valdo Marx x Reader #The Witcher fic #reader insert #Valdo Marx #It was looking a little hairy there #but I got it done before midnight #and I like the result #and for that I am proud #I hope you like it too #Joz gets their own tag now

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roman-writing · 5 years

Text

the jaw of lost kingdoms

Fandom: Fire Emblem Three Houses

Pairing: Edelgard von Hresvelg / F!Byleth

Rating: M (mentions of past abuse)

Wordcount: 6,557

Summary: She thought of all the ways it could have gone wrong. How much she had lost. How much more she could have lost. Not just kingdoms. Worse than nations. What she clung to -- a dog worrying a bone, lock-jawed and drowning -- but what still slipped away.

SPOILERS for the Crimson Flower route

Read it here on AO3 or read it below the cut

"I have the face of a young executioner.

I am the last temple,

the communal dressing room

where girls wear nothing underneath,

where you find yourself on your knees

offering up

both throat and key."

— Rosebud Ben-Oni, I Am Your First World Problem

Edelgard had been sitting upon the Imperial throne all day, and her lower back ached. The pain was not helped by her outfit, severe and too-tight, bedecked with curling horns in place of a crown, and crimson-lacquered armoured plates in place of silk. It had been designed to inspire fear, not comfort. Indeed, when the designer had fitted her for the first time, he had tried convincing her to leave herself space to breathe. Edelgard in turn had glared coolly at him, and ordered him to tighten the corset another centimeter. His face had paled. He had ducked his head with a mumbled apology. He did not mention human comforts again.

On a good day, this outfit wavered on the bleeding edge of what she could handle. On a day like today, Edelgard folded herself into it as if folding herself into the brazen bull. She counted down the seconds until she could be alone and shed these layers like a snake.

It took every measure of self-control to not hasten her stride. She could not afford another slip now. She had already forgotten to eat that morning, and had been scolded by Hubert for her transgression, grave as it was.

Her footsteps clacked and echoed down the great halls of the Imperial palace. Hubert stalked at her side, always one step behind her, like a shadow that lengthened in her wake as the sun fell. Even stooped to murmur in her ear, he towered over her shoulder, blade-thin, gaunt, and hawkish. And if she had felt vaguely light-headed before, it was nothing compared to what she felt at his next words in his report.

“The newly appointed ambassador to Brigid arrived earlier this afternoon. And your uncle has delivered you a gift to your personal quarters.”

Edelgard could not help herself; her stride faltered. “What?”

Immediately, Hubert stopped. “Do not worry, Your Majesty. I have scoured it for any sign of tampering or traps, be they magical or otherwise. I confess, I was a little disappointed to find nothing at all wrong with it.”

A small furrow wrinkled her brow, and Edelgard resumed her walk towards her personal quarters. “What is it?”

“A piece of furniture. And a rather gaudy one at that. I would have sent it to the kindling piles, but we can’t rightly refuse it. Not yet. Not without rousing his suspicions.”

“Hmm,” she said.

The late setting sun slanted through the arched colonnade, filtering through the stained-glass windows and painting her in stripes of bold colour. The summer heat prickled against her skin even at this late hour. She could feel the sweat gathered between the wings of her shoulder blades, at the backs of her knees, the crook of her elbows, and the nape of her neck. She had to resist the urge to shrug against her outfit. She endured the heat as she always did, with vigilant silence.

Hubert’s report was, as always, timed to perfection so that it finished just as they arrived at the entrance to Edelgard’s personal quarters. He left her there, not daring to come inside, as courtesy demanded. And he was unfailingly courteous, even when she wished he would not be. She dismissed him with a nod. Servants opened and closed the doors for her. Inside, a half-legion of ladies-in-waiting dropped into deep curtsies upon being in her presence.

Edelgard spared them not a glance. Her gaze already roved around the chamber for anything out of place, but there were no new pieces of furniture that she could see. Perhaps it had yet to be delivered. Perhaps it resided through one of the doors and into the vast complex beyond; this was only the receiving chamber, after all. In times of convalescence or emergencies, she could conduct matters of state from this very room without alerting any scandal. Her rule had not come to that. Yet.

The most senior lady-in-waiting straightened, and began leading Edelgard through the rooms without needing any instruction. Stiffly, Edelgard followed. Being in her personal quarters at the palace did nothing to relax her. If anything, it achieved the opposite effect. She stood too straight, too poised, hands clasped and chin high, as though posing for an official portrait or a new profile for coinage.

One of the sitting rooms had a balcony overlooking the capital, its walls wrought entirely of windows that flooded the space with light and air. She was not led to that room. She delved far from it, trailed by a host of ladies-in-waiting past numerous parlours and studies, past the personal armoury and bedchamber -- the latter spread with a massive four poster bed -- and into the ablutions chamber.

The room was barrel-vaulted and sheathed entirely in gleaming stone. Here, no sunlight could reach. To compensate, numerous candles had been lit, their flames wavering over pools of pale, melted wax. The air was cooler here, but not by much. The bath had already been drawn. Water steamed within the great claw-footed marble basin. A rune at its base glowed a dull coal-red, maintaining the water’s temperature for as long as she required.

Edelgard halted in the centre of the chamber, a streak of scarlet against a backdrop of immaculate white. It quickly became apparent what gift her uncle had presumed to give her. In a room made all of stone, a wooden vanity had been placed along one wall. It was a gilded monstrosity, its panels hand-carved and darkly stained. It would have taken seven strong men to lift, and even then they would have struggled to bear it to and fro.

Worst of all was the mirror perched atop it. Silver-backed and enormous, there was no hiding from it in this room. Her lips pursed. She could see her reflection narrow its eyes fractionally, could see the coldness wash over her face and settle into her skin like a mask until she looked like she had been carved from polished marble -- a statue brought to life and draped in cloth to appear human, always striving, never achieving.

She quickly looked away. "Get rid of it."

"But -?"

Edelgard did not repeat herself. She did not have to.

A number of ladies-in-waiting were attempting to lift the vanity, but it refused to budge. Gold-gilded wooden legs squealed a centimeter across the stone floor. Her teeth clenched. She could feel the muscles strain until her jaw ached.

He had done this on purpose. He knew she hated -

“Stop,” she ordered, and the ladies-in-waiting froze, waiting for her command. “Just cover it. I will have it moved later.”

There followed a collective sigh of relief, then silence. Nobody dared speak without her permission. The senior lady-in-waiting conducted the others in absolute silence. A pale sheet was draped over the vanity, but it was large enough that the legs were still clearly visible.

Edelgard faced away from the vanity. The doors to the chamber shut, and ladies-in-waiting began the ritual of disrobing their Emperor. Edelgard remained standing throughout the entire affair, though she cast a sidelong glance towards the stone seat beside the folding screen. It was almost amusing: after a whole day upon an uncomfortable throne, and all she wanted to do was sit back down.

It began with her cloak. No less than three ladies-in-waiting were required to unclasp and lift the heavy mantle from her shoulders. Carefully they folded it away as though handling the imperial flag, while two others unbuttoned her outer coat to reveal the kirtle and yet more layers beneath. The most senior lady-in-waiting stood behind her upon a stepping stool to unweave the complex ramshorns hairstyle. Even while Edelgard was wearing her heeled boots, the lady-in-waiting probably did not need the stool. Edelgard was short enough to make such things unnecessary.

Even as a student back at Garreg Mach Monastery, Edelgard had used her station to secure herself private ablutions and rooms. Before she had been the head of her respective House, some of the other students found this preferential treatment at best odd or at worst grossly unjust. Rumours circulated. She did nothing to stop them. They suited her. And besides, they soon faded. Few could remember such frivolities now.

There was a moment in the ritual when they all knew the stop, to leave her alone and still mostly clothed. She would do the rest without them. It was not customary. Custom demanded they strip her bare and scatter her with rose petals while she soaked in the water and their ministrations.

Hang custom.

It was not that she did not trust them. All of her personal staff had been hand-picked and vetted by Hubert himself. There could be no doubt as to their loyalties. It was only that she did not trust them with this.

One of the ladies-in-waiting however, the newest and youngest of the lot, did not know this crucial step of the ritual. Either she had not been informed, or she had simply forgotten. It mattered not. She reached for her Emperor’s gloved hand. The moment Edelgard registered the touch upon her fingers, she snatched her hand away and jerked a half step backwards, nearly knocking the senior lady-in-waiting from her perch.

Everyone in the room went still. The transgressor’s face was downturned, flushed and bright with a mixture of mortification and visceral fear at having erred so wildly.

Edelgard’s eyes were cold enough to burn. When she spoke, the room’s occupants shivered. “Leave me.”

A flurry of quiet activity. They moved to carry some of her clothes and most of her armour away, but she glared so fiercely that they ducked their heads in bows and scurried away with empty hands. The door shut behind them, and still Edelgard found it difficult to breathe. She blamed the corset.

All that remained of her outer layers were a single pauldron and the modified farthingale. She hated herself a little for the way her gloved fingers trembled at the straps holding the red-lacquered plate into position.

It had been years. She should be over this by now.

The armour dropped to the floor with the clang of stone against metal. She kicked the hoops of her farthingale aside. Only one half of her hair had been successfully undone, a curtain of tangled white over one shoulder from where it had been tied in a braid not moments previously. Edelgard yanked out the pins and decorative horn from the other side, hard enough to hurt. The dull pain grounded her. She tossed each ornament and stay to the ground as well. The horns gleamed in the low candle-light like monstrous golden teeth.

She was loosening the whale-bone corset when there came a tentative knock at the door.

With a small grunt, Edelgard tore the damned corset free and dropped it alongside the other garments. She put as much steel into her voice as possible. “I do not require further assistance, Bess.”

The voice that answered did not belong to her senior lady-in-waiting, but it was familiar all the same. “I’m afraid it’s not Bess.”

Edelgard’s eyes widened. It took her so long to work up a response, that Byleth’s muffled words came through the door again. “Of course, if you still want me to leave, that’s fine, too.”

Before she could properly think through the implications of what she was doing, Edelgard had crossed the room and pulled open the door.

Byleth blinked down at her, and something almost like surprise crossed her features. It was difficult to tell with her. “Oh. I thought you’d be -”

“You thought I would be…what?”

Byleth shook her head. “Nothing.”

A tense silence fell. For all that she had rushed to open the door, now Edelgard stood at the threshold, unsure of what to do.

As if she could read her mind, Byleth said, “Should I come back later?”

Edelgard opened her mouth, paused, then shook her head. “No. You might as well come in.”

She only widened the door enough for Byleth to slip inside before shutting it once more. She did not lock it. There were no locks on any of the doors in her personal quarters; she forbade them. It was utterly irrational, the lingering fear. Even if it was to lock the monsters out, it felt too much like locking them in.

There was little chance of being disturbed, unless an emergency arose. Her ladies-in-waiting knew better. Not even the newest addition to her staff would presume to intrude. Especially not after what had transpired here today.

Byleth had not ventured far into the bathroom. She stopped by the stone seat strewn with ivory velvet and cloth of gold. The imperial double-headed eagle had been carved into the seat’s low curule-like back, so that it appeared almost to be a throne, a miniature of the one Edelgard occupied in the grand throne room three stories below them. Edelgard had never sat in this one. She far preferred the cushioned seats in one of her sunlit studies.

“Long day?”

Byleth had always been difficult to read, and that had not changed much. One of her hands was resting on the back of the chair, but she was looking down at the mess of armour and clothing on the floor.

Edelgard sighed. “No longer than usual.”

That awkward silence again. It itched at her like a blanket made of rough-spun, lousy wool.

It wasn’t that they had never been alone together before. They had. Edelgard could feel the ring Byleth had given to her not more than a week ago, strung from a chain around her neck beneath the remaining two layers she wore. The circle of metal warmed against her sternum. Much as she would have liked to wear it upon her finger, it would not fit beneath her gloves. And she could not risk certain parties knowing that she had a heart, or that it belonged so wholly to a single person.

Her uncle and those that slithered in the dark had much to answer for. She had never relished bloodshed, but a thrill shot up her spine at the thought of wielding the executioner’s axe while her uncle bowed his head over the block.

One day. Hopefully sooner rather than later. But not yet.

“Is everything alright?”

The question jerked Edelgard from her darkly-inclined reverie. Byleth was studying her with that piercing gaze, as though she were picking Edelgard apart into pieces that could be reassembled later.

Edelgard shook her head. “I’m -” she searched for the right word, “- impatient. That’s all.”

“I find that hard to believe. You are one of the most patient people I know.”

At that, Edelgard huffed out a bitter laugh. “If only you knew.”

Byleth’s eyes softened almost imperceptibly. It was so small a thing that Edelgard nearly missed it. Not long ago, even that much expression would have been all but impossible for Byleth to achieve. “You can tell me, if you’d like.”

For some reason that made her chest ache. Edelgard had to look away to compose herself. “Maybe -” she cleared her throat. “Maybe some other time.”

“As you like.”

Byleth never pushed, always waited. The irony did not escape her -- that Byleth would say such things when she herself was the most patient person Edelgard knew.

Byleth tilted her head towards the deep marble basin full of water. “In any case, I shouldn’t keep you from your bath. Would you prefer I sit here? What’s under this thing, anyway?”

“I - Please don’t touch that.”

Byleth’s hand fell without question from where it had been lifting up the sheet that covered the vanity. “Alright.” She cocked her head to one side, curious and waiting.

Edelgard had never been good at asking for things. She was accustomed to delivering orders, or otherwise manipulating her opponents to bend to her will. Fighting a war was easier than begging for scraps of affection from a woman she had pined after for years.

Her cheeks burned. Romance had never consumed her thoughts in the past. Not like this. Now, all it took were a few fumbling covert kisses in the last week to turn her into an indecisive wreck. Kissing Byleth in a shadow-clung corner of the palace was a far cry from asking her to do -- whatever this was. She did not rightly know herself, which only infuriated her all the more.

Slowly, as if Edelgard might bolt at any moment, Byleth crossed the room to stand before her. She placed her hands on Edelgard’s stiff shoulders, a warm, gentle weight. Edelgard stood perfectly still, not daring to breathe, not daring to blink out of some irrational fear that it might shatter whatever illusion this must have been.

“Your ladies-in-waiting aren’t here.” Byleth trailed her hands down Edelgard’s arms. “Would you like me to help instead?”

The very thought made Edelgard’s mouth go dry. She had to swallow in order to speak. She almost made the mistake of explaining that her ladies-in-waiting never helped beyond this point, but cut herself off before doing so. “I would. Yes.”

Wordlessly, Byleth’s fingers curled around one of Edelgard’s wrists. Edelgard did not even realise she had clenched her hand into a trembling fist until Byleth lifted it, pressing a kiss against the back of her knuckles. The warmth of her mouth transferred through the layer of white silk.

She had lost a glove once at the Monastery, and spent nearly an hour anxiously clenching her hand into a fist and tugging down the sleeve of her uniform until Hubert noticed the problem. He had promptly stripped off one of his own gloves and offered it to her with a courtly bow. She had not hesitated to put it on, and as she had pulled it over her wrist, shame and relief had washed over her in equal measure. The rest of the day was spent worrying if anyone noticed the discrepancy in her glove sizes, after which she rushed to the market at the first opportunity to purchase a new pair for herself. She had been delighted beyond measure when Byleth found the lost item weeks later, and returned it to her.

Now, Byleth turned her hand over and gently unfurled each of Edelgard’s trembling fingers. When she began to slowly tug the glove free, Edelgard could feel herself tense, every muscle going taut. It took an unspeakable effort to not snatch her hand away, to not shrink back, arms cradled to her chest, and beg Byleth to leave.

The white silk fell away to reveal skin just as pale, and at the centre of her palm a puckered, circular scar as though something had been driven through her hand. Edelgard could not stop the shaking. She waited for some sort of reaction, some noise or comment, but Byleth gave away nothing. Long cool fingers stroked along the lines of Edelgard’s palm, moving up to push aside the fabric of her long sleeve and reveal the uneven bands of scar tissue around her wrist, orne from years of chafing against the manacles that had bound her underground.

Byleth dropped the glove to the floor. The other soon followed. Edelgard’s sleeves were billows of snowy cotton without the constraints of her armour, and Byleth unbuttoned them until they could be folded neatly back up to the elbow. The scars that extended all up Edelgard’s forearms were too uniform, too precise to be anything but deliberate. Byleth’s fingertips ghosted along the patterns of ropey scar tissue. She stopped when Edelgard flinched from the touch at the sensitive crook of her elbow.

“Is this alright?” Byleth murmured.

Edelgard had to swallow down the lump in her throat, and still her words held a rasping burr. “Yes. I’m just - I’m not used to being touched.”

Or seen. She spent most of her life clad in irons or in steel. The only skin she showed to the world was her face and the unblemished top of her spine.

Byleth’s hands fell, and for a brief panicked moment Edelgard feared she may have given the impression she neither liked nor wanted this. Her mouth dropped open to speak, but words failed her when Byleth sank to her knees and placed a hand to the back of Edelgard’s leather-clad calf.

“May I?”

Edelgard did not trust herself to form words. Her only answer was to lift her heel from the ground, and allow Byleth to slowly work the knee-high kidskin boot from her leg, like peeling the rind of a fruit. Edelgard lost a bit of height with one boot gone. She sucked in a sharp inhalation when Byleth’s thumb stroked gently against the damp cotton stocking at the hollow of her ankle.

Byleth did not rush through anything. It seemed to take an age for the second boot to slip free. The only thing Edelgard could hear was her own uneven breathing. One of the flames on the opposite wall sputtered upon the wick, and Byleth reached beneath the hem of Edelgard’s frock for the clasp that held the stocking against her upper thigh.

Edelgard temporarily forgot how to breathe, and she did not even have the excuse of the corset anymore.

When undressing herself after her ladies-in-waiting had departed, Edelgard never gave any thought to ceremony. Undressing and bathing were and always had been exercises in shame. She would race to cover herself up once more, barely drying herself off before yanking a clean frock on, the dry cotton clinging to her still wet silhouette.

Byleth’s hands, roughened with callouses, brushed against the naked skin of her inner thigh, and Edelgard had to steady herself by gripping Byleth’s shoulder, tight. Of all the acts Edelgard had heard about or read about occurring between two people, this felt by far the most intimate. Byleth on her knees, revealing Edelgard piece by excruciating piece. By the time Byleth had dragged the stockings down her legs, Edelgard was clutching her shoulders like a lifeline, biting her lower lip, and praying for buoyancy in a sea of drowning heat.

The scars stretched all along the column of Edelgard’s legs, terminating with the same circular scars at the tops of her feet as were in the palm of her hands, as though she had been affixed to a wooden structure by iron nails. Edelgard had screwed her eyes shut, trying to imagine she was not trapped in a room that felt too far underground to be located four stories in the air.

Byleth’s shoulders gave way beneath her grip, and suddenly Edelgard had nothing to hold onto. There was a soft touch at the top of her foot. A hiss escaped her, and her eyes snapped open to find Byleth bowed and pressing a kiss to her ankle, where a pink line was scored into her skin. Byleth’s mouth followed the scar up, up, all along her calf and to the curve of her knee, until Edelgard had to clench her teeth to keep a whimper from escaping.

Her frock was still partially laced shut, but it had slipped down one shoulder to reveal a network of scars. They intersected at the base of her sternum, branching out from her heart like the boughs of a tree, apple-red, or perhaps like a nest of serpents curling ‘round.

Byleth paused to speak, and her words tickled against the skin of Edelgard’s thigh. “You’re so beautiful.”

“Praise isn’t really necessary,” Edelgard gasped.

“Would you like me to stop?”

“No.”

Byleth hummed a wordless note. For a moment she said nothing. Her fingers stroked along the webbing of scar tissue as if in admiration.

“I’m so glad,” Byleth whispered, her words slightly muffled against Edelgard’s leg. “I’m so glad you let me in.”

She was not speaking of this room alone. Edelgard’s fingers curled in her lash-dark hair. Byleth worked the frock over Edelgard’s hips, and pinned the fabric at her waist with her hands. The heat was suffocating. It must have been the marble tub still filling the air with drifts of steam, like eddies of water until the entire chamber seemed submerged. Edelgard could feel the flush darkening her skin, mottling her cheeks and neck a rosy hue.

Byleth kissed the notch in her hip, and Edelgard tightened her grip. One of Byleth’s hands trailed down to nudge aside one of Edelgard’s legs, a gentle encouragement to widen her stance. The frock draped across the backs of her knees. Edelgard felt a sense of unreality as she bent one knee to lift her foot just slightly off the floor.

It was difficult to remain still, when Byleth’s head moved between her legs. Her hands were fists against the back of Byleth’s head, holding her in place. The rest of the room might as well have not existed; it faded into a vast expanse of white marble and white noise. Edelgard hardly registered the echo of her own harsh panting. Byleth’s mouth was a constant heat, warm tongue moving ceaselessly against her. Edelgard squeezed her eyes shut so she would not have to see her own scarred legs bracketing Byleth’s black-clad shoulders.

She could not stop the jerk of her hips with every slow swipe of Byleth’s tongue, accompanied by a sharp gasp encloistered behind clenched teeth. They were enshrined in a golden-tinged mist that rolled about their ankles from a bath filled with holy water to anoint the last Emperor of Adrestia. Edelgard had never been one for prayer -- not for many years now -- but the sounds that escaped her could only be described as wordless pleas, until she came with a stifled cry.

When Edelgard’s thighs began to tremble, and she was half bowed and shaking, Byleth pulled away. Edelgard nearly staggered upon unsteady legs, but caught herself against Byleth’s shoulders. Byleth remained kneeling on the floor. It could not have been comfortable. The stone must have been cutting into her knees.

“Wh-What -?” Edelgard rasped. “What brought this on?”

Byleth hummed against Edelgard’s inner thigh. “Do I need a reason to want you?”

Swallowing thickly, Edelgard opened her eyes. Byleth’s cheeks were flushed, her mouth slick. A curl of dark hair was plastered to the side of her neck. For all that, her gaze was steady, focused.

Edelgard frowned. “You are awfully cool about this.”

“You’re wrong.” Byleth teased the skin of Edelgard’s thigh between her teeth. “I’m so nervous.”

Edelgard’s breath caught in her chest. “You could have fooled me.”

“Could I?” One of Byleth’s hands still cradled the back of Edelgard’s knee. Edelgard twitched when she traced a senseless pattern there with her fingertips. “I thought you might prefer me like this, based on your reactions this last week.”

“What do you -?”

Edelgard did not finish that sentence. She had hoped Byleth would not notice how she had shied away anytime she tried removing her gauntlets and gloves. How convenient it was that they never had a moment of time to spend along together. How Edelgard always had some important duty she had to attend to without delay when their kisses had grown too heady.

“Was I wrong?”

It took Edelgard a moment to reply. “No. But is this what you want?”

The corner of Byleth’s lips twitched in a small smile. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

Edelgard gave a fistful of Byleth’s hair an admonishing little tug. “So flippant for one on their knees.”

That earned a soft laugh against her hip. Byleth grinned into her stomach, then rose to her feet. "Shall I bathe you as well?"

A thrill of fear shot down Edelgard's spine. "No," she said too quickly and too harshly. Angling her body away, she smoothed the frock about her knees once more, and added, "What I mean to say is: I would prefer you join me, instead."

Byleth’s expression softened. “I’d like that.”

The moment Byleth reached for the stays of her own outfit, Edelgard averted her gaze. Watching her undress felt too sacred to witness. She fumbled with the last laces of her frock before pulling it over her head. The ring she left hanging around her neck on its chain. She never took it off, even while sleeping. She did not look around while Byleth continued to disrobe -- bits of armour and cloth falling to the floor in heaps of black silk, black gorget, black breastplate. Instead, Edelgard hoisted herself into the bath using the stepping stool left behind by her senior lady-in-waiting.

The water lingered on the border of too hot. She slipped beneath the surface regardless, ignoring the way her skin prickled and reddened. Her pale hair darkened to an aged ivory in the water, and she hastily doused her head. As she rose back to the surface, Edelgard wiped the water from her face, raking a hand through her hair just as Byleth was using the stepping stool to join her.

The basin was enormous. It would easily accommodate three or four people. Normally, Edelgard huddled in one corner as though it had been partitioned off like the chamber of a heart, or perhaps like a cell, inviolable. On the other hand, Byleth sprawled, her arms propped against the sides of the marble walls, and her legs extended so that they encroached upon Edelgard’s usual empty space. Slowly, Edelgard allowed her own legs to stretch out. While there was enough space they could have not touched at all, Byleth purposefully tangled their legs together and ran her foot along the back of Edelgard’s naked calf.

The water was murky with suds and fragrant oils. A few flower petals drifted between them, gathering at the edges of the basin. Byleth rubbed one white rose petal between thumb and forefinger. “I’ve never had a bath quite as nice as this before.”

“Mmm,” was Edelgard’s non-committal reply. Her mouth thinned. She had told Bess that she wanted no fanfare whatsoever where her baths were concerned. Scented oils were one thing, but flower petals were beyond the pale.

Byleth was watching her curiously. She was mostly obscured by refractions in the water, but Edelgard’s gaze drifted down nonetheless. Edelgard would never understand how someone could be so confident in nothing but their own skin.

“I feel I owe you an apology.”

Byleth cocked her head. “What for?”

“Being so -” Edelgard flicked a rose petal away from herself, her nose wrinkled. “- unavailable.”

“You don’t need to apologise for that. I know you’re busy.”

“Yes, but I want to make time for you. For us.”

There was something vaguely guilty in the way Byleth toyed with a lock of her own water-darkened hair. “I may have asked Hubert about your schedule in order to find out when would be the best time to -”

Edelgard’s eyes widened. “You -? You mean you told him that this was what you were going to -?”

“What? No!” Byleth sat up straighter in the bath, sending ripples throughout the water. “I just wanted to know when you might be free without bothering you.”

With a sigh, Edelgard tipped her head back so that her neck rested against the lip of the basin. “I am sure he has already put two and two together. It’s not like I have been particularly circumspect about us. Not as much as I should have, anyway.”

Byleth’s eyes were dark and intense. “I trust that he would never let anyone do anything that was against your best interests. Not even me.”

“Some people might say that sort of presence in one’s life is stifling and unhealthy.” And though Edelgard drawled, her mouth was quirked in a fond smile.

“If Hubert thought his presence was detrimental to your health, he would fling himself off the highest tower in the capital.”

Edelgard made a face. “I really should talk to him about that.”

Byleth grinned. “Face it, El: he’s a lost cause.”

The use of her family pet name still sent a flood of warmth rushing through her that had nothing to do with the heat of the bath. Edelgard could feel her shoulders relax incrementally. “You’re probably right.”

The silence that settled over them lacked the stiffness that had been present before. Edelgard looked on indulgently while Byleth gathered as many rose petals as she could. She even sent a few drifting along in Byleth’s direction with a flutter of her fingers against the surface of the water.

Not once did Byleth mention the scars. She had her own, after all, though none as extensive or deliberately placed as Edelgard’s. Hers were little nicks and cuts from years of mercenary work in the field, where access to the healing arts were far less easy to come by than they were in monasteries or palaces. Indeed, Byleth never once mentioned any aspect of Edelgard’s odd behaviour.

It could not have been a lack of interest. Edelgard could see those dark eyes following the complex patterns of scar tissue. She could remember the way Byleth had lavished physical attention upon them not moments ago; the phantom touch of her mouth made Edelgard shiver at the mere memory.

She wanted to know the story behind every sword, ever arrow or dagger that had marked Byleth’s skin. The desire for that intimacy of knowledge washed over her like the tide. It was suddenly, urgently important that Byleth know something about her that others did not -- not even Hubert -- and the words spilled from her like a confessional.

“When I was in captivity,” Edelgard grimaced even as she said it; she hated nothing so much as being akin to a songbird behind bars, “there were very few avenues of resistance I could employ. I tried them all. Refusing to sit still during procedures. Refusing to perform tasks. Refusing to eat. Refusing to bathe. They made me, of course. Eventually.”

Force-feeding was a less than pleasant experience; Edelgard did not try that for long. The last of the list had persisted for weeks, however. At least, until her uncle finally ordered her to be bathed by guardsmen. They stripped her and dunked her in freezing water, their hands rough, pushing her head beneath the surface until she thrashed and came up gasping, half-drowned and shivering. After that incident, she was treated to sumptuous bath experiences by ladies-in-waiting -- their tongues all cut out, so they could not speak to her or of her -- as though her uncle were trying to train a dog with the lash and sweets both.

Edelgard was studying the ripples her hand made across the surface of the water. She did not have the courage to look up when Byleth asked, “And did they...do anything else?”

At that, Edelgard snorted with wry laughter. “Nothing like what you’re thinking, no. I was too valuable a prize to be ‘sullied’ so to speak. Especially when they planned to stud me like a virginal mare. I imagine they still entertain such schemes."

Truth be told, one of the guards had dared to peek over his shoulder once while she disrobed. Her uncle had slit his throat. The blood had trickled across the stone floor until it lapped against her feet like the tide against the shore. She had tread bloody footsteps all the way to the bath. The water had lathered, pink and foamy, around her until she could not tell if it was the heat that dyed her skin a blushed coral, or something else.

She dared to glance up now, and an awful chill washed over her. “Please don’t look at me like that.”

Byleth averted her eyes, choosing instead to scatter the petals she had gathered together like a white cloud. They skimmed across the water in every direction. “I really am looking forward to killing them once and for all.”

Edelgard managed a grim smile. “That makes two of us.”

Shaking her head, Byleth dipped her head beneath the water and began to lather her hair clean with a bar of flawless, ivory soap upon a silvered dish that Edelgard knew from experience smelled of cloves and fresh rainfall. She waited patiently for Byleth to finish, at which point Byleth scooted the soap along the floor of the basin towards her.

Edelgard cleaned herself as she always did: with brisk and thorough efficacy. Suds clung to the raised ridges of her scars with every pass of the soap, bringing them into sharper relief against her pale skin. By the time she was finished however, Byleth had tilted her head back, her throat and chest bared. Edelgard was loath to hurry her; not when Byleth looked so at peace.

She thought of all the ways it could have gone wrong. How much she had lost. How much more she could have lost. Not just kingdoms. Worse than nations. What she clung to -- a dog worrying a bone, lock-jawed and drowning -- but what still slipped away.

But for now, in this moment, at least she had this. The past she arrayed like a fan of knives, placing each memory with the blade pointed away as if in the hope they would not cut, and all the while her hands bled.

“Look at my hands,” Byleth had lifted her arms to inspect her hands above the water. “I look like I’ve been pickled in brine.”

In surprise, Edelgard glanced down at her own hands to find that her fingertips had gone pink and wrinkled from exposure to the water. She could not remember that happening since -- well, since before she had been forced to undertake the Crest procedures. She always took baths quickly, never lingering longer than absolutely necessary.

“We should probably get out,” Byleth said even as she closed her eyes and sank down a little further, so that the water reached her neck. The motion meant their legs were entangled more fully together. Edelgard could feel a naked ankle rub against her outer hip.

It was distracting enough to make Edelgard’s breath hitch. She let her hand wander down to stroke lightly against Byleth’s knee, watching for any reaction this might illicit. Byleth opened one eye, and flexed her leg beneath Edelgard’s touch.

For now, those who lingered in the shadows could wait. She had far better prospects in her immediate future.

Edelgard patted Byleth’s knee, then rose, dripping, to her feet. “Come along, then. Let us repair to another room.”

“Any room in particular?” Byleth asked, standing to follow.

Fluffy white towels were neatly folded into cubby holes inset along one wall. Edelgard crossed over to grab a few, one of which she tossed in Byleth’s direction. “I know of at least one that has a rather spectacular bed, if I do say so myself. And I know that of the two of us, only one has been properly taken care of this evening, which is -- quite frankly -- grossly unjust.”

“How very charitable of Your Majesty.”

Towel wrapped around herself, Edelgard strode over to Byleth. She had to rise up on her toes to kiss her, but by the time they parted, Byleth’s spine had bowed to accommodate her. Edelgard teased her thumb against Byleth’s lower lip, and murmured, "Let it not be said that I am not a generous Emperor."

NOTES:

I am aware that with my mention of farthingales and all that, Edelgard wouldn’t have been wearing a corset but a precursor called “stays.” I elected to stick with “corset” under the basis that I wanted my audience to know what the heck I was talking about.

#edelgard #byleth #edelgard/byleth #fe3h #fire emblem #roman writes

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syxjaewon · 4 years

Text

part 2 ; a candlestick

the next time lianna blackhound sees her niece, the girl is a dream of lines and curves, young for her class, small for her age, a heartful face and doe-like eyes, stepping onto the stage as graceful as the dawn, as light as a feather, as demure as a swan, all white and pearl lining, her clothing clinging and cascading off her body like liquid, with silk and chiffon dressings. she is the pride of her teachers at the academy, careful and considerate, beautiful even at eleven years old, a promising debutante, a joy to the guild, liked by her peers, all praises and prayers left in the wake of her dove-like footsteps with every step she takes, because they all know the path she will walk, the glory she will bring them, the honor, the renown, the grandeur.

she takes center front before the other girls, the music playing around her as the lights dim in the great hall, lianna’s eyes lost in the crowd of many, all polished, all beautiful, all wealthy, the gala reception golden and dripping with class, paused for a momentary respite of beauty. it’s a simple dance, nothing too alluring or drawing about it, but the young girl performs it with ease and confidence, every gesture a blessing, every look and toe-point a gift, her eyes deep, her skin radiant, her hair long and dark as a midnight river; all of these she spins and uses like the casting of a web, a spell upon every heart in her audience, all their attentions glued, all their notices ensnared.

and lianna feels a deep sinking sensation in her gut.

she knows that’s her blood, she knows that’s her kin by more than just supernatural connection but also because, gods, she looks so much like vera, but also because her danna leans over towards her in the darkness and whispers that the child’s name is chaerin devereaux, and the last name sticks into her skin like a thousand needlepoints, a torture chamber prickling from her insides out. she fights herself desperately to stay still, to remain muted, to nod and smile and blink into the fantastical beauty of this girl-child, trying not to feel as though she’s betrayed everything she once promised her own sister.

she hadn’t been able to keep a connection with the baby, with vera’s baby, not when her father was so powerful and so dedicated to owning her, as though it were a competition, as though it were a vengeance plot, as though he held some sort of vendetta against vera and anything that scented of her, anything that resembled her, anything about her he could still reach and strangle. there hadn’t been anything lianna could do, no channels to call down, no favors to call in, an unsuspecting woman in a hurricane of forces much more powerful than her. once the baby had left her grip, that was the last time she’d ever touched her.

but now, here the baby is, insinuated into the guild, given to the very house that her own mother had fled from, tried to save her from, dedicated to a list of ideals that would turn her into a celebrated creature of loneliness and half-life, of pretences and false loves and ceremony only for others’ sake, forbidden to be a mother, a wife, a queen. and she is perfect at it. even still a child, lianna can tell, from the brimming, gleeful looks of her house mistresses standing nearby, her teachers, from the greedy, hungry stares of the men in the assemblage, their mouths dropping open as if to swallow her up before she’s even fallen through puberty, lianna can tell this chaerin is going to be a goldmine, a diamond, a flower to bloom, to kiss, to fuck.

lianna excuses herself from the great hall with as much dignity as she can muster, after the dance is finished, to vomit in the bathroom. and then she builds her plan of attack.

******

it takes a year of transfers and connections, a year of careful steps in the right direction, every move made to bring her closer to that temple on sihnon, every development mindfully advanced to garner her further down a specific path, and sometimes things get messy, sometimes things get dirty and despicable and horrible, but when lianna makes it past that threshold, when she finally earns her posting in ‘the house of the blooming rose,’ she enters the estate with her pride and her determination at the forefront, the signature of a blackhound woman if ever there was one. she becomes ordained and appointed the house mistress of the shrine without contention or confrontation, adhering to her new post with grace, control, and balance, and the first thing she does is introduce herself to her new pupils, the young girls and boys who will be the companions of the future.

at her first house dinner, she embeds herself in the minds of all her students as a lady of composure and elegance, her beauty displayed for all to see, her status clear and secured as the set companion of a powerful scientist who has recently moved to sihnon for study, her danna and his family settling in nicely and comfortably, everything in accordance, everything in harmony. and when lianna looks down the table, she sees her girl, chaerin devereaux, like a beam of light from heaven itself, and has to utilize every inch of self-control and forbearance not to bleed out of her seat and scoop the child up, hug her tightly, mourn her endlessly.

her resolve is simple for the first few years. to culture her, to acquaint herself with her, to become a trusted advisor and friend, always willing to lend an ear, lend her office, lend her space. chaerin lives up to her potential and all the eminence that had cycled around her before, her serenity dimmed only by her inclinations for running, her tendencies to laugh too loudly, to frighten too easily, to fall prey to meanness too unguardedly. there is a love in chaerin that blossoms unabashedly, the garden of a girl growing greener with every passing day, her limbs lengthening out, her figure maturing, the fluorescence of her design evolving into loviness. lianna can’t tell if vera would be heartbroken over it or not.

but she does her best in her sister’s place, raising the girl as well as she can with as much focus as she can, teaching her the sharper ways of existence that still caters to the guild bylaws of conduct; martial arts, swordplay, psychology. her accomplishments in dance and calligraphy are challenged by no one else in the house, the young girl a pinnacle object to the guild, a representation of all the wondrous, amazing possibilities for younglings in society; she becomes the zenith of charm and delight, the darling of sihnon.

lianna does her best to coach her in a way that allows her what she wants, but protects her from the hells that she knows exist outside these hedges.

“mistress blackhound?” chaerin’s voice breezes into the small wall-less room, each side held up by pillars and wafting curtains, a large dias with candles and incense to one end, the door on the other. lianna looks over her shoulder to the intruding girl, still small for her age but undeniably beautiful.

“ahh my love,” she responds, smiling gently as she relaxes slightly, her posture folding down as her knees ache against the pillow on the floor facing the altar, her kneeling body sensual and balanced with every maneuver. “what are you doing here? shouldn’t you be asleep? it’s late.”

“yes, mistress, i know,” chaerin responds, even as she steps closer and joins lianna on the kneeling pillow, the wind blowing in to graze against her face, tickle her hair, ruffle her clothes. “what are you praying for?”

lianna watches her for a moment before reaching out and brushing a strand away from her niece’s ear. “you, darling.” five years since their first encounter, four since their official meeting, and now lianna only has a few more months. “for your naming ceremony tomorrow. are you excited?”

“does nervous count? it’s a synonym.” chaerin turns back to the candles flickering in the open air, her voice lilting and soft as a lily, verging on a whisper as though she could disturb the thoughts that have been poured in here, every devotion bestowed on this place for a hundred years. “i don’t want to mess up.”

“you won’t mess up,” lianna assures her, reaching for her hand in comfort. “i’ll be with you every step through it. and afterwards.” afterwards, when the lessons change, when the reality of what the guild has turned chaerin into, what they have tricked her into becoming, what they have molded her to be, finally sets in. it’ll be months, near to a year, and then… “until your graduation.”

“will i be forced out then?” she asks, letting her uncertainty show, her meandering thoughts, her worries. lianna knows this is only for her, these troubles are their secret alone; chaerin never reveals her weaknesses to anyone else, their bond of friendship solidifying stronger than she could have ever hoped. “will i be made to leave the house?”

the lump in lianna’s throat threatens to choke her. “for a little while. for your first client meeting. yes.”

the silence that breathes between them is agony.

“you’ll be a registered companion then,” lianna continues, because she must. “you’ll be under contract and have to abide by all the laws and rules we’ve covered already. but then, after some time, you’ll be allowed to come back.” the glance chaerin gives her nearly destroys her resilience to get through this, nearly convinces her this isn’t worth it, this isn’t what either of them should be doing. “you’ll have more freedom to come and go as you wish, as long as you follow the established conduct.”

freedom. a word that means so much. a word she isn’t sure she’s ever truly felt.

“i have a favor to ask of you,” chaerin says, inhaling deeply and bringing herself up, changing the subject. “as a gift, for my naming ceremony.”

lianna tries to smile. “yes?”

“every companion is offered the chance to continue as they are or become anew at this stage. take a new name for themselves, take on a new persona for themselves.”

“yes.”

“i would like to take yours. lianna. if that’s alright.”

again, the silence spreads between them like a wasteland, dry and empty of all words, all thoughts, lianna as wretched as a witch on the outskirts of the rim planets, starving for things unmade.

chaerin continues, obviously noting the way lianna’s voice has failed her, her excuses tumbling off her lips in a nervous jumble, hoping to convince, hoping to persuade. “it’s just that-- it’s such a lovely name, i’ve always loved it more than ‘chaerin,’ chaerin sounds too childish, and i think lianna sounds graceful and exquisite, like you, and i, i wish to be more like… you.”

the last word is really what cracks lianna open, splits into her like a explosion, the sharp sting of it crashing into her fortified mind as though she is made of glass, as though she has always been a fragile creature, a china doll in a world of hammers, and the sob that falls from her lips is painfully loud and catastrophic. her face crumbles like a dam, her stance deteriorates, and she heaves herself up to her feet, backwards, away from the girl, away from her niece, throwing herself against one of the pillars that hold up this house of rose and ruin, her eyes shutting, her equilibrium upended.

chaerin is distraught, standing up immediately, her eyes wide and confused, while lianna cries, while lianna digs her fingers into the stone, while lianna burns herself out on her sorrow and regret. “mistress?”

“i’m so sorry,” lianna begs, pressing her cheek against the cold, unfeeling surface of the pillar. “i’m so sorry. i’ve done you so much diservice.”

“no!” chaerin approaches her quickly, her hands outstretched as if to catch her, fingers wrapping around her lady’s elbows. “no, i greatly respect you. i’m thankful to you, mistress blackhound. i will always be--”

“you don’t understand.” lianna wipes at her face, her tears and her past and her betrayal staining her, rotting her heart as it beats against her chest. it takes her a few moments, but she gathers herself up enough to press her back against a pillar, her eyes pinned to the world outside, the world at her fingertips, all of sihnon beautiful and disgusting. “i’ve been lying to you. i’m not who you think i am.”

“what?” chaerin asks, timidly. “who are you?”

and now for the brunt of it, now for the truth. “i knew your mother.” chaerin is about to say something, but she lifts her hand for quiet. “your real mother. mrs devereaux married your father, and he is your real father, but the woman who birthed you was--” her voice hiccups, breaking and then scratching onward. “she was a companion at the time. her pregnancy meant she had to be excommunicated, but your father wanted you, wanted to raise you.” the watery cadence of her tone begins to bleed into her words. “or at least i thought he did, i thought he planned to raise you, not give you to this, send you to the guild like some sort of joke.”

“you think the guild is a joke?”

“i think you deserved a better life!” lianna snaps out of desperation, finally really looking at chaerin, looking at this girl, at this child on the eve of her adulthood, and understanding that vera had been right all along, vera had known this would happen, had wanted lianna to stop it, to protect her daughter from it. vera, who is somewhere out in the verse still, hopefully in her freedom.

freedom. vera had always said the guild doesn’t give freedom. lianna finally understands what that means.

chaerin’s face takes on a distant, shattered look, empty and forlorn, knowing there isn’t a reason for lianna to be lying, there isn’t a reason for her to believe or disbelieve her. these words are set before her feet, falling between them like petals and it’s her choice to either trust in them or not. but something in the way chaerin’s face fractures and darkens slightly makes lianna guess that chaerin has had these inklings with her own family for a while now. what sort of manner has devereaux raised her in, what sort of questioning leering must she have endured from his wife? when chaerin speaks, it’s little more than a murmur against the wind. “who was my mother?”

lianna swallows even as more tears fall, breathing out the name she hasn’t spoken in sixteen years. “vera noriko regalis mon blackhound. she was my sister.”

“sister…” chaerin repeats, as though the sound of it is echoing through her mind, down a deep tunnel, down a dark well. she doesn’t look up at lianna, her gaze pinned to the grass. “you’re my…”

lianna nods, feeling the weight of the universe and all its stars bearing down on her, unworthy of the word ‘aunt,’ unworthy of her kin, her lineage, her family, unworthy of the storm that was her sister. “i’m so sorry.”

behind them, the candlesticks flicker and shift and burn, dwindling down and down into dribbling wax, their dim flames of light casting long shadows, as the two women stand motionless for what feels like forever, what feels like a pocket of space untouched by time, the both of them silent and lost inside themselves, rectifying what they’ve always known with what they know now, what they had once with what they have left. and it’s excruciating.

“chaerin,” lianna tries after a while.

“please excuse me, mistress, i should get some sleep.”

******

the next day, chaerin devereaux changes her name to lianna blackhound, in reverence to her favorite teacher, and begins her ascent into a proper registered companion.

#verse one. lianna #backstory #this is the story of the blackhound women

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seekthemist · 5 years

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Omg 12 with Lamen 😻!!!! Thank you! Love your fics!

Anonymous said: “79 Lamen, for the smut prompts pleaaaase 😋”Anonymous said: “12 Laurent and Damen”

“Don't be so rough. there can’t be any marks.” (x2) + “You don’t need to cover up the bruises/hickeys.”

CCCCCCOMBO MONDAY at the smut supermarket!As with every number past the #35 there is a disambiguation depending on where you sent this from (mobile or pc) but I went with my gut feeling on What The People Want.Partially under the cut, and E-rated

Other Captive Prince fills: Lamen #47 ; Augandros #96(107) ; Lamen #99(110)

From this prompt list!

The room was golden with candlelight, intimate in the partial shadows cast by the canopy. The curtains of it were of white linen, almost hanging from the marble of the high ceiling–more meant for filtering the sea breeze than actually keeping heat in.

This was custom in Ios, familiar to Damen like breathing, even though he now occupied the room of the King rather than the quarters he had grown in.

The current predicament would probably be alien anywhere, because Laurent had the unique ability of morphing all things and places he touched into a new shape, in Damen’s eyes.

He turned his hands, testing another grip, and pulled again at the restrains around his wrists. The fabric was so richly adorned Damen was basically sure Laurent had tied him with pieces of his own Veretian garments. Still, they didn’t budge, not even under the considerable strength Damen exerted on them.

“Don’t be so rough,” Laurent scolded him, with an exaggerated stress on his words that definitely felt like mockery. “There can’t be any marks.”

Damen didn’t suppress the impulse to roll his eyes. “And whose fault would it be, if there are?”

Laurent huffed, looking at him from above, “Certainly not mine, I would say. I’m not the one pulling like this.”

“You’re the one who wanted to test his knots.”

“And aren’t they excellent?” Laurent cooed, with a thin smile. “Would your ship masters be proud of me?”

The mental vision of Laurent showcasing a pair of thoroughly tied up wrists to the hardened seamen in charge of Damen’s float was as entertaining as the reality would probably be. He had seen Laurent spending the last weeks on Akielon nautical books and he was looking forward to another you-won’t-know-what-hit-you show.

“Overjoyed, I’m sure.” Damen leaned back against the pillow, not pulling anymore–for the moment. “Are you also planning to lend me over to them and see how well I work if they hoist me up a mast?”

“Don’t be ridiculous you would weigh down the sail!” Laurent countered, trying to stay serious and instead breaking into laughter two seconds after.

“So you won’t tell them,” Damen deduced, his voice low and sweet enough to coax Laurent to caress along his bare arms, soothing, and check on the ties. Pulling on them had tightened the knots, but not enough to be numbing.

“The point is never in telling, lover,” Laurent murmured, kissing at the curve of Damen’s elbow. “Merely in suggesting.”

“How will you suggest to them about the toy that you commissioned?” Damen asked, his body getting more tense at every contact, at every second that Laurent spent drawing this out.

“Mmmhn, that’s kind of complex, isn’t it?” Laurent’s voice went even lower, so suggestive it gave Damen goosebumps. “What should I suggest to them? That you tolerated it for the love of our marriage? That I made you enjoy it? That you loved it?”

The tone was enough to make Damen’s body tense–a different, more spontaneous wave than the one he inflicted himself before. Lodged deep inside him, the plug was dense glass, perfectly polished and slick, heavy on spot that sparked with sensitivity.

He groaned and Laurent weighed down on his lap with more purpose, exacerbating the sensation. Damen’s cock twitched uselessly, deep inside Laurent. Laurent took that little shivering breath that assured Damen he wasn’t the only one feeling this.

“That you loved it, then,” Laurent whispered, a maddening undertone of a moan between two vowels.

“I would love it even more if you moved,” Damen half-begged, half-bargained.

For a second he almost hoped his wish had been granted, Laurent’s hips moving in a narrow circle. Then wider. Wider still, with his back bending. He was the most alluring of visions, strong muscles and white skin, that little surprised expression when his own cock twitched as if Damen’s cock inside him was a novelty every time. Laurent was such a glorious rider, he would be glorious now, riding Damen.

Then Laurent stopped.

They both breathed heavily, bewildered.

“Convince me,” Laurent hummed, when he could trust his voice not to crack completely.

Damen felt a wild sound drawing from his throat, one that always made Laurent’s eyes go wide. He pulled against his restraint again, the fabric knotting tight against his wrists. But nothing gave in, definitely in no way that would allow Damen to flip Laurent around the bed like he meant to.

“Come closer,” Damen asked, instead. Then, when Laurent folded over him, their noses brushing–so close, so intimate–he added, “Turn your head.”

The shiver of anticipation ran between them, from Laurent to Damen, skin against skin. It made Damen smile, knowing how eager Laurent was–how he must knew what was coming and yearned for it.

Laurent turned his head to the left, and Damen nosed along his right ear, blowing the hair away with a little huff of breath. That was enough to make Laurent swallow hard, so Damen did it again–just for the sake of it, just to feel Laurent clenching around him with barely any stimulation. It was a bit of a strain for Damen’s neck, to lift his head up and cant it to the side, but it was worth it.

Damen opened his mouth and caught the skin just below Laurent’s ear into a kiss.

“Mhn,” Laurent hummed, very still for a second. Then Damen sucked lightly, flicking his tongue against the soft skin, and Laurent’s spine lengthened in subtle squirming–his hard nipples rubbing on the span of Damen’s chest. “Ah…” Laurent broke into something more substantial, when Damen let him go.

It would mark, with the same ease it was turning red already, even in the shadow cast by Laurent’s own body over his.

“Again?” Damen suggested, grinning a bit.

It took Laurent a couple of seconds to inhale thinly and nod.

Damen kissed him again, and again, over his warm and beautifully sensitive skin–so close to his hair, behind his ear, in spots close enough to each other to trace a little path.

At some point through it, with his fingers digging hard and desperately on Damen’s shoulders, Laurent began to move. He didn’t acknowledge the fact that Damen had convinced him, but the rocking motion started and then went deeper, and deeper.

“You won’t cover this up, would you? The mark of my kisses…” Damen groaned, running his teeth over the shell of Laurent’s ear without biting down.

Laurent didn’t reply with anything but a broken whining moan, jumping in his throat at the same rhythm of his motion over Damen’s lap.

Damen watched him unraveling and let himself go as well, catching Laurent’s lips in a kiss just as Laurent came all over his chest.

“Ah,” Laurent stressed, shivering and still riding off his pleasure.

The dug of his nails might probably leave a mark as well. It was this thought exactly to tip Damen over the edge, pulling desperately at his restraints as his his body bucked and arched with it.

Later, unbound from the headboard and combing Laurent’s hair slowly, Damen asked, “Will you really not cover my marks?”

“Will you not cover mine?” Laurent replied, sleepily, from the crook of Damen’s neck.

“Maybe,” Damen laughed under his breath.

Laurent settled better against him, a deep sigh releasing the weight of his body more fully on Damen’s body. “Then, maybe.”

It was as close to a yes Damen could get from Laurent, without jeopardising his games, and it let the feeling of it lulling him to sleep.

#Captive prince #Lamen #damen x laurent #My Writing #ALL THE PROMPTS

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dunmerofskyrim · 5 years

Text

“It’s bound to something. That’s the way with them, curses. Always are. Have to be! Like…” Llolamae screwed her face tight, almost scowling with concentration. “Imagine a knot. The complicated fisherman’s kind. There’s loops and there’s twists and there’s, like, knots tied to knots. But if you know how it got tied, you know how to undo it. See?”

“I think so,” said Simra.

The sun was setting in Vedith’s garden, already halfway hidden behind the high mountainsides that walled the valley in. Pink sky. Heat and green and growth or not, it was still Winter, and the days were short, the nights dark and sudden.

“How’s that help us?” said Simra. He was fidgety with second thoughts he was trying not to have. His knee trembled as he sat by the water, boots and footwraps off, and cleaned his feet in the cold of it.

Funny, how quick an ‘us’ had cropped up. Him and the mer he came here to kill, and the girl who guided him to the place where he could do it. Funny, how sometimes when you call something funny you call it that so as not to call it something else.

“Well…” Llolamae sat in the elbow of a thick and gnarled tree, legs crossed under her. She cocked her head, frowning. “Knots, right? A pull on the right part, and it comes undone. That’s curses. Causalities and conditions, all hung on a central contingency.” Tutored words, told off pat. She closed her eyes and nodded then, smiled a little, like she was proud to have remembered a part of some long-ago lesson.

“I understand that alright. But say you come across a knot you didn’t tie, and don’t know how to tie. Not much more you can do than just fumble at it, is there? Pick and scrabble. Hope your fingernails are just the right length and your luck’s just right to come across the right bits. See what comes loose…”

“Aye…” Llolamae admitted. “I’d best get started then.”

Simra’s back straightened and he turned full around through his waist. Raised a wet leg onto the streamside and leaned chin on hands, hands on knee. He looked at Llolamae, brows low and creased. “On…fumbling?”

“Did you not hear me?” Llolamae dropped out of the tree in a flop of feet and falling cloth. “Just sort of got to start feeling round the edges of it, seeing if I can find the thing. Contingency. The thing it’s bound to.”

On his feet now, Simra drew up close to Llolamae, lowering his voice. “Why? I mean, like it or not, I’m on this path now. I could’ve killed him. Sort of still don’t know why I didn’t. But what about you? What’s your reason? Sympathy? Loyalty? Whatever Vedith knows about the torquestone?”

Llolamae shrugged and gave a faint simple smile. “Have you not seen Master Vidanu’s Tel? I don’t want to sleep in a hole under canvas anymore, waiting for a proper spire to grow. Vedith can help.”

Simra bent low, drying his feet and picking up his boots to hide the smile that cracked across his face. “Wise is what that is!” His best imitation of Vedith; a decent one, at least. “Wise is what I call that!”

Poor taste, might’ve been, to joke about someone just as soon as you get done breaking their fingers with their own teakettle. It got Llolamae laughing though, which meant the blame was shared, halved. You take what chances to laugh as life gives you.

The old gardener had retreated inside, into the creeper-grown cottage, alone. Jokes or not, Simra couldn’t blame him. Reckoned it was best he leave him that way. Wouldn’t be the first time he’d tried to get back on talking terms with someone he’d pulled a blade on, but that was one of many things that didn’t get easier with practice. Leave it till tomorrow. He let Llolamae head inside, alone, and alone he stayed out here.

Fast shadows along the ground. They lengthened and grew with the sinking sun, then spread like damp over everything. Planting beds and plants; the root-branches and branch-roots of the tall things that weren’t quite trees. Walls of the cottage as the dusk came down and a golden light glowed up inside. Llolamae’s magelight. No windows, but it fissured out through the cracks and gaps; made it look like it was breaking apart.

Simra walked in the warm dark, between the beds, the tree-things, the trellis. Careful planted feet, going nowhere. Going nowhere, he told himself, going nowhere; reassuring himself of it, confirming it in his mind. A fragile thought, wavering like a candleflame.

Harder to keep smiling once you’re alone. He made himself breathe from his belly, hand jumping from the hilt of his sword to the sheathes on his knives to the woodbound grip of his sword, uneasy again. If he’d been one for praying, he thought, now would’ve been a good time. Sparing a life — not the kind of thing you want cause to regret. He’d’ve liked cause to do it more often.

…

It wasn’t falling asleep that came hard. Out in the warm dark open, in sweat-stiff clothes, with his mantle balled round his scarf for a pillow, sleep fell on Simra quick and heavy as a Summer’s sudden rain. He’d been so tired. Days of tumbling first this way then that, never knowing where he was headed, or how he was meant to get there. Confusion can exhaust you, same as anything else.

But he woke before dawn, mist on his cheeks and soaked into his outer shirt, world still grey and faded. Couldn’t get back to sleep after that. He picked himself up, stretched, arms above his head and back arching. Regretted it. Grunted a curse and hobbled a few steps, trying to work out the new knots he’d tied in his muscles.

He’d heard of people – swordsmen, ascetics, people with time on their hands – who’d start each day stretching. They’d move from one pose to another, each with their own special names. Scorpion Rears to Strike; Swallow Takes Flight; Spinning Silk. After that it’d be like they’d shaken off all the weight of their body and it’d go through the day light as thought, doing what it was told. Simra didn’t know any stretches like that. Part of him wished that he did. The rest scoffed at the whole idea, or at least the idea that it would work for him. Some things just hurt. Some things, once broke, stay broken.

It was still hot, cloying. The warmth down here didn’t come from the sun, didn’t leave with it either. Just pooled like water, regardless of night or shade. Made you sluggish. It was a warmth that wore you like wet clothes.

A teacup lay on its side, half-forgotten in the flattened grass where he and Vedith had fought. Knees clicking, Simra bent and picked it up, took it over to the watercourse that ran through the garden. Filled it. The cup’s dark glaze turned the water to ink. He splashed a careful measure onto the hobstone and hovered his calloused left palm above it. He felt it grow warm then hot as he fed its enchantment another splash of water.

The teapot was dented, muddy, discarded same as the teacup. He fetched his own – dark fire-blackened bronze, small and sturdy, just more than enough for one person and barely that – and made tea.

With nothing to eat, he drank the whole pot.

There was light enough to read by now. No food, little sleep, but at least he had that. Crouching by his bookbag, he unlaced its mouth and pawed through. Paper, parchment, a book written on slats of wood, laced together like window shutters. Best not to read anything that mattered, that needed to last — not in this wet heat.

He fanned out the handbills and bounties he always had, stuffed and dogeared in the bag’s bottom. Woodcut prints of faces the law, or some lord, or the Temple had put a price on, all of them land and sea and leagues away, useless to him. Old news from elsewhere. Boat refugees from Bravil moved on by measured and merciful force from Narsis; told there’s land for settling in Vvardenfell; meanwhile, the violence in Cyrodiil rages on. Always violence, unrest, discontent — a decade of the same and getting worse each year, and they still didn’t call it a war. First the Concordat that lost Hammerfell, now this ‘violence’, and the Empire still wouldn’t admit it was anything less than whole. For certain it wouldn’t admit it was at war with itself; ablaze with a fire that threatened to spread. That was last year, last Summer, and nothing Simra didn’t already know. Caselif had told him enough for that. He stuffed the bill back in his bag, keeping it for scrap paper.

The writ stood out. It was long, not a scrap but a scroll, and made from fine silkpaper. Not block-printed in bulk, but written in his own formal hand — decent, even with the strike and scratchiness that came with employing a dip-pen to write a script meant for the brushes he’d never quite learnt to use. Ulessen’s scribe had hunched over his shoulder, watching as he wrote it. Now, with the sun rising slow, a change in the dark before it shed any light, he sat in the shade of the trellis and began to read.

It was his usual. He’d done his own writwork for years now, he’d said. Set his own terms. And he never left much room for worming out by one clause or another, not for him, and not for the client. That was the idea. Keep things stark, simple, in plain words, but lengthy enough, detailed enough, to make things seem professional, polished, planned for. In this writ, only the clause about up-front pay was changed. There was no pay at all, just a debt held over him, clear and quiet and smug, sure there was no way out from under it but the way Ulessen had offered him. A backroads lender, you could run from, hide from. A Telvanni magister, one with all the force and power of an old Tel behind them, would always find you.

A shrill from inside the cottage and Simra was already on his feet. It wasn’t the same sound as hurried him up that snowbank two yesterdays ago, and into a triangle of Kogaru with spears and sour red-painted faces. But it was still Llolamae, and it was close enough. He trampled beds, weeds, grasses. Found the door and shouldered it in, hand gone to his knives and twitching one out of its sheathe.

Vedith was asleep, on his back, on a palette of green wood and silky mushroom skin. Open mouth and pot-belly rising, falling. His broken hand was clawed shut, clutched to his chest like a pigeon’s bad wing.

Llolamae turned to look at Simra with ricebowl-wide eyes, sparkling with her grin even before he saw it in her red-gummed mouth, her mismatched child and unchild’s teeth. She shrieked again, words this time:

“I done it!”

Simra slackened and stopped. The hand on his knife-grip, the half-drawn blade, was heavy and weak now. His shoulders sagged. “You figured it out?” He said it flat. Couldn’t muster any feeling into the words, not while his heart was still pounding, choking the back of his throat and fooling his tongue dry and clumsy.

“I reckon so, aye!”

“Then why scream about it?” He saw Vedith was still sleeping, even through all the noise. Seemed Simra had strength left to feel bitter on that, at least.

Llolamae half-turned away, a slight hang to the angle of her head. “Thought you’d be pleased…”

Simra held back a grunt, a huff, and slumped against one of the cottage walls. “I am.” Seemed he had sense left to feel bad over snapping at her, at least. To feel bad all round. Aching shuddering muscles, battle-blood draining sick and away before he even knew it was up and upon him. “That’s good. Really good, maybe.”

“Sort of wondered if you’d come running again, too…” A part-moon sliver of Llolamae’s grin had stayed on her face. She turned it to him now.

Simra shrugged. He was here, wasn’t he? “What’d you find out? Can you break it? The curse.”

“Not with magic, no. Reckon I know how, though.”

#TES #Morrowind #Dunmer #Simra Hishkari #SH Forth and Back #SH New Canon

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jade4813 · 6 years

Note

I love your fanfics so much. The way you write makes me feel like I really am experiencing what the POV character is. I wish I could write like that. Do you have any tips for aspiring writers?

Nonnie, thank you so much! I actually do have some tips. Just stuff that’s helped me over the years.

1) Remember that even the best writers weren’t born that way. The absolute best writers had to get there. They had to practice their writing. They have to go through editing processes. Nobody ever gets the sudden desire to write, sits down, and writes War and Peace - or even Harry Potter - on the first try, with no need for editing or rewrites or polishing. It’s a process of gradual improvement. A lot of what you write, especially at the beginning, is going to suck in your opinion. And that’s okay! You have to suck a little to figure out why you think it sucks to figure out how to make it better! Seriously, you love my writing now, but believe me when I say that before “Year of a Relationship” (the first real story I posted online) were over a hundred really, really bad stories that nobody ever read but me.

2) Read a lot. Not only is it the best way to get a sense of voice and flow and plot structure, but it also is a great way to analyze writing without the pressure on yourself of self-critique. Find a story you know really well. Find your favorite part of it. Why is it your favorite? Why does that speak to you? Then take a step back and take a critical look at how it’s constructed, how the author used their words to create something you really loved. (It is also very useful to do this with writing that annoys you. You can analyze what you consider “bad” writing and it tells you a lot about what pitfalls to avoid.)

3) Embrace the thing in your writing that you hate the most. When you find something you think you “suck” at, it’s easy to try to avoid it. But that’s what you have to embrace and push yourself to improve. When I first started writing, my dialogue was…whoo. Let me tell you. I have a friend who I tried to write a story with, very early on in my writing career. She has since become a writer herself. We still call each other sometimes to remind each other of just how unimaginably bad our dialogue used to be. Seriously. So painful. But you can’t always write stories with no dialogue, so we forced ourselves to write dialogue. Lots of dialogue. Endless streams of dialogue. And we eventually got better. (But that first attempt was…wow. Seriously. You wouldn’t believe. So. Bad.)

Every time I find something I’m less comfortable with writing, I force myself to write it more. It started with dialogue. Then it went to character perspective. Chapter stories. Humor. And, most recently, NC-17. I’d written NC-17 stories before but I was never comfortable with that aspect of my writing. I didn’t think it was very good. So, recently, I’ve forced myself to write a lot more NC-17. It’s the only way I’m going to learn how to improve.

4) Remember that even the writers you love still think there are things that they are trying to improve. There are things they still think they suck at. (Or times they think their writing just sucks in general.) So if you look at your writing and compare it to others and think, “Oh, my stuff is so much worse than theirs,” or even “they do this type of thing better than I do” then remember that every writer feels that way. It’s okay! Just don’t let that feeling stop you from writing.

5) If you’re really feeling like there’s a certain area of your writing that you need to improve but doesn’t seem to get better no matter how hard you try, be creative about ways you can tackle them. You can always ask for feedback from readers. I wrote before I wrote fanfiction, but fanfiction is where I learned to write. Because it’s where I learned what worked and what didn’t and where I got feedback and support I needed to be better.

Constructing a Scene: Having problems even knowing how to construct a scene? When I first started writing, way back when, my friends and I did something we called “storylining.” We created characters based off ourselves. (I know self-inserts or “Mary Sues” get a lot of flack and at a certain point, they should. But when you’re just learning to write, go ahead and create a character loosely based on you! Learning how to write is hard enough if you break it down into chunks. If you’re trying to figure out narrative structure and how to even relate a plot, you don’t need to add an extra burden of characterization and finding a different “voice.” Figure out how to structure a plot with a character you don’t have to think about. When you get that down, you can move into more complex and dynamic characters.) Then we’d figure out what kind of scene we wanted to do and we’d “storyline it.” It was a cross between improvisational acting and writing. We’d play the characters and act out the scene - and since we were all doing it, it didn’t take long before we lost our self-consciousness. Not only did that help figure out how scenes are constructed but because none of us could dictate what the others did with their characters, it was phenomenal practice for those moments when you’re writing and “this scene was supposed to just have Barry talking to Iris and amping up the tension a little bit but now they’re having sex against the door when it was just supposed to be a kiss and oh my god what are you guys doing this isn’t at all what I had planned?!?!?!?!?!?!?!” (As an author, you’d think you are in control of what the characters do. You would be so incredibly wrong.) Plus it was just fun.

Dialogue: Dialogue is one of those things you just have to do. You have to listen and write. For something most people do practically every day, I found it surprisingly difficult to learn how to write dialogue that sounded like something humans would actually say. What helps when you’re starting is just to write the dialogue and then read it out loud. By yourself or with a (supportive) friend. Did it sound natural or jilted? If it sounded jilted, how would you say what you just wrote? Even if that’s not in the voice of the character, the first step is to just make it sound like something that a human being would actually say. Then you can ask yourself if it sounds like something that character would say and tweak it until you can hear those words in that character’s voice in your mind. But even if you miss that, if your reader isn’t left wondering why your dialogue sounds like two aliens trying to approximate human speech (unless that’s what you’re going for), you’ve at least kept them in the story.

Also, reading it out loud will catch some absurdities that even professional writers sometimes do. Like having two characters engaged in conversation in a room with nobody else around say each other’s names every two lines. (”Iris, what do you want for dinner?” “I don’t know, Barry. What about you?” “How about pizza, Iris?” “Barry, I don’t know. How about tacos?” “I had tacos for lunch, Iris. How about Thai?” “Thai sounds good, Barry…” Seriously. Read that out loud and see if you don’t want to scream.) Just skimming the story, you won’t necessarily catch that you’ve done it. But if you read the dialogue out loud, you might notice how ridiculous that sounds. Of course Barry’s talking to Iris! They’re the only two people in the room! Who else would he be talking to? McSnurtle? Iris knows her name! She doesn’t need him to say it! (Seriously, think about the number of times in one-on-one conversation that you’ve ever said the name of the person you were talking to. It just isn’t something people tend to do in everyday life.”

Fleshing Out the Character/Scene/World: Once you’ve gotten the basics down, you can tackle more complex issues in writing. Take a romantic scene between Barry and Iris. On a basic level, you can have them say that they love each other (and there’s nothing wrong with that, particularly when you’re learning to write!). But at some point, you’ll want to set the scene in a way that gives the reader a complete sense of their love for each other that goes beyond words. It’s not just Barry and Iris saying “I love you” but the two of them sitting together on the couch, relaxing after a long and stressful day. Her curled up against his shoulder, Barry playing with Iris’s wedding band as they link fingers together. How you convey that they love each other without needing them to say it.

It’s another thing that takes a lot of practice. But a lot of that starts with just observing - other people and yourself. One way I learned how to do it was to just watch people in public. When I was at a restaurant or a park or a food court or anywhere that I could take a few moments to do so, I’d watch a person or couple or group across the room - far enough away that I specifically couldn’t hear their conversation. What relationship did I think they had to each other? What mood did I think they were in? And specifically what made me think that?

Of course, a lot of that is visual, but don’t forget the other senses. Someone who’s rushing down the sidewalk because they’re late to work is going to be visibly distressed. Their steps are going to be brisk. If they’re wearing a long coat or a dress, the fabric of those items of clothing may be whipping around their legs from the force of those steps. But there are other things going on, too. They may be muttering under their voice. If they’re in heels, maybe their footsteps are louder because they’re walking forcefully as they lengthen their stride. Or you don’t hear their heels at all because they’ve lifted their weight onto their toes, ready to break into a jog at any second. All of that adds to painting the scene.

And there are some things you have to observe about yourself. Have you ever gotten so scared that you could taste your own fear? What did that taste like? Or when you got scared, did you shut down, your brain unable to process what was going on? What was that like? Have you ever gotten so angry that you could swear you could hear the blood rush in your ears? If not, what have you noticed about what you do, taste, hear, etc. when you’re angry? How would you describe that to other people?

It takes a lot of practice. If you don’t know where to begin (when you get to that point), pick a type of sentence or scene you might set using an adverb. For example, “Barry saw Barry look sadly out the window.” Then break it apart. What does she see that makes her think that he’s sad? Are his shoulders drooped? Head bowed? Eyes filled with tears? Does she hear his heavy sigh? Why does she think he’s sad?

If he’s anxious, how does she know? Is he unable to sit still? Moving his legs restlessly? Tapping his fingers on the tabletop? Running his hands through his hair? Biting his lip? Breathing fast? Are his words quick and running together? Is she having a hard time catching his eye? All of that will set the scene.

Anyway, those are the writing tips I thought of off the top of my head! I hope they helped a little, at least!

#writing tips

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churchyardgrim · 7 years

Text

rip this took me fucking eons to finish and did I abuse the italics function and ole grandpa piss’s emotions both? maybe I did, and proud of it. so here’s my flimsy excuse for why greg got upgraded from shitty basement dorm to tower suite, along with some terrible Ye Olde Fancy Talk dialogue practice

Something smells sweet.

Sweet like flowers, like candy, and it disturbs his rest. He can’t sleep with this smell in the air, even ceasing to breathe doesn’t help much; it gets in his sinuses and won’t leave. He hears people moving in the levels above, laughter.

When a servant comes down to fetch food from the cellars Gregory calls to him, and, incredibly, gets no response.

He shouts again, but the serving boy doesn’t even flinch. Ignores him completely. Gregory goes as near to the bars as he can, craning his neck to see; the boy could be deaf, or stupid. Or so used to the monster in the basement that nothing scares him anymore.

But he doubts that last one.

He hisses softly, that smell giving him a headache. The boy comes back into view carrying a jar half his height, full of some packed-away confection, no doubt meant for holiday time. He wobbles under its weight, teetering precariously on each step, but managing the ascent without incident. All the while, he never blinks once.

Gregory’s skin prickles, aware of… something.

He growls to himself, pacing restlessly in front of the cell door. Something’s happening, he knows it, something that gave that boy a thousand-yard stare and the wherewithal to ignore him. But he can’t move from here, not without a key on the other side.

So he fidgets and grumbles and tries not to wonder what’s going on above his head and startles very nicely when a trio of serving girls comes traipsing down, giggling and prancing on the balls of their feet. He stares at them, alarmed by further uncharacteristic behavior; cavorting is hardly smiled upon, among the house staff. So unprofessional!

“Look!” one crows, pointing through the bars, “the devil’s come to visit!”

He reels back, halfway offended — but the speaker’s unlocked his cell door with a twist of her hand and saunters inside, trailed by her chirping friends.

“Will you grant us a wish, devil sir?” one of them sings out, a hand arcing out and lashing around his wrist with fantastic heedlessness. His incredulity dies in his throat, swatting irritably at their fluttering attention. “Grant the wish of dancing, won’t you! Come, before the music stops!”

The giggler’s laughs have become labored, a wheeze audible on the inhales, and she wobbles on her feet. Her weight drags at him, attached to his arm with the determination of the supernaturally fixated.

Thankfully, mercifully, all three of them suddenly cock their heads, ears turned towards the dungeon corridor. Gregory feels the pressure of their attention wane, and draws in a suddenly clear breath.

Two of them dart from the cell, a laugh peeling from one of their throats, faux devil completely forgotten. Their third makes to follow them, but hasn’t got as far as releasing Gregory’s hand and trips, tumbling down like a puppet with cut strings.

He blinks at her slumped form, calloused hand still in his. His first impulse is greed, followed by apprehension: here is a meal practically presenting itself to him, but if he partakes there will be no shortage of punishment. And her addled behavior… perhaps she is drunk? But he can smell no alcohol tang on her breath, just more of that floral sweetness wafting down from the upper floors.

He turns her hand over, watching the blue lines under the skin, contemplating. Mentally addled, but apparently undrugged… waltzing straight into his cage, but very likely a trap…

He licks his lips.

A crash from above shatters his indecision with the sound of broken glass; he jerks his head up, hearing elated shrieks and laughter. What is going on up there?

He stands, dropping the serving girl’s unmarked wrist. She and her flock have left his cell door wide open, and he’s got no qualms about taking advantage of this carelessness, at least. He slinks through with nary a sting and heads upstairs, tentative.

No one stops him. No one even notices him.

The whole household is distracted, he realizes. Servants, children, the courtiers; all of them swaying dreamily as they walk, murmuring nonsense at each other. Twice he hears groups of people bubble up into charmed laughter at something he can’t see.

He doesn’t like it.

Whatever spell this is is tugging at him too, he can feel it. Cobwebs pulling distractingly at his skin, shapes seen out of the corner of his eye that vanish when he tries to see them properly. He wants to leave, to flee this house while the hunters are distracted, but the sun, the sun… It’s midsummer, the haze of heat outside making him wince just thinking about it. Maybe he could steal a carriage, bully the horses into cooperating, but it’d be a dicy thing even with someone to drive the beasts. He’s not even sure the seal on his breast will let him go. And something bids him to stay, filling his sinuses with sickly sweet rose smells. Something wants him here, among all these dazed and wandering people.

Something catches his eye; here, among slow-moving sleepwalkers, a flash of bright quickness. He follows it, lengthening his strides, and it comes into focus as a figure nestled in the crook of a chandelier’s arm, mere feet from a ceiling that stretches four or five bodylengths above Gregory’s head. As he gets closer he can see more detail, the figure resolving into an apple-cheeked boy, hair honey-yellow and tousled, dressed in shockingly green finery. His body is lean, and Gregory guesses sixteen summers at least. He’s got the look of someone in a growth spurt.

“What are you doing?”

The youth looks down, his face blossoming in surprise. “What do you know, a corpse! How unusual!”

Gregory scowls, glaring upwards. “What have you done to this place?”

“Hm?” The youth swings from his perch, hooking his legs around the arm of the chandelier and hanging upside-down to get at the jeweled bauble hanging at the very bottom. “They are but dreamers, corpse! They only dream.”

Seeing this feat, and the way the upside-down view made the boy’s features clearer in the light, Gregory suddenly understands. “You are the Fair Folk.”

The boy grins angelically, the planes of his face seeming suddenly alien. “Aye! A lord in my own right, I am!” He twists the bauble free with a delicate snap, and tucks it into the folds of his seafoam clothes.

He drops down suddenly, twisting in midair to land on his feet, light as a feather. “You, though, pose a problem. You do not dream!” He moves languidly around Gregory, eyeing him from all sides. “Perhaps the mist isn’t strong enough… ah, the dead are such tricky things, magic will roll off you as water off a duck!”

Gregory scowls, trying to keep the fae youth in sight — though who knows how old this creature really is? The Fair Folk only look old as a disguise, and are otherwise eternally young. “Stop babbling, what is it you’re here for?”

“Hmm?” He stops in front of him, tapping his chin as he looks the vampire up and down. “Oh. Politics, really. Opportunities arise, you see, and must be taken advantage of before the window closes.” He grins cheekily. “Don’t worry! It’s nothing to do with you. Won’t even know I’ve been here, in and out like a flash!”

Gregory opens his mouth to argue, to press more information out of the boy, but cool hands cup his face and shock him into silence and.

Oh. Oh.

The fae youth has pressed his mouth to Gregory’s, and shock paralyzes him until the fair lord swipes his tongue — sweet, like honey — between his captive’s lips. The taste and warmth make Gregory groan, rational mind bowing out; his hands twitch abortively at his sides.

“Sleep,” this beautiful boy murmurs, breaking the kiss and making Gregory whine with need — he wants more, he wants…

But he’s falling, unable to hold himself up, and his head hits the polished flagstones with a crack he barely feels.

“Sleep, and dream beautifully.”

—————

Gregory does dream, in his deep daytime sleeps. He dreams of red, red nights, when he still had his freedom and could sate his baser urges as he pleased. Sometimes, he dreams of his human days, and he hates these more than he hates the nightmares that plague him wearing the faces of his captors.

But now, under a Green Man’s spell, he dreams of love.

He walks through a rosy mist, following a scent that is all of his loves at once. He is suffused with it, filled to bursting with adoration. It is not the burning desire he knows so well, that drives him through his endless undeath, it is not want; and he has no name for this thing that is not want.

His steps are sluggish, turning to catch voices beckoning him. “Gregory,” whispers Peter’s voice, and it’s been so long since he’s heard it he almost doesn’t recognize it, “this way, this way, here.”

“My love, my draugr, hurry,” urges Torsten, all tenderness, and Gregory wants to weep.

“You fool,” Adelaide murmurs, “you utter, utter fool.”

And under it all the voice of his last love, that which will never leave him but which he will also never, ever have enough of; the throbbing of a live heart, full of rich, priceless blood. His basest vice, the key to his endless appetite.

Oh, he loves them all! He is shot through with love, crippled by it, and still he staggers on, choking on cloying, floral air. He has no awareness of his surroundings, nor of his fellow prisoners in this vague, foggy place. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters, except following the unseen objects of his adoration.

And so it is no surprise that when, after an empty trackless time of wandering, he finally sets eyes on the source of these beckoning voices, he throws himself at the figure without a second thought.

But he moves as if through thick syrup, his limbs unhurried. The mist has thinned a little, now, enough for arched windows and a vaulted ceiling to be faintly visible, and the crouched shape that seems to flicker; he sees Torsten’s braided mane, Peter’s open, vulnerable face, Adelaide’s hands—

Have they always been marked like that, the dark silhouettes of vines fanning out from her wrists?

But he can’t dwell on that, he can’t, because his love recoils with a cry and Gregory almost sinks his nails into his own stomach in shame before he realizes that their gaze is not on him. His vision pivots, sweeping around, and— there.

A second shape, sweeping through the fog, and even dazed as he is, Gregory can recognize the murderous intent. He moves before it’s even registered, fighting through the haze for footing and traction and lashing out with an animal snarl.

To the utter surprise of his hindbrain, he hits something. The figure goes flying, flickering and skidding and rushing back at him and Gregory braces his feet, hands curved into claws, and meets his enemy head on. It jitters, faces morphing, and Gregory throws a nameless raider to the floor, parries the return slash from an armored Crusader, and smashes his own mocking, bloodthirsty face into the marble flagstones.

You killed her you killed her the others you just couldn’t save but Adelaide you killed her.

But something shifts, at that cracking impact of skull on stone. His mind clears, a fraction, some of the suffocating cloud lifting from his sight. His combined love is gone, replaced by an unfamiliar man kneeling, gasping, and the tidal wave of loss that sweeps through him is almost enough to make him lose his grip on

on the

the fucking fae boy, face snarling and catlike and suddenly the magic comes crashing down on his head again, making him gasp and reel and it’s almost enough to make him forget his own name—

But he can never forget his last and final love. The smell of it sings sweet and true through the fog and it is so, so easy to hold this creature down and rip into its rice-paper flesh and gorge himself. It is ecstasy, his love filling him up and making him perfect—

And then the spell snaps like a cut bowstring and he cries out in pain and sudden clarity. The taste in his mouth mutates, turning sour like old milk, and he coughs and spits and stares down at the cooling corpse beneath him, its throat torn out and a circle of blood spreading, oozing — it shines, that fae blood, gleaming like an oilspill, like the surface of a tainted pond. Not human enough for his tastes, apparently.

And the fog has lifted, he realizes belatedly. With the death of its maker the spell unravels itself into nothing, freeing his mind from that rosy mist. He scrubs at his mouth, wiping the iridescent red smears from his face as best he can.

There’s yelling. There’s always yelling, he’s starting to get tired of it.

“What’s happened? Does anyone know?”

“The dreams, the dreams, I…”

“That smell, ugh!”

“Forget the dreams, what about the king?”

King? Blinking, Gregory turns his head to look at the man trying to stand, the man that had worn the skin of all his past loves. Suppressing the flinch that comes with this thought, he sees this person clearly now; ermine on his shoulders, rings crusting his fingers. Yes, that checks out.

Fancy that. A king.

People rush into the room and the yelling intensifies. He wants to put his head down and wait until they figure out he hasn’t done anything, at least not to this king of theirs. A few soldiers start on him but are halted by a command from the doorway; Harold. Finally, someone reasonable.

“What happened here?”

It takes a minute for Gregory to realize the question’s directed at him. “Fae trickery,” he says, waving a hand at the corpse still before him. “Something in the air.”

Harold nods, sending a few of his men to secure the grounds, search for any others, and tasks another group with removing the corpse cooling on the flagstones. Gregory stays kneeling, ignoring the household moving around him and trying to tamp down the roiling boil of anger and loss in his gut.

Fucking Green Man. Old wounds are oozing again, torn open by that horrid dream spell, and it’s all he can do to keep his face impassive. Numb. He doesn’t even let himself think because if he starts thinking again he’s going to tear himself apart. Just. Stay still, and wait.

A heavily ringed hand lands on Gregory’s shoulder, making him jump visibly. “The nobility of this beast has impressed me.”

That makes everyone stop, sudden silence falling like a hammer blow. Noble? Him?

The king continues, “The love in his eyes, taking the blow meant for me; whatever his past sins, this absolves him!”

Gregory’s gut twists slightly. It wasn’t for you, stupid man.

The men object. “Sir, begging my lord’s indulgence, this man—”

The king raises his hand imperiously, cutting off their anxiety. “I will not hear of it. My gratitude must be delivered, I command it be so!”

Things happen very fast then, the king being whisked away by an entourage overeager to get him away from the stunned vampire on the floor, Gregory blinking after him in sheer bewilderment.

He is, mostly, ignored by the household then. They have bigger problems and he’s not actively menacing anyone, so they push him down the priority list so that it’s perhaps an hour before Harold seems to remember that he’s there.

“You lot, over here,” he calls to an unoccupied group loitering by the big double doors. He gestures, demonstratively. “South tower, you know the room. Escort him there.”

Gregory’s cognition is still held carefully immobile, so it’s a jolt to his nerves when he’s hauled up by one elbow, a sourfaced soldier landing him on his feet. Mouth twisting, he jerks his arm out of the man’s grip and the sight of the group he’s been saddled with makes his lip curl further.

Meyer’s gang, all watching him with varying levels of distaste.

His eyes narrow but his input is clearly not needed here, as he’s prodded none too gently in the small of the back, and the group falls into lockstep around him, herding him out of the arched hall.

“What did you see?” he hears whispered behind him, one thug to another, and then hears the thump of a “Don’t talk about it, stupid,” reprimand.

Meyer glances back over his shoulder as they walk. “Bet you think you’re hot shit now, huh old monster.”

Gregory’s hackles raise, prickly with stress and the indirect afternoon sunlight making the corridor glow. “And what’s that supposed to mean.”

“Barging in like that, saving the day? What do you think you’re playing at, like anyone wanted you involved.”

“I didn’t ask for this,” Gregory hisses, still-bloodied hands flexing into claws at his sides. “I was lured! And it’s not like you were doing any good.”

That makes Meyer round on him, stopping the escort team short. “You wretch,” he growls, “you don’t know a damn thing about this, it could have been us what got nobility realized.”

He sneers, then. “Did you even hear what that fool king said? Love in his eyes? Hah!” He looms, pushing Gregory back into the wall of his gang and looking contemptuous. “You’re not capable of—”

“Meyer!”

His head whips around, expression schooling sluggishly; Harold gives him a cowing look, long strides eating up the carpeted floor between them. “I thought I gave you an order.”

Meyer scowls, just barely avoiding tucking his hands behind his back like a schoolboy. “Was just poking fun, we was gonna get him there.”

The look Harold gives him is that of patience wearing thin. He jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “Make yourselves useful and line the windows with nails, Agatha’s got the bucket.”

Meyer’s pack grumbles, it’s busywork and they know it, but none of them have the guts to argue. Belatedly, Gregory wonders what Meyer himself saw in the mist.

Harold watches them slink off back down the hall, then turns to Gregory with a look that brokes no argument. “Come.”

He does, silently, through parts of the castle he’d never seen before. Up three stairways, past portraits of ancestors long dead, skirting around the light of the dying day shining through those big, colored glass windows while Harold strides right through it.

At last they come to the second-to-top floor of a tower, after so many turns and spiral stairs that Gregory’s lost all sense of direction. There’s just one door up here, and Harold unlocks it with little preamble.

“Our lady says this is to be yours, now.” He pushes the door open to reveal a room the dimensions of his cell ten times over, with carpets and curtains and a corner of a bed piled high with linens visible from the hallway.

A room. An actual room, for people, almost as far from the cellar as it’s possible to be in this castle. Gregory’s disbelief must show on his face, because Harold sighs.

“You understand, I’m sure, the difficult position we are in now.”

Gregory nods, hesitating to speak. One does not put dogs up in a noble’s bed. Certainly not a half-feral hound with a biting habit.

“This is… mine?” he says after a moment. “Truly?”

Harold’s face remains outwardly impassive. “If the Lady Margaret orders it so, yes.”

Gregory’s eyes narrow. This has to be a trick, a sadistic play. They’re pulling him out of the dungeons for this? On the whim of one measly king?

Harold continues, “I’ll admit, it seemed lunacy. But our Majesty insists it be done, he’s convinced of your good character.”

That makes Gregory laugh, incredulously. He’s under no illusions, at least, as to the state of what could perhaps jokingly be called his character.

Gingerly, he steps over the threshold. Nothing burns, nothing stings, and he takes another step. “In all honesty, I’d much rather be up here than down there.”

Harold rubs the back of his head, a gesture of embarrassed acknowledgement. “That I know. And I can in truth promise you nothing, not before our lady has convinced the rest of the family heads.” That means her husband, and maybe an advisor or two.

“What is your opinion, then?”

“I will not say.”

A moment of irritation; then, “These curtains can be thickened, yes?”

Harold grunts an affirmative, face betraying nothing more than a slight twitch at the question. Something that could be any number of emotions.

Harold leaves, then, locking the door behind him. And Gregory is now alone, in a room that is still too bright for his liking, even with the shades drawn, and more luxurious than anything he’s been inside for at least a hundred years.

His first instinct is to wallow in it. To strip all the pretty things off the walls and floor, out of that elaborately carved wardrobe, pile them all on the bed and go to sleep inside the heap like some sort of demented miniature dragon.

Instead he walks around the perimeter of the room, avoiding the slivers of sunlight around the curtains, and examines everything.

The walls are decorated with fine tapestries, one or two with metallic thread, signifying their value. The subjects he can identify easily; biblical scenes, most of them depicting the same event. [symbolism/foreshadowing wahey, find a good scene to tie in here, and comment on the changing fashions for such things] Underneath them is bare stone; the tapestries serve as insulation as well as decoration.

Opposite from the bed stands a wide fireplace, empty of wood and ashes; this room has not been used in a long while. He supposes firewood will be brought eventually, but probably not until the conflict over his living situation that is currently gripping the rest of the house has played itself out.

More evidence as to the room’s disuse makes itself known in the ornate wardrobe; it is empty, though not horribly dusty. Perhaps he will one day have a collection of noble clothes to fill it with. The thought almost makes him laugh.

The wardrobe is well made, however, and obviously cared for. He runs a hand over the curls carved into its crown, admiring it. The wood is a rich, dark color, lacquered, and it wouldn’t take much work to get it gleaming.

The floors, though. They are stone like the walls, and like the walls are covered in luxurious fabrics, rugs instead of tapestries. A similar concept, executed slightly differently for the sake of function. No one would dare allow the tapestries now on the walls to be walked on.

The rugs are Turkish.

He’s seen that pattern before.

(But the Moor was Tunisian, wasn’t he, not Turkish, so their country of origin shouldn’t make much of a difference to him. Shouldn’t make his mouth taste bitter, shouldn’t make his head hurt with the effort of refusing to look at the memories it brings up.)

But it’s easy enough to ignore them as his eye is drawn to what is arguably the centerpiece of the room, that great, grand, curtained four-poster bed.

He’s almost afraid to touch it. Contents himself, for the time being, with running a hand along its outermost covering, and even that sends a delicious shiver down his hindbrain. There’s honest-to-God velvet here, on top of layers and layers of feathers and linens. He aches to strip down and crawl underneath all those blankets and quilts and pass out for a day or six.

Before he can take the thought further the door to the room opens.

He is startled to find the lady of the house looking him up and down, appraising. Jerks his hand away from the covers almost guiltily.

She says, quite bluntly, “Tell me your position on this whole business.” Not a request. He tries not to swallow.

“Begging my lady’s pardon, I would rather not be in a cage.”

She gives a small hm. “And our adversary, today? What of that?” The word she uses, adversary, has biblical connotations; she knows that he knows it. “I am sure you did not save the king on purpose. It doesn’t seem like the sort of thing you’d do.”

He elects, on his better judgement, not to take offense to that. “My lady is too observant.” His face stiffens slightly, feigned expressionlessness. “What I saw was not what was there. The rest of the household experienced similar things, I am sure. I acted on… false visions.”

Another soft, thoughtful hum. “I see.”

Then, “You understand, we cannot be careless. You yourself have ensured that.”

He suppresses a bristle, aware of his disadvantage right now. One on one, he’s not sure he could beat her. Not during the day, certainly. “Begging my lady’s pardon, but the feeling is mutual.”

She gives an odd little tilted nod, not appearing to disagree. “Consider this a probationary period then. Cooperation and compliance in exchange for… privileges, shall we say.” She brings her gloved fingers to her lips in a thoughtful gesture, looking around the room. “I confess I had been considering something of the sort for a time now. More flies with honey than vinegar. Perhaps one day we might do away with the unpleasantness of chains and muzzles. I have not noticed favorable results out of either.”

He blinks, slightly stunned. “…has it been decided, then? Properly?”

Her gaze returns to him, its intensity banked by contemplation. “Hm? No, not quite yet. But it will be.”

She leaves him bewildered, intimidated, and thoroughly sick of court politics. Even if it is through them that he’s landed in a room like this, he dislikes them.

It’s still light out, afternoon sliding sonorously into evening — one of those long, lingering summer twilights, thick with flying insects and the noise of the world keeping itself going, one amorous cricket at a time. The light out the window still makes him squint, when he peeks out between the curtains. It’s a long way to the ground, from here.

He should stay awake; it doesn’t feel safe to let his guard down in this place. And it will be night soon, besides.

But that bed…

Well, a nap can’t hurt.

#my writing #gregory #pls give me attention

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seadeepywrites · 4 years

Text

leave behind your heart and cast away

Character: Basil Noctis Words: 3132 tw: blood/violence, Chath’s fucked-up headspace

There’s a place Basil goes, sometimes. I can see him retreating there now, as my voice gets louder. If I weren’t so blindingly angry, I might know the right words to bring him back.

Instead, I spit, “You backstabbing piece of shit,” fists clenched so tightly I can hear my knuckles creak.

Basil looks up at me, tension draining out of him, and somewhere underneath my fury, I am frightened. I barely recognize him.

“One could argue I am the one demonstrating appropriate loyalty, actually,” he says, voice as cool and polished as marble — and just as emotionless. There is no reciprocal anger in his face as we face off. There is nothing at all. He’s barely a person, just a handful of crisp polysyllabic words and a blank expression.

That’s how I know how bad this is.

“I thought we were friends,” I say, as harshly as I can. Wanting to see some kind of flinch, even a flicker. I want to know that I hurt him.

But Basil stays infuriatingly, disturbingly calm. “I’m not sure that’s relevant,” he says. “We both report to Hieram, when we are outside the monastery.”

“It’s not about Hieram!” I stomp across the tent, needing to vent some of my rage in movement before I say or do something I’ll regret.

My path takes me closer to Basil, and he steps smoothly out of my way in that uncanny way he has. Like he knew where I was going before I got there. There’s nothing subservient in his posture, and I should be grateful for that, at least. I know how he can bow and scrape when his superiors yell at him, and it would definitely only piss me off further.

He just stands there, hands folded together behind his back, shoulders squared. Symmetrical, balanced, and perfectly, shockingly empty. Like a vacant room. Like a barren field.

I stalk closer to him, towering over him by a foot and a half. His head tilts back to look at me, and I’m reminded of those automatons they make in Ailion.

“I knew you would be angry,” he says.

I snort. “Oh, you did? Great job figuring that one out. You’re a bright one, Sylvaranth.”

For the first time since I started yelling, an expression flickers across Basil’s face, but it’s gone before I can read it.

“I told you what I was planning because I trusted you.” I jab a finger at him. There’s depressingly little resistance as I stab into his shoulder, nothing but bone and sinew. “I trusted you.”

“I don’t really know why,” Basil says tonelessly. “My first loyalty has always been to the monastery. I’m surprised you thought I’d behave any other way.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I guess that was my mistake, huh? That I thought for one fucking second,” I growl, low in my throat, struggling for words, “that you cared more about me than this whole charade.” I wave my hands at the tent around me, at the countryside beyond.

Basil cocks his head. “Charade? Do you not agree with Hieram?”

And fuck, there I go running my mouth again. “Please. Like you couldn’t tell I thought this was a stupid idea. Because unlike you, I actually speak up when something’s wrong. I stand up to him.” I give him my best scathing look. “Not roll over like a dog.”

I didn’t think it was possible for more of the life to leave Basil’s gold-green eyes, but it does. He inclines his head a few inches, and says nothing.

“Holy shit.” I scoff, loudly, the sound just an ugly gurgle as it scrapes past the scar tissue. “Look at you.” Then I lapse into silence, because he won’t yell back at me and he won’t even give me one of his snippy, sarcastic replies, so what’s the fucking point, even?

I fume for a little bit, and Basil continues to stand statue-still. Abruptly, I recognize the position: parade rest. It’s a strange habit for him to have, given everything I know about him. Over the years, I’ve collected a million tiny pieces of his past. I know he came to the monastery from the Spire. I know that while he was there, he was part of the Order Arcanum’s shadowy twin, some illegal organization I’m pretty sure is like, the mafia. And I know before that he did a lot of criminal shit, some of it with a guy called Dorian, whom Basil clearly never means to mention, considering the way he swallows the ends of his sentences when the name comes up.

Earlier than that — Basil’s childhood — things get a little foggy. His accent is clipped and proper and perfectly ordinary for a high elf, but there are times when it lengthens out, vowels stretching into a drawl I don’t recognize and can’t place for the life of me. He never talks about his family. He never explains how he became so prissy and yet so bloodthirsty.

My point is that this little blue bastard has no reason to have military training that I’m aware of, and that means he picked up this behavior because somewhere along the way, his superiors expected it of him. And that means that even without words, even without outward signs of submission, everything about him right now is manufactured to appease me. It punctures my rage, leaving me off-balance, and I scowl at him.

“Look at you,” I say again, quieter this time. “Fuck, Basil.”

Basil says nothing.

I rub at my eyes, a syrupy darkness rising up to extinguish the bright heat inside me. It tastes bitter, and poisonous. I wonder for a second if it’s a bad thing that I’ve cooled to match Basil.

“You think you’re better than me because you don’t have any feelings,” I say. Softer and calmer, but with a vicious edge to it. My hatred has grown spider legs and is scrabbling across the surface of my skin. “But that just makes you more of a freak. At least I care about things. At least I care about people.”

Basil says nothing.

I point at him. “I care about you, but you...” I shake my head. “I’m not sure you’re even capable of loving me back.”

Basil’s eyes widen a fraction, but the rest of his pale face has hardened like a porcelain mask. He says nothing, and continues to say nothing.

I say more. Of course I do. I’m hot-headed, passionate, spirited — all the words that mean fire, that mean chath, because that’s what I am and will always be. So my rage re-kindles, and I rant at him. Just once, I wish he’d lose his cool and raise his voice, but instead he takes it in eerie silence. I insult him until I run out of ways to try to hurt him, until my ragged voice is even more broken than normal. And then I slam my fist on the table, splintering the wood, and storm out.

It takes me less than a day to regret my actions, but the damage is already done.

***

It’s been two weeks. And it’s not that Basil isn’t speaking to me, exactly. There’s not enough of us in Hieram’s little group for him to get away with that and still obey dutifully — and as I’ve found out to my displeasure, that’s really important to him.

When Hieram summons us both to his tent, I can tell he knows something’s happened, but he doesn’t comment. He just raises an eyebrow, instructing us to find the village elder’s house and retrieve the tome inside.

“Feel free to use any strategy you see fit,” Hieram remarks, smirking.

I grunt, seeing that for what it is: permission to get violent. If it’s meant to cheer up Basil, it doesn’t seem to have any impact, as he simply inclines his head in acknowledgement. Then again, with the amount of emoting he’s been doing these days, maybe he’s fucking ecstatic. Who’d be able to tell?

After Hieram dismisses us, I race to catch up to Basil. My legs might be longer, but he’s ridiculously speedy, and he’s not trying to match my pace at all. Almost like he’s avoiding me.

I’m not even angry, anymore. Not after two weeks. My anger burns like my sorcery: hot and fast and bright. And then I’m left with only the cold ashes of regret. Fuck, it didn’t even take two days. Of course I didn’t mean those things I said to Basil, and I certainly didn’t expect them to hit him the way they did. I was just firing blind — I didn’t expect he had any weak spots for me to twist a knife in, in the first place.

Maybe someone who didn’t know him like I do would still think that, but I can still see the blankness in his face, which persists as we pack our gear and head out.

“Ugh, I hate when it rains overnight,” I try saying, grimacing as my boots sink three inches deep in the mud. “It’s like all the bad parts of rain without even getting the storm, don’t you think?”

“I suppose,” says Basil tonelessly. He continues to look straight ahead.

“You wake up all cold and damp, and then there’s all the shivering and sneezing...” I’m rambling at this point, barely aware of what I’m on about. I’m hoping for a sarcastic response, an eye roll. Anything. “But you never really get sick, do you? I don’t know how you manage it. It’s not like you’ve got a lot of body fat to keep you warm. You’re like a fuckin’ scarecrow. What’s your secret?”

Basil shrugs, not dignifying that with a response.

I growl, and give up for the time being. I’m gonna get this skinny bastard to crack, one way or the other. Because I fucking hate this.

The retrieval mission goes wrong — of course it does. Instead of a helpless old lady we can knock around, we find what must be half the men in the village, armed to the teeth, waiting for just this kind of theft.

I don’t have time to wonder how they found out, as I stumble back into a corner flinging spells. From this angle, I could take a good chunk of them out with Burning Hands, but I’m worried for my friend — even if he’s still not really speaking to me.

Basil is getting the worst of it, honestly, which is pretty normal. He’s up against four heavyset villagers with various blunt weapons, ducking and weaving, braid flying. I wince as one of their maces collides with his torso and he gives a pained grunt, stumbling sideways. Another man takes advantage of the distraction to get him across the shoulder with a knife. Dark blood blooms, staining the edges of the long tear in his precious blue coat.

Now that ought to piss him off. Sure enough, Basil bares his teeth and homes in on the guy with the knife, a blur of staff and fists and feet and elbows. Takes him out in a few seconds, heedless of the other wounds he’s accumulating from the rest of the villagers. I grin at the sight of Basil in action — it’s really quite beautiful.

I help where I can with a few well-placed Firebolts, but my savage glee turns to alarm as one of the village men decides Basil’s got enough to worry about and turns his attention on me. I try to back further away, but bump up against the wall in the semi-darkness. I swear vehemently, crabbing sideways, but it’s not enough. I raise my arms, but even my Mage Armor isn’t enough to deflect the blow.

The man’s shortsword is pretty blunt, as far as these things go, but it hurts plenty as it bites into me. Again and again he strikes, as I cry out, reaching for him to try Inflicting Wounds. He dodges easily enough, though, and I can’t quite get a bead on him with my cantrip.

The pain blurs the room around me, and I stagger. Drop to one knee, clutching my side. Am I going to die to some pissed-off merchant with a pointy stick? Because that would really fucking suck.

I can feel my grip on my senses fading, the world turning white around the edges. There’s the distant sound of someone calling my name, and the threatening presence above me vanishes. More sounds of violence: gasps and yells and the crack of metal on wood. I can’t tell anymore what’s me and what isn’t.

Then there’s a hand on my shoulder, green-gold eyes swimming in my vision. Basil’s thin lips shaping words that I can’t really hear, pale eyebrows drawn together. Huh. That’s more emotion than I’ve seen on him these past few weeks. Wish I knew what it was about.

I didn’t realize someone in the room has a sling, but I become aware of it at roughly the same time a fist-sized rock collides with my temple and I drop to the floor, losing my last vestiges of consciousness.

***

When I wake up, I am lying flat on my back amongst tall grass, staring at the glittering canopy of stars above me.

“Ouch,” I say, because everything fucking hurts. I try to sit up, and immediately regret it.

“I wouldn’t move too fast, if I were you.” Basil’s tone is dry and clinical, but that’s pretty typical. He sounds like he’s nearby, and I roll over to try to get a glimpse of him.

He is crouched by a campfire, poking at the embers with a stick, and he looks pretty banged-up. There is a bruise high on one cheekbone, and the slashing wound on his shoulder appears to have bled quite a lot, including through the white bandage he has wrapped around it. He isn’t wearing his coat, and his spindly arms are mottled with more cuts and bruises.

I sit up more carefully this time, ignoring the throbbing in my head. “Ow. How did I get here?”

“I dragged you.”

I laugh a little at that, because the mental image is hilarious. I expect Basil to come back with a pithy reply, but he says nothing. Doesn’t even look up. It reminds me that things are still bad between us, even if we.... even if he...

I put a hand to my head. “Uh, okay. What happened? Did we get the book?”

Basil points with his stick to our bags, where a thick leather-bound tome is balanced atop the pile.

“That’s awesome,” I say with genuine relief. “And are you... um, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Basil says, voice as colorless as the night air.

I do not believe him. I know his ki does some weird healing shit for him sometimes, and sure enough some of his cuts already appear half-healed, clotted and scabbed over. I know they won’t even scar — that his skin will remain disturbingly unblemished, and his recovery time will be half of a normal person’s. None of that makes me worry any less.

“I have some healing potions in my bag,” I say, wondering what the chance is I’ll pass out again if I try to get to my feet. “Or we can get back to the main camp, and we can find Auwenn to—”

“I’m fine,” Basil says again, a little sharper this time.

“You’re clearly not,” I snap, then regret the fraying of my temper as he goes still as stone. Not this shit again...

Basil says, “I’ll take watch,” and rises from his crouch, dropping the stick. He gestures. “You’re lying on your bedroll. Weather looks fine, so I didn’t put up the tent.”

“Oh.” I look down, confirming that I am indeed sitting in my blankets. “Uh. Thanks.”

Basil strides over to the nearby rise in the ground, settling himself so he has a good view over the crest of the hill without breaking the horizon with too obvious a silhouette.

“What are the chances we’re being followed?” I say, tentatively. He seems more likely to respond if I ask practical questions rather than personal ones, and I’ll resign myself to more strategy discussion if it means he’s answering me. I hate this frosty silence, this purely professional relationship. I want my bastard back.

For a moment, I think Basil won’t reply at all, but then he tilts his head to the side a tiny fraction. “I imagine the alarm will be raised in the morning,” he says without looking at me. “Everyone that was in the room is dead.”

I smile. “Great. And the old lady?”

“Searched the house. Couldn’t find her. She may be staying somewhere else.” Basil shrugs. “We likely have a few hours to get some sleep before they come after us. I’ll wake you, and we can move on to keep the head start.”

I notice one gaping hole in his brilliant plan. “And when are you going to rest?”

“I told you,” Basil says, “that I will be perfectly all right.”

“Basil,” I say, nearly hissing with frustration, “you’re bleeding like a stuck pig.”

Basil does turn to look at me now, twisting to gaze over his shoulder with an unreadable expression.

“I know I was mad at you,” I say, and fuck, my voice is close to breaking. I will not cry in front of him. Not now. “But I’m not anymore. And I never wanted you to die. I don’t want you to die.”

“I’ve had worse,” Basil says coolly.

“Fuck this,” I snap. “Is this what it’s going to be like now? You shutting me out? Pretending you’re not hurt until you pass out from exhaustion and blood loss?”

Basil makes a noncommittal noise. I have never wished more that I knew how to throw a punch, if only because he really needs a good smack upside the head. Maybe I’ll have him teach me, if he ever forgives me.

I don’t have the energy right now to argue the point. I lie back again and shut my eyes, fighting a wave of dizzying vertigo and noticing the way the ground spins beneath me even when I can’t see my surroundings. I’m no cleric, but that’s probably not a great sign.

I drift into a fitful sleep, and in the fragmented dreams that slip by, Basil decides to go back and slaughter the village. I dream that I wake up back at camp, not a scratch on me. I dream that Basil’s body is delivered back to us in pieces, wrapped in that stupid blue coat he loves so much.

When a firm hand on my shoulder drags me from the nightmares, I surface to find my face is wet with tears. Unsurprisingly, Basil doesn’t comment on it.

#Basil #Chath POV #Basil backstory #now that I've gotten into the habit of titling things in fanfic style #aka with relevant lyrics #I cannot stop #these ones are from 'Natural' by Imagine Dragons

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scarletrosestolinski1993 · 4 years

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allnaturalsuga-blog · 7 years

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moonlight

Member//Couple: Taegi (Taehyung x Yoongi)

Genre: Light Angst, gangmember!Yoongi

Word Count: 2.835

Prompt: You’re headingout again? It’s two in the morning, at least bring a jack it’s cold out.”

Summary: Taehyung fell in love with the man with skin as soft as moonlight and hands as deadly as the dark.

A/N: I’m slowly but surely finding my way back to my writing groove. I’m still a far ways away from being happy with my writing but I still hope you enjoy!

AU List // Dialogue List // RULES PAGE

It’s the shrill of a phone that pulls Taehyung from his dreams in the middle of the night. Two lights emanating their room. One of which is Yoongi’s phone, also the source of the noise that has awoken him as well as the moon spilling from their bedroom window. It’s bene a while since Taehyung can remember a night as clear as this.

Raising his arms above his head he stretches, body lengthening out underneath the covers. The shrill noise of a ringtone is still filling their room and Taehyung can feel the slightest bit of irritation spread through him as Yoongi remains motionless beside him. Sleep hasn’t’ been an easy thing for Taehyung the last couple weeks. Having his boyfriend beside him was the only thing that managed to plunge him into a steady sleep, but now there’s an annoying piece of plastic and glass on their bedside table ruining it.

Before Taehyung can decide to grab it himself or try and wake the man beside him, the light goes out and the noise disappears. He lets out a sigh of relief as he places his head back on his pillow, body now facing Yoongi as the man sleeps on. The vast difference of Yoongi asleep and Yoongi awake strikes Taehyung. How long has it been since he’s even shared a bed with his boyfriend? A week? Two weeks? After a while Taehyung had stopped keeping track, instead relying on the texts Yoongi would send throughout the day and night to assure him that everything was okay.

Being a relationship wasn’t easy to begin with but being in a relationship where your boyfriend’s life was constantly at risk made things a little messier.

Taehyung had always known about the gang presence in Daegu. Had known that each day people were killed and injured. He knew that he needed to be careful when he was out alone at night depending on the area, and he knew that the restaurant that he worked for was owned by one of the top gangs in the city. Working as a bartender he had come face to face with some of the scariest men you could imagine. Ones with long jagged scars adorning their faces, some with missing teeth, and of course the ones that had stories that could keep you awake at night.

As scary as they could be though, Taehyung knew that if he followed the rules, then he wouldn’t need to worry.

Rule number one; never interview or linger at a table where a deal was being made. The first time that Taehyung had been told this rule he’d been confused, not knowing how he would even be able to tell if a deal was going on. After his first week though Taehyung realized just how obvious it was. The men that were part of the gang were easy to pick out. They had tattoos covering their arms and any exposed piece of skin, and their attire was also enough to scream that they weren’t normal civilians. However, those that took care of the deals were adorned in heavy suits a clear air of authority to them. Those were the men that Taehyung knew better to approach unless beckoned over.

Rule number two; don’t piss the men off. Particularly in Taehyung’s position, who had nothing to do with the gang other than working at the restaurant that they frequented. Every single man here was packing heat on them in some way, the uncertainty came with which ones would be willing to use it on your thirty-minute break out back or after your shift if you pissed them off.

Rule number three; If you hear bullets, duck. Taehyung didn’t need to be told twice about this one.

It had been about half a year ago when Taehyung’s life had taken a sudden turn in events. Taehyung was behind the bar like he usually was. It was a slow night, so he’d spent a lot of it polishing the glasses, eyes scanning the restaurant every now and then. He’d sat down in one of the empty bar stools quietly, Taehyung not even noticing him at first.

“You look too young to be serving liquor.”

Taehyung had nearly dropped the glass in his hand, startled by the sudden deep and gruff voice that had met his ears. Looking up he’d been stunned for another few seconds as his eyes met the owner of the voice. His skin reminded him of moonlight; that was the first thing Taehyung could even think.

“Yeah well, you’re voice sounds like it shouldn’t be coming from a face like that,” and as soon as the words had left Taehyung’s lips he realized that he may have made a grave mistake. Though he didn’t recognize the man, he knew that the chances of him coming in here without having some sort of affiliation to the gang was far more than slim. He wasn’t dressed like the merchants or other businessmen that came in to make deals though either. From what Taehyung was able to see from above the bar, the man was dressed in a simple black button up shirt, the top two buttons undone to reveal an expanse of milky white skin. His hair was a tussled black and his eyes were sharp, critical, and a little scary.

The deep rumble that left the man’s throat though had been the last thing Taehyung had expected, and with a sigh of relief he had poured him a glass of whiskey and kept him company for the rest of the night.

Remembering back to that night how Yoongi had appeared and then looking at him now resting easy in bed, Taehyung struggled to associate the two as the same person. Besides the moment of laughter Yoongi had given him that first night, it was clear that the man was serious and meant business. His eyes were constantly seeking his perimeter as if he were always on edge of something, and while he did smirk a lot, an actual smile was something that Taehyung only saw once in a rare moment. Sleeping Yoongi however was much more relaxed. His features were softened more, lips slightly parted as he breathed, and his brow relaxed for once.

As tired as he was for being disturbed from his sleep, Taehyung wanted to continue to just sit and gaze at his sleeping boyfriend. For so long Yoongi had been away from home, out taking care of business and crashing in other locations. Most of the time Taehyung had absolutely no ideas what it was that Yoongi was doing. A part of him never really wanted to find out.

While Yoongi had let some things slip over the past few months, Taehyung had never found out what his true role was with the gang. What he did know was that his boyfriend did things that would make any mother faint. Yoongi was a clean and fickle man, but even the cleanliest of people can’t wash all the blood away. The amount of times Taehyung had washed his boyfriend’s clothing and seen the drops of blood specked across the fabric. Without asking a single question, Taehyung simply decided if the clothing was worth saving or if it would need to be replaced and then moved on.

Many days Taehyung still sat wondered how his life had turned out this way. How a man, a clearly dangerous one at that had decided he wanted Taehyung by his side. Just like the night he had first met Yoongi, the night that things had gone down this path was also clear in Taehyung’s mind.

Leaving work after a long shift, Yoongi waiting for him by the front door with his car keys in hand and simply telling Taehyung to get it. Maybe it had been the exhaustion, but the idea that maybe Yoongi was going to kill him hadn’t even crossed his mind. He’d simply nodded and followed the shorter male climbing in the other side. They pulled up to what Taehyung could only assume as Yoongi’s place and gone inside. That night Yoongi had kissed him hard on the mouth the moment they’d walked through the door, causing Taehyung to stumble into the wall behind him. Later he would find himself under Yoongi being fucked senseless into the older boy’s mattress leaving Taehyung’s mind a swirling pool of want, desire, and confusion.

The next morning he’d woken early enough, the evidence of their night shown all over his body as well as Yoongi’s. Dark purple marks, bright red scratches littering them both. Taehyung had tried to sneak out, getting dressed quietly and slip out of the home without the other noticing. He almost had too, had been one sock away when he’d stumbled and smacked his hip into Yoongi’s dresser. The noise had been enough to wake Yoongi up his sleep ridden eyes blinking open as he stared at Taehyung. The look had been critical, maybe even a little cold until a small sigh had slipped from between his lips.

“Where the fuck are you going? Get back here, it’s cold without you.”

Taehyung didn’t have any second thoughts as he’d ripped his clothes back off and dove under the covers with Yoongi.

Before Taehyung had even realized it, he had fallen in love.

As much as Taehyung wished they could share a normal love story, he also knew that that may never be something in their future. Yoongi was gone more often than he was around, and when he was back he was often on edge and struggled to relax. Taehyung did his best though, observing him and learning what he could do to help. As the months went by he was at least glad to see Yoongi relaxing in his presence. The man may not know how to express himself verbally but Taehyung still knew how he felt. He could sense it in the way that he touched him, how he watched Taehyung move about their now shared living space; he could tell in Yoongi’s kisses and acknowledgements.

It wasn’t a fairy tale, but Taehyung was happy.

He had been especially happy when Yoongi had finally come home that night. He’d looked exhausted but had still allowed Taehyung to cook something for him. There had been a lot of violence happening lately and Yoongi had urged Taehyung to take time off work. In reality Yoongi had flashed his knife around to one of Taehyung’s bosses, demanding he got time off. Without much surprise, Taehyung was now on three weeks-worth of paid time off. He’d enjoy it more of Yoongi were home however, because if the violence was really that bad then that meant that Yoongi was vulnerable by being out there too.

It was why Taehyung hadn’t woken up Yoongi as the phone went off beside them. Why he had decided to just wait it out and hope it didn’t go off again. Nobody ever called at this time of night for a good reason.

Taehyung had just been getting ready to go back to sleep when the sudden noise of the cell phone rang out throughout the room again. Taehyung had been ready to grab it and silence it, but to his dismay this time around Yoongi awoke, a groan leaving his lips as he swung his hand out to grab the cellphone, eyes still closed as he flipped it open and brought it to his ear.

“What?”

Taehyung laid still for a while longer as he watched his boyfriend’s reaction to the call. Either the news on the other end was minor and something that could be handled by a few commands or Yoongi would need to leave again. Taehyung noticed Yoongi look over in his direction, seeing that Taehyung was awake and motioning with a heard jerk towards the door. Taehyung took the hint immediately and crawled from bed, trudging out of the room. At some point during their relationship Taehyung had made one attempt to ask what exactly it was that Yoongi did for the gang. The question had been returned with Yoongi yelling at him, saying it was none of his business and that he should never ask such stupid questions again. Later that night when Yoongi had crawled into bed, pulling Taehyung against his chest he’d whispered one simple sentence that had taken away all curiosity from Taehyung.

“I do something that if you ever found out, you’d have to be killed. Don’t worry about me or what I do. Just let me keep you safe and you’ll never have to find out.”

From that moment on Taehyung had no longer cared about what Yoongi kept in his office, or what the phone calls were about. He simply turned a blind eye on the matter, just like he was doing now.

The weather outside was getting colder by the day, little drafts sneaking their way into the home occasionally. Taehyung could feel a shiver go through him as he made his way to the kitchen to heat up some tea. He let the kettle whistle before pouring the steaming hot water into one of his mugs, pulling on the tea string to stir in the steeped herbs.

By then it should have been long enough to leave Yoongi alone on the phone, so he slowly made his way back. When he didn’t hear Yoongi’s voice he thought it would be safe to enter their bedroom again. As he pushed the door open he was disappointed to see that Yoongi was no longer in bed, but standing by their closet just zipping and buttoning his black slacks, one of his signature black button ups tucked into it. His hair was still messy from sleep and the dark circles under his eyes were hard to miss on his pale skin.

“You’re heading out again?” Taehyungs asked quietly. His answer came in the form of Yoongi’s silence. Despite the man’s lack of emotion sometimes Taehyung could see on his face that he had some regret.

Letting out a sigh Taehyung abandoned his tea on the bed side table before going across the room to the safe Yoongi had placed there. Taehyung still had the numbers memorized as he spun the dial, letting the door easily fall open. Reaching inside he grabbed the gun that Yoongi always kept safe before turning around and holding it out to Yoongi.

“It’s two in the morning, at least bring a coat it’s cold out.”

Yoongi slipped the gun in the back of his slacks, hidden behind the thin suit jacket he’d thrown over his shoulders.

“It’ll be a quick job, I won’t be out long,” Taehyung translated Yoongi’s words to him saying ‘no I don’t need a jacket, it’ll just get in the way’.

“Yoongi please…if you’re going to make me sleep alone again tonight and worry then at least give me a piece of mind by knowing you’re warm,” Taehyung said in the firmest voice he could find.

In the beginning Taehyung had been terrified to watch Yoongi leave. Never knowing when he’d be back, not knowing if when he did come back if he’d be injured or not. One-time Yoongi had staggered into the apartment, bullet wound in his upper thigh. Taehyung was still bitter that Yoongi had refused proper medical treatment.

Nowadays though as he watched Yoongi prepare to leave, Taehyung felt more of a dull ache. He was still scared but the months he’d been with Yoongi had proven to him that his boyfriend did at least know how to take care of himself.

“Fine.”

Taehyung smiled as he walked towards their closet and pulled one of Yoongi’s thicker coats out holding it open so that Yoongi could slide his arms into it. He turned around once it was on and reached out a hand, letting it cup Taehyung’s face. They stood like that for a short while before he finally leaned in and kissed Taehyung. Despite all the kisses they had shared, they still managed to make Taehyung breathless, his eyes remaining closed a few seconds longer after they had pulled apart.

“Be safe,” he whispered just like he did every single time Yoongi left.

“Of course,” came his usual reply. “I promise I’ll be back before the sun is even up.”

With that he gave Taehyung one more kiss before releasing him and turning, leaving out the bedroom door. A few seconds later and the sound of the front door opening and closing reached Taehyungs ears, and then nothing.

The idea of his tea didn’t sound as appealing anymore, Taehyung turning off the light and slowly slipping into bed. It was freezing now that Yoongi was gone and he couldn’t help the sharp shiver that went through his entire body. The moon continued to shine on through the window, but now as Taehyung looked up at it, he didn’t find it as beautiful. It paled in comparison to the man that Taehyung feared would one day never return.

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