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rainystarters · 1 year

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* ☔ : action prompts inspired by GOTHIC HORROR, DARK ACADEMIA, ETC. some prompts are usfw. add reversed for the muse receiving the meme to perform the action instead. ( adjust scenarios or specify details as needed. )

𝟶𝟷. sender sets a church on fire with the receiver still inside. 𝟶𝟸. sender presses a holy symbol into the receiver's flesh, burning them. 𝟶𝟹. sender declares themselves god to the receiver. 𝟶𝟺. sender begs the receiver for a blessing/prayer before night falls. 𝟶𝟻. sender licks their lips and tells the receiver to confess their sins. 𝟶𝟼. sender takes refuge from a storm with the receiver in an abandoned church. 𝟶𝟽. sender snarls at the receiver, unable to cross the threshold/onto holy ground. 𝟶𝟾. sender laughs, breaking a seal, ward, etc. set by the receiver to keep them out. 𝟶𝟿. sender recites a prayer with the receiver as the shadows darken and writhe. 𝟷𝟶. sender burns the receiver's holy oath away as they pledge themselves to the sender instead.

𝟷𝟷. sender practices calligraphy on the receiver's skin. 𝟷𝟸. sender refuses to speak with the receiver unless it's in a dead language. 𝟷𝟹. sender taps on the windowpane of a café from outside, alerting the receiver. 𝟷𝟺. sender leans over the receiver's writing and makes a noise of disagreement. 𝟷𝟻. sender intimately washes ink from the receiver's hands. 𝟷𝟼. sender worries over the receiver, who has not slept in days. 𝟷𝟽. sender hands the receiver coffee, having learned their favorite without asking. 𝟷𝟾. sender presses the receiver against a bookshelf, needing them now. 𝟷𝟿. sender kisses the receiver in a museum after it's closed. 𝟸𝟶. sender breathes on the receiver's neck as they pick a lock to the secret archives.

𝟸𝟷. sender bites into the receiver's (neck, thigh, etc.) and drinks their blood. 𝟸𝟸. sender's experiment succeeds and brings the receiver back to life. 𝟸𝟹. sender makes an offering at a crossroads to summon the receiver for a deal. 𝟸𝟺. sender digs themselves out from their grave as the receiver reacts in horror. 𝟸𝟻. sender kisses the receiver for a final time, in case their experiment goes wrong. 𝟸𝟼. sender confesses to the receiver that they've promised their firstborn in a deal. 𝟸𝟽. sender cuts their palm and the receiver's to swear a blood oath. 𝟸𝟾. sender forces the receiver to drink their latest alchemical creation. 𝟸𝟿. sender wakes up confused, having been turned into a vampire by the receiver. 𝟹𝟶. sender signs away their soul to the receiver in exchange for a boon.

𝟹𝟷. sender acts out an ancient ritual, with the receiver standing in as the sacrifice. 𝟹𝟸. sender burns the only copy of the receiver's thesis, book, etc. 𝟹𝟹. sender pours wine into the receiver's mouth as the bacchic party grows louder. 𝟹𝟺. sender confesses to the receiver that their parents have cut them off. 𝟹𝟻. sender and receiver try to wash the blood away, but the stain keeps growing. 𝟹𝟼. sender slips their hand under the receiver's clothes in the dark of the opera box. 𝟹𝟽. sender aims an arrow at the receiver and promises they won't hit them. 𝟹𝟾. sender complains to the receiver that a funeral will distract them from studying. 𝟹𝟿. sender dismisses the receiver's concerns that the summoning ritual may work. 𝟺𝟶. sender screams for help as the receiver begins to go mad from reciting the esoteric chant they discovered in a forgotten book.

𝟺𝟷. sender screams at the sight of the receiver's true face/form. 𝟺𝟸. sender offers to hide the receiver as the mob's torches grow nearer. 𝟺𝟹. sender is mesmerized by the receiver and goes to them despite all warnings. 𝟺𝟺. sender is stone-faced as the receiver cries that their lover is no monster. 𝟺𝟻. sender sharpens their blade as the receiver watches in horror. 𝟺𝟼. sender weeps as the receiver tells them they're leaving for the sender's good. 𝟺𝟽. sender proposes to the receiver to provide an alibi for the receiver's pregnancy, even though the child is not theirs. 𝟺𝟾. sender holds the receiver in their arms, the monster now dead. 𝟺𝟿. sender promises not to forget the receiver as they share a final night together. 𝟻𝟶. sender visits the receiver in dreams as they are separated by class, circumstance, etc. in waking life.

𝟻𝟷. sender calls out to the receiver from a distance, their voice echoing in the mist. 𝟻𝟸. sender covers the receiver's mouth as their stalker draws nearer. 𝟻𝟹. sender tells the receiver not to open their eyes until they've escaped the house. 𝟻𝟺. sender kisses the receiver passionately in the middle of a graveyard. 𝟻𝟻. sender tries to light a candle to comfort the receiver, but the flame turns black. 𝟻𝟼. sender locks all the windows and doors, promising the receiver they'll be safe. 𝟻𝟽. sender takes off their jacket and puts it around the receiver's shoulders. 𝟻𝟾. sender reaches out for the receiver's hand in the dark. 𝟻𝟿. sender finds the receiver abandoned for dead. 𝟼𝟶. sender grows confused as they cannot see the will-o'-the-wisps the receiver has begun to follow into the night.

𝟼𝟷. sender's laughter echoes through the halls as they stalk the receiver. 𝟼𝟸. sender lavishes praise upon the receiver's beauty, enraptured by the fresh blood seeping through the receiver's white dress, shirt, etc. 𝟼𝟹. sender catches the receiver snooping and tells them they've been bad. 𝟼𝟺. sender slumps to the floor, realizing the receiver has poisoned them. 𝟼𝟻. sender blindfolds the receiver, promising it's for their own good. 𝟼𝟼. sender locks the receiver in the attic, promising it's for their own good. 𝟼𝟽. sender sings a haunting lullaby to the receiver from the walls. 𝟼𝟾. sender looks in a mirror, unaware the receiver is watching from the other side. 𝟼𝟿. sender sighs, realizing the receiver has found the painting of their former lover—who is identical to the receiver. 𝟽𝟶. sender asks the receiver to swear upon their life that they will not enter the sender's private study, no matter what they hear inside.

#rp memes #rp prompts #action rp memes #rp starters #please don't read or reblog if gothic horror upsets you

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a--world--apart--fic · 6 years

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A World Apart - Chapter Six 1.2

Notes: Ask and you shall receive! Wednesday we’ll post just a sneak peak of chapter 7. Enjoy part two of chapter six! Discusses serious & dark adult topics. Please heed the trigger warnings! Tagged long post for mobile.

Rating: M

Trigger Warning: Assault, Violence

Word Count: 3918

Musical Accompaniment: Florence + the Machine - Howl

Tag List: @writtenbycandy, @hopefulmoonobject, @heatherfilliez, @theroyalweisme, @indiacater, @tmarie82, @enmchoices, @the-everlasting-dream, @diamond-dreamland, @lizeboredom, @drakewalkerwhipped, @youwontlikewherewewillgo, @mfackenthal, @kingliamthirst, @snyggflicka, @debramcg1106, @choicessa, @drakelover78, @starstruckzonkoperatorbat@blackcatkita , @drakewalkerfantasy, @jadedpixiescribbles, @walkerismychoice, @walkerduchess, @hamulau, @simplyaiden-blog, @hhiggs, @drivenbyfantasy, @penguininapinktuxedo, @viktoriapetit @breaumonts

Chapter Six ~ The Beaumont Bash 1.2 May 1914

This night has gone from passing strange to decidedly bizarre. It begins with the ivy leaves. Lord Rashad and Maxwell pass a golden plate of them around the circle, and each man chews his while trying not to wince.  

"And what is the meaning of this, Lord Rashad?" Liam tries to frame the question genially, not missing Rashad's insolent eye roll. The man needs to be shown his place, but Liam will have to be swift and merciless when he does it. Disturb the waters too briskly, and it could incite a mutiny. And Liam, of all people, knows how flimsy the bonds of this court can be when threatened. Snip the wrong thread, and the whole labyrinth will collapse. "Why are we eating ivy leaves?"

  His wife's lover snorts. "They are sacred to Dionysus, your highness." How is it that every honorific out of this man's mouth sounds like a slur? The smoke from the brazier is thick and aromatic, and when Liam stares into the coals, he can see faint shapes that look like men, moving through a hellscape. But when he breathes the sweetish smoke in, the faint honeyed scent of kythi, pine and moonwort perfuming the air, it is gone.  

Rashad signals to Bertrand, whose face is already flushed from drink. "Step forward and be crowned the Lord of Misrule." Bertrand beams from ear to ear, stepping forward.

  Maxwell lays a crown of ivy on Bertrand's head, and intones in a sonorous voice, "I call upon loud-roaring and reveling Dionysos,  primal, two-natured, thrice-born, Bacchic lord..."(1)  

The servants beat on a tambourine beyond the topiary, and blow discordant pipes. The wind picks up suddenly, throwing long shadows dancing across the lawn in the firelight, and strange shadows leap across the faces of the company. Liam swallows, trying to shake the deep unease that has begun to creep across his flesh.

  Some sort of signal passes between Rashad and Maxwell, and then Rashad signals a footman. "Bring the wine."  

The footman hands Maxwell the bottles, and then departs. The young lord places the three bottles atop the sundial and fetches his saber. The blade whistles through the heavy night air and the corks roll at their feet like the heads of men, dark red wine dripping thickly from the bottlenecks.  

"A Beaumont tradition!" Bertrand crows with jovial bonhomie, though his voice sounds strange and low, another man's voice, a wild god's; looking out across the faces gathered here tonight, Liam feels displaced from time, as though he witnesses a ritual three thousand years in the ancient past, when men drank the blood of bulls and danced with ritualistic frenzy to the beat of the cymbals and the drums.  

"This wine, gentlemen, will make gods of men. It is the root of the love apple, satyrion, and ivy, macerated and stirred in a clockwise manner thirteen times then left to steep under the moonlight for three weeks." Rashad raises his glass.

  "Dionysos, bearer of the vine, thee I invoke to bless these rites divine: florid and gay, of Nymphs the blossom bright, and of fair Aphrodite, Goddess of delight. 'Tis thine mad footsteps with mad Nymphai to beat..."(2) Maxwell is swaying, his eyes already inky wells of darkness. Liam would suspect he has already been drinking this wine, but in truth, he does not know.  

He raises his goblet, and they all toast Bertrand, and then Dionysus, and wine and women and their cocks. The wine is red and honeyed, with a slightly metallic bite. He does not want to drink it, but the other men are staring at him with eyes gleaming in the torchlight, and Liam knows he must. He downs the entire glass, and holds out his goblet for another.  

They drink until the wine is gone, and then a servant brings out a platter filled with something reddish, oozing. Before Liam knows what's happening, Rashad and Maxwell have stripped Bertrand's shirt off, and the other men get the gist, all stripping to the waist, some pale and pudgy, others sleek and taut with whipcord muscle.

  "We will paint ourselves like warriors of old, and become the masters of the wild hunt!" Rashad proclaims amidst cheers and howls. The sun has almost sunk entirely now, and a blood red crescent is swelling in the sky. The torches gutter as the wind whistles through the wind chimes in the branches of the trees, tossing the remaining ivy leaves in a whirl around them.

  "The god hears us!" Bertrand bellows, his teeth stained dark with wine. "The god has come!"  

All around Liam, their eyes glitter, pupils inky wells in the flickering light. Tariq begins to strip off his trousers as well, but Liam stops him with a firm shake of his head.  

"I smell them!" Neville says suddenly, his chin red with ochre or wine, dripping in the firelight. "I smell cunny!"  

Heads whip up around the brazier, and Liam's stomach curdles in revulsion. Only Maxwell looks slightly anxious, and Liam remembers his friend is a virgin, and wonders whatever possessed Maxwell Beaumont to take part in this madness. But he knows. The pressure is too much to refuse. Even Tariq, whom Liam has wondered about for years, is here tonight, when the man would normally prefer to avoid the company of the fairer sex.  

Rashad whistles, low and deep, and Liam hears the nickering of horses. They are led towards the men by the grooms, deep chested blacks and grays and a wild Gypsy horse that tosses its mane in terror at their smell. Rashad has brought his stallion, a big black called Lucifer, truly a warhorse, eighteen hands high. He mounts the beast with catlike grace, and watches Liam mount a frisky roan with his eyes like slits, searching for any show of weakness. Rashad would murder Liam if he could, and Liam knows it in that moment, and a sudden thought trembles on the edge of his brain, What if --  

"Steady there, Bertrand, you'll make a widow of the girl before she's ever a bride!" Hakim claps a hand on Bertrand's shoulder, and it takes two men to help Ramsford mount the horse without slipping off.

  He cackles drunkenly. "Give me my horn, brother! I wish to summon the nymphs!"  

Maxwell makes eye contact with Liam as his brother jokes lewdly with Hakim and Rashad. "I'll distract them if you want to slip back to the house now," he whispers solemnly.   Liam nods, barely. "I'll double back. Good luck tonight, my friend. If you do not yet have a lady in mind, may I suggest the one with the green and black sash? I'm afraid you may not find the pleasure you seek with one of Madame Louisa's strumpets." Because you are too soft, and they are too hard, he thinks. They will rip you to shreds.  

Maxwell grins sheepishly. "I'll do all right. Thanks for the suggestion." He wheels his horse around, and blows on the horn once before passing it to the drunken Lord of Misrule, and Maxwell turns back to Liam and gives him the barest of signals, his face entirely lost to the shadow of the night.

•••

Sophia feels a deep frisson of unease run through her at the sight of the moon, a fat red sickle hanging deep and preternaturally large in the sky. As the women wind through the gardens in single file, masked and nude, Sophia's foot catches on something, and she stumbles forward, just barely missing the sash of the woman in front of her, who hisses over her shoulder, annoyed. Sophia grabs whatever it is, and keeps moving. The torches gutter in the darkness, and a sudden wind has picked up, throwing the scattered ivy leaves in a whirlwind before her, whispering Run, run.

  As the gardens end and the lawns stretch out towards a twisted wood, the women come to a complete stop. There is a smoking and scented brazier here, and the rich honeyed scent of kyphi is stronger now, almost intoxicating, mingled with moonwort and pine, teasing and taunting the senses. A sundial, seemingly innocuous, is covered in sticky red streaks in the torchlight.  

The wind rises, and the torches gutter for a sudden, warning moment -- and then the howling begins. All of the fine hairs on the back of Sophia's neck rise, and the woman next to her, nipples rouged red from the communal pot, clutches her arm and whispers,  "What in the name of...?" Her fine, cultured voice shakes with terror.  

The whores answer the howls with ululating yips, while the noblewomen draw back, discomfort in their postures. But it is too late to turn back now. The ominous clatter of hoof beats seems to echo across the night garden, like the beating of a tribal drum, and Sophia does not want to turn, and yet she must.

Closing her eyes, she listens to the grey wolves in the wood howl with the men, calling to them to their pack. Sophia pictures them lined on horseback, lips curled back, teeth bared, hungry for the flesh of their prey and shudders, tightening her fists in a panic, gasping as she pricks her finger on the object she picked from the ground. She opens her palm and is aghast, balking at the notched stone carved with a symbol -- Thurisaz. She has seen this symbol once before; cast in the bone runes of a Roma fortune teller the night before she ran from Kane. She recalls the old woman's warning (that she did not heed) and her throat constricts.

The howling stops, and in the still, fleeting silence she takes a deep breath, forcing air into her lungs, steeling herself for what is to come should she be caught. Sophia focuses intently on the dark shadows between the looming trees, anxiously plotting a path to asylum. The lawn is long, but if she is quick and crosses through the gardens, she may escape the clutches of the depraved men behind her.

The long, low rumblings of a hunter’s horn is heard, its vibrations thrumming through her body, quaking the earth beneath her feet. There is one measured blow, then another and she is running, against the whipping wind fast as her feet can carry her to the black of the wood, the raucous laughter of the hunters and the drumming of hooves muffled by the sounds of her raspy breath.

•••

Sophia is not in the room, nor is she anywhere in the house, and Liam has begun to have a terrible suspicion creep over him. He thinks of the other men, stripped to the waists, chests and faces painted in red ochre not ten minutes before: Bertrand crowned in ivy, looking like a wild god, Maxwell and Rashad beside him with their pupils blown out in the torchlight. On their black and white steeds, they could very well have been ancient centaurs, half-men, half-beasts, come down from the hills to slake their lust on mortal women and drink wine until they go into frenzies of ecstatic, wild madness.

  Liam, too, is painted and masked, and the housekeeper lets out a scream of pure terror when she sees him in the kitchen.

  "Where is the girl who showed my lady to her room?" Liam bares his teeth. "I am your king and you will answer!"  

The servants pull a girl with a copy of the Grimm’s Fairy Tales in her hands out of the larder, and she blinks like a mole in the light. When the housekeeper prods her to answer, she stammers out that she put Sophia in the room "with the other women." Liam feels the blood drain from his face. With the servants on their knees in terror, he storms from the house.  

That's when he hears the haunting call of the horn. And Liam runs.

He mounts his horse in one quick movement, clucking his tongue so it breaks into a steadfast gallop. No one but I will lay a finger on you. His words repeat in his mind like a broken record as he rides, pressing his spurs into the side of the gelding, urging it to go faster, faster.

But it is too late to stop it. It is bedlam on the lawn now the horn has been blown, a cacophony of unsettling sights and sounds unfolding before him -- the garish moaning of women on their knees in the grass, thundering hooves, the boisterous roars of nobleman. He rides on, desperately searching for any sign of her, but there must be a dozen women with honey hair in the horde. So he calls to her, intending to keep his promise, no longer caring for social station or who hears him shouting her name.

  •••

Sophia’s leaden feet pound the ground beneath her, each footfall more painful than the last. The horses are so much faster than her and the lawn is long, too long. Her heart beats frantically in her chest, her breath labored, thighs burning. She’s so exhausted she feels she could collapse involuntarily at any moment, though she does not slow her pace. The silhouette of a great oak is in her sights, and she will run until her feet bleed to hide in the crest of its branches, enduring what she must to free herself from the fate of what awaits her if she gives up and allows herself to be taken by one of the devil men.

She’s almost to the oak tree when, so faintly she’s almost sure she’s imagined it, she hears his voice calling for her through the thick of the noise. Liam! Against her better judgment, she turns away from the haven in the wood and runs back into the heart of the field, following the sound of his voice growing louder with every step.

The calls stop for a moment, then begin again, closer than before, but her name on his lips is different… the voice sounds coarser, darker, and Sophia cannot put her finger on why. Still, she pursues him, raring to feel safe in his arms and get away from the madness around her. Then, suddenly, she lets out a sharp cry of pain as a strong, unwavering hand grips her by the back of the neck, pulling her up onto their horse by her hair. She looks down at the hand bruising her thigh, squeezing tightly, and is horrified, for it is indubitably not the hand of the king.  

"Hello, Sophia." It is the Queen's lover, captain of the Royal Horse Guards, the man whom Savannah warned the other maids about. A flirtation with him means death.  

How he knows Sophia's name, she knows not, and she struggles against him, clawing at his cheek, drawing blood. "Let me go," she begs hoarsely, and he laughs, low and dark.

  "He thought to keep you all to himself tonight." Rashad's voice is threaded with vicious delight. "Well, let him see how it feels to have the thing he loves most taken from him."  

Sophia opens her mouth to scream, and then his lips are upon hers, hard and bruising. She bites his mouth and he draws back, bleeding, his eyes dark and terrible beneath his devil's mask.  

"Bitch!" he snarls, and his palm connects with her face, her head snapping back from the force of it. Sophia tastes blood on her tongue, thick and coppery, and she screams Liam's name.  

"Sophia!" she hears Liam's anguished howl as though from far away, and the world is blurring before her eyes, though she cannot tell if it is from the tears or the blow; branches whip at her face as they plunge into the dark wood, and Rashad is laughing, low and dark, filling Sophia with terror.  

She hears Liam shouting for her, hears his horse plunge into the thicket after them. He's coming. Liam is coming for me. She twists in Rashad's grip, pummelling his chest and his face, teeth bared. Rashad pushes her down, holding her by the back of the neck, and they break out of the woods, beside a ruined shrine and a little spring.

  He dismounts, his hand twining in her loose hair, holding her up by it, and she has never hated her long hair more, for the weakness it brings. He seems to be waiting for something, listening, his head cocked toward the wood. Sophia listens too, and she hears it: Liam fighting against the thicket, almost upon them now.  

Rashad forces Sophia to her knees, his hand twitching on the buttons of his breeches. He is waiting, she realizes, for Liam to come. He is playing some terrible game here, dark and twisted.  

"Unhand her!" Liam bursts through the trees and Sophia nearly sobs in relief to see his face. He dismounts, striding towards Rashad, who jerks Sophia up and kisses her roughly. Liam wrenches Rashad away from her, and then he is atop of him, his fist making a monstrous noise as it slams against Rashad's flesh. "Have you had enough?" Liam hisses, his face twisted with rage.  

Rashad begins laughing, laughing, the harsh echo filling the night.  

Liam hits him again and again, and then he is in a frenzy, and Sophia grasps at him, trying to pull him off Rashad, screaming in his ear, "Liam, stop!" but he does not hear her. He will murder Rashad tonight if she cannot stop him, and the realization of what it will mean chills her straight to the marrow. She dashes to the spring and fills her hands with water, which she throws upon Liam, breaking his concentration.

He shakes his head like a bull, coming back to himself. "Sophia...?" Liam asks, unsure. His hands are slick with Rashad's blood.

  "He didn't hurt me, Liam," she says firmly, drawing him away. "Come, let's return to the house."

  Behind her, she hears Rashad moving in the grass, so she knows he lives, but beyond that, she does not care.

•••

Sophia kneels before Liam on the bed, gently wiping the blood from his mangled hands with a cold cloth. She has wrapped herself in thin blanket, hiding her wounds from his view.

“Sophia --”

“Don’t, Liam,” she whispers sharply. “I want to return home at first light. Please, I cannot bear to be here any longer than we must be. I want…” she trails off. Drake, she yearns to say, but does not dare, for tonight she has seen to what violent lengths Liam will go to keep her as his own, and it strikes fear in her heart.

“I cannot just leave, Sophia. It would be unspeakably rude to the Beaumont’s, and they are a valuable alliance to the crown. The estate will look different in the light of day. I’m here now. You have nothing to fear,” Liam smiles gently, pulling her into his arms, the blanket falling from her body. He gasps seeing her in the light, stunned by the sight of her battered frame: deep purple welts on her back from Madame Louisa’s switch, bruises in long lines the shape of fingers on her thigh, burning red marks settling in the crook of her neck from being carried by her hair.

“Oh gods,” tears well in his eyes, his voice breaking. “You said he didn’t hurt you. That pompous animal will pay for his sins, Sophia. He will pay for what he did to you, my love.” Liam’s eyes darken, and Sophia tries, in vain, to swallow the bitterness burning in her throat at his hypocrisy.

“You will not kill a man in my name, Liam. Rashad has paid for his sins tonight at your hand, it is you who has not paid for yours,” she rises from the bed, ripping her hand from his. “I should never have come here with you. I am not your plaything.”

“My sins? I know you are upset my love, as am I, but I had no more control than you over what happened here tonight. You were never meant to see those horrible things, and for that I am contrite. I acted the moment I knew something had gone terribly wrong. Surely you do not blame me for the mistakes of a silly servant girl.”

“You forget, I too am a silly servant girl,” she spits his words at him, fuelled by the feelings she has kept tightly coiled since laying in his marriage bed with his queen. “You promised me no one would lay a finger on me but you and look at me!” Sophia grasps his jaw and turns his head to her. “Look at the marks left by the hands that have been on my body this night! I have been beaten, tormented and nearly…” she stops, a choking sob swallowing her words.

Liam rushes to her, holding her in a warm embrace. Her hot tears cascade onto his shoulders as she grips him tighter, weeping. “You promised me, Liam. You promised me. You promised.”

“Oh, my darling. I know. I know and I’m so sorry. No one will ever hurt you again, Sophia. I will protect you. Always.”

“And who will protect me from you?” Sophia gently pushes Liam away from her, thoughts of Drake swirling in her troubled mind, thinking of how she has never felt so safe in Liam’s arms as she does in his.

“You don’t mean that, Sophia. I would never hurt you,” his voice is small and frail, his face twisted in anguish, like she has shot an arrow through his heart.

“But you already have, Liam! Beyond measure. When you summoned me to you and Madeline, you swore I was safe with you, but I wasn’t, was I? I was so terribly drunk I could not stand, Liam. You barely gave me a choice. What’s worse is you would not even look upon me when the deed was done, like I was nothing to you.”

Tears are slipping down her cheeks freely, every bit of raw emotion she has buried deep since that fateful night pouring out of her like a burst dam. The anger, confusion, the pain, overwhelming and pure joy when she discovered… their child. And then, unimaginable grief realizing she could not keep it, not now. How could she after what they had done?

“I never meant to hurt you. I was so ashamed, Sophia. I love you, and I will be with you until my dying breath if you will have me. Without you, I am nothing. You are my strength, my joy. Madeline, what we did to put a child in her, that is the terrible price of wearing the crown.”

“And will our child pay a price as I have?” Sophia cries, so tired of keeping her secret that it spills from her mouth unwittingly. “Where does it end, Liam?”

Liam’s eyes widen at her admission, as do hers, and he stares at her for a long moment, assimilating her words. “Our child? No, it’s not possible,” he proclaims, mystified.

“I have not bled since early March.”

Liam falls to his knees before her and presses his forehead against her stomach, kissing it over and over, softly, weeping.

“I am with child, Liam. Your child grows inside me.”

Orphic Hymn 30

Orphic Hymn 46

#historical au #tw assault #tw violence #trr #choices trr #trr au #the royal romance #choices the royal romance #choices fanfiction #liam x mc #king liam #drake walker #drake x mc #maxwell beaumont #a world apart

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