#divine armoire

[tadpolesonalgae]

Rhysand x reader: Peacock Feathers[*]

A/N: yeah, I like this one.

Summary: he always has something fun planned for Date Night.

Warnings: heavy voyeurism, heavy exhibitionism, fingering, not wearing seatbelts, sexual tension, 5.2k words

‘The most flamboyant lingerie set you have. Wear it for me.’

You huff at your husband’s minimal description for the dress code of tonight’s date. You rummage through your draws, flinging open the armoire, even the wardrobe in the corner, riffling for something. What did he even mean by flamboyant? Did he want you to strut out into the night cloaked in nothing but some sheer lace and heels? You bite your lip at the idea. It would be just like you husband to arrange something like that.

Flamboyant…flamboyant…

Flamboyant!

You rush back to the armoire, digging through the neatly set clothes, fingers searching for the material until you find what you’re looking for. You hold it up, and nodded. Yes, it would do. It would do quite well, in fact. Now, to find a way to conceal it…

You know he’s taking you out…somewhere. And unless he’s planning on smuggling you in, wrapped in a body bag, then you will need to find a way to hide the finely made lingerie from prying eyes. You sigh at yet another task to fulfil. You’re honestly going to bite Rhys’ cock off if this fails your expectations—for all the trouble he’s putting you through.

Once again, you search through your wardrobe, gazing at the menagerie of gowns and dresses. An array of satin and silk, garish and gaudy, jewels glimmering in the warm lamp light, winking at you temptingly. But no, you would choose something simple, something that would enhance your underclothes. You think about what your husband is likely to adorn himself in. If he asked you for flamboyant…it could be anything. Still, bright pops of colour weren’t really his style, preferring the brush of dark sleeves and silver cuffs than splashes of sparkling yellows or velvety oranges. The most flamboyant you’ve seen him in is a dark red suit, in celebration of a dear brother—and even then it had been so dark the crimson only showed if the light hit from a particular angle.

Having ruled out most options, you figure your best chances are either white or black, if he’s going to dress in a suit. White or black. You scan the wardrobe for anything that would fit with the lingerie. The choice is easy.

————

“Ready, darling?”

You silently move yourself to the top of the curved staircase, taking the one closest to your dressing chambers. Your husband’s eyes sweep over you, glinting with feline satisfaction as he drinks you in. One step at a time, you descend toward him, moving with elegant precision. You keep his eyes the whole while, basking in the heat of his keen gaze, and you wonder if you’ll even make it out the front doors.

A subtle string of rose quartz beads decorate your throat, the white satin of your gown flowing in smooth cascades behind you. The dress slims to your waist, the mini corset accented with small iridescent sequins that decorate the floral jacquard fabric. The heels you’ve selected hold a thin stilt to balance on, platinum lace weaving around your ankles, ensconced with silver thread keeping tiny beads wrapped snuggly against the ties. A single ring adorns your right glove, resting with grounding weight on your thumb. The band is silver, set with a moonstone, tiny amethysts framing it against the creamy silk of your gloves. Beneath the smooth fabric on your left hand lies your wedding ring, a beautiful sapphire welded delicately into the metal.

He drinks in the dusty red of your lips, matte in their texture and slightly dulled to not pull away from the rest of you. Divine. Enchanting. Refined. Perfectly attuned to him, having not gone too over the top when he’d requested flamboyance. Keeping in mind that you were a pair and would be seen together.

“You look positively delicious,” Rhys purrs as you reach the bottom of the staircase, gliding over to him. You give him a sultry smile, one that has heat shooting straight between his legs. He’s brought back to the Soirée last month, when you’d been sat on your knees between his thighs, dark rouge lipstick blurred at the edges of your mouth, perfect replicas stamped on his cock from where you’d kissed up and down the length of him until he couldn’t take it any more. He remembers how you’d swiped at the smudged tint, glaring up at him teasingly, “why is it whenever you take me out somewhere I always end up with my makeup out of place?”

Then there had been the masquerade party the month before, where you’d been set on keeping those damned masks on, hiding the beauty of your face from him. You’d insisted the anonymity had been thrilling, given a dark edge to the experience. It was this in particular that had him thinking. Turning over different venues and activities until he’s found one he believed would be pleasingly satisfying to your slightly sinister tastes.

“I could say the same about you, husband.” He looks ravishing. Charmingly debonair in his black suit, complete with smooth bow tie and crisp white shirt. Not a crease to be found. A kerchief makes a soft triangle atop his breast pocket, complete with a peacock feather decorating the smooth lapel of his jacket. “I don’t suppose you plan on informing me of tonight’s venue?” You inquire, settling a palm over his heart as you lean against him.

His hand raises to your jaw, tilting your lips toward his. “And ruin the surprise at the last minute? I think not.” He presses his lips to your own, coming away vaguely rosey from the rouge staining your mouth. You pout, fingers circling over his chest, “you like watching me squirm, don’t you? How cruel you are, truly. I cannot fathom—” you press another kiss to his lips, “—why I ever married you.” He offers you a feline grin, “maybe you enjoy the tension. The edge.” His fingers grip your hips, pulling you against him.

You’re pleased when his eyes darken as he feels the pattern of something thin beneath the satin. “What did you choose?” His voice has dropped, roughening and you suppress a shiver at the timbre. You peer up at him innocently, “and spoil the surprise at the last second? I think not.” Your teasing spurs him on, fingers deftly catching on the low collar of your dress, moving to pull it from your skin so he can catch a glimpse of what lies beneath.

Rhys gets as far as bringing a wash of cool air down your front before you’re jabbing two fingers into his chest—down his sternum. “Ah, ah, ah, husband.” You push him back, preventing him from peering down your top. “Leave something for dessert,” you chastise, a low growl sounding in the back of his throat. Pleasure sings beneath your skin at your husband’s antics.

Your fingers waltz upward, delicately hooking beneath his perfectly wrapped bow tie, pulling him downward toward your mouth. “Wouldn’t want to spoil your appetite now, would we?”

“I assure you my appetite is depthless when it comes to you, wife.” His fingers latch onto your own, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. You flush with pleasure, “shameless flirt.”

“Promiscuous madam.”

You raise a single, neatly groomed brow, “a madam?” You echo, then press against his chest, allowing him to feel the soft plushness of your breasts. “And what’s a refined gentleman like you doing in the arms of a lady of the night, hm?”

He growls, grip tightening on you possessively. “She’s taken something from me. Something very precious. Plucked it straight from my chest, weaving her sinful fingers between the bones of my ribs.” His mouth brushes over your own, an erotic caress of his lips. “I fear the day she returns it, for the pain it will bring.”

Your eyes dip as they follow their quiet movement. “I took yours as payment for my own.” You whisper back, “I am merely human, and cannot survive without it.” His arm snakes around your lower back, forehead pressing to your own, sharing in the intimacy. “You took mine first, Rhys.” He releases a soft breath at his name on your lips. “It’s only fair.”

He laughs softly against your mouth, and you keen beneath the sound, pushing up onto your tiptoes, desperate for another taste—

“Shall we?”

He’s pulled back, leaving your chest cold, heat warming between your legs. Your husband holds out an arm, waiting for you to latch onto him, arrogantly expecting. You gift him a saccharine smile, already planning how to overthrow him for the evening, “lead the way.”

————

The lamplights reflect in the puddles as it drizzles. Already you can make out the faint wisps of fog rolling through the dark streets.

“What’s on your mind, darling?”

You turn, propping your chin on your hand as you gaze at him before straightening, looking ahead. “I was thinking whether you’d enjoy the silk of my hands or the velvet of tongue.” You glance at him sidelong, pleased when he stiffens. You could swear you see his demeanour shift to match the darkness of the night. “Do you think it wise to begin this dance so early?” He drawls. You return your gaze to peering through the chauffeurs window, watching them cut through traffic. “That is true,” you contemplate, “it is usually your role to insist on foreplay.”

You turn in your seat, catching the dark glint in his violet eyes. You offer a coy smile, enjoying rilling him up before the event has even begun. He leans over, across the space between you, mouth lowering to brush the shell of your ear, “did you follow my orders for tonight?” You swallow as he pulls back to look at you, shifting to be beside you, the powerful lines of his body pressing to your own shape. “Are you so desperate to see me in my underthings?” A serpentine smile twists the edges of your rouge mouth, “I chose an appropriate set. I think it will appeal to your tastes.”

Again, his eyes dip to that teasing window of your chest, dress cut low enough to reveal mouth-watering skin, but not enough for him to catch a glimpse. No matter, he’ll find out soon enough.

Rhysand straightens, reaching to his pocket, “I forgot to give you this, for the night.” He retrieves a headband, accented with a single peacock feather at it’s crest, set with clear jewel you believe to be a diamond. “Put it on for me?” Your heart beat increases at the deftness of your husbands fingers, brushing strands of hair from your cheeks before setting the circlet atop your brow. “Perfect,” he murmurs, and you wonder if he meant to say it aloud.

His thumb brushes beneath your lashes as he stares into your eyes. You lean into the touch, indulging in the heat of his large palm over your jaw. He looks as though he’s considering kissing you, eyes dipping lower, a deep hunger roiling in their depths. “Go on,” you encourage, shifting your body to face his as your arms snake over his shoulders.

But the chauffeur pulls up a driveway, bringing the vehicle to a stand still.

Your husband pulls away with a grin, “enjoy.”

————

The red windmill.

An interesting name.

He’d guided you to the entrance, your silk encased hand gripping the satin hem of your dress to keep it from dragging on the floor. When the receptionist had asked for a name to place for the reservation, he’d given it over, and then the two of you had been escorted to a private suite. The server had shown you around, where things were, and then left you alone, together.

When the door clicks, you turn to Rhys. “Care to reveal your secrets now, sir?” His lips quirk as he settles in a large armchair, a deep red to match the atmosphere of the chamber, lit by warm lights and accented with blacks, reds and oranges. His legs spread as he gets comfortable, facing you. “Every garment you remove, I’ll let you in on a little more,” he purrs, readying himself for the show you’ll give him.

You roll your eyes, but pull the glove from your left hand, wedding band glinting in the light. He raises a brow at the small movement. “I didn’t take you for a coward,” he taunts, but you simply peer down at your nails, examining them. “Secret, please.” His mouth neutralises into an unreadable line, “we’re here for entertainment.” You roll your eyes again, “obviously.” He grins, silently ordering you to remove another item of clothing.

Teasingly, you remove the other glove, staring him down from across the room as you perch on the arm of the chair opposite him. You drop the silk onto the cushion, the pure white an erotic contrast to the dark colours shrouding the suite. “Both your voyeuristic and exhibitionistic tendencies will be satiated.” You blink, then narrow you eyes at the man. “Have you brought be to a sex club, Rhysand?” He chuckles at the use of his full name—you only use it when displeased with him. “Rhys, you haven’t,” you gasp, “what if someone sees?” Sometimes you really could strangle your husband.

But then he stands from his reclined position, prowling forward, hands wrapping firmly around your waist as his shadow swallows you. “Isn’t that the point?” He purrs, your spine arching against him. “Don’t you delight in their attention? Revel in it?” Heat flushes your cheeks at your husband’s accuracy. “I know how you like being perceived as an object of desire. Isn’t that why you didn’t bat a single, pretty eyelash when I made my request for the night?”

His hands glide up, tracing over your breasts until they cup your jaw, “I’ll ravish you in front of the whole world if it pleases you.”

“But a sex club!” You hiss, making him laugh. “Am I laughing, Rhys?” You snap, making him calm himself.

“I give you my word, it’s nothing as disreputable as a sex club,” he purrs, but the lilt in his voice suggests a loophole. “Why don’t you remove that dress of yours so you can get to the big reveal, hm?”

He steps away, allowing you to stand. To proceed with the show. You huff, turning your back to him as you begin slowly unslotting the tiny satin cushions from their holes. One at a time. Piece by piece.

Gradually, the smooth material begins its descent off the slope of your shoulders. His mouth dries as he finds the thin, platinum straps that loop atop your arms. The satin slowly gives way, showing off the latch of the brassiere you’ve donned. Pure, glittering white. He swallows as the gown lowers over your waist, caressing the intimate skin of your waist; hips.

The dress pools at the poised set of your heel adorned feet, the silver ensconced lace matching the delicious underthings you’ve selected. His breath catches as you glance at him over one shoulder, giving him a partially concealed view of your beautiful face. Your slim fingers waltz over the skin of your arm, trailing down as your eyes follow teasingly. The other hand is wrapped over your hip, playing with the thin band of your underwear: matching lace that clings to the plump curve of your rear.

“Turn around, darling. Let me see you.” His voice sounds rougher; more strained.

Ever so slowly, you step out of the waves of satin, turning to reveal yourself to him.

A low groan sounds at the back of his throat as he slips two fingers beneath the collar of his shirt, apparently in need of some cooler air. You smirk as you begin prowling closer, stopping only when you’re positioned between his muscled thighs.

Your husband enjoys himself as he drinks you down, eyes dragging so slowly over every fine detail, and you swear you can see the plans in his mind fading back to dust. He wets his lower lip, gaze darkening as he imagines where you’d enjoy being touched, whether you would prefer his fingers or his mouth over your perky nipples. Whether you’ll insist on keeping your lingerie intact, or whether you’ll be so desperate as he is by the night’s end that you won’t care about it being hastily removed. Strewn across the rouge carpet.

Sequins and pale glass beads are woven to the brocade fabric, indentations of peacock feathers shimmering in the light, iridescent thread glimmering. Tiny sets of diamond are dotted at the base of the brassiere, looping around your back and over your shoulders. Strings of pearls dangle from the base of the lingerie, hanging in crescent circles like ribs made of moonstone—reconnecting at the clasp. The underwear matches perfectly, accented with the same glittering platinums, silver embossed feathers curling over your hips.

“You’re divine,” he breathes, violet eyes reflecting your warm light. His hands reverently pull you closer, your own settling on the corded muscle of his shoulders as he places a kiss to your navel. “Divine,” he whispers, shakily. Your husband looks up at you, your fingers weaving through his blue-black hair, so soft to the touch. He keens at your touch, revelling in the press of the pads of your fingers, feather-light as you trace the sharp cleft of his cheek.

“What’s the big secret, husband?” You murmur, hooking one leg over his thigh as you slide into his lap. He moves for your mouth, lips parting, eyes sliding closed but you set a firm hand on his chest. “Now, now, Rhys. Behave.” He groans softly at the command, eyelids lazing open to look at you. Lust and hunger dance intimately, barely hidden in the now indigo hue of his irises. Your fingers settle either side of his chin, tilting his jaw toward you, his pupils dilated and burning.

“It’s your turn, Rhys,” you whisper alluringly, hips winding over his. He stifles another groan, “wicked, wicked woman.” A thrill of excitement brushes down your spine at his pained tone. His strong arms snake around your waist, clutching you to his body, hand settling between your shoulder blades, indulging in the drag of your breasts. He grips your ass, pulling you tight to his hips, feeling the prominent outline of something delicious between your thighs—against your stomach.

“Come on, now,” you chide, mouth dancing over his own, a sensual caress of breath. “Make good on your word, husband.” A strained sound of pleasure rumbles in his chest, eyes flicking up to yours. He swallows, and you trace the roll of his throat. Then both his hands drop to your ass, hauling you against him as he stands, your thighs wrapping snuggly around his hips. “Rhys…?” Your tones shifts to irritation and he chuckles.

Your husband moves fluidly through the suite room, opening a door the server hadn’t shown you. You try to turn but he presses your face to his shoulder, hiding the view from you. All you’re able to make out is the general volume of people, but it’s a bit far away, as if from a lower floor. Music rolls up to your ears, fiery, rhythmic, and you want to set your heels to the floor, if only to spin with your husband to the syncopated melody.

“Rhys? What is that?” Your husband sets you down on what feels like a balcony, his grip loosening, allowing you to peer about. “Look for yourself,” he smirks, stepping back a little. Your thighs tighten around him, tugging him back to your chest harshly as you take in your surroundings.

He’s seated you precariously on what is indeed a balcony, thick mahogany supporting you. Large, champagne coloured chandeliers hang from the ornate ceiling, light refracting through the glass diamonds, casting their golden glow throughout the hall. You’re on the highest floor, the room is cavernous compared to the booth he’d taken you to. Below, people chatter and make merry, dressed finely in anything from night robes to stunning silk dresses to flimsy underthings with a fan of feathers haloing their heads like crowns. A menagerie of fluidly colours: purples to yellow, stripes of pink and cream, splashes of oranges and greens, the glittering sparkle of sequins and jewels gleaming in the low light.

At the front of the hall lies what appears to be a small orchestra, and you zone in on the figure at the forefront of the music, just ahead of the elderly conductor. He’s playing what might be an accordion of some kind, the music frenetic, a frenzied tango of notes. “Is that a squeezebox?” You peer closer, still wrapped tightly around Rhys’ hips. He peers with you, “I believe that’s a copy of a French Flutina. Popular in the 19th century.”

You listen closer to the music, trying to place it. Your husband smiles as recognition sparkles in your eyes, “Libertango, Astor Piazzolla.” He nods, hand cupping your cheek, “indeed.” Your hold relaxes on him a little, allowing you more leeway to watch the crowd. His mouth drops to your throat, kissing a slow trail from your collar bones to your jaw. Your breathing deepens, then catches. His lips lift into a smile over your neck, “see anything interesting?” Then he receives a light smack to his shoulder, “Rhysand!” You scold, fuming, “it is a sex club!”

Sure enough, he can make out the groping hands on the floor below, the bent over bodies, the kneeling legs, the harsh snap of hips. All while the musicians play on. A symphony of pleasure singing through the room, a harmony of moans for accompaniment. “They prefer the term massage parlour. The clientele are free to engage with other participants in whatever way they wish. No one here is paid to do anything.”

Your raise a brow sceptically, “you’ve done your research, husband.”

“Only the best for my wife.” Your lower body tingles at the title. “I hope you know I refuse to step foot in that…pleasure hall. These heels are white. And very dear.”

He laughs against your skin, “why do you think I reserved a private room for us, my darling?”

You pout at the cunning man. “How obnoxiously sly of you,” you remark. “I’m always ten steps ahead of you, dear,” he murmurs over your lips, giving you a serpentine grin before twisting you round, so your back is pressed against his broad chest. “Rhys!” You squeak, hands flying for something to grip onto, feet weaving through the wooden beams withstanding the balcony railing.

“Enjoy yourself,” he drawls, opening his mouth over the unmarked skin of your neck, pressing hot, wet kisses to you. You moan softly. All those people, indulging beneath you, hardly an idea of what’s happening above them. “Relax,” he instructs, nipping at the pearled lobe of your ear. You whine. “You try relaxing with the potential of falling to your death,” you manage, even as his arm tightens around your stomach, letting you know you’re safe with him. “You know that, should you fall, I would plummet with you,” he whispers against your skin, drawing a bark of laughter from your throat, the rose quartz beads ringing at the sound. “I would have preferred reassurance you would not let me drop, Rhys,” you snap playfully.

“That too.”

You huff a laugh that turns into a hitch as his hand cups you through the finely woven lace. A moan slips from your lips as heat warms your skin, his fingers deftly rubbing over the apex of your thighs. “Rhys…” He kisses your jaw, “look below you. All those people revelling in one another, taking what they want until they’re drunk on pleasure.” Your breathing becomes shallow.

“Any one of them could look up—some already might’ve—see you spread out on the balcony, with my hand between your thighs.” You preen against him, melting into his warmth as his fingers dip lower, oscillating over your entrance. He pushes the damp silk to the side, scooping up your slick on his middle and forth finger before raising it to his lips, groaning at your taste. You release a sultry laugh at your husband’s actions, spreading your legs a little wider, “take more, if you want.”

Rhysand growls at the invitation, gripping your jaw, forcing you to look at the people below. “How many people do you think are watching you right now, huh?” You. Not us. You. “How many people do you think have seen how you’re dressed—how you’re acting—and hoped to themselves you’ll be gracing their mouths later?” The heel of his palm presses to the top of your thighs, rubbing gently as his fingers circle you, before pushing in. “How many people down there, do you think, are pleasuring themselves to you?”

Your back arches against him, his clever fingers curling and dragging against your walls. You swallow, desperate to find your words, “I…I don’t know…” you manage, and his teeth nip at your throat, biting lightly. “Have a look, darling. Seek them out.” You moan, trying to follow his orders, but the light is fairly minimal, and the bodies are fading to an erotic dance of shadows. “Can’t do it?” He drawls, pressing his fingers deeper, up to his knuckles.

He laughs darkly beside your ear, “down near the front, a little away from the cellist.” You follow his directions, landing on a figure with their head raised, pleasuring themself. “Beside the third exit on the ground floor, wearing red.” Again you follow, finding a figure strewn over a table, gazing upward. “The floor below is, opposite.” You moan loudly, the sound getting wisped away in the music.

In the booth he’s talking about, a woman is bent over the railing, her petite breasts exposed to the air—to the audience below—while an older gentleman stands behind her, and you can see how her body is pushed forward with each snap of his hips. Her lips are parted, and were the room silent you’re sure she would be moaning as you are. Her eyes are hooded, but watching you, watching as your husband’s fingers push into you, how your back arches.

He does something wicked with his digits, and you gasp, head tipping backward onto his shoulder as he presses against your clit. “Rhys…” you moan out, feeling so high already, practically weightless, as if you could fly away. “Easy,” he orders, arms tightening around you as your hips buck. “Not tipping over that edge just yet.” The possibility has your heart rate increasing, adrenaline thrumming beneath your skin, buzzing at your fingertips.

Your eyes return to the couple on the lower floor. “Do you think she’s an escort?” You manage, noting her scandalous clothing and exquisite gems adorning her throat and wrists. “Does it please you to fantasise about their outside lives, hm? Create a story for them, to get off to?” You moan at his words, nodding your head. “What do you think she’s thinking right now?” His fingers fuck into you harder, keeping their pace though the pressure increases over your clit. “I—…” you can’t manage anything: it’s so overwhelming.

“I think she’s wondering how you taste, what it would be like to have her fingers burying into you like this,” he punctuates his words with a flick of his wrist, digits dragging against that glorious spot inside you. “I bet she’s wishing you were coming on her tongue instead.”

You whimper, nails digging into the banister as you draw nearer and nearer. “Maybe she’s fantasising about you, what your story is. Perhaps she’s winding a filthy tale in her head of you being stolen away by a dark stranger, auctioned off to the highest bidder for your virginity.” You pant heavily, delighting in the wet squelching coming from between your thighs, proof of your arousal for your husband. At some point, dancers had appeared onstage, dressed in thinner and even skimpier clothing than you. Jewels, gems, and peacock feathers waltzing across the skene.

“Perhaps she’s creating a story of a failed marriage, love abandoned, so you’ve left to seek out some real pleasure, from someone who will treat this cunt right.” You whimper, so close to unravelling from his silver-tipped tongue. He’s always been quick on his feet when it comes to this, perfectly attuned to the darker parts of your mind, the more private thoughts you have. “Perhaps she’s telling herself you’re nothing but a dirty whore, trying to scrape together a penny or two by selling your pretty pussy.”

You suck in a sharp breath of air as your high hits you, fully seizing your body as you tighten wildly around his fingers, grinding your hips against his hand as he pulls you through the euphoria. “That’s it,” he encourages, “show everyone what a filthy whore you are.” Your cunt is still fluttering around his steadily moving fingers. The hot breath from his mouth brushes over your ear, fanning across your neck, “you’re no better than a prostitute, are you?” He whispers, circling your clit slowly, working you down.

You pant heavily as your heart beat begins to even out in the aftermath. You swallow as his fingers drag out of your slick heat, coated in glossiness that shines in the low light. “Open.” You hardly have time to follow the command before the pads of his middle and forth finger are sliding over your mouth, like an obscene lip gloss. He pushes them in, against your tongue so you can taste your own arousal. His hips buck against your ass.

“So good, aren’t you. My good, little wife.” You whine at the title, and he helps you down from the balcony—carefully. He spins you around, pulling you tight to his hips, pinning you to the railing. “Think you’re all warmed up for me now? Or do you need some time to cool off?” He taunts. You buck against him, “I can take you.”

He chuckles at your enthusiasm but his eyes flick to the stage, filled with dancing song girls. “Looks like some of the entertainment is starting,” he drawls, giving you a light pat on the ass before he’s guiding you to a chair. Your legs give out when he pushes you, collapsing into the soft cushions. “Why don’t we resume after this brief intermission, hm? I’ll fetch us some refreshments.”

When you look like you’re about to stand to follow after him, he sends you a look over his shoulder. Promising more. “All I want you wearing is those gloves when I return.” His eyes darken as they drag over your body, male satisfaction glinting in his sharp gaze as he notes the slick glossing your thighs. “After all, you were so keen on finding out whether I would like your silk or velvet more.”

Heat flushes your cheeks at the reminder, excitement zipping beneath your skin. Your eyes dip to his hips, “do you think you’re appropriate?” You smirk, noting the obvious outline of his cock, your tongue wetting your lower lip. He mirrors your grin, “think I should send you out there in my stead?” He drawls, sparking arousal in the pit of your tummy. “Maybe a dark stranger will whisk me away, auction me off to the highest bidder.”

“Precisely why I will be getting refreshments,” he smirks. “I’ll knock thrice, slowly, when I return.”

“Maybe I should lock you out. Make you wait like you’re doing to me,” you drawl, watching lazily from your half reclined position. His laugh is a lovers caress between your legs, “if you have the heart to.”

“It’s your heart,” you remind him, smiling.

“Exactly.”

Taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020

[earlgreydream]

pretty thing.

a sexy christmas party at malfoy manor with a bit of smut and soft dom draco 💚

Piano music floated down the hallway, reaching your ears as you stood, dressing in one of the guest suites at Malfoy Manor. You were a part of one of the pure blood families that attended their annual Christmas party, a chance for whispers about the ministry more than a celebration of the holidays.

Black lace hugged the curves of your body, accentuating your silhouette as you stood before the mirror, applying your makeup. A glittering green dress hung over the door of the armoire, heels below it, waiting to be worn, showing you off to the wealthy heirs that your parents insisted were potential suitors.

“Aren’t you cold, love?” Draco smirked, appearing out of a hidden passage in the wall, one of many that linked the rooms of his childhood home.

“Get out of here! I’m naked!” You hissed, immediately throwing a robe over your body, hiding it from his view.

“Hardly, in fact, if you really want to get a lovers attention, you should just go out in that tonight,” he teased, prowling toward you with his graceful steps.

You pushed him away as he tried to pull open the tie of the robe, always desperate to get a glimpse of you, insisting since you were young that you were all his, as it was always meant to be.

“You’re terrible, Malfoy. You’re not supposed to be up here, anyways. If anyone caught you in my suite, we’d both be skinned,” you reminded, keeping your voice to a whisper in case any nosey parent or household staff lurked in the halls.

“All the more exciting.”

Before you could protest further, he had pushed you onto the vanity, standing between your knees and catching you in a fiery kiss. He tasted like peppermint and bourbon, his lips soft and his tongue heavy. Delicate hands gripped the silk robe, dragging it up, exposing as much of you as he could in the desperate, messy, make out session.

“Really, you shouldn’t be here,” you breathed when he finally broke away for air, his lips ghosting against your jawline.

“I shouldn’t be here, and you shouldn’t be wearing such scandalous lace beneath your dress. You’re going to go to that party like you always do, and flirt with the heirs to appease your parents. And I’m going to get jealous, and before the night is up, we’ll have disappeared to commit even worse sins than we are now.”

Draco was right. No matter how much you pretended to feign interest in others, the two of you couldn’t keep your hands off of each other in private. You’d accepted long ago that you did belong to Draco, wrapped around his fingers. He didn’t notice anyone but you, you were everything, so much more than a young heiress he wasn’t meant to corrupt.

“Save a dance for me tonight,” Draco murmured, pressing a tender kiss to your lips before disappearing back into the walls, going to make the appearances expected of him.

You could still taste him as you collected yourself, fixing your hair and putting on your dress for the party.

“You look stunning, dear,” Narcissa greeted you as you went down to the ballroom, finally ready to join their Christmas party.

“Thank you,” you kissed her cheek politely, refraining from asking if she’d seen her son, not wanting to give away anything about your hidden affair.

As per tradition, you were meant to be kept pure, until Draco came along and ruined you in secret.

A sparkling glass was put in your hand by one of the men vying for your affection, introducing himself, telling you about his important position in the ministry. You tried to be polite, knowing eyes were on you, the eligible bachelorette that would secure good favor with the dark lord, whoever you chose.

“Being out in the world has been much kinder to you than hogwarts,” Pansy admired your dress, the compliment as sincere as it could be from her.

“I miss it, though. I’d rather be learning divination and gossiping in the common room than be passed around like a prize to be won,” you rolled your eyes, your mind floating to memories of you and Draco in his prefect room.

“You’re so ungrateful, everyone wishes they were you. All the boys are obsessed with you, and the pure blood families love you.”

You ignored her last comment, your eyes locking with Draco’s silver gaze across the room. He smiled behind a glass of champagne, paying no attention to the girls hanging off of his every word.

“You always wanted what you couldn’t have,” Pansy mused.

.

“May we dance, my darling?” Draco offered his hand, saving you from the company of several barons of countries you hadn’t heard of.

“Of course, Malfoy,” you nodded, letting him sweep you off your feet, into the dance as someone played the nutcracker on the piano.

You let your head rest against his chest, guided by his graceful movements into a waltz.

“Sick of them yet, princess? I must admit, I’m ready to sneak off with you, to somewhere more private,” he spoke softly, his lips just above the shell of your ear, words whispered into your hair.

“I don’t want to be here any more than you, but I’ve gotten so much attention, I can’t slip away unnoticed yet,” you sighed softly as he gave your hip a squeeze.

“Act as if you’ve caught a cold, make a scene, I don’t care. I cannot share you any longer,” his command was whispered in your ear, sending a shudder down your spine and heat burning between your hips.

As Draco parted from you, you ached for his touch, watching him disappear amongst the party guests. Others had already begun flocking to you, hoping to earn a dance.

“Sorry, I’m actually feeling a bit unwell,” you apologized as you all but ran away from the boy who had sought your attention.

You repeated your apology to your parents, and several other dignitaries you passed, all wondering where you were running off to so early. After their condolences and well-wishes, you tore up the stairs to your suite, locking the door with as many spells as you could summon.

“It took you long enough,” Draco quipped, pinning you against the door from behind, his hands bringing yours above your head, trapping them to the wood.

“You know how they are,” you whined, tilting your head, hoping to catch a kiss from the sensual prince who was prying your legs open with his knee.

“Hush, love,” Draco kissed you slowly, his free hand riding beneath your dress, feeling you beneath the lace.

His fingers rubbed over the lace thong you wore, pulling a whimper from your lips as you began to throb with need.

“Desperate?” Draco teased, feeling your muscles tense for him.

“Please,” your plea was pitiful, your mind already melted from his brief touches.

“Be my good girl and wait patiently,” he scolded with a smirk, delighting in your need.

You were soaking despite the loss of his fingers as he unfastened your dress, helping you out of it and onto the end of the bed. Your elbows and feet hit the sheets, backing up until your head rested delicately on the pillows.

“Look at you, all wrapped up like a present for me,” he praised, tracing the silk and lace that twisted around your body.

“All for you,” you murmured, parting your legs so he could settle between your knees.

His arms wrapped around your thighs as he lowered to kiss your belly, slowly moving downward until his teeth pulled at your waistband.

Draco smirked at the little gasp you elicited when he lightly bit the soft skin between your hips, humming as your fingers threaded into his hair.

He pried the lace off of you, kissing every inch of your bare skin as he did so, distracting you until he could return to his place between your thighs. Silver eyes glinted up at you as he knelt to taste your sex, dripping with sweetness for him.

Your back arched as his tongue pulled more moans from you, Draco knowing exactly how to make you melt.

“Good girl, let me hear you,” he soothed, palming your chest and kissing the inside of your thigh before he went back to eating you out like a starved man.

“Draco, fuck, I need you inside me,” your words were broken and rushed, desperate as your heels dug into his back, trying to pull him closer.

“Pretty thing,” Draco praised, smearing a kiss over your lips, smirking as you leaned up to follow when he pulled away.

You whimpered as he fell back against the headboard, pushing you up on shaky knees before him.

“I can’t—”

“Relax, love,” Draco pulled you to sit on his lap, straddling either side of his knees as you melted against his chest.

A strong arm circled around your waist as he carefully sank into you, nearly coming on the spot at your sinful moan.

“Feel what you do to me? You’ve got me so hard, and you’re taking it so well,” he murmured, snapping his hips up slowly, each thrust filling you to the brim.

Your hands weakly grasped at his biceps for support, your head resting on his shoulder as he pulled you down onto him. His chest heaved under your back, and he kissed on your neck as he fucked you, leaving a mark that was sure to last for days.

You were dizzy with pleasure, reaching over your shoulder and pulling his hair as your legs began to shake. You were surprised you had lasted this long — but now your nerves felt as if they were on fire every time Draco kissed your cervix.

“There you go love,” Draco hummed, drawing quick circles on your clit with his thumb until you were trembling from the intensity of your orgasm.

His own release dropped down your thighs, creating wet and filthy sounds as he thrusted lazily as you two came down. Draco gently cradled your exhausted form, murmuring a spell to clean you up before sinking back into the soft sheets with you snuggled on his chest.

“Merry Christmas,” he whispered into your hair, kissing you before your eyes closed for the night.

[b00kdiary]

Unexpected (IV)

Aemond Targaryen X Betrothed Baratheon reader

Aemond Targaryen is sent to Storm's End to secure a marriage pact to gain the Baratheon's alliance in the war. And yet, when he discovers Y/N Baratheon, the black sheep of her family, hidden away at his arrival, he knows that fate has predestined their meeting. He has to have her.

Warning: long chapters, swearing, eventual mature content (18 +)

Masterlist (Aemond Targaryen)

She was blushing again.

Her plump cheeks and smooth neck glowed scarlet and I watched with a lazy smirk as she ducked her head, that beautiful silken sheet of dark hair falling to obscure her face.

She avoided my stare, as she sheepishly turned back to her conversation with Helaena but still from the way her body was stiff and her chest rose and fell unevenly, I knew she was distant and frazzled by my eye upon her.

I couldn’t help staring at her, not when she had laughed so brightly at something Helaena had said- the sound so airy and tender, it raked over my skin as if she had touched me with her hands.

It had been this way since three nights ago in the library.

After the pretty thing had come rubbing herself against my cock, it was an understatement to say that she was mortified and had scurried out of the room like it was on fire.

And since then, she has been the same.

Blushing, bashful and on edge.

As if, just like me, every time we met, she was transported back to that night and back to the reckless yet utterly divine intimacy we had shared. I certainly felt it, felt her soft and unsure lips against mine, felt her hands gripping my shirt, her thighs wrapped around my waist and her sweet pussy rutting to orgasm against my cock.

I shift uneasily, subtly tugging my breeches to lessen the tightness that pressed painfully against the material. Lady Y/N glanced at me, her soft eyes falling to my spread legs- between my legs- and I smirk in amusement at how large her eyes grow at the sight there.

I snort at the little squeal of shock that escapes her parted mouth before she’s grasping her cup of wine with a shaky hand and bringing it to her lips, and I’m not surprised when she empties it in one full sip.

Yes, she was as taunted by the memories of that night as I was.

My mind was wondering, digging a filthy hole of just how taunted she was, whether she had taken it upon herself to relieve the edge of her desires. I imagined her in the middle of the night, fingers tentative and curious as they slipped between her soft thighs-

“Aemond”

I blink, coughing inelegantly at the interruption before my eyes lift and meet with my mother, arms folded and lips thin. I cringe inwardly, closing my parted legs as I move to sit up straighter.

If she noticed she did not say anything or indicate it.

“Mother,” I say gruffly, nodding to her.

“Are you prepared for your flight?” She asks hands clasped before her.

She had grown more agitated, more serious after Aegon’s coronation and it seemed the more time that passed, the more this threat of war ate at her.

“Yes,” I say simply, “The official letters are packed, the agreements understood and I will ensure that the discussion is done swiftly and painlessly.”

She nods, her body relaxing marginally at the definitive tone and strong stare that I gave her.

“Good” She sighs, “Be sure that you are back before the storm hits, Aemond, I do not wish for you to be riding Vhagar in perilous conditions.” I nod once, almost dismally, as my eyes lock with Y/N’s.

Her eyes were upon me, curious, and her face passive as she beheld the conversation between my mother and me. I could see the questions in her eyes, that concern and ire melding, but she was smart to not ask too much around my mother.

“Helaena, my dear, show me the dress material you have chosen for your brother's wedding,” Mother says, eyes flicking tensely between Y/N and me before she, and my excited sister, are moving across the room to her armoire.

I stand as their discussion begins and make quick work of moving to the sofa that my Lady was sat upon. She was frowning, back straight and hands clasped in her lap, though I could tell she was not entirely certain by the fingers that picked at the cotton of her dress.

“You are leaving?” She asks quietly, those brown eyes soft as they beheld me. “You did not say anything.”

“I’ve hardly had the time to tell you, My Lady… you have made quite the effort to avoid me whenever I am close by” I tease, my lip curling at the corner as she blinks in surprise before ducking her head with a smile.

“I-“ She starts but when her eyes meet mine again, she’s already flustered, her lip pulling into her teeth with conflict.

“If you regret what transpired between us, My Lady, then be sure that I will not take such liberties again,” I say, my voice low and tone firm, the guilt that perhaps I pushed her into something eating at me for days.

“No, not at all my Prince” She exclaims, her hand moving from her lap to curl against mine and I nearly shiver at the warm and gentle touch.

“It’s not that I regret it,” She says, shyness covering her face “It is just that… I would never think to… well…” She sighs, shaking her head at the incoherence. “I do not want you to think me some kind of harlot, to be sneaking and seducing you in your private quarters-“

I can’t help the burst of laughter that echoes past my lips. She furrows her brows, annoyance flaring in her eyes as she takes in my amusement and light smirk.

“What is so funny?” She demands, frowning.

“You.” I say simply and I move forward to rub my thumb across her jaw, enjoying the way her breath stutters out at the action “You are not some common whore, and I am well aware that you have no experience with the intimacies between a man and woman.” She blushes in embarrassment as I say it but I hold her chin firmly, and her eyes meet mine again.

“And as far as seducing me, yes you did and yes you do.” I allow my gaze to trail across her face, landing on her lips with carnal need “By simply existing, My Lady, you seduce and torment me. And frankly, I do not care if we engage in impropriety, not if it means tasting your sweet mouth and hearing those perfect fucking noises when I pleasure you.”

She pants as I speak, her gaze flickering from me to my mother behind us, a mixture of thrill and fear contorting her lovely face.

“You are mine, sweet girl” I purr, watching her melt against the soft trail of my lips against her cheek and over her lips “Married. Unmarried. You are mine and I am yours and we shall touch and fuck and satiate ourselves in whatever manner we choose.”

I sigh against her, my tongue flicking out to wet her soft lips and I nearly groan at how she gasps, her body trembling and arching with restraint and need.

“My Prince” She whispers, inching back, and the soft warning in her eyes is enough to make me pull away, not wanting to push her limits too far. She sighs, smiling gratefully and I smile back, my hand holding hers tightly against my chest still.

We gather ourselves, and despite how bothered and restless my body now was, I still straighten my back and turn to her with seriousness on my face.

“I am travelling to Storm’s End,” I say, and she perks up at the mention of her home. “There are final talks to be had regarding the Baratheon alliance and then the official signings of our marriage agreements for your father and me to conclude.”

“May I come?” She asks and I can’t help the small ache that plunges into my heart at the hope and yearning in her face.

“I’m sorry” I sigh, shaking my head and I nearly grab and hold her at the dejection that crosses her face “With the war and the weather, it’s too dangerous. I do not want you anywhere near my sister or any of her supporters and especially not when the skies are in turmoil.”

She nods her head in understanding and her fingers tighten in my hold “I understand. My family will soon be here for the wedding in a few days, I can wait until then.” She frowns as she observes me “But what about you? I do not like the idea of you being out there with enemies and flying through treacherous storms.”

I smile softly at the grimace, the concern and anxiety lacing her face as I nod “I will be there and back before the storm ensues, and should I need to I can find shelter for the night before I return to Kings Landing. As far as my enemies… there has been no outright declaration of war, not yet, so there is a small chance of any kind of fight, My Lady.”

My words don’t seem to ease her fears or ease the tightness of her hand in mine and I frown, my hand coming to brush her cheek in comfort.

“Promise me that you will be careful, my Prince” She pleads, her eyes tender and I thaw under the care she has for me. “Promise me that you will return to me unharmed and ready for our forthcoming nuptials”

I smirk, kissing her palm with a firm and feeling kiss. “I will return unharmed, My Lady. Not even the Gods themselves could keep me from coming back to you.” She grins at the words and I have to stop myself, remind myself of what is appropriate, even as I wish to encase my lips against hers.

She bites her lip, smiling, her eyes glancing away from me as if she can see that desire too.

And her hand tugs mine.

As if to tell me that she felt the same.

***

My body felt cold and unsettled, completely in contrast to the warmth and softness of my sheets and pillows.

I sigh with annoyance, tossing again and shifting so that my arms wrapped around one of my many cloud-like pillows. Sleep had been fruitless, my mind too preoccupied and restless.

With thoughts of Prince Aemond.

All day since his departure I have felt his absence like a missing shard of my soul. Whatever room I entered, wherever I was, my eyes would search for him, my body yearned for his comforting and sure touch and I would be utterly disappointed when I remembered that he was not there.

My worry was endless, eating at me like a parasite as I contemplated all the things that could wrong.

We were at war and he was a Prince, a prime target for an attack should the Blacks decide to make a move and as far as I was concerned even the weather’s discourse was enough of a reason for him to not have gone.

It was well past twilight and yet he had not yet arrived back.

I flinch as yet another crack of thunder echoes through the grey-clouded and dark sky, a flash of bright lightning eclipsing my room a second later. The rain was a relentless constant, for hours it had poured and thundered and ravaged.

And my Prince was somewhere in the midst of it all.

I groaned at my agitation, turning onto my back and rubbing tiredly at my face.

I pause at the sound of footsteps.

I then hold my breath at the sound of shuffling outside my door.

I move quick, jumping from my bed and slipping my dagger free from its sheath at my bed cabinet before my bare feet soundlessly tip-toe towards the door. I wedge myself behind the door, calming my erratic breathing as I wait for the person's move.

As I feared, the doors latch clicks and I tighten my grip on my dagger as a cloaked figure slips into my room and shuts the door behind them.

I pounce, my hand slips around their throat and with their back pressed to me, I dig the knife in, close enough to split the skin.

“Who are you?” I demand, my voice unrecognisable, rough with iciness and a calm promise of death. The person shivers, trembling and I pause at an indiscernible sniff, almost a whimper.

“My Lady” A quiet and broken voice whispers.

“Aemond” I gasp.

I drop the blade from his neck, tossing it onto the floor beside me as I swiftly make my way around his tight body.

“Are you alright?” I demand, concern filling me as my hands begin running over his soaked and dripping cloak, searching for any injuries. When he doesn’t reply, I move my shaky hands upwards and gently tug off his hood.

I gasp at the red eye and tears I see there.

“My Prince?” I question, my eyes widening and my chest heaving now as I place a hand on his jaw. He melts against it, his eye shutting and a tremoring pant breaking through his thinned lips. My chest cleaves at the unsteadiness of his body and at the complete brokenness in his eye.

“Come, sit. You must be freezing, my Prince” I say softly, and I swiftly guide him to my bed, pushing his limp and almost lifeless body down to sit. My throat dries out at the lost expression across his face, his gaze staring outward to the floor, haunted and helpless.

I calm my erratic heart, calm the unsatiable nerves and worry that devour me as I untie his cloak, pulling off the soaked material. His hand shoots to my wrist, his grip like a lock, as I try to move away.

“Don’t leave me” He croaks pleading, his eyes snapping to mine and softening with need. I frown, rubbing his hand in reassurance.

“I am not leaving, My Prince” I promise, shaking my head “Let me get a towel and dry you, I do not want you to fall ill from the rain.” His touch loosens at my gentle tone and I have to steady myself as he slumps again, that eye moving to stare into nothingness.

I make quick work of grabbing a few clean cloths and I sit beside him on the bed, my hands moving the material against his face and hair to dry the rain and cold from him.

He doesn’t speak or even look at me as I do so.

I swallow tightly, as my hands move to his leathers, the material soppy with water. “May I take off your leathers? I fear you will catch a cold from its ice.” I ask, and despite him not saying anything, I know he consents when he moves his quivering hands from his lap.

I nod, reassuring myself as I unclip and unbelted his clothes and I try to ease the shuddering of my own hands as I pull the leathers of his body, my eyes remaining on my action and not on the smooth and chiselled paleness of his bare chest and stomach.

I rub the cloth against his neck and chest, the warmth heating into his ice-cold skin and he groans in response to it. My body settled at the sight of unmarred and uninjured skin, almost glad for him to be completely healthy, if not for the mental suffering he was clearly enduring.

“My Prince?” I call, dropping the cloth to the bed and sitting up to face him. He doesn’t respond, his body still collapsed forward, his hands clasped tightly and his eye an unwavering void as it stared out. “My Prince, tell me what is wrong please.”

My pleading tone seems to have some effect on him as his stiff head turns and I swear, my heart breaks into two at the singular tear that streaks down his cheek, at the absolute devastation and pain etched onto his face.

“I didn’t mean to” He rasps, his voice breaking as he stared at me. I frown, coming forward and my hand cups his face as he pants with exertion. “I didn’t mean to” He repeats, his voice dropping.

“I don’t understand, didn’t mean to do what?” I ask quietly and he shivers, his eye clamping, as if in memory.

“I just wanted to scare him, I wanted back my eye- he took it and I wanted that debt repaid” He spoke, frantic, his voice trembling and head shaking “But, Vhagar… she lost control, she wouldn’t listen and I couldn’t stop her I couldn’t-“ He breaks off with a small sob and I lunge forward, pressing his head to my chest and holding him close.

He gasps, not crying, but hyperventilating, panicking.

“I don’t understand, what did you do?” I say quietly, my hand soothing his damp hair.

“Lucery’s…” His hand's grip around my waist, his voice scrapped like gravel “Vhagar killed him… I killed him.”

I freeze at the words, as the reality of what he just said came shooting at me, rendering me utterly still and stunned.

Lucery’s Velaryon.

Dead.

Aemond feels my body freeze, feels my stuttered breath and he lifts from my chest to look at me. I wince at the tears and stuffiness of his eyes, at that deep and shaky frown and how his eye watches me with such helplessness, such pleading.

As if he did not want me to hate him.

“I didn’t mean to,” He says again desperately, groaning as he rubs at his face “I tried to stop Vhagar, tried to get her to listen to me but she would not, she would not serve me.” I feel my own tears begin leaking from my sore eyes and down my cheeks as I beheld him.

And despite what he had done, despite how wrong he was, I do not stop myself from wrapping my arms around his body.

Do not stop myself from the long kiss I press against his forehead.

“It will be ok, my Prince” I whisper, my voice unsteady and rough as I hold him to my chest and run my hand through his damp hair again. “You did not mean to kill him; it was a mistake. I know that. I know it was a mistake.”

He seems to hold me even tighter, nestling into my body even more as I speak.

Under other circumstances, I would have been mortified by this, by my sheer level of undress in my short and bare slip and how Prince Aemond was pressed against me and holding me, in his own state of undress too.

But I did not care for any of it, not as I held the broken Prince in my hands.

Aemond’s body begins to still, his breath evening out and that untamed sadness and guilt seemed to lessen into a more gloomy and dark ache. I frown, my hands gently lifting him from my chest and I hold my hands at his cheeks to keep him up.

“My Prince” I demand softly and his eye lifts slowly, locking with mine as I behold the quiet storm, the inner turmoil, I sigh, my hands rubbing to ease the tension in his face. “Come to bed, you need rest. We will deal with everything tomorrow morning, but for now, please, come lay down.”

He seems to consider, swallowing hoarsely once and his eye flicks to the bed we sat on and then back to me.

“Will you stay with me, my Lady?” He asks, quiet and uncertain.

I’d never seen him like this before.

I imagined that very few had ever seen him like this before.

“Of course, My Prince. I am not going anywhere” I vow, and when he relaxes with relief, I press a small and light kiss to his cheek.

I exhale deeply as I pull back and I don’t waste time as I begin to guide him to my pillows, pulling back the cover and arranging them. Aemond is stiff and silent as he follows me, and like a hollow shell, I have to guide him to lie down and then pull the duvet over his motionless body afterwards.

He lies on his side, his throat bobbing and face tense as I slip under the covers beside him.

The room is utterly silent, the raging storm now calmed and docile, only the quiet pattern of rain filling the space.

“Can- can I hold you?” Prince Aemond asks coarsely and I soften at the boyish frown and tenderness of his eye.

I don’t answer, instead, I shift my body closer to his and sigh in contentment as his arm moves across my waist, his fingers digging softly into the flesh there as he pulls me against his hard chest. He seems to visibly calm at the warmth and softness of me, and I too breathe out as he nestled his head into the curve of my neck.

He inhales at the skin there, a low and crooning purr sounding from his throat as his sore and tired eyes begin to flutter shut. I smooth my hand across the veined and strong muscles of his arm, my heart calming when I feel his breath even out and his body completely melt against mine.

I watch him, his peacefulness and tranquillity as he breathed steadily and soft. And I am glad for that pain and horror to be gone, glad for his mind and body to be at peace, even if for a few hours.

Kin-slayer.

My Lord Husband-to-be was now a Kin-slayer.

And despite how terrifying and wrong it sounded; I knew.

I knew that there was nothing that could ever separate me from the man that lay holding me to his chest like a lifeline.

Knew that nothing he did could stop my heart from beating for him.

***

The shuffle of noise awoke me from my sleep.

I groaned quietly, fluttering my lids and stretching out my legs as the bright sunlight cascading into my room burned against my fatigued eyes. I reached a hand to my side and froze at the emptiness.

Prince Aemond was not lying beside me.

I shot up, so fast my head spun but I quickly exhaled with relief upon seeing the Prince at the foot of my bed, adorning his leathers again.

I don’t say anything as I watch him, watch how stiff and tense his body is, watch the imperceptible shaking in his hands as he buckles the hooks, or how his face was passive, yet turmoil shone in his vacant stare.

The fact that he had not even noticed I was awake said everything about where his mind truly was.

“My Prince” I call gently and I try not to wince as he starts in surprise, his face alarmed before melting into calm and genialness, his eye lifting cautiously to mine.

“Lady Y/N,” He says, his voice still gravelly and coarse “I apologise if I woke you, I was just getting ready to leave.” He continues fixing his clothes, his gaze not once meeting mine and he lacked any of the care and attentiveness that I had come to know him for.

I sighed, throwing my legs off the side of the bed and sitting at the edge.

“Are you feeling better?” I ask, cringing internally at how his fingers stop their movements momentarily, his body rigid “After last night- “

“It was stupid of me to have disturbed you and utterly inappropriate of me. I apologise for it.” He cuts in sharply, his voice edged like a blade “I will not be so careless again, nor will I burden you with such boyish and spineless behaviour.”

The words hit me like a harsh wind and I recoil at the self-degradation and coldness of his tone.

Boyish and spineless?

I stand, frowning as I face him “It was not stupid or careless for you to come to me last night and it was certainly not boyish or spineless for you to seek my comfort or help. I am to be your wife- “

“Yes, and a wife should not have to comfort her husband, nor should she have to console him as you did.” He spits, a bitter scowl on his lips as his flared eye turns to me “It makes me look weak and it’s completely improper- “

“Improper?” I exclaim, exasperated “Who the fuck cares about properness? It was you who told me that none of that nonsense matters.” I lament, and yet he just shakes his head, turning from me with a grave face.

I exhale harshly, stalking over to him and as he stops to get his sword and dagger, I place my hand on his arm. He doesn’t turn to me, but his body does freeze at the action, small tremors evident under my palm.

“My Prince,” I say softly, stepping to his side and taking in one-half of his pained expression. “It will never be a burden to console you, I would do this every day and night for eternity if need be. That is what being a wife is, that is what I would do for you.”

He sighs unsteadily and I trail my hand down his arm and wrist, stopping at his hand and curling my fingers to interlock around his palm.

“What happened last night is… it’s horrible and I feel your pain and remorse and while I don’t think I can cure it; I am willing to comfort you in whatever way I can. But please, my Prince, do not push me away.” I plead with him, his face stuttering, that eye closing for a second as he inhales and exhales harshly.

Silence looms over us, neither of us speaking and he still doesn’t look at me. I grit my teeth as he gently pulls away from my hand, moving to his blade and dagger, sheathing them both at his side with skilled efficiency.

He steps back from me, his eye turning to me and locking with mine.

I shiver at the detachment in the blue of his eye.

“I appreciate what you have done for me Lady Y/N,” he says quietly, hoarsely and I can practically feel the wall being built up between us, brick by brick.

“I must go and speak to my mother and grandsire,” He continues, grabbing his now dry cloak from the chaise.

“Let me come with you,” I say, moving behind him, my face desperate as I beseech him “You do not have to face them alone, I can be there to support you, Prince.”

His lips thin, and even as his eye softens and thaws at the hope in my voice, in my face, he still steps away and towards the door.

“I will see you later, Lady Y/N,” he says roughly, his eye not meeting mine and before I can reach for him, try to get through to him, he’s stepping through the door and it’s closing shut behind him.

And I couldn’t help but feel the finality of it all as he shut me out completely.  

______________________________________________

@ephemeralninon @sluttyaemond @dreamsxoxous @moonmaiden1996 @letmeloveyouuuu @yoshiplush @sonnensplitter @jeyramarie @lizajane2 @dreamsxoxous @angelface1927 @landlockedmermaid77 @imjustboredso @caffytaffy @jack-napier-2008 @letmeloveyouuuu @nunontherun @mmeerraa @milber32 @valeric-writes @unabashedlyswimmingluminary-blog @stinkyjax @imjustboredso

[whump-card]

Forged Divinity Chapter 1: Phineas Acquires Leannan

1618 words

CW: institutionalized slavery, religious themes, abuse, implied murder, derogatory language

Masterlist, Next

~~~

Revelation 8:7

The first angel sounded his trumpet, and there came hail and fire mixed with blood, and it was hurled down on the earth. A third of the earth was burned up, a third of the trees were burned up, and all the green grass was burned up.

~~~

The merchant's tent was a fire hazard, that, Phineas knew for sure. The canvas structure hung low, the underside painted with long-since faded suns, moons, and stars. The peeling sky resided over an impossibly huge pile of junk. Trunks, fabrics, clothes, cookware, ancient electronics, blunt weapons, farming tools, window shutters, a bedframe, an armoire. Herbs, spices, and mixes of the two claiming to have magical properties filled jars, cans, pouches, and incense boxes that lined rickety shelves alongside trinkets, baubles, and kitsch. A handful of prayer and psalm biblets, but no other books – never any other books. Lines strung from the shelves to the tent posts hoisted flickering lanterns that barely lit the dark interior.

Phineas drew closer to the herb shelves, doing their best to ignore the sense of impending doom the precarious lanterns evoked. They scanned the shelving with a practiced eye, wasting no time on the many, many distractions around them – until one of those distractions was not a grinning animal skull or rhinestone-backed handmirror, but instead the unmistakable tread of another person.

Phineas was facing him straight on when the person ducked around the shelf into sight. He blinked, surprised by Phineas’ confrontational stance and the unusual weapon they carried, but collected himself quickly.

“Are you finding what you need?” he asked in a smooth, low voice. His tone was obviously loaded, and Phineas didn’t like that. What Phineas didn’t mind, however, was the stranger’s appearance. Everything about him was pleasant, soft, and round – his body, his face, his lips, his pale curls that crowned him in gold. His clothes were simple, ragged, scavenged things, like most people’s, but he wore them with a particular taste for layering and color-matching, making the most out of a range of faded blues. Long sleeved, of course, to protect from the sun. A small golden religious symbol rested on a delicate chain around his neck. His hands hovered in front of his chest, fingers linked. As Phineas continued to unabashedly look him up and down, he smiled and ducked his head.

“Maybe I can help-”

“I’m fine,” Phineas cut him off, snatching a small paper box off a nearby shelf. “Where’s your boss?”

“Oh,” the man laughed, bright and short, “She’s not my boss.”

An obvious cue to ask what their relationship was, then. Phineas ignored it, and started weaving their way through the chaos towards where they’d last seen the merchant.

“Hej, sinjorino!” they called. Their Esperanto vocal habits they’d grown up with in the southern deserts were hard to kick.

“Pafanto?” The merchant answered in kind – another nomad, perhaps, fleeing the heat – and her head popped up from behind a stack of computer parts. “All done?”

Phineas made their way over to her, glancing over their shoulder. The blue and gold man was gone. They met the merchant over a dusty counter.

“Who’s your assistant?” they asked, setting the box down.

“Assistant?” she frowned at first, then smiled knowingly. “Ah, you met Hiram. No, no assistant. He’s a holy Iowan concubine,” she spoke proudly, “Worth a fucking town, that one.”

“I thought the Iowan stock died out.”

“So did I! But he’s got the dark blood and everything.”

“How much?”

She laughed in their face.

“More than you’ve got, pafanto!” Her chuckles slowed. “Unless…” Her eyes drifted over their shoulder.

Phineas’ hand went instinctively to the strap that held the Barrett M95 sniper rifle in place on their back. The weapon loomed over their shoulder like a specter, always watching, always ready. A gun like that was rare. Priceless. It was why the merchant called them ‘gunman,’ revealing that she’d noticed the uncommon weapon the moment they’d walked in. Not that it was hard to notice.

Was it worth a human life?

It had certainly taken plenty.

The merchant could tell they were considering it.

“The gun, and any ammo you have. That’ll get you the Iowan, and your…” she picked up the box, “Henna?”

“What’s he like?” Phineas had already forgotten the name the merchant had used.

“Oh, he’s perfect,” the merchant hummed with a sly smile, “A dream in bed. You know, you’d really be doing me a favor, I need to get rid of him before the season ends and I have to go home to my husband!”

The merchant wasn’t being subtle. The gun was worth more than the Iowan.

“He is…” Phineas wasn’t quite sure what they were asking, “Obedient?”

“Very.”

Phineas took one last look around the tent, huffed a breath, and unslung the weapon from their shoulder. The merchant beamed, yet again giving away the game. Phineas delicately set the gun on the counter and took their tall and hefty backpack off, rooting through it and producing two boxes of ammunition.

“That’s not a lot,” the merchant observed.

“It’s a sniper rifle,” Phineas snarked, “You shouldn’t need a lot.”

~~~

Twenty minutes later Phineas was striding away from the merchant’s tent, the Iowan practically jogging to keep up. He’d managed to pack a meager bag of things that now bounced on his back. Phineas, on the other hand, was feeling strangely unburdened. They didn’t like it. The gun meant safety. The gun meant food. What would they do without it?

They walked through dense pine forests, the trees looming overhead in ominous spikes. The narrow track they followed was dutifully marked out by swipes of white paint on the occasional trunk, left by trailblazers not too long ago. Phineas took a deep, calming breath of the evergreen scent, clearing their head.

“What’s your name?” they asked, without looking back.

“I have been called Hiram for some time now, ma’am – sir? – m – uh,” the Iowan replied breathlessly, “But you may call me what you like!”

“Pick something better than Hiram, or I’ll pick something you won’t like.”

“Oh! Well… If you’re letting me pick, I’m partial to Leannan.”

“Leannan it is. Call me Phineas, and nothing else.” Phineas abruptly turned off the path into the dense woods. They could hear Leannan panting and stumbling behind them, his shoes scraping over roots and snapping every twig underfoot.

Hunting with this thing was going to be a nightmare.

Phineas stopped, shrugging their backpack off and finally turning to look at Leannan. The Iowan staggered to a halt, out of breath and awkward.

“We’ll camp here,” Phineas announced.

“Oh!” Leannan looked around.

“Problem?” snapped Phineas.

“No!” Leannan said quickly, “Only, I have nothing to lie on.” He gestured to Phineas’ bedroll, prominently visible across the top of their backpack.

Phineas shrugged. “It ain’t cold.” The summer air was clear and warm.

They crouched to dig through their backpack, and pulled out two wax-cloth wrapped bundles. They offered one to Leannan.

“Eat.”

Leannan accepted the bundle and unwrapped it, finding it a single ration of a homemade granola bar – dried fruit, nuts, and grains – and jerky. He watched as Phineas sat back against a tree, as easy as can be, munching their own food.

Leannan sank to the ground and sat cross-legged, observing his new master like a hawk.

~~~

Later, as the sky darkened and the birdsong began to shift, they lay side by side on their backs. Leannan was on the ground; Phineas lay atop their thin bedroll.

Knowing they were still awake, Leannan rolled onto his side to face Phineas, propping his head up on one hand.

“Phineas,” he asked in a near-whisper, “Why did you buy me?”

Phineas slowly sighed before mumbling, “Because I wanted to.” They didn’t open their eyes.

“What am I, to you?”

“An annoyance, right now.”

“So, you…” Leannan ventured a hand out to caress Phineas’ shoulder, “Don’t you want to touch me?”

“Mmmnope.”

“So, you… You’re saving me? From the life of a whore?”

“Jes, whatever.”

“But you gave up a gun for me, and I’m so, so grateful, Phineas…” Leannan leaned in and pressed his lips to Phineas’ shoulder.

“God, you’re stupid!” Phineas sat up and swung their arm, backhanding Leannan across the face. Leannan gasped and cowered away.

“I’m not interested in fucking you, you idiotic little slut!” Phineas shouted, “I’m selling you the first chance I get!”

“I’m sorry!” Leannan doubled over on his knees, pressing his forehead into the pine needles. “I’m sorry, Phineas!”

“Go the fuck to sleep,” Phineas growled, lying back down.

Leannan lifted his head. Seeing Phineas had already closed their eyes, he rolled his own with a silent sigh and curled up to sleep on the spot.

At least this one was a traveler. They’d find him a suitable buyer better than that merchant could have, God willing, though Leannan would have to be the one to pick the buyer and put the idea in Phineas’ head. The gunman was a fool for giving up their weapon, they clearly had no business savvy.

Leannan just had to be careful not to trigger another temper tantrum.

God would see him through this.

~~~

When Leannan was shaken awake, he opened his eyes to darkness.

“Up. Up, slut.” Phineas.

Leannan blearily started to push himself upright, but a hand fisted in his hair and yanked. He yelped and scrambled to his feet. Suddenly he was face-to-face with Phineas, their dull reddish-brown hair sticking up in tufts around their head, their warm tan skin cast cold by the wan moonlight, angular features sharp.

Over their shoulder loomed the barrel of their gun. Back in its place.

Leannan knew immediately what had happened, but he blinked in confusion for Phineas’ benefit anyway.

“What…?”

Phineas released Leannan’s curls.

“Follow.” They turned on their heel and headed off into the woods, back towards the trail.

Leannan scooped up his bag and hurried after, stumbling in the dark.

He wouldn’t underestimate Phineas again.

~~~

Masterlist, Next

Taglist: @angst-after-dark, @sunshiline-writes, @flowersarefreetherapy

Let me know if you want on or off the taglist!

[the-moon-in-the-gutter]

Perfume Headcanons

Note: this is solely based on fragrances in my collection, I love fragrance and I feel as though all scents are unisex so here this is! I can't explain my thought process on these either, vibes only.

Long post, read more under the cut!

Cumulus as Chateau, 1970 by Thin Wild Mercury

Top notes: French citrus, nutmeg; Middle notes: Sunset rose accord, vintage armoire wood; Base notes: musks, modern linen.

Light, airy, and so comforting. Reminds me of putting away fresh laundry in your wardrobe with the windows open on a sunny afternoon.

Cirrus as Dead Sexy by Tokoyo Milk

Notes of deep vanilla, exotic wood, white orchid, and ebony.

This is a scent I can immediately pick out in a crowd, intense and head turning. Something alluring and sensual while being divinely feminine.

Aurora as Bombshell from Victoria's Secret

Notes: purple passion fruit, Shangri-La peony, vanilla orchid.

One of my favorite scents from my teen years, I used to receive the fragrance sets and I would give away all but Bombshell. It's such a wearable, playful scent that stays all day and I'll never ever give her up.

Sunshine as Ed Hardy by Christian Audigier

Top notes: strawberry and apple souffle; Middle note: freesia; Base notes: vanilla and amber.

This was my very first perfume I ever owned and I've repurchased it multiple times since then. In my teens, I paired it with Muertos by Blackheart, something about the fruity musks together is so playful.

Swiss as Amber by Nemat

I cannot find any fragrance notes for Amber, but this is honestly one of my favorites as of late. It's a very subtle, but warm and inviting, that dries down to more of a skin-like scent.

Aether as Elvira's Zombi by Demeter Fragrances

Notes of ylang-ylang, red poppies, cherry, cannabis, coca leaves, tobacco leaves, and vanilla bean.

I'm still kicking myself that I never bought a full-size of this fragrance before it was discontinued. It's very dark, yet enticing and strong.

Dewdrop as Whisky, 1969

Top notes: pink pepper, cardamom; Middle notes: raspberry, nutmeg, ylang-ylang; Base notes: cedarwood, boubon amber.

My top favorite from the Los Angeles collection, I would wear this religiously if I had a full size. Lingers for days, especially on clothing and in the hair. Captivating and warm.

Phantom as Vanilla Musk from Nemat

Such a soft, sweet gourmand that is backed with the most beautiful notes of musk. My second favorite Nemat fragrance, wears incredibly well (especially if your body care routine is based in vanilla scents).

Mountain as Fresh Brewed Coffee and Caramel by Demeter Fragrances

Both are fragrance notes that pair beautifully to make a very convincing fresh caramel coffee scent, reminds me of Deidrich caramel coffee pods for the Keurig. A gourmand I love in the winter.

Rain as Zuma, 1975 by Thin Wild Mercury

Top notes: bergamot, corriander; Middle notes: ocean waves, Jasmine sambac; Base notes: sandalwood, vetiver, amberette musk.

I'm not one for more beachy, salt water fragrances but this is one I cannot stay away from during the summer. Incredibly wearable and lasts for hours, even through working outdoors in the heat.

[waltwhitmansbeard]

Intimacy Prompt #2: Fixing their hair.

2. Fixing their hair

The people of Vesrah are putting together a shindig, a celebration of the end of Keyleth's Aramenté. The woman of the hour has been pulled off in some direction or another to get ready, so Vax is alone in the little room they've been appointed for their stay. There's a long mirror beside the armoire, and he can't help but laugh at the reflection he sees there: he looks like a wet cat half-dried in the sun. The feathers of the Deathwalker's Ward are stuck up in all sorts of weird ways, and he's got shit tangled in his hair, which is crusty from sea salt. He certainly can't go to a party honoring his girlfriend looking like this.

Before he can figure out what to do, though, there's a knock at the door. Assuming it's one of the Ashari from town, he calls, "Come in!" but to his surprise, it's his sister who opens the door.

"Are you decent? And I don't mean as a person, I just don't wanna see your dick."

"You came at the right time. Two minutes later and I would've been buck naked."

Rolling her eyes, Vex comes in, closing the door behind her. She looks around. "Keyleth not here?"

"Nah, I think they're getting her all gussied up for whatever's gonna happen later. Why, you need her?"

"No, actually, I wanted to talk to you." Her head cocks to the side, as if she's just now noticing him. "You look fucking terrible."

Vax snorts. "Yeah, well, dying does that to you."

"I would know."

"You would know."

Vex snags Vax's hairbrush from his bedside table and then goes to sit in front of the mirror. She pats the floor in front of her. "Come on."

Vax blinks in surprise. This is new. He settles cross-legged in front of his sister. "You've never done this for me before." And it's true. Growing up, the twins spent many evenings on the floor like this, but their positions reversed; Vax would sit behind his sister and carefully work out all of the knots and leaves and other detritus of her day outdoors, brushing from root to tip until her hair shone and he could braid it again for bed.

Now it is her fingers, nimble and strong from years on the bowstring, carefully combing through the mess of his locks, and Vax has to admit that it feels nice. She's gentle, pulling through small sections at a time to tug as little as possible on his roots. The bristles of the brush crackle through his stiff hair, and Vax could almost fall asleep to the sound.

"You know," she murmurs after a while, "she was kinda scary. Your goddess."

Well, that's one way of putting it. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Said some shit about 'the service of fate' and meeting her beyond the Divine Gate. You really got yourself into it, didn't you?"

There's a sharp tug, and Vax winces. "What, do you want me to say I regret it?"

"Did I say that?"

Vax turns, knocking the brush and Vex's hand out of the way. "What are we even talking about here, Vex'ahlia?"

She's got that glint in her eye, the stubborn one that always got them into trouble in Syngorn. "My fucking brother died today, sorry for trying to make sense of it!"

They glare at each other for a moment, and then Vex shoves him back around so she can resume fixing his hair. "Look, all I'm trying to say is...she brought you back. She didn't have to. She's the goddess of death, so she can pretty much do whatever she wants. But...we did the ritual, and she honored it. So...yeah, she's scary as fuck, but...she's not on my shitlist. At least not today."

And that's Vex'ahlia, a shitlist a mile long with gods coming on and off it as easily as any man. "Well, I'm glad. And for the record, I've been a fan since she brought you back. As long as you're kicking, she's alright in my book."

There's a hesitation in her brushstroke, and Vax knows she's wondering if it was worth it. Gods, she's supposed to be the smart one. "Well. Good thing you're back, yeah? Kinda hard to celebrate Keyleth's Aramenté with her boyfriend's dead body hanging out on the side."

Vax laughs, and then twists around to pull his sister into a hug. "You know how much I love you, Stubs?"

Vex chuckles into the crook of his neck, but the sound is wet, like she's fighting back tears. "I love you, too. Can you maybe cut back on the dying, though? I don't want it to become a habit, darling."

"No promises." And that he means. It's hard to promise he won't die when he has so much worth dying for. Still, he kisses her cheek and says, "Now finish making me pretty, please."

She rolls her eyes again and he spins around, grinning. So much worth dying for, yes, but even more to live for, he thinks, as his sister begins brushing out his hair again.

[satinea]

L'amour est blanc parce qu'il est la somme de toutes les couleurs, parce qu'il est la gomme qui m'efface, m'épelle et fait valser l'alphabet de mon identité, parce qu'il est le trou au travers de mon corps, le cerceau par où le jour entre et sort, bondit et se propage en rugissant dans ma chair nue.

L'amour est blanc comme la nuit, l'aube entre parenthèses, les pointes des parenthèses tendues pour se rejoindre, tracer l'oeil aveugle du voyant. L'amour est blanc comme le premier lange de la vie, et son linceul recommencé, la robe des communiants et la couronne de fleurs sur la tête des vierges qu'on mène à la déflo­ration, l'amour est blanc comme la chemise de l'homme que je veux, les draps entre lesquels je l'imagine, car de n'importe quelle couleur les draps sont toujours blancs, où dansent nos corps en ombres chinoises, les draps sont blancs comme les pages tissées de toute éternité par les fileuses de destins, blancs comme l'écume laissée sur la plage, et la crête des vagues quand au matin on les secoue sur l'île désertée du lit.

Les draps sont blancs parce que si longtemps les femmes les ont empilés dans de sombres armoires comme une lumière secrète, parce que je les ai vus étendus par terre au soleil comme des offrandes, où ils étaient l'image même de l'Amour couché sous le Ciel, ouvert, extasié sous le poids du divin dans l'herbe scintillante des prés.

L'époque est sombre et j'ai envie de lumière, de vies tissées d'envies de vivre, de désirs solides et joyeux, je veux des choses concrètes, anciennes et humaines, comme les rêves, la pensée, la musique, la danse, les livres et le plaisir. Je veux de l'amour.

REYES ALINA - Les draps blancs (Extrait "Politique de l'amour")

[brooklynislandgirl]

An antiqued bulb cast warm, low light on the couple who lay entwined; a tawny leg hooked over a broad, ink-painted shoulder the only sight of them glass and filament could make out from its perch upon a distant, stout armoire. All it knew was that they'd not been there too long, and that something silky and lacy and barely there at all had been thoughtlessly discarded before a head of cropped, jet black hair dipped low and nudged from she who owned the lean appendage draped over that shoulder the most erotic sound.

A purr of equally sensual enjoyment escaped on the breath Ron let out and then drew in again near Beth's skin; his nose and lips at home upon her pubic bone and drifting southwards, kiss by kiss, at a torturously, purposefully languid pace. Nothing bar Beth begging him to would make him rush. He enjoyed worshipping her like this far too much, and he told her so-

"--luv th'taste'a yah"

-in the same sultry tone he'd suggesting retiring early in. Eyes that most thought were black and doll-like, dead of feeling, shone in the inviting dim their natural rich, chocolate brown as Ron gazed between kisses up along Beth's dusky planes; lean and supple and stunning to him, for all it'd taken a little time for him to understand precisely how. A broad hand stroked upwards from her hipbone to the very base of her ribs as he bent his head to continue his worshipping, another of those sensual purrs - encouragement, affection and want shot through it - easing free as his lips parted and he sampled again that taste.

Sense and Sensibility || Accepting

For all the night might be damp and the rain pattering a hymn from far asea against the windows of Cedra Court, it isn't her Mother's embrace that she feels, nor is it that particular dance that sweeps through Ron's soul. The moment is theirs alone and his breath is a sirocco against her own shores. One that raises her back as a perfectly arched question mark, that is paired with a sound that might be carved out of a particularly sinful sultry answering breath. The sole of one small foot flattens against his back ~nebulous ground between scapular muscle and intercostals. Toes curl and dig in to remind him of their presence. She'd been no lamb to the slaughter after supper when she reclined on the far end of the sofa, nimble fingers and slender needles knitting yet another one of the dozens of afghans she'd worked diligently on to donate to Battersea ~he'd mentioned that the walls were slightly cool the last time he'd gone to spend time with the dogs there and she hated the idea of any one of the animals knowing cold~ while Ron'd been reading in his chair as was his wont. She was preternaturally aware when he'd placed his marker and set the tome aside, picked up their cups and placed him into the sink A wink and a heartbeat later, his hands hand rounded against her shoulders. When she tilted her head to the side to better accommodate him, his lips had been at her ear. Her answer was the rush of a smile and the heat that flooded her features. She was certain he could hear her pulse pounding loudly in her ears. His hands had slid her camisole from her body, she'd undone his shirt button by button. Suspenders allowed to hang about his hips. Her skirt had fluttered to the floor before she'd felt the bedding at her back. Felt his hands draw the last barrier of silk and lace from her skin before he'd nestled there. He stokes that ache with his nose, with his mouth, lush lips sliding against sensitive flesh. He'd brought her hips that much closer to his questing tongue by giving one leg up to rest beside his neck. She feels what he says rather than hears it and he most certainly cannot miss the reciprocating slickness that pools within her. She feels like she hovers on the threshold of divinity itself. Her throat is full of broken words, shattered by every pass of a calloused finger or the sweet agony of his tongue, and come out in those fragments of sound, gentled but guttural. She musters a moment when he gives mercy. One hand, previously a claw clutching their sheets in a grip like iron, manages to unclench only to reach down. Nails graze through his shorter locks to leave their spectral passage against his scalp. "Warn ya, Ronnie…I'll exact same same from you because I wan savour ya forevah." No other words see the dim light that gleams against their skin, but neither is she silent either as she writhes beneath him.

[roncevalois]

Bienvenue à l'État Souverain de Ronceval.

Mais qu'est-ce que c'est?

L'État Souverain de Ronceval (the Sovereign State of Ronceval) is a fictional country set in the collaborative worldbuilding project tentatively named "Ostrich Project." This is a world which is largely unknown to the Roncevalois, and which is filled with magick and mystery.

The year is 1450, or so. Eight years after a civil war dethroned Ronceval's monarchy and put a professed republic in its place. Et, mon ami, le monde est sur le point de devenir fou!

D'accord. Alors, qui sont les personnages principaux?

Great question. More characters will be introduced as time goes on, of course, but the two need-to-know figures right now are le Chef d'État, le Duc Conrad Montvigne VI d'Arsouaint, and le Dauphin Hugo Païspèret III de Ronceval. And possibly Dauphin Hugo III's dad, le Roi Hugo II. Here's the deal: Hugo 2 ruled le Royaume de Ronceval until 1442, when he was dethroned in a civil war (with republican forces led by Duc Conrad VI). Pity, he's dead, leaving Hugo III as Dauphin (a title for the eldest son of a king) and next-in-line for the throne... only Hugo III must flee Conrad's republicans. So he's currently living in the neighboring Marlusca. That leaves Conrad d'Arsouaint as Chief of State in Ronceval, worshipping the Divine Sun and persecuting heretics. Think Cromwell and the Protectorate.

Le Soleil Divin? Qu'est-ce que c'est? Et la culture de Ronceval, c'est comme quoi?

One at a time! Luckily, those two questions go nicely together. Let's start with the latter. As you may have guessed by the fact that you're speaking French, and by these French-sounding names, the culture of Ronceval is heavily inspired by late-medieval and early-modern France. And the language is just basically French, although I may tweak it a bit to be closer to Middle French (we'll see). However, to get a full picture of the culture, one must blend in a bit of Puritanism and Cromwell's Protectorate...

This is where le Soleil Divin comes in. See, le Royaume de Ronceval used to follow the polytheistic religion of Adstralism, just like its neighbors to the south. However, the victory of the republicans in 1442 dethroned not only the king, but also Adstralism. It was officially replaced by Soleilisme, which posits that all of the "Divins" (good deities) of Adstralism are "Profanes" (evil deities) posing as good gods, with the sole exception of le Soleil Divin. This also comes with throwing off the power of the Holy Patriarchate and strict restrictions on sorcery (in contrast with le Royaume de Ronceval, which played nice with the Holy Patriarchate and held those gifted in the arcane arts in high regard). Those who dare to break Soleiliste dogma are punished harshly. I will go more in-depth with these ideas... later.

Alors, expliquez-moi les armoires de Ronceval.

You can see the coat of arms of Ronceval in this blog's icon. I do not know how to write a blazon, and I will not try. However, the symbolism here is quite simple. The sun of course represents le Soleil Divin. The torch represents the Soleiliste practice of venerating fire (as an extension of le Soleil Divin and its power). Each Soleiliste temple keeps an Eternal Flame, each taken from the main fire in Ronceval's capital city. The colors red and gold (gules and or for you heraldry dweebs) also represent le Soleil Divin and fire. They were also conveniently the royal colors of le Royaume de Ronceval.

C'est tout?

For now. I encourage you to check back often! À la gloire du Soleil Divin, mon ami!

[bluepenguinstories]

Suit of Armoire

For a short while I thought we could be or maybe that was my bad, or my imagination. But you know that’s how I’ve always defined my life not by what’s around me but by the worlds I’ve constructed. Nearby there’s a step that will crack and lead us all into a deeper hole.

Total mistake. I can’t remember now if you ever existed at all. Despite your insistence that we take each other’s hands at every opportunity, those invitations were passed. For both of our sake, I hope we don’t meet unless it’s within each other’s memories. For the sake of our minds and our lives I hope every time rain falls you remember how it feels to be powerless.

At least say you’re aware of what we took from each other. As I write in this journal I can’t say that I hate you. Even those who I have hated, I still remember. Even you, too, and it’s still so fresh. But I wonder if you ever remember the lives that we lost or left behind.

Just once, try to think of me as something other than divine. I think I’d look good hung up on a wall. And you, you could wring my neck squeeze me until you make juice. There’s a hook with my name on it and I’m slick and loose, I know despite the heat that I will never dry.

[campmurderparty]

ashley & jasika.

“Umm…” He should’ve said no. He knew that he should’ve been more vigilant, the world was so dangerous now. He should tell her that she’d have to find some other place to go… but she was just a young woman. And she was alone. He had the divine right to be wary, but what would his mother have thought about him turning away someone that needed help? A defenseless, crying woman, at that. “Sure, i don’t have a problem with that.” ashley smiled softly, trying to seem welcoming though he still felt on edge. He didn’t travel with others much, always preferring to be a solitary creature even before the apocalypse, and although he had two younger half-brothers, he considered himself to be an only child. To put it simply, he wasn’t used to sharing. And there was still the possibility that maybe she was lying, that there was someone waiting outside to ambush him and steal all his things–which, granted, wasn’t much.

“It’s not really my home. I’m from iowa, actually. ” ashley clarified sheepishly. The house we was currently staying in was just a random house he saw a week ago, one that looked decently livable. He never really had a destination in mind, just moving from place to place aimlessly. The nature of the world made everyone into vagabonds. “But i’ve been staying here for a little while. I mostly just stick around the living room and the kitchen, though.” he felt safest there. The stairs to the upper floor had been sectioned off with a large armoire blocking them and he hadn’t heard any sort of noise from the living or the dead inside since he chose it. A relatively small house, it reminded him a lot of the one he grew up in. “there’s not much to say about me, honestly. I was a librarian before all of… this.” he gestured vaguely towards outside, “what about you?”

[daggerzine]

MY FAVORITE RECORDS OF 2021!

MY 20 FAVORITE RECORDS OF 2021

Ducks Ltd- Modern Fiction (Carpark)

Chime School- S/T (Slumberland)

Monnone Alone- Stay Foggy (Emotional Response)

The Chills- Scatterbrain (Fire)

Lucy Dacus- Home Video (Matador)

The Reds, Pinks & Purples- Uncommon Weather (Slumberland)

Civic- Future Forecast  (Flightless)

Florry- Big Fall (12XU)

Rachel Love- Picture in Mind (self released)

The Umbrellas- S/T (Slumberland)

Swansea Sound- Live from the Rum Puncheon (HHBTM)

Shoestrings- Expectations (Shelflife)

Dummy- Mandatory Enjoyment (Trouble in Mind)

The Catenary Wires- Birling Gap (Shelflife)

The Exbats- Now Where Were We (Goner)

Lou Barlow- Reason To Live (Joyful Noise)

Smoke Bellow- Open for Business (Trouble in Mind)

Massage- Still Life (Mt St. Mtn)

Divine Horsemen- Hot Rise of an Ice Cream Phoenix (In the Red)

Quivers- Golden Doubt (Ba Da Bing)

WAIT HERE’S 20 MORE (21-40)

Flowertown- Time Trials (Paisley Shirt)

Chris Brokaw- Puritan (12XU)

The Armoires- Incognito (Big Stir)

The Legal Matters- Chapter Three (Futureman)

Soursob- S/T (Hozac)

The Suncharms- Distant Lights (Sunday Records)

The Boys with the Perpetual Nervousness- Songs From Another Life (Bobo Integral)

John Sharkey III- Shoot Out The Camera (12XU)

Karen Peris- A Song Is Way Above the Lawn  (Bella Union)

Grand Drifter- Only Child (Subjangle)

Wavves- Hideaway (Fat Possum)

Boyracer- Assauged (Emotional Response)

The Black Watch- Here & There (Atom Records)

The Scientists- Negativity (In the Red)

Astral Brain- The Bewildered Mind (Shelflife)

Torres- Thirstier (Merge)

Painted Shrines- Heaven and Holy (Woodsist)

Sorrows- Love Too Late…the real album (Big Stir)

Beach Youth- Postcard (Shelflife)

Chubby & the Gang- The Mutt’s Nuts (PTFK)

  WAIT….HERE’S 25 MORE (41-65)

The Telephone Numbers- The Ballad of Doug (Meritorio)

Naked Raygun- Over the Overlords (Wax Trax)

Kevin Robertson- Sundown’s End (Futureman)

Goon Sax- Mirror II (Matador)

Dolph Chaney- This is Dolph Chaney (Big Stir)

The Brothers Steve- - Dose (Big Stir)

Guardian Singles- S/T (Trouble in Mind)

Matthew Sweet- Catspaw (Omnivore)

The Orange Peels- Celebrate the Moments Of Your Life (Minty Fresh) 

Mythical Motors- A Rare Look Ahead (self released)

The Swindon Lot- The Scariana Trench (Braxeling)

Corvair- S/T (Paper Walls/ WIAIWYA)

Kiwi Jr- Cooler Returns (Sub Pop)

Dinosaur Jr- Sweep it into Space (Jagjaguwar)

The Reflectors- Faster Action (Time for Action Records)

Eleventh Dream Day- Since Grazed (Thrill Jockey)

Damon & Naomi with Kurihara – A Sky Record (self released)

Scott Gagner- Bloodmoon (1977)

The Spires- Era Was (Artificial Light)

Ward White- The Tender Age (VF 14 Records)

The Gerunds- Hitsville, PA  (Uranium Rush)

David Christian & the Pinecone Orchestra- For Those We Met On the Way (Tapete)

Motorists- Surrounded (Bobo Integral) 

The Bevis Frond- Little Eden (Fire)

Teenage Fanclub- Endless Arcade (Merge)

  MY 10 FAVORITE COLLECTIONS

The Jazz Butcher- Dr Cholmondley Repents…  (Fire Records)

Tar- Tar Box (Chunklet)

The Dents- 1979-’80 Cincinnati (Hozac)

Monkey 101- Rust, Smuts and Heart Rot (Sister Raygun)

True West- Kaleidoscope of Shadows: The Story So Far  (Bring Out the Dead)

Trini Lopez- The Rare Reprise Singles (Omnivore)

The Palace Guard- All Night Long: An Anthology 1965-1967 (Omnivore)

Tangled Shoelaces Turn My Dial - The M Squared Recordings and more, 1981​-​84 (Chapter Music)

Linda Smith- Till Another Time: 1988-1996  (Captured Tracks)

Well Wishers- Spare Parts (self released)

  MY 10 FAVORITE REISSUES

Versus- Let’s Electrify! (Teenbeat)

Come- Don’t Ask Don’t Tell (Fire)

The Saints- The Most Primitive Band in the World (Radiation)

The Clean- Boodle, Boodle Boodle  and Tally Ho 7’ (both on Merge)

Lilys-  A Brief History of Amazing Letdowns (Frontier Records)

The Gun Club- Fire of Love and Miami (Blixa Sounds)

Adam Roth and his and of Men- Down the Shore, Original Motion Picture Soundtrack (Hozac)

Oh OK- The Complete Reissue (HHBTM)

Richard Hell & the Voidoids- Destiny Street (Omnivore)

Colin Blunstone- One Year (Sundazed)

 MY 10 FAVORITE EPs/singles

Ducks Ltd- Get Bleak (Carpark)

Tapes Waves- Bright (Emotional Response)

Jetstream Pony- Misplaced Words (Shelflife)

Massage- Lane Lines (Mt St Mtn)

Papercuts-Baxter’s Bliss (self released)

The Persian Leaps- Drone Etiquette (Land Ski records)

The Black Watch- The White EP (Atom)

The Resonars- “Gold to Blue” (Hypnotic Bridge)

Savak-  “Dealers” (digital single)

I Was a King- Twilight Anniversaries (self released)

[thatonesadending]

Molly gets to finally see his room in Caleb's tower, and it was more than he could handle - Chapter 4

He didn’t know what he had been expecting when he first crossed through the Tower’s door, but it definitely wasn't this. It had nearly knocked him down when he entered that first floor, and then he looked up and felt as though he couldn’t breathe. Eventually, he found his words again and asked Caleb where they were and what this place was, even though he knew he couldn't really take in any more information. As it was, he was having issues keeping up with just the Nien’s physical changes, let alone their achievements. The ones they earned without him.

When Caleb had taken him to the level that was floor to ceiling filled with books, and massive creation of light and color that was obviously a representation of his own artwork, he simply lost all ability to process at all. He couldn’t take in the mixing of both of them. Of Caleb and Molly. Here in this man’s home. He stared for a long time at the glass, and how it made the books around it dance with life. Thankfully Caduceus, whom Molly was pretty sure was just a saint cover in velvety fur, came and saved him.

“They found me after you were gone, but they never forgot you. They all mourned in their own ways, but this -” The firbog pointed his staff at the stained glass,”- this was Caleb’s way of honoring you and the way you impacted all of them. Showing the others that he shared their pain, and joy. It’s really what this whole place is about, Caleb showing through magic what he does not convey through words, how much he loves his friends. I think …” Caduceus paused, considering his words, “I think that you never really stopped being with them, in a way. Something about you changed them all. I think you will find that out on your own, in time.”

Molly was thankful but overwhelmed by the man’s wisdom. He continued to ask questions of him, not really taking in most of the answers, but feeling cared for nonetheless.

It wasn’t until Caleb had said he had a room for Molly, and for some reason that had bothered Beau, that he began to feel uneasy again. Not unwanted or unwelcomed, just that he didn't belong. He still took the wizard’s hand, and they floated to nearly the top.

“Ja, so, I must confess I should have thought ahead and moved your room with the others. I promise the next time I cast it, I will.” Good to know that Caleb was still self-deprecating.

“Darling, I had to float here like a feather for what, 5 extra seconds? I think I will survive. ” Molly tried to reassure him, but Caleb just wrinkled his nose a bit before responding.

“Nien. It’s not that. Ah, well - this is your door.” He pointed to one that looked the same as the other 8 doors. “It will only open for now for me. But I promise that if you have one of the cats come to get me, I will open it immediately. That is if you choose to stay, that is up to you.” There were too many questions that statement produced for Molly. Why would it only open for Caleb? Cats? Why would he refuse a bed and clean clothes? He just wanted to lay down, try to sleep, but also try and not think about the fact that apparently, he had been dead not just an hour ago, and Lucien had been trying to kill his friends using his face. He was too over his head though to ask any of his questions and just nodded his head in acceptance.

Nothing could have prepared him for this next door. Molly knew he had almost immediately frozen on entering, and he could hear Caleb asking him if he was ok. But he couldn’t move or speak, just …. stare.

He had just walked into a beautiful circus tent, the fabric striped with cream and sun-faded red. The top of which was impossibly tall, and had a trapeze of sorts, like that he used to adore practicing on while Yasha spotted him. Underneath was a ridiculously large bed, almost as though it was a mat to catch him if he fell from the swing above, but it was big enough to hold all of the Mighty Nien. But it was the swirl of colors that really struck him.

The bed was not made up neatly, but rather a pleasantly lived-in pile of pillows of every texture and shape he could have thought of, as well as different blankets of different designs that all seem to somehow compliment and contrast each other perfectly. It looked like the perfect embodiment of cozy and sensual.

There was also an overly ornate armoire that was the boldest shade of red Molly had ever seen, matched only by its accompanying vanity with more little drawers than Molly could count in common, and a large dresser that held the promise of holding anything he could think of putting in it. However, despite all of these wonderful things, none if it is what really caught Molly’s attention

He hadn't even realized that he had drifted to the middle of the room, pulled there by magic or aw, he didn't know nor care. He was gazing at the far side of the room, where 2/3s of the tent stopped and were interrupted by the far most beautiful part of the tower he had yet to see.

“Ja, yes let me open it for you.” Caleb said from behind him, but Molly wasn't sure he wanted Caleb to touch the artwork he was looking at. “Give me just a moment darling.”He whispered, Caleb stopped and patiently stood by his side once more, and waited. IIt matched in style to the same stained glad he had seen down in the library, only this window stretched and arched to meet the top of the canvas of the tent, and seemed to glow with the almost holy light that backlit it.

The glass was mostly that of a night sky, unrealistically peppered with close together stars. However, where the stars would have gathered to be galalexies, Molly could see images. Depictions of memories.

He stepped closer to get a better look and was shocked at the emotion that shards of colors glass could remind him of. Some of the art was scenes of him and moments with the Mighty Nien. Him teaching Jester how to read cards. His swords out in front of him protecting Nott. Him pushing Caleb incredibly close to a wall in a sewer. A bowl of fruit covering his most intimate parts while a crown teetered on his head. Beau flipping him off in one of their regular exchanges …. And Molly kissing Caleb on the forehead.

That last depiction wasn't quite how he remembered it. Caleb had a far off, terrified look about him, which was accurate. But he did not remember placing a hand to the redded cheek he had slapped while kissing Caleb almost reverently on the soft skin of his temple. Of course, he remembers the strike to stir him, and the kiss to bring him back, but the closeness ... It was most certainly from Caleb’s perspective, but the intimacy was more than Molly thought it had meant at the time.

However still, scattered amongst all the scenes, were ones that he had never shared with the wizard. Scenes from his life at the circus. Scenes depicting the first time he balanced on a rope. His first Ale. His first piercing. Him and Yasha lounging in a field of flowers, swapping stories of whatever had transpired the night before. She was the constant in all of these images. These were the stories she must have shared with Caleb to make these memories dance with the light of the glass. She didn't share the dark ones of finding him alone, covered in dirt, unable to speak. All of the horrible times where he struggled to find a place in the world when he didn't understand how to eat, or bathe, let alone carry a conversation. She chose to remember him as vibrant, fully appreciating life, and he was filled with so much love that he could no longer see the glass in front of him. His eyes too filled with tears.

“Ok.” That was all he managed to say, after several long moments of looking at his life depicted in artistry through the haze of tears that he pushed back before they could fall.

Caleb moved slowly and started to part the panes of glass with handles Molly hadn’t seen before. The incredible work bent and moved much like an accordion, Caleb pushing each side to meet the tent, until Molly was covered in Moonlight. She glowed impossibly large in the night sky, and the light kissed every inch of the magical space.

“This was my best attempt at recreating her, of course, it isn't really the Moonweaver, but I had hoped - thought …” Caleb drifted off in his excuses for why this wasn't the most incredible sight Molly could be beholding. “It is just that, ah - I do not know if you are able to pray here, but it is what I - well, imagined.” Caleb festered to the floor in front of the window. Molly finally looked at the ground, he hadn’t given it a second thought, as everything up and around him was already so much to take in. But stretched from wear the glass doors parted, to where his bed was, there were incredibly soft overlapping carpets of differing shades of lavender, cream and lilac. They all looked divine to stretch out on, to bask in the moonlight, and even to kneel and pray to the Moonweaver.

Molly didn't know what came first, the hot fall of tears, or him wrapping his arms around his wizard.

“Thank you.” He couldn't manage much more than that, as much as he wished he could. Somehow, Caleb had found a way to capture not only everything he loved about his life, but why he loved it, and make it into a space just for him right as he needed it the most. Right as he was feeling out of sorts and like he didn't belong with the living anymore.

“Of course Schatz, Ich wünschte nur, du hättest früher hier sein können.” Molly didn't care that he couldn't understand what Caleb said, he was too busy sobbing into the man’s neck, clinging to the second chance of life he had been given.

[samantha-bradford]

Horror in the Hills

Sam and the others fled into the hills beyond Lakeshire as her arm throbbed with pain from the geist's attack. A townswoman had hastily wrapped the wound with a torn sheet during their brief pause, but such an injury would require proper treatment from a trained hand. The respite was cut short as skeletons and ghouls followed their trail, forcing the fatigued and defenseless villagers over the crest toward Three Corners. Expecting soldiers and salvation, the group was instead met with a harsh reality; fiends and wrights were consuming the corpses of had-been defenders, whose attention now shifted to the living upon the hill.

Everyone panicked as they were pursued from both sides, sprinting into the forests which bordered Elwynn. The slowest of the group were picked off one by one, their blood-chilling cries of agony rung within Sam's ears as her heart pounded with every wide stride. Within the dense woodland, she had become separated from the others who yet lived, sending another shot of adrenaline and fright through her core as she ran out of breath. The sound of a ghoul several feet behind forced her to push onward, to fight through the burning pain in her legs and lungs.

With a sharp turn, she ducked behind a tree and pressed herself firmly against the truck. The ghoul had slowed to walk, gurgling and shambling around the area it had last seen its prey. Sam stood as straight as a board, covering her mouth with a hand to muffle her panting breath. She choked on several sobs as her eyes clamped shut; the overwhelming fear of death had her paralyzed, assuring herself that this would be her resting place.

As the ghoul continued to search behind rocks and trees, Sam quivered, looking up the sky as if seeking divine intervention. The image of her mother torn to threads haunted her thoughts; the screams of the dead echoed in her mind as she resigned to the fear of dying.

The ghoul's rotting hand slammed into the tree beside Sam's head, and it let out a guttural groan into her face. She screamed at the top of her lungs and threw herself from the tree, taking off at full speed again as the undead creature remained one step behind. The pounding pulse drowned out her footfalls in her ears, the tears of fear that began welling up in her eyes threatened her sight. Shouting for help until her throat was hoarse as she ran, no answer ever came.

A cabin emerged as she raced through the forest, looking abandoned from afar. Reaching for the door, Sam felt her heart jump as no lock resisted her entry, and with haste, she spun around to slam the door in the ghoul's face. Both hands planted against the wooden barrier as the ghoul slammed against the other side. Her eyes swiftly searched for a barricade, finding a knocked-over chair within reach. Taking the chance, Sam propped the chair under the door handle, backing away slowly as the ghoul continued to slam its weight against the door.

Terrified and exhausted, she continued to panic, scanning the empty single-room cabin for somewhere to hide in the event the door gave way. With heavy breaths broken by sobs, she climbed into the sturdy-looking armoire and curled into herself, pressing against the corner. Arms wrapped around the knees, which touched her chest as she sat in fear, trembling with icy tears pouring down her cheeks.

[pt.I] [pt.II] [pt.III] [pt.IV]

[stromaintic]

TASK 01. — THE PEOPLE / THE TOWN.

“ Could there be a temple of the hearth, of Home, which lurks beneath the paltry mechanisms of sinew and bone, Claude? Cruel mistress and tempest-tossed, the Sea is. To say aloud that I tire of her wraith-like keening is to insult the divine art of piracy itself. She is Home, what ever left of it I have left. But I will not cease my searches, for if any sailor knows well that there need be a day where you crash upon Her rocks, or unearth a final port for your weary soul. ”

p. 221 —  “The Pleiades Above, The Captain and His First Mate Discuss.” Raiders on the Seas.

i. ——

let me tell you about the man who lives in the manor at the end of crescent road. coalyard is hardly the type to get new visitors, the static nature of the town almost piling up like corpses in a mass grave, sediment on the crust of the world. eccentrics, such as the man who bought the house on crescent road, would have wanted to go somewhere with arthouses and people as odd as him. but he stood there, another dead man in the dead-end town. another corpse for the pile. on some level, do you think he knows this?

let me tell you about the man who lives in the manor, the ghost living in the skeleton of a once magnificent house. the first day that the strange man buys the old house near the woods, movers come in, and he stands unnaturally still in the daylight, watching as the movers walk into the house and furnish it one by one. the long dining room table, the plates, the armoires. the furniture was old as the sin of our forebears, kept alive by sentiment and elbow grease. when a mover scuffs the chair, he does not flinch. he does not acknowledge it. he barely even breathes.

this is no story, you say, only observations. a painting made with the backdrop of shifting light and painted regret.

let me tell you something else, then.

ii.  ——

did you know that paris is built upon the bones of its dead? did you know that saint petersburg is built on the dead that built it? did you know that the bodies of history have overflown and spat out men from heaven and hell alike? did you know that purgatory is a wasteland of souls, wailing outside the gates and running from the flames?

did you know that the man who lives in the manor is alone? in some form or another, we are all alone. measured by the distance between our heartbeats, divided by our differences, our loneliness can be quantified, even known to us, if we only stop to notice. but who wants to know their solitude?  the man who lives in the manor walks down the street, people giving him a wide berth. some of them whisper and ask who died, and there is almost something in the man that wants to reply.

did you know that coalyard is the last place anyone will find him? he has no family, of course, only the memories in his diary, long-dead and rotten beneath his touch. this is the finalé to a punchline, the arc of a swing calculated over centuries of questions. there will be no body, but he will be dead, as will all the people he had carried with him. only another thing that coalyard subsumes into itself. at least he is a part of something, he whispers, staring out into the open water. at least there is that.

iii.  ——

he wears his existence in town like an ill-fitting coat. the grocery clerk stares at the man and the man, as a kindness, pretends not to notice. he pretends not to notice a lot of things, of course. he’s had practice. death streams down from the light in the afternoon sun. perhaps the man on crescent road will pretend not to notice that as well.

iv.  ——

why do you tell me this? what is this for? you ask this, unknowing. i forgive you. sometimes, stories have no purpose but to be what they are.

that’s a shit explanation. so let me end the story. perhaps we can start anew.

v.  ——

two years pass and he still walks to the door and feeds a stray. the man that lives on the end of crescent road does not disappear anymore, only lingers. dusk sets and the stars shine, but the town still feels wrong. maybe the problem isn’t the town, or the wine, or the people, just him. but the coat fits better in the end, even if the wrongness never leaves. the corpse is content with being what it is, here in the graveyard where it waits.

the man only waits, but does not live, the idyll of the days outside going by in a haze of months. what is one more in the span of centuries? he’s lived his life thrice-over, and the toll of the bell drones only to let him remember the passage of time. there is no savior coming for the man, so what’s a little more waiting? what’s a little more torment?  the corpse becomes lazarus, and the old mythology rears its head through the fog.

a christian god is something anathema to the man, and yet he swallows down every walk to the church through the silence of the mosaic glass. there is a miracle yet to come. agnus dei, agnus dei. he will be content to sit and to live through coalyard yet again. the coat fits his shoulders, not his arms. perhaps four lifetimes is enough, and lazarus will return to the earth.