#opulent vest my beloved

[daisydood]

why did we as a fandom collectively decide that THE outfit for arthur is a black vest and a black shirt. im not complaining or anything but why do i see SO many emo arthurs out there

[retrogalwrites]

Touya Todoroki x Natsuo’s bride! Reader

Title: “Just say I do” / view on ao3

Summary: Yours and Natsuo's wedding day finally arrives, and Touya wants to see the bride in private.

Sequel to my previous fic "Fool me once, then again and again." I recommend reading that fic first but this can be read as an stand alone

Warnings & Contents: Dubcon, cheating, cuckolding, spanking, masochism, blackmail, breeding, impregnation fetish, creampie, bastard touya

Words:1857

The Todoroki household hadn't seen such a frantic day in a long time, but it was to be expected that yours and Natsuo's wedding day was going to be a rather elaborate event. As soon as the sun was out, everyone was up and about with the wedding preparations, fuzzing over the venue, the cake, the banquet, the dress, every minuscule detail mattered to a family of prestige.

You weren't allowed to see Natsuo until the time of ceremony came, all for tradition's sake of course. Keeping you away of your groom, his mother and sister insisted on staying by your side to get you all ready and perfect for such an important moment of your life, it made you happy to feel like part of their family already. Rei did your makeup while Fuyumi dressed you up, and the sight you made in your wedding dress was one to behold.

Everything was perfect, more than you could've asked for. It was not the privilege and opulence of a wedding planned by the Todoroki family that mattered at all, it was marrying the man of your dreams.

Your heart only longed to see the face of your beloved Natsuo as soon as possible.

But there was someone else who also couldn't wait to see you either.

It only took the moment Rei and Fuyumi had left the room for Touya to weasel his way in without being noticed. Locking the door behind himself, you already knew what he wanted, what he always wanted.

"Are you kidding me? Touya, you can't do this today..."

Your voice was soft, pleading, yet you knew better than to really put up a fight against him.

"Aww, c'mon sugartits, don't be like that."

He was all dressed up too, a black dress shirt with a grey vest that made him look absolutely stunning, and you deeply hated yourself for thinking that. He grinned at you, rolling back the cuffs of his shirt up to his elbows.

"You're going to be off to who knows where by tomorrow, I just want to say goodbye." He was talking about your honeymoon, of course, because you and Natsuo would be taking a week long trip to Hokkaido, which meant that you were not going to be accesible to Touya until then. "You look like a fluffy cupcake, sugartits. All pretty, and dolled up for me."

"This is not for you. God, get over yourself." You snapped at him, but like always Touya was simply amused by your most angry reactions.

"Hey, calm down. You should learn to take a compliment, if I like it then your cute baby groom will love it as well." It was the cheapest way to get you to submit, using Natsuo against you to remind you that Touya had the power to destroy everything the two of you had built.

"Touya, please..."

As an attempt it was useless perhaps, but not trying at least that much would only make you feel guilty for what you knew was coming. He made his way to you, the outline of his already hard cock straining the front of his pants was clearly visible. You hated how your body always reacted to the sight of his cock, knees trembling and crumbling in weakness.

"I mean it, you look so fucking hot right now." Soon enough his arms were around you, he held you in his arms in a tight grip that crushed you against his larger frame. Touya leaned down to kiss you hard, there never was a warning for those things when I came to him. Lips crashing against yours with his pierced tongue already forcing itself between your teeth and into the heat of your mouth.

The lithe muscle eagerly fucked your mouth hole, sloppily mixing your spit with his, almost passing it back and forth, while one of his hands had hastily pulled down the top of your dress, spilling your tits bare for him. Touya was quick to grope one of your supple breasts, roughly kneading the soft mound and digging his fingers into the skin, hard enough to make you squirm and cry softly at the pain. A sound he devoured straight from your mouth as he kept on sloppily kissing you.

You banged your palms against his chest to demand he give you a chance to breathe.

Pulling back, the lipstick that had been so carefully applied on you was smeared all over Touya's lips, which stretched into a wicked grin as he amusedly looked down at your pouting expression.

"You're ruining my makeup, asshole. "

"Right, right, my bad." He was not sorry at all.

Even through the frills and lace of your dress, you could feel his erection poking at your crotch with needy anticipation, and you found yourself quickly pushed towards the opulent vanity where Rei had done your makeup earlier.

Your upper body was pushed down on the furniture's flat surface, eyes facing the mirror on it, while Touya seized your hips with his large hands and forced your perky ass to stay up, pushing back all the layers of the dress to finally bare your backside to his hungry gaze. Touya greedily palmed the supple roundness of your ass cheeks. It was pathetic, how you were hopelessly trying to gather some of your broken pride to talk back, when the only thing in your mind was the feeling of Touya's still clothed cock rutting against your pussy, it was driving you crazy.

"Shit, what kinda whorish bride wears stuff like this, huh? You're such a slut." He hissed, fingers hooked to the elastic around the waist, quickly pulling your panties down to your thighs. Touya whistled, pleased with the sight of your wet, puffy folds. "Natsuo is a lucky man."

"Shut up."

"Hey, if we hadn't broke up, do you think you'd be my bride instead right now?" He sighed, something earnest about the longing in his words made you sick. "Would you've liked that? If I had proposed back then?"

"Touya, that's enou—"

 SMACK

The sound of his hand spanking your ass was loud, horribly loud.

 SMACK

The stinging pain shooting through your whole body had your back arching beautifully, toes curling inside your expensive high heels.

 SMACK

The skin of your ass had already become red and raw, it hurt so much, it hurt so good. You muffled your cry by bitting down your lower lip, but only barely, your quivering voice called his name like a cursed word.

But instead of a response, the only thing you heard was Touya unbuckling his belt, and you braced yourself for what was coming. Without any sort of warning, he angled the supple head of his throbbing, erect cock into your hole, before burying himself deep into the snug fit of your tight pussy. The intrusion was sudden, violent, with him balls deep inside you there was no way you could keep yourself from moaning out loud.

"Ahhh...!"

"Shiiiit...baby..." Touya groaned, mouth open and eyes shut in a blissful expression. Your pussy was just so perfectly shaped for his cock, your slipper walls tight around him like a form fitting fleshligth. He couldn't wait to start moving his hips, fingers gripping your ass as he drilled himself into your welcoming hole. He groaned low and almost feral when he pounded you from behind.

The soft smack of his balls against your bare cunt and the strained moans coming from your trembling lips were almost deafening in your ears. With every thrust, you could feel him hit that spot so deep inside you, that spot he knew better than anyone else, even better than your beloved Natsuo, and you hated him for it, hated yourself for it.

"Heh...you're making such a lewd face right now, you fucking whore." His voice was low and shaky, breath steaming agains your exposed neck as he leaned over to press his chest against your back. "That's right, even now you're nothing but my little whore." A dark chuckle just as his arms wrapped around your frame, hips still thrusting relentlessly into your cunt.

"Shit, you're squeezing my cock so hard..." Touya planted an open kiss on your shoulder. "You like being fucked by another man while your groom is out there, don't ya?"

"S-Shut up!! Please...stop talking...ahhh...and f--ah!!"

It was like begging to be pitied, to ask for respect while moaning every time his cock scrapped your insides into his shape. You covered your face with your hands, the soft fabric of your satin gloves pressed against your eyes desperately trying to block your sight of the mirror, did not want to see the reflection of Touya fucking you raw while you were supposed to be getting ready for your own damn wedding.

Salty tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, threatening to roll down your cheeks, and it took all of your will power to keep yourself from crying.

"If you get pregnant, who do you think will be the father?"

Your body was burning with pleasure, so close to your orgasm.  

"Stop it...please stop it..."

"Is it bad that I hope it'll be me?"

As he said that, or perhaps because he said it, your walls clamped around his cock as you came, your body trembling and shaking against Touya's. He hissed against your ear, and you felt the scorching warmth of his cum shooting straight into the entrance of womb, coating your walls in sticky white.

Touya kept trusting himself into you as he came, as if to push his cum as deep as he could inside you. His words on wanting you to get pregnant by him still ringing in your ears, filling you with am indescribable despair, as well as shameful thrill.

"Let's get you cleaned, before my dad comes looking for me."

Looking at yourself in the mirror then, turned into a mess in your wedding dress, tears finally started streaming down your face.

You heard the shutter of a camera going off, looking over your shoulder you saw Touya holding his phone, as he took pictures of your abused hole stuffed with cum.

"I'll need something to remember you by while you're on that honeymoon."

"Go fuck yourself, Touya."

He chuckled, careless as ever, unbothered by your rage and pain, as ever. After a pause, while he tucked himself back into his pants and you fixed your dress, he asked almost absent minded.

"So, do you think you'll get pregnant from this?"

"Shut up."

"Do you think it'll be mine?"

You didn't reply.

————

Watching you and Natsuo standing by the altar while exchanging vows was terribly dull, more that words could express. And Touya couldn't help himself from drifting to his phone, disregarding the angry glare his father sent his way from his seat a few rows ahead.

Opening his image gallery, he displayed on the screen the picture of your abused sex with his cum, eyes fixated on it, he could feel himself getting hard again.

A satisfied smile on his face, crooked and sadistic, as he heard your voice saying.

 "I do."

[aristocraticvision]

Chapter 94: The Wedding (Part 3)

The Marchand family chapel was small, but opulent. Once used regularly for family services, today, it was only used occasionally for christenings, memorials and other private ceremonies.

Yet today, it was decorated more than Stephen had ever seen it, and he smiled as he stood near the alter, where Archbishop Anscom stood waiting, a broad smile on his usually serious face.

Yes, the dowager princess had outdone herself with the décor – although Stephen suspected that the volume of flowers, ribbon and garland had more to do with the change in venue than it did with any intentional planning. The chapel was significantly smaller than St. Thomas’ Church, where the event had been planned initially. Yet the effect of so much beauty in one small space was almost intoxicating – a feeling Stephen felt was rather appropriate for such an important and long-awaited event.

He stood alone, but could feel the presence of everyone he loved at his side. His mother glowed in her seat in the front row, while his second mother, Lady Olivia, gazed at him with so much love that it hurt his heart. There, too, was Devon, his cousin and heir, sitting next to his domineering mother, the Lady Augusta. But today, not even her presence could cause him any annoyance.

These family members, few as they were, were surrounded by others – friends, coworkers, even servants such as Bixby, Sam Benedict and others Stephen favored. There, in front of them all, he would pledge his life and his love to his beloved Elizabeth.

The organ music swelled, and his heart did as well as he saw Elizabeth enter the chapel on the arm of her brother – and his friend – Jason Howes. She looked radiant, and he had to consciously steady himself as she glided down the aisle, smiling from ear to ear. He quickly realized that he was doing the same.

As she reached the front, Jason offered Stephen his sister’s hand, which Stephen took tenderly in his own. He smiled at Jason, who had been one of his best friends and confidants since boyhood. Now they would truly be brothers.

If she was nervous, Elizabeth didn’t seem to show it, wearing a smile equal to Stephen’s own. Archbiship Anscom prayed, then looked up to smile at those assembled in the chapel.

“We are gathered here today in the sight of God and these witnesses to join His Royal Highness Prince Stephen III of Weston and the Right Honorable Elizabeth Howes in the bonds of holy matrimony,” he said. “While we are but few, compared to the hundreds who would normally help this happy couple celebrate their union, those here represent the friends and family members Stephen and Elizabeth will rely on most in the coming months and years as they build a life and a family together and lead our nation to its destiny. Each of us bears a solemn responsibility before God to support this couple as they grow and prosper as man and wife – and as prince and princess.”

Then, in front of their friends and family, the two exchanged their vows.

“I, Stephen Michael George Arthur Phillip Marchand, Sovereign Prince of Weston, take thee, Elizabeth Vivienne Sarah Howes, as my lawful wedded wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, forsaking all others, for as long as we both shall live.”

And, in return:

“I, Elizabeth Vivienne Sarah Howes, take thee, Stephen Michael George Arthur Phillip Marchand, as my lawful wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, forsaking all others, for as long as we both shall live.”

“Then, by the power vested in me by God and his church, I pronounce you man and wife,” he said. “Your Royal Highness, you may kiss your royal bride.”

Stephen eagerly followed his instructions, then the couple turned to those gathered in the chapel as the archbishop introduced them as man and wife for the first time.

“I present His Royal Highness Stephen III, Sovereign Prince of Weston and his wife, Her Serene Highness Elizabeth, Princess of Weston. May God bless and keep them both.”

The room erupted into applause – one of the benefits of a smaller, more intimate ceremony was that emotions could be shared more openly -- as Stephen and Elizabeth walked down the aisle toward the chapel doors.

Emerging from the chapel doors into the bright midday sun, Stephen and Elizabeth found themselves under a canopy of drawn sabres, thanks to the honor guard assembled along the carpet to their car.

The car would whisk them back to the palace, where they would make a quick appearance before the media as man and wife before preparing for the reception and celebratory dinner that evening.

BEGINNING | PREV | NEXT

Continent of Oceana | History of Weston | History of Corwyn | History of Torenth

[loveafterthefact]

Love After the Fact Chapter 48: The Mental Kind of Growth

Keith and Lance practice their skills as warriors, rulers, and a couple.

First  Previous  Next

It's been a phoeb and a half, and Lance’s sparring has improved dramatically. From one strike, to two, and onward into minutes, into technique, into refinement, Keith's amazed at his progress.

He’s come to move, if not entirely with confidence, then with enough grace to convince otherwise. The natural poise that carries him through the halls of the castle has transferred well into a mixed swordsman style, taking influence from the Alteans’ refinery and the Galra’s tenacity.

It suits Lance well, Keith thinks, the combination of dignity and violence. It fits the burn in his blue eyes whenever he draws his sword. He wonders what his husband thinks of to make his eyes blaze like that. He’s not certain he wants to know. He is certain he wants to see how Lance handles combat with his bow, but Lance has yet to bring it to training.

“Well done,” Keith murmurs, softly smiling. They’re keeping their budding romance behind closed doors for now. Keith supposes it’s because Lance is afraid to make fuss in case he doesn’t meet the Altean’s expectations. He certainly doesn’t live up to Lance’s typical opulence, decked out in jewels and gold ornaments for breakfast and new ones for lunch. Keith’s style is far more… holistic.

“Thank you.” The Altean’s skin glitters with perspiration, chest rising, straining against his stiff clothes.

Keith reaches out, undoes the clasps of Lance’s delicately embroidered vest, listens to the great breath Lance takes in. “We need to find you something better to train in. Armor or something. I won’t have the Crown Prince of Altea fainting on us.”

“I have ceremonial armor, but it’s heavier than the clothes we had for the frost ball. Heavier than my wedding clothes!” Lance beams goodnaturedly despite the obvious strain on his body.

“Still.” Keith makes to inspect the Altean’s fingernails for some indication of oxygen intake, but they’re painted blue. His gaze roves over his face instead, over cheeks flushed beneath scales and paling skin around his lips. “I don’t like you training in these clothes. It’s fine if you're just doing a few forms here and there, but now? It’s not healthy. No more until you get something suitable.”

“Always so confident when you’re on the training field.” Lance leaves his vest open, gives a cocky spin of his sword to match the crooked smile on his face. “I quite hope to see more of it.”

“Shut up and swing your sword,” Keith growls, extending his own blade. They meet in a flurry of sparks, Keith’s platoon pausing to watch as the first strike of a new round rings out across the yard. Keith leaps back, turning to his soldiers. “Did I tell any of you you were done for the day?”

“No, but watching you flirt is more interesting.”

“Extra lap, Ryan. Gods forbid I flirt with my own husband.”

“Disgusting, Prince Yorak. Shameful, unprofessional behavior.” Lance leans on the point of his sword, squealing, flailing as it gives way beneath him.

Keith drops his ears, letting his tail swish across the floor, feigning unamusement. “Shameful behavior, eh? You would be the expert.”

The soldiers laugh.

“Expert in fun, you mean. Don’t worry. You’ll learn soon enough.” Lance gives an exaggerated wink, and Keith just groans, rolls his eyes. The soldiers laugh some more. They’re easily charmed by the geniality of the crown prince, the familiarity between their future kings.

It’s grown easier, being together. Keith feels at ease with Lance, with his place in the castle. Lance has begun to ask him if he’ll be coming to meals, to court, to some meeting or tea or another, always looking hopeful, always looking at him with eyes made of moons.

It makes Keith feel so light he might float away.

Sitting through court makes him feel the exact opposite. Listening to Ladies Seran and Renli prattle and scream about the latest slight against their children for some doboshes strains his patience and his ears, finally forcing him to close his eyes, tipping his head back against his throne.

Lance attempts to coax the ladies out of their fury, citing his spouse’s sensitive ears, but his errant concern for someone other than them sends the women into renewed screaming. The constant assault on one of his most delicate sensory organs has Keith’s head and ears pulsing. Eventually, his patience evaporates.

“Ladies, enough!” Lance does nothing to stop Keith as he rises to his feet. “Do you know what sort of complaints I would be hearing back on my home planet? Kits without parents and parents whose kits have died. On my home planet, kits starve or have been killed by your soldiers, and yet you stand here and scream because a vendor refused to hand over their wares to your kits for free? You are both perfectly well, as are your… well-accommodated kits. Be grateful for your blessings and be on your way!”

“HOW DARE-”

“Leave now, or the guards will show you out.” Keith throws himself back into his chair with a groan, massaging at the fronts of his ears, jostling his new circlet. “And do learn how to project your voice as opposed to shrieking. My poor ears…”

Lance merely bites his lip against a laugh, taking a moment to compose himself while the furious women are shown away. Once they are gone, he clears his throat. “Thank you, beloved. I’m very sorry about your ears. Now then, who’s next?”

“I am, your Majesties.” An older Altean, older than the kings, marches up to the edge of the dais. Oddly enough, Lance realizes, he rarely sees people of this man’s status here: those of the lower classes, the farmers, the smiths, miners, the people the court don’t wish to look at.

Keith envies the old man’s clothes, the way they’re loose except at the waist, which is cinched with a wide belt. He’s missed clothes like those. They make him think of home. Glancing around, no one seems to share his interest, all muttering, some frowning at the dusty prints on the pale blue carpet.

“And how may we be of service to you, sir?” Lance asks. Keith sighs with relief at the smile in his spouse’s voice. The elder man draws himself up, proud, dignified, important. It’s immediately evident that this man is someone of importance where he comes from.

“Your Majesties, I must tell you the road between the city and my commune is quite damaged, and our vessels cannot travel into the city to deliver our crops. They rot in the fields!”

“Damaged?” Lance raises an eyebrow, frowning. “Then why has it not been fixed?”

“It is the King’s Road, your Majesties, and thus my commune does not have jurisdiction. I was not even permitted to acquire the necessary materials.

“I have inquired as to the road a decaphoeb ago now, and it still has not been fixed. I understand your Majesties are very busy, but my commune… We have no way of transporting our goods. My people are suffering, your Majesties. They are relying on me to rectify this problem.”

“Wait. You’re telling me that you came here once before seeking help and were turned away?” Keith asks.

“No, your Majesty. I was assured that the roads would be fixed. But they haven’t been, and my people are struggling to get by. Our resources have been depleted. The last of our coin went toward the royal taxes, coin we need for clothes and supplementary foods. We will soon have no choice but to take to poaching.”

Lance’s frown deepens at the thought of his people scraping their resources together to pay taxes to a Crown that failed them. He turns his gaze to Adam, who searches through his datapad. “There is no record of the headman’s request, your Majesty. It must have been lost.”

“Not good enough,” Keith declares. “What is your name, headman?”

“Riel, your Majesty. Headman of Commune Larsemik.”

“Headman Riel, my husband and I apologize for the disservice done to your commune, and we humbly ask your forgiveness. Workers will be dispatched promptly to repair the King’s Road. In the meantime, please speak to Adam regarding your losses due to the Crown’s error. You will be compensated, both in money and material. Feel free to be a bit… hyperbolic.”

Lance cuts in where Keith drops off. “Furthermore, if you would do me a service, in return?”

“Of course, your Majesties. It would be my pleasure.”

His response makes Keith sick. The man genuinely means it.

“Stay, if you can, until this evening. Prince Yorak and I rarely hear from the lowlands, and we understand the journey is a long and treacherous one. Still, your commune and those of your fellows are valuable, and the people in them are as valuable as any here. If you would stay, we would hear of our brethren and their well-being, and see if there might be some way that communication from the lowlands might be made more feasible for both of us.”

Riel regards them both for a moment, then nods his head. “I thank you, your Majesties. I would be happy to stay.”

“It is we who thank you, Headman Riel.” As he speaks, Keith takes Lance’s hand. He imagines that to this old farmer, they seem beautiful, untouchable, all-powerful. It’s all a matter of perception. “It is a duty, a pleasure, and an honor.”

Speaking to Riel proves invaluable. As it turns out, he is sort of the headmen’s headman, and knows practically everything that happens in the communes skirting their mountain kingdom. He’s happy, too, to teach the princes. He doesn’t even bat an eye at Keith, who still receives his fair share of odd glances and side-comments on the daily.

Lance learns that, thanks to his new tax system, certain communes will be able to afford much-needed equipment or more seeds for a larger harvest. Some communes would still benefit from subsidies. Riel’s commune would gladly host the princes should they wish to visit the lowlands during planting or harvesting season. And-

“These days, we find ourselves shorthanded.” Riel sighs. “Not dangerously so, but just enough to notice. Still, we must produce the same or greater harvests as commerce goes to the stars. There are fewer of us, your Majesties, and no way to fill out our numbers.”

“It is the same everywhere, my friend. There are just enough empty homes, empty stores, and empty chairs to feel an absence.” Lance smiles, a little small, very sad. “I may raise our child limit very slightly. Just to one-point-five-to-one. It will take time for our population to recover, but we cannot be allowed to grow beyond our means.”

“Well,” Riel rises to his feet. “I am glad to know that the future of our planet rests in capable hands. You are both well on your way to being legendary leaders.”

“Thank you,” Keith says, rising also. “That means a lot, coming from one such as you. We look forward to seeing your commune, and I look forward to seeing the lowlands.”

“Agreed.” Lance shakes Riel’s hand. Keith’s surprised when the old Altean grips his arm instead.

“Good to meet a Galra under these circumstances. Ancients know I got tired of killing you.”

Keith laughs. “We got tired of killing you, too. I’m glad we’ve move forward after all this time.”

“As am I, your Majesty.”

"Are you sure you won't stay? It will be quite late by the time you arrive at your commune." Lance smiles, much like he already knows the answer.

"I cannot, your Majesty. My son and his wife did not survive the war, and my grandchildren will no doubt be waiting up to see me. Triplet girls, eight. I'll tell you something: fear the age of eight. They get mean, and they get sassy!"

Laughing, Lance slips his arm around Keith’s waist, smiles when his tail twists around his ankle. “Very well. You will find a shreika waiting for you by the gates. No need to return it. Consider it a gift. Also, there will be some dinner for you in the saddlebag.”

Headman Riel bows as he exits, leaving the princes alone. Lance’s cordial smile fades, replaced by the usual post-court exhaustion and some deeper troubles.

“Lance? You don’t seriously think Alfor would disregard a headman’s request, do you?”

“N- No, of course not. He wouldn’t do that.” Lance sighs, smiling. He takes the time to give his spouse a kiss. “My father is a lot of things, but needlessly cruel isn’t one of them. All the same, I hate that it happened. Come on. You’ve been quite hungry lately. We should get you something to eat.”

Keith heaves a shaky breath, thinking of everything coming his way. It’ll be good, he knows, full of new discoveries and experiences. But first? Dinner.

“Are you gonna join us, beloved, or do you want to go back to our rooms?”

“I’ll join you.” Lacing their hands together, Keith leads the way out of the sitting room. Lance grins, more than happy to follow. “After dinner, I’d like to research more about the lowland communes. I was able to follow along alright, but I’d like to know more.”

“As would I, truth be told. We’ll grab some tablets and head back to our rooms. Maybe Adam will join us. Hunk and Pidge might, too. We can all do a work night together.”

“Sounds good. I can keep arguing with them about whose kits will be more useful.”

“They’re only arguing about usefulness because they know ours will be the cutest.”

“Oh, absolutely. No contest. Except maybe Allura and Lotor’s baby.”

“Pfft, they wish. Hello, Dad! Hello, Father!” Lance dances his way into the dining room.

“Hello, Lance!” Coran smiles. “And hello, Keith! How are you boys doing today?”

“Pretty good.” Keith settled in front of his plate. There was noticeably more food on it than usual. “Lance, would it kill you to accept the boundaries of normal people who can’t slip inside my skin and find out all of my biological secrets?”

“Were you going to ask for more food?”

Glaring at his spouse, Keith shoves a spoonful of beans into his mouth, flicks another spoonful at Lance’s face. “That’s my business.”

“Rude!” Lance pulls back his own spoon, eager to retaliate-

“Lance…”

Leave it to Coran to be the one who cares about table manners. But underneath the table, Keith squeezes his hand. The smile on his face promises they can goof around later.

Then Keith stomps on his foot with a snicker. Unbelievable.

[wide-eyedscottishlass]

Scarlett and the Professor

[continued from]

8pm sharp.  Well, at least I’m not tardy.

Without a further moment’s hesitation, Scarlett rang the bell, knowing that now there would be no turning back.  Though the sun was nearly set, the evening air was humid, as if portending a storm coming off the Caribbean after full dark.  Although Scarlett had taken a long bath before dressing, her exposed skin already felt sticky.  As if in answer to that thought, a light breeze suddenly whispered against her bare flesh, stirring the few wispy tendrils of hair that had fallen from her loose chignon.  How cooling it felt against her shoulders and arms, her back and her calves, rippling her hemline.

She had chosen a dress meant to please her lover, an Egyptian blue, rayon and silk trapeze silhouette, which loosely draped her form and fell into a high-low hemline that complimented her legs.  The color flattered her pale skin tone and dark hair, and matched the pure, bright ocean waters that surrounded this island—waters which she knew Professor Hennessy loved.  Silver and rhinestone embellishments adorned the spaghetti straps and low v-neckline, with celestial symbols of the sun and moon stitched in silver thread scattered upon the blue background.  As she donned it, Scarlett had been thinking of how she had unwittingly become the moon to his sun, locked in an unwavering orbit around him, pursuing his blazing heat, and seeming to come to fullest light only when she reflected his light.

Hyper aware of the growing night sounds around her, the nervous rasp of her own respiration, and the thundering beat of her heart, Scarlett still didn’t miss the click of the latch inside the door being released.  Warm, tawny light spilled out from behind him as Hennessy opened the door, and his classic, masculine beauty, the peerless angles and planes of his face, stole the breath from her lungs as it did each time she saw him anew.  His eyes held hers in stasis for several moments, taking her measure, raking across her form, coolly appraising her as though he saw not only right through her clothing, but down to her soul.  The first blush of the evening crept into her cheeks.

He had changed his clothes too, into a deep blue silk dress shirt, so snug across his chest that the buttons seemed to be straining not to pop off.   He had his sleeves rolled up again, and his waistcoat—in a shade lighter than his shirt—hung open.  Scarlett dared look no lower, not wishing him to catch her eyeing what lay below his belt—although she knew without needing a glance, that his bespoke trousers matched his vest, and fit him as snugly as his shirt.

Hennessy’s smile was warm and disarming, his clear blue eyes dancing with mirth.  “Well now, aren’t you the tastiest treat to grace my doorstep in about a month of Sundays!”  He backed up a little to allow her to pass, “But please do come in, Miss Scarlett--and welcome to my home.”  Though she hadn’t even tried to imagine what to expect, the place already felt to her as though it had been raised from it’s foundations to house the life force of this enigmatic, powerful, all too charming, yet dangerous, man.

Scarlett had seen some of Europe’s most opulent mansions and palaces during her gap year travels, and though Hennessy’s home paled by those standards, she was impressed enough to have to remind herself not to gawk.  The marble-floored foyer led into a two-story hall that housed a ten-foot wide, cobalt coloured, carpeted staircase, which swept upwards to an eight foot tall, stained glass window above the main landing.  A short run of stairs branched off on either side of the landing, presumably to bedrooms and bathrooms, and likely much more.  But it was the window that really grabbed her attention.

A large silver moon dominated a star strewn, indigo sky, riding above stylized waves fresh with white seafoam.  Several shades of blue-greens and blues marked the descending depths, which towards the bottom became nearly as black as true night.  A myriad of bright fish swam in the upper levels, along with several grey seals and tortoises; just beneath them dwelt jellyfish, porpoises, a few species of sharks, and a pod of orcas.  In the darker regions below cruised manta rays and bright red octopi and freakishly long eels.  Lurking the bottom was an ominous black sea serpent, outlined in the same silver that coloured the moon, so as to be visible.  It’s eyes were large and cat-like—and possessed the monster’s only other color besides black and silver.  Blue.  A bright blue that felt impossible to belong to such a menacing creature.  Why, even it’s deadly fangs and claws were silver.

Scarlett shivered at the sight, as though a goose had walked over her grave.  For several heartbeats she was overcome with deja vu—for it put her in mind of her nightmares of unseen, but too oft-dreamt, foul beasties populating the Deep, laying in wait to steal her away if she ever tread too far from shore.  Those terrors of her youth, which had only fully disappeared when she had tarried on the shores of the Aegean Sea during her Greek holiday.  And had just recently returned to plague her briefly throughout those weeks that Hennessy had left her languishing for his attention.  Still unaware that it was her ancient Selkie blood raising the alarm, she turned away—vowing that if…or when…she had cause to mount those stairs, she would avert her eyes from the troubling portion of the image, and focus solely on the moon and waves, the fish and sleek grey seals.

Hennessy looked back over his shoulder to make sure she hadn’t fallen behind, casually asking her, “Have you eaten?”

“Um…yes,” she replied quietly, not adding that she’d barely had an appetite in nervous anticipation of their evening together, “I assumed you didn’t invite me here for dinner…”

“That I did not,” he chuckled, stopping just outside a wide, open doorway to the left of the sprawling staircase, “But I think we could both use a bit of refreshment before the evening’s revelries begin.” He sketched a little bow, his handsome face become mischief personified, and motioned for Scarlett to proceed him into the room.

From the preponderance of leather and wood, she guessed this was his study.  The room had a decidedly masculine air about it, with dark wood paneling all around and full bookcases lining two walls.  With a quick glance, Scarlett noted a book of poetry by Dylan Thomas (which she would later discover was a first edition), well-weathered editions by Samuel Beckett and William Blake, and even a collection of works by her beloved Pablo Neruda.  That was a surprise: she never would have imagined Hennessy reading any sort of romantic poetry, let alone the works that she knew populated that title.  It certainly didn’t fit the image he presented to the world, let alone in the private moments they had shared thus far.

The wonderful smell of old, cherished books dominated the air and hints of cigar smoke lingered in the room.  Scarlett also detected traces of Hennessy’s cologne underlying it all.  A scent with notes of bright, clean citrus, mixed with amber and something that reminded her of an old cedarwood cabinet in her cottage back home, all tinged with a  salty tang. Taken altogether, scents that evoked sure thoughts of the sea.  Fittingly, a painting above the fireplace reinforced the aquatic feel---it depicted a ship with tattered sails wrecked upon a harsh outcropping of rocks, set against a backdrop of rough whitecaps and forked lightening.  Several sirens, creatures out of myths and sea dreams, beckoned with outstretched arms to the unlucky sailors, trapping the unfortunate men between the treacherous waters and the beautiful peril of supernatural beings seeking to wreck their immortal souls.

Other smaller paintings hung throughout the room, all celebrating various aspects of the sea, including one that would easily become Scarlett’s favorite: silvery moonlight adorning the ripples and waves that washed up onto a white sand beach—which put her in mind of the warm, lovely waters of the Aegean, when she’d vacationed in Mykonos a few years ago.

A bar cart sat beside a leather divan adjacent to one of the bookcases, topped with cut crystal old fashioned glasses, a gleaming, sterling silver ice bucket, and a sealed bottle of Glenlivet 18 YO. Hennessy dropped several ice cubes into one of the rocks glasses, then cracked open the bottle of fine, Scottish-distilled whiskey, pouring first onto the rocks, and then straight up into a second glass.  He turned to Scarlett, holding out the iced drink to her, “Care for a taste of home?

She stepped forward and silently took his offering, giving a small start at the brush of his cool fingertips against her skin at the transfer.  A sudden rush of anticipation—and damned desire—bolted through her, betraying her resolve to appear aloof to his wicked charms for as long as she could manage. And of course he noticed, the Man never missed a trick; her quick intake of breath, the dilation of her pupils, enough to give her away.

Hennessy greeted her response with a satisfied half-smile and a knowing lift of his brow, clearly pleased with her quiet but visceral reaction.  “It’s meant to take the edge of, darlin’…to help you relax a bit,” he winked, raising his glass, “Slainte mhath.”  He took a long swallow, while never taking his eyes off her.

She hesitated in meeting the familiar toast, instead swirling the ice a bit, so that notes of rich cream and caramelized vanilla wafted up from the heady ramber fluid, while she wondered if there might have been something in the bottom of the glass, or even in the ice itself, before he’d poured the whiskey in.  Closely considering if Hennessy would actually sink that low.

“Oh, Scarlett…my dear girl,” he t’sked, practically reading her mind, “Do you honestly think I’d want to dose you?”  He feigned a look of hurt that soon melted into an indulgent smile, “We both know why you’re here tonight, and I wouldn’t dream of depriving you of fully experiencing the…festivities…”  he bit his lower lip, daring her to answer.

“No,” she replied, almost to herself, letting her small overnight bag slip the floor, “No, I suppose you wouldn’t.”  And then, wanting to prove herself up to whatever he had planned for them in the hours ahead, Scarlett lifted her glass and thickened her brogue for maximum effect, “Gu gaothan arda agus maighdeannan-mara!” fearlessly throwing back the full portion of whiskey he had given her.  Unaccustomed to hard liquor, she had to give a little shake of her head to keep from gagging as the bite hit the back of her throat---but soon enough, she felt the velvet burn go down, and even better, the liquid courage radiating out from the pit of her stomach to even the tips of her fingers and toes.

Her boldness appeared to please him, which left Scarlett pleased as well---until she gave a wee, ladylike burp.  He did a double take as she quietly excused herself, before he laughed heartily.  “Good god, Scarlett, but you never fail to entertain!”  To that, she could only shrug sheepishly, then give him a sweet, honest smile.

Hennessy downed the remainder of his own drink and set his glass down on the bar, before drawing his closest to her yet, so that she had to look up to maintain eye contact.  Unconsciously, she parted her lips, readying herself for his kiss, but that was not his intention.  Instead, he retrieved her tumbler and reached for her overnight bag, taking it to deposit on the divan, before he moved to refill both their glasses.  Scarlett started to decline when he held it out to her, but he shook his head.  “Take it, my dear,” he insisted, sounding kindly, but clearly expecting her to come to him at once, “’Twould be a cardinal sin to waste such good whiskey.”

Close up this way, his magnetism took over, reminding Scarlett there was very little chance she could withstand anything he would ask of her this night.  She sipped at her whiskey, allowing herself to enjoy its woody-spiced flavor and slight taste of vanilla, it’s mounting warmth spreading relaxation through her veins.  Hennessy was watching her keenly, biding his time as he polished off his portion.

When satisfied she had drunk enough, he put both their glasses aside, and turned to her with a soft smile, the request that followed completely unexpected.  “Scarlett, would you take down your hair for me?”  She blinked several times in surprise, so that he added gently, “Please, my dear.  You don’t wear it down nearly enough.”

“As...as you wish...Professor.”  His gaze felt like a slow, painless dissection, as though he was reckoning even her most secret details, thoughts, and desires.  Scarlett inclined her head a bit, and pulled out the silver comb that secured her updo, along with several bobby pins, then shook her hair loose, fluffing the length out with her free hand.  

She looked back up when Hennessy drew a whistling breath, to find he’d closed what little space had been left between them.  “There you go, my good little lamb.  Pretty as a picture.”  He took her hand between his two, relieving her of the comb and pins, softly stroking the back of her hand with the fingertips of his free hand, then sliding them up to her elbow in a slow, deliberate tease.  She closed her eyes, knowing that the seduction had truly begun.

Hennessy deposited her ornaments in his pocket, another trophy in his conquest, and with his hand still on her elbow, drew Scarlett to him.  She raised her face, waiting for his kiss---though he delayed, threading the fingers of his other hand through her hair, then tracing the shell of her ear.  Just kiss me, dammit, her mind cried out, kiss me please!  She parted her lips once more, in anticipation.

“Prettier than any picture that I’ve seen in a very...long...time,” he murmured, then finally laid his lips on hers.

Of all the kisses he had yet bestowed upon her, this was the most patient.  The most thorough too, for he knew he had all the time in the world.  Scarlett’s instinct insisted that this was as much for his own sake as for hers---for though he certainly knew what this evening meant to her, and that what lovers she took for the rest of her life would ever be compared to him, he was actually about the entire experience, and not just the consummation that had been her promise to him from before they had shared a single touch.  Hennessy savored her lips patiently, precisely because he knew she was already his---and surely because he had nothing to prove or anything further to gain.

When they broke the first time to catch a gasp of air, he leaned his forehead against hers, breathing just as hard as she was.  It felt like forever to her as she waited for him to begin again, yet before he did, he cleared his throat, asking huskily, “Before we truly commence, little lamb, satisfy my curiosity please…”

“Anything,” she whispered.  Anything for you, dearest man.

He puffed against her lips, amused, “Just what in God’s good English did you mean by that toast you made?”

Scarlett couldn’t help but smile, marveling that for once she had stumped him.  “Man of the world…Master of all you survey…surely you can guess…”

“I haven’t a clue, Scarlett,” he practically growled, “And I’ll have all your secrets this night, one way or another.”

Of course you will, she thought, and brushed her lips to his, delivering the translation.  “To high winds…and mermaids! Like a blessing—for an auspicious new endeavor.”  

She felt the smile that graced his fulsome lips, as he told her, “My oh my…you are a true wonder, Scarlett.”  Then he silenced any reply she might give by searing his mouth to hers.                        🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊🌊

Now these were, by far, the most alluring, the most delicious, most prized kisses of her young life, and Scarlett gave way most willingly, moment by moment, feeling as though Hennessy was slowly consuming her.  He held her face in his hands when they started, and she had pressed hers to his chest, dependent on his strength to keep her knees from buckling.  She panted for air when he withdrew his lips, and then heard the small, hungry sounds she made when he dipped his tongue back into her willing mouth.

When he noticed that one of her straps had slipped off her shoulder, his kissed his way down her throat and onto her bare skin.  Scarlett hadn’t bothered to try and conceal the love bruises he’d given her that afternoon—she had only worn a lightweight scarf to cover them while in the taxi that had brought her here—and now Hennessy softly revisited those marks, as though in deference to their tenderness.

That was exactly the sort of thing that always set her off kilter.  Scarlett was already well acquainted with how lustfully he pursued fulfillment of his appetites.  And she’d discovered that such reckless, heedless behaviors made her want him all the more.  Hennessy’s wicked proclivities were legion, ever waiting to surge up from his depths, and though she knew he had only shown her a fraction of those tendencies, what she had experienced thus far made her want to play his wanton.  But when he was gentle, solicitous of her needs, mindful of her inexperience, it was her heart that became more deeply entangled in the spell her body had all but fully succumbed to.  Scarlett had fallen hard, imperiling her tender heart beyond anything that Hennessy might visit upon her young, oh-so-willing body.  Or so she still believed.

There was no resisting his pull upon her, nor the confidence and skill of his elegant hands as they slid across the fabric of her dress, cupping her breasts and later her bottom with the fervor that had her wishing he would just strip her bare already. Pressed tightly to him, Scarlett could feel his erection growing more swollen and was imagining what it would feel like to have him finally buried deep inside her.

Hennessy was kissing her throat, occasionally grazing her skin with his teeth, each time a surprise enough to make her gasp.  With the latest, he brought his mouth to her ear, issuing a smooth command, “Come sit with me, little lamb.”  Not giving her a moment to consider disobeying, he dragged her along to one of the leather wingback chairs that sat before the unlit hearth.  “I’ve fancied sitting you on my lap for some time now, Scarlett,” he told her, and pulled her down onto him with enough force to elicit a breathy, surprised giggle from her.  “Does this amuse you, my dear?”

She shrugged, bit her lip, and then averted her eyes coyly, “Oh, Professor...everything you do...is...is like nothing I’ve experienced before.”  His silence bade her continue, so that she turned her widened eyes back his way, “You astonish me...again and again.  And sometimes...sometimes you frighten me.”  Scarlett felt her color rise once more, but would not flinch from her confession.  “But most of all, you fascinate me, Sir...and make me want to drown in your desires.”  She breathed out slowly, hanging upon his response.

He studied her closely, searching her truth--and finding not a speck of artifice in her admission, nodded, “You understand, sweet lambkin, that there is danger as much in my undertow as in my deep waters?”  Scarlett nodded solemnly.  “And that your innocence is no protection against this?”

“Oh yes,” she sighed, her skin atingle where he had spread one hand between her shoulder blades.  “I’ve spent my life shirking risk and danger at every turn--but I want yours now more than anything I’ve ever wanted in my life.”  With that she leaned in to kiss him, sealing her lips to his as fearlessly as she sealed her fate...

(to be continued)

tagging: @strangelock221b @letterstosherlock @ben-c-group-therapy @tsukuyomi011 @ravencatart @emilyinnj4real @humanbornarchangel @aziracraw @aeterna-auroral-avenger @adragonscloset @naughtynecromancer  and @cinderella1181 so you can see a sample of what I’ve been working on lately 

[clamatoes]

Who is Wallace Stevens? Read “A Primitive Like an Orb”

“A Primitive Like an Orb” is, to my mind, the most representative of Wallace Stevens’ poems. Ubiquitous Stevensian features include...

- Ars poetica - Self-conscious fixation of the poem making it a sort of möbius speech, always diverging merely to converge back upon itself - Whitman's repetitions and internal accusatives dragging the mind like licking surf into oceanic deeps of man's meaning & origins, almost the process of mantras by the Ganges - The whimsy of coinage and blithe Emersonian "wildness" and freedom of command, at least as rendered by a Taft republican who ran the legal department of an insurance company (cf, eg, "oaten cake"). This spunk of speech, in its more Bach gigue-like, herky-jerky incarnations - what we find, for instance, in "The Comedian as the Letter C" - betokens a wry, acerbic, and grotesque self-parody, intentionally overwrought and disgusted with the poet's instinct for overwriting, but which here carries us unironically into the fullness of the poet's ecstasy even full-knowing of the transience of this ecstasy - A passion for exactness that manifests ironically in vociferous proliferations of near-hits rejected apophatically but successively more and more prized, like jewels in the crown which is someday to be placed upon the head of some unutterable precise "THIS": a "THIS" which will give way immediately upon its seizure to yet another "THIS" just off in the distance, and become itself yet another jewel in the crown for that next "THIS" - The ceaseless luxurious music buoying what is really a philosophical spiraling drill as it screws into strongholds of "The Truth" with the glee of a Poundian god.

But the poem is Stevens at his most Stevens especially in stance and theme. It lays out his essential Neo-Keatsian metaphysics of beauty as truth, which is cognate with Pound's "periplum" whom Stevens (almost too) steadfastly refused to read (and vice versa). This "periplum" is Pound's hermeneutic of knowledge as irreducible and imposible to abstract from an endless heuristic process of discovery, each first-order instance "sailed to" as a sort of "fact-harbor" adumbrating a second-order category or principle, but each second-order category in turn yielding to multiplicity and a never-ending voyage no less than the first-order instances: never ultimate, never final, because the final Truth is this very process of discovery itself, a process of Platonic becoming as opposed to Platonic essence or being ("nothing is final" Stevens has Whitman chant with his beard of fire and staff of flame walking along a red shore, in another poem: "no man shall see the end"). There are in fact ideas, the seen forms of Plato are no doubt real, says Stevens, and yet the very nature of reality is a give-and-take dialectic between self and world and other selves and ideas, which can never be described in a metaphor of stasis: nothing is anything, even itself, except in its participation, its interchange, its communion, with everything else. The static forms of Plato are the death of the intellectual voyager and of the idea to which she sails, life is ceaseless change, an endless circuit even for the mind, which discovers truth only in performing the very interminable process of discovering truth.

In "A Primitive Like an Orb," this stance is epitomized by Stanzas IV and XII, which assimilate poets faithful to their unique perspectives to the faithful of a monotheistic religion with a jealous divinity, and to lovers faithful to a single beloved jealous against other loves:

“One poem proves another and the whole, For the clairvoyant men that need no proof: The lover, the believer and the poet. Their words are chosen out of their desire, The joy of language, when it is themselves. With these they celebrate the central poem, The fulfillment of fulfillments, in opulent, Last terms, the largest, bulging still with more,” 

.......

“That’s it. The lover writes, the believer hears, The poet mumbles and the painter sees, Each one, his fated eccentricity, As a part, but part, but tenacious particle, Of the skeleton of the ether, the total Of letters, prophecies, perceptions, clods Of color, the giant of nothingness, each one And the giant ever changing, living in change.”

One moment of rapture, an analog of a Platonic form, suggests innumerable other but equal grades up Parnassus (in that this e.g., lover's, or religion’s, or poem’s beauty was obviously philosophically accidental to what was reached), and clarifies beyond skeptic scrutiny the sublime terrors of the peak, which lies beyond the particularity of any given path taken to reach it. Stevens’ metaphysics is then a meta-Platonism, in which even the sun-like form of “The Good” is merely one face of the true ultimate meta-Good (the “fulfillment of fulfillments,” or meta-fulfillment, of the “central poem,” as Stevens puts it), which cannot be arrived at except in the never arriving anywhere, the never ceasing from journey to, and then beyond, every “The Good” in an infinite circuit (as Stevens says elsewhere, in the crucial "Somnambulisma," "resembling a thin bird,/ That thinks of settling, yet never settles, on a nest"). Such a moment of pan-directioned grandeur, this meta-Good, is arrived at, however, only in the monomaniac tunnels of desire, which ironically, in their one-dimensional, linear verve reveal the tangled labyrinth of thought that evidences if not construes the stereo-solid, every-singular real. The whole is ever and always known in the curriculum of a part, all the parts of which, together, reflect each other, and in series (though perhaps not in parallel), make up the great poem of abstraction beyond any power to abstract: known only in the concrete act of following the course of one true love to its completion, madly forsaking all other paths to the summit until it is achieved.

Here’s the poem’s full text...

“A Primitive Like an Orb”

I

The essential poem at the center  of things, The arias that spiritual fiddlings make, Have gorged the cast-iron of our lives with good And the cast-iron of our works. But it is, dear sirs, A difficult apperception, this gorging good, Fetched by such slick-eyed nymphs, this essential gold, This fortune’s finding, disposed and re-disposed By such slight genii in such pale air.

II

We do not prove the existence of the poem. It is something seen and known in lesser poems. It is the huge, high harmony that sounds A little and a little, suddenly, By means of a separate sense. It is and it Is not and, therefore, is. In the instant of speech, The breadth of an accelerando moves, Captives the being, widens--and was there.

III

What milk there is in such captivity, What wheaten bread and oaten cake and kind, Green guests and table in the woods and songs At heart, within an instant’s motion, within A space grown wide, the inevitable blue Of secluded thunder, an illusion, as it was, Oh as, always too heavy for the sense To seize, the obscurest as, the distant was...

IV

One poem proves another and the whole, For the clairvoyant men that need no proof: The lover, the believer and the poet, Their words are chosen out of their desire, The joy of language, when it is themselves. With these they celebrate the central poem, The fulfillment of fulfillments, in opulent, Last terms, the largest, bulging still with more,

 V

Until the used-to earth and sky, and the tree And cloud, the used-to tree and used-to cloud, Lose the old uses that they made of them, And they: these men, and earth and sky, inform Each other by sharp informations, sharp, Free knowledges, secreted until then, Breaches of that which held them fast. It is As if the central poem became the world,

 VI

And the world the central poem, each one the mate Of the other, as if summer was a spouse, Espoused each morning, each long afternoon, And the mate of summer: her mirror and her look, Her only place and person, a self of her That speaks, denouncing separate selves, both one. The essential poem begets the others. The light Of it is not a light apart, up-hill.

 VII

The central poem is the poem of the whole, The poem of the composition of the whole, The composition of blue sea and of green, Of blue light and of green, as lesser poems, And the miraculous multiplex of lesser poems, Not merely into a whole, but a poem of The whole, the essential compact of the parts, The roundness that pulls tight the final ring

 VIII

And that which in an altitude would soar, A vis, a principle or, it may be, The meditation of a principle, Or else an inherent order active to be Itself, a nature to its natives all Beneficence, a repose, utmost repose, The muscles of a magnet aptly felt, A giant, on the horizon, glistening,

 IX

An in bright excellence adorned, crested With every prodigal, familiar fire, And unfamiliar escapades: whirroos And scintillant sizzlings such as children like, Vested in the serious folds of majesty, Moving around and behind, a following, A source of trumpeting seraphs in the eye, A source of pleasant outbursts on the ear.

 X

It is a giant, always, that is evolved, To be in scale, unless virtue cuts him, snips Both size and solitude or thinks it does, As in a signed photograph on a mantelpiece. But the virtuoso never leaves his shape, Still on the horizon elongates his cuts, And still angelic and still plenteous, Imposes power by the power of his form.

 XI

Here, then, is an abstraction given head, A giant on the horizon, given arms, A massive body and long legs, stretched out, A definition with an illustration, not Too exactly labeled, a large among the smalls Of it, a close, parental magnitude, At the center of the horizon, concentrum, grave And prodigious person, patron of origins. 

XII

That's it. The lover writes, the believer hears, The poet mumbles and the painter sees, Each one, his fated eccentricity, As a part, but part, but tenacious particle, Of the skeleton of the ether, the total Of letters, prophecies, perceptions, clods Of color, the giant of nothingness, each one And the giant ever changing, living in change.

[elitaxne]

┊❛ SHUFFLING THE DECK ❜

♖. }

       The news of a death was never easy to hear and accept, especially that of a colleague, moreso considering how SUDDEN it had been. Elder members of the Council had their days numbered, regrettably so did he, such was the continuous cycle: creation, life, death, rebirth. Over and over it repeated, already he had lived many lifetimes throughout the expanse of the universe just as every other mecha, just as their Prime --- if the rumours were to be believed.

                           Optimus: the reincarnation of the Thirteenth Original Prime.

Blasphemy to draw such a disgraceful comparison... then again, it was the Thirteenth Prime who had betrayed the other Primes, who had so foolishly offered themselves to the Well and relinquished their power to become what? Cybertronian. Even the Prime’s had their downfalls, and in that aspect Optimus certainly had held up to that image.

As did his bondmate --- if the rumours were to be believed. Another relinquishing of power to a pretty face with a mind more clever than the devil, and twice as power-consumed. Perhaps Optimus really was the Thirteenth in another life after all, some misfortunes were far too natural to be coincidental.

The passing of the Fourth Chair had been painless ( they were assured ), an illness that came with an aged spark had struck late in the evening, taking the mech in his sleep. There were worse ways to go after all... It was odd however that he had showed no outward signs of sickness, then again, he had always been a stubborn mech --- to show any signs of weakness would force Elita’s hand in replacement; the wait was expected, respected, and finally had come to a close.

Try as she might he was next in line as successor for the Fourth seat --- Councillor of the boundary that housed their beloved Iacon no less. It had been their agreement, one forged before the war tore their planet to ruin, and one that was to be honoured long after it had begun rebuilding.

Primus, he could feel the fuchsia femme’s dissatisfaction spilling through her EM Field as she made her way towards him, all of Cybertron’s politicans gathered in the ornate hearing chambers for the ceremony. The cold glint in her optics made him smile, her naming of the Council had cost him his bench place --- but no more; a mere roadbump that only briefly intervened on the inevitable. His place would always be as a High Councillor, and no one --- no she or the Prime --- would EVER take that away from him.

As one of the original Councillors it was his right, his DUTY, to serve on the bench.

Neon optics flicker over slender features draped in translucent crystalline garments, hugging curves and cascading smooth plating with shimmers like starlight. Its brilliance rivalled only that of his own, wearing Iacon’s traditional colouring of GOLD, embellished with crystals more expensive than the tower where her and the Prime lived. Off-world jewels from the Golden Age, valuable and rare, only the finest of garments for an Induction Ceremony.

                                                 HIS Induction Ceremony.

All optics in the grand inner sanctum of the Council Towers --- and camera lenses projecting the live recording to every screen across Cybertron would capture this shift in history. Marking the day that would set him back on the course of recalmation, that was his internal promise to his colleagues who peered down from their prospective seats with small nods; it was simply all a matter of time.

Golden screens opened the visual text of the Code, held by one of the few remaining historical keepers in surprisingly steady servos, as he placed his own over the words. Councillor Elita stood at the side for the preceding, sceptre and staff --- representations of power and peace ( a tradition that carried from the Golden Age surprisingly enough ) held in her slender digits.

Merga repeated the recited text with perfect diction and clarity, quoting the required lines and oaths, promises of integrity, of justice, of mercy, of truth, and speaking in the native tongue that had nearly been eradicated along with the war. True Iaconian dialect, Primus it felt good to let the familiar words fall freely from his vocoder after having to utilize Neo-Cybex as per mandate.

The historian stepped back in place to the side, job now to record the new assigning of power as the Head Councillor came to stand before him. Cool, icy cerulean peered into steely neon hues intently, the silent conversation passing between the both of them nothing but cordial, yet the camera’s would never know such. Neon flicker up to the rest of the Council each at their places on the bench, with the Matrixbearer at the centre, his optics downcast and never wavering from that of the older mech. Good.

❝ Kneel, ❞ she prompted per her script, calm and collected despite the entire procession being a blow to her pride.

He commended her for keeping her emotions so intact, years of creating tall walls and allowing a spark casing to freeze had done wonders for the once fiery, passionate femme. Merga could still remember the day as though it were yesterday when he personally knocked her three pegs off her pedestal --- Zeta’s prideful appointing, who would go on to be named a potential successor. How funny life works, having to watch the honour of Prime slip through ones capable digits to that of a pious Archivist. No matter, Optimus had wound himself around those very digits all the same --- and even carried the Matrix in her stead like a well-trained lap dog. And there were those who said she had lost her ferocity... he disagreed.

The old mech lowered gracefully on a knee joint, helm bowing if only to fulfil the visual standard set by tradition. Gold glimmers of the staff and septre draw close as she crosses them to rest upon each shoulder pauldron respectively, dull thuds from the movements echoing in the opulent hall for all of Cybetron to hear.

Elita began softly, smoothly, yet no less strongly. All of Cybertron and beyond may well be watching, one of the largest audiences ever to bear witness so formally. Even upon first naming the Council years ago there hadn’t been enough mecha for such an elaborate ceremony, the proceedings were a testament to how far Cybetron had come. It was about all she could take solace in at the moment.

❝ In the sight of Primus light, at the Hall of the Council, you have been summoned in the wake of great tragedy. Per the succession of the respected Councillor the burden and title of their legacy has been named to pass to your shoulders. If for any reason you are unable to fulfil your duties and uphold the sworn vows as taken in the presence of your peers, another will be chosen by Energon or mandate in accordance to the Law. Do you accept the honour and privilege upon which you have spoken your oath? ❞

Merga replied with the scripted response, ❝ I do, with all my spark, Primus as my witness. ❞

Elita continued, ❝ Do you swear to serve with integrity, justice, nobility, and EQUALITY, to the best and beyond your abilities, in accordance to the four pillars of the Council, so sworn by Primus? ❞

Merga eyed her at the certain INFLECTION at a particular word, corners of his mouth tugging in to a hint of a grin. Glitch. ❝ I do, with all my spark, Primus as my witness. ❞

Smooth alto continued after a pause, the final phrase that would complete the ceremony, already it tasted like bitter poison on Elita’s glossa while she spoke. ❝ Noble Merga of Iacon, First of his name, Senator of the Fourth boundary, Named Successor of Councillor Volux --- in the witness of Optimus, Last of the Primes, the High Council, Senators, Chancellors, Cybertron, and her encompassing sistering colonies, as vested by the servos of the First Chair and in her power, you are hereby named High Councillor, Honourable Keeper of the Fourth Seat. You may rise. ❞

As Merga came to stand thunderous applause echoed around him, neon optics shining in the warm amber hues of sunlight streaming in tall wall-length windows behind the Council. The roar of frames coming to stand in their seats per tradition joined the applause, finding only a handful of servos that kept their appreciation to a minimum: the Prime, the Head Councillor, and half the bench. Today was but the first day that would spark change, Cybertron would return to its Golden Age --- that he swore with all his spark.

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Know How To Buy A Used Fur Coat

Know How To Buy A Used Fur Coat

Coats and jackets are one of the crucial in style clothing gadgets. Coats can be found in all types of materials and for all occasions. They are often constructed from wool, fur or some synthetic materials. Jackets are also extremely popular with women and men. Some styles of jackets embrace the basic men's leather-based jackets and different denim and synthetic varieties.

Coats and jackets are one of the vital most popular items of clothes for men and women. These clothes make men and women look cool and hence they're always highly in demand. One amazing thing fox fur vest about these clothes is that they are often complemented with other clothes and can make the individual sporting them look very engaging. They arrive in all varieties and for all events.

If the winter months are approaching and also you need some clothes that can preserve you heat, there may be nothing like a warm winter coat that may make you are feeling very heat and comfy. These coats can be found in every kind of materials and qualities. There are artificial coats which are good burning man fur coat pattern for delicate temperatures but won't protect you from an excessive amount of chilly. Then there are fur coats which have a pleasant fur lining inside them and maintain the wearer extremely heat. Other than that, there are the cashmere coats that are made from the exquisite and unique cashmere wool.

One wonderful thing about coats made out of wool is that they are very sturdy if preserved well. Cashmere is likely one of the most famous and costly wools on the earth and the coats comprised of this wool are extremely heat. And these coats can be found in all sorts of colours and designs. Many people favor somber colors for coats or they like to go for white. However if you are experimental by nature; you can even purchase them in vivid enticing colors.

Jacket is one other kind of clothing that may be very well-liked amongst men and women alike. Men simply love wearing jackets it doesn't matter what the event or the season. They associate jackets with burning man coat pattern coolness and feel that it makes them look extremely good. Traditionally, jackets have been related to bikers and other people with a wild and sporty nature. That isn't fully true nevertheless.

All sorts of people can wear jackets as long as they look good in it and know how one can carry it off well. One very popular jacket with males is the leather jacket. This jacket appears to be like very spectacular and if it is teamed nicely with some accessories, it can have an incredible effect on other folks. Jackets additionally are available in all colours and types and you have to choose whether you like the classic look jacket or the contemporary look jacket.

A hundred years in the past, fur coats had been an elegant and stylistic style alternative that mirrored the wealth produced Velufur burning man fur coat during the Industrial Age. Fur coats remained widespread even while the First World War was raging in Europe.

And, the same holds true right this moment. Fur coats still signify luxury even 100 years later. But whereas within the 1910's solely the rich may afford the luxurious coats and Velufur fox fur vest jackets, at the moment more persons are in a position to buy the identical gadgets for less. And, at present's coats are created with higher high quality fur and stitching.

Fur and Fashion Circa 100 Years In the past

Earlier than World Battle I, in the course of the years main as much as 1914, trendy clothes was made to be ornate, as a technique to present the opulence of the center and upper courses. Girls's clothing shifted to look more like men's in an effort to show the rise of ladies as members of society. Women's coats retained the long sleeves and high collars of males's clothes. In the meantime, skirts were ground size. Similarly, the design of fur coats shifted to fulfill this new look, and trimmings on clothes often included fur.

When World War I broke out in 1914, style misplaced out to necessity as the warfare claimed supplies, goods and manpower away to the battlefield. Styles remained relatively the identical, however, but with easier appears to be like. Furs have been used less often, though they had been never fully performed away with.

Fur Coats After World Conflict I

After the Nice Struggle ended in 1918, the recognition of fur rose once more. In actual fact, fur was used to trim the perimeters of in any other case non-fur garments. The style of the late 1910's modified to incorporate progressive new hairstyles and hats for women as clothes started to shift to appear like it could during the "roaring 20's." On the end of the 1910's clothing had once once more returned to the best way it had seemed in the beginning of the decade, although had taken on a brand new, more casual look. Fur coats and jackets had been still widespread and continued to represent the opulence and wealth of their wearers.

Fur Trend As we speak

As we speak, these coats are nonetheless worn by trendy individuals, especially throughout the colder months of the 12 months. Furs are still used for the trimmings of coats and jackets manufactured from synthesized supplies, however true fur coats are still in style as one of the best ways to maintain warm while looking trendy. However, whereas a hundred years ago these coats have been the unique area of the middle and upper lessons, at the moment they're an affordable vogue possibility for almost everybody.

Whereas these coats have modified in style through the years, their popularity has not waned. For example, over final decade, shearling coats, wool coats, and other types of fur nonetheless maintain steady sales and popularity. If you're focused on looking modern in a fur coat, make sure to begin your search online so that you may find the style and look you believe will suit you one of the best.

A smile from your beloved might warm up a chilly day, but you continue to want outerwear to be comfy and secure in chilly climate. Jackets and coats are among the many most essential pieces in any particular person's Here is Social Profile wardrobe. These are clothing objects generally used during chilly and wet seasons. There are various kinds of jackets accessible in the present day. They're worn for different capabilities and functions.

Leather-based and wool coats are frequent outerwear for women and men. Leather coats could also be produced from genuine or artificial leather material. Completely-becoming leather-based coats present valuable description heat, and give you a trendy and stylish look. Black and brown are the traditional colours of leather-based coats. There are leather-based coats which are lustrous and clean, while others have a rough texture.

Extra particulars like hoods and distressed material give leather coats a rugged look.

However, wool coats have surfaces coated with wool fibers. Wool coats don't take up moisture easily, making them a sturdy clothes item. Wool fibers maintain the body warm. Wool coats are manufactured in distinct fox fur vest shades and hues. Impartial colours reminiscent of white and brown go along with most colours. If you like taking fashion risks, select wool coats in sturdy colors like purple, yellow, and inexperienced.

One other sort of coat is a raincoat. The hood is the distinct characteristic of raincoats. Trench coats are the most typical kind of raincoats. They are constructed from various kinds of material. Most trench coats such as Dickies coats and jackets are produced from water-repellent materials. Hence, they're appropriate pieces of clothing to wear whenever you plan to exit throughout a wet or snowy day. Trench coats with belted waists flatter the physique shape of girls.

Moreover, there are also coats designed for night wear. Faux-fur and wool-blend coats, such Dickies coats and jackets are excellent for semi-formal night apparel. Faux-fur coats offer you faux fur coats and jackets uk an aesthetic and vintage-impressed look. Wool-mix coats are created from a mixture of different materials. Some of these coats have a cashmere material stitched over the wool material.

Boys coats this 12 months have come full swing. Not only in the number of types however the distinctive blend of colour and materials. I used to go looking for my little boy and it seemed so arduous to search out little boys coats and clothes that had any type to them. Mostly the have been fabricated from nylon with a hood, which was sufficient for the cold weather we get right here in the midwest, but there was not that a lot to choose from when it came to the distinctiveness in vogue that the little girls acquired.

I used to say that I could not wait to have a little lady to have the ability to costume her within the little cute clothes, particularly in winter where they have such lovely coats and accessories. Now we see some of the prime designers like Calvin Klein, Dolce & Gabbana, Christian Dior and Armani to call a few which might be entering into designing clothing for the little guys who have seemed to be ignored of the loop.

Designers like Renzo Rosso founding father of Diesel who has grow to be a part of the youth tradition throughout the world by designing clothes for kids to precise their individuality by the best way they gown. The Brema brand who's start was in designing bike apparel that had flair as a substitute of the standard black leather-based, has gained a following in his youngsters's outerwear line and others even have stepped it up a notch by making boys coats and jackets a trend assertion that parents love, not only for the designs, but also for his or her performance. Gant boys coats and equipment takes designing to a distinct stage through the use of a wide range of fabrics and typically fur to make not only sporty enjoyable outerwear, but also dress coats and jackets.

Out of doors enjoyable and actions call for a coat to be waterproof, windproof, breathable as well as heat and comfy. The boys ski coat and snowboarding jackets are becoming a method pattern for the little guys who's family likes to hit the Velufur burning man coat slopes they usually want to be able to look good while doing it. From brilliant yellow to the understated black, with or without fur hoodies will match any model that your youngster might like. The variety of boys ski coats are endless.

Our little boys are actually on the fashion scene as being someone who's to be reckoned with when it comes to boys coats and jackets as well as winter and summer season put on.

With the climate changing and the autumn trend season now in full swing, consideration of all trend lovers turns to what are the will need to have winter https://www.velufur.com/ coats kinds to have this season. Fake fur, navy, camel and naturally the Mac, all function closely on this seasons coat and jacket kinds.

The Aviator Jacket

Assume 80's revival with the will need to have winter coat style for all fashionistas - the aviator jacket. The leather-based aviator with shearling cuff and collar particulars is a prime pattern with Velufur faux fur coats and jackets this being a wonderful coat fashion for an informal look. It is already dominating the high street stores and will be the key gown down jacket to keep you cosy this winter with out foregoing style.

The Mac

The Mac arrived again on the winter coat pattern record in force final season and this year isn't any different. The Mac or trench model coat stays massively fashionable in AW10. With a classic look, this jacket and coat fashion will be dressed up or dressed down for a proper or casual look making it a versatile coat to incorporate into your wardrobe.

Camel And Crimson Tones

Undeniably one of the key colour trends for fall 2010 is the camel tone that swept the fall 2010 catwalks. Coats in all shades of this buttery tan color hark again to the 70's period however there is no old-fashioned read more on wikipedia here look associated with this in AW10. From formal work put on model coats to informal gown down jackets, adding a camel coloured coat to your winter wardrobe assortment will see you bang on pattern this season.

Go for a press release look by choosing a pink toned winter coat, another will need to have color for this vogue season. Adding red to your fall and winter wardrobe will perk up your winter look because the long darkish nights begin. A stand out from the group color possibility and one other top trend.

Military high quality faux fur uk Element

Inject the important thing pattern of army by opting for a winter coat that incorporates military model detailing teamed with darker tones of gray, khaki and black. The style designers love affair with the navy trend exhibits no sign of abating with an unlimited number of coats and jackets Velufur on the excessive avenue typically featuring the signature brass buttons and gold trim. Shifting on from the normal double-breasted styling, you may discover a extra understated army look with designers choosing much less obvious army touches to present a contemporary tackle this model.

Fabrics

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Luxe lace, velvet and fake fur are the predominant materials featured in AW10 winter coat style. Over-sized fake fur collars and cuffs to sharp looking velvet type blazers - these materials shall be key to making sure your winter coat is bang on development. Velvet styling will add a touch of gothic glam to your wardrobe with this sumptuous fabric including a dimension of texture to minimalistic chic outfits.