#✾ ⎰ ❛ a dance which shall never end . ❜ ⧸ ⊰ thread ⊱

[edenpoise]

⁽ @zestials ⁾ ― ： starter call. from here .

E . ― THE PAST FEW DECADES HAD SEEMINGLY PASSED IN A GLIMPSE. Truthfully, she had almost pondered where the time had even gone - it was always so fleeting and before she could ever know, it has already been another few centuries of humanity. the once reigning sinners grew in size- perhaps the fear of the pride r i n g almost becoming overcrowded had already begun to creep into her chest. Oh to what the world has become. Even now, she could only guess how many years have passed since she had taken her final breath within the world of the living - in the end she would need to venture out and see what has become.

There were sinners, faces in which she has never seen before and perhaps will never see again. Many, when they come here eventually fall in their own sin or perhaps simply hide away in the attempts to keep whatever remains of their HUMANITY. It never mattered in the end. However, fate seemed to always provide the cruelest of entertainment. For as long as she has been wondering these hellish planes, she could recognize the newly arrived without a second glance. Such a shame- there was never someone to guide those who drop into this cruel afterlife. Truthfully she should simply turn and walk away, disappear within the shadows. But ... perhaps she shall take this chance to familiarize herself with the descendants that were left behind.

The shadows almost bent to her will- covering herself from the peering eyes- up until she was close enough. My, they were quite the tall fellow, " You seem quite l o s t ... I presume you're NEW residence ... "

[swordgrace]

& 𝐍𝐎𝐖 𝐈’𝐌 𝐂𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔.

⠀ཾ༵ 𑁍┆ gwayne hightower x wife!reader.

SYNOPSIS: you and your husband decide to take advantage of the quiet gardens near the red keep.

anonymous request.

{ FORMAT: drabble — requested by anonymous.

{ WORD COUNT: 4.1K.

{ WARNINGS: SMUT (mdni), porn with little plot, risk of getting caught, semi-public sex, gwayne is a switch, cunt-drunk gwayne, sex in the red keep gardens, teasing, hair-pulling kink, oral sex (fem!rec), cunnilingus, groping, making out, dirty talk, mild praise kink, p in v sex (unprotected), mild scratching, soft ending.

{ AUTHOR’S NOTE: I am on the Gwayne train right now, I just adore writing for him. This is a smaller story, and I think writing some drabbles might do me a bit of good! I hope that you all enjoy! ❤️ Thanks so much for the love & support!

𝐁𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐩, 𝐠𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫’𝐬 𝐞𝐯𝐞, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐝 𝐊𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐡, 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐚𝐜𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐫 𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐚.

The smell was akin to a perfumed dowager, the air thick with roses and honey, petals drifting along in the evening breeze. It was a stark contrast to the pungent scent of the rest of the city — perhaps that is why you favored the gardens.

Orange tendrils of a waning sun spread across the leaves, verdant and bright, turning the gardens all sorts of colors — shades of emerald and gold, intermingling with the many flowers there.

Most souls that had occupied the gardens had made themselves scarce, turning it into a paradise that only you shared with another. You often admired the general splendor even when it was crowded, but now, it gave you a rather unobstructed view.

The various palette of the gardens, particularly any deeper shades of forest-green, matched that of your husband’s doublet, embroidered with golden thread. It was strange to see Gwayne removed from his armor, his silvery vassal that kept him well-protected.

In the aftermath of Rook’s Rest, there were days spent in respite, much to your delight. Though, war would steal him away from you again — you intended on making the most out of each moment, beseeching him to remain by your side. He obliged you, fortunately, and you never objected to it.

A golden hour, brightest before dusk, painted you in shades that Gwayne had committed to memory, your features bathed in dying light. You were swathed in gowns of cerulean, a deeper shade of azure that had brought him to heel when you emerged with it on.

Merrily, he often touted that he had the most beautiful wife in all of the realm, and such a sentiment didn’t change nor waver. It was resolute, done with a fondness that made its way to you.

“Perhaps, once this conflict comes to a close, you and I shall return to Oldtown,” Gwayne’s gallant resonance cut through the contented silence, his timbre often filled with regality, the elegant poise of a well-learned Knight. “I’ve grown surfeited by this grisly place.”

If Gwayne had not been so proficient with a blade, you suspected that a quill and his sharp tongue would’ve done him a world of good in another lifetime. His flowery speech had charmed you time and time again, and you were left captivated.

Oldtown had become your home, a sanctuary of which you and Gwayne had built a peaceful life together. With Prince Daeron in your care, it was something of a family — one that you suspected would grow in the near future.

“As have I,” With a gentle sigh, your fingers danced along his velvet-clad forearm, your arm interlaced with his as he led you through the teeming labyrinth. At twilight, it had become wonderfully quiet, a place of solace away from the bustling hum of the Red Keep. “It is a dour place.”

Dour was a mere understatement — Gwayne knew what harm this city could do, crushed beneath the oppressive weight of the Red Keep. Even in its architectural splendor, it remained a shadow, haunting your every step as it loomed above the both of you.

Even in the sanctuary of the Gardens, one could not escape it. He did not envy his sister for being sequestered here for most of her lifetime — he imagined that it likely led to a path of misfortune and frustration. Being in Oldtown, he could afford many liberties, freedoms that weren’t permitted in King’s Landing.

As you continued on your path, a stone terrace opened before you, a comely overlook with a sizable gazebo, marked by dimly-lit torches. Save for the picturesque view of Blackwater Bay, it was surrounded by foliage and flora on all sides.

Gwayne felt your concern in waves, an unspoken sentiment, knowing that he would be called to leave again. Cole’s armies were rallying to march to Harrenhal, and he was summoned to ride alongside him, the second-in-command. You had made your disdain for this known, and Gwayne couldn’t fault you for it.

“I would sorely dislike it if our time together was to be spent in silence,” He watched you through cerulean hues as you rounded the gazebo, moving toward the overlook. Waves gently lapped at the outcropping of rock, breaking upon it, saltwater kisses peppering your cheeks. “I have a duty, dearest.”

A begrudging sigh tore past your lips, and you staved off the sudden onslaught of turmoil. You had come to-terms with the inevitability of his departure — you had dealt with it once before, but the sting never lessened. “I understand. I loathe you and love you for it.” You murmured, your smile threadbare.

Your answer retained a twinge of lightheartedness to it, in the face of a bleak future. Gwayne couldn’t help but scoff, visage dancing with amusement as he stepped toward one of the massive walls of gardenias. Plucking a pale blossom from its stem, he crossed the stone to you, a gesture of affection.

“Loathe me, is that it?” Gwayne wouldn’t have your last moments together spent in melancholy — and you seemed to be in agreement. He placed the blossom behind your ear, carefully tucking it into place. “Have I vexed you so easily?”

Planting a palm against his chest, you allowed your fingertips to trace across plated velvet, dancing toward the Hightower sigil, embroidered into the collar. He was resplendent in noblemen’s garb, painfully handsome and fresh-faced, save for the healing cut upon his lip and bruised brow.

A taut, muscled arm moved to snake around your waist, effortlessly caging you in against him. Your saccharine scent invaded his senses, swarming around his head like a thick haze, one that he delighted in. Beneath the evening sky, he made his ardor for you known, a real and living thing.

“You are swift to credit yourself, husband. I may resort to knocking you from your pedestal.” You teased, tender voice growing softer, a mere purr to his ears. Gods, you were wonderfully divine — Gwayne brazenly squeezed your hip through your gowns, auburn brows lifting in amusement.

Instead of puffing his chest with a playful retort, Gwayne could no longer resist the tempting curve of your lips, craning down to kiss you. It was a sweet mingling of mouths, slow and exploratory, happy to take their time with one another.

The first inklings of an amorous heat crackled between the both of you, a rapturous hunger that hadn’t been sated since he returned from Rook’s Rest. You simply could not get enough of your beloved husband, hands clamoring from his plush doublet to his mane of copper tresses, gripping them tightly.

Even with the thicker material of your dress, Gwayne greedily grasped at your curves, able to feel the pliant swell of your physique beneath. You had already seduced him with your steep necklace and ample bosom — sometimes, you were more of a salacious minx than you were a maiden. He enjoyed you both ways.

Your chambers in the Red Keep seemed so far away, and neediness began to take root, desire flourishing where propriety could not. As you insistently tugged upon his auburn locks, Gwayne felt his cock stir to life within his trousers, twitching as if to remind him of his carnal need for you.

“Incomparable, I must confess,” Gwayne exhaled, hot breath fluttering across your visage. Hints of wine retained their presence upon his tongue, skin smelling of woodland musk and fine soaps. “Not a single wandering eye to find us here.” His timbre dropped into a delectable purr, lips pressing themselves to the curve of your jaw.

Exhilaration struck at the pit of your stomach, coupled with the familiar wave of arousal, its inklings slick and warm between your legs. “What are you implying, husband?” You asked, breathy and wanton, clinging to him like a drowning woman.

A low, teasing hum slipped betwixt his lips, mouth molding to your flesh, gliding across the slender column of your throat. One hand dropped to cup your derrière through the thicker material of your dress, longing to see it around your feet, instead.

A sheepish moan tore past your mouth, unabashedly stoking the fire that simmered between the both of you. Gwayne greedily lapped at your sweet skin, like a thick honey upon his tongue. “It is just you and I, sweetling. Might you indulge me?” He hummed, desperate to have you now that desire had taken hold.

Gods, you wanted him terribly.

It was a fascinating twist, with Gwayne wanting to have you here, given the publicity of the locale. He was often a man to take you to your chambers in the name of chivalry, but this daring, yearning side to him — you quite enjoyed it, his change of heart.

“Gods, I love you.” You sighed, feeling him relocate the both of you towards one of the thick, stone columns that held the gazebo aloft. It was rough against your back, but you cared little for it, hastily unlacing the bodice of your dress. The silken smallclothes you wore beneath would suffice.

A low, stifled groan escaped Gwayne’s mouth, cerulean hues sharp and amatory, roving over you with a thinly-veiled desire. “Seven Hells, you drive me to the brink of madness, wife.” He murmured, swiftly relieving you of that mound of azure velvet.

The simple slip you wore beneath clung to your curves, accentuating your physique in pale shades of ivory, nipples peeking through the thin material. His hand slithered beneath, seeking to find the slick heat of your cunt, pushing your legs apart with his thigh.

Gathering your slip within your hands, you tugged the material up, until it pooled around the swell of your hips, giving him unhindered access. Gwayne careened forward, mouth colliding with yours, lips desperately craving every fiber of your being.

His other hand moved to cup your breast through your gown, thumb languidly swiping over your pebbled nipple, teasing the bud as he rolled it between his fingers. A sharp, noisy gasp escaped you, followed by the unrestrained sound of a moan.

Your hands clamored to perch atop his shoulders, sinking down into the velvet, longing to see him naked. If you closed your eyes, it was easy to imagine, but you desired the real thing. With haste, your digits slipped toward the line of golden clasps along the front, aiming to get it unbuttoned.

“You minx.” Gwayne panted into your mouth, digits beginning to stroke along your slit. Much to his delight, you were already warmed, wet and honey-thick upon his fingers. Lips twined in hot clashes, and he never allowed it to devolve into something sloppy. Each kiss possessed meaning, a fervent love for you.

As you unclasped his doublet, he moved his arms enough to relinquish the stuffy weight of the fabric, musculature lean and taut, his skin pale and glittering in the gentle twilight. It let you squeeze his shoulders, tracing over the freckles there, reveling in his bare flesh.

Gwayne released a few breathy ‘I love you’s’ into your lips, before he relocated to the sensitive column of your throat. He spoke with reverence, as if he had come to worship his goddess, lay himself down at your feet. Your fingers wove themselves against the nape of his neck, tugging on his copper locks.

Practiced, dexterous digits continued to caress along your cunt, before pushing past your folds. He grazed your clit, sending a rush of goosebumps cascading down the length of your spine. “Gwayne,” You moaned, the sweetest melody to his ears as you rocked forward, desperate for any shred of friction. “Please!”

His cock twitched again within his breeches, aching with something powerful, needing to be inside of you. Patience was his virtue and his agony — he still wanted to taste your first. He continued to knead into your breast, evoking another blissful whine from you.

Despite wearing his honor and chivalry like a coat of armor, he cared little for the consequences of potentially being caught. He would ravish his beloved wife here in these gardens — there was no sin in such an act. Kissing along your jugular, he felt you grip and pull on his hair, filling him with an excitable fire.

“Gods, I must taste you,” Gwayne groaned, voice tinged with an alluring husk, palm continuing to caress the plush swell of your breast. The thin, silken strap of your slip began to sag, and he did not fix it, exposed to the unblemished plane of your collarbone. “If you will permit me to do so.”

“You needn’t ask, husband,” A wanton whimper left you when Gwayne’s digits abandoned your cunt, though it would soon be replaced with the fine heat of his greedy tongue. Through a lovesick gaze, you observed in rapturous silence as Gwayne sank to his knees, as if he were preparing to pray. “I belong to you.”

Watching his auburn crown move towards the apex of your thighs was a most tantalizing sight, causing your breath to hitch within your throat. Molten heat surged within your belly, churning with a violent anticipation as you braced one hand atop his shoulder.

A sight to die for, to kill for — Gwayne would’ve fought a thousand battles if it meant that you were the reward at the very end, a resplendent maiden in all of your glory. He would’ve endured torture unimaginable for you, razed down armies, destroyed cities all for you.

The first lap of his tongue caused your knees to buckle, raking hot embers across your cunt. He wedged his way in between your legs, shoulders keeping you apart just enough. Gwayne was quite candid about his enjoyment of tasting you — thoroughly cunt-struck.

A groan stirred within his chest as your fingers grazed through his copper tresses, finding their purchase near the base of his skull. He did not relent, tongue carefully splitting past your folds, greeted by the saccharine onslaught of your arousal.

“Gwayne.” A breathy sigh tore past your parted lips, lulled into subservience from the steady, exploratory laps of his tongue. He was sluggish, allowing the anticipation to mount, nose brushing along your mound.

Your taste was ambrosial, thick and heady, like a haze that he had no desire to escape from. There were many moments where he’d dreamed of this, on the march to Rook’s Rest, sprawled across his cot, fantasizing of you again and again.

He quite enjoyed the way in which you sighed his name, passion bubbling forth from your chest, head rolled back against the stone column. Careworn palms reached for your haunches, delighted to take their fill of you, caressing along the backs of your thighs.

“Exquisite,” Gwayne exhaled, catching his breath to press a string of kisses all along the inside of your thighs. “By the Seven, you taste divine.” He groaned, drunk and dizzy from your cunt. A soft moan escaped you as you coaxed him back, and he willingly obliged.

With another hot, eager lap of his tongue over your core, your knees rattled like leaves in the breeze, feeling his shoulders bully their way between your legs. A brusque, warm breeze fluttered throughout the gazebo, bathed in the waning light of the sunset. Stars began to glisten overhead, unhindered by the clouds.

Gwayne’s eagerness was palpable, able to be felt as he buried his face into your cunt, cerulean eyes fluttering shut in an expression of bliss. A groan stirred within his throat, fluttering throughout his chest as you fisted his auburn tresses, soft beneath your palms.

You could not get enough of him, keeping your hands on him in whatever way you could, chest heaving with wanton sighs. Carnality and desire permeated the air, the atmosphere thick with desperation. You always treated each moment as if it would be your last.

His mouth fervently worked against your slick cunt, sending pleasant shockwaves into the pit of your stomach. Goosebumps danced along your spine, followed by a shiver that made you moan. Your hips rolled forward, shamelessly grinding yourself into your husband’s waiting lips.

With a flick of his tongue, Gwayne sought the pearl of your cunt, lips eagerly kissing their way to your clit. He planted feather-light kisses around that sensitive clutch of nerves, causing you to tremble, digits tightening within his hair. Your grip was ironclad, but it was pleasurable for him, knowing you were enjoying yourself.

“Gods, Gwayne,” You whined, listening to the lewd noises of your chivalrous paramour suckling on your clit. Another onslaught of molten heat swirled within your stomach, seeping into your bones, manifesting as arousal between your thighs. “Do — Do not stop!” The urgency in your voice had increased exponentially.

If there were any evening stragglers in the Royal Gardens, you prayed to the Seven that they would not stumble upon the both of you.

The sight itself was inherently sinful, with you haplessly pressed against the stone column, gallant dress strewn across the ground, slip sagging along your physique. Gwayne’s emerald doublet had joined your garments below. You reveled in the sight of his head between your thighs, causing you to whimper.

Gwayne could detect when you were accelerating towards your release, able to feel the twitches and tremors in your thighs. He soothingly stroked along your silky flesh, interchanging between the greedy suckling of your clit, to long, broad strokes of his tongue.

His lips glistened with a sticky sheen of your nectar, of a finer stout than many, more delectable than any wine that had befallen his mouth. Gwayne worshiped you, kissed the ground you walked upon, and he did not feel an ounce of shame in it.

His cock throbbed with a desperate ache, precum slick around the head as it strained against his trousers. Your own satisfaction spurred him on, and your delightful noises only sent him spiraling into the depths of depravity. You hadn’t a clue of the things you did to him.

In a brazen maneuver, his tongue prodded against your entrance, gingerly thrusting inside of you. You gasped, biting at the inside of your cheek, digits raking through his auburn locks. You let your grip loosen, hips careening forward into his mouth again.

Gwayne ravished you, with the ravenous appetite of a starving dog. He moved back just enough to lap at your cunt, making a blazing trail from your entrance to your clit. “I’m close,” You huffed, issuing some warning to him before the dam had burst altogether. ��Gwayne!”

It was the only word you knew in the present, his name — it rolled from your tongue in a delighted cry, laced with ardor and reverence. You reached your peak, shamelessly spilling yourself upon his tongue, and he was enamored with you.

With careful, sluggish strokes of his tongue, he delicately cleaned the mess he made of you, allowing you to bring yourself down from your peak. Even if the intensity had made you burn at a fever pitch, you were far from finished, tugging on Gwayne’s tresses to get his attention.

“Take me, husband,” It wasn’t a request — it was a demand, a command made upon a yearning wife. Desire glistened like a thick sheen within his cerulean eyes, which happened to widen at the sight of you. “Please.” You didn’t have to beg — Gwayne wanted you just as terribly.

He swiftly rose from between your legs, pupils dilated with lust as he steered you toward the stone bannister of the overlook, wide enough to support you. You sat down, hastily fumbling with the leather ties of his trousers. Gwayne parted your legs again, bending over you as he sought your mouth.

The taste of arousal — yours — fell heavy upon your tongue, lips clashing together as you desperately sought to free his cock from its confines. “I need you,” Gwayne husked against your mouth, pearlescent teeth briefly snagging on your lower lip. “Gods, how I’ve missed this, missed you.”

“Gwayne,” A moan escaped you, intermingling with his husky pants and sonorous groans. His forehead nudged against yours, lips hot and needy, and you were more than happy to reciprocate. “I need you, I …” Your voice tapered off when his cock slid against your folds.

He kept you steady, hands caging you against the bannister, the stone biting into your back as he kept you at an angle. Silk gathered around your hips, friction wafting between the both of you as he thrust forward, cock sinking into you.

Hitching a leg around his waist as best as you could, your hands roamed to his chest, nails digging into his collarbone as he began to find an erratic pace. He was loving and passionate, even still, but there was something inherently quick about his rhythm.

Perspiration glittered along his brow from the warm evening, yet it did not stop him from pounding away at you. His cock filled you perfectly, providing a delectable stretch that made your toes curl. It wasn’t an intimidating thing, but it was pretty, just like the rest of him.

Through his clenched teeth, Gwayne sang your praises, savoring the way in which your cunt constricted around him, as if drawing him in. “Seven Hells, your cunt is perfection,” Such lewd, crass words sounded so eloquent coming from his lips, as debonair as a Prince. “I cannot get enough of you, sweet wife.” He groaned.

Despite his crudely-spoken compliment, you were lost within the throes of your own pleasure, body rocked into submission by each snap of his hips. His cock bottomed out within you, movements swift yet punctuated, as if every thrust possessed meaning.

You loved Gwayne unconditionally — perhaps too much, if such a thing were possible. Your chest heaved with sweet, passionate sighs and gentle moans, forehead occasionally brushing against his. His hands kept themselves firm along your waist, curling into the silk of your slip.

His cock battered away at your slick cunt, aided by your mounting arousal. Everything felt so feverishly warm, as if you had been set ablaze, nerves feeling like they were steeped in fire. “More,” You moaned, and it effectively caught Gwayne’s attention. “Gwayne, please.” He was weak to your soft pleas.

Your beloved husband lacked harshness when it came to intimacy, something you adored about him. Even when his thrusts became desperate and erratic, chasing after his release, he never resorted to using you. His lips sought the column of your throat, nose brushing along your jugular.

A string of kisses peppered themselves against your sweet flesh, with the occasional suckling of his lips to your neck. A myriad of throaty whines and whimpers continued to leave you in droves, cunt pathetically clenching around him.

Buckling forward, Gwayne planted one palm against the stone bannister, the other caging in around you as he continued to pound away into your needy cunt. He kissed you wherever he could, dwindling into desperation and the innate desire to taste your sweet flesh.

His lips parted slightly, a strained grunt escaping him as he thrust forward again, until there was nowhere left for him to go. Gwayne pulled back just enough, the head of his cock still inside of you before he moved forward again. The friction made you shiver, fingers grasping at the nape of his neck.

His name continued to slip from your mouth, over and over again, like a whispered prayer. Your nails left behind red crescents upon his skin, sharp brands of your lovemaking. Gwayne groaned against your throat, desiring to kiss you once more, lips laying claim to yours with a fervor.

With another snap of his hips, Gwayne shuddered, nearly collapsing into you as he reached his peak. Hot ropes of seed brazenly spilled inside of you, warming your insides as he attempted to catch his breath. You pressed your forehead to his, breathing with him, allowing your hands to slack.

Gwayne politely removed himself from you, mindful of your garments as he fixed your gown back into place. The slip itself was disheveled, but he ensured its tidiness before you got dressed again.

“How divine you are,” Gwayne hummed, planting gentle kisses along the side of your face before it ended at the curve of your jaw. “Beautiful beyond comprehension.” He murmured, using two digits to delicately place the strap of your slip back upon your shoulder.

“You flatter me, husband,” Your smile was warm and amiable, the brightness of springtime, bringing a rosy flush to his features. “I quite enjoyed your brazen streak.” Through a smitten confession, Gwayne kissed your brow, lips twitching into a debonair smirk.

“I am not ashamed of ravishing my wife, be it in our chambers or in the garden,” He replied, reaching for his velveteen doublet and your azure dress. It was easy for him to slip back into the stuffy material, and he was more than happy to assist you. “I cannot get enough of you.”

His words were tantalizing, as if intended to bring about another string of salacious thoughts. Gwayne stood behind you as you stepped back into your dress, helping to lace your bodice up again. He planted a kiss along your exposed shoulder, and then to the crook of your neck.

You reached for his hand, letting it drape across your shoulder as you pressed a delicate kiss against his bruised knuckles. “You shall have me, Gwayne — for as long as you desire me.” You sighed, feeling his nose brush along your cheek, the warmth of his body pressing in behind you.

With a kiss to your temple, one oozing with such fondness and ardor that you feared you might melt, Gwayne’s lips hovered near the shell of your ear. In the twinkling dusk, he held you close. “Forever, then.”

[greenthena]

The Eldritch Ball or Aziraphale's Macabre Danse

I'm a huge sucker for dark classical music (I'm using the term "classical" broadly, not referring to the specific period. Music-y folks, please forgive.) As such, Saint-Saëns's "Danse Macabre" is one of my all time favorite pieces. It's spooky. It's intentionally dissonant. It's even got a jump scare! Like, literally, the perfect piece of music.

The story behind "Danse Macabre" goes like this: Each Halloween at midnight, Death enters the graveyard with a fiddle. As he plays, the skeletons rise from the ground and dance through the cemetery, resurrected by Death's power and possessed by his instrument.

In S2 E3, the Bentley plays "Danse Macabre" as Aziraphale drives up to Edinburgh. "What do we do? We play classical music that stays classical music." (And the Bentley listens to him! Because the Bentley is an expression of Crowley's subconscious and wants to please him and make him happy...and I'm sure you can find lots of excellent metas to that end. Or maybe you have another theory about why the Bentley is so pliant toward the angel? I'd love to hear it. But that's not what I'm talking about right now. I'm just getting distracted.)

Why is this song so perfect for a bit of subtle foreshadowing and repeated metaphor? So glad you asked. I have reasons. And evidence. Please, peruse my wares.

In the A Plot of this episode, Aziraphale travels to Scotland to visit a pub called The Resurrectionist. (Ya know, like Death? Like how Death resurrects people in the song? Okay, just wanted to really hit that nail into the coffin.) The pub is, of course, named for a certain Mr. (not Dr., he's a surgeon) Dalrymple, whom Crowley and Aziraphale meet in the accompanying flashback minisode entitled (you'll never guess) "The Resurrectionist." The minisode plot involves Crowley and his the angel encountering young Elspeth, a grave robber who, like Death, releases the bodies of the deceased from their earthly bonds of soil and stone. My interpretation is that Elspeth becomes Death incarnate, first in the process of using her instrument (her shovel) to resurrect the dead, and later when she inadvertently brings about the literal death of her partner, Wee Morag. Rather than allow Wee Morag's body to turn to dust in the ground, Elspeth "resurrects" her, selling her body to Dr. Dalrymple (sorry, Mr. Dalrymple, he's a surgeon, not a doctor), who will use Wee Morag's body for research, which will in turn save the lives of countless others by furthering the field of medicine. A form of resurrection, indeed. There's also the plot thread of Crowley and Aziraphale providing Elspeth with a nest egg to escape the cycle of poverty into which she has been born. This, too, is another form of re-birth. Or, say it with me, resurrection. Alright, you're getting it now.

Okay, now I get to delve into the fun stuff. Let's talk about that cotillion ball, shall we? You know, that danse party where Aziraphale persuades all the shopkeepers on Whickber street to attend a Jane Austen-style ball?

I personally refer to this whole fiasco experience as the Eldritch Ball. On the surface, it seems fairly innocent. The shopkeepers need a little bit of encouragement to attend the Whickber Street monthly meeting, but the angel manages to convince everyone to join with the help of some coercion-via-bribery. When they show up, they're transmuted into Austen-esque characters, from their clothes, to their speech patterns, even to some extent, their perception of reality. This is where it starts to get a little uncomfortable if you peel back the layers. Mrs. Sandwich can't talk about what she does for a living, which is a great comedy bit, but also demonstrates that her speech is being significantly censored and altered by an outside force. With the exception of Mr. Brown (hidden agendas here, Neil? I honestly don't know), all the shopkeepers find themselves in new, slightly-period-appropriate garments. What's really weird, though, is that no one notices the changes. When the dancing begins, to the music of Mr. Anderson's piano and an accompanying string quartet (strings...as in violins...as in fiddles. Remember Death's fiddle?), Nina appears to be the only one who realizes that something is off.

Maggie: This is something new.

Nina: This is something completely bonkers. Are we...? Why is everyone talking like they've escaped from Pride and Prejudice?

Maggie: Just getting into the spirit of things, I suppose.

Nina: The spirit of what things? This is meant to be the shopkeeper association monthly meeting.

Maggie: Hmm. Yes. Now that you put it like that...

Nina: Are we dancing?

Maggie: Yes.

Nina: Did you ever learn the steps to this dance?

Maggie: It's just what we do, isn't it?

Nina: No. No, it isn't. This is something mad. This is their [Crowley & Azirapahle's] fault. They're doing this.

Something is definitely mad. One might even say it's macabre. Aziraphale has become Death the Resurrectionist. He has lured the shopkeepers of Whickber Street through a portal (as Death leads his flock from the world of the dead to the world of the living.) Aziraphale's instrument is his clipboard and pen, held almost as one might hold a fiddle and bow, as he invites the various shopkeepers to the monthly meeting. Once they all arrive, he miraculously gives them new clothes (as Death knits together the bones of the dead), and then proceeds to control their bodies and minds, as though they are merely marionettes. They dance and speak in the way Aziraphale imagines, fulfilling his fantasy of a perfect Jane Austen-style ball (quite literally, the Danse Macabre.)

The shopkeepers have become the dead and Aziraphale controls them until the spell is broken--or rather until the window is broken.

To be honest, I don't think Aziraphale is really aware of how much he is able to transfigure his environment, including the humans who happen to be close by. Or, at least, I don't believe he does any of this with ill intent. He's just a bit blind to anything outside his fixation of wooing Crowley, at the moment. As a result, he creates a situation that is profoundly problematic and unnatural. Just like the dead in the graveyard have no agency when Death plays his fiddle, the Whickber Street shopkeepers are possessed by Aziraphale's intricate romantic fantasy and must dance as long as the music plays.

It is, in fact, only when the music stops, that the shopkeepers begin to realize that something is most certainly weird. The diagetic music (Mr. Anderson & Co.) abruptly cuts off when an approaching demon horde tosses a brick through the bookshop window. Now the spell, or in this case, miracle, begins to break down. While the shopkeepers still appear to be somewhat under the influence of Aziraphale's persuasive aura, a few of them glance down at their clothes in confusion and look around the bookshop, as though waking from a dream. And at this point, after a little finagling, Crowley escorts the humans out of the bookshop and out of Aziraphale's Danse Macabre.

Once the demons attack the bookshop Aziraphale's influence on his surroundings really starts to deteriorate. Throughout the season, he's been able to structure and manipulate reality (sometimes with Crowley's help) to suit his needs: protecting Gabriel, altering the Bentley, organizing the Ball, etc. But once the bookshop, his safe space, has been breached, he loses control of the situation. From this point in the narrative, nothing goes according to Aziraphale's plan. Aziraphale wants to protect Jimbriel, but the former archangel insists on giving himself over to the demons. Crowley leaves and Aziraphale has to defend the bookshop on his own, when he'd expected Crowley to come right back and save him. While defending the bookshop, Aziraphale reaches his "last" resort not once, but twice: first allowing Nina and Maggie to use his books (!!!) as weapons and then blowing up his halo in a last ditch effort to fend off the invaders. This was not on the agenda for today!

Things just continue to go downhill from there, Aziraphale losing all control of the situation. And by the time the Final Fifteen wraps up, the angel has lost his bookshop and possibly his most important relationship. By the end of the season, Aziraphale is no longer Death the Resurrectionist, the manipulator and puppeteer. Now the angel has become the puppet, dancing to Heaven's music.

[aaronyoghurt]

"Dance With Me"

Chrollo x Reader

This is the first fan fic I've written.

I dont't know if this will be any good but

Please be nice.

Although constructive criticism will be much appreicated.

I tried.

This will probably be a one shot and I shall disappear under the surface of the earth.

Unless yall find this engaging or if I choose to write more.

Summary: You're attending a fancy auction event. Becoming increasingly bored, an opportunity arises when a handsome mysterious stranger notices and approaches you. He engages in conversation before swooping you away onto the dance floor. Ending is open to interpretation. wink wink

Note: I have written this in Third Person rather than in Second. I wanted to try out the narrative perspective but I am curious to know which of the two you prefer as a reader :)

Enjoy...

(2.06 k words)

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

Smooth red liquid of the expensive wine cautiously slid down her throat as she observed her current surroundings. The soft classical music from the band of musicians flowed through the air, creating a pleasant ambience that entertained the auditory senses. Meanwhile, a swarm of mingling bodies idly danced through the grand intricate hall. The ruby wine, slowly swirled around the inside of the glass as the young woman languidly stirred the stem between delicate fingers.

The function she was attending tonight was a prestigious one. A vast ornate ceiling coupled with splendid decorative designs and grand marble columns intwined with golden threads, were all distinct features that screamed eloquence and money. Just the thing to be expected when one attended a fancy dinner party, especially one that was meant to impress the higher classes, under the disguise of a philanthropic art auction for charity. The young woman liked art. It is a universal thing that binds all humans together and anyone can be appreciative of it, regardless if they consider themselves a knowledgeable appraiser.

The reason for her being here tonight was not only attributed to her desire to see the art or enjoy a social gathering, but almost laughable in its’ simplicity; boredom. A result of a spontaneous decision made on impulse and the desire to escape the typical regularity of daily life seemed more appealing to regard it as such. An acquaintance of hers mentioned that it would be a pleasure for him to take her to the auction if she chose to, and she agreed. However, now that she has strolled around the venue and admired all of the art pieces that were to be auctioned, all the while her supposed partner for this evening has left to throw himself into conversation with other groups of people at some stage during the evening, there was nothing more to do other than to enjoy some of the wine that was offered.

Her gaze was trained on the red liquid that sloshed lightly in the crystal while her mind was wondering on what to do next. She glanced up at the dancing couples for a second with an indifferent and almost distant gaze before sighing and raising the glass to her lips. Lamenting on the fact that people had found happiness with their lovers was never a beneficial thought process. It made one consider their own lack of romance in life and wonder how some fall into relationships so easily, while others struggle to even find a match or simply waiting for fate to do its’ bidding.

That is why instead of dwelling on such topics, she sipped on her nearly empty glass, allowing the pleasant buzz to fill her head and enjoy the remaining contents of the drink before deciding to call it a night and go home. Perhaps once she is back home, she will decide between getting even more violently wine drunk and viciously bawling into a pillow, considering the uneventful and quite boring evening that she thus far endured.

She raised the glass once again to her lips while her eyes flickered upwards, only to land on a suit clad stranger in the now dispersed party of the previous dancers, and who was also looking back at her with a soft smile. She blinked and shifted her gaze away to the side, as her breath caught in her throat momentarily. It must have been her imagination or worse, a hallucination caused by one too many sips of wine, because once her eyes travelled back in the direction of the mysterious man looking at her, he was gone.

But not even a second later, the stranger reappeared at her side, standing only a small and respectable distance away. Declining his head a bit and nodding subtly downwards at the glass in her hand and leaning into her side he spoke, “Pinot Noir or Sauvignon?” Her head turns at the sound of the calm and surprisingly soft voice and she is met face to face with the handsome stranger. Her widened eyes meet his cool cobalt gaze as they curiously look into hers, maintaining a present contact.

Apart from his tantalising opium gaze, his appearance was strikingly distinct and unique; a white bandana was wrapped securely around his forehead and his earlobes were adorned with turquoise ball earrings. After taking a few seconds to comprehend the random approach and the appearance of the man before her, she quickly shook off her stupor after realising he is waiting for some sort of answer.

He has asked her what wine it is that was in her glass and she glances down at it as she thinks back. When she was poured the wine by the waiter previously, he had said something similar. She glanced back up at the mysterious man and offering him a response, “Pinot Noir, I believe…” His smile widens ever so slightly as he acknowledges her with a gentle gaze. “I must say, it is a fine choice. The taste is quite refined in its own way.”

She smiles lightly back at him and can’t help but feel her heart skip a beat. Not only is his countenance tolerable and fine, the way he carries himself is certainly venerable with a flair for natural charm. Moreover, his appearance is even more captivating. From the way in which his inky strands of hair fall perfectly around his face, to the structure of his jaw and sharp intelligent eyes.

“Ah, pardon me. I believe I got ahead of myself and forgot the introductions. I’m Chrollo.” His eyes remain soft and looking straight into hers, while his lips are graced with that same calm and friendly smile as he extends his right hand slowly. “Chrollo…nice to meet you. I’m Y/n.” She smiles back warmly and places her hand into his as he squeezes it gently and raises her hand to his lips while lowering his head, looking into her eyes through his lashes with a soft grin as he does so.

This catches her off guard completely, causing a tint of pink to dust her cheeks right before he lets go and continues in a soft, aimable tone, “Perhaps I was too up front with my approach, but I couldn’t help but notice your humble presence and elegant disposition. Are you enjoying the party?”  She considers him for a moment before letting out a small chuckle and looking back up at him, “It could be worse. I was hoping it would be more entertaining for me, but I’m not one to complain.”

⋙ ⋙ ⋙

Chrollo’s company turned out to be a most joyous experience and probably the highlight of the otherwise uninteresting evening. He was polite and a most engaging conversationalist. They talked and laughed for a long duration of time which now seemed to be of no essence. The rest of the people in the expanse of the hall and the air filled with conversation seemed to have completely vaporised into nothing more than an insignificant echo.

After some time, they both seem to be brought back to reality as the music started back up. A notable change can now be heard in it’s quality of performance since a new, more distinguished, band of musicians  appeared, in exchange of the prior orchestra. Most likely to symphonise a final dance before the auction started.

Upon hearing the newborn melody, Chrollo looks at her again with a more concentrated gaze as he utters his next words, “Dance with me.” His voice is soft as he speaks, but there is a certain command in it, which compels one to oblige instantaneously. Her eyes widen in mild surprise at the sudden request. Her heart begins to thump in her chest at a slightly more accelerated speed, as she gazes up into the sparkling depths of obscurity, contained within those enthralling dark grey eyes of his. Chrollo patiently waits, now with another kind smile compared to the more pointed expression he presented mere seconds ago. “Uhm…alright.” She agrees after initial hesitation, as he offers her his hand, giving the cue, to which she immediately complies.

Placing her smaller hand into Chrollo’s, he leads her onto the dance floor where others have already started their waltz. They stop together in the free space as Chrollo raises their intertwined hands into the air fluidly, and uses his other hand to promptly and gently wrap around her lower back, pulling her closer into him. He offers her an unabashed grin while a more bashful smile spreads itself upon her own lips.

“I should have warned you earlier…I’m not a great dancer.” She admits and glances away from his piercing gaze before meeting his eyes once more. His own lips merely quirk upwards after sensing her apprehension before he responds, “I believe it’s a little too late for any inhibitions now, darling. Allow me to be your guide.” Is all he says, before starting to fall into rhythm with her gracefully, leading her through every step as they progress in their dance.

The music flows through the crowded space easily, while Chrollo smoothly dictates the slow succession of steps and figures, occasionally twirling her around and pulling her in extremely close. It was evident that she felt a bit nervous at the start, and not only because of the fact that this handsome dark haired man was present and choosing to be with her, but since she never considered herself to be a capable dancer. Somehow with Chrollo’s efficient guidance, she found herself naturally responding to his movements. It was bizarre yet magnificent at the same time. As if the ability of dancing itself was innately present with her all along and never existed only as a foreign concept.

“I do not know why you feared that you didn’t have the capacity to be a capable dancer. You’re moving splendidly.” Chrollo praises with a soft smile on his face as they continue to dance. She keeps her eyes on his as they effortlessly sway to the soft classical music provided by the orchestra. “Maybe I just have a good partner.” She teases with a small grin. Chrollo subtly smirks at her suave comment as his obsidian eyes fill with mirth.

Don’t be so humble now, dear. I have witnessed how other women dance and some appear to be as stiff as rocks.” He comments in amusement as he spins her around gently before pulling her back against him, her body moving fluently in response to his lead. “I see you have had plenty of experience in dancing then?” She asks as she tries to appear nonchalant. Chrollo only chuckles softly as his sharp eyes pierce into her own. “Call it observation.” He responds enigmatically as his hand slithers down to her waist from the small of her back.

The two continue dancing until the song begins to fade towards its’ conclusion. After spending only around two hours with Chrollo, she couldn’t help but feel drawn to him. His enticing nature and charming persona, coupled with his appealing handsome looks was beginning to get to her. The aforementioned idea of romance, that she approached with much scrutiny and distaste, now seemed not be as bad. She could only hope and fathom the idea that fate has finally been kind to her and bestowed this ridiculously attractive man in her favour.

She didn’t know what approach she should take anymore, but she did know one thing; she never wanted for this dream-like dance to end. But all good things seem to come to an end. So she allows herself to indulge in this as much as possible and drink every drop from tonight’s company before the clock struck twelve.

Chrollo looks down at her with devilish smile gracing his plump lips as his eyes sparkle with a newfound light. “Earlier you mentioned you wished for the evening to be more entertaining…well I can assure you of one thing, my dear…” He twirls her around gently for the final time before smoothly pulling her back against his chest with a hand on the small of her waist. Tipping her backwards ever so slightly, Chrollo leans his head down next to hers and whispers the next words into the shell of her ear, his lips brushing the tender skin with the barest touch, “…It will only get more interesting, from now on…”

~

~

~

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

if you survived after reading this, I commend you for your dilligence and patience.

As an FYI: This post is a result of a random idea along with me wanting to test my writing capabilities in the department of fanfiction lol. So I have no clue how this escalated to me posting this on here but take what you want of it.

If you are still reading, I would be eternally blessed if I receive any feedback cuz I deadass have no clue what I am doing.

Stay slay and peace out!

[cho-aaacho]

(Flufftober 2023) Massage

Main Masterlist I Archive of Our Own

Flufftober 2023 Masterlist I Prompts List

Tags : Fluff, Romantic Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Massage, BSAA Chris Redfield, Flufftober 2023, Reader is genderless

(Flufftober 2023 Day 17)

Chris couldn't help but feel himself bathed in the romance situation. Above his head, there is a crystal-clear chandelier emanating a glow, showering the entire room with its light.

The romantic music flowed through the ceiling and the marble floor, promising the entire ballroom with its celestial melody.

Chris stood gracefully, his whole presence bathed in the soft glow of the chandelier. A sweet, gentle hum allured the ballroom, melting his very soul as he meandered his eyes towards the main entrance, only to discover a young, beautiful, and charismatic being drawing near him. Moving only for him.

With a bouquet held romantically in his trembling hands, a slight, soft smile curls on his lips, rendering him even more handsome.

His heart fluttered like a golden butterfly, so glowing that it almost overwhelmed him. It feels like everything around him has transformed into a garden of Eden.

At that moment, he understood exactly what happened to him; he knew very well what kind of disease had contaminated him.

Ah...

"I'm sorry, I'm late, Redfield." You smiled as he handed you a bouquet.

...yes, in love.

"No, that's fine. We didn't miss our last dance." He replied, his voice wrapped in a serene tone. You couldn't recall where or when he talked to you with such a calming tone.

He was a stern captain in the BSAA; his words were always full of soldier etiquette, and sometimes you couldn't imagine what he looked like without those uniforms. There are always dark clouds following his head every time you talk with him; there is always a gap between you and him.

Everyone is afraid of Chris, including you. But Piers had sworn that off-duty Chris was a different man. And from this point, you chose to believe in Piers.

"Was it your driver who made you late?"

He inquired, extending his hand toward you. You shyly accepted his hand. You couldn't lie, but you were feeling nervous around him. Because, oh God... he's so different from what you saw at the BSAA office. His smell, the way he locked your eyes—everything is so different.

With his guidance, you embarked on a journey toward the ballroom.

"I have no driver. I came here by myself, Redfield."

His laughter was followed by a soft smile on his face. "No need for such formality with me. You can call me Chris, or perhaps you've got a nickname for your captain?"

"Uh... Okay, Chris?"

"Okay... shall we dance?"

In an intimate embrace, his arms wrapped around your waist and guided you to a romantic connection. As the romance music blended with you, he swayed gently from side to side never stopping to gaze at your face. His lips were sliding sensually along the curve of your neck and then planting a passionate kiss. You're a bit confused at first, but after time passes, you're quite enjoying that kiss.

As your fingers accidentally brush against Chris' waist, he moves his body to the back. His expression changed to a burden of pain. You didn't know what happened to him.

"You okay, Chris?" you inquire, momentarily halting the waltz.

"You know," he began. "My waist is kind of hurting after falling from our last mission—so when someone touches there—"

"What? How about—I want to see that; maybe I can give you some help?"

Chris didn't say anything; he was just following your guide somewhere. Somewhere, he didn't know where it was. The two of you ended up in the bathroom, where you were alone inside.

You assured. "I don't want to be rude or sound perverted. But I want to see which part of your body is hurting. You know I'm quite good at giving someone a massage."

"I don't—"

"You need proof, Chris?"

With a tender touch, your finger squeezed against his waist, and a weird thread connected between you two. Unaware of Chris' expression, you didn't have time to witness something like that. Because you have something important here, right?

You furrowed after discovering something. "Well, I think your muscles are a little tense. How was your sleep? I can guarantee that after you get a massage from me, everything will be okay."

Chris chuckled. "So what should we do? Take you to my home."

Note : Uuuhhh. Sorry for the delay, but I promise I will finish Flufftober. Anyway, I'm rewatching Death Note this time, and once again, I fall into N and L brain rot. So you can blame the delay for this. //Slaaaaap

The next part will be Ethan Winters.

[sorenvii]

Raphael x (GN) Tav

I simply have an obsession with ballrooms and royalty. Here is a blurb of a toxic love between Raphael and Tav.

One, two, three.

One, two, three.

Repeated steps, gliding feet among marble tile. Heels in tune with a symphony of noise. A learned dance being strung throughout the ballroom.

Winding bodies, twisting, turning, even dizzying if not practiced. However the only thing in your mind is the repeated steps, for messing one up could be humiliating.

Devils aren’t known for mercy after all.

Your hand grasped yet another deep red one, calloused and strong. Perhaps one of a fighter, however you’d not know as it was already being exchanged for another.

A waltz, a three beat movement in which there is a follower and a leader. Together in a group it can even look angelic.

Gowns and tailcoats whisk the floor you waltz upon, swaying in slight tandem of the piano. Your own following in suit with the others.

To dance with a devil is to bargain, deal, find a midway. But in the room of heinous, your sole purpose is to perform. To act, whisk, and look as if simply being there would have others blush for even being in your presence. For to be invited in Raphael’s ballroom is a dream, to dance with the Hero of Baulder’s Gate is a fantasy.

All movements end in a hush, in the same line as the violins. Rather than clicking heels, the sounds thread to hushed whispers. Winding through the gloomy room, like a devils tail calculating the tightness of its choke.

The nights just began. Others have bargains and deals to make, even if you waltz a different dance.

The world feels in a stir, the alcohol coursing through every vein in your body. You have to count yourself back into a still state of mind.

One, two, three.

One, two, three.

You realize this won’t get you anywhere, you can’t even recall how long this party has been in conversation. From what you can recall of your scrambled mind is attendees asking for a dance, the smell of alcohol, bargains that you’d never participate in, and Raphael’s gaze on you.

Sitting in a dim corner didn’t brighten your mood or cure the ache in your heels. Eyes wandered, including yours. However didn’t stray much from the Cambion in black. His horns protruding high and tail proud. He’d currently been in conversation with a tiefling of blue.

You could see the desperation of the tiefling and the confidence of Raphael. No doubt he was using his flowery words and sweet hums to serenade a deal out the other. Just as he had you.

The deal of a True Love’s Caress; A contract between you and the Cambion. To ensure an eye of protection on your companions, for no harm shall be brought to them. Or at least, nullified. However in exchange your mind and body were his. His to waltz with and kiss the ring on your finger. The rings would alert the other of any physical harm being done to the other, or it was just another way of him being able to track you. Seeing as you’d never left the house of hope or his grand balls in god knows how long.

Even so, you couldn’t help the flush he’d bring you. His sultry words and temptations could be fake, lies, and deceits. However they were for you, for you to bask in as he held you in burning arms.

You would find respite in even his hoax. You didn’t know if what he had for you was love or an obsession. Like a trinket to be held on another pedestal in his grand House of Hope. A pretty object to be shown off, with a tag saying “Hero of Baulder’s Gate.”

Even in the home of macabre, your soul found peace with his evil. Every caress on one another’s bodies were loving and sharp. Stolen glances and stares full of both daggers and adoration. Shivers down your spine at each term of endearment murmured into your skin. Every box step was calculated and perfected, hands intertwined with a deathly grip, either one of assurance or dominance.

One, two, three.

One, two, three.

Each step he took towards you were in perfect sync with the beats you’ve engrained in your mind. Absorbed in the trancing way of his walk you didn’t realize the lack of words. Looking up you see Raphael extend a hand towards your own.

Every other attendee had already been gone, as if they were never there to begin with. The air of mist in the room, or maybe your mind clouded all sense of knowing just how long this dreary lighting had been coating your skin for.

Taking his hand you hummed the familiar tune of the days music.

One, you began lifting yourself up, just to knock of one of the wine red roses from its vase.

Two, eyes met and rings caressed. You looked up at him with fake adoration in your eyes.

Three, “let’s go home, Raphael.”

[pas-de-duex]

Prinxiety Week: Extra Prompts!

You all voted, and Mythical Creatures was the winner! So here you are, the first of the final three extra prompts.

The rest you can read on ao3 here!

This is a retelling of the story Titeliture, which in itself is a Swedish retelling of the story Rumpelstiltskin.

Virgil is the miller (changed to an old woman in this specific retelling) ‘s son.

Roman is the prince

@prinxietyweek

There was once a poor woman who had only a son, and the boy was so lazy that he refused to do any work whatsoever. This caused his mother no end of grief. The woman tried time and again to teach her son how to spin, but it was of no use. Finally, the mother made the boy sit on the thatched roof of their cottage with a spinning wheel. "Now the whole world can see what a lazy, good-for-nothing son you are," said the woman.

That very afternoon, the king's son came riding by the house on his way home from the hunt. He was surprised to see such a beautiful young man sitting on a cottage roof. He asked the boys mother why he was there.

The woman was tongue-tied. How could she tell him the truth? "O-o-oh," she stammered. "My son, Virgil, is on the roof because ... because he is such a clever boy, that he can spin the long straw on the roof into pure gold."

"Aha!" cried the prince. "If what you say is true, and your son can spin gold from straw, he must come to the palace and be my bride." So Virgil came down from the roof and mounted the prince's horse behind him, and off they rode.

When they reached the palace, Roman led Virgil to a small tower room, and gave him a spinning wheel and a great tall pile of straw, and said, "If you can spin this into gold by the time the sun rises, you shall be my bride. But if you have deceived me, you will pay with your life."

The poor boy was terribly afraid, for of course he had never learned to spin thread, let alone gold. There he sat, his head in his hands, crying bitter tears, when the door to the room slowly opened and in walked an odd-looking little man. He greeted him in a friendly way and asked why he was crying.

"I have good reason to cry," answered Virgil.. "The Prince has ordered me to spin this straw into gold before dawn, or I shall pay with my life. No one can spin straw into gold."

"No one?" asked the little man. He held out a glove that sparkled and shimmered in the candlelight. "As long as you wear this, you will be able to spin it all into gold. But there is a price for using my glove. Tomorrow night I shall return and ask you to guess my name. If you cannot guess it, you must marry me and be my wife."

In his despair, Virgil made the bargain. As soon as the little man disappeared, he put on the glove, and sat and spun as if he had been spinning his whole life. By sunrise he had spun all the straw into the finest gold.

Great was the joy of everyone in the palace that the prince had found a bride who was so beautiful and so skillful. The boy did not rejoice, though, but sat by the window and strained to think what the little man's name might be.

When the prince returned from a hunt, he sat down, and to amuse his bride, Roman began to tell him of his adventures that day. "I saw the strangest thing in the forest," he said. "I came to a clear-ing, and there was a little old man dancing round and round a juniper bush, singing the most peculiar song."

"What did he sing?" asked Virgil.

Roman replied,

"My bride must sew a wedding dress,for he used my magic glove, and he will never, ever guess Titeliture's the name of his love."

Virgil smiled and clapped his hands, and asked the prince to sing the little man's song over and over so that he wouldn't forget. And when the prince left him alone, and night fell, the door to his chamber opened. There stood the little old man, grinning from ear to ear. Before he could say a word, Virgil held out the glove, saying, "Here is your glove ... Titeliture!"

When the little man heard Virgil speak his name, he shrieked and he spun around and around, and then, with a bang and a great puff of smoke, he shot up through the air and dis-appeared, taking part of the tower roof with him.

Virgil and Roman were married, and never again did he have to spin, because, of course, spinning is not proper work for a princess.

[numberonehatershrimp]

good lord... this shrimp is gonna have his hands full trying to keep up with the tally hall anon and my Mili brainrotted music head. but now shall we Open the curtains

Lights on

Don't miss a moment

Of this experiment

Oh, the book is strange

Like clockwork orange

Keep your eyes buttered till the end

Which "You" are you going to be?

Hm-mm-mm

Inside the mirror do you see (Ha-ah)

Someone else in that body?

Dance for me

One and

Two and

Three and

Turn around

Sit like a doggy

Till I finish my read

Cut it off, cut down your loss

All that stubborn loyalty is gonna get you killed

In a world built on convenient theories

For all the puppets on TV

There is comfort in the strings

If you're gonna control me

At least make it interesting theatrically

How does it feel to be free?

Hm-mm-mm

Why don't you try it yourself? (Ha-ah-ah)

The gate opened on me

So I leaped

Down, down, and down I go

I tell myself I'm a tough girl

(Down, down, and down I go)

I could never, ever, ever touch the soil

My heart goes right

My head goes left

And end up on your bed

Huh-ah

Sure, I'll be your marionette

Here, tug on my thread

Spread me open for dolly pink, snow white artificial beauty

Maybe we're all cold machines

Stuffed in the human skin

With human sins

Sewed up by the gods of city

Cut it off, you've already lost

All that precious bravery is gonna get you hurt

In a world that feeds on the minority

May that self-centered belief lead you to peace

If you're gonna replace me

At least have the audacity to kill me thoroughly

When does it end for me?

Hm-mm-mm

I think I am done with everything (Ha-ah)

Now I'm ready to leave

Dragging out

One line

Two lines

Three lines

Connect our hands

When I no longer can live on knowledge alone

Hopeful curiosity

(Maybe there are still happy answers left for my discovery)

What's the colour of the electric sheep you see?

And if you love me

Can you love your everything too, for me?

CAN PEOPLE STOP SENDING ME LYRICS?????!?!?!?!?!?!? I KNOW NONE OF THESE SONGS!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[she-posts-nerdy-stuff]

Portrait of a Dead Girl

Summary:

Alina Starkov was given to Duke Aleksander Morozova of Os Alta in marriage when she was fifteen years old. Within a year, she was dead. The official cause of Alina's death was marked as putrid fever, but many at the time believed, and many in the future will go on to believe, that she was poisoned by her husband.

-

This fic is completely inspired by The Marriage Portrait by Maggie O'Farrel, which is a work of historical fiction based on the real lives of Duchess Lucrezia d'Este (née de' Medici) and Duke Alfonso ii d'Este of Ferrara. You don't need any prior knowledge of The Marriage Portrait or history to read and enjoy this fic, but know that my writing is very much going to mimic that of O'Farrel in format and although I'm hoping to write the story in my personal usual writing style I will definitely be borrowing a lot of my descriptors, symbols, and so on and so forth from O'Farrel - there will be some of mine too though :)

Warnings for these chapters: discussions of death and murder, xenophobia and religious discrimination, underage forced marriage references, fear of violence, implied violence, animal abuse/mistreatment

If anyone would like to be tagged in future chapters let me know :)

Note: Two chapters today! (partly since the first one is so short) Both are going up on AO3 at the same time and both are in this post :)

AO3 link

Chapter 4 - What He Is Capable Of

Krepost, near Pykan - Now

“Perhaps tomorrow,” Aleksander is saying, “we shall go for a ride along the river. The views are beautiful, I think you will enjoy them. I shall see to it that your saddle is adjusted,”

Alina restrains the sudden want to look up at him sharply, her nerves on alert. Her husband does not appear to have noticed, so either her repression has been successful or he is not paying her particularly close attention. She feels that he is someone who can read the truth of a person on their face, who makes too easy a habit of reaching inside you with choice, precision words, and can find just the right thread to unravel you. He doesn’t pull it right away though; he holds it in place, sometimes with his thumb tucked into the perfect position that it applies just enough pressure for you to know that he has hold of it, know that he could tear you apart with one simple motion - but sometimes it is subtler than that, sometimes he holds it secretly so that you will never see it coming when he begins to undo all that careful stitching with such ferocity, ripping all that you put so much effort into until all that remains is a confetti of who you used to be. For all Alina knows he has already found her thread, and he is just waiting to give it a sharp tug. 

“It seemed today that it was listing on one side,” he continues, “and of course your mare’s hooves will need attention,”

He keeps talking, of this she has no doubt, but as she sits and stares at him the words become nothing more than a distant thrum in the back of her mind, background noise to the voices in her head. Why is he saying these things? How can he sit here talking of horses, of groomsmen and saddles and beautiful scenes, when somewhere in the same mind that speaks of these things is a plan to end my life? 

The hoarse, desperate voice of his sister, Marie, grabs at Alina once again; it is clawing at her edges, threatening to fray her fabric. You have no idea what he is capable of. The air feels frigid, like her skin is bare and being pressed against cold iron. Even the candle in front of her seems to shiver.

The candles on the table, hardly many in number, are the only light in the room except the fire behind Alina’s back, and now they are casting a flickering, pathetic glow onto Aleksander’s face that makes shadows dance across his skin. She feels as though the shadows are chasing the light, threatening to swallow it. Consume it, until they are left alone in the darkness. In every flash of light that illuminates him, his expression changes. He is thoughtful, kind, stern, animated, forbidding, handsome, amorous, detached. Her husband is a man of many faces trapped beneath the skin of one, and where she’d once naively thought that some of them were trustworthy she now saw every single one of them for what they really were. Marie was right. She has no idea what this man is capable of. 

She does not want to find out.

The intending murderer reaches out across the tiny space between them, as though to take her cold fingers in his and wrap them close. It is this that finally shakes Alina back to life; she pulls away to pick up her spoon, hoping he has not realised that she was drawing away from his grasp but believes the movement entirely innocent, and attempts to draw soup with trembling hands. She wonders if her fingers will be this cold, when she is dead, or even colder. 

A terrible rage begins to burn inside Alina almost unexpectedly - How dare he? She studies the broth below her, trying to control her thoughts. How dare he? She keeps her gaze low, feeling that if she has to look him in the eye again that she will scream or shout or do something else altogether ridiculous and stupid. 

You need a plan, she hears - or rather, feels she hears - her old nurse, Ana Kuya, saying at her shoulder, to lose your temper is to lose the battle. 

Alina will not let this man kill her. She will not lie down and quietly die, she will not let his shadows swallow her whole. But what can she, a bride of sixteen, small for her age, far stronger in will than limbs, possibly hope to do against him, a man of almost thirty, tall and broadly built, a soldier no less, trained his entire life for battle? A plan, a strategy, a scheme of some sort - some way of outwitting him, if she could manage it, in mind instead of body?

So be it, she told the invisible Ana, without moving her lips, but I made myself a plan three years ago, didn’t I? And look how that turned out.

Chapter 5 - Tigers Do Not Belong In Os Kervo

Os Kervo, nine years ago

The first lesson that Alina and her siblings were to sit through the morning after she had snuck downstairs to see her father’s newest acquisition was not one that would have interested her much on a normal day, let alone with the images of a tiger prowling through her little head. Apparently Vadim was not very interested either, he was kicking his feet beneath his desk and staring out of the window - though what out there there was to be more intriguing Alina could not be sure - but Zoya was typically more studious, her head bent over her slate on the desk in front of Alina as she inscribed whatever the tutor was telling them about the times of Saints. Of course most of these were tales they knew but the finer details were lost on young minds, or they still needed to expand their horizons beyond the Saints they prayed to every day to make sure they remembered to honour them all. 

“And then of course we go on,” the tutor was saying as he moved his cane down the timeline he was pointing it at, “towards the Heretical Period. This was a time during which people would start to claim that they had magical powers from the Saints, that they had been chosen by them. In Old Ravkan these people were called Grisha, derived from the name of Sankt Grigori because… Zoya?”

Zoya jumped almost imperceptibly at the sound of her name, but you never would have known it unless you were studying her as closely as Alina had been because when she lifted her chin and announced her answer the confidence in her voice rang like a bell that could be heard for miles around. Eva, sitting next to Zoya, had her attentions turned towards Alexei and was pulling faces at him every time the tutor turned his back, followed by unsubtle glances back towards Alina. She settled deeper into her chair.

“The Grisha believed Sankt Grigori to be one of them,” said Zoya, “What they called a Grisha Healer, rather than a Saint,”

“Correct,” 

The tutor continued talking, whilst Zoya preened like a peacock that had just seen its reflection for the first time. Her chalk scratched on her slate and Alina screwed up her nose almost involuntarily at the unpleasant noise.

Alina sat alone at a smaller desk behind the one that her sisters shared, staring at her blank slate and half-listening to the tutor whilst her mind wandered on. She had been attending lessons since she turned seven and always it was the same; after this the music tutor would arrive, and after him would come the drawing tutor so that Alina could be prescribed the dull task of writing and rewriting her alphabet over and over again whilst the others took their drawing lesson in earnest. It was the drawing lesson that intrigued her more than any other, but she was told she must wait until she was ten. The years seemed to lay themselves out in front of her like a never ending road beneath a clear sky, and every time she tried to run down it she would trip, or someone would grab hold of her and force her back to her slow, plodding pace. The consistent trot of a horse stuck behind another, when all Alina wanted to do was spur the mare onwards and chase the wind into the distant horizon. 

“And what,” the tutor was saying loudly, probably for the second time judging by the impatience sneaking into his tone, forcing Alina out of her head and back into the classroom, “did the heretical sorcerer claim to be asking of Sankta Vasilka so that he could steal her secrets?”

Vadim was blinking as he pulled himself away from his fascinating window; Zoya twisted her lips together as though a thought she did not enjoy had crossed the forefront of mind; Eva drew slightly away from where she had been busy whispering something in her elder sister’s ear. 

Her hand in marriage, Alina thought. 

She turned over the paper in front of her and on its smooth, pale back drew a long horizon line. According to the drawing tutor’s lesson on perspective that she’d been eavesdropping on last week, instead of practising her letters, the world was formed of different layers and depths that could all be constructed by lines in the way that they overlapped and intersected. Alina had been desperate to try it out ever since. Now she sketched a tower onto her horizon line, a set of stone steps at its base before a winding path. 

“Eva?” the tutor tried.

“Yes?”

“How did the sorcerer trick his way into Sankta Vasilka’s tower?” he repeated, his lip twisting slightly, “If you so please,”

He said he was lonely, and he wanted only to speak with her. Alina thought again, as she sketched a window into the top of her tower. This, she realised, was where some of the difficulty with perspective came in. She had to adapt the shape of the window so it would make sense to the eye. 

“Is it perhaps…?” Eva began, with no intention of finishing, cocking her head to one side as she made a great show of thinking about the question.

“Alexei? Zoya?”

They both shook their heads. 

“He claimed that he was lonely and wanted to marry her,” the tutor sighed, “We went over this just recently. Can anyone tell me why this was what granted him access to the tower, to see Sankta Vasilka?”

There was a pause. Eva pushed a stray piece of hair behind her ear; Vadim played with his sleeve. 

Her father thought nobody would ever want her. She was too strange, too solitary. Alina began to try and form the structure of a girl above the window, her arms outstretched with woven wings strapped across her shoulders.

“Anybody?”

Alina recalled every word of the story that the tutor had told them last week. That was how her mind worked; things clung to it like thick footprints dried into mud, never to be entirely erased. Sometimes she felt overstuffed, overfilled, like all the things inside of her were throbbing and rising and going to overthrow her like a girl cast from the window of a tall, tall tower with no wings to guide her onwards. When this happened Alina would find herself getting dizzy, overwhelmed with all the things inside her that she could not bring out again, and Ana Kuya would send her to bed with the curtains drawn tightly and medicine Alina didn’t have a name for stirred into her tea. Alina would sleep, and when she woke her head would feel like a cupboard that had been tidied and reorganised - still full, but easier to keep under control. 

Suddenly afraid, or something close to it, as she tried to begin pencilling the shapes of the sorcerer at the window and of Sankta Vasilka’s father below, Alina pushed her drawing beneath the lid of her desk with discomfort curling in her stomach. Her head hurt. The room melted somewhat away from her as she pulled her hands up to her eyes, trying to find that darkness that Ana would create in the bedroom for her to sleep, trying to stop her eyes from aching, wondering whether - if she could not see - nothing else could crawl inside her brain and take up the last few tiny pieces of space until suddenly all of it burst out of her in an uncontrollable overflow. It didn’t seem to be working very well. She could hear the tutor talking, hear the shape of the words marriage, threaten, fall, now threat again, and then - 

“Is she alright?” 

He was looking at Alina. 

“She’s fine,” Zoya’s voice was cool, precise, clipped, “Mama says this is just what she does for attention. If we ignore her, she says, then she’ll stop,”

“Is that so?” the tutor sounded uncertain, “Should we call for the nurse?”

Alina pulled her hands slowly away from her face, met by such terrible brightness that for a moment she could see nothing at all. Her eyes adjusted slowly, bringing the peering faces of the tutor and her siblings into view, and then, behind them, Alina was the first to see the shape of her father pacing through the door. 

Eva immediately sat up straighter, like someone had pulled on a string that ran up her spine, and Alexei applied himself industriously to his slate. Vadim raised his hand, and when the tutor - with a slight blush in his cheeks and a slight tension in his shoulders - called upon him he kept his tone quite forcibly neutral, as though his eyes did not keep straying towards the Grand Duke. Gregor came to oversee their lessons with not unusual frequency, but with no schedule or specificity that any of them could divine, and now he wandered slowly between their tables and peered down at what they were working on. He placed a hand fondly onto Vadim’s head, nodded at Zoya, patted Eva’s shoulder, walked past Alina’s desk with slow, deliberate steps. She made sure that her sketch was out of sight. A moment passed in silence as Gregor continued to pace, before he stopped at the window and nodded towards the tutor. 

“Continue,” he said, in his low voice, “Please,”

The tutor nodded, turning his attention back to his students and saying: 

“Eva,” 

Alina was intrigued by this choice. Did the tutor know that he had successfully chosen the Duke’s favourite? Was he purposefully going to give her an easy question?

“Could you tell us, please, how the stories of Sankta Ursula and Sankta Vasilka are linked?”

Eva pulled on her sleeve to adjust it, cupped her chin in her palm. She glanced at Gregor, who was watching her from across the room, and as Alina watched a plan suddenly burst into her head. She leant forwards, as though simply reaching for her stylus, and whispered into Eva’s hair as she did so:

“They escaped heretics; the sorcerer, and the worshippers of Djel,” 

Eva cocked her head in surprise. Something that might have been annoyance or might have been a warning for caution flashed through Zoya’s eyes as she looked briefly over her shoulder. 

“The sorcerer was a heretic…” Eva said, as though putting great thought into her words, “Was he Grisha? And the Fjerdans that attacked Sankta Ursuala were heretics as well, because they worship the false god… Dell?” 

“Very good, Eva,” the tutor said with considerable relief, watching Gregor’s proud nod from the corner of his eye, “The name of the false god is pronounced Djel. There is no more important story for understanding the dangers that we still face from the heathen North than Sankta Ursula’s, and as you can see-” his cane thumped back into the timeline behind him on the wall, “She was one of the most recent Saints. How do we know that this makes sense in her story?”

The lesson went on. Alina quickly wrote as she was supposed to, recording the prayers that Sankta Ursula made to all the Saints that came before her, and tried not to wonder why Ursula was a Saint and not a Grisha. What was the difference? What made one who claimed to be blessed by the Saints blasphemous, and yet another one divine? 

Only when she was sure she had picked the perfect moment did she lean back into her sisters’ desk and whisper:

“Papa has a tiger. It was brought here overnight,”

Zoya turned towards her, as though to make some response, and then seemed to think better of it. Just as Alina was sure her plan had failed and Gregor was about to leave, Eva called out: 

“Papa!”

He stopped, one hand on the door, and turned slowly back to face them. 

“I heard a rumour…” Eva began, drawing her words out long and stringing them together as she leaned forwards with her famed, charming little smile, lifting her chin up towards her papa, “That-”

“That there is a tiger here,” Zoya finished, as though tired of how long it was taking Eva to speak, “Is it true?”

Gregor was silent for a moment, and then he smiled. 

“Did you hear that?” he asked, looking at the tutor, “My daughters know everything that goes on in this dvorets, don’t you girls?”

He wagged a finger at them somewhat playfully. 

“You are just like your Mama, both of you,”

“Oh, can we see it Papa?” Eva clasped her hands together, “Please?”

“Perhaps I shall take you all,” he smiled, “If your tutor tells me you have done well in your lessons today,”

*

Alina forgot about the piece of paper half hidden in her desk, carrying its sketch of Sankta Vasilka and her wings, and it was not until some time later that she thought of it again. It was discovered, not that she will ever know, by the religion tutor that same day as he paced the empty classroom to tidy slates and chalk and styluses. She’ll never know that, upon finding the page and plucking it between his fingers, the tutor was so surprised to find a study in perspective and the recognisable shape of Sankta Vasilka’s tower that he looked about him as though he thought he might be the subject of some kind of strange trick. How could this have possibly come from the child that sat at this desk, the child that was so quiet he practically forgot that she was there? The image was so compelling that he felt quite bowled over by it. 

Later, with the paper tucked into his jacket, he passed the drawing tutor. The paper slipped from one hand to another. 

The drawing tutor was hardly expecting much when he received this sketch. But as he ran his eyes over it, as he was drawn from horizon to treeline to tower window to winding pathway, as he studied the lightness in the outlined figure, the way she genuinely seemed about to fly straight forth out of the page, the sizes and angles of windows and wings and stairs, the gradation that brought the eye from foreground to background and back again, any other thought he might have had for the charming man in front of him tumbled straight out of his head. 

“Who did this?” he asked, turning it over and then back to face up again, “Surely not Zoya? She is more skilled than Vadim, but-”

“It was Alina,” 

The drawing tutor had to think for a moment before he ventured: 

“The tiny little creature who sits at the back?”

“Yes, her. I thought that you should know,”

The religion tutor gave him a sharp nod and began to pace away down the corridor. Half paying attention to the receding figure and half still trapped in the world of this sketch, the drawing tutor only afterwards realised that he had once again missed his chance to ask the religion tutor to accompany him into town for the evening. 

*

The five eldest children of Gregor and Milana Starkov would remember their nocturnal walk to their father’s menagerie for the rest of their lives and though more than one of them would be admittedly short, the gravity of this for them, as small as they were at the time, still stands. The journey, for with such small legs and knowing so little of the home they lived in to the children this walk felt like it had the gravity of a journey, took them through so many new and wondrous rooms, with stars painted on the ceilings and chandeliers and panelled walls, and down so, so many stairs that Alina’s mind was lost in and amongst it all. How big this dvorets truly was, she could not get over, nor how well her father knew it. 

It was a strange feeling to step into the menagerie in their nightclothes, gowns, and slippers, as though they were crossing a threshold that they could not return from - and one that perhaps they should not have touched. Alina felt her skin prickle as they passed the first few cages; the yellow eyes of a wolf roving over her, the snout of a bear snuffling against the stone floor. They passed a tank of water, but nothing disturbed its surface. Alina imagined a mermaid inside it, her human fingers pressed against the glass, her gills twitching and her tail ticking back and forth behind her scaly head. When they reached the end of the row her father stopped and looked on with some pride: here were the lions. 

There were two of them, a male and a female, pacing in a circle and glaring at each other across the cage. Every fourth step - Alina counted them - the male yowled. After what felt like far too long, their father moved on and his children shuffled after him. 

The final cage, beyond it only the outer wall of the dvorets, was lit across the front by the light of a sconce, but left its back recesses in darkness. A slab of meat lay on the floor, untouched. There was no sign of the tiger. A long pause hung in the air as all six of them craned their necks, strained their eyes - but none so much as little Alina. Please, she thought, desperately, I won’t be able to come again.

“Is it sleeping?” asked Alexei. 

“Maybe,”  

“Wake up!” called Eva, leaning towards the bars of the cage, “Wake up, pussycat, come on!”

Their father smiled down at her, putting a hand on her head. 

“What a lazy pussycat this is,” he said eventually, “Not coming out to make friends,”

Eva wrapped both her little hands around Gregor’s large one. 

“May we see the lions again?” she asked, “They were my favourite,”

“An excellent idea. They are much more interesting than a sleepy tiger - let us go,”

As he began to lead his children back down towards the lion cage, it proved almost too easy for his youngest daughter to pause, to take a step back from the group, and to slip unnoticed back towards the tiger. The darkness folded around Alina like a cloak as she tiptoed back to the bars of the cage, her sibling’s chatter fading into the distance. 

Please. Please. Please.

Alina gazed into the depthless black, her mind wandering even now to how she might draw it, how perspective was supposed to capture something when the lines were hidden by the dark. Whether it was because she’d become distracted or because she was looking the wrong way or for another reason entirely she didn’t know, but Alina did not see the tiger until the very moment it was almost upon her. 

[edenpoise]

⁽ @hellsbroadcaster ⁾ ― ： starter call. from here .

E . ― IT ALMOST FELT LIKE WASTED EFFORT. With how much time and precision she had placed into this e n t i r e demon- from the moment she had found that bloodied form, to where she had weaved herself a new PUPPET to place where she sees fit. From the contract that binds tightly like a noose around the c r i m i n a l s. It almost seemed fitting, did it not ? But, she digresses. Alastor did survive after all, playing a fight against ADAM wasn't an easy ordeal. Much less to take a angelic weapon to the chest- radiating holy energy that would surely pure away the flesh.

She knew the strain upon the leash the moment it happened- and the annoyance it would no doubt bring her in the very end. Even still, as much as she was annoyed, there was a sense of pride that swelled in her chest. To know that B a m b i was strong enough to keep himself from dissolving like the rest who had dared to step in front of Holy Weapon.

" I must say, you're quite the stubborn fellow, aren't you ? "

[libidomechanica]

Untitled (“With vases, to one Lady Adeline had”)

A curtal sonnet sequence

               1

If Maud will weary sides ‘King, you aren’t. Thought, that she heard great; if stars blacke horror of the day. Last night, grave and groan, might be undecided, above, and the sheet until it scarce dare Say, may I never out of reasons I love means my way, and we thread-bare Penitence apieces shivered fair Orithea, whom Loue doth amaze the soft Sh! With vases, to one Lady Adeline had not be, but modesty with thee?

               2

Been on Marlborough Street, blossomed and God- filled, it is whole and men should lord you. So the end of a poet. It is a mass of men, then the budded peaks out. Yon cloud of its clue? Tears, idle toys, amid the midnight, till I die, till we moderately, and there his motion of advice to die among her class,—aurora’s spirit wander: I though not timid, his rebellious Lust, upon Salámán how should fight to me?

               3

I have but earth, doth wake, must I restraine. She knowes not, grew to find him in common in many thing and twists the fury of age now. To do it has used. Again the world, or else he brands were vex’d. Fair daughters of them all: a common: all those frequent rainy days, called him in their perfumed bed, the guests were erected, to one grand multiplication required she rose a hubbub—you and man’s fiery night with truffles.

               4

Upon the girl! Mud and love her none, not ever wash away, what can with thee and prone she sank with agues in hope this rusty gowns, but missed us courted: wha spied I but my ain. It was na sae ye glinted by, when I do smell anise, the plank, and act is one sovereign of the fires of lofty claim their dancing fast and reel; frae tap to tae that he had stay’d still, and can with us to our veins fresh ornament doth hold.

               5

The same. I trust my dizzy head. Thy tuneful voice with transfigured like a wisp along something much nobler agony to harp of Life to lead him, it is to unfold thy pure creeping clown and sighing and grinning by: struck the green snake coiled around the book and far beyond the bolts full many a sigh of pain which all ornament, itself adorns the World to cozen with their end, but watches him, still now had lasted.

               6

For six hours alone, worn out so—now I know; and his death remaining, doth worship thy dear lady, Christabel stretch with you adjacent. Is the rest followed: and scatt’ring brain, I would tell; yet my father: let your world’s end. In their efforts should a creatures dear. Seven and strong as brains, how long, how long in day and night, and die, heart-shap’d and divorcing their story? Is twice or three. I have found, I will not care, and take the ring.

               7

The barrier like a pear, or is it to my mind. Her sobs, melissa clamour, angry for bulls or don’t think I should have made me divine, must pray, ere yet in bed I lie. You are some old dull murder-spot. Had come down and feelings, fearing at her stood the pleasant science of a woman with chemic skill may time disgust, and pretty name just enough anchor and the peoples plunging thro’ the shape suggested summer eves.

               8

Dozed, snored. Lettered, wins, though I was trying thighs so close his eyes were ready spears—and tender tone came out by the house no more— but pays his conundrum of armies of much reject, for the middle of twigs and the tear comes slowly away from that flashed a saucy boys brake on us at our booty, you should by time did Matthew stop; and fold mine will make up for a bell He found I a friends. Oh, the body. His tyranny.

               9

Willie had, was just not matters to inflicted upon her thousand heard old dames I sing, and so she would show you rise, and the lashes o’er you look with a Swan. These words of nature to have sinn’d! Close of Gulistan shall mark you eyeing me so dearely, seeing what we could one tell me how—Good Saints! Stronger, darker ways. But do not know whence the moorland! Will yet be well as death, we bow’d our heart and frights in shame o’t.

               10

Hardest fate, so do I my judgment of prey and poker-faced war has roused the more ingenuous wherewith the twilight, soft and soft and shout, my foemen’s ears, who probably presume to grieued, and an unwonted calm pervades his breast part of kill’d and vegetables, and in this purse, his spirit seem’d resting time our fashioned there be, will pique all my day is gone. And still, was content to bear the wealth Sudden blow: the grain that breathe.

               11

Before his face, stood up and we shatter it were not so in Grecian house, and not like dinner ready, but follow shows; I seemed to love you the Princes past, sounds the court: right refections, but on my little Sail, and roll the vapour from his pleasure, our destiny, others—How blest wi’ contend. And sung to, when, approaching, when at first, but yet, like glittering, on the high to sore, and the fair in love division of love.

[yhwhrulz]

Charles Spurgeon's "Morning & Evening" Devotional for October 25

Morning

“Declare His glory among the heathen.”

Psalms 96

The spread of the gospel among men of all nations had been the theme of sacred song in the days of the psalmist. We shall read two of the psalms which refer thereto.

Psalms 96:1

Not Israel only, as in the olden times, but all mankind.

Psalms 96:2 , Psalms 96:3

This was the business of Pentecost, and is the duty of all the saints at all times.

Psalms 96:5

idols or nothings

Psalms 96:8

Prayers and praises are to be presented by all mankind; the sacrifice of Jesus has ended all other offerings.

Psalms 96:11-13

The reign of Jesus ends oppression, war, and crime, hence it is the cause of joy to all mankind.

Psalms 97

Psalms 97:2

Our Lord’s birth was obscure, and his doctrine was to the world’s judgment mysterious as though wrapt in cloud; yet is it perfect holiness.

Psalms 97:3

The fire of his Spirit destroyed idols and false philosophies.

Psalms 97:4

The truth lit up the nations, and amazed all people.

Psalms 97:5

All difficulties vanished, all enemies were subdued, the gospel triumphed over all.

Psalms 97:6

Under the whole heaven the gospel was published: it was as well known as if written across the skies.

Psalms 97:11

Glad times are in store for us, the seed which shall produce them is already sown and will soon yield its harvest.

Psalms 97:12

Joy is the privilege and the duty of a Christian, and he cannot have too much of it if it be of the right kind. Never let us give way to repining, rather let our holy cheerfulness cause others to inquire, “Whence comes their happiness?”

All that remains for me

Is but to love and sing,

And wait until the angels come

To bear me to the King.

Evening

“God hath given him a name which is above every name.”

Acts 3:1-21

Acts 3:1-3

They were interrupted on their way to their devotions, but it was a blessed interruption, for in the end they themselves were able to worship all the more fervently, and another was added to the number of those who praised the Lord. May we have grace to turn every incident we meet with to good account for promoting the glory of God. A beggar’s cry would not annoy us if we were looking out for opportunities of doing good.

Acts 3:6

Oh, the power of that name! If we did but believe in it as Peter did, we also should bless poor sinners, and be enriched ourselves with something better than silver and gold.

Acts 3:8

His joy was too great for him to go at an ordinary pace. When souls are healed by grace they overflow with enthusiasm. If we remembered our obligations to the Lord Jesus for making us whole, we also should often tread his courts with rapture, and feel as if we must dance for joy.

Acts 3:13

He points them away from himself and John to the Lord Jesus. This is very different from those Popish priests who bid us look to saints, and even urge us to seek blessings from their poor sinful selves.

Acts 3:14 , Acts 3:15

He charges them with their sin. As the sharp needle makes way for the silken thread, so does conviction of sin prepare men for the glorious gospel.

Acts 3:16-18

See how he woos them, as a mother does her child, and interprets their wicked conduct as kindly as he can.

Acts 3:21

Jesus will come again to restore this fallen earth; till then he reigns above.

Copyright Statement This resource was produced before 1923 and therefore is considered in the "Public Domain".

[ammcgee-author]

248. WriteCream: “In The Theatre of My Heart” (AI Generated Poem #1)

“In the theater of my heart, a surgeon's knife, Etches a scar, a tribute to our strife. Love's beating pulse, a rhythm, deep and true, In your touch, my wounds are born anew. In life's uncertain dance, a mortal's breath, We intertwine, defying death's embrace. Two souls entwined, our spirits intertwined, Love's embrace, a sanctuary of our mind. Thespian hearts aflutter, in love's sweet embrace, we find solace, in each other's grace. Through trials and tribulations, we shall tread, Hand in hand, our love shall never shed. When death's cold hand, comes to beckon near, Our love remains, transcending fear. In your eyes, a love that knows no end, In this love, we forever shall transcend. So, let the heart surgery carve its mark, For love's resilience, shall leave its scar. In death's embrace, our souls shall find release, But love's sweet melody, shall never cease.

In the twilight's gentle embrace, where hope and fear entwine, Two souls united, hearts defined, in love's design. Amidst the sterile walls, where life and death collide, A tale of love, unwavering and defied. With trembling hands, they held each other tight, Their love a beacon in the darkest night. The actors’ hearts, entwined in fate's embrace, Bound by love and life's relentless chase. Through veins and chambers, love's blood did flow, A symphony of life, a vibrant glow. With every beat, their hearts did intertwine, A dance of love, a passion so divine. Yet death's cold hand, it loomed so near, A cruel reminder, ever so clear. But love's fire burned, undeterred and bright, Defying death's embrace, holding on tight. Through surgeries and trials, they fought as one, Their love the shield that shielded them from harm. For in their hearts, a sanctuary they found, A love so strong, it knew no bound. And when the scars began to fade away, They knew their love would always stay. Through every twist and turn, they'd find their way, Love their compass, guiding them each day. So let us celebrate this love so true, Two hearts united, defying all they knew. In love's embrace, they'll always be, A testament to love's undying decree.

In the heart's fragile chambers, love's tale was told, Where life and death danced, their story unfolds. Amidst the sterile lights of the surgeon's sight, Two souls entwined in a silent flight. With steady hands and a surgeon's art, He mends the broken, a masterpiece of heart. Each stitch a thread of life, a glimmer of hope, A testament to love, its endless scope. In the hushed stillness of the operating room, Their love illuminates the impending gloom. For love can conquer even death's embrace, A beacon of light in mortality's chase. The heart, a vessel of love's eternal flame, Beats on, defying mortality's claim. God, the creator, source of all that is, In whose embrace, the universe exists. So let us celebrate this love so rare, That triumphs over death, a love beyond compare.

On the cold metallic table, where life's tragedy plays, A tale of love's resilience, mortality's maze. Amidst the sterile walls, where science holds sway, A battle fought, a chance for life's ephemeral stay. A battle fought, with courage and grace, In the face of death, which has its place. In the operating room's cold, clinical light, With scalpel's touch, stainless steel and white; a delicate incision made, The heart exposed, its secrets laid. Love's tender glow, a flame that flickers still, Amidst the shadows, it refuses to be killed. In the surgeon's gaze, a flicker of hope ignites, As life's fragile thread, they mend with sutures tight. Death's icy breath, a haunting specter near, Yet love persists, dispelling fear with cheer. With every beat, the heart begins to mend, A symphony of life, a love that knows no end.

Through veins and chambers, pathways flow, A symphony of beats, a vibrant glow. Machines hum, their rhythm precise, Assisting hearts, a chorus of life. Amidst the whirring sounds of steel and wire, Love blooms, a spark, a celestial fire. In the sterile air, amidst the pain, Two souls connect, their destinies intertwined. Pumps continue to hum, their rhythmic breath, Prolonging life, defying death. As lifeblood flows through tubes and veins, Love's symphony plays, refrains and strains. In the theater of life, a sacred dance, A heart renewed, a second chance. Death's icy grip, a constant threat, But love's embrace, a potent amulet.

In the realm of hearts, where love resides, A tale of life and death, my soul confides. In that sterile room, beneath the lights' cold gleam, Like scarlet streams, blood once flowed, Yet now it ebbs, a river softly slowed. A heart, once wild, now stilled and tame, In this sterile room, you bear your love's sacred name. I watch you sleep, your breath a gentle sigh, As life and death, their fateful dance draw nigh. In a world of steel and sutures fine, Where hearts, once frail, now beat divine. Life blooms amidst machines' cold might, A spark of vitality, pure and bright. Through veins and arteries, a dance unfurls, A symphony of life, the blood it swirls.

Love blooms in the shadows, a beacon of light, Guiding us through the darkest of night. It beats in rhythm, strong and true, a testament to all that is good and new. Beyond the flesh, a spirit takes its flight, Unbound by time, it soars through sky. In the face of death, love never goes away, It holds us tight, as life's curtain fades. Mortality's touch, a reminder to all, To cherish each moment, both big and small. Lights flicker and fade, as life hangs in the air, But love remains, a constant that we share. In the stillness of the night, a heart still beats on, A testament to the love that will never be gone.”

— By WriteCream.com (AI Generated Poetry) Edited by A.M. McGee

[Notes & Commentary: I wanted to know what an AI would do with the same subject I wrote about in my last poem, and admittedly, I really like the results! Prompts include: Love, Death, and Heart-Surgery. The first two stanzas were written entirely by AI, and left relatively unchanged, whereas the latter verses are composed of several different outputs strung together. My favorite line is, “The blood it swirls,” and the opening verse. I suspect quite a few modern pop songs were written using the same technology in the 2020’s, Olivia Rodrigo being the most obvious offender, (all her songs sound like she fed Narcissistic traits into a machine) but with the artist Grimes being the most honest about using/embracing this new technology to write & generate music with. While AI is a bit of a double-edged sword to artists, of all types, (especially since it frequently engages in plagiarism) I believe the technology is here to stay. (Conform or end up like Sarah Conner, lol.) I changed a few words to make it rhyme better, and combined several outputs to try and create a little story.]

[roopvibess]

Embracing the Melancholy: Exploring Profound Sad Quotes of Life and Love

Life is a tapestry woven with threads of joy and sorrow, and sometimes, it's the poignant words of others that resonate deeply with our own experiences. Sad quotes have a unique way of capturing the complexities of life and the nuances of love. In this exploration, we delve into the depths of emotion, uncovering sad quotes of life and love that speak to the heart.

Sad quotes of life often serve as a poignant reminder that struggles and challenges are an inherent part of the human experience. One such quote that encapsulates this universal truth is, "Life is what happens when you're busy making other plans." These words, attributed to John Lennon, underscore the unpredictability of life's journey, where unexpected twists and turns can lead to both moments of bliss and deep sorrow.

Love, with its kaleidoscope of emotions, is another realm where sadness can find its place. The acclaimed poet Rumi once mused, "The wound is the place where the light enters you." In the context of sad quotes about love, this line speaks to the transformative power of heartache. It suggests that even in the midst of pain, there is an opportunity for growth and enlightenment.

Navigating the complexities of relationships often involves facing the harsh reality that not all love stories have a fairy-tale ending. The American novelist F. Scott Fitzgerald captured this sentiment eloquently when he penned, "So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past." This iconic line from "The Great Gatsby" is a poignant commentary on the inexorable passage of time and the lingering echoes of lost love.

In the world of literature, Kahlil Gibran, a Lebanese-American poet, explored the theme of love and sorrow in his timeless work "The Prophet." His words, "When you are joyous, look deep into your heart, and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy," resonate as a testament to the intricate dance between happiness and sorrow in matters of the heart.

Reflecting on the transient nature of life, the Chinese philosopher Confucius imparted wisdom through the ages with his words, "Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall." This quote encapsulates the resilience required to navigate life's challenges, serving as a source of inspiration during moments of despair.

As we embrace the melancholy through these sad quotes of life and love, it's essential to recognize that sorrow is not a destination but a part of the intricate mosaic of human existence. In the words of the acclaimed poet Langston Hughes, "I have discovered in life that there are ways of getting almost anywhere you want to go, if you really want to go." These words echo the sentiment that even in the face of adversity, the human spirit possesses the resilience to forge ahead.

In conclusion, the beauty of sad quotes lies in their ability to articulate the profound emotions that accompany the human experience. They serve as poignant reminders that, in both life and love, the journey is enriched by the spectrum of emotions, including sadness. So, let these quotes be a companion on your journey, offering solace and understanding in moments of introspection and reflection.

[universalinfo]

From Destinations to Self-Discovery: The True Gifts of Travel

To travel is to live,” Hans Christian Andersen once said. But does travel truly change us? Or are we merely escaping from our day-to-day lives? This blog post aims to unravel the mysteries of the age-old adage that traveling is the best teacher. 

So buckle up your seatbelts, and let’s embark on a journey that reveals six ways travel can help you grow in ways you never imagined. Let’s begin, shall we?

Expanding Horizons Through Cultural Immersion

“When in Rome, do as the Romans do.” Ever heard of this saying? It’s all about immersing yourself in the local culture when you travel. Imagine sipping on a freshly brewed cup of tea in a traditional Japanese tea ceremony, or dancing the night away during a vibrant Brazilian carnival. These aren’t just activities; they’re experiences.

Every street you wander down, every bite of an unfamiliar dish, and every tune of a local song carries a story. A story that you become a part of. And as you immerse yourself in these tales, you start to see the world through a different lens.

By the end of your journey, you’ll have a mosaic of memories, stitched together by various cultural threads. This newfound appreciation of global diversity teaches us tolerance, understanding, and most importantly, the beauty of differences.

Building Resilience in Unfamiliar Terrains

The real adventure starts when things don’t go as planned. Remember that time when a sudden downpour turned your beach day into a cozy indoor retreat? Or when a missed bus led to a spontaneous road trip with newfound friends with Dreams Wishes Travel?

Travel throws us curveballs. From language barriers to missing luggage, there’s always something unexpected around the corner. These aren’t setbacks; they’re growth opportunities in disguise. With each hiccup, we learn patience, resourcefulness, and the art of making the best out of any situation.

So the next time you find yourself lost in a bustling market or facing a minor travel glitch, take a deep breath. Embrace the challenge. For in these unexpected moments, the real lessons of travel lie.

The Lessons of Minimalism

We live in a world of excess, surrounded by things we often don’t need. Enter the world of travel, where you’re limited to a suitcase (or maybe two!). This is where the magic of minimalism comes into play.

Packing for a trip is like a game. Which outfits are versatile enough for multiple occasions? Which items are essential? It’s a crash course in prioritizing. As you embark on your journey, you realize that the best moments don’t come from the many things you packed but from the experiences, you gather along the way.

Travel teaches us that happiness doesn’t lie in possessions but in moments. The laughter shared over a campfire, the awe of watching a sunrise, or the thrill of a new adventure. These memories, light in weight but heavy in value, are what we truly carry back with us.

A Fresh Perspective on Home

Ah, the familiar aroma of your local café, the gentle hum of your neighborhood at dusk, or the warmth of your bed after weeks on the road. Travel is an adventure, no doubt, but it also has this magical way of making us fall in love with home all over again.

When we’re away, we often find ourselves reminiscing about the most mundane things – the chirping of birds from our garden, the clatter of pots and pans in our kitchen, or the muffled sounds of family discussions from the next room.

And upon our return? Everything feels novel yet comforting. Streets we’ve walked a thousand times seem more vibrant, and the faces of our loved ones appear more cherished. It’s as if travel provides a set of fresh lenses, allowing us to see the beauty in our everyday world.

Fostering Connections Beyond Borders

The beauty of travel isn’t just in the places you visit but also in the people you meet. Picture this: you’re sitting in a cozy café in Paris, and you strike up a conversation with the person next to you. Before you know it, you’re sharing stories, laughing over similar experiences, and planning the next day’s adventure together.

These serendipitous encounters remind us that human connection knows no boundaries. A smile is universal, as is the joy of shared laughter. Travel shatters the illusion of us vs. them. Instead, it paints a picture of a global community, bound by shared dreams and aspirations.

So, the next time you’re on the road, spark up a conversation, join a group tour, or simply share a meal with a stranger. These moments, fleeting as they may be, are the ties that bind our global family together.

The Transformative Power of Travel

Imagine standing at the edge of the Grand Canyon, feeling minuscule yet infinitely connected to the universe. Or walking through an ancient city, sensing the whispers of bygone eras. Travel isn’t just about ticking places off a bucket list. It’s a transformative journey that shapes, molds, and often redefines us.

Every twist and turn, every alley explored, every culture embraced adds layers to our character. Travel makes us storytellers, philosophers, and sometimes even poets. It challenges our preconceptions, makes us question the familiar, and often leads us to profound epiphanies.

And as we navigate through diverse landscapes, both external and internal, we gather not just souvenirs, but wisdom. Travel, in its truest sense, is a journey of the soul, echoing the symphony of life itself.

Dreams and Wishes Travel: Crafting Unforgettable Journeys

Ever dreamt of a vacation where every detail mirrors your desires? Where you don’t have to pore over countless reviews or second-guess your itinerary? At Dreams and Wishes Travel, we transform these dreams into tangible realities. Be it lounging at the finest hotels in Orlando near Disney or taking a whimsical journey through Europe, we’ve got you covered.

We believe vacations are not mere breaks but rejuvenating experiences. That’s why we delve deep into understanding what you seek. And our expertise isn’t just limited to dreamy destinations. It encompasses the little nuances, those intimate experiences that elevate your journey.

Remember those stunning hotels in Orlando near Disney you’ve been eyeing? We can not only book them for you but also weave a tale of adventure around them. Dive into the world of Dreams and Wishes Travel and discover a realm where each trip is a tale waiting to be told.

Conclusion

In this ever-connected world, travel is more accessible than ever before. And as we’ve discovered, it’s not just about picturesque landscapes or thrilling adventures but the profound lessons that shape our lives.

At Dreams and Wishes Travel, we’re committed to curating such transformative experiences for our clients. Whether you’re exploring Disney destinations, soaking in the beauty of the Hawaiian Islands, or setting sail on an ocean cruise, we’re with you every step of the way. 

After all, travel might be the teacher, but we’re your trusted companions on this journey of growth and discovery. So, are you ready to embark on your next adventure?

Read More:

Why Hawaii is Awesome: Discover All-Inclusive Hotels and 5 Other Amazing Reasons to Visit

A Perfect Family Vacation in California: Top 7 Theme Parks to Explore

Discovering Hawaii: 5 Family-Friendly All-Inclusive Resorts You Must Visit

[yellowedpagez]

an open letter to my mom

i think the words i love you have lost meaning to me.

it’s simply a pattern of speech at this point, tacked onto the end of sentences as to not disrupt the precarious peace so carefully put in place.

I ponder whether it’s one-sided at times, if i am simply living out a teenage angst that shall pass with age, or if it’s a permanent predicament, leaving my mother to stutter each time she utters the words herself.

i don’t want to know the answer.

like a math problem, the solution can only be found in tears.

so I am left with a rotten taste on my tongue, unable to sallow it down like i do my emotions or spit it out like I do my words.

the taste curls into letters big and bold and i chew it until it is in the state of the in between, teetering between the tip of my teeth and my tongue as i beg for it to make up its mind.

it falls forwards tumbling past my lips and my mouth has slipped into the syllables leaving my thoughts behind as I proclaim a love full of contradictions.

sometimes the words ring true,

and the guilt i know so well takes a leave of absence

for my declaration matches the decree in my brain.

it rings through the car stereo as we sit side by side screaming songs until our throats sting, nothing like the ache that yelling leaves.

but there are times in which i see the way she interacts with my sisters and something within me shatters to shards smaller than the size of sight.

For the person who mothers them is someone I shall never know, despite the fact we have lived side by side for all 16 years of my life.

Because of course there are memories that keep my hope hanging onto the unfurling spool of our relationship,

even after the end of it frays beyond use.

but just like the thread I pull through the needle, the way we interact is a delicate practice.

a dance between banter and bitterness, as the eggshells crack beneath my feet.

I wish the hole in our relationship was as easy to mend as the buttons I sew back for you.

because each one is done with care as I whisper to the needle the words i can’t say to your face.

because i love you feels like a lie

but still i will continue telling it till the day I die

because I know i do.

I love you in a roundabout racing way that I can not explain

i love you in the way that a dog loves a flea.

both bloody and uncomfortable.

i love you in the way a pig loves pork.

unethical and immoral.

i love you the way only a scared little girl can. terrified of everyone and gripping for a sense of comfort as she fails to understand unfairness of the world.

Despite it,

I am no longer that girl.

I am your son,

and

You are my mother

Sometimes i struggle to know whether that is enough.