#( so they shepherd and garden and manage so keep time [ them ] flowing )

[oioend]

cronos existing as time manifesting a consciousness as a defense mechanism against creation is funny because they eventually went ‘oh, wait, these funky little things are kind of cool’

[lune-hime]

Garden of Tulips (Levi/Reader) Chapter 1

https://lune-hime.tumblr.com/masterlist

~Click me for more chapters~

“What did it look like?”

“Hmm?” Levi looked up from his place next to your sleeping form. “The titan that tried to snack on my darling granddaughter.” “Ugly as fuck.” “Aren’t they all?”

Levi recounts memories of the reader and their shared life together while she recovers from a serious injury.

!!WARNINGS!! - Violence, gore, smut, wholesome content ;)

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

Tulipa Estella Rijnveld ~ A tulip whose soft white petals are stained with a crimson pigment.

↞↠↞↠↞↠

The putrid sounds of screaming and bones cracking were gradually soaked up by the trees and replaced by the stillness of the evening. The newfound silence of the countryside left an eerie calm over the two scouts but only amplified the ringing in Levi’s ears. The thumping of the horse’s muddy hooves against the hardened spring ground made his head throb as they rode further and further away from the massacre. Any sound was better than nothing, though, otherwise the silence would make him hear their foul cries.

Your pained shrieks.

In his arms you laid limp, the only sign of life was your slight breaths that just barely caressed the bottom of his chin. Whenever it became uneven the ringing in his ears sharpened. He would squeeze your side instinctively, something he would usually do to wake you up when you slept in too late. Only this time instead of your hand in his it was your blood staining his palm. He applied constant pressure to your bleeding side with one hand while the other, white-knuckled and bruised, held the reins. His grip was the only thing that kept him from floating off that damned horse. He was grateful he had lost his horse in the chaos instead of you; you loved the animal too much for Levi’s liking and he knew how devastated you would be when you woke up and it wasn’t there.

Once we get there you better fucking wake up, Y/N.

Levi had somehow managed to stop your bleeding with the piece of his cloak tightly wrapped around your waist combined with the pressure of his hand. This gave him minor peace of mind as you galloped through forest after forest. Emerging from the thicket, the last obstacle blocking your path to safety materialized on the horizon. The towering structure of Wall Rose was baked pale in the waning rays of light, it's untouched bricks proudly protecting those who resided inside. Levi wasted no time in grabbing the guards’ attention the moment he reached the barred gate.

“LET ME IN.” He screamed, his voice scattering the crows that rested on the railing of the wooden lookout post. Though he was extremely winded, his command was firm. There were some muffled curses and the sound of glass shattering before one guard peaked his heads over the edge, making eye contact with Levi’s impatient form below. To say he was startled was an understatement.

“C-captain Levi?” He called out in disbelief. The guard looked from the captain to the limp body in his arms, eyes widening in shock when he saw the remnants of your profuse bleeding.

“Captain Levi is here?” Another voice slurred from behind the first guard. A second soldier appeared, rushing over to lean heavily on the railing and gawk in awe.

“Hey, Captain! What are you doing all the way here at Krolva? What an honor, do you have a minute? My niece is a big fan and if I could get your autograph I’m sure she would really appreci-” He rambled excitedly before being cut off by a brisk slap from his comrade. He stumbled from the railing with a groan, clutching the back of his head in pain.

“Are yer eyes still workin’? Can’t you see he’s a little busy for that.  He’s riding with a wounded soldier, idiot.” His more sober counter part scolded. They soon got into a drunken argument about how to address superior officers, especially ones with pressing issues. The more their pointless conversation droned on the more Levi’s anxiety level rose. If he was delayed any longer he felt like he was going to shatter like the soldiers’ discarded beer bottle.

“I don’t have time for your shit!” He exclaimed. Your horse had begun to sense Levi’s urgency and started pawing at the ground and pacing restlessly in front of the gate.

The guards immediately halted their chatter and turned their full attention to him once again, looking like scolded children. There was a brief silence, broken by a single hiccup.

“Just. Let. Me. In. The. Damned. Gate.” Levi seethed, voice dangerously low. The guards exchanged nervous glances before scrambling to make the call that would raise the iron bars. The second the gate creaked upward, your horse was ready and anxiously bouncing on its hooves. When the opening was just large enough to fit through, your horse bolted through.

When the soldiers stationed at the guard tower would later tell the story to their comrades, and eventually Commander Pixis, they would swear that they saw the devil himself within Levi’s eyes.

Time had no meaning anymore as he weaved between stalled carts and yelping pedestrians. His eyes were on the prominent steeple that jutted out like a sunflower among dandelions from the jagged edges of the residential buildings. After rounding corner after corner and navigating the winding side streets he applied pressure to the reins at the front of the aged church. The grim sight that befell him festered at his already bleeding heart.

Sickness hung so thickly in the air that Levi felt it seeping into the pores of his skin. Hoards of ill residents congregated outside of the newly deemed hospital. Ymir’s stoney outstretched arms beckoned them to be herded like sheep into the eglise by their shepherds donned in nurses uniforms. So slowly were they being admitted that Levi could ascertain that the establishment, as grand as it looked on the outside, would not be able to harbor all of them. The mob groaned, wretched, sputtered and seemed to move as one undulating blob of disease.

Levi’s face contorted as the stench of bile singed the inside of his nose. Every one of his brain cells was scolding him for even contemplating the idea of having you treated at a place with such levels of contamination, but by the fucking walls he had no other foreseeable option. He kicked your horse briskly in the gut, abruptly trotting away to confront one of the nurses.

“You have to let me in. She’s bleeding out and needs stitches now.” Levi ordered with the remaining level-headedness he had hanging by his pinkie. His sanity was flowing out of him at the same rate blood was leaving your body. But he would not let his emotion influence his body and mind. The nurse’s eyes widened to the size of eggs, obviously overwhelmed by the sheer ghastliness of the situation.

“Captain Levi?!” She exclaimed in disbelief, first at the sight of the infamous soldier and then to the limp body clutched in his arms. Levi was aware of his so-called “popularity” but he swore he was going to explode if one more person acknowledged his name before the critical state of the soldier in his embrace. The nurse’s eyes darted to Levi’s bloodstained palm and she let out a small gasp barely audible through the cloth. Her eyebrows furrowed and Levi could infer she was frowning deeply.

“Sir, I’m sorry but we are at full capacity.” Her smooth voice was muffled by her mask. “A recent outbreak in the eastern district has us overwhelmed.”

Her excuse passed through one of Levi’s ears and right out the other. Every minute he sat here idly was another precious minute of life drained from you.

“You absolutely don’t have anyone that could treat her? Or- just give me some goddamn stitches and I’ll do it myself!” Levi demanded, tone flaring at the latter half of his proposal. The nurse gulped and shook her head somberly.

“The capital has been limiting the export of medical supplies to selected districts, including Krolva. We are maxed out now due to the illness...I’m afraid we can’t offer you anything.”

Levi dug his hand into the reins and tugged at them in frustration, making your horse skitter sideways. The scouts prided him in being one of the most rational members of its legions, which was a gift he was honing into as his head spun so quickly with what little options he had left. Uncharacteristically irrational thoughts tempted him, however when a splash of floral color caught his eye just behind the nurse’s shoulder it clicked.

He was in Krolva.

Krolva was your hometown.

You had family here.

Family with a distinct profession.

He stared at the ornamental tulips in the church yard for a moment before whipping his head towards the nurse.

“Where is the tulip farm.” Levi’s simple inquiry held the esteem of a military order of the utmost importance. Anticipation bubbled up within him as the nurse sputtered at his seemingly random change of subject.

“Um-The Vogel Estate is located slightly out of the district. If you go through the gates of Wall Rose its about a half an hour off the main road. There are signs for it you can’t miss.” The nurse instructed, pointing in the direction of the gates. Levi nodded once and was about to turn your horse around when the nurse let out a sound of protest.

“Wait!” She said hurriedly. She looked around nervously before reaching into her dress pocket, pulling out an ivory handkerchief and a small vile. Her gloved hands reached out to you looking at Levi for permission to remove his crimson caked hand.

“This saline won’t do much, but it will minimize infection.” She instructed, carefully lifting Levi’s hand. Sticky blood attempted to reconnect his limb to your side, however the nurse blotted the most recent stream away with a steady hand. Her breath hitched at the severity of your wound as she began pouring the contents of the vile onto your torn skin. She then folded the handkerchief and placed it firmly onto your side, grasping Levi’s hand and placing it over the fabric.

“This should keep more dirt from getting into her wound and irritating it. Keep applying steady pressure; thankfully it looks like you have been doing that already.”

Levi looked from his hand to her eyes, grateful for the sympathy that they held despite his frustration.

“Thank you.” He said curtly. Then, tugged on your horse’s reins and with one swift kick was off towards Wall Rose. To his relief, the gates were wide open as merchants filed through them. He deftly rushed past their inventory checks, unsympathetic to the whines in protest when your horse’s side rammed into a cart resulting in the spilling of an expensive keg of whiskey.

The signs to the estate took him through a picturesque village that made him question if the both of you were even residing in the living world anymore. When the crisp clacking of hooves against the brick road manifested into drum beats on the hard earth Levi had a small sliver of hope he was finally nearing his destination.

He had no idea how long the two of you had been riding for as crop fields turned into whistling wheat fields; the euphoric rolling hills were laughable in comparison to the bloodbath you had fled from. Levi only had a vague idea of where he was headed; his mental map painted by fond childhood memories and other stories of your youth. Based on your descriptions the place you talked so much about couldn’t be hard to miss.

You had taken Levi to Krolva once, a little less than a year ago he reckoned, on a rare scouting legion day off. However, you were unable to stay at your family home due to a myriad of circumstances. He wouldn’t have admitted it but a sweet, syrupy nervousness would churn in his stomach whenever you would talk about introducing him to your family and the other intimate aspects of your childhood. He had, indeed, already met the closest members of your family. One a scout that Levi was quite familiar with and the other the owner of this estate. He could count on one hand the amount of times he had met her and could say with the utmost certainty that it perplexed him beyond hell how you two were related. The fact that this was the first time you two were going to be there together, well the irony was ludicrous.

As humble houses began to litter the landscape he regained some confidence in his surroundings. Levi began analyzing each structure as your horse sped past, hooves hitting the stone path with the intensity of gunshots. His frantic mind began convincing himself that he was in fact in the wrong location when he saw the subject of all your musings.

Tulips.

A vast ocean of tulips that extended so far they seemed like they could caress the horizon. Levi had never seen such a sight in his life. He was never able to fully comprehend the pristine scenery you always described but seeing it laid out in front of him had enlightened his mind. Across from the floral sea sat a grand house, its elaborate frame sticking out against the rural landscape. Levi urged your horse on with a firm kick, a pained whinny erupting from its belly.

Upon reaching the structure Levi yanked on reigns, causing your horse to slide to a stop along the dirt path of the front yard. The homestead was silent except for your horse’s labored panting. Not even the sparrows that nested along the siding of the ornate porch chirped or rustled about. Levi took advantage of the quietness to make his presence known.

“H-HELP!” He shouted, his voice faltering a bit from his sore throat. He was far too used to being on the receiving end of this plea and it made him sink even more into desperation that this time the roles were reversed. The stillness lingered but a moment before the grand door swung open with a force that sent it bombarding against the siding of the house.

“Y/N!” A figure cried from the porch, their bellow echoing over the high entryway. The woman hurried down the steps with a spryness that betrayed her age. As she neared, Levi was faced with the familiar features of your grandmother.

“What in all hell happened, Levi?” She exclaimed with viscous horror. Her face contorted into various morphs of worry and disdain with each new angle she viewed of your mangled body.

“Y/N...she-” Levi wheezed, but his throat was too dry to formulate a proper sentence. His voice was cracked and his shoulder was numbing to the point where he was beginning to lose feeling. Your grandmother exhaled and collected herself, a wave of determination fastening like a uniform onto her being.

“Shit. No time for my questions, we need to get her inside now.” She stated firmly, releasing the reins from Levi’s locked grip. He nodded and allowed his hands to rise to your shoulders to pass you off to the woman. To his delight instead of fresh blood a layer of dark liquid caked his palm. This meant you hadn’t bled a significant amount since the hospital. He let out a shaky breath as the woman gathered you into her arms. You fell limply into her embrace, her knees buckling a bit at your weight but she quickly regained her posture. You looked like a corpse, pale and utterly dead looking, which made Levi want to throw up.

He never threw up.

As the woman began carrying you inside, Levi lifted his leg to dismount your horse but winced in pain. He hadn’t noticed his own injuries due to your condition, but now that the adrenaline had started to wear down they were catching up to him. When he landed the dismount he was met with a sharp pain along his shoulder blade. The pain was just an annoyance though in the grand scheme of the situation. The one thing that mattered the most in his life had almost been torn to pieces. So his shoulder could wait.

He began to hobble towards the front door, leading your horse along with him. He let go of the reins just shy of the porch steps.

“Wait here.” He coughed. There was of course no way your horse would understand him, let alone obey him. Knowing that animal it most definitely wouldn’t stay in the same place Levi left it.

Making his way into the house he paused in the entryway, taking in his surroundings. The foyer ahead of him was spacious; a large staircase laid directly in front of him and tall archways to both his sides led further into the lodgings. The quarters screamed quaint luxury; from the high ceilings, the perfectly intact pearl colored walls, to the elaborately carved hand railings of the stairs. He knew your family wasn’t exactly poor, but he didn’t know they were this economically endowed.

“Up here, quickly.” The woman called from the second floor, consequently snapping him from his daze. Blinking a couple times he charged up the stairs, taking the polished wooden steps two at a time. Once at the top he saw an open door to his right, one of many along the hallway. Just like the rest of the house the room was big, wide windows letting in the evening sunlight and casting a warm glow across the chambers. You were splayed across the silk sheets, the smooth linen now dirtied by your blood and god knows who’s else's. Your shattered form contrasted with the affluence of the room and he felt like he had just walked into your funeral service. The woman was seated at your side next to the nightstand. She had a variety of medical supplies splayed across the small table; needles, thick thread, cotton, alcohol, steel scissors, gause.

“Help me adjust her.” She requested in a low tone. Levi nodded once before walking to the opposite side of the bed and gingerly grasping your shoulders. The woman had laid you haphazardly on your side, unable to properly lay you straight due to her old age. Levi was impressed nonetheless, however, that she had carried you all the way up those stairs from the front yard. He moved your body so you were laying on your back, arms against your sides. Not wanting to get in her way, Levi planted himself on the bed at your other side.

“I’m thankful that you brought her here.” She said as she cut away pieces of your shirt with the scissors. “But why in holy hell did you not bring her to a proper medical facility? Half of her got torn up by one of those fuckers.” She exclaimed, her voice quaked with emotion but her hands remained steady.

The woman really had a way with words.

“Apply pressure to her wound while I get the stitches.” She instructed, immediately padding about the room to gather her medical supplies. Levi did as he was told and cringed when your flesh squelched under his palm.

“The hospital at Krolva was full, they wouldn’t let us in because of the illness.” Levi explained in a voice uncharacteristically small. His gaze remained fixed on his hands. Damn, his fingers were twitching.

Your grandmother slammed a bottle of alcohol down on the nightstand in disgust. Her weathered arms shook slightly at the impact.

“That damned hospital, if you can even call it that, is never prepared to take on the ailments of this city.” She spat. Now having gathered all the necessary items she pulled the stool from the vanity and set it so she was level with your injury.

In the fray he hadn’t been able to get a proper look at your injury. The woman had bunched up your tattered shirt just under the swell of your chest. She examined your torso with seasoned eyes, yet Levi saw a tinge of worry laced in her gaze. The skin that was exposed looked like someone had taken a rake to it; indigo bruises framed a sea of tattered skin in the shape of a crescent moon. Your body bent in at an unnatural angle where the titan had bitten down on your side and Levi was just thankful that he couldn’t see any bone. Seeing you in this crippled state caused tears to sear the inside of his eyes but he refused to let the floodgates burst. This was not the time to be weak, especially with this woman here.

“Don’t go crying on me now, shorty. I know you aren’t the soft type.” Levi jumped at the familiarity in her tone. It put him on edge at first; he had arrived under dire circumstances now she was calling him names and was talking as if he was an old friend. But it was oddly comforting; the boldness and confidence in her voice eased away some of his jitteriness. He huffed in response before watching her work again.

Your grandmother used gentle fingers to assess the wound, gingerly prodding the areas where you should have had skin but you didn’t. She then reached for the cotton and alcohol and began to clean the wound as much as she could; the large teeth shaped holes in your side would be difficult for any trained physician to work with. But she handled the medical supplies with a grace Levi never considered possible. When she was finished cleaning your side she spoke up.

“She’s unconscious but she could still accidentally bite her tongue.” She stated, standing from the chair to rummage through the carven dresser. Out of the top drawer she pulled out a leather belt. She returned to the bedside and handed it to Levi.

“Place this in her mouth. I’m about to start stitching her wound.” She instructed, cutting a long piece of thread with the steel scissors. His fingertips brushed your jaw as he guided your mouth open. You were already slack jawed as little puffs of air were rising from your agape lips. He folded the belt in half two times and placed it between your teeth, careful to keep your tongue along the bottom of your mouth lest you started to choke.

Once he was done, Levi studied the woman’s hands as she prepared the needle. Her fingers were wrinkled, coarse, bent at the joints, and they looked like they had endured a lifetime of hard labor. Those aged fingers preformed with precision and finesse from the moment the needle entered your skin to the tying of the final thread.

Although not awake, you had in fact tried to bite down on the belt, letting out muffled groans each time skin met needle. Levi desperately wanted to look away each time but didn't out of fear you would bite through leather.

“Talk me through what happened.” Your grandmother said without a wavering of her concentration. Had she sensed his uneasiness? Levi swallowed hard, the action painful on his parched throat.

Levi’s whole body stung with exhaustion and pain as he prepared to explain. When he spoke again his voice was still hoarse but not as jagged as before.

“What was planned as a routine expedition turned into a recovery mission for Eren-”

“Mhmm, the boy who can shift into a titan.” Your grandmother interjected, mostly as clarification for herself. She attentively continued to thread you back together as if you were one of your chewed on stuffed animals that sat atop your dresser.

“Yeah. Y/N’s squad was set to clear out any incoming titans on the western edge. That’s when the abnormal appeared. I saw the flare and-” He explained, almost in a whisper. Damn did his throat hurt. Damn did everything hurt.

“You acted out of order.” Your grandmother stated simply. A knowingly somber smile upturning her wrinkled mouth. Her words and the soft manner in which they were said caused Levi’s mouth to hang agape mid sentence.

“Which I am grateful for. Otherwise she might have died alone out there.” She added. Her expression was as even as her handiwork but Levi could see that in her eyes concern was brewing like freshly charred coals.

“A ripe piece of shite it is that this is the longest conversation we’ve had isn’t it?” Your grandmother huffed a dry laugh. Levi could only nod in response as he watched your jaw clench when her needle deftly plunged into a heavily bruised area.

She was right. The other times he had interacted with the woman were brief and professional. Both were at military events that left little room for idle chatter, seeing as she was a highly praised veteran of the garrison. One interaction occurred before you two were committed and one...well that awkward experience could not have been far enough from the forefront of his mind.

It took thirty minutes for the woman to piece you back together but it felt like a fortnight for Levi.  When she was finished she exhaled loudly and wiped her hands on a now stained crocheted dish towel.

“All done.” She stood and placed her hands on her hips. Levi couldn't begin to thank her enough for all she had done in such a short amount of time.

“Thank you, for everything.” He coughed, thus sending a wave of pain down his shoulder blade.

A huff of laughter left her lips and she sent a wyry smile his way.

“Well, what kind of grandmother would I be if I left my granddaughter as the remains of titan fodder? Come on let’s get her in some clean clothes and wash some of this blood off.” Levi nodded once and proceeded to help your grandmother get you changed and cleaned up. When the two of them had finished you almost looked back to your normal self; your body tucked under the satin covers in an elegant ivory nightgown. Your features were soft, plush lips parted and breathing steady. You now fit in with the lavish ambiance of the space. He couldn't take his eyes off of you. That is until he felt a poke on his arm.

“It won’t do either of us any good if we just sit here staring at her. Come downstairs, i’ll make you some food and stitch you up too.” Your grandmother was looking up at him sternly. Levi shot her a confused glare and she met his gaze with another chuckle.

“You don’t hide your wounds very well, humanity’s strongest. Now come on, don’t make an old lady wait.”

[chickensarentcheap]

Sanctuary - Chapter 1

So this can be seen as either a companion piece to I Found (my first and still on going Tyler Rake/OC fan fic) or a sequel. It works either way lol.   I decided to work outside of the box and do more fluffy/soft/cute Tyler mixed in with his edge ;)    So this will be multi chapter and include everything from fluff, angst, drama, love, suspense, you name it. 

If you’d like to be tagged, please just let me know. I love comments, messages, you name it!

Tagging: @c-a-v-a-l-r-y  @alievans007  @hemmyworthy  @valkyrie-of-the-light

FIVE YEARS LATER

 He listens to the sound of life...his life...drifting up from the floor below. Hands behind  his head, eyes closed, the cotton sheets cool against his skin. Trying to squeeze in that extra bit of sleep despite the noise:  incessant high pitched giggling, some squabbling and name calling, the occasional ear piercing shriek. Outside the dog is whining to be let back in the house; not wanting to miss out on the action and the endless attention and treats the kids toss its way. A two year old German Shepherd that one of his son's had...much to the chagrin of everyone else in the house...named Macaroni. Mac for short. Further back on the property, in a safely fenced off area, chickens cluck and squawk within their pen as two goats tend to making sure their area is free of weeds and any left over food.

 It's a simple existence. A four bedroom farm house in Telluride, Colorado that had taken three years to fully renovate. A mixture of white wood siding and red brick; old fashioned touches like claw foot tables and a storm cellar, along with the newer and more modern amenities: a home gym and fully finished basement with its own entrance, kitchen, living space, bedroom and bathroom. Pushed four hundred meters from the road, there's enough land for a decent sized hobby farm; the chickens and goats, three separate vegetable gardens, an above ground pool and tons of free space for the kids to play. There's a creek at the very back; running horizontally at the edge of their property line, a common meeting ground for deer, fox, and other wildlife. And the one thing that had truly sold them on the place -when it had been nothing more than a rotted old place that looked as if it should be bulldozed to the ground- a view of the snow capped mountains.  A far cry from the sand and surf of Australia, but a paradise in its own right.

 “Okay...boys...boys...you need to take it down a notch...”  his wife's voice, a hint of exasperation in her tone. “..why are you like this? Please just go and sit down and do something quiet for five minutes so I can get breakfast started. Why do you have to act like wild banshees the moment your eyes open?”

 “Maybe daddy's up,” one of the twins-Tyler Junior's voice. Or TJ as he's affectionately known to everyone in his life. He's the taller of the two: sharing his father's height and naturally broad shoulders, along with the same texture and colour of hair and brilliant blue eyes. He's the wilder of the two. Loud and boisterous. Fearless. To a fault.

 “Can we go check?” Tanner now. Smaller and slighter than his older (by a mere six minutes) brother. With slightly darker hair than his siblings, and his mother's build and smile and the freckles splashed across the bridge of his noise. He's the quiet, introspective one. An old soul trapped in such a young body.

 “You two get down from there,” Esme hisses from the bottom of the stairs. “No going up there. Daddy is asleep. He's tired. Do you want me to throw you out there with the chickens and the goats? Because I will. I swear to God I will.”

 He smirks at that.

 “Maybe he's awake,” Millie pipes up. Even more hopeful than her younger brother. She's a daddy's girl. Through and through. Has been since the moment she made her entrance into the world and had been placed in his arms, her entire fist closing around one of his fingers.

 “I said no. Now all three of you get down here right now. Daddy didn't get in until late last night. He's had a very busy two weeks and he needs to sleep. Are any of you even listening to me right now? Are you feral?”

 Tyler actually laughs out loud at that.

 The kids have extremely keen ears, and their mother's patience is already running low, and now he can hear the pounding of little feet against the wooden stairs as they seize the opportunity and make their move. And he's just manage to slip into a pair of sweats and climb back into bed when the door is being thrown open. The twins collide with either side of the door frame; causing the human equivalent of a three car pile up.  And they decide to just throw down right there and then; head locks and elbows to the face as they fight over who actually gets to enter the room first.

 Millie takes charge, and with a roll of the eyes, simply shoves them both out of the way. She's tall and slender for only five. With unruly light brown hair and blue eyes that are always filled with both mischief and curiosity. A healthy mix of tomboy and girly girl: a room filled with both dolls and action figures. She enjoyed both tea parties and dress up but could turn around and climb trees and roll around in the dirt in the blink of an eye.

 All three jump onto the bed to greet him and he finds himself tackled by the lot of them. Letting them push him down onto his back; a tickle fight immediately ensuing, followed by a wrestling match. They all love to rough house. Even Tanner, who is smart and compassionate like his mother but could lay an ass kicking on his bigger twin. They're tough kids. Both physically and mentally.

 “I gotta pee!” Tanner announces, as he slides across the bed on his butt, jumps off and scurries from the room.

 His brother takes it as a chance to catch him unaware, and in less than a minute they're in the middle of the hallway, rolling around on the ground fighting. It will end the way it always does. Tears. Maybe a black eye or a split lip. If left to their own defences, they'd spend a half an hour beating the hell out of each other followed by a quarter of the day declaring they hate one other. Then they'd forget about why they were even mad and once again join forces to wreak havoc.

 ****

Millie crawls across the bed and plops down onto her side, snuggling into him. Nestling her head underneath his chin, one of her hands on his shoulder. And he drops a kiss on her hair and wrapping an arm around her, pulls her close. Once again closing his eyes, enjoying a few extra moments of relaxation. Until she's moving against him and her tiny fingers are attempting to pry his eyes open.

 “Wake up daddy,” her hand moves to his beard, giggling as she rubs her palm against it.  “It's time to get up.”

 “What if I don't want to?”

 “It's breakfast,” she announces, and she's at his eyes again, growing frustrated as he screws them shut even tighter. “Daddy...” she grumbles. “...don't be such a boy.”

 “I am a boy,” he reminds her.

 “It doesn't mean you have to give me a hard time like the rest of them.”

 Tyler grins. “You sounded so much like your mother just now.”

 “Smart like mommy, cute like daddy,” she declares.

 “Atta girl. You know what's up.”  He opens his eyes: bright blue meeting bright blue.

 “Hi!” she chirps, and leans in so they can rub the tips of their noses together. It's their 'special thing'. Something he'd taught her shortly after her second birthday. And she refuses to share it with her brothers.

 “Hi.”

 “I missed you, daddy.”

 He will never grow tired of hearing that word. Or the way it makes him feel. How it fills him with a sense of accomplishment. That someone like him...with all the monsters in his closet and all the battles he's fought ...could both make and deserve something so perfect.

 “How could you miss me? You were still up when I got home. I tucked you in. Read you a story. Five of them to be exact.”

 “I missed you while I was sleeping,” she says, and fiddles with the chain around his neck.

 He'd been gone for two weeks this time; helping Nik with a handful of  simple 'in and out' extractions throughout central and south America. Returning with little more than a couple of bruised ribs, scrapped up knuckles, and a small gash above his right eye. He only takes the easy jobs now. He has way too much to lose. A wife and kids. Even his own side business: home renovations and handyman work.  A way having steady cash flow and being able to get food on the table, the bills paid, and keep a roof of over their heads.

 She is investigating the cut above his eye now. It hadn't been deep enough for stitches, but the skin around it was starting to swell and turn a vivid purple. Millie had lost it when she'd seen his injuries; crying like she'd never cried before. The only thing calming her down had been a bowl of ice cream and those five stories he'd been suckered into.  

 “You were gone a long time,” she pouts.

 “Too long,” he agrees.

 “Did you miss me?”

 “Of course I did. Didn't I call you every night when I was gone? I missed you very much. And your mommy. And your brothers.”

 “But not as much as you missed me, right? Because I'm your favourite.”

 “I love all of you the same. I don't have any favourites.”

 She pulls back, taking his face in her tiny hands. “Just tell me, daddy. I can keep a secret.”

 It feels like a lifetime ago when she was just a tiny baby that he could carry around in one hand. Now she's in kindergarten, taking gymnastics, enrolled in martial arts, and willing try any sport that tickles her fancy. Sometimes he misses the old days. Getting up in the middle of the night to tend to her, feeling that tiny body just melt into his, smelling that powdery, fresh scent that clung to her hair and clothes. She's a daddy's girl. Always has been. And there's no sign of that changing any time soon.

 He hopes it never does.

 “Daddy?”

 His eyes are closed again. Relishing the precious and all too fleeting moments with his first born. His only daughter.  “Yeah?”

 “I love you,” she announces, and it nearly brings tears to Tyler's eyes. She is so innocent and so pure, as is her blind faith and trust in him. She has no clue of what his other job entails. Just that he goes a way a lot and she hates it. And sometimes he comes back with cuts and bruises and the occasional broken bone.

 It's his number one fear: what will happen when she gets older and she learns just what he's been up to all these years. He worries it will change how she looks at him. Right now she adores and idolizes him; there's no problem that daddy can't fix, no toy he can't repair, no monster he can't chase away. Soon that will end. She'll grow out of that and their relationship will be different. And he worries that the truth and the monsters and demons of his past will drive her away.

 He tightens his hold on her. Drops a kiss on the top of her head.

 “I love you too.”

 ****

 His family is gathered in the kitchen. The smell of pancakes, eggs, and sausage hanging heavily in the air as google home mini perched on a nearby counte rtop plays the current and most popular music. Tanner scurries back and forth between cupboards and table as he happily and dutifully finishes setting places for his mother. The baby in his high chair; ten months old, a lock of strawberry blond hair falling across his forehead, brilliant blue eyes focused intently on scooping  the selection of dry cheerios and slices of banana on the tray in front of him. Declan is long and lanky like Millie and TJ. Feisty and mischievous at even such a tender age.  The genes run strong in the Rake family. Never a doubt to strangers on the street that those four came from the same mom and dad. Especially the latter.  Their appearances strikingly similar; both physical and in their mannerisms and facial expressions.

 “Help your brother,” Tyler instructs his daughter, placing her on the ground. “And no fighting over who gets what colour cup or what spoon.” 

They were only eleven months apart and while incredibly close and nine times out of ten the best of friends, they loved to scrap. Their little pissing matches often turning physical. But Mille is strong and clever and never backs down from a challenge.

 He joins his wife at the counter where she stands dishing food out onto plates. His hands coming to rest on her shoulders, then sliding down her arms and coming to rest on her hips. They’re wider now; she’s had four children after all. His children. Yet she is still firm and tone in some places, soft and more curvaceous in others.  Her hair is shorter; skimming the tops of her shoulders, wispy bangs over her forehead. She is beautiful even first thing in the morning; a wide headband holding her hair away from her face, clad in a pair of simple black leggings and one of his t-shirts. And he leans into her, eyes closed as he breathes in the soft scent that lingers in her hair.

 “Good morning,” his lips are against her ear, hands tightening on her hips as she pulls her back against him.

  He feels her shudder against him and he smiles as he presses a kiss to her cheek. He had heard that once children came into the picture, a lot of women lost some, if not all, desire for sex. They were tired. Physically and emotionally. But not his wife. In fact, it had seemed to heighten her need for it even more. She’s always been insatiable; right from the very beginning of their relationship. The only woman he’d ever known -including his first wife- whose sexual appetite almost matched his. Last night she’d been especially in the mood; pouncing on him the second he walked into their bedroom. And then  proceeding to wake him up twice in the middle of the night with no so gentle demands that he make love to her.

 Who was he to say no?”

 “Good morning,” she tilts her head back and smiles up at him “Did you sleep okay? I’m sorry the kids were so loud and woke you up.  They were excited you were home.”

 “They only woke me up once. You woke me up twice,” he teases, grinning when she blushes, and presses a kiss to the tip of her nose. “By the way…” he places his lips against her ear once again, and presses his groin against her ass. “…you were incredible.”

 Her blush deepens, spreading all the way to the tips of her ears. “You weren’t so bad yourself.”

 “You definitely were not complaining,” he chides, and then kisses her cheek. Behind them, TJ makes a very distinct gagging noise.  “One day you’re going like kissing girls,” he informs his son, as he leans back against the counter and accepts a mug of steaming black coffee from his wife.

 “Never,” the little boy declares.  “Girls are gross.”

 “Your mommy isn’t gross,” Tyler points out. “Far from it. Daddy thinks she’s the most beautiful girl in the world. One day you’ll find a girl that you feel the same way about.”

 “Nope,” his namesake remains steadfast. “Never. Ever. Girls that aren’t mommy are nasty. And kissing is gross. Just…ughhh…” his nose crinkles in disgusts as he shudders dramatically.  Definitely his mother’s son with that little display.

 “Kissing is where babies come from,” Mille announces, as she scrambles into her seat at the table.

 “Well there’s a little more to it than that,” he says, and Esme digs her elbow into his ribs and shakes her his. “Well there is.”

 “Like what?” Millie inquires. “Kissing and what?”

 “Kissing and things,” her mother replies. “Things you don’t need to know about until you’re older. Much older.”

 “How much older?” the five year old isn’t giving up that easily.

 “When you’re thirty and your father finally lets you go out on a date.”

 “Thirty!” Mille squeals. “That’s old as shit!”

 “”Hey!” Tyler admonishes. “None of that. Only mommy says that word. She invented bad words like that.”

 “Yeah…” Esme snorts.  “…way back when the Pony Express still delivered mail.”

 “I think you made the F word, daddy,” Tanner says, and his twin giggles beside him.

 “Someone needs to watch their language when little ears are around,” Esme scolds, and hands him a cold plate of eggs and pancake for the paper.

 “You might get your mouth washed out with soap,” TJ adds. “That’s what grandma says she used to do to Uncle Mike when he was little and swore like a drunken sailor.”

 “Thirty is really old,” Millie muses dramatically, as she tucks her hair behind her ears.  

 “Your mother was being generous,” Tyler says. “I was thinking more like forty.”

 “Daddy, that’s mean. You can’t boys away from me that long.”

 “Don’t say that him,” Esme pipes up. “He’s going to take that as a challenge.”

 “She can date, but I’m sitting on the front porch with a gun in my lap until she gets home,” he vows, and his wife rolls her eyes and begins carrying plates of food to the table, leaving an extra on the counter.

 The baby squeals happily when Tyler steps up beside the high chair and reaches up for him with dirty hands. Fists repeatedly opening and closing in a request to be picked.

 “Mate…” he sighs, as he takes in the state of his youngest. Banana smashed into oblivious, smeared into his hair.  “…why do you have to do this to me? What kind of mess did you go and make? Your son tried to shampoo his hair with his banana,” he informs his wife. “Look at him. He’s a bloody wreck.”

 “How come he’s only my son when he’s bad?” she smirks, and tosses him a package of baby wipes.

 “Because the bad genes come from you,” he states, and then uses the wipes to clean the baby’s face, hair, and hands before unbuckling him and lifting him from the seat. Little arms curling around his neck, a face nuzzling into his shoulder. “Here we go, mate, here we go,” he says, and then slides into his chair. “Time to eat. Time to get big and strong so that you can kick some ass when you get older.”

 “Really, Tyler?” Esme sighs. “Really?”

 “Daddy said ass,” TJ giggles, and soon he and his brother are dissolving into hysterics and making fart jokes. Their sister rolling her eyes and giving them hell for being so rude.

 Just another day in paradise.

 ****

  “Well…well…well…” Esme grins.  “…it lives. Long enough to emerge from it’s dungeon to eat.”

 There’s a slight blush to Ovi’s cheeks as he enters the room, a sheepish smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he lays a hand on her shoulder and presses a kiss to his cheek. She may not be the woman that carried him for nine months and given birth to him, but she was very much his mother. Spending the last five years making sure he was well taken care of; nurtured, shown affection, encouraged to enjoy the simple things that came with a quieter existence. And he may not use the word, but he feels it in his heart. And he knows she does too.

 He’s much taller now; half an inch shy of Tyler’s six foot three frame. He’s not as muscular and powerful as the man he considers his father, but is tall and athletic; a sinewy, well toned body from all the hours he’s spent lifting weights,  helping out on their little hobby farm, and accompanying Tyler to his reno and handy man jobs. And while he lives in the apartment in the basement, he never misses a meal with the family. He craves the togetherness; the conversations and the jokes and hearing the kids giggling and playing.

 He snags the plate of food off the counter and heats it in the microwave, then slips into the chair to Tyler’s left. “What time did you get back?” he inquires, as Esme moves to fill his empty glass from a pitcher of orange juice on the table.

 “Around nine.”

 “That was a long one,” he remarks, and Esme nods in agreement.

 She has gotten used to his time away, but still doesn’t like it. It’s cold and lonely in the middle of the night and sleep rarely comes; too many worries about where he is and if he’s okay.

 “What happened here?” Ovi gestures to the area above his own eye.

 “Just a little mix up with someone that wasn’t too happy with me. Nothing serious. Where were you? The car was gone when I got home.”

 He’d been the one that had taught the kid to drive; taking him on back country roads in a beater pick up truck that they’d picked up for cheap.  Ovi’s come a long way in five years; physically and mentally. He’s no longer plagued by the vivid nightmares of what had happened in Dhaka or how’d he’d killed Gaspar to save  Tyler’s life, and essentially, his own.  He had thrived in the public school system and quickly and effortlessly made friends.  Joined the swim team. Ran track and field. Tried his hand at football. He had decided to take a year off from pursuing a higher education; electing to busy himself on the farm and learning how to use power tools, sweating under the weight of hard, manual labour.

 “Ovi had a date,” Millie sing songs. “With a girl.”

 He reaches across the table to tousle her hair, and she gives that musical little giggle.  

 “It wasn’t a date,” he says.  “I was helping her study.”

 “Yeah…” Tyler smirks as the sips his coffee. “…it was studying.”

 “Right…” Esme grins from across the table. “…studying. I was a teenager once. I know what studying is code language for. Tyler and I like to study together. He’s actually an excellent tutor.”

 “Which is why we have four kids,” he adds.

 “I am never going to study,” TJ declares, causing the adults to laugh.

 “Oh boy child…” his mother sighs. “…you are in for one heck of a rude awakening when you get older. No kissing and no studying? Come back and talk to me when you’re fourteen.”

 “You’ll like studying,” Tyler says. “Even by yourself. It’s not as fun as when you study with someone else, but sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do.”

 Ovi laughs, nearly choking on a mouthful of orange juice.

 “Excuse me,” Esme directs a kick to his shin under the table. “When was the last time you actually had to study alone?”

 “I was just gone for two weeks,” he reminds her.  “Just because you wanted to study together when I got back doesn’t mean I didn’t have to study by myself while I was away. Go that long without studying? I haven’t gone that long without studying since I was fifteen.”

 She holds a hand up to silence him. “Okay that last part is just way too much information.”

 “Sometimes you have to study alone,” he continues with a shrug. “Because your study partner is tired. Or they feel sick Or they have a headache. Study partners get headaches a lot.”

 She kicks him under the table to get his attention, then mouths: “I will kill you in your sleep.”

 He shoots her a grin and a wink, reaching out with his foot in order to run his toes over her instep, along her shin, and then around to the hell.

 At first she glares at him, glass against her lips, then gives a smirk and places her other foot in his lap. Causing him to clear his throat noisily and shift in his seat when she presses her toes into his crotch. But he doesn’t make her stop.

 “So what’s her name? Esme asks. “This study partner of yours?”

 “Chloe.”

 “Oooo that’s pretty!” Mille gushes. “That’s a princess name. Is she pretty like a princess?”

 “She is,” he confirms, but then reaches across the table to tousle her hair. “But not as pretty as you.”

 “How’d you meet her?”  Tyler asks, his hand slipping below the table to push his wife’s foot out of his crotch. The last thing he needed was to get up from the breakfast table with a raging hard on. He is almost forty one now, but she still has a way of making him feel like a horny teenager.

 Esme pouts dramatically, then goes back to her breakfast. Foot now on his thigh, his fingers massaging at the bases of her toes.

 “The internet,” Ovi sheepishly admits.

 Tyler groans. Jesus , mate. We talked about this. We’ve been talking about this for five years now. No social media. It’s too easy for people to find you on there and track you down.”

 “I’m being really careful,” he insists. “My security settings are really high. I don’t use my real name. Esme has a facebook.”

 “With only her family on it. It’s not the same thing. How’d you end up randomly meeting her online in the first place? Don’t tell me you did something creepy like sending her a message out of nowhere because you thought she looked cute.”

 “It was a group. For single people in Colorado.”

 “Oh for fuck sakes,” Tyler mutters, much to the chagrin of the kids; the twins giggling and telling he was going to get his mouth washed out with soap and Millie who immediately scrambling for the ‘swear jar’ that sits on the counter by the stove. Informing him that he knows five bucks because it was a ‘really, really, really bad word’.   “Why would you go on something like that? I get being lonely and wanting to meet girls, but for Christ sakes, mate.”

 “I wasn’t thinking, I guess. I just wanted to meet new people and talk to them. I wasn’t really planning on meeting anyone. I was just wanting  to talk.”

 He’s had a handful of girlfriends in high school. Nice, down home kind of girls that came from decent families and seemed to have no secrets in their closets. Tyler had made sure of it: giving their names and addresses to Nik so she would do a little digging. Everything had come back clean, thankfully. But it was better to be safe than sorry, especially with kids in the house.

 “How much do you even know about this girl?”

 “Enough.”

 Tyler arches both brows, waiting for a better response.

 “We’ve been talking for a little while,” he admits. “A few weeks now. She lives in Butte. So when we wanted to meet in person, we agreed to drive hallway and meet in the middle.”

 “How old is she?” Tyler presses. “What does she do for a living?”

 “Twenty three.”

 Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the way his wife’s widen at the revelation. There’s almost five full years between them and while that had never stopped them, it seemed a little wrong when it was a nineteen year old boy being pursued by an older woman.

 “She teaches in a day care,” Ovi continues. “So she’d fit in really well around here. She loves kids and you guys have a lot of them, so…”

 “I wanna met her,” Mille decides, and her brothers join in.

 “You can’t just bring strangers to the house,” Esme speaks up.  “You know that’s one of the big rules. We can’t just have anyone and everyone walking through the front door. How much do you really know about her other than her name, age, and what she does for a living? Do you know anything about her friends? Her family? Her background?”

 “I can always get Nik to run a check on her,” Tyler suggests. “I mean, if he really wants to see this girl…”

 “Still doesn’t mean I want a stranger coming to my bouse. Being around my kids.  Wasn’t that we agreed on about five years ago? When we moved here and I was having the twins? That we wouldn’t take the chance of just letting someone walk through the door? There’s always a chance, remember? That someone is looking for us. Those are your exact words.”

 “But if I get Nik to do a background check, we’ll get some answers. If nothing comes up, great. He can see the girl. If someone comes up, then he doesn’t. You wouldn’t, right?” he looks at Ovi. “See her if something came up?”

 “No! I would never do anything like that! I’d never bring someone like that around here.  I just want the chance to get to know her. That’s all. She’s really nice and really pretty and I think you guys would like her.:

 “I’m going to like her,” Millie chimes in. “I already do. If she’s good enough for my Ovi, she’s good enough for me.”

 “Pound it…” he says to her, as he holds out a fist and she enthusiastically responds. “…now blow it up.”

 They’ve always been close. Right from the moment they’d brought her as a baby to the Mahajan house five years ago. It was the first infant he’d ever had contact with and he’d been immediately smitten; mesmerized by the little sounds she made, how she would look up at him with those big blue or wrap her entire fist around one of his fingers. And when he wasn’t holding or begging to hold her, he was playing the piano for her; having her in the car seat on the floor next to him while he entertained her with his favourite songs. As she grew older, she’d always referred to him as ‘my Ovi’. Sometime she’s even called him her brother, and when people tried to point out it wasn’t physically possible that they were related in any way, she’d argue that ‘Christmas presents aren’t always in the same wrapping paper and neither are people’.

 Pretty wise for a five year old.

 “It won’t hurt to take a look at her,” Tyler attempts to reason with his wife “What’s the worst that can happen? We see something we don’t like in her background and he cuts ties with her. That’s it. No harm, no foul.”

 She’s become increasingly paranoid with each baby they’ve brought into the world. Always worried that there was someone out there just waiting to trample on the happiness that they had managed to find. And when he’d gotten back into the job without consulting her first, the worry became obsessive and all consuming.

  And there was also some lingering animosity towards him on her part; that he’d willingly go back into a profession that put a target on not only his back, but hers and the kids as well. He no longer saw it that way; he was more than capable of protecting his family and there were others -like Nik, Yaz, and the rest of the team- that would help them out no questions asked. Besides, the jobs he took were considered low on the scale of risk when it came to severe injury or death.

 “If nothing comes back and she’s totally clean, there’s no reason why she can’t come around,” he adds, and gives her foot a squeeze. “You know I’m not going to just let a stranger walk up in here. I wouldn’t take that chance. So I’ll get Nik to look her up. The kid does deserve to have a life. Isn’t that we brought him along with us in the first place?”

 Sighing heavily, she uses her fork to push the remains of her food around her plate.

 “Nothing is going to happen,” he assures her. “We do things this way, there’s no chance of something going wrong. Let’s at least give the girl a chance, yeah?”

 “As long as you promise to have Nik look into her. And as long as you…” she trains her gaze on Ovi.  “…promise me you won’t bring her here until Tyler find outs about her. I’m serious, Ovi. I can’t have some random off the street getting near my kids. I just can’t.”

 “I won’t,” he vows. “I’d never do something like that.”

 Giving a small smile, she nods and then pushes her chair away from the table and begins tidying up the dirty plates and utensils, instructing the kids to run upstairs and get cleaned up and dressed.

 “Is she okay?” Ovi asks. “She seems a little….mad.”

 “I think she’s a bit pissed at me. I was only supposed to be gone four days and it ended up turning into two weeks. It’s hard on her. Being home alone all that time with the kids. This job was supposed to be easy and it turned into a real shit show instead. Definitely not what I thought I was walking into.”

 “Well at least you’re alive, right? You’re home. At least you’re still here.”

 “That’s all that matters, mate. Dragging myself through that front door. As long as I get home to my wife and my kids, it’s a good day.”

 As long as he wasn’t being brought home in a body bag.

[venusxxlangdon]

Garden of Eden

summary: beware of your wishes when you wander in the Garden of Eden, especially if the Antichrist has the keys. 

pairing: outpost!Michael x fem!reader

words: 8.9k

warnings: smut, fingering, oral (female receiving), dirty talk, choking

To Katherine, Sofi, Sam & Caitlin

A big mansion loomed proudly behind the iron gates, flanked by the rows of green freshly-trimmed trees crowned in crimson blossom, swaying gently in the summer breeze. Ivy and fern grew through the crevice of the white marble of the walls that kept the secrets of the mysterious owner of the house. Michael Langdon was an exquisite neighbor, and if one dared to ask what he did for a living or who he was, nobody would be able to answer. Numerous rumors ghosted around his persona because Mr. Langdon himself was a very private man. He never honored any of the public events with his presence, for what he was deeply disliked by others. It was the paradox of life when one chose his own path, detached and aloof, and was strongly judged for it.

 “He thinks he is better than us,” an old lady with her wrinkled hands adorned with heavy rings and pearl bracelets thought to herself when she stopped by Michael’s house and complimented his wonderful garden. In fact, she did not really want to say it aloud because it would squeeze her into admitting that his tenure was superior to any other yard in the neighborhood. However, the beauty of Langdon’s garden was so conspicuous that it would make anybody confess their trepidation before it and fall victim to its unbelievable excellence. The sweet, almost sickly smell of roses cut through the soft scent of the July summer. Red, pink, and white buds scattered on the bushes and ignited them with burning flames of vivid colors. In the middle of it, there was a big marble fountain with sculptures of Aphrodite, Hera, Athena, and Artemis around it. They stood like guardians, keeping a watch over the crystal flows of water that sounded like a giggle of a young nymph in the peaceful silence. No wonder everybody wanted to get inside just to look at the worldly Garden of Eden.

“Mr. Langdon?” The woman called his name again after he did not respond to her question.

A tall, stately man was sitting on a patio with his legs crossed and a volume of Voltaire in his right hand. He was holding a glass filled with blood-red wine in his left hand; the heavy bands of his rings clicked against the fine glass every time he brought it to his lips to take a sip. He slowly took his gaze off the book and dragged it to the lady who suddenly felt like an annoying schoolgirl, hungry for his attention. She shivered uncomfortably when two topazes of his piercing blue eyes stared at her. It felt like he was looking right through her, paralyzing every muscle of her decrepit body. Michael slightly tilted his head to the side, letting the sunlight caress the smooth, silky locks of his licentious hair. He found it amusing that the old cranky twat, who had spent years ruining the life of her daughter in law (she found the young girl absolutely unworthy of her son’s attention) in the most revolting ways, even dared to speak to him.

“Well, thank you, Mrs. Shepherd,” the velvet baritone if his voice reverberated through her bones, “but it’s the roses you should address your compliments to. I don’t own their beauty.”

Despite the fact she had been working in public relations for thirty years, Mrs. Shepherd found herself at loss for words. Surprisingly she felt so small and vulnerable that her only desire was to leave. She nodded and opened her mouth to say something, but then closed it again, pressing her thin lips into a tight line. Trying to gather the remaining of her confidence, she adjusted the cuffs of her dinner jacket, as if it could help her stay grounded, and lifted her chin up a bit too high than it was necessary.

 “I am just wondering how you manage to keep your garden in such an impeccable state. Pardon my bluntness, Sir, but I have never seen you weed or water it.”

The corners of Michael’s lips twitched, and he put his book aside on a small table next to him, folding his hands neatly on his crossed thighs.

 “You are not the Lord to see everything, are you?” He smiled, showing her his perfect white teeth.

 “Excuse me?” She nervously started playing with a pearl necklace around her slender neck. It was very uncomfortable to talk to him like that when he was still sitting on a patio, and it seemed like he did not have any intentions of approaching her for a chat.

 Michael ran the tip of his tongue along his bottom lip; a faint smirk was ghosting across his lips as he kept wandering around Mrs. Shepherd’s hectic mind, looking through her entire biography, which he could read like a picture book. What a pathetic soul stood before him! He had no interest in her; what was alluring in the lost essence of her elderly being if she had not learned a thing in her life? Nothing. There was someone else who piqued his interest a long while ago. Ignoring the awaiting expression on Mrs. Shepherd’s face, he looked away at the neighboring house. When his eyes landed on a second-floor window, he saw a shadow that flashed behind the sheer curtains. Michael smirked.

 His rose was spying on him again.

 Your heart skipped a beat when you noticed that Mr. Langdon turned his head in the direction of your bedroom, and you hurried to fall to your knees and crawl under the windowsill, praying that he did not see you. With the trembling fingers, you reached for the jacquard drapes and pulled them, trying to cover up the transparent organza of your curtains. You had no idea why you were doing it again after you had promised yourself not to spy on your neighbor anymore. It was wrong and creepy, and you felt embarrassed and, what was more terrifying, aroused by it. You bit on your knuckles in an attempt to suppress a whimper that got you all aflutter.

What an idiot.

 You drew your knees against your chest and wrapped your arms around yourself securely, trying to calm down a swirling vortex of anxiety in your head. The effect that beautiful man had on you was indescribable: you felt strangely attracted and intimidated at the same time. The mysterious aura of Mr. Langdon kept you awake at night and made you sneak on your tiptoes to the window to look at the dim light in the window across the street every midnight. You wondered why he was always awake at such a late hour.

 Asking your parents about him was pointless because they truly had not been the biggest fans of Langdon, since you moved into a new house, and wanted you to stay away from him. When you asked your dad why, he shrugged and said “He’s no good” through his gritted teeth, but could a man of no good grow such beautiful flowers in his garden?

 Everybody seemed to either hate or love Michael Langdon, so the rumors about him were on the two opposite poles accordingly: either extremely notorious or suspiciously celestial. You tried to do your own research, but the only thing you managed to find out was the fact that his parents had abandoned him when he was a child, and it was his grandmother who had raised him. He was believed to have property somewhere in England, or Romania, which would be a strange choice in general.

 You wanted to talk to him, but for the past six months you had spent in the new neighborhood, you did not have the guts to say hi when he was out in the backyard. You found yourself blushing and embarrassed, unable to form such an easy question as “how are you doing, Mr. Langdon?”, so what sort of a small talk one could expect from you? He looked no older than thirty, yet he made an impression of someone experienced, tempting, and even sinister.

Biting your lower lip, you reminisced about his gorgeous chiseled face, framed with the soft blond curls that reached his shoulders. He was always dressed irreproachably perfect, with no wrinkles on his ironed shirt in sight. Instead of going out with your friends and doing whatever mirth your young soul desired, you often stayed home in your small bedroom to watch his silhouette behind the thick curtains. Around 8 pm he liked to go to his garden, and you could see his lips move as if he was talking to someone, but you did not see whom. Michael most certainly did not have a dog, or a cat, although some people rumored that there were snakes in his garden, but you never had a chance to witness them. He always moved graciously around his flowers, brushing his gnarled fingers against the petals, and you once caught yourself imagining what his touch would feel like. That was a point of no return when you realized that you were unconditionally fascinated by the insanely beautiful man across the street. You felt like a stalker but could not fight the desire to keep eyeing him.

 xxx

It was a regular lazy Sunday you decided to spend doing nothing in particular, especially due to the unbearable heat. Even the trees looked defeated: the leaves that should have been crispy and firm looked flaccid instead. Whenever you went outside, you felt like the sun was going to melt you as if you were nothing, but a cube of ice, so you hanged out in the kitchen with AC turned to the maximum, reading books and watching whatever there was on TV.

 “I swear Langdon does something to his roses,” your mom said, wiping the drops of sweat off her forehead. Your head flew up immediately at the sound of the familiar name. “His garden looks like an oasis in the desert.”

You looked through the window, where you could see the blooming roses, irises, and hydrangeas behind the gate. She was right; it looked wonderful indeed despite the temperature.

 “I’ve never seen him watering it,” you mom continued, not paying attention to an absent look on your face. You frowned when two white heaven-bound birds ricocheted as soon as they appeared in the radius of Langdon’s property. It seemed like there was an invisible shield around it. Surprised, you pulled the curtains aside to take a closer look. What the hell was that?

 “Maybe he does it at night? When it’s not so hot,” you said slowly, without taking your narrowed eyes off of the door of his house.

 By 9 pm the heat started to cool down, and you decided that the whole day at home was enough for you, and it would be nice to ride a bike before going to bed. Moreover, you needed an excuse to get closer to Mr. Langdon’s garden and do some investigation. You had no idea what exactly you were looking for and if there was something wrong with his mansion, but your mother’s comments and the two birds kept rewinding in your head, causing major anxiety.

 “I’ll be back soon!” you shouted from a garage, hoping that your dad could hear you through a loud tv noise.

 Riding a bike was one of the greatest pleasures of summer when even though you pedaled, the iron monster with a little wicker basket automatically took you down the street. The wind tangled its warm fingers in your hair and toyed with your white sundress with cherry print on the linen fabric. Your legs remained in motion, as your thoughts stayed in the moment, and you allowed them to get back to Michael.

If he were home, he would definitely notice you, and then what? You would have to explain your business and it would involve having an actual conversation with him.

You pressed the breaks, stopping the bike. Fuck. Just the thought of it made your palms sweaty. You looked across your shoulder, spotting the white walls of his mansion in the distance.

You did not know how much time you spent staying in the middle of an empty road, contemplating your plan, but eventually, it felt like your bike started living its own life, taking you back to Langdon’s property, and all you could do was to keep pedaling and trying to breathe steadily.

 His imposing figure was visible from the distance way before you approached him. He was standing with his hands behind his back, his long hair tied up in a low ponytail with the loose strands of it framing his defined face. You took a tight grip on the handlebar and slowed down the bike.

 “Good evening, Mr. Langdon,” you could not recognize your voice that sounded so high-pitched it made you scrunch up your nose in disgust. As your feet touched the ground, he looked up at you with a hazy smile across his full lips. He stepped forward, and your breath hitched at his appraising glance. Michael did not even try to hide the curiosity he was looking at your sundress with, examining your naked legs.

 “Ah, what a great surprise,” he said in a singsong tone and outstretched his hand. You nervously gave him your palm, and he took it with just the tips of his fingers. He gently turned your hand downwards and bent at the waist until his lips were inches above your skin. He never touched it with his lips, just let his breath ghost over your hand before letting go of it. You could feel the heat spreading across your cheeks, painting them in scarlet hues. “Good evening, Ms. Y/L/N.”

 You smiled, trying not to stare at the man before you. It was the first time you saw him so close, and his vibe was overwhelming. You could feel the power radiating from him in hot waves that had nothing to do with the summer heat. He towered over you despite the distance and the bike between you two. He was handsome from the depth of his cobalt blue eyes to the gentle expression of his smooth voice. You could swear he was inhumanly beautiful. Mr. Langdon was probably used to the sudden pauses in people’s natural reactions when they fell silent and just admired him.

“I’m sorry, I just...,” you stuttered, nervously tugging a piece of hair behind your ear. “I just wanted to look at the roses.”

 You nodded in the direction of the beautiful flowers flowing and swaying around the men. He chuckled softly, unable to take his eyes off of your blush that accompanied your words.

 “Your garden is so beautiful,” it felt like you could not stop bubbling, “even in this horrible heat. It seems like you really love it, Mr. Langdon,” you mattered. The delicate, blooming petals stood out in the grass, bathing in the radiant sunlight; the air was perfumed with the exuding scent of the flowers.

 “I surely do, my dear,” Michael said, his voice low and honey-like, encapsulating your entire being. His long, aristocratic fingers brushed against the tight buds, where inside the layers of green, there were colors that, eventually, would ignite the new roses into the vibrancy of life. He slowly dragged his fingertips down a stem and picked one.

 “My garden keeps a lot of secrets,” he looked at you through his heavy lids and extended his hand to give you the flower. “You know, all our desires that we wish we could hide in the darkest corners of our souls.”

A faint smirk across his full lips made your stomach flip as your mind rushed to the memories of you watching him through the window of your small bedroom. You hesitantly took the flower from his hand, and when your fingers accidentally touched his, your body jolted as if lighting pierced through you. Michael pretended that he did not notice it, gazing at you hazily with an unbothered look on his face. The only thing that could indicate his interest was the waves of a deep aquamarine polling in his eyes. Each hue seemed brighter in the reflection of the sunlight.

 “Thank you,” you whispered under your breath and put the rose in the basket. You did not know what to add, especially after his remark. Was it a hint that he knew what were you doing? You put your right feet on a pedal as if you were about to leave.

 “I hope you’ll have a good night, Mr. Langdon.”

Michael shook his head and made his way to the antique gate, holding a key you had not noticed in his hands before. He opened it with one swift motion of his wrist and leaned against the ornate door.

 “What about the garden? I thought you would like to see it.”

 You looked at him with wide eyes.

 “Oh, are you sure, Sir?” You asked hesitantly, “I don’t want to be a bother, plus it’s getting late, you probably have other plans...”

 “It would be my pleasure to show you around,” his velvet voice cut you off in the middle of the sentence, and you froze, enchanted by his eyes that were looking right through you.

 You hopped off your bicycle and leaned the handlebar against the gate.

 “That’s really nice of you, Mr. Langdon,” you smiled, stepping closer. You thought he would move, so you could follow him inside, but he waited until you were inches away, almost pressed against his chest in the small space of the doorframe.  

 “Please, call me Michael,” for a second it seemed like the world froze around you. As if someone in charge of winding the Great clock of time pressed the button, and everything stopped moving. All you could feel was the scent of Michael’s cologne. It was surreal. You parted your lips to say something, but his eyes got you hypnotized; you realized that you were holding your breath all that time.

 Langdon was the first one to break eye contact.

xxx

Walking in Michael’s garden was one of the greatest pleasures you had ever experienced in your life. It seemed like the farther you went, the more beautiful it became. Numerous flowerbeds painted the lawns in vivid shades of watercolor. The miniature shrubs were trimmed neatly, and everything one could desire was to run among them, breathing in the exquisite sent of flowers.

 He was watching you amusingly: how you bent over to brush your fingertips against the delicate petals and smell the roses, the way your cheeks turned crimson every time you caught him staring at you.

 Michael could not help himself and let his magic wander around you, making its way into your radiant ephemeral mind. From the corner of his eye, he noticed his snakes crawling under the marble bench and flicked his wrist, ordering them to stay in place.

 “So red and white roses are your favorite?” You asked curiously, spinning around to face him, and he hurried to fold his hands behind his back as if nothing had just happened. His eyes traveled down your body, catching the sight of your skirt flowing in the wind.

 “The red rose whispers of passion,” he answered, stepping closer to you, “and the white rose breathes of love.* Yes, there are,” he took a pause, thinking if God had decided to mock him by sending an actual angel. An angel with devilish desires. “But I also have a penchant for lilies,” Michael nodded at the flowerbed next to you.

 “You sound like a poet, Michael,” you said, still a bit embarrassed to call him by his name. Langdon, on the contrary, shivered every time it rolled off your tongue. His mind painted pictures of the situations where he could make you repeat his name like a mantra.

 “Well, thank you, but I will have to disappoint you,” his lips curled into a fake pout, “the author of these beautiful lines is an old chap O’Reilly, not me.”

 The yellow ball of the setting sun merged with the sky, changing it to the hues of orange, and then almost red. Summer sunsets, a prelude to a warm night, were well-known for being beautiful. The sun cast its golden rays down upon Michael’s blond ponytail, illuminating it like a halo. It cascaded onto the trees and his house like the glory of paradise.

 “You definitely used them for the right occasion,” you chucked, “oh my God,” you sighed in pure delight, “how amazing it must be to own such a beautiful garden and wander around it every day. I think I would get lost in it!”

 “Not all those who wander are lost, darling.**”

 For the reasons unknown to you, your mind went back to your fantasies about Michael. You considered yourself lost in them, but what if you just wandered?

xxx

Time dissolved into itself in a blink of an eye. You did not notice how one topic of conversion flowed into another, and you most certainly missed the moment when Michael invited you into his house. Even though you understood that it was not right to abuse his hospitality, you could not say “no” to his invitation.

“Would you like some wine?” he asked you, as you walked around the dining room, observing the luxurious interior. From your location, you could also see the fireplace in the living room, the family crest adorned with the ruby red needlework hanging on the wall, the antique furniture that cost more than your college tuition. Michael was standing by the cabinet, considering his wine choice for the night.

 “Yes, please,” you nodded, brushing your knuckles against the gliding surface of the oak table. On top of it, there were exquisite sets of the finest silverware. “But I’ll have to rely on your taste because I’m no expert when it comes to wine.”

 Michael took a bottle out and opened it. A gold-colored Moselle was poured in two crystal glasses.

 “A well-chosen wine, my dear,” you still could not understand if he really meant that nickname, or if it was his regular way to address everyone he knew. You looked away, hoping that he would not notice your wide grin. “Either sets a great mood or ruins the impression,” he took the glass and made his way to you. “Forever.”

You nodded, wrapping your fingers around the stem and bringing it to your lips to take the first sip. Michael watched you attentively, waiting for your reaction. The liquid tasted beautiful and rich, coating your taste buds like acerbic honey.

 “That’s a really great wine, Michael,” you said, feeling the warmth spreading through every cell of your body. He smirked, and you found yourself staring at the wine drop on his bottom lip.

His lips, plump and pink, looked million times more beautiful than any rose in his garden. You bit the inside of your cheek, hoping that the pain would help you to remain sane, but the longer you looked at him, the cloudier your mind got. It was impossible to say what exactly made your head dizzy: the scent of the fine wine or Mr. Langdon who looked like the Eighth Wonder. The thoughts you had been trying to suppress all the time, were suddenly unleashed like demons and flooded your subconsciousness with the vivid images. Your breath hitched, and you had to take another sip of wine, pretending that you were enjoying the taste when instead you used it as an excuse to look away.

 “I knew you would enjoy it.”

 Your mind tried to come up with any topic that could cut through the electric tension between you two, but all you could think was him. Him. Him. Kissing you, savoring every inch of your exposed skin — it was an all-consuming obsession. You cleared your throat, suddenly feeling extremely hot as if the temperature increased by several degrees.

“I have noticed your family crest over there,” you nodded at the living room, “does your family have a long history?”

 Michael tapped his fingers against the glass and put it aside on the dining table.

 “Not really,” he scoffed, and you wondered if the topic about his family was not his favorite, “my grandmother was so obsessed with the idea of being one of the nobility that she made it come true,” he glanced over the enormous dining room.

 “Your mansion is beautiful,” you said honestly, looking up at him, “so is your garden, and...oh my God, there is a snake!” You cried out at the sight of a green snake that was slowly making its way to Michael along the perfectly polished floor. The intruder was so unexpected that you knocked his glass off the table, and it shattered into pieces with a loud noise. You gasped and immediately fell to your knees to collect the remains of the wineglass in your palms. Embarrassment washed over in tides, and you felt tears welling up in your eyes, ready to spill out from the humiliation you had put yourself through. Everything felt wrong.

 “I’m so sorry,” you whined in a broken voice, “Michael, I did not mean to...oh God, I am so sorry... I will pay for the glass, I promise...I just...”

 “Y/N,” he interrupted you softly, but stern. Still being on your knees, you left your gaze up at him to meet the icy fire of his eyes. “Stand up.”

You gulped heavily, but obeyed, slowly standing up on your wobbly feet. He carefully took the pieces of the broken glass from your hands, making sure not to leave any cuts on your tender skin. Michael put them aside on a thick cotton napkin and grabbed a clean one to wipe off the wine off your palms.

 “It’s okay,” he said, examining your skin carefully in case there were micro cuts he did not notice, “no big deal.”

 The feather-light touch of his fingers was soothing. You looked across Michael’s shoulder, trying to spot the reptile, but did not see any.

 “I saw a snake,” you whispered, “over there.”

 He put the napkin aside but did not let go of your hands.

 “I believe I have not introduced you to my pets,” the plural form made you look around as if right after his words numerous snakes would crawl out of nowhere.

 “So it’s true,” the rumors sprang on your mind, and you squeezed his fingers instinctively, not actually realizing what you were doing, “you do have snakes.”

 Michael’s lips curled in a smile.

“Three of them,” he took a step closer, the crystal beads of glass crunched under his shoes, but he did not seem to care. “Don’t worry, there are not poisonous,” he answered your silent question. “However, they always come where there is fear.”

 You frowned. His fingers snaked up your palm to wrap around your slender wrists. You looked at him in confusion. What if other rumors were true? The snake you had just seen looked way too terrifying to be harmless, and fear creeping up on the back of your neck indicated that the worry was not pointless.

 “Michael, I don’t think I understand what you mean,” you started slowly, trying to break free from the steel grip of his fingers, “It’s getting really late, I better go...”

 You fell silent when the fingers of his left hand ghosted over the contour of your face, but never touching it. He hummed approvingly when you stopped talking and just stared at him in fluttering admiration.

 “You talk too much, my dear,” he said, finally honoring you with his touch, dragging his fingertips along your cheekbones and a sharp line of your jaw, “but you don’t say what you really think,” his eyes twinkled in the dim light of the room.

You took a step back, but the corner of the table prevented you from moving farther. You were trapped. Michael was so close; it felt intoxicating. You looked down at the skirt of your sundress, which unfortunately got stained with wine as well.

 “What do your fear, Y/N?” he caressed your cheek, the cool metal of his rings left burning kisses on your skin. They bloomed like revolutionary fire, destroying the remains of your self-control.

 You closed your eyes, leaning into his touch. The question was confusing, and Michael did not seem to care to elaborate. Human beings were cowardly by their nature, so it was impossible to understand what exactly he meant when he had asked you that. Did he want to know about your phobias or the insecurities? Or the dirty little secret of yours that you hid from him?

 “Yes, that one,” your eyes fluttered open when Michael called you out on your thoughts. Again.

 “I don’t know what you are talking about,” you said without looking at him. Your heart was drumming so fast, you could feel the blood pumping in your temples. Michael reached for your wineglass.

 “You know, darling,” he cooed, dipping his fingers into the burgundy liquid and bringing them to your lips. His every movement was dripping with mannerism and erotica. “I don’t tolerate lies,” he whispered, his breath scorching your face, as he smeared the wine across your lower lip, firmly pressing on it for you to open your mouth. You parted your lips and he slid his thumb right into the awaiting warmth, smiling devilishly when your eager tongue wrapped around his digits. The acid taste of wine burned on the tip of your tongue.

He tugged a loose strand of your hair behind your ear and leaned forward to whisper:

 “Tell me, kitty, what are you scared of right now? Why are trembling, huh?” his body was pressed so close to yours you could feel the decor of his jacket living ornamental imprints on the bare skin of your arms. You were shaking with anticipation for the beautiful man before you. Dazed, you felt his lips brushing softly against your ear and sliding to the sensitive spot behind it. Your breath hitched when he left a soft kiss, and your knees buckled. If you had not clung to the lapels of his jacket, you would have probably slid down and melted into a puddle before Michael.

 “I’m scared of myself,” you whispered, tilting your head to the side and letting Langdon’s lips travel to the sinew on your neck. His right hand slid up your leg, folding your dress around your waist. His palm rested on a soft flesh of your thighs.

 “Why?”

 His fingers wandered over the outer part of your thigh and then maneuvered between your legs to pet the inner part of it. Instinctively you tried to close your legs that Michael had possessively spread a second before to cover up the embarrassing wetness of your panties, but his firm grip prevented you from doing so. You looked up at him pleadingly.

 “This is all wrong,” you could hardly form the sentences when the gorgeous men started bending over to continue kissing your neck and moving down to your cleavage, “I should not be so attracted to you, we have just met...I don’t even know you.”

Michael seemed to ignore your protests. Your body language and thoughts were telling him completely opposite things, and he drank off the euphoria that was clouding your mind. He wrapped his right arm around your waist and the next moment you were placed atop of the table with him between your legs.

 “I think you know me better than anybody else,” he smirked, playing with the straps of your dress. His fingertips ran along the cotton fabric of them, making your skin crawl. “You’ve been spying on me a lot lately, haven’t you, Y/N?”

 He thought it was impossible for you to blush even more, but you proved otherwise. You bowed your head low, biting the insides of your cheeks in embarrassment. There was no point in denying the truth.

 “I swear I’m not a stalker,” you whimpered, shifting on the table uncomfortably. Michael carefully placed his fingers, /those goddamn fingers you wished could work you open/, under your chin forcing you to look up at him.

 “I could care less about that,” he said, circling your mouth with his thumb, “it’s what you do afterward has piqued my interest.” His eyes were getting darker with every word that rolled off his tongue; the black abyss was savoring the ocean blue hues of his iris. He took your hand in his and dragged it to your core, under the folded skirt of your dress. “I want you to tell me who you think of when you touch yourself late at night.”

Your eyes widened at the vulgar words; the stern tone of his voice made you speechless. All you could do was to watch him take your hand and guide it to your core. Your knuckles brushed against the damp fabric right in the center of your panties and you knew that Michael felt the wetness too.

 “Who are you?” you asked, your mouth fell open when he messaged your clit through the thin cotton.

 “A man of sin, a liar and deceiver whose natural abilities Satan enhances by supernatural power in order to confuse people in the end time***.” Michael confessed.

 It all felt unreal, you were falling down the rabbit hole with no chances for salvation. The trap sprang shut — you were caught between opposing needs. Your common sense was knocking on the remains of your subconsciousness in a pathetic attempt to reason you, but your soul, a detached essence of your true being, was longing for Michael. No way was he lying: every weird thing about him made sense, forming a complete picture in your head like a puzzle. There you were, locked in fear and reverence, servility and obsequiousness. His words rocked your mind, leaving you unaccustomed to a mix of emotions swirling in your head.

 What if he was a maniac? A psycho?

 You put your hands on his chest, trying to push him away, but none of his muscles moved.

 “Haven’t you always considered yourself special?” He spoke in an alluring tone, and his words pinned you to the table. You raised your eyebrows at him, and Michael scoffed. “You have always longed for something exclusive, a big mystery that would open only for you, an immortal being,” he cupped your face in his hands, looking you in the eye, “You thought your loneliness was an omen, that something greater was coming...”

 “Stop,” You pleaded, shutting your eyes.

“Look at me,” Langdon demanded, taking a fistful of your hair and slightly tugging it strong enough to get your attention, yet gentle not to hurt you. “When I’m offering you what you have wanted, you reject it. Why? Unleash the desire, darling.”

 He was everywhere: his hands roaming around your body, lifting your dress higher, his lips covering yours in a passionate kiss, the scent of his cologne around you ghosted like a silvery mist. His lips were like silk, kissing you softly, but with so much confidence and determination that you were taken aback. You did not have time to comprehend what was happening. He was heaven and hell at the same time, drawing you deeper in the pond of lust and desire. You moaned into his mouth when his tongue entwined with yours, fighting for dominance and immediately winning. You were putty in the skillful hands of Michael Langdon. Surrendering to him felt wrong, especially if he was an actual Antichrist, but at that moment you were a helpless puppet in his hands.

 “Michael,” you moaned, wrapping your arms around his neck. He grinned into the kiss when you admitted your defeat and presented yourself to him. Sliding the straps of your dress off your shoulders, he stroked your soft skin, making his way to your breasts and squeezing them firmly.

 “Shhh, keep still, pretty girl,” you shivered when he tucked your bra along with your dress down to your waist and covered your nipples with his palms. You were like a low-voltage coil, receptive of his touch. It was impossible to find out if he used his powers on you to help you relax in his arms when you suddenly felt brave enough to run your fingers through his soft locks and guide his head down to your breasts, hungry for the sensation of his wicked tongue. A velvet ribbon that was holding his hair in a ponytail helplessly fell on the floor beneath his feet.

Apparently, Michael was extremely good at multitasking. As he savored the pink buds of your nipples, he placed one of his hands between your thighs, pulled the panties aside and ran the tips of his index and middle fingers up and down your wet folds. You whimpered, clawing on his shoulders. He was still dressed in his perfect dinner jacket and a dress shirt as if it had not been incredibly hot all day, while you were sitting in front of him half-naked. You were practically shaking when he easily inserted the index finger inside of you, working you open for him.

 “You look for this special something in everyone you meet,” he whispered in your skin and bent his finger, rubbing the knuckle against the spongy spot inside you. You gasped, your body jolted from a sudden impulse. “What is it that you need? Divine connection?” He added the second finger, stretching your tight walls out. You hissed at the unpleasant feeling that was quickly flooded with pleasure. It had been a while since you let a man touch you.

 “You,” you breathed out, throwing your head back and leaning into his touch. Your hips were sliding against the polished surface of the table, meeting Michael’s fingers.

 “Hm?” he arched his eyebrow and grabbed you by your chin with his free hand, brutally forcing you to stay in your place. “What was that?”

 “I might have been waiting for you...oh my God,” you arched your back, bucking your hips up, letting his fingers pierce through you. Hard. Simultaneously, he pressed his thumb to your swollen clit and started massaging it in a circular motion, drawing another moan from your chest. He kept teasing the sensitive bud by rubbing, stroking, pressing on it until you turned into a soft, pliant mess beneath him.

“She might have been waiting,” he smirked. “Darling, I’ll make sure to fuck the doubt out of you,” he caught your earlobe between his teeth and playfully bit on it. He ran the tip of his nose against your scarlet cheek, and you almost lost your mind from how intimate it felt. The tight knot in the pit of your stomach swelled in anticipation.

 To your disappointment, his fingers left your warm core with an obscene “pop.” Michael’s large hands hooked the crumpled fabric of your dress and pulled it down your legs, tossing it aside and leaving in you in nothing but your bra tugged under your breasts, and a pair of panties. You blushed, bowing your head low and letting your hair fall onto your chest to cover the hardening nipples. He undid the clasp, and the bra followed the destiny of your dress. Agonizingly slow, he kneeled before you and placed his palms on your kneecaps, spreading your legs. Instinctively, you shifted closer to the edge, giving him a full display of your wet undergarment and a glistening pussy pocking through it.

 “I have not dined yet. What a lucky coincidence, isn’t it?”

 As he spoke, his fingers drew loose patterns on the bare skin your legs. He stroked the undersides of your knees and went up to your awaiting thighs. Your heartbeat raced at the view of such a gorgeous man standing before you on his knees, yet still managing to hold great power over you. He leaned forward and trapped the hem of your panties between his teeth, slowly dragging them down your legs, his eyes never leaving yours. Michael wrapped his fingers around your ankles and helped you bend your legs, placing your feet on the table, so your pussy was on a full display for him. His face was so close to your throbbing center, you could feel his hot breath ghosting over it.

“Ah, Michael,” your head lolled back when he stroked your folds, slightly parting them with his fingers.

 “The most beautiful rose I have ever seen,” he whispered mostly to himself. The second his tongue licked a wide stripe from your entrance to your clit, you were a goner, knocking the expensive silverware off the table in an attempt to get ahold of his hair. Langdon hummed in satisfaction, clearly giving zero fucks about the mess you were making. He began lazily encircling your clit, closing his plush lips around the sensitive bud and lightly sucking on it. You reeled forward, moaning plangently and spreading your legs wider.

 “Better than any wine,” he noted, licking the beads of your arousal off your puffy folds. He placed his right hand on your stomach, stroking your lower abdomen and brought the fingers of his left hand back into your aching core. He was impossibly good at locating the most sensitive spots within you. You choked on air and your own saliva when he brushed against your g-spot, making you cry out his name. Waves of pleasure rippled through your body, becoming more and more intense with every swirl of Michael’s tongue and a push of his fingers. You started grinding against his mouth, whimpering like a bitch beneath him; you could already feel the release building up inside you.

 “You feel so good,” you moaned brokenly, tugging on his hair. The feeling of euphoria was engrossing, impossible to resist. You were so touch-starved that it seemed like the tiny bit of attention to your private parts was enough to send you over the edge.

 Michael pulled away, hungrily licking your juices off his lips. You moaned at the sight of him: to witness such a beautiful man giving you head was definitely worth dying for. If he ordered you to take a bullet, you would gladly do it on that very table, which was your personal deathbed. He leaned forward to kiss you and let you taste your own sweetness. While he was kissing you, Michael slid the jacket off his shoulders and started unbuttoning his shirt. You sighed heavily, pressing your forehead against his and helping him get rid of the unnecessary clothes.

“What an eager girl I’ve got here,” he teased and left a quick kiss on your lips. “Gotta be patient, kitty.”

 You let your hands wander over his naked torso that looked like as if it was carved by angels and gods out of the finest marble. Michael was watching you amusingly, excited for what you could do next.

 “How long has it been since you let a man touch you?”

 “A while”

 Michael quickly undid his belt, quickly discarding his black slacks. You ran your fingers along the prominent outline of his cock through his boxers and looked up at him as if you were seeking his permission. He nodded and you snaked your hand inside his boxer briefs, wrapping your fingers around his erect shaft.

 Michael inhaled through his nose and closed his eyes, concentrating on the ethereal feeling of your soft palm around him. A deep sigh escaped your mouth when you saw him in full glory, hot and heavy with a glistening tip and beads of precum covering his glans. Your pussy quivered when you imagined how good it would make you feel, and you stroke a prominent blue vein on the underside of his shaft. Michael growled at the filthy thoughts in your head.

 “Alright, sweetheart,” he impatiently slapped your hand away from his cock and spit on his palm, “as much as I would like to let you play a bit longer, I need to fill you up right fucking now,” as he spoke, Michael started smearing his saliva along the length. He could not wait to bury his cock inside you.

Langdon took ahold of your hips and pulled you a bit closer, positioning himself right between your legs. The head of his dick was pressed against your clenching entrance. He leaned forward, slowly pushing it inside and never forgetting to shower your neck and bare shoulders with kisses. You moaned at the burning stretch and clanged to Michael’s biceps, leaving crescent marks on his sweaty skin.

 “You are so big,” you sobbed, nuzzling into the crook of his neck. He pressed a soft kiss to your temple.

 “It’s okay,” he cooed stroking your cheek, “you are taking me so well, baby. Such a good girl for me.”

 He froze when the last inch of his cock was savored by your pussy, giving you time to adjust. You had never felt so fucking full before. Looking down at where he and you were connected, you thought that Michael might have actually split you in two. He picked up the pace, drawing himself in and out of your pussy, leaving just the tip of his cock, and then filling you up to the hilt again. Your soft whimpers were making his head spin, and soon enough, when you fully adjusted to his length, he started slamming into you at animalistic speed.

 “Michael!” You cried out and bit his shoulder to suppress your scream, even though it was too late and it escaped your throat, echoing through the dining room. He could not help himself. He needed you right there on that table. Hard and fast.

“I bet you could not reach your sweet spots with your fingers when you were playing with that pretty pussy of yours,” he growled in your ear. His voice and the wet sound of his balls slapping against your ass were the only things you could hear. Michael lifted your hips a little, forcing you to wrap your legs around his waist.

 The new angle allowed him to penetrate you deeper. You watched him going harder, fucking the living force out of you. You ran your fingers across his jaw, outlined the shape of his nose, adoring the perfectly sculpted features. He was so inhumanly beautiful. When he leaned forward to kiss you, his long blond hair brushed against your breasts, and you pulled him by the roots against your flushed chest, wishing to melt into him.

 “Michael, please...” your plea contained everything you would never admit even to yourself. Michael, please, be my lover. Michael, please, do not stop. Michael, please, hold me in your arms forever.

 “You are mine,” he rumbled, wrapping his hand around your throat and applying just enough pressure to make your toes curl and your eyes roll into your head. “Do you understand it? Mine.”

 He whispered the last words into your open mouth and tightened the grip on your throat. You were so pliant and vulnerable, he felt like he could break you in any moment. Your pussy throbbed at his possessiveness, clenching around his cock and driving him crazy.

“Yours,” you gasped, arching your back. Skin on skin. Your bodies were moving in sync. The heavy air in the room smelled like sex and Michael’s cologne. With every sway of his hips and every thrust that aimed right at the sweet spot inside you, you were getting closer to your release, and he felt it too.

 “I can feel you clenching around me,” he brought his palm to your clit and started circling it ruthlessly. “Are you close?”

 He looked you in the eye, and you nodded, surrendering to the overwhelming sensation that was piercing through you. Michael was merciless, fucking you so hard that at one particularly deep thrust the table beneath you shifted.

 “Y-yes, Sir.”

 You felt his dick started pulsing deep inside you, and the thought that you were not using any protection crossed your mind for the first time. You looked up at him, and before you could even note it, Michael hushed you:

 “Don’t worry about that,” he flicked your clit between his thumb and middle finger, “Just come for me, kitty.”

 He did not have to repeat twice. Your arousal licked by the swell of pleasure finally unrevealed, crushing everything in its wake. Every cell of your body was engulfed in the burning heat of pure lust and desire for Michael who was protectively holding you in his arms. When the fireworks before your eyes started to fade away, you brought your focus back at him. He pulled out, and you whined at the empty feeling inside you. Michael pumped his cock a few times, concentrating the pressure around the bright pink head, and with a low groan came all over your stomach. His beautiful face was countered in pleasure: brows frowned, and lips slightly parted. To some extent, you even felt unworthy of watching him fall apart like that before you.

For a while, the sound of your rapid, shallow breathing was the only thing interrupting the silence between you two. With a deep sigh, Michael pulled you closer, resting your head against his chest. You still clanged to him with a death grip, afraid to burst the comfortable bubble enveloping you like a shield. Suddenly you felt so tired as if silvery fatigue was poured into your veins. Michael’s radiant warmth and the overall state of being completely fucked out made your head heavy, and you closed your eyes tiredly, nuzzling into his chest.

 Michael absentmindedly ran his fingers through your hair, inhaling the scent of it. Never had he felt so calm and content. He pressed his lips to the top of your head and closed his eyes, enjoying the light touches of your fingers dancing on his bare arms. At that moment nothing mattered, his ruthless demonic nature was in peace.

 “I think I should go home,” you whispered. As much as you hated yourself for ruining the mood, you remembered that your parents had been waiting for you, and to make them worry was the last thing on your list. You looked up at Michael, who brushed his knuckles against your cheek, thinking how wonderfully innocence and depravity entwined within you.

 “You can spend the night with me.”

 He reached for the napkin to wipe off the white stripes of cum painted on your stomach. You closed your legs wincing at the throbbing sensation in your pussy; it felt like Michael was still inside you.

 “My parents will be worried,” you were genuinely sorry, and he could read it in your thoughts.

 Michael took his jacket and wrapped it around your shoulders. You blushed, but tugged it tighter, nodding at him in a sign of gratitude. Your skin instantly absorbed his warmth.

 “Please, come visit me tomorrow,” he pleaded. If it had not been for the sincere look in his eyes you would have never believed that a man such as himself wanted to see you again. You looked at him in awe, and it all seemed like a dream to you. Just the day before he was your neighbor you had been spying on for months. You needed time to think everything over and talk to him without lust clouding your vision about what he had told you moments before.

 “A man of sin, a liar,” his words echoed in your head.

Michael could sense your doubt.

 “Y/N,” he sighed, bringing your hand to his lips and kissing every knuckle. “Sleep it all away tonight, okay? And tomorrow I’ll tell you everything, just come to me.” His voice flowed out like a fragrance released in rain.

 Of course, you would come to Michael. All he ever needed was to call for you, and you would be there, ready to present yourself with your whole being to him. You would run into his arms like a river that flowed inside the ruins of your chest; the ruins Michael left with his presence. He shattered your inner world into pieces but gave you the hope of building a new one.

 The next morning when you woke up there was a white rose on your nightstand with a small card attached to it.

 “Tonight at 8 pm. I will be waiting for you, my rose,” said intricate handwriting, and you smiled, pressing the piece of paper to your chest.

A single flower he sent me, since we met.

All tenderly his messenger he chose;

Deep-hearted, pure, with scented dew still wet—

One perfect rose.

 Dorothy Parker

*The White Rose by John Boyle O’Reilly

** Tolkien

*** Second Epistle to the Thessalonians

Taglist: @langdons-rep @babypinkstyles94 @sammythankyou @kaigitana @ms-mead @sebastianshoe @langdonsdemon @iloveziggystardust @chaoticevillangdon @sojournmichael @sloppy-little-witch-bitch26 @theghostoflangdon @divinelangdon @americanhorrorstudies @avesatanormalpeoplescareme @bbyduncan @ticklish-leafy-plant @1-800-bitchcraft @wroteclassicaly @starwlkers @ccodyfern @nightsblackroses @langdvnshepherd @ccodyferns @ritualmichael @isoldedax @coloursunlimited @micheallangdons @omgsuperstarg

[ltleflrt]

I just woke up from a dream that feels like it was probably inspired by the Diabo 4 trailer and the fic  The Path Between the Stars by zaphodsgirl.  Maybe even a little bit of the Chinese drama Guardian.

In the dream I’m Dean, so I’m just going to talk about it like it’s an AU.

Dean dies as a teenager. Just a random accident.  His spirit wakes up in a strange place.  It’s a walled garden, and he’s lying on the bank of a tiny pool of water, maybe six feet across with a small grassy island in the center.  The water is flowing around counter-clockwise.  On the far side, he sees a stone building, that looks like a mausoleum so high that he can’t see where it ends in the sky, which is swirling purples and grays.  The light is funny here, and when he looks down, he has 2 shadows, one going off in each direction, and they twist funny.

A voice says. “It’s time to go through.”

He looks up and sees a tall man in a long dark purple robe with a cowl.  He’s holding a shepherd’s crook.  His face is in the shadows, but Dean can see that he has blue eyes.  

Dean knows what He is.  Humans would call him the Grim Reaper, but there’s more to it than that.  He’s also the keeper of time, and guardian of the gates between the dimensions.  He’s not a god, or the God, those concepts are too small for what he is.  He’s not even a he, but Dean knows that is how his own recently human mind perceives Him, because his own essence has spent the last 14 years crushed inside a physical human form.

“You have to send me back,” Dean says.  He knows he doesn’t belong where he wants to go, and that he needs to pass into the giant stone doors across the tiny body of swirling water.

The man tilts his head in confusion.  “Your time there is over.”

“Please, I need to go back.  There’s someone there who needs me.”

“It’s against the rules.”

“Fuck the rules.”

The Entity laughs, and it sounds human and like black holes crashing together at the same time.  “You’ve always disliked the rules, I shouldn’t be surprised you want to break them now, after a paltry human life.”  He thinks for a moment and then nods.  “You have two shadows, so I suppose it won’t hurt to allow you to use the second one.”

He touches Dean’s forehead and Dean wakes up from a coma.  

A few years later, Dean dies again.  His life is dangerous, and he’s lucky he’s made it so long.  He’s back in the walled garden, and once again he meets the blue eyed man.  He argues to be sent back.  He knows that he shouldn’t, that he can’t.  He’s supposed to walk through the gate, to pass from this dimension into the multiverse.  But he’s gotta be there for Sammy.

He manages to sway the blue-eyed man who sends him back to human life.  But he dies again, and again.  Each time he dies, he spends a little more time with the blue-eyed man.  He gets to know him as a friend, learns his name is Castiel.

“You should know my name, you gave it to me.”

“Am I your father?”

“Hardly.  I came before you.  And the universe doesn’t follow the rules of time and reproduction that your human dimension exists within.”

Dean feels like he should remember Castiel.  After so many deaths and resurrections, the sureness that he does grows.  But he doesn’t have memories of Castiel prior to his first human death.  

Eventually Dean’s human years should have run out.  But either there’s something strange happening to him because of all his deaths and resurrections, or Castiel is keeping him alive and in the prime of his life.  Even if he does still keep dying.  Sometimes horribly, sometimes an accident.  It’s never the same.  Somehow Dean is immortal, but not.  Not when he keeps returning to the small garden.

Every time he returns to the garden Dean gains another shadow.  But they’re not real shadows.  It’s more like he’s the center of a clock face, and each shadow is a hand on the clock.  They turn slowly around him.  If he concentrates, he can hide them.  He needs to, otherwise they follow him back in his human body.

He’s not really human.  He eventually knows that, like he knows what Castiel is, and like he knows what the garden is.  Every death brings more knowledge, and as a human he uses it like magic.  Gives Sam longevity, teaches scientists new technologies, basically becomes the human myth of a wizard, even if no one besides Sam believes in magic.

Since he still continues to die, his relationship with Castiel grows out of friendship into lovers.  He looks forward to their times together in the garden.  He still refuses to go through the gates, and Castiel has given up trying to get him to.  Their relationship exists between dimensions, in a tiny pocket galaxy that Dean years to stay in with Castiel, but he’s addicted to the human world so he always goes back.

Then on one of his deaths, a suicide because he misses Castiel and wants to visit, the garden is empty.  It seems smaller for some reason.  Dark and somewhat cold.

Then a small boy peeks out at him from behind one of the stone sculptures around the gate.  He glares suspiciously at Dean and demands to know who he is.  Dean recognizes him as a child sized Castiel.

“Hello, Castiel.”

“Is that my Name?”

“It is now.”

“Who gave you the right to name me?”

“You did.”

The child demands to know what Dean is, and why he’s there.  Dean realizes this is what Castiel meant by time having no true meaning in the universe, because it’s not actually linear.  This is Castiel before he met Dean.  

Dean sits down, and lets his shadows fill the garden, and there are so many of them that they create an intricate swirling pattern all around him, which Castiel seems awed and fascinated by.  He talks to Castiel of his future (past? whatever) self.  And while he’s talking to this small version of Castiel, a memory comes to him of himself as nothing more than a bouncing ball of light appearing in this garden and approaching the dimensional door with curiosity.  And Castiel comes and lets him through the door, saying he’ll miss him and he’ll see him again soon.

And then I woke up and I’m sad because I would have liked to see where my brain took this :)

[apocalyvse]

MEET MICHAEL

Everyone knows the archangel Michael. He is older than time, older than the earth and the stars and the sun, than Heaven and Hell, than all of his brothers and sisters. He’s the commander of Heaven’s armies, and the ruler of Heaven too, now that God has disappeared. And he is the end of everything, one day, when Revelations starts to play. He has been picked to herald the end of days, to sound the horns of war and shepherd humanity into the afterlife.

The weight of it all, everything he has done and must do, lies heavy on his shoulders. But he is not made to bend or break, and so he doesn’t; he stands strong against the tide and ignores the cracks that open in his armour, bit by bit. He tries to lead Heaven the way that God did, a hole he was not crafted to fit. 

He struggles, sometimes, to keep the loyalties of his angels and to soothe the tempers of his brothers, who think he has taken on too much. He is an old and tired creature, and in the last millenia, he has turned grim and stiff and callous, like he doesn’t really care, like he might want it to be over. It only makes Heaven doubt him more.

It will take a miracle, to save Michael now. But where do you get a miracle, when you are usually the one who grants them?

AN EXCERPT

She opens her eyes and Michael is there, in a vastly reduced version of his true form. “God is gone,” he says, and it feels like it has been eons since the battle over Hell. His voice is stiff and emotionless, and his grace is ignited, flowing in odd ways, tendril occeasionally lashing out towards her and withdrawing again.

“When will he return?” she hears herself ask but it is not her voice. Strangely, this doesn’t seem to bother her.

“When he is ready,” Michael informs her shortly. “Until then, I will rule Heaven.”

She looks out at Heaven, where the angel still flit to and fro, going about their tasks. “Will you tell the others?” she dares to ask, as respectfully as she can.

“Soon,” he promises. “There are things to put in order first.”

“Like what?”

“Raguel will serve as my second,” he says slowly. “Uriel as third. But I have no servants, no suitable leaders to watch over Heaven and the other angels from the ground. I would give you the task, Miriam, if you would take it.”

“I don’t understand,” she says. “Every flight has a commander who has followed you through every war. Why not draw from their ranks?”

“They are built to be soldiers, not to manage Heaven,” Michael tells her. “You and your flight have many more uses than the soldiers do. And you have never abandoned your post, not even when the very existance of Heaven has been threatened. “

She hesitates, but there is really no way she can say no, not with the archangels right there staring her down, already expecting her to say yes. “I will be your servant,” she agrees finally, and tries not to let herself wonder if an angel who is not crafted specifically to lead can be any good at it.

Michael smiles, but it is not a real smile, just a vague expression of pleasure at having his way, as if anyone could ever defy him. He is absolute power within the angel’s ranks, second only to God himself, and he should know it. “You will do well, Miriam,” he tells her, and then glances down at the garden. “I must tell the others now, and then I will send your angels to you.”

[triscribe]

*Silent, furious snarling*

(Insert string of R-rated vocabulary)

I have never in my life been so angry over being the Better Person.

There is a dog curled up next to me, still bloody and shivering, and the best I can do to seek retribution on her behalf is not march next door and scream my lungs out.

Explanation under the cut.

So, for fucking years now, my mom has been in an on-off quiet war with several of our neighbors, who can’t stand the fact we won’t conform to the local “standard” of clean yards and tidy driveways and no more than a couple dogs and cats. We may have maintained such an image when I was a kid, but after Mom and Dad got divorced, she buckled down on trying to focus on the important things in life (me, our emotional well-being, running her farm, etc) rather than the Aesthetic. She only worried about cutting the grass when it got a foot tall, abandoned her garden to run wild, took in the strays she found as opposed to taking them to the local shelter. Depression slowed her down, so projects being worked on in the driveway took a few days rather than just one, sometimes she’d park her farm truck and trailer in front of the house overnight, chickens and the occasional duck came to live in our backyard rather than at the farm when predators were coming around.

Folks didn’t really take it well.

You’d think they’d be more understanding of a newly single mom trying to run her own business without falling apart into an emotional wreck, but no.

Now, over the last decade, we’ve put up with such bullshit as people opening our side gates to let the dogs out and calling Animal Control on us; people putting out traps to catch our cats and taking them to places unknown; one bastard, when we used to keep a couple rabbits out front, took one out of its cage, broke the innocent baby’s neck and left it on our front doorstep. No proof, but I know who it was, and I had to restrain myself every time I saw the monster hanging out with other kids who thought he was a perfectly nice guy. Haven’t seen him back at his parents’ house across the street for a few years now; fingers crossed the bastard got arrested for something.

Anyway.

Today’s incident involved the neighbors to our left, whom we shall call the Darlings, and the younger of their two German Shepherds, whom I’ve dubbed Barky. The fence we share is crappy, been falling apart for years, yet because of the bad blood between us my mom refuses to approach them about splitting the cost of a replacement.

(It should be noted, the Darlings have recently redone both their front and back yards into Home Magazine levels of aesthetic perfection, while I’ve not only had to put college on hold for a couple years now thanks to cash flow problems, but also frequently given money earned from my job to Mom when she’s a bit short on paying the bills.)

This evening, the two of us were hanging out the back bedroom where we’ve got a window unit to cool things off, along with Mom’s guard dog Tan, our two guard puppies-in-training William and Katie, and my grandmother’s chihuahua Pipper, who’s pretty much claimed me as her new person while her brothers stay in the living room with the old lady. Mom’s watching TV, I’m working on my laptop, the pups are wrestling while Pipper snoozes next to me and Tan guards the master bath door (because there are month old kittens playing inside and he doesn’t want to let William or Katie get too close ‘cause they haven’t learned to be gentle yet). At one point, Pipper hops up and heads out the dog door, presumably to do her business before coming back inside.

Then I hear screaming.

Barky managed to bust through the crappy fence, and when I jump to the window I see her grab and throw Pipper through the air. I yell for Mom and tear open the door - Mom goes running out to break it up while I keep the other dogs back (William and Katie are too young to know how to charge in and join a fight; Tan most certainly is not). Barky backs off with the arrival of a screaming human; Pipper limbs back to safety, bleeding from several puncture wounds on both sides of her body. Mom comes after her, not willing to have me try to catch her and get bitten, so I stay put on the porch, watching Barky as I listen to the panicking Darlings on the other side of the fence. I’m willing to try and help shoo the dog back through - up until I hear the mother say “baby, are you okay?” and the daughter, a few years older than me, angrily state “this thing is falling apart.”

Logically, I get being upset. I was too.

But those fuckers and their words pissed me off even more.

I want to call Animal Control on them for a change. I want them to watch their baby be led away and loaded in a truck.

I wasn’t able to stop the legal system from taking away my baby girl Athena, and I will always be heartbroken over that. Now, when I should be able to put that same evil system to work doing the same to some of the people responsible, as vengeance for the little creature that’s adopted me as her new person-

-I can’t.

Because I’m not evil.

The best vengeance I can enact is to ignore the Darlings, let them sit in fear of the authorities arriving to take their animal away. And in the meanwhile, I’ll stay perfectly still, letting Pipper calm down beside me, until Mom thinks she’s come out of shock enough to handle an antibiotic shot. If the punctures on her hind legs and back get infected, we’ll take her to vet, and maybe see about footing the Darlings with the bill.

We’ve cleaned Pipper off, taken pictures of the wounds, and filed notice with the police. That’s all we can do, for the moment.

And I feel like I’m dying inside.

[theonceandfuturekingdom]

Formosanta | Princess of Babylon | Angela Sarafyan | Taken 

“Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.”

Biography:

Formosanta (or Sana for short) was born in the ancient city of Babylon and was the child of King Belus. She grew up in the palace which had become famous for its hanging gardens and fruit trees. Sana can still remember even as a young child how the two rivers flowed through the city, keeping everyone cool in the scorching summer days. It really was like a paradise to most who visited there.  

Sana was the only daughter of King Belus and even from the moment she was able to walk, he knew that she had a free spirit and fire in her belly, never being content with simply sitting around as many princesses (at least in his eyes). But even though she never did what he wanted, he was immensely proud of her. Despite finding her presence with him wonderful, he knew that as soon as she was eighteen, he would have to find her a suitable husband. On the day of Sana’s birth an oracle told him that only the man who could be able to bend the iron bow of Nimrod and take on the fiercest lion in the Kingdom should win the hand of his beloved Sana.

The rumours of Sana’s beauty spread far and wide, attracting kings and princes from many countries to the tournament that King Belus had arranged. The Princess herself wasn’t all that happy about essentially being sold off like cattle but she knew the whoever managed to bend the bow and slay the lion would be a fine match indeed. Sana was not impressed by the rulers who came through the gates of the city as she had never been one to be impressed by bravado. But one man among the men did catch the princess’ eye; he stood alone, riding a white horse and spoke of how he was no king but was interested to see if men were worthy of her. One by one the kings tried to bend the bow, all of them failing. Until the the stranger drew the bow, shooting the lion.

Sana was both in shock and admiration of the man who had slain him and was prepared to marry. However before she could so much as think, the stranger climbed back aboard his horse and left a gift of a beautiful bird behind as he rode away, leaving the princess confused. King Belus, not wanting to have his daughter live her life a maid, went to the oracle who he spoke to at Sana’s birth. The oracle proclaimed that the princess would never be married unless she travelled all over the world. Sana knew that one day she would be Queen of Babylon and that a Queen would need legitimate heirs; the fact that she was not fussed to be married was irrelevant.

She began to lose hope that she would ever be wed but it wasn’t until she received a visit from a bird who spoke to her, did she realise the name of the stranger. Amazan and that he was shepherd. The bird also offered to guide her around the world. It was around that time that the King received another messaged from the oracle; “If you do not marry off your daughters, they will marry themselves’. The king rushed to his daughter’s room to find that Sana had left, leaving a note saying that she would one day return.

The Princess rode with her talking bird, deciding that she would rather explore the world than hunt down a man who had left. And explore she did. She travelled from continent to continent, her bird, who spoke, making many of the arrangements for her travels. Sana loved to tell stories about her kingdom and the things that you could see there, wanting people know where she came from since she didn’t look like many the more west she travelled. Along the way the princess had many lovers but she didn’t stay very long with any of them, wanting to fulfil the oracle’s prophecy.

Sana’s last destination was the Island known at Britain just north of France. After she arrived there and stayed for some time, she would have fulfilled the prophecy and be able to return home. If she so desired. So now she was headed to the kingdom known as Camelot, where she heard stories of a man who became king when he pulled a sword from a stone. Perhaps she way even find a potential suitor when she arrived.

Connections:

Cyra: Friend

[memnonofarcadia]

Shepherds of Chicago

The riot was well underway by that point, the peaceful protest line all but abandoned in favor of the violence. It wasn’t like the appeal was all that mysterious. Young, hot-blooded Americans only need an excuse to get out on the street and raise hell, whether it be for worker’s rights or some other cause. This one had been something to do with unions for a major retailer, but the details hardly seemed important once the fighting had started. Who struck first will always be a subject of heated debate, right up until next year’s riot. Either way it had the same effect, that being the complete annihilation of any progress The Movement had hoped to make that day. What cause was it for again? Oh who remembers, it wasn’t what this was about. This was simple revenge. The batons were flying up above people’s heads, the air was thick red with pepper spray, youngsters ran in all directions, some covering their faces some not, blood was spilt, tears were shed, and an alarming number of liquor stores became sold out in a matter of minutes right around the same time. Through the madness a rare moment of tranquility might be acquired when you catch a glimpse of yourself in a police officer’s shield, blood trickling down from the top of your forehead and a smirk of revolutionary pride across your face, right up until that officer in question decides that enough is enough and beats you into a coma. It’s happened a few times, but that’s how it goes. They knew the stakes when they came, that a riot might very well occur. Of course they knew, it happens every year at one time or another. Marching through the streets of Chicago only to get sucked into a street-war with local law enforcement. It’s nearly a tradition. This year in question turned out to be much worse than usual, plagued by infighting from all sides on account of the yuppie college students that had decided to join in on the party. They all had futures, a nice warm bed with a trust fund tucked away neatly under their pillow. They weren’t out bleeding on the streets because they had to be, they just thought it was fun. The true-believers didn’t take too kindly to this, naturally, and once the “party” started they made sure the rich kids knew. Every other EMT carrying a stretcher that had someone on it was wearing a sweater-vest, loafers, a tie, or, worse, a school uniform. Tuition meant stitches, so says the riot. Maybe they won’t join in next year, some say. Maybe they’ll pay someone to do it for them, others quip. Blue blood falls like anyone else’s, but not in Chicago it don’t. Not anymore. So the yuppies went back home or to their dorms, the cops back to their precincts, workers back to their jobs, and the rest… well, let’s talk about “the rest.” Numbers in a public gathering of this kind can swell and fluctuate quite rapidly, but considering the spirit of the activity it isn’t as if any sort of reasoned census can be taken of the participants. Indeed, unless it was for the purposes of provoking more brutality, it simply isn’t worth it. Hence why the trick is to know who you’re with before the riot starts, before the protest even. Somehow or another you’ll always find each other in the chaos, whatever gang of vagabonds you’ve joined for that particular outing. All you need is a cause, an excuse, and the angry young people will come to you. They all have their reasons. However it started it ended in disaster, as previously mentioned, but once the real meat of the action was out of the way the thing to do is to pick yourself up, spit out whatever teeth you lost that day, then go find everyone else. That year in Chicago a rather large percentage of the auxiliary protesters (that is to say the non-workers, non-rich kids of the crowd) were organized in the same circles, that being the bohemian-underground variety of grassroots campaigning. The hippies. Their leader was a woman called Maria, though plenty of decisions were made by committee. They flowed out of the aftermath like dust swept up and away by some invisible broom, quickly, so that they don’t lose their freedom, not more than they had to. Some weren’t so lucky, but their fates are about what you’d expect: a good beating followed by a long night in a cell with six or seven or eight of the meanest people you’ve never met. They would live, just, but the ones that managed to flee would either go back to their respective haunts or go join Maria at her group’s own. It had a semi-open door policy about it, the core members being permanent residents. How did you come to live there? It just sort of happened. You had to know someone, not a friend of a friend but actually know someone on the inside before they’d even consider making room for you, and even then your contributions to the set up were weighed heavily above all else. Plenty of nice folks came through, few were able to give anything back in the long run. Such is life on the street, which Maria understood, hence the policy. After the riots they would have dinner, patch up whoever was there as best they could, and that was it, on to the next one. All told it is a rather queer scene once you’re in there. It’s not the cliché depiction of an urban tribe existing out of view, moreso a bunker-esque arrangement is how it felt. There were watchmen for the door, guards outside it, and layers of either up till you reached the surface: the street. The exact location is not important, and even if there were detailed instructions laminated and sent to your inbox there is little doubt amongst those in the know that you wouldn’t find it anyway. It is genuinely underground, deep below the asphalt in a place even the law doesn’t reach. Often. Raids were common when they started, Maria will wearily tell anyone who asks, but once the cops figured out there really weren’t any drugs down there they left it alone. “There are, of course. I mean we have to keep the lights on with something,” she will say as she strolls through her weed-garden. “But that doesn’t mean it’s a free-for-all down here. There are rules,” Quite. Rules that preclude judgement and instead encourage the arts, the incorporeal. There wasn’t much besides the furniture and the food down there, but they kept it clean. Girls and boys with guitars, beads, jewelry, painting… things seemed simpler down there, if a bit distant. But how long can it last? It’s been around for years at this point, but that’s neither here nor there. All it would take is one bad night, Maria understood, for it all to go up in flames, smoke billowing out of the sewer drains in the Windy City for weeks to come afterward. But that’s fantasy, at least for now. More pressing matters were at hand, like how to get the next day’s meal, are there enough beds, enough room, the lights and the water, the heat, etc. Closer to a war than a struggle. Closer to a bunker than a hideout. Closer to heaven than hell. Right? Maria herself is on several lists. You don’t become the leader of a literal underground and avoid it. She is both respected and feared by all who follow her, if for no other reason than if she turns on them then they really will have nowhere left to go. Her’s is the last stop before total destitution, or so she would have you believe. Whether or not it’s true she is in control, pushing up the numbers in every protest she deems worthy of her resources. She is, to put it lightly, a dangerous woman. “But very hospitable,” she says. The exit is the same as where you come in, a secret within a secret, like all the best ones are. “Don’t come back for a while,” she says without even a trace of hostility. It’s not personal, it’s for the good of everyone. The surface is a strange place to walk around once you’ve seen the other side, too. There’s a nagging feeling after the initial exposure that no one upstairs has any idea what the hell’s going on, both below and above them. Every day there are cars and meals being thrown around the city, randomness the principle guiding factor, and that’s life. At least, until you start checking sewer drains as you walk past for a pair of watchful eyes, see homeless people running down alleys and jumping down manholes, watch rich kids in riots… …and witness a paradise you’ll never know again.

[jaidenervy153-blog]

How Much Should You Be Spending On Pet Friendly Turf Care?

Dog-Pleasant Lawn Treatment Tips

Howdy, I’m Boomer. I actually have just the information for dog-helpful lawn care for you. I’m a 7-year-older German Shepherd, and so i really like taking part in within the backyardthat my human has provided for me. They set up the ideal dog-helpful yard in my opinion (although We have noticed them say it’s because it will likely be a great “return on investment”, whatever that means.) Maybe you want to give your pet dog a yard like my own – one where both furry close friends in addition to their proprietors could be happy jointly.

pet friendly yard

Why pet dogs need to have a pet-pleasant yard There are several really good good reasons you should look at a dog-warm and friendly yard with pet safe lawn like mine. Give attention to building a lawn that is certainly useful for yourself, but make sure you keep in mind to think about everything we puppies need to have. Certain, your backyard can look wonderful, way too. It is smart to make sure our backyard is safe in order that us puppies do not manage away or some other dogs do not move in uninvited. That’s whenever we have the most secure.

When the backyard isn’t put in place properly for all of us canines, we feel like escaping and working away from often and you also do not want that. There are many explanations why we get and try out. Some of the reasons might be bad animal-warm and friendly grass treatment.

First of all, we obtain bored to tears, precisely like you often do, especially when our company is left on your own for a long time of time. Often some thing will capture our eye, like another puppy or even a foolish aged pet cat. The urge is simply also wonderful and away from we go. Whee! But this can be when we go into problems and even get ourselves in dangerous scenarios.

Canines have lots of power. I am aware I really do. We require lots of space to work and perform, getting rid of power and as a method for people like us to calm down. With out a fun, dog-helpful garden, we may just get loose and go on a training manage.

We may also have frightened. Awfulstrangers and weather conditions, stunning disturbances, as well as other animals really can frighten us occasionally, and that’s another time we may think that running away from.

I adore companionship. Going to with all the other dogs is a great time! Specifically those who haven’t been spayed or neutered. See, I said I become bored.

In the instances I have got escaped, I have observed the animal manage pickup truck driving a vehicle across the local community. Seem, doggy prison isn’t entertaining, in order a pet dog owner, you must really arrange for maintaining us delighted and secure – within his personal yard.

Approaches to continue to keep us from escaping Fences aren’t terrible. It can help me really feel secure and included. There are a variety of fencing choices for animal-helpful lawn attention. Bear in mind your dog’s dog breed and actions, and strategy accordingly. This should help you decide which type of fencing to install.

pet friendly backyard

I love to burrow – all pet dogs do. It is one thing we enjoy the most. Occasionally I look and try my way out. I simply burrow under the fencing. Attempt to prevent your pet from digging. Family pet-helpful garden treatment could incorporate poultry wire, big rocks, and flower mattresses to maintain me from digging an excessive amount of.

I understand some dogs like a very good obstacle. Who realized there was a lot of doggie Houdini’s? We press and squeeze, so we finally can easily go through a fence and acquire out. So keep your fencing in very good maintenance, otherwise we may just get occupied excavating and contracting.

I’m a pet dog, and therefore means I can jump. I do not wish to talk, but I’m regarded as a really accomplished get away artist. Pet helpful attention garden tip – add a smooth soil surface so that your dog can’t have the jogging traction he needs to leap above his fence.

You realize that I’m pretty smart presently. Most pet dogs are. We are going to strive to start a front door or unlatch a door. You should have a doggie-proof latch. It inhibits us from launching the latch and wandering right out.

Hello, do you want me to give you some dog-warm and friendly backyard concepts? Totally free, except if you will have a bone useful. BOL (woofing out loud).

Creative ideas for any pet-pleasant yard Please, make sure you setup a normal water station. We need a spot where by we are able to havefresh and clear, drinking water offered – particularly after it is a very hot, sun-drenched day time. Doing this, we won’t get dehydrated. We have a backyard water fountain at my house. It’s attractive to my people and an excellent way to me to ingest.

Don’t allow the family pet overheat. It can be downright dangerous to get still left inside the popular direct sun light for days on end. But we like tone. Make certain your pet has lots of color and protection. Assist us remain secure outside the house. Here, I’ll give you some straightforward ideas for developing a wonderful yard for dogs.

Incidentally, I love to perform within the sprinkler. H2o your grass often and let me cool off.

Add more bushes and shrubs. They offer good amazing color. Along with your garden will be lawn care companies omaha nebraska wonderful.

Some plants are toxic and annoyed my stomach. Occasionally I can’t help I and myself consume them anyway. I Then get really sick and tired. That is a veterinary costs you do not want to shell out, believe me. So steer clear of plant life likeholly and aloe, and lilies. And get your dog’s veterinarian prior to starting any new landscape designs tasks inside the places that we engage in and work to make sure you get the best family pet-friendly garden.

pet proofing your yard

Puppy homes are way awesome. You will find hundreds of variations to pick from with hundreds of possibilities that can be provided. You can even have your doggie residence custom made. They are perfect throughout every season. They provide us shade from the protection and summer time from your cool, wind flow, and snowfall in the winter.

Produce a perform area for all of us to discover and run. Children like exploring, so just why wouldn’t your pet dog? Produce a route for people like us to stroll, prowl, walk and patrol. Here are a few much more tips for offering your best friend a great, animal-helpful yard room:

Create a play program. An obstacle study course built for dogs is a great idea. Include some something and tunnels to jump above, and that we are usually in doggie paradise. Puppy courses is able to keep us give and amused us together with the exercise we must have.

Take into account providing your dog a concealing or sitting down area all his. We love to review our environment. We also need a little me-time, where we are able to simply be by itself. It’s ideal for anxious or jittery puppies who just want to cover for a while.

A dig pit is perfect for pet dogs who like to drill down and scuff and assert their own “designated location.” You already know what’s fun? Cover my playthings inside the look pit, and I’ll keep busy for many hours. And it also keeps me from excavating in other places.

Design and style and make a comfy region for jogging. We pet dogs can damage our ft . whenever we walk on popular pavement or rocky terrain. Use supplies which can be easy for pet dogs simply to walk on. It may also help us from receiving way too very hot whilst in the sunshine.

It will require plenty of maintenance and job, despite the fact that actual grass isnice confident. Nonetheless, lawn also appeals to me. It’s my character to drill down holes and I’ll practice it where I can. Man-made turf is to get very popular, so we puppies adore it. Just be sure it won’t get also popular and burn our little paws.

Give your puppy an observation windowpane. I positive really like my own. It’s excellent for when I am feeling fascinated and want I could see exactly what is on the other side of my fencing. And if I will see, I don’t feel the need to escape. Occur, permit your pet begin to see the neighborhood. Installing a window will keep us entertained.

Should you engage a lawn care services? Of course! Work with a very good grass company to bridegroom and fertilize your garden naturally. For your personal dog, search chemical substance-free yard proper care near me. I detest actively playing in toxic grass or moving around with grub and ticks worms. Yuck! Excellent yard service will place their buyers initial! Summit Turf Professional services, garden attention specialists in Lee’s Summit, provide providers for optimum puppy risk-free lawn, marijuana management, and pest control all through the year! They deal with each buyer according to their yards certain requires, As an example, having an full of energy, adoring puppy as i am!

Pick a grass care business containing done their research on all the different animal safe lawn care products. Living as being a pet is merely as well active to complete analysis on pet safe lawn fertilizer, this is why Summit Turf Services does the investigation for yourself! Summit Turf Services has spent above 8 many years providing effective and safe garden treatment services. They normally use equipment that may be source of information pleasant and merchandise that are ideal for all loved ones – including their four-legged closest friend.

pet helpful garden

Devotion for the setting is indeed vital that you me since it is the best place to be! (Besides cuddled up to my people.) A garden proper care business needs to have just as much desire for the setting and products that are perfect for the well-getting of my human beings and I.

I adore men and women. Heck, I’m a dog, and that we adore you. We especially like shelling out time together with you. Let us perform collectively and also have as exciting as we can. I enjoy play frisbee, fetch it, and return it to you. I love everyday workout and selecting hikes. Then why not we consider an speed class together? Or possibly an obedience instruction class. That might be entertaining.

A good and entertaining garden is not only just the thing for canines, but they can be very useful for people who own dogs. We keepharmless and cost-free, and delighted once you retain the services of dog-warm and friendly yard proper care professional services. And you are showing us that people will be the top priority.

[ernmark]

Some more of the Human!Arum plotline. About half as long as I intended it to be, because of reasons. At least I’ve got the next section thoroughly outlined.

And because I forgot when I posted this-- a lot of what happens is largely a response to this pic by @disasterscenario

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

Damien wakes just before dawn to the sounds of morning birds and buzzing insects and a faint snoring coming from the cot beside his. The air is perfumed by a hundred herbs and spices drying from the ceiling– beautifully aromatic on its own merit, and all the more so because it reminds him so much of Rilla. She’s in the next room, mumbling nonsense in her sleep– from the sound of it, she’s still poring over the books in her dreams; last night he had to pry her off them and shepherd her into bed when she was too tired to see straight. Lord Arum is closer, his hair endearingly disheveled, one leg thrown over the side of the bed.

He climbs out of bed, careful not to make a sound that might wake Lord Arum.

He’s always loved the earliest part of morning, when all is quiet and the world is still half caught in a dream. There’s a peace in this hour that he can find at no other time of day– and here, so far away from the bustle at the heart of the Citadel and the other knights rising for their duties, so close to two people he holds so dear, it seems particularly holy.

He would keep this moment forever if he could.

He secures the perimeter, checking and then double checking for signs of intruders, human or otherwise, but the cottage is undisturbed. He draws buckets of cold, fresh water from the well and leaves them where Rilla will find them, though he takes enough to wash up.

He could wash the dishes or chop the firewood out back into something more manageable, but either one would risk waking the other sleepers, and he would rather let them rest.

There isn’t much to do after that. This is officially guard duty, after all, inasmuch as Rilla will allow him to guard her, and that always entails a certain amount of standing around and waiting. All he really can do is remain alert and prepared to fend off any attacks that might come their way, and to that end, he finds a clear patch of ground beside the garden to practice his forms.

It occurs to him that he doesn’t have a change of clothes– or rather, that he does, but they’re meant for Lord Arum’s use– and that any sweat he works up will likely linger in the fabric once the day’s humidity sets in. Shrugging, he takes off his shirt and sets it aside. After all, nobody else is awake to see him.

The martial forms are meant to loosen his muscle and reinforce his technique in preparation for combat, but he’s drilled them so often that he could trace the steps in his sleep. The motions are slow and flowing, with a rhythm to them like the beat of waves on the shore. He’s so caught up in the ritual of it all that he almost doesn’t hear the sound of bare feet approaching the garden.

When he looks up, Lord Arum is watching him with interest. His oversized garment has given up on staying in place; now it’s hanging off one shoulder, leaving quite a bit of his chest bare.

Damien freezes, suddenly self-conscious. He must look ridiculous, pacing around half naked like this.

“By all means,” Lord Arum says. “Don’t stop on my account.”

Damien clears his throat. “I hope I didn’t wake you.” He should… retrieve his shirt. Yes. That would be best. Even though that would take him even closer to his audience.

He can feel Lord Arum’s eyes on him, taking in every detail.

“You have more scars than I expected,” he observes.

“Oh. Well. Yes.” Damien fights another surge of self-consciousness.  “That is the lot of a knight.”

“And every one marks a victory.” Lord Arum steps forward, and suddenly he’s in Damien’s space. He barely has to reach out to touch the newest scar on Damien’s arm, the one that's still fresh from the duel on Saint Damien’s night. “All except this one.”

Damien’s heart skips a beat, and then several. He should probably stop this– wash up or put a shirt on or remove himself from this conversation– but he seems to have forgotten how to talk. Lord Arum is so very, very close.

“I gave you this scar,” he murmurs, articulating the words an odd significance, like ritual. Like prayer. “I tasted your blood. I took you inside me. I have a claim on you, honeysuckle, by the most ancient laws of my kind.”

This isn’t like before, when Damien could shroud himself with the strictures of duty. He’s vulnerable here, exposed, and it frightens him a little. Surely that’s why he’s so dizzy. Surely that’s why his heart is pounding.

“I–” His mouth is dry. He would speak his heart if he knew how to put it into words. “I brought you clothes.”

It’s hardly his most graceful exit.

He tries to take the opportunity to compose himself, but his face is still burning by the time he returns.

“Here,” he says, pushing a shirt and trousers into Lord Arum’s hands. “That should fit a little more comfortably.”

Lord Arum holds it up, examining it with a careful eye– and then a careful nose. “It smells like you.”

Damien swallows. “Yes. Well. They’re my clothes.” Is that bad? Should he have washed his laundry more carefully?

But Lord Arum presses his face into the fabric again, inhaling deeply, and the sight of it puts even more indecent thoughts into Damien’s head, and he needs to stop that immediately.

“I should give you--” He swallows. “Some privacy.” That is not the way that sentence wants to end, despite his best efforts. “To change. I’ll-- I’ll just be checking the perimeter, shall I?” 

He’s halfway through his circuit around the cottage before he remembers how to breathe properly.

“Saint Damien,” he whispers under his breath, halfway between prayer and blasphemy. “Does he have any idea-- no, of course not. He’s just... unaccustomed to... to all of this. Some difference in-- in custom, or understanding, or--”

I tasted your blood. I took you inside me.

And if Damien hadn’t left when he did, he suspects he would have returned the gesture. The thought horrifies him-- and worse, he can’t decide whether he’s more upset for having left or for wanting to stay.

He stops by a well, hauling up a bucket of cold fresh water just so he can splash it in his face. It’s almost shocking against his still-flushed skin, but it helps bring him back down to reality.

Lord Arum has been transformed against his will, and so has the Queen. Getting flustered and distracted won’t help either of them.

Renewed in his determination, he turns to go back to the cottage-- and immediately his hand flies to his bow. Footsteps are approaching.

“Who goes there?” he demands.

“Sir Damien?” A man in armor steps around a copse of trees and into plain sight, his armor clattering as he walks. “Fancy seeing you here. I thought you were meant to be on guard duty.”

“Sir Caleb,” he returns carefully.

“You don’t have to be all tense,” Sir Caleb says. “I’m here on the Queen’s orders. I’m to relieve you of duty.”

“That won’t be necessary.” The words spill out too fast to sound natural. “I’ve got this under control. I’m sure your energy would be better spent elsewhere.”

Sir Caleb laughs, giving him a friendly slap on the back. “No need to be so protective, Sir Damien. I remember what your fiance did to the last man who tried to flirt with her uninvited. I’d rather skip the nightmares, if it’s all the same to you. I’ll keep my guarding to the outdoors, where it’s safe.”

“Thank you, Sir Caleb,” Damien says. “That does put my mind at ease.” He clears his throat. “I’ll inform her you’ll be here.”

“If you must, but you should hurry. The Queen instructed that you were to report to her immediately.”

[cilyhairstylist]

😭😍😱 episode 1 - SNOW GIRL | SECRETs OF A RESPECTABLE TOWN | ORIGINAL YOUBOOKY|

WARNING: this is a story about domestic violence, secrets, incest and crazy love. Romantic and disturbing. It's a reading for adult and guys from sixteen years old.

https://booky-italia.blogspot.it/

A story written by Ryan Shepherd

SNOW GIRL

Secrets of a respectable town

Preface:  Your start with your end.

“Close your eyes, my friend, and breathe very deeply. Imagine a different world from these days, so clouded by the cynical human grudge. Imagine being free and being able to fly across the pure simplicity of words and feelings. Imagine living passionately each moment of our survival. When you'll open your eyes again, promise not to forget the place where your mind has brought you... because if you did, it would mean you're not able to dream any more. And you know, dreaming is the most beautiful and tangible thing we can do.”

In that freezing winter morning, I understood deep-down that I had lost you forever. I remember snow dancing silently around you,

while falling gently. I remember everything being slowly covered by a pure and icy-cold white. Blurry and far images fluctuating in my mind as solitary ships in an icy-cold morning. It's been so many years since that day; maybe that's the reason why I can't remember it completely. I feel it vanishing little by little; I feel it dissolving just like the snow around you. You were so beautiful, so lively... And then him, the one who carried you away from your loved ones, away from me. I still miss you and I still wonder where are you now. If I ever knew it, I swear I'd run so fast that I'd tear apart violently the winds: I still miss your bright smile, your hands, the pieces of sky which replace your eyes. If only I hadn't hurt you so bad... I remember you were shattered, when you ran away from my house. I was the only one you ever trusted and I betrayed you, turning myself into a pathetic beast. You slammed the door impetuously, while I was sitting on the bed, staring desperately into space. In that moment, I couldn't realize that you were moving your latest steps on the snowy path away from my house. When I opted for running after you and apologizing, it was already too late.

That's it: the gentle dance of the snow. There it was, the pleasant dye which was covering everything with white. While your footsteps were covered and deleted little by little, you got in front of the one you really loved unconditionally, the only one for whom you could ever feel something of pure and authentic. Long since he needed just a gaze to succeed in enchanting you. You said you liked the sinister air you could breathe only around him and his stunning, inexpressive, blue eyes. I've loved you so much that I spent each moment of my existence bleeding for you, although I knew I could never have you. Idyllic love is a double-edged weapon: it falsifies reality, it compromises souls, it sets fire to your bowels with suffering feelings. I remember your disappointed look getting relieved when you met the man you loved. Not even all the pain I had caused you could discourage the love you felt for him. Then, there I stood, hidden in secret, while observing you and drowning in my grim love. The wind was interrupting your talk; I could only hear a few words he said: «Come with me. Leave any white thing is chasing

us... And love me forever» Come with me... You hinted me at his idea, before running away from me. You were running out of breath because of a stroke you did, when you told me he asked you to go away from our village with him. He even proposed to you. If only you had managed to keep yourself from telling me, from rejoicing... But our paths catastrophically interlaced, so that my dark and insane side overwhelmed you and just like a wave of incandescent lava it burned all the love you could feel for me, leaving you empty and lonely. If only I hadn't betrayed you, If only I hadn't hurt you so bad, you would have been still here. Your existence moved out of our snowy heaven for ever, and all you left me is a bitter awareness. Now, lying on this bare hospital bed, five years later your leaving, I recall all the beautiful things I've done in my life. Obviously, I still recall the moments we spent together, you and your charming ability to overwhelm anyone beside you. I get lost in the dark and abstract oblivion created by my closed eyes. I get far from reality, recalling our first meeting and each moment of our enchanted and miserable story. We were happy,

until I hadn't soiled in vermilion the deepest part of my frail and anxious soul for you.

Carry me away with you

September 20th, 2005

Time flows gently and silently over my beloved village, riding upon the cold wind in this Tuesday morning of September. Lightdark. That's the village's name. Legend has it a foreign bishop gave the town this name, during the darkest Middle Ages. Inhabitants of Lightdark, indeed, are characterized by this perpetual interior struggle between darkness and light: often these two sides of men blend so as to create a colourful shades of gray. Whether someone lives in Lightdark or not, inside of each of us there's not just good or evil, light or darkness: they both coexist in an odd balance inside everyone. The village where I live stands on a hill enclosed by thick forests. It faces mighty and huge mountains which hostilely and arrogantly obstruct the rosy dusk. Therefore, Lightdark is a never-never land: it actually exists, but nobody can see it; not even maps  show it. Also, this is the reason why many truck drivers get continually lost when they have to carry here necessaries. We don't regret the solitude, which characterizes our life in this village, encircled by majestic and imposing firs: thanks to this each of us can experience a natural life-style. People don't need anything more than what this place offers to its inhabitants, who can dream a different existence every time they want to.

The alarm rings in a sudden haste, waking me up from a long and full of content images night. I rub my sleepy eyes, then I turn to watch the clock: it's 8.30 am. so I close my eyes again just for a few moments, before opening them back soon after. I stare at the boards supporting the ceiling. It's just the beginning of a new high-school day. It would have been a day in the life, if I hadn't been turning 20 years old. Just now I'm able to realize how time is passing by so quickly. I'm getting older every day, without realizing it properly and, what's more, soon I'm becoming an adult. Today I'm leaving behind my teen-years, turning twenty...

I'd like to rest a little more in bed, letting myself go through these apparently rambling thoughts, but as soon as I hear my mom's voice – as respectable as an opera singer – I decide it's really time to get out of my bed, covered with cobalt blue. I sit on my bed, placing my feet on the bright and shiny hardwood floor, while looking for my soft and yellow slippers. After wearing them and stretching my back, I go to the cheerful kitchen downstairs, where I find my little brother sitting down on his favourite chair, as always, while eating star-shaped cocoa cookies with milk and egg yolk. My mother says it's an energizing and helpful mixture to get through the cold weather. Unluckily, cold winter is coming up again. Lightdark is covered with snow for most part of the year. While summer is leaving and is making room for the cold autumn, pure white clouds bringing snow will cover again this village and I'll cheer up thanks to their usual work. That's true: I adore everything around me. I'm similar to an old tree which got rooted in his birthplace.

I briefly look out of the streamed up window and I notice old houses' roofs and green gardens

covered by drew points, under the bright grey sky. «Happy birthday, my boy» my mother says, drawing my attention. «You're becoming a man». She nods towards my cup of hot barley coffee. As soon as I'm about to sit down, she kisses my cheek warmly. I smile. «Thanks, mum» I say, then, looking at her. «I just hope to become a sensible man». «My boy, no one ever is» she replies, unexpectedly apprehensive. «Being judicious is something hardly anybody knows what really means. That's why it's hard to become truly sensible. Getting old doesn't mean becoming mature, intelligent or right-thinking. You'll make mistakes, my son, and you'll have to pay for it. Everyone at your age has got through it» I listen to her words which seem to be a little bitter, while drinking my hot barley coffee. «Really? Then, why you and dad seem to be so sensible?» I ask her, with curiosity. She starts cutting the soft home-made bread to prepare my snack for school, while she answers: «Well, maybe we seem to be so right-thinking because we've already made our mistakes...» I hope she's not talking about the fact she got

pregnant of me when she was eighteen. She had to run away from her parents' house, because of her pregnancy. Her parents live in the south of the country and she always describes them as a typical narrow-minded couple. I've never known them and, probably, it's better this way. Thinking about it, my parents didn't have an easy life: they made their mistakes, probably because of their lack of sensibility. Despite this, they found here in Lightdark the needed peacefulness and tranquillity. Snow acted like a cure for their wounded hearts.

My dad fell in love with my mother when he went living in the south of the country, during the years in which he did military service. They had to escape because of her unexpected pregnancy, but once they got here, my dad's parents welcomed them with open arms. They live a few houses down from our home, and I usually spend enough time with both of them: I admire their wisdom and their empathy. I find it really helpful to dialogue with them: they're able to calm my rebelliousness. I finish my barley coffee and put the empty cup on the ovoid table. I look briefly at my little

brother, who's still eating his star-shaped cookies. I smile toward him, stimulated by his tender and amusing face. He's got curly and blonde hair, similar to an arid bush; his eyes are dark brown: he totally looks like daddy, no doubt about it. He's only five years old, but he's quite intelligent for his age: he can perfectly deal with our computer and can perfectly access to everything through passwords. «Hey, Michael» I tell him, while ruffling softly his hair. «Make sure you'll be careful with my computer» He nods, smiling and looking at me. The cookie he's eating now stained his lips with chocolate. I stretch my arms, before going back to my room and getting ready to go to the haughty highschool. It would be nice if today something of unexpected prevented me from studying. Who knows, maybe something or someone will show up – or, at least, I hope so...

By the way, as every single day I take my roving rattletrap to go to Leto's railway station. Leto is a village slightly bigger than Lightdark and to get to school I usually need to get the train there.

I park Mr. Rattletrap, an old Fiat Uno which most of the times breaks up and leaves me on my feet. I lock the car and run into the little station, before discovering that the train is delayed as always. Great. I'll be late at school also today. The same school where I've already failed two times... I can only wait in silence, in front of the empty rail. I start walking back and forth to avoid further freezing. I've learned how to partly defeat cold thanks to the weather of the hill where Lightdark is placed. All of a sudden, I stop and my eyes set on the rails free from the snow as I realize there's something strange wavering around here. My gaze becomes consciously suspicious. I must admit that until now my intuition has always been infallible: indeed, everything around me seems like it's following an intriguing and arcane symphony. Suddenly, wind starts blowing heavily, hitting my face and shaking my long and curly hair. I'm forced to close my eyes because of the violence of the cold wind, but when I open them again that's it: I see you for the first time. You are the one who I'll have learned to love more than myself, thereafter.

You're just arrived to the railway station and you look around confused and insecure. Your bobbed hair, dyed in firecracker red, stands out in the station covered by the white snow. Though we're far enough, I can notice your big blue eyes: both beautiful and lost. You're that sort of new attraction which draws the attention of my soul. I'm sure you had never been here, because otherwise I would have noticed you at first sight. You're one of the most precious darlings I could have ever found, just like a ruby. For a few minutes you keep staying where you are, still, without moving nor narrowing the gap between us. You don't seem to be bothered by the cold, even though you wear just a jeans jacket and summer trousers. Damn, compared to you, I look like a roll, in my scarf, cotton gloves, a sweatshirt and a double-bedded jacket to hold as much heat as possible. And finally, you move, after having been so still for a while: the cold temperature forces you to rub your hands very quickly, while letting mist out of your mouth. Then, all of a sudden you stop and turn, looking at me with a strange frown. No doubt about it: you have something to ask me. You turn the other way, while outside it's snowing

again. You put your hands in your pockets and at last you move towards me, biting your lips delicately. As you get closer, I turn back to you and crack a smile, while looking at you carefully. You look so sweetly frail and insecure; it's clear you're trying to be brave to talk to me. «Excuse me». That's it. I can read the uncertainty in your eyes. «I'm looking for a place... but... well, I don't know how to get there.» Your voice is so delicate and fine, your pure white skin flawless. The blue in your eyes seems to be stolen from a faraway sea. Oh boy, I'm adoring your good features, your high cheekbones. Also, I'm quite pleased you're shorter than me – therefore, at first sight you must be five feet six. «Which place?» I ask, both kindly and firmly self-confident. You look away from me for a moment, because it clearly makes you uncomfortable talking to me. Godness, you look so lovely when you blush. «It's a small village...» you murmur and it's like you don't want to say anything else. «Which village?» I ask, then. «Lightdark, the snowy hill's village» I crack another smile, as I think that this must be

a fate's trick. Then, I look at you, pleased. «What a coincidence: I live just there. I got to Leto because I've to take the train... You know, school» What an idiot! At first, your face suddenly lights up, when you got that I live in Lightdark, but when I went on talking you grow sad, faking a smile and asking with kindness: «Well, do you know how to get there, by chance?» and then, looking around quickly: «I can't see any bus or taxi, you know...» «I'm sorry, but the only bus who gets to Lightdark stops to this station at eleven in the morning» I can see your sorrow because of that news. Despite the roof of the station can protect us from the snow falling down, cold rules the air unperturbedly and stings violently our bodies. You look at your watch. It's nine o'clock and you should wait two ours here, before taking the bus to Lightdark. Then, after biting again your lips, you move back, saying: «Thank you so much for the information, I'll wait till then» While I answer politely and sadly «you're welcome» you turn your back on me and go to the gloomy lounge, sitting on the only one bench and regretting the absence of any radiator. People, who are not used to this, can be upset by

discovering the poverty of godforsaken places. Time goes by, and after thirty minutes I start not feeling my legs any more because of the furious cold. By the time it's too late and the train is not likely to arrive any more: at last, I've found an excuse to play truant. So, I decide to join you in the lounge, saying: «It's cold... Really cold» Maybe, this isn't the best I could say; your eyes are on me, making me feel nervous, therefore I stutter: «You know, it's cold and late, and probably the train is not going to arrive this morning» You crack a smile in silence, before staring into space. «I'm going back home, in Lightdark.» Hearing this, your attention is completely focused on me. I enthusiastically recognize you're wishing I offer you a lift. «But, how are you getting there if there's no public transport?» you ask impatiently. It's clear curiosity has tied up your heart. «I have a car, in the park» «Oh, and... Could you-» «Could I give you a lift? Yeah. Sure. Do you trust me?»

You nod, standing up quickly. All of a sudden, you're in front of me and you look lighted up by happiness. «Yeah. I think I trust you...» you say in the end, making me already cheerful. I nod you to follow me, adding a joyful: «Let's go, then» Meeting you this way is probably the best present Fate could ever give me.

TO BE CONTINUED....

Do you want to buy the book? Click here⛆⛄⛄

[punk-in-docs]

Loving The Handsome Duke of Chatsworth, Chapter 10

TITLE: Loving The Handsome Duke of Chatsworth. 
CHAPTER NO: Chapter Ten SYNOPSIS: Tom Hiddleston AU Love story - Set in the Victorian Era... Circa 1858 to be precise... AUTHOR:@punk-in-docs 
AO3 LINK: http://archiveofourown.org/works/4108306?view_full_work=true ~ Elizabeth’s stomach, heart, spleen, liver, kidney’s, brain, and every other vital organ she possessed, was positively fluttering with nerves. The kind of nerves that make your body feel as if you are constantly twisting and moving, like a herd of bees swarming around a hive. Her body felt rootless, and itinerant. She fiddled nervously with her golden silken gloves at the tips of her fingers. Baring her teeth down on the corner of her lip as she looked into the stuffy overcrowded ballroom ahead of her. It was just Felicity and Mrs Sharpe at her side tonight, Sir Richard had declined most vigorously when it was enquired into his attending the ball. Seeing as he would end up stuffed into a corner with the Mama’s and the Matrons, he insisted that he would stay at home in his study and watch paint dry, for that was marginally more interesting than a night of discussing sordid gossip and the lace trim on gowns. Elizabeth had smiled as he offered the excuse to them all as he waved them off out of the door. Usually, Libby would have wished she could have stayed at home with him. If she had not a date with a handsome Duke to keep on Lady Hartwright’s dancefloor. And a kiss to claim from him in the Hartwright's famed gardens. She had not forgotten that sordid promise, either. Again, as was becoming routine with this week, she was hurried into a long scorching bath, scented liberally until she reeked of her staple honey and lillies fragrance, before being corseted into yet another garment. Although, for the sake of the humid air in the ballroom, that seemed thick enough to touch, she was glad that her gown was draped and flowing, and that it bared her shoulders and neck, and a large portion of her shoulderblades. To make matters worse upon this evening, it would not help being imprisoned in a body crushing silk dress which would be soaked through by nights end due to all the dancing and the general sticky heat the room provided. Elizabeth pressed a tentative hand to the corner of her golden jewelled mask, and then flat to her chest, of which was bared modestly by the draped fabric of her orange silk gown. She could feel her heart beating like a caged animal trapped in her rib cage. Yearning to be set free... Her dress was secured on one shoulder like a toga with a golden buckle holding the drapes of the fabric neatly in place on her creamy pale shoulder. Her gown had taken next to no time to slide on, yet her hair had oddly been the most time consuming trait to her appearance this evening. Nessie had her work cut out as she was titled with the job of twisting the thick red tresses back away from Elizabeths face, leaving it unbound so the long curled length of it nearly reached to her elbows down her back, like an auburn waterfall of lavender scented curls. Pinned back from her ears so it brushed against the skin at the top of her upper back. Her golden mask secured and tied in place over her curled red hair. Araminta had insisted upon the use of golden eye paint to cover her eyelids, and for Libby to darken her brows and rouge her cheeks, so under her mask, her eyes glowed bright blue from the candlelight, and the light caught urgently the shimmering flecks of gold above her lids. Overall, Araminta asserted she looked enchanting. And Libby had smiled. It wouldn’t do her well to know that after she had swept out of the house in her velvet blue cloak, and into the awaiting carriage, Mrs Sharpe then turned to Felicity and remarked with a wry grin: “One Sir Thomas sees all of her bared skin, I daresay the poor gent will perish on the spot.” She winked. Her pale powdered face and hair creasing into a smile underneath her Marie Antoinette mask and appallingly french styled make up. Her lips heart shaped with pink colour, and the beauty spot near her eye twitching as her wrinkled crows feet made it move due to her creasing leer. “Second Ward, remember, Mrs Sharpe…” Felicity growled. Twiddling her staff about in one hand, and her stuffed sheep toy bundled under her other arm. Her brown hair had been secured into tight ringlets, and Mrs Sharpe had helped make the frilly bonnet that sat atop her head. Making her look all the more like Little Bo Peep. After all, that was the only use she served, with a Shepherd’s crook in one hand, and her floppy discloured sheep in the other. But, Araminta vowed that her second youngest looked abominably cute, and, then with a roll of Felicity’s russet eyes - and after Araminata managed to manouevre her wide circa 1700’s hips out of the front door, with Hawkins assistance of prying the lady out with a shoehorn after she got stuck in the doorframe due to her cumbersome hips - they were finally on their way. Now, The Farrow Ladies three, elegantly sauntered slowly into the busy twirl of dancing and chatter that filled the heat packed ballroom. It was positively bursting with colour and magnificent other characters. Already Elizabeth had seen A Cleopatra swan by, a Mediaval Knight, sword, holy robes, helmet and all pass her by. A Mermaid, a Leprechaun had come and gone, two Musketeers, and one Parsnip, of all things.... Clearly there was much variation and imagination in abundance to society this year. They wandered closer to the edge of the dancefloor, seeing more various costumes and colour encircle them as couples swirled about in each other’s arms. One thing that Elizabeth had mentioned she adored, was that the demi masks that covered men and womens eyes alike forced her to really examine who they were. Adding a wonderful sense of ambiguity to the costumes. Of course, there would be no mistaking her for another girl, such pale colouring and fiery coloured curls could be mistaken for none other than 'that pale beautiful flame haired eldest Farrow girl' No.There was to be no hiding in plain sight for her in any ballroom anytime soon. Elizabeth heard Araminta apologise, yet again, as her vastly expansive hips clipped another person as she moved, sending them sailing to the floor. Already two footmen had been swept clean off their feet by the hoops concealed under her powder pink revolutionary style skirts, trimmed with lace and bustling over her corseted body shape. Her hair had also been piled atop her head, one ringlet hanging down at her nape, her usually mousy brown greying hair dusted a silvery white to coincide with her costume. She had dainty buckled shoes on her feet, and the palest tone that Nessie could muster using a palette of facial paints. Which made her lips and rouged cheeks stand out all the more. The choker and diamonds about the elder woman’s neck glittered with fat drops of light and wealth about her. And Elizabeth wagered Araminta would indeed, be up for the guillotine at the end of the evening, if she sent just one more poor soul crashing to the floor as a consequence of her unsafe hips. She didn’t even need to look to her left as she heard the definitve sound of a crumpling body thumping to the floor with an “AAHHACCCKK!” and a polite little whisper from her stepmother of “Oh, I’m so sorry, how terribly clumsy of me!” following not long thereafter to know it had happened - yet again. Felicity’s costume however, was causing no trouble. She wore a petticoated duck egg blue ensemble, with her laced frilly bonnet and lacy white gloves to match, aswell as a cornflower blue bonnet on her ringlety haired head. Her legs clad in white stockings and with dainty little pink ballet shoes on her feet to make her appear all the more like Mary with her Little Lamb. Elizabeth wasn’t entirely sure what her costume was, Bo Peep, or Mary, She could not be sure. But she had a sherpherds crook and a rather saggy discoloured, yet fat, toy sheep stuffed under one of her arms. So, by process of elimination and recognition that led many to assume that she was a sheep herderess of some kind. Elizabeth herself had opted for a more, traditional route. Her costume had been based on one of her favourite Pre-Raphaelite Paintings. ‘Flaming June’ by Frederick Leighton. A stunning piece of artwork which she had spent more than a couple of hours admiring at the National Gallery. That was the reason she had draped her body in a modestly revealing grecian style tangerine silk dress, and left her hair unbound, much of it to match the resting figure in the painting. Mrs Sharpe had not been initially keen on the colour of the silk, fearing it would wash her out, but they had agonised over choices at Madam Francois’s until they found a pleasing shade to make her hair brighter, and her skin and eyes aglow with graceful finesse. She felt it was no scandal that a great portion of her upper hald had been left bare by her dress. In fact, she saw many costume about the room that were of a similar design to her own in terms of baring skin. So in that respect, she was not alone. And no one could accuse her of displaying foul dress at a costume party. Not when there were women swanning around in far less than her. Using the costume invitation as a sordid advantageous excuse to flaunt their figures. Libby felt her costume was plain, elegant and classic. Three things of which she rather liked. She’d leave frippery and fuss to that of the younger debuatantes. Simplicity, she noted, and as far as she was concerned, was the key to all elegance. She watched as Araminata and Felicity curtseyed to Lady Hartwright, thanking her for the invitation. The lady herself dressed in a similar dress to that of Mrs Sharpes own, wide hipped and french style costume. Except their hostesses was a royal blue, and she held a mask on a pole to her face. She expressed her delight at seeing her friends attend, making polite chatter with Felicity and Mrs Sharpe. But Elizabeth’s mind was elsewhere, and consequently, her feet started to move her away from the crowds, to a somewhat less heated and cool corner of the ballroom. It was no hardship for her to drift away from her Sister and her Stepmother. The crowds of costumes easily swallowed her up into a sea of riotous colour. If they enquired as to her dissapearence, she could simply lay – false – claim to the fact that she had gotten seperated from them both to quell any suspicion or anger on her leaving. Her feet were in accordance with her brain and her heart, Which both had ulterior motives for steering her somewhere without much noise or company... She bit her lip as she craned her neck, scanning over the people who swarmed about the room. Her eyes trained to look for a pair of ice chip coloured blue eyes hiding under the shade of a darkened mask, perhaps? Or even the ink black shade of his medium length hair, swept back from his regally divine face that belonged in reputable and polished Art Gallerys, captured in some pedestal of appreciation. Either sculpture or oils. And Elizabeth swore now, If she had been substantially more up to the task of possessing great skill at sculpting or painting with oils, and she knew she could do his beauty justice, then she’d carve or paint the damn thing herself. Because he deserved no such less praises to his handsomeness. So caught up was she in her own reverie to Sir Thomas’s beauty, she did not see the grinning figure, clad in mediaval prince like garb, move out of the fringes of the shadowy ballroom just behind her. Having just finished engaging Miss Lucinda Edgerton, a very demure wallflower, into a dance just to make the girl smile. His mask jumped a centimetre or two up his face as he smiled widely when he caught sight of the woman ahead of him, looking pleadingly across the crowds. Searching – fruitlessly. The sight of her took away all his breath, and damn near all his sense. All he was left with was the inane desire to continue in her direction… She looked like a goddess who had the audacity to grace the mortals here tonight with her divine presence. The silken gown she wore, he wanted to feel under his hands. To test the weight of her remarkable curves under the cloak of the shimmering orange silk which he knew would make her twice as alluring to the touch. Her arms were mostly covered with golden hued satin gloves. But he couldn’t deny that seeing the small patch of her shoulder in nothing but bare skin was shamefully to erotic to be true. Her face, he decided, looked alarmingly pretty with the golden mask enhancing her eyes and setting off her sapphire irises and pale skin. He watched as her little tongue darted out to moisten her lips, before dragging her lower lip between her teeth. He really couldn’t get enough of that sight... But what he hadn’t expected was for the sight of her unbound red hair, and the pale slices of her shoulderblades under her creamy skin to leave him feeling quite so hot and giddy. He wanted to touch her, everywhere, leave no spot of her skin feeling unloved or worshipped. He wanted to kiss her with such ferocity and flame that she begged him to claim her. Because then, he would. He would drag her off to some quiet corner or deserted room, throw her dress above her hips, kiss her senseless, again, and own her. In all the lustful ways in which a man could own a woman. He watched her still as she bobbed and craned her neck looking for him among the throngs of people dancing and conversing. But his smile grew wolfishly wide as he pressed his wide soft hand to the side of her hip, able to feel the scorching heat of her soft skin through the fabric. His fingers molding into her fleshy hip. She gasped and jumped back into his touch. Twisting with a surprised smile to see his blue eyes glowering at her lusftully under the shady brim of his gold and black mask as he grinned like the big bad wolf at her, despite the fact he was dressed as the heroic prince. “Looking for someone in particular my lady?” He leered. ~ So startled was she by his sudden materialisation at her side, that she turned with a gasp, pleasurable shock tingling through her every pore. She became very aware that her cheeks flushed red, but whether that was due to embarrassment at the surprise, or the way his breath rolled so tantalizingly across her ear, she could not decide. “Sir Thomas.” She exhaled, through one of her finest smiles. The kind of smile that stupid young men adored to slobber over the sight of, and the kind that was mentioned, so tirelessly, in all its imbalanced charm and glory, in near every gossip paper of discernable repute in London. But, to him. That smile triggered the deepest of urges to wed her, and continue making her smile that way for the rest of his devoted life to her. It was mad, he knew, but he wanted to keep her smile under lock and key, in secret, so no other but he could admire it. A silly notion perhaps, but his mind cared not one jot about silly protectiveness when it came to her. She could not deny, she beheld - with thoughts that no unmarried maiden of four and twenty should be inclined to – that he looked undoubtedly fine this evening. Even under the dark shadowed brim of his mask, his eyes still managed to twinkle and burn vividly at her like stars in the heavens. His attire helped add to his ever prevailing character of prince like charm. His costume would have looked more in place in the previous century, he had a moss green coat which was swirled with golden leaves and vines stitched to the front of his coat. Under which, he had on a light blue waistcoat, teemed most fetchingly with a darker blue cravat, knotted about his pale neck in an unconventional style. She scanned downwards to see he had slim breeches on his legs, and tall tan leathered boots up his calves. He even had been so good as to his concern for his costumes welfare, that he had a sword strapped to his side. Whether it was real or not, she could not discern. She had no experience with swords. Archery, yes, she was proficient at that. Painting and Drawing, she excelled in, the Pianoforte even, but the art of the sword was not in her repertoire. He had drawn closer to her now, no further than was deemed inappropriate, but close enough so she could see the candlelight dance in his eyes, and make his skin look incredible, were she allowed to touch it, she daren't think how fine his silken skinned jaw would feel traced below her fingers. She wanted nothing more than to damn this propriety, and etiquette, to rip of these infernal gloves and just be herself. Not have to stand straight backed, with the prefect degree of elegance, trying to attempt looking graceful and demure. She wanted to relax. Alas, this Victorian manner would not allow her. Nor would the overstuffed fringes of Lady Hartwright’s packed fit to burst ballroom, either. Judging by the heat and volume of the place… “You look very beautiful, Elizabeth. Words cannot do you justice..” Sir Thomas afforded her the compliment, relaying it as he took her hand and placed a kiss upon the back of the glove. She knew it was a standard compliment that had been paid to her many times by men, But only when he said it in such a way did she truly believe it. He spoke with such subtle intensity that she dare not refuse it’s severity for even a second. His eyes grew warm at her, scorching her belly from the inside out. And the way he smiled made her want to frame it, admire it. For all the years life had left to give her. “Thank you, Sir Thomas. You look very dashing, dare I say, you take the masquerade invitation with vigour indeed.” She beamed back at him as he released her hand, she let her arm float gently back down to her orange chiffon clad side. “May I ask, your sword, it is real?” She asked with a touch of humour. The mirth in her eyes and smile made him realise that he didn’t just love her, he adored her. She wouldn’t just be a wife, to him. She would be a best friend. Able to laugh at unfunny things which they would find rip roaringly hilarious. He chuckled, his hand brushing down to the aforementioned weapon. “Quite real, Miss Farrow. Rest assured.” He offered. “I daresay, you won’t find much chance to use it here in Belgravia, in a ballroom filled to the rafters with such, placid, characters…” She said, the both of them watching in subdued mirth and alarm as an Octopus, all eight limbs accounted for, swaddled by them. Suckers and all on the turquoise blue tentacles. Elizabeth gave the girl under the hideous costume a pitiable kind smile. It was the Pennington’s girl under it, she deduced. Poor Primrose Pennington. Oft remarked by every mama to be ‘too frightfully pale for any colour, and too plump, buttery haired, and rose cheeked to ignore.’ Elizabeth felt a pang of sorrow for the girl. Watching miserably as she struggled along, attempting to keep her tentacles from tripping anyone. – goodness, what a sentence that was to utter… Thomas watched after the girl too. Poor thing, she already looked exerted from carting the damned silly thing about, feelers dragging on the floor like overly long skirts, hanging down from the bulbously shaped dome of a head that concealed her upper body, shoulders, head and all. He made sure to give her his kindest smile and try not to look too pitiful for her when she was turned his way, seeing that she caught it, and her cheeks flushed into a most fierce shade of pink. They both gave each other wry smiles after she tottered by, swallowed up into the crowds as easily as if someone was chucking the octopus back into the ocean where it belonged. “I suddenly feel very slighted as to the efforts of my own garment…” Elizabeth offered, placing a gloved hand to her partially bared chest. “All I can exclaim is thank goodness you are of an age, and a sufficiently stubborn tongue, to not allow Mrs Sharpe to dress you in such a manner…” He remarked. “Mrs Sharpe wouldn’t be that cruel.” Elizabeth wondered aloud, grimacing with a smile. Half praying that her hopes weren’t wrong. “I don’t think, anyway.” “Secretly now thankful you made it out of this house this evening sans four extra limbs?” Sir Thomas leaned close, asking her with a smile. She laughed. “A truer sentence has never been spoken.” She granted him. “Nor, I daresay, a more wildly inconceivable one..” She added. He laughed at that. “How does your Family fare, Elizabeth? I only pray for your sister that Mrs Sharpe doesn’t have her wandering about in some similar ridiculous garb..” He enquired kindly, like a true gentleman. “They fare perfectly fine, thank you sir, My Father cares very little for balls, I grant you. But Mrs Sharpe and Felicity are amongst this hectic crowd somewhere..” She craned her neck, seeing if she could spot either one of the two other Farrow ladies. “… Should I be talking to you without a chaperone present?” He wondered idly. Voice turning deep and desirous. Elizabeth turned back to him, wetting her lips before she answered. “Seeing as my chaperone left us unattended together for several minutes, alone, in the same room, I dare say she shan’t mind..” she spoke honestly. “Do you mind, Miss Farrow?” He dared ask. She beamed. “I care not one smidgeon for it.” She elucidated. Referring to the manner and rules that they should not have been ignoring as a single man, and a single lady. “That, I am too glad to hear.” He rasped, she became enchanted by the sight of his eyes under his dark black and gold mask. He loved how some of hers concealed her reddening cheeks. It was at this point that the crowd ahead of them seemed to bubble into activity like a witches cauldron. Many people parted, some pushing back to the fringes of the ballroom where they stood conversing. All in all, it simulated that the first dance was about to take place. “May I have this dance, Miss Farrow?” He asked, sweeping in front of her, and holding out his hand. Seeing that the room around them had fallen into a respectable hush. She swallowed, feeling hot and nervous. Her heart pounding a million times a minute, knowing that a few pairs of eyes were sticking to her, judging her, and she suddenly had an overwhelming sense of shyness settle in her gut. But she would not want to dismiss dancing with him for all she held dear in the world. She smiled, looking down to his outstretched hand as she took it. Sliding her silk covered hand into his grasp. He smiled as she did, walking slowly with her out into the dance floor that was scarcely inhabited as of yet. Only three other couples twirled about inside the large gathered circle of costumes. Elizabeth could see that Sophie Richworth glared at her, from her spot, stood still with her nasty gaggle of friends in the debutante’s corner. Making a most vicious scowl at her indeed. But Elizabeth, did not care. Sir Thomas could see she was nervous. He had dragged her into, undoubtedly, the centre of attention, in the middle of the deserted ballroom for the waltz. He could see more than a few hundred pairs of eyes were glued to them both. It didn’t bother him one bit. He was used to the attention. She. Evidently. Was not as such. But, as always. He didn't care. Especially not when he was looking at the magnificent creature in front of him. She looked downwards as he positioned himself, one hand at her waist, the other clinging to her hand, bracing it high for their dance. Hers went to his shoulder, clasping his hand back with equal keen-ness. Yet still she looked a touch pale, unnerved by all the people that were watching and dissecting them. “Elizabeth..” He whispered, seeing that she peered up at him from under her golden mask, like a shy, demure little creature emerging at last from it’s shell. She looked up to see his mystifyingly handsome face stare down at her lovingly, stretched above her looking powerful, looking like he would sell his heart to the devil to protect her. “Pretend they are not there. Pay them no heed. All that matters now, here, is you and I.” He offered her, gently. Voice still a whisper. She smiled lightly. Allowing him to lead as they started to dance. Looking deeply into each other eyes as they swayed about with one another to the 2/4 timed step beat. Both their bodies following the arc of the dance that he graciously swept her up in. And suddenly, Elizabeth found that she could do what he had asked. She could forget that everyone was there. Because she was in his arms. That was it. It was that simple fact. Watching him lead, twirling them about the room. Encased firmly in his wonderful arms. And she could suddenly not fathom a flying fig for all the Mama’s, girls, and gentlemen that were watching them so intently. She smiled, and for once, she let herself not care. ~ Minutes earlier ~ “Heavens? where did she slip away too, and so fast?” Mrs Sharpe exclaimed, turning around from thanking Lady Hartwright, to subsequently find that Libby, as her back had been turned, had taken the opportunity to slink away from her and Felicity. “She went that way, Mrs Sharpe..” Felicity nodded her head, inclining it in a north-westerly direction. Being jostled by the heavy activity of many people as they passed them by. Twice now her foot had been trodden on, she was only wearing thin silk slippers, after all. And both the women who had stepped on her had evidently not been light. She needed thicker shoes, and she was starting to get very agitated with her costume. Her bonnet strings kept on coming loose, sliding out from under her chin, meaning that her bonnet kept threatening to slide off her head. And, the cherry on top of the cake, was that she was bound to take someone's eyes out soon with her crook. Three gentlemen had been on the receiving end of the thing being dangerously swung about at eye level as Felicity was bumped from side to side in the packed crowds. Araminta followed her youngest's inclined head, but she saw remarkably little as a consequence. The trouble with masquerade balls, was that they required such flamboyant head dress and attire. Mrs Sharpe caught no sight of her eldest's red tresses, or orange dress. No, all she could see across the sea of people, were the backs of some unfamiliar heads, outlandishly wide hats furnished with feathers that drifted in the hot air. Mrs Sharpe harrumphed. “Damn and blast, the silly gel, wandering off ahead of us.” Araminta chided grumpily to no one in particular. Her hand reaching up to touch the back of her powdered white hair, ensuring it stayed in place. Felicity rolled her eyes. Again. She seemed to be doing that rather a lot this evening. And mostly at her stepmother too. “Mrs Sharpe, I don’t think she can be truly blamed. I’m having enough trouble standing by your side as it is..” Felicity pointed out, coming to her sister’s defence. And then, almost as if to prove her point, a young couple brushed past them. Jostling Felicity into stumbling on her own two feet at the unexpected contact, making her bonnet slide forwards over her eyes once again. She scowled at the disappearing people, who were just courteous enough to sweep an apology over their shoulders. Felicity was tempted to stick her tongue out at them. Or give their toes a damn good bashing assault with her crook. But as it was they had already scampered far away to the other side of the ballroom. And there was every chance that her rude gesture of tongue poking could be seen by entirely the wrong audience. “Oh, well. I shan’t exert my nerves to the hassle of wondering where she is, a second longer…” She dismissed, sniffing daintily. Holding her chin aloft in the air, pointing her nose up, and looking alarmingly, Felicity thought, like the autocratic wealthy French ruler that she was dressed as. The youngest Miss Farrow half expected a cry any minute now, of ‘Let them eat cake…’ to descend from her stepmother’s mouth. “Good for you, Mrs Sharpe.” Felicity smiled through a laugh, appeasing her stepmother’s frolicsome wishes. She shook her head, looking about the crowds of the ballroom ahead of her, own attention rapidly lost in the sea of costumes ahead. And, good lord, was that an octopus she could see? Yes it was. It was an octopus. And it was being morosely dragged around with that plump Pennington girl under it. Whom, probably had no choice but having had the costume forced upon her by some strict Mama. Felicity suddenly felt not so foolish in her ridiculous get up. Even if she did have a sheep toy lolloped at her feet like some unfortunate sleeping pet, and she looked about three years of age in her silly over-frilled petticoat and bonnet. “Oh, is that Elizabeth?” Mrs Sharpe suddenly careened, lurching forwards like an animal set to pounce. Having seen a flash of a tangerine costume nestled amongst the cumbersome crowds. But as she reeled forwards, Felicity feared she had quite forgotten where she was, and how hefty her oversized hips were, as two unfortunate souls who stood beside them with refreshments of small pitchers of lemonade, were knocked ungraciously to the floors as a result of Mrs Sharpe’s costume. She stepped over the crumpled people with a apologetic smile, and a small giggled mumble of ‘Oh, I am so terribly sorry, so clumsy of me, I’m usually so much more agile, you know..’ before she crossed to stand behind her youngest. Felicity strained on her tiptoes, peering to try and see if it was her sister. “No. That’s Prudence Wyndam. She came as a Carrot.” Felicity added with a dry humoured smile. The girls sunset coloured costume was of a similar hue to Elizabeth’s. The Wyndam girl in question waddled about the dance floor, restricted by the close binding of her orange clad legs to form the reverse steepled shape of the vegetable, and she even had a green hat with prominent tassels on her head to complete the ‘carrot – top 'ensemble. “Good Grief..” Mrs Sharpe exclaimed in extreme perplexity, rolling her eyes, second to Lady Bashford dressing her two twin daughter’s as a pantomime horse – which had trod on her toes earlier, and sent one ill-fated gentleman sailing headfirst into the middle of the lemonade punch bowl table - Lady Wyndam deciding that a ‘Carrot’ was adequate costume for her daughter, came close to stealing the biscuit of whom was the worst willed London Mama in attendance here tonight. It was then that the band played the first few opening notes up from the balcony to signal that the waltz was about to take place. The crowd peeled back over the room. It was famously known that the waltz, the first dance, was one of the more romantic ones to which a girl should be paired to a very amiable suitor, for the first dance set the tone for the rest of a debutantes evening. No gentleman who knew what he was about, stepped out to waltz with a young lady if he didn’t intend to marry her. As a consequence of this, the wallflower girls took up their positions on the outskirts of the ballroom, the popular and nastier girls crowded about to mock those who would not dance. And a few interested Mama’s and even more silly gentleman formed the circle of people who were ringed about those who expressed their desire to dance with a partner openly for the first. Felicity endeavoured her body onto tip toes again, to see that the recently wedded Duke and Duchess of Whitmore took to the floor, looking as in love, and love sick as if they were ever the only two fools with hearts for one another. The outlandishly dark haired, but boring but gentle Sir Gideon Chittenden stood up with one Miss Flora Evangeline Gooding. A slight girl, a little shy and colourless, perhaps, but whom had rather a lovely voice. They had declared to be quite in love, and courting for several months now. And Felicity’s mouth just about hung to the ballroom floor when she saw who the third couple was… “Mama!” Felicity exclaimed in the harshest of unquiet and hissing whispers. Mrs Sharpe turned to look immediately, because when Felicity extended the title, that Araminta could never bare out of respect for Verina Farrow, then she knew nothing than to go directly to her youngest’s outburst. “What is it, my dove?” Araminta asked, whispering back in a susurrate tone over the music, looking down seeing if there were any trodden toes or broken bones to her to contend with. She sounded most shocked... “Elizabeth’s dancing. With the Duke of Chatsworth..” Felicity gaped. Mrs Sharpe moved with remarkable speed for a woman of her age, size, and thoroughly inconvenient hips. Coming behind Felicity to see that indeed, she was telling no tall tale. For there, right in front of their eyes, not ten metres away, stood the tall and dashing Sir Thomas Kenworthy, in all his princely attire, leading the beautiful sight of her eldest flame haired daughter out onto the dance floor, whispering something soft to her as he guided them into position to dance. Mrs Sharpe watched in thorough enrapturement as she could see Libby’s blue eyes glaze with love for the man who stood in front of her, and her smile was so wide and loving that a blind man would have felt it’s warmth, and know the meaning behind it was undoubtedly as such. Because as they twirled and danced in one another arms, Araminta could see that the Duke looked the same. Which led everyone in the ballroom to the same thought… They were in love. Elizabeth Farrow, and Sir Thomas Kenworthy were wholeheartedly, absolutely, unquestionably in love. Quite a sight to behold, they were, too. The handsomest couple in the room, if Mrs Sharpe could have her final say on the matter. They looked lovesick, and happy. Like they should never be parted from one another’s arms. However, their enraptured state did not go unnoticed by everyone.... Lady Hartwright’s house was large one, built with alcoves and stunning high ceilings. And looking down, next to the musician’s balcony, was a viewing gallery where a few people were mingling, chatting and watching those who danced far down below them. Amongst this crowd, was one Sir Marcus Burke. Whom, having seen the couple take the floor looking sickeningly happy with their position in one another’s hold, caused him to imbibe another sharp mouthful of whiskey straight from the flask he had brought with him. Damn society gatherings only had piddly lemonade. And as he took a swig, he glared down at the both of them, the start of a sickening smile starting to cross his lips as he felt drunken-ness overtake him. He wiped his sleeve across his mouth, disturbing his mask. “Enjoy it while you can, Miss Farrow…” He hissed nastily to no one else but himself. Raising his flask in a silent toast to god or the devil before he took another long swig, chuckling. ~ “You are a divine dancer Elizabeth..” Sir Thomas granted her, as they swirled about on the floor one last time, hearing as the last few notes faded into silence. And people gathered about them offered a round of applause to the enamoured couples, now, as the gavotte started, more people fussed to try and invade the dance floor now. She curtseyed, smiling, and he bowed. Mirroring her grin. When they stood once more, he took her arm. “May I accompany you in the hopes of getting some air? Miss?” He asked, eyes burning with something playful lingering beneath his mask, and simmering away in his smile. “That would be most kind. It is quite overcrowded in here..” She offered, back. The both of them fighting to worm their way throughout the packed crowds. The heat so evident, it was all you could do to ignore it. Elizabeth felt flushed and parched. However, their path was suddenly halted by a most unwelcome figure. Three of them to be exact... Libby fought the all body revulsion that shuddered through her at the sight of her most favourite horrible tormenter stood in front of her. With both her just as horrible friends by her side. Sophie Richworth. Sir Thomas came to a halt behind Libby, watching as she sighed, and her face under the golden mask took on one of extreme dislike and irascibility. He wasn’t sure how he knew, but he just hazarded a very correct guess, judging by her body language, and the unpleasant glint in the girls green eyes in front of them, that they were not friends. That they were probably the vile girls whom she suffered mocking at the hands of, when she had been a wallflower. That thought made him seething mad. Not that he showed anything behind standing tall behind her, stance impassive, and not awarding them anything but a stony glare. Sophie Richworth wasn’t an unpleasant looking girl. That’s what made it worse. Elizabeth often supposed if she had fat cheeks, boils, and facial warts – with hair - then maybe she could pity the girl who was so nasty to her. But as it was, she was severely pretty in a harsh kind of way. No hint of hairy warts or boils at all. She was boil free. Unfortunately. She had green eyes that looked like two stagnant pools of water, her hair was thick and dark. Like a jet black curtain of silk. It was pulled into an elegant chignon on her head, yet her beauty is a little too severe, Libby thought, she looked sharp and pointed. Especially with the way her eyes were set in a slightly slanted way, and every facial feature was upturned and petite. She was slender too, with no hips, and barely a bust to speak of, and had quite no concern for moral decency, judging by the way she wore a very low cut gown, and was subsequently trying to angle herself for the Duke to get a better look at her. She sneered however, right at Elizabeth. “Miss Elizabeth.” She greeted blandly. As if this was going to be a pleasant encounter. She looked about as pleasant as a rattlesnake with a brand new button on its tail. “Miss Richworth.” Libby spoke back, equally as insipid. Thomas found her voice was nasally and rather grating upon ones auditory senses. Much alike her hideous character... he wagered. “I understand your male friend is the Duke of Chatsworth. I can’t see for heavens why he danced with you, He’s far too handsome to keep your company..” Sophie grinned, nastily, the two girls flanking her sides, to her left Miss Winnifred Darknoll, and to her right, one Miss Cynthia Sterling. Both brunette, and as ghastly attired as their pack leader. All of whom now giggled spitefully at her sneering. “No engagement ring on your finger I see, still wearing down Mr Carlton are we?” Elizabeth asked patronisingly. Thomas delighted that this made the toxic Miss Richworth's smile, fade Rather quickly. “Oh well. I’m sure a few more instances of stalking, and following him around London will soon grant you title as his wife. Don’t you worry. I have it on good authority that men love a stupid wife.” She offered, a small smile on her lips. Killing her enemy with point-blank kindness. Her eyes tipped back under her mask to meet his. Causing him to recall their conversing the first night they met at her jape to Sophie. Oh, help him, he loved this woman like mad. He couldn’t fight the smile that crossed his lips. And Sophie saw this. She then had the audacity to sweep Elizabeth aside very obviously, pushing her so she stumbled, and then she came up right up close to him. He stared immovably down at the repugnant girl who drew closer, far closer than was deemed appropriate. “How tall are you? You must be atleast over six foot…” She flirted, trying to look up at him prettily in a charming manner. Her voice attempting seduction. It rather made his stomach coil in revulsion, instead. “Six foot four.” He bit off. She smiled, wider. He hated the sight of it. She had an ugly manner, an ugly voice, and an even uglier soul. He didn’t like her one bit. “That’s a most lovely height…” She smiled, biting down her lip. “You really think so?” He asked huskily. “I do…” She sneered back. His eyes flickered to the side to find Libby looking confused, and a little hurt. And that would not do… “If I may…” He said aloud. Sophie’s blood boiled as he then reached off to the side and tugged, twirling Elizabeth into his arms. Angling her right up close to his chest, causing her to gasp as he wrapped a hand about her lower back and tucked her into his chest. Not sparing an inch of space between their bodies. Her hands sprawled out to go to his torso, she hadn’t expected him to do such a wicked thing. But, she was very glad he had done… They were nearly pressed nose to nose now… Goodness, he was an intoxicating creature from up close. And he had only touched or handled her like this in her dreams. She rather felt as if her heart was singing the aria from The Magic Flute, somersaulting wildly as it tripped past a high C. “What do you think, Elizabeth, is six foot four still, a most lovely height, now?” He asked, mocking Sophie in a way gentleman just didn’t do. Reaching over, and tucking a stray curl of hair back from Libby’s cheek, seeing her cheeks flush and he mouth gape in a most stunning manner. His eyes were burning at her with the aura of ‘play-along-with-this’ “Oh, well. I suppose it does for dances..” She sighed with a beam. “And shelves. I am most adept at getting things down of high shelves when the occasion calls for it…” He smiled down to her. “How very advantageous, I often find myself stuck in respects to that dilemma.” She smiled back, sliding a hand up to his shoulder. The crowds were so dense, no one was at risk of seeing their sordid position. Sophie Richworth looked ready to murder them. Both. In cold blood. “Almost as if were made for each other, wouldn’t you say?” He asked. Grinning across to Sophie before his eyes found Elizabeth once more. “I would dare declare such a truth, yes.” Libby beamed. “What do you think of it, Miss Richworth? Anything malicious to wish upon such a happy couple?” She went to speak, before more words from him cut her off. Grinding her to a halt. He was a Duke, his rank meant that his words took precedence over hers. “… Or have we finally succeeded in making you keep your poisonous opinions to yourself? Dare I risk sounding like a mother hen, here, but unless you have something to say, perhaps it is then best to not open that vulgar mouth of yours, and say nothing at all. Do me a favour, and in all future regard to this, lovely goddess of a woman, it would do you well to exercise the metaphor, silent as the grave.” He suggested. No. He told her. Sophie’s teeth ground together, before she flounced off into the crowds. Friends following in her wake, as they all sulkily stomped away. Elizabeth and Thomas smiled to one another, before their cheeks flushed with embarrassment. The both of them remembering where they were. He held her hand as she straightened herself, smoothing a gloved hand down her skirts and righting herself. “That was a terribly nice thing you just did…” She assured him. “Well. What can I offer in my defence? I am a terribly nice man. And you, a terribly lovely lady.” He adored watching her flush, Because she did that right then, due to his words. They worked their way once again through the crowds, coming to the large terrace off the side of the ballroom, a large door was open, allowing the dark cool night to spill in. The anticipation of cooling down, and being alone with the man, was making Elizabeth tingle in a way she knew she ought not. “..Besides. You might rescind your statement of my terrible loveliness, it may turn to one of horrified shock at my scandalous nature, when I express my most ardent wish to get you alone in those garden’s…” He explained in a hot whisper. She bit her lip, smiling shyly, head dipping low as she walked, thankful at last to come through the door, him sliding out not long after her. Most of the peoples attention taken by the gavotte going on in the room. No one noticed the two slip silently away into the night. She sighed in audible pleasure as the cool breeze of the dark London evening washed over her. Kissing it’s cool way up the back of her neck, fluttering across her arms and shoulders. It tugged on her dress, whipping it about her ankles as she closed her eyes, thankful to be away from the heat of the ballroom. Sir Thomas watched her, he also unable to deny how lovely it was to escape the clutches of that humid room. And also to get away from the many pairs of eyes that would be dissecting and measuring their conduct all evening. And because she looked so enchanting cloaked in moonlight. It shone bright over the skyline of London, ahead of them. Bouncing off Lady’s Hartwright’s well manicured gardens. It slithering clutches came off every privet hedge, every bush or tree. Sparkled off every bright flower, shimmied in droplets up from every blade of grass. And illuminated the large marble fountain which trickled water, the only thing they could hear as they drew father and father away from the music coming from the grand house. Deeper and further into the midnight blue, cool beauty of the dark deserted garden. The moon also, seemed to make her beauty twice as great. Her skin would make statues of Greek Goddess’s howl in envy. It looked peachy soft, and supple. And the way the light refracted in the coils of her lovely red hair, why, it made him want to summon the nearest poet to take a stab at writing down how wonderful she looked in their own artistic language, so he could purr the words to her like vows, softly for all of eternity. And if he fell in love with her skin, then he was ready to elope with her eyes, they shone in prettiness like two priceless sapphires encased in some museum somewhere. She turned back from looking out across the garden’s, to see he was smiling softly at her. “You’re the most beautiful woman in all of the world.” He smiled, crossing slowly to her, standing very close – which meant he had to look down – and he took the side of her smooth face into his warm hand as he did. “Is that not a touch melodramatic? I’m sure there are far more stunning women out there in the world aside from me..” She smiled, unable to be as biased as he was. He adored that about her. “It may be, But I don’t care one bit. You see, I wouldn’t take notice if even a hundred of the worlds most beautiful women threw themselves at my feet. I don’t want to marry any of them.” He smiled, holding her close, in his arms. She felt so right, too. She felt like she belonged there. “You want to marry me?” She smiled. He is fairly certain she is asking him, but it partially sounds like she was testing the sentence out aloud, rather than to the inside of her own head. “Very badly…” He grinned. Because he did. His body and soul pined for her own. He was able to ignore the clamouring's of his soul as far as possible. But his body was both harder to resist, and to hide from. After his sordid mind conjured up the image of them in his bed together, the night after he had met her, almost three times he had occasion to call Perkin’s for a cold bath to dampen his raging spirits. His body was starting to become restless for her, and he tried in vain not to let this show too much before they were wed. But, oh. How Miss Elizabeth would feel the full raging force of it, once they were. He’d never, in all his life, forget the last time he had asked, just three days ago, and Perkin’s had raised one regal brow, face otherwise impassive and asked “A bracing dip, is it sir?” As Perkins had served Benedict for over 20 years. His station and duration meant he could say such things safely at his rank. To which Thomas had then ground his teeth and necked more whiskey from his glass. And - damn the bloody lout - Benedict had snorted into a long bout of hooting, guffawing laughter at him, because of it “I suppose I can’t deny I’ve indulged in that fantasy myself, ever since having met you at Dinner that night…” She confessed, looking up at him like he was the single most glorious thing in the world. And that was because, to her, he was. “Elizabeth Violet Kenworthy, Duchess of Chatsworth… It does have a pretty ring to it, does it not?” He asked, grinning at her like a fox. She smiled. It did sound wonderful… One day she hoped that bearing his surname wouldn’t feel like it did tonight. Like she was just slipping into it once, like she was putting on a costume. She looked forwards to a time when she could wear it, day in, and day out. Proudly as his wife. “It sounds perfect.” She grinned. He couldn’t savour her smile, unfortunately, because he then slid himself forwards, crushing her to his chest as he kissed her with such savagery it made her lungs burst, and her heart feel like it had taken up residence three continents away. And then he moaned. He couldn’t help it. She was such a wildly sensual, supple and pliant creature. And he was capable of such lust, it unnerved him. It had been bottled up and building inside of him from the moment they had exchanged names nine days ago. Granted, it didn’t sound like such a proficient enough stretch of time to gather such carnal desires, yet, it was. He wanted her, with him, in whatever bed and locked room was nearest. He wanted to be underneath her, beside her, on top of her. all over her. He wanted her skin, and cause her breath taking smile to morph into a gasping cry of his name as he took her apart. Drowning them both in such pleasure, they wouldn’t know what to do with themselves, ensuring both their needs were sated before he expended all of his lust on her still quivering form, until she begged him to take her. She gasped, his lips grew hungrier, and his need swelled to an unsafe degree for her. Her lower back was pressed sharply into the concrete banister behind them, that topped the stairs leading down to the gardens below. Her arms came up to rest on his shoulders, as his lips stopped twisting in sinful ways against her own, and instead pecked along her neck with soft smacks of his mouth hitting her skin over and over. Smelling deep the scent of her, getting the taste of her sweet lavender skin on his tongue. “You know, we’d have to share a bed, every night, if we were man and wife..” He moaned lowly into her ear, she could feel the side of his mask clip her skin as he spoke softly, his voice sounded like a honeyed rasp of a dream. She curved so her back arched, and all of her curves pressed lengthways into him, her stiffened as he felt her breasts push into him, aswell as the fleshy globes of her thighs. It made him growl onto her neck. And It made him so very hard. “.. Oh, my. Elizabeth. You have no idea what I’d do to you in that bed. In our marital bed. I’d take all night showing you how ardently I appreciate your wonderful body. I’d squeeze you, kiss you, hold you and make love to you for hours on end. I’d give every ounce of pleasure anyway I could…” He growled, his tongue doing something naughty to his words to make them sound like bliss, and his lips doing something equally as bad to the spot below her ear that made her startle into a gasp of desire. “You’d want for nothing, If I took you as my wife. I’d make love to you all night, and be there when you woke in the morning. I want to make you mine. Make you laugh, make you smile, but most importantly I would always try to make you happy. I want every inch of you, in every way a man can want a woman. You’re my necessity, my darling. I need you.” He gushed against her ear, his hands growing all the more restless as they slid down, cupping and squeezing her perfectly delightful ass under his hands. Pushing her body up into him as he grabbed at her. His need growing more and more exigent by the moment… “Thomas…” She moaned, finally understanding that the heat unfurling low in her body was all of her desire for this man, she wanted him right back, which was something she should have never wanted. But she couldn’t help it. He growled at her desirous voice gasping his name at his attentions. The both of them entwined passionately together, swivelled round like two startled animals being preyed on as they heard more voices drift out from beyond the wide open French doors. Drifting out to them as they kissed ardently on the terrace. Elizabeth’s eyes shot wide, both their reputes would be tarnished forever should they be found in a state of slight ruination in a darkened garden. The voices became louder, which meant the figures were seconds away from being out of doors and spotting them both. “Quickly. Come this way.” Thomas grinned, whispering, his smile the most perfectly wicked gleaming spectacle she’d ever had to good grace to witness. His eyes looking like he was plotting something in the deep ice chip depths. He pulled her eagerly along with him. His hand slung about the back of her waist as he tugged her small frame sharply down the steps alongside him. She couldn’t put aside the fact that his hand resting on her lower back, felt quite lovely. “Thomas?” She laughed, asking him where he was rushing them both too. Clattering down the steps after him. He turned when they reached the bottom, his boots and her dainty slippers crunching as they sprinted across the gravelled paths. Coming to rest in the small alcove under the stairs, pausing by the marble bench that was safely tucked into the little nook that was hidden away, right out of plain sight. Illuminated by the moon’s light alone... “Surely someone will notice our absence? The crowds are not that thick, you know. And Mrs Sharpe will be circling for me like a hawk and, mnfnm- “ She was silenced as he slunk close to her again, he pressed her back to the concrete curve of the niche, her back hit the cool brick, jumping at the cool temperature on her bare shoulders, but moaning as his muscled thigh parted her legs, bracing her to him like a vice. Crushing her shorter frame to his tall one, forcing her to arch into him. The silk of her dress was thin and flimsily soft underneath his fingers, so thin, he was able to marvel at every elegant line of her body that curved and dipped under his hands. His kiss was one of a starving lover, not a gentle suitor. But dare she say she almost preferred it that way. She didn’t even feel the cold, she just felt loved. That was when she felt his fingers reach for something that made that last thought contradict itself, his mind was slowly letting his control be wrestled away from him. And every touch, and the slightest move from her only sought to hurl him further into the clutches of inescapable all consuming desire. But there was still one thing that stuck in his mind, something he had mentioned to her when they had happened upon each other in the park the other day, and he wanted to indulge himself, and seeing as they had privacy now… His hands found her shoulders, sliding down the bare cool brush of her upper arms, eventually, after what felt like a million years as he softly kissed her lips with maddening, mind stealing skill, whilst his fingers found the lip of her golden glove. And slowly, gently, for all the starving lust he had unleashed upon her tonight, slowly guided the glove down off her left arm, the rush of silk sliding off her is like an endless kiss to her skin, causing gooseflesh to ripple across her arms. What he did next, made her heart ache… His fingers pulled the glove down and off her arm, dropping it to the bench by her side, then he repeated the action with her other arm. Abandoning the glove the same way he had the other one. And then he just held her hand, twining it in his own fingers. That move stole all her breath and thought, without contestation. She looked up at him, and she was suddenly nothing but that soft cherry red smile, with cute dimples at the corner of her delectable mouth. And her eyes are nothing but wide doleful cute little things that could command him to do whatever she wished. His eyes bore deeply into her own, Even under the mask, she could still not get over how bright they managed to be. Maybe he had showed her not to be so scared of desire, or maybe it was finally that her courage managed to catch up to her. But her hands reached back, tugging through the short thorns of his silk like black hair that he shuddered out a shaky breath as her fingers slid through it. He closed his eyes, fighting the moan that rolled up, deep from the back of his throat. He felt her petite hands go to the tied tight bow of his mask, and slowly slide the two ribbons apart, holding the mask as she lifted it down and off his face. He opened his eyes as he felt the thing come away from his face as she lifted it off him. Seeing once again that stunningly perfect face of his come into view, the full angled plane of his smooth carved jaw, the handsomely set bridge of his nose, and the full view of his gorgeously shaped ice chip coloured eyes were left unhindered by the shadowed brim of his dark mask once more. She let it lower to her side, her arm falling back down with the mask in her grip. He cupped his hand to the back of her neck, leaning in with such agonizing slowness to press his mouth to hers again, taking his time in kissing her now. Needing more of how her responsive body curled and keened into him, he thoroughly took advantage of this soft little action, and darting his tongue firmly into her mouth, stroking and smoothing about in a way that left them both panting. Suddenly, Thomas felt that it wasn’t enough. He really needed her now. He either needed confirmation that she was his, or he needed to posess the freedom to press her into the wall, lift up her skirts and claim her, make her scream his name to the heavens above. “I need you. I need you so much, Elizabeth. When can I have you, I can’t hold back for much longer..” He lusted. She smiled, her mouth gaping open as he skimmed his lips up across her cheek, to her neck once more. His hot breath making her knees weak as it rushed across her skin, tinting it a hot pink. “Oh, Thomas..” She gasped. “When will you learn that you already have me...” She asked, watching as he twirled a perfectly curled lock of red hair about his finger, she lost sense as his hot fingers brushed the delicate skin of her neck oh-so lightly. He tugged her close after hearing her say that, sealing their lips together once more, growling ferally into her mouth. When they broke again after a few long moments, they found they were all tangled and twisted together once more. Her arms wrapped tight about his neck, and his clasping her close by the waist, the other wrapping as far as it could around her. “I know I’m not supposed to allow any thoughts to cross my head, especially when we’re kissing. As I am to take it, I understand that such raw passion is supposed to leave me thoughtless…” She explained. Going giddy at the way he kissed down her neck, coming to her gown, and making her bite her lip as he slid the shoulder of it slightly down to her upper arm, placing a kiss to her shoulder causing her to tingle and melt a little bit at the knees. He was doing that thing he was so skilled at, which consisted of making her brain mushy again. “It is..” He murmured onto her skin. Before his mouth lowered to nip gently at her collarbone, he strained down to place a kiss to her thrumming pulse point, feeling that her skin was still so hot. “Whilst that may be, and whilst you are continuing to weaken my knees, I cannot help but be wary of the fact that Mrs Sharpe will definitely notice mine and your absence now. She is, sometimes, you know, a clever woman. She’ll have put two and two together…” She explained, her hand going up to latch into the back of his soft inky hued hair. He stopped, sighing against her neck. “I suppose that is plausible.” He uttered, his voice a rasping kiss strained husk now. “Maybe you should slip back..and I should try and locate a.. uh, ladies powdering room.” She insinuated, her fingers going to try and tame her mane like hair now, he chuckled, his hands had undoubtedly mussed it to an obvious ruffled indelicate state, that any respectful mama or debutante worth their mettle could instantly pick up as a lustful misadventure into the shadowy gardens to accompany a rake of a gentleman into unsavoury things – and unchaperoned at that too…. He touched his fingers now to the stray swirls of messy curls. “I rather like it. That and the flushed cheeks makes you look like my wild temptress…” He lusted, kissing her cheek, tilting her chin in his hand as he did. Holding her face up to him. She smiled. “Go, quick. Before people start to gossip about our reputations. Mine can be more easily tarnished than yours..” She explained, half heartedly trying to push his chest away from her own as he leered down at her, re-securing his mask on his face. “How so?” He frowned. “You are the Right Honourable Gentleman, His Lordship, Duke of Chatsworth.” “I am a gentleman, and you, Elizabeth, are a gentleman’s daughter. Make no mistake about it. We are of the same equals in rank and station, and I will fight to the death with my dying breath, anyone who dares declare otherwise, or insinuates that we are not suited as so.” He pressed firmly, an edge of authority in his eyes that she adored grouped with those words. Still though, with a touch of a smile to his lips. She smiled, her knees as soft as melted butter at what he proclaimed. “I am just ‘That red headed’ Professor’s Daughter, or ‘That Stubborn, shy, Farrow Girl’.” She insisted. Repeating the phrases that she’d heard parroted about by many Mama’s from all the gossip papers in London. “Wrong.” He bit out. Wolfish grin on his lips, dominance in his blue eyes. She frowned. “You are henceforth about to bare the title as the my fiancée, and the future Duchess of Chatsworth.” He reminded her, sneaking forwards to place one single kiss to her lips, long enough to make sure she arched into him. Then, when he pulled away, with a wink and a smile that could fell Queen Victoria herself, he vanished off into the cool night air. She could hear nothing but his boots on the gravel until he disappeared completely out of sight. Leaving her flustered and thrilled, and oh-so very in Love. ~ She had managed to sneak in unnoticed through an unlocked side door, which luckily, led right down a darkened corridor straight to a Ladies Powdering room. Thankfully, she was able to re-tame her ‘wild’ thick red coiled hair into something resembling civility and order. Pleased to see also that her cheeks had calmed down from their previous flushed state. Pleased that she looked the same as she did before, she exited the room, clicking the door shut, and sneaking silently back down the darkened hall, able to hear the music thrum from beyond its encasing in the ballroom ahead of her. She could only hope she didn’t stumble upon a couple of trysting young lovers.. what an embarrassment that would be. But then she smiled widely, as not ten moment’s previous, she had been part of a trysting young couple. That thought warmed her from the inside out, and just thoughts of Thomas, she noted, kept her warm better than any pelisse ever could. She had just clattered lightly down a couple of steps, seeing another corridor branch out ahead of her. The music grew louder now. That was the polka If she wasn’t mistaken. But her thoughts were swiped from her brain in a startling rush as she had just gripped her hand to the doorknob, about to push the door open, when the brutal force of a hard muscled body that told her it was definitely a man, collided into her back, throwing her away from the door, and tugging her to one side. Slamming her back viciously into the wall next to the door. His grip on her shoulders hurting her, grasping her so tight she swore she’d have dark bruises by the morrow. She nearly screamed, the man who accosted her was outfitted in a costume of pure red. With a skull mask swathing any discernable distinguishing facial features in regards to his identity, to her. She felt like screaming, in fact the small yelp that bubbled up and out of her throat at the sudden assault makes her sure she just almost did. Then, suddenly, she swallows. Remembering she had seen that green ring about his irises, daring her to draw deeper into his maliciously dark eyes before. And he was dressed as the Red Death, oh, how appropriate; Marcus Burke. “Scream, and I’ll strangle you, Elizabeth..” He snarled. His large hand beginning to close around her throat. Feeling her pulse thrum hot and panicked under his palm, her breath heaving and pulling at her chest. Which he eyes up hungrily. She truly did have remarkable breasts. He licked his lips looking at her. His mask only covered the upper half of his face, after all. She winced, trying to squirm out from his vice grip. “Marcus, what are you doing?” She gasped, one tear bursting to slide down her cheek. She had never known such uneasy terror like this. “I’m showing you what happens when you forget who is the one courting you…” He growled, squeezing her throat tighter. She whimpered, clawing at his strong hands. He leered close to her then, she fought not to shudder in repugnance at the strong fumes of drink that his breath carried. He was drunk. To no surprise of hers. “Please, you’re hurting me…” She cried, sobbing as those dark eyes glinted in violent pleasure at seeing her like this. “And you’re inconveniencing me…” He snapped back. “Swanning around London like a gracious whore, flirting with that Duke.” He spat. There was no other way to phrase how he had snapped the words to her, spitting out each one in snarls as if they were bad tastes In his mouth. “What was I supposed to do? Ignore him?” She asked. She closed her eyes, whimpering in pain again as his hand clamped so tight, she knows there will be red grip marks when he lets her go. “Yes.” He hisses into her ear, spittle from his snarling landing on her neck as he spoke. Again, came another scared tear from the corner of her eye. “You could have adhered to your promise to marry me, instead.” “You haven’t asked me to marry you. You’ve been too busy leaping into bed with Mabel Loxley as I understand it…” She snarled, her bravado swelling up inside of her as she sneered at him now. He grimaced at how the silly tramp looked pleased with herself, he’d have to punish her for that.. He reached up to tug of his own mask, throwing it away from his face, so she could see he was glowering down at her with venom in his eyes. He chucked it away to the floor behind him with his spare hand, still gripping her throat tight. That was before he chuckled, letting go of her throat, tugging her close to his body as he braced his over hers, making her press her chest into him, aswell as the fronts of both her squeezable fat thighs. One hand went to grasp at her bottom, the other steadied himself by bracing it flat to the wall behind her head. His body felt hot, and wrong, jutting into her own in a horrible way that she hated. She twisted her head to the side as he snarled into her ear, his lips contorting, brushing against her skin as he spoke. “Jealous?” He leered. “Because the man I hate is bedding the silliest most toxic chit in all of London. No, I’m not envious. Not even one bit.” She fought back, no hint of where her bravery was bursting from inside of her. She was trembling. He chuckled again, a deep scoffing sound. “Mabel’s an easy woman to bed, unlike you. She doesn’t have to stand on principle and station.” “It sounds to me like she’s suffering the advantage’s of a woman who has none of either.” She bit out. “Oh, I do so love your quick wit…” He smiled. “But I think I love your body more. Oh, you're making me so hard, you stubborn little bitch. So untouchable aren't you. I forgot how pristine you virgins can be..” He rasped, closing his hand around one ass cheek. “God, I can barely fit it in my hand…” Another tear at that…. He lusted in amazement, leaning forwards to kiss up her neck. Each touch made her shrink away from him in horror. Black bursts of sickening dirtiness dancing through her bloodstream. He did the same to her breasts, groping them so tight, exclaiming how he could barely get his hand around it. “Does it hurt you to know that after I take you, here, tonight, in this hallway, that you’ll have no chance of wedding that bloody Duke. We can invite him to the ceremony of course, let him sit there and watch as I make you Mrs Burke, and watch him squirm as he imagines us in bed together on our wedding night.” “What makes you think I’ll ever marry you?” She snarls back, crying, fighting to wriggle out of his grip now. His words making more tears dribble from her eyes. She was so scared, yet she had never been so breathtakingly angry in all her life. “It’s what your father wants. Its what I want, and I’ll force you to want it too. You don’t want to upset Daddy and Araminta, Now do you Elizabeth?” He mocked, starting to laugh a sickeningly dark chuckle at her. She pushed her hands to his chest, moaning as she tried to throw him away from her. He didn’t budge an inch as she tried to shove him. “Oh? Are you trying to fight me? Do you want to get away, Elizabeth, Is that it?” He snarled, still chuckling his words, getting up close into her face, trying to mock her, there came more frustrated tears down her cheeks. Suddenly, she doesn’t quite know how she does it, all she knows is, that she summoned some form of discernable strength from somewhere deep in her bones. Perhaps it was the way she hated how he talked to her, how he drank, how he treated her like a trophy to be won into marriage, or possibly how she hated his guts, his eyes, his hair, and everything about him. Everything from the last tip of his hair, to his toes, hell, even his own bloody dog, if he had one. Well. She hated that too. She hated Marcus Burke with every bone in her body. And, speaking of such, there wasn’t any evidence of him having a single good one in him. She manages to shove both her hands into his torso, succeeding to launch his entire muscled frame backwards, his grip on her loosened for a moment as he stooped to laugh at her displeasure and pain. He stumbled, his ace shocked as he looked at the small, very angry creature, that was stood snarling in front of him. She looked remarkably like the calm placid girl who used to be Miss Elizabeth, demure-and-shy-and-the-living-emodiment-of-polite-charity-and-harmlessness, Farrow. But her tolerance and her usually good temper had snapped. Having been provoked into violence by this man. She prayed a swift vehement to the sweet natured girl whom he had clasped to the wall and assaulted three moments previous. She was wild now, and fuming. And she looked it, her eyes set in such anger, if looks could kill, he would surely be dead. And some strands of her hair had drifted down to float angelically about her face, her lips pulled into a snarl. Though she looked as furious as the devil in that moment. There was no one to save her, and for once in her damned life. She was going to stop wishing for the handsome prince to come along and make the day. Goddammit she was going to save herself this time… come hell or high water… Her life was at stake, and for once she would not be that unfortunate red haired wallflower… “I will NEVER marry you.” She seethed quietly in a thin reed like voice that could have killed someone it was so lethal. “I can never marry you. How could I marry a man I so obviously loathe? Your character, Marcus Burke, is no better than poison. I had the damned effrontery to think you polite at one time. But that time has gone. Nothing on earth and in all of the heavens combined could ever tempt me to wed you. I thought you a decent man at one time, but I can clearly see now it was all an act to secure my affections. But I will stand for being talked down to, and handed about like a toy no longer. I am in love with Thomas Kenworthy, and whether you like it or not, I will be his wife. And you shall never have the opportunity to ruin me. I shall not let you. Not for one second. And do you honestly think my father or my stepmother will let me marry someone who they both extremely dislike, and whom they both can clearly see I abhor? They detest you as much as I do. With all the drinking and the rude manners, and bedding women from the Gaiety, I half wonder why they didn’t dismiss you from me earlier. From tonight onwards, I shall not receive you, I shall not wish to speak to you. And Unless you never speak to or come near me again, then I shall report you to the police for harassment. Do you understand? You have lost me Mr Burke. So you and your stupid oaf of a father can take your manners and attentions for finding a sensible easily ignorable wife elsewhere. I never wish to see you contaminate my path, ever again!” She shouted. Uncaring that she was raising her voice, and shouting her words so that her words scraped through her throat painfully as she yelled. Her voice hoarse and she yelled through the tears. She didn’t care if anyone heard her. In fact, she hoped they did. And her fists were clenched so tight, her whole upper body shook with fury. “So that’s the way it’s going to be? Is it Elizabeth?” He asked with a voice like murder. She offered him no answer but a glare. “Fine.” He snarled. “This isn’t the last you’ll see of me. Tell your precious Duke to watch his back..” He promised as stood looking at her, panting in anger for a second, before he snarled at her impassiveness, turning on his heel and disappearing off down the corridor. She slipped back inside the ballroom almost instantly after he had gone, her knees wobbled and she felt parched and very weak. She shut the door after her, shakily with sweating hands under her gloves. And tried to keep her back straight, and look elegant and unaffected as she scanned the room for Felicity and Mrs Sharpe. All she could see was the blur of people dancing, and laughing around her. She actually felt quite ill now… having done something so out of character for her. She swallowed, feeling that her throat was a sticky dry channel. Bile rising in her throat. She placed a hand to her forehead, suddenly feeling rather woozy and lightheaded. Her chst was pounding and she suddenly felt herself gasping for breath. When she opened her eyes and looked to the dancing crowds in front of her. She could see nothing but dizzying drags in her vision. She tried to calm herself, placing a hand across her mouth, and it was at this point that she saw a solid wall of a man’s chest come into her vision, aswell as a silky voice. She looked up, through her compromised vision, to see that Benedict Carlton had spotted her, and broken away from the crowds to wish her a good evening. He too, was dressed in a princely manner like Thomas had been, except his coat was a blue, and his mask a deep golden colour. He lifted it from his face as he greeted her, standing with a hand behind his back. Leering handsomely at her with a polite bow. “Miss Farrow. It is such a delight..” He smiled, his grin and seductive eyes, were one’s that could have even the most stern Mama weak kneed on the spot in an instant. Elizabeth swallowed, blinking rapidly as she exhaled a breath and a shaky smile. She watched as he tilted his head, smile fading. “Goodness, Miss Farrow, you look most pale? Can I fetch you something, A refreshment perhaps..” He asked, hint of playful charm in his voice gone, he was now leaning close to see her eyes were blinking quite a lot. And he chest was raggedly pounding through her laboured breaths. She really did look as white as a sheet. “Forgive me… I..” She gusted out on a breath, clamping her mouth shut as she wasn’t so unsure that when she opened it again, she’d vomit at his feet. “I’m..” She warned, but barely were the words out of her mouth as she crumpled to the floors below. Luckily, Benedict, having been a man of action, and of extreme kindness and chivalry - when he wasn’t bedding his conquests – dived to her side in an instant, making sure her lithe form fell neatly into his arms without injury. He held her in a most intimate manner. “Elizabeth?” He asked her in a hush, as she stayed still, looking like she was deep in slumber. His lower arm had caught her across her back, and the other at her knees. One of his legs bent at the knee and braced down on the tiled floor, stooping to catch her. Her red curls thrown over his arm as he held her. One of her arms tucked into her body, the other flailing out to the side, her knuckles brushing the floor where she had been seconds from falling too. “Miss Elizabeth?” He asked, louder, seeing she did not stir. His voice was concerned and searching for her response. But she was perfectly limp in his arms: The last thing Elizabeth heard was gasps and exclaims as she fell to the floor like a useless sack of boneless skin, her dizzying vision dragging into twirling blackness as she faded out from reality into nothingness ~ @wolfsmom1 @damageditem @echantedbytwh anyone else want tagging? Let a punk know...