#* filed under — ( verse ) ( interactions ) ( histoire )

[petitsdieu]

sc 𝑓𝑡. @vitalphenomena

❛ Isn't it time for your milk and arsenic, darling? ❜

[petitsdieu]

❛ I'm leaving. ❜ Now.

Leave room for the Holy Spirit; he steps in, she goes back. Him on his pride tipped jaw and her own her pride bellowed heel. Proximity allows a theater's exit. She gold-swipes him by her half-undone-hair as she walks away.

❛ God keep you! ❜

A sweetheart's insult.

GO ON, THEN. Stuff him with silk. Gag him, silence him. He would love that, I think.

He steps closer, juts out his chin, parts his lips. GO ON, THEN.

"And you have yours, princess."

[petitsdieu]

sc 𝑓𝑡. @inrovina

❛ You say so, but I think it is your biggest pretend. ❜

[petitsdieu]

𝑬𝑽𝑬𝑹𝑴𝑶𝑹𝑬 𝑨𝑳𝑩𝑼𝑴 𝑩𝒀 𝑻𝑨𝒀𝑳𝑶𝑹 𝑺𝑾𝑰𝑭𝑻 / 𝑺𝑬𝑵𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑪𝑬 𝑷𝑹𝑶𝑴𝑷𝑻𝑺. — ❛ Your touch brought forth an incandescent glow. ❜

"Oh, seer, is this truly the future you see?"

Princess Hara sought Elain out; her soul reaching for purpose of the whirl her life was becoming. The hum of parties no longer filled. She awoke heavy and unclear. Being in the presence of this seer revives the spirits some.

She wants to believe this precious message. Incandescent glow feels like it could swell with benevolence. She wishes to be good. To remain good. But she's heard of these visions. How murky and tricksome they can be. Perhaps, the answers she seeks further has to come from within and this is the only thing the other can offer her.

Still, she asks for a little more.

"What does it mean, you think?"

𝒇𝒕.@seerfawn

[petitsdieu]

sc 𝑓𝑡. @deficd

❛ When I was little, my governess used to bathe me in buttermilk and rose petals. ❜

[petitsdieu]

One lid after the other nictate herself as a placehold for the couch people. A — false-memory — memory... she sees her death from where she stands, a non-participant, a painting-viewer. Within another blink she fuzzes out of the third person and into her body she goes. She can see and feel herself dying in a flower field. Her neck is a swatch of red.

It does not last long. He snaps the space between them and he gathers her attention effectively within the five-finger-grab. Her eyes are perfect circle pans, wide-swelled with wary.

Her pulse jumps.

She lets out a small sob, in her frightened animal throat.

She doesn't believes him.

The sinking sensation squeezes her at the corset clenched bone. And where the crinoline hang, she feels like she could too.

But the scythe swing does not come.

The big big terror eyes delicately alter in into a half-lidded stare. The rest of her follows similar measure. A weird, washing of calm like the Commune of Cap-d'Ail's waves, when she stood on the shorelines and felt them wrap her warm. Calf to thigh to belly to last rib. This is no different. The sore of her dressing-rubbings is the only reminder and even that she can not recovery the thought of why. And still has nothing against the warm-knowing that she is not afraid. That she's safe.

❛ Your face is a mess. ❜

Somewhere in the back of her mind she knows she shouldn't walk with him. Despite it being so late, there are still eyes that could espy; someone to catch glimpse to an unmarried woman walking alone with a man could be disaster for reputation. But it's his face, the blood-soaking she mentions.

❛ Why? Qu'est-ce que vous êtes? Qui êtes-vous ? ❜

Is he an other, mythical? Or an animal? A creature? He looks every bit the human perfection in all the ways he should. A sightfull to dine upon. Behaved, on most nights, in a common gentlemen fashion. But there's always been a strangeness about him that had the room to grow. She's certain now he differs than her in some kind of fable way. But none she is familiar with enough to claim it out loud. It would be rude to declare what someone else is, néanmoins.

“No.” His answer is immediate, sharp as a knife’s edge. He’d thought about it—spent countless nights lingering outside her family home, eyes fixed on her bedroom window. Close enough to hear her steady breathing, the soft rustle of her shifting under the covers. He’d stand there, unmoving, until dawn threatened to give him away. And every night he’d imagine it—imagine being with her as if he were any other man—and each time, it felt like a death sentence. An impossible fantasy, he knew that now, had for some time. But still… there had to be a way out of it. There had to be.

To want her like this, it felt like some twisted retribution—a curse his mother had cast upon him, a punishment his father would relish, all because of what he was, what they’d made him. But despite it all, no one held his heart like she did. Not even his own blood. And now, as he watched her face shift from terror to confusion, a flicker of regret ignited in him. He’d revel in her fear for the briefest second, but it dissolved too quickly, leaving only the urge to protect her. To make her forget he was ever there, that he ever came into her life.

“I would never hurt you.” His voice drops, softened, as if he could will her to believe it. Not in any way that she would expect. But love? Does he know what that even means? Would he know what to do if he did? He places a hand on her shoulder, locking eyes with her, his gaze as intense as his grip. “Calm down,” he murmurs, voice low, steady. “You’re not afraid of me. Or of what you see here. Come with me… let’s take a walk.”

It’s unfair, he knows—compelling her to stand there unafraid, trusting him in the wake of his chaos. But fairness has never been in his nature. He wants her to see things his way, to look at him as he is, and not as the monster others see.

“You can ask your questions,” he continues, a slight, dark smile curling at the edge of his lips. “Or if you prefer, I can tell you my story. Maybe it’s time you knew the real me, don’t you think? Not just the parts I’ve chosen to show you.”

And he knows he’ll have to turn her—soon, though not yet. He can’t let her go. There’s no other way, not if he wants her with him forever. And he does. More than he’s ever wanted anything.

[petitsdieu]

cont. 𝒇𝒕. @eritvita

There was no one else in the halls or in the kitchen and she rather liked the privacy of it all. And maybe the idea that someone could catch them was a little fun, too. Not that they were doing anything wrong or obscene.

She watches him, as she pushes herself up onto a counter, and sits upon the edge. Her eyes rake him over and she decides he looks good like this. Planted in front of a stove, ready to make her anything her heart desires. She's starved. But she almost thinks she could just eat him up and be satisfied.

"I want pancakes." Kicking up her feet, in play, until her toes make contact with him and she presses against his lower back. But then she realizes, she's thirsty too. "And tea would be lovely, too. Eggs would be... smart."

[petitsdieu]

𝒇𝒕. @glacierheart

❛ We are not our fathers, ma mer. Remember that. ❜

[petitsdieu]

cont. 𝒇𝒕. @meaercies

"Meals never allow more than three." The first ternary before pleasure diminishes, slowly ( sometimes, all at once ).

Allegorically, he misses. She watches his choice, her offering still hanging between them. Revoke is tempting. Still, there's this need to share what she means. Wiggle in the deeper meaning, too. She is not, just, talking food. She straightens her elbow and pierces his personal space in the process. This time she's sure he'll understand, but she gives in threes, so — "Try."

[petitsdieu]

❛ Martin, it won't be cold. It'll feel good. ❜

She makes for a lovely gauge; chill-wraps at anything below nineteen degrees. Her answer is good as a promise. Watch how she climbs back into the water, with an ease only warm sea could allow. The type of temperature that holds you.

And although he's dropped it, her mind recircles and gnaws at what she's said to him previously. Hoping he understands it wasn't going from a malice place.

❛ Have you ever been paddle boarding? ❜

he watches her, a marvel. "will it be cold?" martin isn't keen on surprises, though he assures her of complicity and peels his shirt up and over his head, tossing it careless to the side. "will it?" pressing glances dart back and forth, a hanging mouth idle and waiting. then a sandy bare heel anchors a long pant leg, and the denim crumples. martin hurries, tailing hara with a stroking gaze. "it'll warm up?"

[petitsdieu]

cont. 𝒇𝒕. @loyalborn

This free salacious expression is not what she's used to. She was a high sexual being that kept her desire tucked under her sleeve. Safe from eyes that could use it against her. Or decide to find ways to keep it from her. She wished to be as free with her tongue as the other. But her life insisted on her keeping things just for her own. Though all that could never save her from some rumor.

"Oh?" It's her turn to laugh. 'Little one', certainly she's been called worse, but it's still a shock. Her face is flushed. She turns her gaze to the window. "There is never quite disappointing than something ending before it began." What she means is, they are lucky in this regard.

[petitsdieu]

continued 𝙛𝒕. @eritvita

To speak with amatory, with partygoers plenty, brings a deep pinkish pigment to the apples of her cheeks. It was true that she was tender and sore from their combined appetite. But not to the degree that she's willing to wait until she doesn't feel where he's been. She never does.

She finds her legs spreading, her hips lifting from the couch she's rested upon, before she snaps them closed and tries to pinch the tension building between them. She sucks in a breath. Watching people twirl, wine spill on floors and down throats, and a full band play their instruments with such passion. She wants to pluck him to her own tune.

She wants to make him desperate. She wants to make him squirm.

"My sweet, husband, prince," her knuckles brush his cheekbone, then chases the pulse on his neck like a river. "Think of the ease." The more she speaks, the lower her voice drops, only wanting him to hear her wanton words. "Picture it. How you could be inside me with a few, little moves."

[petitsdieu]

CONT from ft. @fatealigned

Having to put on a show, the blonde knew how others took it when he boasted about killing. It was part of his undertaking the persona of the Dread Pirate Roberts. Without it, he very well doubted anyone would fear someone named Westly. “Natalie.” He repeated. Didn’t sound like a name for her. Not one of such beauty, but he had no real reason to not believe her, either. As she took his arm, he lead them to the waterside where the tavern would be. He was taking his time. Soaking in the sights of the port. Hopefully, he would be able to stay more than a night. It was quaint here and reminded him of Florin. Quite unlike Camelot or other seaside cities. “My latest one was taking down Prince Humperdinck and dethroning him. The new queen Buttercup rules Florin. My homeland in the north.”

There is a single moment when they're nearing the water when she has hesitations and fear. Any pirate should be taken with great caution but he's got a lengthy reputation. Perhaps he already knows who she is and is planning to kidnap her. Perhaps he can collect from her clothes alone she's someone of importance. And then, they turn into a small tavern. She puts aside her paranoid thoughts and reintroduces what she actually knows of the situation. He's given her money because he thought her a poor, little thing. And this is just dinner. "Consider me intrigued. Do tell why you dethroned him. I'm dying to know." She means it, too. That's the most interesting thing she's heard in a long time. It has her wondering what he'd think of her if he knew who she is.

[petitsdieu]

sc 𝑓𝑡. @teethearted

❛ Neither country proverb nor King's command could keep me from the woods today. ❜

[petitsdieu]

* ☔ : 𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒕𝒔 𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒑𝒊𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝒃𝒚 𝑭𝑨𝑵𝑻𝑨𝑺𝒀, 𝑵𝑶𝑩𝑰𝑳𝑰𝑻𝒀, 𝑬𝑻𝑪. — card of winter. sender finds the receiver dying of frostbite and gathers them in their arms to warm them. (russian mafia/whatever viggo. *esp if 'princess' hara is also from a wealthy/powerful family here, too. pre-bodyguard shit.)

There's more kindness in a nervous system than Russia's wintering expanse. In Saint Petersburg's regnant head as a husband. In whatever pawn pieces that follow in his line. She can hardly see fault in the blinded devouts. She had viewed him through her rose glint when she was in the Spring of her Womanhood. Spring dies here.

The latter half of her marriage had backslid her into a parasympathetic, sleeper state. She had been mid-flight when she broke through the ice. Felt the pin-prick of needle death falling upon every inch of her body. It curves off her from the first warmth she's felt since she's left France.

Viggo is hot balm in the bed of snow. Her cheek melts against some place where he's soft. If she could hug back she would. She can't even bend on elbow.

❛ Don't take me to a hospital, Viggo⸺ ❜

Things get lost in the burr upper chap lip, shivering out, in the fill-in-the-blanks tremble.

❛ I don't want to go back to him. ❜

𝒇𝒕. @nightmarefuele

[petitsdieu]

*𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒌𝒔: verses.